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welllpthisishappening · 4 years ago

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Emma Swan, Olympian is not a phrase Emma Swan, totally normal person, ever expected to hear.

But she never expected one night at a party hosted by her college's baseball team to change her entire life, either. So, it should really come as no surprise that Emma Swan, Olympian, is now something of international sensation. Or that her husband has become a bit of a social media star.

——— Rating: Teen with sports feelings Word Count: 7.5K AN: As promised and because of who I am as a person, I wrote Olympic fic. I can neither confirm nor deny that there is an actual plot here, but there is a surplus of fluff and sports-based feelings. So, that’s something. Thanks to the Detroit Lions, specifically, for posting this Tweet and to my husband who is very much aware of what content I want the internet to provide me. Operation: Make Killian a New York Yankee as often as possible continues.

|| Read on Ao3 if that’s your jam ||

———

No one told her the questions would start to blur together.

That would require media training, Emma imagines. And no one is giving a first-time Olympian in a sport that only a handful of people marginally believe warrants notice from the IOC any sort of media training. She got, like, an orientation packet. With a lopsided staple in the top left corner. On her commercial flight. That she booked herself.

Twenty-plus hours crammed into a seat that she’s only a little concerned did permanent damage to her right knee, with a meal that was so chewy Emma was about four seconds and one exasperated, entirely exhausted exhale from asking if it was, in fact, made of plastic.

Mostly, the staple is what’s still managing to frustrate her. As frustrated as she can be at the Olympics. No one is supposed to be frustrated at the Olympics. Not really. Not while experiencing the pinnacle of athletic achievement, the calluses on Emma’s fingertips some sort of badge of honor that she’s wearing with at least a modicum of national pride, and everything is fine.

Her qualifying time was absurd. Where absurd is a compliment and very close to a record she’s suddenly determined to shatter.

So, she’s alone.

Big deal. So is everyone else. This Olympics, at least. Plus, Killian wouldn’t have been able to come no matter what the state of the world was. Even so, the quiet stands are admittedly weird. All these empty arenas with empty seats, the distinct lack of a roaring crowd no more obvious than when the world’s best athletes step to the line. Staring at the climbing wall in front of her four hours earlier, Emma swore she could hear every single beat of her heart echo between her ears.

And that’s—well, solitude is par for the course with an adolescence like hers, half-filled suitcases and brand-new faces in brand-new towns, but she’d gotten used to one town, and the town is actually a city, and the city has long since felt like home, and her fingers reach for the rings dangling above her Team USA t-shirt. They did give her an absolute shit ton of t-shirts, so that was nice.

Except—

Something keeps tugging. Nagging at the back of Emma’s consciousness, almost like she’s forgotten her keys on that flea market table they found in Park Slope two weeks after they moved into the apartment. Because for as well-versed Emma may be in that singular sort of existence, she’s also well-removed from wanting it, and at least three of her knuckles crack. Curling around her rings.

Muscles in her cheeks stretch, another nod and quick blink to avoid the threat of blinding via camera flashes. Someone really should have told her about this. She probably should have assumed. Human interest is the driving force of at least three-quarters of the stories in sports, and Emma’s not used to being the story, per se, but even she has to admit most of hers makes for a good one and they are still asking her questions.

Emma blinks again. Hopes she doesn’t look like a serial killer or the weird blonde, slightly sweaty cousin of the Joker, her smile starting to feel as if it’s painted on her face. She nods. Hums. Listens to questions that are startling in their tonal similarity to Charlie Brown’s teacher, and Emma wonders if Charlie Brown ever got a different teacher or what the school structure of the Peanuts’ universe is and, God, how old was Charlie Brown, even? To withstand that sort of consistent bullying. Was Linus the same age as him? No, right? How long did he carry the blanket around? Was Linus the same age as Sally? Why didn’t the red-headed girl with curly hair get a name?

She nearly falls out of her chair.

That might make the front page of several blogs. Possibly even the back page of a New York tab.

Careful to keep her feet on the ground, Emma lifts her head, directing her eyes toward the source of a question that must have been asked several times if the note of amusement mixing with deadline-based exasperation is anything to go by. Her smile definitely makes her look like a serial killer.

“Sorry, sorry,” Emma mumbles, and none of the oxygen she does her best to inhales makes it even close to her lungs. “I, uh—what was the question?”

The reporter grimaces.

“I wanted to know if you’d seen the video of your husband yet.”

Ice runs down her spine. Every single drop of wholly disgusting sweat falling in rivulets down either one of her cheeks freezes. Oxygen disappears from the room. Or so Emma assumes, what with the crushing feeling pushing down on her lungs and whatnot.

Her mind whirs. Races through possibilities and pitfalls with a speed that would be impressive if Emma weren’t already so close to that record, and she is going to break that record. Somehow she manages not to fall, though. From her chair or the metaphorical climbing wall in her brain, ignoring the sudden dryness of her mouth and the increasing size of her tongue.

Her nails are going to leave little half-moon creases in her palm.

“I don’t—” she starts, and eventually she will wish she was more articulate. For what turns out to be a very nice story.

Standing up, the reporter’s seat creaks as she moves toward the desk they deposited Emma behind after even. Several Olympic officials move to block her, but Emma shakes her head again, and she’s not exactly high-priority on the list of defensible athletes, anyway. So, none of them flinch when the reporter slides a phone closer to Emma, her crazed thoughts briefly lingering on how many phones a reporter could possibly need, but then her eyes drop, and she’s not sure if her ears can actually perk, but Emma certainly tries because she hears him yelling before she sees him.

Her smile shifts.

And the cameras flash again.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s collegiate life, because Anna demands it.

She’s only half-listening, so Emma can never be entirely sure what it was, exactly, she was agreeing to, but in her experience, the agreement doesn’t matter so much as the action, and her roommate’s younger sister is unstoppable when it comes to action. So, Emma is dimly aware of a plan. Something about the baseball house and that one left fielder is in a handful of her classes.

David—something.

He’s got a girlfriend, too. A nice one. Who always smells like sugar when she slides into the seat next to David whatever his last name is, sitting in the row in front of Emma during their Tuesday-Thursday statistics class.

Emma hates statistics.

She doesn’t hate Anna, though. Or her roommate, one of the better college-based surprises, and either Anna has magic or Elsa is an enormous pushover because somehow all three of them are ready at the same time, and the walk to the baseball house isn’t far.

First-year players guard the door — passing out color-coded wristbands that absolutely do not do their job because it takes about six seconds of well-meaning flirting and batted eyelashes between Anna and a mountain of muscle masquerading as the team’s starting catcher to get them inside. With purple wristbands and two tickets for jungle juice instead of the keg.

“Victory,” Anna cries, twisting through the crowd. Half of it is already teetering on the edge of drunk, the rest free-falling into the pit of imminent hangovers, and Emma isn’t sure she’d classify their drinks as a victory, but it’s definitely better than watered-down beer.

And it doesn’t take long, really. By Emma’s shaky count, it’s not even a half-hour before the muscle — who introduces himself as Kristoff, and really is pretty cute, actually — returns, standing unnaturally close to Anna’s left shoulder, furtive glances shared out of the corners of their eyes. Emma rolls hers. Elsa’s appear perpetually stuck to the ceiling. It looks oddly sticky up there.

“Go,” Elsa says, and it’s not an instruction. Barely counts as more than a whisper, really. Anna lights up all the same. Like an alcohol-fueled Christmas tree.

Who does not need telling more than once.

Hands reach and smiles widen, Kristoff mumbling something that sounds like it was nice to meet you before he’s following Anna back to the beer pong table, leaving Elsa and Emma standing in the middle of a sea of raging hormones. All of which want to be there way more than either one of them does.

“Well,” Elsa mutters, “that was polite.”

Emma snickers into her glass. A mostly empty glass. That’s surprising. “Got that going for him.” “Plus, his on-base is nuts this year.”

“Say that again.” “On-base percentage,” Elsa repeats, making sure to do it slowly for maximum sarcastic emphasis. Emma’s eyes are going to fall out. That won’t end well. There are too many shuffling feet in this room.

“What does that mean?” “How often he gets on base.” Opening her mouth does nothing. Closing it does even less. Elsa looks overjoyed. “I know things,” she shrugs, “and I’m pretty positive Anna and Kristoff have been not-so-secretly dating since the start of the semester, so—” “You stalked your sister’s secret boyfriend?” “Stalk’s a very dirty word, don’t you think? No, no, there was no stalking. There was light research. One Google search and a single click to the team’s roster, and now I know he’s from Minnesota, too.” “Awfully convenient for the romance of the century.” Humming, Elsa takes a larger-than-usual sip before scrunching her nose in displeasure. At her empty cup. Emma has no idea how they ended up with empty cups so quickly. Suddenly the baseball house feels a bit like a time warp. Enter and drink and find the love of your life. Or something like that.

“I got next,” Emma says, ignoring Elsa’s laugh because she is not the sort of person who says things like that. It’s this house. This place. With its music and its happiness, and she’s not really a sports person. Can only marginally understand the joy of watching other people accomplish something. She has no idea what on-base percentage is.

Still.

Her feet move. Fingers curl over the rim of red solo cups, like the most cliché version of her college self. Her drinks get refilled. And it’s just as Emma’s about to let herself wonder if, maybe, sports aren’t all that bad and might even possess a bit of inherent romanticism, she slams into something.

Someone, more like.

Taller than her, he has to peer down his nose to glare at Emma. That’s fair. They’re both far more damp than they were ten seconds before. Some of that moisture ensures that the hem of his shirt sticks to his stomach. A very flat stomach. That draws Emma’s eyes because she’s human and slightly intoxicated, and it takes quite a lot more than she’s willing to admit to lift her chin, but then she’s glad she does. Even with the understandable glare.

“Shit,” she breathes, “your eyes are stupid blue.”

He narrows them. She hates that. Which is about all it takes for her to get royally pissed off, too.

“Can you pay attention to where you’re walking?”

The stupidly blue eyes blink. Darken a shade, like all his frustration is centered directly around his pupils, and the shirt he’s wearing is team-branded. Another baseball player, then.

“You ran into me!” Oh, Oh. Well, that sucks. He’s got a good voice, too. Eyes and voice and the few strands of hair that fall toward those eyes when he continues to glare at Emma likely aren’t supposed to make her stomach flip.

It’s the alcohol’s fault.

Or sports. Like, in general.

“Because you take up so much space,” Emma snarls He leans forward. Looms, really. Over her and around her, smelling like punch and body wash. It’s gross and absolutely wonderful. “Gotta pick a lane, love. Either I ran into you, or I was in the way.”

“It can definitely be both and there is nothing resembling love here.”

“So I can see. You have a name, wrecking ball?” “My shoes are never going to unstick from this floor.” To his credit, he does waver. His lips twist — which makes it all too obvious how much Emma is staring at his lips, but, seriously, the alcohol. Plus, it’s so hot in this house she can barely think straight. She wonders where he buys his body wash. He smells better than he should in this house. So, it's clear he considers. Ponders, even. Until his hands dart out and those hands are somehow warmer than every person in this house combined, heat scorching through Emma’s t-shirt as he lifts her off the ground.

Only to deposit her approximately fourteen inches to her left.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” “Look,” he grins, “you’re unstuck.” “Bastard!” “Eh, not technically.” “What?” “Not technically a bastard. Orphan, I suppose. But that’s kind of a mood ruiner, don’t you think?”

Emma’s fish impression is really going great. The grin becomes a smirk. Her stomach refuses to stay still. “Is there a mood to ruin?” “Might be if you tell me your name.”

Emma wavers, that time. Considers and ponders. Weighs the pros and cons while laughter drifts past her ears, consummate collegiate experiences that she’s only ever let herself be passably jealous of. A dark-haired girl’s talking to Elsa in the opposite corner.

And the hand hanging in front of her wiggles its fingers.

It’s still ridiculously warm when she grabs it. “Emma Swan.” “Killian Jones.”

Anna’s secret relationship becomes a real relationship no less than sixteen hours following what Elsa begins to call the Drink Incident.

And they become—

Baseball people.

Becoming baseball people is not bad. Not really. Emma likes the baseball team. She understands what WHIP is, now. Kristoff adores Anna, so that’s good. David, who does, in fact, have a last name, continues to be as nice as assumed, and his girlfriend sort of quasi adopts Emma. Mary Margaret Blanchard brims with positivity and an innate sort of joy that would usually annoy Emma, but most of that joy also serves as a direct counter to the snark that Killian Jones appears flush with. So, it’s something of a wash, really.

Plus, he’s a very sore Monopoly loser.

And Emma finds it endlessly entertaining.

“Stop that,” he grunts, glaring at the board with the sort of force Emma’s become accustomed to in the last few months, while she taps on the space in front of her, “I know how many spots it is.” Emma smiles. “So move, then.” “I’ll be bankrupt.” “Capitalism does that.” “Tell me more about capitalism, Swan.”

She doesn’t startle, so there’s that. Not much else, though. Not when a noticeable bit of equally familiar heat skitters down her spine. Her head tilts. His head remains frustratingly still, staring at the board like the spaces will change or Mary Margaret will tear down some of her hotels on Marvin Gardens.

Neither thing happens.

The heat pools. At the small of her back, inching dangerously close to that space between her hips, like it’s trying to tether her to this spot and this moment and its people. Baseball people. People who so clearly care about everything so much that even the cynic in Emma can appreciate it. Plus, they’re all ridiculously competitive.

David had to take a walk when Mary Margaret bankrupt him earlier.

“That’s about the extent of my capitalism knowledge,” Emma admits with a shrug, “I sucked at economics.” Pulling his gaze away from the board, Emma’s less prepared for the force behind Killian’s eyes than she was for the appearance of a nickname that might not warrant the title. It’s just her name, after all. But it sounds like more than that. Sinks under her skin with alarming ease, the precise tone of it wrapping its way around a variety of internal organs until they’re all beating at the same tempo and— “Move my piece for me.”

Kristoff groans. Mary Margaret chuckles. Elsa looks far too sure of herself. Knows everything, indeed.

And it’s not really a command, but there’s that same sense of something that found its way into the sound of Emma’s name and Killian’s voice, and he catches her by surprise. On a variety of levels. His fingers jump the moment hers reach out, all heat and an alarming size difference, his brows lifting when she turns her head.

“You’re taking this game way too seriously, you know,” Emma says. What she doesn’t say is more important, though. Because they’re not friends, really. They’re—acquaintances. Some kind of appropriate metaphor regarding a planet’s many moons and the tendency of those moons to orbit something far bigger than them. But they like each other, too. As much as they dance and twist, do their best to avoid getting hit in the batter’s box, Emma’s more comfortable bantering with him than just about anyone she’s ever met, a challenge in every conversation, and she’s rather loath to realize she’s memorized the different ways the blue in his eyes flash.

Now it feels a bit like a spotlight.

“Matter of pride, Swan.” “Is it just?” If there are other people laying on their stomachs in that living room, half-empty glasses by their hands and equipment stacked in various corners, Emma forgets about them. Quickly. Immediately. Killian doesn’t move his fingers.

He nods.

And Mary Marget only kind of gloats when she bankrupts him.

She dances when she wins, though.

It’s embarrassing. It’s absolutely, goddamn wonderful.

Realizing that baseball is a game of statistics ruins kind of Emma’s day. It makes Killian laugh. Her favorite sort of laugh. Where he throws his head back, an arm around his middle, and his shoulders shaking. Those same strands of hair she noticed that first night fall back toward lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting in an angle Emma is sure she could determine if she just didn’t hate math so much, and it takes about four seconds, her head tilting back and forth twice and one swipe of her tongue to lean forward on the couch they're sharing, tilt her head up and press her lips to his.

Press is a vast understatement.

Crash, more like.

A bases-clearing double into the left-field gap.

She knows so many baseball terms now, it’s ridiculous.

It’s because she keeps going to games. With Anna. Without Anna. With Elsa. Without Elsa. With Mary Margaret every single time. And it creeps on so slowly, she’s practically a Jane Austen heroine, but then Emma finds she cares as much as everyone else. Screams herself hoarse at every crack of the bat. Jumps and fist bumps with startling regularity. Experiences the flutter of butterflies in her flip-prone stomach before ninth-inning rallies.

She memorizes statistics. Killian’s statistics, especially.

Because the Draft is a week away, and the nerves rolling off him are even more potent than his body wash. Bought in bulk from a locally-owned company, she learns.

Killian hates capitalism, too.

Which is only part of the reason she likes him, but right now all of the reason is centered around how it feels as if the world is shifting on its axis and what, precisely, he is capable of with his tongue. Quite a lot if this first time at bat is anything to believe.

Emma laughs.

Joy bubbles from the very center of her, pushing at the seam of her lips, and it’s not much of a seam when her mouth is open to accommodate tongue, but it’s enough of a sound that Killian pulls back. No glare. Definitely eyebrow movement, though.

“That’s not the best confidence boost, you know.” “I’m straddling you,” Emma counters, nodding toward the knees on either side of his, and she has no idea when her fingers found his hair. It’s very soft.

“How did that happen?” “What was that about confidence?”

Dropping his head, she gets a different sort of laugh, one that’s just as potent in its ability to settle into her bloodstream and the empty spaces around her heart, and sports have turned her into a sap. “I like you a lot,” Killian murmurs. Emma’s heart explodes. Metaphorically speaking.

“Good.” “Expand on that, for me.” She pinches his side, almost prepared for the way it leaves him bucking beneath her. Less prepared for the mutual groan it causes. Killian’s eyes widen. “I like you a lot,” Emma repeats, and his arms tighten, and her heart knits itself back together, and the second time through the kissing order is even better.

It starts, as with most things in Emma’s nearly-adult life, because Anna demands it.

“I just think it’ll be fun,” Anna says, not for the first time. And, not for the first time, she ignores the pointed look Emma and Elsa exchange. Elsa’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth “Think about it,” Anna continues, “we need something to do before the game, anyway. This way we’re—you know, staying active.” Emma’s eyebrows jump. Fly. Soar into her hairline where the level of her disbelief sits, all too aware of the ring hanging around her neck.

A Draft Day gift. As much as a family heirloom can be a gift. But Killian claimed it was good luck, his brother’s ring, because turns out that snark is at least a partial product of a wholly depressing childhood, and Emma supposes there’s something to be said for common ground. Understanding, too. Stories shared over weeks that turned to months that turned to years and seasons in the minors, and it absolutely figures Killian’s Major League debut is happening in Cincinnati. Where Kristoff plays.

It’s ridiculous how in love with him she is.

Killian. Not Kristoff.

Anna is still talking. “There’s nothing else to do in Cincinnati,” she reasons, which seems unfair to the city itself but not entirely untrue, and even the concept of chili on spaghetti grosses Emma out. “Also,” Anna adds, sounding as if she’s reached the final bullet point on her list of possible arguments, “I’ve got a Groupon deal for this place.”

Elsa blinks. “I didn’t realize Groupon was even still a thing.” “Surprise!”

Emma’s laugh isn’t entirely honest, but her sigh of acceptance is and—

Turns out she’s pretty good at it.

Goddamn fantastic, actually.

At rock climbing. Indoor rock climbing. Her feet push her up the wall with ease, the steady ache in her arms welcome and wonderful and a slew of other alliterative adjectives. That leave Killian grinning like a maniac, but it’s been a weird and equally wonderful day, without a hit, but two walks, so that ups the on-base, and Emma’s really, seriously in love with him.

“I don’t know what it was,” she says, preening just a bit under Killian’s stare. Hotel lighting casts shadows on his cheeks, slumped as he is against every pillow they could find. Even the ones in the closet. He’s not supposed to be in here for much longer, both of them aware of the team-ordained curfew hanging over them, but the pre-game nerves are long gone. Replaced instead with exhilaration and endorphins, the kind that could win Elle Woods a headline-making case. “But,” Emma continues, “I just kept moving, and the guy said it was, like, a course record. Is course the right word, you think?” Killian lifts a shoulder. Even as it’s covered in ice and tape. The play he made at third is going to show on loop. On TV. In Emma’s memory. She’s never yelled that loud before.

People took pictures.

And then she cried. Like a giant sap.

“This is your show, Swan,” Killian chuckles, pride infusing the words. As if she’s the one who deserves the pride today. It’s entirely possible she cried for multiple minutes after that play. They definitely showed that on the YES Network. Mary Margaret texted her no less than forty-seven times.

“I was really fast.” Killian hums, fingers fluttering enough to make it clear he wants her closer. Emma doesn’t argue. They’re a mess of limbs and mouths and that tongue thing they’ve collectively gotten better at giving and receiving over the years, hands that warm with the sort of confidence borne of repetition. Some joke about BP and finding your swing.

“Plus,” he says, a soft laugh at Emma’s noise of displeasure when talking means far less kissing, “becoming a rock climbing savant means more upper-body work, and you know how I love your arms.” Guffawing the way Emma does is not particularly romantic. Doesn’t matter. The sound comes, and the joy remains, a steady stream pumping through all her extremities and clouding her thoughts. In the best way possible. Before Killian, Emma didn’t know this could be that. Fun and easy, not quite simple, but something she’s willing to work for. Athletes are notoriously determined, after all.

Part of her wonders if a proclivity to rock climbing makes her an athlete, too.

“Please,” she says, laughter clinging to the letters even as she finds herself moved directly over Killian’s outstretched legs, “provide, in detail, everything you enjoy about my arms.” “I didn’t say enjoy.” “Were you misquoted, Jones?” His eyes flash. Glow, honestly. At her and because of her and athletes also know how to work their opponents. Goad them into making mistakes. Something about a pitcher’s duel and a battle in the box. Where the box is this bed. And Emma’s winning.

“I love your arms,” Killian says. Dragging his mouth against the column of her throat leaves goosebumps on Emma’s skin. Her back arches. His hand flattens. The compliments continue. Turn into promises. Guarantees. Of a future that’s spread out at their feet now, if only they reach for it.

Turns out Emma’s pretty good at reaching for things. When she wants them.

“This isn’t, like, free-scale, though, is it?”

Her heart cannot be expected to handle much more of this.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, “all proper safety precautions were taken. Plus, I wouldn’t fall off the wall.”

Killian’s expression shutters. Not in any of that frustration Emma so clearly understood when his shirt was damp, and her shoes were unsalvagable despite his best efforts to get the school’s equipment manager to dry-clean them. No, it’s—it’s something big and important and unspoken, and Emma pulls his hand up. To rest directly over the rink that’s still tucked beneath her t-shirt.

His t-shirt.

It’s got his last number on it, at least.

“Would you catch me if I fell off the wall?” He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t mention the absurdity of a question that does not make sense, but those literal and metaphorical clock hands are ticking, and if they don’t replace his ice soon, they’re going to destroy these sheets. “Every single time, Swan.” “Right back at you.”

Killian doesn’t miss curfew, but it’s pretty close.

And Emma wakes up to twelve texts with links for indoor rock climbing gyms in the greater New York City area.

“Holy shit, this is hard.”

Grunting more than laughing, Emma’s fingers curl around the rock in front of her. Chalk cakes itself on the pads of those fingers, stuck beneath her nails and, somehow, the bend of her elbow. “Are you not an All-Star?” she asks, glancing at Killian.

“I do not see how that factors into this at all.”

“Huh, weird.” “Suspiciously sounds like an accusation.” “Weird,” Emma repeats. They’re halfway up a wall only one of them is really supposed to be on, but the other person several feet below them is faring far worse than the pair of them combined, so, that takes precedence in her mind. “He knows a lot more curse words than I realized.” “He’s showing off,” Killian grumbles, forehead resting against the wall.

Will Scarlet hasn’t moved in five minutes. Possibly six. Maybe a round ten. He's much better at second base.

“I cannot feel my arms,” he calls, and Emma’s laugh is better that time. Purer, somehow. As if happiness can actually have a sound. Even happiness that comes with sweat on her temple and a noticeable ache in her triceps and she sort of loves this.

Sort of is a vast understatement.

“Showing off, huh?” Emma asks. She finds her next footfall with ease, happiness blooming into confidence that’s become nearly consistent these days and weeks and years. It does not take her long to feel the stare that’s lingering on her. On her ass, specifically.

She glances over her shoulder. To find her fiancé smiling at her. And staring at her ass.

“Can I help you, love?” “Whatcha doing?” “Ogling you, obviously.” “Forearms feeling good?” He nods. Sort of. There’s a distinct slope to the back of his neck and more sweat on his brown than Emma’s. Not as much as Scarlet’s, probably. “Fantastic,” Killian drawls, “keep going, Swan, someone’s got to show us how to do it.” “Try not to fall off the wall, huh? Last thing we need is the might of the Yankees front office coming after us.” “I don’t think I can move my hands,” Will shouts. Killian doesn’t move. It’s impressive forearm strength. Blushing on the wall is not usually how Emma’s days go.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises, and Emma moves. He follows her. Up the wall and to the top, a quick brush of his lips against her shoulder that leaves Scarlet cursing even more, despite his presence on the floor, but then there’s lemon-flavored water and exceptionally soft towels and Emma’s caught a bit off guard by the question.

“Are there leagues for this?” Will asks. “Because you should probably be winning things for this.” Emma blinks. Considers. Wonders. Turns to Killian.

He’s still smiling. Broadly, in fact.

“We could look.” They do. They fill out paperwork. Buy fancy climbing shoes that Emma claims cost too much, but Killian’s a pushover and even more stubborn and she wins the first race she signs up for.

Plus, ten more after that.

Emma climbs indoor rock walls. Killian hits home runs. Occasionally they do these things simultaneously, and it usually leads to her nearly falling off the wall because everyone in her Tribeca gym knows what it means when WFAN is playing on the speakers.

Sometimes they shout out John Sterling’s home run call with him.

She gets better. He gets better.

They do end up destroying sheets in various hotels across the country. For various reasons. Not all of them post-game or ice related. There are games and events. Wins and losses. Back page spreads that Emma frames and hangs on their apartment walls, right next to other, smaller frames, with the same smiling faces who, once upon a time, called a sticky-floored baseball house home, and Killian’s fingers are warm in hers when the tears prick her eyes at Anna and Kristoff’s wedding.

There are stories. Think pieces and hot takes on a variety of drive-time radio shows. Those are all about Killian, though. He’s the athlete. The true one, some stories say. It’s impressive what Emma does, they admit, but it’s a hobby, and she’s got a grown-up career, anyway. So, she’s got more climbing records than she knew ever existed, but she’s not doing it for press, and both Mary Margaret and Anna weep at her and Killian’s wedding.

She wears her ring on a chain next to her other one when she climbs.

Every time Killian notices them hanging there, Emma swears, his eyes brighten. It’s her favorite thing in the whole, goddamn world.

“What is this?” He doesn’t answer. Just holds the sheet of paper he must have printed out in the clubhouse because they certainly don’t have a printer at home, and one of the edges is bent. Like he had to fit it in his back pocket.

“Going the stoic route, huh?” Emma quips, but there’s a noticeable hitch in her pulse. One that’s been there for weeks. Since the rumblings started, and the rumors began, whispers of possibility, and first-ever has a very nice ring to it. One side of Killian’s mouth tugs up. “Oh, that’s not fair.” “I’d like the record to show, that the only reason I didn’t know immediately was because I was in the trainer’s room, so—” “What were you in the trainer’s room for?” Killian ignores her. Well, sort of. His eyes shift, and his gaze holds, and Emma knows. Right down in the marrow of her. What the paper is and how Scarlet is the one who printed it out, but she’s even more confident Killian carried it home, and that does something funny to her entire worldview. Widens it and minimizes it at the same time, focusing on this and them and the possibility that creates.

In an athletic sort of way.

“My shoulder’s kind of sore.” Emma scoffs. “Oh, that’s pointed.” “I’m sure your shoulders are fine. Golden, even.’ “This is not your best work, you know that?” “Look at the paper.” “Did you fold it yourself?” “And then took a car back home. You really didn’t see yet?” Emma shakes her head. He knows the answer, too. He’s the one with the Google alert, after all. Because she’s still a bit of a pessimist at heart and an adult with a real job, and this is too much and abjectly terrifying, and the last thing she expects is for Killian to crouch in front of her.

One of his knees cracks.

“Don’t,” he warns, even as Emma does her best to swallow her laugh. Warm hands land on her thighs, a quiet steadiness that helps the state of her pulse and makes the possibility of the unknown a little less overwhelming. The lines crossing the center of the paper are absurdly straight. “You’re going to go.” “Oh, that sounded like a decree.” “A suggestion.” “A strong one.” “Mmhm, with the utmost confidence.” Emma makes an impressive sound. “Who’s doing your media training? What an impressive vocabulary you’ve got on you.” “Ready and willing to use it in a persuasive manner.” “Keep talking like that, and you won’t have to.” The smirk disappears. Evolves into a grin that is only Emma’s and only appears in moments like this, support clinging to air molecules and the ends of hair that constantly seems determined to fall into Killian’s eyes. “Passed, huh? All cool with the IOC.” “Decidedly cool. Officially an Olympic sport, now. Although the name could use some work. Sport climbing lacks a little oomph, don’t you think?”

“What would you call it?” “Emma Swan wins Olympic gold.” “Kinda wordy.” “Prophetic,” Killian corrects, hands shifting and pulling, and Emma has to widen her legs. His head’s at a very good kissing angle. “You’ve already got the qualifying numbers.” “You looked at the qualifying numbers?” “Don’t insult me like that. What do you think I did in the backseat?” “Planned the entire 2020 Olympics, apparently.” “Not the entire Olympics,” Killian counters, "just the part involving you. And maybe my individual expectations regarding the United States baseball team, but that’s another conversation altogether.”

“Naturally.”

“You’re using that voice.”

Widening her eyes does nothing. Emma didn’t expect it to. Not after years and games and events because rock climbing has events, and one time Mary Margaret made her a sign. Killian held it. He’s taller, that’s why.

“Don’t,” Killian repeats, “this is happening.” “Yuh-huh?” “You heard me. It’s your turn, now.” Melting is an impossibility. Like, for a human. Even so. Emma feels like she’s melting. Some of that pessimism evaporating under the warmth of Killian’s gaze and his hands and the determination in the precise angle of his chin. Same one he uses when he steps into the box with runners in scoring position.

Lumping herself into that group isn’t as insulting as Emma once believed it would be.

“God,” Emma groans, “that’s romantic.” “You’re really selling it, love.”

“This is supposed to be a hobby.” “One you’re exceedingly good it. World record good at it.” “I like you.” “That’s my end game, yeah.” She laughs. Smiles. Continues melting. Which is easier once they get rid of their clothing, and their bed is way more comfortable than any hotel they’ve encountered. And she falls asleep with Killian’s lips against her ear, Emma Swan, Olympic gold medalist whispered on loop like it’s a mantra he’s been practicing.

They postpone the Olympics.

It sucks. Everything sucks. Baseball sucks. Gyms are closed. Emma gets creative, and Killian gets research-prone. They build a makeshift wall. She tosses him BP.

People write stories about it.

It doesn’t help.

Until—

Time passes. Some things change. Others don’t. Their wall stands up to the elements of their building’s courtyard, and Killian’s hitting better than ever this season, a victory Emma’s going to claim as at least partially hers. And then the Olympics are back, and it’s qualifying and racing and a record that’s just out of reach, but she’s good enough even without it, and, this time, she’s the one packing a suitcase.

He kisses her.

Does the tongue thing.

Holds onto her like he’s only a little afraid she’s going to fall off the wall, but now the wall is international competition, and Emma’s freaking out a little.

“I love you,” she says into the crook of his neck.

His arms tighten. “I love you too.” “Gold medal?” “Gold medal.” “Hit some home runs while I’m gone, huh?” Lips graze her temple. Her forehead. The bridge of her nose. Emma might be crying, and Mary Margaret’s definitely recording, a small mob of red white, and blue surrounding them. “I’ll see what I can do,” Killian promises.

“Good.”

He hits three before her first qualifying round. So, Emma takes that as a challenge. She’s an athlete now.

It’s why, she figures, her fingers don’t slip on her first run.

Her feet are sure. Her breathing is steady. There’s no one cheering her name, but she’s long since memorized the exact way Killian’s voice lifts above a crowd. How he pushes up on his toes to watch, as if standing up taller makes sure he’s closer to her. Should she need him when she falls off the wall. Only, Emma doesn’t fall, and she’s got no intention of ever falling and—

Her laugh shudders out of her in a watery sort of way that makes the journalist still standing in front of her flinch ever so slightly. Twitter makes sure the video starts playing again as soon as it finishes, which is somehow the best and worst thing that has ever happened to her. Best because, well, Emma’s honestly not sure she’s ever seen her husband like this.

Worst because she’s very nearly goddamn crying. Again.

Bobbing on the balls of his feet in front of his locker, whoever’s recording the video — it’s Scarlet, obviously — is practically frenzied behind the camera, barely able to contain their laughter. Killian doesn’t notice. He’s holding his own phone, all five of his free fingers firmly entrenched in the back of his hair. It’s gotten softer with age, Emma thinks.

She can’t stop watching him.

Every inhale is a clear struggle, the bobbing turning into pacing and quiet mumbling she can hear perfectly. As if she’s standing right in front of him.

Or at least slightly to the side. So as not to stand on the logo in the middle of the clubhouse.

Athletes are notoriously superstitious, too.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Killian chants, another noticeable snicker from Scarlet, “right there, right there, and pull, pull—Swan, pull up!”

“I did pull up there,” Emma mumbles. To the reporter, maybe. Or the world. Possibly her husband. Who was definitely more nervous about the first run than her.

God, that’s romantic.

Killian’s still talking. Shouting, more like. It’s a miracle Scarlet hasn’t fallen over yet.

“Faster, faster, you can go faster than that, Swan—” Emma clicks her tongue. “That’s kind of insulting.”

There’s an appropriate titter of laughter from the peanut gallery, which is a joke she was not trying to make, but she’s also dangerously close to swooning in the middle of press and she should have asked the Yankees for media training. Someone would have made sure she didn’t make a total ass of herself.

“Show me the time,” Killian yells, another demand that isn’t that. It’s too wobbly a string of words to hold any real power, just the supportive sort of desperation Emma’s felt in a variety of ninth innings and series-clinching moments. “Faster! Faster!” “Talking to the time or the judges or your wife?” Scarlet asks.

Killian nearly snarls.

Emma blinks. Hyperactively. Crying is not usually her shtick. More camera flashes...flash, Emma barely noticing them with her eyes glued to a phone screen that isn’t hers because she at least knows not to bring her phone to a press conference, and she can only imagine how many text messages she’s gotten.

Even on the other side of the world.

They post the times.

She knows because Killian gets some rather impressive height on his celebratory vertical. Fingers abandoning his hair, his fist pumps the air, and Scarlet’s not laughing so much as he’s whooping, a steady stream of yeah, yeah, yeah in the background. And for about half a breath, Emma’s worried Killian may turn one of his ankles on his landing, but he’d think that was insulting, and she’s really just full-on swooning now.

“How many people have seen this?’ she asks the reporter, already knowing the answer.

The reporter smiles anyway. Emma should learn her name.

“Pretty much the whole world.” When Emma was a kid — the sort of kid who believed alone was better, and there was strength in singularity, that would have terrified her. Bowled her over, really. Left her running without looking back, desperate to shed any sort of notoriety because notoriety meant attention, and attention meant inevitable disappointment.

Maybe that’s why she was never much of a sports person.

Sports disappoint you. They build you up and let you down, a sharp and sudden fall without a safety net. But sometimes. Sometimes, every so often, something wonderful happens. Sports lift you. Right up an indoor wall. Because, she knows, sports’ power comes from belief, from surrendering yourself to something bigger and better, and she’s back on that alliterative kick, but the tears are barely clinging to her eyelashes now and Emma herself is bigger and better, now.

In an international, decidedly romantic sort of way.

The video’s playing away.

“Let’s go,” Killian cries, and there it is. Her sound and their sound, cheering across an ocean and time zones that are still kind of messing with her sleep schedule.

Emma’s smile stretches.

“Let’s go,” she repeats.

It ends, as with most things in Emma’s gold-medal-winning life, because Anna plans it.

Stepping out of the terminal, it takes less than a full breath for the cheers to start. For the banners to lift and the tears to flow, a small platoon of support covered in the sort of patriotic gear they definitely got from the Old Navy in Herald Square.

Flashes burst behind Emma’s eyelids because she’s got to blink or she’ll definitely fall over. Her legs wobble beneath her, contending against a wave of triumph and jubilation, which is sort of the same word, but they’ve got a game at the Stadium tonight, so she doesn’t expect, she just hopes and reaches, and he has to twist around both Anna and Mary Margaret.

It’s wonderfully cyclical.

As is the way Emma slams herself against him. On purpose, this time. Killian’s arms tighten, more cheers and shouts, and people a few feet away start chanting USA over and over. Emma barely hears them. Her feet aren’t touching the ground, so she’s kind of preoccupied.

They’re all arms and mouths, and her legs wrapped securely around a body that probably shouldn’t be supporting hers when she knows he slid into second two nights ago, but Killian clearly has no intention of letting her down, and the medal around her neck bumps against her rings.

“You’re a very good cheerleader; you know that?” He hisses. In what, Emma can’t imagine. Embarrassment, if the red tips of his ears are anything to go by, and she’s got ideas as to why that is and how long the conversation about social media with Scarlet went, so Emma does the only reasonable thing.

She slams her lips against her home-run hitting husband’s, doing her best to make sure the gold medal doesn’t mistakenly impale either one of them, and the world tilts again. With victory and sports-based support and the sort of love that comes from believing in something bigger.

And better than Emma could have ever imagined.

“I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Please,” Emma scoffs, “don’t insult me like that. Plus, I’m claiming every one of those home runs as my own, so comparatively—” He kisses her before she can say anything else.

That’s for the best, probably.

“Your arms looked ridiculously good the whole time.”

Her laugh doesn’t even sound like her when Emma hears it played back — another video that someone tells her goes viral, only she doesn’t care about hits or site traffic, just about the particular shade of blue in Killian’s eyes, and she wears her medal to the game that night.

Because they’re a sports power couple, now.

Or so the New York Post back page claims the next day.

Emma frames it.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #hook heel #this is also apparently my 50th work on ao3 #which is just patently nuts #so if you guys have been clicking and reading all these words know that i am a little in love with you

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lunnybunny12 · 4 years ago

Text

Sandor Clegane X reader (Rory)

MODERN AU

A/N: This is a modern AU based off of this headcanon.

Word count: 2036

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol, mentions of death

Master List

As an Infantry Soldier, Sandor served in the field, working to defend his country against any threats on the ground. He'd capture, destroy, and deter enemy forces, assist in reconnaissance, and help mobilize troops and weaponry to support the mission as the ground combat force. He'd seen good people get murdered, shot, hanged, killed. People with families to get back to and friends who would miss them. Sandor had neither, and yet he was allowed to return.

He took a large gulp of his drink and looked at his surroundings. Sandor had been to the bar many times before and the familiar hum of other patrons as they'd pull frothing glasses of beer to their lips was there like always. He heard the occasional clicks from the back where the pool-tables were placed. The smell of alcohol, snow and pine-scented air freshener drifted through the air as you dragged a damp rag across the bar.

"Oi Barkeep. Beer." Sandor called, fiddling some change from his pocket.

"Keys first, Dogface. Then you can drink," You retorted, not moving from your place at the bar. (Dogface- A nick-name for Infantrymen because they sleep in "Pup-tents" and hide in "dugouts")

Sandor sighed in annoyance and paused to look at you. It hadn't been the first time you had told him this, he never understood why but he knew full well that you weren't joking with him.

"Again?"

"Yes, again. now hand them over."

He begrudgingly did as he was told and slid the car keys across the bar, avoiding your outstretched hand completely. You snatched them away and placed them in your pocket, with a fake glare.

"Good boy. They'll be in the same place when you come to pick them up tomorrow." You said popping of the cap of a beer and sliding it towards him and going back to cleaning the bar.

"You're lucky you're one of the few people I can stand in this town" He grumbled.

"Oh I feel so honoured" you joked and rolled your eyes.

Since there were other customers to attend to you couldn't talk long, but it's not like he'd say much to you anyway. The community he had found himself in was quite tight-knit. Everyone knew everyone and it was tricky to not run into someone who had something to talk about. Sandor however was a very quiet individual who often kept to himself making him stand out to many of the residents.

As the night continued and other staff started their shifts, Sandor found himself looking at you from time to time. He watched you collect glasses, chat to customers, tell jokes and take orders. He found himself doing it allot recently and he didn't understand why. At some points, he had even begun te eavesdrop on your conversations since he had nothing better to do.

"Ah (y/n) hows Rory? Heard the lad had an accident" A customer asked as you took their order.

Sandor's ears pricked up. He'd never heard of a Rory before at least not from you, and from what he knew there wasn't a Rory in the village.

"Yeah, the silly thing fell down the stairs and hurt his leg. He's upstairs having a lie-down. he should be up and about in a few days though," You chuckled.

You had changed so much since he was dragged off to the army. You weren't a crazy teenager anymore but a grown woman, with a proper paying job and a life outside of work. Yet you were still the same when it came to your personality: humerus, silly, carefree, cheerful and stupid... my god were you stupid, you had to have been to be his friend.

"Right, consider me.. clocked out" You smiled to yourself and looked at Sandor.

"Why do you need to clock out? You own the bloody place." Sandor said.

"Yes, but its this new fangled technology thing that Mr Ray insisted I use, and you know what he's like. 'His town his rules.' Plus it helps me keep tabs on whos working."

"At least you understand half of the tripe you just said." Sandor joked taking another sip of his drink.

You rolled your eyes and patted his shoulder as you headed towards the door. "Goodnight everyone!" You yelled earning a cheer of goodnights.

Everything was different when Sandor went away. One day he was there and the next he wasn't, no warning, just a letter that said that he had been accepted into the army and to not expect him back for a long time, that was if he came back at all.

When he did eventually return he had also changed. His personality remained the same, as you expected but he had changed physically. He was taller, broader and stronger and his hair had been cut making his burn a more prominent feature.

If it was up to you, you would've stayed away from him but since yours was the only bar in town, he would come for a drink. Out of politeness you talked to him and sent the occasional harmless jab his way and in return he was civil. You were still angry that he hadn't said goodbye but you still cared, you must have done to take his keys.

It was misty that morning. All mornings were misty since the Autumn season rolled around. You loved Autumn. You loved the feeling of the wind rushing past your face and how the leaves crunched beneath your boots. Your favourite place to walk was at the park and since Rory had stopped limping around your apartment, you thought the park was a good idea.

Rory was a large thing. The hound was easily half your height when stood on all fours and towered above you when on his hind. In his youth, he would have been jet black and full of energy but as he aged, the fur around his snout and paws had dimmed to a light grey and he had mellowed out.

As you walked along the wet grass a sudden yelp bit through the air.

"Someone get their fucking dog!"

You immediately ran to the voice to see Sandor, on the ground with your dog licking his face.

"Rory! come here. You silly thing" you laughed as you latched the lead onto the dog's collar and pulled him away from Sandor.

The man looked awful. His hair was a mess and he was covered in dirt. The shirt he wore was the same as the day prior and he seemed half asleep.

"Were you sleeping in the bush?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine thanks for asking" Sandor huffed as he pulled himself off of the grass.

He was in a mood and in all honesty, you would be too if you were sleeping in a bush.

"What kind of dog is that? Looks like a living mop"

"He's a wolfhound and I can guarantee he's cleaner than you."

"Well, you try and stay clean when you've been sleeping in the park for 5 days," Sandor growled, dusting off some leaves from his pants.

"5 days?" you asked. "You've been sleeping here for 5 DAYS! What happened to your apartment?"

"No money to pay for an apartment."

"What about your job?"

"Why do you care?" Sandor asked, bending down to grab the blanket that was hidden in the shrubbery. He was about to walk away until you stood in front of him with a serious look.

"I care because we were friends once and I'll be dumbed if I let my friend sleep in the cold. So I will ask again... What about your job?"

The look Sandor gave you wasn't out of shock or surprise. It was a look of familiarity. A look of relaxed friendliness that you hadn't seen since before he left.

Sandor sighed and scratched his neck. " My job fired me a few weeks ago. Said that 'I have talents that could be useful elsewhere.'"

"They fired you without reason?"

"I stacked boxes (Y/n) and that's all I did."

"Load of cunts," you sighed. "Right you're coming home with me, you're gonna get a shower and we can talk about a job later."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"No, but you're getting it anyway. Follow me Dogface."

A month had passed since then and things once again changed.

You gave Sandor a job at the bar more suited to his skillset and became the security. The town was a tourist hotspot in the summer months and you would get the occasional rowdy bunch that you nor the rest of the residents liked to deal with. In the other months, Sandor would just hang around, help with any shipments that required heavy lifting and occasionally cover for a staff member. Since you couldn't have him sleeping in his car or in a bush you gave him the spare room in your apartment and when he could afford it he insisted on paying rent and wouldnt take no for an answer.

One day when Sandor came back from his shift, he was met with you, laying on the couch with Rory draped over you with his head on your chest. Rory had done this more than once and you thought it was adorable, whether it was to protect you or because he was cold you didn't know but it was adorable just the same.

"You look comfortable," Sandor said slipping off his shoes at the door.

"Oh, I am. Very much so. I was in the mood for cuddles and since you weren't here Rory stepped up" you joked, petting the sleeping dog.

At the corner of your eye, you saw Sandor's demeanour change. He straightened his posture and took a sharp breath in.

"You alright?

"I'm fine. move your legs." Sandor said sitting on the couch beside you as he leaned to grab the tv remote.

He had been doing that a lot. Whenever you joked about ding something a couple would do, he would shy away or close himself off and to be honest you were only half-joking. It why you were so upset when he left without a word of warning. You liked him but if he liked you was a different story.

"You jealous?" You asked

"Jealous?" Sandor chuffed. "Of Rory? Nah. You wouldn't go for an old dog like him"

"I like old dogs. They have more charm and personality than the younger ones." You answered as you ran your fingers through Rory's fur and kissed him on the head.

Sandor sighed and continued to look at the TV. He looked so handsome to you, he always did. Sure he was rough around the edges but its what drew you to him in the first place.

"I like you too, you know."

"What?" Sandor laughed and looked a you. He thought you were joking like you usually did but by the look on your face, you weren't.

By that point Rory had jumped off of the couch to get some water, allowing you to sit properly.

"I like you, Dogface."

"In what way?"

"In a romantic way... since before you left" a second of silence cut between you when you started laughing at yourself. Like a real laugh. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you feel the same anyways."

"How do you know I don't like ya?"

"Look at me, Sandor. The only men in my life are you, the customers and my dog, I'm not exactly a noble-born am I? Just a daft bar made"

You stood up and walked to the fridge to grab a few beers.

"I like a daft bar made. They're way more entertaining than the smart ones."

"Very funny" you said handing him a bottle and sitting back on the couch with a huff.

"I also like my bar made: brave, and strong, and funny. With... a nice dog and a home of her own. Look, I like you too. I like being around you. I...I like your face."

You laughed and shuffled closer to him and leant your head on his shoulder.

"Cute" you mumbled and leant up to kiss his cheek. " I like your face too"

#game of thrones x reader #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #sandor clegane x you #sandor the hound clegane #sandor x reader #the hound x reader #the hound #sandor clegane deserves the world #house clegane

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my-writings-and-musings · 5 years ago

Note

Hello there, I really liked your writing and especially the prompt with enemy forces attack and lack of oxygen! May I ask you to write it with Perceptor and Drift? (Separately, just in case). Thank you in advance!)

Got a ninja boy and a science boy here for you anon!

Got some links to the previous posts for this prompt!

Part One: Here!

Part Two: Here!

Part Three: Here!

Part Four: Here!

Part Five: Here!

Part Six: You're Here!

Part Seven: Here!

Part Eight! Here!

Part Nine: Here!

Part Ten: Here!

Part Eleven: Here!

Part Twelve: Here!

Perceptor

·Your arrival on the ship required him to work with the medics to ensure you could survive on it, and that obviously included working with you quite frequently to gather data, which eventually evolved into you assisting directly as the upgrades were put into place. Though he was initially hesitant to admit your presence was nice and he briefly stalled on finishing the upgrades just to spend more time together, you wore him down enough that he eventually relented and confessed to wanting you around. In the short time since things have come very far, enough so that he freely requests your aid in projects, chatting idly as he makes use of your tiny size and encouraging demeanor.

·This is exactly what you're up to today, though you're in the shooting range as opposed to your usual set up in the lab. While he's more than confident in his ability to handle this experimental weapon, he needs it here for when it's finally tested, and your small hands are ideal for a final stability check. A barely observable feeling in his spark registers as excited pride for you to see the weapon in action, but he keeps that to himself... It's bad enough someone walked in on the two of you holding hands as much as your differing sizes allowed the other day, and he doesn't need any more embarrassment.

·There's still a tiny smile on his face as he takes the first few shots, and the accuracy combined with the little cheer from you makes it impossible to keep it from growing. He's about to remark that this is only the first trial of the adjustable blaster, and thus not inductive of its real potential, when he's interrupted by a garbled communication. As you watch him answer, it's hard to hold back reasurance at the hint of frustration on his face, because you know him well enough to understand he doesn't appreciate the disturbance while trying to show off to you. Perhaps one day you'd let him know how easy he was for you to read.

·Well accustomed to frantic requests for his assistance, Perceptor finds himself unexpectedly surprised when the transmission is nearly inaudible, and the message from the bridge proves to be nothing more than a few broken sentences mentioning crashes and security systems before going dead. Not certain what could possibly be causing the ship he personally inspects to suffer malfunctions but knowing it must be corrected, he immediately plans to set off and get to the bottom of things. Securing the weapon into its holster on his back, he offers his hand to transport you with him, surmising you'll be safest with him at least until they have a better idea of what's going on. Of course he already has some theories, but he never acts without evidence.

·Glad to come along, even if only to help him run through some ideas, you happily take your place in his palm. Being without a vehicular mode means he pretty much had to get accustomed to carrying you everywhere he wanted to take you, as it takes quite a few steps for you to match one of his. Now he rather likes being able to hold you in a way that enables easy conversation, especially because as he walks and looks down to you in his palm and you look up at him with those genuinely fascinated eyes... It's nice. Currently he's listing the usual suspects for spacefaring trouble; solar flares, electric storms, debris collisions, and how none of them seem the likely culprit here for various reasons. You've seen him enter this state of unparalleled focus many times, and can't help but wish the circumstances could be better, because you love seeing him in his element.

·Both of you have a rather unfortunate awakening when a series of tremors pass through the ship and nearly knock him to the floor, something he prevents with quick reflexes that momentarily turn your world dark, a phenomenon you realize in an instant was caused by both of his hands cupping protectively around you. When they part you're left peaking upwards through digits at a somewhat concerned and bashful bot. Affirming you're alright, you watch as he gets moving again in an instant, now in full crisis mode after your little tumble. You know enough to be equally concerned by this turn of events, particularly because spaceships aren't known for their tremors.

·Talking as he walks, he has every one of his sharp senses on full alert for the trouble he knows will be coming, including his sense of touch to keep tabs on your small body in his hands. Being aware of every single potential problem means he knows quite well you could be in danger already. It worries him, to a level of concern he's not accustomed to feeling after experiencing so much combat. You can see the anxiety he's trying so hard to work through. There's a crackle in his spark that bots only have when very on edge, and you're close enough to hear it through his armored chest, spurring you to reach out and lay a hand against the warm metal. For a moment his optics meet your eyes, and at your reassuring smile he seems to regain some measure of calm control. His mind quickly uses that to put together a plan.

·While that tremor very likely came from an anchoring weapon on an enemy vessel, none of that explains the system shutdowns precluding it, and he needs to know the full extent of the threat before he can launch a counterattack. Most bots would need a well established access point to get diagnostics for the whole ship, but thankfully he's a bit more skilled than that. Explaining that he merely needs a workstation with any kind of physical connection to the main network, he begins what he is certain will be a quick search, and while you're delighted by the boost he obviously feels thanks to feeling in control you're a bit too tired to celebrate. Not wanting him to know the stress of the situation is wearing you down, your smile remains steadfast to give him the strength he needs.

·As he predicted, finding something suitable for his needs is a breeze, and he's so distracted by the impending answers he doesn't notice you growing drowsy in his palms. Though the small room is little more than a relay station for routine power inspection, it's perfect for what he has planned, and he places you on a nearby table as he gets to work. Even if your head were clear the flurry of activity he follows with wouldn't make sense. Somehow a motley collection of dust covered components becomes rewired into a humming piece of... something in what feels like minutes, and you absolutely beam with pride to see your partner pulling up the information he needs on a monitor, heavy eyelids lifted by your desire to watch him work more wonders.

·Data starts flowing through his makeshift diagnostic scanner in moments, and Perceptor watches intently as the ship's systems flash their readouts in order, though even he can't keep his expression calm as he all too rapidly puts together the horrifying pieces. They haven't just been boarded; they've been sabotaged. Most of the damage is meant to neuter their defenses and hinder any attempt at an organized counterattack, but one key readout tells him that you in particular are in the most dire need of assistance. The atmospheric generators and oxygen stabilizers he personally optimized for your benefit are going haywire, and the air you need to survive is rapidly being drained from the ship. The sheer size of the vessel, and the ability of its crew to keep the attackers at bay for this long, is the only reason you're still alive. In an instant he's on the move.

·You're cupped in oversized palms just as you realize you were laying down for a nap you didn't know had snuck up on you. Bleary in your head as well as your eyes, you hear him speak in the flat, rapid manner that he only uses when something critical is on the line. While his inflection is clear enough for you to catch his basic meaning, for the life of you it's just not possible to panic as much as you should, and his explanation of a plan doesn't register in the slightest. You know it should, and you feel awful for being so calm while he needs you, but the strength for you to be what he needs just isn't there. There is enough clarity for you to register one thing though, namely how closely he's cradling you to his chest. Such an open display of caring and concern is usually not something you see from him. A part of you rather likes it.

·Cold fear that he's come quite unaccustomed to creeps through him as he takes off through the ship. The medical bay is his ideal destination, as he helped create the human catered medical equipment already there, but he knows that time being of the essence means he has to plan for every possible situation, including those far from ideal. What matters is getting you oxygen, fast. The data on human biology made it impossibly clear; every minute without adequate oxygen is critical. Horrifying possibilities run through his mind, the diagrams of cell death he memorized almost taunting him as you appear to grow weaker with every passing breath. Feelings he'd long since forgotten, powerlessness and grief, eat away at him as he internally bemoans his lack of an altmode.

·You feel incredibly guilty as he grows more panicked, but sleep beckons far too strongly for you to resist it long. There's a part of you that knows his incredibly brilliant mind struggles when he doesn't feel in control, to the point he breaks reality at times to regain that handle on the world around him. So seeing you like this and being unable to do much in the moment... no doubt it's tearing him apart. Words don't come easy at the moment, and in fact you realize there's no way to form them at all, but still you try to reassure him. There's so much panic in the spark he holds you beside, and you do everything you can to convey that none of this is his fault. Gently splaying your fingers over the warm metal, you feel the world around you become little more than a blur.

·For a moment the path before him is filled with enemies. He nearly barrels into them rounding a corner, but not a moment is wasted once he has a full count of their number. One hand cradling you protectively, his other grabs the weapon he'd been testing with you before, and the still recovering alien soldiers become nothing more than an impromptu accuracy test. Even for him the precise carnage that follows is unimaginable. A series of heads jerk backwards before hulking bodies go limp, and in mere moments the threat is little more than a pile of confused looking corpses, but there's no time to celebrate. He's off with the weapon in hand for any future attacks.

·You hear him speaking to you as the last vestiges of your strength finally give way. He's trying to sound calm as he urges you to retain consciousness, but for once it's a losing effort, as you can hear the crack in his performance. It makes you sadder than anything else thus far. Particularly because you simply can't stay awake a moment longer. There's just too much weight in your limbs, and the warm darkness promises you a break, so you simply have to give in. All you can hope is that he'll understand neither one of you is to blame, and that you'll be able to wake up and tell him that yourself, but you're not especially worried about the latter half.

·He feels you go completely limp just as the medical bay and laboratory signs come into view. Now in a blind desperation, he makes a split second decision to head for his lab, reasoning that the medical bay will certainly be crowded due to current circumstances. Everything he'll need can be found in his various tools, and he can't waste a moment waiting on anyone else, even the medics. He can recall so clearly the human texts now, how the phenomenon of suffocation was described, and the resulting smothering of irreplaceable cells... Your tiny body is still breathing, but how much damage has already been inflicted? What parts of you has he failed to save? Not knowing is tearing him apart.

·Brainstorm is the only one in the lab, and he looks momentarily relieved to see Perceptor enter, saying something about restoring communication before catching sight of the little body in his hands. A frantic recommendation to bring them to the medical bay is met with curt dismissal as he lays you on an open work slab. There's no time to entrust this to anyone else, and in his mind the supplies he needs are already listed clear as day, including where to find them and what order he needs them in to maximize efficiency. Conscious thought is almost nonexistent as he works with record speed. The only times he stops are when his traitorous optics glance to your tiny body, and each glimpse is like an icy dagger to his spark. This isn't it. It can't be it. He won't lose the one he cares about more than anything.

·The tank of oxygen and the human sized ventilation system are hooked up to your frightfully still face with the care of a diamondsetter. He's able to get the readings of your improvement quickly, as the oxygen levels in the ship were apparently not yet low enough to do real damage, but he feels no comfort. All of his mind is still in chaos from the helplessness he can't yet shake. The fog is so deep that he barely notices Brainstorm return with a glowering Ratchet, and he only replies in curt affirmations or negations when the medic begins questioning your condition, doing so somewhat gruffly due to the inconvenience of having to move you later. With only a confirmation from the other mech you'll be in his care, he heads back out into the ship, weapon in hand and optics cold as he sets about securing Autobot victory one shot at a time.

·By the time you awaken the battle is over and the Lost Light is back to near total functionality. A calm voice instructs you to keep your oxygen mask on just a little longer to be safe, and you see Perceptor sitting beside you in the small recovery room. Having the basic pieces of everything more or less clear in your head, your immediate concern is him, which is only made worse by the scratches and scuffs on his usually well maintained armor. Barely able to stay where you are, the questions begin to pour forth as you reach a hand out to him. There's an uncharacteristically exhausted smile on his face as he reaches out a servo for you to hold. The expression is an obvious mask, made only more strained by the fake flatness of his assurance that he's fine, and that he only endured minor damage while cleaning out the last of the enemy. You know he's lying about that and more.

·Despite your ability to read him, you're still surprised when he cracks in a heartbreaking moment. His shoulders shake, his helm falls forward, and he leans heavily against the berth as your gentle prompt forces it all to the surface. By his standards he's a wreck, though his sobs are barely audible and could easily be mistaken for rough ventilations, and he makes it clear he's aware of how pathetic he looks. But how can he be okay? You needed him, and it was his own system that had failed you, with a second rate cyber attack no less. He should have seen that coming from the onset! He should have prepared! He can't seem to find the ground beneath him as he shakes, and in that instant you find strength far beyond your tiny body, and you use it to claw your way towards him. Seeing this makes him panic, and when he tries to gently stop your efforts you grab him tight, looking deep into those optics as you remind him he doesn't have to know everything. There will be times he's up against the unknown and unexpected, but his determination and strength have always driven him forward, and that's what you fell in love with. As you speak he seems to regain himself, and you hold him as tight as you can while emphasizing that even if everything feels out of control, you'll always be here to figure it out beside him. There's a sigh of relief he doesn't bother to hide as his world stabilizes, and once again you and he are right where you belong, hand in hand at the center.

Drift

·Having spent time on earth made him rather familiar with humans, and that combined with his first hand experience being an outsider in a group made him determined to ensure you were welcome on the ship. Needless to say, his efforts were more than a little successful. Now he's trying to teach you self defense in your shared quarters, which requires some creative thinking to ensure your safety. He's still got you using lightweight staffs in the place of anything sharp, and being a beginner, you can't complain too much. Though it's hard not to laugh when something occasionally gets bonked, yourself included, and even he chuckles despite all attempts to appear the dedicated teacher. Even with these distractions you learn a lot, but it's hard not to just enjoy how gentle he is when adjusting your stance, his proportionally massive hands holding you as if you might shatter in an instant.

·Thankfully he has full control of his reactions when the ship unexpectedly spasms, and his cupped palm prevents you from tumbling to the floor as the tremors settle back to absolute stillness, allowing you to look up at Drift just as he opens his communication line to Rodimus. The captain is able to give a brief rant about an ambush and systems crashing all over before the line begins to break, and you see your steadfast partner visibly distress as he loses contact with his friend, getting only a few garbled bits of information before the line goes entirely silent. An attempt by you to establish contact on your own communicator finds no success either. For all of his usual calm, the mech still supporting you looks ready to fight as he acknowledges trouble is inbound.

·To your surprise, he lifts you clear off the floor in a single move, talking fast as he secures his weapons and prepares for what he says will be a run for the most secure parts of the ship. Even if he's one of the key bots for defense in the event of something just like this, he has to get you to safety, or at least somewhere relatively well protected. There's a few key locations he can think of; the headquarters for security, the laboratories, the medical bay, and a few others he's memorized for... well, this exact purpose. The moment a tiny human changed his world he had drafted countless protective measures to ensure their safety, because he knew the dangers they would face all too well. Unfortunately he's having a hard time keeping them all in track now, especially with creeping fear tainting his reason and ability to plan ahead.

·Catching the worry he never admits to having, and admittedly plenty afraid yourself, you help him focus by calmly asking for the closest place he knows of that's secure. Mask of calm returning in an instant, he smiles and decides to go for the main laboratory. Perceptor is likely there, getting whatever experimental defense apparatus he's currently testing up and running to expel incoming threats. There likely won't be a safer place in the universe once he's prepared. Drift keeps to himself that there's an unspoken understanding between them regarding you, namely that the reserved scientist will protect you with the same level of veracity he would his former battle partner. Unfortunately that vow may be getting tested very shortly... Yet he keeps smiling, refusing to let his fear dampen your energy as he decides it's time to make his move. Somehow you feel just as heavy in his hand as the sword on his back as he makes sure you're secure.

·Accustomed to being carried by him in a number of ways, you notice his grip is different the instant he steps into the hallway, his digits curled in a way that screams protection just as much as his narrowed optics radiate apprehension despite trying to appear calm. You know he's protective by nature, but this is different. Every part of him is working in unison to move with as little noise as possible, his senses alert and scanning for threats as he hurries through the ship far more silently than you would have ever expected for a bot his size. In all your time together he's never been so outwardly on edge. Through his shameful confessions you know of his past, and you know of his skill in eliminating threats, so to see him nervous is actually a touch alarming in itself.

·There's a quick whisper from him that he believes enemies may be unavoidable no matter what path he takes. Should there be combat, he warns, he wants you to remain hidden or at least in cover until he's eliminated the threat. Should they overpower him however, your goal will be escape through whatever means necessary. The idea of dying to protect his partner doesn't give him any pause. Instead, his only focus is on ensuring you know every tool at your disposal to get to safety. Thoughts of sending you through the vents give him little comfort, but his feelings are hardly a priority, as nothing matters beyond you. You who saw past his sins, who'd given him a home in your boundless heart, and who had brought nothing but joy and light into his life. If he could guarantee anything by sheer force of will, it was your survival.

·You want to remind him that you're not the only one who matters here. Though you don't have any of his great strength or speed, you're certainly not going to let him be taken from you, as surviving without him would hardly be a victory. But holding on to that conversation is all you can do for now. The danger is real if you draw unwanted attention through speech, and so you keep the thoughts to yourself, saving them for the time you both would have to talk when this was over. Stress is oddly nonexistent as the air crackles around you from tension, perhaps signaling you've become so anxious it's all come full circle and turned you calm. Still, you keep a firm hold on him from your position of cover. Spectralism has encouraged him to be incredibly sensitive to the world around him, so you hope your tiny self focusing on calm will help give him some comfort.

·Unfortunately your efforts are given no time to pay off. Without making so much as a sound, he pushes himself flat against a wall and shushez you as he does so, allowing you to catch the faintest hint of what alarmed him; the sound of very alien movement. Trained audials lock in on the most likely direction of the source, which gives him the information he needs to come to an important decision; there's no getting around this particular group. As time to wait them out simply doesn't exist, he's left to confirm that fighting is his only choice, and with that lays you down on the floor beside a vent opening. Having known this might happen does nothing to quell your panic when you realize you're being left on the sidelines. This mech leaves you no time to argue before silently slipping around the corner to end things quickly.

·There's a team of Cybertronian sized lifeforms so surprised by his arrival they only have time to clumsily draw their weapons before the first one is neatly cut to pieces. Double blades make short work of the next few, and the mess of alien blood barely registers as he moves in a kind of trance, unwilling to let himself waste a moment of time unleashing the frustration and anger he so desperately wants to take out on these intruders. There's no doubt in his mind they'd hurt you if given the chance, but his logic keeps him in check to ensure he doesn't lose himself to the rage such a thought tempts him with. Cold precision is what he needs to most effectively end this quickly, and the method is proven effective when the last enemy falls in pieces, all without a single mark on his own armor. Save for the few spatters of alien blood, but he hardly notices such a minor detail.

·You're a little more concerned when he returns dripping with the mess of battle, but a quick reasurance and a noting of the lack of energon's distinctive pink glow puts most of your worries to rest. Still, you cling tightly to him as he picks you back up, whispering your thanks despite the loud clamor of the recent battle. It's a small victory when your gratitude makes him smile once again. Reminding you that he took a vow to protect you, he holds you close again and sets back off, assuming the same strategy of silent travel as before. It's oddly less tense this time, as if seeing what he's up against gave him the confidence to overcome his own worries for your sake. Whatever the case, you gladly take the result, already worn out from all the excitement of his recent battle.

·A brief burst of communication gives him pause, and you're equally baffled by the sudden transmission until he takes cover and answers. The commanding bots make something clear for the short message they've been able to transmit; Drift needs to get you to the medical bay. A rapid explanation of how the shipwide errors includes the atmospheric generators puts it all together in horrifying detail. Oxygen levels are dropping on all the sensors, they explain before the line cuts out, and while it's happening slowly there's still precious little time. He doesn't need any further instructions when silence descends over you both once more. You, however, can barely grasp the full extent of what you've just been told. After all, you feel fine! Well... mostly fine, perhaps things are a bit more wobbly than they should be.

·You're embraced as his expression briefly cracks into full worry. There's a whispered promise to get you to safety before he's once again on the move, all the on edge energy from before filling his coiled body as it hurries through the ship at impressive speeds. Strategy doesn't come easily as you try to think of the best way to save your breath. Keeping calm is hardly an option with everything going on, but you give it your best shot. You just need to stay awake and as relaxed as possible until he reaches the medical bay. It's harder than it should be already, but you persevere, lying down in his hand to keep the world from spinning all around you. Being close to him helps just a little bit. It helps you believe that the two of you will be fine, that he'll get to where he needs to be without trouble, and that everything is going to be smooth sailing from here.

·But of course, his luck allows for no such fortune. In the next moment he's being forced to tuck you away without a word of warning, the sound of an even more aggressive group of attackers forcing him to act before you can be hurt. He tries to dominate the battle like he did the last one, using his anger for fuel but never allowing it to take control, and his blades respond well to the strategy at first. However, this group is larger than the last, and thus his ambush simply doesn't buy him enough time to defeat them all. Soon blaster shots are flying and counterattacks are being hurled in his direction. All he can think about is you lying just out of sight, and how little time he has for this, and that these beings are all perfectly fine ending your life with such a cowardly tactic... It's an emotional powder keg, and the spark is finally lit when a not so lucky alien manages to cut a shallow gash across his side. The harsh burn of the injury sets him off just as you manage to glance down the hallway.

·Calm and calculated combat becomes a brutal beat down of anything he can get his swords through. A snarl reveals his shamefully concealed canines as he turns his blades into instruments of revenge instead of mere tools to victory. Even as your vision spins you can see him carving the increasingly fewer number of enemies without any of his usual grace, his expression one of blind fury as he eviscerates his enemies and something like a smile pulling up on his lips through their snarl. Some part of him is enjoying this, you realize. Even though he doesn't linger or draw out his moves, you can see he's going for absolute brutality in his kills. He wants these aliens to hurt for what they've done, and while you can't feel any pity for them, you know he's going to agonize over this later. He's often confided a fear of his own mind, citing moments like these where he just wants the enemy to hurt, and you know he firmly believes goodness is beyond him because of this.

·There's a thrill as he clears the last enemy, despite a few additional injuries of his own to show for it. No one was going to harm his beloved human and keep their limbs intact. He's still flashing the artificially sharpened canines that usually bring him such shame when he turns to see you watching. Pride vaporizes to horror in an instant, both from the realization that he gave in to temptation and that you saw him partake in such senseless brutality, and only the continued need to move lets him approach and lift you once more. Apologies pour out of his voicebox as he returns to running, begging your forgiveness for having exposed you to the worst parts of himself and failing to control them at your most vulnerable. Guilt tears him apart as he sees you've begun to lose clarity in the growing absence of oxygen.

·Unconsciousness pulls at you despite your resistance, and you force yourself to stay alert enough to keep him reassured. Had you the words your emphasis would have been on comforting him in the wake of his loss of control, particularly in regards to how you weren't afraid and never would be, as that piece was just a small part of the actual him you knew. Did he reject you for your failings? No, you wished you could say, and that you would never leave him for the same reason. As it was, you could only suck in deep breaths and hope he might read the conviction in your eyes. You want so badly for him to see you're not even upset with him, but your more coherent thoughts on the subject are starting to fade as well. Assurances that you will always support him fade into the fog overtaking your mind.

·He feels you slip into unconsciousness and it's like another stab to his already aching spark. Time is running out, and he can certainly take some of the blame for that, can't he? How many precious seconds could have been saved if he just stayed in control and finished the battle without savoring the violence? It's enough guilt that he becomes blind to anything else, charging forward on the most direct path and straight into an ongoing battle between bots and the still invading forces. You're held to his spark with a level of protection a bot would usually reserve for the Matrix, your safety being the only one that matters as he quite literally cuts a path through the enemies, focusing only on getting to the other side as he does so. Without any kind of defense he's quickly suffering a number of injuries, but he either doesn't notice or care as he keeps you free of the danger. The desire for retribution burning in his spark is smothered by a cold refusal to indulge unless he loses what's most worth fighting for.

·Only a lack of operability in his leg slows him down, and by then he's thankfully surrounded more by Autobots than enemies. His heroic charge is credited with turning the fight, but he's heedless to praise and concern as he finds support to stand from an unexpected arrival; Ratchet. Stopping the medic before his own wounds can be addressed, he holds you out wordlessly as his sword clatters to the floor from his other hand. Energon loss he only just now notices makes him wobble, but he insists on waiting until you've been helped, refusing to be treated until he knows you're going to be okay. The medics sort of compromise by tending to him whilst setting you up on the prepared medical slab, and as his considerable injuries are patched up he feels relief plagued by uncertainty. Will you remember what you saw? Will the firsthand experience with his inner demons drive you away? It eats at him in ways no medic can make feel better.

·When you awaken he's also on mandatory rest, and he's moved your tiny self onto a medical slab beside him to keep you close, making his familiar colors the first thing you see upon opening your eyes. You can't bring yourself to care about the oxygen mask on your face when the recently welded scars on his armor shock you into a mild panic. Seeing you awake, he gently shushes your concerns and encourages you to be still, and his position on his side thankfully makes conversing quite simple. At a single, anxious prompt about your memory the moments leading up to your loss of consciousness become clear. Drift quickly assures you that everything is fine, but you catch his look of worry when you confirm your recollection, and a gentle request for more information strikes him hard.

·His apologies are as helpless as they are hopeless. The disgust with himself is nearly tangible as he begs your forgiveness for having exposed you to the worst parts of himself, and it takes far longer than usual to get him to listen to you, perhaps due to the mask muffling your voice. Reiterating that you already accepted his past, you recall the way he held you in the heat of everything just today, and emphasise the sheer volume of injuries he endured to save you. That's the bot you've chosen to love, at the peak of his strength and selflessness and determination... That's who he is, and who he will always be to you. Your reminder soothes the pain in his body and spark. Moving as close as he can on the berth, he takes the moment to appreciate being together once again, his faith in himself given new strength thanks to your boundless love.

#transformers #maccadam #mtmte #more than meets the eye #lost light #idw #tf #my writing #my asks #anon #requests #perceptor #drift #perceptor x reader #drift x reader #human reader #self insert #transformers headcanon

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gxccistyless · 4 years ago

Text

Fine Line: The Divorce Series - part two.

In case you missed part one you can find it here. Feedback always appreciated in any form. Feel free to message me if you have any questions!!

Trigger warnings for this include; mentions of death, drug and alcohol abuse.

It’s ten passed twelve when Eliza opens her eyes for the first time, she hadn’t slept a good nights sleep since Fallon’s diagnosis but last night she didn’t wake not once.They had her funeral yesterday, she doesn’t remember much, she thinks this is probably partially why she was able to sleep so well, knowing that Fallon was finally resting at her forever home. Harry helped to organise the funeral and had been more available to both her and their other two children in the lead up to it and insisted in paying for it in full. But yesterday was too much for him, he left somewhere between the wake and the kids’ bed time and Eliza hadn’t heard from him since. Harry woke up in his apartment for the first time in weeks, he’d be living at Eliza’s in the spare room from the time when things got to be too much for Eliza to handle on her own. He missed his bed and the peace and quiet, but he’d never allow himself to say those words out loud. Right in between losing her and laying her to rest, they celebrated her birthday. Gemma thought it would be a good idea to acknowledge the day instead of pushing it to the side, Harry just kind of wanted to push through and try and get through the day, but Eliza liked the idea of being able to blow out a candle for Fallon and so to appease his ex-wife’s needs and support her through her grief, Harry bit his tongue And they did just that, celebrated her.

elizadoherty 4 years ago you made me a mama sweet angel baby Fallon. I miss you, thanks for changing my life 🕊 Liked by harrystyles, niallhoran and 12,378,346 others,

The funeral came around quicker than he had anticipated, it kind of crept up on him. After today things would go back to the way they were before Fallon got sick snd Harry wasn’t sure if he was ready for that. He wasn’t ready to be away from Koa and Lennon, or even Eliza for that matter. Everyone was so wrapped up in supporting Eliza on the day, they had forgot that Harry had lost a child too. So distracted by Eliza, no one noticed Harry when he slipped out in the middle of her wake, no one but Eliza.

There was no communication between the two in the weeks that followed, he locked himself in the studio with only a select few people and she was trying to get back to somewhat of a normal routine with the twins. He was making good progress with an album, it wasn’t as upbeat as previous albums had been but it just reflected what he was going through and how he was feeling. With no communication and his lack of interest in their other two children Eliza goes ahead and books a court date to finalise their divorce. Harry is leaving the studio when he gets words of the court date being set, he heads straight to the bar. Harry is on his sixth drink when he finally gets a hold of Eliza. I miss you he tells her We just lost — we just — how can you even be thinking about finalising our divorce. She cries and that’s when he knows he’s fucked up. Eliza don’t cry, I’m sorry, I’m such a fuck up, it should have been me, not her... Eliza knows she should hang up the phone, call Gemma let her deal with him and go back to bed. Instead she asks Harry for his location, calls a sitter and by the time she heads to the bar its almost 10pm.

Eliza finds Harry in the corner booth, away from prying eyes and away from windows with his back toward the rest of the people in the pub. By now he’s lost count of how many drinks he’s consumed. She orders herself a scotch on the rocks. The bartender looks between her and Harry and wonders what they must be going through to have lead them here tonight. They sit in silence mostly, Harry throwing back three drinks in the time it tasked Eliza to finish the one she ordered herself when she first got here. The bartender draws a line in the sand and cuts Harry off, he pays for his long bar tab remembering to ask the bartender to include Elizas scotch on the rocks and then he goes to leave.

Harry makes it all the way to his car before realising he cannot find his keys. When he reaches the bar door she’s standing out front her arms crossed over her chest,p. You didn’t think I’d let you drive home in your state did you? My children have already buried their sister this year, I’m not about to let them bury their father too. The words Eliza said to drunk Harry would play on sober minded Harry in the weeks to come. She half carries him to her car and takes him home with her. For the first time since they split, he sleeps in the same bed as her it’s only so I know if you stop breathing and to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit. Eliza watches Harry breathe for the rest of the night, much like she watched Fallon take breaths in and out until she took her last, the only difference here is that Harry never stops breathing. Somewhere between 4am and 7am she doses off and Harry slips out of her sheets and out her back door before she’s awake. Eliza canceled their court date again, realising that perhaps Harry needed time to grieve before they started to go down this path.

harrystyles ALBUM . IS. COMPLETE, Coming to you soon, happy holidays. All the love, H xx Liked by annetwist, gemmastyles and 20,368,289 others.

Harry finished writing his album just before Christmas, it was literally the fastest album he’s ever been able to write. After all this time and experience, he knew the people he needed in his space to get the job done. A lot of the songs were sad, and Eliza knew that some songs would be about her and she fully expected some songs to be about Fallon, so when he turned up at her place to show her the demo she was surprised to find no songs about their angel daughter. Eliza, that’s sick that you’d think I’d cash in on — no why would I — I can’t believe you would think that. He was angry, didn’t see she was coming from a good place and not trying to attack him. She didn’t think it would be a bad thing if he had written songs about Fallon, she was growing concerned about his abilities to deal with the loss of their daughter... he couldn’t even say her name. He was trying to be more consciences to spend more time with Koa and Lennon. With the album complete it was only a matter of time before his management would undoubtedly have him on the road and all over the globe. Truthfully he was dreading it. He spent most afternoons putting the children to bed before bedding back to his house. He noticed things about her that were different in the Fallon aftermath. She was lonely at night, and when Koa and Lennon were out with him of an afternoon she had not so much to do. She had already organised the bookshelf, and the kitchen. Harry knew what the perfect Christmas gift would be to keep her busy.

Whilst she had redecorated the lounge and her bedroom. Fallon’s room remained untouched, the door closed and the room just the way their almost four year old had left it the day she left for the hospital and never come home. Sometimes when he would finish putting the twins to bed and when Eliza was sleeping on the couch, he would sneak into Fallon’s room and sob. Being in her room was the only time he allowed himself to feel anything.

elizadoherty Happy holidays from the Doherty-Styles household, wrangling two and half year old twins into a photo is hard work and this mama couldn’t get it done. Please enjoy a photo of our delicious cookie “nomies” that are absolutely not store bought. 😝🎅🏻🎄🤶🏻 Liked by harrystyles, annetwist and 2,637,367 others.

harrystyles ELIZA X OLIVE. Merry Christmas. Liked by elizadoherty, olivedogherty and 18,573,663 others,

Harry’s album came out the week of Christmas. With the new year there would be lots of changes coming for both him, Eliza and their two children. He would be off on tour, first to the states then, back home for a UK stint, followed by the rest of Europe, then to South America wrapping up with Australia, New Zealand and a few dates across Asia. He wouldn’t be home for more than two days in the next nine months. This bothered Eliza. Partly because she wanted him to be home so they could finalise the divorce, partly because she wouldn’t have his help with the twins and mostly because he had already lost one child, had he not noticed the importance of having quality time with his children. She had already been annoyed by the fact that he had bought a dog into her home and gifted it to her for Christmas, she didn’t have time for a dog.. she would barely have time for herself and the two kids he was leaving behind to go on tour, and he though a doh would be a good idea?

Her thoughts all come to a head in the middle of an argument on New Years Eve. We need to finalise the divorce, we both deserve to move on. He didn’t want to move on, he liked being able to come by see her, and the kids and still be able to know she was legally still his wife. You don’t care about me and the kids, you’re not even going to see them for the next nine months, don’t tell me you care. He was mad, not because she was right but because he wanted to see them but didn’t know how to ask her to join him on tour with them. I never wanted to divorce you. You’re the one who filed for divorce Eliza. It’s Eliza’s turn to be mad. Well there was no hope for our marriage, we hadn’t had sex in months, you were sleeping on the couch, what the fuck kind of marriage is that. It wasn’t a healthy argument for the tel of them to be having, especially with the twins in the next room. I was a drug addict Eliza, I was also an alcoholic, I couldn’t really walk up the stairs, that’s why I slept on the couch not because I didn’t love you. He had stormed out, the following day he had booked in with his lawyers to come back the last week of February for their court date and two days after that he was back on tour.

harrystyles USA thank you for being the perfect start to this tour, you were all so beautiful! I’ll be back soon. All the love, H xx. Liked by annetwist, gemmastyles and 27,627,855 others.

January rolled by faster than she would like to admit. Harry was back in London briefly to see the twins, Anne picked them up and took them to him as per his request. His birthday was tomorrow, Eliza offered for him to keep them for the weekend whilst he was in town, but he had other plans and declined her offer. She’s trying to give you time with your children. Anne nagged him, but her words fell on deaf ears. He had plans to drink his way through his birthday and not be able to recall any of it. He woke in the morning to a voicemail from her. Harry, happy — well i know it’s not happy really — but happy birthday. I’m sorry about the divorce papers, I was... reaaaaalllyyy dumb. Anyway, see ya. She had been drinking, she could never hold her liquor. He remembers back to a time pre marriage and pre children when she would go out and have a few too many cocktails and call him from the bar, he remembers driving to fetch her, pulling over on the side of the road because his driving would be too much for her stomach to handle. He thinks about the way he used to hold her when she was too tired to walk and then the way he’d hold her in bed as her breath would steady and she’d finally succumb to the effects of the alcohol and sleep. God he loved her.

elizadoherty HBD to my #1 (And only) bb daddy, @harrystyles, you’re a great dad, friend and I’m so glad I get to raise my babies with you. Here’s a throwback to when we were younger and when you had less wrinkles, old man. Liked by harrystyles, annetwist and 18,257,268 others. He made a mental note to return her the favour of nice words on social media when her birthday would roll around come summer. They were younger and happier in that photo. He wouldn’t wish his kids away, but he does wish he could go back to being that happy, young and carefree guy in the photo.

After his birthday, things continued to go downhill for the two of them and their co-parenting endeavour. It started when he was photographed leaving a nightclub with a random girl on his arm the night of his birthday and things escalated when a week before their court date she had been photographed with someone new. This was the first time since the two of them had started dating all those years ago that they had been photographed with someone else.

TMZ

Harry Styles ex-wife, Eliza Doherty, spotted out with new mystery beau shopping over the weekend.

It was the comments left the photo that sent Eliza into a rage. “Where are her kids?” “Spending all of Harry’s alimony I guess” that’s all the end of their marriage was to the public? Just about money? Never mind the emotional turmoil either of them had gone through, the sleepless nights the days where she wouldn’t know if he would make it home. The public didn’t understand, and never would, what it wad to be like Eliza Styles. On top of the public ridicule, Harry of course had to get his two cents worth in. I don’t want you bringing random guys around the twins. It was a harmless comment and something she would surely say to him if she didn’t have manners or any kind of belief that he would be responsible with who he introduced their children to. Focus on yourself, Harry. And less on who I’m bringing home..

TMZ

reports of Harry Styles and ex-wife, Eliza Doherty, heading into court today to finalise their divorce after almost a year snd a half. He wore a black shirt and a cross earring for the occasion.

Harry was trending on twitter and the photo and article from TMZ were attached to every tweet. Most people agreed he didn’t look himself. Everyone agreed it was inappropriate to take the photo and then post it to the masses but here it was for everyone to see. Eliza shook her head and put her phone away, soon enough she’d be in the same room as him for the first time since New Year’s Eve.

She had never been more scared to see him, hadn’t heard from him personally for the entire first leg of his tour, which even when they were having problems was odd. Perhaps he was still angry, she had moved passed the anger stage and into the sad stage pretty quickly, it had been like this throughout their entire relationship. She would get over things quickly whilst he would hold onto things for days and days at one time. Harry knew based off of her voicemail that she had been ready to move passed the argument on New Year’s Eve, and he was almost on the same page as her and then they argued about partners and children and things had again been sour since.

As soon as the time drew closer she began to feel like she couldn’t breathe. Like she might collapse at any second and never wake up again, like someone had taken all the air out of her lungs and out of this building. She used to enjoy the way her heart would skip a beat and the way her lungs would lose all the air when he entered her orbit, but now the feeling made her sick to her stomach. For the first time in a long time she couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same room as him.

Part of him didn’t want to be here. This was partially to do with the fact that last night he had drank his body weight in alcohol, was very hungover and couldn’t think straight, but it was mostly to do with the fact that he couldn’t stand to see her cry and knew there was a good chance with the way they left things off that he might be the reason for her tears.

He reeked of vodka and scotch and tequila and definitely weed, at least that’s all the things that Eliza could smell as he sat across from her. He was using again, or drinking again at the very least. It made her sad, he had worked so hard to get to a good place. Perhaps this was his way of coping, his way of dealing with Fallon dying. His way of forgetting about his problems. It wasn’t healthy, she’d make a note to talk to Gemma and Anne when she got back to the kids later in the afternoon.

He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all since the last time she saw him some five weeks ago now — which would make sense because she hadn’t slept properly in that long either. His shirt was creased and it was a mess, he looked unkempt which was a rare sight. Mismatched socks, untucked shirt, the pants he was wearing just as creased as his shirt was. His hair was longer than usual— he was letting it grow again... was this even any of her business anymore? — It probably wasn’t but she still examined him from head to toe, He’s wearing his shades inside, what an asshole she thinks. He was almost unrecognisable. He was most definitely no longer her Harry. She didn’t care make eye contact with him, and he extended the same courtesy not that he had much of s choice in the matter. Mr Styles is offering Ms Doherty 50% of all his assets, as of this time that part has not changed. Ms. Doherty would be happy to only 25%, your honour. She feels it’s adequate enough to provide for the children, she has a job and doesn’t require 50%. Mr Styles insists in the 50%, even 25% of it were to go into a fund for the children.

Her lawyer looks to her for approval, even though she really doesn’t need Harry’s money, she doesn’t want to argue with him.

Mr Styles would like joint custody of their two children, Koa Everett Styles and Lennon River Styles. Your honour, Mrs Doherty requests that the father of her children submits to drug and alcohol tests and has supervised visitations until he can get himself — uh well... clean. The judge rules in her favour, Harry has to pass three tests in a row for both drugs and alcohol before he can come anywhere near the twins. The rest esd pretty straight forward and not much different to what they had already signed on, she got the house and would receive child support on top of the 50% of the money they made from the time they first got married. Harry doesn’t see his children till two days before their third birthdays, almost three months after the court hearing. It had taken him three months but this time he swore to keep clean.

elizadoherty happy three my miracle babes, there are no words 🥺 Liked by gemmastyles, annetwist and 4,472,378 others.

A month after the twins’ birthday it’s Eliza who changes the agreement for supervision required to him being allowed to do visits at their house. Both the twins and Harry would be much more comfortable and if would give her more of a chance to observe him with them before she lets them stay with him overnight. He’s the one who suggests they go to therapy. He tells her it might help, and that he’s willing to try anything so long as she is too. The first session back in therapy goes well, they haven’t done one together since just after the twins were born. They mostly discuss how to co-parent better and how to communicate with each other, the therapist warns to discuss Fallon and Harry practically has a panic attack at the mention of her name. When he instantly gets up and walks out on the session it’s just you and the therapist and 20 minutes left on the timer. I don’t think he’s ready to talk about her yet. It’s a sensitive topic for him. It hasn’t quite been a year yet since she passed. He won’t even talk about her with me and that was out daughter. When Eliza gets home, Harry is on her doorstep. He’s sober, but crying and hyperventilating. She sits next to him and just hugs him not really knowing what to do. Eliza prays that her boyfriend, Andrew, doesn’t come over today. Her prayers are answered Eliza and Harry are left on their own. He cries for a long period of time before the head inside her house, Eliza is silently grateful that Anne offered to take the kids to Holmes Chapel for the week. Where did we go wrong? We should have been better and communicating. I was depressed when I couldn’t tour straight away and then you let me go and honestly this is going to sound fucking terrible but I didn’t want to come home. So many confessions spill from his lips in a short space of time. Then Eliza starts. I just wanted you to be okay, you were struggling, I know you were depressed. I keep thinking about it, I don’t remember the last time we kissed or had sex, maybe it was before the twins were even born, we should have made more time. When she stops he’s not crying anymore he’s just staring at her with his eyebrows furrowed and then he does the unimaginable he kisses her. Not just a regular peck, his hands on the back of her head and her hands are on his chest and for just a moment they’re back in 2019 and they’re newly engaged and their wold is perfect. And then he pulls away, apologises and leaves and they are back to being divorced, estranged people who happen to share two children together.

#Harry styles #harry styles fanfictions #harry styles fanfic #harry styles oneshot #harry styles imagine #harry styles tpwk #hs2 #fine line #harry styles fine line #harry styles imagines #harry styles x reader

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morgansmoreid · 4 years ago

Text

Secrets • Derek Morgan • Three

Fic Masterlist

Name: Happy Moments and Old Friends

Warnings: Sexual Content

(Italics Stand For Flashbacks)

Y/n lets go of her father's hands and switches the suitcase to her other side. She hates the man before her but she still leans in and presses a small kiss to his cheek, pulling back to examine him. Clean, is the word she would use to describe him. Colored hair and a shaved face, her father looked younger than she could pin him.

"Is it still the same?" Y/n points to the glass door. "It's been so long."

Y/F/N only nods and turns to hold the door for the three agents. Y/n goes in last, goosebumps on her arms from the seconds no one watches the two. But as Y/F/N makes no moves, she slowly calms down and ignores the looks she gets. She's her father's twin, she knows that, but from the way she carried herself past years, she can see the shock in some people's eyes as the badge resides on the band of the pants.

"Here." Y/F/N takes the three agents into the big conference room. The room Y/n was never allowed to go in, the one that held every meeting that pulled her father away from her life, the one she dreaded.

Y/F/N didn't follow Derek, Penelope, and Y/n into the room, leaving them to interrogate.

"Fields?" Derek was a little hurt and the sudden front his partner put on.

"Not now." Y/n shut down any further questions and walked past her team members to start the step up. The board looked clean halfway through, papers in order, and information that Y/n wrote up made it easier on Penelope, who was still giving Y/n the cold shoulder.

The silence the three create as they work is not tense. Frankly, the only sounds are Y/n's nails against her tablet and Penelope's keys being clacked against her research, mixed in with a little bit of Derek's blocky writing against his yellow pad.

Well, it was silent, until the door busted open with an angry man coming in and screaming at Y/n. "You should have answered my damn text!" He screamed, walking towards her, causing her to step out of her seat and back to the nearest wall. Derek did the same but in the protection of his girlfriend. "I was worried sick and you couldn't even bother to text me a quick answer? What the fuck is that about?" The man is still screaming until he is shut down by Derek.

"Excuse you!" He walks forward, his body still protecting Y/n's. "Watch yourself and who you talk to like that!" Derek isn't screaming like Deputy James, the tag on his uniform reads. Deputy James Diaz. But Derek's tone is indeed strict. It's rare anyone hears him speak as he did moments ago, even on cases. Daiz steps down. Derek doesn't move his body from Y/n but she moves from behind him to next to him.

"We can talk about this later." She looked him straight in the eye. Fear from her father still ran through Y/n's bloodstream as she spoke, but Y/n stood her ground and watched James slowly back up before he left the room himself. His face too looked cleaner and he overall looked better. It's hard to look at James from the last time they were alone together, but that didn't stop Y/n from seeing the differences.

For years and years, he kept quiet about his feelings to the woman next to him. Her hair smelled like flowers as she laid on his shoulder, hands connected as they watched the stars off of his apartment building roof.

"You are one the reasons I still come back to the wretched town, James," Y/n spoke truthfully. "You are the one friend that has always stayed by me."

James only smiled and looked at Y/n. She sits up from his shoulder and they meet eyes. It's regular to her so she doesn't stop him when his hand caresses her cheek. It's not regular when his lips meet hers and at first she wants to say something. But he kisses her again and she doesn't stop him. Y/n gets pulled in closer and lets James run his hand on her back.

"Should we?" Y/n's words drift.

"I've wanted to for as long as I could imagine." James honestly replied.

"Who was that?" Penelope finally spoke up.

"The deputy. Also, an old friend that I fell out of touch with."

"And what is talking about you not answering his text? What is going on here?" Derek pushed his writing pad aside.

"My high school reunion is in 4 days, on Saturday. James and a few others texted me because everyone wanted to know I was coming, I didn't reply because I didn't expect to be here." Y/n speaks fast, and if years with Spencer didn't help the two in the past, it helped them now as they picked up every word.

"And you didn't say anything? We could have made it if you were concerned about work-"

"I didn't want to go in the first place," Y/n spoke words that had less meaning of what she truly meant. Derek nor Penelope continued the conversation after that and tried to get back to work. It was only 8 A.M in the hot state and as much as they needed coffee, no one wanted the shitty police coffee they get every case.

20 minutes passed and Penny headed out to find a bathroom. Derek still hadn't said anything and only fiddled with his pen as his mind stayed blank. Eyes stayed on the filled page as the sound of Y/n getting up from her chair played in his ears. He tried to ignore her as he could until she placed a hand on his shoulder. No, he didn't shove her off or push her away, even though his muscles tensed.

"Babe.." Y/n called, turning her head to the closed door and the blinded window next to her before turning back. "I'm sorry, I should have told you."

"Yea. You should've." Derek scoffed, leaning himself back in the office chair he resided in. "I mean come on Y/n, this is the type of thing we are supposed to talk about."

"I know. I know." Y/n easily fits herself between the conference table and Derek. "I just can't be here and didn't want to think about it so I just ignored it in general, and I am so so sorry I didn't tell you." Derek takes Y/n's hands and closes them in his.

"It's ok, just.., let's get to the bottom of this case so we can go home ok?" Y/n nods and leans down pressing a small kiss to Derek's lips.

"How about we get this day over and at least hit the hotel? Wouldn't that be nice, daddy?" She smirked and whispered, the door making her pull away before she could receive an answer. Penelope sat down, more focused while the two soon joined her. It was just the three in the room for a while. When Aaron and Emily joined them first, evidence came with them, leaving Y/n to add it to the board.

"Y/L/N, you're 29 right?" Penelope finally spoke to the woman.

A small mhm left Y/n as she peeled the glove from her hand.

"But Christina and Rose are 32? How would you guys share the same reunion?"

But before Y/n could answer the given question, Aaron had his own.

"Reunion? You didn't say anything?"

"Small high school reunion for all. Not just for the seniors, we don't do that here. Technically, I still have 3 left to go because this year would be their senior year." Y/n clarified. "I didn't need to say anything because I don't ever come back to the place. Not for birthdays, weddings, I'm the black sheep that everyone knows."

And with that, Y/n proudly shut down the unwanted questions her way. Aaron looked over to Derek, surprised when he seemed equally confused. Y/n didn't say she knew the victims, but she talked about them as if she did and Aaron wrote it down as questions to bring up when his subjects came in for questioning later that day.

Penelope's profile and research grew more as the team was reunited again but she still didn't understand why or who was targeting these women.

"I set up times for everyone Hotch," Penelope closed tabs on her computer. She tried to stay focused but after 3 hours and more looking at horrible crime photos, she needed her baby kittens and pandas.

"Good, thank you," Aaron said, leaving the question in the air. "Lunch anyone? We all have to be hungry."

"Yea, any good places?" David put down his own work before turning over to Y/n.

"I'll ask around."

"You don't remember any?" A voice at the door spooked everyone.

"Nope." Y/n popped the P. Now that she was around her team, her father didn't scare her. Confidence boosted around her.

Spencer looked between Y/F/N and Y/n multiple times before saying some of the others were thinking. "Is he your brother? You both look identical!"

"No!" Y/n responded offended. Yes, her father cleaned up his act but there was no way he looked that young. "And it's not important, the only thing I remember is a diner about 15 minutes from here."

"It is important, I'm her father. But Y/n's right, there is a diner called Happy's 10 minutes west." He crossed his arms and rested his face. His eyebrow twitched, but Y/n ignored it and looked past him, out to the open.

"Not that important," She mumbled. "Let's go eat, I'll drive."

Y/n followed her father into the '80s themed diner. She stood behind him and watched as he tapped the bell.

"Hey, Lennie! Wanted to get me a coffee and my Daredevil a bagel before I headed in for the day, can you whip it up for us?" Y/F/N talked to the manager that had walked out of the back. The stupid nickname Y/n had since she was four made Lennie look at her, giving her a half-wave that she gave back.

"Sure Bud, on the house for our favorite sheriff and his wonderful daughter."

Y/n pulled the car into park and Aaron did the same. The team was large, one vehicle wasn't nearly enough. Y/n was the first to get out, holding open the door for everyone. The diner was almost empty. Only one woman resided in the back, her hair so long that her face was covered by it. She didn't want to be seen, that was clear. Y/n tapped the bell and waited for someone to come out, shocked, to say the least when Lennie came out.

"Lennie!" She said happily, putting a smile on the old man's face.

"Daredevil! You're back!" Lennie walked around the counter and hugged Y/n like never before. It was soon he learned why she got the name daredevil and it stuck until now.

"I am back, and pretty hungry, you still have those magic skills of yours?"

"You know it! Come sit, come sit," Lennie walked over to a booth and seated everyone. He more than happily took everyone's order and every so often he checked on the lady who sat in the back. For once, Y/n was happy to be home. Dipping her fries in the milkshake, true laughter ran from Y/n. For once, no one was pushing her. For once, everything was calm.

Lennie insisted that lunch was on the house and he had it covered, but Y/n still slipped that 100 dollars bill in his pocket like it was nothing. She hopped back into the driver's seat and led the way down the street, window open and the air humid now that the sun was fully out.

The time that displayed itself on her watch said 2:35. They had been out for less than 2 hours, and it was the best time she has had here in a while. Y/n walks into the station with a small smile and joins the team back to the conference room. Everyone is in a better mood. Work comes to them naturally and the only thing that stops the peaceful space is James.

"There has been another body- Daniela Choi."

#derek morgan #Criminal Minds #mjmoreid #derek morgan fic #bau #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #derek morgan x reader #Derek Morgan x y/n #derek morgan angst #criminal minds x reader #derek morgan fluff

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op-peccatori · 5 years ago

Text

Hopefully, Yours (part 1) | MLQC Victor

Fandom: Mr Love Queen’s Choice

Pairing: Victor/Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 8823

Summary: A fight between co-stars leads to you taking their place, along with the man you’ve been carrying a rather fervid torch for. A happy accident—except it’s a dating show and you have to pretend your feelings aren’t real. | Part 2

Warnings/Tags: language, fluff, oblivious behaviour, dating show, social media, Victor might be a little OOC because I’ve written him differently, some making out in the next part hence the rating, no smut though, my sense of humour

A/n: as always, I’m here to clown around. I tried something a lil new (for me) in this one 👉👈 something I picked up quite recently from works I adored, so I hope you like it! It got longer than I intended so I had to split it into 2 parts ;.; Victor said: keep writing, hoe.

ALSO!!! Yours by Ella Henderson is. THE Victor/MC song for me. I felt it in my bones when I listened to it again after all these years. brb crying

It’s the incessant buzzing of your phone that lures you out of the warm cocoon of your blanket.

You don’t really want to come out of your haven. Not after the week you’ve had, and because you know what awaits you. But as Anna had told you, there’s no way you can avoid this. They had finished editing the episode on Thursday, and Jason had already texted you last night to let you know it would be ready to be uploaded at 7:00 pm today.

Reaching listlessly for your phone, you squint at the bright screen through bleary eyes; it’s 9:00 pm already, and you’ve managed to sleep most of your Sunday away. It’s been a whole week since you filmed the episode, and while you were able to keep your thoughts at bay through it, it’s finally caught up to you.

After all, this is the episode you’re going to be in.

Pulling your laptop towards you, you open the tab that has the streaming site open. Your heart begins its anxious thump against its cage, a beat all too familiar to you by now. As the video begins playing, the memories of that day rise up to the forefront of your mind, refusing to be outdone by this meticulously edited version.

It started with a plan. A very well-thought-out plan.

“He called me a bitch. How can you still expect me to shoot with this jerk?”

Things were not going according to the very well-thought-out plan.

From your place next to Homer, the camera guy, you watched with mounting apprehension as Hollow resisted the AD’s attempts to placate her. But she did seem calmer, the scalding rage of her glare simmering down as he continued to reason with her.

And then her partner for the episode walked back onto the set.

“She said my songs are predictable! You want me to work with a hater?” Kai protested loudly, and Hollow turned back to him in a fury. The AD looked back at you in dismay, the rest of the staff watching with varying levels of exasperation.

“This is supposed to be a cheesy, ultra-romantic show,” Kiki whispered from her place at your side.

“This is what the reality is. All that sappy crap is for the camera,” Willow snorted, shaking her head in disenchanted disappointment.

There may be more than a kernel of truth in that. Hopefully, Yours was your company’s latest project; the second season, the first one having been produced by a different group. It’s a romantic web-series that featured different couples going on dates around town. The couples featured ranged from non-celebrities to people who are household names. So far, there hadn’t been too many issues with the participants—so you really should have expected this.

“Not always!” you cut in, fiddling nervously with your planner. “Some of the couples have gone on to date for real. Raymond and Liliana got married!” A lovely couple from an episode that aired last year. They’d been in the news recently too.

“They’re getting divorced,” Homer piped up in response. You hoped the look on your face let him know how unhelpful that was and turned back to the clashing couple. The AD looked harrowed and harassed as things turn increasingly hostile.

“Willow, do we have a backup couple?” you asked after a long moment of watching them spit insults. “Or just one person to replace either of them. What about Carlson?”

“He won’t be in town until tomorrow.”

‘Can I leave town?’ You wondered in a fit of desperate, wishful thinking.

“And we’ve got everyone here, with everything set up. Can we really waste time?” Kiki wondered out loud.

“No, we can’t,” answered a strained voice from behind you. All four of you turn to see Anna striding towards you, her hassled expression sending a frisson of worry through your stomach. “___, we’ve got guests.”

“Guests?” you repeated numbly. “What guests?” From the look on her face, it couldn’t be good news.

Anna held your gaze for a second, looking vaguely apologetic, before stepping to the side, allowing you to get a look at who Jason, the director, had rushed off to greet. You felt the ground shift beneath you, throat drying rapidly and the surrounding noise dimming as you focused on the new arrivals—your friend, your boss if you insist on the technicalities, and the star of most of your daydreams. LFG’s very own CEO, Victor, and his loyal secretary, Goldman.

In other words, people you hadn’t expected to see today.

“Why?” you whimpered, mostly panicked, but distantly amused by how enthusiastically he’s being greeted. It gave you a few moments to get it together, a familiar buzz coming to life underneath your skin.

This is terrible. Surely, this is karmic retribution for some misdeed committed by you.

“Boss, get it together,” Kiki hissed in an echo of your thoughts, and you realized you had half-fallen back into her and Willow’s arms, their hands steady on your shoulders.

“This is really bad timing. Like, really bad,” Willow pointed out unnecessarily as you straightened up, running a quick hand through your hair.

“Goldman said they just dropped in to see how it’s coming along. I don’t really understand why, this is not at all Victor’s cup of tea, but he’d been hesitant about the show, so...” With a sympathetic smile, Anna placed a hand on your elbow, squeezing lightly. The comfort it brought is chased away almost immediately by a furious screech.

“That is it. I’m done!”

Turning just in time to watch Hollow stalk off the set, you tried to restart your thought process. You just needed to solve this.

“How do we solve this?” Kiki asked in a low voice, and Willow shook her head helplessly.

With no answer for her, you could only watch as Jason led Victor and Goldman towards the set. You knew the exact moment he saw you; there was no smile, but a slow blink. It was still early in the afternoon, and his patrician features were alight with a soft glow in the golden sunlight, the curve of his lip relaxed and his clever gaze taking in you and everything happening around you in seconds. You’re not sure what he saw in your face but it made the corners of his mouth pull downwards.

Your stomach plummeted, seized by a sudden urge to flee.

But with his long strides, he reached you before you could take a step back. Kiki and Willow retreated silently, greeting him like newly registered soldiers coming face to face with their general and leaving you at his mercy. You would have felt miffed, but the way the sunlight softened his features was a little distracting. His lips moved, and you’re certain he said something, but couldn’t quite hear him over the sound of your heart drumming in your ears.

Homer coughed loudly, popping the bubble.

“Good morning, Victor!” Certain your lack of actual delight was obvious, you tried to inject as much enthusiasm into your voice as you could while your project went up in flames behind you. Not that you weren’t happy to see him, as the sudden thrill twisting through insisted on reminding you, but the prospect of disappointing him was one you would rather not face.

There was no visible reaction from Victor, but Homer looked a bit disturbed by the attempt. Goldman just looked like he pitied you, while Jason looked oddly contemplative. This was probably his first time seeing you this…dazzled.

“Good morning,” Victor replied evenly. His eyes, a constant, focused storm and his silken hair falling artfully over his forehead form a picture so lovely, almost beyond words. It’s never stopped you from waxing poetic about them, or his long list of admirable personality traits, but he had a way of knowing when you’re not paying attention. “Looks like I picked a bad time to check in.”

You couldn’t quite pin down the inflexion in his tone, but your immediate guess was that he was either severely disappointed or was low-key mocking you.

With how quickly things derailed, it’s understandable.

“Haha,” you laughed—an unfortunate coping mechanism that seems to flare up most often in his presence. Also, because Victor looked unfairly gorgeous, as always and you were a fool with a worryingly erratic pulse. “Just a few bumps. Nothing we can’t fix.”

Behind you, Kai declared his intent to leave as well. There’s a contract, so they would have to look into this, but that would take time. At that moment, Victor was eyeing the singer leaving the set and your nervous smile with his brows steadily climbing higher.

“Right. Anything I can do to help?” he offered, and the shame that elicited is so fierce you felt like you’d shrunk. This was supposed to be a casual visit, for him to see how the filming was going and instead you made him feel the need to step in and clean up the mess.

“No,” you said, firm, immediate, vehement. He frowned down at you. “We’ll come up with something. Why don’t you two take a seat, we’ll get you some drinks and Anna can go over the ratings and numbers with you.”

Victor seemed to hesitate, still frowning at you, but relented when you mustered up a small but convincing smile for him. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything,” he insisted, because he’s nice like that, before following Goldman and Anna into the small room you’ve converted into an office. You have a small but closed set for the first meeting of the couples, before the crew moves to whatever location has been picked out for the date.

“He’s nicer than he looks,” Homer observed as the two of you watched him leave.

“He’s lovely,” you said miserably. Who would have thought there’d be a day when you said that about Victor? He was still an evil capitalist, but he’s a kind man.

Homer didn’t get the chance to reply as Jason rushed up to you.

“Okay, so we’re gonna have to sit those two down for a talk, but we don’t have time for that today. We need substitutes,” Jason said, not nearly as panicked as you would expect from a director who had no one to direct. It was admirable, this ability to keep his head even when he hits what looks like a dead end.

“I’ll make some calls.” Reaching into your pocket, your mind ram through your options as your hand closed around your phone.

“I want you to do it,” Jason declared.

It took you a few seconds to realize you hadn’t misheard. He looked back at you steadily, already resolute in his decision. You looked around, expecting protests, but the staff members only looked eager.

“…I don’t like this joke,” you said, slowly.

“Good thing it wasn’t one!” Jason returned cheerfully. “Before you turn it down, let me say—please? And don’t go off with the ‘I’m nobody!’ thing. People know who you are.”

“Um.” You really, really didn’t know what to say to him.

“My brother thinks you’re hot,” Homer offered, and Jason beamed at him.

“Okay, we’ll do this. You’re the producer of one of the oldest and most popular shows. You’ve gained more media presence over the last two years. You’re also friends with Kiro and Professor Lucien, so people have been quite curious about you for a while! This is just a fun little thing. Please?” Jason pleaded.

In the spirit of fairness, you took a minute to think about it. It would solve half the problem. And today’s location was a local fair, where the couple got to try out anything they want to, with all the expenses covered by the company. The very thought of stepping in front of the camera left your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t deny the bud of excitement that seemed to have taken root.

In the end, your stomach made the choice for you.

“If you think it’ll be fine, then sure,” you acceded, thoughts filled with stir-fried noodles and holding hands with a faceless person. “But what about the other person?”

“Hmm,” Jason looked in the direction of the office, reminding you that you don’t have all day to decide.

“I could call Gavin and ask if he’s free,” you suggested. People adore him. “Or Lucien?”

Jason nodded as if truly considering it, his gaze sharp on you. “Good choices. What about Victor?”

“Yeah, no. That is a bad idea,” you said at once, without giving it a moment’s thought. This was a dating show, where people go on cute dates and act adorable on camera. The very thought of Victor doing that at all, let alone with you…was something you couldn’t think of because it was ridiculous. And bad for your poor heart.

“It is an excellent idea,” Jason disagreed. You hated to be the bearer of bad news, but this was necessary. You’ve known Victor for a while now, and felt responsible for Jason’s well-being that would inevitably be threatened if he embarks on this particular path.

“He’d never agree to it,” you told him solemnly. The man barely agrees to do interviews; a show like this? Out of the question. “You know who he is, right? He doesn’t have time for this.”

“Why don’t you leave that to me, and go get ready. I’ll go get your man,” Jason said, loud and bright, shooing you in the direction of the dressing rooms. You stood there for another minute, dazed and afraid. What if Victor thought it was your idea?

The horror.

The terror.

“I’m still texting Lucien!” you called after him, voice pitched high in your alarm. Before you could follow Jason to make sure Victor knows you would never suggest this, an arm slid around your shoulder.

“Darling,” Arnold, the head stylist, cooed at you. “I heard the good news.”

“How?” It had been two minutes. People shouldn’t be spreading this without the director’s confirmation.

“Forget the hows. This is your time to shine. Come, we’re going to make that CEO drool,” he proclaimed, shepherding you towards the dressing rooms. “And I can finally do something about this hair!”

“He’s not going to agree.” You were absolutely certain of that, even as your mind continued to conjure cutesy images of you sharing cotton candy with the reticent man.

Taking a seat at the vanity, you reached for your phone over the cotton pads, watching Arnold’s reflection in the large mirror as he flitted about the small room, picking out different outfits. You hadn’t gotten a chance to check it for a while, and scrolled through your texts swiftly, pausing on a few in particular.

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Victor [9:00]: Hello. I’ve got some time off today.

Victor [9:02]: Is it alright if we drop by the set? What time is your lunch break?

Victor [9:20]: You must be busy. I spoke to Anna. I’ll see you later.

Victor [9:25]: Also, good morning.

‎

Oh.

He had actually let you know he’d be dropping in. Taciturn and domineering he may be, but Victor’s quiet consideration often left you glowing with warmth. In comparison, your own clumsiness often left you embarrassed. In this instance, it made you feel doubly determined to do this right.

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Y/N [12: 05]: Hi, sorry I missed these. Don’t worry, I’ll get us back on track.

‎

Closing Victor’s chat, you took a moment to consider your options before making your choice.

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Y/N [12:07]: Lucien! Are you free?

Lucien [12:15]: Hello. Just wrapped up a lecture. I thought you were going to be shooting today?

Y/N [12:16]: I am. Actually, I had a favour to ask.

‎

You stared down at the screen of your phone, shoulders relaxing as one of the assistants fussed with your hair. Should you wait for Jason before asking him? You knew what the outcome will be, regardless of what you wanted. You’ve always known, always kept your thoughts safe behind a barrier, never letting them spill out in Victor’s presence.

You thought back to his disappointment, and something fragile in your chest tightened.

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you prayed to all the powers above that this works out.

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Victor [12:18]: Dummy. I’m not worried.

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There was a knock at the door as you opened the chat, thrown off but pleased by Victor’s confidence.

“Guys, can I come in?”

It was Jason.

With trembling fingers curling tight, you sat up straighter as he was let in. Your pulse quickens, your emotions jumbling together until your can’t tell them apart. You kept your expectations low. You knew what the answer would be. It couldn’t hurt if you expected it.

You just hoped it wouldn’t change anything. It wasn’t your idea.

“He agreed!” Jason announced with a flourish, and your heart halted its despondent march. “His secretary’s picking up his outfit, they said it won’t take too long. We’ll do his hair and mak—uh, are you okay?”

You swallowed your heart back down. “He said yes.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, stretching out his answer, nodding as Arnold thrust an outfit at him.

“And he…knows it’s with…me?” you asked carefully.

Jason’s brows climbed a notch higher. “Yes, of course.” His eyes gleamed with something you couldn’t quite read.

“Right, right. That’s great! Fantastic. Wonderful,” you said admittedly weakly, turning your gaze back to your reflection. The colour seemed to have drained from your skin, and you ignored the concerned glance exchanged by Jason and Arnold.

“___, hey,” Jason began gently, coming up to stand behind your chair. “Are you okay with this?”

You studied his worried expression, thoughts turning inward. You shifted aside the panic, the disbelief, the prickling nerves, and shushed the sparks of excitement.

A date with Victor.

It sounded wonderful. But the problem was never about you not wanting it. It was that you’ve wanted it for so long and so badly. Could you really have this?

“It’s okay to say no. It’s just…I don’t think it’ll be as awful as you think,” Jason said. His brow furrowed as the lines of your face smoothed out.

Oh.

“It’s for the camera,” you remembered, and Jason hummed thoughtfully. Regardless of what he may think of you, Victor wouldn’t let it show on the screen. You knew he was aware of what the show entails. So, perhaps, you could have this. It was for work. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay.”

Your breath evened out from its shallow state, and you smiled up at Jason, who still looked concerned.

“It’ll be okay.” Your phone buzzed again, and you gathered yourself once more.

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Lucien [12: 23]: What can I do for you?

Victor [12:24]: And I look forward to working with you.

‎

It wouldn’t be real.

Telling yourself it wouldn’t be real was easy.

Sitting next to Victor, your high stools positioned close together as you tried to keep your thoughts away from dangerous paths, was not easy. But the light notes of his scent, sandalwood and myrrh if your nose hadn’t led you astray, threatened to lull you into a state of near-intoxication.

Jason had wanted to film the ‘first meeting’ and, for the sake of authenticity, decided to have Victor wait in front of the camera while you got to be the one to walk in. Which meant it was straight from the dressing room to the set. While you were thankful you wouldn’t be filmed drooling on camera, it still meant you wouldn’t get a chance to talk to him until after, or in between takes.

You were a lot more grateful for the arrangement when you did walk to the set, because the sight of Victor—clad in a slim-fit black shirt, paired with a dark grey jacket and black pants that stretched deliciously over his muscled thighs—stopped you dead in your tracks, your thoughts wiped blissfully clean.

The look on his face, bright under the studio lights, had been unreadable, but it didn’t look like his usual unimpressed poker face, so you decided to take it as not quite a win, but not a loss either. Then the small upturn of the corners of his lips, however, threatened to overload your system, prompting you to avert your gaze slightly as you walked to him, for fear of losing yourself.

Your hi had been shyer than intended, but his hello had been the gentlest you had ever heard it.

And then he handed you a bouquet of red, fragrant roses and you felt yourself grow weak.

It was a short take, where you both introduced yourselves, and discussed where you’d be going for the date.

“Do you like fairs?” he’d asked, gaze intent as if your answer was of the utmost importance.

“I love them,” you’d answered, meaning it completely, and he’d looked glad.

Even through the wild beating of your heart, you had managed to feel impressed. He was doing wonderfully already. Who knew Victor had these acting skills? Hopefully, he thought the same of you. You weren’t acting, though, and this, you were quickly realizing, could be a wonderful way to lift the lid off the pot just a little, and let your real feelings shine through.

You would be filming the individual, interview type scenes last, after the date.

With the first meeting done, with Jason going over the take to make sure he had everything he needed, you would be moving to the location soon. But first-

You looked around quickly, covering your mic and making sure nobody was paying too much attention to you, before turning to Victor—only to nearly jump in fright when you met his eyes. How he’d known you wanted to talk, you’d never know. His own eyes had widened when you’d turned around all of a sudden, the tips of his ears reddening slightly. He had probably been startled by your reaction.

“Hi,” you whispered, grinning up at him, and his lips twitched as he covered his mic.

“You’re doing well,” Victor told you, giving you a firm nod, and you couldn’t quite keep from beaming at him.

“Thanks, you too. I never knew you were hiding such a skilled actor in there!” You really meant it, but your words gave him pause, mouth opening and closing as he considered his response. Strange, as modesty was something he didn’t often bother with. Not to say he’s arrogant, just that he knew his strengths.

“…thank you,” he finally said. “You too. I didn’t know you could…act.”

Because you weren’t acting. The blushing, the shy giggling, the warmth buzzing through you, they were painfully real.

You shrugged, smiling slightly, and he looked away.

“Just…thank you, Victor,” you murmured. “I know this isn’t really your thing. But I promise I’ll do my best to make it enjoyable.”

The light, airy sound that escaped his mouth could almost be a laugh. He did shoot you a small smirk, facing you once more. “Well, you’re not wrong. But it can’t be too bad. I’ve heard they’ve got good street food.”

“Good street food,” you repeated blankly. Wasn’t he taking this acting thing too far? This was bordering on alarming, coming from the man who used to look down on you for eating instant noodles.

“Yes.” He looks at you as if daring you to argue, and, well, who are you to argue with an actor’s method?

His smile faded slightly as yours widened, eyes fixating on yours, your voice pitching higher in your excitement. “I know, yeah, great food. Literally the only reason I agreed to do this!”

Victor’s face shutters at that, his lips pressing tightly together. “Hm.” He turned back to face the camera, leaving you confused, before realisation dawned.

“Hey, don’t worry! I won’t be too much of a glutton, we’ll be on camera, after all,” you told him, as reassuringly as possible because you and good food were a dangerous combo.

He arched a sharp brow at you. “We’ll see about that. I may spend most of my time in kitchen, but Mr Mills has much to tell me about some of your reactions.”

It was only through the sheer power of your offence that you were able to scowl at him even with the heat flaring up in your cheeks. “Well, there’s no way the food there will be as good as the one in Souvenir, so we have nothing to worry about.”

You resisted the urge to cross your arms, keeping your hands neatly folded in your lap as you turned away from him. But when he said nothing for a whole minute, you couldn’t resist the urge to sneak a peek, only to be left with your jaw slack.

Victor was still facing forward, but the corners of his mouth seemed to be curling up despite the effort he was clearly putting into keeping them neutral, his tiny smile still managing to spill through the seams. It enraptured you, a willing captive to the sight of him so pleased, and you wondered if you could make it through this with your heart intact.

But then, you told yourself through your daze, any chef would be happy to receive such praise for their food.

[video]

hopefully, yours, episode 3, part 1: Introductions (Victor and Y/n)

450,569 views • Feb 8th, 2020

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JTV ✓

1.19M subscribers

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51,509 comments

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Jason P ✓

pinned comment

This is a special one guys ♡

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needwater 45 minutes ego

AM I HALLUCINATING OR IS VICTOR LI ACTUALLY ON A DATING SHOW?

view 50 replies

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somsom 23 minutes ago

omg it’s y/n! We rarely get to see her on TV. She’s so cute!!!!

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orangeismycolour 16 minutes ago

!!!! Victor and Y/n!!! Omg ever since I saw them attend the Loveland gala together last year, I knew there was something there!!

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tooktiktook 8 minutes ago

um. isn’t this kind of an odd combo?

cheribb 5 minutes ago

@tooktiktok I thought so too but they look pretty cute together. I mean…he totally blushed when he saw her! And his eyes went so soft!

tooktiktok 4 minutes ago

@cheribb Well, she seems sweet but I think he was just being nice.

By the time you were shuffled into a van and driven to the site of the fair, your nerves had mostly settled.

Of course, that may have had something to do with the pudding cup Victor had handed you once you were in your seats. Goldman had brought over a paper bag, with Victor plucking two cups from it like a magician with a hat. With that said, while it’s a trick you’ve seen many a time, it never fails to bring a sparkle to your eye.

With Arnold’s permission, you were more than happy to dig right in. Your makeup would have to be retouched once you got there even if you didn’t eat.

It was easy to relax in the steady familiarity of Victor’s presence. A dangerous notion, your unwavering faith in Victor, that dictated everything would be okay if he was there because he would either make it so, or you, with confidence half-drawn from him, would make sure of it yourself.

It was only once you were halfway through the treat, humming and wiggling in your joy, that you realized Victor hadn’t started on his. Rather, his eyes were fixed firmly on you, intent in observing your devouring of the pudding.

The next bite went down a little heavier as you turned to him.

“Is something wrong?” Your enthusiasm surely couldn’t have come as a surprise.

He hesitated, seemingly on the verge of saying something, before clearing his throat and looking out he the window at the slow-moving traffic.

“No. Just…eat slowly,” he muttered, refusing to look at you. You squint at him, at the pink creeping up the back of his neck, sucking on the spoon thoughtfully. “There’s no need to rush.”

“Sorry. I got a little too excited.” Your laugh is a little hollow, and you muffle it with another mouthful of the soft, sweet dessert, missing his quick glance back at you.

He sighed, sudden and a little ragged.

“No, I meant that you should take your time and savour it,” he told you, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. “I can make it for you anytime, so there will be many more chances in the future.”

The next spoonful remained frozen by your mouth as you struggled to process his words. Warm fingers came to rest against the back of your hand, guiding it, and the spoon, to your lips. Your skin tingled, but what was more damning was the way he held your gaze as your lips parted, the metal spoon warm against your tongue as you tasted the sweet delicacy.

It felt all the more sweeter, however, because of the little smile dancing across Victor’s lips.

You were rescued from attempting to respond to that by the van slowing to a stop, with Jason and Homer climbing in before they got moving again. Homer would be the one following you around the fair, as they only needed to get a few takes of you indulging in various activities.

“We absolutely need one with the ferris wheel, of course. A little cliched, but still damn cute. Maybe we can fix a camera in the cabin…” Jason trailed off, turning to Homer for his input. “If you think it’ll be better without you there.”

‘How would it be better without Homer there?’ you wanted to protest. ‘I’ll screw it up if left to my own devices! Professional environment aside, that’s a little too romantic!’

Something prickled at the back of your neck, and you realized Victor seemed to be trying to get your attention, albeit in a very silent way you probably wouldn’t have caught on to if you hadn’t spent so much time studying him.

He said nothing even when you met his gaze, but a reassuring warmth calmed you all the same. I’ll be there, he seemed to say. Trust me.

You were worried about the romantic atmosphere getting to your head, but surely Victor, the ultimate voice of reason, wouldn’t let you get carried away?

“Okay, we won’t crowd you guys too much, but remember to avoid turning away from the camera!”

That had been the last thing Jason said to you both before he retreated to his place behind Homer, who was ready with the camera propped over his shoulder. Your mics were affixed to your clothes, and people were already beginning to shoot curious looks your way. It wasn’t an uncommon sight; many vloggers and people working for food channels could often be found in places like these, flitting about with their cameras out as they partook in the activities available.

While being around cameras was nothing new, it was a little strange to be on the other side of them. Nervousness weighing on your chest, you reminded yourself over and over: be natural, don’t act like a lovesick fool, don’t stare at Victor for too long. Turning to the man himself as Homer adjusted the camera settings, hoping to draw inspiration from his steadfast composure, you could only stare in confusion at the intent way in which he was staring at the entrance to the fair.

Following the trajectory of his gaze, you squinted, hoping to see what had caught his attention. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, with people milling about, the welcoming sign high above their heads bright and welcoming.

“Victor?”

“Hm?”

“Is everything okay?” you asked hesitantly, and he nodded, almost distracted.

“Are we ready?” he asked Homer, who gave him a thumbs up.

Jason grinned at you, winking in what he seemed to think was a discreet manner. “Have fun, you two.”

You couldn’t quite pretend there were no cameras, not with Homer keeping up with you as you began to walk through the entrance arch. Looking at Victor was easier, just to block out the awareness of your companions, of course.

Catching your nervous glances, he inclined his head towards you and made an abortive movement, hand rising and falling midway. His jaw clenched, and then he offered you his arm, elbow bent.

As your hand curled around his arm, you focused on your vibrant surroundings. A task made more difficult when, after a short pause, you felt him tuck his elbow into his side, the broad span of his shoulders relaxing when you tightened your grip.

“I’ve been meaning to come here for years, but never really got the chance to,” you told Victor, your voice still edged with nervousness. But Victor nodded at you again, the usual stern line of his mouth quirking up, and your mind stuttered, committing itself to memorizing the precious curve of his mouth.

“In that case I’m glad we got to come here together,” he told you, and it took a good deal of effort not to gape at him. “It’s a first for both of us.”

You nodded, stunned by this unforeseen acting prowess. Seemed like you’ve discovered another one of his many talents.

“Hopefully, it’s the first of many,” he added, a smug lilt to his voice, and this time, you did gape.

“Y-yeah,” you answered, face heating up as you turned away for the sake of your dignity. “Hopefully.”

bandanaman @headaccs

are we all seeing this?? he’s such a gentleman!! I was not expecting this man to be smooth. #HopefullyYours

mintmadness @mintsallover

@headaccs HAVE YOU SEEN HIM? He doesn’t even need words, one look and I would be on my knees. #HopefullyYours #VictorLi

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@mintsallover calm yo thirsty ass down lmao

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raspberrydream @berryberry

“the first of many” omg what does he mean???? #HopefullyYours

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freshasnow @crystalmoon

Yeah, I’m not really feeling this. I thought we were going to get Kai and Hollow this week? #HopefullyYours

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teatime ✓ @spillit

For those of you asking, yes, we knew Victor Li and Y/n were going to be on Hopefully, Yours. Don’t worry darlings, we’ll have some quality tea for you soon! #HopefullyYours

Spotting the first of the food vendors, you both headed over to it, peering at the fresh dumplings. The vendor straightened up at the sight of the camera, a benign smile spreading across his face when you asked him for permission to film, nodding and plating plump, steaming dumplings with the utmost grace.

Gordon, as he introduced himself, was more than happy to talk about his family business, their two restaurants in Loveland, while Homer took close-ups of the dumpling that Victor broke apart for a better look.

“My daughter comes here every year with me, insisting she can handle things by herself, but honestly, I just enjoy coming here,” he chortled, before fixing the two of you with a knowing look. “It’s a completely different atmosphere from the restaurant! And it’s always nice to see sweet young couples such as yourselves. Reminds me of my own fair dates with my wife…”

You couldn’t stop sneaking glances at Victor, who seemed content to chew on his snack. He caught your eyes, before his flickered over your head towards Homer and Jason. Inexplicably, his ears began to tint a deep crimson, as he swallowed with some effort and stepped closer to you.

It began to make sense when he lifted the other half of the dumpling to your lips, Gordon gasping an oh my! in the background, and even as your heart began to race, your eyes widening, you felt…bad. Jason had obviously asked him to do this, and you felt terrible about him having to embarrass himself like this. But he did it, and so you took a small bite of the dumpling, the juicy filling suddenly tasteless on your tongue.

And then there was a soft sensation on your chin, your eyes lifting to see Victor dabbing at your skin with a napkin, the little motion taking all his concentration until he stepped back with a satisfied glint in his eyes, which seemed to linger around your mouth.

When you were unable to do anything more than flush deeply and try to stammer out a thank you, Jason ended the shot.

The glint in Victor’s eyes didn’t fade, and something within you quivered.

raspberrydream @berryberry

he looks like he wants to eat HER #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

@berryberry I CAN’T BREATHE. I thought he was going to kiss her LOL. And she looked so nervous and then he just wiped her chin THIS IS TOO SOFT I CANT #HopefullyYours

mintmadness @mintsallover

god I wish that were me #HopefullyYours

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only4food @bananabread

Okay I HAVE TO go to this place. I NEED TO EAT EVERYTHING. Who’s in??

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midnightmachine @musiclover

Gordon knows what’s up. We stan a hard-working man. #HopefullyYours

Things continued in much the same direction. With no signs of reluctance, Victor rolled up his sleeves and dived into the bustle of the fair. And with his hand curled around your wrist, you couldn’t bring yourself to doubt him. You’ve learned to read the signs of his displeasure, subtle and obvious, and they were nowhere to be found. He looked relaxed, trying out mini doughnuts, accompanying you to any shops you want to browse, frowning when you looked longingly at the ring toss.

“Let’s go,” he said, guiding you over to the booth. Well, you were supposed to try out the games too, but you hadn’t thought Victor would agree to play them. It seemed a little too childish for him.

“I haven’t come here in years either,” he told you when you looked at him curiously, the two of you standing in line with Homer right next to you. “I love my job, but I admit it takes up most of my time. I rarely have time to indulge like this.” He paused, as if wanting to say more, but his eyes flicked towards Homer and he ended it there.

While a part of you was startled in by his words, another softened at his truthful admission.

Victor seemed to have thought of something else, giving you a meaningful look. “But, of course, I always make time for the people in my life.”

You blinked, a little taken aback by sudden turn in direction.

“Even if they want to come to places like these, I don’t mind.” Victor seemed to be hinting heavily at something, and you smiled at that, almost excessively fond. Because it’s true that Victor makes time for the people in his life, especially his family. And even for you—he’s there for you, no matter how small the matter might be; huffing and puffing and going out of his way to help you.

Falling for someone like that, someone who effuses such stoic confidence and noble compassion in equal measure, it was all too easy.

“Then we’ll make sure to come again,” you told him, a wide grin blooming across your face at the thought. It was unlikely that it would actually happen, but it was nice to think about. You stepped up to the cashier, greeting him politely.

You finally got your turns after fifteen minutes, with Homer and Jason taking a quick snack break while you waited. You’d run a quick eye over the prizes available, quickly drawn to two pusheen cat plushies, a soft grey and a dark ebony. You didn’t think he’d judge you on camera, but would it really be okay to admit that’s what you want? The hair pin would be a more sophisticated pick, something more to his tastes.

Silently despairing over your proclivity for soft cute things, you turned to Victor for his choice.

Only to realize he seemed to have taken his jacket off while you were preoccupied and handed it over to Jason, his thin black t-shirt fitting him like a glove—and your words died a swift death at the back of your throat, shrivelling in the sudden dryness of your mouth. Silhouetted against the light of the late afternoon sun, his features seemed sharper, his gaze keener as he twirled the ring in his hands carefully.

As Homer began to roll the camera, and Victor prepared to toss the ring, you panicked with the realization that he didn’t ask you which prize you wanted like Jason had asked him to.

The ring landed around a bottle with a loud clink, and you hoped the surprise you felt wasn’t clear in your loud cheer. With the look he gave you, you knew he caught it even if others wouldn’t.

And then he handed you the dark pusheen plushy, which you took with trembling fingers and a sheepish smile. “Oh, thank you.” It was exquisitely soft to the touch. “This is the one I wanted.”

“Hm.”

“It looks like you.”

“What-” His head snapped toward you as you laughed, clutching the toy to your chest. Whatever outraged retort he’d been about to spit out was held back as he saw you hugging it contentedly, your eyes twinkling at him. “…I suppose.”

You handed him the toy, rolling your shoulders as you were given the ring. “Which one do you want?”

“I’m fine with anything,” he said, eyes locked on the grey pusheen plushy, the other half of the pair. So it was with a laugh, helpless in the face of his clear yet unspoken demand, that you tossed the ring. You got it on the second try, handing the toy to Victor with a triumphant grin, who took it primly and tucked it into his side.

“Thank you.”

“Isn’t this too childish by your standards?” you teased, unable to help it, but he only smirked down at you, stealing your breath with devastating ease.

“It is. But childish is…nice, sometimes,” he admitted carefully.

Your mind helpfully supplied you with all the instances of him calling you childish. “Oh?”

He shrugged, elegant, one shoulder lifting as he looked back down at the toy, before looking back up at you through dark, half-lidded eyes. “It’s grown on me.”

Kiro ✓ @kiromusic

Wow! This seems like so much fun, I kinda wish I got to go there too! :D @miracley/n invite me next time!! #HopefullyYours

Savin @agents

@kiromusic You just want to eat junk. And...well, I guess we can make an exception for today.

‎

bandanaman @headaccs

Before I proceed to scream over the clip, I just wanted to let y’all know I did some digging and apparently, they are friends! They’ve been spotted together in public many times, including the Loveland Gala last year. You know what this means. #HopefullyYours

bandanaman @headaccs

THE PUSHEEN TOYS. They won each other toys!! Y/n’s right, that does look like him with the dark fur lmao. BUT. Look at Victor’s heart eyes!! And she looked so happy omg T_T

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@headaccs NO WONDER. It seems like they already like each other but it seemed too soon!! They’re so cute omg please date!! #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

@berryberry With how they look at each other? I smell pining ;) I’ve compiled a list of all their public appearances. He even took her to Souvenir! How are they not dating????

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@headaccs DM ME!!!!

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@headaccs I feel like that’s a bit of a reach. They certainly seem comfortable with each other, but that could easily just be friendship, which is nice too. I feel like we should allow people to be friends instead of just shipping them.

‎

mintmadness @mintsallover

@hotsauce they’re on a dating show, though.

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@mintsallover yeah but plenty of other ‘couples’ were just friends or went on to be good friends. I just think these two are comfortable with each other, which is probably a good thing because Victor doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who can have fun with just anyone, you know?

You ended up having a lot more fun than you thought you would. Victor was always great company, but you could tell he’d tried his best to relax for the show and you didn’t know how to thank him for it. The warm gratitude bubbled up at the base of your throat, your heart sinking deeper into the ocean of affection you already held for him.

He’s so kind. His aloof demeanour, his nagging, his precise instructions and advice were things you’ve come to appreciate. But beyond those lies a heart so caring, so considerate, it made you yearn so deeply, to find yourself a place in it. But Victor had come to treat you as a friend and you could never ruin that because of your own feelings. It was precious, his friendship, and you wanted to treat it as such.

The line you’d drawn with so much care seemed to be straining, however, ever since you found out you would be riding the ferris wheel together, without Homer.

“The people in charge told us if we could just wait until closing time, they could keep things going until we’re done shooting!” Jason had told you as he briefed everyone. A bunch of the crew had left after packing up, as this would be the last take for the day. “That way Homer can fix the lighting and equipment in the cabin and won’t need to join you two! Give you some privacy, yeah?”

‘For what,’ you’d screamed internally, nodding along with a smile on the outside.

Looking to Victor for his opinion had been futile, because he seemed to have withdrawn into his own head, looking up at the ferris wheel absently. You were supposed to shoot the individual parts, but with how late it had gotten, Jason had asked the two of you to drop by the studio the next day. Only, you had a free slot in the morning while Victor would only be able to make it sometime during the late afternoon.

So you wouldn’t get to see what Victor said about you. That was perfectly fine. Things had gone well, and Victor wasn’t the sort to badmouth someone anyway.

It was supposed to be his day off. And he gave it up to participate in a show that was, for all intents and purposes, pointless for him. You felt terrible, heart aching at the thought that once again you had made him waste his time.

How on earth did Jason even get him to agree to this?

“You’re thinking something ridiculous,” came a low voice, and Victor seemed to have come back from his mental journey.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, the guilt getting to you.

“For what?” He seemed genuinely baffled, and it made you feel worse.

“For this entire day. You just came for a visit and now it’s after 8 pm and your day off is gone and you rarely get free time…” your shameful rambling tapered off as the furrow between his brows appeared to grow deeper and deeper.

His response was interrupted by a staff member, who came to let you know the ride was ready for you two. Walking together in complete silence, you wondered what he was about to say.

“Do you regret it?”

You arrived at the ride, and Victor had stopped in front of the open door. “What?”

“Do you regret it?” he repeated patiently, holding his hand out to you. “This entire day. Our date.”

Our date.

It was silly, how him calling it a date, with no cameras in sight, seemed to affect you so deeply. It was ridiculous but it was so real, how your heart fluttered and hope unfurled in the garden where you’ve buried your affection.

“Because I’m not sorry,” he added when you failed to do anything other than flush horribly. There was a question in his gaze, one you didn’t know how to answer, so with a deep breath, you focused on the one he’d asked out loud.

“No,” you said softly, your hand coming to rest over his as he helped you into the cabin. “I don’t regret it.”

How could you, when he was everything you wanted?

You settled on the plastic bench, watching Homer fiddle with the settings and light, making sure the camera’s fixed in place, basking in the heat emanating from Victor.

“Alright, that should work. You guys ready?” he asked.

“Yeah!”

“Yes.”

Homer stepped back to let Jason poke his head through the door. “We’re all set guys. Just call us if there are any problems. Be yourselves, don’t worry about the take. And remember, make sure to make it as romantic as possible!”

As the door closed behind him, with the camera rolling, silence rose to take the place of the sounds now cut off, the rest of the world falling away as the ride began and you began to ascend.

Outside the window, the stars shone in a twinkling blanket across the night sky, and Victor’s arm pressed into yours. Meeting his eyes was difficult, astoundingly so after the entire day you spent together.

This close, it would be so easy to let the words tumble from your lips. You didn’t know what your eyes could give away right now, and you were just as afraid of the softness in his gaze.

It looked too real.

“I’m glad we finally got some peace,” he muttered, and just like that a bright laugh broke out through your fear.

“This was not your kind of place at all, was it?” you said, snickering at the look he threw your way, because it’s so easy to make him huff like that.

“It was…lively,” he said, glaring at you as you stifle your smile behind your hand. “Exactly the kind of place you enjoy.”

“That’s true.”

“Then that’s that.” He shifted a little, trying to face you, his knee knocking into yours. “As long as you had fun, we’ll come again.”

Despite your warnings, your heart skipped a beat.

You tried to laugh it off, changing the subject to your childhoods, swapping lighter stories and carefully avoiding the heartbreaks. Your hands moved somewhere in between, in the dim lights, and your fingers had found each other’s. Make it romantic, Jason had said. That was the only reason. You talked about work, about Miracle Finder, about his public projects, how your busy lives don’t give you the chance to find love.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Victor cut in, still looking at you in that quietly dangerous away, his gaze a heated cloak over your skin.

You stilled. “You wouldn’t?” There was a tremor in your voice, one you hoped went unnoticed.

“I think, regardless of how busy we are, however reluctant…love finds us when it has to,” he said, his voice deep, unwavering, and you forgot how to breathe. Somehow, despite doing your best to avoid it, you had wound up on the proverbial cliff’s edge.

And it was time to take a leap.

“Victor...have you ever been in love?” you asked, part of you ready for his outrage, for him to brush it off with a roll of his eyes, and the other curling up in fear at the thought of the answer he might really give you.

He hummed, tightening his grip on your hand when you tried to tug it back, searching your face. His thumb swept over your knuckles, rubbing gently, and you wondered if he was preparing you for heartbreak.

“Yes. I have.”

Kiki @kikiki

@smilingwillow WHAT THE FUCK

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Anna @miracletv

@kikiki Language.

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Kiki @kikiki

‎@miracletv did you see the episode?? im going to collapse WHERE IS BOSS @miracley/n

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raspberrydream @berryberry

DID HE JUST???? OH MY GOD @headaccs DID YOU SEE THIS? ARE YOU OKAY? #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

THIS MAD LAD ACTUALLY DID IT. @berryberry I will never recover from this #HopefullyYours

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@headaccs @berryberry He just said he’s been in love before. He didn’t say he’s in love with her lol

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raspberrydream @berryberry

@hotsauce what will it take for you to finally see the light

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mintmadness @mintsallover

I could listen to this man talk all day. Y/n, you’re one lucky girl <3 #HopefullyYours

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cocoloco @chocolatedelite

I’m late to the party but lmao at everyone freaking out. Uhhh honestly I’m not sure. These things are usually scripted. They could just be faking it. #HopefullyYours

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srirachafire @hotsauce

@chocolatedelite Thank you!!!!

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victorshoe @mrsli

My heart is broken but their cuteness has mended it. I’ll give them my blessings. #HopefullyYours

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bandanaman @headaccs

oh thank god they just uploaded the individual bits!!! THANK YOU @jtv

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bandanaman @headaccs

...wait

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raspberrydream @berryberry

‎‎omfg

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bandanaman @headaccs

????? IS THAT IT??? COME BACK @jtv that can't be it!!

Thank you for reading!

MC/You: it’s a fake date. chill.

Victor: Goldman I need NINE roses and an outfit that makes me look like a sex god I HAVE A DATE

#mlqc #mlqc victor #mlqc fanfic #mr love queen's choice #mr love li zeyan #mlqc victor x reader #queue are my sunshine

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deejadabbles · 4 years ago

Text

A Thousand Songs (Atem/Yami x Reader)

Chapter One: We Are Broken

One /// Two /// Three /// Four /// [Five Coming Soon]

Summary: You knew that you and your band could make it big. Not only that, but stay together while doing it; the five of you were family, after all. The only problem was that despite all your musical talents...none of you were particularly good at lyrics. After years of struggling to put out your first full album, the solution finally made himself know in chance meeting on an empty stage.

Rock Band AU, Atem x Reader, gender neutral reader.

A.N. Woo look at me, starting a new series before I finish my current ones. Don't hate me I have the attention span of a squirrel! I know band AUs are pretty cheesy but I don't care, this idea has been floating in my head for awhile and it's super cute okay?? I was also going to wait to post this until all the chapters were done but I couldn't control myself anymore. These chapters will be much shorter than my usual length so hopefully that means I can update faster??? I won't make any promises but I'll try. Anywho, I hope you guys like fashionable, sensitive Atem because that's who'll be featured in this fic <3 The reader's gender is never mentioned but I will admit I tended to lean more towards songs sung by women in this, I don't really think that matters though (I have Atem sing songs originally sung by women so...). I really hope you guys like this series and I'll love to hear your thoughts <3 Also: @ohyema This is the series I told you about all that time ago lol

I am outside

And I've been waiting for the sun

With my wide eyes

I've seen worlds that don't belong

My mouth is dry

With words I cannot verbalize

Tell me why

We live like this

The crowd was small, as always, but it was enough. Anyone hearing your songs was enough for now, or so you told yourself week after week. You felt Yugi’s eyes on you as you leaned away from the mic, plucking the cords of your Stratocaster for the brief solo and you looked to your left to see him smiling at you; always the positive optimist, the sun that shone on you and the rest of the band.

You flashed him the briefest smile in return before turning back to the mic. If you closed your eyes, got lost in Anzu’s keys, Jou’s steady beats, and Honda’s strings, you could almost pretend you were playing in front of a packed venue. One full of fans solely there to hear music, and not just a dozen or so patrons who enjoyed the music as a backdrop to their late-night drinks.

Keep me safe inside

Your arms like towers

Tower over me

You could have sworn you heard another voice in the crowd join yours as the chorus came. Ah, so there was an actual fan in the crowd.

Cause we are broken

What must we do to restore

Our innocence

And all the promise we adored?

Give us life again

Cause we just wanna be whole

Your eyes fluttered back open for the briefest second and through the smoky haze in the room, you saw that someone at the bar was holding up their phone, camera aimed at the stage. That managed to make you smile, at least you had someone’s attention.

Lock the doors

Cause I'd like to capture this voice

It came to me tonight

So everyone will have a choice

And under red lights

I'll show myself it wasn't forged

We're at war

We live like this

“Are you guys on SoundCloud or anything? Cos that was pretty awesome!” asked a young man who looked barely old enough to be in the bar at all.

You were just helping Yugi pack away his turntables, having finished your set and wishing the small crowd a good night. The young man was with two others, all of them looking enthused as they stood at the base of the small stage. The girl even giggled when Honda winked at her.

Yugi, as usual, was the one to speak up and pulled out a small leather folder from his back pocket. “Yeah, we are actually! We also have a youtube channel,” he pulled cards from the folder, black cardstock with your band’s name, logo, and media accounts scrawled across it in gold text. He handed one to each in the trio, smile still bright on his face, “Check us out if you get the chance, we’re trying to put out a new album this summer, so we should have plenty of new songs to listen to soon.”

With a few ‘cool man’s and ‘awesome’s, the trio wandered back to the bar, the one who had spoken already pulling out his phone with the card in hand, and the girl waving at Honda over her shoulder.

“You know you shouldn’t get their hopes up,” Anzu whispered as she set her keyboard case at the foot of the stage, “Two songs does not an Album make- we have no clue when we’ll actually have it out!”

“Well,” you chimed in, clicking one of Yugi’s several cases closed, “Maybe telling new fans to expect more from us will finally light a fire under our song-writing-asses.” When Jonouchi opened his mouth, that cheeky look on his face, you held up your hand to silence him, “And yes, I know I procrastinate too much, I’m to blame too.”

Yugi lifted two of his cases- and answered after Jou jumped in to take the heavier of the two, “I still think all of us should take a week's vacation, lock ourselves in our studio and work on the album together. Only getting together a few times a week is what’s really killing us I think- we can’t get into a creative groove!”

You and Anzu exchanged a look, knowing full well that neither of your bills would appreciate the week's loss in pay. Still, maybe it was something that you guys could find a way to work out. Then again, there was another idea that had been brewing in the back of your mind for a while now, and you weren’t sure if it was really something that the others in your band would go for...like, at all.

“I don’t know, a week probably wouldn’t even be long enough,” Honda chimed in after slinging his guitar case over his shoulder, grabbing an amp in the free hand.

Jou nodded as you all started filing out the bar’s back door, “I’m still thinking that gettin’ together every single night until the album’s done is the best way to go, even if it’s just for a few hours!”

This was the usual road the song writing debate took, or at least, how it usually went the past month or so, and soon enough the topic came to a standstill, as it usually did.

After loading up Jonouchi’s truck with your equipment, Honda gave the suggestion of stopping for some burgers at the 24 hour joint down the road, a common ritual after your monthly gig at “The Bandit’s Den”. As usual, Jou parked in the space best visible from the front windows of the dinner, and the five of you were glad to find that not another soul sat at the tables.

After settling at your usual booth and ordering, Yugi actually splayed his hands out on the table, looking rather determined. “You don’t start work until seven tomorrow. Right?” he asked you.

“Yeah?”

“I think we should take another trip to the station.”

You actually had to repress a sigh at that. Yugi was all about trying to trigger inspiration for songs, and the “station” referred to an old train station on the outskirts of town. You guys had discovered it long ago and were eager to use it in a music video, but were waiting for the perfect song to go with it. Sure, the old giant clock and brick stairs were a perfect setting, but it had only sparked a line or two of lyrics, nothing to make a full song.

Out of the five of you, most of the lyric writing fell on your’s and Yugi’s shoulders, with Anzu, Honda, and Jonouchi giving occasional input. Since you were the lead singer most seemed to think you would be the natural lyric maker, but the truth was that, despite your talent in singing and playing the lead guitar, lyrics just weren’t your forte. You’d had some luck when teaming up with Yugi, his emotional maturity helping you work through the written expressions, but that only went so far. Yugi also tried things like this, exercises and field trips in the hopes that it would spark creativity.

“How many times have we been to the station before, Yugi?” you asked, “I just don’t think it’s the oracle of inspiration we all hoped it would be. I still want to film there some time, but I don’t wanna take time out to visit it again, I’ll just get annoyed when it doesn’t lead to anything.”

Yugi’s set expression seemed to blink away, replaced with something almost like guilt, “Okay, I was just trying to think of something to get our inspiration flowing…”

Now you’re the one who felt guilty. “I know...hey maybe we could try something new? Like we could go some other place or try some different way to spark our heads?” you suggested, trying to sound positive.

Yugi’s eyebrows lifted in interest, but he was cautious when he asked, “Like what?”

“I…” you trailed off when your mind came up blank. It remained blank even as your eyes trailed over the entirety of the empty dinner as well as the dark scenery outside. A growl of frustration left your throat as you face planted on the table, “I don’t know!”

You heard Yugi giggle as he reached out and patted your head. Beside him, Jonouchi said, “What you need is some brain food! That’s sure to help some ideas come- ah! And here’s our feast now!”

Even though the food was good, kick-start your brain, it did not. If anything the meal just made you more sleepy, even as you guys chatted over the next hour before paying the tab and piling back into Jou’s truck.

Like always the next stop was the studio, the home and hideaway for you and your friends. For a small-time band whose biggest fame was on Youtube, all of you were actually quite proud of your studio. Yugi’s grandfather owned a few rental properties, and since the building wasn’t fitting for a residential space, nor in a part of town that would serve a shop well, he had agreed to give you guys the small building in exchange for help around his game shop every week.

Working together to make the space your own was some of the best memories you had with your oldest friends; going to second-hand shops to gather fitting set pieces, saving up for the sound dampeners so you could record your songs without paying a big-time studio, setting up the back room with tattered old furniture and a mini-fridge that was sure to break down any day.

The only thing that beat those days were the times you actually spent in the studio; rehearsing, recording your few music videos, spending downtime together writing new music on lumpy bean bag chairs and worn rugs (and definitely getting distracted by each other every ten minutes).

The night was late enough that no one bothered the five of you as you unloaded the truck, and soon enough all of you were taking your usual spots in the back room (Anzu sprawling out on the battered chaise, Jonouchi and Yugi filling up the loveseat, Honda falling onto a pair of beanbags, and you plopping down in the hammock chair).

“Alright you guys, I’m just going to come out and say it,” Anzu sighed after a few moments of hanging off the arm of her seat, “We need help writing our songs.”

You actually sat up as straight as you could in your chair and peered over at her- had she really just said what you had been thinking of saying for weeks?!

When she saw your look, something like panic colored her face as she waved her hands, “Not that I don’t think you’re a good writer! The songs you came up with were awesome! ...But-”

You waved off her concern, the hard motion causing your hammock to spin a little, “No- no, Anzu, I totally agree! I just didn’t know if I should bring it up...”

Even if you hadn’t thought of it too, Anzu had plenty of reason to think you needed help. In the whole four years since your group had started the band, from the first days sitting in class drawing up logo ideas, you had only written six original songs- and that included the two that were meant to go on your new album. You had gotten by with relying on covers to fill out your live sets and media accounts and making a host of excuses for the lack of originality.

“You really think bringing in another bandmate’s a good idea?” Honda chimed in, eyes narrow as he leaned back in his beanbag chair.

“Yeah, we don’t wanna end up like half the other bands out there,” Jonouchi chimed in, seeming to subconsciously pull Yugi closer to his side, “you guys know the only reason our band works is because we get each other- we’re family! We can’t just bring another person into that, it’ll ruin it and maybe even break us up!”

Yugi put a hand over Jonouchi’s, “Hey hey, slow down, don’t you think we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves? First of all, bands hire ghostwriters all the time, and they don’t always join the band. Besides... I don’t know, if the person’s really cool, would it be that bad to have another member?”

“We could always have them ghostwrite for us for a while, and if we like them, then talk about letting them join,” you offered, and were glad when everyone seemed to contemplate that with at least some positivity. “But that brings up the issue I think we’ll have, I’m not sure we can find someone who fits with our style all that easily. Like Jonouchi said, there’s a reason all of us work well together.”

It was true, all of you brought something to the table, something more than an instrument. The five of you had slightly different tastes, all of it coming together in something that wasn’t quite punk, not quite rock, not quite pop or even metal, and that’s what worked to your advantage. You wanted to prove that different sounds and styles could come together in harmony and appeal to listeners all across the spectrum. Not fit into a genre-labeled box that only fans of said genre would even bother listening to.

Eventually, Anzu gave a shrug, “We won’t know until we try. Why don’t we put the word out and see what happens?”

“We can still work on our own, and if we don’t find anyone who fits, we didn’t really lose anything besides time,” Yugi added, and that pretty much settled the matter.

Tomorrow the search for a new member of your team began.

#atem x reader #yami x reader #yugioh #yugioh x reader #Atem #yami yugi #series: a thousand songs #band AU #Yugioh Band AU #violinist atem

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 5 years ago

Text

Shotgun - m. tkachuk

And here is 8.7k of a road trip with Matthew Tkachuk, which honestly, is the real dream. Let me know what you think of it, reblog (I love looking at tags!!) and pop into my inbox if you’d like!

Wine pairing from someone with zero authority on the subject: a nice brut rosé - crisp, fruity, bubbly. Plus, I like the vibes.

It all started with a text. What are the chances you can get the week after next off? Matthew had sent. Madison’s brow furrowed. Doubtful, but I can try. Are you going to tell me what this is about? There was a week left in the season before playoffs started, and with the points spread in the Pacific being what it was, the matchups were all but locked in. It took less than a minute to get a response. No :) I’ll let you know once you get an answer. She got approved for the time off two days later. Her phone rang as soon as she texted him the news. “How do you feel about road trips?”

---

Maddy had met Matthew about a little over a year prior, soon after she moved to Calgary from her hometown of Toronto. Having finished her first week of work as a computer programmer, there was nothing Madison wanted more than to let loose and enjoy a few drinks with her friends. She was sharing a two-bedroom with her best friend Emily, who Maddy would swear up and down was the sunniest, warmest, most kind person she’d ever met. Not like Maddy wasn’t a nice person — she was — but where her idea of relaxing meant going out bouldering, or camping, or a last-minute road trip, Emily was more of a homebody.

But going out meant going out, and so Emily was happily dragged along to a bar downtown; which one, she couldn’t really say. Madison walked up to the bar as soon as they entered, catching the bartender’s eye and ordering a Tom Collins. She tapped her fingers on the counter as she waited, glancing around the room. It was ten o’clock on a Friday night, so it was plenty packed. “What are you getting?” Madison asked Emily curiously.

She held up her Molson. “I’m a woman of simple tastes. Plus, I didn’t feel like waiting around for the bartender to actually make me a drink,” Emily added dryly.

Maddy rolled her eyes. “What’s the point of going out to a bar when you’re just going to be drinking something you could get at the liquor store?” Emily stuck her tongue out. The bartender slid Maddy’s glass over, taking her card and swiping it through quickly. “Thank you!” she chirped, whipping around to head over and snag a free table she had seen a few minutes before.

She never ended up getting to the table. Instead, she ran straight into 6 feet, 2 inches of pure Midwestern beef. “Woah!” Matthew said, steadying her as she watched her glass fall to the floor, thankfully not breaking but absolutely spilling its entire contents over the wood. “You good?”

Madison nodded, grabbing a rag from the bartender. Matthew followed suit, joining her on the floor. “Got a little on my shoes, but it’ll be fine. They won’t stain.”

Matthew nodded, giving a final wipe before taking her rag and handing both back over the counter. “Did me spilling your drink all over you ruin my chances of getting your name?”

“Madison St. Pierre,” she said, laughing and sticking out a hand for him to shake.

“Matthew Tkachuk, but—”

Maddy cut him off. “I probably already know that?” Matthew ducked his head sheepishly. “I may be a long-suffering Leafs fan, but I don’t live under a rock.”

He took a sip of his beer, leaning up against the bar. “Not from around here, eh?”

Maddy shook her head. “Just moved a couple weeks ago. I’m from Toronto, moved here for a job. I do computer programming,” she said by way of explanation.

“A smart girl.”

She tilted her head. “You could say that.”

“Well,” he said, “I feel bad about spilling your drink on you, let me buy you another.”

Maddy laughed. “If you insist. It’s really the least you could do.”

Matthew nodded at the bartender, ordering her another Tom Collins and putting it on his tab. “You and your friend are more than welcome to join us,” he gestured behind him to where the rest of his group was sitting, “we were playing a drinking game and could use a few more players anyway.”

And that was how Matthew met Maddy.

---

Day 1

Ten days later, Madison was hefting her duffel bag into the trunk of her Nissan. It was 7:00 on a Tuesday. Normally on a day off she’d be taking advantage of every possible minute of sleep she could get, but lines to cross the border could be long and they wanted to get to Montana by lunch. She waved goodbye to Emily, hopping in the driver’s seat and starting the engine. Matthew had initially suggested they just get a rental car, since it would save Maddy the 20-hour drive back. But a quick Google search let them know that the chances of finding a company willing to let them drop off a Canadian car in Nevada were slim to none. Plus, Maddy had always liked driving, so it wasn’t really an issue for her. They weren’t going to be alone on the trip; Matthew had invited Elias and Rasmus along. She felt a little bit like a school bus driver, stopping at Elias’s complex to pick him up, then Rasmus’ condo, finally pulling into the underground lot of Matthew’s apartment building. Holding one hand up in greeting, he wheeled his suitcases over to her car.

Maddy unblocked her seatbelt, hopping out to help him. “Why on earth did you need so many bags?” she huffed, turning one on its side and wedging it in between hers and Elias’s.

He shrugged. “I’ve got a bag for the trip, a bag of actual clothes and workout stuff for the series, and the suit bag.” He hung the offending article on a hook. “Did you think I’d be able to set my vanity aside for a whole four days?”

“I should have known that would be too much to ask.”

Matty threw his head back, laughing. “Anyone ever told you how funny you are, Mads?”

“Once or twice, Ratthew,” she said, slamming the door shut.

Maddy hopped back in the driver’s seat, jamming the key in the ignition and turning the engine on. “Next stop, boys, is America.”

---

Well technically, the next stop was a gas station off of Highway 2, about twenty minutes from the border. “Wait, wait,” Matthew said, a conspiratorial grin on his face as Madison took the pump out of the gas tank.

She raised one eyebrow. “What?”

He made grabby hands at her keys. “Let me drive.”

“Why?” Madison asked. “I’ve been driving for like what, two hours? I’m not tired yet.”

“I’m the only American in the car.”

Maddy put the pump back. “And?”

Matthew looked sheepish. “Someone said that the border patrol officers will tell Americans ‘welcome home’ when they’re coming back. It’s never happened to me flying so I wanted to see if it would be different in a car.”

“If it means that much to you?” she said, tossing the keys over the hood of the car. Matthew caught them. Maddy rounded the back of the car before she could see him ducking his head, blushing.

They arrived at the Piegan/Carway crossing shortly after. With exactly zero cars in front of them, Matthew pulled straight up to the booth.

“Purpose of your visit?” the officer said, looking into the driver’s side.

“Three of us play hockey, we’re road tripping down to Las Vegas before our playoff series starts in a few days,” Matty answered easily.

He nodded. “And how long will you be in the States for?”

It was clear either this man had never watched a series of professional sports in his life, or he was just following a standard script. “Depends?” Matthew said, fully aware of how questionable that sounded.

Maddy piped up from the passenger seat. “I’m driving the car back, so I’ll be back in eight days.”

“Right,” Matthew nodded, “But this trip to the US, we’ll be back in seven days. We’re flying back on the team plane, so it’s not a land crossing.” He decided to forego mentioning that, barring a sweep, they’d be back again in two weeks.

The poor officer looked bewildered. “Team plane?”

Matty shrugged his shoulders. “We play for the Calgary Flames, the team charters a plane to fly us from Calgary to wherever we’re playing and back. We decided to take the scenic route this time.”

“Okay,” he said, but Madison still wasn’t convinced he actually understood what Matty was saying. If the border officer thought anything of the American, Canadian, and Swedish passports he was handed, he didn’t say anything. Giving a cursory glance, he handed them back. “Welcome back,” he nodded to Matthew, waving the car through the gate. Matthew pumped his fist.

---

An hour later, Matthew pulled into a dirt parking lot on the edge of Glacier National Park. “WE MADE IT!” he exclaimed, putting the car in park and throwing his hands up.

“We drove three hours,” Elias said from the back seat.

“And?” Matty challenged, opening the door.

Maddy grabbed her backpack, stuffed with sandwiches and snacks that they had gotten on their way in. “If you guys brought hiking boots or good tennis shoes, now’s the time,” she said, lacing up her own boots. “There’s a loop around here that’s a little under four miles long, doesn’t sound like it’s too difficult but there is some elevation climb, so better safe than sorry.” People typically didn’t peg her for it, but Maddy was a very outdoorsy person at heart. She had taken up rock climbing in high school, and was a regular at the bouldering gyms back in Toronto until she moved. She’d found a climbing gym she liked well enough in Calgary, but with Banff just over an hour away from the city, the park had become her go-to for climbing and hiking. Matty had come with her on more than one occasion, and had surprised her with a long weekend camping for her birthday in March. The snow hadn’t all melted yet, and waking up to the powder-dusted fir trees outside of their tent had been one of the most beautiful sights of her life.

“Everyone’s got a full water bottle?” she asked, tying up her hair. The last thing anyone wanted was to get heatstroke in one of the most remote parts of the park with only one phone that could even connect to an American cell tower.

The group started off at a leisurely pace, wandering off-trail to check out anything and everything that caught their interest. The edge of the St. Mary Valley served as the perfect backdrop for lunch, Maddy pulling the sandwiches out from her bag and doling them out. “Oh thank God, I’m starving,” Elias said, grabbing his food from Maddy practically before she even had it in her hand.

“Did you not have breakfast?” she asked incredulously.

He nodded. “I did, but I’m still hungry. Should have brought snacks.” Off to his side, Matty snickered.

Day 2

Elias had volunteered to take over from Matthew to drive through the night, switching off sometime around sunrise with Rasmus. “I 100% have a crick in my neck,” Maddy grimaced, blinking the sleep out of her eyes and checking her phone.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” Matthew smiled. Maddy groaned, leaning into his side. Almost instinctively, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He unscrewed the cap of his water bottle, taking a few gulps before setting it back down on the floor of the car, where it promptly rolled away.

“Who do I have to blow to get a decent cup of coffee around here?” Maddy groaned. Matthew almost choked on his water. He had to get his mind off of the idea of Maddy blowing anything or he was about to have an issue. He pulled out his phone, jumping on Google maps.

“There’s a little coffee shop a few miles ahead, off of the Spruce Drive exit?” he asked tentatively.

She yawned. “As long as they sell caffeine, I’m game.” They did indeed sell caffeine, and after inhaling two cappuchinos and a small mountain of pastries later, Maddy hopped back behind the wheel. “You sure bear claws and muffins are on the meal plan, boys?” she asked, a smile playing on the corner of her lips.

Rasmus waved her off. “It’s not like you’re going to rat us out, are you?”

She shrugged, wiggling her phone in her hand as she pulled up at a stoplight. “Bold of you to assume I don’t have Coach’s number in my phone.”

Matty plucked her phone from her hand, placing it back by the center console. “Be that as it may, sweet Madison, you neglect to remember that I’m the only one with coverage in the U.S.” He might not strike most people as a particularly sentimental person, but Matthew loved his family, and decided that the extra charge was well worth being able to call his parents and sister whenever he was missing them.

She stuck her tongue out at Matthew. “You ruin all of my fun, you know that?” All he did was grin. The drive to Mesa Falls wasn’t long at all, they had just finished their food — Matty popping bites of muffin into Madison’s mouth as she drove — when she pulled over to the curb by the sign. Maddy threw the boys’ backpacks to them, pointing to the single bathroom stall in the tiny rest area. “Go change, I’ll use the car.”

“Why can’t we have the car?” Matthew complained.

She looked at him. “Three full-grown men, all over six feet, in one car. I know you see each other’s dicks all day in the locker room, but I’d really rather not have that in my car. Think.”

Matty made an “o” with his mouth. “Gotcha.”

Swim trunks were much easier to get on than a wrap bikini, Madison was finding, and the boys were finished changing well before she was done figuring out her top. She bit her lip, poking her head out of the door. “Matty?”

He turned around, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“Could you help me tie this?” she asked, gesturing to the halter top. “I think it’s stuck or something.”

Matthew swallowed hard, his eyes widening as he tried to stutter through a sentence. “Uh, yeah. I can do that. For sure,” he said, shuffling over to the car. He gently untwisted the straps, gathering them into a bow at the base of her neck and trying very, very hard to not think about how soft her skin felt underneath his fingers. This was one of his best friends. And best friends weren’t supposed to think about that kind of stuff. Right?

Behind them, Elias and Rasmus shared a glance. They had expected something was going on between them, really ever since the party in November, but this was something new. They had never seen Matthew gone this far for a girl before. And they liked this side of him.

“Thanks,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before disappearing back into the car to throw on a coverup. “How long is the walk to the actual waterfalls?”

“Not long,” Elias responded. “Ten minutes or so?” It was an easy walk to the falls, which were mercifully empty when they got there. They kicked off their sandals, leaving the bags under a nearby bush. Matthew knew Madison was pretty. She wasn’t a nun and he wasn’t a saint; she had seen him shirtless more times than he could count and he had seen her come out of his guest room in nothing but an oversized t-shirt of his after she stayed the night. His thoughts hadn’t exactly been innocent. But as she pulled her t-shirt over her head, leaving her clad only in that damn red bikini, he was convinced he’d never seen a more gorgeous sight.

She turned around just as Matthew tore his eyes away, looking mischievously at him. “Last one in?” They sprinted to the water. Matty let her win.

---

About half of their stops had been planned in advance; the others were pulled from websites or Google suggestions or whatever their waitress’ recommendation was for a local must-see. The Idaho Potato Museum fell into the latter category. Rasmus had floated the idea shortly after they had left Mesa Falls, and seeing as how nobody had anything better to suggest, they ran with it.

“Free taters for out of staters,” Matthew said, reading off of the pamphlet they had been handed at the welcome desk.

“Will they give me extra since I’m Canadian?” Madison wondered aloud. “For all intents and purposes they think you live in Missouri, Matty.” The nickname rolled off her tongue so easily, she didn’t even think twice.

He passed the paper to her, the tips of their fingers barely brushing together, but Matthew could have sworn his heart skipped a beat. “Don’t get greedy, Mads.” They walked down a dimly-lit hallway lined with black-and-white photos.

“Did you know that the first potatoes grown in the United States were planted in Londonderry, New Hampshire, by Scotch-Irish immigrants?” Elias read off of a placard, his voice sounding like a disinterested radio announcer.

Maddy shook her head. “I didn’t, thank you so much for imparting on me this most important knowledge, Elias.”

“My pleasure,” he replied.

“Did you know that you could survive off of a diet of only potatoes and butter?” Rasmus chimed in, reading another sign.

“Really?” Matthew asked, leaning in to read. He turned to Madison a moment later. “Really, apparently.”

Half an hour of wandering later, Matthew and Madison had stumbled into the “artifacts” portion of the museum. “What kind of artifacts does a potato museum have?” Maddy asked, looking supremely confused.

Matthew wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Why don’t we see?” For some reason, he decided it would be a good idea to hold his hand out for her. And for some reason, Maddy took it.

The “artifacts” turned out to consist of some old farm tools, dusty burlap sacks, and the world’s largest potato chip. Elias and Ramsus were on the other side of the museum, leaving Matthew and Madison to drift through alone. “Crisp, actually,” Matthew said, reading the card under the glass case. “Because I guess they’re worried about people stealing it?”

“There’s a difference?”

He shrugged. “Apparently it’s only a chip if it’s a slice of potato. This was made from dehydrated potato flakes, or something like that.” Maddy wasn’t sure if it was the sepia-tinted lighting, or the lingering memory of how Matty’s fingertips burned like fire against her back as he tied her bikini, or if there was something particularly romantic about dehydrated potato flakes, but they were alone in the room and suddenly she was looking at him a little bit differently. Matthew looked at her, gaze soft as his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly down towards her lips. Her lips. His body leaned in, and just as she closed her eyes, waiting for his lips to meet hers, wondering if they were really going to do this in the middle of the Idaho fucking Potato Museum—

“We were wondering where you guys had gone off to!” Elias’s Swedish accent cut through the silence. Matthew threw his head back, silently cursing his teammate’s timing. If Elias and Rasmus realized anything was off, they didn’t say. “The lady at the front said it’s closing in ten minutes, so we thought we should head out and get something to eat.”

Maddy nodded in agreement, her cheeks burning. “Sounds good. I could go for some food.” They made their way back outside, Matthew settling behind the wheel as he steered the car back onto the highway. He tried to shake the almost-kiss from his mind, but the more he tried to forget it, the more the memory stuck.

Elias looked down at his phone. “Yelp says there’s an Indian place coming up on the left if that sounds good to you guys,” he said, shaking Matthew from his thoughts.

Maddy scrunched her nose. “All due respect, I don’t trust this town to make good Indian food. Potatoes, burgers, meat, sure. I buy it. But I haven’t seen a single person of color since we left Glacier.”

“Fair.”

The burgers were good; nothing to write home about, but Maddy was honestly thrilled to eat something that didn’t come out of a bag. The plan had originally been to drive through the night again to reach Salt Lake City by the early morning, but Maddy made it clear her back didn’t take too well to sleeping in the car, and the others agreed. “Rasmus, mind finding a hotel nearby? Doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just somewhere not too far off of the freeway,” Madison asked. He nodded, pulling out his phone. They had gotten tired of passing around Matthew’s phone anytime they were out of Wifi range, so after a little complaining and one of Maddy’s puppy-dog eye looks, he finally relented and turned his hotspot on.

“There’s a Holiday Inn up off of the next exit if that sounds good to you guys,” Rasmus said. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the Post Malone song that Matty had plugged in. They switched the aux every few hours.

“Yeah, works for me.” Madison hummed her agreement; Matty nodded. Rasmus flicked on the blinkers, gently cruising down the offramp, pulling into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn about half a mile down the road.

Madison bit the inside of her cheek. “They’re going to have rooms available, yeah?”

“Mads, it’s May in the middle of nowhere, Idaho. I don’t exactly think they’ve got business lining up out the door.” Matty said, looking at her from the side as they walked into the hotel lobby.

The whole trip was Matthew’s idea, so he insisted on footing the bill, handing his credit card and license over to the receptionist. Maddy snickered behind her hand. Matthew turned back to look at her, one eyebrow raised questioningly. “Something you’d like to share with the class, Madison?”

“Missouri licenses look weird,” she commented.

“And Alberta’s any better?”

She scrunched her nose. “We have a dinosaur on ours. Beat that.”

“I’ll let you have that one,” Matty said, the corner of his lip twitching as he thanked the receptionist, tucking the cards back into his wallet. She handed over the room keys, Matthew passing two to Rasmus and Elias and one to Maddy. “I had us together, if you don’t mind.”

Madison shook her head. “Fine with me.” It wasn’t unusual for her to stay over at Matthew’s apartment, either after going out or when their movie nights ran a little long and she woke up to Matty tucking her into the bed in his guest room. She had a toothbrush in his bathroom, a change of clothes in the dresser. She had offered to take her stuff back a few months ago, not wanting any girl he might bring over to get the wrong idea. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he had said when she asked, waving her off. Though, come to think of it, he hadn’t brought any girl home — that she knew about — since sometime around the beginning of the year.

They waved goodbye to Rasmus and Elias, promising to wake up bright and early to get the first crack at the breakfast buffet when it opened at 7. Matty swiped his card, holding the door open when the light turned green and the knob twisted. “After you, m��lady.”

“Why thank you, good sir,” Maddy giggled, ducking under his arm into the entryway. She stopped at the end of the hall, eyes flickering into the room.

Matthew stopped behind her. “What’s up?”

“There’s only one bed.”

His head jerked around the corner, not like he doubted her word or anything, but he needed to see it for himself. There was only one bed. One big bed, one very comfortable-looking bed, but one bed. Matty dropped his bag on the floor. “Uh...D’you want me to call down? I can see if they’ve got another room if that would make you more comfortable.”

Madison pursed her lips for a second before shaking her head. “No, it’s fine. We’re adults, we can share a bed without burning the house down.” It wasn’t like Maddy was lying for Matthew’s sake; she really was fine with it. Maybe a little too fine. But they had slept together — in the innocent sense of the word — before, and everything had turned out okay. His arm draped over her shoulder as she cuddled into his shoulder on a late night, her legs tangled in his when some of his friends from St. Louis were visiting for the weekend and took the guest room. He had offered to take the couch that night, but Maddy didn’t want to relegate him to a night of back cramps and drafty breezes, especially when he had an early practice the next day. Nobody ever made it weird, so it wasn’t weird.

She took her bundle of clothes into the shower, relishing in the feeling of hot water raining down on her aching muscles. Maddy was loving the trip, genuinely, but being in a car for twelve hours out of the day took something out of a person. Slipping into an old college t-shirt, Madison thought for a moment about putting on a pair of sweats. It wasn’t particularly cold — the opposite, in fact — but she didn’t know if it would make Matthew feel weird if she wasn’t wearing pants. Fuck it, she thought, pulling up her boyshorts. If he had an issue with it, it was his problem. Throwing her hair up in a towel to dry, she turned the doorknob, poking her head out the door. “Shower’s open if you wanted to hop in,” she said.

Matty nodded, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t be too long, why don’t you find something for us to watch?” he asked, tossing her the remote. It wasn’t quite nine o’clock, and while she was tired, Maddy knew if she tried to go to sleep she’d wake up well before dawn, and that wasn’t something anyone wanted. Madison climbed up onto the bed, tucking her feet underneath her and grabbed the channel guide. True to his word, Matthew was in and out in under ten minutes, rubbing his hair with a towel as he walked out. Athletic shorts. Shirtless. Maddy couldn’t help but give him the once-over, having to jerk her eyes back up to his face the moment she realized what she was doing. Matthew met her eyes, the ghost of a smirk playing on his face. “I can put a shirt on if you’d like…”

“No! You’re good,” Maddy replied, maybe a little too quickly to avoid suspicion.

He ducked back into the bathroom, throwing the towel over the shower curtain. “So, what did you settle on?”

She looked back at the TV. “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives?”

Matty jumped onto the bed. “Guy Fieri. What a legend. Awesome. Where’s he going?”

Three and a half episodes later, it was almost eleven, and Madison’s eyes were starting to droop. Sometime midway through the second episode, when Guy was visiting an Asian fusion restaurant in Colorado, her head had drifted onto Matthew’s shoulder, where it had stayed ever since. His arm wrapped loosely around her, Matty brought his hand up to brush away a stray piece of hair that had drifted into her face. “Getting sleepy, Mads?”

She yawned, nodding and trying to push herself up. “‘M looking forward to a good night’s sleep in an actual bed.”

Matthew laughed softly. “Let’s get you in bed, then.” He threw back the comforter, Madison crawling under, and reached over to the nightstand, turning off the lamps and TV. “Give me your phone,” he said.

“Why?” Maddy asked, her brow furrowing.

“You always forget to charge it overnight, and I don’t want you to be grumpy when it dies at 10 AM.” She mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a concession, handing over her iPhone. Matty plugged it in, clambering beneath the sheets. “Sweet dreams, Mads. Good night.”

“Night, Matty.”

Day 3

The first thing Madison noticed when she woke up was the warm, unfamiliar weight slung around her waist. It took her a moment to realize that it was Matty’s arm, who hadn’t woken up yet. For some reason that she couldn’t quite identify, or maybe didn’t want to confront quite yet, it wasn’t unwelcome at all, and she savored the last few minutes of physical closeness before he woke up. And he did, wake up, that is. His cheeks reddened as he opened his eyes, pulling his arm away to wipe the sleep out of his eyes. “Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly.

Maddy ducked her head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I didn’t mind.”

Matthew yawned. “What time is it?”

“Uh, just before seven,” she said, rolling over to look at the alarm clock. “I’d love to stay in bed a little longer, but we did promise the boys we’d meet them down at breakfast soon.”

He nodded, making a very concerted effort to not read into her statements any more than he absolutely had to. “Yeah, good idea,” he said, tossing the covers off and walking into the bathroom. “I’ll sit on you if you’re not up by the time I get back out there.” Maddy took the opportunity to change, threading a belt through her jeans and half-tucking a t-shirt. “I like the look,” he said when he walked out, as Maddy was twisting her hair up into a bun. It wasn’t entirely unusual for Matthew to compliment her; she had accompanied him to more than one charity event for the Flames as his date, but she had always been dressed up. Dress, heels, makeup that she probably stressed way too much over. Dressed to the nines, never in jeans and a t-shirt before. But she didn’t really notice, the compliment meaning just as much to her as if she’d been in a floor-length gown.

“Thanks,” she said, stuffing her clothes from the night before back into her duffel. “I packed the rest of your bag while you were in there, figured I might as well.”

It was Matty’s turn to thank her, squeezing her hand appreciatively before giving the room a quick look. “We didn’t forget anything, then?”

Madison laughed. “We really didn’t stay long enough to unpack, but yeah, we’ve got everything, don’t worry.”

---

Elias had volunteered to do the drive down to Salt Lake City. Matthew’s inner six-year-old had returned, insisting that the group stop at a dinosaur park in a rural part of Utah. What “dinosaur park” meant, Madison wasn’t sure, but it made Matty happy, so she didn’t fight it.

The museum was mostly outdoors, with life-sized dinosaur models dotting the massive field. “Were you much into dinosaurs as a kid?” Matthew asked Madison.

“Kind of?” she replied noncommittally. “I always loved learning about them, but never had like a ‘dinosaur phase’ like David or Cody,” she said, referring to her older brothers. “My family used to go to the Canadian Museum of Nature a ton when I was a kid, since it was only a few hours away in Ottawa, and it has like a billion fossils in it.”

“Which was your favorite?”

“Pachycephalosaurus,” she said easily.

Matthew blinked. “Pachycephalo-what?” he asked in confusion. He thought he knew all of them?

Maddy laughed. “Pachycephalosaurus. They had these really spiny heads. But secretly, I think I was a little bit of a teacher’s pet who just liked saying the name. Pretty sure they were actually native to Alberta?” she added. “What about you?”

“Well, now I’m embarrassed to say.”

“Oh, come on,” Madison said, nudging him with her shoulder. “Promise I won’t make fun of you.”

“Fine, fine,” Matty gave in, “it was the brachiosaurus.”

“How come?” she asked curiously.

“I liked the long necks.”

They spent another hour or so at the park, Matty grabbing a keychain on the way out. “They didn’t have a brachiosaurus,” he muttered, half-angry, picking up a T-rex one instead. It wasn’t a long drive to the actual Great Salt Lake, and for some reason, they had trusted Elias with the aux. Much to Maddy’s chagrin, he didn’t end up playing ABBA, and they were instead led to cruise down I-15 to the dulcet tones of J.S. Bach.

Madison looked down at her phone. “Anyone want to go see the Joseph Smith sphinx?”

“Joseph Smith?” Rasmus questioned.

“Sphinx?” asked Elias.

Matthew laughed. “You know those Egyptian statues of like the cat ladies? Where they have cat bodies but the faces of people?”

“Joseph Smith was the founder of the Mormon church,” Madison explained. “Well, technically it’s called the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, but—”

“Know-it-all,” Matty said in a sing-song voice. Madison shot a glare at him from the back seat.

“But most people still call them Mormons. And apparently they made him into a sphinx.”

Elias looked at her, still dumbfounded. “But why?”

Maddy shrugged. “Honestly? Beats me.” The weather had dropped too much by the time they had reached the lake to make swimming very practical, so the four of them settled for taking off their shoes, rolling up pants, and wading into the shoreline.

Matthew bent down, picking up a chipped white rock from the ground, the water just lapping at his fingers. He handed it to Madison. “For you.”

She took it gently, running her hands over the jagged surface. “Aren’t you not allowed to take anything from a national park?”

He winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” They stopped at a Chipotle just as the sun was beginning to set, Matthew taking over driving duties from Rasmus. The plan was to drive for another two hours or so, stopping somewhere in southern Utah for the night to spare themselves from another night spent in her Nissan.

They drove in silence for a while, Elias and Rasmus drifting to sleep in the back row, before a road sign caught Matty’s eyes and he spoke. “I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon, you know,” he said as they continued down I-15.

Maddy looked over at him. “Do you want to go?” She didn’t know where the suggestion came from, but it was out of her mouth before she could take it back, and after a moment, she realized that she didn’t even want to.

His eyebrows raised as he glanced over at her before turning back to the road, the car’s headlights the only thing in sight. “You mean it?”

Madison shrugged. “Yeah, why not?” She quickly popped the directions into her phone. “It’s only a few hours out of the way, if we drive through the night instead of stopping somewhere we should have more than enough time.”

“But didn’t you say sleeping in the car made your back hurt?” Matty asked curiously.

She smiled softly. “I don’t mind, really. I’ll drive. You’re more important.” Honestly, Maddy surprised herself with her boldness. She wasn’t shy by any stretch of the imagination, but it hadn’t escaped her that the dynamic between her and Matthew had changed in the past few weeks and was about to come to a boil. Matty wasn’t exactly the type of guy Madison expected to have a lot of friends who were girls. And a part of her hated that, hated that because of his reputation she automatically assumed when they became friends that all he wanted to do was get in her pants. There had only been one time in their entire year of friendship when they’d even done so much as kissed, and it wasn’t exactly what you’d consider normal circumstances.

---

It was November of the previous year, about six months after Matthew and Madison had met. Matthew had been even more in his head than normal; he hadn’t scored a single point since midway through their East Coast road trip over two weeks ago, and the disappointment was really starting to rag on him. It might not have been something he outwardly showed all that much, but those who knew him knew that Matthew was actually a deeply sensitive person, who took pride in his wins and carried losses with him well after they had faded from the minds of the rest of the hockey world.

When it had gotten to the point where his frustration was starting to affect his game, Maddy knew it was time to do something. “You’re so much more than your stats, Matty,” she had said, calling him right before she left for the Saddledome. “I know you take this personally, and you feel like you’re letting down the team, but that’s bullshit and somewhere deep down, I know you agree.” Matthew grumbled something that might have been an agreement. “Your team trusts you, they trust you with the puck and with the A, and you’re never going to disappoint them as long as you’re giving it your all. And if you’re the Matthew Tkachuk I know, there’s never a time when you don’t. And win or lose tonight, there’s nothing you could do to change the fact that your family loves you, and your friends love you, and I love you too. Okay?” Clearly, something in her little pep talk had flipped a switch in Matty, because he returned in spectacular form that night, scoring a hat trick in a roaring 5-1 win over the Coyotes. And he didn’t throw a single punch all game.

A good game without a travel day following usually calls for going out, and a great game with your best friend scoring a hat trick definitely calls for going out, so she dragged Emily along to the bar that Matthew had told her to meet the team at. Matthew had pulled her into a hug the moment she arrived, kissing her cheek and trying his damndest not to spill the beer in his hand on her shoes. An hour and a half into the night, Madison was four drinks in, well and truly drunk, and Emily had wandered off and appeared to be flirting with an extremely oblivious Noah Hanifin.

“How are you doing, Mads?” Matthew asked, coming up from behind her barstool and resting his hand gently on the small of her back.

She looked back at him, a goofy smile on her face, and took another sip of her drink. “I’m good, I’m realllly good,” she giggled. “Did I ever get a chance to tell you how good you were tonight?” Matthew shook his head, very poorly concealing a laugh. He had had more than one beer, sure, but he was nowhere near as gone as Madison. “Because you were really good. A-ma-zing,” she added, punctuating each syllable. Her eyes softened as she leaned in. “I know the points drought was starting to weigh on you, and I’m really glad you were able to do this for yourself. I’m always proud of you, Matty, but I was a little extra proud of you tonight. People sometimes write you off as just another good player without any real subsistence,” she paused, correcting herself, “substance, off the ice, but I know the real you, and the real you is even more incredible than the you that plays hockey. It’s my favorite thing to see.”

“It is?” Matthew asked softly, leaning into the hand that had begun to caress his cheek a little bit imprecisely, but that somehow communicated every kind of unsaid word between them.

Madison nodded, touching his forehead to hers, and then she tilted in. And then she kissed him. Her lips met his, and she tasted like lime and spearmint chewing gum and his favorite kind of tequila. Her lips met his, and it seemed like the room stood still; he barely heard his teammates’ wolf-whistles or Emily’s elated gasp in the background. Her lips met his, and he drank in every second of the kiss until she pulled away.

---

Maddy hadn’t been drunk enough to black out that night, and she came to the next morning with a roaring headache and the pang of regret in her heart. She thought it was shame at her behavior, embarrassment that she could act so impulsively, but the more she thought about it, the more she realized. The fact that she kissed Matthew wasn’t the issue, not to her, at least. It was the fact that she was drunk in a bar after a hockey game and that wasn’t how she wanted it to happen. She pushed her feelings to the side, trying desperately to focus on work and supporting Matty through the rest of the season, but they always tended to flare up when they were least welcome. Like at the Idaho Potato Museum.

Which of course meant that Matthew would choose this moment, driving down I-15 with two sleeping Swedish hockey players in the backseat, to bring it up. “I remember when you kissed me, you know,” Matty said softly, reaching up to brush his fingers over his lips, like if he tried hard enough he could remember what it felt like to have Maddy’s pressed against his.

Madison froze, which isn’t exactly what you’re supposed to do when you’re driving. She thought he had forgotten. He had never brought it up, so she really had no reason to believe he would have remembered. “You do?” she asked, swallowing.

She saw him nod out of the corner of her eye. “Mhm. I hadn’t thought about it in a couple weeks, but back in Idaho, in front of the World’s Largest Potato Crisp…” He let out an airy chuckle.

Maddy breathed in sharply. So she hadn’t imagined that. Her fingers tapped nervously against the faux leather of the steering wheel. “Yeah…” She trailed off nervously. “I was drunk.”

“Oh, you were hammered,” Matthew agreed. “But do you regret it?”

There it was, the million-dollar question that she somehow actually had the answer to. A long moment passed before she answered, figuring it would be best to just rip the band-aid off. Worst case, Matty would hate her and she’d only be stuck in a car with him for ten-odd more hours. No big deal. “No,” she whispered, voice so small he almost didn’t hear it.

“I’m glad, because I don’t either,” Matty said. Madison hazarded a glance to her side; he looked almost nervous, and nervous wasn’t a look Matthew Tkachuk did all that often. “I had wanted to for a few months, but it always seemed like it was never the right time, or something interrupted us, or I didn’t know how you felt about me. But you made the first move, and I’m glad you did.”

“How come?”

He sighed. “I don’t know how long I would have waited to do something, or if I ever would have done anything. I feel like sometimes…,” he searched for the right words, “the confidence that I have on the ice can be misleading. Hockey is about reflexes and instincts and knowing the game, but it’s also thinking three steps ahead, anticipating every possible outcome and preparing for them. And that’s the part that I carry off the ice. I think I was worried if I ever brought it up with you, if I ever mentioned that I so much as remembered the kiss, you might clam up and tell me it was a stupid, drunken mistake, and I don’t know what I’d do if you said that. Because I don’t know how you feel about me, not like that”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she managed to force the words out, as scared as she was about admitting them. “I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.” Matthew had never seen Madison like this before, unsure and worried and downright vulnerable, and it meant so much to him that she was letting him see her like that.

Matthew let out a watery laugh. “Only pretty sure? Hurts my ego a little bit.” Maddy opened her mouth, but he waved her off. “Because I’m definitely sure I’m in love with you.” This wasn’t ever how she imagined telling him, and it wasn’t how Matty thought he’d tell her, on a freeway in Southern Utah on their way to the Grand Canyon, but sometimes life throws unexpected things at you and you have to roll with the punches.

“When did you know?” Madison asked curiously.

Matthew bit his lip. “Few months ago? I knew I liked you as more than a friend probably since you kissed me, but it was after that game against Vancouver that I really understood I had fallen in love with you.” Maddy remembered the game. It had gone terribly for the Flames, a 4-0 shutout with more than one fight and the bench racking up penalty minutes. What she didn’t know was what made that one special. Matthew looked over at her, answering her unspoken question. “Why that one?” She nodded. “I think it’s because it was such a shitty game. I wouldn’t have blamed you at all if you had just skipped out after the end of the third, I know I can be hard to deal with after a loss. But you didn’t leave, you stayed. I remember seeing you outside the tunnel, swallowed by my jersey because it’s three sizes too big for you and you refuse to let me buy you another—”

“I don’t want another because it’s yours, and I love it,” Maddy said quietly.

Matthew smiled. “Your call. But when I turned the corner and saw you, I realized three things at the exact same time. You were there for me when you didn’t have to be, and I wanted to be able to do the same thing for you. Second, you’re who I wanted to come home to. And last,” he gathered his thoughts, “I realized if I never saw another girl in my jersey for the rest of my life, that would be fine with me.”

“I think I knew when you introduced me to your family, when you flew me down for the All-Star break?” He nodded in recognition. “Just seeing you with them, how much you love your parents and adore Taryn. You even managed to not chirp Brady for a whole dinner.”

“My mom threatened me.”

Madison laughed. “Even so. It just gave me a whole new side to you. I had seen you with your friends, and with the boys, and with me, but it wasn’t the same. How deeply you cared about making sure I fit in with them, and had fun, and felt included. It was the last piece of the puzzle, really.” Her hand rested on the center console after she downshifted.

“So, are we going to do this? Do you want to do this, Mads?” Matty asked, wrapping his fingertips gently around her free hand.

Flipping her hand around, she interlaced her fingers with his. “I’m all in if you are.”

Matthew bent down, kissing their hands. “I’ve been all in since the moment I met you.” He glanced behind him to the backseat, where Elias and Rasmus were still fast asleep. “What do you think they’re going to say when they wake up?”

“I’m not sure,” Madison said, laughing. “Probably tell us it’s about time. Pass me my phone, will you?” Matthew pulled out her phone from where it was charging on the passenger side.

“What do you need to look up?” he asked curiously as she pulled off of the freeway and into a gas station; the directions were already programmed into the car’s navigation system.

Maddy gave a coy smile, gently putting the car into park. “I’ve got to text the girl’s chat, tell them they’ve got to make me a jacket. They’re going to go wild.”

Day 4

The chat did go wild, even more so after she sent a picture of her kissing Matty’s cheek. After about a half-dozen “we called its” and a promise for her jacket to be ready by the first home game of the series, she turned her phone off, leaning over to ruffle Matthew’s hair; he had taken over driving sometime around four o’clock. “I like that I can just do this now,” she mused, playing with his curls as they crossed the border into Arizona.

“Please, no PDA in front of the children,” he said playfully, gesturing to the backseat. Elias flipped him off.

The entrance to the Grand Canyon was only an hour past the state line, and there were more than a few cafés to grab a quick breakfast at. Most of the day was spent walking around the vast expanse of the park, marvelling at its natural grandeur, and taking more than a few incredibly aesthetically pleasing Instagram pictures. A few minutes before they had to pack up and leave for the last leg of the drive, they had hiked over to the South Rim.

Matty leaned on the barriers overlooking the canyon. “It’s so big.”

Rasmus snickered from behind them. “Duh, Tkachuk. That’s why they call it grand.”

He ducked his head, blushing. “Yeah, I mean, obviously. But it’s just kind of surreal, you know?” Madison nodded, leaning her head on his shoulder. He wrapped one arm around her waist, and if either of them had turned around they would have seen Rasmus and Elias sharing a very “I-told-you-so” look. “Kind of reminds us how small we are in the grand scheme of things.”

It seemed like only a few minutes later that they were pulling into Las Vegas, Rasmus steering the car into the underground lot of the team hotel. None of the boys were expected at practice until the next morning, and they had decided before leaving that the easiest thing to do would just be to book the rooms for the one night.

“Anyone feeling up to going out?” Maddy asked as they walked down the hallway to their adjoining rooms. “I found a tiki bar a couple blocks away, great Yelp reviews.”

“Sounds good,” Rasmus said. Elias nodded.

“I’m in,” Matthew added, unlocking the door. “Meet out here in ten?”

The break allowed Madison to get a much-needed change of clothes while Matthew hopped in for a quick shower, emerging in a T-shirt and very, very nice-looking pair of black jeans. Maddy bit her lip, looking him up and down. “You like what you see?” Matthew asked, expression cocky.

She shrugged. “I don’t have to hide it now.” Madison slipped her phone into her back pocket, grabbing her jacket from where it was slung over the lounge chair. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Matthew said, poking his head out the door. “Boys are already out.”

The walk to the bar couldn’t have been more than five minutes, but it felt like twenty in the best way possible. She was holding hands with Matty, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing over the top of her hand, the twinkling lights of dozens of Vegas casinos in their view. Two and a half mai tais and an hour later, the group sat at a table in the corner as Maddy giggled, retelling a particularly embarrassing moment on her high school volleyball team when she tried to make a dive that instead ended up with a ten minute pause in gameplay and the worst nosebleed of her life. She finished the story to raucous laughter, leaning into Matthew’s side. He bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “What is it, Matty?” she asked, pulling away to look at him.

Eyes soft, he tucked a piece of her hair back behind her ear before speaking. “Just thanking God I invited you on the trip. And for the Idaho Potato Museum.”

Madison laughed, the sound like music as it reached his ears. “We should write them. Thank them for helping to get us together. Maybe they’d give us season tickets.”

“Who needs season tickets when I have you?” Matty chuckled, leaning in and pressing his lips to hers. Sure, Madison was a few drinks in when she kissed him. And sure, it wasn’t like Matty was exactly sober either. But this kiss was different. This kiss was the start of everything.

#hockey imagine #hockey smut #nhl imagine #nhl smut #matthew tkachuk #hockey #hockey imagines #hockey writing #nhl #nhl imagines #nhl writing #matthew tkachuk imagine #matthew tkachuk writing #rat king

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whump-town · 5 years ago

Text

In The Blood

I was going to post it all in one go and then I thought about it and I was like... you know, if @masterwords did it in two parts maybe I should too. Because I really got to thinking and hey, waiting for that part two HURT. So, I gonna do it too.

Based off an anon’s ask, Unsub kidnaps Hotch to get back at Rossi.

Warning: torture, blood, and angst

Part One

For as long as David Rossi has known Aaron Hotchner, he’s always been a little perplexed about tackling the problem of his handwriting. The kind is as sharp as a tack, that’s undeniable. His profiling skills were unmatched in the academy and what he lacked in extroversion, he made up with in charisma. From the very moment, he met the kid Dave has had nothing but aspirations for the great things he could do. For the things, he would do.

Now, some two decades after he’d rubbed the back of his sick future prodigy, shaking his head in sympathy, he’s sitting at his own desk. A senior agent that shares a wall with that old prodigy, now a unit chief whose puking at crime scenes days have long since passed. But something much worse lurks in his future and his present.

“Hey,” JJ knocks on Dave’s doorframe, smiling. She steps in without him having to say a thing, in her hand is mail. “Downstairs called me,” she tells him, handing him the envelope. “You got some mail and I guess they weren’t sure if they should send it up.” They both know exactly why downstairs called. The sexist bastard treats her like Hotch and Dave’s receptionist. Despite both men having stern, if not borderline unkind, words with them on the matter.

He frowns but takes it from her. “You shouldn’t have had to do that,” he mumbles, glancing at his name on the envelope and reaching for his letter opener with a sigh. “I’ll say something to them,” he promises, sliding the metal through the paper and ripping it open in one clean slice.

“You really don’t have to.”

As he pulls the letter out he stops. His eyes scan over the paper, frowning as he takes in exactly what it is that he’s seeing. “JJ,” he says, removing his left hand from the paper but keeping his thumb and pointer finger on it. “I need you to get someone up here,” he says calmly. There’s a fine layer of grim on the paper. Dirt and, the worst part, blood. Thick droplets that have nearly eaten through the paper. More identifiable than all of that? Hotch’s thin, chicken scratch handwriting.

“Why?” she asks, stepping around his desk to look. She takes the letter in slowly, breath hissing in a shocked inhale. “That’s--”

Jason and Dave could never read his damn handwriting. It’s illegible and made significantly worse by the fact that his palm smears the writing. When Derek and Hotch had confronted Jason about hiring some diversity (the bullpen had way too much testosterone and they really needed a woman on the team), they hadn’t had a type in mind. Hell, hiring Garcia had been an “on a whim” sort of thing (Jason’s exact had been “whatever you think is best”). JJ’s best feature? She’d glanced at the note Hotch had left for Gideon and read it without a problem. Like it was easy.

Now, standing over Dave’s shoulder, stomach twisting sickly, she scans over his shaky lettering. Breath catching as she reads things she… It’s horrific to watch pictures line themselves up on the screen, Garcia turning her head from them as she explains what they can all see but to read it. To have to stand here and read horrific things someone has done to someone you love. To a friend, in their own writing, it’s…

“What do we do?” she asks softly.

Dave wishes he couldn’t make out a single line of writing. As selfish as the notion is, he needs ignorance.

The line that he can’t get out of his head? “I am so sorry, Dave.”

Morgan waste no haste in making himself the leading agent. Which is no real problem because Dave has no interest in taking charge of this situation. He just wants to hold onto his letter, the only connection he has to Hotch right now.

How had they not noticed he was gone?

“I should have known something was wrong.” The admission takes them all by surprise, mostly because it leaves Emily’s mouth with such conviction that no one’s really sure what to say. They aren’t given the chance as she tucks her arms around her chest and shakes her head at herself. “I knew something was wrong when Foyet attacked him,” she observes. “I should have known this time.”

But… how could she? This time was different.

Jack is away with Jessica. Spending time with his cousin because Hotch secretly fears that the boy spending too much time with him will spell nothing but misfortune for his future. Which is simply not true. Hotch has taught that child grace that none of them have ever seen in a child. He’s too much like Hotch but not in bad ways. In his ghost-like gait. Never making a sound as he moves. While it surely isn’t genetic, he’d acquired his father’s silent intuition and those softly pained brown eyes.

But, perhaps, that is what Hotch fears.

That fear has cost them days. Now, they can not measure how long Hotch has been held captive wherever he is. Has he been gone since last Thursday? Taken from the office or from his home? Jack had already taken off with Jessica, gone to spend time with his cousins. Had it been Saturday morning while he was out for his morning jog? After coffee Sunday when he was getting lost in the bookstore in town?

No one knows.

How could they?

“His pills,” Dave mumbles. He stands from his chair, frowning as his brain races. “On his counter,” the information is coming too quickly. “For his birthday five years ago Emily got him a pill sorter.” Hotch hadn’t found it very funny (he’d pretended not to) but Emily had beamed at him. Very proud of herself and her old man gifts. “One of the ones that label Sunday to Saturday-- each day.”

It had been both a gag gift and one of purpose. Foyet’s attack had left its damage, physical and mental. He’d had a bag full of medications to take home from the hospital. Some angiotensin prescription for his kidneys, an anticlotting/blood-thinning agent for the ruined veins in his chest, and a few more Dave can’t even remember. Never mind the fist full of medications he’d been on since about twenty for mental disorders that had never officially been written down as diagnoses to allow him to keep his job.

The point is-- if Hotch was on top of himself about his medication, they can get a rough estimate of how long he’s been gone.

It’s a great idea…

“What if he…” Emily goes with Dave to check Hotch’s house. They both have keys and it’s unspoken that if Hotch were here he’d certainly prefer it be the two of them rooting around his things. Besides, they know how he is and they know what to expect the second they walk in.

They also know that as good as Dave’s idea is, there’s a silent fear shared between them that he hasn’t been on top of his health. It happens occasionally but mostly around the dates of Foyet’s attack. Still, not taking those medications and being gone for over four days is going to be some really unfortunate things for Hotch. Withdrawals, mostly, but scarier than that? Without the blood thinners, there’s a possibility of a stroke.

“He’ll be fine,” Dave mumbles, slipping his key into the lock of the door. Pushing the door open, Dave steps into the house. Hotch’s car wasn’t in the driveway which tells them a minimal amount of information but will give Garcia’s something to run with. Right now they need to focus on their task.

The house is cool and dark, the curtains in the living room drawn completely shut. If Jack isn’t home Hotch prefers the darkness, despite the strain it puts on his eyes. Stepping in, neither bother to turn on the lights. The sun peaks just barely through the thin curtains and, if they’re being honest, they don’t want to break the illusion both have created in their minds.

That Hotch is merely sleeping.

His phone is on silent.

He’s sleeping.

The notion is strong enough to make Emily hesitates as she stands outside his bedroom door.

She’s only been in his room twice. The first time to soothe his broken screams, waking him from yet another nightmare that threatened to consume him. He’d clung to her, sobbing into the old fabric of the shirt he’d given her to sleep in. She’d slept right there with him.

The second time came only a month after Haley’s funeral. He’d smelled like he’d consumed a small brewery but she’d still tucked his comforter around him. Placing Advil and a glass of water on his nightstand for when he woke up. Even getting the trashcan out to place by the side of his bed.

He trusts her.

Closing her eyes, she opens the door, and her illusion is broken. He’s not in bed.

His bed isn’t made, which makes her smile sadly. For such a literal suit and tie man, he’s got some strange habits. One of which is that he doesn’t make his bed. It’s cute, adds character. She doesn’t get the chance to dwell on that for too long. There are more pressing matters to deal with.

Stepping in she rolls her eyes at the pair of boxers he’s got thrown up onto his dresser, his nightstand drawer open where he must have rummaged for something-- she’s guessing the Advil bottle laying on its side. There’s a book on the other half of his bed, open and print down, his reading glasses on the cover. The sight, of which, would have Reid gasping in horror.

She heads in, deeper, headed towards the bathroom attached to his room. There she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. His pills are nowhere in sight but it’s worth her little trip down here.

“Find them,” she asks, coming back to the kitchen.

Dave nods and slides the box to her, allowing her to make her own observations as he continues to talk on the phone.

Wednesday is the last tab open. He hasn’t had any medicine since Thursday. He was at work Thursday when JJ left, the second to last out. She’d stopped in to talk to him about a formality from their last case. Essentially, things are not looking good.

“We’ll find him,” Emily mumbles. She flicks mindlessly at the tab of the organizer and looks up at Dave. “We will, right?”

Dave shrugs. He doesn’t know.

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

Head hanging between his knees, Hotch leans his temple against his bare knee. Sweat mixes with the dirty water dripping from the roof of the old cellar, it’s hard to tell which is running down his face. He’s stripped to his boxers, left to shiver and suffer through the elements. The cement floor and rock walls sapping what little heat his body can properly offer him.

By now, his letter should have arrived to Dave. That is if he can trust a word the Unsub has said to him thus far. That this whole mess-- mess as if disconnecting them both from his actions-- has nothing to do with Hotch. The Unsub had lifted Hotch’s head, forcing Hotch to look at him, with the edge of a knife.

“This,” he’d sneered, “is about what David Rossi took from me. He took my son and now--” He’d dragged that knife against Hotch’s cheek, almost stroking. “Now, I’m going to take his away from him.”

Nothing personal, the Unsub had promised.

It had felt personal.

A baseball bat coming down over his body, ignoring his pained cried. Not relenting when his arm had broken with a snap, Hotch’s cry rasping as he’d writhed and tried to twist and pull the limb away from the attention of that bat. Only to expose his sides and have the air forced from his body. He hadn’t stopped when Hotch no longer cried out. Going on long after Hotch lay still, breathing a wet rasping, and head rolled to the side to show the whites of his eyes.

Hotch had awoken to a harsh push. Pulled upright by two arms scooping up under his arms and forcing him upright. He couldn’t help the rasped, confused cry he’d let out as his broken arm was pulled up, the pen placed into his palm. “Write.”

He’d blinked blood from his eyes as he slurred out a question. He can’t even remember what it’d been.

“You’re telling David Rossi that it’s going to be his fault when your body shows up on his doorstep.” The Unsub had smiled, running a finger along Hotch’s jaw. “Tell him what I did to you. That you hate him.”

Hotch’s breathing had hitched in his chest. He looked back down at the paper. “I don’t,” he’d slurred and hadn’t even had time to think before his head was roughly pushed into the hard rock wall beside him. Hotch’s eyes had rolled into his head, boding seizing up, and a weak pained sob tearing from his mouth before his eyes had rolled into his back, and he’d gone limp.

Three.

He took three beatings before he caved. Pen to the paper he’d bleed and cried the whole way. Shaking and only half cognizant of himself and his actions. Hopeful his awful handwriting and probable brain damage made his words eligible. That way Dave and no doubt the others might be spared his rampant thoughts.

They hadn’t.

With a crack, the wooden door of the cellar opens and Hotch flinches raising his left hand to protect his eyes from the light that comes in.

“Aaron?”

Hotch pushes himself away from the Unsub. Moving until his back hits the opposite wall. “Please,” he whimpers.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the Unsub promises. He crouches down, squatting. “It’s over,” he whispers. “Just come with me now, son. This last part is going to be fast but it won’t hurt.”

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

Hotch had gone missing Friday.

Garcia found his car and the tickets it had wracked up in his absence. Right outside the little book shop, he frequents on days off or in-between breaks. Quant and warm. Garcia had watched him take a seat by a window, tears streaming down her face as he opened his book and sipped his coffee. Would this be the last time she ever saw him?

Dave had found a similar solace in the recording. Some street camera that caught the moment.

They’d all stood and watched, transfixed as Hotch finally left that coffee shop. They knew what was going to happen next but they still weren’t ready. A figure came out of nowhere, aiming something low to Hotch’s abdomen whatever was said between the two of them stopped Hotch from moving. He nodded, once and followed the other man.

Then he was gone.

All they have is the letter.

JJ shakes as she reads the words on the page. It’s hard to tell which parts are worse. Hotch’s nonsense rambles, his fragmented thoughts that hardly sound like him at all. The descriptions that he does his best to throw in. Wet, damp, and cold. He doesn’t know where he is just that he’s in pain. His hand trembles too much during certain parts and she can’t even make out the letters. Tears rip and obscure other words. It breaks her heart to think of what he must be going through.

“He’s standing over my shoulder as I write this. Watching me. Three times I have failed to put this off. Three times he has beaten me for my refusal. As he hits me he tells me this is your fault. That it’s as simple as an eye for an eye. You killed his son and he’s getting even. I’m afraid that I’m starting to believe him.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” Derek assures Dave. But Dave isn’t even paying mind to that particular comment. Hotch can hate Dave until one of them dies for all Dave cares but Dave’s going to bring him home. No matter what. What’s bothering him is the statement about Dave killing someone’s son. He’s had to kill many Unsubs over the years.

JJ can’t force herself to continue to voice his words, her scanning the paper as tears make their slow descend across her cheeks. He writes something of Jack, the pen drags and she can’t make out the words just “sorry”, “better father”, and “love”.

When she gives it to Reid, allowing him to make his own inferences (and search for a message in Hotch’s madness that isn’t there) she has to leave the room. Head bowed and heart thundering, she allows her legs to move on command, and before she knows it--

The room smells like Hotch. Rough undertones of mildew, the room’s old and the carpet even older, but Hotch. Moving with a slowness she can’t explain, she pulls in every piece of him she can find in here. Closing her eyes so she can imagine he’s sitting behind that old desk, scribbling away at files. Until she’s standing at the couch. Without a second thought, she climbs onto the stiff thing. Pressing her face into the cushions and pulling the spare blanket he keeps across the back over herself.

What would he say if he saw her now?

He’s unpredictably predictable. Empathy or strength? He’d always had this innate ability to fathom both at any moment. She’d loved that about him. Love, reminds herself. She loves that about him. He’s not gone yet.

“Are you okay?” Reid’s hesitantly standing in the doorway.

From the couch, she can see the twinkle of tears in his eyes. With a smile, she opens the blanket and invites him in. “Come on,” she offers, scooting over just a little bit more. “It’s not like Hotch is here to fuss at us for a little nap.”

Reid looks over his shoulder and comes into the room, pausing as he looks over at Hotch’s desk. “I miss him,” he confesses softly, sitting down on the edge of the couch. He doesn’t say anything JJ scoots up, placing her head on his lap. He pulls some of the blanket to his own lap.

“Me too,” JJ mumbles.

It’s only been a few days. He’s been gone weeks on leave. After Foyet, he was gone an entire month. Then, at least, they could swing by his apartment with pizza or Chinese food and he’d let them in with a tired smile. Softly admonishing them for being there when they should be at home getting some rest. But he’d been there. Readily available for a quick hug or to let them take his couch hostage to spend time with him.

“We’re going to…” Reid’s voice dies out as he second-guesses his question. “He’s going to come back, right?”

JJ closes her eyes.

Her reply never comes.

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

“Hello?” Dave is heading out to get some fresh air, very aware of the tail he’s accumulated along the way. Emily won’t let him out of her sight but this time it’s Derek’s doing that has her coming along. He doesn’t mind. When he gets the call he doesn’t even break stride.

“David Rossi.”

His pace comes to a dead stop.

Emily, a few feet behind sees.

“You son of a bitch--”

“Now, now,” the Unsub mumbles tsking. “Don’t be like that David. Don’t act like I’m the only bad guy here. Besides, we don’t need poor Aaron hearing language like that.”

Dave glances over his shoulder, spotting Emily and her timid, if not fearful, walk up to him. “What do you want?” Dave asks.

The Unsub chuckles, “you already know, David. Eye for an eye. You took what was mine and now--”

Dave closes his eyes at the sound of a whimper, Aaron.

“Now, I’m going to take what is yours.”

With a shake of his head, Dave says, “he’s not mine! He’s just a colleague. A friend!”

The Unsub hums sadly. “David,” he chides, “don’t lie to me. I watched you. His son comes to your house nearly every weekend. You love him. Tell him.” Hotch cries out in pain, the phone held now to his face as the Unsub grips his hair to keep his head tilted up. “Tell him, David. Tell him that he’s nothing more than a colleague.”

Dave shuts his eyes flinching as his words are repeated to Hotch. Shaking with fury when he can hear those words being used against them both. Drawing whimpers and a single breathless plea from Hotch for the Unsub to stop. “Please stop. Please, just stop.”

“Tell him, David!”

Dave turns his head, finding Emily and her wide sad eyes.

“Aaron?”

“Dave?”

“Hey, son.”

“Dave… he--he’s going to kill me.”

A tear falls down Dave’s cheek. Looking at Emily, he can tell she can hear them. “I’m so sorry, Aaron.”

A sharp cry breaks through the other line. Pained. Strained. Hotch’s plea-- “no! Please!”-- cut off by a sharp crack. Then nothing.

“Please,” Dave grips the phone tight. “He’s got a little boy,” Dave knows he’s playing with nothing here but he has to do something. “His name is Jack, he’s only eight. Aaron, he-- Aaron has to take medicine, already! Please! He’s on blood thinners! You’ll kill him--”

The Unsubs comes back, breathless, and scoffs. “That’s the point David. I’ll talk to you soon.” The line goes dead.

Dave throws his phone to the ground with a shout. “Fuck!” He falls to his knees, head in his hands.

Aaron Hotchner is going to die and it’s going to be his fault.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #david rossi #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #derek morgan #penelope garcia #criminal minds fanfiction #jack hotchner

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capricores · 4 years ago

Note

Also I had another question answer it whenever you feel like. I saw my card and I am Gemini rising so according to that I should have :

2nd house cancer and chart should go on like that right ?

But I have 2nd house also Gemini then 3rd house Cancer 7th & 8th house Sagittarius... is that normal or did I print the wrong chart?

I won't sat that I am new to astrology I know how each sign acts in each planet but this is really confusing me 🥲

Oh this is an amazing question actually and a pretty common thing I see!! I'm so so happy to have a chance to explain! This answer has a lot of different answers within it, hopefully this all makes sense, but let me know if you need any other clarification!!!

First, you didn’t do/calculate anything wrong! This is something called a duplication/interception (I will explain these below), which happens pretty often when charts are drawn using the Placidus house system (the default house system most websites use to draw up your chart for you). It will be more helpful for me to quickly touch on house systems before going into interceptions/duplications!

HOUSE SYSTEMS:

If you aren’t super familiar, the house systems are the different ways of dividing up the houses. There’s SO many different house systems, but the three most popular/common tend to be Placidus, Equal & Whole (Whole Sign house system is especially common among traditional astrologers). I’ve seen the Koch system used a lot as well but I honestly don’t have immense experience testing it out, and it’s not as popular as the other three from what I’ve seen.

There’s not an agreed upon best house system! Everyone has different opinions. My biggest recommendation is to look at your chart in Placidus, Equal and Whole (more info below on how to do this). Your whole chart will probably stay almost the same, except you’ll notice some planets likely change houses. Make note of the differences between the three charts, Google the meanings, and stick with the house system that has placements you resonate more with! Ie: If your Placidus chart has Venus in 4th, but your Equal & Whole have it in 3rd, but you relate way more to a 4th house Venus, you might prefer the Placidus system.

Personally, I nearly always use Placidus. I relate most to my Placidus chart, almost everyone I’ve read for relates more to theirs. I also find value in interceptions/duplications (among Placidus/Equal/Whole, interceptions are only possible in Placidus). But this is just my opinion! Lots of astrologers would entirely disagree with me, so it’s really up to you which to use ☺️

Here’s an example of a chart in the three different systems. You’ll notice Placidus is the only one with interceptions/duplications:

In Placidus, houses can be of any size. In Equal house system, houses are always exactly thirty degrees, and start from the degree of the Ascendant (in this chart, the first house starts at the Ascendant of 24 degrees Libra, so the second house starts in 24 degrees Scorpio, third house in 24 degree Sagittarius, and so forth). In Whole Signs house system, the houses always span the exact thirty degrees of every sign, right from beginning to end.

HOW TO TRY USING DIFFERENT HOUSE SYSTEMS:

Go to astro.com, make an account and enter your birth information

Hover over free horoscopes, click extended chart selection

Click “options for zodiac and houses”, select the different house system you want from the drop down menu (Placidus/default are the same thing, for Whole Signs don’t click the one that says Aries & for Equal don’t select the one that says Midheaven, just choose the regular Equal)

Hit click here to show chart, and you’re all done!

DUPLICATIONS/INTERCEPTIONS:

So, you decide to stick with Placidus, which leads us to what the hell duplications & interceptions are! Every time you have duplications, you’ll have interceptions; and vice versa. You’ll always have two signs & four houses duplicated, and then two houses + two signs intercepted. Let’s take a look at a chart I made up above with interceptions & duplications:

So, the pink highlights are duplications whereas the purple highlight is showing the interceptions (sorry it might be difficult to see/you may need to open in new tab - just right click image open in new tab). Duplications are when two houses are in the same sign. Interceptions are when a sign is “swallowed�� by houses aka no houses are in that sign. Normally, a chart should have one house in each of the twelve signs, no more and no less.

In short, duplicated signs hold more power in the chart as they govern two areas of life instead of one. Intercepted signs are blocked as they govern “no area of life” (in theory). Any planets in intercepted signs/houses are considered intercepted planets. In this chart, we can see Capricorn, Cancer, Mercury, Sun, 3rd house & 9th house are intercepted. Opposite signs & houses are ALWAYS intercepted and duplicated together, never alone. On the other hand, Libra, Aries, 1st, 6th, 7th, & 12th houses, and Moon, Pluto are duplicated.

As I said before, interceptions are blockages. We have issues accessing and expressing these energies. According to an astrologer whose site I enjoy (bobmarkastrologer), interceptions also break the balanced link between opposite signs. Normally opposite signs work together to balance one another in your chart, but with interceptions, they’re unable too. He gives a Pisces/Virgo example in the link I attached that’s super helpful (especially for you, since you should have Pisces/Virgo intercepted)! He also explains interception and duplication pairs. For this person, having 3rd/9th/Mercury intercepted; all communication houses/planets, they’re likely going to have huge issues with clear, concise communication. They may often feel like they can’t properly express their emotions and ideas, or people frequently misunderstand them and take what they say the wrong way. Additionally, they may have a lot of travel troubles (ie: whenever they take the bus it’s late, when they go overseas their flight is always delayed/they miss their flights, etc), as well as issues in school (teachers don’t like them, they feel unfairly graded, they struggle with typical school structures, etc).

Duplications on the other hand, give us that excess energy; these are our strengths. These energies come naturally to us and can be used to our advantage. A common theory is that duplications help us balance out and work through our interceptions. They kind of makeup for that blocked energy interceptions have. So they key to working through your intercepted signs would be looking at your duplicated signs. In the chart I showed above, for example, Moon/Pluto are duplicated. Specifically in the 12th house. This could mean that person’s strengths lie in their emotions and creativity; through artistic outlets they can express themselves better and convey their thoughts and feelings more clearly (solution to their interception). This is just one example!

For your case, you have Gemini/Sagittarius duplicated in 1st/2nd and 7th/8th, therefore Pisces/Virgo should be intercepted in 4th/10th (unless I am doing my math wrong..sorry fried brain today). You can read more about those here and here! If anyone’s interested, I can make a full post on these with my personal interpretations later!

TL;DR: Change your house system from Placidus to Equal or Whole. This should fix this problem! Or, look into interceptions and duplications as I mentioned above, I think they’re extremely interesting and valuable.

#astrology #house systems #interceptions #duplications #this is actually such a perfect question and its such a great thing to mention!!#thank you for asking this!! <3 #vitaminbtob #question #faq #SO SORRY IF THIS MAKES NO SENSE BTW #im a bit sleep deprived and brain fried #sorry if i overexplained as well!!!#long post

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kelyon · 4 years ago

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Golden Rings 24: A Stranger

The Storybrooke sequel to Golden Cuffs

Rumpelstiltskin seeks out the mysterious man on a motorcycle

Read on AO3

August Wayne Booth.

The man had been at the forefront of Rumpelstiltskin’s mind for weeks now, ever since Jefferson had mentioned him in passing. His friend had only known the stranger as a man on a motorcycle, someone who had come to town in January and stayed.

Outsiders weren’t supposed to be able to come into Storybrooke and they certainly weren’t supposed to stay. The only person here who hadn’t been born in the old world was Henry Mills. The people affected by the curse didn’t notice it’s constant effect because that had been their reality for twenty-eight years. But a normal person would notice the oddness around Storybrooke, the little things that didn’t quite add up. Henry had, and he was only a child. If an adult who had been born in the world without magic slipped into town, the curse was designed to fill them with an unfathomable dread, a soul-deep revulsion that would make them want to leave as soon as they could.

But not Mr. August Wayne Booth.

For a few weeks, Rumpelstiltskin kept tabs on the man. Gold had a loose network of informants, people who wanted to stay on his good side. It was easy to make subtle inquiries. Emma Swan had given him the name, as well as the fact that he was a writer. That had piqued his interest. A storyteller coming into a town made of stories. Wasn’t that awfully convenient?

“Booth” was clearly a false name. If he was a writer, it was a pseudonym. If there was something more nefarious going on, it was an alias. Either way, the name was a lie. What was the truth? Who was he, this dark-haired young man who had been born in the old world but had come to the land without magic without being part of the curse?

And why did he seem to be watching Gold as much as Rumpelstiltskin had been watching him?

****

It started with Henry. One day after school, the boy came into the shop. Thankfully, Mrs. Gold was out at the time. Rumpelstiltskin hated to imagine the sorts of things that woman might try to get away with in front of a child.

Rumpelstiltskin liked Henry. He liked most children--they were so refreshingly direct. Henry reminded him particularly of Bae. It was something about the dark hair and wide brown eyes, the conflict of innocence and experience that made both boys wiser and more haunted than they should have been. Bae’s life hadn’t been an easy one, and Henry had been raised by Regina, a woman the boy had correctly identified as the Evil Queen.

“Good afternoon, Henry.” He left the back counter to talk to him. “What brings you in today?”

Henry looked around the shop with a half-frown on his small face. “I wanted to buy a present for Mrs. Nolan,” he said. “You know, since she didn’t die.”

Kathryn Nolan’s disappearance, various sightings, and eventual re-appearance had been headline news for weeks. The poor woman had finally made it to the doorstep of the sheriff’s station, dehydrated and malnourished but clear in her mind. She reported that she had been abducted, had escaped several times, and had been recaptured and moved to different locations before finally making a break for it.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t wonder who might be responsible for something so tragic happening to the woman Prince Charming was married to in this world--or who might benefit from it becoming public knowledge that David Nolan and Mary Margaret Blanchard were having an affair while Kathryn was in such peril. But he did wonder how things might have been different if Regina had asked someone more competent to do her dirty work. He would have refused, but she should have at least tried to come to him first.

That was all in the past. Now, Kathryn Nolan was recuperating in the hospital and young Henry wanted to buy her a gift.

“What were you thinking, my boy?”

Henry shifted from one foot to the other. He seemed focused at some point over Rumpelstiltskin’s shoulder. “Um.... Maybe something musical? Something that makes a lot of noise.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Interesting choice. Perhaps a music box?” He went to the case where he kept a few antique music boxes. He wound each one up and set them on the counter for Henry’s inspection.

“They’re not very loud.” He held one shaped like a golden harp up to his ear.

“I also have a mechanical nightingale.” Rumpelstiltskin pointed to a clockwork bird that was covered in jewels. In the old world, it had belonged to an emperor, who had valued its song over that of any real bird. “Though I fear it may be a touch out of your price range.”

There was a noise from the back of the shop. Rumpelstiltskin turned to look that way, but then Henry spoke up again.

“What about a bell?” he asked loudly. “Do you have any bells around here?”

“I’d be happier if I had one more,” Rumpelstiltskin joked to himself. “But yes, they’re in the case on the other side.”

He got them out--glass and porcelain, silver and pewter. Henry had to ring them all, of course. Several times. It was only when the boy was done that Rumpelstiltskin noticed more noise from the back.

“Excuse me,” he said to Henry as he limped over to the curtained door.

There was a man in his office. August Wayne Booth. Looking through the shelves of unpriced antiques.

“May I help you?” he threatened.

Booth put on a boyish grin. It was meant to look disarming, which only made Rumpelstiltskin arm himself more thoroughly.

“Yeah, I was looking for some maps, if you had any.”

“They’re out there,” Rumpelstiltskin nodded behind him. “In the shop.”

“I thought this was the shop,” Booth chuckled.

Slowly, Rumpelstiltskin came toward the man, who backed away without losing his shit-eating grin.

“This is my office.” He kept his voice low, to make sure Booth was listening. “Private.”

“Ah!” To Booth’s credit, he kept up the ruse, no matter how thin it was getting. “Sorry. My mistake.”

Why did the memory suddenly come to him of Baelfire insisting that he had washed his hands before dinner, even when Rumpelstiltskin could see the dirt on his palms?

Booth made a hasty retreat through the curtained door into the showroom. A moment later, the bell over the front door rang. Without looking, Rumpelstiltskin knew that Henry and Booth were both gone.

****

“Will you be able to watch the shop today?” Rumpelstiltskin asked Mrs. Gold the next morning. She had started coming down for breakfast again, though she still made her own coffee and toast.

For some reason, she seemed to be warming up to him lately. In the evenings she lounged around the house instead of staying cooped up in her room. She offered to help him with dishes and other chores. She stood close to him again. Sometimes she even tried to take his hand.

She set down her section of the newspaper. Instead of reading to him as she once had, now they divided the paper and read in silence. “You won’t be in?”

“No, I have some business that would bore you.”

For a moment, he wondered if she would question him. When the curse was in full force Mrs. Gold would have obeyed her husband without thought. Her trust in him--damaging and perverse though it may have been--was absolute. But since Rumpelstiltskin had given up any pretense of acting like Gold to her, she didn’t know him anymore. It had hurt her at first, especially when she had seen him with Jefferson. But lately, for some reason, the breakdown of their marriage didn’t seem to bother her as much as it once had.

She just nodded. “Feels like I haven’t been in the shop in forever.”

She hadn’t. When Mrs. Gold avoided him that meant avoiding the place where he spent the most time. Should he have done something different with that? Should he have arranged that they alternate days in the shop, just to give Mrs. Gold something to do? Would keeping her busy have made her happier? Would it have prevented some damage to her heart or her mind?

Was it too late for him to make things better for her?

****

The question of regrets, of apologies and restitution, weighed heavily on Rumpelstiltskin’s mind. Everything he had done for the last several hundred years had been to get to the moment he was in now. He had created a curse that would destroy the old world and bring them to this one. He had manipulated events so that Regina would have enough power and enough rage to cast it, and that Snow White and Prince Charming would have enough True Love to create a Savior who could break it. All of that was just the first step, just the way to get to Baelfire. Now he had to find him, and he had to make things right by him.

But what if Baelfire had found him first?

The thought was too precious to believe in. It didn’t help that he had no idea how old his son would be. Time worked differently in different worlds. In some places it stopped altogether. Jefferson once spoke of a world where thousands of years could pass between one of his visits and the next. In this world without magic, Bae could still be fourteen. Or he could be an old man.

Or could be an adult who rode a motorcycle.

Booth was staying at Granny’s Bed and Breakfast. As the owner of the building, Rumpelstiltskin could have insisted that Granny Lucas pull out her master key and escort him up to the room. But there was no need to make a public display. Not when a set of lock picks could achieve the same result.

Tit for tat, after all. Booth had invaded his territory. It was only fair that Rumpelstiltskin repay him in kind.

After four months of him living there, the hotel room had plenty of information to offer about Booth. Housekeeping had made the bed, but dirty clothes still littered the floor. A desk was strewn with books and papers, with a typewriter sitting in the middle. That gave some credence to the idea that Booth was an author. There was a page in the typewriter carriage, the end of a paragraph about a smirking blonde woman.

There were two stacks of papers on the desk. The larger stack appeared to be a ream or two of blank printer paper, waiting to become the next Great American Novel. The smaller stack was the actual results of Booth’s work. Typed pages held down by a wooden carving of a donkey.

Rumpelstiltskin picked up the figurine. There was no brand on the bottom, it could be hand-made. Once, Baelfire had asked him to teach him to whittle, as he had seen other men around the village teach the other boys. Rumpelstiltskin had been forced to admit that he didn’t have that skill. His father had never taught him either.

He leafed through the pages until his heart skipped a beat. Hidden with the rest of the papers was a drawing. Baelfire had loved to draw, as Milah had before him. And this drawing was certainly something that only Baelfire would have made.

It was the dagger. His dagger.

He had told his son about the power of the dagger, that it was the source of his magic, the only weapon that could hurt him. That anyone who used the dagger could control him and make the powerful Dark One a slave.

Bae had hated the dagger. He hated what his papa had become--and hated more that Rumpelstiltskin didn’t hate it. How could he? The power, the knowledge, had been like nothing he had ever known. Once he had lost his soul to dark magic, Rumpelstiltskin felt like a man for the first time in his life.

But Bae had only wanted his father.

And when the time came, when Rumpelstiltskin had to choose between the dagger and his son--the son he would die for but could not protect without magic--he had made the worst choice he could have made.

By the time he realized what he’d done, it was too late. Bae was gone. Rumpelstiltskin lived for centuries without him. Centuries trying to find him. And now…

And now his son might be in Storybrooke.

****

Later that afternoon, he took Gold’s car and followed Booth on his motorcycle. The Sisters of St. Meissa Convent was an odd visiting place for a man as worldly and rough-edged as Booth appeared to be. But Baelfire had goodness in his soul, the kind that time could not erase. He would talk to nuns as easily as he would talk to fairies. How fitting that the Blue Fairy was now the Mother Superior over a superfluity of nuns.

Booth was talking to her. Bae had once asked the Blue Fairy how to remove the darkness from his father, and the gnat had given him a magic bean. The bean had opened a portal to get to the land without magic--this world.

If she had offered the same courtesy to Rumpelstiltskin when he had demanded it, the curse would have never happened and none of them would be in the mess they were in now.

The fairy and the man spoke for some time. They walked around the convent grounds while Rumpelstiltskin waited in the car. From the far side of the large parking lot, he kept an eye on the motorcycle. Once Booth came back to it and started the motor, Rumpelstiltskin got out and made his way to the convent.

“Mr. Gold!” Mother Superior squeaked when she saw him waiting for her by the entrance. She quickly recovered and straightened up in a display of determined self-righteousness. “It isn’t Rent Day. Are you here to repent of your sins and beg for forgiveness?”

“My sins are far beyond your forgiveness, dearie.” He showed his teeth. She might be stupid enough to think it was a smile. “Who was that man you were talking to?”

The fairy lifted her chin in the air and began to walk on. “I don’t have to tell you that.”

“And I don’t have to not double your rent.”

She stopped in her tracks, her back to him. She was dressed in wool from her stockings to her habit--all of it dark blue. At least some things hadn’t changed. The Mother Superior stomped back to him.

“What do you want?” she asked through a clenched jaw.

“That man,” Rumpelstiltskin repeated. “What did you talk about?”

Fidgeting with the sleeves of her cardigan, the Blue Fairy didn’t look him in the eye. “He’s a lost soul looking for his father. He asked me for advice on how to approach him.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s throat went dry. He stayed very still and gripped the handle of his cane. “What did you tell him?”

Her temper seemed to flare. “The same council I would give anyone in that situation: To be selfless, and brave, and honest.”She looked at him pointedly. “You have to care about the other person’s feelings more than your own pride, you know.”

“You would know a thing or two about pride, dearie.” Rumpelstiltskin turned away and began to walk, leaving the gnat sputtering in his wake.

****

Taking time to chat with the Blue Fairy made Rumpelstiltskin lose track of Booth’s whereabouts. He drove back to town, knowing he would run into the man again. Especially if he was looking to reconcile with his father.

Should he believe what the fairy had said? Mother Superior would know better than to make things worse between herself and Gold. Nothing she had said seemed to be a lie. But there were so many ways to deceive without lying.

He parked the car by the shop, but didn’t go in. Without knowing that he was doing it, he began to walk down the main street. He needed to think.

What he really needed was to talk to someone. Belle would know what to do. He could talk to her about anything, and she would understand, or try to. At least she would listen. In the too-brief year of their marriage, he had poured out his soul to her a hundred times. She had always known how to help him, how to see what he needed to do and how he might go about doing it. He could be weak with Belle, in a way he could never be weak with anyone. He could admit his confusion, his inarticulate mass of fears and sorrows--and always, she would help him untangle the threads of his thoughts, without judgement, with nothing but wisdom and love.

No one else could do what Belle did.

He might reach out to Jefferson, but the poor man was so caught up in his own misery. Little Grace didn’t know who her father was, it would be cruel to talk to him about a possible reunion with his own child. It also occurred to Rumpelstiltskin that Jefferson didn’t know Bae existed. His son--his life before he became the Dark One--was one of Rumpelstiltskin’s closest secrets. Only Belle knew the whole story. It would be too much to burden Jefferson with all of it at once.

After circling the block, Rumpelstiltskin’s feet stopped in front of a building across the street from the shop. It was called the Hepworth Building, Gold had owned it for years. Among other businesses, it housed the office of Dr. Archibald Hopper, the town’s resident psychiatrist.

In the old world, Hopper had once been a petty thief named Jiminy. After getting caught up in some magic he didn’t understand, Jiminy had been transformed into a talking cricket. To atone for his previous crimes, he had made it his duty to act as the conscience for confused humans, to encourage them to do the right thing.

Rumpelstiltskin sighed as he knocked on the office door. Whatever might happen with the cricket, it had to be better than stewing around in his own head.

Dr. Hopper opened the door. A tall, bespectacled man in tweed, he radiated a kind of earnest goodness, a guileless sincerity that made Rumpelstiltskin itch.

Belle would like this man, he told himself. Belle would want him to talk to someone.

“Mr. Gold.” Hopper’s voice was always soft, even when he was surprised and confused. “Are you… here about the rent?”

Of course that was all Gold was to these people. Nothing but a monster set out to take as much from them as possible.

“No.” He leaned on his cane and looked at the carpet. “No, I’m… I’m not sure I could tell you why I’m here.”

Hopper’s frame had been taking up the entirety of the doorway. Rumpelstiltskin stood in the hall, far enough away that no passerby would think he was waiting to go into the psychiatrist's office. With a single step Hopper went out into the hall. Now the door was wide open.

“Would you like to come in?” he said. “I’ve got some time before my next appointment. If there’s something on your mind…?”

Rumpelstiltskin brushed past the doctor before he could change his mind. Once in the office, he had just enough time to find a chair before his knees gave out and he collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had just been cut.

Hopper sat down in the chair across from him, so they were eye to eye. Some deep, primal emotion burned in Rumpelstiltskin’s throat. He wanted to talk. He shouldn’t talk. If he started talking--about Bae, about himself, about Belle--he would never be able to stop.

“So,” Hopper began, “what brings you in today?”

A coffee table sat in between Rumpelstiltskin’s chair and Hopper’s. He looked at it, at the fake wood grain that covered up the cheap plywood. He breathed.

Gods, he wished Belle was here.

“I think I might be seeing my son again soon,” he said.

Hopper was silent for a moment. His head tilted to the side. “I--didn’t know you had a son. How old is he?”

“Let’s start with something simpler.” Rumpelstiltskin took a shaking breath. “I haven’t seen him since he was fourteen. I…” He trailed off, then began again. He was here. He was talking. He was determined to plunge in the knife as deep as it would go.

“I haven’t seen my son since I abandoned him.” He looked up, stared directly into Hopper’s eyes. “I can’t imagine that he doesn’t hate me for what I’ve done. I know I deserve his hate. I deserve all the anger and rage he wants to pour out onto me. But I’m still afraid of it.”

“Well of course you are,” Hopper said simply. “No one wants to deal with negative emotions, or the consequences of actions they regret. The past can be a scary place, and it sounds like you’ve got some real causes for concern.”

Rumpelstiltskin blinked. He’d forgotten how good it could feel to have someone agree with him, to look at the facts of the situation and say that his reaction was justified.

“I do want to see him,” he said. “But… but how can I make up for what I’ve done? If I make myself vulnerable to him, I might as well put my head on a chopping block.”

The dagger was the only weapon that could kill him. Did Bae want it for that reason? Had his son decided that enough was enough, that he would end the evil of the Dark One no matter what it cost?

“Vulnerability,” Hopper said, “is a very scary thing. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but you don’t strike me as a person who is comfortable with being open.”

Rumpelstiltskin sighed. It had been the greatest gift Belle had ever given him--the chance to open himself up to her. Could he trust Bae in the same way? Could he offer his son all he had, all the weakness and cowardice? Could he trust his boy to understand everything he wasn’t, as well as everything he was?

“When he was growing up,” he said, “I always wanted to be strong for him. I didn’t want him to… know.”

“Know what?”

“What I lacked. As a father, as a--man.” Rumpelstiltskin’s hands balled into fists. “I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t good enough for him.”

The confession escaped him like air from his lungs. It left him feeling hollow, deflated. He looked at the ground.

The office was silent. Hopper seemed to be waiting to see if he would say more. When it was clear that he wouldn’t, the doctor put his hands together, entwining his fingers.

“It’s clear you have regrets,” he said gently. “If you want to talk about those things in the future, we can schedule an appointment. But you came here because you have concerns about reuniting with your son. On that end, I have a question for you.”

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t speak, but looked up from the ground to let Hopper know he was listening.

“Do you think your son doesn’t know about what you think of as your faults?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Everything you were trying to hide from your son when he was a boy, everything you didn’t want him to know--do you think, right now, that he is unaware of those things?”

Rumpelstiltskin opened his mouth. “No,” he said after a moment. “No, I don’t see how he could be ignorant anymore.”

When Bae was small, he had tried to be a regular father to him. He’d tried to keep him from understanding how wretched their poverty was, how unhappy Millah was, how far Rumpelstiltskin fell from being anything their world thought a man should be. But Bae had grown up and he had learned. And then he had seen that not only was his father less than a man--he was a monster.

Bae had known that. And he had run from it. But now he was back. He had chosen to come back, to seek out Rumpelstiltskin.

“If that’s the case,” Hopper said, “though it might still be frightening, I don’t know if there’s any reason for you to feel like you need to hide from him anymore.”

He didn’t speak. He was too overwhelmed. He should see his son. He would see his son. He had to.

“Do you know where mold grows, Mr. Gold?”

Wordless, Rumpelstiltskin shook his head.

“In the dark,” Hopper answered his own question. “Any rot, any corruption, it’s mostly going to happen in dark, hidden places. Basements, attics, the back of the fridge. It’s the same with emotions that people keep secret. If you don’t bring them out into the light, they’re just going to get… yucky.”

He allowed himself to grin. “You know, that sounds exactly like something my wife would say.”

****

That night, when Rumpelstiltskin followed the motorcycle, it drove off into the woods. It took him a few minutes to realize that they were headed to Gold’s cabin. The same place where he had buried the dagger all those months ago.

Good. That dagger had been the linchpin of the conflict between him and Bae. No matter how that conflict ended, the dagger would surely have some part to play.

He parked the car beside the motorcycle. The cabin was dark, but moonlight reflected off the lake. The figure of a man stood by the shore.

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated before going out to meet him. How was this going to play out? How angry would Baelfire be? How could he ever make up for leaving him, for embracing the darkness he had hated so much?

How could he ever be a father to him again?

Do the brave thing, Belle would have said. Bravery will follow after that.

Leaning on his cane, Rumpelstiltskin stepped onto the grass and walked out to meet his fate.

The man didn’t move as he heard him approach, but he did turn his head as they stood side by side in front of the water.

“I didn’t know if you would come,” he said calmly.

Rumpelstiltskin planted his cane in front of him. Just barely, he resisted the impulse to weep. He wanted to throw his arms around his son, to get on his hands and knees and beg forgiveness from his beautiful boy.

“I didn’t know if I would be welcome,” he said honestly. “After… everything.”

Now Bae faced him fully. In the moonlight, his eyes sparkled blue--so like Millah, so like Belle. His eyes shone with unshed tears.

“Papa.”

It was all he said. It was all he needed to say. Rumpelstiltskin’s resolve melted. His son was in his arms. They hugged and cried and apologized. Bae assured him that everything was alright, everything was forgiven. They were together again. They could be happy again.

“Look at you!” Rumpelstiltskin held his son’s face in his hands. He had changed, but he had grown up to be a handsome, strong, capable man. Bae was everything he had ever hoped he would be. “Belle will be so happy to meet you at last.”

Bae looked confused. “Who’s Belle?”

“My wife. Your--well, she’d like to be your step-mother, if you want to think of her that way.”

Belle had wanted to be a mother to his son, a mother to all the children they could have together, once the curse was broken and the world was safe.

“Of course, Papa,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll love Belle. She’s got to be a better wife to you than that girl who hangs around your shop.”

Rumpelstiltskin winced. He patted his son on the arm and began to walk toward the cabin. “Don’t judge Belle by Mrs. Gold, son. This curse… it is a terrible thing.”

“I know.” Bae began to walk ahead of him. Then he stopped and looked back. He waited for Rumpelstiltskin to catch up.

Limping, he chuckled at his son. “Just like old times, isn’t it?”

For a split-second, the man’s face was blank. Like he had no memories of running to the village on market day while his father hobbled on a staff, urging him to slow down, to stay close. The blankness remained in his blue eyes, even as he smiled and laughed. “Oh, right.”

Had Bae always had Millah’s eyes?

Rumpelstiltskin felt his jaw clench. A worm of worry had gnawed into this perfect moment. But he couldn’t worry. He couldn’t be afraid now. Not when he finally had Bae again.

He had Bae. And Bae had forgiven him. It was so easy.

Too easy?

They kept walking, past the cabin and to the patch of woods where he had buried the dagger. There was a shovel in the cabin. The young man insisted that he do the digging. Rumpelstiltskin watched him work. He tried to keep a level head.

The deeper the man dug, the more worried Rumpelstiltskin found himself. Was that just his connection to the dagger? Dark magic knew when it was being threatened, it always worked to protect itself. Bae had tried to separate Rumpelstiltskin from the Dark One before. Did the dagger know that? Was it afraid that Bae would win this time?

Or was Rumpelstiltskin afraid that Booth wasn’t really Bae at all?

After unearthing the metal box, Booth handed it over to him.

“Can you unlock this, Papa?”

The keys were in his trouser pocket. He didn’t reach for them. He held the box in both hands, in the dark and silent forest.

“You know,” he said. “I gave the dagger to Belle, before I asked her to marry me. I knew it was the only way we could be together. If I kept my magic, she would have the power to control it.”

The young man looked up at him from his hole in the ground. “That’s… really sweet, Papa.”

Rumpelstiltskin let out a breath. “Funny thing, though,” he said. “In this world, I don’t have magic. Wasn’t that the whole point of coming here, Bae?”

Thinking clearly for the first time in days, Rumpelstiltskin looked August Wayne Booth in his lying blue eyes.

“There is no magic in this world,” he said. “My son wanted to escape from magic. He would leave this dagger buried in the earth. You are not Baelfire, so who the hell are you?”

Booth opened his mouth and held up his hands. “Papa, how can you--”

“Enough!” Rumpelstiltskin roared.

By the time Booth had scrambled out of the hole, Rumpelstiltskin had unlocked the box and taken out the dagger. He pushed Booth up against a tree and held the point of the dagger to his lying throat.

Booth’s breath went ragged. “You just said it doesn’t have magic.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t sharp, dearie. I think you should talk while you still have a voice box.”

He tried to swallow, then seemed to realize what a dangerous endeavor that would be. “I-I-I’m not your son.”

Rumpelstiltskin bared his teeth. “A little fairy told me she advised you to be honest. Now tell me something that I don’t already fucking know.”

“I know where he is!” Booth gasped out the words. “N-Baelfire. I’ve met him, I’ve talked to him. I can find him again.”

“See, if you started with that, you might have some credibility. But now I’m going to make you bleed, just because you insulted my son’s name by putting it in your mouth.”

He pushed the dagger into a spot under Booth’s ear, far away from any fatal areas. Rumpelstiltskin had seen blood in the moonlight before--it looked black and otherworldly and beautiful.

But Booth wasn’t bleeding. A trail of clear liquid rolled down the man’s neck, much more slowly than blood usually did. Rumpelstiltskin reached out a gloved hand to touch it.

“Who are you?” he asked. “What’s wrong with you? Were you not born in my world?”

Though clearly feeling pain, Booth was able to grin. “That’s where you’re wrong, Dark One. I wasn’t born at all.”

Rumpelstiltskin eased up on the point of the dagger, but kept Booth pushed up against the tree. “And?”

“I was carved,” he explained. “From the wood of an enchanted tree. And enchanted trees don’t do well in a land without magic.”

Now Rumpelstiltskin stepped back. Far enough away that Booth couldn’t grab the dagger away from him, but close enough that he could still rush the man if he needed to.

“You need magic,” he said to the wooden man. “Did you think you could control me with this? Use me to keep yourself alive?”

“There are three people in this town who might have access to magic.” Now Booth leaned against the tree. He rubbed at his neck, wiping away the sap that had leaked from his skin. “It’s Emma, you, and the Evil Queen.”

Understanding dawned. “You’ve been hanging around Emma for months.”

“Trying to get her to believe.” Booth shook his head. “Hasn’t worked.”

“Well, you couldn’t claim to be her long-lost child, could you?”

He had the good grace to chuckle at that. “I don’t have anything to offer Regina either. Hell, she wants me to be a pile of kindling.”

“You haven’t exactly endeared yourself to me either, sunshine.”

Hanging his head, Booth looked at him. Blue eyes--Bae’s were brown, they had always been brown, dammit!--had no hope in them. “Do you want to kill me now?” he asked. “Or do you want to watch my limbs and lungs and brain slowly turn into wood?”

“It’s a day in the park either way.” Rumpelstiltskin didn’t hide his satisfaction at this news. This man had lied to him, betrayed him in one of the most personal ways possible. He deserved to die. “Any guess as to how long you’ve got left?”

“Maybe weeks.” Booth pressed his hand to his thigh, then rapped his knuckles against his leather jacket. “Maybe days.”

“Hmm,” he grinned. “Well, Mr. Booth, for as long as you’re flesh and not furniture, you have a job to do.” He stepped up to the man, grabbed him by the collar and spoke loudly into his ear. “Get Emma Swan to break the curse. She is the Savior. Her magic is what will save us all.” He released Booth, tucked the dagger into his inside coat pocket, and walked back to the car. “Even those of us who don’t deserve it.”

#golden rings #rumbelle #rumbelle fic #ouat

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tortleofwar · 4 years ago

Text

Valentine's Cherub Pt. 2

The noises from trucks clearing the road, I can sleep through that. Sunlight blaring through my eyelids, I can easily turn over. But the smoke of a cigarette catching in the back of my throat is something I can't ignore. I bolt upright pounding my chest as I cough up the carcinogens. Smoke stings my eyes as a fresh puff is directed towards me.

"Good morning my little warrior." She took another drag and blew away from my face this time. "I assume you aren't a smoker then?"

"You got me." Finally settled from my coughing fit I roll off the bed and walk to the bathroom. My bladder was close to bursting and a conversation was the last thing I wanted to have right now.

"I guess I can't call you little after your display last night." She let out a school girl giggle as she walked into the bathroom. The cigarette was absent from her hand. She reached a hand out and held me as I ejected my urine into the posh toilet. "Got some power behind this thing. Wish I could have exclusive access to this."

"Not gonna happen." I forced it out to get her hand off of me quickly. "Last night I was snowed in and my cards were all declined. I'm thankful for your help but what happened last night was a fluke."

I skipped the shower hoping to get away from her before something else was instigated. She turned it on and walked out behind me. Her hands wrapped around my waist to grab at my dick again. This time I stopped her and proceeded to my clothes.

"If you are going home you're gonna need a shower." She gave my ass a swift slap and licked her lips hungrily. "Besides, your bar tab hasn't been paid off yet. Last night was the release I needed after my recent dry spell. But that was only the tip. I bought your drinks and provided you a room."

My heart dropped at the realization that she was right. This hotel was top notch. Red carpet throughout the room, a bidet in the bathroom, and the thread count was higher than my monthly salary. I could end up indebted for a while. Sky wouldn't like it so I had to find a way out of this. I swiped to my bank app and checked the balance. My check cleared and $1850 was showing. It wasn't much but it would cover the rinks I had.

I turned to find her on her knees mouth open and eyes closed. The hormones and attraction couldn't be denied but this was wrong. At least last night could be blamed on the drinks and need for a place to stay besides out back by a dumpster. But now was entirely different. I could walk out right now and leave her on her knees as I shut the door.

"I don't normally offer this to anyone." As I was looking at the door her eyes looked up to me and it felt like my soul was ensnared. As she stood her hand trailed up my thigh to cup my balls and then get a firm hold of my hardening shaft. "We get dirty while getting cleaned up and then I will consider us square. No money, just sex."

My answer should have been hell no, all caps with about five exclamation marks behind it. However those eyes and that plump booty slowly walked me to the shower and I was stuck. My tears washed away by the shower as I surrendered to her once again. I could say it was to square the debt but I honestly wanted more.

As we kissed images of my wife flashed in my head. The good times, the bad, and the sex. True, experience was one hell of a teacher but my heart could never betray her. My mind arguing that this was just a release, purely physical. But the betrayal was there.

I dove into the deep end, pulling her closer and adding carnal passion to the kiss. I began to kiss down to her neck and she whispered into my ear.

"Use me. No limits just go crazy." Her voice husky with desire. "Please."

I'd pressed her against the wall and teased her with one hand while nibbling on her tit. The harder I bit the slicker she got. True to her words she didn't deny anything as I chomped down with force. Her yell turning into a muffled moan as she bit her bottom lip. My finger finding her inner folds while my thumb strummed her clit had her body trembling. This was something Sky relished and hated with a passion.

This woman welcomed the body trembling climax as I kissed my way down ignore the plea in her eyes. I scooped her up onto my shoulders giving full access of her lower extremities to my mouth. My goal was to keep it going as long as possible and possibly even give her another. Licking inside and out made her thighs squeeze as she pulled at my short dreads. Denying her the release of rolling my tongue along her clit until I felt her juices flowing down my chin.

An explosion went off in her body as I applied steady pressure to her clit. Her nails scratched at my scalp and her thighs blocked all sound as she locked them over my ears. As her climax came down she released her vice grip on me and breathed heavily. As I back away I flicked her clit one last time and felt her back away.

"Was that resistance?" A wicked smile spread across my face as she looked down sheepishly. I grabbed a towel from the rack and grabbed her hands. "I hope you can cover the damages."

I ripped the towel into several strips and soaked them with water and the hotel provided soap. With each one I would slowly slide them over another erogenous part of her body. I decided against the soap for the final strip. Opting instead to blindfold her with it. As I stood admiring this soapy piece of art I'd made her hands reached out for me. I sidestepped them and whispered into her ear.

"Not yet my pet."

She froze in place as the stream of water rained down on her. I quickly grabbed a cloth and bathed her body gently. Cleaning her from the neck down. She relaxed the longer this went on until she could no longer feel my touch. I watched as she tilted her head to listen for the faintest sound of me, searching for the smallest notion that I hadn't abandoned her.

As she reached for the blindfold I bound her hands and quietly shushed into her ears. These were the things I'd wanted to do with Sky but she didn't trust me to care for her this intimately. But here was this stranger willingly surrendering herself to me. Rubenesque body presented to me with no hesitation. I took her hands and placed them on my cock moving her hands to instruct her to stroke me.

I placed a hand on her shoulder and she instinctively went to her knees. Her face hovering inches away from me I pushed forward penetrating her lips. Her warm tongue swirling around my dick as I pushed in and out of her mouth.As her rhythm became steady I pulled back, forcing her to lean forward for me.

My deep chuckle was drowned out by the water. Her nose was pressed into my naval as she choked on my length. I forcefully pushed her off of me and watched as the water cleaned the spit and saliva from her face. I turned her around and pushed her onto all four. The water pounded on my back as I slowly eased inside of her. Building a steady motion and feeling her push back into me.

As I took over grabbing her hips and slamming into her the wet sounds echoed inside the bathroom. As much as I was enjoying this I needed to remember why I was doing it. I focused wholly on busting my nut and raising up out of here. Her clenching helped speed the process up and she could tell. She began to beg me not to pull out and I complied.

Exhausted I stayed in place as the water washed over me. I slowly pulled out cleaning my shaft as it shrank back to its flaccid state. I untied her and removed the blindfold. She eagerly fetched a washcloth to clean me up. I stood in place as she moved around me cleaning every inch. When she tried to get me hard again I swatted her hand away.

"That should square up our debt. And this hopefully remains a secret." I was rushing to get dressed and out of this blissful nightmare. "Please don't come looking for me."

"That's going to be hard considering how good pets are at finding their masters," she joked. "But I understand."

I winced at the nickname and bolted out of the door. With cleared street I cautiously steered to my home shaking my head at what I'd done. It couldn't be justified and I would be damned if she left me because of this. As I pulled into the parking garage a familiar powder blue Pontiac drove by me. The shirtless passenger was laughing as he turned to leave.

Shaking it off I walked through the halls of the apartment complex and fished out my keys to the door. Slow music could be heard through the door and the smell of fresh candles could be heard. I scrunched my brows in confusion because this was her post-coitus routine and I wasn't here last night. Then the realization hit me. He was here last night, snowed in with Sky, and we had just had our biggest fight ever.

My keys dropped to the floor as I slid down the opposite wall in dismay. I shook my head with doubt but the evidence was there. I couldn't accuse her after what I'd just done but for her to sleep with MY boss was a whole other level of betrayal. That smug bastard would probably be smiling every day just thinking about this. The rage took a hold of me as I forced myself up.

Shoving the key into the door I burst through it and saw her look of joy. It slowly faded as she saw the anger on my face. Her confused expression only made me feel worse.

"So I just saw Michael on his way out." Her realization didn't show as I began to explain. "He looked extremely happy considering he was snowed in 45 minutes away from his home. Any idea why that is?"

"He probably knows someone else who live nearby. I did tell you I saw him a few times in the neighborhood while I was out."

This brought up another realization in me. He was on lunch calls for two hours on those days. My apartment was 15 minutes away. Those lunch calls started when I got my promotion four months ago. She quit her job because I didn't want her to have to work again after she put me through college.

"I have all the addresses and contact information of all of his associates and sneaky links. None of them live near here. What was he doing HERE?"

Her face lost all expression as she shook her head. "You were gonna find out one way or another. Michael and I have been seeing each other and I think it's time you moved on as well."

There it was. The dagger through the heart I'd been waiting for. I clinched my fists as I paced through the front room. All the while she stood there with no expression or words. The tornado of thoughts going through my head landed on hurting her but I held it in. Looking back at her I could only ask one question.

"Why?"

"You're too nice to me. I need a man who can handle me, put me in my place and treat me how I want to be treated in private," She explained walking to the door. "He spoils me in public and uses me in private. Something a BOY like you wouldn't understand. And that's what I need in my life. Not someone who worships everything about me or is my every beckoning call."

"So I treated you like a queen and this is what you've wanted all along?" I slumped onto the chair shaking my head. The smile on my face scared me. "All this time and you said nothing."

"You're a great guy. And I'm sure someone out there would love to be with you." A bit of fear had entered her voice as she noticed the smile. "But I'm not the one you need. I'll be by to get my things later."

"So you hurt me and you're not even going to apologize?" I asked looking up at her.

"I'm pretty sure after last night we both knew this was where it was heading." She looked at me with a sly smile. "Although I may have broken you for the next poor girl."

The door closed behind her as I sat shaking my head. Her laughter should have done something to me, made me feel anything, but I could only think about the cougar. How I could use a stress reliever at this very moment. At that moment my phone buzzed. I sighed as I checked the notification.

An ad for therapy made me laugh to myself. After all of this I could do with some venting to help me get back to normal. I scrolled down and my jaw dropped. Dr. Clarice WIlliams had a picture of brunette hair flowing down to her shoulders and a pair of captivating green eyes hidden behind glasses. Was God sending me help or was the Devil tempting me? I shrugged and turned on my PS4 to play Paladins.

#AndreWrites Stories

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peralta-guaranteed · 4 years ago

Text

Can you hear me, S.O.S., help me put my mind to rest

“Sorry they made you come out for something so stupid.” He mumbles, finally, in the elevator up to his apartment. “It’s not stupid.” “It’s 1am on a sunday, I’m pretty sure you had better things to do than pick up a beat-up co-worker and buy him his drugs.” He shoots her a quick glance as they get out on his floor. “I’m gonna pay you back for those, of course.” She doesn’t even acknowledge it, because they both know he can’t afford it. “It’s actually 12:30, and my partner needed my help. So there’s definitely nothing better to do with my time.”

---*---

Amy is Jake’s emergency contact on his medical file, which makes sense if you think about them as the lovey-dovey couple that they are now. She has been his emergency contact since two months after he’d met her, which makes less sense, until you realise that she is reliable, comforting, supportive Amy, and he is Jake, and he has never not been yearning for her attention just a little bit.

read it on AO3

“Jesus Christ, Jake. I know you’re bad at paperwork, but this is a horror show.”

Amy rubs her eyes with the palms of her hands, trying to stare down the little stars that appear in her vision from doing so. Jake, across the room on his worn-down couch, eating something very sweet and very crumbly - a cannoli, maybe? it was gone too fast for Amy to recognise - simply shrugs.

“You don’t have to do it, Ames, you know that.”

She does. She knows. She offered, after all.

Maybe it was too early for something like this, anyway. They’d been officially together for barely a month, a stage where most other couples would still be discovering each other’s little likes and dislikes and trying to hide some imperfections from the other. Definitely not the stage of going through their partner’s chaotic mountain of very personal paperwork and files. Yet here she is, sorting through insurances (the rare few that Jake actually has, mostly because he’s legally required to), licenses, bills and Academy certificates.

It was a mess that had Amy’s fingers itching every time she saw it, she reasons, and nothing they’d done in their month together really fit the usual trajectory of a relationship anyway, based on the fact that they already knew each other like the back of their hands. So when Jake had groaned about another forgotten bill from the mail tub that Amy forced him to steadily work through every time she came over, she’d offered to get things straightened out for him once and for all.

She’s not sure if she regrets it now. Thumbing through a pile of loose papers that turn out to be several medical records from his injuries as a rookie cop, she realises that maybe this is a bit too personal, a step too close for what they have so far. Would she be willing to share this kind of information with a boyfriend of four weeks? she wonders as she skims over a page detailing the frankly insane amount of medication he was supposed to take after another week-long stay at the hospital. She’s quite sure he took barely half of it, gritting his teeth and moaning about stupid doctors instead, even though she didn’t know him back then - she knows him too well now not to immediately picture a slightly younger Jake with a list of weird-sounding pills he couldn’t pronounce and a giant frown on his face at the pharmacy.

“I don’t have to- I mean, I can stop. If you don’t want me to do this.”

Jake, finished with whatever he was eating, leans back on the couch to face her at the tiny table in his kitchenette. He gives her the patented Peralta-grin, the sweetness only heightened by some leftover cream-filling (definitely a cannoli) on his right cheek. She has half a mind to get up and lick it off, but she’s blocked in by paper piles all around her.

“And keep Amy Santiago from a chance to file paperwork? Pretty sure that’d be grounds for a break-up. I’m surprised you haven’t run out to buy me a filing cabinet filled with all sorts of folders and tabs and whatnot.”

She lets her eyes drop back down to the papers in her hands, trying hard not to show him the blush creeping onto her face. She had been making a mental list of what binders she should buy to really get this in order.

“I’m just saying, if you don’t want me to see some of this- it’s very private information-”

“Babe.” He still grins, and Amy thinks about how that pet name has settled between them far too quickly and far too comfortably as well. “Pretty sure nothing in that mountain of papers is any more embarrassing than all the stuff you already know and tease me about all the time.”

“True. It’s not like I’m going to find out here why you think using the same soap for your dishes and your shower routine sometimes is an okay thing to do.” She grins back before filing away another old medical record, suddenly getting stuck on one little line at the top of it. “Jake, please tell me Stevie Schillens is not still your emergency contact.”

“What? No. Of course he isn't. They make you update your info with every promotion at work.” That alone tells her that if ‘they’ didn’t, Jake would definitely still have a co-worker from his starting days on his files rather than, say, his current sergeant or a close friend. She shuffles through a few papers to find a more recent record.

“Who is it, then? Might be good to update again and reconsider, promotion or not. Your mom is like half an hour’s drive away if anything happened, Terry can’t really get away from his family if it’s after hours. I wouldn’t trust Charles not to break down worse than you if he ever gets a call, and Rosa- I guess she’s responsible enough, but she might hurt you more for giving out her phone number-”

“Really, Ames?” His voice is so soft from the couch, and when she finally looks up again, his face has that strange tilt to it, between affectionate and amused. As if she’d just said the most ridiculous, yet adorable thing in the universe. As if the answer wasn’t completely obvious.

She looks down again at the paper she picked up, a medical report from a while ago, and as she reads the little line on top, she remembers.

-*-

“Amy Santiago?”

“This is she.”

The voice down the line is as foreign as the number on her cell had been when she picked it up. She didn’t get many calls on her private phone anyway, apart from her family, and they were not the kind of people who’d call her at midnight on a saturday.

“This is NewYork-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital. We’re calling on behalf of Jake Peralta? You’re listed as his emergency contact, but there is no additional info on your status-”

She’s up off the couch and into her bedroom to change into jeans before the nurse on the line can even finish.

“I’m his partner. Work. Partner. We’re detectives. NYPD.” Amy almost barks down the line while wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear to pull down her sweatpants. Jake would obviously carry his badge even when he wasn’t on duty like tonight, but maybe they hadn’t found it, maybe he hadn’t been able to give them that info... and while it was slightly upsetting to think about, she knew that the hospital would give fast-tracks and special treatments to active cops, and if that was something that could help him now, the morality of it all didn’t matter one bit to her. “What’s happened? Is he- is Jake okay?”

Obviously he’s not, you idiot, he’s in the hospital and not present enough to give them any information so they have to call his emergency contact, that is the furthest from okay that he could be-

Her inner scolding is interrupted by the very calm, very soothing voice of the nurse.

“He should be fine. He was brought in ten minutes ago. Somebody assaulted him, but a nearby officer intervened and called for an ambulance. We just needed to check because his files are very… incomplete.” Amy hears the rustling of paper and the slight distaste tinging the nurse’s voice and makes a mental note to sit down with Jake and make him update all his information as soon as possible. “And he’s not clear enough to answer any questions due to the painkillers. Are you aware of any allergies or problems that could arise from medications? He doesn’t need surgery, but we have to treat some lacerations and other wounds.”

“He’s not on any permanent medications. He had to take Vicodin and Heparin after a surgery four months ago.” She replies immediately and without a doubt, remembering her last trip to the hospital with him while she slips into a jacket and checks her bag for her purse and car keys. “Oh, he has asthma, but hasn’t had an attack in years, so he doesn’t use his inhaler regularly or anything. And he’s allergic to bees, but I don’t think that matters?”

“No.” the nurse almost chuckles. “But the rest is very helpful to know, thanks. Will you be able to arrange for someone to monitor him for the next 24 hours? Otherwise we’ll need to prepare a room for him. He keeps saying you’ll pick him up, but we weren’t sure-” “I’m on my way.”

-*-

She speed-walks to the front desk of the emergency room not ten minutes later.

“Hello. My name is Amy Santiago. I’m here for Jake Peralta - he was brought in twenty minutes ago?”

“Ah! The lovely lady detective.” The nurse - it’s a different one from the phone call, she can tell from the voice - gives her a weird sort of smile. “Yes, he’s been asking for you non-stop. But the painkillers should have worn off by now, so he might be more coherent.”

She tries to ignore that comment, she really does. But it’s not easy.

“The doctor’s going over aftercare with him, so he might be a few more minutes. You can take a seat if you’d like.”

Amy glances over to the waiting area, full of people even at this time of night, before turning back to the desk. “Uhm, the nurse on the phone said he needs to be monitored for 24 hours - do you know why? Is there anything I need to be aware of?”

The lady gives her a once-over before another strange smile, like she knows more than Amy does (which, logically, in this situation she does, but it feels like she knows something else, too).

“He’s had a minor concussion. Nothing to worry about, but he might be a bit disoriented or woozy, so it’s best not to leave him alone. And if he throws up or feels faint, you should bring him back immediately. He has a check-up appointment to remove his stitches in three days. Everything else you need to know will be on his report.”

“Sure.” Amy nods, and hopes that Jake doesn’t lose track of that report on his way from the examination room to the waiting area - it wouldn’t be the first time he manages to lose paperwork in record time. She gives the still smiling nurse another nod before finally heading to sit down and pull out the crossword puzzle she was halfway done with when she got the call.

“Hey.”

“Oh! Hey!” Amy practically drops her puzzle and jumps from her seat in the waiting room once she sees him standing in front of her.

Jake looks a mess. His leather jacket is ripped on one shoulder seam, and his jeans are covered in grime. There’s an awful lot of blood on his hoodie - probably from his nose, which is covered in a bandage - and his face is more red-bruised than pale in most places. There’s another, bigger bandage over a stitched-up gash across his left cheekbone, the accompanying eye blood-shot, and his lip is split in at least two places.

“You look like hell.” She blurts out before thinking and immediately scolds herself, but it actually earns her a little laugh.

“You’re looking lovely as well, Santiago.” His eyes wander over her messy ‘I had to get here in under ten minutes on a saturday couch night’ look, including a steadily unraveling hair-bun and oversized sweater.

“Sorry, I mean-”

“S’alright.” He drops into the seat next to her and winces. More bruises, Amy thinks.

“What happened?” She sits back down as he leans forward, only now noting the clipboard and pen in his hands (which are equally roughed up, knuckles worn down, with scabs already forming. Whatever had happened, he sure hadn’t given in easily).

“Some big-shot guy whose dealer I arrested last week spotted me coming out of a bar. Decided the best way to deal with his crippling drug addiction was to beat the shit out of the cop who’d cut off his supply. He was, like, a giant of a dude.” Jake puffs up his chest and raises his arms to show the supposed size of the man, and Amy can only nod. “Luckily he was too stupid to check for surveillance on the very public street we were on, and there was a beat cop on the corner who cuffed him pretty quickly.” He looks down again at the clipboard, and tries to scratch his nose before remembering there’s a bandage in the way. “He also called an ambulance, which I think was a bit over the top, but I couldn’t really breathe to tell him no.”

Amy gives him a quizzical look, and he sighs before explaining.

“Fucker punched me in the chest so hard I had an asthma attack.”

She snorts. She doesn’t want to, but it’s not really something you can stop, even as she clutches her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Jake, I shouldn’t- it’s not funny-”

“Well.” He grins at her, far softer than usual, but that might just be to not upset his split lip. “It is a little bit funny, I guess.”

“Do you have an inhaler at work? You should take one with you, you know, even if you haven’t had problems for a while, you never know when they show up again, case in point, and people might not know what to do - maybe I should get an inhaler too, for when we’re working together, and make sure Charles knows how-”

“Hey.” He interrupts her verbal stream of consciousness by holding the clipboard up to her, and she grabs it reflexively the same way she does when he sneakily slips her his unfinished paperwork. “Can you help me fill out these stupid forms? I think I’m still a bit high from whatever they gave me back there, or maybe I just don’t know half of these words anyway.”

She grabs the pen from him as well, clicks it twice, and gets to work. She doesn’t even have to ask him about most of the fields he’s left blank, and after a minute or two, the file is full with both his chicken scratch and her perfect handwriting. She’s filled out so many of these forms for him before, she could probably do it in her sleep. Which would be quite a worrying thought if it wasn’t so weirdly sweet at the same time - she realises that he has never, not once, asked anyone else for a ride to the hospital for work injuries, at least when he had the choice (and luckily, he was barely ever so hurt that he couldn’t, that any one of them had to jump into the back of the ambulance with him, but most of those times it was her as well).

“Here.” She hands the file back to him. “Get that to the nurses, and we can go back to your place so you can catch up on sleep. Do you have your medical report?”

He nods and swaps it for the clipboard in her hand in a well-set routine they both know, getting up to hand it in while she does a quick read through. There are not that many after-care instructions - the usual things for concussions she’s aware of, a healing balm for the bruising, replacing the bandages regularly, and another truckload of painkillers and medicine. The doctors sure do seem to love pumping him full with it whenever they get a chance, and he sure does love to ignore them and not take any of it. She still makes a mental note to swing by the pharmacy on their way home to pick it all up when he gets back and gestures for her to leave.

He does a dramatic turn and bow to say good-bye to the front desk as they pass it, earning himself a giggle from the ladies and swaying only a little after he gets back up. Amy has her hands around his elbow immediately, steadying him and leading him outside - they did say he would be woozy - and the nurse gives her another one of those smiles. She’s still not quite sure if she likes them or not.

-*-

They stop at the late-night-pharmacy as planned - Jake obeys orders to stay in the car to make it all quicker, but insists on getting a bag of sour gummies as a reward, and Amy sighs as he tears into it right away, probably covering her whole passenger seat with the powder - but the rest of the drive stays quiet. It feels more concerning to Amy than it should. He’s a blabbermouth at the best of times, should be even more so after being loaded up with painkillers and coming down from the adrenaline high of a fight, asthma attack and hospital treatment all at once. But right now he seems utterly silenced, fidgety and... nervous.

“Sorry they made you come out for something so stupid.” He mumbles, finally, in the elevator up to his apartment.

“It’s not stupid.”

“It’s 1am on a sunday, I’m pretty sure you had better things to do than pick up a beat-up co-worker and buy him his drugs.” He shoots her a quick glance as they get out on his floor. “I’m gonna pay you back for those, of course.” She doesn’t even acknowledge it, because they both know he can’t afford it.

“It’s actually 12:30, and my partner needed my help. So there’s definitely nothing better to do with my time.”

He mumbles something else as they step through the door, but she doesn’t catch it. She helps him slip out of his jacket instead, reminds herself to google a good tailor that works with leather as she notices the ripped shoulder while hanging it up and turns around to look at the blood-stained hoodie he’s taking off.

“I don’t think that thing is salvageable.”

“Damn, and it was one of my favourites, too.” He pouts, playfully, before remembering his injured lip.

“All your hoodies are your favourite.”

“Am I not allowed to love them all equally?”

Amy is already in his kitchen not answering that, instead bundling the hoodie up and into a trash bag she’s pulled from a shelf. She’ll take it down to the dumpster with her when she leaves tomorrow, or else he might try and wash it.

“You don’t have to do all this, you know.” Jake says as she walks past him to put the bag on the front mat. “I can take care of my clothes.”

“Sorry.” She halts and takes off her own jacket and shoes, instead. It’s a strange situation - they’re both used to Jake being a lot more inhibited from medication or alcohol when she literally has to bring him home, usually hanging onto Amy’s shoulders and babbling nonsense while she shuffles him into bed. But now he’s standing up all on his own, silent again, looking around the place as if he doesn’t know what to do in his own home with Amy as a not-quite-guest. Neither does she.

Another beat of silence passes between them before Jake clears his throat and bumbles on.

“You should- ...do you want something to drink? I think I still have some of that herbal stuff you brought-”

“You should-” Amy starts at almost the same time, silencing them both again for another beat. “You should change out of these” she gestures to his dirty clothes “and put the balm on your bruises and get ready for bed. You’re gonna crash from the adrenaline soon.”

It seems like he wants to say something else, but the silence is deafening by now, so he only nods and grabs stuff out of the pharmacy bag before heading to the bathroom.

“I’m gonna grab a spare shirt for me to sleep in, if that’s okay?” She calls after him and only hears ‘Sure!’ before the door closes.

Amy realises, as she turns around for the dresser in the one room apartment he inherited from Gina a while ago, that she’s never been here before without some medical emergency clouding her vision. She knew his old place - from a few late evenings working on case files (which he illegally took home, but neither of them mentioned that), and a movie marathon when he was extremely sick and had begged her over on her day off because he was convinced he was ‘going to die any minute’ and didn’t want the neighbours to find his ‘decomposing corpse later in the week’ - and he’d been over at hers far more times than she could count (her place was nicer, she had actual cable tv,, and a working kitchen for him to rustle around in for random late night snacks).

But this apartment? It seems strangely foreign now, without a drunk or medicated Jake needing her help, without the usual distraction of getting him into bed, getting his shoes and jacket off, forcing him awake to take some aspirin and then settling down on the couch to his snoring. She feels like a guest instead, someone who doesn’t know if they’re allowed to sit down or get a drink from the kitchen without being invited. That’s nonsense, she thinks - she’s here to help like always, and there’s no way Jake would care if she turned his entire kitchen upside down and re-organised it or fell asleep on the couch right then and there.

Loud grumbling and ranting from the bathroom pulls her out of her thoughts, before she can even decide to pick up the spare bedding set for the couch she knows he keeps in his closet.

“Everything alright?” She knocks on the door, but barely waits for the angry ‘No!’ before opening it. Her breath catches.

Jake’s in his pajama pants, and - that’s it. She can see the muscles in his bare back flex as well as the reflection of his front in the mirror, as he tries to bend around in some convoluted way to reach the large, purple bruise that travels from his waist to his back.

“Stupid doctors and their stupid lotions and stupid ideas for people who can’t do yoga or some shit to reach their own back-” he mumbles, but Amy doesn’t hear much of it. She’s seen Jake shirtless before - you don’t go on stake-outs or undercover assignments without catching each other in different states of undress at some point - and every time has been a secret memory, quickly stolen and hidden somewhere deep in her mind, to be dusted off and remembered at the most inopportune times or when she feels particularly alone after a drink (or maybe four). This time will probably be no different, she thinks as she notes the soft trail of hair under his belly button, down to the sweatpants that definitely sit lower than any jeans she’s seen him shirtless in before.

She has to act, she reprimands herself, before he notices, before he sees her staring or realises she’s blushing, so she steps up to the sink and pulls the tub of healing balm from his hands.

“It’s not the doctors’ fault you always get injured in inconvenient places.” She answers his rant while dipping her fingers into the lotion and carefully applying it to the bruise, trying not to rub or press too hard for it to hurt.

Jake doesn’t breathe the entire time her fingers are on his skin.

“There you go.” Amy closes the little tub and puts it next to the sink, eyeing his bruised face and completely ignoring the flush that is hiding underneath it. “Lemme change your bandages before you sleep, too. You already got them dirty.”

“I can do that-”

“You’re going to rip it straight off and disturb your stitches, most likely.” Her hands are already at the corner of his cheek, carefully prying off the tape and strips, and he forgets how to breathe again.

She replaces the bandages just as carefully and leaves him to the rest of his night time routine, filling a glass of water in the kitchenette and coming back with a packet of Vicodin at the same moment he steps out of the bathroom, finally pulling a shirt over his head.

“You should take some painkillers before you sleep. It’ll help.”

“Oh goodie.” He quips and eyes the water. “Drugs! Because the injuries totally weren’t caused because of somebody off their drugs!”

“These are prescription drugs. It’s different. You know that.”

He still stares warily at the package in her hand, but another shuffle forward from her and he grabs them and pops one into his mouth, grimacing after downing it (whether that grimace is for the medicine or the water he actually has to drink, she’s not sure).

“Good boy.” Amy jokes, and he’s glad he’s already swallowed so he can’t choke on his water from hearing that. “Now get some sleep in. I’ll be down here on the couch if you need anything, or feel worse.”

“Don’t go-” He stutters and stares right past her head at the aforementioned couch. “I mean, you don’t- you don’t have to sleep on the couch, I know how uncomfortable it is- you can sleep with me- I mean, in the bed, with me in the bed, I mean- there’s enough space- with the extra blanket- I don’t-”

He interrupts his own rambling with a deep sigh and a ‘Jesus, Jake’ before Amy can stifle another giggle. He feels just as awkward with her here as she does, and it almost makes the whole thing more comfortable. They’ll just have to power through the nonsense and get back to their normal friendly behaviour, she reasons.

“If you really don’t mind. I’m gonna get the stuff from the closet.”

He’s already bundled up under his own covers when she comes back with the heap of blanket and pillows for her side of the bed.

It’s not her side, of course, it’s just the part of the bed he’s freed up from his own duvet, and that she’s going to sleep on now for one night, but it’s not like they have sides in their bed like-

power through the nonsense, she repeats as she settles down and stares over at him. His eyes are closed, his breath already slowing down into a sleepy pattern, and despite all the bruising and bandaging, his face looks so soft when he’s asleep. It’s a sight she could definitely get used to.

-*-

She remembers waking up the next morning, far too early for the late night they’d had. She remembers how wonderfully warm he was, hurt face buried in her shoulder and softly breathing across his shirt that she’d borrowed. She remembers her heart racing as she tried to untangle herself from the cuddling position their sleeping bodies had found themselves in, and she remembers the soft, quiet, confused ‘Ames..?’ when he woke up a few hours later and found the bed empty, with her already sitting at the tiny kitchen table she was sitting at right now.

Looking back at the report of the night she just remembered, the little line of her name and phone number at the top seem to glare at her, scolding her for her stupid question about emergency contact changes. She can hear Jake quietly laugh before she looks up.

“What, did you genuinely think you weren’t my first pick for emergencies?” Jake is still smiling at her, and she realises he obviously didn’t go down that little trip down memory lane with her. Maybe he was even still at the point of their conversation where Stevie Schillens was a viable option for an emergency contact as well. “Like, even without everything else going on with us… You love filling out forms, you’re responsible enough to actually take care of an emergency situation, and you know about all my stupid medical info better than me, because you keep driving me to the hospital from work.”

“You’re saying you made a serious decision like this based on actual logical evidence instead of one of your ‘gut feelings’?” Amy’s eyebrow raises almost involuntary. Present-Jake, maybe. Past-Jake? Definitely not.

Present-Jake can only shrug before scratching his nose, a subtle tell that she's identified by now for when he’s embarrassed, as if he’s trying to hide his face before speaking again.

“Might’ve also liked the idea of having you in the ER with me... instead of a freaked-out Charles or something.”

She smiles at what sounds like only half-explained truth and decides not to push it. She knows what he means, anyway. She knows, by now, that he would always ask the nurses for her when he was being treated, would always ramble on about her when blissed out on extra-strong painkillers, about how smart she was and how much she would help him and how much he hated hospitals, but not quite so much when he knew she was outside the room waiting for him.

“Okay, but when exactly did you put me in as your emergency contact?” She puts down the last file and maneuvers around the stacks of yet unsorted papers to get over to him and the couch.

“Eh, ‘bout two months after we were partnered up.”

“Two- we didn’t even like each other then!”

“Wrong. You didn’t like me.” Another nose-scratch before Amy can sit down next to him, cradling his face in her hand and smiling again at how quickly he leans into it.

“Aw, babe. I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“I mean, I didn’t like-like you then. Just for the record. I wasn’t that desperate, okay? I just thought you were... neat. And really good to have around for emergencies. Probably should’ve asked you. For all I know you would’ve stranded your annoying new partner at the hospital and pretended like you never heard of me.”

“I would have never done that!” Amy glowers at him. “Just for the record as well. I would’ve absolutely taken care of you, even though I didn’t like you or found you super annoying.”

“I know you’re trying to be nice right now, babe, but you’re really not doing it well.” Jake grins at her again, and she can’t help but pull him towards her to kiss that snarky grin away. It reappears as soon as her lips leave his, unfortunately, but it is decidedly less snarky and far more dopey.

“And I did show up when they called me after that drug addict attacked you, remember? I was so worried when I got that call, because I didn’t even know I was your contact, and I thought something horrible must’ve happened that they had to call me. And then it was just a fist fight.”

“Sorry.” He mumbles. “It was a really stupid reason to call an emergency contact. Shoulda filled my forms out better.”

“Maybe.” She smiles as she strokes across his cheek, noting the tiny scar that is still there from the stitches he had to get. “But I’m glad they did, anyway. You would’ve tried to drive yourself home and clean your wounds with mouthwash, or something.”

“Maybe.” He echoes with an equal smile. “You do make a better home-nurse than I would, I guess. Even though you were missing the sexy outfit.”

He earns himself a punch to the arm for that before she goes back to playing with his hair, soothing him enough that he drops the joking facade.

“I was really happy you showed up, by the way. And took me home. And didn’t leave.”

“Again: I would’ve never left you or not taken care of you. We’re partners, for God’s sake. What would the Captain have said if he found out I left you home alone with a concussion after you asked me for help?”

“Yep. Holt’s imminent disappointment. Definitely the only reason I hoped you’d stay.” His smile is crooked, but Amy only continues stroking through his hair, and it quickly turns the uncomfortable smile into a content sigh. “I was so… nervous. Because... you can probably guess that I did like-like you by then. Like, you were right here in my apartment, and I wasn’t out on painkillers, but I also wasn’t awake enough to like, entertain you or anything, and I was so worried that you were already annoyed because of the whole situation and I would do something or say something stupid, but you were still there, and then you helped me with the bandages, and the, the lotion, and I think I remember the worst invitation to my bed I’ve ever given anyone, and when I woke up I thought you’d finally left, but you were just in the kitchen, and I-” He sighs again, closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his forehead against her shoulder. “I was always torn between wanting to kiss you and wanting to apologise for being so much trouble.”

“God, we really were hopelessly lost on each other, weren’t we?” Amy chuckles, her hand now carding through the hair on his nape rather than the curls on top.

“I was definitely hopeless, in every sense of the word. I think I’d rather describe you as oblivious.”

“Ooooh, good word!” She happily praises him, before realising just how sad that statement of his actually was. He lifts his head again to look at her. “I... actually, I wasn’t really oblivious at all. I’d say I was just as hopeless as you. I just hid it a bit better.”

“But you were always there.” He smiles at her, his head sideways now, leaning against the back of the couch, and it’s so soft and comforting and homely she wants to sink into him. “For every hospital trip I needed. Maybe that’s kinda why I made you my emergency contact too. I knew you’d come no matter what, and I knew you wouldn’t leave. Whether I annoyed you like crazy or we barely knew each other or we were already good friends or we were not quite on speaking terms due to all the awkwardness.”

She leans her head next to him, her hands wrapping around his folded in his lap.

“I’ve got your back. Always.” She whispers, and it’s a lot more than the supportive, yet simple promise of work partners. She thinks of the many times people had left him, the many things he’d been through alone, the lonely walks to an empty house or quiet cab rides back to a dark apartment, the dinner’s in the microwave notes and the sorry, can’t tonight texts, and the few times she has actually left him alone too, not knowing yet that when he was running off scared, what he really needed was someone to run after him and tell him it’s okay.

Their relationship is only a month old, officially, but she knows that it’s far older than that. She knows that it’s been growing and changing for years, and she knows, in that moment, that it will grow for many, many years to come. For forever, maybe, if they’re lucky. But no matter what it will change into in the future - she also knows, without a doubt in her heart, that she’ll be there. The way he knows she would, the way he’s known since two months after they met.

#B99 #Brooklyn 99 #Peraltiago #Jake Peralta #Amy Santiago #fanfic #my writing

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