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faithkeeper-81 · 12 days

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looking for the light

Rating: Everyone Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel and Sarah, Sarah Miller, Joel Miller, baby Sarah, soft!Joel, Joel needs a hug, Joel is trying really hard OK, angst, angst with a happy ending, but mostly just angst, sorry Word count: ~750, it's a baby fic

Note: Y’all can blame @frannyzooey for this little bit of heartache.

You can also read on AO3.

~*~

She screams for what feels like hours.

“C’mon, baby girl,” he whispers, a note of desperation creeping in. He’s been through the checklist–formula, diaper, swaddle, rock–but she won’t settle. “Sweet girl, Sarah girl, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

We’re okay.

And she screams.

Her little face scrunched up, tears streaming down–those are new, he thinks dully–body arched taut as a bowstring.

Pace and rock and sway and prep the bottle only for her to spit it out, check the diaper, rub her back in slow, firm circles, pace and rock and sway and shush.

Screaming.

He turns 23 today. Or maybe it was yesterday. He doesn’t know what time it is, doesn't know how long she’s been like this.

“It’s alright, you’re alright. C’mon, baby girl. I got you.”

Screaming.

And then his hands are shaking too hard to hold her, his vision blurred with tears of his own.

He can’t do this.

He sets her in the crib, the one she hasn’t used since they brought her home, tiny limbs poking out of her car seat harness like a starfish, practically swallowed by the thing, so small.

Fleeing from the room. He doesn’t make it far. She is gravity and he is stuck in her orbit.

He slides down the wall in the hallway, curling in on himself, chest so tight he thinks he might pass out. When he finally sucks in a decent breath, it’s a barking, wheezing thing, and he wastes it on a sob.

Laureen walked out two weeks ago. No note, no call, just went back to her parents in Albany. The paperwork signing over her rights is sitting on the kitchen table, stained with coffee rings and sour milk.

Tommy’s bedroom is empty and he’s god knows where, probably drunk or fucking around with some girl. He’s 17, still a kid himself, another responsibility he isn’t ready for.

Joel bites down hard on his fist and wishes desperately for the mother they buried six months ago.

He can’t do this. He can’t. He can’t raise a baby and pay the bills and keep his brother out of trouble. He should…

No. No, he can’t do that. The nurse handed her to him in the hospital, all red-faced and slick, and she’d taken his heart when she wrapped her tiny hand around his thumb.

So that’s not an option.

But Christ, he’s drowning.

“Please.”

He doesn’t know who he’s talking to. Doesn’t know anything but the needling sound of her cries that he can no longer ignore.

He stands, swipes at his eyes, goes back into the room. Picks her up.

Pace and rock and sway and shush.

“Please, Sarah.”

Whispers swallowed by screams.

“Please, baby, tell me what you need. Please.”

Tears on his cheeks to match hers as he begs. He begs.

“Please, baby girl.”

And then he must bounce just right, or pat her just right, because she lets out the loudest, most magnificent burp Joel has ever heard. It shouldn’t be possible, such a big sound coming from such a tiny body. It rings in his ears and settles her quaking limbs, spit-up soaking the back of his shirt. He never has the burp cloth on the right side. It doesn’t matter.

Quiet.

“Was that it?” he sniffs, pathetic. “Was that all, sweet girl? Jus’ had a bubble, huh?”

Shuddery little hiccup against his chin.

“There she is,” he murmurs, cupping her tiny head in one palm, pressing a kiss to her sweaty forehead. “My girl, my Sarah girl.”

He collapses into the plush glider rocker, the one that cost a full month’s pay, the one Laureen insisted on. He hadn’t blinked, just wrote the check.

One foot on the floor, one on the ottoman, rocking. She settles on his chest, ear to his heart, already drowsy.

“We’re gonna be okay, you an’ me,” he whispers, nose pressed to her crown, tears still drying on his cheeks, willing himself to believe it. “We’re gonna be jus’ fine.”

~*~

Dawn.

She stirs, little snuffling noises, mouthing one tiny fist.

He shifts her into the crook of his arm, sleep-crusted eyes blinking open to look at her, lets his thumb trace the velvet-soft curve of her cheek.

“Mornin’, baby girl.”

Dark brown eyes mirror his. The softest coo in answer.

And something new.

Tentative, hesitant at first, then blossoming.

“Yeah? You like that?”

Throat thick with love, shaky in-breath. Happy tears this time.

“Yeah,” he whispers, returning her first smile. “Yeah, we’re gonna be okay.”

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faithkeeper-81 · 28 days

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You’re the Loss of My Life

Din Djarin x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist

Author’s note: I got really sad last night and cranked this out. To all my angst lovers, I hope you enjoy.

Summary: You reminisce on your time with your riduur after his death.

Word count: 770

Warnings: whole lotta angst, fluff in the form of memories, riduur = spouse, talks of death

“And I’ll still see it until I die, you’re the loss of my life”

You thought he was invincible. Your big strong bounty hunter turned loving riduur seemed indestructible.

You had a simple life, living in your quiet home on Nevarro. You never thought you’d be the one to enjoy a domestic lifestyle. But you quickly learned that as long as you had Din and Grogu, life would be complete.

Your favorite days were spent watching Din chase Grogu around the backyard or observing Grogu levitate countless amounts of frogs from the pond. You and Din would share a laugh, remarking about how this was the perfect place for him. He would tell you how there was no one else wanted by his side, raising his son.

Not all of your favorite moments were spent at home, though. You loved venturing out to the marketplace as a family of three, shopping for groceries for the week, and inevitably buying Grogu a toy that caught his eye. Din would playfully scold you for spoiling the kid and you had to gently remind him that he does the same.

But those days are gone. When Bo-Katan and the Armorer returned, pleading for help because of an attack on Mandalore, he couldn’t say no. That night he was packing his things and preparing the Starfighter for takeoff. You leaned in the doorway and said, “Who would be foolish enough to attack Mandalorians?”

“They’re still getting their footing on Mandalore,” he gently reminded you, “They’re left more vulnerable than ever, with no communication with the rest of the galaxy.”

“You’re an honorable man, Din Djarin.”

He walked over to you and took his hands in yours, promising you that he’d be home soon.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” he whispered. You never got used to hearing him utter those words.

“Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum,” you repeated.

And then he was gone. That was the last time you ever saw him.

His absence was a waking nightmare. Combined with the lack of communication, you felt like you were going crazy. You spent many sleepless nights pacing the empty house as Grogu slept soundly. But then you chastised yourself for being so worried. Din’s the bravest and strongest man you’ve ever known. He’d come back home to you.

But when Bo-Katan’s ship landed in your yard two weeks later, you knew something had gone awry. She walked to your door with her head hung low, an uneasy expression on her face. A pit formed in your stomach and you feared the worst.

You don’t remember how she told you he died in battle. The world distorted around you, her voice drowning out into white noise. Your world had been technicolor the day you met Din. But once he died everything turned shades of black and white, an abysmal existence left in the wake of his demise.

Your mind raced with fear, wondering how you were going to raise Grogu alone. But soon the thoughts turned darker quickly.

What was his death like? Was it painful? Did he suffer? Was he thinking of you and your little family as he took his dying breath?

For months, the thought of him dying plagued your mind. Every time you closed your eyes all you could do was picture his lifeless body. You feared that this is what every day would be like for the rest of your life, consumed by the insurmountable grief his death left you with.

Bo-Katan was sure to return his armor to you but ever since she gave it back it’s been sitting at the bottom of your closet. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at it.

But one day as you’re looking for one of Grogu’s many toys, you work up the courage to look at just his helmet. You sit on the floor of your once-shared bedroom and stroke your thumb against the hollow part of where his cheek would be. Memories flash by, countless nights where you spent tangled up in the bunk of the Razor Crest, staring directly into his T-shaped visor. But soon your memory is poisoned by the haunting image of his death once more. Normally you give in and let it happen, letting the grief consume you.

But not today. You blink back tears and think of the first meal you had in this house together. His helmet was off and the sunlight poured in from the kitchen window, illuminating his eyes into a brilliant shade of amber. He smiled and thanked you for making dinner, reaching across the table to grab your hand. His thumb stroked yours as Grogu babbled away happily.

That’s how you'll choose to remember him from now on.

End note: Thank you to @clawdee and @iron-strangers for looking this over for me!

Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

#😭

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faithkeeper-81 · 28 days

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Trembling/Famished/Hollow/Gone

Mature Content 18+

Pairings: Frankie "Catfish" Morales/ OFC (mentioned)

Main relationship: Frankie "Catfish" Morales/Ben Miller/Santiago "Pope" Garcia/William "Iron Head" Miller. (non sexual)

Fic Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, Sad Boys, Mental Health Issues, Traumatic Brain Injury, Drug Addiction, Drug Abuse, Suicide, Military Inaccuracies.

Word Count: 3.6k

Inspired by Taylor Swift's Midnight Rain.

This was written as a part of the Taylor Swift drabble challenge.

As a Non-Swiftie this really was a HUGE challenge for me, thank you to @beskarandblasters for the open invite to participate and to @punkette1026 for lending a hand in the process of understanding my feelings towards this song and this story.

You can also find the story and some important notes in my AO3 -> IN MADNESS

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Also thank you to @beardedjoel for letting me rant about how much this song was not for me.

Act I: Petrichor Syndrome

Even in a different place, it always starts the same.

Sorrow, a chill in the air, the fog of early morning, and the heaviness of his body sinking into the mattress. The scent of damp earth, and cool wood against the soles of his feet when they touch the floor. He stands next to his borrowed bed for a moment and takes it all in, looking out into the Alaska wilderness from the panoramic window in one of the many guest bedrooms.

It’s surprising, he thinks, how much a few million dollars can buy you. Surprising how much they can cost you too.

He swallows the bitter taste of pain and memory, of soft cinnamon skin and beautiful sparkling eyes that look away, full of regret. It’s a razor gliding down his trachea, the memory of twisted metal and gunpowder, of a glass syringe hitting the pavement. Of how it was all his fault.

He takes a deep breath and looks away. He pretends not to think about it, about her, about them, about…Him. He pretends not to think about children crying in the middle of the night, about a punch to the face that split up the skin and left over an unhealable scar, about clear blue eyes, all-knowing that never looked on in reproach. He pretends not to think about the forgiveness he doesn’t deserve.

A light blue suit hangs on the edge of the half-opened closet door, a pair of perfectly shined shoes peek out from his open suitcase, and a carefully folded Tommy Bahama shirt sits neatly on a chair because they all made a promise.

He avoids the man in the mirror as he goes through the motions of a morning routine drilled into him a long time ago, and he doesn’t vomit out of sheer will. There’s lead in his stomach and a rattle shaking his bones.

And guilt.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

He flinches at the grumbling sound of the promise of thunder, nearby enemy fire.

He shouldn’t be here.

“Alaska?” Pope feels befuddled, dizzy, disoriented, and every adjective under the sun. Fucking ALASKA. He thought he was the only one with that, leaving , itch. He looks at Fish as if he just sprouted a second head out of his palm-tree-decorated short-sleeve-covered shoulder. Frankie smiles back at him, smooth and easy. Almost… Happy.

“Yeah!” He chuckles, taking a sip from his lukewarm corona, Benny’s fridge has been on the fritz for the past couple weeks, but hot beer is still beer, and Frank is still Frank. “Lusa thinks it’ll be good for the kids, you know? Nature, Community. She grew up there” The smile disappears. He looks away, to where Ben and Will are trying to get the grill going and then far away. His fingers reach up absentmindedly to scratch at his beard. Longer now, grayer. “Ahí puedo volar”, he whispers, almost too quietly.

“That’s cool man” Pope reaches out and pats his shoulder, firmly, just once. He lets his hand rest there, he ignores the way that he can almost feel bone. “I bet you’ll love it there, get you a fishing boat, para que ese nombre tenga sentido! Finally” He chuckles, and when Frankie looks back the smile springs forth again. It’s been so long since Pope last saw the spark in his eyes and the dimple on his cheek that he doesn’t have to pretend not to notice they’re not there anymore. He’s forgotten.

There are streamers all over the backyard of the humble home the younger Miller still keeps, a handmade banner full of roughly drawn hearts and male genitalia surrounding his full name. SANTIAGO GARCIA. And a shiny red Ferrari in the garage. A not-so-well-kept secret.

A loud whoop startles them, and they both turn to see Benny and Will have managed to get the old rickety grill going, a huge dopey smile on Ben’s face, his arms in the air, and a deep look of love and pride on his brother’s face. “Come on”, he says, slapping Frankie’s leg as he gets up from the old, worn lawn chair “Let’s go give me a proper goodbye this time” he laughs when Frankie groans and curses at the way his knees pop when he does the same.

This is a party, after all, a farewell celebration, a new mission, 2 years in the making.

A beautiful woman in Australia, still waiting for him.

A town like a cage finally left ajar. He has to go.

Act II: Fickle Food Upon a Shifting Plate

“Goddamnit!” he pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, tilting his head back, the slime-like feeling of fluid dripping down his throat makes him gag to the verge of choking. He swallows and shuts his eyes as tightly as he can, trying to counteract the pulsing headache that has been keeping him awake.

Three days, two nights.

Too late.

Soft heather gray fabric is digging into the skin of his biceps. The bottom of the shirt flares up, un-tucked just above the waistband of his emerald-green suit pants as he stretches. Two sizes too small. And he remembers it so well, never saw this shirt again until today, folded neatly on a little decorative table just outside his assigned bedroom.

Japanese Cranes on a busy street.

Just one look at himself in it was all it took, blown out pupil almost matching back with his healthy eye. And he wanted to throw up so badly, actually thought he would. But no, Ha! Because his life’s just such a fucking joke, his brain starts leaking instead. So fucking funny. What he deserves.

Eat it up, Benny boy. His stomach turns again.

He opens his eyes and stares at a faint watermark on the ceiling. A body slumped against a trash can in the middle of the day. An interview cut short by a sucker punch. He lets go and looks down and straight ahead into the face of the liar who got what he had coming. The mirror laughs at him.

He was the one always supposed to make sure it was safe. First hit. All clear.

He promised he would be there.

He stares, like a challenge. Tall, blonde, tan.

Disfigured.

He wears the shirt.

He’ll never break a promise again.

There’s a fucking Marquee with his name on it, front and center. The main event.

BENNY “FIRST HIT” MILLER

He laughs out loud, arms stretching as far as they can go, shaggy blond hair curling at the edges of a backward cap as he turns around and stands under the sign “Yeah! Look at this shit boooys!” He’s smiling so hard his face hurts “Ya boy bout’ to get richer! Hooah!”

“What have I said Benjamin” Frankie shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest “Never count your mon…” Ben rolls his eyes and cuts him off “...money before it’s in your pocket. I know, I know. Just be happy for me old man” He chuckles, slapping his shoulder once before slinging a long arm over his neck and pulling him close to his side. He stares at that face and notices that Frankie seems a little worn, a little tired. But his body’s strong after living like a lumberjack for the past 3 years, and his smile is wide, bright, and happy. Benny misses the dimple, but at least it reaches his eyes again if only slightly.

He misses the signs too, but only because he doesn’t know to look for them. Frankie’s clean. Took all the steps, wrote all the letters, said all the sorries. He’s happy and clean and flying again. There are wrinkles and white hair and nothing wrong at all. Not a single thing.

“Can’t believe you actually did it” His brother’s voice is deep as he comes to a standstill right next to him, and Benny snaps out of it, throwing an arm around Will's shoulders too. He can’t believe it either. Thirty-three years old, all the money he could dream of, a perfect house, a white picket fence. Eternal sunshine and peppermint-flavored holidays.

And that insatiable hunger, his name in shining lights, his face on TV sets.

His brothers in arms, in his arms.

He laughs. It’s picture-perfect.

Interlude: The Use of Unnecessary Violence Has Been Approved

Afghanistan: Some time between getting the boot and becoming criminals.

It’s Christmas day and they’re deep in the suck, deployed to conduct “training exercises” and bogus drug busts in the third world. But they know the drill, the time has come, heavy footsteps are banging in the attic and their clocks are ticking.

They can all smell it coming a mile down the road. Smells like polyester, ribbons, and flaky lacquer-covered medals.

Forced retirement.

They know too much and have seen shit no one would ever believe. They’re too expensive , and this? This is a fucking vacation, they’re just getting them out of the way, tucked into the furthest corner of the world they could find to send them to.

Mostly, it’s just fucking boring.

“Alright Benny, your turn”, Catfish proclaims, grabbing a sand-eroded bicycle playing card and sticking it to his forehead, he can see one 3 and two eights, fucking lucky Millers. “What are we wearing, baby?” he throws 2 chips onto the makeshift plywood table. Benny’s smile widens, and he slides half his chips into the pot.

“Mighty Morphing Power Ranges, Mother fuckers!” He laughs, wide and happy and young, and why shouldn’t he, at 25 years old he’s worn that heavy flag on his shoulder a loooooot less than the rest of ’em. “And you better fucking cry too. LOUD . I want the whole fucking town starting rumors about how much we really shared overseas” he winks and blows Pope a kiss.

Will snorts and calls it “I’m out” he waves his hands over the whole thing and looks at his card, the 8 of spades, he snorts again taking a sip of his coffee, it’s a hundred degrees out and it tastes like ass, but he spent a good chunk of cash to get the fucking thing shipped over. “How bout you Fish?” he asks, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and leaning back on his chair, letting the sunshine hit his face.

Frank looks at Pope’s 3 and Benny’s 8, he bites his lip and throws two more chips in. “Want y’all GQ buttfucks wearing suits” He waits, Pope goes in big, a determined frown on his face, he’s on the hunt. “Hawaiian shirts” He chuckles, picking a half-burned-out basuco cigarette off the rim of a can of lukewarm Pepsi, he picks at the peeling skin on a freckled shoulder and brings it up to his dry lips. “Yeah”, He nods, inhaling, the middle finger on his other hand pushing against the plastic card to hold it in place on his forehead. “Hawaiian shirts and colored suits. Lu hates black” He speaks through the billowing smoke.

Menthol and cocaine.

He wins the pot 2 minutes later and they play another round. Pope wants quinceañera dresses and Will... Will wants banana hammocks underneath Dress Blues.

They spend six months getting a nice tan and a sand rash. Trading photos of their girlfriends in various stages of nudity in exchange for 10 minutes of late-night internet access to mid-quality porn and the Food Network. They train during the day and spend their nights taking turns on the beat-up Panasonic, jerking off to a combination of Angela White solos and Rachel Khoo’s simple pleasures half a foot away from each other’s bunks.

They start faking Australian accents just for fun and learn how to cook French onion soup.

And… If push came to shove, they absolutely could pick out each other’s dicks from a lineup.

They’re veterans, honorably Discharged by the time their ride back home hits American Aerospace.

Life is good. Kind of.

Act III: Spare What’s Failing

He’s been up and ready since Zero Four Hundred .

He’d woken up to green, red, and yellow hues in the early morning sky. Fifteen minutes to shower and shave, 15 more to get dressed. Ten buttons through ten button holes, Four knots on his shoe laces. One, single, curved palm tree on his shirt.

His suit is a deep plum color, three-piece, and he’s even put on a tie. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he goes over his checklist, one more time, taps each button, and pulls each strap. He makes sure there are no creases. His shoes are polished, his waistcoat pressed. He adds 4 buttons to the list and pulls at the hem to make it fit just right. It’s armor. A uniform.

He throws the jacket on last. He steps forward out of the bathroom, and then back. One step, two steps, lights on, lights off, then on again. It’s a practiced dance by now, back home.

Here though? He’s thrown just a little off rhythm. Lights off. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. And he’s relaxed, he’s mindful and settled and calm. He’s picked clean like carrion.

He steps away. The light stays off.

He should have stayed where he belonged.

He tucks the moment away in a tinny little box in the palace of his mind, and he’s not sure how much it helps, because he knows those numbers by heart too. One hundred and Thirty-two little boxes all lined up in rows. His childhood bedroom. His barracks dorm. A hastily built plywood container with four bunk beds in the middle of a desert storm. A house of cards and rained-soaked blood money.

The life they gave away. The life that came after.

Miami-Dade County Morgue.

He exhales. Light blue eyes hone in on a ticking clock.

A time bomb.

Zero Five Thirty. There’s nothing left.

He’s empty.

“Holly shit Fish, another kid?” He leans forward, holding Frank’s phone as he stares at a photo of his friend’s two little boys holding a sonogram and hugging Lusa in front of a beautifully wild Alaska nature backdrop, he swipes right, and then it’s just a tiny round belly, Frankie’s hand interlocked with his wife’s over it.

There’s a sharp whistle over his shoulder, and a heavy hand falling on his back “Woah! Ironhead, Who you got knocked up?!” A chuckle followed by loud whoops and hugs. “That’s my wife, pendejo!” Frankie smiles, and Will sees that dimple for the first time in what feels like a lifetime (6 years, 3 months, 2 weeks, and 4 days). He thinks it’s ironic that it should be Pope who brings it back.

He snatches the phone out of Will’s hand and swipes to the next photo, a perfect silhouette of a very obviously naked and very heavily pregnant Lu “For real? Que le paso al bebe nuevo?” Will snorts, sitting back against the cushioned bench in their favorite booth. ��The new baby’s six years old man”, he takes a sip out of the beer Benny sets down in front of his face. Fish points a finger at him confirming this information is true. They haven’t seen Santi in almost 5 years, and Frank only does his Florida/Alaska run every 6 months.

This night is special.

“So you’re back for good huh?” Pope nods and takes the beer offered to him in his hand “Yeah, she just packed her shit and told me it was over and… well Australia fucking sucks” he smiles “But, enough about me. What’s going on with you?” he asks, pointing a thumb towards his right side “Benny boy here’s a big boy fighter now, Fish’s flying and doing to his part to overpopulate Juneau” He leans back, and gulps down half his beer in one go “What’s going on in Iron head’s world? You still doing your part for Uncle Sam?”

And Will, well, he notices things. Deflection for one, the pain in Santiago’s eyes, the wavering in his smile. And he notices other things too, the shaking in Frankie’s hand as he lifts his own pint, the new tattoo down his forearm.

The pink spots around his knuckles.

There’s a prickling in his stomach, and goosebumps on the back of his neck, and he should say something, anything but he’s not really sure that there’s something there. He’s not sure of many things “Not anymore” he replies, shaking his head.

They drink and they don’t really talk much. Frankie shows them more photos, Lusa, the kids, the huge fucking cabin-slash-mansion in the middle of the woods, Regina… his seaplane. He’s happy.

They all are, they smile and drink and smoke and Benny shows off, Pope gets drunk, and Frankie disappears into the bathrooms for a good 20 minutes. Will hesitates.

They have good lives.

They’re all good liars.

Act IV: Dead Man

At 7 a.m. on the dot, three doors open simultaneously.

Three men look up. A Mexican standoff, too scared to be the first to step up, too scared to be the last one. Blue, Green, Purple. They stare at each other for what feels like a little too long, can’t look into the other’s eyes.

Shame, Self-loading, Fear.

A sadness so deep it pours over them, dampening their bones. There’s thunder now, the promise fulfilled, threatening rain. there’s a chill in the air and the sound of their combined breath only makes their discomfort all the more obvious. They haven’t REALLY been together in almost 4 years. Too busy, too famous, too… damaged.

Too selfish.

There’s a sigh, a hard sniffle. “Come on” Ben’s voice is deep and soft as he pulls his bedroom door closed and limps his way down the hallway, he doesn’t wait for them to follow him, but he can feel them right there, behind, to the right of him, to the left of him. They walk into battle again, towards the worst promise they ever broke. Towards what’s left of the man they left behind.

Three phones went unanswered, and three voicemails were heard too late. Three men, almost strangers, identified the same face. And now, here they are, in missing man formation, marching to the last goodbye.

And it’s funny how they were trained in brutishness, to victimize, in savagery, to terrorize. they learned inadequacy and became murderers. And they forgot along the way what it should have meant. They never learned to save each other properly, because that skill was not of use.

A dead man is waiting for them.

And this time they will be there.

“Fish is dead”

That’s the first thing Ben remembers when he opens his eyes, everything is blurry, and the light is too bright. There’s a headache splitting his brain apart. He tries to breathe and starts to choke. Loud beeping noises start firing all at once, he’s thrashing against restraints, half his body feels like it’s not there and shadows are hovering over him, pulling and tugging and asking him to cough and telling him to “Please calm down sir… you’re ok”

A week in a coma. His career is gone. His brother on the phone, urgently, in the middle of his weight-in, three words.

He doesn’t lock his eyes back on his opponent fast enough. One second too late.

His world crumbles.

Police have been waiting for him to wake up because they found his name and number tattooed on the back of a John Doe’s shoulder. And it makes sense now that when they’d wheeled him out Santiago was there, Ben’s tattoo has HIS name and number on it.

Will has Frank's. They all have Will's.

Santiago has contacts, he knows people and after they ID the body he manages to get his hands on the coroner’s report. The scene photos. It feels… surreal.

A big man, made small. Sitting hunched over on a bench, held up by a trash can, in the middle of South Beach, a fist clenched tight, a needle stuck between his knuckles, a shattered glass syringe at his feet.

Three voice mails, and then six, and then nine. They all start the same.

“Hey it’s Frankie”

Haven’t seen you in a while… We should get together… I’m in town, need to talk…

Too busy, too famous, too scared.

Pope handles the cops, Will handles the ARMY, and Ben… Ben spends 3 months in Rehab learning how to become human again. Once it’s all over, Lusa and the kids get a flag and a check.

And the 4 of them take their last flight together.

Epilogue

“What you depart from is not the way.”

Ezra Pound.

Francisco Morales knows he’s going to die.

He knows how, when, and as he sits on that bench at 12:01 a.m. he finds… Where . And it’s not like it was planned down to a T or anything. No, he left some wiggle room. There wasn’t enough space to contain them.

He was happy, don’t get him wrong, he was. Had everything a man like him could want, a beautiful wife, a beautiful house, and three beautiful children. A beautiful life. It was too bad though, that he had been dead for a decade, his body moving forward, the machine still running.

His soul had gone, long ago. In the middle of the jungle with his finger on the trigger. He was no more.

He looks out into the ocean, deep and dark, and vast. Cleansing. The neon glow of orange, red, and blue lights on the strip, the far-away sounds of life, the palm trees swaying in the breeze. It feels right. He’s come home.

He takes a deep breath, that warmth of the air, the scent of coconut tanning oil and stale beer, he thinks of blue eyes, dark hair, and a dopey smile. He thinks of the days before when they had dreams of pride, and the days during, grueling heat and scorching sand, a clear mission. And he thinks of the days… after.

Zero Three Hundred

He pops the cap off on the last weapon he’ll ever hold, clenches his fist tight, and finds a vein.

He pulls the trigger.

#😭

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faithkeeper-81 · 29 days

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Dead By Daylight (Complete)

Summary: Frankie's sick. The team is stuck out in the middle of nowhere. Chalk it up to horrible luck.

Author's note: Set before the movie during the boys' Delta Force Days

Catfish

Pope

Redfly

Ironhead

Benny

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faithkeeper-81 · 1 month

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State of the WIP Address

Forgot to mention two completed Fluffbruary pieces from last week? the week before? I dunno I'm slowly coming back to life:

14 : phone | bubble bath | doll -- Frankie Morales 15 : cord | bakery | honey -- Marcus Pike

I'm that person that gets lazy, lets things build up and then gets overwhelmed and feels too guilty to start on any of it because while I'm busy with one thing, there are 10 other things that are falling further behind because I'm not working on them all at once as if that was possible.

The 200 words a day thing is breaking that. Am I back up to writing 1-2K at a clip? Hell no. But it's nice to see that it's easy to just shoot for 200 and easily come out over that. Progress on Leave Off Your Wandering is being made. Hopefully once I get out from under this next week coming up, I'll be in the practice enough again to just keep rolling on through.

And I have a little hour to myself rn with the need to push the story forward, so I'm gonna do that before I get scared off, because I'm about to go to the hardest part of this whole chapter.

Deep breath. Baby steps.

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faithkeeper-81 · 1 month

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I saw you’re looking for inspiration and I had an idea for you.

It’s Javi P!

Perhaps he goes out for drinks with Steve and Connie… he goes to grab a round and gets approached by an attractive woman but she’s not what she seems. Stabs him and its down to Connie and Steve to save him. Maybe the knife is also laced with something? 🤔

Whump away 🙈

Hi Nonnie! Thank you for sending this in! I apologize this completely got away from me. Consider it my return to the writing world post-graduate program.

Also I apologize if I’m a bit rusty.

Free Falling

Summary: a night on the town goes south

Work count: 4K

Warnings: Javier Whump, mentions of blood and injury

Steve never knew how he'd convinced Javier to take a break from work and have a few drinks with him and Connie, but his dark-hair partner was here in the flesh. He was charming and convivial. It was certainly a nice break from work-Javi that was cranky, sarcastic and an overall pain in the ass.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the man they'd taken in for questioning had sung like a tea kettle, and they had their first lead against Escobar in months.

Whatever the reason, the beer was flowing. Everyone was in a good mood, and it was shaping up to be a pretty good night.

"Alright, Javi. It's your turn," Connie giggled as she took a swig of her beer. "Truth or dare?"

Javier rolled his eyes. He wasn't quite drunk enough to be enjoying this game yet.

"Uhhh, truth," he answered quickly.

"Come on, you wimp!" Steve bellowed as he slapped Javier on the back. He was almost drunk enough to enjoy the game. "You've picked truth every time now, and nothing you've said has been all that surprising."

"Unless you're too chicken," Connie teased.

Javier sighed. "Alright! Alright! Dare."

Connie got a mischievous look as she glanced around the bar before she grinned and turned back to Javier. "Alright. I dare you to get that girl to take you home," she said as she nodded to a dark-haired woman in a mini-skirt and cropped tank top who was nursing a fancy-looking cocktail.

"Aw, come on, Connie! At least give him a challenge!" Steve groaned.

"I did! I think she's way out of his league," she replied.

Javier knocked back the rest of his beer before standing with a cocky grin on his face. He performatively cracked his knuckles. "Just sit back and let me show you how it's done," he said before strolling to the bar. In his well-fitting jeans, cream button-up and dark leather jacket, he turned a few heads as he went.

"You know he's going to be real smug about it, too," Steve said as he watched Javier make his move.

"Well, I figured you and I might be able to slip off and have a little...alone time." Steve turned his attention from his partner at her words, and his wife cocked her eyebrow mischievously. "You've been working late every night for a week."

"And what's that got to do with Javier?"

"Well, I didn't want to just ditch him, so I figured if he found his own playmate, he wouldn't mind so much. I'm sure he gets bored hanging out with the old married couple."

Steve turned his attention back to the bar just in time to see the dark-haired woman leading Javier toward the back, where the restrooms and, no doubt, a back door were. He grinned and looked at his wife.

"Well, well, well. Looks like we're alone now, Mrs. Murphy."

"Hmm, it would seem so," Connie replied with a sultry look in her eye. "Why don't you go pay our tab, and then we'll head home."

As Steve went to pay, his gaze shifted to the hall down which Javier and his conquest had disappeared. For some unknown reason, an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and he couldn't shake it. Even as he paid and started to follow his wife out of the crowded bar, it worsened.

"You sure we shouldn't check on Javier?" he asked, stopping suddenly outside the door.

"Believe me, honey. He's doing just fine."

"But they went out the back door."

"Maybe they were looking to get a little action in the alley. I don't know!" Connie exclaimed. "Javi's freaky that way. Seems like just the thing he'd do."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right," Steve replied, though he didn't sound too convinced.

Connie sighed. "Would you like to go back in and double-check? Would that make you feel better?"

"Yeah," Steve replied as he went back into the bar with Connie trailing behind.

Everything seemed in order in the hallway. There was no sign of Javier and his fling anywhere. Steve still couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in his gut as he checked the alley, only to see it was dark and empty.

"He probably went home or something," Steve finally said.

"See? Everything's ok. Now, come on. I want to get you home and out of those clothes," Connie urged.

"Hang on a sec," Steve said as he knocked on the bathroom door. "Javier?"

"Gross! You definitely don't want to find him in there for a number of reasons," Connie replied with a disgusted look on her face.

"S-Steve?" came a weak, shaky voice from behind the door.

Steve's heart did a summersault in his chest. "Javier! Is that you?"

"H-help me...."

"Shit!" Connie cursed as Steve tried the knob, only to find that the door was locked.

"Javi, the door's locked. Can you let me in?"

"Can't..."

His partner's short, weak replies and vagueness were scaring him to death as he desperately tried to think of a way to get the door open. "Javi, I'm going to break down the door, so stand back," he announced.

"O-ok."

Steve kicked the door in with all his strength, effectively breaking the lock as it swung open. The sight that met his eyes was something straight out of a crime novel. Javier was slumped against the wall by the sink, sprawled out like a limp doll. Worst of all, Steve could see the handle of a knife protruding from his upper abdomen. A small river of red was oozing lazily from the wound. His face was sweaty and ashen.

"Shit! What happened!?" Steve gasped as he practically jumped to his partner's side. Connie was right behind him.

"She was the-the sister of the man we arrested," Javier swallowed as his shaking hand moved to the knife. "Wanted revenge." His hand closed around the handle, but Connie stopped him gently.

"Don't touch it, Javi. Gotta leave that in, ok?" She reassuringly squeezed his hand into her own as she removed it from the knife handle.

"H-hard to breathe," Javier replied as his head lolled in the direction of the nurse.

"I know. Judging by the angle, I think it may have hit your lung. But it's currently plugging up the wound. If you move it, it could cause more damage, and you'd die before we could get you help, so I need you to stay as still as possible."

"Shit. Shit, this isn't good, Connie," Steve said as he tried to get his scrambling brain to settle so he could think of a plan.

"I know. But don't worry. We're going to fix this," Connie replied calmly as she removed her jacket and set it to the side with her purse. This was his wife's element; she was the pinnacle of strength and level-headedness in a crisis. "Go call for an ambulance now. And let the bartender know that no one needs to come back here. The less of a crowd, the better."

"Ok. I'll be right back. You listen to everything she tells you, Jav," Steve directed before jumping up and leaving the small powder room.

"Where is that woman now?" Connie asked when she saw Javier's face twisted up in pain. She needed to distract him.

"Wh-went out the window," Javier replied weakly as he gestured his head to the open window by the toilet. "C-can you get me out of here?"

Connie shook her head. "It's too dangerous to move you, Javier."

Javier squeezed his eyes shut as sweat ran down the side of his face. "Great. G-gonna die next to the can. Like Elvis."

"You're not going to die, Javier. Steve's gone to ring for an ambulance. As long as that knife stays put, you won't bleed out. Besides, Steve will be damned if he lets you stick him with all the paperwork.

Javier let out a sound like a strangled groan. "Y-yeah, he's always been lazy." He tried to push himself up so he was sitting up a bit but Connie stopped him.

"I'm serious, Javier. You can't move."

"Feels like I'm trying to breathe through water," Javier wheezed.

Connie watched his breaths for a moment, noting how hard he appeared to be trying. His chest heaved weakly as he gasped. Even with the blade plugging most of the wound, no doubt air was still escaping into his chest, and blood was slowly leaking into his lungs.

"Alright. Alright, as soon as Steve comes back, we'll figure something out, ok?" She smoothed his damp bangs back from his face and tried not to notice the twinge of fear in his eyes.

As if on cue, Steve returned in a huff. "The bartender has the bathrooms blocked off, so no one else will come this way. I've called the ambulance, but it will be a bit. Some sort of festival or something is downtown, and traffic's backed up."

"G-great," Javier coughed weakly. Connie didn't like how congested it sounded.

"It's alright. We'll just keep calm until then. Now, about getting you more comfortable." Connie took a moment to determine how Javier was slumped and what would be the easiest way to adjust him with as little movement as possible. "Ok, Steve, I think if you can sit him up very carefully, just a little, I can slide in behind him and prop him up."

"You sure it's going to be ok?" Steve asked nervously.

"Yeah. We'll just move slowly and carefully." She turned to Javier. "Ok, Steve is going to carefully move you a bit. It's important that you stay relaxed and let him do the work."

"Oh, Javi's very good at that. Aren't you, pal?" Steve attempted to joke in an effort to lighten the mood.

"Smart ass," Javier wheezed.

"Alright, honey. Let's move him now. Let me know when you're ready. We'll make this as smooth as possible."

"I've got you, buddy," Steve reassured gently as he carefully wrapped one arm around his partner's shoulders and the other supporting his lower back. "Ok, I'm ready."

"Alright. Don't sit him up too much. Just enough so I can slide in. If you get a big pain response, stop. Javier, just stay nice and still. Don't try to sit up." She waited until both men nodded before she took a deep breath.

"Alright. One, two, three!"

Carefully, Steve pulled Javier's torso up just enough to let his wife slip in behind him. When he was sure she was comfortable, he carefully laid him back so his partner was propped up against his wife.

"There now," Connie said with a sigh of relief. "How does that feel?"

"Better," Javier said, releasing a shaky breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"Good. We'll just stay like this until the ambulance gets here. Steve? I'm going to need you to be my eyes and monitor him in case anything changes."

"Copy that," Steve replied as he watched Javier nervously. Though the man's breathing had eased a little with this new position, he was still sucking in the same weak, open-mouth gasps he was before, and he'd gone from ashen to white now. Blood was trickling from the wound, creating a large stain on his button-up. The ambulance needed to get here and fast.

"Still think truth or dare was a good idea?" Javier panted.

"Well, I didn't realize that somehow you, of all people, would turn harmless flirting into a life-or-death situation," Connie replied.

"So I-I am dying."

"Enough of that. You know what I mean."

Javier tried to fire back a witty comment, but his breath caught in his throat, and a violent coughing spell exploded from him. Connie winced as she felt him spasm against her, and she didn't like how it sounded. Steve looked at her, and he didn't have to say anything for her to know that Javier had coughed up blood.

"Here, buddy. Let me get that for you," Steve said as he grabbed a few paper towels and used them to wipe his partner's mouth.

A weak whimper left Javier's lips as his body trembled like a leaf.

"I promise, babe. It's going to be alright. Ambulance should be here any moment now," Connie soothed as she carded her fingers through his damp hair.

They all sat silently for a moment as Connie listened to Javier struggling to breathe. Everything was going to be fine, she rationalized. As long as she could keep him calm and not injure him further, they would be ok. They just had to sit tight for a few more minutes.

"Javier! Hey! Open your eyes, Javier!" Steve shouted suddenly, pulling Connie from her thoughts. He gently patted his partner's face.

"Wake him up, honey. Don't let him close his eyes," Connie urged, hating that she couldn't see what was happening.

"I know. I know! Open your eyes, Peña!" Steve shouted.

Javier groaned as his eyes slid open. "Steve?"

"Scared the shit out of me, buddy. You have to stay awake until the ambulance gets here, ok?"

Connie felt the man in her arms as he began trembling like a leaf. Another strangled groan pulled from his lips as his breath hitched painfully. Connie put her hand on his chest, trying to steady him and keep him calm. She took extra precaution not to disturb the knife handle.

"Just breathe, Javier. Slow and steady. You're gonna be alright," she soothed.

He couldn't summon the oxygen to reply and instead gripped her hand like his life depended on it. A loud siren blared, startling the trio, but Connie let out a sigh of relief. Help had arrived.

"Help's here now, Javier. You're going to be fine." She looked at her husband. "Go flag them down and explain our current situation to them. Let them know it's going to be all hands on deck to move him without causing further damage."

"Copy that," Steve replied before jumping up to flag down the paramedics.

In a few minutes, he returned with about five medics in tow. One carried a stretcher, and the other had an oxygen mask and tank. For a moment, they stood in the doorway as they tried to assess their next steps.

"Let's get him on the oxygen first," Connie directed from her place behind the fallen agent. "I think if we keep him elevated and carefully slide him onto the stretcher, we can get out of here with minimal issues."

"There we go, buddy. Just breathe, ok?" Steve urged gently as the medic quickly placed the mask over Javier's mouth and nose and slipped the strap over his head. Connie didn't like how hard he was still working, even with the extra support. They needed to move now.

"Alright. Let's get him out of here," Connie said. "We move quickly, carefully, and we don't move that knife."

The medics nodded and talked lowly amongst themselves in Spanish for a few moments, no doubt strategizing their plan of attack before breaking and gathering around Javier.

Connie wasn't sure what happened next. To this day, she never got a straight answer, and Steve was not medically trained enough to be able to explain adequately in the next few minutes. But as the medics attempted to shift Javier to the stretcher and free Connie from behind him, Javier let out a pained cry, and his body jerked, and suddenly, there was a flurry of activity.

"What's going on? What's happening?" Steve demanded as Connie, now free from Javier's weight, jumped up.

Connie shouted at the medics as they got Javier situated on the stretcher. The man in question was gasping like a fish out of water, and there was nothing but panic in his eyes.

"C-Connie. C-Can't bre-brea...." he trailed off as he clenched his fists and panted desperately.

"Let's move him now!" Connie shouted angrily. "Steve, his lung was punctured and air's escaping into his chest. They'll have to stabilize him in the ambulance. Call a cab and meet us at the hospital. The one that's a few blocks west. That's where they'll be taking him," she directed as she followed the stretcher out of the bar. She wasn't going to let Javier out of her site.

Steve was hot on her heels but separated when the group got to the ambulance to call for a taxi. Connie lept into the open ambulance and watched as they slid the stretcher on the gurney.

Javier couldn't breathe. Everything was swirling around him in a hazy blob as his brain cried out desperately for oxygen. He wanted to beg and plead to anyone around him for just a gulp of precious air, but he couldn't. Stranger's faces were looking back at him as pain ran through his chest and settled like an elephant on his torso.

Steve had been next to him at one point. Where had he gone? With a groan, he tried to look for him, but then a gentle hand stroked his face and eased him back. A shock of blond hair and blue eyes came into view.

"You're alright, Javier. Just lay back. You're going to be fine." Her soft tone shifted to one that sounded urgent as she barked in Spanish at the medics.

"C-Con..." he gasped, grabbing her arm with a shaking hand. "Can't...breathe." His vision started to gray around the edges, his limbs went numb, and a ringing filled his ears. This was how he was going to die.

"I know, babe. They're fixing it. I promise. Just hang onto my hand. You're going to feel a little pinch."

Javier's oxygen-starved brain didn't comprehend her words until he felt a sharp pain digging deep into his flesh. He let out a breathless scream, fogging up the mask as he tried to arch away from the pain. Strong hands held him down. Connie was shouting at him, but her voice sounded like it was underwater.

For one breathless minute, Connie watched as Javier teetered on the edge of consciousness as the medic fed a clear plastic tube into the incision on the agent's side, and then the blessed sound of air escaping, followed by a splash of blood, filled her ears as Javier started to gulp down hungry lungfuls of air.

"There we go. There we go, Javi. Just breathe. That's it. Slow breaths," Connie soothed as she smoothed his hair back.

"I-I can breathe," Javier rasped hoarsely as he tried to catch his breath.

"Good. You're going to be fine now. We'll get you to the hospital and get you patched up."

"Stay," he murmured as his eyes grew heavy. He didn't know when the medics had inserted an IV line and pushed painkillers into his system.

"I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'm right here."

********************

Steve couldn't stop pacing. His wife had fallen asleep, curled up beside Javier, long ago, but he couldn't bring himself to relax. Not until he saw his partner awake and coherent. The horrible sound of Javier's gasps still haunted him, and it would be a while before he'd be able to shake the sight of his partner's bloodless, panicked face from his memory.

If he hadn't acted on his intuition, Javier would be dead. He still almost died. It was too close a call, and he would never gamble with Javier's life like that again.

A soft groan from the bed pulled him from his thoughts, and he saw Javier's brow furrow as he started to come around. Steve was at his bedside in a moment, ensuring he didn't disturb any of the equipment keeping his partner comfortable.

"Take it easy, Peña. You're alright," he said gently as his eyes flickered open.

"Did I die?" Javier murmured.

"Almost. Did your darndest but it would appear the doctors are more stubborn than you are. Connie wouldn't let you either."

Javier's head lolled weakly to the side as he took in Connie sleeping beside him. "You got one hell of a woman, Steve. You both saved my life."

"What are friends for?"

Javier let out a sigh. "What are the odds I can smoke?"

"Given that your left lung is out of commission for the time being and you're on supplementary oxygen, I'd say not great," Steve replied.

"That bites."

"Steve, you heard the doctor. He's supposed to be taking it easy," Connie murmured sleepily.

"I thought you were asleep," Steve retorted.

"You two woke me up."

"Sorry," Javier replied. He was feeling the pull of the drugs again.

"Get some rest, Javi. You'll be back to your usual drinking, smoking and flirting before you know it," Connie urged gently.

Javier let his eyes drift closed again. "Next time, I think I'll stick with my pre-approved brothels."

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faithkeeper-81 · 1 month

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This looks like a picture! Amazing talent! 💜💖

POV you stole his vambrace

quick matte painting inspired by today's discord chat. thank you lovelies!

#stealyourblorbos

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faithkeeper-81 · 2 months

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All Farms…

Javier Peña

Summary: Javier has to decide what to do with the ranch

Warnings/Tags: grief, loss, hurt (no comfort?), ranch/farm used interchangeably here.

Notes: I started this on Christmas after walking my grandparents farm which happens to be the same farm I lived on for the first 7 years of my life. My grandparents are getting older which has sparked a lot of conversation with what will happen to the farm when they're gone. Fast forward to now, I'm currently processing a lot of feelings this Easter weekend. I lost my step dad last year. He was a farmer too. After his cancer diagnosis, all of us kids (there are ALOT of us) came home for Easter. It was the last time I saw him look like himself and the last time we were all together before he died. In my processing, I started working on this piece again. It's one of those things I need to put out into the world for me. I hope for anyone else going through something similar, it brings you comfort or makes you feel not quite so alone.

Peep the cow picture. I took that one myself at Christmas :)

Words: 966

Author Master List

All farms have a graveyard. One of lost memories and stories. Typically along a ridge or tree line, piled-up equipment that was never sold or broken beyond repair sits in overgrown piles and sunken earth. The old family car. The beat-up sports car or pickup truck each son or sometimes daughter inevitably thought they could fix only to spend hundreds of fruitless hours with one glory ride before it went haywire. Scrap metal torn from barn roofs pile up. Every tire imaginable is half buried in the earth. No farmer dares to clean out the graveyard. The moment you do, you’ll find use or need for the items thrown out.

The Peńa’s graveyard sits between scattered trees at the bottom of the hill. Javier rarely makes his way to that side of the farm. They don’t use that space for cattle since his dad downsized the herd. He pretends there’s no reason for it, but it’s more than just broken down cars and scrap piles to Javier. It’s a ghost town of memories.

There’s his mom’s ‘62 Ford. The one she drove his whole childhood. The vehicle that took them across town, to Sunday services, and hosted their many road trips. It’s where his Mom feels most tangible, her soft voice playing in his head singing to the radio.

His first truck. The one he’d spent months fixing up, he kissed Sally Jones on a Saturday night and done much more with Vanessa Reyes. He’s proposed to Lorraine in that truck, driven past the church in it too.

Chucho’s first American Harvester sits further back. His dad is so proud of that machine… or he was.

The ache grows in Javier’s chest as he stands at the edge of the graveyard. He begged Chucho for years to clean this up. His dad always waved him off, stating that he would get to it someday. Except, Chucho didn’t make it to someday, and now it is Javier’s responsibility.

His fingers twitch, desperate for the feel of a cigarette between them. Nicorette gum sits in his breast pocket instead. He’s working to quit again, picking the worst damn time to do it, but that’s life.

He should probably bring the tractor down to pull everything out. It’s overwhelming with no good place to start. Digging around down there will only dig up the memories. Javier can’t deal with the memories right now, so he leaves the project for another day. He only needs to clean it up if he decides to sell the ranch.

The house is quiet when he walks through the door. Javier is used to the subtle sounds of life- the coffee pot going, the tv running on low, Chucho’s boots on the linoleum, but it never comes. It won’t ever come again.

Javier kicks off his boots, lining them right next to his dad’s. He hasn’t moved them. He’s not sure he will.

He heads for the back of the house toward his room but stops at his Dad’s door. It’s shut tight as he places a hand on the wood. Javier hasn’t gone in there since picking out clothes. It’s a strange thing to pick out clothes for a dead man. How does one pick out what someone will wear for the rest of eternity?

His hand lands on the knob, and it gives way with a squeak. The same squeak that used to echo down the hall, waking Javier up before the sun to let him know it was time for chores. Javier is flooded with the comforting scent of his father. It envelopes him, pulling tears into his eyes immediately. The bed is fixed just as Chucho had left it before he went out and started the chores just as he always did. Except that day, almost a month ago now, Chucho Peña didn’t return to the house.

He collapsed in the field. He was already gone when Javier found him. He died alone and that hurt almost as much as the fact that he was gone.

A thin layer of dust covers the surfaces in the room. He should clean it, but would it lose its smell then? In here, Javier feels surrounded by his father. The closest he can get to him. His room, the one he shared with Javier’s mother, is perfectly preserved.

Javier dares to ease onto the bed and look at the world from Chucho’s perspective every day as he woke up. On the dresser, there’s a photo of his parents when they first started dating, and one from Javier’s high school graduation. On the bedside table, there’s a book with a bookmark halfway through, a picture from his parent’s wedding day, and another of Chucho on the tractor with Javier in his lap. He couldn’t have been older than two at the time. Javier traces it with his finger, wishes he could remember that moment, wishes he could go back in time and relive it all, even the bad days, and treasure it all, ask his dad more questions, called him more often.

Javier lays down on his parents' bed. Chucho’s scent is thicker here with Javier’s head on his pillow. Big, hot tears fall from the corners of his eyes dampening the pillow. He rests his hands over his chest, letting his eyes close. Javier can hear his voice now, his laughter, catches a hint of his mother’s as well. It’s Javier’s job to carry on their legacy.

All farms have a graveyard. One of lost memories and stories. No farmer dares to clean out the graveyard. When a tractor kicks the dust or that farm use pickup can only be stripped for parts, Javier follows in his father’s footsteps. He lays them to rest between scattered trees at the bottom of the hill.

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faithkeeper-81 · 2 months

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12:32 PM (Marcus Moreno Drabble)

Rating: PG

Summary: Marcus likes to think he's moved on with life.

Tags/Warnings: Grief, loss of a spouse (Wife), fluff

Notes: Written off the prompt "I've always wondered why it had to be you" as an exercise with with some friends where we were assigned a prompt and Pedro boy and given 30 minutes to write. Thanks to @saradika-graphics for the divider!

Words: 700

Author Master List | Daily Clicks for Palestine & Other Resources

Marcus goes every Thursday at 12:32 pm. Rain or Shine. Sleet or Snow. Sometimes when he was still the leader of The Heroics, he’d have to miss his standing date, but his watch would ding in reminder instead.

Now that he’s retired, he never misses it.

Every Thursday at 12:32 pm, Marcus visits Marissa Moreno’s grave with a bouquet of her favorite flowers and a tuna melt. The exact day and time he spotted her across the greasy spoon he frequented, favorite sandwich inches from his mouth. The exact moment his life changed forever.

He’d been young and arrogant at the time, twenty-two and ready to take the world by storm as the dashing young superhero he was. Marcus is confident, always has been, but the moment she came over and asked him if he needed a refill, his mouth went dry and he stumbled over his words like a damn fool. It was two months of tuna melts before he finally pulled it together enough to ask her out.

She had laughed, his favorite sound in the world, the prettiest music to his ears, and winked at him. “Took you long enough.”

Marcus never looked back after that. They got married a year to the day after he first saw her. They’d welcomed Missy into their lives a few years later, and life was perfect. A dream. Marcus knew he was the luckiest man in the world. He treasured his wife and daughter. He still does.

He still feels the sharp jab of pain in his heart every time he thinks back to that rainy Tuesday night.

“I’ll be back by 10.” She had smiled at him as she dropped her lipstick into her clutch. Mom’s night out. He’d made a good attempt to keep her home with sultry words and a kiss that required her to reapply her lipstick. Had he known it would be their last, he’d have never let her go.

She’d kissed Missy’s head, declared her love for both of them, and rushed out of the house. At ten o’clock, she wasn’t home. Marcus hadn’t been concerned at first. Then, the clock hit eleven. At twelve, her phone had gone straight to voicemail. Before he could call Christine, there was a knock at the door.

He caught the flash of police lights painting the walls of his home before he ever saw the police officers. He’d known. It felt like a dream sequence. He didn’t hear a word the officers said.

The next year of Marcus’s life had been like that. A living dream that to this day, he can only recall in blurs and flashes. Finally, one day he’d walked into that diner, sat in the same booth, and sobbed. His poor waitress. Apparently, it had been her first day. That had only made him cry more.

Marcus can’t tell you how long he cried in that diner. Only that it was daylight when he walked in and the black of night greeted him when he emerged.

He’s done better since then. He’s been better since, now 20 years removed from the night that took his wife from him.

He keeps her up to date on everything. His life, Missy’s life. He laughs over some trouble the twins got into and cries over the fact that she doesn’t get to be here for it. He tells her how much Missy reminds him of her in everything. Her mannerisms, her glow. She’s always been the bright shining, light leading him out of the darkness, just like her mother.

He likes to think he’s gotten past it and moved on with life. He doesn’t tell her how he wakes up missing her each morning, the sheets cool on her side of the bed, or that he still sets her coffee mug out on the table each morning. He tells her he’s okay, when deep down he doesn’t know if he ever will be again.

He sets a hand on top of the tombstone. The ache never dulls. Despite the countless times he’s said goodbye, the words always echo in his head with tears flicking in his eyes.

Why did it have to be her?

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faithkeeper-81 · 2 months

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Yes please 🥺

Seriously craving to write some Javi P angst. I miss him.

#novemberrain-writes #angst

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faithkeeper-81 · 2 months

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Love at First...Light

Summary: Welcome to the neighborhood. (Part the Love at First... anthology.)

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader (pre-/no-outbreak)

Rating: No explicit content, but 18+ please.

Warnings: Texas in July, wild animals, Joel Miller's tan line

Word Count: 1K

The new house has – how did the realtor put it? – ‘classic charm.’ It’s a modest postwar ranch with an eat-in kitchen and two cozy bedrooms and a concrete patio out back that turns cool and damp in the afternoon shade.

The rest of the houses in the neighborhood are nearly identical, varied only by the swing-sets peeking over backyard fences and the basketball goals hanging above garage doors. All-American meets Don’t-Mess-with-Texas: kid-sized bikes dropped onto their sides battle for driveway space with dually trucks boasting ‘Hook ‘Em, Horns!’ bumper stickers.

You’ve been in the new place for barely a week, but most of the boxes are unpacked, and your forwarded mail is finally starting to show up in your mailbox every afternoon. Seeing your name on the envelopes, printed above this new address that is yours and yours alone, makes you welcome even the junk mail.

Today, like most days, you’re spooning Cheerios into your mouth by 6:15, squinting at the coffee pot while you wait for it to finally finish its sputtering, when you remember – it’s trash day.

Shit.

You scoop the last few Os from the bowl and take a fast gulp of the oat-sweet milk left behind, then give the bowl a haphazard rinse before plunking it in the dishwasher. You grab the kitchen trash and hurry out the front door. The concrete drive is toasty-warm on your bare feet, and a few buzzing June bugs bump woozily into the dim bulb over your garage as you pass by. The garbage can is tucked around the corner of the house, just beyond the pale circle of light, and you are about to reach for the top when you hear the hiss.

Your eyes piece together the dark shape in the shadows: long nose, curling tail, coarse matted hair. The possum hisses again and you drop the garbage bag.

“Shoo!” You take two startled steps back and clap your palms together sharply. “Get away! Get!”

“I was just about to ask if you needed a hand.” The voice that slides through the darkness is warm, softened by a flat Texas twang, and you spin to the right to see your neighbor standing in his driveway. “But if you want me to shoo –” the corners of his mustache quirk up as his eyebrows lift – “I’ll leave you be.”

Your eyes have already skittered back to the possum who is retreating sullenly into the darkness.

“No, not you – him.” You point, and your neighbor crosses the distance between the two of you in four long strides.

“Oh. We’ve met.” He nods knowingly and gives the base of your trash cart a couple of easy kicks, the thumps reverberating through the quiet July morning. The possum turns tail – you suddenly understand that idiom – and runs. “She’s a regular.”

His grin is a little lopsided, and you can see a dimple on his cheek through his scruffy beard.

“How do you know it’s a she?”

The smile broadens. “Ex-girlfriend.”

Your laugh is almost a snort, and his eyes twinkle as he picks up your garbage bag from the ground where you’d dropped it.

You flip open the top of your bin and he lowers the bag in. A soft exhale breathes from him as he stretches, and you watch the sleeve of his dark blue t-shirt slip over his bicep. You can see the stark line where his skin changes from sun-baked brown to pale freckled gold. That tan and the muscles that flex across his back as he bends tell you he probably works hard for a living.

‘With his hands,’ your imagination adds – a thought that settles deep in your belly when you both reach for the handle at the same time and your fingertips meet.

“I got ya.” He tilts the cart onto its wheels and gives it a gentle tug to ease it from beneath your fingers. You shift from one foot to the other while you watch him pull it to the curb and park it next to his. He walks back up the driveway, dusting his broad palms down the front of his jeans before meeting your eyes.

“Pretty.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “What?”

His cheek dimples as he lifts his chin and lets his eyes skate past you. “The sky. It’s pretty.”

You turn your head to see the first light of dawn breaking in waves of pink and gold at the edge of the horizon.

“Oh.” You feel warmth burn in your cheeks that you know isn’t from the rising sun when he meets your eyes again. “Yeah, it is.”

“I know it’s not much of a welcome wagon—” his brown eyes glimmer with gold from the brightening sky, and he jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the lowered tailgate of his truck – “but if you’ve got a minute, I can pour us a couple cups of coffee and we could watch the sun come up. Get to know each other. Since we’re neighbors now.”

It doesn’t take long to decide, because he smells like clean laundry and minty toothpaste and an earthy warmth that could be cologne or could just be him. Whatever it is, it’s worth being a few minutes late to work to keep enjoying it. “I’ve got a minute.”

The smile that breaks across his face creases the corners of his eyes in a way that makes you smile back. He pats the tailgate, then extends his calloused hand to help you hop up onto it. The metal is cool against the backs of your thighs as the truck gives a low creak. “I’m Joel.”

His hand is still holding yours – thick fingers, wide warm palm. Somehow you find the breath to give him your name and he nods, his lips moving to shape the syllables silently to himself.

“Alright, then.” He tilts his head towards his house and lets go of your hand, his fingertips skimming over yours as they pass. “Don’t run off now. I’m gonna get us that coffee.”

#cute

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