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fixforthesoul · 1 month ago

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I’m really such a whore for the old men of the Pitt, huh

Life imitates art - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: 2.6k words. Jack is sent into a tailspin when the woman he’s been eyeing for months at his amputee support group arrives at the Pitt in a gurney. Based on this request by @seasiren212!

Warnings: canon-typical depiction of wounds and medical situations, cancer in remission, some medical jargon, reader’s history of BKA, Jack’s history of BKA & accident, age gap, angst, etc. The most unrealistic part of this fic is a doctor spending this much time with one patient (live laugh love the U.S. healthcare system).

a/n: ugh I cried a little bit while writing this. I’m so passionate about oncology care mwah. Abbot is working day shift in this fic. Surrender yourself to the plot and pretend he’s covering for Robby if you must. Divider credit!

At 23 years old, your leg was amputated just below the knee. You’d been fighting bone marrow cancer for a while now, and you were running out of treatment options. To mitigate the risk of significant metastasis, your oncologist recommended an amputation.

So it was off with your leg.

Before the amputation, you’d spent months in and out of the hospital. Somehow, despite the fatigue, aches, and genuine existential crisis over whether this reality was a fate better than death, you graduated with your Master's degree in art history after completing most of the program virtually from your hospital bed. You got special permission from the dean of your university’s college of the arts to defend your thesis from the hospital. Your nurses arranged for you to use a conference room on the floor and made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned to prevent the risk of secondary infection.

Your IV was hooked up to some medications you couldn’t pronounce, but by now, you’d learned how to wave your arms around wildly without letting the tubing hinder you. The thesis committee didn’t go easy on you during your defense just because you were sick. Good. You didn’t want them to. You’d researched and studied your ass off, and earned the right to defend your thesis. The one you’d spent countless sleepless nights and nauseating days working on. So what if you were presenting at UPMC’s Cancer Center?

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you.

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

Turn on post notifications @thesewordsxupdates to get notified when I release new fics.

#magnifique

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fixforthesoul · 2 months ago

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what is with this new wave of short ass drabbles with porn and zero plot what happened to yearning?? what happened to build up?? what happened to the character being absolutely down bad for reader?? what happened to the 10k words fics?? screaming crying and throwing up i miss it

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fixforthesoul · 2 months ago

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Here's a little something I wrote for @bellaxgiornata 's writing challenge.

It's a oneshot based on a fic I'm currently working on. Some background: Based on the DDBA finale where [SPOILERS] Matt begins gathering an army to take on Fisk and his task force. Reader is a police officer and friend of Cherry, whose extraordinary streak of luck earned them the nickname "Lucky". Though, at this point in the story, only Matt knows reader actually has visions of the future, which is why they seem so lucky to others.

Anyway the prompt I chose was 14. "Wait, hold on - just hold my hand."

It seemed like, for once, the mission was going well. Without a hitch, one might say.

Until the hitch.

You were halfway across a very sketchy, unstable hallway, dead center of a dilapidated building, when the electricity cut off. You froze immediately, afraid one wrong step could send you plummeting through the decaying floor, as your heart squirreled its way right up into your throat.

Shit. You couldn't risk giving away your position by turning on a flashlight; It would be akin to lighting a blazing target right on yourself, and those task force fuckers would be on you faster than moths to a flame. Except if the moths were bullets.

They wouldn't be as forgiving as last time they caught you somewhere you weren't supposed to be. Especially because you'd foiled their plans to trap the Devil then, and here you were on your way to do it all again. This time, there would be questions. Ones you had no way to answer. Such as, for example, how did you learn of this trap?

You doubted they'd accept 'I saw it in a vision' as a legitimate answer, even if it was the truth. Only the Devil of Hell's Kitchen himself knew of your precognitive abilities. Cherry probably suspected something, given your inexplicable string of “luck”, but you had no idea what he was thinking about the matter.

“Lucky.”

The whispered voice startled you out of your thoughts so badly, you had to clap a hand over your mouth to stifle a reflexive shriek.

“What the everloving fuck,” you hissed, after you swallowed your heart back down from where it had jumped nearly out of your mouth.

“Are you okay?” God damn him, but you could hear the smile in his bastard voice. “You've been standing like a statue for a few minutes.”

“I don't know what sort of tech you have in that helmet of yours, D, but I'll have you know the city doesn't hand out NVGs like candy,” you retorted through gritted teeth. “Next time you decide to go lights out, I'd appreciate a warning.”

“You mean you didn't see it coming with your fancy visions?” he prodded with an oh so innocent tone. You swept your hand in the direction of his voice, hoping to hit something, but of course touched nothing but air. Damn Devil.

“I would have said something while we were planning, if I did,” you snapped. “Which is where we usually discuss things like this.”

You heard him snicker - on the opposite side of where he was previously - and attempted another smack. Again, you missed, but this time the force of it tipped over your precarious balance and you had to wave your arms to keep from falling over (and possibly down. Very far down).

Before you could make that unfortunate trip, you felt a hand grasp your bicep to keep you steady. If you weren't so grudgingly thankful of the assistance, you would have taken that opportunity to really sock him one.

“Alright, I apologize,” he said, close to your ear, and that infuriating smile was still mockingly present.

“Shut up. We need to get out of here before they find us.” You tried to pull away, but his grip only tightened.

“Wait, hold on - just hold my hand.”

“What,” you snapped, confused and flustered. Memories flashed behind your eyes: your apartment, his hands, his lips-

You forced your thoughts onto a different track with effort. If he knew what you were thinking, he didn't press.

“I can lead you across the safe spots,” he said, glove-covered hand sliding down from your bicep to your wrist, to your hand. You swallowed thickly, stomping down memories of those warm, calloused fingers, tracing your lips-

“Yeah,” you said (more of a squeak, really, but you wouldn't admit it), and gave a nod. “Okay. Let's get out of here.”

One way or another, the Devil was going to be the death of you.

His fingers tightened around yours in an attempt at comfort (you assumed), and you felt him step away.

“Trust me,” he murmured lowly, and you felt a tiny tug on your arm. “Normal step, directly forward.”

Oh, God. You hated teambuilding exercises. All they did was remind you how little faith you had in your fellow man.

But, well. You'd trusted the Devil enough to let him shove his tongue down your throat. Surely you could manage this.

“I don't want to rush you, sweetheart, but the task force is starting to regroup.”

“Fuck,” you hissed under your breath, and took a shaky step forward.

“Good.” Ugh, God, what his voice does to you. You decided then and there that you could survive this and more if he kept talking to you like that.

He must have noticed, somehow, the way your stomach clenched and heat flared through your blood, and promptly used that to his advantage.

“Another step, just like that, good girl. Now, to the left - more, more - yes, perfect, you're doing so well.”

That Devil-induced death was going to come far sooner than you'd imagined. Especially when you set your foot down in a particularly precarious spot, and you could feel it wanting to give beneath your boot.

“D,” you started, shakily, but he quickly swooped in with reassurance.

“I know, it's okay, I've got you,” he responded. “Another two steps, close to the wall as you can - the floor is stronger there.”

You reached out your free hand, brushing along the grimy wall to gather your bearings. Now, you were starting to hear voices and other noise from the floor below. The task force was catching up, quickly.

“I've got you,” the Devil whispered again, voice lower to keep from carrying. “Come on. We're almost there.”

He led you, heart pounding, across the rickety, groaning floor, continuing the stream of praise the entire way. Thankfully for you, the heat in your cheeks outshone the trepidation in your heart, which was probably his plan all along.

“Last stretch,” he murmured, directly in your ear, and you couldn't fight a shudder. “This one's a bit of a… leap of faith.”

“A what?” you demanded in a harsh whisper, clinging to his hand with a death grip.

“The rest of the hallway is mostly collapsed,” he explained. “You won't make it across, but with some help you can drop down to the exposed landing on the stairs.”

“What do you mean, with some help?”

“I'm going to lower you down through the hole in the floor, and help you swing across.”

Okay, he was officially crazy.

“Wh-what? What if you drop me?” you sputtered.

“I won't. But we need to move quickly.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” you repeated frantically, mostly to yourself, shifting from foot to foot anxiously. “You won't drop me?”

“Promise,” he responded, lowly but with feeling, and you had no choice but to trust him. He helped you crouch by the hole in the floor, keeping you steady with a firm grip and guiding you with the same gentle voice he'd been using.

You could feel the difference in the air as you got closer to the hole, and your stomach clenched in a highly uncomfortable knot. It was still pitch black all around you, no light whatsoever giving you even a glimpse of your surroundings. You'd never felt so disconnected from everything, including yourself.

“Alright, slow and easy,” the Devil murmured, coaxing you to lower one leg, and then the next, and then -

Oh, God, you were hanging in nothingness, with only his hand as an anchor in the vast sea of black.

“I'm going to swing you,” he warned, and if you weren't petrified with terror you might have noted the incredible lack of effort in his voice. “Keep your feet under you, and let yourself roll when you land. You'll have about five feet of space. Ready? On three.”

You gave a wavering note of understanding, and tried not to scream as he started the swing.

“One, two… three.”

For the briefest, most terrifying moment, you were flying.

Then you were falling, and that was much worse. You probably would have puked from the fear itself, but all too quickly your feet were slamming into something and you had to force yourself to ignore instinct and instead tucked into an attempt at a roll. It mostly worked, except for the way your knee cracked against the concrete landing, and then your shoulder, and a tumble and a half later your knees collided with the wall on the other side, bringing you to a sudden and painful halt.

“Lucky?”

You figured the groan you gave would serve as proof of life. Hopefully the Devil didn't need as much landing space, because you weren't sure you could heave yourself upright currently.

A light tap, tap, tap beside you had you startling into a sitting position, and you realized with baffled amazement that was the sound of his landing. Was he some sort of circus performer in a past life?

“We should be clear to break for the exit,” he informed you, not even winded as he crouched to help you to your feet.

I hate you, you wanted to grumble petulantly.

“Yeah, okay,” you responded instead.

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fixforthesoul · 2 months ago

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a/n: hi fellow DD friends, I may or not may not have posted the first chapter of my jump into the DD fanfic world. hope you enjoy!!! also on ao3

summary: Struggling musician meets struggling-slightly-less lawyer. Inspiration is sparked. Chp 1/?

word count: 7k

pairings/notes: Matt Murdock x fem!Reader, no use of y/n though reader has a nickname, post netflix DD s3 but pre-DD:BA

“Oi! Barkeep! You in there?”

Startled by the noise, you jolted awake. As you rubbed the sleepy haze from your eyes, the front door of the bar slowly came into focus, along with the digital clock above it. 4:10PM. Shit. How long had you dozed off?

“Seriously girl, let me in! It’s frickin’ freezing out here!”

You rose from the metal stool you had been resting on and made your way towards the tiny foyer. Still drowsy, you fumbled with the old brass deadlock before managing to slide it open. As you swung the door open, you were greeted by a bearded grin and wet work boots.

“Dang Josie Jr., you’re not used to these late nights are you?”

“Shut it, Jackson. And I told you not to call me that.”

Jackson gave you a smirk. “Pardon me, ma’am.”

Rolling your eyes, you shuffled your way back to your regular position behind the bar. You’d be worried that Josie would be disappointed for opening 10 minutes late, but none of the regulars were waiting, and Jackson wasn’t the type to complain. Especially since Tuesdays were usually the slowest afternoons of the week.

Josie had been running this bar since you were a kid, and every Tuesday was the same. For most of your school years, you could be found doing homework in the back, stealing peanuts from the bar and stashing leftovers in the walk-in while your mom finished up her shift at the hospital in Uptown. Your apartment up on the fourth floor always felt too quiet, and as long as you stayed out the way, Josie didn’t mind you hanging around. The sound of beer bottles clinking, electronic dings from the dart boards, and clacking of billiard balls was better for your concentration than any white noise machine anyway. Mom had moved to Florida about ten years ago, but you stayed behind in the apartment while in college. You still studied in the back corner of Josie’s, the only change being that you added rum to your sodas. After graduation, she offered you a job to help stay afloat while you job-hunted. She was practically family and was much happier to bring on someone she already knew and trusted. You’d always had it as a fallback plan between jobs at music shops, private lessons, and your never-ending auditions for a consistent spot in an orchestra. Years had gone by since your first night there, and though your frustration grew more and more each day without a performance gig, you appreciated the steady income nonetheless.

“How long did Josie say she’d be out?” Jackson’s voice floated out from the back room, thuds following as he grabbed cases of beer and rearranged kegs.

“Couple of weeks, most likely. I told her to take whatever time she needed, it’s not like she’s had a vacation in the last however many years. I was starting to think she was literally chained to this place.” You really wouldn’t have been surprised if you found an actual shackle underneath the counter, with how much Josie worked.

He chuckled as he headed your way to check the canned beer fridge under the counter. An impressed smile crossed his face once he realized that not only was that full, but so was everything on the rail and the shelves.

“You’re making my job too easy, friend. Paula and I left everything a mess last night. What time did you even come in today to get this all taken care of?” Jackson asked.

“Around one or so. Eastern was here for a liquor delivery, so I popped down after my lessons.” Grabbing a rag from the ‘clean’ bucket under the sink, you squeezed behind him to start wiping up the rain he tracked in.

“For real though, if you needed help getting things set up, you could’ve called. I’m less than half a mile from here.”

You didn’t look up from the water on the floor you were trying to sop up.

“Does it look like I needed any help?”

Jackson faltered, voice falling. “I mean, no, I just…”

Now you glanced up at his six-foot-something frame. He seemed so much taller at this angle, yet he was almost shrinking back. It would have been almost amusing, him being afraid of you, but guilt immediately crept up in your chest instead.

“I’m sorry, Jackson. I’m just stressed out,” you admitted, “and I do appreciate the offer. Rough auditions this week, and I’m not used to working every night at the bar. Josie might never take another vacation if she finds out I asked you to help open, though.”

“Hah! Ain’t that the truth. Well, lemme know if anyone gives you trouble tonight, and I’m there,” clapping you on the back before he took his seat at the stool by the bar’s entrance.

You pulled yourself up off the floor, stretching and rolling your shoulders before tossing the wet rags into the ‘dirty’ bin. The bell on the front door jingled as the tension in your back released a little, settling into the normal weeknight routine as patrons filtered in for their usual drinks and games of pool.

Before you could even register time moving, nine-thirty rolled around and the bar was bustling. A couple of bikers by the pool tables loudly challenged their buddies to another round while a few others took turns at the dart boards, chatter and conversation filling the air. You were in your normal flow of handing out drinks, refilling the ice bin, and hollering at Jackson to grab yet another case of beer from the back when you heard a cheerful voice say,

“Well, it’s certainly nice to see you back instead of our usual wicked witch of a bartender!”

You turned around to be greeted by two men around your age, leaning on the bar. They stuck out in your memories of the usual Tuesday regulars, mainly because they were both in suits, a stark contrast to the usual biker vests and dirty canvas construction jackets usually seen. The blond one grinned at you, while his dark-haired friend had turned his head off to his left, eyes hidden behind maroon-colored lenses.

You gave the stocky blond a bit of a glare, crossing your arms across your chest.

“Ah, Foggy Nelson.”

“The one and only!”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten your incident with the popcorn machine last fall.”

He threw his arms out in exasperation and sighed, “Aw come on! It was a one-time occurrence, and I promise I made it up to Josie.”

“I don’t think calling her a wicked witch is a great way of making it up to her. Besides, I was the one sweeping up popcorn for hours, not her.”

“Alright fine, I guess I owe you for that. Why don’t you throw a drink for you on the firm’s tab with ours, I’ll take-“

You were already pouring a tall draft and a whiskey before he finished the sentence.

“Whatever beer is on special. Whiskey on the rocks for Matt,” nodding in his friend’s direction. “And no, Foggy Nelson, this is not going on your firm’s supposed tab. It’ll be $6 each.”

“What if I wanted something different?” frowned Foggy, picking up the frosty mug you slid in front of him.

“It may have been three months since I worked a Tuesday, but you’re pretty predictable. You only order something different if you’re trying to impress a woman and I’m pretty sure Matt’s not one,” you replied, barely managing to keep a straight face as Matt held back a chuckle.

“That’s… creepy, but impressive. I’ll give you that one, Z.”

Their nickname, well Foggy’s really, finally made you crack a smile. He had drunkenly bestowed it on you last summer when you and Josie were both behind the bar, as apparently “Jo and Z” was the funniest thing to him at the time.

“Hah! I knew I could break that scowl!” he said before turning around to head to him and Matt’s usual booth in the corner, stopping between to strike up conversation with one of the bikers.

“Truly is a golden retriever type, isn’t he?” you said, chuckling as you exchange a glass for Matt’s card.

“The enthusiasm never ends. Been like that since I met him.” Matt replied warmly, taking a sip of his drink. “I think he’s just excited to see you’re back, you’ve always been a little easier than him on Josie.”

“Eh, to be fair, Josie’s had to put up with him for longer.”

“That’s true. Speaking of, I’m assuming you’re here on a Tuesday because she’s out? Everything okay?”

You nodded and said, “Very astute of you. She’s out in Michigan for a couple of weeks, so it’s just me and Jackson running the place tonight. Finally convinced her to take a vacation.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “Josie? Vacation? Never thought I’d hear those words together.”

“Trust me, it was no small feat.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s taking the time off. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her leave the bar. Go ahead and leave the card open, we’ll be here awhile. It’s good to see you again, Z.” Matt said, emphasizing your nickname with a small, amused smile.

“Good to see you guys too. I’ll come and check on your drinks in a bit.” He gave you a quick nod and flashed you a bigger grin, one that stopped you for just a couple seconds longer than it should.

It took you just a beat, but you managed to snap out of it, tossed your towel over your shoulder, and got back to work. You really need to get some proper rest girlfriend, thinking to yourself while shaking your head. Banter is half of what a bartender’s job is. Can’t be letting some dark-haired regular throw you out of your groove.

The night continued to rush by, a few rounds of draft specials for the mechanics up front, fives in exchange for quarters for the bikers at the pool table, vodka crans for the out-of-place college girls trying and failing to flirt with Jackson up front. He was effective as a bouncer, but there was something about the long, dirty blond hair tied back in a man-bun that college girls were drawn right to. They never made it far enough to realize Jackson’s type was guitar-playing hipster guys. As you started to head to Foggy and Matt’s table a little before midnight to grab their empties and hand out another round, you were still on autopilot.

“I’m just saying, this could bring in a lot of money. You remember what that is right? That green stuff that lets us pay rent and buy food?”

You probably shouldn’t have listened in, but you couldn’t help but eavesdrop. Comes with the territory, you thought to yourself.

“Foggy, I get that, but we started our firm to help people who need it. Not some sketchy guy working for a construction company that we can’t find any sort of information on.”

“How do you know he’s sketchy? What, did you use your ESP or something?”

“Knock it off. You know what I-”

Distracted, you stumbled over the uneven floor and the empty bottles in your left hand clattered to the ground in front of their booth. At least you managed to keep the tray in your right hand somewhat balanced. So much for staying in a groove.

“Look, it’s the wicked witch’s assistant!” an inebriated Foggy exclaimed, grinning and throwing his hands out in your direction.

After setting their drinks down on the table behind you, you crouched down to grab the empties rolling away. “Not doing super great at that, seeing as I’m throwing empty bottles at my regulars.”

“I think Josie would approve,” Matt said with amusement in his voice.

“Speak for yourself Matt, but I don’t much appreciate having things thrown at me,” Foggy shot in mock offense, his nose in the air.

“My sincerest apologies, Mr. Nelson. I’ll make sure I only throw things at the blind man,” you fired back without thinking. Right after the words left your mouth, Foggy choked on his beer, sputtering and shaking with laughter. As you realized what you said, your cheeks immediately flushed red and you stuttered out, “God, sorry Matt, I swear it was a joke – I didn’t-“

Matt let out a sympathetic laugh as he elbowed Foggy in the ribs, saying, “You only need to be sorry if Foggy drowns in his beer.”

You winced. “God no, seriously, I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think about-“

“Really, it’s fine. He makes worse jokes on an hourly basis at this point,” Matt said waving his hand, giving you a reassuring look that made the heat in your face fade just a little.

“Well, either way, I feel bad. Either for the joke or for making Foggy inhale his beer. Next round’s on me, just don’t tell Josie,” you offered, smiling at them both before sliding their drinks over.

Foggy flashed a smile back about as bright as a spotlight while Matt gave a thumbs-up before you walked back to the bar.

Twelve forty-five came around as you flipped on the overhead lights.

“Last call! Wrap it up everyone!”

You started pulling out receipts and ringing out orders. The biker guys were finishing up their last round of pool, and Foggy and Matt still sat at their booth at the opposite end, half arguing, half laughing about something you couldn’t quite hear. As Jackson started refilling the beer fridge for the final time, you realized you forgot the key to the safe at Josie’s place after dropping off the monthly invoices earlier in the morning.

“Hey, Jackson, can you mind the bar for five minutes? I need to run upstairs and grab the safe key.”

“Aye aye, cap’n.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Jacks.”

As you walked past the walk-in fridge towards the back staircase, you heard him retort, “But that’s what I’m good at, boss!”

“Five minutes! Don’t burn the place down!”

You trotted up the four flights of stairs to the hallway connecting your side of the floor to Josie’s. After punching in the code to her apartment, you entered the dark living room, immediately seeing the safe key on the end table where you left it. Stuffing it in the pocket of your sweatshirt, you decided to pop over to your place to grab your headphones, knowing it would be a welcome distraction as you needed to deep clean the back bar later on. Just as you crossed into your bedroom to grab them off the desk, a strange sound from the bathroom reached your ears. As you padded closer to the door, you felt your stomach drop as you recognized what it was.

Water fell in a steady stream down from a hole in the ceiling right above the showerhead, and out into the room. Your eyes darted over to the built-in armoire that held all your clothes to see that it was soaked, too. There was a single step down between the bedroom and bathroom, and as you looked down, you saw water covering every inch of the floor.

“Fuck!”

Racing back through the bedroom, through the living room, and into the kitchen, you reached the main water shutoff for the fourth floor in the utility closet. After grabbing and cranking it shut, you ran back to the bathroom to make sure that the water stopped, and breathed a sigh of relief when you saw it did. You fumbled for your phone, managing to dial the bar’s number with shaky hands. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

“Hey girl, what’s the hold up?”

Phew. “Oh thank god.”

Jackson picked up the concern in your voice near immediately. “What’s the matter?”

“Water line in my shower bust open. Not sure how. Gonna be cleaning this up for hours. Can you finish closing the bar down?”

“Shit. Uh, I can, but I need your register card first. Your lawyer friends are here trying to close out, looks like you comped some of their drinks. Need your card for that. Did you leave it by the bar?”

You frantically patted down the pockets in your jeans, felt the plastic card in your back pocket, and sighed. “No, I have it. I guess the water’s not going anywhere for right now. I’ll be down in a sec.”

You looked around at your bathroom and took in the damage. With this amount of water, you’d be cleaning it up until the morning. It’d be a small miracle if the whole room wouldn’t need to be gutted. A sinking feeling started to fill your stomach, but before you could let it settle too far, you shook it off, heading out the door and locking it before jogging back downstairs.

Once behind the bar again, you let out a sigh, realizing it had been only ten minutes, though it felt like much longer than that. All of the bikers were tugging on their jackets, and a very drunk Foggy was teasing Jackson about something.

“Sorry about the wait, guys. Apartment trouble.”

“It’s about time, Glinda!” Foggy slurred.

That got a chuckle out of you. “Foggy, I’m pretty sure Glinda was the Wicked Witch’s sister, not her assistant.” You swiped your card at the register and got their final bills printed out. As you handed them the checks and a couple of pens, you hurriedly said “I have to head back upstairs, but I’m sure I’ll see you two next week.”

“Is everything alright?” Matt inquired with furrowed brows while handing back his signed receipt and pen.

You ran your hands over your face, groaning. “Water line burst in my bathroom. Entire room is flooded. Gonna be in there with a shop-vac all night getting the water out.��

He paused. “Well, if you want some help...” Matt trailed off, though the look of concern on his face held fast.

You stopped for a second, considering. Nice of him to offer, I guess even a blind second set of hands is better than one. You scowled at yourself for that thought. Don’t be rude, you jerk. Not really in the habit of inviting men I hardly know into my apartment, but Josie has said they’re good guys, so…

“You know what, yeah, I could use it,” you admitted to Matt with a sigh. “You sure the one-and-only Foggy Nelson is going to be much assistance, though?” you asked, thumbing over at his drunken counterpart, using Jackson as support as he tried to put on his coat.

Matt tilted his head towards Foggy, pausing before he replied. “Hah, yeah, he definitely drank more than his fair share tonight. I’ll call him a cab and get him on his way home, and then I can help out.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Just helping a friend. Don’t worry about it.” He gave you that wide smile again, and you briefly forget about the mess waiting upstairs. “Do you want me to wait here in the bar until you’re finished up?”

You nodded, and then felt heat rise to your cheeks, slightly embarrassed once you realized that wasn’t something he could notice. “Um, yes – well, Jackson’s gonna take care of closing the bar, so he can show you upstairs and through my place once you get Foggy situated. I want to get a jump on it. Just uh, knock or something when you get to my bathroom so I don’t jump out of my skin when I see you standing there.”

Matt nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll be up soon,” he said before turning to assist a stumbling Foggy. You turned to make your way to the back stairs to start cleaning up the small pond waiting for you. Just as you passed Jackson, he grabbed your arm and in a hushed voice singsonged “Matt and Josie Jr., sittin’ in tree…”

You punched him in the stomach with your free hand before he got much farther. “Seriously, man?”

He let go and rubbed where you hit him, chuckling. “I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you invite a guy upstairs to your place.”

“Ah yes, because mopping up gallons and gallons of water in a cold bathroom just screams ‘romantic.’ Don’t know why I didn’t think of this pick-up before.”

“Every time he smiles at you, you stop for a second. I’ve never seen someone snap you out of your rhythm like that.”

You hated it, but he was right. Too observant for his own good sometimes. Crossing your arms, you glared at him and replied “Can you just let him in when he’s done and bring him upstairs? I’ve got a mini Hudson in my apartment and I’d really like to get started on cleaning it up.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, I’ll escort him,” Jackson said while rolling his eyes at you.

“Thank you,” you replied, then softened as you continued, “And thank you for helping to close things down tonight. You can go once you get Matt upstairs, I’m sure Carter’s waiting for you. We’ll worry about deep cleaning the back bar later this week.”

“Anytime. You know I’ve got your back.”

You gave him a tired but thankful smile and headed upstairs.

Even after cuffing your jeans to almost the knee, your legs were still soaked by the time Matt got up to your apartment. You’d managed to get the wet clothes out of the built in, wrung out, and tossed in a bag to take to the laundromat. You were just dumping the latest pass with the shop-vac down the drain of the tub when you heard a clicking in your bedroom. Wiping the sweaty strands of hair that had fallen from your braid out of your eyes, you looked up to see Matt knocking one hand against the frame of the door, cane resting in the other.

“Hey again. Jackson let me in. I told him I could find my way back to you,” Matt said before setting his coat and cane down to join you in the bathroom.

You felt a pang of embarrassment in your chest. “Oh, I told him to walk you back here. Didn’t want you to have to find your way around this maze of doors alone.”

He smiled gently at you. “It’s not a big deal, it’s pretty easy to hear where you are, what with the vacuum running and all.”

Another pang, then you started to stutter. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like- I mean, I meant-”

“Hey, it’s okay, really. Don’t worry about me, I get around fine,” Matt said through a quiet laugh. “Happens all the time.”

“What, the walking on eggshells-like attitude, or making women stutter in your presence?” Oh my god, shut up.

“Well, the first one more than the second, usually.” Matt grinned, shrugging his shoulders. As he started rolling up his sleeves he continued, “but enough about my problems, what do you need help with?”

Your eyes had drifted towards the now-bare skin of his forearms. He looked stronger than you expected for a lawyer, muscles flexing as the long fingers of his hand deftly cuffed his shirt at the elbow. You involuntarily licked your lips, admiring how the tendons in his broad hands rolled as he loosened the button on his other sleeve. Shaking it off, you tapped the corner of the bathroom and showed Matt where to start vacuuming up water.

“We can just dump the water in the tub, it’s a little over two feet to your left. Luckily none of the drains have an issue, it’s just the water line. I’m gonna go move this bag of clothes out of the way, I need to take them to the laundromat in the morning.”

“You’re welcome to use my washer & dryer, if you want. Probably about the same distance, but I won’t charge you a week’s worth of pay.”

Josie was right, these were good guys. “I may have to take you up on that. Don’t get too much in cash tips, mainly cards now. Even with the older biker guys, you’d be surprised at how many of them have points cards.”

You could hear Matt laugh as you dragged your laundry bag to the front door. Cleaning this unexpected mess up was certainly a little easier with good company. You made quick work of the remaining water as you swept the water towards Matt while he held the vacuum, and once the pond was reduced to small puddles, you tasked Matt with wiping out the built-in so the water didn’t seep into the wood more than it already had. You were moving out to the hallway to grab the mop out of the utility closet when you heard Matt speak.

“So, how do you know Josie? Other than working at the bar? I can’t imagine her hiring someone she didn’t already know.”

You couldn’t imagine it either. “I’ve actually known her for most of my life. My mom and I moved into this apartment when I was ten. Josie actually owns the first five floors of this building.”

Matt paused in disbelief for a moment and said, “No way, Josie, a landlord?”

“Seriously. Apparently her family’s owned the building, including the bar, for over a century. The bar was actually a speakeasy back in the 20s.”

A chuckle. “Just when you think you know your barkeep…”

“Don’t tell her I said anything, we don’t want to ruin her mystique, after all.”

“Not a word I ever would have used to describe Josie, but yes, secret is safe with me.”

“Thanks. Anyway, yeah, she’s been my landlord for 20-something years now. My mom moved to Florida years ago, but I was still in college so I stuck around. Josie covered the rent until I graduated and got a ‘real’ job,” you continued.

“What did you go to school for?”

You scoffed a little, and replied, “Music performance. Piano, specifically.” Not wanting to elaborate on your distinct lack of a full-time gig, you turned the question around. “Obviously you have a degree, considering your lawyer-ing. Where’d you go?”

“Columbia. Foggy and I both. We decided to start our own firm after working for corporations at our internship. Got sick of defending faceless businesses,” Matt frowned a little.

“Oh so you’re standing up for the little guy? We need more of that.”

“I’d like to think so. Eating rice for every meal is getting a little old, though. Law isn’t all glitz.”

You chuckled as you replied, “I feel that. The supply shop I worked for closed three months ago. Until I managed to start doing private lessons, I was pretty much eating bar peanuts and $2 frozen pizzas. Now I’ve upgraded to cheap Chinese.”

“That’s glamorous,” Matt laughed.

“Very,” you confirmed as you turned back to the task at hand. “So, now that we’ve got the water mostly cleaned up, I think I’m going to cut into this drywall. Gotta see what the damage is. If you need to take off I understand,” glancing at your phone, “I imagine law starts early and it’s past two AM.”

“I don’t mind staying and helping. I don’t sleep much anyway,” he quietly admitted as he leaned against the wall behind you.

You pulled your utility knife from your back pocket and started cutting into the drywall two feet off the floor. Once you got to the wall shared with the bedroom, your stomach sank.

“Shit,” you muttered. “Not what I wanted to find.”

“Seeped through to the other walls?”

“Yeah. Which means the restoration process is going to be more intense than I was hoping.”

Behind you, Matt paused, and then you heard him sniff. “Might be worse than that.” He walked up, close enough you could feel the heat of his body against your back. He gently set his hands on your shoulders, thumbs grazing the back of your neck, making you shiver just the slightest amount at the unexpected, but not unwelcome touch. He leaned over you and sniffed again. “Smells like mildew… maybe mold.”

He must have sensed the pause before you started to speak and answered your question before it could leave your mouth. “When you can’t see, you tend to be able to hear and smell things before others. Lack of one sense heightens the others.”

“Gotcha. Well, if it’s mold, I might be able to see it, now that the wall is open.” Grabbing your phone, you turned on the flashlight and directed it at the wall you cut open. After your eyes adjusted to the light, you could see some kind of discoloration on the inside of your bedroom wall. As you squatted down and leaned in closer to inspect it, you were suddenly hit with the musty odor that confirmed it. Definitely mold or mildew. You looked over your shoulder to see Matt’s figure back in the doorway.

“Yeah, there’s definitely something in there. Gonna have to have the entire floor looked at, probably. So much for my plan of sleeping on Josie’s couch.”

“I take it this isn’t your first water leak.”

“I’ve seen enough to know how this goes. The water damage was going to put me out of a bathroom for at least a month, but mold...” You pulled your braid loose and ran your hands through your hair, unease settling in your chest like a boulder.

Matt cleared his throat. “Do you need a place to stay?”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wh-What?”

He paused before he repeated the question, though out of apprehension or concern, you weren’t sure. “Do you need a place to stay? I’ve got a spare room. If that is actually mold, you probably shouldn’t be around it any more than you have to be.” You were pretty sure he could tell you were staring at him, mouth agape, as he continued, voice quieting as he softly said, “Josie acts like a real hardass, but she’s always been kind to me. I’ve known her for a long time, too. Helping you out would be helping her so…” He rubbed the back of his neck, unease in his voice as he trailed off.

You were still staring. You swore he could hear your heart, it was beating so loud, banging against your ribcage as you tried to process what exactly he had offered. Finally managing to break your mental block and work through the situation, you stuttered out, “I uh-, I-I could use a place for tonight. I think I’ll probably end up with a hotel or rental through my insurance, but I won’t know until tomorrow.”

He relaxed a bit, shoulders dropping. “Well, pack up what you need.” He took a few steps, closing the distance between you before reaching a hand down to help you up. Taking it, you stood and replied, “Thanks. Shouldn’t take me too long to throw together a bag.”

“Can’t resist helping a damsel in distress,” Matt replied with a playful grin. “I have a moral code to uphold.”

You rolled your eyes but replied gratefully, “You’re gonna end up drinking for free with how much you’re helping me out, Mr. Murdock.”

He just smirked and repeated your remark from the bar earlier. “Don’t tell Josie.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. If you wanna wait out in the living room, I shouldn’t be more than a couple of minutes.”

Matt nodded before turning and leaving you alone in the bathroom. After taking a few deep breaths, you quickly ran through a mental checklist of what you needed to grab. Shower stuff, meds, charger, backpack... As you started opening the drawers in your vanity, you caught your reflection in the mirror above the sink. The circles under your eyes, ones that had seemingly been getting darker over the last few weeks, were accompanied by mascara smudged from sweat, your irises rimmed with red from tiredness. You hastily pulled your hair up into a bun and tried to wipe the marks under your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. A few strands of hair made their way loose, and if you weren’t so exhausted, you knew you’d be feeling self conscious about what a mess you were.

You made your way into the living room once you had everything packed up to see Matt waiting calmly by the front door. He lifted his head as he heard you enter the room.

“Have everything you need?”

“I think so. You really okay with me using your washer? I’ve got probably half my closet stuffed into this laundry bag. May double your water bill for the month.”

Chuckling, Matt replied, “I’m sure you’ll find a way to pay me back.”

“You’re quickly approaching ‘free whiskey for life’ status here.”

“Maybe that was my plan all along.”

“Can’t believe I fell for the good Samaritan act!” you laughed as you laced up your boots. You moved past him, reaching for the front door. “Go ahead in front of me so I can lock up.”

He stepped out into the hallway as you slipped into your jacket and tossed your backpack over your shoulder, quickly following him out the door.

“We’ll take the stairs over to the right, it’ll let us out the back of the building,” you said as you gathered up your laundry bag. A hand brushed against your elbow, causing you to jump a little, not expecting the gentle grip of his fingers.

“Sorry,” Matt said softly. “Do you mind guiding? It’s a little easier than using the cane inside.”

“Oh, yeah - sorry, it’s not you, I just get kinda jumpy when I’m tired,” you said as you let Matt move his hand into the crook of your arm. Truthfully, you were thankful for the warm weight of his fingers as they landed on your bicep, as it helped balance out the load of laundry you carried in your other hand. As you exited the building into chilled, damp February air, you found yourself drawing closer to Matt’s side, involuntarily seeking the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. A cold breeze blew across you, carrying the faint scent of leather and wood from him to you. You turned the corner, following his directions as you made your way to his apartment, and an impulsive question tumbled from you.

“Have you always been blind?”

You felt Matt stiffen next to you, tension running up his broad frame.

“I guess you get asked that a lot. Stupid unfiltered thought, sorry.”

“It’s a pretty common question, yeah. Not stupid though. And your answer is no, I haven’t. Happened when I was a kid,” Matt responded, though you could still feel what felt like discomfort at your questions.

You walked a few steps without speaking, unsure of how to continue the conversation. You finally managed to answer with, “I can’t imagine how hard it would be to adapt to that.”

“I still struggle with it sometimes,” he admitted softly, “but there’s beauty in how I see the world now.”

“That seems like a very healthy way to look at it. No pun intended.”

You got a quiet chuckle from that. “Took me awhile to get there. Might be resilience, or maybe I’m just stubborn.”

“We’ll call it resilience. Sounds better,” you smiled, nudging him.

“Fair enough. My turn for an invasive question,” he countered, nudging you back. “What’s a classically trained musician doing at a dive bar?”

You groaned in response. “Guess you deserve a question since you answered mine. Currently ah, between gigs. And by between gigs I mean I haven’t gotten a call back from an audition in over four months.”

“Wow. Competitive field?”

“It is, but I’m not sure if I’ve hit a bad string of luck or if I’m just terrible at this point.”

“I haven’t heard you play, but I highly doubt it’s the last one.”

“Ever a gentleman. I’ve got a couple more lined up in the next few weeks, and at least I’ve been able to use my degree in the meantime. Got a handful of kids I teach during the day.”

“Sounds like you might be as resilient as me,” Matt replied pointedly with a smirk on his face.

“Touché.”

The two of you walked in a comfortable silence for the remainder of the way. Once you reached his building, he unlocked the front door and held it open for you, and you entered a generic-looking lobby with beige tile floors and off-white paneled walls. Gesturing to the stairs on the left, he explained, “I’m on the sixth floor, but we can take the service elevator.”

Just looking at the metal stairs had your legs feeling weak, the weight of your laundry bag seemingly growing heavier. “Thanks,” you replied tiredly, “not sure I’d be able to haul all this up tonight.”

You followed Matt past the stairs down a short hallway that led to the service elevator. He entered first, hitting the ‘6’ button while you followed behind. Once inside, you leaned against the cool metal of the walls, eyes closing as your exhaustion began to settle in. You didn’t notice the elevator car opening on the sixth floor, though you did feel Matt’s hand gently press on your lower back.

“C’mon, let’s get you inside so you can get some actual rest,” he said. You stepped out of the elevator into a brightly lit landing, letting Matt move in front of you to unlock his front door.

It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the dark entryway. Compared to your apartment, which you’d always described as “cozy,” Matt’s seemed almost cavernous. It appeared to be an old warehouse that was turned into a living space, with exposed brick all the way up to the top of the easily 20 foot ceiling. Across from the entry where you were standing, there were twelve-foot tall windows that filtered the light from the street lamps outside, giving the room an eerie yellow glow. On the left, a large, frosted glass door separated what you assumed was a bedroom area from the living room. Your eyes swept over the oversized leather sofa & chairs to the right side of the space that held a simple galley-style kitchen. Dark, espresso-stained cabinetry spanned most of the length of the back wall, flanked on one side by a stainless steel fridge, and a pocket door on the other.

You managed to pull your dropped jaw shut after muttering, “Jesus. This is your idea of law not being glitzy?”

Matt didn’t move from the entry where he was hanging his coat. “Wait for it.”

A flash of light lit the apartment up, startling you. You walked over towards the bank of windows, searching for the source. Peering through the fogged panes, you could make out a billboard with what looked like spotlights dancing behind it.

You let out a low whistle. “Good lord.”

“Been there for years. It’s a little distracting, apparently. Got a good deal on the place though.”

“Why on earth is that across from an apartment? That’s gotta be against… some sort of building code.”

“This floor is all apartments now, but it was warehouse space up until five or six years ago. This is the only one that faces it, so it isn’t really an issue for anyone else. They don’t get the cheap rent, though.” Matt shrugged before walking over and to the kitchen island where he dropped his keys. He waited, tracking your footsteps as you slowly walked through the living room, taking in the space before you made your way to lean against the island.

“Bathroom and laundry are behind you to the left,” he said once you had settled at the island in front of him. He motioned behind him, “Spare room is through that pocket door. There’s a murphy bed in there, just pull down on the handle on the wall and it’ll come down. Should already be made, except for the pillows. Those are in the dresser. I’ll go put your laundry in the bathroom.”

You walked past him, inspecting your new room for the night. The ceiling was a lot lower here, and it couldn’t have been more than seven feet deep total. The wall across from the doorway you stood in housed the murphy bed Matt had mentioned, flanked on either side by tall shelves filled with books. A red metal dresser sat in the corner of the small room.

“All good?” Matt asked from the kitchen.

“Yeah. I hate to ask, but you wouldn’t happen to have a pair of sweatpants or something I could borrow would you?” you asked, picking at the damp denim against your thighs. “I think all of mine ended up getting wet.”

“Sure, I’ll be right back.”

As Matt left the room, you reached up for the metal handle of the bed, pulling it down smoothly away from the wall. You were fluffing the pillows from the dresser as he returned, sweatpants in hand.

“Here you go. Brought a shirt too, just in case. You get the bed set up alright?”

“I did. Gotta say, it looks way more comfortable than Josie’s couch.”

“Good. I’ll let you get some sleep then. I have to be at the office in the morning, but you can stay as long as you need to. I’ll leave a spare key on the counter.”

“Okay. Thanks for the sweatpants. And the bed. And the help. And everything else.”

Matt gave you a soft smile. “You can thank me by getting some rest, you need it.”

No way you were arguing with that. “Good night, Matt.”

“Good night,” he replied, sliding the door shut.

You peeled off your damp jeans and slipped into the borrowed sweats before crawling into bed. Exhaustion quickly washed over you as you pulled the sheets up and around your shoulders, inhaling the faint scent of detergent, cotton, and oak before sighing and shutting your eyes. Sleep claimed you almost immediately, your worn-out body finally at rest.

Somewhere above you, a door creaked open.

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fixforthesoul · 4 months ago

Text

The Recipe for Remembering

The Bear AU (Part one)

Pairing: Carmen x Fem! Reader

CW: language, mentions of panic attack, Carmen being an ass

Story's Summary: After waking up in a hospital with no memory of the past three years, Y/N must piece together her life. Her last recollection is a chaotic night at work, culminating in a heated argument with her demanding boss, Carmen. As she grapples with the fragments of her forgotten past, Y/N embarks on a journey of self-discovery, confronting unexpected truths about herself, her relationships, and the enigmatic role Carmen may play in her lost memories.

A/N: Hey guys! Here I am again with a story that's been cooking in my mind for a couples of months already. Hope you enjoy it and if you wanna be tagged, let me know! :) I intend to post every week a new chapter!

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Y/N! Are you fuckin' serious?" The air in the kitchen seemed to crackle with the force of Carmen's voice. Y/N stood frozen, the scent of burnt sugar and garlic permeating the air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, each beat a deafening drum in the sudden silence. The perfectly plated pieces of the birthday cake, hours of meticulous work by herself and Marcus, lay scattered across the floor. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

"Chef, it was my fault. But don't worry, I've backed another..." Marcus began, his voice a low murmur in the tense silence.

"I don't fuckin' care, alright?" Carmen roared, running his hands through his already disheveled hair. The veins in his neck bulged. The evening service had been a relentless storm, a chaos of orders and demands, and Carmen, on the verge of implosion, had been pushed to the brink. This was the last straw. "Are you doin' this on purpose, chef? Or- or is this sort of a fuckin' test?" He spat the last few words, his face flushed a furious red, his eyes burning with a dangerous intensity. Y/N felt a dizzying sensation, the edges of her vision blurring.

"I’m... sorry, chef” she whispered, her whole body trembling and sweating like never before. The words felt strangled in her throat. This couldn't be happening. Again. Just this week, she'd nearly tripped over a tray of glasses, sending a cascade of ice water crashing to the floor. In all her years of training, in all the bustling kitchens she'd worked in, from the small, family-run bakery in Henley-on-Thames to the refined elegance of Chelsea's Tom's Kitchen in London, she'd never been so clumsy, so utterly incompetent. At least she felt so at this moment.

Four months ago, she'd arrived in Chicago with a single suitcase and a backpack, brimming with excitement. Aikens, her mentor at Tom's Kitchen, had secured her this coveted stage with Carmen Berzatto, the rising star of the Chicago culinary scene. She'd devoured every article, every interview, every television appearance featuring the enigmatic chef. The Bear had become a legend in the culinary world, and Y/N, fueled by ambition and a touch of naivete, had dreamed of honing her skills under Carmen's tutelage, of learning from the best. Now, she questioned every decision that had led her to this moment, to this suffocating kitchen, to this withering criticism.

Carmen took a step closer, his face inches from hers. Y/N flinched, the scent of his cologne, a sharp, almost metallic blend, filling her nostrils. "Get out of my sight," he hissed, his voice low and menacing.

"Chef, maybe she just needs a minute," Sydney interjected, her voice calm but firm. She hesitated, her eyes darting between Carmen and Y/N, the intensity in his eyes making her stomach churn. She knew better than to push him further when he was in this mood.

Carmen turned his icy gaze on Sydney. "Continue with your task, chef" he growled, his voice dripping with barely contained rage. Despite her initial protest, Syd wisely decided to remain silent.

Y/N, feeling utterly humiliated and defeated, turned and fled the kitchen, tears stinging her eyes. She stumbled out the back door, the cool night air a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the kitchen. She leaned against the brick wall, gasping for breath, the weight of his words crushing her. Was this really what she had come to Chicago for? she wondered bitterly. To be humiliated and belittled by the very chef she had idolized?

Suddenly, a hand rested gently on her shoulder. Y/N jumped, startled. "Hey," Natalie's voice was soft, concerned. "Are you okay?"

Y/N looked up to see Carmen's sister, her face etched with worry. "I saw the whole thing," Natalie said, her voice low. "He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. It was completely out of line."

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes. "I... I don't know," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I feel like I'm a complete failure."

"Don't be ridiculous," Natalie said firmly. "You're not a failure. You're talented. You're dedicated. You just had a bad day."

"But it's not just today," Y/N confessed, her voice breaking. "I've been feeling like this since I came here. I feel so… lost, so alone. I miss home, I miss my friends, I miss everything."

Natalie pulled Y/N into a hesitant hug. "I know," she said softly. "It's tough. Chicago's a big city. But you're not alone. You have us."

Y/N shook her head, tears streaming down her face. "I don't know if this is even worth it anymore," she whispered. "Maybe I should just go home. Give up on this crazy dream."

Natalie pulled back, her eyes searching Y/N's face. "Don't you even think about it," she said sternly. "You're too good for this. You're talented. You're strong. And you're not going to let some… some… asshole like my brother discourage you."

"But what if I am not good enough?" Y/N sobbed, burying her face in her hands.

"You are," Natalie insisted, her voice firm but gentle. "I'll talk to him. I'll make him apologize. He needs to understand how out of line he was."

Y/N looked up at Natalie, her eyes red-rimmed. "Please don't," she pleaded. "Please don't say anything to him. I don't want to cause any more trouble."

Natalie frowned. "But—"

"Please," Y/N repeated, her voice barely a whisper. "I just want to go home."

Natalie hesitated, her gaze lingering on Y/N's tear-stained face. Finally, she sighed. "Alright," she said, her voice laced with concern. "But you're coming back tomorrow. And we're going to talk about this."

Y/N nodded weakly, too exhausted to argue. Natalie, sensing her need for space, gently patted her shoulder and walked away, leaving Y/N alone with her tears and her doubts. As she watched Natalie disappear into the back door of the restaurant, a wave of loneliness washed over her. She was so far from home, so far from everything familiar. Y/N felt utterly lost, adrift in a sea of self-doubt and despair. Was this really what she wanted? Was this the life she had envisioned for herself? Or had she made a terrible mistake?

After a few minutes she was able to calm herself and decided that the best now was to go home. Y/N hurried back inside, her heart pounding. As she reached the locker room, she paused, her ears straining to hear the commotion from the kitchen. She heard Carmen's voice, loud and angry, cutting through the usual din.

"I don't have time for this," he was saying, his voice low and furious. "I'm already stretched thin as it is. If she can't handle the pressure, then maybe she should just go home."

Natalie's voice, though softer, was firm. "She's a good chef, Carmen. You know that. She just needs some time to adjust."

"Adjust to fuckin’ what?" Carmen scoffed. "To my temper? To this chaos? Look, I'm sorry if I was a bit harsh, but she needs to learn. This isn't some fuckin’ bakin’ competition, Nat."

Y/N's blood ran cold. His words echoed in her mind, each syllable a sharp blow to her already shattered confidence. "If she was too soft for this job..." The words hung in the air, a cruel and unforgiving judgment.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, blurring her vision. She quickly grabbed her bag and rushed out of the locker room, ignoring the lingering echoes of Carmen's angry voice. She didn't want to hear any more.

As she walked down the street, the cool night air doing little to soothe her trembling hands, Y/N felt a profound sense of defeat. Maybe Carmen was right. Maybe she wasn't strong enough. Maybe she should just give up and go home.

The cab Y/N hailed arrived, and she numbly climbed inside, giving the driver her address. As the cab pulled away from the curb, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of colors, Y/N began to feel a strange sense of detachment. Her thoughts raced, a chaotic jumble of self-doubt, fear, and the echo of Carmen's harsh words.

She tried to focus on the city lights, the rhythm of the traffic, anything to distract herself from the suffocating weight of her emotions. But the intrusive thoughts wouldn't stop. You're not good enough. You're a disappointment. You should just give up.

Her breathing quickened, shallow and uneven. Her chest tightened, making it difficult to breathe. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the seat, her knuckles white.

“Are you alright, miss?" the driver asked, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

Y/N tried to respond, but only a strangled gasp escaped her lips. The world around her seemed to tilt, colors swirling into an indistinguishable mess. Panic clawed at her throat, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. She felt herself slipping, losing control, the edges of consciousness fading into a terrifying abyss.

The harsh, sterile scent of antiseptic filled Y/N's nostrils. Her eyelids fluttered open, struggling against the blinding white light. Disorientation washed over her, a wave of nausea threatening to engulf her. Where was she? What had happened?

Then, darkness.

-------------------------------------------------

A gentle smile appeared on the face of the woman who had just entered, carrying a bag containing a clear liquid. "Well, well, well, look who's finally awake," she chirped, her voice warm and reassuring. "We were starting to worry about you, sleepyhead."

Y/N blinked, trying to focus on the nurse's face. She had kind eyes and a gentle demeanor, her hair pulled back in a neat bun. "Where… where am I?" she mumbled, her voice hoarse.

"You're at Northwestern Memorial Hospital, sweetheart," the woman replied. "Don't you worry, you're safe now. By the way I’m nurse Kristi."

Y/N tried to sit up, but a sharp pain shot through her head, forcing her back down. "What… what happened?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"You had a bit of a… mishap," the woman explained. "But you're doing much better now." She leaned closer, her eyes twinkling. "Since you’re awake, let’s do a small checkup. Can you tell me your name?"

"Y/N Y/L/N" she replied, her voice a little stronger.

"Great! And what is your birthdate?"

"7th of February 1993" Y/N answered, a flicker of something, perhaps a memory, stirring within her.

"Good girl," nurse Kristi praised. "And where are we, do you remember?"

"Chicago," Y/N replied, a hint of confusion creeping into her voice.

"That's right! Now, try to remember what happened before you… well, before you woke up here."

Y/N closed her eyes, concentrating. The last thing she remembered… it was a blur, a chaotic jumble of images. The Bear, the shouting, the humiliation… and then… panic. She was in a taxi, her heart pounding, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

"I… I think I was in a taxi," she said slowly, "and… and I was having a panic attack."

The woman's smile faded slightly. "Okay... What do you mean, panic attack?"

"I… Like I said, I was in a taxi going home, before this I was at work and..." Y/N stopped herself mid-sentence, her voice trembling.

Kristi’s expression became more serious. "It's okay, darling. It's not uncommon to experience some confusion after a traumatic event. You've been through a lot. "

Y/N felt a wave of dizziness, the sterile scent of the hospital suddenly overwhelming her. The room seemed to tilt, the white walls blurring at the edges. "Traumatic event?" she whispered, fear gripping her.

The nurse’s smile returned, but it didn't quite reach her brown eyes. "Everything is gonna be okay, sweetheart," she said gently, "You've been here for three days, but as soon as the doctor-"

Y/N's eyes widened. "Three days?" she exclaimed, her voice rising in alarm. "But… but I just…" She trailed off, confusion and fear washing over her. How could she have been unconscious for three days?

The woman hesitated, sensing Y/N's growing anxiety. "Hey, you know what? Perhaps we should wait for your doctor," she said, her voice calm and reassuring. "He can answer all your questions. I’ll go get him and be right back"

As she waited for the doctor, Y/N stared at the ceiling, a wave of dread washing over her. Three days. Three days of her life, lost in a void. How could this happen? She felt a sudden chill, despite the warmth of the room. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Listen, dear," started Nurse Kristi, returning with a tray containing a glass of water and a small plate of crackers. "Doctor Hauschild is currently with another patient, but he'll be with you as soon as he's available. In the meantime, try to rest. I brought you some juice and crackers. Try to eat something. You must be starving." Her voice was warm and comforting, easing some of Y/N's anxiety.

"Thank you," Y/N whispered, feeling a slight tremor in her voice.

"You're welcome," Nurse Kristi smiled. "Oh, and by the way, some people came to visit you while you were asleep. They were very worried, especially your mom, of course. As well as your... boyfriend? He asked me to call them as soon as you woke up. So, yeah, if you need help with anything, just press the button next to you, okay?"

Before Y/N could respond, Nurse Kristi left the room. Y/N stared at the tray, the juice and crackers suddenly seeming insignificant. Wait a minute, a boyfriend?

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fixforthesoul · 9 months ago

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An Offering for Brigid; Lotr Fanfic, Aragorn x Pagan Brigid Devotee! Reader

This is probably one of the weirdest fics I've ever written solely because I wrote it as an offering for the goddess Brigid. I understand that fanfiction is a very,, unconventional offering for deities, but she actually requested this so I really can't complain. Weirdly enough though, I genuinely think this might be one of the best fanfics I've ever written. So, in honor of Lady Brigid, goddess of inspiration, here's a new Aragorn fanfic. I hope you all enjoy.

Tags: @filiswingman, @beenovel, @lord-westley, @peachyaliien, @minaturefics I figured you might want to see this since I haven't written in SO long

Aragorn first met you in the gardens of Rivendell, dutifully harvesting the blackberries for your next offering. The first thing that struck him about you was your odd clothing - your skirt was made of tartan, dyed in a way he’d never seen before, and a forest green cloak hung loosely over your back. He could just barely see the tresses of your hair peeking out from underneath the veil you were wearing.

He figured that you were a new visitor to the House of Elrond, and in that he was correct. However, your duties there were still a mystery to him. Still, something about you was so striking that he found his voice calling to you before he even realized his mouth had opened. Even just by standing near you, there was an odd energy emanating from your presence, like a blazing fire in the middle of winter; frightening, almost, yet innately comforting. And when you turned your face to look at him, his breath was nearly taken away at the sight of your face, flushed and slightly tanned from the late summer sun.

“Yes? Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” Your sweet voice called to him.

“I-uh…” It was rare for Aragorn to find himself speechless, yet you seemed to drive all words from his tongue. Though he had a compassionate heart, his countenance was still severe, and he always seemed to have something serious to say. Yet here you were, a strange girl making a mockery of him without even knowing it.

“Would you like some blackberries?” You offered, knowing your goddess valued acts of generosity, “I need most of them for my next offering, but I have some to spare.”

“I, uh, no, my lady. Wait, an offering, you say?” He asked as your words finally reached him.

You giggled at the tall, devastatingly handsome man, so stern-looking and yet somehow so boyish all at once in that moment.

“Yes. I’m guessing Lord Elrond has not told you of my staying here yet.”

“No, my lady, he has not.”

“I am a friend of Gandalf’s.” You continued, “An apprentice of sorts, I suppose. But above all I am a shaman. The offering is for my goddess.”

Now you fully had his attention.

“Goddess?”

“Yes, the goddess Brigid.”

“I have never heard of a deity by that name.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, sir. I am, um... not from around here.”

Aragorn’s eyes seemed to burn into yours, alive and swirling with a sense of awe he could not name.

“Would you tell me about this goddess, my lady? I fear now you have my interest.” His face broke out in a boyish grin with those last words, and he seemed to look younger for it. He certainly felt younger, talking to you. Yours was an energy he could not quite put words to, but found himself drawn to regardless.

“Of course. Would you like to sit with me while I pick berries?”

“I could help you pick them, if you like.”

“But you do not have gloves.”

With that, he pulled a pair of thick leather gloves from his back pocket, slipping them into his large calloused hands and crouching down beside you and the large blackberry bush.

“Ah. Always prepared, I see.” You smiled, “You are a ranger, I take it.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“You do not have to call me that, sir. Simply (Y/N) is fine.”

His eyes caught yours for a moment, before his gaze began sliding over the rest of your face, studying you.

“(Y/N).. a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

“You flatter me. May I have your name?”

“Aragorn.” He said with some hesitation. It was not often that he gave out his real name to new acquaintances, but he knew that you would not betray him. Something about your air had already made him certain of that.

You hummed with a smile that made him question if you knew of him already. But still you simply turned back to the blackberry bush and continued delicately picking off the berries.

“What would you like to know about my goddess, Aragorn?”

“Whatever you would be willing to share, quite honestly. I am fond of legends and have yet to come across any of hers.”

“Brigid is a goddess of inspiration.” You explained, “She’s known by many different names and has many different aspects, but is widely regarded as the goddess of the forge, of spring and the healing arts, among other things. She is a Celtic goddess, which refers to a people group back home that I do not believe exists in these lands. But she is very wise and very great, and so full of compassion that it drove me to becoming a priestess of hers.”

“A priestess?” Aragorn marveled, accidentally squishing a blackberry too hard and coating his glove with its juice.

“Yes. I am even able to communicate with her directly.”

“How?” His voice grew higher as his curiosity piqued.

“Various ways, really. Divination is one, simple card and pendulum readings are probably among the easiest methods. Aside from that I might dream of her, or go into trance states to see her. Though oftentimes I simply hear her voice in my mind.”

“That sounds incredible, my lady. Where did you learn these skills? Were you born with them?”

“I was born with a predilection for the spiritual, you could say, but it took many years of study and work to refine my skills. Think of magic and mediumship like learning to sing or play an instrument. Some may be born with the gift, so to speak, but anyone is capable of mastering it with enough practice.”

“Could you teach me?” He said before even realizing it.

You looked at him for a moment, quizzically.

“If you truly want to learn? Sure.”

Unknowingly, at that moment, the two of you reached for the same blackberry, and the sides of your fingers brushed against each other. A flush rose to each of your faces as you quickly withdrew your hand, allowing Aragorn to pick it. You laughed awkwardly before standing up, having taken your fill of nature's bounty.

“I will be up by the kitchens preparing the offerings. If you wish to join, I would not mind the company.”

Aragorn could only nod awkwardly before you walked off at a brisk pace.

The next time Aragorn saw you was, unsurprisingly, in the kitchens of Imladris. He had debated going to see you right away, but decided against it, worried it would make him look desperate or odd. It had been some time since a woman had made him worry about such things, and the feeling caught him off-guard. Ever since Arwen had chosen an immortal life and went to live with her mother in Valinor, he had all but given up on the prospect of romantic love. Until you, that is. Still, he was a smart man. It was far too hasty to call it ‘love’ now, especially considering that he had no idea of what you might be feeling. Still, your presence was captivating enough that he found himself hurrying to the kitchens after only an hour or two of pacing about the gardens, making the elves worry for him a bit.

When he finally caught sight of you again, you were coating the blackberries with sugar, flour and cinnamon in a large bowl. Given the height of the elves, you had to stand on a small step stool to be able to see over the counter, which made him chuckle, though this only served to catch your attention. Your (eye/color) eyes fixed upon him in an almost teasing way.

“Back for more, I take it?”

Your unserious bluntness managed to catch him off-guard once again, which seemed to be a newfound talent of yours. He could only awkwardly stand there and attempt to stutter out a reply, but to no avail.

“I kid.” You assured him, “Now, would you like to come see what I’m making?”

“Yes, my lady.” He said, walking over to you and observing your work on the kitchen counter.

You seemed to be making blackberry pie, having the completed pie crust in a small baking dish and just finishing grating some fresh lemon zest onto the filling.

“This is for your goddess, I assume?”

“Indeed.”

“Quite a lavish offering.” He remarked.

“It won’t be going to waste” You assured him, “My usual offering routine is to set the offering out on her altar, wait for her to have her fill, and then distribute the rest of the food to the community so that all may share in it.”

“How do you know when she has eaten it?”

“She doesn’t necessarily ‘eat’ it, per say. It’s not like a quarter of the pie just disappears into thin air.” You giggled, “Instead she consumes the essence of the food and then we get to have the physical portion of it. Essentially, all food has vitality in it, and that is what she partakes in when I make her an offering like this. I know she’s done simply by asking her.”

“Fascinating..”

“Indeed!” You said, pouring the filling into the prepared pie crust before beginning to lay strips of dough on top of it. “I wonder if the oven is hot enough yet.”

“Let me check.” Aragorn said, putting his hand an inch away from the oven’s opening to feel its heat. “It should be alright, my lady.”

“Just (Y/N), remember? And thank you. The ovens back home are quite different from those here, so I struggle to use them sometimes.”

“What do you mean? An oven is an oven, is it not?”

“I, um… nevermind. It’s too hard to explain right now.”

With that, you slid the pie into the oven and sat back to watch it bake. You had to keep a close eye on it, considering timers were not exactly a thing in this world. Still, you wanted Aragorn to stay and chat for a bit. In the short amount of time that you had known one another, you became just as fond of him as he was of you. Though this was completely unbeknownst to the both of you, of course. So, as the pie was baking in the oven, the two of you started a pleasant conversation about each of your lives. You may have been more knowledgeable than Aragorn, at least in the esoteric arts, but Aragorn had been to many places in Middle Earth and you found yourself captivated by his stories. You were a priestess, he was a ranger, but something between the two of you seemed to click together like two pieces of a larger puzzle. Though, eventually, the pie was done baking and Aragorn helped you gingerly remove it from the oven before placing it on a large plate.

“Would you like to come make the offering with me? You can watch if you’d like.”

“You would be okay with that?” He asked, eyes wide but colored with a hint of excitement.

“Yes, and I feel that Brigid is too.” You smiled. This was true. Just as you realized some newfound fonder feelings were bubbling up within you towards the ranger, you could almost sense Brigid’s interest in him growing too. In fact, part of you wondered if your chance meeting today was not so chance after all, and if Brigid herself had possibly orchestrated it. Perhaps you would ask at the altar.

With that, Aragorn helped you carry the pie into a small room, just off to the side from your actual bedroom, that held Brigid’s altar. He once again found himself awed by your practice, seeing the intricately carved wooden effigy of the goddess herself sitting on a flat table covered in a red tablecloth. Candles were strewn across it, along with a tall goblet of spring water and some incense burners. It was beautiful, and the energy he had been feeling earlier seemed to spike in the presence of Brigid’s altar. Warm, like a hearthfire, but full of passion. He felt like he could bask in the feeling for eternity and never be unsatisfied.

As you instructed him to set the fresh blackberry pie down on the table, you took out a match and began to light each candle carefully, especially a large red one right in front of the statuette of Brigid. Then you lit some incense and, as the smoke wafted across the table, you asked Aragorn to step to the side so you could address the goddess.

“Brigid, lady of the flame, grace myself and the people of this land with your warmth. Brigid of poetry, allow us to see the beauty and prose within all things. Brigid of healing, allow us your grace and extend your loving hand upon the sick, injured and needy. Brigid of smithcraft, allow us to create a new age of prosperity upon your anvil. Brigid, cover us with your mantle and let us bask in your holy warmth. As I say this, so let it be.”

As you finished the invocation, your eyes went back to Aragorn, watching from the corner of the room. You decided that it might be fun to mess with him a little, and turned back towards the large red candle on the altar.

“Lady Brigid, if you enjoy these offerings, could you please make the candle flicker?”

To Aragorn’s shock and awe (and slight fear), the flame of the candle instantly began to flicker rapidly before stopping. You couldn’t help the laugh you let out at the look on his face.

“Would you like to come up and speak with her?”

“I… I-um, suppose”

Walking up to the altar, Aragorn stood there, looking a little helpless.

“Lady Brigid, if you like this ranger I have with me, may you flicker the candle again?”

The candle immediately became alive, flickering ferociously. Aragorn stepped back.

“Okay, what is happening?” He laughed nervously, clearly shocked by how the spirit of Brigid truly did seem to inhabit the room.

“Don’t worry too much, Aragorn. After all, she said she likes you!” You laughed.

At that your tarot deck, which had previously been sitting on a shelf, seemed to fall apart and send its cards flying across the table and floor. Before you could even register it, a particular card caught your eye, having landed directly in front of Brigid’s candle and statue.

The Lovers.

Aragorn seemed not to notice, being busy picking up the cards, but you stared at the card of love for a few minutes. So that’s how it’s going to be, huh? You eyed Brigid’s statue incredulously.

Well played, Brigid. Well played.

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