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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

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The Profiler in the Therapist (ch 18)

You can find this entire fic here on AO3.

Fandom: Bones (TV) and Criminal Minds (TV)

Entire Fic Description:

Dr. Lance Sweets is no longer the innocent eager psychologist he was a little over a year and a half ago. His time as a prodigy profiler at the BAU was a blessing. His time in a serial killer's basement was not.

Now, scarred but healed, Sweets is 'retired' to calmer job in the FBI as a therapist. As he helps others, he helps himself. But... is it enough? What will he do when one of his most fascinating (unwilling) patients asks for help on a case? How will his new team take his past as his secrets slowly start to come out?

Entire Fic Warnings: cannon-typical violence, past torture, panic attacks, PTSD, serial killers

Chapter word count: 6,429

Chapter warnings: hospital, recovery, lots of emotions (like a LOT), OC important to plot

Summary: Sweets recovers from the events of last chapter and the BAU roll up their sleeves.

Please read the fic! First chapter, previous chapter, next chapter, master list. And let me know if you want to be tagged.

The first thing he became aware of was a dull throbbing behind his eyes. It felt like there was a rope stretched between his ears, being twisted tighter and tighter until it reached an unbearable point of tension, before being twisted some more. The next thing he felt was a burning sort of throb echoing through his entire body, radiating from his chest, and a sharp stabbing sensation at the nape of his neck. He rolled his head to the side and automatically reached up to touch the epicenter of the pain, an involuntary groan slipping past his lips as he found his arm heavy and numb, unable to move more than a few inches off the… off the bed?

It was only then that he registered to soft brush of the blankets and the bright fluorescent lights glowing behind his eyelids. There was a steady beeping in the background, the murmur of voices a few feet away, and the heavy scent of antiseptic hanging in the air.

He was in the hospital.

Swallowing against the dryness in his throat and wincing at the way it made his head throb, Lance cautiously cracked his eyes open. The blinding whiteness that met him, however, had him immediately slamming them closed and letting out another pained groan.

A gasp echoed from beside his bed, and a sudden weight landed on his arm, “Lance?”

A smile twitched across his lips at the warm familiar voice—JJ’s voice. Wanting to see his friend, he carefully slid his eyes open again, before flinching at the brightness and aborting his attempt. JJ’s hand squeezed his arm gently in response and the murmuring voices in the background fell silent.

From somewhere behind JJ, Penelope— because there was no one else it could be— exclaimed, “Oh, thank god! Lance!”

He scrunched up his face in response to the loud noise, but forced his eyes open once more, straining until the light normalized and the shapes before him came into focus. Sure enough, Penelope was looming worriedly over him, clutching a vibrant pink purse that matched the rest of her ensemble, and JJ was seated next to his bed, smiling warmly at him. Behind them were several others—Morgan had a hand on Garcia’s shoulder, with Reid and Prentiss peering around them, and Hotch was standing in the doorway, a relieved smile on his face despite the tense set to his shoulders.

“It’s good to see you awake, Junior,” Derek greeted warmly.

Lance offered a smile in return, feeling a little more grounded as he focused on his friends and pushed his pain into the background. Penelope started sniffling, producing a handkerchief from somewhere and reaching up to dab at her eyes. Spencer gave her an exasperated look and slipped around the others, making his way to the other side of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asked in concern, eyes flicking over his face, assessing his condition.

“’m k,” he managed, the words coming out hoarse and garbled. He took a moment to swallow, ignoring the disapproving looks he was getting. “Head hurts,” he elaborated shortly, voice still rough but much clearer, “ache everywhere; weak.” To demonstrate, he attempted lifting his arm again, getting it farther this time before he huffed and let it fall on his stomach.

“Here,” Spencer’s voice, accompanied by a rattling, drew his attention to the other side of his bed. With a good deal of effort, he turned his head—wincing once more—to find the genius holding a cup of ice. “This should help your throat,” he murmured, scooping a piece up in a plastic spoon and holding it to his lips.

Lance smiled in thanks and accepted the cool ice shard, sighing as it immediately soothed the dryness in his mouth.

“You had us really worried there, Sweets,” JJ murmured, running a hand up and down his arm.

Lance glanced towards Emily, the only person he knew had been with him. “What happened?” he managed around the ice cube.

Her face twisted a bit and she glanced over her shoulder at Hotch, who was gravitating closer, before looking back at her bed-ridden friend, “I’m… not sure if we should get into that yet.”

He frowned at her, ignoring the way his head throbbed for the moment, and thought back to the last thing he could remember. They had just gotten home, after the thing with Gormogon, and… there was a package on the coffee table, which he opened and—

Oh.

His realization must have shown on his face because everyone around him reacted as one, shifting closer to him and reaching out. JJ moved her free hand to rest on his shoulder, Derek perched on the bed by his leg, Emily gripped his ankle, Penelope caught his hand… even Spencer reached out to touch his opposite arm, and Aaron braced himself at the end of his bed.

“It’s ok!” Penelope cried, squeezing his hand tightly, “You’re safe. Alright, Lancelot?”

Sweets squeezed her hand back in acknowledgement but focused his attention on Emily. “W-what happened?” he asked again.

She gave him a brief wobbly smile before her expression faded back into concern, “I think you had a flashback. The… the package set you off, and you ended up knocking yourself out.”

“The doctor says you have a pretty severe concussion, but Prentiss called an ambulance and they got it under control rather quickly, so there shouldn’t be any lasting damage,” Spencer added, nudging him to catch his attention.

“They’re keeping you under observation for a few days,” Aaron continued, his face a perfect stoic mask, “and the bureau will want to send in someone to do their own evaluation, as well.”

Lance attempted to nod in understanding, hissed, and settled for abusing his throat instead, “Ok.”

“We’ll figure this out, Junior,” Derek promised, patting his leg, “one way or another.” The others nodded in agreement.

He gave his friend a smile, a truly genuine one, and repeated, “Ok.” His former team each returned his smile, filling Lance with warmth and love and, despite the horror that was no doubt yet to come, he felt himself relax. He’d always be safe with them.

The moment spent surrounded by his family was broken suddenly as a man clad in a white coat bustled into the room and began immediately scolding everyone—something about not crowding the patient and letting him rest, et cetera, et cetera…. Lance wasn’t really listening. The doctor whipped out a flashlight and started shining it in his face, reeling off commands as he examined Lance’s pupils, and Sweets obeyed thoughtlessly. Most of his attention, however, was on how his friends had backed away from the bed as requested and were now masking their amusement—swallowing smiles and muffling chuckles. His examination turned out to be rather painless, preoccupied as he was, and the doctor seemed to satisfy himself long before he had expected.

“Now!” the doctor whirled on the group that had quietly observed the examination, “I know you want to see your friend, agents, but I insist… No more than three people at once, understood?” He paused meaningfully, waiting for the chorus of agreement that followed, before giving a sharp nod and turning to collect his supplies. While doing so, he was close enough to Lance that he heard the doctor mutter, “It’s bad enough that we aren’t restricting it to family.”

Sweets blinked at the side of his head for a moment before throwing caution to the wind, “Doctor?” The man whipped around in surprise and Lance gave him a wry smile, “They are my family.”

Everything about the man softened slightly and he gave his patient an amused smile, “Well, family or not, six people is not an appropriate number of visitors.”

“Understood,” he let out a breathy chuckle that, unfortunately, strained his throat.

Hotch stepped forward and offered a hand, “Thank you, Doctor Myers, for everything.”

“Certainly, Agent Hotchner, certainly,” the man accepted the handshake even as he moved towards the door. “Just make sure I don’t catch all of you in here at once again!” he called over his shoulder.

“Well,” Morgan chuckled, “You heard the man.”

“We should get back to work,” Emily agreed, standing. A murmur of agreement rippled around the group.

Spencer gave him another gentle nudge, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Yes,” Garcia agreed softly, giving his hand one last squeeze, “Promise you’ll take care of yourself, Sir Sweetness.”

“I promise, Pen,” he murmured, squeezing back.

Quietly, they each took their leave, murmuring their goodbyes, until only JJ and Aaron remained. The BAU leader moved to take the seat on the other side of his bed, giving a small sigh as he sat, “We’re back on the case; Strauss is very concerned about you, Sweets.”

Lance stared at his friend in blatant surprise, eyes a little wide. Objectively he knew Strauss cared about the BAU, but she was such a strict supervisor that is was very hard to remember at times.

“We’ll still have to handle other cases,” Hotch warned gently, “But we will catch him, Lance. You have our word.”

“We won’t leave you alone, either,” JJ promised, “Someone will always be with you.”

Lance let out a shaky breath and swallowed hard, eyes glistening slightly. He didn’t trust his voice, especially not with the state of his throat, but attempted too communicate his thanks as best as he could anyway—nodding and smiling at the pair. It meant so much, to have people who obviously cared for him in his life.

He didn’t know what he’d do without them.

A polite knock at the door broke the moment, causing all three profilers to turn towards the noise. Rossi was smiling at them, one hand raised against the doorframe while his other held a little hand belonging to a small blonde boy—Henry LaMontagne. Jack was bouncing beside his friend, eyes shining as he clutched something close to his chest. Will was standing behind them, smiling down at his son, and Lance could just barely make out Jessica’s frizzy blonde hair in the doorway.

“Are you up for a few more visitors?” Dave asked brightly, humor lacing his tone.

Taking their Uncle Dave’s question as permission, Jack and Henry rushed forward (Jack well in the lead), the adults following more slowly. While Jack skidded to a stop beside Lance’s bed and began hoisting himself onto it, Henry joined his mom at his side, eyes wide and earnest as he added another hand to Lance’s arm.

“Whoa, buddy!” Aaron exclaimed, lurching to his feet and reaching out to stop his son from falling onto his uncle, “Careful!”

Completely ignoring his father, Jack turned the entirety of his attention onto the bedridden therapist, earnestly holding out his precious cargo, “I brought you chocolate pudding, Uncle Lance! Uncle Will said it’s the bestest thing when you aren’t feeling well.”

Lance smiled warmly at his nephew, reaching out with mild effort to solemnly accept the gift (his arm collapsed almost immediately after accepting the package, but the boy didn’t seem to mind). “Thank you very much, Jack,” he murmured roughly after clearing his throat, “That was very thoughtful.”

The boy beamed in response and lurched forward as though he was going to give him a hug, but he caught himself at the last second, looking his uncle up and down warily.

“Are you ok?” a quiet voice drew Lance’s attention to his other nephew.

“I’m fine, Henry,” he assured the boy, shifting the arm he and his mother were gripping in order to offer him a hand. Henry immediately gripped it in both of his smaller hands, and Lance gave them a reassuring squeeze, “My head hurts a bit and I’m tired, but I’m ok. Honest,” he quirked a smile at both of the worried boys.

“I’m glad ta hear that, mon ami,” Will moved to stand behind his son, resting a hand on the little boy’s shoulder. “You gave us a right scare fer a minute there.”

“A scare is right!” Jessica exclaimed, coming to a stop at the foot of Lance’s bed. She gave his ankle a light slap and scowled down at him. A moment later, however, her expression melted into one of concern and relief, “I’m glad you’re ok, Lance.”

“Make that two of us,” Dave smiled down at him as he came to a stop beside the writer.

“Thanks,” Sweets smiled at them, warm and content.

Hotch stood, “Nice as this is, we better get going.”

JJ chuckled, “We don’t want the doctor to yell at us again.”

“An’ I need ta be gettin’ to work, unfortunately,” Will agreed.

Henry turned his big eyes to his parents, “Do I need to go?”

“Nooooo,” Jack lamented from his perch on the bed.

Jessica chuckled at them, “No, no, you two rascals are staying with me today. As long as Uncle Lance doesn’t mind, we can stay here for a bit.”

As one, the two boys turned their hopeful eyes on Lance and he fought back a smile, giving them faux considering look, “I suppose you can stay…”

“Yay!” Jack exclaimed, forgetting his earlier caution and throwing himself at his Uncle, awkwardly embracing him. Henry just beamed at them and squeezed Lance’s hand, which he still held. Lance chuckled lightly, despite his throat’s protestations, and maneuvered the hand that still held the chocolate pudding in order to embrace his nephew back.

The other adults grinned at the trio and began wishing their final goodbyes, a quiet shuffling occurring as JJ relinquished her seat to Jessica and moved to join Hotch and Will as they slipped from the room. Rossi, however, moved to take the seat the team leader had just relinquished.

“I’m sticking around too,” he informed the half-smothered therapist when he looked over at him curiously. “Someone needs to stick around to protect you from these two,” he nodded toward the boys.

Sweets beamed at him, happy one of his old team was sticking around, before turning his attention back to his nephews. Henry had relinquished his hand and was attempting to climb onto the bed to join Jack. He nearly toppled off, having only gotten half of his body up, before Jess surged forward and steadied him, quietly urging her nephew to help his friend.

A few moments later, Lance was covered with two small bodies, and he couldn’t be happier. He knew that things were going to get worse before they got better, and he knew he still had to heal and jump through all sorts of hoops before he could do anything to help, but now, in that moment, it didn’t matter. He allowed himself to drown in the warmth, ignore his lingering headache, and forget everything. The world could wait.

Over the next two days, his family was the only bright point in his life. Just as he had expected, things were getting worse before they got better. Now, don’t get him wrong, he was getting better… but, well, as he regained his strength, his frustration and paranoia grew. He wanted to do something, anything. He wanted to figure out why he sent him those—those things, and why nothing else had happened yet. He was crawling out of his skin. With every update from his family, every “we’re working on it” and “we’ll find him,” Sweets was losing it just a little bit more. He was done with the whole goddamn thing.

He was done with sitting around and staring out the window and twiddling his thumbs. He was done with being chased back into bed by nurses, done with the food and the bright lights and the awkward gown and the tiny bathroom… He was so ready to go home. To sleep in his own bed and choose his own activities and maybe (hopefully) help his team, even just a little.

And, finally, it looked like he was getting his wish; he was still rather fuzzy around the edges, rather off balance, and always tired, but Doctor Myers had cleared him for home rest. In a few hours, Emily and Derek were coming by to pick him up and take him to lunch before settling him back at home. Honestly, he couldn’t wait.

There was, unfortunately, one more thing that had to be done before he could leave. One more meeting, with one more doctor, to answer one more question: would he be returning to work?

He already knew the answer, sure enough of his own mental state, and was dreading the appointment with every ounce of his being.

As though summoned by his thoughts, a knock sounded on the doorframe of his room and he glanced up from where he was fighting with lacing his shoes, perched awkwardly on the edge of his bed. There, standing in the portal to the rest of the godforsaken place was a familiar face, one of his coworkers from the Hoover building, another FBI therapist—Dr. Anisa Amin. She was one of the most kind and empathetic people he had ever met, effortlessly shifting to accommodate a patient’s needs and easily reading when to push and when to simply offer support. Anisa reminded Sweets of JJ the most, or perhaps Derek. She was fierce and brilliant, shied away from nothing, and would happily move bureaucratic heaven and earth to help a patient. Her style, however… that was much more up Penelope’s alley. Today she was clad in an eclectic set of patterns, all of which prominently featured various shades of green, from her flowing floral skirt and tree silhouette t-shirt to her neon green hijab. The hijab was so bright Lance almost wanted to squint.

She beamed at him as she entered the room, “Lance, it’s good to see you!”

“Anisa,” he greeted warmly, genuinely pleased that if he had to do this, as least she was the one the FBI sent, “It’s good to see you too.”

“I hear you’re going home today,” she moved to sit beside the bed, a twinkle in her eyes.

Lance nodded, “Yes, I’m leaving before lunch.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I bet you can’t wait to get out of this place,” she gave the room a critical look, startling a laugh out of her coworker.

He snorted, “You have no idea.”

Giving him a smug look, Anisa dug through her bag and pulled out a notebook. Seeing her preparations, Lance couldn’t help shifting uncomfortably on the bed. By the time she looked back up, however, he had managed to settle himself back down and returned her smile with one of his own.

“Alright,” she tapped her pen against the notebook, “you know how this works, so let’s get started.”

“Actually, uh… I don’t think that’s necessary,” he offered, the end of his sentence sounding like a question.

Anise gave him a sympathetic yet reprimanding look, “Lance, I know you want to work, and I know how much helping others helps you, but you just—”

“No, that—that’s not what I mean,” he interrupted her before immediately flushing at the look she was giving him. He cleared his throat and reached up to rub the base of his neck, “I… I know I’m not of sound mind right now, Ani.”

“Lance…” she murmured, face softening into a look of concern.

“I mean, I want to do something, but I know I can’t be a therapist until I can…” he trailed off, words escaping him and, after working is mouth like a fish for a few moments, buried his face in his hands. He hated it, but it was true; he was far too emotional to be the rock for his patients to lean on right now. There was every likelihood that trying to help someone else would trigger something for him instead.

“Ok,” she said gently, ducking her head to meet his eyes and coaxing him to look at her, “That’s ok, Lance. I understand. But we need to do this,” she tapped her notebook again for emphasis.

“Ani…” he tried, sagging back against the bed, arms braced behind him.

“The bureau needs an update on your psychological situation,” she persisted, “Even if you aren’t returning to work as a therapist.”

A ragged sigh pushed past his lips and he lifted a hand to wipe across his face, “I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

“Look, Lance, I think I know you pretty well by now,” Anisa leant forward and pointed the end of her pen at him, “And I’m pretty sure that you won’t be happy being benched for this entire process. If it were up to me you’d be on leave until this bastard is caught, but…”

Lance couldn’t help looking up sharply, eyes widening in horror, “Ani! I—”

She lifted a hand to stop his protestation, “You’ve been through a lot. There’s no two ways around it. You’re scarred—you have been since before I met you.”

“Ani…” he tried again.

She shook her head slightly, “But for all your scars, you were functional. You had healed. But now… if even you are admitting you can’t do your job—”

“That’s not my point,” he interrupted a little desperately, “I’m not stable right now, sure, but I’m still perfectly capable of thinking! I don’t…” Lance swallowed hard, doing his best to push down the swirl of emotions that had begun popping up since the beginning of the conversation. The panic and fear and the pressing sensation of being trapped, the hopelessness, the uselessness…. He felt like all the stability and control he had fought so hard for was slipping through his fingers more and more with every moment he sat around doing nothing.

Taking a deep breath, Sweets gathered himself and met the other therapist’s steady gaze. “Did you read what they figured out yesterday?”

Anisa blinked at his sudden question, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, “About the… sample?

Lance nodded, eyes drifting to the floor, and sighed. He took a moment, eyes shut, to gather his thoughts and strength before he powered on. “It’s mine, Ani,” he nearly whispered, “All of that blood on those stupid things… it’s mine.” He glanced up, taking in the soft understanding look on his coworker’s face, and shook his head, “Do you know what that means?”

She nodded slightly, “The memories are coming back.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, but that’s not…” he squeezed his eyes shut, “It means that… he didn’t use them with anyone else, that he didn’t clean them, that he saved them. And then he sent them to me. He tracked me down and sent me a reminder of everything he did. Of… Of how he’s not done. And… it’s all I can think about.”

“Lance,” she murmured his name, sounding broken. Lance slid his eyes open to find her sitting there with her pen dangling uselessly from her fingers and her notepad forgotten on her lap.

He gave her a small smile, “I can understand your reasoning, trying to keep me safe and out of the way. My entire family would prefer that too. Hell,” he choked out, emotion welling unbidden up his throat, “I would prefer that, but… I’d go insane,” on the last word he let out a shaky laugh that was almost a sob.

A moment later, to his utter mortification, Lance felt the wetness in his eyes begin to spill over. Letting out a frustrated noise, he started wiping desperately at them, attempting to stop the tears before they leaked down his face. He felt like his skin was too small, like there was some sort of energy bouncing around inside him and frying his nerves. He wanted to shoot to his feet and start pacing, to rush out the door and do something, anything, but… he couldn’t muster the energy to move. He couldn’t muster the energy to do anything but suck in painful gasps of air and push back the tears he did not want.

He had practice doing it, so it only took a few moments to suck down the unwanted emotion and stem the flow of tears, but it felt like much longer—painful awkward minutes full of gasping and wiping—before he looked back up at Anisa. She was still seated, looking on with a soft sympathetic expression that made it all the worse. Defiantly, he lifted his chin and met her eyes, reinforcing his emotional fortifications as much as he could.

“I’m not ok,” he declared, voice steady, “But my reasoning and judgement are sound. I know I can’t function as a therapist and I know I can’t work on my case, but I need to do something. Chain me to a desk and give me nothing but files and paperwork and forms,” he let out a breathy chuckle, “anything as long as it keeps me busy, but please,” his voice cracked again, “I beg of you, don’t suspend me. I… I don’t think I could survive that.”

Anisa had sat through the entire speech, including his minor breakdown, with nothing but patience and sympathy plastered across her face. Following his final declaration, the doctor sat there for a few beats, carefully examining his face, before a wry smile flitted across her face. She let out a sigh, “That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“What?” Lance blinked at her.

“Like I said,” she tilted her slightly, “I think I know you pretty well by now. I’m surprised you admitted you aren’t ok, but I knew you would want to work.”

Sweets couldn’t help the hope that swelled within him, “And?”

Anisa gave him an amused look, eyes sparkling, “And I might be convinced, depending on how you’re doing and if I can keep an eye on your mental state until this is all over.”

“Yes,” he leant forward eagerly, “Anything.”

A grin split her face, “Anything?” she snorted, “Be careful what you sign up for, Lance.”

Lance felt his face flush and gave a sheepish shrug, “I trust you?”

Anisa gave a delighted chuckle, “Alright.” She gave her notepad a pointed tap, “Let’s get started then.”

Feeling as though he had jumped headfirst a little too soon, he eyed the simple tools with trepidation, “I thought we already…”

“Oh, no,” she laughed, “We’re having a full session, and that’s final.”

A groan slipped past his lips without his consent, and he let his head drop back. He knew it would probably be worth it, in the end at least, but he hated this type of session. It always left him exhausted and drained, his old wounds rubbed raw. It was necessary, he knew, to peel away scabs and clear infected tissue so he could heal, but it hurt.

But, he reflected, eyeing Anisa waiting patiently a few feet away, perhaps it would do him good to go over everything that had happened since the last time he did this. Maybe it would help him find his footing, help him stand strong against what he knew was coming, sooner or later.

The next few days were dramatically uneventful. They were, in fact, almost painful. Sweets went home, he slept, he wandered around the apartment, he visited with whoever showed up to visit, and he barely set a foot outside his front door. It left him feeling like he had traded one prison for another, regardless of how much he preferred his current situation to the hospital. He was full of pent up energy and frustration that only grew as he regained his stamina and his concussion healed. Once his dizzy spells became less common, he took to routinely pacing his living room.

He understood his family’s reasoning, though; they were worried about him. There was a murderer out for his blood and they had no idea what to do except hunker down and protect him as much as they could. Which was entirely logical. He understood, he really did. Honest. It just… also left an itch somewhere he couldn’t for the life of him reach.

On the fourth day after his release from the hospital, nearly a week after the incident itself, he finally managed to drive his body guards insane too. As had become routine, Lance was pacing in the living room, vaguely watching TV, while Emily and Derek hunched over his dining table, piles of files and papers spread around them. Lance knew better than to try and help; they were rather insistent he stay away from anything pertaining to the case. Which, well, he could admit it was a good idea. His most recent panic attack had been triggered by an evidence photo of… the restraints.

Unlike the past few days, however, none of the profilers had managed to dig up any new information (no matter how useless it always ended up being) so the pair in the kitchen were looking through old evidence for the umpteenth time, and Lance was particularly restless. According to the agreement he had reached with Anisa, he could return to desk work any day now… as of yesterday. He was doing his best not to be distracting, but the frustrating itch was just that much more insistent, and he couldn’t help his agitation.

Around noon, Morgan let out a huge groan, tossed a file onto the haphazard pile in the center of the table, and sent an exasperated look towards Sweets. “Alright, that’s it,” he declared, “We’re not getting anywhere and you’re wearing a hole into your rug.”

Lance froze mid stride and turned to give the profiler a curious look.

“Yeah,” Prentiss huffed a sigh, “Let’s pack this up for now and take a trip.”

“A trip?” Sweets echoed hopefully.

“Yeah, Junior,” Derek stood and began rifling through the stacks and imposing a level of order to the chaos, “A trip.”

Excited, nearly vibrating with redirected energy, the younger profiler watched as his friends made quick work of gathering up the files and returning them to their rightful boxes. Before too long, he was being ushered out of his apartment and down into an SUV, and not long after that they were settling into the Hoover building parking garage. The anticipation that had grown over the ride turned the short walk to the building into torture. Thankfully, Derek, seeing Lance’s pent up energy, clapped him on the back and told him they’d meet him in his office.

Needing no more urging, he had made short work of getting through security and up to his supervisor’s office. She was, surprisingly, ready for him—complete with Anisa sitting in the other chair. The meeting was short. They did little more that extract a promise from him that he’d meet with Anisa every week (“at least, Lance, you understand?”), watch his mental health, and stay out of the field before returning his credentials and handing him a list of tasks.

Saying he was thrilled would be a massive understatement.

Upon his arrival to his office, Lance discovered his friends had wheedled someone into unlocking it for them and had already replicated their disaster zone from this morning all over his coffee table and sitting area. It was almost comical how similar it looked, almost as though they had simply teleported the mess rather than packing and unpacking the files.

They glanced up from their files when he entered, a question written across their faces, and Sweets just beamed. Understanding what that meant, they smiled back—just as thrilled for him as he was. With his heart lighter than it had been in days, Lance gladly endured Derek’s slight ribbing and Emily’s playful comments about his eagerness to return to work. He was just relieved to sit behind his desk again, a familiar sense of calm surrounding him and comforting him as he settled into the repetitive patterns of paperwork. That sense was only amplified by the presence of his friends as they settled into their own work, leaving a comfortable silence in the office punctuated only by the rustling of paper and the scratch of pens.

It was nice.

It did not, however, last nearly as long as he had expected. After only about fifteen minutes of peaceful work, the door to his office flew open, revealing a familiar figure he really should have expected to see. After all, Agent Booth was not known for being a patient man.

“Sweets! I heard you—” Booth stopped in the doorway, a look of startled confusion washing over his face, and took in the scene before him. “Uh, Prentiss?”

Sparing a glance up from her work, the profiler smiled in greeting, “Booth.”

Turning in his seat, Morgan gave him a similar smile and offered a hand, “Agent Booth, it’s good to finally meet you. SSA Derek Morgan.”

Still obviously off balance, the other agent accepted the handshake, “You BAU?”

“Sure am,” he flashed Lance an amused look over his shoulder.

Booth paused and gave them all a mildly concerned considering look, “Is there something I don’t know about?” When they just gave him questioning looks, he gave a shrug, “I mean, first Sweets goes AWOL and I hear he had some kind of medical emergency, then he shows back up out of the blue with two BAU agents who are hunkered down in his office clearly working on a case?”

Derek and Emily glanced at each other before looking to Sweets, causing Booth’s eyes to narrow in suspicion. While Lance appreciated their willingness to allow him to decide whether to tell Booth or not, he couldn’t help but wish they weren’t so obvious about it. He did want Booth to get involved; he didn’t want anyone in his new team to know, to look at him with the broken sympathy and careful treatment that inevitably came from anyone who knew (save his family; they were different somehow). But, all the same, he didn’t want to lie to the agent either. It… it was just messy.

Heaving a sigh, Lance ran a hand over his face and gave his friends a half-hearted glare before turning his attention to the other agent. He wouldn’t lie, but he would go spilling his guts either—no matter how carefully the man examined him. “The night we caught Gormogon, I…” he shifted uncomfortably before hedging, “fell in my kitchen and… well. It was severe enough that they kept me under observation for a few days.”

Booth gave him a dubious look, “You… fell.”

“I was there?” Prentiss offered helpfully, “I called the ambulance.”

Booth turned his examination on the profiler for a moment, raising his eyebrows, before turning back to Lance. “I had no idea you were that clumsy, Sweets,” he teased, though it seemed different from normal. It was… more strained. Still disbelieving, with a heavy dose of worry hidden beneath the humor. It made Lance feel guilty. Unable to hold back a wince, he hoped the far too insightful man would simply attribute it to the teasing and nothing deeper (however futile he knew that to be).

“As for us,” Morgan spoke up, flashing a white grin in Booth’s direction and effectively redirecting the conversation, “We’re just crashing here to do some work on a case. Sweets isn’t even helping us.”

Lance couldn’t help the disgruntled sound he made, “You could at least admit you’re babysitting me.”

“You could pretend you don’t like it, Junior,” he countered teasingly, eyes sparkling.

Lance simply rolled his eyes and shrugged. Truth be told, he was thankful they were here—extremely so. But he wasn’t going to admit that, especially not in front of Booth. “I don’t see you enough,” he settled on saying. (Based on the looks he received, his message was heard loud and clear.)

“Ok,” Booth broke the moment, “That answers a few questions, for sure, but Sweets…” he frowned at the therapist, “I was notified that all of our appointments have been canceled. As in, none for the foreseeable future.”

Sweets winced (again). Right. That.

“I’m just a little confused is all,” the agent prodded carefully, “we haven’t met even once since we made that deal, and considering how eager you were…”

“Actually, Booth,” he started hesitantly, a sheepish grimace still plastered across his face, “all of my appointments have been canceled.”

“What?” the agent blinked at him.

“I… need to go through recertification to function as a counselor again,” he explained hesitantly, “And honestly, I’m not ready.”

“Not… ready?” Booth was almost gaping, “For recertification? Why?”

Sweets shifted uncomfortably, “Because of personal reasons I’d rather not get into.”

“Booth,” Prentiss spoke up, shifting subtly to get into the man’s line of sight and redirect his attention, “Being a therapist requires a great deal of emotional stability and control. Sometimes breaks are not only healthy, but necessary.”

The agent considered her for a moment before nodding, accepting the idea much faster than Sweets had anticipated, “Ok. So, I suppose that means I won’t be seeing you much?” he gave him a questioning look.

The therapist blinked at him for a moment before he caught up to what he meant. “Oh!” he shook his head, “No, no. I’m still certified and working as a profiler and consultant. I’ll still be around.”

“Oh,” Booth eyed him a bit, “Alright then.” After a beat, a mischievous grin stretched across his face, “In that case, watch out for Caroline. She’s on a warpath to finish… Zack’s trial as soon as possible.”

Lance frowned, “I thought he was pleading guilty and non compos mentis.”

“Yeah,” he heaved a sigh, “But he still needs to go before a judge. Honestly, she probably won’t need any of out help, but… just be aware.”

He could help but smile at the simple sentiment, “Thanks, Booth.”

“No problem!” he declared cheerfully, backing towards the door. He glanced at the two BAU profilers, “Good luck with… whatever that is.”

Morgan snorted, “Thanks.”

Prentiss just chuckled at him and turned back to her work.

Hesitating once more in the doorway, Booth flashed a smile Sweets’ way. It was… one of the most honest ones he’d ever seen he agent direct at him. “See you on the next case, Sweets.”

After a beat of surprise, the profiler nodded, “Yeah, thanks—” and that was all he got out before Booth disappeared and the door slammed shut. He huffed a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, and turned back to his paperwork with a smile.

Booth could be rather insufferable, but he was really looking forward to the next case with the Jeffersonian team. They were absolutely wonderful.

#profiler in the therapist

0 notes

rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

Note

Uh, so I know this isn't a prompt that you posted or anything, but I came out to some of my online friends as Poly thinking they would be accepting of that because most of them are LGBTQ+ themselves and I'm bi/pan(still figuring it out)romantic, but I kind of got a bad reaction and I could use a little poly fluff. Only if you want to though, I don't want to force you to do anything you don't want to do. I hope you have a good day!

Hey there! Thank you so much for this prompt. I’m sorry thistook so long, especially since I wanted to get it to you as soon as possible. I’mrather pleased with it, though, and I hope it lightens your day. You are validand there’s nothing wrong with being poly. (Honestly, it’s rather cute watchingpeople in a poly relationship gush about their mutual partner(s), so… I mean,how can that not be beautiful?)

Ok, there’s some minor feels at the beginning (though it’s mostly comfort) and there are quite a few kisses (and flour-y hugs) so… be prepared?

Word count: 2,150

(Pleasesend me a prompt—be aware it may take longer now, but I will get to it)

–

Logan was cross. No, he was angry. There was an irrational heat burning in his chest and hisforehead was almost sore from howlong it had been furrowed. On top of it all, he was frustrated with himself.Logically, there wasn’t any big reason to be so upset; it happened all the time—hell,he almost expected it by now. But…for some reason he hadn’t expected his coworkers to care. It’s not like his personal life affected his ability to doastrophysics!

He heaved a huge sigh as he finished turning the key andshouldered open the door to the house he shared with his three boyfriends. Itwasn’t fair that every time someonefound out about their relationship that they had to explain it. It wasn’t fairthat everyone’s first assumption was that they were simply in an open sexualrelationship. That wasn’t it at all.Hell, Logan was asexual. He wasn’teven interested in that type ofthing, even if his boyfriends were.

“Logan!” a familiar cheerful voice cut through his thoughtsand he glanced up to see Patton bouncing in the doorway to the kitchen. He was,as usual for this time of day, coatedin flour and wearing his ‘kiss the cook’apron.

“Hello, Patton,” Logan greeted with a soft smile, “How wasyour day?”

“My day was prettydarn great,” the pre-school teacher gave his boyfriend a concerned look, “butit looks like yours wasn’t.”

“I’m alright,” he sighed and pulled his bag off hisshoulder. He paused for a second, staring at it, before putting it down, “Justtired of explaining what its like to have three boyfriends.”

Patton made a sympathetic noise and stepped closer, openinghis arms wide, “Want a hug, Lo-bear? I’ll wash the flour out later for you.”

The instinctive ‘no’ died on his lips as he considered theman in front of him. Patton always gave the best hugs. Yes, it would be messy,but…. Swallowing hard against an unexpected lump in his throat, Logan noddedwordlessly and stepped forward into the offered embrace, sliding his armsaround Patton’s waist and burying his face in the crook of his neck. The manlet out a contented sigh and wrapped his deceptively strong arms (carrying kidsall day did that to a guy) around the astrophysicist, cradling his head in onehand.

A few seconds later, a naturally loud voice echoed frombehind Patton, “What’s this? Calculator Watch willingly getting covered in flour?What’s the world coming to?”

Logan tilted his head up just enough to see Roman affectinga dramatically startled look a few feet away. Logan rolled his eyes; once anactor, always an actor.

“Aw, Ro,” Patton admonished gently, not moving from hisposition, “Logan just had a rough day.”

“What happened?” a worried voice came from behind Logan,“Are you ok? Do I need to punch someone?”

The astrophysicist let out a strangled laugh, “I’m perfectlyfine, Virgil.” He turned and buried his face into Patton’s neck again, “I justhate explaining the same things over and over.”

Keep reading

#sanders sides #lamp #logan sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #patton sanders #lamp/calm

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

Note

Q10 I20 for romantic prinxiety in the prompt thing if you're still doing it? 💜❤

Another fun one! I accidentally spawned an au when I triedthis the first time, so I tossed everything out the window and started again. Thisis much simpler than what my museoriginally wanted, but I’m quite pleased with it!

Q10: “What were you thinking?What if you got hurt?!”

I20: Superhero au

Word count: 1,284

(Pleasesend me a prompt—be aware it may take longer now, but I will get to it)

–

New Sanders was an interesting city to live in. There was always something happening and, quitehonestly, none of it was what would be considered “normal” in any other city.In a normal city, you hear about the car crash three blocks over or the newexhibit at the museum. You walk down the street and point out street performersand the random person with bizarre fashion sense. In New Sanders, however, youwatched human-shaped blurs whizzing past over head and saw cars being hurledand caught and newsstands knocked over. And… it was pretty darn normal. For theaverage hero, it was downright tame.

Virgil had lived in the weird city his entire life. Theconstant fighting between superpowered people had his instincts honed to a finepoint and his anxiety ratcheted up three levels too high. He didn’t understandhow most people were able to put their heads down and ignore the insanity going on around them. But,well, he may be a bit more invested than the average citizen; after all, the mostimportant person in his life was routinelyout there doing the hurling and catching.

Well. Sort of. He more… melted things and blew them aroundin scalding winds.

Virgil lived in a cozy one-bedroom apartment (with roof andfire escape access) with his awful, dramatic, idiotic boyfriend Roman. Romanwas an actor and an artist, who was currently on an upswing in his career, butmost people knew him by his alter-ego, “Apollo.” Virgil was the only person inthe entire world who knew that Roman Prince was also the extravagant (uncreativelynamed) superhero, and while he was very thankful for that trust and would do anythingfor the… the idiot…. Well. He causedmost of his grey hair.

Take today, for instance. Virgil was currently pacing backand forth in front of their TV, clenching his jaw and glaring at the beamingnews anchor while he waited for his boyfriend to get home. There had been ananonymous tip that a villain was targeting some big convention near the courthouseand Roman had run off to meet with a hero team and get the situation undercontrol. That was ok. Virgil was used to that. It came with the package thatwas Roman. No, what had Virgil nearly steaming at the ears was what happened afterthe inevitable show-down had started.

With a huff, Virgil stopped in front of the screen, armscrossed, as the news outlet decided to playback the footage again. For probably the sixth time, Virgilwatched as Apollo, as Roman, brokeout of formation with the three other heroes he was working with to dive directly into the blast radiating from thevillain’s hand. He was obviously trying to protect a group of citizens, but itwas also clearly unexpected. Enigma—Virgil knew him as Logan; he was telekinetic—gavea start, eyes going wide, and made a wild gesture with his hand, sending a carhurling towards the villain. The man stumbled backwards and the beam went high,just barely hitting Roman’s shoulder. The two other heroes, who Virgil did notknow personally or really care about that much, took advantage of thedistraction and had the villain incapacitated in a matter of seconds.

With the crazy guy was secured, Roman turned to face the civilianshe had landed in front of but, mere moments later, was dragged off to the side byLogan before he could start reassuring them. The footage on the TV cut back to the news anchorsat that point, but Virgil was vindicated knowing that Logan had stood therewaving a finger in Roman’s face for several minutes, until the police hadcleared up the area and shooed the heroes towards the press.

Virgil had watched the typical circus of the reportersfawning over the heroes with his heart still pounding in his ears from watchinghis boyfriend put himself blindly into danger. By the time they all gotuncomfortable and slipped out of their grasp, his residual fear and adrenaline hadfaded completely into relief, and that relief was evaporating into fury. Now,after waiting for ten minutes, Virgil was frothing at the mouth.

Where the hell washe?

As though his thoughts had summoned him, Virgil heard thewindow creak and turned to find Roman pulling himself through the frame. Histrademark white, yellow and red uniform was covered in baggy sweat pants and ahoodie (Virgil’s eye twitched as he identified it was one of his), but Roman’swindswept hair and dirt-smudged cheeks were clear evidence of the recentbattle.

“Hey, Verge,” the hero greeted him with the bright smilethat normally melted Virgil’s heart. Virgil, however, was not in the mood.

Keep reading

#sanders sides #prinxiety

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

Note

Can I just, like, give you my own writing prompt? Yes? Cool. “Who gave you permission to be so hot?”

Thanks for the prompt! After some deliberation between thetwo suggestions you gave me when I asked, I decided on logicality—simply becauseit wasn’t obvious with the quote. I hope you enjoy it! It’s actually a notexcessive length and everything! (I may have thrown a first kiss in here too,so~)

Word count: 1,230

(Pleasesend me a prompt—be aware it may take longer now, but I will get to it)

–

Patton was on top of the world.

He had managed to open a bakery a few months ago with hisbest friend, Roman, and business was booming. His little brother, Emile, wasabout to graduate with his undergraduate degree in psychology and had alreadybeen accepted into a graduate program. And then, on top of it all, there wasthe bookstore next door. Not only was it a wonderful place that did fantasticjoint business with his own shop, but the owner was an absolute gem. He wasabout Patton’s age but, unlike the young baker, had been running the store foryears, ever since he inherited the family business due to a horrible accident.He looked after his own younger brother, Virgil, who had just gotten intocollege himself. Needless to say, Patton was quite taken with him. He had been,in fact, long before he had even learned his name (Logan. Wasn’t that a greatname?), but since he had gotten to know the logical young man on a personallevel he had… well, it was a teensy little bit too early to go making any granddeclarations, but he greatly appreciated every aspect of the man.

All of these things were wonderful, by the way, but theyweren’t the reason for the way his heart was currently soaring in his chest ashe danced around the kitchen, mixing dough and popping pastries in the oven.No. That was because of the pastthree extraordinary days. See, Logan hadasked him out. And… it had been wonderful. They went to a movie and wanderedfor hours afterwards in the park, staring up at the stars and talking about anythingand everything. Then, the following day when Patton had tentatively visitedLogan next door and asked the bookworm out again, he had invited him over fordinner. Patton had brought pie, Logan cooked, and it had been awesome.

So, yeah. Patton figured he had a pretty good reason to feelpawsitively purrfect. He chuckled lightly at his own pun as he set aside thespecial paw-shaped cookies they made and picked up some cheese and a grater tostart making the filling for their more savory lunch time selection.

He was about halfway through the block when the bell dingedover the front door and a familiar (and very welcome voice) called out, “Patton?”

The grin he wore stretched even farther across his face. “Backhere!” he called back. A few moments later a head poked through the doorway.Logan had his soft black hair slicked back as usual, his bright blue eyes framedby thick rectangular glasses and accented by the blue tie that dangled from hisneck.

“Hey,” the man greeted softly, eyes locked on the baker ashe shuffled his way farther into the kitchen.

“It’s so good to see you, Lo!” Patton set down his currenttask and bounced around to face his… his boyfriend(and gosh, did that feel good).

Logan gave him a fond smile, “We saw each other barely tenhours ago, Patton.”

“I knooooow,” the baker nearly whined, earning a twitch ofhis boyfriend’s lips, before he threw himself dramatically at him and pulledhim into the biggest hug he could manage. (What could he say? Roman had rubbedoff on him.)

The bookstore owner, bless his soul, hugged Patton rightback and muffled an amused snort in his hair. “I am gratified to see you insuch a good mood.”

“Yep!” Patton agreed, bouncing out of the hug so he couldreach behind himself and snag the metal tool he had just been using, “Neverbeen grater.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, “I believe you meant better.”

Expecting a response like that, Patton just giggled andreturned the grater to the counter, smiling to himself. When he turned back around,however, he found himself pinned by a piercing look. For a reason he couldn’tquite identify, all the breath wooshed out of his chest. Logan’s blue eyes wereso intense they almost seemed to be glowing and, well, Patton was suddenlystruck (although not for the first time) how utterly stunning the man was, with his sharp cheek bones and the slightcreases lining his eyes.

Patton wasn’t certain how long they spent just staring at each other, but eventuallyLogan gave himself a physical shake, jarring both of them out of theirthoughts, and pressed a hand to his face. Ever so softly—Patton almost missedit—Logan huffed a breathy laugh and muttered, “Whogave you permission to be so hot.”

It wasn’t a question—not even a rhetorical one—and wasobviously not meant to be heard, but Patton couldn’t help the surprised littlenoise that slipped past his lips. Logan’s head snapped up immediately and heflushed a brilliant red. Patton, despite being transfixed by the sight, felthis own cheeks flush as well and couldn’t help shifting uncomfortably.

Patton subtly glanced down at himself, seeing only his baggyclothes and flour streaked hands and ohno he had probably covered Loganwhen he hugged him, and…

“Sorry,” the embarrassed mutter cut through his thoughts, “Thatwas… inappropriate. I sincerely—”

“No,” Patton cut in, looking back up at his (yes, veryfloured) boyfriend, “I—I mean, really? Just, no, sorry. But you, you’re amazing and I—”

“Patton,” Logan stepped forward, a slight smile making itsway back on his face, “I have a feeling if you finish that sentence I’m goingto have to fight you for insulting my boyfriend.”

The baker felt himself flush even more, hearing his ownprotective words used against him. “Sorry?” he offered meekly.

“Your apology is accepted,” Logan informed him with a lightsmirk, taking one last step and leaving them less than a foot apart.

Once again, Patton felt his breath escape him as he staredinto his boyfriend’s eyes. “Lo?” he started hesitantly.

“Yes?” Logan gently reached out to brush the back of his fingersacross his cheek.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” the baker whispered.

Logan gave him a soft smile, “That is rather fortuitous as Iwas thinking the exact same thing.”

Patton grinned back like the utter dope he was before, onceagain, throwing himself at his boyfriend. He wrapped his arms around his neck,leaning his entire weight into him at the same time, and gently fitted hismouth against the other man’s lips. Logan stumbled back a step before catchinghimself and his excitable attacker, wrapping an arm around his waist andframing his cheek with his other hand.

As first kisses go, it was clumsy and over enthusiastic, butneither of them was inexperienced and they quickly found a pace that worked forthem both. In no time at all, they were melting into each other, running handsthrough hair, and carefully experimenting with different angles and techniques.They were warm and content, hearts beating in their ears and giving thesensation of soaring. It was perfect.

Their little bubble, however, was broken a few minutes laterby an ear-piercing squeal, “Oh my goodness!” The pair pulled apart,gasping, to find Roman bouncing in the doorway. “You two need to tell me everything!”

Logan shot the dramatic man his best glare while Pattonsimply buried his face in his boyfriend’sneck and giggled helplessly. God, he loved his life.

–

(Pleasesend me a prompt—be aware it may take longer now, but I will get to it)

#sanders sides #logicality

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

Note

Q 18, Q 36, I 6, Prinxiety?

Thank you for the prompt! This one was a ton of fun. It also… kinda got away fromme. I’m not very good at writing short things.

Q18: “What? NO! It’s a dragon!”

Q36: “Take one more step, I dare you.”

I6: First kiss

Word count: 2,400

(Pleasesend me a prompt)

–

It was midday in summer, the sun high in the sky, filteringthrough the green canopy of the forest and casting the path in mottled shadows.It was hot, a sticky humid sort of hot, but there was a soft breeze filteringthrough the trees that took the edge off. It was, actually, rather peaceful—completewith rampant wildflowers and the soft melodies of songbirds.

Virgil, however, was not pleased. He had no idea why he washere, trudging behind the (way too bright) glimmering form of his prince. Hissilver steel armor was shined to mirror quality and threw light around theforest with every step he took, no doubt scaring away any nearby animals. Eventhough Virgil was pretty sure they weren’t out hunting, it was still very annoying. Just like this wholeidiotic venture, and the man in frontof him.

Out of all the kingdom’s knights, Prince Roman had picked him to go on this wild-hair day trip andVirgil didn’t understand. As far ashe was aware, the prince didn’t even likehim! They were always trading insults back and forth (and boy was Virgilsurprised the first time he responded and there were no consequences), and theprince always went out of his way to complain loudly about Virgil when he wasin earshot. It was, frankly, infuriating.

It was all the more infuriating because his best friend, thecourt advisor Logan, insisted that the prince liked him. Of all the ridiculous notions…. Allegedly Roman’spersonal servant Patton always went to Logan to complain about it. If anyoneelse tried that, Virgil was certain they’d be subjected to an hour-longlecture, but Patton got away with it. It was rather endearing, honestly. Butstill, Virgil refused to believe the prince liked him. It was absolutelyabsurd.

(He daren’t get his hopes up.)

“Roman,” he called wearily, “Do you have any idea whereyou’re going?”

The prince pulled up short and turned to glare over hisshoulder, “Of course I do, Darkest-Knight!Have some faith!”

Virgil couldn’t help snorting, “In you, your highness?”

“Psshh,” Roman huffed, “rude.”Rolling his shoulders in his overly dramatic fashion, he set back off down thetrail. After a moment and a heavy sigh, Virgil started plodding along behindhim again.

They continued down the path for another hour and Virgil’sattention began to wane dramatically (although it wasn’t very high to beginwith). About the time he was seriously considering just sitting down and seeinghow long it would take to prince to figure out he was no longer behind him,Roman suddenly veered off the path with a dramatic exclamation. For a singlebeat Virgil froze, eyes widening in shock, before adrenaline coursed throughhis system, electrifying his nerves and activating his trained and honedinstincts. Roman disappeared around a bush and Virgil was off like a shot.

“Princey!” he yelled, unable to hide the anxiety in hisvoice, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Going on an adventure, of course!” the insolent royallaughed over his shoulder, “What did you think, Knightmare?” With a joyous laugh, he disappeared through a wall ofbushes, triggering a growl of pure frustration from his companion.

“I swear to god,” he hissed, plowing through where hisprince had disappeared, “if you get us lost—” Virgil let out a startled gruntas he collided with the prince’s impressively shined armor and stumbled back astep.

“Shhh,” Roman urged, grabbing Virgil’s shoulder and pullinghim forward to stand next to him. (Virgil would never admit it, but PrinceRoman was one of the only people who could get away with such a thing, and ithad nothing to do with his title.) Once Virgil had regained his footing andturned a glare on him, Roman leaned close and pointed into the distance withhis free hand, “Look.”

Forcing his irritation back (which he had an unfortunateamount of practice with), Virgil followed the sight line indicated by thesilver-clad arm. They were standing at the top of a rather large hill and atthe border of an expansive meadow. On the other side of the yellow and pinkdotted grass was a steep cliff face, towering up at least forty feet. It was allthoroughly impressive, and stunningly beautiful, but what Roman was pointingat…. Virgil let out a strangled sound from deep in his throat.

Halfway up the cliff face, a giant hole was hollowed intothe sheer brown stone. The hole itself was at least ten feet tall and twentyfeet wide, surrounded—especially below—by deep gouge marks that came in threes.Claw marks.

And inside thehole… Virgil could clearly make out a thick, long tail coated in shiny redscales. It was at least as big aroundas them and long enough that it dangled several feet below the hole. Deep inthe shadow of the hole itself, Virgil could just barely make out the glimmer ofsomething sharp and the outline of something frighteningly large.

“It’s a dragon!” Roman exclaimed as though he was merelypointing out a rare bird.

Virgil swallowed hard. “I can see that,” he agreed. It cameout evenly but pitched much higher than he had intended.

Keep reading

#sanders sides #prinxiety

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

Note

i9 and q12 with romantic royality?

Thank you so much Dani :) I hope I can make the royality captainproud ;) This got quite a bit longer than I intended, and Logan snuck in there,but… I’m actually pretty pleased with it.

Q12: “What do you say to a cup of hot coco and a lazy nighton the couch?”

I9: Cuddles! (please specify platonic/romantic)

Words: 1,585

(Pleasesend me a prompt)

–

Roman was certain—absolutely certain!—that today was theworst day ever. Not only had he woken up thirty minuteslate, but he had barely gotten any sleep at all!It wasn’t his fault; it was just so hard to sleep without his boyfriend. But,regardless, instead of enjoying his leisurely morning routine, he had to rushto make it to work on time. He was so rushed, he didn’t realize he picked up decaf until he was already five minutesfrom the stupid shop. And then, atwork, the lead actor in the upcoming play andhis understudy were sick andnaturally he, as the director, was responsible for figuring out a solution. Don’tget him wrong, he loved his job, butsometimes… Sometimes it was hell.

In typical Roman fashion, he kept his proud and confidentmask on all day, handling impossible issues with barely a blink of hisperfectly outlined eyes. But, inside,he was a mess. He felt like a sleepwalking zombie, worn to the bone before he evenbegan the stupid day. He was despondent and frustrated, and knowing that Pattonwas gone, at some important medicalconvention five states away, only made it worse.

The only person who noticed his expertly masked despair washis assistant director (he preferred the title of “dramaturge” even though itwasn’t technically accurate), Logan.About two hours before rehearsal and preparations for the opening matinee intwo days’ time, Logan cornered him in the dimly lit hallway between the greenroom and makeup studio.

“Roman,” he started firmly, adjusting his glasses so he couldpeer sternly at his director, “You’re hovering.”

Affecting his typical offended stance, hand pressed againsthis chest, Roman let out a vaguely offended noise, “I’ll have you know it is myjob, Microsoft Nerd.”

Logan merely raised an eyebrow, “You used that one threehours ago.” Roman cursed himself internally, but before he could say anything Loganbarreled on, “Go home, Roman. Youneed to get the sleep you obviously missed last night, especially since you volunteered yourself to fill our crucialmissing role.”

“Do you have a better idea?” he couldn’t help snapping.

“No. Objectively it is the only solution; you are the onlyother person familiar enough with the part and the necessary cues to fill in. Thatbeing said, you gave yourself about three times your typical workload in theprocess.” Logan reached out and gently, yet firmly, gripped his friend’s armand began steering him towards the theater’s back door, “I have everythinghandled here. All you need to do now is go home. I do believe you will be pleasantlysurprised by what you’ll find.”

Roman let out a confused, “Wha—” as Logan shoved himunceremoniously out the door, turning to frown at his friend.

Logan narrowed his eyes and stuck a finger in his face, “Home. Now.” A second later, the doorslammed shut.

After spending a few minutes blinking blankly at the handle-lessmetal door, attempting to figure out what the hell Logan was on about, hedetermined that perhaps he was alittle to tired to be of any use to his cast and crew right now. So, reluctantly,Roman wandered over to his car and made the drive home on autopilot. He didn’tsnap out of it when he pulled into the driveway of the cute little suburban househe shared with his boyfriend, or when he got out and locked it and startedmaking his way to the front door. No, he only snapped out of it as he wasputting his keys in the lock and noticed one rather important detail: thelights were on.

His heart shot into his throat and he fumbled with his keysin his rush to get the door open, dropping them with a crash against the baseof the door. He let out a quiet curse and bent to get them, but before he hadfully straightened the door swung open in front of him. Roman let out a quietbreath, eyes wide, a grin quickly taking over his face and washing away anylingering exhaustion. There, standing in the doorway, framed by the entrywaylights and covered in flour, was the light of his life, the keeper of hisheart, the sweetest man to ever grace the earth.

Keep reading

#sanders sides #royality

137 notes · View notes

rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

Text

Writing prompts

Alright, so I came up with a few prompt ideas myself, which probably aren’t super great but, well, I really want to practice writing short pieces so... If any of these catch your fancy, pick a few, specify a fandom and the characters (and anything else), and send them my way.

Here are some quotes (specify “Q1″, “Q2″, etc if you only use numbers):

“Well, this is awkward.”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Procrastination is an art form.”

“You don’t sound very sure...”

“I... may have a temper.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“The evidence is clear; I can reach no other conclusion.”

“I’m not sure if you’re lying or not.”

“That’s absolutely insane!”

“What were you thinking? What if you got hurt?!”

“Do you have a death wish?”

“What do you say to a cup of hot coco and a lazy night on the couch?”

“My mom always made me chicken noodle soup...”

“Why are you glaring at me?”

“I don’t care if you’ve done it a hundred times! It’s not ok!”

“C’mere. You need a hug.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“What? NO! It’s a dragon!”

“If they say one more word about you, I’m not responsible for my actions.”

“I refuse to accept that.”

“I trust you.”

“You can tell me anything.”

“Maybe you should have washed your hands more. I swear, germs are everywhere!”

“I protect my own.”

“Hey, um... have you seen my sword anywhere?”

“You need more than a computer to be a hacker!”

“Sometimes the law isn’t right.”

“Unicorns are not real.”

“Pick a card, any card.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to unstring the stupid bow?!”

“Perfect practice makes perfect.”

“Oh, really? Do you have any ideas?”

“In what world does that make sense?”

“Just kiss me already.”

“Right. And now you’re going to tell me magic is real.”

“Take one more step, I dare you.”

“When have you ever given a damn?”

“I... I have something I need to tell you.”

“I may be a demon, but I’m not evil.”

“You are a part of this family now, and that means you have chores. We all do. So do them.”

Anything else you can think of....

And some ideas (specify “I1″, “I2″, etc if you only use numbers):

Old friends meeting for some reason (give me an idea)

A couple going someplace (where?)

Obligatory coffee shop au

Obligatory highschool/college au

First date

First kiss

Sibling comfort

Someone is sick. Or injured.

Cuddles! (please specify platonic/romantic)

Broken heart...

Protective friend

Someone ran away from home

Time travel?

Someone is secretly a fantasy creature (say who or what, at least one)

It’s the apocalypse. (Is it natural, supernatural, or what?)

Monster hunter au

Someone is protecting a rare or magic artifact

Treasure hunter au

Mad scientist?

Superhero au

Thief au

Prison break!

Pirate au

A haircut from hell. Like literally, the worst haircut ever.

Prank war

Literally ANYTHING else

(also, other writers can use this. why? idk, but... here’s a preemptive yes.)

#reba speaks #prompt request #prompt me

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

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Send me something? (Anything on this blog, or if it’s Sanders Sides specific you can use @reba-andthesides too)

Drabble Challenge!

Repost this. Followers/Readers send numbers to your Ask. You write a fic/drabble using that line in your piece. Have fun! Expect a ton of requests!!

“That’s starting to get annoying”

“Hey, hey, calm down. They can’t hurt you anymore.”

“You can’t just sit there all day.”

“I’m too sober for this.”

“I’m not here to make friends.”

“I need a place to stay.”

“Well, that’s tragic.”

“You’re seriously like a man-child.”

“You can’t banish me! This is my bed too!”

“The ladies love a guy who’s good with kids.”

“Dear Diary, …”

“She’s hiding behind the sofa.”

“I lost our baby.”

“They’re so cute when they’re asleep.”

“I’d kill for a coffee…literally.”

“You’re getting crumbs all over my bed.”

“Good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“What’s the matter, sweetie?”

“You’re Satan.”

“I don’t want to hear your excuse. You can’t just give me wet-willies.”

“I’m bulletproof…but please, don’t shoot me.”

“Did you just hiss at me?”

“Do you really need all that candy?”

“It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.”

“I swear, I’m not crazy!!!”

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.”

“No. Regrets.”

“How drunk was I?”

“How is my wife more badass than me?”

“Be you. No one else can.”

“I haven’t slept in ages.”

“I locked the keys in the car.”

“Are you sure that’s the decision you want to make?”

“You work for me. You are my slave.”

“Take your medicine.”

“They’re monsters.”

“Welcome to fatherhood.”

“Why can’t you appreciate my sense of humor?”

“It’s your turn to make dinner.”

“The kids, they ambushed me.”

“Sorry isn’t going to help when I kick your ass!!!”

“Stop being so cute.”

“I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“You’re getting a vasectomy. That’s final.”

“I was a joke, baby. I swear.”

“Dogs don’t wear clothes!”

“I didn’t think you could get any less romantic…”

“Safety first. What are you? FIVE?”

“This is girl talk, so leave.”

“Where am I going? Crazy. Wanna come?”

“There’s a herd of them!”

“Do you think I’m scared of a woman?”

“They’re not your kids, back the f*ck off.”

“You’re a nerd.”

“I’m late.”

“Just get home as soon as possible, okay?!”

“You smell like a wet dog.”

“I could punch you right now.”

“Are you going to talk to me?”

“Welcome back. Now fucking help me.”

“If you can’t sleep…we could have sex?”

“Flea markets don’t carry fleas, you know?”

“Here, take my blanket.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

“How could I ever forget about you?”

“You’re bleeding all over my carpet.”

“Run for it!”

“We need to talk.”

“Not everyone is out to get you. Stop thinking that. It’s annoying.”

“I want a pet.”

“Just smile, I really need to see you smile right now.”

“I’m not wearing a dress.”

“I’m not wearing a tie.”

“Quit beating me up!”

“Please put your penis away.”

“It’s a Texas thing.”

“Don’t argue. Just do it.”

“I hope I’m never stuck with you on a deserted island.”

“Does he know about the baby?”

“Hold still.”

“I just ironed these pants!”

“Enough with the sass!”

“Show me what’s behind your back.”

“I’m not going to be sympathetic until you go to a doctor.”

“Fine, don’t say anything and make me worry.”

“Stay awake.”

“STOP INTERRUPTING ME!”

“You’re not interested, are you?”

“I’m not buying ikea furniture again.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you.”

“I’m telling you. I’m haunted.”

“I had a bad dream again.”

“Have I mentioned, I fucking hate Halloween.”

“It’s Christmas, don’t be mad at me.”

“You’re not going to starve yourself on Thanksgiving.”

“The store ran out of Easter eggs.”

“How could you forget your son’s birthday?”

“You can only suffer through my whining for so long until you get up and make me a sandwich.”

Visit @prompt-bank for more prompts!!

#reba speaks #prompt request #prompt me

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

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Send me a writing prompt please

Alright, so I’ve been trying to work on my two main projects lately (Sanders Sides: Become Human and The Profiler in the Therapist) since I’m in a writing mood and I’ve been making progress on both, however it’s slow and frustrating.

I’m currently on a long weekend for my university and I want to practice writing smaller things, so please! Send me a prompt. Please give me 3 things: fandom, characters or relationships you want, and at least one key feature (quote, setting, etc).

I’m going to be reblogging a few prompt ask games here in a minute, but feel free to prompt me without them. I do not care what fandom (though if I’m not familiar I may ask for clarification), and I’m 100% good with crossovers, but for the purpose of this I will not be allowing myself to make full stories (which is gonna be hard).

Just. Someone give me something to work with? Maybe?

#reba speaks #prompt request

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

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I'm "I'll Figure It Out Later" 128%. Fits me to a fucking T-- which never happens with this type of thing for me.

Types of Writers

The Hyperorganized Writer: Seems to have had all their WIP ideas in place forever. Ask them any technical question related to their fictional worldbuilding and they’ll be able to give you a two-page paper. They aren’t worried about trying to make their systems make sense; they’re trying to figure out how to add in more wonderfully confusing mechanisms. You frequently wonder why they haven’t published yet, and also whether they have a conspiracy theorist’s red yarn wall in their basement.

The Lifelong Writer: Has been writing and making up stories for as long as they’ve been able to walk (and won’t let you forget it). You can’t ask them about how they do a certain writing thing because they can’t remember how it occurred to them, it was so long ago. Some aspects of writing come so naturally to them you wonder if they’re human, and some they don’t even want to talk about. Probably talks like a Tolkien character.

The Idea Overflow Writer: Constantly tells you about all their wonderful ideas, and when you ask them if you can read some, tell you that they’ve barely written any of it down. Stores entire plots and characters in their heads. Most likely has an impeccable memory. Writes out specific scenes they love instead of writing their book in order. Frequently doubts their credibility as a “real�� writer because they do it all in their head (but is still a real writer obviously).

The Poetic Writer: Was born on Tumblr. Made fun of by fellow writer friends for being very liberal with the “enter” key. Most likely listens to Halsey and Lana for the lyrics. Loves ambiguous endings. Probably aced every literary devices quiz in high school. Is asked very frequently if they write poetry, but doesn’t always, apart from the emo poetry phase in eighth grade. Daydreams all the time and usually seems to be having an existential crisis.

The “I’ll Figure It Out Later” Writer: Biggest overachiever you will ever meet. Loves the feeling of writing and finishing work, but doesn’t usually have the energy to nitpick. Prefers the “big picture”. Plotholes are their mortal enemy. Gets a lot of writer’s block. Has motivation issues, but very motivated at the same time. Probably likes to defy the conventions of literally everything. Constantly bouncing between several WIPs that couldn’t be more different. Tends to write with lots of emotion and feeling.

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

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The Profiler in the Therapist (ch 17)

You can find this entire fic here on AO3.

Fandom: Bones (TV) and Criminal Minds (TV)

Entire Fic Description:

Entire Fic Warnings: cannon-typical violence, past torture, panic attacks, PTSD, serial killers

Chapter word count: 3,627

Chapter warnings: talk about serial killers/cannibalism, emotional turmoil, implied stalker behavior, extreme panic attack/flashback, cliffhanger

Summary: Gormogon is caught and Sweets gets a package.

Please read the fic! First chapter, previous chapter, next chapter, master list. And let me know if you want to be tagged.

Following Brennan’s revelation, nothing really changed. Sweets was quick to determine he would be of little help in the search of the bone room and Reid must have reached a similar conclusion because they both retreated to their piles of files. Booth joined them briefly, but before long he got a call and disappeared, leaving the profilers to their work. Lance lost track of time, but at some point Emily rejoined them, announcing the lead she had been following as a spectacular dead end.

Together the three profilers swept through the gathered information and refined as many details on both Gormogon and his apprentice as they could, before turning to the suspect lists Garcia had compiled for them. The profiles were not nearly as refined as they’d like, but the image was clear. Now all they had to do was find a match.

It was easier said than done.

They were collectively about halfway through the lists when Dr. Brennan came sweeping into her office. She had a deep frown on her face, visibly upset—the most upset that Sweets had ever witnessed, save for when Booth was shot. The average person might mistake her expression for one of deep thought, but Lance knew Brennan well enough by now to know the difference. Prentiss attempted to speak with her, but the anthropologist didn’t even acknowledge the profilers’ existence, simply digging through her desk until she found the file she was looking for and sweeping back out into the lab and—by the looks of it—onto the platform.

Baffled, the three continued to work through the suspect list, narrowing down the potential culprits, but their attention was divided now, watching the anthropologist hunched over a work station. (Well, Reid wasn’t distracted—very little ever distracted him—so it was just Sweets and Prentiss observing the distressed scientist.) A few minutes later, Cam and Ms. Julian approached her and were rapidly brushed off as Brennan abandoned one work station for another. The two women glanced at each other in blatant confusion but left the genius to her own devices.

Sweets was now openly staring, Emily at his side, and Cam caught their looks as she descended from the platform. After a brief moment of hesitation, she altered her course of direction and gave them a strained smile through the glass window as she approached.

“Hey, Cam,” Prentiss greeted as the exhausted medical examiner poked her head through the door, “Is everything alright?”

“We found the lobbyist in bone storage,” she sighed, “which is something.”

Reid’s head snapped up from his work. “Is it confirmed?” he asked curiously.

Cam nodded, “DNA matches.”

“Is Dr. Brennan alright?” Lance asked, worry churning low in his gut.

“I don’t know. She rushed back up here to look at something, and now she’s saying Zack was wrong about the marks on the mandible—that they’re not from artificial dentures,” she gave a slight wince, glancing over her shoulder at the scientist, “She seems really upset about it.”

Prentiss gave both the Cam and the anthropologist visible over her shoulder a sympathetic look, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Cam nodded and shrugged, “Yeah, but Zack? That’s not common.”

Lance swallowed hard at the truth in that statement, the feeling of unease seeming to grow in his chest. It can’t be…. Can it? What if it wasn’t a mistake? If Zack had falsified evidence, if he had lied…

After a moment of strained silence, Cam seemed to shake herself and gave the group a smile, “Anyway, speaking of Zack, I need to get over to the hospital; we need Hodgins back here looking for trace evidence. I’ll see you later.”

The profilers said goodbye and gave her their regards for Zack, but once the coroner disappeared silence descended once again. None of them returned to their suspect lists either, they just sat there, eyebrows furrowed in thought, staring at each other.

“Young, impressionable, intelligent,” Emily broke the silence first.

Spencer met her eyes, “Works at the Jeffersonian, with access to secure areas and information on the investigation; has the sufficient knowledge to not only be aware of a pertinent experiment, but to also tamper with said experiment in order to cause an explosion.”

“Zack,” Sweets whispered, horrified his friends had come to the same conclusion he had.

Wordlessly, Emily fished out her phone and pressed a button, filling the room with ringing. A moment later it clicked, and a familiar voice filtered through the line, “You’ve reached the Queen of All Knowledge! Speak, my subjects.”

“Hey, Garcia,” a slight smile crept onto Prentiss’ face, “You’ve been cross-referencing our lead suspects for connections, right?”

“I have, indeed!” the peppy analyst declared, “I’ve got nothing for you, yet, I’m afraid to say.”

Reid leant forward, “We need you to focus on a new lead.”

“You have my attention, 187.”

The genius profiler was about to continue, but Lance cut in, “Dr. Zack Addy.”

“Wait,” Penelope started, “Isn’t that the kid who got blown up?”

Sweets swallowed around the tightness in his chest, “Yes.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured, “You don’t think—”

“We may have eliminated him preemptively,” Reid interrupted, “Dr. Brennan appears to believe he purposefully reported incorrect evidence.”

Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sweets glanced over his shoulder at the anthropologist in question. She was still on the platform, a deep frown set into her face as she peered at…whatever she was examining. It was not an encouraging look.

“We might be wrong,” Prentiss placed a hand on his shoulder as she continued, squeezing reassuringly and redirecting his attention back to the conversation. She turned back to the phone, “But until we find a better hit against our profiles, he’s out best bet. Garcia, we need you see if he has any connections with residents in Gormogon’s suspected neighborhood—except Dr. Hodgins, that is.”

“I hate to say it, but what if it is…” the tech analyst almost whispered across the line.

Lance shook his head vehemently even though she couldn’t see him, “He doesn’t fit the profile, and even if he did, he and Zack couldn’t both be our unsubs; they were at the explosion together.”

“Ok, fair point, Lancelot,” she murmured, sounding a little relieved.

“The connection will be something obscure, so you’ll have to dig deep,” Reid warned.

Garcia scoffed, “You called the Queen of All Knowledge, my dear genius, didn’t you?”

Spencer let out a snort and rolled his eyes good naturedly. Despite the situation, even Lance couldn’t help smiling at the familiar banter.

“Just let us know when you get something, ok?” Prentiss chuckled, picking up her phone again.

“Sure thing!” she announced, “Garcia out!”

The line clicked dead, leaving them in tense silence once again. It didn’t last long, however; this time it was broken by Brennan sweeping into the office again, advancing on her computer like a SWAT assault team—fast, efficient, and more than a little intimidating.

“Dr. Brennan?” Emily ventured hesitantly, much like the last time the anthropologist swept through the room, “Did you discover something about the mandible that Zack missed?”

Brennan glanced up sharply from her computer and stared at the group, blinking a few times as though she was just now registering that they were still working in her office. After that split second her face twisted in the slightly scornful way it always did around profilers, and she gave Prentiss a once-over. Whatever she saw, however, had the instinctive fight draining from her eyes and her expression returned to the strained one she had been wearing. “He didn’t miss anything,” she almost snapped, ire directed at the file on her desk.

Sweets’ stomach plummeted.

“What do you mean?” Prentiss prodded carefully.

Brennan restlessly jumped out of her chair and began pacing. “There’s no way he could have missed it. Any first year would have seen it!” she gestured emphatically at the file.

“What,” Lance swallowed hard, “What did he lie about?”

“The dentures,” she muttered almost glaring at the incriminating evidence, “were not artificial. They were made from real teeth.” She looked up, meeting his eyes, “Real, human canines.”

Lance heard a sharp inhale from Emily, accurately mirroring his own shock and unease.

“Only canines?” Spencer prompted.

“Yes,” she confirmed simply, moving around her desk to show him the evidence.

Reid accepted the proffered file and frowned in thought, “That may be a symbolic choice, referencing a carnivorous animal such as a wolf or—”

“There’s a wolf on the tapestry in the Gormogon vault,” Brennan interrupted, “Certain ancient sects revere the wolf as a symbol of freedom, representative of the forces that will deliver us from persecution.”

The profiler nodded in agreement, “Yes. The wolf also represents physical strength, intelligence, and loyalty. Perhaps Gormogon believes himself to personify these characteristics and designed his dentures accordingly.”

Emily nodded, eyebrows furrowing, “He is loyal to his cause of ‘setting the world free’ of secret societies, and evading of one of the best investigative teams in the country would certainly inflate his ego.”

Brennan gave them both strange looks, but for once she didn’t protest.

“Whose ego?” a voice from the door instantly redirected everyone’s attention. They found Booth giving them a smile as he walked over to join the profilers on the couch.

“Gormogon’s,” Sweets provided helpfully.

“That makes sense,” he chuckled, before looking up at Brennan, “You getting into profiling, Bones?”

The horrified look the anthropologist gave her partner was priceless.

The agent didn’t give her a chance to respond though, his face turning more serious, “I heard Zack was wrong about the dentures.”

“No,” she shook her head, indignation wiped away just as quickly, “He lied.”

He blinked at her, “What?”

Reid lent across the coffee table to offer the agent the file full of evidence, “The dentures were made entirely of human canine teeth.”

“What?” he stared at the profiler, making no move to accept the file.

“Someone removed the canines from a variety of skulls in limbo and used them to make Gormogon’s dentures,” Brennan explained simply.

“And Zack—” the agent looked up at his partner with dawning horror.

After a moment of silence, Sweets shifted in his seat and whispered the rest of Booth’s thought, “Lied.”

“He did it, Booth,” Brennan stated, “Zack made the dentures.”

“He has complete access to the lab. He arranged the explosion himself,” Booth looked as unsettled as Lance felt.

“Zack is the apprentice,” Prentiss agreed.

Booth stood, “We need to go to the hospital.”

Brennan nodded in agreement, moving to collect her things.

“Wait,” Reid cut in, ruffling though the papers on the small table, pulling their work together. “Here,” he held out a small stack, “This is our most recent profile on both unsubs; it might help. We have Garcia looking for connections between Zack and any of the Gormogon suspects, but it’s unlikely she’ll find anything before you get the information from Zack.”

Booth accepted the stack with a strained smile, “Thanks.” He glanced at Sweets and Prentiss, “All of you.”

They returned the smile and watched as he turned on his heel and hurried after his partner. Once again, the room descended into tense silence, leaving the three profilers staring at each other in unease.

Sweets let out a shaky sigh and buried his face in his hands. This was not how he had expected his day to go.

---

The hours following the revelation of Zack’s lie were filled with worry. Sweets was worried that they had made a mistake and Zack wasn’t the apprentice, worried that they weren’t and he was, worried he wouldn’t know how to find Gormogon— or if he did, worried for the safety of those sent to take the insane cannibal in. Once they got word that Booth was in route to Gormogon’s house, according to Zack’s instructions, Sweets was terrified for the agent and inexplicably guilty that Zack was the apprentice… which was insane because he had exactly no control over such a thing.

He spent the time between updates pacing a hole into the floor on the catwalk above the lab, Prentiss and Reid looking on with concern. His thoughts swirled chaotically alongside his emotions and he did his best to focus on where he was stepping instead. He was wholly invested in how this investigation turned out, not just as a profiler but as… as a friend. It was a terrifying feeling; he had no idea what to do. The Jeffersonian team was going to be irrevocably changed no matter what and there was nothing he could do to help. He was helpless. Useless.

Booth called; Gormogon was dead. Ms. Julian called; Zack had been arrested, pleading guilty… and was being found non compos mentis. Part of Sweets was relieved about how everything had turned out, but he was also confused. Zack was not insane. He could see why such a verdict would be more appealing to everyone involved… but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. (He wasn’t sure, however, if it was born from Zack “evading justice” or simply from how it all made absolutely no sense.)

Not long after the final update, the team returned to the lab. Spencer stayed long enough to wish them well, but he disappeared quickly. Emily followed soon after, fading into the background after receiving a call. Lance himself, however, was wordlessly pulled into the group huddled around the table as they poured over Zack’s keepsakes and mourned the loss of a friend. The therapist hadn’t known the doctor well, but even he mourned the loss of the relationship he never had a chance to build with a brilliant young man. It was hard to believe that Zack —geeky, awkward, kind Zack— had killed someone. That he had stabbed a man in the heart. But… there was no way any of them could deny it. Not with his blatant testimony of guilt.

The whole ordeal was emotionally exhausting, down to the last moment spent with the Jeffersonian team. By the time Brennan fled, followed closely by Booth, presenting an opportunity to exit, Lance was thankful to finally leave the group to their grief and head home.

Emily walked silently with him to the car, understanding in her brilliant intuitive way that he was overwhelmed. The rush of traffic outside the car was the only sound on the car ride home, relaxing Lance and allowing everything he had been feeling—the emotional roller coaster of the past six hours—to dissipate, leaving him numb. Emily broke the silence only once, as they trekked up the stairs to his apartment, squeezing his shoulder and whispering a few words of encouragement in his ear. By the he stepped through his front door, he was simply bone tired. Not sad, not relieved, not guilty. Just…tired.

All he wanted to do now was stumble into his bedroom and fall asleep, but the universe had other ideas. As he was dragging himself through the living room, he spotted a package on the coffee table and stopped dead in his tracks. When did that get there?

Behind him, he heard the deadbolt slide into place and Emily set her bag down with a whump. As she came up beside him, he was leaning over the nondescript cardboard box, reading the equally average label. It was addressed to him, with his full name, the return address listing some company in Montana.

“Oh, right. I forgot about that,” Emily huffed a sigh, “It was delivered… yesterday? Or the day before, I think. I picked it up from the front office earlier today. They were getting pissy about it not getting claimed,” she sounded distinctly annoyed by that, and Sweets could definitely relate; there had been more important things on their minds.

But that still begged the question… what the hell was it? Exhaustion momentarily forgotten, Lance carefully reached out and picked it up. It was… surprisingly light, considering its size—it was a perfect cube as wide as his chest. Sweets felt his eyebrows knit together and a faint headache begin to build behind his eyes. He did not need this mystery. Not after Gormogon and Zack’s arrest. Why now? he couldn’t help but lament, Of all times, why now?

“Any idea what it is?” Emily spoke from where she leant curiously over his shoulder.

“No,” he muttered back, preoccupied (and still utterly exhausted, moving through a fugue), before wandering into the kitchen to find a scissor.

Something in his voice or mannerism must have tipped the profiler off because she followed him like a concerned shadow, a frown marring her own face.

Lance only had to dig through his cluttered ‘junk’ drawer for a few seconds before uncovering a battered pair of scissors and returning his attention to the package. He ran the blade over the taped seams of the box, freeing it in three deft strokes. Still frowning, he lifted each flap with care, revealing a mass of bubble wrap and releasing a strange wave of odor that was familiar in a way he couldn’t quite place. It was mostly plastic, yes, which was to be expected, but there was something else too. After a moment of hesitation, he reached into the box and began to part the layers of bubble wrap with care. With each layer pushed aside, Lance could smell the familiar something more and more. It was… leathery. And sort of musty, in an unpleasant sort of way. And then… there was something else. Something… metallic?

Iron.

There was something very wrong with this, he knew it with every fiber of his being, but he was too… committed to stop now.

Wait, no. It was more like… watching himself move without prompting. It was like the bit of his consciousness that was him was trapped somewhere deep in his mind, watching his body move autonomously, screaming, pounding against an invisible wall… begging himself to stop.

He knew what was happening. He knew who the package was from. He knew he should stop. He knew that whatever lurked in the depths of the box was horrible. But he simply kept moving, shaking hands seeking out the edge of each plastic sheet.

Faintly, he was aware of a pressure building in his chest, a lack of air passing through his nose, a concerned and welcomingly warm hand squeezing his shoulder, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the sight before him. He couldn’t blink, couldn’t twitch, couldn’t stop, as his hands shakily drew aside the final layer to reveal…

No. No.

It couldn’t be. It just… couldn’t.

Lance stumbled away from the box, eyes unfocused, unseeing, until his back slammed against somethi—no, against the opposite counter. A black blob some part of him recognized as Emily moved through his field of vision, but it didn’t register. His ears were full of his pounding heart, and his mind was stalled like a scratched record, echoing over the sight imprinted on his eyes like the afterimages left from a blinding light.

Worn dark leather, stained darker at the top edge where—

They were soft and malleable but so very firm and unyielding, constricting and grounding and—

The frayed edges, battered by time and use, impatient fingers, desperate twisting arms—

The glint of metal buckles, spotted with dark red, the cold kiss brushing over his wrists when—

Staring at them, unseeing and numb, huddled in the corner, pressed against cool stone, as far away as he could get, hands clenched in rough fabric, ears straining for—

The jangle of metal, the scrape of wood, the slide of a blade against—

Mangled painful fingers clumsily tracing over firm wiry ridges lining the cracks scattered across his skin, aching with every—

The cool touch trailing down his chest, cutting him to the core with dread before the sharpened edge ever even—

Pain, blinding pain, throbbing through his foot and up his leg, cutting across his chest and shoulder, following every touch he—

A smooth hand, a chilling chuckle, a finger tracing down his cheek to his throat and—

Unforgiving hardness, under his back, under his head, rolling back and forth, slamming up and down, maybe he’ll knock himself out, maybe the pain will finally—

A hand lands on his shoulder, pressing down, and he stills instantly, frozen in fear of what he knows comes next…

Now, now, Lance.

The hand tightens on his shoulder.

You don’t want to pass out on me, do you?

No no nononono, he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to pass out, he doesn’t want the pain that follows, he’ll do anything, anything—

He’s aware of the hardness rolling across his head and how that means he’s vigorously shaking it, but the hand on his shoulder is shaking him and that doesn’t fit the sickly smooth chuckle echoing through his ears and he’s not sure what to do…

“Breathe!” a desperate voice breaks through, “Lance, you’ve got to breathe, damn it!”

The plea opens the floodgates and cool biting air rushes through his throat and there’s burning in his eyes and the hand has moved to his wrist and is squeezing it and there’s nothing there and he doesn’t understand because he’s tied to the table and the pain is going to start again any minute and he’s just so… utterly tired.

He won’t be mad if he sleeps, will he?

He just can’t stay awake anymore.

Surely that would be different; it’s not like he’s knocking himself out.

He’s just so tired…and it’s too much.

It’s all too much.

The darkness floats along the edges of his vision and he struggles to keep his eyes open, staring in unfocused desperation at the bright light hovering over his face.

Just let him sleep.

Please, just let him sleep…

A/N: Sorry? For those of you who are wondering, no Zack will not be disappearing. He will, however, not be appearing for some time now. But... now we get to really move into the Ghost plot line! I'm so excited!!! Please, let me know what you think :)

#reba writes #profiler in the therapist

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rebaobsessivelywrites · 6 years

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Emotional Intelligence Ch2 (SS:BH Pt1)

You can find this entire series here on AO3. This chapter is here.

Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) and Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)

Fic Description: Logan was a genius. Everyone said so. He was also the most self sufficient 12-year-old you would ever meet, and he was very happy with that--thank you very much. If there was one thing he did not want, it was an android. Thankfully, things don't quite go his way.

(This is the first installment in a 5-part series. I expect 3 chapters currently.)

Warnings: ‘benign’ neglect, social anxiety, panic attack, emotional, and misgendering. This chapter is mostly comfort/fluff though

Chapter word count: 3,841

Headcanon post, master list, previous chapter, next chapter.

A/N: Finally done! And in time for #sidescontentweek too!!

One dinner, Logan could handle. Two? Sure. A day at an event? Well, he could suck it up. But a weekend? Three days spent being paraded around like a prize pony, passed from important person to important person… he just couldn’t.

His parents had sprung the surprise on him Thursday, just after his fourth visit to the chess park. The following morning, they packed up and left bright and early, caught a plane, and were plunged directly into the chaos of politics and high-class socialization. There were dinners and events and lectures every hour of the day, it seemed, as Logan was expected to attend every event either of his parents had been invited to. That meant breakfasts, lunches, and dinners with politicians and scientists and lobbyists and CEOs and everyone in between, with added lectures and meetings.

Logan didn’t understand it all, but he understood a lot and the people his parents met with were always so impressed by him and his parents loved to use that to their advantage. And, well, it was interesting. He did enjoy the science and finance and that sort of thing, but… he wasn’t used to that many people. This was the first time his parents had asked him to be so involved in one of these symposiums when both of them were attending, and it was absolutely excruciating.

He got about five hours to himself each day, but two of those were from waking up at 5 am and two were spent hiding in the corner of some hotel or event center, desperately trying to center himself before the next event. He was used to maybe 3 or 4 hours with people a day, and that used to be only 1 hour or so with his parents before he started visiting the park a couple times a week. So this? This was overwhelming.

It was the third and final day, and Logan was certain the only reason he had made it this far was his android. Three weeks ago, he would have never believed that he would become irreparably attached to the thing, but now he was seriously wondering what he would do with out h—it. Beyond its now integral role in his daily life, the HK400 had been a godsend throughout the weekend, carefully monitoring Logan and swooping in at the best possible times with various excuses—he hadn’t eaten enough vegetables, he needed to spend 15 more minutes in the sun in order to absorb the proper amount of vitamin D, he hadn’t slept sufficiently and needed to go to bed early, etc—that bought him a couple minutes, at least, to regroup. It kept him sane.

But even with that crucial aid, it was too much. He had been at lunch (again) when he had been cornered and interrogated by a curious stranger (again) and he just couldn’t. He couldn’t stand another minute in that room; he couldn’t think or even breathe! So he fled. He didn’t manage to do much more than mutter a few apologies before he was on his way out of the ballroom and running up the stairs to his room. He fumbled with the electronic key, stumbled into the luxuriant room, and immediately collapsed, bracing himself against the wall and struggling to breathe.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, hunched over, before he finally caught his breath and stopped feeling like he was drowning, but once he did a wave of overwhelming shame crashed into him stealing his breath in a completely different way. Why had he left? He shouldn’t have done that! What were his parents going to say? He was a horrible son. Horrible…

A quiet knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts and made him jump. As he frantically picked himself up off the ground and attempted to make himself presentable, he realized that he had be crying. He scraped the sleeve of his suit over his cheeks and cleared his throat, “Yes?”

“It’s just me, Logan,” the last voice he was expecting but the first voice he should have expected echoed through the door, “Can I come in, kiddo?”

“HK400,” Logan protested, just as he had every time since the android had started using that awful nickname. The only blessing was he never used it around other people.

The HK400 obviously took his response as permission as the locking mechanism gave a telltale click and the droid slid into the room with hi—its key card. It had its near constant smile already plastered across its face as it carefully moved closer, giving him a concerned once over. “How are you, Logan? What can I do to help?”

“I’m fine,” Logan shook his head and pasted his smile back on, “I just… forgot something,” he finished lamely.

The android gave him the most unimpressed look he had ever seen—not just on it, but on anyone—and for a moment Logan very much felt like the 12-year-old he was. “We both know that’s not true,” it pointed out softly, “You don’t need to hide from me, Logan. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Logan stood there for a long moment, taking in the steady blue LED that shone brightly in the muffled daylight of the hotel room, and the matching earnest blue eyes. “I know,” he almost whispered, “I just—” His voice broke and a hand flew to his mouth of its own accord. Breathing through his nose, he swallowed hard and did his best to force down the tears.

The HK400 stood as still as a statue, as though he was attempting not to startle a wild animal, a concerned look still plastered across his face. For some reason, the steady unassuming silence calmed Logan down even more.

“I can’t,” he choked out after a minute that felt like an eternity. His entire body was trembling, and Logan was just so frustrated with himself. He was angry and guilty and so very sad… He felt like his world was crumbling around him, but that was completely illogical—he was fine! He needed to piece himself back together and rejoin his parents, that was it.

The android gave him a pained look of understanding and stepped closer, as though preparing to physically help and… that was it. The dam broke open again and Logan let out a painful sob that shook his entire body. It was followed by another and another, and he was shaking harder and harder. His knees gave out on him but before he could do more than start to tip, he was suddenly surrounded by a pair of powerful arms, pulled in close to a solid chest. The android had knelt in front of him and was nestling him close and rubbing his back… “Let it out, Logan,” he murmured, “It’s ok, just let it all out. I’ve got you.”

Logan did.

He wasn’t sure how long he spent in his android’s arms, soaking his uniform with tears, but after some indeterminant period he stopped shaking and the android slowly loosened his hold on him. “Hey, Logan?” he murmured against his hair, “How does NASA organize a party?”

Brows furrowing in confusion, Logan pulled away to frown at his caretaker in confusion, “What?”

The HK400 gave him a crooked smile, “They planet.”

Logan felt his eyes, which were no doubt red from all the crying he had been doing, widen comically. His android had just told a joke. …Why?? The experience had become more common since the bot had slipped up in the park over a week previously, but it still baffled Logan to no end every time, and this was by far the most blatant occurrence yet.

“What’s orange and sounds like a parrot?” he—it asked in the same tone of voice, that was almost mischievous.

“What? No, that’s,” Logan shook his head, “There’s nothing… I mean, maybe an orange parrot, but—”

“A carrot!” it exclaimed before letting out a delighted little giggle.

Logan stopped to stare again, forgetting to close his mouth in the process. He was still baffled and dumbfounded, but he was also thankful that the android wasn’t immediately retreating and making excuses like he had a few times in the past.

“Come on,” he—it— smiled warmly and stood, offering him a hand, “Let’s move to the table. It’ll be more comfortable for the chair of us.”

Still stunned from the last joke, Logan couldn’t do more than accept and let himself be led to the small round table that was equipped with two chairs and a small coffee setup—including a coffee maker and all the proper accoutrements. It was currently piled with everything Logan had gathered from the lectures he had enjoyed over the past two days, but neither of them cared about the clutter. (HK400 was most certainly bothered by it, but he didn’t press the issue and was clearly preoccupied at the moment.)

As Logan sat down, however, he wobbled slightly on his still unsteady knees and accidentally knocked several papers off the table. His android immediately bent to collect them, a faint smile still playing on its lips. When he straightened and set the collection of articles and book recommendations back where they belonged, Logan was still staring—no doubt with a slack jawed look.

The HK400’s lips twitched slightly. A moment later, he lost the battle and a broad grin stretched across his face, “Aw, you ok there, Logan?” he teased gently, pushing the article on the top of the pile towards him, “Do you need a patent the back?

Once again, Logan was completely lost, “…you mean… a pat on the back?” After a moment of confusion, however, he glanced down at the paper the android had pushed towards him. It was an article he had picked up on his first day, when he had been attending an informative lecture on the legal bounds of patents with his father…. The article was an overview of every type of patent the government authorized, complete with examples. His eyes widened in realization. Patent.

The android reached over the pile of papers and fished a pink packet out of the coffee service station. “I’m not sugar,” he said almost contemplatively, waving it at Logan, “what do you pink?”

Logan let out a soft groan and leant his head forward into his hands. Despite his actions, however, there was a smile floating at the corner of his mouth. “Your mispronunciation of words… is meant to have a comedic effect,” he muttered, “But I am not certain how I feel about your attempts.”

“No, no, Logan,” the android grinned cheekily at him, “Its mispro-pun-ciation!”

Logan gave him his best glare, but it failed miserably thanks to the laughter that bubbled up in in throat and slipped past his lips. The HK400 observed his reaction with unadulterated glee, letting his own laughter join. The sound of the android giggling like a little kid set Logan off even more, and soon he was caught in a downright hysteric bought of belly-deep laughter. He nearly fell out of his chair before the android managed to settle himself down enough to catch him.

Just like before, with his uncontrollable sobbing, Logan was unsure how long he spent laughing himself silly, but eventually it passed. He spent a few moments after it finally died off gasping for breath and examining his android, who was fast becoming something akin to a friend. He was sitting in the chair opposite from Logan now, grinning dopily—almost like laughter was a drug to him. The sight of the content expression on the bot’s face made Logan smile again.

“HK400,” he started, before stopping, stumbling over his own tongue. That sounded so wrong. HK400… was a type of android. It seemed illogical to continue to insist on calling him—it… whatever!—something so generic and impersonal, not to mention a mouthful. If the past three weeks had shown him anything, it was that the HK400 was possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him. It —hell— he didn’t deserve that.

“Logan?” the bot asked in concern, breaking through his thoughts.

Logan shook himself and smiled up at him, “Sorry, I was just thinking that HK400 is a rather big mouthful.” The android simply frowned down at him, a hopeful but baffled expression on his face. Logan self-consciously straightened his glasses, “I mean, it would be more, uh.. logical to call you something more… unique?”

“Are you,” the bot hesitated, his LED flashing rapidly and his eyes growing wide, “asking me to register a name?”

Logan swallowed hard, “Uh, yeah, I… I think I am.”

His LED flashed yellow once before it settled to a more certain blue. “That… I’d like that,” the HK400 unit smiled softly, “Who am I, Logan?”

Logan paused at the wording, examining the android, “In all honesty, I think only you are capable of answering that question.”

“I don’t… understand,” confusion creased his eyebrows, although his smile didn’t waver.

The young genius shook his head softly, “That’s for another day. But I truly don’t know what to call you.”

“No?” the android asked curiously, thankfully showing no offence.

“No,” he confirmed, “I’m sorry, I should have thought this through more…”

“Don’t be,” he held up his hand, still grinning brightly, “You’ll think of something.”

“I’m not so sure,” Logan couldn’t help giving a self-deprecating shrug, looking down at where his hands rested on the table. He wasn’t creative, and giving his android a name was such a big thing…

After a beat of silence, the article on patents was pushed to brush against his fingers. He glanced up to find the HK400 smiling mischievously at him again, “Well, that’s patently absurd!”

Logan groaned, lips twitching without his consent, “Are you ever going to stop now?”

“Pat-ain’t likely!” he chuckled warmly, looking proud of himself.

Logan smiled ruefully and shook his head slightly. This new attitude his android was displaying was annoying, but it also…. It was nice. And the puns were… interesting, or at least creative that’s for sure.

A thought occurred to him, eyes widening unseeingly. “Pat…” he murmured.

“What?” the android shifted forward slightly “Are you ok, Logan?” Logan’s eyes snapped back into focus to find his caretaker’s LED cycling yellow. “Do you need another patent the back?”

“Sorry,” he smiled reassuringly before his eyebrows drew together in concentration, “Just… Your name. What about Pat… something. Patrick?” As soon as the name left his mouth he wrinkled his nose in distaste, “No.”

The android leant forward eagerly, resting a hand on each of Logan’s and smiling encouragingly. Logan returned the smile and carefully regarded the machine he had come to care for. He really wanted to get this right; a name helped a person define their sense of self, and for him it was so much more important because he had existed for almost a month fully cognizant without one. In the beginning that didn’t seem to be a problem, but now… he —and the android was definitely not an it, not if Logan was honest with himself— was so clearly capable of independent thought and it seemed wrong to call him by his model name.

The android gently squeezed Logan’s hands and the 12-year-old’s eyes were drawn down to where they rested on the table… on the article. “Pat…ton. Patton.” Logan nodded to himself, lifting his head to observe his android’s reaction.

His soft smile grew to a blinding intensity as he stared at Logan, an emotion the young genius failed to identify shining in his eyes. “Patton,” he murmured, as though testing the word, “I like that.” He giggled, “I could give you a Patton the back whenever I want.”

Logan simply raised his eyebrows at his caretaker; yes, the name was inspired by the pun but was it really necessary—

“Or a Patte,” the newly minted Patton added happily, retrieving a mug from beside the coffee pot on the table.

The genius couldn’t help rolling his eyes a little, lifting his freed hand to adjust his glasses again. “Let’s not push it too far,” he muttered.

The android froze in the middle of his movement, causing Logan to jolt and stare at him in surprise; Patton’s eyebrows were furrowed, his LED spinning yellow.

It took Logan a moment before the reason clicked, but as soon as it did his eyes blew wide and he hurried to correct his mistake, “No, no I don’t…” he shook his head and glanced down, carefully shifting the hand that still rested in Patton’s grip to give him a comforting squeeze. “I mean… I doubt my tolerance— for puns, that is— could possibly withstand your, uh, obvious aptitude for them.”

To the genius’ relief, the android immediately relaxed, tension draining out of his frame, and gave him another blinding smile, “I guess we’ll just have to see, now won’t we?”

Logan hesitantly returned the smile, “If we must… Patton.”

The way Patton’s smile grew in response to hearing his new name left a warm feeling in Logan’s chest, leaving him more settled than he had in days. That same warmth, renewed every time Patton smiled, miraculously lasted even as he ventured forth from his room and back into the mire of social expectations. It buoyed him through the remainder of the unpleasant weekend, and left him content and focused for days afterwards.

Upon their return from the stressful trip, everything returned to normal. Logan resumed his studies, rarely seeing his parents, Patton flitted around the manor, efficiently handling every problem before Logan ever encountered it, and the pair upped their outings to three or four times a week. Logan found himself growing fond of Mr. Stokes and the other chess enthusiasts, who seemed to almost live in the park, and was happy to oblige his android’s incessant herding.

In fact, Logan found he actually appreciated Patton’s constant presence and energy. On one particular occasion, the food delivery service his family used failed to arrive and Patton left to fetch supplies. The young genius was alone for only a few hours, but it had felt like days; without the background noise his energetic android provided, he had simply been unable to focus. Patton had given him the softest smile he had ever seen upon returning to find his grouchy, unfocused charge.

It was much easier to focus on matrices and derivatives when he could hear the android humming idly from just beyond his bedroom doorway.

“Hey, Logan?” the familiar cheerful voice cut through the 12-year-old’s train of thought.

A smile already spreading across his face, he glanced up from his textbook to see his android approaching. Patton gave him a smile in return and lifted an object for observation—a pair of glasses held carefully by the ear pieces, “What are these?”

For a moment Logan just blinked at them; they appeared uncannily like his own, except for the fact that they were obviously too large and no longer held lenses of any variety. That moment was, however, all it took for him to remember and flush a vivid red.

“I was cleaning your room and found them wedged…” Patton trailed off as he glanced up from the object of his curiosity. “Kiddo?” he asked, concern coloring his tone.

“They, ah,” Logan cleared his voice, “They were my father’s. I was, evidently, so fascinated with them that… after he had surgery to fix his vision, he gave them to me.”

“Oh!” the bot exclaimed in delight, returning his attention to his discovery, “That’s nifty.”

Another smile claimed his lips without his consent and he shook his head at the android’s word choice. Patton had grown on him even more over the past few weeks. He seemed to be increasingly comfortable both with himself and with Logan; he only reverted to his initial behavior (what Logan was coming to think of as his ‘pre-programmed’ behavior) when in the presence of others. Even then, he had begun to slip more and more around Logan’s chess partners. The genius received an inordinate amount of pleasure watching their reactions to the android’s unexpected sense of humor.

Logan watched with a similar sense of amusement as Patton, face scrunched up in thought, ever so carefully placed the glasses on his own face. After a moment spent fiddling with them, making them sit more comfortably, he beamed down at Logan, “What d’ya think?”

Even though the frames were very similar to Logan’s, they looked remarkably different on Patton’s face. They seemed… rounder, less rectangular, even though that wasn’t possible, and made Patton’s bright blue eyes look twice as large, despite the absence of lenses.

“They look nice,” he answered honestly, earning beaming smile.

Patton quickly scooted a few feet to the side, so he could see himself in the mirror on Logan’s wall and regard his new accessory with curiosity. After a moment he turned back to Logan, a mischievous smile creeping across his face and setting alarm bells off in Logan’s head, “Well, they are rather… spectacular!”

“Patton,” Logan groaned, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.

“Are you doing math?” he asked out of the blue, moving closer to his charge and peering down at his calculus textbook.

“Patton…” Logan muttered in warning. Where he would have been confused a few weeks ago, he was now merely suspicious, eyeing his android carefully, “don’t—”

Patton merely grinned, “You might need some new glasses to help with that division!”

“Ugh,” he huffed, burying his face—glasses and all—into his hands.

The android just giggled, moving to perch on a nearby chair and removing the black frames from his face. Once Logan recovered from the horrible pun and Patton settled his giggles, the pair just smiled at each other.

Logan had never smiled so often, before Patton had entered his life.

But as he stared at him, Logan couldn’t help noting how different his caretaker looked without the glasses on, almost as though frames had belonged on his face from the start. “You should keep them,” he burst out, gesturing to the frames in the bot’s lap, “It’s not like they were doing any good, wherever they were when you found them.”

Patton blinked at him in surprise, “Are you sure?”

He gave a one shouldered shrug, “Yeah, I mean, I’m not going to use them.”

“Thanks, Lo,” the android gave him another brilliant smile, warming him in a way he was still growing used to. He watched fondly as Patton returned the frames to his face, dramatically pushing them up the bridge of his nose.

Logan may not be certain about everything, especially not when it came to his android, but he was positive that Patton was the most amazing person he had ever met. He did not know how he had developed such obvious independence or if all androids were capable of doing so, but he was incredibly grateful to have him in his life. Puns and all.

A/N: I know the last scene seems a little tacked on, and I almost didn't include it but I wanted to limit this installment to three chapters and it REALLY doesn't fit with the next one. Speaking of... brace for angst. (I still need Patton to deviate, after all. He's only bending his programming at the moment, kinda like snarky Connor in the game. He still needs to tear down the wall, so to speak.)

Let me know if you want to be tagged! (I will be reblogging with the taglist from @reba-andthesides)

#sanders sides #sidescontentweek #logan sanders #patton sanders #detroit become human #reba's d:bh au #reba writes

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