#^ this kind of image description is a struggle for me

[thegeminisage]

✨🎉IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!🎉✨

for my BIRTHDAY i am posting the first chapter of my rookanis fic (link for excerpts), exclusive to everyone on tunglr dot edu bc i don't like to put fic on ao3 til it's finished but i want people to see it and since it's my BIRTHDAY i get to do what i want 👍

a few things to know:

it is a sequel to the ossuary, but you don't need to read that to read this. i'd be really happy if you did though 👉👈

i don't mind reblogs! that would also make me happy.

this is about 13k

it's a rough draft. when it goes up fr it'll be different don't judge my mistakes 😭

if you need visual aid, here is rook image

warnings are under the cut <3

CONTENT WARNINGS:

flashbacks/references to lucanis and spite's time in the ossuary. nothing graphic but a bit upsetting. includes starvation, torture, lucanis and spite being bonded without their consent, and a suicide attempt by lucanis that spite interrupted.

fake grief re: caterina's fake death, and then whatever the opposite of that is re: varric's real death

non-graphic description of burned bodies

rook is a trans woman and lucanis notices this without having to be told when he sees her adam's apple. however, she kind of allows him to see this on purpose without caring if he will realize she is trans, and she comes out to him herself pretty quickly, but the coming out bit is not in this chapter

without further ado.........

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A white light blinds him. Restraints snap closed around his ankles, wrists, and throat. He can't turn his head. His panicked breath is too loud in his ears.

"Liar," hisses his own furious voice, something inside him squeezing his lungs until he struggles for air. His lips shape the words. "Treacherous filth! I hate you! I want out!"

But he can't get out. How many times has he cut his own skin open on these manacles trying?

A shadow moves above him, briefly blocking out the light. Blinking away stars, Lucanis struggles to make out a face. 

It's Calivan. He's holding something. An eyedropper. "One way or another," he murmurs, his voice muffled and distorted under the sound of Lucanis's breathing, "you're going to stop giving me that fucking look."

Something's not right. It's not right. Lucanis remembers Calivan's head under his heel. This is—

Calivan reaches for Lucanis's face, and gently spreads open his eyelids. An unfamiliar hand shakes Lucanis's shoulder.

"I want out!" Lucanis hears himself snarl. "Let me out, let me out, let me—"

The caw of a nearby crow startles Lucanis to wakefulness, and he gasps as though drowning.

"...out," Spite finishes, uncertain.

They're on a rowboat. Sitting across from them is the young mage Crow from House Cantori in charge of their getaway, and on the opposite side are Rook and Neve, looking as startled as Lucanis feels. Rook's hands are up in the universal sign of surrender. It was she who shook him just now, he realizes, trying to wake him from his nightmare. "Lucanis?" 

"I'm fine," Lucanis tells her automatically, struggling to slow his breathing. He runs a shaking hand back through his filthy hair. "What is it?"

Rook waves her arm, gesturing to their surroundings. "We're here. You're home."

"Home?" Lucanis repeats, frowning—and then he looks up and understands.

It's Treviso: the spires against the moonlit sky, the lights lined up on strings, the fireflies hovering over the canals—and, of course, the crows, perched on ship masts and gondolas. Their rowboat is moored fairly close to the market, wood gently bumping wood with the motion of the waves, and the sounds of people—so, so many people—echo over the water. A snatch of conversation, a shouted bid on a painting, children laughing as they play with the stray cats. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls, freely announcing to everyone what Lucanis would have once given almost anything to know: the time, which is currently nine in the evening. People are getting ready to eat; distantly Lucanis can make out the clink of dinnerware, and a gentle spring breeze greets him with the first aroma of food Lucanis has smelled in an entire year, spiced meats and fried dough. 

And—what is that? Lucanis inhales.

"It's understandable you dozed off," Rook is saying, "you've had a pretty fucking big day—"

"Smoke, pendejo," Spite informs him tersely. "Smells like smoke."

It does, and not the cooking kind. Lucanis squints, searching the skyline—there. He points. "That's the Cantori Diamond," he says, interrupting Rook's chatter. "It's on fire!"

"What?"

Rook, Neve, and the Crow jump to their feet. Lucanis follows, feeling unsteady; he used to be fine balancing in boats, but ironically, his sea legs were lost in the year he spent beneath the waves. "Shit," says Neve, stepping out of the boat. She offers Rook a hand out, too, hesitates, and decides not to offer one to Lucanis.  "We've got to go—now."

"What?" Lucanis asks. "Why?"

Rook's eyes have found the skyline, that thin thread of smoke splitting Satina, the smaller moon, in two. She turns her face to Lucanis, apologetic. "The Cantori Diamond is where we left from," she explains. "Lucanis—it's where we left your family."

Caterina Dellamorte had the foresight to have the Crow from House Cantori bring along a cloak, presumably to conceal Lucanis's identity, but she needn't have worried: after a year in prison, he's certain he's unrecognizable. His worn prison clothes are thin and full of holes, covering very little of the damage done to his body. Though he did his best to keep clean with nothing but the pump in his cell, the wild overgrown tangle of his hair and beard have matted in places with dried blood and filth. Lucanis dons the cloak anyway so he doesn't scare passerby; if he saw himself coming down a dark alley, he'd turn around and walk in the other direction.

Unfortunately, Caterina did not send boots. On his best day Lucanis wouldn't want to walk through this city in bare feet—and this is not his best day.

"Careful," says Spite sharply, as Lucanis makes to turn down a side street, at the same time that Rook stops him by the elbow and goes, "Not that way."

"What?" Lucanis asks, jerking away from her touch. Maybe it's been a year since he was here last, but he still knows Treviso better than a pair of Vints. His family needs him. "We can get roof access from here, it's the quickest way!" And there will be less broken glass, hopefully.

"Only if you feel like going through the Antaam," Neve replies. 

"Antaam?" Lucanis repeats, a little too loudly, and a few people at a nearby fruit stand nervously turn their heads. He lowers his voice and hisses, "There are Antaam in Treviso?"

"In much of Antiva," the Crow says, her expression pained. "You've been gone a long time, Master Dellamorte. Let me lead them away—you should get to the Cantori Diamond as quickly as possible." And, cleverly, she slips down the side street before he can object; had he told her to stop, she would have had to obey.

There's a shout of Qunlat from around the corner, and then the clatter of weapons and boots racing over cobblestone. The Antaam pass by in a flurry of movement just visible at the mouth of the alleyway. Neve takes a cautious look around the corner and reports, "Clear."

Around the corner, behind a loose place in someone's fence, and up a trellis, and they arrive safely on a nearby rooftop. From here it's easy to spot the red banners of the Antaam rolled out over the edges of buildings and ropes strung over the streets, the groups of heavily armed Qunari milling around the markets. "Smells like sweat and metal," Spite observes, as Lucanis leads Rook and Neve through the city, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. It feels good to stretch his legs; it would feel better if he were not racing as fast as he could to find out if his family's still alive. "They want. To hurt."

That sounds right to Lucanis. The Antaam, the Qunari army, have been troubling Tevinter for a few years now. The Qunari, who live in the northernmost lands of Thedas, have been warring with Tevinter for as long as anyone can remember, each trying to conquer the other over...various cultural differences. But the Antaam decided enough was enough, and more extreme methods were required to end the conflict for good. They went rogue and began carving their way through Tevinter in defiance of the orders of their government, starting with the city of Ventus and working their way south. The last Lucanis heard of it before being captured was that they were attacking Vyrantium, but he never learned how the conflict ended. 

Because Antiva shared a border with Tevinter, Caterina and the other Talons have been worried about the Antaam showing up on their doorstep for some time. But their countries are separated by the Hundred Pillars mountain range, and though Antiva has no standing army, it's got trade contracts and allies all over Thedas—not to mention the business it's made of rearing assassins. Lucanis always thought it was unlikely they'd ever have to deal with the Antaam personally.

It seems like he was wrong.

Now that he's running over it with a crow's eye view, he can see the ways the occupation has changed Treviso. The markets are open, but no one is congregating in large groups. Armored Qunari stand on street corners with spears. The canals, normally packed with gondolas at this time of night, are all but empty. More people are staying home after dark.

The smoke above the Cantori Diamond has begun to dissipate by the time they get close. Whatever happened has already started and ended, without Lucanis there to do anything about it. Lucanis hesitates before the final ladder leading to the rooftop entrance, looking up at the high arched windows, the large statues of crows with open wings, and says without meaning to, "Don't tell them."

Rook and Never come to a stop behind him. "What?" asks Neve.

"If they're alive," Lucanis says, eyes still on the Diamond, "don't tell them about Spite."

Inside his head, Spite growls. "You. Would keep. Me secret? Lock me in! Hide me! Bury me—!"

"Spite?" Rook repeats, an unknowing interruption. "You mean...the demon?"

"Told them my name!" Spite roars, furious. "Like Calivan! Fool!"

Lucanis shakes his head sharply. He can't even tell Spite to be quiet without reminding everyone else that he's there. "Please," he says instead.

He feels more than sees Rook exchange a glance with Neve. Then she says, "All right," and they go up the ladder.

Closer to the rafters, the smell of burnt wood and flesh is inescapable. "Like burned feet," says Spite, agitated. "Hot fire pokers. Damp files! Made. Into. Ashes." Lucanis gets the distinct impression that with so many sounds and smells, Spite is getting a little overwhelmed. "They're all dead," he hisses. "They're all dead!"

Please, Lucanis thinks, as he takes the last flights of stairs two at a time. Please.

They're not all dead. As he, Rook, and Neve pick their way past burned corpses and overturned furniture, Lucanis spies the shapes of their backs, instantly recognizable even after a year away. On the left, Andarateia Cantori, Seventh Talon and the only person in the world closer to Caterina than her own grandchildren. On the right, Viago de Riva, Fifth Talon and Teia's lover. And in the middle—  

He is alive. Illario is alive.

Elven ears catch the creak of the floorboard first. Teia whirls, dagger in hand—and then her dark eyes widen. "Maker," she breathes, stunned. 

Viago turns in nearly perfect sync with her, his face going bloodless. "Lucanis?"

In answer, Lucanis throws back his hood. It takes him a long moment to find his voice. "What happened here?"

"A message." Now it's Illario who speaks—the real Illario, not a dream or a memory or blood magic—though his tone is as somber as Lucanis has ever heard it. "From Zara Renata."

Finally, he turns, and steps into the light. 

What was Lucanis so worried about? Illario hasn't changed at all. He looks healthy, well-fed and well-rested, clean and clean-shaven. There's not one wrinkle in his clothing, not a single hair out of place. The only difference is that he has never looked at Lucanis this way before: like he is seeing a ghost. "I can't believe it," he whispers. His eyes are bright, voice choked with emotion. "You're home."

Lucanis isn't sure which of them starts moving first. He knows how he looks—Maker, he knows how he must smell—but his fussy, fastidious cousin yanks him into an embrace without hesitation. His arms press on old hurts and new, but Lucanis doesn't care. After the year he's had, there is no one else in the world Lucanis would let touch him without reserve this way. It is only right that he should see Illario first. 

After Illario lets go, he presses his forehead to Lucanis's, just for a moment, shaking him hard by the back of his neck. He pulls back and ducks his head a little, searching Lucanis's face. Lucanis, throat too tight to speak, nods.

"Family," Spite sighs, like some new understanding has clicked into place.

And at that, Lucanis must pull away so he can master himself. "Where—" He clears his throat. "Where is Caterina?"

Silence falls. Lucanis looks back and forth between Illario and Teia, but neither of them seem able to speak. Dread rises in his chest like seawater.

Lucanis asks again, "Where is Caterina?"

It's Viago who falls on the knife. "She's dead," he says curtly, quick and clean as a killing cut. "During the fire, a support beam fell, and..."

Lucanis doesn't hear the rest. His pulse is rushing in his ears. Unbidden he remembers Calivan's final words, uttered only a few hours ago: Zara will never stop hunting you...your precious family. Walk out if you like, Lucanis. You'll never be free. Lucanis is used to ignoring the lashing out of dying targets, but now the words have the ring of omens.

Caterina Dellamorte, dead.

"Where?" says Lucanis, cutting through Viago's next sentence.

The corner of Viago mouth twitches in a frown, but he allows the interruption without complaint. "You should know that the body is in poor condition. It was not a good death—"

"Where?" Lucanis presses, so Viago leads him back downstairs to a section of the vine-covered terrace outside where several bodies lay covered with sheets. Lucanis hears the others follow, even Rook and Neve, but he doesn't care enough to stop them. He kneels beside the body Viago stops at, steels himself, and pulls down the sheet.

"I get one of you back," says Illario, "only to lose the other."

Their grandmother's face has been burned almost to be unrecognizable, blisters and char hiding any hope of identifying her by face. But she is wearing all of her rings, her fine clothes. Her skin is even still warm. He takes the body's left arm in hands that he forces not to shake and pushes up the sleeve. Here is the correct birthmark on the back of her elbow. There are the faint thin white lines of old knife cuts on her forearm. 

"We've already started burning them," Teia says as he continues his examination. Cremations are always a quick business in Thedas; outside of a few outliers, most people don't like to leave a body laying any longer than they have to, lest it tempt demons looking for a host. "But for this, we wanted to wait for you. Vi says it's impossible, but it's Caterina. I have to be sure."

Lucanis checks the body's right arm, searching for the puckered scar tissue that healed wrong around a rapier wound, courtesy of the Orlesian baron Caterina killed with nothing but a thimble. He finds it.

"Sure?" Neve echoes.

"That the Venatori didn't use blood magic to alter the corpse, as they did for the one they passed off as Lucanis," Viago explains. "It happened so quickly I doubt that's the case, but only Lucanis can be certain."

The correct mole on the left knee. The tiny marks on her right calf where she received stitches after a conflict with House Velardo. That wound is the reason she began using a cane.

"You can sense blood magic?" Neve asks. She sounds impressed.

"It makes the backs of my eyes hurt." Lucanis lets the body go, pulling the sheet up again, and sits back on his heels. "I don't feel anything," he says, addressing the group in general, but staring at the corpse. "There's no scars or birthmarks missing, and there's none there that don't belong. This is—this is Caterina."

It was Caterina's training that helped Lucanis survive the Ossuary. It was Caterina who found him and sent people to his rescue. All her hard work, all the time she spent never giving up on him, and Lucanis missed her by less than an hour. She might have even still been alive when his boat reached Treviso.

Spite, who has been uncharacteristically silent during Lucanis's examination, makes a low sound of pain Lucanis has never heard from him before. "Family," he says again, but this time, it's mournful. He sounds as devastated as Lucanis feels. 

Lucanis wishes they had a moment to talk. Spite hasn't sounded quite like himself since they left the Ossuary, and strange as it is, Lucanis worries. What's wrong with him?

"I'm so sorry," Rook says, and lays a hand on Lucanis's shoulder.

Lucanis is on his feet in an instant, all the better to escape her touch. "Don't be," he says briskly. "We had a contract, no? That's good. I need to work."

Rook starts, "Good is not exactly—"

"You just got back, and already you want to leave again?" Illario asks. "You should take some time—"

"I don't need time! I need a target!" His cousin really hasn't changed. Lucanis spent a year and a day rotting in that pit, their grandmother has been assassinated, and still Illario will take nothing seriously. "Someone is making a move against our family. Zara is still out there somewhere. And Caterina gave me a contract," Lucanis says. "I'm not breaking the last deal she ever made!"

"Kill," Spite agrees. He has made an appearance at last, manifesting an image of Lucanis's own self behind Illario, complete with his overgrown beard, his filthy clothes, and borrowed cloak. "Find Zara. Make. Her. Pay!"

All the more reason to go, Lucanis realizes, jerking his eyes away so no one will wonder why he's staring at empty space. How long could he keep a secret like Spite under the watchful eyes of Talons? Under the eyes of Illario, who knows him best? 

Illario gazes at him across an insurmountable five feet of space, his mouth a flat unhappy line. Lucanis has always hated fighting with him, but he's been away so long that even this feels achingly nostalgic, so much better than not seeing him at all. 

"I owe them," Lucanis says finally. He forces himself to meet Illario's eye; it would be impossible, at this moment, to meet Rook or Neve's. "They helped me escape. If you had any idea what it was like down there..."

He doesn't have to say more. Because Illario does know Lucanis best, he knows it's pointless to argue once Lucanis has made up his mind. The only person who could ever make him change it lies dead at their feet. "And when the job is done?" Illario asks.

Lucanis hears the unspoken end of that question: which of them will succeed Caterina as First Talon? Her wishes and the wishes of her grandsons could not be more different: Illario has always wanted the job, while Lucanis can think of little he wants less. But Lucanis is older, if only by a month, and he has always been Caterina's favorite. He was still trying to think of a way to convince her to make a different choice when he was captured. 

But he didn't get the chance, and now—  

As much as he doesn't want the job, as dangerous as it would be for him to take it when he's got a demon inside him, he knows what Caterina would want, and more importantly, so does everyone else. Could he really disregard her final wishes so easily?

But Lucanis has finally reached his limit. "When the job is done, I'll come home," Lucanis says, firmly shutting the door on that question. He can't face it now, not yet; the sand from the sea floor is still stuck under his nails. 

Illario's not happy with it, but if he has anything else to say, he wisely keeps it to himself. It's a discussion for family. 

Their group breaks. Teia and Viago go back to overseeing the damage control of the Cantori Diamond, Illario promises to return shortly and ducks down a flight of stairs, and Rook and Neve show Lucanis how they got to Treviso: a tall thin mirror that's pointed at the top, carefully concealed on an unused corner of the terrace with vines. There's no reflection; instead, the mirror glows, and like peering through a fogged-up window Lucanis can make out a blurry landscape on the other side.

"What. Is. That?" Spite asks. The apparation of him reaches out as if to touch it, but draws back before he makes contact and vanishes. "It's strange! Smells like magic."

"It's called an eluvian," Neve says, almost as though she heard the question. She gives it an approving look. "Ancient elven stuff. You step through one like it's a door, and just like that, you pop out of another one hundred of miles away. It's convenient and stylish." 

It makes Lucanis's eyes itch. "Where does this one go?" he asks, wary. 

"Somewhere safe," Rook replies. She makes wry eye contact with him. "It's complicated."

That's exactly what Lucanis told her and Neve back in the Ossuary to explain away his situation with Spite. They haven't prodded about it so far, but Rook clearly hasn't forgotten. 

Her eyes drift over his shoulder. Lucanis knows without looking that Illario is back. "We'll go on ahead," she decides. "See you in a minute?"

Lucanis gives her a short nod. She and Neve step through the mirror without the slightest hesitation, the surface rippling behind them like water. 

"I kept all your things," Illario says from behind him. "Your clothes, your knives. I couldn't bear to throw anything out. I even fed your stupid snake."

Lucanis, still watching the last of the ripples that followed Rook's departure fade away, feels his mouth curl into a reluctant smile. "No you didn't." His cousin would sooner swallow his own tongue than touch a dead mouse. 

"No, I didn't," Illario agrees. "I paid someone else to do it. Same difference, right?"

Lucanis finally turns. Illario is carrying Lucanis's well-worn travel bag. It's made from genuine, full-grain leather, carefully waxed on the inside to remain waterproof and full of hidden pockets in the lining. It's just big enough to hold two outfits and an assortment of small weapons, and strong enough to be carried over the shoulder if those weapons are a little heavy; Lucanis's best boots are even clipped to the side. Caterina is not—was not—one for displays of affection, but she had a matching pair of these commissioned for Lucanis and Illario when they turned eighteen. Lucanis never leaves Treviso without his; he had it on him the night he was captured. He never expected to see it again. "Illario, how...?"

"The Crows who recovered your so-called body also brought back your effects," says Illario, and there is a carefully hidden, trembling rage around the word body that would be inaudible to all but Lucanis's ears. "It still has everything you put in it a year ago. When I learned you were alive, I went back home to fetch it. By the time I returned, Caterina..." He trails off. 

Lucanis reaches out, hesitates, and then puts his hand on Illario's shoulder anyway. "Don't blame yourself, cousin," he implores. "I don't blame you."

Illario closes his eyes. He lays his hand over Lucanis's and grips it like a lifeline. "Please don't say that."

"This is Zara's doing," Lucanis continues firmly, "not yours. And she's going to pay."

Illario opens his eyes again. "When you find her, Lucanis, I want—I need—to be there."

Lucanis cannot picture them in the same room; his blood turns to ice when he tries. Illario would try to charm Zara, he's certain, but Illario doesn't know what she's capable of. He has not faced her in combat. He has not had his eyes and ears deceived by her. He has not laid under her on that table.

Never. It's never going to happen. 

Aloud, Lucanis says, "Of course."

"Liar!" Spite growls at once. "Why. Do you. Always. Lie?"

Lucanis wishes he could explain. How can he do anything else? Zara has already taken so much from him, even his grandmother. Lucanis will be damned if he lets her take Illario too.

Illario drops his hand. "I guess I'll see you around, cousin," he says. He gives Lucanis back his bag. "Good luck on the contract. Try not to get killed again."

Lucanis slips the bag over his shoulder. It's good to have the weight back. "Thanks," he says—for the bag, for everything.

Then he turns and steps into the eluvian, leaving Treviso—and Illario—behind.

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

They call it the Lighthouse.

Stepping through the eluvian is a strange experience. It's not that Lucanis has never been teleported before—in his line of work, it happens—but even then, he always stays on the one side of the Veil. Once he steps through the eluvian, however, he experiences a near-unbearable itch behind his eyes, and—

"The Fade," Spite says, his voice as clear as Lucanis has ever heard it. "The Fade! A piece, a peace—!"

"The Fade?" Lucanis repeats, forgetting himself.

Rook stands nearby, on a wide intricately built mosaic pathway standing over...some dark chasm Lucanis can't make out the bottom of, though he thinks there must be water, given the patterns of light cast on the darkened ceiling. Lucanis recognizes both the mosaic work on the path and the support columns leading to another door at the end of the room as very, very ancient elven architecture; he's been staring at near-identical designs for a year. "Can you feel it?" Rook asks, surprised and curious. "You're not a mage."

"Spite," Lucanis explains shortly.

Rook's expression closes. "Ah."

Spite is oblivious to any awkwardness he might be causing. "Home. But not," he is saying. "Close. Moldable. Shapeable. Bright and burning. A shelter, but a cage. Let me out!"

If Spite thinks they're going to start soaring around the Fade when they've got a job to do, he is deeply mistaken. "Is it safe?" Lucanis asks. "Stories of mortals getting pulled into the Fade rarely end with them coming back in one piece."

"It's sort of...sectioned off from the rest," Rook explains, and begins to walk. Lucanis follows. "Think of it like a pocket of the real Fade, like—"

Lucanis misses the next part because of Spite. "A pocket?" he repeats, outraged. "Too small. Let us out! Lucanis, kill her! Make her! Let me out!"

Fortunately, Rook cannot hear him, so she keeps going. "—and our targets are probably hunting us, but they can't touch us here. This is actually the safest place."

Right—the job. "Who are the targets?" Lucanis asks, as Rook pushes open a heavy wooden door. She takes a set of stairs that eventually split, curved around the edge of some room Lucanis can't yet see, going right at the top. "I didn't get the details yet."

"We have a lot to discuss," Rook agrees, "but first..."

The curved staircases have led into a round room with a stone floor. Bookshelves line the wall touching the stairs, but some bookshelves also float, rotating serenely around the room's edge. In the center of the room is a squat round table, filled with clutter and surrounded by worn, mismatched pieces of furniture. More stairs lead to a higher level of the room, a pathway around its edge, where Lucanis can see quite a few doorways and balconies. On their level, there are a few wide doors that are perfectly circular, leading into darkened hallways. 

The room is lit with a white light: floating above it, at the center of the bookcases' orbit, is the same kind of artifact Lucanis and Spite destroyed in the Ossuary only a few hours ago.

Rook turns into one of the dark hallways, and Lucanis jerks himself out of his reverie to follow. 

"...I thought I'd let you get cleaned up," Rook finishes. She opens the door at the end of this hallway and steps aside far enough to allow him to enter the room without quite turning his back on her. 

"Smells like soap," says Spite, surprised. "Heat. Humidity." He's right. The room looks like a bathouse, nearly identical to some of the invitation-only ones in the wealthier parts of Tevinter. The difference is that this is elven architecture the Vints never got to paper over with their gaudy snake facades and bleed slaves dry in. The mosaic work is still visible, and in better shape than it was in the Ossuary, on the small set of stairs that leads down into the bath. The bath itself, a large square recess in the floor, is filled with steaming water that fogs the windows, and surrounded with arched elven columns, though they're overgrown with vines. At the base of each column is a wash basin and small shelf, and each shelf is packed with thick towels and colorful glass bottles of soaps and oils. 

"...use whatever you like," Rook is saying, "because we brought some stuff ourselves but the rest was just here, like the place keeps making more of it, and do you know, the water just stays hot all the time—"

"Thank you," Lucanis interrupts. He's tempted to pinch himself to see if this is real; in the Fade, would it still hurt?

"Yes," says Spite. "Idiot."

"Right," says Rook. "Well. I'll leave the...two of you...to it. You can catch up with us when you're finished; we'll be out the front door and up the stairs." And she vanishes back through the doorway before the moment can get more awkward, a circle of stone rolling it shut behind her.

The instant she's gone, Lucanis sets his bag down on the colorfully tiled floor and heads for the nearest wash basin, stripping off his prison clothes for, what he realizes giddily, is the very last time. He scans the bottles of soap for only a moment before reaching out to take one of the purple ones at random. He doesn't care what it is; after a year of nothing to wash himself with but cold water on a sandy floor, he's happy with anything. He pops out the cork.

"Lavender oil," says Spite at once. "Rook's."

All right, maybe not anything. Lucanis flushes and puts it back, taking the one next to it instead. 

"Eucalyptus," says Spite, even though nobody asked.

That will do. Lucanis grabs the first brush he sees—and what a luxury, to not have to use his hands!—and starts scrubbing off a year's worth of grime with efficiency born of a year's worth of practice. Teeth, face, arms, chest, legs, groin: by the time he's started, he'll be halfway finished. In the Ossuary there was often a constant guard outside his cell, which meant no privacy at any time, for anything, and that included his attempts to keep relatively clean. Some Venatori were polite enough, or cowed enough, to keep their heads turned. Most were not, and they found glee in remarking upon everything from the dirt on his feet to the prominence of his ribs to the size of his cock. The only way to stop their taunting was to pin them with his most dead-eyed stare, the one Illario says is so intimidating. Even then, give them long enough to get bored, and they'd start in again. Lucanis perfected the art of a two-minute wash by necessity. 

"Let me out," says Spite suddenly. "Lucanis! Let me leave!"

"We haven't gotten clean yet," Lucanis reminds him. He's almost finished at the basin, only interested in getting off enough filth not to ruin the bath water. "Look at the state of us!" It occurs to him that, having lived in the Fade as a formless spirit until the Ossuary, Spite has never had a bath. Maybe he'll love it.

He does not love it. "Burning!" he howls, as Lucanis steps into the water. 

"Isn't it?" Lucanis sighs. The water is just this side of too hot, and it hurts a little where it makes contact with the countless small wounds Lucanis sustained during the course of their escape and before, but it feels wonderful against his aching muscles. Everyone likes a hot bath—everyone except Spite, apparently—but after a year of torture at the bottom of the sea, his body feeling good is an entirely novel experience. 

Lucanis spies a small bucket on a hook and uses it to dump the hot water directly over his head, then pours a generous amount of the eucalyptus soap on top of it. His hair and beard are both matted, but he gets them clean enough; the beard's not staying, anyway. When he's done, he slips under the water entirely, ignoring Spite's protests, and leans back until he lies flat on the bottom of the bath.

Lucanis opens his eyes underwater, ignoring the sting of the soap to stare at the now-blurred ceiling above him. He exhales slowly, watching the bubbles float to the surface. Everything is warm and clean and quiet and still. This may be the first moment of true peace he has known in a year.

"Drowning," Spite tells him, with genuine urgency. "Drowning! Lucanis, we—"

Unfortunately, he tries to say it with Lucanis's mouth, which leads to Lucanis actually inhaling water after all. Lucanis bursts up through the surface, coughing, and shakes the hair out of his eyes. "We're not drowning!" he complains. "Would I kill us?"

"Yes," says Spite, and tries to tug Lucanis's legs to get him out of the tub.

Lucanis allows it, mostly because if he had to do it on his own he might never leave. Spite walks his naked self right out of the bath, water running in rivulets down his newly-cleaned, heat-pinked skin, and dripping all over the floor. He heads for the exit. 

"We're not done yet," Lucanis protests. He stops them by one of the wash basins with a mirror over it.

Lucanis can look down at his body anytime he chooses to, and he's been watching it waste away for a year. His muscles have become harder and more wiry, his stomach has curved inward, and his skin has been broken open and scarred more times than he can count. But his face was something else that was scarce inside the Ossuary's walls. Once he caught sight of it on a polished shield; other times, he'd see it on the edge of a blade or helmet, or as a blurry outline laid overtop the warding that kept the seawater out. And every time Lucanis caught his reflection, the image of Spite changed. Spite never looks exactly the way Lucanis does; he looks the way Lucanis sees himself. It's been months since the last time that happened. Lucanis isn't sure what to expect; he knows only that Spite is about to change again. He braces himself, and wipes away the fog.

It's pretty bad. The first thing Lucanis notices is the dark bruising under his eyes, how they're sunk so deeply into his face he can see the outline of his own eye sockets. His hollowed-out cheeks aren't much better, but at least the beard covers them a little, though it's wild and unkempt. His throat looks like someone has taken a machete to it; Lucanis broke it open against the restraints so many times it's started to scar, like his wrists and ankles. It's a wonder his cousin recognized him at all.

Lucky Illario brought his bag. If it's all as untouched as he said, Lucanis's comb and shaving kit should still be in there. Lucanis goes to fetch it and finds what he's looking for.

Spite tolerates the comb yanked through Lucanis's hair with only minor complaining, but when Lucanis flips out his shaving razor, he loses his mind. "Stop!" he commands, and the image of him—wet and naked, like Lucanis—appears and yank's Lucanis's his arm away from his face.

"Careful with that!" Lucanis scolds.

"You be careful," Spite seethes. Lucanis feels a familiar spasm in the muscles near his elbow; just in time, he squeezes his fist tightly enough that Spite's attempt to chuck the razor away fails. 

"I'm just shaving, Spite—"

"Liar!" Spite shrieks, using Lucanis's mouth again to force him to stop speaking. He manages to dig deep and find the very depths of Lucanis's lung capacity. "Deceiver! Weakling!"

Lucanis is so busy trying to wrest back control of his vocal cords that he misses the telltale tugging of the tendons in his left arm. The razor gets thrown after all, hurled into a nearby shelf. Precariously stacked thousand-year-old bottles wobble and then fall, shattering into colorful pieces against the beautiful floor. 

"He's killing us!" Spite shouts. "Come get him!"

Blood of the Maker. Lucanis is still trying to figure out how he's going to pick his way over to where his razor lies without cutting his feet open when he hears the stone door slide open a single inch.

"Lucanis?" calls Rook's voice through the gap. "Is everything all right in there?"

"Yes!" says Lucanis. 

"No!" wails Spite, still at top volume. "Weak-willed! Pathetic! A prison! Of bone! And flesh! And blood! And fear! And—!"

Lucanis lets Spite occupy himself with the yelling until he can slap a towel around his waist. He throws a second towel over the glass and scoops up his razor, mostly to distract Spite. While Spite tries to throw it again, Lucanis takes advantage of his moment of split attention to call, "Everything's fine!" To Spite he adds in a hiss, "Be quiet!"

"You lying snake," Spite shouts, as loudly as he can. He gives up on the razor, knocking the entire shelf over with his right wing to make more noise.

"Are you sure?" Rook calls. "I can come in if you...need anything...?"

Clothes. He's got to find his clothes. "We just broke a bottle," Lucanis says, hurrying past the remnants of the overturned shelf and a dozen broken bottles to his bag. "Everything is good. We don't need anything." He pauses. "Perhaps a broom."

Rook hesitates. "I'll see what I can do," she says, and mercifully, Lucanis hears the door close. 

He tosses the razor—gently—to the floor a few feet away from them. "There!" he says. 

Once he gets his way, Spite settles and stops shouting. "Weak!" he spits triumphantly, inside Lucanis's head. He has won.

"Mierda." Lucanis runs a hand back through his wet hair. Think, he reminds himself. Stop and think. Spite may thrive on making life difficult for the people around him, but he stopped making life difficult for Lucanis after the understanding they came to in the Ossuary. They may have trouble understanding one another, but they're still allies. They share a common goal.

Right?

Their common goal was escape. The Ossuary is flooded at the bottom of the sea now, so that goal has been realized. What's left after that? Spite betrayed Lucanis once, the first time they tried to escape together, but the suffering they endured after at Calivan's and Zara's hands taught him the value of working together—didn't it? He'd never betray Lucanis again—would he? What if he got angry? He keeps demanding to be let out. Where does he want out of? Could he want out of Lucanis's body? Maybe this taste of the Fade has made him homesick. 

Lucanis is not in the habit of lying to himself. And, strange as it is, the absolute truth is that part of him would miss Spite. Though it's not easy being a possessed man, he's grown used to the angry voice in his head, the wings on his back, the demonic strength coursing through his blood. But Spite doesn't belong here, especially if he doesn't want to be here. Lucanis got to come home, however briefly; after everything they've been through together, how could he deny Spite the opportunity to do the same thing? It would make him no better than their jailers. Besides, it would be safer for everyone if Lucanis was no longer possessed; there's little more important to an assassin than control, and Spite by his very nature defies anything of the sort. But is splitting them up even possible?

If that is Spite's problem, it still doesn't explain his sudden aversion to personal hygiene. Lucanis pulls the towel off to finish drying and then returns to the mirror, squinting at their reflection. "You have to let me shave," he says. He has been dreaming about getting this scruff off his face for so long. "We look like...like...like someone who has been in prison for a year. We'll scare people."

"We. Look. Like a corpse," Spite says.

Harsh, but he's not wrong. Lucanis runs his hand over his beard, trying to decide if the hollows of his cheeks being visible would be worse than looking poorly groomed. In so doing, the pad of his middle finger brushes over a shallow line hidden by his facial hair, just below the center of his lower lip. It's not as though he's never felt it before, but—Lucanis leans forward, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. There's another on the left side of his upper lip. A third on the right side of his lower lip. A few others, fainter, mostly hidden beneath his facial hair. 

A sudden suspicion grabs him, and the steamy air of the bathroom turns cold against his bare skin.

Lucanis lifts both hands to his face. He tries to imagine he is wearing gauntlets. He splays his fingers over his mouth as if to prise open his own jaws.

They land perfectly along his scars. Lucanis jerks his hands away as if burned.

That was the last time he was ever alone.

"Let me out," says Spite again. 

Lucanis can almost feel him pulsing, a phantom beating at the bottom of his throat. "Not now," he dismisses, badly shaken. Spite is right. Lucanis is never going to be able to shave again; what was done to the two of them will almost literally be written right across his face. Was that what he was so upset about? Lucanis attempts to compromise. "Will you at least let me trim it?"

"Trim?" Spite repeats warily. 

"I want to make it shorter. With scissors."

It takes longer than Lucanis would like to both explain to Spite the concept of scissors and actually get around to using them. He's realized that it must be getting late, and they've all had a long day. If Rook or Neve is waiting to brief him or show him where he'll be sleeping, it's poor manners to keep them up long. He pulls out the first set of clothes he lays his hands on. 

What a novelty, clothing! For a year Lucanis and Spite wore only a set of over-loose trousers that raggedly cut off two inches above his ankle and a sleeveless shirt with more holes than material that both felt like they were hewn from a burlap sack; they weren't given socks, boots, or even smallclothes. Now Lucanis wraps them up in layer upon layer: smalls and undershirt, soft, thick trousers, a gray overshirt with a high collar, and a dark button-down argyle vest. It takes a heroic amount of self-control not to add a jacket and gloves. Finally—at last—he pulls on a pair of socks and his fine leather boots. No more bare feet. 

Once his beard is trimmed (his hair he will have to consider later), his bag is packed, and his clothes are on, Lucanis spares a final moment to take another long hard look at the mirror, memorizing his own appearance. It's not as dramatic of an improvement as he'd like, but it is much better. He hopes, the next time he sees Spite, that Spite will look better too.

Lucanis picks up his bag and, as an afterthought, grabs his prison clothes. There's nothing he can do about the overturned shelf at the moment, but there must be a fire somewhere around here he can throw these rags into—

Something plinks to the floor. Lucanis pauses, crouching to get a better look.

It's the seashell. 

Lucanis picks it up in wonder. The Ossuary may be lost beneath the waves, but it appears Lucanis has brought a piece of it with him to the surface. This is the seashell he found on the ocean floor near the pump in his cell. It's the seashell he carefully sharpened for days under the influence of that desperation demon, willing to do anything—anything—that would get him out of that prison. It's the seashell he later held not an inch from his own carotid artery, with only Spite standing between him and his self-made demise. 

Suddenly Spite's outburst makes sense. The shaving razor against Lucanis's throat—he thought—  

Lucanis lets out a huge breath. Spite isn't going to betray him. He's just doing what he did in the Ossuary: trying to keep Lucanis alive. Lucanis can handle Spite, and keep him pointed in the direction of their enemies, if they can only learn how to communicate better. Not all is lost, not yet. 

And in the meantime, if Spite wants out of this body so badly—

Well. Lucanis will have to see what he can do.

Lucanis rises to his feet, slips the seashell in his pocket, and makes for the door.

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

Lucanis emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, and, after a quick look around, locates what he thinks is the front door, opposite of the stairs they came up earlier. This leads to a small entryway, but just as Lucanis opens the second door, at the end— 

—he runs directly into Rook, carrying a broom. "Maker," she yelps, and without even really thinking about it Lucanis catches her by the elbows, steadying her enough so that she doesn't fall. He doesn't realize what he's doing until the pads of his fingers make contact with her smooth skin; the instant she's out of danger, he withdraws the touch. "Thanks," Rook gasps, clutching her chest, then does a double-take and adds, "You look...better."

What she means is that he no longer looks like a crazed and possessed madman who spent a year in a dark hole biting off Venatori fingers. "Thanks," Lucanis says in return.

She looks different too. While he was bathing she changed out of her fighting clothes and into something resembling typical Minrathous leisure wear: a dark outfit comprising a sleeveless top, baggy trousers, and sandals. Her hair is tied back loosely. Without sleeves, Lucanis can see she packs more muscle than he realized, especially around her shoulders; there are also lightning-flower scars winding up from her palms to her elbows. And without the high collar she was wearing earlier, it's easier to see the—his mind briefly gropes for the word in Trade before he remembers there isn't one—bump in her throat.

He's gotten sloppy. It's the kind of small detail he's been trained his whole life to notice, and he missed it. It's not as though he's never met anyone like her, either. Lots of women don't realize they're women until later in life. It happens. It's not a big deal to anyone except Vints—who, naturally, have a problem with it because everything they think and do in Tevinter is backwards. 

"—careful around here, or you'll go tumbling right off the edge," Rook is saying. She pushes open the door, leading him out the way she came in. "Andraste's ass, what a shit first day on the job that'd be for you. Last day, too, actually."

"The edge?" Lucanis repeats politely, trying to hide the fact that he got distracted. It's poor manners to get caught staring at a woman's throat.

In answer, Rook steps aside. 

Cobblestone stretches out in front of them, leading to a double staircase parted around a statue of one of the elven gods—Fen'Harel, if Lucanis is not mistaken, but elven history was never one of his points of study. Beyond that is an outbuilding with a large, arched roof. More like it can be found to the right and left, each ancient, each with their own unique look: one has a green sea glass roof, one is tall and skinny with some floors open to the air, one has a golden device atop it. Pink blossom trees grow out of the crevices between bricks, roots crawling along the wall to gain purchase. 

And everything is floating. The stairs leading to each building hang over an infinite void, and the drapery around the lighthouse floats as if weightless; ivy tumbling down the sides of ruins swings gently in a breeze Lucanis cannot feel. Nothing is touching the ground because there is no ground. There is only an endless sky in all directions. And what a sky it is—speckled with the bright pinpricks of stars of constellations Lucanis doesn't know and an ever-shifting kaleidoscope of blues and greens and purples. 

"Beautiful," Spite sighs, from inside his head. Lucanis feels his warm satisfaction roll out from his chest and spread into his limbs. It's a new sensation: Lucanis isn't sure he's ever felt Spite experience contentment before. Perhaps he's been homesick for a sky like this.

"It's something, isn't it?" says Rook, almost as if she heard. "I once heard a sailor in Ostwick say that this is what the sky looks like over the Sunless Lands. Thought the fucker was shitting me! But look at this."

"Look at this," Lucanis echoes, eyes on the sky.

A moment passes where they admire the view together—but then it's over, and Rook turns to Lucanis with a serious expression, making eye contact again and not breaking it. "Listen," she says, "whatever goes on between you and your family, that's family business. But I can't lie to my team. They need to know who they're fighting beside. So I told them about Spite."

Spite growls. "Go ahead. Tell everyone. Better than him."

What is that supposed to mean? But Lucanis cannot ask, not in front of Rook; he would like very much for the people around him to forget Spite is there. "I understand," he says reluctantly. He's not looking forward to the inevitable suspicion and wariness he's going to get, but he supposes it's only fair. Before the Ossuary, if he was fighting alongside a possessed man, he'd be wary, too. As long as nobody's trying to kill him or torture him and nobody tells his family, what right has he to complain? He clears his throat and nods at her broom. "Were you bringing that to me? I should go clean up."

Rook waves him away. "It's late, leave it for tomorrow. I've got to drop by the infirmary—" She gestures to her arm, still sporting a small burn from their prison break. "—but Neve and the others can brief you. I bet you're starving, and we made food—or, well," she corrects herself, "something resembling food. It probably beats whatever the Venatori were feeding you, though." 

The scars near Lucanis's mouth itch. He tries very hard not to remember the sensation of Spite being forced down his throat. "Probably," he agrees noncommittally. 

"Want my advice?" asks Rook, and continues without waiting for an answer: "Avoid the potatoes. Harding tries, but it takes a brave soul." And with that, she vanishes back inside, leaving Lucanis standing under the colorful sky alone.

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

The largest outbuilding is silhouetted against a ribbon of purple-blue light. From here Lucanis can see high windows glowing warmly with firelight, a stark contrast to the sky. And even though Spite has never eaten anything but Venatori mush before, he still starts naming the foods being served before they even reach the door. "Smells like...pork—reheated twice," he says. He's talking faster than usual; maybe that means he's excited. "Bread, baked at noon. Beans, badly burned." He hesitates. "Potatoes...?"

Lucanis pushes open the door. The aroma of warm food rolls over him; the following pang of emptiness in his midsection is nigh-unbearable. But he can bear it—he has been hungry for a year, and this is what he trained for. Twice a year he and Illario would be denied food for seven days, and were still expected to go about their usual business: exercises, education, and all the other kinds of Crow training, which in Lucanis's case included a weekly lesson with the kitchen staff. When Caterina was feeling merciful that would fall on the first day. When she was not, it would fall on the seventh day, and Lucanis would prepare food that he would not be allowed to eat with shaking hands.

Inside what Lucanis realizes now is the dining hall, three women, situated in armchairs around a small table in the corner, all cease talking at the same time and get to their feet to face the door.

The first, of course, is Neve; she's let her hair out of its bun, discarded her hat, and undone the top three buttons of her blouse. Lucanis has yet to be introduced to the other two, a tall elf with the traditional elven vallaslin tattooed on her face and a great deal of silky black hair pulled back into a bun, and a dwarf with braided hair and freckles. 

Neve makes the introductions. "Lucanis, this is Bellara Lutare and Lace Harding. Bel, Harding, this is Lucanis Dellamorte."

"And company," says the dwarf—Harding. Her arms are crossed, her expression distrustful.

"Smells like jam," Spite says, pleased to be acknowledged, and the image of him, clean and dressed, appears next to Harding to look her over. Lucanis only just swallows Spite's words back in time; for now, his voice remains one only Lucanis can hear. "Campfire smoke. Deep stone. Dreams."

"Harding," Bellara scolds. "I'm so sorry, she's Ferelden. Come sit down, help yourself! We can tell you about your target, and you can tell us about...uh, you know. If you want."

"Smells like pine sap," Spite observes, as Lucanis follows her to the table. Lucanis clenches his jaw. "Halla hair. Blossoms. Old things."

Lucanis keeps his mouth clamped tightly shut until he's certain Spite is finished, then says as diplomatically as he can, "I would like to know more about the job." For now he ignores both Spite's remarks and Harding's hostility; he's not going to make his life any easier by snapping at the people he'll be working with, or snapping at his demon in front of them. He hates social situations like this. What would Illario do? Crack a joke, probably. "Thanks for dinner. I didn't have time to swing by the café on my way out of prison." He's not surprised to get a smile out of Bellara; he is surprised to get a snort out of Neve. It wasn't a very good joke.

They all sit around a long, rectangular dining table in front of the fire and under an ancient metal chandelier. To the left of this is a staircase, under which the actual kitchen is nestled—stove, a small countertop, and a smaller shelf—and to the right, aside from the armchairs, is a door that must lead into the pantry. The ceiling is very high, but somehow, there are no cobwebs. Lucanis takes the only place that still has a plate; everyone else has eaten without him. It puts his back to the fireplace. He forgot a person could be so warm.

Lucanis, as instructed, helps himself while the others brief him. The target is a pair of ancient blighted mages, ones calling themselves elven gods. "They're only kind of gods," says Bellara, "They are Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, from our history, but they're just people. Or they were once. They were imprisoned in the Fade for thousands of years by Fen'Harel—or Solas, if you prefer. He's spent the last ten years trying to tear down the Veil that separates the real world from the Fade. Rook and the others stopped him just in time, but interrupting the ritual in the middle let the gods out of their prison—and got him stuck inside instead."

It sounds a little familiar. "I heard the guards talking, down in that hole," Lucanis offers. "Now and then the subject of their old gods would come up. The Ventaori seemed certain they had returned. I dismissed it as the ravings of mad cultists. But it cannot be a coincidence."

They make polite, work-related conversation like this while Lucanis eats. Spite was right about the food. The pork is dry and far too chewy; it's a bad cut of the meat, and poorly reheated besides. The beans are overcooked to the point of being mushy except the crunchy places where they are burned. Lucanis isn't even sure how the potatoes could have gone so wrong. Only the bread is passable. It's a mediocre dinner prepared with inadequate ingredients by inexpert hands. But there was an effort made here. It's not stale bread crusts and cold vegetables and spoiled undercooked fish tossed into a cell as meat scraps are tossed to dogs. Lucanis isn't sure he's ever been so grateful to eat anything in his life. Even Spite, who usually despised the whole ordeal of eating in the Ossuary, has little to complain about now.

Lucanis knows from hard experience he must eat slowly after a period of starvation, but even his hunger training didn't prepare him for how ravenous he'd be after a year and a day of going without. He's going to have to work on finding good food, he realizes, and lots of it, to build back his muscle and strength. If they are fighting gods, he can't afford to be in anything less than perfect condition. But it's nothing he hasn't done before; only the severity is new. Even now that he's safe, he falls back on Caterina's training. She's still helping him get through this, even though she's gone.

He does wish he was not the only one eating. It makes it all the more crucial not to act like he's starving; to not let the fork shake in his hand when he hasn't had cause to touch one for a year. He counts his chews out and works counterclockwise around his plate, so that nothing seems to disappear too quickly. Harding and Bellara don't notice him struggling, but Neve is too keen not to see it. He doesn't like anyone knowing that he needs something, especially something as simple as food. It's a massive vulnerability that is far too easy to exploit. He's glad Rook isn't here.

And speaking of— "Rook's been gone forever," Neve notes after a while, leaning over to see past Lucanis and out of the window. "I wonder what's keeping her."

"She told me she was dropping by the infirmary," Lucanis replies, and gets identical groans from Neve and Harding. "What? The burn was a minor injury, was it not?"

"It's not that," Neve says. "Have you ever heard of Varric Tethras?"

It takes Lucanis a moment. "That dwarven novelist?" When he has the time Lucanis usually picks up romances, and Tethras writes absolutely terrible romance, so Lucanis isn't overly familiar with his work. But Tale of the Champion was so popular, even in northern Thedas, that Lucanis eventually caved and picked up his own copy to see what all the fuss was about. He didn't think he'd like it; he read it cover-to-cover twice. 

"That's the one," says Neve. "This hunt for Solas, the job to stop him from tearing down the Veil, it was Varric's fight. He and Solas were old friends—they even served in the Inquisition together. When he found out what Solas planned to do, he recruited Rook and Harding and me. But he didn't want to just stop Solas. He wanted to talk him down, get him to change his mind. He wanted to save him."

Lucanis has finally finished eating; he sets his fork down on his empty plate. "What happened?" he asks, even though he already knows.

"Solas killed him," says Harding, surprising Lucanis. She's been the most reluctant to speak so far. If she is Ferelden, that means she's from southern Thedas, which explains her wariness perfectly; they're scared to death of anything resembling magic down there.

"Rook's been taking it hard," says Neve. She debates with herself a moment, then informs Lucanis, "I've known her for years and I've never seen her like this. She never talks about him. Didn't say a word during the cremation. It's been weeks now and she just keeps pretending everything's fine. At first I thought she just didn't want to face it—but turn around twice, and she's back in the infirmary again. It's where we put his things."

So she's grieving? Lucanis, unfortunately, knows the feeling. But they're right: Rook hides it well. Whatever she's going through is shoved down so deeply he could not read it on her face. Lucanis knows that feeling, too. If he thinks about the unfairness of Caterina's death for longer than a moment he will finally go mad.

"I overheard her talking to him the other day," Bellara says glumly. "I never got to meet him, but I know he must have been special because of how much she misses him."

"He was," sighs Harding. She gives the window a sad look. "I think I'll go check on her. Lucanis, why don't...you two...find some place to sleep? The Lighthouse makes as many rooms as we need, so you can just wander around until it gets the idea."

What unsettling instructions. "Thanks," says Lucanis. He stands, but stops before he picks up his bag. "...I have to ask. Do any of you know how to get rid of a demon?"

A surprised pause follows his question. In the interim before anyone answers, Spite bristles. "Get rid of?" he hisses. "No! Won't! I chose you!"

Lucanis grinds his teeth making sure Spite can't say it aloud. He sounds just like he did during those early days of the Ossuary. What is he so angry about? Isn't that what he keeps asking for?

"I have people in Minrathous I could ask," Neve says finally. "But I really wouldn't get your hopes up."

"But demons are just spirits who've been corrupted, right?" asks Bellara. "Maybe if you could turn Spite back into whatever it used to be, and ask it to leave..."

"No!" says Spite again. The force of his frustration is enormous, and Lucanis is starting to get a headache that has nothing to do with blood magic. His skin feels hot and tight, like there's not enough room in this body for him and Spite both.

"That won't work," Lucanis says shortly. He does not explain why.

"I once heard of an abomination being cured by killing the demon in the Fade," Harding offers. "That's not a sure bet, though."

There's a sudden cold feeling in his chest; Spite falls silent. "No, I—" Lucanis presses a protective hand to his sternum, where he feels Spite puffed up like an angry cat beneath his breastbone. "I don't want to hurt him."

There is another silence. All three women are giving him strange looks. Too late, Lucanis realizes he has betrayed himself.

"Hurt who?" asks Rook, and Lucanis jerks his eyes to the dining hall doors. She's back, sporting a fresh bandage on her left arm and not looking at all like she just spent half an hour sitting with her dead friend's possessions. 

"His demon," answers Neve. "Lucanis was asking about ways to get rid of it."

"Ah," says Rook. She walks in and closes the doors behind her, studying Lucanis's face carefully. He is so used to people being unable to hold eye contact with him that it unnerves him every time she does not look away. At last she says, "There's only one sure way I know of."

Lucanis knows too. "You'd have to kill me."

"And we're not doing that," says Rook firmly. She pauses, and then with visible reluctance adds, "To you or to Spite."

Spite uncoils himself at once. "I want to talk to her," he says, appearing beside Lucanis. 

It's all Lucanis can do not to gape at him. Spite's not great at talking; everything he says means ten other things, and it all comes out in a few angry words at a time. Not only is this one of the clearest requests he's ever made, he didn't even growl while making it. And Spite never wants to talk to anyone. He didn't talk to Calivan or Zara no matter what they did to try and force him, and everything they did was terrible. Even when Zara was pretending to be someone she was not, Spite only wanted to talk to her because of how much Lucanis wanted him not to. And now, Spite wants to talk to Rook. Rook, who they only just met. Rook, who Spite has wanted dead multiple times today alone.

Maybe, maybe, if it were just the two of them. Maybe if it was not his first day on a new contract. Maybe if he was not having so much trouble understanding Spite since escaping the Ossuary. Maybe if Spite had not terrified Rook once already. Maybe if he had not threatened to kill her.

Lucanis cannot possibly allow it.

"Lucanis," Spite protests, stepping into his field of vision. Lucanis turns his face away, trying not to wince, and Spite adds, "Why. Are you. Doing this? We had a deal! Don't ignore me!"

"Lucanis?" Rook asks. "Everything all right?"

"Of course," Lucanis answers. "I—"

"—want to talk!" Spite says, trying to take control of Lucanis's voice, and Lucanis only just stops the words from being spoken aloud. Spite is so furious he would crawl right out of Lucanis's mouth if he could, like a moth from a cocoon; to prevent his trying, Lucanis swallows him down, down, down as he continues to shout. Each word sends pain lancing through Lucanis's head, as though Spite's rage is becoming so large it could shatter his skull. "Let me talk! Let me talk! Let me talk! I want! To talk! To Rook!"

The pressure peaks; so does the pain. Lucanis, for all his experience keeping his composure under both, flinches. Warm blood drips from one nostril.

The women all jump to their feet. "Lucanis!"

"No—" Lucanis holds a hand out to stymie the inevitable alarm, jaw set; he can feel already how viciously pleased Spite is to have gotten all their attention at the same time, and the last thing he needs is for Spite to learn that behavior like this gets him what he wants. Spite might have been Determination once, but Lucanis is determined too. It's his mouth. He should get to decide what it's used for at least some of the time. 

"It's fine," he says, schooling his expression and voice into careful neutrality. A gentleman always carries a handkerchief; now that Lucanis has access to his own things again, it's a simple matter to pull out a square of white silk and press it against his face. In hardly a moment, the evidence of Spite's rage has vanished. "I'm fine."

It doesn't calm them as well as he'd like. "You're bleeding," says Rook. "Maybe that's not fine."

"She understands," Spite says, appearing next to her. He delights in her anxiety. "Let me talk."

"I thought he was helping you," Rook says, her tone accusatory. "What did he do that for?"

"He gets frustrated when he doesn't get what he wants," Lucanis explains lightly, refusing to look at or acknowledge Spite.

"Which is?"

"To talk," says Spite.

"Some quiet," says Lucanis, ignoring Spite's wordless growling. Neve, Bellara, and Harding are watching this exchange with eyebrows raised, but Lucanis has the distinct impression that Neve, ever-perceptive, knows he's lying. "He'll settle down once everyone leaves."

Rook frowns, studying his face. Lucanis tries very hard not to break eye contact, but it doesn't matter; she knows he's lying, too. "I don't like leaving you alone with a demon," she says uncertainly. "I..."

Oh. Lucanis flicks his gaze between the four of them. They all seem distressed, but it hadn't occurred to him until now that though they might be frightened of him, they may also be frightened for him. That's...a lot more generous than he was expecting. Before the Ossuary, if Lucanis had found himself in the same room as an abomination, he'd have run them through on the spot. It's what nearly anyone in Thedas would do, save some of the more open-minded Rivaini. You can't save an abomination; it's like trying to cure a rabid dog. Kinder to put it out of its misery. And yet Lucanis is clean and fed, and something so insignificant as a nosebleed has garnered concern. It eases some of the terrible tension in his shoulders. 

"I've been alone with him for a year," Lucanis reminds Rook. "I can handle Spite. You don't have to worry about me."

Rook's mouth twists with unhappiness, but she relents. "All right," she says. "Let's give him just a minute."

She truly is in charge here; though it's not without concerned glances, the others follow her out—and at last, Lucanis and Spite are alone.

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

Lucanis wastes no time in grabbing his bag and trying the first door he sees—which does, in fact, turn out to be the pantry. It's a long, narrow room, made narrower by shelves, baskets, and barrels. There are braided onions and clay pots hanging from the ceiling, and bedrolls propped in the corner. 

Well, it's a damn sight better than sleeping on the sand. Lucanis takes one of the bedrolls and spreads it out at the very end of the pantry. He would like to believe that he plans to find something more comfortable in the morning, but he's not in the habit of lying to himself. 

It's just—so much. The sight of the sky after a year underwater. An embrace from his cousin after a year of torture. A hot bath after Lucanis had grown used to filth. A full meal after starvation. Concern after cruelty. Lucanis has been sleeping on the ground for a year. If he had to lie down on a soft and comfortable bed right now, he might lose his mind. 

Besides, this room has good chokepoints. Easy to defend, and easy to—easy to trap someone inside, should a certain demon decide Rook or one of the others needs killing after all.

"Trap me?" Spite repeats incredulously. He can follow along with Lucanis's thoughts in a way that does not work in reverse. "I want out! Let me out!"

Lucanis opens his bag and begins to unpack, sighing deeply. "You keep saying that, but when I asked about it you were furious! Can't you make up your mind?"

"No!"

"You're going to scare them!" Lucanis protests, kneeling so he can sweep a few cobwebs away from the corner where his head will lie. "Do you realize how lucky we are? Most mortals aren't so eager to make friends with abominations." The word sits bitter on his tongue. "These people aren't Venatori. You can't just do whatever you want to them. You've got to behave."

"Won't!"

Two steps forward, one step back. Lucanis pinches the bridge of his nose. Is it always going to be like this with Spite? "We're not in the Ossuary anymore," he says softly. "We—"

There's a knock on the pantry door. Lucanis jumps to his feet. "Come in."

It's Rook. She comes all the way in, though she leaves the door open behind her. "Were the two of you talking again? I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." Lucanis smooths down the wrinkles in his shirt. She doesn't say anything, and it takes him a moment to realize why she's here. "You came to ask about Spite."

"I have to," says Rook, though not unapologetically. "I've got the others to think about. I need to know what kind of risk level we're working with here."

That's fair. "That's fair," Lucanis says aloud, both to her and to calm Spite, who has begun seething and threatening to kill her again. Partially to remind Spite, and partially because he wants to know why, Lucanis points out, "And yet, without knowing that risk, you were unwilling to kill him earlier."

"Well." Rook shifts her weight, uncomfortable. "I heard what you said. You're protecting him, and you're a master assassin. I don't think I'd have an easy time killing anybody if I had to go through you. And, you know. He did help you, back in the Ossuary. Even if he's not helping you anymore. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes..."

Spite quiets. 

"Look," says Rook, "there's obviously a lot going on that I don't understand. But I was in Kirkwall when the mage rebellion started. I've seen up close the damage an angry demon can do, I know how it can erase the person inside until there's nothing left. Whatever Spite promised you, whatever deal you made with him—"

"I. Need. To. Talk," Spite growls.

Lucanis cuts them both off with a raised hand. "It's not like that." 

Rook takes another step inside. "What is it like?"

What a difficult question. There is a heat like fever always close to his skin, a chill that settles in his bones when he is not paying attention. A pressure that leaves his body full to bursting, a foreign pain that comes and goes like a sickness. He feels Spite in his body: coiled at the bottom of his throat when he wants to speak, tugging at his limbs when he wants to move and fight and kill. Spite hates him, hurts him, protects him. Spite is every terrible thought he's ever had and a single fixed point to ground himself with. Spite has broken every bone in his body and then turned around and killed Venatori for touching him. Spite condemned him to Calivan's table and pulled him out of the depths of his own despair. Spite will not let him rest. Spite will not let him give up. Spite has been nestled close to Lucanis's bleeding heart for a year now and Lucanis thinks he may be teaching Spite to care. Spite keeps him on his toes, but Spite also keeps him safe. Keeps him alive. Makes him strong. Spite shares his body with Lucanis too, in a way; how many people can say that they know what it is like to have wings?

From everything Lucanis has heard, Kirkwall was a pretty bad place to be when the Mage-Templar War started, and it started because of an abomination gone rogue. But Spite isn't like that. He doesn't care about politics or the greater good. Sure, he's goal-oriented, a vestige from his time as Determination, but from what Lucanis can tell all he really wants is a direction to be pointed in, a warm body to tear apart, plans to ruin. He and Lucanis have wanted the same thing from the beginning: to be free.

"He was a prisoner too," Lucanis confesses. "No one was in the Ossuary by choice—not even the demons. Neither of us agreed to this. He cannot leave. Maker knows he's tried."

Rook, Lucanis thinks, is a person who is very used to receiving terrible information. She doesn't seem shocked so much as exhausted, suddenly aged a decade. She closes her eyes a moment, then opens them and says, "They just...forced you? How is that even possible?"

"They fed me something." Lucanis realizes he's touching one of the scars on his mouth and drops his hand at once. "My deal with Spite did not involve the use of my body. I only bargained with him after we were already bound. And all I promised him was freedom."

"Failed. To deliver," Spite hisses.

"But he's still not happy?" Rook asks archly

Having known them for only half a day, Lucanis can tell Rook and Neve are close, and he's beginning to see why: like Neve, she is also very perceptive. These fucking Vints. It's going to be a rough contract; Lucanis is used to being the most perceptive person in the room. "He is simply adjusting," Lucanis says, trying to give away as little information as possible. Unlike Neve, Rook is quite spooked by Spite—not surprising, if she spent any time at all in Kirkwall, but especially if she was there when that abomination blew up the Chantry—and he doesn't want to give her any further reason for concern.

Rook crosses her arms, considering. "And you—both of you—are all right to work? I know you didn't ask for this, and what you've been through today alone would break most people."

Lucanis feels a hard smile pulling at the corners of his mouth that is not entirely his own. "We would not have given Zara the satisfaction," says his voice, but he and Spite are in such agreement that he's not certain which of them truly spoke the words. He shakes himself a little, hoping in vain Rook didn't notice: she takes a polite step back. Lucanis is quick to add, "You can leave Spite to me. He is no danger to anyone else."

"No danger?" Spite repeats, annoyed. "Don't. Be. Too. Sure."

"All right," Rook says quietly. "Then I suppose we'll see you tomorrow." She hesitates, visibly wrestling with herself, and then adds in a rush, "You know you don't have to sleep in here on the floor."

"I know," replies Lucanis evenly. He gives Rook a nod. "Goodnight."

Rook takes the hint. "Goodnight," she says. She backs away, then slips out of the pantry entirely, closing the door behind her.

Lucanis lets out a huge breath and leans back, sliding down the wall until he's sitting on the bedroll on the floor.

Today, he and Spite escaped from the Ossuary. They cut off Calivan's head, completed Lucanis's contract, and drowned that wretched pit until there was nothing left but fish and ruins. Lucanis's family came for him, and he reunited with Illario, but he missed seeing his grandmother again by minutes. He accepted her final contract, probably the toughest one he'll ever have.

Today was a very big day.

Tomorrow, everything is going to be different.

"And now," Lucanis murmurs, to the empty air, to Spite, "comes the rest of our lives."

He pulls his feet up into the bedroll, boots still on, and rests his chin on his knees. He hooks his hands around his ankles, so that they lie close to the place where he used to keep a hidden blade in his boot. He lost it in the fight the day the Venatori captured him, but he'll replace it soon. It wouldn't do for a man in his position to be caught unarmed. 

He sits like that for a very long time. He keeps his eyes open until he can't anymore. When he finally falls asleep, he falls asleep still sitting up, with only Spite keeping watch on the door.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

AND SO ENDS CHAPTER 1.

i don't know when the entire fic will be finished...right now i have about 55k and i am nearing the end of Act 1 (i like to divide them into acts, like a real dragon age game!), but i'm hoping i will pick up speed once i get to acts 2 & 3. in the meantime you can always check the fic tag for excerpts and if you already read them all i don't mind being (politely) pestered for more!

thank you to everyone who got to the bottom for indulging my BIRTHDAY self-indulgence <3

[lektricfergus]

[image id: a screenshot of many tumblr replies, they read:

@lmaonade: "he should have got pregnant or something" @greenlabcoat: "yeah that other person is right he should have gotten pregnant" @penndragon: "yeah I agree he should've gotten pregnant" @i-like-cherry-3-14159: "blaming working class people for their manager's shitty safety violations? not a good look tsk tsk" @i-like-cherry-3-14159: "oh also agree he should've been pregnant". the word "pregnant" in the last reply is slightly cut off. /end id]

Noah from noah’s ark should be canceled because it’s not safe to have all those different animals close to each other

[oc-loving]

by Eric Muhr on Unsplash

IMAGE PROMPT

imagine/draw/write your oc in this setting. how do they feel about snow - are they used to it, awed by it? do they like or dislike the cold? are they well prepared? what could they be doing here, who are they with?

[amalgamationink]

NAPOWRIMO25 #10: Missed Connection [Mosaic4M]

[butyoudidthis4what]

No Man's Land Part 2

Jack Abbot x f!reader || Part 1

18.6k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: mentions of blood, mentions of bones breaking, mentions of guns/shootings/gunshot wounds, mentions and discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation, CPR, mentions/discussions of jack's injury and losing his foot, anxiety about partner's safety, angst, Jack's traumatized, everyone's traumatized honestly, probably incorrect description of medical events, potentially incorrect medical descriptions/knowledge, PIV sex, mentions of morphine and alcohol, age gap referenced in passing once kind of, reader loves Paris and the Louvre, reader's favorite flowers are daffodils, I had this idea and started drafting before we knew Jack was a widow so in this world he has never been married, no use of y/n or related.

Summary: The aftermath of you being shot and collapsing in the trauma room and a new reality.

AN: I'm a certified yapper like our man, so I apologize for how long this is.

You drop at just the right point in your swaying that you fall backwards, head first. You hit the floor back of your skull first with a sickening crack. 

Everyone in the room knows what that was the sound of - your skull cracking.

“Fuck me!” “Fucking shit!” “Holy fuck!” “Oh god!” “Was that her fucking skull?” Verbalized reactions fill the air from Robby, Dana, Heather, Mel and Santos, respectively. Jack is silent. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. He’s frozen as he looks at you, both struggling to process what has happened and already understanding what has happened at once, hearing dulled as he focuses on you. 

Things have now gone from really fucking bad to somehow a lot fucking worse in a matter of seconds.

A head injury was the last thing you needed. And it was preventable. He should have prevented it. He should have stayed with you, told Robby to handle the code on his own, kept holding you, actually looked you over before letting you go but he didn’t. 

“Somebody get a fucking gurney in here!” Dana yells out the door. 

“Collins, you handle this. Mohan, you’re with me!” Robby orders. Once your neck is secured in a c-collar and you’re on a gurney you’re rushed into trauma two, the team swarming you just like they do any other unfortunate soul who ends up here. 

Jack suddenly finds himself again, hearing no longer dampened and follows your gurney into trauma two. “Mannitol-”

“Get out Jack!” Robby shouts at him amid the chaos of getting you hooked up to monitors and IVs going. “You can’t be in here!”

“And yet here I fucking am.” Jack almost snarls back at him as he takes a place on the other side of you. 

“Dana.” Robby shoots her a look and she steps back and away from you, peeling her gloves off and tossing them to the floor. 

“Jack,” she says softly to him, rests a hand on his bicep and squeezes gently. “Let’s step out.”

He shrugs her hand off. “No. No fucking way. Somebody…” He trails off as he looks down at you, freezing again. More blood pours from your mouth, and now your nose. He looks down and sure enough, it’s dripping out of your ear too, not unsurprising given the head trauma, but still. The image is seared in his brain.  

“Fuck!” Robby yells. “She’s in DIC.” He takes a look at your vitals. To say they’re abysmal would be a gross understatement. “Okay, massive transfusion protocol now, people! I wanna do two to one to one with how much blood she’s lost. Set up for a central line.” 

“Push etomidate and roc!” Mohan yells into the chaos. “7.0 ET please.”

“Jack, you have to move, okay? They need access to her.” Dana grabs Jack’s arm again and is able to pull him to the side. “Once she’s intubated you can sit by her, okay?” 

He gives a single nod in response, sits automatically when Dana pushes the stool into the back of his knees. It doesn’t take the team long to get you intubated and Dana helps him move so that he sits at the top of your head. 

Everything and everyone else fades away as he looks down at your face, your beautiful blood smeared face. He leans in towards you a little. He has so much he wants to say and yet he can’t get a word out. 

“We’re taking her up to surgery, Jack.” Robby is suddenly leaning down next to him. “We have to stop the internal bleeding before we can image her head.” 

“She’s in DIC. She has a subdural from the fall, I’m sure. Fractured skull. We have to address it.” Jack almost mumbles it as he watches them put the bed rails up and start to move you. 

“I know,” Robby tells him gently, “but if the major source of bleeding isn’t stopped, you and I both know that the skull fracture and subdural aren’t going to matter.”

Jack just nods and stands, follows your gurney in silence up to the OR floor. He hates it but he has to take one last look at you before turning to go into a locker room to grab a fresh pair of scrubs. He changes fast, finds Garcia and Shamsi in the scrub room. 

“What are you doing Jack?” Garcia asks him, sharing a look with Shamsi. “You’re not coming in the OR.”

“Yes I am.” He ignores her, grabs a pack and starts to scrub. The door opens again and Jack doesn’t need to turn to know it’s Robby. 

“You guys go.” Robby nods at Garcia and Shamsi. “Jack, come on. Let’s go to the gallery or waiting room.”

“Fuck that!” Jack yells as they walk in. He’s still scrubbing furiously. “I’m not going to watch them hack her-”

“You and I both know they’re not going to ‘hack her’ and that there’s nobody else you’d rather have operating on her. You need to let them do their work.” Robby stops next to the sink Jack is scrubbing at. “That is the best thing you can do for her right now. Let them work.”

Jack keeps scrubbing for a minute, jaw clenched tight. But then he stops. He knows Robby is right. Knows that scrubbing in and being in the OR isn’t going to fix you. It isn’t going to let him make up for not noticing you were shot earlier, before you were already half dead on the floor with a broken fucking skull he could have prevented. 

The combination of emotions is crushing. He throws the soap at one of the doors in the scrub room and yells a “fuck!” There’s a moment of silence and then a whispered “fuck,” that his voice crack on half way through. 

“Come on.” Robby picks up the soap and throws it away, throws a towel at Jack for his hands. “Let’s get some air.” 

“I’m going to obs.” Jack tells him. Robby tries to speak. “No. If I don’t get to be in the OR with her I at least get to fucking watch over her from obs.”

“No, Jack! I’m not letting you fucking torture yourself by watching this. She wouldn’t want that. She wouldn’t want you seeing her like this-”

“You don’t fucking know her!” Jack seethes, getting up in Robby’s face, chests touching. “So stop fucking acting like you do.”

A tense silence passes, a staring match before Robby holds his hands up in defeat and looks away. “Alright. I’m sorry.” 

“I have to watch her die, Robby. I have to have been there for her. Been there with her. I am not letting her go alone.” Jack shakes his head, eyes red rimmed and glassy but more serious than Robby has ever seen him before. 

“I know.” Robby opens the door of the observation suite for him. “If something happens and they get close to calling it you can go be with your girl, okay?”

“No.” Jack huffs, treading water more and more to try and stay above the flood of emotions. “No it’s not fucking okay! None of this is fucking okay! She’s not okay! I’m not okay!” Jack takes in a shuddery breath and turns his back on Robby. “None of this is okay,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and tears that can no longer be held back. 

Robby lets Jack have a minute to try and pull himself together. He knows that right now is not the time to have some sort of heart to heart with Jack. Instead he puts the intercom on so that they can hear what’s happening in the OR but the OR can’t hear them. 

It’s not good but it’s not bad, you’re not dead. There’s no conversation between the two men, just Jack up almost pressed into the glass to watch while Robby observes him more than the surgery.

“So,” Robby says casually after a couple of minutes. “Peter?”

Jack huffs, shaking his head and coming to sit next to Robby. “Don’t ask.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I really like this little routine, you know?” You smile at Jack as he peruses the shelves, coffee in one hand and your hand in the other. You’re back at the bookstore where you met, off in the back shelves where it’s quieter, fewer people. You’re alone in the aisle. 

“Coming here?”

“Mhmm.” You nod at him. “It was a really good idea.” 

Somewhere between dates number three and four Jack had suggested you guys go back to the bookstore once a week. Make it a thing. Get coffee, pick out books together. Just walk around. How could you ever say no?

“I have one every now and then.” He smiles at you. 

You point to a book, say the title. “That looks interesting.” 

Jack looks at the book. It’s on the bottom shelf. You didn’t ask for him to bend down and get it for you but he will anyway. And you knew when you said it that he would. He’s just a gentleman like that. And so he does. Sets his coffee on the shelf and bends down to get it for you. 

“Why is it that every book you want is always on the bottom shelf?” He feigns a huff.

“Because I like making you bend down so that I can check out your ass.”

He freezes for a second. It was so not the answer he was expecting. He’s not sure he was expecting an answer. But then you come out with that. Always keeping him on his toes. 

He grabs the book and stands back up, smirking as he hands it to you. His fingers find the belt loops of your jeans and pull you close to him, lips brushing against yours. “You like my ass?” 

You giggle against his lips and kiss him. “I do.” 

“You’re terrible, woman.” He gives you another kiss. 

“More like your terrible woman.” You can feel his jaw clench at that and he holds you a little tighter. Oh he liked that. A lot. It makes you smirk. 

“Damn right you are.” One last kiss and then you break apart.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Peter.”

He cocks his head at the name. “Peter? Should I be concerned you can’t keep your men straight?” He doesn’t mean it, nor does any anxiety roll through him. He knows you, knows it was deliberate, and knows you’re about to give him some ridiculous explanation. 

“Rabbit,” you grin. “Peter Rabbit. Abbot. Jack Abbot always makes me want to call you Jack rabbit. Ergo, Peter.” You run the back of your second knuckle on your index finger over his shirt. “Inspired by the book.” You nod and look to the side. He follows your eyes to the display you look over at where, sure enough, a copy of Peter Rabbit sits.

He groans and makes a face. “Really?” He grimaces. But you both know it’s fake. His eyes are too sparkly and the ghost of a smile is too present on his face. It’s so ridiculous. If anyone else dared to call him that he would hate it and they would know it.  

“Really, Peter. Better get used to it.” You wink and start walking down another aisle. 

“I think I’ve already fallen in love with you, Doll.” Jack whispers to himself. “You’re not allowed to go anywhere on me.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake with a start, your body jerking for a second before pain rips through your stomach and head. It’s bright. So so bright. Your eyes instinctively close and you pull your head back, trying to get away from the tube that feels like it’s down your throat but it follows. You start panicking. 

It filters back in. What happened. Passing out in the trauma room. Jack’s face. The pain. The bullet hole you’d felt on your skin.

“Honey?” A voice you can’t place calls out your name. A woman’s voice. “It’s okay.” You know she’s trying to be reassuring but at the moment it’s not. There’s only one voice you want to hear and it’s not hers and you panic more when you don’t hear his because where is he? Did something happen to him? Maybe he’s here and you just can’t hear him. One way to find out. 

Your eyes blink back open to an unfamiliar face above you. After you adjust to the light you quickly look around as much as you can without moving too much. 

Jack isn’t here. 

The woman above you smiles down at you. “I’m Dana. Jack just stepped out to shower and I said I’d stay with you. He’s going to kill me for convincing him to go and you waking up while he wasn’t here. It was his nightmare. He’s on his way. Knowing him he’s liable to just have a towel wrapped around him and soap in his hair because god knows if he wasn’t finished showering he wasn’t going to finish when he heard you’re awake.” 

You blink a few times, start to calm. Dana. She has a calming presence. Jack told you about her. You trust her. “Good, that’s good. He’s going to be here any second. And I’m going to get your doctor and see what we can do about getting this tube out of your throat, yeah?” 

You can hear Jack before you see him. Hear him running down the hall towards you. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, Dana and then back to you. “You’re awake.”

All you can really do is look at him with wide eyes. He’s over by you in a second, taking Dana’s place as she goes to find your doctor. One of his hands finds yours, squeezes reassuringly. “I’m here. God I’m so sorry I wasn’t when you woke up, I didn’t want to go but they convinced me and-”

You squeeze his hand and then let go, make a motion like writing. “You want to write? Hopefully you can be extubated soon, you might be breathing over the vent already, I can look.”

You squeeze his hand again and it focuses him back on you. “Shit. Yes, um…” He feels all the pockets on his scrub pants until he finds the little notebook and pen. He gives you the pen and holds the book for you. 

Scared.

A piece of his heart shatters when he reads the word. 

“I know Doll, I know. It’s okay.” He strokes your hair gently. “I’m right here, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I love you.” Jack’s eyes bore into yours and in the moment you’re so grateful for his need for direct eye contact. It’s reassuring in a way you can’t describe. Even if he hadn’t said anything. If he had just looked at you like he is now it would have been enough to calm your fears. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

“I heard she’s awake?” Your eyes leave Jack’s and look over at the man who entered, but Jack’s eyes never leave you. 

“Yeah, she is. This is Robby, sweetheart.” You blink slowly. 

It’s a lot. Everything is a lot and there’s a tube in your throat and more people walk in, Dana again and your doctor, a nurse. You’re overwhelmed. You just want it to be you and Jack and you want to be at home cuddled in bed together, both of you perfectly fine. You don’t want this. It makes you kind of dizzy. And your inability to express yourself makes it all that much more difficult.

You focus on Jack’s eyes, try to block everything else out. Focus on his touch. His hand holding yours, the other stroking your hair. There’s a faint buzz of the others talking together and you know it’s about you but you remain centered on Jack. “That’s right, Doll,” he murmurs, voice low, just between the two of you. “Just focus on me. I’m right here. You’re okay. We’re okay.” 

“She’s breathing over.” Robby says quietly. “We can pull it.”

Jack raises his eyebrows at you and nods his head a little. “That’s good. We’re going to get the tube out, okay? Then you’ll be able to talk.” 

Your eyes widen a bit and you move your hand towards the notebook again, point at the word. 

Scared. 

“I know. I know it’s all scary, and I know thinking about having the tube out is scary. But you’re safe, okay? If you need it back in then we will put it back in okay?” He squeezes your hand. You give the smallest nod. 

Jack explains what will happen to you and then they do it. It hurts and is uncomfortable and you panic for a minute after it’s out because you’re coughing and it feels like you can’t breathe. Jack puts an oxygen mask to your face. “Breathe, baby. Just breathe. You’re just coughing, it’s okay. It’ll be better in a minute. I promise.” 

And just like he promises it does get better. “How about we switch this,” he takes the oxygen mask from your face and hands it to Dana while taking the nasal cannula from her, “with this.” He gets the cannula adjusted under your nose and over your ears and then smiles at you. 

You still haven’t spoken. You can’t find words. You don’t know what to say. 

Robby hands Jack a cup of water with a straw silently before he, Dana, your doctor and the other nurse slip out. 

“Here, I’m sure your throat is dry.” Jack holds the straw for you. “Small sips.”

You take a few before pulling back a little. “Thank you.” You’re quite hoarse and make a face at the sound of your voice but Jack. Jack beams. It makes you smile, makes everything start to melt away. You’re here and awake and Jack is here and everything is okay. “I love you too.” 

You press your lips out a little and it hits him. He can kiss you now and he does, soft but lingering. He never wants to pull away. 

“How long was I out?’’

“Since surgery?” Jack glances down at his watch. “Sixteen hours and thirty seven minutes. Give or take ten seconds.”

You smile. It’s a little weak which shoots a bit of a pang through him, but it’s okay because you’re smiling at him. “Not that you were counting.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes at you, eyes watery. “I’m really fucking glad you’re okay.” 

You get a little teary. “I’m really glad you’re here. I was really fucking scared Jack.” You let out a breath and a few tears. 

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.” He leans back in, kisses you again, kisses all the tears away. “There is nowhere else I will be, okay?” 

You nod a little. You want to ask him what happened, what your injuries are but you can’t bring yourself to. You don’t want to know. Not now. 

Jack doesn’t volunteer anything. He figures that you’ll ask when you’re ready. He knows what it’s like to have it shoved in your face when you’re scared and drugged out on morphine and other medications and overwhelmed and not in a mental place to process it. 

You can’t have been awake for more than thirty or forty minutes but you’re already so tired again. Jack can tell.

“Sleepy?” 

“A little.” You pause. Then, a whispered admission. “Kind of scared to go back to sleep.”

Jack’s heart squeezes. “That’s understandable,” he nods. He knows the answer is no but he asks anyway. “Can I do anything?”

“Hold me.” Your words are out before he finishes his questions. His eyebrows raise. He wasn’t expecting that. 

You can see him thinking. Thinking about how to say no. His face is pained and he tilts it. You know he’s afraid to hurt you. “Please.” He bites his bottom lip. “I need this Jack,” you whisper. “You need this.” 

“If I hurt you at all you have to tell me, okay? If anything feels like it’s tearing or pulling or ripping, you have to tell me immediately.” He gives you a serious look, fear blazing in his eyes.

“I promise.”

He nods. “Okay.” It takes a while for him to help shift you over a bit and move all the wires and lines but eventually he’s in bed with you, holding you. 

“Thanks Peter.” It’s completely sleep garbled but so precious and he has to laugh because even with all that’s happened you’re still calling him that name.  

“You’re welcome, Doll.”

Once he’s sure you’re asleep Jack sobs as quietly as he can as he holds you. Lets himself process the emotions that he has tried to keep himself walled off from since you went down in the trauma room. He doesn’t want you to see, doesn’t want you to have to deal with him right now when you need to focus on yourself and recovering. He doesn’t want you to feel guilty, because he knows you and he knows you already feel bad about all of this. Like it’s your fault. 

Jack doesn’t know it but you wake when you feel him start to tremble. You hear and feel every sob. A little piece of you dies inside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jack leans against one of the windows in his apartment, stares out into the dark city and alternates watching the rain fall under the light of the street lamps and tracking drops that slide down the window. The bedroom is dark, only illuminated by the light of the city that pours in. He’s half dressed, shirtless, a pair of flannel pajama pants. The window is cold against his arm but he likes it. It reminds him in the moment that he can still feel. 

You watch him from the bathroom doorway. You’ve been together seven and a bit months now.

You’re struck by how beautiful he looks in the backlighting. Struck by how sad and conflicted he looks. 

You walk over to him quietly, but making your footsteps just heavy enough so that you don’t startle him when you wrap your arms around him from behind, rest the side of your head on the smooth skin of his back. Always so warm, your Jack, even now in the chill of the rainy night. 

He leans back into you for just a second, just long enough to acknowledge that he knows you’re there, appreciates it. 

Neither of you say anything for a few minutes before his voice interrupts the patter of the raindrops hitting the window.

“I’m sorry.”

Your brows furrow. “For what?”

“Being like this,” he shrugs. “It’s been so long. It shouldn’t still affect me like this.”

“Well first, should is a stupid word. Nothing should or shouldn’t be. Things just are. And it’s okay for them to be as they are. It’s okay for this to be as it is.” You lift your head from his back and gently pull at his torso a bit to get him to turn and look at you. He tries to avoid that eye contact he normally needs but you don’t let him. “Second, you have nothing to apologize for. And third, I don’t know Jack, I’d almost be more concerned if the anniversary of the day you lost a piece of yourself, literally, and woke up alone and terrified in a hospital bed ever stopped affecting you.”

As difficult as it is to hear, he likes that you just say it, say what happened. You don’t shy away from it, don’t avoid talking about it or speak about it without actually saying it. You never have. You’ve always just accepted it as part of him. He takes in a deep breath and then grabs your hand, leads you over to bed with him and waits for you to get in. 

But you give him a look, a slight raise of your eyebrows and nod. He sits on the edge like you wordlessly asked. You kneel before him and it makes his heart pound, blood rush towards his groin even though he knows this isn’t going there. It’s just instinctual. 

Jack watches you with glassy eyes as you push his pant leg up and remove his prosthetic for him, set it aside. You don’t have to ask if it’s hurting, of course it is. It’s the anniversary of losing his foot. Even when there’s no real reason for it to be causing him pain it is anyway. You know it. He knows you know it. 

You open the drawer of his nightstand and pull out the balm he has, get a little bit and warm it between your hands before placing them there. You glance up at him. You always do. Always make sure it’s okay. You know how hard it can be for him to have you touching there sometimes if he’s too in his head. He just barely narrows his eyes before letting them go back to being wide and round as he watches. An unspoken please. 

You start massaging gently and he takes another big breath in and holds it for a moment before letting it out and leaning into your hands slightly. “Mirror?”

He knows you’re asking if the pain is bad enough for him to want to do mirror therapy. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not that bad.” He gives you a small smile, cups your face with a hand. “Especially not now. You make it better. You always make it better, make everything better.” 

A slow smile spreads over your face. You work on him a little more before his hands are on yours and pulling you towards him a little. He slides into bed and you follow. 

You lay on your sides looking at each other. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Not right now, no.” He swallows hard, looks like he’s waiting for you to be upset. “Is that okay?”

“Course it is. I’m never going to force you to talk about it with me.” You already have talked about it. You know everything, every detail he can remember and was told about what happened. About his hospital stay at Landstuhl, transfer to Walter-Reed. How depressed he got, the survivor’s guilt, the wishing he had just died instead.

But he knows what you mean. You don’t have to talk about it now, about his feelings, what he’s carrying in his chest and mind at the moment. You lean in and kiss him. “We can whenever. If and when you’re ready. Or you can talk to your therapist. It doesn’t have to be me.”

The way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Like you’re the most important thing in his world, like you hung the moon and stars for him, like he’s amazed by you. Like you’re helping to heal him.

He reaches out to cup your face again, runs a thumb over your cheek. “I want you.”

You smile at him, soft and small, befitting of the moment. “You have me. You’ll always have me. No matter what.”

He gives you a look that acknowledges your words. “You know what I mean.” His hand starts to wander down to the hem of his shirt you wear. “I need to turn that part of my brain off. Get lost in you.”

“God, what a tough ask,” you click your tongue, voice teasing and full of feigned exasperation. “Such a real hardship for me.”

He laughs a little. “I’ll make it up to you.” 

“Oh no Dr. Abbot,” you move closer to him and push at his chest so he rolls on his back, straddle his hips and bring your chest to his, lean in to kiss him but stop short, just let your lips move against his, “this is all about you.”

Jack groans from somewhere deep in his chest. “You know what doctor does to me,” he murmurs before he kisses you hard, possessively, holding the back of your head with one hand so you can’t move away, not that you’d ever want to. 

“Indeed I do, sir.” Another groan from him and a smirk from you as you sit up and push the covers back, pull his pajama pants and boxer briefs down all at once. 

Jack swears you spend hours lavishing him in attention, kissing every inch of him, every scar. Even that one. 

By the time you guide him inside of you you’re the only thing on his mind. You ride him slow, just fast enough to not be teasing, at the rhythm and pace you’ve learned he loves, let him watch as he slides in and out of you because you know how much he loves it. 

You lean back at one point, rest your hands on both his thighs and something about the move and the way you’re not afraid to get close to the missing part of him heals him and makes him lose it. 

After, you lay on his chest, absentmindedly draw random shapes on his skin while he runs a hand up and down your back. “This part always feels just as good but in a different way,” you murmur. 

“Cuddling releases oxytocin. Oxytocin makes you feel happy, helps you heal, reduces stress, bonds you to the one you’re snuggling with. It’s called the love hormone.” Jack always makes you laugh when he does that, explains something medically, biologically. You like him sharing his knowledge, little pieces of his job with you, and you like that he’s not condescending about it, just tells you it like you’re a student.

You laugh a little. “That tracks then.”

You sit in a comfortable silence for a bit. Jack thinks about everything you’ve done for him tonight, over the past seven months, how you feel laying here on his chest. A surge of oxytocin hits him and he’s overwhelmed by it, how much he loves you, how much you do for him, care for him.

“I don’t deserve you.” He says it quietly, almost like he doesn’t mean to speak the thought out loud.

You stop tracing shapes, furrow your brows and lift yourself up to look down at him sternly, eyes burning with love. “I’m not even gracing that absolute bullshit with a reply tonight Peter.” You kiss him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four days pass. Things are simultaneously getting better and increasingly harder. 

You meet everyone, the entire ED, you swear, everyone Jack has ever talked about. They’re all lovely and genuine. You hit it off with them all despite the circumstances. Part of you worries though, that they only like you because they pity you and because you’re in the hospital and what else can they do. Jack reassures you that you’re one of them now, you’re Pitt family, that even when they didn’t know you or about you and had never met you, you already were.

Jack helps you shower. Really Jack showers you. Does it all for you. It’s one of those most intimate things you’ve experienced with him. Him taking care of you like this, when you can’t take care of yourself. He takes his time washing your hair and body gently, like you’ll break if he touches you just a little too hard. He makes sure your stitches and central line stay dry. Makes sure you don’t lean your head back too far and aggravate your skull fracture. 

Physically you’re doing okay. Improving. Maybe not as fast as everyone, Jack especially, would like. But you’re not getting worse. 

Mentally, however, things are devolving. Rapidly. 

Once the initial shock and happiness at being alive wore off you’re left with reality. 

A nurse from the floor comes in to take vitals like they do a couple of times a day. Jack steps out to go grab a drink from the vending machine while you and the nurse chat a little. You ask her if you can move into the chair, go sit by the window. She says of course, unhooks you from some monitors and helps you move over. She takes your dinner and sets it on the table in front of you. You thank her and wait for Jack to come back.

Dusk is falling over the city. It’s easier to sit and look outside when it’s not so bright. You keep the lighting in your room low to help with the headaches you’re still fighting. You suppose a broken skull will do that to you.

You haven’t felt well all day, have slept more than usual. You’re sure it’s just depression from being here and all the changes and mostly, probably, seeing what all of this already has done and continues to do to Jack, physically and mentally. Your stomach turns at the thought and you shiver despite your cheeks burning. You’re so uncomfortable and there’s no end in sight and you don’t want to keep doing this to Jack, keep asking him to be here and sleep here. The logical and rational part of your brain knows that you’re not asking him to do anything. He’s doing it because he wants to, because he loves you. 

“You need to eat,” Jack reminds you as he walks back in the room. 

“I’m not hungry,” you murmur, continue to look out the window. 

“I know, Doll, but you’ve gotta eat to keep your strength up.” Jack says softly as he pulls up a chair to sit across from you. You nod a little at him but don’t move to start eating. “What’s wrong?” he finally whispers. 

It takes a moment but eventually you shrug. You don’t want to burden him with it. 

“Talk to me. Please. Even if just a little.” 

“I don’t know… I’m just tired, I think.” 

He tilts his head at you, eyes appraising and clinically evaluating you. Something is off, something has been off, he’s just struggling to figure out what. 

“Don’t look at me like that, please,” you whisper. 

He furrows his brows. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a patient who needs to be evaluated.” 

“I can’t help it. It helps reassure me that you’re okay.” He lets out a bit of a breath. “I’m worried about you right now. Is everything okay? Do you feel okay?”

You take in a big breath of air and fight back the wince before letting it out. “I’m just… I don’t know Jack. I’m sad. I’m fucking sad. All the time.”

Ah. Depression. 

He knows it intimately and chastises himself mentally a bit for not realizing it sooner, not recognizing it. Not anticipating it from minute one. He gives you a moment to see if you want to say more. 

“I… I feel sorry for myself, yes, but it’s more than that. I see what it’s doing to you, the pain it’s causing, I’m causing you. Physically, having to sleep here. I can practically see your back and hip hurting, Jack. I can see the overcompensation when you walk. I know you cried. I was awake. And I didn’t want to make it a thing and pressure you into talking to me. But I see how scared and on edge you are, all the time. Because of me-”

“No.” He doesn’t mean to interrupt but he has to right there. “Not because of you. This is not your fault. None of this is. This isn’t because of you, it’s because of what happened to you.”

You shake your head. “No, Jack, it’s me. It is me. I feel like I’m sucking the fucking life out of you. Dealing with me is exhausting. I can’t keep asking you to do this, be here and take care of me. It’s not fair.” You sniffle and wipe some tears you didn’t know fell with the back of your hand. “I mean, Jesus, Jack, I’m exhausted and all I have to do is sit in bed all day. I hate it.” The tears fall a little faster and he gives you space to let it all out. Your emotional brain takes his silence as some sort of tacit and silent agreement. That you are hurting him, that it is exhausting him, that you are sucking the life out of him. 

The rational part of your brain is right there but you’re too exhausted to listen to it, to fight your emotional brain on it. So it all consumes you. 

“I sit here and sometimes I just wish it would stop, wish it would be over, for both of us. Wish I had never even made it out of the OR, fuck out of the courthouse. You could be properly grieving already and working towards mo-”

“What the fuck?” It falls out of his mouth before he can even stop it. “Are you for fucking real?” He knows this reaction is wrong, that he should be validating your feelings. He knows far too well what it’s like to be depressed in a hospital bed wishing that you had died instead. But it’s too much for him because he already lived so intimately with the possibility of that reality. Of you dying. And so to have it brought up and brought up by you. All rational thought and ability to control himself disappears. “Properly grieving? You think I’d be properly grieving? Jesus fucking Christ, Robby would have had to beat me to the fucking roof or they’d be burying us together!”

You shake your head, tears falling harder. “I don’t want that, I would never want you to do that. I’d want you to take care of yourself! I’d want you to live for me. For us. Find-”

“No.” He shakes his head, runs both of his hands over his face, heel of his palms pressing into his eyes for a moment. “No. I can’t fucking-” He has to swallow hard through the intense nausea that threatens to make him dry heave. Just thinking about this, let alone living it. He knows this is not his finest moment, not a good reaction, that it’s a really really fucking bad one, but he can’t think about it right now, about an alternate reality where you died, where he was anywhere other than right next to your side in this moment. It’s too much. And so he reverts back a bit, starts to completely emotionally shut down. You’ve never seen him like this before. “I can’t fucking talk about this right now.” 

A knock on the door interrupts you and you both look up and over at a smiling Robby. “Hey! Look who’s awake! How are you feeling sleepy? You’ve been asleep every time I’ve come to visit today.” He starts making his way closer. 

“We can talk about this more later,” Jack mutters at you under his breath. His tone is a little sharper and more brusque than he means or even realizes. 

But with your emotions where they are already it feels a little like he’s pulled a piece of your heart away. You wonder if this is it. If he’s finally had enough of all of this. Of you. 

He didn’t sign up for this. There haven’t been any vows of sickness and health. 

The adrenaline runs icy through your fingers and toes and sits like a rock in the back of your throat, hugging tightly around your stomach so much that your incision burns and itches. It gets hard to breathe. It’s panic, you tell yourself. You nod silently, fidget with your fingers and whisper the smallest “okay.”

You’re thankful for the low lighting and the cover it gives you and your tears. “Sorry about that,” you force a small laugh at Robby. “Just one of those days I guess.” You force a yawn this time. “Honestly I’m actually a little sleepy again,” you admit sheepishly. “I think I might get back in bed.” 

There’s a pause as Robby waits for Jack to react. But Jack says nothing, and the look on his face tells Robby he’s a million miles away. You getting up is what brings Jack back to himself somewhat and he’s up and hovering behind you to make sure you don’t fall in an instant. 

“Um, well.” Robby runs a hand through his hair and over his beard. “Jack, if you wanted we’re pretty backlogged down there, we could use someone for even just a few hours to help out. I just wanted to offer. We’ll be fine if you don’t.” Robby’s eyes flick between the two of you. “Thought it might be a good way to help transition back to full shifts eventually.” He coughs awkwardly. 

Jack looks at you with his eyebrows slightly raised, like he’ll do whatever you say as opposed to what he actually wants. Despite looking at you it’s like he doesn’t consciously take in your face at the moment, how hurt you look, how small, the tears lining your eyes, how scared you look, how anxious, how questioning. 

“Up to you.” You give him a strained smile. “I’m just going to sleep, so it’s not like you’re going to miss much here. Robby is right, might be a good way to help transition.”

Jack nods. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

“Fuck, thank you so much,” Robby sighs in relief. “It’s pretty bad honestly.” He looks at you with a soft smile. “Sleep well and I’ll keep an eye on him for you.” 

You give him a forced smile back and nod, waiting for Jack to come say goodbye before following Robby out the door. But Jack is so shut down and on autopilot he doesn’t even give you a kiss or say anything other than an absent, “sleep well,” before he follows Robby out of the room. The sound of the door closing behind him may as well be the sound of your heart shattering.

Hours pass. 

Hours you do not in fact spend sleeping but instead wide awake feeling like you’ve got the flu. Everything hurts, you shake, you’re sweaty because you’re so hot but you feel so cold. You just feel so weak. You’re so miserable you’re not even aware of the way breathing takes more effort and seems less effective, how much it hurts. Hours enough for you to miss Jack and wish he was here and want to call down and beg him to please come back up. But not quite enough hours for the next vitals check.

The hours are quick for Jack. Work helps him. It keeps his mind busy. The more and more he comes back to himself fully and opens back up with clear eyes the more desperate he is to get up to you and apologize. He feels awful about actually deciding to come down here. How could he leave you? He knows he didn’t react well. It just caught him so off guard and he reverted back to a previous version of himself. All he can do is hope you’ll forgive him, but he knows you well enough to know that you’ll understand and be able to put yourself in his shoes and forgive him and you guys can talk. 

He volunteers to take one last ambulance coming in. He goes outside to wait for it, to get some fresh air. To be out of the hospital if only for a moment.

Mel runs through the automatic door, head on a swivel to find him. She starts running to him when she sees him. “Dr. Abbot!” 

Jack turns his head, thinks Mel’s voice is off, but he guesses it’s been a bit since he’s heard it down here. But when he sees her face, the way she’s running towards him, his heart speeds up and he shakes his head a little as she approaches him. Mel’s eyes are wide, just the slightest bit wet.  

“Dr. Abbot,” Mel breathes. “She’s crashing. Robby went up to see her and she crashed.”

“What?” It’s whispered. Jack’s whole world stops again. He doesn’t even wait for an answer, is sprinting inside and screaming to hold the elevator because he knows it’ll be faster than he can take all the flights up to your room. He tries to hold onto hope. Mel had said crashing not coding.

This would fucking happen. This would fucking happen. He leaves you and then you crash. The realizations hit him when he gets in the elevator and presses the door closed button over and over. That the last thing you said to him was that small, barely audible “okay.” That your last interaction was an almost fight in a way, was him upset when you were telling him what was on your mind when that’s what he has been begging you to do. That he walked out of your room without saying goodbye, without giving you a kiss, without telling you he loved you.

Sleep well.

That could be the last fucking thing he ever said to you. Sleep well. He pictures your face when he looked at you that last time, near tears, scared, small, anxious, questioning. Probably questioning whether he was going to come back or whether he loved you or whether he still wanted to be with you after so clearly hitting a nerve with him. Especially on top of all the guilt you were already feeling before that conversation. The guilt you were telling him about when he shut down. 

The world already gave him a second chance with you and he fucked it all up in a minute. Somewhere deep in his bones he knows “sleep well” will be the last thing he ever said to you, that your last interaction together will be a quasi-argument. Because if you’re crashing at this point, this far out from surgery, something bad is happening. Differential diagnoses flip through his mind. Pulmonary embolism, having somehow reopened one of your internal wounds and bleeding out, sepsis, delayed collapsed lung, drug reaction, the list goes on and on. None of them are good. All of them would require you to fight hard to pull through. 

And with fucking “sleep well” as the last thing he said to you after he practically jumped in your shit you probably think you have nothing left to fight for. 

You’re vaguely aware of Robby coming into your room and talking to you even though you can’t make out any words at first. But then you become acutely aware of him screaming about you crashing and somebody call Jack. 

Jack. 

Robby says something about intubation but you get a hand up, cling to the fabric on the arm of that blue sweatshirt he always wears. “Wait,” you choke out, wondering when it got so hard to breathe and how you’re just noticing. “Jack,” you force out in a wheeze, “want to talk,” you look up at Robby with terrified eyes he’s seen hundreds of times in patients who think they’re about to die, only yours have a slight look of determination. “Please.” 

He hesitates for just a second. “Okay,” he nods, looking down at you. “Okay. But only if he’s here within the next two minutes. I’m counting.” He grabs an oxygen mask and holds it over your mouth and nose. Your eyes say ‘thank you’ in the most heartbreaking of ways. You both know he’ll be there with one minute and fifty six or seven seconds to spare. 

The elevator door opens on your floor and Jack’s sprinting out of it to your room, praying that maybe you’ll still be alive when he gets there. He could talk to you, tell you he’s sorry and he loves you and please fight. He’s panting when he runs into your room, looks at you, your vitals, and then Robby. “Why the fuck isn’t she intubated yet?!”

“She wanted to be able to say something to you,” Robby tells him as he pushes drugs, barks out orders and gets ready to intubate you. “She’s totally fucking septic Jack, out of fucking nowhere,” he calls back over his shoulder. “She must have thrown a septic PE.” Robby pulls the oxygen mask away from your face.

Jack looks back at you as he moves closer. You lick your lips and rub them together a little, trying to get them wet and unstuck from each other. You look terrified but try to offer him a brave smile anyway. “I love you,” you manage to mouth before everything is consumed by black and quiet.

Where everything goes black and quiet for you, Jack’s senses are overwhelmed by the look on your face, the way your eyes shut, the way Robby’s hands so gently turn your head back so he can intubate you and seconds later by the high pitched whine coming from your patient monitor announcing you’ve flatlined and Robby yelling for someone to start compressions. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’s not exactly looking for it when he spots it as he walks down a street to pick up the take out you ordered on his way home. But it’s there and it makes him think of you. It’s almost perfect. Almost. 

He slips inside, gets in a conversation with the store owner. They can customize it for him. He thinks you’ll love that, the idea that nobody has the same engagement ring as you. The owner says he’ll get him some sketches. Jack puts down a deposit. You text asking if he’s okay. 

He says a quick goodbye to the owner and that he’ll be back and runs to get the food and back to you. He’s known for a while now that he wants to ask, wants to marry you. You just get him in a way he can’t describe and knows he’ll never find again. 

That night in bed he lays awake spooning you and thinking about how to propose. You wouldn’t want something too big and flashy. But he doesn’t think you’d hate it being in public necessarily. God, what if you say no? What if you’re not ready or it’s too fast or he’s too old, too broken? 

No. He knows you don’t think he’s too old or broken at all. He knows you’ll say yes, knows you’ll cry. But how to do it. Where to do it. 

The bookstore with the ring in the book feels like too much, a little too on the nose. You wouldn’t hate it by any means but it doesn’t feel right. 

He thinks about a conversation you had in the travel section at the bookstore. 

“I love travelling.” You say it as you look over the shelves. “Especially internationally.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmmm,” you hum. “We should go somewhere.” You hand him a book on Paris. “I love Paris. Have you been?”

Jack shakes his head, starts thumbing through the book. “Can’t say that I have.”

“I would love to show you around. It’s just so pretty. The Eiffel Tower sparkles and they light up all the buildings at night and I swear almost every building looks so beautifully historic. And the Louvre. I love the Louvre. I don’t even really know why, I just do. I like the inverted pyramids by the entrance and I like how you just get lost in there.” You’re flipping through your own book, this one about France in general. “We could do a France tour. Start in Nice or somewhere and work our way up.” You look up at him, and when he looks up from his book at you he’s surprised to see nerves. “If you would want to, of course. Obviously. There’s no pressure. I know you’d have to take time off from work and you love work and it would waste a lot of time off, probably depending on how long we went for. If we did. So it’s okay. I could go by myself or with a friend if I got desperate enough.” You give a breathy, anxious laugh and fiddle with the book. 

Jack gives you a little smile and puts the book back where it belongs. “It might shock you to hear this but I have maxed out the amount of annual leave time off I can accrue. I donate everything I have leftover at the end of the year. I’ve donated all of it for a couple of years now because I can’t accrue it anymore.”

“Oh, well,” you clear your throat and it would almost be funny and adorable if he didn’t hate seeing you in distress. “That’s very nice of you. You’re a very good man Peter.”

“I want to go with you.” Your lips twitch up and eyebrows raise. “I want us to do that.”

“Yeah?” You beam at him and it’s straight sunshine. You’re too good for him, he swears. 

“Yeah,” he nods, returns your smile, kisses you quickly. “Robby might try to kiss you like that for getting me to go. He’s always on me about taking a vacation.” 

Yes. In Paris. That would be perfect. You haven’t started planning the trip because life has gotten busy for both of you, but he mentions it enough to make sure you know he hasn’t forgotten, you talk about when you’ll start planning it some nights but often fall asleep mid conversation, exhausted from your day. 

In front of the inverted pyramids at the Louvre. He can hire a photographer and they won’t even look suspicious. Just like someone taking photos of the Louvre. 

He starts planning it, the France trip. Doesn’t tell you. Reaches out to your boss who he has met to make sure you can get the time off. He’ll surprise you with it soon, he tells himself. He’ll tell you soon now that he has the ring hidden away in a box in a closet that you can’t reach easily. 

Soon. He knows he can’t keep putting it off, can just hear Dana and Robby in his ear if they knew, telling him to grow a pair and do it, that tomorrow isn’t promised, that he should do it here at the hospital so they can finally fucking meet you. That, while they don’t know you, Dana would give him a sharp look then, they know you’ll love it. 

You’ll be at the courthouse tomorrow. It’s not too far from his place. He could surprise you and pick you up, take you out somewhere nice. He has the day off too so he could go get the book you handed him, put the tickets and copy of the itinerary he’s planned so far in it. 

He smiles to himself as he imagines the shock on your face, the way you’ll struggle for words and repeat a bunch of one syllable ones for thirty seconds before the ability to form real sentences comes back to you. Yeah, that’ll work. 

Tomorrow. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a perfect day. Not too hot and not too cold. Like that Miss Congeniality bullshit that you made him watch and he secretly and surprisingly enjoyed.

It’s your perfect day. 

Jack thinks that’s real fucking ironic. 

Sleep well. 

Jack was right.

Those were in fact the last words he ever spoke to you. 

While you were conscious anyway. It’s all he can think about as he sits here in his dress blues at your fucking funeral. He couldn’t bring himself to buy a plain navy suit for the occasion. 

No, that day he had said a lot more words to your unconscious self up by your head as Robby and the team tried and succeeded at stabilizing you enough to get you to the OR. And he had said a lot more words when they let him in the OR so that he could hold your hand and talk to you for just a bit longer before they called it. Somehow in the moment he had managed to block out Garcia standing on the other side across from him with her hand in your chest, manually beating your heart to give him more time with you. 

And then he had said a lot more words to your dead body.

He must have sat in that stupid operating room with you for hours just holding you once they had closed your chest and sat the OR bed up a bit for him. He thinks he must have cycled through every stage of grief with you in his arms. 

Denial. All he could do for a while was mumble to himself that this couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. You weren’t really dead. This is some twisted fucking joke you’re trying to play. To see if you could get him to cry. You can stop playing now, Doll, you got me to cry. Okay so not an elaborate joke. Well, you’d wake up in his arms any second now, shock everyone, the whole medical community with your recovery. Because this simply could not be fucking happening.  

Anger. He yelled at you to wake up and not do this to him, to think about how unfair and selfish you were being, how fucking dare you. How dare you leave him here alone. How dare you for talking about him properly grieving. Does it look like he’s properly fucking grieving to you? And he knew, he fucking knew you were about to say moving on, that he could be working towards moving on as if he’s ever going to fucking move on, fuck you for that. He was supposed to propose and you ruined it. You left him How. Fucking. Dare. You.

Bargaining. He negotiated with himself. He should have looked you over before stepping away from you, should have taken you right into an exam room and checked every inch of you for injury before leaving you. If he could go back he would. He would do it all differently. He wouldn’t let you out of the house, would have insisted you skip work that day. He’s not a particularly religious man but he’s praying, bargaining with a God he’s not sure he believes in to bring you back to him. Take his other foot, take his hands, take his ability to be a doctor, take anything and everything that’s enough to bring you back. 

Depression. Crushing and all consuming. The reality that this was happening. A sadness so deep in his soul and causing so much physical pain in his heart that for one glimmer of a second he thought maybe he was suffering from broken heart syndrome, that maybe if he could keep himself worked up and sobbing it would kill him. A sadness so consuming he’d never pull himself out of it. There would never be enough tears shed or enough therapy or enough anything to make any of it better. 

Acceptance. Eventually it washed over him. You were dead in his arms. He was holding your lifeless body. This was his new reality. One without you in it.

But mostly he just sat there and cried over you. Cried for you. Buried his face in your neck at times to muffle the screaming sobs that made him shake. Rocked you and held the side of your face against his when his sobs became so deep they were soundless.

For a while he thought Robby and Dana were going to have to drag him out of there, drag you out of his arms. But at some point he just broke in a different way. Became some sort of numb. Resigned. So he forced himself to leave.

The only thing he could think to do at the end as he laid you back down was to try and make them better. Those two words. 

Brushing some hair back from your face and running his thumb over your jaw he had told you that he loves you and that he always will. He whispered for you to rest now, gave you one last unreciprocated kiss, and then murmured “sleep well.”

He had to damn near drag himself out of the OR after that. Robby knew it. Dana knew it. They were both right there waiting for him. He had needed to get the fuck out of the hospital and to somewhere he could just send himself into oblivion because he had no fucking idea how to deal with the pain, with the loss of you. 

Dana’s hand on his arm grounded him a little. Enough that he heard Robby say quietly, “let’s get you home.” 

Home. 

Jack had realized in that moment that he didn’t have a home. You were his home. Your heartbeat. The one that was now gone. That simply no longer existed. That had been thrown away by the universe like it meant nothing when it meant everything to him. 

Yes, he realized he had an apartment, he had somewhere to go. But that was the apartment that he was supposed to have shared with you. The apartment with all of his things, all of your things, still in boxes. You had been planning on spending the weekend unpacking and painting and getting furniture where you wanted it. You had been planning on making it your home. Together. And then you got shot.

And now, Jack had realized, there was no more together. There was simply an apartment full of boxes of shit and furniture haphazardly placed just to get it in. 

He had had to laugh about it, it was so fucked up. He had barely even realized that he, Dana, and Robby had made it outside somehow, through a side door so that he didn’t have to walk through the entire Pitt. And so out there on the sidewalk in the sun - because of course it couldn’t have been night, he couldn’t have had one thing to give him comfort - he’d broken down in a fit of laughter for a moment that quickly devolved into sobs. 

Big wracking ones that required Robby to hold him up until he had let Jack slide down the side wall onto the ground where the sobs came so hard they were silent. It hadn’t been just you he was weeping for at that point. It had been for you and for himself and for the future you should have had together. For the apartment whose lease would be broken and the trip to Paris he had planned to surprise you with that would never be gone on. For the engagement ring that would never grace your finger. For everything that could have been. For everything that already was.

He’d stopped crying at some point. Dana had gotten her car and driven him and Robby to Robby’s place. Everything since then had more or less blurred together. 

Schedules had been changed so that Dana and Robby worked opposite shifts so that one of them could always be with him. Always watching him. Acutely aware what was likely to happen if they didn’t.

You had no family so everything had been left to Jack, which meant it really had been left to Dana because Jack was barely functioning. Funeral planning. Burial or cremation. Dealing with all of your things.

Unsure of your preferences Dana had picked burial, found a cemetery, bought a plot, gotten it all arranged. Unbeknownst to Dana the one thing Jack had managed to do during all of this was purchase the burial plot next to yours. Only time would tell how long that space next to you would remain empty. Not long if Jack had it his way.

And so here they all were. At the cemetery. On your perfect day.

The funeral was to be held graveside and then back to somewhere for the celebration of life, Dana told him where at one point but he doesn’t remember. Somewhere in his mind he notes that it feels like the entire damn department is here and he can’t help but wonder who the fuck is staffing it right now. As if it matters. As if he’ll ever bring himself back to that hospital. 

Jack’s completely zoned out, unaware of what’s being said, if anything is being said. Your casket is right there. With you in it. He wants to climb inside with you and let them bury you both with him alive. He wants to let your grave smother him to death. He realizes it already is in its own way. So then he might as well be with you, right? No. You’d specifically told him you wouldn’t want that. You said you’d want him to take care of himself and live for you, for the two of you.  But he doesn’t fucking want to. He just wants to be with you.

He tracks your casket as it lowers six feet down. He wants to dive in after you. After a moment Dana nudges him. Right. It’s time. Time for him to throw a flower and some dirt on the top of your grave. 

He forces himself to stand, takes the two daffodils from Dana and approaches your grave. One for him and one for you. They’re your favorite. He stops for a second and just stares down at the wooden box that houses you. Some sort of broken and raw moan slips out before he can stop it, a whimper just a second long, just enough to prove to himself that he’s alive and you’re not standing next to him and there to comfort him and make it all better. He can’t cry. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all of these people. 

He brings a shaky hand up and reaches under his overly pressed shirt until he finds the chain, pulls his dog tags up and over his head, wraps them around the stems of the two daffodils. His chin trembles as he tosses them on top of your casket before following with a little dirt. He thought about tossing the ring he bought you in too, but instead he wears it on a different chain around his neck for now. 

The symbolic burial of himself with you through his dog tags doesn’t escape anyone’s notice and if anyone present wasn’t crying already they were now. Robby and Dana share a heavy tear blurred look with each other. He still can’t be alone. 

Jack just stares down. Can’t bring himself to move. To go sit back down. So the funeral ends with him standing there, looking down at you. 

Robby and Dana give him a few minutes. As he senses people leave he lets the tears slide down his face silently but copiously. His shirt is darkened by his tears quickly. Eventually Robby clears his throat and steps up behind him. 

“Jack?” Robby says his name softly at first. Jack doesn’t respond. “Jack, come on.” It’s a bit louder this time, but still nothing. Robby grabs his shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, is much louder now. “Jack!” 

“What? What happened?” Jack’s head snaps up, the rest of his body following and pushing him out of the chair in seconds. His neck twinges from the awkward angle as his two fingers curl over your wrist automatically, finding your pulse as his vision clears and the patient monitor showing your vitals becomes readable.

All your vitals are normal. Stable.

Your eyes remain closed. Comatose. 

“Nothing,” Robby says quietly, squeezing his shoulder again. “You fell asleep. It didn’t look comfortable. You’re going to fuck your neck if you’re not careful.”

“Jesus fucking christ,” Jack pants, the sheer amount of adrenaline spreading through his system so fast making him shake. He closes his eyes as he tries to bring his heart rate and breathing back to normal. He takes a second to focus and it’s there, under his two fingers thumping along in time with the reading on the patient monitor. Your heartbeat. 

“Fuck.” Jack brings his free hand up and uses it to wipe away the tears itching his face. His chest is wet, shirt undoubtedly darkened by his tears. 

“Another one?” Robby gives him a knowing look. “Funeral again?” 

Jack just nods. It’s not the first nightmare Robby has woken him from in the last three days. It’s not the first time Robby has woken him up from that nightmare. 

“You talked to your therapist recently?” Robby asks as he sits in the other chair near your bed. 

“I don’t have fucking time for the psych-bullshit right now, Robby.” Jack huffs as he sits back in his chair, stretching out his neck. “And I don’t need therapy. I need her to wake the fuck up and come back to me.” He leans forward to kiss your hand, gives it a squeeze and holds his breath that you’ll squeeze back. You don’t. “It’s been five days Robby. Five fucking days.”

Robby nods slowly. “I know. Her body has been through a lot. Sepsis on top of a gunshot and skull fracture is a lot and brain bleed is a lot. And she had a PE, and they had to crack her chest, Jack.” You got lucky and didn’t need surgery to fix the brain bleed. And nobody had wanted to do a thoracotomy on you, not while you were septic, but with your other injuries they had to be careful with blood thinners and the thoracotomy quickly became the only real option. The last ditch option. “All of that is a lot. She needs time. And it’s not bad news. She’s been extubated. That’s a big thing, you know that.” 

“I know,” Jack sighs. It’s small and as exhausted as he sounds and makes him deflate into the chair. “I just… can’t Robby. I can’t keep having that nightmare. I need to hear her voice. I need to know she heard something from me other than fucking ‘sleep well.’ I need this to have never fucking happened!”

Robby doesn’t reply immediately, gives Jack a few minutes to come back down. “She knows you love her, Jack. She knows that you guys would have worked through whatever it was. Deep down she knows that, even if in the moment she was having anxiety.” 

“You don’t even fucking know her. You can’t say that.” Jack shakes his head at Robby “You have no fucking idea.” 

Robby just raises his eyebrows and gives him a resigned look, lets the silence take back over. 

“I need to get back down there, but Dana is going to come up in a bit,” Robby tells him as he stands up. 

“I don’t need babysat.” Jack huffs. 

Robby walks by and squeezes Jack’s shoulder again. “There’s a difference between being babysat and your friends wanting to sit with you to be with you through a difficult time, Jack. We just want to help and right now all we can really do is be here. It’s not babysitting. It’s being a friend. It’s loving a friend. Let us do it, okay?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before walking out. 

And so here you are again. Just the two of you. Only one of you conscious. Jack runs a hand through his hair, moves his chair back closer to your bed and holds your hand. He’s exhausted but terrified to sleep. It always ends the same. 

He’s hardly aware of time passing but knows it must because Dana walks in, hands him a cup of tea. “How’re you?” Jack shrugs. Dana lets him. “Drink the tea.”

He takes a sip, if for nothing more than to get her off his back about it. They sit mostly in silence. Sometimes Dana volunteers a funny story or tells him about some ridiculous patient they had, keeps him up to date on the Pitt gossip. 

“You should shower,” she suggests to him. She’d gone over to your guy’s place at some point and brought in toiletries, fresh clothes for you both. “I’ll sit with her.”

“I’m fine. It’s not like I do anything other than sit here.” 

“Still, it’s a good place to take a minute to yourself. Clear your head.” Dana tilts her head at him. “Look at me.” 

After a second he does, tears his eyes from you to look at her. “She’d want you to take care of yourself.” 

Her words are a little too close to what you had said to him and he bristles, looks back at you. “Nerve there,” Dana observes, always perceptive. “I know I’m right. I know she must have told you that at some point or it wouldn’t have pulled whatever that reaction was.” 

“I’m not leaving her. I don’t care if I can use the shower in her room.” All he can think about is showering you there, watching the pink water go down the drain as he got all of the blood out of your hair and off the rest of your body, the way you melted into his touch and thanked him. How intimate it was. Potentially one of your last moments of intimacy. 

“And the last time I gave into you and showered she fucking woke up without me.” The words hit him and he looks at Dana. “The last time I showered she woke up,” he whispers. He’s not really one to normally believe in such a thing but right now he’s clinging to anything. “I should shower.”

Dana gives him a long nod with a small smile. “Yeah.”

So he does. Tries to split the difference between quickly so that he doesn’t have to spend too much time alone thinking but slow enough to give you time to wake up. But when he turns the water off and doesn’t hear Dana talking he already knows. 

You haven’t woken up. 

“I’m sorry, hon. I was hoping it would work.” Dana looks at him apologetically. 

He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

Dana nods a bit and walks out. 

Jack finds it hard to talk to you like this. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s just too hard for him to stand the silence he gets in return. 

Sometimes he’ll read to you. That feels nice. You go on and on sometimes about how much you love his voice. You guys met at a bookstore, both love reading. So it just feels right. And he doesn’t have to stop talking and forget and be waiting for a reply that you won’t give him. He can just read. 

He picks up whatever he had been reading to you and starts back up. He doesn’t make it through much though because he just can’t. The sun is setting outside again, another whole day of you in a coma almost finished and he can’t stand it. 

It burns him from the inside, makes him feel like he needs to crawl out of his skin. He needs you to wake up. He needs to fix you. He’s a doctor. Fixing is what he does. He’s fixed countless people. 

But he simply cannot fix you. The only one that matters.

“You know,” he starts, leans back in his chair and looks at you. He scoffs. “God I don’t even know. I don’t know how to do this. What to say to you.” He shakes his head. “And I hate that,” he whispers. 

He sets the book down and the author’s name catches his eye. He moves in closer to you, gets up and sits on the edge of your bed, leans his head in a bit towards you as he holds one of your hands. He needs you to hear this. “I’ve decided that if you don’t wake the fuck up soon I’m going to have no choice but to have someone bring me that book and start reading it to you.” He squeezes your hand and shrugs. “So there. That’s my motivating wake up talk.” Tears hit his eyes and his lips wobble a little. “Wake the fuck up or I’m reading you the god damn book.” 

Jack watches you for a moment and sighs. He leans in and gives your cheek the lightest kiss. He can’t bring himself to kiss your lips again and not feel yours move back against his. He settles back in his chair and picks up the book he was reading. Instead of opening though he just vaguely hits himself straight in the face with it a few times. He doesn’t even know why. He just has the impulse. It’s not hard, it doesn’t do anything. It’s just tapping, just something to ground him maybe. He rests it on his face, closes his eyes and leans his forehead into the cover just to feel the resistance when he pushes the back against him a bit. Maybe he tries to pretend it’s your forehead and the way you lean into each other with your foreheads together sometimes. 

“Should I be jealous of the book Peter?” Your voice is barely audible with how cracked and dry your throat is. 

It takes a second for the book to drop out of Jack’s hands and hit the floor. “Holy fucking shit,” he breathes. “You’re awake.” 

He’s frozen for a minute, shaking hard as adrenaline pours into his system and he feels every emotion he can think of at once. 

“Fuck me,” he huffs. “Really? All I had to do was threaten to read that stupid book to get you to wake up?”

You give him a pained smile and small laugh. It sends him into action. 

“What can I say? I really hate that book. Couldn’t have you torture both of us. I think I’m doing that enough to the both of us right now.” You lick your lips and try to swallow. “Water?” You whisper at him. 

He brings you a cup quickly, holds the straw for you. “Sips,” he says softly. “Little sips right now, okay?” You do as he says, eventually nodding for him to take it away. “Pain? Are you in pain?” He looks on your bed and finds the remote. “Here.” He puts it in your hand, your thumb on top of the red button. “If you need a booster of morphine press the button.” 

You’re immediately pressing it over and over. “What happened?” You groan slightly. “My chest, Jack. It’s so bad. It hurts to breathe, like a weight’s on it.” Your words are a little slurred as the boost of morphine hits. It takes him back to the way you slurred in the trauma room and he has to fight not to go right back there in his mind. You need him. 

“I know.” He strokes your hair. “I know, I’m so sorry.” He looks over at one of your IV pumps. “I can ask them about upping your dose now that you’re awake, okay?”

You nod, blink at him. Your hand drops the button and finds one of his and gives it a little squeeze. “What happened?”

He searches your eyes with his, lets them flit about your face. His lip trembles. It breaks your heart. Whatever it was destroyed him. 

He sits back in his chair, moves it as close to you as he can get it. You reach up to cup his face with your hand and he leans into it immediately, puts both of his hands over yours. “You went septic. Threw a clot. It was bad. It was really bad. You coded. They had to crack your chest to get you back. So that’s why your chest hurts so bad. You’ve been in a coma for five days. I’m so sorry,” he whispers, “I’m so sorry I didn’t-”

“Hey, hey,” you whisper back to him. “Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything, didn’t cause this.” 

“No,” he sniffles, “I know, but I just… I…” Tears start to stream down his face as he looks at you helplessly and shrugs. “I couldn’t…”

“Jack.” The way you say his name shatters him and he folds, buries his head in your lap, wary of hurting you, and sobs as he keeps squeezing your hand. “It’s okay,” you whisper, run your free hand through his hair. You both know its a lie. Nothing is okay right now. 

But you’re awake. 

He doesn’t cry for long, too conscious of how exhausted you must be, how he doesn’t want this to be how he spends the time he just got back with you. Not right now anyway. There will be time for tears and emotions and processing later. 

He rubs his face in your lap a bit to wipe his eyes and then lifts his head before resting it on its side against your legs. “I’m just so happy you’re awake.” 

“Me too.” You give him a sleepy smile. “Was always going to wake up, couldn’t leave you here alone could I?”

He gives a little half laugh, half sob. “Good. Because I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You want to tell him he’d figure it out but you don’t. 

“You gonna give me a kiss now Jack Abbot? I know I haven’t brushed-”

He’s moving the second you say kiss. He feels bad it didn’t occur to him immediately but he was just so overwhelmed with you being awake. His lips against yours cut you off. It’s not just one kiss, it’s two and three and you lose count. 

Soft ones, small, just long enough. They say more than he could figure out how to say with his words right now. Each one is perfect in its simplicity.

“You should rest,” he murmurs against your lips. You hum at him in response, eyes already fluttering closed. “You know I love you right? More than anything. More than I deserve.” 

You open your eyes back up and look at him. “Course I know that,” you murmur. “You know I love you right?”

He smiles at you. It’s a little watery, a little trembly. “Course I know that.” 

You swallow hard, just from all the meds and fighting the exhaustion. “Get in bed.” Your tone doesn’t leave much room to argue but he does anyway. 

“No. It’s not safe. I could hurt you. You need to heal a bit more.” He squeezes your hand. “But believe me, I want to, more than anything.”

“You won’t hurt me. Didn’t last time.” You look at him with big sleepy eyes that kill him. “Heal better with you in bed with me.” He bites his lip, torn, so scared of causing you any pain and so desperate to give you what you want. To give himself what he wants. “You’re the one that said oxytocin helps healing…” Your eyes flutter closed again. 

He has to laugh through some tears. “God, you really do listen and learn don’t you?”

You hum at him. “Someone has to be your best student. And it better always be me Dr. Abbot.” 

He laughs at that. It’s so you, such a you thing to say. For the first time in days he really laughs even with as short as it is. For the first time in days he feels hope. Hope that everything is going to be okay and you’re going to go home together and unpack and set up your place and paint and just be together.  

“You’re my best everything,” he murmurs as he gently shifts you and all your wires and climbs carefully into bed next to you. He needs it. And you need it. And so he lets you both have it. He lets himself hold you as best he can while keeping you in a neutral position that won’t hurt you. Your head falls to rest on his shoulder and you sigh softly as you fall asleep. Jack kisses the top of your head, lets his lips linger. 

“Sleep well.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Doll, I am not a dancer. I promise you. Nobody wants to see it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” you pout at him. “And I’ve seen those hips in action Peter. I know how much control you have over them. How you can isolate all the little muscles in them.”

“None of the muscles in your hips are particularly little-”

“You’re not changing the subject,” you cut him off. “It’s a wedding. We’re going to have to dance. At least to the slow songs.” 

“Are you sure you really want to take me?” He doesn’t even really mean to ask it, it just comes out. 

You look up at him and pause, drop his comforter that you were pulling back to get into his bed. “I… Is it too soon? Too serious too soon? I guess going to a wedding together is kind of…” you trail off looking for the word. “I don’t know a thing.”

“No!” He’s quick to reassure you. He leans up and pulls the comforter back for you. “Get in bed.” 

You do as he says. “It’s not too soon, and I want to go with you, trust me. Even under threat of dancing. I just wanted to make sure you don’t feel like you have to take me. I know a lot of your friends will be there and if you’re not ready to make those introductions, that’s okay,” he explains as he pulls you to him, arms wrapping around you but loose enough so that you can see each other. 

“I don’t feel like I have to take you. I want to. I want people to meet you. I want to show you off.” One of your hands slips into the back of his hair and plays with it, ruffles the curls and scratches at his scalp on and off as you look at each other. 

“Show me off?” He smirks at you. “You wanna show me off?”

“My intelligent, thoughtful, hot as all fuck doctor of a boyfriend? Yeah. I wanna show you off.” You grab at the old shirt he’s wearing to sleep in and give it and him a look of mock offense at it being on but pull him to you by it anyway. “Wanna see you in a partial suit. Nice slim fit pants, collared shirt, a tie, one or two buttons open at the reception and the tie shoved in your pocket to use on me later.” 

Jack sucks in a sharp breath of air and you just give him a little raise of your eyebrow, start to roll onto your back. He’s on top of you and kissing you and has his hands roaming all over you the second your head hits the pillow. 

He always pauses for a moment and makes eye contact with you before letting himself collapse on top of you after he’s done fucking you like this. The intimacy of that quick moment always makes your heart metaphorically skip a beat. This time is no exception. 

Jack snuggles into your chest, kissing at the top of your breasts as he does before he settles. You run your hands through his hair, are always running them through his hair or up and down his back or both. He loves it. 

“Hey Jack?” He’ll never get used to hearing his name come off your tongue.

He makes a little hum of acknowledgment, still blissed out and coming down. 

“We’re dancing at the wedding.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days blur together. 

Your Pitt family rallies around both of you. 

You start seeing a therapist and it helps, you improve some, mentally. Jack finally makes an appointment with his therapist and it helps him. 

Everyone helps distract you, but it’s not just sitting in your room with you. One night Samira, Javadi, McKay, Mel and Heather show up in your room with painting supplies, easels, foldable stools, and a woman you’ve never met before. 

Paint and sip, they explain. You’re doing a paint and sip right here in your room, minus the sipping, unfortunately, because of your meds. It’s so sweet and thoughtful it makes you teary. Jack will never admit it but it may or may not have made him a little teary as he gave you a kiss and walked out to be with Robby for a bit as you guys did your painting. 

There are more things. There are a lot more things that they all do for you, and for Jack. Robby forces Jack to leave the hospital, just to go home, get more things for you, pick up food you like, small things. The first time is rough for both of you. But it gets better.

Of course, the most special though, the one that helps your mental health the most, is what Jack does for you. 

One night a good two and a half weeks into your hospital stay, Jack goes out to pick up dinner and Dana, Samira and Heather show up in your room again, but this time they have clothes for you. Nice clothes. A nice dress, the one you were going to wear to the wedding. Nice shoes. Make-up. Perfume. 

The Pitt is having a little get together on the roof and you should come, they explain. You worry that Jack is not going to be happy with you out of your room and on the roof, that it’ll scare him and you don’t want to scare him any more than you already have. They convince you that it’s okay, that Robby called Jack already and told him and so he knows to meet you up there. You’re confused by it all but don’t feel you’re in a position to really question anything and also very excited about the prospect of getting to be out on the roof in fresh air and city noise. 

The girls help you get dressed and your makeup and hair done nicely. Dana sprays some perfume on you. It makes you smile. 

“What?” She asks, but it’s a little too knowing. 

“I wore this perfume on Jack and I’s first date.” 

She hums. “Well isn’t that special? You’ll have to see if he remembers.” 

Heather and Samira disappear, say they’ll meet you up there, they’re going to go change. Dana brings you up, opens the roof door and tells you to go, she’s gotta go change. You look at her confused and shaking your head and now you know something is up. But she’s off before you can question her.

You turn around and walk out onto the roof a little, around a little corner and there’s Jack. 

There’s Jack standing next to a dinner table with a white linen tablecloth with candles on it, fairy lights strung up on the guard rail. There’s Jack holding a bouquet of daffodils for you and looking at you like you’re a vision. There’s Jack standing in front of you in nice slim fit pants, a collared shirt with two buttons undone. 

You look shocked because you are so far fucking beyond shocked you didn’t even know it was possible. He did this for you. 

“We didn’t get to go to the wedding,” he calls to you as he walks over while you walk to him. “You look gorgeous.”

You’re speechless. Beyond. You’re thoughtless, struggling to process this, all this work that he did for you.

“I promise to give you a raincheck on the tie,” he smirks as he reaches you, leans in and kisses you. He pulls back, brows furrowed like he’s confused and it makes you laugh a little because how the hell is he the confused one now. “You smell like our first date.”

“I…Jack, this is… Yeah, it’s the same perfume. Dana brought it.” You pause, think back on your conversations with Dana. She dragged it out of you so casually one day you thought nothing of it. You shake your head and laugh a little. “She asked me about it one day and I didn’t even think about it.

“She’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Jack laughs. You nod. 

“Jack, I’m,” you look around, hold onto his forearms to ground you. You’re teary. Of course. “You did all this? For me?”

“Well I certainly had many co-conspirators who helped me get it all set up, but yeah. It was my idea. You needed it. I needed it. We needed it. A date night. And this was the only place we could get in.” He hands you the daffodils, grabs your hand and leads you over to the table where you stop.

“I…” You look around again. “It’s safe? For me?” You look back at him and he knows from the look in your eye that you’re not asking because you’re worried about yourself. You’re asking because you’re worried about him, worried about putting him through more trauma and more pain if something were to happen to you up here. 

“Yes.” He helps you into the chair. “You’re probably the safest diner in all of Pittsburgh tonight. You’ve got a physician’s supervision.” He smirks at you. His eyes flick to the ground on the side. His go-bag. He’s prepared, just in case. That brings you back to reality, brings you back to yourself, makes you smile and give a soft laugh. 

He sits down opposite you, starts to take a drink of water. “Have I ever told you how hot I find it that you’re a doctor?”

Jack chokes, starts coughing and it makes you giggle.

“What?” You draw the word out with a bit of that shit-eating grin he loves. “What did you expect me to say?” 

“I don’t fucking know but not that! You were so speechless a minute ago!” He’s laughing a bit now, looking at you like you’re one of the seven wonders of the world. 

“It’s just the truth!” you say through a laugh. He reveals dinner to you. Your favorite dish from your favorite place. You thank him for this, all of it, you keep saying it because you’re so blown away. 

You eat dinner. You eat all of yours for the first time in two weeks and it makes Jack so incredibly happy and relieved. After you’re done with dinner you sit for a bit, chat a little before Jack stands up and holds out his hand to you. You raise an eyebrow at him. 

He takes his phone out and thirty seconds later your guy's song, soft and slow, starts playing from a speaker he had hidden under the table. He offers you his hand again. 

“Oh Jack.” You pull the words out a little bit as you start to cry.

Through tears you take it and let him pull you close into a dancing hold. “I hope they’re good tears,” Jack murmurs as he holds you close.

“They’re the best,” you sniffle. “I love you so much.”

Jack kisses your temple at the side of your eyebrow. “I love you more.”

The song plays on a loop. Jack dances with you until you admit you’re tired and need to rest. It’s not even really dancing more than just swaying together, him holding you close, murmured conversation. But it’s everything. He’s everything. 

You’re there for weeks. Weeks that are beautifully uneventful, the only exception being when you hit some milestones in your recovery. 

And then one day is eventful again because a word starts being used. The word you’ve both been desperate to hear. 

Home. 

You’re desperate to get out of the hospital and home. Jack is just as desperate to get you there. He never wants to let you out of it again, but that’s a conversation for a later day. He’s dreading when you have to go back to work, back to that courthouse. Rationally he knows with the increased security since the shooting it’s probably one of the safest places for you to be but his emotional brain doesn’t give a single fuck about that. 

You laugh about it with Jack one day, how you’re going to go home to your apartment that’s still in boxes with furniture pushed to the center of rooms so you could paint. “It’s okay, we can wait to paint or I can make Robby help. And then you can just boss me around and tell me where to put things as I unpack while you rest on the couch.”

He gives you a very pointed look. 

“I think I’ll be okay to help you unpack. At least some things and at least for a while. If I get tired I’ll rest and I won’t go lifting a box of books, okay?” You give him a reassuring smile. 

“No.” 

You let out a deep sigh. “Jack, we’ve talked about this. You can’t treat me like I’m glass forever. Especially once we’re home.” 

“Why not? And it’s not even treating you like glass, it’s making sure you take it easy and recover.” His face is set, but not quite as hard as it has been when you’ve had this conversation in the past. 

“I will take it easy. And I will recover. And you will be there to make sure I do both of those things. But being active, to an extent, I know, is important. Robby has said it. Dana. Heather, Mel, Santos, Shen, Parker, Perlah, Princess, Shamsi, Whitaker, Garcia, Javadi, Mohan, Mateo, everyone who has ever stepped in this room. Even you told me that, back when I didn’t want to get out of bed.” You run your hands over his chest, try to be soothing. You don’t want to upset him. “I know you have been through a lot with this. I know I have been. I know we have a lot to process and work through together and individually. I don’t want to argue. And I know that if our positions were reversed I would be the exact same way towards you, and that if anything you have it worse because you’re a doctor and so you know way too much about the things that could go wrong. But I’m okay. I will be okay. You tell me everyday how I’m getting stronger.”

Jack settles his hands on your hips, rests his forehead against yours. “I know. I just… struggle. Because you were better and then you weren’t. And I am terrified that’s going to happen again even though I know the chances at this point are so low.” His hands squeeze your hips. “I think maybe seeing you out of here will help. Seeing you at home. It’ll make it more real. That you’re really okay.” He pulls his head from yours. “I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” you cup his face with both of your hands. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Jack. Not for caring so much, for loving so much. Because that’s what this is and I know it. It’s not micromanaging or not trusting me or wanting to control me. I know that. I promise. I know this is motivated by fear and by love. We’re going to get through this together, okay?”

He nods because he knows it’s true. 

And then there’s another eventful day, with a phrase you’ve both been itching to hear. 

Discharge instructions. 

They let Robby give you them even though he’s not technically your doctor. He gives them to you even though he doesn’t need to because you have Jack who’s going to be all over you and enforce stricter ones. But you still appreciate hearing them so that you have some idea of what’s okay and what isn’t and what appointments you have scheduled for follow ups and the meds they’re sending you home with. 

You ask about sex. 

Jack almost drops the bottle he’s packing away for you. “Why, please tell me why on earth,” he draws the word out, “you’re thinking about sex? And not recovering.”

You look at him, hold a finger up and then riffle through the bag next to you on the bed. You take out the small stand mirror Dana had brought you so that you could do your makeup that one night. You open it and hand it to Jack. “Take a look in the mirror Dr. Abbot.”

You’re so nonchalant with how you say it, like it’s obvious and just a fact and nothing you should really have to be explaining. 

“Oh my god,” he mutters. 

Robby ends up totally snorting his laugh because he tried to stifle it for Jack for a minute but it’s too good, it’s too funny. Robby smiles at you as he pulls it together, thinks how good you are for Jack. How you’re what he needed.

“You could have just asked me, you know! I’m a doctor! I know you know that, you tell me how hot it is all the time! We didn’t have to fucking drag Michael into this,” he huffs. But all of you know it’s not serious. He’s not really mad. He’s just worried and scared and wants to protect you and doesn’t want anything to happen to you and more than anything he doesn’t want to hurt you. But there’s the subtlest tinge to his voice that reflects his lust, his want, his desire to have you like that again. 

“Yes, but I don’t trust you to give me a straight answer right now,” he goes to interrupt you but you shake your head and continue, speaking over him, and Jack pouts. Truly pouts. “And you know that’s valid and you would have given me the most conservative answer possible. And it’s Robby,” you shrug, “he’s a doctor and your best friend and obviously knows we’re having sex, or were before all of this. Plus he saw my tits when he coded me, I think we lost some boundaries when that happened.”

“They’re very nice b-”

Jack shoots him a glare, one that would have Robby dead on the floor if looks could kill.

Robby stops talking and clears his throat. “Right, well, uh,” Robby hugs his tablet to him and rocks back and forth a bit. “I mean as soon as you’re ready and feel up to it.” You look over at Jack and flash a pleased smile, raise your eyebrows. “But nothing too rough or overly strenuous. Keep it soft, slow. You know real love-making-”

“I’m going to fucking quit if you keep talking.” Jack interrupts Robby who wears the biggest self-satisfied shit eating grin. 

You snort a laugh because the whole situation is so fucking absurd. “Thank you, Robby.”  

“Of course.” He opens his arms and you hug. “Don’t take this the wrong way but I am really fucking glad I won’t see either of you tomorrow.” 

The three of you share a laugh. “Ready?” Jack asks you. It’s funny how in the moment you’ve been dying for you’re suddenly terrified and unsure. The hospital is safe. There are doctors and medications. 

You remind yourself that there’s a doctor and medications at home too and the thought lets you smile at Jack and nod.

He flicks his chin to the wheelchair. “Oh you cannot be serious. That is so unnecessary.”

“Hospital policy.” Jack shrugs. 

“Hospital policy or Jack policy?”

“That one actually is hospital policy.” Robby confirms. 

Jack gives you a triumphant smirk and you roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him. He does it back. 

And then he wheels you out.

Being home is strange. It’s a whole new normal to get used to again. There are lots of emotions. You’re all over the place, somehow more emotional labile the first two days at home than you ever were in the hospital. 

Despite his own emotions Jack is your rock through it and things start to get better. He paints with Robby’s help. You talk him into letting you paint. You direct Jack and Robby on where furniture should go, with Jack’s input of course. You and Jack unpack boxes together. 

Six or seven days after you came home you’re down to just two boxes left. All books. You and Jack are unpacking them together, him bending to get them out of the box and you alphabetizing as you put them on the shelves. 

Jack picks up a book. The book. The one that started it all. The one ‘Move in with me?’ is written in. He stares down at it. 

Earlier today he’d unpacked the box where he’d hidden the ring. The ring box is in his pocket, pants loose enough to hide it. 

“Peter?” You hold a hand out behind you to get the next book from him but Jack doesn’t put one in your hand or say anything. “Jack?” you repeat as you turn around to him staring at the book. He has a weird look that you can’t really place. Your brows furrow in concern. “Are you okay?”

He sets the book back in the box and looks up at you for a second. And then he’s sliding down to one knee and your eyes widen. “Jack,” you whisper, already teary. 

“We’re going on the France trip,” he starts. “It’s all planned. You should be well enough to travel by then and we can adjust to take it easier if we need.” Your mouth drops open a little. “I had this all planned too. Proposing. I was going to take you to the Louvre, propose in front of the inverted pyramids, have a photographer. I had planned to tell you about the trip the night of the day you got shot. And then the entire time you were in the hospital I wanted to ask but I didn’t want it to feel like I was asking because you were in the hospital and things were scary.” 

You bring a trembling hand to your mouth. “But I can’t wait anymore. I can’t wait for Paris. You know this has nothing to do with what happened. I had planned this before what happened. I knew I wanted to marry you within a month. That time you met me outside of the hospital after I coded that vet at the very end of my shift. We had spoken on the phone for less than a minute, I didn’t tell you about it or say anything was wrong and yet you just showed up. In your work clothes. When I asked why you were there you said you could hear it in my voice, that I needed someone, needed to not be alone and so you took the day off, and it’s funny because up until you said it I had been telling myself that I needed to be alone. But you were right. When I started to argue you just put a hand to my chest and kissed me, told me that it was already done, you’d already let your boss know, grabbed my hand and started walking to my place. And that’s when I realized you knew me better than I knew myself and that you weren’t afraid to just do things for me, that you weren’t going to make me ask, ever, for anything, when you knew I wouldn’t be able to. You weren’t going to make me struggle, force me to either open up or not get what I need from you. That’s when I knew I wanted to marry you.” He pauses and swallows, trying to clear the tears that line his eyes from his voice. “There’s so much I wanted to say in this moment, so much you deserve to hear” he laughs a little, the sound wet with tears, “but everything has fallen out of my mind. I promise though that, if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives making sure you hear them and know how important and necessary you are to me, how much I love you.” 

Tears stream down your face. They have been for a while now. Your mouth and chin tremble under your hand. 

Jack gets the box from his pocket and opens it.

The way Jack says your name is etched into your memory. Then. “Will you marry me?”

You move your hand from your mouth, give him a look and move your shoulders in a way that says he didn’t even have to ask. 

“Yes.” 

It’s not exactly whispered, your voice is just so choked with tears it makes it sound like it. Jack’s face breaks out into the biggest teary smile and yours matches. Shaking hands get the ring on your finger and then Jack is standing up, arms going straight to hold your face and he kisses you like he never has before. It’s indescribable. It’s perfect. 

You hug him tightly for a minute before you both pull away. “Is it okay? The ring?”

“Oh,” you sniffle, try and wipe at your eyes with your hands. “You’re going to laugh,” your voice gets a little more high pitched as another wave of emotion hits you. “The tears, there’s too many, I haven’t been able to see it.” You cover your mouth with your hand. 

And Jack, Jack starts laughing. Because it’s so you, from being too teary to see it to the way you got even more emotional when you told him. You laugh-cry with him. 

The entirety of the proposal is perfect. 

As is what follows once you’ve seen the ring, almost screamed about it and how perfect it is, and gushed about it for several minutes to him. 

Jack takes your hand and leads you to your bedroom. Your shared bedroom. He lays you down on soft sheets. It’s your first time after what happened. 

He takes his time with you. Kisses every inch of you, every scar, new and old, lingers on the new ones. He worships you. Takes you apart and puts you back together again. Lets you do the same to him. 

The groan of relief that comes from his chest when he finally pushes inside of you is unholy. He holds you tight to him. He adjusts so that he’s on top of you, arms under your shoulders with his elbows supporting him, holding your face in his hands. It’s all panting and breathy and sloppy kisses and uncontrollable groans and moans and warm sweaty skin and eye contact and Jack slowly losing it and groaning nonstop as he fucks you and chases your hips harder and harder, moving you both up the bed a bit as he tries to get deeper and closer to you. 

You take a bath after to clean the sweat off of you both and just to feel each other. He pours in so much epsom salts to help you heal that you tease him you’re going to float in the water. It’s so warm and his touch is so relaxing that you actually fall asleep leaning back against him for a few minutes. He lets you sleep. Tries to commit the moment to memory. 

You decide to have a housewarming party. You invite everyone from the Pitt, time it so that the night shifters can drop by for a little bit before their shift starts if they want. You invite some of your friends too. 

You use it to announce your engagement. Every time someone knocks you and Jack go get them and you hold your left hand up. Everyone is happy for you. Some cry which makes you get teary. Jack hears you discussing the ring with Dana, Samira, McKay, and Javadi, you holding your hand out and all of them looking closely at it. He can’t hear the conversation but he catches, “he custom designed it,” and “it’s so perfect, just like him.”

He stands alone for a minute watching you and the party. He smiles as you walk up to him, arms automatically opening for you to step into. “And how is my beautiful fiancée doing?” You giggle at the word. Fianceé. It makes it so real. ��Tired?” He’s checking in on you and you know he’d have all of these people out in a literal minute if you said you were tired and needed to rest. 

“No, I’m okay, I promise.” You lean up and give him a kiss. “How’s my handsome fiancé?” 

“I’m pretty perfect, Doll.” He gives your hip a squeeze. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You cock your head at him a little and he melts even more for you somehow. 

“For everything.” Jack kisses you. “For saying yes.” Another kiss. “For waking up.” Another kiss. “And for telling me that book wasn’t worth it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I wanted both without having to destroy Jack because he deserves everything so here we are. I hope it was okay! Please let me know your thoughts and comments!! Liking, replies and reblogging are so so appreciated! My inbox and requests are open (see masterlist for more)! Thank you for reading all of this, I know it was long!

Part 3 is up!

And let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! Wedding, more before reader is shot, just little domestic moments between the two? I'm hoping to do a follow up to Perfumer and maybe a few more shorter things, maybe some Robby? Who knows, certainly not I.

Thank you again for reading and your support!

[dance-is-life27]

Stress Relief

Sam Wilson x Reader x Joaquin Torres

Summary: After a mission you and Sam decide to de-stress together, only to be interrupted by Joaquin.

Warnings: 18+, gender neutral reader, smut, penetration, accidental voyeurism, getting caught, implied threesome, no plot just porn, no descriptive body parts or image of reader

A/n: let's hope and pray I don't soak the theater seats when I finally watch Brave New World.

No spoilers!!

Reblogs are more appreciated than likes!

“Shh,” Sam whispers in your ear, his thrusts slowing in order to prevent more moans from leaving your mouth, “Can’t have Torres knowing what we’re getting up to, now can we?”

You shake your head as it falls back to lean against Sam’s shoulder, you clench around Sam as his grip on you tightens around your waist. With your back to his chest you find yourself squirming in his grasp, the tension building up in your body as you try to nonverbally ask for more.

“Sam, can’t-” You gasp, your mind in a haze as you try to speak, “-need more. Need to cum, please.”

Sam coos at your pleading, before giving you a gentle kiss to your jawline, “Yeah? You gonna cum for me baby?”

You whine against him as you try to buck you hips up to entice Sam to fuck you faster. Unfortunately his hold on your waist prevents you from being very effective, and in your struggle you also fail to notice the sound of footsteps getting closer towards the bedroom.

“Hey guys, I found some-” Joaquin’s sentence trails off as he looks up from the tablet in his hands and spots the two of you. Both you and Sam freeze under his shocked gaze. Your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest as the seconds stretch on in uncomfortable silence. “I didn’t-, I didn’t see anything. I’m sorry, I’ll go, uh yeah.” Joaquin stammers, already halfway out the door and into the hallway when you call out his name.

“Joaquin!” Sam tenses beneath you, and you turn your head towards him, “Can he stay?” You ask. You’ve always had a bit of a crush on the other man, I mean, how could you not? Joaquin is kind and funny, and so sweet in a way that your teeth start to hurt everytime he smiles. It’s so easy to just be a little bit in love with the new superhero, but the issue here isn’t Joaquin, its the man that’s currently underneath you. Because while you and Sam have talked about potentially trying something new with someone else, you’ve never settled on who just that person was.

“Are you sure?” Sam asks as he looks at you, his eyes scanning your face for any doubts that you may have. You have none.

You nod, “I’m sure.” The kiss that Sam gives you leaves you dizzy as his hips begin to slowly roll into yours once again, a quiet ‘okay, baby’ falls onto your lips and a whine escapes your mouth when Sam uses his other hand to grip at your thigh and spread your legs apart.

When you and Sam finally separate at the mouth, you turn your head back to look at Joaquin who’s still frozen in the door, but you’re quick to spot the notable tent in his pants. Your tongue runs over your lips subconsciously as Joaquin flushes under your gaze, his cheeks turning redder and redder by the second. You hum as Sam starts to leave a trail of kisses down the side of your neck.

“You joining us?” You sigh and even with the distance you can swear that you hear Joaquin audibly whine before he nods his head, his eyes never leaving your body as he joins you both into the room and shuts the door behind him.

[meadowfics]

the squid game characters as parents ☂︎

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒔

𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: 𝑘𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑒-ℎ𝑜 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 388), 𝑐ℎ𝑜 ℎ𝑦𝑢𝑛-𝑗𝑢 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 120), 𝑘𝑎𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑎𝑒-𝑏𝑦𝑒𝑜𝑘 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 067 𝑠1), 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑘 𝑔𝑦𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑔-𝑠𝑒𝑜𝑘 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 246), 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑠 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 230), 𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑔𝑦𝑢 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 124), 𝑠𝑒-𝑚𝑖 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 380), 𝑐ℎ𝑜 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑔-𝑤𝑜𝑜 (𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑦𝑒𝑟 218 𝑠1), 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑛

𝑥 𝑓!𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

headcannons will feature: which type of parenting style the characters adapt to and why (based off of their character and backstories), how many kids they'd have with you, the physical and personality descriptions of the kids, and a cute moment between them and your shared baby/child <3

if you do not prefer what I've written for these characters or disagree, you can ignore or simply write your own.

𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜

cho hyun-ju x you

parenting styles:

you and hyun-ju balance each other out as parents.

you are the structured but warm parent.

you make sure your daughter sticks to routines, eats well, and understands responsibility, but you always do it with love.

hyun-ju is softer, more relaxed, and endlessly patient.

she never raises her voice, always talking things through calmly. she is the type to sit down at eye level with your daughter when explaining things, making sure she always feels heard and valued.

both of you raise eun-ae to be accepting of everyone, teaching her that kindness and respect matter more than anything.

hyun-ju, especially, makes it a point to talk about how people should be free to live as their true selves.

how many kids?:

you had one child, pregnant during the games. the father passed away before the games and you were struggling.

after meeting hyun-ju and making it out the games alive, she stepped into the role of a mother without hesitation.

she never once saw eun-ae as anything other than her daughter.

over the years, you two discussed the idea of having another child, but nothing ever felt as natural and right as just raising eun-ae together.

she was enough, and your little family felt complete.

what does eun-ae look like?

eun-ae has your eyes and your nose, but her expressions, the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking or furrows her brows when concentrating, are all hyun-ju.

the girl's dark, wavy hair that always looks a little messy no matter how many times you try to fix it.

she refuses to sit still for too long when you try to brush it.

big, expressive eyes that make it impossible to say no to her.

she knows exactly how to use them against both of you.

whats her personality?:

curious and always asking questions.

she wants to know everything about the world and why things are the way they are.

eun-ae has a heart of gold, just like hyun-ju.

she doesn’t like seeing people sad and always tries to help, even in little ways.

a little mischievous, especially with you.

she knows you’re the softer one when it comes to saying “no” and always tests her luck with you first before hyun-ju steps in.

one afternoon, you find eun-ae sitting on the living room floor with an old photo album spread open in front of her.

she’s flipping through the pages with wide eyes, her fingers running over the images like she’s trying to memorize them.

“mommy,” she calls, looking up at you.

“did you know mama had a twin brother?”

your heart stops for a second before you realize what she’s looking at. the pictures..hyun-ju from before her transition, back when she was in the special forces.

short-cropped hair, sharp jawline, standing in uniform with a serious expression.

you sit down next to her, trying to find the right words, but before you can speak, hyun-ju steps into the room.

“what are you looking at, sweetie?” hyun-ju asks, kneeling beside her.

eun-ae points at the photos.

“you never told me you had a twin!” she exclaims, looking between the two of you, confused but excited.

hyun-ju exhales softly, giving you a glance, and you nod, silently letting her know you’re here, supporting whatever she wants to say.

“sweetheart,” hyun-ju starts, tucking a strand of hair behind eun-ae’s ear.

“that’s actually me.”

eun-ae blinks, then looks back at the photos. her little fingers trace over the face again, like she’s trying to match it to the woman sitting beside her.

“but… you don’t look like that now.”

hyun-ju takes a breath, reaching for her daughter’s hands.

“that’s because i wasn’t happy being that person,” she explains gently.

“i always felt like i was supposed to be different, like i was living as someone else instead of who i really am. but then, one day, i decided to be true to myself. i became the person i was always meant to be.”

eun-ae stays quiet, her brows furrowed in deep thought.

you rub her back soothingly, letting her process.

after a moment, she looks up at hyun-ju with the biggest, most innocent eyes and asks, “so… you were always my mommy, even back then?”

hyun-ju’s breath catches. you see the way her throat bobs as she swallows hard, emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

she squeezes eun-ae’s hands.

“yes, baby. i was always meant to be your mommy.”

without hesitation, eun-ae throws her arms around hyun-ju’s neck, holding her as tightly as her little arms allow.

“i love you, mommy. you’re the best.”

hyun-ju lets out a shaky breath, wrapping her arms around your daughter and burying her face into her tiny shoulder. you watch as she clings to eun-ae, like she’s afraid to let go, like she never thought she’d have this kind of love and acceptance.

your chest feels like it’s about to burst with love, and you reach over, wrapping your arms around both of them.

“we’re always going to love you,” you whisper to hyun-ju, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“always.”

thanos x you

parenting styles:

thanos is the stricter parent, always making sure scarlet and thor know the importance of discipline, respect, and making smart choices.

he has a tendency to lecture when they mess up, but it always comes from a place of love and deep fear of failing them.

you balance him out with a more nurturing approach, making sure the twins feel emotionally understood.

when thanos gets too intense, you’re there to remind him to soften up.

thanos has worked hard to leave his past behind, getting clean before the twins were born, and he swore to never let them experience the kind of childhood he had.

he wants to be a father they can be proud of, even if it means being tough at times.

deep down, he’s terrified of messing up, but he refuses to let that fear control him.

how many kids?:

twins...scarlet and thor.

thanos insists on calling them by these names, and despite your protests, the names stuck.

these are not their legal, government names by the way.

however, even their teachers call them that.

so, the names stuck.

thanos always planned to be there for them, but before they were born, he had doubts about whether he’d be a good enough father. once they arrived, he knew he could never let them down.

what do 'scarlet' and 'thor' look like??

both are almost exact copies of thanos.

same piercing eyes, same sharp features.

scarlet has his nose and a determined expression that mirrors his own.

thor has the same strong jawline and serious gaze that makes it seem like he’s always deep in thought.

the only thing they got from you is your hair and eyebrows.

everything else? all thanos.

what are their personalities?:

scarlet is fearless, never backing down from a challenge.

she’s sharp, clever, and sometimes too stubborn for her own good.

she tries to get what she wants, often crying if she does not, but luckily you and thanos can respectfully handle the underlying issue.

thor is quieter, more observant, but equally as strong-willed.

he thinks before he speaks, always analyzing before making a move.

the twins bicker constantly, but underneath it all, they’re inseparable. if one is upset, the other immediately feels it.

you stand in the foyer hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as you watch the chaos unfold.

“scarlet, give it back!”

thor shouts, his small hands reaching for the toy clutched in his twin’s grip.

“i had it first!”

scarlet yells back, yanking it away.

thor, never one to let things go easily, lunges for it, but scarlet is quicker. frustration bubbles between them, their voices getting louder, and within seconds, scarlet’s face crumples.

tears spill over, her frustration reaching its limit.

the moment scarlet starts crying, thor...who had been so determined to win this battle...suddenly looks stricken. the younger twin's lower lip trembles before he lets out a wail of his own, their emotions bouncing off each other like an unstoppable force.

thanos, who had been watching with narrowed eyes, sighs heavily and kneels down in front of them.

“enough enough enough,”

he says firmly, but not unkindly.

scarlet sniffles, rubbing her eyes. thor hiccups, clutching his tiny fists.

“what did i tell you about being smart?”

thanos asks, his voice calm but steady.

scarlet and thor stare at him, still hiccuping through their tears.

“you’re both upset, and for what? a toy vegetable?”

thanos continues, shaking his head.

“is this what smart choices look like?”

scarlet wipes her nose on her sleeve, looking down at the toy.

“no…”

thor mumbles the same answer, shuffling on his feet.

thanos exhales, reaching out to place a gentle hand on each of their small shoulders.

“listen to me. you’re a team. you don’t fight each other. you figure things out together.”

scarlet sniffles.

“but… i wanted it first.”

“and thor wanted it too,”

thanos points out.

“so what do we do when we both want something?”

thor glances at his twin before muttering, “share?”

thanos nods.

“or take turns.”

scarlet looks at the toy in her hands before hesitantly holding it out to thor.

"you can go first.”

thor looks surprised, but he takes it.

“okay… i’ll give it back when i’m done.”

thanos nods in approval before pulling both of them into a firm but warm hug, pressing a kiss to their heads.

“that’s how you do it,” he murmurs.

watching from your spot, your heart swells at the sight. thanos might be strict, but in moments like this, he’s exactly the father he promised he would be.

“i hope you know you’re doing a good job,” you finally say, stepping forward.

thanos glances at you, something soft and unspoken in his eyes.

“i have to.”

kang sae-byeok x you

parenting styles:

you and sae-byeok are incredibly protective of hyun-jae, but in different ways.

sae-byeok has a sharp eye for danger, always keeping watch, while you focus more on emotionally supporting him.

sae-byeok, despite her tough exterior, is a very gentle mom.

she’s patient, never raising her voice, and always makes sure hyun-jae knows that he is loved.

you’re more relaxed when it comes to letting him explore and make mistakes, knowing that he needs to learn things for himself.

together, you raise him to be both brave and kind, knowing how to stand up for himself while also being thoughtful of others.

how many kids?:

five years after the games, you and sae-byeok go through IVF.

you carry a fertilized egg of sae-byeok's, making you both connected to your baby.

your son, hyun-jae, is born nine months later.

he looks just like sae-byeok.

same sharp eyes, same soft yet serious expression.

when hyun-jae is five, sae-byeok is the one pregnant with your second child, a baby girl.

she’s seven months along when hyun-jae starts school.

what does your first child, hyun-jae, look like?:

identical to sae-byeok. people always comment on how he’s her mini-me.

dark, straight hair that always seems to fall over his forehead no matter how many times you brush it away.

expressive eyes that make it easy to tell what he’s feeling, even when he’s quiet.

what is his personality like?:

shy at first, much like his uncle cheol, but he is not afraid to stand up for himself.

he’s brave in small but meaningful ways.

he loves offering a hand to someone who falls, defending his friends, speaking up when something feels wrong.

he loves his family deeply and has a hard time being away from you and sae-byeok for too long.

the morning of hyun-jae’s first day of school is filled with nervous energy.

you’re packing his lunch while sae-byeok kneels beside him, gently fixing his tiny backpack straps.

“i don’t wanna go,”

hyun-jae mumbles, gripping sae-byeok’s arm tightly.

the boy's big eyes look up at her, filled with worry.

“can’t i just stay with you and mama?”

sae-byeok, despite being seven months pregnant, crouches to his level, cupping his little face in her hands.

“baby, you’re going to have so much fun,” she reassures him.

“there are going to be toys, and new friends, and storytime. you won’t even notice how fast time goes.”

you kneel beside them, ruffling his hair.

“and we’ll be back before you know it,” you add.

he hesitates, glancing between the two of you, unsure. sae-byeok presses a kiss to his forehead before taking his small hand in hers.

“let’s go,” she says gently.

at the school, hyun-jae clings to sae-byeok’s hand the entire walk to his classroom.

the boy's tiny fingers grip hers, his knuckles turning white.

when you arrive at the classroom door, colorful posters line the walls, and shelves filled with toys and books create a warm, inviting space. inside, other kids are already playing, laughing as they explore the new environment.

hyun-jae peeks inside but doesn’t let go of sae-byeok’s hand.

“see?” you whisper to him.

“there’s so much to do. you’re gonna love it here.”

he still hesitates.

then, something catches his eye..

the art station, where dozens of bright-colored pencils and markers are scattered across a table.

another little boy is drawing, and when he looks up, he grins at hyun-jae.

that’s all it takes.

hyun-jae, almost forgetting his nerves, drops sae-byeok’s hand and rushes inside, immediately picking up a green crayon and joining his new classmate.

you and sae-byeok stand in the doorway, watching him with fond smiles.

when you glance at sae-byeok, her expression is different...her lips are slightly pursed, her eyes glossy.

you sigh knowingly.

“babe…”

sae-byeok blinks quickly, trying to stop the tears, but it’s no use. she lets out a soft sniffle, rubbing at her eyes.

“he’s just… so big now,” she murmurs.

“it feels like you just gave birth to him yesterday.”

you chuckle, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into your side.

“he’s happy. look at him.”

she sniffles again, nodding.

“i know. i just… i don’t know. i blame the pregnancy hormones.”

you press a kiss to her temple.

“he’s gonna be so loved here. and he’s gonna do great.”

sae-byeok exhales, leaning into you, and together, you watch as hyun-jae laughs, completely forgetting about his nerves as he starts drawing with his new friends.

just like that, your little boy is growing up.

kang dae-ho x you

parenting styles:

dae-ho is the fun parent.

the one who sits on the floor for tea parties, lets the kids paint his nails, and turns mundane things into an adventure.

he’s goofy and affectionate, always making the kids laugh.

you are still soft, but you make sure they grow up with responsibility, kindness, and respect.

you enforce rules when needed, guiding them to be the best versions of themselves.

neither of you believe in rigid gender roles.

whenever ji-sung grows older, dae-ho will make sure he knows it’s okay to express emotions, to cry if he needs to, and to never fall into toxic masculinity.

how many kids?:

four in total.

yeong-ja (8 years old)

ma-ri (6 years old)

young-mi (4 years old)

ji-sung (8 months old)

what are their physical and personality descriptions?:

yeong-ja: looks exactly like you and has your independent spirit. she’s sharp-witted and protective over her younger siblings.

ma-ri: again, has a mix of both of you in her features. she is a perfect balance between playfulness and being deeply introspective.

young-mi: inherited a lot from dae-ho’s side of the family, even looking like one of his sisters. she is the wildcard, full of energy and always surprising you both. she is named after one of your friends, young-mi, who died in the games.

ji-sung: is a carbon copy of dae-ho and the most relaxed baby, always content to be held or observe the chaos around him for his little age.

dinnertime is always lively in your house.

tonight, the kids sit in their usual spots.

yeong-ja next to ma-ri, young-mi across from them, and little ji-sung in his high chair, babbling between bites of mashed sweet potatoes.

dae-ho, as always, is helping feed the baby while also entertaining the older kids with exaggerated stories.

“did you know,” he begins dramatically, “that i was the youngest boy to four older sisters?”

yeong-ja’s eyes widen.

“like ji-sung?”

dae-ho nods, smiling.

“exactly like ji-sung.” he looks over at the baby, who giggles as he waves a tiny spoon in the air.

“he reminds me so much of myself.”

ma-ri, always curious, tilts her head.

“what were ur aunties like while growing up?”

dae-ho leans back, a fond smile on his lips.

“they were amazing. they were tough, smart, and they looked out for me. i was spoiled rotten, but they also didn’t let me get away with everything. sometimes I was used as their dress up doll.. but i was lucky to have them.”

young-mi, who had been quiet while eating, perks up.

“soooo… does that mean ji-sung is lucky too?”

you laugh softly, reaching to smooth down ji-sung’s soft hair.

“oh, he’s very lucky. he has three big sisters who love him just as much.”

yeong-ja grins, puffing out her chest proudly.

“of course! we have to protect him.”

dae-ho chuckles. “but you know, ji-sung won’t have to be all ‘tough guy’ when he grows up. he can talk about his feelings, he can be gentle, and he never has to hide who he is. just like you girls.”

ma-ri nods enthusiastically.

“yeah! boys can have tea parties too.”

dae-ho smirks, wiping some mashed potatoes off of ji-sung’s cheek.

“that’s right. and i love tea parties. i think we should have one this weekend.”

young-mi gasps.

“yes! i’ll set everything up!”

as the girls excitedly plan their next tea party, you smile, watching the way dae-ho interacts with them so effortlessly, so full of love.

he looks up and catches your gaze, his expression softening.

“you know this but,” you say, playing with your fork. “i grew up as an only child. having a big family like this is so new to me… but i love it so much.”

dae-ho reaches over, squeezing your hand gently.

“me too.”

ji-sung coos from his high chair, and as if on cue, young-mi wipes his mouth in the exact same way you do. yeong-ja and ma-ri continue chatting animatedly, and dae-h realizes—this is what happiness looks like.

se-mi x you

parenting styles:

you and se-mi are the same in many ways.

both soft, loving, and full of humor.

your home is always warm, filled with laughter and gentle affection.

you both vowed from the moment you adopted lee-an that she would always know love, always feel safe, and always have a family to rely on.

you encourage her curiosity, letting her explore and learn at her own pace, always there to cheer her on with open arms.

how many kids?:

just one, lee-an.

she came into your lives when she was only three months old, after se-mi’s close friend (lee-an's mom) passed away.

you and se-mi took her in without hesitation, knowing you would give her the life her mother would have wanted.

what does lee-an look like, whats her personality?:

she looks just like her biological mother.

dark hair, bright almond-shaped eyes, and the sweetest dimples that make her smile absolutely contagious.

lee-an is the happiest baby.

she is always smiling, always giggling, and always ready to charm everyone around her.

fearless in the best way, always eager to explore and try new things.

she loves food too.

if there’s something to eat, she’s interested.

you and se-mi sit on the floor, watching as lee-an clutches the couch with her tiny fingers, her little feet wobbling as she shifts her weight.

at this point, she is ten months old. she is soon to be walking.

“she’s thinking about it,”

se-mi whispers, her hand lightly resting on your knee.

you nod, smiling.

“she’s been cruising along the furniture for weeks. maybe today’s the day.”

lee-an glances between the two of you, her dimpled cheeks rising as she gives you a toothy grin.

then, her attention shifts to se-mi, who is holding an apple in her hand.

“ooh,” se-mi coos, wiggling the fruit playfully.

“do you want this, baby!?”

lee-an’s eyes go wide, her excitement bubbling over as she lets out a happy squeal.

then, without thinking, she lets go of the couch.

your breath catches as her chubby legs take their first shaky steps forward, one foot, then another, her arms outstretched for balance.

“that’s it, baby!” you cheer.

“keep going, lee-an!” se-mi encourages, her voice full of pride.

lee-an giggles, her steps uneven but determined.

she stumbles a little, but she doesn’t fall. the girl's baby eyes stay locked on the apple, her motivation clear.

step by step, she makes her way toward se-mi’s lap.

by the time she finally reaches her, she plops down with a victorious huff, grabbing onto se-mi’s knee.

se-mi laughs, running a hand through lee-an’s soft hair.

“you did it, sweetheart!”

you lean in, pressing a kiss to her round cheek.

“so proud of you, baby.”

lee-an giggles loudly, her tiny hands reaching for the apple. se-mi hands it to her, and she immediately takes a messy bite, her whole face lighting up.

you and se-mi exchange a glance, both of you filled with overwhelming love.

“our little girl is walking,” se-mi murmurs.

you smile, wrapping an arm around her.

“and she’s only just getting started.”

park gyeong-seok x you

parenting styles:

gyeong-seok naturally leans into more traditional parenting.

he assumes that parents always know best and sometimes struggles to admit when he’s wrong.

he has a strong sense of responsibility and believes in structure, discipline, and respect.

you, on the other hand, follow newer, more loving methods.

you believe in understanding emotions, validating feelings, and talking through issues rather than just enforcing rules.

despite the 12 year difference between the couple, you and gyeong-seok both balance each other out.

gyeong-seok is learning to be more flexible, and you sometimes let him take the lead when it’s needed.

what matters most is that your home is always full of love.

how many kids?:

you came into the relationship with hana, your seven year old daughter, when you met gyeong-seok during the games.

gyeong-seok had na-yeon, his three-year-old daughter from a past relationship.

when your families merged, the two girls became inseparable.

it was like they had always been sisters.

what do your daughters look like?:

hana looks exactly like you.

same features, same expressions, same smile.

na-yeon, on the other hand, takes after her biological mother, but as she grows, she picks up so many of your mannerisms that people often assume she’s biologically yours.

what are their personalities?:

hana, despite resembling you in looks, starts adopting gyeong-seok’s sense of responsibility and protectiveness.

she is always watching out for na-yeon, making sure she’s safe and taken care of. sometimes she’s a little too protective, but it comes from love.

na-yeon is full of energy and warmth.

she adores her family and has picked up your habit of always checking in on people.

she asks, “are you okay?” even over the smallest things.

if one of them gets scolded for something unsafe, the other one is immediately upset, standing by her sister’s side against you and gyeong-seok.

the house is quiet, save for the soft hum of the shower running in the bathroom. gyeong-seok glances at the clock...bedtime.

he sighs, rubbing his face before turning to the two girls sitting on the couch, clearly fighting off sleep.

“alright, time for bed,”

he announces, standing up.

hana groans.

“but—”

“no buts,” gyeong-seok says, scooping na-yeon into his arms. she immediately clings to him, resting her head against his shoulder.

“you’ll thank me in the morning.”

hana sighs dramatically but follows, rubbing her eyes as they head upstairs.

the girls’ shared room is warm and cozy, decorated in soft pink and sage green tones. their beds sit on opposite sides of the room, identical in design but decorated with their own personal touches.

hana’s with her stuffed animals lined up neatly, na-yeon’s with her favorite bunny plush tucked under the blanket.

gently, gyeong-seok places na-yeon in her bed, tucking the blanket up to her chin before turning to do the same for hana.

he brushes her hair back, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead.

“goodnight,” he murmurs.

hana mumbles a tired response, already half-asleep.

before leaving, he remembers na-yeon’s medicine.

he heads to the kitchen, grabs the small bottle, and returns...only to find that na-yeon is no longer in her bed.

instead, she has climbed into hana’s, curling up right beside her sister.

gyeong-seok raises an eyebrow, walking over to the bed. hana hasn’t stirred, still deep in sleep, while na-yeon blinks up at him sleepily.

“why aren’t you in your bed?” he asks, kneeling down.

na-yeon shifts, hugging her bunny plush close before whispering,

“safe.”

gyeong-seok’s chest tightens.

usually, he’d remind na-yeon to sleep in her own bed, to give hana space.

hana doesn’t seem to mind...her arm is loosely wrapped around na-yeon, holding her close even in sleep.

with a small smile, gyeong-seok smooths na-yeon’s hair.

“alright. just for tonight.”

na-yeon hums in contentment, her eyes slipping shut.

leaning against the doorway, you watch the scene unfold, a soft smile on your lips.

gyeong-seok catches your eye, shaking his head fondly before standing up and walking toward you.

“you’re soft,” you tease in a whisper.

he exhales, running a hand through his hair.

“what can i do? they’ve got me wrapped around their fingers.”

you press a kiss to his shoulder, warmth blooming in your chest as you both watch your daughters sleep.

cho sang-woo x you

parenting styles:

sang-woo is laid-back but firm when it comes to discipline.

he expects responsibility and effort from the kids, but he never raises his voice.

he believes in teaching them rather than punishing them.

you, being seventeen years younger than sangwoo, have all the energy in the world for your kids.

you’re the one running to every sports event, helping with every school project, and making sure they have the most fun childhood possible.

together, you and sang-woo balance each other out. while he’s the rational, calm parent.

you bring warmth, excitement, and emotional support.

how many kids?:

the both of you have twins!

eun-ho is the boy. younger by one hour.

eun-ji is the girl. older by one hour.

what does eun-ho and eun-ji look like? what are their personalities?:

both twins resemble you more than sang-woo.

however, eun-ho has distinct features that remind everyone of his paternal grandmother.

eun-ji is the spitting image of you, often mistaken for your younger self in old photos.

both kids are extremely smart.

eun-ho is more logical and precise, while eun-ji is clever and adaptive.

eun-ho is more english and history smart.

eun-ji is more math and science smart.

they inherited their kindness from their grandmother, who loves them deeply.

eun-ho is quieter and more reserved, while eun-ji is bold and quick-thinking.

despite their differences, they are inseparable and always help each other out.

the kitchen table is covered with notebooks, pencils, and scattered worksheets.

the twins sit across from each other, identical expressions of frustration on their faces.

“ugh,” eun-ji groans, dropping her pencil.

“i don’t get it.”

the eleven year olds huff, with eun-ho pushing his glasses up his nose.

“me neither. this is the hardest question ever.”

sang-woo, who had just finished reviewing some work, looks over and leans in.

“let me see.”

eun-ji immediately slides her worksheet over.

“this one. it makes no sense.”

eun-ho nods.

“we tried everything, but it’s just not clicking.”

sang-woo studies the problem for a moment before explaining it in a way that makes sense.

clear, concise, and just challenging enough for them to figure it out on their own.

he guides them through it, asking the right questions, making them think.

after a few moments, eun-ji’s eyes widen.

“wait… wait, i get it!”

eun-ho’s fingers fly across the paper, scribbling down numbers.

“i got the answer! is this right?”

sang-woo smiles subtly.

“let’s see.” he checks the work, then nods. “perfect.”

both twins light up before suddenly launching themselves at sang-woo, hugging him tightly.

“you’re the smartest, dad!” eun-ji says, squeezing him.

“seriously, how do you know everything?” eun-ho adds, looking up at him in admiration.

sang-woo chuckles, rubbing their backs.

“i don’t know everything,” he humbly replies, “but I do know this.”

you, watching from the doorway, smile at the sight. seeing your kids adore sang-woo, seeing him soak in their love despite his usual reserved nature, makes your heart swell.

“you’re such a nerd,” you tease, walking over and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

sang-woo smirks.

“and yet, you married me.”

the twins groan playfully at the affection, but they’re still beaming as they return to their homework, feeling accomplished..

namgyu x you

parenting styles:

namgyu is a free-range parent.

he doesn’t believe in too much discipline and prefers to let seo-hoo explore the world on his own terms.

whenever seo-hoo asks for something, namgyu’s immediate response is, “ask your mom,” because he doesn’t like making final decisions.

he fully trusts you to be the responsible one.

despite his laid-back approach, he is incredibly loving and present in seo-hoo’s life, always ready to play, teach, and encourage him.

you, on the other hand, provide the structure, making sure seo-hoo grows up responsible while still being able to enjoy his free-spirited nature.

how many kids?:

just one, seo-hoo.

the energetic, mischievous six-year-old son namgyu and you have who is the light of both your lives.

what does seo-hoo look like? what is his personality?:

he looks just like you, from his eyes to his facial expressions.

the only trait he got from namgyu physically is the way he smiles.

a wide, bright grin that makes it impossible to stay mad at him.

he is all of namgyu’s energy bottled into a tiny body.

seo-hoo is always moving, always curious, and never stays in one place for too long.

honestly, you might want to get your son checked for hyperactive ADHD.

he loves playing sports, especially soccer, because it’s something he shares with namgyu.

sea-hoo is naturally confident, not afraid to try new things, and sometimes takes risks he probably shouldn’t.

you arrive home from work, pushing the front door open only to hear soft murmurs coming from the living room.

“okay, okay, stay still, buddy,”

namgyu’s voice says gently.

curious, you step inside and see your six-year-old son, seo-hoo, sitting on the couch with his leg propped up on a pillow.

namgyu is kneeling in front of him, his brows furrowed in deep concentration as he carefully dabs alcohol on a small scrape on seo-hoo’s knee.

seo-hoo winces.

“owww, it stings!”

namgyu blows on the wound immediately.

“i know, little man, but it’ll be over soon. just gotta get all the bad stuff out, then i’ll put the coolest spiderman bandaid on it.”

seo-hoo pouts, still wiggling his foot.

“promise?”

namgyu grins.

“i swear on all the ice cream in the fridge.”

you lean against the doorway, watching as namgyu applies the bandaid with more care than you’ve ever seen him use for anything else.

he gently pats seo-hoo’s leg, making sure the bandaid sticks properly before sitting back.

“all done. see? you survived.”

seo-hoo examines the blue and red bandaid like it’s a badge of honor.

“do i look cool?”

namgyu laughs.

“so cool. i bet all your friends are gonna ask where you got it.”

finally stepping forward, you clear your throat, making both of them look up.

“what happened?”

namgyu rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“uh… we were playing soccer outside, and he went for this huge kick..”

“it was awesome, mom,” seo-hoo chimes in.

“like boom! but then I fell.”

you sigh, shaking your head, but there’s no real frustration behind it.

“you okay now, baby?”

seo-hoo nods, proudly pointing at his bandaid.

“dad fixed me.”

you glance at namgyu, who shrugs, trying to play it cool, but there’s warmth in his eyes. even though he always jokes about not being the ‘responsible’ parent, you see it—the way he pays attention, the way he takes care of your son in the most genuine ways.

you walk over, pressing a kiss to seo-hoo’s head before leaning down to kiss namgyu’s cheek.

“you did good.”

namgyu huffs a laugh.

“don’t sound so surprised.”

you roll your eyes, but when you see the small, proud smile on his lips as he watches seo-hoo bounce excitedly on the couch, your heart swells.

he might not always think of himself as the responsible parent, but you know the truth... he’s the most caring dad in the world.

the salesman x you

parenting styles:

the salesman is always busy with work, rarely home during the day,

he makes sure his family has everything they need.

he contributes 100% financially, ensuring that you and the kids live comfortably.

you, on the other hand, handle the everyday parenting, making sure your children grow up to be kind, humble, and well-grounded despite their wealth.

the salesman is more of an enigma to the kids.

present in their lives, but not always physically there.

when he is, though, he makes sure they feel loved.

how many kids?:

three in total.

ho-joon is the oldest son, being sixteen years old.

jae-hoon is the middle son, being twelve years old .

ji-woo is the youngest, being the only girl, only ten years old.

what does ho-joon, jae-hoon, and ji-woo look like? what are their personalities?

all three kids take after their father.

the salesman’s genes are just that strong.

sharp, defined features, dark hair, and the same quiet, intense eyes.

they all inherited his reserved nature.

none of them are loud or overly expressive, but they carry themselves with quiet confidence.

ho-joon is naturally more responsible, often looking out for his younger siblings.

jae-hoon prefers to do his own thing, not overly attached to his family but still respects and loves them.

ji-woo is the softest, the most reserved, and the most attached to you, preferring your presence over anyone else's.

it is a quiet afternoon when ho-joon, jae-hoon, and ji-woo were walking home together after school, the late sun casting warm light over the streets.

as they strolled past a familiar row of shops, ho-joon suddenly noticed a familiar figure walking into a pastry shop.

he stopped in his tracks.

“dad?” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes at the man in the sleek black suit disappearing into the storefront.

jae-hoon followed his gaze.

“huh? guess he’s not working right now.”

without hesitation, ho-joon took the lead, holding the door open for his younger siblings as they all stepped inside.

the scent of freshly baked pastries filled the air, and there, standing by the counter, was their father, scanning the selection of treats.

when he turned and saw his three children standing before him, a rare, genuine smile spread across his face.

“ah,” the salesman hummed, amused.

“i wasn’t expecting to see you all here? I'm guessing you guys were walking home from school.”

ji-woo’s small hand gripped ho-joon’s sleeve as she stayed close, peeking up at her father with big, quiet eyes.

ho-joon crossed his arms.

“we caught you sneaking around.”

jae-hoon smirked.

“are you on a secret mission, dad?”

the salesman chuckled, shaking his head.

“something like that.” he turned to the worker behind the counter.

“let’s get them whatever they want.”

ji-woo, who had been clinging to her older brother, suddenly brightened.

“really?”

he gave her a soft nod, and the kids wasted no time picking out their favorite pastries.

once they were settled at a corner table, the salesman took a seat with them, hands folded neatly on the table.

“so,” ho-joon started, taking a bite of his treat, “what do you actually do for work?”

jae-hoon leaned forward.

“yeah. we never really asked you or mom before.”

the salesman smirked, tilting his head slightly.

“it’s classified.”

ho-joon huffed.

“figures.”

ji-woo, swinging her legs under the chair, looked up at him with innocent curiosity.

“but you take care of us?”

his expression softened.

“of course.” he reached out, ruffling her hair.

“everything i do is to make sure you’re all comfortable and happy.”

the kids exchanged glances. they weren’t stupid...they knew whatever their father did wasn’t normal.

at the same time, they never had to worry about anything.

they had a nice home, good education, get whatever they want, and have a life many people could only dream of.

“we know,” ho-joon finally said, leaning back in his chair.

“and we appreciate it.”

the salesman smiled again, something rare and genuine.

“i love you all. you know that, right?”

ji-woo immediately nodded.

“i know, dad.”

jae-hoon smirked.

“you could say it more often, though.”

ho-joon nudged him.

“shut up, he’s trying.”

the salesman let out a small chuckle, shaking his head.

as they finished their pastries, he checked the time before standing.

“come on. i’ll make sure you all get home safely,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket.

they walked together, the salesman taking slow strides beside them.

he wasn’t home often, but moments that were quiet, and personal with his children.. were what kept him going.

happy valentine's day <3 I hope you enjoyed :)

𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑡𝑤𝑜

this took sixteen days to complete.

[teaboot]

So this might be a bit of a dumb question, but I thought I’d ask you because I agree with most of your takes and because you studied fashion.

I graduate this fall, and I don’t know what I’m going to wear to the ceremony. Our school has these green robes so I wanted to wear something to go with them. A lot of the graduates wear white dresses, but I’m not sure I want to because some of them don’t feel formal enough for the occasion. I’ve struggled a lot in my college career, so I wanted to pick something celebratory. I’m just not sure where to start to find something that I like and that will suit me.

I’d also like to get something from a small business, if possible. I’ve visited a few department stores in search of formalwear and I’ve found that 1) things don’t fit me because I’m 4'10'' and 120 lb and 2) I generally don’t like the way they look. I’ve considered Etsy because my roommate who just graduated got a skirt from a seller that looked really nice, but I keep running into the problem of not knowing what I want.

If this is weird, please ignore and I’m really sorry. I just feel a bit lost. Thank you for your time!

ooooooughh that’s a toughie

I think a big factor would be how formal you’re planning to go- are we talking ball gown, black tie event, expensive restaurant, Sunday at church��?

Not knowing your build but going off your description, you’re lucky in that pretty much anything you wear is more likely to be too big than too small, and it’s much easier to cinch or belt or bring in the hem of a garment than it is to let it out. Being petite, you can rely a lot on accessories to bring your look together, and accessories can go a long way in elevating an otherwise plain look.

White dress is a cute idea, though I may aim for off-white just to avoid looking bridal unless it’s a uniform event or a school colours thing. A warm eggshell or cream looks good on most people.

If you’re going to be wearing a robe though, I wouldn’t worry too much about the dress- not unless you want fancy cuffs or collar or hem visible. In which case, a nice blouse with a belted maxi or midi skirt could be a good idea, if a little old-fashioned.

As for specific retailers, I fully encourage Etsy stores with good reviews, though I would add a note to your order if something is urgent or has specific measurements or requirements or alterations. And some styles are safer than others when it comes to sizing- being broad-shouldered myself, I always gravitate to wrap dresses or wrap tops, just ‘cause they enhance a curvy figure while still having plenty of room for error in sizing.

I know this didn’t really help with specifics, but maybe hopefully gave you some ideas…?

(one sec, gonna update this with images so you know what kind of tops/dresses I’m referring to)

UPDATE:

When I say “wrap dress”, I mean something like these- Conservative enough to be professional, but light and breezy enough for a long summer ceremony. Ideally in a light cotton or linen blend, and something you can reuse for other events over and over in the future (the second is a bit bright for me but that’s close to the hem I mean- though I personally prefer the first.) Being petite and slim, you’re double lucky in that you could probably pull off an empire waist too if you like for that floaty, ethereal look- busty people like me often just end up looking pregnant.

As for blouses, these are great and can be super crazy, depending on how far you wanna go

You’ll be depending on the collar and sleeves to do most of the legwork here, so you can have a lot of fun with them. The skirt though should be at least lower calf-length to balance the whole thing out.

Thinking like

Cute, retro, somewhat formal, and you can keep wearing the pieces instead of a big gown that ends up in the back of a closet forever. (I’ve lived a broke life, vintage styles like this are fantastic for the longevity and penny-pinching that I look for)

But with robes on, the biggest parts of your outfit will be neckline and hemline, so whatever you end up going with, focus there.

Also, shoes go in and out of style constantly, and it’s going to be a LONG fucking day, so if you want to wear heels I’d go with a closed-toe almond fit with a low heel, ideally on the thicker side, and in black, or at least some other neutral colour to avoid taking up attention. Unless you can get the exact shade of green as your school colours, in which case that would be pretty neat too, but black may be your best bet.

comme ça:

If there’s any inspo images you have on hand or particular styles you feel suit you personally, I could find something more suited to your tastes, but these are basically my go-tos.

Traditional timeless and comfy, and either long-lasting or functional enough to be worn over and over again, dressed up or down to the occasion.

Hope I could help?

And congratulations! :D

[dollyzdaydreamz]

Jack Marston x Reader

Once Upon a Time in the West

Description: Orphaned at 14 and desperate to find a way to make ends meet, you stumble upon a boy struggling to build a fence at a ranch called Beecher's hope. Little did you know your unsolicited building advice would land you with a job at the ranch. You become the best of friends, only for life to tug you away. Years later, the 'mysterious' death of a certain government agent brings you back to Blackwater.

(SFW, fluff, angst, friends to lovers)

Warnings: mentions of death, alcoholism, depression.

6k words bc i didn't feel like making separate chapters. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

The wind carried the scent of freshly cut timber and sun-warmed earth as you rode through the valley aimlessly. The land stretched vast and golden before you, the rolling fields dotted with cattle and fenced enclosures. You rented a hotel room in Blackwater with the spare money you had, spent hours asking anyone and everyone if they were hiring only to be met with the same answer. You figured a stroll around the area would clear your head. Your horse trotted steadily, hooves crunching against the dry dirt road as you approached a homestead marked,

Beecher’s Hope.

You were met with the sight of a young boy around your age, hammering away at a fence post with all the grace of a drunkard. He adorned a worn striped shirt and gray vest, his hair cut short, freckles dusting his face. He looked well off, at least compared to yourself, clad in a torn up dress and muddled boots. 

You pulled your horse to a stop, watching as he drove a nail into the wood at an angle that would surely give way in a few months.

With a sigh, you swung yourself off your horse and approached him from outside the fence. You shifted, watching him struggle before one final smack of the hammer against the wood plank finally tempted you to speak,

“That fence is gonna collapse if you keeping hammering it like that.”

The boy startled, nearly dropping the hammer in his hands. He turned sharply to face you, small dark eyes squinting and thin brows furrowed in suspicion. “Who're you?”

You shrugged, “Nobody.”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Well, ‘Nobody,’ I don’t need help.” He went back to hammering, but you remained where you stood.

A moment passed before you held out your hand expectantly, 

“Come on, just hand it over."

The boy looked at you with suspicion, before passing the hammer despite himself, “What, you some kind of carpenter?”

“No, but my father was.”

The words slipped out before you could catch them, your mind briefly clouding over at images of his tombstone. He hesitated, his earlier annoyance softening into something more uncertain.

“Your folks know you’re out here?” he asked.

“They’re dead.”

You spoke absently, focusing instead on fixing his shoddy work. The silence that followed was thick. He shifted awkwardly, staring at the dirt before mumbling, “Oh. Uhm… I’m sorry.”

You only nodded, hands deftly straightened the plank before nailing it in place

“I guess that looks better, thank you," He cleared his throat, "for helpin' me, I mean."

"No problem," you replied, giving the fence a once-over before your gaze caught something on the ground beside him 

You bent down, picking it up, “What’s this?”

The boy’s pale face turned a shade of pink, “Oh, that’s–it’s nothing.”

You suppressed a chuckle at his awkwardness, you were no charmer yourself, but you figured he hadn't much experience talking to people, seeing as there weren't any other kids around.

You flipped it over, inspecting the worn cover. “A western?”

“It’s…stupid,” he muttered, scuffing his boot against the dirt.

“I love westerns,” You mused.

He seemed to perk up a bit, “Really?” 

“Sure,” you smiled, flipping through the pages, “I used to have a ton of these back home.” 

The boy scratched the back of his neck, shifting back and forth for a moment, “You can have it, if you want.”

You grinned, tucking the book into the bag on your saddle.

“Thanks, uh-"

“Jack,” he said, “Jack Marston.”

You mounted your horse, “I’ll make sure to bring it back to you, Jack Marston.”

With not much to do, you returned a few times after that, sometimes watching Jack work on things from behind the fence, other times offering unsolicited advice.

“That beam’s not level.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“No you don’t.”

Jack would groan, mutter something under his breath, but inevitably, he’d adjust whatever you pointed out or let you take the reins altogether.

“So, you do all this stuff at home too?” he asked, stepping aside as you fixed the wheel on a broken wagon.

You laughed, shaking your head, “Don’t have one, not anymore at least.” Your parents were so neck deep in loans, the bank had taken everything away before their bodies even hit the ground.

Jack’s expression sobered slightly, but he nodded, filing that piece of information away without prying.

The next time you rode up to Beecher’s Hope, you noticed Jack standing stiffly beside an older man. He was tall, skin weathered under Blackwater's sun which only emphasized the lighter scars across his face. He had the same dark and deep set eyes as the boy next to him.

You approached, despite feeling a bit nervous under his firm stare, “Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon,” he smiled, tipping his hat, “I’m John, the boy’s father.”

You nodded, glancing between them. “Figured you were. You two look a lot alike.”

John snorted, giving Jack’s shoulder a rough pat, “Poor kid.”

“Pa," Jack griped.

You looked to Jack who avoided your gaze, suddenly finding the dirt beneath him very interesting. Maybe he told his father about you, maybe he was here to shoo you off like everyone else did. "My son here tells me your fairly decent at fixin' things, and I’d love to hire you if you're interested.” You were torn from your thoughts, a job? You couldn’t remember the last time anyone gave you a chance at finishing your sentence let alone give you a job offer.

“Wait-really?” You asked, looking at him like he'd grown two heads.

“Really,” John replied before he hesitated for a moment, “but I ain’t sure about our extra hand bein’ a little girl. I mean, what’re you, twelve?” "Fourteen. If you’re anything like your son, you’re gonna need a lot more than an extra hand.” You chuckled, motioning to Jack who sputtered while John barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You got some nerve, kid.”

“So, you hirin’?” You asked, clasping your hands together, trying your best to contain your excitement.

John looked at you for a moment, before relenting, “What the hell,” he extended his hand, “We’ll clear out a room for you. You can move in soon as it’s ready.”

You took his hand, “Thank you, Mr. Marston.”

You hurried toward your horse, mounting it before looking at Jack, 

“Sorry for throwin' you under the bus Jack, but hey, it worked!” You grinned.  

"Sure did," John mused, placing a playfully rough hand on Jack's shoulder.

Jack huffed, as he rolled his eyes and shrugged him off. 

As you rode off, John turned to his son, “I like her! That attitude...she's gonna give you a hard time, son.”

“I hope not,” Jack exhaled as they head back into the house.

Life at Beecher’s Hope quickly settled into a rhythm, one that felt strangely comforting despite the unfamiliarity of it all. Mornings began with the golden sun spilling over the horizon, its warmth chasing away the chill of dawn. 

You would wake early, often beating Jack to the barn. The both of you bickered over who did daily chores the best, often asking John to choose and he’d dismiss you both, muttering about how he’s getting too old for this. 

John quickly learned that, despite his initial reservations, you were more than capable.

He’d often find you working on the things he told you not to in case you'd 'mess it up', shaking his head in amusement when you proved to be just as stubborn as he was.

“Y’know, I was worried about bringin’ you on. Thought maybe you’d up and run off after seeing the workload," He remarked one afternoon as you helped him shovel the barn, "Or Uncle," he added.

You chuckled, “it’s going to take a lot more than a lazy old drunk to get me out of here, Mister.”

He chuckled, giving you a playful jab as he went to fetch some more hay. 

Mrs. Marston, on the other hand, had taken to treating you like a daughter. When you weren’t outside helping John, she fussed about you needing to sit or lie down. It was nice having a motherly figure after being on your own for so long, but being as restless as you were, you insisted on keeping busy with her too.

“You’re makin' things real easy for us.” She grinned one evening as the two of you worked on fixing up some dinner. “And Jack’s taken a real liking to you.” She added quietly as you stirred the stew.

You glanced up, cheeks warming slightly, “Oh–well he’s a good friend...real smart too.”

“Mhm,” Abigail hummed, voice tinged with an amusement you tried your best to ignore.

Jack, true to his word, really had become one of your closest companions. In the evenings, when work was done and the sky was painted in shades of pink and orange, the two of you would race each other to the hillside near the house, books in hand. 

Sometimes you read aloud to one another, breaking into silly voices, other times you simply sat in comfortable silence, flipping through pages until the light outside dimmed.

“You’ ever thought about writing your own stories?” Jack asked one night as the two of you lay on your backs in the hayloft, staring at the rafters above.

You thought about it for a moment, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Jack sat up, “We can figure one out together?”

Just then a little memory came back to you,

“My Ma' and I used to play this game where we'd come up with stories by finishing each other's sentences."

“That sounds fun," Jack said.

"Yeah," you reminisced, before scooting closer, "Okay, you start.”

Jack nodded, eyes searching around as he thought for a moment, “Once upon a time in the West…” he began.

“There were two cowboys," you continued.

"And their names were…” Jack looked at you expectantly.

You paused, before snickering, “John and Uncle.” 

The two of you’d laugh your heads off over the hilariously awful protagonist duo, mustering up a fairly compelling plot if it weren't for the odd predicaments and crude dialogue sprinkled in between.

Your fun was interrupted when Abigail's piercing voice hollered at the both of you from the porch to come inside, scolding you two for staying out so late. The both of you would obey, entering the house straight faced, bursting out laughing the second she turned away. 

On warmer nights, you would stretch out in the grass just beyond the house, gazing up at the sky. The stars stretched across the heavens, twinkling in the dark like tiny beacons. Jack would point out constellations, his voice quiet as he recounted the stories behind them.

“This one here,” he murmured, tracing the shape of Orion’s Belt with his finger, “Pa’ used to tell me it was a hunter…”

He would ramble on about the ancient stories of the constellations, his voice fading into the hum of cicadas and crickets as the world grew darker around you, slipping into the comfort of your dreams.

2 years later...

“You know, you keep brushing that horse any harder, poor thing's gonna be bald.”

Jack scoffed, not even bothering to look up from the mare he was tending to, “Oh, I’m sorry, did I ask for an expert opinion?”

You smirked, dragging a brush through your own horse’s mane. You had half a mind to flick some hay at him, but you let it slide, for now.

For a few moments, the only sound was the steady strokes of brushes and the occasional rustle from the horses shifting in their stalls. It was comfortable, the back-and-forth, the both of you never letting the other get too comfortable. As fun as it was, things just felt calmer on that night.

Jack was the first to break the lull. “You ever think about the future, like ten years from now?”

You were caught off guard at the suddenness of the question but answered nonetheless, “I don’t even know what’s gonna happen ten days from now.”

He was quiet for a moment, running a hand down the mare’s neck as he glanced at you.

“I do,” he admitted. “I think about it a lot. See myself bein’ a lawyer.”

You blinked. Of all the things you expected him to say; writer, rancher, bounty hunter...a lawyer wasn’t one of them.

“A lawyer?”

“Why not," he shrugged, "Ma' always told me I'd be one cause I like reading and arguing,” he added, nudging you with his shoulder.

"Yeah, I guess that does makes sense," You considered.

"With all that money, I could take care of Ma and Pa. I can buy you a little work shack," he pondered, "Have our own carpenter on the ranch.” He chuckled.

You let out a small breath at his words, he was so optimistic, sometimes it bordered on naive, but the sentiment warmed your heart nonetheless.

A small laugh left you before you could stop it, "I'll be following in Uncle's footsteps, free loadin' off of y'all."

Jack looked at you pointedly and you snickered, “I’m only kiddin'.”

"You better be," Jack huffed, but there was no real heat behind the words.

You spoke after another moment of silence, “Never really thought about all that though. Guess I figured the future wasn’t really mine to think about.”

Jack stilled, “You don’t have to think that way. You’re gonna be here, with me.”

It was quick, unfiltered, and the second he realized what he’d just said, a flush crept up his neck. He turned away, suddenly very invested in adjusting the saddle on the mare.

If there was one thing both you and Jack feared, it was being alone, abandoned. He guessed that's what made him want to help you all those years ago,

“Really?” You asked.

“I’m not just gonna leave you.” he muttered with a shrug.

You felt a flush of your own creep up on your face, it was nice having someone who cared about you the way Jack did, “Thanks."

That was all you needed to say.

The both of you startled when you heard John clear his throat from behind you both.

Jack jumped so fast he nearly knocked over the bucket beside him. You turned, and there he was, leaning against the barn door, something somber in his eyes.

“Didn't mean to startle you two, but I need to talk to you,” John said as he approached.

You exchanged a glance with Jack before setting your brush aside, “What’s goin’ on?”

John sighed, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled out a folded letter, turning it over in his hands before finally looking at you, “Got a letter from a woman who claims to be your aunt. Says she’s been lookin’ for you.”

Your stomach twisted. 

“She lives near Strawberry now. Found out what happened to your folks and she wants to take you in.” He spoke carefully, as if not wanting to overwhelm you, “Plan on riding to her cabin and seeing if she’s safe, you know, right in the head and all.” He added, attempting to make you smile but your mind was elsewhere.

Your world, the one that had just started feeling stable, tilted all over again. Sure, you loved your aunt, she was kind to you growing up, but she was always moving around, 'free spirited' as your mother liked to put it. You sighed shakily, dreading the thought of having to start over again.

John looked at you with something almost apologetic in his eyes, before he gently wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “Let's talk some more in the house.”

You nodded, feeling Jack’s gaze on you, but were unable to meet it just yet. The future, once distant and uncertain, was suddenly pressing down on you, demanding yet another change you weren’t sure you were ready to make.

The morning air was crisp as you stood near the packed wagon. John was finishing up putting the last of your things in the back while Abigail, Uncle, and Jack gathered nearby to see you off.

You had come to terms with leaving. The Marston's had given you a home when you needed it most, and you would always be grateful, but you were eager to be with the last of your family. 

Still, the thought of leaving Jack stung the most. He had been your first real friend, and now, you weren’t sure when you’d see him again.

“Aw, come here,” Abigail murmured, pulling you out of your thoughts and into a tight embrace.

“Won’t have anyone to complain to about these boys anymore,” She chuckled as she pulled away, wiping the corners of her glistening eyes.

Uncle tutted, “You’ll do that with the girl gone anyway!"

Abigail smacked the old man on the shoulder as you and Jack shared a humorous look. As useless and odd as he was, you were going to miss Uncle. "Wagon's all packed," John grunted, easing himself up the steps to hold onto the reigns.

You nodded, about to leave when Jack stepped forward, “Here! I almost forgot,” he said.

You looked down to see him holding out a small, leather-bound journal, “For the trip. Don’t open it ‘til you get there.”

“Alright,” you took it carefully, before lightly tapping his chest with the book, “But you better write to me.”

He smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you promise to try and visit.”

You nodded, “I promise.”

With one last glance at them all, Abigail’s sad smile, Uncle’s lazy wave, and Jack’s uncertain look, you climbed into the wagon.

The journey to North was fairly quiet. Mr. Marston wasn’t much for conversation, but his presence was always calming. 

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, noticing you were quieter than usual, before speaking up, “You know, I know a thing or two about startin’ over. Hell, I’ve lived more lives than I can keep count of.”

He tutted, head tilting as if replaying the past few years over in his mind, "Took a while, but I found my place," he mused, before looking over at where you sat, "You will too, I know it."

“I hope so,” you said, looking at the trees whirring by.

When you finally arrived at your aunt’s house, she was already outside waiting, arms open and eyes shining with unshed tears.

After greeting her and brushing off her endless praise, John helped you unload, carrying your trunk inside.

When it came time for him to leave, you were unsure of how to convey all that was on your mind. You were going to miss him, his family, the ranch. You were grateful, scared, uncertain.

You opted for throwing your arms around his middle, hugging him tightly, not ready to let go just yet.

He stiffened for only a second before returning the embrace, patting your back gently as he sensed you're anxiety,

“Gonna be just fine, kid.” He murmured.

Although you felt a lump form in your throat, your muscles relaxed as you nodded. Mr. Marston knew what it was like to be in your shoes, always had a way of reminding you it wasn’t the end of the world. You were going to miss that.

After you pulled away, he tapped the brim of your hat with a deft hand, “You stay out of trouble now, Miss.”

You fixed your now crooked hat, “You too, Mr. Marston.”

He gave you a small salute before heading off, leaving you standing at the doorway of your new home before your aunt coaxed you to come inside and eat.

After settling in later that night, you finally pulled out that journal Jack had given you. Flipping it open, you grinned at the first few words on the first page, 

‘Once upon a time in the west there were two cowboys named John and Uncle…’

Followed by endless pages full of your shared stories, some silly, some a little more serious. Some had little sketches in the margins, others had notes about how he’d come up with an idea, all carefully written in Jack’s handwriting.

You ran your fingers over the ink, before plopping down on your bed to read the journal in it's entirety.

3 years later...

The night air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth as you sat on the porch beside your aunt, the distant rustling of trees filling the silence between you. 

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she noted, sipping from her tin cup. “Got something on your mind?”

You hesitated for a moment before sighing, glancing down at the warm tea cupped between your hands. “Just thinkin' about how beautiful this place is,” you admitted. “It’s peaceful. But-”

“But you still miss Blackwater,” she finished knowingly.

A sheepish smile tugged at your lips, “Yeah. It was desolate, sure, but it had its own charm y’know?”

Your aunt hummed in understanding, setting her cup down on the railing.

“I read something in the paper the other day,” she began, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Some government agent from Blackwater was shot dead. A Ross, I believe?”

Your breath caught in your throat and you turned sharply to your aunt, “What?”

She yawned, seemingly unaware of your inner turmoil, “Edgar Ross, I think it was? Paper said he was gunned down.”

Jack.

Your mind reeled back to the long-forgotten letters, the last few that you had sent without a reply. A quiet void had replaced his once-constant updates on Uncle's shenanigans, new books he’d read, and notes informing you that ‘Ma’ and Pa’ say Hi.’ 

You thought back to your aunt breaking the news to you, about Mr. and Mrs. Marston's death. An unbearable grief you hadn’t felt in the years since your parents' death had settled in your chest the day you learned they were really gone.

Jack had always admired the heroes in those dime novels, the men who avenged their fathers with unwavering conviction. If Jack had truly done this, if he had killed Ross, what did that mean for him now?

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady your voice, 

“Do you know anything else?” 

“Not much. They found his body near some riverbank.” She leaned back into her chair with a soft sigh,

“Whoever did it, I can’t say I blame ‘em."

You stared at her, startled. She glanced at you with a small, knowing smile,

"What goes around comes around, right?" She chuckled, taking another sip of her tea.

You looked away, your throat tightening as you turned your gaze back to the endless stretch of stars above.

A few weeks later your aunt had gone on a trip, so you decided to ride out to Blackwater while she was gone. You wanted to find out about Jack’s whereabouts from some of the locals first, not wanting to ride all the way to Beecher's Hope only to find it empty. After asking around and getting no clear answer, you decided to check the saloon though you hadn’t much hope he was going to be there. 

Laughter and drunken murmurs filled the air, the clatter of glasses punctuating the atmosphere. You weaved through the crowd, before sitting down at a table and scanning faces for what seemed like hours.

You got up and sighed in defeat. Then, just as you were about to turn around and leave, someone barreled into you. You flinched as a cold splash of liquor soaked into your coat sleeve.

“Watch it, lady!” A voice droned.

You bristled, looking up, “Excuse me?”

The man, taller, rough around the edges, looked down at you, eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. You could see the freckles dusting his nose, small beard covering his jaw. That voice is familiar, and his hat, isn’t that Mr. Marston’s? You thought.

His lips quirked up as he leaned in closer, breath reeking of liquor, "You know, look just like a girl I used to know!" he drawled over the saloons noise, words slurring together slightly.

You rolled your eyes, taking off your stained coat, "I bet I do."

"Your doin’ terrible things to my hormones, miss-Woah!"

He was cut off when you grabbed his wrist, dragging him towards the exit. You needed to get this boy in his right mind. Quickly, before any more god awful pick-up lines graced your ears.

"Someone's eager," He slurred, tripping over his feet.

“Eager to smack you," you muttered, pushing past a few curious onlookers, "We’re talkin’ outside.”

He staggered as you pulled him through the swinging saloon doors, the cool night air slapping you both in the face. 

Before he could get another word in, you took the hat off his head and gripped the long hair at the nape of his neck, before dipping his head into a bucket of water just outside the saloon doors. He sputtered, gasping for his breathe as you pulled him back up for a breather, "The hell! What’s wrong with you, Lady?!"

"It's not Lady!" you groan. He winced, trying to dodge your hand as you smacked his shoulder.

"It's me," you said, sharply gesturing to your face.

His breath hitched, Adam’s apple bobbing as recognition dawned on him, "I-you..." he trailed off.

You crossed your arms over your chest as you took his state in fully, eyes scanning him disapprovingly. You barely recognized him. His once-boyish face was hardened, sharper, with stubble covering his jaw and upper lip. His hair was longer, messier, his clothes wrinkled and worn like he hadn’t cared for them in weeks. And his eyes were dark and tired, swimming in hollowness.

“What are you doin’ here?” He asked, tone suddenly laced with annoyance.

“I could ask you the same,” you shot back. “I wrote to you! Why didn’t you answer me?”

Jack exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if the weight of your presence was too much, “Jesus,” he muttered, “I don’t know…I just—I didn’t think you’d—” He groaned, rubbing his soaked face as if still trying to catch up.

You held back, maybe you were being a bit harsh. After all, he was clearly unwell, and here you were berating him, “I'm—sorry for yelling,"

You took notice of the dark purple circles under his eyes, as he blinked rapidly to escape his haze.

"Let's just get you home, alright?"

His shoulders tensed.

It was like a switch flipped. Whatever confusion or vulnerability had cracked through, vanished in an instant.

His expression hardened, and he took a deliberate step back, shaking his head. “No. No, I don’t need this.”

“Need what?”

“This,” he snapped, gesturing wildly between you. “You showin’ up here, lookin’ at me like that, like you got some kinda right to fix me.”

Your brows furrowed. “I never said—”

Jack scoffed, jaw clenched. “I didn’t ask you to come here, alright? I don’t need your pity or advice—just leave me alone!”

You swallowed, before shaking your head. “Come on, you don’t mean that.”

Jack laughed, but it was hollow, bitter. “Yeah? Maybe I do.”

He turned, already stepping away. “Just—Go home, alright?”

He was halfway up the steps to the saloon, eager to disappear back into the dimly lit haze of liquor and forget this ever happened.

For a moment you thought to hell with it all, unable to see past the angry shell of a boy you used to know. But then you remembered how bitter you were when you lost everything, how Jack and his family seemingly put things back together.

And now, that same boy who’d ramble about the constellations till you fell asleep, the one who’d make you laugh over silly stories, and stammer over his words when he got nervous, had no one left.

The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them,

“I love you, you fool!”

Jack froze.

“I don’t care how much you don’t wanna see me,” you added quietly.

He turned to face you, expression unreadable.

You looked away, blinking back tears, “You said you weren’t gonna leave me, so I’m not gonna leave you either.”

Jack shifted back and forth, as if thinking of what to do now, before exhaling sharply as he walked past you without another word, heading toward the stables instead. You watched him go dejectedly, you knew you shouldn't have come here.

Suddenly, he turned around like he was half expecting you to follow him, faltering when he was met with the sight of you standing in the same spot.

“I know my backside’s real purdy, but maybe you can get a better look at if you actually follow me.” He said, though his tone was gentler than it was moments ago as he rested his hands on his hips.

You perked up a bit, realizing he wasn’t just sending you away, before shaking your head in amusement at his words.

“Where we going?” You asked quietly as the two of you mounted your horses.

“Home.” He grumbled, shooting you a half hearted glare.

“If you weren’t so drunk, I’d smack that attitude right out of you.” You huffed, spurring your horse on.

“I guess I’ll just stay drunk then!” he hollered from behind you.

In an odd way, your little verbal sparring match made things feel a little more like old times.

Beecher’s Hope was a graveyard of memories.

The fences had rotted, weeds tangled through the soil where crops used to be, and the barn doors hung open, swaying in the wind. It was silent now, save for the distant hoot of an owl and the occasional rustling of the trees. It was like ranch had died with Uncle and Mr. and Mrs. Marston. 

"Happy now?" He asked, motioning to the ranch.

“Jolly,” you muttered under your breath. 

You walked the barn as Jack released a heavy sigh, trailing behind you silently as you climbed up the barn ladder to the hayloft. 

He sat with his back against the wall, knees bent. For a while, the two of you just listened to the wind howl through the cracks in the barn walls.

Then you broke the silence.

“I heard about Ross.”

Jack’s jaw tensed, “Don't know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You raised an eyebrow, noticing the familiar way his dark eyes flitted around whenever he was fibbing, “You’re a terrible liar.”

His shoulders slumped, “Ain’t no way they’ll trace it back to me. I made sure.”

You studied him for a moment before sighing, “Did I ever tell you my parents were killed by a couple of thieves,” you asked. Jack turned to you then, looking fully sober for the first time that night,

“God, I just–I wanted them dead. Thought it’d make things right. But when I saw them hang, all I felt was empty and even angrier than before," you sighed, feeling your chest ache at the memory.

You tapped your boot with his, "But then I met you.”

Jack flushed a little under the brim of his hat, swallowing thickly as he kept his gaze down at his hands.

“I guess revenge isn't as glorious as those storybook heroes make it,” You pondered as you looked out the barn window.

Jacks voice was barely above a whisper, “Ma used to always say something like that that to Pa.”

He huffed, reminiscing her words, repeating them aloud, “Stop tryna be some damn storybook hero.” 

You chuckled, remembering her piercing voice and John's sarcasm.

“You really are like Mr. Marston.”

Jack scoffed, but there was a hint of a smile there, the one that made his eyes spark a bit, hidden beneath all that bitterness.

You grinned as memories of the two of them standing in front of you years ago flooded back, “I thought you’d stay scrawny forever, but now you’re bigger than he was. What the hell do they put in the beer at that saloon?”

Jack groaned, suppressing the grin tugging at his lips as he took off his hat and ruffled his hair tiredly, “I don't know, but it's got a hell of a hold on me."

You sat up a little, “You won't even have time think about that saloon anymore."

Jack furrowed his brows, looking at you in confusion. "We're starting work on this place tomorrow, so I'm hoping you finally learned how to build,” You clarify, giving him a pointed look.

Jack huffed, “How couldn’t I? With you annoyin' me about it all the ti—.”

You quickly gripped the hat sitting on his lap and began whacking him with it as he dodged you, apologizing through breathy chuckles—you had missed that sound.

You finally relented as the two of you let out the last of your giggles, “That was for all those nasty pick up lines at the bar.”

“Sorry,” Jack muttered quietly, face flushing a little.

“I mean, seriously, where the hell’d you learn all that?” You tutted.

“Uncle,” Jack grumbled, “I only remember all the gross stuff he taught me when I’m out of it.”

“I can tell,” you chuckled softly.

He yawned, running a hand down his face.

“You wanna head to the house?” you ask, ready to get up, but he grabbed your arm lightly to stop you. 

“No, I'm good. I mean—I don’t sleep too well anyways.” He admitted, avoiding your gaze. You felt a little jab of sympathy go through your chest at his confession.

Without a word, you reached into your bag and pulled out a book, flipping to the first page,

“Let’s read,” you murmured, laying down to plop your head on a small bail of hay, “Like we used to.”

Jack hesitated, still stiff.

You turned to the first page before looking at him expectantly, “You're just going to sit there and stare?"

With a reluctant sigh, he laid back beside you, shifting uncomfortably as he kept a careful distance. But as you began reading, he felt himself relax.

The words blurred together, your voice a gentle hum in the quiet night. He fought it at first, but sleep crept up on him, tugging his eyelids lower and lower until his head slumped against your shoulder.

By the time you reached the end of the first chapter, Jack had finally let go. His breath evened out, the tension in his body easing as exhaustion won out. 

You glanced down at him, his breath steady, scowl fading away as the faintest trace of peace settled over his face. He looked better like this, closer to the boy you used to know.

You yawned, closing your eyes and falling into a deep sleep of your own.

The morning light filtered through the cracks in the barn, casting long streaks of gold over the hay-strewn floor. Jack stirred sluggishly, his body heavy with sleep, head pounding and mind foggy from exhaustion.

For a moment, he almost believed it had all been a dream. That you'd never come back and just about poured your heart out to him, that he’d just drank too much and fantasized the whole damn thing.

But then he felt it, a warm weight on his chest.

His eyes cracked open, and there you were, head resting right over his heart.

Jack stilled, barely breathing. Then he sighed, trying to calm the hammering of his heart under your head.

After a moment, he craned his head a little to look down at you, observing in detail now that the cloudiness of the alcohol had worn off.

You’d grown, filled out your features beautifully, but in so many ways, you were still the same girl he was familiar with. Stubborn and too damn persistent for your own good.

Jack groaned as memories of the night before came flooding back. He had been such a drunken asshole back at the saloon and yet, you came back and…loved him.

He cursed himself for not saying it back right then and there. Though he couldn't understand why a girl like you saw anything in him, he knew he felt the same way.

I’ll just have to find the right moment to say it back. He thought to himself.

————

Four Weeks Later…

Jack hadn’t touched a bottle in weeks. It wasn’t easy, particularly in the first few days. When he wasn't sluggishly moving around, he was abrasive. One day he snapped out of nowhere at the slightest disagreement, only to be overwhelmed by guilt right after seeing you wince slightly before walking off to tend the animals.

You knew it was probably a mixture of the withdrawals and grief, so you'd distance yourself on those days, but it hurt nonetheless. Jack never got that way in the past, sure you bickered, but he always made sure to not cross the line or raise his voice.

He made it up to you by rising early and getting a head start on his share of work so he could finish yours by noon. He even walked to a nearby lake where a few Lillies grew, plucking a few and leaving them on the table for you. He’d shrug, saying he just so happened to 'have the extra time' when you'd thank him.

Now, there was hardly any time to sit and dwell on the past. His body was sore in ways he hadn’t felt in years, but his mind felt clearer than it had in a long time and the ranch was beginning to look as lively as it did before. He had even gone back to reading, something he’d neglected in his haze of grief.

He sat on the porch, squinting as he read his book under afternoon sun. It was a romance, not something he normally reached for, but he liked it.

Maybe it was because protagonists reminded him of the two of you. Two childhood friends who drifted apart only to find each other again years later. There was something comforting about it, something familiar.

“Come on, Jack! These fences ain’t gonna fix themselves.”

Jack set the book aside, “You ever think maybe they should? Damn things break every other week.”

You shot him a look. “And whose fault is that?”

Jacked rolled his eyes but followed you out anyway.

You worked side by side, driving nails into wood, replacing broken beams.

You were giving him grief about a crooked post when Jack paused, leaning against it with an amused smile, "I was going to say this reminds me of when we met, but I don't remember you being this insufferable.” “That's funny because you're just as useless as I remember," You retorted, taking the hammer from him.

Jack took notice to the way you bit the inside of your lip to hide a grin. He definitely noticed the way his heart lurched when your hand accidentally brushed against his, the way the air between you felt heavier than it used to.

By the time you finished, it was growing dark. Jack leaned against the post, exhaling slowly. You did the same, standing just close enough for your shoulders to touch. As he watched the sun dipping below the horizon, setting the sky ablaze with reds and golds, casting the endless fields in front of him in a similar hue, he thought to what his father told him years ago when he'd first moved here. "There's a lot of ugly in this world. But there sure as hell is a lot of beauty! You'll see it better when you get older. It's tough at your age. Just land and light. But to me it's...it's life." It's life.

For the first time, he was beginning to understand what that meant. He was torn from his thoughts when you broke the silence,

"Saw you reading a book earlier, what's it about?"

He huffed, “A romance, if you can believe that.”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the thought of his broody self reading a romance.

"Well do you wanna know or not?" Jack asked exasperatedly.

"I'm sorry, continue—please," you said, regaining your composure. He rolled his eyes, gaze fixed on the sunset. “It’s about these two childhood friends. Went their separate ways, and ended up finding each other again.”

You glanced at him, teasing smile faltering just a little, “Oh, that actually sounds nice.”

“It is," He nodded, swallowing thickly.

“I—I think I like it because…well,” He hesitated, tapping his fingers nervously against the wooden beam behind him, “It reminds me of us. The way they can’t help but come back to each other.”

Your breath caught when Jack pushed himself off the post to face you fully. He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a shake of his head. He had so much to say, but he didn’t know where to start.

Instead, he leaned down and closed the space between you.

You barely had time to think before his lips landed on yours, soft and warm and real. You tensed for half a second, hands stilling mid air. But then you melted, reaching your arms around his shoulders and holding on like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

When you finally pulled apart, you avoided his gaze as you tried to calm the red hot blood rushing to your face.

“I love you.” He blurted out, eyes searching for yours.

That didn’t help your predicament.

“Took you long enough,” You huffed, feeling your heart beat out of your chest.

“I know,” He mumbled under his breath, "I-I'm sorry. I didn't know how to—“ "Don't be, I love you too.” You said, placing a gentle peck on his cheek, "I’m just messing with you."

He nodded, shoulders untensing as he leaned back on the post and lightly kicked at the dirt under his boots.

That made you smile, he always did that when he was flustered.

After a few moments, the two of you decided it was time to warm up inside the cabin, maybe eat some dinner. As he watched you enter the house, still a bit jittery from the kiss, he was hit with a familiar feeling, one that warmed his heart differently.

After his parents died, the cabin was just a house, an empty void. With you it felt lively, comforting. It felt like home. Jack chuckled softly, wondering if that was how his father felt seeing his mother enter the same house he built after their time apart.

He stopped in his tracks as you disappeared inside the kitchen, noticing something peeking out of your bag on the couch near the fireplace.

Jack hesitated, before plopping down on the couch and gently pulling it free, his fingers running over the worn cover. He flipped it open, scanning the familiar ink on the first few pages by the light of the hearth.

A quiet, almost disbelieving chuckle left him, his lips curling into a small, rare smile.

There it was,

'Once upon a time in the West...'

thank u for reading `(*>﹏<*)′ i got a lot of Jack requests, so i hope this fic did them justice. Like this post for + honor (≧∀≦) Lmk what u think by leaving notes, I love reading them!

[nekioe]

This is my @dreblrsecretsanta gift for @michygranger23! I hope you're having a great holiday🧡🧡

Here is stageduo sitting wrapped in a very soft blanket in front of a warm little fireplace for you :3

video and images with descriptions of the process under cut because I think it's fun to talk about :3

At first I was kind of scared of starting so I started with a traditional sketch which I ended up really liking! So I decided to use it and made lineart for it, but then I immediately ran into problems because the angle made it really really hard for me to add a fire without making it look like they were on fire

You can't see it in the timelapse, but I made a completely new csp file where i tested out different compositions and stuff to find a way that didn't look like they were on fire... it was a struggle

In the end I ended up changing the canvas size a tiny bit and added these stylized flames instead, I hope it helped them not look on fire😭

The rest is the rendering part :) This is my favorite part :) I have no recollection of it at all :) I don't know what im doing :)

Also I think I might be obsessed with making swirlssssss

[lumilasi]

I initially meant to finish Vander and Silco as well before posting these, but BOY.....why do I struggle drawing Jayce so much? Like its kind of painful (metaphorically speaking) just how hard it is for me. It feels almost if my brain struggles to figure out how his face and hair works?????

Anyway, these designs are for the Lightkeeper fic/to-be-series, as I am working on the prequel to it that'll focus on Viktor and Jayce, how they met. (The text descriptions in Jayce's image are in fact, basically referring to the state he's in when they first meet.)

I decided to base Jayce's outfit on that one cool black one, though it is simplified heavily. Also the rune placement/color is different from canon on purpose just fyi

[laylaplease]

Loved inside and out ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

ׁ ֶָ֢ ⏤͟͟͞͞☕️ ׁ ࣭ warnings ! ۪ ׁ ⊹ || Dom!Anakin × Sub!Fem!Reader, cockwarming, brief pinv sex, creampie (mentioned), pet names MDNI !!

Not bothering whatever Obi-wan was so immensely discussing with Ani was practically impossible when your head was swarming with tingling thoughts about your unsuccessful day. Feeling miserable, you didn’t even try to participate in the ardent conversation the two Jedi had. Your only resolve turned out to be to linger around, trying to gain Anakin’s precious attention, which you were so desperate for.

“What’s gotten you so dull?” Your grand-master’s voice pulls you out of your head, making your eyes settle on his humble white robes. “You’re traipsing around like a youngling.”

Feeling embarrassed about the comment, you glimpse at Anakin, expecting to be defended from Obi-wan’s sharp eye, but instead you are greeted with another curious stare as his arms cross over his chest.

"Just a bad day.” You mutter, struggling to define the intense feeling of weariness you woke up with.

Not pleased enough with the description, they glance at each other concisely, as if sizing up your negativity. Anakin’s arms drop lower with a sigh.

“How about another session to put your mind off things?” He insists, making you wonder what kind of session he was talking about while hoping Obi-wan’s imagination only darts to the possibility of you dueling with Anakin instead of anything wicked.

"Go; I’ll finish on my own.” Your master’s master nods approvingly towards Anakin, reassuring you two about his oblivion to what happens in your little nests when his prying gaze is elsewhere.

Anakin’s eyes gleam briefly before he tilts his head upwards towards you, encouraging you to move alongside him.

“What’s wrong?” A soft voice reaches your ears as you two are far enough. “What bothers your pretty little head?” He speaks gently, but his eyes still stare forward, careful not to drop the cloak you two were wearing.

“It’s nothing, really…” You pause, but unable to come up with a better excuse, you shortly continue. “I’m just blue.”

—

“It’s okay. It’s okay, my angel.” Anakin coos, tugging a strand of your hair behind your ear as his chest presses against your back, firm arm grabbing you closer. “I’ve got you now.”

In the safety of your own quarters and Anakin’s embrace, you felt completely tranquil, even with your panties pulled to the side and the gentle nudge of his cock brushing against your entrance. His tight grip enveloped you perfectly, filling your heart with comfort, opening an escape from the dullness of your routine.

“You’re so precious, always need my cock to soothe you.” He coos, nudging your slit with a wet tip, eager to fuck into your guts.

“Mmm…” You nod silently, not wanting to be bullied about it.

Anakin’s lips gently touch your cheek as if to reassure you that he’s there to ease your mind instead of making fun of your disheveled mental state. He props himself up on his forearm, leaning over you slightly to reach the plum of your lips as he slowly starts pushing inside your warm tunnel.

“Open up, darling, you know you need it.” He hooks his hand under your thigh, raising it just slightly. “Relax and let me in.”

Your walls flutter open, trying to accommodate him in a not-so-aroused hole. It’s irritating and uncomfortable at first, but once his stomach is nicely pressed against your lower back, your body grows limp into the sheets. Finally comforted, finally full of love.

Anakin grunts, fighting the urge to buck against you. He neatly spoons you close to himself, pressing his knees into the back of your legs while his hand gently rubs your abdomen.

“There we go, nice and sheathed in your little pussy.” He pats your hip softly before resuming his soft caress.

You close your eyes, savoring the way your walls molded around him. The feeling of him pulsing inside you like a second heartbeat made your body swell with warmth. Your brain became fuzzy, filling with images of Anakin’s veiny shaft enveloped within you.

“Feels so good, Ani. So warm.” You utter, taking a deep breath of air, of his scent, more of Anakin inside you.

He lets out a low chuckle, his hand creeps its way under your belly button, teasing the skin above your pubic hair with his fingertips.

“Do you want to come?” He asks in a breathy voice, his lips pressing against the shell of your ear. “Want my angel to be happy. Want to make you squirm in pleasure. Do you want to?”

You pause for a second. It was true that your insides were quickly flooding themselves when Anakin was loving you so good, when his hands felt so gentle on your skin, his cock numbed the sadness in you so perfectly… But you didn’t actually need an orgasm; you just wanted him, his presence, his sweet, comforting body, and soft voice that always grounded you. You didn’t want to come, but...

“No...”

“Of course, sweet thing.” He coos and kisses your shoulder gently, pulling your body against his. “Let me just hold my angel, nice and tight and wrapped around me. Just like you should be.”

He continues pressing feather-like pecks across your arm, softly tugging on your robes to expose more of your skin, which he so longed to adore, while you braced yourself to finish the sentence and reveal your need.

“But I want you to.” You mutter in a shy voice, heat spreading across your cheeks, making your muscles clench.

“Want me to what, love?” He pauses his loving kisses, locking his eyes with yours in a gaze that tells you that he knows exactly what you mean.

Having no energy to argue with his teasing nature, you only sigh to express your unwillingness to entertain him. You lay still for a moment, waiting for him to comply and finally amuse your wish.

“Gotta explain it to me, pretty angel, can’t do anything unless you tell me what you want.” He tickles your neck with his hot breath once more, beating you entirely by being sneakily right.

“Ani, please…” You turn to him, your glossy eyes making his heart swell and cock twitch inside you. “…please cum in me—”

“Atta girl.” You can’t even finish your filthy sentence when he grabs your hips and retreats from your warmth. “Gonna fill that pussy up, make a little creamy mess...”

Once his hips snap back, your eyes roll, and you know that soon enough, you’ll be begging to cum.

[zarvasace]

Part 5/7 I think!

Day 22: forced to watch! Tame interpretation but hey! Image description under cut.

<<prev || next>>

Page One

Panel one: This is a shot of a stable from Breath of the Wild, lit from the side by white light. Text above says: “nearly dawn…”

Panel two: Twilight and Shadow sit on a bed inside the stable. Shadow holds Twilight’s wrist and messes with the red-colored Malice there. It’s already gone off of Twilight’s other hand. Shadow’s cheeks are still shaded, indicating that he still might not be feeling well. Twilight says: “So you’re [underlined] actually a shadow? Does Four know about you?”

Panel three: A closeup of Shadow in the same position, smiling. He says: “Well, he thought I was dead. But he talked to me, and I could hear him. …hope he’s okay. I’m gonna murder something, violently, if he isn’t.”

Panel four: Same position. Twilight looks at his arm, and Shadow has all the Malice in his hands. Shadow says: “That’s all of it. Weird stuff.”

Page Two

Panel one: We see the entrance of the stable as seen from inside. Warriors is closest, holding Not-Four in his hands, who doesn't look like he’s struggling. Warriors shouts, [all caps] “WE’RE BACK!” and adds, “...with a problem…” Legend is hurrying in in the background, and Wild is talking to someone off-screen. He’s saying, “Yes, sir, we’re just fine. Good thing nobody else is here, right?”

Panel two: A speech bubble says, “what problem?” We see Not-Four’s face peeking around the back of Warriors. Not-Four has wide eyes and looks frozen. One of his eyes is black, and one is red, both highlighted in white. Red squiggles surround him, indicating magic of some kind. Warriors says, “That.”

Panel three: Warriors approaches the bed with Four in his arms. Shadow tosses the red Malice aside, pulling himself back onto the bed. Warriors says, “It’s been a few minutes. We aren’t sure what’s wrong. Maybe he’s fighting it.”

Panels four and five: A closeup of the red Malice that Shadow tossed aside. There are white rays labeled “window light” above it, and the Malice hisses in the light and begins to dissolve.

Panel six: Four is laying in Shadow’s arms on the bed while Warriors and Twilight look on in worry. Four’s eyes are still one red and one black, and there are still red squiggles. Shadow says, “This magic feels weird.” Twilight says, “Fighting is good, right?”

Page Three

Panel one: We see the real Four standing in the black-shaded mindscape, looking determined. Red arrows point to him again in threat. Illustrated in red, a Yiga mask with fins on either side looks at him from the background, and one hand reaches toward him.

Panels two, three, and four are a sequence across the page.

Panel two: Four jumps on top of the Yiga figure (who is assumed to be Yntak, the possessing entity.)

Panel three: Four punches Yntak, but Yntak dodges.

Panel four: Yntak holds a struggling Four up by the throat.

Panel five: Warriors, Twilight, and Legend speak. Twilight is rolling his sleeves down.

Warriors says: “He threw some powder at Wild, but got it on himself instead.”

Legend says: “If he meant to possess Wild, then it might have shaken his control.”

Twilight says: “Do you think we can help?”

Legend says: “Well, the mystery seeds didn’t do anything, so I’m stumped.”

Page Four

Panel one: Shadow holds Four’s head in his lap and looks incensed. He says, “Are you saying that all we can do is [all caps] WATCH?”

Panel two: Twilight holds his arm up and looks like he has an idea. He says, “Wait—you healed the Malice off of me. Could you do it again for him?”

Panel three: Shadow looks down at Four, his cheeks still shaded as Four trembles with red. Shadow says: “I’d do [underlined] anything for him. But that wasn’t healing. I don’t heal. I just break things.”

Panel four: These lines evoke a shattered mirror, and this panel is very short.

Panel five: The real Four holds his hands up against the window in the mindscape again. He shouts, [all caps] “SHADOW! You’re alive!”

Panel six: Four falls away from the window as Yntak attacks him. Four says: “ACK—”

Panel seven: Back in the real world, Shadow looks surprised as he looks down at Four. He says: “I heard that… You’re in there!” 

Panel eight: Shadow smiles, and maybe he blushes a little. He says: “I can try. This time.”

[autisticvelo]

id: a 5x5 bingo game labelled “higher support needs autism”, there are some orange details by the caption, as well as an orange arrow with text “@ autisticvelo” pointing towards the ‘t’ tumblr icon at the bottom. the squares are described from left to right, starting on the top row: ‘constant infantilisation’, ‘used to / does elope’, is / was in special education’, need(ed) 1:1 help in school’, restrictive & intense interests’. 2nd row: ‘on disability benefits’, ‘needs help with some or most / all iADLs’, ‘nonverbal / semiverbal (or long-term struggle with speech’, ‘developmental delays / abnormalities’, ‘has / needs a caregiver’. 3rd row: ‘violent meltdowns’, ‘needs help with some or most / all bADLs’, ‘free space (golden infinity sign)’, ‘comorbid physical disability’, ‘gets verbal shutdowns’. 4th row: ‘struggles with hygiene’, ‘assumed to be LSN’, ‘can’t live alone / requires great support’, ‘poor motor skills, ‘comorbid mental illness’. bottom row: ‘sensory seeking / avoidant’, ‘has ID / mild ID / BID’, uses AAC of some kind’, ‘poor saliva control / drools’, ‘won’t ever be independent’. end id

🧡 INFO:

• first point: if anything here is hard to read, let me know and i will simplify it for you, i do not mind.

• if you are able to, please copy the image description i’ve provided above into your post if you repost the bingo game to make it more accessible to visually impaired folks / screen reader users etc. !!

• this is made to include people who are somewhere between L-MSN and HSN, i’m hoping i’ve gotten some things right that many experience, but also remember that these might not be exclusive to HrSN autistic people but in combination with each other they are very common for HrSN autistics.

• if you have feedback on if i got something wrong, i’d like to know so i can learn more and do better next time!

• if a box kind of fits you, it’s okay to count it i think, example: if you are not nonverbal or semiverbal but struggle long term with speech, it’s okay to cross that one. i did add some notes in some boxes.

• i wasn’t completely sure on what terms to use for ID + mild ID and borderline ID, if anything is wrong, please tell me! i’m still trying to learn more so i can be inclusive.

• last point, if you struggle with image descriptions it is okay to tag me and i will write one for you! i am often able to write them even if words are hard and i don’t mind.

🧡 MINE:

id: the same bingo card as described above, with the following boxes coloured in orange (left to right, starting on the top row): ‘used to elope’, ‘need(ed) 1:1 help in school’, ‘restrictive and intense interests’. 2nd row: ‘on disability benefits’, ‘needs help with most/all iADLs’, ‘(or long-term struggle with speech)’, ‘developmental abnormalities’, ‘needs a caregiver’. 3rd row: ‘violent meltdowns’, ‘needs help with some bADLs’, ‘free space (golden infinity symbol)’, ‘comorbid physical disability’, ‘gets verbal shutdowns’. 4th row: ‘struggles with hygiene’, ‘assumed to be LSN’, ‘requires great support (context: living situation)’, ‘comorbid mental illness’. bottom row: ‘sensory avoidant’, ‘uses AAC of some kind’, ‘won’t ever be independent’. end id

[whimsical-westbrook]

Wah! Umbreon is so cute! And you're really handsome!

Tell umbreon I say hi back! Bui!

umbreon wanted 2 say hello. he says you should go take your meds. :)

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

From Autisticality’s post:

Whenever I hear someone say "I think I'm a little bit Autistic too" or "we are all a little bit Autistic at the end of the day", it really annoys me. Not just because it is massively untrue, but also because it diminishes everything we go through as Autistic people just to simply make it through our days.

And whilst I'm aware these aren't the criteria for being Autistic and are based on my personal experiences as an Autistic person with other factors at play (ADHD, depression, social anxiety etc), the post is mainly to make a point that we are not all a little bit Autistic because if we were then the world wouldn't treat Autistic people as poorly as it does.

Whether your intentions are kind to make it seem like the Autistic person is not alone, this phrase does nothing to make us feel better but instead is a slap in the face in my personal opinion.

Image description: "We are NOT all a 'little bit Autistic'

> Do you also physically and mentally dread leaving the house?

> Do you also have nightmares remembering what happened at school?

> Do you also get excluded just because you are ‘quiet’ or don’t speak?

> Do you also have to go to extreme efforts to prove you are struggling just to get any support?

> Do you also feel so alone and misunderstood that you sometimes wish you weren’t alive?

Think before you make comments that invalidate, minimise & diminish what a minority experiences."

#autism #autistic #neurodivergent #ActuallyAutistic #AutisticPride #AutisticAcceptance #AutisticCulture #adhd #MentalHealthAwareness #neurodiverse #neuroqueer #neurokin #AutisticAppreciation #neurodiversity #neurodivergence #AutisticExperience #InfinityNotPuzzle #GoldNotBlue #NothingAboutUsWithoutUs #AutisticAcademic #AutisticJoy #AutisticAppreciation #autisticfuture

Autisticality