#2read

[hexjulia]

Found something very interesting because her description of a Byzantine garden is mentioned in this book-- there's a letter from a woman called Egeria who made a pilgrimage to "the Holy Lands" in 381-386 CE! She describes her travels to the women of her community back home. Can't wait to read a translation. :)

[galmac]

easy access

[bookphile]

Boyfriend Material by Alexis Hall 

- It’s rare to read a book where the character’s personality and mental health issues match your own, and yet somehow you end up laughing a lot, and cheering for them, and thinking, hey, I can get better too.

[meezer]

there's always some fucking book I need to read.

[lettheladylead]

Gladstone the Unlucky Duck: Part 2

Read the full comic here: https://photos.app.goo.gl/5mwvrgJ7RxP7DNfD7

Here’s the second and final part of Gladstone the Unlucky Duck! Time for Gladstone to get his luck back! Click this link to read part one: https://lettheladylead.tumblr.com/post/686516810431053824/gladstone-the-unlucky-duck-read-the-full-comic

[milawritesstuff]

Does He Know: Part 2

Read part 1 HERE!

I ended the call and placed my phone on my nightstand. Gavi had called me to say goodnight. We talked about everything and nothing at the same time. Gavi had a way of making me feel full of life, completely smitten of what was to come. Despite that, however, as soon as the conversation ended and I closed my eyes all I could think about was the kiss Pedri and I had shared earlier that day in his car.

Every time I closed my eyes it was his chocolate brown eyes that I saw. It was his lips that I tasted. I fell asleep that night overthinking everything that had happened in that short car ride home.

PEDRI’S POV

I had fought the urge to contact Sara last night despite every bone in my body wanting to hear her voice. As I sat next to Gavi on the plane on our way to Madrid she was all I could think about. I turned over to Gavi who had a goofy smile on his face as he stared at his phone screen. 

- What are you smiling like that for? - I asked teasingly. Gavi turned his attention from his phone to me and smiled. - It’s Sara. - he said waving his phone in front of my face as I felt my stomach sink. - Do you really like her? - I asked. I wanted to hear Gavi tell me that no he did not like Sara. That he was just looking to have fun with her which would have made it much easier for me to tell him to back off because I had seen her first.

- It’s weird. - Confessed Gavi snapping me out of my thoughts. - I really do think I like her Pedri, I like her like her.- he emphasized the last two words.

I smiled at my friend politely despite burning with jealousy inside. I sat next to him in silence for the rest of the flight thinking if only I had told Sara how I felt months ago this wouldn’t be happening right now. If only I had told Gavi that the reason I was acting weird whenever he asked me what was wrong was because I had fallen in love, this wouldn’t be happening right now. But the reality was that I hadn’t and it was happening. 

SARA’S POV

My phone screen lit up in the afternoon giving me the perfect excuse to take a study break. Tests were slowly creeping up and I was using any time I had to study. As I looked at my screen I smiled seeing Gavi had messaged me. I quickly began to type my response back to him when another message notification came in, this time from Pedri.

I looked at the message history and smiled at the picture I had assigned to Pedri’s contact, a picture we had taken the night we met, my hair falling over my face as Pedri’s arm hovered over my shoulder. The last message he had sent me before this was from almost exactly three weeks ago. 

P: He’s really into you. - read the new message. I put my phone down and went back to studying. I needed to talk to Pedri but not in front of everyone and I knew from Gavi’s messages that the whole squad was still together at the airport. Hours later I finally decided to call Pedri.

- Hello? - he answered. - Are you alone? - I asked. - I am. - - I know Gavi is into me. - I said into the phone very matter of factly. Pedri scuffed. - That’s what you called me for, Sara? - - No, I - I stuttered. - I called you because … Pedri I was head over heels for you and you did nothing about it. How was I supposed to know you liked me? It’s not fair for you to do this now.- Silence.

- Well.- Said Pedri. - Now you know.- The tone in his voice told me he had much more to say but he didn’t dare. - I like you too. - I whispered into the phone almost as if I was afraid for him to hear. Afraid to put my heart out there for him again. Afraid that I liked Gavi but I had not been able to get Pedri out of my head since the moment I met him.

PEDRI’S POV

- I like you too. - She said as I closed my eyes and held my phone close to my ear. Annoyed at how much I wanted Sara but knew damn well I couldn’t have her. To act on impulse with her would mean to end my friendship with Gavi. It would mean shattering the person who had become like my brother. - Don’t. - I managed to say. Sara remained silent on the other end of the line not sure what to say next and the truth was I didn’t either. - Sara when I … when I get back to Barcelona, can I see you? -

I wasn’t sure what my plan was other than to continue torturing myself not having her close to me and knowing I couldn’t have her.

SARA’S POV

I am not sure why but I had agreed to meet with Pedri once the team returned to Barcelona. 

That night I fell asleep to Gavi’s voice on the phone. 

Pedri gave me a sense of safety and comfort but Gavi he, he made me feel adventurous and free. It was a Jekyll and Hyde thing with them two.

They say you fall in love with three people in your lifetime: one is the idealistic love, the one that seems like the fairytales; the second is our hard love, the one that teaches us lessons; and the third well that’s the one we never see coming. The one that comes so easy it doesn’t seem possible. I wonder which one they were and who the third was.

… A few days later.

- Should we wait for you to eat dinner?- asked my mom over the phone.

- No mama. I’m going out with Val. I’ll be home late.- I said as I walked out of my last class and began to walk towards the uni entrance. I said my goodbyes to my mom and proceeded to look for the green mini copper.

Minutes later there I was in the car with him again, Pedri. He had turned around and smiled when I got into the car but said nothing else. To be honest I wasn’t even sure why I was sitting there. I had lied to my mom about where I was going and had asked for Val to vouch for me. I had lied to Gavi who had wanted to meet for dinner as well.

I turned over to the boy next to me. His dark hair falling over his forehead. He didn’t say much but by his facial expressions I knew his mind was racing with a million thoughts. At a red light he looked over at me and without a word placed his right hand over my left hand as our fingers interlocked. He turned his attention to the road. And despite the silence that overflowed inside of his car that little gesture said so much to me. 

- Are you going to tell me where we are going? - I asked.

-Our first and last date. - he said not breaking eye contact with the road ahead. As he continues to drive we neared west of the city I realized Pedri was driving towards Montjuïc.

The afternoon sky was falling and the hint of darkness made the magic fountain look even more magical. As Pedri and I began to walk around I realized how easy it was for two people to get lost within the crowds of such a place. He reached back and offered his hand to me. His eyes asked, no they begged for me to take his hand. I reached out and felt the simple touch of our hands send electricity all over my body. He proceeded to lead the way through the gardens and eventually back to the crowds around the fountain.

- What are we doing? - I asked him as we found an empty bench.

- Sitting. -

- No, I mean … - before i could say anything else I felt a knot begin to form in my throat. A rush off heat filled my body.

- Why now Pedri? You had your chance. -

Her sat there in silence, his hands trying to find any warmth they could. He turned over to face me. I could feel his breath just inches away from me. Before I could say anything his lips touched mine.

“That’s the last time I do that, I promise.” He said.

As our lips left each other and our faces parted I blurted out, almost as if the words would burn my tongue if I kept them in for much longer, “Pablo asked me to be his girlfriend last night.”

Last night…

Gavi had sent me a message after practice asking if he could come over to my house. Thirty minutes later he was sending me another text that he was at my front door.

I walked to open the door for him and there he stood with a smile on his face.

-I missed you.- he said shyly. I took one step towards him and our eyes met. He took one step towards me and he left a slow kiss on my lips.

-I missed you too.- I said.

We walked through the garden and went into my house. My little brother was playing video games and he turned around to say hi to Gavi.

-Do you want to sit here?- I asked.

-Could we go somewhere else?- He responded somewhat nervous.

My mom was in her room doing some work calls and dad was supposed to be back home soon. I asked Gavi to follow me towards my room.

-We’ll be upstairs David.- I said to my brother. -Let me know if you need anything.-

As we entered my bedroom Gavi began to look at all of the pictures and posters I had on the walls.

-You like?- I asked after a few seconds. He smiled and went to sit on my bed.

-It’s weird but it’s exactly as I imagined it.-

-Thanks?- I said sarcastically.

-No, it’s not bad.- he said with a smile.

I walked over and sat on the bed next to Gavi.

-You did great against Atleti.-

He smiled. -You watched the game?-

-Of course. Jo soc culer.-

-Don’t talk to me in Catalan if you want me to understand anything.- I rolled my eyes.

-You’ve been in Barcelona how many years and you still don’t know it?

We both giggled.

-Your pass to Ous for the goal was amazing.-

-Pedri was awesome, then gave it to me. I did the least.- he said.

I smiled and bit my lip as he mentioned Pedri.

Pablo stood up and stopped right in front of me. He extended his hand gesturing for me to give him mine.

-What are you doing, Pablo?- I smiled.

He kneeled down in front of me and pulled out a single orange tulip from his jacket. His hand shook as he gave it to me and he took a deep breathe.

-I know we just met Sara but- he bit his bottom lip. -I really like you.-

I smiled as my heart began to race.

-Do you want to be my girlfriend?- he looked at me with hoping eyes.

-Yes.-

Today

-I know.- said Pedri in a defeated tone as he looked down at the ground.

What I didn’t know was that Pablo had told him he was thinking if asking me to be his girlfriend on their way back from Madrid. Being a good friend Pedri encouraged Pablo and even suggested the one tulip, which he remembered I had mentioned were my favorite flowers.

-Thats why I said this was our first and last date.- said Pedri now his eyes looking into mine almost as if pleading that I said it didn’t have to be the last. But I couldn’t.

-Pablo is a great guy, Sara. He’s head over heels for you- he went on.

I took a deep breathe as he spoke.

-Why Pedro?- I waited for him to answer but he stayed quiet.

-I waited for days for you to call me after that night. And nothing. And when you finally did call you acted like nothing had happened.

As I said those words I realized I had bottled up resentment towards him. Because despite having been nothing it felt as if we had been through so much already. And yet, I didn’t have him. He wasn’t mine. He would never be mine. And that stung.

Pedri finally broke his silence. His hands around his face.

-I got scared.- He confessed. -All my life all I have wanted to do was play futbol. Make a name for myself. And that night with just one look you made me doubt everything. You made me wonder if maybe that shouldn’t be my priority, if maybe starting a life with someone like you should.

Butterflies filled my stomach. He stared at me. Afraid he had said too much. Or too little too late.

In an attempt to hold back the tears that I could feel filling up my eyes I but my bottom lip from inside.

-So what now?- I managed to ask.

Pedri turned his attention to me with a piercing look that sent shivers down my spine.

-Well … now you’re Pablo’s girlfriend. And I’ve lost my chance.

[flyinghome-againstthewind]

Beside the Seaside: Ch 2

read on ao3

previous chapter

next chapter

Faith Fraser leaned forward in her seat, trying to catch sight of the inn the moment it would come into view. Da chuckled quietly at her as he turned down a narrow road, the sea stretching across the horizon on one side of it. On the other side were small stone buildings and cottages following the bend of the road. “It’s just there, a nighean.”

Faith gasped. “Da, it’s wonderful! It’s marvelous! It’s‒”

“It’s all ours, if you can bear it,” Da laughed.

“I can bear it,” she promised solemnly. “Is it a castle?”

“Hardly, no. It’s just a wee hotel.” After a moment, he added, “But you can always pretend it’s a castle, if ye like.”

As the car pulled into the gravel path leading up to the inn, a faded, weathered sign welcomed them to The Voyager Inn.

There was a man waiting on the front steps for them, there to give Da the key and discuss the property. Faith slipped past them, headed for the front door, but she turned to look back at her father. Da nodded slightly, with a small smile of encouragement.

She opened the door and went in.

----------

“Faith? Where did ye go, mo chridhe?”

“I’m up here!” she hollered. “Come see!”

She heard his footsteps on the stairs and backed further into her spot. He still spotted her almost immediately, laying sideways on top of a cabinet that was set within the walls of the second floor hallway.

“Found yourself a wee hiding nook, did ye?”

“I could hang a blanket from here,” Faith explained, pointing to the bottom of the overhead cabinets, “and then it would really be a secret hiding nook. Oh! Could I sleep in here? I could bring a pillow in here and it would be so cozy, Da.”

“No, no, no. Look, you cannae even straighten your legs out. You’ll wake up all cramped and sore.”

“I won’t,” she whined.

“Besides,” Da went on, scooping her up under the armpits and hauling her out and onto her feet. “You have your very own room with your very own bed that fits ye just fine. Do you want to see it?”

He brought her back downstairs and steered her behind the front desk.

“Da, can I check in guests when we have them?” she asked suddenly, eyeing the long counter scattered with books and pads of paper.

“Aye, of course. I’ll teach ye everything.”

She beamed up at him. Their home was an inn, and even without any guests yet, Faith couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than that.

He opened the door along the wall directly behind the front desk and gave a quick nod towards it. “All the rooms back here are just for us. They’re our private living quarters.”

Faith followed him through the door.

“It’s quite a lot of space, don’t ye think?” Da was saying to her. They had stepped into an open space that he informed her was the sitting room, and it shared a half-wall with the kitchen. Past the kitchen was a short hallway with several doors, to which Da nodded as he spoke, “We have three bedrooms, so perhaps I’ll turn one into a study.”

“And my room?”

Da grinned and scooped her up, making her shriek with joy. She squeezed her arms around his neck in a tight hug and felt him kiss her cheek. He opened the door towards the end of the hallway and stepped inside. “What do you think? Will it do for Princess Faith?”

She took it all in ‒ the big, sunny window and her own bed and dresser and a wee desk.

“And we’ll bring in more of your things from Lallybroch,” Da added. “It’ll feel like home soon enough, I think.”

“What’s that door for?” She pointed.

“Nothing. They bricked it over on the other side but they left the door. I think it used to adjoin one o’ the guest rooms. Ye cannae open it, though, it’s sealed.” He tried the handle to demonstrate. “But if you can open it, my wee Faith, I would be verra impressed.”

He set her on her feet, and she immediately went to try the handle for herself, helpless to satisfy her curiosity. The doorknob wouldn’t even turn.

“Just a wee quirk. You can have the other room if you’d prefer, but I thought ye might like the big window in here.”

Faith spun slowly in the room, taking it all in again, the sunlight-dappled floorboards and the door that led to nowhere. “No, I like it,” she decided. It felt positively magical, but she thought he might laugh if she said that.

Da grinned again ‒ he’d smiled so much today. She grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it, just because.

“Alright, a leannan, now the real work begins. We have two months to get this place ready before the summer holiday season is upon us.”

And with that, they did indeed get to work.

   ----------

They spent most of the day unloading the car and unpacking ‒ and that was only their first haul from Lallybroch. Jamie already had a second haul waiting at home ‒ at Lallybroch ‒ that he would drive back for tomorrow. When it was supper time, he took Faith’s hand and walked with her down the road to the closest pub. He’d stop by the market in the morning so they could stock up on food beyond what his mother had tucked away from the two of them, but for all the work they’d done today, it was worth it to let someone else cook their supper.

Faith had been in rapturous delight all day, Jamie wasn’t sure her feet would ever return to the ground. As they took their seats, she began to tell him how marvelous ‒ her favorite word of late ‒ it was that their home was so close to town. All she had known was Lallybroch and its sprawling acres of land. Being able to walk to shops or cafes was a bit of a novelty, Jamie would admit.

“We do have one order of business still left,” he told her once their supper had been brought to them. Faith’s brows furrowed together as she took a bite of her chip. “We need a name for our business. For the inn.”

“Oh!” Faith perked up. She glanced away, clearly thinking it over. Her foot began to rhythmically tap against the leg of her chair. He’d never seen her so carefree, so weightless, than she was here in Nairn, and it solidified his decision to relocate. They could be happy here. He’d get his demons under control, he would. He’d find a way somehow. It would be worth it to see Faith as happy every day as she was today.

Since the day she was born, his purpose had been her happiness, and he was finding his footing there once again after so long apart from her.

“What about… Fairy Hill?”

“You think there’s a fairy hill in our garden?”

Faith’s eyes grew round, like she hadn’t considered it until now. “There could be!”

He exhaled a laugh. “The Fairy Hill Inn, hmm? Now all you need is one of your fairies to come and stay with us.”

“Da,” she said with a heavy sigh, and he worked hard to school his features and not break into a laugh at her adorable dramatics. “That just might be the best day o’ my life.”

   ----------

The fall of Faith’s delight came with the night, with the unfamiliar sights and sounds of the old inn while Jamie tucked her into bed. He could see the whites of her eyes as she took in the room again with only the soft lamplight to illuminate it. Her gaze seemed to watch the sealed door in particular for any sign of something on the other side of it. Still, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and promised all would be well, and moved to stand.

“Can we read Peter Pan?” she pleaded in a small voice, her hands fisted in his shirt to keep him there.

“It’s in a box somewhere, a nighean,” he sighed softly. “Not tonight.”

“What if we left it at Lallybroch?” Her voice had risen in pitch, a sure sign that the wee thing was well-past tired and broaching hysterics.

“I promise we didn’t. Your grannie made sure it was packed for ye.”

At the mention of his mother, Faith’s eyes filled with tears and the corners of her lips pulled down into a slight pout, trying not to cry. So much of his daughter had changed in five years, but she still made the same face when she cried as she did as a babe, and it still broke his heart every time he saw it. “I miss Grannie.”

“Aye,” he murmured, wiping away the tears spilling down her face before he leaned down and kissed her cheek. “You’ll see her tomorrow when we go back for the rest of our things ‒ and you can even ask her about Peter Pan then to be sure. And we’ll visit plenty once we’re settled in. I promise. It’ll be alright, mo chridhe. Now try and get some sleep‒”

“No, I want to sleep in your room tonight! Please Da!”

He felt his pulse race with her evident panic, her fists still holding tight to his shirt. He felt boxed in and was ready to leave, ready for her to go to sleep, but his heart also squeezed at the knowledge that she was scared ‒ and reaching out to him ‒ and he was going to let her down regardless. The night terrors were unpredictable at best ‒ and if Faith were to witness that? No. She’d never want to be near him again.

“You need to sleep in yer own room, Faith,” he said gently, inwardly cursing that he hadn’t thought to find her damn book during the day. Maybe that would’ve helped her. What followed his words was a display of Faith’s own stubborn streak. She cried and pleaded and bargained with promises of best behavior until she wore Jamie down. He’d known high-ranking military strategists with less fortitude than his wee Faith.

And so fifty minutes later, he found himself sitting on her floor with his shoulders pressed uncomfortably against the metal bed frame. She had curled up on one side, her arm dangling off the edge of the bed, and her small hand was enclosed in his own. That had been a non-negotiable with her; he had to stay with her, holding her hand, until she fell asleep.

Keeping watch.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, his head falling back against the mattress. He was quite certain from the sound of her breathing that she was at last asleep, but he didn’t move right away.

It wasn’t only Faith’s joy that had been dashed tonight. That buoyant feeling of promise that had filled his chest during their supper had long since deflated. He craned a look over his shoulder at his lass, her face partially obscured by her long red hair.

One day and he was already failing her.

He should’ve known her first night in a strange place would unsettle her. And what would he do if Faith witnessed one of his nightmares and she had no one else to run to for comfort?

No. He’d promised himself he’d get his demons in order, and he would.

He brought the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it before he made to rise and tug the blankets back up around her shoulders. His hand rested very gently on her head, just for a moment. “I ken I’m not so good at this now, a nighean, but I’ll be better. I promise.”

[kitttenteeth]

Do you speak any other languages?

My albanian Is a bit pathetic…….. and itook ~eight years of french i didn’t pay much attention too, But a funny amt stuck somehow.i don’t hate trying 2read french But i have no interest Rly .fluent In dragonfly i think And thmEomrpMeowmrprnNyamepwwmmeGrrrrrrr

[heartlandians]

Heartland Season 16 premiere date announced

The series will return to CBC and CBC Gem on October 2

Read the rest of the article...

[john-paul-george-ring0]

Dear Mrs. Deacon

Johnica Week - Day 2

Read Here

Summary: John Deacon has been overwhelmed with fan mail ever since his band visited Japan for the first time. He and his wife expect the letters each month now, but what they weren't expecting was a letter addressed to Mrs. Deacon.

Notes:  I loved writing this, and I'm really excited to share it!  As always, I'd like to thank @eileen-crys​ for hosting/organizing this event! 

[hexjulia]

look at this incredibly web 1.0 looking site i found in my bookmarks

the chronological list of texts actually looks really useful!! it hosts a lot of shorties.

[mchalowitz]

the woman is the king, part 8

summary: a throughline of the matriarchal scullys; be they ethereal, sharp-witted, and ill-omened.

part 1: melissa / part 2: dana / part 3: emily / part 4: scully / part 5: samantha (the interlude) / part 6: them / part 7: maggie

part 8: maggie, part 2

read on ao3

@today-in-fic

----

No more than two days in a motel is their first self-imposed rule to protect their identities. After 36 hours at the Leisure Inn, she spreads a map across the bedspread. 

Already clocking hundreds of miles trapezing across the Southwest, Scully is tired of the long stretches of desert. Mulder sits behind her, tracing his finger from their current location near Salt Lake City, and up toward the state of Washington. He stops a few inches short of Seattle. 

“That’s a little populated, don’t you think?”

When running from the law, an ideal location boasts less than five thousand people. Scully once found the unforthcoming communities of a small town infuriating. She now takes the silence of the populous as an advantage. 

“It wouldn’t be Seattle proper,” Mulder amends. “I have a contact in the area with a cabin. I’ve stayed there before.” 

An interconnected community of like-minded people, as Mulder would explain, have fed him information for years. He categorizes his contacts as creditable allies. Scully wonders where these people source their information to gain their expertise and resources. She heeds their abilities with caution. 

He attractively describes not-Seattle-proper by recounting his memories of a lake view, an impressively restored stone fireplace, and unequivocable privacy. It only takes an hour to map their route and pack their gear into the SUV. 

--

Mulder still isn’t over the unfairness of the reality of running from the law. After so many endless months of longing for her, he and Scully can finally be together, and he can list a thousand things he would run from just to be with her forever, but sometimes he dwells on what they should have. 

He reunited with Scully two months ago and neither of them have fully broached the events of the last year. It’s way too soon to wreck the elation he feels by confessing thoughts his mind hasn’t even fully accepted yet. Mulder can only attest to confronting the loneliness that almost killed them both in unspoken actions. Someday, maybe, he might be brave enough to chip away at the new hardness he sees she carries. 

He drives with one hand while clawing his face with the other. He’s never grown more than a five day beard. His face constantly itches. Scully attempts to convince him it looks rugged, like Sean Connery or Burt Reynolds, and it’s the biggest fucking lie she’s ever told him. It’s a patchy mess; an undeniably horrible disguise. 

Scully’s change in appearance is courtesy of drugstore boxed dye, a collection of large framed sunglasses, and as they criss-cross the southwest, the shortest of shorts. It’s a sight he’s grateful to witness.

Her nose buried in a crossword puzzle book, Mulder gets her attention with a gentle squeeze to her bare inner thigh. It’s starting to get dark after nearly four hundred miles of I-84 and probably best to stop for the night. 

“Any motels coming up?” 

Reaching under the seat, Scully pulls out a guidebook from the last gas station. She flips through the pages, cross referencing the map. 

“If you can last another hour, there’s a three star that sounds decent.”

“I can last as long as you want, baby,” he jokes. It earns him a giggle and a whack on the bicep with the book. 

They continue on. Scully watches the scenery through the window, having spent most of the ride focused on her puzzles, and they haven’t really talked all that much. He reaches for her now unoccupied hand to briefly bring her wrist to his lips. The next major junction leads them toward Portland. 

“My brother lives near here,” she casually comments with her eyes still focused on the passing highway.

“You didn’t tell me Bill was restationed.”

“Not Bill,” she corrects him. “Charlie.”

--

She still hums with uneasiness; even while asleep atop the floral duvet in their room at the Snooze Lodge Motel. It is unlikely worth its three star rating but wholly average for budget accommodations. 

Her pounding heart rouses her from sleep. No warm hand pulls her in tighter; no drowsy murmur of comfort brushes her ear. Scully panics. 

Usually, she finds Mulder writing at the desk only a few steps away, or in the bathroom, and has her nerves easily calmed. He is nowhere in the room. She assures herself she would have heard sirens or an altercation. It is still possible he is gone completely; he would go willingly to protect her. 

When Scully steps out into the surprisingly warm night air, her eyes land on movement in the pool below. A splash rises before his head breaks through the surface of the water. She pockets their room key and takes the steps quickly.

She sits on the hard concrete, submerging her legs in the water. Illuminated by only the underwater incandescents, Mulder rests his chin on her knee. She watches his soft hazel eyes; his overgrown beard scratches her palm when he nuzzles into her hand. 

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he admits without prompting to her unexpressed worry. She nods on a deep breath. 

She observes his graceful strokes; not unlike the thousands of laps he swam during the first years of their partnership while she gazed on. He begins to tire and floats on his back. 

She can thwart her endless concern for his safety during their untroubled moments. Her brainpower can refocus. Her letters must have arrived by now. Bill is likely furious. Scully pictures her mother’s shaking hands and heavy heart. 

In final, unsteady words, on a desert highway barely a month ago, she requested, “Watch out for my mom,” as she embraced her superior. A duty Skinner will undoubtedly fulfill. 

For those she calls family, Scully cares fiercely. A singular sign along Oregon highway reminds her that ferocity came with age. When she should have stood up, she retreated. Her youthful rebellion rarely applied to anyone’s benefit but her own. 

Mulder’s thumb smooths the crease between her eyebrows. Barely above a whisper, he simply says, “Tell me.” 

“I could’ve done a better job protecting my family,” Scully responds. She is being vague; purposefully making it difficult for him to articulate a follow up question. 

“It’s hard to face something you’ve tried to stop thinking about,” he finally tries. 

A motel parking lot is prime territory for a patrolman. The Snooze Lodge is no exception. Headlights nearly blind her. “We should go,” she insists to Mulder. 

Mulder pulls himself from the water. Keeping a keen eye on the cruiser, and their hands tightly linked, they watch until it disappears down the road. 

--

In the rosy of hue of morning, Scully listens to running water and last night’s baseball scores on talk radio. When she closes her eyes, she can imagine Hegel Place.

He emerges showered; she admires his casual nudity as he searches for clothes amongst their small collection of possessions. 

Reacquainting themselves physically fills the spaces between sleeping and a life on the lam. She considers neglecting their schedule to entice him into a second shower. 

“Mulder,” she murmurs lowly. 

However, when one of them wants to rebel, the other swoops in with rationality. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” he responds with eagerness. “We should hit the road soon.”

Her clothes for the day land at her feet. Mulder practically buzzes with high energy around the small room. “Mulder,” she finally repeats. When their eyes meet, she raises her eyebrow. 

Mulder rounds the bed to kneel at her side; no other hints are necessary. His lips meet hers in a deeply sweet morning kiss. 

Within the hour, Scully stares down another day of never-ending highway. 

--

He belongs to a truly skilled network of like-minded individuals; a group that aids each other in endeavors that fall outside mainstream channels and, arguably, in legal grey areas. While Scully sleeps, he receives the information he seeks in his covert, bi-weekly touch base and praises their group’s efficiency, and in due time, Mulder will repay the favor with his own expertise. 

Scully teases him with small bites from fast food breakfast sandwiches during the stop-and-go morning rush hour. She brushes crumbs off his face while he attempts to nip at her fingers. “You cleaned up your beard,” she remarks, tracing her fingertips along the even line of his jaw. 

“I hate this stupid thing,” he laments. His nails dig into his opposite cheek. Scully tries to soothe him with a series of I knows and Maybe once your hair gets longers but she doesn’t exactly sound hopeful. 

When they finally break through the barricade of morning commuters, he can sneak longer glances at Scully. Making a bold inference that their exchange at the pool brought some peace to her, Mulder watches as her arm extends out the window; her fingers surfing the resistance of the breeze. She smoothly mouths along with songs on the radio. 

She carefully tracks their route; their map blanketing her lap as she refers back to it often. Her head snaps up from its reclined position on the headrest when he takes a different exit than their planned itinerary. 

He counters her unspoken question with a playful smile. 

"Let’s embrace the adventure, shall we?”

--

His supposedly adventurous detour could not be more non-descript to Scully. Only a faded cross above the main entrance gives her any indication of their whereabouts. Mulder rarely goes out of his way to bring her closer to God. 

“I’m confused,” she finally admits. 

A pair of men materialize from a side door, pushing a cart of boxes that overfills the back of a tiny blue sedan. Vivid auburn hair catches her eye. Scully’s head snaps to the reckless lunatic in the driver’s seat. 

“He’s the pastor here,” Mulder confirms. 

The rigidity of theological devotion spawned an explosive splintering of their family; a life of faith seemed like the last thing Charlie would do. She wonders briefly if anyone knew about her brother’s career path. 

What appears to be a discussion of official church business ends with a brief kiss between the two men. A breathy “oh” from her partner divulges a carefully guarded excommunication nearly fifteen years prior. 

“Yeah,” she replies as her brother drives away.

Her father denounced her youngest sibling with an unforgettable, undoubtably cruel sternness. The Scullys would never all be in the same room again. 

She believes that final gathering illustrates the pull between motherhood and matrimony. A balancing act Scully has now walked herself. 

She and Mulder so actively, so knowingly disagree on many things, while following one another unquestionably. An inconceivable notion to her parents; to love each other and differ in values. Charlie suffered for it. 

A mother’s child is forever changed by acts of finality. She wonders if her final act will be forgiven. 

Mulder opens his door in a burst of sudden movement. Scully grips his arm, curling her fingers into his bicep. She is constantly ascertaining his every intention. He should be narrating his every move to her. 

“We’re going in,” he states. His tone suggests that should be obvious. She shakes her head in refusal when he outstretches his hand to her. 

Quick fabrications of an identity is one of their vitally important, well practiced skills. “My wife and I are new to the area,” she hears him explain, describing her as a former Catholic, and how funny, so is the pastor. As they continue to converse, Scully notices the prominent accent of her brother’s partner, and Mulder offers to carry boxes to the dumpster to extend the conversation. 

“He definitely thought I was homeless,” he claims when he finally returns. “And my wife is just a face drawn on a paper bag.” 

“Don’t count out that possibility,” she deadpans. 

Mulder actively ignores her comment, although she catches his amused smirk. A bright piece of orange paper enters her hands. He bounces tigerish eyes between the paper and her eyes. She begins to scan the words. 

Charlie relates a Psalm to the crushing and ever-evolving weight of loss from his sister’s murder. Scully takes a long moment to register her new lifestyle has completely altered her sense of time; another year without Melissa was not so much as a passing thought. She wants to cry. 

Scully remembers those words on her answering machine. Melissa was safe with people she knew in California. She briefly believed her sister was pregnant with Emily during those months. Melissa vanished to reconnect with their brother. 

“What was his name?”

“Alejandro.”

She slowly pieces together a theory aloud, as she has done with Mulder a thousand times before. “My sister used to write to me about a translator that traveled with her in Peru. I think that’s him.”

“You think she introduced them?” 

Scully nods; it seems like she should have something else to say. Or be more inclined to wait for her brother to return. She could comment on Melissa’s fearlessness to reject their parents’ prejudices and introduce Charlie to a life-altering love, exactly like she encouraged Scully’s own transformative love, but to say anything else would be a rightful admission of the cowardly self-centeredness of her youth. 

Instead, she only mumbles, “We should keep driving.” 

--

This seemingly cozy cabin was once a prison of complete seclusion and crippling loneliness for Mulder. A reminder he combats by scooping up his girl to carry her across the threshold. He plans to show the proper respect and erase every forlorn memory by absolutely defiling this place with her. With an appropriate amount of romance. Of course.

Her nose crinkles at him and she teasingly admonishes him with, “You are so gross,” as she begins to explore their temporary abode. 

“I’ve already picked where we’re gonna make out later,” he informs her with an added tap on the ass. Mulder retreats from her playful scowl, hands raised in surrender, to retrieve their belongings from the car. 

Mulder turns and slides a labyrinth of locks with duffle bags at his feet. It's the reality of this most picturesque hiding spot. A long string of numbers activates a powerful security system. He’ll probably tell Scully about the pack of wild turkeys that roam the backyard before he shows her the closet with feeds from outdoor cameras. 

While Scully reclines against a throw pillow with her eyes closed, Mulder assesses their food situation. His homelessness theory feels confirmed by the extra food pantry box that seemed to magically appear for him at the church. He’s still thankful, because it will be a few days before they can explore the nearby town, and the contents of the box is enough to get them through. 

Unpacking the final item, Mulder grins, and casually offers her a snack. She mumbles an affirmative response. It only requires a slice with a knife and a transfer to a plate but he enjoys burying the lead by slamming cupboards, running the sink, and starting the microwave. 

He presents the plate of white cake with strawberries and whip cream frosting, coming down to a kneel at her side, as he announces, “Dana-cake for my Dana-girl,” and smacks a loud kiss on her cheek. 

Mulder watches Scully hold the plate in both hands; her reaction starts with the sound of a whimper, and within seconds, she has broken into full sobs. 

--

Utterly unclear as to what he did wrong, listening to Scully sob for ten minutes seems like an eternity. Her favorite dessert is one of her simplest, most decadent of pleasures; a tearful breakdown was not a reaction he could have ever predicted. He only prepared to lose a finger or two trying to steal a bite. 

“Water,” he finally blurts out. “I’ll get you some water. Do you want some water, Scully?” With her unexplainable distress, Mulder reaches the point of useless panic to comfort her. He starts to stand, only to be pulled down by the hem of his shirt. 

“Where did you get this?” 

“In the food pantry box from the church,” Mulder answers in a rush; his shirt is still clutched in her fingers. “I thought you would be excited. It looks homemade.” 

With the plate held right between their noses to give him a micro view of the dessert, Scully’s voice shakes when she says, “They’re hearts.”

Mulder still has an oral history of Scully’s fondest memories from when she was sick with her cancer tucked away in the back of his mind. It seemed important for someone to have a mental record of the little things. She never told him she needed him to remember. But Dana-cake was a Scully family tale worth remembering with every detail. 

It was her childhood obsession; a summertime constant no matter where military life took them. Her mother grew the strawberries at home, hence why it required such extreme patience, and became so associated with the third Scully child that it was renamed for her. 

When Scully’s health reached a decline, Mulder made his first and only attempt at baking in his life from a handwritten index card. Scully stressed the dire importance of the heart shaped cut as she stepped in before he “ruined it.” Even the ones no one would see had to be hearts.

Because the love had to be on the outside and the inside. 

--

Her chest aches from heaving sobs; Scully senses the endlessness of running away. She has been given so many second chances at living and what she reclaimed threatens to fade away.

“What if we’re doing this forever, Mulder?”

Her throat stings. She should have accepted his offer for water. 

--

“Scully,” Mulder whispers quietly. A few snaps near her ear earns him no response. Her deep sleep emboldens him to pull the cord from the phone until he’s in the bedroom with the door shut. He dials and lets it ring. 

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Scully,” he says. “Hi.”

[kvella]

A Spot of Tea, part 2

Read Part One

Josephine is put out when her fellow advisors skip their weekly tea party interlude again. Perhaps if they had been there, she would not have fallen quite so ill. On ao3 here :) 

[morocosmos]

On first and fierce affirming sight, part 2/2

Read part 1 here

He barely sleeps that night.

Guydelot adjusts the sprawl of his limbs, turns to his side and onto his stomach and then his back, fruitlessly so; he's tangled so unsatisfyingly in the blankets, unable to ignore the emptiness of the space beside him that is far too used to being filled. What use is a bed so large as this if it ain't meant to be shared?

Eventually the bard finds better reprieve in pacing about the house, examining the touches that are undoubtedly Sanson: tomes on song and folklore, and countless journals cram every ilm of bookshelf available. He's gone through them several times over by now, with and without Sanson, and Guydelot smiles as his hand brushes along the spine of a particularly familiar journal. He knows without looking where the words “Ballad of Oblivion” are scribbled on the spine; he's held the tome in his own two hands so often that he could never forget it now.

He sees the bits of himself that he's left here, too, intermingled amongst Sanson's things like wild seeds sown in a garden. A spare lyre string on the table, next to the faint beginnings of a song on a sheet of manuscript paper. The coat he'd worn at Gyr Abania, draped over an otherwise plain couch that Sanson has more than once chided him to hang in the closet. Guydelot settles into the couch, and it's old but it's clean and soft. All of Sanson's furniture is like that, simple but well kept, enough to service a life after work. As though the hyur had spared just enough attention in fitting the house that he might devote the rest to the objects of his passion.

Said obsession had infuriated Guydelot in their earliest days. He chuckles to himself, not for the first time – how wrong he'd been about Sanson. How wrong they'd both been about each other, and to have come far enough to realise that before it was too late, he's grateful.

“I miss you, Chief.” He lets himself speak the words into existence at last, and Twelve but does it hurt.

When at last he returns to bed, he sleeps fitfully, eager for the night to be over.

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  – 

Morning comes, and Guydelot decides not to meet it. The sheets finally resemble something close to comfort, and he's not about to give up the brief amount of rest he's fought for just so that he can be punctual.

A bell or two passes, and the bard is hovering between slumber and begrudging wakefulness when a creaking sound breaks the silence in the house.

Guydelot swears he hears the door, and then footsteps, but just as quickly he denies it. Perhaps he's started hearing things in sleep-deprived desperation; surely Sanson would've sent word of when he would return to the Adders, unless they had simply neglected to tell him–

“I thought I might find you here.” Guydelot hears exasperation and affection, and he shoots up, eyes flying open.

Sanson, looking tired and a little worse for wear, still in his winter uniform that's damp in patches, as though the snow on his coat had only just melted under the Gridanian sun. There's at least one new scratch on his face, but it's Sanson, and he's fine and he's here. Wordlessly, Guydelot rises from the bed towards the hyur and embraces Sanson for all he's worth.

“You're home,” he croaks out several minutes later. Sanson's cold, but it's nothing Guydelot can't fix. He wraps his arms tighter around the man, one hand tangling between the locks of Sanson's ponytail.

“Yes.” He can feel Sanson's smile, nestled comfortably against his shoulder. The morning sunlight leaves him glowing. “I'm home, Guydelot.”

This two-part series was inspired by this lovely, lovely drawing i came across on twitter. and partially by hozier’s ‘sunlight’, if the title didn’t already give that away.

[t4tklonoa]

hav 2read.... two more chapters bfore Igetto. splatoon 2 storymode arc gluclugluglugii. Vintage can u hurry up and lose

[lemonlillybee]

Sicktember Day 2: Peter Parker and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Sicktember Day 2

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41442750

Title: Peter Parker and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Prompt: Alt #4 Taking A Sick Day

Fandom: Spider-Man (MCU)

Word Count: ~2700

A/N: Continuing on day two of this very exciting month with an alternate prompt, as I used #2 in yesterday’s fic :) @sicktember

Sometimes, Peter forgets to drink water. 

Although, if he’s being honest with himself, most of the time he forgets to drink water. Between Aunt May, who’s a nurse, Ned, who has a “hydrate or die-drate” sticker on his forty ounce insulated water bottle that he carries around like a security blanket, and Tony, who’s taken a keen interest in Peter’s well-being since Germany, he gets plenty of reminders to drink water. 

Even so, he’s not the best at actually drinking the water, and as a result he wakes up most mornings with a dry throat.

So it’s not much of a surprise when he wakes up on Thursday morning with a super, super dry throat. This morning, however, something is different. It’s less of a dry throat and more of a…sore throat. Almost like he’s getting sick, which would be surprising, considering he hasn’t been sick since the spider bite and he’s pretty sure he can’t even get sick any more. When he turns over to check his nightstand for a cup of water, he doesn’t realize he’s so close to the edge of the bed, and he falls off. For some reason– maybe it’s because he’s still trying to wake up, or maybe it’s because his legs are all tangled up in his sheets– he’s not able to catch himself like he normally would be able to, and he lands headfirst on the floor with a loud thud. 

Great. He can now add a headache to the sore throat. 

Well, he’s not really sure if he had a headache before or after hitting his head on the ground, but either way he’s not off to a great start this morning. 

“Peter?” May stumbles into his room, half asleep, frowning as she takes in the sight of her nephew tangled up in his sheets on the floor. “Are you okay?”

Peter lifts his head up off the ground with a groan. 

“I am so, so sorry, May. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay, I only fell asleep…” She trails off, checking her watch. “One hour ago.”

Peter lets his head fall back against the floor, feeling even worse. Just then, he sneezes, and it’s so loud it echoes off the apartment walls. Peter winces as the sneeze scrapes his throat and shifts a whole mess of congestion around in his sinuses and shit, he’s definitely getting sick.

“Are you getting sick?” 

Peter shakes his head, but they both know he is. 

“Why don’t you take a sick day, sweetheart? I’ll call in for you.”

“No! No, I should really go to school. I have two tests on Friday, and I want to be in class for review.” 

“Today is Friday, Peter.” 

“Ugh. Of course it is!” Peter throws his hands into the air in frustration, accidentally hitting his nightstand and sending his alarm clock tumbling toward his face. Luckily, his enhanced senses finally wake up and he’s able to catch it a second before it crashes into his nose.

“Nice reflexes,” May says, her eyes narrowing. “If you’re going to school, please be mindful of covering your coughs and sneezes so you don’t spread your germs to your classmates.”

Peter rolls his eyes, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his right temple. He looks at the alarm clock in his other hand and gasps. 

“Oh no, I’m going to be late!” 

Sometimes, it’s agonizing to have to ride the subway when he knows he could physically run to school faster– if he didn’t have to keep the whole superhero identity thing a secret, that is. Instead, he just breaks into what is hopefully an average looking run as soon as he steps off the subway. He’s one block away from Midtown with one minute left until the bell rings when he runs right into a puddle. Looking down at his now completely soaked shoes, Peter sighs dejectedly, his shoulders slumping when he hears the school bell ring in the distance. He jogs the rest of the way, cursing under his breath and coming to the conclusion that he’s having the absolute worst day in the history of bad days. 

Turns out, there are too many ways his day could get even worse. 

In chemistry, they take a test that he feels woefully unprepared for, and between his sore throat, headache and rapidly increasing congestion, he can barely concentrate.

In Spanish, Señora Benetti hands back their pop quizzes from Monday and Peter looks down in disappointment to see a bright red B minus.

He can’t find his calculus homework anywhere in his backpack when it’s time to turn it in, and Ned and MJ give him odd looks, their expressions a mixture of confusion and pity.

When he’s walking to their table in the cafeteria, he bumps into a garbage can and drops his tray of food. Ned offers to share his lunch, but Peter declines, too embarrassed and fed up to eat anyway.

His second test of the day in English goes somehow worse than chemistry, and Peter doesn’t even finish all of the questions before the bell rings. His teacher frowns at him as he tries to scribble out one more answer as the rest of his classmates file out, but he doesn’t let him finish, and Peter feels as empty as the second half of the test looks.

Flash trips him during warm up laps in P.E. and he has to let himself fall freely, landing forecfully on one elbow and causing Flash and his dumb friends to laugh at him when he cries out in pain. 

On his way home from school, he’s looking down at his phone when he steps in the same damn puddle as before, once again soaking his still damp socks and shoes. 

He finds himself at a hot dog stand before patrol, his stomach growling, and he buys four hot dogs to tide him over until dinner. His plan is to take them up to a rooftop nearby and eat before donning his Spider-Man suit, but when he ducks into an alleyway to swing up, he trips over an old tire, sending three of the hot dogs flying. A pair of stray dogs descend on the food, and one of them is bold enough to snatch the remaining hot dog from his hands before running off.

“This day sucks!” He yells. The sound echoes in the alley. 

Peter sinks to the ground. He’s cold, sick, hungry, and exhausted. If only he had listened to May and stayed home from school today, he probably wouldn’t be in this situation. What he would give to have a do-over of this crappy day. 

In the distance, there’s a sudden scream, and the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stands up. He ducks behind a dumpster and changes into his suit, then swings in the direction of the scream. Three blocks over, he comes across a man accosting an elderly woman, his hand closing around the strap of her purse. Peter aims his web at the man’s wrist and shoots, dragging his arm back from the purse, and the man spins around to face him with a startled grunt.

Sirens sound in the distance as Peter pins the man against the wall with more webs, and he looks around to see a few bystanders nearby. He gives them a friendly wave, then hands the woman her purse, waiting for her to get safely around the corner before he leaves the scene. 

Finally, he thinks as he swings above the city, things are turning around. Helping people always makes his day better. There’s a feeling of relief that fills his chest, making him feel lighter, and even though he’s still definitely sick, things are finally looking up. The thought quickly fades as a sneeze creeps up on him, and he jerks forward, his swinging interrupted by the forceful expulsion from his mouth and nose. His web breaks off and he somersaults in the air, unable to stop himself before he slams face first into a light pole, and he hears a terrible crunching sound come from his nose as his face erupts in agonizing pain. He barely manages to wrap an arm around the pole to slow himself as he slides down, and he lands on his feet for just a second before he collapses onto the ground.  

Peter sucks in a sharp breath and carefully pulls his mask up, lifting a shaky hand to his nose. There’s blood everywhere, and he cups a hand under his nose, ducking into another alleyway to assess the situation. His nose is most definitely broken, and there’s no way he’s going to be able to continue with patrol today, so he makes his way back to where he stashed his backpack. 

He pulls his completely full water bottle out of his backpack, thankful that he’s so bad at hydrating, and uses the water to clean himself up a bit. His nose is swollen and every touch makes it sting. He sulks as he washes the blood from his face and hands, but even worse than the pain is the fact that he has to cut patrol short and go back home so early in the day.

At least May will be home. Sure, she’ll kill him for how bad his nose looks, but he can tell her he got in a fight at school and that it’s just bruised, and with his enhanced healing she’ll never have to know it’s broken. She’ll give him ice, and maybe make him hot chocolate and bundle him up with fluffy blankets and watch TV with him until she has to go to work. The thought of letting his aunt take care of him perks him up a little, and he hurries the rest of the way home, mouth salivating at the thought of the giant pile of whipped cream May always used to let him put on his hot chocolate whenever he was sick before the bite. 

“May?” He calls as he enters the apartment, but his voice seems to have given up and it comes out as a croak instead. He clears his throat, which makes him cough, and he doubles over, whole body trembling from the exertion. When he’s finally able to get in a breath, his throat feels raw and his face is throbbing. “May? He pants, walking farther into the apartment. “May? Where are you?” There’s still no answer, and Peter’s heart sinks when he sees a note sitting on the table.

Had to go in to work early. There’s leftovers in the fridge for dinner. Larb you!

Peter’s eyes burn with hot tears, and he feels stupid for caring so much that May isn’t home. He plops down onto the couch and tries to blink back the tears. Four minutes into feeling sorry for himself, his phone vibrates, and he picks it up, gulping when he sees the message from Mr. Stark.

Tony Stark: Happy is pissed. You better have a good reason for skipping lab day.

Shit. Shit shit shit. 

He’s so dead. 

Running makes his swollen nose throb, and it’s now pouring down rain, but he finds himself running most of the way to the Tower, subway be damned. When he finally arrives, he’s soaking wet, and his throat is on fire. His hair is dripping into his face and his nose is running relentlessly, and he drags his sleeve under his nose without thinking, yelping when the action results in intense, throbbing pain. In the elevator, he tries to pull himself together, but he’s not sure it’ll do much when he looks like he just walked in from a– well, a rainstorm. 

“You’re here,” Tony says cooly when the elevator doors open, his back to Peter. Peter scurries over to his station, cringing at the way his shoes squelch loudly with each step. 

“I’m not going to send Happy to pick you up from school next week if you’re not gonna show,” he continues, and Peter looks down at the table, face flushing. He hears Tony finally turn around to face him. “I’m a little disappointed, to be–” 

Tony stops talking, and Peter looks up to see him staring at him in shock.

“Holy shit, Peter, what happened to your face?” 

Peter lifts a hand to his face and gingerly touches the tip of his nose.

“I think I broke my nose,” Peter mumbles. He keeps his eyes down as Tony approaches.

“You think? No shit, Peter. Have you put any ice on it?” 

Peter shakes his head, biting his lip guiltily.  

“What the hell happened?” 

Tony’s tone is still curt, and Peter suddenly can’t stop the wave of emotions that washes over him. The tears come fast, and he leans forward in his chair, sobbing hard. “I have a cold and a broken nose and everyone is mad at me and I got a B minus in Spanish and I’m pretty sure I failed two tests today and a dog stole my hotdog and May had to go to work early so she couldn’t even make me hot chocolate, and–” Peter breaks off to cough, tears streaming down his face. 

When he stops coughing, he takes a deep, shaky breath, swiping at his eyes, and Tony stares at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Did you say you got a B minus in Spanish?” He finally asks, and Peter’s lower lip quivers as he nods.

“On the pop quiz.”

“On…a pop quiz?”

Peter sniffles and then winces.

“And you’re sick?”

Peter nods again. 

“Peter,” Tony sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That B minus isn’t a bad grade, especially for a pop quiz. And if you’re sick, that’s not your fault. That sucks, yes, but you need to take it easy and stop trying to do so much. It’s okay to rest if you’re not feeling well and it’s okay to not do well on a test. I promise.” 

He sounds like he’s trying to convince the both of them, but Peter doesn’t notice. At that moment, Tony realizes that literally anything he does for the kid is going to make him feel better, but he starts with something simple.

“I can make you hot chocolate.” 

Peter’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. 

“I’m no Aunt May– I mean, have you seen that woman?” Tony chuckles when Peter frowns in disgust. “But I do know how to make a mean mug of hot chocolate.” 

Tony motions for Peter to follow, and he leads him to the common room. Once Peter is settled on the couch with a blanket and a movie, he makes him hot chocolate, and Peter sips it contentedly. Tony perches on the arm of the couch, studying the high schooler as he rubs sleepily at his eye with a fist.

“How long do you think it will take for your nose to heal?”

“It usually takes about three days.”

“Usually?” 

Peter shrugs sheepishly. “Uh…I’ve only broken my nose one other time since the spider bite.” 

“Hmm.” Tony squints at him. “How long until you shake that cold?”

“I have no idea. This is the first time I’ve been sick since the bite.” 

“Hmm.”

Peter shifts around, self-conscious under Tony’s scrutiny, and Tony takes pity on him, filing his other questions away in the back of his head for a different day. 

“Scoot over,” he says, nudging Peter’s legs and sitting when he moves them. “I’ve never seen this one.”

“You’ve never seen The Force Awakens?” Peter gasps, and Tony chuckles, shaking his head. “You’ve seen the really, really old Star Wars movies, though, right?” 

“Ha ha, Underoos. Good one. Yes, I’ve seen the really, really ancient Star Wars movies.”

Peter smiles and then coughs. He shivers slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and then falls silent. Tony relaxes in his seat, half watching the movie and half watching Peter.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter mumbles sleepily halfway through the movie.

“What’s up?”

“Next time I wake up with a sore throat, I’m taking a sick day.” 

Tony barks out a laugh and pats a blanket-covered foot. “Good plan, kid. Good plan.”