#He doesn’t get brain damage either I know very sad no bandage for him. But! He’s a wildlife ranger

[minotaur-asterion]

Concept for a Swap AU

[ladyfogg]

Heal My Wounds - Part 1

Heal My Wounds - Part 1 of 3

Fic Summary:  After you meet the infamous Kit Walker, you realize that he cannot possibly be guilty of everything they say he is. Determined to treat him with kindness and compassion, you end up falling hard for the handsome man with gorgeous dark eyes. But you both are playing a dangerous game and you must decide just how far you’re willing to go to save the man you love. Part 2. AHS Masterlist. 

Fic Rating: 18+

Fic Song: War by Poets of the Fall

Pairing: Kit Walker/Female Reader

Warnings: Language, Smut, Slow Burn, tw: mental illness, tw: asylum setting, tw: violence

A/N: I ended up finishing this a lot quicker than I thought I was going to. Enjoy! For @tatestripedsweater​ and @kitwalker02​. 

You’ve seen many things during your time at Briarcliff. Being a nurse, you deal with truly awful alignments, either self-inflicted or acquired under “mysterious” circumstances. This usually means that a guard roughed the patient up or Dr. Arden can’t be bothered to treat them himself. You learn to expect the worst, not in the patient but in what they are afflicted with. In truth, your heart goes out to every one of them. Regardless of what sent them to Briarcliff, it is always your mission to treat them with the respect and dignity they deserve. 

Which is why, when you hear that the infamous Bloody Face, aka Kit Walker, has been transferred to the asylum, you try not to be concerned. You knew all about Bloody Face and what he’s done and when they arrested Kit, you aren’t ashamed to admit that your first thought was, “Good riddance!” However, you force yourself to change your tune once you learn you’ll be treating him at some point. Plenty of dangerous people had come and gone through Briarcliff’s doors. You aren’t going to treat him any differently than you would the other patients.

No matter how dangerous he is. 

It isn’t long before you find yourself face-to-face with him. He is there less than a day before he’s brought in to see you, his lip and his nose a bloody mess, the red a stark contrast to his pale skin. His appearance surprises you even though it shouldn’t. You read the papers; you’ve seen his face. Yet, in person, he’s so handsome it takes your breath away and you need a moment to compose yourself.

“What happened?” you ask Kit as the guard forces him to sit on the bed. He is bound with cuffs and chains, an overkill if you ever saw one. 

“He got into a scrape with another inmate,” the guard says in a gruff voice. “Bloody Face here got the worst of it.”

“They’re called patients, not inmates,” you correct him with a glare. “And I wasn’t asking you, I was asking Mr. Walker. That is his name, that's what he will be called while he’s under my care.”

The guard, whose name you think is Hardy, looks taken aback by your words. He is a new one who hasn’t had to deal with you yet. While many of the female staff are nuns, you are not. You are there purely for medical purposes, not religious ones. Therefore, you have no reason to force politeness to the guards. After all, why should you? They never show you any. The sooner Hardy learns you will not tolerate his bullshit, the better. 

You have been talked to by Sister Jude several times regarding your attitude but since you are appointed by the state, there is nothing more she can do. Eventually, the both of you came to a mutual understanding. In fact, you suspect she admires your non-nonsense attitude as it most often gets results. If there is a patient in your infirmary, you can call the shots. Of course, the male guards don’t like that, but they can get fucked. 

When you turn back at Kit, he has a surprised look on his face. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” you ask. 

“Just my face,” he answers. “And my hands.”

You glance down and see his bruises and bloody knuckles. Clearly, he defended himself but given the fact that the other patient hasn’t been brought it, you assume Kit got the worst of it. You go about collecting what you need to disinfect his wounds. 

To Hardy, you say, “Remove his chains.”

“No can do. Not for this one.”

“His knuckles are bleeding, and I need to examine his hands to make sure nothing is broken or fractured. Remove his chains.”

There is an intense stare-off between you and the guard before he relents and unbinds Kit. Once his restraints are gone, you wave Hardy off. “You may step outside.”

“Now hold on a minute! This man—”

“Has rights. He deserves the same privacy as every other patient. Besides, I won’t have you getting in my way while I patch him up. You can step outside and wait. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”

Hardy snorts, annoyed and done with arguing. “Fine by me. Don’t complain if you get killed.”

“I won’t, considering if that happens, I won’t be able to. Or are you not aware how death works?”

With a sneer, he stalks away, and you heard him mutter, “Stupid bitch.” under his breath.

“Smart bitch actually,” you call after him. “And shut the door on your way out, please.” It slams behind him and you return your attention to your patient. 

Kit looks at you with awe. “Forgive me for saying so, doc. But you’re one tough broad.”

You laugh, pulling a chair over so you can sit in front of Kit. “I’m not a doctor, I’m a nurse. And you have to be though, especially in this place. The gentle don’t last long. Now, let’s take a look at those hands.”

Kit extends his hands, and you take them in your own, examining his wounded knuckles. After moving each finger and his wrists, you determine there was nothing broken or fractured so you set about cleaning the scrapes. Kit watches you the entire time. Even though you don’t look up from your work, you can feel his eyes on you. 

“I think you’re the only person in this place who’s not afraid of me,” he says after a stretch of silence. “This is the first time I’ve been treated like a person since this whole thing started.”

“Should I be afraid of you, Mr. Walker?” you glance up and are immediately taken in by the soft expression on his face. 

“Call me Kit,” he says. “And I never hurt anybody. All the things they say I did are lies. I have no idea what happened to those girls and I have no idea what happened to Alma other than they took her.”

You consider his words for a moment and pull away, letting his hands fall to his lap. The bloody towel you hold is tossed onto your tray of supplies before you sit back and cross your arms. “Alright then, Kit. Tell me why I should believe you.”

Kit doesn’t seem to know what to say at first. You’ve dealt with numerous patients who swear up and down they didn’t do what they were accused of. Most of them had. Because of that, you are pretty damn good at reading people because even the best liar has a tell. An eye twitch, a knee bounce, a lip bite…anything. You trained yourself to look for these things because, in your line of work, it means the difference between life or death. 

The man in front of you doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything. More to the point, you don’t feel scared of him. You aren’t made of stone; you feel fear just like everyone else. You are simply better at masking it. However, that violent vibe you’ve learned to sense doesn’t radiate from Kit and as you look into his deep brown eyes, all you see is fear, frustration, anger, and sadness. They all pass one after another on a loop. 

“I don’t have a reason,” Kit finally says after a long pause. “If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t believe me either. But you showed me kindness no one else has and I’m grateful. Really.”

“I think this place wouldn’t be half as bad as those colleagues of mine showed a little kindness too.” You go back to work, cleaning his hands. “This is going to sting a bit.”

Kit flinches as you pour alcohol over his cuts. Carefully, you clean them some more before you are sure they won’t get infected. Once that’s done, you wrap them in bandages. 

“There, good as new. Just try to keep those bandages dry for a bit. You can take them off tomorrow to let the cuts breathe. Let me make sure your nose isn't broken.”

Kit remain still as you gently cup his face, turning his head left to right in order to take stock of his injuries. Being so close, you realize how handsome he truly is. That jawline is to die for, and his dark curls looks so soft, you want to run your fingers through them. Once that thought entered your brain, you scold yourself. He is your patient and is in the asylum to see if he is fit to stand trial for murder. Thinking about him in any way other than professional is a dangerous game. And very stupid.

“That bad huh?” Kit asks with a slight smirk. 

It isn’t a malicious one by any means. In fact, it’s almost hesitant. Like he is afraid to be so comfortable joking with you. You don’t blame him considering what he has gone through. You offer him a smile in return. 

“Just a split lip and it doesn’t look like your nose is broken. It’s not even swollen. There shouldn’t be any permanent damage.”

You grab a fresh towel and dip it in warm water before gingerly cleaning the blood from his face. But before you can get far, Kit reaches up to stop you. Instinctively you freeze, worried that you may have hurt him. Maybe his nose is worse off than you originally thought?

“Did I hurt you?” you ask.

Kit shakes his head. “No, I’m just…” He pauses as if he’s not sure what to say next. “I’m sorry but I just...why aren’t you scared of me?"

“You really want me to be, don’t you?”

“What? No! Of course not. I’m just…” He stops when he sees you holding back a smile. “You’re messing with me.”

You shrug and go back to your work. “A little,” you admit. “But to answer your question, I’m not scared of you because I believe you. I don’t think you killed or even hurt anyone. I just don’t sense that sort of evil in you. As for what you claim to have witnessed, that I don’t know about. But I do know crazy, Kit Walker. And you’re not it.”

It is like the remaining tension leaves his body and Kit slumps against you, a few tears running down his cheeks. Without thinking, you pull him into a tight hug, letting him rest his weary head on your shoulder. The warmth of him is invigorating and you savor the feeling. It’s been a long time since you’ve been touched in any way. Long work hours make your social life non-existent and you carefully keep your distance with your patients.

Except Kit, it seems. You don’t know why your well-constructed walls are crumbling under the weight of one interaction with one man.

“You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” he says, his voice muffled by your uniform. “No one will listen. No one believes…”

“I’m listening. But first, sit back before you get blood all over me.”

With a weak laugh, Kit pulls away.  He wipes the tears with the back of his hand which you’re grateful for because you were about two seconds away from gently brushing them away. Pulling yourself together, you continue to clean his face while he tells you his story. It’s definitely strange. The idea of being abducted and probed was one you’d rather not think about.

But you don’t just listen to his words, you watch his expression, pay attention to the tone of his voice and his body language. Even though you’ve heard some of it through the papers, it’s different hearing it from him directly. Once he’s done, you’re even more certain he didn’t kill anyone. No one who talks about their missing wife that softly and heart felt could possibly be a vicious serial killer.

It’s his eyes that give him away. There’s so much emotion and depth, you can’t help but believe him. You wish you can explain it, but some things are beyond explanation.

“You sure I’m not crazy?” Kit asks when you don’t respond to him right away.

“After that story, you’re absolutely batshit.”

He chuckles when he realizes you aren’t serious. You pull your hand away, finally done getting rid of all the blood, but he stops you with a gentle touch to your wrist. “Thank you for listening. I could tell you weren’t judging when I spoke, and I appreciate it. I appreciate everything you’re doing for me.”

“It’s not my place to judge. Only heal.” You sit back, breaking all contact with him, hoping it’ll clear your spinning head.  “There. Now you’re just as handsome as you were before. Do me a favor and at least try not to get majorly hurt again for the rest of the day?”

“He started it.”

“Everyone always starts things here. And given your current situation, it’s best to keep your head down as much as possible.”

“What’s the point? They’ve already made up their minds about me being guilty,” Kit says bitterly as you roll your tray over to the sink. He sees a pack of cigarettes on your desk and nods towards them. “Mind if I have one?”

You wave for him to go ahead as you clean up. “I wish I had words of encouragement for you. I wish I could say it will all work out. But unless they catch the real Bloody Face, your choices are either here or the electric chair.”

Kit pops a cigarette in his mouth and lights the end. “I have to see the state-appointed shrink. My last hope is to convince some head doctor that I’m not crazy.”

Your heart goes out to him. His situation really is a double-edged sword. If he proves he isn’t crazy, then they are sure to send him to trial and his death. If he keeps spouting off about strangers abducting him and his wife, then they will keep him at Briarcliff. Either way, he loses. It isn’t fair. 

“Stick to your story,” you tell him. “If it’s really the truth and that’s really what you know happened, then stick to it. I mean, it’ll probably get you confined here for life. But at least you’ll be alive.”

“Yeah, but at what cost?”

You don’t get to respond. The door bursts open and Sister Jude strolls in with Hardy right behind her. You wonder how long he waited outside before running to tattle on you.

“Why is this patient not restrained?” she asks in that stern voice of hers. 

“I needed to clean his hands and couldn’t very well do that when they were bound,” you say. “He’s all set now.”

“In the future, I would appreciate it if you would leave the door open. No young woman should be alone with this one,” Sister Jude says, motioning to Kit. “Not until he’s been properly medicated.”

“He deserves just as much privacy as any of us do when being medically treated.”

“Not here. Not under my roof,” Sister Jude counters. “I like you, girl, but don’t push me on this. Kit Walker may have the looks of an angel but he’s far from it.”

“She didn’t do nothing wrong,” Kit says angrily.

Sister Jude motions for Hardy to grab Kit. Anger courses through your veins when you see how he is manhandled. “Hey, be careful! I don’t want to have to treat a dislocated shoulder,” you say.

Kit sends you a grateful smile which Sister Jude unfortunately notices. She steps up to him and in a low voice says, “Quit your leering! You don’t fool me, Kit Walker. You can keep spouting that innocent act all you’d like but I know there’s darkness in your soul.”

Kit’s body tenses and you see him clench his fists in anger. The nun yanks his cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on your desk. 

What a bitch.

As he is led away, Kit dares to look back at you and you see the glimmer of another smile before he is gone. The empty room suddenly seems more so without him there. It’s strange how comfortable you feel around him, especially considering the circumstances. After cleaning up the remnants of his cigarette, you sit back at your desk. But focusing is not in the cards for you. The rest of the day, you find yourself constantly sidetracked by the handsome brown-haired man with the deep brown eyes. So much so that you get angry with yourself.

You are hardly ever swayed by just a pretty face. Then again, there’s more to Kit than that. Although, it certainly helps. The way he stood up for you even when he was in trouble spoke volumes about who he is a person. You don’t think there is a selfish bone in that man’s body.

The next day during meds, you don’t see him in the Day Room with the others. It suddenly occurs to you that after the fight the day before, he probably was thrown in solitary. You hate solitary being used for any of your patients but the thought of Kit in a small dark room, bound and alone makes your heart break in your chest. All you can do is hope he’ll be out of there soon. 

At least three days pass before you see him again, mostly because you spend most of that time in the infirmary rather than in the common areas. It’s early morning and you are enjoying a rare moment of silence when the door opens, and Kit is led in. He’s bleeding from a cut on his forehead, which has already begun to bruise and swell. 

“What happened?” you demand as you leap to your feet. 

The guard, a brute named Dixon who you can’t stand, forces Kit onto one of the beds. “He slipped and fell.”

You doubt it. Your eyes slide over to look at Kit, who gives you a subtle shake of his head. “Oh really?” you ask Dixon, narrowing your eyes in distrust. “This seems like a pretty big bump just to happen from a slip.”

“Just treat him so I can get him back with the others,” Dixon orders. 

“He hit his head. I’m going to have to keep him here for a few hours to make sure he doesn’t have a concussion.”

“Fine.” Dixon shoves Kit until he was laying on the bed. When he reaches for the restraints, Kit fights back. 

“No! Let me go!” Kit struggles against him.

“Those aren’t necessary,” you declare, crossing the room to try to stop Dixon. 

But the guard isn’t having any of it. The next thing you know, he pushes you away, hard enough that you trip over your feet and fall right on your ass.

“You son of a bitch!” Kit exclaims. He leaps up and punches Dixon square in the jaw.  

What happens next is a flurry of blows and swears as the men fight each other. Knowing this can only end poorly for Kit, you manage to get back up before prying the two apart. “Enough!” you snap. “No fighting in my infirmary!”

Dixon is practically snarling as he wipes blood from the corner of his mouth. “You don’t scare me, Bloody Face. If I had my way, you’d be in the furnace by now.”

Kit makes a move to go at him, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “Mr. Walker, lay down so Dixon can bind you. If you don’t, I know the right injection that’ll make you so tired, you’ll wake up next week.”

Kit’s eyebrows knit together as he looks at you with concern. You throw him a subtle wink. Breathing heavily, he sits back on the bed and allows Dixon to restrain him. Even though it pains you to do so, you help to keep up appearances. But you don’t tighten them as much as you should. Kit’s jaw is clenched as he watches Dixon’s movements, as if he’s waiting for him to attack again.

Once Kit is secured, you reach into your pocket. Unbeknownst to the guards, you carry around a sharpened scalpel for your own protection and the second Dixon lets his guard down, you press it to his neck, making him halt his movements.

“Listen here, you sick fuck,” you growl. “If you ever lay a hand on me again, I’ll shove this so far into your neck you’ll have to take your meals through a tube. Are we clear?”

Dixon sneers and takes a step back. “Whatever you say, woman. Call us when this psycho is ready to go back to his cell. And I’d be careful who you threaten. You wouldn’t want to end up like one of your patients, now would you?”

His threats send a chill down your spine, but you keep your hand steady, the scalpel still pointed at him as he backs away. It’s not until he’s out the door that you cross the room so you can lock it behind him.

“Are you alright?” Kit asks the moment it’s clear the two of you are alone.

You cross the room, pocketing the sharp instrument as you go. “I’m fine, Kit. Don’t worry about me.” As quick as you can, you undo his bindings. “Sorry about this. I fucking hate using bindings, but it was the only way to get Dixon to leave. He’s got a nasty streak in him; I’d stay clear if I were you. Are you okay? What happened to your head?”

“That asshole smashed my face into the wall,” he says as he sits up, rubbing his wrists. “He caught me wandering out of the Day Room.”

“Now why would you go and do a stupid thing like that?” you ask, hands on your hips. “Didn’t I tell you to keep your head down?”

“I just needed some peace and quiet. On my own terms and not in a dark dirty cell. Besides, others wander. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because the others aren’t wanted for murder. They mean to make an example out of you, Kit.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You sigh and head to the icebox in the corner of the room. As you put together an icepack for him, you say, “These guards will look for any excuse to get rough. And they especially have it out for you. You have to be careful.”

“I hate this. I hate all of it. I feel like I’m going crazy. My head is so cloudy, and I can barely feel anything.”

“Those are the meds. Meant to keep you docile.” You carry the ice pack over to him along with supplies to fix up his head wound. “And suppress other impulses.”

“It’s inhumane, that’s what it is.” Kit barely makes a face as you clean the cut and dress it. “How am I supposed to defend myself if I don’t even feel like me? I think I’m slipping, doc.”

“I told you, I’m not a doctor.”

“Well, what should I call you then? You never gave me your name.”

You tell him your name and press the icepack to the bump on his head, “Here, hold this. Your nose is bleeding…again.”

Kit does as he’s told. After a moment, he says your name. It’s soft and beautiful coming from his lips and you can barely focus long enough to hear his question. “Can I confess something to you?”

“I’m no priest or nun.” You start to dab at his nose with a damp towel.

“It’s not that kind of confession. I wasn’t just wandering for the sake of wandering. I was trying to come see you.”

You pause, heart pounding in your chest as your eyes flickering up to meet his. “Why?”

“I feel safe here.”

You go back to your work. “I’m glad you do, but I don’t want you to get yourself hurt just to see me.”

“I didn’t know that asshole was gonna beat the shit out of me just for wandering.”

“Say you have cramps.”

Kit raises his eyebrow. “What?”

“If you want to see me…I mean, come to the infirmary, tell a guard or one of my assistants that you have cramps or a stomachache. It’s something most people don’t question since stomach stuff is really common, ‘specially around here. It usually comes with vomiting or diarrhea and no one wants to deal with that.”

Kit smiles. “Good to know.”

You finish cleaning him up and add, “But don’t overuse the excuse. Otherwise, if something is really bothering you, they won’t listen.”

“Understood. Do you really think I have a concussion?”

“No. Your eyes are clear and you’re not slurring your words. I figured it would at least give you a little reprieve from everything out there.”

Kit’s smile widens. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Although, I will have to at least keep your feet bound. That way if the guard comes back, I can quickly bind your hands before they enter. The lock will only temporarily slow them down since they have keys.”

“Hey, if it means spending time here with you instead of out there with everyone else who thinks I’m a vicious murderer, I’ll take it.”

Once you have him settled in the bed, you give him a cigarette before going about your daily routine. It is nice having Kit there. Occasionally, you talk as he smokes, but for the most part, the both of you enjoy each other’s company. He asks you about yourself, minor things, nothing too personal or probing, which you appreciate. You feel like he’s also trying to keep some distance between you, understanding your position and what a friendship with him could mean.

A few hours later, when you hear footsteps coming your way, you quickly bind Kit’s hands.

It takes a second for the door to be unlocked but then it opens and Dixon enters just as you’re pretending to check Kit’s bandages. “Walker here needs to see the shrink,” he says gruffly, crossing the room towards you.

“I was just about to call you.” Your lie is so effortless it even impresses you. “He doesn’t have a concussion. You can take him.”

Dixon is rough as he unbinds Kit and yanks him off the bed. To his credit, Kit doesn’t fight back or resist, understanding the stupid rules he needs to follow if he’s going to get anywhere in this place. Once he’s gone, you start to wrap up for the day, finishing any last minute tasks before getting ready to go home. As you’re straightening up your desk, your eyes catch the medication logbook, and an idea strikes you.

Sitting down, you flip through the pages, taking a look at the medications that are prescribed to each patient. At the bottom of the list is Kit’s name and, with a quick flick of your pencil, you manage to subtly cut his doses in half. It’s not much. You wish you can outright stop giving him the meds but that’s impossible. Hopefully, this way he’ll start to feel like himself.

You expect to be worried or guilty for what you’ve done. But honestly, you don’t. It feels right. Far too many patients have lost themselves in Briarcliff and you’re determined not to let Kit be one of them.

---

Kit’s world is not even recognizable anymore. One day he’s home with his beautiful wife, the next, she’s gone, and the police are accusing him of murder. He sees those damn creatures every time he closes his eyes, hears that loud noise echoing in his ears. If it’s not that he’s hearing, it’s the screams of the other patients.

When he saw you for the first time, heard you snap at the guard for mistreating him, he thought he was still dreaming. You have to be a dream. Nothing that good or sweet can possibly exist in this place. The way you look at him makes him feel seen for the first time in months.

He can’t get you out of his mind. After that initial visit, all he could think about was your warm embrace and the concern in your eyes.

To have someone care enough to worry about him meant everything. Especially during such a dark time. Trying to sneak away to see you had been a stupid idea but one he thought was worth the risk. He needed to know if he would have the same feelings each time, the same security and comfort. Do you really believe him or are you just a great actress?

The second time, you’re just as kind and generous as the first, and Kit knows that he is in trouble. A different kind of trouble than he already is in. This one is emotionally based and has the potential to end very badly.

Kit knew himself well enough to recognize the signs that he is falling for someone. You have only known each other a short while but already he can’t get you out of his mind.

The day following his first appointment with Dr. Thredson, he sees you in the Day Room and has to stop himself from immediately going over. It’s clear you’re busy, making the rounds and checking in on the other patients. Kit watches from a distance, smoking a cigarette as he leans against the back wall. Your kindness extends to everyone you come in contact with. He watches with admiration as you sit patiently with Pepper, checking on the small scrapes and abrasions she has.

You smile and his breath gets caught in his throat. Fuck you’re gorgeous.

Curiously, Kit watches as you slip something into Pepper’s hands before moving on to someone else. It turns out to be a small chocolate, which Pepper immediately devours before going back to her book. Kit smiles.

You catch each other’s eyes across the room just then. It’s a charged moment, like nothing in the world matters but the two of you. He makes a move to walk towards you, unable to help himself anymore. But then meds are called, and the moment is lost. Kit stubs out his cigarette and gets behind Lana as everyone lines up for their medications.

“This is bullshit,” Lana mutters under her breath. “Not all of us need medication. I don’t like that they force it on us. Makes my head all foggy.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Kit asks, echoing your sentiment from the day before. “Keep us under control.”

“I have a point. One I’d like to shove right up their asses.”

Kit snorts at Lana’s blunt phrasing. At first, she had been weary of him but now the two have developed a mutual understanding. Neither one of them belongs there and it’s better to support each other than fight. The line moves and Kit watches you join your assistant to make the medication process go faster.

When it’s his turn, you hand him his cup and briefly, his hands touches yours. It’s like a bolt of electricity shoots through your fingertips and into his, coursing through his veins at such a speed it makes his head spin. On the outside however, he remains calm, bringing the cup up to his lips to knock back his meds. Except, he notices they look slightly different than the days before. His eyes briefly dart to yours and there’s a subtle change in your expression. Your eye closes just enough to seem like a wink without fully being one.

Kit downs the meds with less hesitation than before.

Sadly, he can’t talk to you after that. Once meds are distributed, you go back to the infirmary and he’s left alone once more. Briefly he considers faking a stomachache to see you again, but your warning is still ringing in his ears. The fact that you offered him the excuse was risky on your part. He doesn’t want to get you in trouble by overstaying his welcome in the infirmary. Even though he is curious about the medication change, he lets it go.

It’s not until he’s in his room that night that he realizes he’s feeling clear-headed. Usually, once lights out comes around, the meds have him so loopy he rolls over and goes to sleep. Or at least tries. This time, however, he feels more like himself. Of course, that also means he’s more aware of the dark and the loud screams, but once they subside, he’s left with silence and his own thoughts.

She must have lowered my meds or something. She’s fucking amazing.

Kit smiles, curling onto his side as he allows himself to think about you without worry or fear. Again and again your meetings replay in his mind and when he closes his eyes, he can almost smell the scent of your laundry detergent and perfume. The way your soft hands gently held his made him flex his fingers instinctively. Those lips of yours…he’d given anything to kiss them.

Kit’s eyes fly open when he feels his cock swell. It’s been so long since he’s felt any kind of sexual desire even before being medication. It’s a wonderful change of pace, however now he has a slight problem. Kit feels ashamed of himself for thinking of you sexually. All you’ve done is show him kindness and he’s thinking about doing all sorts of things to you. With a frustrated sigh, he rolls onto his stomach and tries to ignore it.

This turns out to be a bad idea. The pressure of his body against the hard mattress causes wonderful friction and Kit finds himself pressing his hips down for some semblance of relief.

Fuck it, he thinks, shoving his hand in his pants. I need this right now. I need her.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this himself. It takes a second to find the right angle and rhythm. He stays on his stomach, arching his back just enough to give his hand room as he jerks himself off. Burying his face in his pillow, he bites down to stifle his moans as he pictures you in your nurse’s uniform. The way it hugs your frame suddenly assaults his vision. When you had leaned over him to check his head, he had caught just the barest hint of cleavage. Then, he had purposefully closed his eyes to be respectful.

Now, it’s all he focuses on, thinking about how he’d love to run his tongue across your salty flesh while his hands cupped your tits. He’d bury his nose in your skin and inhale your scent before kissing and sucking every bit of you he could reach.

Would you moan his name? He bets you would, and he bets it would sound fucking fantastic.

Kit grips himself tighter, speeding up his movements as he keeps the fantasy going in his mind. Suddenly, the angle is too constricting, and he rolls onto his back, biting his bottom lip as he hand brings him closer to coming.

He pictures it being your hand. Pictures him laying in that hospital bed, you leaning over him and jerking him off as you watch his face. He thinks of you telling him to come for you and as soon as that thought crosses his mind, he explodes, coming all over his own hand as he quietly moans your name.

Sweating and panting, Kit lays there in his bed, heart racing and head spinning. He uses his blanket to clean himself up, tossing it onto the floor before curling into a ball. He expects the shame or guilt to hit him any moment, but he can’t find it in himself to feel either. All he feels is aching in his heart for the real thing.

The next morning, when they open the cells, he remains in bed. Once he hears the guard come closer, Kit begins to moan in agony, clutching his stomach.

Thankfully, Hardy is the one who check on him. Ever since you told him off, he’s been mostly tolerable to Kit. At least to his face.

“What’s wrong?” the guard asks.

“My stomach,” Kit moans. “I think…I think I ate something bad.” When Hardy kicks Kit’s soiled blanket aside, he adds, “Wouldn’t touch that if I were you. I felt real sick last night.”

Hardy wrinkles his nose and gestures for Kit to get up. “Come on. I’m taking you to the nurse.”

Laying on the theatrics, Kit forces himself up, still hunched over with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

You’re sitting at your desk when he enters. The morning light is filtering in through the barred windows and it catches you ever so slightly. Enough to almost make Kit forget he’s supposed to be in great pain. When you see him, your face grows concerned.

“This one is moaning about a stomachache,” Hardy says. “Where do you want him?”

To his dismay, Kit notices you’re not alone today. There’s a patient asleep in one of the other beds. You’re out of your chair in a second, pressing one of those soft hands to his forehead.

“He’s burning up.” Your ability to lie so smoothly makes Kit admire you even more. “Here, let’s get him on this bed right here.”

Hardy and you help Kit onto one of the beds in the corner of the room, one that’s hidden behind a divider. “I’ll keep an eye on him,” you say, tucking Kit in. “It’s probably just food poisoning. I’ve told the cook a million times they need to store the food better.”

“Think he needs to be tied down?” Hardy asks.

“No, of course not. Have you ever dealt with a patient who’s tied down and soiling themselves? My job is hard enough as it is. I won’t be dealing with that today.”

Kit makes retching noises if for no other reason than to see Hardy grow pale and uncomfortable.

“Oh, you better go before he starts up,” you urge, shooing the guard away.

Kit keeps up the act until he hears the door close and you turn to him, giving him a wide smile. “Wow, bravo. Great work, Kit.”

He smiles, sitting up. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll have a shot as an actor when this is all over.”

You chuckle and glance over at your other patient to make sure he’s still sleeping before sitting on the chair by Kit’s bed. “How are you really feeling this morning?”

“Better, actually. Do I have you to thank for that?”

“Well…it did seem overkill to have you on such high doses of medication when you aren’t mentally unstable. I’m sorry I couldn’t take you off them completely.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Kit says, reaching out to lay his hand over yours. “If anything, I’m sorry for you having to take that risk. I don’t want you to get in trouble, or worse, because of me.”

You look down at his hand and he immediately draws it back, worrying he may have crossed a line. There’s something in your expression that puts him on edge. He can see that you’re struggling, which only makes him feel worse. He berates himself for foolishly giving into his desires. Already things are tough, and the future is scarily uncertain. He’s on the hook for murder for fuck’s sake.

Before Kit can continue the self-deprecating spiral, you surprise him by carefully getting out of your seat and sitting next to him on the bed.

“Kit…” you say. “This friendship between us…I don’t know if it can continue.”

Kit’s heart sinks and he looks away from you, his gaze now fixated on the floor. “I don’t blame you,” he says. “It’s not safe being near me in any way. Honestly, it was stupid of me to come here like that. As much as I like spending time with you, I never want to put you in a compromising position. I’ve seen these guards and I know how they treat women. You’re in just as much danger here as I am.”

Your hand takes his, and he snaps his head up to look at you.

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” you say. For the first time since you met a few days ago, he hears the slightest crack in your voice. “I’m worried because, if we continue this friendship, I know that for me, one day, it might not be enough.”

His heart speeds up at your confession. Kit can’t believe his ears. The fact that you are feeling even the slightest bit of the attraction to him that he’s been feeling for you is enough to give him the sliver of hope that’s been severely lacking over the last few weeks.

Kit hesitantly links his fingers with yours, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. When he says your name, his throat is dry, and he has to clear it before he can go on. “I have no right liking you as much as I do. I don’t believe in God, but I can’t help but think that you’re my damn guardian angel. Because of you, I’m actually starting to think that maybe there’s a way out of this. Or at the very least, staying here won’t be so bad so long as you’re here.”

Your gaze softens and you look away, trying to hide the tear leaking out of the corner of your eye. With his free hand, Kit reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb. He can’t stop himself from cupping your cheek, needing to feel the warmth and softness against his palm. You shut your eyes, leaning into his touch, a shaky exhale escaping through your parted lips.

Your lips.

Kit’s eyes can’t look anywhere else. They look so inviting. He bets they’re just as soft as the rest of you, maybe even more so. Without even stopping to think what he’s doing, he starts to lean in, so slowly that you don’t seem to notice until you open your eyes to meet his. You pull your head back. Not abruptly or angrily, but enough where he gets the message to stop. Kit sighs with disappointment at the refusal. But a second later, you’re leaning in this time, at the same achingly slow pace he had been before.

Your lips brush and there’s a heated charge that soars between you, making you pause before you even properly get a kiss. Your eyes are wide as they meet his, searching for the same thing he’s looking for in yours: permission, acceptance, desire.

Kit closes the distance.

With one hand still cradling your face, he kisses you deeply, drawing your body as close to his as he dares. He feels you melt under his touch and it urges him to keep going, to keep kissing you, to deepen the kiss so he can savor the intense waves of desire washing over him.

You let him, opening your mouth so that his tongue can glide along yours.

It all becomes too intense for the both of you and you have to break the kiss, panting as your foreheads rest against one another’s.

“This is such a bad idea,” you say, the breathlessness of your voice making Kit’s cock twitch. “We have to be smart and we have to be careful. If we really can’t stay apart, then you have to listen to what I say and follow my instructions. Okay?”

“I can do that,” Kit says. He’d honestly agree to anything you say at that point. “Trust me, baby. I know the stakes.”

“Me too.” You take a deep breath and pull away, breaking all contact with him. It immediately leaves him cold and wanting more. “My assistants will be coming to collect the meds any moment. I need to go prepare.”

You reach out to cup his cheek and Kit holds your wrist, keeping your hand there for another moment so he could savor the contact. The way your eyes soften at him only makes him want to kiss you again. Instead, he settles for a peck on your palm before letting you fully pull away.

As you stand and collect yourself, you take a step towards the divider before you pause and look back at him. “No one can know, Kit. Not if you want to stay under my care. If anyone finds out there’s something between us, they’ll transfer me somewhere else and I won’t be able to protect you.”

The fact that you’re scared for him in this scenario and not yourself makes Kit want to throw you on the bed and ravish you. “I promise, I will find a way to clear my name,” he says. “Then once I’m out of here, I’ll take you away. Far away where this place can’t reach us.”

You smile and reach out to stroke his cheek again. “Easy there, Mr. Walker,” you tease, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb. “Keep talking like that and I may think you’re already falling for me.”

He watches you walk away, only one thought on his mind. Too late for that.

[shinsorokiri]

S/o Loses Memory and Quirk

Kaminari Denki HCs

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Language, violence, mentions broken bones, a panic attack, panic attack symptoms, sad Denki

A/N: Ngl writing angst for Denki did something to my little heart. He only deserves happiness and I’m mad at myself for giving him sadness lol. Anyways, I hope you enjoy! I’ll be writing one like this for All Might next so keep your eyes peeled for that one!

Shinsou, Aizawa, Hawks, and Dabi

Todoroki, Bakugou, and Kirishima

Kaminari Denki | Chargebolt

You are his partner in crime

You’re the one who is always there to take care of him when he goes dumb

You’re the one who is always there to comfort him when he feels like an idiot

You’re always the one who is there for him

And he’s always the one who is there for you

It’s been that way for years

Ever since you transferred to UA your second year of high school

The two of you became fast friends

Best friends even

And his flirty nature made it so it wasn’t too long before the two of you entered a real relationship

The two of you EXUDE the most chaotic good energy that even Bakugou finds it kind of endearing

But unbeknownst to his friends

Denki can get really fucking serious when it comes to you

It lowkey shocked you the first time you saw him act like that

And it was all because you were sparring with him and you tripped over your own damn foot and face planted 

You figured he’d just point and laugh at you but he ran over and checked you EVERYWHERE to make sure you weren’t hurt

mans even SCOLDED you

YOU WERE SCOLDED BY DENKI KAMINARI

But you lowkey LOVED it because like

Wow

He does like me !!!

Of course that was in your final year at UA

The two of you are now pro-heroes at separate agencies

And boy oh boy does Denki worry about you

He can’t help it

He has seen you run into a wall because you were trying to rely on scent instead of sight “in case you get stuck in a dark room with a villain”

He worries

But he also knows you are strong

And also a hot badass who can take on anyone

Well

Almost anyone

Midoriya could probably kick your ass but that’s just because it’s Midoriya

But in all seriousness

He isn’t even patrolling today

He has the day off actually

And Denki has never baked anything before in his life

But

He knows that there’s been this mysterious villain giving your agency some trouble recently

So he wants to make you some of your favorite cookies

Or at least try to

And then have a lil movie night

He’s a clingy little shit

And he wants to destress you so

He will refuse to let go of you for the rest of the night goddamnit!

So there he is

Taking the semi-burnt but still edible cookies out of the oven

His favorite program on in the background

When suddenly

His show gets interrupted

And the hero scanner the two of you have goes off in your living room

He immediately turns his attention to the television

Stopping in the middle of the kitchen 

Still holding the cookies

When he sees live footage of you falling from a 3 story building

Onto concrete

He drops the pan

And literally sprints out of the door

He doesn’t even have shoes on

But he doesn’t give a single Fuck™

He rushes down the stairs of the apartment building the two of you live in

And gets to his car in record time

Mans be speeding to the hospital he knows you’re gonna be at

You two had a plan in place with each other and your agencies that if anything would happen to either of you

You would both go to this specific hospital so you two could know where the other was at all times

Of course he was crying while speeding

And his heart rate was way too fast for him to be functioning

But he had to get to you

He had to

And he did

He pulled into a parking spot reserved for pro-heroes and ran inside the emergency room

When he asked about you the nurse told him you were currently in surgery for some severe bone breaks

He got a nasty taste in his mouth

But he just nodded

She told him he could wait in the waiting room

And he did

He sat down in a chair

And he was trying so hard to keep it together

So 

SO

Hard

But eventually Kirishima, Mina, Sero, and even Bakugou showed up

To be fair

Mina and you did work at the same agency

So she saw everything that happened

They immediately went over to him

And he looked up at Mina

And deadass this is the first time any of them see how genuinely serious Denki can get

He asks Mina what happened

And she hesitates

But his face is dead serious

There are obviously tears leaking out of his eyes

But his stare is wildly intense

And Mina knows that if she says no he’ll just keep asking or ask someone else at the agency

So she tells him

“Well… we were patrolling, like usual, when that villain that’s been keeping us on our toes showed up. They’ve never… done anything other than rob people and knock them out so we thought hey this should be easy. Especially since (Y/n) was there. When they saw us they ran into a building and we chased after them and when we had them cornered on the roof they did this weird… sneak attack? But not really? I don’t know it was… odd, they had this like patterned fight technique and they hit (Y/n) in a few different places, and she went to use her quirk to fight back but… nothing happened… and then they hit her like at the bottom of her skull and she just… fell down unconscious. And then they… threw her… off…”

She started trailing off at the end because a sob tore through Denki’s throat

And then he started hyperventilating

Luckily Bakugou and Kirishima were there to help him out

They get panic attacks frequently, so they managed to calm him down and get him to breathe again

And they stayed with him for as long as they had to

Eventually after hours 

A doctor came out and approached Denki

“Pro Hero Chargebolt?”

He stands up very fast

He’s informed that you are out of surgery

And that the surgery went well

However they noticed something odd in your MRI results

It seemed that a portion of your brain was damaged?

But not quite 

It was still functioning

But something about it was off

And they had never seen anything like it before

It was like certain parts of your brain were blocked but everything else was fine

Upon hearing this Denki’s heart broke

And then after hearing the part of your brain that was impacted was the part that contained long term memories

His heart shattered

“We’re afraid she may have severe amnesia. We’re going to keep running tests to see just what is going on, we think it’s the quirk of that villain. A lot of the victims of their crimes have blockages in their muscle groups, but we’ve never seen a blockage in the brain from them.”

Denki is quiet

He literally doesn’t say anything

Until he whispers

“Can i see her?”

The doctor nods

And he leads him to your room

You’re still asleep 

And you’re covered in bandages and casts

It breaks his heart

His friends texted him to tell him they went home but if he needs them at any minute that they will be on their way to the hospital in ten seconds flat

He appreciates it

But right now he really just wanted to be alone with you

He just sat next to you

Holding your hand

He was even moving your pointer finger to trace the Lichtenberg Figures trailing up and down his arms

You always do it when the two of you are cuddling at night 

It helps him sleep

And reminds him that you love him regardless of his faults

And right now he just

He really needs you

This goes on for an hour before he feels you start to move

And he freezes

“(Y/n?”

You open your eyes

And squint at him

“Uh… h-hi… aren’t you that guy in my new class…?”

He stares at you

Completely deadpan

Before laughing a bit

But it isn’t a happy laugh

It’s very much a sad laugh

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Cool, but um… how did you know my name already?… Are you crying?”

Yes

He was

He was laughing and crying at the same time

He probably looked like he was losing his mind

But he really did just lose his whole world so

It’s a prompted reaction

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

His voice was more strained this time

“Are you… are you okay?”

“Yeah, but you’re not. And I didn’t save you, and now you don’t know who I am, and I’m just… I’m so sorry, babe. I’m so sorry.”

The laughing stopped

Now he’s just sobbing

In your mind

You’d seen him a few times while touring the school

And he was always laughing and smiling

Always

So this was shocking

And you’d be lying if you said it didn’t tug on your heart strings

You instinctively reach out to grab his hand

And he grips onto it so tight

Almost like he’s afraid of letting go

“…You called me babe?”

He tries to even his breathing

But he nods

“I don’t… I don’t even know you, I-”

“You do. You do, but… you don’t. It’s… it’s complicated and I’m a literal dumbass so… I’ll call a doctor. They’ll explain.”

And that he does

And the doctor does in fact explain

And after the doctor leaves

You ask him to tell you about your relationship

And he does

He tells you even the smallest details

From the time that you painted the nail on his right hand middle finger pink because he lost a bet and he ended up liking it and buying nail polish for himself

To the time that you two told everyone you break danced all night to break in your new apartment when in reality he turned on Lover by Taylor Swift and the two of you slow danced in your living room

All of it

And he even managed to slip in the fact that you’d remember all of this after he caught the villain who did this to you

And he will catch them.

[wolfstar-supremacy-innit]

"Tell who?"- Part 3

Remus smiled into his pillow. Why’s he so cute? He felt something rustle under his stomach. Reaching under himself, he pulled out a wrinkled piece of parchment. His resolutions list. Remus flipped onto his back and squinted at the letters. Warmth was pooling in his chest. Something is missing here. He patted the bed in search for his quill and ink, then wrote:

5. Fuck this I wanna tell him I love him

The paper slipped to the floor as Remus’ arms gave out and he drifted into an instantaneous, profound sleep.

Alternatively:

The Marauders are in their 6th year at Hogwarts, it's New Year's Eve and Remus writes a New Year's resolutions list. Sirius finds it the next day. The story is written from Remus' point of view. It's wolfstar and lighthearted. Kinda inspired by this fanfic.

This is part 3 of the story. I will be posting the other parts separately here and also the full fic on ao3 (I will link everything when it's done, check this post for that in some time). Warnings: underage drinking and smoking, mentions of anxiety disorder.

Part 1 Part 2

Enjoy <3

I’m such an idiot. I’m an idiot. Why didn’t I lie?! Why didn’t I disprove it? This was it. This was the end of the world. He knew Sirius wouldn’t react terribly badly. He wouldn’t express disgust or resentment, not after Remus confided in him about how sensitive he was on the question of his own sexuality. But it would be painfully awkward. Their connection would never be the same; it couldn’t. Remus dreaded losing his best friend. But it was done. Sirius’ best friend was James anyway. Remus buried his face in his hands as tears stung his eyes. He settled into his new hideout and slept there for the night. He couldn’t bear to face Sirius.

In the morning, Remus made an effort to arrive to Charms class as late as possible, right as Flitwick was commencing his lesson. He slid into the chair at the end of their usual table, next to James. Sirius was on the other end. “Where were you, mate? You scared us,” James whispered. Peter was gazing at Remus over his shoulder.

Remus cleared his throat. “Sorry, fell asleep in my spot,” he said. In his peripheral vision, Sirius was leaning far on the table, trying to catch his attention. But Remus took it upon himself to laser focus on the lesson, his nose buried so deep into his notes, it was nearly touching the parchment.

After the class, he bolted again. He just couldn’t face him. He couldn’t. He returned to his hiding place and waited out his free period and most of lunch. He had to repeat his breathing exercises more than ever. Suddenly, Remus paused. Determination was rising in his chest. Then he forced himself to pull it together. It wasn’t like Remus to run away from his problems. If being a werewolf had taught him anything, it was that neglecting and avoiding your issues doesn’t make them vanish. Makes them worse, even. Also, Remus didn’t have a lot. He had his parents, music, books, magic, and he had his friends. There wasn’t much he prised more than his friendships with James, Sirius and Peter. Sirius knowing about his crush was thoroughly embarrassing, yes, but it wasn’t worth completely losing his friends. Plus, he was due for a shower. So Remus took a few more deep breaths, dusted himself off, and headed for the dorm. When he got there, nobody was inside. He took his sweet time in the shower, allowing the warm water to drain out more of his nervous energy. I can handle this.

When Remus got out, Sirius was there, lying on his stomach, doing homework. He looked up. Remus put on a brave face and said: “Hi.” Sirius’ worried expression was exchanged with a slightly more relaxed one. “Hi.” Remus sat on his own bed looking in Sirius’ general direction, but not quite at him, cleared his throat, and said: “Um, sorry I bolted. That was childish.”

“That’s alright,” Sirius replied in the tiniest voice. It was very unlike his usual loud, assertive self.

Remus wanted the bed to swallow him whole, but he pushed through. “We don’t have to talk about the... thing. Or acknowledge it. It’s not a big deal, really.” A lie. But it needed to be done. Sirius didn’t say anything. Remus was certain he didn't know what to say. Reaching into his bag, Remus retrieved his Charms textbook and started on his own homework. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sirius still looking at him for another minute, then he went back to work. The silence was agonising and tense, but Remus had known it would be. They would just have to persevere. After a while, Sirius asked: “Hey, could you help me with this? It’s Arithmancy. I procrastinated, and now I have to hand it in in half an hour.” Remus snorted. Their next class was Arithmancy, and only he and Sirius took it. So, Sirius was choosing to act like nothing happened. That was okay with Remus. “Sure.”

Only, as it happens, Sirius didn’t ignore it. Throughout the next week, he started acting a little peculiar. He was still loud and fooling around, but he would also hold doors for Remus, for example. If anyone knew Sirius, they knew doors were either held for him, or he would just swing them open and let them slam behind him into the next person’s face. Even James noticed it and asked him if he had brain damage. Also, a couple times at meals, Sirius would scoot his seat closer to Remus’, making their arms brush while they ate. The first time it happened, Remus blushed so profusely, he could see giant pink splotches splattered all over his neck and cheeks in his reflection in one of the large silver bowls on the table. Sirius stopped calling him ‘mate’ too. Occasionally, he’d ask for help with his homework, even though he clearly didn’t need it. It all made Remus want to shoot himself in the face with a hex. It seemed like Sirius was pitying him, and he despised it. It was somehow worse than Sirius being awkward and distant around him.

January’s full moon fell on the 25th, and Remus’ transformation didn’t go particularly smoothly. It was likely one of the worst ones out of all those he spent with his friends as animagi. He was fairly confident it was because of the whole Sirius thing. Just because he decided to deal with it didn’t mean it wasn’t taking its toll. Remus was stressed all the time. Not just because of Sirius, of course, but that was a key factor. When he woke up in the hospital wing the following morning, his friends were there. James rambled on enthusiastically about an upcoming Quidditch match. Remus didn’t really comprehend half of it, but still tried to nod at appropriate times. Peter piped in once in a while to agree with James or add something. Sirius, however, was completely silent the whole visit. About an hour later, Madam Pomfrey chased James, Sirius and Peter out, but Remus didn’t mind too much. He was knackered. He drifted off to sleep before the boys were even out the door.

Later that day, at dusk, Remus sat in his hospital bed reading a muggle novel when Sirius popped in. Or rather sneaked in. He was alone this time. “Had a free period. Thought you might want some company,” he explained. Elation started brewing in Remus’ stomach.

“Oh, brilliant, thanks.”

“What are you up to, then?” Sirius sat on the bed.

Remus lifted his book. “Reading. Not much to do here, really.”

“Sweet. Will you read to me?”

“What?”

Sirius smiled. “Will you read out loud for me?” He turned around, plopped on the bed face-up with his boots propped up on the railing at the foot of the bed. He tucked his hands behind his head, half lying on Remus’ legs.

“Oh, okay.” Heat sneaked up Remus’ neck. He read to Sirius until it was almost time for him to leave for his next class.

“Transfiguration next. Think I’m gonna gouge out my eyes if we don’t move on from teacup to gerbil.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it. You mastered it two lessons ago.” Remus rolled his eyes, smiling. Sirius let out a soft laugh.

“Moony...” He was now sitting on the bed next to Remus. “I feel like this is my fault.” He reached out and gently touched the bandage on Remus’ arm. Sirius was referring to Remus’ beat-up state.

“What? Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“Well, because of the... You know... I mean, you’re upset and-“ Remus’ heartbeat picked up swiftly. They hadn’t so much as mentioned the crush since that day in the dorm.

“I’m not upset. Really. I just have a lot on my mind.” He searched his brain for something more to say to make Sirius feel better. It wasn’t his fault at all. It was Remus’ for letting this bother him so much. “It’s not you.”

“You sure?” His eyes were so sad; it was painful.

“Yes, Sirius, really. It’s not you, okay?”

“Okay.” After a pause, Sirius continued: “Oh, I almost forgot. Brought you something.” He smiled, finally. After rummaging in his bag, Sirius emerged with a stack of chocolate bars and dropped them into Remus’ lap. They were Remus’ favourite. Warmth fluttered across his chest. Sirius had to have ordered these from Honeydukes. Now it was Remus’ time to smile.

“Oh, brilliant! Thanks, Sirius.”

“No problem. Right. I better clear off, then. I can’t handle another detention with Minnie for something as stupid as being late.”

“Right. See you in the dorm then.”

“See ya, Moony. Oh, loved the reading. We should definitely do that again!” Then he walked out the door. Remus’ cheeks flamed crimson. He sank deep into the covers, yanking them over his head. He’s gonna be the death of me.

***

After that visit at the hospital, another strange thing started happening. On several occasions, Remus caught Sirius staring at him, then quickly looking away when their eyes connected. In class, at meals, in the common room as the four of them sat in front of the fireplace doing homework. It made Remus very nervous and a little confused. Furthermore, with James’ upcoming match, Sirius and Remus found themselves alone more often than not. James either had practice or was in the library going over tactics for his team, and Peter loved tagging along. When Sirius and Remus were alone in the dorm, Sirius would usually suggest that Remus read to him. At first, they were in their respective beds, but then Sirius started sneaking onto Remus’ bed as he read. It made Remus’ heart thump every time, because Sirius Black in his bed, well. That was a sight to see. He would lounge on his back, one ankle over the other, hands behind his head, eyes shut, and listen. He never fell asleep. Occasionally, he would laugh or comment on an interesting segment.

One of those times, both of them were on Remus’ bed as Remus read “A Stranger in a Strange Land” by Robert A. Heinlein. Sirius liked the muggle books. He was in his usual disposition, with half of his hair loosely and messily pulled back with a hair tie. Remus adored that look on Sirius. He was sitting cross-legged in level with Sirius’ hips, with the book sprawled onto his lap.

“Hey, got a cig,” Sirius asked as Remus was turning the page.

“Yep.” He used Accio to fetch his rolling equipment from his bedside table, placed the contents on the rizla and performed his spell. It rolled smoothly, the tobacco and filter tucked tightly into the paper. He’d been practising.

“Hey, that’s one thing off your resolutions list,” Sirius said, smiling as he accepted the cigarette. Their fingers touched.

“Well, technically, it’s two, isn’t it...,” Remus trailed off, clearing his throat. Christ, why did I say that?! He could already feel the blood rushing in his ears. Maybe Sirius wouldn’t get the reference... But Sirius pushed himself onto his elbows and peered at him. Remus pretended to pack up his cigarette equipment with intense concentration. Sirius sat all the way up and leaned so close, Remus could feel his breath. Nervousness sparked off goosebumps all over Remus’ skin. He swallowed thickly. Sirius smelled of mint and expensive shampoo. “Moony,” he said, and Remus finally turned to face him. Their noses were less than two centimetres apart. Remus’ heart was hammering against his ribs.

Sirius glanced at his lips, then slowly leaned in and closed the distance. Remus fluttered his eyes shut as adrenaline set his insides ablaze. The kiss was warm and gentle. “Sirius..,” Remus started, but the other boy just connected their lips again, this time kissing him more eagerly, and Remus just gave over. Sirius was letting him know this wasn’t charity; he really wanted it. He licked into Remus’ mouth delicately, grasping the back of his neck to pull him closer. Remus had never had a real tongue kiss before, but Sirius was leading him, and it all came naturally. Without warning, he felt tears burning behind his closed eyes. Remus had never, not even for a moment, let himself get caught up in the idea of Sirius liking him back. He knew rejection would shatter his soul, and he couldn’t let himself be torn apart by his own fantasies. But it wasn’t a fantasy anymore, and Remus was overwhelmed with the relief of letting go. Of finally allowing himself to crave what he'd been pushing down for months. His favourite person wanting him back. He entwined his fingers into Sirius’ hair and kissed him back intensely. They were both breathing heavily, then Sirius placed his other palm on Remus’ upper thigh. A tingling sensation shot up his lower back as he inhaled a long breath through his nose. Sirius was remarkably skilled, Remus noted.

Remus lost all sense of time. He didn’t know how long they kissed, it simultaneously felt like minutes and hours. Suddenly, they leapt apart as steps and chatter echoed on the stairs leading to the dorm. Sirius stood up and hurriedly smoothed down his hair. Remus wiped his lips with the back of his hand and frantically covered his lap with the covers. He was tight in his trousers. Christ. He wondered whether Sirius noticed as the heat blazed his cheeks. Peter and James trudged into the room, still talking.

“Alright lads,” James said, sauntered to his bed and started taking off his Quidditch robes.

Sirius cleared his throat, then said: “Uh, yeah. Brilliant.” His voice came out lower that usual.

"Bloody amazing practice today!"

“Oh, you guys Should have seen them! I could barely keep track of the Quaffle! Ravenclaw hasn’t got a chance,” Peter prattled on, but Remus couldn’t focus. His brain was whirring a thousand miles a minute. Holy shit, was the only coherent sentence his mind could congregate. He could still feel the the ghost of Sirius’ kiss on his lips.

Minutes later, Sirius returned to his usual banter and mucking about with James. If something different was going on inside his head, it didn’t show. A sudden arrow of disappointment and yearning shot through Remus’ chest. Was this just a one-off? His excitement dwindled for a moment, but when he glanced over to Sirius again, he was already looking at him. They smiled at each other. It didn’t matter anyway. Remus felt like this kiss could power his brain for all eternity. It had been like something straight out of a dream.

Part 4 will probably take me a little longer, given that I basically had the first 3 parts drafted when I posted the first one. Also 4 will probs be the last one. Hope you like it so far! :) <3

Part 1 Part 2

[chaseatinydream]

pirate king (47) || atz

In the relative silence of the sickbay, you and San fight to save Yunho’s life.

The two of you work silently, switching out blood stained bandages for clean ones, Seonghwa running between the galley and the infirmary to wash the soiled paddings as you and San try desperately to stop the bleeding. The wound may not be big, but it’s deep and from San’s deductions, it’s poisoned, and that’s probably what worries the two of you the most.

The metallic tang of blood hits your nose as you toss one bloodied bandage into a basket, reaching for a fresh one and pressing it to the wound. Underneath your hands, Yunho moans weakly in pain, his face ashen and a thin sheen of cold sweat on his forehead. At the side, your master is at his worktable, furiously mixing a complex concoction to slow down Yunho’s heart rate and hopefully knock the injured battlemaster out while the two of you tend to his wound.

“Is he going to be fine?” Seonghwa whispers to you as he takes the basket of soiled bandages for the third time already, glancing worriedly over at the limp form of one of his oldest friends on the bed. Honestly, you’re not sure how to reply.

“It’s not the wound that we’re worried about, actually.” You murmur softly under your breath as you pour whiskey onto the cloth, cleaning out the wound the best you can. Yunho’s head falls back as he whimpers softly in pain and you murmur soothing words to him, brushing his damp hair out of his eyes. “It’s the poison.”

“But Sanie is familiar with poisons.” Seonghwa tells you as he rests his hand on Yunho’s forehead. It’s clammy to the touch, a sign that the poison is already taking its effects on him. Usually, it would be a simple task for San to look through his extensive book of poisons and simply find a cure, but this time…

San doesn’t know what poison it is this time.

You don’t know what to do either. You don’t have the experience with poisons to be able to help your master in this area, so the only thing you can do is assist San by dealing with the physical wound while he tries to figure out exactly how to save Yunho’s life.

Sighing, Seonghwa looks over at Yunho with weary, resigned look, patting his younger crewmate gently. In that one action, there are a million words left unsaid, the weight of the his emotions for his friend settling over to you, a tidal wave of concern, pain, sadness.

“Please be okay, Yunho.” Seonghwa murmurs one last time, before he rises to his feet and leaves the room with the basket under his arm, unable to continue looking upon the still form of his weakened crewmate. You can understand how Seonghwa feels, you yourself can barely bring yourself to glance at Yunho’s sallow, pallid face, mumbling incoherently under his breath.

“Here.” San finally steps over to you, handing a small bottle of freshly mixed painkiller. You swirl it around a few more times and the potent pungence of it hits your nose, causing your eyes to water as your master reaches for Yunho’s head, tilting his mouth open with his thumb.

Sidling up next to him, you very carefully hold the bottle over Yunho’s trembling lips, dribbling just a little of the concoction into his mouth.

At the first drop, Yunho coughs and splutters, choking on its bitter taste and you immediately panic, worried that the painkiller might have gone down his windpipe instead. Your master, already expecting something like this to happen from experience, rushes to lie him back down, patting him gently as he reassures Yunho with soft words.

“Don’t worry, Yunho-ah, all you need to do is drink this little painkiller and you can go right to sleep.” Your master’s soft words drift over to your ears as you search for a way to make the painkiller easier for Yunho to ingest. “No more pain… yes, you can just rest.”

“It hurts…” Yunho whimpers softly, like a feverish child reaching for his mother, except this is so much more severe than just that. Your heart almost shatters at the weakness of his voice, but you force yourself to hold it together for his sake, squeezing your eyes shut against the tears that threaten to fall. “It hurts so much…”

“I know, I know.” San cooes sweetly to him, his voice taking on a honeyed, gentle tone as he beckons you over with a finger. “Just drink this and it’ll make all the pain go away, alright?”

Once again, you press the bottle to his cracked lips and this time Yunho drinks it all like a dehydrated man, as if he’s desperately seeking any relief he can from the pain the poison is causing him. Every drop slides down his throat as San rubs his back soothingly, whispering encouragement and reassurance to his crewmate. In seconds, the entire bottle is drained and you take it from him, moving to the work bench to prepare for the next phase in the healing process.

Behind your back, you hear San humming a lullaby to Yunho, but even over his voice you can hear Yunho’s breathing begin to weaken, from sporadic pants to soft, even breathing. Terror wins out for a second and you whirl around to look at him, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes as you fear that this may be the last time you see him conscious, and that he may truly never wake up from this sleep.

But Yunho’s eyes are already closed, chest falling and rising evenly as he falls into a deep slumber right before your eyes.

A sob chokes its way from your throat before you can help it and a pathetic whimper escapes you, the tears you’d been holding back so long finally rolling down your cheeks. San immediately rises from Yunho’s side and pulls you into a tight embrace, your face nestled in his shoulder as you cry quietly.

Your master gives you a moment to let all your emotions out, his hand patting you on the back gently. Silently, you feel warmth staining the collar of your shirt and you hug your master a little tighter, both of you afraid, petrified, terrified for Yunho’s life, but at least you’re together, and somehow that makes it a little easier to breathe.

After a while, the two of you finally collect yourselves. San holds you by the shoulders, one hand reaching up to wipe the tears from your cheeks as he forces a smile on his face.

“Let’s save him, Chin Hae.”

The two of you move in tandem. San moves to stem the bleeding of the wound in Yunho’s side as you prepare the needle for the stitching, wiping it clean with alcohol before heating it over an open flame. Next, you thread it carefully with fine silk, before passing it to your master.

His fingers fly over the injury, the tweezers in his hand pulling the needle through Yunho’s skin as your master works to close the wound. After a few moments, the gash is completely closed, and you pass San a roll of clean bandage which he uses to bind the wound.

When all is done, the two of you heave a simultaneous sigh of relief. You’ve done all you can, the rest is left to the gods now.

The two of you sit down side by side on the bed opposite Yunho’s, watching the injured battlemaster sleep peacefully in grim silence. San wraps an arm around your shoulders to comfort you as he starts to give you the diagnostic for the wound and you sink into his embrace, desperately needing his warm presence to ground you before you burst into tears again.

“He’s been stabbed in the side, but I have confidence that will heal with time. We can always treat physical wounds with our healing abilities.” San tells you quietly as you rest your head on his shoulder. “What I’m worried about is the poison. I collected a sample of the poisoned blood on the mouth of the wound, but it might take me a few days to run tests and determine what compounds are in it.”

“Why can’t we use our healing abilities like we did with Yeosang, though?” You whisper quietly, as if trying not to disturb Yunho’s sleeping form. San’s brow pinches in frustration.

“We could heal Yeosang’s wound in one shot because it was a physical wound, so all we had to do was focus our energies onto that one area. But Yunho has been poisoned and the toxins have spread around his body through his bloodstream. We can’t manage such an intricate repair where we have to fix every part of his body, and even if we could, the poison would still remain in his blood and continue doing damage.”

You swallow at the bleak words. “So you’re saying the only thing we can do is wait for his body to flush out the poison on its own? Or create an antidote, but we don’t know what poison it is?”

San nods. “The painkiller I gave him should knock him out for a while and slow down his heart rate so the poison doesn’t work as fast, but do you have any idea how long we might have before the poison kills him?”

You flinch at the word, but you rack your brains. Think, Chin Hae, think! For a moment, you can recall nothing, but then a thought forms in your mind.

“Commander Kang said to come to Cayman Islands if we wanted the antidote, so that must mean the poison is a slow affecting one, am I right? He wouldn’t have said that if Yunho’s just going to die in a few days.”

San pauses a moment to consider your words, before he heaves a slight sigh of relief. “I guess that’s true… although coming out of the mouth of that snake, I’m not sure whether we can trust his words.”

Then he turns to you with earnest eyes. “You know that Hongjoong-hyung would never give you and Yeosang up. You know that, don’t you?”

You do know that. You know that more than anyone else. But there’s always fear in you, no matter how small, that your captain may choose the freedom of his crew over you… and you wouldn’t blame him in the least for it.

How could you?

Before your thoughts can start spiraling down this depressing whirlpool, San rises to his feet, stretching his arms above his head and glances at you.

“I’ll be researching on the poison sample, so I need you to remain here and watch over Yunho for me. Can you do that for me, Chin Hae?”

You don’t want to be alone with your thoughts as they eat away at you from the inside, but even more than that, you need for Yunho to get his antidote, so you nod and San presses a last, quick kiss to your temple, patting you on the shoulder reassuringly.

“Yunho is strong… and incredibly lucky. Believe in him.”

With that, your master leaves the room, and you’re all alone with Yunho in the sickbay. With nothing much else for you to do, you merely stare at the battlemaster’s face, memories with him flashing through your mind.

Since the first day you stepped aboard this ship, Yunho has always been this figure of strength and power, radiating positivity and goodwill like the sun itself. You still remember the time you had climbed up to the crow’s nest with him for the first time, the way he had simply grinned at you and reassured you that he’d catch you if you ever fell.

You can’t forget his sad, melancholy laugh as he explained the meaning of the rings in his hair, how he’d exposed the scar at his neck, the way he’d spilled to you everything about his brother with that fond, affectionate look on his face.

He was nicer, kinder, gentler. Always the better one of the two of us.

Well, your jaw clenches as you think about Yunho’s words, trying and failing to match it with the man you’d seen with Commander Kang earlier that day. You clearly remembered wrong, Yunho, because your brother is nothing like that.

Everything about Jeong Gunho scared you senseless, and still does, even more so when you think back on it. His short brown hair was flyaway and messy like any other youth, deep brown eyes expressive and alight with happiness. He and Yunho truly looked eerily alike, in fact now that you think about it, Gunho looks like what you might have imagined Yunho to resemble three years ago.

But it had been his smile that had scared you the most. You as an onlooker had been completely convinced of Gunho’s joy to finally meet his estranged brother once more, much less Yunho, who’d been missing his brother for years. It was no surprise Yunho had fallen for his younger brother’s act.

What truly scares you had been that even after running his brother through with a knife, Gunho’s face hadn’t changed the least. You remember the words he had spoken to Yunho with that same bright smile, one that you now know must have been hiding a dark, sinister intent underneath.

I didn’t think you’d be on guard enough to react so quickly around me. And here I thought you were glad to see me again, brother.

A frisson of fear runs through you as you recall the way he had said those words, as if disappointed a plan of his hadn’t worked out. His facade up to that point, right from the beginning when his hood had fallen off to the moment he’d stabbed Yunho in the stomach, had been wholly, undeniably flawless.

Gunho had known that Yunho missed him with every fiber of his being even before he had stepped onto the ship.

And he had intended to use that against him from the very beginning.

You’re utterly confused with so many unanswered questions buzzing around in your mind, some more baffling than the others. They spill into your mind like water overflowing from a basin, swirling around in your thoughts as you desperately try to come up with explanations and answers to them.

Wasn’t Gunho supposed to be dead? How did he magically some back to life… and why was he with the Royal Navy? Why was he with Commander Kang? From the way the two had looked at each other, moving in sync, they must have known each other for a long time. Which led you to the question… exactly what had happened after Yunho had left his brother behind in that arena?

A sigh escapes your mouth and you’re tempted to ram your head into the wall, but the noise would wake Yunho up. Playing with the necklace resting around your neck, you shut your eyes, matching your breathing to Yunho’s as you think hard about the events earlier in the day.

Why does Commander Kang want you? And why is there such a massive bounty on your head? Why on earth would you be worth more to the Royal Navy than the Pirate King himself? And why-

Creak…

You nearly jump in shock and scramble around to search for the source of the noise, only to see that it’s Yeosang stepping in through the door, carrying a small loaf of bread and meat. When he sees you sitting on the bed staring at him in surprise, he gives you a weak smile and crosses the room to pass you the food.

“Dinner. Seonghwa-hyung said to tell you shouldn’t skip any meals and to keep your strength up.”

“Thanks.” You take the food from him, just now realising how ravenous you are. The navigator seats himself next to you, the wooden frame creaking under his weight as he takes in the sight of one of his oldest friends, quiet and still on the bed opposite him. His face falls a little and you pause in between bites to attempt to cheer him up.

“Hey, it’ll be okay, Yeosang. I’m… I’m sure Captain wouldn’t give us up to your father. He’ll find a way to save us all, including Yunho. I believe in him.” You try to reassure him, but Yeosang merely gives you a defeated smile. He can feel your true feelings, even without words passing between you. How terrified you are that you’ll be given up. How part of you wants to be given up… if it means Yunho can be saved.

“My father did this, huh?” Yeosang’s hands clasp together in his lap and he leans back to stare at the ceiling of the infirmary. “I never… I never thought I would see him again, for most part.”

You glance at him, feeling his sorrow running through your veins as if it’s your own, your fingers reaching for his. Your intertwined hands rest in between the two of you as you close your eyes, taking comfort from the fact that Yeosang is here, and he understands what you’re feeling. “How did you come to the Treasure… Yeosang-oppa?”

You hear the navigator’s breath hitch, before his grip on your hand relaxes. “My father abandoned me in exchange for his crew’s safety when we had a run in with the Treasure… I was valuable, so Hongjoong took me alive.”

Your heart sinks. What he’s telling you now are the exact same memories you had seen in his mind, but the broken way he says it makes it so much more painful to your ears.

“Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t met Captain and the others…” Yeosang murmurs softly, squeezing your hand a little. “Whether I would have continued to follow my father blindly like a dog desperate for affection… believing that he truly did love me and that I just needed to prove myself to him. Or whether I would have realised it one day, completely alone, before all that love turned to hatred.”

“But you didn’t.” You remind him, looking him in the eye. Yeosang’s face brightens just a little at the thought of it.

“I didn’t.” He repeats after you, the smallest of smiles on his face as he reminisces upon those memories. “I stayed in the sickbay at first, you know? For a while, I completely refused food when San and Seonghwa-hyung brought it to me. I thought I should just die, because I had nothing more to live for.”

You stiffen a little at the thought of Yeosang, silent and unmoving, letting his body just die slowly as he tried to come to terms with the one, singular thing he’d believed his whole life; that his father had loved him. Nothing but fury wells up at the image that comes to mind.

“But someone changed my mind.”

“Oh?” You’re a little surprised and you see Yeosang with a gentle smile on his face as he recalls those days, a time long before you had joined the Treasure. “Seonghwa-oppa changed your mind? Or maybe Master?”

But Yeosang shakes his head to both, before dropping one name you had not expected to hear at all.

“It was Wooyoung.”

You actually pause in shock to stare at him. You really don’t have anything against him, Wooyoung is one of your best friends, and honestly, someone you wouldn’t hesitate to trust your life with. The head gunner has a silver tongue, a skilled charmer with both incredible charisma and empathy, but you wouldn’t have expected it to be Wooyoung of all people to be the one to pull Yeosang out of the darkness.

“Oh?”

Yeosang nods solemnly. “Wooyoung simply talked to me about never having experienced any sort of familial love, so it didn’t really matter to him when he’d left his first ship and come aboard the Treasure. But he felt as if I had it a lot harder… because I had lost something when he had nothing to lose.”

A shiver runs down your spine at those words. Nothing to lose? You recall his behaviour from the mermaid incident, how you’ve been hearing people making allusions to Wooyoung’s past but never really speaking about it, as if it’s some sort of taboo subject. You know he’s been through a lot from the little he’d told you back on Nassau… but how much had he suffered, exactly?

Part of you doesn’t want to know.

“Wooyoung told me he’d found a family he’d never known could exist on the Treasure and said he hoped I would give them a chance and let them do the same for me. You know it too, don’t you?” Yeosang recalls, shaking his head with a fond smile. “That’s how I know that Captain would never betray us.”

He squeezes your hands tightly in his, and something deep in you realises that maybe you were the one who needed comfort this entire time.

So, closing your eyes, you let yourself believe in the one thing that has been true this entire time.

Your captain will never betray you.

[king-finnigan]

these four walls (supposed to save you from yourself)

part 1, part 2, part 3. also on ao3!

~~~

“Stop fidgeting with it!” Triss slaps his hand away from the bandage around his neck. He lets it fall limply as she takes the scarf from the chair, wrapping it around him.

“But it itches,” he whines, fingers twitching against the side of his leg.

“Good. That means it’s healing.” She sighs, letting her hands rest on his shoulders, ducking to meet his eye. “Listen, I know it’s annoying and I know it itches but you’re doing so well. Don’t mess it up by reopening the wound, alright?”

He nods, shifting his eyes to look past her, catching sight of himself in the mirror. There are still some bruises peeking above the edge of the scarf and he can see the dark circles under his eyes from all the sleepless nights – the ones where the nightmares won’t go away, the ones where furious golden eyes fill every inch of his mind until he feels like he’s choking all over again.

But besides that, he looks… fine. Surprisingly and suspiciously fine, even though he very much feels like he’s not; even though he has trouble sleeping and concentrating and the doctor’s words of possible brain damage keep echoing through his head; even though they had to cut a hole in his throat to allow him to breathe, for crying out loud.

Despite everything, he looks… fine.

He sighs, taking his coat from the bed, shrugging it over his shoulders as Triss grabs the duffel bag. “Shall we go, then?” she asks.

One last time, he looks around the hospital room he spent the last week in before he nods and heads for the door. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”

---

He has to assure Triss he’ll be fine five times before she finally goes, leaving him alone in his empty apartment with the lasagne she made for him in the fridge and a sad-looking ‘get well soon!’-balloon hanging around in the corner of the living room.

He sighs, dumping the duffel bag on the bed, zipping it open and pulling his dirty clothes out, pushing them into the washing machine and slamming the little door shut. He turns it on before wandering over to the hallway, expressly ignoring that stupid fucking balloon in the living room, shivering as he turns the thermostat up.

He turns around, leaning against the wall and pulling his sweater closer around himself, looking around his apartment.

It’s strange. In all the years that he’s lived here, the place has never felt emptier than it does now. Maybe it’s because he’s still a bit used to the hospital and the people who kept walking into his room to check up on him. Maybe it’s because it feels weird having this big a space all to himself after the small hospital room he was in. Maybe it’s because Triss spent nearly every waking moment by his side and he’s lonely now that she’s gone.

But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? This is the same apartment he spent years of his life being alone in. The same place he decorated so long ago with Ikea furniture and tacky posters and ugly patterned pillows. This is his home.

But then his eye falls on the guitar case in the corner and things make a little more sense.

He walks over to it, sitting on the couch and pulling it into his lap, clicking the locks open. Some part of him foolishly hopes that it’s fine this time around, that it has somehow magically healed over the past few days.

But when he swings the lid open, the spark of hope snuffs out.

He lifts his guitar up by the neck, pushing the case off his lap to replace it with the instrument. Slowly, he lets his hand trail over the jagged edges of the hole in the side, his fingers pressing into the sharp points, splinters burying themselves into his skin.

He still finds it hard to believe, even now. Triss told him it happened either before or during the struggle – either when Geralt grabbed him by the neck and Jaskier had reflexively dropped the instrument, or when the nurses were trying to save his life. No one knows for sure. He supposes it doesn’t matter, in the end.

He strums the strings softly with his thumb, tears pricking behind his eyes when not a single sound comes from the guitar.

It shouldn’t feel like grieving a loved one this much. But it does.

He puts the guitar back in its case carefully, smoothing his hand over the body one last time before he closes the lid, clicking the locks shut again.

He helps himself to some lasagne in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and idly playing with the edges of the bandage around his throat as the food heats in the microwave. He eats it in front of the tv, chewing and swallowing slowly, eyes glued to the screen as his mind wanders – back to the hospital, back to the ward, back to golden eyes.

He wonders if they’ve restrained Geralt because of what happened. He wonders if he’s playing chess by himself if they haven’t. He wonders if he misses Jaskier. He wonders if he’s finally gone to one of the group therapy sessions. He wonders if Geralt can still feel Jaskier’s skin on his hands the same way Jaskier can feel Geralt’s on his neck.

He wonders a million and one things, letting them drift through his mind like clouds across a clear, blue sky, eyes staring unseeing at the screen, the food turning to dust on his tongue, grating against his throat every time he swallows it.

When he’s done, he turns the tv off, quickly washing his plate and fork in the sink before making his way over to his bedroom. He changes into his pyjamas, smiling softly when he finds fluffy socks that definitely weren’t there before sitting on his desk – he’ll have to remind himself to thank Triss for those later.

He looks at the clock. It’s only seven but he’s already so, so tired, all those sleepless nights taking their toll on him, and he crawls beneath the blankets, turning the lights off and closing his eyes.

He drifts for a while as he ignores the slight itching of the healing wound in his throat, where the doctors had to cut him open to stick a tube into his lungs – his throat had been so swollen he couldn’t breathe by himself and they couldn’t intubate him the traditional way. He remembers waking up in the emergency a few hours later, disoriented and confused, in pain and breathing without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat.

Triss had been by his side – his childhood friend always is – and had told him about the tracheotomy, about the tube and what it meant.

And then the doctor had walked in. Possible brain damage, he’d said. We’ll have to monitor the situation, he’d said.

Signs of brain damage may include being unable to concentrate, insomnia, and memory loss, he’d said. He’d asked if Jaskier remembered what happened. Jaskier had lied and said he vaguely did. With time, the memories had come back, luckily, but that doesn’t stop him from worrying, still.

He pushes those images away for now and loses himself in the memories of strings against his fingers, of chess pieces clicking on the board, of golden eyes looking at him with slight amusement right before Jaskier would lose a game. Memories of soft hums that Jaskier had to translate by himself, of sunlight spilling through the window and casting silver hair in a halo, of the side of a scarred hand touching his.

Scarred hands, wrapped around his neck, golden eyes, furious and boring into his, a voice that used to softly hum growling at him.

His eyes snap open, staring up into the darkness as his throat constricts, panic flooding his chest like a tidal wave that’s broken through a dam. He sees a shadow in the corner – a shadow in the corner, oh god, there’s a shadow in the corner, oh god, oh god, oh god – and he sits upright, quickly turning his bedside lamp on.

The shadow is just his wardrobe.

He sighs, letting himself fall back onto the pillows, looking up at the ceiling as tears prick in his eyes. He wipes them away furiously, hand drifting down to fiddle with the edge of the bandage. The urge to scratch at the wound always gets worse at night, for some reason.

He looks at the clock. Eight. It’s barely even night, though; he’s still got more than enough time to get some rest.

He lays on his side, eyes glued to the clock as he waits for his mind to start drifting again, to find the doorstep that leads to sleep.

He watches as the clock passes nine, ten, eleven, twelve, one, two.

He turns off the light.

Hands around his neck, golden eyes that don’t recognize him, Geralt’s voice growling at him.

He turns the light back on.

A sign of possible brain damage is insomnia.

He groans in frustration, wiping his hands over his face before he sits up straight again. This is useless, he’s never gonna get the sleep he needs like this.

But he’s tired enough as it is already, and how the fuck is he supposed to get sleep if not like this? His eyes drift across the room in search of an idea of some sorts before they land on the chess board on his desk.

He pushes himself out of bed, dragging his blanket along with him as he pads his way over to the chair. He sits down, pulling the board towards himself, hand slowly coming up to reset the pieces back in their correct places. He’s about to take two pawns to switch behind his back when he realizes it’s just him – he’s gonna have to play both colours, now.

He starts with white. Moves a pawn. Turns the board. And, bloody hell, this is really hard. He has to resist the urge not to favour one colour over the other, to make a move he won’t immediately be able to counteract, and he briefly wonders how Geralt can even do this. No wonder he was so eager to play with Jaskier, doing this on your own is an absolute nightmare.

He sighs, leaning his chin on his lower arm on the desk as he contemplates his next move, brows furrowed in concentration as he stares at the pieces that are now at eye-level. He moves a pawn, turns the board with one hand. He blinks at the white pieces, eyelids lingering where they meet for a second. He opens his eyes again, tries to figure out his next move.

He sighs, letting his head tilt to the side, resting the side of it on his arm. His eyes drift shut again. He doesn’t bother opening them again.

He dreams of scarred hands moving chess pieces, of golden eyes glinting with amusement before Jaskier admits defeat, of a soft hum when he asks if they can play another game. His guitar is whole and in his lap. His throat doesn’t hurt when he sings a love song.

---

He wakes up aching, the uncomfortable position at the desk wreaking havoc on his back and neck. He would’ve been freezing if it weren’t for the blanket around him and the fluffy socks on his feet.

He sits up straight, groaning in discomfort as his spine cracks painfully, his neck popping when he moves his head to look at the clock. Six in the morning. Well, at least he managed to get four hours of sleep – it’s better than nothing. It’s better than being plagued by nightmares.

He gets up, dumping his blanket on the bed and shedding his pyjamas as he makes his way to the bathroom. He needs a shower. A good, long one.

He looks at himself in the mirror as the water heats up, gaze drifting to the dark circles under his eyes at first. They’ve gotten a bit deeper over the past night – of course they did. Four hours isn’t enough to keep him well rested on the best of days, so they’re definitely not enough to catch him up to all the sleep he’s lost over the past week.

His gaze drifts lower, still, to the ring of sickly green and yellow bruises adorning his neck, some spots of purple and blue still visible here and there. He raises a hand to tentatively touch at the bandage, picking at the medical tape that holds it in place with his nail. The doctor said he would be allowed to remove it after he’d gotten home and reasonably, Jaskier knows he should before he gets into the shower. Yet part of him fears what he might see.

His fingers tremble when he plucks at the tape some more, slowly peeling it off his skin, eyes glued to his reflection as he pulls the gauze away.

It’s… underwhelming, really. They cut a hole in his throat to push a tube into his lungs and a week after they’ve removed it, the wound is barely even there. Just a small dip in the skin of his throat, an angry red as a thin, horizontal stripe runs across it, a little longer than the nail of his thumb.

It’s there, of course, and it stands out against the pale expanse of his neck but… that’s it. Jaskier wonders what he was so afraid of in the first place.

He’s shaken out of his reverie when steam starts to fog over his reflection and he takes a step back, taking one last look at the mirror before he gets into the shower. He turns the heat way up, letting the water scald his skin, letting it turn as red as the scar on his throat as he stands there, head tipped back, eyes closed against the onslaught, his mind drifting far, far away.

He’s never understood meditation, has never understood how someone can just stand or sit there and do nothing and have a clear mind – his thoughts have always been so, so loud, especially when he has nothing to grab his attention. But here, in the shower, as he’s enveloped by heat and the repetitive sound of water falling onto the ceramic, as he falls into a half-sleep, mind completely empty and feeling at peace for the first time in a week, he understands a little bit better.

He only snaps out of the half-sleep to wash himself when the water’s growing cold and he can no longer control the clacking of his teeth as goosebumps raise along his skin.

He wraps himself into a bathrobe afterwards, padding into the kitchen to grab some cereal. The milk in the fridge isn’t his – it probably would’ve gone bad if it was – and he has to once again vouch to himself to thank Triss the next time he sees her.

He pours himself a bowl and wanders back into his bedroom as he eats, eyeing the chess board on his desk. There are a million things he could be doing, now that he has the rest of the month off to recover, a million things he’s put on his To-Do-list years ago. He could take that vacation to Hawaii he’s always wanted to take. He could learn how to play a new instrument. He could repaint his apartment, go to that coffeeshop a few blocks away, go on an actual date, for once.

He could buy himself a new guitar.

But after years of putting all those things off, after years of longing for time to do the things he wants to do, he finds himself only wanting what he shouldn’t be.

Is he really gonna do this?

He finishes his cereal, dumping his bowl in the sink for future him to worry about before he rummages through his wardrobe, pulling out a soft sweater and some old, faded jeans. He hastily dresses and grabs his things, remembering at the last possible second to bring a scarf – something light and frilly that he bought on a whim from a vintage store a while ago. Who would’ve known it would come in handy someday?

He pauses in the doorway for a few seconds, looking back at his guitar case gathering dust in the corner.

Is he really gonna do this?

It feels weird not to have it on his shoulder, like he’s missing part of himself somehow. He sighs, looping the scarf around his neck, making sure it covers his healing wound before he closes the door behind him with a decisive click.

He’s really gonna do this.

---

“Buttercup? What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

He smiles and shakes his head as Triss’ hands come to rest on his shoulders, brown eyes concerned as they look him over. “I’m fine,” he says, softly grasping her wrists. “I’m here for Geralt.”

She meets his gaze, confusion furrowing her brow. “Are… are you sure you wanna see him? Buttercup, he…” she drops her voice to a whisper “he nearly killed you.”

He nods. “I know.” He lets his eyes drift through the common room of the mental health ward, smiling lightly as he sees Dara and Ciri sitting at one of the tables, playing Uno together. It’s good to see the girl out of her restraints. He wonders if that means she’s healing – mentally and physically.

“Buttercup.” His eyes snap back to Triss. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You’re in no way obligated-“

“I know,” he repeats. “But I want to see him. I want to talk to him.”

Something in her gaze softens and she nods. “Alright. But at least take someone with you. I won’t let you go in alone. Not again.”

He nods. “Alright, fine.”

---

“Knock, knock,” he says softly as he raps his knuckles on the doorframe, stepping into the darkened room, the nurse – Istredd, if Jaskier remembers correctly – following closely behind, though lingering in the doorway when Jaskier presses on.

Geralt isn’t sitting at the table by the window or at the foot of the bed, even. Today, he’s sitting on the side of the bed, back turned to Jaskier, head bowed to look at his lap. Jaskier gets the sneaking suspicion he’s been sitting there like that for a while, now. A long while.

Something in him longs to reach out, to run his hands along the knobs of Geralt’s spine, to press his fingers into the tight muscle of his shoulder, to push down with the heel of his hand and work the tension out of Geralt’s back before running his fingers through those silver locks, gently unknotting the tangles.

And something in him longs to shrink back, to run out of this room and never come back, to forget the memory of Geralt’s hands squeezing his neck shut.

He ignores both and steps towards the table by the window, where the chess board is set up, ready for a new game. He plucks two pawns off of it, switching them behind his back a few times before he wanders over to Geralt’s bed, standing in front of the man.

Golden eyes refuse to meet him.

Jaskier stretches his arms out, a pawn in each fist. “Choose,” he simply says.

Geralt just keeps staring at the floor, elbows on his knees and hands hanging limply between his legs. He doesn’t look up at Jaskier’s voice, doesn’t hum or frown or shake his head or acknowledge Jaskier’s existence at all. It’s just like the very first few times Jaskier came here.

And it’s so, so very different than all those times as well.

The Geralt he met had an air of dignity around him – bordering on pretentiousness. He’d been stoic and calculating and composed, intimidating in a way Jaskier had never seen before.

But this Geralt- the Geralt right in front of him, is anything but. He’s a mess, hair tangled and knotted together, a stubble on his chin and cheeks, back bent and shoulders slumped, the skin of his wrists rubbed red and raw. 

This Geralt looks… defeated.

Part of Jaskier pities him. Another part tells him the last thing Geralt wants is his pity. A different part remembers the feeling of hands around his neck.

“Choose,” he says again, hands slightly trembling as he clenches his fists around the pawns, the edges digging lines into his palms.

Geralt doesn’t look up.

“Choose,” Jaskier bites out, voice shaky and on the verge of breaking, an edge of desperation sharpening his tongue. “Goddammit, I’m not gonna play chess on my fucking own, so choose.”

“Leave.” Geralt’s voice is soft and raspy and deep enough to send shivers down Jaskier’s spine, had he not been preoccupied with the fact that Geralt just spoke to him.

“Choose,” he grits through clenched teeth nonetheless.

“Leave.”

He lets go of the pawns, barely aware of the sound of them clattering against the floor as his hands fall limply by his side, blood rushing through his ears and a light sheen of red covering his vision. “No. I won’t fucking leave.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Geralt tilts his head up, golden eyes briefly meeting his before they drift down to the scarf around Jaskier’s neck, to the greenish bruises that are undoubtedly peeking out above the fabric.

“I hurt you.” Jaskier knows he doesn’t imagine the flash of pain that shoots through those golden eyes.

He scoffs, fighting the urge to lift his hand and reflexively cover his throat. “I’m fine. It was really nothing serious.” Possible brain damage, the doctor’s voice rings through his head.

Geralt stands up abruptly, suddenly so close that Jaskier’s fight-or-flight kicks in, the part of him that remembers scarred hands around his throat growing louder and louder as he takes a step back, then another when Geralt takes a step towards him.

“Rivia!” the nurse in the doorway shouts in warning, but Geralt doesn’t relent, stepping closer and closer as Jaskier backs further and further away. His hands are shaking, eyes wide and breath coming out in soft pants, sweat gathering on the back of his neck as he steps back until his shoulder blades meet the drywall.

The button the button the button the button-

“Rivia! Final warning!” the nurse calls out from the doorway as Geralt’s hand comes up.

He’s so close to Jaskier now, crowding into his space, body heat radiating against his skin, golden eyes boring into his and Geralt’s scarred hand comes up to Jaskier’s throat and the button the button the button the button-

Geralt pulls the scarf away. It floats to the linoleum floor as golden eyes drift down to the ring of yellowish green that adorns Jaskier’s throat, to the angry, red scar in the middle, dipping into the small, barely-healed pit in his skin, where the doctors pushed a tube through to his lungs.

Flashes of regret, anger, hurt and a million other things Jaskier can’t bring himself to identify spark across Geralt’s face, his carefully crafted blank mask falling away for just a few seconds.

“It’s really nothing,” Jaskier says, voice trembling and nearly cracking. Golden eyes shoot up to meet his.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt whispers. He turns abruptly, stalking out of the room, pushing past the nurse to disappear into the hallway – where to, Jaskier doesn’t know.

He stands there for a while, trying to process what happened, trying to figure out what to do next. After five long, agonizing minutes, he bends through his knees to pick his scarf up, carefully winding it around his neck again before he looks around the room one last time.

And then he leaves.

---

Golden eyes that don’t recognize him drilling into his, strong hands squeezing his neck shut as he gasps for breath, fingers clawing at Geralt’s wrists. His eyelids fall shut and everything goes to black.

He wakes up in a hospital room, staring up at the white ceiling as he breathes without the feeling of air wheezing through his throat, a tube in his neck connecting him to an oxygen machine. He tries to move his head when he hears a voice by his bedside, but he finds himself unable to do anything. He can’t shift his eyes, clench his hands, wiggle his toes. He can’t do anything but lay there and try not to panic as the voices approach his bedside.

“I’m sorry, miss Merigold. He’s gone too long without oxygen, there’s too much damage. He’s braindead.”

He hears Triss cry next to him, feels her hand on his and he tries- tries so desperately to turn it around and clench her fingers in his- but he can’t. He can’t even fucking turn his head to look at her.

“Miss Merigold, I’m sorry but we’re gonna have to ask you if you know how he felt about organ donation.”

He wants to scream no, wants to shout out that he’s still there- he’s not dead for god’s sake, he’s not dead. He tries, tries so hard, with all his might and he can’t. He can’t even cry out of frustration, out of fear.

But it’s too late. A gloved hand with a butcher’s knife appears into view, quickly followed by a familiar face, framed by white hair. He wants to sob out his relief. Geralt’s here, Geralt will look at him and realize Jaskier’s still in here and will stop all of this from happening.

Golden eyes drill into his, a spark of recognition lighting them up.

“Oh, hello, Jaskier,” Geralt says in that deep voice of his. “Are you still with us?”

Jaskier wants to scream yes, wants to laugh because Geralt knows- knows Jaskier’s still there, knows not to cut him open.

With an effort that drains him from all the energy he has left, he nods minutely.

Geralt grins. “Good,” he says, before he brings the knife down into Jaskier’s neck.

He shoots up in bed, gasping for air as sweat cools on his skin, hands fisting the sheets painfully. He needs a minute to remember where he is before he can start the conscious process of unclenching his hands from the bedding, one of them gingerly coming up to brush against the spot in his neck where the doctors put a tube into his throat, where Geralt stabbed him in his dream.

He sighs, reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp. He needs to squint his eyes a little to get used to the sudden light but once he’s used to it, his gaze drifts over to the clock. Two in the morning.

Well, at least he got… an hour’s sleep. Great.

He sighs, pulling the damp and tangled sheets from around his legs, padding his way to the bathroom. The water is cool and refreshing against his skin, the sound of it rushing from the tap drowning out the last remnants of the nightmare.

He meets his own gaze in the mirror, meets flat, tired eyes and the shadows underneath them, meets the scar in his neck and the ring of yellowish bruises that still adorns the skin above it, meets sweaty and matted hair and furrowed eyebrows. He looks like hell.

He considers calling Triss. It’s the middle of the night but he knows she would gladly help him through it until the sun rises again, knows she would help chase the nightmares away.

But that’s the thing. If she heard about the nightmare he had – heard that Geralt was in it – she would probably tell him not to go back, to stay far, far away from the ward and try to forget all about him. And she would probably be right to tell him that, it would work and with time, the memories would fade and the nightmares would disappear. Jaskier would be able to live his life without ever seeing Geralt again and without ever thinking about him again.

But that’s the thing, too. Jaskier doesn’t want to never see Geralt again, doesn’t want to never think about him ever again. He wants…

He wants…

What does he want?

He sighs, frustrated at his own inability to decipher what it is, exactly, that he does want. He turns the light in the bathroom off and wanders back into his bedroom, letting himself fall down in his desk chair, leaning his chin on his folded arms as he looks at the chess board.

He wants that. 

He wants to play chess with Geralt – not even with anyone else, just Geralt. He wants to sit in that hospital room with the blinds halfway up and the sunlight illuminating them both, hurting his eyes with how bright it is. He wants to look at Geralt and fiddle with his guitar and play a love song before he realizes his king got cornered. He wants to see that amused glint in those golden eyes, that twitching of the corner of those full lips, that soft hum of that deep voice when he asks if they can play another game.

He wants to remember that every time he thinks of Geralt, not those hands around his throat.

More than anything, though, he wants to make new memories, too. He wants to hear Geralt talk to him, wants to hear what his life’s been like so far or what kind of music he likes or even how to properly play chess – because Jaskier keeps losing and it’s infuriating. He wants to hear Geralt’s opinion on his music, wants to hear what season he likes best and what his favourite colour is. He wants to hear why Geralt plays chess so much, why he doesn’t join the group therapy sessions, what he wants to do after he gets out of the hospital.

More than anything, he wants to finally get to know Geralt.

He nods to himself. Yes. That’s what he wants. Now he just has to figure out how to get it.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up four hours later.

---

“You speak.” It’s the first thing he says to Geralt, the next morning.

Geralt’s once again sitting on the edge of his bed, head bowed and shoulders slumped, elbows on his knees, hands limp between them. It’s the same position as the day before, and Jaskier briefly wonders if Geralt ever even moved at all throughout the night.

Geralt, though, doesn’t look up. Keeps his mouth shut.

Jaskier scoffs before walking to the chess board, picking two pawns – he briefly realizes that the ones he dropped on the ground yesterday are back in place – and switching them behind his back as he takes the two steps back to Geralt.

“Listen, I know you can talk, you did it yesterday. So don’t play coy with me, Geralt. Now,” he holds his hands out, a pawn in every fist, “choose.”

Geralt ignores him. Jaskier can’t help but notice that the stubble on his cheeks has grown, and so have the shadows under his eyes. Did Geralt even sleep?

He sighs. “Alright, listen up, you ass.”

Geralt’s eyebrows twitch together slightly, the first sign of acknowledgement Jaskier has gotten since he stepped foot in the room. He considers it a small victory.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting tired of playing chess against myself and I’m tired of sitting at home all alone. It takes me an hour to get here, you know. So I’m staying until you fucking play me cause I’m not wasting two hours every day just to talk to someone who keeps ignoring me. If I wanted that, I’d just go visit my family.” He takes a deep breath, trying to temper the fire in his chest. “Now choose.”

“Why?” Golden eyes meet his as Geralt tilts his head up slightly.

Jaskier frowns. “If you’d rather I choose, then that’s fine with me-“

“No. Why do you come here?”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “To play chess with you.”

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Cause I don’t know anyone else who can. Now can you please fucking choose? My arms are growing tired.”

Golden eyes stare at him and a hundred minute expressions shift across Geralt’s face in half a second, too many for Jaskier to identify, too many for him to know what it means in the long run. Then, Geralt’s face goes blank like a perfectly wiped slate, the mask of indifference Jaskier got to see the very first day back in place.

It’s a million times better than the defeated expression Geralt wore yesterday. Once again, small victories.

Geralt’s hand comes up to tap Jaskier’s left fist.

He grins in triumph. “Now, was that so hard?”

He turns around to set the pieces on the chess board, turning it so the right side is facing Geralt’s – still unoccupied – chair.

He could swear he hears a “You have no idea,” behind him, but he ignores it, settling in the other chair, back in his usual spot.

“Shall we play, then?”

---

They don’t talk for the rest of the two hours Jaskier’s there, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. Quite the contrary – Jaskier’s sure that if he had his guitar with him, he would feel inspired enough to actually write music. But alas, his guitar is broken and gathering dust in the corner of his living room. He tries to ignore the pang of hurt he feels every time he remembers.

After a while, though, he loses focus, his ability to concentrate not what it was before… the incident. A sign of possible brain damage is having trouble concentrating. He ignores the doctor’s voice in the back of his head as well.

He announces his departure and gathers his jacket from the back of the chair, hand automatically coming up to make sure his scarf is still in place. He’d kept it on the past two hours, both because the lack of sunshine streaming in through the window makes the room quite cold and because he doesn’t want to remind Geralt of everything that happened every time golden eyes look at him.

He doesn’t need Geralt’s pity. He doesn’t want it either, for that matter.

In the doorway, he turns around one last time, looking at the man sitting at the window. He expects Geralt to be looking at the chess board like he always is whenever Jaskier leaves, but this time, golden eyes are on him already.

“R- right,” he stammers. “See you tomorrow, then?”

A beat of silence, and he could swear something changes in Geralt’s face – something minute, something barely there, but something nonetheless. “See you tomorrow,” Geralt says softly before turning back to the chess board.

---

He actually sleeps well that night.

---

It continues like that for a week or so. Jaskier comes back to the hospital, plays chess against Geralt, they exchange a few polite words and Jaskier leaves again. Every day, it gets a little bit easier to breathe and – at Triss’ insistence – he buys himself a nightlight so he doesn’t have to try to sleep with the lights on.

“Geralt?” he asks tentatively one day, moving his bishop. “Can I ask you something?”

The corner of full lips pulls up. “You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Ha ha, you’re hilarious.” It’s quiet for a few seconds. “But seriously, Geralt. I want to ask you something.”

“Hmm.” By now, he knows this particular kind of hum means he’s got permission to go on.

“Why… why haven’t you gone to any of the group therapy sessions yet?”

Something in Geralt’s face shifts, like a shadow falling over his features. A certain tenseness makes its way to Geralt’s muscles and shoulders and his movements are stiff when he pushes a pawn over the board. Jaskier has the distinct feeling that if he were to leave it at this today, the blinds would be pulled all the way down tomorrow – they’re half-raised now. For some reason, they’re always half-raised whenever Geralt’s having a good day.

“You see,” he continues, looking at the chess board without really seeing anything, desperately searching for a way to say what he wants to say without screwing up. “You’ve been here a while and I can’t imagine… I can’t imagine it’s pleasant to be here, all locked up with nowhere to go.”

He looks up to gauge Geralt’s reaction who, after a few seconds, shrugs. “’S not half bad,” he mutters.

Something tight and knotted in Jaskier’s chest unfurls slightly. “I’m just saying, if you were to… play along with what the doctor and nurses are demanding, you’d be able to get out of here. I know my face is a blessing, but you might want to see some other ones, right?”

Geralt gives a noncommittal shrug, but once again something in his face shifts, something sad making its way to his eyes. “Is that why you’re here?” he asks the chess board as it stands forgotten between them.

“Is what why I’m here?”

Golden eyes look at him, calculating and so unsure Jaskier has to resist the urge to get up and hug Geralt. “Because you’re trying to fix me.”

Jaskier sighs, eyes stinging slightly. “W- what?”

“You can’t. You can’t fix me.”

He reaches across the table and Geralt startles slightly when Jaskier cradles one of his hands in both of his, golden eyes flickering between his face and their now intertwined hands.

“Geralt, I’m not trying to fix you. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

He bites his bottom lip, trying to fight back the tears from glazing over his eyes, trying not to show how much Geralt’s insecurity hurts to hear. “I… I wanna get to know you.”

“Why?” Once again, a question so simple yet so devastating.

He smiles softly. “Because I think, Geralt of Rivia, that you’re a person worth knowing.”

“I’m not.” Geralt tries to pull his hand away but Jaskier tightens his grip, holding him in place.

“How about you let me be the judge of that? Because…”

He turns Geralt’s hand in his own, trailing his fingers down a scarred palm before hooking them around Geralt’s. Golden eyes remain focused on their hands and bit by bit, Geralt’s fingers curl around Jaskier’s, who smiles softly and rubs his thumb against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Because,” he whispers again, “from what I’ve gathered so far, I think you’re a person very much worth knowing, my dearest Geralt.”

Golden eyes look at him, open and sincere and insecure and hurting. “You’re a terrible liar,” Geralt says softly.

He holds that gaze, bringing their hands closer and turning them until he can press a soft kiss against the back of Geralt’s hand.

“Then you should know I’m not lying,” he whispers back. “All I’m asking is for you to trust me. That’s all. Please, just trust that I’m not lying to you.”

A few seconds pass, golden eyes never leaving his even as a million minute changes flash through them, betraying Geralt’s inner thought process so much Jaskier feels like he’s intruding on something he shouldn’t. But he holds Geralt’s gaze and waits.

Eventually, Geralt nods.

[enochianribs]

until it no longer hurts. (cabin/wing fic). read it here, or under the cut.

(accompanying playlist / aesthetic board (thanks @disableddean)

CHAPTER 3. (formatting is lost via tumblr text post fyi)

ch.1 / ch.2

As he lays there, unconscious to the world, and all those things that go bump in the night, his life sorts itself cleanly into two: before and after—   not for the first time.

In fact, there were several times before this. There was before the fire, before the loss of his mother, before John started hunting, before Jess died, before Sammy went to rehab, before Dean picked up that knife. 

Before before before.  

The question has hung in front of him for quite some time now.

What happens after? 

What happens to him, when all is said and done?

The bed is warm and soft and he sinks into it. A hand presses against his chest, pins him down and muscle memory tells him to go for the knife, fingers flexing outward and then curling in, his nails catching on the sheet. 

This is safe. 

Here in this moment, no one can touch him. The tiny flowers on the sheets molt before his eyes, little petals rising out of the fabric and blooming. They're feather light against his bare skin, and the weight of his body is crushing them. He makes a noise of upset, and a hand comes down to press a finger to his mouth, hushing him gently. 

<It's okay.> 

Slowly, he wakes. The warmth from the finger still lingers against his lips, but the bed is hard where his face presses against it, eyelashes fluttering, his eyes open just a crack. The wood of the table greets him, and the sunlight is just now poking through the blinds once again, casting the same lines across the pine knots, along the curves of his outstretched forearm and across where his head faces towards the sun. 

"It's okay." He murmurs, and for an incredibly brief moment he is perplexed by why the words slip from between his lips, until one of his knuckles grazes bare skin. 

His evening comes back. 

Before. 

Before Wings. 

Slowly, Dean sits upright, suddenly entirely aware of the being lying on his table, and his heart beats in his mouth and his fingers catch on something, pulling him even further from the comfort and haze of his dream. He ducks his head in, looking down at where his hand is stuck. His fingers are still woven between Wings', his own a shade lighter.

Dean sits very still.  

He’s afraid to make a sound and wake him up, so he stays there for a moment, assessing the situation he’s willingly walked himself into.

The stranger’s chest rises and lowers every few seconds, almost imperceptibly so.  The gauze is brown from oxidized blood, but it doesn't appear to have been soaked through in the night, proving Dean's improvised medic work satisfactory. The stitches held. 

Huh, Dean thinks. He should be thankful for the live or die experiences thrust upon him by his father's recklessness. 

Half the time, Dean's afraid he took pages out of John's book.

And that would be okay. Well, it wouldn’t—  but he—  he could cope with that. He could work through it. He’s beginning to understand that even as the world ended, it would still spin, and day would come and the night would consume and he’d be okay. 

It’s unspeakably comforting, the feeling of fingers tucked between his own, the way Dean’s calloused palm presses against another, like a bond is forming quietly between a man waking from his dream and another still ensnared. 

“It’s okay.” Dean says one more time, the words an impulse.

Wings stirs, his upper lip twitching a hairsbreadth, and Dean braces for the cry of pain that always comes with waking, even if it’s not aloud. Anticipating the event horizon of his world ending with Wings consciousness, Dean grabs a glass of water, and the bottle of alcohol, and a rag before coming to stand next to his head, his thighs pressed against the edge of the table. 

He stares down at him, and his head feels clearer than it did last night. The stranger’s hair is unruly, unkempt, and Dean can’t tell how long it’s been like that—  how long this winged man has been living in the forest. The locks are nearly as dark as his wings, but the sunlight exposes their truthful deep brown color. It’s tangled here and there, and Dean has to try and restrain himself from carding his fingers through it to work out the knots. A residual caretaking instinct he has had yet no luck fighting.

When they were kids, Sammy always refused to brush his hair, and it was never really a problem when it was just him and Sam. But school begged a shred of presentability from the two, lest child services were called, so he kept up Sam’s appearance for him. Dean kept them fed, schooled, he took care of them both, though Sam always came first. 

Should have always come first. 

Now Dean’s here with someone else’s blood under his fingernails, and there’s a hunter on the loose who probably has it out for them both. And he’s not even a real hunter. He's just some guy with a gun and a penchant for killing things.

    Dean’s officially in over his head. 

Dark smudges look like they’ve been pressed underneath his eyes with two uncaring thumbs, and a distinct line of his cheekbones drags in a swoop across either side of his face. His lips are full but chapped and Dean wonders why he cares, but the urge to dab a spot of lotion against them nearly overpowers him. 

He’s trying hard to ignore the wings. 

There’s finding a human man and then there is finding a man with wings, real wings, with muscle and tendons and quivering feathers, and yep there it is, that edge of panic. 

The word hangs over his head but Dean refuses to use it. His mother’s bedtime stories aren’t real.

Demons are. He knows that now, though they are few and far between. But the a-- no. 

Dean shakes his head.

There's never been any proof. 

He rocks his weight from foot to foot, debating his best course of action. Minutes pass, but the man doesn’t stir again, so finally Dean sucks it up and takes his hand and pats it against his cheek, gently. His skin feels rough against the surprising softness, even the barest hint of stubble is nearly feather soft.  

He comes to sit on the edge of the table.

“Hey.” He murmurs, uselessly.  “Wake up?”

Please wake up.

Wings’ head moves, only slightly, pressing against his hand. Dean freezes like a deer in headlights, caught touching when he should have only been looking. Heat crawls up his cheeks and his stomach flips. 

“Fucking hell, Dean.” He mutters, pulling his hand away and he cocks his head, unsure if he really heard a quiet, sad noise leave the man still lying seemingly unconscious on his table. 

A warm, steady hand snakes out and grabs his wrist. Dean swallows his own quiet noise. It takes everything to look up again, scared of what he’s going to see.

When they lock eyes that fear melts.  

Wings flexing underneath his back, extending as far as they can go until the longest feathers graze the floor and the farthest tip brushes the wall near the dining table, the stranger looks up at him with clear eyes. His lips move rapidly, as he soundlessly repeats something over and over. One side of his face clenches up in pain as he tries to sit up.

Dust particles drift from the rafters like nothing is amiss, little bokehs proving that what Dean sees is real. He still doesn’t believe it.  

“Hey, hey, hey,” he keeps his voice low, holding his breath and extending his hands, palms out, as a friendly act. “I’m not—  I’m not gonna hurt you, just, you gotta let me get—” 

    Before Dean’s fingers even lift the bandaging to inspect the damage, there’s a forearm against his throat, and he’s pinned against the table by strong arms and they form an iron cage to hold him there. Two strong legs straddle him. Whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. 

    “Wings—” 

    The stranger barks something out, the syllables harsh and completely foreign, staring down at Dean with a combustion-prone concoction of fear, confusion and leftover adrenaline mixing behind the blue. 

    “Please I—” 

The arm presses against his windpipe even harder, and Dean meets the icy stare. Wings tilts his head, and his eyes narrow, his lips hanging open slightly, like he wants to say something. 

“I’m trying to help you.” 

    The pressure lessens a fraction, and Dean takes the opportunity to whip his arm up, hand sliding between him and Wings’ own, and he pushes him away and back a short inch, but it’s enough to throw the smaller man. Finally free, his throat drags in a breath but he doesn’t plan on giving wings another opening, so he brings his knee up from under the other man, using it as a brace to prevent him from overpowering him again. 

    He says the first thing that flies through his pea-brain. “Who are you?” Lord help him, he may just be the stupidest man alive. “What do I call you?” Asking him to introduce himself seems like the dumbest possible direction for the scene playing out. 

    With the quilt long gone, the stranger is fully indecent again, and Dean’s trying very hard to ignore it, because it’s the icing on the unreal cake. Fire creeps up his cheeks regardless and Dean squirms. 

A black arm brings itself up and around Wing’s body curling as though it was a protective stance. It reminds him of a knight with a shield. Everything else about his posture screams prey animal, and Dean can tell when the ghost of a fight is reverberating through someone’s muscle memory.

What the fuck did Campbell do to him? 

To top it all off, Dean realizes he did a terrible job of cleaning the blood away from his mouth. The blue takes over his eyes as his pupil’s become pinpricks of something primal and it doubles with the dried blood smeared down the hollow of his throat. 

“Hey,” Dean’s voice is low and shaking and he feels just like he did when he spent all those years helpless, just a child yanked around. “Stay with me. C’mon.” 

The wing lowers, and as it does so it catches the light, and the entire wing is made up of feathers that look just like the ones sitting on his mantle, an oil slick in sunshine. Without thinking, Dean brings his hand to his thigh and squeezes it, thumb digging into the meat of it. The touch is meant to be grounding, though he’s not sure who for.

“You know me.” He hums, in a futile effort to comfort him. 

A flip must switch in the stranger’s mind, because he nods suddenly, pulling his weight off of Dean and settling down on his own legs, his wings larger than life, spread out in the room.

“Dean.” He says, and it sounds reverent, his voice rough, the syllable catching in his throat. He doesn’t seem to notice, but fresh scarlet blooms across the bandage. “Dean.”

Dean stays as still as a statue and he can’t recall ever saying his name, though that’s usually how it goes for most anything. Words pour out of his mouth ceaselessly, and he’s always embarrassing himself, dumping his scattered thoughts on poor unsuspecting souls: hey, did you know that Led Zeppelin were tolkien fans? Simply because he’d seen someone had walked past wearing a Tree of Gondor shirt. 

But Dean doesn’t remember saying his own name. His fathers harsh words rattle around inside his mind: kill first, figure out what it is later.

This thought has to wait, though, because the bullet wound seems to have caught up to him, and Wings slumps forward, his entire body going limp in Dean’s arms, his wings thumping down against the table. Dean drags his hands up his back, until his fingers are buried in the downy feathers that molt into his shoulder blades. Dean can’t be certain, but he feels warmer than last night, like he’d been sleeping next to a fire. 

Fuck, fuck fuck.

Dean has no idea how to treat an infection, not really. He can try and prevent one from happening, sure—  he’s done that what feels like hundreds of times. But if the infection takes hold it’s out of his hands and he’s going to be left with a dead winged man on his table, or a possibly alive winged man forced into the spotlight. 

Dean presses his fist to his mouth, and his body feels like a bow-string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. There’s no one who can help, and there’s no one he trusts.

    Dean sits there for nearly thirty minutes, ignoring where his friend’s blood has stained his shirt. The cabin smells like iron, and like feathers, which he hadn’t realized was a distinct scent until it filled up the room. His phone sits in his hands. 

    The texture of the rug on the floor blurs with the sound of the ragged breathing next to him. 

    His phone rings.

    His fingertips burn where they touched his warm, soon to be cold thigh.

    It rings again.

    “Hey.” Dean expects Sam’s voice on the other end, and blinks, confused when he’s greeted with a familiar short drawl that he can’t immediately place.  

    “Missouri says he’s gonna be fine, kid.”

    The voice belongs to Pamela. 

    “Who?” Dean stands up abruptly. Is she outside?

    “Your birdman.”

    Dean doesn’t acknowledge the remark. “Who?”

    Once again, Dean is privy to a conversation happening away from the phone. It sounds like another woman talking, and she sounds annoyed. 

    “Oh. Missouri. The ol’ wife.”

    “Wife?” He runs a quick calculation in his head and then raises his eyebrows. That tracks. 

    “Dean Winchester, are you listening to me.”

    Uh, no? 

“Yeah, yeah okay. I heard you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    Whatever she thinks she knows, she better not.

    Something that sounds, in a honey sweet and dainty voice, like ‘Give it here’ comes from the other end and then she’s speaking to him directly. 

    “Dean Winchester?” She asks.

    “Speaking.”

    “Mmkay, good. You better listen up, sweetheart because he’s gonna be fine, but I’m still sending Pam your way. She was a nurse before she retired early, so whatever is wrong with the wound, she should be able to help.”

    For once, Dean is rendered speechless, and utterly, utterly confused. 

    “You still there?”

    “Yeah.” Dean croaks. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He looks over at where Wings is laying. His skin should look sunkissed, but instead beads of sweat form along his tendons, and they’re pulled tight, his body tense even if he’s out cold. “How do you know about him?”

    “Pamela and I… we share some unique gifts. But that shouldn’t concern you right now. You’ve got a fallen angel dying in your living room. She’ll be there in about fifteen minutes, alright?” She doesn’t wait for his response. “Go dig up some of Rufus’ old stash. The good stuff.”

    “Why?” He feels deeply out of the loop. 

    “To calm your nerves. I can feel them from here. Alright now, I’m gonna hang up. Sit tight until she gets there.” 

▵▿▵

Knuckles rap against the door, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. From the time it took him to hang up to Pamela showing up at his door it had started to rain again. This time the storm was black, and he had a feeling there would be no sunset, just the dimming of the sky until the charcoal was pitch. He flips the porchlight on as he opens the door. 

Pamela’s black hair is caught under the strap of an army green duffel bag, and the rain drips down her forehead and off her chin, smearing her smokey eye shadow slightly. Standing next to her is a woman Dean hasn’t met yet. She stands tall, and if there is a height difference between her and Pamela, he can’t tell. Her ringlets are just as soaked as her wife's and her dark eyes catch the yellow of the porch light. Inexplicably, they're warm, and Dean lends himself to trusting them. 

“The psychic forgot her umbrella, huh?” Dean asks, stepping aside to let them in. 

Missouri makes  a face. 

“I was gonna say you’re the prettiest thing in these hills but…” Whatever she was going to say, dies as she takes in the sight strewn across the dining table. 

Pamela sets her duffle bag down in one of the seats pulled away from the table and then her arm goes limp as she stands there. Missouri stops by her side, the fingers of her hand trailing her arm until it rests stationary by Pamela’s, their pinkies intertwining. 

“Seeing and believing are truly two different things.” Missouri sounds almost reverent.

“Yeah.” Dean breathes, and, actually, he gets that. “Earlier, on the phone you called him a…” 

“An angel.”

There are a million questions he could ask but he settles on one. “How do you know?”

Pamela tears her gaze away for just a moment, to look over her shoulder at Dean. “That’s a long story for another night. Right now, we have an angel to save. You look terrible, by the way.”

“Mmhm. Dead on your feet. There’s nothing you can do to help right now. We’ll take care of your angel.”

“Have you eaten anything since you found him?” Pam asks. The duffle bag zipper slices through the ambient silence between words, and she rifles through it for a solid minute before she finally produces a pair of tweezers and what looks to be military grade cotton balls with a pleased grin.

His stomach makes a pathetic noise in response, however instead of making a move to eat something, he's standing there staring validly, wondering why these two women who live in the middle of nowhere are completely calm about Mr. Comatose being heaven sent.

It’s fairly obvious from the way their backs are turned to him now, heads leaning in close until they're almost touching so they can whisper in confidence, that he isn’t going to get any answers tonight. 

The exhaustion hits him like a tidal wave, breezing through his muscles, seeping straight into his bones and burrowing in his marrow. Pamela seems to have some left over hospital grade drugs in her nursing kit, and his new friend is completely subdued under the quiet blanket of sleep. 

“Dean.” He tears his gaze away from the middle distance, where it had gotten comfortable to see Pamela watching him, her eyes narrow with concern. “I don’t want to have to take care of you next. Eat something and get some rest. You’ve done enough. We’ll be out of your hair once we’re done.”

Dean shouldn’t trust them. But he does. He doesn’t have any other choice. Shuffling around, he shows Missouri the outlets, where Rufus’s first aid-kit (nearly an end-of-days cold war quantity) stash is shoved into the top three shelves of one of the three storage closets. Missouri promises to lock up and leave the key under the worn-through doormat, and Dean nods sleepily. 

Missouri pats his cheek, and for the briefest of moments, Dean misses home. He misses Sammy. His life had never been simple or easy or even nice, but at least it had been predictable. 

“He’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. I promise.”

▵▿▵

When he wakes, he’s in his bed and sleep-drunk, and there’s an empty space to his side, a starless void that he’d never been able to fill. In his living room lies the moon, and the stars, and the hopeful sliver of himself wonders if even the sun can be found there as well. The cabin is peaceful, a comforting fog of quiet wrapping him up. Sleep drags him under again, and he goes willingly. 

[slytherinbarnes]

Sub Rosa [33]

iv. watch the thrones

Pairing: Bellamy Blake x reader

Word Count: 5.6k

Warnings: mentions of blood, getting drugged, injuries, death, Lincoln gets brained with a rock (this is my brothers description, I had to include it), anxiety.

Summary: things in Arkadia are rapidly changing, and for the first time in a long time, you and Bellamy find yourselves on opposite sides. new leadership takes over, and you agree to something you never thought you’d do.

a/n: hi loves! in case you didn’t see my post at like 5 in the morning (lmao what is sleep), I finished writing s5 last night! it still needs some editing, of course, but I’m hoping to start to on s6 early next week which means we will probably be moving to three posts a week! let me know if that’s something you want! also the taglist for this series is open! I hope you enjoy, please let me know what you think!!!

previous chapter // season masterlist // series masterlist

When you open your eyes to find the medical ward, you let out a soft groan. Twice in one week, great. The sound stirs the sleeping figure beside you, and you look down and lock eyes with a very worried looking Bellamy. Tears spring to his eyes as he whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

You reach up and brush a finger over the frown lines on his forehead, smoothing them down, and you can tell he’s been beating himself up for leaving you behind, probably from the moment he drove away. You give him a soft smile, “Getting drugged by your boyfriend builds character.”

“You’re not mad?”

You shake your head. “Gina told me not to be. Said she overheard everything. Reminded me that sometimes people do crazy things for love.”

He smiles, but you can see the guilt still there, weighing on him heavily. “Don’t carry this alone, Atlas. You thought leaving me behind meant I was safe. You had no way of knowing.”

He nods, before shaking his head as if he’s clearing his thoughts, replacing the frown with a small smile. “Look at you. Comforting me while you’re the one hooked up to the IV.”

He stands, “Let me go get your mom.”

You turn, reaching out to grab him. “Not yet, please.”

He nods and sits back down beside you, and as your eyes follow him, they pass over a yellow book with blue binding, resting on the table beside you. You smile and reach out for it, passing it to Bellamy. “I got you something.”

He smiles slightly when he sees it, and you cringe a little at the imperfections on the cover. “Sorry about the explosion damage. And the blood.”

You see the sadness in his eyes, but he laughs at your joke anyways. You scoot over to the edge of the too small bed and pat the space beside you. “Read to me.”

He looks hesitant, eyeing the small space. “What if I hurt you?”

“If I know my mother, I know there are enough pain meds in this IV that I won’t feel a thing.” You pat the bed again. “Now tell me about the gods.”

His worry softens into one of love, and you know he won’t deny the request, the same way you never deny when he asks about the stars. He carefully slides into the bed beside you, maneuvering until you’re half laying on him, with your head on his chest. He presses a kiss into your hair before opening the book, and starting at the beginning. “Sing, O goddess, the rage of Achilles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon…”

You fall into his voice as he reads to you, telling you of the Trojan War, drawing comfort in the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Because if the last 24 hours have taught you anything, it’s that sometimes people do stupid things for love, and you were glad that you got hurt, while Bellamy came home safe.

-

There is no privacy in the medical ward.

Your mother comes in while Bellamy is reading to you, and after some begging, she sits down beside you to tell you about the summit and why Clarke didn’t return. Kane steps into the room as she’s updating you, and as soon as she finishes, he’s muttering quiet apologies for not allowing you at the summit and leaving you at the Mountain from Hell. Raven forces her way in next, practically knocking Jackson out of the way when he scolds her about “patients needing rest”. You’re relieved to hear that her and Sinclair are okay, thanks to you she says. 

Octavia and Lincoln join the group not long after her, both pleased to hear that their training came in handy when you fought off the assassin. Your mom chases them all out soon after, lecturing them about privacy and rest, before checking your IV’s and bandages and leaving you alone again with Bellamy. As soon as the room clears out, you turn to Bellamy. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I know that no one else will either. Did you check for survivors?”

“We tried to, but the rubble was too dense. Abby said there’s no way anyone could have survived that, especially because most of the people were probably in the middle of the mountain when it collapsed.” You feel a wave of guilt rush over you, making you sick. “They’re having a memorial.”

You look up at him. “When?”

“In a few minutes, I think.”

You sit up, already tugging the IV out of your hand. “I wanna go.”

“Wait, what about-”

“I know what you’re going to say. Yes, I was stabbed three times, on top of my still healing fourth stab wound. Yes, I was also thrown backwards from an explosion. Yes, I should probably stay in bed. And yes, my mother will have a fit.” You look up at him, face serious. “But I need to be at that memorial, Bellamy.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it, before going to grab your pants and jacket, most of your clothes discarded when they stitched you up. He helps you dress before kneeling down and helping you into your boots and tying them up for you. Once he finishes, he stands and helps you out of the bed, making sure that you walk slow and lean most of your weight on him. 

As you walk through the room and towards the door, you see your discarded knife and holster on a table, and you reach out for it. Bellamy stops and grabs it, helping you strap it to your thigh, and you look at the knife as he slides it into the holster, the blade still stained red. It makes you think of Gina, covered in blood, barely alive, urging you to leave her behind. You glance at Bellamy as he slowly leads you to the memorial. “Gina saved my life.”

He glances over at you, expression neutral. “What do you mean?”

“She was covered in blood, Bellamy, her shirt soaked through with it. She had at least three stab wounds to her stomach that I saw, but I’m sure there were more. She was barely alive when I got to her, and she still managed to tell me about the self-destruct. She told me to go after the assassin and get the codes, instead of staying to help her. I don’t know if she knew what she was doing, if she knew that what she was telling me to do would save my life, but it did. I’d be dead in that mountain if she didn’t send me after him.”

Bellamy stops in the hall and turns to face you, tears springing up in his eyes. His voice is thick with emotion when he chokes out, “I’m thankful for Gina, because she saved one of the most important things in my life.”

You reach up and wipe the fallen tears from his face. “I’m thankful for her too. And I’m thankful the summit wasn’t a trap, and that you came back to me safely.”

You pull him down for a kiss, pushing all your love for him into it, letting him know that you’re okay, you’re safe, and he doesn’t need to feel guilty. You pull away and whisper, “I love you.”

He whispers back, “I love you more than the stars.”

You both smile and he helps you the rest of the way to the memorial service, and you slip inside during the middle of it. Bellamy finds a pair of chairs in the back, out of view from your mother’s position near the front. Pike stands up at the front, near a table of memorial objects, and addresses the room. “All that’s certain is that we die. How we die is up to us. Who will speak for Iris Jones?”

Miller’s boyfriend Bryan stands, moving to the front of the room quickly. “Iris was strong, good with a knife. She saved my life. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do the same for her.”

He flips open a pocket knife and sets it onto the table before returning to his seat beside Miller. Pike stands again. “We will miss Iris. May we meet again.”

The room repeats in unison, “May we meet again.”

“Who will speak for Gina Martin?”

You sit up in your seat, looking around to see who will speak for her, surprised to find no one. You glance at Bellamy, finding that he’s equally surprised, which is enough to fuel your split second decision, and you stand. Pike’s eyes find you and he nods, a look on his face you can’t identify. As you walk to the front of the room, you risk a glance at your mother, who’s shaking her head in disappointment. You mouth, “Sorry.”

You turn and look at the room, suddenly nervous to speak for Gina, a woman you barely knew, but you decide that honesty is always the best. “Um, I didn’t bring anything for Gina because I didn’t find out about this memorial until a few minutes ago, so I’m sorry about that. But I just wanted to say that though I barely knew Gina, she saved my life. And until the end of her life, she tried to save the lives of her people. Our people. I’ll spend the rest of my life honoring that.”

You nod your head once, and glance out at the crowd. “May we meet again.”

The crowd repeats back, “May we meet again.”

You head back to your seat, and Pike stands and shakes your hand as you walk past, murmuring, “Strong girl.”

Behind you, the doors to the room open and a few guards step in, heading straight towards Pike. He drops your hand and steps away from you, and you walk the rest of the way back to Bellamy. You see Lincoln standing behind him, having quietly slipped in at some point, and you nod to him in greeting as you sit down. The guards are talking quietly with Pike, and as the crowd starts to murmur with worry, you turn to ask Bellamy, “What’s going on?”

He shrugs, looking just as confused, and you watch as Pike walks over to Kane and your mom, relaying whatever news came from the guards. Pike must not like what they have to say, because he steps away from them, looking disgusted, his voice rising louder. “You gave a Grounder one of our radios?”

This sends a wave of worry through the crowd and everyone stands as Hannah, Monty’s mom, asks, “Sir, are we under attack?”

Bellamy stands beside you, looking over the crowd to watch Kane, and you rise and stand next to him, trying to get a look. “No, we are not under attack. The Commander sent a peace keeping force to ensure that we can defend against any further attacks from the Ice Nation.”

You feel Bellamy tense beside you before Pike yells, “Peace keeping force? Even you can’t be that naïve, Marcus!”

Your mother snaps, “Watch your tone, you’re talking to the next Chancellor. This has been hard on all of us, but we can’t let anger drive our policy.”

“Anger is our policy!” The crowd murmurs in agreement, and Pike jumps onto a chair nearby so the room can see him. “Now if they’re here to defend us, as you say, then tell them to go home! We can defend ourselves!”

You pull a face, unconvinced, and look over to Bellamy to see if he feels the same. But his expression is passive, unreadable. You don’t have time to dwell on it any further, because one of Pike’s men, Gillmer, yells out, “You!”

You look up and see him pointing in your direction, but after a second, you realize he’s pointing at Lincoln, who’s right behind you. “You don’t belong here.”

Some of the people in the crowd whisper their agreement, and before you can even process what’s happening, Gillmer pulls his arm back and throws a rock at Lincoln, hitting him on the side of the head. You and Bellamy jump into action at the same time, both of you moving in front of Lincoln to defend him as some of the crowd turns and tries to attack. A few of your fellow guardsmen also jump into the mix, defending Lincoln, keeping back the surging crowd as they kick and punch at all of you, trying to reach Lincoln. 

You let out a yelp of pain when someone’s fist lands in the stitches on your side, and Bellamy immediately notices and punches the guy so hard that he hits the ground. You turn, ready to defend against the next person, but a high pitched whistle pierces the room, freezing everyone in place. You all turn to see Pike watching the events from his chair, disappointed. “We do not attack our own! Fighting each other only makes us weak. The enemy is not in this camp. The enemy is out there.”

You turn and glance back at Lincoln, who looks unsteady on his feet, his eyelids fluttering as he fights back the pain. He turns and stumbles out the door before anyone can check on him, and you turn to Bellamy. “Get your sister and get my mom, and meet me in medical. I’ll bring Lincoln.”

“Okay.” He leans down and kisses you quickly before making a beeline for your mother on the other side of the room. You turn and follow the path Lincoln took, coming out into the sunshine to see him kneeling on the ground. He punches the wall in frustration, and you barely hear him whisper, “Ge smak daun, gyon op nodotaim.”

You watch as he pulls himself to his feet, and you ask, “What does that mean?”

He spins around quickly, surprised to see you, and you give him an apologetic look. He translates, “Get knocked down, get back up.”

“I like that.” You peer up at the cut on his head, the blood rushing down the side of his face and onto the ground below. “Let me take you to medical.”

He shakes his head, “I’m fine.”

You lift your shirt slightly, revealing your stab wound, now reopened. “Then you should take me to medical.”

He gives you a serious look, and for a second you think he’s about to lecture you, until he smiles. “Looks like we should go before your mom and Octavia hunt us both down.”

“Agreed.” 

You both start walking towards the building slowly, partially because of your mutual injuries, partially because neither of you are in a hurry to get into the serious conversations that await you both in the med bay. You glance over at him as he stumbles slightly, and he turns to you, voice sarcastic, “This is turning out to be a great day.”

You look down at your stained shirt, now turning red with fresh blood, and then at the little patches of bandages that cover your other wounds. You laugh along with him. “You know, I’ve been getting my ass kicked ever since I got down here.”

Lincoln watches you from the corner of his eye. “Do you remember when you went into the woods the morning after you landed, and sat and watched the sunrise?”

You turn to him, suspicious. “How do you know about that?”

He looks away, watching people as they mill about the camp. “Because I was there. I think I scared you off.”

“I knew I heard someone out in the woods!”

“Sorry.” He turns towards you again, looking like he means it. “I was keeping track of the camp, trying to double check my numbers when you came marching out into the woods with a troubled look on your face.”

“I was thinking about my dad, and my shitty relationship with Clarke and my mom, Shumway...just all the bad stuff really.”

He nods, “I got to see a lot of your leadership, before you even realized you were becoming a leader. I always liked the way you lead; empathetic, but take no shit. A warrior with a heart.”

You look over at him, smiling. “Yeah, well what about you, Mr. Risk It All For Octavia? You were the first Grounder that tried to help us make peace, all because you fell in love.”

He laughs when you draw out the word love, playful, before you add, “You’re the original warrior with a heart. The physical embodiment of it.”

He shrugs, “Maybe. I was just doing what I thought was right.”

“I think that’s all we can do.”

You both fall into comfortable silence as you walk the rest of the way into the medical ward, and as soon as you’re both through the door, chaos erupts. Lincoln is swarmed by Kane, Pike, and your mother all asking him a flurry of questions. You both exchange a knowing smirk as he allows them to lead him over to one of the empty beds and look him over. Jackson walks over to you, a disapproving look on his face. “Those were my best stitches.”

You lift your shirt, exposing the reopened wound. “They were.”

He leads you back over to your abandoned bed, bringing his med kit along with him. You lean back and allow him to work, listening in on the conversation happening on the other side of the room while your mom stitches up Lincoln. “Do you want to press charges?”

You can’t see Lincoln, but his tone is firm when he answers, “No. No charges.”

“Lincoln, we need to set an example.”

Lincoln agrees with Kane, but not in the way he wants him to. “Yeah, we do.”

“The man just lost his son, Marcus.” You roll your eyes at Pike’s defense of Gillmer.

“Lincoln didn’t do that.”

The rest of the conversation is cut short as the Blake siblings run in. Octavia heads straight for Lincoln, and Bellamy comes to your side just as Jackson finishes your stitches. You smile at him in thanks, and he gives you a serious look. “No more fist fights until you heal. Please.”

“Yes, doctor.”

He smiles before turning away, leaving you and Bellamy alone. When you look up at him, you see his jaw is set and his eyes are locked on your newly stitched wound. You pull your shirt down, before reaching up and lifting his gaze to meet yours. “I’m fine, Bellamy. You can put away your ass kicking look.”

“I just got you back.”

“I know, and I’m not going anywhere.”

His gaze lifts from yours as Pike and Kane walk out of the ward, before he looks back at you again. “I need to go talk to Pike about his men. Will you be okay?”

You sigh, because the look on his face tells you his conversation with Pike is inevitable. You reach up and grab his shirt, tugging him down until his lips meet yours. He kisses you hard, and it surprises you, the almost possessive feel of it. You pull away and whisper, “Please don’t beat anyone up on my behalf.”

His expression is unreadable when he answers, “No promises.”

He starts to turn away, but you grab his hand and tug him back. “I love you.”

The blank expression melts away, affection crossing his features, the words never failing to soften him again. “I love you more than the stars.”

He leans down and presses another kiss to your lips, this one softer than the last, before turning and leaving the ward in search of Pike. 

-

You spend most of the afternoon helping Nyko and Lincoln with the sick Grounders that Nyko brought to Arkadia while you were at the memorial service. They ask you to translate the Trigedasleng for your mother, helping you practice and correcting you when you make mistakes.

Sometime in the evening, hours after almost everyone has left, you’re sitting with Lincoln and Nyko, listening to stories of their friendship, when Harper and Monroe run in. You stand as soon as you see them, panic written clearly on both of their faces. “What? What’s going on?”

Harper shakes her head, “I’m not sure, but it’s not good.”

“Explain.”

Monroe steps forward. “We went to the mess hall to find Bellamy, to ask about you, actually, but we stopped when he realized he was sitting with Pike. Their conversation looked really serious, so we tried to listen in on what was happening, but we only caught bits and pieces.”

Harper nods, “They were talking about the Grounder army and how it’s dangerous for us to have them here because they can attack at any time.”

“And then he mentioned it would only take a small team to take them out.”

“We couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation because they started talking really quietly. But then a few minutes later, Bellamy got up and left.”

“We thought maybe he was coming here to see you, but as we started walking this way, we came across Miller.”

You look between the two girls, confused. “Okay, and?”

“Miller was guarding the armory, and said Bellamy came over to relieve him early.”

You feel your stomach sink to your feet as the pieces slide into place. “Shit.”

You look over at Lincoln, “How fast can you get to the front gates?”

“Fast.”

“I need you to stop them.”

He nods, and you turn to Monroe and Harper. “You two stay with Lincoln, back him up.”

They both nod. “I’ll be right behind you, go!”

They all turn and run off, and you jog out after them, heading towards the Chancellor’s office. Octavia finds you on the way, moving as fast as you can, clutching your side, and she sees the worry in your face. “What’s going on? I just went to medical to see you and Lincoln, and Nyko told me you all left in a hurry.”

“Bellamy is about to do something incredibly stupid because Pike got in his head. I need you to get Kane, tell him that Pike is going after the army. I’ll find my mother.”

She immediately turns and runs off, heading for the Chancellor’s office, and you turn and change course for your old residence, the one you shared with your mother. When you reach the door, you don’t even bother knocking, you just barge right in. You’re unsurprised to see her still awake, pouring over maps and notes, and she looks up in surprise at your intrusion. “What’s-”

“There’s no time. Pike is going to kill the army. Sound the alarm, shut the camp down, do whatever you need to do, but you can’t let them leave.”

“Oh my god.”

She immediately takes off running, and you turn to follow, stopping when you see her pistol lying on the table near the door, forgotten. You make a last second decision and grab it before running out the door and heading towards the front gate so you can meet Lincoln and the others. As you run up, Monroe and Harper are walking towards you, both looking defeated, and you’re about to question them when you see Lincoln standing in front of the group, blocking their path, while Gillmer points a gun at him. 

You run past the two girls and head straight for Gillmer, stopping a few feet away and lifting your gun towards him. “Stand down, Gillmer.”

He looks towards you in surprise, and you hear the sound of guns cocking as some of the people in the group lift their weapons and aim towards you. Bellamy panics and yells, “Guns down!”

They hesitate and lower them slightly, still watching you and Lincoln with suspicion. Lincoln uses the opportunity to knock Gillmer’s gun out of his hand, before pulling out his knife and holding it to his throat. The group freaks out again, lifting their weapons until Bellamy yells, “I said put the guns down. Now!”

“Do what he says.”

Everyone lowers their weapons, and Monty’s mom mutters, “So much for the good Grounder.”

You lower your weapon and turn towards Bellamy. “What are you doing?”

“I’m protecting us, like always. That army is a threat to us.”

“Bellamy, that army is here to protect us.”

Lincoln, still holding a knife to Gillmer’s throat, mutters, “We can’t let you start a war.”

Pike glares at him, “We’re already at war.”

Bellamy’s jaw sets, and you can see the muscles clench as he grinds out, “You can’t stop this.”

Seconds after he says it, the alarms in the camp start blaring, “All Arkadia security personnel, report to the main gate. All Arkadia security personnel, report to the main gate now.”

Octavia comes running up and stands beside you and LIncoln, looking at Bellamy in disgust. “What’s wrong with you?”

The rest of the guards, accompanied by Kane and your mother, arrive and target the small group. Pike yells, “Farm Station, guns on the ground. On the ground!”

Pike drops his weapon and the others follow suit, as Kane urges Lincoln to release Gillmer. He does so reluctantly, shoving him away, as your mother descends on Pike on a wave of fury. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What you didn’t have the guts to.”

“Guards, take them to lockup now.” She turns and yells to the gathering crowd, “Everybody back to your quarters. It’s over.”

“Nothing is over!” Pike fights against the guards at his back. “We are surrounded by warriors who want us dead!”

“That’s enough.”

“No, it isn’t. Not even close. Why don’t you show us all what you let the Grounders do to you yesterday? Come on, Kane. I think that the people who are about to vote for you have a right to know.”

Kane pulls up his sleeve, revealing the mark of the coalition, signaling Skaikru’s status as one of the clans. “It’s the mark of the Commander’s Coalition. It means we are the 13th clan. It means we are in this fight together.”

“No. It’s what farmers used to do to their livestock.”

Hannah adds, “Right before the slaughterhouse!”

Gillmer yells, “Sir, you should be on the ballot tomorrow!”

“That’s enough. Take him away.”

The guards pull Pike away, and as they lead the others away, you watch Bellamy, whose face is blank and unreadable. He doesn’t look your way once as the guards at his back start to push him forward, but as they do, he starts to chant. “Pike! Pike!”

The rest of the prisoners join the chant, accompanied by a few people in the dispersing crowd, and you, Lincoln, Octavia, Kane, and your mother all exchange horrified looks, watching as they go. 

-

You’re up all night, pacing in the Chancellor’s office as everyone discusses the possibility that Pike might be the next round of leadership. You don’t contribute to the arguments or discussions, your pace steady as you move back and forth across the office space, thinking of Bellamy. Your boyfriend, who broke the law. Your boyfriend, who broke the law to arm a rogue group. A rogue group hellbent on murder. 

You can’t make sense of it, can’t understand the thought process that led him to that point. You haven’t made sense of it by the time Lincoln and Octavia leave, promising to reconvene in the morning. You haven’t made sense of it by the time your mother falls asleep on the couch, slumped over on Kane. When the sun rises, signaling election day, you still don’t understand. Your confusion continues through your vote, Kane’s name written on a slip of paper, dropped into the ballot box. 

By noon, the votes have been counted, recounted, and checked again. The Chancellor has been chosen, and Kane is the first to find you. You’re sitting outside, carving a fourth tally mark into the handle of your knife, signalling the death of the Azgeda assassin, when he stops in front of you, pulling you to your feet. He leads you to a hidden corridor without a word, and you follow, noticing the serious expression on his face. He checks to make sure you’re alone three times before he turns to you. “Pike won the election.”

The news hits you like a bus, knocking the breath out of you and leaving you disoriented. “What are we going to do? We can’t let him lead. He’ll ruin everything we’ve worked for the last three months.”

“I know, but the people chose. They want Pike. It’s out of our hands now.”

“Kane…” You trail off, disagreeing, but he lifts a hand to quiet you. “There’s nothing we can do from the outside, but if we had someone on the inside, someone passing along information, we could change things. Sabotage them.”

You shake your head. “Bellamy is lost to us, Kane. I’ve been trying to understand it, but he has some strange new loyalty to Pike. He agrees with him, trusts him. No way he’ll turn on him.”

“I don’t mean Bellamy.”

The realization hits, and you almost laugh. “Me?”

“Pike won’t trust me or Abby, and he certainly won’t trust Lincoln and Octavia. But you…”

“I openly opposed him last night. I doubt he forgot that.”

“No, but he understands protecting his people, however misguided his attempts.”

You consider this, and Kane’s request for you to spy, a decision that will put you at odds with the love of your life. A decision that could ruin your relationship, end it, if he ever found out. But it’s also the only way to save Bellamy from himself, and from Pike. You look up at Kane with a sigh, “I’ll do it.”

“Good. I’m going to tell Pike right now. You should be there to greet Bellamy.”

You nod and follow him out of the hiding spot. He leads you over to the prison, grabbing guards along the way. The walk towards the cells feels dangerous, your anxiety growing as the reality of what you agreed to starts to hit you. But you push all of those feelings away, locking them in a box deep in your mind, because they are too dangerous for you now. The anxiety, the disbelief, the disagreements with Pike’s beliefs, they paint targets on your back. 

Kane opens the door to the cell and steps inside, and you stand just outside, watching from the other side. You and Bellamy lock eyes, and you can’t read the expression on his face, something that’s only started once Pike came into the picture. You quickly conclude that it’s not something you like. Kane holds out the Chancellor pin to Pike. “Congratulations, Mr. Chancellor.”

Pike takes it as Kane adds, “The vote wasn’t close. Our people are now your responsibility, Charles. I hope you take that seriously.”

“Thank you, Marcus. I certainly intend to.” He attaches the pin to his shirt, before turning to look at his fellow prisoners. “For my first official action as Chancellor, I pardon myself and the others. For my second official action, I reject the brand that made us the 13th clan. For my third, let’s finish what we started.”

Kane steps aside as everyone exits the room, following Pike out the door and to the armory. Bellamy is the last one to leave, and Kane leaves the room to give you privacy. He stands in front of you, silent, before whispering, “Less than two days ago, I thought you were dead. You all went radio silent, and when we got to Mount Weather, Raven and Sinclair were sitting beside you, keeping pressure on your wounds. They were surrounded by ripped pieces of clothing, soaked through with blood, and I thought there was no way that you were alive.”

He surprises you by reaching out, intertwining his fingers with yours. “The whole ride back to Arkadia, I was sure that you were going to die. Your mom stopped the bleeding the best she could before we left, but you were so weak and your breathing was so shallow. When we got back and they finally got you stabilized, I swore to myself that I’d never let death that close to you again.”

“Bellamy…”

You trail off, unsure what to say, but he continues, “Months ago, I promised that I would keep you safe, and I’ve failed. You have four stab wounds right now that I could have prevented, all of them from Grounders. From people who’ve been trying to kill us since we landed. That army is a threat to us, a threat to you. I won’t let them hurt you anymore, and I won’t let them hurt our people.”

Though you understand his reasoning, his fear now ruling his decisions and causing him to believe in Pike, you don’t agree. But as a spy, you let him think you do. “I didn’t understand it last night, but then something you said helped me to. You have always done what’s best for us and our people. I’ve been skeptical of Pike, which made me lose sight of that. But I understand now. Pike is what’s best for us and our people. I just wish you had talked to me before you armed them, we could have avoided the whole misunderstanding.”

Relief floods his features. “I was so worried you wouldn’t understand. After we take care of the army, I’ll talk to Pike about your guard position, let him know you’re on our side. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Pike said we had a small window, and I didn’t want to be the reason we missed it.”

You nod, and he leans down to kiss you. When he pulls away, he glances down the hall, where Gillmer now stands, waving him over. “I have to go, but we’ll talk when I get back.”

“Be safe.”

He nods and gives you one last kiss before running down the hallway, joining Gillmer, leaving you with a sick feeling in your stomach and the weight of the world on your shoulders.

-

next chapter

-

if sub rosa moves to three posts a week, which schedule would you be more interested in? keep in mind, I post in my timezone, which is CDT, the same timezone as the city Chicago, Illinois, USA. please comment on this post, send an ask or a message and let me know!

monday, wednesday, friday

wednesday, friday, sunday

[dontcallmecedge]

-Fading Hope-

TW: Major Character Death

Inspired by a sketch @howdoiurlwhatdoesthismean made

Summary: Kokichi was used to lying. But when he’s captured by junko-supporters and his health continues to fade quickly, he’s not sure he can lie to himself anymore. Komeada and Togami being there doesn’t help. (Au: everyone in V3 is alive and danganronpa 1 and 2 aren’t fictional)

Kokichi was waiting.

He wasn’t really sure what, or who, he was waiting for. ‘The future foundation!’ His mind assured him, ‘they wouldn’t leave not one, but three members to die, right?’ But he knew that was a pathetic lie, even for him.

He was nothing more of a nuisance, and while he cared about Komeada-chan, (more than he’d like to admit) he knew the future foundation saw him as a means to an end too. Nothing more than an image to spew stuff about hope, someone to shove in the spotlight and show the world. ‘Oh look at one of the survivors of the horrible Junko Enoshima!! We saved him! Leave the worlds future to us!’

Disgusting.

That left the Togami clan member; Kokichi had to admit, he and no idea how the Future Foundation felt about him. On one hand, he was one of the original survivors, and they had given him an entire division because of it. He lead with skill and pride, never letting anything turn to chaos. Yes, he’d seen first had how Byakua had them all eating out of him palms.

But would they really care about him once he was out of their reach, out of their hair?

Or was he just like him and Komeada-chan?

Useless.

Worthless.

A means to an end...

‘Access the situation!’ His brain told him, desperately trying to keep him from losing hope, from giving up.

It seemed very easy to at the moment.

Sighing, he looked down at his stomach, moving his arms slightly from where they had previously been wrapped around him.

‘No, that was a mistake’ he thought as he immediately recoiled in pain, trying not to cry.

Well there was no point turning back now, he was already in pain, and he really needed to know how bad it was, or at least how bad it had become.

He took a look at his lower abdomen, Byakua’s jacket wrapped around it in a makeshift bandage. Meanie Togami was not very happy about having to give his jacket to him, and Kokichi wasn’t exactly happy to receive it either.

He’d assured them he was fine, but Komeada- chan took one look at him and demanded Byakua honk up the jacket. Something about how Kokichi was the biggest spark of hope and how they had to protect him in order for hope to flourish.

Kokichi knew that was his twisted way of showing he cared.

Kokichi rolled his eyes at that, deciding that he would move the makeshift bandage, just a little, just so he can tell himself it wasn’t that bad.

His hands pulled the fabric away and he flinched even harder, hearing a distressed Nagito say his name behind him. He ignored him and continued his mission.

It was a bad choice.

It looked.. Very not good. This was bad, I’m not... he swallowed, trying not to think about it, about how much... about how much blood had been there. He was going to...

‘Think about some thing else Ouma!’ He shouted in his mind. ‘Think about... ummmmm... Byakua! Yeah what’s his deal anyways???’ He turned his head towards the tall figure.

Byakua seemed the least affected out of all of them. Though if that was because he was the least physically hurt or if it was simply his will power was yet to be seen. He’d taken to sitting in the corner, facing away from the other two as if he was disgusted to be in prisoned with them.

Snooty to the end, that was good ol’ Byakua Togami.

There was probably no one worse to get trapped with.

Well.

Almost...

Kokichi thought about the one behind him, and he didn’t even have to turn his body to know the other was probably staring at him.

*Sigh* Komeada was a creep sometimes.

It’s not like he didn’t care about him, he did!

But there was honestly nothing Kokichi could think of that was worse than being trapped with the one person who always knew when he was lying.

Well maybe death would be worse....

“Kichi?” Good, another distraction.

“Mhmm?” He managed to squeak out, when had his voice become so frail?

“You doing ok?” Kokichi barely heard him. He didn’t feel like talking to Nagito right now and so he wasn’t going to.

It’s fine, he’ll get bored of me eventually. He probably won’t even cry at the funeral.

While being spiteful usually filled him with glee, the idea of his frie- his classmate at his funeral made his stomach twist.

He didn’t want to....

“Kichi? Hang in there ok?”

He didn’t respond

“Kichi?”

Was he going to keep doing this?

“Kichi?”

He wished he would just shut up already and get the point.

“Kokichi?”

PLEASE.

He got his wish, soon it was back to being silent.

Why didn’t the silence feel better?

Why did he feel so...

Kokichi flinched.

What was touching him?

He opened his eyes (when had he closed them?) and tried to figure it out.

Thankfully it was just Nagito.

Patting his head.

Ok then.

Not like he had the energy to stop him.

(Not like he had the energy to do anything.)

“It’s gonna be ok, Kokichi. Trust me! They won’t let a young symbol of hope like you die!”

Of course he was defaulting to crazy talk, he really knew him like the back of his hand didn’t he? Just some lies, nothing could surprise him anymor-

“So please,” why was Nagito’s voice so... gentle? “Stay... stay with me ok?” Was he... was he about to cry? For him?

He pushed that thought away immediately. No way Nagito was crying for him, he probably was crying about own wounds. No way anyone would care about some one as selfish as him.

As another long pause happened, Kokichi had time to think about that, how selfish he was. Why was it that he had done those things?

....what was it he had done?

He couldn’t remember at all, his memory being a hazy mess as he tried and failed to think about anything else but... THAT.

“Kokichi? Please don’t...” oh that voice was back, “please just hang in there a little bit longer ok?” Who was this voice again? “I know I already said that but we got to have hope and you have to hope and... and hang in there!” Why did this voice sound so sad? What had happened?

“PLEASE DONT DIE” the voice screamed, and Kokichi’s thoughts were put to a screeching halt.

He’d been trying not to think about it. He’d been trying to push down his feelings.

But he couldn’t remember why anymore, or where he was or why he felt like giving the voice a hug.

So he let himself entertain that horrible thought.

I don’t wanna die.

I don’t want to die!

I DONT WANT TO DIE!!

He let the tears he’d been holding in for so long come out.

“Kichi?” He thought he heard, but it felt far away.

“Kokichi- no I’m sorry I didn’t mean.... it’s gonna be ok, honest.”

“You’re doing a horrible job of comforting the near dead” he noticed the warmth that had been on his head before left at that. Why did you leave warmth? Come back...

“Togami that’s not- he’s not going to die ok?”

“Please. He’s small, frail, obviously under weight, the youngest of us and has sustained the most damage. Surely you can’t be that blind?”

“WELL THEN DO SOMETHING!!! We can’t just let him die!”

“We can’t do anything to save him.” He felt the wetness on his face increase at that, he didn’t know why anymore.

“Bu-“

“We can’t do anything to SAVE him.... but” he heard movement, somewhere, he didn’t know where.

His eyes hurt a lot. He hoped not for much longer.

“We can at least....”

“...”

“We can at least make his last moments tolerable.”

“Wha-“

He felt his head being lifted up and he wanted to cry out in pain but found he didn’t have the energy to talk anymore.

He felt his head rest on something way softer than what he’d been laying on prior.

Then the warmth was back.

It was nice.

He heard the first voice again, a little closer this time, but still a long way away.

“Shhhhhhh” it was shaking, he wondered why.

“It’s....you’re....”

“Komea-“

“Just... rest now ok?” A choking noice “it’s, get some rest...”

He wanted to say no... but something in his mind was pulling at him to rest, to let go.

He closed his eyes, or were they already closed? He didn’t know.

He didn’t feel.

Then all he saw was blackness.

[banashee]

My first story from my @badthingshappenbingo​ card.

*+~

 Fixing the damage

 The pain is overwhelming and nauseating.

 Steve is faintly realizing that he is no longer trapped under the rubble of a collapsed building, but somewhere white and bright that smells of antiseptic - probably a hospital. He squeezes his eyes back shut, trying to breathe.

  It eases his mind, a little bit, just for a few seconds before the worry hits him once again. His mind is sluggish, but just now it comes back to him that he wasn't alone under the steel and stones.

 *+~

     The warehouse breaks down faster than anybody is even able to react - at the time, Steve is in there with Clint because the mission had lead them there while the rest of the team takes care of the threats outside. But suddenly, there is an explosion and the walls and ceilings around them crumble down. There is no time left to think, and Steve reacts lightning fast and instinctively - he throws himself right over Clint, shielding im with his own body in an attempt to keep the damage minimal. His own chances to survive this, to survive the injuries, is one hell of a lot higher than his very human teammates.  

     Both of them curse violently, and a moment later, the dust settles slowly.  

     Steve is right over Clint, propped up on his arms even though they are now in odd, unnatural angles. A heavy piece of rubble is pressing down on his back and he is bleeding, judging from the sudden wetness under his uniform and the stabbing pain that creeps through him. His ribs feel broken, too. Steve is in pain and shaking with it, but he keeps going, keeps himself up to protect them both from getting crushed.  

     Some of the blood drips down from his face, red droplets a stark contrast to his friends pale skin.  

     For the fraction of a second, there is panic on Clint’s face, then he visibly calms himself, breathing even as to not waste any air while they’re buried down here. They’re pressed close to each other, but there is a bit of room filled with precious air in between them - they’ll have to make the best of it until their team can get them out.  

     Loud voices over the comms let them know that they are onto it. They’ll get them out, but it sounds frantic in their ears. All they can do is trust them.  

     Steve is tired, and he really wants to close his eyes, but he can’t.  

             “Hey.” Clint’s voice sounds softly from underneath him, “Don’t pass out on me, Cap. Keep talking.”  

     “About what?” he manages, voice scratchy.  

     “Tell me a story. Complain about the turn of events or bitch about the patriarchy. Anything as long as you stay awake, Steve.”  

     And he must be trying, but he really doesn’t know what he is even saying - everything's a blur and he couldn’t tell which way is up or down.  

     If it’s been minutes or hours or even longer - Steve doesn’t know.  

 *+~

 In the fog of pain, Steve can make out voices.

 He recognizes his team, and it sounds like most if not all of them are there - immediate relief fills him, because it means they are alive. There is also the voice from somebody that his sluggish brain faintly recognizes as a doctor he might have met a few times before - SI, not SHIELD.

 She talks about broken bones and healing powers, about partially healed injuries that went back together wrong due to the time it took to get him out from under the building. She talks about having to re-break bones.

 Even in this state of mind, it sends an icy shower down his spine and Steve just knows what it means - and even if he didn’t, the passionate “Fuck!” that sounds very much like Tony tells him enough.

 There are no sedatives that work on him. He might pass out from pain if he’s lucky, but there is no single chemical in the world, as far as they know, that puts him under or is able to relief pain. His enchanted metabolism burns through everything way too quickly to even begin to work.

 Steve can feel his heartbeat speed up, and faintly he can make out the conversation next to his bed, because he forces himself to.

 “We’ll need your strongest ones. Since Dr. Banner is currently passed out it will have to be you, Thor. And you too, Mr. Stark. Please get on your suit.”

 He can hear how Tony swallows audibly and says, “Oh God. This is wrong, so, so wrong.”

 “There is no other way, I’m afraid.” Answers the doctor, and she does sound sympathetic. “The longer we wait now, the worse it will get. I don’t think any of you would want his injuries to heal wrong, it will only cause him more pain and problems, and eventually this will have to get done - better do it now than later.”

 There is a long beat of uncomfortable silence in the room, and then the bed dips down with the weight of another person, settling down by his head, and calloused hands gently touching him until Steve’s head is pillowed on somebody's lap.

 “Agent Barton, maybe you should go back to bed while-”

 “Make me. I dare you to fucking try it.” Clint bites back without letting the doctor even finish the sentence. It is obvious he won’t go anywhere and Steve is grateful for it - he automatically leans into the touch of the hand that’s running through his hair reassuringly.

 The next few minutes are agony.

 Steve can feel the pressure on his body, bones breaking under it with noises that will stay with him for a long time and leave the whole room with dread. Voices around him are talking, but he can’t make out the words - he is too busy trying to keep himself from screaming. If he had to guess, it is probably a mixture of calm instructions, reassurances and apologizes for causing him more pain.

 There are intervals where bones are broken again, then he gets a small pause where his bones are set into place and held with casts and bandages, right away as to avoid them starting to heal again before they’re straight again.

  Later, Steve will think back on this, unable to decide which would be worse - having to have partially healed bones re-broken to set them, or having to be the one to cause a friend pain in this way, even when it is to help them.

 If he was able to, he would hold onto Clint with the one hand that still works somewhat, but straining his arm hurts too much. So his fingers spasm for something to grip, and they are soon held by a warm hand, grip light as to not hurt him further, but firm enough to be reassuring, thumb softly rubbing over the side of his own hand.

 A sharp push on his ribs sends another wave of pain through his entire body. Air leaves his lungs, and he can hear, “Breathe, keep breathing.” next to his ear, and he tries to accommodate. Somehow, he manages to breathe again, gasping for air, really, but there are now tears pooling in the corners of his eyes and he finds himself unable to stop them and they soak into the soft fabric of the pants where his head still rests, now running free after the pressure finally stops and the doctor leaves the room, leaving Steve in the care of his friends.

 The whirring sounds of the Iron Man suit tell him that it gets taken off, quick footsteps running for the bathroom and shortly after, he can hear Tony retching and throw up into the toilet.

 Steve can feel his bed dip down once again, and he is faintly aware that Thor just sat down by his feet, gently placing one of his enormous hands on his uninjured calf in an comforting gesture, talking. His mind is clearing up, now that the worst is over, and he rasps out a “thank you.” which is met with a sad hum, and Thor says,

 “Please do not thank me for this - I am sorry to cause you more pain, my friend, even when it was only to help.” After a short pause he continues, “Rest now, we will keep you company.”

 Steve nods, but is unable to fall asleep, so he dozes a bit, Thor by the end of his bed and with Clint still running a hand through his hair. He’s tense and trying to hide it, but Steve can feel it now. He wants to ask him if he is okay, but before he can gather his thoughts and voice for this, the bathroom door opens again, and Tony emerges. He sits down next to Steve, apologizing a million times before he starts rambling. It’s oddly familiar and comforting, the quick string of words at least, and it makes him smile a bit.

 “Can you stay here for a bit?” He can then hear Clint ask, which is clearly directed at Tony, who gives an affirmative answer. Then the archer gets up from his spot, and then the bathroom door shuts quickly. They can still hear him throwing up - Steve feels sorry for his friends and their reaction to this, but he knows they won’t want to hear it.

 Clint’s spot is quickly taken by Tony. His touch feels different, not only because his hands are slightly smaller than Clint’s and his movements more restless than calm, but it is just as comforting to feel him close by. Steve still doesn’t allow himself to sleep yet.

 A few more minutes tick by, and he can hear his friends talk. Clint must have come back by now, because Thor says,

 “You should rest, you are still concussed.” which is met with half hearted protest but Tony interrupts him.

 “Thor is here, I’m here. My fucking suit is here. Knowing the others, they’ll be here soon as well. Lie down, sleep. We’ll keep watch.”

 And surprisingly enough, he does.

 Clint carefully stretches out next to Steve, because good luck getting him to leave him right now. Steve knows that he feels responsible for his injuries, because he’s been protecting him. It’s a talk they’ll have later, when the world is less fuzzy and less painful.

 For now, he’s happy to have a warm body next to him, carefully touching, and two other friends in the room with them to keep watch.

 Now, he finally allows himself to sleep, and when he wakes up next, he’s feeling a lot better already.

 When he looks around, the whole team is scattered across his room, either reading or silently talking or playing board games, but everyone is here.

 They’re all okay, and that’s all that counts.

*+~

 Bad Things Happen Bingo.

 Square: Setting a broken bone

[incorrectly-quoted-queers]

Biotic Freckles

Chapter 1: Seeing You How much longer could Kaidan Alenko spend brooding over the fact that the woman he loved saw him as an annoying puppy?

In theory, forever. But he was a soldier, so probably he probably wouldn’t make it that long. Maybe she’d finally notice him if he died a noble sacrifice.

That went darker than he meant.  

Who was he kidding? Staying hung up on her would be dumb, and thinking like that was pathetic. Commander Anya Shepard clearly didn’t have any feelings for him. 

He fell for her because she saved his life and she fought everything with a fire in her eyes, a beacon on the battlefield. But she was also kind and treated her subordinates like friends; family. Every CO he’d ever had was interested in his L2’s and the headaches, mostly for intel reasons. But none of them asked how he got them and how sometimes it felt like he wasn’t a lucky survivor, but a cursed leftover. 

Shepard understood that, the cursed thing. She said it was how she felt about Akuze, the mission that made her famous. He never knew someone like her could feel like him. 

Hell, Kaidan could still remember the first time they met. Anderson brought him onto his ship as a new lieutenant and was touting him around, giving him the grand tour. Everyone was respectful and saluting, some making a few quips, but they all were the typical soldier types. He’d seen so many of them, passing around from ship to ship to be the resident biotic for X, Y, or Z mission. The whole process felt like old news. 

But then they got to the cockpit, and instead of classic Alliance garb, there was a woman with long, brown hair bandaging up the shoulder of a shirtless pilot. Her thick brows were furrowed, her sweatpants were practically falling off her hips, and she just had a sports bra on top. Not exactly military standard. And when she glanced up at Anderson, she didn’t look flustered like she got caught doing something wrong, just kinda annoyed. 

Kaidan was horrified and also instantly wanted to know everything about her. 

She went back to the pilot’s wounds, saying, “Joker cracked his bone while high-fiving his co-pilot. Just mitigating the damage.”

Anderson chuckled, like this was the norm here. “Lieutenant Alenko, the one with the chip on his shoulder is Joker, the best pilot you can get. And next to him is my second in command, Commander Anya Shepard.” 

After she tucked the bandage into itself, she straightened in front of Kaidan and extended her hand. He took it, rough calluses under smooth skin, but still couldn’t adjust to the fact she was like... this. “Nice to meet you, Alenko. Not to hi and bye, but I was just brushing my teeth when Joker graciously called my ass up here, so I’m going to finish that. She gave a wave and then walked off the bridge. 

He didn’t even get to say anything to her, and he was mesmerized. 

Anderson filled in the empty space. “Shepard is my best officer; an infiltrator. You’ll be working closely with her on ground missions, but you’ll have to keep up. She’s a great shot but she’s not a very patient one. Her teams move quick. We can have a more formal introduction later.”

“So she’s always like that?”

“Only the best could ever get away with it.”

And Anderson was right. He learned more in those first few days with her than he ever did running practical drills on other ships. Shepard liked the unconventional, and it made her a stronger fighter and leader. 

With how informal she was, he also caught a lot more of that sweats look than he ever meant to. But Kaidan had to admit, he liked how she looked with her hair down.

Looking around the bunks, he was one of the only people there at the moment. Only essential personnel to run the ship were left. It was kinda sad, how even though she broke his heart he was the one sticking around for so long. Guess he couldn’t get over her just yet.

Harder to when she’s the best boss you’ve ever had, and you’d be a fool to quit one of the best military jobs in the galaxy. 

But just as he was settling down in his bed of tragic misery, his omni-tool pinged. On it, there was a message from Liara T’Soni. Come by my room later, please. 

Kaidan was a tad perplexed. They’d never been super close, but it was her last night on the Normandy, so maybe she was just saying her goodbyes. She said later, but Kaidan had nothing better to do. Swinging off his bed, he pulled on some pants, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the med bay and her science office. 

She had never been comfortable, sleeping with the soldiers. He couldn’t blame her; it wasn’t her scene. His parents would say it wasn’t his, either, but they were kind-hearted Canadians. They never really got the military in the first place. 

Maybe they would’ve done a better job swaying him if they hadn’t sent him to that biotic school.

When he made it to Liara’s door, he gave it a simple knock. She opened it within seconds, but she looked all flustered. “Hello, Kaidan.” She scratched her head and then added, “I thought I asked you to come later.”

With a smirk, Kaidan couldn’t help but laugh. “I mean, it is later.”

“You’re... correct.” She glanced behind her and seemed a little distressed. 

“Do you need me to actually come back later?”

Liara shook her head at him like he’d said something absolutely absurd. It was kinda adorable. He had to admit, her absent-minded professor schtick was kinda refreshing after all the keep-it-tough soldier energy he’d been stuck with. “No. I apologize for the mess. I had hoped to be more packed when you got here.”

“A little mess doesn’t bother me.” Liara gave him a tortured look and let him in. Safe to say, a little mess was an understatement on his part. Her desk was covered in Prothean Artifacts, her clothes were haphazardly falling out of a bag, and even more artifacts and books were littered around the room. Only some of them were properly boxed up. “Never knew you had so much stuff in here.”

Scanning the room, Liara looked overwhelmed. Her hands kept twisting and knotting, which seemed to suggest this wasn’t how it normally looked. He kinda wanted to grab them just to save her from dislocating a finger. “I didn’t either. I had everything catalogued and organized on the shelves and under the bed so I didn’t see them, and we just stopped so many places with Prothean tech... I guess I collected a lot more than I thought.”

She gave the room a couple more frantic looks, and Kaidan made a decision. “Okay, whatever you want to talk about can wait. I’m going to help you pack.”

“You don’t have to--”

“I insist.” 

Liara gave him this soft, thankful smile, but she also kinda looked at him like she pitied him. She didn’t need to know that it was this or thinking about Shepard’s brutal rejection. Prothean Artifacts would always seem better. So he just asked, “Okay, so how have you been organizing things?”

For a few minutes, Liara explained her process. Then, they got to work. They bantered a bit about missions and crewmates, but otherwise they focused on the task at hand. It was nice to do something that had absolutely nothing to do with Shepard. Instead it was just him, Liara, and all these pieces of history. Liara even explained a few of them to him, and they were cooler than he’d thought they were. 

And then everything was put away.

And then it was just them, the air, and whatever Liara had to say. 

She suddenly looked all grave and patted the metal chest in front of her bed like it was a seat. Well, guess they were using it as one. Kaidan didn’t know how to feel, sitting down next to her with her looking at him like that. Her deep blue eyes were so sympathetic and sad. 

When they were side by side, she placed her hand on his knee. “Kaidan, I know Shepard finally told you. And I’m sorry she didn’t feel the same way.”

“Why are you giving me a speech?”

“Because I thought you might want a friend who knows how you feel.”

Kaidan swallowed, looking at the scientist in a new light. That melancholy in her blue eyes was familiar; he saw it in the mirror. “You had feelings for her, too.”

“Yes. But, like you, she wasn’t interested. And I know how much that must hurt, because I’m hurting as well. I figured I might be able to support you better than your soldier friends, before I go.”

Staring at the space between his legs, between his hands, Kaidan was still stunned by the revelation of Liara being his romantic rival. And worse, the fact neither of them got the girl. Guess Shepard really just wanted to be alone, huh? At least in that way. Instead of musing until his brain bled, he said, “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

He shrugged, picturing his future on this ship, one without loving her. “Yeah. It’ll take time, but I’d rather be on the Normandy than anywhere else.”

“I wish I was as strong. Anya offered to personally ferry me from dig site to dig site, but I couldn’t. I feel bad, she wants so desperately for none of us to leave her. But she refuses to just ask us to stay instead of giving all these elaborate offers. I hope she learns to open up to people, even if it’s not me.”

Listening to her, Kaidan felt the weight of her words weigh on his shoulders and bury into his heart. “I was hoping I could be that person for her.”

“Me, too.” Liara laughed, and it was so soft and light. It didn’t make him feel patronized; just heard. “I wanted someone who wanted to share who they are with me. I thought it was her, but she shares stories, not who she is. I just--”

“You just wanted to be seen. And get to see them, too.”

Liara’s eyes met his, and they were still wistful and hurt, but they were also filled with hope and softness. Her freckles laid across her cheeks like the constellations of her world. Where Shepard kept hiding away from him, Liara was a soulful, open person filled with emotion and kindness. 

And while he admired everything about Shepard, he found he couldn’t look away from Liara. 

“Liara, we--”

She pressed her fingers against his lips and scanned his face. “If you’re feeling what I’m feeling, that should be enough for us tonight. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Kaidan didn’t need more prompting than that. His arms wrapped around her waist and he pulled Liara close, pressing his lips against hers. And unlike his last attempt, she didn’t pull away or punch him. Instead, her hands cradled his face.

How good it felt to be wanted. 

He didn’t know if whatever was happening between them was real or just the byproduct of sharing heartbreak. But with her mouth on his, Kaidan finally felt like he was getting a taste of what he had been trying so hard to make Shepard give him. 

Getting as close as he could to her, he didn’t try to think about tomorrow or what would be next. Kaidan just held her tight and enjoyed the next few hours of being wanted, all of him, by a beautiful woman he also admired. 

It didn’t matter if it wasn’t love. For tonight, it didn’t need to be. 

Hours later, he wasn’t so sure what he felt anymore. Liara’s freckles were still laying out the map of her soul on her face, her shoulders, and beyond, and Shepard was still someone he loved so hard it ached. The woman next to him was beautiful and genuine and he couldn’t help but see her in a new light. But it didn’t change the fact that Shepard changed his life. 

And he was the one that had to live with that dichotomy. 

But for now, he couldn’t make things complicated by spending all night with her. This wasn’t some bar hook-up on the Citadel; he just slept with the Asari researcher who was leaving tomorrow. And it was on the ship of the woman he once, or maybe still, loved. 

So for now, he couldn’t stay.

Shaking Liara’s shoulder, he said, “I have to go.”

Initially, she groaned. But as her eyes opened, softened, and then filled with concern, she nodded. “Yes. Probably. This is already a very complicated situation.”

“Agreed.” Kaidan pulled on his clothes, trying to stop his mind from racing about all the ways this could go terribly wrong and how maybe, this was also a terrible mistake. Then he glanced back at Liara, though, wrapped in her blanket and giving him an awkward, hesitant smile, and he knew even that was more complicated than just good or bad. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Be seeing you, alright?”

Liara didn’t look so sure, but she nodded anyway. “Yes. I’ll be seeing you.”

And that’s when Kaidan left her room, like none of that happened. It was really late at night- or early in the day, depending on who you asked- but all he had to do was get across the mess and then he’d-

“On a 4 am stroll, Alenko?”

Kaidan’s stomach dropped out of the goddamn ship to see Commander Shepard, dark hair tied up in a ponytail, sitting at one of the tables with this bemused look on her face. 

Dammit.

///

[andrea-lyn]

I was listening to 'Do I Wanna Know?' (Chvrches cover of Artic Monkeys) & these lines screamed Malex: Ever thought of calling when you've had a few? 'Cause I always do Maybe I'm too busy being yours to fall for somebody new Now I've thought it through Crawling back to you Maybe one half of Malex is drunk, really wants to call the other but doesn't & the next day goes to have a sober talk with him about them?

When Michael wakes up, it’s to nearly fifty texts in his drafts. They’re all unsent, but they paint a very vivid picture. Sitting up slowly, he groans as he glances behind him to make sure he didn’t bring anyone home last night after a blackout night at the Pony, but luckily he’d been both smart enough to come home alone, but also not to send any of the texts.

Staring at them, he reaches for a bottle of acetone, because hair of the dog is a necessity if he’s going to cope with this.

They’re mostly to Alex. Early in the night, there’s a few drafts for Isobel (what was w/ ur weird muppet vest the other nite? did you skin fozzy bear?) and then a few to Liz (i need u to know that if u call me mikey in front of witnesses, i will crush u w/ my brain).

From there, it looks like he’d had a little too much to drink and had gone one-track mind.

Alex-minded, more like. 

u know what i miss, i miss the way you kissed my neck

fuck, how come we only ever woke up together once?

i miss you

ilu

They go on like that, and on, and just when Michael thinks that his parade of pathetic pining is over, he scrolls down and finds some more. Grabbing a bunch of his curls in his hand, his only relief is that the messages are all sitting in his drafts, so even drunk, he had some sense. He groans and collapses back on the bed. 

He knows he’s not doing so well, not since Max, but this is a new low. When he hadn’t been able to explain to Maria how his hand had healed, that relationship had grown complicated too, and he’d cowardly bolted from going down that road because the last thing he needs is yet another complicated thing that makes him feel like shit.

His drunk self doesn’t agree, it looks like. 

There’s a few texts to Maria in there, but they’re mostly apologies, the kind of drunken sad ones that radiate regret. He definitely didn’t text i want to lick every inch of your body to her the way that he had to Alex. 

For a few hours, he hydrates and drinks acetone until he feels like he can move a few steps without puking. 

Once his head is clear, Michael has the feeling that he needs to talk to Alex. He brings up a brand new message and texts Alex to ask if he can come by the cabin to speak to him. He sends this one, and this is the one that gets an instant reply.

only if you bring coffee

Right. Coffee run it is.

He drops by the Crashdown to get Alex’s usual and then adds two extra espresso shots to his own order before he makes the drive out to the cabin, caffeinating until he’s jittery. He owes Alex a lot – apologies, explanations, actual lines of honest communication – but right now, he just needs to sort out his head so he doesn’t have nights like last night. 

“Hey!” Michael calls out, letting himself in the cabin. Alex has already said that he can come and go as he pleases, which would be exciting if it weren’t for the fact that he’d also made keys for Liz and Kyle and said the same thing. He’s no better than a friend, right now, which is the bed he’s made and has to lie in.

He can hear rustling from the bedroom and Michael heads to the door to see Alex finishing with his prosthetic, fiddling with some of the adjustments. 

“Coffee,” Michael says, setting it on the nightstand beside Alex since his hands are busy. He’s nervous and a bit frantic, and he puts his phone down on the nightstand beside the coffee because he’s worried that he’s going to press the wrong button and send all those drafts, seeing as they’re open so Michael can let his eyes skim over them to remind himself why he’s here. He navigates back to the home screen, lingering at the edge of the bed, trying not to think about Alex getting undressed instead of this.

He wants to talk about the messages in his phone, wants to show Alex and talk about how much he still wants to be with him, but not yet. Michael decides that he needs a minute to collect himself. He can talk to Alex about it, he can, he just needs a minute. 

“Hey, can I use the bathroom?”

Alex nods, distracted with the latches, cursing under his breath. Michael takes advantage to bolt for the bathroom, where he spends a good five minutes staring at his reflection in the mirror, telling himself that he can do this. He’s here to talk, that’s all. They’re not ending things, no one is walking away, and they can be mature adults about this.

When another few minutes pass, Michael figures that either he’s got to get out there or Alex is going to think he only came over to the cabin to abuse bathroom privileges. 

When he leaves the bathroom, it’s to the sight of Alex with Michael’s phone.

“Fuck!” he can’t help his automatic reaction on the heels of a panicked noise, and the severity and suddenness of it makes Alex nearly fumbles the phone. 

“Sorry,” Alex says. “Sorry, it was ringing and I saw it was Isobel, so I was trying to silence it, only I think it shifted to your messages and I…” Guilt flashes over his face. “I saw the messages. The drafts.”

That wouldn’t just be there. That means that Alex had to go looking for them. “Why would you…?”

“Because last night, I got this one random text from you, and it looked like it was part of something else and I…” Alex gives him an apologetic look. “What you wrote me was pretty safe. It just said something about my mouth, how you missed it when I was reading something and i started mouthing the words out loud. I didn’t really think much about it, because it was kind of really badly typed and I know that you’ve been drinking, lately.”

Understatement.

“Guerin,” Alex exhales. “You’re not the only one with unsent, unspoken words. I just never know how to bring them up.” He gives him an unsure look as he steadies his weight on the prosthetic, standing carefully (with Michael’s help as he reaches out to hold onto him). “Is that why you’re here? To talk about them?”

He nods. “I think it says something about the fact that I wrote more than ten times the texts to you than I did to anyone else. I’m glad my finger only slipped the once, that some part of my brain knew it wasn’t right to send them to you, but I’m here because it also says that there’s something still there.”

Michael’s in pain and fighting grief and it’s not that he wants to use Alex as a bandage, but maybe part of his grief is because of the wound that he and Alex never let heal.

Alex reaches for the coffee and Michael’s phone, handing the latter out to him.

“Look,” Alex says quietly, “when you’re ready, send me the texts. Okay? I don’t want there to be things unsaid between us. Not anymore. I also don’t want you to think that you have to keep drinking instead of talking to me. So…” He reaches over to squeeze Michael’s shoulder. “Think about it?”

Michael nods, feeling like he’s been struck mute. It’s a terrifying ask, but it’s one that he knows will take them to a new level – a better place, even. All it will take is some courage, some honesty, and some willingness to try; on both their parts. 

“Come on,” Alex breaks into that unnerving silence. “Since you’re here, I was gonna clean out the eaves today and…” He waggles his brows at him, tapping his temple.

Michael huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, my alien powers were definitely meant to clean out blockages.”

“You’re here,” Alex points out. “And you brought me coffee. It’s up to you.”

Because Michael is a sucker and because it’s better than obsessing over all those unsent messages, he does stay and he uses his powers to help clean the eaves of the cabin. His phone is in his pocket and it feels like it’s burning a hole, but he’ll figure it out. He even thinks soon, because it feels like he’s sitting on a landmine and at this point, he’d rather it just go off. 

*

It turns out that Michael doesn’t need much time to figure his shit out.

He knows that he’s not automatically healed. He knows this won’t fix everything and that he has a lot of damage to undo both with Maria and Alex, for what he’d done. Still, he also knows that the only way out is through and if that way happens to end with Alex at the finish line, then he definitely wants to pursue it. He’d come over to Alex’s place with coffee again, because yesterday after they’d finished with the eaves, Alex had mentioned something about needing to dig out the foundation to repair a crack.

So here he is, ready to work, and ready for other things, too.

The next day, Michael presses a button and sends all his drafts. He takes immense joy in hearing Alex’s phone going wild with notifications, combined with the strangled sound that Alex makes from the kitchen that tells Michael that he’s read all of them, including the filthy batch that Michael had drafted nearer to the end of the night. 

That smug feeling of victory evaporates when his own phone goes wild with alerts and he sees his inbox:

278 unread messages from Alex Manes

It looks like he’s not the only one with things unsaid. Grinning as he catches Alex’s eye, he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. 

“No more unspoken words?” Alex suggests. 

That’s a promise Michael can definitely make. “No more.”

[signutai]

wonzon....19? :}

So! I guess this’ll be, like...a tiny next-day continuation of Lonely Places, Lonely People, so it might be just a lil confusing for folks who haven’t read that. Which, if you’re following me, I really hope you have.(Warning for minor descriptions of injuries. Cut for length, not content.)

Cross-posted to AO3 here!

[amuletrebel]

True Colors

So yeah, I wrote a little one-shot about Zack and Ray’s life after escaping and how they’re the best friends they always needed. And I wrote it to that song from Trolls, so what?

Zack groaned as he trudged his way back to the tiny apartment he called a home after working a brutal shift at his temporary job. That’s right; when Zack wasn’t out slashing throats, he was doing his best to make money. Luckily, the job didn’t require him to show his face to a whole bunch of people. And yes, he got an apartment. It wasn’t exactly the best idea to sleep on the streets given his new…circumstance. That circumstance happened to be curled up on his—no, their—couch, breathing softly as she slept while the chatter of the television acted as white noise.

The bandaged man shook his head with a chuckle. Ray always tried to stay up for his return, whenever that was. But most of the time she failed and ended up in the exact same position she was now. Zack quietly made his way over at sat on the end of the couch that wasn’t occupied and stared at the blonde-haired girl. Well, she was more of a teen now, considering it had been four years since he hauled her ass out of that mental institution and they’ve been on the run together.

How could he possibly forget that day? He busted opened a heavily barred window and risked serious injury just to make good on their promise. But…there was more reason than a promise to him. Ray, however strange their initial partnership was, became an important part of his life. She became someone he felt comfortable leaning on. When she was close to death, he actually felt lost, with no idea how to go on if she suddenly disappeared from his life and it wasn’t by his hand. In the past, he could only rely on himself. But after meeting Ray and learning more about her, he actually had something he wanted to protect. He had someone he’d throw himself in front of a bullet for; someone whose life he’d chose over his own.

Just remembering Ray’s past pissed him off. She was a broken girl who came from an even more broken home. He didn’t completely understand the need to make something your own, but he could get the gist of it now. Yes, he was slightly disturbed by the fact someone as harmless-looking as Ray killed and sewed up her own parents, but he couldn’t judge her or even blame her. He was a serial killer wanted to 38 states and counting for god sake! But seeing a different side of Ray, however damaged and crazy, strangely made him feel closer to her. He also felt a need to hold her and tell her those pieces of shit never deserved a smart, creative, and determined kid like her.

Zack always said he didn’t like liars, but he couldn’t fault Ray for what happened. The old preacher told him she asked to have her memories sealed up, so she could die the way she was before she ever took the life of another living thing. Ray claimed she had lied to him the entire time, and that was vaguely correct. But it was also wrong. The Ray he met and the Ray he confronted at the end were two sides of the same coin. Her true colors revealed a broken and scared little girl who just wanted someone to tuck her in at night and scare away the monsters under the bed; someone she could come to with questions without getting slapped and scolded; someone she could put her complete trust in. Despite her insistence that he was her God, Zack became that person to her. He cut down everyone that tried to bring her harm and protected her from his own demons. And he was fine with that, just as long as she saw him as just Zack. She may have thought he hated her for supposedly lying, but he realized her could never hate her. Her true colors were beautiful and he’d do anything to keep them from dimming out ever again.

The dark-haired male carefully picked the blonde up and carried her to the bedroom. He laid her in bed and pulled the covers over her, then proceeded to lay on top of the covers and turn his back to her. “Good night, Ray,” he mumbled before closing his eyes to sleep. It was rare for him not to have nightmares, and this night proved to be one of those. It was a memory of that very night the world seemed to spin right-side up again.

Zack laughed as he hauled Ray over his shoulder after she eagerly took his hand, jumping out the window and making a run for it. Sirens blared in alarm at the institution, signaling Rachel’s disappearance and possible kidnapping. But she wasn’t kidnapped. She left of her own accord, with someone she ironically trusted with her very existence.

“Zack,” she whispered, like a prayer, tears streaming down her cheeks, “please kill me…”

“Then stop your blubbering and smile!” Zack immediately responded.

But there was no harsh bite to those words. His words filled her with joy; something she hadn’t felt in such a long time. It was at that moment she realized how much she come to care for the person she asked to be her killer. Her wasn’t her god, but he was her friend. And that alone meant everything to her.

The two ran far from the facility, using the forest preserve nearby to hide amongst the foliage and escape. Fire burned in their lungs and blood rushed to their brains. But the pain was numbed by the exhilaration they both felt. Zack and Rachel had broken out of what was supposed to be their fates. Zack was supposed to be executed, and Rachel was supposed to waste the rest of her life away in a mental facility, praying for a death that wouldn’t come soon. They were survivors now.

“I want…to add something…to our promise,” Rachel said between heavy pants as they finally stopped, the cops far off their trail.

“And…what’s that?” Zack struggled out, bending over to catch his breath despite having far more stamina.

“Before you kill me, I want one final experience.” Rachel looked up at him with her ocean eyes, staring at him as she finally smiled a happy smile. “I want to spend at least one happy day with a friend.” Her gaze didn’t waver, but the killer blinked and pointed to himself for confirmation, which he received when she nodded.

Zack started chuckling under it became a full belly laugh. “Ya know, that doesn’t sound too bad. Alright, Ray. Ya got a deal!”

Rachel softly stirred, opening her eyes and taking in the scene around her. She wasn’t in the living room anymore. Now was she one the couch. The warm body next to hers was proof of that. She could only see the back of Zack’s usual hoodie, which he liked to wear around the apartment because it was comfy. The young woman scooted closer, hearing his even breathing, and curled up against his back.

To be honest, she never expected this scenario to play out the way it did. When she first imagined her and Zack being outside, she expected him to jump for joy at being out of that “murder hole,” as he put it, and finally give her the sweet release of death. But those images started to chance as time went on. She still imagined him killing her, but there was more weight to it than that. She gained someone that wanted her in both life and death. When she initially made her request to spend a day with him, she expected to be killed just as it ended. But days turned to months and months to a year. And even if she wanted to live another day with Zack, he had still promised to kill her. That remained unchanged. But there were times she would picture what he’d be like after she died. Would he be sad for her? Would he go on with life as usual? Either way, she wanted him to live, even if she was gone. She didn’t want the police to catch and kill him as soon as he killed her. She wanted her death to be just a little more special than the others.

Rachel leaned over and slightly hovered over Zack, getting a good look at his sleeping face. She had a lot of time to assess who he was and she like what she saw. He wasn’t the kind of person who built up walls, either purposefully or subconsciously. He was brutally honest and brash, but there were times he could be kind and gentle. He could be encouraging in his own Zack way. He saved her from her own darkness.

Zack’s true colors burned bright like a wildfire. A monster could never have that kind of light. He wasn’t a monster like everyone claimed him to be. He was just…Zack. Her was Zack, her very important person. He was also a kid at heart. He never really had the chance to properly grow up from what he told her about his life at the illegal orphanage. But an experience anyone would except to dim the fire in one’s soul only made his burn brighter. He risked his own life for hers, because he didn’t want to kill her and make himself a liar in the process. He acted out of instinct, without thinking, but sometimes it ended with both of them laughing. Zack was one colorful mess, but she needed someone like him in her life.

“Ray…?” the elder of the two grumbled in a sleepy tone.

“Sorry,” the younger whispered, leaning back onto her side of the bed, “Did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” Zack muttered, not even bothering to sugarcoat it, “but it’s fine. Ya need anything?” He sat up on his elbow, waiting for her to say something.

“Can I…Can I ask you something?” she timidly asked.

“Go for it.”

“Am I being selfish again?” Rachel averted her gaze, her blonde locks her hiding her eyes. Her hands balled into fists atop her knees.

Zack only groaned and let his head fall back onto the cheap feather pillow. “We’ve been over this, Ray! You’re human. You can be selfish sometimes. If you weren’t, then you’re either a crusty-ass saint or a damn vegetable.”

“But…even though I want you to kill me…I want to live again…” Tears formed in Rachel’s eyes, but she furiously tried to wipe them away. “You made a promise…to kill me… I don’t want you to be a liar! But you…you make me want to live again… And I know I don’t deserve that!”

She suddenly gasped when she felt herself being pulled down. She found herself trapped in Zack’s embrace, one arm holding her close while her head was against his chest.

“It’s fine, Ray,” the bandaged man softly spoke. “After all the crap you were put through by those shit-stains that called themselves your parents, I think yer too hard on yourself. Ya wanna live? Fine. When yer ready to die, I’ll be right here with ya.” He shifted slightly but kept his hold on her. “I…I don’t mind. I never cared—never had to care—about some other goddamn brat before. It was always survival first. But…then you came along. Ya didn’t think of me as a monster or a tool… Ya just needed me for what I was. And now… Now I really care about ya. So, don’t die on me just yet…”

Her eyes widened, never expecting Zack to say so much, especially about her. “One more thing,” she whispered.

“Yer still not do?” he replied in a snarky tone, causing his companion to smile softly.

“Yes,” Rachel confirmed, tucking her arm under Zack and laying against him. “I’m glad I met you, Zack. You’re…my best friend.”

Zack stiffened, the skin under his bandaged turning red. A few seconds passed before he eventually relaxed and closed his eyes again. “Me too, Ray. Thanks for…being my best friend…”

[elegiesforshiva]

Ghosts XVI: Earthbound

Masterpost

Previous | Next

Sakura feels terribly cumbersome coming to.  There’s light behind her eyelids, bright and repugnant and far too much for a porous mind.   Some part of her notices that her headache is gone.

“Sakura-chan?”

“Naruto?” Sakura asks with a throat that feels sanded stiff and bare.  She hears the harsh friction of a chair scraping the floor and her eyes squint open to see long strands of blonde hair.  

And then Sakura remembers.

Ino…

Her vision clears enough just to meet the dangerous, amber iris of her shishou.  Tsunade looks calm. The kind of calm that is barely holding back an explosion.  

Sakura tries to shift away, or at least break the eye contact.   She can’t quite manage it though.  

“You’re awake,” Tsunade says, simple and flat.

The Godaime leans over and the first thing Sakura’s keenly notices is the heavy purpling beneath her amber, bloodshot eyes.  She’s fishing for something in her pocket, then she grasps Sakura’s chin with more tenderness than Sakura expects from a steel-plated face. Tsunade brings a penlight to Sakura’s head, flashes a painful beam from one of her eyes to the other.

“Can you tell me your name?” Tsunade asks.  Sakura gets a whiff of alcohol on her breath.

“Sakura,” she says, and her voice comes out in an awful rasp that she doesn’t recognize.  Suddenly she’s wondering if she actually is still Sakura.

“Surname?”  Tsunade asks.

“Haruno.” Her voice sounds a little better this time.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sakura can see Naruto, Sai, and Hinata sitting quietly by the side.  Naruto looks like he wants to say something—they all do—but Naruto is nearly bursting out of his chair.  He stays quiet though.  And Sakura imagines he must have been handed a pretty savage threat to look at her like that and still stay put for her examination.

“Can you sit up for me?”  Tsunade asks, and Sakura nods stiff before commanding her body to respond.  It’s delayed, and a little too forced for her liking, but she figures it’s the dehydration.  

Tsunade probably figures this too, studying her movements, before nodding in approval.  She has Sakura follow an exaggerated motion of her finger with her eyes, and perform a simple stretch.  

“Good.  Any pain?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me when your birthday is?”

“March twenty-eighth.”

“Who’s the current Hokage?”

“Kakashi Hatake—my old sensei.”

“Good.  And your occupation?”

“I’m a shinobi.  And a medic.  I work at this hospital.”

“Show me.  Channel chakra into your hand for me.”

Sakura does as she’s told, pushing her life energy into her palm with accuracy and precision that has always come second nature.  Tsunade watches with a meticulous eye before nodding again.  Sakura sets her hand down, and looks into the gooey warmth of Tsunade’s honey pupils. It’s a strange, unsettling contrast with the rest of her features.

“Who am I?”

“Tsunade Senju,” Sakura responds, and there’s a waver in her voice, glaring and unwanted, “my shishou.”

“Great,” Tsunade says, a cynical chipper slipping in.  “Now that we’ve ruled out brain damage as either the cause or repercussions of this absolute catastrophe,” Her voice grows colder, grained and unforgiving.  “Why are you here, Sakura?”

It puts Sakura on edge, and she’s folding into herself without really meaning to.  She doesn’t know what to say.  She wasn’t even supposed to wake up.  “I don’t know.”

“Should I refresh your memory?” Tsunade asks, and this time Sakura does look away.  “Tell me if this sounds familiar:  The Uchiha came carrying you this morning with a dislocated shoulder, chakra depleted, covered in your vomit, screaming like a hysterical child that you had overdosed.”  

It does refresh her memory, and Sakura remembers Sasuke’s face.  His features were blank, almost battle-driven in that way when his one-track mind has latched onto an objective and everything else was droned out in the tunnel vision.  

She remembers his eyes, beautiful and dangerous, up close and way too personal.  She remembers the way his name tasted in her mouth before she threw it up.

“Then he promptly passed out and gave me two more patients in need of emergency care.”   Tsunade pauses.  “Since obviously, our all-nighter with Ino wasn’t enough.”

Naruto begins.  “Baa—“

Tsunade cuts him off with a motion of her hand.  “I’m not done.”  

Sakura focuses on a little lock sitting in the center of the window panel.  It’s white, like everything in the hospital.  It’s freezing inside, but Sakura thinks it might be warmer out.  Her head is a mad scramble.  

“Well?” Tsunade says, impatient and irate.  “I’m waiting.”

“I had a headache,” Sakura says.  There’s tears in her voice.

“I’m drunk, not stupid.  You’ll have to do better than that.”

“Baa-chan,” Naruto voice calls out, defensive.  “C’mon, go easy on her.”  Tsunade doesn’t even turn her head to acknowledge him.  

“Honestly, what the hell were you thinking, Sakura? You were just gonna go and off yourself?  Leave us all the way your mother did you?” A sharp pain pinches through Sakura. Tsunade doesn’t stop, “And look what good that did.”  Sakura’s chest shrinks, ribs squeezing her lungs so tight she’s sure they are popping between the cracks. 

Hinata audibly gasps and Naruto cries in outrage.  “What the hell, Baa-chan!”

“I’m sorry,” Sakura chokes out.  “I’m sorry,” she says again.  And she means it, her heart torn and aching and much too heavy to still be in her body.  She has no idea why it still is.  She could have sworn Sasuke snatched it out.

Sakura feels a set of warm hands on her from the opposite beside, one rubbing her hunched back and the other gathering her bony wrist.  It’s so warm with that fiery chakra, she doesn’t need to turn her head to know it’s Naruto.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tsunade’s voice cracks this time, and the weakness snaps Sakura’s head towards her again.  In the few moments that have passed, Tsunade’s tired face has become terribly wasted.  “What were you thinking?”

Tsunade pulls Sakura out of Naruto’s arms and into her own.  Sakura can feel Tsunade’s tears, wetting her crass, pink locks.  

In all the years Sakura has known the Godaime, she doesn’t think she’s ever seen her so naked with affection.  Nor sorrow. And Sakura’s heart cracks from the feel of it, how needy Tsunade’s grip is around her.  

There’s a jarring relief searing through part of Sakura—the part that’s been wondering if anybody ever needed her at all.  

“You stupid, stupid girl,” Tsunade says.  “You ever pull that shit again, and I swear, I’ll kill you.”

Sakura cries dry, her scrawny arms stiffly winding themselves around Tsunade.  “I’m s-sorry,” she says again.  She’ll never be able to say it enough.

Tsunade holds her tight, but not long.  She pulls away, exhales with a deep flare of her nostrils.  She palms her head before she shakes it from side to side, in a sloppy manner that spoke to her slight inebriation.  “Ugh, I’m too drunk for this conversation,” she admits.  “I’ll let you kids talk and notify the Hokage.”  She wipes her eyes, and gives a mock-glare at Sakura, before pushing a prudent finger into Sakura’s breastbone.  “We’re not done though, you got that?”

Sakura is still crying, but she feels her lips pull back into a disjointed smile, before she gasps an almost-chuckle.  She wipes at her own cheek then, nodding.

When Tsunade walks out, Naruto doesn’t wait a breath before he yanks Sakura against him.  It’s sudden and Sakura feels her head toss and roll, like it was barely corded to her neck, before it thunks against his shoulder.  

“Sakura-chan,” Naruto says, and his voice is close, a wet vibration resonating through her ear. “I’m so fucking glad you’re okay.”  

Sakura incrementally lifts her head, just enough to meet the deep blue sky of Naruto’s damp eyes.  She regrets that look on his face—the bitter set of his jaw, like he’s trying hard not to frown even as he cries.  She’s seen it more than she’s ever wanted these past few months.  

Her fingers come to grasp at that tan, whiskered cheek, and Sakura leans up to graze her lips against the other.  The kiss is strained and barely there, and then his cheek is wet with her tears as well as his.  

“I’m sorry I made you worry,” Sakura says, and she hopes he knows she’s being sincere.  Naruto will always be her boy.

“Sakura,” Sai says. It’s not overtly mechanical, or practiced.  It’s just tired, and very, very sad.  Sakura turns to him, and Naruto lets her go with a tentative shake.

“I think…I think I know why you did what you did,” Sai says, not looking anywhere in particular.  “But please…don’t do it again.”

Sakura sees the fracture lying between them.  It’s painfully large and terrifyingly deep, with cool blue eyes, pale blond hair, and a very big, beautiful mouth.

She thinks Sai must hate her for this.  To have to endure two heartbreaks in such a small amount of time.  She sees the grief in the slump of his shoulders, the creases along his fisted hands.

“Gods,” Sakura says. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re sorry,” Hinata says, approaching the bed with dainty steps.  Her pretty pearl eyes are rimmed with pinks and underlined with purples. Sakura remembers Hinata in her own hospital bed, how she looks barely better than when she was balling her eyes out over the death of her child.  

“We knew you were hurting, and...” Hinata rubs her arm, sets her gaze somewhere along the floor.  “We should have done more for you.  We should have made sure you knew you were loved.”

Sakura sinks into the stiff mattress, watches Naruto curl a bandaged arm around his wife, kisses the top of her head in steadfast affection.  Love has nothing to do with it. Sakura thinks. ��

She sees her tousan in that moment, who often kissed her grieving kaasan the same way.  She sees him in all his valor, his wild hair and incandescent spirit.  Sakura was just an innocent girl with an innocent crush those days.  She remembers him teasing, You never know.  He could be someone very special.  I met your kaasan around your age, and even then, His eyes were star-speckled, arm tight around kaasan’s middle to hold her secure.  I knew.  

Sakura remembers the blank look in kaasan’s eyes, despite all his ardor.  Love has nothing to do with it.  

And yet, it has everything to do with it.

Sakura turns on her side, not interested in remembering anymore.  She finds Sai’s fingers, pale and stiffly wrapped in the sheets by her beside.  She winds her fingers through his, stares at the twitch of his white wrist.  

“How is Ino?”  It’s stupid of her to ask.  If the news is bad, she knows she won’t be able to handle it. But it’s been on her mind since she opened her eyes and she needs to know.

Sakura feels Sai tense against her palm, and she tries to squeeze his hand in consolation, but it comes out bare and weak.  “The Godaime wouldn’t let me visit,” Sai says, sounding displeased.

“Baa-chan asked me to give Ino some of my chakra,” Naruto says.  “I couldn’t give much because it would shock her system or something like that, but Baa-chan said it was enough to make sure she recovers.  They don’t know when though.”

“Oh,” Sakura says, and closes her eyes.  For a short pause, she can hear her wilted heart beating in her chest, and she pretends it’s Ino’s instead.  “That’s good. I’m glad.”

For a soft, peaceful moment, there’s nothing but the ventilators droning on and the occasional cry of the gales beyond the window.  Then there’s the heavy creak of the door, and she hears Tsunade drunkenly call, “Alright kids, beat it!  The Hokage wants a word alone with her.”

She opens her eyes to see Kakashi pacing in.  Naruto, Hinata, and Sai give her disheartened goodbyes before leaving.  Then Kakashi’s by her bedside.  

He stares at her like he hasn’t seen her in years.  “I’m sorry,” he says.

Sakura doesn’t really know what he’s referring to, but she doesn’t want to find out either.  So she opts for a simple nod.

“Me too.”  

She makes a motion with her hand, two soft pats by her head.  She meets Kakashi’s eyes and he looks hesitant at first, but then the bed sinks with his weight.

He sighs.  “I really messed up with you guys, didn’t I?”  His pale hair falls in front of his face, and Sakura thinks it looks a little less grey and a little more white.

“You did okay, sensei. The best you could,” Sakura says, and she feels him card his fingers through her hair.  She offers him a tired smile.  “We’re trying, remember?”  His hand pauses, and Sakura thinks he smiles at that, but the movement beneath his mask comes and goes so fast she can’t be sure.  

Kakashi lean over her then, and for a moment, she sees his fingers dip before his face, pulling stretchy fabric along.  Suddenly, she sees his bare chin: pale-grey skin, deprived of sun, with little white whisks of facial hair.  He moves closer, until his chin is nearly pressing against her right eye.  She blinks it closed and he kisses the top of her head.

Then Kakashi pulls his mask back up, and sits upright.  Sakura doesn’t manage to get a decent look at his face, but she feels privileged enough for the glimpse anyway.  

“You’re a good kid, Sakura,” he says, “I don’t know if that’s worth much in this world, but you are.”

“You think?” She asks, fingers curling into dampened, rough sheets.

“I know.”

Sakura closes her eyes, swallows, then breathes.  She exhales deep, in the very same way she remembers doing after the war.  Or maybe just before it.  

“Thank you, sensei.”

Kakashi waits several beats, then tilts his head to the side.  “I should get the Godaime before she gets plastered,” he says, as if she isn’t already.  “We still have to seal your chakra.”

She feels his eyes on her, wearing a look of calm anticipation, as if she’s going to whip out a chakra scalpel and cut open her throat right now.

Sakura thinks she would want to, considering what’s to come.  But she can’t really fathom having that kind of energy.  She’s still stuck in a burnout after years of hysteria.  

Besides, she needs to see Ino first.  Ino just needs to be okay, everything else can come after.

“Don’t worry, sensei,” Sakura says.  “I’m a medic. I know standard procedure.”

Kakashi’s chin tilts until he’s staring forward.  “Knowing it and liking it are two different things.”  And that’s true enough, so Sakura doesn’t say anything.

They sit in quiet until Tsunade shuffles in with a practiced sort of coordination.  Her cheeks should be pink, but she’s so pale in the face that they are only peach.  

“You two’r taking too long,” she says.

Kakashi stands, then turns towards Sakura.  “Are you ready?”  He asks, offering her his hand.

“Yeah,” she says, despite the fatigue.  She clasps his hand tight.

 They walk her to a room that Sakura has been in more times than she can count, though never like this. It’s white and empty, with nothing but a small counter to hold a bucket of extracted Senju blood, paint brushes, and kunai.  The tiles feel like ice beneath her heel.

“Are you sure you can perform it?”  Kakashi asks, his eyes directed on the Godaime.  “I know you had a long day.”

“What else is the Yin Seal for?”  Tsunade asks, before her eyes find Sakura, and plaster themselves to her forehead. She just sighs, sounding utterly exhausted.  “Right. I’ll do the first,” she tells Kakashi. “You can do the second.”

Sakura pulls off the stiff gown, and places it neatly in the corner of the room.  She tries to pretend like she doesn’t see Kakashi flinch when he sees her bare body, and tries even harder not to wonder why.  Sakura just sits down in the center of the room and drinks from a water bottle Tsunade had handed her.  The liquid is as cold as the room and it takes everything in her not to make a show of shivering.

Kakashi helps set up the concentric circle of kunai and Tsunade walks over to her.  She gasps when bare, frigid fingers meet her back. The blood is slick and cool, and it sticks to her skin like it’s been churned with adhesive.  Sakura tries to steady her jaw, much like how she imagines Tsunade is trying to steady her hand.

Sakura tries to distract herself.  She doesn’t want to think about the puppet-like motions and medicated eyes of the nin in the psych ward, or how she’ll soon be joining them.  She focuses on the sheen blade of a single kunai, just a few feet in front of her.  

“The Hokage isn’t usually present for chakra seals,” she says.

“No,” Kakashi says simply, “They usually are not.”

“Why now?”  Sakura asks.

“Because you’re my student, of course,” Kakashi says, and gives her a pleasant, nearly humored smile and crinkle of his eye.

Tsunade scoffs. “There’s not enough medics that can perform high level fūinjutsu like this, if I pass out,” she explains. “An’ don’t take it personally if Shizune doesn’t visit; she’s running the building right now, though it’s supposed to be her day off.”

“Speaking of which,” Tsunade begins.  “She told me Uchiha still hasn’t woken up yet.”

Sakura surprises herself; she doesn’t even flinch at the mention of him.  But maybe that’s because she’s already shivering.  

“an’ sensors keep saying crap about his chakra.  Shizune is worried,” Tsunade adds.

“What kind of crap?” Kakashi asks.

“They said it’s…What was the words she used?...disturbing.” Tsunade pauses, then adds, “Dark.”

“I wouldn’t worry. It’s to be expected,” Kakashi says, “Considering what he just saw.”

“He shouldn’t,” Sakura spat, curling until her left knee meets her chin.  She doesn’t like that Sasuke carried her here.    There’s no logic to it.  He hates the hospital.  She told him she loved him and he left her on a fucking bench.

“Touschy,” Tsunade slurrs. “You’re still avoiding him?  Then what was he doing in your apartment?”

And Sakura’s falters because what was he doing in her apartment?

“Well, h­e was on the mission with Ino.  He was probably just concerned,” Kakashi says, as if that explains anything at all. “Anyway,” He says, unsubtly changing the subject, “will the two symbols seal work?”

Tsunade scoffs. “Don’t mock my apprentice.”

“I figured as much.” Kakashi sighs, before walking over until she sees his knees touching hers. He pushes her hair back, then presses a bloody pointer finger to her forehead.  His blood is warmer but still unpleasantly wet and Sakura has to hold in her little quivers.

He writes the kanji delicately at first, trailing down her nose, over her lip and chin.   Once he meets her knee he starts making broader, haphazard strokes.  By the time he reaches the floor, Tsunade is making another line of kanji across her body.

Sakura tries to count the kunai in front of her, then the tiles on the floor, stares at her toes and fingers and wiggles them in tandem.  They’re going to make me talk to a psychologist.  

She’ll have to lie her way through an entire week.  Maybe even more, if they deem her unstable.  Sakura doesn’t even want to think about that.

She eyes the white pleated door, and the square, narrow window. She considers running for it—bolting out of here and Konoha too.  She would be a nukenin until they give up the search, then she could settle in the far border of Ame.  She knows it’s easier to grow crops around that sector and lead a self-sustaining life, thanks to the weather.  Naruto would understand.  Maybe Ino would too.  

But then she discards the plot.  Tsunade might be too tired to catch her, but Kakashi isn’t.  And her body is still in bad shape.

When they finish, Kakashi says, “I think we should just do it at the same time.  Get it over with.”

There’s a lingering pause after that, where Sakura frowns, before Tsunade speaks, “Are you trying to kill her?  Do you have any idea how painful it is to have a seal placed on you?”

“It’s been awhile,” Kakashi says with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.  “My apologies.”  Tsunade grunts.

“You ready, kid?”

Sakura exhales, reconsiders and rejects dashing out, then nods.  “Yeah,” she says.  Kakashi gently weaves his fingers through hers and squeezes comfortingly.

First she feels Tsunade’s warm hand on her back.  It’s soft, smooth.  And then it’s not.

There’s scorching, white-hot pain, inflamed through her spine, spreading from the tissue around her eye sockets to the bones in her foot.  

Sakura doesn’t scream, just bites her lip and clamps Kakashi’s hands with her own.  She tries to regulate her breathing through it, but it’s hard to tell if she’s doing it properly when her insides feels like they’re rupturing.

She thinks a year must have come and gone before the agony suddenly stops.  She’s panting, and the world has changed from concrete planes to an eerie nebulous.  Her senses are confused, like they’ve been doused in novacaine.  

What is this?  Sakura thinks.  This container feels strange, a mere whisper of the one before.  It’s terribly disconnected.  This isn’t my body.

“Sakura?”

She looks up, meeting Kakashi’s eyes and there’s a faint, sticky sensation in the movement.  She realizes she’s sweating.  “Huh?”

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Oh, uh,” she begins. She’s not.  She hates this. “Actually, um,” Where is her chakra?  Where is her chakra?

“The Yin—” Tsunade starts.

“Nevermind.”  Kakashi smacks his palm over her forehead.

She does scream this time, and she thinks Tsunade tries to hold her hand through it but it doesn’t help at all.  It’s infinitely worse the second time, and when Kakashi finally pulls away, Sakura collapses, pain still rinking around her ears.

“Phew!”  Kakashi falls backwards on his rear and rests an arm on his knee while he catches his breath.  “Y’know, I really don’t remember it being that bad.”

Tsunade laughs, a bit breathy and disoriented.  “You should’ve seen some of the other patients.  I got ANBU crying like newborns.”  

She turns her head then, squeezes Sakura’s hand, still clasped in her own.  “You still there, kiddo?”

Sakura exhales out a deep breath. “Y-yeah,” she says, then adds, “I think,” because really, she’s not so sure she is.

“C’mon, let’s get you in a shower before we both pass out,” Tsunade says.  “You still smell like barf.”

It’s a hard adjustment, standing on legs that don’t quite feel like hers.  Everything is strangely simplified without chakra, as if someone imitated the world’s surfaces but left the interior hollow.  She’s feels as if she’s standing in the shower stall of a cheap dollhouse, inside an equally cheap, plastic body.  Sakura prays it’s just the fatigue.

How can we do this to people?  She thinks.  This is a nightmare . No wonder her okaasan went mad, leading a life like this.

Tsunade helps Sakura wash up rather delicately, despite looking like she might double over any moment. She shampoos her hair, and lets Sakura brush and gargle out the awful, distinct taste of pill in her mouth.

When Sakura steps out of the shower, Tsunade guiding her steps, she’s caught by a strange figure before them, sitting inside that big rectangle above the sink.  The image hits so sudden that she yelps, stumbling backwards.

It’s a skeleton.  A walking, pale-peach skeleton.  Bones.

“What is it?”  Tsunade asks.

She’s confused by Tsunade’s lack of reaction, and she takes an uncertain step forward again to investigate. The skeleton takes one towards her too.

It has hollowed cheeks and delirious green eyes—the only color—standing lucid inside the paper complexion.  “Oh my gods,” she whispers.  Sakura sees ribs, so many ribs—she could count every one, if she wants.  Drab and wet, pink hair framing concave cheeks.  

Is that me?

“Sakura,” Tsunade says, sounding distressed and deeply concerned.  “C’mon, you need rest.”

Sakura makes a sound, and the cretin in the mirror looks as terrified as she feels.  She sees the popping collar bones curve in, and fat droplets fall down those ugly, swollen eyes.  She cups a hand over her mouth, “I’m bones,” Sakura whimpers, “I’m bones.”

Tsunade takes her hand, ungently pulls Sakura to her wonderfully warm breast, like she wants nothing more than to rip Sakura away from that mirror.  She doesn’t say anything, but her hand winds tight against the discs of her apprentice’s spine, and the paleness of her coral hair. Sakura’s throat is too dry for her to be crying like this, but she does anyway.

When they return to Sakura’s hospital bed, Tsunade sits on the floor against her beside.  “She isn’t you, Sakura,” Tsunade says, sounding resolute and gentle and utterly drained.  “She isn’t. Not right now, at least.  But we’re going to fix that.”

Sakura nods once, feeling too exhausted and strange to do much else.  She stares forward at the snow gathered by the edge of the windowsill. All white, and clean.  

She falls asleep to the sound of Tsunade’s breathing.

[panda-noosh]

Ahh that angst one was great! (Sorry! I just love angst a lot XD???) But uhh, i wanted to request how the paladins would react to a s/o that's been abused, and neglected by their birth mother to the point of becoming numb physically/emotionally that they're not used to being with somebody, and that they reject the paladin's love towards them for the longest time until they crack and admit they like them, but, is scared of feeling, then being abused? Thanks somuch!

Here you go! x

Shiro:

Shiro would understand your situation, and he would never force you into doing something you weren’t ready to do, or weren’t comfortable doing.

Which is why it takes so long for you and him to actually get together.

You go through these stages where it’s as if the entire world is against you. You go silent and refuse to talk to people, and it really affects Shiro a lot because he really wants to talk to you, but he doesn’t want to push you.

So he just stays quiet.

And then there are days whenever you’re so emotionally not there that you barely even look at him once throughout the entire day.

I think the only reason you would crack would be because you see how you ignoring Shiro affects him and it makes you feel bad, so you feel as if you just have to tell him.

You inform him that you have something to tell him, and then you’re standing in front of him with tears in your eyes, trying to bite back sobs as you try to get the words out.

And Shiro tells you that you don’t need to tell him anything you don’t want to, but you force the words out anyway because he deserves to know. He won’t look at me differently.

So you tell him about your feelings, how you like him so much but there’s this nagging voice in the back of your brain that isn’t letting you open up to anyone because you’re scared of getting hurt again.

And Shiro just pulls you into him and lets you sob into his chest because he can’t think of anything else to do. The words you’ve just spoken are like a dagger being pierced through his chest, and holding you is the only way he can think of showing you that he will be there for you through it all, and he won’t let anybody hurt you ever again.

Keith:

At first, your separation from him would annoy him a little bit?

He likes you. There’s no denying that fact - not even for himself. He can’t even lie to himself about that.

But he just feels like you led him on for a little bit. Making him like you so much to only then pull away from him as if you’ve just realised he’s a bad person or something.

This leads to him being mildly hostile towards you for a little bit. He feels like he’s getting you back for ignoring him.

His hostility would upset you. Of course it would. You didn’t even realise you were drawing away from him in the way you were - you were separating yourself from all of the Paladins, but none of them seemed as affected by it as Keith.

You try to grasp onto a friendship with Keith as much as possible, but he just gets so annoyed and frustrated, because he can never be 100% sure if you’re going to stick around or not, and he’s done with being abandoned by people who he thinks are going to stay around.

Whenever you find out that this is how he feels, it breaks your heart. He’s almost in the very same boat as you.

Which is the main driving force that makes you approach him and tell him of your feelings.

And it’s so difficult, and the two of you have tears in your eyes, and it’s dark outside because you and Keith are both night owls even though you know it’s bad for you.

Nobody else is awake, and you two are just sitting against the wall of the training room, side-by-side, crying into nothingness as the words you just spoke kind of filter through the air.

Keith doesn’t say anything. Nothing but “I’m sorry,” and those two words are enough. 

Lance:

I don’t even think he would notice anything odd until a bit later on.

He would eventually notice, but by the time he does, the damage is already done. You’ve already made up your mind - you’re not going to fall for him. You refuse. It’s too dangerous, considering what your past has brought to you before.

He would get really confused whenever he confesses his feelings for you and you just kind of - blank.

Because you don’t want to tell him you don’t feel the same way, but you also don’t want to tell him you like him back. Both are risks and only one of them is truth.

You end up just turning around and walking away, and Lance thinks that’s it for him. There’s no going back. You don’t like him in the same way he likes you, and you’ve just made that incredibly clear to him.

So for days, you two just don’t speak. You ignore each other completely, and Lance gets very caged and hostile with everyone else because he’s been put in this bad mood at the rejection.

He’s been rejected plenty of times before, but it’s never affected him in the way your rejection did. He’s never liked anyone in the way he likes you, which is why his heart currently feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest and break into a million pieces.

Seeing Lance in this state is what drives you to tell him the honest truth - you care about him, and seeing him look so sad and be so different because you’re too afraid to open up to him makes you feel guilty.

So you tell him everything. You corner him in the training room and inform him of the situation with your parents, how you’re too scared to be treated like that again.

And Lance just kind of - stares. Because he thinks he should have known. He feels guilty himself for ever making you feel like you were supposed to tell him something so serious, that he was obliged to know somehow.

He’ll hug you then, whispering his apology into your ear, so soft and caring that it’s difficult not to admit to yourself that you’re falling in love with him.

Hunk:

As soon as you started to separate yourself from Hunk, he’d leave you be.

There would be no questions asked, no trying to win you back. As soon as you started to look even mildly uncomfortable around him, he would back off and let you have your privacy.

Of course, he’s confused. He doesn’t know why you suddenly feel the need to distance yourself from him, or why you suddenly don’t want to be around him, or why you’re suddenly locking yourself away instead of facing him and talking to him like old times.

But as I said, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t see it as his place to ask questions. 

So he gets on with life as usual, which makes it very difficult for you to find the time or the reason to tell him the truth; you’ve separated yourself from him because you can feel yourself falling in love with him, and that is a risk that you don’t want to take.

You want to tell him the truth. You miss him so much - your best friend. The man who had protected you with his own life on multiple occasions. It hurts being away from him for so long, but you genuinely feel like you can’t risk letting yourself fall for him - not after everything you’ve been through.

But the loneliness gets the better of you eventually, and you can’t stop yourself.

It’s really early morning - 4-5am. Hunk is bound to be asleep, and part of you is hoping that he is so you can use that as your excuse to sneak out and not turn back.

You walk into his room, creak open the door, and he bolts upright almost instantly.

“Y/N? What are you doing awake?”

And that would be it. You’d be caught up in the loop that is Hunk Garrett, and in no time, you’re sitting in his arms, sobbing into his chest, telling him everything that happened to you and how you’re sorry and how it was never his fault that you isolated yourself.

Hunk wouldn’t even speak. He’d just hold you tightly until you fall asleep against him, mid sentence, too tired to even continue speaking.

Pidge:

She would try so hard to pretend like you isolating yourself wasn’t affecting her in every way possible, but it really was.

You and her have kind of a playful relationship - insulting each other, teasing one another, but it’s always been in good fun and Pidge enjoys pretending that you two hate each other.

But everybody knows that you two are basically best friends - that sometimes, the two of you feel even stronger about each other than just best friends.

But Pidge wants to keep up the charade she’s been playing from the moment she met you, which is why she pretends she doesn’t even notice whenever you’ve isolated yourself from the group, whenever you’ve clearly been going through pain.

It makes her feel like shit. It really does. She doesn’t want to ignore you, it just kind of happens.

Even though, to the outside world, it looks like she hasn’t even noticed your disappearance, she’s been keeping a tentative eye on you whenever she thinks nobody is watching.

She makes sure you’ve eaten, makes sure you’re in bed at a reasonable time and waking up and eating breakfast. If she finds out that you’ve skipped a meal, she’ll start to get really worried and ask one of the other Paladins if they can go and give you some food, just so she’s sure you’re eating.

She thinks you haven’t picked up on the fact that she’s the one making sure you’re healthy, but you have, and it warms your heart.

And is the main driving force behind why you tell her your feelings.

You don’t want to open up to anyone. It feels wrong, like you’re ripping off a bandage that hasn’t even done it’s job of healing an open wound just yet. You feel like you’re reopening the past that you tried so hard to shove away.

But Pidge listens to you as you tell her, and your voice is calm and you’re messing with your hands beneath the table, not crying but not necessarily neutral either.

You almost look awkward, as if talking about your childhood embarrasses you.

Pidge doesn’t want you to feel embarrassed, because you have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, and she tells you this.

She tells you this with the utmost sincerity her fragile voice can muster, and that’s when you realise that there’s a reason you fell for Pidge, and that’s also when you realise that there’s absolutely no reason for you to feel like you can’t open up to her.