#IMAGINE HIM SWIPING IT FROM THE DRESSER SO HE CAN USE IT FOR CROSS REFERENCE WHILE HE SHOPS

[dylanconrique]

tim using his connections as a cop to get a custom made engagement ring for lucy that matches the ring.

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Lily Briscoe, Remember?

PART TWENTY-SIX OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: drinking, smoking, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: After a visit to a local bar, Ella catches up with Jess and spends a night in Philadelphia.

Twirling her cool water glass around and around on the grimy table, Ella smiled softly when a Strokes song came over the speakers. The bar was some hole-in-the-wall dive a few blocks down from the publishing house, still adorned with St. Patrick’s Day decorations although it was halfway through May. But Ella didn’t mind it. There weren’t rowdy swarms of college students or bachelorette parties. Instead, people in their late twenties sat around in black, square-framed glasses talking in buzzing tones. They had locally-made beer and a small, empty stage with just a stool, where independent artists played on the weekends. The air was salty with fries and early summer excitement. Matthew made conversation with her as Chris and Jess went up to order the drinks. Leaning back against the ripped vinyl booth, Ella listened intently as Matthew, sat across from her in a creaky wooden chair, told her about he and Chris meeting in high school.

“...so, we weren’t in the AV club or anything, but we definitely weren’t on the football team either-”

Chris led the way back to the table with a tray of beers and a hoot of satisfaction, Jess trailing behind his friend and rolling his eyes.

Stopping mid-sentence, Matthew turned to Chris and swiped a drink. Chris sat down beside him and was almost instantly chattering away. Matthew seemed kind, quiet, subdued. A good balance to Chris’s chaotic enthusiasm. Jess slid into the booth beside Ella, shrugging off his suit jacket, flushed in the stuffy air. Their upper arms touched, making her stomach do a flip. Even though it had been years since he lived at Luke’s, Jess still somehow had an aroma of pine.

“So,” Chris began, turning to Ella with a pointed look and a grin, “what do you do, Ella?”

“Oh, um, I’m a waitress.”

“And an artist,” Jess chimed in, taking a sip from his bottle.

Ella rolled her eyes and then shot him a teasing glare. “Not professionally. But I just graduated from Southern Connecticut State last week. Hopefully I won’t be filling sandwich orders my whole life.”

“You graduated already, Doogie?” Jess asked with a pleasant, surprised chuckle.

She shrugged. “Wasn’t too big a deal. I took summer classes and stuff.”

“What’s your major?” Matthew asked.

“Studio art,” she said. “Minor in history, though.”

Jess raised his brows, but said nothing. Apparently she hadn’t gone through only outward changes. He could smell her lavender perfume as he sipped on his cheap, watery beer. It was odd to see her in Keeley’s, a bar he’d frequented since arriving in Philadelphia. The feeling was not quite deja-vu, but his worlds were certainly colliding. In the back of his mind, he wondered where her necklace was, wondered where she was living. It was easy to feel like he knew her, maybe better than anyone, but they hadn’t spoken in so long. She could be married, for all he knew. Scanning her thin hands, he found no engagement or wedding rings. But an uneasiness still sat right under his skin, eager to be resolved.

Crossing his arms, elbows on the table, Chris leaned closer into the conversation. “That’s so cool! Do you have anything lined up? Seems like you should, considering how many people tried to buy your sketches today.”

She scoffed, continuing to turn her glass anxiously. A blush warmed her cheeks, and a nervous smile tugged at her lips as she averted her eyes down to the table. “Sort of. Grad school is where I’m headed now.”

“Really?” Jess chimed in. “Where?”

Clearing her throat, Ella raked a hand through her hair. Though Jess tilted his head at her, she refused to meet his gaze. “It’s funny, actually. I’ve still got some things to work out...but UPenn.”

“No way! That’s right down the road from us!” Chris exclaimed.

Ella’s smile widened marginally, and excitement rose in her chest. “Yeah, it’s weird. I had a few I was choosing between, and Penn reached out and...I only confirmed a couple weeks ago. A few days before I got your invitation in the mail. Since I was coming down here anyway, I scheduled my interview with the Dean for tomorrow.”

“Well, congrats,” Matthew said, raising his bottle.

“Thanks,” she replied, feeling slightly silly as she toasted her water against their beers.

Before another moment had passed, Chris got a page on his beeper. Apparently, the poet who had performed at the open house had left something of his behind and would need to be let in early the next morning. Matthew and Chris began commiserating amongst themselves about the performer, who was apparently less than a joy to work with. Biting on the inside of her cheek, Ella tried to suppress her smile. Too much joy made her nervous. It meant always waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’d had the odd mixture of anxiety and anticipation brewing in her stomach since opening Jess’s package. It was too much of a coincidence for her to be going to a school five minutes away from where Jess worked. Too perfect. She didn’t trust it.

Beside her, Jess was trying equally hard to hold in his emotions. She would be in Philly. Right down the road. She hadn’t been right down the road from him in what felt like forever. There were still so many unknowns. But he couldn’t help the swell of his heart. What were the chances? Plastering on a smug smirk, a mask to hide his exhilaration at her news, he nudged her gently with his elbow.

“So, you’re Philly bound?”

“Seems that way,” she said, nodding.

He hummed in acknowledgement, pausing to gaze at her for a moment. Freckles and Bette Davis eyes and a deep, raspy voice. So different but so familiar. She offered him a tiny smile, caught up in the moment. A swarm of pleasant butterflies fluttered in her stomach, and again, she wished they could kiss. Inside their private world, as they once had been.

“Y’know, I think it was fate,” Jess said, smirk growing. “Us both ending up here.”

She snorted a laugh and shook her head slightly. “Not all that idealist bullshit again, Mariano.”

“Hey, not everything changes,” Jess shrugged, taking another sip.

“Guess not,” she said quietly, a fond sparkle in her hazel eyes. “But I’d expect nothing less from a Hemingway fetishist.”

Jess rolled his eyes. “Whatever, Stevie Nicks.”

Instead of retorting, Ella snatched the beer sitting before Jess and took a long sip. Setting it down in front of him again, she winked and then began to hum along to Julian Casablancas’s lyrics.

.   .   .

“I’m serious. I was really planning on just getting a motel,” Ella insisted.

Shushing her, a finger on his lips, Chris shook his head. He stood in the tiny kitchen, rummaging through the rusty fridge for some drunk food. Matthew was tipsy, and had already retreated to his room. Chris, however, had managed to get absolutely wasted. They’d practically dragged him up the stairs in Truncheon to the apartment above, while he babbled loudly, complaining about his boyfriend being out of town for the open house. Now, as Jess and Ella argued about her sleeping in the apartment, he offered slurred interjections and cackles off to the side.

Jess, having only drunk two beers over the course of the day, rolled his eyes at his friend. “Go to bed, man.”

“Make me, Jess,” Chris replied jovially, retrieving a box of fried chicken from behind the half-and-half. Straightening up, he shot them both a smug grin and made for the bedroom he shared with Matthew. “Have fun, kids.”

“Good luck fighting that sweater off your head,” Ella quipped, not able to stop the words before they left her mouth. Chris, for all his exuberance, was wearing deceptively stuffy clothes. A button-up with a patterned sweater over it, khakis.

Again, Chris only laughed. “She’s feisty. Let’s keep her forever.”

Smiling thinly, Ella gave him the finger. He blew her a kiss before entering the dark room and shutting the door loudly behind him. Ella winced slightly. She knew Matthew was probably already asleep in one of the room’s twin beds.

Jess ran a hand down his face, standing amid the cluttered mess of their living room.

Ella turned back to Jess, crossing her arms over her chest as an amused crease formed between her brows. “How’d you end up living with them again?”

“Long story.”

“I would imagine.”

“He’s usually not quite so intolerable, but it’s been a big day,” Jess said apologetically. “And he’s still super pissed his boyfriend had to go outta town for work.”

Ella shrugged. “Hey, no problem. I like them. But, yes, it has been a big day. And I don’t want to keep you up any longer. So, why don’t I just stay at a motel?”

Shaking his head, Jess gestured for her to follow him and led the way to his bedroom. “Yeah, right. It’s past midnight. You can just crash with me. Not like we haven’t shared a bed before.”

A heavy sigh escaped her lips. “Are you sure? At least let me take the couch. I’ve been sleeping on one for two years, anyway.”

“At Lane’s?” Jess asked, switching on the ceiling light as they entered.

Surveying the bedroom, a smile immediately came to Ella’s lips. The living room was an absolute mess, but he’d managed to keep his own room decently clean. In the small space, he had only a queen-sized bed, pushed against the wall with the windows, and a dresser, on top of which his boombox sat. Piles of books and CDs littered the scratched wood floor, mostly in the free corners. A framed poster of Nietzche hung above his bed, and she burst out laughing when she saw it, before she could help herself.

“What?” Jess asked, brows furrowed.

She pointed to the poster, then bit down on her thumb nail to stifle her giggles. “Nothing, I’m just glad you’re becoming self-aware.”

He rolled his eyes playfully. “Already overstaying your welcome, Stevens. The bathroom’s the first door on the left when you walk into the apartment. You can get changed, brush your teeth, whatever.”

Nodding, Ella slipped off her shoes near the door and put down her heavy shoulder bag. It only took a minute of rifling through before she found the pajamas and toothbrush she’d packed for the short trip. Since she was little, she couldn’t fall asleep before brushing her teeth first. Clutching the supplies in her arms, she turned back to Jess. He’d taken off his suit jacket and tossed it down on the bed, was unclasping his watch and setting it down on the dresser. He looked so grown up in the yellowish overhead light, bright against the dark green walls.

“This is really okay with you, Jess?” she asked, sounding shyer than he’d ever heard.

“Yeah,” he replied, flashing her a reassuring smile. “What kind of host would I be otherwise?”

Smiling back, Ella nodded again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

As she left the room, Jess let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in and ran a hand over his mouth. He thought back to the night she’d let him sleep over, dragged him from the freezing back seat of his old car into her warm bedroom. It was the least he could do. Truly. But anxiety squeezed his insides tightly. He tried to shake it off. Ella herself had said he didn’t need to be nervous. He changed into some sweatpants and a t-shirt quickly, running his hands through his neat hair and turning it messy. When she returned, face washed and teeth brushed, he was just flicking on his bedside lamp and pulling back the blue comforter. He recognized the Bowie t-shirt she wore from some vague memory.

“No KISS shirt?” he asked.

She chuckled as she stuffed her dress and toothbrush into her bag near the door. “Oh, I never travel with that. Couldn’t bear for it to get lost.”

“Oh, right, my mistake,” Jess said. “You can turn out that switch, if you want.”

Ella turned off the overhead light, left only in the glow of his nightstand lamp. Before the nausea could overtake her, she powered through the shakiness of her hands and came to sit across from him. It didn’t need to be strange. She’d just gotten her best friend back. And they could sleep in the same bed as they had so many times before.

“Since I’m already taking advantage of your hospitality,” she began, eyeing the half-empty pack of Marlboros on the floor by the bed, “could I maybe borrow a cigarette?”

Smirking fondly, Jess nodded, reaching down to grab the pack and the lighter. He lit hers for her as she held it between her lips, and then his own. He cracked open the window and flicked ash out into the May midnight.

“What’s got you smoking?” he asked.

She sighed through her nose in white streams. “My interview with the Dean tomorrow. I mean, I’m already in. And they contacted me because of my portfolio. But, I don’t know. Anything could happen.”

“But it won’t,” Jess said. “It’ll be fine. You’re Lily Briscoe, remember?”

A weak smile crossed her face and she gave an unconvincing nod. Then, she looked back up at him curiously. “What about you? Still smoke as much as you did in high school?”

Jess shook his head. “No. Almost never. But I may have panicked about this whole open house thing last night.”

“Looked like it went great,” she said, tapping ash out the window, sitting cross-legged.

Shrugging, Jess leaned back against the wall behind his bed. “We’ll see what that lady from the paper writes.”

“Who cares what she thinks?” Ella asked.

“People who could spend their money here,” Jess answered, chuckling breathily.

Waving a dismissive hand, Ella took a final drag of her cigarette. She crushed it out on the windowsill, where she saw the small, circular remnants of smokes past, before throwing butt out the window into the dumpster below. “Maybe. Seems like you’ve got a pretty decent underground following already.”

“And you call me the idealist,” he said, shaking his head and tossing out his own cigarette.

She laughed lightly, following Jess’s lead as he closed his window again and got under the covers. Soon, they faced each other with their heads against Jess’s pillows. They smelled like him. After shutting off his lamp, Jess regarded Ella in the dim light. He felt like he’d stepped through a door into a memory or a dream.

“Speaking of Truncheon, tell me about the book,” she said quietly.

“Which book?”

“Your book, Sherlock,” she teased.

He sighed, swallowing dryly. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” she replied. “I mean, when did you write it? How did you write it? Did ever end up getting a computer, or-”

“Woah, Stevens,” he interrupted, snickering at her rapid-fire questions. “I started writing it when I was still in Stars Hollow.”

She furrowed her brows. “What?”

“Yeah. That notebook I came back for when I picked up my car? I sort of...started before I left. I took a break in California. But I started taking advantage of the library computers when I got back to New York.”

“So, it really was an On The Road thing.”

“Not quite so ambitious,” he said. “But, once I read that Stephen King book you got me...I just got started.”

“And you never told me?” she asked.

He only shrugged in response.

Ella shook her head slightly, watching him with furrowed brows. “Curiouser and curiouser, Mariano.”

“I wanted to surprise you with it.”

“Well, you did.” She thought she saw a flush rise to his cheeks, but couldn’t quite tell in the low light. Something indecipherable flashed across his eyes as he hesitated. She took the lead instead. “Hey Jess?”

“Hm?”

“I’m so fucking proud of you.”

Jess rolled his eyes, really blushing now. His face went scarlet, and he uttered a nervous chuckle. “Thanks, Daria.”

“Anytime, James Dean.”

Ignoring the flip of his stomach, Jess let the compliment roll off him like water and faced her earnestly. “Did you say you were still livin’ with Lane?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It was just...easier than getting my own place. A smaller chunk of the rent to pay. Especially with how many classes I was taking, and it was right across the street from Luke’s. At some point, we upgraded to a futon, so it was a little easier to sleep.”

Jess snorted. “I’m pretty sure you could fall asleep in the middle of a tornado, get transported to Oz, then back to Kansas, and wouldn’t wake up the whole time.”

“Be that as it may,” she said pointedly, “it was pretty okay. But Lane and Zach are getting married in a couple weeks. It would be time to move out even if it wasn’t for grad school.”

“Lane and Zach?” Jess asked, brows furrowed in surprise. “What about that Dave guy?”

Ella sighed softly. “He went to California for college. Eventually, they broke up. And she was on and off with Zach and...I don’t know. He’s not the worst guy. And I know there’s no talking her out of it, anyway.”

“People are gonna do what they’re gonna do,” Jess agreed, thinking back to his own mother’s last wedding.

“I’ll miss her, though. Without Lane, I would probably still have majored in history. Ended up teaching at Stars Hollow High.”

“No way.”

“I’m not so sure. But just seeing Lane play with the band all the time...she looked so happy. Even though she had no money and her mom was pissed at her. I thought maybe actually trying to do what you love wasn’t such a crazy idea,” she explained, voice husky and tired, but so lively.  

It made Jess smile. “That’s great, Eleanor.”

She shrugged again and cleared her throat, wincing slightly. “Ugh, Jesus. Smoking is never worth it. I don’t think I’ve smoked since...since the last time we saw each other. The morning after you left.”

His face fell. There it was. Finally. “I’m sorry, Elle.”

“For what?” she asked dismissively. The past was past.

“For that night. Everything. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“It’s okay, Jess.”

“Luke gave me this stupid self-help book and I read it and we kinda went to the wedding together and I got...mixed up.”

Smiling softly, Ella shifted in her spot to move a little closer to him. “I’m gonna need more details on that self-help book later.”

He uttered a self-conscious scoff.

“But, really Jess, it’s okay. I understand. And...I just...I wasn’t ready,” she said finally, struggling for her words. “After I moved out of my dad’s house...I still needed Lane. And Lorelai. And Luke. I always thought getting away would fix everything. But...I wasn’t ready for you.”

A sad smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t think I was ready for you, either.”

Breathing deeply, Ella let the moment pass between them. Forgiveness, maybe? On both sides? She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she knew it made her feel calmer. Maybe ripping old wounds open was worth it if it meant they would finally get the chance to heal.

“I bet you started breaking hearts when you got here though. What with the starry-eyed starving artist thing you’ve got going on,” she said. She knew it was a flimsy attempt at being sly, but she just couldn’t bring herself to ask him outright. And he was letting her sleep in his bed. That was a positive sign. But she needed to know for sure.

He chuckled slightly and shook his head. “Not really. Turns out, people don’t flock to the guy with nothing but a shitty final draft and a duffel bag to his name.” Then, after a beat of silence, sirens blaring from somewhere off in the distance of the city, he spoke again. “What about you?”

The inquisitive, almost hopeful, tone in his voice made her heart skip a beat. “Nothing extraordinary. A couple dates. Guys. Girls. Never got anything to stick.”

“Hm.” Jess paused, watching Ella watch him.

The sound of the singing crickets mixed strangely with the murmur of the city, even in the early Monday morning hours. Ella tried to remember each detail of the present moment. Lying beside Jess in Philadelphia, preparing to go to grad school, finally out from under the thumbs of her father and Stars Hollow. And in love. She decided on it finally. Nothing had changed. She loved Jess as she had for so long, even if she had never truly realized it. Maybe she had, but was too scared to admit it. She thought back to the day he took her to the Met, riding back home in his car, nothing but the dark, empty highway around them. She’d almost said it then. But she hadn’t. Even then, though, she’d been completely his. All or nothing. Do or die.

Slowly, she brought her hand out from under the covers and placed it on his cheek. She stroked his stubbly skin with her thumb. The boy who’d turned into a man all on his own, who had always been so guarded and so kind. Who gave her a bed when she was drunk and bought her charcoals on Valentine’s Day and took her to museums and wrote books for her and hung her drawings on his wall. Who she had taken to a private movie and driven to the emergency room and kissed as an Interpol song played and brought in from the cold. The give and take which had always been there, making her feel safe. Easy. Home.

Taking a moment to close his eyes, Jess quieted all the thoughts screaming in his head.

“I missed you,” she whispered.

“I missed you too,” he replied, too overwhelmed to say much of anything else. He remembered the night on the bridge when they’d decided to try together. How the nerves had made his stomach churn. But she’d taken his hand in hers. She’d made the first move. And made his whole being feel calm. She had cared for him when he couldn’t care for himself. It made him feel like a teenager again. Her touch. Her voice. Her mind.

He wound his arm around her waist and brought her closer, hugging her tightly. They were silent and comfortable. Eventually, Ella’s breathing deepened and Jess felt her muscles relax, holding her. Outside, he could see the full moon reflecting light against a clear night sky. And he felt so content he could barely shut his eyes for a second, fearful of missing anything.

[brownskinsugarplum76]

One Shot: Rampage at the Riot House

I've been referring to this story informally as "Robert on a leash." You'll see... 🤷🏽‍♀️ Very light smut and bondage, lots of humor (I hope). Thank you, @tremble-and-shake for the sanity check. ❤️❤️❤️

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“Are you ready, mon chat?” asked the woman Robert knew only as Miss Bisset.

“Yes,” he said, as a slight shiver ran through his body. He was out of the covers and only wearing the tiny red gym shorts that she had found in his dresser and the studded collar that she placed on him.

Miss Bisset raised an eyebrow while she placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“Yes, Miss Bisset,” he said, realizing his mistake. He was new to playing this kind of game. He'd have to decide when the night was over if he'd rather punch Jonesy or thank him in private for the opportunity.

The band and its inner circle were hanging out in Robert's suite, and Jonesy had introduced Robert to Miss Bisset earlier that night. Jonesy promised she was someone that Robert would find unforgettable.

Looking back, it seemed odd that Jonesy would encourage a conquest. Robert had quickly committed every curve of her body, accentuated by her tight black jumpsuit, to memory, but he now realized that Jonesy's promise had a different meaning.

There was only one empty spot left on the couch, so Robert offered his lap to his new acquaintance. Their verbal dalliance quickly escalated to canoodling, at which point Robert excused himself for a more intimate meeting with the statuesque woman.

Soon he was on the bed with his lips locked to her full ones. He was having fun at first, when his hands roamed her brown skin and then again when she removed a feather from her oversized handbag and dragged it over his naked body. He writhed and burned wantonly when she graced his sensitive cock with the softness of her lips. He instantly forgot about the party raging on the other side of the door and succumbed to the mystery lady who was clearly a master of her craft.

But then she stopped just short of completion and told him what was in store next, and why. Still high from her ministrations, he didn't quite know how to react.

Now, he downed the last of a bottle of red wine, steeling himself for something he knew he'd never be able to live down. And in Miss Bisset's capable hands, he almost didn't mind at all.

She traced the studs on his collar with one hand and grasped his curls tightly with the other. “We're going now. On your knees.”

“Yes, Miss Bisset.” Robert was filled with a jumble of emotions. His hands tensed in tight fists on the carpet as his anger against Jonesy continued to rise. His face flushed in advance of the reaction he expected when he crawled out to greet everyone waiting in the living room. But a twinge of intrigue also made his cock pulse in the cramped quarters of the shorts. Her hold over him was a refreshing, new experience.

He took a deep breath. He had lost the bet, just as Jonesy had predicted. He knew he couldn't back down. The woman looming over him, who held the leash attached to the collar, wouldn't let him do that anyway.

He shook his hair off of his shoulders and raised his chin defiantly.

“Good.” She cracked the door open a bit and called for Jonesy. “We're ready, cherie,” she said.

“Right.” Jonesy stood and faced the guests. He cleared his throat and tried to contain a smirk that wanted to boil over into a chuckle.

“I'm here, mingling with you scoundrels tonight for a good reason.” He paused and smiled. “Consider me the ringmaster for tonight's main event, if you please.”

He looked around the room. Bonzo sat cross-legged on the floor, practically bouncing. He knew of the bet and the consequences for Robert. His camera was at the ready. This would be even better than when he pulled Robert's trunks down in the pool, he thought to himself.

Jimmy sat sideways on the couch, with a brunette sitting between his legs. He clutched his Jack Daniels bottle with one hand and absentmindedly caressed her hair with the other.

Cole looked bored but intrigued. He surmised that another line would make the mystery event more amusing and helped himself to some of the nose candy on the coffee table.

The rest of the audience, a combination of roadies, techs, and assistants, and their dates, talked amongst themselves.

“Some of you know that I bet Robert on the flight over that he couldn't finish three chapters of his book before we landed. If he lost, he was to do something embarrassing, something that I was going to dream up just for him.”

He took a sip of beer. “We all know that when Robert isn't in the arms of a groupie or two that he pretends to read, but really he's checking us all out and what we've gotten into.”

Jimmy snorted. “I'm reminded of the one time our enterprising blonde scholar was very engrossed in an upside-down book.”

The rest of the room laughed, just like they did that night when Robert was busted.

“Just so.” Jonesy continued. “It comes as no surprise, then, that our dear Robert Anthony did indeed fail to hold up his end of our wager. So--”

“Tell ‘em what that cheeky bastard has to do, Jones!” Bonzo couldn't contain his glee.

“Yes, thank you, John Henry. Our very own Golden God is about to stalk out here in the guise of a lion. A tamed lion,” Jonesy added. “Tamed by Miss Bisset, one of my dear friends from New Orleans.”

Jimmy laughed so uncharacteristically loudly that he surprised Cole and jostled his companion.

“Oi, Jimmy!” she scolded.

“Shhh, love, have a sip and forget all about it.” He placed his whiskey bottle to her lips.

“You should've told me, Bonzo. I would have brought my movie camera to commemorate the event. Though I'm sure I'll remember this for as long as I live…”

“No worries, Pagey. I've gotten quite fast with this thing,” Bonzo said raising his camera. “I'll capture every second that I can, innit?”

“Are we ready, ladies and gentlemen?” Jonesy asked, already knowing the answer.

He knocked on the door. “Miss Bisset, are you and your pet ready for us?”

She crouched and caught Robert off guard with a deep kiss. Then she petted him on his head and straightened his collar. “Don't forget to growl, mon chat,” she said with a smile before she yanked the chain.

With her crop in hand, she pushed the door open.

She strutted out on her tall platforms with Robert in tow. “It is my pleasure to present to you the Lion of the Black Country, a fearsome, wanton creature who, in my charge, is no longer a threat to the countryside.”

Robert knew when he had been beaten - - both by Jonesy and Miss Bisset. With the wine easing the reality of the situation away, he decided to give his all to the role.

He stalked out on his hands and knees, with his chest forward and his head high.

He growled heartily and shook his locks and snarled. He reared up on his knees and swiped at the air with his hands.

Bonzo was on his feet and clicking away with the camera. “Bloody hell, this is better than I could've imagined, Jonesy!” Bonzo tried hard to contain his laughter so his hand would remain steady.

Cole and Jimmy exchanged glances and fell into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Nothing new, truth be told,” Cole said, trying and failing to be serious. “It's just Percy on the prowl!”

Jonesy grinned, satisfied with how his plan had played out.

Robert crawled toward Jimmy, and Miss Bisset walked along with him. Jimmy's girl squealed in mock terror as Robert approached and then pawed at her legs.

“Is it hunting season yet?” Jimmy muttered.

Robert growled loud enough to startle Jimmy, and Bonzo lost it again when Miss Bisset whacked Robert's ass with her crop. “Behave, mon chat,” she said with throaty authority.

The rest of the women present watched him slink toward them, one shoulder forward at a time, and his bulge in constant motion as he moved. It was the most seductive movement he could manage on his hands and knees.

“Here, kitty, kitty!” The bravest one, a redhead, got on all fours and motioned to him.

He came to a stop before her. She stroked his hair and kissed him. He purred and nuzzled his head against her breasts. She held his head in place and continued to run her fingers through his hair.

Miss Bisset yanked Robert's chain again. “That's enough, mon chat. There are still more people to greet.”

The other women greeted Robert in the same manner. The grin fighting to rise on his face almost made him break character, but he pressed on with his end of the deal.

Jonesy's smile started to fade a bit when he realized Robert had found a way to enjoy the situation. But because Bonzo had started on another roll of film, Jonesy was satisfied with how the night would live on, long after they'd had their concert and the Starship had gone wheels-up and away from the city.

After the novelty had worn off, Miss Bisset sat down on the floor. She motioned for Robert to join her. She removed the leash, and he sat on his feet with his hands placed on the carpet.

Jonesy brought her a few slices of pizza piled on a paper plate, and she fed Robert with her fingers while she ate. She petted him from time to time as she joined the conversation in the room, and he purred while he rubbed his head against her shoulder.

Jimmy teased Robert once more about his lost bet, but the only response he got from Robert was another growl.

Bonzo marveled at how committed Robert seemed to the role. He had never seen Robert so quiet before, and rather liked some peace for once. “Absolutely bloody gold,” Bonzo said while he kept taking pictures the entire night.

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The rest of my stories are here, or search for the hashtag #brownskinsugarplumlibrary.

[smoakmonster]

B is for Better With You

Prompt: Comfort Anonymous Prompt: Olicity + "I sleep better when I'm next to you." A/N: I’m combining this week’s prompt with a hurt/comfort prompt that has been marinating in my inbox for ages. Apparently I am incapable of writing pure fluff, because this turned into a pretty angsty AU. This story was initially inspired by the Jacin and Winter relationship from The Lunar Chronicles. Word Count: 4.9k Tagging: @thebookjumper, @olicityhiatusficathon, @scu11y22 Also available on AO3. 

xxx

“Mr. Oliver?”

Raisa’s careful tone causes his stomach to fill with lead.

When he looks up from his desk, he doesn’t even have to ask her what she’s referring to. He can read the worry plain on her face, in her solemn, knowing look. It’s a quiet, secret language they’ve perfected over the years.  

“She’s worse,” Raisa whispers to him in Russian. And if the pitiful look she's giving him now is not enough to make panic flare up within his chest, the fact that she's using Russian--to prevent listening ears from overhearing--is more than enough.

He swallows, trying--and failing--to repress the sudden, ugly worry ravaging its way through his heart. Worse.  Such a vague and agonizing word, one that tells him exactly nothing and yet conveys everything regarding the woman he loves in the other room. Is she worse than she was a few minutes ago or a few months ago? Is she worse than even his deepest, most twisted fears? Is she worse than ever and beyond rescuing?

Then again, when was the last time either of them was actually better after sundown? Nighttime remains more unpredictable than the day, darkness more oppressive than the light.

And he hates this part--the plummeting, endless abyss before the crash, the sharp reminder that even on a quiet, stormless night, there can be no escape from the mind’s hellish surges. Purgatory is forever.

He spots the familiar prescription bottle sitting on top of his dresser, taunting him. Next to it, flickering against the light, lies a long, thin...cruel needle. A sedative.

“I do not wish to harm her, Mr. Oliver. But perhaps, if she harms herself...”

“No. No needles,” he reminds her sternly. He doesn’t mean to sound harsh. He’s not angry at Raisa. He’s not angry at anyone, really, other than the universe for allowing this to happen to the one he loves.

God, he hopes it doesn't come to that.

He made a promise to her once that he'd never inject her with anything, no matter what happens.

Carefully, he swipes the container up as he slowly makes his way towards the adjoining bedroom door--the open gate between their respective cages, their respective prisons.

This big place used to be sacred; now it’s become tainted. The mansion is where she used to stay as a regular guest during the summers when they were children. As kids, they would unlock the door and sneak in and out of each other’s rooms next door and have long chats filled with laughter and playful mischief. As teenagers, however, they soon discovered that co-ed sleepovers were not as innocent nor as possible as they had been during the golden days of youth. But they still made an effort to say goodnight to one another, while the rest of the house slept unaware. Even when she went to M.I.T., he personally never allowed anyone else to stay in her room, the room next to his own, the one corner of the universe that remained purely and completely theirs.

But that was many years ago...before they both became orphans. Before the nightmares. Before the pain. Before he became like the very monsters he’s trying to protect her from.

They grew up together sleeping a wall apart. Best case scenario, he expects that they’ll grow old together the same way.

It takes him an eternal second to cross the threshold. One second for his mind to fill with damaging scenarios. One second to worry if this is the night he loses her forever.

Oliver takes a deep breath, pausing despite himself. Invariably, the moment before he steps into her room, into her safe space, he feels severely unqualified to administer any sort of aid. He’s the last person in the world who can make the demons recede.

Her room is dimly lit, with warm yellow light coming from a lamp on a small end table, illuminating just enough of her bed for him to see her. There she stands, hunched over her computer, like always, utterly immersed within her vast, coded, digital world, a world he can never really follow her into. The world outside this room could be crumbling to pieces, and she'd never know. And maybe it's better this way, for her to retain some naivety about how unkind the real world can truly be, how it preys on the gentlest of souls.

She doesn't react, doesn't see or hear him come in. Her distinctive ponytail is falling loose and knotting, in a state of disarray. The harsh blue light of the computer illuminates her worn but concentrated face. Her eyebrows are drawn tight with determination, her cheeks thinner and paler today, probably because she still hasn't eaten anything, if the untouched plate on her coffee table is any indication.

Stuffing the bottle of pills into his pocket, he approaches her unsafe haven, softly, gently, like a panther aiming to befriend a deer, that’s when he hears her.

“I have to find it...skeleton key...I have to find it...” she mutters to herself, typing away, never ceasing, working herself back into paranoia and exhaustion.

She’s haunted by ghosts even he can’t kill.

And he hates seeing her like this, so close and so far beyond his reach.

Every time is like the first time. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to this dreadful urgency. He never wants to get used to this.

Like a match being struck, he can feel his own insatiable need to fix this sparking within him, a kind of throbbing violence that makes him tremble. On the outside he may be stoic, but it’s just a facade in effort to quell the craze inside him. He feels like he’s suffocating in his own skin, so utterly powerless.

But he only allows himself to be angry for three seconds. He doesn't want to make her more upset. He's here to heal her, which is as frustrating as it is painfully ironic. She's done more for him than he will ever be able to do for her.

Suddenly, she stops typing.

He feels the instant the room shifts, the instant her whole body stiffens as her walls go up, already on guard, already ready to run away from him.

She looks at him with closed-off and cautious eyes. “Are...are you my doctor?” she asks quietly.

He swallows the lump in his throat. “No, Felicity. I’m...” he hesitates, always unsure how to begin. “I’m your friend,” he settles.

It feels hollow. but at least it’s a start. It’s the truth. And even if she doesn't remember right now, he promised her he’d never lie to her again.

“My friend?” she asks, unconvinced.

He just nods, trying to ignore the flare of selfish pain that rips through him. It doesn’t matter how many times they go through this twisted ritual. This part still guts him every time--every time she doesn’t recognize him; every time she looks scared and lost and unsure, such a frail fragment of the woman he knows.

“We...we haven’t seen each other in awhile,” he finally says. And that’s true enough. It feels like it’s been years since he’s really seen the woman he loves.

Nervously, Oliver stuffs both his hands into his pockets, whether for her sake or his own, he’s not entirely sure. “Felicity, do you know where you are?”

She frowns deeply, adorably, eyes wandering around the large space with a slight pout in her lips. “My room?” she asks. Yet it’s the way she asks, in that wonderful Felicity way, that really gives him pause, gives him hope. She asks not because she’s truly uncertain, but more like she’s wondering why he’s even asking her in the first place. Which means she can’t be too far gone after all.

“And where is your room?” he continues, daring to hedge just a step closer. His heart lifts when she doesn’t back away from him.

“Upstairs to the left, down the second hallway. The left window doesn’t open,” she recites faithfully, glancing towards the window in question.

His lips twitch. He recalls with fondness one particular night they tried to sneak out through her window and discovered just how inoperable it was. Since inheriting the mansion, he’s never had the desire to have it replaced. After all, it seems the blueprints of her childhood never go away. Her feelings are less constant.

And Oliver doesn’t know what does it this time. He can never predict what triggers the change--perhaps, she’s remembering that same night of teenage mischief--but he sees the moment the light goes off behind her eyes, the moment she finally sees him. Like waking up, one second she’s looking through him, and then suddenly she’s looking at him...like she knows him, like she can stare straight into his soul. Just like when they were kids.

He can’t breathe.

She hasn’t looked at him with such deep recognition like this in weeks. The intensity leaves him awestruck. He hadn’t realized how much he’s been aching to see once more that soft, trusting, vulnerable gaze. But now that he has it, has her back again for just a moment, his brave, beautiful Felicity...he doesn’t want her to leave him again.

“Oliver?” The hesitation in her voice nearly chokes him.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

She makes some kind of sound he has no name for--something between sorrowful and relieved--and then she runs into his arms, slamming into his chest. He has no choice but to scoop her up into his arms, hauling her as close to him as she can get, cradling the back of her precious head, pressing her heartbeat up against his own where it belongs.

She clings to him as desperately as he clings to her, clawing her fists into his clothes, rubbing her nose against his neck, breathing him in.

And then she lets out another noise, this one smaller but just as fierce. It’s such a quiet whimper, he almost thinks he imagines it. But he knows it’s real. He can feel her quivering agony down to his bones. He’s grown so attuned to her every sound that he recognizes the acute cry for what it is.

And in that moment, he doesn't want anyone else to touch her. He’s the first person in the world who will do everything, anything to keep her safe. He may be the least worthy, but he needs to be the one who comforts her. (He still hasn’t determined where the line between selfish yearning and selfless desperation resides where she’s concerned, and yet he doesn’t really want to make up his mind about that either.)

“I missed you,” she mumbles against his throat.

“I missed you, too,” he manages to get out. You have no idea how much.

Reluctantly, Oliver lets her slide out of his grasp just enough to look up at him. She studies him intently, cataloging all of his face, searching for the secrets he keeps burying and uncovering and burying again.

Felicity reaches up to rest her palm against his cheek, and he starts, because now he’s starting to forget what this feels like.

“When did you get back?” She means the island. Her memories always seem to reset back to the day he first returned after five years in hell...only to find another five years of hell awaiting for him at his doorstep.

“Just now,” he answers honestly. He’s never really home until she comes back to him.

“Uh-oh.”

“What?” He stills instantly at her grave tone. But then he sees--the sparkle, the teasing in her eyes.

“You have mopey face. Are you here to tell me that I'm crazy?” She tips her head at him playfully.

He tries not to smile, but there are some things that simply cannot be helped. That's his Felicity...always to the point, always making the world a brighter place even as her own world spins out of control.

He leans in close, like they’re sharing an old, secret antic. “That depends. Are you crazy?”

She sighs, averting her gaze, as she takes to fiddling with the wrinkles of his shirt. “I know when I’m being like Ophelia.”

His smile fades. While this isn’t the first time she’s used that joke--so he actually understands the reference--this is the first time she’s done so in such a despondent tone, as though she truly believes what she says. So he decides to tease her, to lighten the mood, to make her smile. Anything to make her smile, to feel as normal as she craves to be. What a messed up pair they make.

“I wouldn’t know. I didn’t study Shakespeare, remember?”

It works a little. At least she’s looking him in the eye again.

“I promise I'm not as bad as the doctors think I am.”

His heart beats a little faster at that, filling with trouble that somehow she knows. Even so, he shakes his head, trying to assuage her. “Who said anything about--”

“You don't have to pretend. I saw the medical documents.”

He frowns, studying her right back in the silence, until it finally hits him. “You hacked into your medical records.”

The way her eyes grow just a touch wider, deceptively innocent, is conformation enough.

“Fe-li-ci-ty...” he prompts.

“Ugh. Hacking is such a dirty word.” She scrunches her nose, an act that he should not find as endearing as he does. “Oliver, I am a Grade A genius.”

“I don’t need to be told that. But do we need to have a conversation about computer privileges again?”

“Is that judgment I’m hearing?”

They share a look, as he attempts to admonish her, while she just silently challenges him to do something to stop her, when they both know he never will. He sighs with amusement mixed with pride. But the concern never goes away.

“I mean, technically, they are my confidential patient files that I’m...perusing. I have a right to know. According to the doctors, I should be moved to an institution.”

He starts. The way she just casually mentions it, as though sending her to a place like that, all alone and away from him didn’t absolutely disturb and terrify him on every possible level. In reality, though, he knows her life under constant care of trained professionals would not be that much different than her is now. And it’s not as though he and Raisa and John have never discussed this very topic. He’s discussed it while shaking to the core and blatantly refusing to allow anyone other than their family doctor near her, but he’s discussed it.

What if she has an episode when he’s not around to keep her from hurting herself? What if she hacks her way into the FBI again and the police come calling? What if by some chance that broken window betrays him and manages to crack itself open just enough for her to slip out and get lost?

But what if he sends her away and loses her forever anyway?

And why does he so badly need her here in their childhood home? Is it for her? Or is it for him?

He clears his throat. “We’ve already had this talk. Many times. And you’re staying here.”

“Promise me?” she asks in a soft, timid voice he hardly recognizes. He feels as though someone’s punched all the air out of him. But then she looks up at him with those big blue eyes, so lost, silently pleading with him, as though he holds all the answers. Oh, this is why he can never send her away. This familiar, steady, disarming look.

“I promise,” he vows. “And I promise not to reveal your...browsing history to the doctor.”

That puts a little spark back in her expression. “Well that’s good, since I keep your secret, too.” She winks at him.

Which one? he wonders.

But before he can even dare to tackle that subject, her computer starts beeping, and she’s darting away from him to resume her typing marathon.

Please don’t go. I just got you back.

“Felicity,” he warns, moving to stand beside her and watch her work.

“Just...one second.... It’s been running all day.”

Felicity types for another minute or so, and then like a tornado dissipating, she goes still, glancing back at him for approval. “So what do you think?” she asks, almost giddy.

He swallows when he sees it--a night time camera shot from a street corner in The Glades. It’s dark and grainy, but he can make out the shadow of a figure in the middle of the street. A hooded shadow.

He tries to keep his voice casual. “You...you’ve been tracking the vigilante?”

“Mm-hmm.” She smiles, clearly pleased with her handiwork. “Took me awhile. This hood guy, as the internet is calling him, is pretty clever, I’ll give him that, trying to make it appear like there is no method to his madness--”

“Well, maybe there isn’t--”

“Oh, there is. Trust me. I am an expert at madness--” She winces. “Poor choice of words, sorry.” She shakes her head a bit, grabbing his arm to pull him closer still. “Take a look at these videos I found from the back alley of his secret lair.”

He pretends to focus intently on the blurry video, watching himself hop onto his motorcycle before taking off into the night. “His secret lair is an abandoned nightclub?”

She shrugs, ignoring his over-the-top skepticism, sticking her chin out proudly. “Well, I’ll admit, it’s not the most aesthetically pleasing location, but we can’t all be a Queen heir, can we?”

She’s defending him, he realizes. She’s defending the vigilante. To him.

All these months of trying to keep this part of his life as far away from her as possible, and in her classic, brilliant Felicity way, she’s somehow managed to plop herself directly into it.

He’s so stunned, reeling from this new information, that it takes him a moment to catch up to what she’s saying.

“--so with my new algorithm that compiles and predicts all the main routes the vigilante takes in and out of The Glades... Oliver, I think the vigilante could be a lot closer to home than we realize.”

She’s not wrong in this case, and that’s what scares him even more.

He must not disguise his reaction very well, because whatever she reads in his expression sends her babbling again. “Look, I know my brain is not always the most reliable source when it comes to these sorts of things, but cameras and news articles don’t lie. Well, cameras don’t lie at least. Unless someone hacked into the entire city’s traffic camera system, which is...technically not impossible but highly unlikely and would take at least--”

“I want you to stay out of this, okay?” He cuts off her rant. He can’t take this anymore. He can’t just stand here calmly and listen to her casually talk about the vigilante, as if she were talking about her favorite character in a book.

“Why?”

“Because this guy--whoever he is--he’s dangerous.”

“I don’t know. Seems to me he’s just trying to help. I’ll admit, his methods are slightly misguided but…”

He crosses his arms, waiting for her to finish. “But?” he prompts.

“Oliver, I just want to meet him.” Something in her voice...changes. Elevates. Fills with some timbre that’s never been there before. She’s acting like...like a fan.  Of the vigilante.

“You want to meet the vigilante?” he almost growls but manages to keep himself in check.

“Yes!” she answers brightly. “Don’t you?”

“Not particularly.”

“I just want to tell him how amazing he is. To say thank you. Everything he sacrifices to keep the people of this city safe, to keep me safe, to keep you safe. It kind of makes him a hero, doesn’t it?”

He sighs heavily.  Sometimes it’s easy to forget that this other side of her still exists, when there’s so much else happening on the surface that breaks his heart. Her brightness is enough to give him hope, even as every fibre of his being revolts against every word she says.

She’s always had a vivid imagination, but not like this. This is one thing that she is completely right about. But telling her means opening up a rusty can of worms and lies, and he’s not ready to let her see the worst parts of him yet. He does what he does so she can see what little humanity he keeps. He keeps for her. It’s wrong, he knows. And he’s only half a person, when he’s with her and when he’s without her. But he’ll gladly go insane if it means preserving her sanity. It’s more than he deserves, anyway. She’s more than he deserves.

“Let’s talk more about this in the morning. It’s time for bed.”

She pouts, “Noooo. But I’m not sleepy.”

“Yes, you are. Come on.”

Oliver practically drags her over to her large queen-sized bed, the same bed she’s had since she was seven and first came to live with his family. Carefully, he pulls the prescription bottle out of his pocket and holds it out to her expectantly.

She makes a face in disgust.  

“Please,” he whispers.

“Those gross pills never work. They don’t help me sleep.”

After another half-hearted attempt, he just sighs, stashing the pills back into his pocket. “Well then, what does?”

She tips her head, and to her credit, she at least pretends to contemplate his question for a few seconds before responding. “Hmm...hacking.”

He’s already shaking his head no.

“You.” She gently tugs on the front, unused belt loops in his jeans, pulling herself nearer to him. “You make everything better.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“And I seriously disagree with you. Why can’t I stay in your room with you?”

His heart kicks into overdrive as she leans in even closer. Boundaries, Oliver.

“Felicity…” He breathes her name to caution her, but it comes out more desperate than deterring.

“Oliver…” She copies his tone.

He doesn’t know how to go on, until he does. And he knows he should stop her from leaning in this close, from rising up on her tiptoes, from brushing the tip of her warm, soft nose against his. But he just doesn’t have the strength to fight her anymore. Not tonight. He needs to feel loved and protected as much as she does.

So he lets her kiss him. And he kisses her back.

It’s not a harsh or passionate kiss like the ones they used to share in the early years; it’s not an inferno of hunger and need. No, this one is more tender and slow, more patient, more like the dying embers of a warm hearth, like the easy swell of a sunrise.

And when they eventually break away, her power over him feels even greater. Those eyes calling out to him, wanting him... It’s addictive to be needed this way. He craves her company as much as she seems to crave his.

Sometimes he feels ineptly qualified to cater to her every psychological need, no matter how much she asks of him. Sometimes he feels disturbingly overly qualified. He’s incapable of saying no to her.

“Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll stay with you till you’re sleeping.”

She smiles, clearly relishing her victory. He can’t even be sorry seeing her so happy.

“And rain will make the flowers grow,” she chimes, twisting out of his arms to begin removing a few of her twenty-something pillows.

“What?” he asks, helping her pull back the duvet.

“It’s from Les Mis, remember? We watched it last week.”

He stills. Last week?  She remembers that?

And now, he wonders, not for the first time, if her brain isn’t actually spiraling out of wack, but instead if it’s something more like what Barry’s heart was while he was in that coma. Moving too fast for the doctors to pick up. What if her brain is just moving too fast that the doctors have no other choice but to label her as something beyond reason?

And as though he’s the one who’s been struck by lightning, Oliver knows that this odd thing about Felicity Smoak...it’s not a curse. It’s a gift. Because everything about her is a gift.

“You sure you want me to stay?” He tries to mask the hope swelling inside him, bursting like honey.

“Come here,” she reaches for him, yanking him down onto the bed to plop beside her. “I always sleep better when I’m next to you anyway.”

xxx

She wakes in a cold sweat to an abrupt shifting on her mattress. Her bad vision barely has time to adjust to the pitch darkness before she’s startled by a painful groan. She scurries in the abyss to turn on the lamp--to chase the demons away with the light.

She squints against the brightness, putting on her glasses...and then she sees him.

“Oh, Oliver...” she breathes, her heart squeezing.

Her wonderful, darling friend--who’s always been far more than a friend--trembles and twists in the night, fighting against faceless enemies she can neither stop nor see, struggling mercilessly, endlessly. She knows exactly what that’s like.

She chases monsters in the day, while he chases monsters in the night. So maybe they can be each other’s cure.

And so Felicity does the only thing she knows how to do, the only thing within her power to do. She throws herself into the fire with him, wrapping her arms tight around his back, hauling herself against him, pressing her ear up against his back where she can feel his heartbeat, her favorite spot in the whole world. She loves the strength of his heart.

His whole body is tight, cramped and coiled in a near fetal position. “Please,” he mutters in his sleep. “Please, make it stop. Make it stop make it stop make it stop...”

I want to, honey. I want to so much.

He flinches against a memory of a swift blow, shaking them both, but she doesn’t let go. He whines in pain, lingering in a hole of agony she has no name for. God, she’s never really been a violent person, but sometimes she just wants to find whoever did this to him on that island and make their lives as living hell. See how they like spending their nights, afraid and ashamed and broken and...and still so beautiful.

Felicity holds onto him just a little bit tighter, squishing her face against the burning muscles of his body, as though to mold herself into his form permanently. She can feel the raised pattern of one of his scars. It’s from a knife wound apparently--one of many, at least that’s all he’s told her. Still, she knows it well. She’s charted the history written into his skin so many times. She even has secret names for some of his scars, like constellations, names like valiant and stubborn and winsome.

While he whimpers in his sleep, there comes a moment, so brief and yet it seems to last for hours in her mind, when she begins to wonder, Is this the one that never ends? Is this the night we both lose our minds?

But then...his breathing gentles; he stops shaking.

And miraculously, the horror does end.

And she feels her body relaxing along with his, muscles that she didn’t even realize were tight beginning to loosen. And just before letting go, she clings to him one last time, hoping that maybe this time, if she holds him tight enough, maybe she can hold together the broken shards of their minds.

When she feels him turning over, she scoots back to make room. As soon as his head hits the pillow, he blinks awake, frowning up at her, a little delirious, in the strange place in between sleep and reality. But when he grabs her hand, she doesn’t try to stop him; quite the contrary, she relishes his touch.

“Felicity?”

“Yeah. It’s me.”

“Sorry I...I fell asleep,” he mumbles, his eyelids already falling.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m taking care of you for once.”

“M’kay. Don’t tell...Raisa...”

And then he’s gone, back to the land of dreams, hopefully good dreams this time.

Felicity smiles, like she does almost every night they go through this ritual, the ritual of pretending they’re not going to end up in the same bed together but somehow still ending up here anyway. “Don’t worry, Mister Vigilante. I can keep a secret.”

She decides to leave the lamp on this time, lying down to rest her chin on his shoulder, her preferred pillow of choice.

Whatever comes tomorrow, it doesn't matter. They have tonight. She has her sanity. She has him--her pillar of strength and book of secrets; her hero and her home. With a mind overflowing in brilliance like her own, yet as equally uncharted in its terrain, sometimes Felicity thinks he’s the one mystery she’s never going to be able to solve. And that’s okay. She’s happy to accept the challenge of spending a lifetime puzzling him out.

Even in the darkness, they’re inseparable, the boy he was before being lost at sea, and the girl she was before being smothered on land. Sometimes if feels like they both died the nights their parents died. They are both a little mad, but maybe together they can make one whole, rational person. Maybe together they can rebuild what was stolen from them.

As Felicity drifts off, she runs her hand over his heart in soothing strokes, in one last act of comfort before they start all over again tomorrow. She pleas as much as she promises him, “It’s okay. You’re safe...you’re safe. I’m here.”