#after reading this i had to consult The Chart to see if it lined up with the fic and

[fisheito]

UM, ASTER/YAKUMO I ONLY *JUST* FOUND? HELLO?

I've never felt so seen. So represented. Thank u aster. Here are some of my fave lines

[dairyminki]

ateez scenarios: dad!teez

: ̗̀➛ 3/8: tropical boys line ― ❝ take your child to work day! ❞

↬ fic type: headcanon

↬ genre: slice of life, fluff, non-idol!au

↬warning/s: none, but pls lmk if i missed smthng!

↬wc: 2.3k

↬a/n: this wasn't proof-read so yeah excuse me for any errors >< this one is kind of open in a way you're free to imagine if they have a boy or girl and if they're single parents or not. also help?? the amount of the word "cute" i used here hsjsk i'm sorry

―

SEONGHWA ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

― doctor dad

• usually his office is flooded with lovely little patients

• so he tries to pick out a less hectic day from his schedule to bring his kid with him to work

• this is because he wants to be able to look after his child well

• and at the same time get them to play and interact with his cute patients

• his kid did say "i want daddy to help me make new fwends"

• "my baby's wish, is my command" he replies

• it wasn't obvious that he was excited to bring his kid to see him work. really, no.

• it wasn't evident even when they came to the clinic with matching lab coats and stethoscopes hanging from their necks.

• his' was the real deal ofc while his child had a cute blue one with stitch on it. (if he spent a lot of money just for that, no one had to know)

• most nurses that passed by them cooed because his child looked exactly like his mini me

• seonghwa smiles so bright, heart swelling, and he holds his kid's hand even tighter, eventually swaying it until they arrive at his office

• before he gets ready for his shift, he makes sure to introduce every single thing inside the room (everything within his child's reach was kid-friendly anyway so he didn't have to worry much)

• "baby look, do you know what these are?"

• "tweddy!" his child would cutely reply, pointing at the yellow teddy bear in his dad's hands

• seonghwa would play with his kid for a while

• they made the stuffed toys their patients, he was the nurse, and his child was the doctor

• "this is a stethoscope" "stescowp!" "that's right, very good!"

• "you put this on your patient's chest, so you can hear their heartbeat." "artbeat?" his child would look up at him, confused

• seonghwa would pinch their cheeks first, unable to resist their cuteness

• then he'll begin explaining, "heartbeat is the sound your heart makes. it goes lub-dub, lub-dub"

• he matches it with comical expressions and wide gestures that it makes his kid laugh

• why are they so adorable? he'd think

• and then it'll be time for him to face his patients

• he leaves his kid at the corner to play with the toys they brought, saying he'll be back

• "promise me you'll behave? no crying?"

• "pwomise, no cwying, daddy" his kid will reply and they'll do a pinky promise

• seonghwa prepares his cute stickers and candies at the side for his patients while he waits

• he only had to do consultations and check-ups for today, he made sure of that

• in between breaks, he plays again with his kid

• and when they got slightly bored playing doctor with the stuffed toys, seonghwa will call on his nurse friend who wasn't on call

• and then he'd go back to his desk, continue charting, while his kid goes to the clinic's cafeteria for snack break

• it was seonghwa's last patient when things started to get a little rocky

• his last patient was a three year old girl who's having a check up for the first time

• she was scared and seonghwa didn't know what to do

• none of his stickers, candy, and coaxing were working successfully and that was a first time for him

• but then his kid stood up from the puzzle mat where they were playing with their toys

• his child picks up the yellow teddy bear that seonghwa gave them earlier

• they'd waddle towards the little girl

• and if it weren't for the current situation, seonghwa would've giggled because his child is adorable

• surprisingly, his kid was able to ease the girl and stop her from crying

• they would talk to the little girl while they both hold the teddy bear's hands

• seonghwa would smile and then he'll immediately check on the girl's heartbeat with his stethoscope while she's still distracted

• distracted by his child's ramblings

• it was such an adorable scene

• when it was time to go home, seonghwa gets startled when his child suddenly runs to his desk

• he watches them as they go over his sticker packs (his child was actually drawn to them since they arrived in his office)

• a particular yellow heart and a blue 'good job' sticker got his kid's attention and then they're running back to seonghwa

• the kid tugs at seonghwa's slacks, asking him to sit and seonghwa ends up crouching in front of his child

• "this one's for daddy" his kid puts the yellow heart on his dad's coat,

• and then comes the good job sticker, "because daddy helped me make a new fwend. i love daddy's job" his child would say

• "can you get me a sticker too?" "yes!"

• his kid will bring back a "great patient!" sticker without even knowing it's meaning

• he picked it because it had stitch's face on it, and stitch was their favorite cartoon character

• seonghwa would chuckle and then place the sticker on his child's coat as well

• "this one is for you because you've been so well behaved today." he'd smile and then ruffle the child's hair

• and then they'd walk out of the clinic, hands swaying, with some occasional happy jumps from his kid

• a few stops were made as well because his child would show off his cute stitch sticker to every person that they would pass by, may it be a patient or a nurse

YUNHO ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

― actor dad

• the idea actually blossomed after the night he and his child played a game of charades

• at one point, yunho began acting out spongebob

• his child was having fun watching him and his comedic antics that they eventually blurt out

• "i wanna see daddy acting!"

• luckily, yunho's current movie project was a family-oriented one and the director was a friend of his

• as soon as they arrive at the filming site, his child marvels at everything they see

• "daddy, everything's soo big!" 

• yunho would chuckle

• at some point, his child gets too excited while yunho's talking to his co-actor

• he was so engrossed in their conversation that he almost forgot he had a child with him (how-)

• it's safe to say that he nearly lost his kid

• but he didn't

• so, all's well

• when yunho's time came for him to shine in front of the camera, his kid got to watch, front row. which was on the director's lap

• yunho knows and is a daily witness to how energetic and playful his child could get so he's actually surprised that his child was just calmly sitting there on someone they just met while seemingly being in awe by every expression yunho makes and every word he says

• in fact, his child has been behaving so well that the director let them speak through the megaphone to yell the word, "cut!" 

• but ofc it came out cute and tiny and adowable~

• yunho's kid got every person on the set laughing 

• later that day, a coffee truck that was sponsored by one of the casts in the movie came on the site

• the child was playing with yunho's manager and saw it

• "is that food?" the child points at the truck that had people approaching it

• yunho's manager would ask them if they want something to eat or drink but instead, the child says

• "can i get food for daddy?" they ask this with their head slightly tilted to the side

• they both ended up getting food and drinks and yunho's child does the honor of giving the sealed coffee cup to their daddy who was still filming

• as soon as yunho finishes, they carefully walk towards him

• "coffee delivery for daddy!" they'd say cutely, prompting yunho to chuckle

• then they'd share a pastry or two while yunho goes over his next lines

• when yunho gets back in front of the camera, his child would watch him intently

• their small mouth following their daddy's dialogue

• and when yunho finishes all his parts and is done for the day, he'll sit beside his kid, both of them following and mouthing every word the current actor says on screen

• soon after, both of them eventually got bored and yunho's manager finds them  getting all playful with the poor confused boy manning the coffee truck

• either bombarding him with questions about coffee or

• ordering a drink after another in a split second

• the manager ended up scolding them both

• but yunho and his child just laughs it off

• before things were wrapped up in the set, yunho planned to take a picture of himself so he could post it on his sns for the fans

• problem was, his child was starting to get all cranky and wouldn't want to leave his side

• so he asked for two pairs of sunglasses from his manager who also asked and got it from yunho's stylist

• when yunho gave the smaller sunglass to his child and said that they would take pictures like james bond, it brings a smile to the child's face

• "one, two, three!" yunho's manager would say while the both of them pose side by side, doing the infamous james bond pose

SAN ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

― florist dad

• they haven't even left the house yet but san is already cooing and taking pictures of his kid due to their adorable ootd

• he's too attached to his child that even if the child wants to be put down, he still carries them on the way to his newly opened flower shop

• his child loves him as much as he does, so they end up not fighting their dad's urge to carry them every single time

• they both sings songs while san walks, on the way there

• they do so even while san is opening up the shop and the kid sits on a stool, twirling around to see the different flowers around them

• until they eventually got dizzy and san had to attend to them for a second

• when san is finished organizing every nook and cranny of his beloved shop, he grabs two aprons from the stock room

• he puts the apron on but doesn't tie it yet, then he walks to his overly curious child, smiling

• he makes them lower their head and puts the cute little apron on them, trying his best to make a pretty ribbon while humming

• "can you tie my apron for me, angel?" he'd say after

• when the child nods their head, he doesn't waste any second and instantly turns

• while his child is tying his apron for him, he's smiling, dimples full on display while he clutches his chest, heart soaring

• san just adores his kid so much, okay?

• everything his child does make his heart do somersaults

• since it's still a newly opened shop, after san flips the closed sign into open, it was still quiet and empty

• and what does san do to fill the silence? he makes silly dance moves while he hums which makes his kid laugh heartily

• later on he starts actually singing, making up a song with flower names in the lyrics

• they do that for a moment until it started to get quite tiresome

• so he picks up his child and transfers the stool in front of the register, closer to him when he actually starts to attend to customers later

• san teaches his kid about each button and what they're for but the candy jar filled with flower shaped candies at the corner of the counter was what grabbed the child's attention more

• and yes, san put it there because of his own kid, and not because he has a sweet tooth. nope.

• when a customer does arrive and asks for assistance, san leaves his kid with the jar telling them not to finish it all up in one sitting

• "...or you'll have a sugar rush. are we clear, angel?" the kid nods at him. "very good. daddy will be back"

• he smiles at them and gives them a small pat on top of their cute little head

• soon after, san's got customer after another

• one particular elder lady was holding him up quite longer than the previous ones

• and san didn't really mind at all since he loves helping and being of service to others

• he didn't mind explaining each type of flower, their meaning, and what occasions they're great for, to the lady

• but from his peripheral vision, he could see that his angel was already pouting from their seat by the counter

• candy jar, untouched

• he knows, san knows, that his baby is already bored out of their minds

• most probably in need of something else to stimulate them and keep their cute lil head occupied

• the lady certainly notices the hesitation dancing in san's irises, even his fidgety hands

• "is that your child over there, young man?" she asks

• san rubs his nape, awkwardly, and says yes

• "they look like they're bored to the core" she points out

• "a-ah yes, i thought the colorful candies would keep them entertained for a bit"

• "clearly not" the lady scoffs, catching san off guard

• he wasn't sure what to make out of the lady's statement until...

• "why not bring them over here? let them explain whichever flower to me and maybe i'll be able to finally make up my mind" she says

• hearing that, san does everything to not squeal a yes in front of her and embarrass himself

• "i'll be right back" he says in a hurry, hurrying to save his child from the arms of boredom

• "well, hi there, little one. you're awfully adorable aren't you?"

• the child was a bit shy at first, but when san tells them it's okay, they start going out of their shell

• fondness danced in san's eyes as he watched his child cutely explain everything to the elder lady

• the elder lady who actually seemed to have an affinity for kids

• and then, san notices

• he only notices that his child has also gotten his long time habit of pouting while talking

• all his life, he's been called cute, adorable, and other compliments there are that matches his nickname, 'sannie'

• but now, he doesn't think there will be anyone else who'll ever compare to the cuteness of his precious angel.

―

[wardenparker]

Sassenach and the Spaniard - ch 1

Pero Tovar x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

Delirious with sickness and near to death, Pero Tovar finds himself on the doorstep of a village outsider who nurses him back to health just before the winter snows descend. With a black cat for company, a mask on her face, and a biting wit that intrigues him, Pero comes to find out that his new companion is more than what she seems. ✨ Inspired and influenced by Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series. ✨ Reader is described as disabled and having hair long enough to cover part of her face.

Rating: Mature Word Count: 9.2k Warnings: Graphic depictions of illness. Summary: Near death, Pero ends up in the care of a strange woman who insists on wearing a mask over her face.  Notes: This fic deals with comparisons between modern medicine and folk healing methods. References to vaccinations and modern medical procedures will be littered throughout the text as well as some herbal/folk remedies when appropriate. There will be criticism of medieval medical procedures (leeches, bloodletting, humours, etc), but *not* of cultural or spiritual belief. We came here to have fun and be respectful, and that’s what we’re gonna do. Great Big Beautiful Shout Out to @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa and her Outlander-inspired series The Sunshine Undertow. It is brilliant reading and a compelling characterization of Oberyn 💖

Leaning over his saddle, practically flattening his body against the horse’s neck, Pero Tovar coughs so hard that his eyes water, black spots dancing in his vision and he feels lightheaded. Spittle and blood flying into the dirty rag he has pressed against his mouth. The bitter winds howl around him, slicing through the openings in the armor and cutting him to the bone. He needs shelter, he needs warmth, but honestly at this point – he’s praying for death.

The cottage in the distance is barely a dot on the horizon, stone walls and thatched roof blending into the gray skyline. There is barely a trail for his horse to follow, but the squawk of a chicken catches the beast's attention and that becomes the direction to move in. The cold is moving in and the rains have been heavy, making his horse's hooves squelch in the mud with each step, but the noise barely reaches him. If he could focus his sight, Pero would see the figure of a woman in the distance carrying a basket of vegetables from somewhere just out of sight.

The grip on his reins loosens, weak and shivering. He had thought the desert was cold, but this is frigid. The sodden under layers under his leathers are keeping him soaked. “Shit.” He hisses, right before another cough wracks his body. Claiming his breath and making his eyes close from the force. In the middle of a particularly harsh and painful cough – he slides off the side of his horse to land into the wet mud less than one yard from shelter.

If you were to curse the universe for dropping an ill man on your doorstep, it would be disingenuous. There is nothing to be gained from cursing something that is an inconvenience for you but a mercy for this sick man. There may be no better place on Earth in this particular time for this man to be deposited, given the fact that doctors in the year 1005 tend to lean toward treatments like leaching and bleeding and consulting astrological charts to determine which humours are responsible for the patient’s afflictions.

Quickly setting your basket out of reach of the chicken, you reach up to stroke the horse's matted mane. Animals don’t seem to be any different here and now than the ones you grew up with, so at least this horse is something of a known quantity. "Go to the river." Pointing in the direction of the forest line, you pat the horse again and nudge it onward, knowing the creature understands you better than it could hope to understand any master, but still it hesitates and knickers uncomfortably. "I will look after him," you promise softly. "Go and drink." To the man in the mud before you, however, you click your tongue and shake your head. He looks awful. Gaunt and exhausted and probably as contagious as anyone you’ve ever dealt with before. Thank goodness for vaccinations. "You are lucky to be alive, I think."

Consciousness comes in waves for Pero. Flashes of incoherent scenes. Eyes, or a lone startling eye, focuses on him while the rain beats down on his face. Then the sensation of being dragged across the wet ground. I’m dying. He thinks. Not even cold and they are stripping my body for anything of value.

"Do you always complain like this?" The man – knight, warrior, sellsword, whatever he is – has been moaning and groaning since the second you touched him, only stopping to cough or call out curses in an accent so thick that you’re not quite sure if it’s his speech or just the dialect that you don’t understand. The blood speckling the corners of his mouth made you pause, but after rearranging the scarf on your head to cover your mouth and nose, you simply carried on. Strains of disease are different here, you’re not ignorant to that, but you’re continuously aware of cleanliness in a way that the people around you are not. The threadbare blanket you can spare to lay him on in front of the fire inside your cottage will be useless now that it has been touched by sickness, but he needs it more than you do. "If you make nothing but noise, I will simply bleed you into sleep." The threat is empty, mostly because you doubt he hears you and you would never bleed anyone in the first place, but also because you do not know if he would understand you even if he could.

Pero shudders, caught in memories of the monsters at the Wall. The horrific bloodshed and carnage of the monsters that had come from the canyons to devour entire legions of men and women. Watching over and over as William and Lin Mae are caught and torn to shreds by the hungry, ravaging beasts while he is helpless to stop them. “Stop!” He cries, reaching for his sword only to find it not at his side. “Stop!”

"I won’t hurt you, traveler." His distress is obvious, but the way you keep your own mild temper in the face of all of the hardships in your life is to simply continue about your business, and you do so with a little chatter for yourself to keep things interesting. After all, being away from the life you built has definitely given you something of a hermit-like existence except for the occasional animal that finds itself by your side. "I have no interest in hurting you. In truth I have little interest in you at all but fate has deemed that we should cross paths." Though you may cross paths, you do not wish for your own to end, so you’re going to unbuckle the multiple blades he is wearing and put them far out of his reach. The last thing you need is for him to act on some random, violent hallucination he might have while you’re trying to take care of him.

Settling down, Pero’s eyes still don’t open. Dry and cracked lips part and another painful cough consumes him. Making his entire body shake and his lungs feel as if they are coming up through his mouth. Still, he doesn’t wake up, burning with fever.

Tuberculosis is not so unfamiliar to you, that you cannot identify a man suffering with it. White plague is what they call it here, or consumption, or even wasting sickness. You had watched an entire family perish in its all-consuming grasp when they were too far gone for even your particular brand of half-futuristic medicine and half-natural treatments to save them, and this man has nearly that same look about him. “Another day or two and I would be burying you, I think,” you tell him aloud, knowing that he is too far in his feverish throws to understand you. But that does not stop you from tearing a corner off the blanket where he now lies to dip into a small bowl of precious, clean water to wipe the blood and dirt from his face. “Let me see you.” Not because you expect him to be anything to look at, but because if the disease has clouded his eyes then it is too late. What you find there, however, is far more than you bargained for. There is no sickness in the traveler’s eyes, no milky film or terrible look of bloodshot fear, but a long scar cutting his left eyelid down to the cheek.

The force of your gasp nearly knocks you clean off your feet – your own hand drifting up to trace the same scar in your own flesh. Air leaves your body all at once, leaving you to stare at the stranger in front of your cooking fire in unabashed confusion. Your hands seek out the other marks, pulling at his clothing to reveal the silver whisper of a gash on his left shoulder. The deep puncture in his right arm. If he is who he appears to be, he will have countless marks on his back from a beating you received in the stocks a few years ago. He will have the marks of a thousand battles marring his flesh. You dive for the cabinet across the room – the place where you store some tools of your trade as a healer in this time. Personal protective equipment in this time is very different, but you still have a mask and gloves to wear with contagious patients. Apparently you’ll need that mask for more than one reason this time. If he survives the peak of the infection, you don’t want him seeing your face. Your scars. Knowing what you are to him. How the fuck would you explain your story to him if he did? Would you even bother? You had really never thought about it. It had never been a possibility that you considered before right this second.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?” You huff quietly, returning to his side when you feel like you can breathe again and shaking your head at the traveler's mysterious appearance. The mysterious world at large has seen fit to lead him to your doorstep when he is most in need, and you will not fail him. Maybe he is the reason you ended up here in the first place, and isn’t that a terrifying idea for you to ponder. Reaching for your cauldron, precious stream water is poured inside along with precisely chosen herbs and roots from your stored collection. However it is in your power to help him, you will. You just have to hope that it’s enough.

Pero is a boy again, hanging on the edges of his mother’s tatty skirts as she goes about her chores. A time where he was happy, his life relatively simple. “Un día encontrarás a la mujer que lleva tus marcas, Pero. Entonces ella será con quien pases tus días.” One day you will find the woman who wears your marks, Pero. Then she will be the one you spend your days with.

Pero’s scowl is instantaneous. “No, mamá. Pasaré mis días contigo. Me haré rico y te compraré hermosos vestidos.” No, mama. I will spend my days with you. I will become rich and buy you beautiful dresses. He insists, although he has no theory of how that would happen. The wooden coin used to buy a loaf of bread was precious to him. Still, he clings to his mother and listens to her tell him grand stories about the universe's plan to bring a woman into his life, one that he was destined to love and make a family with. “Mamá.” Pero mutters, shaking under the thin blanket, his teeth chattering.

“There are no mamás here, traveler.” It is interesting to hear what he calls out from inside his sickness – no longer wanting something or someone to stop and now yearning for his mother as so many men and children do when they fear their end. “But think of her if she gives you comfort. I will not stop you.” Thyme, mallow root, mint, and a small knob of ginger from the crop you’ve been cultivating for over two years now will not taste of anything kingly or delicious when it has seeped into the water in the cauldron over the fire, but it will begin to ease him slowly. Likewise, the large stone mortar under the window of your cottage will be an essential tool to help him, once you have collected the ingredients for the anti-inflammatory paste you’ll rub on his forehead and into his joints to relieve their pains. That will have to wait until his fever passes. Until you’re sure he’ll survive.

Groaning, Pero continues to have flashes of different periods of his life. Burying his mamá and leaving home, unable to bear the heartache he saw in his papa’s eyes. The old man just seemed to give up his will to live when his soulmate had passed. He promised to send coins home, but his father hadn’t lasted a year. Alone in the world, he had drifted and sold his sword, fighting had always been something he was good at. Without his dear mamá’s gentle voice, he had become harder, more ruthless and it improved his skills. Meeting up with William Garin, begrudgingly forming an alliance and eventually a friendship with the man. Only to end up turning around and going back to the wall with him and witnessing his marriage to Lin Mae. Setting off once more, alone again.

******

The traveler's fits last a week. Tonics, ointments, healing pastes, and potions depleting your stores and sending you out to forage again and again to make sure he has enough. Leaving him alone doesn’t sit well with you, but in order to push him past the worst of his infection and to attend to his horse – as well as look after your own animals – you must leave him under the watchful eye of the cat that has lived by your side and done your hunting since almost the day you arrived in this time. Seven long years and she has been your constant companion. Binx will come and fetch you in the woods if the traveler takes a turn – she has done it for other ill men before.

His eyes open, slowly, and he feels that he has been in a fog. Bleary eyed and seeing a black blob in front of him. Blinking and reaching for his waist, only to find that he is naked and his dagger is missing. Slowly his vision comes into focus as he tries to move back. Yellow eyes watch him. A cat, nearly as still as a statue is perched on a stool, hovering over him. “Where–” His eyes feel heavy again and he’s helpless to stop them from closing again.

The cat tilts its head, meowing loudly before leaping off of its perch and barreling out the cracked-open front door of the cottage to retrieve you. She leaves behind a cup of steeped herbs that is still barely warm and a small cup of barley porridge that you made sure to leave out in case he woke while you were out. After no less than a week without food, he will surely be starving.

This time when he sleeps, his body isn’t wracked with tremors, and he actually doesn’t dream. His body lays still and his breaths are slow and even. For the most part, he’s just in darkness.

Out by the stream, with two full buckets of water and that basket that never seems to leave your side, you're cleaning the dirt from another batch of mallow root in the clear water when your sleek, black companion cries out from a few feet away. She trots up to your side and bumps your elbow with her head, telling you to come home in that way that only she can. "Alright, Binxy. Okay." The nickname is used in times of affection and exasperation, and right now you wish she could carry one of your buckets home for you. The cottage seems a much longer walk than it is when you have so much to tote. But if the traveler is awake – or worse, on his last breath – there is no time to waste.

The door creaks open, making him stir, sensing the light coming through the doorway and the fresh air breezing over his skin. Still he doesn’t wake up again, sighing softly and settling back down.

“He lives.” There is only the barest trace of surprise in your voice, and you pick up the molded leather mask from the work table by the door to protect yourself after setting down your load. Not having the same prudish attitude toward nudity that most others in the middle ages seemed to, you had stripped him of his filthy clothes and left him in one of your own clean tunics – washing his things in the river and setting them aside for when he stopped sweating through his layers every night. Which he finally has. He seems distressed at not being in his own clothes, but at least he is no longer caked in mud, blood, bile, and everything else. “Can you hear me, traveler?” After listening to enough of his cries and mumbling, you decided that his accent sounds Spanish, but Medieval Spanish isn’t exactly the same dialect that your neighbors spoke back in St. Augustine, so you’re not even going to attempt to use the small amount you know.

A voice pricks at his consciousness, stirring him again. A woman’s voice, clear and strong. Pero turns his head to the sound and grunts, his tongue heavy and his mouth dry. Eyes still refusing to open as sleep wants to continue to claim him.

“Hear, yes. But maybe not understand.” Kneeling on the floor beside him, you pick up the cup of water that had been steeped with herbs and gently touch his shoulder. You don’t want to cause him any pain, but he needs to focus if he can. “Drink this.” A calm and direct order, but it is certainly an order. He will never get his strength back if he doesn’t eat and drink what little you have to share with him.

When the water touches his lips, Pero starts to greedily gulp it down, thankful for the relief it would provide. Until the bitterness hits his tongue. “Bleagh.” He pushes it away. “The water is rotten.”

"He speaks." The sarcasm and amusement lacing your voice is clear as day behind your mask. "It is not rotten, traveler. It is for healing. Drink.”

He huffs when the water is shoved back in his face and his lashes flutter, finally opening when he reluctantly starts to drink again.

“Good.” Only when he has drunk the entire cup do you rock back on your heels, studying him intently for a moment. Through his scraggly beard and long hair, it has been hard to see the man underneath. Except, of course, for his scars. Not that you even want to know what he really looks like under months of facial hair and an unintentional mullet. You can’t tell if it would be better or worse to be attracted to his face – seeing him naked wreaked enough havoc on your celibacy streak. “Can you tell me your name, traveler?”

Pero looks up at this figure over him in confusion for a moment before he realizes that there is a mask over the stranger’s face, hair covering one of the eyes. The lone eye that stares at him is sharp, intelligent. For some odd reason he doesn’t feel in danger, although that could be due to the fact that this person, this woman, obviously cared for him. “Pero.” He croaks out. “Pero Tovar.”

"Pero Tovar." Repeating the name is heavy on your tongue, but something about it is almost lyrical and pleasant. Definitely Spanish. You knew you could place the accent. "You are lucky, Pero Tovar." You tell him, picking up the bowl of porridge from nearby to spoon some up for him. "It appears you will survive."

“Is there a choice?” He grumbles before opening his mouth in mostly self-defense before you shoved the spoon into his lips.

You raise an eyebrow at him, knowing he can’t see the smirk on your face under the mask. “I could have left you in the muck and shit outside my door to let you die.” You tell him honestly.

Pero huffs and swallows the porridge. “I suppose I should thank you, señora.” He nods. “Gracias.” His throat is raw from the coughing, but it starts to ease up slightly from water and whatever you have mixed into the porridge.

"What is gracias?" Is it the most basic Spanish in the world that even people who don’t know more absolutely understand? Yes. But the average villager in this part of Europe in this age of no education and minimal travel wouldn’t speak this language. It would raise more questions than are worth answering for you to not pretend you don’t understand him. Instead you focus on trying to feed him.  Finding his lips is slightly harder as he moves about and speaks, but concentration is the key. Losing the use of your left eye had taken your depth perception along with it and though it had been some time since the attack, your ability to judge distances still isn’t fantastic. Spending all of your time with a fast-moving cat does help, but this Pero Tovar moves differently from your small companion.

“Thank you.” He amends in the common English you are speaking. Apparently you don’t know his native tongue, but that is fine with him. “It is Spanish. It means thank you.”

"Pero Tovar is a Spaniard?" Deciding that conversation takes precedence over food at this moment, you set the spoon back in the small bowl holding his porridge and look down at him. "Then I was right to call you traveler." There is an unshakable urge to learn about him. Anything about him. You’ll take whatever morsels he offers up. After all – you never, ever, considered the possibility that you would meet your other half out here. You would be stupid to let it just pass by.

“Where am I?” He groans as he shuffles to his elbow, his weak body protesting the small movement. He’s not felt this weak in…well, ever. It was irritating, he never likes to show weakness, even when he was dead tired and ready to collapse.

"Dol-de-Bretagnac is half a day's ride south." As his voice gets more use, it loses a bit of its rasp and his accent is beginning to become clearer – it’s similar to some you have heard before but not quite the same, making you wonder where else he has traveled. "We are in Brittany, Pero Tovar. A small village that does not see many travelers, so it is curious that two of us found our way here." France in the year 1005 is nothing like the cottagecore aesthetic you used to dream about. At least northern France isn’t. Maybe if you had made it down to Provence you would feel differently about the whole thing, but as it is, life is hard and the beauty of the forest doesn’t quite seem to make up for it ever.

“I was visiting someone.” His brow furrows. “Letting them know their son was not returning.” He had visited William’s mother, bringing her news of his marriage and a few keepsakes that William had wanted to give her. Refusing her offer to stay and ventured out once more to figure out where he was going next.

“I am sorry to hear that.” Presuming, from the state of the world, that whomever he was delivering news of is dead, you simply shake your head. “I hope you were not unjustly blamed for his loss.”

It’s surprising and a little amusing that this stranger would think him innocent. Not many people would have done the same. He shakes his head slightly. “Bastard isn’t dead, though not from lack of trying.” He grumbles, thinking about the stupid shit William had done. “He married at the Wall and chose to stay.”

"A friend, then?" To carry news of a marriage for who knows how long only to call the man a bastard? They must have been close. Best friends. Brothers, even. "It must have been a mighty wall to entice him to stay." The way he says the Wall makes you think he means the Great Wall of China, but surely he hasn’t traveled that far.

“It’s larger than you can imagine.” He tells you. “But the woman was his reason for staying. She is— fearsome there.” He chooses his words wisely, even though you can’t possibly know of her. “Fool.” He scoffs, even though he had been jealous when William had looked at Lin Mae with love and commitment. They weren’t soulmates – that he knew of – but the man had left his entire life behind to be the general’s husband.

"Many men are fools for love." You observe, finding yourself surprised at the dull ache in your chest that his words produce. From the derision he clearly holds for love or for marriage, it is maybe better that he has not seen your face. Doesn’t know that it is his soulmate who nursed him back to health over these last agonizing days. He would probably resent you, or dislike you on principle. And that isn’t something you care to face. Not in this time or the one you came from. "Your friend is not alone in his folly."

“No.” He agrees on that, certain that he would never meet his own soulmate. The only reason he knows he has one is because of the mark that everyone in the world thought was his. His eyes scan the cabin and then back to you. “Your husband is very generous to allow you to care for me.”

"Pfft." Waving one hand derisively, you shift in place beside him and reach to pet your cat. "It is only Binx and me here. Unless you count the hen outside. But it has always been Binx and me." The clever cat's loyal nature made her your constant friend, which you suppose might be a very good thing now that you know what your soulmate thinks of love. At least you will always have some companionship.

His brow rising in surprise, his eyes roam over the space again. There is a shelf along the back wall, filled with bottles and jars of every shape and size. Herbs hanging from the rafters and filling the cabin with an earthy scent. Now that he is looking, there is not any evidence of a man present. “Then you are a very brave woman.” He hums, spotting his sword and leathers piled in a corner. He’s as weak as a newborn babe, but it was still dangerous for an unwed woman to have a man in her house. Especially for so long.

"Or foolish, depending on what opinion you take." It would be more accurate to say despised, but you doubt he has any interest in your story. For now you shift backward, studying him for a long moment before you speak again. "How do you feel?"

“Like shit.” Pero grunts, sitting up a bit more and groaning. “But I am not coughing so hard I thought I would faint like a maid.” He moves slowly and his entire body feels as though he has been beaten. The sickness must have gotten worse than he realized.

"That would be the rotten water." The comment had amused you then and now it downright makes you laugh. "Your clothes are clean, Pero Tovar, but you will not be strong enough to wear your armor for some time. I'm afraid you may be stranded in Brittany for the winter."

He frowns at that announcement, thinking about the precious few coins he has. It is a rare soul that will bed down a mercenary for the winter and often the price is exorbitant unless it is a lord he will be fighting for come spring. “Damnit.”

"Have somewhere to be, do you?" Men are men. That is a universal fact of life. They are the very same here in Medieval Brittany that they were back in the States in the twenty-first century. And he may have some typically manly thing like a whore in some far off village that he was hoping to make it to before the chill set in. Certainly not a wife, considering his remark about his foolish friend.

Tovar grunts and gives a shrug, nowhere in particular to be or go if the truth were told. He had no plan beyond William’s parents. His concern was finding shelter for the winter, perhaps something to do while his sword stayed idle. “My horse?” He asks suddenly, wondering about the fate of the animal.

"In much better shape than you," you tell him honestly, though the animal had badly needed attention as well. "Sheltered." The beast had taken well to the not-quite-barn where you had previously kept a goat before the magistrate claimed it as taxes. "There has been grass enough, but I'll have to go to the village to get a load of hay before the first frost."

He frowns in confusion, not quite comprehending your meaning. After all, kindness was something rarely found in his life. “I will be out of your hair before then.” He promises, motioning to his clothes. “Take what coins you believe are fair for caring for me.”

"If I did that, you would have no coin left for the tavern in the village." While you have no intention of forcing him to stay under your roof, you do know full well that the tavern keeper will take him for everything he’s worth well before the thaw. He will be lucky not to be kicked out into the street or have his horse taken as forfeit. A sick man deserved to be treated and helped. Your sick soulmate deserved not to be deprived of all he had by the person who was meant to care for him. You rock back on your heels, moving away from him to stoke the fire. "Stay or do not stay. But I will not take your coin."

His frown deepens, not understanding. “You mean for me to stay? Here?” He asks, nodding again. “Ah, the hay.” He decides. “You have a barn for me to bunk down in.” It would be cold, but as long as his horse was cared for, he could lay beside the beast to keep warm. “I will help with chores in return for a pile of hay to sleep in.” His word isn’t worth much, but he would keep it in this case. You had saved him, after all.

“I mean I will not force a man to catch his death of cold after saving him from white plague.” Honestly, there is a hollowness left behind in your chest at the idea that the world gave you a soulmate who thinks so little of love, so you’re glad to have kept your mask on. He doesn’t know who you are to him. And he never needs to. He does, however, deserve one warning. “Only know that if you choose to remain here, the village may not welcome you.”

“They don’t accept outsiders?” He huffs, wondering why you are being cagey. He glances around again, as if there is a piece of the puzzle missing.

“No.” You push to your feet, scooping Binx up from her perch on the edge of your nearby work table and scratching the base of her head while she purrs happily. “They do not accept me.”

He wonders if you are a whore. While every man in the village would go to one, they are shunned by those same folks in daylight. He shrugs, caring little what others think of him. “No matter.” He decides. “I will kill anyone who takes issue with me.”

"Not without your strength. You'll be lucky to pick up your sword." Motioning to the bowl of porridge you left beside him, you move across the single open room of the cottage you have lived in for three years now and set Binx down in the windowsill in favor of picking up a bit of darning that needs doing. Stockings with holes will only invite more sickness come the winter time. "Start with your spoon, Pero Tovar. That is where strength begins."

Pero snorts, huffing slightly at the mothering tone that you have taken with him and glances over at you. He will refuse to admit that it makes warmth flare in his chest, reminding him of his own sweet mamá when he was ill as a boy. “That thing is staying on your face then?” He asks as he picks up the spoon, hating how right you are. He is weak.

It doesn’t have to. You know that. The tuberculosis vaccination you had the year before everything went to hell should protect you for at least another two years. But if you remove it, he will see your eye. The scar that adorns both of your skin from a viscous attack that destroyed half your sight as well as deforming you. “Yes,” you decide, swallowing the bitterness in the thing. No matter that it will hamper your already limited sight. “It stays on.”

He nods, thinking that it’s odd, but not the oddest thing he has dealt with over the past year. He swallows another bite of the porridge. “What is your name?” He asks.

Debating lying to him for a moment, you end up telling him your real name. Not what the villagers holler at you. Not what your old mistress had called you. But the name you actually consider your own. Perhaps if nothing else, you can hold on to the sound of it in your soulmate’s thick, melodious accent. “But most call me Sassenach.” It had been downright amusing, the first time it happened. The name coming with your sudden appearance in this time – albeit in a different place. Your complete and utter hyperfixation on the Outlander tv show and book series leading you on that whole debacle of a vacation and the terrifying reality that the Callanish Standing Stones at Craigh na Dun actually are a portal through time.  It had made you laugh with so much disbelief the first time one of the highlanders actually used that name for you – now it was basically a nickname.

He repeats your name and nods to you once more in greeting. “Gracias for saving my life.” He huffs, a small cough coming out, but nothing like it had been.

It should not warm you through to hear that from him. Healing is what you do – at least is has been since you got here. Your basic twenty-first century anatomical, biological, and medical knowledge combining with the basic herbal healing that the ladies in your coven had shared with you and turning you into some kind of medieval white woman. Yet to have saved him is an entirely different thing. At least, your heart thinks so. Which is fairly fucking annoying, if you say so yourself. “How do you answer ‘gracias’?” You ask softly, continuing to pretend you don’t understand him. “Say that you are welcome?”

“De nada.” He answers softly, wondering why you wish to learn the language he has spoken since birth. Although he had learned some Chinese when he was at the Wall.

You nod, looking down at your darning with far more concentration than it merits. You have never had any talent with a needle, and even the simplest tasks require double the concentration that it would cost anyone else. It is surprising, the way your chest aches, and you hate it. “De nada, Pero Tovar.”

A silence falls between you, Tovar taking slow spoonfuls of the hearty porridge and looking around the cabin. It was larger for just a woman. He wonders if your father had died recently or if this was a cottage you had moved into. The thick stone and wattle kept the wind out, although he could see some light up in the thatching overhead. You would need some roof work to be done before the snows come in. He hates working on roofs, falling is never his favorite thing to do, but it’s the least he could do to repay your surprising kindness.

"Your horse," you ask after the pause, as Binx settles comfortably in your lap. "Does he have a name?"

Pero looks up from the bowl, frowning slightly. “Horse.” He tells you, wondering why the hell he would name his horse.

“Right. Of course.” It nearly makes you laugh, the way he looks completely confused by the question, and you scratch your cat’s little head affectionately. “This is Binx. She will come when she is called. And fetches well. And also hunts small game occasionally.” The clever feline has graduated from chipmunks and field mice to squirrels and rabbits, and while the notion of skinning and dressing your own animals made you a little sick at first after a lifetime of supermarkets, you have had to adjust. Meat is expensive here, unless you procure it yourself, and you’re not exactly going around with a shotgun looking for big game.

He sends you another confused look and glances at the cat. “Gato.” He mutters to himself, never really paying much attention to the creatures. Why would he ever call one? Calling his horse, yes. But calling a cat?

“No.” Thank fuck you’re wearing a mask, it muffles the sound of your amused snort perfectly. He seems mildly offended that you would impose a name on the sweet, fluffy girl and it’s the first good laugh you’ve had in ages. “Binx.”

“Gato.” He mutters again, pointing at the feline. “Cat.” He explains, remembering that you don’t speak his tongue.

“You are Pero. I am Sassenach. She is Binx.” It’s probably much funnier to you than it should be, but she’s sitting so proudly and purring so happily in your lap that it just makes you that much more amused.

He’s never heard of a name like that before. He’s heard a lot of names, but it’s making him search for meaning. Instead of asking, he just grunts and shakes his head. A second later, curiosity gets the best of him. “Sassenach?”

“It means ‘outlander’.” You explain, feeling an odd kind of nostalgia pang for the old way of explaining the word. ”It’s from that new show Outlander!” You used to exclaim to anyone fool hearty enough to ask about the thing that would make you light up from the inside out. You would launch headlong into an explanation of Claire’s time travel from the 1940s into the 1740s via a Stonehenge-like installation of stones near Inverness in the Scottish Highlands. The very place that you and your best friend had gone on vacation now seven full years ago. Excited and giggling, the two of you had reached out and touched the center standing stone at Craigh na dun, and moments later you had found yourself feeling that same sensation of sickening falling that Claire describes as reminding her of a car wreck. Though your arrival was not as traumatic as hers in other ways, the revelation that the magic of the Stones was real had been…troubling. No matter how many times you touched, poked, punched, or slammed the flat of your hand into the rock? Nothing happened. You were stuck. With your best friend nowhere to be found. A group of travelers passing by had granted you passage in their party, and thus began your life of wandering travel and passing off your twenty-first century knowledge as healing, the same way Claire does in the story. Though, at least she was a war nurse. You didn’t have that kind of credential going for you. “When I arrived in this part of the world, it was the way the villagers referred to me.” The highlanders had been kind in many ways and not at all in others, but when you left them you had taken the name with you as a shield against the unknown. Of course you did not know the customs or the language. You were just a Sassenach. An outsider. No matter where you went.

He mulls that over in his mind and looks around the cottage again with a more critical eye. "Bruja." He decides, figuring that you spooked the religious and simple people in this village. He had learned from his travels that people feared what they did not understand, and they did not understand the things they feared.

Thank god for the mask hiding your face from his discerning eyes. You know that word as a practicing Wiccan woman in a predominantly Hispanic city, and even though your neighbors never say it with the same kind of derision he just did, it’s very obvious that he now understands exactly what the people in this time think of you.

You don't answer him and again he is reminded that you don't speak his tongue like William did. "They think you are a witch." He shovels another spoon of the food into his mouth, a little bit of strength returning and his hunger overpowering any lingering fatigue. He needs to eat to heal, he knows that and while the food is bland, it's filling.

The hope that not answering him would entice him to drop it is clearly in vain, and you carefully look between Binx in your lap and the Spaniard in front of your fire. “Yes,” you murmur finally. “That is what the people here call me.” For years now. And for reasons that have very little to do with the ointments and poultices you dole out to paying customers.

"Idiots." He huffs and rolls his eyes. "If the cock crows and shit falls from the sky it is an omen and not someone emptying the chamber pot." He doesn't care what people call you, they've called him plenty of things over the years. Most of them true, but he only took offense to the one who asked if he fucked his mother. That man died and the question was put to bed.

Exhaling a breath you didn't realize that you had been holding, you nod once in agreement. "It is not their fault that so many of them lack education," you reason. He speaks multiple language and has traveled greatly, so you are inclined to think that he is at least minimally literate which is much more than the majority of people in this time and place.

"Education is for rich lords and ladies to sit on their asses and get fat while their people starve." Another spoonful of porridge shovels its way into his mouth, swallowed before it hits his tongue and he snorts. "They like them ignorant and superstitious. The men to break their back or give their lives and the women to cook their meals or lift their skirts like a whore."

"Some would call you educated." The fact that he doesn't seem voraciously excited about the existence of prostitutes like most men you've met in this time surprises you, but it's rather a good surprise. "You speak more than one tongue. Have travelled the world. That is more knowledge than most have."

He shrugs, not denying it but his travel was for necessity. For survival. The wooden spoons scrapes the bottom of the bowl as he gets every drop of the porridge.

"Give those to me. You'll have more to eat later." You instruct, putting your stocking aside to reach for the bowl and spoon. You'll wash them thoroughly and boil them to sanitize them because being safe is far better than being sorry when your houseguest has tuberculosis. "Try to rest, Pero Tovar, your body needs it."

Pero grunts, huffing at being ordered to rest like a child, even though he’s already starting to lay back down. “Don’t turn me into a toad while I sleep, Sassenach.” He warns you. “Or I will believe you to be a bruja.”

“I shall try to restrain myself.” The joke is full of as much sarcasm as teasing, and you get up from your chair to pour water into your cauldron to sterilize his things, grabbing the cup he drank from along the way. Cauldron. The one you had at home was plastic and decorative, filled up with an LED light that turned the smoke from the miniature smoke machine to a sickly neon green. It was silly, and sat in your window every September and October for the entire month along with other choice Halloween decorations. But here? Here it is a tool. A stereotypical one, but useful nonetheless.

******

He sleeps for hours; the deep, heavy sleep of a man who has been sick. Moving little and not dreaming. Instead he lays like a stone in your floor, snoring softly as the fire crackles away in the hearth.

Barley porridge for dinner includes some mushrooms, wild leeks, and some dandelion greens pulled up from the forest bed, along with some chunks of rehydrated rabbit meat from what’s left of the catch that Binx brought in a week ago. You had cured half the animal with salt in the sun to preserve it, knowing that when the traveler came to, he would need the protein for strength. It’s past dark when he wakes and you are sitting with a lit candle at your work table with dried herbs on a wooden trencher and a mortar beside it. In this instance, what the villagers called witchcraft, you called a spice mix. Just because food is basic is no excuse for it to be bland.

Pero wakes up with his mouth watering. He had learned to love fragrant foods in the East, the flavors of the food that he had were like none he had ever had before. Whatever you have cooking smells different but equally delicious.

“Returned to the world, I see.” For reasons you can’t quite comprehend, teasing him feels good. Natural. A bit comforting, if you’re honest. And probably it has more to do with being soulmates than anything else, but you’re still going to enjoy it. It seems like the last time you teased anyone besides Binx was years ago. Before things changed.

Pero coughs and sits up slowly, growling as he does. He is still not completely himself, but he does feel better. Able to respond naturally to the teasing, although if it had been William, he would have tossed a dagger towards him. Bastard always caught it though, so it was more of a game.

"No witty reply?" You raise an eyebrow at him, forgetting that he can't see you behind the mask that covers most of your face.

He snorts. "Hard to be witty when I am gathering my strength to take a piss." He needs to get on his feet and shuffle outside, believing that you would be none too happy if he just pissed on your floor - earthen or not.

"Here." The clay bowl by the door is your attempt at a chamber pot, and you bring it over to him easily. "Let's save standing and walking until tomorrow, eh?" You don't want him getting to his feet only to lose his balance from dehydration and malnourishment. "Piss and then eat, if you can stomach it."

"I— I'd kill for some water." He admits, throat and mouth dry. He's slightly relieved that you have the bowl handy, although he hesitates to make sure your back is turned. He might have no manners around men, but you are a woman and obviously a good one.

"I made you some more tea." He may have termed it rotten water earlier, but it will help him heal a little faster. And this time you were slightly kinder about the flavour. "It has honey this time. So it will taste better."

His brow lifts, knowing very well how precious honey is. Often times it is hard to find and even harder to get without injury. He had a childhood friend die when they had tried to harvest some honeycomb for their mothers when they were about six. He had spent hours in agony before passing. “You would waste honey on a stranger?”

"Your throat is raw from weeks of coughing." When he pushes the bowl away you just let it sit in front of the fire, assuming that he will need it again well before you do. The cup of tea and bowl of enhanced porridge are set down beside him for when he is ready to take them, but you are careful to go back to your stool this time. Sitting beside him, treating him too sweetly, anything along those lines could be misconstrued as an advance – and while he was sleeping you had resolved not to make it seem like you were too interested in him. At least not sexually. The fact that he is staggeringly attractive does not enter into anything. "It will soothe you and help you heal."

“Thank you.” He knows that you don’t have to do anything, you could have let him die, but you didn’t. He picks up the tea and sniffs it, wrinkling his nose slightly but his thirst outweighs his distaste for the drink and he takes a large sip.

"I'll go to the village tomorrow to fetch hay." Having already eaten your supper and given Binx a few scraps of this and that, you settle back again to stare into the fire. "Cold was hanging in the air today."

“If you aren’t well liked in the village, won’t they cheat you?” He asks, draining the rest of the tea and reaching for the bowl after setting down the cup.

“They may not like me, but they are also mostly afraid of me.” You admit with a shrug. “I just mumble a few words to myself that they do not understand and suddenly everything becomes a very sensible deal.” Typically what you mutter under your breath are the names of ethnic take out dishes that you used to eat with relative frequency. Things like ekmek kadayifi and tom kha gai and pasta e fagioli typically had villagers quaking in their slippers.

He chuckles, admiring your stiff spine. “I will give you coin for the hay.” He tells you. “You wouldn’t have to buy it otherwise.”

“That is far.” It’s a reasonable thing to agree to, knowing that if you are to provide for him through the winter it will deplete your stores and cost coin down the line.

Grunting when the porridge touches his lips, he stares down at it in delight for a moment before he starts to shovel it in his mouth. It's hot this time and the savory taste and the small shreds of meat in it are just what he needs. Quickly inhaling the entire bowl and sighing softly when the spoon hits the bottom.

“Careful.” Despite the warning, there is an audible smile in your voice. It’s good to see a voracious appetite in him, and there is no small amount of satisfaction that settles in your chest at being able to take care of your soulmate. Even if he has no idea. “Not too fast. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Pero huffs, sure that he wouldn't let this meal leave his belly. Not even if he had to clamp his hand over his mouth. "The honey helped that drink but your well is gone." He tells you. "Or you have a dead animal floating in it."

“It’s from the stream in the woods.” Death is such a pervasive part of life here that sometimes you truly do forget about it. Or else maybe you try to forget.

He grunts again and scraps the bowl clean and shoves the last spoonful in his mouth. He will check upstream later on to make sure that nothing is in the water. There is no way that your little weeds in that cup made it taste like that.

Collecting his empty dishes, you drop them in the cauldron to clean and boil again, wishing you could actually give him antibiotics for real instead of having to relying on the small amount of good that things like honey, garlic, and thyme will do for him. “If you keep eating well and drinking, you should be up and about again soon.”

He knows that he will have to rest some more, he feels it, but it also chaffs. He's used to doing what he wants and nothing less. His things are in a neat pile near him and he lifts the blanket over him, curious to find out if you had completely stripped him down or if you had left him in the threadbare drawers he wore.

“You needed washing,” you tell him flatly, wondering if he’s one of those people who considers cleanliness a temptation or an indulgence. That outlook never quite made sense to you, and he doesn’t seem uptight or prudish, but you never know.

He grumbles in agreement, knowing that he hadn't wanted to strip down and wash in the cold stream when he was coughing so badly. "As soon as I can stumble to the stream, I will wash."

“Look more closely, Tovar.” Shaking your head slightly, the trace of an amused smirk graces your lips. “I washed you. White plague would have run off with you in your sleep with all that muck and blood on you.” At the very least, he definitely would have ended up with a secondary infection.

At first he doesn't remember the muck, doesn't remember falling off his horse. "Mierda." He hisses, scowling at his weakness and his cheeks burn at the idea that this woman cleaned him. "Thank you." He huffs gruffly, knowing he must have been far gone without waking and threatening you.

“I have seen far worse.” And if you never have to dress another broken bone for the rest of your life, you will be very grateful. At least Pero Tovar had been in entirely one piece when he fell – literally – into your life. “If you wish to cut your hair or clean your face, we will go to the stream when you are stronger.”

Right now, it's the last thing on his mind and he wonders what you mean by 'far worse' when you washed him. "I can deal with it." He assures you, feeling like a burden right now and it's not a feeling that he enjoys.

“Good.” Leaning back, your shoulders touch the stone wall behind you and you let out a small sigh. “It has been a long day,” you hum, mostly to yourself, but look over at him in front of the fire. Binx is curled up mere inches from the hearth to enjoy the heat, and you cannot blame her. In time, she will climb up onto your small bed with you to spend the night at your side like she always does. “Sleep if you can. I should do the same.”

His eyes follow you as you move around the cottage, another log on the fire and banked so it would burn all night long. A thick, sturdy piece of wood slides into place over the door, barring it from the inside. He doesn’t have the heart to tell you now that one good shove against the door would snap the braces on the logs keeping the wood in place. Whoever had installed it had never had their door broken down obviously.

It is easy to feel his eyes on you even if you aren’t looking, but soon enough you’re tucked into your small bed and turned to face the wall, only removing the molded leather mask from your face once you’re sure he can’t see what it was hiding. Pero Tovar never needs to know. In fact, you don’t even know what good it is for you to know. You don’t belong here. You never have. Always an outlander wherever you go.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri

SatS: @canadianmaebe @badassbaker @od-ends @amneris21 @padbrookcottage @chaoticfestninja @xdaddysprincessxx @mostclevermiss @im-sylien @wherethewildfanlives @ficsbynight @djarinsimp @ellenmunn @jediknight122 @under-the-seas @wellaintthatsumthin @sarahbellesaurus @roxypeanut @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @bruxasolta @kaylay2187 @freshlemontea @humanransome-note @virtualanchortimetravel @leoisme @do-not-go-gently-42 @catsandgeekyandnerd @happypalaceroadpie @ghoulpatroul @lizzystorm48 @imoutoid @rainbeaubrightchild @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @dudelorian @thirddeadlysin @piratesangel @jazzieomega @iceclaw101 @strangegirl32 @lights-on-the-ridge @godofbadass8909 @pann-malii @littleone65 @notyouraveragemochii @shawdowolf993 @rebel-fanfare @rav3n-pascal22 @love93sstuff @choppedmugjudgeplaid @aurelac-heart @we-could-have-been @bilibiche @prettydull180 @dinoflower @my-life-as-a-bird @tuquoquebrute @damnitjaskier @fishingforpike @sherlock221b114679797 @sainteredhood @nekodemon73 @missredherring @middlemichi @moonflower91 @rachelle-on-the-run @miscellaneousfangirling @danamercury @hyacinthsatdawn @i-am-amora-the-enchantress @milkandoil @generalplaidhorseherring @raptorclaw24

My Masterlist!

[netherworldpost]

I hired a business consultant with a report delivery of Friday end of day.

Because they are an Actual Professional it came on time and was very thorough and complete.

Because I am a Cartoon Professional I changed my email password immediately after signing the contract so I wouldn't obsess.

Then watched Scooby-Doo for several days, obsessing anyway, until I could no longer take not knowing the results (Sunday morning at 4:17AM)

This covers a 10 year period

RED = MYTHOLOGY (Evil Supply Co. public shop before closing + private practice for mythology clients, which did not close)

BLUE = OTHER STUFF with red removed so I can see what percentage of income is mythology vs. not.

Got a bit of red on me.

In this chart you can see where I had my 2020 traffic accident and the subsequent rebuilding of my life and business practices.

Now let's talk about why I'm making this post. You can tell where I added artwork to this "hide private information" chart because it's bright pink.

I feel like following me on social media is a combination of mythology and benefiting from my investments in business + therapy. Consider this part of the value proposition in following oh stones I can't with the business talk.

atty (me, hi) = cartoon business person doing fun spooky things + occasional thing that is accidentally actually useful = public posting (desire for attention + lightly marketing)

Which is a quick commercial break for our sponsor (hi, it's me, I'm the sponsor on my own post)

netherworldpost.com has the mailing list when the public side of Netherworld Post opens later this year.

Greeting cards, postcards, stickers, zines, stories, rambles. All original art and writing about queer monsters, witches, ghosts, mermaids living in paradise.

Mental and physical therapy... are... continuing... and as they improve I can make stuff faster and get closer to launching

Thanks, back to rambling.

One of the things that has sat heavily in my brain since said traffic accident is a variety of soul haunting "what if?"s

This chart is to showcase the utter irrelevance of this line of thinking -- you cannot change the past -- in hopes of helping me and subsequently you to move on.

One of the biggest things I am trying to unbuckle from my brain is this idea that life is a linear experience with a finite number of resources and opportunities.

My brain has been ground into the position of "I must constantly hustle because every opportunity not maximized is lost forever and is thus one more step closer to irreversible failure. Going slow or stopping to rest = bad."

This is a coldly logical statement that sounds great when you're being punitive to yourself for choices made by you or others.

There is some small truth to it (your daily existence is comprised of 24 hours) but the fundamental and utterly overwhelmingly larger truth underlying is life is not comprised of a straight forward math formula.

Here is a zoom in + direct message summary

Bad thing happens.

Work harder for awhile.

Things resume on the previous path.

Worry over choosing the wrong path is extremely probably corrected over the long term.

Your "what if?" -- my "what if?" -- is irrelevant.

Not just because you cannot change the past. But because continued hard work averages out losses and "non-selected opportunities"

(don't you love that? "non-selected opportunities". This is a new phrase to me. Such a nice way of passing up "I didn't take the objectively better path for reasons.")

I hope you find it helpful!

I hope you sign up on netherworldpost.com which has an auto-merging feature if you've already signed, meaning if you're unsure, sign up again, you won't get duplicate emails in a few months when we launch!

Thank you, it's time for coffee, I have spent 5+ hours reading this damn thing and making this post

[simplyclockwork]

I’ve just sent a prompt about John accepting Sherlock (just being upfront - I don’t “expect” anything; just had these 2 ideas in my head forever). I’d love a different first meeting where John meets Sherlock at a clinic. Sherlock is recovering from an injury and has a real limp. As they get closer they deal with John’s “guilt” and Sherlock’s insecurity that John’s limp is cured whilst Sherlock’s is not. Happy Johnlock ending please. Exploration of acceptance and positive self image.

Hey anon! Thanks for your patience. I've started filling this prompt and imagine my surprise when I realized it's going to be a few chapters long!

You can read the first chapter below the page break or on Ao3 here.

Thanks for the awesome prompt, and I hope you'll enjoy this fill :) Please feel free to send new prompts anytime.

-----

AFTER HOURS

After meeting Sherlock Holmes as a patient, Doctor John Watson can't get the intelligent, attractive consulting detective with the limp off his mind. He is determined not to overstep professional boundaries until a chance encounter with the man himself has John seeing things in a different light.

-----

“Doctor Watson?”

John looked up from his charting in time to see his receptionist poke his head around the doorframe of John’s office. “Yes, Bennett?”

“Your two o’clock is here.” A pause as Bennett consulted the chart in his hand. “Mister Holmes for his six-month post-op follow-up.”

John straightened up and nodded. “Right, thank you, Bennett. Show him into exam room three and let him know I’ll be there shortly.”

“You got it, Doc.” Bennett ducked back out of sight, closing the door behind him.

Left alone in the cramped little office he shared with the only other doctor in the small practice, John took a moment to prepare himself. He smoothed down his hair — mussed from absently running his fingers through it while charting — with a flicker of nervousness.

He’d first met Sherlock Holmes a little over a year ago when he’d limped into the clinic in the aftermath of a botched surgery meant to fix a severe break in his femur. Complaining of nerve pain and weakness in the limb, he'd arrived with a scathing selection of choice words after having care denied by several doctors based on a history of drug use. John, then limping as well from a psychosomatic injury of his own, had been the first doctor to take him at face value. He understood what it was like to have someone tell you that your pain wasn’t real. It didn’t matter the cause; pain was pain. So he’d examined Sherlock’s leg and found scar tissue pressing on the nerve — a result of the botched surgery — and sent him to a better surgeon to repair the issue. Since that day, Sherlock had insisted on having John handle all of his post-op care.

At their first follow-up appointment, Sherlock had reported a marked decrease in pain, but the limp had persisted. John was forced to walk the fine line between reassurance and reality. He’d explained that the limp might disappear over time as the leg strengthened and recovered. But, as he was sure Sherlock knew, it might not. The limp had still been present at Sherlock’s three-month check. Now, at the six-month mark, John would find out if it had finally gone.

He wasn’t optimistic about Sherlock regaining full mobility if it was still present.

Still smoothing his hair with nervous hands, John tried to talk himself out of his disquiet. Sherlock Holmes was an intelligent man. Brilliant, actually. He solved complex crimes for a living and made it his business to know everything about whatever he wished to. He was an intense man, a little intimidating at first contact. But it wasn’t that, or even the leg, which had John’s stomach roiling with anxiety flutters.

Sharp-tongued and brilliant Sherlock Holmes might be, he was also, in a word, gorgeous. Dark, curly hair, full lips, and eyes that passed through every colour a stormy sea could dream up, he was everything that usually made John weak at the knees. And he was tall, too, something John never turned his nose up at. But Sherlock wasn’t some stunning bloke at the pub or on the other end of a dating app. He was a patient with complex health needs and was far too sharp for his own good, both of which always left John feeling like he was about to step into the lion’s den whenever they met.

Now, with his hands threatening to come over damp and shaky, John straightened his tie, pulled on his white coat, and went to face Sherlock Holmes. He paused for a breath outside in the hall before entering at the crisp, “Yes?” that answered his polite knock on the closed exam room door.

A quiet greeting was all John managed to get out before Sherlock looked up from the gossip magazine he was grimacing at, zeroed in on John’s legs, and said, “Your limp is gone.”

John stopped mid-stride and almost lost his balance. Regaining his equilibrium, he swallowed and looked at the open patient file in his hand, wishing it were a shield. “Ah, yes,” he said, flipping through pages he didn’t actually see, trying to buy himself time. “It took a few months.” John forced himself to smile as he looked up, knowing it looked closer to a grimace by the awkward way it sat on his lips. “Turns out you were right, and it was all in my head.”

Those full lips, the same ones that so often plagued John’s most x-rated dreams, pressed into a thin line. “It seems that congratulations are in order,” Sherlock said in a strained voice. That tone told John all he needed to know.

“No congratulations necessary. But thank you.” Biting back a sigh, John snagged a wheeled stool and scooted over to where Sherlock sat on the edge of the exam table. A thin sheet lay over his lower body, tucked neatly around his waist to cover his partial nudity. “May I?” John asked, pulling on a pair of gloves before he stood and held out his hands in a silent request. Sherlock laid back on the table and shifted his hips before elevating his right leg for John’s examination without a word.

John tucked the edge of the blanket to bare the offered leg, careful to keep his eyes away from the covered areas. Tempting as it was to glance, he was a professional. In this room, he was a doctor and nothing more, just as Sherlock was just another patient.

At least, that’s what John told himself.

He cupped Sherlock’s calf muscle with one hand, keeping his touch detached and clinical as he rotated the foot one way then the other. He felt only the slightest resistance, the range of movement much improved compared to before. Glancing at Sherlock’s face, John saw no visible sign of discomfort. But he knew Sherlock was good at hiding his emotions, so he asked, “Any pain?”

“Minimal,” Sherlock replied. Then, catching John’s raised eyebrows, he sighed and added, “A two.”

John nodded. “Is it always a two?”

A slight shrug from Sherlock. “A three after a long day. Maybe a four at the worst.”

John bit back a chuckle. “You’re not pushing yourself, though, right?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said in a flat voice that John saw through right away. This time, he did chuckle and thought he caught a faint flicker of a smile on Sherlock’s lips before they thinned.

Growing serious, John continued his examination. The surgical scar was healing well, lightening to a puckered pink line that he expected would fade to white in time. He felt along the edges, pleased to find them close to seamless. The knot of scar tissue that had caused Sherlock such pain was gone. Doctor Grant had done well, just as John had known she would.

He gently set the leg back onto the table, taking pains to shift the sheet back into place, gathering his thoughts and giving Sherlock a moment of privacy. Stepping away, John disposed of the gloves and washed his hands. He cleared his throat before turning to find Sherlock still lying on his back with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. A small crease marked the pale skin between his brows. John resisted the sudden and clamouring urge to smooth it away with his thumb or lips. Instead, he gave himself a mental shake and took a seat on the stool.

“The incision site is healing well. I’m very pleased to hear the pain has decreased to such an extent. I’m confident you’ll only improve.” He hesitated, fidgeting with Sherlock’s chart. Depending on whether or not Sherlock confirmed John’s suspicions, this next bit wouldn’t be pleasant for either of them. “Now. The limp.” John swallowed, his mouth going dry. “Has there been any improvement?”

Sherlock was silent for so long that John wondered if he would answer. Then, just as John opened his mouth to ask again, Sherlock said quietly, “I still have the limp.”

John paused to gather his thoughts and grant the statement the proper weight it deserved. With his mouth still desert dry, he said, “Physiotherapy might help return some mobility—”

“Some,” Sherlock said, interrupting him mid-sentence. “'Some' implies less than full.”

John nodded carefully. “Yes,” he admitted, trying not to wince at the way Sherlock’s mouth thinned. “It’s… it’s not a good sign that you’re still experiencing mobility issues. At this point, I would expect far more improvement. It doesn’t mean it might never happen, but the chances of you regaining full use of the limb…” He sucked in a quick, bracing breath, knowing he had to get through this for Sherlock’s sake as well as his own. Shaking his head, John steeled himself and finished, “Likely, the limp is here to stay. There’s always a chance I could be wrong, but the chances are slim.” He watched Sherlock’s eyes close and failed to keep back the wince this time. “I’m sorry, Mister Holmes. The surgery was still a success in terms of reducing your pain, but I know this wasn’t the news you wanted to hear.”

A soft, unsteady breath escaped Sherlock’s lips. His eyes opened, the colour of a wind-tossed sea, and fixed on John as he sat up. “Thank you for your candour, Doctor Watson,” he said in a brisk tone. “I appreciate your professional opinion and the work you have done on my case.” He fiddled with the sheet, his long, elegant fingers adjusting the fabric with obsessive little twitches. “If there’s nothing else, I have an appointment to keep.”

“Mister Holmes,” John began, alarmed by the detached expression on Sherlock’s face. “Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he blurted, taking a thoughtless step forward when Sherlock didn’t look at him. There was a brief flinch as Sherlock moved to stand, smoothed away just as quickly as he swept the sheet around his waist.

“Please, don’t let me keep you, Doctor,” Sherlock said, not meeting his eyes. “I’m sure you have other patients to see.” His hand tightened on the sheet, knuckles turning white. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to dress.”

“Of course,” John said with a nod, feeling miserable. “Excuse me.” He swallowed and added, “If you need a refill for your pain medication, I will leave it with Bennett at reception.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sherlock said stiffly.

Taking that as his cue to leave, John grabbed the chart and exited the examination room. He closed the door and paused for a moment to lean his back against it, closing his eyes with a grimace. But he didn’t linger, forcing himself into movement again lest Sherlock tried to open the door and find him standing there.

Back in his office, John shut the door and dropped into the chair behind his desk. Setting the chart on the pile of those still waiting to be processed, he scrubbed his hands over his face. That could have gone better. What had he been thinking, apologizing like that? And taking that step forward when Sherlock was so vulnerable… Not to mention partially naked. John’s actions had been beyond reproach. He’d crossed the line from professional to invasive, all because… what? Because he was attracted to Sherlock? Because John thought he was brilliant and unique, and he hated to see him suffering? He saw people struggling every day — it was part of the work. Bloody hell, he’d seen men and women blown apart in the fires of war. One man with a limp that just refused to fade shouldn’t be enough to shake John to his core like this.

But it was, and it did.

Dropping his hands into his lap, John tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. There was a spot of damp near the corner. He looked at it for a long moment, letting his eyes grow unfocused as he went over the interaction in his mind. He’d definitely crossed a boundary; there was no denying it. No wonder Sherlock had fled. Between that and realizing John’s limp had disappeared all on its own while Sherlock’s persisted… God, Sherlock must have felt like the butt of some cosmic joke. Of course he hadn’t wanted John’s comfort or pity. John wouldn’t have wanted them either.

“You really fucked up, Watson,” John muttered to the ceiling. Well, there was no taking it back now, no going back in time to undo the damage done. All he could do was thank the NHS gods that he probably wouldn’t see Sherlock Holmes for a long time, if ever.

Somehow, the thought wasn’t quite the comfort John needed.

“I need a drink,” he said aloud to the room at large. Nothing and no one spoke up against the idea, so John saw no reason not to carry through with his plan.

[purple-dahlias]

“What’s the point?” for recovering!au?

thank you for the request! sorry this has taken such a long time to get out,  but it’s here now! 

trigger warning for eating disorders, relapse and hospitals  

“You heading for the OR?” Connor asks, falling into step beside Ava as they exit the lifts together.

“Yep,” confirms Ava. “Got another CABG scheduled. Been almost practically back to back all afternoon. How about you?”

“Surprisingly, I’m free now. Patient cancellation.”

“Lucky you,” Ava grins as her phone pings in her pocket.

Taking it out, her eyes scan the notification, smile dying on her lips.

“Ava?” Connor asks, concern filling his voice as he eyes the expression on Ava’s face.

“It’s Sarah,” she manages, the words heavy in her mouth. “She collapsed in the ED.”

“Again?” Connor remembers the last time this happened, a little over four months ago.

Ava nods, knowing exactly what Connor is thinking. “I have to go,” she says finally. “Could you—“

Connor doesn’t let her finish her sentence.

“Go,” he says, placing a hand over her shoulder. “I’ll take your surgery.”

“Thank you,” Ava whispers, gratitude in her eyes as Connor waves her thanks away, nudging her gently back in the direction of the lifts.

“Let me know how she’s doing, yeah?” She hears him call as she steps into the lift, anxiety filling every inch of her.

The last three or so weeks had been insanely busy, for both Ava and Sarah, what with the way their shifts had worked out. It had meant in the end the two had always ended up missing each other, with one leaving as the other arrived, or one returning when the other was preparing to go. And with that, there had been little communication, other than perhaps a passing hello in the corridor, a kiss goodbye, or a hug before having to get out of bed at some ungodly hour. So having this knowledge, and with what she had just learnt, Ava knew this was a red flag. She knows almost exactly why Sarah had collapsed, and it’s hard for her not to blame herself.

Maybe, she thinks, if she had made more of an effort to ask, had paid more attention, had passed over some of her surgeries or post-ops to Connor, anything so that she could have been there more, she might have seen the signs.

She hopes, oh how she hopes she is wrong, and that this is completely unrelated, and that she is blowing this out of proportion, that there is some other, alternative reason.

But she just can’t shake the sick feeling that pools in her stomach as she exits the lifts beyond the Emergency Department.

She’s wracking her brain, trying to think of any rhyme or reason why this could have happened, if indeed it is what she thinks it is: the thought she just can’t seem to rid her mind of, the one that she keeps coming back to.

“Where is she, Maggie?” Ava asks, on seeing the charge nurse.

“Treatment four,” she hears, and doesn’t stick around for any more, heading straight there, heart beating at what she knows is well beyond the normal rate.

Ava pulls back the curtain to find April adjusting an IV line, while Natalie scrolls through what must be Sarah’s test results on her iPad, concern written across her face.

But her eyes fall on Sarah, lying there, looking so small and frail in her hospital gown.

“What happened?” Ava demands, and April leads her outside, just beyond the curtain, with Natalie following.

“Natalie called her down for a consult. Things were okay until she collapsed right there in front of the patient. Scared us all half to death,” April informs her softly.

“You might want to see these,” Natalie says, and Ava doesn’t miss the sadness in her tone as Natalie hands her the tablet.

It’s just what she had thought they would show, and Ava shakes her head, blinking back tears as she sees how much damage had been done, how much progress had been reversed in just 3 short weeks.

“According to her charts it looks like she’s missed her last two appointments with Dr Richardson. Did you know things were bad with her?” Natalie asks, a hand to Ava’s shoulder, and Ava feels like the worst person in the world.

“No,” she hears herself say, though it doesn’t sound at all like her voice.

This is all your fault. If you had paid more attention, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Ava,” she hears Natalie, noting how the doctor had switched to the voice she often heard her use with paediatric patients. “None of this is your fault.”

It’s as though she can read her mind.

“But it is. Sarah is supposed to be my responsibility,” Ava hates the way her voice sounds, broken, as she runs a hand through her hair.

“Some things you can’t control,” April says beside her. Ava knows she means well, but it’s all just wrong and backwards. Because for Sarah, this was all about control. Ironic, really.

“For now,” Natalie begins, that coaxing voice back, “you should just be with her.”

Ava just nods, letting the curtain fall behind her as April and Natalie take their leave.

She takes a shuddering breath and drags the stool to Sarah’s bedside, where she sits, taking hold of the thin, limp hand of her girlfriend.

“Ava?” Comes a voice, weak beside her, and Ava swears that if she wasn’t a cardiothoracic surgeon, she would have thought her heart had stopped.

“I’m right here, Sarah,” Ava tells her, squeezing her hand gently.

“Where am I?” Sarah asks, a little groggily.

“In the ED. April said you fainted.”

“Oh,” returns Sarah, her voice small, panic filling her face as she notices the IV line in her hand.

“Hey, hey, relax,” Ava croons, taking hold of both Sarah’s hands when she sees how distressed she is. “It’s just some fluids to help give you your strength back. You need them, okay bokkie,” Ava continues, using the pet name.

“No, I don’t! What’s the point?” Sarah cries out, every word punctuated with an agony that pierces Ava’s very soul.

“Nothing I do will work and I’m just so tired. I’m a psychiatrist. I know this is bad! I shouldn’t be having this problem. Ava you know I try, but…” Sarah trails off, and Ava can’t help but notice the way Sarah runs a finger over her clavicle, a subconscious habit she had.

“Sarah, I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you,” Ava begins after a pause. “But—“

“Then don’t,” Sarah grits out, harshly, cutting Ava off. “Please, Ava, just go,” Sarah practically begs, bunching up the thin bed sheets and turning to face away from her.

Ava sits there, a few moments longer, until it becomes clear that this won’t be going anywhere, that Sarah isn’t ready to talk.

Twisting her hands, she lets out a sigh she hopes is mostly silent.

“Okay,” she says, willing the heaviness in her voice not to be too pronounced. Ava stands and moves to adjust Sarah’s pillow just how she likes it, the only way she can think of right now to give Sarah a little more comfort. “But Sarah,” Ava gently tells her, “I’m here for you, okay. No matter what. Please know that.”

There’s no response. Not even a shift in the bedsheets. And if the machine monitoring Sarah’s vitals wasn’t still beeping quietly in the background, well, Ava doesn’t want to give much rise to that particular thought.

With a final kiss to the top of Sarah’s head, a last attempt to let her know she is here, Ava turns to leave, drawing the curtains back around Sarah.

“Well?” Natalie asks her from her position at the nursing station, breaking away from a conversation with Maggie.

Ava just shakes her head. She doesn’t know quite what to say. What does one say? Besides, Ava really doesn’t wan to have to talk right now. With anyone. All she can think about is how much she had let Sarah down. How she should have been paying attention. And now she couldn’t even get Sarah to talk, much less get to the bottom of what triggered this.

-

It’s windy up on the balcony, and the evening is drawing in as Ava stares out onto the city of Chicago, a hundred thousand lights twinkling below. There’s still no more word from Sarah herself. Only that Ava can gather loud and clear she wants to be left alone. Which is especially hard to know.

“Hey,” a voice says beside her, making Ava jump. The fact she didn’t even hear him coming is a telltale sign something is wrong. Ava normally never misses anything.

“Your CABG went off without a hitch,” he begins lightly, trying to gauge Ava’s mood.

“Wish I could say the same about other things,” Ava deadpans, staring off into the distance, her focus on nothing in particular.

“How’s Sarah?” Connor frowns, leaning against the railing.

“Nat messaged to say she’s being transferred up to a bed to stay overnight for observation. She still doesn’t want to see me.” It comes out a little cold, detached. And honestly, Ava’s just feeling more than a little numb right now, so that assessment it’s about right.

“She’ll come ‘round,” Connor assures, putting an arm around Ava, who leans into him.

“Ooh my ears are burning,” comes a familiar voice from behind.

“Oh, hey Nat,” Ava manages a weak, sort of washed-out smile.

“How are you holding up?”

How was she? How did one answer that? How was someone dealing with all of this supposed to be?

Connor’s phone buzzes, breaking the silence.

“It’s Latham,” he says, checking.

“You’d better go,” Ava tells him, grateful for the diversion.

“It’s gonna be okay, Aves. You’re gonna get through this. You both are.”

“Thanks,” Ava sniffs as Connor pulls her into a tight hug, wanting desperately to believe his every word.

And then he’s gone.

“How’s Sarah,” Ava asks, eyes trained on the spot Connor had just vacated. She’s almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Pretty much the same. I’ve paged Dr Charles though. I hope you don’t mind?”

Ava shakes her head sadly. “Maybe he’ll have better luck than me.”

“Oh, Ava,” Natalie hums, holding her close, up there on the balcony. She doesn’t even care that Nat is probably using some of the tactics she uses on kids down in the ED. Because all Ava wants to do is believe things will be okay.

“How about I drive you back to yours so we can grab some things for Sarah?” Natalie suggests, filling the silence, smoothing Ava’s hair.

Ava agrees with a small nod. That seems like a logical suggestion. And in any case, she’s not sure she should be driving herself anywhere right now.

“Great,” Natalie says softly, her arms still safely around Ava. “And Ava, I promise you: everything will work out. It may not seem like it right now, but it will.”

There’s a fierceness in her voice, and Ava just clings to her. She wants to believe her. Wants it to be true with her whole heart. Because it has to be.

[seriouslyhooked]

The Best Bad Idea

Three-part CS AU where Emma and Killian are doctors working at the same hospital (world without pandemic). They’ve yet to meet, but Emma has definitely seen the sexy Dr. Jones in her travels at Mist Haven Medical. It’s generally a bad idea to get involved with a colleague, but a little fantasizing never hurt… right? Inspired by the song ‘Bad Idea’ by Ariana Grande and a TV couple who set the bar for true love stories. 

Available on FF Here and AO3 Here. 

A/N: Hey all! Here is a little something I made instead of being a responsible writer and finishing my other projects. I’ll be back to my other WIPs soon (God willing), but in the meantime here’s my 1000th attempt at writing a Captain Swan meet cute. I needed to get some words on the page, and this is the result. Hope you all enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, Thump. Steady, sure, and even. A solid pulsing sound with no inconsistencies and no delays or false starts.

In this particular patient, that fourth set of beats was the most important. Prior to his recent operation, Earl MacDonald’s heart had been weak and skipping needed pulses, then constricting far too harshly on every fourth measure. That type of arrhythmia had potentially disastrous consequences, but those worrying beats were seemingly behind them. The rhythm Emma heard through the stethoscope was a regularly circulating drumline, the tell-tale song of a heart that was working, and working well. Her surgical intervention had been successful.

She gently released the breath she was holding, a sign of the stress that she carried while waiting for patients to recuperate. Emma never let the patients see her sweat, but she had been worried on multiple levels in this case. Earl was going on 80, and not a logical contender for intensive cardiac mediation, but Emma’s gut had told her he could handle it, and she was rarely ever wrong. Earl forged through the surgery like a much younger man, and his outputs post-operation had all been extremely encouraging. It was shaping up to be another win, another life saved thanks to the power of medicine, and that filled Emma with real joy. She always did her absolute best to create good outcomes, and this time there was so much more on the line than one life. This was a man who was loved and cherished by the people closest to him, and who would be sorely missed if something were to happen.

“Anything you want me to note for the chart, Doctor Swan?” 

Emma bit back a witty retort at the pointed use of the word ‘Doctor.’ She was one of the few surgeons in this hospital who didn’t care what people called her, as long as they called on her early enough to actually save the patient’s life. But with Belle, a person Emma considered a dear and true friend, there was an added lilt of sass when using her title. Her friend was one of the nurse practitioners that Emma had been working with for years, since the day she landed here as a medical intern, but despite their differences in degrees, Belle was easily the most well-read and brilliant resource when it came to medical literature in this hospital.

“Just that Mr. MacDonald is healing nicely.”

“Did you hear that Lorraine?” Earl asked, with a Cheshire cat smile on his face, and the glint of true pride in his eyes. “Doctor Emma says I’m healing nicely.”

“Hard not to hear, seeing as I’m right beside you,” Loraine quipped, but she squeezed his hand affectionately, and offered a warm smile to her husband all the same.

“You know, usually being dubbed ‘nice’ is the kiss of death for a man.”

“Earl!” Loraine chastised, clearly not liking his word choice. Earl smiled wider, looking almost boyish in his delight.

“Well, so to speak. But I was going to say that I think we can make an exception this time. I’ve never been so happy to be referred to as ‘nice’ in my life.”

“Technically Doctor Swan was referring to your vital signs, Earl,” Belle taunted from across the room, holding back a smile Emma knew she was bound to let loose soon enough.

“Aw come on, you both know I am your favorite patient. I mean I’m not exactly pressed for competition. Have you seen the people on this floor? Good grief.”

“Ignore him, ladies. He’s all talk. He hasn’t left this room since we got here,” Loraine said, rolling her eyes, as if these antics were a constant occurrence. Based on her small window of experience with Earl, Emma would believe it. “Every meal, every visit, every moment has been within these four walls. Even his PT has been in here.”

“His PT has been here?” Emma asked, surprised that Mary Margaret, their head Occupational Therapist, had allowed for that. She was normally a by-the-book professional, and Emma never knew her friend to provide rehab consults outside of her studio.

“Yup. I told Miss Mary Margaret that I had a wife to keep an eye on and she relented.”

“No, actually what you said was, ‘Excuse me, Ms. Blanchard? You probably heard I just had heart surgery. Well, the thing is, my heart is sitting in this room. I’d like to be with her. Doesn’t seem right to be separated so soon, given what we’ve been through.’ Then you pointed at me, and used your puppy dog eyes on her. Next thing I knew, she had lugged enough equipment to fill the room here. No questions, just action.”

“I bet she ate that right up,” Belle said with a wink. “Mary Margaret loves nothing more than love itself.”

Belle and Mrs. MacDonald discussed Mary Margaret’s love of love, and Earl’s improved mobility, for a few more minutes while Emma continued checking his stats, but ultimately Earl’s patience was wearing thin. He really only had one thing on his mind, and he was now determined to ask about it. Emma was honestly shocked that he managed to wait this long. She knew it was only a matter of time and she was ready for the showdown.

“So, what do you think, Doc? Am I making it home in time for the party?”

“The one for your grandson on Sunday?” she asked, noting the three-day window between now and then. She had heard about this party non-stop, since the moment Earl woke up from the procedure. It was a central fixation for the old man, a celebration that would host his entire family, and a goal he had been carrying for over a week. Earl nodded and Emma hesitated for a few seconds, before smiling and giving the good news away. “Yes, I am confident that Jayden’s ‘Pop Pops’ will be in attendance when he turns four. But you know the rules…”

“I know, I know: no good food, no strenuous exercise, no having fun.”

“Earl.” Just the utterance of the old man’s name from his wife was enough to have him looking like a kid with his hand caught in the candy jar. Emma and Belle both chuckled at that child-like expression. It was hard not to; the old married couple was just too sweet.

“I’m sorry. I know this is serious, but what is life if you can’t have a little fun?”

“Fun comes in all shapes and sizes, Mr. MacDonald, and despite what you may think about your prescribed lifestyle changes, you’re forgetting two things. First, most of these less-alluring prescriptions will be temporary, and second, you’re a man who clearly loves a challenge.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you know that, Doc?” 

“Well for one thing, you somehow landed a lady as remarkable as Loraine. There’s no way she came easy with these corny jokes of yours. You must have worked harder than you ever worked in your life to persuade her to give you a chance.”

The laughter from the older couple was boisterous and heartwarming, and Emma knew she was right on the money. At this point, she had the ability to sniff out true affection, and these two had it in spades. Many couples she saw facing emergency room disasters together didn’t have the same good luck.

“You got that right, Doc. You know the first time we met was at the -,”

Earl’s story was unceremoniously interrupted by the crackling of the PA system specific to this room. It buzzed for a few moments before a message was delivered in a saccharine sweet voice that sounded nothing like the announcer’s normal tone.

“Paging Doctor Swan to the Nurse’s station. Doctor Swan to the Nurse’s station, code 741.”

Emma waited for the feed to cut off and began to tell Earl to please go on with the story, but the call came out again.

“Paging Doctor Swan to the Nurse’s station. Doctor Swan, code 741.”

“You know she’s just going to keep doing that until she gets her way,” Belle murmured. Emma nodded. It was no use. What Ruby Lucas wanted, Ruby Lucas got. That just seemed to be the way of the world.

“Belle, would you mind telling Ruby I’m with a patient at the moment? I will be there when I can. She can always proceed without me.”

Belle snorted out a laugh, knowing that last part would never happen, but gave a swift affirmation that she would relay the message before waving goodbye to the MacDonald’s and promising to see them soon. As her friend headed out, Emma sighed, knowing there was no way Ruby was going to give things up that easily. She had a matter of moments before some new tactic would be deployed.

“I’m sorry about that. You were saying?”

“Eh it’s kind of a long story, and you’ve got places to be, Doc. Just know, true love won out in the end with me and my Loraine. It always does.”

Emma couldn’t deny that their love appeared true even after their fifty plus years together. She personally had never experienced a love like that, but she was wondering more and more if maybe it was out there, somewhere in the later chapters of her story. For years she thought herself above that kind of need. She found validation in herself and in her work. She dedicated herself to helping others, and that had always been enough. But the loneliness that became a constant when she was growing up in foster care still lingered, and she wondered if someone might ever come along who could inspire her to take a chance and risk her heart.

“You know, I actually worked as a nurse before my kids were born,” Loraine commented easily. Emma nodded and smiled as she checked the last of Mr. MacDonald’s IV drips. Emma was aware of the older woman’s solid medical understanding. Loraine had continued to demonstrate it the entire time her husband was admitted in this ward. “I’m trying to remember if I ever ran into a code 741.”

“Oh, uh, I think – well, erm, I mean you probably didn’t,” Emma said, hoping she didn’t turn beet red at the passing comment from the older woman. She was already stuttering, which was completely out of character and eighty shades of embarrassing. Loraine’s words feigned ignorance, but her eyes told a different story. Still Emma tried to play it off. “It’s really not a big deal. Just a non-emergent protocol.”

Another alert sounded, but this time it came through the ceiling unit reserved for announcements to the wider reaches of the hospital. “Attention to all surgical ward personnel. We are paging Doctor Swan to the nurse’s station. Doctor Swan, you are needed at the nurse’s station immediately for a code 741.” The talking stopped, but the air crackled signaling that the line was still live. “Immediately.”

“Sounds pretty urgent to me,” Loraine replied. The curiosity in her gaze told Emma that the older woman was onto them, but it was Earl’s comment that cut too close for comfort.

“When I was in the war, all of our numeric codes corresponded to letters. So 7 was H, 4 was D, 1 was A. H – D – A. HDA, now what could that be….?” Uh oh. Now Emma really had to get out of here before she accidentally admitted Ruby’s code’s meaning – Hot Doctor Alert. That would be the cherry on top of a full-blown mortification sundae.

“All righty, well like I told Belle, all your scans look good. Doctor Whale is on shift this evening during the next series of rounds, so I’ll make sure your file is ready for him.”

“Of course, dear, and good luck with your doctor, er – I mean – code.”

Emma stammered out something like an ‘okay thanks,’ while leaving. She tried to get her bearings once she was out of sight of the room, but she had nowhere to go. Everyone on this floor had just heard her page, and there were bound to be at least a few who understood the meaning. She was so embarrassed, and more than a little ticked at Ruby. She was supposed to be her best friend, but she was always pulling these crazy stunts. They were mostly harmless, but for Emma, who hated being the subject of hospital gossip, it was anxiety inducing to say the least.

“Please tell me that you did not just broadcast that to the entire hospital,” Emma said, arriving at the nurse’s station with a sense of urgency, and watching some of the other nurses scurry off to avoid the confrontation. Ruby, however, was unfazed. Actually, the nurse manager just rolled her eyes, grabbing her bag and phone from her cubby, as if Emma was the one who was annoying and not the other way around.

“And here I was thinking we were the best of friends. Soul sisters, kindred spirits, friends for life. But no, ye of little faith, you actually believe I would broadcast the hot doc alert to all of Mist Haven? What kind of friend would do that?”

“But if you didn’t… then how did you…?” Emma’s questions trailed off, but her arms flailed towards the ceiling and the look on her face spoke for itself – how had Ruby used the hospital wide PA system without actually broadcasting to the entire hospital?

“You know Tink up in nuero?” Emma nodded, well acquainted with the nurse manager who had Ruby’s job on the fifth floor but with a specialization of the brain and nervous system. She was a tiny woman, but she ruled that ward with more than capable hands. “She and I bribed the IT guys to make the nurse managers an override. Now we can circumvent the PA software whenever we want. Bring some of you more stubborn Doctors to heal when it comes to answering our pages.”

“That’s… well, actually that’s genius,” Emma admitted.

“I like to think so,” Ruby teased, offering a genuine smile. The two friends laughed at all of this, and Emma felt so much better knowing that their secret was still relatively secure. The last thing she wanted was everyone knowing how she was spending her lunch breaks these days.  

“Gus, you’re holding down the fort while I’m gone, right?” Ruby asked, her smile turning slightly wicked with the purposeful jest aimed at the new nursing aid sitting behind the desk.

“Me?” The new hire replied, suddenly white as a sheet. Emma had never seen the man so stricken, and as a new nurse he had plenty of high-stress moments to look alarmed during. “I – uh – well – I -,”

“It’s called comedic relief, Gus. Commonly referred to as joking. Do me a favor, learn about it by the end of shift, kay?” Ruby pivoted to the person she actually trusted to man the fort. “Thirty minutes work for you, Belle?”

“I’ve got it handled.”

“Excellent. We’ll return with a full report,” Ruby said, grabbing Emma’s arm and moving them down the hallway before Emma could even say goodbye. “Newbies – can’t live with them, can’t pawn off scut work without them.”

“You are terrible. And yet… the look on his face just now…? Priceless,” Emma acquiesced. “But seriously, Ruby, can we PLEASE find another way to page me for this? My patients are not stupid, and the code isn’t exactly original. It’s kind of…” Ruby’s grin was so big that it stopped Emma in her tracks. She was currently trying to hold her friend to account, but Ruby looked like she’d won the lottery. “What?”

“You are so totally into him! I mean listen to you right now.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Emma said, feeling her cheeks flush against her will. 

“Exactly,” Ruby said. “You’re telling me to be more discreet when I send the bat signal, but you still want me to send it. Do you realize how unlike you that is?”

“Despite what you may think, Ruby. I’m a doctor, I’m not dead. I can appreciate a hot guy now and again.”

“Doubtful. Remember last month when all those pro hockey players were here after Ocheski collapsed on the ice? You had a room full of crazy sexy men. Like virile, hot, muscled men who get paid big money to beat each other up on the ice. Most women would die for that chance, and to make it even better, most of them were hitting on you. And what did you do? Nothing. You didn’t even blink.”

“They were not hitting on me,” Emma affirmed, but the words were hollow. They had been trying to flirt with her. A few had even attempted to get her number.

“They were hitting on you,” Ruby said adamantly.  

“He was a patient, and the rest of them were essentially his family. You know I’d never cross that line. Doesn’t count.”

“Fine, then what about Dr. King? When he came for that conjoined twins case last year, you had no interest. Zero. Zilch.”

“King was an asshole, you know that,” Emma said, belatedly catching her use of profanity and checking that no patients were around. Luckily the coast was clear.

“So? You didn’t have to marry the guy. Hot is hot, honey. That’s just how things are.” 

Emma barked out a laugh at even the thought of marrying someone like that. Arthur King was just about the worst person she could fathom to spend a life with. He was narcissistic and carrying around one of the biggest god-complexes she’d ever seen, and she was a surgeon, so she was an expert on god-complexes. 

“Your face really says it all, Emma. I mean honestly, poker would be a terrible game for you to take up. Your contempt for King is obvious, but, meanwhile, as soon as I mention Doctor Jones… aha! See, totally shifted.”

Emma didn’t know what to say to that. She could try and protest, but her friend knew her too well for that. The best thing to do was say nothing, and she was saved by their arrival at their destination. The coffee cart in the center of the action, near the entrance of Mist Haven. Here was where the wards crossed paths. Her surgical wing met up with the specialties departments, the ER, the community clinic, and more. It was also swarmed with both hospital workers and visitors. Typically, this was the last place she wanted to be, but recently it had become a highlight of her day.

“Emma? Ruby? What’s brought you out here?” a voice asked. It was Mary Margaret, and given her street clothes and jacket, Emma would guess she was just starting her shift.

“Haven’t you heard? There’s fresh meat from the ER. Two showings a day, but we favor the afternoon delight.”

“Oh right,” Mary Margaret said, nodding, like Ruby’s words were totally normal, and for Ruby they were. “I heard about the new ER Chief. Doctor Nolan? I meant to get down there and bring him something to welcome him, but I’ve been so swamped this week. My caseload is crazy at the moment. I hope he won’t think too badly of me for being a bit late.”

“Mary Margaret, literally no one in a hospital brings people cupcakes as a welcome gift, especially not new guys in other departments.” Ruby was not wrong. Hospitals were hardly the most happy-go-lucky of places. At least not usually. “Believe me, the man will be grateful whenever they come. If he even eats them. He’s fit – like fit, fit. Keto diet and a personal trainer fit. The kind of fit that makes you -,”

“Careful, Ruby,” Emma teased. “What if Graham heard you saying that?”

“God, I wish. You know how worked up he gets, and how he works out his frustrations.” Ruby’s tone was dripping in suggestion. “It’s one of the many reasons I live to drive him crazy.”

Emma and Mary Margaret laughed at Ruby’s apt assessment of her relationship with her boyfriend. Ruby had been dating the fireman for almost a year now, since he came in on one of the ambulance bays with a victim he’d rescued from a fire, but Ruby was hardly the predictable type, and Graham seemed to love that about her. They were still going strong despite her willful, wild child nature, and Emma suspected they may be built to last.

“Doctor Nolan must really be something to get you out here, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, moving forward in the line, inching ever closer to the mediocre coffee the cart promised.  

“Ha! Hardly. Emma’s not here for Nolan. She’s here for Jones.”

“Jones?” Mary Margaret asked.

“Girl, where have you been? Doctor Killian Jones, trauma surgeon extraordinaire. Chief Mills brought him here for a ‘collaboration’ with the ER, but she’s totally trying to recruit him for head of his own department. Turns out he and David Nolan are old friends. Same medical school maybe? I don’t know, no one’s gotten me those details yet. Anyway, Regina hardly leaves him alone. She only misses this little window because she’s hooking up with Doctor Locksley in the supply room on the 2nd floor.”

“She’s WHAT?!” Emma and Mary Margaret yelled at the same time and Ruby looked aghast for the first time today. Some other hospital staff in the area glanced over, but no one paid much mind beyond a head nod. Everyone was absorbed in their own need for caffeine, and no one was the wiser of the bombshell Ruby had just dropped.

“Oh shoot, I wasn’t supposed to say that. I promised Ella, damn it!”

“Ella, her assistant? I thought she quit,” Mary Margaret stage whispered.

“Oh she did. Made it a whole two months, which, you know, makes sense given the fact that Regina is a nightmare. But the last week she was here, she learned a crucial secret regarding her Majesty. She spilled last week at The White Rabbit, but I promised her I wouldn’t tell until she’s settled at her new job at GMH. So you did not hear this from me, and I did not hear this from her, capische?”

“I can’t believe the Evil Queen is dating someone,” Mary Margaret said, deeply disturbed by the idea. She shuddered at the thought, and this was someone who loved love. But love and Regina Mills didn’t really feel like concepts that belonged in the same sentence. Scratch that, they didn’t really even belong in the same book. “She’s just so…”

“Evil?” Emma responded. The nickname worked for a reason, after all. The hospital Chief was downright tyrannical.

“Exactly.”

“Well dating is a stretch. She’s screwing someone. But then again, who knows. Ella said she actually saw her smiling in those final days. And not that evil one she’s famous for. Like a real, genuine, I have a heart, smile.”

“No way,” Emma said at the same time Mary Margaret murmured, “Well would you look at that.”

“Don’t worry. I’m on the case. The temp is a totally easy mark – Sydney something. I’m buying him lunch tomorrow. I’ll have the whole story before you know it.”

“Won’t Graham be proud,” Emma chuckled, but her joke fell on deaf ears as something caught Ruby’s attention across the way. Her friend’s countenance changed immediately, putting Emma on alert.

“Ooh, they’re coming! Act normal.”

Normally, Emma would have laughed at that command, but she was too busy feeling the spike of adrenaline at the impending arrival of one Doctor Killian Jones. He really was a world-renowned trauma surgeon, who was working on a number of cutting-edge techniques that saved lives and gave critical care patients better chances to recover. She had actually heard of him a few years ago when reading about a new procedure to treat arrhythmia in patients with traumatic injury. He engineered it in the field, while serving in the British naval forces, and his paper had been circulating in cardiac wings around the country, but she never saw the man before last week when he arrived in Boston.  Suffice it to say she could not have imagined that this marvel of modern medicine would also be so roguishly handsome.

Spotting him today across the great hall, Emma was struck again by just how attractive this man was. She couldn’t even comprehend it really. All she knew was that she had yet to find a fault in him. Every day she’d stolen secret glances, and every time he proved better than her memory. It was crazy, and very reminiscent of schoolgirl crushes and teenage day dreams, but she couldn’t help the way she felt. It was intoxicating, and despite her best efforts, she was powerless to turn Ruby’s invites to the show down when she could witness this each and every day.

The first thing that she’d noticed about him was his general presence. His posture was strong and straight and assured. He looked ready for anything, but somehow laid back, like he was totally in control. People naturally parted when he walked by, as if he silently willed the flow of the hospital traffic. Ruby called it swagger. Emma called it… well something not quite safe for work. Couple that general aura of authority with the classically gorgeous features of his face, and Emma was lost. On that first day (and okay, maybe on the others as well), she actually felt her knees get weak. She always thought that was a bogus cliché, but nope, it was real, and she was the proof of it. From there she was hooked, and over time she’d chronicled more and more things to like about him.

Yesterday it had been his hair. As she watched him across the atrium, she noticed that the shade shone bright in the sun, but that it was nearer to midnight than any color brown. It was slightly longer than most of the other male doctors wore theirs, but not so long that it looked unkempt or unprofessional, at least not yet. She knew for a fact that the military never would allow for such a style, and it felt like a bit of rebellion, or maybe a lack of care for what others thought. Both sent a delicious thrill through Emma, even though she had no real confirmation one way or another. Maybe he was just lazy, but that wasn’t how she imagined him…

And oh boy did she imagine him. At first she hadn’t meant to. She just had these flashbacks to seeing him that she carried through the day. These visceral visions always started the same: he would walk by, looking downright delicious and impossible to resist, then he would turn his eyes her way here in the middle of the hospital hustle and bustle. She’d feel caught in his stare, sense the hunger even from the distance, and her heart would quicken to a maddening crescendo as he walked her way. The rest of the world would fade from view, and it would feel like they were the only two people alive. Her gaze would stay transfixed on his almost cocky composure and the hard line of his bearded jaw. The attraction in his blue eyes would light a fire in her, and then, without so much as a word like ‘hello’ or ‘nice to meet you,’ he’d pull her into his embrace and kiss her senseless. She could practically taste him on her tongue, and yet she’d never even heard him speak. People who had, who were later interrogated by Ruby, mentioned that he had an accent. British or Irish, or something along those lines. That tidbit had played oh so sweetly in Emma’s mind this week. God, she’d love to hear him say her name -,

“Emma,” a voice beside her said, but it didn’t pull her out of the fog. “Oh my God, Emma, he’s looking right at you.”

“He’s what?” Emma said, blinking back to reality before finding that Doctor Jones was looking this way. She’d been so busy fantasizing, she stopped paying attention to what was right in front of her.

In the middle of the room, the man who had intrigued her for over a week was standing totally still, disregarding the swarm of people on all sides. His entire attention had shifted from the task ahead of him, and he was looking at her, staring with a blend of intrigue and something Emma couldn’t describe. Doctor Nolan had stopped as well, but he was clearly confused as to the delay. He seemed to ask his friend what was wrong, and Emma watched spell bound, as the lips she’d envisioned kissing her moved in some kind of unheard reply. She couldn’t make out his words, but she shivered at the passion and determination etched across his being. David then looked their way, and Emma knew that Doctor Jones – Killian - had asked about them. No, forget that, he had asked about her. He was looking right at her, and that spark of heat and desire she’d always imagined was nowhere near as tantalizing as the real thing. He was looking at her with the same hunger she’d reserved for her wildest imaginings. Holy crap, what was she going to do?

“Ruby?” she asked, her voice squeaked out in alarm. She tore her gaze from the approaching object of her desire and looked to her best friend with overt confusion and mild panic.

“Took him long enough to spot you. It’s been almost a week. I thought I was going to have to hire a marching band or one of those giant arrow guys they have at outlet malls.”

Emma didn’t understand, and then it dawned on her – her friend had planned this. Emma looked at Mary Margaret, but she was still staring in the distance. Only when Emma followed her gaze did she realize that Mary Margaret wasn’t looking at Killian. She was looking at David.

“Hey, ladies, you looking to order, or what? I ain’t got all day!”

The three of them jumped at the barista’s interruption and Mary Margaret surged ahead to the line. She rattled off an order, giving way too much money to the attendant while grabbing her cup with shaky hands. Then she looked at David and back to Emma with an expression that said Mary Margaret may just bolt. Ok, what the actual hell was going on?

Before she could begin to answer that internal question, Doctor Jones and Doctor Nolan were within ear shot. Emma wracked her brain for something to say when they finally got here, but was spared when David broke the ice.

“Doctor Swan,” he said with a head nod and a polite smile. They knew each other peripherally at this point. Emma had consulted on numerous ER cases since Doctor Nolan started his new position. But she wouldn’t call them friends. They were very much acquaintances. “I heard Earl MacDonald is recovering nicely. He most definitely has you to thank for that.”

“And you too,” she said, offering credit where it was due. “A quick diagnosis makes all the difference. I’ve noticed the ER is filled with them since you started.”

“That’s kind of you. I don’t believe you’ve met my friend, Doctor Jones.”

“Killian,” Doctor Jones said immediately, before offering a heart stopping smile of his own. Emma had yet to see the man smile, and her heart skipped a beat, the rhythm of her pulse skittering in an almost blissful way. “A pleasure to meet you, Swan.”

He offered his hand to her, and Emma took it, shaking in greeting even though it was uncommon for doctors or nursing staff to do so. Chief Mills stressed that germ management was a top priority at Mist Haven, and she’d come as close to banning the practice as was legal in the state of Massachusetts. Usually Emma didn’t mind, but germs were the farthest thing from her radar when their fingers touched. Instead, Emma was filled with the zapping sense of promise and a thrill of warmth that made her head swim.

“Emma,” she whispered. A beat passed between them, and Emma lost herself for too long. Only the clearing of a throat beside them brought her back to the moment. She let go of his hand, but tracked the slight disappointment on his face when she did. It filled her with a rush of something long forgotten. A sense of peace and elation she hadn’t tasted in years. “Um these are my friends, Ruby Lucas and Mary Margaret Blanchard. Ruby’s the head nurse in the cardiac unit. And Mary Margaret runs OT for the surgical division.”

Emma tore her gaze from Killian, watching her friends make their greetings. Ruby handled her own completely, and Mary Margaret seemed to have gathered her courage, but now it was David who looked shocked and spell bound. Everyone appeared to be thrown off kilter, and it was only Ruby in control of herself. To say her friend was positively delighted with these new developments would be an understatement. That glee rang out clear as day in her invite to both the attending doctors.

“So… Doctor Nolan, Doctor Jones, any way we could convince you to join us? The coffee’s just all right, but the company’s not half bad.”

Both men agreed immediately, and Emma fought her hardest not to blush. It was hard though, and her pulse was racing in the face of this development. Killian came to stand by her, the space between them so small but still too much to bear. She tried to get her bearings as the cranky barista handed her a latte. She struggled to think of something – anything – to say, but she was tongue tied. Instead, she looked at Killian, finding an openness in his expression that said he felt the same exact way. That gave her comfort and removed some of the tension from the moment.

“The hospital’s been buzzing since you got here,” Emma offered, waiting with him while he ordered a no nonsense coffee of his own. “A lot of people are hoping you’ll stay on past the month.”

“And you, love? Have you such hopes?” his words were earnest but laced with an almost cocky easiness that sent Emma’s mind humming in delight. Still, she played it cool. At least she hoped she did.

“Jury’s still out,” she replied, smiling when he looked a little crestfallen. “Well can you blame me? I hardly even know you. Still haven’t seen what you’re capable of.”

“Only a matter of time, Swan. You can trust in that.”

His words may seem benign, but they were loaded with hidden meaning, and Emma knew he meant each one. She swallowed harshly, thinking of the things he might be capable of. Damn, was it hot in here? Or was it just the devil on her shoulder spinning another one of those dirty dreams of hers?

When they’d all gotten a coffee, the five of them moved off to the patio just outside, reserved for hospital staff. The grounds were manicured beautifully, maintaining an oasis that seemed totally disconnected from the hectic nature of the hospital. This was one of Emma’s favorite places here, and she was surprised to hear that neither David nor Killian had been here yet. They all spent a few minutes making non-threatening small talk, with mostly Ruby moving the conversations along. But despite the fluttering feeling she was grappling with, Emma couldn’t say she hated this building anticipation. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had enjoyed herself so much. She was seated next to Killian, fully aware that all of his attention was devoted to her, and she reveled in it. At one point, while the others were talking about something with the OT department, Killian whispered to her and her alone.

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…” His eyes looked from hers down to her lips, and Emma wet them absentmindedly. She heard a low growl, and realized it was coming from him. She shifted in her seat, turned on in a way she had never been before. Instinctively she moved closer, sensing the sinfully sweet current between them, like lightning just before it cracked across the summer sky.

“We could…” she continued, hoping he would elaborate and put into words what she herself was wishing for.

“That we could -,”

“Paging all staff to the ER. All staff to the ER for an incoming trauma, category 4.”

This time the PA was most definitely broadcasting a hospital wide announcement, and the irony wasn’t lost on Emma. Ruby looked positively forlorn at the interruption, but it was somewhat poetic after how they’d gotten here.

“Category four,” David repeated, standing immediately, prompting all of them to do the same. “We haven’t had a four since I started. We’re gonna need all hands on deck. Killian?”

“Aye, mate. I’m with you.” He looked back to Emma, and only had time for the swiftest goodbye. “Until next time, love.”

Emma and her friends watched them go, running towards the ER. Belatedly, they realized that if a trauma of that magnitude was coming into the hospital, there were bound to be surgical cases flooding their ward soon enough. They hustled back to their wing, focused once more on their jobs and the lives on the line that they were sworn to help heal and make better. But Emma still carried that moment with her for the rest of the day, and when the shift was over and done, and she’d done all she could to help the people in her care, she was left wondering what exactly Doctor Jones was hoping to ask, and when, oh when, he may try to do so again.

Post-Note: So there we have it. This was originally going to be a oneshot for my CS mixtape series, but alas, the muse wants what she wants, and this time that’s a three part mini-story for all of us to share. Hope that you guys have enjoyed so far and I would love to hear what you think! As always, thanks so much for reading, and I hope you are all staying well in this crazy time! xE

[spritewrites]

time travel doesn’t change everything

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Characters: the Hargreeves siblings

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Hi everybody! This is a collaborative fic (wow!) that @ticklishhargreeves and I have been working on for a while, based on an idea that we came up with together about three weeks ago. We wanted to incorporate a bunch of the headcanons we’ve come up with recently into a fic. We hope you enjoy!!

Allison’s room could best be described as a bit of a time capsule; posters from the beginning and middle of her career, drawings that she’d made and been gifted as a child, and family photos in the form of newspaper clippings. Going through the drawers and boxes under her bed provided nearly endless entertainment. A small gasp escaped from her grin when she pulled out one specific piece of paper that she’d forgotten about — a somewhat poorly drawn chart that depicted each of the Hargreeves siblings’ most ticklish spots. The tickle fights they’d had as children were sparse, considering they only really had free time for about an hour a week, but damn, were they competitive. This was the cheat sheet that she’d made to always get the upper hand. 

The colored pencil had smudged a bit, but Allison could still make out the faint markings of each of her brothers’ names. She smiled to herself, leaning back on a stack of books to read the chart. They’d been so young then, but she could still hear their laughter echoing down the mansion hallways, as clear as anything. She let out a small laugh at a note in the margin: Ask Mom for acrylic nails before next week.

“Everything okay?” Luther was leaning against her door frame, just a bit bigger than when they were kids, but still with that same kind smile. She smiled back.

“Just reminiscing. Check this out!” She held up the faded piece of paper for him to read.

“No way!” the large figure exclaimed, gently taking the chart from Allison’s hand and sitting on the side of her bed to look at it. “This is from all our —” 

“Tickle fights,” Allison interrupted with a laugh, “yeah. Crazy, right?”

“Yeah,” an awkward chuckle from Luther masked the slight nervousness he felt reading his name accompanied by the bullet-pointed notes: squeeze his calves, scribbles under toes, tops of feet are weirdly ticklish??, kicks a lot. “God, I haven’t been tickled in… years, probably.”

“You were so cute,” Allison giggled, and Luther wasn’t entirely sure that he liked the look she was giving him. “I wonder if this is still accurate.”

Luther cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, um, no way to know for sure, so-”

She had tackled him to the bed before he even knew what was happening. “Only one way to find out.”

She sat across his knees - “You kick, remember?” - and gave one of his calves a squeeze. Luther bolted upright, gasping.

“Um, I think there’s another way to find out! See, I could just tell you-”

“No,” Allison smiled, squeezing again and enjoying the desperate noise her brother made. “I’ve gotta test it to know for sure.”

He got as far as “Wait, Allison, please-” before he was choking back giggles, trying to worm his way out of Allison’s hold as her long nails skated over his ankles. She grinned.

“Okay, so squeezing your legs still definitely works. How about your feet?”

“No!” Luther cried, burying his face in a pillow and nearly squealing as she traced gentle lines over his soles. Allison giggled at the sound, scribbling over his heels and leaning forward to keep his straining legs from kicking.

“Feet are still pretty bad too. Thank God the serum didn’t affect these, huh?” She skittered her nails around the tops of his feet, and Luther let out a screech into his pillow. It was taking all of his strength to not… well, use his strength. 

“You remember that pedicure I dragged you into, right?” she laughed at the memory, and again at Luther’s quick nod into the pillow.

The screech turned into an uncharacteristically high-pitched yelp when Allison held his toes back with one hand, and skittered beneath them with the other. Finally, he’d began to laugh an endearingly childlike giggle. “AH - Allison,” he attempted to catch his breath with a forceful gasp as his massive arms squeezed the pillow to his face, and his legs shook, “Allison!”

Allison laughed at him and his sounds, almost not wanting to stop. “Alright, alright, I don’t want to kill you. Not yet, anyway.” She rolled off his legs to lay next to him on the bed, grinning from ear to ear. “Looks like your weak spots are still the same!”

Luther groaned, trying to catch his breath through the pillow (he wasn’t confident enough in the color of his face yet to look at her). “That was mean.”

“Hey, I was just consulting the chart!”

“You wrote the chart!”

“And I stand by it,” she teased, giving his leg a poke that made him twitch. She grabbed the paper and left the room, satisfied that her victim was suitably tickled out.

Luther rolled onto his back, panting. “Screw that chart.”

—

As she was leaving the room, Allison couldn’t help but notice the absence of Vanya’s name on the chart. It wasn’t a surprising fact. They never included her in anything as children, not even tickle fights. This fact still broke Allison’s heart, but of course, with the opportunity to make up for lost time, it’d be foolish not to take it… right? 

After spotting her much smaller sister reading on the couch, Allison made her way downstairs and plopped down right next to Vanya with a grin. 

Ever since their trip to the 60s, the sisters certainly developed a strong bond. Allison was, quite possibly. the one sibling that Vanya felt the most comfortable with; Klaus being a close second. Her attention drew away from the book in her hands, and towards her smiling sister. “Hey, Allison.” Vanya smiled, setting her book down, saving her place.

“Hey, um,” Allison subtly hid the chart by her other side, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous glint in her eye, “Vanya, are you ticklish? By any chance?” 

“Uh,” Vanya chuckled, shifting awkwardly with a shrug, “I - I think so. I mean, sometimes Sissy would touch my neck and it would feel kinda funny. Like the back, right here?” She touched the back of her neck to show her scheming sister exactly where she was ticklish. Big mistake.

“Oh,” Allison chuckled, not expecting this to be so easy. She sneakily reached her arm around the back of the couch, “Like, right… here?” 

Vanya twitched, letting out something akin to a squeak as her shoulders jumped up beside her ears. “I think - hey!” Her sister had begun tracing wicked fingers along the crease of her neck, her nails sliding effortlessly between the wrinkles to get at the weakest points. Vanya scrunched like a turtle, reaching back to swat at the offending hands, but the light touch made her limbs turn to jelly and her effort was not very coordinated. The endless stream of bubbly giggles, however, was new. 

Allison’s face lit up. “Looks like you are ticklish.”

Understatement of the century. Vanya opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a squeal when Allison’s tickles wandered down from her neck and over her shoulders, sneaking pokes in under her arms. 

“Where else, I wonder…” Allison mused, and slid her hands down her sister’s sides. Vanya’s spine nearly snapped with how quickly she arched her back, letting out a gasp. “Oh, here?”

“Allison, please!”

“Please what?” She tapped a nail on the curve of Vanya’s waist, prompting a high-pitched giggle. Vanya shook her head, seemingly struck dumb by the overwhelming feeling. Another pinch to her side, and she wriggled, curling in on herself. Unfortunately, this left the back of her neck unguarded, and with a smile, Allison reached to tickle her there. 

Vanya squealed. “Please, I can’t - mercy!”

Allison laughed at her sister’s reactions, easing off to just rub her shoulders. “Okay, so, neck and sides? Those are the big ones?”

The sigh of relief that escaped Vanya was soothing. “I - I guess so. I think?”

“Well, I still have more exploring to do, but I can be merciful for now,” Allison replied with a wink. “I’ll add you to the chart.”

“Chart?”

“Yeah, see?” She pulled out the piece of paper. Vanya’s eyes lit up.

“Oh my God, this is adorable. How old were we when you made this?”

Allison smiled. “I don’t know, ten maybe? We used to have these epic battles…” She trailed off, catching her sister’s eyes. “I’m sorry we didn’t - ”

Vanya held up a hand to silence her. “It’s okay. I’m included now.” She raked her gaze over the paper in her hands. “Luther was ticklish on his feet?”

Allison couldn’t stop her laugh. “Still is, I just tested it.”

“Shit, that’s goddamn… cute. All of these are so cute,” she said with a smile.

“Aren’t they?” Allison replied, snatching the paper once again with a cunning smile. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some notes to update and some experiments to run.”

—

It seemed like whenever she saw Klaus, he was always talking to some ghost. Usually arguing with them. Sometimes flirting, you never know. The conversation that Allison walked in on today, however, was definitely not flirting.

“Just shut up, you don’t have a goddamn clue… That’s what I said, you never fucking listen to - Allison!”

She paused in the doorframe, amused. “Am I interrupting?”

“What, this?” Klaus gestured vaguely at the armchair across from him. “Nah, nothing important. Just bonding, you know how it is.” He seemed to disconnect from Allison for a second, listening, and then shot a glare at the armchair. “Dickwad.”

Allison clapped her hand over her mouth at the insult, but not quickly enough to stop the laugh that escaped. Whoever it was, they had pissed Klaus off. “Okay, well, I was just going through some of my old stuff, and I found…” She pulled out the wrinkled piece of paper. “This.”

Klaus’ eyebrows furrowed. “Okay… What is that?”

“A chart I made when we were young, to win those fights we used to have.”

“What fights?” Before Allison could answer, her brother’s gaze flicked to the armchair and back to her. “The tickle fights? You made a… what did you say, a chart?”

She nodded. “It’s detailed.”

Klaus laughed. “So organized! Let me see -” He reached up, but she snatched it out of his grasp. 

“Nope, this is valuable information. But, I could let you see… if you participate in the experiment I’m running.”

Rolling green eyes, Klaus scoffed and lifted his arms up, a playful smile on his face as he looked away. He clearly already knew exactly what these so-called experiments were; perhaps Vanya’s laughter from downstairs was a giveaway. 

A smile played on Allison’s lips. She remembered how Klaus never really hated tickles, and acknowledged the note by his name: asks to be tickled all the time, listed alongside others such as SUPER ticklish armpits, tapped his hips once and he squeaked? maybe he’s ticklish there too? Haven’t tried yet. She laughed, launching her tickling fingers towards Klaus’ armpits, only to be stopped by him slamming his arms down at the last second.

“Sorry, sorry. Instinct,” he smiled, already giggling a bit, before lifting his arms again.

All of a sudden, his elbows shot down towards his hips as he choked on his laughter, “B-Ben! No!” Klaus collapsed to the floor within seconds, kicking his legs and screeching.

Allison smiled. Of course, only Ben could rile her brother up like that. Squinting, she smirked, noticing the placement of Klaus’ slapping hands, “Klaus? Ben’s not getting your hips, is he?” 

The silly noises he'd been making between silent laughter was accompanied by a desperate nod, messing up his long hair.

“Good!” Allison exclaimed, a bubbly tone to her voice, before lowering herself to the floor next to her flailing brother. “What a long overdue discovery.” Her pinch to his left hip felt more real than Ben’s spidery ghost tickles, and he squeaked. Her hands moved quickly, though, to lodge themselves under his arms while he was distracted.

The yelp that left Klaus’ mouth was loud enough to make Allison flinch slightly, but her hands stayed put. “Allison,” he whined, squeezing his arms to his sides as he simultaneously tried to roll away from Ben’s way-too-tangible thumbs digging into his hip bones.

She raised her eyebrows curiously as she twitched her fingers ever so slightly, relishing in the squirms and adorable gasps that followed. 

When Allison began to wiggle all ten of her fingers, plus the other ten digits, both on his worst spots, his eyes squeezed shut as his squeaks and laughs rose yet another octave. Curling in on himself, he shook his head, unable to shake either of his ruthless tickle-monster siblings.

“Tickie, tickie, tickle!” Allison cooed as she laughed along with him.

“What's wrong, Klausie? I thought you loved tickie, tickie, tickles.” Ben’s words were snide and Klaus could practically hear his stupid grin.

High-pitched giggles rolled out of his mouth as he grabbed onto a nearby throw pillow. “Stopstopstop, okay! Okay, jeez!” It was obvious that he wasn't that desperate for the tickles to stop; he really just needed a breather. Klaus threw the pillow in an attempt to hit Ben, but it just phased through him. Ben stuck his tongue out. 

“Asshole,” Klaus grumbled at his invisible brother. Allison laughed again, before leaning over to whisper something into Klaus’ ear. A noticeable smile washed over his face as he looked directly at his ghost brother, crawling towards him.

Ben's eyes widened as he stumbled backwards, falling back onto the armchair. His arms flailed, not knowing how to defend himself since it had been such a long time.  “Nonono, Klaus, what did she tell you? – EEP!” His reaction to Klaus’ quick and repetitive pokes to his stomach was immediate. 

The notes on the chart read really squeaky, ribs and stomach (but be careful!!!), starts begging after mere seconds, & very gullible, so easy to tickle. Ben had always been super easy to trick into getting tickled when they were younger; asking him to reach things in high up cabinets, challenging him to keep his arms up, and tons of tickle hugs.

He hadn’t been tickled since before he died, but it was just as unbearable as he remembered. He couldn’t hold back a squeak as Klaus prodded around the soft area just below his ribs, throwing an arm over his face to hide his blush. 

Klaus threw his head back and laughed. “Awww, I forgot that you were so sensitive, Benny! Guess now we know what’ll happen when you make fun of me, hmm?”

Ben wanted more than anything to snap back at his brother, but couldn’t possibly reply around his high-pitched giggle fit, so he settled on a squeal. “Allison! H-help!”

“She can’t hear you,” Klaus cooed, racing his fingertips up Ben’s ribs to elicit another adorable squeak, clearly amused. 

Allison laughed at the image of her brother kneeling on the floor, ruthlessly attacking absolutely nothing. “No, but I can picture it. Remember those physical exams that Grace would give us?” 

Every month, in order to keep them all in tip-top shape for missions, Grace would perform physical examinations. These exams, of course, included lots of pressing and prodding tummies with her cold robot hands, much to Diego and Ben’s dismay. Diego would often need to have a break after ten seconds, but Ben would always just giggle his little heart out, and could never sit still, try as he might.

Klaus giggled too. “Of course, dear little Benjamin could never stand those. Could you, Benerino?” Their brother merely cackled in response, batting helplessly at the tickling fingers. God, if this didn’t end soon, he was going to die again. Could ghosts die again?

“I… neeheed AIR, you asshole!”

“No you don’t,” Klaus replied simply, pinching at the skin right above his belly button. Ben shrieked, flailed, and ended up rolling off the armchair onto the ground. Klaus took it as a cue to stop and sat back, grinning at his work.

“What’s he look like?” Allison asked, not even trying to hide her sadistic smile.

Klaus grinned at the rumpled pile of ghost on the floor, who flipped him off. “Like shit.”

“Fuck off,” Ben replied, but he was smiling. Mission accomplished.

—

Diego frequently sat in his room alone, doing God knows what. The minute that Allison walked in, he was just twirling one of his knives in his hand. Turning around to look at his sister, who had been smiling at a piece of paper, his brows furrowed, “What?” 

Allison couldn’t help but chuckle to herself as she read the notes beside her stoic brother’s name: ticklish EVERYWHERE, pokes make him squirm, sometimes cries at tummy tickles, GET HIS BELLYBUTTON, & make sure he’s not holding anything. She remembered fondly how her and her brothers would always gang up on him and tickle him until he cried. Grace always had to step in to get them to stop. She cleared her throat, and looked over at him, turning the paper around to face him, “Remember this?” 

“Oh, ... yeah, from those - those fights we had when we were kids. Yeah.” Diego placed his knife down on the desk, and moved to stand up, subtly trying to escape what he feared was about to happen. 

“Hm, what kind of fights were those?”

“You - y’know. The -… the wrestling and stuff.” He silently cursed his sister for trying to make him say it; she knew that he absolutely hated the word, both hearing it and saying it… and experiencing it. Diego pretended to nonchalantly pace away in order to exit the room, only to make his way into the corner farthest from the door, where Allison was inconveniently standing. 

“I heard a rumor… that you can’t move until I start tickling you.” Allison sped up the last part of her rumor, making it so he couldn’t cover his ears as he typically used to. Walking over to him, she grinned and wiggled her fingers in the air, eyeing his torso.

A grunt left Diego’s already reluctantly smiling mouth as he attempted to tug on his legs in order to move, “Dammit! Screw you, Allison! - ACK!” His eyes squeezed shut, embarrassed at the slight giggle that he’d let out without her even touching him yet. 

“What is it, Diego? Surely, you've grown out of letting a few tickly fingers take you down?” Allison teased, poking his tummy with her two index fingers.

A snort escaped his mouth in an attempt to stifle the giggle fit that was bound to start as he doubled over. He tried to use his regained mobility to make a break for it, but it was too late. The momentum from the force he'd been using in his attempts to get away pushed him to the floor. He was absolutely cornered.

“Nonono — I-I, yes, I have grown out of it!” The way his arms were wrapped around his torso and the quick pace of his words, however, told a different story. “I’m seri - NO,” he yelped before dissolving into a squirmy puddle of silent giggles. Allison’s digits were swiftly poking and scratching at any spot they could reach.

“You’re what? Cereal? Serene? Can’t be serious; you’re giggling too much for that, silly.” Ever since they were children, Diego always seemed to bring out Allison’s most brutal teases. “It seems to me that you still might be the most ticklish one in this house, Diego! Tell me, how does it feel to have such a title?” She’d been able to latch her hands onto the sides of his stomach before wiggling her fingers into them. 

His laughter rose in volume when he opened his mouth to speak, “I-It tickles! - Shit, shit,” he squealed over Allison’s coos, “Sh-sh-shut up!” Saying the word, along with his embarrassingly childish reactions to such simple touches, was enough to redden his face. A squawk left his mouth when he felt a clawed hand digging into his lower tummy, dangerously close to his bellybutton. 

Allison stopped for a second, glancing down at both of Diego’s hands clutching onto her single hand on his stomach, and back up at her uncontrollably giggling brother. The grin on her face was the only thing that preceded her free hand flying straight towards his unguarded navel. 

Diego weakly pushed at her hands as he kicked his legs and screamed. His cackles now echoed through the whole house. Both of her hands were squaring in on his stomach and fuck, he couldn’t take it. “Allison - fuck! I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die, oh my God, stop,” Diego rambled quickly between gasps of laughter, tears forming in the corners of his eyes, much to his own chagrin, and Allison’s amusement.

He was just so fun to tickle. He always had been. Of course, Allison knew he wasn’t going to die; he was just over dramatic sometimes. “What’s the magic word?”

“F-Fuck off,” he growled.

Allison mimicked a buzzer noise as she continued to tickle and poke around Diego’s hypersensitive midriff, even adding a few pokes to his thigh, and pinches to his triceps, “Wrong.” She laughed at the rather adorable image of her brother, curled up in the corner of his room, hands flailing in an attempt to get the tickles to stop, and twitching away from every little touch. He really was ticklish just about everywhere. 

“I've gotta tell Lila about this,” Allison chuckled, making a mental note. “Imagine her finding out that you're ticklish on your shoulders. And your chest? She's gonna have a field day, I know it.”

A squeal, “Noho, okay, okay, please! Pleasepleaseplease, fuck,” he rolled over, yelling when the tickles didn’t stop, “Fucking please, Allison! Pleehease.”

“All right, you big baby!” She decided to finally let up, chuckling at the residual giggles that escaped Diego’s mouth. 

He clutched his stomach, wheezing. “Christ, I fucking… forgot what that felt like.” A warning look was shot towards his sister, “Don't you dare tell her.”

Allison grinned, poking him again and brightening when she was rewarded with a yelp. “I think we all did, and…” a quick spider over his tummy got him to curl up again, “I think I just might.”

—

Allison clutched the chart firmly in her fist, making her way up the many flights of stairs. Last but not least. She glanced at the notes by the scrawled out ‘Number Five:’ says he's not ticklish but we know he is, flinches when anyone touches his knees (especially the left one), and hiccups a lot after laughing really hard.

Bursting into his room, Allison, expecting him to be doing… well, whatever old man stuff he liked to do, was surprised to find her brother fast asleep in his bed. After all he’d been through, experiencing the apocalypse twice & back to back, he certainly deserved a nap or twelve. 

One thing that all of the siblings agreed on, though silently, was that Five was utterly adorable when he was asleep, and not snapping at anyone. Surely, just a smidge less adorable than when… 

A poke to the blanketed figure made his snoring breaths hitch, and then they continued as normal.

He’d napped long enough, Allison thought to herself, not knowing if he’d been sleeping for two minutes or two hours. Nothing could beat her infinite curiosity, though, about just where dear old Fivey was ticklish. It had been far too long, and she knew he was at least a little bad on his knees but there was no way that could be all. That little body definitely held tons of bottled up laughter over the years that just had to be let out.

Of course his right leg was sticking out of the mass of comforter and sheets. Of course it was. 

Allison quickly spidered her fingers right above the hem of his grey knee socks, that he even wore to bed, apparently. 

A sudden jerking motion under the covers followed as he stopped snoring.

“Fiiive,” Allison crooned in a somewhat warning tone. No answer. She pinched the sides of his knee, only to be awarded with a twitch and a “cough” that was far too loud to pass off as a cough. 

“Fuck off, Allison,” Five’s sleepy voice, muffled by the pillow, piped up.

“Okay, rude,” she replied, going in for the kill, skittering all five of her nails over his knee cap.

He internally cursed at the choking sound that escaped his throat, as he pulled his leg under the covers, in order to provide some defense. The blanket reshaped itself as he curled up, and Allison thought she heard a grumpy sigh through the fabric.

“Y’know, you might’ve spent almost 50 years without other people, but I would’ve thought that you’d remember at least some of your manners.” Another sigh. “No apology? Fine then.”

Allison sat right down on Five’s bed, and grabbed his left ankle, pulling it out from under the covers.

Before he could teleport away, he felt unbearably light and spidery tickles along the back of his knee. A screech that he couldn’t hope to suppress left his mouth, but only took seconds for the bubbly giggles, and the violent kicking, to begin. 

Allison’s steady hold on Five’s ankle turned out to be a major asset to her attack as his whole body thrashed around, tangling himself in his blanket and sheets. She couldn't help but flinch at the frantic movements and his other foot weakly pushing at her hip.

“Good to see little Five still has those tickly, tickly knees!” 

“Allison! Fucking,” he squeaked, unable to hold back the helpless laughter, “Fuck you! I’m gonna - ACK,” another giggle. “Dammit! I’ll fucking kill you!”

The giggles laced with threatening screams were delightfully familiar. “Sure you will, Giggles,” she teased, prodding and squeezing around his entire knee, adding some occasional rib tickles into the mix to make him twitch. 

Five’s hands flickered blue, but there was no way he could teleport with how unfocused he was. He felt like he was going crazy. It had been ages since he'd laughed so freely, let alone been tickled; certainly since before he left. The sensation, so completely disarming while also frustratingly familiar, overwhelmed him.

“Fuck you, I swear - shit! Oh my fucking g- Allison!”

“Yes?” She stuck her tongue out in concentration, digging into the spot just above his kneecap that made him scream. 

Five was in hell. His hands were still glowing, but never enough to do anything goddamn useful. He could feel his leg twitching, trying to kick, but Allison was merciless, and she had a lot more practice tickling his thirteen-year-old body than he had fighting off her adult reflexes. The giggles pouring out of his mouth were starting to grow hoarse, though, and he was pretty sure that if this kept up much longer, he’d actually go crazy.

“F-fine!”

“What was that?”

“I said - ” The tickling stopped, but his eyes locked on where Allison’s lethal nails were still hovering over his ribs. Flushed, he choked back a giggle. “I said fine, you fucking - ”

“Fine what?” Allison aimed a poke at the space between two ribs and he jerked.

“Fine, I’m sorry!” The hands withdrew, and Five curled into himself, breathing heavily through the last remaining chuckles. Allison blew on two fingertips like a gun, and dodged the smack that Five sent her way. 

“Fuck off. Hic.”

Allison’s eyes lit up. “There they are!”

“Huh? What are you - hic - talking about?” Five grumbled, pulling his knees into his chest and sucking in a big breath to try to stop the hiccups.

She grinned, pulling out the chart, and resisting the urge to reach out and poke his puffed cheeks. “I took notes.”

Five’s eyes widened, and he let out his breath, looking vaguely… impressed. “Holy shit. You’re thorough.” His eyes scanned over her scribbled words. “Diego? Really?”

Allison chuckled. “Really. I’m surprised you forgot, he’s the worst of all of us. Even worse than you.”

Five’s nose wrinkled, and he let out a childish snort. “Serves him right.”

“Oh, shut up, you ticklish little son of a bitch.” Diego muttered from the doorway... alongside Klaus, Vanya, and Luther.

Five spun and internally cursed at himself at the blush growing on his face, wondering how long the rest of his siblings had been there watching him get absolutely wrecked.

“I know you are but what am I,” he snapped back at his bigger but younger brother, who’d lunged towards him, ready for a battle.

Diego was blocked by Allison though, and he stopped, knowing not to cross her while she was in the terrifying mood she’d been in all day.

“Guys, enough. Can’t we have just one fun day without you at each other’s throats?”

“Y’know what, Allison, I know I didn’t get a very close look but…” Klaus clicked his tongue as his strong brows furrowed, “I don’t think I saw your name on that little chart.” He made his way over to his other siblings with an unmistakable glint in his eye and grabbed the chart from his sister’s hand. 

Allison always did have the upper hand in all their tickle fights, and now they all knew why.

“W-well, that’s because I made it.” The look that her family exchanged did not go unnoticed, and she stepped backwards, ending up stumbling onto Five’s bed. “Hey, hey guys, wait - ”

The chart was updated that day; Vanya’s handwriting scrawled next to Allison’s name, alongside cackly laughter, super ticklish neck and armpits!!!, accidentally kicked Luther in the head, & best sister ever.

[hale-13]

Febrile

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 23 - Sick

“Don’t,” Peter grouses, spitting out the last bit of bile in his mouth in the sink in the men’s restroom at Midtown and pointedly ignoring the look of disapproval both Ned and MJ are giving him in the mirror as he rinses his mouth out and washes his hands.

Words: 2101, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Gen

Relationships: Peter Parker & May Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Tony Stark, May Parker, Helen Cho

TW: Vomiting

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

“Don’t,” Peter grouses, spitting out the last bit of bile in his mouth in the sink in the men’s restroom at Midtown and pointedly ignoring the look of disapproval both Ned and MJ are giving him in the mirror as he rinses his mouth out and washes his hands.

“Peter,” Ned’s voice is exasperated and he looks irritated. MJ’s face is still (mostly) an indifferent mask but he can see her eyes brows pulling in the way they do when she’s concerned. “This has been going on for three days now,” he complains. “you have got to tell May.”

“Sure don’t,” Peter says, drying his hands off on a scratchy paper towel and trying to surreptitiously blot at his sweaty face before tossing it in the trash.

“You’re an idiot,” MJ tells him with an eye roll and a soft shove of her shoulder. It completely throws off Peter’s limited equilibrium and makes him sway into the wall. Ned’s glare becomes even sharper.

“I’m fine,” Peter tries and even he can hear the lie in his words now. He totally isn’t fine. He’s not fine at all actually. He’s had a fever, vomiting and stomach cramps for going on three days now and he’s just not used to getting and staying sick this long since he got bitten by the spider. A cold or a twenty-four hour hell flu? Sure. Consistent nausea and a low to mid grade fever for seventy-two hours? Unheard of.

“This is pointless,” MJ’s voice is monotone as she tosses Peter his phone which he fumbles, just barely catching it with the tips of sticky fingers.

“When did you take my phone?” He asks confused.

MJ guides him out the door and towards the front office – the exact opposite direction he needs to be going if he’s going to make it to his chemistry class. “I took it from your pocket when you were re-enacting the exorcism. Happy should be here in like ten minutes.”

“MJ,” Peter whines, not putting up a fight when Ned grabs his other arm to help with the pulling and directing. “I don’t need to go home.”

“Yes you do,” Ned’s tone is firm. “No one wants your flu Peter.”

“Alright that’s… fair,” he admits. “But my homework-,”

“We’ll get it for you,” MJ reassures as the office comes into view. She pushes him into one of the chairs sat outside and marches in to speak to the secretary. Peter pouts and crosses his arms. Yeah he feels like shit and he really just wants to sleep and, sure, his lower abdomen is really cramping and hurting but he got shot two weeks ago and the pain isn’t that bad. He can totally handle it. “You’re signed out,” Michelle tells him when she comes back, offering Ned a note to excuse his tardiness. “Let us know that you didn’t die okay loser?”

“Bye Peter!” Ned says brightly, back to his normal self now that he knows Peter is actually going home.

His friends finally gone, Peter drops all pretense and lets his face rest against the cool wall next to him, letting his eyes slip shut in relief – his forehead was burning. He pulled the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands and shivers. Maybe it is good that he goes home. He can take a nap and recuperate and be back at school tomorrow completely better.

Yeah. He just needs to nap.

“Well your scary girlfriend wasn’t kidding,” Mr. Stark’s voice rips Peter out of his near-sleep and has him blotting out of the chair, nearly falling over if he hadn’t caught himself on the way. “You look like shit kiddo.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter squeaks, surprised at seeing his mentor at his freaking school what the hell. “What uh… what are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?” Tony asks with good humor, looking at Peter over the top of his AR glasses with a concerned smile, eyes scraping over him in a clinical way. “I’m here to get you.”

“Uh no offense, but why?” Peter asks, tripping over his book bag on the floor and falling back into the chair. Tony raises an eyebrow.

“Because I’m one of your emergency contacts,” he answers like this is the most obvious thing ever and Peter blinks a little in confusion. Mr. Stark is one of his emergency contacts? Since when? He opens his mouth to ask this very question when a sudden bout of nausea rolls over him and he, instead, scrambles to his feet and down the hall to the nearest bathroom.

He barely makes it to the sink before he starts gagging and dry heaving, nothing coming up but leaving him feeling dizzy and light-headed. Peter leans his head against the porcelain of the sink with a low moan, gagging again on the end and leaning his face back over the sink to drool out the excess saliva in his mouth.

“Yikes,” he hears Mr. Stark mutter behind him and then a calloused hand is running carefully through his hair and resting on his forehead. Peter pushes his face into the cool palm subconsciously and keeps his eyes closed as he tries to push the nausea down. “Yeah you’re definitely coming back to the MedBay with me.”

Peter lets out a wordless whine but doesn’t protest beyond that. It has been three days of this after all – maybe it is a good idea to consult with a professional?

“Come on buddy,” Tony says as he slings Peter’s arm over his shoulder and starts dragging him out of the bathroom and towards the entrance to the school. “You have a date with Dr. Cho and your aunt is waiting to hear the results of her exam.”

Happy actually looks concerned when Peter sees him standing outside of one of the many town cars Mr. Stark owns and he doesn’t say anything when he takes Peter’s bag from Tony to put in the front seat. The leather of the back seats is cool and the interior is darkened by the tinted windows and Peter lets out a sigh of relief, resting his head against the window; already half asleep.

The drive is, thankfully, quick and Peter dozes through most of it – still nauseous but able to hold it down for the most part. Soon enough they pull into the underground garage of the Tower and Tony is hustling him into the elevator which rockets them up to the MedBay floor without either of them having to say anything.

“May wants you to call her once you get settles,” Tony says, rapidly texting on his phone.

Peter squints his eyes at his mentor. “I’m not sure how I feel about you two texting,” he says.

“Oh we’re besties,” Tony teases, pocketing the phone with a shit eating grin. “We have coffee every other Wednesday.”

“I… don’t know if you’re serious,” Peter says, concerned. He probably doesn’t want to know to be honest. The doors of the elevator trundle open and Tony steers Peter into an empty exam room, directing him to sit on the exam bed. It only takes a second before Dr. Cho bustles in.

“Hey Peter,” she says with a smile as she rubs hand sanitizer into her hands and grabs a set of gloves from the box on the wall. “Tony said you were sick. Want to tell me about what’s going on?

“Nausea mostly,” he says as she runs a thermometer across his forehead and frowns at the readout. “My stomach hurts.”

“Well you have a fever of just over one hundred and two,” she says as she clips a pulse ox reader to his finger and wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm and lets it run. “And your blood pressure is a little low,” she narrows her eyes at the reading and unhooks the machines. “Lay back for me?”

Peter does and stares at the ceiling as she starts to palpate his abdomen. He could probably fall asleep here actually if he – “OW!” He exclaims, curling away from Dr. Cho’s hands and wrapping his arms around his stomach to protect it.

“Well I have a tentative diagnosis,” she says snapping off her gloves. “We’ll do an ultrasound to confirm but, congratulations, Peter you have appendicitis.”

Peter and Tony both blink and then look at each other and then back. “For three days?” Tony questions, scooting Peter over to sit next to him on the bed and run a hand soothingly up and down Peter’s back. It doesn’t stop the stabbing pain in his abdomen but it helps.

“His healing factor is probably slowing down the progression, preventing it from rupturing as quickly as it could or should have,” she says, typing something into Peter’s chart on her StarkPad. “I’ll have a tech confirm with ultrasound and get a surgeon out to do the surgery. It’s pretty quick – one hour tops and then a few days recovery and you’ll be good as new.”

“Surgery?” Peter asks hoarsely, feeling his heart rate speed up. He’s never had surgery before.

Dr. Cho looks up at him and her face softens a little. “It’s an easy procedure,” she promises. “You won’t even realize that you’ve had it really and. Once you wake up, you’ll feel immediately better. Everything will be fine,” she promises and Peter nods with a gulp. He can feel stomach acid rising in his throat again and lunges for the emesis basin sitting on the bedside table, gagging into it.

“Let it all out Webs,” Tony says, rubbing his back sympathetically. “Got anything to help with this doc?”

“I’ll have the nurses start and IV and give him an anti-emetic,” she said, passing a new basin to Tony and taking the one from Peter’s slack grasp. “Just try to relax okay Peter?”

“This sucks,” he grumbles, letting his head fall over to rest on his mentor’s shoulder and relaxing when he feels Tony’s finger scrub though his hair to massage his aching head.

“Sure does kiddo,” Tony agrees, pulling the blanket up to Peter’s chest. “But at least its an easy fix.”

“I don’t want surgery,” Peter tells him quietly. Even with all of his many Spider-Man injuries he’s never had to be put under for anything. “Is May on her way?”

“Happy went to get her,” Tony promises him. “And surgery seems really scary but its not I promise. It’s like taking a really good nap and May and I will both be there alright? It’ll be fine Underoos.”

“Okay,” Peter says quietly, feeling slightly better but still a little concerned. But he would have May and Tony with him. It would be fine.

————————————————

“Guess we still need to tweak the anesthetic formula for you just a bit,” Mr. Stark says apologetically as he mops up the sweat on Peter’s brow with a damp cloth and supports him as he retches again. The surgery had gone well and had been quick. Waking up however?

Not so much.

“Just let it out baby,” May croons as she rubs his back, sweaty and making the thin hospital gown stick to his skin uncomfortably. Peter just gasps a little and squeezes his eyes closed, trying to take deep breaths through his nose to quell his nausea.

“I’m good,” Peter croaks a minute later, letting his aunt settle him back into the bed and fuss over him. He had barely woken up after the surgery before the vomiting started again. It had alarmed Tony but May and Dr. Cho had both determined that it was just a poor reaction to the anesthesia they used. With how fast him metabolism was, it should move through his system quickly.

“Can I get you anything sweetie?” May asked him, brushing his damp hair out of his face and sitting on the edge of the bed facing him.

“I’m okay,” Peter said, his eyes drooping from exhaustion. Tony squeezed his hand and tucked his blanket in a little tighter around him warming Peter up from the inside a little. He was so glad and thankful that he had the chance to get closer with Tony over the last couple months since the incident with the Vulture. The man was still a little awkward and learning how to be a mentor but he was trying and that’s all Peter could ask for. “Just want to sleep,” he said softly, letting his eyes slip closed.

“Okay baby,” he heard May whisper, running her fingers through his hair and Peter felt the ghost of a smile on his face. Yeah, he could probably handle this recovery.

[hermannsthumb]

From horny twitter: Hermann writes a very very detailed review of a vibrator online

not sfw below cut!!!!!!!!!!! 

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

Now, usually, Newt doesn’t mess around when he’s on the clock, because that’d be very unprofessional of him and that’s totally not who he is, but he’s in a little bit of a rut with his current project and could use the distraction. Online shopping is his favorite go-to distraction these days: he can lose himself in size charts and color options and hunts for coupon codes and forget, even for a few minutes, that the end of the world is accelerating towards them at an intimidating rate. Plus, he can write off half his shit as work-related expenses. Win-win. Though maybe not this particular search.

Newt has a pretty reliable arsenal of sex toys he’s used on rotation since he packed up and shipped across the world for the PPDC, but the ten-year warranty vibe he’s used since PhD #3 (and his favorite of the bunch) finally crapped out on him last week after a historically intense fight with Hermann got him historically wound up. Eleven years ain’t bad. After testing out a different charger, poking around in the wiring, and even going so far as to zap it a few times with some sorta-stolen drift tech to see if it stirred any life back into it, he finally decided it was time to just mourn, move on, and buy a new one. (Even if, unfortunately, his particular favorite model was discontinued when the company’s factory was destroyed in a kaiju attack and they never quite managed to recover. More casualties of the war.)

The sex toy market is truthfully booming during the apocalypse. It makes sense, Newt guesses—anything for a distraction. Personally, for Newt, orgasms tend to dampen his own existential dread, even if it’s just for a few minutes. He scrolls idly through a few Top Ten For 2023 listicles on various sex magazine websites to see if anything jumps out at him (some of the recommended toys are dildos he already has, and vibes that are a little beyond his k-sci paycheck), just hoping for something to jump out at him. Apparently he missed out on a limited-edition run of jaeger and kaiju-themed vibes and dildos that came out in early January, which he’s honestly a little pissed about—he’s the top expert on kaiju biology, god damn it! Didn’t anyone want to consult with him about their hypothetical junk? Accuracy matters.

“It’s all off,” Newt mutters grumpily as he examines a 360 view of one of the kaiju dildos. Trespasser. “It’s not even the right color. Fucking amateurs. Did they even try?”

“What are you doing?” Hermann says.

Newt slams his laptop shut. Hermann decided to cut his lunch break short today, apparently. “Shopping,” he says.

“You sounded awfully angry about something, is all,” Hermann says. He clacks over to his half of the lab and shrugs off his big parka, then pauses. “Do you need to...talk about it?”

“No,” Newt says.

Hermann breathes out in obvious relief. “Good,” he says.

He takes his usual spot at his chalkboard and resumes his calculating. Newt re-opens his laptop and scrolls away from Trespasser before he can make himself angry over anatomical inaccuracies again. The jaeger vibes from the collection are pretty cool, actually; the designs are a lot cleaner, and their artistic license is a lot more forgivable. The highest-rated of the set is one obviously (but not enough to invoke copyright infringement, if that can even exist for a jaeger) modeled off of Coyote Tango, with like, a million different settings, and an astronomical cost to match. Newt eyes it enviously. He could be shoving that up his ass right now if he’d just signed up for a stupid email list last year.

He follows the link to Amazon to read through some of the reviews enviously, too. Life-changing; best money ever spent; warranty lasts a lifetime. Ten stars across the board. Sold out, obviously. No idea when it’ll be back in stock. He could get the Striker Eureka model for twice the original cost as when it came out, if he wanted, but the idea of constantly having to associate the twenty-something punk Hansen kid with his intimate affairs makes him shudder.

A nine-star review for the Coyote Tango model from someone named MathLover69 is the only one to make Newt really pause, on account of how absolutely insane it is.

I saved quite a few paychecks to purchase this vibrator, and though the cost is steep, I must say it is absolutely worth it. As opposed to my normal vibrator (here another vibe is linked, and Newt’s eyebrows jump at that price, too), which has only five settings, an admittedly bulky body, and average battery life, the CT2023 has a generous ten, a sleeker design, and charges fully in a matter of minutes. The orgasms I have experienced while using it are higher in quality (and more numerous) than any resulting previously from masturbation, though I have not tried beyond setting six yet. It also works wonders for stress relief. (I have an incredibly irritating colleague, and nothing calms me down so much as a quick round with the CT2023 after a spat with him.)

The body is versatile enough to be either inserted into one’s—

Newt feels heat rise to his cheeks in spite of himself, and he skims the second paragraph of MathLover69’s review to get the gist of it—that there are, uh, plenty of ways to utilize the vibe, that it’s discreet and small enough to wear to work (if you were inclined to do so, as MathLover69 implies he might’ve been) and that when combined with the Yamarashi dildo, the pleasurable experience increased tenfold. Talk about oversharing. Jeez.

My only complaint would be that the design is a poor approximation of the real Coyote Tango, and for that I’ve docked a star. I would recommend this product.

“This guy is a total nut,” Newt says to himself.

“Hm?” Hermann says.

Newt considers the implications of showing Hermann the vibrator listing: Hermann will know he was shopping for sex toys, Hermann will know he was shopping for kaiju and jaeger-themed sex toys, Hermann will know he was shopping for kaiju and jaeger-themed sex toys during working hours a mere ten feet away from him. Embarrassing, but on the other hand, MathLover69’s review is too funny to not share with someone else. “Hey, Hermann,” Newt says, angling his laptop towards Hermann. “Look. Who comments shit like this?”

Hermann descends his ladder carefully and inches up behind Newt’s shoulder, squinting at his laptop screen. He immediately turns bright red. Newt must’ve offended his Victorian sensibilities with the mere suggestion of self-abuse. “Oh,” he says. “Er.”

“Way TMI,” Newt says. “Listen to this line. ‘With the Yamarashi toy inserted into one’s mouth, and the CT2023 inserted up one’s—'”

“Well, how else is one meant to review a masturbatory aid?” Hermann snaps, surprising Newt. He looks oddly flustered. “Details can be—er—helpful. Can’t they?”

“Sure, dude,” Newt snorts. “Except they’re obviously just screwing with people. They literally have a 69 in their username.” He taps at the MathLover69, and doesn’t mention—on behalf of Hermann’s delicate mathematician feelings—that the MathLover part is obviously meant as a joke too.

“Well,” Hermann says. “Perhaps it’s just his—er, their birthdate.”

Newt turns around to stare at Hermann, taking in his red cheeks, his red ears, and the gaze he’s fixed steadily on his shoes. It’s all Newt can do to not to gape at him. “Hermann, you’re kidding,” he says. “Right?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermann says.

“You didn’t,” Newt says.

“I,” Hermann stammers. “Well—”

“I didn’t even know you—”

“That I what?” Hermann says.

Newt gives a half-shrug. Hermann doesn’t seem the type to engage in any sort of vice, let alone this kind. And especially not with the type of sex toys he apparently gravitates towards. (If Newt was a little bolder, and had a little less shame and care for hygiene, he might ask to check out the Yamarashi, because anatomical inaccuracies aside, wow that sounds awesome.) “I mean, you know,” Newt says. “You’re kinda you. No offense.”

Hermann takes offense. “I am human,” he says. “I am allowed to masturbate, Newton, and I was merely attempting to educate other customers about the—product—with my thoroughness.” He adds, awkwardly, “My review was voted very helpful, as you can see.”

“Okay,” Newt says with a grin. “I get it. Sorry.”

Hermann marches back over to his side of the lab with a scowl. Newt waits until he’s sure Hermann’s not watching him, and is too distracted by muttering angrily under his breath, to bookmark MathLover69’s page of reviews.

It turns out (as Newt revisits the page later that night, in the privacy of his bunk) Hermann buys and reviews a truly staggering amount of dildos and sex toys, and on top of that, has absolutely zero filter behind the wall of anonymity. It’s to the extent that some of his reviews read like goddamn sexts.

It took me three occasions to successfully work myself up to taking in the entire length…

My orgasm was so pleasurable I alarmed my colleague with the noise I made, who believed me to have injured myself…

The highest vibration setting is a bit of a disappointment…

These are excellent for double penetration…

It also turns out Hermann is a veritable sex fiend. Or at least a masturbation fiend. Judging by his reviews alone, Hermann’s purchased more than a dozen different toys in the past three years alone. That’s four a year. One every three months. That’s not even including buttplugs, which (according to other reviews) he sometimes just wears into the lab (“work”) for the hell of it, which Newt isn’t even going to think about right now. How the hell has Hermann kept this much of his life under wraps? When the hell does he have time to jerk off as much as he apparently does? No wonder they never seem to have any fucking funding; all of Hermann’s paychecks are funneled directly into his—well.

Newt recalls the faux-injury incident Hermann mentioned in a comment with mild embarrassment. No wonder Hermann had been so weird and flushed when he opened his door, and made excuses to say bye to him so quickly—Newt just caught him (oh, boy) immediately following the best orgasm of his life. Well, mild embarrassment, and a little more than mild arousal. What Newt would’ve given to have been there five minutes earlier, to watch Hermann in the act of the best orgasm of his life, to maybe even be the one to cause it…

What Newt would give to use Hermann’s fancy-shmancy vibrator on him, or literally anything from his giant masturbatory arsenal. Or even just watch him use it on himself. Hermann’s just so damned buttoned-up and uptight—it’s all about the contradictions. Juxtapositions. Newt unzips his jeans and sticks his hand down his boxers. “Stupid Hermann,” he moans, as he begins to bring himself off to the image of Hermann with that stupid kaiju dildo down his throat and that stupid jaeger vibe up his ass. Negotiator of peace between the two? Stupid joke, stupid Hermann. Or maybe he’s picturing Hermann showing up to the lab, all plugged up and loose from using a different vibe on himself that morning. Or maybe Hermann pushing two dildos into himself at once. How the hell can he even manage that? Ass his size— “Oh, goddamn it,” Newt moans again, and comes all over his hand.

Whatever. It’s not like Hermann’s ever going to find out about this.

[lizacstuff]

Liza that 3rd fragman 👀 "if I was born a 100 times I'd fall in love with you everytime" Eda saying this is their last obstacle and nothing can separate them, serkan's "I'll be right back, close your eyes I'm here" If this isn't all a red flag for shits about to hit the fan then I don't know what is LOL (but also how cute to Edser look and them telling each other they love each other very much 😭😭😭)

That fragman is both the SWEETEST and the MOST OMINOUS thing I’ve ever seen. ALL AT ONCE.  

Friends... we’re gonna go through some things.  That being said, everything is going to be great. These writers have been solid so far, and I have faith they have come up with something really interesting to increase the longevity of this show. And I don’t know about you, but I’m prepared to go through some things if it means keeping Eda and Serkan for longer.  (I heart them)

This show is about Eda and Serkan and their love story, at it’s core it’s a comedy, it will all lead to happy things, but... yeah, buckle up! 

I have a lot of asks both about the fragman and last ep, so I’m going to answer a bunch under the cut. 

Anonymous said: The fandom theories about episode 28 have gotten so wild that I literally think the most shocking thing would be if they actually got married and were not separated (emotionally or physically). What if the earlier painful episodes were to make us believe that things couldn't possibly go right in 28 and it's a reverse psychology trick?

You could be right!  I like your thinking. I checked on twitter and I had to back away slowly. The juvenile temper tantrums were too much for me today.  

Look, I think it’s clear something big is coming. It has to, there has to be something that shakes up the show. Some of the theories are more upsetting and catastrophic than others, but the writers won’t do anything that dings either character or their love for one another.  Whatever happens will showcase the connection between these two and the chemistry between the actors, that’s the point of everything, and anything that does those things is gonna be a-okay with me. 

@jan31​ Hi Liza. Do you think we are going to see the wedding in 28 or they will leave it on a cliffhanger for next week. Lots of theories going round mainly cos of Neslihan saying new dimensions coming in episode 29, which could just mean married life etc. I have seen suggestions of memory loss, it's all a dream since episode one. I would personally love Eda to wake up like in episode one but for it to be a total turn around and she is the boss and Serkan the employee. Eda being robot yildiz appeals to me!!! I know it will never happen but leave me here with my dreams!!

I started the day at 90% sure they’ll be married in 28/29, but now I’m down to like 30% that they’ll get married in these episodes. I really, really want them to get married before whatever happens happens, because every scenario I can think of for this reset or starting again, seems like it would be better if they were married.  

However, the shooting spoilers from today, make me question that. Namely the videos where Hande appears to still be wearing the ring on her right hand. We shall see, that could be for many reasons. 

Honestly, though, I wouldn’t hate a memory loss storyline. Seeing one of them (and Serkan’s line in the trailer makes it seem like it might be him) lose their memory and have to fall in love all over again? There are worse fates for a shipper than getting to experience that all again but in a different way.  

Anonymous said: Your response to the fandom drama anon was so good, it's exactly how I feel. While I don't know what the old posts that were like are (that's shady as fuck) I did see all the other drama go down and wow. The actresses def need to stay in their lane and some of the fans, hoooo boy, it's obvious they're young based off their reactions alone. Had to unfollow some people once I realized what they were like. Also some of the IRL shipping reminded me of col*fer stuff, reading into everything and blowing it out of proportion (which then gets picked up by paps....). But you're right in that at least the show related drama is tame compared to OUAT. But still, people being too careless even while they know the paps see everything and harass Kerem and hande (omg did you see the video of hande the other day stopped in the van and she looked so overwhelmed 😔)

You’re referencing this post here about yesterday’s drama. 

Today Neslihan made it worse by addressing everything and claiming she didn’t like all those Hande-bashing posts because... wait for it... she was HACKED. Oy. Hackers got in and went back two years to like gross posts about Hande? Sure, Jan. While I don’t believe that for a second, I guess that at least gives her cover with Hande so they can all pretend it’s true and move on so it’s not awkward on set.  But, yikes, she needs to consult a publicist, she took a narrative that was circulating in certain circles in fandom and made sure all her followers were aware. Not very savvy. 

As for the paps coming after Hande, yes I did see her in the car, she did look overwhelmed. Back off vultures!!! That’s why I think Kerem sometimes throws himself to the wolves so that doesn’t happen. She always handles them like a pro, but you can tell she’d rather be anywhere else on earth than talking to them. 

The pap stuff is worse than I’ve seen before, they’re like vultures circling for any conjecture (sometimes made up out of thin air) they can turn into a question and blame fans. OUAT actors dealt with nothing like this. Also I can’t believe they never ask about the show. Like after last week? They could legit ask about the sex scene which probably would have given them some angle on the actors that they wanted, (especially since it was too hot for Turkish TV) but they let that pass them by, and instead asked the same questions about being together that they never answer. Dumbasses. They are not only awful people, they are awful at their jobs. 

In Van, the paps pay off crew members for info, they always know more than fans. Also I don’t remember stars of my shows getting this level of tabloid attention before. Except for on Riverdale, Lili and Cole generated that level of interest, and while I didn’t pay terribly close attention to them, I feel like they rarely talked to the paps, were just photographed. Also I don’t suspected the CW of calling the paps on them, but I suspect either the network or production company of sometimes calling them on Hande and Kerem. 

Anonymous said: Do you think it’s weird that they didn’t touch the kidnapping at all in either trailer? They might not have filmed it in time for the 1st one but certainly the 2nd. And I’m definitely not complaining about the ones we got because its like a fairytale but the kidnapping was the cliffhanger...? 🧐 I think they should’ve just left the princes storyline at “he went back to his country” but then they didn’t so......

If they’d left his story at just going back to his country, then the Prince really wouldn’t have served his purpose. He was brought on to cause some sort of trouble, so they probably need him to cause the trouble before he goes, lets hope it ends with this kidnapping!

And to answer your question, yes, I do think it’s weird that neither trailer touched on it. On any other show I’d think it was a huge red flag, but on this show maybe not as much because  a) there’s obviously a lot of romance in this episode, it’s not crazy that they are focusing on that to draw people in with the promos  b) this show likes to do cliffhangers that end up being no big deal, that happens a lot.  

Who knows it could turn out to be a big deal that shapes the rest of the episode in some unexpected way (Eda’s captured the whole episode and she’s dreaming about wedding prep, or... who knows) but I think it’s more likely that they resolve in the first 5-10 minutes and then move on.  Since we know from the summary (not that I trust those) that Serkan goes on the bachelor weekend, it feels like the Prince is taken care of prior to that. I don’t think he’d leave her alone for a second if there was a chance the Prince was still a threat. Perhaps Babaanne is pissed he tried to kidnap Eda and tells them she’ll handle it herself???

Anonymous said: Semiha not being in the promo is highkey suspicious. The actress is promoting the episode lol. She's about to Evil Queen this wedding ceremony but you know what, I'm fine with whatever she has planned if they end up married at the end of the day. What's funny is that since a lot of fans these days will assume that there will be shocking negative plot twists, not actually having one here would be a plot twist so I hope the writers keep them together for whatever's next haha

You’re not wrong, at this point, having this wedding take place would be a shocking twist for all of us!  As for Semiha... hmmm... it will be interesting to see what her reaction is to Eda being kidnapped by her pick of suitor. Serkan Bolat might be the son of the man indirectly responsible for her parents death, but he would never hurt her. Take note, Grandbag!  

Anonymous said: Do you mind sharing your speculative scenarios?

After the trailer today, I don’t know if I can even remember some of them. 

Memory loss

Grandma forces Serkan to choose between Eda and his company/wealth,  he chooses Eda and they start over from scratch with nothing

Time jump

AU starting over, showing a different path they might have taken together

Dream

These actors playing different characters in a new story

I don’t think the last three are likely, but they did spring to mind after some of Neslihan’s teases. 

Anonymous said: So this show doesn't get like fantastic ratings (it actually seems to be on the lower end compared to all other dizis airing) but the social media engagement is off the charts. Why is that?!? Is the show just extraordinarily popular internationally? or that this is a "shipping" show? I'm floored by the numbers - its like no other show/fandom is even trying

The ratings were terrific during the summer. But to your point, it has a huge fandom both in Turkey and internationally, but it’s worth noting that most of those charts you see where it beats every other show in every imaginable social metric is just for Turkey.  

It’s one of those lightning in a bottle situations where you get the right property and the right actors together at the right time and magic happens.  And, for sure, the number one reason is the shipping. Shipping drives fandom engagement, and a fantastic ship with a juicy, fun, tropey love story is what this show offers. It also offers up two extremely attractive, talented, likeable leads with off-the-charts chemistry (plus the added speculation about an off-camera relationship that has intrigued more than a few fans, tabloids and gossip sites and fueled interest) who have done a good job of building the fanbase through their social media engagement. Plus the timing is part of it as well. I don’t know about you, but this show hit the spot during this pandemic and the horror of 2020. We all needed this escape. 

Anonymous said:Do you think something happened in the writers room after the backlash of 25 and fan disappointment after Ayse's announcement? I feel like a switch flipped and now we're in fanficland with how much good content we've gotten in these last two episodes. Like I thought maybe they should wrap up the series soon before the characters got completely off the tracks but they may be finding their groove now and I'm interested to see what their next twist is after they can write out Balca/Seymen.

I don’t know about a switch flip, this show has been fanfic land since the first episode!  The tropes! That is how I described it to multiple people when I first started watching: an AU fanfic come to life.

As for the writing changes, no, I don’t think backlash after 25 affected 26 or 27, because 26 was already 90% shot, and 27 already written. However, I assume they themselves could tell that 25 got just too dark and had strayed pretty far from the DNA of the series. While I didn’t think it was bad, it was not fun to watch and this show ought to be fun to watch. 

Let’s hope, however, that the backlash affects future episodes in that they know what works... and what doesn’t.  The last two episodes definitely felt reminiscent of the first batch of episodes. Light, funny, romantic. If they can keep that tone... I’ll be thrilled.

Anonymous said: i didn't realize how much i missed "together" edser until watching 27.. it's been so long since they were "officially" together and we also had such few episodes of it.. ppl have been comparing it to 12 and while in some ways i agree, edser are always so different here than they were there. 12 was them navigating their new relationship.. they were more shy and finding their footing.. here they are very much established, as they should be after knowing their love for so long in comparison to 12!

Yes, it was lovely. You know I’ve preached a lot about how even though Eda and Serkan were broken up, they’ve still been together all this time. And it’s true, but there is something about them truly being together that is magical. We never got enough of that the first time around (a writing mistake in my opinion) and they’re so good together it’s lovely to watch. 

Anonymous said: Serkan not asking for help from Balca when asking his team for help with the marriage gifts preparations and refusing her offer of help when she asked made me so happy. Good job Serkan! He's learning! She's not trustworthy!

Yes, that was a good moment. And he was eyeing her very warily when she offered. The thing I don’t understand is how has no one caught on that she’s working with Babaanne? That entire office is filled with nosy people, has no one remarked on the number of times Balca has gone up to the office or they’ve disappeared for lunch at the same time? Come on Leyla! Come on Melo! Notice these things!  

Anonymous said: Fingers crossed that we finally make progress towards getting rid of Seiman & Balca now that all the girls were drugged and Eda was put in the car in the last episode. Unless Seiman has a change of heart and takes Eda back inside before anyone wakes & the guys get there then the show has to address it. Although I do not think Balca is going to back down unless Serkan straight up tells her he has zero interest in her and never will. Totally fine if that happens in the next episode.

Will Balca backdown even if she’s humiliated like that? She’s so delusional I’m not sure. What I am sure is that she’s dangerous. This came in before we saw the other two fragmans that have no mention of the kidnapping. Hard to picture how that is so easily resolved. Unless she frees herself (which seems unlikely in her groggy state) or maybe Melo’s future boyfriend is able to stop it before they get far?  Or I don’t know. I just know that I want to see Serkan lose his mind and all the other characters see Serkan lose his mind and then I want it to be over. LOL.

Anonymous said: As much as I am loving everything Edser, I cannot wait for Seiman, Balca and Grandma to be gone. And I am even more annoyed to think that the show might try to redeem all 3 characters. All 3 of them are truly awful people and no need to waste air time trying to make the audience think any different. Just my opinion...🤷🏻‍♀️. Show please finally expose those 3 for the psychos they are and get rid of them.

Bye bitches!  I don’t think there’s any redemption for Balca and Seiman. They both have poisoned/dosed people, hard to come back from that.  And there is no need to redeem them because neither is compelling enough to be a long-term character. But maybe Granny, we probably will see a redemption arc for her. 

Anonymous said: i know you were worried a few weeks ago that with ayse leaving as writer, we probably wouldn't have the same sort of comedy as previous episodes... but istg the whole kiz isteme scene, especially with chef alex, had me almost crying with laughter. especially when serkan off the cuff just goes "well if that's an option..." to everyone misunderstanding alex "wanting" ayfer for 2 nights and then eda ready to beat him with the flowers he bought her... comedic gold lmao.

SO GOOD! I was thrilled to see that sort of comedy, the sort of comedy we’d come to expect, from these writers. I think it bodes very well indeed!  

That scene was amazing. I know Neslihan said that much of it was improvised. Probably that line from Serkan (since Serkan is SO out-of-his-mind in love I’m not sure he could even joke about having Eda only two nights a week! LOL) was improv from Kerem, and Aydan asking about the other nights, and Seyfi bringing up the weekend. And Eda’s very Hande-esque “Ser-KAN.” 

I just love rewatching that scene and checking out everyone who is breaking character and just losing it. Cagri most of all. He’s blurred aback there but you can see Ferit spends the whole time laughing or trying to stifle a laugh. Reminds me of Cagri in the scene in 18 when they’re watching the security footage he was losing it in that scene as well. 

Anonymous said: i'm scared - I think they are really about to give us all of these happy EdSer scenes only to have something happen RIGHT before the wedding ceremony due to Babaanne. Based on the last episode, I don't think there's any chance of a breakup (knock on wood) but what if Serkan gets arrested, goes to jail for 2 years, and we get a time jump?

This was sent before the last two teasers, so yes I think something is gonna happen. We shall see!  I don’t really think Serkan going to jail for 2 years is in the cards, at least I hope not!  Besides if Babaanne did that she would have no hopes of ever reconciling with Eda, so that seems unlikely she’d follow through and leave him there for so long a time. 

Anonymous said: With the last week's sex scene, they did a lot of fade outs but the scene was basically still there so it wasn't much wasted effort for the actors. But for what they're teasing in episode 28 - idk how they can get away with showing them in the shower at all if Serkan lifting Eda with her clothes on had required blurring? Is Eda dropping her robe even pushing it? It's intriguing indeed.

Great questions. We’re 36 hours from finding out (well I'm longer than that because I wait for the English subs, hee hee) All I know is I want to see these scenes.. one way or another! 

[hangrypa]

s/p first year as a PA

I was hired as a hospitalist primarily for the transplant service. However, in the setting of the pandemic and staffing shortages, I am all over the place now and work in almost everything non-pediatric and non-surgical. 

In my first few months as a PA, I was incredibly overwhelmed. I went from being a learner who switches specialties every month to a fully-fledged provider making life-or-death decisions on an hourly basis. Oftentimes I’d find myself in the room of a patient actively crumping, surrounded by the patient’s family and multiple nurses awaiting instructions on what to do to save the patient. I thought that I faced a lot of pressure in school, but it was nothing compared to this. 

And just when I started to get a hang of it all, the pandemic hit. What a nightmare. As mentioned above, I was hired to work with with transplant patients. Prior to the pandemic, my transplant colleagues and I were masking and gowning for almost every patient: 1 surgical mask and 1 gown per patient and per patient encounter. But once COVID hit, we were rationing PPE. 1 N95, 1 pair of goggles, and 1 face shield for the pandemic. 1 surgical mask per week, and 1 gown only if a patient had Cdiff or a history of MDRO bacteremia.

What did the pandemic mean for our transplant patients? 

Our patients are on immunosuppressant medications to prevent transplant rejection. Unfortunately, this makes it difficult for them to fight infections. 

Our department did what it could to prevent COVID. We'd test patients on admission for COVID, regardless of symptoms or exposure history. If they were positive, they went to the COVID team and quarantined on their unit for a period of time and had to test negative before returning to our unit and being transplanted. We took many other measures to reduce COVID risk to the best of our ability. 

People still died. To see someone get transplanted successfully and then die of a virus is horrifying. Unfortunately, despite our admission tests, sometimes patients contracted COVID within the hospital. Patients would be happily FaceTiming their family one moment, telling them all of their plans for once they were discharged- then the next day they'd be intubated. We tried Remdesivir, Dexamethasone, prone positioning, etc. But the virus moved through them quickly, and these efforts often were too late. No amount of hoping and praying brought them back. 

As a first year PA, I learned to go to an empty conference room, close the door, and remove my mask before calling to the family of the deceased. This way, as they gathered around the phone in their homes, the family could hear me unmuffled as I delivered the news. Also, this way my tears didn't ruin my mask for the rest of the week. 

I learned a lot this year. It's been a mixture of crying and laughing. There are times that I question why I ever became a PA, and then there are times when this career feels like home. In addition to transplant, I’ve also been working in the  ED, IMC, ICU, inpatient hospice, clinic, and infusion center these past 6 months. I’ve learned quite a lot along the way.

Lessons learned as a first year PA:

1. Check your pager hourly: This is in addition to checking it whenever you get paged. Sometimes I’ll get paged while I’m rounding, read it, and then forget about it. Now I go through my pager at every hour to ensure that I already responded to all my pages and then answer ones that I missed/forgot.  On a semi-related note, a while back I wrote about good paging etiquette.

2. Let people know when you're out: I work a rotating schedule. As a result, it’s hard to predict when I’m in or out of the hospital. Sometimes I’ll come back on service and find urgent emails or texts that are a few days old. Now I leave an away message with my return date and my supervisor’s contact information on both email and hospital text. If someone really needs to get a hold of me, my supervisor has my personal cell phone number.

3. Be conscientious of what time you consult: I generally try to get all of my nonurgent consults done before 3pm. Many services have only 1 resident covering after 3pm, so I try not to page/call unless I have an emergency. 

4. Call the nurse if something needs to be done urgently: Being a nurse means being the ultimate multitasker. Room 5 is due for his IV Amphotericin, Room 2's Foley is supposed to come out prior to void trial with Urology, Room 1's infusion completed and is beeping, and Room 4 is a bit altered and yanked out her PICC. Now I’m placing an order for Room 3 to get IV Lasix due to concern for pulmonary edema. However, the nurse may be preoccupied with Room 4 and not see the order in the computer for some time. If I really need to the patient to get the Lasix right way, I’ll place the order through EMR and then call the nurse and see what their situation is. If they’re crazy busy with Room 4 and likely to be unable to get to the Lasix within the next 15min, I ask whether they’re okay with me asking another nurse to give the Lasix now. Usually the answer is yes.

5. Value your nurses: Nurses know the patient best. They’re the ones answering call bells, giving meds, doing dressing changes, etc. Unfortunately they oftentimes bear the brunt of everyone’s frustrations, from patients to patients’ families to attendings to managers. Not to mention, they’re the ones doing the dirty work. Bedside nurses are the heartbeat of healthcare, but they also are high risk for burnout. Always support your nurses, whether that’s volunteering to answer a patient’s family member’s 17th phone call of the day or responding to a patient’s call bell yourself. 

6. Know how to get a hold of someone quickly: It’s less than ideal to page someone repeatedly. At my hospital, if I need to talk to an attending urgently, I call the operator and ask them to connect me directly to the attending’s cell phone. If a patient is crashing and we’re not in the ICU, I dial the emergency number and call a rapid response, which sends people running into my patient’s room. 

7. Plan your discharge meds from Day 1: The goal of every admission is to treat the patient and then discharge them safely. Send medications early for prior auth and call the pharmacy to make sure that they have medications in stock. (One time a patient’s insurance didn’t cover Levofloxacin, of all things.) 

8. Keep social work and care coordination aware of all needs from the start: Does your patient looks unsteady? Place a PT/OT consult and let social work and care coordination know that the patient might require home therapy services and/or DME so that they can start looking at services and companies that may be covered by insurance. Does your patient have a central line? They’ll likely need a home health service to teach them how to care for it daily at home. Do they seem to require frequent transfusions? They’ll probably need labs on discharge. Is the patient’s living situation safe (no heat/AC, possible abuse at home, financial difficulties, etc)? They may need alternative housing.

9. The attending is not always right: Generally speaking, the attending has the last say on how the team manages a patient. However, I’ve come across situations in which an attending’s decision put a patient in more danger. Sometimes asking them about their decision can help steer the care plan toward better patient care. Other times you just have to stand your ground and be okay with being on the receiving end of an attending’s misdirected rant. Report these instances to your manager and to other higher-ups.

10. Always have gloves in your pocket: You never know when you’ll find a mess. Or which part of the body someone asks you to examine. Or how hygienic a person is (or is not).

11. Verify weird vitals: I was very new when I walked into work, opened a patient’s chart, and promptly bolted down the hallway when I saw a patient’s O2 sats recorded as 15-20s. I found the patient sitting up in bed, eating breakfast, and bewildered by me bursting into the room. Turns out that overnight someone mistakenly recorded his respirations as the O2 sats.

12. Remove whatever tubes you can: Anything entering the body is an infection risk. Does your patient still need that Foley placed by the surgery team? No? Yank it (don’t actually yank because ouch). Is your patient A&O and able to eat without aspirating? Remove the NG tube. Does your patient have good veins and require infrequent transfusions/labwork? Pull their central line.

13. Take a buddy with you to emergencies: Two heads are better than one. Even if you’re a seasoned provider and well-equipped to manage an emergency, you might need another body to help with performing CPR, making urgent calls, grabbing supplies, etc. 

14. Ask your patients about premeds for procedures: We all have different levels of pain tolerance. A procedure goes far more smoothly if your patient is comfortable. Note: if you’re going to premed with Ativan or an opiate in the outpatient setting, make sure they have a driver.

15. Be good to your charge nurse and unit secretary: I don’t know how they do it. If I had to manage the unit’s signout, patient complaints, calls from other floor, being yelled at by providers, verifying paper orders, and finding beds for incoming patients- all at the same time - I’d lose my mind. 

16. If your patient is mad, just shut up and listen: There are many things that you can’t control: the time it takes for a patient to get a room, the temperature of hospital food, the dismissive attitude of your attending, etc. And oftentimes the patient knows this. My reflex is to want to apologize for things and overexplain why different things are happening. But sometimes the patient just needs to rant. Take a step back and just listen. That can make all the difference.

17. Fact check your notes: The framework for your progress note often is the note from the day prior. It sounds obvious, but make sure that you go through the note and make updates and changes accordingly. If today is 01/15, there’s a good chance that the Fungitell from 12/31 is not still pending. 

18. Try to learn some nursing skills: This is one of the areas in which I most envy my NP colleagues. If a patient’s IV pump is beeping or their central line need to be flushed, I oftentimes awkwardly step out of the room and look vacantly into the distance for a nurse. I’ve finally figured out how to spike a bag (albeit I do so very slowly, and it certainly makes the RNs giggle some). I talked to our unit’s nurse manager, and she’s willing for me to learn some nursing skills from the staff during a slow day- we’ll see when thing slow down!

19. Be kind: Generally speaking, being in a hospital is stressful. Patients are feeling out of sorts, and staff are working with constant dinging in the background. I rant plenty on this website, but I’m kind to everyone at work (with few exceptions) because it makes things more comfortable for everyone. Additionally, if you are always kind to your patients and colleagues, your reputation will speak for itself. One time I was walking down a hall with poor reception while on my ASCOM with a notoriously standoffish nurse from another unit. My phone cut out. She called my unit’s nurse manager to complain, and the nurse manager told her that I would never hang up on purpose. My interactions with the nurse going forward were always more pleasant in nature.

20. Support your team: The best colleagues are not the smartest colleagues; the best coworkers are the ones who have your back. Whether it’s a medical emergency or just a strange situation, it’s important to be supported and to give support.

I know that I’ve learned a lot more than this, so I’ll likely be adding to this throughout the year. Happy Snow Day, all!

[whumpywhumper]

Consequences

There is a section before this that I’m finding impossible to finish, but there’s nothing that would make this impossible to understand. It’s a lot of world building/story building, but hopefully you guys like it? I literally live on feedback so drop me a note :)

It’s set in the Investigation section of the timeline, following New York Part 2.

Masterpost 

Tagging: @misspelledwitch @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @voidwhump @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @captivity-whump @liliability @muumimafia @fanastywhump @elisabethrosewrites @unsure-but-alive-752 @jeverest00 @texdoeshalo @quirkykayleetam

I legitimately would not write without the hype of these three ladies: @0idril0 @rosesareviolentlyread @walkingchemicalfire 

TW: Some medical talk but let me know if I need to add a warning

V***V 

“This is my least favorite part of this job,” Clint sighed as he looked over the amount of paperwork that was still waiting for review in the impromptu command station.

“Yeah, I find myself missing my TAC suit and a stand off when I’m facing a mountain of paperwork,” Ben mumbled around the pen between his teeth.

Clint chuckled, looking up as the door to the conference room opened.

From the corner of his eye, Clint caught Ben’s frown as Kincaid entered the room, immediately catching something in his partner’s demeanor that concerned him. Kinciad’s  normally genial face was solemn, and Clint got a bad feeling himself as he caught the concentrated smell of antiseptic and multiple sick persons over something warmer, softer.  

“You okay, sweetheart?” Ben asked, straightening from the folder he had bowed over, nodding at the doctor that followed, the flap of air from the man’s white coat explaining the smells that had concerned Clint. “What happened?”

Kincaid swallowed, walking robotically as he moved to sit next to his lover, who only became more concerned, dropping his pen and reaching for his hands. “You guys need to hear this. Go ahead, doc?”

Raising an eyebrow at the doctor, who was shooting him a quizzical look, he nodded his greeting and held out a hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m Clint.”

“Right, sorry Clint,” Kincaid huffed, rubbing his hand through his hair. “This is Dr. Decker, Dr. David Decker, he’s the head of the team on our John Doe. David, this is Clint Erickson, a consultant we’ve brought in on the case. He’s been read in, and we've already been given carte blanche by the social worker, so you’re free to give him any information like you would us.”

Dr. Decker took his hand in a firm grip, the tall, willowy man giving him a tight smile. “Good to meet you, you guys mind?” he asked, motioning toward the table.

“Not at all,” Ben murmured, his arm tight around Kincaid’s shoulders. “What’s going on, David?”

Setting the chart he’d been carrying under one arm on the table, the doctor sighed as he took the weight off of his feet, hissing as he stretched his legs. “Nothing good,” he answered, looking at Clint, “as Kincaid just informed you, I’m the lead intensivist treating the John Doe that was brought in. We are treating him for critical injuries, chronic sickness, and long term abuse. He’s been in one-on-one ICU care.”

He turned his gaze back to Ben and Kincaid. “I’m going to be blunt now, and I’m sorry cause I know how you’re taking this, Kincaid. He’s not getting better. He’s getting worse, a lot worse.

“When he was admitted, he was unconscious and in rapid decline. He was incubated in the field—“ he nodded to Kincaid and Ben, “—because he wasn’t able to maintain his airway. He was rushed to emergency surgery as soon as he arrived.

“Apparently, some fucking amateur of a surgeon attempted to make repairs following penetrating and blunt force trauma, but, with his lack of healing, those repairs didn’t hold up to the transport. Since the emergency surgery, we think he’s begun bleeding internally and has required transfusions to try and keep ahead of it—he’s just too weak right now for a follow up surgery so we’re trying to maintain without more invasive measures.”

David sighed, flipping open the chart and staring at the information there. His eyes didn’t move like he was reading, just looking through the information like he could find answers. “His labs are looking worse with each draw, he’s having unexplained seizures, and he’s just not healing the way that he should be. He’s going into organ failure, and he’s septic.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, David swallowed, not as unaffected as he wanted to project. “There’s only so much stress and pain that a body can take, and we don’t know how long this guy was held in that place. Nothing we’re doing is helping, and I don’t know how long he’s going to hang on like this.”

The doctor’s words rang in the following silence of the little room, both of the detectives leaning heavily on each other. Clint felt like he’d swallowed ice, the cold sitting heavily in his stomach.

“Fuck...” he muttered, hand rasping over his beard. He’d been doing this a long time, but it never got easier to rescue someone that wasn’t going to be able to enjoy their freedom again. That he couldn’t help.

“Look. . . I know I’m not supposed to know what’s going on here, what you guys are investigating. But there’s only so many fangmarks I can look at before I draw a whole hell of a lot of conclusions.” He huffed, re-crossing his arms, and glared at the chart in front of him. “None of the others brought in had this many, and—” he grimaced out the next words, “—you only work in this field for so long before you hear some rumors about ‘vamps and witches.’

“I can feel it, there’s something—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—supernatural going on, and I don’t know how to treat it. I’m fumbling around in the dark here trying to treat symptoms without the knowledge base to help, without even the knowledge base to know how what he went through affected him, and he is too sick for this.” He pressed his lips together, flicking his eyes up to catch Ben’s.

“Can you help me?”

Clint sighed as the two detectives turned to him, the doctor’s gaze following with barely a blink of surprise.

Of course, just when I would call Markus.

“The witch that I would normally contact about this has. . . passed away,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair, “but let me call someone who might be able to help. Do you mind talking to someone else?”

David shook his head after a confirmatory nod from the two detectives. Pulling his phone out of his pocket, Clint thumbed it open and pulled up Evan’s contact.

Putting the call on speaker, he left it to ring on the table, hoping the vet wasn’t too busy to take his call. After a few interminable rings, he answered.

“Hello?” Loud rustling accompanied the greeting, and Clint could hear the yips and barks of the clinic.

“Evan, it’s me.”

“Clint? What’s up? You okay?” A door slammed in the background, and the animal noises cut off.

“Yeah, man, I’m fine. In New York working a vamp ring, I could use your know-how.”

“I mean, sure, but I’m not sure what I could tell you about vamps that you don’t already know...?” The beastmaster trailed off, confusion plain in his tone.

Clint grimaced, avoiding the other’s concerned gazes. Evan wasn’t going to like this next part.

“It’s not really the vamps I need your help with, man. There’s a witch here that got caught up in the ring, he’s not doing well, and I need—“

Evan cut him off before he could even finish, anger making his voice snap over the line.

“No, Clint, damnit, I’ve told you. I’m not trained for people, I’m a damn vet—“

“Evan, listen—” he tried to break in, but the other man wasn’t to be deterred.

“—I don’t need that responsibility, and I don’t want it. Did you even listen to what Deanna or Illyn had to say?”

Clint sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He really didn’t want to get into this in front of three practical strangers, but the beastmaster was adamant about not treating people unless absolutely necessary. “Deanna won’t take my calls anymore after Markus—none of his coven will—and Illyn isn’t educated enough or in a place to be of any use in this situation. If anyone else would get back to me right away, I would be calling them, not you.”

His friend was silent on the other end of the line, and Clint suppressed a strangled growl. “This guy is literally dying, Evan, please.”

A huff answered his plea, and Clint could practically see the other man’s face creasing into a pained frown. “Goddamnit,” he muttered, “fine, but you owe me.”

Something released in Clint’s chest, and he let out a shaky breath. “Thanks, man.”

He turned to the other men in the room, trying to give a hopeful smile that was probably more pained than anything. “You’re on speaker phone; I got two detectives here with me and the lead doctor on the case. Hopefully they can answer any questions you got.”

David introduced himself without any more preamble, repeating what he’d just told Clint but including more technical jargon than he had with him or the detectives as laymen. He listened with half an ear as Evan asked questions of the doctor, Ben and Kincaid filling in what they’d deduced about the witch’s captivity and treatment, the majority of the wolf’s attention set on what kind of hell the guy had gone through.

Evan’s voice pulled him back from imagining the guy’s broken body and the reactions of his family if they were ever found.

“So, let me set this out: this witch was fed on vociferously by a vamp; held above ground, away from the earth, in a concrete box with no sunlight for who knows how long; critically injured and ill; and, now, he’s not healing.”

“That about sums it up, yeah,” Kincaid deadpanned, a dark look on his face.

“Was there any evidence of iron use?”

Clint felt a cold hand grab hold of his sternum, and he dropped his head down, scratching his nails down the back of his neck. “Oh shit,” he hissed, a growing realization dawning, “I should’ve thought of that.”

Evan hummed in acknowledgement. “Probably, but there’s a reason you always called me or Markus after you’ve found someone. Treatment isn’t your area of expertise.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Ben cut in, the three men leaning forward with identical looks of agitation.

“It sounds like, on top of everything else, he’s going through something commonly called magical exhaustion.” The vet had his educator’s hat on, his calm voice rumbling through the speaker in tinny waves. “It doesn’t always happen, but a part of a witch’s physical make up is magic. If they use too much without the opportunity to recharge then they can get really sick. Depending on the severity, it can be fatal.”

Clint continued for him when Evan hesitated over a sigh. “In a case like this one, where the witch is being given the opportunity to recover without interference, then you have to be on the lookout for something that’s blocked that ability to do so.

“Iron, cold wrought iron, is like poison to a large number of supernaturals. It’s in all of the fairy tales: for example, it can burn a Fae like a motherfucker and makes controlling a were’s shift or were-state...let’s just say, problematic.”

Clint suppressed a snarl at a decidedly unpleasant memory, his eyes flashing a very brief yellow. He felt a stab of contrition when David flinched backward in alarm, his eyes widening, and pulled himself back with some difficulty before continuing.

“For witches, it interferes with their ability to naturally produce or access their magic, and with such a critically injured witch, one who was trying to cope with long term trauma and magic drainage, shrugging that block off would’ve been an astronomical impossibility.”

If he’d even wanted to, Clint thought darkly.

“So it’s like he’s not producing the chemicals his body needs,” David interjected, still giving Clint a wide side-eye after seeing his eyes change, his fingers drumming on the table. “How do I fix it?”

And that was the real question, wasn’t it? God, what he wouldn’t do to have Markus or his coven’s help.

Evan’s sigh was like static over the line. “It would be too much to ask if you found his grahm anywhere, wouldn’t it?”

Catching the twin looks of dejection from the detectives, Clint shook his head as he answered. “You’d be right about that, Evan.”

“Damnit,” the vet cursed. “The only thing I can think of is something I would recommend for one of my patients—get him in nature, bury him in dirt and sunshine and hope that it would break the block down.”

Like he could sense David’s horrified expression, Evan cut off the doctor’s objections. “I know that’s not possible in this case, so I’m going to recommend the next best thing. Get a house plant, one of those that has a really strong root system, and bury his hand in it. I bet you his magic will latch onto it, maybe it’ll help. If his room has windows, give him as much natural light as possible.”

Clint heard Evan shifting in his seat, a small, sad laugh coloring the line. “I guess you guys don’t let animals into your ICU wards, right?”

“I’ll authorize whatever you think might help,” David corrected, “I already told these guys, but we’re out of our league here, and we all know it. These nurses are protective as hell, and this guy has no one but our boys in blue here and an overworked social worker. If I don’t do something to try and help cause I’m scared of administration then I’ll face a damn mutiny.��

“In that case, get a therapy animal in there. Familiars are a real thing and witches use them for a reason—it won’t be as effective as if it was this guy’s actual familiar, but it won’t hurt.”

Ben and Kincaid shared a look before the latter opened his mouth. “I’ll give Justin a call, and have him bring in Delta. She’s well trained enough, and he seemed to positively respond to her when he was conscious.”

David nodded his assent. “Olivia’s a hard-ass about her being on the floor, but she’ll feel better about Delta than any other animal.”

“What about getting him a grahm?” Ben asked. “You mentioned finding his, surely we could get one for him.”

Clint and Kincaid were already shaking their heads.

“Too personal to each individual witch,” Clint answered, “A healthy witch can channel through someone else’s grahm, but I doubt it would do more than muddle the waters for someone in this guy’s position.”

Humming in affirmation, Evan explained. “I mentioned this guy’s grahm because it might have acted like a jump start, but anything this witch wasn’t involved in making or wasn’t made specifically for his magical pattern might hurt him, and you can’t get a read on his magical pattern if he’s not producing magic.”

Silence reigned at this information, the catch-22 of their situation not settling well with any of the people in the room.

“That’s all I can think to do right now,” Evan stated after a moment, frustration evident in his voice. “I’ll give Deanna a call, see if she’ll give me any more insight.” He didn’t pause before continuing, not giving Clint the opportunity to cut him off, even if the other men heard it. “She’s hurting, Clint, but she doesn’t actually blame you for Markus. She won’t refuse to help this guy just cause you’re working the case.”

Evan knew him too well, but even his words didn’t do anything to soothe the pang of hurt in his chest, his guilt resurfacing. “Thanks, Evan,” he said, voice rough, “let us know if you find anything out, okay?”

“Yeah, man, I’ll let you know.”

David didn’t stick around for much more discussion after the line went dead, walking out of the command station with a mission in his step.

Ben and Kincaid were silent for a few minutes though, leaning into each other’s spaces. A string of envy wrapped itself around Clint’s ribs, pulling tight. What wouldn’t I do to give Nico a hug right now?

Clint sighed, ruffing up the back of his hair as he pulled out his phone. “I’ll send Holland a text updating him on John Doe’s condition and what Evan recommended. Kincaid, you update Justin, I think the faster we get Delta in here the better.”

Nodding, the younger man pulled his phone out and started typing. “He and Delta should be on their way back in, I’ll let him know to hurry.” His face twisted on his next words. “Man, I can’t get the image out of my head-“ he looked at Ben, eyes sorrowful, “-when he was petting Delta. . . “

“Yeah. . .fuck, this case sucks.”

Eyebrows furrowing, Clint cocked his head. “You said that he was conscious at one point, you weren’t able to get a name out of him?“

They both shook their heads, starting to pull more files over to work on. “No, he was too sick,” Ben answered. “Tried to talk, started coughing, and his vitals just tanked. It couldn’t have been ten minutes later, when we were getting him in the ambulance, that he stopped breathing on his own and we had to intubate.”

All three of them sighed, shaking their heads as they tried to shake the depressed atmosphere. It would be a good time for a dark joke, the life blood of career law enforcement, but he couldn’t find the energy.

Turning back to the transcript he’d been reading when David came in, his phone buzzed as Holland texted him back. He cracked a grin as he read the message. Trust Holland to not disappoint.  “You old bastard,” he chuckled.

Ben made a quizzical noise, glancing up from a morbid photograph of blood streaked concrete.

Clint held out the phone, grinning wildly at the man’s snark. “Holland asks if he needs to pick up any essential oils on his way back. Apparently his wife really likes Blue Chamomile before bedtime.”

Ben grinned as he took the proffered phone, reading the text from Holland before shaking his head and dismissing the notification. “He just likes to be contrary, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Clint leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head and stretching. Closing his eyes blissfully as the tension released in his shoulders. “Stubborn old bastard will be doing this from the grave.”

“This looks like a fun crowd, these your friends?”

Releasing the stretch, Clint blinked his eyes open in confusion, and saw Ben examining his home screen. An uncomfortable curl of sadness turned over in his stomach, but he smiled and nodded. “That’s the group back in Louisiana. We got Markus’s coven and the rest of the pack together for a going away party. It was a good time.”

Ben paused as he examined the photo closer, turning the screen away from Kincaid’s curious gaze and shaking his head. The edges of his perpetual smile formed into a frown on his next question.

“. . . Clint, didn’t you say your witch friend, Markus, was . . . gone?”

“Yeah, uh. . . yeah he is.” Heart sinking in his chest at the unexpected question, Clint swallowed past a sudden lump, words coming carefully. “He. . .uh, he went missing several months ago in Massachusetts.”

Hands shaking, he took the phone back from Ben and doused the screen, placing it face down on the table.  He felt his shoulders try to hitch up around his ears, but he forced them to relax as he curled his hands around themselves. “We knew, uh. . . fuck,” he muttered, already feeling some tears forming on his eyelashes, “we knew that he was taken—violently taken. He called Illyn, said that he’d been shot. That he was scared.”

Kincaid frowned with him, a sympathetic hand tapping the table between them. It made the wolf smile, sure as anything that he’d been welcomed into these men’s pack; that knowledge was a comforting weight fitting snugly around his heart.

Clint cleared his throat, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, and breathed out slowly. His talk with Holland was too fresh for this conversation, but it didn’t help anything to pretend it didn’t happen. Plus, he felt like these guys deserved to know after the discussion with Evan.  They’d pull him out of it if he got too low or distracted to help with the case.

So, he forced himself to continue.

“We could never pin down who took him. It’s an unusual M.O. for a supernatural to use a gun like that but. . . there just weren’t any other leads.“

Fuck. . . fuck, it’s such an unusual M.O., and I still can’t find a goddamn suspect. Still haven’t found him. What kind of fucking investigator am I?

What kinda friend?

I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Markus.

“Did it have to be a supernatural?”  Ben drew Clint back from his spiral with the question, putting a stilling hand on a confused Kincaid’s shoulder as he gave him a warning look.  

Clint huffed a strangled laugh, looking down at the table with a humorless smile. “Yeah, yeah, it woulda had to have been. One ‘a the few things Markus told Illyn was that he had to use a lot of magic to get some distance. Markus is. . .” he sucked in a pained breath through his teeth, “was, a very powerful witch. Even though he didn’t have his grahm on him, it woulda been hard, damn hard, for some supernatural to take him if he had the opportunity to use his magic. No way a human could have.”

Ben nodded in the corner of Clint’s vision. “That makes sense, no idea what kind of supernatural did it?”

Clenching his jaw around the residual anger at Illyn and himself, Clint shook his head. “By the time I was called in, the scene was 40 plus hours cold. I couldn’t even be there for the first week, I was in Montana wrapping up the investigation on a child-trafficking ring. Roxanne, the friend I called in to investigate, suspected a vamp, but she couldn’t get much of a read on the scene with that much decay and the foot traffic that came through it. All of her leads eventually ran cold.”

Both officers grimaced, knowing intimately how difficult it was to investigate a scene like that, putting together the pieces of his guilt. Clint shared a commiserating smile with both of them before studiously examining his thumb nail, continuing the story.

“Illyn,” he sighed, the gust of air shimmying the papers on the table, “Illyn was able to get a brief limited-telepathic link within the two days after he was taken. All she got was that he was in pain and that he was being kept in a concrete room with fluorescent lights. She stated that he couldn’t have been 50 miles from where he was taken at the time of contact, so that’s where we concentrated our search. There wasn’t any further contact.

“We never found a body, but with the violence of the attack, the amount of pain that he was in. . . “ He felt a shudder crawl down his back, his esophagus trying to curl up into a knot before he could clear his throat. He kept his gaze locked on his hands, not wanting to see the looks on their faces. “Statistically speaking, even in a normal case, it’s unlikely that he would have survived this long, but a witch of his caliber. . .”

“They don’t tend to last very long when they’ve been taken within the supernatural community,” Ben finished for him. Clint nodded, biting his lip, fighting the urge to rub at his face. “Clint. . . Do you mind if I have a second look at that picture?”

“Nah, ‘course not.” He slid his phone back over, not quite feeling the bewilderment growing in his stomach at the request.

He watched Ben pick the phone back up like it was a bomb, taking a deep breath before tapping the screen. He nodded to himself, biting at his cheek before turning the screen toward Kincaid. “Tell me what you see, Kin’,” he all but whispered.

Clint froze as he watched all of the blood drain from Kincaid’s face.

“Oh, fuck. . .”