#also sorry I drew him so pathetic wet cat but he is so *holds him in my palms gently* | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

magalidragon · 3 years

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Okay drabble #2 for @lalacristina18 ‘s ask! Hope you like this one! It’s a little silly and kind of Fixer Upper Fanfiction ( @nlights37 is that a thing? I’m doing it) meets my drabble “wet paint.”

Enjoy!

haunted house | 30. “You better watch yourself”

It was the dumbest thing she had ever done.

Except she felt like she had to do it.

How else was she going to get the cute handyman to ask her out?

"Just ask him out!" her best friend shouted, as she took a crowbar to the siding on her house, prying up the nails. Missandei was used to most of her antics, but she knew this was going too far. She watched, amazed, slightly terrified, and in awe, muttering, "You have gone mental Daenerys."

Maybe she had gone mental, but she was also put off by how attractive the handyman was. He was incredibly sweet. A little goofy; he apologized one day when he showed up in thick black glasses, saying he'd forgotten to put his contacts in before he left the house. She had wondered why someone would apologize for that, but she soon learned that Jon Snow, Handyman Extraordinaire, apologized for quite a few things that were in no way his fault or under his control.

Like when he couldn't get a part in time to fix her hot water tank, because it was a weekend and the store was closed. "No problem, guess I'll see you Monday," she had simply said with a smile and a cheerful glee, because she knew they were closed on the weekend and he'd have to come back Monday.

Or when she had purposefully yanked out some sort of fuse in her car so it wouldn't start and he had apologized that it had gone missing. "Not your fault at all!" Because it's totally my fault and then she'd pretended to find the fuse on the ground. "Will this fix it?"

He frowned at the tiny piece of place and wire. "Um, aye, that's so weird..."

Today she was going to claim there was something wrong with her siding and it needed to be replaced. She dropped the crowbar, wiping sweat off her forehead, and placed her hands on her hips, glancing at Missandei, who was shaking her head side-to-side. "What?"

"Just bloody ask him out! I'll do it for you. You're destroying your house just to get him to come over." She smirked. "He has to know what you're doing. He's just taking your money and knowing you're using him which is wrong, or he's really bloody stupid and that's not great either."

"You haven't met him yet."

"What guy could be so attractive and cute and sweet and all that for you to resort to this!?" Missandei waved her hands at the splintered wood at her feet. She sighed, closing her eyes. "Dany, love, you are my best friend but..."

"Good morning!"

Dany threw the crowbar into the bushes, spinning on her heels and beaming at the man who had poked his head around the open fence to her back garden. She waved. "Hello Jon! Good morning to you!" She rounded on Missandei, who stared at him and smirked knowingly. "You're a little early."

He turned pink, coming around the corner holding onto his toolbox. "Aye, sorry about that, I thought I might get you a coffee..." he trailed off and politely smiled at Missandei. "Oh I am sorry, I would have gotten another....here, you can have mine if you want."

To her best friend's stunned silence, he removed one of the two takeout coffee cups from the tray in his other hand and passed it to her. Missandei swallowed hard, clearing her throat. "Thank you, that's...so nice of you."

He smiled again in his shy, half-smile way that Dany absolutely bloody adored, and turned his face to her. "You called last night and said that your bathroom pipes were leaking again? I don't know what is going on, I mean..." He scratched his hair, brow furrowing, and gazed up at the old-as-shit house she had purchased with intent to completely renovate. "I swear I just fixed those..."

"Oh you did, I'm sure this place is cursed."

"By a Valyrian dragon," Missandei mumbled under her breath.

Dany stepped on her foot and crossed her arms, grinning. "And would you look at this? This siding is rotten, I think we'll need to replace it."

"Um, yes of course." He knelt and picked up some of the wood, shaking his head. "You must have an angry ghost Dany, this looks like someone took a crowbar to it." He was immediately concerned, jumping to his feet. "You should file a police report, someone could be vandalizing your property!"

Missandei sipped her free coffee and mumbled again, not so quietly, "Hmm, someone with silver hair I think."

"What?" Jon asked.

"Ignore her, she's mad." She forced another smile. "It's fine. I...thank you Jon, perhaps look at those pipes first and then we can look at the siding."

"I have wood," he blurted out.

Missandei choked. Dany flushed bright red. "Oh?"

"Hmm, in the truck. Be right back." He turned on his heel and walked away. Dany elbowed her best friend, who stared now at his retreating back.

"Oh my."

"It's beautiful. I just like to look at it."

Missandei patted her arm. "Daenerys you are my best friend, but if you don't ask him out by the end of the day, I'm going to tell him everything you've been doing and only because I'm scared you might set your house on fire just to watch him come running in with the fire hose."

Dany hummed. The idea was appealing, but arson was certainly not an option.

Yet.

---

It was the end of the day; she'd tried her damndest to get him to ask her out. Missandei had left, becaus she claimed she couldn't watch it any longer, proclaiming them both "stupid idiots" and Dany had to agree. She was a stupid idiot, trying to get him to look at her as something other than the crazy lady in the haunted house. She'd worn her bikini top while gardening, she'd broken her siding, and stuffed leaves in her gutters.

And Jon Snow still didn't bloody get it.

Maybe he was stupid, she thought, and watched him bent over some exposed pipes in the hallway leading to the master bedroom. A himbo or something. Except she knew he wasn't, because she'd seen that he had a stack of books in his truck to return to the library, one of which happened to be her brother's boring ass tome on Targaryen History, and he'd eagerly chatted with her about it.

"So why are you a contractor?" she asked. She kept referring to him as a handyman, but reminded herself he was more than that. He ran his own business and lumber yard up in Winterfell. "Do you just like fixing things?"

He shrugged, reaching his arm down into the pipes. "I do like fixing things, but when I got out of the military, nothing really appealed to me. Didn't want a boss again and I like building things. Working on my own terms."

"I like that too." It was why she moved up North, a freelance journalist, and needing a safe quiet space to recharge and focus between assignments. She got up and cleared her throat. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." She was halfway down the stairs when she heard a strange sound. It was a yowl.

It sounded like Drogon, she thought, turning towards the wall. "Drogon?" she called.

He meowed again, pitiful. She moved closer towards the wall and knocked. Her voice trembled, calling once more. "Drogon?"

A light scratching and more yowling.

She screamed, realizing with horror that Drogon was inside the bloody wall. "DROGON!" She banged on the wall, running up the stairs, crying out. "Jon! Drogon's in the wall!"

"What?"

"I think he must have crawled in when we were talking and not looking, oh my gods, Drogon!"

Jon frowned at her, still not moving. He narrowed his eyes. "Drogon's in the wall, huh?"

"I think so."

He cocked his head and got to his feet, sighing hard. "Dany, I...I think I know what's going on and..." He turned bright pink. "I really have to confess something..." He shifted on his feet and blurted out, really fast, his Northern burr thick. "I...I know that not everything here is breaking and...and I'm fixing it and stuff, but...well...the store was open and I didn't get hte part because I wanted to come see you and...and I may not have cleaned the gutters all the way so I could come back and...oh gods, I haven't charged you at all because I'm just...I like you!"

Her eyes widened, too terrified for her cat to process what he'd just admitted to her. "But...I...I'm sorry, but he's really in the wall! Listen!"

They both were quiet and after a second, heard the pathetic howling of a trapped cat.

Jon moaned, mortified, shoving his face into his palms. "Oh my gods! I'm so sorry! I thought...oh fuck, forget what I said!"

"No I can't forget it because I like you too!" They could have this conversation after they saved her damn cat.

It took awhile, of her trying to coax the damn cat out from the opening in the floor, to Jon carefully searching and finding a space in the wall to knock through with a sledgehammer so he wouldn't hit Drogon or anything unsafe. Bits of drywall and debris scattered, "You better watch yourself," she warned him, when Drogon began to hiss and pant, terrified as they drew closer to him. "He might attack!"

"He's just scared, he'll be alright."

A couple hours later, her entire hallway and stairwell covered in broken bits of drywall, plaster, wood, and insulation, her very dirty and ashy cat enveloped in a blanket in her arms, Dany finally looked up at JOn. He hadn't said a word to her about his confession of not really fixing anything because he liked her and wanted ot keep seeing her.

She ducked her head, whispering, "I know it was wrong of me too, to keep breaking things...I just really liked you too."

"I'm not good with women," he admitted.

"Clearly, I was walking around in my bikini and you didnt say a word."

"I was trying to be professional!"

She giggled. Drogon whined in her arms. She scowled. "Hey! You didn't think I was serious that my cat got stuck in the wall!"

"I thought it was another thing like when you called me to say that your pipes were clogged at ten at night." He arched his brows. "Come on Dany."

"Alright, that was a ruse...but he really did get stuck!" She let go of Drogon, who raced into her bedroom to hide under the bed and lick his wounds-- more like his pride at having to be rescued by humans of all things. She looked up at Jon, sitting on the step just above her and grinned. "Can we agree to just...kind of start over?"

he nodded and licked his lips; she shivered. "Start over at dinner tonight?"

"Yes, dinner is perfect."

"And I'll be the first thing in the morning to start working on..." he gazed around at the chaos surrounding them, sighing. "This."

"Sounds good."

Turned out he didn't have to show up early at all the next morning, because he was already there, fast asleep in her bed, both of them exhausted. Dinner had been merely an afterthought.

#jonerys #jonerys au #my fics #my moodboards #jonerys fanfic #stupid silly shit here #dorkssss

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gerbiloftriumph · 4 years

Photo

The Three Adventurers: To Comfort a King

(also on ao3)

Based on The Three Adventurers crossover webcomic by @captmickey: More specifically, based on this picture.

When Link and Guybrush come to Daventry to throw Graham a surprise birthday party, they themselves are surprised by events that occurred when they were separated. But they won't be kept apart no matter what. Fluffy, friendly, sickfic, comfort fic with mild hijinks ensue.

1/1, 6k

~*~*~

Something felt wrong.

The weather wasn’t helping: Daventry’s castle town was saturated. Rain skimmed off rooftops and splashed in puddles beneath drains. Dark clouds weighed down the sky, making it gloomy even in the middle of the afternoon. It would make sense for everyone to be inside, staying dry and safe and happy. But something felt wrong. Tense.

Some deep knight’s instinct made Link reach for his sword hilt. This didn’t feel like people were waiting out a monsoon. This felt lonely, completely still and silent but for the rain dashing against window panes. No candlelight in the windows, no murmured conversation behind doors. The baker’s shop especially drew his attention. Some sort of accident had befallen it since Link’s last visit several months ago: there was a big wooden board nailed across the front windows, like they had been broken. The glass must have already been swept up, and very well at that since he couldn’t see any glittering fragments nestled in the cracks between the cobblestones.

Unless it had been broken into and the glass was all inside.

Don’t jump to conclusions, he scolded himself. Still. He warily stepped around the tree growing in the courtyard, searching the shadows, trying to pin down what was sparking the unease in his chest.

“Aaaah,” Guybrush yelled. Link instantly sprang forward, sword half drawn, before realizing it was a cry of disappointment and not a warning of attack. “Aaah, those alchemists aren’t here!” Guybrush walked out of the empty shop, leaning his elbows on the railing in front of the door. “I wanted to talk to that old guy. He’s got the only rubber chicken supply for miles.”

“No one’s here,” Link said, knocking gingerly on Amaya’s door, not expecting an answer: the forge was clearly cold. No smoke rose from the blacksmith’s chimney. “Where do you suppose they are?”

“Probably the castle. I bet they’re afraid of flooding. This rain is no joke; that river we passed was looking pretty sketchy. Summer in Daventry, eh?”

"Monsoon season is only in July, Graham said. And only for a week or two at that, normally.”

“July in Daventry, eh?” Guybrush swung himself down the shop stairs, boots sloshing up a wave. “Shall we go on to the castle, give him the shock of his week?” He grinned.

No one in Daventry was expecting the pair of adventurers. They’d been coming to throw Graham a surprise birthday party. He was turning twenty-two, and that seemed like an important marker. Double identical digits and all. But they’d missed his birthday by several days at this point. They had been inescapably delayed.

By a side quest involving a cat stuck up a tree.

Link had insisted they dig up bait, use it to catch fish, trade the fish to a traveler for an empty bottle, find a farmer with a cow to fill the bottle with milk (the farmer first requested they clear his field of wolves, a dangerous task that took some more scheming), and then use the milk to tempt the cat down. The cat hadn’t been appreciative. It had nearly taken Link’s finger off with a swipe of its claws. Once they’d left, both with a healthy amount of scratches and bites and a half empty bottle of milk, Guybrush had asked why they hadn’t just tempted the cat down with the fish in the first place.

Anyway, the delay had taken a few days. Travelers with empty bottles were scarce on the road, apparently. So, now they were late.

It would definitely be a surprise, then.

Link patted his pouch to make sure their chosen birthday present was safe. He hoped Graham would like it. It was possibly sentimental gooey nonsense, but it was their sentimental gooey nonsense. “You’re right. I’m sure they’re at the castle. Let’s go.” He squeezed the end of his hat to clear some rainwater, but it didn’t help.

~*~*~

The castle gates were shut tight, the drawbridge high. The rain fell endlessly, rivulets pouring down the battlements and rushing into the moat. The water was swollen, pressing against the banks. It looked like it was going to spill onto the road if this kept up for too much longer. The moat monster eyed them with curiosity, nosing just above the waterline. Link wondered if it would sweep out on the road with the overflow, too, and what merry hell it could raise if it got into the main river.

“Don’t suppose there’s a doorbell on this side of the moat,” Guybrush said, holding his hand over his eyes to shield them.

“Generally, castles don’t have those.”

“Neither do ships, to be fair. We’ve got a voice activated alert system on my ship, though.”

“Do you really?” Link was impressed—it sounded high tech.

“Yeah. Bet Graham does, too. It works like this.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and roared so loudly that Link jumped half an inch off the ground, “OI, ANYONE HOME?”

“Oh. Is that all?”

“All you need.” He drew in a huge gulp of air and yelled again, “WE’RE HERE...” he paused and glanced at Link, whispering hastily, “what’s the polite lingo for a king, again?”

“Seeking an audience,” Link whispered back. That usually was what people said when they wanted to talk to Zelda.

“HERE TO SEEK AN AUDIENCE. WITH THE KING. WHO IS GRAHAM. CAN GRAHAM COME OUT TO PLAY?”

They waited. For a long time, there didn’t seem to be any movement from across the moat, though the monster playfully flicked its tail beneath the water and sent a little wave skimming over the edge to douse their boots. Finally, a shaken sounding voice called back, “Who goes there?”

“I go where I like,” Guybrush yelled.

“No, I mean. Uh. Who are you, exactly?” The voice was flustered.

“Guybrush Threepwood, Mighty Pirate.™”

“And Link of Hyrule.”

“Not a pirate,” Guybrush added helpfully.

“Oh, it’s you two. Right. You were here for the coronation. Back again already? Um. Now...now isn’t a good time.”

“’Course not. It’s raining. But if you let us in, it would be a better time.”

“How did you even find out?” the guard asked distractedly. “They’ve only been back two days. We haven’t even told anyone yet.”

Link glanced at Guybrush, that little nervous thrill at the back of his neck rousing, a twitch in his fingers begging him to go for his sword. Some sense that something was wrong. “Told anyone what?” he asked.

“And Bramble’s pregnant, and this has all been very hard on her, and she doesn’t want to go back to the bakery right now, and who could possibly blame her after what happened to everyone?”

“Look, it’s raining very hard—”

“And the Hobblepots are absolutely destroying the kitchens. Number One is going to have a fit when he realizes, even if Muriel is helping King Graham.”

“Can we just—”

“And Muriel probably wouldn’t even allow you to see him, you know. He’s probably too drugged to even talk.”

“I’m sorry, repeat that?”

The guard hesitated. “Um.” They could see his helmet bobbing over the crenellations as he paced. “I’m not sure I’m supposed to tell anyone.”

“We’re not just anyone,” Link pointed out.

“Um. I mean.”

“Look, anyone could hear us from out here, right?” Guybrush said.

“Sure.”

“And you don’t want anyone to know whatever happened, right?” Guybrush continued, pacing a little to match the guard’s movements.

“That’s what Number One says, at least for now.”

“But if you let us in, then we’ll be inside, right? And then when you tell us, anyone won’t also hear. Because we’ll be inside, and anyone won’t be able to hear us in there.”

“I suppose?”

“And we’re not anyone. We’re Graham’s friends. We’re supposed to know. Whatever it is.”

“Um. I think that makes sense.” The guard seemed all the more uncertain. Whatever had happened must have been very serious to make him this befuddled. Or maybe he was always like this and Graham should hire better security. “I think that’s right.”

“Yes, it is. Now, let us in.”

“Of course, Mr. Threepwood, right away.”

While they waited for the guard to scurry around to the drawbridge crank, Guybrush muttered, “Also, I’m really sick of being wet.”

“You’re always on the ocean.”

“Not in it, though. Come on, he’s dropped the bridge. Hurry up.”

They scurried across, bubbles from the moat monster pursuing them. Unease nagged at Link, but he dared not speak until they had more of an idea about what was happening. The guard met them in the courtyard. He looked even more rattled up close. His armor wasn’t just damp with rain, but properly disheveled. It even looked like pieces were on backward. He smelled like wet pancakes, syrupy and pathetic.

“I mean, you’re his friends,” the guard babbled, wringing his hands. “It might help if he can see you.”

“Might help?” The apprehension was growing and growing. “Inside, now. And tell us what’s happening.”

“Hang on, I need to close the gate. The goblins might come again. He says it’s safe, at least I think he did, it’s all so jumbled, but…no one wants to leave it to chance, you know?”

“I don’t know.” Link was starting to get angry. “Can you just please tell us already?”

“Graham was kidnapped. With the villagers. A week and a half ago. By goblins. He just got back with everyone not two nights past. He’s really sick—he fainted almost as soon as he got to the castle, and he keeps screaming—nightmares, I guess—so Muriel drugged him to make him sleep. I really need to close the gate. Wait here.” And he vanished into the rain, leaving the two adventurers standing stunned and still and silent.

~*~*~

People had been tracking water into the castle, probably from running around in a panic. The plush carpet just beyond the doors was soggy under their feet. They wandered forward in a daze, damp carpet squishing behind them for a few paces until it dried out.

“I can’t believe it,” Link said, voice hoarse. “We’ve got to see him. Can you imagine? Goblins. I can’t imagine getting taken by bokoblins.”

“That’s because they’re about as smart as rocks,” Guybrush said. “I don’t know the goblins around here. They must be clever. Or Graham was daydreaming again. Easy to drop a sack over his head if he’s thinking about candy.”

Link elbowed him. “Be nice. This is serious.”

“I know,” he said. There was a glint in his eye, and his shoulders and jaw were tense. He had a sharpness to him, like a cutlass half drawn and ready to slice if someone looked at him wrong. “Come on.”

The hall was quiet. Candles flickered against the monsoon gray light, barely holding the darkness away despite it technically being the afternoon. A royal guard hurried past, clutching a tray. A teapot and cup were precariously balanced on top, and he was fiercely muttering under his breath about the state of the kitchen. He glanced at the visitors dripping rainwater on this once-dry section of carpet and frowned. “Dare I ask what you’re doing here?”

“We seek an audience with the king.”

He laughed bitterly and started reciting: “The king has been a little tied up lately. I’m afraid he’s indisposed to see anyone—the recent unexpected demands on his attention have been slightly overwhelming, so we’re feverishly requesting a safe delay in all visitations. Perhaps you can leave your contact information at the gate and we shall attend to you whenever we’re available again.”

“Yeah? The audience with the goblins was a bit rough?” Guybrush said.

The guard froze, teapot rattling on the tray. “Who told you.”

“Well. For starters, your speech wasn’t that subtle. Also the guard on the gate told us.”

“I’m going to kick Number Two out of the castle.”

Link stepped forward. “Sir, if I may. You might remember me. I’m Link, of Hyrule. The royal family there has had all sorts of trouble in its history, so I have some experience in matters like this. Also, I know Graham—uh, sorry—King Graham well. We used to travel together. He’ll want to see us as soon as he knows we’re here.”

“Did Number Two tell you how sick he is?” the guard asked suspiciously. “He might not even be awake to see you right now. You should probably just go away.”

Guybrush leaned forward, plucked the lid off the teapot, and inhaled deeply. “Steeping chamomile? And based on the temperature, it’ll be just perfect to drink by the time you get upstairs with it. He’s awake, or you’re hoping he will be. May as well let us come find out.” He glanced airily around the hall. “I seem to recall enough of the layout of this place from when we were here for the coronation. It wouldn’t be hard to find the way on our own.”

“I could probably have you escorted to the dungeon,” No1 said uneasily, “for…uh….”

“For obstructing tea, yes. But that would put a delay in your delivery. It’s getting colder as we stand here, you know. I’m sure if he’s sick he’ll want it hot and good. And the sooner he gets it, the happier he’ll be. If I know royalty, you want to keep them happy. It would be easier to go up together, wouldn’t you say?” That sharpness in his grin was starting to look like a shark’s—someone he loved was being threatened, and he wasn't going to stand back and let it happen, not if he had any say. He practically vibrated with urgency. “Also, there’s too much lavender in there.”

“Now, see here, you…” the guard hesitated again, sensing that sharp desperation, looked at his tray, looked at them, thought a moment, then said, “If you happen to follow me, I’m not going to stop you.” He started walking, muttering, “And lavender’s our main export anyway, I can’t help the amount they put in.”

~*~*~

There was another guard standing watch over the bedroom door. It looked like no one was taking chances. Bit late for all the caution, Link thought, but they’re doing their best.

As it turned out, though, the guard on the door wasn’t even going to be their last opposition.

No1 pushed past, bumping the royal bedchamber door open. Through it, the adventurers could just make out a shape huddled in the bed, and then they heard the most horrible, aching, sharp cough from Graham—it was the sort of ripping cough that made them flinch, that you could feel in your own throat. They started forward, anxious, but an arm shot across their path, blocking them. The door swung shut behind the guard, Graham’s agonized cough muffled.

“Oh! Lady Alchemist!” Guybrush swept an exaggerated bow. “Been a while. Love to chat. Bit busy right now. Got things to do, people to see. Could you just—”

She glared. “You can’t go in there.”

“You can’t stop us.” The joking edge vanished from Guybrush’s voice again.

“Do you wanna get sick? This is inappropriate anyway, seeing a king like this.”

“We demand to see him,” Link said.

“Yeah? And why should I let you do that?” It was amazing how a little old woman could threaten when she wanted. She bustled her way forward, puffing herself up. She was almost of a height with Link when she stood up on her toes.

From behind her another voice said: “Muriel. It’s okay. They’re his friends, remember?”

“Chester, you have the worst memory of all time, but you remember these two?”

“I remember anyone who tries to buy my whole rubber chicken supply out in one go with a lousy brass coin that doesn’t even have any value in Daventry.” Chester stuck out his hand for Guybrush to shake. “Nice to see you again, even in these circumstances. No, I still don’t have any inflatable cutlasses for sale.”

A friendly response at last. A memory stirred: kidnapped with the villagers. “We heard a little bit of what happened. Are you okay? Were you part of it?” Link asked.

“That we were, that we were. Nasty little things, those goblins. If it hadn’t been for him,” Chester thumbed at the closed door, and they could just make out another hacking cough, “we would have been in a lot more trouble. I’m not sure anyone would have come back.” He glanced down the hall, and whispered, “I think there was something intentional going on. Someone had it in for him.”

“Do you think they’ll try again?” Link wasn’t a stranger to assassination attempts. Keeping Zelda safe was a full-time prospect sometimes. He wasn’t sure he was ready for the stress of having another royal friend at risk.

“Not in the same way,” Chester said. “These guards,” he gestured at the one standing nearby, “are all puffed up since they got caught flatfoot, but they’ll smooth out. It won’t happen twice like it did, I can promise that. If I know who did it, and I think I do, repetition isn’t really his style, not if he can go bigger and better. Creativity’s the word. Besides, I think Graham’s got some ideas about opening up diplomacy talks with the goblins to prevent anything like this happening again. But I think there’s someone you’d rather hear all this from instead of me.”

“No,” Muriel said sharply. “I don’t care that they’re friends. That’s not a good idea for him, or them, and you know it.” She looked to the guard, like she was going to ask for help with chasing these two off. “Clear off. Maybe later you can see him. Right now is not appropriate, and I will have you chased out of this castle if I must.”

Guybrush opened his mouth to start arguing again, but Link gently touched his shoulder. She had precedence over them in this situation. That guard would listen to her, and chase them out, and then they would be much further from their goal.

“You’re right,” Link told Muriel. “We shouldn’t go through that door.”

“Just so,” she said, eyeing him a bit suspiciously, more than surprised that he was giving in. “So, shoo.”

“Oh, Muriel,” Chester sighed. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“It would hurt them after I was through with them,” she snapped. “Go on, shoo.”

Link dragged Guybrush down the hall by the hand, steering him into one of the bedrooms down the corridor once Muriel had turned her back.

“Come on, I could have turned on the charm and gotten us in there,” Guybrush complained. “Now we probably won’t get to see him for days and I’m not willing to wait that long.”

“Look, I promised we wouldn’t go through the door,” Link said. He reached into his bag and withdrew his grappling hook. “Didn’t say anything about a window.”

“Aaahhh.”

~*~*~

On reflection, Link realized, this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe they should have tried to persuade Muriel after all. Or maybe if they’d started screaming, Graham would have heard them and ordered them in (unless the tea had been drugged to make him sleep, or he didn’t actually want them to see him like this after all). Now, Link and Guybrush were dangling off the side of the castle, clinging to the grappling hook rope, rain making everything slippery and hard to navigate.

“Are you sure this is the right window?”

��Got to be,” Link said. He used his elbow to swipe some of the rainwater out of his eyes. “I did the calculations. It’s gotta be it. This time.” (They’d already tried two other windows, both of which had led to empty bedrooms. One of them might have been where the Hobblepots were staying, based on the array of random junk everywhere that seemed to belong to Chester, but luckily the two alchemists were out doing something else. Probably still standing guard in front of Graham’s door. Presumably the Feys and Miss Blackstone were staying elsewhere in the castle, because no one screamed when the adventurers poked their noses over the windowsills and swatted them down.)

They could make out the warm flickering glow of a lit fireplace in the window above them, which at least matched what they had glimpsed through the door of Graham’s room. They just had to get there without sliding down the rope and falling fifty feet to the treetops. Guybrush was dangling near the bottom of the rope, finding it difficult to get purchase on the slick castle walls with his boots. “They’re going to think we’re invaders and shoot us down,” he muttered. “They’re going to think we’re goblins back to finish the job we started.”

“Be quiet and climb,” Link said, glancing nervously side to side in case there were a few royal guards taking aim at them from the balconies or parapets. No one was.

Except…Royal Guard Number One was looking down at them.

He had opened the window and was leaning against the sill, staring down. His chin was propped on his hands, but with his helmet on, there was no way to tell if he was enjoying this or furious.

Link slid down the rope a few feet in his frozen panic, knocking into Guybrush, who yelped and locked the rope tighter around his leg so they wouldn’t fall, and the two of them grinned guiltily up at the royal guard.

He sighed heavily (they could hear it over the rain, he was so loud and flustered), gripped the rope, and started to heave them up.

~*~*~

The room beyond was cozy, the large array of candles keeping the gloom (and perhaps those nightmares the guard had spoken of) at bay. Graham, eyes closed, was propped up against a pile of pillows in bed, slipping slowly at the delivered cup of tea and wincing at every swallow. No1 hoisted the two embarrassed adventurers over the windowsill and they fell to the ground, sloppy and squishy with rainwater. Graham looked up when he heard them, and his face—drawn, pale—lit up with a huge smile. He put the teacup down on the bedside table amongst a dizzying array of cups and pots and vials and bandages and tissues and ingredients brought by the Hobblepots.

“Number One said you were here,” he said, nodding toward the royal guard. His voice was raspy. “I kind of expected you to come in the door instead of the window, though.”

No1 took off his helmet and shook the rainwater off it, fluffing the uniform’s feather back up and putting it in front of the fireplace to dry. He bristled his moustache, but it looked more like he was hiding a smile instead of annoyance. He helped the two adventurers to their feet, insisted they wait for a second so they wouldn’t drip water everywhere, pulled some towels from a pile neatly folded by a large copper tub shoved in the corner, wrapped them up, and then let them go. Immediately, they rushed to their friend’s side. Link grabbed Graham’s hand out of some desperate instinct, squeezing hard. Graham squeezed back as hard as he could—which wasn’t particularly hard.

“I’m so sorry we weren’t here,” Link said. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay? What happened? We don’t have the details. Oh, Graham....”

He looked absolutely awful. His bedhair, usually pretty hilarious anyway, was a tangled mess from tossing and turning in his sleep. His eyes were ringed with dark exhaustion, making it look like he’d been punched, but they were bright with a lingering fever, too. Link could feel the weakness in his friend’s trembling fingers. Graham was swimming in some ridiculously oversized nightshirt that more or less swallowed him up. It gaped here and there on his thin frame, and they could see the edges of bruises beneath it on his arms: bruises that, even partially glimpsed, looked uncomfortably like fingerprints.

“A kidnapping,” Guybrush said, shaking his head. He grinned mischievously, “Or was it a kingnapping?”

Link’s ears flattened, and the sheer look he shot Guybrush could have knocked a moblin over. “You’re going to end up right next to him nursing a black eye instead of nursing the flu,” he hissed. But Graham was laughing, and Link subsided, though he was still too annoyed to perk his ears up again. He was wary of pushing it if Graham wasn’t ready to talk yet, but he was desperate to know, to help in any way he could. “Are you...is it...are you up to telling us what happened?”

“No, I don’t have the energy to get up. But I can be down for telling it.”

Link dropped his head into his hands and moaned, “I can’t stand being around you two.”

“I can’t stand either, so it’s okay,” Graham said, patting Link gently on the shoulder.

“Aaaargh!”

“You can’t be mad at him,” Guybrush said. “He outranks you now—his hat’s shinier than yours.”

“Yes, my crowning achievement,” Graham agreed. “But that doesn’t make you beanie-th me.”

“Ahh, you’re fedorable when you’re being humble,” Guybrush said, “but you don’t need to downplay your escapades.”

“I’m not that far ahead, really,” Graham said.

“You’re going to make me sick,” Link sighed.

“If you hang around me much longer, you will be,” Graham said, and the laughter faded from his scratchy voice. “I heard Muriel. I’m glad you’re here, absolutely, but...she’s right, you know. You shouldn’t be in here. I’m not safe to be around, I think. I might give you this.” He gestured vaguely at his throat. “You don’t want it, believe me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not going anywhere.” Guybrush sat down so hard on the bed that Graham bounced. “Now. It’s time for you to tell us one of those stories you like to tell. But only If you’re ready.”

And so, after a pause and a sip of lukewarm tea, Graham began. The day had begun in frustration in the throne room and had ended in fear in a goblin cell. He kept rubbing his wrists, remembering the bite of ropes, until Link held his hands again.

He told of huge caverns, of stalactites dripping water into secret pools, of glowing salamanders scampering through the shadows, of mushrooms in every color casting off glittering spores. He told of sharp spears and heavy padlocks, of giant rats and whispered escape plans. There were costumes and stories: Cinderella and Rumplestiltskin. Porridge, sweetycakes, and frogs. Friends and enemies, and some people that might have been both in equal measure. Shrouds of stone armor, unbending bars and sharp bolt cutters, stolen beds, stolen people. The goblin king, his courtiers, and the book written by a former friend that had incited the goblins and started it all.

He talked for a long time, his voice wavering in and out. Sometimes he had to stop and take a breath, drink tea, rub his aching throat. He sank lower into the pillows, looking more worn out, but he stubbornly refused to sleep no matter how often they suggested it. Whenever these breaks happened, Link and Guybrush sat a little closer together and waited with him in comforting silence. They offered to at least give him a proper long break and finish the rest later, but he wanted to tell the story. Wanted to explain it from start to finish. “It helps,” he said. “Even if it hurts a bit.” He choked down another cough and sipped at a fresh cup of tea No1 had brought. No1 had also silently brought Guybrush and Link their own mugs, unasked and unexpected. They had crowns painted on them. The lavender tickled their noses, and the trio drank in quiet but good company.

At some point, Muriel and Chester came in to prep medicine doses. She saw the adventurers huddled together and took a step back, startled and angry, and she opened her mouth start yelling, but Graham cut her off, hastily saying, “Ahh, Muriel, you remember my best friends, right? I’m so glad they’ve come to visit. Link, Guybrush, meet Muriel and Chester Hobblepot, the greatest alchemists in the country.” He gave her a pleading, sopping kitten sort of look, breath held in nervous anticipation.

She deflated with a weary sigh—the look she gave them told Link and Guybrush they were destined for a sickbed next. “He should be sleeping right now,” she warned them.

“That’s what we told him,” Link replied, relief tinging his words now that he knew his position on this bed was secure. “He says no.”

“We’ve been over this,” Muriel said. She reached for a cup that Graham had been especially careful to avoid and tried to offer it to him. “You were supposed to drink this an hour ago. You can’t avoid your dreams forever.”

“I can definitely put them off,” Graham said, crossing his arms so she couldn’t force it on him. “Muriel, please. Just a little longer. I don’t want to sleep. It’s not...it’s not the nightmares this time, honestly. I’m just trying to explain things. I think straightening everything out, talking through it...it’s going to help the nightmares stop. Please.”

She pursed her lips, then sighed and stepped back. “Fine. This once, fine. But I’m going to swap those bandages out now anyway.”

Guybrush half stood. “Oh. Should we leave?”

Graham grabbed his sleeve. “N-no, please don’t. I’d like...please don’t go. I didn’t tell you this part, but...um. To make sure I wasn’t smuggling anything, the goblins would...literally shake me down. Upside down. And they’ve got hard hands.” Graham slipped up his nightshirt sleeve, and showed off some of the half-glimpsed fingerprint-shaped bruises. “These are mostly faded. It’s my legs that are...badly bruised. My own weight against their hands. That’s all.”

“This makes them heal faster,” Muriel said, plucking a jar from the tray. Link reached for it automatically, as curious about healing potions as ever. The jar felt icy cold in his hands, almost frosted over despite the warmth of the room. “Green ice scale,” she told him. “Good for deep soothing.”

Guybrush let Graham lean against him while they reapplied the icy goop and rewrapped the bandages so the bedsheets wouldn’t stain green. Graham shuddered, his shoulder pressed hard against Guybrush’s as he flinched away from Muriel’s touch. “It’s so much colder than it was last time,” he muttered.

“I think you just weren’t paying attention the first time,” Muriel replied.

Link stuck a finger in the jar and studied the gel. “Good for burns?” he asked.

“Plan on fighting a dragon soon?” Chester said.

“Fire arrows can have interesting consequences.”

“I’ll get some together for you. It’s a good snack on a hot day, too.”

“I’ll, ah, keep that in mind next time I’m in in the Gerudo Desert, thanks.”

Guybrush was staring at Graham’s bruises. It was almost possible to make out individual handprints in the colorful marks on his shins. “Those are nasty.”

“Just don’t poke them,” Graham said. “They were worse, if you can believe it. How much longer, Muriel?”

“Oh, a week, maybe. This knocks the heal time down, but doesn’t erase ‘em. I could go global if I had something that just erased ‘em.” She picked up yet another little pot from the hoard she had gathered, whisked off the lid, and offered the contents to Link and Guybrush. There were tiny little white leaves in it, crisscrossed with green veins. They smelled like extreme mint, like you could flavor an entire moat’s worth of lemonade with one leaf. It made Link feel a little nauseous. “You’re going to want this. Put it under your tongue and it’ll melt. One an hour. I’ll give you both your own bags of it, but start with this for now.”

After she left, the story picked up where it had left off, details untangling like knotted ropes, until Graham started to reach a rough conclusion.

“As for me getting sick. It’s probably not hard to guess. Muriel thinks...I mean, the stress alone was hard, but my cell was always wet. The rainwater kept finding channels down. It was one big puddle most of the time. And there wasn’t a lot of food to go around after the porridge ran out, and I couldn’t let Bramble go hungry, or the Hobblepots, or Amaya. It…it wasn’t….” He coughed, a hacking wheeze that rattled his chest. “I’m lucky. It could have been worse. I could have gotten like this before escaping. But...but I couldn’t let that happen. I think I didn’t let myself get sick until we were free. Everyone was depending on me, you know.

“But...but it was hard. To be alone for so long. In the end, Bramble and I found the goblin king together. I told him a story about what it means to be afraid. What it means to get too much responsibility too fast, to not know what you’re doing, and how friends are the only way to push forward and keep going. And that, a story about friends, was a story he liked, and in that place where stories hold more sway than kings, it was enough, and he let me, let all my friends, go.”

Link and Guybrush glanced at each other. Link breathed deeply: “Graham. The reason we’re here. It’s not because of what happened...we didn’t even know until today. We were here for a different reason at first. This...this isn’t the way we would have wanted to do this, but...” He and Guybrush leaned cheek to cheek together and shrieked “Happy birthday!” so loudly that No1, who had actually not been listening at all, almost fell out of the rocking chair. Link shoved his hand into his bag and withdrew a small wrapped box with a crumpled bow pasted on top.

“It isn’t much,” Link said apologetically. “It’s late. You had your birthday...” his voice faded.

“In that cell, yeah,” Graham agreed. His eyes were sparkling with excitement, though, and he spoke lightly. “It wasn’t that bad. I sang to the salamanders, and Wente made me a special sweetycake, somehow. But, guys, you didn’t need to do this.” He took the proffered gift all the same and slipped off the rumbled ribbon.

“It’s an engraving we had done,” Guybrush leaned forward, watching as Graham extricated a charm and chain. “I think it’s kinda cheesy, but Elaine and Zelda thought it was clever. They helped with the design.”

The charm itself was styled like a piece of eight, with two crossed swords and a bow and arrow printed on top—clearly tiny little renditions of their weapons of choice. Graham ran his fingers along the edge, finding a little latch and flipping it open like a locket. It contained an image of the three of them, arms flung over shoulders, apparently mid-joke and laughing together.

Link said, “We thought...well, it’s your first birthday as a king, and we were worried you might, y’know, get too busy and distracted and...maybe forgetful. Zelda said that’s normal, for a newly responsible royal. But we thought that together we did so much, and even if we can’t be here in person all the time for you as a king, we...well, I guess it’s sort of silly after all that happened, when you really did need us and we weren’t there for you then to help protect you and Daventry and all, but—”

“But you’re here. Now. And that’s all that matters to me. It’s perfect. I love it.” He pulled the chain over his head, and the charm rested against his chest. Graham bit his lip. “It’s probably too late, but...I mean, I’m definitely contagious, but...”

He didn’t have to finish saying it. His friends launched themselves at him and grabbed him in a tight hug. They stayed together like that for a long time, regret and gratitude and everything held in silence. They could handle anything when they were apart, but they were stronger together, and they reveled in it.

(Later, Link’s throat started to ache and Guybrush started coughing, but they both agreed it was worth it. Muriel just sighed and ordered more soup.)

#captmickey #King's Quest #kings quest #King Graham #the three adventurers #chester hobblepot #Muriel Hobblepot #this post is protected by the royal guards #monkey island #legend of zelda #ch2 #fic'ing #tcak

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kondo-hijikata · 6 years

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Pairings: Established Kondo/Hijikata Rating: T Summary: Ibuki brings a robe to Okita. Okita brings it to Hijikata. No one knows the color, but it’s definitely not white. Major angst, sorry. [AO3]

.*The Robe*.

The robe was once white. But it wasn't white any longer.

Feet planted themselves before a battered wooden gate leading to the house he’d barely managed to find with such ambiguous instructions. And now more than ever, he wondered... Why? Why had this task fallen to his hands, when they weren’t even strong enough to hold a sword? It was unfitting at best and pathetic at worst. Surely, there was someone better, someone more worthy of seeing something of such importance through.

The answer, however, was as clear as the tapestry of stars above Ibuki’s head, shining unobscured and bright through the darkness. He’d been entrusted with this because he’d personally been there, beyond the latticing of fence and reaching out with desperate cries that left his throat sore even now.

Still, the responsibility befalling to him proved the taste of irony was more bitter than any medicinal herb, and his shoulders far too weak for such a burden.

Ibuki's face had been angled downward for so long that his neck ached, his expression contorted from attempting to repress the despair which encumbered his chest with such force that it was difficult to even breathe. His will had never been strong enough and as if to mock the characteristic softness of his spine, the tears defied such wishes easily now—hot and unending, pushing through tightly clenched eyes to bleed out oceans of sorrow.

It was intolerable and unyielding…a pain that cut so deeply that Ibuki felt his knees threatening to give way.

…Control. He needed to find control—or something to carry him onward so he could make it through this.

He held the garment closer to his heaving chest, clung to it as if this were his heartbreak to bear. And perhaps, in a way, it was; the owner was a friend, a true ally in troubled times—someone who believed in him and pushed him to do better. Yet, the depths of grief battering him raw also felt like an intrusion, for he’d only walked so far in the footprints of wolves. Ibuki’s love and loyalty had only reached a certain extent, and in turn, he’d never known what it felt like to be revered in the way a partner or son was.

So, certainly…

He straightened his back, squared his shoulders...

Certainly…his role in all of this was the easiest.

Despite mentally and physically building himself up to finish what he’d begun, Ibuki’s lashes refused to part. Therefore, he relented and simply took a moment to breathe deeply and focus—to listen to the sounds around him of vitality. Of birds chirping and insects singing. Of a gentle breeze, of a cat's cry in the distance. Of a world still so full of life, even when it could just...stop for someone on an individual scale.

And just when Ibuki had begun to find the makings of a path to calm within his surroundings, there was another noise: the creak of a door opening, followed by a soft cough and cracking utterance.

"I—Ibuki-kun?"

Ibuki’s eyes snapped open the moment when Okita's voice feathered into his ears, his stomach dropping as dread flooded through him; thrust into this situation without being ready, his mouth gaped, just to find the words failing him. Ibuki’s face felt wet and tense, hot from crying and yet cold against the night. With a shake of the head, he watched as his company’s gaze dropped to the robe he cradled.

When Okita’s attention landed on it, he froze. He didn't blink. Didn't breathe. His lower lip fell for several seconds before one question was spoken—smooth and yet laced with trepidation. "…Whose...?"

Fireflies drifted about lazily as Ibuki staggered forward to close the space between Okita and himself, his legs like rubber and feet nearly becoming entangled from ineptitude. "O—Okita-san." Shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths, his tone veiled by tidal waves of emotion beating ugly gashes into the fabric of his soul. “It’s—It’s—” Ibuki’s teeth gritted again while pearled beads pushed forth to escape his clenched eyes.

"It's Kondo-san's," Okita finished, barely loud enough to be heard.

Ibuki dropped his face and he choked out, "It isn't his anymore."

The horse galloped by starlight, sparkling droplets from its rider’s eyes carried off by the whisper of the wind. One hand gripped the reins, the other held the robe securely to an aching chest.

It used to be white.

It wasn’t white any longer.

And it was getting harder, so much harder…to breathe, to walk, to even think.

Still, the horse ran on, until a village came into sight and Okita dismounted and stumbled forward. And—there, on the steps, with his head bowed…

“Hi—” Okita panted, feeling his lashes opening wide and the fury inundating him until whatever was left of his lungs began closing in. “Hijikata-san.”

Hijikata’s chin lifted quickly, giving show to black shadows beneath exhausted, heavy eyes and much thinner cheeks than memory served. “Souj—”

Silver flashed beneath the moon, one arm whipping the blade through the air until the tip pointed directly toward Hijikata’s nose.

With a gasp, Hijikata leapt to his feet, his shoulder slamming against the nearest structural beam as he grabbed the hilt of his own weapon. “What the fuck are you—?!”

“He loved you.” Okita’s teeth were gritted, his sword trembling with the tension in his muscles despite their depletion from illness.

The immediate confusion in Hijikata’s gaze morphed into dawning realization. And when it became clear that he was slowly piecing it all together, his mouth began to open.

Okita inhaled sharply through his nose, his voice shaking as he repeated, “He loved you so much. Why.” His chin raised and with a brief shake of the head, his shoulders raised in a half shrug. “I’ll never know.”

“...Souji.” The name fell in a hoarse whisper and then Hijikata looked past the steel...toward the garment Okita kept tightly clutched to the breast of his new uniform. Terror had never been openly present in the gaze of his commanding officer—until now. And seeing it only fueled Okita’s ire and anguish.

“But there is something that you can tell me, Hijikata-san.”

“Okita-san?!” Chizuru’s voice pierced the air from somewhere in the distance.

“Souji,” Hijikata tried again breathlessly. “Souji, is that—?”

Clenching his teeth tighter, Okita pulled the folded robe from where he embraced it and rifled it toward Hijikata as hard as he could. “Why the fuck didn’t you love him like that?! He would have done anything for you!”

The article slammed against Hijikata’s chest before he caught it, his fingers seizing the material. He stared at it blankly for several moments and then, it began to tremble within his grasp. Clamoring backward until his heel collided against the step, Hijikata crashed down to it again, his eyes closing and chest beginning to rise and fall with deep breaths.

“Okita-san!” Chizuru cried, much closer now. Two small hands grasped to his forearm and yanked with inconsequential strength. “Okita—”

“How could you fucking let him die?!” Okita shouted as he lunged forward, the pain in his tone so sharp it could have cut flesh from the way those around him winced. “It was your job to protect him when I couldn’t!”

“Souji!” Saito was on his left now, taking to a bicep and pulling him back.

“Okita-san, please!!” Chizuru pleaded. “Hijikata-san is injured!! He’s—”

Okita gave in, at last allowing himself to be drawn away for several paces while he took a good, long look at the situation before him. His brows narrowed as he observed just how worn and broken Hijikata’s appearance was—not just on the outside, but the way in which it seemed to radiate from the in. And worse yet, he still hadn’t opened his eyes. His arms had only tightened around the robe and—

“You…” Okita stammered in a whisper. “You didn’t even know…”

“Know what?” Saito asked pointedly.

Licking his lips, Okita’s shoulders slumped and he pulled himself free to sheath his sword. It was a hard swallow as he stared toward the ground, beginning to speak with strength, “Kondo-san…” But his voice faltered. “Kondo-san is dead.”

Silence.

“And. It’s his fault.” Okita lifted his chin, taking in the sight of Hijikata for the final time. “I will never forgive you.”

He pivoted on the soles of his boots and strode off, with Chizuru running after him in his wake.

The robe was white.

And now it wasn’t.

Now it was…filled with color. Blue. But not like the moonlight Kondo used to kiss him under at the Shieikan. It was blue, like the ocean of tears that stained it. Red from the bloodied hands that had carried it. Black like the void this whole world had become.

Hijikata lay on his side in a single futon, staring at the attire folded neatly before him. His eyes were wide open, his lips parted. Sometimes, he would become aware that he’d stopped breathing, so he would make sure he did that…until he realized he’d stopped again soon after.

His palm rested on the tatami, just beneath the material—until it suddenly lifted. Fingertips trailed up to the fabric. It was firm. They caressed the blue, ran over the red, swept across the black, and then closed in.

He thought of Tama, and the things said with hope.

“What do I want to do? I don’t know. Do you have any idea for yourself?”

“Me? I wanna be like Kanko, a real warrior…Ah…that sounds, uh. Sounds funny, right, coming from a farmer?”

“…No. Actually, that’s what I want too.”

Hijikata drew the robe to him and held tight.

Of Kyoto, and the things said with determination.

“Well, all we gotta worry about now is making a name for ourselves here.”

“Mm. You’re right, Toshi.”

“I swear I won’t stop until you’re the most exalted samurai in this whole country.”

He held tighter.

Of Katsunuma, and the things said with desperation before the battle of Koufu.

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Toshi, I need you to go get reinforcements.”

“And I need you to not die here!”

And tighter yet...

Of Nagareyama, and the things said with love.

“Toshi, go. My hatamoto status will—”

“Your hatamoto status doesn’t mean shit to Satcho!”

“Then these are your orders! Hijikata-fukucho!”

He held so tightly that his arms trembled.

Of Wakamatsu...

“He loved you. He loved you so much. Why the fuck didn’t you love him like that?!”

“How could you fucking let him die?!”

“It’s his fault.”

And here Hijikata was now, with a million more things he wanted to say--of hope, of determination...of desperation and love and sorrow.

But it was useless to talk to a ghost, especially while sobbing into the robe he wore to his execution. Therefore, through his heaves, Hijikata made several promises.

He promised to build a fitting grave in a location Kondo would like.

He promised to not lay down his sword until Kondo’s name was cleared, until his robe was white.

He promised to train and develop the remaining Shinsengumi as best he could, so that their truth would live on.

But most importantly, Hijikata promised Kondo he would meet him again…somewhere out there, among the stars, some time soon. And at that time, he would throw his arms around him and never, never let go.

The sun rose the next morning. It had no right to. Still, its rays hit the window and crept across the floor, slowly, until it reached Hijikata and woke him with a gentle kiss.

His eyes fluttered...and then he turned away.

Hakodate 1869

There weren’t many things that Hijikata owned, but Chizuru still found it difficult to go through what was left of his belongings. Her hands drifted over books, over small containers. She lifted the lid of one and her breath caught.

This was... It was Kondo’s robe.

Squinting, she reached for the material--pristine and white, just as it had been all along.

#uss enterplaid #toshisami #hakuouki #fic #long post #writing on plaid paper #t1

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thaisibir · 6 years

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Be Kind To Yourself (2) - Wanda-centric Infinity War alt ending

Chapter 2/6: Numb Fandom: Avengers Characters: mainly [Wanda, Vision], T’Challa, Shuri, IW cast Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst

Wanda’s remarkable feat against Thanos leaves her with crushed arms and stroke-like symptoms. She feels unworthy of the gratitude and medical care from Wakanda, because what hurts her the most, still, was guilt. Always the guilt.

You can also find & read it here.

Ch. 2 below, Ch. 1, Ch. 3, Ch. 4, Ch. 5

Be Kind To Yourself (2) Numb

Something pressed against Wanda's back, arms and legs. It pricked at the back of her scalp. It stabbed through her hands as she pushed herself up with a groan. She looked down. Savannah grass. She looked up. Shades of blue, purple, and pink slowly bobbed and glowed in the night sky above. Where was she? Still in Wakanda? Or dead? It was quiet...too quiet. Her breaths, the only sounds she heard, were uncomfortably loud. Wanda looked around, but besides the thin acacia trees, she saw no one else, nothing else. Not even signs of the great battle she swore she thought had raged here.

Something rustled in the treetops, and her blood ran cold. Odd shapes huddled and perched on the branches. Even as they were shrouded in shadow, the stench of their scorched flesh made her shudder. Their eyes, white, wide, and unblinking, fixed on her like spotlights. Eleven people. Eleven Wakandans. A man pointed a skeletal finger at her.

"You," he groaned. "You murderer."

Wanda took several steps back. "No, I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry. I-"

"You will burn," a woman hissed. "Like the rest of us."

Wanda turned tail and bolted, but the dead were somehow faster, turning into panthers as they pounced on her. She fell hard onto the ground. Claws dug into her back. Savannah grass shot up like pins into her nose and eyes, then her mouth as she screamed. Her pleas and apologies went unheard, as they had many times before. She tried to hold back the wrathful cats with her hands, but they were limp and useless. The dead Wakandans snarled, pulling back lips to bare fangs, and tore into her flesh. Their bites burned; soon her whole body was set on fire and agony.

"Vis," she cried out.

But he wouldn't hear her. He wouldn't come to her rescue. He was gone. She had killed him, just as she had killed these Wakandans tearing her apart. They ripped into her belly in a frenzy, their teeth and claws sending lances of pain deep into her. Despair washed over her fear, and Wanda stopped struggling. Maybe that was the right thing to do. She deserved to be punished for her crime. The grass and trees were ablaze now. The fire climbed and roared so high that she no longer saw the sky. She must be dead after all, where the eleven Wakandans could finally exact their revenge. Where her mother, father, Pietro, and Vision were nowhere to be found. They were in a better place. She was in hell.

Her shredded stomach hurt the most. Wanda shut her eyes so tightly that she saw white stars, but the pain became too much and her eyes flew open. The inferno was gone. Instead she saw overhead lights and flickering holograms. To her right, Shuri stiffened in shock. Wanda's head throbbed, and most of all her stomach felt horrible. It twisted and lurched, made her jerk her head to one side and vomit.

Shuri acted quickly, recovering from her surprise and grabbed a basin to catch most of the mess. She leaned in close to tell Wanda something. The princess had to be speaking Wakandan. Wanda couldn't understand a word out of her mouth. Steve ran over to Shuri's side and he was next to talk, but all Wanda could understand was the concern on his face. His lips moved, but she couldn't understand him, either.

More people quickly crowded into her vision. Natasha, Thor, Bruce, Sam...Everyone spoke the same gibberish.

Panic made her heart race. She wanted to move. Why couldn't she? Some kind of stretched weight restrained her to the bed. She couldn't even feel or flex her fingers. What was going on?

Shuri gestured to a nurse, who injected something into Wanda's neck. It stung, and soon her world faded to black once more.

Wanda heard her name. Again, and again. Her eyes fluttered open. The faces of her friends and comrades hovered over her, sharpening the more she blinked. This time she heard them properly. Things made more sense now. She didn't know what to say in return.

"Miss Maximoff?" Shuri called.

"You Highness?" she rasped.

The princess blew a sigh of relief. "Thanks be to Bast, she understands."

"What happened?" Wanda mumbled.

Uncomfortable glances were passed around, and all were ultimately aimed at Shuri. She drew in a deep breath then explained, slowly and gently: "Thanos is defeated. What you did to make that possible was astounding. But your wounds...the wounds you've sustained are very serious. Both of your arms are broken with open fractures throughout. You also had a hemorrhagic stroke."

That left Wanda dumbfounded. "I...what?"

"The first time you woke up, I believe you had a period of aphasia. You could not understand what any of us were saying. You also vomited blood, if you remember. Well, vomit streaked with blood, to be exact. Not good, of course, but better than worse. It's likely from the nosebleed that collected in the back of your throat. If you were really vomiting blood, then we'd worry about a hole in your stomach, or something like that. We put you to sleep again so we could do more extensive operations on your arms and administer more clot busters to repair the damage to your brain." Shuri quickly scanned the floating chart of vitals and gave Wanda a smile. "The first round of medicine was successful, I think. Now that you're awake and you can hear me, I'd like to do an NIH scale."

"A what?"

"To check for neurological deficits. Relax, you don't have to do a thing." Shuri turned the bed into a recliner with a keystroke. Wanda had no choice but to lie still, since she was still restrained. "I apologize for binding your arms," the princess went on. "but it's for your own safety. They must stay still so the fractures can heal." She stepped away from the bedside to stand directly across from Wanda. "The questions I'll ask will seem strange, but just follow along, all right?"

"Okay." Wanda suddenly felt self-conscious, with so many people studying her intensely.

Shuri ordered the young Avenger to stick out her tongue, wiggle it side to side, raise her eyebrows as if she was surprised, scrunch them as if she was mad.

Shuri then stroked Wanda's face from temple to chin. "Can you feel me touching both sides?"

"My left…I can't feel my left cheek."

Worry crossed Shuri's face. "Smile as wide as you can."

Wanda tried to comply, but her smile came out crooked, the right corner of her lips pushing up her cheekbones while the other corner did not even twitch. Her heart raced as she started to panic again. "Your highness, what's wrong with me?"

"The scale results could be worse, but they're still somewhat high. You have left-sided deficit. That facial droop's the most telling sign."

"Is the damage permanent?" T'Challa asked his sister. "Is there anything we can do?"

"We'll give her more blood-thinners. Fortunately her aphasia went away, so there's hope that we can fix this, too." Wanda saw Shuri reach out to put a hand on her shoulder, but couldn't feel it. "We pumped in a lot of sedatives and painkillers. You must feel sick. Would you like something for nausea?"

Wanda remembered how badly her stomach had churned. "Yes, please."

Wakandan technology made it possible to have access to anything in short order, including some things as simple as pills and a cup of water. Shuri helped Wanda take the pills by mouth.

"Let them dissolve under your tongue. You'll feel better soon." Shuri stepped away from the bed. "Excuse me, there are other pressing matters I must see to."

"Vision," Wanda blurted out, but only to stop Shuri in her tracks and make her stay around for a bit longer. "I'm sorry...Vision...is he...? Did you...?" Her heart sank as Shuri bit on her bottom lip and couldn't meet her eyes.

"I was unable to complete the process," the princess replied. "I will work with what I have saved. But, Miss Maximoff...I can't guarantee..."

A lump grew in Wanda's throat and she fought to swallow it down. She felt foolish for clinging on to a shred of hope. All she could say was, "Thank you for trying."

Shuri left the room on that regretful note and the Avengers remained, but suddenly Wanda didn't want them around any more.

"I'd like to be alone," she whispered. "Please."

Steve opened his mouth to say something, and stepped forward as if to try comforting her, but met her wet eyes, thought twice and gently ushered the others out. T'Challa made the same gestures to his subjects. Once in complete solitude, Wanda let the tears fall. Grief and shame welled in her like a sickening wave, despite the pills she just took. She didn't want her friends to see how pathetic she looked when she couldn't even lift her hands to hide her tears or wipe them away.

Wanda watched from the window to her right how the sun set in Wakanda, how its warm light bathed the plains and made patterns dance on the glass, but its famous beauty was lost on her. Night would come soon and she felt sick and exhausted, but she feared going back to sleep again. The dead would come back to haunt her. She had been prickling with discomfort ever since she set foot in Wakanda, and Vision knew the reason better than anyone else. She couldn't shake off the guilt. What right did she have to be here, when the eleven Wakandans who died in Nigeria never made it home alive?

The dead frequented her dreams, twisted them into nightmares, made her wake up screaming. Vision always used to stay by her side, lying in bed with her though he didn't need the sleep. He would kiss at her tears and whisper comforting words into her ear. He couldn't chase away the nightmares, but at least he would be with her to fight them. Now she was left alone, half of her body numb and broken. She would gladly break her arms again if it meant getting Vision back. She hated Thanos, but what good did it do now to hate the dead?

Most of all, she hated herself.

#wanda maximoff #vision #scarlet witch #infinity war fanfic #mcu fanfiction #be kind to yourself

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