#and the catch is that these are the meds making me nauseous which means. i’ll be More nauseous which is NOT helpful

[ilostyou]

welp. the phantom cramps are no longer phantom 😃

[tennessoui]

40 or 43 if you’re still taking prompts! i love ur AUs they’re so beautiful and contain so much brilliance within a short snippet!

it's been so long, anon, you probably forgot you sent this but here is prompt 40, exes meeting after not seeing each other for a long time. in true tennessoui fashion, they don't. actually. meet and/or see each other in this snippet. also in true tennessoui fashion, all tennessoui needs to decide to continue this is one (1) validation.

the backstory here is something i have been thinking about for days after a discord convo, where during the fight on mustafar, obi-wan hits anakin hard enough in the head that he loses all of his memories. obi-wan takes him with him for a few months but the wounds of Order 66 and vaderkin's role in what happened is too fresh for obi-wan to (understandably) get over, even if this anakin doesn't remember doing it, so they separate. this is set 8 years after Mustafar.

(1.7k)

“Kenobi won’t come,” the fighter pilot says immediately upon disembarking from his craft.

One commander lets out a groan. Someone else hits the durasteel side of the closest x-wing with a closed fist.

“Do we really need him?” Anakin demands, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been eight years since the rise of the Empire. Surely a washed-up Jedi General from the Clone Wars won’t have people jumping to join the Rebellion!”

No one meets his eye. In fact, the air room suddenly feels very, very uncomfortable.

Organa exhales heavily and turns to look at Anakin, which is rare because the man never voluntarily looks at Anakin. “There are few names from that time that still carry an untainted weight in the eyes of the galaxy. Obi-Wan Kenobi is one of them.”

“I grew up hearing about The Team!” A teenager says eagerly. “I’d join any resistance movement if I knew both of ‘em were fighting with me!”

“You’re already a part of a resistance movement,” a girl next to him pointed out waspishly.

The boy waves her off. “Skywalker and Kenobi, saving the galaxy! It’d be wizard to be a part of that, and you know it, Aasha!”

Anakin’s throat tightens at that name. Skywalker. His name. Or, his old name. He has no more connection to it now than he does to the name Kenobi or Organa. They’re just letters.

He catches Organa’s eye. The man is looking at him with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Anakin knows instinctively that this is another one of the man’s tests. Will this time be the time that whatever injury has kept his memories suppressed for eight years is undone, and his previous life comes thundering through his mind?

He’s sick of these tests. He’s never failed one, but Organa never comes closer to trusting him afterward. He can only assume that whatever Anakin Skywalker had done in his last few days alive had been so terrible that only a few people knew the truth, and those who did would never forgive any version of him for it.

Organa certainly knew, though he had never shared that information with Anakin. And.

And Kenobi did as well. That was clear. They’d only been together for five standard months, sharing a small spacecraft made smaller by the fear, agony, grief, fury, and hurt radiating off of his companion into the space around them.

It had been hard to tell at the time if one of the things Obi-Wan Kenobi had been grieving was the loss of Anakin Skywalker. Anakin isn’t sure Kenobi would have been able to answer that either.

Some part of him that usually rests dormant in the back of his mind stirs and hisses that it had to have been. That Skywalker’s loss had torn Kenobi’s soul to shreds.

This doesn’t necessarily feel like his own thought, but it’s quite hard to ignore. He wants to rub a hand against his aching head, but that surely would tip off Organa that something’s--what? That he’s having thoughts?

Perish the very idea.

One would think Anakin hadn’t joined the Rebellion of his own free will. That Anakin hadn’t spent three standard months on the planet Kenobi had left him on before catching wind of the existence of the Rebel Alliance, that he hadn’t risked life and limb (more limb, apparently, given his missing flesh hand) to find them afterwards. He hadn’t known much anything about himself, but he had known that he hadn’t liked what the Imperial troops were doing, how much destruction they were causing, how the people they were supposed to be protecting hid in fear of their white armor.

Something in Anakin had rebelled at that, had thought it wrong and twisted. Someone needs to stop them, he’d thought. So he had found the people that were trying to.

And yes, a small part of him had thought--perhaps hoped--that Obi-Wan Kenobi would be a part of the Rebel Alliance by the time Anakin made his way to their biggest base. He had thought--perhaps hoped--that he would be able to prove himself to the other man. Look, he had wanted to scream at Kenobi, I’m not like that other Anakin, I would never do what he did. You can trust me. You can look me in the eye, I won’t stab you in the back.

Because something in him had yearned, still yearns, for Kenobi’s approval. For the weight of his gaze settling warmly around his shoulders. For his small smiles, his calloused hand clasping the back of Anakin’s head to bring their foreheads together in a gentle tap hello.

These are things Anakin knows he’s never experienced. But he must have in his past life, because his whole body will ache for them like a phantom limb. It’s been seven years and a few months since he last saw Kenobi.

“I’ll go,” Anakin says, which is what he said the last time they were standing like this, huddled around a fighter pilot delivering the same message of failure.

Organa’s mouth tightens in displeasure, and Mothma places a hand on his arm in warning.

Everyone else falls silent around them, as if recognizing the fact that they’re in the middle of a brewing storm, and they’re lucky to be in its eye right now.

“I do not think--” Organa starts, but Anakin cuts him off, crossing his arms even tighter over his chest, as if to hold himself back. The force suppression collar around his neck grows warmer, but it holds. It always holds.

“You’re already sending men who look like me to him!” Anakin points out irately. “The last four men could have been related to me!” It’s something Anakin’s thought about in the past but never said out loud. He’s glad to say it now though, especially because Organa flushes a bit which means Anakin’s right. “Just send me! If it doesn’t work, nothing in the galaxy will!”

Now, Anakin isn’t sure that’s true at all. He’s taking a huge leap with this, but it’s been seven years and a few months since he saw Obi-Wan Kenobi in person, and every part of him is aching with the desire to lay eyes on the man again. Will he hate him still? Will he see all the differences Anakin’s made to his appearance? Will he like them? He fights the urge to run a hand over his shorn hair.

Will Obi-Wan even let him through the door?

The people around them are murmuring now. They don’t know what Organa knows, what Anakin has guessed at: that Skywalker died a traitor to the Republic, that he had tried to strike down Obi-Wan like the Emperor struck down the rest of the Jedi. To them, these fortunate outsiders, they’re wondering why Anakin Skywalker hasn’t already been sent to locate and bring back their errant General.

Before, Anakin’s offer had been quiet, easily ignored over someone else’s. Now he’s loud and confident. Impossible to turn away without making a public scene, without explaining why. And Organa has tried very hard not to do that. For whatever reason, Anakin doesn’t know. All he knows is that after he’d been examined by a battalion of med droids and interrogated by all three leaders of the Rebellion, Organa had given him a list of rules he had to follow in order to join the Rebel Alliance. Firstly, never remove his cuffs and collar.

It’s not a slave collar and it won’t electrocute you if you touch it or try to take it off, Organa had told him when he’d blanched away at the sight. But I have been informed by a trusted ally that the Chance--the Emperor knows your Force Signature intimately. We cannot risk being found. It would kill all hope for us.

Secondly, never confirm his identity. Never talk about who he used to be.

People will know, Organa had grudgingly admitted. Skywalker was one of the faces of the Clone Wars. But you cannot confirm it. In fact.

Thirdly, give up the name Skywalker. Pick another last name, if not first as well.

But Anakin had been attached to his first name for some reason he didn’t know how to begin to question, so even after he toyed with the idea of changing it completely, he couldn’t go through with it. Weeks later he had shown up in Organa’s makeshift office.

I had a mother, didn’t I? He had asked, causing Organa to stiffen immediately.

Do you remember? Organa had interrogated immediately, his standard greeting for Anakin. Anakin had gotten the feeling, especially in those early days, that Organa was waiting with baited breath for Anakin to remember so he could try him for war crimes or treason or whatever it was that Skywalker had done.

No, he had responded honestly. Just a feeling. If I am to take a new last name, I want her name.

A few days later, Anakin had stumbled into his bunk, tired from a day of hard training, to see a packet of documents on his pillow.

Anakin Shmison was written at the top of the first page.

The list of rules goes on and on.

But nowhere does it say that Anakin Shmison isn’t allowed to mention Obi-Wan Kenobi in public. He just never has, because even the sound of the man’s name makes him feel very nauseous, a combination of butterflies and adder snakes wrestling around inside his stomach.

Bail Organa is looking like he’s regretting that oversight right now, but Anakin has backed him quite solidly into a proverbial corner. Either finally tell everyone what happened between Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi in the last few hours of the Republic, or give Anakin Shmison leave to retrieve Kenobi.

“Fine,” Organa gets out, jaw locked and vein throbbing in his temple. Anakin has the distinct feeling he’se spent a lot of his life on the receiving end of that expression. “Have this X-Wing refueled, and leave tonight.”

“No sir,” Anakin says, enjoying the way one of the man’s eyebrows shoot up in angry incredulity.

“No?” Organa asks. “Would you like more beauty rest, perhaps, Shmison?”

“No sir, I don’t need it,” this time he doesn’t resist running a hand through his hair, messing with its part so his longer bangs fall to one side and balance out the mysterious scar that bisects his eyebrow. He grins. “But I will need a craft that sits two. For the return trip.”

[thisaccisdead]

montreal - roman hurt/comfort

pairing: this was written to all be platonic prinxiety, but can definitely be interpreted romantically !

warnings: unconventional self harm, non-graphic descriptions of wounds/injury

summary: a post-POF roman hurt/comfort fic in january 2021? yes <3

word count: 3.2k

notes: large portions of this were salvaged from one (1) night last summer at 4am when i was having a . time. the rest has been mainly recently written before i go to bed, with some extra bits added during my history classes B)) also shout out to [REDACTED]. u may not read this but if u do, i hope u know who u are & ilu

Virgil had been trying to calm himself down for the better part of an hour, as soon as they got back from the wedding fiasco; and he was doing a relatively okay job. Considering the circumstances, at least. Or so he thought, when he registered a spike in Thomas’s anxiety. This only served to make Virgil more anxious, because he had thought he had been doing well—until, he realized it wasn’t anxiety, not exactly, not fully—and it wasn’t coming from him.

Once he'd figured that out, it wasn't hard to trace the feeling to the imagination. He paused at the door. If this was where the strongest negative emotions were coming from, he already knew which side this was about. And could he really be surprised? Roman had wanted that callback for so long. Even at the court case, even when Roman gave Thomas his sentence, Virgil knew it killed him. And Virgil didn't do anything. Because he was so fucking scared of Thomas being bad, or of Janus winning, or something, and now whatever was going on was his fault, and--

And now was not the time for these thoughts. He breathed in. He opened the door.

Immediately, he was coughing out soot, heat burned his cheeks, his eyes blurred with protective tears forming against the smoke. It was hard to see, let alone process, what was happening. Then, he caught sight of the Dragon Witch. And he caught sight of—

“Roman!” Virgil choked on the yell, coughing again.

Obviously Roman couldn’t hear him from the distance, especially considering the brutal roar of the creature. Adrenaline kicked in, and as Virgil began to sprint towards the prince, he took in the entirety of the scene with alarm. Roman was...fighting, sure, except that Virgil had seen him fight before, and this... wasn’t right. Roman bested manticore-chimeras like it was a breeze, he HAD bested the Dragon Witch herself in every form she took, “just for training.” He always moved like he was in a ballet, not a battle, like it was more for show than challenge, and now...

Virgil watched Roman fall to a hard swish of the creature’s tail, and stay there. He almost expected the Dragon Witch to take mercy, or at least, to accept an early victory. But he watched her rear back, raise a taloned hand, the magma-red in her throat glowing brighter and brighter—just as Virgil got close enough to let fight win over flight.

Virgil crashed into Roman; they rolled just far enough that the swipe of claws only ripped the edge of Virgil’s jacket.

Immediate danger out of the way, Virgil clenched his eyes tight, trying to do it how Logan taught him. He found something that didn’t make sense--the grass. The grass was dry, therefore it should have been burning, but it wasn’t. He took that foothold to dispel all the fantastical elements of the scene, Dragon Witch and all her carnage blinking from existence. The new calm of the scene was jarring.

That just left a great big field, Virgil, and one absolute dumbass.

"What the fuck, Princey?!"

Virgil’s voice was distorted with stress, and Roman stared up at him wide-eyed, unsure—even terrified in a way that hurt. Virgil quickly pushed himself up so he wasn't pinning the other. Roman tried to copy this movement, only to groan, start coughing, and fall back again.

“Shit, I—“ Virgil looked at his hands and found red on them, looked at Roman and saw the color painting his chest. “I thought I dispelled all the imaginary stuff, why—?“

“Left brain sides can only dispel so much of what right brain sides feel,” Roman said, voice rough and thin and upsettingly casual, “Since they feel so real to me, you can’t get rid of them.”

“They feel…? Christ, ok, you need a medical kit, uhm—“ Virgil closed his eyes again; he was notoriously shitty at summoning things, and he had to concentrate for this—

“That’s ok; I’ve got it,” Roman said, letting out a quiet hiss as he propped himself up on one arm, and summoned the medical kit with the other, “You can go now.”

Virgil gaped at him in disbelief. When Roman attempted to stand up, and Virgil could no longer deny he wasn’t joking, he exclaimed, “Like Hell am I going, idiot!”

Roman just stared at him, and Virgil cursed under his breath. “Ok ok, let’s just... we should do this in the bathroom, uhm—“

Virgil awkwardly clambered over to Roman again, taking his hand, so he could blink them over together. He knew it would probably be more comfortable for Roman to sink in and out, but considering Virgil wasn’t practiced at that, he wasn’t going to risk screwing it up.

They apparated into the bathtub, and Virgil scrambled up, taking the med kit from Roman's hands.

Ok, ok, now Virgil just had to remember that one time Logan lectured them all on “Side Safety.” He took a shaky breath and washed his hands quickly, before turning back to Roman. He allowed himself to fully assess the prince this time and… Jesus. He was slumped against the back of the tub, having given up his attempts at composure while he thought Virgil wasn’t looking. His litany of scrapes, cuts, bruising, his shallow breathing, and--most of all--the wet, red patch slowly growing on his shirt, sparked renewed panic in Virgil.

“Ok, fuck, ok--let’s do this,” Virgil said, mostly to himself, as he knelt down by Roman to undo his already tattered shirt and take a wet towel to his chest. He had to suck in a breath at the sight of the jagged wound, a nauseous feeling catching up to him.

“You’ve already done a lot, you know,” Roman insisted. “You can--”

“If you tell me to go, Princey, I swear I’ll make these wounds worse myself,” he said, not meaning it in the slightest, which he would assume Roman knew--but the way Roman flinched and shut his mouth told a different story. “Shit, I didn’t mean that. Of course I didn’t mean that!”

Roman glanced away, and Virgil reached to cup his cheek, an instinct he didn’t know he had. Luckily, he caught himself in time to retract his hand. They both avoided eye contact for a second; Virgil cleared his throat; and he reached for the bottle of hydrogen peroxide before pausing. He vaguely recalled Logan mentioning how strong alcohols would only cause more harm, and they should just stick to mild soap instead. He gave the cut a longer look-over—it was certainly not a pretty sight, but probably not as bad as it looked. It was large, but not too deep. Plus, as sides, it would heal itself without needing anything like stitches or professional medical work. The past scars littering Roman’s body were proof of that. Actually--had he always had this many scars? Virgil squinted. How often did he do this?

Virgil finished cleansing and bandaging the wound to the best of his ability, with little talk beyond the occasional, soft “sorry” at Roman’s winces. When he had finished, he gave Roman his hoodie (an action the Prince was too tired to take much notice of), since summoning a new shirt seemed like a waste of whatever energy he had left.

“Ok, Princey, all done. Uhm, are you—how, how are you?” Virgil mentally kicked himself.

A small, bitter smile tugged at Roman’s lips for just a moment. He opened his mouth and then closed it, and finally shrugged. “Thank you for your help.”

It hurt, Virgil realized. Roman’s quiet voice, where near-shouting was his usual speech. His unkempt hair sticking to his forehead, where it was usually styled to be very lightly and intentionally ruffled. The bags beneath his eyes where there was usually concealer. All of it hurt.

Virgil sucked in a breath. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m being annoying, but I hope you know there’s absolutely no way I’m leaving yet.”

“Virgil,” Roman almost said it as a whine, which was closer to his usual style, so Virgil considered it progress.

“Roman,” Virgil deadpanned back.

Roman huffed. “Maybe I need space to really explore my feelings, and you’re actually being a terrible friend right now,” he argued.

“Uh-huh, well being a terrible friend is always my favorite, so,” Virgil leaned down, fumbling slightly as he picked Roman up bridal style, “We’re gonna get you to bed, and you can explore your feelings by sleeping.”

“Great, now you’re damsel-in-distressing me,” Roman said sarcastically, but he leaned his head into Virgil’s chest as he did so, which kind of ruined his point.

“Yeah, yeah. Act more like Megara next time, and maybe it’ll be different.”

•••

Roman groaned upon waking up. His whole body ached, but mainly it was focused around a sharper pain in his chest. He let his eyes flutter open, only to find Virgil staring at him from his desk.

“Ah,” Roman uttered, a jumble of memories from the past few hours returning. They felt foggy and mildly icky, but mainly the pain in them was the numb kind of pain, the tired kind. Really, it was indistinguishable from the dull ache of his bruises and cuts.

“Yeah,” Virgil said, as though he understood, even though he couldn’t possibly. “Uh, wanna talk about it?”

It was clear Virgil felt awkward asking the question. It was unclear whether that was due to his tendency to be embarrassed by everything he said, or—far more likely—that he wanted to stop babying a stupid prince, and just go about his business.

Roman sat up, suppressing a wince as best he could. “Do you want to hear about it?”

“Of course I do.” Virgil said it without an ounce of hesitation. Roman’s breath caught.

“Oh.” Roman shifted slightly over, and Virgil took a seat by him on the bed. “Okay. Uhm. I don’t know, I just—I messed up.” What else was new?

“...What did you mess up?” Virgil asked, with an inkling of suspicion, like he knew what this was about. But it wasn’t that; it wasn’t the callback—that was over and done and dead. Roman had created so many fantasies, so many crazy scenarios where they could somehow still make it in that stupid movie, and it had always filled him with hope or crushing pain or something, but as of this afternoon? He didn’t even care. It didn’t matter.

So, Roman ignored the question, and instead commented, “Janus got accepted.”

“What the fuck.”

Roman observed Virgil’s stricken expression like an unsettling kind of mirror of himself when—

My name is Janus.

“Yeah,” Roman sighed, “I didn’t take it so well either.”

Virgil looked at him for a long moment, seeming to go through several series of emotions, before he was able to ask, “...What happened?”

Roman inhaled sharply. “I was wrong about being wrong about the wedding. Patton was also wrong; Janus was right, and then Patton was right because he wasn’t a total asshole to Janus, and I’m evil; Thomas hates me; whatever, you get it.”

He thought he would break down, saying it, but he felt oddly… fine. He sat, staring at the same spot as he was before, absentmindedly annoyed at the way his bandages itched. The normalcy of the situation almost made it worse. This sucked. This wasn’t even bad.This was the worst he had ever felt.

“Oook,” Virgil said, clearly not knowing where to start, “I—you—what do you mean: Thomas hates you?”

“Thought that one was self-explanatory.”

“He can’t hate you,” Virgil said with a laughable amount of conviction. “You’re still his… y’know.. goals. Desires. Hopes. Whatever. Just because this one didn’t go… perfectly, doesn’t mean you won’t keep—“ he struggled to find the phrasing for a moment— “...fighting, uh, valiantly for Thomas’s dreams!” he attempted at the encouragement with a weak smile.

Roman just shook his head. “No. I don’t know what he wants.”

Virgil’s smile dropped into confusion. “But… you are his wants.”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

Virgil seemed at a loss, and Roman felt like an asshole. Here he was trying to help him, and Roman couldn’t even be bothered to put on a smile to dismiss him from the duty.

“Please go,” Roman attempted weakly when he couldn’t find a more convincing argument in himself. He was meant to be an actor, but he knew he couldn’t hide the fact that he wanted him to stay, of course he did, so badly. He hoped Virgil would just quit with the chivalry and go despite that.

Virgil sighed deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Shit, I'm going about this all wrong.”

Roman knew it probably wasn’t really him Virgil was mad at, but it was hard not to shrink away anyway.

“Look, Roman—“ Virgil turned to him, looked at him seriously, took his hands in his— “To be honest? I don’t care what happened. I don’t care who was right or wrong—I mean, we all know I’ve been in the wrong more than my fair share. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Roman didn’t miss the ambiguity of the end statement. “But… look, you don’t get it. When you mess up, you’re still you. You’re still...,” Roman gestured vaguely, which upset his bandages, and when he looked down at himself, he took note of the black/purple hoodie he was wearing. He melted slightly. This was exactly the point he was trying to make, “You’re still... y’know. Important.”

“Wh—? Of course you’re important, Ro. You’re creativity—“

“Thomas has two of those.”

Virgil looked at him like he was stupid. “Right, as if you’re anything like Remus.”

Roman’s lip quivered at that, and he had to look away, which was so stupid. And suddenly he felt all of the embarrassment at once—of this situation, of everything that had happened before, of the way he was about to cry, in front of Virgil, after he said that, which must look so—

“Roman?”

A hand was on his cheek, softly turning his face towards Virgil’s, though Roman still refused to meet his eyes.

Virgil cursed to himself under his breath. “Shit, this is exactly what I was trying not to say.” He sighed, and Roman hesitantly looked up at him. “Look. Even if you weren’t creativity, if you weren’t hopes or dreams or any of it—if you were a completely pointless side, which you aren’t, but if you were—I wouldn’t care. What I care about is that you’re... Roman. That you bother me until I sing Disney with you, that when you put your heart into something, you do it to a stupid amount, that you make Thomas take trashy buzzfeed soulmate quizzes when he’s stressed, and that you fucking try so hard for everything, even when I’m being a little bitch about it,” he paused. With the hand on Roman’s cheek, he traced the line of a scar down his jaw. It was one of the ones Roman usually made sure to put an illusion over, he noted offhandedly. “I care, because you’re my best friend.”

“Don’t say that,” Roman choked out. He couldn’t handle it if it was a lie, and part of him couldn’t manage hearing it as anything but exactly that. “Just—just—“

“Oh, Princey..”

Virgil held him as he broke. Roman didn’t know how long they sat like that as he let everything wash over him for a final time, let it all truly sink in at long last. He took heaving, messy sobs, no doubt ruining Virgil’s shirt in the process—he was quiet, though. He shook silently, save a couple choked breaths, in the other’s arms--that was a habit he had taught himself long ago.

When Roman had tired himself out, when all that was left was the pain in chest, (which was also suddenly duller—he was healing fast, even for a side—) he pulled back from the embrace. Virgil didn’t move by much, kept them so their fingers were laced together, as they sat staring at each other.

“Uhm. Thanks,” Roman gave a shaky smile, “You really—uh... I... I said some stupid stuff, huh?”

Virgil hesitated before he spoke, as if he knew he shouldn’t ask this right now, but needed to anyway. “...Roman, why’d you go to the Imagination?”

Roman felt ice stab at his chest upon the question. He didn’t want to do this. They had already talked about so much that he shouldn’t have gotten into; this was meant to be the part where they either parted or watched a stupid movie. And this, out of everything, was the conversation he most needed to avoid.

“Uh—I mean, to let off steam?” Roman gave a laugh as best he could. “Obviously, it didn’t go to plan—“

“Didn’t it?”

Roman’s face fell immediately. He struggled to come up with an answer, and even if he had had one, he didn’t think the sound would come out. This was enough of an answer in itself

“Shit,” Virgil breathed. Roman couldn’t help but be mildly annoyed by his surprise—clearly he had already known, he didn’t have to make it a big deal now.

“I… Princey—Roman…” Virgil looked him up and down, and Roman wanted to curl up and hide. “...how many times?”

“Not many,” Roman mumbled. Virgil must have known he was pushing the subject too far, because he just frowned and said,

“OK. I mean...it’s not OK, obviously, but you already know that, I just—“ he sighed. “Just… can you talk to me? Instead? Please? When you feel like… that.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Roman responded hastily, wanting an out from this topic.

Virgil gave him a look. “I’m serious. I mean—look, you don’t even have to talk about it if you don’t want. Just, come to me first, yeah?”

Roman’s face burned; he was embarrassed; he wanted to shrug this whole thing off, or roll his eyes, or maybe scream in annoyance. But the rational part of him knew Virgil was right. “OK,” he agreed softly, “...Thanks. For everything.”

Virgil looked surprised, and then flustered, and then waved off the earnest reply. “I mean, it wasn’t--I didn’t--it’s not like I did anything really--”

“You did.”

Virgil’s face softened. “Yeah, well... you’d’ve done the same for me. You... have done the same for me.”

Roman smiled gently at him. “By the way, Virge--” He hesitated. He was about to sound like a real dumbass if Virgil had only been saying this stuff for comfort’s sake. But making a fool of himself was becoming a theme for him anyway, so he continued, “You’re my best friend too.”

I love you.

In the same beats Roman thought it, Virgil squeezed his hand lightly 3 times. A breath passed between them. An understanding. That Roman couldn’t say it out loud, and Virgil wouldn’t.

Instead, Virgil fell back across the bed, bringing Roman with him in the motion. Roman let out a startled gasp and elbowed him lightly. “Hey! I’m injured, that could have been a fatal impact for me!” he whined.

Virgil snorted. “Yeah, yeah, OK. So, do you wanna watch a stupid movie, or what?”

[ray-ray-writings]

hi 👉👈 so uhm.. i was wondering if you could write something where the reader is dating wilbur and is really close to the rest of the sbi too and one day the reader gets sick and they just take care of the reader and tell them how much they mean to sbi and wilbur is just super protective since they are sick because .. i’m a sucker for fluff 😣

(I wrote this as a drabble and I really hope that was okay haha) 

TW: Vomiting and getting sick

Ever since you and Wilbur had begun dating, you had been a part of his family. Phil obviously loved you at the first meeting and adopted you. You were just so sweet and wanted to make a good impression so bad, the memory of you trying to help make dinner makes Phil smile and laugh to this day. Tommy was the next one to accept you, it took him a few more meetings but once you stood up for him when Wilbur called him an annoying brat by saying, “Oh he’s fine Wilbur, he’s not annoying. He’s just Tommy! Leave him be” Tommy loved you like another sibling. Techno took a bit longer than everyone just because he sometimes has a hard time warming up to people. He finally warms up to you once you ask him a question about Greek Mythology and you just listened intently while Techno rambled about it, even after he had already answered your question. The point of this rambling from me is that you are well loved in the SBI family, you spend a lot of time with Wilbur and his family, and the boys would do anything for you.

So one day, you come over to the Minecraft household to spend the night with your boyfriend and his family. You’re immediately welcomed by the sound of footsteps thundering from above with Tommy’s screaming to pair with it. You catch a glimpse of Phil in the kitchen and make your way there first. “Hello Phil,” You greet him, setting your bag down on a chair at the table before moving to hug him. Philza turns around from the counter and lets out a relieved sigh and smiles at the sight of you. He quickly wraps you in a warm hug, “Thank god you’re here” he breaths out causing you to laugh. “Wilbur and Tommy causing trouble?” Another loud scream from upstairs answers my question. “Something like that” he laughs out. “You want me to go stop it?” “Please” and so you two let go from the hug, you pick up your bag and make your way upstairs. The screaming of the boys only gets louder as you walk down the hall. Surprisingly, the arguing suddenly makes your head begin to hurt which is weird, because this has never happened before. But nevertheless, you push open Wilbur’s door with an eyebrow raised, “What’s going on here?” You ask. The arguing immediately stops as both heads snap to you. The tension between them seems to melt as you enter the room. “Hey baby” Wilbur greets, walking over to you, pressing a small kiss to your forehead then to your lips. “Hey boys” you greet back, “What’s going on?” And both of them explode into words, both trying to explain what happened. But again, the arguing makes your head pound causing you to wince. The two immediately notice and stop, “You okay baby?” Wilbur asks, a concerned look on his face. You clear your throat and nod. “Yeah, just a headache. I’m fine. But if you could stop arguing I would appreciate it.” And so the two of them do stop and you all move on with your evening. 

You guys go back down and had dinner with everyone, you guys then watch a movie and then you and Wilbur head off to bed. All throughout the night though, you slowly begin to feel bad. Like a sick bad. The headache never goes away, but you force a smile through it. After you eat dinner, your stomach begins to churn and you begin feeling a bit nauseous and just a few other little things that make you feel unwell. That being said, you do your best to ignore it and continue on with your night as normal. The boys do notice but because you don’t say anything they figure that it will be okay. You and Wilbur climb into bed that night and Wilbur pulls you close to his chest. “You feeling okay babe?” He finally asks once he notices the way that you flinch when he pulls you in. “Yeah,” you croak, clearing your throat before trying again, “Yeah. I think I may have eaten too fast tonight. I should be fine by morning” 

You were not fine by morning. 

When your eyes opened that morning, you immediately knew that you were sick. The churning of your stomach that began last night raged even harder now and you could feel the bile rising in the back of your throat. You quickly threw Wilbur’s arm off of you as well as the blankets before bolting for the door, down the hallway, and into the bathroom. Your knees hit the ground in front of the toilet harshly as you ripped the toilet lid open before vomiting into the toilet. Tears formed in your eyes as your stomach emptied itself into the porcelain toilet. After you were done, you reach up and flush the toilet before resting your cheek against the cool rim. “What’s the matter?” Wilbur’s panicked voice calls from the doorway, “You got out of bed and ran so fast I didn’t have time to process. Are you okay?” He questions walking into the bathroom. You don’t move your face from the toilet as you stare at him pathetically, “I think I’m sick,” you whimper. Wilbur lets out a small coo and shuts the door behind him before walking to you. He kneels down beside you, “Can I touch you?” he asks gently. You give him a small nod as you pull your cheek from the toilet seat and onto his shoulder and his hand is instantly on you, running up and down your back carefully. “What do you need?” He asks, his brow furrowed in worry. You give a small shrug, because you honestly don’t know. “Are you going to throw up again?” Again a small shrug. Wilbur opens his mouth to ask another question, but a small, careful knock on the bathroom door interrupts him. “Is everything okay in there?” Philza’s soft voice calls from the other side. “Yeah… Y/N’s sick” Wilbur called in response. There’s a slight pause before he responds again, “Can I come in?” Wilbur looks to you for your response, but again you just shrug, “Yeah.” The door slowly opens and Philza walks into the bathroom with a concerned look on his face. He walks in all the way, also shutting the door behind him, and walks over to you, gently pulling you from Wilbur’s side and resting the back of his hand on your forehead. “Oh sweetheart, you’re burning up… Let’s get you back in bed huh?” You whimper and nod slowly at his words. “Wilbur would you…” Wilbur nods and pulls away from you and before you can whine at the loss of contact, you’re back in Wilbur’s arms, this time being carried. Philza opens the bathroom door and Wilbur carries you back to his room. Wilbur puts you back in his bed and tucks you into the covers again. After he’s done, Philza walks into the room with a bucket, some meds, a glass of water, and a cool rag. Philza sets everything down on the nightstand. He hands you the meds and helps you take them with the glass of water. “Small sips. We don’t want to upset your stomach” Philza chides softly as you try to gulp down the water. You listen to him and only take a few more sips before he pulls the water away and sets it back on the nightstand. Philza then puts the rag on your forehead and puts the bucket on the floor next to you. “Bucket on the floor in case you need to throw up again. Are you okay for now?” Philza asks, a soft hand running through your hair. You let out a little hum as your eyes flutter closed, “Yeah… I’m good, thanks dad” you mumble out. You don’t see it but Philza’s face breaks out into a huge soft grin. “Alright. Well I’ll go tell Tommy and Techno to keep their noise level down… Mostly Tommy.” Phil says with a laugh, “But then I’ll make some chicken noodle soup for you when you wake up, okay?” Again you let out a small hum in confirmation. You feel the other side of the bed dip down as you hear Phil’s footsteps leave the room. Arms wrap around your body and Wilbur pulls you close to his chest, his lips tilting down and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re gonna get sick” you whine, trying to turn around in his arms and get away from him, but his grip remains tight. “So be it then. I just wanna hold my baby, to make them feel better.” He murmurs, pressing another kiss to your forehead and pulling you impossibly closer. This time you don’t fight him and you relax in his arms and fall asleep. 

When you wake up, you feel a little bit better, still sick but better. You’re also still in Wilbur’s arms, but someone else is in the room. You manage to roll yourself over onto your back and in the doorway you find Tommy standing there with his arms crossed just staring at you. “Were you watching us sleep?” You ask blearily, your voice cracking a little bit. Tommy’s face blushes a bright red at getting caught, “No!” He tries to defend himself, “You were just… Just sleeping in my line of vision… Yeah that’s it. I wasn’t in here because I was worried about you at all, not at all.” He rambles, revealing everything. You can’t help but melt a little. “It’s okay Tommy. I’m okay. ‘M just a little sick” you tell him, slowly adjusting yourself so you could sit up and grab the glass of water off of the nightstand and taking a few small sips before setting it back down. Tommy has a little pout on his face, “I don’t want you to be sick.” Tommy says quietly. You can’t help but let out a little laugh, “Neither do I kiddo, but it’s just the way it is right now.” Tommy is quiet for a moment before he asks, “Is there something I can do?” Again, you melt because you very very rarely see this side of Tommy. “Yeah, could you let your dad know I’m awake. I could really use some chicken noodle soup and crackers right now” Tommy gives you a small nod and turns and runs out of the room. You’re startled out of your trance by Wilbur shifting next to you and wrapping his arms around you again, “You’ve done it. You’ve tamed the brat” Wilbur mumbles out, burying his face into your side. You can’t help but roll your eyes, but you let one of your hands move and rest in his hair to play with it. “Shush,” you mutter down at him. He doesn’t say anything else, but the smirk on his face says it all. 

A small knock on the door sounds. You don’t get to answer before the door swings open and Wilbur’s pink headed brother is there with a package of crackers and some more pills in his hands. “Hey Tech” you greet causing Wilbur’s face to poke out of your side. Techno walks into the room and over to the bed. “Hey Y/N. How you feeling?” he asks, setting the crackers down on the nightstand. “Better, but my body is still achy and my head hurts a bit.” You admit. Techno lets out a small hum as he grabs the glass of water and hands you the glass and some more meds, “Dad told me to tell you to take these. It’s the same thing as you took before you went to sleep, it’s been enough time for more…” You give him a nod, taking the meds before handing him the glass again. He sets it down on the stand before opening the package of crackers and handing you a few. “Here, you can eat these while you wait for soup. Just don’t eat them too fast” “Thanks Tech” you murmur, taking the crackers and slowly begin nibbling on them. Techno just stands there for a while, watching you eat them. Normally you would be a little intimidated by it, but because of what had just happened with Tommy moments ago, you knew he just wanted to make sure you were alright. After you ate the first two crackers, you decided to strike up a conversation, not wanting to sit there in silence. As you talked, Philza and Tommy appeared in the room with five bowls of soup, Philza carrying three and Tommy carrying two. The two quickly passed a bowl to the three of you that were sitting on the bed. The five of you ate the chicken noodle soup together. The warm soup made you feel a bit better, your stomach a bit wholer… That didn’t make any sense oh well. As you ate, you couldn’t help but look around at the room. Your heart swelled with joy as you looked at the family that had practically adopted you. They had all dropped what they were doing that day to take care of you and you couldn’t be more grateful.

[vintagedolan]

mixtape | track twelve

| masterlist | faceclaims | playlist |

Indy wondered why people in her life seemed to fixate on sunshine, as if it somehow fixed things. When she and Charlie were small and the sun was out, her parents were ushering them outside to get some fresh air, telling them it was good for them. Her first day of high school, when she was nauseous in the passenger seat at the thought of a new place with a new class schedule, her dad had said ‘at least it’s warm today’. The day of Nicole’s funeral, between the sympathetic smiles and awkward glances, Indy had lost count of the amount of people who commented on the beautiful sunshine outside that her mother wasn’t there to see. It grated on Indiana’s nerves, and she found herself enjoying the rainy days more in the years after her mother’s death, when the clouds were heavy and wet, booming with thunder she could feel shaking her floor. She sat at her windows and watched it fall, watched the world have to shift to accommodate a change in the sky, change in a way that it never did for her when she needed it to. 

The week before Bekah died, it rained every day. 

Monday marked seven days without treatment, and the effects were starting to show. Bekah had lost more weight, which Indy wasn’t even sure was possible. She kept her blankets on her at all times, the Christmas and Halloween ones layers on top of each other. 

She still shivered.

The rain fell outside the window, and Indy sat on the sill, thankful for the cold glass against her arm. It kept her in the moment, kept her mind in the room instead of in Los Angeles, wondering what was going through Grayson’s head that made him continue to ignore her calls. She didn’t have the energy to be pissed at him for leaving her abandoned - instead she was just worried, worried about the guilt she knew would overtake him when she finally was able to get ahold of him. 

Indiana’s schedule was PRN - meaning they only called her into the hospital when she was needed. She couldn’t tell if they actually did need her and were too nice to say, or if they were fully staffed, but they didn’t call her. Patrick had put his foot down with her hours at Jet’s too, and said he’d keep her on payroll as long as he could so she kept her benefits, but that he wasn’t putting her on the schedule either. 

So she put her skills to use for Bekah, and Bekah alone. Anything she needed, Indy knew where to get it on the floor. She funneled every ounce of energy into the girl in front of her, trying to take any of the burden off the Newcombs that she could. If Bekah needed ice chips, she was at the nurses station. In the supply closet to get fresh linens, the laundry to get clean hospital gowns. She helped her get changed, get showered as best she could - it was less mortifying for Bekah to have Indiana help her than her parents, who were nervous enough they would hurt her as it was. 

When Bekah was awake, she was trying. Putting on her brightest smile, doing her best to perk up for her parents and Indiana. But when her parents would leave, which wasn’t often - only to go get fresh clothes, or grab dinner in the cafe - Bekah would deflate. She’d sigh and lean back against her pillows and try to catch her breath. They went home that night to eat a real dinner with promises to bring some back for Bekah, and as soon as they kissed her goodbye, she relaxed back and closed her eyes. Indiana watched her for a moment, and reached out to hold her hand.

“It’s okay Beks. They know you’re tired, you’re allowed to show it.”

“Says you,” she muttered. “Haven’t seen you sleep since I went off meds.”

Indy swallowed. “I sleep when you sleep.”

“Liar.” 

“How do you feel?” She changed the subject.

“Like I’m dying.”

Indy choked, and Bekah laughed dryly. “C’mon, that was a good one. And don’t say it isn’t, cause you know I’m right.” 

It took all of Indy’s strength not to try to coat it all in some toxic positivity, tell her it wasn’t that bad, that she would feel better, that she would get better - the things she’d been telling her all the years she’d known her. 

They weren’t true, and she had to be okay with that.

“I really do think it’ll be this week,” Bekah said, picking at balls of lint on her blanket. 

“Why do you think that?” Indy kept her tone as neutral as she could.

“I feel it. Feels… different. I want to go in my sleep, if I can. Think it’ll be easier for everyone that way. Is there a way to make that happen?” 

Indy put on her hospital smile. “That’s usually how it goes babe, when you let someone go naturally. Your body gets tired, and you sleep, and then you go.”

She pondered on that for a moment, sat with it, and then she nodded, firm and confident.

“Okay. Good. That’ll be good.”

Indy hoped that one day she could have half the bravery of the girl sitting in front of her, with her thin arms and her purple head scarf, her small smile and stern gaze. 

“Can we have milkshakes? And watch some of Grayson’s videos before my parents get back?”

Indy swallowed. “Of course. I’ll go get them, you rest.”

She was glad she could pull strings - the kitchen was usually closed to requests after dinner, but Daniel downstairs was always nice when she called. Sure enough, by the time she’d swiped through all the doors and made it to the kitchen, he had two vanilla milkshakes with extra whipped cream, and sprinkles on Bekah’s. 

“Thanks D!” 

“You’re welcome other D,” Daniel smiled. The hole in Indy’s chest rubbed raw, and she turned quickly before he could think he did something wrong. She breathed, timed her inhales with her steps as she traversed the halls.

It didn’t help, because when she walked into Bekah’s room she heard him.

Only this time, we’re getting sinus surgery

“Ooo, sprinkles!” Beks smiled and reached out a hand, waiting for Indy to pass her the milkshake. 

She did, and she settled next to her on the bed with her own, leaning just far enough back so that Bekah couldn’t see her face.

The videos were always harder. He was still all over her social media, pictures and screenshots and people tagging the two of them on tea pages. He was still in her phone too - the outgoing calls, the photos in her camera roll. But the videos were the worst, because it was him. His mannerisms, his eyebrows that curved when he talked, his tongue that peeked through his smile when he laughed just hard enough. 

She watched anyways, let the ache fester and make her feel something. She stared at his sunburnt nose, and listened to him talk about his once deviated septum that they didn’t actually fix - he still snored loud enough to wake her up some nights. She missed it. 

Bekah laughed at every funny comment the boys made under their anesthesia in the video, and it was music to Indy’s ears, heartwarming enough for her to be able to stomach watching. By 15 minutes in, Bekah had abandoned her milkshake, the whipped cream dissolving down into the ice cream as her head lulled onto Indy’s shoulder and she fell asleep. 

With a shaky hand, Indy checked her pulse. 

Slow, but steady. 

She turned off the TV.

In California, the fight didn’t start until Tuesday night. The house had been full of tension for almost a week, and the usual LA sunshine didn’t help to lighten the mood.

Grayson had become a recluse. He’d fallen back on the earlier method of locking his phone in a box in an attempt to save his sanity, which was even more fragile from the doom scrolling he’d found himself doing as people speculated every single detail of his life online. The black metal cube sat on a table in the living room, and he only saw it on the few occasions that he ventured out to the kitchen for food. 

Even in his limited excursions, he felt the awkward energy radiating from his twin and Eden. They’d had their spats in the past, just like any couple, but there was something different about this one that had Grayson glad he was out of the room when Eden finally cleared her throat and looked at her boyfriend.

“Are we gonna talk about this?”

Ethan picked at a scab on his forearm - he’d been longboarding again as an excuse to get out of the house. 

“Talk about what?”

“Talk about why we aren’t talking,” she huffed. “You’re mad at me.” 

“Correct,” Ethan said. 

“Tell me why then.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You have to ask?” 

Eden swallowed down her anger, knowing it wouldn’t help anything. She waited. They sat in stalemate for a moment and she watched it boil up in Ethan before he sighed and turned in his chair towards her.

“Being hateful to me when you’re upset is one thing, because I signed up for that. But to my brother? When he’s doing pretty much as bad as I’ve ever seen him? Not okay. At all.” 

“Ethan-”

“And I’m all for the tough love approach or whatever, but that was fucked up. He was just starting to do a little bit better and now look at him.” 

“Better? You thought that was better?” 

“He was eating at least, and still trying to work a little bit. Now, he’s barely able to do the podcast, much less anything else.”

“You all were already going to cut the main channel, that’s not because of this,” she argued.

“I’m talking everything else Eden. The businesses. Figuring out what the fuck we’re gonna do. He said the other day we could split time between here and Jersey, which really means here and New York if we only do the podcast.”

“And he didn’t think of that as an option before he broke up with Indiana? Makes sense.”

Ethan ignored her and kept going.

“At least he’s thinking about the future, which is better than before. I need him. But I need him, and you yelling at him set him back to square one.”

“If you thought he was even close to out of square one you’re blind.”

“Don’t act like you know my fucking twin better than I do,” Ethan snapped, and if it wasn’t for the protective nature in his tone, Eden would have lost it. 

“Ethan.” She waited until he looked up at her, and she saw some of the anger leave his eyes when they met her. “He wasn’t getting better, because he was holding on. Fuck, he still is!”

“Telling him to let go isn’t going to make him let go! Have you met him? He’s the most stubborn fucking person on the face of this fucking earth! He already wants to go back, he’s not gonna let go!”

She could think of one person that could rival him for the title, but she kept it to herself. 

“He’ll do it if he thinks he’s doing it for her,” Eden explained. “Don’t you see that? That’s why he did all of this. In his head, somehow, he thinks he’s doing what’s best for Indy. But he fucked her over, royally.”

“He knows that,” Ethan said. 

“Okay, great! But he has to let go of her, because she won’t. Indy is an optimist if I’ve ever fucking met one, and she will always hope that he’s gonna come back, so he can’t do anything to feed into it. That’s torture, for both of them. And they both deserve better than that.”

Ethan couldn’t find a grip hold for an argument - one of the many reasons he hated arguing with Eden. So he sat in silence for a moment and accepted his defeat.

“You didn’t have to call him a moron,” he added.

“Anyone who let’s Indiana Cross slip through their fingers is a moron,” she muttered, shoulders relaxing as she realized the fight was over. “But yeah, that was probably a little harsh. I’ll apologize for that one.” She sighed, glad that everything was out on the table for the time being, smiling when Ethan patted his thigh once for her to sit on. She climbed up and nuzzled into his neck - she’d missed being so close to him the last few days. She soaked in the moment, running her fingers over the neck of his henley. 

“Is it weird that I miss her? I mean, I know I haven’t known her very long, but she really felt like part of the family.”

“I miss her too,” Ethan sighed, pressing a kiss to Eden’s temple. 

She pondered her apology to Grayson as she relaxed into his arms, but it was futile.

Grayson had been listening, standing in the hallway outside his door.  

There were no tears; just an overwhelming numbness that had settled over him in the last few days. Eden’s words were the final nail in the coffin - he couldn’t reach out to Indy, though it got more and more tempting each day. He’d promised not to hurt her more than he already had, and he was going to stick to his word. Someone important had taught him that. 

He retreated to his room and sat on the edge of the bed before he spoke. 

“Hey dad.” 

He always waited, just for a moment. Just in case. The silence was always loud, but it was deafening as he curled in on himself, staring down at the grains of wood in the floor.

“Dad I think I really fucked up this time,” he whispered. He willed the tears, but they didn’t come, though his eyes still burned. “I wish you were here. I wish you could have met her.” 

As he sat, he remembered what his dad had said in those last few days, in the few hours that he was awake, when he fought off the pain and the fatigue to be there for his kids and his wife. I’ll always be there, you can always talk to me. Just say whatever you would if I was right there beside you, cause I will be.

So he did. He spoke as if he could feel the weight of his dad on the bed beside him, feel his arm around his shoulder. 

Grayson sat on the edge of his bed and told Sean everything about the girl that he still loved. Her intelligence, her laugh, her smile, the way he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to love someone else. He lost track of how long he talked, run on sentences and gestures that only made it more obvious that his dad wasn’t there to tell him to slow down and take a breath before he talked himself into a pump from his inhaler. When he ran out of words, he did the only thing he knew to do when all else went wrong; turned his shower on as hot as he could stand it, sat down on the bench so the water ran over him, and thought of Indy. 

The storm rolled into the city on Wednesday - unprecedented and angry, snarling the clouds in swirls of dark, heavy gray and dumping down over the skyscrapers of New York. 

Indiana was watching the monitors. Her eyes jumped with each pulse of Bekah’s heart, which was beating faster than her usual. Her blood pressure was low, her breathing more irregular. Indy could see the textbook page in her head - actively dying. She’d learned the vital signs to look for, and how to fix them, what medicines to push. 

But she wasn’t supposed to be making Bekah better, and that was the hardest part.

Thunder shook the room, and Bekah shivered. Mrs. Newcomb wrung her hands, and her husband ran a hand along her shoulders. 

“She hasn’t woken up all day,” she murmured. 

“She’s resting baby, it’s okay.” 

Bekah’s monitors began to beep a bit faster. Her heart rate slowly rose - 82, then 85, then 90. Indy watched, her nerves prickling, eyes darting to the clipboard at the end of her bed, with DNR in bright red block letters - do not resuscitate. Bekah whimpered, her head turning into her pillow as her breathing got quicker, her heart working in overtime to try to keep her body afloat.

Mrs. Newcomb rushed to her daughter’s side, running a hand over her cheek as she began to cry.

“Bekah, sweetheart breathe, just breathe baby, don’t go yet, don’t go,” she pleaded, and Indy bit back her cries. Two nurses showed up in the doorway, waiting. There was nothing they could do but watch, and answer questions if they were asked.

Bekah’s father turned to the corner.

“Indiana, Indiana what’s happening to my baby?” He cried. It was enough to break Indy out of her trance, and she moved over to the bedside, resting a hand on Bekah’s leg. 

“Her body is trying to decide what to do. It’s tired, and with her blood pressure going down, her heart is work harder to move her blood around. That’s why it’s faster,” she explained. “She’s not in pain right now, her medicine should still be working. It probably just feels a bit scary.” 

Mr. Newcomb took her hand, and squeezed. Indy looked back to the monitors, unable to bear looking down at Bekah. She watched the blips on the monitor start to regulate again, sinus rhythm reappearing, allowing both of them to breathe easier. Bekah groaned a bit and settled into her covers, and a broken sob made its way out of Mrs. Newcomb’s throat. 

“I need a minute,” she said, and then she was headed for the door with a hand over her mouth. It was the second time she was sick that day. Mr. Newcomb took her to the cafeteria to get a Sprite, and Indy took her usual spot, perched on the edge of Bekah’s bed. She took her hand, tensing a bit with how cold it was. She rubbed it, bringing it up to her lips to blow warmth into her palm as best she could.

Bekah stirred, and her eyes opened for the first time in many hours.

“Hey,” Indy said quietly, not wanting to startle her.

“What was all that noise?” Bekah’s voice was croaky, but she shook her head when Indy offered her a drink of water.

“Your monitors. They’re loud aren’t they?”

“Yeah. Annoying as hell,” she mumbled, then opened her eyes a bit wider, scanning the room for her mother. 

“Language,” Indy teased. 

“Why were they going off?” 

It took all of Indy’s strength not to lie.

“Your heart rate picked up because your blood pressure went down. That’s something that happens…”

“Oh. It means it’s getting close isn’t it.”

Indy nodded and squeezed her hand. Bekah took a moment to process, and then she turned her head back to her friend.

“Is Grayson here yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Well, he better come soon if he wants to see me. Tell him to hurry, since I’m dying and shit.”

“Language,” Indy whispered it so her voice didn’t crack. Bekah played with the edge of her blanket.

“Am I supposed to be scared?”

“There’s no right or wrong way to be right now Beks. You just do what you need and feel how you feel, and we’ll be here the whole time, okay? We’re right here.” 

“You need to not be here,” Bekah said, and Indy’s breath caught in her throat. 

“Oh.”

“You need sleep, and a shower. I won’t die while you’re gone if I can help it. Promise.” She wrapped her pinky around Indy’s as best she could.

Before she could refuse, the Newcombs appeared back through the door, delighted to see their daughter awake. She sat up a bit straighter in bed and put on her best smile, Indy’s heart tightening at the sight. 

“Go,” Bekah whispered through her smile. She squeezed her hand one more time, and then let go, walking up to Mrs. Newcomb.

“I’m gonna go get freshened up and grab some clean clothes, but will you text me if anything changes? I live right down the street, so I can be back here really quick,” she explained, trying to ignore the growing look of pity in her eyes. 

“Of course dear. But you go home for the night, we’ll be alright. I’ll call you if anything changes, you need your rest. You’ve been here so long, have a night of normalcy at home and come back fresh tomorrow, okay?”

Indy nodded - it was all she could do. She blew Bekah a kiss and walked out the door, pausing when she noticed something had changed. 

A small blue heart had been placed by her room number - a signal that made Indy’s heart sink. Bekah was officially dying, and it was there for every nurse and visitor on the unit to see, to signify they needed to respect privacy and be quiet when they were close by. 

It made no sense, for that to be her breaking point. She’d known. She’d seen it, in her vitals and her demeanor and the fact that just their conversation was enough to have her ready to sleep for another 8 hours. 

But that little blue heart was her undoing, and she clutched her chest for the entire walk out of the hospital, down the stairs and out into the pouring rain. The thought of her empty apartment, with no Grayson and no Charlie and no Devin was too much - instead, she found herself running down the sidewalk past the lobby to the parking garage, shoes sloshing with water by the time she made it under the concrete. 

The valet didn’t ask questions when she passed over her key, shivering as she waited for him to bring her car out. As soon as she climbed in she hit the gas, ready to drive somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t her home. The road was blurry despite the rapid back and forth of her windshield wipers, but she trudged on, just coherent enough to keep her tires between the white lines as she fled the city. The river was swollen when she drove over the bridge into Jersey, and she let herself zone out, let her mind take her wherever it wanted to go. 

She knew where she would end up.

The crunch of gravel was familiar under her tires when she turned off the winding road. It was a comforting sound, though it was muffled by the rain, and it wasn’t until she was close enough to the white house to see that the kitchen light was on that she realized what she was doing.

She put the car in park, ready to shift it to reverse until a small figure appeared on the front porch, waving her inside. 

Her earlier words rang in her ears. My door is always open.

She hoped it was true as she flung her car door open and bolted for the protection of the porch. 

Lisa was waiting for her, standing in her pajamas with worry written all over her face.

“Indiana? Sweetheart, are you okay?”

All Indy could do was sob. She hated it, and the voice in her head berated her over and over, reminded her she had no place there anymore, that she was putting Lisa in a terrible position. But the feeling of a mother’s arms around her wasn’t something she could fight against, and she crumpled into her and let herself be held. 

“Shhh. Shhh, you’re okay,” she hummed, running a hand over Indy’s blonde hair that was soaking wet. “Let’s get you inside and get warmed up.”

Indy let herself be led in, shoulders relaxing a bit at the familiarity of where she was until she spotted Grayson’s work boots in the corner and recoiled back. Lisa sat her down in a chair in the kitchen and squatted down until they were eye level.

“Are you hurt?”

Indy shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Is everything okay?” Her tone gave away that she already knew the answer, but Indy shook her head again anyways. Lisa patted her leg and sighed quietly, reaching up to brush some of her hair back.

“Does Grayson know you’re here?”

The squeak that escaped Indy’s lips was the only warning before she let out a sob so loud that Gizmo yelled in shock. 

“I’m s-s-s-orry,” she choked, crumpling with her face in her hands.

“No, no no shhh, it’s okay sweetheart. It’s alright, you’re okay.” Lisa pulled her to her as best she could, rocking just barely as she held her. 

“No, I shouldn’t have come, I don’t want to make things difficult for you with - him.” Indy couldn’t get herself to say his name and Lisa just shook her head. 

“Babe I told you that I would be here for you no matter what, and I meant it, okay? I won’t tell him you’re here unless I need to. You can stay as long as you need, you hear me?” She used her thumbs to wipe at Indy’s tears, frowning at the dark circles she found.

“Sweetheart, when was the last time you got a good night’s sleep?”

Indy’s silence was enough. 

“Well, it’s late, and I think sleep is the first thing you need. We can talk tomorrow, but right now, you go up and climb into bed okay? They’re all made up, you can sleep wherever you’d like. Do you need anything, or do you remember where everything is.”

“I remember,” Indy whispered, taking in a shaky breath. “Thank you Li.”

“Of course. You’re a part of this family, always. Now, get some rest. You know where I am if you need me.”

She kissed her forehead and disappeared up the stairs. Indy wasn’t sure how long it took to get herself together and muster the energy to climb those same stairs, take a left into the room she’d been in so many times before. 

It still smelled a bit like him, and she couldn’t help but to take a few deep breaths, closing her eyes and pretending he was right there, sprawled out in bed with the blanket held up for her like the first time she’d slept over. It was the same blanket when she opened her eyes again, and the thought of climbing into it without him waiting for her made her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t look at the bed any longer, so she turned to the closet, sighing when she saw all the warm clothes that were far too much fabric for LA, even in the winter. It was almost unconscious, the way she found herself in front of his shirts, running her fingers over the various fabric until she landed on a familiar flannel. Checkered, with blue, white and black squares. Thick and warm, he’d worn it once when they went out to check on the progress of the tiny homes, and she’d woven her arms underneath it when she reached around him to hold on as he drove them through the trees. 

Before she could stop herself, she snatched it off the hanger and pushed her arms through the sleeves, eyes prickling at the realization that she felt close to him for the first time in weeks, yet he was still so far away. She retreated back to the bedroom, grabbing one of the pillows and carrying it downstairs, all the way to the couch in the living room. The blankets were still in the basket in the corner, and she grabbed her favorite one before she curled up under it on the cold leather, pulling the flannel fabric up around her chin and closing her eyes. 

In the kitchen, Gizmo turned on her perch and cocked her head.

“Dee,” she said, but Indiana was already asleep.

It was the best sleep she had in weeks - the peace of knowing that she wasn’t truly alone enough for her body to force her to catch up. Lisa was surprised to see her still curled up on the couch at 9:30 the next morning when she got ready for work as the rain continued outside. She watched her sleep for a few moments, heart tight at the way her eyebrows were still furrowed and her face buried in the collar of a shirt she was sure was her son’s. 

She didn’t know the details, but she knew Grayson well enough to put together the pieces. But she also knew he wouldn’t let Indiana suffer this much if he truly knew how she was doing. It had to be bad if Indiana even considered coming out to the house, and it gave Lisa a level of mom anxiety she hadn’t had since the boys had picked up longboarding again. She wondered how he’d let it go on so long in the first place, and after a moment of debating, she scribbled down a note for Indy, went out to her car as quietly as she could, and called her son. 

His phone sent her straight to voicemail. She tried again. Voicemail. With the third dial tone she couldn’t help the pit that grew in her stomach, an automatic mom reflex when your child is unreachable. 

Instead, she called Ethan. It rang four times and then she heard a muffled groan and rustling before his voice came through the line.

“Ma, it’s 6:30 in the morning,” he grumbled, voice raspy and dry. “You okay?”

“Why isn’t your brother answering his phone? Are you two okay?”

Ethan sighed, annoyed. “He’s fine Mom, he’s just doing a detox from his phone. People were being shitty. He’s asleep down the hall, not dead in a ditch somewhere,” Ethan chuckled. Lisa wasn’t amused.

“Well, wake him up and un-detox him. He needs to call Indiana. Now.” 

Ethan sat up in bed.

“Indy? Why, what’s wrong?”

“That’s for him to figure out. All I know is, she’s not doing well and he needs to call her. Now.” 

“What happened?”

“Just make sure he calls her, alright? I’ve gotta get to work, I love you.”

“Alright, love you too.”

As soon as he hung up, he was on his feet, rushing down the hallway and throwing Grayson’s door open. He ran to the edge of his bed, shaking his shoulder until he groaned and opened his eyes. 

“The fuck do you want,” he grumbled.

“You need to call Indiana, I just got off the phone with Ma. Something’s wrong.”

Grayson felt sick. 

“What happened? Is she safe, is she okay?”

“I don’t know, you just need to call her.”

“You don’t know? You don’t know? The fuck do you mean you don’t know Ethan?” Grayson was yelling, but he was on his feet as he spoke, headed down the hallway in search of the lock box. He rummaged through the kitchen drawer until he found the key, hands so shaky it took three tries to unlock the metal contraption. 

His phone was dead when he pulled it out, and it took all his willpower to keep from chucking it at the glass doors.

“Yours, give me yours.”

Ethan was a step ahead of him, already having Indiana’s contact pulled up. Grayson snatched it and hit the call button, heart pounding in his ears as he waited for her to answer.

Indy woke up to the buzzing of her phone against her arm where she’d tucked it the night before. Her eyes flew open - it must be Mrs. Newcomb, calling to tell her that Bekah had gotten worse. She sat up, rubbing at her eyes until she could read the name on her screen.

Ethan.

Her heart sank. She’d thought to call him more times than she wanted to admit, but she figured calling your ex's twin when said ex didn’t want to talk to you was crossing some moral line. Though as she sat on his mother’s couch, she figured it was time to get over the morals and do what she needed to do.

She swiped to answer. 

“Dee? Are you okay? Are you safe?”

She couldn’t breathe. Her mouth opened and closed again as she tried to find something to say to the only person she’d wanted to talk to in almost three weeks. She hadn’t had time to prep herself, to give her heart a warning.

“Baby talk to me, tell me you’re okay,” he pleaded, and the pain in his voice was enough to snap her out of it. 

“Grayson?” was all she could say.

“Yeah, it’s me. What’s wrong, are you hurt?”

“No, no I’m okay, I’m fine.”

Grayson took a breath for the first time since she picked up the phone. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure what to say, the panic dissipating and leaving his brain blank. Luckily, she spoke.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” she said. 

“I know. Indiana I’m sor-”

“It’s Beks.” 

His heart skipped a beat, and the silence rang in his ears as he clutched onto the back of the couch. Ethan, who had been eavesdropping from the kitchen, moved closer. Grayson waited for her to speak, to say it so he didn’t have to ask. 

“Is she-”

“No.” Indy’s voice broke. “But…”

“Oh god. Fuck. Fuck Indy.” His knees wobbled beneath him. 

“She isn’t in any pain, we’ve been keeping her comfortable. But it’s probably gonna be in the next few days,” she whispered between sniffles, her voice squeaky and small as she fought to get the words out.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to have to tell you over the phone but... “ she trailed off. “She asked when you were coming to see her, and I didn’t know what to say.”

The tears were burning as they slid down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes closed, fighting the imagery of Bekah in her hospital bed, calling out for him.

“Indy-”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to say so I just said you’d be there soon. If you can’t come she probably won’t remember, but I just wanted you to know, in case you wanted to be here. To see her, before…”

“I’m coming. I’ll be right there okay? I’m going to the airport now, I’ll be right there.” 

Indy was silent for a moment, her eyes flickering to the rain outside. 

“Fly safe. It’s storming here.”

“I will. I’ll see you soon okay? Just hold on, I’ll be there.” 

“Okay.”

That sat in silence for a moment until Indiana finally hung up.

“I’m going with you,” Ethan said. He didn’t need context - all he knew is his brother needed him. Grayson nodded once, passed him his phone and headed straight for his room. He packed blindly, throwing things into his suitcase without bothering to fold them, just desperate to get on the road to the airport and get back to New York. Ethan was two steps behind him when he finally made it to the door, his phone pressed to his ear as he tried to explain the situation as best he could to a very worried Eden. Grayson loaded the bags as Ethan climbed into the driver’s seat, leaving the charger open for Grayson’s still dead phone. Ethan practically peeled out of the driveway towards LAX, the cab filled with silence apart from the hum of the engine and the quiet sniffles from Gray when his phone turned back on and he saw all the missed texts and calls from Indiana who had been trying so desperately to reach him. The guilt made him queasy, and Ethan’s driving didn’t help as he hopped lanes and sped on, praying no cops were on the road. 

Grayson’s knee bounced impatiently as they waited in the line for parking, paying an astronomical amount seeing that they didn’t know when they would be back. Then they were running, dragging their bags behind them on the asphalt and beelining for the front desk. The attendants eyes went wide when they requested the next flight to New York at the exact same time. It wasn’t taking off for three more hours, much to their dismay, but they accepted it and headed towards security with their heads low and phones in hand.

The next flight doesn’t leave until around 10 but we’ll be on it. I’m sorry.

He watched the bubbles appear and disappear three times over, and then her response came.

nothing to be sorry for. I’m back at the hospital with her, she’s resting. I’ll keep you updated. the storm is still really bad here, please be careful

He wished he could reach out and hold her hand, ease her anxiety about his flight. He couldn’t imagine the emotion of that on top of everything else, so he said all he could think to.

I’ll be safe, and I’ll be there soon. 

He typed I love you and deleted it before he sent it. 

And then, it was a waiting game. The boys kept their hoods up and their heads down in hopes they wouldn’t be recognized. It seemed the universe was in their favor for the time being, no one bothering them while they waited, but it took a turn when their flight was delayed for weather not once, but twice, pushing their departure time to 2pm instead. He apologized again, agonizing over the thought of Indy sitting in the hospital by herself, but her response was the same.

she’s still resting, it’s okay. just be safe.

“We’re doing everything we can,” Ethan tried to reassure him, but he knew it was futile.

“I should have been there. I should have never left her in the first place Ethan, I’m an idiot.”

“You couldn’t have known this was going to happen. You told me she was getting better.”

He thought his brother was still talking about Bekah, and the queasiness returned. 

“She was.” 

They sat in silence as the hours crawled by. Ethan bought them lunch from a vegan salad shop down the terminal, even got his brother one of the protein coffee drinks he liked. Grayson picked at the lettuce and left it abandoned for his twin to finish. His only solace was his headphones that he kept pressed far into his ears with a constant stream of Cudi to keep him sane. After what felt like an eternity, they called for boarding. He texted her again to let her know he was on his way, and in a cruel play of the universe or whatever it was, Teleport 2 Me Jamie began to play. 

His eyes were blurry as he followed Ethan to their seats, climbing in by the window and readjusting his hood so it folded around his face as much as it could, hiding. Ethan leaned forward and acted like he was reading the SkyMagazine he found in the back of his seat, shielding his brother from view as best he could. 

They’d been on a flight like this before. January of 2019 - it had been raining that day too, but they had both been crying that day. So he stayed strong for his brother as best he could, got him a gingerale when the flight attendant passed by, and left Grayson alone. 

Indy wished someone would talk to her. She wished Bekah would wake up again - it had been hours of silence apart from the beeps of her monitor and the footsteps of the nurses outside the door. It was never truly silent in a hospital after all. But she was glad that she slept despite the loneliness. She hoped it would mean that she had energy for when Grayson made it to the hospital.

Grayson.

Her brain didn’t have the space to process that he would be there in the next six hours. His text that said he had boarded barely even registered in her mind, but her body was aware. Her anxiety picked up ten fold, her leg bouncing until it cramped, her lungs tight and fingernails bit down to the nail beds. The rain was relentless, as if the city were drowning already and it decided to add more for the fun of it, to watch the humans run around like ants in their multicolored raincoats. The universe was sick that way. 

Mr. Newcomb returned from the nurses station where he’d insisted on dropping off some cookies he’d bought at the store. He was quiet as he came into the room, eyes on his daughter until he finally peeled them away to look at Indy. 

“Do you think she’ll be asleep a little while longer? We were hoping to take some of her clothes home and wash them, so she has her choice from all her favorites for the next few days.”

“I think so. My… friend is coming later. Her other buddy, from the program. We’ll keep her company if you guys need to eat and get some sleep for a few hours. I can text you if anything changes.”

“I’ll see if I can convince Martina to get some shut eye I will,” he laughed, giving Indy a grateful smile and taking one more glance at his girl before he gathered her laundry and left. It only hit Indiana when he stepped out that she had never known Martina’s name until then. Bekah’s father was named Tarin, she knew that much. But she’d never even gotten to a first name basis with Martina. In all the years they’d known each other, and all the hours in hospital rooms and tears shared, she’d never been anything but Bekah’s mom to Indy. It wasn’t uncommon for Indiana to keep mom’s at an arm’s length from her. A protective mechanism she’d never consciously implemented, but it prevailed nonetheless. 

She wondered if Bekah would have wanted to be a mom someday. When she was 13 she’d insisted that men were trash and that she’d never get married even if she made it through all her cancer, but as she’d gotten a bit older she loved to talk about all her celebrity crushes. Indy looked in her side drawer and smiled when she found the little picture of Harry Styles she’d given her during her last round of treatment - she’d taken it with her to every room since. 

Indy paced the room, her anxiety to high to allow her to sit. She thought of Grayson on a plane somewhere, the metal tube rocking in the sky, cutting through the clouds. When she would get to the window she’d look up, hoping to see the lights from the wing of a plane somewhere, hoping it was his and that it was coming down safely. 

She paced for two more hours before her phone buzzed. 

Landed. I should be there in about 40. She still asleep?

Indy took in her first deep breath in hours.

yeah, she’s still out. I’ll meet you in the ocean hallway so you don’t have to buzz in, just text me when you’re close.

Will do.

Ma is picking us up so as soon as we get out we’ll head straight there

Ethan is with me but he’s just gonna go home with her for now

sounds good 

She didn’t have much to say, her stomach fluttering against her will. Her emotions were too unbalanced for her to even know what was happening. Excitement, and fear and grief and anxiety and anger and confusion, all at once somehow. She wrapped her arms around herself to try to hold it together and went back to pacing.

Grayson was soaked by the time he made it into Lisa’s car, scurrying into the backseat and barking out directions harsher than he meant to.

“I already have it in the GPS. Calm down,” Lisa said, giving Ethan a side eye in the passenger seat. 

“Sorry,” Grayson muttered, ringing his hands.

“S’alright babe,” Lisa sighed, reaching an arm back to pat his leg where she could reach. They drove in silence, listening to the rain smack against the roof and the windshield until Ethan spoke up.

“Did Indy call you? Is that how you knew something was wrong?” He asked Lisa. He hadn’t said anything, but he was worried too. 

Lisa debated it for a moment, and then she sighed. 

“She was upset, and she needed to get in touch with Grayson,” was all she said. “The rest of it, she can tell you.”

Gray didn’t have the energy to be annoyed. Every ounce he had was involved in the visuals flipping through his mind like a viewfinder; Indy in the ocean hallway, Bekah and her halloween blanket, the tiny homes, Indy’s tears in the airport. He hadn’t imagined that the next time he saw her would be like this. He wanted it to be different. Better. He wanted everything to be better. 

When they finally made it to the hospital, Lisa pulled to the curb and turned to her youngest son with a serious look.

“You take care of her, but you take care of you too, okay? I love you.”

Grayson’s nose burned and he nodded once before he ducked out into the rain. 

Indy stopped walking, and breathing, when her phone buzzed again. 

Here. Omw up

She liked the message, fixed Bekah’s blankets and headed out into the hallway and through the doors. The smiles of the marine life were haunting as she waited for any sign that he was close. 

Her head whipped up when she heard the familiar clammer of the far doors being pushed open.

He was wearing his yellow Cudi hoodie, but it was the wrong color. The fabric was darker than she remembered, darker than the picture she had of him in it, the one she’d taken in Jet’s once. It didn’t process that it was because it was wet until he was halfway down the hall. His hair was a bit longer than it had been, without Lisa there to trim it up. And his beard was full and scruffy and dark, hiding away his jaw line. She could still tell that his teeth were clenched though, his nerves palpable as he got closer and closer to her.

His shoe squeaked when he stopped in front of her. Neither of them breathed for a moment. They just stared at each other. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets to keep himself from hugging her, from crossing a boundary that he wished he’d never set. 

“Hi,” he said. 

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Hey. How was your flight?”

“Long, but not too bumpy.”

Another painful beat of silence.

“How is she?”

“She’s still asleep, but we can wake her up. Meds are coming soon, just stuff to keep her comfortable. Her vitals are still okay, she’s just a bit groggy. But she’s excited to see you.” Indy offered him a small smile, and it had his knees ready to give out beneath him.

“And you? Are you okay?” He asked. 

Indy’s smile faded, and she looked at the jellyfish.

“That doesn’t matter right now. C’mon, let’s go see her.”

Indy used her badge to swipe into the door, but Grayson’s throat was too tight to ask her about it. Instead he just followed her down the familiar hallway, trying to avoid the looks of pity from the nurses who recognized him. 

Indy caught his wrist before he walked into the room.

“I didn’t… she doesn’t know about… us. I didn’t want to upset her, and it never really came up. I’m sorry,” she whispered. She sounded ashamed, but all Grayson could focus on was the feeling of her hand on his skin again, even if it was just a few fingers.

“Okay. That’s okay.”

“Okay.”

Indy walked into the room, the most hesitant that Grayson had ever seen her.

Beks looked cold. Even cuddled under her blankets she looked like she was freezing, and Grayson had trouble breathing. Indy went to the side of her bed, ran her thumb across her cheek and over to her shoulder where she squeezed gently.

“Beks, hey. Bekah,” she used her most gentle voice until the youngster stirred. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Grayson pulled it together in the last moment before Bekah opened her eyes.

“Earrings,” she sighed, a small smile on her lips. It was the most expression Indy had seen all day. “You made it.”

“Of course I did sweet girl,” he chuckled to hide his pain, moving beside Indy and crouching down so Bekah could see him easier. “Sorry it took me so long.”

“S’okay. We all know you’re slow,” she teased. “Hey, no tears. No crying in Bekah’s room.”

He hadn’t even realized he was until she said it, and he used his hoodie to wipe his eyes.

“Sorry Beks. Just missed you is all.”

“Yeah, well we missed you too. Did you convince my parents to go home?”

“Yeah,” Indy answered. “They’re getting some rest and bringing you some clean clothes.”

“Mmm, good. I think that black hoodie is a good one to die in,” she said, body shaking just barely with a laugh that turned into a cough.

“Pardon the death jokes, you’ll get used to them,” Bekah smiled at Grayson and the shock on his face once her throat cleared enough.

He thought of Sean, how he had pretended everything was fine until the very end, and he smiled. 

“Don’t you think a black death hoodie is a little on the nose?” He said, and Bekah laughed. It sounded the most like her real one since she’d been off her treatment, and it warmed Indy’s soul.

“Fair point. Maybe I should go with blue. You think someone will let me into heaven if I’m in blue or will I just blend in with the sky?”

“I don’t think anyone has to let you in,” Indy said with a laugh, crouching down next to Grayson. Their knees bumped together. “Pretty sure you just end up there.”

“I hope so. There’s no one there to find me anyways.” The playful edge was gone from her voice, and Grayson frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m the first one. I mean, I guess my grandma is up there but I never knew her. Everybody always talks about how their family will be there, when they go.” She paused, taking a few deep breaths to get her energy back. She hadn’t talked so much in days, and her heart rate was rising from the exertion of it. The pair waited patiently, giving her the time she needed to finish her thought. 

“I don’t have anyone to die for, anybody waiting on me. I gotta find my way in there alone.”

The innocence of it was enough to rip Indy’s heart in half, and she couldn’t find the comforting words that she wanted to give. But Grayson cleared his throat.

“You won’t be alone. I know of at least two people who will be right there waiting for you.”

She perked up a bit, eyes opening wider from where they’d started to close. “Really?”

“Yeah. My dad. He looks kinda like me, but shorter, with a better beard. His name is Sean.”

Bekah smiled. “Whose the other one?”

“A tall blonde lady named Nicole. Indy’s mom. Looks just like her, you won’t be able to miss her. They’ll help you, and keep you safe.” The sincerity in his voice was enough for Indy to realize he desperately wanted it to be true. She turned her head to hide her tears, clinging onto the bed rail to keep herself steady. 

“That sounds nice,” Bekah breathed, her eyes slowly closing. “You all want me to tell them anything, when I get there?”

It was Grayson’s turn to lose his voice.

“No babe. We can tell them when we get up there.” Indy answered after a moment too long.

“That better not be for a long time. I gotta have some entertainment. Watch you all grow up and get married and have kids. You better name one after me too,” she sighed, her voice getting quieter as her heart sped up. 

“You bet,” Grayson said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead as her breathing slowed and evened out again. It was slower than it should be, and Grayson realized his own breathing was fast… too fast. He brought a hand to his chest, then his other to cover his mouth and keep himself quiet.

“Shh, shhh hey, you’re okay, here, c’mon, you’re okay.” Indy’s voice was in his ear, her arms under his to try and guide him up to his feet, then out to the hallway. She held his arm and pulled him over into a supply closet that she swiped into, letting the door shut behind them.

“Breathe Grayson. It’s okay, just breathe.”

He fell to pieces in her arms, his back curled painfully so he could bury his face in the crook of her neck and sob. They were ugly sounds, wet and snotty and raw and she didn’t care. She just held him together as best she could with her small hands, let him relax into her and get it out of his system. His shoulders stilled eventually, but his arms stayed locked around her like a vice.

Neither of them moved until the motion sensor light clicked off, covering them in darkness. 

They didn’t speak. They untangled themselves and let the light turn back on before they headed back into the hallway as if nothing had happened, back into Bekahs room. Her heart rate was perpetually high now, fighting to keep the blood pumping.

Another sign that the end was coming soon. 

Indiana and Grayson sat down on the couch beside each other, just close enough for their shoulders to graze occasionally when they shifted. Indy watched the monitors and Grayson watched her, reading her expressions as best he could over what felt like an eternity. He looked at all the things he’d missed - the freckle by her ear, and the baby hairs that sat by her temple and never seemed to grow. 

It could have been minutes, or hours. No one was sure. But eventually Indy’s posture slumped slightly, and with a final sigh she leaned over to the left, her head resting on Grayson’s shoulder. 

He stopped breathing, only allowing himself shallow inhales that left his torso perfectly still so she could rest. He didn’t know how to feel, and against his will his eyes prickled at the realization that despite the fucked up situation they were in, she was there, leaned against him. Beside him. Something he wasn’t sure he was ever going to get ever again. The way she shifted and mumbled in her sleep let him know she wasn’t comfortable, but he let himself be selfish for a few minutes and soothed her back down so she stayed, relished in the weight of her on him and resisting the urge to wrap his arm around her shoulders. 

He moved as carefully as he ever had to press a tiny kiss to her hair.

She sighed and settled down further in her seat, moving her head onto the back of the couch and freeing him. 

The angle of her neck looked painful, and he scanned the room, noticing that they’d brought in two recliners, presumably for her parents. He stood up carefully and dragged the chairs away from the wall, lining them up like he had in his dad’s room. He hunted down a few extra pillows from the nurses, blankets too, and brought them in, making little makeshift beds for the two of them. 

He felt guilt waking Indy up, but he didn’t want to pick her up without permission. Instead, he shook her shoulder gently until she stirred, panicking for a moment until she realized everything was okay. Her heart fluttered at the realization that Grayson was still there. 

“Sleep over here, it’ll save your neck.” He nodded towards the chair and she stood up slowly, groggily moving over into one of them. She sighed as she settled in, exhaustion taking over. Grayson liked to think that she felt peaceful enough, safe enough to sleep because he was there, but he didn’t let himself believe it. So he simply moved her blanket up over her torso before he climbed into his own chair that faced the other way so they could see each other. 

He watched her sleep for a moment, and then her hand moved just far enough down the arm rest. She wiggled her fingers until he got the message, slipping his hand into hers before he too fell asleep. 

When they awoke the next morning, their hands were still intertwined, and Bekah’s parents were coming in the doorway. Indy woke up first, sitting up straight and squeezing Grayson’s hand.

“Grayson. Gray, hey, wake up.”

He grumbled until he was able to open his eyes, wiping his mouth with his hoodie sleeve as he came to and realized where he was. He was quick to stand, to introduce himself to Bekah’s parents with firm handshakes. His hair was a mess, and Indy bit her fingernails to keep from reaching out to smooth it out. 

The day went by, measured by the heart rate monitor beeps that got quicker and quicker, and the rattling of Bekah’s breath as the fluid settled in her lungs. Martina and Indy changed her into her blue hoodie, and fixed her favorite scarf - one with tiny blue lightning bolts - over her head. 

Indy and Gray didn’t have the energy or stamina to try to figure out where they stood, so they chose together, for the time being. She kept her arm wrapped around his, the way she used to when he walked her down the street. He traced over her fingers where she held onto him, chewing her lip while she watched her vitals grow worse and worse, all the red flags she would be trying to fix if that was the goal. Around 3pm, the nurse came into the room. The way Indy tensed was enough for Grayson to know something was happening.

“We’re gonna give her a bit more sedation to keep her comfortable. With the current levels of her vitals, it might slow her down enough to let her pass peacefully. There are no guarantees, but it is possible.” 

Martina began to cry into her husband’s shoulder. 

“So we should say our goodbyes then?” Tarin asked through a tight throat. The nurse nodded.

“We’ll administer it and then give you guys some privacy.”

“She won’t be in any pain, right?”

“No sir. It’ll just be like falling asleep.”

Indy watched as she set up her IV and stepped out of the room. 

Grayson and Indy followed her out quietly, giving Bekah and her parents the moment that they needed. Indy’s breath was shaky, and she held tighter to Grayson as they waited in the hallway. He looked up towards the light in an attempt to stop the tears, and a few moments later, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

It was Martina, her eyes red and cheeks blotchy.

“You all are family. She would want you here with her.”

Grayson’s feet wouldn’t move until Indy guided him back into the room. 

Bekah’s parents stayed on either side of her bed and held her hands while Indy and Grayson stood at the foot of her bed and watched her take her last breath. 

Indy didn’t cry. She stood watch, only moving when the nurses came in to confirm time of death. She went and turned the monitors off, cutting the monotonous tone out abruptly as they removed Bekah’s IV. Grayson’s quiet sniffled and muffled sobs were almost enough to tip her over the edge, but she held it together. She hugged Martina, then Tarin, and then retreated into Grayson’s side yet again. 

There wasn’t a signal, or anyone that told them it was time to go. But they found themselves outside in the hallway eventually, and they walked arm and arm. They signed out at the desk for the last time and walked out the doors of the pediatric oncology ward, through the ocean hallway and down the stairs.

The rain had stopped.

They walked the streets in silence, holding onto each other tightly as people passed them on the sidewalk, completely unaware of what had just happened to them. The world continued to turn, the city continued to bustle, and they continued to walk, one foot in front of the other until they made it to the elevator of her building.

Indy watched the numbers go by as it climbed. She didn’t say a word when they got to her floor, or through her door or over to her couch. Grayson sat down beside her and took his shoes off. She stared over his shoulder out the windows, an overwhelming numbness settling over her entirety. 

“Indy, why don’t you take your shoes off,” Grayson whispered. 

She didn’t look at him.

“Indy?”

He waited. The blues in her eyes were dark, and his heart sank. He knelt down and untied her shoes, sliding them off her feet gently. He took her socks off too - she hated sleeping in socks. 

“I’ve got you. You’re safe, it’s okay,” he said, brushing some of her hair behind her ear. She swallowed hard, and that was enough for Grayson to justify picking her up and carrying her into her room. He sat her down and pulled her covers back before he got her into bed. 

Once she was settled he stood up, waiting for just a moment before he spoke. 

“I’ll be on the couch if you need me okay? I’ll be right here.”

Indy blinked hard, and then she shook her head.

Grayson went to his knees beside her in an instant, ready to do whatever she needed. 

“Stay.”

That was all he needed. He circled around the bed and climbed in behind her, coiling his arm around her torso and crushing her back against him, pressing her into him everywhere he could. He willed himself to shield her, from the pain and the reality of what had just happened. He pressed a kiss to her hair and closed his eyes and he held his girl until morning.

[writeyouin]

Rodimus X Techbug – Guardian Prime (COMMISSION)

Description – When a new Autobot joins the Lost Light, Rodimus seeks to become their mentor. However, when he learns of Techbug’s difficult past, he might find the task harder than he expected.

A/N – Hey @ask-tf-techbug​, I hope this is what you had in mind. If you want anything editing, just say the word and I’ll do it ASAP. In the meantime, thank you very much for the commission.

WARNINGS – Smut. NSFW. Mentions of abuse.

RATING – M

WORD COUNT – 2173

Rodimus walked with a spring in his step, eager to meet Techbug, the newest recruit to the Lost Light. Ultra Magnus had warned Rodimus of Techbug’s past. Originally an Autobot who had been captured at the start of the war, he had been forced into the Decepticon ranks. Techbug had been controlled through abuse, manipulation, and torture; it had turned him into one of the Decepticons’ most ruthless killers, Silentdeath. Now that the war was over and Techbug was free to start his life anew. He had been sent to the Lost Light to receive therapy from Rung, who specialised in treating PTSD, among other things.

Although Rodimus knew of the infamous Silentdeath, it didn’t taint his opinion of Techbug; after all, Drift had once been a Decepticon, and he’d managed to turn his life around. With the right mentor, Techbug would be just fine, and Rodimus was determined to be that mentor, if only to prove to Ultra Magnus that he could be responsible when he wanted to be; besides, how hard could it really be, being a mentor?

Finally, Rodimus reached Techbug’s new hab-suite, whereupon he rapped a playful tune on the door.

“Hey Techbug,” Rodimus greeted with a wink once the door was opened, “I’m Rodimus, the co-captain of the Lost Light. Nice to meet ya.”

Rodimus didn’t let his surprise at Techbug’s appearance show. He wasn’t small enough to be a mini-bot, yet he couldn’t have been taller that fifteen feet, only coming up to Rodimus’ chassis. He also had a similar appearance to Earthen cats, with a white tipped tail that sharply contrasted his orange colour scheme, and cat audials to match; it was rare to find bots that were shaped after organic creatures. Moreover, Rodimus couldn’t help feeling that Techbug was slender, more like a femme than a mech. To be perfectly candid, Rodimus found Techbug cute.

“Hi…” He whispered quietly in response, unsure of what to say since he didn’t know Rodimus; what he would give to be more comfortable with strangers like most other bots were.

“So,” Rodimus beamed, ignoring the tension. “You want a tour of my ship? It’ll help you get more acquainted.”

Techbug gave a small nod and left his hab-suite, following closely behind Rodimus, who slipped easily into the role of charismatic tour-guide.

They were about three-quarters of the way through the tour when something Rodimus said piqued Techbug’s interest.

“This is one of three labs that we have aboard the ship. As you can see, uh- Techbug?” Rodimus looked behind him, sure that the bot had been there a minute ago.

“Look at this, it’s all brand new,” Techbug marvelled, zooming around the lab. “Is that a GR-91 Centrifuge? I haven’t seen one in real life before. The Cons’ never let me into their labs and they only had old ones anyway. Do you know how fast this could separate particles? It could- Uh… I mean… Sorry for getting so over-excited… I’ll- I’ll be quiet now.”

Rodimus grinned cockily, “Hey, don’t worry about it, it’s cool to see you so excited. You like this lab? Then take it. Nobody else uses it anyway. Brainstorm and Perceptor each have one, so you may as well get this one if you want it.”

“Primus,” Techbug’s tail piece twitched in anticipation, “All of this for me, are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s no biggie.”

‘Oh, but it is,’ Silentdeath, Techbug’s alternate personality growled maliciously inside his processor. ‘It’s a very big deal, right Techie? What have you done to deserve this? Nothing! You’ve done nothing for this, betrayer.’

“Be quiet,” Techbug hissed.

“What was that?” Rodimus asked, having missed Techbug’s warning.

‘Ooh, he’s listening to our private conversation. We don’t want that now, do we. You should stare him down. One look from our outlier ability and the only time he’ll speak is with Primus in the Afterspark.’

“Stop,” Techbug whispered.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” Rodimus placed a soothing hand on Techbug’s shoulder-plate. “Med-bay isn’t far from here, I could take you to see Ratchet.”

‘HE WANTS TO TAKE YOU TO MED-BAY! You remember what happens in med-bay, right? They’ll recode you again, and they’ll make sure it hurts. I can’t wait to hear your pathetic screams when they tear you apart and put you back together again. Such sweet agony.’

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Techbug pushed Rodimus, making him stumble backwards.

Before Rodimus could protest, Techbug fixed him with a hard glare, feeling his outlier ability rising up from within, burning quickly through his already low energon supply. With the ability to freeze or kill an enemy with a look, Techbug had been one of the Decepticons’ best weapons. With a full fuel tank, he could have frozen up to three mechs, as it was however, Techbug only managed to freeze Rodimus in time before a warning flashed on his visor: ENERGON LEVEL CRITICAL. SHUTDOWN PROTOCOL ENGAGED.

Techbug passed out and Rodimus was stuck, aware of everything yet unable to help. Fortunately, it only took a few minutes for Rodimus to be released from the effects of the outlier ability, allowing him to move freely once again.

He vented the excess air from his systems, eyeing up Techbug tiredly, “Something tells me that you’re going to be a bit of a handful… I’m really glad you left your swords back at the hab-suite.”

“I’m sorry,” Techbug murmured, unable to look Rodimus in the optics. The two were in the med-bay, where Rodimus had carried him after his energon burnout. “I didn’t mean to freeze you up like that… I was- He made me do it.”

“He? You mean Silentdeath?” Rodimus asked, feeling sorry for yet another bot whose mentality had been damaged in the war.

Techbug looked uncomfortable at the mention of his Decepticon name.

“Hey, you don’t have to worry. We’ve all made mistakes, y’know, except for me, ‘cos Primus broke the mould, I was far too perfect even for him.”

Techbug snickered and Rodimus shot imaginary finger guns at him, “And the bot does know how to laugh. Good for you buddy. Anyway, is there anything you wanna do next? I’m okay staying here for a while if you want, but now that you’re energised, I was thinking we could do something fun. What do you say?”

Going against his social anxiety, Techbug nodded, “Something fun sounds good, Captain.”

After a few weeks aboard the Lost Light, Techbug started to come out of his shell. Silentdeath was quieter than he had ever been before. Techbug hadn’t used his outlier ability since he’d frozen Rodimus. With Rung’s help during therapy, he was even confronting some of his worst memories which he had always shut away in an attempt to forget; it wasn’t easy, and it usually left Techbug feeling a little worse for wear, but in the long run, he knew it would be helpful. Best of all, Techbug had even been making friends among the crew. He still gravitated towards Rodimus, but who wouldn’t? Rodimus was charming, funny, handsome, had a great aft-

Techbug blushed, snapping his eyes away from Rodimus’ aft which he had blatantly been staring at as Rodimus went to buy the next round of high-grade energon for them.

“Seems like you have a little crush,” Dogfight smirked, taking a seat next to Techbug and wrapping his arm chummily around him. “The name’s Dogfight.”

“T-Techbug,” Techbug whispered his name quietly, going ridged at Dogfight’s uninvited touch.

“Yeah. I know all about you. Been watching you for a while. You’ve got a few admirers yourself, by the way. I should know, I’m one of them. That’s actually why I’m here. I was thinking that maybe you could ditch Hot-Wheels over there,” He gestured to Rodimus. “-and come spend some time with me. Maybe even see where the night leads, if you catch my drift.”

Dogfight stroked the inside of Techbug’s thighs sensuously, leading his way up to his interface panel. Supressed memories of Techbug’s past surfaced, hitting him like a freight train. He remembered how the Decepticons had used him for sex. They had called him names, debased him, forced their way into his interface panel, made him their slave in the berth as well as away from it. Techbug felt like he might purge his tanks if he didn’t escape Dogfight’s touch.

Once again, he concentrated on his outlier ability, though this time he was in full control of it as he froze Dogfight in place and extricated himself from his hold. On a full energon supply, Techbug was not weakened by the use of his outlier, however it did not stop him from feeling nauseous as he ran back to his hab-suite, trying desperately to forgot Dogfight’s unwanted advance.

As soon as Rodimus saw Dogfight frozen in space where Techbug had once been, he abandoned the high-grade energon he’d just bought. He rushed out of Swerve’s and immediately transformed, driving speedily towards Techbug’s hab-suite.

“Techbug,” Rodimus called, banging on the door, worried that he might be too late to stop one of Techbug’s episodes. “It’s me, Rodimus. Are you in there?”

As he was left waiting, Rodimus seriously considered using his override code to unlock the door, but before he could do so, Techbug opened it, wiping coolant from his optics.

“I’m- I’m fine, Rodimus. You should just go, I’ll be alright.”

“You’re clearly not fine. What happened back there? I just looked up and you were gone. You should at least talk about whatever it is. Was it something to do with Dogfight? Did you have another accident? Was it Silentdeath again?” Rodimus rushed through the list of possibilities, speaking faster with each question.

Finally, Techbug relented and let Rodimus in, if only to stop the persistent questions.

“I- I just- I got spooked and I couldn’t be there anymore. I only wanted to be with you tonight anyway.”

“Me?” Rodimus pointed dumbly at himself. “Why? Were you feeling shy or something?”

Feeling simultaneously vulnerable, frustrated, and like he needed some attention, Techbug threw his arms around Rodimus’ neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Thankfully, Rodimus didn’t question the action as he returned the kiss, pressing his mouth hungrily against Techbug’s as if they couldn’t get close enough.

Up till now Rodimus had ignored any lingering romantic ideas of Techbug, worried that by being a mentor, he would only pressure his ward. Since Techbug had initiated the kiss however, Rodimus saw no reason to reject the advance.

Rodimus yelped as Techbug’s nimble fingers tugged at his neck cables. He broke off the kiss, staring uncertainly at Techbug. “Are you sure?” He asked, alluding to the prospect of interfacing.

“Yes,” Techbug vented air out of his vents eagerly. He had never interfaced because he wanted to before, it was always because he had to; this was new and exciting and he could already feel his spike straining to be free of his interface panel.

Rodimus reached tentatively for Techbug’s aft, massaging it gently as he made his way to the berth, falling against it rather than laying on top of it. Techbug’s interface panel slid open, his spike rubbing against Rodimus’ inner thigh.

“Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?” Rodimus joked.

Techbug’s face-plates flushed red and his cat-like tail lashed impatiently from side to side, “I want to see yours too. I want to ride you like a hover-bike.”

Rodimus’ engines revved, “Looks like you already found the ignition.” He lifted Techbug up, letting him wrap his legs around his waist. “Now all that’s left is to get on.”

He inserted his spike into Techbug’s valve, moaning at how good it felt. Although he had planned to take it slow for their first time, Rodimus was surprised as Techbug forced himself down on Rodimus’ spike.

“I’m not that delicate,” Techbug whispered huskily.

Taking the hint, Rodimus gripped Techbug’s hips and pulled him onto the berth, so that Techbug was on top; most bots assumed that Rodimus liked to be on top but in truth he found it nice to be submissive on occasion.

Techbug began gyrating on Rodimus’ spike, growling with lust every time it pressed against his anterior node. He was desperate. He needed this attention. He basked in the warmth of Rodimus’ presence. Rodimus however, sought to toy with Techbug, reaching low to rub at his spike.

Techbug bit his lip to keep from crying out as Rodimus jacked him off. It wasn’t long before tips of transfluid beaded the top of Techbug’s spike.

“Delicious,” Rodimus purred, looking Techbug in the optics as he gathered the trans-fluid off his spike and licked it off his servo.

“Primus!” Techbug squeaked, feeling his overload building up. “I- I-” Techbug never got to finish his sentiment as Rodimus overloaded with a loud moan, followed closely by him.

He was going to tell Rodimus that he loved him, but at that moment, the words didn’t matter, and by the look on Rodimus’ face, he thought that Rodimus might know already anyway.

Like my work? Buy me a coffee and earn preview of the next fic, or commission me on the commissions page.

[reydjarinkenobi]

Burn Scars - Codywan Fic

This is a prompt I got messaged by @drowning-inthe-feels for a codywan established relationship in the aftermath of Kadavo.

Here it is.

I am working my way through the prompts. Feel free to give me some.

----

It had been hours and he still hadn't seen Obi-Wan.

The man had waved off all attempts to steer him towards the healers and when Cody had tried to push, Obi-Wan had raised his voice. He'd actually almost yelled. Obi-Wan never did that.

His lover had looked immediately regretful and had murmured a quick apology before scurrying away to complete some small job or another. He had been avoiding the Med Bay and the cargo hold, which was where the majority of the Trogrutans were staying, like the plague.

Cody himself had barely had a break since they'd gotten the colonists onto the Resolute. He'd taken half an hour to check on Rex, and make sure that Fives, Jesse and the rest of the ARC troopers wouldn't leave him alone with his thoughts. His vod needed company at the moment. And so did his Jedi.

He was completing yet another essential form that for some reason, protocol dictated needed to be filled out right then and there when he was approached by General Koon.

"I finally convinced Master Kenobi to go to his quarters," he told Cody in his rich, soothing voice. "You should take a break as well, Commander. You deserve it. And maybe check on your general. Make sure he's getting some sleep before you get your own."

Cody stared at the Jedi Master for a few seconds before he nodded eagerly.

"Thank you sir."

General Koon shook his head. "No, thank you Commander Cody, for being there for him and for earning his trust."

Cody inclined his head forward respectfully and hurried out of the room. He made sure that no one saw him sprinting towards Obi-Wan's door, dodging vod like they were clankers and this was a stealth mission. He didn't even pause to muse about the fact that they were on the Resolute so often that General Kenobi had a permanent room there. General Skywalker and Commander Tano had the same on the Negotiator.

He knocked on the door and it opened for him without a word.

He paused as soon as it closed behind him.

Obi-Wan was sitting slumped in the one of the two chairs at the small desk at the side of his room, staring blankly at the wall. He had obviously not cleaned himself up. He hadn't even gotten changed.

"Obi-Wan," he murmured and the Jedi jerked, immediately tensing before his gaze found Cody and relaxed minutely.

"Oh," the man breathed. "Hello Cody."

The skin beneath his eyes was so dark it was practically black, and Cody was sure that the bruises were only hidden because of the grime and soot that covered the rest of his body.

"You need to change, and shower."

Cody had never had to remind Obi-Wan of that before. The general usually took care to keep his outward image professional and confident, even during the few times when he was struggling internally.

Cody stepped forward, close enough to reach out and touch Obi-Wan's shoulder.

"Come on," he urged and Obi-Wan flinched away.

Cody took half a step back, batting away the flash of hurt that twisted his heart and focusing on the worry that pulled at his gut.

"Obi-Wan?"

The Jedi squeezed his eyes shut and visibly swallowed.

"It seems I am unable to remove my tunics," he admitted, his voice so quiet that Cody had to strain to hear it, even from this distance.

"Obi-"

"Don't ask me to go to Medical," Obi-Wan cut him off, his voice suddenly hoarse. "Just please, don't. I won't invade it with the Togruta in there. They deserve a safe space."

"I can help you then. I know you keep your first aid kit stocked."

Obi-Wan looked down, a sharp breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob huffing out of his nose.

"I don't want you to see my like this," he muttered, his voice thick.

"I can get General Skywalker if you want."

"That's worse. If Anakin sees what the slavers did to me… He's already struggling enough as it is."

From what Cody had gleaned of Skywalker's past, he had to agree. He didn't even bother suggesting Commander Tano. They couldn't shield her from much, but she didn't need to see this.

"What about General Koon?"

Obi-Wan shoulders began to shake lightly. Cody knelt down in front of him to put himself in Obi-Wan's peripherals.

"Hey," he murmured. "You can trust me, Obi. Whatever I see, I won't think of you any differently. What you went through was…" Hell. "… difficult. But you're still my general. The one who goes along with General Skywalker's crazy plans with a huff as if your plans aren't as brilliantly insane half the time. The one who can charm starving predators. The man I want to sleep beside for the rest of my life."

Obi-Wan slowly looked up at him as he spoke. His eyes were glassy from tears. He finally nodded and Cody stood, moving around his to his back so he could help ease the tunics off.

He froze when he saw the huge burns down Obi-Wan's back as well as the ones on his neck. Before his emotions could kick back in, Cody threw up the shields that Obi-Wan had got him to use. He knew that his Jedi hated the feeling of other people's anger or worry. That too much of those emotions could make his Jedi literally feel nauseous.

He drank in the horrifying sight before him as he slowly peeled the tunics off his lover, being careful not to stretch any skin.

The injuries were angry and red, and some were still bleeding. This whip marks blurred by the electric burns. Signature wounds of a shock whip. The neck was almost grotesque. The skin there was blistered and had been burnt right off at some points, exposing the tissue beneath as the it bled sluggishly, blood catching on the remnants of skin layer that were still clinging on.

"I'm going to get you clean. Then I'll get some bacta on those wounds, and then we're going to sleep. I checked with Wolffe, and both our schedules have been cleared for the next twenty hours."

It was practically a vacation.

Obi-Wan nodded and then glanced back at Cody, wincing as the movement aggravated the wound on his neck.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to," Obi-Wan assured him, voice still eerily quiet. He wasn't a loud man by any means, but Cody had never heard the heavy resignation nor the fragility in that crisp Coruscanti accent he loved so much. He hated it.

And wasn't that just exactly like Obi-Wan. Being so hurt and still so considerate?

"It's alright, cyare," Cody murmured. "I don't mind talking to you when we're alone."

Obi-Wan's lips twitched up slightly at that before he looked back around, his shoulders once again slumping as Cody carefully helped him to his feet and led him to the fresher, allowing the man to lean on him as much as possible.

Cody had never been more thankful that the Resolute was one of the few ships in the Republic fleet with actual water showers. It was probably a boon from the Chancellor. From what he heard from Fox, the man was quite close with Rex's general. Though, Cody didn't know how General Skywalker could stand the man who seemed to be making all the dumbest decisions in this war.

He leaned Obi-Wan against the tiling, out of the spray of the water as he gently waited for it to get up to a moderate heat. He knew his general usually preferred his showers almost scorching hot, but didn't want to risk aggravating any wounds.

He washed down Obi-Wan's front, using a towel to wipe away at his face and other sensitive areas before he turned him around. He held in a wince. This was going to be the hard part.

He dampened another towel under the warm spray, using it to gently clean the space in between the wounds.

Obi-Wan trembled faintly as Cody worked, leaning heavily against the tiles and pressing the side of his head against them. If it wasn't for the small hisses that escaped past his teeth ever once in a while, Cody would think that he'd fallen asleep.

Once he was finished, he steered Obi-Wan back out of the room, sitting him down on one of his chairs so that his chest was pushed up against its back and his wounds were easily accessible.

Cody grimaced as he got out the disinfectant.

He would prefer to give Obi-Wan some heavy pain killers for this part but Cody knew that Obi-Wan hated how they interfered with his connection to the Force and he knew that neither of them had the energy for an argument like that at the moment.

"This is going to hurt," he murmured as a warning before he began cleaning the wounds.

Obi-Wan let out a stifled yell when the disinfectant soaked cloth touched his back, arching away from Cody.

Cody placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing gentle circles into one of the few patches of unmarked skin.

He made quiet hushing noises as worked, trying to find a balance between moving quickly and also doing it right. He very intentionally focused on the task at hand, not allowing his thoughts to stray. If he didn't, he knew he wouldn't be able to stop his thoughts of what he would like to do to those slavers slipping through. Obi-Wan didn't need that at the moment. He'd already dealt with too much horror.

After what felt like an eternity, Cody finally had the wounds cleaned. He'd needed to physically hold Obi-Wan down when he got his neck. The Jedi had bucked and yelped but Cody hadn’t stopped, knowing it needed to be done.

Now, Cody could finally get the bacta on the wounds. He placed a kiss on the top of Obi-Wan's shoulders after he sealed each light blue soaked bandage onto his back.

The man was mostly silent as Cody put the bandages on, though a few whimpers slipped out and Cody had to swallow back a thickness in his throat every time the high, broken sound reached his ears.

"All done," he announced, resting his hand at the nape of Obi-Wan's and smoothing his thumb over the edge of the bacta patch resting there. "Time for bed."

Obi-Wan didn't even attempt to argue a Cody pulled him up. He leaned heavily on Cody, his blue grey eyes still unnervingly blank, something fragile beneath them like they might crack if you pressed too hard.

"What do you want?" Cody asked as they both sat on Obi-Wan's bunk.

The man visibly swallowed, blinking a few times before his gaze focused on Cody.

"Just stay… Hold me," Obi-Wan whispered, a tear slipping down his face. "Please."

So, Cody gently pushed him down onto the bed, gathering his lover in his arms so that Obi-Wan's face was pressed into his neck and Cody's chin was resting on the other's head.

"They died because of me," Obi-Wan's voice hadn't gained any volume but Cody could hear him perfectly. "Because I was stupid enough to think I could help them."

Cody knew that nothing he said could make the general feel better. That no amount of logic or explanations could rid him of the guilt. So, he just pulled him closer, offering silent support.

"They died and I couldn't do anything. All I did was make things worse."

He held him as silent sobs began to shake Obi-Wan's frame, causing him to shudder in his hold. He ran gentle fingers through his hair and down the few spaces of exposed skin on his back until the shaking eventually stopped and they both fell asleep.

The smutty sequel chapter is on ao3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25033900/chapters/60625729#workskin

It’s my first time writing smut, so it might be a little off.

[gingerale2017]

Eat

So I took a while for updating this but I finally uploaded it yesterday. Anyways, here it is! (If you have Wattpad, please vote and comment on my story)

A full bowl of cat food looked back at Kai as he picked it up and sighed. She still didn't eat. It's been almost a week, and she still hasn't eaten. The veterinarians said that she might have an eating disorder since there was nothing else wrong with her. That didn't help. Cinder said that the vets were wrong and that she was dying.

Of course, Cinder said this smugly as she pet the gray-haired dog in her lap. Kai looked at Fiona, who was wandering around as a cat does and so skinny you could see her ribs. She drank but didn't eat. The dog started sniffing at Fiona's food, and Kai shooed him away.

Cinder walked in then, her brow furrowed as she read something on her port. She sipped a cup of coffee and set it on the little table in the pet room. She kneeled to rub Drew's fur and scratched him behind the ears, saying, "you're such a good boy" and "I missed you," the same way one would coo a baby.

Then, "Hey Kai." That's it. Not that he was jealous of a dog or anything.

"She still hasn't eaten," he grumbled and picked up the bowl again.

"Aw, maybe she realized that canned food is disgusting and reserved to eat out in the wild. Like catching birds and stuff, " she went to go sit on the big brown sofa, and Kai followed.

"No, Fiona's not a savage."

"She bit me once. Like a savage cat. Stars, I hate her."

"Drew scratched me once, but you don't see me calling him a savage dog! Besides, what are you're deal with cats anyways?"

"Nothing, it's just that cat," she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

"She's a wonderful cat," Kai paused before continuing, "maybe we shouldn't have gotten pets in the first place."

"We didn't have a choice," Cinder looked darkly at the window as if recollecting. He started to remember too. They were visiting Thorne and Cress at the Rampion, and while Cress went to go pick up food, Thorne managed to steal them for a hot second.

He called it: Captain Thorne's Marriage Counseling, even though Kai and Cinder didn't need it at all. Then he said that they should get pets, and immediately Kai said hamster. Thorne nodded, and the next time they met, he had a dog and a cat.

Kai immediately got in well with the cat and named it Fiona. She was a proud and stubborn cat with a sarcastic aura. She kind of reminded him of Cinder.

Cinder chose the dog and named it Drew. And that dog was so annoying. It always wanted attention and only enjoyed Cinder. It gets depressed whenever she was gone, and it got on Kai's nerves every single time. It was also stupid in a cute way; it would bump into a wall, but it was still adorable.

Also, to make matters worse, Cinder gave the dog attention. She had trained him to be depressed whenever she wasn't around and is now super attached to her. Whenever Kai tried to be romantic with Cinder, he was there. Whenever Kai wanted to get Cinder alone, he was there. Whenever Kai wanted to tell her something important, Drew was there. The dog was everywhere.

But, again, Kai wasn't jealous of the dog. Drew's just a dog. He couldn't steal Cinder from Kai's hands and run away to someplace exotic and get married. Right?

"Here, Drew, you wanna play fetch? I know you do," She said, waving a rope around. The dog yelped, and she threw the rope across the room and onto the couches. Drew jumped onto the leather couch and grabbed the toy violently. Then he jumped off and climbed in Cinder's lap, leaving the sofa tilted and the rug flipped.

Kai grumbled and went to fix the rug and couch. Also, the dog was messy.

"Still, this is a problem. We have to find out why Fiona is not eating."

"I'm sure she's going to be fine, " Fiona came out of her hiding place and prowled the couch Cinder was sitting in. She sneezed and brought her warmth to cover her mouth. Drew winced and placed his head in her lap.

"But-"

"You're going to the vet tomorrow, and maybe they might figure out what's wrong with her, " she sneezed again, and Kai began to worry.

"Are you alright?" he asked tenderly.

"Yeah, I might go to the med wing to find out why I can't shake this cold."

"Are you allergic? To cats?"

"No- there was a cat in my old apartment, and nothing ever happened. I'm sure I'm fine, " Cinder smiled her heavenly smile and got up, "we'll I have to look over a few documents, and I'll see you later, okay?"

He nodded. She pecked his cheek and walked away. Drew sighed and flopped on the floor, and stared at the doorway Cinder walked out of.

"Oh, get over it. You'll see her later, " Drew ignored him. He sighed and decided to take Fiona to the vet a day early. She needed to eat as soon as possible.

✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩✩ (Cinder's POV)

Stupid cat. Stupid, crazy, irritating, always-in-the-way cat.

It wasn't Cinders fault that Fiona attacked her. It was self-defense! She didn't mean to shoot Kai's pet!

Cinder remembered trying to bond with Fiona when it downright attacked her. She brought her metal hand out, and the next thing she knew was seeing the black cat on the ground with a tranquilizer dart in the stomach.

She ran to the veterinarian as quickly as possible and gave it to vets there. They took care of her, and due to the medicine they gave Fiona, the cat might not eat for about a week. Cinder told them if her husband came by with Fiona, please say to him that nothing is wrong. Then she left.

With the stupid cat, she tranquilized in her arms.

Stars, Cinder hated Fiona. She would always pounce around the palace like she was the empress instead. And when she was around Kai, she would demand attention from him and stand proud as she deserved it.

But Drew, on the other hand, was the animal embodiment of Kai. He was dorky, cute, attention-seeking, and so easy to forgive.

But Kai loathed Drew, and Cinder couldn't understand why. They were like twins!

A sudden headache overtook Cinder, and she put a hand on the wall. The pain grew until she had to stop and grit her teeth. The headache disappeared as can't as it came, and she suddenly felt nauseous.

Gulping, she made her way to the elevator and asked the android operating it to head to the medical floor. She got inside and placed her cool metal hand on her forehead.

Once the doors opened, Cinder stumbled, and some people in white lab coats looked at her skeptically.

She made her way into the labyrinth known as the medical wing. The scent of multiple cleaning agents welcomed her.

When she finally made it to her doctor's office, she knocked and received a soft smile.

"Ambassador Linh-Blackburn, I wasn't expecting you, but still a pleasure, " the doctor said. She was shorter than Cinder and had a pageboy haircut. Her hair was onyx black and had striking red lips and bright green eyes.

"Good afternoon Doctor Zhao. I am sorry for not scheduling an appointment earlier; I think I have a virus of sorts. Do you have any extra time today for a check-up?"

"Of course, Ambassador Linh."

✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯✯ (Kai's POV)

Cinder Please come to my room ASAP.

It was surprisingly hard carrying a cat and reading your port. Kai just came back from the vet and got unexpected results.

First, it was a new vet that checked on Fiona. Second, the vet accidentally revealed that Cinder had visited them this week with Fiona before she stopped eating. Third, the vet stopped talking suddenly and said that Fiona should be perfectly fine any time now.

Kai got a little suspicious.

Now Cinder just asked him to come to his room as soon as possible. He had a difficult decision to make. Either drop off Fiona in the 'pet room' that was actually a deserted closet they found near his office, or go to her room and take the cat with him.

The room was closer to him, and he was worried about Cinder, so Kai chose option two.

Once he got there, he rapped on the door and heard his fiancee welcoming him in.

"Hey, love, what's wrong?" he asked softly. He closed the door behind him and Cinder bundled up in the bed. Her voice was unusually raspy which Kai to be even more concerned.

"I have been diagnosed with a virus that's been going around the castle and I have a confession to make, " she bit her lip and fiddled with the beige blanket, "I truly am sorry in advance for what I'm about to say-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you're sick?! Why haven't you told me earlier?" she gave him a look for cutting her off but then saw Fiona and looked away as if ashamed. He dropped the cat and made his way towards the bed.

"Get back, I don't want you to get sick too, " Cinder thrust her hands up as Kai laid down next to her and moved the thin blanket higher up. She sighed in defeat, "I just found out today. Remember when I told you I was going to get myself checked out?" he nodded, "apparently there's some sort of virus and a lot of people went home because of it, and now I have it. Symptoms are nausea, headaches, vomiting, fever etcetera."

"Sounds fun, " she rolled her eyes. Kai brought her head to his chest and began to stroke it, "we'll get through it together."

Cinder snorted, "that was incredibly cheesy."

"I'm serious. I'd rather suffer with you than just watching you suffer alone." He kissed her hair, "what about the confession you were going to tell me."

She tensed, then pulled away from Kai. Waited for two, three heartbeats before continuing, "It's about Fiona, " she fiddled with the blanket again.

"What about her?" she gave him a 'are you serious?' look.

"Her diet? Remember she hasn't been eating all week?"

"The vet said that she'll get better any day now."

"No, I have to tell you why and how she stopped eating, " Cinder sighed.

When he didn't respond, she continued: "I was petting Fiona one day and then she downright attacked me and scratched my metal hand. I freaked out because I wasn't expecting that and I accidentally... shot her, " she moaned and brought the blanket to her head, "ugh these headaches, sorry. And I am very sorry for shooting your cat."

Her voice came to a whisper as if she was losing confidence with every line. Kai didn't know what to do at first, but then when she moaned in pain, his first instinct was to hold her and comfort her. But instead, he sat still as stone and could barely feel Cinders body against his.

"I know that you have every right to be mad and yell at me, but in my defense, she attacked me and it was simply, uh, self-defense, " she rambled, "b-but still, I should've controlled myself before shooting her, and I really am sorry Kai, and-" he covered her mouth with his hands and stared into her beautiful brown eyes. The same ones that happened to be synthetic, but still wonderfully stunning. Like her. Cinder may have some flaws (not her metal parts, obviously, those are perfect) but she still manages to make life wonderful. And she was stunning herself too.

"K-kai?" she asked after tenderly taking his hand in hers in her lap. He looked down at the hand that was holding his and brought the hard metal surface to his lips. He could feel her tense but ignored it.

"I forgive you, " he said with a smirk. Her wonderfully stunning eyes swelled with relief, "she 'attacked' you? And it was 'self-defense?"

"It was!"

They laughed in unison and their heads touched. They at there for a while, just enjoying each other's company.

She shifted and placed her head in his chest once again. "Hey Kai?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being an understanding boyfriend."

"Fiancée, " Kai corrected.

"Fiancée, " she coughed and shivered right after.

"I love you Cinder."

"I love you too Kai."

I'm so sorry for taking so long on this story, but I'm making a part 2 sometime later. Please forgive me, I need some extra inspiration on this.

*hint for part 2* remember the symptoms for the virus and Cinder randomly sneezing when Fiona was around.

Have a great day! -Angie

[pips-fics]

ask: Hi, may I request a Lucy fic where Yechan gets a stomach bug but Sangyeop and Wonsang are out so there's just Gwangil to look after him? Literally I don't mind what other details you add 😊

as he slumped heavily onto the couch, yechan assumed the tiredness that had overcome him so suddenly was just a consequence of how much energy he’d spent during the day.  he’d surprised himself by waking up early, around 7, and had been going non-stop since, full of even more energy than normal - so by the time 7 at night rolled around, he figured it made sense for him to be feeling a bit worn down.

that’s the thing, though - it wasn’t just a bit.  it was complete, overwhelming exhaustion, so much so that he felt vaguely nauseous.  

after just a few minutes of watching some mindless show on tv, he forced himself back to his feet in search of headache medicine.  normally, yechan wasn’t a forgetful person, but somewhere along the way to his destination, he found himself confused and wondering what he’d been doing.  the exhaustion weighed more heavily on him than ever, but his head felt too light.  for a moment, he couldn’t tell if he was going to pass out or throw up.  his legs gave out and he sunk to the ground with black spots intruding on his vision.

he blinked quickly, straightening his back against the wall behind him, and took three slow, cautious, deep breaths.  moderately alarmed, he pulled out his phone to text the other members, just to check if any of them were home.  before he got the chance, a sharp pain shot through his head and he gasped, curling in on himself and squeezing his eyes shut.  the pain left him winded and feeling quite sick again.  yechan figured he’d give his eyes a short rest, and then try texting again in a few minutes.

probably he should’ve known better, all things considered, but who could blame him when the only thing his brain cared about was getting some sleep?

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

when gwangil returned home at around 8:30, he initially thought that the apartment was empty.  he knew sangyeop and wonsang were out, as they’d stayed at the studio to continue recording after gwangil had left, and he assumed that it was too quiet for yechan to be around.  the oldest member of lucy had an unmatched aptitude for making noise, even - and sometimes especially - when left alone.  he was constantly whistling his favorite songs, humming melodies he’d made up on the spot, or fidgeting in some or another loud way.  even while sleeping, yechan was loud - and that’s what ended up giving him away.

gwangil didn’t hear the snoring until he’d walked through the kitchen and further into the apartment, and even then he doubted his ears.  he checked the couch and upon finding it empty, hurriedly made his way toward the bedroom.

“what the–“  gwangil just barely managed to avoid tripping over the violinist.  he was sitting in the hallway, chin to his chest like a child, very much asleep.  gwangil clicked his tongue upon seeing yechan’s phone in his hand.  he shook the older man’s shoulder gently.

“hyung, you shouldn’t fall asleep playing phone games.”

as yechan blearily blinked his eyes open, gwangil wanted to take his words back.  it was immediately clear that yechan was sick.  his eyes were glassy, and as he slowly lifted his head, his cheeks were bright red.  gwangil quickly confirmed his suspicions by placing the back of his head on yechan’s sweaty forehead.

“gwangil?”  yechan grabbed onto gwangil’s arm, but his grip was weak.

“you can’t sleep here, hyung, especially not when you’ve got a fever like that.”

yechan seemed to take that as a challenge, responding with an adamant tone and a pout.  “i can sleep here - i was sleeping here, but you woke me up!”

gwangil couldn’t quite resist the urge to roll his eyes.  “you shouldn’t sleep here - you’re going to be all achy when you get up.”

yechan glared.  “i already am achy!”

“great, hyung, good for you,” gwangil said dryly as he helped the older man to his feet.  “how about you eat something and we can get some fever reducers in you?”

complaints aside, yechan was fairly compliant as he allowed gwangil guide him to one of the kitchen stools.  “i was going to get headache meds before,” yechan said, his mouth barely forming the words clearly enough to make them out.

“oh yeah?  why didn’t you?”

“forgot.”

just another indication of how bad the older man must’ve been feeling.  from the way he held his head so gingerly in his hands, it was safe to assume the headache hadn’t magically gone away during yechan’s nap.  ultimately, gwangil didn’t need to assume.

“it huuuuuurts,” yechan whined, slumping further in his seat as gwangil offered him some soup.  yechan’s frown deepened.  “it smells bland.”

“what, did you expect me to give you some sort of spicy soup when you’re sick?”

“i- it’s just so boring,” yechan went on.

gwangil pointedly released an audible and long-suffering sigh.  “well, if you’ll just eat half of it or so, you can have something to help your headache.”

at that, yechan brought the spoon to his lips, still sulking.  “everything hurts and my nose is so stuffed up i can’t breathe,” he grumbled in between spoonfuls of soup.  as he brought some more to his lips, gwangil could see that he was shaking.  “i just wanna sleep.”

“so you don’t want your head to stop hurting?”

yechan shoved more soup in his mouth angrily, quickly consuming the rest of the bowl before dropping the spoon back in with a clink and a goofy fake gag.  “of course i do.  otherwise i wouldn’t have bothered eating that.  blech.  give me the meds.”

“you’re welcome,” gwangil said dryly, handing the medication over and taking yechan’s dishes to the sink.  “go to bed already.”

“you mean ‘go to couch?’”  the bitterness in yechan’s voice was so lacking in subtlety that gwangil almost laughed.

“oh, stop being such a baby.  of course you can sleep in the bedroom, you’re sick!  no one else is trying to sleep there right now, anyway, and it doesn’t bother me, so your snoring won’t be an issue.”

yechan’s mouth dropped open.  “really?”  the total awe in his voice made gwangil do a double take, and he couldn’t help the surprised snort that slipped out of him as he realized yechan had really assumed he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep in the bedroom.

“yes!”  yechan still looked like he thought he might be getting pranked, so gwangil joked, “the other two might be that cruel, but they’re not here right now, so let’s break the rules while they’re out!”

that seemed to do the trick.  yechan looked about as excited as gwangil had ever seen him as they headed to the bedroom.

by the time yechan was all settled in, it was late enough for gwangil to get in his own bed, but not quite late enough for him to sleep.  he texted sangyeop and wonsang to update them on yechan’s fever, and to warn them to perhaps stay at the studio and finish recording if they didn’t want to risk catching the bug.  gwangil continued messing around on his phone until he drifted off.

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

it was all very cliche.  yechan’s nightmare.  this was typical.

his nightmares tended to take the shape of people leaving him, walking away, one by one.  it would start out as an attack on his need for attention, just random strangers walking past him without sparing a second glance - and he could handle that.  for a while he couldn’t, and he would wake up in a cold sweat, but after countless repetitions, he got past it.

unfortunately, getting past it meant entering phase two of the dream, which targeted his more vulnerable fears. 1. fear of being left alone, 2. fear of being helpless to stop it.  this, too, he had overcome - or so he’d thought.  for a while, he’d been able to remind himself it wasn’t real, and to just give up.  but, as he stopped chasing his loved ones as they walked away from him, a new fear began to grow - a fear that he wouldn’t even put in the effort to stop them, that the helplessness he learned through nightmares might someday carry through to reality.  that fear was something he didn’t think he’d ever be able to combat.

still, this was all typical.  it was decidedly less typical for him to wake up sobbing, let alone to wake up one of his members with said sobbing even before yechan himself was fully awake.  but then, there was a first time for everything.

so when gwangil’s voice broke through the watery haze of yechan’s crying, he couldn’t help himself from grabbing at the drummer’s hands, couldn’t stop sniffling right away.  it was the first time.  he’d do better next time.  he’d learn to handle it on his own, like he always did.  but for now, gwangil’s hands were kind of helping him breathe.

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

“hyung!”  gwangil thought he was probably too emotionally clumsy to be dealing with this, actually.  it was pretty unusual to see yechan upset, but when he was, it was always sangyeop who worked his magic and got their oldest member back to his typical cheerful self.  but sangyeop wasn’t here, and yechan wasn’t just upset, he was sobbing.  so gwangil would do his best, and he figured waking yechan was the first step of that.

apparently letting yechan grab him with sweaty hands was the second.  he let the almost instinctual teasing comment die in the back of his throat and tried to ignore the urge to shudder.

“are you…”  okay?  that didn’t seem like a question that needed to be asked.  should he ask what was wrong, or was that prying?  did yechan have nightmares a lot, or was this because of the fever?  gwangil definitely wasn’t going to ask that.  not now.  he shook his head and stroked yechan’s hand until his grip eased up, then moved to support the older man’s back as he gasped for air.  “here, hyung, sit up.  you’ll be able to breathe better.  i’ll get you some water.”

for an instant, yechan looked like he was going to protest, his grip on gwangil’s left hand tightening.  then he ducked his head away, towards the shoulder that was further from gwangil, and nodded.  his grip loosened, too, but not completely, his hand dropping back to the bed only when gwangil pulled away.

by the time gwangil got back, the tears had stopped.  something about that felt very wrong.  maybe it was the contrast between the shy smile on his face and the puffy redness of his eyes.  

yeah, that was probably it.

handing over the water, gwangil put his hand to yechan’s head - he definitely still had a fever, and it had gotten worse.  a second too late, gwangil realized he shouldn’t have let go of the cup of water, remembering how shaky yechan was.  sure enough, yechan’s whole pajama shirt got drenched.

yechan laughed.  “well, i needed a shower, anyway, with how much i’ve been sweating.”  gwangil frowned at him and yechan’s eyes darted down, away.  “hah, sorry, that’s gross.”

gwangil’s frown deepened.  “it’s fine.”  he quickly grabbed another shirt and pulled it over yechan’s head as soon as he’d dried himself off.  “how are you feeling?”

yechan shrugged, still avoiding eye contact.

“hyung, please talk to me.  i’m trying to help.”

“i’m fine.”  gwangil didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone sound less fine.  but it wasn’t just that yechan sounded miserable - he did, he sounded small and ill - more than that, he sounded far away, and closed off, and maybe… scared.  his posture backed it all up, curled away from gwangil, hunched over.

“nuh uh,” gwangil said, before he’d really had a chance to figure out the words he was going to say.  he was definitely not equipped to handle this.  yechan’s eyes snapped to gwangil and he sighed.  “i’m just worried about you, hyung.  if you can go back to sleep, you should.  i’ll get you more water and anything else you need before you do.”

much to gwangil’s surprise, yechan’s mouth opened, and then closed just as quickly.  yechan’s adam’s apple bobbed up and down rapidly, and gwangil wondered if he would cry again.

“hyung?”

yechan’s lips curved downwards, as if the words themselves were bitter, but he finally spoke up, a whisper.  “my stomach feels sick.”

for a second, gwangil was frozen - then he snapped into motion, helping yechan out of bed and to the bathroom.  he wasn’t surprised when yechan shooed him out of the bathroom and didn’t mind obeying.  that didn’t mean he was going far.

he sat outside the bathroom door and checked his messages.  wonsang still hadn’t read what he’d sent earlier, so he suspected that recording wasn’t going particularly well even before he read sangyeop’s message:

oh no!  is he really sick?  are you okay?  wonsang is holding me prisoner until i can hit the high notes but if you need me i can pull the hyung card on him

gwangil was grinning at this when he heard a retch.  he flinched and resisted the urge to pull out his earbuds, trying to refocus on his phone rather than the painful noises coming from behind him.

no need, hyung!  we’ll be okay.  wonsang-hyung’s right, you should finish recording before you risk catching a bug, anyway.  good luck!

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

yechan’s head was spinning as he leaned over the toilet bowl.  he didn’t know why gwangil had insisted on getting him a new shirt when it’d taken him all of about 10 minutes to sweat through it.  he yanked it off, quick to return to his safe position above the toilet.

this was the part he hated.  the waiting.

Five minutes later and his legs were shaking from supporting his odd posture, but yechan refused to move.  the nausea was almost overwhelming.  this was taking too long.  he squeezed his eyes shut, and forced himself to gag.  he hadn’t fully committed, initially, but suddenly he didn’t have a choice as a harsh retch tore at his throat.  he blinked, surprised by the force of it, and then heaved again.

his stomach ached horribly.  he massaged it, but the clamminess of his hands just reminded yechan how disgusting he felt and probably looked.  he’d have to apologize to gwangil after all of this.  

a shudder ran through him and yechan leaned forward into another long retch, managing to expel a small stream of liquid this time.  he coughed and found his airways suddenly blocked by what was previously his stomach contents.

ah, he hated this part, too.  the pain and weakness and lack of control.  yechan couldn’t stop himself from breathing loudly as he draped himself over the toilet, desperate for air.  the taste and the smell made him gag again almost immediately.  he kept his mouth shut and swallowed back sick, only for it to come right back up.

yechan was worn out.  it hit him suddenly, that he’d really fucked up.  as a rule, he didn’t cry.  more realistically, more accurately, he didn’t cry in front of people.  not when he was sad, and definitely not when he was scared.  sangyeop had been a room while he cried exactly once but even then, yechan had done an alright job of hiding it and moving on.

thinking about it was not helping his stomach situation.  he barely made it over the toilet in time for a thin stream of vomit to splash into the water below.  he flushed it down, and didn’t bother wiping his mouth, instead choosing to lay flat on his back on the cold floor, arms and lets splayed like a starfish.  his stomach felt empty, but his bones still felt sick, and his head was frankly spinning a bit.

maybe if he stayed quiet, he wouldn’t have to deal with gwangil.

it wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate gwangil’s help - in fact, he was extremely grateful for his help earlier to avoid making a mess.  it was just that yechan wasn’t up for explaining anything right now, or ever, and sooner or later, gwangil would want answers.  if yechan stayed locked in a bathroom alone for the rest of his life, he wouldn’t have to answer them.

he yechan felt like a coward.  but then, more than that, he felt exhaustion, so he let it overtake him and hoped he’d be a bit braver once he woke up.

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

gwangil picked the lock to the bathroom after he’d heard nothing from yechan in 30 minutes, and was not surprised to find the older man solidly asleep on the hard floor.  “yechan-hyung,” he said, softly jostling yechan’s shoulder.  “let’s get you back in bed.”

“don’ wanna,” yechan whined, eyes still shut.

“not up for debate, come on.  i can carry you?”

yechan immediately held out his arms, and gwangil smiled slightly.  he was just glad yechan was letting him help.

——

feel free to send more asks!

[aloysiavirgata]

Henry Compilation

@perplexistan is an outstanding human who compiled all my little Henry ficlets into one document for me. So here it is, for your perusal. It all began with this:

Anonymous asked: Would scully consider remarrying if she wouldn't work it out with mulder in season 11? ;)

@kateyes224

As long as Mulder is around, I don’t know that she’d be willing to start from scratch. But that makes me very sad for Scully. If she and Mulder did decide that they couldn’t be together, I would want for her to find someone who loved and appreciated her and made her feel completed, even if that person wasn’t Mulder. I just think the ways that she and Mulder have been rent apart by this life mean that their torn edges fit together in a way that makes them as whole as they can possibly be.

AV: 

She gets the younger two out the door in time for the bus, backpacks bouncing as they run down the block. Their sister had left well over an hour ago, driving herself to school for early lacrosse practice. Scully shuts the door once Alice and Simon join the cluster of children trooping along the sidewalk. Everyone knows there is safety in numbers.

The dog, a half-grown keeshond, trots over in response to the breakfast noises. “Here, Wicket,” Scully says. “It’ll make your coat shiny.” She scrapes leftover eggs into his dish before fitting the greasy plates into the dishwasher.

Footsteps on the stairs, and Scully smooths her hair back.

“Morning,” Henry says, grabbing a nectarine from the bowl. He wears only striped pajama pants. “Thanks for getting them out the door.”

“Mmm, not a problem. You almost never get to sleep in.” She smiles, tips her face up to his.

He kisses her, and Scully tastes toothpaste and Listerine. “You’re an angel,” Henry claims.

Not me, she thinks. But Joan is. Henry’s first wife, the mother of his children, the lover of keeshonds, the gardener of exotic bulbs, is dead and beyond reproach. Scully finds her harmless, though occasionally irritating. The children find her flawless.

Henry pours them each a cup of coffee, fixes hers exactly how she likes. Scully settles onto a bar stool to savor it.

“Good?” he asks.

“Perfect.”

Henry beams.

She watches her husband as he putters around the kitchen, dumping coffee grounds into the composter, putting frozen fruit into the Vitamix. His back is broad and muscular in the buttery morning light, his silver-flecked hair gleaming.

“You eat?” he asks, after his smoothie has been whirred to perfection.

“Eggs with the kids.”

“They love you,” he says happily, if not accurately. “Can you believe we’re coming up on a year, Dana?”

She cannot. The wedding had been small. Quiet. Family attended, some of their friends from work. Joan’s parents, uncomfortably.

Mulder had sent flowers for her, gifts for the children.

Scully takes another swallow of coffee. “Paper anniversary, Henry. Hot date at Barnes and Noble?”

He walks over, wraps his arms around her from behind. Scully leans into the heat of his chest, her head on his bicep. She sighs with contentment as he noses her hair.

“I was thinking plane tickets,” Henry murmurs, nuzzling her neck. “Paris. Rome. Somewhere decadent. Between work and the kids you’re running yourself absolutely ragged, Dana. Joan’s parents can take the younger two, and Vivian can stay home by herself if she wants.”

Paris. All she has seen of Paris is the airport, eating overpriced pain au chocolat while Mulder argued with the ticket agent in his lousy French. They barely made their flight.

“Paris,” Scully muses. “I could do Paris.”

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?” Henry asks, purring in her ear.

She rolls her eyes. “So predictable.”

“I’m a tax attorney, Dana. I’m supposed to be predictable.”

She laughs a little. Predictable. Solid, predictable Henry with his beautiful children and his beautiful house and his beautiful wives. She has never heard him say a truly unkind thing about anyone. He is a charter Rotarian and a sucker for the wounded animals Simon brings home. He’s been unfailingly gracious to Mulder on the few occasions they’ve met. He’s a wonderful dancer.

“Predictable is good,” she assures him. Henry would never ditch her in strange motels or mix her up in a global conspiracy. Henry calls when he’s running late.

“You have time for a run before work?” he asks.

“I wish I did. I’ve got a consult with a family in about an hour.” Scully turns the bar stool, looking up at Henry’s green eyes. She takes his face in her hands, thumbing his jaw. “Paris sounds lovely. I’ll talk to Gwen about my schedule today.”

He kisses her palm. “You deserve Paris.”

Scully holds him close and doesn’t tell him how rarely anyone gets what they deserve.

***

From @mangokiwitropicalswirl

[I could NOT stop thinking about your short brilliant painful take on Scully’s marriage to Henry, and I woke up needing to write this. If you think it fits your vision of things in that universe, feel free to share!]

***

Note from AV: There are not WORDS to describe what a compliment this is, my goodness.  <3 Thank you, @mangokiwitropicalswirl

***

On the morning Scully marries him, she takes a long look in the mirror as she smooths her hair and touches up her makeup. It goes without saying, without thinking, that she wishes her mother were here. Maggie would have cried to see her in the ivory dress, would have coddled the step-grandchildren, would have joined her elbows-deep in topsoil in his garden.

Everyone believes the day that you get married you’ll feel uniquely whole, blissfully free from uncertainties. Happy.

And she is. She catches her own gaze in the mirror and knows that she’s the only one who’d see the wistful mote of resignation in her eyes. But not a resignation of defeat, it’s one of understanding. She better understands at fifty now than she did at thirty that there are choices. Always choices.

Someone told her once that love flows through us like water, softening our edges the way water wears down sandstone, or even granite. It carves out space for itself inside of us, making us larger, widening the heart.

Mulder’s love had been a tumult, a raging river, a flood. It had opened her like a canyon, revealed a grandscape of dizzying heights and crevices inside her. It had split over into corners she herself had not explored. Together, their love had flowed and thrashed and roiled, until she was hollowed out like a deepend cavern, like a riverbank destroyed by sudden flood.

And then it had receded, slowly, like the bitter end of a geologic age.

The thin ribbon that still trickles through her even now was not enough to fill the newly-barren spaces. As years went on, the heart crumbled like loose rock, eroding like a monument to a long forgotten era.

Contrary to popular belief, love is not all you need. Sometimes you need therapy. And meds. And sometimes you need to let it go.

On the little card that came along with flowers there was just one word, “Always.– M”.

There were years she would have bristled at the word, hearing in it all the codependency and desperate possession that were the hallmarks of their bond. But she hears it now the way she knows he means it, with the openness of someone who will always be her friend. Before all of it, at the very heart of it, he had been her dearest friend.

When Henry came into her life, it crept up on her like the warm waters of a bending river. His love curled and soothed and nourished until she felt green and young.

In the mirror, she smiles the half-smile of a woman blessed to find there’s more of her to give. And more to know. She dabs perfume on each wrist and behind her ears, between the shadowed valley of her breasts. Beneath them in the hollow of her chest, she’s wider now and knowing, surprised and grateful she is able to bloom again.

***

Anonymous asked: So even though Scully and Henry have this perfect life, which I love, what kind of things do they fight about? Is Scully relieved it's not about conspiracy or monsters in the dark? How do they handle arguments and disagreements? Also, I love Mulder dearly but Henry is kind of perfect....which is a little scary but awesome at the same time.

They really don’t fight much. They disagree (Henry’s a bit more liberal than Scully)  they annoy each other on occasion (he constantly fails to put his laundry in the hamper and she moves all the papers he leaves on the kitchen island) but fights? No, no fights.

N.B. Before anyone messages me to say how boring that sounds, let me explain that I have been with my husband for upwards of 17 years. In that time, we have had 2 fights. Like, ugly unpleasant ones. Lots of arguments and disagreements, but two fights. Our relationship isn’t boring, and I refuse to even entertain the validity of the notion that relationships need drama to be exciting.

One of the things I love best about Iolokus is that Rivka and Sally show Mulder and Scully figuring that out, that conflict isn’t necessary for intellectual stimulation.

***

Anonymous asked: So I know Mulder and Henry aren't hanging out playing poker together every Thursday night, but are there any occasions where they do find themselves in the same room? What was that first size-up like from either guy's perspective?

Scully has scheduled the dinner at a restaurant so it isn’t on anyone’s turf. Besides, Mulder’s house would be torture and she finds Henry’s elaborate kitchen somewhat daunting. She agonizes over reviews and menus, trying to eliminate as many variables as possible. Henry had tried to help, but her snippiness drove him off in short order. She is nauseous for a week beforehand, asking Henry if she had lost her mind and should cancel, asking Mulder the same.

“I want to meet him,” Henry says, passing her a glass of wine. “He’s part of you, so he’s important to me.”

“If this is to get my blessing, Scully,” Mulder says over the phone, “you already have it. But yeah, I’d like to meet the guy wonderful enough for you to ignore the fact that his job title contains the words tax and attorney.”

***

She puts on a black sheath dress, then decides it looks too much like the one from their movie premiere. My god, the movie…has Henry seen it? Or Viv? She is afraid to ask, and afraid not to know. She pushes the thought from her mind for now, pushes her and Mulder and that limo away. Scully rummages through her closet with increasing anxiety, finally settling on a burgundy pencil skirt and fitted navy sweater. Her hair is being impossible, and after half an hour with the curling iron, she opts for a French twist. She keeps her makeup light and tosses back a handful of Tums to quell the acid tide in her stomach.

Henry’s in jeans and a blazer, drinking coffee with Viv and her girlfriend. There’s a heated argument about Iron Man taking place. “You look great,” Henry says. “Ready?”

“No. But let’s do it anyway.” She plucks at invisible fuzz on her skirt.

He takes her arm and they head to the garage.

“Have fun at the circus, kids!” Viv calls after them.

***

They are seated at a table for four, Henry and Mulder facing one another, herself between. She holds a multigrain roll from the breadbasket in her lap, using her nails to pull out every tiny piece of millet, extract every last pumpkin seed. She drops them to the floor like daisy petals.

“I read your book,” Henry says. “Really impressive research. I recommended it to some colleagues.”

Mulder stirs his drink. “Thanks. Spend a lot of time on the dark web between billable hours, Henry?”

Scully kicks him lightly under the table, nostrils flared.

Henry chuckles. “No, I’m just a dilettante.”

The silence is thick and heavy as they peruse their menus, and Scully curses herself for this egregious decision. The back of her neck prickles, her face is hot and itchy. Moments stretch like saltwater taffy on a summer day.

“So, uh, Henry,” Mulder says at last, rubbing the side of his face.

Henry looks up. “Yep?”

“My, uh, my finances are pretty complicated due to some trusts and inheritances, plus my pension. The accountant I’ve been using is retiring. You think you could recommend anybody trustworthy?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve got a great guy in Alexandria,” Henry says. “He’ll save you a fortune.”

Mulder nods thoughtfully. “”I’ll put it towards my post-apocalyptic underground bunker. To which, of course, you’re all invited when the end times come upon us.”

Henry’s eyes crinkle at the corners, Scully sees, and her chest loosens. “We’ll bring a pie,” Henry says.

Mulder smiles. “Don’t let Scully make it. Great cook, lousy baker.”

The waitress comes for their orders, and they are chatting easily by the time the food arrives.

***

Henry sits outside on the porch, staring up at the sky. He names the constellations to himself as he sips a tumbler of Macallan. Dana perches on the arm of his Adirondack chair, knees drawn up to her chest.

“I like him,” Henry says at length. “Very funny guy.”

Dana nods slowly. “He is.”

Henry crunches an ice cube. “He’s still in love with you.”

“Does it bother you?’

He looks at her, ethereal in the moonlight. He is afraid at times that he will awake to find she has disappeared, burned off like the mist. “I want everyone to love you.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “Henry.”                                                             

“You love him too,” Henry says.

She hunches her shoulders, glances down. “Does that bother you?”

It might, he’s not sure. He felt the ineffable thing between them, but he understands the weight of history. “Love doesn’t have to be a zero sum game. Is there space in you for both of us?”

“It is impossible for more than one object to occupy the same space at the same time,” she says. “There are different spaces for each of you.”

Henry considers this. “Why’d you leave, Dana?”

She cants her face to the sky, eyes wide. “There’s a…a recklessness in me, Henry. A self destructiveness you haven’t seen.”

Is this where his gentle doctor ends and Mulder’s sure-shot partner begins? “Scully,” he says, trying it out.

Her eyes slide closed. “Don’t.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…please keep going.”

“That part of me blooms with him. It thrives. And I knew, I know, I couldn’t live like that. I couldn’t survive it another year. And I…I ripped it away and left it behind. That’s the place in me for you, Henry. That wound. You and Viv and Alice and Simon; you heal me there.”

He hears the thickness in her voice, feels it rising in his own. “Dana,” he says roughly. He knows about wounds and empty spaces. A piece of him went into the dark earth with Joan.

She turns her head to look at him, a slice of her lovely profile. “If that’s too much, I understand. I do. It’s a lot to ask.”

He shakes his head. “I’d rather share you than lose you,” he breathes. “If I….if I can make you feel whole, that’s a privilege.”

She makes a small noise, a hiccup or a sob, and crawls into his lap.

“It’s okay,” he says, arms wrapping around her. He kisses her temples, her eyelids.

She curls tight against his beating heart.

***

They don’t bother with the superfluity of hellos. She calls, he answers, they talk.

“I liked him,” Mulder says, bouncing a basketball. “I didn’t particularly want to, but he seems like the kind of person people just like.” Mulder finds this a kind of character flaw of its own, but does not mention as much.

“Yes,” Scully says, her voice soft. “He is.”

“A tax attorney though, Scully. Ouch.”

“Mulder, please.” The note of actual pleading in her voice startles him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincere. “I know this isn’t easy.”

“It’s okay.”

He shoots the ball into the hoop at the end of the driveway. “Three-pointer,” he tells Scully.

“The crowd goes wild.”

There’s a long silence, just one another’s breathing.

“Listen, I don’t know if you know this, but I have a bit of a background in psychology and behavioral science.” He makes a foul shot.

“You don’t say.” There’s a smile in her voice.

“Truth. So I want you to know that my impression of Henry is that he, um, he knows the value of what he has. With you.” It hurts to admit this to her. To himself.

“Oh,” she breathes. “Mulder, I didn’t exp-“

“No, I just, let me finish. And he, um. He’s really a good guy. His life is, you know, well. Your life, really, I guess. It’s good. It’s what I wanted for you and I’m just, you know. I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you.” His eyes sting.

Silence.

“Scully?”

“I’m here.”

He hears tears in her voice. “Okay. Okay, good. This is hard, but we, um. We’re always friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course. Always.” She sniffles.

“I feel like Henry, he understands that. He seems like he really wants you to be happy, that he’s not the jealous type.” Shit, shit why did he say that? “Not that he should be jealous, I don’t mean to imp-“

“It’s okay. And you’re right. He knows that I’m…that we…he knows how we are.”

Mulder swallows hard. “How we are,” he repeats.

They never say goodbye, either. The silence grows and drifts, then she finally disconnects the call.

***

Anonymous asked: What would you do if Henry rocked up in season 11 (other than sue)?

Wait for him to die, I guess. That’s Chris’s MO.

***

Anonymous asked: I love Henry. I know it's sad that in this fictional world she's not with Mulder, but as much as they deeply loved each other, I must admit it's lovely to read a world where Scully is appreciated in the day to day. I'm sure that perhaps Mulder did, but we didn't see too much of that. It felt like it was only when she was kidnapped or in hospital with cancer that he realised how much she meant to him. Henry is what she deserves, and it seems to make Mulder step up too. I'm on board for this.

I feel this way too. Listen, I am diehard MSR and was a shipper before fandom had even settled on the term! I am here for Mulder and Scully hobbling across that bridge like everybody else. 94% of what I write is MSR, either set within canon, or trying to give them a happier AU. Even in this story, their love is still palpable. I don’t think it works otherwise.

But the challenge of trying to create this unconventional AU in a way that is relatable to people is really enjoyable to me as a writer. MSR is inherently easy. It exists. It’s fun and satisfying as a fan, but it’s not a hard sell. This is really pushing me to approach the characters in a new way. I’m just immensely surprised it has gone over so well, and endlessly grateful to everyone who has been willing to engage in the narrative. Especially to @kateyes224 for the idea and @mangokiwitropicalswirl and my 10/13 anon for fleshing it out. 

(10/13 anon, got your message. Just developing an answer in my head.)

—

Anonymous asked: How would Henry cope if Scully's cancer returned? And how would Mulder? OR... how would Scully cope if something happened to Mulder, but she isn't free to drop everything and go to him? Would she want to, or would she have closed the door on that reaction? How would Henry deal with that? #TeamHenlly

Henry paces the hallway outside her room, one hand to his forehead, the other holding his phone. “Pick up, pick up,” he mutters.

Mulder does, finally. “Henry?”

“Yes. Yeah. Listen, this isn’t easy, but I’m at the hospital with Dana and I’ve got some, uh, some bad news.” He is proud of his steady voice, his steady hands.

“Is she hurt? Is she sick?” Mulder sounds almost accusatory, as though Henry has been derelict in a simple task.

“She’s sick. They…” he runs his hand through his hair, circles around the vending machine again. “They found a mass in her sinuses, Mulder.”

The silence on the other end goes on too long. “Mulder, are you there?”

“Do you know her medical history?” The words are clipped.

“She told me, told the doctors this isn’t new. But she said something about a chip, about that scar on her neck. What the hell is going on here, Mulder? I’ve never pushed her about her past, but I’m seriously in the dark here.”

There’s a heavy sigh on the other end. “It’s not my story to tell you.”

Henry, his frustration peaking after hours of obfuscation and obliqueness from Dana, slams a fist into the wall. “She’s my wife, goddammit! Whatever you two have, Mulder, whatever it is, I never pried. I trust her and I trust you and I accept it. But you need to tell me, right fucking now, what I don’t know.”

People are staring, but he doesn’t care, he feels righteous and productive.

“Henry, I-”

“You tell me,” he growls, “or I will drive over right now and beat the living shit out of you. I have a lot of impotent rage I’d like to direct somewhere.” He’s not entirely sure he can make good on this, but he thinks adrenaline will give him an advantage.

Nothing.

“Mulder.”

Breathing.

“It’s medicine,” Mulder says slowly. “The chip in her neck is some kind of medicine that stops her cancer.”

Henry is appalled, “That’s it? That’s the secret you couldn’t share? Am I losing my goddamned mind? Call the fucking manufacturer right now and get another one, for Christ’s sake!”

“It’s not that simple,” Mulder says, his voice soft. “It’s, ah, not on the market.”

“You’re telling me you know of a medicine that treats cancer effectively and you can’t get it? Is it foreign? Illegal?”

“It was a sort of custom design,” Mulder says.

“Give me an answer, a real answer. You two and your doublespeak, I swear to god…” He’s gripping his hair by the roots.

“Fine, Henry. Here it is.” There is anger in Mulder’s voice now, and Henry finds it satisfying. “Her cancer was specifically engineered to manifest if she ever took the chip out. The chip is a tracking device. I don’t know why it stopped working, but before you come over and kick my ass, you have a lot of fucking questions to ask your wife.”

Henry’s mind is reeling. He leans against the wall. “A tracking device?” he repeats. “Engineered cancer? How do you engineer cancer? Why do you engineer cancer?” He can’t process this, not this and Dana asleep in the hospital bed with a demon behind her eyes.

“Shit,” Mulder breathes. “Goddammit, Henry. How bad is she?”

“She’s weak, very thin. She kept saying it was the flu, you know how she is. But she had a few nosebleeds and went in. And here we are.”

“Yeah, I know how she is,” Mulder says, and Henry hears the pain in his words.

“There’s a man,” Mulder says. “Who knows about the chip. He might, uh, he might arrange a deal.”

Henry is baffled, but tries to swim with the current. “A deal? Why would an- never mind. Call him. I’ll pay whatever he wants, no questions asked.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can pay what he’ll want,” Mulder says. The words are measured, heavy. “But I can.”

The line goes dead.

***

Anonymous asked: In the Henry universe, how does Scully react when Mulder finds someone else?

She’s sorting lunch components for the twins into plastic bins in the refrigerator; bags of chips and carrot sticks and foil-wrapped triangles of pizza. Her phone rings as she picks up a webbed bag of clementines.

“Hey,” Mulder says, his voice a warm pulse.

Scully lets the oranges slump back onto the counter. “Hey.”

“I’m, uh, I’m headed up to New York to talk to my publisher this afternoon,” he tells her.

She can hear the noisy old dishwasher going in the background, imagines Mulder fidgeting at the kitchen table. There’s a chair with a wobbly leg he likes to rock in. “They still talking about the miniseries?”

“Yep.”

Scully chews her lip, considering. She tucks the phone against her shoulder. “That’s not why you called, though.”

A long pause. “No.”

“Okay.” She shuts the fridge and begins assembling sandwiches on the counter. Teasing information from Mulder can take a quiet, steady patience.

“I met someone,” he says at last.

Scully sets the knife down, knuckling the cool granite. “Did you?”

“I just, you know, I wanted to call you. You were very open about Henry so I thought I should extend you the same courtesy.” In the background, the squeak of the chair leg.

“Mulder, that’s great. I’m happy to hear it.” She is, she is, she doesn’t want him alone.

He coughs. “Thanks. Um, well, I guess that’s it, really. I should go pack.”

“No!” she exclaims. “Mulder, I need some detail.” As a friend. As a concerned friend who is wary of his general taste for women who will betray him.

“Oh, Scully, you don’t have t-“

“Really, I do. Let’s have the 411.” She hopes she sounds casually interested, and begins spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread.

Mulder guffaws. “The 411? Scully, let me tell you about the internet.”

She blushes, waves her hand. “Whatever. Details, something.”

“Ummmm…”

Scully imagines him pacing now, tossing and catching an invisible baseball. “You know, it’s okay, I don’t want to pressure you.”

“No, hey, I’m sorry. Just trying to generate a quick dossier. Uh, well, her name is Elizabeth. She works for the EPA, coastal ecology.”

“Science nerd, huh?” she says, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. She swallows, stabs a spoon into the jam jar.

“Yeah,” Mulder says. “She does something with zebra mussels and ship ballast water that I need to brush up on.”

“Probably invasive species in coastal communities. I’ll give you a crash course if you like.” She picks up the sandwich to tuck into a plastic bag.

‘It’s okay. I’ll Google it; you remember that internet thing I mentioned before. It’s got lots of stuff on it.”

She is stung, and words sticks in her throat like lumpy oatmeal. “Oh,” she manages. “Okay, then.”

Mulder coughs again. “I just figured you’re pretty busy, with work and the kids and everything.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s pretty crazy.” She toys with the jam jar, rolling it in her hands. It is cool against her palms “Well, you know, enjoy your research. Look up copepods too.”

“I will.”

Seconds tick by on the kitchen clock.

“When’s the second book out?” Scully asks. She picks up the sandwich, zipping and unzipping the plastic bag.

“Around Thanksgiving, I think. You want an advance copy? I’ll sign it for you.”

She laughs. “No, don’t give them away. I want to buy it, boost your sales.”

“In that case, stock up and send them out with the Christmas cards. Even mine.”

“I’ll pre-order on the….what did you call it? The in-ter-net?”

Mulder chuckles. “Have them shipped right to your house, or take your velocipede down to the book-seller to fetch them.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

A lengthy pause, but they don’t hang up.

Scully finds that the sandwich in her hand has been wadded into a dense ball, peanut butter and jam squeezed all over the inside of the bag. She hastily shoves it into the trash can. “Mulder, um, when you get back in town, why don’t you give me a call? We’d love to have dinner with you and Elizabeth.” She says it so smoothly she believes it.

“Oh,” he says. “That sounds nice, that sounds really good. Yeah.”

“Okay.” She squeezes her eyes closed, her stomach sour.

Mulder breathes for a long moment. Then he says, “Well, hey. I’ve got to get going, but thanks for listening. I know how busy you are.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Sure.” She holds back this time, doesn’t say she always has time for him.

An empty silence now, the call disconnected.

Scully sits on a bar stool, hands clasped beneath her chin, elbows on the breakfast bar. She sees the absurd expectation she’s held onto, the cruelty of it. Mulder like a sundial in the garden of her life, static and reliable as she moves through the seasons around him. Ticking off her hours as she spends them.

Scully goes to the sink and slaps cold water on her face. She sees Elizabeth in her mind’s eye. Lanky and brunette, of course. Long legs and khaki shorts, probably lots of trips to REI. She assigns her a sporty dog too. Maybe with a bandanna.

She says a prayer for his happiness, and leaves it to God to sort out what exactly she means by the idea.

***

Anonymous asked: 10/13 Henry anon here, dearest Mrs. Virgata and mangokiwimagicswirl, either or both of you please feel free to flesh it out. It delights me my little something could turn into a bigger something. I'm not above begging. *begs*. Look what you all did, my MSR heart really does belong to MSR, but I can carve a little spot out for Henry/Scully/Mulder. Mulder is earth, Henry is the stick, Scully is Archimede's point bc we all know she makes the choices and drives the consequences.

A Saturday in late September, and Henry and Scully sit on the back porch watching the twins lob lacrosse balls at Viv. She catches them expertly, flicking her wrist to send them flying back at her younger siblings. They dodge them, squealing and chasing one another and Wicket, who makes off with one on occasion. He exposes his preposterously fluffy belly in hope of scratches.

Scully pours herself a glass of sangria, pours Henry another two inches of Macallan. She is pleasantly buzzed, work blurring out of her mind’s eye. Henry is somewhat more than buzzed, she suspects. Joan’s parents had been over, which exhausts him.

“There’s, ah, there’s something I want to discuss with you,” Henry says. “And with a bit of liquid courage, there’s no time like the present.”

Anxiety rises in her like a barometer. “That’s quite a lead-in,” she says, keeping her tone light while her stomach churns.

“Sorry,” Henry replies. “It’s not, it’s nothing bad.”

“Let’s have it, then.”

“Mulder’s birthday dinner,” Henry begins. “I know what he…I know that you two are…dammit.“ He trails off in frustration.

The anxiety is now constricting her throat. “Henry?”

He shakes his head, still watching his children. “What I’m mangling here is that if you, um, if you ever felt a need to, you know, take a night off from all this-“ here he nods at the yard, “I’d not hold it against you.”

Comprehension begins to dawn, and Scully is aghast.  “You’re not suggesting that I….no. Henry, no.”

Henry shrugs. “It’s not a moral failing, okay? I asked you once if there was a place for both of us in you and you said there were two places. And I said I’d rather share you than lose you. I know a marriage is a compromise, and I’m, you know, I’m trying to figure out what that looks like here. You took on three kids and a guy with some heavy emotional baggage.”

Scully’s cheeks burn. “So your solution is that I offer myself up to him as a birthday gift? Is this some kind of magnanimous man-to-man gesture, sharing your woman as a show of friendship?”

Henry turns to her now, mouth open. “Oh god, oh….shit. I had no idea it sounded that way. I’m sorry.”

Scully drains half her glass in one gulp. “This is the life I committed myself to, Henry. It’s not a job I need a sick day from, and you and the kids aren’t baggage, for heaven’s sake.”

Henry stares into the yard, watches Wicket play tug of war with Viv’s lacrosse stick. “I’m terrified of losing you,” he says. “Partially because of Joan but partially because…” he shakes his head.

“Because what?”

He swallows the rest of his Scotch. “Because there are these dark places in you I can’t see, places that have been redacted. And I told you I wouldn’t pry, and I won’t, but I have this fear of them. That they’ll swallow you one day, and you’ll just disappear. I guess I hoped that if I offered you a night to visit, so to speak, you might not feel tempted to run away to them.”

Her sinuses burn. “Henry…”

“I wasn’t trying to offer you to Mulder as a birthday gift, Dana, that’s really fucking sick. But I was trying to offer you a night in the parts of yourself you haven’t let me go to yet.”

She reaches for his hand and grips it hard. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“A vacation home,” he says, smiling weakly at his own joke. He squeezes her hand back.

“I don’t need a vacation,” she assures him.  She tugs Henry closer, pulls him down so that his head is resting on her lap. His legs dangle over the armrest of the wicker settee.

“I just want you to know I meant it,” he says.

She nods. “I do. But you can’t keep me by giving me away.” She traces his face with her fingertip, his eyelashes and tragus and philtrum. She etches him deeper into her heart.

***

Anonymous asked: Original 10/13 anon here, I suppose i'm down for consummation of free pass too. Heck, you can do both versions for all I care!

aloysiavirgata:

Oh @perplexistan and @kateyes224…

A continuation of this

***

It’s sticky outside, a mid-Atlantic fall day not fully committed to the reality of October. A late season hurricane has been stirring up the ghosts of summer off the Carolinas, the air close and heavy. Scully steals hairpins from Viv’s vanity to help tame her bun, and is reasonably pleased with the results.

It’s just Mulder, she tells herself, zipping up her navy dress. It has a boatneck that shows her clavicles to good advantage, cap sleeves that feel feminine but not frilly.

It’s just Mulder, she thinks, choosing beige kitten heels that lengthen her legs, swiping Lancome’s Perfect Fig across her mouth. She skips perfume.

The sky is thick with shaggy clouds, the sun slipping away nearly undetected. Scully slides behind the wheel of her car, and leaves tire tracks on the grass when she swerves backwards down the driveway.

***

The restaurant is new and well reviewed, with nothing served in Mason jars or on slate tiles. She asked when she made the reservation, as these things leave Mulder snarky and cross.

Mulder arrives at the table a few minutes after her, wind-whipped, mud on one of his loafers. They embrace, a quick kiss on each cheek, and she breathes shallowly. It would not be good to inhale the scent of him.

“Happy birthday,” she says, settling into her chair, napkin spread across her silken lap. “I’m sorry the weather’s so ominous.”

“I blame you entirely.”

She smiles. “I should have e-mailed Holman Hart, called in a favor.”

Mulder peruses his menu. “Next time. I’m just glad you got to come out and play for an evening.”

Scully frowns. “This isn’t the fifties, Mulder, and I’m not a kept woman. Don’t make it sound like that.”

He is taken aback, but nods. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

Scully sighs. She doesn’t want to begin like this. “It’s fine. I’ve had a long week and I’m a bit snappish. I just don’t want things to be strained between us because of….well. It’s your birthday, Mulder.”

A waitress comes by with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. She sets it on the table, handing them each a flute.

Scully looks at her in confusion. “I didn’t order this,” she says.

The waitress nods her head towards Mulder. “The gentleman called earlier, ma’am.”

The gentleman denies this, and the waitress furrows her brow. “Sir? Someone called earlier and ordered this for Dana Scully’s table. For a birthday celebration.”

Scully blushes, twists her wedding ring around her finger. “It’s fine, thank you,” she tells the waitress. “Just a misunderstanding on my part. Sorry for the confusion.”

“Shall I open it?”

“Please.”

The cork makes a wonderful popping sound, the champagne golden and sparkling as it flows into their glasses. The waitress tucks the bottle back into the ice before she leaves.

Scully stares at the silver bucket, the frost of condensation on it, the mounds of crystal ice. She runs a fingertip along the rim of her flute, making it squeak.

Mulder raises his glass in a toast. “Many thanks to Henry,” he says, without a trace of irony.

***

Mulder is clacking his empty mussel shells like castanets. The champagne is gone and so is half a bottle of Sancerre. The candle on their table has burned low.

Scully is laughing helplessly, her napkin pressed to her mouth.

“I can’t believe you never told me this,” she manages. “The Spanish ambassador, how could you?”

He drops the shells back into the bowl, grinning. “It’s was university and I was an asshole. Plus my girlfriend was semi-psychotic. Phoebe,” he clarifies.

Scully groans. “Oh, God. Phoebe. She was a mess, Mulder.”

He laughs. “Gorgeous though. My main requirement at the time.”

She wipes her eyes. “I’ll grant you that, yes. I was a little intimidated, I won’t lie.”

“You were looking pretty good too.”

Scully wrinkles her nose in reply.

A boom of thunder comes suddenly, making the chandeliers rattle. Seconds later, a jagged fork of lightning splits the sky. Gasps come from the other diners when the lights go out.

Mulder dribbles wine onto the candle,  extinguishing it. “Pouring one out for my homie Zeus.”

***

They make a mad dash to their cars in the rain, Scully nearly diving into her SUV. She slides on the wet leather, blasting the air to dry herself off.

Across the lot she spots Mulder’s car, his battered old two-tone Land Cruiser 70. It has not been started. Worried, Scully drives over, hydroplaning on the slick asphalt. She parks parallel to him, oriented nose to tail.

She sees him through the downpour, scowling at his phone. She waves to get his attention and he frowns at her, shrugs. A round of hurried texting reveals that the car won’t start and he’s got at least a 2 hour wait per the AAA app.

Scully reaches behind her seat for the huge wood-frame golf umbrella she keeps there. Opening the door, she unfurls it into the storm. The wind nearly drags it from her hands. She makes it to her trunk before Mulder sees what she’s doing and leaps from his car.

“Are you out of your fucking MIND?” he yells into the wind.

“JUMPER CABLES,” she shouts back. “YOU CAN’T STAY HERE FOR TWO HOURS!” Scully rummages around, then hoists them victoriously.

Thunder crashes, and the hail begins.

Mulder shoves her into his open driver’s door and she clambers into the passenger seat so he can get in. Hail the size of quail eggs bounces in with him.

He slams the door, panting. “You have a degree. In physics.”

She twines the cables around her hands, shamefaced. “I know.”

Mulder starts to laugh. He rests his head on the steering wheel, shaking with laughter while hail rattles around them.

Scully glares at him. “Let’s agree it wasn’t my finest moment, okay?”

He catches his breath. “No, it’s fine. It’s good. I appreciate the laugh. But we picked the wrong car for this little adventure.” He clicks the useless ignition to demonstrate.

Scully groans. “My phone’s in mine too.”

Mulder peels his jacket off, his shirt mostly dry underneath. “Scully, you’re soaked. I’d offer you my jacket, but…” He holds it up, letting it drip water onto the floor.

“I’m good,” she says. “Just turn on the - oh.”

“Yeah.”

She folds down the visor, inspecting herself in the mirror. She looks like the undead prom queen from a slasher flick, straggling hair coming loose, smudged rings of waterproof mascara.

She snaps the visor back up.

Mulder brightens. “I think there’s a blanket in the foot locker. I’ll climb back and get it.”

She waves him off. “I’ll get it, I’m smaller.”  Scully turns, her silk dress clinging like wet paper as she wriggles. She and Mulder studiously ignore her hip against his shoulder. Her shoes drop beside him to the floor.

She squelches into the back, feeling clammy and uncomfortable. There is loose grit on the floor, which hurts her knees. She tugs a quilted moving blanket from a folded-up seat onto the floor, then opens the foot locker. Inside is his old Navajo blanket. She touches it, smiling.

“You find it?” Mulder asks.

“Yeah, thanks,” she says. Scully unfolds the blanket and wraps it around herself. It smells of dry wood and motor oil, GoJo hand cleanser. “I forgot how much room there is back here with the side seats up.”

He adjusts the rearview mirror to see her, and they hold one another’s eyes for a beat. Scully looks away, watches the storm shred leaves off the trees. She twists her wedding ring.

Mulder climbs through the seats, grunting, then sits next to her on the moving blanket. “I texted Henry,” he says. “Let’s him know you’re safe, just waiting out the storm. Thanked him for the champagne.”

“I appreciate that,” she says, touched

“I’d want him to.”

Scully pulls the blanket tighter.“I’m sorry your birthday is going like this,” she says.

He looks at her, surprised. “Good dinner, great company, spooky storm. You wanna tell ghost stories and creep each other out?” He bumps her shoulder.

Scully smiles. “I’m don’t think we can surprise each other anymore,” she says softly. “We’re like two magicians trying to show each other card tricks.”

“You can always surprise me,” he says.

She holds her left hand out for his inspection. The diamonds reflect scraps of yellow streetlight. “This?” she asks.

Mulder shrugs, looks away.

Scully touches the rings. “He told me to go home with you tonight if I wanted. He said he would understand, like shore leave. That it wouldn’t change anything.”

Mulder swallows, closes his eyes. The air is becoming steamy with evaporate, the windows fogged. The smell of damp silk, damp wool hangs about them.

“I told him I couldn’t, that I didn’t need it anyway. And that I certainly wasn’t going to offer myself to you like a gift from the lord of one manor to another.” She reaches out to touch his face, to turn it towards her.

“Don’t,” he rasps.

“Mulder, look at me.”

He shoves her hand away, stares at her. “I’m getting in your car,” he says. “Before we do something really stupid.”

Scully drops the Navajo blanket to the floor. She unpins her hair, lets it fall down her sticky neck to just past her shoulders. She sits back on her heels, wet dress like seaweed. “Mulder.”

“One of us needs to get the fuck out of this car,” he whispers, his voice ragged. He doesn’t move.

She unzips her dress, but it doesn’t fall away like she’d planned. It clings to the tops of her arms, the tops of her breasts, the back gaping open. Gooseflesh rises.

“I thought I could get out of the car,” she says. “ But maybe a joyride every so often isn’t such a bad idea. Henry says it’s not a moral failing, Mulder. And I’m quoting directly.”

They stare at one another, her face tipped up, her mouth swollen. Mulder gazes down at the shadow between her breasts.

Scully runs her tongue across her top lip.

He reaches forward, slides his hands down her shoulders, scraping the ruined silk away. His breath, his heart, are louder than the thunder.

She is bare to the waist now, her chest heaving, her dress a puddle between her hips and the quilted grey blanket. Her nipples ache.

Hail smashes against the windshield, and the wind howls.

She unbuttons his shirt, her fingers trembling, and his chest is deeper, broader than she remembered it. His scars are just as she left them.

Scully moves closer, her breasts grazing his skin when she kisses his neck, bites at it. He shudders, fingers tangling in her hair.

She cups his erection through his trousers.

“I thought you said…” he gasps, hands sliding down to plane her back.

“I thought I meant it,” she mumbles, unbuckling his belt, unfastening his fly.

“I wish you had,” he groans when she pulls his boxers to his knees.

Scully lays back on the blanket, her dress still rucked around her abdomen like a painting of Venus. She reaches beneath it to pull her underwear down, kicks them away.

Mulder is on top of her then, his hands on either side of her head, his shirt tenting her torso. He moves one hand against the hot skin between her thighs, comes away slick from even so little contact.

She whimpers as the storm roars, and he presses his wet fingers to her mouth.

“Scully,” he says, his eyes searching hers. “We can’t undo this, you know that.”

She knows, she knows, she saw what happened to Daniel’s family, what she had done.

“Please,” she says, raking her manicured nails down his back, her pelvis arched against his.  “Please.”

Mulder is not her conscience, and enters her in one thrust.

He cries out to her god.

***

It’s past one when she stumbles into the kitchen, past one by the little clock above the sink.

Henry jumps up from the ladderback chair. “Dana, thank God,” he says. “Mulder called about 45 minutes ago, said you’d left, but I couldn’t reach you.”

Scully holds up her phone, the screen black. “Ruined in the rain,” she says. She slumps into a chair, drained. “And the hail cracked my windshield.”

Henry watches her, concerned, then takes his robe off. “Look at you, you’re soaked.” He tucks the thick cotton around her, smoothing her hair out of her eyes. “Dana?”

She leans up, kisses him. “I’m sorry, the roads were awful and I’m exhausted. I don’t remember a storm like that since Sandy.”

He runs his thumb over her cheekbone, smiling at her freckles. ”I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Scully nods, pressing his palm to her face, to her lips. She’d stood outside in the rain, after the storm burned itself out, to wash the yeasty scent of sex from her pores. She’s afraid, somehow, that it has lingered. That she is marked, tainted forever.

“Probably too much wine, too,” she admits ruefully. “I drank more than my fair share and my head hurts.”

“I got his text,” Henry tells her. “I’m glad he liked it.”

Scully looks back at him, her heart aching with how much she loves him, how much she despises herself. “Oh, yes,” she replies. “He loved your gift.”

 —

For everyone who asked.

***

He rattles up the driveway, the rattling a function of his automobile rather than the O'Keefes’ smooth asphalt. He parks under the basketball hoop, blocking the garage.

Fallen branches litter the yard. A shutter is down from one of the dormer windows, and the landscaping looks threadbare in places. A Japanese maple is split down the center.

Henry is gathering this debris from the storm, hauling it into a large pile in front of the house. He wears a Princeton sweatshirt and jeans, a Nationals cap pulled over his hair. He pauses in his work to greet Mulder. There are wet leaves on his hands.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” Mulder says, stepping over a rake to shake hands. “I was planning a drop-and-dash.” He holds out Scully’s wooden umbrella, her jumper cables.

“Well, you can just, um, set that stuff on the bench I suppose. Dana’s in surgery all day, but I can put it in her car when she gets home.” Henry jams his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels.

“Okay,” Mulder says. He lays the items on the bench, then surveys the yard with a kind of awe at the destruction. “Hell of a mess.”

Henry sighs. “I know they were calling for it, but I guess I wasn’t prepared for what we got. You know Dana has a big crack in her windshield.”

Mulder’s eyebrows go up, as this is news to him. “She okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine, but she was pretty shaken when she got home last night.” He studies Mulder carefully. “Must have been a rough drive home, huh?”

“Must have been.”

They are silent for a time.

“You need any help cleaning up?” Mulder asks. “It’s the least I could do after you were nice enough to buy me birthday champagne.”

Henry shakes his head. “No, thank you for the offer though. Glad you had a good night despite the weather. You’re hard to shop for, though Dana said you wouldn’t want a gift.”

Mulder looks away. “I don’t need much.“

Henry picks the rake up, leans on the handle as he presses the tines into the soft earth. “I love my wife,” he says. “And so do you. Some people might say that puts us at odds, Mulder.”

Mulder meets Henry’s gaze. “It would be an understandable, if incorrect assumption.”

Henry shifts. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. You….you’re her friend. You represent a part of her life I can never fully understand. When I lost Joan I thought I’d…well. I know we all have our ghosts.”

“Nothing happened last night, Henry.”

Henry stiffens. “Pardon?”

Mulder holds his hands out, open. “I feel like I need to just say it, okay? Nothing inappropriate happened. My battery was dead and we realized we both had too much to drink, so we waited the storm out in my car. Her phone got wet and ruined so she couldn’t call. She adores you and your kids and that Ewok of a dog.”

Henry closes his eyes for a long moment, then opens them. “Thanks for bringing her things back. I’ll tell her you came by.”

Mulder nods. He gets into his car and backs down the driveway, navigating fallen limbs as he does. On the radio, Tom Petty’s singing about his last dance with Mary Jane. Mulder turns the volume up and sings along.

***

Anonymous asked: We can just blame love for the Henry saga. Loved fucked all of them over. In Victorian times, after the free pass, Scully would've killed herself, Henry would remain unmarried for the rest of his life and refuse to talk about Dana, and Mulder would go on some stupid quest as penance and probably get himself killed.

I think I saw this movie and Gillian was very good in it.

***

Anonymous asked: I beginning to feel like eventually Henry is going to realize Scully's connection runs so deep emotionally that he's just not going to want to deal with it anymore. He says he's fine with how things are, how Scully doesn't tell him much about her past, that she is still very close to Mulder and gives her a free pass, but eventually he'll want more for himself in a relationship and leave her. In my mind, Scully want want that life and deserves it, but she unintentinally sabotages it.

I think you’re right. Scully has a deep self-destructive streak that rears its head on occasion. I think there’s a part of her that doesn’t feel like she deserves familial happiness after William, and that she doesn’t deserve Mulder or Henry. She’s almost created a perfect storm for herself where she can lose them both by capitalizing on their feelings for her.

***

Anonymous asked: How did Henry and Scully meet?

She wore navy peau de soie and nude stilettos, a beaded bag on her wrist. Her hair hung in sculpted waves just covering her collarbones.

She chatted, she mingled, and she ducked into the kitchen with unnecessary frequency to check the flow of the food.

“Everything’s fine, Dr. Scully,” the staff assured her each time. She pursed her lips, scanning the bison tartare and vol au vents. She sampled a grilled shrimp, nodding tersely.

Scully calmed herself with a third vodka tonic, a poor decision, she knew, but the bar was open and her nerves jangled.

“It’s perfect, Dana,” her intern said, a glass of white wine in her manicured hand. She was a child, scarcely old enough to legally consume her drink. Her father was Someone.

Scully smiled, thanked her. The crowd was too dense, the room too warm, and the talk too loud. There was drunken laughter, cloying perfume. She longed for home, for the reliability of solitude.

Next to her, a man in a grey suit ordered a 15 year Macallan, neat. Scully appraised him out of habit, saw the fine tailoring and coordinating pocket square. The haircut was good, the shoes excellent. She sensed funds for her pet project.

“Dana Scully,” she said, holding out her free hand.

He took it with his left. There was no ring. “Henry O'Keefe,” he said. “You’re on the committee, aren’t you?”

Scully blinked in surprise. “I am,” she said. “Have we met?”

He shook his head. “My firm’s the title sponsor and I recognized your name.”

She smiled in the way she knew people liked, all her teeth on display. “Impressive. Have you checked out the auction items yet?”

He nodded. “There’re a few things I’d like for my kids, I put in some bids. Quite a variety this year.”

“It’s much appreciated. I hope you win them.” She left a tip for the bartender, turning to go.

Fingers at her back, and she sucked in her breath at the ghost of a memory.

“Dr. Scully?”

She turned back to Henry O'Keefe. “Yes?”

He looked into his drink, then at her. “It’s a very good cause.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps…perhaps you could tell me more about it. About how you got involved. It would be nice to hear from someone with passion rather than just a calculation for client endearment.” He offered her a hopeful smile.

Scully set her empty glass on the bar. “I’d love to,” she said. She rested her hand on his offered forearm, and waded back into the fray.

***

Anonymous asked: Henry story: if Mulder and Scully were asked to consult the FBI on a strange case (and a once only basis), what would happen?

She’s got a stack of patient files next to her, dog-eared, the corners grubby. Scully dutifully logs their contents into her computer, wishing the hospital would spring for software upgrades. Her phone rings, startling her from the mind-numbing task.

“Mulder?”

“There’s a case.”

She pecks at the keyboard. “I’m sorry, but the person you’re trying to reach is no longer available. Please hang up and try your call again.”

“I’m not kidding. You’ve gotta make arrangements, you’ve gotta-”

“Mulder, slow down. What the hell is going on? What case, why are you freaking out like this?”

A pause. “It’s Skinner.”

***

“I realize the government is slow with the red tape, but they are aware that they no longer employ you, correct?” Henry’s fingers tap his forehead as he paces the kitchen.

She traces her nail along the grain of the kitchen table. “Strictly consulting,” she says. “All behind the scenes. Probably no longer than a week.”

“Forgive me, but why you two? Why now?”

She looks down. “It’s classified.”

“Of course. And where will you be going? Can I know that at least?”

“Classified,“ she whispers, still not meeting his eyes.

Henry throws his hands in the air. “Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Your whole life is classified, why shouldn’t this be too?”

Scully squeezes her eyes shut. Any other case and she would have said no. Anything else and she would have hung up on Mulder, gone back to her filing, eaten Viv’s outstanding lasagna, and gone to bed.

“Are you allowed to say no, even? I mean, you’re a civilian, right? They can’t force you to do anything.”

“I have to,” she says, heartsick. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. But I have to.” Her throat is tight.

Henry knuckles the counter, his back to her. “I have never asked you anything, Dana. Not a single goddamned thing. I agreed to leave the past behind and move forward, but it seems to keep popping up. Flying off with your ex husband to your ex job? I’m supposed to be fine with that when I know…” He shakes his head.

“When you know what?” she breathes, nauseous. She is afraid he will say it, even though she knows he knows.

Henry turns, his eyes hard. “Enough, okay? I know enough.” He considers her. “What would you do if I said no?”

She is taken aback, this possibility not having occurred to her. “I didn’t think we forbade each other things, Henry,” she says slowly.

“The requests are getting pretty one-sided. So what would you do?”

She presses her trembling hands flat to the table, palms cool against the lacquered wood. “I’d go anyway,” she says. “Not for anyone else, but for Ski-” she bites off the end of her sentence, furious with herself.

Henry sits across from her at the table. “For whom?”

 She remains silent, shaken.

“Classified,” he says, with faint contempt. “Right.”

Scully chews her lip until the inside of it bleeds. Experience has taught her that there are reckonings, crossroads past which a life can take on an entirely new direction. She does not want this to be one of them.

They look at each other for what seems like a very long time.

“Henry,” she says carefully. “What I’m about to do is completely illegal, all right? I’m putting your life and my life in danger by telling you this. But you’re right; I owe it to you. To us.” She reaches across the table for his hand.

Henry nods. “I understand.”

He doesn’t; he can’t possibly, but she plows ahead before she loses her nerve. “FBI Director Walter Skinner has been taken by a militia group called the New Spartans. We believe he’s being held inside their compound, located near Casper Mountain, Wyoming.”

Henry gapes. “The Director. Of the FBI. Has been kidnapped?”

“So it would seem.”

Henry shakes his head, appalled. He withdraws his hand from hers to run through his hair.“Why isn’t this national news, why isn’t the, uh…who? The SEALS or the Army Rangers all over this? Why are they pulling two agents out of retirement to deal with a huge fucking disaster? Were you hostage negotiators, what?”

“No. But we….um. We, along with Director Skinner, have dealt with this group before. Mulder infiltrated them undercover at one point. August Bremer, their former leader, spared Mulder’s life at one point.” She looks at him sadly, reminding herself of all that he doesn’t know.

“Shouldn’t they be making demands, on TV or something, I don’t know…. Bragging?” Sweat beads on Henry’s brow, and he wipes at it with a paper napkin.

Scully shakes her head. “Maybe in a Bond flick. These are not people who want attention. They see themselves as the last true patriots and this is symbolic for them, for their followers. They don’t want to cut a deal with the federal government. They’re anarchists, and see no difference between the FBI and the KGB, Henry. This is a power move.”

Henry, dazed, shreds the paper napkin into minuscule fragments. “How the hell did they get him, anyway?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, she figures. What’s a little more treason between husband and wife? “A member of the group had been leaking plans to the Director for about eighteen months, all of it credible. The source claimed that the New Spartans had been working with anti-federal groups overseas to plan an attack that would take down power grids in 20 major US cities. Based on our prior dealings with the group, the Director found this consistent with their MO. He agreed to meet with the source to obtain satellite footage of the other groups’ headquarters. But it turned out to be a setup, an ambush. Four agents were killed and the Director was badly injured.”

Her husband looks ill. “My god,” he mumbles. “And you’re wading back into this? And I’m supposed to just nod and wave like it’s fine?”

“Just consulting, Henry, I promise.” She speaks softly, like she does when the twins wake up from nightmares they can’t remember. “I’m past fifty, and hardly in peak form. Intel only.”

“But why, Dana? Can’t someone else do this?” His voice is pleading.

“I owe him my life, Mulder’s life,” she says. “He risked himself to save us. And when I had no one, nothing, he was there.” She shrugs. “It’s a debt I never thought I could repay.”

Henry frowns. “No one and nothing? Dana, what happened to you?”

And now, Scully knows, now is the crossroad. She gulps air, takes her husband’s hands again in her own.

“I have a son,” she says.

***

@perplexistan asked: I need something from the Henry-verse. Something happy, though. Maybe Scully finally divorcing Henry and going back to Mulder. I know that's not the point of this AU, which I truly do love, but I just want it. Sue me.

You are asking a lot of our friendship. Can’t I just send you cookies?

***

Anonymous asked: Who is being eaten up by the repercussions of free pass more Mulder or scully?

Scully for sure. I think that, particularly post IWTB, he’s stopped taking responsibility for her decisions. I have a line in there where I say that Mulder is not her conscience, and I think he really feels that way now. She’s a grown woman capable of making her own choices. I think he knows what they did was wrong, but Scully isn’t some wide-eyed innocent anymore.

***

Anonymous asked: Does Viv know about Emily and William? Has she met/seen Mulder?

Henry doesn’t know about Emily and William. Viv has met Mulder twice. She thinks he’s a compelling, charming weirdo but, given her stepmother’s tendency to organize closets by color and make spreadsheets for every conceivable topic, she’s baffled that they were together as long as she’s heard they were.

***

For all the anons who have so sweetly asked after Henry, here’s a little intersection with Ghouli.

***

Simon and Alice run squealing from the living room, slamming into Scully when she comes around the corner from the kitchen.

She staggers back under their combined weight, bumping into the dog. “What’s wrong?” she asks, steadying herself against the counter.

Viv stalks in behind them, waving her phone. “I told them it was too scary,” she says. “But they hid behind the couch to read over my shoulder, and now they’re all freaked out.” She punches Simon in the arm. “Serves you right.”

“We’re never sleeping again,” Alice asserts, cuddling against Scully.

“Ever,” Simon adds, punching Viv back.

Scully rubs Alice’s small back, running her fingers through her thick hair. The irrational squabbles of children are still hard for her to follow, but she tries. “What was too scary?”

“Ghouli,” Viv says, crunching into an apple.

***

Scully is curled up on the chaise longue in her bedroom, lost in reading, when Henry comes in. He’s shed his suit for pajama pants and a Georgetown sweatshirt. Scully smiles at his mussed hair, an untidy silver haystack from wrestling with the twins. The nails of his left hand are painted with purple glitter polish.

“You get them settled?” she asks.

He rubs his face. “Yeah, finally. Alice is good, but Simon’s still pretty sure this Ghouli thing is coming to eat our family.” He sits at the edge of the chaise, reaching out to massage Scully’s neck. His hands cover her shoulders, thumbs meeting at the base of her cervical spine.

“Mmmmmm,” she says, rolling her head forward. “You’re going to distract me.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, trailing butterfly kisses along her jaw, then stops when he notices what’s on the screen. “What the hell is that?”

“Ghouli, apparently. Viv showed me the site. it’s pretty well done, actually. I can see why they’re freaked out.” The drawing of the monster has the clean, architectural lines of a scientific sketch.

Henry stretches out on the chaise, wrapping himself around her. Scully tucks herself into the solid warmth of his body and adjusts her laptop so that they can both see. Late night cuddling over images of cryptids brings back memories that she shakes off.

As though reading her mind, Henry says, “So whatcha thinking, Agent Scully? This is your former wheelhouse, right?”

She shrugs. “Not exactly It’s fascinating from a cultural standpoint, I suppose. I was talking to Viv about it. There’s an internet phenomenon called ‘creepypasta,’ kind of like urban legends with a paranormal bent. Some of them have taken on a sort of folk-tale quality.”

Henry tucks her head beneath his chin. “Is this that Slenderman thing? Those two girls in Wyoming?”

“Wisconsin,” Scully corrects. “Yes, like Slenderman.” She switches tabs, pulling up a new post. “Ceci n'est ce pas une pipe,” she reads, in her bad French.

“This is not a pipe,” Henry translates, musing. “What the hell does that mean?”

Scully taps her lips. “It’s a reference to a painting by Rene Magritte. He did, um, a painting of a pipe with this phrase below it, as a reminder that the symbol of the thing is not the thing itself. The map is not the territory. It’s a semiotic concept addressed by Alfred Korzybski.”

Henry kisses her temple. “You didn’t even have to Google that, did you?”

She, grins, admits that she did not.

“So hot,” Henry says. “Anyway, so what? Some emo kid who’s read too much Sartre decided to make some of this, uh, creepypasta stuff.”

Scully scrolls around some more. “Probably. It’s just impressively complex. Like, here. Look at this. It’s got a Baconian cypher, it references atomic bomb tests,it’s got sketches of RNA…which. That’s odd, actually.”

“Hmmm?”

“Well, the post with the RNA base is by a user named K/OMouse. I’m guessing it refers to knockout mice. Those are mice whose DNA has been altered, so why include RNA nucleotides instead of DNA? And an RNA nucleotide shouldn’t contain a diphosphate, but there are two phosphate groups here, plus that terminal oxygen should be double bonded to this carbon, or be a hydroxyl, or at least have a negative sign.” She doesn’t notice that her voice has grown agitated.

Henry has. “Uh, Dana? I think maybe you should avoid this site with Simon and Alice. Go play Neko Atsume for a while, hmmm?”

Scully takes a deep breath. He’s right, of course he’s right.

It’s nothing.

She closes her laptop, laughing a little. “I guess I’m Rever’s target audience.”

Henry grins. “I’ll try to distract you again.”

She ignores the little itch in her amygdala, in her entorhinal cortex, and follows him to bed.

***

It’s two AM and Henry is sleeping, bare-chested and peaceful on the other side of the room. Wicket, dense and furry, is sprawled like a wolf pelt over his feet. Their breathing is even and steady, a lulling hum in the back of her head. It steadies her like a heartbeat. Like the sea.

Her eyes flit back and forth between tabs, her face bathed in the blue glow. She looks at the post by K/OMouse again. The alien head, the RNA.

Alien head, RNA

RNA, virus.

Viral replication occurs via mRNA.

Something tickles her brain again, that little itch.

A virus.

An alien virus.

Purity control.

She grabs a notepad to organize her thoughts.

Baltimore classification?

Two phosphate groups = diphosphate nucleoside? Or non-terrestrial?

It is not the pipe - it is not the territory - what does Ghouli represent?

She looks at KO/Mouse’s post again, copies down the code he’s written. She begins working on it before seeing that user Elizabeth has helpfully done this work for her.

weseeyouwilliamvandekampweknowwhoyouare

andifweknowthentheyknowwhichyoushouldknow

crossroadswasonceanatombombandnowitisyou

WilliamWilliamWilliam pounds in her head.

Her vision is black, suddenly. And just as suddenly she sees a farm, idyllic and flat beneath an Ansel Adams sky.

Back to her room in a flash, gasping for air. Back to Henry dreaming in the safe warmth of their bed.

It’s 2:37 by her watch, but time is only a human construct. She pads out to the hall and down the stairs. She dials, and he answers on the third ring.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

[whoareurl]

birthday fic for softersteve <3

i’ve been gone for ages soz but i had to pop by and give @softersteve some birthday love because i still read their blog religiously for all the soft steve content so here’s some shrinkyclinks of my own. it’s a bit light on snez but there’s plenty of whump! and i might have an idea for a part 2 but we’ll see

-

By the time spring break rolls around, Steve is practically dead on his feet. Midterms floored him and he’d spent so much time in the art building over the past two weeks that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s developed a conditioned rage response to the hideous 80s wallpaper in his favourite workroom. So, when it comes time to pack for their week-long trip home, Bucky is the one who does most of the hard work. The lucky bastards in engineering don’t have midterms in the spring semester and the bright-eyed innocence in Bucky’s eyes kinda makes Steve want to stab him in the hand with a fork. 

“Got everything?” Bucky asks as Steve slips into the passenger seat, dosed up on Ambien and fully prepared to fall asleep as soon as they hit the interstate. It’s only a two hour drive, much shorter than what many students have to endure, but it’s still more than Steve’s stomach can handle, especially with all the stress he’s been under lately. Besides, his joints have been aching all day and the beginning of spring allergy season is making him congested so he’s happy for the option of a little time out. “All your meds?”

Steve rolls his eyes fondly, already feeling heavy-lidded. “Yes, ma.”

Bucky grins and, like the dickhead he is, plays up his role. “Are you sure you don’t need the bathroom before we leave?”

Steve slaps him and buckles himself in. “Jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky shoots back and starts the engine. “I’m putting on my country playlist so you’re just gonna have to deal until the meds knock you out.”

Steve groans but it’s a playful groan. Despite his protests, Steve doesn’t actually hate the country songs Bucky adores. Well, not all of them. And he’s gonna be out cold in about twenty minutes so he figures it’s only fair to indulge Bucky’s garbage music taste.

“You’re the boss,” he says, firing off a mocking salute before tucking his school sweatshirt up between his neck and his shoulder and settling in for the ride.

He expects to be woken by Bucky telling him they’ve arrived so it’s with some surprise and confusion that Steve finds himself awake barely an hour later with an absolute cacophony of bells ringing in his head and a thin sheen of sweat all over his skin. He lets out a little groan and makes an aborted move to get Bucky’s attention before he remembers that he’s driving. 

“B-Buck,” he croaks out without ever really deciding to speak. 

Bucky hums gently and, when he looks over at Steve, he pales quite significantly. “Stevie? What’s wrong? You gonna be sick?”

As he’s speaking, Bucky is already turning the music off and reaching blindly behind him for a plastic bag which he thrusts into Steve’s lap as a makeshift sickbag. Steve coughs and then he can’t stop coughing. And then he thinks back to the midterms and the stress and the all-nighters and he feels a weight settle heavily on his shoulders. So, it wasn’t allergies. He’s not sure if the timing is excellent or awful since now he’s not going to be enjoying his time off but at least he won’t be missing class. Either way, this is already shaping up to be one hell of a spring cold.

“You’re running a fever,” Bucky worries as he briefly touches Steve’s forehead, glancing between Steve and the road.

“I know!” Steve snaps and feels immediately guilty. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Bucky returns and he doesn’t even sound fazed. Ambien-fuelled Steve isn’t exactly known for being a barrel of laughs. And right now, he feels like garbage. “We’re about 45 minutes out. You gonna be okay?”

Steve sighs and is about to make a half-hearted quip about not having much choice when he’s suddenly overtaken by a desperate need to sneeze.

“Heh’NGXshoo!” Steve is thrown forward with the unexpected force of it and stays there when he can feel another one building. “EhYISHHew! NXGH’huh!”

“Don’t stifle,” Bucky mumbles. Steve feels Bucky’s hand land on his back and rub along the bumps of his spine. 

Without tissues, the best Steve can do is wipe his nose on the cuff of his hoodie and sniffle the rest back. It’s, fundamentally, super fucking gross. God, he’s so cold and he cannot stop shivering. The fact that his t-shirt is soaked with cold sweat certainly isn’t helping but he’s sure as hell not going to take it off. Because that would mean having to take his hoodie off and the thought makes him want to cry. Instead, he kicks off his shoes and brings his knees up to his chest, grateful, for once in his life, that he’s small enough to curl up in Bucky’s passenger seat. 

“Services coming up,” Bucky says. Without opening his eyes, Steve knows exactly the worried expression Bucky is wearing by the tone of his voice. “I can pick up some tissues?”

Steve sniffles, feeling somewhat pitiful. Tissues would certainly be good. But they’ll get there faster if they don’t stop. It’s a dilemma but, in the end, when another violent shiver wracks through him, Bucky makes the decision for him.

“Alright. Tissues and a blanket,” he says, cranking up the heat and angling the blowers so they’re all pointed at Steve. 

When they’re parked in the service station, Bucky reaches over to push Steve’s sweaty hair off his forehead. “You don’t do anything by halves, huh, Stevie?” He says gently, leaning in to kiss Steve’s forehead. “I’ll be right back. Don’t do anything stupid?”

“Can’t. You’re taking all the stupid,” Steve mumbles, forcing a weak smile. This seems so appease Bucky somewhat and he smiles back. 

“Five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone. 

Steve feels awful, there’s no denying it. The joint pain he’d been feeling earlier has progressed from a dull ache to something a bit more aggressive, particularly in his hips, and the congestion in his sinuses has spread down into his upper chest. He feels the tightness pulling just below his collarbones and resigns himself to the fact that this is going to be a nightmare of a week.

True to his word, Bucky returns quickly and throws a fleece blanket over Steve’s shivering body. “Sorry, pal, all they had were Yankees blankets.”

Steve makes a face. “I better not have Gerrit Cole’s face on me right now,” he grumbles, cracking one eye open to look at Bucky.

Bucky laughs, ripping open a fresh box of tissues and settling it near the gear shift. “You gonna take it off if he’s on there?”

“Fuck off,” Steve grumbles, opting not to look and live in warm, comfortable denial. 

His next breath catches deep in his chest and he curls in on himself with another rattling cough. Thankfully, he gets it under control before Bucky starts rummaging through the glove box for his inhaler. He’s actually gone one in his pocket thank you very much. Not that anybody ever bothers checking anymore. No, his reputation for leaving it at home - either out of forgetfulness or, for one memorable year in middle school, sheer stubbornness - has pretty much put an end to anybody bothering to check if he’s carrying one before they hand him another. He supposes he should be touched and, on a good day, he is. But today is not a good day. Today is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and Steve just wants to be asleep.

“Not long now, Stevie,” Bucky says soothingly. Steve wants to be annoyed because he’s not a child but he can’t find it in himself because, damnit, Bucky’s voice is actually soothing when he talks like that. 

Fuck, he’s so in love.

~ 

By the time they’re pulling up outside Sarah Rogers’s house, Steve feels truly miserable. He’d started feeling nauseous about ten minutes ago and had opened the window for some air which only brought back his earlier shivers with a vengeance. And, to top it all off, he saw the Yankees logo on the damn blanket. Today sucked. 

“Come on, babydoll,” Bucky says as he helps Steve out of the car. 

Somewhat reluctantly, Steve abandons the traitorous blanket in the car but snags the box of tissues and lets Bucky sling his arm around his shoulders as they head up to the door. As usual, Bucky rings the doorbell to let Sarah know they’re there and then heads inside. Steve shivers involuntarily at the warmth of the house and catches a few, itchy sneezes into a fresh handful of tissues. 

His nose hasn’t stopped running since it started nearly an hour ago and all he wants is a change of clothes and a nap.

“My boys!” Sarah exclaims as she comes out of the living room to greet them, expression softening when she sees the state of her son. 

That expression is just too much for Steve who detaches himself from Bucky and wraps his mother up in a hug. He can’t smell anything through his stuffy nose but he can imagine the homely way she always smells and has to blink back tears. God, he’s a mess. He blames the Ambien more than anything. Everybody knows they fuck with you if you don’t sleep long enough.

“Aw, honey,” Sarah mutters into Steve’s hair, running a hand up and down his back. “You shouldn’t have come all this way if you weren’t feeling well. I’ll still be here in the summer.”

“Didn’t feel bad until we left,” Steve admits, somehow completely forgetting how much worse that makes his cold sound. 

Sarah frowns and holds him at arms length, looking him up and down. “That came on fast. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, Ma,” Steve starts but Bucky interrupts before he can offer any platitudes. 

“Like hell you are,” Bucky grumbles, slipping his arm around Steve’s waist. “Bed. Let’s go.”

Steve huffs, his indignation giving him the strength to stand his ground. “I’m fine.”

Bucky yawns. “Who said it was for you? I drove all the way here. I need a nap.”

“Well, you can go without me,” Steve says, unsure why exactly he’s continuing this argument. He wants to go to bed. But he’s not going because he’s told to, even if it is Bucky and Ma.

Bucky pouts. “But I sleep better with you there.”

That bastard. Steve knows what he’s doing. He’s used this tactic time and again and the worst part is that it always works. It’s working now. Steve knows he’s going to agree even before his Ma presses a kiss to his cheek and says, “Take the guest bed, boys. You’ll have more space.”

So Steve lets Bucky drag him upstairs, lets Bucky dig out a sleep shirt for him while he gets undressed, lets Bucky pull him tight against his side and tuck a hot water bottle against his back. He gives in. He cuddles up close and drifts off tracing the curve of Bucky’s hip bone with his fingers. 

Bucky’s so beautiful. Steve doesn’t know how he got so lucky. 

“Marry me,” he whispers as he finally drops off the edge of the cliff into sleep.

part two

[three-self-shippers]

𝒜𝓈𝓈𝑜𝒸𝒾𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 // 𝒜𝒾𝓏𝒶𝒩𝑜𝓍

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰: Aizawa x Nox / Daqat

Trigger Warnings: Mention of religion, self deprecation, mention of depression, anxiety, bad irrational habits, process of burnout, mention of sleeping disorders, symptoms of borderline personality disorder, slow-burn, angst, and confrontation. (?)

**I’m invested in making this as realistic as I can, but uh, it’s not healthy, well, yeah--

⇐ ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs - ɴᴇxᴛ  ⇒

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

A shiver went through me with how cold he was, he hates me now, doesn’t he? It weirded me out to the heart as I fixed up work that piled up on my desk to do later before fleeting out to the roof to catch up with him. As I skipped over each building to maintain my stealth, I thanked my ballet classes when I was a kid for teaching me how to maintain my balance and sort my weight as well as being flexible. 

It was dangerous indeed, hopping off tall buildings and hanging from pipelines, but Aizawa wanted me two blocks away and that’s what I was going to do: go there.

As I reached the less luminated part of the area I saw his bending figure, crouched atop a pole as his hair lifted due to his usage of Erasure. I felt my breathing get heavy as my legs began to give out, a replay of what happened earlier today and the musky yet fresh wooden scent somehow being reincarnated in my nostrils except it was as thick as honey. 

“Daqat..? Chaiai!” Aizawa’s distant yelling of my hero and last name was the last thing I noticed before giving out and falling off my footing. My body weight shifted to the left where the edge of the building was as I almost fell to my doom, if it weren’t for EraserHead saving me again. 

As I woke up meeting with a much more beaming white light blinding my eyes, I cried out in pain that I forgot to even use my eye gel for three days and cried for hours atop it all. 

A fork was being stabbed into my eye, it felt like it. I knew that the dehydration of my eyes would open that damn wound and I’d always refer the pain to being stabbed in the eye. I whimpered as I tried muffling my cries not knowing who’s talking to me or trying to soothe me out. 

“Chaiai-San, what’s wrong?!” A figure jolted yet I was too busy to even think who it was, knowing too well it’s none other than Eraserhead.

The feeling of not knowing whether I should blink or not was unbearable as my eyes kept tearing up, trying to wash out the pain without success. When I open my eyes it hurts, when I close them it hurts more, the pain was intolerable though I had a high pain tolerance. 

“Something’s in your eye I’m assuming? Don’t move, stay still. Shhhh..” His deep vibrations somehow overpowered the pain which was only growing more as the tears continued falling out especially from my left eye. I took my hand out of my eyes to show him how red they are, this isn’t the first time it happened to me.

“That’s it, stay still for me, alright? I’m going to put in them some hydrating droplets.” His tone was reassuring as I held onto the sheet of the bed I was laid on, my eyes hurting more than ever as I lowered down my painful whines. His flakey dry hands soon came into contact with the area under my left  eye as he softly tugged my lower lid down to drop in the solution. My eyes absorbed it as if it was nothing while he applied to the other eye before going back to the first one again. 

At this point I signed him to stop, the pain has reduced but is still there and I was not going to let him use all the solution in the bottle for me-- He needs it too. “E-EraserHead, why are you here?” I sniffled out while trying to sit up just to be laid down again by his hands on my shoulders to which I flinched out of his touch. 

“You passed out and were going to die from falling off the building, I caught you with the binding cloth. And of course I have to accompany you to your full recovery, you’re under me, after all. And I wouldn’t be a good hero or boss if I just went by as if nothing happened.” He furrowed his brows at me. 

“I don’t know--” “Of course you don’t, you don’t have a medical history of that, has it ever happened before?” He interrogated, cutting my sentence in half. 

“This is the first time I’d passed out. But the air becoming thick and my muscles feeling as if they were about to give out weren’t.” 

“Why do you have health insurance when you never use it?” “I do use it! Sometimes.” I tried countering him although he immediately followed up: “For your mental health, Chaiai. It’s clear what you just had was an anxiety attack--” “G-Get out.” I felt bad, very bad of that sort of confrontation. 

“I’m not going to go--” “There’s nothing wrong with my mental health! I don’t have any sort of illness that associates with the way I think or my ability to take responsibility!” I yelled at him as my brows twitched when they knitted towards each other. A sense of betrayal and disappointment in myself filled in. 

“Chaiai--” “Not another word, EraserHead, don’t say anything. I apologize that I’m being disrespectful right now but it’s for both your own and my good. You’re slurring a lot of words when you know nothing about me so please.. Get out of here. Because if you say another word I might just lose my admiration and respect for you.” I gritted at him, tears filling my irritated red eyes as I saw the curtain of guilt that fell upon him before he left me in the room. 

The doctors came in asking me all sorts of questions to fill up my medical history, I asked them for the lubricator eye gel I use for my eyes and they gave me a little forum to answer. It consisted of questions that determined my mental state and I took these kinds of fill-ins to know how they look like. I answered all the questions as If I was living an average life. 

Sleeping consistently, doing sports and hobbies, socializing, everything that I barely ever do if ever. I never sleep unless my body betrays me, I am a lazy sluggish person who only ever trains the necessary combat fighting and flexibility workouts and literally does nothing else, hobbies only as in the ones that seem to cheer me up for a brief minute before I remind myself how they’re the reason of disappointment that my parents felt towards me, and socializing which is something I’m awkward at except my very close friends if they reach out, though I do try to balance out my negative thoughts and my life out, it fails miserably every time. 

The doctor took a swift look at my answers then at me before she brought the same forum again. And laid it in front of me. “Answer honestly, Chaiai-San.” The stern tone made me gulp in place, hesitant to tell the truth. “W-What do you mean? I answered it--” I couldn’t finish before I got cut off by her again. “We can’t help unless you answer honest--” 

“I don’t need help!” I stood up to prove my point, not noticing I had a dripper attached into my veins which almost ripped off my bloodstream if it weren’t for the doctor lending a hand in and sat me on the bed again. 

“I don’t know what kind of environment you came from, but bottling things up won’t do any good. Let’s just talk it out, yes?” The woman wearing a lab-coat asked with concern and empathy. 

“Fine.” 

.

.

.

While I got discharged, I looked at the little plastic bag in my hands. It contained various meds for depression, insomnia, anxiety and vitamins. Walking towards the hospital door, I felt nauseous as I didn’t like all the talking that happened, all the explaining. It’s been hours of just talking.

“Daqat, wait!” Aizawa’s voice called out as I turned around, he’s been waiting for me? I can’t do that with him. The fluorescent just made his face look more tired. My eyes looked at the shoes I wore, black, as most of my clothes were colorful I always ended up only wearing monotones. 

“I apologize, I came off rude and ignorant to you.” My eyes refused to look up at him and I could feel my chapped lips press into a line. “It’s fine.” 

“It’s not. As much as I’d like to give you time off the job, I suppose you wouldn’t take it.” 

“This sort of thing shouldn’t affect my productivity. I apologize for being disrespectful earlier, too. And I’ll be going to the agency now, since you have class in an hour.” I checked my support item-based watch, it’s heavy but it’s part of my costume and I got used to it. 

“Don’t overwork yourself. But at the same time do your best, plus ultra.” His sad-filled voice didn’t fit the motto of the school. He handed me the keys to the agency, as it dangled from his delicately long finger before I carefully took it. Though my efforts to not come to physical contact with him, our skin briefly brushed as the metal rings were held firmly in my hand. 

The simple electric zap lingered on my fingertips, he felt it too, I can tell by the way he was startled. It mayhaps also be just concerned with my unexplained wariness, either ways. 

“I’ll come by later with my intern, but just in case here’s the keys.” He spoke. 

With that being said, I waved him off with a bow and a tired smile before going to the agency. The sun was on it’s way up, it’s golden rays showed how much time I spent in the hospital. Moreover how much time I wasted when we could’ve made the streets safer. I blamed myself for it, but apparently I was questioned by a therapist and was told to take these pills. I didn’t though, they might affect my usual work times. 

I shoved the plastic bag into my over-sized purse before giving my face a quick wash and went out of the agency to fight villains. It felt good to let out my self-loathing at those lowly villains. To just blank out and focus on my next move. It was good that it was daytime, too, the warmth of the sun making my musk charm work better as I sweat more during arrests and combat. 

Contrary to EraserHead’s request, I did end up doing an unholy amount of work by myself while his other sidekicks did their normal amount too. After buying some packed sushi from a nearby store, going back to the agency to shower, I sat by and played some cheesy One Direction music in my earphones as I started on the reports. 

“Either ways, now that you’re in the hero course, it shouldn’t be something hard to grasp. You’re a fast learner and during this internship you will be finding ways to better the use of your quirk in battle.” 

Aizawa’s voice overlapped with my music as I took off my earphones. Lifting my head up as they knocked on my door and came in. He had his intern whom I met a couple times already. “Shinsou! Nice to have you around.” I beamed at the lavender-headed teenager in UA’s uniform before I drew my eyes to look at the man beside him. 

“Thanks, I’m blessed to be able to be here.” He replied. “You already met Daqat or Chaiai-San, my new sidekick. Either ways, are you free right now? I was thinking you sparring with Shinsou could make him more tolerable to your quirk and other quirks that are similar to yours.” Eraserhead chimed in as I stood up with the pile of papers that I finished. 

“Yes, just let me submit these reports--” “How many villains did you arrest?” The noirette was annoyed at my obvious overworking and sudden productivity. “Don’t worry, they were all thugs. Around thirty four?” I assumed as I carried the papers away. 

Aizawa looked at me while I hurried away with the pile, shaking his head. “That woman.. Let me show you where the changing room is so you can get into your costume.” Aizawa went to guide his intern. 

.

.

.

Round after round of sparring with Hitoshi, not replying to his quirk, constantly dodging the binding cloth and pinning him down without failure due to the difference in experience. I can see Aizawa signing me to stop as he woke up from sleeping, zipping down the sleeping bag, the same one he covered me in a day ago..

I stood up, lent a hand to help the younger hero-in-training up which he took. An evident redness laid across my own cheek of the workout but also because of how EraserHead was snuggled two minutes ago in his sleeping bag. 

“Of course, you’re going to get better with time, evaluate your performance with Daqat to fix your mistakes.” Aizawa’s voice was heavy with sleep. “Y-Yeah, there were quite a lot of loopholes you can cover up in your fighting.” I tried being helpful by pointing it out, explaining how he could not give out chances when close-combat fighting. 

“But don’t you think it’s a bit unfair?” Hitoshi asked, to which we both looked at him weirdly. “You can avoid my quirk. I can’t just-- Stop breathing or not try reading into your next move.” He explained. 

“It’s not true.” I objected to him, he looked at me questionably. “Your quirk is powerful, Shinsou. You just need a little training, but you’ve got the quirk to be independent. Haven’t you asked why some twenty-four year old is still a sidekick?” 

“Because my quirk aids other people, something that drains energy and boosts, it needs someone else to make use of it most of the time. Back in my place, I constantly trained my sparring since I couldn’t depend on my quirk alone like most people. Quirks often are an add up to daily life routines but in my cause I had to do extra hard to level things. Though I’ve already accepted that I probably won’t ever get enough votes to open my own agency so working for EraserHead is the best offer I’ve got.” I lectured in a rather depressed voice. 

“I’ll assign you to spar with someone else or go on a patrol, whatever’s on the schedule. Daqat, I need to talk to you.” Aizawa chimed in, changing the subject.

My whole body shivered at that last part. “I-- O-Okay--” I coughed, clearing my throat, nodding as I followed him to the office after he left Shinsou with another sidekick. The ground suddenly became the place where my eyes were stuck on as I occasionally glanced either at the back of his shoes or his back profile.

Once we were in his main office, he asked me to close the door and cornered me immediately, in his verbal sense: “Your culture doesn’t allow you to date, right?” 

My face became all shades of every color as I felt my stomach do flips, my throat felt as if someone made me drink a cup of sand. “It’s not something you should be ashamed of, your possible religion that is, I’m assuming.” 

“Y-Y-Yes,” I stuttered, almost as a whisper as I fidgeted with my hand. “I’m muslim so it’s… Taboo.” I breathed out, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole, this wasn’t the type of situation that I’d be put in. 

“I figured. So, are you going to tell me how it works?” He deadpanned at me, to which I tilted my dead, being the dumb person I am. How did I deem so smart yet so stupid at the same time?

“How does it work if I-- Wanted to associate with you.” He explained questionably. My heart skipped a beat. “W-Well, y-you’d have to talk to my p-parents and it-- Uh, usually involves a deal of money of sorts? I’m s-sorry but--  Why?” 

“Why what?”

“Why would you want to… Associate with me?” I looked down to my fingers which were scratching themselves. My left thumb digging at my pinkie almost drawing blood. He deserves better, he’s so good and a hero atop it all. He can’t associate with such a fuck-up like me.

“Well, it’s my choice isn’t it? And I find you quite… Amusing.” 

“But we just met and you’re my bo--” 

“It’s fine. Not as if it was a scandal, you’re my sidekick and it shouldn’t be a problem. More importantly, is that a yes?” 

“No. You don’t-- You can’t mar-- Associate with me.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’m a mess, I’m weak, imperfect. You don’t want to commit to something like that it’s-- You deserve better.” I exclaimed, denying the built up feelings and the fact I write vanilla romance fan-fictions of him when I’m alone. 

“Chaiai-San, I don’t necessarily think those define you. More importantly, I never believed in love from first sight, but you’re quite something else--” “Don’t say that.” I cut him off. 

“Sorry, just.. I’m not sure about anything. It’s true, I’d love to have a life partner but still,” I inhaled before exhaling with my next line: “uncertainty of my parents’ reactions is scaring me.” I had goosebumps of the mere thought of it, all the worst-case scenarios that could happen. 

“Chaiai-San, Daqat, look at me.” He spoke in a softer tone as I lifted my gaze to him reluctantly. “Do you trust me in my choices?” I gulped as my breathing became heavier. “Calm down, breathe.” His soothing voice prevented me from guiding myself into a panic attack. 

“I-I-I t-trust you.” I managed to say. “You aren’t forced to associate with me, are you hesitant to be involved in a relationship with me?” He asked. 

“N-No! I’d actually-- Love to! You’re my idol-- It’s not-- It’s not like I don’t uh-- Feel the same…” I slurred up incoherent words. My gaze wouldn’t dare to look up to see his expression but I knew too well; it’d be one between a flustered smirk and a concerned thinking knitted brows. 

“It’s settled then. If you need anything, talk to me. Keep in mind I’d want to talk to your parents. You’re dismissed for the day. Get some rest, for me.” 

The last part made my head overload. I didn’t know what to say to it. “Th-Thanks, S-Sir. You too-- Uh, do your best-- I-- Sorry--” I excused myself with yet another trail of mushed-up words. 

When I reached my office to grab my things, I found out my phone was ringing. 

“Mom…”

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@simpgameplays @stephiecarie @silentxraiin @thatfanfictionwriter 

[anotherspnfanfic]

Someone Just Had To Say They Were Bored

A/N: This took me forever to write... but I love how it turned out!

Word count: 2145

[[MORE]]

The morning was dragging. She was staring blankly at her computer, hoping the work would do itself. It was a welcomed interruption when Charlie and Kevin stopped at her desk on the way back from the break room.

“Did Charlie tell you about last night?” Kevin inquired.

“About how she hooked up at a charity event? Yeah, she told me last night.”

“If you can't score at a reproductive rights function, then you simply cannot score,” said Charlie. “So, we just heard some people from accounting out in the hall talking about a fire drill today. Did we get any kind of notice about that?”

“I haven’t seen emails and no one said anything to me, but that’s not really a surprise. Guess we’ll find out if the alarms go off.”

They both disappeared towards their desks. Roughly three minutes later, the fire alarms sounded.

“Damn, even the rumor mill wasn’t much heads-up this time,” she grumbled. She grabbed her phone and jacket and followed Charlie towards the stairs. “Days like these, I really hate working on the tenth floor.”

They followed the slow-moving herd into the staircase and began their descent. About halfway down, Charlie commented, “Hey, just be glad neither of us chose to wear heels today.”

“I’m always glad I chose not to wear heels,” Kevin chimed in from a handful of people behind them.

She rounded the landing and looked up the stairs. She was trying not to laugh, “But you’d look so hot in some red stilettos!”

She reached the next landing and as she turned to see Kevin’s reaction, she lost her footing and started to fall.

Outside, four firemen were leaning against their truck, watching as people filed slowly out of the building and towards their designated areas.

“This never gets less boring,” Benny complained.

“It’s a half hour, tops. Quit whining.” Sam rolled his eyes.

Dean smirked at Benny. He’d never pass up a good opportunity to annoy his little brother. He added, “Benny is right. Why do we need a whole crew here for this?”

Sam was about to scold his brother when he saw someone barrel out of an exit at a run. The man nearly knocked over three people as he made his way to the truck.

“Whoa, easy. You alright?” Cas asked as Kevin stopped in front of them.

“M-my friend, fell, stairs,” he stuttered out as he tried to catch his breath.

“Okay, take a breath and try that again,” said Cas.

He took a moment to catch his breath. “My friend— we were coming down the stairs and she tripped. She tumbled down them. We can’t wake her up.”

Sam immediately radioed dispatch to have them send an ambulance.

“Someone just had to say they were bored,” Dean whispered as he glared at Benny.

“Okay, show us where she is.” Cas grabbed the med kit from the truck as they all turned to go inside.

They quickly made their way to the third floor landing where a woman was lying on the ground with another crouched over her.

“Oh, thank god. Please, help her,” said Charlie.

“Benny, go up and redirect people to a different staircase,” Sam directed. “Cas, can you go outside and meet the squad?”

Both followed Sam’s instruction without another word. Dean knelt down beside Charlie. Sam moved to stabilize her head and neck. As Dean checked her pulse and breathing, he asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I don’t know. She was behind me, joking with Kevin, and the next thing I knew, she was on the ground. She won’t wake up. Is she gonna be okay?” Charlie asked, hurriedly.

“I don’t know, but we’re going to get her to the hospital,” Dean started to explain. She groaned pulling his full attention back as she blinked open her eyes slowly. “Hey, are you with us, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I-I’m fine,” she muttered as she moved to attempt to sit up.

“You scared the crap out of us. We’re heading outside before you-know-who assumes we skipped the drill and writes us up. Call if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll come see you after work,” Charlie said as she stood. She and Kevin both headed outside.

Dean stopped her from moving, carefully placing his hands on her shoulders. “Whoa, relax. I’m Dean and this is Sammy. You took quite a fall. Let us get you checked out. Can you tell me your name?”

She hesitated before answering. Then continued, “Fall? I don’t— What happened?” She started to panic.

“You’re okay. I need you to take a couple deep breaths,” said Sam.

She took one big breath and slowly exhaled. She closed her eyes against the headache she was now, suddenly, aware of.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart. Can you tell me if anything hurts?” Dean requested.

She opened her eyes and squinted away from the light. “My head. And the light is kinda making it worse.”

“Can you tell me the date?” Sam asked.

“No.” Sam and Dean exchanged concerned glances. “I mean, I never know. It’s November, maybe sixth or seventh?”

Sam smiled. “Guess that’s close enough.”

Cas came up the stairs carrying a backboard, Jo and Alex following close behind.

“Hey, guys! What do we got?” Jo asked.

“She took a tumble down the stairs. Lost consciousness for maybe five minutes. Said her head hurts, and she’s got some light sensitivity,” Dean relayed.

Sam carefully moved as Alex placed a c-collar around her neck.

“Hey, I’m Jo. This is Alex. You said your head hurts. Scale of 1-10—how bad?”

She considered her answer. “Uh, maybe a four.”

“Alright.” Jo quickly flashed a light in her eyes, and she groaned. “I know, I’m sorry. Pupils are equal. Do you have any other pain?”

She opened her eyes and locked on to Dean’s bright green ones. “Uh, I don’t think so,” she said, nearly as a question.

“BP is 112/75 heart rate is 80,” Alex announced.

“Can you squeeze my fingers?” Jo asked, placing two fingers in each of her hands. She squeezed both. “Perfect, that’s really good.”

“You’re going to feel a little pinch,” Alex explained as she placed an IV. She handed the bag of fluids to Sam when she finished.

She was still focused on Dean. She was distracted by the number of freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks. His eyes crinkled with his smile as he caught her staring. She couldn’t help her lips from curling up too before her eyelids started to feel heavy, “I’m really tired.”

“You gotta stay awake, though. Talk to me; it’ll help,” Dean said.

“About what?”

“Let’s get her on the board and get out of here.” Jo interrupted. Cas set the backboard down and Sam helped them carefully roll her.

She cried out in pain as she was rolled. Her hand shot up in search of something to grip and landed on Dean’s wrist.

They quickly slid over the board and rolled her onto her back.

“Okay, we’re done. Just breathe. Where did that hurt?” Alex asked.

She gasped, trying to catch her breath. A tear rolled toward her ear. “Uh, m-my side. My ribs, maybe?”

“Okay, we will check that in the rig. Let’s move,” said Jo.

Sam called up the stairs for Benny. He and Cas crouched down to help lift. Dean carefully pulled her hand from his wrist so he could also help.

They quickly made their way to the bottom of the stairs. They set her on the stretcher. Sam, Cas, and Benny headed back to the truck.

Dean gently squeezed her hand. He took a step back to head back to the truck, but she squeezed his hand harder before he could pull away. “No, you told me to talk to you. You can’t go; I’ll fall asleep.”

“Okay, alright. I’m not going anywhere,” he soothed.

She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself. “Owww. Fuck. Why didn’t that hurt before?”

“Adrenaline, probably. Which has worn off,” Dean explained.

They got her loaded into the ambulance and Alex headed to the driver's seat.

“But we can help with that,” said Jo. “Pushing 50 mcg of Fentanyl.”

Dean nodded. “How’s the pain now?”

She took a moment to reassess her various pains, “A little better. Doesn’t hurt as much to breathe.”

“Good. How’s the head?” Jo asked.

“Hurts a bit less too. I’m a little dizzy, though.” She closed her eyes tightly for a moment, hoping the dizziness would subside.

“Hey, deal was no sleeping. Tell me a story,” Dean requested.

She blinked open her eyes again. “Like what? I can't think of any good ones.”

“Hmm, fine, how about I tell you one?” Jo moved around him to check her ribs and another set of vitals. “Let me know if I’m in your way.”

“Nope, you’re good there, Winchester. We’re almost there; better make it a quick story,” Jo said as she sat down beside him.

“Hmm, how about the time I put Nair in Sammy’s shampoo, or when I put itching powder in his underwear?” Dean chuckled at the memory.

She cocked an eyebrow. “How is that not some kind of coworker harassment?”

“Oh, well, that’s because he is my little brother. Of course, he retaliated by super-gluing my hand to a beer bottle. That sucked.”

She laughed and then winced. “Nope, no more making me laugh. Sounds like you deserved it.”

He mocked offense. “It is my brotherly duty. Besides, that was years ago.”

“You put soy sauce in his coffee last week,” Jo chimed in.

His lips pulled into a slight frown as he shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about.” He turned and winked at her when Jo wasn’t looking.

She smiled as she tried, somewhat successfully, not to laugh. “I said no more making me laugh!”

“Sorry, I can’t help it,” he said. The ambulance came to a stop and the doors were quickly pulled open. She closed her eyes against the changing scenery as they made their way into the hospital. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. You gotta stay awake ‘til the doc says otherwise.”

She squinted as she opened her eyes and locked onto his concerned green ones. “I’m awake. The lights and stuff are making me dizzier and kinda nauseous.”

They stopped in a room. “Alright, well, this is Dr. Shurley,” Dean introduced the doctor entering the room. “He can help with that. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah, sounds good. You’re leaving now, aren’t you?”

Dean glanced toward the ground and then back to her. “Yeah, I have to get back to work. You’re in good hands though, I promise.”

“Thank you. For everything.” She squeezed his hand once more before letting him go.

“No problem, sweetheart. Just doing my job.” He waved as he turned to follow Jo and Alex out of the room.

About three weeks later:

She was wandering aimlessly through the grocery store, trying to decide what to have for dinner that week. She was reading a package as she rounded the end of an aisle and ran into a solid wall of muscle. She would have fallen backwards from the impact if he had not grabbed her shoulders to keep her upright. She winced and inhaled sharply at the pain that radiated through her still-healing ribs.

She finally looked up as she began to apologize. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t look— Dean.” She stopped as she met those unforgettable green eyes. He was wearing a dark grey Henley with the sleeves pushed up to just below his elbows and perfectly fit, slightly-worn blue jeans.

“Hey! How’re you doing?” he asked. His eyes scanning over her and stopping momentarily where he knew she’d had injured ribs.

“I’m okay. Apparently I was lucky. Just a mild concussion, which is all healed, and a couple hairline-fractured ribs. Which only really hurt, apparently, when I run into someone.”

He winced sympathetically. “I’m sorry, I should have been watching where I was going.”

“No, I wasn’t paying attention either. It’s not your fault.” She smiled, quickly forgetting about the pain.

“Still, I feel bad. Could I make it up to you somehow?”

”I like bribery.” She laughed. “What’d you have in mind?”

He paused a moment to think. She watched as his tongue peeked out to wet his perfect, pink lips. He checked his watch quickly, then pursed his lips momentarily causing his dimples to appear, “You could let me take you out to lunch.”

“Hmm, lucky for you, I am pretty hungry. I need to grab a few more things and run this stuff home. Pick me up in an hour?” She pulled out a pen and scribbled her address on his hand.

“I could have given you my phone.” He was trying not to smile and failing miserably.

“That’s not as fun. See you in an hour, Dean.”

“It’s a date, sweetheart.”

@muchamusedaboutnothing @deanwasscaredbyacat @babypieandwhiskey

[peace-favor-your-sword]

I would love a Kix and Jesse brotherly love and fluff. All the death is getting to Kix one day, and he's stressed. Another clone lets Jesse know that something’s wrong and then when Jesse gets there Kix is sitting at his desk. he has a migraine and feels really dizzy. Jesse helps him by trying to find some medicine but Kix ends up feeling nauseous, and Jesse moves him to the bathroom where he promptly throws up.

———

Hello!! In honor of the new episode that came out this Friday, I’m going to have Jesse rocking his new ARC trooper outfit. We are so proud of you Jesse!!! Also, sorry ahead of time for the bit of Fives and Hardcase angst. I still haven’t gotten over it if you couldn’t tell. 

-----

Jesse made his way down the hall, his kama swinging solidly against his hips. He was proud that he was able to fill that place and role among his fellow troopers and be of help to them when it came time for missions, and it made him think of another ARC trooper he had become fast friends with. 

Even after all this time, it was hard for Fives to be gone. He had been such a large part of the 501st, that it felt like there was part of them missing. But you did what you had to in war, with your brothers. You honored them the best you could and moved on to fight another day.

He continued to the med bay, to see one of his closest friends. It seemed since Five’s death, Jesse could rely more and more on Kix, and they had become closer and closer which he believed, gave them both a deep sense of relief. At least they had each other. As he approached the door, another brother exited. It was hard to miss this one, with the bright red stripe in his hair. His name was Codes, and he was one of the best when it came to tech issues on a mission. 

“Hey vod, what’s going on?” He asked, and Codes sent him his signature bright smile. 

“Oh, not much Jesse. Captain just wanted us to go in and get a check-up before this next mission. Last one left us all a little shaken I think.” 

His company had suffered severe losses, and the rest had been wounded, so it was good to see him back up on his feet. 

“You might want to check on Kix though while you’re in there. I think something’s wrong, but I’m not sure. He wont really tell me anything.” Codes’ eyebrows were drawn down in concern and Jesse put a hand on his shoulder with a smile.

“Hey, don’t worry about him. I’ll go make sure he’s ok. He’s a tough one. I think we both know that.” 

Codes lifted a shoulder and snorted. “Yeah, I guess you’re right on that one. I hear they still use stories about him back on Kamino to make sure that our brothers listen to their medics.” 

Kix was notorious for ignoring command in favor of protecting or saving his men. He would throw himself into a firefight just to drag out that one, because they were that important to him. It was their lives before his. He was their medic, and that was his job. And if anyone tried to fight him, they learned very quickly what it was like to argue with a medic. Without fail, the clone who had argued would completely back down and accept what Kix deemed necessity. 

Jesse shoved his shoulder a little before the both of them got too far into thought. “You look hungry. Head to the mess and maybe I’ll see you at the training room tonight. I could use a few rounds on the weights myself. See you there?” He asked, and Codes nodded, while halfheartedly trying, to no avail to get back at Jesse. 

“Alright. I’ll see you then.” He said agreeably and headed back down the hall with a lighter spring in his step. Jesse shook his head in a mix of amusement and awe. Some brothers were just like that. They maintained that excitement they had all felt as boys, as cadets, which many brothers lost as the war progressed. A particular brother came to mind, with a trigger happy attitude and a wicked sense of humor. He shoved that memory out of his mind for the time being. It was still too painful to spend too long dwelling on. 

His boots made a solid click against the floor as he looked into the med bay, which was nearly empty from what he could see.  

“Hey, Kix. You in here brother? I could use a fresh cup of caf. Want to come with?” He called, and when there was no answer he started looking into rooms. After looking in over a dozen curtained areas, and finding most of them empty, he wound up in one of the back rooms, and that’s when he found him. 

Kix laid with both arms on the desk and his head laying on top. His shoulders were hunched in what Jesse could immediately recognize as pain. After spending your entire fighting career together, it was hard not to pick up on your brother’s tells. 

“Hey, Kix. What’s up? You don’t look too good.” Jesse said quietly and Kix groaned and mumbled something. 

Jesse came and crouched right next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, vod. Didn’t catch that. You ok?” 

Kix had his eyes shut tight and he made a noise Jesse could only describe as a non verbal “no”. 

“My head.” He whispered, and Jesse’s eyebrows lowered slightly as he realized his brother was suffering from a migraine again. 

The first time it had happened was after Umbara, after Kix had verified too many brother’s deaths and it had taken a steep toll on him. That migraine had kept him down for two entire days, but due to all the intense action and losing battles on Anaxes, it wasn’t a surprise that another had popped up. 

“You have some medicine for that right?” Jesse asked, being sure to keep his voice level. “Tell me where it is and I’ll grab it. We’ll get you fixed up and you’ll be feeling better in no time.” He said, remembering to keep his voice slightly quieter than normal. 

“Across the room, third cabinet in. Middle shelf. Purple hypo.” Kix said and Jesse walked over trying to keep his steps quiet as well. It was amazing when you were required to be silent how much of your actions made noise. He found the correct cabinet and looked through the middle shelf and he finally saw the hypo, when he heard the sound of Kix dry heaving, the breaths stuttering and shallow. Jesse grabbed the hypo in one hand and quickly crossed the room, grabbing Kix’s arms and throwing it over his shoulder with a practiced ease.

“Hey, let’s go.” He said quickly and started them towards a bathroom. “You aren’t throwing up all over your stuff, you’d never forgive yourself.” He joked, and they made it to the bathroom just in time for Kix to stumble to the toilet and empty what seemed to be his entire stomach into the bowl. 

It was hardly the first time Jesse had seen a brother throw up so it didn’t even cross his mind to be bothered. He knelt by him and soothingly rubbed his neck and back of his head, the new hair growth greeting his fingers. “Hey, it’s ok. Deep breaths Kix. Deep breaths. You got it. Get a breath in.” 

Kix sucked in a breath, and coughed, and seemed to shudder before breaking down into tears. He hiccuped a few times before leaning over the bowl again, and again a third time, yet this time next to nothing came out, so Jesse figured he was done. He, as gently as he could, injected the hypo into Kix’s neck and threw it in the trash. He got up and got a wet towel before coming over and wiping the back of Kix’s neck and his mouth, before throwing that away as well. He went to the lights and turned them down halfway before siting with his back against the toilet bowl. 

“Kix. What’s going on?” He asked, and Kix hung his head, and tears flowed in a steady stream. 

“I…I dont know if I can do this for much longer, Jesse. I keep losing them. I keep losing brothers, and I want to save them, but I can’t.” He said, his voice small. 

It was common for medics, Jesse knew, to share that same feeling. They did their best but there was never a way to save all the troopers that went down in a fight, but the squads never blamed them. How could they when your medic rushed into the heat of battle ahead of you to pull unarmed, injured brothers out? 

“I know brother. I know. But you do the best you can.” He said quietly and Kix lifted his head, his cheeks flushed as he cried, and his eyes filled with tears. 

“We’re losing almost every battle we have, Jesse. I mean, look at the captain. That man’s sleeping on his feet, he’s exhausted. Every time we fight, I feel like we lose more men that we come back with and..” He shuddered and pushed back from the toilet a little. “I just don’t know what to do anymore.” 

Jesse scooted forward so he could look Kix directly in the eye, and he stared him down. 

“Kix. You do your best. You know you do. You always told me, save who you can, and be there for the living. None of us every blame you, or any medic for the brothers we lose. I know you’re doing your best. And I know it’s going to turn around soon. It always does. Always. So let’s get you up, get you to your bunk and you can tackle tomorrow when you feel better. Deal?” He asked, and Kix stared back at him, two pairs of identical eyes searching each other, one for any hint of hope and the other steely determination.

Kix knew his brother would never lie to him. He knew he could count on Jesse, and that he could trust him with his life, which he did every day. He nodded slowly, feeling the sharp sting of the headache recede to a dull tightness. 

“Yeah. Ok. I guess I can do that.” He said quietly and Jesse hauled him up again with a smile. As they took him to his bunk, he gave a small smile of relief. 

That was the nice thing about brothers. Every time you fell down, you knew without a shadow of a doubt there was going to be someone to pick you back up again. 

[builder051]

On the road again

Sorry this took so long to post.  I’m having immense difficulty with screen time right now, so writing and editing are both very slow (especially with this 6k-word fic).  It pretty much mirrors my recent time in hospital, so if you’re interested in what’s been going on with me lately, well, there you go.

Thank you to the amazing DD (@mohini-musing) for all the editing help.

Set in the Whoa Bessie ‘verse.  TWs for needles and hospitals.

_____

It starts when James falls to his knees beside the breakfast table clutching his head.  He’d gone to bed with a headache, but this is definitely an upgrade, and an impressive one at that.  Steve whips around from where he’s burning the fried eggs and automatically reaches for the rescue seizure meds. 

“Hang in there, Buck,” he intones.

“Mm,” James groans in response.  “No, I’m--”

“Hold on, I’ve got your meds,” Steve says.

“No, I’m ok,” James repeats.  “Just--”

“Bullshit.”

“Pain,” he grunts.  “So much pain.”

“Where?” Steve asks.  “Still your head?”  He abandons the spatula and drops to a squat at James’s side.

“Yeah,” James croaks.  “So bad.”

“This isn’t a seizure, is it?” Steve asks.

“No.”  James makes to shake his head, but his eyes flood with tears.  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“What?”  Steve uses his thumb to wipe the moisture away.  “Don’t worry about it.  Well, I’ll worry about it.”

“No, don’t,” James tells him with a hitch in his voice.  “It just… really hurts.”

“Like, Excedrin hurts?” Steve asks.  “Or Imitrex?”

“Um,” James gulps.  “Neither.”

“What do you mean?”  Steve’s eyes go wide.  “Like, worse?”

James nods and bites his lip.  

“Jesus.”  Steve grits his teeth.  “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want to lie down, maybe?”  

Steve meant on the couch, but James gets clunkily down on his side on the kitchen floor.  

“That can’t be comfortable,” Steve comments.

“‘S not, really,” James replies.  He pulls his legs in toward his chest and cradles his arm around his head.  

“What do you want me to do?” Steve asks again.

“I-- Just--”  James stutters.

“Um.  Here.”  Steve stands and runs a dish cloth under the faucet.  He pauses to turn off the slightly smoking burner before returning to James’s side and laying the towel across his forehead.  “Better?” he asks, a bit stupidly.  He knows it can’t possibly make a dent in a headache this bad, but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Ugh.”  James grinds his teeth and lets out a strangled moan.  “It’s just… the worst headache…”  He gulps and nearly gags, but his stomach is empty and nothing comes up.

“Ok, um--” Steve gently pulls James into a sitting position, hanging his head between his knees.  “It’s gonna be alright.”

“Mmph.”  James gives a nauseous grunt. 

“Is it like a stabbing pain?  Or constricting?”  Steve asks, well aware that he has no power to diagnose.  

“I-- I don’t--”  James does gag this time.  A thin stream of bile dribbles down his chin and onto the floor.  

“Ok.”  Steve uses the towel to wipe him up.  Then he throws caution to the wind.  “Do you think you’re having an aneurysm?”

“Fuck,” James spits.  “I don’t know.”  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and gingerly maneuvers himself out of his own mess.  “How am I supposed to know?”

“Good point,” Steve says with a sigh.  “If you’re hurting that bad, though, we should go to the hospital.”

“Fucking go to bed,” James sputters.  

“I just,” Steve nervously chews one thumbnail.  “I just can’t let you do that.”

James starts to roll his eyes, then clutches his head in agony.  

“See, I don’t want you to lie down and not wake up,” Steve says quickly.

“Yeah, I--”  James gulps convulsively, sweat forming on his brow.  “Ok.  Fine.”

Steve leaves him on the kitchen floor for two minutes while he throws on jeans and digs up phones and wallets for both of them.  

“Alright,” Steve says, “Come on.”  It takes most of his strength and all of his grace to get James off the floor without winding up on his own ass.  There’s a stain of stomach acid on James’s thigh they both pretend not to see as Steve supports him out to the car.  

James leans his head back against the headrest immediately and closes his eyes.

“Not far,” Steve tells him. “Not far at all.”  The closest ER is just around the other side of the VA hospital where they both spend most of their days.  Steve has little idea who’s on during the dreaded weekend shifts; in fact, he barely knows the hospital aside from his own department and the staff in the cafeteria.  He trusts the hospital, though.  It’s highly rated for the area.  At least he thinks it is.  Though Steve may just be making that up to make himself feel better.  

The drive only takes a few minutes.  Steve parks in the staff lot, which is closer, hoping to all deities that nobody cares that it’s the wrong day for him to be using his permit.  He runs around the front of the car and opens James’s door, then throws the man’s arm over his shoulder and helps him toward the entrance to the Emergency Room.  

They dodge an ambulance pulling up to the bay and slide through the double doors.

“You need to be seen?” asks the gum chewing receptionist as soon as she lays eyes on them.  

“Yeah,” Steve says, gently clapping James on his stump.  

The girl directs him to a seat and asks his name and address, which Steve happily provides while James goes back to clutching his head.  

“And symptoms?”  The girl inquires.

Steve looks at James.  “Severe headache.”

“How would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?”

“Um.”  James swallows and lifts his chin.  “Nine?”

Steve assumes it’s only his past experience with hospitals and surgeries that keeps James from saying ten.  

The receptionists nods, unimpressed, and sends them into the waiting room.

They make it through vitals and registration without incident, though James’s blood pressure is high and his heart rate is through the roof.  He starts to gag again when the tech puts the thermometer under his tongue, but a well-timed swallow keeps everything in place.

“How’re you holding up?” Steve asks when they’re relegated back to the waiting room.

“Hmph,” is James’s curt reply.  

The folks in charge of triage seem to know their stuff, and it’s only a few minutes before James is called back again.  He eschews the proffered gown and lies gratefully on the paper-covered cot.  

“Aw, Buck,” Steve murmurs as James closes his eyes. 

“Ow,” James groans.

“Should I be quiet?”

“No.  Just, ow.”

Steve reaches for the light switch beside the door and flips it to the off position.  “Is that better?” he asks before sitting on a spindly chair in the corner of the room.

James makes a dull sound of assent.  

They get an entire minute of peace before an EMT comes bursting in, toting a huge gear bag and flipping the light back on.  

“What’ve we got here?” the man says loudly, tucking his long golden hair behind his ear.

Steve cringes, and he hears James’s teeth clench from across the room.

“Um,” Steve says slowly, blinking as if in morse code.  “Really bad headache.  Really bad.”

“Headache, eh?” the EMT repeats.  “First line of defense is always hydration.”  He pulls the duffle off his shoulder and removes a clear bag of fluids, then begins opening packages of tubing and needles.

Steve recognizes all the makings for an IV, and it seems James does too.  He groans and deflates, dropping his chin to his chest and pulling his arm in close.

“Geez,” Steve breathes, standing up to hold James’s hand.  He realizes a moment too late that he’s being the opposite of helpful, James having only half the average number of easily accessible veins.  “Look at me,” he says instead, going in to cup James’s chin.  “Look at me, Buck.”

James obliges the best he can.  He trains his eyes on Steve, and they slide out of focus before coming to rest somewhere in the region of Steve’s eyebrows.  “Ok,” James whispers.

He blinks dazedly when the EMT rolls up the sleeve of his shirt.  Steve’s glad James is wearing one of the tailored ones that only has the one sleeve, lest he give the whole of the staff the shock of their lives.

“Be gentle,” Steve says, probably unnecessarily.  “He’s in pain.”

“Of course, man,” the EMT replies, though not quietly.  He pushes James’s sleeve above the elbow and begins to feel for veins.  “This will be tight,” he warns before pulling the tourniquet around his bicep.

James gives a strangled hum in response.  Steve watches as his coarse arm hairs catch under the thick rubber band.  

“Gentle,” Steve mutters again, but the EMT is already prodding at the veins in the crook of James’s elbow.  

James practically growls at him, grinding his teeth and clenching his fist.

“That’s it, my man,” he has the audacity to say.  Then, “Shit, no.”  The EMT digs one-handedly in his bag and pulls out a thick pad of gauze and a length of coban.

Steve isn’t sure he wants to see the results of the shoddy handiwork, but he gets a glimpse of the already spreading bruise before James’s arm is bandaged up.

“What the hell?”  It’s all Steve can do to keep from telling him off further.

“Don’t worry,” says the EMT.  “There are plenty more veins.  Like… Here”  He rotates Jame’s arm and points to one midway between elbow and wrist.  “Or...Here.”  He points to the back of his hand.  

“Right.”  Steve fights the urge to roll his eyes.  “Can we just,” he starts, going for his kindest tone.  “A nurse, maybe?  Or a doctor?”  Even if this EMT wasn’t doing such a lackluster job, he’d still want James in the hands of the most highly trained medical trained professionals around.

“I got him,” the EMT says, tapping another vein.  “This is a good one.”

“OK,” Steve sighs.  He looks back to James and touches his stump shoulder, which he realizes is shaking.  “It’s ok, Buck.  It’ll be ok.”

“Mm.”  James barely nods.

“Little poke…”  the EMT murmurs.

It probably is just a little poke, but James’s entire body convulses in a flinch he does his best to control.  

“It’s ok,” Steve repeats again.  “Look at me, Buck, just look at me.  You’ll be ok.”

“Yup,” James replies with a groan, his eyes and lips wet.

“You alright?  You feel sick?”  Steve knows the questions are stupid, but he wants to know the answers nonetheless.

“I’m fine,” James breathes in a choked whisper.  “Don’t--” He stops to swallow.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“Aw, c’mere.”  Steve opens his arms, and James immediately leans in, placing his head against Steve’s chest.  Steve feels his shallow breathing and resists the urge to give him a comforting cuff on the shoulder.

“Ok, that’s that,” the EMT says authoritatively, tearing off a piece of tape and smoothing it over the plastic catheter in the back of James’s hand.  He loops the clear tubing and adds another strip for good measure.  “Nurse and NP should be in momentarily.  If you need anything in the meantime, I’ve been Aaron.”

“Lights back off, maybe?” Steve suggests.  He looks to James.  “It helps, right?”

“Hm,” James says into the front of Steve’s shirt.

“Sure thing.”  Aaron catches the light switch and steps out.  

There are a few minutes of blissful silence, during which Steve mulls over the EMT’s words.  He definitely referred to a nurse practitioner, not a doctor.  That removes any hope that he had of seeing doctor Hill, the wonderfully gentle MD who’d treated James the last couple of times he’d wound up in the ER.

“Hang in there, Bucky,” he says, two seconds before the door bounces off the wall with a crack loud enough to raise the dead.  

James burrows further into Steve’s chest, and Steve wraps his arms around him.  The light flips on again as a tall shadow enters the small exam room.  

“Fuck,” James mutters around a queasy gulp.

“I’m Brock,” says the shadow.  “Your NP this morning.  What brings you in?”  He sounds more like a hotel clerk with a bad attitude than a medical professional.

“Rumlow, wait!”  A nurse comes skidding into the room, his sneakers squeaking on the polished tile floor.  “This one’s a status migraine.”  The young man pushes his blonde hair out of his eyes and gives Steve an apologetic look.  “Hi.  I’m Pietro.”  He looks back to the NP and mouths, “Be gentle.”  

“Ok, ok.”  Brock lifts his hands innocently.  “So, your head hurts?”

James nods into Steve, so Steve gives the verbal “yes” for him.

“Alright.”  Brock sits loudly on a rolling stool as Pietro stations himself behind the computer.  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he says in a bored voice.  “What’s your name?”

“James… Buchanan… Barnes.”  The pain is evident in James’s voice.

“Date of birth?”  Brock presses.

“March tenth--”  James swallows hard and falters on the year.

“Eh, close enough,” Steve decides.

Pietro seems to agree, giving a quick nod and an affirmative keyboard clack.

“Ok.”  Brock regains control of the conversation.  “Where are you this morning, James?”

“Um.”  James adjusts his position and furrows his brow.  “Here?”

Steve sighs.  ‘Oh no,’ he thinks.  The staff seem convinced this is just a bad migraine, but should James really be so confused.  Should he really be hurting so much?

“Here,” Brock repeats.  

Pietro types a note.

“Ok,” Brock says.  “And why are you here?”

“Uh.”  James takes a breath.  “2019?”

Steve shakes his head.  There’s only one excuse for this one.  “He doesn’t have his hearing aids--” he starts.

Brock holds up his hand.  “You’re sure this is a headache?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.  “You’re sure he’s not having a mental breakdown?”

“What?”  Steve nearly loses his grip on James.  Even Pietro seems to stop typing in surprise.

“This, you know,” Brock gestures with his pen.  “Episode.”  He puts a spin on the word that makes his opinion clear.

“No,” Steve says immediately.  “And trust me, I would know.”

“But he’s sick, he’s panicky, you bring him to the ER--”

“Yeah, because I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” Steve interrupts.  “Because I want to make sure he’s not having a fucking anyeurism!  But I’m a psychologist, and trust me, I know a mental breakdown when I see one.”

“Alright,” Brock huffs as he stands up.  “Fine.”  He takes a step toward the door.  “Order MRI for this one, then have Dr. Pierce read the results.  I’m recommending admission; I just haven’t yet decided which ward.”  He leaves the room, and the door clicks shut behind him.

It takes all of Steve’s strength not to give the NP a good cursing out.  Instead he refocuses on James, burying his nose in the waves of his hair.  

“I’m so sorry about him,” says Pietro, moving out from behind the computer.  “He’s not normally quite that rough around the edges…”  He trails off with a shrug.  

“Couldn’t imagine working with him on the daily,” Steve says honestly.

“Well, you get used to it.”  Pietro shrugs.  “As soon as he finishes with his MRI, we’ll set him up with some painkillers.  A good migraine cocktail, some magnesium, maybe, or some steroids--”  

He’s cut off when a transport technician arrives with a wheelchair.  The man’s nametag reads “Hogan.”  “Barnes for MRI?” he asks.

“Yup,” Pietro says.  He looks to Steve.  “Want me to help you transfer him?”

“That would be great, actually,” Steve replies.  He grips James’s hand, careful not to disturb the IV line, and shifts him toward the edge of the cot.  Pietro loops an arm around James’s waist and supports half his weight as Steve steers him upright.  

They make an ungainly three-point turn and settle James in the wheelchair.  He immediately lists sideways toward Steve.

“Ok, Buck,” Steve murmurs.  He cards his free hand through James’s hair and presses a quick kiss to his temple.  

“He’s real lucky to have you,” Pietro comments, hanging James’s IV bag on a pole above his head.  “If you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh, of course not,” Steve says quickly, feeling himself go pink.

He begins to walk into the hall beside James’s wheelchair, but he’s stopped when the transport tech’s arm hits him in the chest.  

“You can’t come back that far,” Pietro explains apologetically.  “Sorry.”

“Oh.”  Steve tries to keep his voice measured.  “Ok, sure.”  He steps back toward the exam room and leans against the doorway.  

“I’m really sorry,” Pietro repeats.  “It’s just, policy and all--”

“It’s fine.”  Steve crosses his arms, hoping he doesn’t come across as confrontational.  “I’m just really worried about him.  It all, like, came on so fast, and…”  Moisture prickles unexpectedly at the corners of his eyes.  

“Hey, I get it, man.”  Pietro claps him on the shoulder.  “Working ER, we kinda see it all the time.  Not to trivialize it or anything, but, like, really bad, scary things happen every day, and most of them turn out to be ok.”

Steve gives a long, hard exhale.  “Thanks.”

“Anytime, bud.  You work here, right?”  Pietro points to the access badge sticking halfway out of Steve’s pocket.  

“Yeah.  Counseling,” Steve replies, quickly wiping his eyes with his thumb.

“Well, if I ever pull a normal shift, I’ll give you a secret handshake in the cafeteria.”  Pietro grins.

“Sure thing.”

“MRI takes, like, ten minures.  Maybe fifteen, tops.  Just wait here.  Holler if you need anything, and Happy’ll bring your boy back once he’s out of the giant magnet.”

“Happy?” Steve asks.

“Hogan, I mean,” PIetro corrects himself.  “We have all kinds of call signs around here.”

“Oh.  Well, thank you,” Steve says.  “You’ve been great.  Especially after what’s-his-name.”

“Rumlow?”  Pietro laughs.  “It’s spelled just like it sounds.  And my last name’s Maximoff, by the way.”

 “Ok…”

“Patient survey’s on the website.”  Pietro winks.

Steve laughs.  “Will do.” He gives him a wave as the nurse takes his leave.  

Steve reenters the small exam room and takes a seat on the rolling stool, then changes his mind and goes back to the chair in the corner instead.  He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them and drums his fingers on his knee.  It finally occurs to him to pull his phone from his pocket to pass the time, but Steve immediately feels guilty and puts it back.  He checks his watch and sees that 12 minutes have passed.  A thrill of panic rolls down his spine when he realizes James could be back literally any second, and a diagnosis could come any second after that.  

A clatter sounds in the hallway, and Steve leaps from his seat.  He reaches for James, who is leaning forward slightly in the wheelchair, his eyes downcast.  Steve notices that his pajama top has been changed for a hospital gown, and his medical alert necklace is tangled in the IV line around his wrist.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve whispers, trying not to overwhelm him.  “How’re you feeling?”

“Mm.”  James slowly lifts his head as the technician, Happy, pushes the wheelchair back into the exam room.  “Not so good.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says.  He gently untangles the necklace from James’s wrist and re-fastens it around his neck.  “D’you want to lie down, or--?”

“Better stay put, if you ask me,” Happy says.  “Doc will be in with results in just a minute and then he’ll be moved to a room upstairs.”

“So they are admitting him?” Steve asks.  “Is that based on the scan, or just what that NP recommended?”

“Hey, I just drive the chair,” Happy replies, raising his hands palms up.  “But he’s pretty sick, and a little bird told me room 211 is going to have a new occupant pretty soon.”

“Second floor?” Steve confirms.  “Not psych ward, then.  And not ICU, either.”

“No, it’s not,” says a new voice.  A doctor with a white coat and ashy greying hair steps into the room as Happy vanishes down the hall.  “I’m Dr. Alexander Pierce.” He waves a handful of printouts.  “Here with actual results and orders, not prognostications and psychological philanderings.”  He wiggles his fingers to emulate silliness.

Steve feels too caught to be offended.  “My apologies, sir,” he says.  Then he nods toward the printed papers.  “What are the, uh, findings?”

“Nothing!”  Dr. Pierce announces.  He slaps one paper down on the cot and lines up another next to it.

James flinches at the sound.  Steve squeezes his shoulder.

“Pain isn’t due to anything structural.  Migraine activity behaves much like seizure activity, and I understand he does have a history of those.”

“Yes.”  Steve nods.

“So I’d like to admit him and try a course of IV meds while keeping him under observation.  The past traumatic brain injury makes things a little more complicated, and I want to be a bit more cautious, but it’s a headache disorder we’re treating, not a tumor or an aneurysm.”  Dr. Pierce offers a wan smile. 

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  “Ok,” he says, looking at James.  “Ok?”

“Yes,” James whispers, barely moving his lips.  “I just-- anything--”

“Anything to feel better?”  Steve fills in the gaps.

James nods minimally, then gulps.  “Sorry,” he hisses.  

“Don’t worry.”  Steve rubs the back of James's neck.

Dr. Pierce is less impressed.  He yanks an emesis bag from a fixture on the wall and holds it out.  James shakily takes it, but lets the green plastic crinkle in his lap.

“Transport will take you up to the second floor,” Dr. Pierce says.  “I’ve already put orders in for some medications.”

“Wow,” Steve comments.  “That’s fast.”

“Saturday morning is a good time to visit us at the hospital, if there is such a thing,”   Dr. Pierce smiles.  He nods to Happy and says “Take ‘em on up.”

Room 211 is arranged the same as the exam room downstairs, though with a bed in the center instead of a cot.  There’s a computer in one corner, a chair in another, and a small rolling table pressed up against the wall.

James is decidedly green around the gills again by the time he’s offloaded into the bed.  “Steve?” he asks in a choked whisper, barely containing a gag.  

“Here.”  Steve opens the emesis bag and holds it open for James.  A long string of saliva drips into it, but nothing else seems to want to come.

“It’s alright, Buck.”  Steve gives him a gentle pat on the back.

“Feeling pretty crummy, there?” asks a kind female voice.  A woman in pink scrubs enters the room, closely followed by a nervous-looking young man holding a clipboard.  “I’m May,” she says.  “I’m your nurse today.  And this is Peter, my student.”

“Hi.” Steve waves with his free hand.  “I’m Steve.  He’s James.”  

They attach a pulse oximeter to James’s finger and heart monitor leads to his chest, then Peter begins to scribble down a note as May clacks away on the computer.  “Looks like we have orders for intravenous cocktail of painkillers, anti inflammatories, and a mild sedative to start with.  That plus oxygen therapy can sometimes break a migraine.”

The words themselves hardly make an impact on Steve.  May begins to list off drug names to Peter, and the kid leaves the room to fetch them.

“How’re you holding up?” May asks.

“Huh?”  Steve snaps out of his daze.  “He’s--”

“No, I mean how are you feeling?”

“Oh.”  Steve scratches the back of his head.  “I’m ok.  Worried.  Relieved, but still worried.  I haven’t seen him this bad off since he had the first seizure…”  The corners of his eyes begin to prickle again, and he quickly brings his hand around to cover his mouth.

“Hey, it’s gonna be ok.”  May gives his arm a motherly squeeze.  “Pain is hard to watch, but easy to manage once you give it some time.”

“Hm.”  Steve slowly nods.  “Good point.”

“Now, what can I get you?  Maybe some soup?” the nurse suggests.  “You should both eat something.”

“Oh, I’m fine.”  Steve gestures to himself.  “And--”  He gestures to the the emesis bag in his hand.

“You shouldn’t worry on an empty stomach.  And he needs something to properly throw up.”  May grins.  “I’m joking, of course.”

“Oh.”  Steve finds himself fighting a laugh.

“Go ahead,” says May.  “That was meant to be funny”

Peter returns with several syringes and an oxygen cannula.  He sets up the O2 first, gently inserting the prongs of the cannula into James’s nose.  James shifts to allow the tubing to be tightened beneath his chin, then he curls like a cat with his stump arm buried in Steve’s lap.  Steve knows the oxygen is far from magic, but it seems James’s labored breathing immediately eases a bit.

“Now for meds,” May says.  She tells Peter the order in which the drugs should be injected into the IV line.  “Dilute them with a little saline so they don’t burn on the way in.”

“Do they burn?” Steve asks in concern.

“Nuh.”  James shrugs.  “At this point,” he pants.  “Don’ really care.”

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says, gently petting James’s hair.  

“That’s it for now,” May says.  “I’ll bring you guys some food in a few minutes.”

True to her word, she does return with two bowls of soup on a tray.  “Now, I didn’t cook it, so take it up with Nutrition if it’s the wrong flavor or something.  I think it’s supposed to be corn chowder.”

“Thank you,” Steve says, maneuvering the rolling table over to the bed.  “So much.”

“Don’t mention it.  Just looking out for you.”  May takes her leave.

Steve carefully peels the top off one of the bowls.  Steam rises from it, giving off a bland savory smell.  “You first?” he asks James.

“Nope,” James protests.  “This one’s all you.”

Steve shrugs and dips in a spoon.  He brings it to his lips and sips slowly.  “Huh,” he murmurs, then takes another spoonful.

“How is it?” James asks.  “Or do I even want to know?”

“It kind of tastes like...water,” Steve decides.  “Or, like...like nothing.”

“Gross.”  James gives a shallow cough.

“What, you don’t want to try it?”

“Not unless you want it back all over the front of your shirt.”

“Fair enough,” Steve laughs.

A man in an apron and hairnet comes to get the bowls after a while.  James settles into the mattress on his side, his head on the pillow and his fingers threaded through one of Steve’s belt loops.  Steve lies carefully beside him, taking up as little space as possible as he watches fluid slowly drip into the IV line on the back of Jamse’s hand.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks softly.

“Honestly?” James flicks his eyes upward to get a good look at Steve’s face, then winces.  “Kinda the same.”

“Hm.”  Steve presses his lips together.  He’d hoped for the best, though he knows treating migraines is part science and part magical mystery, like throwing knives at a spinning roulette wheel.  He reaches over James’s back and finds the remote with the nurse’s call button.  He presses it and waits a moment before May and Peter appear.

“Tell them what you just told me,” Steve says, giving James a prompting nod.

James sighs.  “Still don’t feel good,” he mutters.

“Oh, sweetie,” May simpers.  “I’ll talk with the hospitalist and see what else we can give you.  Dr. Danvers is on today, and she should be in for rounds in not too long.  Your neurologist will be along later as well.”

James nods, then winces again and swallows painfully.

“You didn’t eat, did you, babe?”  May puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head.  

“Can I get you a basin or something?” Peter asks, seeming eager to be helpful.

James says “no” at the same time that Steve says “yes.”

“You don’t have to use it.” Peter gives a nervous smile.  “In fact, we hope you don’t.”

“Go grab one,” says May.  “I’ll grab Dr. Danvers.”

No sooner has Peter deposited the unwanted basin on the table than a tall woman with short caramel colored hair arrives.  

“Dr. Carol Danvers,” she introduces herself.  “I hear first line of defense hasn’t worked out so well.”  

Steve shakes his head.  “No, we’re still not feeling great.”  He gives James a meaningful look.

“My head is fucking exploding,” he murmurs.

“I understand.”  Dr. Danvers perches on the edge of the recliner in the corner of the room.  “Unfortunately there isn’t a reliable cure-all for a severe headache like this.  I have a couple more tricks to throw at it, and hopefully neuro will have a few more.”

“Ok,” Steve says.  “What kind of odds are we talking here, doc?  I just, you know, I just hate seeing him like this.”

“Honestly,” Dr. Danvers starts, “I couldn’t begin to tell you.”  She presses her lips together.  “The cocktail of painkillers and vitamins I want to try has a pretty good reputation of success against a status migraine, but it isn’t foolproof.  Nothing really is.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs.  “So I’m learning.  Thanks for being honest with us.”

“Sure thing.  How do you feel about it, James?”

James swallows hard.  “I’ll try anything,” he croaks.

Dr. Danvers offers a sad smile.  “We’ll get you better.  If not this round, then the next.”  

She stands and leaves the room.

Barely a moment later, May and Peter are back with fresh bags of IV fluids.

“Some more saline,” May explains.  “Then painkillers”.  She slowly injects the line.

James closes his eyes.

Peter holds up the next syringe.  “Now for magnesium.  Um, this one can burn a little.”

“Whatever,” James mutters.

“Ok.”  Peter smiles and shrugs, then begins to inject the clear fluid. 

Within five seconds, James is gritting his teeth.  His face goes a shade of fire engine red, and beads of sweat gather at his temples.  

“Buck?”  Steve asks, snaking his arm around his shoulders.  James’s skin burns through the hospital gown as if he’s spiked an instantaneous fever.  “Is this normal?” Steve demands.

“Yes, unfortunately,” Peter answers.  “It only lasts a few minutes.”

“Jesus,” Steve says under his breath.  He isn’t sure whether to pull James close or to refrain from touching him at all.

“Mm,” James groans, swiping at the perspiration running down his cheek.  

“I got it, Buck,” Steve says.  He stills James’s hand and uses his own shirttail to catch the drip.

“Next is a steroid,” says May, continuing to fuss with the IV.  “Hopefully this will break the headache, but it can have a couple side effects.  Can make you feel a little puffy, a little hungry.  Nothing dangerous, but it can be pretty annoying once you get to feeling better.”

“Then we’ll deal with it then,” James says quietly.  Steve imagines he can’t care less about side effects at the moment.  He can’t either.

“That’s a good attitude you’ve got,” May comments.  “Alrighty, that should knock you flat for a good couple hours.  We’ll evaluate how you’re doing when you wake up, and hopefully neuro will be making rounds by then.”

“Ok.”  Steve looks from James’s face to to May’s.  “I guess that sounds good.”

“Call me if you need anything, Sweetie.”  She grins at him, then she and Peter take their leave.

Steve lets out his breath again.  James is still warm to the touch, but his expression is much more serene.  His hair is damp with sweat and sticking to his face.  Steve combs his fingers through it and murmurs sweet nothings until he feels sleepy himself.  He curls around James as much as he can on the narrow bed, shuts his eyes, and drifts into a light sleep.

He wakes when James starts dry heaving again.  Steve scrambles to grab the basin off the table and shove it under James’s chin, but it’s completely unnecessary.  

“It’s alright.”  he slips his hand behind James’s back and gives it a light tap.  “Just get it up, if you’ve got it.”

“Nah,” James says, spitting out a string of mucous and wiping his mouth on his shoulder.  “‘M hungry, though.”

Steve laughs and presses the call button.  He expects Peter and May to return again, but instead it’s a young black woman with long braids who comes toting the cup of pudding.  She hands over the dish and spoon, then sits cross-legged on the end of the bed.  

“Hi, Dr…”  Steve squints at her name tag.  

“Call me Shuri,” the woman says.  “I don’t use my last name.  No one can pronounce it.  And I don’t use ‘doctor,’ either, but I’m your neurologist today.”

“Good to meet you,” Steve says.

James raises his spoon in salute.

“So,” Sure says, getting right down to business, “You’ve had two migraine cocktails.  How are you feeling?”

“Still like hell,” James mumbles, his mouth full of pudding.

He looks like hell, too, Steve thinks, with circles under his eyes and a gaunt, greyish tinge to his skin.  

“The brain is a mysterious thing,” Shuri explains.  “You have a TBI, so I know you understand some of this already.  Injury happens, then recovery.  But with the brain, it isn’t like healing a broken bone.  And when the injury isn’t even an impact, it’s spontaneous electrical activity…”  She shakes her head.  “It’s like fighting invisible enemies.”

James sighs and hands Steve his empty bowl.  “You make it sound like a sci-fi movie or something,” he jokes.

Steve is glad to see him in a good mood, but he doesn’t like the way lines of pain appear around James’s eyes.  Shuri seems to notice too.

“Here, why don’t you lie down,” she suggests, getting to her feet.  “I’d like to try you on a new combination of medications.  Some will be added to your regular daily regimen of anticonvulsants, and those will be a permanent fixture.  Some others will be administered intravenously over a 72 hour period while you're here at the hospital.  They take nearly the whole period to begin working, but I’ve seen good success.”  Shuri smiles.  “Does that sound ok to you?”

“So…”  James’s brow wrinkles as he does the math.  “That’s three days in here?”

“Yes,” Shuri says.  “Fortunately.  Or unfortunately, however you choose to look at it.  It can feel like a long time, but it’s fairly quick in the world of intractable migraines.  We’ll be sure to send you home with plenty of preventables.  Injectable Imitrex, that kind of thing.  To keep you ahead of the curve.”

“Ok,” James says, his voice going flat.  The look in his eyes is hopeful, yet exhausted.  

Steve nods and looks to Shuri again.  “Alright,” she says.  “I know this is complicated, but I like to keep my patients well-informed.  You’ll continue to get your regular meds morning, midday, and night, with the addition of another anticonvulsant, plus oral painkillers as needed.  Then you’ll get an antiemetic and an analgesic in your IV every six hours for the next three days.  We’ll continue your oxygen therapy as well.”  Shuri points to the cannula under James’s nose.  “And we’ll keep the option for a mild opioid open should you need something that works a little stronger and faster.  She looks between Steve and James.  “Is that clear as mud?”

“Clear enough,” Steve says, pleased with the way she’s broken it all down for them.

“Yes,” agrees James, nodding slightly and wincing.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Shuri says.  “I’ll put in the orders and see about setting up that first dose.”  She nods to them and leaves the room.

Once they’re on their own again, James turns to Steve, cautiously rolling onto his side.  “So.  Three days in this place.”

“Yup,” says Steve.  “Want me to run by home and get your toothbrush?  Maybe some pajamas for you?”

“That would be great, actually,” says James, a little blearily.  “But what do you mean, run by?  Wouldn’t it be easier to come back and see me after work on Monday?”

“Buck.”  Steve shakes his head emphatically.  “If you think I’m leaving you here by yourself, you’re nuts.  You know what, Sam has a spare key.  He can pack up some essentials and bring them over.”

James blinks a few times.  “Really?”

“Of course.”  Steve kisses his cheek.  “To the end of the line, remember?  Always to the end of the line.”

[angryteapot]

Imminent

Characters: Reader, Clint, and Steve (All platonic!)

Word Count: 1400

Warnings: Language, Too much coffee (both a problem for irl me.)

Summary: You never stop working, and don’t know what sleep is until it beats you with a stick.  AKA your body is fed up with your shit and shuts down. *Based on ‘Someone needs some sleep’ prompts (bolded in text)

A/N:@delicatelyherdreams is always yelling at me to sleep, so naturally I stay up and write this instead of complying. Also, thanks for the prompt list! I still feel personally attacked. <3

It was dark in the compound, so you figured it must be night or very early morning. You weren’t sure, as this was the first time you had come up for air in a while, since you were working ‘round the clock on your latest project in Tony’s lab.

You rubbed your tired, gritty eyes and shuffled down the hallway towards the kitchen. Your stomach was protesting the lack of nutrition, and your head was pounding an awful cadence that resonated behind your eyes. You rounded the corner and swore as you bumped into the wall, stumbling forward into the kitchen. Huh, you must be worse off than you initially thought, if you couldn’t even avoid basic obstacles like a solid wall.

You heard a tired chuckle from further in the kitchen, and your head snapped up to see who it was. “Somebody needs to make an appointment with the dream fairy,” Clint says while sipping from a mug and playing with one of his arrows. You stared dumbly at him, mouthing ‘dream fairy?’ with a cocked eyebrow.

He winced, apologizing, “Sorry, hard to break dad-mode after such a long vacation period.” You laughed lightly, asking how Laura and the kids were as you set about making a fresh pot of coffee. He said they were well, and started talking about some of the repair projects he and the kids had worked on, while you prepared yourself a sandwich.

You were making your sandwich on autopilot, nodding your head along to his story but not really registering what was said. He coughed pointedly and you could just sense his smile, you slowly turned to look at him, then turned your head back to where his finger was pointing. You found your hand limply holding the knife, your sandwich half smeared with salad dressing instead of your usual spread.

You sigh and sweep it into the trash with a dramatic flourish of your hand, “Welp, guess I’ll just die.” Clint looks amused as he takes another sip from his mug and says, “There’s some bleach under the sink, if I remember correctly.” The coffee machine beeps loudly, and your dull eyes spark in relief at the thought of the precious bean juice. “Tempting, but I think this steaming pot of espresso blend is just what the doctor ordered.”

You grab your mug from its place, a giant 64 oz. blue gag gift mug saying ‘I have the vocabulary of a well educated sailor’ in scripted gold letters. You pour the entirety of the fresh pot into the mug, nearly filling it to the brim. Behind you, you heard Clint’s disbelieving laugh. You forgo any kind of sweetener and take it black, carefully sipping at the mug that barely fits in both your hands. You shuffle over towards the archer, carefully sitting down next to him with a sigh.

Clint looks at you and slowly says, “Kid, I know I’m the last person on Earth who should be telling you this, but you need sleep, not coffee.” You simply raise an eyebrow at him as the mug covers more than half your face as you sip from it. He holds his hands up in defense, casting a longing glance at his now-empty mug. You sigh and push you mug towards him saying, “Don’t worry I slept for two hours. Probably. It might’ve been less.”

He shakes his head, and you can just feel the Dad Disappointment™ radiating off of him. “Kiddo, you know it’s bad if it’s coming from me. I know I’m the king of coffee and no sleep, but I think you’re beginning to take the cake on that title. Which is… a little insulting, actually, I’m not gonna lie.”

You laugh weakly, knowing that he’s right but, “Clint, I don’t have time for sleep!” I’ve been working on my new design, and I’m so close to perfecting it.” He takes back the nearly empty mug and just looks at you as he sips the last of the coffee. “Listen sweetheart, I can see it in your eyes -  you’re gonna pass out in…” he checks his nonexistent watch, “In less than two hours. Don’t ask me how I know, it’s an unexplained gift.”

You flip him the bird as you stumble off the stool to rinse out your mug. You trudge back to the lab, shouting a ‘thank you’ back towards him. A curse slips from your lips as you bump into various walls and trip on your own feet as you make your way back to the lab. You feel drunk now, giggling stupidly at every little thing. Since when do you giggle? Shit a nugget, Clint was right. Even if you managed to make it back to the lab, there was no way you could focus on your work without messing something up.

You go to the lab anyways, tinkering with your design until you’re passed out face down on the workbench, your design papers stained with drool. You’re woken up some time later by Steve shouldering his way through the doors, calling out for Tony. You raise your heavy head, tossing a wrench in his general direction to get his attention.

It clatters somewhere on the floor, and Steve makes his way over to where he saw your hand throwing it. “(Y/N)? What are you doing in here this early? Are you… drunk?” You stare at him, not comprehending the word-stuff coming out of his mouth. He repeats his question, concern painting his features as he reaches down to check your temperature with his hand.

Your mouth tastes like stale coffee, and your words come out mumbled from the dehydrated feeling. “Dr’nk? Nooo, jus’ tired. Like, reeaaalllyy tired. Tell Clint he wins, m’kay? ‘M jus’ gonna…. Lay back down… right…”

“Whoa!” Steve catches you as you nearly fall off the bench. You yelp at the sudden feeling of falling, a little more awake now. Steve looks at your bloodshot eyes and rolls his own, mumbling about being too old to deal with self-destructive geniuses who don’t know when to rest. You feel a little nauseous as you feel your gravity shift, and peek open one eye to see what’s going on. You yelp again and tighten your grip on the tall super soldier who is now carrying you out of the lab.

The hand that’s not holding onto his neck for dear life, smacks him on the chest as you pout, “Put me down, Rogers! I have work to do!”

He only chuckles and says, “Sorry sweetheart, but if you go near any power tools right now, you’re liable to end up in the med bay. As it is, your designs had crayon scribblings saying ‘powered by 50 chickie nuggies’ and other nonsense which, I don’t even wanna know what that is. I’m confused as to how you found crayons to begin with.”

You groan and resign yourself to this fate of being carried like a child to forcible nap time. The whole walk there, Steve casually greets the other Avengers and staff as they pass in the hall, some laughing and taking photos, others just giving strange looks. Clint passes and nearly stabs himself with the arrow he’s playing with, as he’s doubling over with laughter. You crack an eye open and flip him off, Steve merely smiling and continuing on, saying over his shoulder, “She said you win; whatever that means.” Clint, the jerk, just laughs harder.

Once Steve makes it to your room, he eases your sleeping form onto the bed, likely lulled back to sleep by the steady sway of him carrying you. He’s tucking you in, but you stir awake and mumble, “Captain America is tucking me in. Are you real? Don’t you dare sing me a lullaby. You ‘prolly only know patriotic songs, ‘nyways. God bless ‘Merica, indeed. Such a sweetheart. Golden boooyy…”

Steve laughs as you trail a finger over his face, arm falling limply by your side as you succumb to sleep once more. He shakes his head fondly and walks to the door, quietly instructing F.R.I.D.A.Y. to initiate the Blackout Protocol. The expansive windows looking out at the forest tint to an obsidian black, and soft ambient music floats through the now-dark room. Steve smiles again as he hears a quiet, “Thanks Stevie.” He softly shuts the door and goes about his morning routine, glad that you’re finally (forcibly) getting some rest from being the Most Tired Avenger™.

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