#and tried to stem the flow while my nurse got some dressings

[unamused-kookaburra]

I don't want to jinx myself but my second 12 hour shift at the hospital is going really well, especially compared to yesterday's 12 hour shift (I fainted in the last hour and the team leader made me call my parents to pick me up :))

[theydontknowaboutusimagines]

Someone Special - Harry Styles Christmas Series (Part 7)

Part 6

The Next Day 

You woke up in unfamiliar bed in a unfamiliar room. You sat up rubbing your yes as you looked around, seeing the luggage on the side of the room and you realized you were in London at Harry’s house. And then memories of what happened last night came flooding back. 

**

As soon as Harry’s lips pressed against yours, you placed your hands at his sides. His hands were in your hair as he deepened the kiss. After a few moments, you pulled away for air. You both tried to slow your breathing as he placed his forehead against yours. 

“I’m uh-I’m sorry,” you whispered. 

“Don’t be,” he whispered back, exchanging the same words you had spoken prior to kissing him. 

“That shouldn’t have happened,” you pointed out. 

“No, it shouldn’t have,” he agreed. 

“But it did,” you said. 

“Yep,” he nodded. 

“So, now what?” You whispered. 

“We’re still friends,” he said. “This doesn’t have to change that.” 

“Do you want it to?” You asked. 

He shook his head. 

“Okay, good, so we’re still on the same page?” You asked. 

“Same page, yep,” he agreed. 

“Then I guess, it would be totally fine if we-” you whispered. 

“Kissed again?” He asked. 

You didn’t give him an answer, just simply pressed your lips against his for a second time. However, this time the kiss was more forceful. You two pulled each other’s bodies closer to the other and your arms wrapped around his neck. He picked you up, setting you a top the island in the kitchen. 

“We should stop,” Harry mumbled against your lips. 

“Probably,” you agreed. 

“But I don’t want to,” he whispered. 

“Me either,” you responded. 

“A few more minutes, won’t hurt,” he said 

“Not at all,” you said. 

And well, a few more minutes, turned into a lot longer than that. In fact, you two eventually moved to the couch, where it was more comfortable. Despite the hours it seemed that your lips were attached to the other’s, all clothing stayed on and hands stayed in safe places. The urge to move things further was there, but you knew that was a line you weren’t ready to cross because there would be no coming back from that. 

When both of you could tell things were getting to that level, you pulled yourself from each other and sat on opposite sides of the couch. Both of you sat there silently as you gathered your thoughts. 

“This uh, this probably shouldn’t happen again,” Harry said. 

“Definitely not,” you said. 

“I mean, we’re both uh.. just lonely and obviously attracted to the other, but doesn’t mean anything, right?” Harry said. 

“Exactly,” you nodded. 

“We should uh, just head to bed now,” he said. “In separate rooms.” 

“Sounds good,” you said. “See you in the morning?” 

“With breakfast,” he said. 

“Night,” you said. 

“Goodnight,” he said. 

**

Everything replayed over in your head and you had no idea how you were going to face him. You could smell breakfast being cooked in the kitchen, so you knew he was awake. Even after heading to bed the previous night, you tossed and turned for at least an hour as thoughts filled your head of what had happened. The way his lips felt against yours the way he held you and your fingers in his hair. 

You really wanted to experience all of that again, and well, a hell of a lot more, but he made it very clear it couldn't happen again. And honestly, it was for the best. You knew if you continued on with the events of last night, it would only be a slippery slope that neither of you wanted. So, while you really, really wanted that repeat of last night, you knew it could never happen again. 

After brushing your teeth, washing your face, and puling on a hoodie, you walked down to the kitchen. Harry’s back was turned to you as he moved something around on a skillet. The kitchen had been where everything started last night, so you thought it was best to maybe steer clear of it for the time being. 

“Morning,” you said leaning against the wall leading into the kitchen. 

Harry turned around a smile on his face, “Morning, how’d you sleep?” 

“Um, it took a bit, but I think it was mostly jet lag,” you said. 

“Understandable,” he nodded. “I uh hope you’re hungry.” 

“I’m starving,” you said. “Do you need help with anything?” 

“I’m good,” he said. “You can have a sit at the table and I’ll bring everything over.” 

You nodded walking over and sitting down. You checked your phone looking at emails and any texts you might have. When Harry walked over with the food you sat it down on the table. 

“This looks really good, thank you,” you smiled. 

“As my guest, its the least I could do,” he smiled. 

You took a sip of your drink before taking a bite of the food. For a good part of breakfast, neither of you said anything, you weren’t sure if it was stemming from what happened last night or if it was because it was still a bit early in the morning. You weren’t the best morning person in the world, but you weren’t the worst either. 

“Now, do you have anything planned for today?” You asked bringing your glass to your lips for another sip. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “I thought we could go shopping.” 

“Shopping?” you asked. 

He nodded, “Every year I go out and purchase some gifts for the children’s hospital. I was hoping you would want to go with me and then we can wrap them later.” 

“Wow, that’s really amazing,” you said. “I’d love to do that.” 

“Great,” he smiled. “So, that takes care of today, and then tonight one of my friends is having a party at their house.” 

“What kind of party?” You asked. 

“Annnnn Ugly Sweater Party,” he smirked. “Filled with cheesy Christmas games and Christmas Karaoke.” 

“Well if that doesn’t fit my list, then I don’t know what does,” you giggled. 

“I’d knew you like it,” he said. “But I guess I should ask, do you have a sweater to wear?” 

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty in your closet, I could just borrow one of those,” you smirked. 

“Fuck you!” He laughed throwing a piece of strawberry at you. 

“I’m joking,” you giggled. “You wear very lovely sweaters. But yeah, I don’t think I packed one, so hopefully I can find one at a shop in town.” 

“I’m sure you can,” he said. 

“Do you have one already?” you asked. “Like a legit ugly ass Christmas sweater?” 

“I do, actually,” he smirked. “But you won’t be seeing it until tonight.” 

“Well, then I guess when I purchase one you won’t be seeing it until tonight either,” you smirked. 

“How are you going to do that when we’ll be together?” He asked. 

“I have my ways,” you smirked. 

He laughed shaking his head and taking the last bite of his waffle. 

**

A few hours later, you two were out shopping around London. Harry had taken you to a few shops you hadn’t seen before during your previous trips to the city. You both had chosen a lot of really cool and fun gifts for the kids and you couldn't wait to get back and wrap them up. 

“So, do you deliver the presents or just drop them off?” You asked. 

“It depends,” he said. “Sometimes the hospital is booked up and it’s not good for the kids to have some many visitors, so I leave the presents with the nurses. But when I’m able to deliver a few, I love it.” 

“That’s really sweet,” you smiled. 

“I like giving back,” he said. “And they’re already going through so much and so are their families.” 

“You really have a big heart, you know that?” You smiled.

He blushed a bit, “Thank you,” he smiled. 

You smiled going back to looking at items for gifts. Both of you were carrying a ton of bags as you walked the streets, you still had yet to find something for the party, until you happened to see something through the window. 

“Oh, um, I’m going to pop into here really quickly,” you said. 

“Okay,” he said following you. 

“Alone,” you smirked. 

“Well, fine then, I’ll go and get something to drink,” he scoffed. 

“You do that,” you laughed walking into the store. 

You waited to make sure he was out of sight before walking over to the outfit you saw. It wasn’t exactly a sweater, but it was a Christmas dress that looked exactly like an ugly Christmas sweater. You grabbed your size and quickly tried it on it. It fit tighter than what you thought it would, but it fit perfectly, hitting just below your mid thigh in the front and flowing out a bit in the back with a bit of a longer skirt. 

You purchased the dress and hid in another bag before you headed out to meet Harry. 

“Whatcha get?” He smirked trying to peek into your bag. 

“Nothing that concerns you,” you smirked. 

Harry shook his head in mock disappointment before handing you a tea. 

“Thank you,” you smiled. 

“Well, I think we’ve got everything, if you want to head back to my place,” he said. “I picked us up some sandwiches, too.” 

“Sounds good,” you smiled. 

“Cool, let’s go,” he smiled. 

**

Getting back to his house, you both put all the toys and other gifts out onto the floor before you started wrapping them. He put on some Christmas music and you both began wrapping the items while snacking on your sandwiches. 

“Just so you know, I’m horrendous at gift wrapping,” you laughed. “I almost always cut the paper too small or have too much and it’s just a fucking mess.” 

“I wish you would have told me before,” he joked. 

“Hey!” You scoffed. 

“I’m just joking. I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he laughed. 

A few more minutes went by when you noticed Harry looking over at you. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Um,” he said pushing hair out of his face. “Are we going to talk about last night?” 

“Ah, yeah, that,” you said. “We should.” 

“I know we both agreed that it shouldn’t happen again and it was just a one time thing,” he said. “But I mostly want to make sure you’re still feeling okay about it. I don’t want it to make anything awkward between us. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” you said. “It’s not going to be awkward. We’re friends, we kissed, nothing more happened, so I don’t see why it would change anything.” 

Harry nodded, “Cool, then it’s settled then?” 

“Yep,” you nodded in agreement. 

Harry felt his heart drop a little bit. While he knew he shouldn’t want more, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it to happen. He knew there was an attraction between the two of you and he felt nervous around you. But it wasn’t until last night when he felt your lips against his, your body in his arms, that he knew there was a spark. However, he couldn’t let it ignite for multiple reasons. 

The first is because he knew he wasn’t ready for a relationship, especially knowing of everything that was coming up in his life with the album release and the tour. The second thing is because he knew you wren’t looking for a relationship and having any sort of feelings for you would just cause him another heartbreak. 

**

Later that night, you were getting ready for the party. You pulled on the ugly sweater Christmas dress and pulled on your red high-heeled boots. You luckily packed some festive earrings and did your hair and makeup in a very crazy style. You looked at yourself in the mirror and thought while you looked perfect for the theme, you also looked pretty hot. You put your lipstick and a few other things in your tiny crossover bag before heading down to meet Harry. 

When you walked down the steps, you saw Harry standing in a pair of flared trousers with a large, ugly yet amazingly inappropriate  sweater. Harry looked up from his phone and you swear his mouth dropped open for a spilt second as he looked you up and down. 

“Wow,” he whispered. “You uh...” 

“Look festive?” You smirked doing a little twirl. 

“Exactly,” he said. 

“You too,” you giggled. 

“Thanks,” he smiled. “Ready to go?” 

“Yep, let me grab my coat,” you said. 

The car ride to the party you could feel a bit of tension. You weren’t sure if it was on your part or Harry’s, but you knew if this feeling kept coming between you, you’d probably end up like last night. So, maybe it was better to distance yourself from him a bit, let him spend time with his friends, etc. 

When you walked into the party, Harry took your coat and put it with his in his friend’s room, while you headed straight for where the drinks were. Harry had gotten side tracked by a group fo his friends and started chatting with them. You sipped on your drink in the corner, while you gave him his space, when someone came up to you. 

“Nice dress,” he smiled. “I think you might win, actually.” 

You laughed, “There’s a contest?” 

“There is,” he nodded. “Not sure what the prize is, though.” 

“Hey, i’ll just settled for bragging rights,” you giggled. 

“I hope this isn’t too forward, but you’re Y/N, right?” He asked. 

“Last time I checked, yeah,” you giggled. 

“Well, I’d liked to say I’m a really big fan,” he smiled. “And it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Thank you,” you smiled. “Nice to meet you-” 

“Jeremiah,” he smiled. 

“Nice to meet you, Jeremiah,” you smiled. 

“So, did you come with someone?” He asked. 

“Technically, yes,” you nodded. “But we’re just friends.” 

“Then would it be okay, if I asked you to danced?” He asked. 

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” you smiled. 

**

Harry was sipping on a beer while he was listening to one of his friend’s talking about something. He had started to tune out to the conversation as he searched the crowd of people for you. He felt bad leaving you, especially since he invited you, but he got caught up for a bit. Harry couldn’t get over how beautiful and sexy and gorgeous you looked in that hideous dress. 

He was watching his alcohol intake because he knew the more he had in him  he’d let his guard down and try to pick up where you two left off the night before. 

“Harry,” one of his friends said pulling him out of his thoughts. 

“Yeah, mate?” He asked looking over at him. 

“So, what’s exactly going on with you and Y/N?” He asked. 

Harry felt his cheeks redden, but he quickly played it off, “Nothing, we’re friends. Why?” 

“Oh, just wondering because she seems to be getting pretty cozy with that guy over there,” he resounded. “Just wanted to make sure there was nothing going on with you two.” 

Harry looked at his friend before following his gaze over to where you were dancing with someone guy. You and thee guy weren’t exactly dancing close to each other, but the fact that you were dancing and laughing with someone that wasn’t him didn’t sit right with him. 

“Excuse me,” he said before leaving his friends. 

You looked over, seeing Harry walking over to you. 

“Oh, there are you,” he said standing rather close to you. 

“Hi,” you said. “Harry this is Jeremiah, Jeremiah this is Harry.” 

“Hey, mate,” Jeremiah smiled holding his hand. 

Harry glared at him for a bit before forcing a smile, “Hey,” he said shaking his head. 

“Anyway,” Harry said turning away from him and looking at you. “Karaoke’s about to start, want to be my partner?” 

“Sure,” you nodded. 

“Well, that’s hardly fair,” Jeremiah joked. 

“Yeah, life isn’t really all that fair, now isn’t mate?” Harry said. 

You gave Harry a look unsure of what was going on with him, but you could tell that Jeremiah seemed to know exactly what it was because he quickly excused himself and walked away. 

“Um, what was that about?” You asked. 

“What was what about?” He asked taking another sip of beer. 

“You were acting a little passive aggressive,” you said. 

“Hey, I take my Karaoke pretty serious,” he said. 

“Are you sure that’s all it was?” you asked raising an eyebrow. 

“What else would it be?” He asked looking at you. 

You shrugged, “I don’t know that’s why I’m asking you.” 

You both stared at each other waiting for the other to say something, but when neither of you did, you simply headed towards the “stage” to do karaoke. When it came to your turn, you both sang a few of your favorite Christmas songs. 

During the time, you felt the growing tension again. At this point, you knew the tension was only going to get worse and keep building up. So, you knew you had to do something. 

About an hour later, you and Harry called it a night. You were currently in the car on your way back to his house, when you looked over at him. 

“How drunk are you?” You asked. 

“I had like two drinks, so not very,” he said looking at you. “Why?” 

“Just wondering,” you said. 

“Ooookay, how drunk are you?” He asked. 

“I only had the one drink and that was when we first go there, so I’m pretty sure I’m not tipsy off that,” you laughed. 

“You mean the one you were drinking with that wanker,” he mumbled. 

“He wasn’t a wanker,” you rolled your eyes. “He was nice and a fan. Why does it matter anyway? You were talking with your friends.”

“You weren’t just talking with him though,” he said. 

“There was literally like a foot in between us,” you said. “Not that it’s any of your business anyway.” 

“Maybe not,” he said. “But maybe I didn't want you to do anything stupid.” 

“Oh because me having anything to do with him.. another guy would be stupid?” You asked. 

“Yes!” He groaned. “Yes, it would be stupid.” 

“And why is that?” You asked. 

“I- I don’t fucking know, alright,” he said. “You didn’t even know him. He could have just wanted to fuck you and then go fucking blab to the fucking Sun about it tomorrow.” 

“Like I would even fuck him to begin with,” you rolled your eyes. “I don’t exactly fuck around with someone I just met.” 

“Good,” he said. 

“Thank you for your approval I didn’t ask for,” you rolled your eyes. 

“What are we even arguing about it?” He groaned. 

“We’re not arguing,” you said. “We’re conversing with a bit of a tone.” 

“Yeah, alright, sure,” he said looking out the window. 

When the driver dropped you off at his house, you both walked inside, not really saying a word. You headed up to your room, while Harry was going to his, but he stopped you before you could walk inside. 

“Wait,” he said. 

“What?” you asked. 

“Why did you want to know if I was drunk or not?” He asked. 

You sighed biting your lip, “Because I didn’t want to have this conversation with you if you were drunk.” 

“What conversation?” He asked. 

“We should probably sit down for this,” you said. 

“Okay,” he said looking at you weirdly. “Let’s go in my room.” 

You walked into his bedroom and sitting on his bed. He sat next to you, wondering where this was going exactly. He felt a little fear inside of him of what you were going to say. 

“You know how last night we were talking about we’re both friends, who are lonely, and attracted to on another?” You said. 

“Um, yeah,” he said. 

“And we both on are the same page and in agreement of not wanting any sort of relationship and we made that toast about not falling in love, blah, blah, blah,” you said. 

“Where are you going with this?” He asked. 

You took a deep breath before getting up and straddling him. He looked at you with wide eyes placing his hands at your hips. 

“We’re both adults, not looking for any sort of commitment, right?” you said. “So, who says we can’t be friends and just have fun together.” 

“I-Uh-” he stuttered looking up at you. “Are you suggesting we have like a friends with benefits situation?” 

“I guess if we had to label it, yeah,” you said. 

“Are far are you talking in the terms of fun?” he asked.

“As far as we both want,” you whispered. 

“For you, how far is that?” He whispered. 

Instead of answering yet again, you pressed your lips against his. He wrapped his arms around you pulling you closer to him as he deepened the kiss. When you found him responding to the kiss, you pulled away to whisper into his ear. 

“I want you to fuck me,” you whispered. 

That was all he needed to press his lips against yours again before flipping you over onto the bed. 

**

That escalated quickly. 

[mattzerella-sticks]

The Silver Lining, Destiel Christmas/Hospital fic

Castiel expected to have a regular Christmas, the same he's had for all his life. Spent with family, exchanging presents and good cheer. Basking in the warmth of unconditional love. However, a twist of fate and a prank gone wrong leads him to experiencing a few new firsts.

His first trip to a hospital.

His first Christmas celebrated in a different location.

His first meeting with a certain man, suffering from a horrible case of food poisoning.

Of the three, he hopes the third is the first of many, many more. Is their encounter as rare as a Christmas miracle, or is it the gift that keeps on giving?

Cold. Wind races past his collar and sends shivers down his spine. “Stupid Gabriel,” he growls, shuffling the ladder until it aligns securely against his house. Castiel huffs a foggy breath over his trembling hands, rubbing them together for warmth. “How he can see tangled lights in this weather…”

Snow buffets him on his way up, Castiel pausing at times so he won’t fall off. Halfway up the ladder, Castiel’s common sense tugs at his nerves. Warns him from moving any further in fear of endangering himself. But then Gabriel pops in and strangles the thought, gratingly reminding him that decorations need to be perfect so close to Christmas. “It’ll only take me a second anyway,” he says, climbing another rung, “In and out.”

He reaches the roof, gripping the edges for balance. Squinting, Castiel scans the decorations amassed for the error Gabriel saw. Neck straining from the effort. Finding no fault in the perimeter Castiel checks the larger display. Leans further onto the roof and blindly gropes for Santa and his sleigh of reindeer. His hand slides around a hoof and Castiel squeezes it, smiling.

Suddenly a window rushes open, slamming. Castiel flinches, the ladder teetering underneath. “What? No, no -”

“Merry Christmas Cassie!”

“ No !”

Castiel falls, plastic and metal scraping across his roof and drowning out his screams. Before he hits the ground, Castiel sees Rudolph flying into a nosedive. Hurdling closer until the reindeer is all he sees. He blinks, and the world fades.

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

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Tentatively, Castiel opens his eyes. Fights against the ten pound weights stretched across his face to re-enter consciousness. He groans, first from the overly bright lights shining above him and next because of a dull ache biting into his side. Castiel tries to rub his eyes, except he can barely find the strength to do so.

“Well… look who finally decided to join the party,” a voice drawls from the left, “It’s about time, really.” It takes too much effort for Castiel to turn his head so few inches. He scrapes together the energy and, in the process, answers important questions knocking around his head.

Like where was he? A hospital, no doubt, given the sterile white walls and medical equipment lying around. And the hanging television playing holiday reruns of, ironically, Doctor Sexy. Unfortunately his smolder doesn’t evoke any of the warmth and comfort it usually does. Pain takes prominence, especially when he moves. Castiel cannot glimpse the damage, but the amount radiating from his right worries him. What he can view are tubes criss-crossing around him and the sickly man hunched over the bed to his left: the owner of the voice. In need of a distraction, he focuses on him.

He watches Castiel with curiosity and tired amusement etched into his features. Pallored skin glistening with sweat, each freckle prominently on display like stars above a city suffering a blackout. The man wears a similar dressing gown to Castiel’s, accessorized with a bucket clutched tightly in his lap. “Hey,” he says, lips trembling, “you feeling okay?”

“I feel like shit.” Castiel’s gravelly voice sounds more so from disuse, croaking the reply. The other man chuckles from nearby, agreeing with his amateur diagnosis. Laughter becomes hacking, and his face disappears into the bucket for a moment. When the echoing coughs stop, the other man emerges. Castiel continues, “How long…?”

“Not sure,”  he shrugs, “I was rolled in earlier because they had nowhere else to place me…”

“Place…?”

“There’s not really a wing for food poisoning victims,” the other man explains, “they had to stick me where they could.”

Castiel skews his head to the side, stuffing it further into the pillow. “Food poisoning? You’re in the hospital… for that?”

He glares at him, wrapping his arms tighter around the bucket. IV scooting closer from being tugged. “Listen, pal, I didn’t think I had to be here either. But apparently I’ve got the white blood cell count of a newborn so… here I am.” His head falls back into the bucket. “Be lucky you missed the massive crap volcano that erupted out of my colon.”

“I doubt it was because of luck…”

“True,” his roommate sighs, rising from the bucket once more, “being under for most of it was more drugs than luck. Kind of grateful, though, because then you didn’t hear me yell, grunt, and curse throughout it all… Until…” He blanches, fingers dipping past the rim, “until I just told you.”

Castiel arches a brow, smirking. “Why did you?”

“Because I had no one to talk to this whole time and I hate silence,” he tells him, “Been narrating the past few lonely hours.”

“You’re… not tired?”

“Too nauseous to sleep, really.”

“Even after all that shitting?”

The man rolls his eyes, feet kicking freely underneath him. “It was some pretty rotten eggnog,” he says, “and Sammy promised that vegan crap was all kosher… didn’t see him or Eileen drinking any.”

A little bit of energy jumps into Castiel as he digests the tidbit of information. “Vegan eggnog put you in here?”

“Vegan eggnog and a bad case of the flu,” he defends, “I’m usually made of stronger stuff.”

“So am I,” Castiel says, “Hardly ever sick… once my entire family got bogged down by a nasty virus and I was the only one who managed to remain healthy. Was their nurse for an entire month… schlepping from one house to the next making sure they were feeling better.”

“Then I guess they can return the favor,” his roommate offers, “especially since what happened to you trumps any cold.”

Castiel’s good mood dips low, and his body sags with the reminder of their situation. “Right,” he says, “Uh… exactly what happened to me?”

The man pauses, grin slipping into a tiny frown. “You mean you don’t know? Or… remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Hell I doubt I’d ever be able to forget if that happened to me…”

“What are you talking -” Castiel chokes, dam bursting and the memories flooding over him. He shivers immediately, hospital gone and replaced with the blustery winds from outside his house. Snow falling in clumps from above, doing their best to bury him. Already he thought a blanket of white crushed his chest.

Then Hannah’s face pops into view. Scared, speaking in a way that Castiel cannot fully understand. She’s on the phone, gibberish grating to his ears. So he lolls his head to the side and watches his other sister, Anna, shove at Gabriel with a monstrous expression on her face. The one she wore when it meant their brother dug a hole so deep he couldn’t climb out of it. He remembers smiling, a few of the words cutting through the ringing in his ears to reach his brain. ‘Idiot’, ‘thinking’, ‘killed’, and ‘prank’ are all he heard.

Nearby the burgeoning fight, his friend Kelly tries her best to talk to Jack. Castiel’s nephew won’t tear his eyes away from him. Lazily he shooed him off, trying his best to help. That only brought more focus onto him.

“No, Castiel,” Hannah said, clear for the first time. She wrangled his arms to the ground with haggard breaths. “Keep them lowered to stem the blood flow.”

“Blood flow?” he asked, “What do you mean, blood -”

Blood. So much of it, trickling from where an antler punctured his side.What he thought was snow revealed itself as the broken figure of the reindeer that fell from Santa’s sleigh alongside him.

Face intact, torn from the body at the neck, its black, plastic eyes trapped him. Made it impossible to look away. Even when the paramedics finally arrived and began asking him questions, he answered in a daze. When they removed the decoration, Castiel followed the head with his own until it disappeared from sight.

The next sequence of events plays in pieces. Being patched and carried into the ambulance, Hannah choosing to go with him. Her answering questions for him. Any allergies? Only to shellfish. Medical history? Until now, spotless. The calm, automatic doors at the hospital that betray the urgency of any situation. Doctors and nurses in festive gear descending and doing their best. A prick in his arm and the fuzzying of his senses.

Waking up in a strange room, with a stranger affected by serious food poisoning who has gotten up and leans way too close.

“...come on man, I’m so sorry,” he says, “I thought you knew. I didn’t know - when I asked she said you should be fine. They fixed you up really good, able to save the kidney -”

“My kidney?” Castiel gasps, “It… it hit my kidney?”

“Punctured it in three different parts,” the man tells him, “all clean entries, plastic intact, so no serious problems.”

His mind recovers from the panic, gripping onto the facts presented like a crutch. Thankful for the assurance, but also curious. “How do you know this?”

His roommate’s face shifts from pale to deliriously red, and he shuffles a few steps back. “I… I kinda asked the nurse when she came to check on me?” he winces, “you were still out cold and… there’s nothing really on TV except Christmas specials. If you ask me the last thing I want to be reminded of is Christmas while I’m stuck here…”

Dosed again with a bruising reminder, Castiel finds his injuries doubling and heart plummeting. “Stuck in the hospital on Christmas… it is Christmas, right?”

“Well…” the other man shrugs, “almost. It’s Christmas Eve, but in a few hours…”

“So I’ve been out for an entire day?”

“Seems like it. At least you’re up, from how the nurse put it you were going to be under for awhile - at least until after the holidays.”

Castiel scoffs, “A Christmas miracle…”

“Hey, could be worse.”

“How?”

“Imagine waking up alone,” the man says, squeezing his shoulder, “without this handsome face to greet you.” He winks, charm sparking like a flickering lighter. One that fails easily since a disturbing gurgle cuts through and makes his flirty expression shift into disease. Flies away from Castiel towards the bucket on his bed and bends over it, exposing the festive boxers hidden under his gown. While aware of what his roommate does, it can’t dull the warmth caused from his wink nor the sight of his shapely snowflake-covered ass.

Castiel squeezes the blanket, averting his gaze when the measured pace of the heart monitor picks up slightly. Careful not to disturb the tube he’s sure is lodged to help him pee. Measures his breaths and thinks of horrid things to stem the blood and direct it elsewhere.

Finished, the other man flips and wipes at his mouth. “Here I thought there was nothing left in me,” he gasps, “Sorry you had to see me like that.”

He shrugs, cheeks burning. “You needn’t apologize, you couldn’t help it.”

“Yeah… but I mean, I at least know the names of the guys who I ralph in front of.”

“You mean you didn’t ask for my name when you did my medical history?” His roommate stumbles slightly, tripping over his words in a rush to defend himself. Castiel savors the brief awkwardness before paving over it. “Castiel. My name’s Castiel.”

“Castiel?” The man’s eyes gloss over while processing the name, a look Castiel was oft familiar with.

“It’s… not the most common of names,” he grins wryly, “My father named me - and all my siblings - after characters from his favorite book.”

“What books was that?”

“The Bible.”

Nodding, his roommate drums his fingers against the bucket. A different sound since it’s slightly full. “I mean, it is a good book. The good book.”

"Exactly."

Silence drifts over while they awkwardly bait the other to continue the conversation. Castiel wins, patience one of his virtues. Not the first he waited someone out, and it won't be the last. “So was he one of those religious guys?” he asks, tapping the form of a cross, “Or a… religious guy ?” The balled fists stacked on top of each other, like holding a sign, is easy to interpret.

“Neither,” Castiel tells him, “he got wrapped up in this cult when he was younger, the one Rose McGowan was a part of. When he finally left, he didn’t really give up on the faith. And… well, he already named half my siblings after angels. It’d be stranger if he stopped after Anael -”

“Anael?”

“She found a workaround,” he says, “Anna. Better than my brother Lucifer who chooses to go by his full name. The only one who lucked out was Hannah who got the most normal name of my siblings. Why he couldn’t do the same for me I’ll never know.”

“Hey, Castiel’s a cool name… bet the angel you were named after was a badass,” his roommate smirks, “ I was named after my grandmother, Deanna.”

“So your name’s Deanna?”

“ Dean ,” he purrs, the name curling perfectly under his lips. Teeth flashing in a suggestive manner like its done probably hundreds of times in the past. “Dean Winchester.”

“Well,” Castiel mirrors his expression, “it’s nice to officially meet you, Dean Winchester .”

Dean wiggles his bucket, bowing slightly. “Likewise, Castiel…”

“...Shurley -”

“Shurley. Castiel Shurley, right right right.”

He giggles, enjoying the full body production Dean performs. Attempting a casual facade, crossing one leg over the other while he leans on one hand. The other firing an imaginary bullet from his finger gun. Except he forgets the hand leaning was perched on the bucket, and Dean starts tipping. Vomit sloshes inside the bucket and, after precarious teetering from both parties, both Dean and his bucket remain standing. No mess, but tons of stress.

“Any chance you can pretend that didn’t happen?” Dean asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “Trust me, Dean, on the list of embarrassing things you’ve done tonight this hardly ranks in the top ten.”

“Well shit,” Dean sighs, hopping up onto his bed, “At least it means I can’t make anything worse.”

“The night’s still young…”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cas.”

They laugh, only stopping when the pain in Castiel’s side nastily barges in on their merriment. Reminds him why he and Dean met in the first place. He hisses, vision blackening for a moment. When it returns, Dean is perched on the edge of his bed with worry. “Dean -”

“Are you okay?”

Castiel tries to reassure Dean he’s fine, but another current of pain shocks him. His knees buck up and the heart monitor beeps too loudly and the injured side feels like a meteor burning up in the atmosphere on its path towards crashing into the Earth. Sweat pours down his forehead and his limbs twitch in aborted movements. Dancing like a marionette, controlled by the intolerable cramping.

Minutes flash by like pages from a comic book. A cool touch brushes against his head, drawing one eye open. Its Dean. He appears calm while speaking to Castiel, but the fear is evident in his shiny eyes and trembling lips. In the throes of his pain it plants a seed of comfort, and he focuses on tending to that while dealing with it all.

Then someone rushes in, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum flooring. She removes Dean from view, taking up space and asking questions Castiel cannot answer. When it’s apparent, she switches tactics and scans his station. Finding what she needs, his savior calls to another person who was waiting by the door.

They dip into the hallway, returning moments later with a full bag of clear liquid. The woman who first ran in takes it from the one who brought it, fiddling above Castiel and out of sight. When she crosses his gaze again the full bag is empty. She shoves it into the hands of the nurse. Barks a terse sentence and orders her out.

Time returns to its normal pacing while Castiel’s body melts into the bed and the pain recedes into nothingness. His mind sharpens into awareness briefly and then dulls considerably with each second.

“Is this okay Mr. Shurley?” she asks, pressing around his wound, “Are you feeling anything at all?”

Castiel giggles, her actions tickling the focal point of his trauma. “Not a thing.”

“Perfect,” she sighs, flicking the full bag hanging from the stand in front of her. “So sorry that you had to experience that. A nurse should’ve been by to swap your morphine drip hours ago.”

“My morphine…?”

“Yes, your drugs,” she tells him, smirking, “what’s making it possible for you and I to have a conversation where you can contribute freely instead of in panted moans and grunts.”

Another round of laughter forces its way from his chest and makes his cheeks stretch awfully far. “I like morphine,” he says, “Can I take it home with me?”

“If only it wasn’t highly addicting,” she sighs, swiping at his nose with her finger, “Unfortunately no, but at least you won’t be leaving us so soon you’ll have to give it up right away.”

“Awesome...”

“If that’s all.” She nods, turning to Dean. “Thank you for paging me, it could’ve been much worse had he been alone.”

Dean sags against his bed, grin as large as Castiel’s. “Makes this food poisoning worth it, Doc Masters.”

“Silver lining to everything,” Masters winks. The doctor waves farewell, paying extra attention to Castiel. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Shurley.”

“Bye bye…” Castiel says, head lolling towards Dean, “What did she mean by that?”

“By what?”

“Sweet dreams?” he slurs, “Does she think I’m going to fall asleep?”

Dean’s expression softens, and he drifts closer to Castiel once more. “Yeah, you will. Morphine’s already pumping strong… shouldn’t be long until you’re back under and I’m… I am alone again .”

“ No ,” Castiel whines, throwing a tantrum. Not a good one since his limbs fly without his input, wiggling like jelly. “I don’t want to go to sleep.” Dean calms him, guiding his wrists to the bed.

“You don’t have a choice in it, Cas,” he says, “but… it’s nice to hear you want to stay with me.”

He agrees with Dean, heating up again in a delightful way. “You’re very nice… even if you throw up a lot and can’t handle vegan eggnog.”

Dean scoffs, “I can handle it, when it’s made well. But it’s not my first choice. Give me meat any day.”

“I love meat.”

“We have that in common, then.”

“Do we?” Castiel asks, skewing his head to the side, “You enjoy intercourse with two penises or more, too?”

He chokes, grip on Castiel’s wrists wilting. Dean gapes at him, color draining from his face for an entirely different reason.

In the seconds between his outburst and Dean’s answer, Castiel mulls over what he said. Clarity shines through his foggy mind and he realizes how personal a question he asked his roommate, a practical stranger. His high fades under the sweltering self-consciousness, Dean’s proximity less intoxicating and more anxiety-inducing.

His heart monitor either beeps too fast or not at all since he can’t tell if the ringing in his ears is from it or borne from the screams he refuses to release.

Thankfully Dean starts talking, and the voice inside silences. “I… I’ve never had the opportunity for more… my experience cuts off after two.”

The fuzziness resurfaces with a vengeance, strengthened by Dean’s answer. Caught off guard, Castiel hums. “Oh, well… it’s fun. But, also difficult.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Are you interested in leveling up your experience?”

“Actually,” Dean’s gaze dips towards Castiel’s lips, trailing up to his eyes slowly. “I’m… I’m more of a two-dick guy. Mine and… I don’t know?”

“You don’t know?” Castiel frowns, “that’s depressing.”

Dean laughs like a sad, twinkling bell. “Yeah, it sucks not knowing which other dick you want your dick to spend the rest of your life rubbing up against.”

Castiel nods, “Even more when you’re the only one without a second dick or a vagina to love you unconditionally. And no matter how successful your life is your family looks at you like an awkward throw pillow. They don’t know what to do with it or where to put it.”

“Exactly how it feels,” Dean says, “I… it’s not easy being lonely. Especially around this time of year.”

“But we’re not lonely,” he tells him, “we have each other.”

“That we do Cas… that we do.”

Potential sparks to life in Dean’s eyes, fascinating Castiel. He stares intently into them, watching the verdant fields in the other man’s gaze burn. No intention in calling the fire department to douse the inferno. Castiel wants to watch it forever.

Every blink becomes heavier, harder to remain open with the weights sliding across his eyes. “I don’t want to go to sleep.”

“You need to,” Dean says, “so you can get better.”

“But won’t you be alone again?”

“Nah,” Dean smirks, “it’s like you said. We have each other.”

“Good.” Castiel yawns, stretching far enough his toes peek past the blanket. “I… I really think I should go to sleep now.”

Dean agrees, peeling himself off of Castiel. He shivers with his absence. Castiel stops fighting against the morphine and allows it to drag him into unconsciousness. Dean’s face the last thing he sees when his eyes shut for good.

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

When Castiel wakes up again, he’s surrounded. His family sit on an assembled pile of chairs, chatting in festive gear while he stumbles into awareness.

Jack notices first, clapping on his mother’s lap and smiling with missing teeth. “Uncle Cas! Uncle Cas!”

Conversation stalls, and every face in the room turns to him. He smiles weakly, waving his hand off the bed as far as he can. “Hi,” he croaks, “how’s everyone doing?”

Gabriel laughs tiredly, scrubbing at his face. “Shived by Rudolph and he’s still thinking about others. Doesn’t that just jolly your holly -”

“Zip it Gabriel,” Anna whacks his chest, “you more than anyone else don’t get to make jokes about this.”

“Oh come on!” he cries, “The doctor said it was a non-threatening injury!”

“Because we called the paramedics,” she says, “and, by luck , your dumb prank only managed to cost him a kidney.”

“Not even! They said it would heal -”

“Guys!” Hannah interrupts their bickering, “Can you save it for later? Maybe after Castiel tells us how he feels?”

Reminded of his presence, his brother and sister sheepishly offer apologies. Castiel forgives them easily, especially his brother. “While it was stupid, I’m not dead.”

“Glad to hear it -”

“But,” Castiel continues, smirking, “I do expect a lot of attention and care… just because I’m willing to forgive doesn’t mean it’s easy to forget. Or move… or pee, I’m guessing.”

Gabriel huffs, crossing his arms. “Should’ve seen this coming.”

“Oh be glad,” Kelly says, “out of everything that could’ve happened, this is the best you could ask for.”

He relents, accepting his fate for the present. Satisfied, Castiel relaxes in bed while conversation resurges. This time filling him in on what happened while he was stuck in the hospital. From muted celebration on the Eve to a rapid exchange of presents in his house so they could arrive when visiting hours started.

“We might have left a few to open when you came home,” Anna admits, “So you didn’t miss all the fun.”

“Thank you…” Castiel holds his tongue, preferring the others to continue without his input. Finds comfort in how bright and cheerful the room feels with their presence. Reminded of a similar feeling, adjacent to the one overtaking his heart, Castiel looks to the other side of the room.

Only Dean’s bed is neat and empty. Not even the bucket was there.

“Wait,” he says, “where’s Dean?”

“What?” Gabriel asks, following his gaze, “Oh? Is that who that was? Didn’t know you got so chummy with your roommate, Cassie.”

“Where is he?”

“He left,” Anna shrugs, “Doctors came in an hour after we arrived to give him the news he was free to go.”

“And he left with this giant of a man!” his brother says, “it was terrifying, truly, seeing someone that massive.”

“He was really cool, Uncle Cassie!” Jack says, bouncing, “He bought me a candy bar!”

Kelly sighs, trying to contain Jack’s energy. “So nice of him…”

“So that’s it?” Castiel asks, frowning, “he just… left?”

Hannah reaches across and squeezes his hand, mirroring him. “There wasn’t any reason for him to stay longer, Castiel.”

He deflates at his sister’s care, her good intentions like a needle to his ballooning happiness. Castiel sighs, tugging his hand free of her hold and folding it over his stomach. “Yes, I… I guess he didn’t.”

No one dare speak, the adults in the room trying to process how Castiel’s mood shifted. His usual defense, to cover disappointment with a carefully constructed mask, doesn’t rise up inside. Whether from the remaining morphine swimming in his system or overall tiredness, Castiel prefers allowing his feelings to play freely across his face.

Memories from last night are fuzzy, but he remembers the important things. How friendly Dean was, and caring. Comforting him when it wasn’t necessary, when he had his own troubles to deal with. The possibility he represented, created thanks to the unguarded confessions brought about by drugs.

He’s drawn from his memories of Dean’s smile by a knock on the door.

Doctor Masters stands there, a smile on her face and a stuffed bear in her hands. Castiel squints at the gift, a heart in its paws and a Santa cap on its head.

“Why hello there Mr. Shurley,” she says, stepping into the room, “glad to see you’re awake again. And not in pain.”

“Thank you,” he says, “I… Am I going to be in pain again?”

She shrugs, “Not likely. I checked up on you an hour after we switched your drip to make sure it was all okay. Got to talking with your roommate and he said you were doing fine until the pain became too much to bear. So I’ve decided to start weaning you off the good stuff, and giving you enough to not feel much but still be present.”

His face softens. “Exactly what I want.”

“Speaking of presents…” she smirks, fiddling with the bear, “someone asked me to give this to you once you woke up.”

Gabriel immediately teases him, shaking his shoulder. “Cassie, you sly dog. Did someone ‘While You Were Sleeping’ you?”

“I, I don’t -”

“Why don’t I leave this here, and you can process it without me,” Doctor Masters says. She places the bear on his lap, walking towards the exit. “I’m only the messenger. Besides, there’s a lot more people in this hospital besides you.”

He misses her goodbyes, examining the bear. Studies details like the red and white scarf wrapped around its neck and the poof ball at the end of its hat is shaped like a plus sign. The red heart has a message on its surface, ‘Get Better Soon’, and one between it and the bear.

A white envelope, easily lost in the white fur of the bear. Castiel frees it, giving the bear to a waiting Jack. He reads the name on the front and his stomach flutters with butterflies emerging from their cocoon.

CAS

“Well,” Anna urges him, “you gonna read it or what?”

Flipping it around, he sees the envelope is barely held together by a piece of scotch tape. It opens with no trouble, the card slipping out and into his hand.

The cover has a replica of the bear drawn on, holding its heart forward. Words tattooed to the heart in the stuffed animal balloon to the top of the cover, taking up a lot of the tundra scenery.

Castiel passes it, more interested in what’s written inside.

Dear Cas ,

Merry Christmas! I wish I could be there to see you wake up, but I know today is supposed to be spent with family.

Thank God it’s only one day a year.

If you want to meet during any of the other three-hundred, sixty four, here’s my number. I hope you call, because I think I’ve found the second penis I want to spend the rest of my life with .

He closes the card, dragging it to his face to hide the blush and skin-splitting face threatening to add more definition to his chin. His behavior only fans the flames of his family’s intrigue, both Anna and Gabriel leaning too far forward in their seats.

“Well,” Anna starts, “who’s it from?”

Castiel waits for his face to cool, and then says, “It’s from a friend.”

“A friend ,” Gabriel chuckles, rolling his eyes, “Like we’ll believe that.”

“He is a friend!”

“He’s also a Christmas miracle!”

His family laughs, and Castiel finds himself joining. Too filled with joy to find their antics annoying. Instead he jokes alongside them and, when they’ve calmed down, explain the night’s events and his secret Santa. Counting down to when visiting hours end and he can make use of the number inside the card.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

[axiolotl]

we’re home

Kolyat goes back to the hospital he promised himself he'd never return to.

[Kolyat Krios/Oriana Lawson, ~1700 words, PG, post-Horizon ME3]

Happy N7 Day! It’s not necessarily Shepard but I love these two. Also written as part of @fourthage‘s giveaway!

Read on Ao3

“Mr. Krios?”

Kolyat jumped and woke up to a familiar setting: the waiting room of Huerta Memorial. The same secretary he’d seen for months sat at her desk, staring at him intently. He straightened and stood up, the plastic around the bouquet in his lap crinkling at the movement. He would have been embarrassed about falling asleep in public, but he’d been here so often, the stiff chairs might as well be his second home.

“Yes?” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Visiting hours have begun. I see you’re already signed in — you’re clear to enter.”

His eyes glanced to the holographic clock displayed above the human woman’s desk to confirm the time — he came here right after his overnight shift and apparently fell asleep until the Presidium day cycle began.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding at her before heading into the sanitizing chamber. While standing still for the scan, he realized how hard he was crushing the stems of the flowers in his hands, and eased his grip. Tension gripped his body and he tried to force his muscles to relax, breathing the way the priests instructed for meditation.

No matter how many times he visited the hospital, how comfortable he got in its waiting room, he was still put on edge. Anxiety born from knowing each visit could be the last time he saw his dad was too ingrained. Reaching the day where it actually happened didn’t help.

He would have never come back here, if he could have helped it.

Kolyat navigated an almost labyrinthine maze of hallways, some nurses giving him a nod or a smile. Once he reached the room, he took a deep breath and knocked with his free hand.

“Come in.”

He didn’t expect her to be awake this early and a shot of anxiety punched through his stomach before he composed himself. He slid open the door, closing it behind him.

Oriana sat on a chair facing the large windowed view of the Presidium, the station just waking up as the simulated sunlight hit her face. She turned, her leg heavily bandaged and her smile brought a light to the room brighter than any Citadel engineer could ever hope to achieve. “Kolyat!”

His throat caught at the sight of her — she’s alive, she’s safe — and he heard the faint crumple of the bouquet as his hand tensed. He felt frozen by the cocktail of emotions running through him — relief was definitely there, but regret and anxiety mixed with an undertone of longing.

“Oriana,” he was able to choke out, thawing now so he could stop her from trying to stand up onto some crutches. “Hey, sit down,” he took the crutches out of her reach, grabbing her arm to steady her.

“Nice to see you too,” she quipped, resolutely remaining standing, using his arm for support and making his skin feel like electricity where she touched him. “You’d think it would be longer before you started scolding me, but no, here we are.”

“Oriana…” he said hopelessly, almost begging, unwilling to keep up with their usual bickering. Nothing was usual about the fact that she disappeared for a month only to return on the Normandy with her sister and a bullet wound. Things had almost been normal again before she was taken, and he didn’t know how much she made the Citadel feel like home until she was gone.

“I’m not going to break, Kolyat,” she said, her tone still playful, but softer now. “I survived being shot by Commander Shepard. Not a lot of people can say that.”

His concern was cleared away by rage. “She shot you?!” He could almost feel the sides of his throat enlarging in anger, before Oriana turned and put her free hand on his other shoulder, simultaneously calming him and sending sparks down his spine.

“She saved me,” she said seriously, now looking directly into his eyes. “From my dad. Kolyat, it could have been worse. A lot worse.”

He nodded, trying to calm himself. He had no idea what happened – her parents only sent him a message last night saying she was back, and in the hospital. Even though his gut told him it was her father, he was helpless the entire month to do anything. A job as a C-sec civilian assistant didn’t give him much power to search for her, even though there was a formal investigation. It was near impossible to contact Miranda, and he could only hope that she was out there searching for her sister.

He thought back to the night that Shepard saved him, too, and how much worse it could have been. A punch to the face was way better than what could have happened.

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she said, and gave him a small smile before looking down. “Are those for me?”

“Oh,” making a huge effort to tear his attention from her to the flowers between them. “Yes, I… heard it’s a human custom to bring flowers to people in the hospital and I, uh, know zinnias are your favorite.”

She held it in one hand, admiring the bouquet, the oranges and reds clashing with the blue of her eyes.

“I’m… I’m glad you’re okay.”

Her eyes were misty with tears as she looked back up at him. “I- Thank you, Kolyat.”

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” he asked, looking down at her leg and starting to adjust to try to make things more comfortable, if he could —  

“No, no,” she said, interrupting his movements, tears rolling down the sides of her face while she still smiled. “I’m sorry Kolyat, I’m just so happy to see you.”

“Oh,” he said. “So… you’re crying?”

“Shut up,” she said, her voice watery as she thumped him lightly with the bouquet. “You’re making me unhappy to see you now.”

He chuckled. “Is that all it takes? I have to be more careful.”

She huffed a laugh and adjusted the bouquet so she was cradling it. Looking down, her smile waned. “No, it’s just... I never thought I’d see you again. Or anybody. I thought that was it.”

“...Oh.” He was almost pulled back into the memory of the the day his mother died — where’s mom she said I have to hide — unsure whether he’d ever see the light of day again. He swallowed and looked at Oriana, looking so small for someone that usually stood so strong and resolute.

He moved closer and wrapped his arms around her, still holding her up off her bad leg. A sob racked her body and he bent his head down, smelling a mix of shampoo, medi-gel and freshly cut flowers.

She was so warm, and he couldn’t tell whether it was because of the heat and electricity that hit him every time she got close or because of an actual temperature difference. Whatever it was that was between them, it made him go crazy — but in this moment, they were here, and most importantly, she was safe.

“It was so horrible,” she mumbled against his chest. “Cerberus was doing all these … tests … and I thought I lost Miri again, and I … I …”

“It’s okay,” he said, giving a squeeze, remembering all the times people had comforted him over the years. “You’re here now.”

She nodded, and after a couple of moments, he felt her shift in his arms and say something unintelligible. “What?”

She brought her head up, her face now alarmingly close to his, a blush blooming across her still wet cheeks. “I said, we’re crushing the flowers.”

“Oh!” he shifted back, the petals slightly squashed. “I can get new ones, I’m sorry-”

“No, it’s okay!” she said, shaking them out. “It’s okay, really. They’ll be fine once they’re put in a vase.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so,” she said, unnecessarily defiant, and their eyes caught. Even though he had just moved away, the heat between them was unbearable, and she was alive and they were both together and before he knew what he was doing he was leaning down to her lips and —

“Goooood morning!” a turian voice called out, the greeting accompanying the sound of the door opening. “How’s my favorite - oh!”

Kolyat nearly jumped out his skin, jerking away and looking at the nurse that had just interrupted them, and he could feel his fringe pulsing with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, should I come back later?” the turian asked, walking further into the room with clearly no regard for whether they actually wanted him there or not.

“Uh, no, it’s okay,” Kolyat mumbled while Oriana doubled over with laughter, different kinds of tears flowing now.

“Great!” the turian said in a cheerful voice, beckoning for Oriana to come back to her bed while he assembled a line of bandages and equipment.

Kolyat hobbled over with Oriana, and once she was sitting back on her bad, still giggling, he fell into a nearby chair. “I’m glad you find it funny,” he mumbled.

“Kolyat, stop moping, oh my God,” she said, dissolving into another fit of giggles as he lowered his chin to the bed’s railings, trying to make his face look as ridiculously sorrowful as he could. The nurse waited patiently, efficiently tending to her leg once she stopped shaking with laughter.

Oriana watched, enraptured, at the soiled bandages and the healing wound in her leg.

“This is gross,” Kolyat said, though he wasn’t that disgusted by it. He’d dealt with too many of his father’s medical emergencies to shirk at the sight of some stitches.

“This is cool,” she said. “I can’t believe it went all the way through.”

“And only through some muscle and fat,” the turian said, mixing up some medi-gel. “You’re one lucky girl.”

“I guess if anyone were to shoot me properly, it’d be Commander Shepard.”

“My dad did say she’s the best shot in the galaxy,” Kolyat added. “Better than him.”

Oriana nodded, focused on the turian’s quick hands. While he cleaned her wound and dressed it, she looked to Kolyat. “Hey, Kolyat?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind staying here for the day?”

He swallowed, looking at her wide eyes and the bedraggled bouquet in her arms, not even giving a second thought to his answer. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

leather jacket love song - part five (ongoing)

You sleep with your phone under your pillow and turned up full volume out of habit. Even though he never calls. Even though it's been months since he last rang you at three am.

(You're still 'there'. You're still 'his'. And you've a horrible gut feeling that no matter how many types of fiery hell he drags your friendship through, you always /will/ be.)

So when your mobile suddenly rockets Ian Brown into your dreams to rouse you from sleep, it's a damn good job you're a man of routine.

Rolling onto your back, screen flashing 'Elvis' pressed to your ear, your mouth wrestles with both a 'yes?' and 'what?' at the same time, as your half-awake brain tries to find the right greeting.

No 'hello'.

No 'mate'.

Even working at barely twenty percent brain capacity, you don't think he deserves it.

Only it's not Elvis who speaks. The voice mumbling down the line is way too soft, way too lilting, a little bit gormless round it's edge like the voice of someone who might forget their own name, and it takes you much longer than it really should to place it.

"Noel..." Your stomach sinks.

As far as your aware, the last time Elvis and Noel spoke to one another was the day Elvis moved back to his mum's. And the last time you saw Noel, the sketchy little bastard had been E'd out of his tree. You don't think it's unreasonable to have a bad feeling about this.

"Come pick your lad up..." Noel's voice is muffled into the mouthpiece as though he's trying to eat it, but his words are distant somehow. Faraway. Like he's speaking on autopilot and his brain isn't engaging.

Somehow, you're not surprised. Somehow, you'd expected this.

You snarl down the line, as you cram knuckles into your eyes. "Fucks sake, Elways. It's two in the morning. Just stick him in a taxi, or somethin'. Can you lot not wipe yer arse without me?"

Quiet on the other end. Just snuffled breathing and distorted trance waves on the wind.

"No can do, mate..."

"And why not?" You scoff, his incompetence sparking you enraged. Even ten storeys high on a mixture of what's likely MDMA cut with dog wormers, he should be able to shove Ellie in a taxi. "Knob stuck in a sheep?"

But when Noel doesn't bitch back and just /sighs/ instead, it suddenly clicks with you that maybe he's not the one being the cunt in this.

"Three reasons..." He finally says, in that rolling run-on voice of his, "Number one: he's on the floor... Number two: I can't wake him up... And number three: he won't stop bleeding..."

---

You remember little things.

Key moments.

Brief seconds in life that your memory locks away before they're burnt to dust by time and age.

They're rose-tinted, definitely. Perfect in every way the reality never could have been. And they're filtered with the sepia glow of nostalgia that awakens an ache in your chest.

They're unfaithful. (Like he is.)

Romanticised. (Like his is.)

But preserved. Protected.

Like Elvis in '95. Kicking his ball about in your front yard, skin sunburnt a colour to match his United footie kit.

And Elvis in 2000. Slouching outside the headmaster's office, blood smeared across a swollen but still snarling, burst upper lip.

Like Elvis in 2005. Sewing the first patch onto his leather jacket, stabbed raw fingertips dying the white cotton bright red.

And Elvis in 2010. Arguing with Noel over the redecoration of their living room, clothes flecked with wet oxblood paint.

Kneeling now, straddling Elvis's unconscious body with both your hands pressed hard into the groove of his boney hip, stemming the flow where a previously light t-shirt has turned magenta, though, you think...

(You hope. You pray.)

"Please, don't let me remember this."

---

You shout at Noel.

You don't meant to. You know, logically, that it's probably not his fault. You know, logically, that Elvis gets himself into fights he can't win all the fucking time. And you know, logically, that he's a dead man in these scraps without you.

But Noel's there. Conveniently. Looking ten shades of shit in the A&E waiting room.

And there's blood on your hands right now. Elvis in big red smears all flaking right down your forearms and every time you catch a unwarranted glimpse of it you have to swallow back the urge to throw up.

"Fuck's sake, Elways. He goes out with you for one night. ONE. FUCKEN. NIGHT. And this is what happens? THIS is what I have to wake up to?! You can't even take him out for a couple of hours without him gettin' knifed?? Without him nearly gettin' killed??"

It's early hours Saturday morning. A&E's swarming with obnoxious staggering drunks. You have to raise your voice over the noise to be heard.

Noel, decked out in a shredded Madonna t-shirt with a polka dot silk scarf knotted round his throat, and sitting a bit glazed eyed on a bench where you're pacing — waiting, worrying — barely makes a sound when he opens his mouth.

"I'm not his babysitter..."

"No, Noel. No, you're not." You agree, nodding, before suddenly leaning down to eye-level with a snarl, "But you're his fucken MATE."

Or supposed to be. You don't know what mad thought possessed Elvis to make him wanna go back to knocking about with Elways, but you assume the two of them put past grievances behind them, kissed and made up.

Exasperated, you go on, "Where the shitting hell /were/ you while all this was kickin' off? Standin' back, watchin', scratchin' yer balls?? Because you sure as fuck didn't help him out!"

Noel, slouched forwards with wrists clattering full of bracelets hanging between his knees, drops his head in a response you hope is meant to signify shame.

"Wasn't my fight..."

"IT DOESN'T FUCKEN HAVE TO BE!"

He yelps, surprised, when you grab his scarf.

Then yelps, in pain, when you use it to yank his head back up.

"YOU TWO-FACED, SPINELESS LITTLE CUNT. It's not my fight either! Elvis hasn't even talked me for the last three weeks. But I still came straight down, didn't I. I'm still fucken' here, aren't I. I still give a shit, don't I. 'Cos I'm his /mate/, and that's what mate's /do/. But you wouldn't have a slightest fucken clue about that sorta thing, would you?"

Noel doesn't answer.

Noel doesn't even appear to be registering.

Instead, his glassy dew-drop eyes drift sideways and it takes you a moment to clock that he's focused on something else.

"Mr Wood. Mr... Elways?" The nurse glances down at her clipboard, then chances a timid look around your bristling shoulder at Noel. "Would you both like to follow me? We've got some news."

---

You're not the first one to speak.

Sitting in the doctor's office, fingers steepled as though in prayer beneath your chin, you're ready for it. Mentally and emotionally prepped.

Armoured. Waiting.

You can hear it. You can take it.

You've already planned out how to break the news to his mum.

You're not soft. You won't break.

A phantom sting round your ear, from a hand that isn't there, makes you wince.

("Stop crying like a big girl, for fuck's sake. You want everyone to think yer a poofter? You want me to put you in a dress?! 'Cos I fucken will, if ya don't stop. I'll parade you round the whole bleedin' estate in it!")

But it's Noel who reacts to the news first.

Noel, perched on the edge of a cheap plastic chair next to you, who suddenly slumps against the backrest with his hands over his face.

Noel who breathes a loud, over-exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Well... at least he's not dead."

Not.

Dead.

It doesn't start to sink in for you, until you're the one filling out his medical forms with a hand that shakes.

Until you're writing your own name and contact details into the little space provided for 'Next of Kin'.

He's alright.

He's not dead.

Lucky. The doctor had said. Extremely fucking lucky, from the sound of it.

Half a centimetre away from a punctured liver.

Five minutes away from a blood transfusion and you heroically giving up however much he needs.

But he's sound (kind of). Okay.

He's alright, of course he is.

Because he's Elvis. Flirting with the devil. Dancing a razors edge. Iggy Pop for the new generation and you fucking lovehate him.

Out in the corridor, Noel isn't fast enough — or sober enough — to dodge when you grab him.

"Don't think this is over, Elways."

"Awh, gerroff my back will you, Wood. Only went out with him 'cos he called me up suggesting it, and I was tryin' to be his /friend/."

---

You don't realise how anxious you are (how anxious he's /made/ you) until you nip outside to get your cigs from the car, and all of a sudden begin throwing up.

Doubled over, one hand flat on the car's hood for support, you retch hopelessly into the grass verge until your throat's all acid and your stomach's all knots.

Then, when your chest muscles hurt and there's nothing left to puke, when you've slumped down onto the concrete because your legs no longer want to work, when you're leaning back against the front tire, dropping your lighter over and over again as you try desperately to spark up, everything you've been hiding from for weeks — for months — hits you full force all at once.

You don't expect to spend your Saturday morning sitting knees up in a hospital carpark, sobbing your heart out into your elbow, but you do.

And you don't expect Noel to come out later and sit down silently on the ground beside you, but he does.

And it's not comforting.

It's not helpful.

But it's human. And it's enough.

And when the sky's threaded purple and the streetlamps click off, when you've soaked and snotted all over the sleeve of your hoodie, Noel pipes up.

"I'm going back to Cardiff."

And when you halt in the middle of wiping your nose to give him a quizzical look, he takes it as his cue.

"You were right," he admits, a bit too easily, a bit like it's a speech that's been well rehearsed, "you and Ianson. You were right. I don't have any mates. I don't have anything to stick around up here for. I'm a cunt. So after I sit my final exam, that's it. I'm off. I'm going back home."

You don't know how to react to this. It's rare you ever get anything poignant from Noel. You've got a niggling little feeling he's waiting for either devastation or applause.

You don't give him either.

Just sit perplexed, brow pulled low, waiting for more.

And he gives you it, because he's Noel — the fucking master of drama and excess, and you knew he would.

"He loves you, you know."

"What?"

"He loves you." He repeats, as though it's the most flippant thing in the world, "God's sake, Wood, everybody knows."

And before you can react, he's already up.

And before you can scramble to your feet, with a bellowing, "KNOW'S WHAT, NOEL?!" the irritating little shithead is already halfway across the carpark, replying only in shrugs.

You've got no fucking idea who or what he's referring to.

But the abrupt tightness in your chest feels a bit like both panic /and/ hope.

---

You watch him, watching the sunrise.

Little shafts of infant orange light sliding through the gaps in the blinds, slicing across a face swollen tender and bruised.

Little specks of dust caught in the up-draft, sparkling in the early rays like swirls of glitter in front of his eyes.

Little consistent mechanical beeps, muffled into melody, reminding you both where you are.

He doesn't talk.

You reason it probably hurts too much to open his mouth.

Or he's embarrassed. Regretful and ashamed of himself.

(You hope so.)

He knows you're there, though.

Leaning in the doorway to his private room. Arms folded. A man ready to take on the world.

He knows you're there, because you can tell from the way his head's positioned at a complete ninety degree angle towards the window and away from the door, doing his best to avoid eye contact and avoid your inevitable onslaught.

You want to be mad at him.

You want to shout.

It's all there, building tension in your stiff, squared shoulders and clenched, set jaw.

You wanna tell him he's an ignorant, selfish, intolerable arsehole. You wanna scream and call him every derogatory insulting name you can think of.

You wanna give him a bruise to match the black eye on the right side. You wanna demand he man the fuck up.

And he's waiting for it.

You know he is.

Because /he/ knows /you/.

But for some reason the words are sticky.

For some reason, propped up in a hospital bed, narrow shoulders and bird-like collarbones, pale and sickly and wretched and worn, Elvis — Mr. Big Mouth and Bigger Ego, Mr. Big Dreams and Big Grand Tragic Fucking Gestures to Break Your Heart Apart — looks /small/.

And it occurs to you that you never really thought of him as something transient, something mortal, something with a finite amount of resources before.

Your best mate is — and always has been — invincible.

(You both are.)

"I thought I'd lost you." It's out before you realise. Soft-spoken. All feeling.

A sentence you immediately wish you could scoop back into your mouth and replace with the spitting confrontation that you really want.

It hangs heavy in the air between you. Sentimental words like an awkward gift neither one of you wanna take home.

Until Elvis closes his eyes.

And bows his neck.

And replies at a length, voice no more than a fractured half sob in the back of his throat, "I thought I'd lost you, too, man... I thought I'd lost you both..."

--

Your coat pockets rattle with Elvis's painkillers, when you take him home on day three.

He's not better, but he's managing (not complaining) and you make a pointed effort to drive extra slow over all of the speed bumps to minimise his stoic wincing.

You think he appreciates it.

You're not so sure he appreciates you driving straight by his house without stopping, though.

And you're not so sure he appreciates you pulling up in your mum's driveway, instead.

And he /definitely/ doesn't appreciate the patronising glare you gift him.

"You're stayin' wi' me for a bit."

He responds with a questioning pull of eyebrows and you elaborate, gruffly. "I want you where I can keep an eye on yer. You're fucked if you think I'm leavin' you on yer own with a shit ton of morphine."

He waits in the car while you climb out, then saunter round to his side.

Through the windscreen, hunkered and half scowling, he reminds you of that sulking kid, eleven winters ago, who smacked a busy in the face and got you both arrested.

You wish your world was that simple, that straight-forward and innocent, again.

"I'm not gonna off meself, if that's what ya think." He grumbles, when you open the door for him.

Leaning down, anchoring an arm around his back for stability, your reply's muffled in a lank mess of unwashed hair as Elvis lifts himself slowly, cringing. "Don't believe a word that comes outta your mouth lately, mate."

In the house, your mum fusses, naturally.

In the house, Elvis huffs and puffs and pretends he hates it.

You busy yourself upstairs, making up the spare bed in Chantelle's old room, smirking.

Your mum's always doted on Elvis like he's her own son.

And Elvis has always secretly loved the way she's a mum who'll actually /hug/ him.

Later, as you help him up to the bedroom, taking one stair every two minutes because he won't let you carry him (you tried. And you're counting.) he shakes his head in frustration, then elbows you in the ribs.

"I don't /want/ ya lookin' after me."

It's biting. Viscious. Like the last warning snarls of a wounded animal caught helpless in a snare. And it hurts you. Not because he's ungrateful or thankless, or because you've gone to all this trouble and he doesn't give a shit (you can deal with that, you've had a lifetime of it.) But because even after everything he's been through this month, after everything with Mattie and the fight and almost ending up dead, Elvis /still/ won't drop the bravado, /still/ won't be kind enough to allow himself to be /weak/.

You pull him tighter against your side. Lift the majority of his weight as he clutches at his stomach and braves the next step.

"Yeah well, I didn't wanna come save your arse from bein' buried six feet under at three in the mornin' 'cos Elways is incapable of thinkin' like a human bein', an' I don't /particularly/ fancy standin' about 'ere for three hours while you climb these bleedin' stairs, but sometimes — me lil fuckwit of a friend, you just 'ave to put up with shit."

---

You fetch it. All of Elvis's shit. Trudge up the street to what little remains of the Ianson family household, tooled with a clumsily scrawled list of everything he 'needs'.

Phone charger.

Laptop.

Crap to wear.

That one big tattered poster of Joan Jett that you're convinced is even older than him.

"I'm not bringin' yer entire wank bank." You'd told him, earlier that morning, when he'd swapped the list for a tray of your mum's breakfast in bed.

"Oh, come on," He'd whined, puppy-eyed even above a mouthful of scrambled eggs and pointing a fork to the Westlife collage completely covering one bedroom wall — a fading ode to Chantelle's obsessively romantic teenage years (years in which you'd had to accompany her to more than one of their shitty concerts, because your mum had /insisted/. Years in which you'd been needlessly excited when you discovered a picture of Alex Turner as her phone wallpaper, only to have your heart broken when she'd admitted she didn't like his band, and only had it there cos she /fancied/ him...), "I can't sit lookin' at those grinnin' paddy twats all day, I'll do meself in."

And so that's you, off to pick up clean clothes and electronics and fucking Joan Jett.

And that's you, anxiously pressing the Ianson's doorbell and hoping Elvis's mum actually lets you in.

As a kid, you'd never really liked her.

As a kid, you'd been convinced that dislike went both ways.

And as a kid, your Chantelle referred to her as 'the witch' on account of the sharp nose and cutting cheekbones Elvis later grew to inherit.

And growing up, Elvis's name for her had been solely 'the bitch'.

Nowadays though, you think you understand her.

Nowadays, you think you kinda get it.

After suffering four miscarriages and an unfortunate cot death, there's only so much of Elvis one mother's nerves can take.

When she opens the front door, however, you're surprised at her immediate inclination of head, gesturing for you to come in. And when you step into the living room, you're surprised to find a sofa scattered with Elvis's belongings. 

"I packed up a few bits I thought he might want. Clean clothes, toothbrush, computer... things..." Elvis's mum is so quiet you can barely hear her and she doesn't look you in the eye when she speaks. "Probably loads of stuff I missed, though. So you're welcome to go upstairs and pick up anything else you think he needs. You'll know better than I do. I don't know anything about him these days..."

Half an hour later, after you've fished Elvis's phone charger from the colony of wild socks underneath his bed and return downstairs with Joan Jett rolled up under an armpit, you find his mum in the kitchen, hunched tense over a cup of tea at the table, head in her hands and biting at a trembling bottom lip.

"He's gonna be alright, ya know." You tell her. Reasoning she needs to hear it. Reasoning some fucker has to be the one who remains positive.

She sniffs and nods. Twitches a thin smile. Doesn't look up at you, though. You reason she's likely just too broken for it.

"I know..." She eventually whispers on an exhale's fragile edge, "I know he's safe with you. You've always been a good influence on him. You looked after him so well when you were kids..."

(...when you were /kids/.)

"That's right." You step towards her. Crouch beside the table so you're at eye level. So she has no choice but to look at you. No choice but to see that you're /sincere/.

You've got this. You're Dominic.

"An' just 'cos he's a grown man now, doesn't mean I 'ave any intention of stoppin'..."

--

You're going to be the death of each other.

You've always known it.

Only it hits you a little bit harder when you find him sitting on the back step, kitchen door to the garden wide open, freezing his arse off in nothing but boxers and his leather jacket ‪at three o'clock‬ in the morning.

The urge for a piss had seen you glancing through his ajar bedroom door on your bleary eyed shuffle down the hallway, and it hadn't been until you'd finished in the bathroom that it twigged there hadn't actually /been/ anyone in his bed.

Now there's a thin strip of bruised knotted spine between leather and elastic that you wish you couldn't see, and you're standing six feet away, shivering in your t-shirt and Calvins.

"What's up?" You ask, when you've stood a bit too long, when you're certain he's waiting for you to say something, "Shit the bed?"

A plume of grey anorexic smoke. "Go back to sleep." And the hem of his jacket riding up to expose tattered ends of messy bandages haphazard with curling surgical tape.

He won't allow you to dress his wound. He'll barely let you touch him, these days. But he's sitting in your back doorway at an ungodly hour, wearing nothing but that stupid fucking jacket he left on the wing mirror of your car, so that must account for /something/.

Unable (and a little bit unwilling) to go back to sleep, you do what any discerning English gentleman would do in this situation.

You stick the kettle on.

Make tea.

Then join him out on the back step, trying to ignore the way it's so cold your nuts have practically crawled back up into your body.

"Red moon." He says, flatly, swinging the last third of his cig your way.

You take it. A straight trade for the cup of tea he wedges between grazed up knees.

Above you, hanging over the field at the end of your garden, where you and Elvis wore down the leather on footballs when you were kids, where you sprained countless ankles and wrists, because Elvis always played dirty — the United scum that he is — and where you laid the early foundations of a friendship later cemented in political fashions and music, a blood moon burns its warning.

The lunar eclipse. The end of days.

And, when you've crushed the cigarette filter into the concrete and your arse has gone numb from the cold on the step, when Elvis has drunk all of his tea and half of yours and you've both been quiet for ages, he hefts a sigh, leans back, angles up his chin and closes his eyes as though sunbathing. "What next?"

It's cryptic, like always, but you hear it — all the unspoken words overloading the single silent space in between.

The 'where do we go from here'.

The 'what does this mean'.

The 'sorry', maybe.

(Or perhaps you're just projecting.)

And you wish you had the answer.

You wish you had some security.

Wish his outburst hadn't caused you to lose your always certain, always steady footing.

Most of all though... most of all you wish you had something else to say other than, "I dunno, mate... You tell me."

--

You remember Glastonbury, '08.

Standing in a muddy field among hundreds of drunk festival goers while ‪The Verve‬ light up your Sunday. You're not dancing, you're not a bloke who does that sorta thing, but you've got your head thrown back and arms outstretched, soaking it all in. And Elvis — still wired from managing to blag a barrier position to see ‪Pete Doherty‬ on the Friday — is singing in your ear with an elbow hooked round your waist, and you're thinking (knowing, really) "I am a fucking 'Lucky Man', indeed."

You remember it being easier then.

(Happier, maybe.)

More manageable, definitely.

Even as you come across Noel later on, when you and Elvis stumble arm-in-arm back to your tent.

Noel who's come along to Glasto with you, but in true Elways style has quickly gone his own way. And who, after three days, is nothing but an indulgent mess of filthy bare feet, white jeans rolled up to the knees, rainbow body paint and strings upon strings of plaited daisy chains. Noel, who, on his way to fuck knows /who/ in fuck knows /where/, makes wanker gestures and shouts "who's on top, tonight, nancy boys??" when the sight of him running passed like some kind of Millennial-Woodstock reject has you and Elvis collapsing into one another, giggling.

You remember it being easier then.

(The word didn't sting.)

When it was just you and Elvis and sometimes, now and again, Noel Elways. Before that night down The Crown, when a five-foot-nothing blonde shoved in beside you at the bar, playing wing-woman for her scary best mate.

Before Noel and Specks. And Mattie and Elvis.

Before you could listen to ‪The Smiths‬ without thinking of a certain tacky knitwear obsessed artist.

And you wonder, if you were given the opportunity to go back in time, would you do it all differently?

And you wonder, if you could replay ‪Sunday night‬ at Glastonbury when you were nineteen — if you could rewind to that precise moment Elvis wrestled you down onto the tarpaulin, still cracking laughs on the back of Noel's comment, and jokingly suggested; "Ohhh, Dominic, KISS me." would you do it?

Probably... probably.

--

You're down town, flicking through the stacks in Sound on a Saturday, trying to find something decent to buy for Elvis as some sort of 'get well soon, ya twat' present, when he turns up.

You don't even need to see him, to know when he shows.

Because Liam Gaffney, Sound's sixteen-year-old weekend 'record assistant' and your own personal shopper, who's been trailing you about the aisles regurgitating every article he's read in this week's copy of NME word-for-word, standing way too close for comfort and constantly getting under your feet, suddenly exclaims, "JUDE!" so loud he almost bursts your ear drum, then rockets off in streaks of smiley faces and tie-dye.

You don't turn round. You don't even look up. Just slouch a bit further and sink your head a bit deeper, and strategically navigate your way towards the very back of the shop.

It doesn't really work. You're not sure why you bother. Sound's no bigger than a shoebox, so there's nowhere for you to hide at six foot two. You've also just gravitated into the Northern Soul corner, and if there's anyone who's gonna be browsing round that bit in a parka on a Saturday, it's you.

(Or Polly, you suppose.)

You hear snags of conversation between the gaps in the same Happy Mondays album Liam's /always/ got playing on repeat in the shop. (Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches. Released five years before he was born and playing over and over again every weekend for the last twelve months. You're surprised his manager hasn't broken it in two.)

"Saved summink special just for you, la..."

"How much you robbing me, this time..?"

"Jussa tenner now for you innit, like. But don't be tellin' 'em all, right. Mates rates an' that. Can't 'ave everyone wannin a bidda de Gaff..." And then, mixed with the ringing of a till and rustling of a carrier bag, "Cheers. Ta. Your Dom's over there, ya know."

And you /feel/ it.

The hesitation.

The weighing up of the odds.

The 'should we/should we not'.

But he's gotta keep up appearances in front of Gaffney.

(In front of the whole fucking world.)

You both do.

And so he's there, a few seconds later, leaning against the rack next to you, with a smile that's more like a grimace and an upward acknowledging nod, "Alright, mate."

"Alright."

"Anything good?"

"Not really. You?"

"Couple of bits. Just picking up some stuff Liam put behind the counter for me during the week." He doesn't offer to tell you what they are. Beyond Morrissey and The Beatles, yours and Julian's musical tastes don't overlap that much. He's long since gauged your disinterest. So instead, as you side step down the aisle to flip through the next stack, he offers up a sudden, "I heard about Elvis." in a tone somewhere between sympathetic and sore.

You pause in your browsing. Feel the muscle tense in your jaw. "Noel."

Of course. You should have known.

"Well, kinda." He shifts uncomfortably on the edge of your view, "He told Sara and Sara told me, so..."

"So, Mattie knows." Because of course Specks won't have thought to keep her big fat mouth shut. Because of course the news that Elvis nearly died just has to get back to the poor fucking girl.

Sometimes, you wonder if you're the only one in your group of mates who actually possesses forethought and common sense.

Sometimes, you wonder if you were beamed in from a completely different planet to them all.

Julian doesn't confirm or deny this information. And you know he's doing that irritating pacifist thing again, where he's dodging questions because he doesn't want anyone to get hurt.

There was a time, many naive months ago, when you mistakenly found this quality a bit endearing. And there was a time, many naive months ago, when it was quite nice to meet somebody who possessed a genuine moral code.

Funny how everything that was once attractive about him, bugs the absolute shit outta you now.

"How is she?" You ask. Because you've got manners. Because you do care. Because it's been way too long since you visited and there's guilt collecting in your gut like a reservoir. "Not good..." he says.

(Not long, you hear.)

"I'll visit." You say.

"You should." He nods. And then, when the small talk's over and you've both put on enough of a show, "I should get off, anyway. I'm meeting Polly round the gallery at two. Don't wanna be too late. /Scary/ that girl."

"Right, yeah, course. Don't piss 'er off, will you."

As he turns to leave, relief allows your teeth to un-clench.

And as he turns to leave you think 'thank fuck'.

Only for him to suddenly turn back again with a mumbling, "Uhm, actually... Dom..." frowning and rifling through his Sound carrier bag and catching you completely off guard.

You don't know what to say when he slides out a copy of Radiohead's album 'The Bends'. And you don't know what to say when he slides it into your hand, track-listing side up, a paint-stained fingernail bullet-pointing 'High and Dry' just a little bit too long.

"Really good on vinyl, that one." He offers, looking you in the eye for the first time since he entered the shop, "Just so you know..."

--

You spend the rest of the weekend conjuring a tension headache from the furrow in your brow, stomping about the house and grunting like a Neanderthal whenever Elvis or your Mum try to strike up conversation. Because you know what Julian's implying. You know exactly what he's trying to say. You've heard High and Dry so much on the radio at work you're pretty sure you've absorbed every inch of it's meaning.

And you know you're a dickhead. You know you're struggling with this. You feel like you're fucking drowning, most days.

You don't need a reminder of your shortcomings.

So when Elvis confronts you, late ‪Sunday evening‬, you're laying across your bed pressing the heels of your hands into your eyeballs, trying to push the aches out of your skull.

"What's up wi' you, mard arse? You on your period?"

"Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

Creaks on the floorboards. The soft brush of sliding cardboard. Paper, crinkling. And you know.

You - "Put that back."

Him - "Get lost."

The whir of the arms rotation. A dull drop of the needle. Static that reminds you of air before a thunderstorm.

"At least turn it down."

To your surprise, when the music kicks in there's no frenetic drumbeat, no growling bass or snarling guitar Elvis always favours, though.

Just the gentle lullaby notes of Lennon's white grand piano backed with that warm, vintage vinyl hiss you've always loved. And when you move your hands, Elvis is smirking. And when your frown starts to let up, he flops down beside you on the bed, deeming close proximity safe once more.

He lays in silence next to you with his eyes closed. Not touching. But near enough.

Just a presence.

A reminder.

("I am here for you, you know.")

And it takes a while - three songs in fact - but by the closing notes of 'Jealous Guy' you don't feel like you want him to fuck off any more.

"D'ya ever worry you're turnin' into your old man?" You surprise yourself with your honesty. It suddenly feels as though you've been carrying the weight of your entire twenty-one-year existence on your back at all times and now you're unpacking it, one hoarded forgotten object at a time.

Elvis huffs a laugh, "What? No? Worried about turnin' into me Mam, more.” It takes a few moments for him to clock on, but when you stare at the ceiling in silence he figures it out, "You're nothing like your Dad, man."

"I don't know..." the hands are at your eyes again, the bridge of your nose feels sore, "...I wouldn't be so sure."

You try to explain the rage dwelling deep inside of you. The ruthless aggression stamped like a branding into your bones. The way that every day feels like being stranded in the middle of a war zone, fighting uselessly between what you want and what you /are/.

You were made in your father's image. And while you want to believe that you're not a bad person, you know -- inherently -- that you are.

"Why don't you go and see him?" Elvis suggests, when the words have run out and you're not sure how to put your tormented thoughts into comprehensible sentences any more.

"Are you havin' a laugh?" The thought tightens like a pair of hands around your throat.

"Seriously, mate," he continues, "If nothing else it'll remind you just how different you’ve become..."

--

You're eight.

You're eight, when you ram Sareem Akhtar's face into the school gates and leave him needing four stitches in his eyebrow.

You don't remember why you do it. You're not sure you really have a good excuse. Elvis recalls something about him pulling Chantelle's ponytail to get her attention and kicking it all off, but in all honesty you'd been searching for a reason to batter him for weeks. Maybe even months.

You'd just been waiting for him to put a toe out of line and get on your nerves. Because you don't like his face.

Don't like the colour of his skin.

And he regrets it, whatever he did.

Because when he's curled on the concrete in a puddle of his own blood, and you're standing over him spitting "dirty paki cunt!" with half the school crowded round behind you, he wails his little heart out, the poor sod.

And when Chantelle — the fucking loudmouth, blabs about it all when you get home, your Mum shouts til her face turns tomato then sends you straight to your bedroom.

But your Dad, sitting in his chair by the telly, hunched over shining his Docs, just listens silently and smirks.

That night, Chantelle, Mercedes and Chelsea all climb into your bed.

That night, Natalie and Rachel — the two eldest — stand at the top of the stairs earwigging as your Mum and Dad fight. "It's about you, bro." Natalie calls down the hall.

And Chelsea — the only sister in your bed not currently curled up in your arms and sobbing into your neck, huffs a scathing, "Fuck's sake, it's /always/ about you!" then throws the duvet over her head as she turns her back.

Your Mum spends the next morning crying in the kitchen.

Your Dad thumps about the bedroom, stuffing clothes into bags.

And when you pause in the doorway, frowning.

(Worrying)

He gestures you in, then tugs you into a gruff hug.

"Proud o' you." His chest rumbles against your face as he holds you tight, rubbing the top of your shaved head, "So fucken proud, son."

You don't hug him back. You don't know how, or even if you should. The most affection you've ever had from your Dad is a clout round the ear. And he's always beat it into you not to be soft.

He's never — not once — told you he's proud of you before.

So when he pulls away and holds out his hand, old National Front tattoo faded to a red and blue smudge on his palm, you stand there a bit clueless until he grabs yours.

"Take care o' yer Mam an' sisters." He says. And it's not a request, but a command. "An' take care o' these bad boys." He goes on, plucking up your other hand, balling your fingers into fists and kissing each set of knuckles in turn, "Your best mates for life, these two. "

And then, as the realisation dawns on you.

As you become suddenly startlingly conscious of the massive fucking shoes you're required to fill.

"Don't you dare cry, lad. Don't wanna see none of those tears, now. Not today an' not ever. Understand? You're a fighter. You're not a puff an' yer not soft. You're a proud Englishman, born and bred. Hard as nails. An' yer /my/ son."

--

You knew he'd bounce back.

Week three and Elvis is out in your back garden, playing footie with all your nieces and nephews. Getting tackled into the grass by seven boisterous five-to-ten year olds. Getting tickled half to death and mass sat upon. Much to the delight of the toddlers, Poppy and Rose, who are parked in a double pushchair by the back door and gleefully smearing chocolate biscuits all over each other from the excitement of it all.

You're gazing out the window above the sink, over a mountain of soapy bubbles, while Chantelle stands next to you, armed with a dishtowel, the pair of you reenacting the ‪Sunday afternoon‬ duties from when you were young.

"He'd make a great Dad, you know." She says, as Elvis suddenly leaps up roaring, sending the kids scattering in fits of screeched giggles across the yard.

"He's engaged." You remind her. Reacting on autopilot.

A deterrent.

(Or he was. At one point.)

"I wasn't implying anythin', ya div. I don't /fancy/ him. I'm not after his /babies/, Dom. Just pointin' out he's good wi' kids, that's all."

"Well, obviously..." You direct your attention back to the washing up, "'cos he never bleedin' grew up."

It's quiet for a bit. Just the sound of you scraping the remainders of a steak pie off the bottom of a baking pan, Elvis mimicking a T-Rex outside and the muffled audio of the telly from the next room.

Until, "You'd make a great Dad, too."

And you're not sure if she's saying it because she believes you — like Elvis — have a special way with children, or because you — unlike your own Dad ��� stuck around to actually look after your sisters and your Mum. But either way it's honest. And either way it's a thought that both surprises and scares you.

"We're two players down for Elvis's football team." She goes on, grinning to herself. "When're me and you gonna contribute?"

"Never." You grunt, "I'm not 'avin kids. At least not after how /we/ grew up..." And then, because the opportunity's right there. Because the conversation's wide open. Because you know you'll regret it if you don't seize the moment. "I'm gonna go see him, ya know."

And Chantelle looks up at you, pencil thin dark brows pulled low beneath a poker straight curtain of yellow-blonde. "Who?"

"Dad. On Wednesday. Called the Visitor Centre last week an' they rang me back with his confirmation this mornin', so..."

"Oh..."

She's silent then, for ages.

So are you.

She stares at the plates slotted into the draining rack and you stare down at the bubbles enclosed round your hands.

Outside, Elvis performs keepie-ups for his adoring crowd.

When your sister speaks again her voice is quiet, /thin/, "You sure that's a good idea?"

And you huff a sardonic laugh, "Hah. No. But I have to... It's somethin' I /need/ to do."

You know she doesn't understand your mysterious, undisclosed motive and in all honesty, you don't expect her to. As far as Chantelle's concerned — as far as all of your sisters are concerned for that matter — your old man is just a cunt who abandoned his family right when they needed him the most.

And you know Chelsea, who was always closest to your Dad and who's never quite gotten over it all, still pins a large fraction of the blame on you.

Chantelle, though...

Chantelle's always fought in your corner. Even if she does have a massive gob on her that's got you into shit more than once.

"Anythin' you want me to tell him?" You ask, when you realise she's not gonna pursue the conversation any further on her own, "Got anythin' you want me to say from you?"

And at first she shakes her head. At first she scrunches her little pig-like upturned nose in disgust.

Until suddenly her face changes, and her jaw squares and her brow crumples into a scowl just like yours, and she looks you straight in the eyes and goes, "Yeah... Yeah, actually, I do... Tell him I hope he never gets parole. Tell him I said he deserves to sit in that cell 'til he /rots/."

---

You won't let him wonder 'what if?'. It's not something you're going to allow.

Because you know that feeling. You live with that uncertain wondering — the sometimes wishful thinking — every day of your life. And you know it's no good.

No good for you.

No good for Elvis.

So when he starts uhm-ing and ahh-ing and bitching and moaning and making excuses that are a bit light on their facts, you pick him up. Physically, pick him up. Then carry him, bridal-style, out to your car.

There's nothing even remotely fucking romantic in it, not when you're struggling to restrain him cos he's kicking off and mouthing off while simultaneously trying to knee you in the jaw. And not when you're dumping him carelessly on the backseat with zero concern for his comfort, then kicking closed the auto-locking door.

"I'm not fuckin' goin'!" His boots ramrod your backrest as you twist the key in the ignition then reverse out of the yard.

"Get a beef on all you want, mate," you say, flashing a nonchalant look in the rear mirror, briefly eyeing your bristling barb-wired boy hunkered in the reflection, all tongue and teeth and too much gum, "it's not gonna change anything. You're goin' to see her and that's that."

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, Elvis sits sullen and sulking and refusing to get out of the car.

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, you grab him by the scruff of his jacket and haul him out.

"She doesn't wanna see me!" He protests as you frog-march him down the garden path.

"How the fuck d'you know?"

"I don't wanna see her!" He insists when you're the one knocking on the door. "You can't kid a kidder, man."

And then, when you're pushing him into the Linnington family's living room like a reluctant toddler, pressing your mouth to his ear and a ring into his palm, "I'll come back in a few hours when you've sorted it out."

"Wait, what?! Wood! No!" And when he spins to face you he's less agitated, more helpless. Just big childlike worried eyes and incapable pleading hands. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't go!"

Because you're better at fixing shit that's damaged than he is.

Because you're the one who's always puzzled back together all the shattered pieces of his life before.

Because he's fucking terrified of his own inevitably built up, inevitably broken, perpetually battered, rapscallion heart.

"I can't, mate. Sorry." You've got an appointment at Strangeways in an hour. Today, both you and you best mate are facing up to shit in your lives that hurt. "It's all you now, son. Just you..."

---

You remember Elvis' first month at university.

Not because he tells you about it — but rather, because he doesn't.

There are no text messages. No phone calls. No voice mails left in the stupid hours of the morning when he can't sleep because he's bitten his own wild mind bleeding and raw.

And you don't call him. You want to. You pull his name up in your mobile's address book and sit with your thumb hovering over the 'call' button more times than you care to recount, but you don't do it.

Because not too long ago, you laid side-by-side, the world growing slowly beneath your bones, as you stared up at the stars. And you'd told Elvis you'd visit. Told him you'd come down all the time to hang out. But since helping him move into the flat — since you hauled four bags of crap and guitar up the stairs while he arsed about getting to know his new friend 'Noel', he hasn't invited you to come over once.

And you're not the type to drop in on somebody /uninvited/.

And you reason he's likely found a whole crew of mates cooler than you, by now. He always was the popular one.

So when Elvis does finally call you, howling laughter down the line like a wolf, before informing you that he and Noel are planning to throw their very first 'party' and asks you to come along, you realise you're probably just trying to spite him when you tell him that you can't.

You're covering a late shift that particular Friday for a guy at work, you say. Then an early shift the following Saturday morning.

"Sorry, mate. No can do."

And Elvis lets out a sigh so full of disappointment, you can practically hear him deflate on the other end, like a balloon.

"Aw, Wood... Seriously? Really wanted you to be there... It's not the same without you, you know..."

And it's not so much that you're jealous of all Elvis' new mates getting to spend time with him — you swear you're not.

More that you're just envious of Elvis himself, with this exciting new life unfurling at his feet, full of incredible opportunities that you can never have.

And yet... despite your excuses, despite the fact you know you're not going to enjoy it, despite the way you know you're gonna hate everyone, you still find yourself picking out and ironing a decent shirt the night before...

At Elvis and Noel's, it's all bodies.

Bodies clustered round the entrance doors to the building, smoking. Bodies dotting the stairwell, half throwing up. Reams of philanthropically drunk teenagers spilling out of the flat and down the hall.

You have to step over a couple wrapped around each other on the floor, doing thorough investigations of one anothers back molars, before you can get in through the door.

"Thought you had to work?"

A nip on your right arse cheek, hard enough to hurt, incites both a yelp and a warning bare of teeth as you spin around.

It's Elvis. Obviously.

Elvis, all crinkled laughing eyes and lolling teasing tongue and ballsy rogue-like hands that tear the world in two.

"Brought you a present." You say, conveniently side-stepping away from your excuse.

His attention is immediately diverted as you lift up the carrier bag from the off license.

His  smile slides into the corner of his mouth. "How thoughtful of you, Wood."

And you know that he knows it was all a lie. And you know that he knows exactly why.

Because he knows you, just as intimately as you know him.

But he's not going to challenge it.

You know that, too.

Elvis doesn't take the bag holding the six pack. Just rustles about, peels a can from the ring-holder and cracks open the tab. Around you, the bustling crowd in the flat churns like whirlpool.

"Made a lotta new friends." You remark.

It's not a surprise. Everyone has always known and loved Elvis. He makes it too difficult /not/ to.

"Lotta new birds, you mean." He grins, leaning conspiratorially forward.

Elvis is all warm body and cold can, and you're not sure if the goosebumps erupting on your arms are from the chill of the Carlsberg suddenly pressed against your chest, or the close proximity of his mouth.

"Come on. Lemme introduce you."

And while you'd like to believe that when he hauls you round the flat by the arm, parading you proudly from one cluster of party-goers to the next, beaming "Remember when I was tellin' ya 'bout me best mate, Dom?" and "Have ya had the honour of meeting me best boy, here, Wood?" at anyone who'll lend an ear for a second — you know, deep down, he's doing it because he knows you're unbelievably jealous of all of this. And you know, deep down, he wants to make you feel included. Like you're important. Show you off. Make you a part of all this too.

Because while he's laughably blind to things sometimes, (most times), Elvis isn't stupid.

And while he sometimes (a lot of the time) suffers from tunnel-vision, Elvis isn't selfish.

And by parading you about like a trophy, excitedly introducing you to all of his new friends, sharing funny anecdotes from when the two of you were young and making you sound much cooler and put together than you really are — he's resetting the balance. Cleverly easing away your anxiety and re-establishing your existence as the centre of his universe.

And later, in the quiet moments when the night's not quite over but all the frayed seams of the party are starting to gently come undone, he lays next to you, horizontally, on the sofa, legs hooked over the armrest, head on your thigh.

Across the room, Noel's wedged into an armchair with a girl on his lap. She's giggling. He's grinning. And then he's saying something you can't hear into the exposed skin of her collarbone, as he slides both hands beneath her skirt.

"How does he do that?"

You assume Elvis is not commenting on Noel's fingering technique.

(You hope he isn't.)

And that Elvis really means how does Noel /pull/.

You shrug. "Low standards." You suppose, you don't exactly know him much, "Surprising how much you can put it about when you don't care where it ends up."

Elvis' hair brushes your knuckles as you pick up the can wedged between your knees, then bring it your mouth.

"That why Dom Junior's not allowed out to play? Standards too high for the common woman?" He snatches your drink before you're done. And you don't think you're imagining it when you drop your hand and he leans his head into you, tangling hair around your fingers as though seeking out your touch.

"/Impossibly/ high standards." You say, looking down.

At him.

Your firecracker. Your minefield. Your thunderstorm.

Effortless and ignorant here, with a slowly sideways slipping smile and head in your lap.

Your best mate stacking another /feeling/ onto that emotional pile of dry kindling still waiting for a spark.

The teasing — mildly flirtatious — half-panting tongue is back.

"I know, I know," he banters, "it's not every day you run into a bird as perfect as I am."

[belwrites]

12 nurseydex pleeeease

ask and u shall receive

12: the one where soulmates can heal each other’s injuries. (Send me a prompt from this list!)

TW: blood but not a graphic amount

Nursey thinks that sophomore year has softened Dex in the best possible way. He thinks about preseason, when they had that first dance party of the year in the dressing room and Dex actually danced a little bit instead of just bopping his head while sitting in his stall. He thinks about how he spends more and more time in the kitchen as the semester goes on, and how week by week, his laptop and textbooks become more and more abandoned on the table because he’s getting up to help Bitty. 

Nursey likes watching Dex help Bitty. It’s a lot like watching him fix the dryer or work on coding, when it’s not tedious, when Dex is actually enjoying it. Between the less-pronounced Maine accent that Dex speaks with once he’s been away from home long enough, and Bitty’s southern lilt that he can’t seem to bro-out the way Jack can bro-out his French, Nursey could practically fall asleep on the table, their voices are so soothing. Add in the rhythmic sounds of someone mixing, whisking, slicing, and rolling -- yeah, he’s done for.

Which is probably why he doesn’t notice right away when Dex slices the tip of his finger. The initial hiss from the pain goes unnoticed, but then the swearing jerks Nursey right out of his reverie. 

“Run that under the tap,” Bitty says, guiding Dex with a hand on his elbow and another holding Dex’s injured hand up to stem the blood flow. Nursey jumps up and crosses the kitchen, sliding over the clean end of the island to maybe get there faster, but definitely for aesthetic (even if Dex is injured). Bitty’s so distracted by Dex’s bleeding finger that he doesn’t even yell at him for it.

“I think that’s gonna need stitches,” Bitty says when Dex pulls his finger out from under the stream. The cut immediately starts bleeding again. Nursey comes up around Dex’s other side and, for reasons passing his own understanding, takes the back of Dex’s hand in the palm of his own and brings his hand closer to look at the cut.

It immediately stops bleeding, and like magic before their eyes, the cut heals, skin perfect and pale like it was never cut in the first place.

“Oh, my,” Bitty breathes. 

Dex turns bright red. He yanks his hand back and turns and storms out of the kitchen and a second later, Bitty and Nursey hear the front door slam. 

“Oh, honey,” Bitty says, reaching for Nursey’s shoulder. Nursey lets him pat and fuss around him before grabbing his jacket off the chair nearest the island and heading for the door. “Nursey!”

Nursey doesn’t respond. Instead, he heads out the door and tries to skip the front steps on the way down, and instead, face-plants onto the sidewalk. 

He thinks his lip is bleeding and his nose and palms are scraped up but he doesn’t care, he’s got to follow Dex. He can see the flaming red hair all the way down the sidewalk, heading back towards campus. He takes off at a sprint, but slows to a jog almost immediately when his almost-definitely scraped up knee screams in protest.

“Dex!” Nursey shouts, trying to catch up. Dex doesn’t turn around. “Will! Wait!” 

He catches up and grabs him on the shoulder, pulling him around to face him. His palm stings against the fabric of Dex’s button-up. 

“Poindexter, what the fuck was that?” he demands. “Is it because I’m a guy and you’re ashamed? Because lemme tell you, that’s wicked uncool to pull that with Bits in the kitchen.”

“I don’t give a fuck about -- ugh, fuck you, Derek, I’m not some conservative homophobe,” Dex says, the tips of his ears getting red, except he doesn’t seem angry, he seems...embarrassed?

“Then what? Is it because it’s me? I know we only just started, like, being chill, but --” Nursey will not have a vulnerable moment on a sidewalk on Frat Row. That would not be chill.

“I was -- I didn’t want to find out --” he huffs. “I didn’t think that I would find out, and I didn’t think it was gonna be something so dumb like slicing my hand open.”

“Aw, babe,” Nursey says, reaching for Dex’s hands. Dex looks down at them.

“Nurse, what the hell,” he says, taking his hands in his own and looking at the suddenly healing scrapes on his palms. “What did you do?”

“I fell off the porch trying to catch up to you.”

“Nurse, you idiot,” Dex says, but he’s staring at Nursey’s nose and mouth and smiling a little. He pulls him in and kisses him right on the mouth. Nursey can feel the smile even as they kiss, and doesn’t even notice the dissipation of the pain as his lip heals.