#anyway Mr Ward why must your face be so hard to draw.

[raindropsonwhiskers]

Tzimisce time

[minor-solemnity]

Curiosity pt. 3

Marie’s footsteps fade and then it’s just the two of you. Immediately, Riddle’s concerned expression clears and he watches you with an annoyingly satisfied smirk lacing his annoyingly pretty features. “Well, this is interesting,” He says and you have to force yourself not to grimace. He must see something in your expression anyway because his smirk grows wider. “Turn out your pockets.”

“Just once more - explain to me exactly what it is that we’re attempting to do?” Maries asks from where she’s lounging against a statue opposite Mr Larkins office. You tilt your head to glare at her and studiously ignore her huff of laughter as you return your attention to the task at hand.

The task at hand being trying (and so far, failing) to break into Mr Larkins office. You’re kneeling on the floor outside the door, tapping the wood with your wand in a methodical order. You’re not exactly sure what protection charms he’s put in place but whatever he’s done, it’s solid work. “As it’s clearly eluded you, we’re trying to get into Larkins office. And you didn’t have to come, Marie. You could have just stayed in the dorm and caught up on your charms homework.” 

“Oh, you’re right I could have done that, but this is so much more interesting.” She counters, “Or it would be if you could get into his office. I thought you said you’ve done this before.” You let out a short growl of frustration and she laughs again. The door to the office remains firmly locked. “But okay, we’re trying to break into the Quidditch teacher’s office. Care to share, why? I know you hate quidditch, but this seems a little extreme, doesn’t it?”

“I have. He’s changed the wards. Paranoid bastard.” Though really, can he be called paranoid if he was correct in his assumption that someone would try and break in? You sigh and rest your head against the wooden door, trying to calm down and temper your frustration. Wardbreaking is mostly concentration and patience and you know that getting angry will only increase the time it took to get the door open. “We’re breaking in because Larkins hasn’t been completely honest about what he gets up to in his spare time.” You say, at last, deciding that it's best to keep things as vague as possible. 

You love Marie dearly, and you don’t want her to get into trouble just because you can’t let things go. If someone catches you, you’re going to be in so much trouble. Breaking curfew is one thing, breaking curfew to rummage around in a teacher’s desk is something else entirely.

In response, she hums, clearly dissatisfied with your evasion but unwilling to call you out on it just yet. “Have you tried a hairpin?” She asks suddenly. You blink and turn to stare at her, your forehead creasing in confusion. At your expression, Marie rolls her eyes and her hands reach to pat at her hair for a second before she pulls two hairpins from her braid. “Move.” She mutters and flaps her hands at you until you scoot out of her way. She fiddles with the lock for a minute or two and you keep a careful watch on the corridor, not that it would make much difference if a Prefect or Professor were to arrive. Distantly, you hear a click and Marie turns to you with a broad grin, “I swear to god, sometimes you just need to do things the old fashioned way, honestly.”

Mr Larkins office is just as you remembered it being. There are a bunch of quidditch posters pasted on the walls, spare brooms and quaffles stacked haphazardly in the corner, and his desk is overflowing with lesson plans, match timetables and diagrams of different flying manoeuvres. Marie looks around with vague curiosity and settles down against the door. At your questioning look she rolls her eyes, “Well, seeing as you seem intent on keeping your best friend in the dark about what you’re up to, I hardly see how I’m going to be much help.” Which… fair enough, honestly. You have no intention of sharing more than you have to.

You give the room a quick once over before turning your attention to the desk. Unlike the door, the first drawer you try opens with ease. “Arrogant idiot,” You murmur as you rifle through the documents you find. There are few articles about the new League rules but nothing of interest. The next two drawers reveal much the same and you feel the frustration returning as you pull open the last drawer left. Inside is a thick folder and you feel your heart sing with triumph. “This is it,” You whisper as you thumb through the file with increasing anticipation. “Geminio,” You murmur tapping the folder with the tip of your wand and stuffing the replica version back in the draw. Next, you transfigure the original folder into a quill and turn to Marie. “Right, let’s get out of here.”

“You know, I am always going to be jealous of your Transfiguration skills,” She says, gesturing to the quill that you’re tucking into the inside pocket of your robes. 

You roll your eyes and move to open the door, “Don’t be ridiculous, Transfiguration and Charms are all I have going for me.” And it’s true, Transfiguration and Charms aside, your grades are severely lacking. You had, at one point hoped to go into Cursebreaking, but that was before you’d found out that you need Os in Defence and Potions for that, as well as a penis. You scowl thinking about the injustice of being denied your chosen career path just because of your gender and are so deep in thought that you almost don’t hear Marie’s hiss of surprise as you leave Larkins’ office. 

Lounging against the same statue that Marie had been just a half-hour previously, is Tom Riddle. He raises an eyebrow as you and Marie stare at him. Dread trickles down your spine at his expression. To anyone else watching the scene unfold, Riddle looks like a prefect who is incredibly disappointed to find students stumbling out of a teacher’s office past curfew, but you don’t miss the slight curl of his upper lip or the flash of satisfaction in his eyes. Slowly, as though he hasn’t a care in the world, he pushes himself off of the statue and brings himself up to his full height. He’s at least half a foot taller than you and you find yourself once again having to tilt your head back to see his face. Besides you, Marie stands, eyes downcast, hands trembling slightly. 

“I do hope you have a good reason for this. Breaking into a professor’s office after curfew could well be grounds for expulsion.” He murmurs and despite the lowness pitch of his voice, it rings out clearly in the quiet of the corridor. Marie makes a sound in the back of her throat that could be a whimper. Riddle’s gaze slides towards her and his expression changes briefly. You think he might be refraining from rolling his eyes. “As it stands, I would hate to have that on my conscience, we are so close to graduating, after all. And Miss Dawkins, you are a muggleborn, are you not? I imagine it would be difficult for you to find work if you were to leave Hogwarts without your NEWTs.” Marie goes completely still.

Panic flares white-hot in your chest at his words. What Riddle is saying is completely true; it would be difficult for either of you to truly succeed in the wizarding world but you’d probably be okay… You’re half-blood and your family affords you some cushioning, but Marie… Marie would not do well. “Riddle, you can’t,” You say and hate the pleading edge to your words. This would be your fault. Marie wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your inability to leave things alone… Well no, you had told her not to come and she had insisted but regardless, you were the one who wanted that folder and she would be the one to suffer should the worse come to pass.

Riddle shakes his head and sighs. “And I have no intention to, but I will have to dock points. And you both have detention for the rest of the term.” Marie breathes out a deep sigh of relief. “Miss Dawkins, go back to your dorms now.” His tone brooks no argument and after a brief pause, Marie nods and turns to leave, but not before thanking Riddle for his kindness and understanding. “No need to thank me, Miss Dawkins, just please, no more sneaking around after dark.” 

Marie’s footsteps fade and then it’s just the two of you. Immediately, Riddle’s concerned expression clears and he watches you with an annoyingly satisfied smirk lacing his annoyingly pretty features. “Well, this is interesting,” He says and you have to force yourself not to grimace. He must see something in your expression anyway because his smirk grows wider. “Turn out your pockets.”

You do so, revealing a couple of hair ties, your wand, your fucking history essay of all things, and the quill. He frowns and you smile sweetly at him, silently pleased with his frustration. He turns to look at you and you almost want to shrink away from the intensity in his eyes. “What did you find in the office?” He asks and any amusement in his voice has faded, replaced by a hardness that promises consequences should you lie.

“Nothing.” You snap and thank Merlin your voice doesn’t shake. “There wasn’t anything in there. If there had been, obviously I would have taken it.” You can tell immediately that he doesn’t believe you. His eyes search yours which such scrutiny that this time you do look away, staring at the statue behind him determinedly.

“You’re lying. I don’t appreciate being lied to,” He pauses and some emotion that you don’t have time to decipher flickers across his face before it’s snuffed out and the collected facade that he usually wears is back in place. It’s sort of fascinating watching him school his emotions with such skill and control. The next time he speaks, there’s no anger or frustration to be heard in his voice. “Why are you so interested in Mr Larkins office? And please, don’t forget the situation you’ve found yourself in.” The unspoken threat is clear and it's only Marie’s precarious position that stops you from telling him to fuck off.

Resigned, you stare at the ceiling and say flatly, “Larkins was really against letting Stephanie, or any other witch, play on the house teams. I found out something about him that was enough to make him reconsider. I was looking for more evidence to make sure that he didn’t go back on his decision.” It’s as close to the truth as you’re willing to tell him. Now that he knows part of the story, it probably wouldn’t do any more damage to tell him the rest of it, but the thought rankles you and you stubbornly don’t want to divulge any information.

To your surprise, Riddle doesn’t press you for more information. Instead, he’s looking at you with something akin to puzzlement marring his features. “You don’t care about quidditch, why would you care if girls are allowed to play or not? Is Miss Kirkdale doing something for you in return?”

It’s your turn to look confused and you’re dimly aware that you probably look ridiculous as you stare at him slightly slack-jawed. “No? Why would she do… Stephanie is my friend, Riddle. You do have those, don’t you?” He raises an eyebrow as if to indicate that yes, he does have friends, and no, you’re not making sense. “Stephanie won’t be able to play in any League if she doesn’t even have experience playing for her house,” You explain slowly, “I don’t care about quidditch, but she does and I can do something to help her so…” You trail off a little helplessly. Why was that the most confusing part of it all for him? Surely he did stuff for his friends?

“You should go back to your dormitory,” Riddle says at last. The confusion is gone, carefully hidden, and if you hadn’t been the one having this conversation with him, you would have thought he’d been talking about something as mundane as the weather. You don’t need to be told twice however and you quickly stuff your items back into your robes and make to leave. Before you can walk two steps, however, he catches you by the wrist and suddenly, his voice, soft and low so close, “I will find out exactly what you’re hiding from me. I think by the end, you’ll probably want to tell me yourself.” If you shiver it’s because you’re unsettled. Not because you maybe want to find out exactly what he means.

You shake his hand off and hurry down the corridor towards the safety of your common room. You can still feel where his fingers had wrapped around your wrist long after you’ve gone to bed.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

[timextoxhajima]

HOSTIS, Chapter XIX: Rosa, Rose

Previous Chapter (XVIII: Renuntiatio)

Member: Lee Hyunjae (tbz)

Genre (by chapter): drama, FLUFF fucking finally and light smut

Category: Short Novel/Long Series

“you’ve been trying to get rid of me for 10 years... and look where that got us?”

the crack that you could’ve imagined splitting the sky into pieces was short-lived, but it stirred you in your sleep, nonetheless.

bright, white light flashes through your opening lids but your body takes too long to prepare itself for the loud, vehement clap. 

it sounded like someone had just thrown a bomb into the clouds.

you cower in fear at the call of mother nature, hands flying up to your ears as you push your head further into the pillow. there was some hint of sunlight spilling into the room, but that was the least of your concerns when the sky was trying to kill you.

a gentle, but firm force on your hips nearly warrants a harsh whack behind you if your hands weren’t preoccupied with covering your ears.

“stop being such a wuss,” barely opened eyes stirred under his lids, a left arm circling your waist as he pulls you closer to his chest. warmth was radiating off him as if the blanket you were nearly fully covered by wasn’t already keeping you safe from the outside world. “nothing’s going to happen to you, not while you’re here, at least.”

“ew, gro--” 

clap

mother nature literally screams at you to shut up, forcing you to ball up further into his skin. his hold around you tightens, and he pulls your right leg up over his hip, palm resting flat and soft on your thigh. 

“as much as i love to see you scared shitless, it sucks to know that i don’t ever want to see you scared like this alone.” 

the words run through your hair and you now notice your hands were balled up into fists against his chest, his light breathing brushing against the little strands that fell over your forehead like little curtains. 

“so be like this only with me, and you won’t have to be scared anymore.”

the skies refuse to let up and zeus hurls another lightning bolt down to earth, yet the orchestral accompaniment doesn’t faze you that much anymore, not after what he said. 

not when it’s completely reduced your hatred for him into nothing but ashes. ashes and dust that fly away in the gentle wind. 

what were the ten years for, if both areses were going to tread on it like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing to do?

what did the ten years of fighting do, if zeus meant for the two gods of war to round a circle in the ring of fire, only to put down their swords and admit defeat?

not to the fear of death, not to the lack of fight left in them.

but to surrender to one another.

where there were once thorns and daggers and poison now bloomed pansies, flowers that grow in winter; in harsh environments.

have you seen pansies in winter? 

white on purple draws a striking, degrading memory in the little crooks and crannies of your mind. 

for ten years, you’ve avoided drinking poison, or going anywhere near it, in fact. in the process, becoming poison yourself. it would’ve been like two pythons in a death match to see who could bite the other first. 

yet, all of that was now of no value to you.

sure, you’ve lost ten years trying to fight a losing war; the entire duration worried that you would lose to he who would triumph had you chosen to take a step back.

but the very fact that nobody lost wears through you like tires on asphalt. 

the notion that both sides took turns destroying each other only to fall in love, becomes the very cure for the tumor in your heart.

why did it take so long for you to realise that you hurt when you couldn’t read him? when he stayed so far away from you, breath on your skin but never touching you. eyes always glued to you, yet never soulful enough for your stomach to churn.

the very sight of him being away from you made you physically unwell.

so this was it.

he has claimed you and he has given himself to you.

zeus has failed in his plan to make the two of you fight to your deaths, but he smiles with pride and glory when he decides that ares’ happiness was more important than spilling blood and ripping flesh off bones.

but that was zeus, and you are ares. 

ares is brutal.

and you would’ve not hesitated to rip her flesh off HER bones if you weren’t in a white coat and a doctor’s ID card was hanging around your neck like a dog tag.

“no, you’re joking!” 

choi minhee was bright, pretty, cream-colored, and had a disgustingly white set of teeth looking like headlights on a fucking truck. 

you? 

you were poison, daggers, the thorns on roses.

of all doctors to be assigned to her father, it just had to be hyunjae?

mrs kang was rather entertained with the conversation that was happening in the other corner of the ward, and she must’ve known your blood pressure was skyrocketing through the roof because she shoots you a look of slight mischief, almost a glance of knowing.

“i should’ve known it was you,” the airy sigh that exits her parted lips calls for your attention over the clipboard. 

“mr choi, you look too good for your age, honestly. this little injury will heal pretty good on its own as long as you take care of yourself while you’re staying here.”

“aw, no. you’re too kind.”

“he’s right, daddy. you’ll take care of my dad, won’t you?”

a wince exhibits itself on your face despite your pen flying across the report, mrs kang’s current condition coming out in ink though you weren’t even consciously writing every alphabet down. 

“get anymore jealous and you’re going to be the one who needs your blood pressure taken, doctor l/n.”

mrs kang had her eyes focused on you in the corner of her eye sockets. slight embarrassment lights your soul on fire, but not as much as the irritation that was making your insides itch and squirm with despise. 

“you should come over for dinner some time soon, do you remember the stew that you liked?

“ah, the one that mrs choi makes? of course, how could i forget?”

stew? 

STEW?

“when daddy gets discharged, you have to visit sometime. mummy would be so happy to see you again!”

“would she?”

“of course! my wife loved you!”

so her parents don’t know he cheated on her. 

doesn’t matter.

i’m gonna fucking kill him anyway.

“you should’ve seen him last week, child.”

the clipboard gets slid back into the slot at the end of the bed, and your neck cranes to look at mrs kang sitting up in her bed.

“the boy was in a mess.”

“you look very well, hyunjae. it’s really been a long time.”

“had you seen him and heard what he told me, you’d be in a mess too.”

“nah, four years don’t do much.”

“doctor l/n, are you listening to me?”

“you took four years to look like this! doesn’t he look great, daddy?”

“you flatter me too much, minhee.”

the mere trill of someone else’s name rolling off his tongue pushes you over an edge, an edge too close for comfort. 

mrs kang reads your furrowed brows with ease and watches with a knowing smirk on her lips as you grab your patient files off the little cabinet next to the ward bed.

“i’ll see you tomorrow morning, mrs kang.”

she sees right through your painful, forced smile, and she breaks out into a small chuckle. 

the light hanging above her bed brightens the whites in her eyes, in contrast to the darkening sky right outside the window where choi minhee’s father was warded due to a small, almost unnoticeable stroke.

it tickles you to see mrs kang happy, but the voices coming from behind you were holding your heart in its hands, every word aggravating its merciless grip around you. 

you turn on your heels and head out of the ward, trying your best to block out the voices that sounded like demons inside your head.

how you wished you could whack your patient files across that smug, pretty face. 

how dare she talk to him like he didn’t cheat on her? how dare he talk to her like that despite that whole dramatic confession last week? just how dare he--

someone’s shoulder runs into your arm and your patient files clutter to the floor. 

“oh, i’m-- y/n!”

he bends down to pick up your patient files before you could even process who you ran into.

“eric!” the surprised tone made your voice so much higher, you were sure it would’ve caught hyunjae’s attention if the clatter of the files hitting the floor didn’t. “what are you doing in the wards wing?”

“running off to find the patient file archive office... doctor min wants me to help him finish one more thing before i’m done for the day.”

he hands you the patient files, and your hands brush across each other. he doesn’t look at you with an ounce of awkwardness or distaste, and frankly, you missed his smile. you missed how enthusiastic he was. 

you were lucky you were still friends with him.

“are you alright? you don’t look too--” rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes travel from your face to movement behind you that you could see in your peripheral vision.

“i’ll be right back!” hyunjae gestures into the room while he reverses out, and his patient files brush across your back. 

eric’s eyes light up like bulbs and it stuns you to see how easily eric gets through it. “hyung!”

“eric! my boy!” he pushes past you like you were a road block and wraps his arms around the intern. “how are you? i haven’t seen you in so long-- the research department hasn’t called for me since last week.”

“yeah, i know. i’ve only been seeing y/n around in the research department. you must have more patients to care for.”

your eyeballs roll so hard in your head, you force a polite smile for eric while your feet turn to leave this party. “i’m gonna go--”

“whoa, whoa, where are you going? it’s dinner time--”

“you can find your dinner elsewhere, maybe have some stew at it if you like,” eric takes note of the disgust and disdain in your face before you pry the intern away from hyunjae so you could hug him instead. “i missed you so much. we have to catch up some other time, okay?”

“no problem! just drop me a text.”

the grin he presents you feels like soda on a hot day, and you walk off without bothering to turn to look at hyunjae. 

the orange and blue sky outside your office window greets you like a flag, navy blue clouds cutting the skies into half across the horizon. 

“‘you should come over for dinner soon’,” items get swept into your briefcase instead of being placed in it. 

“‘doesn’t he look great, daddy?’ who even calls their father ‘daddy’ at 23? fluttering her eyes like she had something in her fucking eyes... smiling so hard that her eyes were literally missing from her fucking fac--”

the office door clicks open, and you see hyunjae walking in through your door in the reflection of the window.

the sharp sound of the zipper shutting the briefcase rings in the air like tearing a sheet of paper, and you shut off the main switch under your desk.

“y/n.”

a pen rolls off when you pick up your briefcase, coercing a frustrated groan out through your throat as you bend down to retrieve it.

“y/n, we said we’d have dinner together.”

“oh!” the sarcasm was dripping off your tongue, so when you turn to see his face, you know that he sees right through you. 

but when has he not been able to?

“me? no! you have to get some of that mrs-choi-stew, don’t you?” steps were trying to take you away from him in the direction of the door, but you’ve barely made it past him when he grabs your upper arm without budging from his stance.

“kitten, wait.”

“don’t call me that and don’t tou--”

“kitten, are you jealous?”

“no, i’m not,” effort to writhe out of his hold becomes useless, but you struggle anyway. “let me go. i want to go home and--”

“so i’ll send you home and we can order takeaway.”

“no, i don’t need you to send me home--”

“i didn’t ask kitten. i’m telling you i will send you home and we will have takeaway.”

“ugh,” you vehemently yank your arm out of his grasp and glare at him. “do whatever you want, mr ‘my-wife-loved-you’.”

by the time you were in the car, hyunjae was very obviously finding some kind of fun and enjoyment watching you attempt to control how much your blood was boiling. he doesn’t say anything the whole ride to your place, and you try to convince yourself that you were only letting him drive you back because you didn’t want to pay for a cab or public transport.

but you remember that you love him now, and every little thing he does will end up crawling across the surface of your bones like ants on skin.

once in your apartment, you throw your keys into the basket atop the shoe rack by the door. your heels get kicked off and you dump your briefcase noisily on the kitchen island.

the front door clicks shut and you pull yourself onto the high-chair, occupying yourself with your phone and a menu you would rather have fill your guts than the thought of hyunjae flirting with his ex-girlfriend.

“kitten,” his feet shuffles against the floor and he places his briefcase in the hallway where it led to the front door.

oooh, sushi.

“kitten.”

maybe korean?

“kitten, look at me.”

“do you want sushi or--”

the device slides out of your hands and drops to the table with a soft thud, your high-chair being whirled around so suddenly before stopping abruptly.

the edge of the kitchen island etches itself against your spine as you lean back, one arm leaning on the surface while his fingers grip onto the edge of your seat.

“look me in the eye and tell me what’s wrong, kitten.”

is this man for real?

“for a smart man, you are really dense.”

“who said i didn’t know what’s wrong?”

what--

“i just wanted to hear you say it, that’s all.”

the skin on his cheek suddenly looked so plump and fitting for your palm to kiss.

“say it, kitten.”

“there’s nothing to say--”

“no, tell me you’re jealous, and that you never want me to let choi minhee flirt with me again.”

“i really wish i could stab you and get away with it.”

“you won’t even if you could, because you love me and that’s why you’re jealous.”

the smile on his face was so sweet, it makes you want to shove an insulin jab into your eye. he was so satisfied with the way you reacted, it was absolutely unbelievable that he was getting so much out of you. 

his torso was rocking back and forth so slightly, his face leaning forward into yours. his flirtatious eyes locks with yours that were fuelled with anger and jealousy.

“i don’t think you deserve to hear anything because of what you let her d--”

you were interrupted in the form of a sudden kiss with his hands lining your jaw, eyes instinctively shutting upon the contact and your arms moving downwards to hold onto the edge of the chair.

unwillingly, you melt into the kiss like marshmallow over a bonfire between crackers. 

it was gentle, like clouds in the sky and cotton candy on lips. he tasted sweet, with his lips buried between yours and his warmth seeping through his hands into your cheeks.

the anger and jealousy trickles into him with every passing second, and you marvel at his ability to have such immense control over your feelings. he didn’t even need to do much for you to become his kitten.

the kiss feels like eternity until he pulls away, lids slowly opening to reveal his slightly lustful eyes now.

he knows you’re starting to feel the same.

“say it, kitten, and we’ll forget about takeaway.”

a harsh exhale hits the top of his lip from your nose, and some tiny bit of anger and jealousy inside you surfaces.

“what if i don’t want to?”

he chuckles and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“why is it so hard for you to admit that you want me to yourself and the thought of having another woman in the picture kills you? you think i didn’t see how you wanted to use eric to piss me off just now?”

literally nothing you do gets past this man, it’s annoying.

you try to turn your head but he holds your chin and brings it back to him,

“don’t avoid me, kitten. you’ve been trying to get rid of me for 10 years... but look where that got us?”

his attention switches from your eyes to your neck, soft skin being littered with light kisses softens you even more.

“i’m waiting, kitten.”

a sigh that must’ve sounded like music to him rings in the air while his arms wrap themselves around your waist. your rear nearly gets lifted off the seat, so your left hand rests on his shoulder blade and the other finds his hair to tangle your fingers in.

“i hate you, do you know that?”

he smiles into your skin, and for a moment, it feels like pure bliss.

“but if you let anybody flirt with you like that and you flirt back, i’ll cut off your dick and make you watch it burn.”

one harsh suck evicts a gasp from you as you cringe under him. his strength channels through your spine as he lifts you off the seat and carries you to the sofa. 

“that’s my girl.”

the rough texture of your sofa greets the back of your neck when he shoves his lips between yours once again, this time more desperate.

neither of you were trying to hide how much you were feeling for one another; all you wanted to do was to kiss him all night long and have his hands roam your body like he didn’t already know everything about it.

the kisses were desperate but slow and sensual, and the only piece of clothing that’s come off was his shirt.

so you could run your hands all over his torso, drawing circles and caressing the muscles on his back atop the soft squelch of your tongues and lips pressing together every second. 

his forearms were resting on the sofa on either sides of your ears, biceps perching his torso up so he wasn’t crushing you under his weight. 

your legs were apart on both sides of his hips and you could feel him fiddling with the button on your pants while he takes his time to press his bulge against your clothed core.

soft moans escape into his mouth, and you start to feel a heat gather in your underwear.

knock knock

hyunjae pulls away so fast, you register the emptiness on your lips before you process the sound. 

knock knock

“y/n! are you at home? i thought i saw the backyard lights on!”

“oh, shit.” 

of all times to come, your parents had to come now?!

you push hyunjae off you while removing yourself from under him, grabbing his shirt from the ground and recklessly hurling it into his face.

“put on your fucking shirt--”

“y/n, we can hear you inside! are you okay?”

“yes, i’m fine! give me a moment!” you run to the glass door of your backyard and fix your hair. 

hyunjae barely gets his t-shirt on when you run over to the front door, opening it with a tiny gap to reduce the chances of your parents walking in on your sworn enemy being in your apartment.

“hi mom... dad...”

both of them look at you weird, but the scent of fried chicken garners your attention.

“you’re still in office attire-- have you eaten?” 

“i--”

“i knew it. come on, we bought fried chicken to share,” your mother takes a step forward and tries to push the door open.

“ahH--”

she stops dead in her tracks, and your father shoots you a confused look.

“i-- well--”

“spit it out. the chicken’s gonna get cold if you don’t speak any faster.”

“i have a visitor with me right now--”

“a visitor? oh, goodie! we can all share, i’m pretty sure we got more than enough--”

“it’s not really a good time, mom--”

“nonsense! i can’t believe you invite others over and not your own parents!”

“well, this was impromt--”

clang

“ow!”

an awkward silence befalls between you and your parents. confused looks swamp their eyes and you struggle to contain your panic.

“is that--”

“that sounds strangely familiar...”

oh, god.

“we’ve heard this voice before, haven’t we, darling?” your mother turns around to look at your father, and your face distorts into an ugly mess of emotions when a second clang rings through the house, followed by a low curse that you were pretty sure your parents could hear too.

“we’ve definitely heard that before-- oh!” a light bulb appears above your father’s face, and you beg with your eyes not to say it--

“it’s that guy from your high school and college!”

your mother gasps, and she covers her mouth in shock.

“lee hyunjae?!”

“he--”

“LEE HYUNJAE! ARE YOU IN THERE?!”

“mom--”

“LEE HYUNJAE, WE HAVE CHICKEN!!! YOU WANT SOME?!”

oh, good god. 

this is going to be a long night.

your parents were sitting across you at the table, with hyunjae sitting by your side. 

the air between the party was heavy, awkward, dense. 

your father was confused but cheerful. 

your mother was shocked but she just couldn’t wipe that smug smile off her face whenever she gave hyunjae a piece of chicken. 

“so... what brings you here?”

hyunjae looks like he was a deer caught in headlights when your mother takes a sip of soda after asking the question.

“i-- we... have a research project to work on.”

under the table, a familiar situation occurs to when you first had lunch with both eric and hyunjae. 

his right hand finds your left thigh and he provides you a light squeeze, forcing you to clench down into the chicken you had in your mouth. 

“oh,” your mother places the cup down. “y/n never told us she’s in the research department.”

“it’s a side job, apart from working with patients.”

heat starts to pool under you, and a chill involuntarily runs up your spine. his fingers were digging into your flesh on your inner thigh, and its only making you think horrible thoughts even with your parents before you.

“i see. must be real busy then? we haven’t seen her in like... what, eight weeks? since she started working at the hospital? the other day we wanted to drop by, but she said she was still working. it was a sunday, if i’m not wrong...”

“sunday? two weeks ago?” hyunjae side-eyes you when both your parents were looking at each other for confirmation.

your father pulls out his phone, nodding. “i believe it was sunday, i remember seeing the date when i texted her.”

“right, yeah. i saw her having takeaway in the pantry after dealing with a patient.”

great. now he knows i blew my parents off for him.

your thigh gets massaged over again, and it takes an immense amount of effort to swallow the moan that was already halfway up your neck. your heart was thumping so fast, you weren’t too sure why.

but your father finishes the last piece of chicken he has on his plate, and your mother gets up to wash some of the cutlery and utensils. 

hyunjae’s palm finally leaves your thigh alone and you sigh with relief, watching your father peel little pieces of meat off the bones. 

you watch in the glass panels of your backyard beyond your living room as hyunjae offers to help your mother wash the plates and cups, forgetting for a moment that your father was sitting right infront of you.

“what are you staring at?”

the white shirt hyunjae was wearing in the reflection loses your attention when your father catches your eyes wandering off axis.

“uh-- nothing!”

he turns around and looks at the glass panels.

“i thought i saw something in the backyard, that’s all.”

“oh,” he responds emptily, turning around. “i thought my hair was in a mess or something.”

my life is going to shorten by like 50 years.

your parents offer hyunjae a ride home (without knowing his car was sitting right outside your residence), and you butt in by telling them that he has to stay because he’s not done with his part of the project. 

luckily, they miss his little grope on your rear when you escort them to the front door.

“it was such a nice surprise to see you again after all these years, hyunjae.”

hyunjae gives your mother a sheepish smile, leaning against the door frame with your shoulders perpendicular to his chest. 

“we should meet up with your parents some time soon, it has been awhile. shouldn’t we, honey?”

your father nods, pulling up his sleeve to check the time.

“we have to go, honey. we both have a long day tomorrow.”

“okay,” she turns back to the both of you. 

your relationship with your mother was never the best. but she looks at you with warm, soft eyes. eyes that said she was proud of you. eyes that said she was happy to be your mother.

and there was nothing more that could comfort you in that moment.

but your mother decides to ruin it, eventually.

“we’ll be taking our leave now...”

“oh, and uh... your shirt’s inside out, hyunjae.”

the look on your father’s face changes like a switch and he laughs at you, turning on his heels and making his way down the steps to the car. 

a cheeky grin spreads your mother’s face when the both of you turn to look at hyunjae’s shirt, and the tag on the back was sticking out behind his neck. 

she leaves without saying anything else, and they both wave to your embarrassed selves as the car drives off.

you wait until the car was no longer in sight, and then you choose to slam the door shut and give hyunjae a hard punch to his chest.

“you had one job!”

“you opened the door so fast!”

“it is a shirt-- how difficult is it to wear a shi-- oh, my god, they are going to call your parents. they are going to ask them out for a meal. we are going to need to go too. oh, my god--”

“kitten.”

“what?!”

“do me a favour and shut up.”

the dim hallway reminds you of the first time he has his hand wrapped around your throat. hours after you removed the oncology report from his folder meant to be submitted to doctor kim. 

you remember the fiery hatred in his eyes. the burning sensation of the wine you downed just seconds before you got the door open, thinking it was your mother.

but this time, his hands were on your waist, his physique gently pressing against yours against the wall behind you when he fits his lips between yours. 

you remember the feeling of the cool wine hitting your skin after the arrogant smile you had on your face was completely wiped away by him pinning you to the kitchen island. 

your palms greet his chest as they slide up over his shoulders, getting your fingers tangled in his hair feels like he was becoming part of you.

as if he wasn’t already.

time? 

one decade.

memories? 

a million.

heartbreaks? 

four in total, two each.

the first heartbreak, orchestrated by the enemy.

the second heartbreak, broken by a lover in silence.

death?

a better choice than being anywhere else besides in his arms. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue

A/N: I AM SAD

[thisonesforfanfic]

Light in the Dark (2/?)

Bucky x Reader

Author’s Note: I’m new at this, I do not know which warnings to put in, please help if you think I need to do so 

Summary: Steve finally comes back to camp, along with your brother and Bucky. He shamelessly flirts with you,and as you try to brush him off, you challenge Bucky to help you on the medic tent

Word count: 2.9k

It has been two days since you met Captain America, you were starting to get sick to your stomach just at the thought of not seeing him again. It's not like you wanted to be with him or anything, he was kind and sweet, but also your last hope of seeing Y/B/N alive again.

You had seen that british lady Peggy yesterday, and she didn't sound exactly hopeful

"There is not much we can do now miss Y/L/N, I am confident he made it in, but given the amount of shots that hit our plane and the time passing, I am certain he was and I will be in a lot of trouble"

You could tell she liked him, and it saddened you to see her have to deal with this in such a cold way, but you were in no state of mind to help anyone in anyway right now.

You hadn't really slept in the past 48 hours. You piled boxes, changed patches, kept reorganizing all the cabinets, folding sheets, running to the entrance of the camp every now and then when you thought you heard any commotion. Your uniform was the only thing looking okay at that moment, puffy eyes, your hair pulled back on the same messy braid you made two days ago. You were a mess.

When the sun started to shine, you thought you heard yet another commotion and started to curse yourself and your stupid hopes for making you hallucinate. It you took a few seconds to notice that, this time, you were not imagining things, curious eyes and ears were all going to the front of the camp.

You thought you were hallucinating again, an even stronger one this time, but it honestly didn't matter, you started running with everything you still had in you, tears of hope and desperationdripping down your face, pushing your way through the crowd, as you finally got to the gate and saw them. You saw Y/B/N's eyes widening as you screamed his name.

"Y/N?" he couldn't think straight as you jumped onto his arms, tears of joy and relief streaming down both of your faces "wha- why are you here? how long have you been here?" he was a little disoriented, trying to look at you but you didn't want to let go of his embrace

"It doesn't matter, I'm with you now, I knew he would bring you back!" You pulled away only to hug the blond tall figure standing right next to you "I knew you would save him, thank you so much Steve!" Your cheeks were even hurting for smiling so hard, so many good feelings sorrounding you at that moment, you didn't even noticed the whole convoy of men behind them, stoping for a second to admire the tender reencounter, imagining their wives, lovers or sisters, others just admiring the lightness of the moment after all they had suffered.

When you pulled away to once again look at your brother, not being able to hold back your smile, he put his arms around you and you hugged his waist as close as you possibly could. As everyone started walking into camp again, you heard a playful voice on Steve's side

"Well, I also want a hug like that doll". You looked over to a blue eyed man, who opened his arms playfully to you with a wink.

That was a playboy if you ever saw one. Hitting on nurses and medics was common on the conditions they were, but damn, the man hadn't even passed the gate after being held captive for God knows how long and he was already flirting.

Thankfully, your job there made you quick on your feet

"Your friend over here just saved my brother and apparently all these men's lives" you said while pointing in all direections "so I'd say the stakes are pretty high for you to get yours" you smirked back, he let his arms down and raised his eyebrows looking at steve, quite impressed at your response.

"When you figure out your grand act, I will be at the medic ward waiting for you, doll " you sent a wink to him making your brother and Steve almost trip while laughing.

"I'll see you soon then" He took it as a challenge, and you were intrigued by the grin he sent your way.

After all the commotion and praising, you had to go back to tend the wounded they brought back, they really did put up a fight while getting out, you had a very long day ahead of you.

It was a very busy morning, you didn't stop even for a second, the first couple of hours were pretty easy, you were taken by the adrenaline of seeing Y/B/N again, and having him help you out was a bliss. He wasn't exactly a doctor but he could do the basic 'clean then cover' on more artificial wounds. Altough there were quite a few nurses, all help was welcome in days like these when there were just too many wounded.

As the sun peaked, the restlessness of last night started to kick in, and you went to rest for the afternoon, after working for almost a day straight (aside from all the other emotions of course) you didn't trust yourself to help anyone else for at least a couple of hours. Some of the other nurses seemed mad about it, but Megan stood up for you and said she'd cover for you if need be.

----

It was already dark when you were woken up by Megan.

"Hey love, sorry to wake you" she stroke your shoulder while sitting by your side "your brother left a couple of hours ago, and I really need a break.... Things have quieted down, but you know, tonight's shift was yours and we can't leave them unattended"

"Thanks for letting me sleep so much" you yawned and got up and quickly got dressed. Stepping into the room you went around checking every soldier's vitals and bandages, making small talk to check if they were consious, though, most had already fallen asleep, as you got to the last couple of beds, you spotted a pretty decent man, no big wounds or cuts, just a smirk and drawing blue eyes, staring at you as you approached.

"So, what was it mr. Soldier?" you smirked while checking his heartbeat "Did you figure out your heroic act or got hurt trying?

"Honestly doll," he pressed his hand on his heart "I feel like it is being pulled out in pieces" You giggled ate his terrible acting "Ough, there goes another one" He closed his eyes pretending to feel even more pain

"I am afraid that this is not my specialty mr.-" He stopped you from going back to the other soldiers by grabbing your wrist.

"Call me Bucky" gently pulling you to him "please, it really hurts" He smiled as you got closer to him, unexpectedly grabbing and reading his dog tag. James Buchanan Barnes

"Alright mr. Barnes" You pulled away with a smile "If you want me to fix you, you'll have to help me fix all these men" you pointed to the other beds, he seemed a little unsatisfied with your proposition "But you can start by brewing some coffee for us" you said winking and pointing to a tiny box, at the corner of the room where you kept your share of 'contraband', then, lending him a hand to get up from the bed.

"I think this will qualify as more than just a heroic act" he looked around at the beds before grabbing your hand and pulling you in for an embrace, you quickly went through under his arm, making him twirl and look at you in disbilief.

"First the task, then the reward, doll" you both chuckled as you started to tend the sleeping soldiers.

---

While the time passed, you noticed Bucky wasn't the most skilled while taking care of the wounds, but he was actually trying hard and watching your every move to make everything right, and after a while, you had not nothing to do but stay alert.

Bucky was washing his hands when you came from behind him and to his surprise, actually hugged him. Feeling his heart as you put your hands on his chest, you whispered "Thank you James"

"This isn't fair!" he took your hands on his, making you open your arms and give him some space "This is the kind of reward I wanted" pulling you to his warm chest, resting his head next to yours, the warm breath on your right ear made you shiver, making him feel more confident, as if he gained control over the quick-witted girl, slowly getting his face in front of yours, staring at your Y/E/C eyes as you stared at his blue ones. "And I said, you can call me Bucky" he leaned in closer.

You pulled away before his mouth could get to yours, snapping out of the trance.

"Okay, now that I've drank that much coffee, I doubt I will sleep any moment soon" Bucky sat at one of the empty beds, brushing off the fact you just rejected those soft parted lips. He invited you to sit next to him with a hand gesture "What do we do now?"

"I still have to be awake and ready for any inconviniences, but I suppose you earned the right to access a very special stash" he raised his eyebrows as you went to the corner of the room and grabbed another lightwood box and brought it to him, he chuckled as you opened the smuggled liquor.

"So you carry around a knife and smuggle drinks" Bucky said on a scoffing tone while analyzing one of the bottles "Are you undercover trying to destroy us from the inside?" he grimaced.

"These are some of the perks of owning a bar back home" you chuckled, putting the box down "Heroic acts deserve recognition, and so do bad ones" you tapped on the knife Steve had given back to you earlier, with a proud grin.

"You and Y/B/N must have really proud parents, a soldier and a beautiful strong nurse for children" He noticed you felt bothered by his words, leting your head down, while still trying to keep a smile on "Did I say somenthing wrong? I am sorry doll, I didn't mean to offend you" he quickly got up and put his hand on your face, holding your head up, making you look at him, worry filling his piercing blue eyes as he tried to understand his mistake.

"Don't worry about it James, it's just... I miss them, that's all, I wish they could see me and Y/B/N now" He put his arms around you, feeling guilty from bringing up such a delicate subject.

"Please forgive me doll, I had no clue" He squeezed you thight before stepping back to look at you, his arms still around your waist.

"It's usually okay to talk about them, but it's just been a very emotional day" you shrugged and tried to laugh to lighten the mood. "Plus, you already did your good deeds today, you don't need to listen to some boring old stories". The man was just hitting on you a couple hours ago, you'd love to spend your time talking about your family, but you also didn't want to be a burden to anyone, specially on these circunstances.

"As I said, I don't think I will be sleeping any time soon" Bucky sat down, waiting for you to take your place beside him, when you did, he put his arms around you, gently stroking your arm then continued "So, what is the story behind you doll?"

You started to tell him about your mom, how she was the one who inspired you to be where you were. She was a healer, and she sacrificed herself so your father could escape with you and your brother to the US, one of the few things you still had from hers were her notebooks, filled with medicine recipes and bandages techniques.

Your father, on the other hand, was a preacher, but when you moved he changed his purpose, helping people outside of the church. Supporting soldiers who came home from the first great war, as well as the families of those who didn't. Funny enough, he also had a bar to cover the expenses. Your parents' actions inspired you and your brother to dedicate yourselves to the country that welcomed you.

After a while, you and Bucky were just laughing, telling jokes and making fun of eachother's stories. You were so tired though, you felt the weight of your eyelids like never before, you tried to stand, but Bucky held you close.

"Don't worry, I'm awake, you can rest for a bit" you smiled and quickly fell asleep on his shoulder while listening to his smooth voice, humming a sweet melody.

Bucky thought you looked so peaceful, he didn't dare to move. Such a beautiful, funny and sweet girl, sorrounded by pain and chaos, still managing to keep it together.

"Sleep tight doll" he whispered, trying not to startle you" I'll keep watch". Little did he know, at that moment, his heart was already done for.

-----

The following week was exhilarating, you'd meet your brother, Steve and Bucky before they had to complete their duties, always trying to cheer them up with some funny story, especially when they had to go to the field. After that you'd take the first shifts in the tent, and sometimes check with miss Peggy on the status of the batallion's missions. When the soldiers would get back, you usually had dinner with them, Steve and Y/B/N would usually go to their tent right after, but Bucky always had an excuse to get your attention afterwards: a small cut, a bruise, a slight burn.

You realized pretty quickly he was just trying to spend some time together, so you decided to stargaze with him (instead of bothering the night shift's nurse) as you talked about what you wanted to do when the war was done. It was the moment you most lunged for in your day, his arms innocently wrapped around you as you both layed on the back of an unloaded truck.

It all went by with the blink of an eye though, before you knew it, the time for your break came around. You were relieved to be able to escape for a while, but at the same time you didn't want to go, it was not only your brother that made the departure hard, but also the couple of friends you made.

Steve was one of the sweetest people you'd ever met, always checking in on you, offering a hand and a smile. And then there was James... oh, Bucky, always hitting on you, as if he lunged for your teases in the same way you lunged for his blued-eyed glances and flirts.

You caught yourself staring at him while the three boys were telling you about their newly formed batallion, meant to take down Hydra. Bucky playfully sent a a wink your way before you could turn to your brother,  getting you off guard and making your cheeks turn red.

"Careful Barnes, I've seen her punch a man's teeth out for less" your brother let out with a chuckle. "And you better not be getting any ideas" he looked at you with a grin

"And you better stay safe if you wanna start making threats" you pulled him in for a hug "Or I'll punch your teeth out next"

"Y/N..." You felt the pain at his voice, not wanting to let you go alone.

"You know Y/B/N, I take better care of dad's bar when you're not there to drink half of every bottle" trying to get a laugh out of him before you let go "So don't worry about me, I can take care of myself. It's you I worry about" you put your hand on his cheeks, looking in his eyes "come home to me" he nodded, and you went on to hug the super soldier, by his side.

"You too Steve, I better be pouring drinks for you all on the bar in a couple of weeks" you hugged him tight, whispering in his ear "please keep him safe"

"Of course I will, doll" it sounded so sweet and innocent when he called you that, when Steve said it was in a sort of platonic, protective way. "I wouldn't miss that drink for nothing"

The loud whistle were the sign for you to hurry, the tears you were holding back started to come through as Bucky took you in his arms.

"We're gonna be alright doll, the worst that will happen is how bad we'll miss you" he tried comforting you

"You better be there too, James" you put your hands on his cheeks and looked into his eyes "or I will come back here to punch your teeth out as well" he smiled at you, and maybe it was just your imagination, but you could swear you saw a tear fall from his eyes when he kissed your forehead before letting you go.

The third and final whistle blew as you gave him a peck on the cheek, grabbed your things and rushed towards the truck, not taking your eyes off the trio. Waving goodbye until they were completely out of sight.

#############

Thanks for reading! 

[accio-firewhiskey]

Penance Series: From Here to There (formerly Blandishments)

Summary: Belle continues to make hats with Jefferson. Penance Series. Teen!Belle. Age 13-14. References and quotes from Goblin Market.

--

Her visits he cannot call (cannot call at’all—Regina fails to pay the bill) frequent, but they do occur, at least. Often-even: last summer and fall, the weather agreeable for much longer than usual, but with the first snowfall, the weather was against their seamstressing. She could not cross his threshold, could not drink his tea. The imp no longer accompanied his ward, whenever she knocked upon Hatter’s door, but that did not ease his fear—far or near, Rumpelstiltskin was always, always, always to be feared.

There is still snow on the ground when she knocks in late January. “Isn’t this a surprise,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, with a smirk. He lies, because he spied her walking this way, despite the sludge on the curbs, piled there from trucks and dirtied with mud and salt. She’d slipped from the house, Rumpelstiltskin out to lurk about the town, thinking her safe and warm and reading by his fireplace. Instead, she’s here, wrapped up in a coat and boots, sewing kit pocketed. Her needles are leather and upholstery needles, so quite sharp. She pricked herself more times than he can count on both their hands, drawing enough blood for curses a-plenty, but Jefferson had burned the tissues and made no mention when his warden came ‘round.

 He had his own use for her, after all.

 “Hi,” she answers, eyes and smile bright, eager little thing. She’s not so slight anymore, jutting up, a growth spurt since last she stood on his porch. She holds up her kit, small and perfect—like her. Like his Grace. “I thought we could practice.”

 He shivers not, but feels the cold without his coat, pouring past him into the house. He does not move, but chuckles, “Wool and snow do not mix.”

 She frowns, “What?”

 Drawing the door shut behind him, he saunters around to the back veranda, where the iron-rod table and chairs still bear a layer of snow and ice, “I think we’re out of luck today, Jingle.”  

 She places her be-mittened hands on the wrought-iron chair, and toys the foot of her boot in the snow, “We could go inside?”

 Jefferson smirks, “What a naughty trick to play.” Brushing his hand across the table, he swats a handful of half-melted snow at the little nuisance. “Now you know we can’t do that—your guardian would lose his head and so would I,” he tells her, tilting his face this way and that (the irony of the statement is lost on the child). She doesn’t answer, and he can see that she’s building a snowball. He rolls his eyes at this game of theirs, but magic was in short supply, with Regina dipping into her stores once every few years. This jingle bell would have to do. “Why would you want to get me in trouble with your Mr. Gold?”

 She packs the snowball between her hands, tight and icy—it would hurt if she knew how to aim (he thinks that’s not the only weapon she could wield). “He doesn’t have to know?” she poses the statement as a question.

 Grasping her wrist just as she brought it back to lob the snowball at him, he crumbles it over her head, as she giggles, “That’s not how this works.”

 “Hey!” she squeals, brushing the snow from her hat and hair.

 Bending down on his haunches so they are face to face, he admits, “You’re not ready.”

 “Ready for what?”

 “To go inside.”

 “Why not?” she asks impertinent.

 “Because the day we make hats inside is the day you never come back.”

 She blinks at him, and as she mulls over the words her smile droops and then falls (she dwindled, he thinks to himself, dwindled, as the fair full moon—they weren’t ready yet for the swift decay and burn. Her fire wasn’t ready yet).

 The moments holds: she must not cross his threshold, must not drink his tea, but then Jefferson winks and stands and tosses more snow in her direction, “Come back when it’s dry. We’ll work on bowler hats.”

 --

 She comes back a month later. She comes back but waits just long enough that Jefferson begins to worry he did indeed scare her. Her hats improve, despite the bite in the February air, despite their iced fingers (her repartee too, is biting and improved, he hates that he looks forward to these visits, because magic is cruel and he only wants her magic).

 “Why don’t you go outside,” she asks, mid-stitch.

 “We are outside,” he replies in a mumble, his mouth full of straight pins.

 Belle rolls her eyes, “Not your yard, but, you know, outside, into the city.”

 He scoffs, “Generous.”

 “What?”

 “It’s hardly a town—Storybrooke is a play thing, little and trite, what’s to see out there anyway—Storybrooke is for the dolls?”

 Her face takes on a strange expression at the mention of dolls (and he knows she sneaks around to play with her dollies when Rumpelstiltskin is away), “Don’t you get lonely all by yourself?”

 “Nosy, nosy, nosy, Jingle!” he says, tapping her own button nose, “Didn’t your owner teach you that nosy girls lose their noses, fingers and all ten toes?”

 She frowns at him, huffing, “He’s not my owner.”

 Tilting his head, taking the final pin from his mouth and depositing it into the half-a-hat in his hands, he asks, “Then what is he?”

  His loud, ringing, annoying, endearing little bell takes her time to answer him, but finally shrugs, “He just isn’t.”

 --

 She takes longer to return again and looks quite worn down. Her only words of explanation: “School.”

 “Ah, I see.” He doesn’t see. He never had tutors in the old world. Grace never had tutors in the old world. Though his apprenticeship had worn him ragged—but he wore raggedy so well. Perhaps that’s why he’d never stopped.

 That and the poverty.

 They finish three hats—just hats, for a hat without magic is just another hat—and the final one tips over, as she hops from the chair to stand. They were done for the day, and she was gathering up her things, but Jefferson, setting the hat upside down, on a whim he offhandedly orders: “You should give it a spin.”

 Belle looked up, a question between her brow.

 He threw his head toward the hat, “Come on, like this,” he shows her the move. “It’s all in the wrist.”

 The hat does nothing but spin—has done nothing but spin for fourteen years and more for Jefferson, but maybe, just maybe (it was so hard, not speaking to her of magic—not even a whisper—and he had crossed his heart he wouldn’t, but there would come a time, when his heart would break and free him from his promises, promises).

 Staring up at him, mouth agape, the child spins the cap.

 Nothing.

 It wobbles and topples over, “Like that?”

 He sighs, “No, not like that.”

 --

 Next time, they decide to make use of the greenhouse. Yes, Regina gave him a greenhouse to hold all the dead things he can’t make grow. He can make hats without magic and vegetables without life. How splendid. How talented.

 She runs through the space a little wild, bouncing like a rabbit, huffing like a caterpillar. He leans against the doorway, wondering at the wisdom of this exercise. She’d asked again to see the inside of his house. He should call Gold, make him keep her in line. This didn’t fit with his timeline (and he had never been a patient man). She was curious about these strange rules and this strange man who made hats and odd quips.

 “Quips” she called them, she got it from her caregiver’s vocabulary. So strange listening to the Dark One’s wit from the mouth of a child—she’s innocent, yes, but she could be oh, so wicked someday.  

 She twirls about, in cap and gown, and the hatter, has to blink (as he tries to chip away at his impervious chains—clink—clink—clink).

She looks like his Grace, dancing through outdoor rooms and space, and worlds…

Jefferson shakes his head, and snatching the top hat off the child, mid-spin, he throws a thumb to the door, “That’s enough haberdashery for one day.” Too stuffy in the greenhouse anyway, in the May-day heat.

 --

 Jefferson hates summertime and summertime hates Jefferson. His neck sweats from the scarves, and the scar tissue breaks out from the sweat. The heat prickles under his heavy garments. He is a mess, inside and out, stir crazy from not stirring out of doors. His mind stirs with possibilities and limitations, and he watches.

 He watches everything, for there is so much to watch.

 He spots them, Jingle Belle and Grace. They play in the park. They walk to the beach. They talk with dwarves and avoid Paige’s parents. Each time, he drops the telescope and stalks away, to bang his head against a wall.

 He does not stop watching. They flit from here to there and everywhere in between (but nowhere near him—never near him). Asking the Jingle Belle to bring his Grace from there to here would be too much, too much a request.

 When next she calls, his hands twitch with the desire to ask her every single question about his Grace, but he restrains himself. He does not even let her practice their craft: “Today’s not good, Jingle. Today’s no good at all.” Wraps his free hand around his torso. He would wrap the other around himself when she left.

 She looks sad but swipes away the sweat from her forehead from running all the way from Rumpelstiltskin’s castle to play haberdashers with her strange friend without arguing over his dismissal. He wonders if Grace can sew. He wonders where she’s run to since he’d left his post to answer the loud, annoying little doorbell.

 Closing the door he thinks to himself that summertime hates Jefferson, because he’s the only one that can see that summertime means nothing when the year repeats itself over and over and over and over.

 (He wraps his arms around himself and rocks over and over and over).  

 --

 Regina has tried his nerves. Life has tried his nerves. Queens and cards and hat boxes and telephone receivers have all tried his nerves. The air conditioning unit has broken, and it is so very hot inside and out that even the telescope glass has fogged. What’s more, even to begin with, he had so little nerve to try.

 Then the doorbell rang.

 He knows it’s her, blue jay, bluebonnet, bluebell, blue and cool and so very, very trying. He opens the door only a crack, “Today’s no good, Jingle.” Not when he’s stressing his seams, and all his filling feels fit to burst.

 She frowns, Gold’s little bird, Gold’s little flower. She’s in bloom, his darling dear danger. “You said that last time,” she pouts. He thinks her nearly about to stamp a foot, but she stops just short.

 (But not so short, because she grows here. He’s seen a wall in Granny’s marked with the heights of her and wolf girl. Blue’s steadily inches up the door frame, while Red’s jumps, once a year—all her inches coming from the queen’s drop of loose magic. It’s lazy and sloppy and he knows that Jingle notices the sputtering spurts. She’s no fool. She’s a jack or an ace, some day perhaps even a queen in her own right).

 Today she’s a child and has a child’s temper. He can smell her sweaty hair and the scent of freshly mown grass clippings, in that way of all children in summertime. Even his Grace, surely. Wilted lilacs sit behind her ear, and it does not match, the violet color, with her indigo eyes, but the terror does not turn away. She stares, this mismatched picture, crossing her arms over her chest, and argues with him, “Please. I’m bored.”

 Bored, she says; she’s no idea what true boredom meant, “No.”

 “Jefferson,” Belle whines. “Just this once,” an idea strikes her, “I didn’t see you around my birthday—this could be my birthday present!”

 His eyes narrow: “You have grown.”

 “You don’t look any older,” she replies, squinting with her child’s honesty.

 “Oh, but I am,” he leans closer, “older than you can possibly imagine.”  

 She laughs, for no reason, and he laughs too. Hearing it in his own ears, it is a feral sound. Strangely, he begins to wonder why he denied her. What was the harm, laughing with Gold’s pet? What was the harm, pulling out his needles and fabric scissors? “Well, maybe,” he begins.

 She claps her hands together, and turns to the backyard, but Jefferson stares down at her, noticing her cheeks, little globes, fair and red. She is overheated; they could not, should not sit out in the sun, nor would the greenhouse do, for it was sure to be ten degrees warmer. Perhaps, if they opened every window, some doors even, that would be enough. They could let some breeze into the house, and if the wind blew, where they really inside at all?

 They could let themselves into the house, surely they could. Stepping back, he pushes the door open fully, and waves an arm, “Hey, Jingle.”

 She turns, eyes widening, realizing what he’s offering as her gift, “Really?”

 “Well, this is supposed to be a present, after all.”

 --

 They hear something else fall in a different room. She looks up from her hat, the ribbons blowing in the wind from the window. “Are you sure we should have all these windows open?” Mr. Gold hated when she left a window open anywhere near the study and his papers and files blew off the desk. “There’s gonna be a lot to clean up.”

 He waves his hand wildly at her, “It’s fine. It’s fine. Just keep sewing.”

 Her hands stop. Jefferson was acting weird. For a minute, she wonders if this was a bad idea. She hadn’t told Mr. Gold she was going over to work on hats. It was just an idea, after Ruby had to go help Granny in the diner. She was bored. Mr. Gold was busy all day in the shop, and Miss Kathy had work too, but Mr. Jefferson never had anything to do.

 He was always there, in his big house.

 After inviting her inside, they had worked to open most of the windows on the bottom floor. She got to see the kitchen, dining room, and more sitting and living rooms that even Mr. Gold’s house had. Next, they’d moved to the second floor. Here he didn’t let her into every room, but all the rooms she did see where filled with hats. Hats of all kinds. Some were finished, some were half done.

 (“Why don’t you finish them?” she had asked. “Because it makes no difference,” he had answered.”)

 They had gotten to work, at an extra tall table, like the bar in the kitchen at home. Her feet didn’t reach the floor, and he’d had to grab her a stool from downstairs. He offered to bring her tea—he didn’t smirk or laugh—seemed like he didn’t remember Mr. Gold’s rules at all.

 She said “no, thank you” with all her polite manners. She was thirsty, but not too thirsty. Besides, if she was too thirsty, she could just go home. It would be fine.

 Jefferson complimented her work every so often—more than usual. “That’s a very fine hat, very fine indeed.”

 “Thanks.”

 “Maybe this one’s special?”

 She opens her mouth, to ask what he means, when the doorbell rings.

 They both drop their work.

 “Shit,” Jefferson says.

 Her heart to pounds; if it was Mr. Gold she was in serious trouble, more serious than when she had bitten the dentist or kicking Mrs. Mavis’ cat, more serious than sneaking into the mayor’s yard—maybe the most serious trouble she had ever been in her whole life.

 Apparently, Jefferson was going to be in serious trouble too. “Shit, shit.” Racing around the table, he nearly pulls her off the barstool by the neck on her shirt. “We got to hide you.” Dragging her to the opposite end of the humongous room, he pushes her toward a counter. “Get up there,” letting her go, he opens one of the cabinets above. “This should hold.” Throwing the contents out, he orders, “Climb in.”

 It’s only a moment before the doorbell rings a second time, and she finally obeys, fearing confession more than being discovered. He closes the door on her, and, in the dark, she can hear him racing down the stairs.

 She tries to stop breathing so hard.

 --

 Jefferson curses to himself. This was a bad idea, but then he didn’t think Rumpelstiltskin had it in him to wait for an answer to the first doorbell if he truly believe his little pet inside. No, Rumpelstiltskin would have worked the door open, worked him open, worked everything down to the bone if he thought Belle inside.

 The very fact that Jefferson stood to run downstairs, to compose himself before opening the door, meant that it most certainly was not Mr. Gold, which meant it could only be one other person—which meant it could only be worse, far, far worse.

 Already, he could feel himself struggling to keep the deck together between shuffling and dealing, but with one queen up his sleeve, and one at his door, he wasn’t sure how long he could keep this going.

 He opens the door, slipping his free hand into his pocket, he smiles at his surprise visitor: “Regina, to what do I owe the honor?”

 She raises an eyebrow, “Well, someone’s in a better mood.” She holds two paper bags on her hip. “Thought I’d make my deliveries in person this month.”

 He frowns, “You didn’t bring a toolbox by chance?”

 She rolls her eyes, “Now, now, it can’t be that warm.” Ah, so she had gotten his message after all. Although, as she makes her way into the kitchen, Jefferson following, he can tell she doesn’t care for the temperature. “I called the AC guy. He should be here later in the week.” She unceremoniously drops his supplies down on the countertop, looking around, taking in the open windows, “Fresh air—not very like you, Jefferson.”

 He shrugs, forcing a casual reply, “What was I supposed to do?”

 The blood-red queen opens her mouth to answer, when they both hear a creak—from up above. She raises an eyebrow, and after a beat, shoves past him toward the stairs, “Jefferson, are you entertaining?”  

 “Regina!” he calls, taking the steps two at a time. He slips between her and the doorway, resting his elbow against it, blocking the work space with his body, “You know how I feel about keeping my work private.”

 She glares at him, “Uh huh—I’m well acquainted with you work.” The queen barrels past him, her eyes darting around. She throws open the cabinet door beneath the table, checks inside the closet. Finding nothing, she sighs, turning back to Jefferson.

 “What are you looking for?”

 “I’m looking for—” she stops, as her eyes narrow on the two hats on the table. “Jefferson, I’m only going to ask you once more: are you hiding someone from me?” her voice is near a whisper, and far more threatening than usual.

 “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She points to the two hats on the table, half-made, on pins and needles—just like him. “Then what are those?” she asks innocent—as innocent as when he had first met her.

 His heart falls to his feet, and he feels just like when his body fell to the floor, detached from his head. He feels as if he watches his body move all of its own accord. Sauntering over, he takes the hat from her hands sharply, “What? Never known someone to multi-task? But then you always were a little single-minded.”

 She frowns, “You’re lying.” She slowly circles him, but with little warning, flips, crossing the room to throw open the high cabinets above the countertop, yelling “Ah-hah!”

 It’s empty.

 When he can manage to inhale, he raises a hand, “See—stop being so paranoid. Are you getting heat stroke?”

 Regina rushes him, and with a finger to his chest, tells him, “Whatever you’re playing at, Hatter, you better know that I have a monopoly on magic around here.”

 “You know, never been much on the game myself.”

 “You’re crazy,” she mocks, “and you’re not going anywhere—so give it up. Any magic—anyone special—you think you’ve found, it’s because I’ve let you.” She pushes past him, and the sound of the door slamming can be heard from the workroom, but Jefferson doesn’t register it.

 A little head pops up from outside the window sill, “That was scary!” Hopping back into the room, Belle flexes her fingers, “That’s a lot harder than trees.” She looks up to her friend, who stands stock still, “Jefferson. You okay?”

 He turns to her, “You have to make it work.”

 Belle frowns, “Make what work.” After a second, she asks, “Why did the mayor call you ‘Hatter’?”

 “Yes—the hat, you have to fix it.” He walks up, and Belle without meaning to, takes a step backward. He takes her by the shoulders and guides her back to the worktable. “You have to make it work or I’m never going home, I’ll never get her back.”

 Belle frowns, “Get who back?”

 He sighs, “Not yet—finish it. Finish the hat.”

 Belle pushes down the feelings of fear. It feels like earlier, with his odd words and movements, but worse, much. Hands shaking just a little, she picks up her hat. This one has an orange ribbon. He paces behind her as she works, and strangely it does not slow her down—he is making her nervous—but somehow it speeds up her stitches, feeling him right behind her shoulder.

 As she ties her final knot in the threat and cuts off the excess, Jefferson grabs it from her hands.

 “I’m done.” She begins to move to stand, but he stops her.

 “No, not until you make it work.”

 “Make what work.”

 “Spin it, spin it, but with magic—you have magic, I know you can do it.”

 Belle eyes widen, “Magic—magic’s not real, Jefferson. Magic is just in stories.” She’s worried now, worried about her friend (worried about herself).

 He laughs then, a heavy, honeyed chuckle, “No—no it’s not—what do you think all those stories are you learn in school? Does that make them any less real because you learned about them as stories?”

 “Jefferson—I don’t—”

 “Come on! Don’t be so gullible, Jingle—that’s exactly what she wants you to believe! It’s that kind of thinking that got you stuck in her tower in the first place! Now get it to work.” His hands wrap around hers, and he makes her spin the hat as they had that one other time. He makes her spin it over and over.

 Nothing happens.

 “You’re not trying hard enough!” Jefferson practically shouts. “You have to try—or I’ll be cursed to live in this town forever.” Despite all his blandishments, all his training and praise, she’s holding out, she’s keeping all the magic for herself.

 Selfish—just like everyone else.

 “Make it work!” he shouts, but the kid twists and suddenly there’s an elbow to his stomach, quickly followed by one to his groin, and then she’s gone, racing out the door.

 --

 Belle doesn’t stop running until she’s far, far away from Jefferson’s place.

 Magic, he’d said she had magic, and towers and curses, too. He spoke words from her nightmares—and worse, he’d yelled at her.

 She stops to catch her breath after hopping the fence into Gold’s garden. That’s when she realizes she’s crying.

 She thinks of Mr. Knightley, the gym teacher, and she’s so thankful for the lessons. Belle never thought she would ever have to use those, but her training kicked in just when she needed it. Belle never thought she would have to use those on Jefferson.

 Jefferson was her friend, but he had scared her. She wipes harshly at her face, getting rid of her stupid tears. She was safe now. She was home.

 Mr. Gold never needed to know—

 “Belle?”

 She jumps, throwing her arms up in front of her, only to see Mr. Dove, standing there, shovel in hand, wearing a plain apron she recognizes from when Mr. Gold pulls weeds during the weekends.

 “Mr. Dove,” she squeaks.

 “What’s happened?” he asks in his deep voice. He takes in her wild hair, torn shorts and red eyes. He frowns, gripping the shovel tight, “Did someone hurt you?”

 “No—don’t tell Mr. Gold!”

 Mr. Dove frowns, “You’re not supposed to lie Miss French, and you know I can’t lie to Mr. Gold either.”

 She frowns, her tears creeping back up on her, “He’s going to be so mad at me.”

 Sympathy colors the hired hand’s face, “No, don’t cry, Miss Belle.” He sets down the shovel and takes off the apron. “Maybe we can talk about this.” He opens the back door and motions for her to enter first, as befitting a lady, and Dove follows right behind.

 More than comfortable in Gold’s pink house, the large man first fetches the little girl a cold glass of water, which she drinks too fast, causing her to cough. He refills her glass, only after which he gets one for himself. Once cooled, he takes a seat at the kitchen table beside her and asks quietly, “Why would Mr. Gold be mad?”

 “I went someplace I wasn’t supposed to go.”

 He sighs, “Why weren’t you supposed to go?”

 “Because Mr. Gold didn’t think it was safe.”

 Dove gives her a sharp look, and she begins to tear up. “Was it safe, Miss Belle?”

 She shakes her head, “No.”

 “Did someone hurt you?”

 “No.”

 He scratches his chin, “But you were scared.”

 She nods in reply, drinking some more of her water, holding it in both her hands.

 “I think,” he begins diplomatically, “that Mr. Gold is just going to be happy that you got away and that you’re safe now.” She looks up at him. She always had trouble finding her voice around Mr. Dove, but in this moment, she feels so very safe sitting next to him, knowing he’s in the pink house. “I think you should clean up, and maybe you will feel brave enough to tell Mr. Gold what happened.”

 Belle wipes at her eyes again, “Will you stay?”

 “Of course, Miss French.”

 Nodding, she pushes back her chair and heads upstairs, but as she turns on the water to take a shower, she hears Mr. Dove on the phone: “Mr. Gold, I think you need to close the shop early today.”

 --

 When Belle gets out of the shower, brushes her hair and puts on clean clothes, she knows Mr. Gold is home. She can hear them both downstairs, talking over things like “scraped knee,” “terribly frightened,” “running like her life depended on it.”

 She frowns: she was definitely in a lot of trouble.

 Walking downstairs, she keeps her hands behind her back, prim and proper. In the kitchen she finds Mr. Dove washing dishes (a clean apron on, once again) and Mr. Gold sitting at the kitchen table in his usual seat, cane balanced in front of him—he usually liked something to do with his hands while he waited to pronounce judgement (but it wasn’t usually her who was awaiting a sentence).

 He raises an eyebrow to his little ward when he notices her, “Ah, now I hear it’s been an eventful afternoon.”

 Mr. Dove turns to Belle and gives her a little nod. She takes in a big breath and begins her confession, “I did something I’m not supposed to do.”

 Mr. Gold frowned, stating sharply, “I figured that much.”

 A dish clanks loudly in the sink, and her caregiver rolls his head in that direction, “Something to add, Dove?”

 “No, sir.” Mr. Dove answers dispassionately and only mildly sarcastic.

 Turning back to his ward, Mr. Gold prompts, “You were saying?”

 “I went to make hats with Mr. Jefferson.”

 Mr. Gold’s eyes widen, “You what?”

 “I went—”

 He holds up a hand, “I heard what you said. What I can’t believe is that you would go without telling me. We had a deal.” He stamps his cane on the floor, almost without realizing, “We don’t lie to one another.”

 “I know,” she answers, guilty.

 “Now what happened to make you run like hell?”

 “Mr. Jefferson scared me.”

 “You didn’t drink or eat anything, did you?”

 “No, we just made hats.” She refrains from mentioning Mayor Mills, “but Mr. Jefferson was acting different.”

 “Different?” Gold asks.

 “Yeah, I think he was confused. Maybe sick.” Belle tells him of their hats and how he kept telling her to make it work, and finally, his words on magic. She confesses it all to Mr. Gold.

 When she’s finished. Gold sighs, rubs a hand down his face, but finally stands and walks over to the girl. She wants to start, hunching her shoulders, waiting for her fate.

 He puts a hand to her shoulder, “You got away. You used your training. That’s what matters.” Mr. Dove goes back to washing his dishes—Belle realizes he’d been silent, waiting on the verdict nearly as much as she. “There are still consequences for lying and rule breaking, but I’m just happy you’re safe.”

 Then, Belle blinks in surprise, as Gold pulls her into a stilted hug. He never hugs her. Praises her, teases her, gives her gifts, but he never, never hugs her. After a moment, she hugs him back, “You’re not angry?”

 “Oh, I’m angry, but not with you—well, not entirely.” He pulls back, making her look him in the eye, “There will be consequences, however.” Gold thinks for a moment, “Grounding, I think, until you can remember the importance of veracity.”

 “Veracity?”

 “Truth, dearie.”

 She nods.

 “More hours in the shop too, I think.”

 She held back a groan—should couldn’t read nearly as much in the shop as she wanted, but as she walks to her room (her grounding starting immediately), she thinks it won’t be so bad, as long as she’s with Mr. Gold.

 --

 Jefferson’s asleep when the sound of a door being kicked in rouses him—his door to be precise. Scrambling from where he’d fallen asleep on the floor, he rushes to find some sort of weapon (for he knows who to expect, he knows that nothing good can have come from his afternoon experiment).

 He reaches for a chair, when he senses more than hears the first attempt at a blow. He catches the cane in his own hand. He uses it to push Rumpelstiltskin away, giving himself enough time to grab the chair.

 “We had a deal, boy.”

 “I lied.” He counters a wild attempt at his head with the chair, and using it as a shield, pushes the crippled man back toward the table in the center of the room. Jefferson takes the opportunity to race out, in search of a better weapon. He has a baseball bat two rooms down. He reaches for it under a bed, but he can hear Rumpelstiltskin traipsing down the hall. He finds his feet just in time, standing to counter the cane. “It’s for my daughter. Can you blame me?”

 “Oh yeah, I can.” He’s sloppy, they both are—wild swing meets wild swing. “She’s too young—you put her in harm’s way, and now I’m going to make you pay.”

 “Nothing happened,” Jefferson’s lessons, his gifts could not harm—for she’d no magic, no magic at all, in this world. “She has no magic!” He finally lands a blow. Rumpelstiltskin jostles, knocking into the doorframe. “She’s nothing to me!” He shouts with a laugh, his hungry thirsty roots drove him to search for what wasn’t there—the kid wouldn’t be the one to make the hat work. Leaning toward the Dark One, tone smooth and sweet, “she’s all yours. I’m done with her.” Jefferson turns his back and walks out of the room, leaving the Jingle Belle to the old man’s cantankerous care.

 Belatedly, Rumpelstiltskin yanks on his shoulder with the handle of his cane, bringing Jefferson round to face him. The hatter does not resist. The sorcerer catches his necktie with the handle, tugging it down, before he makes his threat, “You go near her again, and I’ll kill you.” To prove the point, he opens his suit jacket to reveal a handgun, “It’ll be far worse than those little scratches, I assure you.”

 Jefferson tugs free and scoffs, “There’s nothing worse than what I’ve been through—nothing—but then I think you already know that.”

 The older man frowns, giving the haberdasher a little shove with the cane, “Focus, boy, do you mark my words? Stay away from her, or it’s your life.”

 Jefferson raised a hand, “Oh, I fold—she’s not worth the gamble.”

 The answer seems to strike a chord in the dealmaker, but with clenched jaw, his nods once, raises his cane and trudges down the stairs. As the door shuts, Jefferson briefly regrets not returning Blue’s sewing kit—she’d run out and forgotten it.

 Too, he thinks he’ll miss her jokes and her odd humors and her girlish giggle, but then he can always just keep watching her. That would be just as well. Just as grand. Just as lovely as talking and teaching. Watching would do just as well. What was the difference after all, in losing her visits if she could not take him and Grace from here to there?  

 --

 When Mr. Gold returns to the pink house, he sighs in relief. Dove reports that Miss French has not left her room after eating a light dinner and more water to rehydrate. Dove had also finished transplanting the iris bulbs.

 Splendid.

 “Mr. Gold?”

 “Yes, Dove,” he answers with a sigh, thumbing through the stack of mail on the kitchen table.

 “What was the man talking about?”

 Gold’s hands freeze, staring at flyer for the local deli. He recovers quickly, “Jefferson Hatter suffers with frequent delusions and is under house arrests. We’re lucky nothing worse happened this afternoon.”

 Dove has more questions—he can feel it—but the brawny man says nothing and takes his leave, allowing Gold to fully relax for the first since getting the phone call. He pours himself a nightcap and finishes going through the mail. However, an advertisement on sewing machines catches his eye.

 In a few weeks perhaps, he could ask if she wanted one. She might miss the sewing, after all.

[elane-in-the-shadows]

Red Queen Fan Fiction - Blood Curse part 7

Find this on wattpad

chapter 1

chapter 2

chapter 3

chapter 4

chapter 5

chapter 6

chapter 7

chapter 8

chapter 9

chapter 10

chapter 11

chapter 12

chapter 13

chapter 14

chapter 15

chapter 16

chapter 17

chapter 18

chapter 19

chapter 20

chapter 21

chapter 22

chapter 23

chapter 24

chapter 25

chapter 26

chapter 27

chapter 28

chapter 29

Final chapter

A/N: Oh, something new, a fresh POV -

Gisa POV

We all squat together in the living room the first time Colonel Farley visits us. It’s been just one day since Mare left us again in the dead of night, to fight the demon king of her nightmares, and none of the Barrows has forgotten about her last farewell.

We don’t say it, but expect the worst, even if Mom, Kilorn and Tramy are good at distracting us. The colonel’s arrival doesn’t make it better with his sombre face, even though he wears it most of the time. Yet we’re too used to bad news and we steel ourselves against them. I can’t remember not thinking like that and still I feel nauseous. Right now, and every time before. My stitches blurry before my eyes.

But the colonel sounds astounded at our reaction when he greets us. He walks to Mom who embraces Clara tighter and squints at him. “Mrs. Barrow,” he addresses her, “may I – “

“What has happened to my daughter?” she barks back and I see Tramy’s grin at this; it makes me smile as well, for the fraction of a second. But I’m not surprised, of course Mom challenges him, just like Mare and Diana.

The colonel only blinks, first having to grasp our mood, and the room stuffed with fear. He draws back his outstretched hand and straightens himself. “The defense of Corvium was successful. We have no reports on the fallen yet but General Farley informed me of her and Operative Mare Barrow’s well-being.”

He pauses and our relief is visible, just like I feel the ribbons on my chest loosen. Only a little. I think about Cameron, the other electricons, Arezzo and so many more. This place is still strange, full of war-hardened and dangerous people, but I’ve followed Kilorn often enough, and I found friends among them. The colonel doesn’t talk about them. Indeed, his hesitation to go on unsettles me. There’s something he isn’t saying or can’t say. I shouldn’t be bothered, the Scarlet Guard is always like this. Even when I manage to draw tiny threads of information out of Diana if I pester her patiently and subtly enough, her father’s resolve is as hard as iron. He clears his throat and focuses on Mom again. Or rather on Clara. He speaks unusually quiet.

“The general asked me to have a look on her daughter as well,” he admits, almost shy, or embarrassed.

Mom smirks at him, her fingers toying with Clara’s. “Don’t you trust me?”

It startles him even further. “No,” he insists, “of course not, Mrs. Barrow. The general is curious, and worried, naturally. I’m merely – “ Mom laughs and we fall in line. I notice Kilorn’s distinctive cackle, a sound webbed into my memories. The colonel blushes and clears his throat again. “I see that all is well, Mrs. Barrow, I’ll visit you again when I’ve more to tell. Operatives,” he adds and turns to my brothers and to Kilorn, “I expect your presence at yard 7 at 1400,” and then he leaves.

I see Mom’s satisfied expression while she occupies little Clara. As glad as we are about the news, it’s been Mom’s accomplishment to face the fiercest soldier and win, just to lighten our grave mood like a ray of sunshine in a storm. Before Clara was with us, she’s rarely been like that for a long time. It’s something Shade was good at, too. 

It’s like I never stop waiting. Once I couldn’t wait to finish my apprenticeship and have my own shop, now I sew – for Clara, my family, the soldiers and myself - just to pass the time. To hone skills not valued here, without the materials I came to love and enjoy to reshape. But work is a good distraction while worry twists beneath my skin. I want Mare to come back, to sleep in my room again, and go away from here. I try to make the best of our stay and be open and kind, but this isn’t a home and never will be.

Half the day I think of Summerton, the Stilts, and the life I had. I’ve started to tell Cameron about it before she left, too, and it amused her, to imagine a town not smothered by smoke. Her joy makes talk more, after I kept my experiences at work to myself, drawing a distinctive border between my family and the job. Now I pride myself to be the only person to make Cameron smile. If it weren’t for her parents, still in New Town, I’d ask her and her brother to come along to be relocated immediately. I wouldn’t hesitate, if Mare agreed. Nor would I be bothered not to see little Clara again for a long time, as cute as she is. Mom wouldn’t be as ready, but I don’t know what to feel about the baby.

Two weeks after Mare left, we’re allowed to make a distance call to her and Diana; it lasts hardly a minute. Yet Mare makes jokes and addresses all of us, promising a soon return. As much as I anticipated the call, as relieved as I am to hear their voices, I notice again something weighing on them and now I spend my empty hours trying to figure it out. 

Mom’s perception is as sharp as mine and she finds ways to keep Dad and me occupied. She tells all of us, Bree, Tramy, and Kilorn as well to attend to Clara, despite their Guard duties. They aren’t any worse than me. Bree never complains and for some reason, Clara sleeps more when she’s with Tramy. Usually, during my turns I leave her in her bed and take a seat to sew and embroider and wait for the inevitable whining. Whatever Mom says, I’m sure Clara notices her mother isn’t here. Why else would she cry every two hours and refuse to be comforted until she’s rocked for 10 minutes?

I thought it would be would be unnerving at first, but it really isn’t. Clara’s just a distraction, and a welcome one in a way. I’m used to hold needles and squint for 10 hours a day, so being forced to take breaks is a strange relief. I miss making true pieces of art and the rich materials I used, most of all the sewing machine. I’m not sure whether one’s here – I think there must be – and it would be too loud to use in this house anyway. Maybe I should just forget those times, but they come back at me in the strangest ways.

Today it’s Tramy’s turn with baby-sitting and Mom’s severe frown staunches his – partially fake – commitment. “Best if you wrap Clara in a slip,” Mom demands. “She’s used to being carried around, as Diana does it.” She sighs quietly, and Tramy does as well.

I give him a shove when Mom’s turned away. “Don’t bring you lady-love here,” I whisper to him, “or Diana will kill us if she finds out that you let a Silver get close to her precious girl.”

“Then why are you so disrespectful?” he jokes to dissemble. “It’s General Farley, not Diana.” I give him a stare worthy of Diana.

“And Ms. Ventos isn’t my ‘lady-love’”, he claims, but I’m still not having it.

“So you’re kissing your captive ward? Wow, Tramy. That’s worse. We should know that.”

He’s exasperated. “She isn’t a captive. She’s our ally, and –“

“Yes?” I insist.

He shakes his head. “I trust her, the colonel trusts her, and there’s no reason the general – or you – shouldn’t trust her as well. I’m just her main handler, as she can’t just walk around here without company.”

“Thus you still don’t trust her,” I deduce.

“I didn’t say –“ he starts but I’m already walking off.

I meet Kilorn outside. He’s about to leave for the Newbloods as I stop him. “May I go with you?” I ask.

He shrugs in agreement. “No chores today? Or are you tired of your needles and threads?”

“I just like to meet people and talk with them.” I smile at him. “This isn’t the first time I go with you.” I look away quickly when he pats my shoulder. I’m blushing and can’t help it, but my feelings for him are gone. He isn’t for me and never was, nor did he ever see me like that, not even when I got my hand shot in my attempt to help him. It was a stupid idea to begin with, and afterwards, I had bigger things to worry about than a young-girl-crush.

Luther Carver is the first Newblood we visit. Kilorn’s known him for a while, but I haven’t seen him before. He’s small, younger than 10, and sits in the grass with a sketchpad on his knees. He draws on it with a pencil but he flinches when he notices us. His alarm lasts only for a moment, then his face lights up. “Hi, Kilorn!”

We greet him back but as I introduce myself, Kilorn stops me from extending my hand. Luther’s hands are fists covered in cotton gloves. I think harder, realizing he has to be the boy with the withering touch. I tear my eyes from his hands and look at his and Kilorn’s faces instead.

“How are you doing?” asks Kilorn, his open smile as encouraging as always.

Luther sighs, struggling between glancing down and at our friend. “I’m trying. Power flashes are rare, and I usually train with plants. That works well.” He pauses and seems sad out of sudden. “I saw a hurt animal once, a rabbit. I touched it and … it died. Quickly.” He has to sniff. “It was the first time.”

Kilorn nods. “It’s okay if you don’t want to try this out. As long as you keep your ability in check –“

“Oh, I do,” Luther exclaims. “Um, it’s still only in my hands. Though I wish it stays this way, so I know what to avoid. So nothing will happen. And these gloves – I need new ones quite often but they’re cozy and can be washed.” He twists his pencil. “Good for drawing.” He dares to smile a little.

“It feels good to make things,” I say. It’s a reflex but feels right to speak, even more so when Luther beams at me.

“Yes, it does!” he agrees. And for this age, his sketches are really good. Plants and flowers, detailed and life-like.

“See,” Kilorn starts again, “you have to go your own way. If you feel better with gloves, keep them. Find your balance between feeling safe and free.”

“Because I’m in control,” Luther adds.

“Exactly,” says Kilorn, smiling, then becoming serious. “I hope I’m helpful, Luther. But I don’t even have an ability myself.”

Luther shakes his head. “And yet you’re not afraid, not of any of – us.”

Kilorn pats his shoulder, hesitating a fraction of a second for see the boy’s consent. “Someone has to keep us together. The notch team.” 

“I have to be home for lunch,” I say later on. “Will you come with me?”

“I’ll eat with Oskar and his friends,” he declines.

The stonemaker, I remember. “Well, till later,” I reply and dash off. I have to run to our house but I like that. I’ve walked the long way to Summerton often enough and I’ve become a little lazy in the last months. Not that I was motivated to do much sport. I was content to sit in our small rooms to be with my family and know that at least they were safe. But recently, the base’s open spaces turned into an unexpected joy.

“Bring Tramy down,” Mom demands when I arrive. But she grins while Dad prepares the table. He likes to help with small tasks to train walking, and Bree assists him. He’s on duty, yet he always arrives on time at meals, so the family can eat together. We need that.

I assume Tramy’s with Clara and go to the room she’s sleeping in. I hesitate at the door. Faintly sung tones emerge from inside, sung by the sweetest voice of Norta. My joy dissolves. I grab the handgrip and open the door. I see it’s not only Norta’s sweetest voice, but her loveliest face as well. Lacey Ventos’s hawkish features are contrasted by a curtain of curly hair like black velvet. The sunlight kisses her olive-brown skin, as if drawn to her, giving her a radiant look. She sings on, not having noticed me. She sits on the bed, while Tramy lays on it, his head in her lap. The scene is both intimate and modest. My brother’s eyes are on her and his hand toys with the ends of her long hair. He’s chosen a dyed tress; its former pink now bleached out like a fabric my mistress would’ve used only for lining.

I close the door behind me, soundly, yet the Silver woman isn’t irked. She turns her head to me but finishes her verse before rousing Tramy. “Ms. Barrow,” she greets me.

“Hello Ms. Ventos,” I reply, only slightly piqued. I don’t have to call her “my lady” here, not anymore, but I needn’t be offensive either.

The couple rises while I look to Clara’s cot. I know I’m blushing, embarrassed at interrupting their romantic moment but unfortunately, the feeling isn’t mutual. Lacey wears the mask of a Silver, as always, even without the elaborate make-up she wore when she came to my mistress’s shop so we might embroider her dresses with colourful patterns and motives, exceeding the limitations of her house colours of blue and orange. And Tramy remains unperturbed, too, I don’t know how, after our earlier conversation.

“Lunch is ready,” I tell him. He says good-bye to his lady-love and she leaves. I still stand in the door, so she has to squeeze herself through. Lacey has a large and feminine frame, not lean like Mare, nor muscular like Diana. More like me, and I would’ve tried on her dresses that I made, to feel the richness on myself for once, if Lacey wasn’t more than 20 cm taller than me and a woman grown.

Tramy comes to me at first but checks on Clara when I don’t react. “We’ll let her sleep,” he decides and touches my arm.

“I told you not to bring her here,” I remind him. “And it seems like you two have a clandestine exit already, which makes it worse.”

He sighs deeply. “She makes Clara sleep with her songs.”

“Look,” I say, “you wouldn’t keep her a secret if you thought this was okay. Diana –“

“Let that be my problem,” interrupts me. He stares at me until I give in.

“Fine. Your problem, just do as you wish.” I turn around and move away.

“Do you hate her?” he asks to my back.

“I had to work for her. She’s a haughty, vain Silver.”

“But she believes in our cause, really. She’s made the pledge.” He’s caught up and stares at me again. “She’s a good one, like Mare’s friends. Probably more so.”

I sigh dramatically, fully aware that I’m exaggerating my dislike because it isn’t real. Lacey Ventos impresses me every time I meet her, more than I like to admit. I’ve almost expected to smell her perfume on my brother, but of course, she hasn’t used it since she came as a captive, after she surrendered during the first battle of Corvium.

I sit outside with my sewing basket when I see her again, later that afternoon. She approaches me and I look up, squinting. Her hair’s moved by the wind, the dyed tresses grown out to her ears. Her clothes are as simple and threadbare as those of everyone here but they hug her perfectly; most of all her red shirt. The colour was forbidden to her as a non-royal burner at the Nortan court; now she wears it freely. For whatever reason, her face is friendly and severe at the same time, and even with her imperfections revealed now, she’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.

I nod curtly to acknowledge her; she sits down in across from me.

“I’ve tried to meet your sister at court a year ago,” she says after a while with her melodic voice.

“Aha,” I utter, too unsure for more.

“Mareena Titanos, the real one I mean, was my cousin, you see,” she explains. “We shared the same grandfather, the storm Luiz Nolle.”

I don’t answer.

“But the witch queen wouldn’t let me. None but a chosen few were allowed to come close to the lost ‘princess’. For good reason, apparently.” She chuckles half-heartedly. “Although I was related to that bitch Elara as well.”

I blink, miss a stitch, and curse, before I spin my head to Lacey. “What?”

Her black eyes are focused on me. “The Queenstrial was a year ago on this day.”

“Was it? I haven’t noticed. I have other worries,” I reply and turn away again.

She shrugs. “I’m good with dates, information and all that.” I’ve guessed so, as she doesn’t seem like the fighting type.

“Tramy says you don’t trust me but there’s a reason I wasn’t ransomed. Because I don’t want it, although my family would’ve paid for me long ago.

“I miss them. Mostly Cassie.”

I stop sewing. “If you’re so empathetic, why did you use people like me?”

Finally, I’ve managed to make her uncomfortable. “Because … I like pretty things, I assume. And I hope I’ve always paid you accordingly.”

She did, but that’s not the real matter which I can’t pin down. I shake my head. “Then show me. Prove your allyship.”

She smiles faintly. “That might be difficult. Actually, I’ve talked to General Farley, and she gave orders to me. Though they might be considered classified Information.”

I snort and roll my eyes. “Of course –“

“But there’s something you can help me with.” She outstretches her hand to me in invitation. I notice her wrists are bare, her sparker bracelets removed long ago. Yet I take her hand and unlike Cal’s, it isn’t hot at all, but of a perfectly regulated temperature. Her eyes are still fixed on me, black like onyx, shining with feverish conviction. She wants to win me over, but unlike Cal, she’s ready to make sacrifices and give something back as well. She asks for my help, but in a way, she makes an offering too.

“I’m listening,” I say. 

Tramy waits for me in the living room, this time he has Clara with him. We exchange some pointed glances, as we’re used to do. I’m certain he must have planned this meeting together with his girlfriend.

“She isn’t that bad, is she?” he blurts finally, the first of us to break the uncomfortable silence.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling although amusement lingers in my voice. “She’s actually nice.” And committed.

Tramy looks extremely relieved. Then he smirks. “Though she’s rather determined, like the general, if you think about it.”

My jaw drops but he’s so, so right. I let out an amused sigh and roll my eyes. “Burners and activists,” I mutter, then louder, “it’s almost scary how we Barrows all fall for the same brand of persons.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I have to clear my throat and need all of my trained-on self-control to calm myself. But he insists. “Gee, out with it.”

“Well, okay, I might’ve had a little, superficial crush on Ms. Ventos. Years ago, and totally over now.”

“Gisa!”

“So, I wish you the best. Honestly. While I … like someone else now, anyway.”

His curiously has peaked. “But not Kilorn? He’s great, but –“

“Oh no, not him.” I smile. “Another girl, of my age,” I add, thinking of Cameron and wishing she’ll return safe and soon with Mare and Diana. 

@calliopexclio @clarafarleybarrow Thanks for liking my drafts and commenting on then, friends <3

@mareshmallow @redqueenfandom @wrenskonos @lilyharvord @mikey-waysjawline @universegamer @asewhj and @thomaven for the Luther scene ;-)

[impalasutra]

Male Nurses are Sexy

Title: Male Nurses are Sexy Author: @impalasutra (aka @revwinchester)

Summary: Dr. Sam Winchester is the Chief of Pediatrics where his partner, Gabriel Novak, is a nurse.  After a rough day at work, Sam decides to push his anniversary plans into action a few weeks early in order to cheer his partner up.

Pairing: Sabriel - Sam Winchester x Gabriel Other Characters: Dr. Luke Ifer (hahahaha, get it?), Nurse Marie (minor OFC), Dr. Shurley, various hospital patient OCs

Challenge(s): @gabriel-monthly-challenge statement prompt “Listen, it’s my duty as your friend to tell you… I’ll kick you in the kneecap if you decide to go through with this” @thing-you-do-with-that-thing Hiatus Writing Challenge prompt “Don’t listen to them.  Don’t you EVER listen to them.” @spnkinkbingo Square: Medical Kink

Word Count: 3956

Rating: Explicit Warnings: cursing, homophobia, sexism, cross dressing, bondage, medical kink (including mock/poor medical practices), prostate massage, rimming, anal sex (m/m, unprotected),

A/N: This is for 3 challenges (see above) and was a lot of fun to write.  I know NOTHING about medicine but I did some research before/while writing but I apologize for anything that’s outstandingly wrong (except for the places where I indicated that Sam isn’t trying to be right.  I don’t apologize for that part).  Anyhow, enjoy!

Male Nurses are Sexy - 

“I really think it’s the best - and only - option for your patient and if you won’t treat him, I’m going to,” Sam proclaimed, frustrated with the conversation he was having with his colleague.  It was the third time the other doctor had come to him with the same patient and the third time that Sam had given him the exact same answer.  

“Listen, it’s my duty as your friend to tell you… I’ll kick you in the kneecap if you decide to go through with this, Dr. Winchester.” Dr. Ifer told Sam.  “It’s experimental treatment at best and when it fails, it’ll ruin your career.”

Sam huffed.  ‘Friend’ was definitely stretching it, Dr. Ifer had been a thorn in Sam’s side for years - ever since they were at Stanford Medicine together - and he had always been jealous of Sam.  “It’s only experimental treatment in the U.S.  They’re having massive success with it in Europe,” Sam reminded his colleague, “and it’s really Karl’s only option at this point.”  Besides, Sam knew that the hospital trusted his judgement.  One of the reasons he had gotten the promotion to Chief of Pediatrics was his willingness to take on higher risk patients.  Patients that Dr. Ifer wouldn’t even look at twice for fear of ruining his “perfect record.”  To this day, Sam couldn’t figure out why the man had thought pediatrics would be a good fit.  

Laughter rang out from down the hall, drawing Sam from his thoughts and both doctors  turned toward the nurses’ station where a few of the ward’s nurses were gathered.

“Look at Mr. Nurse over there, schmoozing it up with the other ladies,” Dr. Ifer sneered, emphasizing the words “other ladies,”  “What a fa-”

“Just because a man is a nurse, doesn’t automatically make him gay,” Sam cut him off before he could finish his sentence and use a derogatory term.  He already had enough paperwork on his desk, he didn’t need to be writing up his colleague again, especially when it seemed like the powers that be didn’t give a damn about the harassment that Gabriel often endured, anyway.

Dr. Ifer rolled his eyes at Sam.  “You’re right, you’re always right, Sammy.  It just means he couldn’t hack med school.”

Dr. Ifer began to leave but Sam grabbed his shoulder and halted the shorter man in his tracks.  “We graduated together, Luke, and I know for a fact that you barely ‘hacked’ med school,” Sam seethed.  He stopped and took a breath, focusing his anger on something else.  “And it’s Dr. Winchester or, at least, Sam.”  All Sam wanted to do was tell Luke to go fuck himself and to never speak about Gabe again but he settled for what he could get.

It was true that being a male nurse didn’t automatically mean someone was gay but Gabriel was.  And Sam considered himself a lucky man to have Gabe waiting at home for him after a long shift.  The Chief of Medicine and the hospital board knew about their relationship but that was it.  Gabriel preferred to keep it quiet, he didn’t want anyone thinking that he got special treatment because of their relationship.  Sam had decided long ago that if secrecy at work was what Gabriel wanted, he would give it to him, even if it hurt sometimes.

Luke shrugged out of Sam’s grasp and stared daggers at the man, his boss really, before sauntering over to the nurses’ station.  Sam couldn’t hear what he was saying but he could see the reaction his words garnered.  The once jovial nurses closed down, returning to whatever tasks they could in order to discourage his presence.  

Sam watched as Luke turned to Gabriel and said something that made the man’s face turn hard.  The eyes of the nurse standing beside Gabe almost bugged out of her head in disbelief at the doctor’s words.  Sam’s blood was boiling as he began to march over but Gabriel’s eyes flicked towards him and the nurse quickly shook his head.  

Sam took a few calming breaths and waited for Dr. Ifer to leave before he finally made his way over to the nurses’ station.  The mood was still tense but the faces were much more friendly at his approach than they had been at Luke’s.

“Dr. Winchester, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Gabriel asked.

Sam huffed a laugh through his nose.  “Just checking in with my favorite nurses,” Sam replied, shooting a smile towards a woman who was organizing some files.  “And how many times do I have to tell you, Gabriel? Sam is fine, especially when there aren’t any patients around.”

Gabriel just shrugged.  “Guess I’m just old fashioned like that, Doc!”  He was the only nurse who refused to use Sam’s first name.  The doctor knew it was because he was worried about slipping up and getting too familiar at work but he still liked to give the man a hard time about it.  

Sam rolled his eyes, “Well, nurse,” he said, emphasizing the title, “I’m going to need…”

It was their usual style of banter at work but Gabriel’s face hardened again and his eyes were cold.  “Marie, can you help Dr. Winchester with whatever it is he needs?”

Before his colleague could reply, Gabriel turned on his heel and strode away into a patient’s room.  

Sam stood there dumbfounded for a moment before turning to Marie.  “What did I do?”

Marie moved around to the other side to the desk, giving Sam a sympathetic look.  “He’s had a rough day.  We’ve got a new patient and she’s a sweetheart but her dad is a sexist asshole,” Marie explained.  “He’s been giving Gabe crap about being ‘just a nurse’ every time he needs to go into the room.  But Shannon, the patient, has taken a liking to him so he sucks it up and puts on a smile for her.”  The nurse paused to breathe and Sam’s heart clenched at her words.  “I think that, combined with Dr. Ifer’s comments… It just set him off when you called him ‘nurse,’ I think.”

Sam groaned and swiped a hand down his face.  “Shit,” he mumbled, “OK, thanks.  I’ll talk to Shannon’s dad and have another sit down with Dr. Ifer.”  Sam had known that Shannon had been admitted to the ward but this was the first time he was hearing that her dad was a problem parent.  Hopefully, he’d be able to assure the man that all of the nurses on the pediatrics team were highly qualified, subtly letting the man know that he was aware of the things he was saying and that he wouldn’t let one of his staff be treated like that.  “And I’ll find Gabe and apologize,” he added.

Sam went to leave but Marie stopped him for a moment.  “For what it’s worth, I think he’s more upset with the whole thing.  He’s not mad at you specifically.  If I had to guess, I’d say you’re his favorite doctor to work with by far.”

Sam smiled.  “Thanks Marie,” he replied, “I’m sure you’re right.”  He walked down the hall and caught Gabriel as he was exiting the room he had disappeared into a few minutes earlier.  His face was even more tense and Sam realized that it must have been Shannon’s room.  He took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching and pulled Gabe into a supply closet.  He crowded his lover against the door and kissed him fiercely.  “Marie told me about Shannon’s dad and about Dr. Ifer trying to start shit,” Sam said, his voice breathless after the kiss.  He looked into Gabriel’s eyes, holding his gaze.  “Don’t listen to them.  Don’t you EVER listen to them.”  Sam pressed his lips into Gabriel’s again, peppering the man with kisses until he was trying to squirm away.

“Sam, stop,” Gabriel mumbled into the quiet room.  “Scrubs don’t hide anything and I can’t go back out there with a hard-on.”

Sam smirked against Gabe’s skin but he did listen and pull away.  He pulled Gabriel into a tight embrace.  “I love you and I’m sorry that I hurt you back there,” he said, murmuring the words into the shorter man’s hair.

Gabriel squeezed him tighter in response.  “It’s OK.  You didn’t know.”  He got on his tiptoes and placed a chaste kiss on Sam’s lips.  “I love you, too.  Now, pass me something from the top shelf so it doesn’t look weird when we walk out of here together.”  Gabriel’s smirk told Sam that while, usually this kind of interaction would be discouraged at work, he was ok with it today, had needed it even.  

Sam reached up over his head and grabbed a stack of towels from the top shelf, passing them down to Gabriel before the two of them left the room.  No one seemed to notice the two of them coming out of the closet but Gabe still made a show of restocking the towels at the nurses’ station, even though they already had plenty.

Sam stopped in Shannon’s room and carefully but firmly laid down the law with her dad, hoping that one conversation would be all it would take to get things on the right path between the family and the nursing staff.  He had a few patients left to see but nothing that was urgent so, instead, he went to the Chief of Medicine’s office and he told Dr. Shurley that there was an emergency at home.

“You had mentioned wanting to be on the floor of the pediatrics unit, sir, to see how things run down there,” Sam explained, “so I was hoping you might cover for me so that I can take care of things at home.”  If Dr. Shurley said yes, Sam was hoping this would kill two birds with one stone.  “Dr. Ifer is on the floor now and would be happy to walk you around.”  Maybe if he saw Luke in action, the Chief of Medicine would do something about him.

To Sam’s surprise, Dr. Shurley agreed and Sam made a beeline for the parking lot.  A few weeks ago he had made a plan and a couple of purchases for his and Gabriel’s upcoming anniversary but Sam had decided to put the plan into action a little bit early in order to cheer Gabriel up.

By the time Gabriel got home, Sam had everything in place and he darted up the stairs to get changed while the smell of his favorite take out lured Gabe into the kitchen.  Sam had put the food onto a plate, poured a glass of wine, and lit a candle for his lover.  Next to the glass was an envelope that said “eat first, then open me.”  Sam had even drawn a heart on it.

Once he had changed, Sam crept downstairs barefoot and stood behind Gabriel in the doorway to the kitchen.  He silently put his shoes on the ground and stepped into them, grateful that he had decided to break them in and practice walking in them whenever he had been in the house alone over the past weeks.  Sam leaned on the doorframe and watched with a smile as Gabriel finished his meal and polished off the glass of wine, finally reaching for the envelope.  His smile only grew as Gabriel laughed at what he had written inside.

“What you do is so important and you are an amazing nurse.  Besides, I think male nurses are sexy as fuck.  Let me prove it to you tonight. - S”

Sam watched as Gabriel read and then sat back in his seat, his posture relaxed and happy, a total 180 from the way he had been holding himself in the hospital.  Sam posed himself in the doorway as sexy as he could manage considering his shoes and attire and then he spoke.  “So, what do you think? Let me take care of you tonight?”

Gabriel jumped a little at the sound of Sam’s voice but regained his composure and turned around quickly, his jaw dropping as he took in his partner.  

Sam was wearing a “sexy nurse” costume or, more accurately, a woman’s sexy nurse costume.  The dress stretched across his chest, showing off the tattoo he had above his heart, and the flared skirt barely covered his ass.  He was wearing red thigh high fishnet stockings that perfectly matched the red trim on the dress.  He spun in a circle, showcasing the big red bow on the back of the dress.  The costume was made complete by a red and white cap and apron and a pair of white patent leather platform heels that added another six inches to Sam’s already impressive height.

Gabriel looked Sam up and down and when he was finally able to pick his jaw up from the ground, he let out a long whistle.  “Hello nurse!”

Sam could feel himself blushing under Gabriel’s scrutiny.  “So, you like it then?” he asked, trying to mask his self consciousness.  

Gabriel was on to him, though, and crossed to where Sam stood.  He could barely reach to kiss the man o a regular day but now, in his heels, he stood more than a foot taller than Gabriel, literally towering over his lover.  Gabe put his hands on Sam’s hips and looked up into his face before pressing a kiss over his heart.  “I love it Sam,” he assured the man.  “Now,” he added taking a step back and wagging his eyebrows, “I believe you said something about taking care of me, nurse?”

Sam beamed down at Gabriel and took him by the hand, confidently leading him through the house.  With each step in the heels, his hips swayed and the crinoline in the skirt brushed against his ass.  Sam had never worn something or done anything quite like this before but if his erection and Gabriel’s reactions so far were any indication, this wouldn’t be the last time.  “The exam room is ready for you, Mr. Novak,” Sam told Gabriel as he led him into their guest room.  He had shifted the furniture around a little earlier in the day in order to suit his purposes.  The desk was now in the center of the room and covered with the white paper you’d find covering the exam table in nearly every doctor’s office.  Sam had even managed to make the bed look clinical, doing away with the comforter and changing the sheets to a starched white set reminiscent of what would be found in the hospital, if hospital beds were queen sized, four poster beds.

Sam led Gabriel to the center of the room and then sashayed across to the wardrobe.  He pulled out a hospital gown and brought it to his partner.  “You’ll need to change into this,” he explained before moving to take a seat on the edge of the bed, his eyes intently trained on Gabriel.

Gabriel put on a little bit of a show for Sam as he shimmied out of his scrubs, choosing to turn his back to his lover and bend at the waist as he removed his pants and then slowly stood up.  Once he was naked he took his time shaking out the hospital gown that Sam had given him before he slid his arms into it.  “I think I’m going to need some help getting it fastened,” he said, looking over his shoulder at Sam who had begun to stroke his cock while watching Gabriel undress.

Sam’s pupils were blown wide with lust but he kept it together and stood, leading Gabriel towards the desk in the center of the room and gently pushing his back so that he bent at the waist, his chest pressing into the paper that covered the wooden surface.  “I don’t think that will be necessary, actually,” Sam replied as he positioned Gabriel’s arms up above his head.  “I hope you don’t mind the restraints, it’s a new office policy after a few unruly patients,” he explained, wrapping leather cuffs around Gabriel’s wrists and attaching them to a small eyebolt he had installed on the desk.  “Your chart says you need a thorough prostate examination and I need unrestricted access in order to do that to you- I mean, for you.”

Sam crossed around behind Gabriel, his heels clicking against the hardwood floor as he collected a few items he was planning on using throughout the evening.  When he returned, he ran a hand down Gabriel’s back.  “Now, if you would just relax and spread your legs, Mr. Novak, I can begin.”

Gabriel spread his legs and Sam ran his hands over his partner’s ass.  “You’re ready to begin, Mr. Novak?”

“Fuck yes, Nurse Winchester,” Gabe replied and Sam clicked open the bottle of lube.

Sam slicked up his fingers and slowly pushed one into Gabriel’s ass.  He quickly found his lover’s prostate and began slowly rubbing his finger against it.

Gabriel, who was already turned on from Sam’s outfit and his unexpected strip tease, responded immediately with a low groan.  He began canting his hips, desperate for friction along his cock, but the crinkly medical paper only moved with him and provided him with no relief.  “More, please nurse,” he plead in frustration.

Sam slung his free arm over Gabriel’s lower back, holding his hips in place.  “Mr Novak, I’m going to need you to stay still,” he told the man as he worked a second finger into his ass, “otherwise, I can’t get an accurate result from your examination.”

As Sam’s fingers resumed their slow, torturous work, Gabriel let out a sound that could only be described as a whimper.  He caught his breath and managed to grind out a single word.  “Bullshit.”  Sam had been stretching the truth or just plain making up medical facts throughout the examination and Gabriel had decided he wanted to play a more active role.

Sam playfully gasped at Gabriel’s outburst.  “Mr. Novak!  You shouldn’t use language like that in the exam room!” he admonished as he reached for the bottle of lube, planning on adding more of the slick, cherry flavored liquid to his fingers.

Before he could open the bottle, though, Gabriel spoke again.  “I looked it up on WebMD before I came in and they disagree with everything you’re saying.”  Gabriel’s voice was smug and Sam decided to play along.

He quickly pulled his fingers out of Gabriel’s hole, causing the man to cry out at the complete loss of contact.  “Talking about that filthy website is prohibited, Mr. Novak!” Sam informed Gabe.  “If you insist on using such vulgar language, I’m going to have to punish you.”  His hand landed on Gabriel’s ass with a loud smack and his patient groaned in pleasure.  Sam spanked Gabe hard enough that his ass turned pink under his hand but not so hard that it wouldn’t be a pleasurable spanking and by the time Sam was done, Gabriel was moaning with and rocking his hips back into every slap.

“Now, I think I need to perform a closer examination,” Sam informed his patient.  He carefully got to his knees and used his hands to spread Gabriel’s ass cheeks.  Sam gently licked over Gabriel’s hole before pulling back to watch the muscle contract at the loss of sensation.  Gabriel whimpered for the second time that night as Sam blew a stream of cool air over where he had just licked and Sam watched his muscles clench and contract again.  “Your reflexes look good, Mr. Novak.  Just a few more tests to run.”  With those words, Sam dove back in, running his tongue over and around Gabriel’s hole before pointing his tongue and pushing it past the ring of muscle he had loosened with his fingers.

Gabriel was writhing and moaning on the desk as Sam continued his onslaught, the only intelligible words falling from his mouth being “nurse,” “Sammy,” and the occasional expletive.  His hips bucked hard when Sam added a couple of fingers to the mix and, soon enough, Gabriel was on the edge of an orgasm.

Sam pulled his mouth away but kept three of his fingers deep in Gabriel’s ass, slowly massaging his partner’s prostate.  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Novak,” he apologized.  “I’ve gotten you all aroused, how unprofessional of me.”  Sam slowed his fingers even more, barely teasing the sensitive gland.

“Don’t stop now, please,” Gabriel panted as Sam pulled his fingers away, “don’t stop.  I’m so close…” He tugged on the cuffs at his wrists and Sam realized a second too late that he hadn’t buckled them properly and his patient wasn’t as secure as he had thought.  

Gabriel caught Sam off balance, the heels slowing his progress as he returned to his feet, and spun him around, wrapping the cuffs around Sam’s wrists and securely fastening them behind his back.  As Sam tried to regain his footing in his heels, Gabriel pushed him onto his back on the bed.  He flipped up Sam’s skirt and was pleased to find that his nurse had been getting just as excited during the examination as he had.  He knew Sam would get uncomfortable quickly with his arms pinned behind his back and under his body as they were, so he didn’t want to waste any time.

Gabriel straddled Sam’s erection and sunk down, his well stretched hole taking his lover’s cock with ease.  Once he was fully seated, Gabriel shifted his hips and Sam groaned, throwing his head back into the pillows.  “I should tease you like you were teasing me,” Gabe threatened, “but you make a very naughty nurse, Sammy, and I’m about to burst.”

With that, Gabriel dropped his hands to the bed on either side of Sam’s head for leverage and lifted himself up before dropping back onto Sam’s cock, eliciting a long, low moan from the man beneath him.  Gabriel crashed their lips together as he fucked himself on Sam;s erection.  

Sam’s hips bucked up, meeting Gabriel thrust for thrust and when Gabe was sure his partner was close, he adjusted his position so that Sam’s cock brushed against his prostate with every move either of them made.  Gabriel brought one hand down to his erection and began stroking himself, pushing himself over into his orgasm.  His cum splattered across Sam’s stomach and chest as his muscles contracted around Sam’s cock and the man groaned as he released deep inside of Gabriel.

Gabe managed to maneuver his body so that he collapsed next to Sam rather than on top of him and after a few moments, Sam rolled onto his side, his back facing Gabriel.  He took the hint and uncuffed his lover’s wrists, tiredly rubbing his shoulders to release some of the tension that the position had built up.  Gabe was fighting to stay awake after being teased for so long before finally grabbing control and taking his release from Sam’s body.

A few minutes later, Sam got up and retrieved the towels he had stashed in the room earlier and gently cleaned them up, kicking his heels off in the process.  He scooped Gabriel up in his arms and carried the well satisfied man back to their bedroom.

“You were right,” Gabriel mumbled into Sam’s chest once they were in bed, “male nurses are sexy.”  Gabriel’s mouth opened in a huge yawn but just as he was drifting off to sleep he added, “I liked the sound of Nurse Winchester.”  

Sam wasn’t sure Gabriel had even meant to say it, but it was something he had been thinking, too.  Even more, Sam liked the sound of Dr. Winchester-Novak and he knew what his new anniversary surprise was going to be.

If you’d like to be added to one of my tag lists (either forevers or a specific character or ship) let me know!

Fic Tags: @nanika67 GMC Tags: @gabriel-monthly-challenge @ashiewesker @archangel-with-a-shotgun @lacqueluster @revwinchester

FOREVERS!: @hexparker

All Ships: @purgatoan

Medical AU/Sabriel Tags from @mrswhozeewhatsis: @mrswhozeewhatsis @thinkwritexpress-official @SinceriouslyAmellPadalecki @ferferelli @chrisatplay @faith-in-dean @winchesters-princess @jelly-beans-and-gstrings @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @justanothersaltandburn @mysaintsasinner @brothersonahotelbed @hexparker

[synonym-for-life]

In Order to Heal

I finally managed to write up the prompt ‘’Does it still hurt?’’ originally given to me by an anon that I later found out was actually @hazyxthoughts Thank you for the wonderful prompt! <3   Read it on AO3

The room is enveloped in sombre darkness. Only a few feeble rays of sunlight manage to fight their way through the curtains - just enough to make the darkness stand out more. The air is hot, stifling. A young man with wild black hair is lying motionlessly on the bed. He can hardly breathe, the air is weighing so hard on him. Or is it the air? Or is it this strange heaviness that’s been building inside his chest? This peculiar pressure in his lungs making him feel as though he’ll burst any minute but instead only succeeds in making him immobile, completely incapacitated. 

It’s that day tomorrow. May 2nd. The day on which he’ll pretend, for the second year in a row, that he is strong, composed, healed. For others. For Ron, for Hermione, for Mrs Weasley. Tomorrow he will be strong, today he can be weak. 

His head is fuzzy. He cannot distinguish one thought from another, cannot tell whether tears are really running down his cheeks or he only wishes they were. Tears, screams, anything, anything to alleviate the pressure inside.

All he does is succumb to the weight.

Everything hurts.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, he just knows the rays of sunlight are gone and the room is even darker than before. Strangely enough, the darker it gets the more clear one thought becomes. 

If a name resonating through one’s head even counts as a thought?

Draco Draco Draco

Funny how his mind at its worst refers to Malfoy as Draco.

Why is there so much fog in his brain? He can’t even figure out why his mind keeps calling for Malfoy, but it keeps insisting. Curious. Of course, at least Malfoy wouldn’t care, at least Malfoy wouldn’t try to talk him out of this mood. He wouldn’t tell him to be grateful it’s over, he wouldn’t tell him they should be glad to be alive, he wouldn’t tell him he should be happy now. He wouldn’t say anything, he’d just fuck him into the mattress like countless times before and it wouldn’t mean anything. But it would help with the pressure.

Yes.

Malfoy always helps with the pressure.

He moves to feel for his wand that should be lying somewhere on the bed beside him; it’s for the first time he’s moved in hours. His grip is weak when he awkwardly waves it in a familiar pattern croaking out a faint Expecto Patronum.

A faint white wisp flutters from the tip before it dissipates. Somewhere deep inside he’s shocked - this hasn’t happened in years. He tries again, but everything is just too heavy, the weight on his chest is drowning him, pulling him under.

Happy thought? Happiness?

He cannot remember ever feeling it.

He cannot concentrate. His mind is just supplying Draco, Draco, Draco over and over again, so he just focuses on that. Draco, Draco, Draco Draco Draco; a silent Expecto Patronum. The familiar form of a stag erupts from the wand tip, feeble, small and flickering like a ghost, but it’s there. Harry would have been relieved if he could feel at all.

‘’Go find him. Draco. Tell him…’’ his voice gives out, ‘’Tell him I need him.’’

He lays there in darkness, chest aching, mind lost in a fog of blurry thoughts when a loud crack shakes the room. His reflexes take over as he sits up his hands gripping the wand tightly. The man who apparated into the room swishes his own wand in a practiced motion and small orbs of light fly from the tip to settle in the sconces along the walls. Warm light chases the darkness into the corners bringing the tall blond man in front of him into view. Draco. Harry’s outstretched hand falls limp to his side.

‘’Potter.’’ The voice is faint as pale eyebrows draw together. ‘’Fuck. Potter. What the fuck happened to you?’’ Draco takes a firm step towards the foot of the bed before stopping uncertainly. Harry can only assume he doesn’t look too well if Malfoy is worried about him.

Harry opens his mouth to speak, the voice that comes from his throat could very well be someone else’s it sound so scratchy and unused. ‘’You apparated here. The wards are up.’’

Draco shifts looking uncomfortable for a second, before indifference takes over. ‘’Yes, well, I tore through them.’’

Somewhere in his confused mind Harry realizes that’s a bit strange. Malfoy always comes through the Floo. ‘’What about the Floo?’’

Malfoy tenses and shifts his gaze to the nightstand on Harry’s right.

’’Your Patronus said…’’ Harry can see Draco’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows, ‘’it said that you. That you needed me.’’ The resolve in grey eyes firms as they settle on him again.

As shadows ghost across Malfoy’s face, Harry can see the black under his eyes, the strange parchment tinge to his skin, the haunted eyes. He’s not looking too well himself.

‘’You look like crap.’’

A hoarse laugh escapes Malfoy’s throat. ‘’Yes, well, if you pulled your head out of your arse, you would see you’re not the only one dreading tomorrow.’’

‘’I’ll be fine tomorrow.’’

‘’Yeah? At what cost Potter?’’ Now Malfoy looks angry and Harry can’t really tell why. ‘’You’ll be fine tomorrow, so that you can rot on the inside for the rest of the year? Good fucking plan.’’

That hits a nerve that Harry knows it wouldn’t have if it weren’t at least half true. But fuck Malfoy. What does he want him to do? Cry in front of the fucking public? Make a speech about this stupid pressure in his chest? Now, that’s a good fucking plan.

‘’What the fuck am I supposed to do, Malfoy? Enlighten me, please.’’ His voice is dripping with venom now, the same venom that’s poisoning him from the inside. ‘’Nobody wants a sobbing hero.’’

‘’Those who love you don’t want a fucking hero!’’ Malfoy shouts. His nostrils are flaring and his eyes are glinting with overflowing emotions.

The pressure in Harry’s chest starts to bubble in annoyance. He thought Malfoy won’t bloody preach to him, that’s why he called him here. ‘’What do you even care? What are you even doing here?’’

‘’You fucking called me here!’’ Malfoy is properly yelling now. ‘’What the fuck Potter! Your Patronus was so weak. Fuck! I thought you were fucking dying!’’

Harry doesn’t know when exactly he got to his feet, but he’s standing by the side of the bed now, surpassing Malfoy’s volume with every word he screams, ‘’I called you to FUCK ME! You know like you do all the fucking time?’’ he’s now taking steps towards Malfoy who doesn’t show any indication of backing off.

‘’I called you to fuck me, because THAT’S THE ONLY THING THAT FUCKING HELPS TO ALLEVIATE THIS- THIS FUCKING PRESSURE INSIDE.’’ He is so close to the other man now that he’s shouting directly at his face. He can’t see very well though. Everything is blurry. ‘’ALL THIS- THIS FUCKING TENSION INSIDE AND I DON’T EVEN FEEL ANYTHI-’’ His voice beaks off as he realizes he can’t see because there are tears stinging his eyes.

‘’Fuck me.’’ He says demanding, not asking.

His hand flows to Malfoy’s neatly tucked shirt and tugs on it. He steps closer still, pressing himself against the firm body. He releases the shirt from the trousers’ hold and slips his hands against the warm soft skin. Malfoy despite breathing heavily is uncharacteristically rigid.

His mouth moves against Malfoy’s ear. ‘’Fuck me.’’ He slides his leg between the open thighs. ‘’Please.’’  He can feel the body he’s clutching shiver.

‘’No.’’ Malfoy takes hold of his arms pushing him away. ‘’No. Not when you’re like this.’’ He takes another step back.

The pressure returns full force, crushing him, boiling his blood and clouding his mind.

‘’FUCK YOU!’’ he doesn’t know when he turned away he just knows he’s now swinging his fist against the door pummelling it viciously. ‘FUCK ALL THIS! FUCK YOU!’’ He’s shouting, fists pounding, his vision clouded by wet tears that are finally pouring down his face without stopping. He feels his fist hitting the wood repeatedly and it hurts, but he is so glad that he finally feels that he finally hurts.

A warm hesitant hand touches his back softly. In an instant all strength leaves his body and Harry sags against the door helpless, afraid, torn.

Strong unsure arms wrap around him from behind. They hold him there grounding him, absorbing the tremors of the ugly heaving sobs escaping his throat.

‘’It’s okay. ’’ Is whispered against his neck. ‘’Shh, It’s okay.’’ Repeated over and over again as they slide to the floor together. It’s messy and ugly and pathetic, but Harry can’t help but think it’s better than before. Better than not feeling anything.

Malfoy just holds him, holds him through the shivers, holds him through the gasping breaths, his face pressed into Harry’s hair. He doesn’t move. Harry can feel the awkwardness in their entangled limbs, awkwardness due to their strangely contorted position as well as this unusual display of brokenness. Malfoy can’t be used to this. Harry can feel his arms twitch from time to time as if he can’t decide whether to hug harder or let go. He holds on anyway.

Harry’s heavy breathing has subsided to a random shaking breath here and there, when the mouth pressed against him opens and Draco says quietly ‘’You know, a wise person once said to me that in order to heal you have to let yourself feel. In order to heal you must let yourself hurt.’’

Harry lets out a shallow breath. ‘’That sounds like something Hermione would say.’’

Draco shifts. ‘’Weasley, actually.’’

‘’Ron?’’

He can feel Draco nod slowly behind him. ‘’Yeah. Weasley. He- he found me in Knockturn alley that first year after the war. I- I was numbing myself with alcohol and he was on duty that day. It wasn’t a good time.’’

Harry closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. ‘’It’s not a good time for me now,’’ he swallows. ‘’It- It hasn’t been for a long time.’’

He can feel Draco move to speak, but he seems to change his mind and instead just tightens his hold on him. Harry hurts. He hurts worse than he did before, but his chest is lighter and the pressure is gone.

The next day Hermione asks him if he’s okay. He answers he hasn’t been too well lately. The smile she gives him is sad but brilliant.

The next day he cries by every grave they visit. Ron’s hand clasps his shoulder firmly and doesn’t let go.

The next day in the dark of the night Draco asks him ‘’Does it still hurt?’’.

‘’Yeah,’’ he whispers. ‘’Yeah, but at least now- now I can feel it.’’

[thisdiscontentedwinter]

Hunger - chapter 23

Hunger master post

By the afternoon, the McCalls’ house is full of FBI agents, because apparently Gerard Argent was in the drug trade and Sheriff Haigh was involved, and absolutely nothing happened that has anything to do with werewolves. Rafael McCall suggests to his colleagues that Gerard at one time was operating out of the old bunker in the Preserve, and that one of the Hale kids must have seen something. And just like that the motive for the fire is neatly explained away.

Stiles worries about the fact that the investigation is going to turn up a distinct lack of drugs, but Chris seems to think that a search of his father’s properties will uncover enough money and weapons that the drug angle will be the only one that will play. Because the alternative? The alternative is werewolves, and nobody is going to go for that.

 Stiles worries that Haigh and the surviving hunters won’t go along with it, despite Derek’s threats.

“How can you be sure?” he asked Chris Argent on the way back to the house from the woods, when Rafael McCall and Jordan Parrish were making arrests and calling in outside backup from the scene.

“Because they’re going to prison anyway, and they’ll want to do their time in general population, not the psych ward,” Chris told him. His mouth quirked in the first smile Stiles thought he’d seen from him, and it was bitter. “Because the reason we’ve been able to fight this war in secret for centuries is that nobody would believe the truth anyway. And they know they’re better off in prison that dealing with the fallout from breaking the code.”

And Stiles had shuddered, because the thought of prison is one that never fails to make him feel sick to the stomach.

His dad…

Back at the house, Stiles gets a shower and Melissa makes pancakes. She forces Allison and Scott and Stiles to sit on the couch and refuses to let them move. Stiles fidgets and worries about Derek and Peter. Chris said something about taking them to a hotel to keep them out of the way.

They’re keeping their story simple.

Stiles came back to Beacon Hills because he was unhappy in care, and it was his home. Kate recognized him, leapt to the paranoid assumption he knew something about her involvement in his dad’s set up, and kidnapped him from Parrish’s custody. Parrish, who somehow managed to escape his burning cruiser, approached Chris Argent to question him about Kate’s whereabouts, and he nominated the bunker in the woods. Parrish called in a friend of a friend, Agent McCall.

Everything else happened pretty much the way it did.

Except for werewolves.

Except for Scott and Melissa and Allison.

They’re keeping it simple.

Stiles wishes he could say he feels uncomfortable about the idea of law enforcement officers lying under oath—given the whole Haigh thing—but it turns out his sense of morality isn’t so black and white. Stiles couldn’t be happier that Agent McCall and Deputy Parrish are lying through their teeth. The means really do justify the ends. But also, motive matters. McCall and Parrish aren’t framing an innocent man.

Stiles discovers he can live with that.

 ***

 Stiles’s lawyer is called David Whittemore. He reminds the agents that Stiles is traumatized and in shock, and produces an emergency placement order that says Stiles can stay with Melissa McCall. He pretends he doesn’t notice when Stiles cries.

 ***

 “Are you going to get my dad out?” Stiles asks Agent Kim after they go through what happened. Again. Stiles is tired and every time he blinks he sees Gerard Argent’s skull explode behind him as the bullet exits, but he’s a good liar. Always has been. The trick to lying is not to add any extra embellishments that might trip him up later. And the trick to dealing with police and other law enforcement is to just let the silences go. They’re trained to leave gaps, pauses, like lacunas in an orchestral piece, laden with anticipation. Stiles knows better than to try to fill those silences they’ve left. It’s human nature to want to talk, to mistake a friendly interrogation for a conversation and keep the rhythm going.

Stiles knows better.

He jiggles his legs and chews his nails and tells Agent Kim and David Whittemore how long it’s been since he had Adderall.

It’s just hard to sit back and do nothing knowing that his dad is still in prison.

“When can my dad come home?” he asks.

Agent Kim looks grave and serious. “There’s a process, Stiles. These things take time. You—”

“No, listen,” Stiles says. “My dad is a cop, who is in prison. You think about that. Please. Please just think about that. He needs to come home. He needs to be safe.”

This is supposed to be the end of the story. This is supposed to be the easy part. Stiles has faced the bad guys. He’s fought the fight. It’s ridiculous that the thing keeping them apart now is petty bureaucracy. That’s not fair. That’s not right.

“I want my dad,” he says, and stares at his knees so he doesn’t start crying again. “I just want my dad.”

“We’re done here,” Mr. Whittemore says. “Stiles isn’t answering any more questions today.”

Stiles flees downstairs to the basement.

 ***

 Stiles is curled up into a ball underneath the comforter when he hears footsteps on the basement stairs. It’s late afternoon and getting comfortably gloomy in the basement. The little windows don’t let in a lot of sunlight, but Stiles can’t be bothered get up and turn a light on.

He wants his dad. The ache of it is impossibly sharp now that it’s so close. He’s terrified that something will happen and it will be torn away from him at the last minute. He hates that he’s too afraid, even now, to believe in a happy ending. That he’d rather be this person, cynical and pessimistic and bitter, than to nurture fragile hope into faith in case the universe destroys it.

Once upon a time he had faith his mom would get better.

Once upon a time he had faith no court would convict an innocent man.

Faith and Stiles parted ways a long time ago.

Footsteps tread slowly down the stairs, and a moment later weight dips the mattress.

“Remember how I asked you if sometimes it would be okay if I did the mom stuff for you?” Melissa asks quietly.

Stiles nods, the comforter still pulled up to his chin.

“I think this might be one of those times, huh?” Melissa puts her hand on his back, and rubs small circles there.

Stiles squeezes his stinging eyes shut.

“I know this is hard for you right now,” Melissa says. “You haven’t been able to rely on the adults in your life for the past four years, and now here they are telling you to sit back and wait. Why the hell should you listen to anything we tell you, right?”

Stiles hugs his aching stomach, and manages a nod.

“All I can tell you is we have to get this part right, Stiles,” Melissa says, still rubbing those comforting circles into his back.

It reminds him of what his mom and dad did for him when he was little and sick. What his dad did after she was gone. He’s missed simple touch like this.

Melissa exhales slowly. “We have to trust that Rafa and Jordan know what they’re doing here, because this is their territory now, okay? This is what they do.” She pauses for a moment, her hand against the knot in the top of his spine. “Well, I hope they don’t usually lie and cover things up, but you get my point.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Stiles’s mouth despite himself. He opens his eyes and stares into the gloom. He can’t bring himself to turn and look at Melissa.

“I’m scared,” he says at last.

“I know,” she says. “It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared too, and today? Stiles, when you boys got out of the car, I thought my heart was going to give out.” She draws a shaking breath. “I have never been more terrified in my life than when I thought you were going to get hurt.”

“You were a total badass today.”

“And so were you,” Melissa tells him. “Being scared doesn’t mean you can’t be brave at the same time.”

“I don’t feel brave.”

“But you are,” she says. “You’ve one of the bravest people I know.”

Stiles scrubs at his damp cheeks with the ball of his hand.

“I know it’s not easy, Stiles, but you’re almost there, okay?” She brushes her hand over his hair. “And you’re not alone anymore.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Okay.

 ***

 Stiles can’t sleep that night. It’s late when he hears the basement door open and then the click of claws on the steps. A moment later the springs of the foldout couch squeal as a heavy weight lands on them, and then there’s a huff of hot breath on Stiles’s face as a wolf settles down beside him.

“It’s really dark,” Stiles murmurs. “You’d better be Derek.”

The wolf chuffs.

Stiles rolls onto his side and throws an arm over the wolf’s shoulders. He presses his face against the fur of the wolf’s ruff and inhales. Derek rumbles underneath him.

“You can change back if you want,” Stiles whispers to him.

The wolf stretches, his weight shifts, and Stiles’s hand is suddenly resting on the smooth skin of Derek’s hip. It should feel more uncomfortable than it does.

“I’ll bet your hotel is nicer than this.”

“You’re not there,” Derek says, his voice low. He rolls over to that he’s facing Stiles.

Stiles’s hand finds its way to his hip again. And maybe it’s the fact that its dark now and he doesn’t have to see, but it’s very easy to move his hand back and forth, to rub more warmth into Derek’s skin without it being weird. Well, too weird. He touches Derek all the time when Derek is in wolf form. Skin-to-skin makes him feel a little breathless though.

“Can I scent you?” Derek asks. “Like this?”

In his human form.

Stiles suppresses a shiver. “Okay.”

Derek surges closer, closing the scant distance between them. He presses his cheek gently to Stiles’s, and Stiles closes his eyes at the scrape of Derek’s stubble. Then Derek’s nose is nudging his jaw up, and it’s such a familiar gesture—such a wolf gesture—that Stiles smiles as he tilts his head. Back in the alley, back when Stiles thought he had a really cool big dog, this is how Derek built their closeness. With a curious nose and a lack of understanding about personal space. Not that Stiles had wanted personal space. He’d needed someone to lean against, to curl up with, to hold, and that’s exactly what Derek had given him, and more.

Stiles reaches up and drags his fingers through Derek’s hair. It’s soft, and smells of whatever shampoo his hotel room provided him with. It’s okay. It’s not too weird. Derek is still outside the comforter, and Stiles is underneath. That’s several layers of fabric plus Stiles’s pajamas keeping this situation G-rated.

“Are you going to stay?” Stiles whispers.

Derek drags his nose up Stiles’s throat. “Yes.”

Stiles closes his eyes and sighs. “I didn’t just mean tonight.”

Derek’s breath is hot against his skin. “I know.”

Stiles tilts his head back further, and tries not to think about how much he wants to roll onto his back and feel Derek’s weight on him. How it wouldn’t be just for comfort. But maybe he’d pretend it was, because he’s only known Derek’s human form for such a short time that it feels skeevy and shallow to take the feelings he has for Derek—safety and comfort and protection—and add sex to them.

He loves Derek.

That’s been true since the alley.

All the other stuff feels too complicated to unpack right now.

But he loves Derek, and he’s loved in return.

“Say it,” he whispers as he cards his fingers through Derek’s hair and Derek’s mouth settles over the pulse point in his throat.

“Stiles,” Derek whispers. “My Stiles.”

“My Derek,” Stiles whispers back, and holds him close.

[better-than-sleeping]

A Friend in the Walls

Uh, where was my body hidden again? ...The basement? Or was it attic? One of those two, but I avoid going in either, for obvious reasons. I mean, very few people want to see their own corpse and I definitely don’t fall into that category.

It’s fun to drop in on people, see how they’re doing. It keeps me from getting bored and I think I’m kind of lucky in a way, that I exist somewhere with lots of people. Don’t worry though! I know what you’re probably thinking- “hey, if ghosts are real then what if they’ve seen me naked? Or taking a dump!?” Or maybe that’s just what I’d be thinking if I were in your situation. I try my best to give everyone their privacy when it comes to stuff like pooping or getting changed, though I can’t vouch for ALL ghosts, so you should probably stay on your toes. You might have some kind of toilet voyeur with you.

Anyway, when you’re a spirit your whole existence is kinda bitter sweet, with most of that sweetness coming from the people around you. Which is why I want to tell you about them. My residents.

On the top floor is Mr Archman who’s in his thirties (or forties maybe) and all I’d ever hear from his apartment was bang, bang, bang like some loud-ass metronome. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone for, but he still hasn’t stopped his constant hammering, so of course that’s the first place I check out when I realised I could go just about anywhere in the building. And you know what he was doing? Putting up pictures. The walls are almost completely covered with framed photographs and the main theme seems to be “old”. Every one of them is a black and white picture of people; people standing in groups, on the beach, in singles, pairs, any combination or place really. But there’s always people. They don’t have to be smiling or looking at the camera- so long as there’s a person, it seems to be good enough for Mr Archmans’ wall. None of the pictures are of his family.

I wonder what he’ll do when he runs out of space?

Honestly, whenever he’s putting another nail in the wall, a part of me hopes the next picture will be a new one. One of him at a party or something. Sometimes his mouth makes this small straight line, the hammering gets harder- bang, BANG, BANG – and then it all leaves him at once. He’s just left with a blank look in his eyes.

This was why I started to make tea for him, I mean, I can’t get my hands corporeal for long enough to actually MAKE the tea yet, but I get out his favourite mug and put the kettle on. The sound of it turning off snaps him out of it and nowadays he isn’t even confused about whether he switched it on or not. I feel a bit better about myself when I see the calm look on his face.

Today I just watch him for a while like a creep, then when he’s done putting up another frame he vanishes into his bedroom before reappearing briefly on his way out the door. And so I’m left alone without really feeling alone. Being in his flat is kind of like standing in front of a crowd of people, most of whom are silently staring at you. So basically a nightmare, huh?  

I leave pretty quickly.

*

Next floor down is Ms Ward and her baby Matthew. She argues with Mr Archman about the noise a lot, since it wakes up the baby who’ll cry and cry without stopping. Poor thing. Both of them. She must drop the baby off somewhere then pick him up after work and its gone 8pm by the time they get back and her nails aren’t even there anymore, she’s bitten them into dust.

Despite the fog of worry that seems to hang around the place, I do enjoy this floor. Matthew- he’s the only one who’s looked at me since I left, the only person who can see me. Granted, when I first came to visit I think I frightened him a bit, I don’t really know what I look like to him, so maybe I’m all dark and ghosty and child-frightening now. After a few visits he was more comfortable around me though, which is why I started to take the liberty of calming him down when he has one of his cry-a-thons. Ol’ Matty can’t be picked up by me since he’s alive, the most I can do is rock his cradle a bit. Ms Ward walked in on me doing it once which must have looked like some real horror movie shit. I almost found it funny, but couldn’t really bring myself to do a ghost laugh with her making that face. She’s one of the two who’re certain the place is haunted. Ha. Now I feel kinda guilty remembering how on edge she must feel with me around. I wanted to disappear when I saw that look on her face… but that was a while ago now. I think that it’s worth being here if I can make peoples’ lives a bit easier.

No good ideas on getting her to think I’m friendly so far- I had the terrible idea of drawing a smiley face on the mirror while she was in the shower, but the condensation made it look like it was crying and bleeding from the mouth, so I rather hastily wiped it off before she could be traumatised any further.

She actually has more in common with Mr Archman than they know because her place is packed with books on every possible surface. They’re stacked all over the floor too, so they make a mini woodland pathway through her home, and I can’t wait to start hacking my way into them! Slowly I’m getting better at holding things, so once I can start reading that’ll be an instant tonic for boredom. Sleep isn’t really a thing for me, so it gets super tedious once everyone’s gone to bed. Ms Ward has a bunch of different genres, but her collection is mostly what I’m assuming is her favourite- thriller mysteries.

Wait, shouldn’t she be a bit more desensitised to creepy stuff if that’s what she’s always got her nose in? Or maybe that’s WHY she’s so tense- most of the books have some frankly unsettling covers. You can’t shift your gaze without it landing on a detective being garrotted or something.

When I drop in today they aren’t at home, so instead I spend about half an hour trying to pick up a book and turn the page. “Why did you take half an hour for something so simple” you may ask. Well have you ever tried to pick up something that’s just COVERED in butter? It’s kinda like that, but your hands keep shifting through planes of existence. If I still had blood vessels, I’d have a headache right now. Ugh.

Next floor!

*

Oooo, this ones Ada’s apartment, I can’t wait to tell you about her! She’s pretty old, constantly playing records of Nat King Cole, Etta James and the like. It gives quite a relaxing atmosphere really, and her place is a mix of standard old people furnishings- (she has textured wallpaper! My grandparents had some before they modernised their house, it reminds me of them)- and new age religious stuff. When I say new age I mean, like, tarot cards and crystals ‘n’ stuff so I guess she’s not that typical of an old person. More of a 50/50 split. So, Ada has these two cats (who never seem to get any more comfortable around me but whatever) that I feed whenever she forgets to. I could never leave a kitty to go hungry, even if it hisses and puffs up at me because I’m an abomination. I won’t give up on them though! Bertie only hissed at me twice when I last visited!

The majority of the time I’m down here, she’ll be chatting on the phone to a friend about her day or laughing along with the telly, and it’s good to know at least someone in this building has a social life. I get jealous, and then I just get sad because I think “is that what I could have been like?” God knows I wasn’t a social butterfly before, but what if they’d just given me time to grow into my skin? Why was that so hard?

Um, yeah… anyway. She spoke to me. One day I was standing next to her chair, she had a cat on her lap, watching tv and she goes “do you want me to change the channel?” At first I think, Ada, cats don’t care about what’s on tv, they just want to sleep and nock things off your counter.  But then she says “I know someone’s there, you come here often don’t you?” I couldn’t reply, so just waited for her to continue. “You can watch tv here whenever you like, ok?” And from then on she’s never turned off the tv when she leaves the house and when I’m standing next to her chair she says random stuff, telling me about what’s gone on in the news, how she’s feeling. It’s nice. I hadn’t felt that kind of calm belonging for a while and I desperately needed it.

Quite a while goes by as I watch tv, or more accurately, stare at the screen while I think about what I’ve been wanting to do for some time now. The cats get fed their bi weekly ‘stop hating me’ treat and I stare at the fridge magnets for the tenth time. How cliché it would be…to leave a message.

Surely she remembered talking to me when we would run into each other? Surely.

Maybe I could’ve been found by now. But no one came.

Let’s move on.

*

This one’s my old place, recently housing a new couple. Dear Sadie and Margot, I can’t really hold it against ya. It’s probably the least cockroach infested flat they have at such a low cost, so enjoy I guess. Well maybe I am a bit annoyed, but I know it’s not realistic that it should stay empty forever just because I used to live there. That’s dumb. It’s like I’m expecting the world to feel sorry for me when really it’s the world who did this to me in the first place. Not their fault. The couple that is. I’m more than happy to fling my petty feelings at some vague representation of the forces that cause things to happen.

They haven’t been here for long, so I don’t know much about them yet, except they’re loud and probably students, and they loooove each other! Also, they’re constantly jawing about something; how do they find SO much shit to talk about!? The room is sparsely furnished, but two thirds of it is filled with their noise. I suppose it’s kinda sweet though, the way they look at each other.

There isn’t anything I do for them. They have each other.

When it’s night time and they’re finally quiet, sneaking glances at each other, or when Ada says something kind and quiet, when Matthew smiles at me, when Mr Archman drinks his tea with a look of peace- that’s the closest to feeling alive I can get. But the feeling of living isn’t an entirely good one. There’s this awful burning that comes with it- I’m lovesick, in the sense that I am sick of their love. I’m sick of everything that keeps me from rest.

I don’t stay long on this floor and my presence isn’t felt by them.

*

The ground floor is another place I don’t tend to stay long in. The woman who owns it is in her 40s and lives by herself. I didn’t know anything about her while I was alive, we never talked, and I only know slightly more than nothing now I have unlimited access to the flat. She leaves early, comes home late, makes dinner, watches tv, goes to sleep…and that’s all. Her standard Ikea furniture gives away nothing. She receives no phone calls. The only thing I can guess about her life outside the apartment is that she has a daughter. On her bedside table is the only framed picture she has, one of her standing with a young woman holding a diploma. The picture itself is an odd length and stops abruptly to the right so it doesn’t quite fill the frame. Like I said, there’s usually no reason to come down here most of the time, but today I heard something out of the ordinary- a woman’s voice. I could tell that she was on the phone since she was the only person I could hear and my interest was piqued (I’m nosy).

The moment I decided to drop down into the room was where it all started to go wrong.

“What are you talking about?...No…I’m afraid I don’t…but she’s only 25! She CAN’T be…” and then, without ceremony, she ended the call. And so her face began to crack. Slowly at first, her eyes were fixed on the middle distance and that seemed to hold it back, like she needed to be fully present in the moment before she could cry. And the crying wasn’t loud and open like Matthews, she hunched over on the sofa and pressed two white-knuckled fists to her eyes, breath stuttering awkwardly through her nose. That was what really made me sad, she couldn’t even cry shamelessly in her own flat.

I know she couldn’t tell I was watching, but I’m very aware that my presence now counts as a violation of privacy by definition and that had me torn between staying or leaving. If it were me, I’d be horrified to find out someone had been watching me cry, I’d just hate that shit! But on the other hand… watching her cry made me feel sadder than I’ve been capable of feeling in a long time. The expression on her face was so raw I felt almost embarrassed to look and each shudder of her shoulders was a punch to the gut. It’s selfish to think this way, but was that how my mother looked when she found out? Did your face crumble in the same way? Could you even cry at all mum?

It was starting to get unbearable, our feelings building in a loop of positive feedback until she was howling and I was ready to break apart. I felt I had to do this now, I had to comfort her the way I wanted to comfort my own mother, tell her it’s alright. That it doesn’t hurt because I don’t remember. Before I know it I’m sitting on the sofa, my hand is solid and resting on her shoulder.

“What the fuck?” She looks around, confused but distracted in the way people get when interrupted from trying to cry out all their feelings. My hand doesn’t move and neither does she. Tentatively her own hand reaches up, and stops when it reaches my own. “Oh my god…oh my god, Hayley?”

I squeeze her shoulder.

“Hayley…Hayley…” A few more times she repeats the name between sobs, sliding off the sofa and onto her knees.

I try my best to remain corporeal as she rests her head on my lap.

“I’m sorry!” Is the last thing she says before she’s crying too hard to talk.

My form only lasts a few minutes before her head passes through me onto the sofa cushion.

I make my way toward the door, unable to comfort her any longer.

*

Times like these, I feel like I should be taking a pull on a hipflask or something, y’know? But then again, I was always real careful to not be a problem drinker when I was alive, if only to spite family tradition. Not like it’s even possible anymore either.

I’ve been thinking about Ada and using my words for a while, but I didn’t want to burden her with any... unpleasant thoughts. For a while I had myself convinced that this might be enough- but it isn’t- and that they need me- but they don’t.

Losing the big things that come with being alive hurts the most, like eating or being with friends, but do you know how weird it is- to stand close to a window on a cold day and notice the glass doesn’t fog up? Or to have the perfect joke for the tv program you’re watching, but you can’t share it? It’s a sneaky kind of loss. Not only have the small privileges that come with being alive been taken away, but their absence reminds you that you’re DEAD, over and over so you can’t forget. Bastards.

The only upside to being a ghost is you can afford to just sit in a grimy, tin can stairwell and let yourself feel. I’ve had plenty of time to feel contemplative without really thinking. “Thinking can come later” I told myself, but the thoughts have already been and gone.

I stand and make my way to Ada’s kitchen.

I push the colourful alphabet magnets into a recognisable order.

“It’s Alice” they say.