#ao3: Once More (unto the breach) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tommybowefuneralattendee · 8 months

Text

trust fall

spommy || 8k || rating: E || find it on ao3

Like so many other bad decisions, this one begins when Tommy bothers to pick up his phone.

"Okay, so I may have made a few questionable decisions," Spencer says apropos of nothing, his voice a little too quiet across the line.

"Always a great way to start a phone call. Hi, Spencer, how's your evening? Good? Good! Oh mine? Well-"

"Tommy, this is an emergency," Spencer interrupts, the stress in his voice coming clear in the increased volume of it.

"Then why did you call me?" Tommy asks, his voice panicked and high before he forces himself calm, "what's going on?"

"So I may have made a few questionable decisions," Spencer repeats, his awkward fear laugh coming across the line. Okay, so he's scared. Tommy softens his voice.

"What's up?" he coaxes, wishing he could put his hand on Spencer's shoulder like he usually might while assuring the other man.

“Well, I. Well,” Spencer says, stopping and starting, hemming and hawing like he has no idea how to crack into this. Tommy hums.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to make fun of you. Unless it’s funny. Then I might, a little. But I promise to be as gracious about this as I can possibly be. You can trust me,” he says, voice softer than he means; he didn’t mean to say that last bit at all.

“You know I trust you. So. Well. I,” Spencer starts, clearing his throat, then in a rush, “I have a silicone dick stuck in my ass.” Though his mind desperately wants to linger on the idea of Spencer trusting him so implicitly, Tommy can’t help the helpless laughter that spills out of him at that.

“You what?”

“Tommy, I know you heard me. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well what do you mean by stuck?”

“What does anyone mean by stuck? I mean I can’t get it out, dude. How do people do this?” Spencer asks hopelessly, the end of his question curling into a whine. The reality of the situation strikes Tommy suddenly. His straight best friend (who he would not admit to having feelings for under pain of actual torture or maybe if Spencer was upset) has a dildo in his ass, and his first idea was to call Tommy. Stuck. A light bulb might as well shine above his head.

“Oh, you bought one without a base, didn’t you?” The noise that Spencer makes then is higher than he knew Spencer's voice could go.

“I didn’t know!” he exclaims, obviously frustrated. Tommy can practically see the other man pulling at his own hair even over the phone. He cannot think about what Spencer looks like right now. Once more unto the breach.

“Okay, okay, I just need to know a few more details. Does it hurt?” Tommy asks, lowering his voice back into that coaxing place he can't help but fall into with Spencer sometimes, always wanting to preserve Spencer's peace, to soothe any of his aches.

“I mean, no? It’s not exactly pleasant but there’s definitely no, like, tearing. Or whatever.” Another laugh spills out of Tommy without him bidding it.

“Oh my god,” he says, helpless still, and Spencer groans.

“Tommy, can you please be normal about this?” he says. Tommy's laugh this time is terribly high pitched, but he can't help the panic spiking it.

“Is there a normal reaction to this? Because I certainly don’t know about it!”

“Okay, yeah, true, true, I’m sorry,” Spencer assuages pitifully, obviously caught between freaking out and assuring Tommy that everything is, in fact, fine. He hates when Spencer feels like that; if they were in front of each other, it would be showing all over Spencer's face, and Tommy would do anything for him not to look like that. To make him smile after feeling like that. Fuck. He pulls a teasing comment from the back of his throat.

"You're probably being a little baby about it," he says weakly. Spencer snorts.

"What, so, should I just yank it out?" he asks, teasing him right back. Fuck him for being so good at it. Tommy gasps a panicked oh my god beneath his breath.

"Oh my god, no, just stay where you are, I'm coming over," he rushes out, most definitely not thinking it through.

"You're coming over to look at my asshole," Spencer says flatly, which is fair. Tommy bursts into giggles, halfway to hysterical and completely unsure how he's gonna come back off that ledge.

"Absolutely," he says, hopefully leaving no room for argument. Like clockwork, Spencer sighs.

"Alright, fine. You still have your key?" he asks, and Tommy's heart, ever the betrayer and ever a cliche, skips a beat. Spencer had let Tommy borrow a key to his apartment to drop something off between shoots once, months ago, and had never asked for it back. This is the first time it's ever been called Tommy's key. Tommy had been trying to find a way to give it back for months, telling himself that he would feel better once it was done, but he's glad that he didn't now. Spencer called it his key. Tommy clears his throat.

"Yeah, I'll be there in fifteen," he says, and he hits the disconnect button before Spencer can get another word out. What he just agreed to hits him over the head one more time. Fucking hell. He never can see a bad decision without running full tilt towards it, can he? He sighs, making himself get up off of the couch. He's just going to Spencer's, so it's not like he needs to change out of his joggers and t-shirt, even when that voice in the back of his head insists that he really should. Like he should dress up to go help Spencer out of a tough situation. Or, rather, help a tough situation out of Spencer, maybe.

The task at hand, Tommy, the task at hand.

Socks, shoes, wallet just in case, keys, lock the door on your way out. Slip into the routine of it all so the crushing weight of your anxiety falls back into a manageable class. Awkwardly wave at your neighbor as they take their trash down to the shoot. Box breathe in the elevator like that's something that makes you feel more normal.

He feels marginally more put together when he climbs into the driver's seat of his car, the route to Spencer's place so ingrained in him that he doesn't really have to think about it, even in this inky darkness of night. For a moment, the drive soothes him enough to wipe his mind blank of what he's about to do- walk into Spencer's place and walk back to the bedroom, open the door and see his best friend- help his best friend- he's not thinking about it. The image of Spencer on his back, whining and begging, fingers spreading himself open, and Tommy nearly swerves off the fucking road. Focus. He puts the image away.

Shamefully, he knows he'll be revisiting it later.

"Hey?" he calls as he open Spencer's door. Toeing off his shoes at the door is automatic at this point, just one part of spending time at Spencer's place that makes it feel a little more like something he shouldn't let matter as much as it does. At least one stray shoe tries to trip him as soon as he clears the entryway; Tommy catches himself and moves determinedly to the bedroom. Jesus Christ. The bedroom.

"Back here, man!" Spencer replies. A giggle bursts out of Tommy. He pushes open the door, never in his life happier to see somebody covered in a blanket. He doesn't know how well he would have coped with coming in here directly to seeing his best friend's whole... situation. His single ball. Tommy holds back another helpless laugh.

"Hey, Spen," he says, riding that intersection of gentled and amused, "How you holding up?" Spencer, being Spencer, shrugs his shoulders. Tommy keeps his eyes resolutely focused on the other man's face. He tries to think of another person he would be at all willing to do this for and comes up empty, besides maybe Alex, and only because his other best friend has already seen him at an even lower point than this. 2017 was a wild time.

"Well, I got bored about ten minutes before I called you and I had finished the book I was reading on my phone, so honestly, mostly just glad you're here," Spencer says, stealing back the attention Tommy had so desperately been trying to put somewhere else. Of course he read, bored, before he was willing to call for help. Men.

"Florida man loses interest while fucking himself in the ass," Tommy jokes, knowing immediately that he should not have said that. Spencer's hand comes up to rub at his eyes. Tommy still hasn't looked away from his face.

"Dude," Spencer says. Tommy snorts.

"Dude," he says back, finally crossing the room to sit down delicately on the edge of Spencer's bed, enough space between them for another person to occupy it. Spencer holds the blanket up beneath his chin. Tommy doesn't know how to broach the subject, let alone tell the other man to let him look so he can start helping at all. Jesus.

"It's not even that I lost interest, I guess? Like. I think I don't get it," Spencer says, the blanket coming down a little, enough so that Tommy can see the hair on his chest. He keeps his gaze on Spencer's face anyway. That way lies trouble and all of that. Just because Spencer trusts him to help him out doesn't suddenly give Tommy permission to look. He doesn't get it. What does that even mean?

"Could you... elaborate? On that? I guess? You don't have to, we can just do the damn thing and move on with our lives," Tommy suggests, thinking suddenly of the fact that Spencer might not be super comfortable doing things like having a conversation during the duration of what he's going through right now. Hell, he might not want to look Tommy in the face for a while. It's a cross that Tommy is willing to bear.

"I trust you, man," Spencer repeats, then "I guess I wanted to try it out because- it doesn't matter why I was trying it out. But, like, it wasn't bad? But it also wasn't mind blowing? I don't know," he finishes, running out of steam and confidence long before he finishes speaking. Curiosity burns beneath Tommy's breastbone, begging him to ask about the why of this completely unprecedented what, but he pushes it down in favor of keeping Spencer as comfortable as possible. He pushes down the flutter that Spencer's trust ignites in him as well. There's too much going on. He can't even briefly pause on the idea of Spencer not finding the process mind blowing, and yanks his mind away from how good Tommy could make it for him. Now is not the time. It never will be. Anyway.

"You wanna show me what we're working with, or are we just gonna talk about it all night?" Tommy asks, injecting levity into the situation as best he can. If possible, Spencer goes an even deeper red at the suggestion. He clears his throat.

"Please be cool about this. I know this is weird. You were the only person I could think of to call. For help with this anyway."

"Is this a because I'm gay thing?" Tommy asks, tilting his head to the side. Spencer makes a face as if the thought had never even occurred to him, briefly confused but also a little offended.

"No, this is a you're my best friend thing. Who the fuck else am I gonna let see me like this, dude? Be realistic," Spencer says, but the last bit is said with just a little bit of Spencer's laugh sprinkled in, and Tommy can't help but smile. Spencer fucking Agnew. The idea that Tommy is the only one Spencer wants to see him naked is more difficult to push down than one might originally suppose, but Tommy's not thinking about it.

"You're still stalling, bub," Tommy notes instead. Spencer sighs.

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Okay," he says mostly to himself, like he's hyping himself up to take the blanket down from his chest. That thought is cut short almost as soon as it occurs to Tommy, because Spencer whips the blanket away all at once like ripping off a band-aid. And it's Spencer. Tommy saves himself just before choking on his own spit, really.

Hair trails down Spencer exactly as Tommy already knew it did, even if this is the first time he's seeing it for himself. The flush on Spencer's face goes straight down to his chest, rosy tones creeping lower than Tommy knows what to do with. He wants to put his mouth on Spencer's skin, put his lips to the pink there and know how Spencer tastes under his tongue. But that is not an appropriate thing to think about one's friend. Tommy scoots a bit closer on the bed with the awkward grace of a boy that spent far, far too many years keeping his eyes on the ground whenever other boys undressed. It's a hard thing to be normal about, even now. God bless the south, right?

He still hasn't made himself look away from Spencer's face. His eyes had gone down to Spencer's chest before he snapped them back up, too nervous to look even in this moment of permission. Tommy starts hard when a hand comes into contact with his own. He hadn't even noticed Spencer reaching for him. Fuck.

"Hey, man, it'll suck, but I'll go to Urgent Care before I make you do anything you're super fucking uncomfortable with. You don't have to do this," Spencer says, low and soothing, and Tommy is a fucking coward. He's a fucking coward, and he almost takes the out. Almost being the operative word.

"Okay, we're going to be as normal as possible about this. For me. Now, I'm assuming you used lube? Spence, please tell me you used lube," Tommy teases, falsifying worry easily for the sake of the smile Spencer gives him in return. He also rolls his eyes, but hey. You win some, you lose some.

"Yes, I used lube this time." Tommy's attention catches on the phrasing.

"Was there a time in where you did this without lube?"

"Not, like, the dildo. Just fingers. And just the first time. It was in the shower anyway, it was fine. Bought lube after, though," Spencer says, unknowingly giving Tommy a very clear image of the other man in his head. Tommy clears his throat. He wills the image out of his mind, too conscious of popping a boner while doing this. He cannot afford for that to happen. That would suck so bad. Don't think about sucking right now.

"Okay, where's your lube? And do you want me to, like, direct you, or..." Tommy trails off, unable to voice the alternative. Spencer grabs the lube from between his pillows, coloring deeper as he hands it over to Tommy.

"You can- um. If you're okay with- whichever you're more comfortable with, man," Spencer stutters, and Tommy takes a moment to flounder with the decision. Just a second to freak the fuck out about what he's about to do. Then, he squirts lube in his own hand, taking a settling breath.

"Let's do this," he says, and the way that Spencer immediately spreads his legs saps all the moisture from his mouth. Jesus. He has to at least try to be clinical about it, because there's no other way he's going to survive this. He kneels between Spencer's knees, meeting his eyes for a moment before he finally allows his gaze to travel downward, over the expanse of Spencer's throat, the range of his hairy chest, the trail of hair that leads down to his pelvis. It feels weirder to be doing this without having kissed Spencer, but he's not even going to joke about that, let alone verbalize it genuinely. He bypasses Spencer's dick and ball, the thought of which nearly makes him burst into laughter, though he has to admit that the sight itself isn't funny at all. He tries not to wonder what it would feel like in his mouth. Instead, he trails his fingertips across Spencer's perineum, warning him before he actually breaches the other man's body.

Pressing inside of Spencer is an exercise of self control. Spencer makes this sharp little humming sound as Tommy's fingers enter him, starting with two given that Spencer is already stretched. He resolutely does not picture Spencer doing this himself earlier. His fingertips quickly reach the toy, just about half an inch deeper than it was ever meant to go. There's a suction cup on the end of it just slightly more flared than the base of the toy itself, and it's not difficult to grab onto- it's just that when he does, he curls his fingers to do so. In doing so, he bumps the toy, and that does a little more than he bargained for.

"Oh my god, what did you just do?" Spencer asks, eyes locked on Tommy even as his cheeks go a red that's getting darker and darker by the second. Impulsively, Tommy repeats the motion. Spencer moans, high and reedy, and Tommy quickly gives up on the idea that he's going to get through this interaction without getting hard. It's important to know how to take your losses, you know? He can't be held liable for getting hard when Spencer fucking Agnew is moaning underneath him, clenching around the tips of his fingers. He should get a pass for that, honestly. Guilt roils in his stomach still.

"God, I- well, I think I know why it wasn't mind blowing for you, bub. That would be your prostate, and it's like half of the point of this whole gig," Tommy jokes, because he has to joke because this is fucking insane. It really is an accident when his knuckles brush over it again as he pulls the dildo out, and Spencer's reactions are only getting louder.

"Tommy," Spencer says, his voice already a little ragged and punched out. Tommy's stomach drops, heat crawling up his spine.

"You can't say my name like that," he breathes out, not really meaning to say it at all. He sets the dildo down on Spencer's bedside table, but he can't make himself move from his novel position over Spencer. He swallows thickly, gearing himself up to move, but Spencer wraps his hand around Tommy's bicep.

"Tommy," Spencer says again, and it's softer but no less laced with lust, and Tommy can't do this. This cannot be expected of him. He's just a guy. Just a guy with an adorable best friend and a hopeless crush on a straight guy. He tries harder to push himself up, but even now he's not trying hard enough to even break Spencer's grip. He gives in and leans lower instead, resting his forehead against Spencer's.

"What are we doing, dude?" he says, his voice as raw and rough as Spencer's, and no less turned on. He hopes Spencer can't hear that as clearly as Tommy can in his own voice.

"This situation was like 75% your fault," Spencer blurts out, obviously unintentionally given the expression that moves across his face as soon as the words break free. Tommy reels for a moment, blinking rapidly and putting space between Spencer's face and his own. Spencer wrinkles his nose, embarrassed.

"Pardon?" Tommy asks, endlessly curious and just this touch hopeful, and he shouldn't foster that emotion. All this is going to lead to is him getting hurt. He should get out while he still can. Spencer pulls him back down, just enough so that their foreheads rest against each other once more. This feels more intimate, more raw, more exposed than any actual sex Tommy has ever had. Maybe it's because it's Spencer. Maybe it's because he wants Spencer like he wants to breathe, like he wants food and water and shelter, so deeply fucking essential that the need is inextricable from the very fabric of Tommy's being. Maybe it's just the situation. Who knows?

"Your- um- your funeral. The will. At the- at the end," Spencer clarifies nervously, as if Tommy doesn't remember his own funeral roast. He has to think back on what he said at the end, what he left to Spencer in the will specifically, but Spencer keeps talking before Tommy can bring it to the forefront of his mind. "You. You implied that I should- that I should try it out. Fingering myself. And I couldn't stop thinking about it- about you- and, well. Now we're here."

Heat rips through Tommy like it has some place to be, and like that place to be is directly to Tommy's groin. Spencer was fingering himself because of him. Because Tommy joked that he should. Because he was thinking about Tommy and couldn't stop thinking about him and that led to him putting his fingers inside of himself. He had touched himself because he couldn't stop thinking about Tommy.

"That was months ago," he says instead of any of that, because all of that is not pertinent to the discussion. Or maybe it is. Tommy can't give himself over to pipe dreams this close to the real thing. "Have you been- when did this start? How long after?"

Spencer looks away from Tommy's face, looking off into the middle distance somewhere behind Tommy's left shoulder. "I showered after I got home from work that day," Spencer says. It takes a moment for Tommy to realize what Spencer is implying.

"You've been fingering and fucking yourself for months? Because of something I said?" he asks, unable to hold the question. Spencer closes his eyes.

"Because of you. Just, like, you. You're crazy smart- even when you think you're dumb, you're one of the fucking smartest people I know- and you're wicked funny and so, so out of my league. And just the idea of being with you like that. I got a little caught up in it," Spencer trails off, shame curling around the end of his sentences, and Tommy's running his hand up and down his side comfortingly before he can think any different of it. Spencer's eyes snap open at the feeling of his touch.

"Being with me?" Tommy asks, thin. He has to be sure.

"Tommy. you know what I mean," Spencer sighs. Tommy bumps their foreheads together softly.

"Tell me anyway," he says softly, his thumb rubbing over a swath of skin just beneath Spencer's rib cage. Spencer's anxious expression starts showing the cracks of hope across the surface.

"You- you made me think about- I already knew I liked you more than any friend I'd ever had, different from every friend I've ever had, but I guess I hadn't ever really unpacked it? Like dude, I'm in my fucking thirties, I didn't think there was anything to unpack. But there was. There is. And I have no idea what to fucking do with that," Spencer says, and dipping down to kiss him isn't even a decision on Tommy's part. Spencer squeaks but relaxes into the kiss nearly instantaneously. Tommy keeps his hands holding Spencer by the waist, too scared of the bubble popping to let them wander at all. He's always looking for the second shoe.

"Was that okay?" he asks, cautious, and Spencer laughs.

"Tommy, I just told you I've been thinking about having your dick in me for months when I didn't even know I was interested in dick beforehand. This is more than okay," Spencer says, leaning up to kiss him again with a hand on Tommy's cheek. When Tommy finally makes himself pull back, Spencer's pink lips are kiss bitten and shiny, and he looks so fucking pretty Tommy could cry.

He can't help but stare; it's not until Spencer releases a nervous chuckle that Tommy realizes how long he's been staring, though. "You look really good," he says. It does not even vaguely summarize the overwhelming affection (he's not going to call it love, even if he would have said he loved Spencer before he walked into this room today- it's a more difficult idea when there's no way they're going to manage just friends after this) that is swollen within him like a balloon, hot air rising in his chest. Spencer is looking up at him like he said something revolutionary and not the most boilerplate take of all time: water is wet, grass is green, Spencer looks good. He just happens to look particularly good underneath Tommy, bright eyes focused on him and only him, beautiful.

"Shut up, man," Spencer says, turning to hide his face in the pillow beside his head. Tommy's hand is moving before he really makes a choice of it, fingers gentle when they grab Spencer's chin, guiding him so that he's looking up at Tommy once more. Tommy runs his thumb over Spencer's bottom lip. Spencer presses a kiss to the pad of it. Somehow, this is what makes Tommy feel the most potent overwhelm of the entire night thus far.

"I really like you, Spencer," he whispers, too aware of himself and this boy, too aware of their hands and the skin they touch. He doesn't know that he's ever felt this way about someone. Spencer looks up at him with those round eyes, shocked all over again. Tommy can't not kiss him, moving the hand at his chin to cup his jaw, fingers just touching the soft, buzzed hair behind his ear. Spencer rocks his hips up and, not expecting that, Tommy's fingers clench and bury his nails ever so slightly into Spencer's scalp. The noise that Spencer makes then is one Tommy will remember for years to come.

"I- I really like you too. This is crazy," Spencer says; Tommy giggles. He doesn't know that he's ever laughed during sex as much as it seems like he might with Spencer. Given that they do this again. Tommy likes to think they will. Spencer is looking up at him, watching him with a wonderstruck smile on his face, and that stripped raw feeling that should hurt feels like someone is catching him in a free fall, like there's nothing to worry about. It's a very new feeling.

Spencer's legs twitch around Tommy's hips, and the reminder that Spencer is quite literally ass naked hits like a boxer. When Tommy tries again to move, Spencer holds him still. He raises an eyebrow in question.

"You um. You don't have to move. If you don't want to. We could. I mean, I'm already- and you- I really don't want to mess this up, dude," Spencer trails off. He leans down to kiss him softly for just a moment.

"You're not gonna fuck this up, darling," Tommy says, the pet name coming out as natural as you please given how many times Tommy has imagined calling Spencer that before without it being in jest. "We're already friends. We're not getting to know each other. You don't have to impress me, or try to make me feel comfortable. I'm already comfortable. Because it's you. Whatever you want from me, you can just say." Spencer's looking at him like he build the sun in his fucking tool shed, and if Tommy could keep Spencer in his hands, could keep him happy and safe and sleepsoft and pleased, he thinks he might could be happy like that for the rest of his life.

"You're not allowed to be this nice to me," Spencer says stubbornly, pulling Tommy down more so that he can hide his face in the other man's shoulder. A laugh bursts out of Tommy, quickly interrupted by a choked gasp as their bodies align. The soft texture of Tommy's joggers does nothing to hide how the proceedings have affected him physically, and Spencer makes that pleased little humming sound again. He doesn't release his grip on Tommy's shoulders.

"You can have whatever you want, but you're gonna have to tell me what that is, Spence," Tommy coaxes at a whisper, even though he certainly has an idea of what might be wanted from him. He's surprised still when Spencer's fingertips pull at the bottom of his shirt, not trying to pull it up and off, but just a pinch of the fabric, like how a child might get your attention. Tommy smiles. Spencer's entire hand splays across his lower back then, big and warm.

"I've been thinking about it so long, Tommy." he whispers, resting their foreheads together again. Fondness shoots through Tommy like lightning, sweet and hot. He presses a quick kiss to Spencer's mouth before stripping off his shirt, getting up on his knees to do so without leaning too much weight on the man beneath him. God, Spencer is under him. The thought makes Tommy feel on top of the fucking world. Spencer trails his fingertips just underneath the waistband of Tommy's joggers.

"What'd you think about, baby? How do you want me?" Tommy asks, pushing down his joggers but leaving his boxer briefs; Spencer's knees close against his hips not a second later. The barest hint of Spencer's nails scratches across the small of his back.

"God, fuck, Tommy, how don't I fucking want you, dude? The thought of- it sounds dumb because I didn't realize I was- that I wanted you for real til the roast, but God, Tommy, the first time I thought about what you'd look like under me, we hadn't been friends a year yet. And, and, and I thought about getting on my knees for you probably- fuck- it must have been not long after the first time I thought about fucking you. And it took wanting this," Spencer says, pulling Tommy down between his legs more thoroughly, making Tommy moan, "for me to figure out that all that wanting actually was something. I want this. I want your dick in me. This is what I want. But it's just what I want first."

And oh. If the aftermath of this encounter had been Spencer realizing that this wasn't for him, that he hadn't thought it through beforehand, if the result of this was that he and Spencer had a few awkward months before they came back together again as friends, Tommy was ready to deal with that reality. But Spencer wants him. Spencer wants him on top of him and under him and wants to get on his knees for him, the picturing of which nearly derails this entire interaction. The idea that Spencer has wanted him this long, wants him at all, has Tommy chasing the other man's mouth, kissing him hard. Spencer moans pleased and pretty as Tommy finally lets his hands wander, one of his hands migrating to thumb over Spencer's nipple while the other slips to cup and grab at Spencer's ass.

"Fuck, you are so pretty," Tommy says as he breaks the kiss, trailing his mouth down Spencer's jaw, his throat, his collarbones. He stops there to suck and bite just because, Spencer's hand coming to hold his head there like it's the best thing he's ever felt. His hand moves from the back of Tommy's head to cup his cheek instead, pulling him back up and into another kiss. His mouth is hot and soft against Tommy's own, the smooth glide of his kiss quickly overwhelming Tommy's senses. Tommy doesn't think anything of it when Spencer takes hold of one of his hands. It's not til he realizes that Spencer isn't holding it but guiding it that he pulls back to ask.

"Please, Tommy," Spencer says simply, looking up at Tommy with those big dark eyes, and Tommy couldn't tell him no if he tried. He follows Spencer's desire, wrapping his hand around the other man's erection. A punched out moan comes out of Spencer then, like just the touch of Tommy's hand is more than he can handle. The head is sticky with tacky pre-cum, evidence of Spencer's activity before Tommy ever got there maybe, and if he didn't already know what Spencer wanted from him, he'd be moving down Spencer's body to put his mouth where his hand is. It buzzes in Tommy's skull, the idea of looking up at Spencer when he's bringing him that kind of pleasure. He has to table the thought for later.

"How many fingers did you use before your toy?" Tommy asks, not relenting in his slow, loose strokes of Spencer's cock. Spencer's hand moves then from where he had still been holding onto Tommy's wrist, sliding up to wrap around his bicep once more. He squeezes lightly when he gets there.

"I didn't do anything stupid, I used two," Spencer says, smiling like he and Tommy are just having any conversation, like he's just looking at Tommy to look at him. Tommy can't resist giving him another quick kiss before returning to his point. He runs his nose along Spencer's hairline, nuzzling into the other man. He doesn't know that he's ever felt like this.

"I'm gonna take you up to three, and then I'll give you what you want, yeah?" Tommy proposes, pressing a kiss to Spencer's temple. Spencer opens his mouth with an air of obvious protest, but closes it when he catches eyes with Tommy. Instead, he nods. Tommy drops a kiss on his cheek with a muttered thank you beneath his breath, sliding down between Spencer's legs and leaving biting kisses as he goes.

Giving in to impulse, once he has poured more lube in his hand and is ready to begin, Tommy runs the head of Spencer's cock along his tongue. Spencer's fingers clench in Tommy's hair, right up on that line of pulling til it hurts. Tommy moves his hands further down, tracing his fingers along Spencer's sensitive skin. Spencer's grip turns gentle, stroking his fingers over Tommy's scalp. Tommy's glad of it a second later, because it means he's looking up at Spencer's face as he pushes his fingers into him. He's still looking when he curls his fingers with practiced familiarity, when Spencer's eyes shut tight and his teeth bite into his bottom lip. He's so fucking beautiful. Tommy sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of Spencer's pale thigh, reveling in the humming groan it pulls from Spencer.

"Oh my god," Spencer whispers, mostly to himself it seems like, but Tommy grins against his skin either way. The thrusts of his fingers remain shallow, spreading them instead to stretch the muscles around them. Spencer's hand moves from Tommy's hair to the side of his face, his thumb rolling over Tommy's lips, and he understands the decision Spencer had made when he had done it, though it's not the one he makes. Instead, he opens his mouth to it, letting Spencer's thumb roll over his tongue in much the same way as he had done with Spencer's dick. Tommy grins at the noise he makes then as he pulls it out of Tommy's mouth.

"More than you bargained for?" he jokes, his voice falling into that deep, flirtatious tone he gets sometimes; it's gratifying to see Spencer shiver at the sound of it. Spencer strokes the side of Tommy's face, running his thumb along the cut of Tommy's cheekbone.

"You're gonna fucking kill me, babe," he says, his words joking but his tone awed, nearly bewildered. Like he doesn't know how he got here. Tommy feels the same way. He kisses the inside of Spencer's thigh over the bite he had left before, pulling his fingers out of the other man. The quiet noise Spencer makes in response could probably be called a whimper. Tommy presses another kiss to the budding bruise helplessly. This boy is gonna kill him, indeed.

"I'm adding the third now," he warns, squirting more lube onto his fingers just in case. He's not going to hurt Spencer. He remembers his own first time bottoming, the way that both he and his partner hadn't had enough experience to know exactly how much preparation fucking someone in the ass takes. It wasn't awful, obviously, or Tommy probably wouldn't be as fond as he is now of receiving, but Spencer deserves better than not awful. With three fingers inside of him, the tips pressed snugly up against his prostate, Spencer writhes, those whimpering noises coming closer together as Tommy spreads his fingers.

"Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, baby, I'm good. I'm okay. We're good," Spencer stutters out, his voice a little higher than it would be typically. Tommy grins and spreads his fingers just one more time, making Spencer groan. "Please, Tommy." He finally relents then, pulling his fingers out and wiping them on the bedspread- it's going to have to be washed after this anyway. He crawls back up from his place at Spencer's hips, hovering over Spencer's face and just looking for a moment, enraptured, before he kisses the other man.

"Condom?" Tommy asks, pulling back. Spencer points at his bedside table, using this opportunity to lean up and kiss and mouth and bite at the skin of Tommy's throat, the swell of his Adam's apple. It's terribly distracting when Tommy is trying to grab a condom so he can actually fuck Spencer, but he also doesn't want to move out of Spencer's reach because goddamn, his mouth. The image of Spencer on his knees returns to him like a weight in his stomach, pressing down on that desperate feeling he's been determinedly ignoring thus far. Just as Tommy's hand closes around the top in an open box of condoms, Spencer's connects with Tommy's pelvis, rubbing at the head of his dick through his boxer briefs. Tommy fumbles the condom but recovers quickly, now more balanced as he resettles evenly over Spencer. Spencer plucks the condom from his hand.

"Let me. Take these off," he says, running his fingers along the inside of the waistband of Tommy's underwear in much the same way he had with Tommy's joggers. The idea that that was only a little while ago, that he hasn't spent his entire life in the cradle of Spencer's hips, sounds very distant right now. He pulls his underwear down from around his hips, pushing them off the bed with very little regard for where they end up. If he has it his way, he and Spencer won't be getting up for a while anyway.

"Jesus," Tommy breathes out as Spencer's fingers wrap solidly around his cock. He tucks his face against Spencer's throat as the other man strokes him a few times, the foil packet of the condom breaking open a secondary noise to the sound of his own moans. The next down stroke has Spencer rolling the condom down Tommy's dick, tightening his hand around the base for just a moment before pulling it away entirely. He brings his hand up now, holding Tommy's cheek in his broad palm once again.

"You ready?" he asks softly, like Tommy is the one doing something difficult (trusting someone enough to let them inside of you, letting someone hold themself over you and feeling safe with their body so close to yours, all of it) here. Tommy presses a gentle but thorough kiss to Spencer's mouth, telegraphing every bit of wordless emotion running through his body right now. Spencer pulls him in, maintaining the kiss, his tongue running along the roof of Tommy's mouth, but his real goal is pretty obvious. He grabs Tommy's cock in his hand again and guides Tommy til he's resting against Spencer's hole, just at the precipice of pushing in. Spencer breaks the kiss just to look at Tommy, to see him as Spencer uses his hands, his hips, everything to pull Tommy inside of him. Tommy groans, leaning his head down against Spencer's collarbone.

"You feel-" he starts, but he incidentally cuts himself off, his hips snapping forward without his thought or regard. Fully engulfed in the heat of Spencer, the tight and warm grip of him, Tommy bites lightly at the skin in front of his mouth. Spencer's hand curls into the hair at the back of Tommy's neck.

"How do I feel, Tommy? Is it good?" he asks. Tommy can hear the smile in his voice, and somehow that makes it all the better.

"So fucking good, Spence. So fucking good," he repeats. Spencer's free hand, the other one occupied in what seems to be holding Tommy here on this fucking planet, moves to Tommy's hip, slowly encouraging him to pull out before pulling him back in fast. Tommy takes a ragged breath to fortify himself. His first few thrusts are slower, gentle slides of pressure before he finds what he's looking for. Spencer's hand tenses around his fist full of Tommy's hair, and the pleasurepain pulls a noise out of Tommy that he didn't know he could make. He copies the exact angle over and over again, pulling more pretty noises out of Spencer even while he's still not going too fast, obsessed with the feeling of the other man clenching around him.

"This is so much- ah- so much better than I imagined," Spencer says, casual, again like they are not engaging in anything other than their absolute normal. Tommy laughs, and then Spencer is laughing with him, bearing down on his cock in the process. Tommy groans.

"You're fucking incredible," he says, his voice just this shade of too earnest for the occasion. Spencer whines against his mouth and tightens the grip of his legs around Tommy's hips. The hand in Tommy's hair traces down his shoulders, fingernails scratching deliciously down the line of his spine. Spencer is grabbing at him like Tommy would ever want to be anywhere else, like Tommy wouldn't stay exactly where he is, in this intimate place with Spencer, for as long as Spencer would have him. The next roll of his hips is purposefully gentle, teasing, and the grabbing of Spencer's hands is rougher. Tommy loves it, maybe more than he should.

"Need you. Come on, Tommy. Not gonna break," Spencer whispers, his expression so fucking fucked out and happy, and what is Tommy gonna do? Not do everything Spencer asks him to? It's Spencer. Spencer could ask him to do almost anything, and if he said jump, Tommy just knows he'd ask how high. The best part is that he knows Spencer would too. Spencer's his person. Overwhelmed by all of the love and the affection and the staggering lust, Tommy braces one of his hands on the bed next to Spencer's head, fucking into Spencer faster.

He fists Spencer's cock then, and stroking with a tight grip and an efficient pace; he knows he's setting a pace that isn't particularly sustainable. Spencer's nails are buried into the skin of his back now, just enough of a sting to bring everything else into focus. Spencer's pretty little noises are starting to take on a thicker note of desperation, his mouth catching on whatever skin of Tommy's he can reach. Tommy leans down to kiss him sweetly, the sweetness trickling quickly into something hot and dirty that makes Tommy feel like Spencer is trying to climb into him, like he's trying to bond them together even more. On a particularly good stroke, Spencer breaks the kiss just to throw his head back, whining. Tommy grins.

"Come on, pretty boy, you can do it. Cum for me," he says, and he doesn't get through another stroke before Spencer gives him what he wants, shooting white between them. He takes his hand off of Spencer and goes to pull out of him, not wanting to overstimulate his partner, especially not on his first time receiving. Spencer's grip on his hip stays him.

"You could... I'm definitely not opposed. To you fucking me til you cum," Spencer says, somehow both blunt and shy, that shot in the middle where Spencer's sarcastic earnestness finds its place. Tommy raises an eyebrow at the man underneath him, inquiring silently. "Yes, I'm sure, Tommy," Spencer confirms with a groan, grabbing Tommy's ass and urging him forward. He mutters a little oh beneath his breath, like he really didn't think this through but in a really good way. Tommy kisses him, short and sweet. He can't help opening his mouth after that, speaking low into Spencer's ear.

"You feel so good. All fucked out and soft. I love that I did this to you," he says, walking around that word- love- with a dangerous closeness, overwhelmed as he presses into Spencer even faster and harder than before. Spencer is whining every time Tommy hits his prostate, his grip on Tommy's hip tight enough now it's fit to bruise. He doesn't even realize he's making comforting little sounds at Spencer, cooing and coaxing, til the other man presses his face against his throat, muttering himself.

"Please, please, please, please, please, please, please," Spencer is saying, so obviously overstimulated and so fucking beautiful taking Tommy like he was made for him, so pretty and pink underneath him. Tommy drops lower, not taking long strokes into Spencer anymore in favor of being chest to chest, his mouth biting into the top of Spencer's shoulder. Spencer closes the hand in his hair and pulls, ripping Tommy's orgasm out of him like a fucking exorcism. He bites into Spencer's shoulder hard enough that he's probably just short of drawing blood, but Spencer is stroking his hair when he comes back down, holding him like something precious, something delicate.

Laying there, head against Spencer's shoulder and not even out of Spencer yet, a bolt of fear lights its way back through Tommy. Spencer said he liked him. That he had wanted this for a while. Tommy has to trust that. He kisses the rough bite on Spencer's shoulder and pulls out gently, tying and throwing the condom in the general direction of his trash can. Spencer wraps both arms around his shoulders and pulls Tommy back down onto himself. A smile stretches across Tommy's face unbidden, and he kisses up from his place at Spencer's sternum til he's looking the other man in the eye again, a peck pressed against his lips. Spencer rubs his nose again Tommy's gently, letting their foreheads rest together.

"You're fucking incredible," Tommy whispers, tucking it into Spencer's cheek with a kiss. Spencer cards a hand through his hair, his touch so gentle that it sends a shiver down Tommy's spine. Spencer's cum is growing tacky between them, and dealing with it now would mean they wouldn't have to deal with it later. When Tommy goes to push himself up, conscious of exactly how annoying cum can be when you're covered in hair, Spencer whines at him, his hand solid on Tommy's lower back.

"Stay," he says, not so much a command but perhaps a bit more than a request, desperate hands pulling Tommy down. Adoration curls up in Tommy like flames licking through him, warm and beautiful. He kisses Spencer's cheek again before actually pushing himself up, only going so far as Spencer's bathroom. He grabs a washcloth out of the bathroom closet, wetting it with warm water in the sink before bringing it back to the bedroom. Spencer reaches up for him as soon as he enters the room.

"I'm back, I'm back," Tommy teases, pressing a kiss to the side of Spencer's face as he swipes the rag across Spencer's soft stomach. He dips down to kiss Spencer's chest gently, not trying to start anything up again, just wanting to touch him. Spencer settles his hand at the back of Tommy's neck. Done with the cleaning up, Tommy drops the washcloth off the side of the bed without much thought; Spencer doesn't seem to think much of it either, taking the opportunity to pull Tommy fully back over him. Tommy goes willingly, tucking his face into the hollow of Spencer's throat. He takes a deep inhale of the other man's scent, his sweet soaps and spicy deodorant, all of the smells of Spencer that make the other man's arms feel like the walls of a home around him. God.

"You're with me on this, right?" Spencer asks- it takes Tommy a second to figure out what he's asking. Is Tommy with him? Is Tommy as bowled over by this, as disbelievingly happy, as overwhelmed in the most positive and lovestruck of ways? The simple answer, yes, is not what Tommy gives him. Instead, he kisses along Spencer's shoulder, head dipped with honest reverence.

"I'm with you, bub," he whispers, quiet but the most sure he's ever been. Spencer presses a kiss to the top of his head. Falling asleep is the easiest it has ever been laying there in Spencer's arms, the warmth of Spencer beneath him, Spencer's fingers carding through his hair, the smell of the other man surrounding him. He feels so safe it's almost fucking sickening, not used to letting himself have something, someone, like this. It feels like Spencer is holding him to the earth. He loves him. He fucking loves him. Now is not the time to tell him that.

But, one day it will be. Tommy's sure enough about that.

#smosh fic #rpf #spommy #tommy #spencer #hope y'all like this bc i cannot believe i actually finished it #mine

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thursdayinspace · 8 months

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Fic: Once More Unto the Breach

Summary: It could have been easy, but of course Jack decides to play the hero. Again. Ianto wishes he would stop trying to impress him. Maybe then they could finally have a nice, lazy weekend on the couch together, like a normal couple. But then again, normal isn't really a word that exists in their dictionary.

Relationships: Jack/Ianto

A/N: Posted this to AO3 a few days ago, before I decided to do the tumblr thing again. This is a sort of sequel to this one, because it seems I'm turning this into a series. Might be easier to get the backstory if you read the first one first, but it's also a pretty straightforward plot, so I don't know.

Read on AO3

#torchwood #janto #fic #fanfic #fic: janto #silly boys doing silly things

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winteratdusk · 11 months

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WIP Game

Thank you @dharmasharks for the tag!! :)

Rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

At the moment I've got:

to drown (prewar stucky fic that I'm currently posting on ao3)

like we used to do (missing scene from my old fic once more unto the breach)

whisper goodnight (scene that takes place after my old fic once more unto the breach)

I'm clearly in a very 40s stucky mood lately - but if I have time to do whumptober I'm looking forward to changing that up!

tagging @copiumm and @andrea1717 and a secret third person (anyone else who wants to do it) :)

#wip game #ao3 #asks

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13atoms · 1 year

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The Curious Case of Norma Fields (Anthony Lockwood x Lucy Carlyle)

Summary: The whole team is needed for a run-of-the-mill haunting at the glamorous London townhouse of retired supermodel Norma Fields.

Masterlist | Read on AO3 | 4.8k / 25.8k

Chapter 3: A Reluctant Haunted House Revisitation

“She wants us back, to clear the type two,” Lockwood began sombrely.

He looked uncomfortable on the sofa, hunched awkwardly as he tried to maintain his barely-recovered composure.

“That’s a good sign,” George offered, but Lockwood quickly shot him a withering look.

“Not quite. She wants us back for free, tonight. And if we don’t clear the ghost, she’s more than willing to drag us through the mud in the press.”

“Charming,” George grumbled.

Lucy swallowed. It was hard to forget the encounters with Norma. To reconcile the awkward kindness she’d shown Lucy with the harshness of her blackmail.

“Does DEPRAC know it was us?” she asked.

“Yes. But Barnes called, and he doesn’t have any concerns. There’s plenty of other reasons that ghost could have been there two days later, but not when we were there.”

“There’s not that many reasons,” George grumbled, before holding his hands up in surrender under two glares, “but whatever they want to believe.”

“I don’t think we got it wrong,” Lucy admitted timidly, quiet enough that she hoped maybe only Lockwood would hear.

“I don’t either,” George agreed, “we’re better than that.”

“But we can’t be responsible for a murder.”

Lockwood’s words fell flat, and Lucy and George sank back as if they’d been scolded. He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We know it wasn’t us, guys,” he insisted, “but we can clear it, right? It might be fun!”

Lucy felt the friction burn on her chin as she pouted, the skin still raw against the warm air. It had barely begun to scab over, the healing helped by an ointment Lockwood had wordlessly left on her bedside table. George flexed his wrist, still sore from a missed rapier swipe the night before.

Lockwood surveyed his employees. They suddenly seemed more battered and bruised than he’d remembered. Still, Ms Fields had talked him into a corner on the phone. He’d been out charmed. Outwitted.

And just a tiny bit afraid.

It took a huge inhale from Lucy for any of them to be pulled from their thoughts.

“So, tonight?” she asked.

“Apparently, tonight.”

He offered her an apologetic grimace. George covered his face with a floppy hand.

They were all emotionally exhausted. The house was a disaster. Their laundry baskets were reaching Everest heights. There was an appointment for some light work clearing a shade from a church that they’d have to reschedule. Lucy seriously contemplated a nap.

“I’m really sorry, guys,” Lockwood muttered, “I just… we can’t risk her going to the papers.”

“They’d believe her over us,” George agreed, “even if DEPRAC backed us up. And they’re not our biggest fans.”

Lucy laughed. Neither of the boys flinched.

“Once more unto the breach…”

George stood with the groan of someone twice his age, stretching his back. He looked down to catch Lucy’s blank expression, he rolled his eyes.

“Philistines, I swear,” he grumbled.

“…or close the wall up with our English dead.” Lockwood finished, “Perhaps not the cheeriest line for tonight, George.”

The researcher made a noise which indicated he was sincerely impressed, and Lucy couldn’t help a smile through her bafflement.

“Didn’t have you pinned as a Shakespeare man, Lockwood.”

“I had to read it for school,” he confessed, shooting Lucy a wicked grin, “it’s the only line I remember from the whole of Henry V.”

George rolled his eyes dramatically. Lockwood didn’t miss Lucy’s shoulders drop in relief. He hated when George made her feel outclassed, no matter how unintentionally. She absolutely was not outclassed in anything that mattered.

“On that depressing note, I guess I’m heading to the Archives,” George offered.

As Lockwood prepared to ask why, the researcher waved him off.

“I’ve got some theories. I’ll meet you guys at the house at… half-five?”

“Perfect,” Lockwood agreed.

George raised both eyebrows pointedly at Lucy, and she held the magazine up to him.

“Fancy something crap to read on the way over?” she said.

“Obviously.”

George took it from her with a very convincing amount of enthusiasm, and Lockwood rolled his eyes.

“I should never have let you bring that crap into this house,” he teased.

Lucy shrugged, nodding to where George was examining the fashion model on the front cover.

“Looks like you’re outnumbered now. He’ll be dressing in Balenciaga before you know it.”

Lockwood groaned as George pretended to strike a pose, magazine carefully rolled up in his hand to stop the polaroid from slipping out. For now, she laughed. She’d thank him later.

The pair of them were left in the library, and Lucy clasped her hands together, feeling a little guilty at their emptiness.

Lockwood trusted George. Completely. Fully. Perhaps more than he could trust Lucy. And yet when it was just the two of them, she sometimes thought she could see Lockwood’s guard drop a little.

Lockwood covered his face with his hands as he leaned back against the sofa, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, finding awkward angles in the too-short drop to the floor. He wasn’t wearing pink socks, today – black with blue toes and heels – and the lighter fabric was a little discoloured where he’d been traipsing around the house in them.

It wasn’t the first time she’d watched him in this room, when his attention was captured elsewhere by a book or a newspaper, or occasionally the television. Lucy wondered whether he’d liked this room as a kid. Maybe his love of books had always been there, outweighing the intimidating size and quantity of books in this room. Maybe his parents had given him a special corner.

Her town hadn’t had a public library, and the children’s books on a half-height bookcase at school felt like a distant memory now.

She often wondered which of these books he’d read. Which his mother had read to him. Which ones his father had haggled over, or spent too much money on only to return and be jokingly scolded by his wife.

She didn’t know much about Lockwood’s family, but she knew Lockwood. And she imagined someone like him could only come from a lot of love, and a lot of intelligence. A lot of good. She wasn’t sure their absence would hurt him so much otherwise.

They must have been able to reach those high top shelves, laughed at Lockwood’s chubby baby hands as he tried to pull books from the lower shelves.

Their loss ached in her chest far more than her own father’s ever did.

She looked at his hands now, still rubbing at his face, long fingers and prominent knuckles covered in nicks and scratches which never seemed to quite fade before the next ones arrived.

When he pulled his hands from his face, leaving the skin reddened and his eyes blinking against the dim light of the room, Lockwood caught her watching him.

He sat up, leant forwards, hands finding purchase on the sofa.

“I just don’t believe you missed anything, Luce. You did a good job.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He waited for a second, until Lucy swiped some hair from her face and continued speaking.

“I just can’t be certain either way, you know?”

Lockwood shook his head.

“No, Barnes, uh, he thought the same. He doesn’t trust me a bit, but he knows how good you are. Well, some of how good you are.”

He shot her a conspiratorial wink, and Lucy felt her cheeks getting hot at the gesture.

“I don’t think we missed anything.”

When she said it again, Lucy started to convince herself.

“No,” Lockwood agreed, “but unfortunately the owner of this agency is a crap businessman. So I guess we’re doing a free ghost clearing.”

“Should’ve gone to Rotwell,” she teased, and Lockwood rolled his eyes at the comment.

“They’d make you wear a uniform,” he shot back.

“I look crap in red.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” he returned, pulling himself to stand before offering Lucy a hand, “but if we ever get uniforms, I’ll let you pick them.”

As Lucy found herself hauled to her feet, she forgot whatever it was she’d planned to say.

Instead, a few feet from Lockwood, she found the start of a confession falling from her lips.

No more lies, okay?

“Did she mention anything missing from the house, other than the jewellery?”

He raised his eyebrows, and Lucy suspected he was already a few steps ahead of her questions. She cursed her track record.

“No,” he replied cautiously, “she didn’t. Why?”

“I might have… there were these photos. In the office.”

He nodded silently, and Lucy steeled herself to keep speaking, choosing to focus on an errant lock of hair as it stuck straight out from his head.

“I was looking at them, they were like the ones I’ve got upstairs, you know? Like from a Polaroid camera. And there was this one… I think it was a party. There was loads of models there. And when I was looking at it, that was when I first felt her behind me…”

“The phantasm?” Lockwood supplied.

“Yeah. They looked the same, I think it was her. Her death loop… it was horrible, Lockwood. She was begging for her life.”

When Lucy looked up he was watching her intensely, arms braced at his sides like was prepared to catch her if she lost consciousness.

She had a track record of needing to be caught, too, she supposed.

“She was so young, Lockwood. And beautiful. I didn’t recognise her, but a lot of the others in the photos looked familiar. I wanted to find out who she was. Still want to…”

Lockwood nodded again, mute.

“And I showed George and he agreed,” she rushed out, “I think it was her.”

“So you took the polaroid?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sighed, and seemed to show no anger with her for not telling him. Maybe it was relief – that she hadn’t sincerely developed a new habit of spending thirty quid on magazines every time she went out.

Maybe he was just glad she was telling him now.

Either way, Lucy found herself looking at her feet.

“I’m sorry. It was stupid, and then the case came back and I thought you should know.”

“No, Luce. It’s fine. She didn’t mention it, and I appreciate you telling me.”

She sighed.

“George is at the Archives now, trying to find out who she is. How she died.”

The final pieces clicked into place, and Lockwood groaned.

“I don’t like it when you two get on so well,” he muttered, his face breaking out into a beam at making her laugh.

“We get on fine, thank you. Apart from his hour-long baths.”

Lockwood was well aware. He’d spent his fair share of time banging on the bathroom door, then looking away in horror when a grumpy George emerged in just a towel.

“What do you think we’ll learn, by knowing who she is?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy admitted, “but I’d like to know. It might help figure out what’s happening with this new ghost, too.”

He regarded her carefully, and Lucy watched him think, nervousness rising in her throat.

“I don’t want to sound like George,” he began, which was always a bad start, “but be careful, Luce. Getting too close to a case…”

“I know.”

Lucy cut him off before he could say any more, and he swallowed, stepping back.

“I just want to keep you safe,” he promised.

“I know.”

She felt like she owed him something, when he looked at her with those wide eyes, bravado dropped and face hollow with exhaustion.

“Did you want me to listen to the source, check which piece it is?” She offered suddenly, “And make sure that we did actually get the right one?”

Lockwood looked visibly relieved, and Lucy found herself glad to help carry some of the guilt he put on himself for this case falling apart.

“Would you mind, Luce? That might help smooth things over.”

“Of course not.”

She really meant it. As much as Lucy couldn’t bear to hear that screaming again, she knew the absence of it would be a lot more terrifying. She had to know.

Lucy followed him to the kitchen, their steps in sync as sock-clad feet bounded down the stairs, leaning against the counter as he pulled mugs from the cupboard and milk from the fridge.

Lockwood flipped the kettle on before darting down to the basement, emerging seconds later with the source, still in its velvet jeweller’s box, then trapped in their ornate silver-lined box.

He pulled out a chair for her, silver net in hand, standing against the counter and holding his breath as Lucy opened both boxes.

She made quick work of reaching out for the necklace, inhaling and closing her eyes, and hoping against all reason that nothing would happen.

Lucy found herself transported, surrounded by people, American accents and laughter, glittering lights in her eye line and house music pounding in her ears.

She could hear herself speaking, a vocal fry that wasn’t hers, a transatlantic accent reaching her ears.

Her hand was in a larger one, warm and yet bringing her no comfort, even in her inebriated state.

Somewhere distantly Lucy felt her chest hit the table, hands on her shoulders. She covered one hand with her own, her right hand clutching the necklace until her knuckles went white and the jewels hurt her palm.

“Where are we going?” she was asking, and the man laughed.

There was pressure in her shoulder, lessening as she followed him.

Arguing.

She was shouting.

Then, water.

Lucy screamed, thrashed, felt her feet hit the bottom, and then she was moved. Her feet weren’t hitting the bottom anymore.

She thrashed and grabbed and fought against the pressure on her neck. Screamed.

Why was no one helping?

The hands grew tighter. On her shoulders. On her neck. On her wrists. She thrashed, feeling something solid hit her hip, her muscles ached.

“No! Please, no.”

She was sobbing. Her lungs were being crushed, screaming, like they couldn’t hold out much longer.

“I’ll do whatever you want!” she screamed.

Lucy felt her knuckles being prised open. The water filled her ears, deafening her. Something hard hit her back. Her hands ached. She screamed again.

There was a clattering of metal on tiles.

The necklace.

Their kitchen tiles.

Her hand really did hurt.

She was inhaling fresh air.

She could hear again, and her panting was suddenly painfully loud.

“Lucy…”

She was being touched, she realised. Arms caged her in. They were on the ground, she was between Lockwood’s legs and pulled to his chest, and he was trembling with the exertion of keeping her still. When Lockwood finally loosened his grip, he didn’t let her go.

Lucy’s arms shook as she wrapped them around one of Lockwood’s arms, letting herself be hugged close to him. His breathing was jagged and erratic, she could feel it in his chest.

“That was so stupid. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think… I didn’t know it was that strong. George isn’t here, and I thought you were going to hurt yourself.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured into his arm.

She waited for him to calm down, to talk everything out, let Lockwood hold her. The necklace was in a patch of sunlight, its ornate metalwork face up. It would do no harm for a few minutes.

Finally, Lockwood’s breathing returned to normal. Lucy was fighting to keep her eyes open, adrenaline pulsing through her veins, fear fresh in her mind.

“Sitting at the table doesn’t help, then,” she joked weakly.

She wondered if Lockwood was about to cry, his breath leaving him like a sob.

He loosened his arms, and she unwove herself from him.

Lockwood had been crying. His eyes were reddened. She’d ripped the buttons off his shirt, the middle of it gaping open in her rush to get away from him. There was a pair of red scratches on his cheek, parallel and an unpleasant match for her nails. Fortunately, they hadn’t drawn blood. She’d missed his eye.

She reached for them with curled fingers, careful not to catch them as she touched the raised skin.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Lockwood murmured, “wasn’t you.”

It was her. It had been her hands. Lucy knew what he meant.

“She was drowned,” Lucy didn’t make him ask, sitting back to kneel beside Lockwood as he slowly recovered himself. “By a man. At a party. There were voices and music and he led her away…”

To her surprise, Lockwood raised a hand. Like he’d heard enough. She looked down, nodding her understanding. It was ridiculous, but Lockwood pulled the silver net out of her hand as she went to fetch the necklace.

He wrapped it and put it carefully on the table. Away from her. She returned to her seat, and he sat down opposite, head in his hands.

“You were thrashing, Luce. Screaming. Scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, I… he forced her under. It was violent.”

“When you said she was begging…” Lockwood was regarding her with absolute horror, and Lucy felt her heart sink at his fear.

“The same as her death loop,” she confirmed.

The box sat between them. Lockwood kept glancing at it.

She took a second to wait for him to be distracted, before quickly pulling the left earring into her hand.

She listened hard, eyes closed. Echoes of horror. A vague sense of unease. She opened her eyes as herself.

“Fucking hell, Luce…”

“It’s fine. We know the necklace is the source. It would be new to science if the earrings were too,” she wasn’t sure when the words had become an apology.

Lockwood let out a shaky exhale. He kept her gaze as she put the earring back, a game between them as Lucy made slow movements. He groaned and sank back into his seat as she grabbed the other one.

“Go on then.”

Lucy closed her eyes. The same thrashing. Pain. Water. Desperation that took her breath away.

That same worry on Lockwood’s face as she opened her eyes.

“Not a source,” Lucy declared, fastening the earring back into the box with its pair.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he declared, gathering the necklace in its silver net before Lucy could even offer a sheepish look in response.

She couldn’t help it. Despite everything. For just a second, as Lockwood returned the necklace in its silver-lined box to the basement, she held the chandelier earrings to her ears in the hallway mirror.

It was no surprise, how they looked next to her tear-stained face. Nor that they were heavy, and sparkly, and beautiful. Lucy couldn’t imagine ever having tens of thousands of pounds, and choosing to spend it on earrings.

All she could think of was Norrie, giggling behind her as they tried on silver-plated pieces at the Saturday market. They couldn’t have afforded any of it, but that had been fine. Lucy forced a smile at herself, trying to remember what it looked like to have Norrie peering over her shoulder and pulling faces at their reflections.

The diamonds were replaced neatly in the box long before Lockwood returned, the thrill of trying them on completely missing, and replaced by that familiar pang which marked the absence of Norrie.

She would have loved this case, drama and all.

“All secured!” Lockwood declared, bouncing a little on his heels.

Lucy offered him a weak smile of acknowledgement, occupying herself with reboiling the forgotten kettle.

They arrived at the house for quarter-past five, armed with full kit bags and far too much nervous energy to wait at Portland Row for much longer.

After a nap, Lucy felt a bit better, and Lockwood had ordered takeaway for them to share over the kitchen table. There had been no further mention of Lucy’s episode with the necklace, nor the way Lockwood had refused to let her go afterwards. But the companionable silence in the cab told her everything was okay between them.

It always was, in the end.

“Look at you, dressed up all proper!”

George made his presence known with all of his usual respect for Lockwood’s ridiculous suits, making the taller boy straighten his collar with a sniff.

He’d opted for the nicest jacket he had, and Lucy had made the exact same jibe as he’d met her by the front door. Though her quip had a little more bite.

“Seeing if she’ll give you a modelling contract, Lockwood?”

They were early, excessively so. Fifteen whole minutes. Lucy was contemplating a walk up and down the street to kill time as the front door opened, and Norma strode out.

The same pair of keys were in-hand, and this time she had no hesitation in striding towards them, that same smile plastered onto her angular face.

“Lockwood and Co.!” She offered, declining to shake hands and instead dropping the keys into Lockwood’s outstretched palm.

“Ms Fields,” Lucy returned, “I’m so sorry to hear about what happened.”

She didn’t need Lockwood’s sidelong glance to realise it was the wrong thing to say, feeling a drop in the pit of her stomach. Nonetheless, Norma seemed unphased.

“Dreadful. The whole business,” she responded seriously. “I so appreciate you coming out on such short notice. I can’t bear to think of poor Adil, the boy must have been terrified.”

Lucy and Lockwood offered matching sympathetic smiles, as Norma’s attention was diverted to hailing down an arriving black cab. She offered nothing more than a wave in the way of goodbye, and Lucy found herself a bit wrong-footed by the whole interaction.

“Practically blackmailed us into it,” George grumbled, stepping beside his colleagues as Norma strode to her night cab.

“Definitely a bit odd,” Lucy admitted, watching Norma give one last mouthed thank you before the car sped away.

“Either way, let’s get this over with. We might still make it to that church if we’re quick,” Lockwood teased, making the others groan.

George stopped him after a few steps towards the house, breaking Lockwood’s strange confidence with a hand on his shoulder.

“This isn’t going to be a quick one,” he pointed out, “Potentially two ghosts, if we’re really unlucky.”

Lucy and Lockwood looked at him in confusion, before groaning in unison.

There was a ghost, and the person the ghost had killed. That could mean two ghosts. And at least one of them was a type two.

Shit.

Lucy felt her stomach drop. They’d barely survived their last type two encounter in this house.

All that glass was beginning to look like an enclosure, trapping them in.

“That would be very unlucky,” Lockwood tried to reassure them, suddenly patting down his pockets with increasing agitation.

“Shit. Sunglasses.”

“There’s a spare pair in the kit bag,” Lucy offered, taking it off her back and reaching into a front pocket.

George felt his stomach turn as Lockwood watched her, face soft with an adoration neither of them seemed to have recognised yet. He looked for a bush to vomit into as Lucy tucked them into his front suit pocket, and Lockwood whispered a thank you, their gazes catching for a frankly embarrassing amount of time.

George cleared his throat.

“Very nice. Now, what are we doing? Same as last time?”

“Works for me,” Lucy shrugged, “we’ve still got an hour before it’s properly dark.”

With a nod of agreement, Lockwood led the way. They were halfway through the front door when Lucy had a realisation.

“We forgot to give her the earrings!”

Lockwood pulled the box from his jacket pocket with a groan.

“We’ll leave them on the counter. A nice present, when she returns to her ghost-free house.”

“That we cleared for free,” George grumbled. “couldn’t Flo sell them for us?”

Lockwood rolled his eyes, as the researcher continued.

“We’re sure they’re not a source?”

“Luce listened to them,” Lockwood confirmed, setting the box neatly on the countertop.

That was enough for him, and George began to unload their supplies around the earrings.

With three cups of tea and a pack of digestive biscuits open on the countertop, Lucy found herself settling into another evening at the house. With the novel glamour of the house fading, she’s started to find it quite heartless.

All that endless white on the walls. Norma’s photos of herself, everywhere, her friends and her personal life confined to their spot in the office. Lucy couldn’t help but think of the story behind every scuffed part of the carpet in Portland Row. The handprint on the hallway wallpaper from Lockwood catching himself as he bounded downstairs. There were clashing colours everywhere, the place crammed with presents and tchotchkes and life.

She kept catching reflections moving in the glass of the huge windows, and startling.

They’d surrounded themselves with an iron circle, and begun a waiting game as darkness fell.

Lockwood was sneaking a biscuit out of turn.

“Did you find anything in the archives?” Lucy asked George, distracting him from glaring daggers at Lockwood’s half-tea-soaked digestive biscuit.

Immediately George pulled his notebook out, flipping to the right page. He shot a conspicuous look at Lockwood.

“He knows,” Lucy told him, “about the photo.”

George wasted no time in sliding the polaroid back to Lucy.

“What else don’t I know about?” Lockwood’s eyes flickered up from his tea (which now had added biscuit flavour, he’d left it too long).

“Nothing,” Lucy insisted, as George began to speak.

“She was called Bailey McCormick, 26, super famous, apparently,” he shrugged, making Lucy laugh, “she’d modelled for everyone. Beauty brands. Playboy. All the big fashion houses. There were rumours she was next up to be a Victoria’s Secret angel.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows. After Lockwood made a very big show out of asking what a Victoria’s Secret angel was, as though he wasn’t aware, George continued.

“Bailey died in L.A. last year, under super suspicious circumstances. There’s still an ongoing investigation happening, it was re-opened after the coroner’s report was called into question.”

“What did the report say?” she asked.

“Accidental drowning. But it noted bruising on her collarbones and throat. Like she’d been forced under.”

“That tracks,” Lucy mused.

The ghost had looked wet, hair slicked back. Though it had been hard to tell. Interesting.

George continued.

“Here’s the best bit - she was wearing a borrowed set from Bvlgari Amore, when she died.”

Lucy fixed him with a raised eyebrow, making him taper his enthusiasm a little.

“There are some unbelievably tacky magazines out there,” George explained sheepishly.

“So, the set was borrowed from Norma Fields?” Lockwood theorised, reaching for the jewellery box to examine the earrings again.

“The set was borrowed from the brand. I guess they didn’t want them back, after she died in them.”

Lucy shrugged, taking the box from Lockwood.

“Or maybe Norma really wanted them. She did say they were friends.”

“A mentor figure, if you believe Bailey’s interviews,” George supplied. “She started modelling as Norma’s career slowed down, it sounds like they had a lot to offer one another.”

“Norma offered advice and contacts, and in exchange Bailey kept her relevant?” Lockwood theorised, and Lucy winced.

“Maybe they were just actually friends, guys? It seems like a cutthroat world – a good mentor and confidant is worth a lot.”

As both of them looked at her, Lucy knew they were unconvinced, and she fixed her stare back on the diamonds.

“Either way, why would Norma have the jewellery?” Lockwood asked.

“Sentimentality? That’s why she said she wanted the earrings back,” she suggested.

“The whole set was estimated to be worth up to a hundred-thousand pounds,” George read from his notes, “I’d want the earrings back too – regardless of who died in them.”

“She’s got insurance,” Lockwood insisted, “though, we’d better hand that necklace over to DEPRAC before Flo breaks into the basement.”

Never mind Flo, Lucy was considering a career change.

They were sweeping the ground floor of the house, noting what had changed. The answer was not much. There was hardly any evidence of the party, let alone anything supernatural. Lockwood was in another room, as George speculated on the existence of party planners who didn’t mind cleaning a haunted house.

“George?” Lucy suddenly interrupted him, making him pause his rambling.

“Yeah?”

“You should know, I listened to the necklace. I wasn’t sure if Lockwood would tell you… he was a bit shaken by the whole thing.”

George offered her a sympathetic look, before realisation dawned on his face.

“You let me do all that research on gossip rags for nothing?”

“Not nothing! We’re verifying our theory with multiple independent sources?”

George rolled his eyes, but said nothing, privately thrilled. Lucy knew she’d won.

“What happened?”

“It was… like that death loop I told you about. She was at a party. Some guy drowned her.”

“They printed a list of everyone who was there that night. Models. Actors. All the bigshots.”

Lucy stopped her investigation into a side table drawer to face him.

“Do you have the list?”

“I could get it from the Archive tomorrow.”

“Let’s do that.”

As they heard footsteps on the stairs, Lucy and George rushed to help.

#lockwood & co #anthony lockwood #lockwood and co fic #lockwood and co #Lockwood x Lucy #13atoms #fic

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moshadidz-la · 1 year

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The end of this month will be quite busy. Otherwise, my new goal for most weeks is to focus on editing on weekdays, and post backlogged drafts or fresh editing work to AO3 on weekends.

I don't think failing to set goals, or failing to continue to try, is the way to find my rhythm. Once more unto the breach.

#i have a lot to catch up on with friends' work that i'd long meant to sort of cross-discuss next to what i've been doing. too

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gettiregretti · 2 years

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Copy the first few lines of your last ten fics, note any fun observations, then tag a few more friends.

I tag @mistr3ssquickly @hixystix @sempaiko @thatonegreyghost @sassyimperium

I don’t have ten lol, unless you want me to dip into FMA (pointless here). They aren’t all the openings but they are all what I would probably use for summaries on ao3. So chapter 1 a few paragraphs in.

Death Match / Zeb and Kallus meet in the gladiator pits as ISB agent and imprisoned fighter

When Crull started to close the heavy cell door on him, Kallus was already running. He scooped up a training staff, felt the bite of leather against old wood, and took aim.

The door was closing rapidly, and his chances of escape shrank along with it. Carefully, Kallus focused his mind. When he let the staff fly, it sliced true through the damp air of the training room and right between the door and its locking system. For a single breath, it wedged there and the space was held open.

A breath wasn’t enough. But it had to be enough. So he ran.

(This one is probably problematic in a ton of ways but I’m trying to straddle the line between indulgent fandom trope and bad taste)

Rebel Cell / in custody an empire doctor changes Kallus’ body so that it betrays him the way he betrayed them (ABO)

Alexsandr Kallus has only been part of the rebellion for a week, but he has already become a ghost story. Kanan only ever notices him slipping in and out of his scheduled interviews (interrogations; and they all know it) with an energy that’s getting progressively more gaunt. There is a kind of carefulness about him, like he’s stiff. Like it hurts to move.

(Sometimes you just make your fav lubricate from the butt. Fight me)

Love is in Your Blood / A new fighter joins the Resistance, and he’s from a species no one has ever seen before. Kallus is caught up in him too fast to be natural, but maybe that’s just Zeb’s jealousy talking.

“Kallus sure is getting friendly with the fishy new guy.” Sabine drops heavily onto some crates beside him. Zeb doesn’t bother to hide what he’s looking at. “Didn’t think he knew how to make friends, since he’s always trailing you.”

“Rinti,” Zeb growls, response clipped.

“Huh?”

“He’s called Rinti. And he came with Hondo.”

Sabine’s eyebrows do some complicated movement designed to optimally convey teenage scepticism. It’s devastating, and Zeb has never loved her more.

(Just ready to make them both suffer as much as possible. Touch starved Kallus doesn’t know if this is love or a ruse because he doesn’t really know what love is ABLOOBLOOBLOO)

(Spoiler it’s not love)

Once More Unto the Breach / I watched Winter Soldier and decided it needed to be Kalluzeb’d

“There now. Agent, are you with us?”

Agent. She means him? From context, apparently so. Thoughts are so hard to tie together.

He turns his head with some difficulty, neck jellied like an overcooked vegetable. The masked person by his side wears white and has a sickly green face mask over mouth and nose. A human, medical expertise probable. A woman, he thinks.

“Yes,” he replies. His throat hurts. The screaming has left its mark.

“Stable, Doctor,” another of them pipes up from the left. The person pinning his leg remains silent, but his grip is secure. Agent… -Agent. Agent realises he can’t feel the heat of the grip - only the pressure.

“Good. A minor delay, but training will resume in ten minutes. This time you must keep your emotions under control, understood?” The doctor is looking at him. Agent gazes back.

“I suppose I must.”

(What it says on the tin. Not a straight-up rewrite at all, more about the empire testing old tech they don’t understand on traitors too effective to waste)

Untitled / Kallus and Zeb fall in together. But Kallus is sure someone on base is stalking him, and everyone wants to know how Zeb could ever forgive the man who eradicated his entire world.

Zeb snarled. “Everyone keeps tellin’ me that, like I’m stupid, but I didn’t see anyone else at this table back on Lasan! It was me, and it was him. And no one else has any business digging through that to make some moral fucking point.” He slammed his tray on the table hard enough that the bread rolled out of its compartment. He ignored it, appetite gone, and turned his back on the stunned faces of the group. “Don’t look for me until take-off,” he ordered, rising from his seat and stalking from the mess.

(Born from me listening to a lot of true crime podcasts -until they made my anxiety spike and I had to stop- and wondering if Zeb is just too tired to overcome the past he and Kallus have. if he decides he’s just going to grab happiness in both fists before it’s gone)

#Kalluzeb fic #Getti writes

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

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Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 19 - ao3 -

Time passed, as it had a tendency to do.

After Cangse Sanren left, Lan Qiren remained in seclusion for the next two months, reviewing texts on the Lan sect rules regarding reciprocation, filial respect, and loyalty, and occasionally playing some new pieces – he’d started composing music as well as simply learning it, and that was a finicky business. Not only did he need to worry about the musical composition itself, like any normal musician, but there was also interweaving the spiritual energies and figuring out the way the song could be used as a spell, which was a completely different and often completely contradictory set of rules.

Moreover, the most powerful song-spells, he knew, were the ones that incorporated and drew on emotion, and he’d always had difficulty with those. Like most of his clan, Lan Qiren cleaved towards the more intellectual melodies, difficult but cold and distant, yet if he wanted to be truly innovative, he would need to find melodies in his heart.

Not long before he went to the Nightless City he had been inspired in a dream with a half-snippet of sound, which he had been painstakingly building up into a song in fits and starts, but recently he had found that whenever he played it the only image that came to mind was that of pearls scattered amidst blood-red mud.

The song was good, though, although it felt unfinished and incomplete. After he emerged from seclusion, he played it for his music teacher, first without qi and then with, demonstrating the suffocating and asphyxiating feeling of it – a heavy stone sitting in the midst of his chest, all his misery and anxieties wrapped up into musical notes – and his music teacher had been thrilled.

“You were born to write tragedies, child,” he said, examining the score proudly. “This is not only good but innovative, a new style with unexpected effects. I look forward to seeing you refine this further, and to your future works.”

Lan Qiren saluted deeply.

Music was just about the only thing that was going right for him at the moment.

The other disciples had been lured back into gossip by his presence, consumed by curiosity, and the teachers had come down on it hard, breeding resentment; even his few friends had been made tired by the whole fuss and only wanted it to die down. The rumors went by swiftly and quickly, anything to do with the Wen sect or the Nightless City almost immediately spread around everywhere, reaching his ears almost immediately upon his exit from seclusion.

One in particular caused him alarm, suggesting that Madame Wen had been discarded or even killed immediately after successfully bearing a son to her husband, but Lan Yueheng had convinced Lan Ganhui, always good at making friends, to write to the Wen sect disciples he’d become friendly with in the Nightless City to find out the truth. In the end, it turned out that Wen Ruohan had merely grown more distant from her, instructing her to go into seclusion for the birth a little early, and had perhaps sarcastically sent her a few treatises on the subject of a wife’s duty to support her husband. In the end, Wen Ruohan was an ambitious and ruthless man who encouraged his sect to take him as his model - as he himself had remarked, Madame Wen’s viciousness in fact demonstrated how she was an excellent match for him.

Lan Qiren hated that he was relieved that Wen Ruohan had not taken out his rage at what had happened on his wife, who had instigated the incident. He hated even more his suspicions that Wen Ruohan might have refrained from doing so not out of morality but out of the thought that Lan Qiren himself might disapprove - he wasn’t sure if that thought made him happy or sad.

At any rate, he soon didn’t have time to worry about things like that.

Lan Qiren’s refusal to explain in any detail what had happened at the Nightless City that had sent him fleeing and retreating into seclusion was largely not accepted by his curious peers, especially when someone had jeeringly pointed out that he’d probably told Cangse Sanren the whole thing already, and he refused to go to his teachers to complain, as he had in his youth.

His brother hadn’t accepted it, either.

He’d given Lan Qiren ten days after exiting seclusion, clearly expecting him to come and report on what had happened. When Lan Qiren had not done so, he had finally grown impatient and found him, demanding to know what it was that he had done that had caused such a fuss.

Lan Qiren had knelt and declared that he was unfilial and disobedient, that he had broken the rules, and requested that his brother punish him for his wrongdoing.

His brother had stared at him for a long time before realizing that Lan Qiren was serious – that he would rather be punished for intentionally breaking the rules against honoring and obeying his elders than tell what he had done or what had happened. Even when he was dragged to the hanshI, his collar pulled tight in his brother’s fist until he was thrown down to kneel in front of their father the sect leader, Lan Qiren did not object; he knelt without complaint, and even pressed his forehead to the ground in deference, but he did not speak.

The punishment his father decided upon for him was harsh, but Lan Qiren accepted it willingly. By the rules of his sect, an accepted punishment expiated a breach of the rules; once punished, he could no longer be persecuted for what he had done to earn the punishment. It would be over and done with.

Of course, there were always ways around that.

Technically, Lan Qiren’s breach was not in refusing to tell what had happened, but in disrespecting his elders by so refusing. A few days after he recovered from his initial punishment, his brother, still furious at having been denied, asked him the same question, with the same result. Their father looked disapprovingly at his eldest son – deliberately exploiting loopholes was not good etiquette – but again imposed a punishment.

Lan Qiren gritted his teeth and endured.

Lan Qiren’s brother did not bother him a third time, but by then it was too late; their relationship continued to deteriorate. Lan Qiren sought to avoid his brother whenever possible, and his brother’s disappointment in him grew; although he did not explicitly complain or impose punishments directly, he made his views clear. Those disciples and teachers that most admired him were, as always, more than willing to follow his lead and fill in the gaps, and for one reason or another Lan Qiren spent more time in the discipline hall than ever before.

Eventually, noticing the division, others in the sect sought to reconcile them – their teachers, in the most part – but Lan Qiren rebuffed them, having noticed that their requests to be more considerate and free-minded were always aimed at him and never to his brother.

After poor Lan Yueheng, who never cared about anything but his alchemy and his mathematics and, possibly, the particularly indulgent outer-sect female disciple that guarded the stockroom of the ingredients he used to make things explode and regularly looked the other way when he came to get an extra helping, got roped into trying to tell Lan Qiren to be more forgiving, citing rules about fighting within families leading to nothing with a miserable and bemused expression on his face, Lan Qiren went to the teacher in question and rather acidly pointed out the discrepancy.

“He’s your elder,” the teacher said.

“Do not disrespect the younger,” Lan Qiren retorted.

“He’s your family –”

“Am I not his?”

The teacher sighed. “It’s not the same, with him. You know how he is – how he’s always been.”

Lan Qiren knew. Still, he said, “If you can identify where my conduct does not live up to the rules, please do so, and I will consider if my conduct requires modification. At the moment, I do not.”

“Qiren…”

“Why must I always be the one to yield?” Lan Qiren demanded. “I didn’t answer one question, and I took the punishment for it, as was my right. He is the one who is insisting on making a fuss, not me – why come to me? I don’t want anything from him.”

“That’s the problem. You shouldn’t fight so – why this, why now? You’ve always yielded to him before.”

Lan Qiren said nothing.

“He’s still your elder brother, Qiren. Soon, he’ll be your sect leader.”

“Do not fear the strong; do not bully the weak,” Lan Qiren said. “Being sect leader makes him more responsible, not less.”

“Qiren –”

“I have been a good brother to him for nearly twenty years, honored teacher. Perhaps not the most promising, perhaps somewhat embarrassing, but devoted in my own way. I have not changed so much. I am still loyal, still filial; I still do all that I am asked…the only thing that changed is that I expect nothing from him.”

Not even his love.

Lan Qiren knew better, now. He’d seen what a brother could be, what it should be - he’d experienced, however fleetingly, having someone genuinely care for him, listen to him and indulge him and take joy in his company; no longer would he accept his brother’s barely concealed disdain as an adequate substitute.

“Qiren –”

“Has my father said anything?”

His teacher fell silent.

Lan Qiren bowed his head, having expected nothing better. His father was growing more and more distant from the world, less and less interested in the minutiae of everyday life; he could still stir himself to care for his precious eldest son, the child of his heart, but his oft-forgotten and overlooked second?

Unless Lan Qiren’s brother had complained about him, his father was unlikely to remember that such a person as Lan Qiren even existed.

“Does father hate me?” he asked, emboldened by his misery. It was the question he had always wanted to ask and had never dared to, and his teacher flinched as if struck. “Is that why he never saw me?”

“No,” his teacher said. “No – it wasn’t…”

“Does he blame me for my mother’s death?”

“He blames himself,” his teacher said, and sounded tired unto death. “From the very first. He thought that if he had not been sect leader, they might not have lost their children; if he was not sect leader, it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d had only one child left. But he couldn’t blame the sect, so he blamed himself – you don’t know how bad it was, Qiren; you don’t know what we all went through back then. When your mother died, he even lost his mind for a time.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Lan Qiren demanded. His hands had clenched into fists at some point, his knuckles pale and white. “If he blames himself and not me, then why did he – he never –”

He barely even saw me, he wanted to say. I am his son, just like my brother, yet it’s as if I don’t exist.

Why couldn’t he love me, too?

“You were very young,” his teacher said, his voice suddenly very distant as if he were remembering something. Lan Qiren looked at him in surprise. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but...she had just died, and he had lost his mind; none of us had realized the extent to it, thinking it merely grief. You were young, you didn’t understand. You ran to him, seeking comfort, and he nearly – he couldn’t risk having such a sin on his conscience, Qiren. You should not blame him.”

“What are you saying? That he neglected me and held me at arms’ length to console himself for nearly murdering me?” Lan Qiren asked, and thought back to all the times he had found himself afraid of his father’s glacial voice, terrified for no reason. If his father had tried to kill him in a rage, as his teacher suggested, shouldn’t he have been more scared of the heat than of cold?

Unless - his brilliant and accomplished father, who always acted as the rules said he should but who had lost his heart along with his wife - unless he had knowingly -

Perhaps it had been the sect that had ordered their separation, not his father. Perhaps his father, who had spent years going through the motions of leadership and caring only about the son that reminded him of his wife’s joy and not the one who reminded him only of her death - his father, who led their sect and raised his eldest son and in so doing taught them all to be like him, overly partial to favorites and overly harsh to those that did not meet expectations - perhaps he had not objected to that arrangements. Perhaps it had been the elders that had set the rule of meeting only once a month, rather than not at all.

Perhaps they had thought that it had been for Lan Qiren’s own good that they had done so.

Perhaps they thought it was for his own good that they encouraged him to yield now to his brother’s temper, to humble himself despite having done nothing wrong, and all for the sake of familial peace.

That was not the conduct mandated by his family’s rules. Not the ones he followed, anyway.

It’s his fault, Lan Qiren thought suddenly. He saw the path we were walking down, my brother and I, and he did nothing to stop it; he loved my brother too much and me too little, and ruined us both through his negligence and indifference. He made my brother think he deserved the world that he then had to hold up on his own, while he made me think I deserved nothing...he could have done better by us. He should have done better by us.

Finding that his teacher had run out of things to say, Lan Qiren saluted him once again.

“I will be filial and loyal, as the rules require,” he said simply. “I will respect and honor my father and brother. Do not doubt that.”

He said no more. Instead, he returned to his quarters, wondering if they thought he was happy about how things stood between him and his brother, who he still loved.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

He thought miserably to himself that he had been happier living in denial, pretending to himself that there was brotherly affection between them, that his brother’s coldness was only because Lan Qiren had spoiled things somehow by being inferior than his brother would have preferred. When he could love his brother whole-heartedly and think to himself that his brother secretly loved him back, when he suspected but did not know that that had only ever been a lie he had concocted for himself. He had been far happier back then than the way it was now, when even the paper-thin one-sided façade of love was gone.

The saddest part of it all was that Lan Qiren still loved his brother, his stupid Lan heart as inexorable as a mountain avalanche already set in motion. He just didn’t much like him.

He did like Wen Ruohan, the brother that liked him back and might even have loved him if a man such as him could recognize such a tender emotion, but that wasn’t really relevant.

Lan Qiren knew his duty, whether to his sect, to his brothers, or to morality. He knew what he had to do.

For his part, Wen Ruohan waited over a month and a half after Lan Qiren’s exit from seclusion before trying to reach out again by mail. No doubt conscious of his dignity and ego, the powerful sect leader that no one ever really denied, his letter talked around the subject in Wen Ruohan’s usual high-handed manner and evaded either apologies or explanations; from his tone, it was likely that he expected Lan Qiren to respond in anger and denial, or even not to respond at all. Instead, Lan Qiren wrote back obediently, reporting dully on his daily life. When pressed, he even wrote a short summary of his ongoing projects, copying the words precisely from the submissions he made for his teachers to avoid excessive enthusiasm.

Wen Ruohan’s letters developed a certain level of concern after that, which Lan Qiren ignored in favor of continuing to respond politely but unenthusiastically; a filial younger brother, just as he was to his own blood brother, and nothing more. At the next discussion conference, he saluted Wen Ruohan to the exact degree required by their relationship and called him xiongzhang as a respectful younger brother ought; Wen Ruohan had an expression on his face that suggested he had bitten into a sour lemon and stepped in dog shit at the same time, and his eyes followed Lan Qiren around for the remainder of the afternoon.

Lan Qiren was concerned for a while that Wen Ruohan would try to summon him once night fell, forcing the issue, but he was saved through an unexpected twist of fate – namely, that Jiang Fengmian had, like all the others, completely misinterpreted Lan Qiren’s relationship with Cangse Sanren. The Jiang sect heir marched up to him not long after the opening ceremonies had been completed and asked him, stiffly, to swear that he had no interest in the lady and would not communicate with her in the future. Lan Qiren, thinking primarily of their friendship, refused, and then Jiang Fengmian punched him right in the face.

Lan Qiren might be cold and standoffish as a rule, but he did have a temper, and that temper did not hold with being assaulted over things that weren’t even his fault – neither of them were even involved with Cangse Sanren! – and having been so thoroughly goaded he had no choice but to hit back.

In the end, Cangse Sanren had slapped Jiang Fengmian silly and Lan Qiren’s brother had sent him to kneel in disgrace all night, reminding him no fighting without permission and with his eyes silently promised additional punishment when they returned home.

Wen Ruohan didn’t disturb him that night, and Lan Qiren was able to persevere. Indeed, Wen Ruohan troubled him much less than he’d feared, opting in his hurt pride to instead turn to Lao Nie and stay remarkably close by his side – Lao Nie was the one who looked apologetically at Lan Qiren and tried to find time for him, whether to invite him on outings or to scold his brother for the apparent breakdown in domestic tranquility. For his part, Lan Qiren ignored Lao Nie and didn’t hold it against him even when he started showing up to the discussion meetings with distinctive red marks on his throat.

All right, he held it against him a little.

How Lao Nie had such bad taste, Lan Qiren had no idea. Surely he, unlike Lan Qiren, had known enough to realize that Wen Ruohan was an evil man…?

Probably he had; it was only that he didn’t much care. Lan Qiren had promised to try to stop lying to himself about people he liked, and that meant he couldn’t pretend that Lao Nie wasn’t a remarkably callous man at times, ruthless and careless with anything that was outside his sect – even his friends. There could be no doubt that he loved them, sincerely and honestly, and yet…

Lan Qiren was a little disappointed, but not much, knowing that he, too, was irrevocably bound to such a man as Wen Ruohan. He couldn’t blame Lao Nie for the same thing he himself had done.

Mostly he was just pleased that his suspicion regarding their relationship had been confirmed, even if somehow – unbelievably – no one else seemed to notice it.

In fact, he thought it might mark the very first time in his life that he’d figured out something interpersonal before other people had. Normally he would report it to someone at his sect as soon as he noticed that they’d overlooked it, wanting to do his best for them, but the sensation was too novel and his relations with his sect a little too cold at the moment; he hugged the knowledge to his chest instead, enjoying the brief warm feeling of knowing something other people didn’t.

He intended to tell them, of course, once they returned back to the Cloud Recesses, only they had barely brushed the dust of their journey off their shoulders when they were summoned to the gathering hall for what everyone had now expected for years: Lan Qiren’s father, eyes blank, made the announcement that he was officially setting the date for which he would be retiring as sect leader and retreating from the world, going into seclusion to try to break through the boundaries of cultivation and reach the heavens in a single bound or else die in the attempt.

Lan Qiren’s brother, naturally, would inherit.

He was as fresh from the road as the rest of them, but with his hands behind his back, standing beside their father, he looked as fresh and untouched as a new-bloomed orchid, as beautiful as a polished piece of jade. His eyes reflected the dichotomy that Lan Qiren had learned governed his brother’s life: pride, for the power that he was going to inherit and the accomplishments that everyone agreed made him worthy of that inheritance, and envy, looking at his own father with jealousy, longing also to withdraw from the weight the world had placed on him and do what he could on his own, unburdened by others.

Lan Qiren’s brother, Lan Qiren had learned, saw everything in his life through the prism of himself – did others have something he wanted, did he have something that they didn’t, how did he compare, was he being compared…when he got something into his mind, he cared for nothing else but how to achieve it, no matter the cost, and most of the time he was successful, too. He was fundamentally self-sufficient, requiring nothing and no one but himself, and so was capable of performing miracles – if he was motivated to do so.

Lan Qiren was much less capable. He was lacking in cultivation, lacking in social skills, lacking even in a similar degree of independence, longing as he did for the company and acceptance of his peers even as his introversion demanded sufficient time to himself. There was no way in which he was superior to his brother; in every respect, he was inferior.

And yet, sometimes, he thought that his brother was jealous of him, too.

(Their father retreating into seclusion meant that they would both be losing him – but it was really only Lan Qiren’s brother that lost something. For Lan Qiren, what he mourned was only the absence of what had never been there, and he had finished mourning for that already.)

In the end, the main change occasioned by the impending change in leadership was that Lan Qiren’s brother grew too busy to pay much attention to Lan Qiren, much to his relief. Relations between them grew…not warmer, no, but less fraught, and although Lan Qiren knew he ought to celebrate, he mostly mourned that the cause of it was not a real mending of fences but rather his brother simply forgetting that he existed, just as their father always had.

Lan Qiren took the first opportunity he had to get out of the Cloud Recesses, even attending a party to celebrate sworn brother’s new son with relatively little issue. During the visit, Wen Ruohan ignored him in favor of sticking ever closer to a strangely distracted Lao Nie, almost as if he were deliberately slighting Lan Qiren for having been cold in their last interaction and for not answering his letters the way he wanted. Lan Qiren briefly felt hurt at having been put aside and forgotten so quickly - assuming that he had been forgotten, which he wasn’t sure of, as Wen Ruohan ignoring him sometimes seemed almost performative - but then reminded himself that this, like his poor relationship with his blood brother, was only the results of his own actions, and those of others.

He didn’t – regret it, not really. He’d lived his life by the Lan sect rules, and he didn’t regret doing so now, no matter how lonely the results might make him feel.

Instead, he returned to the Cloud Recesses and began to plan out in earnest his plans for departing the Cloud Recesses to travel the world as a musician, the goal he had set since he was young and was finally, impossibly, on the verge of satisfying. He would need to stay for his brother’s ascension to sect leader the next year, he thought, and perhaps for a year after that – just because their relationship wasn’t good didn’t mean he was entitled to do things that would let other people talk about it – but after that…

After that, he would go.

He would make new friends, or not. He would learn new things. He would see what the world was like.

Sooner than he thought, Lan Qiren turned twenty, thereby finally becoming an adult. The event took place with little fanfare, and Lan Qiren sent back the gifts he received from both Wen Ruohan and Lao Nie unopened with a polite note indicating that he was unworthy of such attention, and Cangse Sanren’s with a much more emphatic note reminding her that he was largely uninterested in sexual matters and therefore had no need for these sorts of implements.

His brother got him new guqin strings, the same gift he always gave – Lan Qiren had once been very happy to receive it before he realized that it was the storeroom distributing the gift in his brother’s name – and Lan Qiren returned that as well. Lan Yueheng was the only one who successfully managed to give him a gift by virtue of sneaking the fancy brush he’d bought for him into his table in such a way that Lan Qiren utilized it before realizing it was new, and then refused to take it back on the basis that it had already been used. He looked so pleased with himself over his little trick that Lan Qiren didn’t have the heart to scold him.

Time continued to pass: day by day, night by night, season by season.

And then she arrived.

#mdzs #lan qiren #wen ruohan #my fic #my fics #spilled pearls

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knightsofrayx · 1 year

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Sneak Peak: Once More (unto the breach)

Ava grasps the wooden staff in her hand, twirling it around experimentally. Then promptly loses her grip and plays a game of hot potato with herself trying to catch it before it hits the floor.

"So," she starts after finally getting a hold of it again. "How are we supposed to do this?"

Lilith gives her a dead-eyed stare.

"It's a stick."

"I know that," she grouses, "but how exactly does whacking each other with sticks tell us who our soulmate is?"

#ava silva #sister lilith #warrior nun #save warrior nun #Warrior Nun x Pacific Rim AU #kwoon #drift compatibility #my fic #Once More (unto the breach)#ao3: Once More (unto the breach)#my series #disaster ava silva

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extasiswings · 3 years

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How we feeling clowns? Wrecked? Anyway, here, have an episode tag for both the crossover and Buck Begins. Also on ao3.

Eddie’s driving nearly on autopilot, the roads familiar as they get closer and closer to El Paso. Part of him almost wishes he hadn’t taken the driving shift to get them to his childhood home, even if it made the most sense—he can feel the tension in his jaw and shoulders creeping in, curling tighter with every mile they come closer, and his fingers itch for his phone, for the commiserating sympathies of his sisters who understand what he’s likely to walk into much more than Buck or Hen.

Technically they could have skipped the detour. Eddie hadn’t even planned on telling his parents he was coming to Texas at all—it was Christopher who let it slip, and then Eddie had been immediately put on the spot and he hadn’t been able to come up with a good way out of stopping by after his weak deflection that it wasn’t a social trip was met with well, you have to stop and eat somewhere, don’t you.

Sophia told him to lie and say the department said no. But she’s always been much better at lying to their parents outright than he is. Adriana shrugged and said if he didn’t want to go he didn’t need to give them a reason and should just say he wouldn’t be coming. But then, that’s her tactic as well and always has been—putting her foot down to establish hard boundaries, forging her own path and bucking all expectations. Eddie’s always fallen somewhere in the middle, which he supposes is fitting—struggling to set boundaries, often getting there only when pushed, wanting approval but lacking Sophia’s talent for gentle manipulation that usually leads people to think that whatever she wants was their idea.

So. Here he sits. Driving to El Paso.

“Eddie?”

He blinks and clears his throat as he registers Buck’s voice, the edge of concern that says it’s not the first time Buck has called his name.

“Yeah?”

“I was going to ask if you could pass back the aux cord,” Buck says. “But now I think I should ask if you’re okay.”

Eddie glances over his shoulder—Hen is in the back of the truck, head pillowed against the window, dozing with her eyes closed. He swallows.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve seen my parents is all,” he replies. “And usually when they call it’s to talk to Christopher so...it might be uncomfortable.”

Buck’s voice drops. “Have you talked to them since the thing? Other than about this I guess.”

The Thing, also known as the huge fight they got into when Eddie decided that if he was going to keep working he couldn’t live at home for awhile and they tried to once again insist that he take Chris back to live with them. Like some terrible combination of the arguments they had before he moved to LA and after Shannon’s funeral, only even worse because Eddie had been raw enough over the decision to move in with Buck and let his abuela take care of Chris for awhile and really didn’t need to hear anyone tell him that choice made him a bad parent—

Sophia had been spitting mad when he told her and while he doesn’t know what she said in her own subsequent call to their parents, he knows that the next time they called him, the subject didn’t come up again. Which, he supposes is as close to an apology as he’s ever likely to get.

He probably could have used that as an excuse to not visit. But then, that’s not really how they are. Don’t apologize, pretend you don’t hold grudges, act like everything is fine, and repress until it feels like it is—the Diaz family way.

Eddie sighs as he focuses on the road.

“Not really,” he replies. “They’ve called Christopher every few weeks, but we’ve only talked directly...three times maybe since then? Things seem to go south more quickly when we’re in person though so I guess I’m…”

“Bracing for impact,” Buck fills in quietly. “I get that.”

“Yeah?”

Buck shrugs. “I don’t talk about my parents,” he points out. “Don’t talk to them either if I can avoid it because they always have a way of managing to just—anyway. The last time I even called was after everything with Maddie and Doug. Haven’t seen them since...since before I started with the 118 at least. So. Yeah. I get it.”

He hesitates, then adds, “You know I have your back, right? You’re my best friend and you’re an amazing father. I’m not going to let anybody get away with talking badly about you in front of me, even if they are your parents.”

Eddie glances back and manages a faint smile, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he admits. “Even if you did try to steal a fire truck in the middle of the night without me.”

Buck laughs and shoves at his shoulder. “At least it wasn’t this truck. Besides—you caught up before I did it anyway.”

“Yeah, my Buck’s about to do something dangerous senses were tingling, couldn’t let that slide,” Eddie teases.

“Just give me the damn aux cord,” Buck shoots back, but he’s grinning.

And as they pass the next exit, Eddie feels like maybe things won’t be quite so bad.

***

Buck hates Eddie’s parents.

It’s not the most charitable thing to think about someone you’ve only just officially met—he saw them at the ceremony when Eddie passed his probationary period, but he’d been on pretty strong painkillers at the time and Maddie had shuffled him back home as soon as possible—but he really does.

He hates the tense, anxious set of Eddie’s shoulders, hates the way his smile looks forced—it triggers the same fierce, protective instinct that rears its head whenever he gets between his parents and Maddie, and, well, he did promise, so—

He really doesn’t feel bad for interrupting the very first digs about how seeing Christopher over video isn’t the same as in person, but it’s nice to have the option and technology really is wonderful, Zoom calls must have been a great improvement from your army days, right son with—

“You know, it is wonderful isn’t it? Did Eddie tell you how amazing Christopher is handling hybrid learning? It’s really so great how his teachers have adapted, I can’t imagine he would have kept up so well anywhere else.”

Buck smiles brightly as Eddie’s mother’s lips thin. Hen coughs and takes a long sip of lemonade. Eddie blinks in surprise from across the table and clears his throat, grasping at the lifeline.

“Yeah, top of his class,” Eddie says.

“He even has a reading group once a week with some of the other kids in his class that Eddie started to help them stay social. I know a lot of the other parents appreciate it,” Buck adds, and Eddie rubs at the back of his neck.

“We definitely do,” Hen says, glancing at Eddie’s father as she clarifies, “I have a son Christopher’s age. They used to play together all the time before all of this.”

“His therapist said kids are resilient, but I wanted to at least try and give him something normal,” Eddie replies, and his mother’s brows raise.

“Christopher is in therapy?” There’s a note in her tone that makes Eddie tense and Buck’s hackles raise.

“I took him to see someone for a few sessions after Shannon died, mom,” Eddie says evenly. After the tsunami, Buck fills in for himself. “It didn’t seem like a bad idea to go back again to make sure he’s okay during a time that’s pretty unprecedented for just about everyone.”

“Really, I think more parents should send their kids to therapy,” Buck interjects. “If it’s a feasible option, I can’t see that it’s anything other than great parenting to make sure your kid has the best tools they can to take care of their mental health.”

God knows if he’d gone to therapy a hell of a lot sooner, he might not be struggling through sessions with Dr. Copeland now that he’s nearly thirty, but that’s not really the point.

“Well, some people feel those sorts of things are best taken care of within the family,” Eddie’s mother replies.

“With all due respect, sometimes the family’s way of handling problems just makes things worse,” Buck replies, his smile dropping briefly before he forces it back again.

“This lemonade really is delicious, Mrs. Diaz,” Hen jumps in as Eddie pushes his chair back and starts collecting empty plates. “I would love to get the recipe before we leave. If you don’t mind.”

Startled, the older woman blinks. “Oh. Yes, of course. I’ll write it down for you.”

Buck pushes back his own chair as Hen continues redirecting the conversation and follows Eddie into the kitchen where he finds his best friend gripping the edge of the sink.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Eddie looks over his shoulder and exhales heavily. “Hey.”

“Sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t,” Eddie assures. “I’m just...exhausted. And ready to get back on the road and home to my kid.”

He hesitates, then adds, “you know, my sisters would be impressed. I haven’t seen someone manage our parents like that since they left. I—thank you.”

“I meant what I said in the truck, Eddie,” Buck replies. “You’re an amazing father and a great man and—it’s not right that anyone should pretend any different. So. I won’t let them.”

Eddie glances at the hallway. “Guess we have to go back eventually. I didn’t quite think this escape plan through.”

“Once more unto the breach?” Buck offers. The smile he gives Eddie is far different from the fake one he’s had up since they arrived, and when Eddie returns it, a spark returning to his eyes, it makes Buck’s stomach flip and his pulse race.

He tries not to think too hard about that. They still have a long drive ahead of them—plenty of time to save it for later.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

***

When they get home, Eddie barely manages to shower and plug in his phone to charge before falling into bed and immediately going to sleep. When he wakes up, he finally checks his messages and sees several missed calls and texts from his sisters.

So? Sophia asks. How was it?

<em>You were right</em>, Eddie taps out, and then waits. His phone rings a few seconds later.

“I’ll save the I told you so in favor of asking if I should get Adriana on the line for an emergency Diaz sibling parental grievance vent session or if I’ll suffice,” Sophia greets.

“It’s not that serious,” Eddie replies. “I’m okay—a little annoyed still, but...I’m okay.”

He’s not quite sure what compels him to add, “Buck was there. He, uh, he told them off about it a little actually. Politely, but that kind of polite...you know the one.”

“The one that’s basically go fuck yourself with a smile and/or plausible deniability?” Sophia fills in, and Eddie laughs.

“Yeah, that.” He rubs at the back of his neck and leans back in his chair. “It was—he kept pointing out things about what a great dad I am.”

There’s something about the feeling in his gut that he can’t name. Something he wants to poke at, to explore, but that also makes him wary. Like a yellow caution light—it’s not a do not enter but it’s not risk free either—and he’s not sure whether it’s a risk he can take yet.

Sophia is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “You are a great dad, Eddie. In spite of them. I’m glad you have other people in your life who recognize that too. You deserve that. You deserve to trust that you’re good at things, even if mom and dad say you aren’t. You deserve to be happy, so...”

The silence that follows feels weighty.

“What?” Eddie asks.

“Is Buck—?” Sophia cuts herself off. “—nevermind. Hey, the twins are calling, so I’ll call back again later, okay? Love you.”

Is Buck what? Eddie wants to ask. But he swallows it back.

“Love you, too,” he says instead. “Talk to you later.”

As he hangs up and tosses his phone aside, his mind wanders back to that feeling. Right up to the edge of warning lights and caution tape. And Eddie wonders for a moment if he should—

There’s a knock at his door.

“Dad? You awake?”

“Yeah, buddy,” he calls back. “Be right there.”

Later. He can think about it later.

***

Eddie figures it out at the worst possible time—in the middle of a five-alarm fire when Buck’s trapped inside and he doesn’t know if—

What do you do when you realize you might be in love with your best friend and they could die?

“We have to go back in there,” he says, before he can think of any reason why he shouldn’t. “We can’t just leave him, we have to—”

“You’re right,” Bobby interrupts, and the other captain makes a noise of frustration.

“Captain Nash—”

“You’re right,” Bobby repeats, holding Eddie’s gaze. “We’re going to get him back.”

Maybe it’s stupid, four trained firefighters diving back into an active blaze in an unstable building with unclear direction, but Eddie can’t regret it when he sees the desperation on Buck’s face. The relief. The impending breakdown.

After, he’s assigned to take care of the victim and Buck’s carted off to the hospital to get checked, and Eddie thinks maybe that’s better. It gives him time, at least. Time to figure out what to say, what to do, whether he should say or do anything at all. Part of him doesn’t know. The rest is screaming I love him, I love him, I love him, wants to get his hands on Buck to verify for himself that he’s fine. That he’s alive. That he’s going to stay that way.

But when he gets back to the station, Buck’s parents are there, sitting at the table, and Eddie just—

He thinks about the look on Buck’s face earlier in the shift when he spilled everything, when he explained how he was apparently born just for parts and how he used to throw himself into bad situations because it was the only way to get their attention.

He could ignore them. But he doesn’t.

“He saved my son, you know,” Eddie says, gripping the top of the staircase as the Buckleys look up. And it’s probably somewhat insane to keep talking because he knows they don’t even know who he is, but he can’t help it because he just needs them to understand— “Buck. He wasn’t even working at the time, he was on medical leave and didn’t know if he would ever be able to be a firefighter again. But he saved my son in the middle of a tsunami—my then eight-year-old son, and god knows I can’t imagine losing him, I think that would be the worst thing I could possibly go through, and I’m not sure I would survive it, but I didn’t have to because Buck saved him. And probably twenty other people as well. That’s just the kind of person he is. The kind who saves people.”

They don’t say a word, so he keeps going. “He could have died today. Because he didn’t want to leave anyone behind. Because he is a good man, even if he doesn’t ever feel like he’s good enough. And he hasn’t said a lot about you, but he’s said enough for me to know that while he’s gotten the latter impression from you, he learned the former himself. He built his life here himself. So...I don’t know why you’re here, if you want to explain yourselves or just want him to forgive you because you feel guilty, but I just wanted you to know that. That he’s a good man. The best man that I know. And if you’re proud of him for that, he deserves to hear it. That’s all.”

Eddie walks away then, heart beating too fast, blood rushing in his ears.

The best man that I know. And I’m in love with him.

That wasn’t for their ears though.

It thrums in his veins, the words caught in his throat as he showers, changes, waits for Buck to return to the station. And when he does, Eddie almost—

But something stops him.

“You have visitors,” he says instead. And leaves Buck to it.

Buck finds him in the locker room after.

“So, my parents said they heard stories about me while they were waiting,” he says. “When I asked them who from, they said they didn’t know, but that I saved their son in a tsunami—and trust me, that got a hell of a lot of questions.”

Eddie is grateful for the open locker, the excuse to hide his face as he pulls out his street clothes.

“Yeah, well—just because they’re not going to appreciate you doesn’t mean that nobody else does.”

“Eddie.”

Eddie pulls back and takes a breath before looking over at Buck. There’s a look in Buck’s eyes like he’s trying to piece Eddie together like a puzzle, to work out all the things he hasn’t said. And Eddie suddenly feels exposed, far more than he had when Buck was sitting in his childhood dining room staring down his own parents.

“You’re a good man,” Eddie says quietly. “They should hear that. And...someone should be willing to defend it.”

Buck’s quiet for a moment.

“I have to go see Maddie,” he says finally. “But maybe I could come by later? And we could...talk?”

“You don’t have to ask, Buck,” Eddie replies. “You know I—” I always want you. “—you’re always welcome.”

Buck watches him in silence for another long moment, then nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll see you later then.”

It’s hours before there’s a knock on the door. Hours in which Eddie burns dinner and then orders takeout because he’s too busy thinking, hours that he spends trapped in his own head, thinking through all the worst case scenarios, through every what if of how things could go wrong.

But also how they could go right.

And by the time he opens the door, he’s almost ready to just let the words trip off his tongue, but before he can, Buck says—

“Please don’t tell me I’m wrong about this.”

—and kisses him.

Eddie freezes, but before Buck can pull back, he slides a hand around the back of Buck’s neck and kisses him back with everything in him—every bit of thank god you’re alive and I was so afraid and I can’t lose you that he can muster. By the time Buck pulls away, they’re both breathless.

“I’m in love with you,” Buck admits. “I’ve been—”

“Me too,” Eddie replies. “I thought—I thought you were—”

Buck kisses him again.

“I can’t believe you told off my parents.”

“Well, you told off mine, so—”

Eddie pulls Buck through the door.

“Chris is in his room,” he says quietly. “But...you should stay for dinner. And…”

You should stay. Just stay.

Buck does.

#chapel writes #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #911 spoilers #(just in case)

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