#at least I’m meeting with the caseworker today

[callme-darling]

work tensions

or; you’re a prosecutor working a trial vincent is defending and your colleagues get the feeling there’s some underlying tension between the way you’re at each others throats

word count: 3.3k

warnings: smut, like genuinely filthy shit, fem reader, hate sex (kinda), sex in the workplace (so like semi-public ig), vincent and y/n are rivals/enemies, this actually somewhat has a plot lmao, hellllaaaaa tension, so much teasing, degradation (he say slut once), cocky vincent, begging if you squint, throat holding/light choking, fingering, no protection, p-in-v, not proofread, friendly ending (bc i’m a big softie)

a/n: HAPPY VALENTINES DAY LADIES!!!! hope you enjoy🤍🤍

you were amongst the youngest of the attorneys in the city courthouse. you were fortunate in the opportunities afforded to you, but you also worked your ass off to get where you were today. which is why you, for the life of yourself, can’t understand what the hell you did to earn the contempt of vincent renzi.

from the first time you both stood in the same courtroom, it seemed like his eyes were always set in a hard glare when they saw you. so whose to blame you for reciprocating the hostility? your colleagues usually give you well-intentioned advice to at least talk to him, something you haven’t even done outside of casework. who knows, they’d shrug, maybe it’s just ill-concealed intrigue.

you were young, but you weren’t naive enough to think the esteemed defense attorney didn’t absolutely hate your guts.

some of your colleagues, however, seemed hellbent on taking matters into their own hands after a minor scuffle that left the judge’s office suspended in a tense battle of wills. the case wasn’t even that serious—just a petty case of ‘he-said, she-said’ neighbor dispute. but the simple judge’s meeting quickly fell apart to a dispute that devolved to obviously personal jabs.

when the judge finally had enough, she dismissed both you and vincent from the room with the stern instruction to “talk out whatever issues you two obviously have, and get your shit together”.

you’re on vincent’s heels as he speeds out of the room. as soon as you hear the door click shut behind you, you’re glancing up and down the hallway. vincent runs a hand through his hair, annoyance etched across his features.

“what the hell is your problem?”

you gawk at him, “MY problem?!” you chuckle at his audacity. “you’re the one who started all this-“ you wave your hands in the space between you two like some enigmatic boundary separated you.

his tongue prodded the inside of his cheek, and a roll of his eyes had you seeing red. before you had a chance to properly rip his throat out, an older man poked his head out from another room, face stern as he recommended you find somewhere else to continue whatever dispute you deigned important enough to have a tempermental yelling match in the middle of the office.

with a noise that could only be chalked up at pure irritation, vincent began strutting down the hall. you were quick behind him, wordlessly keeping in step with his long strides. you weren’t done with your conversation, and you’ll be damned if you let him walk away now.

you were in an unfamiliar, and rather desolate, wing of the building when he spun around to face you, his face inches from yours as he ducked down slightly to glare into your eyes. “quit following me like a damn dog!”

your eyes widened before a hard scowl settled on your face. “not until you tell me what your problem with me is.” you fume, “ever since i got here, you have had some personal vendetta against me. you’re going to tell me why.”

his jaw clenched as his eyes scanned your face. “your feelings are hurt because i don’t like you, is that what this is?”

you roll your eyes. “that’s bullshit and we both know it. the truth. now.”

“i need a reason to dislike you?”

“you can make one up for all i care, but i’m tired of your attitude fucking with my job.”

he chuckles dryly, “oh, i see. that’s what this is about.”

your brows scrunch together. at your look of confusion, he takes a step closer, breath fanning your face as he whispers through tight lips, “it’s my attitude fucking with your job, hm? that’s what drives me so fucking crazy- you’re so blind.” he rubs a hand over his mouth, taking a breath before his eyes are hard set on you again. “don’t think i don’t see it—the way you’ve charmed our colleagues, how you bat your pretty little eyes at the judges to get your way-“

you cut him off, disbelief dripping from your words. “excuse me?”

he scoffs, “oh don’t be coy.”

“you know what, vincent,” you clench your fists, nails biting into your palms as they shook, “you can fuck right off.”

you go to turn and walk away, but a thought of venom penetrates your mind and you whip right back around, nearly nose-to-nose as you whisper low, “just say you’re threatened by me next time.”

you watch as something akin to rage flash across vincent’s face. he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but his eyes bore into yours with a silent threat that chills your spine. his tone is low, dangerous. the rasp makes the hair along your arms stand on end. “i suggest you choose your next words wisely, y/n.”

maybe it was your stubbornness, or a fleeting air of confidence, but you hold his stare, your own voice quieter but just as menacing. “vincent renzi is threatened by the fresh-faced competition and can’t stand the thought that i may be the better attorney.” were you being childish in taunting him? yes, probably. but the months of tension were reaching critical mass, and whatever thoughts crossed your mind were being said.

what had just slipped through your lips, though, was definitely the wrong thing to have said.

a hand harshly grips your bicep as he drags you to the nearest room. he flicks on one set of lights and slams the door shut. he’s fuming, you note. however, you don’t fully register just how angry he is.

he’s silent for a pregnant moment, the air suffocating as he watches you with an analytical glare, his body seemed almost animalistic in how he stalked towards with with silent strides. you feel a new form of anxiety quicken your breathing.

he’s close now, so close you can smell his day-old cologne like it were freshly applied. his voice is quiet, but it makes you jolt under his intense gaze. “you want to know why i hate you so much?”

you feel as though you’re trapped in a stupor, your mind dizzy with this newfound suspense. you give him a small nod, not trusting your voice to remain firm in this intensity.

you swear you feel his lips just barely ghost over your cheek as he speaks, nearly growling in your ear. “i hate you because you’re so infuriating.” he pauses. “the way you walk around the courtroom like it’s yours to own, how you always make the most nit-picky points. and what pisses me off the most, is how i’m so attracted to you because of it.”

you were holding your breath. you felt your mind reeling as silence settled over the room. only the sound of your own breathing and the blood rushing through your veins reached your ears as you held vincent’s gaze.

his ferocity seemed to have diminished a fraction, but his jaw remained clenched. words escaped your brain as you tried to wrack together some coherent response, anything to quell the heat burning you from the inside out.

when no such words came, you decided ‘to hell with it’.

your eyes flicked to vincent’s lips, rubbed a pretty red from his hands and teeth. then you looked back into his eyes. an exchange that required no voice.

‘do it then,’ you silently dared. do it.

and so, he did.

his palm was warm on your cheek, fingers wrapping around the back of your head as he crashed his lips to yours. the force of the kiss had you stumbling back before vincent’s other hand caught your hip.

impatient. that was the best word to describe the way vincent kissed you. you tasted his lips on yours, body humming as you become acutely aware just who you’re kissing. and the mere thought has your thighs clenching together.

there was no room to speak with the way his mouth trailed down your chin, dipping into the curve of your neck. a shudder rushes through your muscles when you feel his teeth nip at the skin of your throat, eliciting a soft gasp to fall from your kiss-swollen lips.

you can feel the faint press of a grin to your collarbone. he coaxed your legs to walk back a few steps, securing your body between the table and his own.

his breath was warm as he spoke against your shoulder, “tell me to stop.” the featherlight touch of his fingers sent jolts of electricity through you as they skimmed down your arms and over your waist. “tell me you don’t want this, and i’ll let you walk out that door.”

your lungs burned when you finally released your breath. you could feel the heat pooling in your stomach, and the deep octave of his voice was doing little to soothe it. you were surprised by your own voice’s clarity, “shut up and kiss me again.”

you felt his body melt deeper into yours as your palms pulled him in by the side of his neck. you allowed yourself to be more eager, greedier, as your tongue teased his bottom lip.

he pressed his hips firmly against yours, his rasping moan nearly making you whimper in response. he was breathless when he pulled away. the pad of his thumb stroked your bottom lip, his own shining with a mixture of yours and his spit.

“i’m going to ruin you..” he murmured, leaning down again, his lips brushing over yours as his thumb holds your chin in place.

you prop your hand on the table behind you, not trusting your legs to hold you for much longer. your voice is meeker this time as you whisper against his touch, “you can try.”

vincent kisses you with an assured hunger. his touch dominating as he grips your hips, the fabric of your skirt gradually bunching in his hold. you can sense the apprehension in him, his internal battle of morals. your hand cradles the back of his head, nails stroking his scalp as you use your other to guide his hand under your blouse. blue eyes meet yours as you chide, “you don’t have to play nice with me, vincent.” the lull of his name from your lips paired with the way you brought his palm to grope at your chest, he needed no more convincing.

“such a little fuckin’ minx.” he muttered under his breath. your skirt was bunched up to your waist, your panties shoved down your legs. he had your back flat on the tabletop, hips slotted between your thighs as his eyes raked over you.

you could feel yourself slowly dripping onto the table below you, cheeks flushed with both lust and embarrassment.

vincent smirked. seeing you laid out like this, on display for him has his dick twitching in his pants. he appraised your needy pussy, a tentative two fingers teasing your folds as your thighs trembled. he watched how you grew shy, hand hovering over your mouth as you whine at the fleeting touch.

finally, you feel the pair of fingers slide into your soaking cunt. a whimper escapes you when he’s knuckle-deep in your clenching heat, the palm of his hand grazing your clit.

his gaze is attentive as he makes note of every little reaction you have to each stroke of his fingers. he bites his lip as he witnesses your eyes softly roll back when his fingers find the spot that has your chest heaving and hips shuddering. he leans down so his ear is next to your mouth, intent on hearing every single needy little whine he lures from you. he presses his lips to yours when he feels you creep up to your climax. “are you going to come on my hand?” his eyes find yours, half-lidded and glassy, and the sight alone makes him groan as his cock aches.

“is this all it takes to have you all pretty and compliant?” the teasing lilt in his voice only makes your cunt flutter around his fingers. “not so smart now when i have two fingers in this little pussy of yours, hm?”

you swear you felt like you were going to pass out. the combination of his fingers and palm against your pussy, his degrading mocking, and taunting eyes has you keening under him in a newfound desperation as you teetered precariously on the edge. so, so close to being rendered incoherent with only two fingers.

his touch leaves you.

you whine loudly, pouting as you attempt to catch your stolen breath. you move to sit up, but a large firm hand across your collarbones keeps you sprawled on the table. you squirm under his hold. “vincent.. why?” under any other circumstances, the needy pitch of your voice would’ve made you cringe, but your depravity gave you little to care about aside from satisfying your incessant lust right now.

his voice was sickeningly taunting as he cooed down at you, his other hand brushing the hair from your face. “come on, you have to work for it.”

you could feel that familiar animosity sit on your tongue, but you hold it. though, based on the sly smile looking down at you, you got the sense he could feel it too.

“how ‘bout this..” he sighs instead. his eyes trailed over your face, blue irises harboring a certain warmth that had anticipation swirling in your stomach. “if you say a simple, little sentence, i’ll give you what you want.”

you chew on your bottom lip, mulling over what was no doubt a trap. “what would you have me say?”

the way his smile widened had your pussy clenching around nothing, the cold air making you shiver. “i want you to say: ‘only vincent renzi can make my pussy this wet’.

“oh fuck y-“

his hand catches your jaw before you could finish your crude remark. his fingers lightly dig into your cheeks as he comes nose-to-nose with you. his voice is dangerously low but a softness keeps to the edges. “would you rather me leave you here, like this? your pussy is practically weeping.” as if to reinforce his words, a hand lightly slaps against your folds. the wet sound had your face turning a new shade of red, lips pouting as his other hand still holds your face close to his.

you don’t say anything, internally battling with yourself. the tip of vincent’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips, your eyes following the minute movement with bated breaths. then his soft voice buzzes in your ear. “c’mon.. just say how i make you drip like a needy slut. let me hear that pretty voice of yours, the one you like to use so much.”

you felt a whine croak in your throat as the hand between your thighs gave your clit another tap. “i’ll give you three seconds.” his low tone warned.

“three..”

you felt your breath stutter, eyes searching his. there’s no way he’s serious.

“two..”

he wouldn’t actually leave you like this, would he?”

“on-“

“okay.” you cut him off, words rushed as you grip the wrist of the hand holding your face.

he peers down at you expectantly. the corner of his lips upturned slightly, and you hated how attractive it was.

“only vincent can make me this wet..” he’s never seen you so timid and meek than in that moment, something that only added to the building heat of the room.

“now, was that so hard?” he quirked a brow, fingers playing with your aching cunt as he notes the way your slick soaks his palm. “you’ve done your part, so be a good girl and take what i give you, yeah?”

you nod dumbly as his hand drops from your jaw. your body felt like it was buzzing, heart hammering in your chest as you watched him fumble with his pants, pulling his leather belt off with one hand.

he plants a searing kiss to your lips, a trained dominance permeating his movements. you moan against him, hips twitching as his pants brush against your bare core. a hand slides between your bodies to free his leaking cock from his slacks. you swallow any sounds he makes as his hand strokes his dick a few times. “you got to stay quiet. think you can handle that?”

you ignore the obvious taunt, hand on the back of his neck as you pull at the ends of his hair. “just fuck me already, vince.”

he chuckles dryly, but you sense the anticipation crawling under his skin. next time, you’ll be the one making him beg.

a drawn out gasp fills the room as you feel him slowly begin to sink into your tight heat. fuck, you felt dizzy as your cunt pulsed, sucking him in deeper.

you both moan in with quiet sighs when he bottoms out. he starts slow, but eventually finds a rhythm that has you whining with each thrust, your whimpers gradually growing in volume as his thumb toyed with your sore clit. he curses under his breath, a large hand gripping the sides of your throat.

his voice was labored but firm, “you want the entire firm to hear how you sound with my dick in you? be quiet.” he warns again.

you try, you really do. your hand is over your mouth, eyes watering with unshed tears as his pace quickens. your other hand flies to his shoulder, nails biting into his shirt in a silent plea. his voice floats back to you. “but staying quiet was never your strong suit, was it?”

“fuck, oh shit-“ you whimper, eyes screwing shut when you feel the start of your orgasm wrack through you. “vincent, please, oh-“ your eyes fluttered as his grip around your neck tightened a fraction.

“i told you, you would eventually start begging.”

you can barely hear him over the erratic pulsing in your ears. your entire body tenses, cunt clenching around his dick like a vice. he hisses above you, teeth gritted as he watches you come undone.

he pulls out of you, stroking himself a few more times before he’s coming on your pussy and thighs.

you lay on the table, breathing hard as you come down from the orgasmic high. you stare at vincent who’s already watching you, breaths sharing a calming rhythm. when you feel more like yourself, you start to sit up. he hands you a box of tissues, eyes daring to glance at the mess he made on you.

you attempt to straighten your blouse, the collar of which looks as though it had gone through a windstorm. your eyes scan the floor for your panties.

vincent’s palm offers the small ball of satin into your fingers. your gaze catches his as he suppresses a grin. “wouldn’t want to be caught without these, would you?”

you glare at him, though it’s void of the usual hostility. you finish straightening your clothes, blouse retucked into your smoothed-out skirt. you turn back to vincent who’s been put back together for a couple minutes already, leaning against the wall idly.

your mind screamed at you to fill the silence, to say something to settle the oncoming disquiet.

to your surprise, it was vincent who broke the silence first. “who would have thought that this is something you’re into?” his eyes appraised you again. there was no adversity in his jest, only a gentle prodding.

“you can’t say that like you didn’t just fuck me the same.”

he nods, toothy grin starting to crack through his lips. you can see the way his fingers twitch, itching to hold a cigarette between them.

“want a smoke?” you offer, testing the waters.

his eyes catch yours, and he holds your gaze for a moment. then the first genuine, true smile you’ve seen from him is directed at you.

“i’d like that, yes.”

[imzadi-caskett-huddy]

Hell Hath No Fury (4/?)

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. I really try to personally thank everyone who reviews with an account here (if I missed you, it wasn’t intentional!) and to the guests whom I can’t personally thank…I’m thanking you now. Especially the guest who said I was one of the best writers…thank you, those words mean a lot. I’m hardly the best, I just try to keep everyone as much in character as possible.

Fair warning…I detest writing casework and police work…so the shooter stuff is going to get wrapped up without much actual procedural writing. That’s not to say there won’t still be a confrontation, but I prefer to focus my writing on the relationships and the angst as opposed to someone running down 3 different leads.

I still don’t own Castle…

xxxxx

When Beckett walked into Castle’s room, she was carrying two cups of coffee. She smiled when she saw him sitting up, looking better than he had the evening before; he still didn’t look completely like himself, but she could tell he seemed to be a little more rested and feeling slightly better. “Hey,” she greeted, placing his coffee on the stand beside his bed where he’d be able to reach it.

“Beckett…you brought me coffee,” Castle greeted her with a smile.

She hid an almost shy smile behind her own cup as she took a drink. “I figured it’s the least I can do. I probably owe you like a hundred coffees by now, right?” she joked lightly. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m on some good pain medication. And I’m still tired. But all things considered, not as bad as the alternative,” he answered her question. “The doctor did morning rounds already; apparently I’m good enough to move down to a regular room later today.”

“That’s good,” she told him with a smile. “Do you feel up to talking about what you remember?” she asked after a moment, cautiously broaching the subject. Her smile faded slightly when she noticed the look on his face. “You don’t have to right now…”

“No,” he interrupted her. “No, I can, it’s just…you’re still going after the guy?” Though he knew he shouldn’t be that surprised. She had blinders on when it came to anything to do with her mother’s case.

“You can’t be surprised by that, Castle,” she stated simply. “Why wouldn’t I be trying to find the man who shot you?”

“Because he’s going to kill you, Kate!” he said in frustration.

She scoffed slightly. “I’m a cop, Castle. I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m not an easy target. I know they’re looking for me.”

He just stared at her. He could not believe they were going to have this same argument all over again right now, after everything. “Considering everything that happened, I’d disagree with that statement.” Seeing her look, he pressed on. “If I hadn’t shoved you out of the way, you’d be right here. Or worse.”

She swallowed hard at his words and was silent for a moment. She didn’t want to fight with him. “Are you going to tell me what you remember about the shooting, or not?” she finally asked, doing her best to keep her tone neutral.

He clenched his jaw for a moment. “Not much. All I saw was a flash of light. It must have been the sunlight catching something on the gun,” he relayed the information to her. “That little flash was all I saw.”

She sighed, running her hand through her hair. “That’s not surprising. We don’t have much more than that either,” she admitted to him. “It’s like he just vanished.”

“Then let him vanish, Kate,” he pleaded with her, meeting her eyes.

Silently holding his stare for a few moments, she finally had to look away. “So what are your plans when you get out of here?” she tried to change the subject. She didn’t want to fight with him, but she wasn’t backing down from the case either. It was too personal.

“I don’t know. I supposed I would just recover at the loft. Why?”

Taking a deep breath at the frustration in his tone, she released it slowly. “Maybe…you should go to the Hamptons,” she suggested, trying to keep her tone indifferent. “It seems like a much more peaceful place to recover.” And you won’t be in the city in case I still haven’t caught the jackass by then, so you won’t have to know what I’m doing.

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he commented.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“Because if you’re still hunting the shooter by the time I’m released, you don’t want me here to stop you.”

Damn. She’d honestly hoped to avoid having to talk about her plan with him, but he knew her playbook too well, so there was no reason to bother trying to hide it anymore. “Castle, I’m

hunting down this son of a bitch whether you like it or not. He’s connected to my mother’s murder. He came after me. You got shot because you’re too close to me,” she stated firmly, her voice raising and taking an angry edge. “Now I’m asking you to go to the Hamptons when you’re released. Don’t make me go through Alexis and your mother to get you there,” she stated in a low tone, her eyes meeting his, daring him to challenge her. She would absolutely do it. She was not backing down on this; she needed him out of the city for her to do what she needed to do; if he was still in the city and found out exactly how she planned to get the shooter, he would try to stop her.

He stared her down for a few moments before relenting. “Fine,” he said lowly, clearly not happy with her. “There’s no way to ever win this argument with you; you’re going to do what you want to do anyway. You’re determined to push me away, so fine. You win. When I’m released, I’ll go to the Hamptons, and you won’t have to worry about anyone trying to stop you from running straight down the rabbit hole and getting yourself killed.” Had he not been stuck in a hospital bed during this argument, he would have walked away at that point. Instead, all he could do was glare at her.

“Good morning, Richard!” Martha came striding into the room with a smile. Seeing her son and the detective seemingly caught in the middle of a tense exchange, she paused. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, Mother. Beckett was just leaving,” Castle answered, his eyes never leaving her and his voice laced with anger.

Beckett swallowed hard at the sound of his tone. He was kicking her out. Nodding, she took a deep breath and stepped away from his bedside. “Good to see you again, Martha,” she acknowledged his mother on her way out the door.

Martha watched the detective leave and then turned her eyes to her son. “What did I just walk in on?”

Castle clenched his jaw and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. “She’s going after the shooter.”

“Of course she is. She’s a police officer…that’s her job.”

“No, not like this. This guy is going to kill her, Mother, and she’s running straight toward him!”

“Richard…the last thing Katherine Beckett needs is for you to try to be her protector…look where that’s gotten you,” she stated, gesturing to the hospital bed. “She’s a detective and a grown woman who is more than capable of taking care of herself. What she needs is a friend to stand beside her.”

He released a slow breath. “Yeah, well she’s making damn sure I can’t stand beside her. She’s pushing me away,” he said lowly. “She may not need me to protect her, but I don’t want her trying to protect me either.”

“Richard, this is who she is! You’ve known that since you began shadowing her. She hasn’t suddenly changed, and yet you’ve always found a way to be by her side before.”

“This is different…”

“You’re right, it is,” Martha nodded her head. “It’s different because she cares about you.”

“Mother…”

“I watched that woman go through hell while you were in surgery. Somehow, she pulled herself together enough to come over and be strong for me, and especially for Alexis. So don’t sit there in that bed thinking that you’re the only one in the relationship who cares deeply. She may not be able to say it, may not know how to show it, but I don’t know many women who would do what she did…certainly not either of your ex-wives.”

Castle sat quietly for a few moments. His mother was right. Both Gina and Meredith were self-absorbed and selfish. In a crisis, they would be more likely to think of themselves than to be there for his daughter or mother. “She’s just so…maddening!” he finally sighed.

“Welcome to being in love, kiddo,” Martha patted his hand sympathetically.

xxxxx

“Yo Beckett! How’s Castle?” Esposito asked when he spotted her coming out of the elevator.

“Fine,” she answered in a clipped tone.

He gave her a questioning look, but didn’t push. “He remember seeing anything?”

“Nothing that will help,” she shook her head, dropping down in her chair and bringing her fingers together to lock as she rested her forehead against her joined hands. “We’re pretty much dead in the water.”

“Uh, maybe not…” Ryan called out as he approached her desk. “Canvas turned up several people who saw a grounds worker during the funeral. Only when I talked to the cemetery, they said they didn’t have anyone working at the time of the funeral,” he offered his information with a smile.

“So the shooter disguised himself to blend in…” Beckett realized. “Was anyone able to see his face?”

“Already with a sketch artist,” Ryan’s smile grew.

Beckett returned the man’s smile; this was a lead. It wasn’t the best lead she’d ever gotten, but considering the difficulty of the case, and the lack of anything else, this was solid and it was something. At least she’d know what face she was looking for.

Before she could have another thought, a stern female voice came from the doorway of the captain’s office. “Detective Beckett! My office!”

Beckett’s head snapped around at the sound of her name, and she gave the voice a nod before looking back to the boys. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

“New captain started this morning. Captain Victoria ‘Iron’ Gates. Made her rank over in IA,” Esposito explained. “You missed her morning briefing when she took over this morning.”

“Great,” Beckett murmured, standing and heading toward the office. Giving a knock, she stepped inside. “Yes Ma’am?”

“If you see my mother, you can call her Ma’am. You will call me Captain or Sir,” she started, her eyes looking over the file on her desk.

This is going swimmingly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Your reputation precedes you, Detective. Youngest woman in the NYPD to make detective. You beat me by 6 weeks.”

“I didn’t realize that people kept score,” Beckett shook her head uncomfortably.

“Everybody keeps score, Detective. Especially those downtown,” she stated, finally looking up to meet the eyes of the other woman. “You missed my morning briefing.”

“Yes, Sir. I was getting a statement from a witness about the shooting case I’m working.”

Gates leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms at that. “The shooting that took place at the funeral.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The shooting involving Mr. Castle taking a bullet for you.”

Beckett squirmed slightly, both uncomfortable and unsure where the conversation was going. “Yes, Sir.”

Gates studied the younger woman for a moment. “I hope you shared the statement with Detectives Ryan and Esposito.”

“I did.”

“Good, it’s their case. You’re not on this one.”

Beckett’s eyes widened. “Sir, it’s my case!”

“No, Detective. It’s not. I decide who works what case around here, and I won’t stand for a detective investigating their own shooting.”

“Sir, I wasn’t shot.”

“As the Mayor has been so quick to point out to me, you would have been if not for Mr. Castle. You’re too involved, Detective. You can help connect the dots from inside these walls, but you are not to do any field work in this case.”

“Sir…Castle…”

“Is a civilian who was shot protecting an NYPD detective,” Gates interrupted.

“He’s my partner. You have to let me find the shooter.”

“No, he's a civilian consultant who bought his way into playing cop, not your partner. And I don’t have to let you do anything. That is all, Detective.”

Beckett stood there, at first not believing the conversation that had just taken place, and then not sure whether or not she could or even should fight this. “Yes, Sir,” she stated lowly before heading out of the office and closing the door behind her.

Ryan and Esposito watched as she came out of the office looking like her head was about to explode. “What did Gates want?” Ryan asked.

“To bench me on this case,” she huffed angrily.

The two men exchanged glances. “You know we won’t keep anything from you on this one,” Esposito promised her.

“Yeah, he’s right. Just because the captain won’t let you out in the field doesn’t mean we can’t use your help here.”

Beckett clenched her jaw before releasing a deep breath. “Thanks,” she murmured, making her way to the break room for coffee. There was nothing else she could say. She was going to go stir-crazy in the precinct on this case.

xxxxx

Thanks again to everyone who is reading. I know I gave poor Beckett a hell of a day here, but I hope you’re still enjoying the story! I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this chapter.

[41319kbex]

Hell Hath No Fury (4/?)

Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed. I really try to personally thank everyone who reviews with an account here (if I missed you, it wasn’t intentional!) and to the guests whom I can’t personally thank…I’m thanking you now. Especially the guest who said I was one of the best writers…thank you, those words mean a lot. I’m hardly the best, I just try to keep everyone as much in character as possible.

Fair warning…I detest writing casework and police work…so the shooter stuff is going to get wrapped up without much actual procedural writing. That’s not to say there won’t still be a confrontation, but I prefer to focus my writing on the relationships and the angst as opposed to someone running down 3 different leads.

I still don’t own Castle…

xxxxx

When Beckett walked into Castle’s room, she was carrying two cups of coffee. She smiled when she saw him sitting up, looking better than he had the evening before; he still didn’t look completely like himself, but she could tell he seemed to be a little more rested and feeling slightly better. “Hey,” she greeted, placing his coffee on the stand beside his bed where he’d be able to reach it.

“Beckett…you brought me coffee,” Castle greeted her with a smile.

She hid an almost shy smile behind her own cup as she took a drink. “I figured it’s the least I can do. I probably owe you like a hundred coffees by now, right?” she joked lightly. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m on some good pain medication. And I’m still tired. But all things considered, not as bad as the alternative,” he answered her question. “The doctor did morning rounds already; apparently I’m good enough to move down to a regular room later today.”

“That’s good,” she told him with a smile. “Do you feel up to talking about what you remember?” she asked after a moment, cautiously broaching the subject. Her smile faded slightly when she noticed the look on his face. “You don’t have to right now…”

“No,” he interrupted her. “No, I can, it’s just…you’re still going after the guy?” Though he knew he shouldn’t be that surprised. She had blinders on when it came to anything to do with her mother’s case.

“You can’t be surprised by that, Castle,” she stated simply. “Why wouldn’t I be trying to find the man who shot you?”

“Because he’s going to kill you, Kate!” he said in frustration.

She scoffed slightly. “I’m a cop, Castle. I can take care of myself. Besides, I’m not an easy target. I know they’re looking for me.”

He just stared at her. He could not believe they were going to have this same argument all over again right now, after everything. “Considering everything that happened, I’d disagree with that statement.” Seeing her look, he pressed on. “If I hadn’t shoved you out of the way, you’d be right here. Or worse.”

She swallowed hard at his words and was silent for a moment. She didn’t want to fight with him. “Are you going to tell me what you remember about the shooting, or not?” she finally asked, doing her best to keep her tone neutral.

He clenched his jaw for a moment. “Not much. All I saw was a flash of light. It must have been the sunlight catching something on the gun,” he relayed the information to her. “That little flash was all I saw.”

She sighed, running her hand through her hair. “That’s not surprising. We don’t have much more than that either,” she admitted to him. “It’s like he just vanished.”

“Then let him vanish, Kate,” he pleaded with her, meeting her eyes.

Silently holding his stare for a few moments, she finally had to look away. “So what are your plans when you get out of here?” she tried to change the subject. She didn’t want to fight with him, but she wasn’t backing down from the case either. It was too personal.

“I don’t know. I supposed I would just recover at the loft. Why?”

Taking a deep breath at the frustration in his tone, she released it slowly. “Maybe…you should go to the Hamptons,” she suggested, trying to keep her tone indifferent. “It seems like a much more peaceful place to recover.” And you won’t be in the city in case I still haven’t caught the jackass by then, so you won’t have to know what I’m doing.

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” he commented.

“Why would I do that?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“Because if you’re still hunting the shooter by the time I’m released, you don’t want me here to stop you.”

Damn. She’d honestly hoped to avoid having to talk about her plan with him, but he knew her playbook too well, so there was no reason to bother trying to hide it anymore. “Castle, I’m

hunting down this son of a bitch whether you like it or not. He’s connected to my mother’s murder. He came after me. You got shot because you’re too close to me,” she stated firmly, her voice raising and taking an angry edge. “Now I’m asking you to go to the Hamptons when you’re released. Don’t make me go through Alexis and your mother to get you there,” she stated in a low tone, her eyes meeting his, daring him to challenge her. She would absolutely do it. She was not backing down on this; she needed him out of the city for her to do what she needed to do; if he was still in the city and found out exactly how she planned to get the shooter, he would try to stop her.

He stared her down for a few moments before relenting. “Fine,” he said lowly, clearly not happy with her. “There’s no way to ever win this argument with you; you’re going to do what you want to do anyway. You’re determined to push me away, so fine. You win. When I’m released, I’ll go to the Hamptons, and you won’t have to worry about anyone trying to stop you from running straight down the rabbit hole and getting yourself killed.” Had he not been stuck in a hospital bed during this argument, he would have walked away at that point. Instead, all he could do was glare at her.

“Good morning, Richard!” Martha came striding into the room with a smile. Seeing her son and the detective seemingly caught in the middle of a tense exchange, she paused. “Am I interrupting?”

“No, Mother. Beckett was just leaving,” Castle answered, his eyes never leaving her and his voice laced with anger.

Beckett swallowed hard at the sound of his tone. He was kicking her out. Nodding, she took a deep breath and stepped away from his bedside. “Good to see you again, Martha,” she acknowledged his mother on her way out the door.

Martha watched the detective leave and then turned her eyes to her son. “What did I just walk in on?”

Castle clenched his jaw and took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. “She’s going after the shooter.”

“Of course she is. She’s a police officer…that’s her job.”

“No, not like this. This guy is going to kill her, Mother, and she’s running straight toward him!”

“Richard…the last thing Katherine Beckett needs is for you to try to be her protector…look where that’s gotten you,” she stated, gesturing to the hospital bed. “She’s a detective and a grown woman who is more than capable of taking care of herself. What she needs is a friend to stand beside her.”

He released a slow breath. “Yeah, well she’s making damn sure I can’t stand beside her. She’s pushing me away,” he said lowly. “She may not need me to protect her, but I don’t want her trying to protect me either.”

“Richard, this is who she is! You’ve known that since you began shadowing her. She hasn’t suddenly changed, and yet you’ve always found a way to be by her side before.”

“This is different…”

“You’re right, it is,” Martha nodded her head. “It’s different because she cares about you.”

“Mother…”

“I watched that woman go through hell while you were in surgery. Somehow, she pulled herself together enough to come over and be strong for me, and especially for Alexis. So don’t sit there in that bed thinking that you’re the only one in the relationship who cares deeply. She may not be able to say it, may not know how to show it, but I don’t know many women who would do what she did…certainly not either of your ex-wives.”

Castle sat quietly for a few moments. His mother was right. Both Gina and Meredith were self-absorbed and selfish. In a crisis, they would be more likely to think of themselves than to be there for his daughter or mother. “She’s just so…maddening!” he finally sighed.

“Welcome to being in love, kiddo,” Martha patted his hand sympathetically.

xxxxx

“Yo Beckett! How’s Castle?” Esposito asked when he spotted her coming out of the elevator.

“Fine,” she answered in a clipped tone.

He gave her a questioning look, but didn’t push. “He remember seeing anything?”

“Nothing that will help,” she shook her head, dropping down in her chair and bringing her fingers together to lock as she rested her forehead against her joined hands. “We’re pretty much dead in the water.”

“Uh, maybe not…” Ryan called out as he approached her desk. “Canvas turned up several people who saw a grounds worker during the funeral. Only when I talked to the cemetery, they said they didn’t have anyone working at the time of the funeral,” he offered his information with a smile.

“So the shooter disguised himself to blend in…” Beckett realized. “Was anyone able to see his face?”

“Already with a sketch artist,” Ryan’s smile grew.

Beckett returned the man’s smile; this was a lead. It wasn’t the best lead she’d ever gotten, but considering the difficulty of the case, and the lack of anything else, this was solid and it was something. At least she’d know what face she was looking for.

Before she could have another thought, a stern female voice came from the doorway of the captain’s office. “Detective Beckett! My office!”

Beckett’s head snapped around at the sound of her name, and she gave the voice a nod before looking back to the boys. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

“New captain started this morning. Captain Victoria ‘Iron’ Gates. Made her rank over in IA,” Esposito explained. “You missed her morning briefing when she took over this morning.”

“Great,” Beckett murmured, standing and heading toward the office. Giving a knock, she stepped inside. “Yes Ma’am?”

“If you see my mother, you can call her Ma’am. You will call me Captain or Sir,” she started, her eyes looking over the file on her desk.

This is going swimmingly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Your reputation precedes you, Detective. Youngest woman in the NYPD to make detective. You beat me by 6 weeks.”

“I didn’t realize that people kept score,” Beckett shook her head uncomfortably.

“Everybody keeps score, Detective. Especially those downtown,” she stated, finally looking up to meet the eyes of the other woman. “You missed my morning briefing.”

“Yes, Sir. I was getting a statement from a witness about the shooting case I’m working.”

Gates leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms at that. “The shooting that took place at the funeral.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The shooting involving Mr. Castle taking a bullet for you.”

Beckett squirmed slightly, both uncomfortable and unsure where the conversation was going. “Yes, Sir.”

Gates studied the younger woman for a moment. “I hope you shared the statement with Detectives Ryan and Esposito.”

“I did.”

“Good, it’s their case. You’re not on this one.”

Beckett’s eyes widened. “Sir, it’s my case!”

“No, Detective. It’s not. I decide who works what case around here, and I won’t stand for a detective investigating their own shooting.”

“Sir, I wasn’t shot.”

“As the Mayor has been so quick to point out to me, you would have been if not for Mr. Castle. You’re too involved, Detective. You can help connect the dots from inside these walls, but you are not to do any field work in this case.”

“Sir…Castle…”

“Is a civilian who was shot protecting an NYPD detective,” Gates interrupted.

“He’s my partner. You have to let me find the shooter.”

“No, he's a civilian consultant who bought his way into playing cop, not your partner. And I don’t have to let you do anything. That is all, Detective.”

Beckett stood there, at first not believing the conversation that had just taken place, and then not sure whether or not she could or even should fight this. “Yes, Sir,” she stated lowly before heading out of the office and closing the door behind her.

Ryan and Esposito watched as she came out of the office looking like her head was about to explode. “What did Gates want?” Ryan asked.

“To bench me on this case,” she huffed angrily.

The two men exchanged glances. “You know we won’t keep anything from you on this one,” Esposito promised her.

“Yeah, he’s right. Just because the captain won’t let you out in the field doesn’t mean we can’t use your help here.”

Beckett clenched her jaw before releasing a deep breath. “Thanks,” she murmured, making her way to the break room for coffee. There was nothing else she could say. She was going to go stir-crazy in the precinct on this case.

xxxxx

Thanks again to everyone who is reading. I know I gave poor Beckett a hell of a day here, but I hope you’re still enjoying the story! I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this chapter.

[dailyrandomwriter]

Day 684

One of the banes and boons of having ADHD is not being able to compartmentalize stuff. When people often talk about ADHD, they talk about distractibility, but when they talk about distractibility it’s often about seeing something and then forgetting what you’re doing. Which can be a type of distractibility (such as seeing a squirrel run past you), but it’s not the only type of distractibility.

When I work, if someone comes to me with a problem, even if it’s outside my scope of work, unless I’m really, really stressed (and even then) I will take time out to help with that problem. A lot of my co-workers take that as me being very helpful, and while I do like being helpful, a large part of it is that I can’t leave things well enough alone. More often than not, I cannot compartmentalize what I see to say… I’ll either do it later, or it’s not my job.

Especially if it’s something I know, I can do, or I can find. 

It’s very strange, because it makes me great at my job. I know a lot of things as a result and I’m not afraid to go hunting, but it does eat into my time, but for the most part, I don’t mind.

And yet, I kind of wished I didn’t go digging today.

I book for an Autism assessment team, and a caseworker came to me with an information release form, trying to find out how her client fell through the cracks. Her client, who is now a teenager, had so many red flags as a child, she was trying to figure out why this person was never assessed.

The short answer had to do with where funding came from. Despite the fact the organization I work for has all sorts of programs for children, and has an internal referring process to allow for ease of access of services, the ASD assessment team was not one of those services. Part of the funding actually comes from our universal health care, which means that to see the team, a doctor has to be the one to refer, we cannot refer internally.

And that, should have been that.

But as I was requesting documents from our information department to pass along to the caseworker, I had thought. The caseworker had mentioned the doctor didn’t think autism was involved and hadn’t wanted to refer the client to the team, but when they were little they had a lot of red flags. So I wondered, did anyone from our end, write a letter of support advocating for an assessment. 

It really was a moot point after all these years, but curiosity compelled me and I asked, was there a letter of support in the file.

There was a letter, but it wasn’t to the assessment team, but to a different organization all together. And that confused me, until I saw the letterhead, which had a very old work logo, and then I looked at the year.

And then, against my better judgment, I did a quick Google search. 

The answer, which I wish I didn’t look for, was that this client didn’t get referred… because of timing and chance. As it turned out, that letter was written at least a week before my government announced the program that would give funding to assess children for autism, and the team was created a few months after that announcement. 

There was no assessment team back then, and because of the… often short notice that the government tends to give organizations like the one I work for, notice to get everything in order means that the therapist who wrote that probably had no idea this was going to be a thing we could do in the future. 

In fact, I have been with this team from the start and I remember we had to rustle up some names for the first month or so because it was so last notice for us to get going, we almost didn’t meet our numbers back then.

It’s a very bitter feeling to not only realize this was probably a situation of poor dumb luck, but to also remember the team didn’t always exist. That less than a decade ago, there were no hubs of assessment teams like the one I work for. 

[charliehopper]

So, Mom fell a week and a day ago. I’ve been here a week. Long road of rehab ahead. Many questions, but she came through the surgery for her fractured femur all right. 1. At least the hospital in Beaufort, South Carolina has beach scenes in their innocuous hallway art. 2. Yesterday Marj texted me “Eat a piece of fruit today and I’ll do the same,” knowing that I hadn’t been eating well, and one of Mom’s friends down here stopped by with a goodie bag that had apples and oranges in it—Mom, who hadn’t been eating the hospital food very well, enjoyed some apple slices. 3. I know why she wants to live down here instead of Indiana. 4. I’m getting the hang of working down here and having Zoom meetings at coffee shops because the hospital wifi (WiFi? wi-fi?) suuuuuuuucks. 5. A doctor, nurse, therapist, caseworker or person carrying a food tray or picking up laundry is likely to appear literally at any time. 6. Mom has Covid (she says it made her dizzy and that’s why she fell) but shows no visible symptoms, from what I can tell, by the time I got here. But they still have to mask up, sometimes in astronaut helmets, before coming in here. I’ve been masking, too. 7. It’s a little mean but I do like getting some palmettos into the background of my conference calls with people up north where it’s not only not warm but also snowy and cold (the ones in the far north). 8. Therapy, therapy, therapy. 9. During the quarantine I cut back to one cup of coffee a day, in the mornings. I have a feeling with my coffee shop wifi searches that I’m going to get back in the habit of a second cup in the afternoon again. 10. This photo was the day after surgery when the anesthesia was still in her system. It was a good day, an optimistic and chatty day. There’s been difficulties since, as those drugs wore off. But we’re still optimistic. (at Beaufort, South Carolina) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cnr2JZWrDvD/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[void-tiger]

Time to sketch out tattoos I want on my abdomen. 🖕🏼🤬🖕🏼

[hyetiny]

c// fem!reader, sex worker hongjoong, detective reader, mentions of murder and crime, bratty hongjoong, joong small cock <3, humiliation kink, oral (f receiving), degradation (use of slut), dumbification, yay for protected sex

you weren’t at all fond of the dingy, dim hotel you found yourself in front of - it smelled of damp decay, and had only one flickering light in front of the entrance. nonetheless, it was essential to be here for the case.

you never enjoyed working homicides, having to look into the depraved faces of killers as they more often than not showed no remorse. with a sigh and a silent prayer, you walk into the motel.

when you show him your badge, the person working the register wordlessly handed you a key with “room 117″ messily scribbled onto it. the climb up four flights of stairs isn’t fun, but finally you unlock the door hastily, wanting to get this over and done with.

as expected, there on the bed is a rather stunning young man. he has sharp yet youthful features, heavy makeup and is only wearing a robe. it’s obvious he has nothing on underneath it. you don’t miss the “do me” eyes that cross his eyes when you enter the room - it’s all an act, you think.

“you can put the money on the table.” he says after a short silence.

“100 for the hour?” he nods. you rummage around your pocket, putting said amount on the table next to you. if you landed a conviction, you’d be getting the money back anyway.

“you can keep your robe on.” you say, getting seated on the bed a safe distance away from him.

a smirk crosses his face. “oh, you want to play with me a little bit first?” his voice changes drastically - it’s more seductive.

you shake your head. “that’s not why i’m here. last night a man was killed, and if my sources are correct, you’re the last person he saw.”

the man pauses, looking at you as though waiting for you to continue.

“i need to you to tell me everything that happened last night.” you state.

he pauses again. “alright.”

“your full name, please?”

“kim hongjoong.”

“okay hongjoong, so what happened when you met up with mr lee last night?”

hongjoong sighs. “well he paid for three hours. he was married, so he paid me extra to stay quiet about it. he was actually really good at sex, he had me in at least five different positions and his cock was massi-”

“relevant details only, please.” you shudder. 

hongjoong rolls his eyes. “anyway, he told me he had somewhere to be after, so he wanted to relieve some stress before he went.” you jot down the important detail. 

“did he tell you where?”

“he said it was an important meeting at a club down the street.”

you nod. “thank you, hongjoong. we’ll be in contact if we need anything else.”

you start to get up, but he clears his throat. “you paid for the full hour. why don’t you use up the time instead of wasting your money?” 

you raise an eyebrow. naturally you assumed that he would want to keep the hour for himself. 

“i haven’t had any clients today so i’m feeling a little... pent up.” he continues. “and you look like you could use some stress relief.”

it catches you off guard. you curse yourself for thinking about it - he was right, you did technically have the next hour to do whatever you wanted until you had to get back.

without a word, you begin to unbutton your button up shirt.

“this is strictly casework, got it?” he nods, grinning like a child who just got a jar of candy.

“i’ll make it well worth your time, detective”. he whispers into your ear before nipping on it, catching you off guard.

you weren’t fond of his cocky attitude - it spurred a desire within you to put him in his place. 

“off.” you say, pulling at the fabric holding his robe together. he obeys, revealing the expanse of his tan skin, taking notice of every little mole, every little birthmark, every small scar that decorates his skin. but of course, what catches your attention is his hard cock, smaller than average and flushed pink at the tip.

“is this supposed to make me feel good?” you ask, wrapping a hand around the short length. to your amusement, your hand comes up more than is necessary when you jerk him off. it only adds to the humiliation.

“don’t judge before you try it, sweetheart.” he says, not affected by the snide comment at all. “besides, it’s not the only thing i can use to make you feel good.”

at this point you’re only stripped of your shirt, while hongjoong is stark naked. although he lets out pleasured moans, he pulls your hand off his cock and implores you to lay down. he scooches down on the bed, laying down on his tummy and to your surprise, hooks his hands around your panties underneath your pencil skirt. you gasp in surprise, feeling exposed now that he could see your wet pussy.

“hm, you’re a lot of talk for someone who’s already so wet for me.” he giggles. as though to accentuate his point, he runs a finger up your folds and brings it up to his lips.

“oh, you taste divine.” he whispers. “you’ll let me be greedy, right?”

with that, he pulls your skirt up your thighs and wastes no time in licking a stripe up your core, earning a loud moan. his lips suction around your clit, his tongue peeking out to repeatedly stimulate the bud. a finger comes up to tease your entrance.

“f-fuck, hongjoong-” you cry out, already feeling close to your high. “s-stop or i’ll-”

he takes mercy on you, pulling off when your legs start to shake around his head. 

“i should have gotten you to sit on my face, you have the sweetest pussy i’ve ever tasted.” he says. you roll your eyes, thinking he must say that to every single person he eats out.

looking at the ticking clock on the wall, you look him straight in the eye. “you have thirty minutes to fuck me until i forget my own name.”

it clearly affects him, because he gulps and nods. he rummages around the bedside table, pulling out a box of condoms and shaking the box until one falls out - clearly the last one in the box. he wastes no time in quickly putting it on before lining himself up with your entrance.

“any day now would be good.” you say angrily. it doesn’t slip your notice that he pushes into your core with more force than necessary.

“fuck, such a tight pussy. no one’s fucked you properly in a while, huh?” he growls into your ear. he’s right - you shouldn’t have judged him, because his cock still manages to fill you up perfectly. it only gets better when his hand meets your clit, and he immediately sets an aggressive pace, ramming into you and perfectly hitting your g-spot with the way his cock curves into it.

“holy shit, fuck joong!” a garbled mess of curses and hongjoong’s name is the only thing you can manage to get out as he only speeds up, letting out pretty, low moans of his own and speaking nothing but pure filth into you ear.

“gosh, you’re such a slut aren’t you? needing a good fuck while you’re on the job?” in your fucked out state of mind, you don’t bother to remember the fact that he was the one who asked for sex. instead you just blindly nod, agreeing with everything he says.

“oh, look at you going all dumb for me. are you gonna cum, my dumb little detective?” you nod again, your moans only getting higher the closer you get to your orgasm.

“i-i’m-” it’s the only warning he gets when your pussy spasms around him, your hips grinding against his harsh pace as you reach your high. it’s enough to spur his orgasm as well, a groan leaving his lips as he empties into the condom.

you both take a minute to catch your breaths before he pulls out, taking off the condom, tying it and throwing it in the bin.

“so, do you feel any better?” he asks when you come back from using the bathroom.

“much better.” you smile, getting dressed and making your way to the door. “thanks, hongjoong.”

“hey.” he speaks up. “take the money back.”

you turn to face him, and shake your head. “think of it as a generous tip.”

a cute pout graces his lips. “i usually have to fake my moans and pretend to enjoy it, but you were really something else.” he says.

“in that case, we can meet up again to compensate.” you say with a smile, which he returns.

“i’d like that.” he replies. “i’ll see you around then, y/n.” and with that you leave, weak in the knees and your head filled with thoughts of the pretty blonde boy.

tag list:

@seongsangsgf @mingi-ivity @shinyddeonghwa @galaxteez @bobateastay @ddeonghwva @spacepiratehongjoong @multidreams-and-desires @a-soft-hornytiny @serialee @yunhospuppy

[givemethatgold]

Fix’er Upper - Part 13

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Fem! Reader Warnings: Talk of parent death Length: 2.1k words Notes: Okay bitches here we go. I’ve got 3 kids doing online schooling, a desk chair that just broke while I was halfway through typing this out, a raging headache, and couldn’t be fucked to edit. I love you al, thank you for sticking with me and this little brain baby of mine. My guidance counselor from high school can suck my dick, “You’re not a creative writer, Cher, you should considering taking Home Ec as an elective instead” I digress....

Series Masterlist

"No." You glared at him and squeezed his hand harder, "You're doing that thing again.

Frankie's head whipped over to stare at you, shocked by your assertive tone.

"You're pulling away. You're stressed, out of your depth, don't know how to deal with it and so you're pulling away again-"

"You don't understand," Frankie interrupted you, shaking his head and trying to pull his hands out of your grasp. This only served to strengthen your resolve, and your grip on him.

"No." You declare again, trying to stay calm and have a mature conversation despite the tension and running emotions. "You told me to give you time to get your thoughts straight and vocalized. I can't do that if I'm not here to hear them. I can't understand your predicament if I leave. So," You moved so you're sitting cross-legged in front of him, making eye contact in an effort to show him he had your full attention. "Why don't you tell me what that phone call was about so we can start figuring it out, together."

The situation was more complex than you ever could have imagined. Frankie's ex-wife, Karla, had died. Her car had been hit by a drunk driver. Annie, thank the gods, hadn't been in the car at the time. Before she'd died at the hospital, Karla had managed to say a few words to the paramedics. At the time they didn't make sense, however, the paramedic had taken the time to write the words down and included the scrap of paper with the patient's chart. This evidence, as it turned out, had been monumental during the resulting legal battle for Annie, all of which took place without Frankie even being notified.

Child services, lawyers, extended family, and even doctors had been involved in the court proceedings. All arguing over the future of the six-year-old girl. All believing that they knew what was best for her, most believing that she should live with them, some having the gall to pretend that they weren't aware of the sizable life insurance payout she was about to receive.

Eight words. Eight simple, beautiful words whispered through the broken, bloody lips of a woman who knew she was about to die. A young girl's future was being held in suspense, and as fate would have it, a wise and sentimental judge was overseeing her case. Eight words were all it took to convince him that Annie's mother knew what was best for her own child.

"Francisco Morales. Trust with her, he's ready now."

From the time Frankie had received the phone call from Karla's family lawyer, the two of you had two days to prepare for Annie's arrival. Frankie worked his magic and erected a wall across the bedroom portion of his loft, allowing for the little girl to have some privacy but not feel like she was being closed in. 

He had fretted for a least twenty five minutes over colour swatches at Hank’s Hardware before coming to the conclusion that he should leave it white and have Annie chose her room colours once she had settled in. He bought himself a new couch, as well, that would convert into a bed and serve as his bedroom for the time being.

The conversation you never had a chance to have with him was still in the back of your mind, but you understood that moving in together as a couple was hard enough. Moving in together with a kid neither of you knew, whose life had just been turned upside down against her will, would be catastrophic. Instead, you focused on being as much of a rock for Frankie as you could.

You made a trip to the city and bought girls bedding, some stuffed animals, and a few little decorations to help Annie feel like the new space was special for her. You also thought to pick up comfort food that a kid might crave, knowing that when you were six the best way to your heart was chocolate. Just before you left the city, a sign caught your attention and had you swerving to change lanes, normally you'd feel slightly bad about your obnoxious driving but today you just waved your middle finger at the rear window in a mock salute.

The flower shop had so many bouquets and you had no idea what kind of flowers the little girl might like. You also had the morbid realization that bouquets might remind her of all the flowers she surely saw at Karla's funeral. Just as you began to second guess yourself, a stand near the back caught your eye and made you smile.

The day of her arrival came quicker than you felt prepared for, never mind how Frankie must be feeling. He hadn't had too much time to worry about how having his daughter would change his life, but once the two of you were standing in his driveway doing nothing but waiting, the nerves had finally settled in. You could see deep, calming breaths he was taking as they condensed into little clouds in the freezing air.

Grabbing his clenched fist, you felt his fingers relax enough to allow your gloved ones to slide through them.

"It's going to be weird for everyone, she's probably nervous too." You weren't sure if the words were reassuring or not but nervous talking seemed to be your forte so you ran with it. "I mean, she's probably sad that she's leaving everything and everyone she's always known, excited about moving to a new place, then feeling bad that she's feeling another emotion besides grief. It can be hard to juggle loss and hope. Just show her how much you love her and be honest about why you couldn't be with her before. Kids are smart and are aware of way more than adults give them credit for."

A few moments later a black sedan slowly crept up the driveway. You wanted to stay, to meet the little girl but had the feeling that Annie and Frankie were going to need time to figure out their relationship without another person in the mix. Suddenly having a new parent was going to be hard enough on the little girl, you were afraid that she might see you as trying to replace her mom and push you away.

Rubbing Frankie's back for one last show of reassurance, you kissed his shoulder then took a few steps back. You figured this was the best way to be there to support him but also staying in the background for the time being. Before the car could fully come to a stop, the rear door was flying open and, in a blur of movement, a little body was flying out of it towards Frankie. You know how people will say that there are times in their lives where important moments fly by so fast they barely have time to enjoy them? Well, this wasn't one of them.

As Annie barreled her way towards Frankie, you saw in slow motion how his handsome face went from being creased with worry, to eyebrow raised shock, to breaking out in a teary smile. He had just begun to crouch down and open his arms in anticipation of holding his little girl when instead she ran right past him and locked herself in one of the sheds.

Time continued to move in slow motion, making it all the more heartbreaking watching your boyfriend's face crumple, the tears of joy turn to tears of pain as he recovered from his initial excitement and realized that his child didn't want to see him.

Tiny, muffled sobs broke the moment and brought time, and the horrible situation, back into focus. The Child Protective Services worker who had accompanied Annie from California was calling apologies to Frankie while running after the little girl, trying not to slip in the snow in her hurry.

You wanted to go to him, to lend him some form of comfort, but you were also aware that some types of grief don't appreciate witnesses. Deciding to stick around and be helpful in the background, you made your way into the loft and started making coffee and sandwiches, foreseeing a longer stay for the caseworker than initially thought.

Nearly forty minutes had passed before you emerged again with food and drinks on a tray and the two adults were still talking to Annie through the cracks in the door. She had stubbornly refused to come out, demanding that she be returned to her home at once and that she hated snow.

Once you had set down the tray and cleared the snow off a picnic table, Frankie thanked you with a kiss to your temple and introduced you to Sharon after he convinced her to take a break from the negotiations. Sharon, who had been with Annie since the day of the accident, began filling Frankie in on what had happened to his daughter in the past month between sips of coffee. He was given a folder with notes from child psychologists, doctors, a letter from her maternal grandparents, and a journal Sharon had kept that described the ways Annie had been processing her grief.

While they talked, you decided to walk over and sit next to the door of the shed, laying a wool blanket down to protect your butt from the cold. You had no idea what to say to the girl but you figured she might like to be reassured she wasn't alone. Settling down, you dug into your own sandwich and hummed quietly to yourself.

You nearly choked on your next bite when you heard a soft voice singing along with the tune you'd chosen.

"Lavender blue, dilly dilly. Rosemary Green, if you are king dilly dilly, I'll be your queen."

After you'd repeated the song twice more, you stopped the tune and said softly,

"I've never heard those lyrics before, they're different from how I learned them."

A long pause followed, making you worry that you'd offended the child back into silence.

"How do you sing it?" Came the sweetest little voice, made all the more adorable with the barest hint of a lisp.

"We always sang, 'Lavender green', for one. Which never made any sense to me so I really like how you did it-"

"Yeah, cause lavender is another name for purple," she interrupted you with a matter-of-fact tone, "saying it's green is just weird!"

"Hmmm, it might be different," you conceded, seeing the opportunity for a lesson. "But either way you sing it, it's still a really pretty song, isn't it? Things can be different but it doesn't mean one is only good and one is only bad. Each version just had different good things."

Annie went silent again but this time you didn't worry about it, you knew she was thinking about what you said and needed time to apply it to what was happening right now. You eventually heard the shifting of metal and the creak of wood and had to will yourself to sit still and calm. The way you had let her approach you had worked so far, jumping up out of excitement could possibly erase all the progress you'd made so far.

Your patience was rewarded when Annie stepped out of the shed and lowered herself so that she was sitting on the blanket right next to you. Turning your head just enough to see her in your peripheral, you noticed how dull her eyes looked. Her hair was a mess and her skin looked pale for a kid who had been living under California's sun.

"My mommy is dead."

The way it was stated as a fact, with very little emotion, broke your heart. She was so little, so young, and so unable to fully grasp what kind of future had been ripped away from her.

"I know, I'm sorry that that happened to your mom."

"That man is my daddy." She was pointing at Frankie now, who was still engrossed in his conversation with Sharon.

"He's a pretty lucky guy to have you."

"That's the lady who has been taking care of me, she's been nice."

You were a bit out of your comfort zone with the conversation but there was no way in hell you were going drop it so you cautiously trudged on. Maybe verbalizing relationships and titles was helping her process?

"I'm very happy to hear that you've been staying with someone nice. Your dad is a really nice person, too, ya know? You should see the nice bedroom he's set up for you! I even helped him bake you an apple pie. Do you like apples? Or pie?" Her eyes went wide and a spark of happiness suddenly lit her face, making her appear more childlike than before.

"Is this an apple farm?" She practically squealed. “Like in My Little Pony?!”

Her outburst had finally drawn the attention of the other two adults, who were now only realizing that Annie had exited the shed. Frankie's heart skipped a beat at the sight of his two girls, beaming at each other. The twinge of jealousy from knowing that it had been you to draw her out was quickly squashed by how proud of you he was. He had been a little worried, although he hadn't voiced it, that his kid wouldn't take kindly to having a woman around but those fears were obviously for naught.

Part Fourteen 

[frostedfaves]

Delicate

Masterlist

Pairing: Rosa Diaz x fem!reader

Summary: Rosa works a murder case to prove your innocence, inspired by this

Warnings: mentions of murder, infidelity, poorly written casework

A/N: I have only one wish: feedback on this bit of chaos here.

-

At this point in Rosa’s life, there were only three things that brought her memorable pain.

The first was being sent to juvie after snapping under the weight of her parents' expectations.

The second was being released from juvie and realizing the two people who’d played a part in her downfall no longer gave a shit about what happened to her.

The third was seeing you, sitting beside Boyle’s desk in handcuffs.

Of course, she didn’t let anyone see this as she attempted to make her way to her own desk undetected, but you wouldn’t--couldn’t--let her think you were a criminal.

“Rosa--”

“Detective Diaz,” she growled as she walked past with her head held high, surprising herself by restraining from hurting you when you grabbed a fistful of her jacket. “Let me go--”

“I was framed!” you cried out with tears filling your eyes as you raised them to meet hers. “Please. I know you don’t have to believe me, but I’m begging you. I’m the same person you’ve spoken to all these nights. I’ll tell you everything, just...please.”

Her stance was rigid as her mind focused on your fearful expression and the desperate way you clung to her, as if you knew the moment you let go, everything you’d had the last few months was over. Realizing everyone’s eyes were on the two of you as you stared each other down, she roughly pulled herself away to walk over to her desk and deposit her bag and helmet. Your hands dropped into your lap in defeat, only to rise again when Rosa pulled you to your feet by the piece of metal holding your wrists together and led you into an interrogation room.

“Talk,” she ordered once the door was closed and you were seated at the table.

“Early this morning, they found the body of one of the supervisors at my job. Apparently he was killed last night and one of my coworkers pointed the blame toward me, saying that I wanted his position and tried to force him to retire early.”

“You were with me last night. I mean, unless you killed the guy after our call.” She met your widened eyes and sighed. “Sorry.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I know it probably looks bad because I actually am up for a promotion, I had a meeting about it a few days ago. But I’d never kill anyone! I swear I wouldn’t, and I really hope that--”

“I believe you.” She slipped into the chair across from you and squeezed your hands briefly before pulling away again. “And not just because I want to believe that I’m not falling for some power-hungry murderer, but because I trust you not to lie to me.”

A soft smile formed on your lips but a knock sounded at the door before you could respond. You watched her stand and approach the door again to open it, growing nervous again when you saw one of the detectives that arrested you. 

“Holt’s out today, so Sarge is running the briefing and he needs you there too. It’s about this case.”

“Fine.” She faced you again with her hand still holding the door open. “I’ll be back. Just breathe.”

Rosa followed Charles out of the room and down to the briefing room, cutting off any questions he began to ask with a sharp “no”. They were the last to arrive, everyone else seated and looking at Terry standing in front of a board holding some of the case details.

“I’m putting myself on this case,” she announced before anyone else could speak as she approached the board to read over everything.

“Don’t you think you’re too close to this, Rosa?” Charles questioned carefully, yelping at the expression she offered him in response. “I meant to say ‘welcome to the team’!”

“Boyle’s right, Diaz,” Terry spoke up next as she turned away from the board. “What was that in the bullpen?”

“Innocent until proven guilty.” She walked over to sit on one of the tables in front. “Go on.”

“Alright.” He looked down at the notes he’d obtained before entering the room. “So according to the medical examiner, the time of death is set around 9:17pm last night--”

“Y/N didn’t do it,” Rosa quickly interjected. “A camera in the lobby of her building will verify her entering a few minutes before then, and she doesn’t leave after that.”

“Rosa, I know you don’t want your friend to get in trouble, but this--”

“I was with her.” She took a deep breath to prepare herself for not only spilling the secret of her unconfirmed relationship, but to essentially come out as bisexual for the first time ever. “We were in the park together with our dogs and I walked her home after. I know it was 9:15 when we got there because the huge clock in her lobby said 10:15, and it’s been an hour ahead since Daylight Savings Time. I was at her door for a few minutes and when I was leaving, the clock said 10:20.”

“So how do you know she didn’t leave after that?” Jake questioned, causing her to sigh again.

“Because I’m a few blocks away from her and she Facetimed me when I sent her a text telling her I was home. She fell asleep on the phone.”

“Oh damn. You’re in love, girl,” Gina commented, a grin forming when all Rosa did was roll her eyes in response. 

“Okay so she has an alibi, but we also have to rule out the possibility that she had an accomplice.” Terry sighed when Rosa gave him a threatening look. “Look, I want to believe she’s innocent too--”

“Then believe it.”

“--but we have to consider everything, Diaz. It looks pretty suspicious that the last person to see our victim alive also had a reason to want him gone.”

“How do you know she was the last to see him alive?” Rosa took the piece of paper Amy held out to her holding a witness statement, forcing herself not to overreact when she read that Y/N had been spotted talking to her supervisor next to his car. “This means nothing. Check into the person that gave this statement.”

“Rosa--”

“How do we even know she was the last person he saw? And that the person who ‘witnessed’ this didn’t just follow the vic home and kill him just to frame her? What, because of some camera footage and he said, she said?” Barely a moment of silence passed before Rosa spoke again. “Exactly. Santiago and Boyle, meet me downstairs. I’m driving.”

She dropped the witness statement on the table in front of Amy and stormed out, grabbing the keys to her squad car on her way back to the interrogation room you were waiting in. Your eyes snapped up from your hands when the door opened, relaxing slightly as Rosa entered the room.

“I’m going to be out for a bit trying to investigate more of the people involved, but you’ll be okay here.” She hesitated for a moment before approaching your side and leaning down to kiss you for the second time in 12 hours. “I love you.”

She was back out the door as quickly as she arrived.

-

Waiting to find out if you’d be charged with a murder you didn’t commit was hard. Being transitioned from the quiet calm of the interrogation room to the holding cell adjoining the chaotic bullpen was hard too, but at least your hands weren’t chained together anymore. You sat in the farthest corner and counted the minutes until they seemed to all blend together, and all you could focus on was the lingering feeling of warmth caused by Rosa’s lips on yours and her confession.

Having given up on your counting long ago, you weren’t sure how much time had passed when the door to the holding cell opened again. You were delighted to see Rosa again, but your hopeful expression shifted to confusion when you saw who she was leading in.

“Mrs. Fenderson?”

“Hi, Y/N.” 

The woman spoke softly without meeting your eyes, moving to sit on a nearby bench when Rosa unlocked her cuffs. You eyed her curiously as Rosa gently grabbed your wrist and led you out of the cell, making sure it locked before bringing you over to her desk.

“Um, why is my supervisor’s wife--”

“She did it,” she told you as the two of you sat down. “Well, she had some help.”

You followed the direction she nodded in with your eyes, which widened when you saw a couple officers leading in the one person that accused you of being involved with everything. You watched as they led him to the holding cell too, only turning away when Rosa placed her hand over one of yours.

“How did you…? What?!” you asked, unable to fight off a bit of a smile when Rosa snorted. 

“Mrs. Fenderson recently signed up her husband for a pretty hefty life insurance policy, and it didn’t take long to find out those two were boning. I got her to confess to everything while they tracked down her lover, who used the fact that you were up for the same promotion he wanted as a chance to frame you.”

“That’s so fucking crazy,” you responded in a breathless tone as you attempted to wrap your head around the situation for a second, giving up and bringing your free hand to rest on top of hers. “Thank you.”

“Innocent until proven guilty.” She shrugged nonchalantly as she stood, pulling you to your feet as well before you released her hand. “Anyway, it’s super late now and I know you haven’t eaten anything so let’s go.”

“Fine, but I’m paying,” you insisted as the two of you headed toward the elevator, laughing a bit as you remembered something. “As long as we can stop by my apartment first. They don’t exactly let you bring your phone and wallet when you’re arrested for murder.”

“You can pay next time,” she told you with a snort, quickly adding “if I let you.”

The elevator ride passed along silently, and it wasn’t long before you were headed down the street to a 24 hour diner that you’d mentioned to Rosa last night. You waited until you were seated and food was ordered before starting a conversation.

“About what you said earlier,” you began with your gaze locked on the straw wrapper you were toying with, completely missing Rosa’s panicked expression.

“Look, we can just forget I said anything.”

“No!” You lowered your voice after noticing a few wary glances, turning back to Rosa and pulling her hands into yours. “I don’t want to forget it, but I was hoping to say it first.”

“You love me too?”

“I do.” You squeezed her fingers with a grin. “I love you, Rosa, and I love Arlo for giving me an excuse to keep seeing his mom, because I sure as hell would’ve been too nervous to come up with one on my own.”

Expecting Rosa to be too uncomfortable with PDA, you pulled her hands closer to drop a kiss on her knuckles, pleasantly surprised when she pulled away to hold your jaw in place, leaning forward to press her lips to yours.

-

Tags: @gaulty74 @creepingwolfberry @rosadiazswifey @xetherealbeautyx @milkfromhell 

[amymel86]

Hello! Do you have any bits of your awesome writing to share for WIP wednesday?😍

I just saw this anon!

And thank you for asking <3

This is a bit more of this as yet untitled 'post-apocalyptic/fertility/modern arranged relationship???' fic. The first bit I posted on tumblr is here and as before, some things are not yet decided (like town names) and things may change...

“Are you sure this is what you want to do, darling?” Her mother’s voice on the telephone was a balm to her soul.

Sansa’s finger brushed the soft vivid petals of the small potted iris she’d bought at the store today. The iris symbolises hope, wisdom and courage among other things and she prays that the pretty purple and yellow bloom will lend her some of those. “I’ve got to try something, Mum,” she says, turning her attention to the two separate bundles of paper in front of her. Two men, two candidates, two different futures. Sansa had filled out all the matching service’s extensive questionnaires and scrutinised all the information she could find on the program. It seemed simple enough – you’re rewarded for helping to repopulate. In turn, the authorities help to pair you with someone who should be a good match dependant on all the information they have about you. The aim is that this new generation of children are raised in the traditional family unit. That had appealed to Sansa. “I can’t seem to find the right guy all on my own anyway,” she said into her phone.

“How do you know it will be safe, though?”

“It says here that my situation will be monitored by my own caseworker. I can call them any time I want. They’re not just going to drop me at the guy’s house and just leave us get on with it.”

“Hmmm... tell me about them? These men that they’ve narrowed down for you.”

“One’s called Waymar, he’s a financial advisor here in the Vale,” Sasna pauses, looking at the man’s photograph on his paperwork before fishing out the other. “And the other is called Jon, he owns a farm in the Reach.”

“None in the north then?” Her mother has been itching to get her back home. “I just wish there was a way to know that either of them were good men, Sansa. That’s all I want for you.”

Sansa put the two photos together. Two possible fathers for her child.

“That’s what I want too.”

***

“Shit! Holy fucking shit!” Jon says to himself, hanging up from his phone-call. “Mance!” he yells, bursting out of his trailer to find the old man. “Mance! It worked! It fucking worked!”

He’d relented. When Mance first put it to him that he should sign up for that weird government breeding program or whatever the fuck it was, he thought the old man’s last brain-cell must’ve fried up in the sun. But if they were going to make it easier for them and it meant Mance could keep the farm (and Jon could carry on living there rent free), then it was worth a shot. So he had relented. He’d filled out what seemed to be a gazillion and one questions about himself, his politics, his views on family and finances and education and fucking... art and shit. These damned government people wanted to know everything about him down to whether he scrunched or folded his toilet paper it seemed. He’d even had to lie. He didn’t like doing it, but there was no way that a fertile was going to pick him if he didn’t. So, he fished out an old photograph – one taken before the bar brawl that lost him his sight in one eye, and he’d also lied his asscheeks off by claiming he had ownership of the farm. He knew – he knew – that these lies are just more things that were going to trip him up one of these days but with Mance urging him on, he’d signed that damn form and offered himself up for the program.

And now a fertile had chosen him.

Him.

Fuck, he might throw up.

This can go one of two ways. Either completely up Shit Creek without a paddle – with his lies and reality crashing down on top of one another, leaving them exposed... or, his fertile somehow looks past his deceits and sticks with him and they-... well, shit, he could actually become a father. No-one becomes parents these days, especially not ‘round here. Fertiles flock to the big cities, to men with bigger pockets, or they work for couples who can afford to pay them off in exchange for a kid or two.

“It worked?” Mance asks, rolling out from under an old Ford pickup that needed a new exhaust. “They sendin’ us a peach?”

Jon shook his head. “They’re not sendin’ you anyone, old man. An’ don’t call her that – they’re-“ Fuck, what did the council call them on all that paperwork? “Reproductively abled.” He’ll have to remember that if he doesn’t want to offend her.

“Well, shit,” Mance grins. “What did I tell ya? Knew your pretty face was good for somethin’!”

Jon frowns. “Ain’t so pretty no more though.” He might have to go get himself a patch to cover his milky, sightless eye. It’s fine most of the time since Mance is the only one he sees unless he’s going to drink at Hobb’s, but he certainly doesn’t want to put off his ferti- reproductively abled friend who’ll be arriving in three weeks.

“She got a name? Your new peach?” Mance asked, earning him a glare.

“Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Mance grunts and nods. “Sounds fancy.”

Yeah... It did sound kinda fancy he supposes. Jon’s first reaction had been that it was a mighty beautiful name, but now he thinks of it...

“Shame we can’t look her up – see if she’s a beauty or not.”

Jon can’t remember a time when that was an option. He was barely 11 at the highest point of the virus’s hold. Government officials had deemed certain channels on the internet were causing more harm than good by spreading false rumours, incorrect statistics and completely counterintuitive medical advice. The whole thing was shut down, now deemed illegal, only to be reconnected again three years later apparently looking like a foreign landscape from the one before. The internet was no longer a platform to socialise, only government approved informative sites remained. Mance says it’s better this way – that all people used to do was post vain images of themselves for attention anyway.

Jon wouldn’t mind seeing a vain image of Sansa Stark right about now though.

Not that it mattered terribly. As long as they get along and she decides to stick around she could be as ugly as sin. In fact, she probably will be, won’t she? Most pretty ferti- reproductively abled women stick to the cities and its high-fliers.

It doesn’t matter, he told himself. You just gotta keep her happy here and-

“Mance?” he asks, an issue coming to mind. The man grunts in acknowledgement. “Where the fuck is she gonna sleep? She’s not gonna want to stay in my trailer.”

The man grins in response. “I’m glad you asked, boy. I’m glad you asked.”

***

Her caseworker was meant to meet her at the train station. It was quite a drive to the farm and he was meant to pick her up, make sure she’s safe and happy and introduce her to Jon.

That hasn’t happened.

“Please accept my apologies, my dear,” Mr Baelish said down the other end of the phone. “There’s been a mix up with my schedule. We can set you up for the night at a local motel or ask your match to come and get you. Which would you prefer?”

Sansa eyes the dirty looking motel across the street from the train station. Everything here at [[INSERT TOWN NAME]] seems a little on the... rundown side. Maybe the sooner she gets to the farm, the better. Plus, her tummy is all a flutter with anticipation to actually meet Jon. She’d wound up swaying towards Jon as a match due to a few reasons; 1 – he does not live in, around, or anywhere near Harry or his crazy mother. 2 – he owns a farm, and that had conjured up hazy daydreams of idyllic country life. Sansa may enjoy big nights out in the city, drinking her dirty margaritas and feeling her bones vibrate against the base beat in a nightclub, but she knows that’s not what she wants to raise a child around. A child will want to run barefoot through wheat fields and chase chickens and milk cows and –

Let’s just say Sansa has a few ideas and that they all helped to sway her away from city pleasures and towards farmhouse life. And Jon

And last, but not least, reason number 3 – Jon himself. Put side-by-side, his and Waymar’s photographs looked rather similar if truth be told, but Jon won out on something that Sansa just couldn’t describe. Looking at his photograph gave her goosepimples along her forearms because it was like he was looking right back at her. There was something in the depths of his eyes – a kindness? A wit? A strength? She’s not sure, but she couldn’t find the same qualities when she stared at Waymar’s likeness. And his answers too. His questionnaire was full of how he’d like to teach a kid how to walk and ride a bike and fix a... a tractor for heaven’s sake! And so her head was flooded once more of this idyllic life where they got up to watch the dawn stretch over the farmland and they’d grow their own vegetables and she’d bake a pie every day and it would just be perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

Sansa glances around the near abandoned train station.

This doesn’t look so perfect right now.

“Could you please arrange for Jon to come and get me, Mr Baelish?”

***

It’s been an hour and fifty-six minutes precisely since Sansa last spoke to Mr Baelish to arrange her match coming to get her. An hour and fifty-six minutes of sitting on the curb, waiting, surrounded by her three suitcases. She’d started off by sitting at the nearby bus stop, purely because it was somewhere to sit and she had a clear view of the road, but after the rude bus driver insisted that if she’s sat there, she must be wanting to hop on his bus, Sansa decided to park her butt on the dusty, sun-baked curb instead. Her legs were beginning to numb and she was starting to get a headache from the sun beaming down on her head. The curls she’d styled into her copper locks have likely lost their hold by now. What a waste. Opposite, on the other side of the street, beside the dirty little motel, there was a tiny bar that advertised the fact that it hosted exotic dancers at the weekends with a blinking neon sign. Next to it was a hunting and fishing ‘emporium’ and beside that was a vacant store with an old dirty sign that read ‘Blouses & More!’. Presumably, the ‘& more’ still wasn’t enough to keep that fine establishment in business in this funny little town. At the end of the block was ‘Tarly’s Drugstore’ and Sansa had been debating with herself whether or not she should haul her suitcases over to go buy a drink and a magazine for about the last hour and fifty-five minutes.

But she hadn’t wanted to miss Jon Snow’s arrival.

Jon Snow, who seemed to be pulling up outside Tarly’s Drugstore in a dusty Ford pickup truck right about now. Sansa stood, expecting him to come right on over considering how long she’d been waiting for him, but she found herself wondering if she’d got it all wrong when she hadn’t caught a good enough look at him before he darted straight into the store.

Sansa is done with waiting. She grabs her smallest case and places it on top of her larger one, trying her darnedest to roll all her luggage across the road in a lady-like fashion. She could feel the eyes of several passers-by on her while her stiletto heels clip across the street. In turn, her own gaze fell to Jon’s cream-coloured truck. Its front bumper looked a little rusty and wonky too. There was a big gash in the leather of the bench seating on the passenger side. On the truck bed, there were a number of items, including a rocking chair that seems to have a couple of spindles on the chair-back missing, and a new double bed mattress wrapped in clear plastic. Sansa was almost done frowning at the state of the vehicle when the over-door bell of the drugstore tinkles.

“Holy shit,” he curses. And yes, it definitely was Jon standing right in front of her. Only... well... his hair was tied into a knot at the back of his head and.... and... he was wearing a black eye patch? “Uh,” he stood there, arms laden with bottles from the store as the gaze from his one good eye quickly darted down her frame and back up again. “You’re her, right? You’re Sansa Stark?”

Sansa found she could only nod, looking him up and down, like he was with her. He was in jeans with oil smears, some tough, heavy looking boots, a somehow pristine white vest and flannel shirt with the arms ripped off.

Speaking of arms...

Gods-damn! Sansa’s focus was momentarily derailed...

“Sorry, I-“ Jon starts before his grey eye drops to the floor and then returns to her, looking a little bashful. “I didn’t expect you to be so pretty.”

Oh boy. He may be wearing an eye patch right now but this man could win over a thousand girls with that smile, Sansa’s sure of it. She resists the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. She’s here to find out if they’re well suited enough to start a family together – she needs to keep her head and think rationally, not allow herself to be swayed by his rugged country boy charm. It was Harry’s looks that enticed her in the first place – and look how well that turned out for her?

“Thank you,” Sansa says, blinking back at him before his words truly hit home. “Didn’t they give you my photograph?”

Jon shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

Huh.

“Did they show you mine?”

Sansa bites her lip and gives a nod.

Jon grimaces. “So I guess you weren’t expecting this?” He points to his patch.

Sansa shakes her head. “No... did you... did you do something to injure it?”

Jerking his head, Jon begins rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s a long story... but... it ain’t gonna get any better, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

“Oh.”

They stood, staring at one another for a heartbeat or five before Jon sucks in a breath over his teeth and glances down to the bottles he clutched to his chest with one arm. “I tried to get you some things to help you feel at home,” he says, “these are the nicest smellin’ soaps ‘n’ stuff from Tarly’s.”

“Thank you,” Sansa replies, knowing full well that she brought her Highgarden Floral Scents bathroom range with her.

Jon chews on his lip as he eyes her suitcases. “Lemme get those for you,” he offers before dumping the bottles in his arms into the truck bed and reaching for her luggage. Sansa’s heeled shoes seem welded to the spot. Jon notices. Scrubbing both hands down his face in resignation, he takes a step closer to her and Sansa realises for the first time, that he had dirt beneath his fingernails. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “It was a shitty thing for me to do,” he offers, his words low and husky. Sansa feels the timbre of his voice set off a trickle of gooseflesh down her spine. “I’m sorry.”

She blinks at him, momentarily confused.

“About this,” he explains, brows high on his head as he points to his patch. “I shouldn’t have sent that old photo of before this happened, but – fuck – even my ex-girl won’t acknowledge I exist anymore with this and I knew I shoulda been honest about it but-“

“This ex-girl...” Sansa suddenly found herself left with a sour taste in her mouth. “... does she still mean something to you?”

Jon licks at his lips, his eye falling briefly to her own. “No, ma’am,” he shakes his head.

[mallowstep]

(caller id)

cw: referenced child abuse

One of Stonefur's coworkers texts a link to their group chat.

i've worked with this org b4. if they're looking for support they need it. anyone have a few bucks?

He clicks on the link.

* * *

"I'm sorry, we don't give information about our clients out."

Stonefur taps the desk. It's a good policy. He wouldn't want them to make it easy. But.

"I might -- look, I don't want you to give me any information. But...is there a way I could prove who I am, and you'd maybe pass that on, if I'm right about who this is?"

The phone worker sighs. "If I can clear it with my supervisor, and if you can prove who you are, and if we do have who you think we have, and if they were to agree to it, maybe."

For six years, Stonefur has been trying to find a way to get home. Greystripe visited, actually, but the school said Featherpaw was no longer enrolled, and he wasn't allowed to even knock on the door of Tigerstar's compound.

Every weekend, he pours over the news that comes out of his hometown, looking for some sign that things are different. That they have a chance.

For six years, Stonefur has failed. This is the closest he has been to any chance of finding Mistyfoot and Featherpaw since he first carried Stormpaw off the compound.

"I'm looking for Mistyfoot, daughter of Oakheart," he says. "I'm Stonefur, son of Oakheart. She might be with Featherpaw, I have her brother, Stormpaw."

"I'll speak with my supervisor," the worker says. "Can we call you back at this number?"

* * *

He still can't fly. His identity is somewhere between fake and real, but it won't hold up to airport security. He packs the car for a week, loads Stormpaw and Greystripe in, and takes to the road.

After spending months walking across the country, a few days is nothing.

* * *

"Okay, Stonefur, you're on speaker."

His heart is beating so loud, it must be audible over the phone. He's practised this, prepared what he'll say, but he never could have imagined how this moment would feel. He forgets everything he planned.

"Mistyfoot?"

There's a long pause.

"I'm here."

It's her voice. It's a little older, but it's her voice, the same voice he has grown up with. He's not sure how to describe the feeling, the way it snaps his rib cage in two, the way his head feels light, the way his shoulders release, a hundred pounds vanishing off of them.

Stonefur starts to cry.

* * *

Four months after Stonefur first called, and they finally arrange a meeting.

They're informed not to arrive early, and Stonefur drives around the block three times until they can park. A woman meets them at the front doors.

"I'm their caseworker," she says. "This is how this is going to work. Our security guard is going to pat you down, and then I'm going to check in with Mistyfoot and Featherpaw. If they've changed their minds, you're going to leave. If they haven't, you come in. If they ask you to leave at any point, you leave. Got it?"

Stonefur nods, and Stormpaw copies. The woman sighs, and he can't read the emotion behind it perfectly. It sits somewhere between relief and stress.

The security check is fast: Stonefur expected it, and had them dress in simple clothing without any bulky sections. Whatever building they're in is clearly rented. They wait outside a set of double doors, and the caseworker opens them, smiling.

"You're good."

Stonefur walks past her. Mistyfoot is standing, her hand laced with Featherpaw's, but it is her, really her. He feels tears at the corners of his eyes, and he doesn't bother to try to stop them. Mistyfoot's expression shifts, softening, and she lets go of Featherpaw's hand, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I love you," she says, and he hugs her back. He doesn't think this is real. He doesn't think, after all this time, he has found her again.

"I love you," he says. "I love you so much."

She takes a shuddering breath, and he feels her tears against his neck, and she is real and alive and whole.

* * *

"She didn't want to talk to me," Stormpaw says, after.

Stonefur sighs. Reintroductions now made, he has Mistyfoot's number. She's sent him,

featherpaw's asleep

i'll call you tmrw

tell stormpaw i love him

and he's sent back,

Tell Featherpaw we love her. We're free all day, call me whenever.

"I don't get it."

Stonefur sighs, watching Stormpaw's frustrated pacing. "Mistyfoot said she's sleeping," he offers. "I think she was just tired."

Stormpaw huffs. "She left after..."

"If she didn't want to see you, she wouldn't have," Stonefur says. "But it's a lot to take, and...I think it's good that she left. She didn't ask us to leave. I'm guessing, but I think that means she wants to see you again."

* * *

"You can't hold them," Featherpaw says. "And you have to wash your hands."

She's holding two of the infants in her arms, swaddled and asleep. Mistyfoot holds the last one, who's awake, but not moving.

"We already washed them," Stonefur says.

Featherpaw stares pointedly at the sink.

After, he sits next to Mistyfoot.

"This one is Frogkit," she says. "Featherpaw has Hawkkit and Mothkit."

Featherpaw leans her head against Mistyfoot, smiling at Frogkit.

* * *

When they're three months old, Featherpaw's statement changes to, "You still have to support their heads. And wash your hands."

Stormpaw smiles at her, and she pulls Hawkkit a little closer to her.

"They're not going to take them," Mistyfoot says.

Featherpaw glances at Stormpaw. "Do you want to hold him?"

Mistyfoot rubs her shoulder, and turns to Stonefur. "Here," she says. "You remember how to hold babies, right?"

"I practised on a doll," he says. "Are you sure?"

Featherpaw hands Hawkkit to Stormpaw, correcting his hand placement. Mistyfoot nods. He takes Mothkit from her. She smiles at him.

* * *

After they've all moved in, to an apartment that's still too small but has just enough space, Stonefur watches Mistyfoot and Feathertail's routine sigh in relief. Stonefur helps Feathertail and Mistyfoot feed them, and Stormheart finds himself pacing with a crying Hawkkit.

"Give him here," Feathertail says, holding out her arms.

Hawkkit quiets instantly, and she rocks softly, holding him against her. She kisses the top of his head. "I'm still your favourite," she murmurs.

* * *

"I heard you were back in town," Shadepelt says. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you too." Stonefur runs his hand through his hair. He hasn't seen Shadepelt since she was a kid, maybe ten or twelve. "I'm sorry it's-"

Shadepelt hugs him. "I'm not an idiot," she says. "I follow the news. I'm just happy you're safe."

* * *

Stonefur takes the kids for a walk with Feathertail. She pushes their stroller to the end of the block.

"I've got them," he says, and she releases the handles. "You okay?"

"I thought physical therapy was supposed to make me less tired," she says.

"Well, it takes time," Stonefur says.

* * *

Mistyfoot curls up on the couch. Stonefur puts his hand on her shoulder, and she flinches. Stonefur draws back, and she relaxes, but unnaturally, like someone has cut a puppet's strings.

Her hands were curled into balls, but they release, and he sees angry marks from where her nails dug into her hand. She rubs the heel of her hand against her forearm, and opens her eyes, glancing at him.

"I didn't..." Mistyfoot swallows, blinking rapidly. "Sorry. I didn't realize it was you."

* * *

Shadepelt arrives at six in the morning. She doesn't complain, even though they're only paying her ten dollars an hour.

He's glad he asked her to come early, because Feathertail walks her through the kids' schedule at least three times, and Shadepelt dutifully take notes, asking the occasional question. Stonefur has walked her through everything, but she won't be able to contact them once they're in the courtroom.

Stonefur drives them, and Stormheart sits in the passenger seat. He's missing school to be here, but he doesn't seem concerned. Feathertail sits in the middle seat, her head resting on Mistyfoot's shoulder.

The prosecutor told them to wear whatever was comfortable, as long as it was reasonably presentable, but Mistyfoot and Feathertail had gone shopping. Mistyfoot still seems uncomfortable, but that might be indicative of where he's driving.

Feathertail's phone chimes, and she doesn't wake.

When he pulls up to the courthouse, it's barely past 7:45, and there's already a scattered flock of reporters. Mistyfoot wakes Feathertail, and Stonefur sends Stormheart while he goes to park.

* * *

"Remember," the prosecutor says, "you're not on trial." She's not saying anything they haven't heard before, but it seems like a reassurance. "I won't lie to you. The cross-examination is going to be brutal. But you can always take a break."

She sighs. "We might not get to Feathertail today. But if we do, Mistyfoot, you can hold her hand, and that's it."

* * *

"All rise!"

Feathertail grips Mistyfoot's arm, bracing herself.

* * *

Stonefur and Stormheart sit on either side of Feathertail. She's not watching Mistyfoot, but she glances towards her occasionally.

Stonefur has come to most of the days of trial. In that sense, he's prepared for when they start. Stormheart isn't, and his anger shows in white knuckled rage. He glances at Feathertail occasionally.

"And why do you believe he said that?" the prosecutor asks.

Mistyfoot has kept her gaze trained to the side, avoiding Tigerstar. He's dressed well, and his lawyers take frenetic notes.

"Objection, speculation."

"Sustained."

Mistyfoot takes a sip of water.

The prosecutor pauses, and she retraces her steps. "Had you seen any examples of consequences for similar infractions?"

"After our brothers — after Stonefur and Stormheart had escaped, Tigerstar said Feathertail and I were corrupted. He used that as a rationale for punishment. I was the only person Feathertail has regular contact with."

"Were you led to believe your actions would have an affect on Feathertail?"

"I..." Mistyfoot blinks. Feathertail folds a piece of paper in half, and then in quarters. "He said she needed a good influence in her life. And that if I failed to provide one, he would make sure she was corrected."

"What kind of corrections did Tigerstar use?"

"Um. It depended. Denial of food. Manual labor. Usually it was more than one person could complete." She takes another sip of water.

"Can you give-"

"But the big one was...um. Corporal punishment. And it was always...he wanted you to feel small. He usually made things as embarrassing and public as he could think of."

"Can you give some examples?"

Mistyfoot glances towards Feathertail. She closes her eyes for a moment. Feathertail's hands are shaking uncontrollably. Stonefur places his hand out, where she can reach it. Feathertail takes it.

Stormheart glances at Feathertail again. She's gripping Stonefur's hand tight enough to hurt.

"Do you want to leave?" he whispers. Feathertail shakes her head.

* * *

(You're supposed to be watching the testifying witness. You know that.

But it's hard not to watch the others. Tigerstar is calm, like Mistyfoot is not describing a litany of public humiliations he had her suffer, his face neutral.

On the other side, Mistyfoot's family is fighting with the edge of permissible expression. The teenaged girl grips the man's hand, her head not lifting, and the teenaged boy beside her looks livid, glancing back at her often with a softened expression.

In a few days, the situation is rearranged. You've learned all their names, now, and it is Feathertail who takes the stand. She clutches Mistyfoot like a lifeline, and you see her look too far in one direction. As soon as she sees Tigerstar, she looks close to tears.

Her brother, Stormheart, is notably absent. You speculate he didn't think he could maintain composure through her testimony.

You can't blame him. She answers the prosecutor's questions with uncomfortable forthrightness. After adjusting to Mistyfoot's tendency to find a neat, formal way of saying matters, it is jarring to hear Feathertail respond to, "And how did he punish you for that?"

"He beat me until he broke skin."

You are just as grateful as Feathertail when her request to take a break is granted.)

* * *

When they get home, every night, Feathertail goes straight to bed. Mistyfoot brings the kids in to say hello, and a plate of food, but she doesn't make an appearance beyond that, either.

* * *

Stonefur had made a promise to himself, that he would remain calm. Whatever happened, he wouldn't risk being removed from the courtroom, and he wouldn't make things worse by being angry.

It is a hard promise to keep.

* * *

They don't celebrate when Tigerstar is sentenced.

It's a normal day. Stormheart goes to school, and Mistyfoot kisses Feathertail on the forehead before she leaves for work. Now that everything is settled, Stonefur's been fixing his paperwork so he can apply for a job.

The kids are starting to transition to just an afternoon nap, and they're tired when Feathertail herds them upstairs.

Stormheart gets home when Stonefur wakes up the kids, although Hawkkit climbs into bed next to Feathertail.

"I'm quiet," he whispers, although it's not that quiet. It's probably best to leave him.

Feathertail blows bubbles for them while Stonefur cooks dinner, and no one says what today is.

[simplyclockwork]

I am a huge fan of your writing. I would love a post season 4 fic where we see John and Rosie move back to 221b. Sherlock has an accident and breaks an arm and a leg. As he is wondering how he will take care of himself John turns up to collect him from hospital like its the most natural thing in World that he will take care of Sherlock. The focus is John wanting a chance to redeem himself. Happy Johnlock ending please. I’m over 18. Smut optional!

----

Hi, anon! Thanks for your patience with me filling the prompt. Hopefully, you like what I’ve written :) Please feel free to send a prompt anytime!

You can also read your prompt on Ao3 here. The rest of the fill is below the page break.

----

It’s only been a couple of weeks since John moved back to Baker Street, with his few belongings and infant-daughter in tow. Sherlock is still adjusting, and so is John, while Rosie bounces about the place like a tennis ball. She provides a perfect distraction, a much-needed buffer between John and Sherlock, who are still trying to find their way back to something considered normalcy.

Whatever their new normalcy is, Sherlock doesn’t know. He just hopes they find it soon because the unresolved tension hovering over 221B is starting to drive him mad.

Things are different. Better than they were before when John… well, that was before, and this is now. Sherlock tries not to dwell on their brief tilt into insanity. Mary, the aquarium, Culverton Smith, Eurus and Sherrinford. Each has taken a toll on Sherlock in one way or another. Things are different. John works at the clinic more often than he joins Sherlock on cases. He has a daughter to provide for, and his evening spent in a well with chains around his ankles has made him somewhat skittish.

Sherlock can’t blame him, not when he feels a little skittish himself—but he’s the world’s only consulting detective. It’s him, or it’s no one, and he’s got a bit of life left in him yet. Casework feels strange without John at his side, but John hasn’t been there in any consistent capacity since Sherlock returned from the dead, so he adjusts.

Sherlock’s had more madness than most, more than enough for several lifetimes. These days, Sherlock tires more easily. Moves a little slower, reacts a little later. Retirement is a word he starts to hear more often, echoing in his Mind Palace and staring back at him from the bathroom mirror when he pokes at the new wrinkles in his face and as he tugs at the silvered hairs appearing at his temples with increasing frequency.

It is pure irony that on the day Sherlock decides to slow down on the more challenging cases, to focus on fours and sixes and the life he hopes to build with John and Rosie, he has an accident.

The case is a straightforward kidnapping that Sherlock solves in minutes. The kidnapee, a young woman in her 30s, named Alice Forbes, is taken from her London flat by an ex-boyfriend. Sherlock leads Lestrade and his team to an old building with a decommissioned lift. Narrow and festooned with disturbed cobwebs, the shaft is dark and accessible with a rusted but sturdy-looking ladder.

In hindsight, Sherlock should have known it was too easy. Should have waited, should have let Lestrade’s men go before him. But, true to his impatient nature, he is the first to rush down the ladder.

And he’s the first to fall when one of the rungs, eaten through by rust and time, gives way beneath his hand, sending him to the bottom of the lift shaft. The fall isn’t far enough to kill him, but it is far enough to break bone, and Sherlock winces at the double crack he hears before agony and fire spill through his left arm and right leg. A cross-body break, of all things, arm trapped beneath him and leg striking a cable at the wrong angle.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice reaches him from above, invisible in the dark, and Sherlock clenches his teeth to resist the urge to scream.

Definitely multiple breaks, he can tell. Nothing hurts like a break, and right now, Sherlock is ablaze.

“Don’t climb down,” he manages to reply, voice wavering and strained with pain. “One of the rungs broke. Could be others.”

“Fuck,” comes the reply from above. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock squints in the dark, wetting his dry lips with his tongue as he takes stock of his body. At least the two breaks, possibly a mild concussion, and sweat rising on his brow. Shock. “No,” he finally says, swallowing around the taste of bile. “I need an ambulance.

Lestrade spits another short curse. “With how much you hate going to the A&E, I take it that it’s bad?”

“Rather bad,” Sherlock replies, trying for humour and just sounding weak and ragged. “I believe I’m going into shock.”

Instead of answering, Lestrade starts barking orders. Setting his temple carefully against something cold and metal, Sherlock blinks in the dark and takes in his surroundings. A shape shivers and sags against the wall of the lift shaft not far from where he lies. Given Alice’s lack of response to the shouting, he’s not confident she is anything like okay. Only the constant shivering tells him she’s still alive, and he clears his throat before shouting, “Make that two ambulances.” Swallowing, Sherlock sucks in a breath at a ripple of agony from his leg and adds, “I found Alice. Alive, but not conscious.”

“Got it,” Lestrade calls back. A light shines down, and Sherlock squints. He can’t make out Lestrade’s face, and likely the DI can’t see him either, but the beam from the torch is a point of light in the dark, and Sherlock fixates on it. “We’re gonna get you out, alright?”

“That would be preferred,” Sherlock replies, trying for venom and only sounding tired.

A rope snaps down next to his head. Tossed from above, it hangs in the air with a silent expectancy. Staring at it, Sherlock hopes Lestrade doesn’t expect him to climb up the offering. When it begins to shake and wiggle, he knows someone must be climbing down. A small, shaky sigh escaping his lips, Sherlock tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, though whether the comfort is for his benefit or Alice’s, he doesn’t know.

As his mind begins to darken and drift, he feels a pang of guilt for not letting John know where he’d be today. Sherlock has time for one last passing thought of how he’ll manage with two broken limbs, whether or not John will even bother to visit him at the hospital, and if this little stunt will shatter the tenuous connection between them before everything fades away.

***

The faint drone of voices draws Sherlock out of his head, and he opens his eyes to bright lights and white coats. He blinks, squints and blinks again, waiting for his vision to clear. When it finally does, he finds a young woman standing over him with a small smile.

“Hello, Mister Holmes,” she greets, and Sherlock blinks once more before she introduces herself. “I’m Doctor Seif.”

“Hello,” he replies, his voice rough. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Concussion?”

Doctor Seif nods in sympathy. “Mild, but enough to knock you out. You came in and out of it until we set your leg, then we lost you for a bit from the pain.” She pats his shoulder with a gentle hand. “Your left humerus is broken, but not severe enough for a cast. So we’ve done a splint, but your leg will need a cast.” Moving to set his chart down, she pauses and turns back, adding, “We called your brother—he was listed as your emergency contact. We spoke to his aide, and she said he would be here once he finishes with a meeting.”

Sherlock waves a hand, dismissing both her words and the faint pang he feels at the reminder that John is no longer his emergency contact. “He’ll turn up. Always does, just like a bad penny.” Doctor Seif laughs.

“I have two older sisters. I know just how you feel.” Tapping his chart, she tilts her head. “Now, let’s get you fixed up and out of here, shall we?”

Sherlock’s smile is small and strained, but an attempt nonetheless. “Certainly.”

***

The cast is bulky, and his arm aches in the splint, his pain barely impacted by the basic painkillers. But Sherlock refused anything stronger, and he grits his teeth hard against the discomfort as a nurse helps him into the protocol-dictated wheelchair. Doctor Seif stands next to him with a script in her hand for prescription refills. She hands both the slip of paper and a crutch to Sherlock once he’s seated.

“Let me know if anything changes or you experience worsening pain or signs of infection,” she says, waiting for Sherlock’s tired nod. “Otherwise, I’ll see you in a few weeks to evaluate the arm. Good evening, Mister Holmes.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says in a quiet voice. He is exhausted, his body heavy with fatigue and faded adrenaline. He tilts his head toward the nurse, who begins wheeling him out of the room and down the hall.

They make it only a few feet before footsteps sound behind them, and a panting voice calls out, “Sherlock!”

The man pushing his chair pauses, and Sherlock turns his head to see John trotting down the hall toward them. Bemused, Sherlock glances at the nurse, who shrugs. He turns his attention back to John, who pulls up in front of them with a sigh.

“Sorry,” he gasps, straightening with his hands on his hips as he pulls in a loud inhale. “Took me a bit to get Rosie to her babysitter’s, then there was traffic, and…” John shakes his head. “But nevermind that, I’m here now.”

Sherlock stares up at him. “You’re… here?” he repeats, confused. John’s brow furrows, first with confusion, then with understanding.

“Of course I’m here. Greg called me, then Mycroft.” His frown deepens. “Was surprised to hear he’s your emergency contact.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart away, and he doesn’t reply.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse cuts in, his voice reluctant, “but I need the chair, so if I can wheel you outside…”

“Yeah, of course,” John says, picking up where the words trail off. “I can take it from there.”

The three of them continue down the hall, the nurse pushing Sherlock in the chair with John at his side. They walk in silence, with Sherlock darting quick, bemused looks at John from the corner of his eye. John either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, and Sherlock is grateful for whichever it is.

Once outside, the nurse stops, and Sherlock starts wrestling with the crutch, the chair, his own body until John quietly murmurs, “Can I help?”

Sherlock pauses and glances up at him before nodding once, a stiff jerk of his head. Something like relief and gratitude passes over John’s face, there and gone too quickly to verify. Before Sherlock can take the opportunity to study him, John moves around to his side, the one without a splinted arm, and loops his hand gently around Sherlock’s torso. John helps him onto his uncasted foot, slips the crutch in place, and keeps close as Sherlock tests out a little hop forward. He is clumsy and awkward but mobile and shuffles along slowly. John stays close, helping where he can, one hand resting light and ready on the small of Sherlock’s back.

When Sherlock finally raises his head, coaxed forward by John’s quiet voice, he sees a silver car and freezes. John almost bumps into him and stops just in time, steadying Sherlock.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head to look at Sherlock’s face.

Brow furrowed, Sherlock blinks at the car. “You bought a car?”

“Yeah, last week,” John says, relief in his expression. “Easier with Rosie, you know? And paying less rent, well, I thought…” he shrugs, letting the words trail off.

Wordlessly, Sherlock nods and lets John lead him off the curb and toward the car. John opens the door and coaxes Sherlock to drape his uninjured arm around his neck, helping him scoot down into the passenger seat.

Once John is next to him, sitting behind the wheel and waiting for Sherlock to finish getting settled, he doesn’t seem to know where to look. When he, at last, opens his mouth to speak, he and Sherlock talk over one another.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

They both go silent and still, staring at one another. Blowing a loud exhale out through pursed lips, John breaks the standoff first.

“First off, I’m glad you’re relatively okay, considering.” Sherlock braces himself for the angry words, the dressing-down. But John just looks at him with a small, tentative smile, and Sherlock stares as John quietly says, “And of course I came.” He clears his throat, eyes darting to the windshield before they return to Sherlock’s questioning face. “I know things have been… well. I know it’s not like it was before, but I… I want to try.” Swallowing hard enough to make his throat bob, John looks at Sherlock with a mixture of hope and uncertainty in his eyes. “I know I have no right to ask for it, but I want a chance to show you things are different.” Hands clenching slowly inward then outward in his lap, John’s voice drops. “I want to show you that I’ve changed.”

“John…” Sherlock starts, only to find he doesn’t have any more words. John seems to understand, a slight smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I want to redeem myself, Sherlock,” he says and holds up a hand to silence the protests he can no doubt see rising on Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing to make up for because we both know that’s not true.” The small smile fades, and he reaches out to slip his fingers over Sherlock’s where Sherlock’s hand rests on the centre console. It’s unexpected and entirely welcome, and Sherlock blinks down at their hands before looking up at John. “I’m here because we’re a team.” His eyebrows twitch upward, and he adds, “Just the two of us, right? Against the world?” His smile is small and hopeful, and Sherlock feels a rush of warmth at the sight and the words.

“Of course, John,” he replies, nodding. “Just the two of us. And Rosie.”

This time, John’s smile is firm and confident, his laugh pleased and just a little surprised. His fingers curl between Sherlock’s knuckles with gentle but firm pressure. “Just the two of us and Rosie,” he agrees. His eyes glitter, and Sherlock’s lips twitch upward in quiet acceptance.

When John starts the car and guides them out of the parking lot, their fingers stay slotted together on the centre console.

[danadeservesadrink]

Gin and Tonic

The sequel to Wine and Whiskey is here! AND its part of the XF First Dates challenge created by the lovely @starwalker42 ! Hope you all enjoy! Also tagging @today-in-fic

Rated T, 4320 words, read on AO3 here

This is awkward.

She can’t help but think it for the fourth time since she’d walked into the office this morning. He was already lounging at his desk when she had come in, her cheeks still flushed from the harsh autumn breeze. Her heels had clicked through the open doorway and she spotted him first, his feet propped up on the desk, lazily sharpening a pencil, staring off at some papers he’d tacked up on the corkboard. But he heard her and spun in his chair to face her, the dying buzz of the sharpener giving way to silence.

Awkward. Silence.

She knew that continuing to work together after the events of Friday night wouldn’t be simple. She knew when he left her on Saturday, kissing her gently against the door and promising to see her on Monday, that it would be impossible to forget the softness of his lips and the way he tasted. Logically, the fundamental shift of knowing what his naked body looked like on top of hers made things anything but simple.

But she had hoped they would somehow make it simple. It was them, for God’s sake, he was her best friend, her partner. Sleeping together couldn’t ruin that for them.

Clearly she had vastly overestimated her ability to compartmentalize.  

They had stared at each other for a solid two minutes before she even made it through the door frame. It was impossible to read his thoughts, but by the crease in his brow and the way his eyes repeatedly drifted south of her own, she could only guess that they were of a similar nature to hers. And her own thoughts were resulting in a blush that was very much not due to the chilled breeze.

Compartmentalization was a practiced art, and boy did the pair of them have practice. Sure, when she first walked into his office she had allowed herself the momentary thought as to what his strong hands would feel like touching more than the small of her back, but those thoughts were easily shoved to the back of her mind as inappropriate fantasies, reserved only for midnight phone calls with Melissa and when she was feeling particularly wound up by him. That was also 7 years ago. She would have thought she had matured since then.

But today she found that throwing away the thoughts of him on top of her was much more difficult when they were no longer simply a fantasy.

She had allowed herself one more moment to fight the urge to leap into his lap from across the room and repeat the events of Friday night, and then walked into the room with no further glances to the man behind the desk.

This is a workplace, for God’s sake, and you’re both adults. Keep it together.  

The tension she could deal with. It was the silence that made everything so weird.

He didn’t even say good morning to her, let alone say her name for the first hour. The only words exchanged were those regarding the locations of paperwork, and even those conversations were shortened from their usual banter.  

He broke the dead air once and asked her how her weekend was. She actually saw him wince at the stupidity of his own question, and spared both of them the discomfort of her answer by keeping her attention fixed on her expense report.

He was impossible not to look at, though, and she found herself glancing up at him every so often just to see him staring at his own reports. Maybe she was hoping to see him staring back at her, at least give her some indication that what had happened between them was affecting him the same way. Plaguing her thoughts with constant flashes of his tongue lapping at the dip of her clavicle, drifting lower…

But he seemed much more interested in whatever X-file he was studying today.  

They got a phone call at 10:00 and he leaned over the desk to answer at the same time she reached for it, immediately causing the both of them to retract their hands like the phone was now magically on fire, their eyes shooting up to meet each other in a panic at the mere possibility of skin to skin contact. It rang again and they sat in stalemate until Mulder tentatively reached over again to answer, still maintaining eye contact until Scully returned to biting the nails off the hand that almost betrayed her professional exterior.

And now, she was stuck to her seat, frozen while she tried not to inhale the strong scent of Mulder that had suddenly overcome her, ripping her thoughts straight from expenses and back to the taste of Moscato and Jack Daniels. Apparently, he decided he needed a case file immediately and instead of asking her to grab it for him, had invaded her space to reach right over top of her to grab a stack of folders on top of the cabinet.

He must not have realized the effect he had until he stepped back with his files and she released the air she’d been holding in, attempting to mask it under the guise of a sigh but obviously failing. He stood with his arms full of papers and a perplexed look on his face that almost made her laugh if she wasn’t so embarrassed. Eventually he turned, dropped the stack on his desk, and seemed to gather his thoughts before turning back to her.

“Do you have any plans tonight?” he spoke quickly, not really meeting her eye. It took her a second to realize he was talking to her. When she did, she looked up, eyebrow raised at his sudden directness.  

“I usually call my mom on Mondays, but that's really all.”

“Oh, ok.” She can see the disappointment written across his face, but it was him who brought it up, so it felt rude to presume where he was going with this. She waits a beat and realizes he’s not going to continue, so she takes pity on him.

“I can reschedule. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

His smile lights the room, and for just a moment everything is simple again.

“Let’s get dinner”, he says, stepping closer to her, and she finds herself sitting taller in her chair in response.

“Sure, my place or yours?”

“I was thinking we could go out”

Oh. Oh.

She hadn’t considered this. She thought that maybe he’d want to see her again, maybe under the pretense of a movie night or even some late night casework. But Fox Mulder asking her out to dinner was something she hadn’t quite prepared herself for.

Is it a date? Like an actual dinner date, the kind regular couples go on? Does this mean he wants to date her? What does that mean? What does any of this mean?

Immediately overwhelmed with questions, her mind reeled. He’s asking her out and he’s looking at her like that again and this is entirely inappropriate for their basement office but so ridiculously them that she finds herself charmed despite her best intentions.

“Sure. Yes. Where?”

She’s babbling on, blush rising through her cheeks again, and he notices, his smile growing.

“How about that bar, Hanks? I’ve heard they make a mean salad.”

He again steps towards her, and in the small space of their office he ends with their knees almost touching. She looks up into his eyes and suddenly is devoid of all thoughts other than those keeping herself from grabbing him by his tie and pulling him down into her, paired nicely with thoughts telling her to do exactly that.  

“That does sound nice,” she whispered. “What time were you thinking”

“We could just head over there whenever we finish here?”

“Ok” she says, and she hopes he can’t hear the anticipation in her voice. He looks like he might bend over and kiss her, right there in the center of their office, and she thinks she’s very ok with that scenario, but he hesitates.

“Great.” he says, and leaves her space to return back to behind his desk. The furniture lended itself as a barrier to dull the ever increasing pull between them, and her heart rate returned to resting levels. As an afterthought, he mumbled to himself something that she didn’t quite catch, but sounded an awful like “It’s a date”.

“What?” she asked, and it was his turn to blush.

“Nothing, sorry,” he muttered, proceeding to bury his nose back in his files.

It was going to be a long day.

-

They remained in agonizing silence for the remainder of the day, both spending more time glancing up at the clock than actually getting any work done. Mulder casts the occasional glance in her direction, hoping to maybe catch her eye for some reassurance that he hadn’t completely fucked up, but consistently she was focused on her notes, occasionally pressing the pen to her lips in concentration, tapping it a few times there, then resuming her writing.

He didn’t know how she was doing it, staying so calm and professional. The second she’d walked into the office with that windswept look on her face he’d had the fight the urge to cross the room and press her up against the door right there. But he knew that she would chastise him for the very idea, so he packed up that thought for later and tried to pretend it was just your average Monday.

But god was it awkward trying to pretend that he hadn't had her pressed up against his kitchen counter topless and begging. It was impossible not to remember the way she said his name when she came, how she shook in his arms and he wanted her so badly…

He had debated over the whole weekend what to do when Monday came.

Would she want to do it with him again? Would she pretend like nothing happened? Would she even show up to work?

But eventually, he decided on a date. He owed her at least one good old fashion date, where he opened the car door and pulled out her chair. For seven years he’d dragged her across the country on his epic journey for the truth, and she hadn’t left his side yet. The least he could do was buy her dinner.

Sex before the first date wasn’t exactly traditional either, but neither were they. They may as well do this thing , whatever it was, their own way, as non-traditional and ridiculous as it is.

So he asked her on a date. Spontaneous combustion would have probably been less painful but he did manage to blurt it out after their fourth uncomfortable interaction of the day, hoping that maybe the promise of the night would ease the tension. It worked, slightly, and the way she looked at him when he asked made him feel like he made the right choice. He would have kissed her right there if he thought he would be able to stop after just one.

Eventually the silence settled back in, persisting until 6:00 pm on the dot, when both of them arose from their chairs in a daze and started packing up.

He thought when they got off the clock things would get easier. He was sorely mistaken.

The problem was that he didn’t know what to do with his damn hands. Before, when they packed up their office and headed to their respective vehicles, he would guide her out in front of him with a hand placed in his spot at the small of her back, locking the door behind the two of them. While that had been an unconscious gesture before, now it felt deeply possessive and wholly intimate.

Far too intimate for a man about to take a woman on a first date .

It didn’t help that now he knew he knew there was a little freckle right in that spot that he couldn’t help but picture every time he glanced at her back. So he just shoved them in his pockets and used his shoulder blade to hold the door.

Space, too, was never an issue before, and he had never considered how much he invaded hers. Not until he leaned over to flick the lightswitch off and found himself practically nose to nose with her. She froze, wide eyed, as he backed away slowly, like she was a woodland animal he didn’t want to scare off, mumbling an apology.

They stood just a little too far apart on the elevator, Mulder choosing to stare at his own shoelaces instead of chancing a glance over at her. They exited into the parking garage and eventually she broke the silence before they got stuck staring off at license plates and cement walls.

“Do you want to drive? Or can we walk?” she asked. He considered the options. If he drove he could focus on the road instead of the incessant thoughts swirling through his brain regarding the fact that she had to wear a turtleneck today because of him. But his ever growing need for a drink made him lean towards the walking option. And he was worried that at the rate today was going, opening her car door may result in a trip to the hospital.

“Lets walk”

-

They started talking about a case on the walk over, bitter winds making it easy to keep their hands in their pockets, and he guesses arguing over the implications of seemingly random asphyxiation was much better than silence.

She was in the middle of explaining to him how the collapse of the trachea that she had seen in the autopsies could not have been caused without a physical crushing of the neck when they walked in the restaurant. He walked up to the hostess desk to check in with her following closely behind.

“Reservation for Fox Mulder” he said to the girl, and pretended not to see Scully’s cocked eyebrow at the fact that he’d had reservations ready. She didn’t need to know he made them as soon as he’d left on Saturday.

The hostess looked up at him and glanced back to Scully and smiled broadly.

“Of course! Right this way Mr. and Mrs. Mulder”

She turned to lead them into the restaurant and Mulder turned to cock an eyebrow at Scully who rolled her eyes, although he spotted a smirk before she tucked her head to her chest and playfully pushed him forward to follow the hostess to their table. He tossed his hands up in mock surrender and weaved through the tables, eventually being seated at a small table near the back. He went to pull out her chair for her but wasn’t quick enough, and his hasty retreat resulted in him getting caught in an awkward dance with the hostess as he spun around the table to his own chair. He would have sworn she was laughing at him if he hadn’t been so busy apologizing to the young girl.

They barely had time to get settled before the hostess was replaced with their waiter, who introduced himself as Brandon and got to taking their drink orders.

“And what can I get for you and the misses tonight sir?” he asks with a smile, and this is just great, Mulder thinks, before smirking across the table at Scully and replying.

“Me and the wife will both have gin and tonics. Well is fine.”

Scully kicked him in the shins under the table, and he covered his grimace with a brilliant smile that Brandon seemed to buy, as he left the table to get their drink orders in. He turned back to see Scully glaring at him.

“‘Me and the wife’, Mulder?” she asked, and he was almost scared for a second before he saw the hint of a smile gracing her lips, and he knew he was in the clear.

“Just trying to see if I can get that honeymoon discount Scully”

She rolls her eyes again to herself and he recalls something his mother used to say about your eyes getting stuck like that. He thinks if that saying had any truth Scully would have found out by now.

They stare down at the menus placed in front of them, a much more comfortable silence than before. He decides on the steak special too quickly and ends up watching her as she intently scans the soup and salad portion of the menu. He studies her features in the low light of the bar, how she brushed little strands of hair back behind her ear when they were in her way, how she licked her lip when she was concentrating. She was breathtaking even when she wasn’t trying to be.

The waiter returned and set their drinks in front of them, both politely nodding in thanks as Brandon began taking their order. She orders a southwest salad with chicken and he orders the steak and Brandon smiles and promises their meals will be out shortly.

And so they are left, open and vulnerable, without menus or desks to use as shields. Mulder nursed his gin, letting the dry taste of alcohol distract him from the beauty of his company. He could see her doing the same, her eyes flicking around the room looking for anything mildly interesting. He followed her gaze to the table next to them, where a couple sat hand in hand, gazing at each other overtop of half eaten meals.

Maybe he should try to hold her hand?

He looked back at Scully and caught her staring at him. Probably waiting for him to say something. He was also anxiously awaiting his next move.

Who was he kidding? He had no moves.

He thought back to first dates he’d had before. It had been a while, longer than he’d prefer to admit. It’s probably why he was so out of practice. But with those women, it had always been different. He would ask them about their families, their careers, what they watch on TV, normal stuff. Scully has a mother, two brothers, one sister that he took away, she’s the best forensic pathologist the FBI has seen in years, and she’s recently gotten into watching those discovery channel specials on ocean animals.

“So you don’t think the asphyxiation could have been spontaneous”

Work is safe. Work doesn’t involve awkward first date questionings that he already knew the answers to. If they talked about work maybe he could convince himself that they were just out in the field, grabbing dinner after a long day of investigation, not that he was stuck sweating through his shirt on a first date with his dream woman.

“I’m just saying there have been no recorded cases of the trachea collapsing in on itself spontaneously. Given the amount of internal trauma…”

“But your report stated there was no visible external trauma,” he interrupted. “Tell me Scully, what are the typical injuries related to strangulation?”

There was a glint in her eyes when he challenged her and he could tell she was much more comfortable with this line of conversation. She’d always take him up on an excuse to fire those incredible grey cells of hers.  

“Well, strangulation typically results in petechial hemorrhages along the neck and in the face, possible lacerations to the throat or surrounding areas. You’ll see bulging of eyes, discoloration of the face due to blood pooling, the tongue can sometimes be bitten or even swollen itself, and-” she was cut off by a grunt from the table next to them, and both of them turned to the couple they had been watching before, who were now looking over at them horrified, the woman seeming like she’d rather vomit than touch any more of her own dinner. Scully shrunk down into her chair and Mulder apologized for the two of them, letting out a frustrated sigh.

So that’s a no-go on the work talk. Come on Mulder, think. What do women like on first dates? They like to be complimented. You should compliment her.

“You look nice.”

She looked up at him like he’d sprouted a second head.

“Mulder I’m wearing my work clothes. The same clothes I’ve been wearing all day” she spoke slowly at him and he wished there was a window nearby he could hurl himself from.

“Yes, um. They’re nice. Your work clothes” he fumbled, speaking with the grace of a hippopotamus attempting ballet.

“Thank you? Um… you look nice… as well.”

The words left her lips and she flamed red up to her ears. Quickly she snatched up her drink and swallowed the remainder of what was in the glass. He followed suit. Maybe if Brandon came back he could just ask him to bring the whole bottle to their table. Clearly they both needed the catalyst. She was still blushing when he put the glass down.

If his profiling skills were to be trusted, which they often are, she was mulling over the same question that he was.

What the fuck are they doing?  

Going out, sleeping together? Were they tossing away 7 years of partnership for...what? To crawl into bed with each other? Satisfy carnal urges that could no longer be suppressed?

No that felt wrong. This wasn’t just a simple fuck, sex without feelings. He certainly had been feeling a lot that night.

So then what? To take her on dates? To make her as happy as she’d made him all these years? To make love to her? Is that what this is? Love?

Does love make you incapable of coherent speech every time you gaze into her eyes for a little too long? Does love make you want to pull out chairs and order drinks for her? Does love render you an absolutely smitten idiot?

Yes .

Well then, if that's what this is, he better get his shit together.

He reaches over to her and grabs her hand that had been tapping anxiously at the table cloth, his chair shifting and making a loud screech that draws the attention of some of the other customers. He feels her jump as their skin makes contact, almost tipping out of her chair herself, shaking the table and she anchors herself with her other hand. It's ridiculous that just 2 days ago he’d been on his knees worshiping her and now she jumps when he touches her hand. It’s all ridiculous, awkward, by far one of the worst first dates he’s ever been on, but god he loves her.

She meets his eyes and it's too much. They burst out laughing, both of them, him still clutching her hand, her reaching across the table with her free one to grasp his forearm. The laughter almost brings tears to his eyes, and he’s positive the couple next to them is starring in disapproval again, but he couldn’t care less because they’re both the most relaxed they’ve been all day. She has her head tossed back and he watches in awe as she laughs with him. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

Eventually their laughter subsides, and he squeezes her hands to bring her back to him, speaking softly.

“I’m sorry I’m so bad at this.”

She chuckles again, aftershocks of their outburst before.

“No Mulder, I should be apologizing. It’s me who’s been so awkward all day”

She grips his hands tightly, like she was trying to enhance the meaning behind her apology.

“It takes two to tango Scully,” he jokes, hoping maybe if he can get her to laugh again she’ll forgive him.

She does.

“I’m just glad you haven’t given up on me yet.”

At this she raised an eyebrow in feigned shock.

“What, and just walk out on a free dinner?” she jests, and he didn’t know he could love her more.

“Now Scully, you and I both know what happens when the man buys his woman dinner…”

He waggles his eyebrows at her and she giggles again. Maybe the gin was getting to her. He hoped that maybe it was just him.

“Agent Mulder you should know that a lady never puts out on a first date.”

She was teasing him now, with that soft smirk and those flirtatious eyes, and he felt the toe of her shoe tap the front of his shin gently.

And just as he feels like reaching across the table and pulling her in for a kiss, Brandon makes his untimely entrance with their entrees.

“Enjoy,” he says with a wave and retreats back to the kitchen. Scully happily dives into her salad and a disappointed Mulder cuts his steak. The reviews on this place must have been correct, because she is humming contentedly by her third bite, clearly satisfied with her choice of dinner. He made a mental note to look into other restaurants in the area with stellar salad reviews.

The awkwardness seemed to dissipate as they ate. He pretended not to notice her shuffling tomatoes onto his plate and stealing bits of his mashed potatoes back. Eventually when he had eaten his fill, he rotated the plate in her direction, gesturing towards the unfinished potatoes. She acted innocent for a second before scooping a forkful into her mouth. Brandon refilled their drinks but neither felt the call of intoxication any longer. He was perfectly happy getting drunk off of love.

Love .

He wondered when he would tell her. How would he tell her? He wondered if she loved him.

But he wiped a spot of chipotle lime dressing from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and she looked him dead in the eyes and sucked his finger between her perfect lips, releasing it with a pop and instantly returning to the shy smile that she wore better than anything.

He decided that conversation could wait, for now.

At least until the second date.

[gothic-safari-clown]

The Mind’s Power Over the Body

Part 19: Hands Off

Story summary: They only ever had each other. It had been that way since high school, ever since Elianna transferred to dreary Arlen and took Jonathan under her wing. They go separate ways for college, and when they're reunited at Arkham Asylum professionally, Elianna comes to find that they've both changed during their time separated. Can she look past the promise of danger and stay by Jonathan's side as they slide further and further into the darkness while she grapples to come to terms with the truth about herself? Can she accept what needs to be done in order to hold onto the only person who holds any meaning in her life? This is a very self-indulgent AU that draws from several different canons of the DCU and ignoring others, starting in the Batman Begins Nolanverse. This will follow the plot of the movie, although the timeline has been very slightly tweaked.

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13 / Part 14 / Part 15 / Part 16 / Part 17 / Part 18

Word count: 2587

TW for self harm

"So you're tellin' me absolutely nothin' is goin' on between you two?" Between sessions, Harley had come to visit Elianna in her office for a chat. "Aren't you still staying at his place?" It seemed that the blonde still had yet to give up on the idea of El and Jonathan together; the only difference now was that she had ended up being right (a fact that the redhead had made sure to remind him of as they laid in bed catching their breath the day before. He hadn't found it quite as funny as she did).

"Yeah—wait, how did you know that?"

"I was pullin' into the parking lot behind you guys this mornin'."

"Uh-huh, we drove separately, stalker." El quirked an eyebrow with an expectant smile.

"Right, so you just happened to arrive at the same time? Just 'cause you didn't take the same car doesn't you're not comin' from the same place."

"Alright, alright," El laughed. "He's got some errands to run after work, so I promised to make dinner."

"Aww," Harley exaggerated the syllable, knowing it would get under her friend's skin.

"Oh, cut it out." El rolled her eyes and scoffed. "I already told you, nothing is going on." The blonde just laughed in response. "Hey, how's your big case coming along?"

As Harley enthusiastically began to tell whatever she could about her sessions with the self-named Poison Ivy, El used the distraction as an opportunity to recall the day before smugly to herself.

Already, the recent change in their relationships had its ups and downs. On the one hand, it almost seemed like a dam had burst; their dynamic flowed more smoothly, and for her part, she felt as though a weight had lifted from her shoulders. On the other, when he had told her that morning that he had to oversee the handling of that night's delivery personally (since Batman had effectively put Falcone out of commission), her usual worry for his safety had doubled.

Something that Elianna and Jonathan had in common was a lack of experience with real relationships. As such, they shared a sense of profound importance in regards to the new arrangement. It would take some work to balance the now heightened concern they held for each other.

Meanwhile, Jonathan was in his office trying in vain to occupy his mind by shuffling through the stack of administrative paperwork that the warden's office couldn't be bothered to sort through before sending it to him. Between the unexpected hitch in the master plan and trying as hard as he could to not think about El (on that count, Scarecrow was actively working against), he was struggling to make it through even the very basics of his job.

At that moment, for example, he was grappling with his schedule for the day. Falcone had been taken to Blackgate and apparently had been asking to see him for a few days. Jonathan had been putting off visiting the mobster since he had found out; he had been caught by a civilian in a cape and a mask; what could he possibly have to discuss with such a disappointment to the underworld? Today, however, he had received word that the older man had cut his wrists, and the administration at Blackgate had sent for him specifically.

As if that weren't enough, he had already had to clear his schedule for that night to oversee the shipment, given that Falcone was now indisposed.

There was no getting around it, though, he supposed, and found himself back in the car en route to Blackgate. However, the drive wasn't nearly long enough for Jonathan to quell his frustration in Falcone's incompetence, and before too long was meeting with the mobster's caseworker.

"Doctor Crane, thanks for coming." There was a thinly disguised urgency in her voice as she greeted him.

"Not at all," he replied, barely remembering to keep his tone patient. "He cut his wrists?" How irritating it was to fake concern.

"Probably looking for the insanity plea," well, at least the woman was pragmatic, "but if anything should happen..."

"Of course, better safe than sorry." He nodded as they approached the door to the private room that Falcone had been brought to. With that, the caseworker unlocked the door to let Jonathan in and let the door swing closed behind him.

Falcone didn't skip a beat. "Hey, Doctor Crane, I can't take it anymore. It's all too much; the walls are closing in, blah blah blah," the old man rambled dryly. "Couple more days of this food, it'll be true." Jonathan found himself steeling himself against the urge to let Scarecrow come out as he settled into his chair.

"What do you want?"

"I want to know how you're gonna convince me to keep my mouth shut." The ego of a powerful man is truly something indigestible, isn't it?

"About what? You don't know anything about the operation."

"Maybe not specifics, sure, but I know you don't want the cops to take a closer look at the drugs they seized. I know about your experiments with the inmates of your nuthouse." Jonathan listened and watched as patiently as he could as the tiresome man continued to talk. "See, I don't go into business with a guy without finding out his dirty secrets." At this point, Scarecrow was banging against the proverbial walls of their brain, desperate to retaliate. "Those goons you used. I own the muscle in this town. Now I've been bringing your stuff in for months. So whatever he's planning, it's big. And I want in."

Can you believe the balls on this guy? Let me out, Jonny.

Not yet; he still doesn't have a leg to stand on.

"Well, I already know what he'll say. That we should kill you." Just because we haven't yet doesn't mean that we won't, old man.

"Even he can't get me in here. Not in my town." Jonathan was growing tired of this conversation very quickly.

"Your town." The psychiatrist repeated, not a question—a mockery. The older man's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Oh, did I forget to ask? How rude of me, I forgot the most important part. How is your little lady friend from the asylum?" here the mobster leaned in threateningly, "Does she know what you're doing? What's gonna happen to her once you go down, I wonder. Maybe I'll send some people to make sure she's not alone, huh?"

Now that caught Jonathan's attention. The rest of Falcone's little threats were easily avoided; even he didn't have the power to endanger Ra's Al Gul's plans. He did, however, have the power to have unspeakable things done to Elianna. That would not stand.

Jonathan made his decision from there quickly. Scarecrow was overjoyed that El had been brought into the discussion, knowing that Jon would have to take it seriously, and was raring to be in control.

Jonathan sighed and removed his glasses, hearing the straw man begin to cheer in the back of his mind. "Would you like to see my mask?" He asked, opened his briefcase without waiting for an answer, popped open the false bottom, and reached for the mask, ignoring the several full syringes waiting to be used. He had added a new rig to the case, and it was as good a time as any to test it out. "I use it in my experiments. Now, I'm probably not very threatening to a guy like you," he continued, holding up the mask for emphasis, "but these crazies? They can't stand it."

With that, he made to put the mask on and let Scarecrow take over.

He could barely hear Falcone's quip about the nut taking over the nuthouse over the ever surreal feeling of taking the backseat in his own brain.

Once his face was secured, Scarecrow took great pleasure in pressing the button to release the cloud of toxin. The screams of terror began almost instantaneously, much to his delight, and he rose from his chair to loom over the mafioso.

"They scream, and they cry," he teased with menacing glee. "Much as you're doing now." Jonathan allowed Scarecrow a few more seconds of enjoyment before regaining control. They still had to leave undetected, and Scarecrow couldn't be trusted to be professional. As much as Jonathan enjoyed hearing the man who had dared to threaten El scream, he was more trustworthy when it came to subterfuge.

"Well, he's not faking," Jonathan cleared his throat as he reentered the hallway, greeted by the caseworker's concerned face. "Not that one." He was still a bit flustered by the rush of inflicting such horror upon someone. Move on, Jonathan, act normal. It was a bit of a blur after that, promising to talk to the judge and get Falcone transferred to Arkham before making his way back to the Asylum himself. He still had a few patients to see before he could punch out to oversee the shipment that evening.

However, once the rush wore off, Jonathan found his mind wandering back to what Falcone had said about El. Who knew what he could have told his people already? He stopped by El's office before returning to his own and was surprised to find her no longer there. A quick phone call to the secretary at the front desk told him that she had already left for the day—another phone call to find that her cell phone was dead.

Shit.

Jonathan forced himself back to the matter at hand, telling himself that she was fine, but the lingering worry stayed in the back of his mind.

For about an hour and a half at least, when he decided that he was done with work for the day. The sooner he could take care of business, the sooner he could rush home to make sure she was there.

In the car on his way to the meeting site, Jonathan tried calling her again to no avail.

I really need to get a home phone for the apartment; he cursed to himself.

He found himself unable to focus on the task at hand as he parked his car and got into the one being driven by the goons provided by Falcone. Any of them could have received orders at any point to take El, hurt her, anything. He had no way of knowing if instructions had already been given or what liberties were allowed should anything happen to her.

Behind his impassive expression, Jonathan was operating almost solely on autopilot, getting out of the car and entering the old apartment that served as a drop point. This one had already been used twice before, and given how close the end date was, he had already decided to eradicate any and all evidence once the job was done.

He looked disinterestedly over the pile of stuffed bunnies, appraising the shipment's size, doing quick calculations in his head to the best of his ability. After concluding that it was, in fact, the correct amount, he gestured to the goons to retrieve the substance from inside of the toys. "Get rid of all traces."

Jonathan couldn't help the disgusted look around the dilapidated apartment. He couldn't think of anywhere he wanted to be less at that moment. Distracted by the sheer quantity of distasteful thoughts swirling in his mind, he was almost startled when Scarecrow spoke suddenly.

There's someone else here.

That statement froze all other concerns as he tuned in to his environment. He barely registered one of the thugs telling the others to torch the apartment as he noticed a prickling on the back of his neck, as well as the open window.

Jonathan remained calm and in control as the other men began to douse the furniture in gasoline while he moved to examine the window.

Are you sure?

Before the straw man could answer, the sound of shattering glass from the other room stole Jonathan's attention from the window.

Yes, came the smug response. Wasting no more time, Jonathan let the other goon move to investigate and instead moved into the shadows to retrieve his mask.

You're up again, Scarecrow. Do it fast; we have to get home.

Yeah, yeah, you've been annoying me for hours; she's fine. Would you shut up about it? Retaliated Scarecrow as he forced Jonathan out of the driver's seat and took over, relishing in the drama of wearing his face again.

That moment didn't last for very long before his suspicions were confirmed, and the Batman himself burst into the room, swiftly incapacitating the leftover thug. Luckily, Scarecrow's reflexes were just as fast, and he released a cloud of toxin from their sleeve rig, which hit the caped crusader squarely in the face.

The effects were almost instantaneous, judging by the wide eyes behind the cowl and the erratic, flailing movements. Scarecrow stifled a laugh as the armored man toppled backward away from him.

"Take a seat," he taunted, thoroughly enjoying his playtime, "have a drink." Here he seized a bottle of vodka abandoned by his now useless goons. The staw man snarled mentally, understanding Jonathan's intolerance of incompetence. They would be eradicated along with the evidence of their crimes. Splashing the booze on the caped man in delight, he continued to tease him.

"You look like a man who takes himself too seriously." Scarecrow abandoned the now empty bottle and replaced it in his hand with a zippo lighter that El had left in their pocket.

Wait, she loves that thing-

We'll buy her a new one, pipe down.

He had corraled Batman in front of the window and sparked the lighter, extending it in front of him menacingly. "Do you want my opinion? You need to lighten up." With that, he tossed the lighter, which ignited the caped crusader and the old rug in seconds.

This allowed them a swift escape, as Batman threw himself out the window and plummeted with the rain onto the pavement several stories below. Wasting no time, Scarecrow had them outside and in the getaway car. Luckily, there was a spare key in the visor, and they sped down the street in the direction of where they had left their car.

Slow down! We're attracting attention; we don't need that.

You're the one who's been bitching about getting home for the past few hours.

Not letting up for a second, Scarecrow turned a fifteen-minute drive back to Jonathan's car into a five-minute one before finally retreating to his place in the back of their mind. Of course, on principle, Jonathan was still irritated with Scarecrow for behaving so recklessly, then leaving him to deal with any potential consequences. Still, he was glad for the saved time.

By this point, Jonathan was so frenzied with panic about El's wellbeing that he couldn't even think about their own run-in with the Batman. Still ten minutes away from home, he tried to call her cell once again. Still no answer.

Why the fuck won't she pick up?

Scarecrow didn't respond, finally picking up just how agitated the whole situation had made his counterpart. Best not to rile him up further.

Jonathan nudged the car faster. Only a few minutes away, but it felt like forever. He was so frantic to get home and see Elianna safe that he couldn't even think of what he would do if she weren't. No game plan, not even a shadow of one because she's okay. Or so he kept telling himself.

[foster-the-world]

“What are they going to do with a baby?”

Visit with the parents went well, I think. They were nice. They are my age - when our other two parents were half my age. They are very tall which explains why baby boy is 8.8 pounds and still 10 days away from his due date! They didn’t wear masks - which is the caseworkers fault. I can understand not wanting to wear a mask around your newborn who you haven’t seen since he was born a month ago. They did the visit in the main seating area and masks are the agencies official rules. I have decided to let it go. They were kind and thanked me for taking care of him. When handing him back she said here “go to your other mom.” Which made me sad.

I think we got a dud of a caseworker. She came to our house once. Then never responded to any of my emails or phone calls. I was trying to get him a doctor’s visit so not like it was frivolous request. Finally someone else took care of it. It was 12 days from placement and he came from the NICU. Not okay. She told us today was a “parent to parent” visit where the parents meet us. Instead she took the baby bag from me and told me to wait outside. I totally understand the parents should get to spend time with their baby without me but you told me I needed to be there. If things change just let me know. Also, you can ask when he last eat, how he is doing, etc. When picking him up I went over and introduced myself. I know this is 100% not about me but I figure they would at least want to know my name. I had to ask what the visit schedule was. She said just once a week for an hour because “He is a baby. What are they going to do with him.” Which is the exact opposite of what I’ve heard about what they do for newborns in care. If they are going to get him back they need to bond with him. The first time the caseworker saw us she told us to plan for adoption. They parents had not even had a chance to show up for a visit. Thank goodness we know that’s not how this works + support reunification. Anyway, bad caseworkers aren’t a huge surprise. 

No idea which way this case will go and mostly not thinking about it. I’m not sure how long that will last but for now feeling mentally in a good headspace. I’m glad they came. I hope for him they get safe. I have zero control over any of it. For as long as he needs a home we are happy to have him here. In our first case I spent way too much time worrying about what was happening, what the mom was doing, etc. This time I’m trying to remember its not really my business. I support baby boy and by extension his parents in anyway we can. The rest has to be let go.

I’m impressed by how much my 3 year olds seem to get that the baby is only here until his parents can get safe. Again that could all change but for now they are being super Big Sisters + I think the would understand if he left. 

[broken-clover]

AU-gust Day 12- Modern

Here comes a joker! I really did like the idea of a crime au, but I just couldn’t come up with anything. So here’s something I’ve been wanting to make for a while, kinda inspired by an ask I got from Rex way back when. I just liked the idea of Axl being Bedman’s adopted dad, I thought it was neat!

Also apologies in advance for me using my name headcanons again, it’s just so difficult to work with a character whose name is ‘Bedman.’ Seriously, does he have a less bizarre name in canon? Who the fuck would name their kids ‘Delilah’ and ‘Bedman?’ Guess we know who the favorite was...

“I don’t like you.”

Axl wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he first signed up for the local foster program. Well, he sorta did. Ideally, he’d expected to be tasked with taking care of a child, with whatever bizarreness it would entail. He knew he wasn’t exactly what a lot of people would consider ‘prime material’ for a foster parent- he was an unmarried twentysomething with no clear direction on where he wanted to go with his life, but he was financially stable, passed all the agency’s legal checks and drug screenings, and attended every mandatory pre-service class alongside a small crew of other aspiring parents. Despite his best efforts, he always got the impression that the agency took issue with him being there. Still, Axl did everything he was told, waited patiently, and chatted with his assigned caseworker until they had found a match for him to try out.

Matthew had come with a ratty purple backpack, a seemingly-permanent scowl, and a laundry list of behavior problems tacked onto his case file. Axl wasn’t his first foster parent, he’d already gone through nearly a dozen, all of which had sent him back. The reasons varied, from destroyed appliances to constant verbal fighting. And he made it clear right from the get-go that he despised his new foster home just as much from the first words he uttered.

“I don’t like you. Send me back.”

It seemed nobody really knew where the origin of his ire was. Being pushed back and forth through the foster system again and again for years seemed like a perfectly good reason to be cross, at least in Axl’s opinion, but the way the orphanage and his agent had spoken about it made it sound like Matthew was born with a scowl on his face and just didn’t know how to take it off. They seemed surprised by the concept that he was even being placed in another foster home. The repeated failures and inability to get along with anyone seemed to indicate that he was doomed to take the slow path, waiting a few more years until he turned 18 and aged out of the system on his own.

In spite of their initial rough meeting, Axl did his best to welcome him warmly. He’d set up and painted a room ahead of time for his new family member to live in, acquired all the legal documents he needed for everything from school enrollment to medical files, and stored up a plethora of dad jokes that he could use as he needed. Matthew was unimpressed with all of them.

“I hate this place. When are you sending me back?”

For all the snarky comments and indifference he could manage, Axl didn’t budge. He was patient. He would keep trying.

Though he only knew so much about him from his case file (Matthew despised small talk, and Axl didn’t drag him into it), he’d done his best to support the interests he saw. He bought the science books he noticed the boy staring at in the shop windows, and trying to pick out new cartridges for the game system he barely let out of his sight. He seemed like the intellectual type, reading college-level books on social sciences and linguistics, and he preferred strategy games over any other kind. Axl wasn’t much of a bookworm himself, maybe that’s what made it so difficult for them to connect. But even if he couldn’t match him on an intellectual level, maybe he could still do so on a more personal one.

So he stayed patient.

“Why are you being so stubborn…?”

Axl could tell he was at least getting somewhere. They didn’t exactly have casual time together, not really, but he wasn’t immediately shooed away. Matthew could play his games, or read a book, and Axl could sit on the other side of the room. Every time, he inched closer and closer, until the only option left was for them to sit on the same couch.

“Heya, Mattie, mind if I sit down for a sec?"

It had been a quiet evening, not especially remarkable in any way. Just another day of work and school for the both of them, and free time afterward to unwind.

His son glanced up at him, but only for the briefest of moments. “You have more than one chair.”

“Yeah, but I just wanted to sit with you today. Is that okay?”

“...Fine. But don’t touch me.”

Axl sat himself down on the other side of the sofa. “So...how was school?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

The sheer speed of his response threw him off-guard. “Well, okay. Um, did I already tell you that I like the neat thing you’ve got going on with your hair?” He pointed towards the boy’s messily-dyed purple locks.

“Eight times. Nine now.”

“You do it yourself?”

“In my last house’s bathtub.”

“Must’ve been a right mess! But it looks like it turned out good?”

“It was. My foster mom was mad about the mess I made. So she wound up screaming at me over it. And I screamed back. And before I knew it, she sent me back. It’s on my case file, I thought you said you read it.”

Axl felt his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. Well, open mouth, insert foot. He had read it, multiple times, but all it had listed was ‘confrontational issues and repeated arguments.’ He’d wondered exactly what that had meant, but actually figuring it out made him feel the exact opposite of satisfied.

“...Oh. Sounds like a right bitch.”

“She was. Can you stop asking questions now? I’m bored of them.”

He complied, though the ensuing silence only made everything feel more uncomfortable. He just didn’t get why some people screamed at their kids, mistakes just happened sometimes. Children were still learning how things worked, it seemed natural sometimes it would end in a mess.

“Hey.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“And I’m not gonna make you.” Axl stayed where he was. “Is it okay if I talk, though? You don’t have to say anything back.”

No response. But he didn’t get up and leave, like he had done in the past, so Axl took it as a cue to keep going. “I know you’re probably not gonna like me right away. And that’s ok. I’m still a total stranger, and you’re just expected to trust me to look after you. And I’ve seen all your paperwork, but that doesn’t mean I know anything about you as a person. We’re still strangers, the two of us.”

He paused. Matthew looked unfazed. “So I get it. I really do. I’m…” Axl tried to think of what he wanted to say. “I...

I’m not sending you back.”

Still no response. But Axl noticed the way his hands locked, and the little startled double-blink that came with it.

“If we’ve got issues, we can work ‘em out. I know you’ve been through a lot, so it’s ok if you have a rough time at first. And I’m not gonna throw you out as soon as you have a hard time. I totally get it. You’re not a bloody dog, I’m not gonna pretend like I can tame you with treats until you do whatever I tell you. There’s just some stuff we aren’t ever going to see eye-to-eye on. But no matter what, you’re my kid now, and you’re not going anywhere unless that’s what you really want.”

Slowly, uncertainly, he watched Matthew close his game and let it rest in his lap. He didn’t look up. “I want to be a good parent. I know I’m new at this, too, so I might fuck up a couple of times. I just want you to know that I’m ready to be your dad, and that means loving you no matter what.”

After another quiet, uncomfortable moment, a small voice piped up. “I’m not good at jokes, but yours aren’t funny.”

“It’s not a joke.” Axl replied. “I mean it.”

“It’s not funny!” It sounded more forceful the second time. His voice grew brittle. “You should send me back. Why won’t you send me back?”

“Why would I do that? You’re all set up in your room, and moving is a pain.” Axl tried to throw in a little friendly chuckle, but it didn't hide the unease in his voice. "Why would you think I would want to get rid of you?"

“I- I’m not-” His tone finally snapped, and his shoulders began to tremble. “I’m no good.”

He found himself hesitating for a moment, but Axl scooted closer, wrapping arms around his shoulders and giving his son a tight squeeze. “Nobody’s perfect. And I wouldn’t want you to be, anyway. I just want you to be you. Whatever that means.”

The two of them simply sat there for a while. This certainly hadn’t been in any of the advice books he’d read, but this was something Axl didn’t mind doing on his own. He just hoped he had expressed what he needed to.

He didn’t even think of letting go until he felt squirming against him. Matthew immediately picked up his game again and flipped it open. No acknowledgement at all. But...no, that was fine. He said he would accept him no matter what he was. If he didn’t like to talk about his feelings, then he didn’t need to force it.

“...help me with this turn.”

“Huh?” Curious, Axl shuffled closer to get a better look at his screen. “Wait, is this the one I got you?”

The boy nodded. “The mechanics are simplistic and the strategy elements are child’s play, but...I’ve had a lot of fun with it.” He tapped at something on his screen. “Alright. So right now my troops are stationed outside the dragon king’s fortress. How should they be organized when we open our assault?”

Well, he wasn’t much of a strategist, but he had no trouble giving it a go, anyway. “Uhh, definitely want to have some long-range stuff, right? So you can hit from a distance. Got anything for that?”

Another nod. “There’s a whole subclass for that, let me show you. There’s archers, a trebuchet, long-distance casters, and demolitionists. Each of them have a different set of stats and energy cost.”

“Why don’t you explain them to me a little more?”

“Sure. Archers have the best cost-to-efficiency ratio, but their projectiles are still on the weaker side. But if you take the trebuchet…”

It was a starting step, he realized, only a small one. But it was still something.