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maymyheartbmyguidingkey · 3 years

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aren’t we a nice pear

you can blame @duelistkingdom for this, not me

Yugi was quickly learning that certain fruits may have been tough to come by during the 18th dynasty - if not non-existent.

His first clue was when he brought a coconut back to the apartment, intending to make his famous coconut curry and sticky rice.

Atem had peeked into his grocery bags, adorably curious (Sugoroku had always done the grocery shopping, and rarely did he ever obtain fresh fruits), and had gasped dramatically, startling Yugi so badly he nearly jumped out of his own skin.

"What? What's wrong? I swear to god, if I broke the eggs -"

But when Yugi swivelled to survey the damage, he found instead Atem holding a coconut aloft, reverently.

His shoulders fell.

"A coconut," Atem hissed. "When father would return from his diplomatic travels he would near always bring coconuts. The juice was divine."

Yugi rolled his eyes good-naturedly and returned to putting away their groceries. "You almost gave me a heart attack over a coconut. What, were they not very popular in your time?"

Atem was silent for long enough that Yugi knew: if he looked back at him right now, he'd be met with an unfairly incredulous stare.

So Yugi turned to him, face resolutely deadpan, finding his prediction entirely correct.

"Yugi, my partner, light of my life -"

Yugi's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.

"- coconuts were an import," Atem said, like it was especially important, clutching the coconut to his chest as if it were a wounded animal. "Only the fabulously wealthy -" he pantomimed tossing hair over his shoulder, "could possibly afford such a luxury good."

Yugi snorted, finding the eggs (thankfully, in good shape) and placing them delicately in their designated spot in the fridge.

"Well you were fabulously wealthy, O dearest Pharaoh, so why are you clinging to it like a starving man?"

"Because coconuts are - what is it Jou always says? It is the most ridiculous - oh yes - lit."

Yugi froze, eyes squeezed shut. "Atem. My world. Dearest heart. Never say that again."

But then his brain buffered. Wait a damn minute -

Eyes comically wide, Yugi said, "Wait. Atem. What kind of fruit did you have?"

Atem pursed his lips, tossing the coconut from hand to hand, resting his elbows on the quartz island between them. "Grapes. I rather liked those. Oh - figs, though I found them too sweet. Nabk -"

“Atem,” Yugi pressed, suddenly desperate, “what’s a strawberry?”

Atem blinked, confused as to how and why the tone of their conversation shifted. “I... suppose I'm not quite sure? When you say the word, an image crops up, but I have not the faintest -”

Yugi was already grabbing his keys. “I'm going back to the store.”

“What on Earth -”

“I’ve been craving cherries anyway. Oh my god, and pomegran - no, wait, you guys had those, right? Pretty sure that was an 8th dynasty thing. Peaches! Pineapple? Holy - I need to learn how to slice a pineapple -”

“Yugi, my love, what is happening right now?”

“Oh, I’m so stupid,” Yugi scoffed, taking Atem by the hand, who squawked indignantly at his self-insult. He dragged Atem hurriedly to the front door, fumbling to slip on his shoes with only one hand. “You can just come with me.”

“Call yourself stupid one more time. I have hands now, Yugi. I can smack you.”

“Why, what better for me to kiss, my dear?” Yugi said, throwing his pharaoh a sly smirk, raising Atem’s knuckles to his lips. Atem’s face flushed a pretty red, and he stared pointedly down at his own backless loafers, grumpily slipping them on.

“Cheeky,” he mumbled, sounding secretly pleased.

☆

“Yugi. Where... what is this place?”

Yugi sent him a bright grin, squeezing Atem's hand where he held it in his jacket pocket. “This, O mighty Pharaoh, is the grocery store.”

Atem gawked at the various signage as Yugi dragged him to the cart well, snatching up a handbasket and promptly making a beeline for the produce section.

“Wait, wait, was that - was that a massive cart to wheel your groceries about in?” Atem asked, incredulous. “How affluent must you be to fill one of those?”

Yugi snorted. “I can't believe I never once brought you to a grocery store. Goes to show how often those lunches from 7/11 saved my life in high school.”

“Oh,” Atem said, staring at the wall of colorful greeting cards as they passed. “Well, this is delightful. It's much like the market, just. Indoors. And with fluorescent lighting.”

“Yeah, you get it,” Yugi encouraged, leaning over to kiss Atem’s temple firmly. “C'mon, this way.”

The produce section was lush today, what with it being a random Thursday afternoon, and Atem was already spotting things he had never seen before but knew the names of (thanks to the brain of a certain now-adult who he had often possessed when he was nothing but a no-name disembodied spirit).

“There! The - what was the word? - strawberries,” he chirped. “What kind of name is that, by the way?”

Yugi squeezed his hand twice, their mutual sign for it’s okay, grab it, holding the basket within Atem’s reach. “Says the guy with nabk. Throw ‘em in there, hot stuff.”

“The -” Atem blanched, holding up a packet of strawberries, confused. “All of them?”

Yugi raised his eyebrows. “Yes? What, you want me to open it and pluck out a single strawberry?”

“Well - wouldn’t - isn’t the whole thing expensive? They seem like they would be expensive.”

“Oh, no,” Yugi slid the basket to the crook of his elbow, swiping up a packet himself and giving the label a read. “Strawberries are one of Japan's biggest exports. Oooh, and I love amaou variety. Perfect for your first try.”

He gently took the packet from a stunned Atem’s hand and dropped both into the basket. Atem sputtered.

“That is - you can just, buy fruit en masse? Affordably?”

Yugi laughed quietly, spotting the pineapples and leading Atem toward them. “Maybe not as cheaply as in other places - we kind of have a thing for designer fruit here. But these packs are only ¥500 each.”

“Only how mu - oh my land, those are horrifying.”

“Yeah, if you’re not used to them, they’re pretty freaky,” Yugi acquiesced, reaching for a piece of the spiky fruit - only for Atem to slap his hand away.

Yugi whipped around to stare at him, bewildered. The look on Atem’s face wouldn’t be out of place beside the dictionary definition of appalled.

“My Yugi will most certainly not be touching the pointy death fruit!” he hissed, gesturing violently toward the pineapples, like his reaction was obvious. “I used to inhabit that body, you know.”

Yugi pressed his lips into a firm line, trying desperately not to burst into laughter.

“Atem. Pharaoh of my heart. My angel,” he whispered, taking a deep breath. “I love you so much. Just - watch this.”

And Yugi - while giving Atem a pointed, amused look - reached again for a pineapple, easily picking one from its perch by its uninviting body.

Atem, perplexed, brows raised in astonishment, stammered. “But - it - you -”

Yugi offered it to him. “It's not a cactus. Its bark is worse than its bite.”

Atem hesitated, but Yugi patiently held the pineapple toward him, nodding encouragingly when Atem met his eyes doubtfully.

And so Atem took it in his elegant, princely hands, brows furrowed in confusion when it did not, in fact, slice him to ribbons.

“But... it looks so evil.”

“Right? But it’s only poke-y. Honestly I just wanna meet the guy who saw one for the first time and immediately thought, “hey, I’m gonna crack this shit open and give it a taste”.”

☆

Yugi created a monster.

They had picked out a few more things for Atem to try, including the promised cherries and peaches (Atem giving a smug “now that is more like it” when he saw the peaches priced at two for ¥1990), but also some things that yugi had realized he took completely for granted: blueberries, kiwis - bananas. God, bananas.

Atem had also discovered that coconut water was sold by itself, in convenient single portions, and had happily trotted off to the self-checkout counter with a case of six, an endeared Yugi in tow.

It had been a week since that fateful day.

Atem sat on their cute little cream loveseat, newly-acquired and much-needed reading glasses on his nose and feet propped up on the matching ottoman, his current read in his lap. He held one of Yugi's many reusable water bottles in his hand, half-full with coconut water, blueberries, strawberries and ice floating prettily at the top. His bottle-holding arm was curled protectively around a bowl precariously perched on the arm rest, where he kept his (perfectly sliced) pineapple rings.

"Living in the lap of luxury, I see," Yugi said, plopping down beside Atem and draping himself directly atop the open book. He gazed up at his boyfriend, mischievous. "Lavish attention upon me as you do your precious books and fruits, O great Pharaoh."

Atem rolled his eyes, plucking a ring of pineapple from the bowl and tearing it in half. Yugi opened his mouth expectantly.

"Who said this was for you?" Atem snorted, popping one half in his mouth. "This is the last of it and you are a brat."

Yugi, as per usual, pouted to get his way. Atem, as per usual, was unable to resist said pout, huffing and presenting Yugi with the other half.

"A brat maybe, but loved by you nonetheless," he cheeked as he chewed.

"Exhibit A. Eat with your mouth closed; you are in the presence of royalty," atem said. "And sit properly, for goodness sake - you'll choke, and I refuse to have that on my conscience."

And sit properly Yugi did - mostly. He slung himself over Atem's shoulders, muttering into his neck, "You know, that's the third pineapple you've -"

"Ananas."

Yugi scoffed. Ever since Atem had Googled the Arabic name for the fruit (an adventure in it's own right), he refused to use anything else.

"Yes, ananas, yet somehow I’m the brat here," Yugi continued, "point being: it's the third one you've decimated this week. We just ran out of bananas, and I think that was the last pack of strawberries, too. I'm gonna go broke."

"This is fine. We can subsist off of fruit alone."

Yugi leaned back and stared into Atem's face, who had gone back to reading his book, unfazed. "You can subsist off of fruit alone. I need meat. Protein."

Atem pulled off his glasses and slapped the book shut, giving Yugi the most skeptical look he’d ever seen. "Yugi. You are a waif."

"Hey! No body-shaming here!" Yugi protested, pulling his legs up and into Atem's lap, again smothering the book. "All the more reason for me to have meat in my diet! I won't survive."

"You know, I used that miraculous thing - Google - and it told me that meat is actually quite bad for you. Did you know that humans only evolved to eat it because -"

Yugi groaned, stuffing his face back into the crook of Atem's neck, his next words muffled. "Google made my boyfriend health-conscious and now I can't have bacon. I'm sending corporate a strongly-worded email."

Atem's quiet laughter was like warm sunshine, and Yugi basked in it, the tell tale thunk of his water bottle being set on the side table music to his ears, as Atem could only be freeing his hand for one reason. He began to stroke Yugi's hair, and if Yugi could purr, the sound of it would reverberate through the entire apartment building.

They fell into a comfortable silence, only broken by the soft sounds of their chewing as they polish off the pineapple rings, Atem more than happy to continue feeding Yugi pieces.

"I may joke around," Yugi finally whispered, like they were the only two who existed in the universe, "but you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'd sell my kidney to buy you whatever you wanted."

Yugi felt a puff of a laugh against the crown of his head; the press of Atem's lips. "No need to go to such extremities, precious one. You are all I would ever wish for."

#katie writes #me? writing?? yeah i still do that sometimes #prolly never again tho lmao i'm exhausted #ygo!#puzzleshipping #fanfic

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jayeray-hq · 3 years

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He's My Best Friend: Sawamura Daichi

As promised I'm back! I hope you like it!

Post Time Skip/Manga Ending Spoilers!

Warnings: none all fluff

Choose your own ending platonic or romantic!

He's My Best Friend Masterlist --- Character Masterlist

Huge thanks to @fuckinuchihas, @beepbytch, and @ohno-otome for beta reading for me!

The Past: How You Met

It had been a lovely summer day, the day you met Sawamura, Daichi. You’d been all of five years old and had been asked to run to the corner store to pick up some eggs and soy sauce. You’d been incredibly proud to be trusted with the errand and had happily skipped down the sidewalk feeling all grown up as you clutched the money you’d need in your small hand.

The female clerk at the shop had been kind and had helped you get the soy sauce down from the shelf since you couldn’t reach it, and then rang up your purchases for you. She’d congratulated you on doing such a good job with your task before sending you on your way back home with a small piece of candy in your pocket as a treat for doing so well.

Excited to return with your purchases and tell everyone all about your adventure you’d rushed a bit too fast, your sandal catching on the sidewalk and sending you tumbling forward on to the unforgiving concrete. Your palms and knees had stung fiercely and your eyes had watered though you furiously blinked back the tears, determined not to cry because big girls didn’t and you most certainly were a big girl.

However your lower lip wobbled as you caught sight of your purchase, which had landed on the ground beside you. The eggs hadn’t survived the fall, most of them cracked and creating a gooey sticky mess all over the inside of the bag and while the bottle of soy sauce was intact it was covered in gunk.

You’d been utterly devastated that you’d failed your task and certain you’d be in trouble for ruining the things that were needed for dinner. To your five-year-old self it had seemed like the end of the world, and you’d sniffled fighting a losing battle with your tears not knowing what to do to fix things.

“It’s okay, don’t cry,” a new voice had chimed in, startling you from your contemplation about how much trouble you were in, “Here!”

You’d glanced up and found a boy about your age peering down at you with concern and holding out a hand.

“M’not crying,” you’d informed him seriously, even as you accepted the hand and let him haul you to your feet.

“You’re not,” the boy had agreed, clearly surprised and impressed, “You must be pretty tough, my little sister would’ve been bawling her eyes out by now. I’m Sawamura, Daichi by the way.”

Appeased by his recognition of your strength you’d introduced yourself to him in turn. Though your brief boost in mood didn’t last long as you stared forlornly at your bag of smashed eggs.

“That doesn’t look so good,” he’d told you, a serious frown on his face.

“I know,” you’d agreed sadly, heaving a sigh, “I’m gonna be in so much trouble.”

“It was an accident,” Daichi had pointed out reasonably, “My mom says accidents happen to everyone.”

“Yeah,” you’d nodded feeling more resolute, and hoping that reasoning would stand once you got home, though you were still a bit worried.

He’d frowned at you, clearly aware you were still worried before brightening up and informing you, “Don’t worry we can fix it!”

“What?” you’d asked, skeptical, aware in all your five-year-old wisdom that it was impossible to fix already broken eggs, “No we can’t.”

“Yes we can!” he’d assured you, grabbing your hand and dragging you off before you could protest.

It turned out that he was absolutely correct. He really could help you fix it, as he led you back to the convenience store. It turned out the nice clerk was his mother, as his family actually owned the store.

She’d cooed over your scraped knees and palms and insisted on helping you get cleaned up. Then she’d helped you get a new carton of eggs and wash off the bottle of soy sauce with Daichi. Just like he’d said she told you ‘accidents happen’ and to ‘be more careful now dear’, which you’d happily agreed to.

She’d then insisted that Daichi would walk you home, despite your protests that you could make it on your own just fine. The two of you had chatted then and you’d learned he lived nearby and had started the same school as you but was in a different class. You’d made plans to play together soon, and as you said your goodbyes at your door you’d passed over the candy his mother had given you in thanks for helping you, solidifying your friendship for the rest of your lives.

The Present: Your High School Days

You huffed as you carefully juggled the books in your hands, trying to free one up so you could ring the doorbell or knock. You didn’t know how long you stood there, too stubborn to just put the books down, especially since the ground was still wet with snow, but luckily the door swung open before you managed to accidentally drop something on your foot.

“Whoa there,” Daichi told you as he gently tugged the stack from your hands, “What’s all this?”

“This,” you told him firmly as you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you and slipping your shoes off, trading them for the house slippers the Sawamuras had bought specifically for you years ago when it became apparent you were going to be a fixture in their lives, “Is everything we need to complete our homework for the next week and a half.”

You nearly toppled over in the process, the heavy backpack on your shoulders nearly overbalancing you, though you managed to catch yourself just in time. You shucked it off your shoulders handing it to the waiting Daichi who grunted in surprise at the weight of it, but didn’t drop it as you slung your coat and scarf off, hanging it on the peg that his little sisters had decorated with your name around the same time they’d started calling you nee-san.

“I thought we were just doing the homework for Monday?” he asked as the two of you made your way to the living room, refusing to pass back the heavy books or backpack despite your silent offer to carry some of the load. Even now years later he was still as chivalrous as the day you’d met him, even if you didn’t particularly need him to be.

“We’re going to be gone all of next week, it makes sense to get as far ahead as we possibly can,” you told him, sliding under the kotatsu and savoring the warmth on your legs, grinning in pleasure as you saw he’d already set out a bottle of your favorite drink and there was a pile of snacks in the center of the table.

“Wait a minute, what do you mean we?” he asked, plopping himself down opposite you and finally handing over the books and papers in his hands.

“We, as in you and I,” you informed him with a teasing grin, “that’s what ‘we’ means.”

“I know what ‘we’ means,” he told you rolling his eyes though you could see an amused smile tugging at his lips, “I just didn’t know you were planning to be absent next week as well.”

“Of course I’m going to be absent!” you scolded firmly, “Didn’t you hear? My best friend is the Captain of the volleyball team that won the Miyagi prefecture tournament, and is going to Nationals!”

Daichi ducked his head modestly, nervously rubbing the back of his head, though not before you’d seen the proud smile on his face. He was right to be proud, and frankly you were proud too. You’d seen firsthand just how hard Daichi had worked for this, slogging through long hours of extra practices, dealing with poor or no coaching, and unmotivated seniors.

You’d seen how the responsibility weighed on him, and been the one he confided in when his hopes were low, been the one to boost him back up as best you could, providing all the support you could manage. He’d worked so hard, and wanted it so badly, and now he was finally going to Tokyo, the National stage, and you couldn’t be prouder of him and the team.

“You really think we’re going to stay for the full week?” he asked you, more hesitant than any of his younger teammates ever saw him. To them he projected an image of unshakable faith and conviction, and you could see all of them, even the more reticent first years idolized him a bit. It was only when he was with you or his fellow third years that he allowed any sort of doubt to show.

“Of course,” you told him, unwavering in your own convictions. The team had worked hard for this, they deserved to spend more than one day at Nationals and you were determined to be there to see them win the whole thing. You believed in him and the team and were willing to do anything it took to be there in support, even convincing your parents to let you skip school for the week and hitch a ride with Tanaka, Saeko risking extreme motion sickness so you could attend in person.

“But first we have to get some work done so you don’t have to worry about anything but volleyball, so let’s get to it,” you ordered firmly, “First step homework, second step win Nationals. You’ve definitely got this.”

“Alright,” he agreed, casting you a fond look before his features settled into determination, quietly murmuring to himself in a voice you clearly weren’t meant to hear, “I’ve got this.”

You smiled, pleased at the conviction in his tone, before turning your attention to the books in front of you. You had a lot of work to do after all.

The Future: Platonic

“There he is the man of the hour!” you toasted, a wide grin on your face as Daichi walked into the bar where you’d been waiting for him for over half an hour.

“Sorry I’m late,” he told you, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly, “There was a bit of an accident and it kept me longer than I thought it would.”

“Everybody okay?” you asked, momentary joviality set aside for concern. Honestly, you probably should’ve guessed that Daichi would go into something like criminal justice. From the moment the two of you had met all he’d ever wanted to do was help people.

You just wished he’d chosen some other profession, one that wasn’t quite so dangerous and didn’t have the bad reputation that police work carried. While it wasn’t as bad or dangerous in Japan as in the U.S, it certainly had its dark underbelly as well.

You knew Daichi, and knew he’d never behave in the brutal ways you’d heard about, but that didn’t mean anyone else did, which made you incredibly worried. Though you were also proud that he was doing his best to improve the things he could, it didn’t make it easy.

“Everyone’s fine,” he assured you quickly, clearly seeing where your mind had gone, “Just a little fender bender. No one got hurt. Though they were quite cranky, which means I could definitely use that beer you promised me!”

You laughed at that and signaled the bartender who brought over a drink for Daichi and a refill of your own drink, which was nearly empty.

“How many of those have you had?” he asked reprovingly, even as he lifted his own drink to his lips and sighed in pleasure.

“Relax Policeman-san,” you scolded, with a huff that was part annoyance, part amused fondness, “This is only my second one and I’m not planning to drink anymore. I am responsible, you know?”

“I know,” he agreed immediately, “Sorry you’re right, still in work mode.”

“That’s alright,” you assured him, “But we’re both here to relax, so let’s talk about something fun and relaxing. Tell me about the Adlers/Jackals game.”

Daichi immediately brightened, always pleased and proud to brag about his juniors, and the game he’d gone to watch with Sugawara and Asahi not that long ago. You listened intently with a grin on your face, and eventually transitioned to talking about the things you’d been up to since you’d last talked.

It wasn’t all that much considering the two of you made it a point to hang out on a weekly basis, and tended to text constantly throughout the week, but it was still nice to hear about it face to face. You were honestly pretty proud of how well you’d maintained your friendship, considering everyone had warned you that a lot of friendships fell apart in college, especially since you’d attended two separate universities.

However, Daichi was ever responsible and had never missed a hangout or a call. The two of you had managed to rely on each other despite the distance. You had set up your now traditional weekly meet-ups back then just to ensure you wouldn’t lose your friendship, which you both knew was something special.

Daichi had been there through every break-up, every stressful life-event, and every meltdown you’d had, and you’d done the same for him. You’d supported him with all your being when he’d come out as bisexual and started dating Sugawara even though his more traditional family had disapproved. Though, considering the two were still going strong five years later, his family had come around to it.

You and Sugawara had also become even closer, though you’d already been friends since both of you considered Daichi your best friend. It was a really nice dynamic and one that hadn’t changed when they’d started dating, both of them ensuring you were still comfortable hanging out with them and making sure you and Daichi got to hang out one on one from time to time.

Usually those times where you hung out with them Asahi was also dragged along. Though whether that was to keep you from feeling like the third wheel, or because both of them were trying very unsubtly to hook the two of you up you didn’t know. Though it was fun all the same, especially since Asahi was a lot of fun to tease.

Looking back you wouldn’t change a thing about your relationship, and you couldn’t be more grateful to have him in your life.

“Best friends forever?” you asked him, raising your glass at him expectantly.

“Forever,” he agreed, knocking his glass against yours, an indulgent smile on his face. One you returned, cherishing the moment, and your friendship that you hoped would last a lifetime.

The Future: Romantic

The end of high school had felt like the end of an era for you, one where both you and Daichi would be going your separate ways, attending different schools in different cities for the very first time. It had been more than a bit daunting back then, and you’d spent a good deal of time wondering if you were going to lose one of the best parts of your life.

It was made even worse by the persistent fluttering of butterflies in your stomach every time you saw him, butterflies you’d tried time and time again to stomp out, not wanting to ruin or complicate the amazing bond between the two of you. However no matter how hard you’d tried they’d persisted, and it had left you very stressed out.

Needless to say, by the time graduation had rolled around you’d been a bit of an emotional mess. Unfortunately you hadn’t actually had the time to have a good heart to heart with Daichi. Between him going to Nationals, the fallout from their loss there, and testing and studying to get into universities while preparing for graduation, there had been very little time for that kind of thing. Not to mention the last thing you’d wanted was to add to his stress or burden him.

However, it had left you a bit at a loss. Your emotional turmoil had led you to one of your favorite benches on the school grounds, one that was going to be surrounded by cherry blossoms in just a few short weeks. You’d spent several long minutes there, staring up at the school and wondering if this would be the last time you’d ever sit in this place.

Luckily, before you’d gotten too melancholic a warm presence plopped down on the bench beside you, and lo and behold it had been Daichi. He’d looked uncharacteristically nervous, and you’d immediately assumed he’d had the same kind of concerns, which had been a relief.

The two of you had made conversation for a couple minutes, but for whatever reason it had been incredibly awkward, neither of you quite sure what to say to the other, something that had rarely happened in the course of your friendship. Somehow you defaulted to the conversation you’d had over and over already that day, talking about the school you were going to and asking some more questions about his, ridiculous small talk, the kind you’d never needed with him before.

It had made your heart sink as you wondered if maybe your friendship was falling apart already, before you even left the school grounds for the last time. You’d been close to tearing up, unable to really fathom what your life would be like without him and doing your best to shove down your feelings that had been threatening to spill out of your mouth, but then Daichi had abruptly cut off the small talk and cleared his throat.

You later learned that Sugawara and Asahi had been hiding nearby, somewhere behind you and had been giving him a signal to just get on with it. Luckily, he did, and he’d proceeded to confess. It had been more than a little awkward and bumbling, but sweet and had made your heart leap excitedly in your chest.

Needless to say you’d returned his bashful confession and had proceeded to kiss the daylights out of him.

The two of you had then gone on to talk about the future together, and how you were going to make, what was going to end up a long-distance relationship, work. The whole time, Daichi had the most amazed expression on his face, like he couldn’t believe it was actually happening to him.

It was the same expression he was wearing today as you made your way down the aisle toward him. Exactly five years to the day he’d confessed to you on that bench at Karasuno, you were finally getting married.

Both of you had agreed it was time. You’d graduated from your programs, and had steady jobs. He’d actually proposed to you the day you’d graduated from college, and now here you were, walking down the aisle towards your best friend who was starting to look a little teary, more than ready to marry your very best friend and start your happily ever after together.

Who would’ve guessed some scraped knees and broken eggs would lead to such happiness?

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#sawamura daichi #daichi x reader #sawamura daichi x reader #JayeRayWrites #he's my best friend #haikyu fluff #daichi sawamura #haikyuu!!#daichi fluff

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higuchimon · 3 years

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[fanfic] Tough Lessons: Chapter 3 [end]

"The Kaiser is making attempts to get your attention, mistress."

Death Rosemon lounged back into the embrace of her favored throne and considered her options. She'd expected something like this ever since that ridiculous child had started his campaign to "take over the Digital World". How little he knew. How much she would enjoy teaching him.

"Has he taken any of my servants captive yet?" She asked at last. Enshoumon shook their head.

"So far it's been nothing but some of his slaves setting up the beginnings of those spires. Your spies indicate he is planning on an attack on a small village tomorrow, though."

Death Rosemon's lips curved for a heartbeat. "Is that so." It wasn't a question. She tapped her fingers for a second before she made up her mind. "This is what I want you to do."

Daisuke tried not to think about how good the wind felt against him as they rode the AirDramon through the skies. V-mon's evolutions didn't include flight, so he'd mostly been a ground-bound fighter. He didn't want to think about where they were going or who he was with. He just wanted to enjoy the flight.

Unfortunately, Kaiser wasn't going to allow that.

"We're almost there. Are you ready?"

Daisuke drew in a steadying breath and raised his eyes to look at his captor. He refused to think of Kaiser as his "master", even if he had to call him that. "I'm ready." He wasn't. He didn't think he'd ever be. He knew what was coming and he wanted nothing to do with it - and if he wanted just the bare chance of spending a couple of hours with V-mon, then he would have to do it.

"I don't believe you are," Kaiser replied, his lips quirked faintly. "But we shall see."

AirDramon started downward. Below, Daisuke could see a small army of Ringed and Spiraled Digimon following along their projected path.

It was a lot more firepower than would really be needed to take on a small establishment - he wasn't even sure if it should be called a village. But Daisuke guessed that maybe the Kaiser expected the other Chosen to show up during this. It wasn't impossible. Though sometimes they didn't get there until after the Kaiser did, and they had to deal with the aftermath.

What would they think when they found out that he'd helped here? Would they understand why? They knew why he was with Kaiser; they'd made this unholy bargain and he couldn't argue with it. He would have died otherwise. Death Rosemon's poison was potent and even now he could feel the faintest traces of it in his veins. Not enough to stop him from doing anything, but sometimes when he paid attention to it, he could feel that fire along his veins.

He tried very hard not to pay attention to it. He remembered quite vividly what it was like before the Kaiser's cure. He hated thinking about that too but he wasn't going to forget that Kaiser had actually helped him. That was why he was here in the first place.

AirDramon landed, and Kaiser and Daisuke stepped off of the Digimon. They stood in front of the wooden palisade, and Daisuke thought he could hear the whispers of the Digimon inside. He pressed his lips together and looked at Kaiser, his stomach churning at what he knew would happen next.

"Tortomon." Kaiser spoke the word calmly as he gestured to the palisade. "Destroy that."

The yellow Digimon surged forward at once, knocking into the wooden structure. A sharp crack echoed, before Tortomon backed up and did it again. Twice more, with cracks reverberating each time, finished the job. The Gotsumon and Elecmon huddled in the back of their enclosure, one or two making an attempt to climb the walls and get out of there. Daisuke didn't think they were going to get very far - he knew that Kaiser had encircled the area with other Ringed Digimon. Those who tried to flee would be captured, just as the ones here would be.

Kaiser strode forward, beckoning Daisuke along. Reluctantly he did so, reminding himself over and over that he'd get to see V-mon for this. Under some circumstances he might not have, even for V-mon. But after that horrid beat-down a few days earlier, he needed to see his partner again.

Damn Kaiser. He kept most of his attention on what was going on in front of him, though, and kept up with Kaiser as they approached the Digimon. So many small, terrified faces staring at him, flickers of hope warring with abject terror. Daisuke worried at his lower lip, even as Kaiser produced an Evil Ring and held it out to him.

"Pick one," he ordered. "And do as you've been told."

"No..." One of the Elecmon whispered, electricity starting to flow over it. Daisuke steeled himself, then quickly threw the Ring out. He would have done anything to avoid it hitting, to make sure this failed, if V-mon and V-mon's safety didn't exist in the back of his mind at all times. But Kaiser's words echoed over and over - as long as he was interesting. If he ever became too dull, then Kaiser would let him go. He couldn't be too dull and not disobedient, though. A fine line to walk and he didn't know if he ever would do it right. He hoped this helped.

What he knew for certain that it did was clamp firmly around Elecmon's throat. Coal-red eyes glowed brilliantly and Elecmon stepped forward, kneeling down before Kaiser. Kaiser gestured briefly to it, before handing more Rings over to Daisuke.

"Get to work." It was the only order that he gave but it was all that he needed to do. Daisuke threw more and more Rings, his stomach churning and his gorge rising. A few of them missed, but the bulk of them landed on various Digimon and clamped hard into place. He fought back tears at the sight, not even daring to think what would happen if he let them flow.

Eventually all of the Digimon had either fled or been Ringed. Most of them Daisuke had Ringed himself. He shook his head and stared at Kaiser. "How can you do this?" He had to know. How could anyone do this, treat living creatures as if they were nothing?

"It's not that difficult. You're just new at this." Kaiser patted him on the shoulder in a horrid mockery of support. "Now, I think you did well enough to spend some time with V-mon."

Daisuke shivered. He wasn't sure if he wanted to let V-mon know what had happened. There wasn't much he could do other than follow Kaiser back onto the AirDramon and stare at the clouds and a few stray Digimon flying away swiftly as they recognized the Kaiser and his conveyance. He had to keep swallowing to make sure no tears made their way down and nothing else made its way up. By the time they got back to the fortress, he thought he was in better control of himself. At least he didn't throw up on the Kaiser's shoes - which he thought might've made him feel a little better. Even if that robbed him of his V-mon time.

Kaiser brought him along to a room in the fortress. There wasn't much to it besides the usual four walls, ceilings, and a floor. Daisuke had no idea of what it might be used for when he wasn't there. But he waited, and before very long, V-mon limped his way into the room, supported by Wormmon. Daisuke darted over to him at once, kneeling down to support him gently.

"I've got him," he murmured to Wormmon, who nodded quickly and backed away. Daisuke paid little attention, all of his focus all on his own partner. There were still bruises and a few healing cuts, but overall, he wasn't as bad as Daisuke had feared he might be.

Even better, he smiled up at Daisuke. "Hey. I heard you're feeling better?"

"A lot better," Daisuke agreed, settling cross-legged on the floor and pulling V-mon into his lap. "Even more now that you're all right. I was worried about you."

V-mon offered a bit of a snort. "Don't worry about me! Nothing that Kaiser can do can hurt me for long!"

Daisuke smiled. Oh, he knew that. Kaiser didn't care about hurting V-mon. He wanted to hurt Daisuke, and he did that so very well. His smile held equal parts sadness and joy. Sadness at knowing this pain was because of him - joy for knowing that he could spend this little time with his partner.

"Are we going home?" V-mon wanted to know. He scrunched up his nose. "I miss my cushion."

"I'll see if I can get you one, but we can't go home just yet." Daisuke sighed, running his fingers over V-mon's head ridges. "Kaiser's not going to let me."

V-mon frowned now, wriggling so he could look better at Daisuke. "What's that got to do with it? Can't we just go now?"

"No." Daisuke reluctantly shook his head. "For one thing, he saved my life. So I have to stay because of that. And - he's got my D-3 and D-Terminal. So I can't evolve you." Oh, if he could. He'd risk so much.

V-mon didn't look too thrilled about that. Neither was Daisuke. He decided not to say anything about wanting to be boring to make Kaiser lose interest in him. He didn't think Kaiser was watching him, but he didn't want to find out otherwise.

So for now, he just relaxed with V-mon and enjoyed himself, his eyes sliding closed. He wasn't taking a nap but he just let his mind wander freely. He wished that they could be anywhere else but here. Laying out in the sun somewhere in the Digital World, or playing soccer somewhere, or sitting in Daisuke's room reading manga together. He'd introduced V-mon to a couple of his favorites and now his partner waited as eagerly as he did for the new chapters.

Very familiar boots clicked into hearing. Daisuke winced; he didn't get up even though he knew that he should. But he waited, waited until he heard that very annoyed throat being cleared, and then he looked up to see Kaiser’s sharp violet eyes glaring at him.

"It can't be over already," he muttered. Kaiser pressed his lips together and nodded, tapping the handle of his whip on his hip at the same time.

"Two hours. Plus an extra ten minutes."

Wormmon wriggled up next to him, eyes shifting between Kaiser and V-mon. If he had anything to say he didn't say it, only started over to V-mon at Kaiser's nod.

"I'm sorry, V-mon," Daisuke whispered, trembling as Wormmon helped V-mon to his feet. "He said I could only have two hours." He'd enjoyed that brief visit so much that he'd never even thought about telling V-mon they had a time limit. "But I'll see you again. I promise."

Kaiser's fingers pressed into Daisuke's shoulder, not quite enough to bruise, but firmly regardless. "You'll see him if I allow it. If you do exactly what you're told."

V-mon tried to shake his head, trying to move away from Wormmon, but whatever energy he'd built back up didn't stretch out that far. Daisuke took a step forward. "Soon," he promised, with all of his heart. "Get better, V-mon, and I'll see you soon, I promise!" He refused to let anything change his mind on that. He would see his partner again and they would find a way to escape Kaiser once and for all.

Far too soon V-mon wasn't there anymore, taken back to wherever he stayed while recovering. Daisuke took a deep breath, fighting back the tears that wanted to spill, and turned to face the Kaiser, who stood back now with arms crossed over his chest.

"What do I have to do to see him again?" Daisuke had never had much shame when it came to asking for things, especially from the Kaiser. Some things just didn't matter.

"I'll let you know when I've decided. But right now it's time for dinner." Kaiser's lips curved ever so faintly. "And for your medicine."

Daisuke winced. Medicine. Dinner. Exercise. The usual round of evening life with the Kaiser. There would probably be lessons, too, and who knew what else Kaiser would come up with to keep him "interesting". He'd never wanted to be boring so much in his entire life and nothing he tried seemed to work.

"Come along," Kaiser ordered, strolling down the hallway. Daisuke followed along, his steps feeling heavier and more reluctant than they ever had. Seeing V-mon both renewed his strength and sapped it at the same time. So very glad to know V-mon was all right and getting better, and yet not being able to get both of them out of there - it just wasn't what he wanted and he saw no way to get what he wanted.

I will get us out of here. He'd renewed that promise to V-mon and now he did it for himself. Whatever he needed to do, he would do. If he couldn't get Kaiser to release him, then he'd find a way to get out with V-mon without that. It might have to wait - he hadn't forgotten that he needed that medicine.

That was it! He practically laughed out loud as the solution occurred to him. All he had to do was wait until he didn't need the medicine anymore. It couldn't take that long. Maybe a couple of days at best. Then he'd be able to get V-mon, get his D-3 and D-Terminal, and get out of there.

That did mean he'd have to find wherever Kaiser had hidden his D-3, D-Terminal, and V-mon before getting out of there. He would do it.

He settled into his place with the Kaiser, ready to eat. Kaiser already had had the meal set out, and he carefully fed Daisuke by hand before eating his own share. Daisuke ate quietly, trying to think of where his items might be. The last he'd seen his D-3 the Kaiser had done something to it, vanishing it into the depths of his cloak. When he had a moment, he gathered up his nerve and caught the Kaiser's eye.

"You have something to ask?" Kaiser wanted to know, eyebrow quirked in that annoying fashion.

"When can I have my D-3 and D-Terminal back?" Daisuke asked, hoping that his question wouldn't anger Kaiser. "What do I have to do to earn them back?"

Kaiser leaned back in his chair. "An interesting question. Do explain what makes you think you ever could."

The words fell on Daisuke's ears like thunder and flame wrapped around one another. His heart skipped a handful of beat and his throat dried up. He swallowed, made an attempt to speak and failed, shook his head to clear it, and tried again.

"Why wouldn't I? I mean - you - you want me to help you, right? But I can't really do that unless I've got V-mon and if he can't evolve, there's not a lot that we can do together." Which he wasn't entirely certain that he believed, but if it got him his stuff back, then he'd lie like a cheap rug.

Kaiser's lips thinned into something that only vaguely resembled a smile. "I wouldn't call that entirely true. You're very useful as an arm-rest all by yourself. And I can assign my slaves to follow your orders - briefly. He smiled again and it chilled Daisuke to the bone. "Within certain limits, of course." He leaned forward to stare down into Daisuke's eyes. "You're not useless without him. It's far more interesting to me to keep you apart. I'm sure you've guessed that by now."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, where he hadn't wanted to think about it, Daisuke thought that he just might have. Kaiser would do whatever interested him and hurt someone else, especially if that someone else were his live-in torment victim. He swallowed, trying to fight against the hard lump that lodged itself in his throat without warning, and clenched his fists together. He managed to work out one more question, one last hope against the despair that threatened in a way it never had before.

"What about the medicine? How long do I have to keep taking it?" He had to know. The way that the Kaiser's smile appeared somehow even more amused than before didn't bode well in the slightest.

"I made that remedy myself once I learned of Death Rosemon's poison. It's very difficult to distill and I really don't think I got it entirely correct." Kaiser mused, so very obviously playing this up. "Obviously I managed to get the part right where you don't die but some of the ingredients are often known to have other effects - such as becoming addictive."

Daisuke started to shake his head. That was all he thought he could do right now. It didn't make sense. It couldn't be. Kaiser was lying. That was the kind of person that he was; the kind who would lie just to enjoy himself.

"Unfortunately, I don't know how many doses it would take to addict someone to the remedy or what the side effects of stopping it would be." Kaiser shrugged casually. "Especially since my only test subjects are Digimon. You are a human. Your reactions to this could be very different. You could be addicted, or get addicted, or not." His eyes gleamed bright and cold and somehow terrifying in a way that Daisuke loathed. "But I'm not going to stop your treatment just to test that."

"Why not?" Daisuke demanded. "I think that's something I would like to know!" He refused to be addicted to something without knowing it.

But Kaiser only smiled. "Because you're more interesting like this. Now open up. It's time for your medicine."

The End

Notes: I have fascinating plans for Death Rosemon and what she intends to do. Ken is not ready for this. And which side will Daisuke pick in the end? I think we all know that, don’t we?

#fanfic #higuchimon writes #digimon adventure 02 #ichijouji ken #motomiya daisuke #ken x daisuke #daisuke x ken #chapters: tough lessons #series: services rendered

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h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e · 5 years

Text

Stains on the Memory [B. Hargrove x you]

Request: @awildkaitlynhasappeared

Inspiration: Disintegration by The Cure

Word Count: 2421 Warnings: profanity and angst.

Written Date: 8/6-24/2019 Posted Date: 8/24/2019

The new Lego set includes too many pieces to count and a manual too difficult for the four-year-old to read. The pictured King’s Castle on the box brings wonder, but not enough for the stubborn boy to stick to the instructions or ask for help. Either way, blocks lock on together by able hands and his imagination runs far too wild to be tamed by boring words and numbers.

It wasn’t playful excitement that had him push past his dad and run past you, with your hands on your hips as your eyes flew from him to Billy, but rather a desperate eagerness to escape what is now taking place on the other side of his bedroom door.

“You forgot Jason in your car for two hours!”

Your muffled words pierce through Jason’s crayola-scribbled bedroom door. That tone in your voice is always reserved just for his father; it’s never been directed at your son even when he’s worn your patience thin by throwing a tantrum when Looney Tunes hadn’t been on TV while your feet were sore from wearing pumps at work all day.

Jason knows that this is only the beginning of an endless night.

The wires in his brain steer him to focus on the Legos he had been begging his parents to buy ever since he’d first seen the commercial on television. He’d asked and asked and asked but the answer was always a prolonged no.

There were far too many excuses his parents would give him that it was tough for his little head to wrap around the truth. The pieces proved hazardous for a child his age, you’d tell him. They weren’t sold in the stores in their town, Billy’d tell him. They were sold out last time you checked and were waiting for a restock, but, in reality, the price had driven you away. Billy simply just hadn’t seen any around―not that he was actually looking.

“Don’t tell me he was safe! You ditched our son to have drinks with fucking Perry!”

But, what had been the truth? After being strapped in with a seat belt with no form of entertainment except for watching strangers stroll by the sidewalk in front of the bar every now and then, Billy had returned to the car with a quick stride and a nervous twitch to his eyebrow. No apology. No explanation to the boy who was promised his father wouldn’t be gone long. Nothing that made any bit of sense except the drive to Target, and finding out that Legoland sets hadn’t been in some faraway land like Jason had been growing to believe and that his father had no problem pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket to pay for it. So why did his parents lie?

The knight figure has quickly become the favored piece as Jason mounts it on a horse, charging it against another figure he decided was the enemy in this private battle. A whoosh pushes past thin lips as the impact between plastic erupts, the enemy crashing against the carpet a few feet away.

Brain waves continue to buzz through his trickling veins in a vain attempt, like palms pumping against a dwindling chest, to keep his spirit from retreating into a cocoon. It seems to be working as the proud digits on his bedside table flick through the evening even though his heart isn’t fully invested in the activity.

“I didn’t mean to―”

“And yet you decided to get behind the wheel with our four year old son while who knows how drunk you were―”

“I wasn’t fuckin’ drunk…now will you keep your fucking voice down?”

Jason doesn’t know that his toy collection is decent at best. He has yet to start Kindergarten, so he doesn’t know many children his age to compare. The only children he knows belong to Billy’s co-workers down at the mechanic shop and yours from the restaurant you waitress at, but even then, most of the kids are too old to want to play with him whenever they visit.

If only he was old enough to read all the clear signs right in front of him. His parents are living paycheck to paycheck, and they just don’t have the heart to tamper his blissful ignorance with such a heavy burden.

“No, because it’s always the same thing with you! Is that what was normal when you were growing up? Butter up the kid with gifts bought with rent money every time your dad screwed up?!”

Small fingers loosen around the knight in matte armor and it’s white horse, falling out of Jason’s clutch. His sleeveless forearms rise past the Hulk logo printed across his chest as his palms cup his ears.

Your rambling is long and far too scrambled for Jason, yet certain words are stressed enough to slither down the hallway, slip through the cracks of the bedroom, and nail your sole pride and joy. Even when he doesn’t fully understand why these words hurt him.

The mention of possible family members who never call nor visit is part of the void that breathes between his fragile shoulders. He only had pictures tucked away under his parents’ bed in some weathered album. The faces had names he often forgot, and some even had titles of relation, but that’s about the extent of the knowledge you indulged him in. It hurt you too much to go any further and explain why your and Billy’s little family lived states away from everyone, but you handle it better than Billy who only ever changes the subject with a flick of his eyes whenever your boy asks about the redheaded women who’re pictured with an older man with a mustache who oddly resembles his father.

The photograph had been hidden in the last page of the photo album in which Jason had discovered on his own after flipping through the empty pages. The expressions of the three mysterious figure are anything but happy, yet the women do not send shivers crawling up his spine like the stern-looking man does. Jason knows he doesn’t like him, whoever he may be.

“Why don’t you just come out with it and say what you really mean?”

Behind the door, with ears taped closed by stiff fingers and eyes sewn shut by quaking muscles, Jason isn’t aware that Billy’s slammed a palm against the kitchen counter, nostrils flared and protruding vein on the side of his jugular, nor that you’ve merely dismissed a flushed Billy with nothing more but the shake of your head and an apologetic frown etched on your weary face.

Jason opens his eyes and drops his fingers, kneading the fibers of the carpet for a moment, when his bedroom door opens and your bare feet slip through the crack.

Standing before him with the doorknob pressed against the lumbar of your spine as your hands rest on the bronze, you don’t look a day over twenty-two, perhaps you even look a little younger. But, not to your son’s untrained gaze. To him, you and Billy look like just any other boring adult who has presumably completed high school, gotten their degree, and are now living their best course.

Instead, you and Billy are thousands of miles away from those who were meant to support and love you unconditionally, family and even friends alike. You both packed up whatever you could fit in the Camaro on a school night, cashed out whatever savings were available, and set out on a journey to Billy’s hometown.

Your knees sink onto the floor beside your little boy and you look at the mess of scattered miniature blocks. When you pick up a stray Lego and attach it to the clump in front of Jason, he speaks up, “Are you taking the toy back?”

“No,” you shake you head, “It’s yours, baby.”

You envelop him in your arms and kiss his curly crown. “This is the one you’ve wanted?” you ask even though you already know by the amount of begging he squeezed out of his lungs the past month.

“Mmhmm,” Jason nods against your sternum.

He pulls away after another second or so, peering up at you through curls that fall over his forehead. “Are you still mad at dad?”

A little bit, you think. Frustrated, definitely. It’s no longer about the money, especially not after walking in on Jason playing with the guilt-tripped gift. Picking up a few extra shifts is worth it if it means you can pull a few more grins out of Jason. But, no, the frustration comes from watching Billy constantly stomp on egg shells when it comes to being a father.

By no means are you a supermom―you’re still learning how to parent every single day―but at least you aren’t forgetting about your precious baby in the backseat of a car just to abandon responsibilities for a few hours. No, you’ve been holding it together since the minute you sat in the passenger seat and Billy shifted the gear back in Hawkins. It just seems that no matter how much you and Jason mean to Billy, it’s in his nature to rebel in some form―even when he knows the guilt is only a step away.

The acts that keep him from conforming into a father he’d wished he had as an adolescent could be something as mundane as bringing home a carton of low-fat milk when you had specifically said two-percent twice before. Billy just couldn’t get it right, and you didn’t know if it was somehow on purpose or not.

Before you could respond to Jason’s question, Billy enters. Ruby no longer rushes up his neck nor speckles across his cheeks in angry splotches.

Billy’s thick eyelashes flutter towards you and Jason, and he knows that you have every right to feel as you do, to yell at him as you did, and walk away before the argument could escalate to places he doesn’t want to imagine. And, he knows that you had just been a hairbreadth away from speaking it into existence, that Billy had inherited some of the qualities that made him hate his own father in the first place. He doesn’t think he could ever handle that.

He kneels down near the two of you, tucks a loose strand behind your ear, and ruffles Jason’s fluffly head of hair. “Hey buddy, you wanna continue reading the Hulk?”

Billy’s never been a fan of comic books, but Jason enjoyed the noises, the voices, and sometimes the acting that Billy did when he read to him. Max had given her older step-brother a few of her old copies before he left as a gift to her future niece or nephew she’d probably never get to know. She’s just another faceless shadow that will haunt every dark corner Jason comes across.

Your boy shakes his head and reaches out for the blocks he had formed to resemble what he thinks is a fort. “I just want to play.”

Jason goes to pick up the knight with the horse as Billy’s fingers caresses your knuckles before holding your hand in his own. Your gaze meets Billy’s, and somewhere in the blue of his pupils he’s apologizing without further dragging Jason into the mess. You nod and give him a small smile, hoping that Billy can see that you’re sorry too.

The King’s Castle box lays on the carpet a few feet away. Billy reaches for it and pulls out the instructions. “You want mommy and me to help you?”

“Yeah!” It’s the best idea Jason’s heard all day.

You glance back at Jason’s clock. It’s almost seven and you haven’t prepared anything since you’ve gotten a call by Gwen who told you she’d seen Jason in the car by himself in front of Stokey’s, Billy’s and his co-workers’ place to meet. By the time you’d gotten there, Billy and Jason had already left. “What about dinner?”

“I’ll call Domino’s in a bit,” Billy says as he reads some of the instructions.

You pinch Jason’s cheek then begin to gather the stray pieces that surround his bent knees. “You wanna help me get all the pieces together, hmm?”

Soon, all the blocks except for the yellow figures lie in a pile between the three of you as Billy begins describing the pieces needed to begin building the foundation of the kingdom.

You both know that there will be more bumps down the road, even Jason knows these moments don’t last forever. In the following years, Jason will realize the truth, in which imperfections haven’t expanded as he’s aged but that they’ve been sprinkled all over his home all along, waiting to finally be uncovered one by one.

Jason’s grin grows when Billy makes the horse gallop, letting out a horrendous neigh in the process and prompting you to jokingly throw a Lego or two at his head.

Happiness envelops the three, but that cannot be said for tomorrow or even next week without spilling a lie. Something will happen to drag everyone down, and it’ll be up to them to build everything up again. But this, this memory is engraved and will forever stay the same among stains that cannot be scrubbed off.

A/N: Boy, I really lagged on this one, but I’d say I’m pretty happy with the outcome. Leave some love.

#Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove imagine #billy hargrove x you #billy x reader #stranger things #st imagine #stranger things imagine #angst #dad!billy

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keishiko · 5 years

Text

refuge

Black Widow joins the men formerly known as Captain America and the Winter Soldier in hiding after the events of “Civil War”.

(because I’m still in denial that “Endgame” has happened 😑)

[Oneshot ~2,000 words | Rated PG-13 | Hurt, Comfort / Romance (Natasha x Steve)] [Revised from an early FFnet piece]

[Part Two here] [Optional companion piece “Into Infinity” here]

A little salt, a lot of pepper. After another look at her notes, Natasha slid a minced onion into the bowl and cracked in an egg, followed by a sprinkle of flour. “The best way to do it is really to use your hands.” His near-whisper teased the fine hairs at her neck. Natasha instinctively tensed as his arm encircled her, but he merely guided her hands with his directly onto the meat mixture. Calloused fingers entwined sensually through hers as she began to knead the ingredients together, hesitant in her inexperience. “Now you don’t wanna overwork it,” purred Bucky in her ear. Natasha felt the heat radiating from his body as he stood directly behind her, all implacable, immovable muscle. “You don’t want the meat to get tough.” Natasha smiled at the memory as she shaped the meat mixture between her hands. The Winter Soldier, smelling of garlic and parsley, passing on to her his grandmother’s recipe. Formerly shooting her through the kidney just to murder the asset under her watch. How times changed. Glancing at the clock, she set out a pan. “The carrots were my nonna’s secret, so you have to swear never to tell anybody else.” His face was dangerously close to hers, his smile sly, his blue eyes mock-serious. “How in the world does James Buchanan Barnes have a nonna?" teased Natasha, acutely conscious of the scant inch of heated space between them as she stirred the sauce. “And I still don’t see why I can’t just buy some at the supermarket...” “You’re killin’ me.” His hand closed over hers, over the wooden spoon. Natasha smothered a laugh as they began to stir together. “Here I am entrusting to you the deepest, darkest secrets my grandma took with her to her very grave—she was my grandpa's second wife, I'll have you know, it was quite the scandal at the time—and now you’re saying you’d rather get storebought—” “Buck.” Natasha hid a grin as they both looked toward the figure suddenly looming in the doorway. Steve pretended to lounge, but she easily read the taut lines along his jaw, down his neck, across his shoulders. “Everything’s set up. We fly out day after tomorrow.” Bucky’s smile was strained. “Right. Got it.” Smirking, Steve cocked an eyebrow at Nat. “This guy bothering you?” “Not at all, soldier.” And Bucky’s chuckle behind her raised goosebumps along her shoulder. They’d been like children, she mused, the two of them constantly joking and bickering so that she had to pointedly ignore them to get anything done. Things hadn’t been quite so relaxed when she’d suddenly shown up on their doorstep that rainy night: Bucky had been wary and Steve had just smiled, utterly unsurprised. She hadn’t been sure how to act or what to expect. But Steve had invited her in, told her to make herself at home. And despite herself, she had stayed. She hummed a little as she lifted the lid over the pot, let steam billow past. The noodles she spun into the bubbling water, just as Bucky had taught her. She had simply watched that first evening when he wordlessly set about preparing dinner in the kitchen. More curious than anything else, she had sat down at the table while he laid out some things he’d bought at the market earlier that day: sausages, vegetables, a dozen plums. The man liked himself some plums. Munching on a peanut butter sandwich, Nat had looked on as he picked out some more produce and found in a drawer the lone kitchen knife available in the sparsely furnished rental. He’d begun to hone the kitchen knife, running it in slow, measured strokes across the bottom rim of a coffee mug, when he stopped and glanced up at her through long, inky lashes. The blade glinted in his hand. “I’m not makin’ you nervous, am I?” After a moment, she’d met his smile with one of hers. “Not at all.” If Steve trusted him, she would too. He still spoke with a Brooklyn drawl, she’d decided later that night, as Bucky’s spontaneous cooking demonstration led to conversation over glasses of cheap supermarket wine. After Steve rejoined them from a meeting he’d had in the city, he and Bucky had competed to embarrass each other with increasingly lurid stories from their childhood and Natasha had laughed until she cried. When Steve managed to drop his perfect diction, she remembered, he lapsed into that Brooklyn drawl too. She found herself smiling from the memory even as she glanced again at the clock. Tucking a stray strand of newly blond hair out of the way, she hefted the pot over the sink to drain the pasta. She hadn’t had to come here. She could have gone somewhere else. She probably would have been better off somewhere else, too, on her own where she knew the terrain better, could access more resources to lie low. She was, after all, now one of the world’s most wanted, just like them. She hadn’t had to end up in this life, piecing together meals from printed-out recipes and Youtube tutorials, the reluctant picture of domesticity for lack of much else to do. Yet here she was, frying up meatballs when she would have been perfectly content with another scrounged-up sandwich. The truth was, that night when she’d left the Avengers compound, she’d known exactly where she wanted to go. It wasn’t lust, she told herself. And Steve would blush all over and jump out of a plane parachuteless before he seduced anyone. Nat knew plenty of handsome men, as well as charming ones, sweet ones, dull ones, and smart ones like Tony Stark; men who knew their way around women and men who fell at her feet helpless. By and large they were a blur to her, tried to use her, tried to keep her. Even in the freedom she had gained when she defected, even when she could have opted for a new and normal life, she had found little in them to interest her. They were all much the same, even Tony who was just a little smarter, worked just a little harder to stay on the side of the angels, for which reason she still more or less respected him. Even though, like so many others, he still hadn’t been able to let go of his ego in the end. No, it wasn’t lust, even though she with her assassin’s eye could always appreciate the steel of a finely tuned muscle, the sleek lines of a well-developed body. But how else could she explain how she gravitated toward him? The wordless, thoughtless, almost instinctual urge to be at his side, support him, protect him at all costs—she had given up trying to resist it, simply gave in to it, and the seamless rhythm of their combined fighting styles thrilled her every time. But why she was here, now, toiling at a stove in the middle of nondescript suburbia and watching the clock like a... like a wife waiting for her husband to come home? He was, for that matter, increasingly late. Natasha resisted the impulse to Google flight arrival times and instead began to fill the dishwasher. She was just pouring herself a self-congratulatory glass of wine—she had only almost burned the garlic, after all—when she heard the telltale step on the sidewalk four floors down and pretended to ignore the sudden heat in her chest. She was already pouring another glass of wine when the door swung open. “About damn time,” she called out as he shut and locked the door behind him. “I hope you’re hungry.” “I probably am.” He slumped into the couch and groaned, leaning his head back, stretching out his legs on top of the battered coffee table. “Economy was terrible.” “Told you to try and borrow the jet.” She slapped at his knees, one by one, and he obediently lowered his feet back to the floor. She turned on some music. “How was Wakanda?” She placed a bowl of spaghetti in front of him. “It was good. Beautiful country. You should meet Shuri sometime.” He paused, closing his eyes with a sigh. “They put Bucky back under.” She longed to touch him. Instead she sat back, curled her fingers around her wineglass. She would miss hearing Bucky’s soft-spoken drawl. “I’m sorry that had to happen.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, then pushed his wineglass toward him in silent suggestion. “Well, I’m sure they’ll get him better soon.” His tone was wistful, his expression clouded as he absent-mindedly took his first bite. Halfway through chewing, he stopped and chuckled. “I’m glad he got around to teaching you his grandma’s spaghetti first, though.” Natasha allowed herself a smile. “He told me you used to love it, every time you came around.” “Yeah.” Steve stared stoically down at nothing for a moment, and Nat knew he was battling tears. “Yeah, I did.” He was too pure for her, she concluded, as Banner hadn’t been. Banner, she’d wanted. Somebody who felt damaged as she did, somebody who knew what it was like to fear and distrust and regret oneself, all at the same time. In her loneliness she had been drawn to him, the man who was also unhappily the Hulk, a kindred spirit amidst her isolation; she’d craved what Banner had promised of understanding, of sympathy, of sameness. Banner she’d wanted. But Rogers, she knew, she needed. He was crystal clarity, certain and absolute. He was, as he said, always honest. More than that, he was unambivalent, unequivocal, uncompromising. In this, as recent events had proved, he was even lonelier than her. And although he had cut out the bright white star from the center of his uniform, uncomfortable about what it represented, for Natasha who had long since outgrown the need to believe in anything it had already taken on a different meaning. Her pole star. Her true north. Bruce had signified comfort. But Steve gave her a direction, a purpose. Even if, for now, it was only to make his favorite dinner on the night he came back alone, having left behind his best friend in all the world in a country twenty hours away by plane with not nearly enough legroom. He looked up as she refilled his glass without asking and left the bottle on the table. Natasha smiled into shadowed blue eyes. “I’ll clean up.” He protested less than usual. Nat put away the food and dishes and came back to find his feet on the coffee table again and his head flopped backward in sleep. The bottle on the table was empty. She brought him a blanket, not that he needed it. She refused to admit that she had missed him. She told herself he probably hadn’t missed her. She tucked the blanket around him carefully, opting this time to leave his feet propped up on the table in peace. She glanced up to find him watching her, eyes dark, hair askew. She kissed him tentatively, telling herself it was the wine, knowing she wasn’t drunk, knowing he couldn’t be. Even as she tasted the softness of his lips she cursed herself for what she’d dared to do, felt his hand on her wrist and braced herself— —but then he leaned up into her, his arm tightening around her waist and his mouth meeting hers with an urgency that flamed low in her belly. He was tired, she reminded herself, tired and sad and so very alone, and she understood. She had done more for far lesser men. He kissed her so hard they both gasped for breath and then she laughed shakily, catching hold of his arm when he started to pull away. “Nat—” Already he was apologetic. “You said once,” she interrupted, “you wanted me to be a friend.” She resisted the longing to kiss him again just yet. She would not seduce him. “Will you let me? Be a friend?” He exhaled. His fingers splayed up her back, dug into her skin. He could break her in a single movement. “Nat...” She kissed him again. She didn’t need to hear that he was sorry. In the morning she could tell him she was, too. Part Two here

#romanogers #captain america civil war #bucky barnes #steve x natasha #natasha romanoff #steve rogers #fluff #black widow #captain america #fanfic #oneshot

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romioneflufffest · 5 years

Text

Practice Calls

Title: Practice Calls

Creator: @hillnerd

Rated: G/PG

Description: Ron and Hermione practice calling each other (missing moments set during POA through summer of GoF)

Easter Break was just around the corner, and it was not a minute too soon. Hermione was happy to have a time turner free week, as well as have her two best friends back in her life. She needed them now more than ever, as the pressures of her class schedule was starting to wear on her in little ways she had not even considered. She knew she hadn’t actually aged all that much, really, but somehow felt old and creaky anymore. Next to the Gryffindor fireplace she was longing for a nap, but something warmed her through far better than any fireplace could.

Ron had just walked into the Common Room and made a beeline for her, a lopsided grin gracing his freckled face.

“Mum sent Easter gifts. You got one too,” Ron said, handing her a wrapped package, the paper covered in little finely drawn quills.

“That was nice of her,” Hermione smiled, ripping into the paper much more delicately than Ron. Inside was a large chocolate egg with a hand-piped orange cat on it. She would have pointed out out the cute cat, but she had been avoiding mentioning Crookshanks in front of Ron the past few weeks. She was so happy for them to be on speaking terms again she was willing to never speak of her cat again.

“Well?” said Ron through a mouthful of chocolate. “You should eat some. You’ve had a tough week,”

It had indeed been a tough week. She’d slept through a Charms class, slapped Draco Malfoy, and even quit Divination. Ron had said he thought she was cracking up, and she wasn’t so sure he was wrong. He happily tucked in to his Easter egg before he took out a great deal of paperwork.

“What are you studying? Perhaps we can work on it together,” Hermione offered, breaking off a small piece of chocolate to nibble.

“It’s Buckbeak’s appeal. Wanted to send it off before the break,” he said, carefully writing something on it. She’d never seen his penmanship look more legible. Something about this made a tiny thrill rush through her.

“Yes. That’s a very good idea,” she said, feeling herself flush.

“You doing alright?” Ron asked, looking up from his neat papers.

“Oh yes! Yes I’m fine!” she said, leaning over to look through her book bag. Cheering charms. That’s what she needed to study. They spent the next twenty or so minutes in silence as each saw to their own tasks. She didn’t mind the quiet when it was her and Ron together. Harry was away at Defense lessons with Lupin, leaving just the two of them together. The companionship Ron provided was always welcome, though. Any time he was near her she felt just a little more capable, a little lighter, and a little more calm. It was no wonder she had been falling apart so much this year. She’d had to spend months out of his, and Harry’s, company. If it weren’t for that, she was certain her very busy schedule would not have made her so overwrought. Harry was nice to hang out with as well, but he just wasn’t quite the same as Ron.

“And… I think that’s done then,” Ron beamed looking down at his work. “Hermione, you mind looking this over?”

“Of course not,” she smiled back. She read page after page where Ron cited prior cases similar to Buckbeak’s, cited formal texts on Hippogriff behavior, and had many witness statements regarding Buckbeak’s behavior both before and after Malfoy’s run-in with the beast. It was more meticulously done than any paper of his she’d ever read.

“This is very good, Ron.”

“You think so?” he hopefully asked.

“I know so. If this doesn’t get Buckbeak cleared it’s due to pure malice on the part of the committee.”

“Good! I’ll ask Harry if I can borrow Hedwig after his lesson with Lupin,” said Ron, leaning back in his seat and putting his hands behind his head. “Don’t have any work due til after break! Mind you, my hand’s so cramped from writing the appeal, I don’t think I could do homework right now if I tried.”

“Would you mind showing me your notes from Charms?” Hermione asked. She’d missed Cheering Charms and knew they would show up on the exam. Ron quickly got them out, and she noticed they were a bit more detailed than usual. He’d done the same thing when she’d been in the hospital wing the prior year. His notes were inconsistent in quality until either she or Harry were absent- then suddenly his notes would look almost as detailed and neat as her own. They’d always had the odd doodle in them, so in some ways she preferred his notes. She found the funny little sketches to remind him of certain movements of the wand, and little notes Harry highly entertaining. She never told Ron this, of course, otherwise he’d never stay on task in class.

“Thank you.”

Ron took a large bite of his chocolate egg and seemed to be preoccupied.

“Y’know, this is the third Easter Harry’s been here, and that pissant ‘family’ or his never sends him so much as one letter,” he said, wadding up the wrapping paper from his egg and tossing it into the fire.

“Well… That’s not unusual for them, is it? They don’t give him real presents for birthdays or Christmas either.”

“Not even one bleeding letter! It’s ridiculous!” said Ron crossing his arms. “I wish I had an owl of my own so I could write him more often this summer.”

“Maybe we could try calling again?”

“After what happened last time on that fellytone thing? I flummoxed it up so badly, I think that fat uncle of his would have a coronary if I called. Worse, he might just put bars on Harry’s windows again.”

“Oh don’t!” Hermione cried out, not wanting to even think about how horrid Harry relatives were. “Those people are such monsters. It’s a miracle Harry turned out as well as he did.”

“Yeah…” Ron said looking down. “Well, I’m hoping to get Harry out of there early this summer, if I can.”

Hermione smiled. She loved how quick Ron was to find ways to help Harry out. Then a little thought began to form at the back of her mind.

“Ron… I was thinking. Maybe we can practice phone calls this summer,” said Hermione, eyes suddenly bright.

“Like I said, I don’t want to get Harry in trouble. That Uncle of his–”

“No no. Not You and Harry. You and me.” Before Ron could put forth any reservations, Hermione quickly went on. “It would be purely for getting better at calling people! Who knows, maybe Harry’s relatives will let him have a phone call. Either way, it would be good to practice. Who knows if you’ll need to call someone in the future.”

Yes. It was purely for practical reasons she wanted to practice phone call with Ron, and not at all because she would love to hear his voice over the summer.

“You don’t need to sell me on it,” Ron said with a laugh. “I can walk down to the village again. It’ll give me a chance to get out of the house without my whole family breathing down my neck.”

Hermione beamed, somehow looking forward to a phone call that was months away, even though Ron was right beside her.

____

Ron kicked a pebble along the dirt road as he made his way to the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. He’d been down the road hundreds of times at this point, but had never felt quite so nervous before. He wasn’t sure why he was so filled with nerves. It was just a phone call, and it was just to Hermione. He talked with her all the time at school, and wrote to her more often than he cared to admit to his family. When he’d told his mum he needed to go to the village to call Hermione his mum had insisted he bring a basket to pick up a few things from the farmer’s market around the corner. He was glad to have this as an excuse to give his siblings. He knew they would tease him for calling Hermione, just as they teased him for everything else.

Ron spotted the family pub just down the street and popped in, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans.

“Excuse me,” Ron said, giving a small wave to the same bartender who had been there last summer. “Is your felltone- I mean— er— telephone available for a call?”

“We ‘ave the same phone booths as last time you was ‘ere,” the older heavyset man said, giving a nod to the set of phone booths at the far end of the pub. They each had old-timey phones in them, according to his father, making it a bit of a tourist attraction. And they were free, which made them a lot more attractive to Ron. Ron had been screaming into one of the phones last summer, so it was no surprise that the gruff man remembered him so sourly.

“They’s for payin’ customers only, though.”

“Right…” Ron said, sorting through the cash his mother had given him. “You have anything cold to drink? Butterbeer?”

Ron winced the moment it was out of his mouth. Butterbeer was a wizard drink! Why was he so bad at this? The barkeep’s red face scrunched up into a frown.

“Think you’re funny? I ain’t givin’ you no beer.”

“Er, whatever’s cheapest then,” Ron said with a shrug. The man rolled his eyes and took out a long snake-like tube and pressed a button, filling a glass with bubbly water the color of coffee. Ron thanked him and shakily doled out change. The man seemed impatient and Ron nearly dropped all the wonky coins he was so nervous. He managed alright, though, and finally made his way to the line of phones, fizzy drink in hand. He fumblingly got Hermione’s letter out of his jeans pocket and scanned it for her phone number. Dialing was an arduous process, and the phone’s dial tone was obnoxious to listen to as he turned the dial for each number. Her number had three nines in it, making it even worse to dial on the wheel of numbers. And then it was ringing. He took a nervous sip of the drink and nearly gagged at the overly sweet taste of it.

“Hello?” said a voice clear as a bell. Hermione!

“Pshlab,” Ron let out with a gagging noise.

“Hello?”

“Sorry!” Ron said rather loudly into the phone, before forcing himself to lower his voice. “Sorry. Had to buy one of those muggle drinks to get to use their phone. It tastes awful!”

“Ron! I’m so glad you called!”

He could practically hear her smile over the phone. Even with the bartender glaring at him, and the prospect of the twins teasing him about the phone call, he couldn’t help but smile back.

———————————————————————————————–

Hermione had been worried about their first phone call, as Ron’s previous experience with phones had gone so poorly, but it had gone very smoothly. She had given him fair warning not to yell into the set, and conversation seemed to flow just as easily over the phone as it had back at Hogwarts. He didn’t need to practice after the first call, but somehow Hermione didn’t want their phone calls to end. Ron didn’t seem to want their phone calls to stop either. A few times a week Ron would hoof it to the village to call Hermione, and tired of the teases from her parents as she tied up the downstairs line, she took the phone from the guest room to her own bedroom. Her mother caught her as she was carrying the phone, its long springy cord trailing behind her on the floor.

“Where are you taking the guest phone?”

Hermione blushed.

“I didn’t want to make my phone calls to Ron downstairs. There’s always noise of some sort, and it’s quieter up here, but more comfortable in my own room. I didn’t need a phone until now, and it’s not like any guests are using it, so I decided to borrow it for the summer. If that’s ok, of course. Sorry I didn’t ask,” Hermione babbled.

“You’re at the age where you’re having long calls with boys. Oh dear!” her mother teased, making Hermione blush harder.

“It’s not boys. It’s only Ron,” Hermione muttered.

“You write him so often, I didn’t think you’d keep up with the phone calls too,” her mother noted.

Hermione really could have stopped writing Ron, but there was something fun about doing both, then talking about the letter they received. She thought they might have nothing to talk about, but they actually had loads. Each phone call was getting longer and longer. That was why she wanted to do it in privacy as well. Her father would look at her, point at his watch, then continue to walk by.

“Well… It’s ok for me to take the phone, then?” Hermione hopefully asked.

“Of course. Just do it when your father’s out. We still only have one line, and he gets nervous when the line is tied up for too long.”

Hermione beamed, and ran the rest of the way to her room. She could have her phone calls with Ron and have them in private now.

Their next phone call was just as pleasant as ever, and Hermione found it so much more relaxing to lay on her bed as she talked to Ron. She could just imagine him there beside her as they talked, and a rush of girlish giggles making their way out of her mouth at the thought.

“You know what, at first I thought they’d be barmy, but I actually like telephone calls!” Ron said into the receiver. “I just wish I could see you, though. That makes Floo calling a bit better.”

Hermione beamed and wrapped the cord around her finger.

“Oh! We could see each other! Let’s practice Floo calls! I’ve never done one, and I don’t want to be the only witch at Hogwarts who doesn’t know how.”

Ron fell silent a moment.

“Well… The telephone calls are private…” he said, suddenly not sounding very enthusiastic. Was she that bad to look at? Or did he not want anyone to know they were talking?

“Oh… Well, if you don’t want to.”

“Oh I do! I really do,” Ron said fervently. “It’s just… They would be in the middle of our house, and I it’s so mad around here we’d barely be able to talk.”

“I understand,” Hermione said, unable to completely hide her disappointment.

“You know what? Let’s do it. But it’ll have to be after everyone goes to bed, otherwise it’ll be nothing but the twins and everyone else butting in. We can even do it tonight, if you like. You’re already connected to the Floo network for when you come here next week. I can send Pig with some powder and you can try your hand at it. Around eleven?”

“Ok then! It’s a date!” Hermione let out, excitement making her wiggle in place.

“Er yeah! It’s a— yeah see you at eleven!” Ron said back. With that their phone call ended, and Hermione, for the first time she could think of, started to worry about what she should wear and what she should do with hair. She hadn’t seen Ron in nearly two months, and didn’t want to look poorly for him… Perhaps she should plait her hair? Should she still be dressed in her normal clothes? Or as it would be so late at night would it be more natural to have her pajamas on?

———————————————————————————————

Ron had sent Pig to Hermione’s earlier that day, but Pig hadn’t gotten back yet. Perhaps Hermione had borrowed him to send something to Harry? He hoped Hermione had gotten the powder alright. It was only a few minutes to eleven, and Ron couldn’t stop himself from pacing the floor. He wasn’t sure if he should wear his normal clothes or not, given the late hour, but thought he looked more presentable in them than his tatty pajamas. Percy had given him a pair of rarely worn jeans that fit alright, so he decided to wear that and a t-shirt that almost fit right, even though it was a bit tighter through the shoulders than it had been earlier that year.

Right at eleven the fire grew and sparked a bit.

“Ron?” He heard Hermione’s voice say through the fire.

“Yeah, I’m here!” Ron said, sitting down on the ground with his legs crossed. “You can put your head through, if you like.”

“Are you… Are you sure it’s safe?” Hermione said, sounding nervous. Ron chuckled a bit at Hermione being nervous about something. She was always such a little firebrand about things, so it was almost cute to hear her fret about something so common place to him.

“I promise, it’s as safe as a phone call,” he said, trying to hold his laughter as bay. He did his best to not laugh or tease people brought up with Muggle things when it came to new experiences in the Wizard world. Merlin knew he was clueless enough at Muggle things, so he tried to be as patient and aware as he could. He’d felt awful guilty the times he’d overlooked informing Harry or Hermione about something they should know.

The flames danced brightly for a bit, then Hermione’s face came through the flames, her prominent top teeth biting her lip.

“Oh!” she let out nervously. “This is so strange! Can you see me?”

“Yeah, I can see you,” Ron said with a smile. “You can see me too, yeah?”

She nodded before letting out a laugh.

“It doesn’t even feel warm. It’s so odd! I can’t believe it. It feels the same temperature as the rest of my house! I was worried it’d burn my hair, but it hasn’t.”

He could see her wild hair was plaided down the side of her head. It looked different than usual. He preferred it when her hair was all over the place, but wasn’t about to tell her this. In fact, she looked a bit different all over her head. Her eyebrows were a little thinner, and her eyes somehow looked a bit bigger?

“Your eyelashes look different,” he noted.

“Oh!” It was hard to tell in the flames, but Hermione’s tan skin looked a touch darker on her cheeks. “Well… I tried to… My mum gave me some mascara…”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a sort of… A sort of makeup that girls put on their eyelashes.”

“Why?”

“To make the eyelashes longer and darker.”

“Oooh. Do they make that for guys? Half the time I think I look like I don’t have eyelashes at all,” Ron said with smile, fluttering his light lashes at her. Hermione laughed at this and whatever was making her nervous seemed to dissipate.

Their Floo call was going quite well, and they’d been talking for well over an hour when Ron heard a scream on the other end of the Floo and Hermione’s eyes went wide.

“Oh! Mum! It’s fine!” Hermione cried out, pulling her head out of the fire. Ron could hear her mother sobbing as Hermione comforted her.

“It’s fine! It’s just magic! Let me say goodnight to Ron so he doesn’t worry. Look, watch this!” Hermione said, and then her face was in the flames again. “Ron, I have to go. I just gave my mother a terrible fright.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no worries. Sorry about that Mrs Granger!” Ron called back into the fire. The flames went out after that, and Ron had a great deal of trouble falling asleep.

The next morning he woke up to Pig dancing about his bed, a roll of parchment in tow. It took a moment to grab the excited little blighter, but after a few jumps he grabbed the little owl and untied a letter from Hermione.

In her even hand it read:

Dear Ron,

I’m so sorry our call had to be ended so abruptly. Mum was very hysterical to find her only daughter’s body lying headfirst in the fire. It took quite a long time to calm her down. I really liked getting to call you like this, but perhaps we should stick to letters until I come next week? I’m ever so excited to see you (And Harry and everyone else.)

I hope Ginny won’t mind me being in her room. She’s always been so nice all the times we’ve talked before, but I hate to put her out!

Maybe we can have one more phone call before I come over? Get that last bit of practice in for the summer?

I would write more, but it’s well past midnight.

Love from,

Hermione

——————————————————————————————

It had taken almost an hour for Hermione to calm her mother down after she had walked in on the fire chat with Ron. She couldn’t blame her mother, of course. It must have been a ghastly sight to come across at almost half past midnight.

Neither of her parents had been exposed to much magic, despite Hermione having been at Hogwarts for three years. There was little chance for them to learn, really, given how Hermione wasn’t allowed to use magic, and they’d only been to Diagon Alley a few times. She wished she could show them all the different spells and potions she’d mastered, but frankly they always looked perplexed as she described the lessons to them.

They failed to see how turning a teapot into a tortoise was something that would translate into a job down the road. Hermione tried to keep to lessons that made more sense to them, but couldn’t fail to see the mild disappointment and confusion that would cross their faces as she described class. They could understand making great grades, though, so she tried best she could to emphasize that, and lessons that pertained to history, healing, or performing useful tasks even they could appreciate. She had to be careful to avoid all the political bits of school, such as the Blood purists, the corrupt government officials, and the school board.

She also had to avoid mentioning how in danger she was each year. They had no idea how close she had come to dying each year, and the school didn’t deign to contact her parents about much of anything when it came to her exploits. Their hands off approach was rather shocking to Hermione at first, but over the years she came to appreciate it, as she could almost fully control what information her parents were given about her goings on

Convincing them to let her travel to the Burrow by Floo took a good thirty minutes, but when they were assured over the phone by Ron that he and his father would escort her personally, they finally seemed ok with the choice. Her mother was not entirely happy with this, and let out a small scream when the fireplace broke out into tall emerald green flames, and a soot covered Ron had to crawl out of their low, by wizard standards, fire place.

“Hey Hermione,” he said with a smile. Ron’s father came up right after, and did a quick spell to clean them, as well as the carpet and hearth, of all the soot.

“Hi Ron!” Hermione smiled, and gave him a large hug after he was dust free. He returned her hug with gusto, his ears burning, probably since everyone’s eyes were one them. He seemed taller than he had been just a few months ago, and he was wearing a pair of jeans that fit him much better than most of his others.

Ron’s Dad was every bit as excited to see her parents as he ever was, so Hermione took the opportunity to give Ron a quick tour of her house. At first he seemed quite keen, but after the first few rooms his mood seemed to dip low.

“Are you alright?” she asked, seeing him frowning a bit.

“Yeah… It’s just… Well, you’re house is really nice,” Ron said with a forced smile.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah… Yeah…” Ron said starting to look worried.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Course I am. Just… Well, you’re coming to stay at our place, and I think I could fit three of the Burrow in your living room, and we have almost four times as many people who will be under one roof. It’ll be tight, and not as nice as this…”

“I’ll be with you,” Hermione said with a smile, before catching herself, “and everyone else. I’m sure I’m going to enjoy every single second there. Plus, I’ve never been in a magical home before. It will be amazing, I’m sure.”

“It’s just my home…” he trailed off, still looking uncertain.

“That’s why I’m sure I’ll love it,” she assured him. He seemed to get out of his funk as they entered her room.

“Oh wow,” Ron said, letting out a whistle.

“What?”

“It’s just, this room is a very Hermione-ish room, isn’t it?” he said with a laugh.

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked, uncertainly twisting a curl around her finger.

“Nothing bad,” he said with a lopsided grin that made her toes curl. “You just put your mark on it, didn’t you? Tons of books, the way the photos are all lined up just so, the wall calendar. It’s just very you.”

He gave an inhale.

“Yup. Smells like a Hermione room.”

“It smells like me?” she almost squeaked.

“Yeah, smells like books and that chapstick you always have around. The vanilla smelling one.”

“Oh… I… Oh…” Hermione didn’t know how to respond. Ron was commenting on how she smelled, but it seemed to be in a flattering way. She felt as nervous as she did before exams.

Ron let out a laugh and pointed at the far wall.

“Who in the world is that bloke?” he said, pointing to a poster of Einstein where the scientist had his tongue out.

“A famous Muggle scientist. He’s known for the theory of relativity.”

“I have no idea what that means,” Ron said with a shrug, “but he sure knows how to take a picture.”

“He did the Muggle equivalency of arithmancy, and figured out a lot about how the universe works, including gravity.”

Ron nodded at this and was about to say something when they heard her father call up the stairs, “Ron! Hermione! It’s about time to go!”

They went downstairs, and Hermione gave each of her parents a large hug. Her mother in particular didn’t seem to want to let go.

“You will write us often, won’t you?” she asked.

“Of course I will,” Hermione said, feeling a touch guilty knowing she wouldn’t see them for more than nine months.

“She can borrow my owl any time she needs to, Mr and Mrs Granger,” Ron supplied, and Hermione felt proud of how polite and courteous he was coming across. Ron then walked her, and her parents, through how they would Floo over. Apparently Mr Weasley had already explained the Floo Networks logistics, but they seemed to calm a bit more having a boy know how it works and treats the task as quite mundane. Ron threw the powder into the fire place, stood in the flames, and said ‘The Burrow’ very clearly.

Hermione received another firm hug from each parent before she followed Ron’s example and walked through the flames the same way, with Mr Weasley following behind with her trunk.

The Burrow smelled of freshly baked bread, and some other undefinable flowery scent she was almost certain she’d smelled at Hogwarts at one point or another. There was a brush magically scrubbing pots all on its own, a clock with pictures of the whole family pointing to different locations instead of times, and all the photos were moving. It was tight, but homey and Hermione felt immediately at peace as she walked further into the room. Ron bit his lip and looked a bit uncertain, until Hermione took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

“This is the most amazing home I’ve ever been in!” she let out, and the beaming smile he gave her was so warming, she was certain she could power a Patronus with it, even though she’d never tried to do a Patronus Charm before.

“You know, I know it sounds barmy, but I think I’m going to miss our phone calls a bit,” Ron said as he pulled her towards the stairs.

“We can always do it again next summer.”

“I’d like that,” Ron grinned back at her.

She felt pleased down to her tows as he lead her for a tour around the house, her hand still in his.

#Romione #Ron and Hermione #Romione Fluff Fest #romioneflufffest #Fic #submission

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babybluebanshee · 7 years

Text

Heavy Rains - Chapter 1 (TF2)

Being stranded at Teufort during a raging storm with a gaggle of homicidal mercenaries isn't Miss Pauling's idea of a relaxing vacation. The group tries to make the best of it, but when a mysterious illness starts making its way through the barracks, it's a race against time to find a cure before it's too late. And that's not even bringing the emotional baggage into things.

Rain was not a common occurrence in Teufort. The town got around fifteen inches of precipitation a year, and even then, most of the townsfolk blamed that on a witch’s curse.

Most of the time, it was bone-dry and hellishly hot, a barren wasteland only fit for a few determined souls and the likes of the Mann. Co mercenaries, men too tough and too damn insane to register things like heat stroke and dehydration.

So naturally, when the local radio weather station predicted bizarre torrential rains headed directly for the small New Mexico town, accompanied by thunder, lightning, and winds reaching at least sixty miles an hour, the townspeople blamed the witch and burned effigies in their front yards. The Mann Co. mercenaries were simply confused.

And although Miss Pauling counted herself among the confused, she had very little time to dwell on it. She was currently overseeing the shipment of various supplies to the men at the Teufort base, to tide them over until the storm had passed. She had put them to work loading the boxes off the truck, so they could sort them in the loading bay later. It was best to keep the nine men occupied during something like this. Each one was a volatile whack job in their own special way. Something about being stuck together in close quarters brought all that out in full, destructive force.

She didn’t need another incident like the one in Coldfront. It’d taken three days to clean up the mess, and most of the mercs still complained about ringing in their ears because of the explosion.

With black clouds looming on the horizon, the project couldn’t be completed fast enough for her liking. Sadly, the mercenaries seemed to be in no big hurry, and kept distracting themselves by bickering and trying to loot through the boxes like a bunch of excited kids, eager to see what they’d gotten for Christmas.

“I ain’t lifting that one,” Miss Pauling heard Scout shout. Looking over the rim of her clipboard, she saw him standing next to a large box, and staring up at Soldier. Scout’s face was scrunched up in what he probably thought was an intimidating glare. Miss Pauling thought he just looked constipated. Soldier carried two boxes, one on each of his shoulders, and didn’t look too happy to have Scout in his face, managing to pull off a legitimately intimidating look, even with his helmet obscuring his eyes.

“That box weighs twice as much as me. I try to lift that, I’m gonna snap in two,” Scout continued.

Soldier snorted like an angry bull, and said, or rather yelled, “Back in my day, we didn’t have Sallies like you running around. We were strong and lifted boxes all damn day. And then we threw those boxes at the Nazis and we LIKED IT.”

“Pardon me if I ain’t gonna take my history lessons from a certifiable head case like you,” Scout yelled back, jamming his tiny body as close to Soldier’s as possible. It wasn’t exactly the dominant stance he’d hoped for, since he did only come up to the bottom of Soldier’s chin, but he held his ground nonetheless.

“Oh, son, your mouth is writing checks your butt will find uncashable. Uncashable, you hear me!?” Soldier growled, lobbing the boxes he carried to the ground. He shoved himself even closer to Scout, and continued his tirade. “Insinuate that I am crazy one more time, and your butt will be escorted from the bank, am I understood, private?!”

As the two men continued to scream in each other’s faces, Engineer, Heavy, and Sniper walked by them, each carrying a box on their shoulder. Engineer cast a look between Scout, Soldier, and the three boxes lying on the ground, and then, shaking his head, picked up one with his free hand and slung it under his arm. Heavy and Sniper quietly did the same.

Miss Pauling felt a headache coming on as thunder rumbled in the distance.

It was soon drowned out by a loud, celebratory “Woooooo!” that sounded from inside the loading bay. Suddenly, Demoman came rushing out, a bottle of Mann Co. beer in each hand, and a few on the bandolier that usually held his grenades. Miss Pauling didn’t want to think about where the grenades were now.

“Feast yer eyes on this, lads,” Demo called, using a thumb to pop off the cap of a bottle and take a swig. “The lass was good enough te bring us a whole case of the stuff. This wee squall will pass in no time if I have my way about it.”

“Ya best take it easy there, partner,” Engineer said, setting his boxes by Demo’s feet. “Otherwise that case ain’t gonna last you two hours, let alone the entire storm.”

Demo paid him no attention, simply tipped his head back and drained the open bottle. After he’d gotten every last drop, he let out a long sigh of satisfaction before he pointed to Miss Pauling and said, “Bless ye, lass.”

Miss Pauling gave a small smile and said, “I figured you guys might as well have some small comforts while you’re shut up during the storm. It’d get pretty boring around here otherwise.” After a moment’s consideration, she added, “Just please don’t overdo it. I do not want to come back to another Coldfront.”

Medic came up behind her, carrying a box of bottled water in front of him, and huffed, saying, “It was not so bad, Miss Pauling. I managed to reattach Scout’s thumb completely after all.”

Before Miss Pauling could register that nobody had ever mentioned any thumb reattachments, another rumble of thunder, much closer than the last, made the ground tremble beneath them. “Alright, you guys,” she said, taking her lavender pen from behind her ear. “Looks like the rain is ahead of schedule. We need to get these last couple boxes in the base before we all get soaked. Heavy, Engie, can you bring them in? There should only be a few more, mostly more water and stuff.”

The two men nodded and started their way back over to the truck. Miss Pauling continued, “Medic, Sniper, get inside and help Demo, Pyro, and Spy sort through all that stuff. Try to keep Pyro away from the paper products until Engie gets back in there to distract him.”

Medic and Sniper did not look at all happy about their assignment of dealing with the firebug, but they obeyed without a fight, although Miss Pauling swore she heard Medic mumble something she knew for certain to be a German swear. She didn’t bother herself with it at the moment. Soldier and Scout were still arguing a few yards away, and Soldier had managed somehow to find his shovel. This needed to be taken care of before first blood. Tucking her pen back behind her ear, Miss Pauling walked over to them, and managed to catch more of their ridiculous argument insults layered on top of each other so only snippets could be heard at a time.

“...think your shovel scares me, ya lunkhead?”

“...and we lived on falcon eggs and rocks…”

Miss Pauling’s head ached harder. “Guys, that’s enough!”

“He started it!” Scout said, jabbing an accusatory finger right into Soldier’s helmet.

Miss Pauling saw Engineer and Heavy out of the corner of her eye. Their arms were loaded with boxes, and they cast a wary look up at the sky before dashing inside, the added weight of the supplies nothing to them. She heaved a silent sigh through her nose. “I don’t care who started it,” she said evenly. “I’m here to finish it. Now quit screaming in each other’s faces and get inside. If you don’t hurry, you’re gonna get -”

There was a blinding flash of lightning, following by a deafening crash of thunder. Then, the sky almost seemed to open up, and the torrential downpour hit them like a tidal wave beating the shore. All three of them were sodden in a matter of seconds.

“...soaked.”

Soldier and Scout looked at Miss Pauling like a couple of scolded children. Miss Pauling merely jabbed a finger in the direction of the loading bay, and they both began marching toward it. Miss Pauling followed behind them, regretting with every step that she’d decided to wear pumps that kept getting stuck in the sucking desert mud.

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

As soon as Miss Pauling was inside, a towel was draped over her shoulder courtesy of Engineer. She gave him a smile, set her clipboard (which had thankfully managed to stay mostly dry) to the side, and furiously started rubbing herself down. As she pulled off her glasses to wipe the rain off, she saw Sniper throw a couple of towels to Soldier and Scout, managing to hit Scout directly in the face. The towel muffled Scout’s indignant yelp, which Sniper was ignoring anyway to pull down the loading bay door.

Throwing the towel back over her shoulders, Miss Pauling slicked back the strands of hair that had come loose from her bun and pulled out her pen. “Okay, guys, time for some inventory. Just wanna make sure that everything is here. I can already check off the beer…”

Demo gave another hearty “Woooooo!”, before throwing back another bottle.

“So let’s crack open the rest of these and get them put away.”

To her side, Heavy nodded and grabbed a nearby crowbar, jamming it under the lid of the nearest crate and jimmying it open in one swift motion. He tossed the lid out of the way, and it landed with a thick clunk. Engineer tapped Pyro on the shoulder and motioned for him to help him sift through it, while Heavy moved along the line of boxes, cracking each of them open like a powerful machine for a pair of mercs to dig through. For once, Miss Pauling felt as though things were going to go smoothly.

Another crack of thunder made her jump. The noise was as clear as if they didn’t have concrete walls surrounding them, and that made Miss Pauling nervous. She didn’t like being nervous. Nervousness meant a lack of control.

“Sure would be nice if we had a radio,” she said, thinking out loud more than anything.

“Oh yes,” Spy suddenly said, pulling himself away from the box he and Sniper rifled through. “I almost forgot.” He ducked down, and pulled up a small, beat-up black baseball radio. “I’m sure this will be sufficient. Assuming it still works.”

“Hey, that’s mine!” Scout shouted as soon as he set eyes on the radio.

“Don’t be such a child. I merely borrowed it for a greater purpose,” Spy said, setting the device on a nearby chair. He flicked a switch on the side, and a small burst of static began emanating from the speakers, nearly drowned out completely by the rain beating intensely against the metal roof.

“You coulda just asked,” Scout said, the pout evident in his voice as he went back to pulling paper towels and toilet paper out of his box. “Didn’t have to go through my room and swipe my stuff.”

“Oh, don’t act so scandalized. I go through everyone’s rooms,” Spy said dismissively as he fiddled with the knobs. For a minute or two, it seemed that the radio wouldn’t be able to do anything but spit static at them because of the rain. They got snippets of a drawling political discussions and a very garbled classical music station (which seemed to disappoint Medic immensely), but finally, Spy managed to find the Teufort weather station, although it was quite faint, and interrupted by the occasional burst of static.

“...citizens wisely preparing for what promises to be a very brutal storm, possibly the *bzzzzzt* of Teufort has ever seen. There *bzzzt* reports of mass flooding, especially along the road leading out of the town and to the highway. All *bzzt* redirected, and many of the roads closed down until the end of the storm. Civilians are advised *bzzzzzzzzt* leaving Teufort, as it is currently incredibly unsafe.”

Miss Pauling’s headache returned with a roaring vengeance.

She was stranded here. She was stranded with a group of nine mercenaries who, last time they’d been cooped up together, had caused explosions and apparently lost thumbs.

“Well, ain’t that a kick in the teeth,” Engineer muttered. “I’m real sorry, Miss Pauling. Looks like you’re stuck with us for the next couple of days.”

The rest of the mercs looked up at her apologetically. Well, except for Scout, who looked quite pleased at this turn of events. In an obvious attempt at smoothness, he said, “Yeah, that’s definitely too bad. But hey, I’m sure we can make the most of it.” He flashed Miss Pauling a crooked smile that made him look like an excited puppy. Miss Pauling had to bite back a frustrated groan.

Spy, letting out a quiet huff, rolled his eyes and shut off the baseball radio. Taking two long strides, he reached Scout’s side and shoved the radio into the boy’s hands. “Yes, we’ll certainly make the most of it,” he said, his tone borderline scolding. “Which is why Miss Pauling will be staying in my room. On the opposite end of the base from yours.”

A titter rippled through the group of men. Scout’s face reddened, and he shot Spy a glare very suited to a sullen teenager.

“Oh, Spy,” Miss Pauling said. “I don’t want take your room.”

“Nonsense,” Spy replied, waving off her concerns. “I insist. I’ll stay in my smoking room. The chairs there are as comfortable as any bed.”

Miss Pauling gave him a grateful smile. “Well, thank you, then. I appreciate that.”

Another crash of thunder made the base tremble around them. Engineer nearly dropped the case of Bonk he was pulling out of a crate. “Sheeeoot,” he muttered. “Always hated storms. Got the worst back home. Least you don’t gotta worry about twisters here. If we had to deal with one of those, I’d be heading for the hills.”

As soon as Engineer set down the case, Scout tore into it, pulling out a can and popping it open. It fizzed merrily. He tipped it back, draining the contents in seconds. Crushing the now-empty can in his hand and tossing it over his shoulder, he said, “You think a twister is bad, hard hat? Try a hurricane. Not only do you got rain, thunder, and lightning 24/7, okay? But you gotta worry about floods too. I remember when I was nine, we got hit with a really bad one. Any of you guys ever heard of Hurricane Esther? Worst one that I’ve ever been through. We got stuck inside for days. Couldn’t leave, couldn’t nothing. Made one of my brothers cry. That was actually the one bright spot of the whole thing.”

Scout’s light-speed chatter tapered off as he pulled out another Bonk and cracked it open. The other mercs seemed to deflate with relief at the silence.

The reprieve did not last, as the loudest crash of thunder the storm had offered up yet once again shook the base. It felt like a bomb had been detonated right outside the loading bay door.

And then the lights went out.

“Well, hell…” Miss Pauling heard Engineer grumble.

From somewhere in the dark, Pyro let out a frightened whine. Engineer once again spoke, this time in a much gentler tone “It’s okay, Smokey,” he said. “I can get those back on, no problem. Just gotta find a flashlight…”

There was a sound of something heavy colliding with a body, and someone let out an “oof!”

“Shit, sorry, uh, whoever that was…” Engineer said.

“No worries, mate,” Sniper ground out. “Ain’t like I need all me ribs anyways…ow...”

There was a sound of footsteps, then a cry of pain from Spy. “That was my foot, bushman!”

“You try getting a metal arm to the gut, ya bloody spook,” Sniper hissed back. “Think it’d take your mind off your shoes getting a bit scoffed.”

“I doubt it, considering these shoes cost more than that repulsive van you sleep in.”

Someone fell backwards into one of the crates, apparently grabbing Medic on the way down. Miss Pauling heard him cry out, “Scheisse!”

“Jesus, hard hat,” Scout grumbled. Miss Pauling heard him scrambling to get back to his feet. He must have been the one to fall into the boxes. “You’re gonna kill somebody with that thing.”

“Well, it’s damn dark, son. I don’t know what to tell ya.” Another thud of metal against flesh, but this time the flesh sounded much more solid. Engineer must have hit Heavy. “Sorry, big guy…”

“Is no problem,” Heavy said casually.

“Did anyone actually see a flashlight in any of the boxes?” Miss Pauling asked. She stood as still as she could. There was no need to contribute anymore to this unfolding chaos.

No one answered her. They were heading towards another Coldfront at full speed.

Then, suddenly, a tiny light filled the space. It drew everyone’s attention simultaneously. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, sat Pyro. In his hands, his lighter, burning brightly.

Engineer grinned and said, “Well, ain’t you a smart little bug?”

Pyro merely let out a sheepish giggle.

Miss Pauling did a quick survey of things - Sniper was still gingerly holding his ribs, though he looked like he wasn’t in too much pain. Spy, now that he was actually able to see them, seemed to be inspecting the damage done to his shoes. Scout hoisted himself back up into a standing position, while Medic glared daggers at him for pulling him down. Engineer was roughly an inch from Heavy’s gargantuan torso. Demo took advantage of the light to pop the top off another bottle of beer, which he handed to Soldier. Both watched the others fumble over each other from a safe distance. Miss Pauling heard them chortle.

She took a deep breath. Things were okay. No one was injured. No one was dead. She could work with this.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Engineer slap Pyro’s hand away from a roll of paper towel stick out of a crate, which he’d been slowly moving the lighter closer and closer to. Pyro let out a defeated whine.

She could mostly work with this.

--------------- It took Engineer two and a half hours to restore the power. “Would have gotten it sooner,” he said as he came back into the loading bay, wiping the sweat away from under his hard hat, “but there were a few times when I had to back off ‘cause of the lightning. Don’t wanna get cooked if it strikes here again.”

“I thought lightning didn’t strike in the same place twice,” Scout said. He’d found his baseball and was lazily tossing it in the air and catching it as it came back down.

Engineer grinned a bit and replied, “That’s just a myth, son. Been through enough storms to know that lightning tends to do strike wherever it damn well pleases.”

Scout seemed unimpressed by this fact. He merely turned his attention back to his baseball, his expression bored and, oddly enough, sleepy. Miss Pauling didn’t even know it was possible for Scout to run out of energy.

Then again, looking at the seven other men lounging around the loading bay, she couldn’t say she was surprised. In the two and a half hours Engineer had been fiddling with the power, they’d been cleaning out the crates of supplies and putting everything away, seeing only by flashlight. It had surprisingly taken a lot out of them. Demo and Soldier were both on the edge of sleep, sitting back to back, still holding bottles of beer in their hands as their heads dipped every so often. More bottles were scattered around their feet.

Sniper had pulled his hat over his face, and she noticed his body slackening every so often as he dozed. Spy took a lazy drag of his cigarette. Medic had fetched his chessboard and had coaxed Heavy into a game. Pyro was practically curled up on the floor like a kitten, napping.

The rain had eased up a bit, though it still hit the roof with rigid consistency. Miss Pauling listened to it for a minute. She supposed that the sound would be enough to lull even hardened mercenaries to sleep after a stressful day of work.

“What about the rest of the stuff in the control room?” she asked. She tried not to yawn. Confound that rain, it was soothing.

“It’s pretty much all shot,” Engineer replied. “Communications are down, and the respawn is just...out. And crawling in there to fix it while this storm is still raging is outta the question. Lightning strikes while I’m in there, I come out looking like bacon left on the skillet too long.”

Miss Pauling couldn’t help the groan that escaped.

No communications. No respawn.

Normally, that wouldn’t bother her. As concerned as she was about the mercs eventually snapping from the confinement and inflicting bodily harm on each other, she at least trusted them enough to not kill each other. They feared Medic and his particular brand of “healing” enough to try and keep themselves in one piece for the next few days.

It was just one more thing to worry about. One more thing that could make things worse. One more thing out of her control. One more thing that she’d have to write up in the mountains of paperwork that were inevitably going to follow this whole debacle. Her head throbbed again.

Spy stood up, pulling her from her increasingly anxious thoughts. Taking one last drag of his cigarette and stamping it out against one of the discarded crates, he said, “I don’t know about the rest of you, gentlemen, but I find myself all ‘funned’ out. And if no one is interesting in cooking dinner…”

A collective groan rose up from the exhausted pile of mercenaries.

“As I expected. With that, I believe I shall retire for the evening.” He turned on his heels until he was facing Miss Pauling. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning towards the hall.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she replied. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she’d almost forgotten Spy offering his room. She found herself a little too wired for sleep just yet, but she honestly couldn’t think of anything else to do to kill time until she was. Maybe she could just lay down, stare at the ceiling, and wonder what antagonistic gods had thought it amusing to strand her here.

She let him lead down the hall, past the dining hall and respawn room, and into the barracks. They passed eight doors, one for every man in the base - except, generally, for Sniper. Like any outdoorsman, he preferred sleeping outside, and made a habit of sleeping out in his camper van whenever the weather permitted. Weather was most definitely not permitting now, and Miss Pauling had gently persuaded him to remain indoors for the remainder of the storm. Although the suggestion had made him stare at her like she’d grown another head out of her abdomen, he’d grumbled an agreement.

And Miss Pauling’s mother wondered why her daughter seemed so lukewarm on the idea of children.

She nearly collided with Spy’s back as he stopped in front of the final door, near the end of the hallway. They had reached his quarters. Miss Pauling made no comment about how close it was to a large exit sign, leading out of the base.

“If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask me,” Spy said as he opened his door, motioning for Miss Pauling to enter ahead of him. Ever the gentleman, even when motioning a lady into the spartan barracks of a military base.

Looking around the room as she stepped in, she realized “spartan” might even be too generous for Spy’s room. The place was almost completely bare. She knew for a fact that most of the other mercs had some personal things in their rooms - photos of family, posters, calendars, even the occasional pin-up picture in Scout’s case.

Spy’s room was completely spotless. His thin bed was made, blankets smooth and pristine, pillow propped against the wall and looking like a human head had never made contact with it. Minimal personal effects. Hardly a hint about what kind of man lived here, as much a mystery as Spy himself.

The only indication a person was ever in this room was the desk, which held a line of books, pressed against the wall. Moving closer to them, Miss Pauling realized they were very well-thumbed, having obviously seen multiple readings. One book was set aside from the others, a scrap of paper stuck between the pages to act as a bookmark - A Pocket Full of Rye by Agatha Christie.

Spy was reading a cozy mystery?

A quick look at the other books on the desk revealed similarly unexpected titles, at least the ones that weren’t in French - seven books all featuring “Austen” embossed in gold lettering on the spine. A few more Christies thrown in. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Even a dime store copy of The Andromeda Strain.

“You are more than welcome to read those.” Miss Pauling jumped a bit. She’d almost forgotten Spy was in the room, and with his infamous cat-like quietness and grace, he’d walked up to her side to see what she’d been gawking at. He’d pulled out a cigarette in that time, and had managed to silently light it.

“I simply ask that you be careful with Mr. Crichton,” he continued. “A few of the pages are falling out. Cheap glue does not last in New Mexico heat, as it turns out.”

“Yeah…” Miss Pauling muttered, feeling the heat rising to her cheeks and ears. “Um, sorry for being nosy. I just...ya know, never pegged you for much of a reader. Let alone Miss Marple.”

Spy chuckled a bit. “Things can be tedious around here when there are no battles to fight. And Dapper Cadaver is only a monthly subscription, after all.”

Miss Pauling smiled back. Though she’d never say it to Spy’s face, these books offered a look at a side of him he did his best never to show anyone - a human side. It was strangely endearing that this man, who prided himself of his suavity and mystique and ruthless efficiency at putting knives in backs, could be content with reading a quaint story about a spinster turned amatuer sleuth.

She cast another glance at the books. “I don’t get much time for reading these days,” she said. “Demands of the job, ya know? I don’t think I’ve sat down and read a full book since I was in college.”

“I would go mad,” Spy said, pulling a face of mock horror. “Surely we must catch you up. After all, you have plenty of time to fill presently.” He ran a finger down the line of books, humming curiously to himself as he did.

“Really, Spy, it’s fine,” Miss Pauling said. “I’m sure I can find something to do to pass the time.”

“Oh yes,” Spy said. He didn’t look up from the line of books. “I’m sure that Scout would be more than willing to let you ‘hang out’ with him. Sounds positively riveting.”

“...give me the damn book.”

A sly smile spread across Spy’s lips as he pulled out one of the Austen books and held it out to her. Gold lettering on the cover read Pride and Prejudice. She recalled being threatened with the book in high school, if she had chosen to take the AP courses. All the upperclassmen girls had complained loudly about it. She’d stuck with the regular English course and only had to read Huck Finn.

“I dunno, Spy…”

Spy gently set the book in her hands and closed her fingers around it. “Just give it a try, and if you don’t care for it, bring it back. I have many more in my smoking room to choose from,” he said. “I know it seems daunting, but believe me, she is worth it. Besides, I believe you’ll find...a bit of kinship with Miss Elizabeth Bennett.”

“Yeah?”

“She too often finds herself the only voice of reason amongst less than sane persons.”

Miss Pauling couldn’t help but laugh. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Excellent,” Spy said. She didn’t miss the excitement evident in his voice. “Perhaps we can even discuss it once you’ve finished?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Ah, well, it was a noble effort, no?” Spy said, his grin slightly devilish.

Miss Pauling chuckled again.

Spy’s grin softened a bit as he said, “I realize this was not the way you intended to spend the next few days. And I know the others and I...we can be a bit overwhelming.”

“That’s not…” Miss Pauling trailed off, the bare-faced lie dying on her tongue.

“I appreciate you not thinking you had to spare my feelings,” Spy said. “Although we may not act like it, all of us are fairly self-aware. We are forced to spend every day around each other. We know what we are like. I promise you, Miss Pauling, I will try and make this as uneventful as I can.”

Miss Pauling felt a warmth rise in her chest. She clutched the book a little tighter as she said, “Thank you, Spy. For everything.”

Spy bowed slightly at the waist. “You’re quite welcome. Goodnight to you, and enjoy the book.”

And with that, he grabbed up the Agatha Christie and walked out, shutting the door softly behind him.

Miss Pauling looked down at the book in her hand again. It didn’t look too terribly long, and besides, Spy had offered other stuff if she didn’t like it. There was no harm in humoring him, not after a promise like that.

Especially when a glance at her watch showed it was only a little past nine, and she didn’t feel in the slightest bit tired. Who knew, maybe a boring book would be the best way to help her fall asleep.

She sat down on Spy’s bed and removed her mud-caked shoes. She tossed them under the desk, so they’d be out of the way. Then came the nylons, which she pulled off gingerly and folded neatly. At two pair for a dollar, she wasn’t taking any chances with them. She pulled out the four bobby pins and the rubber band that held her bun in place. She tossed them onto the nearby desk. She gave her now-free hair a quick tousle. Then she pulled her arms into her blouse and undid her bra clasp, pulling it out and tossing it on the floor with the shoes.

Fuck it, she was basically in for the night, and she liked to think no one would come in without knocking first. She was willing to put up with a lot of things, but sleeping in her bra wasn’t one of them.

She laid back, propping herself up a bit on Spy’s pillow, and nestled the book on her chest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something small and white at the far end of the desk.

Upon further inspection, she realized it was a bottle of aspirin. A water bottle sat on the desk next to it. She hadn’t even heard Spy set them down before he left.

Well, now there was no two ways about it. She’d have to read the book. It would only be polite.

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

Medic felt his eye give an involuntary twitch when he heard Scout’s loud, obnoxious groans just outside the doors of his lab. And here he’d been hoping to spend the evening in relative peace and quiet, cleaning up around the lab or doing paperwork or tinkering with some Uber upgrades, to the tranquil sound of the rain outside. Another groan, obviously meant to sound piteous, echoed through his lab as Scout stumbled in, slamming the swinging door so hard it banged into the wall and frightened many of the nearby doves into fluttering, in search of less dangerous perches.

Medic’s eye twitched again. He pushed his glasses up and said, “What is it Scout?”

He lifted his head to look at the younger mercenary, who stumbled over to his desk, clutching his stomach as if it were ripping him apart from the inside. “Doooooooc,” he moaned. He sounded like a toddler crying for it’s mother when it wasn’t getting enough attention. “I’m dying, doc, you gotta save me.”

Medic rolled his eyes. Scout was, to be perfectly frank, the biggest baby he’d ever known when it came to physical maladies. Skinned knees got him grinding through clenched teeth that he was sure to bleed out in moments. A black eye had him wailing that he was blind now, worse off even than the black Scottish cyclops. Stomach cramps got him in the fetal position, crying out that it was cancer, it had to be cancer, tell his mother he loved her. Every time, Medic checked him out, submitting him to a full physical exam if that’s what it took, simply to silence the bellyaching. He never found anything more wrong with Scout than the typical bumps and bruises that befell every other man in this God-forsaken base.

He wasn’t about to entertain Scout’s incessant whining tonight, not when the weather already had him in a less than ideal mood.

“Scout, I do not have the patience for you tonight,” he grumbled, standing from his chair and walking out from behind his desk. Perhaps if he put distance between himself and the little twerp, Scout would get the message and leave him be.

“Aww, come on, doc!” If anything, Scout’s whining got even more pathetic. “Feels like I’m gonna keel over any second. Have a little sympathy, will ya?”

“I rarely have sympathy for the idiot who comes in here every time he stubs his toe,” Medic snapped.

Scout opened his mouth, probably to plead his case again, but he quickly shut it and let out another choked moan. His arms pulled even tighter around his abdomen. If Medic hadn’t known better, he’d almost call that genuine pain on Scout’s face.

Medic didn’t have any illusions about his position. He was not what many called “a caring professional”. To him, the healing was a rather tedious side effect of his experiments. After all, it was easier to poke someone’s atrophied liver if they weren’t in danger of dying on you before you could put it back. But you just didn’t figure out the secret to cheating life-threatening injuries by being a bleeding heart to every whining toddler that came limping through your door with stomachaches and broken bones and the entirety of their blood on the outside of their body. It just cut into the amount of hours you could spend finding reasonably priced Loch Ness hamster hearts.

But he wasn’t entirely without compassion. While his comrades tended to give him funny looks when he asked for volunteers for his more...ambitious projects, they did still volunteer. The wild success of his Ubercharge was proof of that. And the biggest reason for it was because he tried his damnedest to do it as painlessly as possible. It didn’t take a dubiously achieved medical license to know that people didn’t like pain, not even mercenaries who were used to be shot, stabbed, and blown to bits.

Medic was many things, but a sadist was not one of them. It just wasn’t conducive to his curiosity.

Which is why, after another pained groan from Scout, he sighed heavily, opened one of his desk drawers, and pulled out a bottle of white tablets. He tossed them to Scout and said, “Take two of these tonight and get some sleep. If you don’t feel any better in the morning, come back. Then I’ll see what else I can do, ja?”

Relief blossomed on Scout’s face. “Thanks, doc,” he said. He turned the bottle over in his hand, the tablets clacking together against the glass. “So, these penicillin or something?”

“It’s aspirin, Scout,” Medic said, turning his attention back to his papers. “You probably will not need penicillin any time soon. Unless you have a case of syphilis you haven’t mentioned. In which case I have been working on a super vaccine from some spare bits of the bread tumors. You will never guess where that gets injected…” For added effect, he looked up slightly and gave his best maniacal grin.

What little color was left in Scout’s face drained away, and he muttered a “Night, doc” before tucking the bottle in his pocket and stiffly walking out.

Medic chuckled once he was alone. He may not have been a sadist by nature, but he seemed to becoming quite cunning in his advancing age.

#team fortress2 #tf2 #fanfic #miss pauling #tf2 scout #tf2 pyro #tf2 soldier #tf2 heavy #tf2 demo #tf2 engineer #tf2 medic #tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #heavy rains

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purkinje-effect · 7 years

Text

The Purkinje Effect, 20

Minor tw’s for broken bones (again) and “off-screen” medical gore.

Table of Contents

Geek's tibia and fibula had buckled in half just from bearing body weight alone. Deacon handed over a Stimpack in an instant, Hancock offering a shoulder to lean on. The words that came from the pink dreg next felt more like a demand than advice.

"D-- don't try to catch me. I think-- I think I'd hurt you more than falling d'hurt me."

"You really think you weigh enough to hurt me?" Hancock objected, feeling his pride in question with his assistance shrugged off, as far as his strength and constitution. Deacon glared at him over the top of his sunglasses.

"You just saw the kid's leg bones snap like twigs just by trying to stand up, and you're playing the tough guy." Deacon took the Stimpack from Geek when Geek couldn't balance well enough to inject the syringe into his own leg, and knelt near him. "Geek, I'm not a professional medic, but I'm at least gonna try to right the bones before applying the Stimpack. Can you take the weight off the bad leg without hurting the other?"

Geek shook his pounding head, but tried to lean harder into the wall. He took a fold of the shoulder fabric of his faded green jumpsuit in his teeth. When Deacon was sure Geek was ready for it, he firmly gripped the upper and lower parts of Geek's calf and felt out an approximate alignment. Then the pneumatic implement plunged deep in the side of his calf, the needle nestling between the two bones before administering cold regenerative serum with a hiss. Hancock disregarded the caveat and helped steady Geek against the wall to keep the weight off the healing leg while the medication took hold, but did at least keep salient footing in the event Geek needed to fall.

"...We've got plenty more, right," Geek joked, slowly testing the leg once the numbness of the chems wore off. His face had run terribly. "I feel like I'm gonna need about two hundred before we get back."

"Oh come on, now," Hancock smiled sadly, planting a fresh cigarette between Geek's lips. "You're not gonna break every bone in your body. We're gonna get you somewhere safe, and we're gonna get you better." He flicked up a match for Geek, who shakily accepted it. Anything to mask the scent of his own lapse into indiscretion.

"We'll keep you supplied with whatever aid we can provide," Deacon seconded, standing. "Just pace yourself, and we'll spot you. It's only a day's walk back from here. We can manage that."

"I'm ready whenever y'all are," Geek insisted, starting off again. Every step he took had to be small, deliberate, and prepared.

"Woah, woah there, Boss." Deacon took him gingerly by the shoulder and guided him about face. "Elevator's that way."

Arriving back at ground level was a simple matter of a short hallway, an elevator ride, and a utility stairwell. Deacon and Hancock did most of the work, dispatching the Synths and various turrets stationed within the ruins of the Slocum's Joe coffee shop as they exited the base's front face. Geek equipped himself with the bull barrel pistol for fire support, though it was mostly for emotional confidence. His eyesight wouldn't draw into focus, his smell the strongest to rely upon. He didn't use the gun for the fear of friendly fire. But he distrusted his balance, and his bodily integrity, too much to fight physically. Simply scaling the stairs had been enough exertion to ruin him.

The scent of stale coolants indicated for Geek there was a Red Rocket station to his right. A fog of distortion enervated him further. More gunfire? Ferals. His footing wasn't steady, but at any given point he never went longer than a few minutes without at least one hand guiding his shoulder. He wheezed raggedly, needing to stop regularly to recollect his breath. The rot of petrichor stuffed his nostrils, and he could feel the rain soak into his clothing.

He didn't really mind the chill. Everything was on fire, and his body felt like it was hardening all over. Leaden. Saturnine. Overencumbered by himself.

Like hearing everything from inside a glass jar, Geek could tell Deacon and Hancock quipped unintelligibly back and forth as they traveled. His ears rang numbly. The ground became uneven, and he nearly slipped from the mud as they took the river bank. His boots sank sharply in the silty mess of patchy grass as he slid, leaving deep skids in the terrain.

"I am not about to take an unscheduled bath today." Hancock grunted, narrowly letting Geek right himself rather than instinctively catching him.

The rainfall bloomed up the familiar, complex chemical smell of Mass. Gravel & Sand, and for a brief moment Geek thought he halfway had his bearings. They kept to the broken thoroughfare, passing through a prewar military checkpoint littered with overturned vehicles and guard posts.

More gunfire, though it didn't last long. Geek assumed his companions had sniped out whatever had been the threat.

"I wanna sit down." Detached but beseeching, he addressed no one in particular.

Met with muffled responses, he let them both guide him by the shoulders. But, they didn't stop him someplace where he could sit. Pushing onward, he figured they'd told him he'd only have difficulty standing again.

Night fell before he could make out a tall fortification to his left. They rounded down past an overturned eighteen-wheeler and cut across the river on a bridge beneath the overpass. The shadowed stink of this patch of the Charles, Geek had been here before. The night was unforgiving there, unable to go by much more than his companions' road familiarity in the pitch dark.

They crossed over a white-edged red line in the sidewalk. That line felt important, but Geek couldn't sufficiently verbalize it as he watched his own footsteps. The river was to their left. A dumpster to the right. He wanted to say that he should stop and eat something, that he didn't know how long it had been since he ate. Something trapped the words within him.

Concrete stairs, leading into the ruins of a building. More dull bickering. They briefly stood in place before entering a utility tunnel. Soured pipes running everywhere. Brick stairs descending, winding. A bright light pained him and he snarled to himself. They waded through water knee-deep. More stairs, and a strong red light illuminating the way. Mattresses lined one side of the tunnel, metal supply shelving the other.

A third voice joined the usual banter with a door slammed behind it. Desdemona, urgent and incredulous. Geek struggled to focus on the dialogue.

"You what!"

"We need him, Dez. But what he needs right now is for you to let us in the crypt, so Carrington can treat him. We'll tend to formalities when he's not probably rotting on the inside."

The four of them moved into the heart of the crypt then. The dull must of ancient mildew clinged to every surface. To his left, a huge, bright round source of light. To his right, a salty smell affronted him. Increasingly, the dozen or so agents in the headquarters began to mill about in a fashion as to rubberneck.

"Carrington, this guy just saved your prototype from the Switchboard," Deacon introduced. Hancock handed it over readily. "Could you maybe show him a little gratitude by assessing the toll it took on him to do it?"

Geek looked up to the figure receiving the treasure. Tall, West Asian, a white medical coat. The pink mess wheezed, and decided it was finally acceptable to simply lie down directly on the cobbled ground.

"My God. Recap everything. Don't leave out a thing."

"Don't look at me," Hancock blurted out. "All I know is what I've seen him eating. He don't really talk much."

"Don't. Don't tell me he ate things up there," another male voice interjected.

"Not now, Tom." The doctor seemed genuinely pained by the intrusion.

"I ate all kinds of things," Geek retorted pathetically at the air. "What shouldn't I have ate? The telephone? The petrol? The damn Synth parts?"

The black man in overalls was crouched near him, his soft features and strange goggles traced with light from behind. Geek's features went slack, feeling comforted by this bizarre agent moreso than the doctor somehow, despite how haunted this Tom was by his response.

"That's it. No question about it. The Institute has got in his blood. Nanites. Tiny little computerized cells. They report back to the Institute, and probably worse."

"That's... terrifying, if true." Geek shivered. The prospect this Institute was responsible for everything that had happened to him and his people chewed him to the core.

"No! There's battery acid in that serum of yours." The doctor tried to pull Tom back, but he knelt down fully to get nearer.

"Aaand some algae, and a delightful little bacterial culture. Among other things." He looked Geek firmly in the eye. "Can't nuke an omelette without irradiating some eggs. It'll fix you up. Clear it all out. ...You. You don't gotta do it. Dez says it has to stay voluntary. But I'm positive it's all those lil' nanites buzzin' around in your guts that's all the trouble. We got to burn those babies out of you. One... not so small injection, and a good nap. You won't regret it. A hard reboot to your system."

"Are you certain you don't want any legitimate medical care before you... encourage this?" Carrington could tell Geek was likeminded to Tom. "Tom is our quartermaster, not a medic."

"Ye of little faith," Tom puffed.

"...I've tried every remotely normal medical thing tryin' t'fix this," Geek muttered, letting his head fall to one side, and welcoming the cold of the stone against his cheek. "This... whatever it is. It's hell, an' I'll try anything at this point. Let's... let's give it a shot."

"Even this messed up, you're cracking puns." Hancock snorted.

Carrington could only look on in deep concern as Tom snapped up out of the floor to retrieve the serum. Brief instructions back and forth across the crypt left Hancock helping Geek out of his jumpsuit and armor, down to his underwear, then into a pair of ratty pants produced in donation by an agent. Tom drew a syringe from an old oil can, the fluid semi opaque and of uncertain coloration. Like an inoculation, it was injected into Geek's upper arm.

In an instant, Geek felt his blood curdle. As his pulse matched his panic, the spoiling raced through his veins. When it hit the chambers of his heart, everything went black with a hard jolt.

He was running again. His siblings, Vana, Orpi, and Torber sprinted alongside him. Orpi carried their youngest sibling Ruti piggyback. Their parents were far ahead of them, trying to spur their haste. The Reds were finally bombing America, with confirmed reports of mushroom clouds in Pennsylvania and New York. Radioactive dust rolled in from all around the family as they hurried down the shore of the Blackstone Gorge from the junkyard they owned, racing to Vault 82. The Miner family made decent time avoiding the detonation which Galen had always believed was a near-direct hit on Providence. This liminal assertion never changed, anytime this dream transpired.

The gear-shaped door in the rock face rolled back in place with mere minutes to spare. The tectonic activity caused by the nuclear detonation knocked out power in the shelter. It was rapidly understood by the families that had sought refuge there that the amenities of the vault had been a projection, and that the electrical failure had disrupted the illusion. There was nothing. Overseer Bensington tried the vault door, but she found it immovable and decreed it such. Trapped in a wet, lightless cave while the world above was wrought asunder by a nuclear apocalypse, they had no food or safe water. They only had each other.

Galen lay on the cold stone floor of the cave, limp and ineffectual. The moisture from the cave clung to him, puddled beneath him. Yet, he didn't move from where he lay, didn't bother seeking a dry place or dry clothes. He simply stared off into the darkness and let the muck pool around him. He could hear in some far part of the cave, several other 82ers having a heated argument. The forming mire cradled him.

Hot foam frothed from his mouth, and he sat up rasping.

"This is proof you can't just go around giving people sulfuric acid injections!" Carrington was in a near-roar. "How many times have I told you to stop pitching your serum to the new agents!"

"He was that bad off!" Tom objected. "You! You SAW that mess of sludge that started pouring out of him! I don't have to run tests on that stuff to know whatever poisoned him was bad news! The Institute HAD him!"

Sludge. Every inch of Geek felt clammy. He looked down to find himself heavily layered in sinewy scars, the floor pooled up with a dark sulfurous substance he was positive had been sweated out of him or worse.

"Tom didn't do anything wrong," Hancock defended, sardonically. "You... you didn't see everything I've-- we've seen him eat. It wasn't his serum that did him in. He was already dying before he even stepped foot in the a Commonwealth. We just quickened the process. Least he ain't suffering now."

"I mean, you pretty much handed him the trigger," Deacon muttered pointedly.

"Deacon! Out of line," Desdemona growled.

"And you were the gun itself," Hancock snapped. "You were planning on keeping the prototype for yourself when Geek flipped out, even though you promised him that the recon would win him favor with the Railroad. What, ripping Synths apart with his teeth was too uncouth for your little club? You're all goddamn ingrates, just letting him die like that."

"He... ate them?" Geek could tell that was Glory's voice. "I'm sorry if it sounds like I'm speaking ill of the dead, but that sounds like a sick load of karma. I... I've got a dead drop to catch."

"Can I at least take his body somewhere to give him a proper burial? He deserves better than what he's been handed him here."

By the time Geek had stood, Glory had left. The group encircled a large round drafting table in the center of the space. He approached barefoot, feeling lighter, more steady, sharper, and noted this.

"I, for one, don't think I deserved a miracle."

They looked up to find a mangled but cognizant Geek. Relief washed over Desdemona, Deacon and Hancock, while Carrington and Tom seemed nearly revolted.

"There, there wasn't much left of you the nanites didn't chew up, was there?" Tom uttered, backing up a step, uncertain whether Geek would be furious.

"I've never in my life--" Carrington cut off abruptly, attempting to regain medical tact. "How do you feel?"

Geek looked to his bare hands, then to Hancock, whom he could tell was hiding his alarm well, and shot him a smile.

"I... I actually think for the first time in years... that I'm gonna be ok."

"I suppose if you can call becoming a candy pink zombie a happy ending," Deacon snarked deadpan.

The description left Geek feeling his face in the absence of a nearby mirror of any kind. Jutting textures, and it finally sank in that his right eye was now missing.

"I guess the past 228 years finally caught up with me," he laughed. "Maybe Daisy was right after all."

"She's... often right about things," Hancock affirmed, unsure what he could be on about.

"I told her I was prewar. She pretty much told me I was either full of shit, or I was the most well-preserved ghoul she'd ever met. I knew she got the preservative part right, but." Another laugh, more genuine this time. He could hear how his trachea had warped like a straw in a too-hot beverage. "I feel fantastic. Tom, I rightly think y'saved my life. An' if it wasn't for the lot of ya, I wouldn't have even ended up here."

"The Railroad's lifesaver," Tom remarked, admiring getting respected for his innovation for once, albeit from an unexpected source. "Anytime, pink ghoul guy."

"Don't speak so soon," Carrington began, tugging at his collar like his necktie was on too tight. "You should take it easy until any side effects can be accounted for."

"The only taking it easy I wanna be doing is gettin' a bath in the river and slippin' back in my clothes, so I can get right back to work."

"We simply can't do that," Desdemona insisted. "You're a potential liability until we can determine you're of sound constitution. And the way you handled the Switchboard. Deacon tells me that was an isolated incident--I pray that's true. I respect your willingness to aid our cause, but you need to untether. You've clearly been through at least one near-death experience. You need to take care of yourself before we can safely rely on you."

Geek stiffened.

"You can rely on me to follow orders. It's the least I can do for what your people have done for me." Hancock had come over to stand on his side of the round table. "How long before you'll evaluate my entry?"

"Give it a week," Carrington weighed in, seeming most exhausted of any of them by the course of events. "I'll give you a full physical now, and again after a week, to compare your recovery. Think of it as a fitness evaluation. It was my prototype you retrieved, so your fate as an agent is in my hands. In the mean time, I demanded the full story before all of this, and I refuse to see to Tom and Deacon's mess without even knowing what is going on."

#hancock #deacon #carrington #tinker tom #desdemona #glory #geek #fallout 4 fanfic #fo4 fanfic #fo4 oc #fallout 4 oc #the purkinje effect #the railroad

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gruntadminloch-moved · 7 years

Text

Happy Hatching 1/3

Not going many places meant that eggs hatched a bit slower. They hurried more as their holder did--it was more naturally in most cases to simply stay in a nest or den where they’d be safe, so it wasn’t a concern to him that the eggs he’d received on Easter took their time hatching.

Loch had been lugging around three eggs since the holiday, their species of varying apparentness. The one Shu had gifted him was anonymous at first, but had begun to turn a pleasant shade of greens and yellows. The Skorupi egg was, thus far, fairly standard as far as his research could tell, no strangeness in size, shape, or color. . . .

But the Lillipup egg grew.

And grew.

Anansior inspected it, a larger-than-normal type of Pokémon himself. His own egg had refused to grow to accommodate him, leaving him squished and making it harder for him to push his way out. He still wasn’t fond of confined spaces and was happy he wasn’t restricted to his Pokéball like many others were, always stretching his legs and skittering here and there to Loch’s amusement. He couldn’t help but be jealous of this egg that loch kept saying was quite large for its contents, but he eagerly perched atop the warm shell in anticipation of his new teammate.

He’d let out a startled noise and jolted, abdomen in the air and the little face on it glaring hostilely as he glared when the egg jumped and cracked as Loch prepared breakfast. The Admin looked over at it, pausing some conversation he was having with the grunt teaching him how to make a crepe to observe the cracking egg and listen to the frustrated whines and yelps from within.

“You okay in there?” He asked, amused, receiving a determined little yelp in response. He couldn’t help but smile at it, before returning to cooking, apologizing for the lapse.

Anansior crept back over and prodded at the cracks and nibbling at a loose bit of shell upon seeing the glittery interior.

The next jolt was on his way up the stairs, bringing the food to his Master, nearly making him trip from how hard it was. Raehela grabbed him just to be certain that he didn’t fall one way or another. They stood still to let the egg crack and pop and listened to the pawing, watching as broken bits were nudged, eventually pushed away to reveal a slightly pale paw. The dimmer lights inside made the glitter of the fur harder to notice, especially as the paw retreated inside to tuck against its owner to rest.

“Almost out.” Loch hummed, resuming his travel, Rae waving her ribbon arms excitedly as they mounted the stairs.

“You can do it, little guy!” The Drifblim cheered, watching the little thing’s spirit roll over with it, no restraint in its actions and intentions.

Once food had been delivered, Loch and Rae took a trip to Maile City, teleporting to prevent the egg from hatching too much on the way. A few more cracks opened up and the Lillipup within began to rest again, one more push going to free it for its birthday proper. In the meantime, Loch and his squad went to a supermarket and picked up formula the newborn puppy would need.

Lillipup born in nature weren’t usually egg-born--in fact, egg births were usually a sign of crossbreeding, shininess, or some other variation when it came to otherwise mammalian Pokémon. It made most variant mammals rare in nature--they often still needed their parents after being born, needing milk and other supports despite the safety of the egg. Lillipup were born blind and weren’t particularly ready for the world when they came to the world, so he was looking forward to babying the puppy, something he hadn’t had to do since he was quite young.

At the checkout counter, some extras in his cart along with his trio of eggs, the Lillipup’s egg began to squeak and whine and yelp and writhe, shaking and bouncing and finally popping open with a startled kick of strong, large legs. The size was already apparent of a Ride-Bred Lillipup, and the legs only revealed that further, bred to be born with muscle and tough pads, the back and body strong as well to support even the heaviest of trainers in the future. Loch was already prepared with towels and wipes to clean the yelping puppy, now realizing that the world outside of the body heat-flowing environment of its egg was cold and that it was wet, and through shut eyes it could already discern bright lights.

His Lucario, Kikite, finished the transaction at the counter while Loch and Raehela minded the puppy, ensuring it got to drink at the formula and was held close to Loch’s form for warmth and familiarity, the store full of new smells and sounds that may have been a lot for the newborn. As he cleaned and pet it while it fed itself, he admired the way its coat glittered in its pale color under the brighter lights of the store, its back fur green instead of the normal dark blue, and a little bit longer and thicker for both it and its future riders’ safety.

Shiny and a large breed. What a thoughtful gift.

Introducing. . .Hypatia!

Pokéball: A Premier Ball given to him by the cashier in congratulations for the new puppy. Nickname: Hypatia OT: Skull Grunt/Admin Lochlann Gender: Female Type: Normal Place Met: Maile City Supermarket Level Met: 1 Notable Physical Details: Shiny, large due to being bred to become a Ride Stoutland. Maybe twice the size of a normal Lillipup. Currently has her eyes closed at all times due to just being born, but they’ll open up soon and she’ll be able to see. Moveset:

Leer (normal; status; decreases defence by one stage)

Tackle (normal; physical)

Nature: Jolly Favorite Flavor: Sweet Ability: ENHANCED Pickup(due to breeding) Other Personality Traits: Ooooooomg it’s a puppy!!!!!

#shiny sniffy steed | hypatia the lillipup herdier stoutland #beyond rebuilt wings | team #long post #ic status | fixing cocoa #i may do two more of these since he got the eggs all on the same day #also i should probably put their tags on my team page

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notesonfatherhood · 6 years

Text

The Truth About the Tattoo

Five years ago, I visited my then 86-year-old grandfather in Queens for the first time by myself and wrote a story about my experience. I never got around to posting it, and sadly, he passed away six months ago. In honor of Father’s Day and in remembrance of him, I’m posting it today. Happy Father’s Day to my dad, grandfather, and all the dads out there. You are loved and appreciated.

Growing up, I was afraid of my grandfather. A Russian Jew from Ukraine, he came of age during WWII and later was an officer in the Soviet army. I didn’t see him much, but when I did, I found him stern and cold, a forbidding figure who rarely cracked a smile. On top of his chilly exterior, he had a tattoo on the back of his right hand that terrified me. The faded black lettering was impossible to read, and I was too scared to ask anyone what it meant.

My grandfather, Semyon Libershteyn, in the late 1940s.

When I got to middle school, we learned about WWII one day in class. I had heard about the Holocaust but didn’t really understand it or know if my family, being Jewish and living in the Soviet Union at the time, had fallen victim to the Nazis. We learned about how some of the Jews at Auschwitz had numbers tattooed to their forearms so that the Nazis could identify them. As soon as the teacher said this, a light bulb went off in my head. That explains the strange markings are on grandfather’s hand, I thought.

I didn’t bother confirming this assumption with my parents (for fear of bringing up bad memories), but my 11-year-old mind was certain. Given our family’s background, the theory made perfect sense to me. Plus, it explained my grandfather’s steely demeanor. I could only imagine what he’d been through.

As the years went on, I still saw my grandfather rarely. He and my dad had a distant relationship, particularly after my grandmother died when my father was 20. Shortly after her death, my grandfather started seeing another woman and married her a few years later. He moved out of their tiny apartment, leaving my dad with his 14-year-old brother, Roman, and his aging grandmother.

My grandfather, grandmother, father, and uncle in the late 1960s.

A few years after that, my father wed my mother, immigrated to the United States and became busy raising his own family. They settled in upstate New York, a five-hour drive from Queens, where my grandfather had moved with his new wife, Gina.

When I moved to New York City after college seven years ago, I didn’t even think about visiting my grandfather. I knew he lived in Queens, but the borough seemed a faraway place, and he a phantom-like figure. “You should visit your grandfather,” my mother would say. I wanted to, knew I should, but I was still scared of him.

I no longer falsely believed he was a Holocaust survivor (I think I realized this sometime between high school and college) but I was worried that it would be awkward, that we’d have nothing to say to each other, especially since his English had declined over the years, and I don’t speak Russian. I usually saw him once a year at family events but I’d never spent time with him one-on-one—and I’d had no desire to—until recently.

Over the last few years, I’ve taken more interest in my family’s history and have become curious about my grandfather, who recently turned 87. So last year, on the day after Father’s Day, I went to visit him in Queens. I was to have dinner with him and Gina and my uncle Roman. It would be my first time making the trek out there alone, without my parents or sister.

I left my apartment in Brooklyn with plenty of time to reach their place. An hour and a half later, I exited the subway and took a few wrong turns. I showed up about 20 minutes late, but when I arrived, my grandfather was waiting for me as I stepped off the elevator, his arms outstretched for a hug. He seemed smaller than I remembered and showed unexpected warmth. His wispy white hair was neatly combed back and his slippers shuffled across the floor as we walked down the hall to his apartment. I realized that I hadn’t seen him since my sister’s wedding more than a year ago.

He ushered me inside and hugged me again, which took me by surprise. I didn’t remember getting hugs in the past. Gina said a quick hello before heading back to the kitchen to finish preparing dinner; Roman hadn’t arrived yet.

“How are you?” my grandfather asked several times, patting my shoulder, as we made our way to the living room. We sat down and looked at each other. The room, which usually had two couches and a coffee table, was empty except for a few dining room chairs. Gina later explained that they recently ordered new furniture and were waiting for it to arrive.

Sitting close to my grandfather, I noticed he had the same musty smell as my father. He sat with his hands resting in his lap, the same hands as my dad’s, pale and with neat, square nail beds.

“How are you?” my grandfather asked again.

“Good!” I replied enthusiastically, attempting to cover up my nervousness.

Silence.

My chest tightened as I realized I didn’t know what to say next. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s awkward silences in conversation, so I racked my brain for a question. I remembered that he and Gina were going on vacation soon so I asked where they were headed.

“Shtow?!” my grandfather exclaimed. I never learned Russian but I knew enough to understand that he was asking me “What?”

Before I could repeat myself louder, Gina shouted from the kitchen, “She vants to know about ze trip!” She came out shaking her head and drying her hands on a towel. “He can’t hear anything,” she explained with frustration. “I told him he needs a hearing aid but he von’t listen!”

I looked at my grandfather. He had mischief in his eyes and his lips were upturned in a smirk. His bemused expression made me question his “hearing problem,” and I smiled at him conspiratorially.

For the next 15 minutes, my grandfather and I attempted conversation, taking turns asking questions and pausing as Gina interjected from the kitchen. When my uncle Roman arrived, I was a little more than relieved. He and my grandfather started talking about house repairs in Russian and a few minutes later Gina summoned us to the table for dinner.

I sat next to Roman, hoping he would be my translator for the evening. All my life, I have been rendered deaf and mute at family gatherings since I don’t know Russian. By the time I was born, my parents had stopped speaking it around the house, so I never learned. We lived in a small town in upstate New York and were the only Russian family in the area. The local paper even wrote a story about my parents when they arrived with the inventive headline: Russian Family.

My parents and sister, Anna, in the winter of 1980.

My parents were determined to assimilate, to learn English and to raise my sister and me as Americans. They certainly succeeded—and I’m eternally grateful that they immigrated to the States—but I’ve always been a little resentful that I never learned Russian. Although my immediate family speaks English fluently, most of my other relatives do not. Their English is broken at best, and I wish I could communicate better with them.

Dinner was a combination of prepared foods from the local Russian supermarket and homemade salads. I immediately reached for the potato salad—my favorite Russian dish—laden with mayonnaise and finely chopped eggs, carrots, pickles and peas. For dessert, we sipped tea and nibbled on Russian chocolates. Most of the conversation took place in Russian and was between my uncle and Gina. My grandfather pushed the food around on his plate, and I sat silently, just like I had when I was a little girl.

My uncle Roman, grandfather, and Gina.

After dinner, Roman had to make a phone call and Gina was back in the kitchen, so my grandfather and I were left alone again. I was standing awkwardly in the living room with him, searching for something to say, when he asked, “Do you have ze friend?”

“A friend?” I replied. Of course, I have many friends, I thought but didn’t say.

“Ze boyfriend!” Gina shouted from the kitchen. She came out shaking her head again. “He vants to know if you have ze boyfriend.”

“Oh!” I said, laughing. “No, not right now.”

“Gold!” my grandfather shouted. I looked at Gina for help.

“He means you’re vaiting for gold,” she said. I looked at my grandfather and he just laughed and patted my shoulder.

I couldn’t believe my stern grandfather was giving me dating advice. Instead of getting annoyed like I usually do when family members question my love life, I was touched. It was nice to get a glimpse of the softer side of the man I once thought was so tough.

Before leaving, I couldn’t resist asking my grandfather the question I’d always wanted to know. “What does the tattoo on your hand mean?” I asked. My grandfather only shook his head and smiled, rubbing the faded lettering on his skin. My mind raced as I waited for him to answer. Was it the name of an ex-lover? Or a secret Soviet symbol from his years in the army?

My thoughts were interrupted by Gina, who answered for him.

“It says his name,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You know, in case he forgets.”

My grandfather and me during our visit in 2013.

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