#his mother tried to convince him. his siblings. his companion who had gone through thick and thin with him even had enough and begged him

[pheonix-inside]

Going insane over one of my OCs.

[spookyold-saintjm]

sleep.

[gif: @pascvl]

Din doesn’t sleep much, because what his dreams often tell him are things he doesn’t want to face. Things he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to face.

The Mandalorian x female reader

Warnings: language, brief mentions of violence and death, a couple lines of implied smut

Word Count: 3k

a/n: Just a little something I’ve had on my mind lately. While this is a stand-alone one shot, I’m considering it Pilot canon, so yay if you follow along with that :) Trying to venture and write different pieces like this, so let me know what you think! x

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Din doesn’t sleep much.

He knows rest is essential for his body, his mind. Knows that he has to get a certain amount of sleep to keep himself functioning. He’s not getting any younger; he can’t afford taking on jobs in any shape less than the best he can get in the midst of his circumstances. 

That’s why he’s trained his body to function in short naps, maybe a fuller rest every once in a while when he takes the rare couple days off. 

Though even those are almost always spent in the cramped quarters of the Razor Crest. It’s dull, dim, and cold, but he doesn’t see the need for any sort of luxury to just close his eyes for a few hours. Sometimes he takes the helmet off while he sleeps, sometimes he doesn’t. He tries not to.

Because then, he starts to wonder what the world would look like, sound like, feel like, if he stepped off his ship without the heavy beskar weighing him down. 

That’s when he knows he should at least try to sleep, when those thoughts start to creep in. Maybe he could escape into something else for a while.

Not that it would always make things any better. In fact, as he can feel himself drifting against his will, his back rested against the unforgiving durasteel walls of the Crest, arms crossed, head tipped back and eyes closed, he knows it might only get worse. 

Din doesn’t sleep much, because what his dreams often tell him are things he doesn’t want to face. Things he’s not sure he’ll ever be ready to face.

There’s a select set of events that almost always come to Din when he falls victim to slumber. How they’re presented to him behind his eyelids might vary, but the idea of them is always the same. 

Most of them involve horizons of thick, stinging smoke, the sound of blaster fire and frantic shouting, the smell of blood and dirt, the feel of sweat or rain trickling down his face, of scrapes and bruises that he finds himself sometimes absently reaching for when he first wakes up. He’s reminded of things that he regrets he didn’t, couldn’t stop.

Sometimes there are faces. The warm, loving smiles of his mother and father. The heavy, stern but devoted masks of the Mandalorians who raised him. The round cheeks or shiny, new helmets of other foundlings he grew up with. Maybe even that one member of the covert that, so many years ago, had made it difficult for him to speak when they were around him, whose voice made his knees a hint unsteady, who he’d found excuses to spend extra time sparring with. The one that made his youthful mind wonder about what happens between two people when they spend a lot of time together and being companions or friends doesn’t really seem to be enough. Until they, too, disappeared, of course. He’s reminded of things that he misses.

Din doesn’t sleep much, because there’s no use in dwelling on the past. And that resolution doesn’t quite seem to reach his sleeping thoughts in the same way it does his waking ones.

When he somehow ended up traveling with the kid, a small creature with strange powers whose appearance and behavior vastly betrayed his age, whatever semblance of a sleep schedule Din once had was knocked off its axis. Traveling and working with a child around took Din up a steep learning curve full of trial and error, but one look into the tiny being’s bright eyes reminded Din why he’d gone back to retrieve him from the client in the first place. Even if he didn’t want to quite admit it to himself just yet.

The child is constantly filled with wonder at even the simplest things, his round face and long, pointed ears are so astoundingly expressive and it takes Din by surprise. He’s especially fascinated with how attentive, how absolutely taken the child appears when he speaks to him. And though the little one can’t speak back, Din finds himself talking more than he has in years, about anything and everything he thinks might be useful for him to know. He’s not sure if he even understands what’s being said, but Din figures it’s worth a try. Maybe he’ll learn a thing or two.

Once Din finally manages to get the child down for a night’s rest, he has to prioritize his choices about what needs to be done, to do things that he can’t typically accomplish while the kid’s awake. This works pretty well, for the most part. Except he finds himself thinking about the tiny thing more than he anticipated, and when it comes to taking a few minutes’ rest it’s either filled with worry that something could happen to the little one while he’s asleep, or he just simply can’t sleep at all.

Din doesn’t sleep much, because someone has to care for this child who has seen and been through perhaps as much as he has. Someone has to protect him, remind him that he’s safe now.

It goes on like this, for a while, until something else comes along that yet again shakes up everything Din thinks he knows about the world, about himself.

He meets her.

She needs better work, needs an escape from the backwater planet she’s found herself stuck on, where she makes ends meet but is teetering on the verge of collapse. He needs someone to help him take care of the child, whose boundless energy and bottomless appetite and unexplainable, magic-like tendencies are starting to become too much for him to handle on his own. 

She’s shrouded by a past that she won’t say much about, only that she’s more than qualified to help him with whatever work he needs. But she connects with the child almost immediately, claiming that practically raising her siblings, at least until they’d been separated for reasons she didn’t delve into, had given her a baseline of childcare knowledge.

For Din, this was enough, and they were traveling as a group of three.

Din and the newcomer don’t exchange many words, but they are both equally perceptive of one another. She quickly notices that Din offers to let her rest far more often than he takes time to rest for himself. When he doesn’t say much beyond a couple words of polite refusal when she tells him she’s got things under control for a while in the middle of a flight, she questions him about his sleep patterns.

He’s been taking short naps every now and then, of course. He has to if he wants to keep his guard up. Din doesn’t think she has any ill intention, but there’s something about her that just strikes him differently. Something that makes him not want to take his eyes off her for very long. He’s not sure what it is, but something feels different about her presence on the ship, about her. He reads it to be wariness.

He doesn’t sleep much, he says. Because he’s just always been that way. He doesn’t mind.

She doesn’t bring it up again, until they’ve been traveling together for a while and she notices he’s started to slow down. He’s been taking on a lot of work, both for credits to maintain the ship and to pay her for her services while the two of them work together to find answers on what exactly the child is, where he belongs, and how to get him there.

She finally convinces him to sleep, really sleep, one evening. And, eventually, he does.

He’s always brought back to his usual dreams, the ones that are more just dark thoughts he won’t allow to creep up on him while he’s awake. But now, the child has been added to his rotating list of faces. He’s being taken away by another bounty hunter or one of those gods-damned Imps that just seem to eternally stain the galaxy. He’s hurt, he’s alone. 

Sometimes, though it’s rare, things are better. He dreams of unfulfilled wishes he likewise doesn’t let himself linger on during his waking hours. Dreams of the child being safe. Of him being returned to a place where he belongs, rather than hopping from planet to planet with a tired bounty hunter who is known by many to be particularly cold and ruthless. They’re dreams that both put him at a temporary ease and yet hold a burning pressure onto his chest that almost feels like the same dull pain he feels when he thinks about all the others that he’s lost. He’s not sure what to think of it. So he decides he just won’t.

Din and his fellow human companion slowly learn, through both struggles and small moments between them and the child that break through the cracks of both of their quiet, hard-shelled exteriors, to understand each other. She’s smart, good with a blaster on the rare occasions it’s been warranted, pilots the ship like she could do it with her eyes closed, and doesn’t take an ounce of any bullshit he might ever try to feed her when it comes to remembering to take care of himself. He’s not sure how to take it. But he doesn’t neglect to offer her a quiet appreciation for the work she does, with a tight nod of his head or a muttered “thank you.”

But, Din still doesn’t sleep much. Because now his dreams are consumed by something entirely different.

He dreams about her in the same way he dreams about the child; at first, the worst things always happen. It’s what he’s come to expect, what he tries to stop but knows that it’s not always going to work out his way. In fact, most times it doesn’t. He keeps telling himself he can’t keep bringing more people into his life, knowing how they always end up. The guilt of it threatens to pull him under if he’s tempted to dwell on it for too long.

However, against any fraction of judgement that he possesses, he starts to think of her differently than he’s ever considered anyone before. It’s a faint resemblance of what he used to ponder about his sparring partner when he was far younger, but it’s so much more than that, so much more vivid and raw. His dreams take hold of the passing thoughts about her that he’s so quick to shut down while he’s awake, but they ruthlessly grip onto them in his scattered hours of slumber.

He dreams about how her face must lighten when she laughs, really laughs, and he doesn’t have the weight of the helmet hanging over his face and restricting the true, genuine sight of her in front of him. If her eyes would look any different if they truly met his. He dreams about how she smells, though he can catch a hint of it sometimes: notes of dirt and grease from hours spent dedicated to maintaining and building up the ship, but it’s combined with a hint of something light and floral and uniquely her that wafts through the air when they find themselves near each other perhaps a bit too closely than they’d each intended. About what it would feel like to touch her, how soft her skin would feel against his bare fingertips, in his hands. The taste of her mouth against his. The soft sounds she might make when she’s lying beneath him, both of them hot and wanting while they say things with their bodies that hesitant and maybe even fearful lips won’t allow either of them to speak aloud. 

Din doesn’t sleep much, because he’s ashamed of what his dreams continue to insist to him that he wants. It’s dangerous, and it’s selfish. Two things he can’t afford to be, no matter how badly he wants to give in.

The bad dreams have stuck with him for so long, have eaten away at who he thinks he is and make him near-paranoid about what he could still become, that he doesn’t know how to handle the possibility of something good, even if it’s right in front of him. But just when Din settles on the presumed fact that his life is now a straight-shot goal of getting the kid to his kind, he’s proven wrong.

They eventually find some information that might lead to answers about the child. They might finally be able to form a plan to get him home, where he belongs. Except, now Din is apprehensive of the moment that he’ll have to leave the little womp rat behind. He told himself he wasn’t going to feel this way, but dreaming or awake it’s a dread that sits heavy on his shoulders. 

He knows she can see it, too, knows he’s revealing more of himself to her than he ever intended. But what gets to him is that she doesn’t shy away from it. She takes it in, embraces it, accepts all these parts of him, in the very same way he’d done for her several weeks before when after a particularly rough job she had broken down and admitted to the horrible things she’d done in her past, everything that she thought would incriminate her, make him see her as nothing. 

None of it matters to him, because he trusts who she is now, she’s proven herself time and time again. It’s a trust that she reciprocates, and one that Din doesn’t take lightly.

And on one late night when the ever-increasing tension woven between their lingering stares and fleeting touches threatens to snap, they both cave in to the need they’ve hidden from each other for months. It’s slow and delicate only until it’s fast and heavy and they’re both left breathless in pitch darkness.

Din doesn’t sleep much, because he’s hanging on to both her and the night, knowing that letting go meant it was over and the possibility of another moment that would even come close to this wasn’t promised.

One evening, a while later, Din is returning from the nearest village from where they’ve landed the Crest for a night to stretch legs for a bit, though they knew any reason to prolong their journey meant more than that. He’d gone to scope out the village for any threats, while she stayed behind with the child to feed him dinner. 

Upon his return, he finds no sign of either of them, and he immediately assumes the worst. He’s trying to keep a steady mind as he loads his rifle and readies himself to go guns-blazing after whoever has so foolishly taken them.

He’s gasping for breath when he finds them just a few minutes later. Their backs are to him as they sit side-by-side near the water’s edge of the nearby lake. The child’s tiny, clawed hands are weaving softly through the thin blades of grass, but his eyes, like hers as she sits with her knees tucked to her chest, are focused on the soft feathering of purples and reds of a setting sun that paints the horizon beyond. There’s a soft glow cast over the both of them that makes them appear almost golden and surreal, as if they’re not really even there at all.

He watches them. He waits in silence until the child senses his presence and turns around, waving his arms and babbling at him. She smiles when she turns to look at the source of the child’s sudden excitement, and asks if he wants to join them. 

Din wants to be angry with her for venturing off without telling him first, for making him think something horrible had happened to them. He wants to order them both back to the ship so they can just get the hell off this planet and move on. He doesn’t.

The child climbs into Din’s lap when he begrudgingly lowers himself to the ground, and falls asleep almost immediately after curling himself into the Mandalorian’s arms. The woman next to him holds back a laugh, and meets Din’s gaze for a flash of a moment before she looks on to the sky ahead. There’s a breath of hesitation, but then she leans her head softly against the contrastingly hard and unforgiving beskar covering Din’s shoulder. They stay there until the sky darkens and the sun is long out of sight.

He wonders if she feels any semblance of what he’s feeling in that moment. Like he’s standing in the doorway of one of his dreams. One of the better ones.

That night, Din lays with his eyes open despite the room’s complete darkness, listening to the steady rise and fall of her breaths beside him. Her back is turned, always turned to him in the rare nights they’ve shared a bed out of respect for the commitment he has made to never reveal his face to another living thing.

He doesn’t realize she’s also awake until the sound of her whispered voice permeates the stillness in the room. 

“Din,” she breathes as she tucks herself slightly deeper against him, the sound of his real name falling from her lips always threatening to melt away every bit of the stoic, hardened exterior he’s worn for so long. “Sleep.”

It’s a command she’s given him many times before, often in teasing. But here, like this, it carries a different weight, says far more than the single word that she actually speaks.

Din doesn’t sleep much because he fears that none of this is anything he can have forever. There’s still the very real and hovering and heart-shattering possibility that he may eventually have to let them both go, and he feels like it’s coming faster than he can keep up with.

But he’s tired. And she’s warm. And the child is safe, lightly and contentedly snoring in his pod just a few feet away.

Din doesn’t sleep much. But on that night, he at least sleeps well.

[cranetreegang]

Fallout 4: Grand Zealot Brian Richter x FemSol: Undercover

A little something about Grand Zealot Richter. This guy... his voice!!! UGH!! Why can’t he be a companion... or a husband. Anyways, FemSol is going ‘undercover’ in the AntiRadaway gang to find DiMA’s memories. And she will do *anything* ;) to prove her loyalty. 

If you’re here for just smut, go to the section for Loyalty Questioned and Morning After. 

Any feedback is great! Thanks for reading! :)

Going Undercover

“So, I’ll need to get into this submarine. Figure out where your memory is being stored. All while, not killing them.” I hummed out loud my thoughts. “If I end up a ghoul, or worse, bald, I’m gonna be a lil’ upset.” 

“It would be best if you didn’t interact with us once you leave. We can’t have you raise any suspicions.” DiMA brought up.

“You’ll have to stay here then, Nick.” I looked over to my partner who didn’t seem to like the idea. “We can talk more about it later.” Nick nodded and didn’t press the issue in front of the synths. “I’ll let you know once I’ve recovered the memories. Or if something else comes up.” 

“Good luck, traveler.” DiMA at least seemed sincere with his farewell wishes. Nick walked me outside where we could converse alone. 

“I don’t like this.” Nick immediately stated.

“We don’t have much of a choice. It’s not like you blend in.” 

“And you’re not rad proof.” He countered back. I rolled my eyes with a sigh.

“Yeah. I know. Again, we don’t have a choice. If I’m gonna get his memory, without bloodshed, I’m gonna need to go alone.” 

There was a tense silence as he came to terms with this venture. He reluctantly nodded. “Alright. I think you should still report back to us once you’ve made progress. I don’t wanna worry about you anymore than I already am.” 

“Deal. I’ll meet up with you after I’ve gotten in.” I shook his outstretched hand before going in for a brief hug. “Try not to fry your circuits worrying about me. I’ll be back to bug ya soon enough.” 

He choked out a laugh with a matching eye roll. “I’ll keep digging around here while you’re gone. See what turns up. I’m not too convinced about this whole ‘brother’ thing.” Nick’s features faltered for a moment. I worried about him, and these new ‘relations’. With another set of goodbyes, I headed towards the Nucleus. 

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Meeting the Grand Zealot

Their camp wasn’t hard to miss. Even in the thick fog, warm lights led me towards their entrance. What I stumbled into was not the greatest first impression. I watched an intimidating, but soft-spoken man order for two cultists’ loyalty. Grand Zealot, they called him.  She shot her ‘brother’ without hesitation. I pushed down my already mounting hesitation at joining them. At least I knew what would happen if they suspected me. The Grand Zealot’s attention turned to me. 

“You. What are you doing here? Did Far Harbor send you?” He had a presence that could make people submit to him. If I was a lesser being, I would have without question. He was the one that I would need to convince. A bubbling anxiety formed in my chest at the challenge.

“Whoa! It’s okay. I’m not from Far Harbor. One of your… people spoke to me. Near Arcadia.” I needed to be as honest as possible. That seemed to work best when lying. ‘Half-truths’, as Deacon called them. 

His eyes stripped me a part where I stood. “Quite the journey. So, explain to me what you’re doing here. You come seeking a place among Atom’s children?” 

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He seemed convinced after I explained my interest in joining their cult. Just enough to let me participate in their trail. As I stood over the spring, I started to question what exactly I was doing. Drinking this seemed unwise. I gave a silent pray to whoever was listening at this point, before taking a mouthful. I wanted to puke. It tasted like watery acid. My insides twisted and felt like they were being ripped a part. My vision grew blurry. My ears began to ring.

A voice called out to me that brought a relief to my anguish. A motherly figure appeared in front of me. I followed her without question. The feelings were strange. The visions even more so. She was warm and comforting. Like an answer to a long forgotten question. She led me to a small clay statue. I presented it to the Grand Zealot. His eyes grew wide at the sight of the figure.

“A woman led me to this. Mean something to you?” I wondered. 

“A woman? Led you to that icon? What woman? What did you see?” Grand Zealot questioned. 

“I don’t know how to describe her. Motherly? She showed me… things. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. I followed her to this thing.” 

He looked at me in awe. Whatever happened was the right thing as he led me inside without further question. He almost seemed eager at my joining. He even urged me to speak to the High Confessor about my vision. I watched him climb up the submarine to a decent vantage point that overlooked the base. 

This couldn’t have gone better, and I even had ‘Mother’s’ blessing. If only Deacon could see me now.

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Her (3rd POV: Mainly Richter’s thoughts)

Brazen. That’s what she was. She spoke to him without fear, or hesitance. She tried to seem submissive, but the fire in her eyes gave her away. Others looked away from him with respect, or fear. Maybe both. But her, she matched his gaze with one of her own. Richter pondered on this for sometime. She was obviously a leader, yet she was here as a follower. When she returns from her latest exploits, he watches. 

She’s not what she seems. She’s friendly to their siblings. Her eyes wander around. Looking… no searching. Analyzing. He’s seen her poke around the base. She’s sneaky though. She’s always had a reason for being there. He’s even had her followed a handful of times; only for them to lose her quickly in the fog. Like she goes invisible, they told him. 

No matter. She hasn’t done anything to provoke him. Instead, she’s been helpful. Sister Mia and Zealot Wares spoke highly of her. Sister Mia said that the woman fixed the arches. He went through them the other day, and didn’t feel the warm glow of Atom. He looked over the pump himself, and was unable to find any tampering. As he watches the woman approach, he wonders if he is trying to find something wrong with her.

“Grand Zealot.” She greeted with a hint of a smile. Her teeth. Far too white for a regular wastelander. Her skin was nearly flawless. He hadn’t seen this level of pristine since the Enclave. Even then, she was even more so. Like she was preserved through the harshness of life in the Wasteland. Many have come to the conclusion that she must’ve been a vault dweller at some point.

“Sister.” He greeted back. 

“I’ve taken care of Sister Gwyneth.” Her head was held up a bit higher. 

“I see.” He caught himself frowning at the news. “She brought it on herself. Won’t ask you for the details. Doesn’t really matter to me.” He stated. Her eyes flickered for a brief moment. Something caught her interest, and he was curious as to what. “You’ve done well. Proved your devotion and more important, your loyalty. Atom smiles on you, Sister.” 

She gave a pleased smile and gave a low bow of her head. “Glory to Atom.” He shifted as he handed her something fitting for her. 

“Take this. It’s not just a weapon, it’s one of our sacred artifacts.” He handed her the large hammer. Her brows rose with shock before she resumed an impassive, but pleased, mask. “Go forth, and show no mercy to the enemies of Atom.” 

She held over the hammer in thought. She met his gaze once more. “Was there something between you and Sister Gwyneth? I heard that you two were close.” 

He laughed a bit. He didn’t take her as one to listen to rumors. “Ha. No. She was just a good woman. A touch odd, but someone you could rely on. Always managed to turn up a cache of Mirelurk eggs on beaches you thought were clear. We were better with her.” His smile shifted into something more somber. “Shame to watch her slip away. Can’t be helped now.” 

She gave a soft smile. “You’re not like the others here. You’re different. Why is that?” 

The statement rocked him from his usual composure. “Brazen thing, aren’t you? What makes you say that?” 

“I can just tell. You have this… aura about you.”

He found himself entranced by her. He told her about his time as an Enclave soldier. He spoke of how he was found clinging to life by the High Confessor. He hadn’t told many of his siblings about this. He found himself enjoying telling his story to her as she listened intently.

He noticed she had a certain sadness that gleamed in her eyes. Something the Archemist spoke of. 

“How did you know that you would be rescued? I hope this doesn’t come off as brash, but you were trapped. Seemed hopeless.” She wondered. 

“I didn’t.” He admitted. “Thinking back now, I believe that Atom is what kept me from… joining my comrades.” 

She hummed in deep thought before speaking again. “Thank you. Talking about… about the past, can be difficult at times.” Her brows furrowed and she looked away from him. “I had another question.”

“Go ahead, Sister.”

“I also heard another rumor. I’d heard you were the last one to see Brother Edgar. What happened?” 

He bristled at her question. She was striking nerves he didn’t realize he had exposed. How could she possibly know about Brother Edgar. “Edgar?” He asked confused. She nodded and waited for him to continue. “Crawler got him. Happens sometimes. Nothing more to it,” he had to compose himself for a moment, “,was there something else?”

Her features hardened. He would even describe her as being disappointed. “No. Nothing else, Grand Zealot.” She gave a short nod, and left without another word. He watched her head towards her bed. Leaving him with much to think about.

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Breaking In

I laid in bed listening to the soft chanting slowly subside. The bustle of noise was waning. The only sounds that could be heard was the creaking of the sub and the footsteps of roaming zealots. This would have to do. I looked around and was satisfied that mostly everyone was asleep. 

I padded my way through the sleeping cultists towards the blocked off section of the base. The usual guard was missing. Must be guard rotation. I gave one final look around before going inside. 

I was greeted by several laser trip wires. I grimaced at the fallen cultists littering the place. What a pity. I knelt down by the entrance trying to find any signs of movement, and gather my thoughts on how best to approach this.

“What are you doing here?” The soft voice of Richter echoed down the tunnel. I cursed my luck at the one person I didn’t want to know I was here. A million thoughts went through my head on how this would play out. None of them were promising. I looked back to Richter. He didn’t have his rifle drawn on me, so that was a good sign. 

“I could ask you the same thing.” I countered back. He gave me a stern glare. He came towards me and knelt down like I was. 

“I saw you come in here.” He was more observant than I gave him credit for. 

“I thought everyone was asleep.” 

“What are you doing here, Sister?” He had a hint of concern laced in his voice. I frowned at the forming attachments I was starting to have with these people. I looked back down the trapped hallway.

“Curious. That’s all.” I deflected. I could see his displeased grimace from the corner of my eye.

“Your curiosity will get you killed.” 

“Hasn’t so far.” I smirked at him. He didn’t seem amused. “I’m checking this out. I don’t care if you join me. But, don’t try to stop me.” I stated while trying to stand up. He grasped my arm and kept me knelt. 

“Wait.” He paused. “You don’t know what dangers lie ahead. Or what they’re trying to protect.” He gave a worried look towards the tunnel then back to me. He cared. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. 

“You don’t think me capable?” 

He shook his head while squeezing my arm. His hold on me was tight, but not enough to hurt me. “That’s not the issue.” 

I knew the issue right then. I could see it in his eyes. The only way he would leave me to the task, was by reassurance. He gripped his forearm. I leaned over and placed a light kiss on his cheek. I hovered near him enough to whisper, “Don’t worry. I’m pretty hard to kill.” 

His hazel green eyes were ablaze. His cool demeanor broken.  He wanted to say so much. “Sister… you’re setting down a dangerous path.” He whispered so quietly back to me.

“A path that I won’t be going down alone. I have Atom with me.” I hoped that would be enough to convince him. His brows furrowed. “This is like a pilgrimage. Something that I must complete.” 

He opened his mouth to object, but quickly closed it. “Very well.” He released his hold on me. “Go with Atom, Sister.” 

“See ya soon, Richter.” I smiled at him. He had a hint of a bitter smile playing on the corners of his lips. With him leaving, I went through with my mission. 

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Loyalty Questioned (Mild Smut/Sex Scene)

“You are under question, Sister. Even if you are a messenger of the Mother.” Tektus stated. I tried not to tense up at his accusation. I would only have so much time to react. 

“That’s unfortunate to hear. Especially since I’ve given so much to Atom.” I looked around the room. Two guards, Tektus, and, the most concerning, Richter. I’d need to deal with him first.

“There is more you can give. I was granted a vision, as well as the Grand Zealot. Atom requires that you spread His word through generations.” Tektus began. “Atom requires you to bear a true Child of Atom.” 

My blood froze in my veins. I almost wanted to laugh at what he was suggesting. I kept a straight face, thankfully. 

“I see.” I kept any vile feelings out of my voice. I focused on my breathing. In and out. I’ll make it through this. 

“The Grand Zealot has offered himself for this task.” Tektus motioned over to Richter. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He’s shown interest in me for some time. His execution in the matter was less than desirable though. 

“Atom has chosen well.” I bowed my head at Tektus, who was more than pleased at my compliance. This was going better than expected. Let Richter fuck me, then I’ll leave with my life. Not a bad trade considering all the things I’ve been doing under their noses.

“Then go. Go and deliver Atom’s will.” Tektus pointed towards Richter’s room. I frowned at the rush of this. I didn’t spare anyone else another look. I walked into Richter’s room. I’ve been here before. Though the circumstances were far different. I heard his footsteps behind me. He shut the door, but I kept my back to him. 

“I won’t touch you.” He whispered behind me. He was close. Close enough that his breath hit the back of my neck. “Even if Atom commands us, I won’t take you.” 

I faced him. He was tense. I suppose I was too. I let my mind wander on how best to approach this. I needed them to believe I was loyal. If they’re questioning me, then I won’t have the leverage needed to bring peace. 

“Did you dream of taking me, Grand Zealot?” I asked. 

“Your brazenness has no bounds.” He frowned a bit. “But, no. I didn’t.” He whispered the last part. I tilted my head in a bit of shock.

“You lied. Why?”

“The High Confessor had a vision of a child. Your child. I felt… he would have given you to someone who would not respect what you are.” 

“And what exactly am I?” 

“Not something that can be conquered, like the High Confessor believes. I see the fire in you. You burn brighter than any Glow. I’m not sure if it’s Atom’s will or not. But, I know I don’t want you tamed. Or your fire extinguished.” Richter confessed. “That’s why I volunteered myself.” 

I realized I lost full composure. I looked away from him and took a step back. “Take off your armor.” I commanded. 

If he was surprised at the authority in my tone, he didn’t show it. He started to strip away the pieces of heavy armor. I watched him. Once the armor was off, I circled around him. He didn’t move, nor look at me. He had his gaze focused directly in front of him. I smirked a bit at the good little soldier in front of me. 

He was well built. The wetsuit did little to hide that. I stopped in front of him. My hands trailed up his chest to the zipper on the front of his suit. I felt his body was rigid under my touch. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable, Grand Zealot?” 

“No.” He whispered. His hazel eyes met mine. I could see them starting to darken with want. I held his gaze while I undid his wetsuit. His breath hitched as the cool air hit his hot skin. I could feel the heat against my fingers. He slipped out of his suit without hesitation. He was bare to me. He showed no shame in this. 

I felt a fever creep up my neck to my cheeks. I knew my facade was starting to break. I walked around him again. He had numerous scars. Knives, bullets, burns, and scratches. I traced one long claw mark on his back. His skin raised into goosebumps. He was so warm. The Glow of Atom’s embrace, I’ve been told. 

I felt along his shoulder towards his arm. I came around to his chest. I saw a tattoo of what I assumed to be his Enclave assignment. I frowned a bit at how that reminded me of Nate. I traced over his designation of Lieutenant before letting my other hand go up to his neck. His beard was coarse. My fingers briefly tangled against the hair. I settled on his cheek. 

He wanted to touch me, but held himself back. I couldn’t deny how much I admired that in him. His restraint. His respect. His nobility. All things that reminded me so much of the past. I realized that I did want him. Not out of obligation to my cover, but for my own selfish need. 

“Richter?” I whispered. We were so close to one another. My body pressed against his. My lips a mere breath away from his own. My other hand felt his heart beat just as fast as mine. “Do you want me?”

He took a deep breath. “If you’ll have me.” 

I pressed my lips against his to answer him. It was gentle and almost too sweet. His lips were so hot and rough. With my silent permission, his arms were quick to pull me closer against him. He kissed me back with a ferocity that was nearly feral. One of his hands tangled into my hair. Even if I wanted to pull away, I couldn’t. 

It was like my breath was taken from me. He must have felt the same, because he pulled away with a gasp. He looked at me with a hint of shock. His hand moved from my hair to my cheek. His thumb brushed over the skin. He had an intense stare as he looked over my flushed face. Like he was trying his hardest to memorize every detail of me.

I stepped away from him which caused him to frown for a moment. His eyes lit up as I disrobed myself. He looked over me with awe. He pulled me back against him. The heat of his skin against mine was overwhelming. I shuddered at the contact. His hands moved up my back while his lips claimed mine once again. They didn’t stay for long before he nipped at my neck. He sucked a bit harshly in some spots. I let out a shocked gasp that melted into a moan as he continued his marking. 

“Richter.” I let out in a breathy moan. He met my gaze.

“Brian.” 

I smiled a bit. “Lyra.” I told him my real name. I wanted to curse my foolishness, but knew it was already too late. His eyes were glazed over with a grin forming. 

“Lyra. What a beautiful name, for a beautiful soul.” He kissed me once more. His touches were everywhere on my body. He lingered over some areas longer than others. He seemed enraptured at times. He laid me on the bed as he started to claim me. 

His movements in me were powerful and deep. Hitting a place in me that I had long forgotten. I tried to keep my pleasure from reaching others’ ears. He seemed to have the opposite thought in mind. His growls and rough groans echoed in his room. It sent shivers up my spine at the low noises he made. The way his chest vibrated against my own. 

We clutched onto each other as we reached our limit. As if we were trying to become one with the other. I held his gaze while coming down from our blissful high. He placed several kisses over my lips, cheeks, and neck. He shifted us in bed until I was firmly placed on his chest. I laid my forehead against his cheek. 

“Your skin.” He murmured while tracing down my sides. “It’s practically untouched.” He moved up my arm and held my hand.

“I’m not from here.” I dumbly blurted out.

A slight laugh escaped him. It sounded unusual coming from him. Like he hadn’t done it in a long time. “No. That’s plain to see. I suspect that you grew up in a vault.”

“That’s a good guess.” A silence hung in the air for a moment. His hand left mine, and instead went to my cheek. He moved my loose hair behind my ears. He was so tender and gentle. I hadn’t felt something like this in a long time. I closed my eyes and enjoyed his care. 

“The vault I was in…,” I paused. Finding the right words was hard. 

“You don’t have to tell me.” He whispered with a comforting kiss on my forehead. 

“I want to. Even if you won’t believe me. It’s a bit outlandish when I think about it.” I tried to lighten the mood. He frowned a bit.

“I trust you, Lyra.” 

My gut twisted for a moment. He trusted me. Even though I would be an agent of his demise. That was a moral dilemma I would need to face another time. 

“I didn’t grow up in the vault. I used to live in Colorado actually.  It was beautiful. The air was so clean. Never thought I would miss that.” I thought back to my time in the mountains. The snow. The crisp fall air. “I met my husband there. He was stationed at an army base. We moved to Boston once he finished his tour in Alaska. We just had a baby. A beautiful son.” Brian’s fingers kept tracing over my cheek and jaw. “We were rushed into a vault. I saw it. It was like the sun, it was so bright. Then we were frozen. For over 200 years. Someone came and killed my husband. They took my baby. I’ve been looking for him since.” He wiped away the freshly formed tears. He gave me a soft look before kissing my forehead gently. 

“The Archemist spoke of a sadness in you. A great loss. I’m sorry.” He didn’t pity me. No… he understood far too well. I suppose that’s how life was now. Horribly tragic. 

“Thank you for listening. I haven’t talked about them since I first woke up.” My brows furrowed. How long ago was that? 

“You remind me of him.” I admitted. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. I shook my head while stroking his bearded cheek. 

“Don’t be. I don’t mean it in a bad way. It’s… you’re kind. Loyal. Strong. Nate was like that.” I smiled. He softly smiled back.

“I’m glad you see such qualities in me.” 

I kissed him to bring the talks of the past to a close. He was content with this as he placed me tight against him once again. I nuzzled into his neck. He was so warm and comforting. I relished in him. I fell asleep faster than I had in a long time.

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

The Morning After (another mild sex scene)

I awoke in confusion at first. Seeing myself wrapped around Brian, reminded me of last night’s events, and confessions. I watched him sleep for a moment. The most relaxed I’ve ever seen him. Like a kitten, I mused with myself. I brushed through his unruly beard. My fingers gently worked out the knots that had formed. 

“Morning.” He greeted with his eyes still closed. His voice laced with sleep. 

“I could help you tame this, if you’d like.” I teased a bit. He squinted one eye open. 

“Do you not like it?” 

“That’s not what I said.” I countered. “I think it’s a little… overgrown. That’s all.” I bit my lip to hold back my amusement at his disgruntled expression. I got on top of him which got his attention. “I’ll be leaving today.” I shifted my hips a bit, and felt his already hard member press back. His nostrils flared at my, not so subtle, intentions.

“Where are you going?” His hands gripped my hips. His fingers digging into my soft flesh. I smirked a bit while leaning over him. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I kissed him then bit his lip. “I heard some rumors that I’m gonna check out.” 

“Rumors?” He questioned, displeased. He tried to still my moving body. “I’m not sure-,” he was trying his best to focus, but I was doing my best to not let him.

“I’ve worked with less.” I managed to steal another kiss from him. He groaned at his crumbling will to stop me. I rolled my hips again which sent him over the edge. He put himself inside me. Although I was eager, I still needed some time to adjust to his girth.

“I don’t like… the idea of you wandering around the island aim… aimlessly.” He panted. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve gotten the hang of this place.” I kissed him with the confidence I felt. I pushed myself up and down on him. He hissed while shutting his eyes. I heard him curse me under his breath. I sat back to take full control. I leaned back to brace myself against his hairy muscular legs. My head falling back in a luxurious bliss. He felt so good in me.

I heard him moan in pleasure at the sight. His hands crawled up my belly then settled back on my hips. Finding my pace too slow, he started to help me. He held and moved my body to a penetrating pace. I fell back on top of him. He wrapped around my body. His arms moved me like I weighed nothing. 

“I’ll miss you. While I’m gone.” I moaned. He grunted in response while finishing inside me. His mind had to catch up while he let out shaky breaths.

“Do you have to go today?” He asked winded. His eyes begged me while he kept himself from vocally doing so. 

“Yes. Or else I fear I’ll never leave this bed.” I smiled which he in turn gave a lopsided grin to. 

“When will you be back?” He nipped at my neck and ear. 

“Soon. I don’t know how long this will take.” 

“Alright.” He huffed. 

I stood up to start getting dressed. I felt his eyes on me as I covered myself in my gear. I was about to turn around to bid him farewell, when his arms wrapped tight around my waist. His nose buried itself into the crook of my neck. 

“Be safe, Lyra. I look forward to your return.” He kissed my neck before releasing me. The gut retching guilt I felt last night returned. I let out a shuddered breath. Do I have to leave? Couldn’t I stay here forever?  I faced him. He was handsome in his disheveled form. Something out of a dream or movie. I placed a long lingering kiss on him.

“I’ll be back soon.” I promised him. He gave a short nod.

“Atom guide you.” He whispered as I left. I laid against his door for a moment. The cool metal helped center me. I’ve compromised myself. Deacon warned me about this. Getting involved with someone while you’re undercover. I just wanted to feel human again. To feel alive. Now… I wonder what that will cost me.

[thestanfoubrew]

When Someone Clings to My Apron Strings

This is a late Valentine’s Day gift for @ginnyweatherby who is the absolute light of my life, inspiring me with he sweet stories and her great headcanons. All of these fics are based on her stories, so I highly recommend checking them. The way she details love in her story - not just the love between Stanley and Lefou but between father and children - is amazing and obviously is the source for each of these little ficlets. 

Happy Valentine’s Day, lovelies~

‘Older’

Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.

The foolish days of youth were melting past Lefou faster than he expected them to ever. But these were the days to stumble through life, unsure, and to take a few missteps because, for the most part, you’d catch yourself and carry-on.

He wasn’t exactly irresponsible. He wasn’t exactly responsible, either.

With the crowd he hung around, the loud-mouth, rowdy group of theater majors married with the reckless antics of Gaston, he wasn’t quite on the straight and narrow.

His grades were decent enough. He went home to see his family every other weekend.

But he drank.

And partied.

And fell into strange beds.

But he used protection. Always used protection.

Except he didn't. Not when it mattered.

Twenty-two.

And so on the night when he’s supposed to be commemorating his youth, celebrating another hedonistic and carefree year, he is sitting across from the girl he fooled around with on her extra-long twin bed, a white stick between them.

Her face that night had been so lovely.

(He had been so drunk.)

She laughed at everything he said.

(Everyone was always raving about how good it was.)

She invited her back to the girls' floor.

(He gave it a shot.)

But tonight, on his twenty-second birthday, she’s not laughing at what he’s said at all. Her face is red and blotchy and not glowing like everyone said it would. She was freaking out on the phone when she called him about this.

Twenty-two years old and in the little pink plus sign, his life as he knew it is gone.

And something new is starting.

One.

***

‘Reaching’

It was alien like, this little box for babies. Cold, hard plastic surrounded her, tubes and wires connected to oxygen tanks and heart monitors escaped through the little holes. These holes, two on each side, were a child’s only window to the outside, human world. These holes were only large enough for a hand to go inside and touch the baby inside.

Not hold. Not kiss. Touch. Gently.

Lefou’s baby, the unexpected visitor they were, was supposed to be held and kissed. They were unexpected, unplanned for, but by God were they going to be surrounded by a tiny village who loved them more than anything.

They weren’t supposed to be here. In a glass box. With an enormous scar down their tiny front.

Lefou and Madeline had a meeting with the pediatrician outside the NICU to talk about what was the best option for their baby’s life, which only hours before had hung in the balance as surgeons cut through new skin and tried to fix an already broken organ. But she was here. (For now.) And while her Maman and Papa were out, Uncle Gaston was going to keep watch.

“Hey there, buddy,” Gaston said softly. Lefou’s baby was a little girl - surprising at least Lefou who had convinced himself that he’d be having a son - and therefore, wasn’t exactly Gaston’s little buddy. The boy they had dreamed up, the one who would watch sports, the one he’d teach how to wrestle, the one he’d convince Lefou and Madeline to get a big dog for, wasn’t here. But a sick little girl who needed his love was.

And at that moment, little Charlotte balled her tiny hand into a fist, flailing it outside her little portal, offering it to him.

Gaston smiled.

She wanted a fist bump.

His little buddy after all.

***

‘Bright Blue’

“Charlotte! Charlotte Mae, look at Papa!”

His daughter - no more than two - was clearly showing off the dramatic flair she had inherited. She was leaning up against the wooden frame of the beach house, posing in her new blue, off the shoulder, striped romper like she was twenty-two. And Lefou, of course, was taking photographs with the aid of his lovely assistant, Jacqueline.

(Jacqueline had made the romper, too. She had a talent in sewing, but having a model with such miniature proportions definitely increased the volume of clothing she produced. And Lefou could tell that she took great effort to make something sweet

Still, she had her critics. “In my day, toddlers didn’t go around looking like they just stepped out of Vogue,” Madeline’s mother hummed when she saw her granddaughter make her grand entrance in her new ensemble. “They wore overalls and dresses with bunnies on them.”

Although, of course, Charlotte had her own fair share of corduroys and bunny dresses.)

Charlotte didn’t look. Instead, she tossed her thick, dark, curly hair - her hair that had been the reason behind Madeline’s mad case of heartburn when she was pregnant - to the side. Like she knew what she was doing.

Lefou’s genetics hard at work.

He laughed to himself and instead snapped one of her looking off into the distance.

These are the photos that, in twenty years, she’d actually be proud to show off.

***

‘Reflection’

A small town meant a larger number of people who heard the latest news - be it legitimate fact or whispered gossip. But Stanley Bernard becoming a single father at twenty-five was entirely true. And sure enough, when he ventured outside to the town’s early-summer festival with a baby wrap slung around himself and a wide-eyed infant peering at all the hustle and bustle, everyone began to talk even more.

That just how small towns were.

So young.

Couldn’t he have waited?

A baby needs two parents.

The funny thing about fatherhood was how much like his mother he had become. With her four kids, Fleur was always like a mama bird, keeping a close eye on them and shielding them with her wings. Stanley’s own wings were still fresh and downy - barely out of his adolescent phase himself - but they were there to wrap around Emilien.

They were a team, the two of them. Though the nights were sleepless and the days were long, there was no better joy than those moments he catches on film of Emilien laughing, smiling that toothless smile as he takes a picture of them together, his son on his shoulders, sporting a grin that’s not quite so toothless.

Never happier.

***

‘Companion’

It had been six years since Lefou had a baby at his hip. He had never anticipated another one. It was unlikely he’d ever fall into a situation that would grant him another child very soon, but it was clear that the ways of the universe were mysterious to him.

And of course, he never planned on a baby that was so different from his first. Charlotte Mae was just as wild and spontaneous as her dark curls but Bartholomew Elijah was calm, always pink-cheeked and staring around at the world with bleary blue eyes.

He hardly cried. He just let things happen. As long as he was close to his Papa, he could do anything.

And that was why, when he was introduced to Madeline’s dog, a Saint-Bernard that had a much different approach to the world, he didn’t freak out at this enormous creature dead-set on sniffing him. He just let her be. And with his peaceful nature, the new dog seemed to calm down as well.

Lefou smiled as he adjusted his grip on his son.

It was nice, after this disruption of his life, to know that this little boy could ground him even more.

***

‘Morning Light’

Once the boys had transitioned from waking up at the crack of dawn, eagerly awaiting what brand new things Saturday morning would bring, to finally realizing there was nothing glamorous or thrilling about six am, Lefou and Stanley thought they’d get back to normal human sleeping patterns. Then, of course, came along two little girls who were the unconventional last two pieces they needed in their family jigsaw puzzle.

Michelle, their sweet little surprise, couldn’t go through life without a companion. Barney and Emilien - though not siblings from birth - had become brothers in the three years time since their lives became one. Therefore, when the stork came knocking at their front door with Camille in tow,  (and for a couple who could not conceive on their own, that damn bird presented with them with so many offers away) they couldn’t turn her away.

And sure. It was hard sleeping in a room with two cribs, two babies, two constant alarms that could never synchronize their feedings and changing. But as Lefou lays in bed with a Camille swaddled up beside him, dozing off after a long night with an upset tummy, and Michelle, somehow alert after struggling to sleep through the crying, sitting and watching her sister in fascination. She had no ill will that this baby kept her up. She was just happy to see her.

Enough to - bless her heart - lean down and kiss the baby’s forehead when Stanley, from the other side of this Lefou/Camille/Michelle/Stanley sandwich - coaxed her.

Yep. This was worth it.

***

[solia-dreams]

X-Files fanfic: unused material for chapter 37 of ‘This Is How The World Ends’

Author’s note: Wrote 4,000 words of the next chapter before I realised it was going nowhere. I’m cutting all this - some exceptions, perhaps, but most is going in the trash - and thought “I know some people who might appreciate access to it, even if it’s not going in the actual fic” and so here it is :)

Harsh orange sunset illuminated the drawn faces of the Johannsson children as the car dropped its speed coming into town. Mulder rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and blinked his eyes hard, glancing quickly up at the mirror again to give his vision a break from the relentlessly dull street view. They weren’t his children, but seeing them safe and alive and together brought him a sense of comfort all the same, and he was sure the man in the passenger seat felt that on an even grander scale. Erik Johannsson had lost his wife in senseless and sudden tragedy, and had been thrust into both single parenthood and homeless fugitivity within a day.

“This is it,” Mulder said softly, disturbing his companion from his doze. Erik startled himself awake and sat forward, scrubbing his face and staring through the windscreen at the burnt-bright surroundings. “Welcome to your new home.”

Modest and unexciting, a newish and characterless neighbourhood of a characterless town in eastern Idaho, with identical boxy houses lining the wide straight streets. Mulder would never have chosen this place to settle down, and he doubted the Johannssons would have, given a better option. No single house stood out as architecturally unique; no charming front garden invited an admiring wandering eye. A far cry from the lovely family neighbourhood in Leominster with the tyre swing and the big trees lining the sidewalk, this area had been planned off only two or three blueprints, and every house was just a copy, with blank front yards and empty porches. No stamp of individuality identified one family’s house from another.

Anyone could blend in here – the new Collins family would go easily unnoticed.

Erik Johannsson didn’t share Mulder’s lacklustre disinterest in the neighbourhood. His crinkled, tired eyes lit up and he turned in his seat to shake his son and daughters awake, delighted. The kids were as sick of sitting in the car as the men were of driving it by this point, and had long surpassed the limit of their preteen patience, but even through their sleepy ill-temperedness, they joined their dad in his enthusiasm as he pointed new landmarks out to them, and they pressed their noses to their windows. Their chatter and noise helped Mulder focus on this last ten minutes of driving.

A couple of weeks ago he’d checked out the warehouse address left under a Volkswagen windscreen wiper and found this family hiding, hungry and afraid, unseen by anyone bar their one contact, ‘Sally’, since before Christmas. Rebecca Rose Johannsson’s husband and children, unaware of much of their circumstances except that their mother was murdered and they were next if they were found. The kids hadn’t been to school all year; Erik hadn’t been to work or attended the fake funeral undoubtedly arranged for his wife. Mulder felt deeply empathetic for the family. Not only had he experienced life in hiding from essentially the same people (new names, new faces, maybe, but ultimately, the same cruel agenda) first alone for a year, and then for many years with Scully, but he had also seen firsthand what had happened to drive them into their reclusion. He had unzippered the body bag containing Rebecca Rose. He had watched Scully cut into her chest and perform her autopsy. Her death had been Mulder’s door into this conspiracy. For the Johannssons, her death had been a thrust through the door and out into the unexpected wilderness with no supplies and no map.

“Is that the school?” the younger daughter, Lily, asked, pointing. Her siblings watched the building pass them by. “Is that where we’ll go?”

“Looks like that’s the elementary school,” Erik agreed, squinting to read the signs in the overbright afternoon light. He reached down to his feet where his only bag, scuffed and dirty after so many months, lay between his feet, and retrieved the thick envelope of paperwork Mulder had arranged for him. He leafed through the false birth certificates, the renamed dental records, the freshly opened bank account and made-up school reports. He found the list from Benny of facilities local to their new home. The schools. The hospital. The dentist so poor Zach could have his aching braces adjusted, finally. “That’ll be your school, Lil.”

It felt good to be facilitating this family’s renewal, to see their relieved excitement over things that mattered so little to normal, unafraid families, especially after so many weeks as ‘Steve’, Mikhail Levin’s steadily improving car washer and errand boy. Life with the Russians was insightful and crushing at the same time – the more he knew about what this conspiracy was really about, the more he wanted to run from it, back to DC to gather up the only people who mattered to him now and off to the hills somewhere. In unzippering Rebecca Johannsson, in drawing in Scully, in meeting Henry Gray and now in assisting Levin’s international agenda, Mulder had put his foot in something he wasn’t sure he would be able to pull out of, even if he tried. It was big. It was cosmic. What he’d long feared, and worse, because no one else could see it.

He understood now why Sixty-Four, or Sally, or whoever she was, had warned him about the Hosts, that they’d taken note of his interferences, however minor, and had discussed how to rid themselves of him. They had a secret to hide, a secret so huge it should come as no surprise that their plan did not exclude the option of killing Scully if it meant discrediting and discouraging him. They’d murdered Rebecca, hadn’t they, to shove Dr Gray back into line when he overstepped his role, and had threatened to come after her family next. The Worldwide Family of Hosts and their partners knew no boundaries, and would suffer no consequences.

“This is your street,” Mulder advised brightly, turning across the road through a gap in the lethargic afternoon traffic and into a long, straight side street. The town was the victim of uncreative and meticulous town planning, everything laid out in dull grids. He squinted out at the mailboxes. “Number twenty-seven.”

He would have loved for it to be number sixty-four, thinking that would have been perfect considering the lengths the pledge had gone to in her attempts to protect the family. She had risked her life to smuggle them out of their house at Christmas, and had been sneaking them supplies for months, keeping them alive long enough for her tenuous connection with the Russians to secure so she could ask the favour she needed: a home, unquestioned and unsuspicious, for her tragic charges. Mulder gathered she didn’t get much contact with people outside the Family, and the communication she’d had with Daniil Lenkov before Levin had sent him home had been apparently hard-won and shaky. Mulder, taking Lenkov’s place as the contact point between Gray’s Sixty-Four and Russia’s Levin, had been more forthright. “Dr Gray needs a safe house for someone significant to the case. It’s not negotiable.”

Levin’s wide network of outwardly average model citizens included a few small-time property investors, and so it was that Glenn Collins had taken over the lease at number twenty-seven. A furniture truck full of second-hand furniture had arrived earlier in the week and unpacked into the house, and Mulder, fresh back from a visit to Boston, had serviced his crappy but reliable old car and picked the family up for a road trip. Levin hadn’t questioned the request from his inside man; Gray was an irreplaceable, unrivalled resource, and though the ask was obscure, it was not unreasonable given his willingness with privileged information at the risk of his own position and life.

At the house, the turn of the key and the resultant quietening of the engine sounded like the car’s mechanical equivalent to a sigh of relief, after three days of near-continuous driving, Erik and Mulder taking it in turns to cross the country with three bickering, miserable, cramped kids in the back. Now those children tumbled out, crumbs scattering to their new driveway, which otherwise matched the driveway of every other house in the street, but to this family, it might have been built of yellow bricks. They ran up it to their new front door, and Erik turned his new key and they rushed inside. Mulder followed, taking his time, glad for the feeling of ground beneath his shoe instead of pedal, and of muscular contractions typical of movement as he walked around and stretched. Never. Driving. Again. He liked driving but right now he’d be happy to walk for the rest of his life if it meant never having to sit back in that seat. At the very least, he would be taking Erik up on his offer of a night’s sleep on the house’s couch. Erik was the kind of guy you’d call lovely – you wouldn’t hesitate and wonder if he’d be offended by that, you’d just say it, because that was just the truth – and he’d actually tried to insist Mulder should stay the week out, sleep in the master bedroom, claiming he’d be fine with his new couch and it was the least he could offer Mulder in exchange for all he’d done. It was quite an effort to convince Erik it wasn’t necessary, and even more of an effort to make him believe he actually preferred sofas over beds. Besides, he’d ended up reminding him, they had no idea of the condition of the furniture Levin’s friend had arranged. The beds could be riddled with fleas, and then all five of them could be fighting for the couch.

Mulder collected his backpack from the car and went inside. The furnishings turned out to be perfectly adequate, if mismatched, and boxes of likewise uncoordinated basic household items – cutlery, picture frames, toys, DVD player – were stacked in the middle of rooms with no apparent system. When Mulder walked in, Lily was delightedly waving about the frying pan she’d found in the box in the bathroom on her zippy tour of her new home, shouting, “We can have pancakes again!” He couldn’t help his tired smile as he stepped aside to let the girl whizz past on her way to her dad, but the smile hurt. Erik caught her and picked her up, like dads do. Like other dads get to, anyway.

Family is comfort, and this was a comfort Mulder hadn’t felt in a lifetime.

“We’re never going to be able to thank you enough for this,” Erik told him, honesty and graciousness making his voice solid and whole. “You’ve saved us. Thank you.”

“I hardly did anything,” Mulder insisted again. “You’ve got people in high places who care a lot about you and your children, and I’m only carrying out what they arrange. The house, the accounts, the papers, the furniture…”

“But you put it into motion, and you’re the one who gave up three days to drive us here,” Erik Johannsson said sincerely, as his older daughter Laura came back from the hallway and squeezed past Mulder to get outside to the car, citing going back for her bag. “We would never have made it on our own. It would have taken me all week driving, and I would have gotten us caught for sure. I know you kept us under the radar with all those funny country roads and backwater roadhouses, and I know what a risk this was to your safety, too. I hope Sally and her boss are paying you well.” Erik paused, shifting his little daughter to his other hip. “You haven’t heard back about that email from Sally, have you?”

“No, I don’t expect to,” Mulder answered, but heard a faint tone at his back as though getting a message even now. Swinging his backpack off his shoulder, he brought it around to his front, digging through it for his current phone. Sixty-Four’s unexpected contact with Erik halfway through their drive had prompted a flurry of activity – Erik worriedly reading aloud her instructions to pass the attachment to Mulder and to delete any hint of it, and to definitely not download it or open it with the internet turned on in case it was being traced, and for Mulder to get it to the Bureau where something could be done about it, for the benefit of Rebecca’s case. So that was what they did. Mulder was burning to know what he’d had, but he knew the discouragement from opening the attached file was a good idea, and so forwarded it to Gerard with the same instructions, except to make sure it got to AD Walter Skinner, without question and untraceably.

There was no telling whether it had.

The tone was still chiming, a ringtone rather than a message notification, and Mulder had his phone in his hand. It wasn’t ringing, and its screen was blank. He looked around, tired brain not computing, but the sound was definitely coming from inside the backpack. No. A stupid possibility occurred to him, and he dug in again, frantic and disbelieving. Under the map at the bottom was another phone.

It was vibrating with each ring. Alive.

He grabbed it and wrenched it out, letting other artefacts rip free as well, falling out onto the floor while he stared at the old phone he charged up once a week and never turned off and never used.

It had never rung before. Now it was ringing.

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” he muttered vaguely to Erik, recognising the number as the only number that had this number programmed into it. His thoughts felt slow. Why? Why would she call now, after all this time? His stomach filled with lead at the potential reasons. He almost didn’t want to answer.

But he’d promised.

He forgot to swallow his fears before speaking. “Scully?”

“Mulder,” replied the low voice not hers, and a face came to mind from four years in the past before the confirmation came in words, “it’s Assistant Director Skinner.”

A beat, a million thoughts. This was her phone. Skinner was an ally but why would she give him her phone to make a call? She didn’t want to speak to him and would only call in a dire emergency – of that, he was quite sure, since she hadn’t found cause to use this number in more than three years – and if she were able, wouldn’t she surely make the call herself? His brain immediately overloaded with improbable and horrific scenarios.

“Where’s Scully?” Mulder demanded, pulse accelerating in fear. “Why do you have her phone?”

“How quickly can you be in Wyoming?”

Oh god, she had been in an accident, hadn’t she, an accident in lame-ass Wyoming of all places, and Skinner wanted to tell him face-to-face. Or they’d gotten to her, taken her again, and Skinner had only just found her, dragged out to fucking nowhere and dumped, and he needed Mulder to identify the body. But he should be able to do that himself. Unless she was totally mangled. Maybe there were only birthmarks from under her clothes with which to identify her, marks only Mulder or maybe her mother would know about.

Or maybe he was overreacting and postulating ridiculous paranoid thoughts. He tried to push them down, get control of them. Maybe she wasn’t in Wyoming at all, but after those thoughts, wherever she was, that was where Mulder planned to be next.

“Depends,” he said flatly. “Where is she?”

“She’s here,” Skinner replied, words which should have been assuring except that his voice was hurried and low, like someone with a secret. “I’m with her now at what passes for a hospital outside of Thayne.”

“Thayne?” The thud of his heart smashed his attempt at reason, and a whole new flurry of disjointed, highly specific visions swept through him, in which Scully was no longer dead but gravely injured, or maybe dead, or maybe sick. Her cancer was back, and she was being treated in Wyoming where no one would know she’d been weakened. A case had naturally led her to Thayne, and in investigating an alleyway a delusional runaway had jumped out and slashed at her with a broken bottle. She was lured there by an agent of the Family of Hosts posing as a contact, or worse as Mulder, and had come under fire and taken a bullet, and was lying in a hospital bed awaiting brain scans to tell her doctors if she was still viable. Shit – calm down. Skinner. He knew, he could clarify, he could explain. “What happened?!”

Erik Johannsson lowered his daughter, expression appropriately concerned for Mulder’s reaction, but Skinner on the phone was far from sympathetic to Mulder’s spiralling overdrive of panicked thoughts. “Nothing happened. She’s fine.” She’s fine, she’s fine. The spiral slowed, and Mulder turned away from Erik to keep his relief to himself, pacing unhurriedly toward the door. Skinner elaborated. “We’re investigating a case and she’s in the restroom, alright? She doesn’t know I’m making this call.”

Mulder froze. She didn’t know Skinner was calling. Because she wouldn’t have made the call. Because she didn’t want to talk to him. A rude reminder, because in the golden relief that she was alive and fine, he’d forgotten that she was still not talking to him and they were still uncomfortably on the rocks. She wasn’t his to worry about. She wasn’t his to fly to. Not that it would have stopped him if she were in danger, but for anything less…

“Then why are you?” He heard the temperature of his own voice and knew it was childishly chilled, the same tone he used with Scully when she hurt his feelings or made him jealous. He was overwhelmingly grateful to know she wasn’t sick or hurt or dying, no hospital gown and thin pale sheets and whirring machines plugged into her ailing body like the nightmarish instances of their past, but the sudden fear of that and then the assurance it wasn’t a fact had thrown his emotions about and left him vulnerable.

“We’re about to go into an interview,” Skinner answered, now almost whispering, eliciting a curiosity in Mulder. Tempting him on multiple fronts, testing his resolve. “Agent Scully is not going to handle it well. She’s already shaken. I think you should be here for her.”

Mulder kept his feet firmly planted where he stood in the Johannsson family’s new foyer, but it took effort. Whose side was Skinner on? Stupid question. Hers, always hers. “I’m sure she appreciates your concern, but trust me, I’m the last person she wants to see.”

“Trust me. You should be here.”

With an irritated sigh, Mulder stepped back outside into the greying orange of the freshly set evening. Skinner still didn’t get it. He knew they were divided, didn’t he? Hadn’t Mulder told him, four years ago when they’d last spoken, to expect this? Weren’t Skinner and Scully close enough that he would have to know where she stood with her former partner, even if she probably didn’t really talk about it? Or at the very least, was Skinner not insightful enough to note that they were very deliberately not seen together, which should insinuate – if he wasn’t personally up-to-date with their relationship status – that they were avoiding each other for a reason?

“She doesn’t want to see me,” Mulder insisted, leaving no room for further argument, an early breeze sweeping past him. He watched as Laura Johannsson finished tossing all her siblings’ things from his backseat onto the driveway, and went to close the door for her. “Our last conversation was… strained.”

Laura had grabbed her own backpack but now turned to the scattered mess she’d created on the ground in the name of organising her brother and sister and respectfully clearing most the mess they’d made in Mulder’s car. Responsible, thoughtful beyond her years: the typical nuclear firstborn only to the highest power, because she’d suddenly become mom as well when hers had been taken away. She slung the coats over her shoulders and gathered all the activity books and pens and toys, while Mulder knelt beside her to pick up the handfuls of food packets and bottles and drink straws the children had burned through. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder to free his hands, though really, he should just hang up. He had nothing to say to Skinner, and nothing to offer Scully right now. Sixty-Four had been quite clear – their mission and her life could be in danger if she was further associated with him, and an emotional interview was not worth that risk.

“If she’s upset by the case, there’s nothing I can do to help,” he said finally, preparing to end the conversation and go back to Erik’s family, some people he actually could help. “Having me around will only make it worse.”

That should have been the end of it, but Skinner hadn’t forgotten the days of being his boss, and still had the authoritative voice to prove it. “Mulder, listen to me. This is bigger than you two giving each other the silent treatment.”

Mulder turned his eyes skyward, exasperated. The man was insufferable. One of his most trusted friends, yes, but insufferably impatient and blunt. Of course Skinner would reduce Mulder’s current complicated arrangement with Scully as simply reciprocal spite, and be tactless enough to actually say it.

Regardless of whether it was true, it wasn’t meant to be said, especially between two friends who hadn’t spoken in near on half a decade.

“Whatever you’re doing, drop it,” Skinner continued, his voice an impatient growl, and Mulder eyed his armful of garbage ironically, following Laura back to the new house. “Whatever it takes you, just get here. I don’t want to tell you why on the phone. I don’t want anyone to overhear.”

The email. How could he have forgotten? It had reached them after all, and it was as big as Sixty-Four had implied. When the message tone went off on the phone Sixty-Four had smuggled to Erik halfway through their epic cross-country road trip, the topic of Rebecca had inevitably come up between the men, and he and Erik had discussed Mulder’s connection to the topic and Erik’s extra information on the topic at disjointed length, whenever his kids weren’t eavesdropping in the cramped quarters. “Something about the case?” he asked, shouldering through the front door after the teenager’s loose ponytail.

“Yes, but not specifically,” Skinner confirmed cryptically, meaningfully, wilfully, sounding even more paranoid than he had when they last met. He’d said he was in a hospital, hadn’t he? So who did he think was going to be listening in on their conversation? What exactly had Sixty-Four let his friends in on, and why was Skinner so intent on involving Mulder? “And not something, someone. Someone I think you would very much like to meet, even if you still won’t admit your connection to him or his mother.”

The implication was sickeningly clear, and Mulder dropped everything except the phone. The Johannssons in the main area of the house all jumped at the sound of empty Coke bottles hitting the floor, and they looked over in concern. Laura Johannsson stopped where she was and turned to see if he was alright. She had the eyes he’d seen sightless and cloudy in Berkshire County Morgue in December, her mother’s daughter. The same eyes again, reincarnated in the offspring.

Like William. His son, with Scully’s eyes. Their perfect child, who’d settled so warmly and perfectly into the crook of his arm the first time she passed the tiny bundle over to him to hold, and looked up at him with her eyes, bright and round. Love and hope and faith and magic all rolled into one flawless being. But…

But his son was gone, lost to the big wide world, and those eyes were just another pair in a crowd of strangers, unrecognisable unless taken aside and viewed in isolation. Skinner had to be wrong. Or Mulder’s interpretation had to be wrong. Someone you would like to meet. It could be anyone. Even if you won’t admit your connection to him or his mother. There were plenty of people Mulder pretended not to know, for their own sakes or his – undercover and covert informants, sympathisers, whistle-blowers. Maybe some had mothers. There was no way Skinner was referring to William, no way he was about to interview William. William wasn’t in goddamn Wyoming, one state away from where Mulder’s own feet were currently touching the same planet. It was a ridiculous fantasy to entertain. But the words kept playing in his head, and he heard them a thousand times on fast-forward before he managed to speak, hope seizing his heart and hurting inside his chest, and he knew what he’d heard when he managed to utter only, “Walter…”

“You need to be here,” Skinner reiterated forcefully, voice low and close. “I think we found him.”

The line died, and Mulder took his phone from his ear to stare at it. Overwhelmed. Scully’s phone had called. William. Not her voice. He knelt to gather the rubbish back up, stunned into rude ignorance as the Johannssons asked if he was alright and Laura returned to help him. William. Skinner, still an ally after all this time, a surprise voice out of the past calling on Scully’s phone. And Scully was unhurt. Alive. My son is alive. Skinner and Scully working together in Wyoming. I think we found him.

It was insane to believe it. How many other people could it be?? The odds were certainly not favourable that this find of Skinner’s was Mulder’s lost treasure.

But Scully believed it. Skinner said she was shaken. Not going to handle this well. She believed it, and she didn’t believe in anything.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, interrupting Erik’s second tap on the shoulder and worried inquiry. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you. I’ve…” He looked up and tried to focus his eyes and attention on his constant companion of two and a half days. Kind eyes. Lines from laughing. A dad, a good dad, with beautiful kids. Mulder looked at their faces. They all looked alike, in different ways – a family. What did his family look like? He hadn’t seen it together in almost fifteen years. But now… it was in Wyoming. “I’ve got to go.”

[reaping-cain]

Single Fereldan Man Seeks Female Companion: Chapter 8

Kaeran gets distracted by many things, Cullen flusters over his cup of coffee, and Rhona suddenly and unexpectedly gets her hands full.

ao3 link here and the story so far can be found here.

The mugs and dishes used from Rosalie and Mia’s visit are in the sink. The design of the dishware is simple with its two earthy tones of burnish brown and taupe and sandwiched between them, a thin ribbon of red. Very Ferelden, Kaeran notes as she inspects one of the mugs including the simple handle. Whatever ornamentation there might have been was worn away with love and attention from being carefully washed and stored away through the years. She had to commend how the ceramic pieces were sturdy and seemingly ageless for their classic aesthetic.

Following the departure of Cullen’s sisters, niece and nephews, they lunched on the sushi Kaeran had bought earlier. Both were famished and said little while enjoying the rolls of rice and fish. Kaeran was surprised to see how much of the spicy green paste Cullen had put into his soya sauce. She feared that he had underestimated the potency of it but he gave no hint that he went overzealous with the paste. She remembered Dorian once lamenting over how Cullen had no taste for spices and always ordered bland dishes when they went out. Kaeran wasn’t so sure if Cullen had his moments or he was just trying to impress her. Still, he didn’t choke over his spiced sushi, so perhaps this was a special treat that he didn’t have the chance to indulge in so often.

She made a mental note to ask Dorian about that later. There were quite a few things she didn’t know about Cullen but realized that he was at a greater disadvantage…unless he knew more than he let on? Had Dorian told him anything?

Cullen had taken care of the Styrofoam containers and cleared the table while Kaeran hand washed the mugs and dishes in the sink. Leaning his hip against the counter next to her, he grabbed a dishcloth and began to dry what was on the rack.

She must’ve been going too slowly with washing the ceramics since Cullen opened his mouth with a saucy comment.

“You done admiring my dinnerware?”

Kaeran paused in thought before sparing him a quick glance before picking up the pace.

“Should I be admiring something else?”

Her view was suddenly obscured by a pattern that looked familiar. She grumbled while pulling off the dishcloth, annoyed that the offending cloth had mussed her hair. When she finally managed to tame it, she turned to glare at Cullen who resisted breaking his smirk into a guffaw. She must not have been completely successful in fixing her hair since Cullen reached for a thick strand that was caught on the shaved side. How embarrassing. Still, he gives her an apologetic smile before clearing his throat.  

“So,” she begins, when he doesn’t. She notices that he’s fidgeting with his hands. They’re beautiful to behold and she resists snorting because since when does she fixate on some guy’s dinnerware and hands? She blames the new environment and how it remains strange for her like new skin growing over wounds: rough, itchy, not quite right and easy to pick off and start again.  She tries not to prod too much.  

“So,” he replies softly, deciding that the best way to deal with his hands is to firmly tuck them in the pockets of his jeans. If Cullen noticed the small hiss that briefly escapes her lips, he doesn’t give a sign of it. Although he is entranced by the way she is now biting her bottom lip. She’s thinking of how to follow up this lax progression of conversation.

Kaeran decides to go with facts. They’re free of emotions that reveal too much.

“You met my mother.”

Cullen hums, one of his hands escapes and he’s rubbing the side of his neck, trying not to go for the back, a habit he tends to do and cannot keep in check. Kaeran opts to focus on the dishcloth in her hand, folding it neatly and lining up the corners.

“And you met my insufferable sisters,” he says. “And your niece and nephews,” she adds.

The reality snaps Cullen out of the haze and his face blushes from a light pink to bright red. He winces, “Yes…I hope they weren’t too much.” He even looks apologetic and Mythal bless him, how could she hold it against him? Even if his niece and nephews were absolute monsters she would absolve him.

“Not at all, I thought they were sweet. I mean, did it get awkward? A bit but as far as first meetings go, I think it went well.”

“I’m glad,” he says slightly breathless. Kaeran hated how handsome he looked despite the flush and evident nervousness.  

“Your sisters are not that bad.” He snorts at that. “Try growing up with them.” “Isn’t that how it always is with siblings?”

Cullen furrows his brow, “You don’t have any?” She shakes her head. “I suppose the closest thing I have to a sibling is my cousin, Rhona. Lots of growing up together…” “Making stupid mistakes?” He jokes.

She smirks, her lips stretching thin, as though worried any secrets my slip between them. He doesn’t miss the mischievous twinkle in her eyes that say “wouldn’t you want to know” and yet, he also notes a bit on sadness in them.

“As long as there are more good memories than bad ones.”

Wanting to change subject, Kaeran sets the dishcloth aside, “So when do I meet your parents? I’m more nervous about that.”

When she doesn’t hear his response, she turns to look back at him and instantly regrets her question. Shit.

“I said something wrong.” She really, really needed that chat with Dorian.

Cullen’s frown is gone and though he’s mostly composed, there’s still tightness around his eyes and she senses that some of it must’ve come from that private conversation he had with his sister, Mia.

“You didn’t know.” “How,” she begins, unsure how best to continue the thread of conversation, debating even, if it wasn’t best to steer it elsewhere. She wants to hug him but also give him some space. Kaeran’s unsure which action to take, what was appropriate. They’re both strangers in uncharted waters and whatever good footing they had earlier seemed to transform into a minefield of personal baggage.

“I was fourteen when they died. Mia was fifteen. It’ll be twenty years next spring.”

She can’t imagine losing her parents all at once, but at such a young age? Her heart lurched, unable to imagine Cullen so young and losing them; having to grow up without them, learning so much on their own, growing up faster than expected and coping without parents.  

“You’re thirty-three?” It feels like she’s grasping at straws but what else is she supposed to ask? Asking how it happened felt cold, and though a normal follow up question, Kaeran didn’t want to pry. Not unless he was willing to tell her and the fact that he hadn’t brought up his parents sooner meant otherwise. She assumed that the relationship was strained, not prematurely severed and buried six feet under.

Some tension must’ve bled out since Cullen is eyeing her oddly, actually looking at her from head to toe as though he is only seeing her for the first time and now she’s the one that is fidgeting under his scrutiny. Catching himself, he looks to her left while rubbing the back of his neck. “Y-yes…is that a problem?”

She hadn’t considered how old he was until just now. She assumed that he was slightly older than her but she can’t help but be impressed that he looks good for someone his age. She suspects that the tight lines in his face and slightly pronounced cheekbones were from stress and working long hours.

When she stares back at him, his brows are raised, eyes rounded. Cullen looks younger in that moment, a contradiction to his thirty-three years in this world. Hands on her hips, she tilts her head to the side, assessing quietly. She can tell that he’s holding his breath in anticipation.

Finally.

“No, not a problem,” she says, “just a bit put out, really. I thought we were closer in age and I’m honestly offended that you don’t look your age.”

“Looks are deceiving,” he joked.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” she quipped back.

“Would you mind me asking how old you are?”

“Not at all, I’m twenty-eight,” she stated.

Cullen visibly deflated, “Thank the Maker,” he breathed. Kaeran had quirked her eyebrow in response to his reaction.

“Sorry, for a moment I was worried that you were…”

“Younger.”

“Yes, much younger.”

“Admit you were worried that people would start teasing you about being a cradle robber.”

“Can’t have that.”

“No, that won’t do,” she said, a hint of a smile curling the corners of her mouth. “Now that we’ve established that, I’m not entirely sure that we convinced your sisters that we’re a couple.”

“We’re bad at this,” he groans, one hand covering his face. “We didn’t establish a story of how we met and we’re only figuring out each other’s age. What a mess.”

“Hey, hey,” she walks up to him, resting her hand lightly on his arm, “don’t worry, we’ve got time to make it work.”

He peeks through the cracks between his fingers, muffling out, “In time before the housewarming you suddenly sprung up?”

Kaeran’s face is an open book, he realizes, flitting from concern to schooling into something between impassive and cool.

She smacks his arm, again, lightly. “I’ll pretend I heard a ‘thank you’ somewhere in there. So,” she rubs her hands together, glad to change the subject. “Ready to make good on that promise of yours?”

Cullen is very much thankful that Kaeran doesn’t hesitate to pick up the lead.

-//-

It’s a slow day at The Dales Bakehouse and Rhona is wondering for the twentieth time this hour why they bother being opened for Mondays. Having recently acquired the rights of the bakehouse, she is still new to many aspects of being a business owner but relishes the challenge; it’s why the previous owners were happy to give her the keys, they knew that the bakehouse was in good hands.

The Dales was a second home to Rhona who moved out of the ‘burbs in her late teens and lived by couch surfing for a while before saving enough money to afford rent for a bedroom. Despite working long hours for various jobs, she stayed in touch with family. They always encouraged her to return home and to her studies but Rhona found that as much as she loved her family she couldn’t bear to be a burden to them. She couldn’t go back to school, didn’t have the discipline for it, and decided to go on her own and figure things out along the way. Within the last eight years she had learned a lot from her various jobs, what worked, what didn’t and especially, who to avoid.

Considering the series of miscalculations and gem opportunities that shaped her, she wasn’t faring too badly if she was the owner of a thriving bakehouse that garnered an interesting mix of clientele. Rhona loved what she did; the everyday challenges and decisions to keep The Dales a welcoming place for customers, young and old, and a shining beacon in a sea of café franchises.

She was just about to go check on the new pastry chef downstairs when the bell above the entranceway dinged, signaling a newcomer. Rhona pulled her long copper braid to drape down her back.

“Afternoon,” the man approached.

Rhona grinned at him, recognizing the man, “Well if it isn’t the handsome Ansom. How are ya doing today?”

Ansom let out a loud scream sneeze and was able to successfully cover it in the crook of his elbow. Rhona winced, the sound incredibly loud to her sensitive ears and at the fact that Ansom was clearly under the weather.

“Still got that cold?”

“Yeh,” he replied, grabbing a napkin from the counter and blowing his nose. He neatly folded the napkin and tucked it in the pocket of his coat.

“You sure you’re getting better? You look feverish.” The guy did look quite flushed and his eyes were watery and unfocused.

“’m fine,” he waved her off.

Ansom began visiting The Dales shortly after Rhona had discovered the place. Frequent sightings and friendly demeanor meant that they inevitably began to greet each other and slowly got to know more of the other. Ansom was, well, handsome, but held fast to his boyish charms and he never hesitated to flirt unless it wasn’t welcome. He was a nice guy, a carpenter by trade and had good taste in music, something which he and Rhona discussed with great length.

He tried to give Rhona his heartthrob smile but it warbled and the last straw was how suddenly white his face turned.

“Ansom, I swear to Mythal if you—”

She didn’t have the chance to finish her sentence; the guy nearly crumpled to the floor and struggled to stay on his feet, muttering to himself.

“Damn you,” she scowled, rounding the corner to come to his aid.

Once she grabbed him firmly under his arms and hauled him up, she called out for the chef.

“I’m fine,” Ansom repeated. Rhona tsked at him. If he weren’t so pale she would’ve smacked some sense into him.  

“Thea!” she called again, hoping that the only other employee in the bakehouse wasn’t out of reach. Footsteps replied to her call as the qunari emerged from the staircase, apron wrapped across her waist (the widest she could find) and a cloth in her hands to wash off most of the flour from her large hands.

“What’s up?” she asked before her calm manner shifted to one of concern as soon as she saw the man slouching against the chair. “I’ll get some cold compress, want me to call an ambulance?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Ansom replied.

Rhona snapped her head to glare at him. “So help me, Ansom, I’ll make it much worse for you if you keep insisting that you’re fine.” She turned to Thea then, “hold off on the ambulance, I’m taking him with me. What’s the situation downstairs?”

Thea wiped her hands against the apron, mentally assessing the state of the kitchen in the basement. “Got a couple of things in the oven, some pastries that can be stored in the refrigerator for now, nothing urgent. Why?”

“How do you feel about leaving early today? I promise you’ll be compensated for the full shift, no questions asked.”

“You sure, boss?” Any other time she would have insisted on not being called ‘boss’ but this was different and Rhona relished the fact that she could make such a call with no one to answer to. She was the boss, after all.

“Yeah, pretty sure.”

-//-

She can’t believe that he’s doing this. Of all nights, this had to happen tonight. Tonight was important, she’d told him about the engagement party months ago. She had been optimistic that he would make the effort.

“You don’t care about my friends.”

“What does it matter when I care for you?” She shakes her head.

“You don’t want me to go, by refusing you think I’ll cancel my plans and stay in with you.”

He doesn’t look up from his notes, always engrossed in work even when he was pulled away from the archives. “If you want to go then go, but there’s no point in me going, besides, I found something interesting in my research, I can’t give it up now.”

She fumed. Why was she so stupid to think that he would change his habits and make an exception for once? He drove her crazier than usual. It didn’t take much nowadays.

“You always do this, what’s the point? You don’t want to know anything about my friends, you don’t put the effort.”

He shrugs, a small innocent smile, “Vhenan, I don’t know them and I know they don’t think much of me. What’s the point in going if I’ll be sitting at a table surrounded by strangers.”

“You’d be with me!” she snapped, “Spend time with me other than just seeing me at work or living under this roof with you! A change of scenery…and they wouldn’t be strangers if you made an effort in getting to know them. These kinds of parties are a good way to mingle.”

He sighed, finally looking at her and sounding annoyed, “sounds like work.”

“Friendship is work, very much like a relationship.”

“I disagree. You either like someone or you don’t. It’s up to you to decide to pursue a meaningful relationship.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “This is the problem, you’re not even willing to try, not even for my sake.” Pause. “Fine, I’m going. I’ll be damned if I stay cooped up in here a moment longer, especially when there’s no point in reasoning with you.”

“If that is your wish, very well. Have a good time, my love.”

As she exited their loft, she wrestled with her emotions, wishing the conversation went better. After fights like this one she always wondered if there was another way she could have talked it through, if she said things differently, if she had put more time and patience. Time, she huffed; she gave plenty of that along with patience as well as her sanity.

What infuriates her is that despite all this, she still wishes that he conceded and joined her. She resolves to not let his absence affect her night; tonight is a celebration after all. She will take this opportunity to see her friends again, catch up and enjoy the festivity.

Her plan is only mildly successful as she bumps into friends, quite a few of them surprised to see her there while others have turned cold towards her attempts in making amends and catching up. She refuses to think that Solas was right and that she should have stayed in for the night. She also promised herself that she wouldn’t drink too much.

If she was honest with herself, she had a lot on her mind and barely minded the number of drinks she consumed through the night.

“Everything alright?”

“Hm..? Oh, sorry.”

“I lost you for a bit. Thought maybe you were having second thoughts about this bed.”

“What?” she says, not really up to speed with what’s going on or her surroundings. She could have sworn that she was elsewhere, that it wasn’t just a trick from her brain simply fucking with her.

“I know you picked it but if you’re having second thoughts, maybe tell me? As much as it is a pain to assemble Samna furniture, you don’t want to try pulling it apart.”

Oh, right. The Samna furniture…her bedframe that Cullen offered to help build. She’s lucky that he was kind enough to volunteer since she hadn’t even thought about the grueling task of putting together her own bed. Rhona probably would’ve laughed at her and hung up (still laughing) if she called to ask.

“Oh! No. The bed is fine, sorry, just a bit spacey. Kind of a big deal moving in with my short-term fake boyfriend.”

“Ouch. I know it hasn’t been conventionally long but short term?”

“How long has it been then?” She meant it as a joke but apparently Cullen doesn’t get nuances. In any other circumstance she would’ve found it annoying but right now? Cullen was being insufferably endearing. He’s so sweet that Kaeran practically feels cavities filming her teeth. She momentarily panics over whether she packed her toothbrush only to remember a few seconds later that it was in her bag.

He’s cupping his mug of coffee and scrunches his face, actually calculating. Creators, even when he makes a stupid face she has the urge to do something stupid. What in the Void is wrong with her?

Once he takes a sip—aside from learning more about his family, his age, Kaeran also catalogues how he’s a total caffeine fiend—he’s satisfied with his estimation. “I’d say…almost two months,” he says finally.

She has to whistle at that estimation. “Really?”

“Hm-mhm. We didn’t even do anything special for our first month.”

She scoffs at that. “Are you one of those types?”

Cullen shrugs, slightly on the defensive. “For the right girl, I might be inclined for sappy and seemingly absurd milestones.”

Kaeran hides her nervous smile with her hand. Unbelievable. Her fake boyfriend is a total sap. “You must think you’re so smooth.”

“Quite the opposite but I’m glad to hear that my nervousness isn’t so obvious.”

“You? Nervous?”

He snorts before taking another sip. “Are you kidding? I have the calm collectiveness of a fennec fox.”

“Well, it’s reassuring, but you need to give yourself more credit than that.”

“You’re too kind,” he says drily. A total sap and a snark, she can’t believe it. Where was Dorian hiding this guy?

“You’re not far off…”

“Pardon?”

“Fennec fox? They’re fidgety but also really cute.”

He doesn’t know how to respond, his mind blanking and words refusing to come out, his throat tightening suddenly. He clears it and fusses with the pages of instructions, engrossed in the simple illustrations than the beauty sitting across from him.

“Um…shall we move on to the next step?” He chances a brief glance her way before shuffling through the instructions, trying to find the step they’re stuck on.

Kaeran indulges him by following his lead and shifting her focus to assembling the furniture. She crawls on all fours, scrutinizing the collection of nails, bolts and tiny wooden dowels and giving Cullen a break by not further flustering the poor man.

He flips through the pages, seemingly lost. As though they were codex pages written in a language long forgotten. Or distracted, she thinks. Why is it so easy to tease him? She hasn’t had this much fun in ages. She chides herself for her own distraction and as entertaining as it is to flirt and torture Cullen with suggestive looks, she really didn’t want to drag the task of assembling her bedframe longer than necessary.

He misreads her silence and continues, “It’s alright, everyone has a couple of sore spots.”

“Normal people?” she asks quizzically.

“Are you implying that we’re not normal?” Oh dear, was he being sarcastic?

Where to begin? Both of them were ridiculously guilty of abnormal behaviour. Her own issues, his closeted past, the fact that their relationship is a complete sham just to score an apartment, their lie growing ever larger as they fabricated more falsehoods for Cullen’s family (which they ate up).

And now they’re throwing a house warming party…as a couple. Kaeran could go on, instead, she replied, “Well, I’m not normal.”

“Something that I need to worry about?” he joked.

“At ease, Rutherford, I don’t have any tricks up my sleeves, just a bad breakup and wounded pride. I’ll heal…in time.”

“If I may ask, why not move back with the parents? Your mother seems nice. Unless…”

She sighs at that, a long, labored exhale before slowly breathing in again.

“The parents aren’t the issue. I—” her voice cracks infinitesimally, he almost doesn’t notice. He gives her time by preoccupying himself and examining one of the bags full of screws and wooden dowels.

Kaeran appreciates the gesture, resuming, “I’m the issue. They say they’ve forgiven me but you know how it is, you can’t help but carry that guilt with you. Try and make it up to them. It’s going to be a long while before I feel like I’ve done enough to wipe that slate clean. If at all.”

Cullen’s features soften from confusion to understanding. “I know the feeling, I’m like that too. It doesn’t matter how many times others forgive you, you have to learn to accept it eventually in your own terms.”

She hums and Cullen takes a sip of his coffee, letting her mull over his words. Despite the topic of conversation, he finds it easy to talk to her; if there’s a lull in the conversation with Kaeran neither of them is pressed to fill the silence for the sake of it.  

The fact that he offered to help was a nice surprise and meanwhile she repays him by acting coy one moment and moody the next. She better stop before she ends up riling herself up too much. Maybe Rhona was right to say that her previous relationship dragged on for too long. Although her cousin meant well when she mentioned her hooking up with people, Kaeran knew that she needed the release but the thought of sleeping with a stranger was unappealing. Not to mention how she’d feel afterwards. It didn’t help either that she was self-conscious of her body and of the lingering vallaslin she insisted on covering.

She tried to not think about the cream that was nestled in the bottom of her duffle bag. Her skin flushed, itching, almost craving for the damn thing. She resisted the impulse to rub and scratch at her face.

“Kaeran?”

“Hmm?” Oh shit. How long was she stuck in her own spiraling thoughts? How embarrassing.

If she was wrapped in her own thoughts for long, he didn’t mention it. Instead he gave her a warm smile that tingled her from her roots to her toes. “You must’ve been quite the daydreamer when you were young.”

Quick as a whip, “Are you inferring that I’m old, Cullen?”

“Never. You can be twice your age and I bet you still wouldn’t look a day over thirty.”

She has a strong urge to throw a handful of dowels his way but then they wouldn’t be able to progress much and Mythal knew where those blighted wooden pegs needed to go.

Instead she toys with them, sticking them between her fingers like crude claws, incredibly crude, blunt and stunted claws.

“So…” she trails off. “So…” “How about that next step?” she asks.

His eyes twinkled with mirth and a bit of mischief. There was also a promise hidden in those alluring ochre toned eyes.

Oh, be steady her beating heart. He is going to absolutely ruin her.

Let him, she thought.

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