#i Will be rerunning this at least 3 times. holy hells i needs to. stare into the abyss for a little while hvsh

[keeps-ache]

i'm on some sort of kick lol

[mymedicine]

Alocasia

or, 7.5k words of blushy harry and sassy y/n

moodboard/inspo tag + my masterlist

sum - y/n doesn’t like people, but she likes harry—even though he keeps fucking this up

warnings - language, alcohol, mentions of sex (not explicit), lots of banter, excessive use of parentheses, umm... veganism?

notes - hiii! for once i don’t really have anything to say other than welcome, to a very fluffy and kind of chaotic one shot. hope you give her a chance and a reblog if you enjoy! <3

Upon moving into his charming downtown apartment, Harry was feeling a lot of things.

He was excited at the prospect of living there, of waking up in his cozy new bedroom, of flipping pancakes in the kitchen with a stunning view of the city skyline, and of lounging on his soft gray couch while watching reruns of Criminal Minds. He was also anxious, and a little annoyed. There were groceries to be bought, chores to be done, bills to be paid (Fuckin’ landlord was an ass for refusing to include utilities in the rent). The cabinets in the bathroom were a little creaky (Do I need some WD-40? Can I afford WD-40?!) He even had to walk up four flights of stairs to get to his door, a task which Harry was keen to count as his daily exercise.

Above all, Harry was lonely. Living alone was a blessing and a curse, he reckoned. He could lounge about without any clothes, dance in the kitchen to the sounds of Folklore (a guilty pleasure), and watch creepypasta videos on YouTube until three am (and consequently stay up til dawn, for fear of nightmares) without worrying about anyone but himself.

But after just two days in the new place, he was concerned that the cost of privacy may not be worth it. Loneliness and boredom weighed heavily on his conscience as he laid on the couch and stared at the ceiling. Not only did he live alone, but he also didn’t have any friends in the city yet. No one to see, nothing to do. Lost, he decided. No direction, no purpose…Only four walls and a bunch of empty cabinets.

And yet it wasn’t even social interaction he craved necessarily—it was purpose, company, and…perhaps some cuddles. He briefly considered the idea of a pet. Maybe a friendly little French bulldog to chase around and be responsible for? Or a fluffy Maine Coon kitty to scratch behind the ear and snuggle at night?

But the bills…the responsibility…The prudent adult deep within Harry knew he was hardly ready to support himself, let alone a helpless animal. He’d have to feed it and walk it and make sure it didn’t shit all over the floor—not to mention the landlord would raise hell if he found out.

Meanwhile, the soft, gentle, maybe a little naive man who dominated Harry’s conscience was craving a friend. Pets were a no for now, so what’s the next best thing? He grappled with the question…Surely, a person was the obvious answer. He wouldn’t mind a pretty body to warm his heart—or, at least, his bed.

Harry stretched his legs out over the arm of the couch—the only furniture he had at the moment aside from his mattress on the floor of the bedroom—and snuggled into his cozy corduroy blanket, craving warmth in the cold apartment. A rainbow cardigan adorned his chest today, draped over a plain white turtleneck that warmed his neck. He liked to keep it cold so he could be snuggly wrapped in his sweaters without sweating bullets. He dug around in the pocket of his cardigan for his phone, eager to receive affection from something other than his clothes.

In retrospect, Tinder had given Harry far more unfortunate encounters with other people (lots of younger girls just looking for a plug and toxic guys who left him on read) than pleasurable ones. But hindsight was always 20/20 and isolation had already planted the seed in his head.

He quickly examined his own profile. It consisted of two photos of him smirking softly (not too serious, but not too eager either), one with his sister and his mum (to show he’s a family man), and a group one with his mates (because sure, he was lonely, but he didn’t want people to know that). There were also one or two shirtless photos (thirst traps, according to Niall) that he’d sprinkled in between the tame ones even though it made him feel kind of icky. Weighing the odds, he’d decided that desperation for matches outweighed the cringey-ness of it all.

His very last photo was the only one where he felt like himself. He was smiling wide in it, wearing a baby blue sweater with a little chick popping out of its egg on the front that Mitch had teased him for back home. His bio, too, showcased his wholesome values.

Harry’s eyes widened as he observed on the first person he saw upon opening the home page—Y/N. She only had two photos—a shot of her perched on a car hood and smiling wide and one far away one with her figure drowning in a sea of…plants. Fittingly, her bio read: “I love plants and I hate people.”

She was beautiful and every bit as anti-social as himself. It was perfect.

Harry laughed softly to himself and swiped right immediately. He was giddy when the familiar It’s a match! popped up on the screen immediately. His thumbs hovered over the keypad, brow furrowed as he frowned at the screen. Matching was one thing, but actually starting a conversation was another entirely.

Ultimately, he decided honesty was the best policy:

you had me at ‘i hate people’ :D

Now what? Matching was one thing, starting a conversation was another, but having a whole conversation was another thing entirely. He hated the waiting, especially when he had absolutely nothing to busy himself with in the mean time, aside from fiddling with his fingers and doing laps around his living room.

Seven minutes later (not that he’s counting), a ding came through on his phone.

y/n: you had me at ‘treat people with kindness,’ mon petit :)

Harry smiled wide. He was pleased she’d noticed not only his bio, but also the sweater he was wearing in his favorite photo of himself. It was the perfect response from a perfect girl.

harry: so what do you do?

y/n: i work at a plant shop on Main

Figures, he thought. He imagined her carrying a watering pitcher, tending to a plant with gentle fingers. She’d be surrounded by them like she was in the photo on her profile, green on all sides. God, he thought. What a beautiful scene with a beautiful star.

harry: wanna go for drinks tonight and talk about plants?

y/n: sure ;)

Nightfall brought a chill to the air that made Harry desperately want to curl up into his warm bed and snuggle into his pillow. But here he was, shuffling his feet outside the crowded bar and absently wearing another tiny hole in the sleeve of his striped sweater. It was a decent bar in town. They didn’t water down the drinks and they kept the lights dim so she wouldn’t have to see him flushed beet red after one drink. That is, if she would show up at all.

“Hey, you’re Harry?”

He turned quickly toward the sound of the voice, and there she was. And holy shit, he thought. That is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her two profile photos did not even begin to do her justice. The idea of a mere photo on a screen couldn’t even compare to the real thing. He would never be keen to look at a photo again, he reckoned. It wouldn’t make his heart bloom and flutter like the vision of her in front of him did. Was this love at first sight?

“Y-yeah,” he stuttered, and not because the chilly night, “Y/N, right?”

Harry didn’t think he really believed in love—certainly not love at first sight, but this girl was throwing him into another world. Before, he couldn’t seem to stand still, but her presence in front him planted his feet firmly on the ground.

“Yep, that’s me!” She smiled wide, speaking cooly and confidently. It was obvious she knew how beautiful she was and, even more evident, how enamored Harry already was with her.

“I—you’re absolutely beautiful,” The words slipped out of his lips before he could catch them—not that he was really making any effort to hide his attraction for her. Still, he enjoyed the way her eyes brightened and teeth gently nibbled at her bottom lip in response to the compliment

And suddenly, the idea of merely kissing her soft flesh, tickling her sweet bud, and ultimately burying himself inside her tonight didn’t seem like enough. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to smell her hair and hear her laugh. He wanted to make her pancakes in the morning and kiss her lips, sweetened lightly with maple syrup. He wanted to love her.

No, he couldn’t possibly ruin his chance with a girl like this by fucking her on the couch in his cold, lonely apartment, never to see or hear from her again.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“Of course.”

One hour and four and a half drinks later, (whiskey cokes for Y/N, vodka crans for Harry) the cramped bar was hot and they were floating on air. He’d learned that she worked at Main Street Nursery, usually by herself, sometimes with her cousin who owned the place. She was an avid vegan, but only because she hated meat and dairy made her sick. She’d learned that Harry was new in town and lived only a block away from Main. Also, Y/N managed to learn that Harry had no friends here and was very lonely in his new apartment, but only after his third vodka cran when the already weak filter in his throat began to crumble and embarrassing things spewed out of his lips like a spout.

“Let’s dance, H.” Y/N requested, gently caressing his bicep from where she sat beside him.

Oh god. No amount of alcohol would let him embarrass himself like that. “I don’t really… uh—“

But Y/N was having none of that. She thrust his half empty glass in his face, eyebrows raised in a pointed look. “Come on, baby!”

He hesitated for only a moment. Her fingers were soft and warm and distracting against his arm and it was very dark in the crowded bar, but he could easily see her bright eyes and the mischief dancing around in them. Somehow, she looked just as beautiful after putting away five whiskey cokes. Ah fuck. How could he possibly say no to her?

Harry tipped the glass against his lips, downed the bitter beverage, and finally let her tug him to the middle of the room.

A few people were dancing raunchily to the loud music, and the combination of the alcohol and the darkness and Y/N’s effortless beauty gave Harry the confidence to join them. He placed his hands gingerly around her waist, nearly flinching at the warm feeling of her skin against his. Y/N flashed him a blissful, slightly drunken grin and squeezed his bicep more firmly, relaxing in his hold.

Y/N led them in a giggly dance, letting her hands wander Harry’s body and ultimately settle around his neck. Brain foggy with an alcohol induced haze, she swayed her hips against his.

Minutes turned into an hour or so and Y/N had grown quite comfortable in the circle of Harry’s arms, fronts flushed together impossibly close.

“Wanna get out of here?” Her whisper in the shell of his ear was alluring, seductive, sweet, and almost irresistible. But Harry was on a mission—one that only included seeing her again after tonight and, ultimately, making her his. Five vodka crans weren’t quite enough to outweigh his desire for something more. No, this plan didn’t include fucking her. (At least, not tonight).

“Um, I think we should…er—slow down…”

“You don’t...you don’t wanna hookup?” She looked up at him with something like disappointment (or maybe anxiety? insecurity? He wasn’t sure) in her eyes.

“No, it’s just… I—I wanted to get to know you?”

Y/N subtly stepped away from him, just an inch or so, but more than enough for him to notice and consequently panic. “Oh um, It’s okay...I just thought—well, I didn’t think we’d really be getting to know each other…”

Ouch. She obviously was not on the same page as he was with the whole I WANT TO LOVE YOU thing he had going on at the moment. The alcohol thickened his skin a little, easing the sting of her words.

“But if I’m like...not pretty enough or nice enough I—uh...” she was rambling a little—and oh god, she must be wasted if she’s questioning her beauty. Harry’s heart hurt. How could she not see that she was perfect inside and out?

“No, Y/N! You’re perfect…it’s just—“

“I get it, um...”

“I’m sorry, you don’t understand!

“I understand, Harry…I guess I’ll just—go home now.”

Well, fuck. In an effort to prolong his time with her, he’d managed to cut it short and blow his shot to see her again at all. He kicked himself for hoping. Hope for the best, expect the worst, he reminded himself. He was just fine at the hoping part, but the disappointment in the aftermath bit even deeper than his desperate loneliness.

Back to square one.

I’m going for a plant…if Y/N happens to be there then…Harry thought as he approached Main Street, then Y/N will be there. His heart skipped a beat at the thought. He tugged nervously at the sleeves of his sweater—this one white with a “my life is crap” graphic that he found quite funny—wearing another tiny hole in the fabric. He absently regretted not taking a shot or two before impulsively jogging across the block to the plant shop, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. I’m just here to get a plant.

Truthfully, he didn’t know shit about plants, but how hard could it be? Surely, all it took was a little water and a sunny spot. Optimistic, he wandered into the cute little shop. Upon entering, he found it wasn’t really indoors at all—just four walls of greenery with only a few wooden beams as a ceiling, allowing rays of mid-morning sunshine to illuminate the space quite beautifully. Harry couldn’t help but notice how one such ray shone directly on the most beautiful creature in the shop.

The scene was even more delightful than he’d imagined. She looked ethereal doing even the most mundane tasks, he thought. The way her skin glowed in the sunlight in front of a backdrop of lush greenery? Heavenly. He took a few more moments to absently admire her as she lifted a watering can above her head with skilled hands, squinting at the sun while reaching up to water a large, leafy looking plant that hung from one of the beams.

The plant was hanging just low enough to block her view of Harry, so when he gently cleared his throat to call her name, she leaped backward. A loud thud rang out and suddenly, the watering can was no longer grasped between her fingers and her pale pink apron was stained crimson—completely drenched.

“Oh my god!” they both screeched at the same time.

Harry felt the weight of the world on his shoulders as he ran over to her. “I’m so sorry angel,” he said, picking up the now leaking can from the floor. “I really didn’t mean to scare you, oh my god, are you okay?!”

She looked a mess, quite honestly. But even covered in water and sprawled out on the concrete floor, she was cute to him, like a little bud sprouting out of the pot. She looked up at him with a contemptuous stare.

“Harry!” She cried from the floor, “What are you doing?”

While he did appreciate how adorable she looked, Harry was horrified. He hadn’t known her long, but he’d never heard her stutter or seen her blush like that. Even in their brief text exchanges and one night together, she’d always seemed so confident, so effortlessly graceful and calm. “I’m so sorry love, I really didn’t mean to—“

“Why are you here?”

“I-I just...I just wanted a plant and—and… I know you love them, and I thought there wouldn’t be anywhere better to go...”

Y/N’s expression softened as he rambled. “Okay, well, feel free to look around,” She stumbled to her feet, murmuring as she went. She wiped her hands on her soaked apron, trying to clean them but actually just spreading the wetness. “And um…Let me know if you need anything.”

She pressed a tight lipped grin on and her voice went a tinge too high pitched. She was clearly putting herself in customer service mode, but Harry caught a playful glint behind her bright eyes.

Harry flushed red and turned away from her, kicking himself for being so clumsy. He craned his head around the shop, feeling hopelessly overwhelmed. He wanted to ask her for help or at least a gentle push in right direction, but he figured he’d already bothered her enough.

Even with his back to her, Y/N’s presence was distracting. He could hear her feet shuffling around softly, the light clang of the metal watering can against the counter, even the pinging sound from her phone as he wandered the store.

Harry made a few aimless circles around before particular plant caught his eye. It was a modest looking plant, no where near as big as some of the hanging vines and rubber trees that littered the store. It had large, dark green leaves with jagged looking edges and sat pretty in a terra cotta pot near the front of the store.

He decided this plant would suit his needs perfectly (what are those needs again? He asked himself, company? responsibility?). He ultimately ignored his thoughts and the fact that he wasn’t even himself clear on what he wanted and picked up the plant in both arms. He shivered upon realizing that Y/N was probably watching him the whole time as he brought the plant to the counter where she was waiting. Watching him struggle and make a fool out of himself, that is.

“Did you find everything okay?” she asked cordially.

Harry nodded stiffly, unsure what to say. “Mmhm.”

“Have you got others?” Y/N continued making conversation while punching some numbers into the cash register, smiling and avoiding his gaze.

Harry looked up at the same time she looked away from the register. He was a little startled by her question, not expecting her to actually speak to him after what he’d done earlier. “Uh, no. I just moved here, remember?”

“Oh, right—well, you know this is an alocasia?” she said it very gently, with a patient smile. He didn’t like that she was avoiding his gaze before, but now that she was staring at him unwaveringly, he felt like he was under a microscope. Heat rose is Harry’s cheeks. Did the name of the plant matter?

“Uh, yeah? I mean, uh—I had a few back in my old place…” Why Harry? Why is your first instinct to lie?

“So you know what to do with this kind of plant?’

“Um…yeah?” He stammered, speech as rushed and clumsy as the beating of his heart. His sweaty palms further confirmed the obvious—Y/N made him nervous. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was perfect. He felt desperately out of place in front of her here. How could he possibly impress her? After he’d already fucked up more than once?

“I, well—nevermind,” Y/N replied finally, shaking her head. She was still smiling, but now he felt like she was giggling to herself because she knew something he didn’t.

“Did you want to add some Miracle Potion to your purchase today?” she asked, back in customer service mode once again.

Harry did not know what the fuck Miracle Potion was, but it sounded like a rehearsed line she was required to say during every transaction. She was looking at him so pointedly though, and the brightness of her eyes was distracting. How could he say no when she was looking at him like that?

“Yeah, why not.”

And seeing her beam at him with that lovely smile was so worth the extra eight dollars.

Harry cradled his new plant—Franklin, he’d decided—in both arms, awkwardly body-slamming his apartment door to get it open without his hands. First order of business after setting Franklin down on the coffee table was to quench his thirst. He still hadn’t gone on a real grocery trip for the new place, so he’s been living off of trail mix and kombucha. Harry craved kombucha like plants craved water.

Which brought him to the second order of business: research. He sat on the couch with his trail mix, kombucha, and laptop, quickly opening up a search for “alocasia plant care”

And suddenly Y/N’s behavior made sense.

Of course, of every plant he could have chosen at random, Harry’d gone for one of the most difficult, demanding, and definitely-not-for-beginners house plants in the shop.

He had a funny feeling it wasn’t the last time his optimism would get him in trouble.

Harry was frustrated.

It’d been less than twenty four hours since he became a father, and his once green-leafed baby was already browning at the edges. He frowned, peering at Franklin’s crisp leaves as he meticulously sprayed the Miracle Potion into the soil. The once dry dirt was starting to look a little better, but—holy shit!

Harry leaped away from the table, dropping the spray and nearly knocking himself onto his ass. His eyes were wide and his heart was pounding. He felt betrayed and horrified. Y/N never mentioned that there’d be bugs crawling in the soil! But Harry could not unsee the tiny worm-ish looking guy slithering up from the depths of the pot and onto the base of Franklin’s stem.

This was a mistake. A huge mistake. Who has he kidding?

He couldn’t help himself. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, dialing the plant shop’s number without a second thought.

“Hello, you’ve reached Main Street Nursery! We’re not available right now, please leave a message and we’ll call back as soon as possible.”

“Y/N! S’Harry and, oh my god there’s a bug in Franklin! I was sprayin’ the potion stuff on the soil like ya said to but then there was a big worm thing and I dunno what to do now? I’m scared Y/N, why didn’t ya tell me there’d be bugs?! Holy shit, Franklin’s gonna die, what the fu—“

A beep interrupted his ramblings, which Harry would later be grateful for. He was always a sort of ramble-y type, but adding a pretty girl and a bug-induced panic was more than enough to make him insufferably talkative.

He begrudgingly opened the Tinder app, his only other means of communicating with her. He typed out a lengthy message with rapid fingers, explaining the bug situation in between a series of colorful emojis.

thought you knew what you were doing? Y/N’s reply came in three and a half minutes later.

harry: I lied :(

(No use in lying now).

y/n: that’s alright bub. just relax, I’ll bring you some bug stickers

Bug stickers? What the fuck? He’d already made a fool of himself, so he might as well ask, he reasoned.

harry: why would I want a bug sticker?!!

y/n: just send me your address

He did as she asked, blushing profusely at the thought of her being in his apartment. Oh shit, he realized. She’s gonna be in my apartment. Realistically, he knew she probably wouldn’t even come past the front door. She’d just give him the damn stickers and then go off to whatever better things she had to do. But if Harry has any dominant personality trait, it’s optimism.

So he quickly started to tidy the living space—careful to avoid the coffee table where Franklin and his new worm-ish adversary sat. The plant aside, it’s a cute little place that screamed an unemployed single man lives here. Once the kombucha bottles and gum wrappers are thrown out, he puts way too much effort into swiping the trail mix crumbs off the couch and carefully arranging a throw blanket across the arm of it—she won’t even be coming near the couch, Harry, chill out.

When would she be coming? She hadn’t given him a time. She’d asked for his address…did that mean she was coming immediately? Maybe she’d asked for it to come by later? Or tomorrow?—

A loud knocking at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He should have expected this. Even after only meeting twice, he should’ve known she’d barge right into his living room, skirting right past him to find Franklin. The first thing he learned about her was that she owed plants and hated people.

“Um, hello love,” he said awkwardly, trailing behind her. “Thanks for coming over.”

Y/N looked up from where she was examining the plant’s leaves as if she’d just noticed him lurking behind her (very on brand for her, Harry noted to himself). He was taken with her sudden eye contact. Her eyes had that same sparkly glow as they did in the shop—they got that way when she talked about her veganism and her cousin and her plants.

“I’ve got a bone to pick with you, mister Harry Styles. You’re a liar.” she said plainly. She was frowning at him (Is that a playful frown? He hoped so) “You’re a liar and it almost cost Franklin’s life.”

Harry was, once again, horrified. If he hadn’t proper fucked it up the first two times they met, he’d surely done it now. Y/N loved plants more than she loved breathing, and he’d almost killed one. And he lied to her! Fuck you’re such an idiot Harry...get it together.

Y/N must’ve seen his turmoil, (how could she not? He always did wear his heart on his sleeve) for she cracked a happy grin and smacked him playfully on the arm. “I’m just kidding Harry, for gods sake!”

“But...but the plant—“

“—will be fine.”

“And the...the bug?”

Y/N turned back to the plant and squinted into the soil. She put her hands on her hips over the fabric of her wide pants (Palazzo? Harry wondered absently. They were like those gypsy looking pants that looked super comfy—like, one step above pajamas...and damn where could I get some of those?)

“Is the bug on my ass, H?”

“W-what?” He replied, snapping out of his reverie with wide eyes. No! He blubbered, tearing his eyes away from the yellow fabric to her face, where her lips were pursed and her eyebrows were raised accusingly. He didn’t even mean to be staring at her ass (though it did look cute and peachy in the palazzo pants, he couldn’t help but notice now), but, feeling caught, he blushed sheepishly anyway.

She dropped the accusatory glare, replacing it with a wide smile. “Only joking,” she interrupted his ramblings. “Still reckon you were lyin’ about the bug jus’ to get me over here, though.”

Harry sighed exasperatedly, heart racing as he meandered around the couch toward the table where she was leaning. She kept him on his toes and it was as exhausting as it was enticing.

He got right up behind her and peered over her shoulder at the soil. “There!” He cried, almost having another heart attack at the sight of the little black bug. In a rushed attempt to show her the worm so she could get rid of it, he’d probably put himself way closer to her than necessary. He could feel the fabric of her long pants brushing his toes and her sharp breath hitch against his chest.

“Oh Harry,” she laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls of his apartment like beams of light. Looking away from the danger, he focused his attention on her instead. He couldn’t help but notice how her hair smelled like flowers and freshly mowed grass and ...honey? Something sweet and enticing and natural, like the earth. Like a sprawling meadow or rose garden or—

He’d been effectively distracted by her that he’d almost forgot the reason for his fear, the reason she was even here. That is, until the little bugger was out of the soil and crawling on her finger.

Harry screeched and leaped backward, and this time, he did fall on his ass. Right in front of the couch he’d cleaned for her while she giggled profusely. The gentle melody of her laughter and sweet little coos at the bug softened the sting of embarrassment—a little.

“Aw he’s so cute!” She prodded her other finger at the creature, which really was no bigger than her fingernail, but horrified Harry anyways. “Can’t believe Harry wanted me to come and kill you, sweet little thing.”

He was once again struck by how gentle and nurturing and sickened-sweet she got with plants and animals. Meanwhile she laughed at him and teased him ruthlessly for his dramatics.

“Here,” she said “Hold him.”

She thrust her finger into his hands from where she stood above him. Harry flinched away, but couldn’t move far enough from where he sat with his legs folded and feet planted on the ground. The worm fell into his palm. The tiny impact of it on his skin ignited an explosion of fear through him.

A millisecond passed and it crawled through the hole in the wrist of his sweater, causing his panic to quadruple.

He screamed out loud while Y/N continued laughing at him. “AH!” Harry screamed and flapped his wrists violently, throwing himself against the couch with wide eyes as he felt the horrible tickling of the creature crawling on his skin.

“Stop! Stop Harry, let me!” Y/N stepped closer, ducking between his outstretched legs. She shielded her face with one hand and desperately groped around for Harry’s wrist with the other. Finally, he paused to breathe and Y/N caught his arm in both of hers.

She wrestled his arm to still and calmly plucked the creature from his skin. “Thank God,” she sighed dramatically in relief, holding it on her finger between them. “The little fighter survived your temper tantrum!”

“No!” Harry cried, now shielding his own face from the wrath of the worm.

He watched her get up and drop the bug back into Franklin’s soil, all the while laughing at him.

“You’re such a baby, Harry,” she cooed as she turned back to where he was still sat on the floor, “And no wonder you’re so cold in here. You’ve got holes all in your sweater!”

“I’ve got holes in all my sweaters. My mum used to fix them f’me.” He frowned, missing her and his friends suddenly. Living alone was hard.

“You’re hopeless,” Y/N shook her head as she bent down to sit on the coffee table next to Franklin and sent him endeared smile. “I could fix them for you?”

Harry reeled back and blushed, “You—you could do that for me?”

Yes, living alone was hard and lonely and boring. Harry had been shamefully making excuses to see her for several days now, and yet he was completely oblivious to her doing the exact same thing.

“Sure! Come over tomorrow and bring all your sweaters.”

Harry saw absolutely no reason to object. He could never say no to her, anyways. “Okay, then.”

“In the meantime, take these…” She reached into her pocket and fished out four yellow squares of what looked like...tape?

“These are bug stickers,” she explained. “You tape them around Franklin’s stem and it’ll catch the gnats and aphids and stuff. Won’t kill your new little friend though.”

Despite her teasing tone and his lingering fear, Harry couldn’t help but smile at her while she demonstrated how to tape the bug sticker on. He’d deal with all the goddamn bugs in the world if it meant she’d be pleased with him.

She finished taping it on and turned back to him with an adorable little flourish, as if to say ta-da!

“Can I offer you some kombucha for your trouble?” Harry suddenly blurted.

What the fuck Harry? Who the fuck says ‘can I offer you—‘

“Ew, no!” She interrupted his self-loathing, face twisting in disgust, “Kombucha tastes like dish soap.”

Hurt, Harry reeled back again and a shocked expression graced his face, “You don’t like kombucha?! Don’t vegans like, live for that shit?!”

“This vegan has taste,” she replied with a snarky smirk. “And besides, I’ve got to get back to the shop for work like, now.”

“Oh, okay no problem.” Harry stuttered, “Thanks again.”

“Sure thing!”

And as quickly as she’d busted in, she was gone, leaving the apartment as cold and lonely as ever. Harry frowned, feeling as if he’d blown it once again. No ‘see you tomorrow’ or ‘thanks for having me.’ Chance after chance and still he made a fool out of himself. She hadn’t even told him where she lived! Maybe the offer to come over and get his sweaters fixed had been a pity invite and she actually wanted nothing to do with him ever again. The thought made his stomach churn. Where was his customary optimism when he needed it?

Grumbling, he grabbed a fresh kombucha from the fridge, wishing it was something stronger.

Franklin and his little worm friend’s (Harry didn’t think the bugger deserved a sweet name like the alocasia did—it was still a disgusting creature that made his skin crawl) company did little to satiate the aching loneliness he was feeling throughout the following day.

Finally, a message came through his phone from an unknown number.

unknown: hey harry, it’s y/n! did you still want to come over today?

harry: howd you get my number

Even through a screen, Harry managed to blurt out the first thing that popped into his head. Fuck. Shit. She’s gonna think he’s avoiding the question! He rapidly began composing a second message, but the three little dots appeared and interrupted his flying thumbs.

y/n: your message on the answering machine at work.

by the way, that was hilarious

harry: right, well. sorry for that

and yes, id love to come over.

y/n: no worries, i saved it to listen to when i need a laugh.

haha cool here’s my address

harry: should i bring food or wine or something?

A new wave of anxiety washed over him as he looked at the address she’d sent. Now what? What would they do? Would he just drop off his sweaters and leave? Or would she invite him in? What would he say then?

y/n: just bring yourself and your sweaters, mon petit!

Harry was speechless. Much like the shop she worked at, Y/N’s apartment could rival an actual jungle. Greenery of all different shapes and shades and sizes lined the walls, and while they had the exact same floor plan, it was an entirely different world than the one Harry was living in.

Y/N, meanwhile, effortlessly sauntered deeper into her space. She looked like she belonged there, obviously, but Harry felt like a fish out of water.

“They won’t bite, you know,” Y/N giggled, noticing his apprehension. She was watching him patiently with something like fondness in her eyes. Harry felt her careful gaze on him, but the magnificent green scene around him claimed his attention—but not for long.

Gently, Y/N took his fingers between hers and pulled him deeper into her space. Harry stumbled over his feet, craning his head to look at the plants hanging from the ceiling. How the hell did she even water those?

Y/N couldn’t help but smile. He looked adorable, like a child at Disneyland. She swore his eyes were actually twinkling as the greenery in the room made the color pop against his skin even more than usual.

“This is…incredible,” He said, finally turning back to meet her eyes with his own. “You’re incredible.” He set down his bag of sweaters on the floor by his feet. They could certainly wait.

Something about the praise and the way he was looking at her like she hung the moon was making Y/N absolutely swoon for the man. It was impossible not to notice how much he adored her. He looked at her the same way she looked at Delilah, at all the things she loved. Things. She wasn’t sure she’d ever actually loved a person before. But this man with the holes in his sweaters and the permanent flush in his cheeks was planting himself deep in her heart.

But she’d never let him see that.

“…I make lots of my clothes myself…” She was talking about how she learned to sew from where she was sitting on her couch. Harry noticed that she’d arranged her living room differently than he had. While he had a single gray couch in the middle of the room, her sofa was against the window, inviting the evening sunset to gently warm the pale pink cushions.

“Did ya make those pants you were wearing the other day?” He asked with genuine curiosity, continuing to poke around the plants and knitted blankets and woven fruit baskets that littered the entire space.

Harry turned to face her just in time to catch her flashing a knowing smile. “Yes. Should I make a pair for you as well?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m sure your ass will look great in them, too.”

“Ah—shut up!” Harry laughed, fiddling with the leaves of one of her hanging plants. He recognized this one.

An easy smile still graced his lips as he murmured “It’s a philodendron,” half to her and half to himself. Now that some of the extensive plant research he’d been doing over the past few days had indeed stuck, it was easy for him to identify by its telltale heart shaped leaves.

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up, “That’s right,” she said, sounding impressed. “She’s called Delilah.”

Harry hummed, unable to focus on words when she was giving him her full attention like that.

“She’d be cute next to Franklin, don’t ya think?” She continued, tiptoeing closer to him. She stood behind him, peering over his shoulder at the plant much like she’d done to Franklin a few days earlier. The fabric of his brown sweater was soft against her fingers as she wrapped her arms around him. Harry tensed. He had longed to do the same thing to her when their positions had been reversed a few days ago, but chickened out. But as always, Y/N’s actions were confident and smooth. The thought of her face against his knit-clad back and the feeling of her soft hands around his middle made his head spin.

Yes, he thought, she’s cute next to everything. She’s fucking adorable…

And again, Harry was struck with the thought that he should have seen this coming. It was such a Y/N move—the way she confidently pressed on his shoulders to sit him on the couch and proceeded to smoothly kneel over his thighs. His heart raced as she sank to his eye level, straddling his lap.

“You’ve got pretty eyes,” Harry said almost absently, as if lost in them. Y/N looked kind of surprised that the words came out of his mouth. She’s sort of confused by him, by the way he makes her feel. He had this nervous, chaotic energy surrounding him, as if his mind was going a mile a minute at all times. It didn’t make any difference to him though—a racing heart didn’t stop him from enjoying the feeling of the insides of her thighs against his.

Y/N suddenly grabbed one of his flushed cheeks in her palm and turned his face to hers, letting him get a good look at her eyes. “Think so?” She grinned with a hint of her customary cockiness.

Harry nodded in response to the playful question, caught up in her smirk. He reckoned it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen. Once again, she proved him wrong when she licked her lip. She studied him seductively while his own eyes, of course, flicked down to where her tongue was swiping over her lips. Her tongue was pillowy, gentle, and…distracting…In the next instant, she’d pulled his face to hers and met his lips with her own.

Despite having been mentally begging for her to kiss him since the moment they’d met, he was still a little caught off guard. Quickly, he began to relish in the feeling of her warm hand holding his cheek and soft lips pressing tenderly on his. He kissed her back gently, but with urgency—as if he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He let his hands wander slowly from her knees up her thighs, her hips, settling comfortably on her waist. His heart skipped a beat when she pulled back a millimeter.

“Is this okay?” Harry let out a concerned whisper.

Y/N smiled effortlessly and nodded. Of course it was okay, it was better than okay.

“Thought I’d proper fucked up my chance with you ages ago,” he murmured against her lips. Now that he’d gotten a taste of her sweet lips, he was truly a fucking goner.

“I thought so too, frankly,” she laughed fondly at him, “But you reeled me in with your charm and wit...” She shook her head and furrowed her brows sarcastically, “...Your true gift for horticulture, your brilliant sewing skills, your excellent taste in beverages...” she continued lecturing him in between sweet pecks on the lips.

Harry giggled at her mock-compliments, tugging her impossibly closer by the waist. She relaxed her chest into his and easily wrapped her own arms around his neck.

“You’re an absolute pest you know?” Harry teased her, confidence growing as she caressed his skin, “I oughta get a buncha those damn bug stickers to catch you!”

“You sure about that?” She smiled bigger, eyes wide and innocent as sat back on his legs. She continued to feed him sweet words as she trailed her fingers down his sweater, the mock compliments melting into sincere ones. Harry’s own smile grew as she mumbled how she adored his soft hands and blushy cheeks and gentle disposition…

Her words were innocent, but her fingers began tracking a sinful course downward, and he twitched in his sweatpants as she cheekily palmed him through the fabric. He was putty in her hands, reduced to a pile of mush by her eyes that twinkled with playful innocence and mischief and unmistakeable lust. The soft hands and gentle, innocent praises falling from her lips were making his cock bloat and head spin. Just as he was getting into it—moaning and whimpering for her to please don’t stop…she shoved her arms between his body and the couch cushion and delivered a firm squeeze to his ass.

“That’s for calling me a pest, you pest!”

She roared with laughter and threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tight to her chest.

Harry’s desperate, high pitched whine quickly melted into joyous laughter. He couldn’t help it—she was so lovely and beautiful and playful and cheeky and of course, he should’ve seen a stunt like this coming. She was a pest indeed, but Harry had already decided to love her. Perhaps decided wasn’t the word—no, his love for her sprouted and grew like a strong and beautiful vine holding them together.

“Now how about I make you come for real and then fix the holes in those sweaters like you fixed the holes in my heart?”

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

thank you for reading <3

talk to me about harry and y/n and franklin and delilah!

[moiraineswife]

Exposed - An Ineffable Husbands Fic

i return. bearing the fruit of my brains. it is angst. again. because i’m Predictable. Shout out to the goblin discord squad whom I love and cherish <3 Previous Good Omens fic may be found here! 

Title: Exposed 

Summary: Aziraphale wakes in the middle of a quiet night’s peaceful meditation to find that the demon he (deliberately) fell asleep next to is no longer there. After some minor panicking, he finds him, and then angst and hurt/comfort ensue. Crowley has chronic pain/wing stress from his Fall. Split POV. 

Teaser:  They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual. 

All at once he looked both holy and profane. 

It was as though he had just Fallen, as though Aziraphale was seeing him in the moments after it had happened. Still bathed in the final, fleeting rays of Heaven’s light. Even as he was dragged down into Hell’s darkness. Not truly belonging to either, caught between two worlds, like a fly in a web, suspended forever in time, unable to escape either way. 

Link: AO3 

Aziraphale slowly returned his mind back to his body. It became aware, as he did so, that it was enveloped in soft warmth, and he instinctively burrowed down into it, like a bird settling into its nest.

He had never quite managed to sleep the way that humans, or indeed, Crowley, did, but...Well, holding Crowley while he fell asleep was very nice.

After a while, he had learned how to do something better than sleeping. He had reasoned that he was lying down, warm, and comfortable, and Crowley wasn’t a very good conversational partner while sleeping (though he did occasionally mumble things, but they were never very distinct, nor very coherent) he may as well try and get some form of rest.

He liked to call it a ‘deep meditative state’. Crowley always snorted at this and said that was just a fancy word for napping.

Aziraphale knew the difference, though, whatever Crowley said.

He lost awareness of his body, as one would when they fell asleep, but he kept awareness and control over his thoughts, unlike the dreamlike state that humans, and his demon, entered into.

It really was rather wonderful. He’d tried to explain this to Crowley. He’d even suggested that he try it for himself to see just how wonderful it was.

Crowley had just looked vaguely horrified and said, firmly, “Angel, the whole point of sleeping is that I don’t have to think about anything while I’m doing it! Maybe you should try that. It’s dead...Refreshing,” he’d added, with a slightly wistful look on his face.

Frankly, Aziraphale thought it was a waste of his time.

Immortal he may be but there was always so much to do that he never managed to fit it in to his days as it was. He had no idea how human beings managed to function, much less be productive, when they were expected to sleep eight hours per day.

No, his few hours of quiet deep meditation were enough for him.

An unexpected little breeze whispered across Aziraphale, and he shivered, burrowing further down into the covers to escape it. Instinctively, he shuffled to his right, seeking Crowley’s natural warmth.

One of the perks of being with a demon – one was never cold. Crowley’s skin always seemed feverish to the touch in its heat, like the hot rocks you got at certain quality spas. Aziraphale had been known to indulge in them from time to time, and they were very pleasant indeed.

To his disappointment, he didn’t shuffle into Crowley.

He stretched out a hand, fumbling blindly through the sea of sheets and pillows and blankets and duvet, reaching for him.

“Crowley,” he mumbled thickly, in what Crowley would have described as a ‘whine’, to which Aziraphale would have corrected that it was more a general noise of displeasure.

He was most indignant either way that his demonic heat-source was being so rude and not making itself easily available.

No response to his noise of displeasure, either.

Frowning, he blinked, and the dark room around him came slowly into focus. He had learned when coming out of his meditative states to do so gradually, so as not to overwhelm his body’s senses.

There now, the dark walls, the luxurious silken black sheets, the abstract paintings on the wall, everything as it should be.

He looked to his right.

An empty space where Crowley should have been was all that stared back at him.

No long, lanky demon frame. No red hair, mussed from sleep. No pale skin so beautifully reflecting the moonlight. No deep, golden eyes, finding Aziraphale’s soul bare upon his skin with every glance.

His heart jumped as though lightning had just punched into it. Familiar flickers of panic, like a thousand tiny hummingbirds spawning in his chest to frantically beat their wings at once, beginning in his chest. Then tightening in his stomach and tying his nerves in knots.

Calm yourself now, dear boy, he thought, firmly.

There was no reason at all to suspect that anything at all was amiss. Crowley could simply have decided that he needed to water the plants. Or that a rerun of his favourite episode of Golden Girls was on and he wanted to watch it. Or that, that he desperately needed a cup of tea.

Aziraphale couldn’t possibly have meditated through an entire, elaborate scenario that involved the vile agents of Hell breaking into their home and resting a terrified, struggling, fighting Crowley from their bed, and kidnapping him away for all kinds of unnatural, inconceivable, unthinkable tortures while Aziraphale was right beside him, surely.

Or could he?

“Damn you and your ridiculous little human notions, Crowley!” he exploded, scrambling out of the bed.

In his state of panic, which had not been appeased in the slightest by his calming, logical thoughts, though they’d been as firm as they could be, he felt he was allowed this minor hypocrisy in the moment.

“I swear I shall never forgive you for this, you stupid old serpent,” he continued, ranting, wringing his hands at thin air like an old maid in the kind of old-fashioned television show Aziraphale rather enjoyed, but would never confess to liking, even under demonic torture1.

Aziraphale had discovered hand-wringing some centuries ago. Perhaps even invented it, he was unsure. Six thousand years of memory was quite a lot to trawl through, especially at a time like this.

Either way, Gabriel would have had a fit if he’d ever seen him doing it. He wouldn’t consider it ‘appropriate’ behaviour for an angel. But, well, blast it, it helped.

Aziraphale paced in a nervous fluster through the flat, following his familiar anxiety path.

Cat, who had been enjoying a midnight snack, followed him with her big, yellow eyes, so painfully like Crowley’s. She gave a soft mew at his obvious distress, but unfortunately shed no particular light on the whereabouts of their favourite demon.

Finally, he returned to the bedroom, and began to do his utmost to wear a hole in the rug as he tramped up and down up and down up and down, as if this would suddenly reveal Crowley.

It didn’t.

A cold wind tickled the back of his neck again, which was the very last thing he needed at this moment in time. Feeling distinctly aggrieved, he angrily looked up in an attempt to locate its source.

Only then did he realise that the window was open.

There were very few windows in Crowley’s flat. He seemed to have a certain aversion to them. Which Aziraphale supposed was understandable, given he was a demon. He’d always had rather sensitive skin, bless him. Likely a side-effect of him being a red-head.

The plant room had some, naturally, but the only other one in the whole flat was in the bedroom. It was set into the ceiling, a huge, beautiful, circular structure. Though it had no right to, given that Crowley lived in a mid-floor flat, it looked right up onto the sky beyond.

At present, there was no glass in it. Aziraphale could feel the ripple of the wind but was shielded, thanks, no doubt, to another little demonic miracle, from the pouring rain outside.

He breathed again.

He didn’t, strictly speaking, need to, but he’d found that his body got rather cross with him if he didn’t at least make an effort every now and then. It started turning blue in various different places, and he got awfully dizzy. Humans were very delicate creatures, really.

Slowly, luxuriously as always, Aziraphale spread his white wings. He was really rather proud of them, he thought, as he flexed the feathers to stretch everything out appropriately. And he did miss being able to have them out whenever he felt like it.

He centred himself beneath the window, crouched slightly, wings flaring- Then he hesitated.

If he was seen...He shuddered, vividly recalling the paperwork nightmare of 1795. He hadn’t emerged for weeks. His hand had cramped for days afterwards. He hadn’t been able to so much as look at a book without it bringing him out in a cold sweat at the memory of all those pages and pages full of cramped handwriting and scrawled signatures.

And people were so much less likely to believe in the supernatural these days. Things had died down alright in 1795 after the required measures had been put in place There were modern cameras about now, and those clever phones like the one Crowley had and-

No.

Hang it.

He didn’t care.

Anyway, it was dark, and they were so high up that no-one would see. If they did, well, he would deal with them. Them and the ensuing paperwork, if that was what it took.

With one powerful down stroke, Aziraphale propelled himself up into the night sky.

It was a strange sensation. Crowley had altered things to allow the sky to filter directly into his window. His body wasn’t entirely aware of this, and struggled to cope with the tunnel of altered reality and the fact that Aziraphale was, strictly speaking, flying through a building.

Reality, however, coped, and Aziraphale endured. He emerged a minute or so later, feeling much as he had when he’d decided to take his first (and last) pleasure cruise on the Titanic back in 1912. And this had been before the whole iceberg calamity.

Crowley had laughed so hard he’d snorted wine through his nose so badly he’d nearly discorporated himself at the idea of an angel getting seasick. Aziraphale had not found the matter nearly so amusing.

He’d almost been glad when the thing had sunk. Hundreds of casualties aside of course.

The rain struck him as soon as he was clear of the building, and he winced. He did so hate getting his wings wet. It was always such a trauma trying to dry out all the feathers properly. And then there was the fact that it just felt awful.

Shuddering, he landed on the roof, a little harder than he’d meant to, feeling distinctly ungainly for an angel. It had been quite a while since he’d done this. It seemed he was rather out of practice. How embarrassing.

Flying was rather like riding a velocipede, one never forgot how. That did not mean one retained their level of competence without sufficient, regular practice, however.

He strained his nightshirt with dignity, then took stock of his surroundings, blinking in slight surprise.

There were dozens of plants dotted around the rooftop in different troughs and tubs, in a very haphazard approximation of a terrace garden. There didn’t seem to be any particular order that he could identify. Yet even in the dark, he could tell that they were well-cared for. They had all been trimmed, and dead-headed, and watered, and fed appropriately. A lot of love had gone into this little place. He could feel it.

At the centre of it all, like the sun in a sea of smaller stars, sat Crowley.

His chest was bare, exposed to the deluge from the Heavens above. Aziaraphale could see his beautiful tattoo. He had never known that he had it until the two of them had become...rather more intimate in the months following the Armageddon that was averted.

It was a stunning thing, truly. A rippling black watercolour reflection of star spattered sky above them. The cosmos carved out in ink upon the skin of its creator. A beautiful, haunting echo to how it all began.

Through it all, the serpent swam. It would have been invisible, but it was of a darker black than the night around it.

Like the wings that spilled from Crowley’s back.

They were even more breathtaking than the tattoo. A different form of art, to be sure, but no less exquisitely wrought.

 They draped his thin frame like a shroud. The shadow black feathers glistened with rain drops that looked for all the world like stars in the night. But their tips dragged on the ground, held at an awkward, unnatural angle, the primary feathers more ragged than was usual.

All at once he looked both holy and profane.

It was as though he had just Fallen, as though Aziraphale was seeing him in the moments after it had happened. Still bathed in the final, fleeting rays of Heaven’s light. Even as he was dragged down into Hell’s darkness. Not truly belonging to either, caught between two worlds, like a fly in a web, suspended forever in time, unable to escape either way.

Something in Aziarpahle’s chest caught looking at him, as though he too had been snared by some trap.

For all they had done together, for all they had shared in more than six thousand years, for all the intimacy between them now, Aziraphale had never seen Crowley quite as vulnerable as he appeared now.

It felt as though he was intruding on something deeply private. Something that should never be witnessed by another. Like a confession. A confession that revealed the barest parts of another’s soul.

Rain continued to fall between them like a veil. So thin he could see him, could smell him, could taste him...But could never quite reach him.

Aziaraphle stared, swaying slightly in place, hypnotised by the scene before him.

For all he moved, Crowley might have been a statue. Carved from marble and obsidian, a study of the Fallen, and the weight they bore.

Dear Atlas carried the world upon his shoulders.

His dear Crowley seemed to hold the Heavens upon his back, in more than ink and skin. He was still crushed, Aziraphale knew, by the weight of promises that had been made, and lost. By things that had been taken, and the knowledge that they would never be returned.

Aziraphale jerked himself from his indulgent thoughts. They didn’t do Crowley any good, and that had to be his focus right now.

Crowley.

 How he would hate those thoughts. As he would hate anyone, even Aziraphale, seeing him in this state.

He had worked so hard for years to cultivate his show of aloofness, to act as though he cared for little, and loved even less.

But it wasn’t true.

Angels were beings of love, it was often said. He could sense it. But Crowley? Crowley felt it. Truly felt it. And it was both his destruction and his salvation. He needed it, but he feared so much that anyone would see it, because in his world, all they would ever see was weakness, and targets.

Aziraphale had never considered himself as particularly strong – in any sense of that word.

As he’d admitted to himself after his conversation with Gabriel in St James’ park, he was soft.

His soft, bleeding heart had given away his god-granted sword for pity’s sake. His soft will had let him succumb to base mortal pleasures.. His soft moral compass had permitted Crowley to tempt him into the Arrangement.

Aziraphale was just soft.

But for Crowley, for this being he loved with everything he was, and everything he might ever be, holy or profane, angel or demon, whole or in pieces...For Crowley, though it went against every instinct he had and felt as though his soul was being dragged over hot coals, he would do this to spare him any further pain.

He turned to slip back inside the flat, hating himself for every step, even as he loved Crowley with them.

He would go back inside, drop down to the back, walk around the front and return via the main entrance. Then he would wait. Draw a bath, perhaps, though he didn’t want to make it obvious that he was concerned or fussing, for then Crowley would know that he knew that there was something to fuss about, and he wouldn’t want that.

But he would wait. He would be ready. Whenever Crowley was. In six days, or six months, or another six thousand years, he would be ready for him, and then-

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice was a hoarse rasp, but it was distinct enough.

It carried through the quiet night air like a scream, with only the soft static of the rain to disturb it.

Aziraphale froze. Then he turned slowly back. If he had made this worse, if he had ruined it all-

Crowley  still hadn’t moved a muscle, but he spoke again. His words were so faint they were almost stolen by the wind that rose around them. Except for the fact that Aziraphale clung to them the way a holy man might cling to his prayer beads in the middle of, say, Armageddon.

“It’s okay,” Crowley mumbled quietly, “Y’don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

The words slurred together a little, most likely from pain. 

It was the cruellest kind of pain, he knew, though he had never tasted it himself. An echo of wounds six thousand years old. A phantom Aziarpahle’s magic, though holy, could not banish.

His heart ached for him. And, not for the first time, a flicker of anger stirred to life within him.

“I just mean you can,” Crowley added, giving a tiny half-glance in Aziraphale’s direction. 

He noticed then that his demon was shaking. From cold or pain, he couldn’t tell.

“S’a free country ‘n all that,” Crowley mumbled vaguely. “But m’ point is...You don’t have to leave. You can...You can stay. If you like.”

Aziraphale softened.

He knew Crowley well enough by now, he should think, to know that ‘you can stay’ meant ‘please don’t leave’.

“I would like to,” Aziraphale murmured as he moved in closer.

Tentatively, he knelt down at Crowley’s back and eased his arms around him. Crowley let out a tiny whimper and melted against him. Aziraphale braced himself against the rain damp tiles and held Crowley close, pressing his forehead to the seam between his wings.

“You’re freezing cold,” he admonished, concern leaking into his words, but no harshness. He had seen too much of that already.

“’M a demon,” Crowley grunted back, “We don’t get cold. Hellfire in our veins and...Stuff.”

“Well you are,” Aziraphale said, firmly, drawing him in even closer, instincts flaring, the desire to protect, to shelter, to save overwhelming.

Crowley didn’t protest.

With a soft exhale, Aziraphale extended his own wings, stark white against Crowley’s inky black, and draped them gently around the pair of them. The rain pattered mockingly against them, but in the moment, he couldn’t care less about that.

Crowley shuddered slightly and pressed himself deeper into Aziraphale’s soft embrace. Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed him in. For a long while he simply held him in the rain, and the world was blessedly quiet as the stars turned overhead.

Finally, Aziraphale croaked, voice shaking just a little, which he thought was quite the achievement, considering “Is it your wings? The pain?”

Crowley shook his head.

Aziraphale raised his, surprised, and felt Crowley shift slightly beneath him. Uncomfortable at the reaction, or at the simple loss of contact, he couldn’t be sure.

“I mean, they hurt,” he clarified, bluntly, “But it’s not the pain...Not just the pain. I know pain. I can deal with it, it’s-” His voice broke and he shook his head, trembling more tangibly in his angel’s arms. 

Aziraphale stroked his fingers tenderly along the arc of Crowley’s spine. Up and down, up and down, in a slow, soothing rhythm, like breathing, seeking to calm him.

Finally, he managed to choke out, “I miss it, ‘Ziraphale. I miss it.”

The agony was so obviously etched into this last words that Aziraphale nearly flinched from it.

Crowley shivered in Aziraphale’s arms, and the angel stroked his back, hands running so delicately over his tattooed skin.

“D’you know why I like to sleep so much, angel?” Crowley managed to get out at last.

This was an unexpected follow-up, to say the least, but Aziraphale simply said, gently, “Tell me.”

“I dream,” Crowley whispered, “And when I dream...I fly again.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, unable to stop himself instinctively pulling Crowley in more tightly. As though he could shelter him from this grief as he sheltered him from the rain.

It was cruel, what they had done to him. So cruel sometimes it was all Aziraphale could do not to find himself that flaming sword and storm the whole of Heaven with it, blasphemy be damned.

***

“Every time, Aziraphale. Every time,” Crowley rasped.

He swallowed with difficulty past the lump in his throat and let his head hang on his neck, limp and pathetic, like an old child’s doll that had been so thoroughly abused, it couldn’t exist without its saviour and breaker.

It had taken a while, and a lot of talking to humans, before he’d realised they didn’t see the same thing over and over and over again every time they fell asleep.

Well. Some of them did. Some of them had nightmares.

That had terrified Crowley. The idea that Hell could reach him the only time he ever felt truly safe, the only time he knew any real peace anymore.

It had never happened.

Every time he dreamed, he flew over Eden. His wings were strong, and beautiful, and whole. The black feathers rippled like black glass in the sun as they caught updrafts and sent him endlessly through the interminable vista of rolling clouds and soaring winds.

Sometimes, in the distance, he could make out Aziraphale standing sentinel on the Eastern wall.

He never joined him in the air, though. The skies were his, and his alone. 

He was safe. He was happy. He was free. 

At least until he woke up.

“She does it,” he said now.

He tried not to let his voice shake but...what was the point? He was only here with Aziraphale, and all his ghosts, and they had both seen far worse from him then a tremor on his tongue.

“I know she does it. I don’t know why. She never talks to me anymore.” And why would she? “But...She does this.”

Aziraphale’s grip on him was so tight it was painful. It felt good. It felt grounding. Crowley was afraid he might be torn away by the rain storm without him. A stray feather in a hurricane. Insignificant. Helpless. Forgotten.

“I don’t know if it’s to punish me, to remind me of what I lost, what She took,” he couldn’t help the edge of bitterness that crept into that last word.

It was like a thief in the night. Unwanted, unwelcome, and invasive. But ultimately, that didn’t matter. It came anyway.

Six thousand years. Six thousand years since he’d Fallen. He should have been over it by now. He should have been over it centuries ago. Millennia, really. But he wasn’t.

“I don’t know if, maybe, it’s Her letting me remember it, letting me live it again. Just a bit. If maybe...Maybe it’s the only bit of forgiveness that She can give me.”

He sagged in Aziraphale’s arms at that, ashamed. Ashamed that he could still hope, could still believe She might still care about him. After everything he’d been through, the Fall, Hell, the torments they offered up down there, Her relentless silence, after everything She’d done to him, he should know better. He should have learned.

There was nothing left to have faith in anymore.

Crowley took a breath as the wind stirred up again and rippled through his feathers, making them tingle. He could still feel his wings. Some days he could feel entirely too much of them. He could still move them, still have them respond to him but...He couldn’t fly.

He had tried. He had tried a lot, especially those first few centuries, and every thousand years or so since. It had been excruciating. He’d told himself if he just pushed a little bit harder he could make it happen, could make them stronger, could fly again. All he’d gotten for his pain was near discorporation and a very strong letter full of expletives from Below.

“I like it out here,” he found himself muttering, conscious of Aziraphale’s patient embrace, “’Specially when it rains. Being up here, under the stars, with the wind, and the rain, and the peace...It’s the closest I can get to flying anymore.”

He felt pathetic admitting that. His deepest secret. His ultimate weakness, laid bare. Like the shiny metal covers they put on food at the Ritz, whipped off to reveal his soul, exposed beneath.

“If I could,” aziraphale breathed behind him, soft as a blasphemy whispered in a church2, “I would give you mine.”

“Aziraphale,” he croaked, starting with surprise in his arms.

He’d have been less shocked if the angel had blasphemed in church, had cursed out God in every language known to humankind (and the few they hadn’t discovered yet), and told her he quit3.

An angel’s wings were near holy. It was a miracle (not truly, but sometimes that human turn of phrase was all that would do) that they were sheltering Crowley and not destroying him.

An angel’s wings were everything to them. Their pride, the overwhelming symbol that set them apart from demons, from humanity, from everything. And Aziraphale’s...They were perfect. Just perfect. To give them up, to even consider it...

“You shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he mumbled, “You’re an angel. It’s practically lying.”

“I mean it,” Aziraphale said, so sincerely, he might have been reciting scripture.

Crowley jerked in shock.

“What?”

Aziraphale shifted faster than Crowley could follow. In a heartbeat he was before him, kneeling as though he were an altar the angel had been made to give worship at. It was profane, the very thought of an angel on his knees before him and-

“I mean it, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, fiercely, and every other thought was wiped from his mind.

Aziraphale reached up and cradled Crowley’s face firmly between his soft hands.

“If I had to carve them from my own back, if I had to pull them apart a feather at a time, I would do it. For you.”

Crowley recoiled, shaking his head uncontrollably. The very idea was repulsive, unbearable.

Aziraphale didn’t understand what he was saying, what he would lose, the pain of it. He’d had his wings six thousand years longer than Crowley had. To lose them now…

“It would destroy you,” he breathed, hoarsely. 

Unconsciously, he lifted a hand and grazed the tips of his fingers slowly, reverently, along the top crest of his angel’s beautiful white wing.

“It’s destroying you,” Aziraphale whispered back, catching Crowley’s hand and intertwining their fingers

Demons were supposed to be selfish creatures who cared only for their own interests, who took whatever they wanted, regardless of what it cost anyone, or anything, else. But he couldn’t even contemplate doing something like this. Not to Aziraphale.

Crowley was weak. All of Hell said so. They had for years, behind his back, like he didn’t know.

He didn’t particularly give a shit anymore.

“I would never let you,” he choked out, shaking his head violently, as though to rid it of the thought.

The look on Aziraphale’s face in that moment could have been used to define love for the first time in history.

“Which is why I would do it,” he breathed reverently. “Without hesitation.”

He leaned forwards and gently touched his forehead to Crowley’s. Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, to the cool comfort of his angel. Who was insane. Completely, and utterly, insane because Crowley knew he meant it. Every word.

Angel’s could sense love. Demons could feel truth. It kind of went with the territory of the whole drawing up contracts, making demonic pacts, sealing ancient bargains, and that kind of thing.

But in the same way that angel’s didn’t spend their entire life being bombarded by every human’s love for peanut butter, or mystery novels, or Queen - he could only feel deep, raw, truth. The kind that was so sincere it left a mark upon the soul.

Crowley knew every word that had just come from the angel’s lips was like gospel to him.

With a slow, gentle movement, Aziraphale wrapped his wings tenderly around Crowley, then pulled him in close, as close as they could be while remaining separate entities.

All at once, he was enveloped in a soft, feathery cocoon, breathing in the smell of old books, and leather, and some kind of spicy fragrance Aziraphale had been favouring for centuries that he’d never been able to exactly identify.

After a long time spent cradled up in angel, his fingers carding soothingly through Crowley’s hair, he heard Aziraphale speak again, very softly.

“I, I could take you, if you wanted. Now. I could, I could carry you while I flew and…” He sounded so hesitant, as though one wrong word would send Crowley skittering away from him like a nervous animal. “I know that it wouldn’t be same, perhaps not even close, but...But we could try? If you wanted?”

Crowley’s face crumpled with emotion, but when he withdrew enough for Aziraphale to see him, all that was left was a wry smirk.

“Isn’t that against the angel’s code of conduct?” he said, “Heaven’s Flyway Code: no exceeding 30mph, no overhead-taking, no flying under the influence, and absolutely no being seen by humans?”

To say nothing of taking demons with you. If that wasn’t already part of the code, he could practically hear Gabriel squeaking up in Heaven and barking at Michael to get it added immediately.

He felt that it wouldn’t really be necessary to point out that they happened to be in the most densely populated city in the UK. Even with miracles, it would be a risky thing to attempt even in the countryside.

Then again, he never thought he would have to remind Aizraphale of anything even remotely resembling a rule. ‘Fussy stickler’ was definitely near the top of the list of ‘most frequently used phrases to describe the Principality Aziraphale’.

“I’m serious, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

He reached out and cupped Crowley’s cheek in a hand, the pad of his thumb lightly tracing the arc of his cheekbone, “I want to help you, my dear.”

Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own and squeezed gently, “If you’re seen- If they catch you-“

“I shall cross that bridge if we come to it,” he cut in, firmly.

“Aziraphale-” Crowley began.

“Please,” the angel interrupted, a slight quaver in his voice.

Crowley arched up on his knees and gently kissed the top of Aziraphale’s head, breathing him in. Sweet, naive, foolish angel, even after all this time.

“There are some things you can’t fix, angel,” he said, quietly, fingers threading through Aziraphale’s thick white hair. “No matter how hard you try. No matter how badly you want to. Some things are just broken.”

“You are not broken!” Aziraphale burst out indignantly.

Crowley hesitated for a fraction of a second. In truth, he was. But not because of this.

“No,” he agreed, slowly, “But these are.”

He gestured over his shoulder as he gave his wings a slight flex which stoked the burning pain in them to a sharp flare before settling again into their familiar dull ache.

With a sad smile he said, quietly, “You can’t catch me, angel. I’ve already Fallen.”

Aziraphale slid a finger under Crowley’s chin and tilted his head up until their eyes met. He brushed his mouth tenderly against Crowley’s lips, gentle as the kiss of a feather on the wind, and breathed, “that’s no reason to keep me from lifting you up again, Crowley.”

In his mouth, his name sounded almost like that of an angel.

For the first time since he had held him, Crowley looked past Aziraphale. He looked past the bright blue eyes, full of empathy and the need to help. He looked past the beautiful white wings, now glowing faintly in the moonlight, perfect, not a feather out of place, forming a halo around his soft form.

He looked out to the stars he had crafted from the darkness. The rain continued to fall around them, but the clouds where he looked had faded. The sky was clear, and he could see the stars beyond, beckoning him home.

He closed his eyes and breathed it in. 

The wind ran its fingers through his feathers the way Aziraphale might when welcoming him back after he’d been gone too long.

The air was cold, but it felt good against his burning skin.

His imagination carried him and he soared over the city. He imagined what it would look like from so high up, all little lights, and square buildings, and long narrow streets. The feeling of testing himself in those narrow streets, weaving between those buildings, racing around tight corners. It was exhilarating.

The fierce wind was nearly ripping feathers from his wings. The rain was like bullets against his skin, nearly blinding him.

Aziraphale’s arms were around him, making sure he didn’t fall.

The fantasy shattered.

 All he could see now was Aziraphale cradling him, like a child, his wings dragging uselessly behind him, utterly dependent on another to carry him and care for him in the skies that used to be his.

He couldn’t feel the wonder, the joy, the freedom anymore. All he could taste was bitterness, and resentment, and humiliation.

It was a stupid reason not to try, to further deny himself something that had been taken from him for six thousand years but...He couldn’t. He couldn’t stand it.

“No,” he said, shakily, “No I, I can’t. Not now. Not-“ He swallowed with difficulty and added, pathetically, “I’m not ready.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, gently, softly stroking his hair again.

Crowley was pretty sure he didn’t understand at all. But he was so grateful the angel wasn’t pushing him, or using that limitless reason and logic to explain at the moment why they should at least make a go of it.

He couldn’t face trying to put the tangled web of his emotions into words right now. Not like this. Aziraphale at least seemed to understand that, damn him.

The angel wrapped his wings around him again, but more loosely this time. Stroking his fingers through Crowley’s hair he said, quietly, “What do you need? Tell me what I can do for you. Anything. Anything at all.”

“Just don’t leave me,” Crowley mumbled. The words were out before he could stop them, and he felt utterly pathetic saying them, but there was no helping that now.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale whispered into Crowley’s hair, more said to himself. “I couldn’t bear to be on my own without you just now,” he admitted, and Crowley found himself pulling the angel in closer, no longer feeling weak or useless, only grateful.

Gently, Aziraphale began massaging Crowley’s wings, clever fingers finding and loosening the knots in the muscles. It didn’t take away the pain, but it helped.

“Is this alright?” Aziraphale asked, softly, “May I continue?”

In answer, Crowley sagged against him, mashed his face against Aziraphale’s neck (in a comforting way), and managed to groan out an incoherent but enthusiastic, “Uh-huh­,” against his skin.

There was a faint smile beneath his disapproval when he said, “You see, if you’d just come to me first and skipped all of these dramatics, wouldn’t that have been better?”

Crowley growled indignantly. 

This was somewhat undercut by the soft moan of relief that escaped him around the same time.

“You were napping,” he mumbled, thickly.

In a very bloody disconcerting way, he didn’t add, eyes wide open, staring straight ahead. Would have given humans nightmares for years.

Aziraphale huffed with irritation, as expected, “Actually, I’ll have you know that I was engaged in a deep meditational study concerning the evolution of symbolism and theme throughout the life’s works of William Shakespeare. I was not napping, as you so crudely put it.”

“Were,” Crowley muttered petulantly under his breath.

Aziraphale dug his fingers into a particularly tight knot and Crowley yelped in protest.

While he frowned up at him with wounded indignation, the angel said, angelically, “So sorry, dear boy.”

Still scowling, Crowley slumped gracelessly back into his original position.

“Regardless,” Aziraphale went on, voice softening, “What I was doing is irrelevant. You will always take priority, Crowley, whatever I might be doing. I need you to know that.”

“You’ve gone soft in your old age, angel.”

“And I’ll make no apology for that,” he replied, calmly, gently kneading a particularly tender spot as he did so. “And we’re ageless, dear,” he added, placidly, “I cannot be old. Nor can I be young. I simply am.”

“Simply insufferable,” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, in his serious ‘stop deflecting or I’ll be nice to your plants again’ angel voice which meant he had to listen to him, “I love you,” he said, firmly,” And I will keep pestering you with that knowledge until the end of time if that’s what it takes to make you accept-“

“I do, I do accept it,” Crowley interrupted irritably, pawing at Aziraphale’s hands in an attempt to get him to skip the lecture and resume his soothing massage.

“Until you accept that you deserve it,” Aziraphale pressed on.

Blessed angel really was insufferable, Crowley thought, ignoring the sudden lump in his throat. All good, and noble, and decent.

He couldn’t find a proper answer with words, so he arched up, ignoring the painful tightness in his back, and kissed Aziraphale full on the mouth.

The angel recoiled from the shock of it for a heartbeat, then melted into him, smiling against his lips, hands gentle on his waist.

Crowley leaned into his upwards momentum and shifted into his serpent form, coiling endlessly around Aziraphale until his entire weight was supported by the other.

“Take me back inssside, angel,” he hissed softly, nuzzling affectionately against Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh, well, my wish is your command, sir Crowley,” Aziraphale grumbled at this issuing of orders, but without any real heat or rancour.

The angel miracled them both back inside with a blink and let out a small sigh, shaking out his wings and spattering every surface in a ten foot radius with water droplets.

Crowley knew how much Aziraphale hated getting his wings wet.

He gave him a little squeeze and said, “Run usss a bath, angel. I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s absolutely nothing to make up for, my dear,” the angel insisted, obstinately, all the while continuing to drip mournfully onto the carpet.

Crowley growled impatiently and slithered around him until they were nose to nose.

“Aziraphale.”

“No!” the angel said, “Not while you’re this sore, it’s utterly unfair, I won’t even-“

Crowley squeezed until Aziraphale cut off with a look that very plainly said ‘really, darling?’

“Aziraphale,” he repeated, in his best ‘agree with me or I’ll miracle inappropriate typos into all your favourite books again’ demon voice. “Let me take care of you, too. Pleassse,” he wheedled.

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale said, throwing up his hands dramatically as he did so, “You wily old serpent, you,” he added, fondly, gently kissing Crowley’s snout.

Crowley wriggled away from him with an indignant hiss, “I am an apex predator,” he informed Aziraphale, tartly, as the angel carried him to the bath he had just miracled into existence for them.

“Of course you are, dear,” the angel replied, not at all patronisingly.

“I could eat you for breakfast,” Crowley persisted, rearing up a little as he said it to add to the threatening effect of his words.

“I rather hope you will,” Aziraphale replied evenly, without missing a beat.

Somehow, Crowley’s snake form blushed.

They continued to bicker throughout the bath, in which Crowley carefully washed and groomed Aziraphale’s wings to rid them of the rain damage. And afterwards, as Crowley dried Aziraphale’s wings, then the angel carried him back to the bedroom, where he stretched luxuriously on the bed.

Then he nestled against his angel, coiling around him in heavy black and red folds, still in his snake form. Aziraphale settled back against the pillows, a book already miracled to him on his chest of drawers for when Crowley drifted off.

The tips of his fingers traced soothing patterns over Crowley’s scales, bleeding the last few vestiges of tension from his body.

Just before he fell asleep, head pillowed against Aziraphale’s soft stomach, Crowley found that, perhaps, there was still something left to have faith in after all.

******************************************************************************

Footnotes:

1- Crowley had tried. The wily demon had taken him unawares, striking him when he’d least expected it, in spots he was most vulnerable, tickling mercilessly, but to no avail.

2- As if Aziraphale would ever even dream of doing such a thing.

3- Crowley didn’t know if it was strictly possible to quit from being an angel. The same way it wasn’t really possible for a cow to quit from being a cow. Or for a table to request a transfer to be a chair instead. 

[blatherkatt]

Title: The Calm Is Terrifying When The Storm Is All You Know [Homestuck]

Chapter 6: 3/20, Part 2

Summary: There were two kinds of trolls who went to Earth: rich shitheads with too much money and free time, and desperate assholes who couldn’t survive on Alternia, even with the best efforts of the young Condesce. Karkat hated the planet almost immediately, but with his home planet too dangerous for mutants, he really didn’t have any choice but to hide out on this weird little diurnal planet. At least he’d be safe. Or so he thought, right before blundering his way into an accidental friendship with the son of an anti-troll terrorist.

Rating: M

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of neglect and abuse, mentions of terrorist activities, violence, blood (very minor); Illustrated

FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

Dave stretched out on the futon and flicked on the TV, letting himself relax a little for the first time in ages. There was no sign of Bro, and the window had been open, a sure sign he was out somewhere (Bro never left using the main stairs or even through the maintenance hall like Dave sometimes did — as far as the owners of this apartment complex knew, Dave was the only person living in this unit, and Bro went to great lengths to keep it that way. Always did, every time they moved to a new apartment.), which was awesome, because the guy had been watching Dave like a fuckin’ hawk with a grudge for six damn days now.  

“Karkat, you sure you don’t wanna come out?” he called. “He’s definitely gone, and I mean, I don’t know when he’s gonna be back, exactly, so you can’t be out here for long, but my bedroom and the bathroom can’t be the best scenery in the long term, man. Stretch your legs or whatever.”

“I am not testing my luck, fuck you, I’m staying right here,” Karkat called back.

“Suit yourself, man,” Dave shrugged. He flicked through a few channels. Nothing on right now but reruns, damn.

He spent about an hour watching the kind of shitty movie he’d normally be all over, happily riffing it to shreds on his own, but there was something restless in him today, he couldn’t get into it. It was starting to piss him off. He heaved a sigh as the protagonist blundered through another incredibly forced scene, and reached for the remote again, clicking through a few more channels.

It was the news that made him freeze. Normally he didn’t give too much of a shit, except, holy fuck, that was Bro, was this live?!

It was, it was absolutely live, holy shit. Bro was…was fighting some poor fucker on a rooftop, and there were police around, and that explosion meant that some of the Usuals were probably around, too, and Dave knew that building, it was like an hour away the way Bro travelled, even if he stopped fighting right the fuck now he’d need an hour to get back —

Karkat. He could — an hour was plenty of fucking time, he could grab some cash, bustle Karkat onto the nearest city bus and tell him to keep bushopping until the money was gone, come back and beat himself up and trash the place so it’d look like a jailbreak, this was the best fucking chance he’d have, holy shit —

Dave snapped out of his reverie with a jolt. Right, he needed to act right the fuck now, this was not the time to be zoning out about getting shit done, this was the time to actually get shit done. With probably the second or third least dignified scuffle of his life, Dave bolted back for his room and shoved the door open (it was unlocked, since Bro wasn’t here). Karkat nearly jumped out of his skin, but Dave didn’t have time to laugh or apologize or what the fuck ever, this was now or goddamn never —

“Dave, what the fuck?!” Karkat started, but Dave shook his head.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Like, right now, we gotta go right the fuck now.”

“Are — are you serious? Now?!”

“Dude, Bro’s like an hour away, this might be the only shot we have, c’mon!” Dave grabbed a jacket out of his closet (force of habit; he didn’t have any long sleeved shirts right now, and didn’t like attracting attention to the scars on his arms from bad strifes, so it didn’t matter if it was hot out, he was wearing a jacket) and picked up his sword (also a force of habit), tugging Karkat after him as he hurried out of the room.

“What — holy shit, Dave, okay, I get it, we gotta hurry, but do you even have a plan?!”

“Yeah, it’s called get you on a fuckin’ bus right this damn second. I’ll make it look like you fought your way out and stole a buncha cash, you just gotta keep bus hopping ’til you’re as far outta Houston as you can get, alright? You know how to ride a bus, right? Shit,” Dave said, grabbing a bunch of bills out of the stash Bro always kept in the kitchen, in that one cabinet you had to open super carefully to avoid getting buried in knives (Dave was a pro at raiding it by now, albeit usually for enough money to buy a sandwich, not a bus trip to the other side of the planet).

“I mean, I’ve ridden one before, yeah, it didn’t seem that complicated —”

“But do you know how to read the bus schedules and pay for your fare and shit, dude? Ugh, nevermind, I gotta show you where the nearest bus stop is, anyway, I’ll show you when we get there.” He shoved the wad of bills into his jeans pocket and grabbed Karkat around the wrist. “C’mon, we’re taking the elevator this time, no time for the damn stairs.”

Karkat followed after him, sporadically bursting out with hushed complaints. Dave barely noticed most of them. His own internal monologue was going so fast that he had no doubt his mouth wouldn’t have been able to keep up if he tried, but was still making some sort of effort. He was probably muttering all kinds of nonsense right now, but who cared, who cared? The elevator dinged down way too damn slow, and as soon as it touched the bottom floor, Dave grabbed Karkat again and steered him towards another back entrance of the apartment complex, this one leading into a slightly different backstreet than the one Karkat had been smuggled in by. Dave always got pretty familiar with back alleys whenever Bro moved them to a new place; it was a good idea to know some other ways of getting around, just in case. These ones weren’t totally familiar to him, but the bus stop was near enough, he was sure…

Karkat stopped short as soon as they were out the door, throwing Dave off his stride. “Wait,” said Karkat, tugging Dave back to look at him.

“Dude, the fuck? We gotta hurry, man, what do you —”

“You should — you should come with me,” he said, and the fuckin’ sincerity in his bigass eyes was the only thing that kept Dave from laughing. “I know, you’ve got some idea that you can’t leave,” he continued, before Dave could recover enough to respond, “but, come the fuck on, let’s be real, you’re just as much of a fucking prisoner here as I am, and I don’t know jack shit about Earth transportation. We’ll stand a way better chance if we leave together!”

“I…” Part of Dave wanted to, recognized that he was at least right about the troll having a better chance with a guide who knew how buses worked, but that part got shut down immediately by the thought of Ben, staring down at him with sad eyes — “I can’t,” Dave said. “I told you, I can’t abandon him, he’s…he’s family, dude, I’m all he has.”

Karkat growled, an odd, clicky sound not entirely like any growl Dave had ever heard but unmistakeable nonetheless, and rolled his eyes. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Dave! I don’t know why the fuck you think he needs you, all he has or not, but I’m pretty fucking sure he’ll be just fine. You won’t be, though, and I sure as fuck won’t be!”

“‘I won’t?’ The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come the fuck on,” Karkat said, “you’re the one who told me when we first fucking met that you weren’t sure he wouldn’t kill you —”

“I was joking, dude,” Dave hissed. “He wouldn’t, I’m family, I’m his goddamned son and I can take anything he can dish out just fuckin’ fine!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a big tough grub and all that hoofbeastshit. God, would you fucking look at yourself?! You’re half starved, beat up to hell and back, and he scares the shit out of you! This — whatever the fuck family means to you, this can’t be worth it!”

“The fuck do you know? You’re a god damn alien!”

“Yeah, and this fucking alien can see that this isn’t right, why the fuck can’t you?! Just shut up and come with me, you insufferable, pan-baked shitheaded —”

—A sound, high above, halfway through Karkat’s ranting. Dave couldn’t identify it, at this distance, not through Karkat’s voice. “Karkat, wait—”

“No, I’m not done! We’re both completely fucked in this situation, and you’re quite frankly fucking obnoxious, but sticking together is the best chance we mmfmpph mmpfpgh!!” Dave slapped a hand over Karkat’s mouth, hissing through his teeth.

“I heard something, shut the fuck up, I think something might have noticed us—”

That was a sound Dave knew all too well. Shattering glass, followed by a shadow passing overhead. Shit. Shit, shit, shit shit shitshitshitshit—

Dave shoved Karkat down the shadowed street. “Someone’s following us. Something, I don’t know, we gotta go, now, run!” he hissed. Karkat’s eyes somehow got even wider, and he nodded, tearing off after Dave as best he could. Dave didn’t run as fast as he could, even though he wanted to, fuck, but he couldn’t lose Karkat in the maze back here.

Stopping short and whirling around, he yanked the wad of cash out of his pocket and shoved it into Karkat’s hands, who’d stopped, wheezing, just after Dave did.

“You’re gonna wanna go straight, then left, then straight again, jump the little fence, and then just go towards the light and you’ll be right out by the bus stop,” Dave said, his words running into each other with how fast he was talking. “Take the first bus that shows up, the guy’ll probably tell you how to pay, you’ll have to get someone to show you how to read the schedules, just —”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Karkat hissed. Dave could hear how scared the poor guy was, fucking Christ.

“Look, if this is one of Bro’s guys, I got a way better chance of not dying than you do, none of them would kill me and risk pissing Bro off. I can hold ‘em off, but you gotta run. I’ll be fine, promise, alright?”

“No, fuck no!”

Dave groaned. “Holy shit, you stubborn jackass, you’re going to die if you don’t leave!”

“Come with me, then! Make sure I don’t! Like you said, I’m a fucking alien, how am I gonna survive on my own, huh? But if you come with me, we’ll both be free, and —”

A trash can tumbled over, making both boys jump. Dave slid into a fighting stance and drew his sword, shoving Karkat with his elbow as he did. “Fine, Jesus, I’ll catch up with you if I’m able!Run, Karkat, just run!” It was a lie. It was a bitter lie he had no intention of keeping, but that’d be alright, as long as Karkat got out of here.

The troll swallowed hard, nodded, and ran.

Dave didn’t watch him go. He turned his eyes back the way they’d come from, glaring into the shadows.

“Alright, whoever the fuck you are, let’s cut the shit and have ourselves a nice little chat, huh? No more of this bullshit sneaking around.”

He was answered by a pair of glowing red eyes, a distressing animal noise he didn’t recognize at all, and the growing sound of two pairs of running feet somewhere more distant, coming this way.

Well, shit, today just kept getting better, didn’t it?

He didn’t initially get a good look at what it was that jumped at him. It was a flash of white, something about the size of a German Shepherd, but whatever it was had claws and managed to slash small cuts across his eyebrow and the bridge of his nose. He shoved it away with the flat of his sword, and took a swipe at it, only for it to quickly roll away and hiss at him.

That. That was a dragon.

That was an actual fucking dragon, what the fuck.

Hissing and spitting, the dragon circled warily, its tail creeping up to its side, and oh shit, oh shit that thing was wearing a police uniform, were the police hiring dragons now what the fuck??

Red and blue lights strobed and flashed, casting harsh shadows on the narrow, shadow walls of the back street. Shit. Did this count as getting seen by the police, Dave wondered. He could hear Bro’s voice now, he was going to be fuckin’ crucified for this, oh God —

The approaching footsteps caught up, finally. Good news: two trolls, definitely not Bro’s goons. Bad news: They were definitely with the police. Probably that weird hybrid police officer-slash-Alternia whatchamacallit Dave had heard about. One of them fired off some rapid Alternian to the dragon, which turned its head and then, abruptly, lunged at Dave — no, lunged over Dave, managing a short glide despite the narrowness of the alley. The other troll, the one that hadn’t spoken, moved to follow it. Dave did his best to block their way, but his blade failed to connect, blocked instead by another.  The second troll got by just fine and followed after the dragon.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” said the troll who’d spoken.  She had a cane and dark red glasses — shit, was she blind?  Except her cane was apparently a sword cane — two sword canes, in fact, wow, that was just fuckin’ excessive. “We have some questions for you, citizen,” the troll said, grinning with a mouth full of fuckin’ knives, hot damn. “You’re under arrest, I’m afraid,” she finished.

Dave shoved her away as best he could, flashstepping back a couple feet. “Like hell I am,” he said. He moved to chase after the dragon and the other officer — shit, maybe it’d be better to just let them catch Karkat, the guy hadn’t done anything wrong, but Dave still needed to run —

He quickly found himself making introductions with the ground. The troll had tossed one of her blades so that it spun like a propeller, knocking into Dave’s ankles and sending him off balance. He was almost instantly back on his feet, though; plenty of practice getting knocked around had taught him how to get back up quickly. The troll used the time to get around him, though, blocking off his escape.

He could head back toward the building, he guessed, except, no, that’d be leading the fucking police right to the apartment, shit. He had to fight her, then. He had no idea how the fuck he was getting out of this, but, whatever, they had three swords between them and an obvious conflict of interests, so, alright, fine, let’s go, let’s fucking go, it’s on like Donkey Kong with a —

No time for that. Blades clashed in the alley, hard; sparks flew off to the side and Dave felt the force of the blow rattling up his left forearm in that painful tinge that warned that his old wrist injury was not going to make this easy. He brushed it off, tried to meet her blows — fuck, this was no fair, she was dual wielding, but that was alright, he was used to fighting people with way more experience and all kinds of unfair advantages, he could figure it out on the fly. No big deal.

(Of course, that other person was always Bro, and Dave had never once beaten him, but. Whatever. He’d be okay, he’d figure it out —)

Clash, again. There was blood in his eye, fuck, that scratch from the little dragon was affecting his vision, and the alley was dark and all he’d eaten today was half a bag of Doritos, fuck —

Clash, clash, clash, a feint here, a swipe there, his hands were getting sweaty and the time was ticking away, there wasn’t enough room to maneuver well in this fucking backstreet, everything was awful, Christ, he had to get out of here before —

Before he lost his balance again, yeah, exactly like that. Crashed to the ground, winded from again bony-ass elbow right to the goddamn diaphragm, aware vaguely of his shades clattering off to the side and his sword crashing out of his grip.

He didn’t get a chance to get up again this time. The troll pressed her boot against his chest, tipped one of the blades against his throat, and grinned.

“You’re under fucking arrest.”  

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Fine, Jesus! I’ll catch up with you if I’m able! Run, Karkat, just run!”  

Karkat felt some of his breath forced out at Dave’s elbow digging into his ribs, and he stumbled. He looked back, a retort on his tongue, but…

His pump biscuit felt like it was hammering at his throat in some desperate attempt to leave his body.

There was nothing he could do, Karkat realized; he was nowhere near as fast as these crazy flickery humans, he didn’t even have a weapon.

Feeling like an even bigger coward than he had the day he’d agreed to leave Alternia, Karkat swallowed hard, nodded solemnly to Dave, and ran. He didn’t believe Dave for a fucking second, but maybe…

He’d…he’d find a way to help, he thought as he ran. He could…Terezi! He could get Terezi, she was some sort of weird hybrid legislacerator, right? If anyone could rescue Dave, she could! He’d get away like Dave said, then find a computer or a phone and get Terezi, tell her everything he knew, where he’d been, and she could get Dave away from Strider.

(It was a desperate hope, but thanks to how much of his energy was being syphoned into breathing and keeping his legs moving as fast as he fucking could, he didn’t register how completely insane a chance the entire thought was. Besides, the thought that maybe he could find a way  to get Dave out alive was the only thing keeping guilt from completely tearing him apart.)

It wasn’t until he was confronted with a great stone wall that Karkat realized he’d taken a wrong turn.

Shit. Shit, he couldn’t risk backtracking, shit — someone was coming, oh God, he had to hide, there was a big metal trash receptacle that he could duck behind and pray whoever was after him didn’t spot him, he dove for cover and wrapped his arms over his head, as the clicking sound of his pursuer grew ever louder —

He screeched as a heavy weight landed on him, knocking him over backwards. He started to fight, tried to push it off — and as soon as his arms were away from his face, something long, damp, and slightly sticky dragged across his cheek.

“Augh, what the fuck —” he blinked, completely disbelieving. No…No way. “Pyralspite?! There is no fucking way - how the fuck!?”  The little dragon trilled, her entire body wiggling, and licked Karkat’s face again. She had on some sort of little black outfit, and these strobing red and blue lights flashed, lighting up the dead end Karkat had bumbled into, but there was no doubt, this was definitely Pyralspite.

“Holy shit,” Karkat breathed. All the tension suddenly left him at once, and he flopped flat against the ground. “Holy fucking shit,” he said. Another deep breath, and he switched to Alternian, saying, “Pyralspite, I have no idea how the fuck you’re here, but I have never been so happy to get licked in the face in my entire life. Oh, my God…Is Terezi nearby? Can you — wait, who’s coming? Shit, get off me, get off, God dammit you dumbass dragon get the fuck off me.”

A new pair of footsteps was echoing closer off the walls. Pyralspite trilled again, but did finally hop off of Karkat (only after licking his face one last time, gross).  Around the corner came…a troll, thank fuck, it was a troll; an oliveblood in some sort of costume that looked enough like Terezi’s uniform for Karkat to assume that they knew her.

“Hey,” they said, “you the friend Pyrope came looking for?”

“Uh, probably?” Karkat answered. “I mean…that’d make sense, actually, yeah. Yeah, I am, holy fuck can you please get me out of here.”

The oliveblood chuckled gently. “That’s what we’re here for, kid,” they said. “C’mon, we got an extra squad car on the way, we’ll get you somewhere safe.”

Exhaustion hit him like a red-hot right hook to the bone bulge, and for several exhausted, stumbling minutes, he silently allowed the troll to guide him. Karkat never thought he’d be glad to see sunlight, but fuck, getting out of the shadows of those buildings was a relief.

Less of a relief was the sound that greeted his ears from a little ways up the street. Two police cars were parked next to each other, and he could see Terezi, twirling a folded pair of sunglasses, along with two human officers, who were struggling with a very vocal, very familiar human teen.

“Fuckin’ — I know my damn rights, fuck you, fuck all of you, I’m not going and you can’t make me!”

“You have the right —”

“I wasn’t doin’ anythin’ wrong, y’all got nothin’ on me, this is horseshit, y’hear? I will bust the fuck out of this bullshit, goddamn army couldn’t hold me —”

“You have the —”

“At least give me my fuckin’ shades back, holy shit, let me have some damn dignity.”

“Nope!” cackled Terezi, as one of the human cops finally managed to shove Dave into the car.

“You have the right to remain silent,” wheezed the human cop, slamming the door shut. Karkat could see Dave sticking his tongue out at the officer through the window. Karkat swore under his breath and ran toward them, ignoring the shout of surprise from the oliveblood.

“Terezi, wait!” Karkat shouted. More running was the last thing his legs wanted to do right now, but fuck it, he wasn’t about to — yeah, he’d hoped to get Terezi involved, but he’d wanted Dave rescued, not fucking arrested!

Too late, Terezi turned toward Karkat. The car with Dave inside was already pulling out and driving off. Karkat caught a glimpse of Dave’s face as it sped away.

Without the shades, reading him was like a damn book, and the fear in Dave’s eyes made something in Karkat break.

“Geez, Karkat,” Terezi was saying. “It’s just like you to get kidnapped at the worst possible time. The good ole’ Vantas curse strikes again, huh?” She was grinning, teasing; Karkat was sure she probably did mean some of it on some level, but the tone of her voice made it clear that relief for Karkat’s safety overrode any irritation she might actually feel.

Karkat didn’t have time to care, even if he was really, really fucking glad to see her. “Terezi, you can’t — you can’t let them prosecute him, he’s not a bad guy!”

Terezi raised an eyebrow. “He wasn’t exactly acting innocent,” she said. “You okay there, Karkat? Because he tried to stop me from rescuing you. With a sword.”

“Well, yeah, of course he did,” Karkat said. “He’s been like, fucking conditioned to not trust the police or something, probably, I wouldn’t put that past that Strider bastard. Speaking of whom, that’s who you should be blaming for this!  He didn’t want to fucking grubnap me, but Strider fucking forced him to either do that or kill me, and the fact that I’m alive should clue you in to which he chose! He fucking — he was trying to help me escape, he thought we were getting chased by some of Strider’s goons!”

“Holy shit,” said the oliveblood. “You seriously got taken by one of Strider’s men and survived?”

“I don’t know that I’d call him one of Strider’s men,” said Karkat. “More like actually taken hostage by Strider him fucking self, and it’s only thanks to Dave that I’m goddamn alive, which is why you shouldn’t be arresting him! He’s not dangerous, he’s just a scared fucking kid!”

“Wait,” Terezi said, her smile dropping. “Da-did you say his name was Dave?”

“Yeah?” Karkat said. “I don’t get how that’s important right now, but —”

“His name is Dave,” said Terezi.

“Yes, I’ve said that like three times now, Terezi, fuck.”

“And he lives with Strider.”

The oliveblood made a sound that gave Karkat the impression of choking on air.

“Yeah…?” Karkat was really getting confused, but apparently this meant something to Terezi.

“Holy shit,” Terezi muttered after a long moment. “Holy…holy shit, that was him, holy —” She didn’t wait around to explain anything to Karkat. Instead, she turned on her heel and practically ripped open the passenger side door on the remaining police car, snatching fiercely at a small radio on the dashboard. “This is Pyrope, calling in —”

“There you are, fuck! It was a damn catastrophe over here, everything went sour, the guy was onto us from the —”

“Yeah, I know, I heard you all bitching about it earlier. That’s not the issue at hand, though! Dirk, where is Dirk?”

“Uh, he sustained some minor injuries, and we’re letting him rest since he seems pretty shaken up, so…”

“I need him back at the precinct. Tell him to get back to the precinct,” she hissed.

“What, now?”

“No, sometime in the next month, we can arrange a fucking tea party. Yes, now!!”

“Uh…we’ll tell him, sure.”

The other end went silent. Terezi sat back and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Dave fucking Strider, Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

“Is there something I’m missing here?” Karkat said.

“It’s —” Terezi was interrupted by static on the police radio.

“Look, Pyrope, the kid’s had a long day. I can see him from here, he looks fuckin’ exhausted, and I really don’t think he’s up for this right now. Let’s let him rest a bit longer, huh?”

“God dammit, Powers,” Terezi barked, practically screaming, “You tell him to get his mopey fuckin’ ass back to the station now, damn you! This can’t wait! I don’t care how bad he got his feelings hurt, you get him back there!” Terezi dropped the radio and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus Christ,” she said, “I get Dave fucking Strider in our custody after three damn years and his fuckin’ brother’s off brooding on me! Fuckin’ typical.”

[artificialqueens]

saint in the city ch.3 (katlaska) - comeapart

a/n: thank u for all the nice comments!!! i’m thinking about writing little side things for other relationships in this fic because then you get to see katya from the perspective of someone who isn’t in love with her and also willam and courtney having a good time.. also that way not everything is so sad. ch.1 here & ch.2 here

Alaska was expecting Katya to have left in the night. It was only a little shock to realise that she was still asleep beside her, and suddenly she felt a lot warmer than before. Almost like there was hope. She knew she was going to have to provide food, and she wasn’t entirely sure that Katya would like the vegan stuff that Courtney stuffed the fridge with for breakfast. She climbed out of the bed as carefully as she could, leaving a note on the pillow that read: Katya - gone to the store. Feel free to use shower etc. Alaska x

She thought about signing it with a heart, but she wasn’t sure if that would give the impression of coming on too strong, so she settled for an ‘x.’ She looked down at the note for a moment, unhappy with the jagged edges and spikes in her handwriting. Most doctors had great handwriting, wavy and feminine and pretty, but Alaska’s looked a little more like a failed rockstar’s than a nurse’s. There was a bakery a street down, and a Starbucks just a few buildings down. She actually ended up in more of Willam’s clothes, realising that both Courtney and Willam were fast asleep and unable to object, before going and collecting whatever she thought looked the nicest along with lattes, trying not to rush her way back to the apartment. It wasn’t worth spilling four dollar coffee on one of Willam’s ridiculously expensive shirts and having to replace it. 

She couldn’t have been any longer than fifteen minutes, but when she came through the door, Katya was standing in the kitchen, sipping at a glass of water. Her hair was wet, sticking to her face in a way that Alaska was pretty sure wasn’t comfortable, and she was fully dressed from head to toe. Alaska tried not to think about the fact that Katya was wearing her shirt, and that it was maybe a little too long at the sleeves under the work shirt. 

“Good morning,” Alaska smiled, looking down at Katya and glancing at the way she had turned Alaska’s sleeves into sweater paws.

Katya looked up at Alaska, blank and unreadable. All of the lust and need and love that Alaska had seen the night before was gone, and it hurt. She glanced over Alaska once, focusing on the ill-fitting clothes and the fact they all came up short on Alaska’s ridiculously long frame. “Hello.”

“I brought breakfast,” Alaska offered, holding the bag from the bakery up and the two lattes. Katya took one of them from her, blinking as she sipped at it.

“I’m not hungry,” Katya said carefully, licking her lips as she leant back against the counter. “Thank you, though.”

“Do you want to carpool? I- uh, I don’t have work today, but I could switch out with Courtney, and I can drive you in. It doesn’t take me long to get ready,” Alaska blurted out, watching Katya and trying not to smile. She was sure that Katya could read her like a book, always too honest and too emotive, but it was worth a shot. Katya looked uncomfortable.

“I couldn’t ask you to give up your day off. I should probably head in, anyway. There’ve been cases of a virus. I think it might be worse than it looks,” Katya said.

“Alright,” Alaska mumbled, looking down at her latte as she put the bag down. Courtney and Willam could have it for all she cared. If she wasn’t sharing breakfast with Katya, she was going to go back to bed until Courtney got worried and forced her way into her room to watch Friends reruns with her. “I guess I’ll see you when I’m next in, then.”

“Yes,” Katya said, pausing ever so slightly. Alaska could tell that she wasn’t impressed with the idea of having to spend time with her, but she wasn’t going to say anything. She had made her bed, and she had to sleep in it. She let herself out a of the room, pausing at the doorway for a moment. “Thanks,” she muttered, almost awkwardly, and was gone before Alaska could even react to what had happened. She stood alone for a long time, pouring her latte down the sink and letting herself go back to bed.

*

Alaska was woken up again at eight, the sound of her phone loud from under her pillow. She groaned, picking it up and pressing it to her ear without even checking the number. “Hello?”

“You’re covering. No questions. Willam and Courtney are already here, they’ll bring you up to speed with what’s going on. I need you here by nine.” Bianca’s voice was harsh and loud, and Alaska wanted to cry again. She had already managed to cry herself to sleep, and she knew she looked shitty. This was the last thing she wanted on one of her much needed off days.

“I’m not on call,” Alaska mumbled, sitting up and pulling her knees to her chest. “I don’t know if it’s smart for me to come in today. This is my first set of days off in like two weeks.” 

“This is what you signed up for when you became a nurse. There’s a problem, and we need pretty much all the staff we can get. If you aren’t sick, you need to be in.” 

Alaska didn’t bother to fight, deciding that if she was going to go in, she was going to need all the time she could find to get ready. She hung up, finally accepting that Bianca was right. If something was going wrong, she had to be there to help. That was what her job was. She had to save lives.

*

Courtney was waiting for her in the foyer when Alaska finally arrived, half past nine and looking like she had managed to walk through hell with a full face of makeup. “Hey,” she started, rushing her words. “So, a kid died of the flu last night, and there’s been sixteen more cases brought in since then. Three of them are critical, and the rest of them are all going downhill. Antibiotics aren’t having much of an effect, and we think it’s a mutated gene. The diagnostician team are working on it, but until then, it’s all hands on deck. I was going to wake you up this morning but I wasn’t sure if they were going to call you in. I know Bianca didn’t want to, since you keep taking extra shifts.”

“Are they all in isolation?” Alaska asked, and Courtney just stared at her.

“We’re in a hospital. You- Of course they’re in isolation. What kind of question is that?” 

“Sorry,” Alaska breathed out, closing her eyes for a moment before looking back up at Courtney. “I don’t want common staff, except you and me, between them and the paediatrics, okay? I don’t really want common staff between them and orthopedics, but I know that’s probably just wishful thinking. Make sure they aren’t even on the same floor as the paediatrics. Let’s go get clean, I guess.”

“You’re late, you know?” Courtney asked, actually looking at Alaska for the first time today. “And you didn’t bring coffee for us.”

“I didn’t think I would be in on my first day off in the better part of a month,” Alaska mumbled, looking up at her and locking eyes. Courtney froze, taking Alaska’s forearm and pushing her into the nearest free elevator, closing the doors before anyone else could follow them up.

“Holy shit. You look fucking awful, Alaska. What happened? I- Did…?” Courtney frowned, starting to look over Alaska’s arms for bruising. She hated it, being treated like a useless kid. Sharon wasn’t around anymore. This stuff didn’t happen anymore. 

“Nothing happened,” Alaska said softly, shaking her head and focusing on the floor. It was too clean. It made her dizzy thinking about how much effort was put into keeping everything sterile. 

“Seriously, Alaska. You’ve been crying, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t!” Alaska frowned, tears threatening at her eyes again. She was too easy to read, too upset, too distressed. She wanted to be at home, where patients and coworkers wouldn’t be placing bets on whatever ridiculous reasons they could think of for her crying. “I slept with someone last night,” she admitted, looking down at the floor for any reason not to cry.

“With who?” Courtney raised a brow, watching Alaska carefully. 

“Katya.”

“Katya Zamolodchikova?” 

“How many fucking Katyas do we know?” Alaska scowled, looking up at Courtney as she felt tears come dangerously close to falling, immediately lifting her hand to try and cover it. She should’ve blanked the calls. She shouldn’t have come in at all. 

“But,” Courtney frowned, looking up at Alaska as the realisation of what happened started to set in. “Alaska… Katya was a mess. She was-”

“I know. I know, okay? Willam called me,” Alaska breathed, blinking back tears. “Just. Just not until after.”

“Alaska.” 

“She left before me this morning. She said thanks, though. At least she was polite,” Alaska mumbled, looking straight ahead at her hands in the mirror. She should be at home, or anywhere that wasn’t the hospital. 

“Alaska,” Courtney repeated, waiting until Alaska actually looked over at her before hugging her tight, wrapping her arms around her before pulling away. “Baby, you can go home if you want to. I’ll cover for you,” She breathed, pulling away and leaving Alaska with the cold dead feeling inside of her again. The elevator doors opened and she stepped away, glancing at Courtney.

“I have work to do.”

*

The emergency meeting that morning was not particularly organised, which made everything feel worse, as Bianca Del Rio was a particularly organised Head of Medicine. Mostly, there was a lot of arguing about causes and symptoms and what the plan of action was, and Alaska forced herself into the corner and refused to attract attention. This was more defense against the fact that Katya was stood front and centre besides Bianca, looking focused and yet completely unreadable, and Trixie was staring. 

There really wasn’t a lot that Alaska could do, anyway. After an initial couple of hours examining her inpatients for any hint of the symptoms, which was almost entirely unlikely, but Bianca was insistent on every patient being checked, Alaska was assigned to cover as many hours in the clinic as possible. She was told not to neglect her own patients, but she was asked to relieve those who were needed around the clock for flu cases. This left her with strict instructions to be on constant alert for any and all symptoms of this new breed of flu, and as a result, meant that she spent a ridiculous amount of time diagnosing the common cold. She wanted more than anything to make sure that she didn’t make the situation worse, misdiagnosing or causing careless problems. She could feel the toll of twenty hour days actively burning her out, and she knew that they wouldn’t let up for at least another week. 

“So I guess that we’re not seeing Harry Potter tonight,” Alaska said carefully, and Courtney laughed weakly. 

The days passed by without any sign of actual improvement, merging into each other. So much for three days off, she had thought once she was home. She was starving, but it was nearly two am by the time she was back, and she opted for falling asleep on the couch instead of feeding herself. Courtney sometimes left food out for her if she was home earlier, but with Willam so busy in surgery, it was rare that Alaska got any of her attention. She woke up at five am the next morning and before she even had a chance to breathe, she was back in the hospital, listening to surgeons and nurses talk quietly about the situation at hand.

She looked hopefully at Courtney, but she shook her head for no sign of change. Upstairs, where all of her friends were, the search for a cure continued. Downstairs, Alaska pulled her coat on closer as she called in the next patient.

*

“We had two patients die in the last hour,” Trixie explained quietly on their way to Alaska’s office, taking the place of Willam for once. “Both in their late seventies, both of which were suffering from previous conditions. There’s twenty people down with the flu now. We’ve been trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, we’ve been carrying out lung biopsies for a week now. I don’t think Katya has slept in days.”

Alaska paled at the mention of Katya, unable to help herself as she felt herself disconnect from reality for a moment. Trixie realised, softening as she looked at her.

“Hey,” Trixie frowned, reaching to put her hand on Alaska’s back gently. “I’m sorry. I- Um, Courtney told me and Willam.”

“Because Katya didn’t,” The words felt stale in her mouth. She wasn’t quite sure if she recognised her own voice, and she didn’t want to think about how it sounded to Trixie.

“Katya’s a selfish bitch sometimes,” Trixie said, clearly deciding that if she was taking a side, it would be Alaska’s. Not that there were sides, this wasn’t highschool, but it did feel comforting to know that Alaska was feeling as shitty as she was supposed to. “Listen, Lasky, Katya is my best friend and I love her, but you know… She’s a selfish fuck, and you - You deserve so much better than this, okay?”

“That’s not very nice to say about your best friend,” Alaska said quietly, digging through her pocket and pulling out the key to open her office.

“Fuck Katya,” Trixie said firmly. “You’re my best friend too. You and Willam and Courtney. We’re a family, y’know. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine,” Alaska said quickly, dropping the drawl for a moment before realising. Trixie had more power than she did, in the hierarchy of New York’s prime hospital scene. “Listen, I know that we’re short staffed, but help me here. I can’t - You can’t let nurses back up here if they’ve been in the flu ward. My patients are already immunocompromised, you have to back me up. They’ll just -”

“I am, girl,” Trixie nodded, biting her bottom lip as Alaska fumbled with the key in the lock. “They won’t do that. They’re not stupid, they won’t risk lives like that.”

"Desperation is a beautiful blindness. I don’t trust them,” Alaska sighed, letting them in and checking her watch before pushing her hair back. “I have Bunny in here and then I’ll go back to the clinic.”

“Okay,” Trixie frowned, putting the files down onto Alaska’s desk. “Be careful, okay?”

“I always am. Didn’t get known as the best nurse here for sleeping with the doctors,” Alaska mumbled, licking over her bottom lip as she looked at her desk. “Does help, though,” She said bitterly, glancing at what she saw. There was a starbucks cup on her desk, which upon closer inspection, had her usual order. “I thought the A’s weren’t in for another hour.”

“They aren’t. Courtney and Willam are scheduled for two.” Trixie raised a brow.

"Huh.” Alaska said, looking at the cup once more before deciding it was safe enough to just drink. It was still hot. Alaska had way too many questions about her secret coffee-gifting admirer. She would have to apologise when she figured out who it was, considering she was about ready to give up on love forever after the feeling Katya left her with. “See you later.”