#i demand a fic where the ghost of his mom watches over her son worrying he'll with this line of a job

[zhivchik]

[slvault]

Ship: Sung Jin-Woo/Woo Jin-Chul

Tags: Post-Canon AU, Future Fic, Canon Divergence AU, Immortality, Fluff, Smut, Anal Sex, Marathon Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers

Summary: Almost twenty years after they first met again, Jin-Chul gets his fair share of good-natured ribbing about being an eternal bachelor, while Jin-Woo’s parents would like to know if he’s ever going to give them grandchildren or even just a daughter- or son-in-law. Both of them smile, deflect, and carry on. Sometimes, when they’re out for drinks or a meal or a break in the middle of the day to feed the ducks, they even like to laugh about it.

Read on AO3

-0-

They’re not feeding the ducks this time. Winter has dug its roots in, covering everything under a fine layer of snow and chasing most people indoors whenever possible. So of course, it’s a fine day for a stroll outside in the peaceful quiet of the cold afternoon. Scarves and jackets and a cup of coffee each are enough to stave off the chill.

They end up in the same park, taking a seat on their usual bench by the lake once they’ve swept the snow off. The water isn’t quite frozen over, but there are bits of ice already floating on the surface.

For a while, they sit in silence, and neither of them feels the need to break it. Two decades they’ve known each other, across two lifetimes, as colleagues and friends and comrades tied together through circumstance and memories and the knowledge of a whole universe full of monsters that consider their planet easy pickings. With a foundation like that, they’ve both long since grown comfortable with simply existing in one another’s presence.

Days like today are normal for them. Not a week’s gone by since Jin-Woo was sixteen and Jin-Chul was twenty-four that they haven’t met up at least once every weekend, sometimes just to check-in, more often to catch up. Usually, they meet up on other days of the week too.

Unlike those days however, Jin-Chul carries an air of anticipatory determination today as he stares out over the lake, and Jin-Woo watches him out of the corner of his eye, patient in a way only a man with all the time in the world to spend can be. Eventually, Jin-Chul stirs, takes a distracted sip of his drink, and then glances over to his left, smiling faintly when he finds Jin-Woo already waiting.

“So, how have you been?” He asks, more as a lead-up than anything else. Jin-Woo had texted him just this morning to tell him about Jin-Ah’s newest boyfriend and the interns he’s thinking of hiring, as well as to pass on some information that looks to be connected to a case Jin-Chul is working on. It was a good day for Jin-Chul’s precinct when Jin-Woo received his private investigator license.

Jin-Woo answers him anyway. “My dad’s thinking of taking my mom on a cruise for their anniversary this year. Jin-Ho’s probably going to get disowned again for introducing his cousin to the joys of breaking into the house of that CEO we’ve been looking into, which probably means I’ll have to hire her sooner or later. And another Gate appeared in America yesterday, on the east coast, so that was an exciting two hours of my life.” He hides a smile behind his drink. “What about your week?”

Jin-Chul stares for a moment, then huffs out a laugh. “Nowhere near as interesting as yours.”

Jin-Woo shrugs lazily. “I keep telling you, you should come with me more often. I can barely get you out of your office once a month.”

Jin-Chul hums noncommittally. It’s not agreement, but it’s not a refusal either. In truth, he has no issues with tagging along whenever Jin-Woo has to go deal with yet another alien intruder or invasion, but there’s only so much responsibility he’s willing to dump on his subordinates, if only because he doesn’t trust them to run everything smoothly in his absence, and if something gets blown up or set on fire while he’s gone, three guesses who would be the one forced to clean up the aftermath.

The whole matter actually segues nicely into what he wants to talk about today though, and for a moment, he levels a searching gaze on the other, taking in the spark of mana in his irises and the flicker of a passing silhouette curling along his jawline and the figures limned in ghost-light that sometimes like to wave at him from the shadows all around them.

All if it is familiar to him these days, all of it dear, all secrets that Jin-Woo shares only with him, and Jin-Chul guards each and every one closely, more precious to him than any jewel or priceless artefact.

“I will be forty-four next week,” He says abruptly.

Jin-Woo blinks once, slow and deliberate, expression near-inscrutable. “I know. I’ve already made a reservation at that restaurant you like in Florence.”

Jin-Chul almost has to laugh at that too. He thinks he’s missed a few things over the past several years. Or maybe not missed. He’s always known; he just hadn’t registered all of what it had meant.

“One of my coworkers was actually complaining about it just a few days ago,” He reveals with good humour. In contrast, he keeps a sharp eye on Jin-Woo, not just his face because reading him is a whole-body endeavour, so Jin-Chul watches him, which has never been a hardship. “Even asked for skincare tips. She was joking of course, but I wouldn’t have been able to give her any either way. It’s apparently terribly unfair though, how I can get to this age, in my profession, and still pass for someone at least a decade younger. I even checked for grey hairs, when I went home that evening. Not a one to be found.”

Jin-Woo stares at him. Jin-Chul stares back, and when he doesn’t get any reaction, or rather, he gets a very resolute non-reaction, he drops his gaze to his coffee and lets the realization that should’ve occurred to him years ago finally crystallize in his mind.

Another smile tugs at his lips. When he looks up again, Jin-Woo has turned his gaze to the lake, the surface so still it seems as if time has frozen in its stead.

“...I’ll stop, if you want me to,” Jin-Woo says at last, and there are shadows in his eyes, dark as storm clouds and a hundred times more deadly. His words are light and inflectionless, but Jin-Chul has never known him to be anything less than honest when speaking to him.

“I should’ve asked first,” Jin-Woo continues, not quite apologetic, not at all regretful, but the admission itself feels like a wound, a surrender, a bended knee, and Jin-Chul’s fingers twitch with the urge to lash out and rip it to shreds.

He doesn’t consider himself a particularly violent man, not even back when he’d still been a Hunter, but anything that can make Jin-Woo sound like that has no right to exist between them.

“I should’ve guessed,” Jin-Chul corrects him, and Jin-Woo’s gaze finally slides back over to him, unwavering, mana-bright and almost fervent with something unspoken and straining against its leash. Jin-Chul shrugs lightly. “To be honest, I was going to ask. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up, but it probably would’ve been soon, if you didn’t mention it yourself first.”

He pauses, absently turning the cup around between his hands as he studies the micro-expressions flitting across Jin-Woo’s features.

“You have to have known,” Jin-Chul says quietly. “Not from the very beginning perhaps, but it’s been obvious for a while now, I think, that this was always where we were going to end up, sooner or later.”

It’s why Jin-Chul has never thought about finding a wife and settling down and starting a family, why he’s never been worried that Jin-Woo might one day take one of the ridiculous number of men and women constantly vying for his attention as far back as when he’d still been in university seriously. They’ve both dated occasionally here and there, but never for long, less and less as time went by, and basically not at all in recent years. With Jin-Woo, Jin-Chul has never pushed for more, for faster, content with the pace they’ve set, with friendship and companionship because those were just as important to him as the promise of something more that’s always been waiting for them to catch up one day.

There has never been any forks or detours along the path of their relationship. Their road has always only ever had one destination. And perhaps, when it comes down to it, it would be most accurate to say that Jin-Chul has never doubted his place in Jin-Woo’s life, because he has always known exactly where he stood in it.

Jin-Woo is still as stone for the longest time, and even when he moves again, Jin-Chul only catches the slight easing of his shoulders and the release of tension from his brow because he knows Jin-Woo, and he knows what to look for to understand such an emotionally contained man.

“I didn’t want to assume,” Jin-Woo says, more carefully than Jin-Chul’s heard from him in a while.

His eyes flicker away, then back, and something of that horrifying loneliness that had been far more persistent at the beginning of their re-acquaintance yawns open behind them like a bottomless pit.

“Humans weren’t made for eternity,” Jin-Woo tells him, and his voice rings with that otherworldly echo of the legacy he’d inherited. There is nothing human in his face now, not in the quicksilver flash of his teeth, not in the foxfire burn of his eyes. Someone with more sense would probably have run a long time ago. But Jin-Chul has never been afraid of Sung Jin-Woo, no matter what he looks like or what he’s become, and a godhood made visible isn’t going to change that.

“Then,” Jin-Chul says simply, steadily, with all the confidence of someone demanding what’s his by right. “Make me into something not human. You’ve already stopped me from aging; you might as well go the rest of the way. If you were waiting for me to catch on and give my permission, then of course you have it.”

He pauses, then adds, as earnestly as he knows how to be, all steel and steadfast calm, “I plan to stay with you for as long as you’ll have me, Jin-Woo, in any capacity you can accept. I hope you know that that’s a decision I settled on quite a few years ago, and it was never a particularly difficult one to make.”

He pauses again, just for a moment, for the space of time between the stutter of his heartbeat in his chest as his pulse races, and then he forges on, unfaltering because this too is a truth he feels down to his bones, and no matter how well they know each other, some things should still be said.

“You are very easy to love,” Jin-Chul admits, and he feels a little less nervous as Jin-Woo’s eyes widen, looking gratifyingly stunned, like he’d never expected Jin-Chul to say it outright. If this is the response he gets though, Jin-Chul can definitely see the appeal. “For me, there’s been no one else in a long time. I don’t find anyone else half as interesting, and certainly there is no one whose company I enjoy as much as I do yours, if that wasn’t obvious enough, with the amount of time I spend with you. And I don’t think I’ve been overly optimistic in believing that you feel the same-”

And that’s as far as he gets because the shadows around them are suddenly surging, swamping the snow at their feet, slithering over the bench and drifting over their legs. Half a second after that, his coffee is falling to the ground because there’s a hand in his hair, and another cradling the curve of his jaw, and there are lips on his lips, and Jin-Chul is far too occupied with pulling Jin-Woo even closer to think about where his drink has gone.

He’s short of breath by the time the kiss eases off into something less intense. Jin-Woo is little better, half-sprawled over Jin-Chul’s lap, eyes gleaming with naked hunger even as his fingers press near-bruises into Jin-Chul’s skin. Jin-Chul’s grip on the other’s hips is equally possessive, and even the winter chill around them doesn’t do much to cool the heat simmering between them.

“You have to be sure,” Jin-Woo says, voice gone rough around the edges. He’s still close enough to kiss, and that’s exactly what he does, licking into Jin-Chul’s mouth again with just a hint of teeth at its heels, and Jin-Chul groans under the onslaught, biting back into the kiss, one hand moving up to curl around the back of Jin-Woo’s neck to keep him in place. When they part again, his lips feel as swollen as Jin-Woo’s look. Jin-Woo stares back, eyes half-lidded and dark with arousal despite the flare of mana ringing his pupils, and Jin-Chul can’t help shuddering under that regard.

“You have to be sure,” Jin-Woo repeats. “If I-” He stops, blinks, and then forges on in low, almost urgent tones, “Twenty years ago, you regained your memories, and the first thing you chose to do was to let me know. You could’ve just kept pretending, you could’ve asked to forget - it would’ve been easier. But instead, you let me know that you knew, and that you were there, and that I could talk to you about any of it if I wanted to, and you kept coming back. Do you even how much that meant to me? Especially after I’d just spent twenty-seven years fighting a war, and then even my own dad came back one day remembering nothing, and the only people around me every day were a bunch of kids I could barely relate to. But then you were there, and you wouldn’t let me carry it all on my own, and I didn’t even realize how much I needed someone else to know until you insisted.”

He stops again, and Jin-Chul can’t look away from that fierce, near-blinding gaze.

“That’s why I need you to be sure,” Jin-Woo says once more. “Because if you tell me I get to keep you, I don’t know if I can be strong enough, and nice enough, to let you go if you end up changing your mind one day.”

And this time, it’s Jin-Chul who takes the initiative to kiss him, coaxing Jin-Woo into something less desperate and more gentle, humming approvingly when he feels the other melt into it. He’d love nothing more than to get his hands on more skin, but they’re still outside, and dressed for the weather to boot, so this will have to be enough for now.

“You’d let me go,” Jin-Chul murmurs against his lips. “You are kinder than you give yourself credit for.”

“And as always, you have too much faith in me,” Jin-Woo retorts, but some of the underlying apprehension from before has disappeared.

This is something they’ve long since agreed to disagree. Jin-Chul leans back, hands coming up to frame Jin-Woo’s face, thumbing over the faint flush in his cheeks with something like reverence.

“You’d let me go, if I asked,” Jin-Chul says with conviction. “But I would never ask, so what does it matter?”

Jin-Woo pulls back a little, still watching Jin-Chul like he’s looking for any trace of a lie. Eventually, he sighs, and one of his hands rise to brush back a few stray strands of Jin-Chul’s hair, tugging lightly before tucking them behind his ear. “This is getting long.”

“Hm, I haven’t had time to go to the barber’s,” Jin-Chul replies, turning his head a little into the feather-light touch of Jin-Woo’s fingers at his temple.

“But I like it like this,” Jin-Woo remarks, gaze slanting briefly to the way the longest strands fall just below Jin-Chul’s shoulders.

Jin-Chul smiles indulgently at him. “Then I’ll just go for a trim.”

Jin-Woo’s lips press together like he’s trying not to laugh, and then he shakes his head and chuckles anyway. He leans in and kisses Jin-Chul again, a brief brush of lips this time that Jin-Chul has no time to return before it’s over.

“Take the day off,” Jin-Woo murmurs, and the sly curve of his smile is all temptation.

As if Jin-Chul could go back to the office now of all times. He’d be distracted at best for the rest of the day, and the itch of it - of finally, openly acknowledging what Jin-Woo is to him, what he is to Jin-Woo, of knowing he can reach out and take - would seethe under his skin until he succumbed to it.

“Take us home then,” Jin-Chul says, and doesn’t bother specifying which. His apartment or Jin-Woo’s - they’ve both spent equal amounts of time in each.

Familiar arms pull him close, and shadows rise up all around them, blocking out the light of day, but Jin-Chul has never been afraid of the dark.

The two of them disappear, leaving an empty bench behind.

-0-

For someone normally so restrained, Jin-Woo kisses like he’s starved for touch and heat and pleasure. He gives Jin-Chul a moment to call in sick (”You were fine before lunch, sir??”), and then they’re tumbling into the bedroom, half their clothes already shed along the way.

Jin-Chul groans as Jin-Woo settles on top of him, and he doesn’t hesitate to run his hands under the other man’s shirt, over all that glorious bare skin he’s finally allowed to explore. Jin-Woo arches into his touch and kisses him again like he wants to stake a claim, like Jin-Chul isn’t already his. Their hips rock together for a moment, and then Jin-Chul makes a frustrated noise before nudging Jin-Woo back long enough to undo his belt and toss it to the floor.

“This is what you get when you need to wear a suit to work every day,” Jin-Woo mumbles as he dives in again, setting teeth to his neck and leaving a trail of stinging pleasure in his wake. Jin-Chul thinks briefly of reminding Jin-Woo that he can’t go into work with his throat all marked up, and then decides that high collars and scarves were invented for a reason.

“You love me in a suit,” Jin-Chul counters, busying himself with stripping Jin-Woo out of his shirt, and then rolling his eyes when Jin-Woo returns the favour by ripping his shirt down the middle and sending buttons flying. “Really?”

“I love you out of a suit too,” Jin-Woo says by way of explanation, sounding unrepentantly smug about it. He nips at Jin-Chul’s bottom lip, then flicks his tongue out to soothe the sting. “I’ll buy you another one later. You have a million of them in your closet anyway.”

Jin-Chul sighs somewhat helplessly before hooking a foot around Jin-Woo’s ankle and then flipping their positions. Jin-Woo doesn’t fight him, lying back complacently as Jin-Chul straddles him and smooths his hands down the firm lean muscles of his chest and abdomen.

“You are disgustingly perfect,” Jin-Chul laments. He keeps up with his own exercise, and now that he thinks about it, staying in shape is probably easier for him than other men his age, but Jin-Woo has the physique of a Hunter, and it shows.

Jin-Woo hums, reaching out with one hand to touch as well, smirking when Jin-Chul shivers as a calloused palm slides over his nipple before trailing down the ladder of his ribs, only stopping once he gets to the waistband of his pants.

“You’re pretty gorgeous yourself,” Jin-Woo tells him with that maddening sledgehammer candor he likes to pull out every now and then, and under the combination of a blatantly appreciative gaze and the fact that the man who said it has never been one for flattery, excessive or otherwise, Jin-Chul can feel a flush of embarrassed pleasure rising in his cheeks.

He covers it by stripping them both out of the rest of their clothes. Jin-Woo seems to sense it anyway because he laughs, amusement gentled with delight, and when he draws Jin-Chul into another kiss, it lingers in a way none of the previous ones had, slow and sensual as if he could never get enough. Jin-Chul moans into it, shifting his hips down to grind his cock against Jin-Woo’s, and it’s easy to get lost in it, in the slide of a body against his own and the building pleasure pooling in his gut. When he reaches between them to wrap a hand around their cocks, Jin-Woo finally makes a quiet noise at the back of his throat, one that becomes an aborted groan as Jin-Chul strokes them both to completion.

It barely takes the edge off, even if it does leave Jin-Chul a little breathless in the aftermath. Jin-Woo on the other hand doesn’t even get soft, and he’s driving them into a second round almost immediately. The world tilts as Jin-Woo flips them so that he’s on top again, eyes bright with mana once more as he stares Jin-Chul up and down like he doesn’t know where he wants to start.

Jin-Chul makes an amused sound and spreading his legs wider in clear invitation, one that Jin-Woo takes with heated eyes and a ripple of air as he retrieves some lube. And then his head dips, and Jin-Chul swears as teeth scrapes over one of his nipples before a hot mouth closes around it and sucks until he’s arching into it, swears again when Jin-Woo stops only to do the same to the other. And then there are slick fingers at his hole, and the world dissolves into heat and lust and pleasure as Jin-Chul drags the man back up for another messier kiss even as he rocks down on those fingers opening him up for more.

Jin-Woo spends long minutes prepping him, or rather, Jin-Chul squirms impatiently as a third finger teases at his prostate, never enough to satisfy, right up until he presses an insistent heel to Jin-Woo’s lower back and urges, “Come on, I’m ready, Jin-Woo, please-”

It gets him a searing look as Jin-Woo finally obliges, grasping his hips and lining up and sinking into him, thick and relentless and spreading him wide until Jin-Chul is gasping from the stretch.

Above him, Jin-Woo stills, eyes like foxfire even as he studies the shifting nuances of Jin-Chul’s features like he’s looking for any hints of aversion. Jin-Chul laughs somewhat breathlessly and clenches deliberately around Jin-Woo’s cock, pushing back to take him that much deeper just to get a feel for it. He releases a long pleased hum that in no way hides the stutter of Jin-Woo’s breath or the minute jerk of his hips, the latter of which only serves to make Jin-Chul close his eyes from the jolt of pleasure snapping up his spine.

Opening them again, he arches an eyebrow at the man looming over him. “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Jin-Woo scoffs out something that could be amusement but mostly just comes out hungry. His grip on Jin-Chul’s hips tighten, and then he’s pulling back, only to snap his own hips forward a moment later, shoving a garbled cry out of Jin-Chul that Jin-Woo swallows as he catches his lips in another kiss, licking into his mouth like he wants to conquer him.

Jin-Chul wouldn’t be able to keep back all the noises he makes even if he wanted to as Jin-Woo fucks him into the mattress, hard and fast and just as greedy for it as Jin-Chul. His cock is hard and leaking, and he can feel himself hurtling towards his next orgasm even as he tightens his legs around Jin-Woo’s waist and pushes back into each thrust and bares his throat when Jin-Woo nuzzles at his neck. He comes just as Jin-Woo bites down, the shock of pain twining with the overwhelming pleasure as he shakes apart on Jin-Woo’s cock, choking on a moan when Jin-Woo never slows, fucking him straight through it.

Jin-Chul cusses and claws at Jin-Woo’s back but does nothing to stop him as his nerves buzz from the onslaught, and he tastes the ghost of laughter on Jin-Woo’s lips when they kiss again. By the time Jin-Woo groans and comes in him, Jin-Chul’s reaching his third peak, and a hand on his cock and half a dozen strokes is all it takes to topple him over the edge once more.

“So lovely,” Jin-Woo murmurs against his lips as Jin-Chul’s legs fall back to the bed, and he’s trembling as much from the quiet reverent words as he is from the way Jin-Woo is still rocking against him, slow, gentle, shallow thrusts that prevent Jin-Chul from coming down from the high of his climax. It goes on and on until cum is leaking from his ass and his voice is cracking on a plea, to stop, to keep going, and he’s all but spasming around the other’s cock, wanting to get away, wanting more.

Jin-Woo makes a smug but enquiring noise from somewhere above him. “Should I stop?”

Jin-Chul forces his eyes open, feeling shaky and wrecked, drenched in sweat and twitching from overstimulation. But he meets Jin-Woo’s gaze and licks his lips, somehow finding the breath to chuckle when Jin-Woo’s attention drops to the flash of his tongue like he can’t help himself.

There’s no way Jin-Chul is coming again, and even the tiniest movement from JIn-Woo feels like electricity dancing under his skin. But he stares up into the glow of power in Jin-Woo’s eyes, and feels the possessiveness in the hypnotic brush of a thumb over his hipbone, and Jin-Chul just... wants. Jin-Woo is still mostly hard inside him, and Jin-Chul wants him to take and take until there’s nothing left for Jin-Chul to give, wants to be consumed by the abyssal depths of Jin-Woo’s desire, wants most of all for this god-king to claim him and keep him and show the world exactly who Jin-Chul belongs to.

He releases a shuddering exhale before tilting his hips up and summoning the energy to squeeze down around the length inside him despite how loose and fucked out he feels. Jin-Woo’s eyes flutter, and his lips part, expression splintering with startled pleasure. Jin-Chul will never get tired of this, of how much Jin-Woo is willing to show around him when he’s so very controlled and reserved around everyone else. Part of that is Jin-Chul knowing how to read him since Jin-Woo has never been an overly expressive man anyway, but he’s also willing to bet that even Jin-Woo’s former bed partners hadn’t seen him like this. Jin-Woo would never have allowed it.

“One more,” Jin-Chul says hoarsely. He can’t come again, but Jin-Woo can, and Jin-Chul wants to feel it, the ache of it, wants to be forced to take it. He digs his nails into Jin-Woo’s shoulders and widens his legs like a challenge. “I can take it.”

Jin-Woo smirks down at him, a wicked curve that promises exactly what Jin-Chul is asking for.

“Brace yourself,” He says, and that’s all the warning Jin-Chul gets as strong hands slide under his back and haul him up until he’s sitting in Jin-Woo’s lap and impaled on that thick cock, and all the breath leaves his lungs in a string of curse words that may or may not be all in Korean. He’s held down, forced to adjust to the new angle, to how deep Jin-Woo feels inside him like this, and the burn of pain-pleasure leaves him whimpering and clutching at the other’s shoulders.

He feels more than hears the rumble of Jin-Woo’s laughter in his chest, and it takes a few hazy seconds for Jin-Chul to realize what’s caused it - his stamina is flagging, and his nerves are on fire, but he’s already shifting a little, rising a few inches up off that cock before sliding back down on it, riding him in small hitching motions of his hips until the sharp twisting ache of his hole is all he can focus on.

“You like this then,” Jin-Woo muses in even thoughtful tones that’s just unfair. Fingers feather over his balls before one of them skirts around the trembling rim of where they’re connected, not pushing in but applying a teasing sort of pressure anyway. Jin-Chul closes his eyes and doesn’t ask for it, but he doesn’t need to look to know that Jin-Woo is cataloguing every single one of his reactions, and indeed, Jin-Woo sighs almost wistfully but says, “Next time.”

When you’re less breakable, he doesn’t say, but Jin-Chul hears it anyway, and a part of him almost wants to lament the last clinging remains of his humanity.

And then even that slips away as hands find his hips again, lifting him up like he weighs nothing until only the tip of Jin-Woo’s cock is still inside him. Jin-Chul has time to catch a glimpse of a knife-sharp smirk and burning eyes, and then he’s being yanked down just as Jin-Woo drives his cock up, right into the core of him, and Jin-Chul howls with the feel of it, jerking futilely between Jin-Woo’s hands, no mercy to be found as Jin-Woo fucks him in steady demanding thrusts that hurts in all the best ways and sends the most excruciating pleasure coiling through the rest of his body.

He can’t come again, but he feels it when Jin-Woo does, feels the warmth of it inside him, hears the breathless moan in his ear, and sobs when a hand finds his half-hard cock and a thumb rubs over the wet head, and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, but that hand is merciless, another comes up to tangle in his hair and tilt his head back before teeth and tongue ravage his mouth, and all of it drags him slowly but inexorably towards a fourth shattering orgasm.

It takes countless agonizing minutes before Jin-Chul finally comes again, jolting with the force of it, still split open on a cock so he has nowhere to go, a soundless cry trapped in his throat as he collapses into Jin-Woo’s chest, shivering uncontrollably from toomuchsogoodmorenomore oversensitivity.

He sinks into oblivion after that, too exhausted to fight it, and the last thing he registers is the press of a kiss to his temple and the comforting weight of an arm wrapping securely around him.

-0-

He wakes, hours later, loose-limbed and sated and clean, still shirtless but in fresh pajama pants, with bruises on his hips and the twinge of sore muscles just setting in. His tomorrow’s self will probably hate him. Or maybe not, because there’s water and a potion waiting for him, the latter of which just leaves him pleasantly sore instead. Even the marks on his neck only fade a little. Good thing it’s winter.

“I might have pushed too hard,” Jin-Woo admits as he bustles in with... Jin-Chul checks the clock - ah, dinner.

He also rolls his eyes and pulls Jin-Woo down for a brief kiss. “If I’d really minded, you would’ve known. Don’t fuss.”

He really did enjoy it, and he’d enjoy it more once he has the stamina to at least last a few more rounds.

“If I didn’t fuss, you wouldn’t get dinner in bed,” Jin-Woo points out dryly, and then laughs when Jin-Chul immediately holds out his hands for one of the trays.

Jin-Chul lingers on that, on how relaxed and open Jin-Woo looks right now, on how easy joy comes to him in this moment.

Jin-Chul would kill anyone who tries to take this away from him. He may have been a Hunter with more lines in the sand than most, but he’d also been the head of the Monitoring Division of the Korean Hunters Association, and one didn’t essentially become half-referee, half-babysitter of a country’s worth of murder-happy psychopaths by not knowing when to stand firm, when to yield, and when to make someone disappear. And when it came down to it, Jin-Chul had been Awakened at the very top of A-rank. He had a better handle on it, but it wasn’t as if he’d ever shied away from murder either, even if his position had always made it seem like a justifiable necessity to outsiders looking in.

(It’s why he calls Jin-Woo kind. Because Sung Jin-Woo never does anything he doesn’t want to do, what he says is what he does is what he means, and the choices he’s made each time lives are on the line speak for themselves. Jin-Chul doesn’t think him kind because he’s altruistic or heroic or particularly benevolent, although one could make arguments for all three. But no, Jin-Chul thinks him kind because Jin-Woo’s first instinct has always been to protect, and for a Hunter, no matter the rank or even class, or even just for a human, the extent of the protection Jin-Woo has always been willing to offer is rare. After all, how many people turned a blind eye to Jeju Island? How many did the same to Japan? And how many others would’ve turned back time and fought a near-thirty-year-long war on their own just to spare their fellow man all that future tragedy? Considering their track record, Jin-Chul would daresay not fucking many.

Jin-Woo once told him that becoming the Shadow Monarch stunted his emotions. Jin-Chul finds it ironically hilarious that someone with stunted emotions cares more than literally anyone else Jin-Chul has ever met in either of his lives.

“At least half the reason I went to Japan was because I wanted to fight the Giants, you know.”

“People aren’t one-dimensional, and you don’t hear me calling you a saint. You can want to fight and want to save lives at the same time.”

“You’re so stubborn.”

“We make quite the pair then.”)

These days, he has no higher priority than Sung Jin-Woo. Killing someone in the name of hoarding all the secrets - big and small - that Jin-Woo leaves in his possession, knowingly or otherwise, is a negligible matter. Fortunately for everyone involved, Jin-Woo has never had the habit of divulging anything personal to veritable strangers. Only his family and his closest friends get the privilege, and even then, only Jin-Chul knows everything.

They spend the next few minutes eating in companionable silence, but Jin-Chul is well aware of Jin-Woo’s gaze on him, even if he doesn’t make it obvious. He finishes off half his plate before setting it aside and then reaching out to snag Jin-Woo by the wrist.

Jin-Woo makes it obvious this time.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Jin-Chul says with a mild sort of reproach. “So unless you have, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

He feels Jin-Woo go still for a second, two, and then the man pulls back, but only far enough to regard him with ghost-light eyes. Finally, he shakes his head, then again as if for emphasis before offering a rueful smile. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Sorry. I guess I’m still getting used to the... certainty of it.”

Jin-Chul scoffs. “It’s been certain for years.” But he does understand, so he also squeezes Jin-Woo’s wrist before letting go. “Although, there will be a problem if I stay looking this young forever.”

“Oh, that,” Jin-Woo waves a dismissive hand. “I can slowly age you on the surface, and you can do it yourself once you learn how. Well, not exactly the way I do it - pushing death back is the Shadow Monarch’s domain. But the stronger your mana, the longer your lifespan, and illusions - even ones that affect the physical plane - shouldn’t be too hard to get a hang of.”

Jin-Chul stops halfway from reaching for his food again. “...I don’t think my powers fall within that purview.”

Jin-Woo is already shaking his head. “I won’t be Awakening you the same way the Rulers did.” He pauses like he’s gathering his thoughts, and Jin-Chul turns back attentively because this is new information. “In the previous timeline, whenever Hunters Awakened, they were basically borrowing a certain amount of power from the energy that the Gates gave off. That’s how Norma Selner could remove your ‘limit’, so to speak - she had the ability to expand the amount of power that a Hunter could take in and use, but even then, there was a limit. That power, that mana, technically didn’t belong to the Hunter, so of course there was always a point where they couldn’t get any stronger, even after a Reawakening or an upgrade. Even class divisions were because it was easier on the human body when manipulating mana if Hunters just went with what they were best at. An Awakening like that can only ever be a substitute. I won’t be doing that.”

He leans forward, and this time, it’s Jin-Chul who goes motionless as the other man rests a hand against his chest, over the thud of his heartbeat.

“Every living thing in the universe is born with mana,” Jin-Woo explains. “It could roughly be translated to soul energy. It’s just that for humans, it’s still dormant because your species as a whole hasn’t developed far enough, and your bodies wouldn’t be able to handle it. It would be like... introducing a second circulatory system into your body on top of what you already have. The human body hasn’t figured out a way to support that yet.”

“But... I would be different,” Jin-Chul says slowly.

Jin-Woo shrugs. “You already are. I can’t change someone with a snap of my fingers - I’d probably blow them up or something. It’s a gradual process, and I’ve been working on you since-”

He breaks off abruptly, coughs, retrieves his hand, and then looks down at his food almost awkwardly. Jin-Chul stares at him for a moment before huffing a laugh, even as a thrilled sort of pleasure rears its head inside him.

He wonders, sometimes, which of them decided they wanted to keep the other first.

“It doesn’t hurt you,” Jin-Woo assures, as if that’s even a concern. “We could go our separate ways right now and the only thing that would happen is that you’d start aging again. Your mana would just stay dormant.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Jin-Chul scoffs. “Do I have to do anything?”

“To Awaken? No, that’s on me.” Jin-Woo blinks at him. “Um. Now?”

“No time like the present,” Jin-Chul says blithely.

Jin-Woo’s eyes narrow, but after a moment, he pushes aside his own food, rolls to his knees, and shuffles over until he’s right beside Jin-Chul. Jin-Chul blinks, moving easily when Jin-Woo curls a hand around the back of his neck and draws him close until their foreheads touch.

“It’s been certain for me too, for years,” Jin-Woo says bluntly. “I wouldn’t have bothered changing you if I wasn’t. Even my family - I’ve only slowed their aging down, nothing else.” He stops, and his grip tightens briefly. “You told me I didn’t have to be alone. I’m going to spend the rest of eternity holding you to your word, so I really hope you’re prepared.”

And then, before Jin-Chul can do more than take note of the way a last lingering knot of anxiety unravels inside him, Jin-Woo’s other hand is back against his chest, shadows flaring around them like stygian dusk-light, and all Jin-Chul can hear as he instinctively closes his eyes is the thunderous beat of his heart and the calamitous whispers of the dead and the savage roar of the eternal void that Jin-Woo commands.

When it happens, Jin-Chul almost misses it, and yet, at the same time, there’s no way he could. He remembers the first time he was Awakened in his previous life - it had been sudden and explosive, an overwhelming dizzying rush of power that had made him feel invincible, at least in the moment, and like everything around him was as fragile as glass and one wrong move might break it. Even after he’d settled, and the initial flood of mana had levelled out, he’d always been very aware of its presence, unmistakable and distinct, almost demanding to be used in the way Jin-Chul sometimes felt increasingly agitated if he went too long without entering a Dungeon. He’d thought it was just restlessness, sitting behind a desk too long, but on hindsight, with what he knows now of mana and Rulers and Monarchs and their eons’ worth of war games, perhaps that urgent need to hunt hadn’t all been his own.

It’s different, this time. This time, his Awakening feels like a sigh of relief in the dark, like puzzle pieces slotting into place, like the first breath of mountain air on a winter dawn. It fills his chest, fills his lungs, fills his whole body, and nestled behind his ribcage, behind his heart, in the depths of his soul, something blooms, all shades of purple like the horizon at sunset and just as ephemeral, delicate like the wings of a butterfly, but vibrant like birdsong and mountain streams and the first touch of colour on a cold spring morning.

Jin-Chul’s eyes fly open, and he’s gasping like he’s just run up a dozen flights of stairs. He feels the burn of mana in his eyes, familiar and foreign all at once, and when he looks down at his hands, purple light glitters faintly in his palms. It takes effort though, far more than he remembers ever needing, to regulate his mana, like flexing a muscle he’s never used before. He releases his grip on it then, lets it sink back into the tiny pool of power inside him, and it goes without protest, patient as bedrock and infinite in potential.

When he finally looks up again, Jin-Woo is watching him, smiling faint and pleased. Jin-Chul breathes in, then out, and somehow, it’s like he’s gained a piece of himself that he’d never noticed was missing before.

“I didn’t realize it was supposed to be like this,” Jin-Chul murmurs in a daze.

Jin-Woo hums something like agreement. “The Rulers’ method was pretty clumsy and heavy-handed. To be fair, they didn’t have the luxury to change the internal-” He waves a hand at Jin-Chul. “-of an entire species. But yeah, if that timeline had continued, with no more Gates to draw energy from, and human bodies that couldn’t generate the stuff without outside interference but were also already forced to accommodate mana, even in the best-case scenario, Hunters would’ve imploded on their own in a few more years.” His eyes darken. “People aren’t clay, but the Rulers pretty much stretched and moulded them like they were.”

Jin-Chul... is suddenly even more glad Jin-Woo had managed to convince the Rulers to turn back time. He’d never realized just how many problems the Rulers and Monarchs had brought with them to earth.

“Anyway,” Jin-Woo continues more briskly. “Your mana will grow the more you train it, just like anything else.” He flashes a surprisingly boyish smirk. “Maybe one day, you’ll even beat me.”

Jin-Chul straightens, the first stirrings of interest bubbling up inside him. They’ve gone to the gym for spars over the years, but obviously, it was never with mana on Jin-Woo’s part, and Jin-Chul has admittedly missed the sort of battles one could only ever get as a Hunter. The incessant urge to hunt had probably been something instilled in him by the Rulers. But he knows himself well enough to acknowledge that the desire for a good fight is all his own.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get strong enough to surpass Jin-Woo. The Shadow Monarch isn’t someone you just defeat. But if the only limit Jin-Chul has now is his own willpower, then he’s confident that he’ll at least be able to give Jin-Woo some decent competition one day.

Something of his thoughts must show on his face or seep into his mana because Jin-Woo’s eyebrows go up, and then he positively grins, all teeth and challenge, and the interest Jin-Chul feels not only doubles but also puts heat in his veins.

Out loud, in contrast, he only says demurely, “Perhaps. In the meantime though, I’ll be in your care. Do train me well.”

A moment later, almost faster than his eye can follow, he’s been knocked over and pinned to the bed, and it makes Jin-Chul laugh, breathless with rising excitement. Jin-Woo hovers over him, bright-eyed and smiling and beautiful.

“Mana signatures are troublesome,” The man tells him. “They broadcast a bit too much.” He squints with faux-accusation. “You’ve had four hours and a healing potion to recover. When did I become the voice of reason in this relationship?”

“I’m no longer the head of the Monitoring Division,” Jin-Chul says in deadpan tones. “I need to make up for all those years I spent soothing injured egos and cleaning up temper tantrums. I think it’s only fair you hold the position for a while.”

Jin-Woo snorts even as Jin-Chul adds, “Besides, I think the Awakening healed me the rest of the way.” He isn’t even sore anymore. Shame. He peers slyly up at Jin-Woo, who’s suddenly gone predator-still. “I was expecting to take another day off on account of not being able to walk properly, but I suppose if that’s not going to happen, I can just-”

Jin-Woo cuts him off with a growled, “You asked for it,” and then Jin-Chul has no more words as a fierce devouring kiss turns his laughter into a moan.

Instead, he winds his arms around his lover and arches up into the hard lines of his body, movements fuelled by lust but lacking any urgency.

They have all the time in the universe now, and Jin-Chul plans to savour every last minute of it.

[dannyphannypack]

DP/PJO Crossover

Hello losers and welcome back to Taylor Writes A Teaser and Later Deletes the Entire Thing Because She Decides She Doesn’t Like it but She Wants to Put the Teaser Somewhere Else Where Her Grimy Little Hands Can’t Reach it so the Teaser Isn’t Lost Forever to Time! The Series. Today I’ve got a prologue for my upcoming fic, The Phantom Recollection. Enjoy!

“Woah.”

Daniel Fenton, newly fifteen, stood outside the Washington Square Park in lower Manhattan with a cardboard box overflowing with weaponry. He stood in front of the park’s Roman triumphal arch, where two statues of George Washington stared down at him. Behind the president on either side were two other people Danny didn’t recognize.

Jasmine, Danny’s older sister by two years, came up behind him toting another cardboard box labelled ‘Samples.’ She nodded toward the eastern pier. “That’s George Washington as Commander-in-Chief, Accompanied by Fame and Valor.” Jazz recited the words as if reading straight out of a textbook. “And the other one is George Washington as President, Accompanied by Wisdom and Justice.”

“Ah, yes,” Danny said as he adjusted his box. Guns were heavy. “My four favorite people: Fame, Valor, Wisdom, and Justice. Love those guys.”

Jazz nudged him with her shoulder and continued through the arch, where a crowd of people were gathered around a large fountain with jets that spewed water 45 feet into the air. A few adults sat around the fountain with their feet in the water and kids ran across the surface in swimsuits and trunks. Danny watched as one kid walked a little too close to the fountain and got pummeled by falling water.

The perimeter of Washington Square was decorated in booths. While one half of the square was shaded by the surrounding trees, the other half was enduring the hot July sun. Some people had been smart enough to bring canopy tents. Others were already baking.

“There,” Jazz said, pointing. A single empty fold-up table on the other side of the square sat in the sun with a sign that read, “RESERVED — Fentons.” Danny used a hand to shade his eyes in an attempt to get a better look at it.

“I told you that you should’ve brought sunglasses,” Jazz said. Danny figured she was rolling her eyes underneath her own pair of aviators.

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny huffed. “Let’s just go before I drop this Fenton-Tech all over the ground.”

A big guy in a bright orange neoprene HAZMAT suit ran into Danny from behind, almost making him fall over. Jack Fenton carried seven stacked cardboard boxes. “Whoops!” he shouted. “Didn’t see you there!”

Danny figured he couldn’t see anyone, anywhere, but a similarly-dressed woman in a bright blue suit came up behind him and urged him along. “Jack, I told you that we could just take a second trip.”

Beside Danny, Jazz hunched her shoulders like she thought she could hide in a turtle shell. “If anyone asks, I’m not related.”

Danny’s parents were … quirky, to say the least. Danny rarely saw them without their suits in public, and Danny even less so with his mom’s hood and red-tinted goggles. Underneath was a chin-length bob of red hair and deep blue eyes, almost purple in color. She was nothing compared to his dad, though, who was easily six feet seven and built like an MMA fighter (minus the rippling muscles). Huge. Stocky. Shaped vaguely like a box. He was difficult to miss. Even behind the boxes, people that walked past were giving him strange looks. Danny figured that was bad, since they were at a ghost convention.

“Not any ghost convention!” His dad had exclaimed, barely a week ago. “The Haunted America Conference in Alton, Illinois!”

“It’s not in Alton anymore, Jack,” His mom had sighed like they’d been over this three times already. “They had to move it due to popular demand.”

“Where is it, then?” Danny asked.

His mom had beamed. “Oh, Danny, you’re going to love this: New York City!”

And that’s how they’d ended up in America’s most populated city, carrying ghost weapons across a supposedly haunted park in the middle of July. Danny was pretty good at telling where ghosts were and where they weren’t, and there definitely wasn’t anybody here. The land had once been used as a mass burial ground during the yellow fever, but the spirits had all moved on since. If Danny had died during the yellow fever, he wouldn’t have stuck around either. Children running playfully over his unmarked corpse? No thanks.

Danny set his box at the foot of the table. His dad was trying to bend down without spilling the contents of his seven boxes everywhere, and his mom was fussing over him. “Don’t worry, Maddie, I got it!” his dad said, and he set the boxes on the pavement a little too roughly. The bottom box made a noise like breaking glass and crumpled underneath the weight. Ectoplasm began oozing out the sides.

“I’ve got the other samples,” Jazz drawled, setting down the box. “If you need me I’ll be by the fountain pretending that I don’t exist.” She shouldered her backpack and walked away.

“I’m just gonna go, uh, walk around,” Danny said.

His mom opened her mouth like she meant to tell him to stay there and help set up the booth, but she replaced the expression with a hesitant smile. “Go have fun. Be back by noon.”

“Thanks, Mom.” Danny knew how much his mother liked physical reassurance, so he stood on his tip-toes and pecked her cheek. “Love you.”

She smiled. “Love you, too.”

Danny turned and started heading around the square, glancing at people’s ghostly booths without actually getting close enough to warrant a conversation. He didn’t get a chance to walk very far, though. While passing a section of the square that branched off into a sidewalk, an old lady in a black hood grabbed him by the hand and pulled him aside. Despite the temperature (and the outfit choice), her skin felt cold. Danny forced himself to remain calm. Not a ghost, he told himself. Still, the woman set him on edge. When she opened her mouth, she sounded like she was hissing. Between gasping breaths, she said,

“Three shall find the child of death

Who loses his mind with one gasping breath

The son of the sea god must attend

To repay the kindness of a forgotten friend

See that his memories are safely returned

Or the reign of the King will be overturned.”

Danny blinked and she was gone, melting into the shadows of a big elm tree. “Wait!” he shouted, but the old woman had disappeared.

A wild animal growled nearby, but it came from all sides and echoed like Danny was in a cave.

He shivered. Get it together, Fenton. You’re losing it, man.

Thinking about how characters in movies splashed their faces with cold water when they were upset, he turned and walked down the sidewalk in search of a restroom.

Jazz sat on the steps of the fountain. With her laptop balanced in her lap, she reached into her backpack and removed a flash drive from her key ring of flash drives. This one was marked by a little cartoon ghost painted in neon green nail polish. She inserted it and opened up the folder. More folders stared back at her. Ghost Psychology, Ghost Physiology, Ghost Physics, Ghost Theories, Ghost, Ghost, Ghost. Jazz pursed her lips. Maybe she should take the ‘Ghost’ out of all her folder titles. The nail polish ghost on her flash drive already told her what it was.

“Hey,” someone said from behind her, and she jumped. Pulling her computer screen down, Jazz turned and looked up at the girl who had spoken.

She might have been a bit younger than Danny, though Jazz couldn’t tell exactly. She had long, curly red hair and dozens of freckles that decorated her nose like tiny paint splatters. Her eyes were so green they practically glowed in the light of the sun, swirling with mirth and curiosity. She was wearing red running shorts and a white t-shirt, so she looked like she had just finished a jog. Jazz supposed that she might have; this was a park, not a year-round ghost convention.

“Hi,” Jazz replied, pushing up her sunglasses so that they rested on her head. She visibly relaxed.

The girl chuckled and sat down beside her. She began taking off her sneakers and socks. “Surprised to see a fellow redhead at the Haunted America Conference.”

Jazz looked up and observed the crowd. She didn’t know how she hadn’t noticed before, but the people wandering about the square were a sea of black clothes and colorfully-dyed hair.

Jazz snorted and reopened her laptop. “That’s why you came over here?”

“No. I happened to see your computer screen.” She leaned in close for a better look. “Ghost Psychology, huh?”

Jazz closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Look, I know it seems weird—”

“No, I love it!” The girl said. “Everybody else here is all, ‘Palmistry, Chakra, Tarot Readings.’ You’re asking the real questions. What do ghosts think about? That’s what I’m interested in.”

If anybody else had said that, Jazz would have assumed they were being condescending. This girl, though … she could tell that she was just curious. “You believe in ghosts?”

“Yeah, sure,” she said, putting her feet in the water and kicking them back and forth a bit. “Why not? Had this weird experience at the Hoover Dam last month. Not a ghost, I think, but—” she cut herself off and bit her lip, like she was trying to stop herself from retelling it. She raised her hand for Jazz to shake. “My name’s Rachel. Rachel Dare.”

Jazz shook it politely. “Jazz Fenton.”

“Fenton, huh?” Rachel looked like that name sounded familiar but she didn’t want to say anything about it.

“Yeah, I know,” Jazz said, preparing herself for the obligatory ‘I’m a Fenton’ speech. “Parents are Maddie and Jack Fenton, ghost hunters extraordinaire. Last year they saved Amity Park from being annihilated by the Ghost King, yadda yadda.

“They did what?” Rachel squeaked, but she sounded more amused than shocked. “Ghost King?”

Jazz mentally berated herself. Without thinking, she’d started spewing the information that everybody back in her home state wanted to know. She hadn’t thought about the fact that she was in New York, hundreds of miles away. Stupid.

Rachel must have saw Jazz wince, because she switched gears. “So, ghost hunters,” she said. “Your folks got a TV show?”

Jazz took a second to process the change in topic. She blinked once. Twice. Suddenly, she burst out laughing.

“What?” Rachel yelled over Jazz’s laughter. “What’s so funny?”

Jazz giggled but calmed down. “Sorry. My parents having a TV show … I can’t imagine.”

“What do they do then?” she asked. “Ghost Tours?”

“Ghost—?” Jazz cleared her throat to keep herself from laughing again. “No, no, no, Rachel, you’ve got my family all wrong. Think, ‘shoot first and ask questions later.’”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “They shoot ghosts? How does that work?”

Jazz jabbed a finger behind her, where her parents had started on the box of weaponry. Her mom set the Fenton Bazooka down. Like anybody was gonna buy that.

Rachel gulped. “So I’m hoping you’re the ‘ask questions, shoot later’ one.”

Jazz nodded mutely and opened her Ghost Psychology folder. At the top was a folder labelled ‘Danny Phantom,’ but she scrolled past it to the general information. “My parents think that ghosts are inherently evil and have no thoughts of their own. They’re just a bad copy of their old human consciousness, wanting to get revenge on humans because they’re jealous that we’re alive or something. But they’re so much more than that. They have these—these ghostly obsessions.” She opened a Word document and began scrolling. “But they’re not evil obsessions. Sure, when they die, they can be like, ‘I’m going to make them pay.’ But usually it’s more of a gray area. Like, ‘I’m going to watch after my family,’ or ‘I’m never going to stop writing.’ What my parents don’t understand is that they’re not unary; they can think about other things. They aren’t limited to one state of mind.”

Rachel looked surprised at the sudden lecture, but she adjusted quickly. “Who is Skulker?”

“Oh.” Jazz paused and bit her lip. “He’s—he’s not the best.”

“What’s his obsession?”

“Hunting,” Jazz said, though she didn’t sound as excited as she had before.

“I’m guessing he’s not hunting for deer,” Rachel said, watching Jazz’s reaction. “Okay. Then … who is Danny Phantom? Why’s he got a folder to himself?”

Jazz’s eyes widened.

“Right. Another touchy subject.”

“No,” Jazz said, shaking her head. “No, he’s … he’s good. Great, even. I think he’s obsessed with protecting people.”

“Well, that’d good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah!” Jazz exclaimed. “I mean, yeah, it’s really good.”

Rachel stared at her. “But … something’s wrong?”

Jazz exhaled slowly through her nose, considering what she should and should not say. “He’s just a little … too protective, I guess. Never thinks about himself. Always rushes in when he could get hurt.”

“Ghosts can get hurt?” Rachel asked.

“This one can.”

Rachel could tell that Jazz didn’t want to talk about it, but she was curious. Choosing her words carefully, she asked, “What’s he like?”

Jazz smiled. “Oh, he’s great. Always saving the day. You know, everybody thanks my parents for the Ghost King thing, but it was really him. Our entire city was transported to a different dimension called the Ghost Zone. It’s where all ghosts live. The Ghost King had just woken up. People doubted his power. He was going to kill us all to set an example. Let everybody know that he was in charge.”

Jazz took a deep breath. “And then … well, Phantom couldn’t stand for that. He was already upset because … someone else got hurt. So he went up there by himself and beat him. He could’ve died.” Her eyes widened. “Well, not died, but he could’ve gotten hurt.”

They sat in silence for a moment, staring out at the fountain and watching the water splash against the surface. Some little kids ran by them, laughing. Rachel said, “You like this guy a lot, huh?”

That seemed to break Jazz out of her stupor. Her cheeks turned red. “Not romantically!” she shouted. “I care about him like a little brother. Not—” She put her face in her hands.

Rachel laughed and stood, shaking the water off her bare feet. “I’ve got to get going before my dad comes home for his lunch break and finds out that I’ve left the house. It was nice meeting you, Jazz.” She pointed at the laptop. “You keep that ghost science thing up. You never know. You might end up publishing it and becoming famous.”

“Your shoes,” Jazz said, grabbing the sneakers and holding them up to her. Her socks had been stuffed into the toes.

“Oh! Right.” She took them but didn’t bother putting them on; instead, she started walking up the steps and back into the square, barefoot. “And you keep that Phantom kid from doing anything stupid!” She added.

Jazz laughed. “I’ll try!” she shouted back.

Just like that, Rachel Dare was gone.

In hindsight, Danny should’ve known that he’d never get a break. Weird stuff had been happening to him since last year like clockwork. August: get ghost powers. September: fight ghosts. November: find out that a creepy old man has ghost powers, too. December: fight ghosts. On and on and on until now, watching people stumble through the gates of a sandy dog park behind the restroom he’d found. An old lady shuffled past him, screaming bloody murder. “Rabid dog!”

Danny turned back towards the dog park. That thing was no dog. Snarling angrily at a park ranger was a full-grown lion, 500 pounds at least. It snorted a small plume of red-orange fire. Danny blanched. Yeah, so maybe it wasn’t a lion.

Danny was still trying to process its more … interesting parts. From its back sprouted a black ram’s head, with big, curly ebony horns and a sneer almost as nasty as the lion’s. It, too, huffed, but only smoke came from its mouth. Thank god. Danny didn’t know if he could handle two fire-breathing heads. 

Then there was the matter of the tail. The golden fur grew in patches before tapering off into tough yellow and orange snake-skin. At the tail’s end was a full, honest-to-god python. As he watched, the snake looked up at Danny and flicked its tongue.

This was a ghost. It had to be a ghost, right? Sure, it didn’t glow like a ghost … and it didn’t float like a ghost … and it didn’t set off his ghost-sense like a ghost … but what else could it be? An animal experiment escapee from the Central Park Zoo? Danny seriously doubted that.

The park ranger pressed his back against the fence, which was a little too high for him to jump, and made a high-pitched whimpering sound. Danny shook his head. He didn’t have time for this. Whatever it was, he had to get rid of it.

Danny glanced nervously at the security cameras attached to the public restroom and nestled between the trees. Okay. He had to get rid of it, but without ghost powers. How?

Looking around for anything he could use, Danny settled on rock and tossed it twice into the air to test its weight. Deciding that it would work, he shouted, “Hey, Alex the Lion!” and threw it as hard as he could. It hit the creature in the back of the head.

That got its attention. Turning away from the ranger, the lion growled and set the floor around the gate on fire. Danny surveyed the fence. He wondered if he could jump it or if he’d seriously have to run through flames to get inside. Danny didn’t like heat. It wasn’t his thing. If he channeled a little flight into the jump, would it be too noticeable?

He didn’t have to think about it for very long, though. A boy and a girl, apparently unconcerned with the security cameras, catapulted over the fence on the other side and somersaulted into a standing position, one holding a dagger and the other holding an entire sword.

A sword. This day was just getting weirder and weirder.

The girl kicked the guy in the back of the knee, causing him to fall. She pushed him toward the lion. “Mmm, look, yummy demigod!”

“Annabeth!” The guy spluttered, standing. Just in the nick of time, too. Their entrance had caught the creature’s attention. It lunged forward. The kid jumped out of the way.

Danny raised his eyebrows. The girl, Annabeth, had her wavy blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore jean shorts and a hazard orange t-shirt similar to Danny’s dad’s suit. The guy was wearing the same shirt, though he had a pair of black basketball shorts on instead. Together, they shared a matching gray streak of hair. He wondered if they’d dyed it together.

In the other corner, the park ranger fainted.

With nothing but sand and rocks to fuel it, the flames around the gate died, allowing Danny to walk in like a normal person. Unlike the other two, he’d rather not high-jump a fence with security cameras watching. Even in New York he needed to keep up appearances.

The creature rushed toward Annabeth and its snake head-of-a-tail wrapped around her arm, squeezing until she dropped her dagger with a pained yelp. She looked down at it and kicked it in the general direction of the other guy.

Okay, my turn, Danny thought. He grabbed another rock (this one sharper, yay!), stepped through the gate, and threw it. It cut a long gash through the ram’s cheek. The lion turned to face him.

Both of the strangers looked surprised to see him there, like they hadn’t noticed a fifteen-year-old kid standing by the front gates. Honestly, Danny was surprised that he was still there, too. He had seriously considered running away when he saw them jump the fence. He had thought, Great! Back to my vacation, but his feet stayed firmly planted on the ground.

Annabeth recovered quickly. With the lion-goat-snake-thing distracted, she ripped her arm free of the snake’s grip and tumbled away.

The lion head roared, shooting fire across the park at Danny. He rolled out of the way and stood, bouncing on his toes. What he would give to be able to fly right now.

The other guy stared at him.

“What?” Danny snapped.

“Your pants are on fire.”

Danny looked down. Sure enough, the hem of his jeans hadn’t been as lucky as the rest of him. Patting it out, he shouted, “Dude!”

And then the lion was on top of him.

Now, Danny had been in some pretty sticky situations. The lion had his arms pinned on either side of his head. Danny couldn’t help but flash back to another time, when a ghost panther had been on top of him in the same fashion. It wasn’t the same, but still. Two giant cats pinning him to the ground in a year? That was sad.

On one side of him was Annabeth, on the other, the guy. Annabeth pointed frantically to his right. His eyes flicked in the direction she was indicating. Ah, yes, the dagger! He’d never be able to grab it with the creature’s full attention on him, though.

“Percy,” Annabeth said in a harsh whisper. He didn’t seem to notice. With a stomp, Annabeth ground out, “Per-see!” and nodded her head toward the dagger. He opened his mouth like, Ah, hyped himself up by jumping up and down, and started running top speed with his sword held high above his head, screaming.

The lion gnashed its teeth like it was annoyed. The goat head bleated angrily. The snake hissed. In one swift motion, the creature lifted one of its massive paws and hit Percy across the stomach. He flew backward into the metal fence.

Fortunately for Danny, that was all the time he needed. With one arm free, he reached for the dagger, got a hold of it, and pushed it into the lion’s chest. He cringed, bracing himself for the five hundred pounds of lion-goat-snake-thing that was about to die on top of him. Instead, it began raining sand.

Danny opened his eyes, sat up, and immediately began gagging. “It got in my mouth!” he yelled, though it sounded more like, “It got in me mouf!”

Percy, who had been thrown into the fence and didn’t look much better than Danny, had the audacity to start laughing. Danny turned and glared at him, using his hands to brush lion-goat-snake dust off his tongue. He only succeeded in adding more sand from the ground to his mouth.

Annabeth held out her hand for Danny and helped him to stand. Percy cleared his throat, like, Hey, aren’t you gonna help me up, too? but Annabeth just looked Danny up and down with a puzzled expression. Her eyes were gray like a storm cloud. “Who are you?” she asked. It sounded like an accusation.

Danny was still spitting sand and monster dust all over the ground. “Danny,” he said between gagging. “Bleh.”

“First time?” Percy quipped, helping himself up by leaning heavily on the fence behind him. He winced and held his stomach.

“I’m Annabeth,” Annabeth said. She gestured flippantly at her friend. “That’s Percy. I’ve never seen you before. Where did you come from?”

Danny furrowed his eyebrows, thoroughly confused. “You ever meet a tourist?”

Annabeth continued to stare at him. Shaking her head, she asked, “Where’s your parent?”

“Uh, parents? And they’re at Washington Square.”

“You have a stepparent?” Percy blurted.

“What?”

Percy changed gears. “You’re adopted?”

“What? No!”

Percy’s eyes widened. He muttered, “You’re like Rachel?”

“Who?” Danny and Annabeth asked in unison. For once he wasn’t the only one out of the loop.

“Look,” Danny said, brushing himself off. “This has been super fun, but I’ve got a ghost convention to get back to.” He turned on his heel and started stalking out of the dog park. What was up with them assuming he didn’t have parents? And people thought he was nuts.

“Wait!” Percy shouted. Danny paused mid-step. “Thank you.”

Danny considered that. He wasn’t supposed to be a hero in human form. It was dangerous. Even now, he was running through scenes in his head of these two stealing the security footage and putting him on YouTube or something. Highly unlikely, but anxiety twisted that in his head and made him more and more uncomfortable. He turned back around. “Look … don’t tell anybody about this, yeah?” Then, to disguise his nervousness, he said, “My parents would flip if they found out lion-goat-snake hybrids existed.”

“Chimera,” Annabeth said.

“Bless you,” said Percy.

“What? No! Percy, you of all people should know this. The Chimera is a Greek monster. Bellerophon shot it with the help of Pegasus. Do you listen to anything we tell you in camp?”

Percy shrugged noncommittally.

Annabeth fumed. “I—”

“You could come with us, you know,” Percy said, cutting Annabeth off. “To camp, I mean.”

Danny pretended like he was considering the offer. “Hmm, a camp with a Greek mythology class? No thanks.”

“It’s not a myth,” Percy said, rushing to get what he wanted to say out before Danny lost interest and left. “The Greek gods, I mean. They’re real. We could really use someone like you.”

Danny considered this. Right, so … crazy. They were crazy. If the Greek gods existed, why would there be a Ghost Zone? Didn’t spirits go to the Underworld in Greek mythology or something? But then again … what else could that lion-goat-snake thing be? It definitely wasn’t a ghost.

Danny shook his head. He had enough things to worry about. This was crossing into the Too Weird category. Turning, he said, “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve gotta go throw rocks at some other monsters. See you around.”

He walked out the gates and down the sidewalk towards Washington Square, thinking, I could really go for a sandwich right now.

[adrianna-m-scovill]

Soothing (Barson fic)

Barba gets poison ivy on a very sensitive part of his body and needs help applying the ointment. Pre-relationship Barson. 

Rated Mature. 8900 words. On AO3.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Benson said, gathering Noah into a hug and kissing his curls. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah,” Noah said as he drew back. He started pulling off his backpack. “But—”

Straightening, Benson finally got a good look at the man lurking in the doorway. “What the hell happened to you?” she exclaimed, and Noah looked back as he dropped his heavy pack to the floor.

“I don’t think Uncle Rafa had very much fun,” the boy finished.

Barba scowled at her. “I’m fine. It was fine. It was fun,” he said, and she might’ve laughed if not for the bandages and homemade finger-splint. His mutinous expression was daring her to laugh.

“Seriously, Barba, what—Come inside,” she said, moving forward and reaching for his arm. She saw him tense, and she stopped. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he repeated.

“Sorry, Uncle Raf,” Noah said behind her, and Benson watched Barba’s gaze slide to the boy, watched as his expression gentled.

“I told you, Noah, it’s not your fault,” Barba said. “Don’t worry, alright? I’m just going to head home and…get cleaned up.”

“Okay. Thanks for taking me.”

“Anytime,” Barba said, smiling. Benson doubted that Noah could see the strain in the smile, but she could. Barba’s eyes returned to hers. “I have a car waiting,” he added.

“You’re welcome to bring your bag inside and stay for dinner. I’ll give you a ride later. Seriously, what happened to your hands?”

“Another time,” Barba said, backing into the hallway. “See you later, Noah.”

“Bye,” Noah said, dragging his backpack toward the living room.

Barba met Benson’s eyes for a moment. “Later, Liv,” he said, and then he was gone. She resisted the urge to follow him into the hallway, demanding an explanation, and instead pushed the door closed. She turned to look after her son.

“Noah, what did you and Uncle Rafa do last night?” She’d known that camping was far outside Barba’s comfort zone, which was why she’d been surprised by how easily he’d agreed when Noah asked him, rather than her, to accompany him. She knew that most of the other kids would be there with their fathers—and an uncle, a grandfather, and one older brother—so she couldn’t fault Noah for wanting to fit in even if she did bristle at the implied misogyny. She had been caught off guard when he’d asked Barba, though, and when Barba had quickly—almost eagerly, it had seemed—consented.

“All sorts of stuff!” Noah exclaimed, plopping himself onto the couch. “We put up a tent, and we played football, and we...made s’mores and hot dogs, and...um…” His forehead wrinkled as he tried to remember the events of the previous day and night. “We told scary stories and Uncle Raf’s was the best, Mom. We went fishing but I didn’t catch anything and that’s okay ‘cause I didn’t wanna hurt the fish. And hiking, and…”

“Sounds like you had a good time,” she said, settling onto the sofa beside him.

“It was so much fun!”

She couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm, but she was worried about Barba. “I’m so glad, honey. But...tell me what happened to Rafael.”

“Oh,” Noah said, his smile faltering. “Wellll...lots of stuff.”

She tried to temper her unease; she didn’t want to jump to conclusions and assume the worst, but part of her was already sorry she hadn’t forced Barba to stay and explain the bandages. “Start at the beginning.” She paused. “Did he break a finger?”

Noah shook his head. “Mr. Jim said it was just jammed. Uncle Raf couldn’t bend it and they had to pull on it and Mr. Riley made a joke about pulling on fingers but I didn’t get it and Uncle Rafa didn’t laugh either. But maybe that’s ‘cause I think it hurt pretty bad. It got real purple. Mr. Jim said he was impressed Uncle Raf didn’t say any bad words.”

“How did his finger get jammed?” she asked, her heart already going out to poor Barba. She didn’t want to tell Noah that, contrary to what Jim and Riley might believe, pulling on a jammed finger was not a responsible course of action. She could only hope they hadn’t caused further damage.

“Well, we were putting up our tent but Uncle Rafa didn’t know how, so he was reading the instructions. Some dads asked if he wanted help but he said no, we could figure it out. It was taking us a long time, though, so they started playing football. He asked if I wanted to go play but I said no, I wanted to help. I never knew how to put up a tent before, Mom! You gotta slide the stick things through—oh,” he said, realizing without prodding that he’d gotten off-topic. “Anyway we were reading and Mr. Riley yelled ‘heads up’ and threw the football to us but Uncle Rafa was afraid it was gonna hit me in the face so he tried to catch it with his wrong hand.” Noah grimaced and shook his head. “Big mistake,” he added, and she laughed in spite of herself.

“So...his fingers are splinted because of a football…?”

“Mommy, it hit real hard,” Noah insisted, miming slamming one hand into the fingertips of his other. “Mr. Riley said sorry he threw too hard. Uncle Raf said it was fine but it really wasn’t ‘cause he couldn’t bend his middle finger.”

“That must’ve hurt.” She hesitated, afraid to ask the next question: “Did they laugh at him?” She tried to keep her tone light so that Noah wouldn’t think it was too bad if they had.

He shook his head, though, curls bouncing. “Only when he said about skipping gym class when he was in school. He told me I’m not allowed to do that, though. But I like gym class!”

“I know,” she said, ruffling his hair and smiling. “So what happened next?”

“After they pulled his finger then Mr. Jim taped a bag of ice around it and we finished putting up our tent and then they asked me if I wanted to play football even though it would’ve been the wrong number but I didn’t want Uncle Rafa to feel bad so I said I didn’t want to play but he said he would if I did so we did but first he let Mr. Jim tape his two fingers together with a popsicle stick.”

“And you played football?” She wished she could’ve seen Barba running around with them. At least she knew he’d gone in jeans rather than a suit and tie.

“Uncle Raf got knocked down once even though it was s’posed to be touch football but he also got a touchdown ‘cause he can run real fast.”

“Can he?”

“Yup. He said the little guys had to be fast where he grew up. They laughed but...he’s not little anymore. Guess he just remembered how. And anyway we won.” He paused, thinking.

“How’d he get the bandages?” she prompted.

“Oh, yeah. We had to make pointy sticks to cook the hot dogs and marshmallows. But first we had to cut the little branches off. I found our sticks but they had a lot of branches. I broke some off but he wouldn’t let me use the knife ‘cause it was too big.”

She winced, imagining what was coming. “He cut himself?”

“He couldn’t hold the stick real well ‘cause his fingers was taped together. And then he slipped and the knife went whoosh,” he said, sliding his hand through the air and slamming it into his left palm. “He did say a bad word but I didn’t laugh because it was bleeding a lot. I didn’t like it. I got scared but he promised it wasn’t as bad as it looked. And Mr. Jim said it didn’t need stitches.”

Mr. Jim is not a fucking doctor, she thought, but she kept the words to herself. She might rethink future trips with him as a chaperone, even though Noah seemed—thankfully—fine. Barba appeared to have borne the brunt of the trauma.

“So they cleaned it up and put this gooey stuff on it and wrapped white stuff all around it ‘cause it was too big for a band-aid.”

“So...he only cut his left hand? Where his jammed finger is?”

“Yeahhh,” Noah said, and now she could see hesitance—and, she thought, guilt—in his face. She waited, giving him time to continue, but he didn’t.

“What happened to his other hand?”

“It was an accident.”

“It sounds like they were all accidents, honey. What happened?”

“I dropped Eddie,” he said quietly, looking at his lap.

She hesitated. “You dropped...I thought I told you to leave the elephant home.”

“Yeah.”

She suppressed a sigh. “Okay, it’s alright, but how did you dropping Eddie hurt Rafael’s hand?”

Noah wrinkled his nose and bent forward, dragging the backpack against his legs. He reached inside and pulled out the toy. His lower lip trembled as he looked at his favorite stuffed animal. One of Eddie’s back legs was black, charred, although there was a white bandage wrapped around the bottom of the burned appendage.

“I dropped him in the fire,” he said, and she could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Oh, honey, well it looks like someone fixed him up at least.”

“He got a bandage like Uncle Rafa’s,” he said, his face still on the verge of crumpling. She pulled him into a one-armed hug, kissing the top of his head.

“Uncle Rafa saved Eddie from the fire?” she guessed, wondering how badly Barba’s hand was burned. And if he should have a bandage over it. She supposed that was probably Jim’s doing, too.

“Yeah. His hand got real red. He kept it in ice water for a long time but he said it was fine. They asked if he needed a hospital but he said it wasn’t that bad. Like a sunburn,” he added, and she hoped that hadn’t just been to pacify the kids. “Then they put other gooey stuff on it and wrapped it up but he said it had to be loose to let air get in so when we went in the tent, he redid it himself. I helped a little because of his hurt finger.”

“That was nice of you. All of this happened yesterday?”

“Yeah. And then we ate hot dogs and lots and lots of s’mores—Uncle Raf ate more than me! And we told ghost stories, Mom. Oh no wait first we went fishing. And then after ghost stories we went to sleep, but first Uncle Rafa got poison ivy on his butt.”

“On his—what?”

“On his butt,” the boy giggled.

“No, I mean—how the—How did that happen?”

Noah screwed up his face in thought. “He went to the bathroom in the woods, Mom,” he said, as though the idea might not have occurred to her. “But it was real dark and I think he didn’t see it, and some little leaves got inside his underwear,” he continued, whispering the last word.

“How...uh…” She wasn’t sure what to ask next—or how. She didn’t want to be thinking about Barba’s ass—or crotch, for God’s sake—and it certainly wasn’t an appropriate topic to discuss with her son.

“We got in our pajamas but then as soon as we got in our sleeping bags he got up and turned on our lamp thingy and he told me to cover my eyes, so I did and then when he said it was okay to open my eyes, he was in his pajamas but I guess he took his underwear off and it took kinda a long time. And I knew it was poison ivy ‘cause Mr. George showed us what the leaves looked like but Uncle Rafa looked it up on his phone, too.”

“Did he touch the leaves with his hands?” she asked, feeling ill.

“Unh-uh, no, after he saw them he put a sock on his hand to hold them and then he put the sock and his underwear in a bag and he said he cleaned himself up before he put his pants back on ‘cause when we read about it on his phone it said that the leaves have oil and he said his sweats were okay because they didn’t touch the leaves and he washed up before he put them back on.” He shrugged as if to say he was willing to take Barba at his word.

“Did he say he had a rash or anything?”

“Nah he said he’d probably have a itchy butt in the morning,” he said, grinning. “I laughed ‘cause it was pretty funny. He thought so, too.”

I doubt it, she thought. He might’ve laughed but I doubt he thought it was very funny. “And did he?” she asked.

Noah looked confused.

“Did he have an itchy butt?” she asked, smiling to hide her concern.

Noah laughed. “Yeah. But he said he wasn’t gonna scratch. And he didn’t tell anyone else and I didn’t either ‘cause I didn’t want him to be embarrassed.” He looked down at Eddie and lost his smile. “Momma, when you talk to Uncle Raf will you tell him I’ll be more careful next time?”

“Honey, I know he doesn’t blame you for anything that happened.”

“But I just hope he’ll wanna go again.”

She let out a breath and ran her fingers through his hair. “You had fun with Uncle Rafael, huh?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he answered glumly. “He’s real fun.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Honey, listen, I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna see if you can stay next door with Mrs. Cooper and Austin for a bit, okay? And I’ll go talk to Uncle Rafa and make sure he’s feeling okay.”

“Can I go, too?” he asked hopefully.

“Not right now, but I’ll make sure he knows that you had a good time with him. Wait here while I run next door.”

“Okay.”

“If you need fresh bandages for Eddie’s leg, you can get a box from the bathroom drawer.”

“Uncle Rafa said this one would be good for a real long time as long as I don’t get it wet or dirty.”

“Well, I guess he knows what he’s talking about,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Since he was the attending veterinarian,” she added, and Noah laughed, hugging the elephant carefully to his chest.

 *       *       *

 She passed a young man who appeared to be a delivery person leaving Barba’s apartment as she approached. He smiled and nodded, and she returned the gestures. She was worried, though—worried about Barba, and how much pain he might be experiencing. She hadn’t given him any warning that she was stopping over because she assumed he would tell her he was fine.

He looked less than thrilled when he opened the door. He might be annoyed to see her outside his apartment, but it was more than that; she could see the strain in his face, and it did nothing to ease her worries.

“Liv. What’s up?”

“I hear you had a rough night.”

He grimaced, shrugging a shoulder, and turned away from her. “Sorry if Noah was upset. Since you’re here, I assume you interrogated him?”

“I asked a few questions,” she said. He hadn’t exactly invited her inside, but he hadn’t asked her to leave, so she stepped into his apartment and closed the door. He was pacing. She looked toward the kitchen and saw an open bottle of liquor.

He caught the trajectory of her glance and offered a small smile. “Want a drink?”

“No. Thank you.” She also noticed that he’d taken the bandage off his right hand, and she could see the redness as he paced in front of her. He was still wearing the jeans and sweater he’d had on when he dropped off Noah, and his left hand was still wrapped and splinted.

“Is he alright?” he asked.

“Noah? He’s fine. He wanted to come check on you but I left him with the neighbor so I could check on you.”

He laughed. He lifted his hand to scratch at his jaw before wincing and dropping it back to his side. “This isn’t really a good time,” he said. “I’ve got a...situation.”

“Poison ivy?”

He sighed, casting her a sidelong look as he paced.

She looked at his hands. “You need some help putting lotion on?”

He answered with a humorless laugh. “Not going to happen.”

She watched him pace for a few more moments. “I can see how much discomfort you’re—”

“Where did he say I had it, exactly?”

“Your, uh...butt,” she said, trying not to let her embarrassment show. “I realize it’s not ideal, but I’m sure we can handle a little awkwardness to get you feeling better.”

“I think I’ve had about as much humiliation as I can handle for a while.”

“Barba, I think your ego is healthy enough to survive a few knocks. Besides, how bad could it be to have a friend help—”

“We don’t have that kind of friendship.”

She stared at him for a moment, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together: his agitation, his refusal to meet her eyes, his inability to stand still. “What does that…Where exactly do you have…” He cut his eyes toward her and quickly away. “Jesus, Rafael, you need to go to the hospital if it’s—if you’re—”

“Sure, I’ll take the subway.”

“I’ll drive—You can’t sit?” she realized, cursing herself for being so slow to understand just how bad his situation was. “How’d you get to my apartment—and here?”

He sighed. “I didn’t want Noah to know how bad it was but…it’s…worse. It’s definitely getting worse. And it’s definitely not just my ass.”

“Raf—”

“Look, I talked to a doctor friend of mine, alright? I have a prescription, a steroid cream, he had it delivered for me. I just, uh…” He held up his hands with a grimace.

“How…extensive…”

“Very.”

“I mean how, um…sensitive an area…” She chewed the inside of her lip for a moment. “How deep, or—or invasive—For crying out loud, are you really going to make me ask this any more directly?”

He stopped and turned to face her. His cheeks were dark but he held her stare. “Very,” he repeated.

“Okay, well…could we maybe, I don’t know, cover up…you know…” She gestured a hand toward his crotch, saw his jaw tighten, and cursed herself again.

“No.”

“No because you don’t want to, or no because it’s—”

“Both.”

She hesitated, raising a hand to rub her middle finger against her forehead.

“For Christ’s sake stop thinking about it,” he said.

“I can’t. You’re obviously in pain.”

“I’ll handle it. Just go home.”

“Handle it? How?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Squirt in the general direction?” she suggested.

He snorted, the ghost of a real smile curving his lips before he grimaced again and dropped his gaze to the floor. “I don’t…” He gave his head a little shake, and she could see the desperation peeking through his bravado. His throat worked as he struggled to swallow. He let out a slow breath and returned his gaze to hers. “Fuck, Liv,” he said softly, and for a few seconds all of his defenses were gone.

“Okay,” she said, stepping toward him automatically, unable to bear the torment in his eyes. “Maybe—maybe a baking soda bath? To take the edge off?” She looked at his hands. “Do you have rubber gloves, or plastic, to keep your hands dry?”

“Sure, yeah, that’s a good idea,” he said, and she could see him piecing together his armor with effort. “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

“Raf.”

“This is not your problem. Really, I’ll—”

“You can’t get the steroid stuff on your hands.”

“No. Gloves, like you said.” He offered an almost-convincing smile.

She held up two fingers. “I’m sure they’ll fit over the splint.”

“Look, no offense, Olivia, but I really, really need to get my fucking pants off and I think it’s best you leave before that happens.”

She almost laughed, but seeing the pain in his face tempered any amusement she felt. “Why are you still wearing them? It must be—”

“I had to wait for the prescription and then you showed up.”

She refused to take offense at his accusatory tone. “Fine, there must be someone else who can come help you put the damn cream on. The doctor friend? Your…I don’t know…mother?”

“My mother?” he asked, and she did laugh at the abject horror in his expression as he stared at her.

“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up a hand. “Listen. I’m sorry. I can’t stand to see you like this and it’s my fault, at least partly. You didn’t have to take Noah on that camping trip, even if he did ask you. I should’ve given you an out, told him I was going, I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the only mother there.”

“You would’ve.”

“Really? Well...still.”

“By no stretch of imagination is this your fault,” he said. “If a grown man can’t manage to cut a piece of wood or take a sh—go to the bathroom in the woods without help then I really think he deserves what he gets.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows and held his hands out to his sides. “Look at me,” he said. “One night, less than two days in the woods—I can’t take it anymore, Liv, seriously—”

“My son doesn’t have a scratch on him—”

“I’m taking my clothes off.”

“—and from what I can tell never wants to go anywhere without you again.”

“So help me God.”

“Rafael.”

“He’s too polite to say so, but I’m sure he’ll never want—I can’t discuss this right now,” he said, starting abruptly toward the bedroom.

“I can’t leave until I know you’re okay.”

“I don’t care what you do right now,” he said, pushing the door closed behind himself.

 *       *       *

 “Fuck. Fuck.” There was a long silence from the bedroom. “Are you still here?” he finally asked.

Benson was pacing the living room, listening to him mutter and curse. “Yes,” she answered. “What do you need?”

The silence stretched out on the other side of the door. Finally, barely audible: “Fuuuuck.”

“Let me help you. Don’t keep suffering just because you’re embarrassed.”

“This is not something you should...have to do,” he muttered; she could only hear him because she’d stopped in front of his door.

“I promise you, no one will ever know about this but us.”

The door opened and he stood before her in a bathrobe, held loosely closed by the thumb and middle two fingers of his burned right hand. He looked so miserable that she had to fight the urge to pull him into a comforting hug. “This is...the worst thing I’ve ever felt,” he admitted quietly. “I can’t get a glove over the splint, I can barely use my right hand because...it hurts, and I can’t see…” He released a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Okay,” she said, putting a light hand on his arm. “We’ll do this, Barba, it’s fine. Is it...front and back?” He stared at her. “The rash? Front and back?”

“Yes. Well. Uhh...back and...under...mostly,” he said.

She ignored the dark blooms of color on his cheeks. “Do you want to do this standing or lying down?”

He hesitated. “Standing?” he finally repeated. “How…”

“I thought you might feel, I don’t know, less vulnerable on your feet. If I…” She trailed off, realization dawning. “Yeah, no, I guess not,” she muttered as he shook his head. “Okay, let’s put a towel on the bed, you lay down, and we’ll get this over with.”

He swallowed and fidgeted with the front of his robe. “Alright, then you can...wait here and I’ll...let you know when I’m ready if that’s…”

“Of course. Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

He backed away and pushed the door almost closed, and Benson turned to resume pacing while she waited. She didn’t want him to think this was a big deal; it shouldn’t be a big deal, and she hated the nervous flutters in her stomach and the heat threatening to creep out of her shirt collar every time she thought about what was going to happen.

 *       *       *

 He was lying face down on his bed, on a towel, and he’d draped his bathrobe over himself from middle back to calves. His heart was slamming in his chest, and it wasn’t all from the pain and itchiness.

Those were bad, though; he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said this was the worst thing he’d felt. The pain was even secondary to the itch. Everything felt hot and swollen, itchy and achy and raw, and he was unable to see the most-seriously affected areas. He cursed his injured hands a hundred times over. All he wanted was to be able to glop cream on his hands and slather it all over between his legs and over his backside until the maddening itch was gone.

But he couldn’t. His hands, in addition to being somewhat incapacitated, hurt. He couldn’t even fist them in frustration.

“You can come in,” he said, in spite of the acid burning his gut. He shifted his hips a bit beneath the robe and barely suppressed a groan; the friction against the terrycloth made it worse, because the urge to scratch was overwhelming. His body wanted him to rut against the towel to relieve the itch, and he closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. “I’m sorry,” he said when he heard her approaching the bed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said quietly. He heard her pick up the box of rubber gloves he’d set beside the steroid cream and it occurred to him that he should’ve tried harder—the maddening itch and ache were robbing him of his ability to think of anything else, stealing his finely-honed skill of compartmentalization.

“Maybe you can just help me get the gloves on,” he said, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “At least on my right hand and I’ll just—just—”

“Cause yourself more pain in one place to relieve it in another,” she said quietly. “Barba, you don’t have to take care of everything by yourself. Relax. Focus on breathing.”

“Are you thinking this is why men would never survive childbirth?” he asked, and he heard her soft laughter. He wiggled on the towel and winced.

“I couldn’t say. I’ve never gone through childbirth.”

“Oh, right. I forgot. Liv, I can’t—”

“I’m going to lift the robe, okay?”

He swallowed with effort. “Okay.” He felt her fold the bathrobe up, felt the air caress his overheated skin. He stared at his right hand, tracing the edge of the redness with his eyes.

“Rafael, I’m so sorry, this must feel awful.”

“That bad, huh?” he muttered. His chin was tight against the bedspread.

“I’m going to touch you. I’m going to start high and work my way down.”

“Okay,” he repeated. His heart was still racing and his stomach churning but he’d lost all of his fight. He just wanted relief and it would be idiotic to stop her now. “We’re still going to be friends after this, right?” he asked. It was a pathetic attempt at a joke, he knew, but she laughed anyway.

“I’d say it would take worse than this to get rid of me but I imagine you’re not in the mood to think about worse scenarios.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “God forbid.” The cream felt cold against his skin and he tried to focus on that rather than thinking about what she might be seeing. He couldn’t remember ever feeling more vulnerable. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this, but especially her. He hated that she’d been put in this position, hated that he’d probably embarrassed Noah, hated that he couldn’t take care of himself.

But he trusted her. She wouldn’t laugh at his discomfort, or take advantage of his embarrassment. She was the last person he wanted to see him like this but the only person he would trust to do it. He didn’t want to think about what that might say about him or his potential for a happy future.

Even so, the thought—the recognition that this was Olivia, and he could be safer with no one else—actually managed to calm him, and he let out a slow breath against the comforter. She was swabbing gently at his skin. Each touch brought quick relief to that spot, but as she applied the cream to more and more areas of rash, it also served to localize—worsen—the discomfort between his legs in the areas she hadn’t yet reached.

He shifted involuntarily against the towel and hissed in a quick breath.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m going as quickly as I can but I don’t want to miss any. Rafa, most of these back here aren’t that bad, but it looks like it gets worse…”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t have to be able to see it; he could feel it.

“I’m going to touch lower. Inner thigh,” she said.

“Okay.” Her voice was almost as soothing as the ointment. “For the record, I’m...not a complete idiot,” he said after a few seconds of silence.

“I’m sorry? Why would I ever think that?”

“I mean I didn’t...I might not know much about camping or—or plants, or you know, wilderness stuff but I didn’t do this…”

“You didn’t grab a handful of poison ivy leaves to wipe your ass?” she said, and he laughed in surprise, immediately wincing at the friction. “I know. Noah said you got some leaves in your pants. Sounds like an understandable accident in the dark when your hands probably made things difficult to...navigate.”

He looked at his hands and didn’t answer.

“I need you to spread your legs.”

He closed his eyes but did as instructed.

“I’m going to get on the bed if that’s alright?”

“I guess it’s still better than you kneeling in front of me,” he mumbled, and to his relief she laughed. He’d been studiously avoiding that image in his mind—refusing to contemplate what could’ve made her think that would be a comfortable position for either of them.

“It didn’t occur to me until I...visualized,” she answered. He could hear the embarrassment in her voice, and also the smile. Both comforted him. The bed dipped as she crawled up between his knees. “I’m going to...uh…”

“I don’t need a play by play,” he said. Then, afraid the words sounded ruder than he’d intended, he added, “Thank you. I just—I trust you and just want this over with.”

“Alright, I…” She trailed off. He felt her fingers, gentle, soothing his itch and pain half an inch at a time. She was spreading him open, getting closer and closer to the heart of the matter; he almost laughed at the thought.

“What?” he asked. He couldn’t stand the awkward silence. Maybe if they pretended like they were having a normal conversation, they could gloss over the fact that she was mere inches from giving him a prostate exam.

“I don’t want you to be upset,” she finally said.

“Upset?” he repeated. “I think we’ve passed...You mean upset with you?” he realized.

“You asked if our friendship would survive this, and—”

“Jesus, Liv, because you shouldn’t have to do this. Not because...You’re doing what you always do. Helping. Taking care of people. I just hate having you see me like this.”

“I know this is awkward, but you shouldn’t feel embarrassed. There’s a blister here, this might hurt, okay?”

He braced himself. Her touch was gentle, the cream soothing. He let out a breath. “It’s not embarrassment,” he muttered, so quietly he wasn’t sure she would hear him. “I mean it is, obviously this is humiliating, but it’s more than just…” He stopped, afraid his emotional state would lead him to say something he shouldn’t.

“Is this about Noah?” she asked.

And you, he thought.

“You’re not going to give me some line of misogyny bull, are you?” she asked, startling him into a small laugh. “Because I expect better from you.”

“I’m not allowed to question my masculinity on occasion?” he asked. He was half-joking, but he was also treading dangerously close to the source of his wounded pride. And she knew; of course she did.

“No,” she answered. “Look, Barba, the day will come when I will embarrass Noah just by existing, and hell, maybe you will, too. But this is not that day. He doesn’t care if you can catch a football.”

“I can,” he muttered, scowling at his splinted finger. It was bruised, a little swollen, sore. Damning.

“I’m sure you can,” she said, and he smiled at her placating tone. “The point is, it doesn’t matter. What matters to him is that you were willing to spend time with him. He’s worried you won’t want to take him again because he wasn’t careful enough.”

“Shit,” he exhaled. “I’ll talk to him.”

“That’s my point,” she answered. “Perineum.”

“I—What?” A moment later he felt her gloved finger swipe over the sensitive spot, and he jerked reflexively, digging his toes into the bed. “Fuck.”

“Sorry.”

He laughed, a nervous sound that did nothing to cover his anxiousness. That touch had caused a decidedly unwelcome flush of heat that had nothing to do with his rash. “Thanks for the warning,” he managed, as her thumb—the touch light, barely-there—spread cream over the curve of one swollen testicle. His right hand was curved into a painful fist, and he straightened his fingers, wincing at the sharp sting as the movement pulled at his burned skin. He was going to have to get some more aloe cream on there, as soon as she was finished between his legs.

“I think you’re going to need to turn over,” she said after a moment, and he could hear the apology in her voice.

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could answer.

“I can’t see the rest,” she said. “Of the rash, I mean. And it would probably be worse if I just...rubbed my hand around blindly...under your crotch.”

He made a sound, unsure if it was a laugh or a groan. He knew she was trying her best to put him at ease, but he was both surprised and alarmed to learn that the pain and itch were not enough to counteract his body’s response to the gentle touch of her fingers.

“Unless you’d rather get on your hands and knees,” she said. A joke. He did his best to laugh, but it sounded choked. He heard her soft sigh. Felt her hand against his hip, an oddly comforting touch considering his state of undress. “Two minutes at the most,” she told him quietly. “Come on, honey, you can do this. You’ll feel better.”

He didn’t think she was aware of what she’d said; most likely, she’d slipped into mother-mode, thinking of him the same way she would her son. He couldn’t blame her. He’d acted nothing if not childish since her arrival.

He could feel everywhere she’d applied the ointment; the relief was substantial, and made the fiery itch on the remaining affected area even more obvious. He knew where she would be touching, what she would be seeing. It could be worse. He’d be able to keep something of himself covered, and she’d basically seen everything else already.

“Two minutes?” he heard himself say. “Not the most inspiring pillowtalk.”

She laughed. Luckily. “I can take as long as you want me to,” she returned, and he pressed his face into the bedspread, laughing. The fact that they could laugh about this at all was a testament to her. He felt her shift, moving one knee and then the other over his leg until she was kneeling beside him instead of between his thighs. She touched his hip again, this time where the bathrobe covered his skin. “I won’t look. My eyes are closed. Roll over, do what you need.”

He laughed again. “If you ever have reason to want to blackmail me, just give me your demands up front and I’ll be happy to pay, Lieutenant,” he said. He put his elbows on the bed and lifted his head, looking back over his shoulder. She was kneeling beside his thigh, her hands resting palms-up on her own thighs, her eyes closed.

“I know you better than that,” she said. “You’d never give in to blackmail, even if I had pictures.”

He smiled, taking a moment to study her while she couldn’t see him. He tried to imagine anyone else in his life offering to do this for him—and actually being able to convince him to allow it.

He tried to imagine a worse time to tell her he was in love with her. Probably two minutes from now, he thought, and he almost laughed again.

“Besides, you know I’d never have to blackmail you,” she added.

“Are you saying I’m a pushover?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

He chuckled, wincing as he carefully rolled away from her toward the edge of the bed. He tugged the bathrobe over his stomach as he shifted and settled onto his back. The towel was bunched beneath him and he didn’t have a pillow under his head, but it didn’t matter: all of his body’s pains and discomforts had overwhelmed his ability to sort them through.

“No, you’re right, all you have to do is ask,” he said quietly, watching her from beneath his eyelashes. “Or drop hints. Or look like you might ask.”

He watched her laugh before looking down at himself. He slid his right hand under the bathrobe, covering himself against his lower belly with his palm, but the heat was almost immediately unbearable for his hand. He glanced at her face. He’d seen her lose her temper in a heartbeat but here, now, for him, she had nothing but seemingly-infinite patience and compassion.

He used his left hand, instead. The bandage was soft against his flushed skin. He crooked his other arm over his eyes; he couldn’t watch her bending over his crotch. “Okay,” he said, and he heard a rustle as she moved. He felt her move back into position between his spread legs. He could feel the cool air under the edge of the robe, felt her slide it a bit higher so she could see what she was doing. He had no idea how well he had himself covered, and it didn’t matter. What difference did a few inches make, anyway?

“You have some blisters on your…”

“I can’t think of a single word that I want to hear you use to finish that sentence,” he said.

She laughed, but said, “This looks pretty bad, Raf.”

“I can’t imagine it’s a pretty view at the best of times,” he answered. He paused. “Just a small area, though? I can feel where...it seems to be the worst.”

“Yeah. A few blisters where it must’ve been warmest or...where the leaves were stuck…”

He almost choked on his laugh. “You know, I swear I had a dream exactly like this, once. Except you were a nun who regaled me with the dangers of teenage boys touching themselves inappropriately and I woke up with an overwhelming urge to go to confession.”

She rested a palm on his thigh as she laughed. He peeked beneath his arm, because she was never more beautiful than when she laughed. He quickly recovered his eyes when she reached a hand between his legs.

“I think that nun would give me more Hail Marys than you, for this,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know, depends on whether or not she could read my—” He realized what he was saying and broke off abruptly. He cleared his throat.

She paused for a moment. “Probably even then,” she said quietly. Without giving him time to think of a response, she added, “I’m going to touch the worst part. It’s not going to feel great.”

He braced himself as best he could, cleared his throat again, and said, “Okay.”

She was right. It didn’t feel great. The pain wasn’t unbearable, but the itch beneath the touch of her fingers made him grit his teeth, tighten his arm over his eyes, and draw a slow breath through his nose. His splinted fingers were only an inch from where she was prodding, and the urge to push her hand aside and scratch was nearly consuming.

She was being careful, afraid of hurting him any more than necessary. As the cream began to soothe the itch and discomfort, he felt his muscles relaxing in relief. His hips were achy from being so tense, and he concentrated on settling his body more comfortably against the bed.

The relief didn’t last long, though. She brushed a finger along the crease between his balls—he knew this wasn’t a remotely sexual situation, he knew that he had no business responding, but he was helpless to stop his body’s reaction. He felt himself twitch beneath his hand and he pressed himself tighter against his body; he would crush himself against his own pelvic bone if he had to.

But she was still running her fingers over him, around him, under him, into the high recesses of his legs, gently poking and prodding and shifting aside hair and flesh as she searched for areas that needed attention—

He could hear the note of panic in his voice when he spoke. “I need you to stop being so...uh…”

“Thorough?” she suggested. “I’m sorry, but I need to make sure—”

“Gentle. I was going to say gentle. Jesus Christ. I can’t, um…”

“You want me to hurt you?” she asked.

“I can’t—I’m not—” He was growing hard under his hand. If she was observant—and he knew she was—he wouldn’t be able to hide it for long. He knew she wouldn’t blame him for his body’s response, something that she knew couldn’t always be controlled. But he knew he should be blamed, because it wasn’t just the touches that were affecting him. It was the knowledge that the fingers were hers. And he deserved to be damned for entertaining any sexual thoughts about her—at any time, but especially now when she had willingly put herself in a horribly awkward position to help him.

“Okay. I’m almost done. Move your fingers just a little bit, there’s one red streak partway up...Last one, I promise.”

He swallowed. “I...can’t…”

“Half an inch,” she said. “I can’t really see but I don’t think it goes any higher.”

He was afraid if he tried to speak, nothing would leave his throat but a strangled sound of distress. He also knew that if he waited, the situation was only going to get worse. He shifted his hand, praying she would finish as quickly as promised.

She brushed a finger along the very bottom of his shaft, and he managed to catch the groan in his chest.

“It’s a natural reaction,” she said quietly, trying to console him, and he knew that she was blushing. Without even seeing her face, he knew that it was as red as his. “I mean, between the relief, and the...the contact—”

“Stop talking. Please, for the love of God, stop talking.”

“I thought it might help—a reminder that it’s me, and not someone—”

“No. Nope. That does not help,” he said, and she fell silent. She applied more cream around his base and pulled her hand back.

“Sorry,” she said after a moment of awkward silence.

“I’m sorry,” he countered.

“I think I got it all,” she said. “Does it feel alright?”

“Much better,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to lower his arm and look her in the face. “Thank you.”

“You should probably wear something loose. Light. Boxers—or even just the robe…” She trailed off.

“Okay.”

“Do you need help?”

“Help?”

“Getting something on?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay, I’ll wait in the other room.”

“The other room?”

“The living room.”

“Oh,” he answered. “Right.” He’d imagined she would want to make a quick escape. “You can, um...go if you want.”

He felt her shift backward and climb off the bed, heard her taking off her gloves and gathering up the supplies to set them on top of his dresser.

“I’ll be in the other room,” she said. A few seconds later, he heard the soft click of the bedroom door closing.

 *       *       *

 She glanced up when he stepped out of the bedroom. He’d slipped on clean shorts and had his bathrobe belted loosely, although he’d struggled a bit to tie the bow. She had just finished pouring two glasses of scotch, and he watched as she looked down to screw the lid back onto the bottle.

“I thought you might want a drink,” she said.

“I think I need a cigarette.”

She laughed, looking up at him, and the sight of her amusement eased some of the tension from his shoulders. He crossed toward her slowly, fighting the impulse to fidget. She held out a glass as he approached.

“Can you hold this?” she asked, and he nodded, carefully taking the scotch. The glass was smooth and cool against his burned skin. He watched her sip her own drink. She had to drive herself home, but she didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.

He gestured toward the living room. “Want to sit?”

She nodded, and he turned away, carrying his drink to the sofa. He sat carefully, wincing as the shorts bunched up, and adjusted himself as well as he could. She set her glass on the coffee table and he looked up at her.

“Can I use the bathroom?” she asked.

He raised his eyebrows. “I guess so, just leave a quarter on the tank.”

She smiled, and he turned his gaze into his glass to keep himself from watching her walk away. He was still staring into his glass, lost in thought, when she returned a couple of minutes later.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and he looked up, noting that her hands weren’t empty. She had antibacterial ointment, a roll of white gauze, paper tape, and aloe cream.

“I’ve been better.”

She sank onto the couch beside him. “You don’t have a fever, do you?”

He managed a smile. “I feel a little warm but I’m pretty sure it’s the heat of, you know, humiliation.”

She sighed. “Raf, I wish I could make this better for you,” she said.

“You did,” he answered. “You are.” When she lifted her gaze to his, he was helpless to look away.

“Are you going to argue if I ask to help with your hands?”

He shook his head. He let her take his scotch and set it beside hers on the table, and when she reached for his left hand, he held it out and turned his body slightly toward her to make it easier.

“I’m going to untape your fingers,” she said. She glanced up at his face. “For future reference, don’t let those guys pull on any part of your body that’s injured.”

He was surprised into a laugh, but he bit back the inappropriate joke that rose to his tongue.

Smiling as she returned her attention to his fingers, she said, “I heard that thought.”

He laughed again. “You always do. And anyway, I had some misgivings but I don’t use the middle finger of my left hand for all that much anyway.” He grinned as she snorted softly. She was carefully removing the tape from his fingers.

“So long as you refuse their attempts to help next time.”

“Next time?”

She glanced up, then back at his hand. “If you decide to go again.”

“I’ll always go if Noah wants me to,” he said, “but I should probably take a babysitter.”

“I hear you did a great job of looking after him. And Eddie.”

“I meant for me.”

Cradling his hand in her palm, she pressed her thumb gently between the second and third knuckles of his bruised middle finger. “Can you bend this?”

He did, carefully. It was stiff and sore, but not unbearably so. That was a good thing, because he was going to have to figure out how to apply another dose of cream by morning, if not sooner. Now that the edge had been taken off, his situation didn’t feel quite so desperate. He didn’t intend to let it get that bad again.

“I could go along, next time,” she said without looking up, watching as he bent and straightened his finger a few times to work out some of the stiffness.

“Instead of me?” He smiled. “Or to babysit me?”

“Protect you from the dangers of the woods. Knives, fires, poisonous plants.”

“Footballs,” they said in unison, and she glanced up again as they both laughed. He hesitated as she started unwrapping the bandage around his palm. “Some of those guys would love having you along.”

She smiled at his hand. “Yeah?”

“Well, all of them, but especially the unmarried ones.”

“Hmm,” she answered. “This doesn’t look as bad as I was afraid it would. It’s a little red. I’m just going to put some ointment on and wrap it back up but make sure you keep an eye on it.”

“Mmhm.”

“We could probably go without them,” she said. “I mean, there’s no reason we’d necessarily have to...wait for someone else…”

“Okay.” He hesitated. “What are we talking about?”

“Camping.”

“Okay. You...want to go camping...without the others?”

“We could. If you wanted.” She was wrapping clean gauze around his hand, covering his cut palm. “You could look after Noah, I could look after you.”

He laughed without much air behind the sound. His stomach was fluttering nervously. “Okay,” he repeated.

She glanced up. “If you want,” she said, shrugging a shoulder. “You can think about it.”

“Noah and I do know how to put up a tent, now.”

She smiled. “We can bring those metal roasting sticks for the hot dogs and marshmallows.”

“I’ll try not to impale myself on one.”

“And only Nerf balls.”

“That sounds reasonably safe, then. And only non-flammable stuffed animals.”

“Of course.” She taped the gauze down and released his left hand, reached for his right. She winced at the sight of the redness. “I told him not to take the elephant, anyway. That’s why he feels bad.”

“It’s not his fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Any more than any of this was your fault.” She squirted aloe cream into his palm. “When he was telling me about everything that happened, all I could think was thank God you were there with him. Doesn’t sound like the other dads were very trustworthy.”

Once again, he didn’t think she realized what she’d said. He watched her gently massaging the cream into his skin with her thumbs. He swallowed, gathering his courage. “It means a lot that you trust me to...take him places,” he finally said.

“There’s no one I trust more,” she answered. “And he loves you.”

“I love him, too,” he murmured, surprised by how emotional he was feeling.

“I know.”

“I…” love you, too. The words stuck in his throat, not because he didn’t want to say them—he did, but not like this.

She looked up and met his eyes. “I know,” she repeated with a small smile. “If you’re feeling up to it, maybe we can talk about it next weekend.”

“Sure. Over dinner?” He could reserve a nice table, put on a suit, buy some flowers and fancy wine, hopefully speak in complete and coherent sentences.

“Sounds nice,” she said, as she finished massaging the aloe between his fingers. He was disappointed when she released his hand. “I should get home. I’ll check in tomorrow morning to see how you’re feeling, but promise me you’ll call if you need help with anything—even if you need a ride to the hospital, anything—in the night?”

“Okay.” He watched her push to her feet and head toward the bathroom to wash her hands. When she returned, she started to gather up the supplies. “I’ll take care of that, it’s alright,” he said. “Do you want the rest of your drink?”

“I have to drive. Sorry, I didn’t mean to waste it.”

He smiled. “I’ll drink it,” he said. “I can probably use the help sleeping.”

She touched a hand to his hair and bent down, pressing a kiss to his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she straightened.

“Yeah.” When she started to turn, he blurted out her name: “Liv.”

She stopped, meeting his eyes.

“Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“Anytime,” she answered with a smile, and he felt his lips twitch in amusement. “Get some rest, Rafael. Don’t get up, I’ll let myself out.”

He watched her cross to the door. “Have a good night. Feel free to call if Noah needs to talk to me or anything.”

“I might just call to say goodnight,” she said, smiling back at him.

“I’ll call you,” he suggested.

Her smile widened. “Pushover,” she said.

He grinned in response.