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comfyswitcherblanketfort · 3 years

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Grunge-Metal Geralt

Hi, im fucking trash for the idea of Geralt being the front man for a Five Finger Death Punch type band and my brain wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. This music genre is my bread and butter and I think Geralt’s repressed but highly emotional ass would fit right in. Yes im using another Hozier song, no i dont wanna hear anything about it. I’m a basic bitch and ive made my peace with it

Warnings: i honestly have no idea, its a little horny, little emotional, but theres no actual character interaction?, its at a concert venue? idk yall.

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Jaskier was… out of his comfort zone.

It’s not that he didn’t like the grunge-metal music, he just hadn’t listened to much and he was not used to the energy. People were yelling and screaming and the opener hadn’t even come on yet. He didn’t feel unsafe, far from it. Several people had checked to see if he was okay, seeing as he was the only person in the entire arena wearing a sweater that wasn't ripped or faded to hell. It was just a far cry from the shows he was used to.

He played folky-blues. This was nothing like his shows.

When the lights went down the crowd was deafening, all moving as one to rush the front of the floor, not giving a single fuck about tickets.

The openers were exciting, and Jaskier was surprised by some of the concepts and messages behind the music. It wasn’t what he’d expected at all and he found himself searching them up on Spotify to listen later.

Then came The Witchers.

Eskel and Lambert made their energetic entrance, followed by Aiden calmly walking to his drums and sitting as if he were walking into a college class. But Geralt was nowhere in sight. The one person Jaskier had actually come to see.

He’d seen a video clip from a previous concert where they covered one of his songs, and he was praying they’d do it again. It was lovely in a haunting-almost-threatening way, and the expression in Geralt’s posture alone was enthralling. He had to see it live.

But Geralt was still absent as the band started to build a song. First Aiden with the beat, then Eskel’s bass, then Lambert with a melody on his electric guitar. It built and built and built to a fever pitch, taking the crowd with it. People were already jumping and screeching. Jaskier had to stand on his seat to see the stage clearly.

Geralt’s voice echoed through the venue, low and closer to a growl than singing, but he was still nowhere to be seen.

Jaskier thought he’d been prepared, but his whole body was covered in goosebumps. He briefly wondered if this was what his friends were feeling when they listened to ASMR.

Geralt remained hidden for the whole first verse, getting the crowd even more excited than Jaskier thought possible, only for the band to go completely silent for a whole measure. When the crowd's screams reached their absolute loudest, Geralt dropped from on top of one of the jumbotrons, landing on one of the horse-sized speakers before launching into the chorus.

Oh fuck, he was even more beautiful in person.

He was… well he was a beast of a man. Jaskier really didn’t have another word for the way his muscles bulged and how lithe and powerful he looked springing from the speaker to join his bandmates on the main stage. His thighs filled out his black, tattered jeans and there were clear faded spots where his muscles strained the fabric too often. The thin black tank he wore did nothing but pretend the man was semi-modest. It was so tight, the only thing left up to the imagination was tan lines and the color of his nipple piercings.

Jaskier was most entranced by his long, white, wavy hair falling past his shoulders. As the show continued and he started to sweat, a lot, it got curlier and curlier at the root. Jaskier wanted to give him a mask and some curl cream, but only after a, uhm, rough night of getting to know each other. He’d heard rumors about Geralt from hitting arenas not long after they’d left. He was quite sure they’d have a great time.

As he focused on the lyrics more and more, he was more inclined to want to wrap Geralt up in a hug and worship every part of him until he felt whole again.

Either he’d been shown the shitty side of the genre, or The Witchers were exceptions to the rule of content. Jaskier was almost moved to tears a few different times.

Finally, about an hour into Jaskier mindlessly feasting his eyes on the front man, Geralt leapt onto another speaker and sat down, breathing hard and grinning from ear to ear.

“You still with us?”

The unholy screech from the crowd left no doubt they were just as excited, if not more so, than when they’d arrived.

“Good! Good..” he trailed off, chuckling as he lowered the mic to take a breath, “We’re gonna slow it down for a minute,” he leaned forward and held the mic away as Eskel shouted something up at him to which he laughed and flipped him off.

“As I was saying, we’re gonna yearn for a minute or two and do a cover. Song by Jaskier called ‘Talk’.”

The crowd lost their shit again, various pride flags popping up throughout the stands.

Geralt chuckled and raised his combat boot, showing off the bi flag colored treads, earning another round of screams. If this is what the grunge-metal scene was like, Jaskier had been missing out his entire life. Sure his fans were sweet and supportive and loving when he’d come out. But this was electric and feral and completely addictive.

Lambert struck the opening chord to Jaskier’s song and the crowd settled to a gentle hum, setting the tone immediately, as if they all knew exactly what was coming.

Geralt closed his eyes as he tapped his thigh with one finger, keeping time before his rumbling baritone hit Jaskier like a freight train.

“I’d be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found…”

Jaskier could have collapsed right there. He knew he was staring like a lovesick idiot, but hell, everyone around him was too. When the chorus hit and Eskel came in with a heavy bass line he nearly fell off his chair. Geralt’s intensity raised with the addition of the backup but he didn’t move. He stayed seated, swaying slightly, with his eyes closed as he crooned out the words Jaskier had sobbed as he wrote, broken hearted and miserable.

It was surreal.

Sure he’d seen other covers. Sure they’d been lovely. But he wanted to listen to this and only this as he fell asleep for the rest of his life. He’d never play it again if he could only hear it one more time.

After the last verse Lambert launched into a guitar solo while Geralt jumped off the speaker and meandered to the center of the stage to slot his mic back in it’s stand. He gripped it like a lifeline when Lambert held one last note for as long as his instrument would allow and only started singing the last chorus when it was almost silent.

“I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things I would do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you

I won't deny I've got in my mind now all the things we could do

So I'll try to talk refined for fear that you find out how I'm imaginin' you”

His expression looked hopeless and utterly desperate as he crooned out the last two lines. He let his hair fall to cover his face and Jaskier could just barely hear his panting breath over the sound system as the crowd exploded. Geralt tipped his head back and took two deep breaths before straightening up and getting on with the show but Jaskier was stuck.

He was vaguely aware of someone taking a picture of him, but he really couldn’t care less. The fact that Geralt moved right on to a song called ‘Burn Motherfucker Burn’ didn’t matter either.

Jaskier jumped down from his arena seat, whipping out his phone and sending the band a tweet, because apparently that’s what musicians did now?

“Record it. Please. It’s either that or sing me to sleep every night. You choose.”

He stayed for the rest of the show and walked to his car in a haze. Before he backed out of his spot he checked his phone like always and his heart nearly stopped at the two top notifications.

One public reply: “Both? -G”

And one direct message: “If you’re still here and want to grab a drink, I’m just backstage.”

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jeongvision · 3 years

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🗣 TEACHER!AU WITH JOHNNY

PART TWO! LET’S GET IT!

pairing. history teacher! seo johnny ✗ english teacher! fem! reader (ft. english teacher! mark lee)

genre. fluff, slight humor, high school teacher au, non idol au

warnings. some cursing and super soft hours after this huhu <3 and not proofread but we can discuss that later

author’s note. this is an continuation to this blurb! this could be read as a standalone but regardless i hope this brought a smile to your face bc it certainly did for me <3

You should’ve seen it coming. Damn it, it was right in front of you all along, so why didn’t you see it in the first place?

You and your students have been grinding nonstop for the past couple weeks to prep them for the AP English IV exam. There was a time where you requested two days off from work for emergency purposes (thankfully it was nothing too major) leaving you to ask your coworker- Mark, another teacher in your department -to help fill in your students on materials needed for the exam.

Everything was perfectly fine when you came back, your coworker going beyond your expectations in taking care of your students. However, one thing you failed to take notice of is the recent changes the college board made in their AP exams, including the course you teach. After reviewing some of the revisions they made, you felt your heart drop.

They’ve added three additional sections to the exam, meaning an additional two weeks is needed to cover the materials for your students to grasp some sort of mastery on those concepts.

You have four weeks left until the exam, and you’re already compacted those remaining weeks with other necessary materials for the exam.

“Fucking hell,” you murmured under your breath.

Running your hand through your hair, you let out a tired sigh. It’s already bad enough that you have to work overtime in making revisions to your lesson plans. However, it’s worse to see the crestfallen looks on your students’ faces when you dropped the news on them. They’re already tired enough from dealing with other classes and extracurricular activities. On top of that, you know most of them are stressing about their acceptance letters from their colleges.

You dropped the pen in your hand and rubbed both of your eyelids. Relax, y/n you told yourself. Don’t worry, you can do this. You heard the door behind you open, meaning someone walked inside the teacher’s lounge.

“Hey, y/n. What’s up- Woah, woah, WOAH! What do we have here?” the person exclaimed. You let out a chortle. You could distinctively point that voice out from anywhere, and you’re sure as hell that the state of your workspace is nothing short of hell. Taking your hands away from your face, you crossed your arms and leaned back a little in your seat to look up at the latter.

“Well, hello to you too, Mark,” you chuckled. You both gave each a fist bump before he sits down in the empty chair beside you.

“What the hell happened here?” He grabs some of the documents splayed out before you, eyes scanning through the materials that you’ve scribbled on in the past hour. “Wait, what? They added new things to the AP exam?”

You sighed and nodded dejectedly. “Yep. And somehow, I gotta squeeze all those materials into my lesson plans before they take it next month.” You rested your arms on the table and rested your head on top of them. “At this point, I just want to light myself on fire and call it a day.”

Mark lets out a cackle besides you, prompting you to smile. You’ll never mention it to him, but his laughs and smiles are always infectious. It’s what makes him so well-known and loved in the English department in the first place, both faculties and students.

“Please don’t do that. We love you too much to let you do that to yourself,” he responded.

Sitting back up in your seat, you take a glance at the clock. Just four minutes before the section ends and you have to go back to teaching your classes again. You heard your coworker clear his throat, bringing you to face him.

“Do you need help with any of this?” he offered.

You shook your head. “No, it’s fine, Mark. I appreciate the offer but I don’t want to bother you with my workload.”

“No, really. It’s fine, y/n. I only teach honors and they’re all pretty ahead in their assignments, so I have some free time if you’d like.”

Just like that, you swear you could see a halo shining above his figure, your world much brighter and clearer than it was this morning. “Oh my god, yes please.” You shifted through your papers, searching the remnants of the piles before handing it over to him. “Can you please go through these and grade them for me? Here are the answer keys for them.” After debriefing him for that stack of papers, you gave him another one. “And for these, can you make some copies for me? I need them tonight so I can plan for tomorrow’s class.”

He listened attentively to your commands, taking a mental note and nodding each instruction given to him. “Okay, got it, y/n. I’ll get these done and hand them over by the end of the day.”

You’re gawking at him, surprised that your coworker is willing to lend you a helping hand. You could honestly cry out tears of joy right now, but timing refuses to let you do so as the bell rings, marking the end of a period. You both stood up in your seats and grabbed the papers on the table into a neat pile. You let out a content sigh as you both walked out the teacher’s lounge.

“Thank you so much, Mark. You’re the best,” you exhaled. Outside your classroom, you already see some students entering inside as you left it unlocked, free for them or your coworkers to enter as they pleased. You both stood next to its entrance before he shrugs his shoulders at you.

“Hey, I mean it’s what I do best, right? Being the best.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a playful shove, earning a laugh from him. Saying goodbyes to one another, you walked inside your classroom. You nodded to the students present. “Afternoon, class,” you greeted.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/n!”

“Miss Y/n, there’s a bouquet of flowers on your desk,” one of your students called out. You raised an eyebrow. Flowers? Looking over to your desk, your student was certainly not lying and neither are your eyes. Perched in the middle of your desk lies a vase filled with varying colors of tulips. Petals are in full bloom and the stems are clipped uniformly. You walked over and saw a notecard attached to one of the flowers.

“Who is it from, Miss Y/n?”

“Yeah! Who got you flowers?”

You looked up and realized more of your students are present, capacity almost at its max. Class was starting soon so more and more are rushing in to see the surprise gift settled on your desk.

“Is it Mr. Kim in the science department? I saw you two walking together in the hallways last week.”

That assumption piqued your interest. “Wait, Mr. Kim? The physics teacher?” you asked. The student, Krystal, nodded, causing you to huff incredulously. “Krystal, please. We’re merely just friends.”

Another student chimes in. “Friends don’t lock arms with each other at work.”

“Jongin, please. Your last girlfriend only stayed with you for a month and she started dating an upperclassman a week later.”

“Hey—”

“Guys, calm down,” you interjected. “As much as I love you crazy bunch, I am still your teacher. Therefore, what occurs in my personal life stays private, and how much I am willing to share with you all lies in my discretion.” But unbeknownst to you, one of your students sneaks behind you to get a glance of the card, discreetly reading the contents:

‘The best deserves nothing less than the best.

Yours truly.’

The student, Luna, almost lets out a squeal. “Guys! Guys!” You jumped in shock, startled by her sudden presence and her high-pitched voice. “I think it’s Mr. Lee! The other English teacher!”

All attention is now on her, excitement filled in the air.

“Mr. Lee? The one that teaches honors?”

“The one with boba eyes?”

“The one that laughs at everything?”

Luna nods to each question, visibly thrilled with the subtle jump in her steps as she walked towards her classmates. “Yes! I heard Miss y/n calling him the best earlier and Mr. Lee joked about being the best! And in the card, it said ‘the best deserves nothing less than the best’.” The bell rang, marking the beginning of the period, but that didn’t stop your students from chattering with happiness, faces completely wiped from fatigue and stress of the upcoming exams. Some students entered your classroom late to the discussion, prompting other students to fill them in only to also be electrified by the ‘news’.

You run a hand through your hair again and sighed. Not this again, you thought to yourself. But just before you could jump in to stop all this chaos, you heard someone knock on your open door, diverting your attention and your class’ to the intruder.

“Well, good afternoon, class,” the person chuckled. “Why’s it so boisterous here? Did I miss a party or something?”

Of course, what better person to appear now of all times? It was none other than the infamous history teacher, Johnny Seo. You rolled your eyes before laughing. Coincidence, my ass.

“Mr. Seo! Someone gave Miss Y/n a bouquet of tulips! She has a secret admirer!” Luna stated.

He raised an eyebrow at her direction. “Oh, does she now?” He looks back at you with a grin. “Did Miss Y/n find out who this secret admirer is?”

“We think it’s Mr. Lee from honors English.”

“And what makes you think so?”

“Because we heard her call him the best earlier before class started, and the notecard called her the best.”

“Coincidence? I think not,” Jongin nodded.

All of the students followed along in unison, profoundly proud of their assumptions that left you shaking your head in disbelief. Surely, you had a smile on your face, but it’s surprising to know how your students are able to make such large assumptions based on groundless evidence. You sat down in your chair and turned on your computer, getting your lesson plan ready for the period as your students entertained themselves with Mr. Seo.

Johnny takes it all in, nodding to all of them before walking up behind your desk. “Well, I think it’s safe to say that you don’t pester too much to Miss y/n about it. You know how much she likes to keep her life private.” While you were browsing through your saved files and pulling up powerpoints, you felt the latter tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Right, Mrs. Seo?”

And just like that, your hands stilled. Wait, did he just—

“Hold up..”

“What?”

“Did you just—”

“Mrs. Seo?”

“Huh?”

You squeezed your eyelids shut. Oh my god, here we go again—

“YOU GUYS ARE MARRIED??”

jeongvision’s milestone event!

#johnny #nct johnny #johnny scenarios #johnny imagines #nct #nct 127 #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 imagines #johnny x reader #johnny x oc #johnny fluff #johnny smut #johnny suh #johnny seo #johnny angst

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wedreamedlove · 3 years

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[FIC] Dandelion

Rating: G Characters: Li Zeyan/Reader Word Count: 1589

Prompt: Hi! I really like your writing 🥺! Thank you for your hard work❤️❤️! If you don't mind can I request a headcanon about Victor when MC is hospitalized because she is fainted due to her overwork, and when she gain her consciousness she try to leave the hospital because she is worried about the important filming at her office, but Victor chase her and make her back to hospital's bed? I will really happy if you grant my request 🥰🥰

A/N: Thank you for your kind words! I ended up writing this in my usual 2nd person perspective but the experiences are of the MC in the game. If that bothers anyone, oops, you can re-imagine this to be written in 3rd person perspective.

Something like fuzz encroaches at the edges of your vision and your head feels like it's filled with cotton. None of these are good signs and, to be honest, you know you're at your limit after working 60 hours for the past three days.

You're able to get away with this—as well as the enormous pile of energy drinks on your desk—only because Anna is away on a business trip for another project, meaning no one else in the company dares to make you take a break. Oh, there are people who make gentle suggestions to rest but none of them can budge your determination to perfect this important contract you had accepted. Last minute changes had been added to the outline and so, to ensure everything is still on schedule, you have to pull this insane work schedule.

But you can see the light at the end of the tunnel. You just have to finish looking through the last 20 pages of this document in front of you.

You rub your forehead to stave off the building tension in your head and reach out with your other hand for a drink. However, your hand only bumps into empty cans around you and you grimace as you realize you have to make another run to the nearby convenience store to buy more drinks.

When you stand up to do just that, extreme vertigo assaults you and your last thought before your vision goes black is 'Oh... this isn't good.'

You wake up to an extremely white ceiling.

It's pure white.

It's so white that, for a second, you morbidly wonder if you really overdid it this time. But then the rest of your senses make themselves known and you smell the antiseptic scent of a hospital, you feel the crisp sheets below your hands, and you think you hear someone breathing.

You turn your head to the side and your gaze collides into eyes the color of steel. It's Li Zeyan, and with an incredible scowl no less.

"You're awake."

You struggle to sit up and swing your legs to the side of the bed, but he places a large hand on your thigh immediately, obstructing your movement and pressing you down.

"What do you think you're doing?" Li Zeyan's voice is clipped. Uh oh, someone isn't happy.

"I have to get back to the company."

He gives you an incredulous look. "Do you realize what state you're in?"

His words make you notice you're in a hospital gown and there is an IV drip attached to you. You wince slightly at the sight of the needle in the back of your hand but another thought soon takes over your mind.

"Wait, how long have I been here? Did I miss the deadline?" Your voice rises in desperation and there's a suffocating weight on your chest when you think about how all your earlier work might amount to nothing.

"Idiot, how are you still thinking about work? You truly don't understand your condition. You hadn't had any proper sleep or food and the amount of energy drinks you were drinking was dangerous. Even though you're still young, if you continue like that you could do irreparable damage to your body. You—" He cuts himself off and his eyes widen. "Are you... crying?"

You reflexively reach up to touch your cheek and your fingertips come back wet. You blink and Li Zeyan's figure goes blurry as more tears well up in your eyes.

"Sorry, it's just a physical reaction. Don't mind me. You can keep lecturing. I'm listening," you choke out through a tight throat. Frustration, embarrassment, and mortification strangles you.

You roughly wipe at the tears, wanting them to stop right now before you see the exasperation in Li Zeyan's eyes. Intellectually, you know he's right and you don't want it to look like you're crying to get him to go easy on you. There have been many times where you feel childish and inadequate compared to him and so you don't need to come off even more as a baby throwing a tantrum.

But the tears just won't stop. Your shoulders shake with the effort you use to suppress your sobs.

A hand holding a tissue box appears in your lap.

"Cry it out."

You shake your head like a rattle drum.

"... What haven't I seen?" Li Zeyan's voice is low and even, and it's when he places a hand on your head that your last resistance crumbles.

You hunch over, automatically trying to stifle your gasps, but you end up crying your eyes out anyway.

You cry, and cry, and cry. You cry about the pressure of the deadline. You cry about the fear of not being able to make it. You cry about the anxiety and worry over whether you're doing enough or whether you're good enough. You cry at how hard it is to be be a successful adult.

The entire time you can feel the soft pressure of Li Zeyan stroking your hair.

Eventually, you calm down enough to start pulling wads of tissue out of the box to wipe your eyes and blow your nose as the last of your tears trickle to a stop. All your emotions feel raw and sensitive, but you have to admit you feel a lot better.

Li Zeyan takes your dirty tissues before you can say anything and tosses them into the wastebasket below the bed. Then he levels an unreadable gaze on you and, just as you're about to squirm and open your mouth, he speaks first.

"Why are you working so hard?"

"Huh?"

"No one pushes themselves like this unless there's something very important they're trying to achieve. So, what is it for you?"

"... You're going to think I'm dumb."

He stares at you flatly and you can see that he's clearly thinking it's a bit too late for that.

You look down at the hospital sheets and pick at a loose thread. "I want to catch up to you."

"Idiot." He actually scoffs out loud but continues before you can decide how to react to that, leaning back in his chair. "Do you know why I created Huarui?"

You blink, caught off guard. You know it isn't a family business and that he started the company when he was in his final years of university. But did he ever say why he created it? Because he could? Li Zeyan standing at the top of the world seems as natural as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, so you never questioned it.

He sees your confusion and explains, "I was looking for the girl who saved me when I was a child. I searched for her for 11 years."

Your childhood memories are still vague but you do remember the more recent memory of the film set where you and Li Zeyan had been tricked and how you jumped in front of Li Zeyan to shield him. You can almost feel the ache and burn of the lightning strike again if you think hard enough.

Li Zeyan continues to look at you, his eyes calm without any ripples. "I built Huarui and made it rise to the top because I thought that, if I stood in the highest place I could think of, then she would have an easier time finding me. Of course, the position itself also allowed me to increase the extent of my search for her."

"In the end, I did find you."

A wry smile flashes across his face, so quick you doubt your eyes. "Yes, you found me first, and so my choice wasn't the wrong one."

You know he's trying to tell you something but, try as you might, you can't figure out how the current conversation connects back to the previous one. As the silence grows, you see exasperation appear in Li Zeyan's eyes before he sighs lightly.

"Now, after all these years and efforts, do you think I would walk away? You only need to reach out and I'm right here, waiting for you."

His words crash into you, bringing with them a sudden epiphany and new perspective. You reach out without a thought, as if to touch him and make sure he really is there, but then you realize how silly that looks. Before your hand can drop though, he covers the remaining distance and grabs your hand, wrapping your entire hand within his and entwining your fingers together. The familiar warmth and steady strength makes your eyes sting again and you drop your gaze to your interlinked hands, not wanting him to see you cry again.

You finally realize you've been mistaken all this time. You were being crushed by your own expectations and desires to stand beside him. In your head, you imagined him to be walking ahead of you, his back growing smaller and smaller. But that isn't true at all. Yes, he stands in front of you, but he isn't moving. Instead, his body is turned to yours and he's holding a hand out towards you, waiting for you to take a step. If you fall, he will catch you. If you take a firm step and grasp his hand, he will take another step forward and wait for you there.

"I'm not going anywhere." The words were low and solemn.

"Mm."

Against all odds, you both found each other again and so there is no way either of you will leave the other.

#love and producer #mr love queen's choice #mlqc victor #mlqc li zeyan #mlqc

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well-its-not-human-anymore · 3 years

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Ok ok wait probs not the kinda request you expected but theres this movie called over the moon about a moon goddess losing her one true love and near the end she sees him again for a moment and they sing THE MOST HOPELESS LOVE SONG IVE LISTENED A MILLION TIMES ALREADY AND THEY SING PARTLY IN MANDARIN and im just thinking if the boys saw that with reader would they imagine theirselves in place? Would leo sing it mindlessly forever, would raph desperatley wish? I just gotta know bestie im desperat

Okay I'm definitely watching this movie tonight but for now I'll stick with the clip (bitch u got me crying on main) how am I supposed to maintain my emotionless personality now???

But I'm so hyped to write this now, buckle up my space children, and you might want to grab some tissues~

TMNT Headcanons

The boys reacting to the Yours Forever scene:

Leonardo

This was fine

This was totally fine

Holy shit it was a damn movie, why was it giving him feelings??

He'd been at your place for nearly 3 hours and you'd only started the movie halfway into his visit

You told him it was a kids movie

So why the hell was he getting teary eyed?

The Facade™ has been compromised

Leo didn't speak a lot of mandarin, just a few simple phrases that Splinter had taught him

But you'd clearly seen this movie more than once because he could hear you faintly singing along

Your mandarin was flawless

You didn't notice the way he was looking at you, too enraptured by the movie

His gut was twisting when he looked back at the screen

He knew he'd be humming this for at least a week

Andddd now you were sniffling

Shit shit double shit and then some

Leo awkwardly wrapped an arm around your shoulders, hesitant

You immediately snuggled into his side, pulling your blanket closer to your chin

"I've seen it like seven time and I know they're fictional but it just makes me so fucking sad" you were hiccuping between words

"I can see that, are you okay?"

You furiously rubbed at your eyes

"yeah- just gets me feeling stuff. I'm not a huge fan of that."

This man's eyes were boring into your skull

"I want what they have though, I'd give an arm and a leg for someone to look at me like they look at each other. That's some real shit, y'know?"

Leo stared at the tv screen, rubbing your shoulder, you couldn't see the flushed green of his skin in the dark

"yeah. Yeah I know."

Donatello

You had no idea that Donnie spoke mandarin

It really shouldn't have surprised you though

I mean come on, it's Donnie for fucks sake

He was excited to watch the movie with you, all of the ones in his collection he'd watched 100 times at least

Needless to say he jumped on the opportunity to watch something other than jurassic park

You'd brought your laptop and projector and settled down on the roof of an abandoned building, the same one you both usually stargazed on

You'd seen the movie twice before, this was his first time

So when the 'Yours Forever' scene came on the last thing you were expecting was for Donnie to join in

He had a very nice voice but you never knew he could sing like that

You stared at him in shock

The poor boy stopped the second he realized you were looking, leaving you singing solo

You nudged his shoulder and nodded your head at him, a way of saying "hey, don't leave me hanging here"

Now you were dueting a love song with a turtle on a rooftop

Best Saturday night ever

Donnie couldn't look at you for the rest of the night, not even when he walked you home.

But the expression you left on his face after kissing his cheek and ducking into your apartment made it all worth it

Raphael

Raph wasn't one for emotions

You weren't either

So the both of you did your best not to react during the movie that his brothers had invited you to watch with them

You were sandwiched on the couch between Raph and Mikey, Splinter, Leo, and Donnie sat on the opposite sofa

Splinter didn't miss the longing eyes that his son was giving you

Raph couldn't believe that a damn kids movie was making him feel things about you

You seemed oblivious, completely stone-faced, eyes locked on the screen

Internally you were waging a war against yourself, screaming at your own subconscious not to glance at him

No looking

Don't you fucking dare

That damn duet made you feel shit and you wouldn't be caught dead looking at your friend the way you really wanted to

Especially knowing that Splinter was watching you as well

You definitely felt the turtles eyes on you though

Raph was fighting the same battle with himself

He knew what he wanted to do, but he knew he didn't have the courage to do it

Not with you

Not with his family there

You were just a friend

So why was he looking at you the way the characters had been?

Damned if he knew

It wasn't until the end of the movie that he'd noticed his hand in your lap

You'd wrapped both of your own hands around his and held him there, you honestly didn't remember doing it

And he made no effort to pull away

Michaelangelo

Alright listen

You and Mikey have seen this at least 20 times together

The boy suggested it to you

And now you've both convinced the rest of the boys to watch it with you

So when that scene comes on you both already know the routine

You both start singing

You realize you're both singing

His brothers realize you're both singing

You both stop abruptly

He turns an even darker shade of green

You're screaming at your skin to stop turning red for fucks sake

He wishes that was him

You wish you were her

He's gonna be thinking about this all week

You're gonna make an impromptu phone call to your best friend to rant about it

You guys have done this 20 times now.

How the fuck have you not noticed

The boys opt not to point it out

They've got a bet on how much longer it will last

Donnie's been leading for the past three weeks

He's not losing this shit

I hope I was able to capture what you had in mind dude! I'm also forcing my best friend to watch this movie with me tonight. If you were thinking something different let me know. Other than that I hope you like it as much as I do! 🧡

~Mars 🌠

#tmnt x reader #tmnt raphael #tmnt michelangelo #tmnt leonardo #tmnt donatello #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #tmnt headcanons

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king-finnigan · 4 years

Text

5 times Jaskier got sick and 1 time Geralt did

As part of my 500 followers celebration! Masterlist!

CW: being sick, vomiting

***

He sneezes, and Geralt looks at him with narrowed eyes. “Are you getting sick?”

Jaskier scoffs, shakes his head, and continues prodding at the fire. “No.” He sneezes again. “Okay, maybe.”

“Hmm.”

He frowns. “Ooh, now that’s a ‘hmm’ I haven’t heard before. What does it mean?”

Geralt rolls his eyes and looks away, as Jaskier sneezes again. “It means I’m not going to take care of you if you get sick.”

Jaskier sneezes again. “Yeah, I figured that much.” He rubs at his eyes, which are slightly swollen from all the sneezing. “I’ll just firmly tell my body not to get sick, then. That always works.”

“Hmm.” He recognizes that one as a slightly amused ‘hmm’, and he smiles in triumph. Over the past few years, it has become a bit of a personal challenge to make Geralt laugh or smile as much as possible, and, while low on the tier list of ‘how amused is Geralt of Rivia?’, an amused ‘hmm’ is better than nothing. At least it’s better than an unamused ‘hmm’.

Like the one he gets, now, when he suddenly dissolves into a bout of coughing. “It’s fine,” he chokes out when he finally regains his breath. “Not getting sick.”

“We’re stopping at the next inn. You’ll stay there until you get better, and I’ll get some contracts.”

He wants to whine, tell Geralt he’s fine and he’s coming along with these contracts, but when he starts coughing again, he can’t help but admit that the Witcher is right. Though, when Geralt leaves him behind at the inn the next day, he finds himself wishing Geralt would stay.

II.

He’s performing ‘Toss a Coin’ when he sneezes. The audience laughs, and he plays it off as a joke, making fun of himself, so the audience won’t, before he continues with his song. After he’s done, he graciously accepts his payment and a pint of ale, before he saunters over to the corner of the tavern, sitting down opposite Geralt.

“You sneezed,” is the first thing the Witcher says to him.

“Hello, Jaskier, what a lovely performance, Jaskier, thank you for paying for our dinner tonight, Jaskier,” he says in a mock-gruff voice. He sighs, rolls his eyes. “Really, Geralt, we talked about your conversational skills.”

“You sneezed.”

He dramatically lifts his hands. “So what? People sneeze all the time! It’s dusty in here, Witcher.”

“Your voice is rough.”

“Yes, that’s what you get for performing for three hours straight. You’re welcome, by the way.” He plonks his full coin pouch on the table, gesturing at it, eyebrows in his hairline.

“You’re snotty.”

“Well, now you’re just being downright insulting, Geralt. After all these years of me traveling by your side, and you have the audacity-“

“Jaskier. I can tell you’re getting sick.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s fine.”

Geralt looks at him, blinking slowly, almost lazily. His expression is almost bored, but Jaskier can tell from the little muscle that’s pulling at his lips, that the Witcher is getting annoyed. “Hmm.” Now that’s an ‘I don’t believe you for shit but I’m tired of arguing’-hmm, he can tell.

“Alright, maybe it’s not fine.” He points at Geralt. “But don’t you dare leave me at an inn again, like last time.”

“Why not?”

Cause it hurt my feelings, and I would love for you to take care of me when I’m sick. “I don’t want to miss out on any contracts and potential inspiration.”

“Hmm.” An ‘I can tell you’re lying’-hmm.

He simply changes the subject, for now, and hopes he doesn’t get sick in the next couple of days. He thanks all his lucky stars when he doesn’t.

III.

He tries to keep quiet as he leans one hand against the tree, the other on his stomach as he retches, emptying the contents of his stomach in the leaves. He must’ve eaten something bad, or caught a stomach bug. He decides it doesn’t really matter, though, as another wave of nausea rolls over him. He gags again, trying to not make any sound.

Of course, it doesn’t work, and he soon hears Geralt’s voice behind him. “Jaskier.”

He closes his eyes, trying to keep down the bile that rises in his throat. “I’m fine.” The clipped and strained sound of his voice begs to differ.

“Hmm.” A ‘not even Roach would believe that’-hmm. Then: “Are you done?”

He holds up a finger, chokes down one last gag, before he stands up straight, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’m fine, let’s go.”

He turns around to find Geralt frowning at him, confused. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“No. We’re not going anywhere but back to camp.”

He sighs. “I’m fine! We can go to the next town, don’t worry about it.”

“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. Once again a ‘hmm’ he can’t identify. Strange. “Come on, Jaskier.”

He sighs, but follows Geralt back to camp, laying down on his bedroll when the Witcher motions at it. He does have to admit, laying down makes him feel a lot better, and pretty soon he finds himself dozing off to the rhythmic sound of Geralt sharpening his blades.

When he wakes in the morning, the Witcher gives him a piece of… some sort of root. “Ginger,” the Witcher explains roughly. “Helps.”

Jaskier shrugs and eats it. It doesn’t taste entirely pleasant, but it does make him feel better, and by midday, he’s ready to set out on the road again.

IV.

“You’re limping.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

“Hmm.” Another ‘I don’t believe you’-hmm. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

Jaskier stops walking when he no longer hears Roach’s hooves on the dusty path behind him, and he turns around. “Nothing! It’s really fine, there’s nothing going on. I appreciate you worrying, though, it’s very endearing.”

“Jaskier.”

He sighs, then shrugs. “Okay, maybe I got a cut on my leg last week that healed badly. So what? I assure you I’m perfectly fine, Witcher.” He starts stammering when Geralt dismounts Roach, stalking towards him. “A- and there is absolutely no reason for you to walk towards me, in- in a vaguely threatening manner- Geralt!”

He lets out an angry huff when the Witcher bends down, yanking the leg of his breeches up. “Hmm.” An ‘I’m very angry right now, but not at you’-hmm. “It’s infected.”

He shrugs again, pointedly looking everywhere but the reddened skin that surrounds the cut. “It’s fine. Nothing to worry about, r-really, and-“

He scrunches his face in confusion when Geralt lays a hand against his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Get on Roach.”

“Geralt, as much as I have longed for you to say those three words for the past ten years, I assure you I’m perfectly fine.”

“Get. On. Roach.”

He holds his hands up in defeat. “Alright, alright! Melitele’s tits, Geralt, if I’d known you’d kick up such a fuss over a simple flesh wound, I would’ve been more careful.”

“Hmm. You should be.”

He sighs, rolls his eyes, as he climbs on Roach. Geralt climbs on the horse behind him, and Jaskier tries to fight the furious blush that starts spreading across his cheeks at the feeling of Geralt’s chest against his back. They set out to the nearest town, where the Witcher gets a room at the inn and drags him to the herbalist for something against the infection.

The ointment the old lady gives them works wonders, and within two days, the infection has cleared.

It’s hard to breathe. Harder to move. Opening his eyes for more than two seconds isn’t even an option, anymore, and every time he does manage to pry his eyelids apart, the world is swimming around him, making bile rise in his throat. He’s hot. No- he’s cold. But now he’s hot again, and he’s sweating, but he’s also shivering, and good gods, what did he do to deserve this?

He sighs when he feels something cold and wet and rough against his forehead, seeping away some of the heat. He doesn’t know whether the droplet that slides down the side of his head is sweat or water, but he decides it doesn’t matter when a bout of coughing wracks through his body.

He’s tired, he’s so bloody tired, but he can’t fall asleep when the temperature keeps changing from hot to cold to hot again, when his lungs keep constricting in his chest pathetically, making him cough and wheeze, desperate for any gulp of air he manages to suck in. The shivering becomes uncontrollable, unbearable, even though he’s sweating, still. He finally manages to pry open his eyes, finding the room around him blurry and dark. He looks around, desperate for anything recognizable, anything that doesn’t give him the feeling that he’s floating in a vast ocean of his own goddamn sweat. Finally, he finds something silver, to his right.

“Geralt,” he manages to croak out, desperately gasping for breath soon afterwards.

“I’m here.” He could cry at that familiar voice, and he might actually be, when he feels another droplet slide down the side of his head.

“I feel like shit.”

“Hmm.” And amused ‘hmm’. But slightly worried as well. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“It hurts.” It does. Everything hurts. His muscles hurt, his lungs hurt, his head hurts, his eyes hurt. It fucking hurts.

Someone wipes his sweaty hair away from his forehead, knuckles trailing down his cheek lightly, and he figures someone else must be in the room because Geralt would never be this gentle with him. It’s already a bloody miracle he’s still here, really. “I know, Jaskier. I know. Try to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

“Will you be there? When I wake up?”

“Hmm.” That’s a ‘yes’-hmm.

He sighs, his lungs aching. “Good. Cause I don’t want to wake up at all if you’re not there.” His eyes drift closed again, and he finds himself slipping into unconsciousness.

---

When he wakes up, he finds Geralt next to the bed, stuffed into an entirely too small chair, asleep. No way the position he’s in is comfortable – his neck craned at an awkward angle, his back barely supported by the hard wood. But he’s there, just as he had promised to Jaskier.

The bard smiles, and reaches out, pushing at Geralt’s knee. The Witcher wakes, amber eyes widening when he sees Jaskier. He immediately bends forward, laying his hand against Jaskier’s forehead, eyes studying his face. “How are you feeling?”

“A bit better.” He smiles. “You’re here.”

“I told you I would be.”

He laughs softly, eyes drifting closed again, sleep pulling at him limbs. “That, you did.” He shivers, the heat of the fever no longer keeping him warm. “Geralt, I’m cold.”

“There are no more blankets.”

He pouts, reaches out, eyes still closed. “You’re warm.”

He hears a long-suffering sigh, then the creaking of the chair. Footsteps across the room. He feels the dip of the bed behind him, feels strong arms closing around him, and he sighs in content, before frowning. “Won’t you get sick?”

“Witchers don’t get sick.”

“Okay,” he whispers, before falling asleep in Geralt’s arms.

---

By the time they finally leave the inn, several days later, neither of them has mentioned what happened, and Jaskier doubts either of them will.

+ I

He doesn’t think much of it when Geralt coughs a few times. He does find it strange when it happens more and more in the next few days. He grows suspicious when a fine sheen of sweat appears on the Witcher’s forehead, even if he says he’s fine and tells Jaskier to stop fussing over him like that, he’s just hot, is all. He’s had enough when red spots start to litter Geralt’s skin.

He forces the Witcher to go to an inn, and he’s glad he did, by the time they reach it. Geralt’s hunched over Roach’s neck, sweat dripping from his brow, his skin so spotted with red he almost looks sunburnt. Jaskier barely manages to get him up the stairs, and immediately drops him on the bed, where Geralt lays very still, staring up at the wooden ceiling, breathing heavily.

Jaskier helps him out of his armour, uncovering more and more red spots as he works his way down to Geralt’s boots.

“I’m fine,” Geralt rasps to him. He doesn’t believe it for shit.

“Yeah, no you’re not, Witcher. Looks like you’ve got yourself some measles.”

Geralt scoffs, though it sounds more like two pieces of sandpaper rubbed together. “Witchers don’t get measles.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, taking a washcloth, wetting it with some water from his waterskin. “Well, you did, so I suggest you change your views on that, Geralt.” He sits down on the side of the bed, gently laying the washcloth over Geralt’s brow, softly pressing it down. “You’re burning up,” he whispers.

“It’s fine.”

He smiles. “Go to sleep, Geralt. Get some rest.”

The Witcher sighs. “Hmm.” A ‘fine, alright, I’ll listen’-hmm. “I’m cold.”

Jaskier laughs softly, climbing over Geralt, laying down on his other side, hugging him to his chest. “Better?”

Geralt shakes his head frantically, weakly pushing at him – the fever’s clearly already taking a toll on him. “You’ll get sick,” he rasps.

“I had the measles as a kid. I’ll be fine, Witcher.”

“Hmm.” A content ‘hmm’. Then, suddenly: “Thank you, Jaskier. I love you.”

Geralt’s breathing evens out, as Jaskier pushes himself up on one elbow, looking down on his Witcher. Geralt is fast asleep, breathing deep and steady, face relaxed from its eternal frown. Jaskier smiles, laying down again, pulling his Witcher closer. “I love you too,” he whispers. Of course, Geralt doesn’t hear him, but he’ll say it again when he wakes up.

He’ll say it a million times if he has to – and he would mean it every time.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #drabble #500 followers celebration #5 + 1 things

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prurientpuddlejumper · 3 years

Text

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 16

<- Part 15 | Part 17 ->

Summary: A flirtatious moment in the hospital garden turns sour.

Warnings: Brief nsfw themes, injury-recovery angst, post-traumatic stress/flashbacks, graphic past injuries, KISSING, hurt/comfort. Love and fluff.

3,700 words

After being gutted left him with a limp, a cane, and an overbearing sense of weakness, Frederick Chilton began copying Hannibal Lecter. His patterned suits, his clean-shaven face. The mimicry wasn’t deliberate exactly, but he looked to a man who radiated calm dignity and strength, and tried to capture some of it for his own.

It didn’t work. Frederick Chilton was still Frederick Chilton.

But shaving the beard did make him look younger. The razor glided over his smooth cheek as he cut through the facial hair that had grown unruly in the hospital. A new man stared back at him. One not traumatized by Gideon’s knife.

Only a few months later, he was shot in the face, and let the stubble grow back to distract from the scar. To obscure the hollowing where maxillary bone was missing. Like a chameleon, Frederick was always changing—hairstyles, wardrobes, colognes—always imitating someone, drawing the eye away from a flaw, never comfortable with himself. Ever improving. Refining. Hiding.

Every day, the burn ward’s physical therapists had him using one exercise machine or another. A pedaling machine lowered over his bed so he could build muscle while lying on his back before he was able to walk. The next step was a tall, rolling frame that he strapped into like a fighter pilot hanging from a parachute harness, which allowed him to take a few weightless steps. His legs shook. His feet did not know how to align themselves on the ground anymore. He hissed curses when you cheered him on just for shuffling one foot forward along the smooth grey linoleum.

One damned foot.

As if he couldn’t walk before. As if one shaking, machine-assisted step was an accomplishment. He was an overgrown baby in a Jumperoo.

While he could not walk on his own yet, he could get into and out of a wheelchair without screaming bloody murder. This allowed him a new level of freedom, if not autonomy. He still required two nurses to lower him into the chair. Still needed help getting to the bathroom. But he could at least use the bathroom instead of a bedpan and catheter.

Healing came at a cost.

Until now, he had caught flashes of his reflection in polished surfaces. Warped teeth in a metal IV pole. The fuzzy silhouette of a mask in the black of his computer screen.

He stood with his hands on the bathroom sink, staring. The nurse at his left elbow tugged him, told him it was time to sit back down in the chair. He needed support to stand, a babysitter to ensure he didn’t fall, and she was tired of waiting.

The thing staring back at him did not move.

When he took the compression mask off for the one hour per day he was allowed to remove it for cleaning, he somehow expected to find his own face beneath it. Skin. What he saw was a stranger. Gnarled scars made an uneven backdrop for one dead blue eye and a skeletal grimace. His own bones were buried somewhere underneath like bedrock, but the flesh was rearranged and distorted.

If he had met this man a year ago, Dr. Chilton would have felt inward pride at his ability not to sicken at the sight. He would have shaken his hand with a smug, professional detachment that said, “I am accustomed to horrific things in my line of work—abnormal psychiatry. This does not shock me as it would a layperson.”

He was a creature to be pitied.

Then a familiar reflection appeared out of the blind spot of his left side. Your image wrapped its hand behind the broken stranger, and he felt it land on his lower back. Warm. Comforting as your face, which was knit with worry. You told the nurse you could handle it from here, and she retreated out to his room.

When she was gone, Frederick began to laugh, dark and cruel, eyes never leaving the matching set staring cruelly back.

“What is it?” you asked, tightening your grip on his arm as he began to tremble.

“Do you think I look younger without a beard?”

The laugh cracked in his throat. His shoulders heaved as he finally looked away. It was too embarrassing to watch a grown man cry.

***

The heat of July was not easy on a body that could no longer sweat and was covered head to toe in a compression suit, but Frederick Chilton was thrilled to be outside. As the automatic sliding doors opened, he breathed in deeply through the nose and exhaled the spinning summer fragrances with a blissful sigh.

You resisted the urge to tease him. Of the pair, you were the more outdoorsy by far, and the last time you dragged him camping, he’d managed to complain the entire two days. He was not, generally, one to appreciate sunshine and birdsong. But this was different.

It was his first time away from the lifeless hospital air—the same smells day after day—in four months.

Now a breeze hit his face—a breeze! He had forgotten what that felt like—and brought with it the smell of cut grass and flowers, and exhaust fumes from the nearby roadways. The scent of gasoline urged his stomach to wring itself empty, but it was faint and easy enough to shake off as sparrows chirped and flitted about the hospital’s “meditation garden.”

Gently curving paths snaked through the landscaping of lush greenery and small trees. Few flowers were planted, out of respect for patients with allergies, but a fountain at the center babbled soothingly. The walkways were wide and smoothly paved, so the grey wheels of the hospital-issue wheelchair rolled over them easily, performing their function despite being over-worked and worn down, not unlike the staff. The black rubber handle grips had a dull patina from hundreds of hands, yours being the latest to circle around them as you pushed.

It was nice to have a private courtyard to enjoy the fresh air without the eyes of the general public watching.

Frederick was able to wear clothes from home now, but they had to be loose-fitting and short-sleeved to not interfere with his treatment. In a navy polo shirt and athletic shorts, he felt horrifically under-dressed, and did not want to be seen that way. The fashion crime was almost as bad as the face he could not bear looking at.

An elderly patient and what appeared to be her adult daughter sat on one of the benches between two daylily patches, blooming garishly cheerful red and gold. The daughter looked up, and Chilton looked away.

“You are certain you checked the bedroom closet? Left-hand side, second drawer to the bottom?” he asked again, agitation rising.

He was looking for the more fashionable Chino shorts he rarely wore, preferring to overheat in long pants than expose his pale, door-knob knees to imagined ridicule. You told him the housekeeper must have misplaced them.

He clenched his fist as tightly as the pink, shiny-scarred claw could manage and went on a gruff, impotent rant about the help growing careless without him to keep them in check. (If anything, the “help” were desperate to keep you in check without him there to manage your habit of leaving everything out—your clothes on a chair, the cereal box on the counter.)

“I know, I know. Awful,” you nodded along to the music of his words, if not the lyrics. You wished he would change the subject, but he pressed on with his investigation of the Case of the Missing Shorts.

“Mrs. Pérez brought a load of laundry down from the bedroom last Wednesday,” he noted. Frederick had taken to watching the security feeds remotely from his laptop. “Has she been using the cheap dry cleaner on Cherry Street instead of the good one so she can skim the difference? I have explicitly instructed the staff not to use them—they have lost or ruined several articles over the years. Inform Mrs. Pérez that I will not stand for lazy—what?”

Your tense smile began emanating a tenser whine.

It was rather suspicious.

Frederick watched you for a moment, puzzled, and then resumed, “The new security guard shares my pant size. Perhaps—”

“I DID IT. I brought them to Good Will.”

“You what?!”

Clicking the wheelchair brake, you doubled over the back of it, laughing at your childish ruse and how seriously Frederick had taken it. God, the man could never let anything go! “Over a year ago! You never wore them!”

“Come here.” His clipped tone did not invite argument.

You walked around to the front of his chair, the repentant pout on your face strongly undermined by rounded cheeks that were barely holding back a chuckle.

He growled with affectionate anger—the kind where he wanted to grab behind your knees and pull you into his lap, telling you with a low purr exactly how much trouble you were in. Except at the moment, your weight crashing onto his skinny, bony lap would have bruised a femur and torn five stitches. And if he was not confident enough for a kiss, he was in no condition to promise punishments of that nature.

So he gave your rump a sharp smack and tried to make his mouth smirk in that playfully disdainful way that said, “I love you, but I am going to kill you. You know that, right?” Sometimes wanting to kill someone can be such a personal, intimate love language.

“Doctor Chilton!” you gasped, feigning shock. “Such a naughty patient. I have told you time and again, this is simply unprofessional.”

The old woman and daughter had moved on, leaving you alone in the garden.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, catching on to the new game you were playing. Back when he was the administrator of the BSHCI, you would often saunter into his office playing the oversexed patient to his sleazy therapist. Now the roles were reversed.

“You protest,” he said in a low, lecherous tone, “and yet you continue to lavish extra attention on me. Do not think I have not noticed.”

“I don’t know what you could mean,” you deflected coyly. “Please keep your hands to yourself, sir.”

He grabbed your hand and spun you to face him, skeletal fingers interlocking with yours. Even through the compression glove, you could feel how skinny they had become, knobby knuckles protruding.

“Doctor,” he corrected.

You swallowed. “Doctor.”

“Why deny it? You guard all my treatments for yourself like a prize when other nurses could do it. You crawl into my bed to warm me with your body heat—hardly standard practice. I think you like the attention,” he said, giving your ass another lurid slap.

“D-Doctor! I’m not supposed to—we’re not supposed to…”

“If you worked at my hospital, I would fire you for such fraternization. Yet you call me unprofessional.” His hand still rested on your ass.

“You would fire me, doctor? Why fire me when there is so much I could offer?”

“And what is it you would offer me?” he asked, voice thick with meaning. His fingers kneaded the fat of your ass gently. It would have been harder, more possessive, if his hands were at full strength.

Not long ago, getting an erection had been painful, though he’d had several corrective surgeries since then, and the grafting had time to heal. Perhaps the sunlight was sparking him back to life. He was in a flirtatious mood—more excited than you’d seen him in a long time, and you were not about to tell him to slow down.

“Anything you want, doctor.” You lowered yourself in front of his chair, kneeling between his legs and looking up at him expectantly.

His Adam’s apple bobbed.

No one else was in the garden, and statues and shrubberies hid it from the road, but it was not entirely private. Anyone could walk in or see from a window of the tall buildings. You were just pretending. You weren’t going to slip his cock out right there and suck it for all the world to see. And yet… it had been so long. The thought of your moist lips closing over his lonely, aching hardness, your head bobbing in his lap…

“You… are fascinated with me, nurse,” he observed, licking his non-lips. His composure was holding, but barely. “You have seen many patients, but never one as badly burned, have you?”

“No.”

“Does it excite you?”

You took a moment before answering. Part of him resented you for still finding him attractive. At his lowest, he even blamed you for wanting these brutal injuries to happen. A bird sang a few metallic notes on a nearby branch before fluttering down to drink from the fountain. You stroked the top of his narrow thighs, careful not to push too far by going near his cock, but he showed no sign of hesitation today. The heat in his eyes as he watched you was not accusing, but hungry.

“Yes,” you panted. “You are striking. I’ve never met anyone so strong, so resilient.”

“Do you dream of kissing me? Your most striking patient?”

“Yes.”

The sun beat down hotter, but it was only your own internal temperature rising. The birds seemed to pause in their songs, and the leaves on the trees ceased to flutter.

You had waited so long—was he really asking?

His gloved hand reached down between his legs, and nailless pink fingertips stroked the side of your face thoughtfully a few times. Then he motioned you to get up off your knees, offering his hand as a symbolic gesture only. You put some of your weight on the padded rubber armrest as you stood.

“It will not be pleasant. For either party, I imagine,” he said, breaking character.

“It will be for me.” Your voice was soft.

“I do not know what to do like this. Mash my teeth against your face?”

You laughed a little. It was probably more nuanced than that, but that sounded basically accurate. “We’ll find out together.”

He looked off into the distance, toward the humming road weaving through the city. A warm breeze brought the smell of sea off the harbor: salty, humid, and stagnant with rotted fish and garbage. “The memory of your lips against mine is already fading,” he said. “That memory is all I have left of them. Whatever this will be, it will not feel the same.”

“I know.” You rested a hand on his shoulder. The dark blue polo was informal for his old life, but the woven cotton texture was rich compared to the thin hospital gowns you were used to him wearing. The last kiss you shared with Frederick was preserved behind a glass display case in your memory palace. A new kiss might break the hermetic seal. You could forget what it felt like to kiss him before. But it seemed worth the price to build new memories—a future just as full of love as the past.

He looked up at you like a broken ceramic being pieced back together with gold. His eyes shone with love, but his shoulders were slumped low.

“You may say I’m a slutty nurse for wanting to kiss my patient, but you’re to blame!” you said, playing the game again. “How could I resist your charm? I bet you seduce every nurse—I’m only your latest conquest!”

A smile tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No, my dear,” he purred, grabbing your arm and pulling you down to him until your face was inches from his. “Only you. I only want you.”

“Can I kiss you?”

He breathed in. He nodded.

You leaned the final inch down, and pressed your lips to his teeth.

The Red Dragon’s teeth sunk through flesh and tore deep. Coppery blood flooded his mouth, the taste so metallic and strong it drowned out almost everything else out—the pain, the unnatural tearing, little pops of veins, ligaments, and muscles stretching to their limits before giving up, his own screams. The truth of his face with all its illusions of grandeur was revealed before him: it was just meat. Nothing but raw, shredded meat.

“NO!” he screamed, and pushed you hard.

It was different than the peevish denials other times you’d tried to kiss. He pushed you away with so much force you staggered backward, and his wheelchair nearly tipped over. It reared on two wheels like a panicked horse and would have fallen except the worn brake gave way, and he shot backward several feet until the vacant bench stopped the chair’s momentum.

“No, no! Get away! No!” he begged no one, shaking and thrashing so violently he risked ripping his healing scars.

His back, legs, and arms were glued to the wheelchair, and he couldn’t escape. No—could have if he were desperate enough, strong enough. But he was terrified of ripping his skin off. The thought made him break out in a cold sweat and made it difficult to think straight. Dear god, he was afraid something happened to his back. Of being disfigured again.

He was afraid to die, but he dreaded even more the thought of surviving yet again to find another piece taken from him.

Not another. Not again.

If he cooperated, he had to be spared this time. He would cooperate. Do everything The Red Dragon said, and fate would be merciful. He had to go home. He had to go home. To see you again. It was not fair that he survived two attempts on his life only to die here. It was not fair! He was going to get married to the love of his life. Things were finally going right. The Dragon’s shadow fell over him. The acrid stench of his breath as he leaned down toward Frederick’s mouth—

“Frederick!”

You ran after him and tried to restrain him before he climbed out of the wheelchair and fell to the pavement, but it only made him struggle harder. Fuck. You weren’t sure if touching him again was a good idea, but you didn’t know what else to do. He was going to hurt himself.

“Shh, I’m here.”

Crouching next to him, you tried to keep him seated, murmuring soft, reassuring words. Eventually, he stopped thrashing to escape, his jerking limbs resigning themselves to passive trembling. His eyes were open, but they didn’t see you. They didn’t see anything but a dark room with a flickering projector.

You laid your head on his lap. “I’m right here. It’s OK. You’re safe, Frederick. You’re safe. Shh, shh...”

It took several minutes, but his breathing began to slow, and he began to calm down. His fingers found your hair and stroked it, mindlessly running over the contour of your scalp. Familiarity. Recognizing you, he grasped at your shirt to draw you closer, clutching you like a teddy bear to his chest. It was an awkward angle, but you shifted so your butt was partially supported by the bench he’d crashed into, and used the chair’s armrest to hold yourself in the bent position. Frankly, even if every muscle in your body cramped up, you weren’t going to leave him as long as he needed to hold onto you.

Finally, he whimpered your name and asked what happened.

“I… kissed you. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

He sniffed and wiped his face, which he discovered was soaked with tears, and looked off into the trees. You sat back onto the bench, straightening your crooked spine, but keeping a firm hold on his hand, staying close as he returned to reality. He would be embarrassed. Add this to the growing list of Ways Frederick Chilton is Broken and Useless. But for now, the humiliation was dulled by the fact that he was not in that room again, with the projector flickering. You stayed that way for a while, sitting in the dappled shade of the garden and the warm breeze, the fountain burbling a constant, relaxing, tuneless song.

“The last man to bring his lips to mine bit them off.”

“I’m so sorry, Frederick. I shouldn’t have been so stupid...”

He squeezed your hand. Straightened up in his chair. “I heard the FBI has the video. Have you watched it?”

You shook your head, then quickly added, “No,” aloud, knowing his vision was poor and still focused on the tree branches swaying and morphing in the wind. Jack Crawford had offered, but you didn’t want to see it. You couldn’t bear to.

It had been hard enough hearing him describe how Francis Dolarhyde glued him naked to his grandmother’s wheelchair and made him watch macabre home movies of the families he had slaughtered. His voice was too calm, too distant from the memory as he dictated graphic details for the Journal of Psychology, desperate to tell his story, grab his fame before he died.

You should have known how your mouth coming at his would make him feel. You were so caught up in your romantic imaginings, you forgot how kiss-like that moment of horror must have been, just before the pain.

The nightmare his life had been for months already, and would continue to be. The scar tissue that wouldn’t fully mature for two years. Two years wearing a compression suit to help them heal. Years of follow-up procedures so that he can continue to move. To breathe. To hear. Longer until he could get a new face. His entire life altered forever.

It started with a kiss.

“We don’t have to kiss. I should never have pushed you to,” you apologized, wincing preemptively.

You expected him to be angry. To sarcastically tell you, “Now you decide we don’t have to? Now that it is too late? What fine timing.”

“I am not weak,” he bristled instead, but his agitation only spanned the length of a breath. He squeezed your hand softly, and pulled you halfway into his chair to wrap his arms around your waist and back. “I did not think that would happen either,” he spoke comfortingly into your hair. “Attempting it for the first time in a wheelchair was a mistake. I should have been more aware of that, but I grow tired of not being able to show my affection. You are not the only one impatient for my recovery, darling. I want to try again.”

“Now?” You pulled back, widening your eyes at him.

“No,” he said plainly. “I think not.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

@beccabarba / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @madamsnape921 / @astrangegirlsmind / @neely1177 / @onerestein / @dreamlover31 / @isvvc-pvscvl / @shroomiehomie / @storiesofsvu / @welcometothemxdhouse / @feedthemadness-sweetie / @law-nerd105 / @amelia-song-pond / @michael-rooker / @xecq / @madpanda75 / @alwaysachorusgirl / @bananas-pajamas / @leanor-min / @mad-girl-without-a-box / @katierpblogg / @worldofvixen / @sassyada / @barbingchilton

#Frederick Chilton x reader #my writing

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moonknightly · 3 years

Text

and you keep me holding on : santiago garcia x reader (eight)

Word Count: 2.3k+

Excerpt: “He still can’t reach out and touch her. All he has to do is move his hand a few inches forward and he could be touching her but he just fucking can’t, he can’t do it and he wants to scream at himself for being so weak.”

Warnings: Mentions of malnutrition, mentions of death but if you’ve made it this far you know that already. Cursing. I think that's it but please tell me if I’ve missed something.

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

Santi’s been awake for a few hours now. They’d moved from the ER to an actual room at some point, but just like earlier, he doesn’t really remember how he got there. All he knows is that now he’s sitting in a chair by her bedside, watching his leg bounce in time with a ticking clock from somewhere in the room, and he still hasn’t allowed himself to fully believe that he’s actually where he appears to be.

He keeps telling himself that it’s just a sick, twisted trick, that his mind is simply playing a game with his heart. He drank or he smoked too much before bed, and he’s stuck in some fucked up fever dream. It’s not real, she’s not real. He’ll look again and she’ll be gone.

But every time he lifts his head, every time he pinches his skin until he’s bruised, she’s still there. She’s there, and her chest is rising and falling with each breath, and the monitor above her bed is spiking with her heartbeat. The IV connected to her hand is dripping with a cocktail of vitamins and medications, fluids.

She’s there. She’s alive.

She’s not okay.

But she’s alive.

The door behind him opens with a soft click, and he doesn’t turn around to see who it is. Now he’s afraid that if he looks away, she’ll disappear again.

Jay takes a seat on the opposite side of her bed, and Santi briefly, so briefly lets his eyes flutter up to the other man’s face, only because he could still see her out of the corner of his eye, but he still doesn’t risk taking his attention off of her for long.

Several minutes pass in silence, and Santi’s not sure if he should break it or if Jay was just wanting to be close to her too. It’s weird, how the room feels so empty yet so full at the same time. So loud yet so quiet, it’s making his anxiety skyrocket. Santi sighs without really realizing it and runs a hand through his already messed up hair.

“What did the doctor say earlier?” he finally asks once it becomes too much. He adjusts in his seat and lets his head rest in the palm of his hand, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her hand. He hadn’t touched her yet, he’s almost scared to. Definitely scared to. “I was-”

“Kind of out of it, I know,” Jay mumbles, nodding his head. Santi watches out of the corner of his eye as Jay refuses to look away from her as well, and somehow that manages to quiet his nerves just a little bit. Two people watching over her is better than one.

But then Jay leans forward and puts his hand on her leg through the blankets, and that small bit of comfort is gone again. He’s not jealous, he just wants to touch her. Why can’t he fucking touch her?

“She’s dehydrated, malnourished.” But you can tell that just from looking at her. “Her blood tests were all over the fuckin’ place. She-”

Santiago nods along and listens with rapt attention, holding onto and memorizing all of the information that’s being thrown his way. He listens, and there’s two things that really stick out to him through the rest.

Her white blood cell count is so extremely elevated and her blood test results show a number of vitamin deficiencies that could take months to bring back into normal or even acceptable ranges. He expects that though, he’s not shocked by it.

But it sticks out to him because there’s fluid in her lungs — pneumonia, and for a moment, he can’t believe that she caught it in early October, but then he remembers he has the undernutrition to blame for that.

And then he remembers all of the complications that come with malnutrition, and how her body is going to struggle to fight off that sickness. It sticks out to him because he’s seen undernourished children die from a common cold because their little bodies just couldn’t handle it.

It sticks out to him because he knows what pneumonia could mean for someone in her state, and he can’t bear the thought of losing her, actually really losing her when she’s right there in front of him again.

But still, he listens, and Jay can tell that Santi needs some time alone again to process it all. He squeezes her leg once, then stands up from his chair and walks out of the room with the promise of bringing a fresh coffee and a change of clothes for Santiago.

Santi doesn’t move for some time, he’s not sure that he even blinks. He just sits there and stares at where Jay’s hand had been while his leg starts to bounce again.

He shakes his head, knowing he needs to pull himself together. The last year had been hell, if he could handle that he can sure as fuck handle this.

She’ll be okay. She’ll be okay she’ll be okay she’ll be okay.

He finally stands and moves to the edge of the bed, letting his hands rest on the rail. He grips it tightly, and he’s almost sure he could snap it if he really wanted to.

He still can’t reach out and touch her. All he has to do is move his hand a few inches forward and he could be touching her but he just fucking can’t, he can’t do it and he wants to scream at himself for being so weak.

But when he opens his mouth, it’s not a scream that comes out, it’s a whisper.

It’s hardly audible and he doesn’t even realize what he’s said at first, but he lets her name slip past his lips for the first time in so, so long it feels almost foreign.

But God, it’s just as fucking sweet as he remembers. So sweet it feels like honey dripping off his tongue and his anger at himself immediately evaporates and is replaced by something he can’t even think of a word for. Something like guilt, maybe?

He still can’t reach out and touch her.

“Wake up.”

He needs her to open her eyes. That would be enough.

“Just please hold on.”

OCTOBER FOURTH — DAY ONE

He hates it when they have to take her away the next morning for an MRI, just to rule out any sort of head trauma. He hates having her out of his sight, he hates thinking about the possibility of her opening her eyes and he’s not standing right there. Santi can only imagine how scared and confused she’ll be, and he wants to be there for her. He just wants to keep her safe, do what he couldn’t do before. He just wants her.

But he knows he’s not allowed to go with her and he doesn’t even try to argue it, he wants to stay on the doctor’s good side.

He decides to use that time to take the longest shower of his life, and he just sits there on cold tiles with the water pounding down on him for what has to be an hour. It’s long enough that his knees fucking hurt when he tries to stand again, and he has to brace himself on the wall for several minutes before he even tries to take another step. He changes, uses his fingers to comb through his tangled hair — he’d forgotten how dry hospital shampoo always makes it, and by the time he’s finished she’s still not back. The silence is closing in on him again.

So he calls the boys, somehow managing to get them all into a conference call to let them know that she’s okay, they found her.

Will and Benny are both stunned into silence, but the relief is evident when they finally start to ask questions, and Santi’s sure he hears Frankie crying softly, though he otherwise stays silent.

“And Nathan?” Will asks during a small stretch of silence.

Santi’s hair stands on end at the mention of his name, and the blood coursing through his veins feels hot like venom, like fire. He hadn’t thought about Nathan, not yet. His entire focus had been on his wife, of course it had been.

But now, his mind was racing with different thoughts and possibilities. Different things he wanted to do to him. How he wanted to make him suffer.

“Yeah, did they catch him?” Frankie sniffles, pulling Santi away from his thoughts.

“No.” His voice is clipped, and he can picture the boys holding their breath, can see in his mind how they would share nervous glances between each other, ‘cause they all know what that tone means.

“We-”

“We don’t need to be talking about this right now.”

It’s Will again, always the voice of reason, and Santi knows that he’s right. They don’t need to be talking about it over the phone.

“You guys wanna grab dinner or something sometime this we-”

They all interrupt him this time, but it’s Frankie who breaks through the noise and takes over.

“Dude, no. Not this week, fuck, maybe not even next month. Just...focus on her right now, okay?”

“But-”

“Santiago, she needs you. Just be there for her.”

Again, Santi doesn’t argue, because he knows the boys are right.

He needs to get with Graves, figure out what’s new, what they know though he assumes it’s not much.

He can’t help but think that’s a good thing.

He wants to get to Nathan before anyone else even has the chance.

She hears him. She always hears him. It’s always his voice in the back of her head, his voice in her dreams. It’s always him him him him him.

Santi.

She hears him, and the light in the room is so bright through her eyelids she’s sure she’s died and moved onto whatever, wherever existed beyond life and Earth. She can’t remember the last time she woke up to sunlight. Sunlight, Santiago, a warm blanket covering her shivering body.

She’s dead.

That’s okay.

But she doesn’t want to open her eyes. Even in the afterlife, she’s afraid that if she opens her eyes, he’ll disappear. She’s afraid she’ll open them and see Nathan, not Santi.

She just wants Santi. Only ever Santi.

And so when she hears a second voice, a man’s voice, one that she doesn’t recognize, she panics. She starts crying. She doesn’t want Santi’s voice to go away, she needs him. She fucking needs him.

She opens her eyes and he’s right there. He’s right there and that’s when she knows for certain she’s dead.

He looks almost the same. There’s a little more gray in his hair and he’s sporting a short beard instead of his usual stubble. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie — it’s one that she recognizes, one that she’d wished for on cold nights when Nathan would chase her through the snow for fun, dangling freedom right in front of her face but always managing to track her down.

She wants to call out to him, she wants him closer. She wants to yell at the other man to leave the two of them alone but her voice feels stuck in her throat. She just cries harder, but she knows she doesn’t make a sound. Nathan never liked it when she cried.

A third body enters the room and she immediately slams her eyes shut, but it’s Jay. Just Jay.

And he saw her before she had time to look away.

“Her eyes were just open.”

Santi doesn’t even glance back towards him. His full attention is immediately on her, and he leaves Graves standing there to move back to her bedside, though this time he doesn’t even reach out to grip the rail like he had the night before.

He still can’t touch her.

But he does gently call out her name again, hoping and praying that Jay’s mind hadn’t been playing tricks. For a second, he thinks that must’ve been it. She’s not responding. But then he says her name again and he watches as her fingers twitch and grip the blanket between them.

Graves is out of the room to grab a nurse before Santi can even ask him to, and she opens her eyes again at the sound of retreating footsteps, beyond terrified thinking they belonged to Santi.

But he’s still there. He’s still right there, and Jay is there, and she’s in an actual bed and not on the floor.

Sunlight, Santi, blankets. Voices drifting from down the hallway, Jay, a bed.

She’s dead and that’s okay. It’s perfect. It’s all she’s been wanting for...she doesn’t even know how long she’d been with Nathan.

He says her name again, and she thinks it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard. So sweet it’s like honey dripping off his tongue.

It’s the little push she needs to finally find her voice, and it’s weak. It’s so weak, but he can still hear it, still understand her words and they make Santi’s chest ache.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t hold on.”

She doesn’t give Santi a second to even register her words, doesn’t give him a second to respond or ask if she’d heard him begging the night before.

“Please don’t leave, you always leave.”

It breaks Santi’s heart.

He needs to reach out and touch her, he needs to let her know that he’s still right here, that she’s here. She’s okay and he’s never going to let another bad thing ever happen to her ever again.

He still can’t touch her.

All he can do is say her name again, but this time, it’s broken. He feels broken.

He hates that he feels this way when in comparison, this last year has been easy on him.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.”

#santiago garcia #santiago pope garcia #santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #triple frontier x reader

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harvestleaves · 3 years

Text

When you breathe, I wanna be the air for you: Chapter 2

Summary: Derek spends the day with Alex in the ER and the two have a heart to heart.

A/N: This chapter took a turn I wasn’t expecting to take it and is going to be pre-polyamorous relationship. I’m not gonna say with who because I don’t want to spoil it, but I’m sure it’s pretty obvious. @honeybee-babe, enjoy part 2! You can also read this on Ao3 here.

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,632

Alex found himself hooked up to an oxygen mask in the ER twenty minutes after Meredith led him out to the car with Dr. Shepherd in the chair next to the gurney, watching another intern try and stick him for an IV.

“Ow! It’s an IV. I’m not a damn pincushion you can just stab all willy nilly,” he hissed with a glare at the young blonde man.

“Sorry, you’re dehydrated. Your veins are a little tough to get a line in,” the intern explained with a clipped tone as he finally got the IV inserted and a bag of saline hooked up.

“Dr. Shepherd, he’s probably going to be here for a few hours. If you need anything, let me know,” the intern smiled at the neurosurgeon before shooting Alex a cocky smirk on his way out.

“Thank you. You know you don’t have to be an ass to everyone that’s trying to help you,” Derek said to Alex with a teasing grin, the younger man giving him a glare in response.

“S-sorry, I just don’t like being poked and prodded,” Alex wheezed before another round of coughs caused him to lean forward. He brought his left hand up to his chest to grip the gown he was wearing tightly in his fist as he tried to gasp at the air from the mask.

“Hey, try slowing your breathing down. I know it’s tough. But just focus on inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth,” Derek said as he reached out to hit the page button before he sat on the edge of the gurney, his right hand rubbing soothing circles onto Alex’s back.

Alex made a choked sound before he nodded rapidly, squeezing his eyes shut as he focused on Derek’s voice. He inhaled at the command before holding the breath for a few seconds, letting the motion calm his rapid heartbeat before he shakily exhaled.

“That’s it, slow, deep breaths. They’re gonna start you on a breathing treatment to get this attack under control and then send you for a chest x-ray so see what’s going on in those lungs of yours,” Derek explained gently as the intern came back into the room with a nurse to start the medication for Alex.

“We’re gonna give him an albuterol treatment and then check on him in an hour to see how well the meds are doing,” the intern explained as he handed Alex the nebulizer, guiding the misting mouthpiece up to the surgical intern’s lips. “Deep breaths of that. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to check on you. Don’t die while I’m gone,” he smirked with a wink to Alex, his hand resting an extra moment on the other man’s shoulder before he headed out of the room.

“Someone seems to have a crush on you,” Derek teased with a smirk to Alex, watching the younger man in amusement as he blushed, though the fevered flush masked it rather well.

“Yeah, he’s cute, I guess,” Alex mumbled around the nebulizer mouthpiece before his eyes widened at what he said before he immediately focused on the blanket over his lap. Avoiding Derek’s gaze, Alex started to play nervously with a loose thread, feeling the older doctor’s eyes on him the whole time.

“You know your friends aren’t gonna care if you like guys too. Or just guys. Meredith and the others really care about you. I don’t think you could do anything that would keep them from loving you like family.”

Alex blinked back a few tears at Derek’s words, quickly wiping them away with the back of his hand before he took another shaky breath of the medicine. He couldn’t cry. Because he knew that crying would only make his asthma attack worse, which was the last thing he wanted.

“Shit. Don’t cry. I’m sorry if I brought up a sensitive topic for you. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. And if you do, just know I’m here to listen,” Derek explained softly as he ran his hand over Alex’s upper back once more.

Alex squeezed his eyes shut before he shakily inhaled through his nose once more to compose himself, practically able to hear his heart pounding from nerves. “I h-haven’t really let myself deal with those feelings yet. It’s a lot easier for me to just shove those feelings down and sleep around with random chicks who I don’t actually care about.”

“That makes sense, especially since you’ve been hurt by people before. Let’s finish this conversation after all the albuterol gets into your lungs. If you’re talking, the meds might not work as well.” Derek smiled reassuringly at Alex, keeping an eye on the oxygen monitor to make sure Alex wasn’t wearing himself out by talking during the treatment.

Alex nodded tiredly before he settled back against the pillows on the gurney, fighting the sudden urge to lay his head onto the neurosurgeon’s shoulder.

He was feeling very relaxed by the older man’s presence and considering he didn’t have many friends, let alone many male friends, it made Alex nervous. But Derek had the same effect on him that Meredith did. The strong silent presence that made him feel completely safe and protected, a feeling he was not used to having, so allowing himself to be cared for was scary.

“Just rest. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” Derek whispered softly as he watched Alex start to doze off at the end of the breathing treatment, watching the other intern return to change the mask back to an oxygen one before the intern turned to Derek.

“Look, Dr. Shepherd, I’ve heard some things about him from the nursing staff. But I think Dr. Karev is cute, and if he does somehow swing my way, can you give him my number?” the intern, who Derek mentally noted was named Jason, asked, holding out a piece of paper.

“First of all, he is your patient at this moment, so this is kind of inappropriate. And second, he’s working through some things. However, after he is released and he figures everything out, I might give him your number. After I let his friends interrogate you of course,” Derek said curtly, slipping the piece of paper into the pocket of his coat as Jason’s eyes widened before he quickly ducked out of the room. Mumbling something about coming back in an hour to give Alex another treatment after he’s sent for his chest x-ray.

“Thank you. And you’re right. I do close myself off because people have let me down. I’ve always had to be the strong one for my family, so I don’t know how to ask for help. And I’ve never had the opportunity to think about my own issues. The fact that I push away male friendships. I’m scared because what if I develop feelings for one of them and that friendship is ruined,” Alex whispered softly to Derek as he heard the door click shut.

“It’s easier to have female friends. Especially ones I don’t have feelings for. All they want is a guy that will listen to their problems and occasionally hook up with them. It’s easy,” Alex laughed bitterly, the laughs turning into coughs as Derek adjusted the gurney, so Alex was elevated more.

“Hey, you’ve got male friends now. You’ve got O’Malley?” Derek offered with a smile as he rubbed Alex’s back, reaching down to squeeze the younger man’s hand. “And you’ve got me. I don’t care if you like men, or women, or both. I’m your friend, and you’re not getting rid of me anytime soon.”

“I like both. I’ve only had relationships with women, though. But there is a guy I might like. It might not be that intern, though,” Alex admitted as he dropped his gaze back to the blanket.

“What’s holding you back from asking this guy out then? Other than you not being out?” Derek asked curiously with a tilt of his head, looking up with a smile when Meredith popped her head into the room.

“Hi! How’s Alex doing? Am I interrupting something?” Meredith asked curiously as she looked between Derek and Alex, smiling at Derek’s hand still over Alex’s.

“No. You’re not. Everything is fine.”

Alex quickly pulled his hand back from Derek’s as he looked between the two, scrunching his nose up in annoyance as he looked away.

“We were just having a pretty intense talk. I was gonna tell Alex here that he’s not the only one who’s ever had a crush on his friend,” Derek explained with a kiss to Meredith.

“Ahhhhh, like your past relationship with Mark?” she teased him with a grin as he rolled his eyes in mild annoyance at his girlfriend.

“Yes, don’t remind me that my ex-wife and I had similar taste in men. I try not to think about that,” Derek sighed with a laugh.

“Wait, you and Dr. Sloan? But he’s such an ass.”

“He wasn’t when we were younger, and we dated. Nowadays, yeah, he’s pretty cocky,” Derek nodded in amusement before he turned back to Alex.

“What I was going to say before Meredith came in though, was that you also don’t have to just date a single person. Multiple people can be in a relationship together. Which I what Addison, Mark, and I were in college. Mer, I know you were talking this morning about maybe adding someone to our relationship. I think that Alex needs us both at this time,” Derek explained, looking between his girlfriend and Alex, waiting for the two’s response.

“I think that is a perfect idea. Alex? What do you think?” Meredith asked her friend with a smile, gently squeezing his other hand as she waited for his response.

#greys anatomy #greys anatomy fanfic #grey's anatomy #grey's anatomy fanfic #alex karev #derek shepherd #meredith grey

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hermannsthumb · 4 years

Note

"newt isn’t sleazy and is also too busy wrestling with the ethics of hitting on his hot TA if the guy is 5 months older than him to even notice" pleeeease write this

Anonymous asked: "When I Kissed the Teacher" AU ft professor newt and his hot 5-month-older TA hermann

and coincidentally, this older one

Anonymous asked: i just rewatched mamma mia 2 and was wondering if i could request a "when i kissed the teacher" newmann fic?? love your writing!!!!!!

Ask And Ye Shall Receive. sorry ive been MIA 😔 concept from this post I made earlier this month. idk what class newt teaches that hermann would be qualified to TA for but just like, decide for yourselves

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

Newt’s never been a list-making kind of guy, or--for that matter--even really a planning ahead kind of guy, but certain circumstances have thrown his life more out of wack than usual lately, and he kind of needs the stability the like of things like lists offer. Desperate times and everything. Or, at the very least, Newt is desperate.

So Newt plans, and plots, and deliberates, and he even agonizes a little, but most of all, he makes a list.

On one half of the page, he writes pros. On the other, he writes cons. On top, he writes--what else?--Hermann.

The problem started in late August. Newt knew for months he was going to be assigned a teaching assistant come that semester--it was him, after all, who’d suggested it to the dean in the first place--but the Hermann Gottlieb of extensive, impressive, overachieving CV and overly-former cover letter was a far cry from Hermann Gottlieb in the flesh. Newt expected a dork, frankly. Someone too socially awkward to feel brave enough to thank someone for holding a door open for him. He expected a PhD student so eager to please he’d cater to Newt’s every whim, whether it was grading horrendous freshman lab reports or fetching him a sandwich from the commissary between class sections.

They met for the first time at the campus coffee shop. Hermann was dressed in an oversized pair of slacks, a threadbare green sweatervest, and honest-to-God saddle shoes; the buttons of his Oxford were done up all the way, from the collar to the cuffs, and an ornate cane was settled against his thigh. His haircut was tragic. “Dr. Geiszler,” he said, all clipped and English, and held his hand out to Newt. “Hermann Gottlieb. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I’m an admirer of your work.”

"Sup,” Newt said, and tried to bump their fists together.

Newt knew he was in deep shit then. It wasn’t just because Hermann was gorgeous (which he was, in a sort of weird, frumpy, ripped-outta-1945 way), or that the scowl he proceeded to level Newt with made his soul wither and his heart race a little bit too fast, but both of those things in conjunction with a big one: Newt was, and is, so fucking love-starved. It’s an unfortunate byproduct of being made a professor when he was as young as he was and completing a PhD before he completed puberty. His early twenties should’ve been spent dyeing his hair terrible colors and adding to his already impressive tattoo collection and having questionable hookups with other young twentysomethings; unfortunately, the only young twentysomethings Newt ever seems to come across are his students, and he has a very strict code of ethics. Not to mention it wasn’t like he was getting any action before that as a weird, gangly teenager with peers several years his senior. He was bound to latch onto the first genius hottie who crossed his path who wasn’t trying to flirt their way into bumping that B- to a B+. And better yet, Hermann is five whole months his senior!

The shit only got deeper when the semester started. No, Hermann was not the sort to fetch Newt sandwiches, or coffee, or Aspirin from his office, nor was he the sort to handle the dreaded lab reports (at least not unless Newt handled them with him), and he definitely wasn’t eager to please. Newt, anyway. If anything the opposite was true: he seemed to actively derive enjoyment from undermining Newt at every turn.

“Wrong,” he’d mutter during class if Newt screwed something up in a lecture, or “No, Geiszler, you’re doing it wrong again,” or “How in the blazes did you get three bloody PhDs when you can’t even do simple addition?” and snatch Newt’s dry erase marker away to scrawl his own answers on the whiteboard. It was less like having a TA and more like having...well, a bitchy, annoying co-teacher. Or, God help Newt, a colleague. And boy, did he wave those five months over Newt’s head like a fucking flag. Newt was immature; inexperienced; clearly not as serious about his studies--his completed studies--as Hermann. Meanwhile Newt’s class (bright young twenty somethings, taller than Newt, cooler than Newt, with more friends than Newt) would giggle and snicker, and Hermann would look smug.

It drove Newt fucking batty.

It also made him, like, super turned on.

The two can co-exist. Apparently. Hermann Gottlieb is already helping Newt discover new and existing concepts; what a fucking excellent TA he is. Someone give that man a raise.

So Newt draws up a list, and he writes Pros, and he writes Cons, and he writes Hermann. The pros are regrettably easy to come up with, because Hermann is Hermann, and (bitchiness and undermining of Newt aside) it’s unfair how many he has. Hot. Stupid sexy accent. Stupidly smart. This is crossed out and replaced with so smart he makes me feel stupid (in a good way), because it seems like an important distinction. Glasses on chain. Mysterious. (In a tall, dark, and handsome way. Sort of. Average height--which is tall to Newt, pale, and handsome. He still scowls more than he talks, which makes him feel mysterious. In a Bronte sort of way. Newt can picture Hermann drawing a billowing cloak around his shoulders and stalking some desolate moor in the moonlight, though in this case maybe’s more of a puffy parka than a cloak.) In tiniest font of all is makes me laugh, because Hermann does, goddamn it, with his snide asides and cutting remarks and sarcasm, often not even directed at Newt when it’s just the two of them alone in Newt’s office at night.

The placement of “is my TA” on the chart is acting as a particular annoyance to Newt, entirely on account of the fact that he can think of several pros and cons for that as well, and he’s not sure whether to nestle it between dark eyelashes and once called me a moron in front of my class and I got a hard-on or beneath sweaters smell like sweat and mothballs, has annoying tic of clearing throat when lost in thought, and the dick wins 86% of our arguments. Sexy forbidden fling. Abuse of power. Is older than me so it's not as weird as it could be? I’m his boss. The school’s paying Hermann though, not Newt, and it’s not like he’s going to scurry off to the dean and demand Hermann’s funding slashed if Hermann turns him down (which he’d most likely do). But it still feels like a breach of ethics.

On the other hand, Hermann is exactly the sort of guy he’d try to pick up at a bar if he still did things like that. (Tenure, rather than giving Newt breathing space to kick back and relax a little, has only increased his obsession with his work, and now when he gets a Friday night free to himself he mostly switches crap on the TV and falls asleep with his cat on the couch.) It’s about the experience, the impossible task of seducing someone who--by all accounts--is too straight-laced and tight-buttoned to indulge in something that debase. They were always the best in bed. Tension, Newt knows, has to snap at some point.

He’d like to wrap Hermann’s personal piano wire around his thumb and bang away at the keys until it snaps, too. Ethics, Newt thinks (folding up the list and stuffing it out of sight), his ass.

Newt sacrifices a Friday night with his cat and Unsolved Mysteries in favor of working on a solution to his Hermann Problem. Swamped with work, he tells Hermann over the phone, it fucking sucks, dude, I could really use your help in my office, and Hermann grumbles, and snaps that Newt should learn to be better prepared for his own damn classes, but declares he’ll be on campus in half an hour and that Newt will be ordering him takeaway for dinner as an apology.

The door swings open at half past five. Hermann is bundled in that heavy parka and scarf (which, even for a Boston November, still looks a little too warm), and his hair is damp. “Is it raining?” Newt says, perhaps stupidly, because there’s not a single droplet of water anywhere else on Hermann’s body.

Hermann makes a face at him and pushes the door shut with his cane. “No,” he says, tersely.

“Then why...” Newt touches his own hair.

“I was taking a bloody bath,” Hermann snaps. “I don’t work on Fridays, as you well know, Newton.”

The use of his full first name stings Newt oddly even as the notion of Hermann luxuriating in a bathtub excites him. “That’s Dr. Geiszler,” Newt snaps back, because goddamn it, he’s Hermann’s boss, he deserves respect, and then mentally adds a small, depressing tally to the Cons half of the board. Ethics, ethics.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann says. He throws his scarf and coat viciously at the small couch in the corner of Newt’s office, then takes his usual seat across from Newt. “Well? Where are those papers it’s so crucial we grade?”

Hermann in a bathtub, Newt thinks. Hermann naked. Papers, Newt thinks. “Papers,” Newt says, and he shoves a stack at Hermann with twice as much force as he means to, causing several to flutter to the ground. “We need...to grade them,” he says. Hermann naked, in a bathtub, maybe some candles lit around him, some nice music on, daydreaming about that wretched professor he works for. Damn it. “I have a pen,” he says. “To grade.”

“What on earth are you saying?” Hermann says. “Be quiet. I can’t concentrate with your abominable prattling on.” Then he mumbles something that sounds like incessant, rips the top paper off the stack, and begins to slash at it in red ink. He doesn’t bother gathering the two from the ground.

Why did Newt invite him here, again?

Oh, right. He pushes his glasses up his nose and feigns casualness, pulling out another paper for himself to grade. “A bath,” he says. “Just to, uh, relax? Or...?”

Hermann narrows his eyes. “Or?”

Newt shrugs. “It’s Friday. Were you getting ready for a date or something?”

This time, Hermann’s mouth twists down into a frown. Almost suspicious. “Why do you care?” he says.

“I don’t,” Newt says quickly. “Just making small talk.” God, he could picture some stud of a computer science PhD candidate winning Hermann over with techno babble--or maybe one of his fellow students, ugh, maybe they made a study group together that meets Friday nights, and Hermann was getting all gussied up, goddamn handsome astrophysics grad students--

“I was relaxing,” Hermann says. “You must be aware at this point you cause me a great deal of stress, Dr. Geiszler, on a daily basis.”

“Oh,” Newt says.

He gives up on the small talk after that. Hermann’s promised takeout arrives--a small carton of pad thai--as does Newt’s--a large carton of the spiciest thing they had on the menu--and they eat in silence. They have about three-quarters of the papers to go when Hermann suddenly sits back in his seat with a groan and rubs at his eyes under his granny glasses. “Bugger,” he says. “I can’t fathom this one for the life of me. I’m too tired.”

“It’s getting kinda late,” Newt agrees. “Maybe we should--”

“It’s not that,” Hermann says. “I had a glass of wine earlier, and--oh, it doesn’t matter. Your students need to learn how to write in a way that’s actually bloody legible--it’s like chicken scratch.”

Newt hops up and leans over his shoulder, squinting down at the page. Hermann’s hair smells nice, like something floral, and his skin has a small hint of what could almost be cologne. Why is Hermann wearing cologne? “Okay, let me see it,” Newt says, struggling to keep from getting lightheaded at the close proximity to Hermann. “I’m used to that kind of shit.”

“No,” Hermann says, drawing the paper close to his chest. “I am perfectly capable of managing it on my own.”

“Dude,” Newt says, “let me look at it, seriously. Hermann--”

He manages to tug it away from him. The handwriting is pretty bad, but the math seems to be worse. “Didn’t they do the readings?” Newt mutters under his breath. “That’s not even the right equation for the diameter. I gave them a cheat sheet, man.” They’re junior year engineering students--they should know this shit.

“I know what the equation is,” Hermann snaps. “I can grade it on my own. Give it back.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t know,” Newt says, “I said this kid--”

“It’s the radius squared--”

“Hermann, dude,” Newt says, “I know you’re--”

And that’s when Hermann grabs him by his skinny tie and kisses him, hard.

They stare at each other afterwards. Hermann’s eyes are as wide as saucers; his mouth is hanging open. Newt’s tie slips from his fingers, which then fall limp to his lap. “Holy shit,” Newt squeaks.

Hermann is gone with a swish of his parka and a loud clack of his cane. And with a stack of papers Newt still has to somehow get through. Figures.

Their next few classes together are subdued. Hermann doesn’t interject any of his biting commentary or corrections, or even offer critiques of Newt’s lack of professionalism (when in the past his skinny jeans were such an easy target), and when the period is over, he practically sprints from the classroom before he and Newt can be alone together for even a second. It’s fine by Newt. Whatever. Maybe Hermann can get over it over Thanksgiving break, and Newt can try to get over the memory of Hermann’s strong fingers tugging him down, Hermann’s floral shampoo, Hermann’s chapped, wide lips against his, the little grunt of shock Hermann made as he did it, like he couldn’t believe his own audacity...

It’s not likely.

It’s December, the last week before finals, and Newt’s in his office bundled up in a sweatshirt (because the heat never seems to fucking work in here), revising a draft of an exam, and dreading the thought of trudging home in the snow, when there’s suddenly a knock at his door. Anticipating some overeager freshman here outside of office hours, he doesn’t look up as he says “Come in.”

A familiar clearing of a throat.

Newt shoots straight up to his feet. He knocks a mug of coffee to the floor in the process. “Hermann,” he says. “Uh. Hi. What--what are you doing here?”

Hermann shuts the door behind him, then takes a careful step forward. He’s back in his big dumb coat and big long scarf. “I thought I ought to tell you myself first,” he says, primly. “I’ve submitted a request to the dean to be reassigned to another professor next semester. Our research interests are far more in line, and I don’t imagine our personalities shall clash as much.”

“Oh,” Newt says, pretending his heart isn't sinking in his chest like a hunk of lead. Was he that bad of a kisser? He feels like he deserves a second shot at it--he wasn’t ready last time, you know, he bets he’d really wow Hermann if he had a fair heads up. “Are.. are those the only reasons why?”

“No,” Hermann admits. “They’re not.”

He crosses the room, and corners Newt against his desk before Newt even realizes what’s happening. “They’re not,” he says again, then adds in a murmur (lifting one hand to brush his fingers against Newt’s hair), “Dr. Geiszler.”

Neither of them talk much, after that.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #thxstral

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detectivedreameater · 4 years

Text

Hospital Blue || Queenie and Marley

TIMING: Current PARTIES: @drqueenieking and @detectivedreameater SUMMARY: Queenie makes a big decision. CONTENT: Medical Talk, Head Trauma

It hadn’t been a quiet night at the hospital. Things had stayed steady for most of the night, just how Queenie liked things. She couldn’t stand an uneventful night, it was when it became harder to ignore some of the needier patients that called for help. It was also harder to find reasons to not help those annoying patients when she didn’t have paperwork or someone injured there as an excuse to get away. Queenie had just wrapped with a patient, closing the door behind her and heading towards the front desk to check in with the nurses when she spotted a group of nurses rolling a patient from the lobby towards the door into the hospital space. The closer they got to the double doors, Queenie could finally make out the figure of the woman they were wheeling. More than that, she could see the wounds on her body, and that a blue liquid was visible in the place of blood. “Shit” was all Queenie said at first, dropping the clip board into the arms of a surprised nurse and beelining towards the door to cut the nurses off, “This is my patient.” She jumped in front of them and forced them to stop their frantic wheeling.

“We are supposed to take her to Dr. Harlow. It was already called in.” One of the nurses claimed, moving to go past Queenie, but Queenie followed the movement and cut her off again. She let out a short and hollow laugh, “Absolutely not. You want this woman to bleed to death? Never walk again? Did this woman do something to you to deserve such a cruel demise? Now move along,” Queenie instructed, leaving no more room for argument, “You go let Dr. Harlow know that this patient is mine. I’ll be sure to direct a child to him if they come in with a paper cut. I wouldn’t want to overwhelm his capabilities.. You,” Queenie had already waved one nurse off and turned towards the other, “Help me get her to my car.” At the incredulous look the nurse gave, Queenie motioned down, “This woman clearly needs a specialist. Unless you’d like to explain the wounds below? There’s a reason that she is my patient. Now before you consider arguing with me, realize that I am going to win at the end regardless. Now move.” Queenie needed to get Marley away from prying eyes with curiosity. Once they got through the parking lot and Marley had been loaded into the backseat, Queenie jumped into the front and dialed her husband, “Honey? I need you to clear out the guest bedroom. Lay down some plastic like when we painted the room. Quickly please. I have a guest coming over.”

The next day...

A ringing was the first thing that Marley registered. It was so damn loud, too. Where was it coming from? Was someone playing the noise? On a speak, maybe from the radio? It almost sounded as if it were coming from inside her head. The next thing she registered was the feel of something soft and smooth beneath her fingertips. She curled and uncurled her fingers several times, bunching up the cloth in her hand. Then, slowly, movement returned to her arm, her shoulder her neck, and finally, her eyes. They blinked open blearily and the world around her was too bright. She lifted her hand, blocking the light, wincing as she did so. Pain shot down her side to her chest and back up again and she wheezed with a strangled breath. She blinked heavily again, trying to dissipate the blurriness from her vision, but each attempt yielded the same results. Eventually, she gave up. Until she heard a movement somewhere off to her right. Marley jolted, her body stiffening at the sudden movement, more pain reminding her to stay still. She let out a long moan, before her eyes opened again and she was staring a blurry woman walking towards her. “Wh-where am I?” she asked, her mind trickling in little memories like a faucet left barely on, “What happened? Who are you?”

Queenie didn’t pay much attention to how much time had passed. She had been too focused on making sure she could keep Marley alive. Once she was sure the woman was not going to bleed out, Queenie had left the room to let her sleep for a few hours. As much as she hadn’t wanted to admit it, the room unsettled her. Queenie had been a doctor for long enough to become comfortable with blood. She spent a lot of her day covered in the red liquid. Stepping in puddles of it on the floor and wiping it off onto rags. She had washed blood off of herself, helped clean it from operating theaters. It was normal to her. But her bedroom, covered in tarps and discarded gloves and towels had been soaked in a rich blue color. It didn’t have the same smell as iron blood had. Everything about the scene looked off. For once, Queenie was not confident in her procedure. For all she didn’t understand about the woman with blue blood, how could she be confident that there would be no further complications? That she wouldn’t have an adverse reaction to medication? There were too many unknowns. This was why Queenie desperately needed to learn more about it.

It was by complete chance that Queenie had been in the room when Marley finally woke up. “Don’t freak out you’ll tear your stitches” Queenie immediately demanded, hoping that the woman got a handle on where she was quickly before she had a complete conniption. “It’s me, Queenie. You’re at my house.” Queenie had pushed down any of the unease or worry that she had held before. Marley and Queenie had a deal, this was simply part of that. Nothing more. “You’ll want to avoid moving too much for the time being. The pain medication may help, but it is not a fix-all.” Queenie moved closer to the bed, side stepping a heap of towels that had gathered on the floor. “Do you remember what happened to you? You were in rough shape when you were brought into the hospital.”

More stitches. Great. Marley didn’t have enough breath in her at the moment to ask where she was, but she knew it wasn’t a hospital. Even with the IV in her arm. The familiar voice spoke again and Marley tried to focus through the haze long enough to recall who Queenie was. Doctor Lin-King. Right. The doctor who she’d agreed to meet up with when she needed medical attention. But how had she gotten here? Who had brought her? “Hospital?” she questioned, trying to sit up and finding a sharp jab of pain knocked her back down. She grabbed her stomach, crying out in pain. “What the-- what hap--” she cut herself off, looking over at Queenie. “I-- there was--” what did she remember? She tried to think as hard as possible, but she couldn’t find the right pieces. It was all jumbled. Windows shattering. A scream. Flying across the room. Bones snapping. “Attacked. I think we were...attacked. How did...how did I get here?”

Attacked sounded about right. Queenie lacked the equipment needed to do as thorough of an exam as she wanted to, but it was obvious that Marley’s wounds were extensive and potentially fatal. “I brought you here.” Queenie stated simply, “You were dropped off at the hospital. I spotted you as they were wheeling you in and apprehended them. It didn’t seem like a good idea to let the other doctor’s see your wounds. Or specifically, your blood.” Queenie grabbed a bottle of water from the night stand and held it out for Marley. Queenie had an IV in her, but staying hydrated was important. “You have several broken ribs and from what I can tell a punctured lung. I’d like to run more tests once we can get you back into a hospital, but I won’t risk that with the wounds you currently have. I know you like to keep things lowkey.” Admittedly, keeping the blue blood quiet was just as important to Queenie. She didn’t need others interfering on her research. “Where were you attacked? Whatever it was did a lot of damage.”

“Did they-- did anyone see?” Marley asked, her voice chalky and painful as she tried to speak more. She felt as if she’d been steam rolled and then crushed under a massive weight, like something was trying to press her until the smallest version of herself possible. Punctured lung and broken ribs explained that, as well as the pain every time she inhaled, and the difficulty with which it came. She drew in a wheezing breath and looked over at Queenie. “Who-- who brought me in? Where is--” Erin. Erin had been there with her, right? Marley blinked and for a moment, the world went black again. Her eyes dilated as the room around her unfocused. When she came back to herself, it was as if no time had passed, and she stared at Queenie again. “I can’t remember.”

“A couple of nurses that I apprehended, but no one other than that.” Queenie explained, pulling her phone out to read the message she received, “From the file I had someone send me, you were resuscitated when you first got to the hospital. It must have been right before I got apprehended you. So clearly, your wounds are serious. I’m going to set up a few tests at the hospital. Once I’m sure that you have no risk of exposing your condition to anyone else we can sneak in through the back. I want to see if you have any other fractures or broken bones aside from what I could immediately assess.” Marley began asking a question, but before Queenie even had the chance to respond Marley seemingly lost consciousness again. Queenie moved over to check the woman’s pulse and relaxed when she found it. After that, Queenie waited patiently for a few more minutes until Marley seemed to come back around. “I don’t know who dropped you off. But if you remember, I can reach out to them for you. For now, it looks like you need to get some more rest.”

“Resusci--” Marley started, her breath heavy, so heavy in her chest. She gasped to get enough air. “That means I--” she swallowed the word down. She knew what it meant, Queenie knew what it meant. She didn’t need to say it. “Erin,” she said quickly, when her breath came back to her, “Erin, she-- where is she? She was-- and Felix--” tried to sit up again. She couldn’t remember quite what they were doing, but she knew they were with her. She knew she needed to get to them, to help them. “Where are they? I need to--” but something too painful glued her to the bed, she could barely lift her arms. It shook as she moved it with great effort, reaching for the edge of the bed. “It was Erin,” she said, “it was probably Erin. She was there, too. I think--” clenched her jaw as her head began to pound. Grabbed it with her other hand, pressing her palm firmly against her temple. “Please...my p-phone,” she said, hand clawing around for it. “Where is..”

Queenie nodded her head. They did both know what resuscitated implied. Though Queenie was quick to try to calm Marley as much as she could, “It’s not as uncommon as one may think, actually.” Queenie had never been an expert at soothing patients. She preferred honesty over kind words and she usually felt that her actions more than made up for any shortcomings she had when it came to pleasantries. “I don’t know an Erin or a Felix” Queenie shook her head as Marley wrestled against the bed, trying to move but too exhausted to do so. “What you need to do is relax. You won’t be able to get to them if you rip your stitches or puncture your other lung.” This behavior didn’t surprise her. If their first introduction hadn’t been clue enough, Marley seemed rather impatient. “Your phone is on the nightstand. Though I’d be happy to contact both of them for you. Just so they know that you’re alright. Would they be injured too?”

“Punctured my--” Marley started, but then stopped. “Right, you...said that.” Sucking in another heavy breath, wheezing, she used the last of her energy to look at Queenie. “Erin, you have to-- tell her I’m okay,” she huffed out, before letting her body settle back on the bed. Her entire body deflated, as if the air were draining out of her, and she sank into the mattress and blankets, head on the pillow. Droopy eyes stared up at the ceiling. “I’m just...tired,” she mumbled, already feeling herself slipping from consciousness. “Can I just-- sleep for a bit more?” Just a little longer, she thought to herself. Just let her sleep a little longer. Whatever had happened, it was bad, she knew that. But the weight pressing down on her told her that, right now, there was nothing she could do. Powerless, she bent under the pressure and let the weariness take her.

Queenie nodded, “Fine, fine. I’ll contact this Erin for you. I’ll let her know she can drop by too, if you want.” Marley was suddenly tired again, which was no surprise considering her injuries. Queenie was confident in her abilities. She did not worry that Marley was at any risk just from getting a few hours of sleep. In fact, a days worth of sleep may be best for her. “Yes well, my husband will be making dinner. And cookies, he really likes baking cookies. I will check back in to see if you’re awake and hungry later.” She had no idea how this duty had befallen her. When she made the deal with Marley, these were hardly the injuries that she was picturing. It didn’t take long for Marley to be unconscious again and with a sigh, Queenie left the room and shut the door quietly behind her.

#chatzy #chatzy: queenie #wickedswriting #queenie #tw head injury #hospital blue

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years

Note

I love HRH. During the last chapter I found myself wanting to skip time and read about Jamie being the Queen Consort already for all his dreams have come true ...

Many thanks to @notevenjokingfic for telling me where I can do better, and to @smashing-teacups and @desperationandgin for always cheering me on with this story. xx.

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part XXIV: Balmoral & London

The cabin’s spare key was cloistered in the musty sanctuary existing beneath a loose board on the front patio. It was a trusting thing for the Fraser family to leave it hidden there, she thought, but the road to the cabin was hardly what one would consider to be “well traveled,” and the cabin was the type of dwelling that was not particularly easy to find unless someone was looking for it.

Despite a generally abhorrent sense of direction, Claire had driven herself to the Highlands, her hands somehow possessed with the memory of clutching Fraser’s jacket, leaning her weight into him and into each turn on the back of the motorcycle. After tucking the vehicle into the shed alongside the pickup, she turned herself sideways to slip between the vehicles. Facing down the short walk to the empty cabin, she suddenly felt rather foolish for having brought an overnight bag.

Inside, the cabin was quiet, its stillness almost eerie. Entering the room where they had lost themselves in one another again and again, her breath caught as she set the bag at the end of the bed. Their bed, as her mind had come to think of it. The duvet was rumpled just a bit on Fraser’s side of the hastily-made bed (before leaving for their impromptu camping trip, he had laid her out, kissed lies into her lips about an easy forever). She tucked the fluffy corner down, smoothed it with her hand, and left the room. She closed the room off, her fingertips lingering on the doorknob for a moment too long.

After opening a number of windows, she ran a single finger along the countertop and marveled and how readily dust had collected in the absence of occupants. As the thought of the domestic help she had around her own homes caused her guilt, she plucked a thick-plumed duster from beneath the kitchen sink and carefully ran it over the various surfaces of the cabin. Counters, the mantle, coffee and end tables, window ledges, the bookshelf, the top of the refrigerator, the tanks of the toilets and shower curtain rod. She straightened her shoes at the front door, making sure the toes did not scuff the oak moulding, and took her summer jacket from the back of the couch to hang it among those in the front closet. When her small amount of housekeeping was finished, she found herself adrift and waiting, checking her wristwatch periodically.

Two hours passed.

She wondered if he got the message.

She wondered if he had decided not to come.

She had no idea how far away his childhood home was, the trivia he’d shared about the distance from the cabin and location lost somewhere in her lizard brain.

She opened the refrigerator and stared inside, rearranging its contents and tossing out some of the items that had gone off since their journey to the market.

She wondered how it felt as though an entire lifetime had passed since they had last been there. Wrenching her eyes closed, she realized it had only been a few days.

Gravel crunched underneath tires, and she snapped to the front door like a magnet, pulling it open and looking out. All that remained was a plume of dust from a passing motorist. It was chilly, the air biting and the sky grey. Autumn would come early this year.

Another hour passed.

She settled herself onto the couch with a book plucked at random from the bookcase. Camus. The Stranger. Reading, but not retaining, her mind wandered. Perhaps Fraser was angry with her; maybe his sister advised him not to come. Claire chewed a thumbnail, excoriating herself for even wearing the bloody ring to the cabin in the first place and then for just leaving it like some useless, nondescript bauble.

This was her fault.

Well into her fourth hour, Claire had resigned herself to the fact that she would perhaps sleep alone in the cabin. She could give Fraser until the following day to come – a night of restless tossing and turning in their room, nose pressed to his pillow. For the first time, she seriously entertained the possibility that Colonel James Fraser had heard her speech, that it was not enough, and that he would not be coming.

‘What then?’ she pondered.

Perhaps she would be left to send notes to him periodically, to beckon him to the cabin. Days would be spent – dusting each surface, straightening shoes and magazines. Maybe she would do that for a time, until the moss-covered board was nailed down and the key relocated from its damp home to a hiding place less obvious as a message to her. A signal to just stop, and then she would know for sure.

With The Stranger long abandoned on the coffee table, Claire poured and drained a glass of whisky, then another. She let down her hair from its loose twist, and stood at the back window, watching a cardinal. The prospect of drinking until she was drunk enough to sleep soundly seemed welcome to her in the moment.

The door opened.

For some reason, she was resigned to Jamie not coming to the cabin. In the moment, it did not occur to her that he had received her message or that he had come to her.

“Mrs. Fitz, is that you?” she called out.

A pause.

“Did you drive to London to deliver that note?”

The door clicked closed.

Claire looked into the bottom of her glass and drained the third dram without the wincing shiver that had accompanied the first and second drinks. The liquor didn’t taste like smoke or peet anymore; it didn’t taste like anything anymore.

“It isna Mrs. Fitz.”

Claire swallowed, her breath catching on the hazy burn of the spirit in her throat. She set the glass down on the window ledge, willing her hands not to tremble.

“It’s me.”

Lungs. Her lungs weren’t working. Brain and heart and guts. They were all betraying her – nausea and lack of oxygen and an ever-ratcheting tightness behind her ribs, beneath her breastbone.

“Jamie.”

Claire turned, her knees rapidly going through an evolutionary backslide to reconstitute themselves into a mass of gelatin and floppy, pale flesh. She wound her fingers into the curtain. With the fabric in hand, she willed herself to remain upright. Her voice was hardly a whisper as she said, “You came, Fraser.”

“Aye.” The long line of his throat dipped as he swallowed. “Of course I came for ye.”

At once, they started across the room towards each other – long legs carrying him past the halfway point and bringing the fronts of their bodies crashing into one another. His arms gathered her close, then pulled her somehow closer to hold her with an almost-bruising ferocity. For a few moments, she stood stunned against him, her hold loose at his waist. But then she started to cry. She hadn’t meant to, but the tears would not stop once they started. As she wept, Jamie smoothed her hair and began to weep himself, the unseen origins of a sob building with a tympanic vibration in his chest and eventually cracking free.

“I thought I lost ye,” he mumbled. “I thought that I had to lose ye.”

Claire tucked her face closer to him, balled fistfuls of his shirt into her hands. She was not sure she had a single, solitary word left that day. She had spoken them all on that camera. Everything else, she hoped she could communicate as a shell of herself with only her eyes and gestures.

“I thought that I’d no’ ever see ye again. That the last words I spoke to ye were no’ the ones ye deserved, that I said them to yer back, that I didna say that I loved ye until ye had already gone and I was alone. That I’d no’ ever touch ye again, a nighean.”

“You can touch me now,” she whispered plainly, the sound of her own voice surprising her. His acknowledgment was snuffled and ineloquent as his hand cupped her cheek.

When he kissed her, it felt real. Breathless, she pulled back and mashed her cheek to his.

Part of her wanted to rage. To call him what he was – a bloody stubborn Scot, an idiot, and a know-it-all. The other wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to implore him to make love to her; to wash the taste of that moment when she had turned her back to him out of her mouth, to cleanse her mind of the things they’d said to one another.

His hands were in her hair, tilting her face back towards his. “We need to talk.”

Nodding, she hitched herself somehow closer to him. “I need you to just hold me right now.”

The underside of his chin bumped against her head. She wished desperately that he had more hands, that he was broad enough to fold around her entirely, to swallow her whole. He wasn’t, so they stood in the center of that living room – Claire in her stocking feet and television appearance clothes, Jamie in work clothes – for what felt like an eternity.

She was the first to pull back, to run her fingers along his cheekbones, to try to speak. Words failed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, rose to the tips of her toes and kissed him. His cheeks, his jaw, his mouth as he ran his hands over her hair and back and shoulders again and again. It was not a romantic kiss and it was not a touch meant to arouse, but instead the intentions of two relieved lovers.

They made their way to the bedroom silently, undressed one another wordlessly, took their time with each button and clasp, every zipper, the delicate film of her stockings, and the clip-on earrings and bracelet.

They slipped beneath the covers naked. It was only once the duvet was overhead that they whispered things – gratitude, love, hope. “I meant it… what I said in that interview. I want to stay here with you for a time.” Claire slid her foot up the back of her love’s leg, the one who she had declared to the world was hers and hers alone. “Come to Balmoral with me. Not as an employee. Come as…”

Her voice faded away, and she shifted up on the bed to look at him, to make sure that she could read him as she said it.

“As the man I love. Not as the Crown Equerry.”

He raised his eyebrows. “So ye’re sayin’ that I’ve been terminated?”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk to match his as she delicately rose above him, hands on either side of his head and one knee moving over his belly. She lowered herself to sit on his thighs. “I’m saying that we have the rest of the summer, and however many days we have left on this earth, if you’ll have me.”

As he pulled himself up and leaned back against the headboard, he tucked her hair behind her ears, traced his hand down her shoulder to push the sheet away from her breasts. Taking her legs and bringing her fully into his lap, he sighed, “Of course.”

“So you will you come to Balmoral? And then back to London?”

“Ye ken there’s nowhere else I’d be, Sorcha.” Her fingers charted a course south between them, and he arched up enough that his neck was corded, taut. “I want to make a life wi’ ye, mo nighean donn. Whatever life that God and the universe have in store for us. I want ye. Desperately. Unendingly.”

Her eyes clouded, she nodded. For a moment she indulged in the thought of him as prince consort (night rides and meeting her under too-sweet magnolia bushes, not out of obligation for secrecy, but for want alone), of his hand in hers as they introduced the world to the next in the Beauchamp line to the throne (an auburn-curled lad with translucent eyelashes or a peach-skinned lass with the rosiest bow-shaped mouth).

“Will ye grow tired of me, do ye think?” he asked.

Her brows knit together, and she huffed a small breath, the diaphanous image of a family they had never discussed having dissolved with his question. “Surely you are joking, Fraser. Do you think you will tire of me?”

“No,” he said firmly, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “That I willna, Sassenach.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” he pointed out. “It hasna been long, but I want ye as much today as I did those few months ago. More, maybe.”

She leaned down and kissed him. He tasted clean and fresh. Familiar. “I do, too.”

“Then dinna trouble yourself about it, Sassenach, and neither will I.”

He smoothed the curtain of curls that had fallen forward away from her forehead, let loose a little sigh as she rose over him and sank down, her face twisting with the pleasure of having him back with her, back inside of her. Leaning into her, he took his time, lapping at the base of her throat, apologizing with the soft skin of her earlobe absorbing his breath, moving with her only when she whispered, “Please, Jamie.”

She rolled against him, rocked, took his hand, reared back with the bedding tented over her shoulders. He touched her right breast, whimpered, and said that he loved her, that he knew she loved him. Their fingers intertwined, she fell forward to take his mouth, to bite his lower lip.

“Stay here with me for awhile, Fraser,” she groaned, moving faster, pressing closer.

“I will.” His eyes were open, his mouth slack, but he managed, “Always.”

Later, sated and aching between her thighs, Claire was not sure if Jamie was awake. Night had long since fallen, and the quietness of the cabin was disrupted only by the soft click of the radiator and the even cadence of his breathing. “Jamie?” she asked softly, her fingertips running up the centerline of his chest and along the stubble of his throat. “Are you awake?”

He made a decidedly awake, chesty noise of sentience, and she found herself smiling.

She needed him then, not in a desperate away, just in an ancient way. He turned towards her, a hand coming to rest against her hip as if she were gravity itself. Quiet, as though he had not already divined her purpose in rousing him, she asked, “Make love to me again?”

“Yer wee cheeks. They’re pink.”

Defiantly, she muttered, “I have been exercised quite thoroughly, Fraser.”

His fingers traced the apple of her cheek, the bottom swell of her lip. “Ye’re blushing.”

To shut him up, she kissed him and refrained from saying that he was blushing just as furiously with her hand between his legs doing the careful work of bringing him to full readiness for a second round. As he carefully situated his knees on either side of her hips, they somehow knew – both of them – that they could know one another for an entire lifetime and still surprise one another, still love with a mad intensity.

And then all conscious thought was lost between them.

#Anonymous #; mod kate #HRH #Her Royal Highness AU #Part XXIV #jamie x claire

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vanchlo · 4 years

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The Assistant / Chapter Thirty, “Close Calls”

All chapters can be found here!

Inspiration tag for the story!

I recently completed a character survey from Becky’s POV that you should check out!

Warning! This story contains mentions of: cancer, vomiting, chemotherapy process, and brief mentions of blood.

Sneaky peeeeeeeek!

I want to tell him, but I don’t know how to. I don’t know how to put into words that I’m breaking more and more every day. The paradox of being happy and sad that I’m here with my dad for his next round of chemotherapy. And I sure as hell don’t know how to put into words to Harry that his one in a million hugs could fix everything, if only for a little bit.

But I can’t, and I don’t try to put the feelings into words. I sit there and cry inside of my car until I can’t anymore. And until I find enough strength to sit up and leave, knowing that I won’t call him back.

Snowflakes flutter in front of my eyes, painting the world white. Cars zoom past on the streets down below, the size of my fingernail. Yeah, it sure looks like the first of February out there, the thought sounds inside of me. The festivities of Christmas are long over as a new year has begun. Thinking of what comes next leads to a disorganized mess behind my eyes. I try to rid my thoughts of it with a hard blink, but instead it brings something else forth.

February 1st.

It’s Harry’s birthday today.

He’s 29. Shit.

Flipping my phone over in my lap, my thumbs get working fast. But once that empty conversation is in front of my eyes, I stall. Before I chicken out, words appear on the screen quickly.

I read them over and wonder how they sound. Or, more like, how they would sound to him. Do they sound too personal? Do they not sound personal enough? Or am I worrying too much and it’ll just blend into all of the other birthday texts he’s sure to receive?

“I think if you stare at that thing any harder your eyes are gonna pop out of your skull, Ree.”

I raise my head to find the voice who said that. My dad. He smiles tiredly at me a few steps away. I laugh, realizing he’s right.

“What’s got your attention so peaked anyways?” he asks. His eyes framed with exhaustion stay for only a second. They return to the Arsenal football match playing on the telly.

“Um, just trying to write a text to somebody. But I don’t know if it’s good enough.”

“Don’t think about it so much, sweetie. I mean it, you’re probably thinking too hard about it,” he comments, scratching at the blue wool hat covering his head.

Sometimes I still expect to see the IV tubing dangling from his skinny arm. Like all of the other times at the beginning. Patches of faded red cover the insides of his arms from them now. You wouldn’t notice their small marks, but I know they’re there. The seconds of relief from their absence is whisked away when he tugs at his shirt. The moving of the material reveals the tubing leading to the port in his chest. The one I forget has been there for months when his shirt covers it.

“Yeah, you’re right,” I tell him, and go ahead and hit Send.

Hi. I’ve been thinking of you. I hope you’re doing alright. Just remembered it was your birthday. Wow 29, huh? Damn you really are getting old, you geezer. You better hurry and claim your senior discount now. No, but really I hope you’re having a good day, Harry. Enjoy your day. Have some drinks and do something for yourself, something you enjoy. I hope 29 is a fantastic year for you. Hopefully you’re not as run down yet as Chandler is.

I tap Send again, watching the clip from F.R.I.E.N.D.S go with the text marked by a heart. A smile pulls up my cheeks, thinking of the scene.

The three guys are sitting on the sofa in Central Perk and Chandler talks about not being 21 anymore. He’s 29 now and just wants to relax and go to bed at his bedtime, according to him.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” my dad comments, bringing my eyes back to him. A small smile pinches his sallow cheeks. I nod, thinking of those words, but in a different way. If only that could be said about everything.

Setting my phone down, I try to watch the match with him. I’m glad it’s taking his mind off of the poison coursing through his veins. But I’m distracted by the anxious excitement of waiting to hear a ding from my phone.

Point after point is scored and it doesn’t come. And I try not to be disappointed, but I think I’m getting rather good at being disappointed lately.

The last words of a Katy Perry song trickle from the speakers as I put the car in park. A soft glow pours out the living room window, waiting for me.

6:13 pm, the digital clock reads.

I let my head fall back to the head rest. The events of today and their emotions flood my thoughts. As well as the things I still need to do tonight. Bring in the groceries. Put them away. Make dinner, even though he’ll eat 5 bites that he’ll throw up. Sweep and mop the kitchen. Disinfect surfaces. Find time to vacuum when he isn’t sleeping. Change his bedsheets. Do la-

Brrrrrrrrrrring!

The incessant words forming inside of my head cease. Looking over to the passenger seat, my phone buzzes face down. I pick up and answer it without looking.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Becks,” a refreshing voice answers. It almost removes the heavy words inside of me, but not quite.

“Hi, Harry. How was your birthday?” I answer, peering down at my lap.

“It was pretty fantastic, thank you. ‘m sorry I didn’ get t’ yer text yestaday. Tha’s why ‘m callin’, an’ ‘cause I got yer gift. I love it, it was so nice o’ you! I don’ have this Fleetwood record yet, so thank ya very much. ‘s in incredible condition, too! Hope ya didn’ have t’ pay too much. I know how pricey original records can be,” his syrupy voice utters with extra sugar today. It fills me with comfort, but he also picked the worst time to call. Although, maybe it would help to get out of my head for a few minutes. If I can.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it. I uh, wasn’t sure if you had it or not,” I reply slowly, unsure of what to say. I find it hard trying to pick out words from my head as so many others are whirring around. Playing with the zipper on my coat, I wait for his reply.

“I can’ wait t’ listen t’ it. There’s not a scratch on it, ‘s unbelievable. I got sum drinks with sum mates last night afta work, so tha’s why I forgot t’ text back. Had lots o’ fun tho’, an’ ate sum good food,” he narrates for me in an animated voice.

I nod at his words, wishing that would suffice. But I have to talk, even though yesterday I would’ve jumped at the chance to hear his voice. Well, I still would today. Just minus the jumping part.

“Good,” is all I say, amidst the lump building in my throat. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe. But it doesn’t help, it never does. “I’m glad you had a good time,” I somehow manage. Cursing myself, I know he heard my voice crack at the end. Because so did I.

“Becks-.”

“I’m glad you had a good birthday with friends. It did sound fun. Um I’m sorry, but can I call you back? I was just going to run into a shop quick,” I cut him off, the lie knitting together fast.

“Ya sure, an’ thanks. ‘ll talk t’ ya later, Becks. Drive safe,” he replies, something amiss in his voice. But I can’t listen any further than that, or else the guilt will make the tears come sooner.

“Thanks, Harry. I will, and happy birthday,” I finish, not giving him a chance to reply before I hang up.

Because the tears already arrived at my last word. And he sounded so happy, and I couldn’t ruin it. Over the course of the few texts we’ve sent back and forth in the last month, it was the happiest he’s sounded. And I didn’t want to share my dark cloud, and reveal that I’m in the lowest of my lows. Another side of me selfishly wanted him to notice, almost begged him to. And that part is disappointed that he didn’t, but the other part knows that I can’t expect that. Or at least it tries to.

It’s going to take everything inside of me. To lift my head from the steering wheel and walk back into that house. And to do yesterday and the day before, all over again. Dole out the meds and write them down. Clean up the vomit. Cook the meals. Clean and clean. Endure watching the pain and suffering I can’t do a damned thing about. And on top of it all, try to deal with my own pain and suffering. Not to forget, the schoolwork.

I want to tell him, but I don’t know how to. I don’t know how to put into words that I’m breaking more and more every day. Or the paradox of being happy and sad that I’m here with my dad for his next round of chemotherapy. And I sure as hell don’t know how to put into words to Harry that his one in a million hugs could fix everything, if only for a little bit.

“Hey, Becky. Could you do me a favor, love?”

The pictures of puppies I was looking at suddenly feels illegal. Closing my laptop, I look up and find Sophie standing in front of me. I still think for a split second that she’s the mom from The Princess Diaries when I look at her, even after a year of working here.

“Y-yeah yeah. What do you need, Sophie?” I ask, trying to sit up straight, for once.

“Could you run this down to the post room for me, please? I need it sent out today, and I have a video conference in a minute. I’d wait on it, but I know they pickup the post in about 20. I won’t make it since my video conference is an hour long,” she says, her lips lined in scarlet grimacing. She tugs at the end of her corkscrew brown curls, a nervous habit of hers. “I hate to be one of those bosses that makes you do stupid stuff, but-.”

“Don’t mention it, Soph. A little walk would be nice, anyways,” I insist, taking the large white envelope from her. She thanks me with a smile and a handful of ‘thank yous’ before leaving.

Standing up, I feel my joints wake back up with a few cracks. I smooth down my maroon blouse over my black dress pants. A shiver tickles my spine, and I decide to slide on my zip up black Columbia. The last thing I do before leaving is to grab my steel water bottle to fill up.

“Be right back,” I let the girls know at the front desk. They nod with a smile before resuming their hushed conversation.

My pointed flats hardly make a noise on the tiled floor. It’s hard to look for a noise with the wind whipping around the snow outside. Just looking out the windows lining the hallway makes me feel cold, colder than it should be in March. And regret choosing these shoes this morning. I reach a corner and take a left, thinking back to when I first started and always got lost. I pass a handful of people on my way, familiar and not, and we exchange smiles or nods. I pass the doors for Human Resources, and wave at a friend. A gruff bailiff passes without either, but he was a little too scary looking to make eye contact with anyways.

I reach another corner, knowing the post room is only two turns away now. I take a right, but a few steps in, I hear voices. And laughing. My feet stop at the sound, and I turn around. The large doors to Courtroom 5 are down the hallway behind me. A clump of people stand across them talking, leaning against the wall under a clock. One of the laughs stands out to me from the others, like a musician can recognize a note. I can only see the backs of heads of those facing away from me. They shield the others from my view. My head goes from side to side with dismissal as I turn back around. But I don’t get very far, because I hear something they say.

A name.

It’s like it takes control of my limbs, and again I’m spinning around. I make it just in time to watch a figure break away from the group. Smiling and shaking hands, a laugh tickling their lips. And walk over to the drinking fountain. It’s Rose, one of the lawyers from Harry’s firm. Hmm, I think silently before walking away for real this time.

I soon find another water fountain and I decide to fill up. Luckily almost all of the ones I come across here have the nifty water bottle attachment. It was always a pain any place I’d go trying to fill it up directly from the spout. With the thick envelope under my arm, I screw the cap back on. Slipping my finger through the little handle at the top, I take off. But once again, I don’t get very far. Because this time I almost run into somebody.

“Sorry,” I automatically say before even taking a look at the person. But I don’t need to look when their voice tells me what I’m looking for.

“‘s alr- Wait, ‘s that you, Becks? Well hi, love,” Harry coos, his words catching.

“What, I don’t get an ‘it’s alright’ just because I’m not a stranger?” I joke, looking into his brilliant green eyes.

The skin around his eyes crinkles as amusement paints his face. Nodding, his growing curls dance a little on his head. “Yeah, I guess ‘s alright ya almost plowed me ova,” he jokes, his straight white teeth showing behind his happy lips.

Scratching at the back of his neck, his navy blazer pulls to the side. I see more of the cream button down underneath decorated with small navy polka dots.

“Hey, I could say the same thing about you,” I argue, trying to calm the happiness budding on my lips. But my control doesn’t last very long.

Harry replies with a breathy laugh, dropping his hand. “Oh hush, you. Now, what’re ya doin’ here, love? I hope yer not here fer a hearing,” he asks, swinging the leather messenger bag to his side. Probably heavy from his files and laptop, from the look of its bulging seams.

“I uh, work here,” I tell him slowly, my words escaping me. My fingers wrap around and lift the sleek card resting on my chest.

His moss green eyes fall to the lanyard hanging around my neck holding the access card bearing my face and name. I receive my answer when his expressive eyebrows shoot to the sky in surprise. “Here? Really, doin’ wha’?” he questions.

“Um, I do some clerk stuff back in admin,” I reply, watching his expression relax into a content smile.

“Tha’s great, Becks. That’ll look really good on yer resume when ya graduate. Good fer you, ‘m proud o’ you, darlin’,” he comments, patting my arm. I hardly know what to say with everything jumping around in my head all of a sudden. The arm pat. The beaming pride coating his features. The part where he said he’s proud of me, for the second time now. Okay, chill out, Becky. You can’t lose it, not yet. “An’ ya like it here? Are ya learnin’ more ‘bout law?”

“Yeah, I really like it. I work with a small group of people, and we get along really well. I mean there’s always that one coworker you don’t like, but what can you do?” I try to laugh, but I’m afraid it sounds fake. It’s okay though, because his laugh covers the doubt I hear in mine. And the nerves. “And I am learning, too. My boss is really great and I think she uses me being in law school to her advantage. It’s a match made in heaven, I guess.”

“Good, ‘m glad t’ hear that. ‘m happy t’ hear well, that yer happy,” Harry tells me with a smile framing his words. But when I look at it a second too long, I see the sadness in it. Suddenly, I regret my words, and how they sounded like he wasn’t a good boss. Or that I didn’t like it at his firm. But he doesn’t let me get too far into my thoughts, luckily. “How’s yer dad doin’? I haven’t heard from ya lately, but I undastand yer prolly real busy.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” I apologize, looking away with warming cheeks. But his automatic ‘’s okay’ and squeeze to my arm makes me look back at him. “Things have been pretty crazy with classes and being there for my dad. He started chemo again the beginning of last month, since they didn’t get all of the tumor, like they hoped they would. But I guess most people still do it to ensure it’s gone, or something like that. I can’t remember.”

“Stop, ‘s okay,” he says firmly, his eyebrows raising a tick. “How’s he handlin’ tha chemo? ‘ve heard that stuff’s pretty shitty.”

“Yeah, it is. It makes him really sick. It’s hard because sometimes he has to wait to do an infusion of it, because some levels of his are too low. Or they want him to be at a certain weight, even though the chemo makes him lose weight,” I explain, the words coming out effortlessly. “It’s hard to see him like this, and to still be a student and an employee during all of it. But my professors and boss have been really understanding and lenient.”

I bite back the tears, hoping they won’t fall without my permission. But one breaks loose from the gate as I stare at the floor. My flats are separated from his brown leather chelsea boots. Then after a blink they no longer are. I don’t make the decision to look up, but it’s made for me when I feel his thumb wiping the tear away. Peering into his gleaming green eyes always seems to make time stop. A warm smile places dimples in his cheeks, and does something to me. Like it always does.

“‘s okay. I can’t imagine how hard ‘s been fer ya, Becks. Why didn’ ya ring me? I woulda listened,” Harry asks me, his hand regretfully belonging to himself again. But there isn’t annoyance or anger in his voice. There’s emotions from the other side of the spectrum heard there. Like regret and sadness, and others I can’t fathom right this second.

“I wanted to, but I didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. Plus, I hate to be a Debbie Downer,” I confess, admiring the length of his dark eyelashes when they tickle his skin.

“Yer notta Debbie Downa, Becks, whateva tha bloody hell that ‘s,” he insists. A hint of his giggle meets my ears when I look at him weird due to that revelation. “Ya can call me anytime, ‘kay? Whether ‘s happy or sad, ‘d wanna hear ‘bout it.”

I nod at his words, savoring the sound of his voice. And what it said. His minty breath strokes my cheek as he’s close enough to touch. The words get lost in my throat as his familiar smell wafts over me, catching me off guard. “Thank you,” I mumble thoughtfully, seeing his head move in answer.

“What’re ya takin’ this semesta fer yer LLB tha’s so tough? I mean, I know all tha courses can be, but ‘m curious. Ya must be onto tha heavier courses by now, ‘s that right?”

“Well, I’m still catching up to where I should be as a kind of sophomore. Because they changed the degree around since I’ve been gone, so that’s kinda why I took Crim later than usual. But right now I’m taking Banking Law, Family Law, and Environmental Law,” I answer, watching my words register with him. He nods at certain parts, his brow knitted together as he pays attention to me, like there’s nobody else in the entire room.

“Ugh, those don’ sound any fun. I rememba takin’ those, or what were tha equivalent t’ ‘em when I was in uni. They’re tha ratha borin’ ones, an’ Family’s sad, too,” he comments, a look of disgust playing with his features. It’s amusing, but I get away with not letting it show on my face. Reaching to scratch his chin, I notice the stubble there. And the pops of color on his fingernails. Both fitting, I must say.

“Yeah they’re super boring. I’m surprised you even remember them, seeing as you’re 29 and everything,” I joke, earning a well deserved eye roll from him. But he can’t get rid of the grin showing on his raspberry lips. “Hey, I like your nails. It looks like you did a pretty good job, better than I could even,” I laugh and it grows harder when he holds them out for me to see. A wine red and turquoise blue decorate his fingers. But what gets me is that he puckers his lips, modeling like Zoolander.

“Thanks,” Harry titters, looking down at them. “Me little niece picked out tha colors an’ helped me paint ‘em tha otha night. But I think they’re growin’ on me. Already chippin’ tho they are, whatta shame.”

You let your niece paint your nails?

Wait, you’re an uncle?

Okay, the thought of you with tiny children is not helping things.

“You sound like a fun uncle.”

“Ya, I hope so. Harper says I am anyways, which ‘s quite tha compliment. Also, stop callin’ me old. 29 isn’t old,” Harry whines, sticking his bottom lip out at me.

“Oh stop it, you baby,” I giggle, and soon his joins mine. For a couple of seconds, we’re just looking at each other laughing and things couldn’t be better. But I’ve learned that good things can never last, and soon enough we’re interrupted by a voice.

“Harry, are you coming?” Rose says from across the hallway, a ‘hello’ to me following. The sweet sound coming from his lips soon fades as he looks over to her and nods. Pushing his sleeve back to look at his watch, he clucks his tongue.

“‘m afraid I can’ talk any longa, Becks. ‘m sorry. Rose an’ I are workin’ togetha onna case. It starts in half an hour, an’ we gotta go ova sum things befo’ it all starts,” he explains regretfully. I nod, acknowledging his words. And try as I might, I can’t get rid of the disappointment growing heavy in my gut.

“Yeah o-of course, don’t let me keep you. Good luck, Harry, knock ‘em dead,” I wish him with a small, but sad, smile.

A hint of one inches up his cheeks before he says, “Yer not keepin’ me, I dunno why ya always say that. I enjoy talkin’ t’ ya. ‘s nice t’ catch up again,” Harry tells me. As if in slow motion, I watch him take another step closer to me with outstretched arms. I follow suit and soon find myself in one of his hugs. “Ya ring me if ya need anythin’, ya hear me? Even just t’ talk. Maybe we could get coffee or tacos sumtime.”

The moment in his arms doesn’t last long enough, although I’m sure any amount of time wouldn’t be enough for me. Soon, I’m leaving the safety of his arms and again, I’m alone. “Of course. Thanks, Harry.”

“Welcome. Tell yer dad an’ Robbie ‘m thinkin’ of ‘em,” Harry rasps, and I just nod. “An’ take care, Becks. Good luck in yer courses, I know ya’ll do well.”

Happiness seeps through the sudden sadness with his kindness, and I muster a smile. And another thank you.

“Have a good day, love,” is the last thing he says, before he turns to walk towards Rose who waits for him.

“You too,” I mumble, watching him walk away.

Bittersweetness lines my thoughts, wondering if the sadness is worth getting to see him. And that hug. God, that fucking hug. They do fix everything that’s wrong, if only for a couple of seconds. It makes me wonder how much happier I’d be if I could have one of those every day, as a respite from the chaos of life. But that would only be in the case of if I was his-.

Yeah, I’m not going there again, I tell myself. And with that, I finally continue my journey to the post room, unsure of how I’ll be able to top that.

For the rest of day.

Week.

Maybe even, month.

The butter melts on my tongue and next the pillowy bread does too. I close my eyes and smile at the taste. Like home. Opening them again, my eyes flit over the half dozen crock pots and several other plates. Frowning, I can’t stop thinking about the meatballs, the macaroni and cheese, the sugar cookie fruit pizza, and the homemade bread.

But with a longing sigh, I walk away and leave the break room. Excited coworkers of mine pass me on the way to the food. My desk eyes me from across the room, but I ignore it. Soon, I find myself in the hallway. Twenty minutes left of my break after scarfing down the monthly potluck meal. It only gets better each month, and makes me wish it was weekly. The last bite of airy bread passes my lips. I wipe my hands on the napkin and toss it in a bin. The new storm delivers snow outside of the hallway-long windows. Although they’re frosted from the chill, I can still just make out the falling flakes.

My thoughts of snow are whisked away by the shuffling of feet. And hurried voices. It takes me a moment to figure out where I’ve gone off too. Soon, I realize I’m back by Courtroom 5. And that the people are bustling inside the doors to sit in the gallery. And watch. The sleeve of my zip up glides over my watch, revealing the time to be one o’clock. Quickly, thoughts come together like puzzle pieces in my head.

My break is over at 1:30.

It’s Friday, so it’s not like I really have anything important to do when I get back.

Sophie has been bothering me for ages to go and learn from the teachers I have just down the hall.

So she won’t mind.

And the only teacher that I can think I want to learn from is in there right now.

About to argue a case that appears to be available to the public.

I don’t remember telling my feet to move, but suddenly I’m behind an older man. And the scene in front of me changes drastically. It fills me with nervous excitement at the sight of the judicial panel, the jury box, and the witness stand. But I don’t have time to gawk, because the chatter around me is quieting down. I quickly find a seat towards the back of the seating in the gallery.

Silence follows the clanging of the doors shutting. Within a few seconds, everybody rises when the judge enters. But the rest of the room - the jury made up of all kinds of faces, the bailiff, court reporter etc. - melt away when I see that head of curly hair. I’d know it was him if we were in a crowd of people, but any doubt I had from afar is washed away when he speaks.

Harry and Rose take turns delivering their opening statement. They’re defending their client, the plaintiff, who from the sounds of it, was harassed by the defendant. It kills me to watch the opening statements unfold, even if all I can see is the back of the girl’s head. The hush over the courtroom is chilling, and goosebumps grow on my arms at the sound of Harry’s tone. His professional voice that I’ve yet to really hear before. Because although I worked for him, I was only his assistant. I never got to tag along to trials, or hear much about them. Yes, I did some of the dirty work for them, but I only saw the outside. I heard about how good or bad it was going, and then was dealt with the good news or bad news of the verdict. No more than that.

It’s awe inspiring to witness him arguing the case firsthand. The way he uses his hands to speak, or the times when his voice does all the speaking he needs to. His eloquent choice of words drills the emotion home, and is accented by the expression on his face. It’s often neutral, but at times, I watch him struggle to hide the effects of the words playing on his face. I find myself having a hard time doing the same when he returns to sit next to the plaintiff, patting her on the back during difficult moments. Unbeknownst to me, the defending lawyer may have been practicing for two years or twenty. But their skill wanes next to Harry’s, even though he’s been practicing for less than ten years. I can’t stand to watch the discrepancies and weaknesses in his arguments. Luckily, my break is over and I don’t care to waste my time watching Mr. Bow Tie over here.

I quietly leave a few minutes into his opening statement, hoping one day I can evoke as much emotion as Harry with my words. And hide from my face all of the ones that I’m feeling inside. Walking back to my department, a smile curls the edges of my lips. But then it falls, because I realize the mistake I made.

I just fell a little bit harder. Again.

“I’m gonna bring the dishes down,” I mumble, watching him nod at me.

The wooden steps creak with my weight as I juggle the tray of barely touched food. A bowl of chicken noodle soup. A piece of toast. And apple slices with peanut butter.

Options, options, options.

The plastic tray hits the counter with a hard slap, and an accentuated huff. I bend down and grab tupperware from the drawers. As I pour the soup into a container, the slam of a door upstairs makes me jump. My thoughts fly to the soup spilled all over the counter, but they stop when I hear another noise. Besides the tv in the living room, it’s the only other one I hear. It pulls my feet out of the kitchen and through the living room until I’m at the stairs. I take the steps two at a time until I’m at the top. The terrible sound carries down the hallway, leading me to the bathroom door.

I nervously rap my knuckles against the door.

“I’m fine,” my dad says from the other side, coughing.

“Dad, they said if it gets bad-.”

“It’s not bad yet,” he interrupts. There’s a pause when he blows his nose. “Please, Ree, I just want to be home. I hate having to go there.”

“I know, dad,” I reply, sighing when I hear him start to vomit again.

Walking away, I give him privacy. And my ears a break from one of my newest least favorite sounds. My fingers drift to my back pocket, sure of their actions before I am. Exhaling, I take a seat on one of the stairs.

It rings and it rings.

“Come on, pick up,” I mutter, bouncing my leg.

Kneading my temple, I listen to it continue to ring. And ring. Finally, it stops. But I’m not greeted by the sound I want to hear. Instead I hear their voicemail, making me groan. I listen to the old recording I’ve heard time and time again, but this time I just want it to go away. So I can hear the instructions, and that final beep.

“Hey, it’s me. J-just call me back when you get this, please,” I say quickly, the words running from my lips. Alongside the tears.

Dropping my phone onto my lap face down, my head falls in my hands. Noises surround me. Those of everyday life bustling around me. The sound of the laundry machine whirring downstairs. The hum of the tv. And the ones I try to ignore coming from the door behind me. The sound of the crying. And the vomiting.

I can’t keep my hands still. They go to rake through my hair. To cover my face. To play with my fingers. To make fists. I even try to sit on them, and it doesn’t help. And I can’t stop bouncing my legs, as my nerves jitter from the thoughts.

The worries.

The uncertainty.

It feels like an hour before I hear my twinkling ringtone. But when I see the time on my phone, it’s only been eleven minutes. I barely take the time to look at who’s calling before I answer it.

Clearing my throat, I say a shaky ‘hello.’

“Hey, I got yer message. ‘m sorry I didn’ answer, I was inna late meetin’, but I can talk now. ‘s everythin’ okay, Becks? Ya don’ sound so good, love,” he inquires. His caramely voice is the first comfort I’ve felt all day. My respite from this mayhem.

“No, I’’ll um, let you go. I don’t want to interrupt your meeting. I can call later,” I insist, guilt weaving its way into my words.

“No, yer okay, Becks. I stepped out. It wasn’t anythin’ important, anyways. I can have Myles tell me later. Now, wha’s goin’ on?” he tells me, but it doesn’t revoke all of the guilt consuming me. I grimace at the pain from my chapped lips when they smash together, salty tears flowing over their cracks. “Becks, talk t’ me, please. Yer not a botha, not ever. Please tell me wha’s wrong.”

“Harry,” I begin, not capable of any other words. Because that one has been constant in my head for the last twenty minutes. Ever since it started. It’s the one I’ve been holding in, and not been able to say, until now.

“‘m here, Becks,” he says. Never did I think three words could be so comforting. And at the same time, hurt so much. Because they’re true, and then they’re not. I want them to be true so badly I feel it in my veins.

“M-my dad . . . he won’t stop throwing up and I don’t know what to do. He had chemo yesterday, b-but it went fine. And then we had dinner tonight, and he hardly had three bites, before he got sick. It’s been like that all day,” I confess, leaning against the staircase railing. Letting it hold me there, because nobody else can. Because I can’t do it for myself anymore. “This happens sometimes with the chemo, b-but . . . . . it was getting better recently. I think I should bring him in like they said, but that means staying the night in the hospital. Again. I’m just so tired, Harry, I want all of this to be over already. I want him to be okay, and I want to feel what it’s like to be okay again.” I can’t get out another word, because the tears consume them. And the anxiety. And the exhaustion. My head falls to my knees and the hand cupping my mouth slides away.

“I think ya should bring ‘im in, Becks. ‘Specially if they said so. Don’ want ‘im t’ get dehydrated, that certainly won’ help things,” Harry murmurs, his voice quiet and controlled. “I know ya don’ wanna be there ‘gain, ‘specially twice in tha last two days. But he needs their help . . ‘s there anybody who can come an’ be with you? Maybe that aunt o’ yers who was at tha hospital that night? Robbie, or Skye? But I s’pose they’re 3 hours away in London . . . ,” Harry sighs, his words trailing off into the air. For some reason I nod, glad to hear that my reasoning for not wanting to ask them to come is valid.

“Yeah, it’s just me here. That’s how it’s been. Robbie and I switch off . . . But my dad doesn’t want me to bring him in, he hates going there. Being poked by them and everything. But he hasn’t been able to keep anything down all day,” I cry, the tears soaking the knees of my ripped jeans.

“Ya hafta bring ‘im in, Becks. What if ‘s sumthin’ else, like tha stomach flu or sumthin’ worse? He needs t’ be able t’ eat an’ drink in order t’ get betta,” he urges, and finally I decide to listen.

Nodding at his words and the truth they hold, my lips part, “I know, you’re right. I-I’ll bring him in. T-thanks, Harry, for answering your phone.”

Wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I sit up slowly. “Course, Becks. ‘m sorry I was a li’l busy when ya first rang . . . Um drive safe, ‘kay? Maybe bring yer laptop t’ do schoolwork or even jus’ t’ watch Netflix. Sumthin’ t’ distract yerself - a book, or headphones fer music.” His suggestions meet my ears, but they go through one and out the other. They’re not the kind of distraction I want, I think selfishly, but the kind I want, I can’t have. Because it’s you.

“Yeah, I’ll bring something. Thanks, Harry. Have a good night,” I say in almost a whisper, exhaustion stealing my words.

“Yer welcome, Becks. Lemme know what happens, ‘kay?”

I mutter an ‘mmmmhmm’ before hanging up, and trudging up the stairs. Listening for the sound again is hard, because I don’t know what I want to hear. Part of me doesn’t want to hear the vomiting, but the other part oddly does. Because if it stopped then he’ll try to convince me that we don’t have to go in. But I hope it hasn’t, because there’s something at the back of my head telling me we have to. Making me think we need to, because something’s wrong. And I know that if he’s stopped, he’ll tell me that there’s no reason to go in.

My gray striped socks stop on the hardwood floor in front of the door. I knock before I can convince myself to wait. “Dad?”

No answer.

“Dad, I’m bringing you to the hospital. Something’s not right, I just know it. You need to be looked at, and they can help,” I plead from the other side of the slab of wood. A sigh meets my ears and the shuffling of a body.

“Okay,” he relents. I push the door open and am met with his tear-stained face.

Trying to ignore the smell I’m by now used to, I wet a washcloth at the sink. Returning to his side, I bend down and wipe his face with it. And then his mouth. Tossing it in the laundry bin, I wash my hands. Watching him as I do so, his frail figure is slumped against the closed toilet. Embarrassment blanketing him like a sheet.

“It’ll be okay,” I try to tell him. But as I watch his barely there nod, I’m not sure if I believe it either. “Let’s get you downstairs to the car,” I say, drying my hands.

It takes us awhile, to stand up together. To get down the stairs, one step at a time. To slip on his coat. To grab my things. And to drive to the hospital as he threw up into a bucket beside me. But we got there, and the worst part still awaits us.

It pains me to leave his side, but I can’t handle watching them stick him with needles. Or the blood. Not after everything that’s happened in the last 7 months. Combing my hair out of my eyes, I begin my walk down the hallway. Yet another one.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” I respond to the voice I could pick out of a crowd. I try to prepare my words, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m so tired. “I’m at the hospital with dad. Everything is okay. But he hasn’t been able to keep anything down all day, he’s been throwing up off and on. And after dinner, it got worse. They’re taking some blood now to run it for labs. I’ll let you know what I hear.”

“Shitttt,” Robbie replies, holding out the last syllable. Just like our dad. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Ree. I’m surprised he let you take him in, but thanks for doing that. Yeah, I guess all you can do is wait until they have the tests back. Hopefully you two can go home soon,” he says quietly in a tone the polar opposite of the one he answered with.

I echo his words with a ‘me too’ before there’s nothing else to be said. And I let him go. I call Skye too to tell her, and because I can’t go back yet. I just need some time. She talks my ear off, but I’m grateful for it. She tells me about work, her newest boyfriend, the weather, and a show we’re watching together.

After I finally get away from her jabber mouth, almost half an hour has passed. I find my way back to his room in the Emergency wing. As I walk in, he shoots a tired smile at me. One I can barely make out amongst the dark room.

“Early bedtime?” I ask, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He nods, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Yeah. They did all their tests, and said it would take a little while, so fluids, anti-nausea meds, and naptime it is.”

“Good,” I respond, wrapping my fingers around his. Squeezing them, his dusty lips offer a laugh. Or the closest thing to one. He tries to squeeze back, but I barely feel it. It’s nothing compared to when he’d nearly break my fingers giving my hand a squeeze. Somehow his hands look older than the rest of him as I look. His skin wrinkles among his bulging veins, liver spots, and freckles.

“You should too, baby girl,” he replies, surprising me. My eyes return to his face where he’s opened his eyes to look at me. “You look exhausted too. Get some sleep, I know it’s been a lot taking care of me for this long.”

“Dad,” I begin, an argument forming in my voice. But I don’t get any further than that.

“You know it’s true, and you’ve been doing a fantastic job. Don’t let yourself think any different,” he insists, the area above his eyes raising. But it doesn’t have the same effect with his dark eyebrows absent from his expression. A whimper escapes my lips as tears obscure my vision. Lifting our joined hands, he brushes the back of his hand over my cheek. “Come here, my baby.”

It confuses me when his clean scent doesn’t surround me. But it’s there in a hint when I bury my face into his neck. His right arm pulls me against him, and I cry into him. It’s one of the only times I can remember doing this since this all started. I want to stay strong in front of him, but sometimes it’s too hard. I feel a warmth on my forehead, and my lips break into a smile at his trademark forehead kiss. “Get some sleep, sweetie. They’ll wake us with the results if they need to,” he tells me. I nod into him, feeling him scooch over for me to lay more comfortably beside him.

My words are taken away with a whooshing sound just as a ding meets my ears. A bubble appears at the top of my phone screen. With widening eyes, I hold down the bottom button for volume on the side of my phone. Peeking across the room, I exhale watching his chest lift and fall with every breath, his snoring greeting the air. My attention returns to the dings coming from my phone. I read the first one.

Me - a few minutes ago

Tests came back positive for some type of bacterial infection in his digestive tract. Starting antibiotics now. Keeping him overnight and until further notice for observation because infections can be scary with weak immune systems like his.

Harry

thx for the update. glad 2 hear it isnt anything 2 serious. its a good thing u brought him in when u did becks. thinking of u and him.

Thanks so much, Harry. I’m glad I did too. Looks like I’m sleeping on the couch again, yay!

Harry

get some zzzz’s love. might be a long nite. dont forget 2 eat.

Goodnight

My eyes don’t want to believe the clock when the growling of my stomach wakes me. Shuffling into the hallway rubbing my eyes, I swear under my breath.

“No fucking way it’s only 11 o’clock. Why can’t it be 8 am or something?” I groan, trudging down the quiet halls of the oncology wing. But I’m glad for the quiet compared to the craziness of the E.R. earlier.

Dropping my hand, I’m welcomed once again by the stinging fluorescent lights. And the packaged foods waiting for me behind the glass. Pulling my wallet from my back pocket, I scan the many choices. Hmmm, salted nut roll for once, hostess cakes, sour patch kids, hard pretzels, jelly beans, or Cheez-Its? I wonder to myself, blinking the sleep from my eyes.

Another ding meets my ears. But when I lift my phone to my face, there isn’t a new text popping up on my screen. There are some, but they’re from an hour ago or longer. Weird, I think, staring at the screen and reading the words.

There’s a cough as somebody clears their throat. “We’ve gotta stop meetin’ like dis,” they almost laugh, making me turn my head without a choice.

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blankdblank · 4 years

Text

Next Caller Pt 29

You knew it might ripple around that you were working on both popular shows, you just hoped that none would try to spend much time delving into your life. For a time at least you planned to be mum in interviews if offered and just let your work speak for itself. Truly how much interest could people have in the voice over artists. Animators and writers, of which you were for both on the animated show, you knew there would be of some interest but easily overshadowed by the show itself. At best you guessed to be asked to a convention or something to greet the few people with questions or wishing possibly for an autograph for the ancient show.

Closing up your garage you took another tour of each room seeing it all come together and oddly in your storage room holding your blankets and such you couldn’t help but notice that it could make a nice at home recording studio. Already you had a mic and worked with a group of friends to edit the background sounds for your radio show years prior with just your laptop. Certainly with your now ample funds and spacious abode you could have a lovely setup for a sound studio easing things even if somehow another season of the show was called for. It would be grueling with your job at the hotel but you could make it work with Celebrian and her twin cousins who had helped you with the animation for the show before just rating to have another project to get back into.

Added to the mix of house sketches you roughly designed a layout for the larger of the two storage rooms knowing you’d probably never have that much to store. The dream of a possible studio taking hold and demanding to be sketched at least. Desks, shelves, cubbies and the actual recording section with the built in booth and stand in one corner. The lighting was fine for what you would need sticking to the simple installed lanterns along the walls and every surface could have more than one use to utilize the small space to whatever that could pop up. An early night in by the time you’d priced out what you might need through dinner was called for and you were ready to get started on the next show.

Breakfast came with a whoosh from your phone alerting you to the email that rolled you over in bed. Lifting your phone you read the notice of a deposit into the account for your trust you’d set up from your father’s clan funds. 20k now sat in your little black card attached solely to that account and sighing deeply you grumbled wondering what you were going to do with your money. Turning your head however your eyes shifted to your study and sitting up you went to fetch your laptop.

You could feel another writing burst coming up and eventually you would have to type something and until you bought a chair you couldn’t properly use your wonderful new desk. Fetching your laptop you turned it on and right to the bookmarked website you found the chair on, with a click you ordered it and in the aftermath you eyed the screen only to groan and rub your face when the receipt was emailed to you and that whoosh sounded from your phone. You weren’t going to go crazy or blow through it but you were determined to not let it be a noose around your neck and this chair arriving, surprisingly the following day, would be the start of accepting that you just had those funds to use if you so wished.

In shorts and a tank top chosen from the heat felt in your trip to your mailbox to check for yesterday’s mail that turned out to just be an odd flyer for boats on sale you brought inside and added to your shred pile of mail that Kuu loves to handle for you, fully entertained by the use and effects of a shredder. Surely the strips would be scattered through nests and eventually be worn away to nothing in time. A messy bun was called for and tucked under your helmet allowing the breeze to cool the back of your neck on the ride to the shop.

At the early hour and quick stop you parked on the street outside and hurried inside for your mug from Balin while the others were oddly missing. His rag from cleaning the mess formerly covering the counter left in its green mush coated glory for all to see. A quick wave later and you were heading for the door as he said, “Can’t wait to hear what Bunny is up for today.” Your soft giggle was all he heard and chuckling to himself hoping that was a good sign and not one for more grim news for her.

Barely moments after you had left Thorin entered through the back door with Dwalin helping to smooth the flannel across his back. “I’m sorry, I thought he liked peas! He usually eats them so gladly.”

Thorin fired back tucking in the front of his fresh undershirt in he had in his trunk for emergencies, “He ate them fine, he just neglected to swallow them and then sneezed the chewed mess all over me.”

Dwalin, “Surely he,”

“Oh I’m not mad at Frodo. Strictly involuntary I get that, my issue was my mouth was open and everything.”

Balin chuckled again and said, “We’ve all been there. Just be glad it was peas, been there with my pebble with naught but her own snot exploding at me.”

Thorin sighed and looked to the bill that Balin was adding to the register, “How could I have missed her I wasn’t gone three minutes?!”

Balin chuckled, “You left it on the burner, I couldn’t think of a good excuse to have her linger and possibly be late.”

Thorin huffed and turned to lift the rag he took to the sink in the back to scrub clean, “I’ll handle this then.”

Dwalin said, “If it helps he never sneezes on Frerin and Gran always said a baby sneeze near you means that you’re their favorite!”

From the back Thorin rumbled, “I am so flattered.”

The brothers chuckled and got to finishing readying the shop for their first customers hoping to be in for the first part of the show in their usual seats already showing up to cue outside.

A ringing phone was how the show opened and from there Wolsey informed Countess Beatrice that he had found Bunny. Over the span of a week gradual hints of waking were spotted by the staff, always when the guests were out of the room. Until with a hard slap sitting up out of sleep the King of Gondor held his cheek staring at the empty bed Bunny had backed then slid off of out of her dream falling onto the floor with a pained cry. Leaning over the bed towards the woman tangled in the iv and various tethers to monitors now going off that they were disconnected he peered at the panting frantic collapse of the nightmare lingering in her eyes she had escaped from then said in the race of the nurses into the room, “Miss Bunny, welcome to Gondor.”

“Up you get Deary,” one kind nurse said while she and another helped Bunny up into the bed again untangling the chords and reattaching the monitors once she was safely lounging again.

Looking at the King Bunny got the play back of all she had missed until the narrator came in ready to drop in on his savior and thank them with the pictures he had drawn of her distracting her fully until Beatrice and the others could be brought in to embrace their badly smarting little friend. Lingering across the wall however Durin was noted to be watching intently the same woman he came to see daily without any word traded past a soft whisper he would return again the next day leaving a single tiny pile of white flowers gathered through her rest in his strolls through the gardens on his daily walks.

Every Durin listening in could feel tingling on their arms recognizing what they hoped to be the twist in the tale they had ached for catching hints shows prior that she might be one of the mysterious brides of Durin, mainly one he married in his final two lifetimes. Tiny white flowers and barely a word spoken between them with only rumors of an innocent saved selflessly with nearly the cost of her life. Nearly a spotless Dwarf lineage till that unspeakably irresistible half Hobbit that mingled the sudden love of blooms into the great bloodline.

It was a slow episode without much to spur angst or drama to make the heart beat faster but the sheer emotion in it had people all but openly weeping in the clear showing of adoration and hinted hope for more from the great Dwarf King reborn. The execution of Holm and burning of his body came with a spine tingling speech from Wolsey to the troops looking on leaving people actually clapping proudly for the fictional speaker. All the way through your final three minute clip of cheers and chants from the soldiers allowing you to slip out to go to the bathroom real quick after missing your chance earlier. Returning just in time for your sign off music to gather your things already feeling yourself smirking imagining the reactions on people’s faces when Bunny would be back at the helm the following show.

“You are maddening.” With a giggle you pulled your buzzing phone from your pocket while Mal said, “I can’t even try to keep up with you.”

“Good. Ample twists and turns coming up.”

“Will Bunny at least talk next show?”

Lowly you said leaning in to whisper, “She’s opening it.”

Mal chuckled and patted your shoulder, “Finally, some good news.”

You giggled again and reached over stroking BamBam’s head in his nap, “Nice to know he’s enjoying the five hour naps my show grants him.”

“He is. His leg is getting better everyday and he keeps getting heavier.”

“No doubt, heavier than you soon enough.”

“How are your birds?”

“Good, Belly and Darling are still on their honeymoon and Roac seems to be in good spirits still by what Thorin mentioned yesterday.”

With a grin she said, “So I hear we’re heading to the zoo tomorrow?”

“Ah, you’ve been invited as well,”

“Guys asked me yesterday. I hope they have the bear cub exhibit open.” She said adjusting the carrier in her grip on your way down to the garage, “Dain’s coming out to watch BamBam again, they seem to like one another.”

“Well that’s good as they’re set to live the rest of their lives together.” Making her giggle again. “No hint yet on how things went with Dis?”

Softly her cheeks shifted pink and she said, “We ate food. Talked.”

“Hmm.” You said making her look you over, shaking your head when her lips parted you said, “It’s clearly a courting thing I’m not privy to.”

“Oh don’t be like that. It’s just, a clan thing, supposed to remain-,”

You patted her arm, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just take it as a good sign of things settling down.”

“Not close to settling down.” You glanced at her, “There’s stages, we’ve been welcomed but it’s still a while off before settling down, living together is beyond question for some time and even if we did want to elope that would be downright scandalous to be so quickly.” She drew in a quick breath then said, “Not that we aren’t serious, there are-,”

“Rules.”

She sighed out in reply, “Rules.”

Easing your hand over her back you said, “Be thankful you aren’t an Elf, some courting can take centuries to even be accepted.” Open mouthed she looked at you and you nodded, “It’s always best to meet in childhood and then families warm up over time by the time you are grown.”

“Centuries?!” You nodded again and she asked, “What about Thorin? You would wait centuries to even have dinner?”

“We’ve had dinner, several, and seen a film, been on vacation.”

“I mean as a couple.”

“I know what you meant, and if he did want a relationship with me he would just have to ask me himself in blunt terms, of which I am certain he could hardly accomplish easily. The one plus I assume of having Maiar blood. I can take as long or be as swift as I care to be.”

“Why don’t you just ask then?”

For a moment she caught a timid glance away from her, “I don’t like being wrong.”

Her hand settled on your arm, “He’s not leading you on, and you aren’t wrong. I know your ex lied to you terribly but that’s not what’s happening here.”

“It’s just, odd.”

Leaning in her head tapped the side of yours in a sigh, “Courting is odd. You know how Amad and Adad got together?”

You shook your head, “She fell off a patio and got her leg stuck in a flower pot, one of those deep ones and by the time his brother found him he’d gotten her leg free and she was halfway over his shoulder in lifting her out. Reputation demanded they were courting.” You looked at her and she nodded, “I fell off a ladder and they caught me, all you had to do was say ‘surprise me’ and he fell into your trap while pretending he was the one saving you.”

“Oh really?” You said stepping out of the lift with her beside you.

“Oh yes, stuck in his own slump after a poorly crumbled romance you just scooped him out of. Lit up his world you did.”

“It’s terribly romantic when you put it like that.” She nodded, “Terribly stuffed with fiction,” earning a playful glare from Mal making you giggle out, “But romantic all the same.”

“Go get some tea and make your damsel swoon.” Rolling your eyes you giggled in her mounting her scooter to ride off again. Finally looking at the phone in your palm you read the notice from your email that the first Bombadil deposit had been added to your account. Helmet added and you settled onto your own scooter, easing your leg over the dip under the handlebars the key was eased into the ignition and turned to start the scooter. 80 k post taxes was just sitting there and in your head you crossed off 40 to be switched to your savings account settled for each thousand deposited to be exchanged with a gold coin added to a vault deep in the treasury in the heart of Erebor. The single coin that had sat there for nearly a century waiting for company now had a tiny pile of friends to keep him entertained.

“Frodo exploded on me.” Once at the counter Thorin ignored the still whispering people filling the room speculating on future parts to the show.

“Top or bottom,” you asked and he wet his lips.

“Mouthful of peas sneezed at me.”

“Ah, been there. Few of my best shirts fell to my sisters when they were toddlers.”

“My mouth was open.”

“No,” he nodded and you couldn’t help but giggle offering the folded bill between your fingers.

His fingers wrapped around it just barely brushing yours and he said, “Yes, one cup coming up, settle in and don’t mind the gossip.”

Smirking to yourself you turned for your usual high table and stool you hopped up onto, settling your bag in your lap you brought out one of your sketching journals that had you finishing a sketch you had started the other day of a tapestry that Durin was fabled to have woven himself for his love. One of thirty possible designs you hadn’t decided on for the second book illustrations for the unfolding of his storyline. Perhaps one raven too many your head tilted and chin propped in your palm only to look up when Thorin settled two mugs down on your table. Rumbling lowly, “And just what have you got there?”

Turning the book around you said, “Brainstorming.”

A smirk ghosted across his lips and he all but hummed back, “A betrothal tapestry. Lovely, though you need anvils across the tops.” Your brows furrowed and leaned in while he reached over taking hold of your pen you released to let him sketch out the required elements and naming each. “Yours was very close. For the show I take it?”

You nodded and asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have record of the real one somewhere? Would you?”

Barely above a whisper he replied, “Gran has an etching of it in mithril. Every marriage in our line has one, fully colored with gemstones.”

“Really?”

“Yes, though it’s meant to remain-,”

“In family,” your grin dropped and you looked down to take a picture of your mug only for his hand to lay over your free hand while you set down your phone to lift your mug.

“You, can see it.”

You shook your head after your sip, “It’s not you, something Mal mentioned.”

“Ah, if that has something to do with Dis or the boys it’s a step towards earning trust.”

“I get that.”

“It’s not all meant to be secretive, only with Dams to enter the family fold. Each clan has their own tradition and way of welcoming, phrases, rites of welcome that have to be crossed off. You were a spectacular buffer in the Festival, you are counted as an honorary Stonefoot, but until an engagement is settled in contract then it must remain between them.”

“It really is a culture difference, don’t mind me with four to choose from and to have had to memorize myself I have no right to pout on being on the outside of another.” Smirking in the retraction of his hand you lifted your mug.

“Four, which one would you follow then?”

“Whichever one I stumble into. Following where my feet decide, hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“No doubt.” He muttered keeping his eyes on you through his own sip and upon lowering his mug he asked, “What are you up to today?”

“Curtains. You?”

“I am helping Dwalin find a suitable stroller for Frodo and Billi.”

“Don’t they rent those?”

“Yes, but none good enough for our youngest pebbles.” Glancing around you eyed the still whispering tables, when he lowered his mug again he hummed out, “We wouldn’t happen to get to meet Durin’s wife, would we?”

“Anything is possible.”

“Have we already met her?” You gave a subtle shrug and he chuckled to himself, “Figures.”

A basic plan of which exhibits you might see in your trip to the zoo filled the rest of your stop. Until at the arrival of Bilbo to take Dwalin and Thorin shopping for strollers you joined them out to the parking lot and waved them goodbye as they piled into Dwalin’s car to drive off for their own shopping trip. In the back Thorin kept sight of you until you turned separate ways. Again at the fabric shop you followed the same steps you had followed when Thorin had brought you here. Into the bend of your arm you tucked each of the rolls of fabric you wanted that were longer than your body luring a pair of taller associated to come over and help you to the cutting table. A hefty stack of folded fabric was joined with colored thread to match and accenting buttons for the ties to hold back the curtains.

Home again you went and closing your garage behind you to stroll through your home hearing another awkward song from Belly while Dot was busy exploring her new home once again looking for extra details to add to her nest. Passing them you went to your storage room where you brought a teal trunk out to the living room to stand up on its side against the wall. Finding the bag with the curtain rods and loops you left by your couch.

Opening the split door on the top the two halves folded back revealing the cubies and shelves around the teal sewing desk you unfolded and settled your sewing machine on the end of. With projector on you listened to the show playing in the background while you got started on cutting the fabric. One section at a time you hemmed each end and stitched the fabric around the securing T shaped tabs for the loops you had bought. Pairing the curtains by destination you had the piles lined up then turned your gaze to the curtain rods once you had switched off your sewing machine.

“Belly?”

Your voice echoed through the house and curiously following it the raven found you atop a sideways turned trunk when you realized you still hadn’t bought a ladder yet. On the shelves by the door he landed and eyed the bar in your hand asking, “Yes Jackrabbit?”

“Is this even?” You asked with pencil in hand ready to mark where to secure the brackets.

Dangling from the doorframe Darling came to a stop curious what you were doing and Belly answered, “Yes, should it not be lower?”

Marking the one side with your arm outstretched holding the bar in place you pulled the pencil back and traded hold of each item to mark the other side of it. “No, the loops for the curtains are about two inches so to cover the window fully the bar has to be higher than the window frame.”

The peach curtains for your sisters’ room went in easily enough for their smaller window higher up on the wall than the other bedrooms but longer than the others. With screwdriver in hand you worked each securing bracket into place for one half of the window then opened the next kit to level that with the first. Fetching the curtains you brought them in now for the trio of Ravens to see you ease them onto their rods you lifted in your climb onto the trunk again to settle the bars in place. Grins eased onto their cheeks watching the finished product coming together as you eased them back to tie them back with your hand made straps secured by fake crystal coated star buttons.

Two trunks were needed to reach the nearly ceiling high level you wanted for your Naneth’s room. This one was easier to measure out once you laid the bar out on the windowsill seeing how much you had on either side of the window once it was centered. Still watching you once they had torn open the packs for you they flew up with the brackets and screws so you wouldn’t have to keep getting up and down easing the task greatly. Then when you lifted the curtain coated rod they helped to grip the rod holding the other end to ease it as a team into place. Using the pulley system on either end they helped you to ease the curtains open on the larger window with internal shades already built into the window just like the two smaller windows to the right of it you were leaving without the second set of curtains as they met on a corner.

The white orange accented bedroom was next with the white and grey striped curtains mounted nearly to the ceiling again. Two sets of double windows were covered easily on opposite ends of the same curved wall.

The blue/orange room proved more challenging with a small double window near the ceiling centered on one wall, up high next to the ceiling on the orange wall your blue and white curtains hung to the ground, easily secured by standing on the table you had assembled. Moving a trunk against the blue wall to the right of it you added a matching set up near the ceiling covering the double window. The other tan half of the wall had another high double window the third set was secured around reaching from floor to ceiling.

On your feet you nipped at your lip eyeing the final product bringing the rooms fuller into creation. To the living room again you went with your laptop settling onto the couch, first securing the transfer of half of your Bombadil funds to your savings adding forty more gold coins to your vault then switching to check the shipping on your office chair.

“Hey hey hey, it’s been a heck of a time but don’t you fret it’s just you and me your dear friend Bunny, devoted with my ear to the ground here to give you all the latest on those lovable Durin boys of ours.” Gasps rippled around only to fall silent as your voice rang out again spreading grins on the faces of the Durins listening in hoping to catch the next segment in their ancestor’s fictionalized past. They knew the truth from his journals and stories handed down through their line kept within the clan but they had to admit they loved hearing your version of it. “Out in the middle of who knows where in an impressively odd flying shark of all things I am currently tucked in a water closet hiding out from yet another person coming to tell me to get back to bed.” Grins spread at Bunny’s determination to be up and about. “But I’ve found this handy wheeled stool and as long as I don’t hit some steps I should be just peachy.”

At the sound of the door opening Wolsey could be heard saying, “There you are.” Then his groaning at your rolling past him.

Down the hall you rolled saying, “You’ll never catch me alive.”

Raul called out proudly, “Roll like the wind Bunny!”

Though Durin halted the game with her gasp in his playful rumble of, “I see we have two pirates aboard my ship.”

“Your point being, Shark King?”

“No point, just an order, back to bed.” Bunny groaned and he could be heard rolling her back to her room, “This is strictly a non fleeing floor.”

“No fun, at all. I can see why your lot is the least boisterous bunch I’ve seen in years.”

“That’s unfair, you haven’t even heard our music hours yet.”

“When would those be, half past unfun and never thirty?”

Awkwardly he chortled and rumbled back, “Funny, very funny. I will ensure you have a comfy seat right up front, at sunset, it stretches out to midnight.”

“For such rule sticklers you would assume there would be a bedtime you stuck to. No wonder you’re all scowling.” Again he chortled and the banter had the people listening in were melting at the moment they imagined to be their possible coupling. Only he was called away and Beatrice came in with her family around Bunny on her bed in the most comfortable room offered for guests.

Outside the booth you could see Ecthellion and Glorfindel. Mal had to hurry out to meet up with Dain so to their office you went taking a seat to go over all the details coming up in the plans for your book in the future. With confirmation of the stickers being in transit to be brought to the station this week you grinned readying the news in your head for the Durins to be told. Ecthellion said, “Now Gorgo is off next week and there is something planned for this weekend for her family so it would have to be next weekend possibly to handle the draft date. And all that is merely details the read through is just for how to rate the violence and such, they have accepted your book as is, it’s in writing as soon as it’s been rated the book etchings are off to print.”

Letting out a deep breath you replied, “So strange to be so close.”

The pair chuckled and Ecthellion handed you the check in an envelope he slid it into confirming the amount, “10.5k. Any plans for it yet?”

“Not sure yet, had a passing thought to maybe turn one of my storage rooms into an at home sound studio.”

Glorfindel, “That could be very useful, especially if weather were to turn sour or we needed to do repairs here. Or for ads, animated promos, we did leave it open for possible cartoon promotions for the novel, you record the voices do a little three minute skit.”

“I could do that. I’ll work on some things over next week.”

Ecthellion nodded through a grin at you, “Excellent, they will love that, really get the word out. Not to mention if they wanted to record an audio version of your novels or if the show did end up picking up ample amount of fire to possibly get another season. Not even mentioning the ideas Celebrian has had for shows you might join her on in the future.”

“I thought she was focusing on Arwen’s jumping lessons?”

Glorfindel chuckled, “You never know. Between that and the boys and their rock climbing ambitions she might need a getaway of her own.” Making you giggle on your way to the door slipping the envelope into your bag. Hugs were traded and they were off to meet with another possible group with new ideas for their time slot that was in great need for some fresh ideas.

Back down to your garage you had to admit to yourself it was useful that you’d already animated the novel and saved the audio on a hard drive. Back in one of your trunks had the box of animated original images you had drawn with the backup already being compiled into footage reels by Celebrian’s filming company that had promised to do so for you while you were waiting for interest in your story possibly even to self publish a sort of show or film series. The prospect now more possible than ever to come up with the radio spot and the impending book series.

Strapping your helmet on you straddled your bike feeling amply proud of yourself and your own patience through all of this. Even more than that your grump’s words about your achievements so far could only have you imagining how he would react to the news. Just hearing about the curtains could be enough to earn a grin from the serious Dwarf. For the short ride to the bank you remained focused on the ride over wondering how the zoo would go today. The marble building with a polished silver door coated with sword designs across the milky glass panels stood out in the shopping center.

Parked in the section for bikes you removed your helmet and crossed to the walkway heading inside, right up to the large doors that eased open in your approach allowing you in and a Hobbit on your left out. Flashing him a quick grin you continued on brushing your bangs out of your face feeling your long braid sliding across your back with each step you took. Large desks lined the vast hall and off to your left you walked to the counter coated in slips, with your wallet in hand you opened your wallet pulling out the card for your main account you swiped in the card reader then got to filling in the deposit slip. Once filled in you moved to one of the seats in the waiting lounge, from your bag you pulled out the envelope along with your journal you tried to keep busy looking through until the attendant came out saying, “Miss, Pear-?”

Grinning at the woman you stood seeing her eyes flinching from the handheld in her palm to you again with parted lips closing in a quick smile, “Pear is fine.”

Shifting on her feet she showed you back to her office that once she had you alone inside you could tell something was up with her creeping grin and continued stolen glances your way. “How can I help you today, Miss Pear?”

Handing her the deposit slip you pulled out the check that you signed the back of with a pen from your journal, “Just a check deposit over the two grand limit for the atm.”

Her grin split wider and she said, “Not a problem.” Easing through the process to scan the slip into the tabletop deposit system including the check after, you punched in your pin on the keypad aimed at you and she scanned her badge punching in her own authorization code. Again her grin flashed your way and she said, “Easy as pie.”

“Thank you.”

When you readied to stand she asked softly, “I just have one question, I am curious, you wouldn’t happen to be the same Miss Pear listed as working on the new show on Bombadil and the Bunny show?”

“Well, ya.”

“Could I get an autograph?”

“Uh, sure,” you said looking down to the slip of paper she slid to you and you signed a simple J Pear across it with the loop of the r making a pear shape around the name making her grin creep wider.

“Thank you so much! I am loving both shows.”

“Thank you.” Out again you followed her back to the main lobby and gave her a final goodbye and walked out to your scooter again while she giddily shared in whispers just who was just in the bank with her coworkers in the break room once she saw you were on your way out of the lot.

Pt 30

#Thorin x Reader OC #Hobbit #lotr

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