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kookingtae · 4 years

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falling into you (pt. 8) PREVIEW

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4 | pt 5 | pt 6 | pt 7

→scenario: Jungkook’s innocence is like a breath of fresh air in your wild life, and though you know you’re toxic for him, you just can’t seem to stay away.

→genre: college au, slow burn, mutual pining, shy/nerd jk + bad girl oc (mature themes)

→a/n: so i’m not finished with pt 8 yet, since it’s such a climactic chapter it’s taking a bit longer than i anticipated unfortunately BUT i dont want u guys to think ive forgotten about it!!! i know u all are waiting so patiently, and i cannot thank you enough from the bottom of my heart <3 i hope this preview keeps you excited for what’s to come!

Jungkook could never face Y/N again.

God, how could he, knowing that he’d not only finished in five minutes like a pubescent teenager, but also in his pants while she was on top of him?

Embarrassment didn’t even begin to describe the mortification he felt. He’d never wanted the earth to swallow him whole as much as he did in that moment. Sure, he was aware of his slight social anxiety, the way he was constantly looking to bolt from uncomfortable situations—but this was different entirely. This was new territory for him; he’d never done anything remotely sexual with someone else, period, much less with the girl who hung the stars, moon, and sun in his eyes. What was he supposed to do? There was nowhere to escape to in his own bedroom, no running away from his problems that made him uncomfortable. No, he had to stand there with his head down and his crotch dripping wet while he practically begged her to leave. He had never been so ashamed of himself. He had never felt so pathetic.

But then Y/N surprised him like she never failed to do: she’d given him reassurance, another kiss even, while telling him that she actually enjoyed the experience—went so far as to say it was the best in her life. Now he knew she was lying to spare his feelings. Of all the men Y/N had been with, there was no way a virgin cumming untouched in his pants was the best of them. She was cruel to make him believe otherwise, to give him false hope.

He wouldn’t allow himself to think any differently. He couldn’t allow himself to get hurt.

Which was why he made it his mission to avoid her at all costs—something he’d gotten very good at over the past few months, and the past few weeks, specifically.

But in the same way he’d learned from the patterns of her daily routine and used them as a means to remain hidden, she’d also learned his and utilized them to her advantage as well. It was the only explanation as to how he was turning a corner inside the art building (about to take the rear exit, since she usually waited for him out front) and suddenly she was standing right in front of him.

He instantly skidded to a halt, heart rate shooting to astronomical levels and eyes widening on their own accord. “Y-Y/N,” he stuttered out involuntarily, the sight of her causing every single detail of their time spent together to come rushing back to him like a tidal wave ready to wipe him out.

As if he needed another excuse to think about the moment they shared that had changed him forever, about the way her moans sounded in his ear and her body felt on his lap and the way she touched his cheek, his neck, the way her lips felt on his skin, god help him—

Already he could feel the beginnings of a blush start to rise to his suddenly hot cheeks, and he cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other to keep from springing yet another boner in front of her.

He slid his books in front of his waist, just in case.

While she usually approached him with the natural ease of self-confidence and charm, today she seemed worried, unsure. She chewed at her lower lip—something he didn’t think she really ever did, as he would certainly remember the way it stirred within him—and looked up at him beneath delicate lashes that framed her eyes.

He didn’t have it in him to keep from outright staring at her beauty.

“I… I missed you,” she finally murmured, and he felt the breath physically whoosh from his lungs to join his butterfly-filled stomach all the way at the floor.

It had been a few days since he’d last seen her, since she’d been in his room that night where they opened up about their past and confessed how they truly felt about one another and shared the most life-altering moment he’d ever experienced. He missed her too, god he missed her. He missed everything about her the moment she left his side—would picture her face in his mind as soon as she left his field of vision. But for some reason unknown to him, she was too kind to him, spared his feelings despite knowing what little experience he had. There was no way he’d be able to satisfy a girl—mentally, physically, emotionally—who could have anyone she wanted. Perhaps she pitied him. Either way, if she wouldn’t put a stop to it, then he would.

Or so he’d try, but alas, nothing ever went according to his plans where Y/N was concerned. And here she was, three simple words mumbled into existence and he couldn’t even remember his own name, much less why he’d been trying to fight this.

She seemed to expect he would say nothing—either that or she’d grown used to his silence—because before he had enough sense in him to even think about responding, she was speaking again. “How have you been?”

The question was asked with deliberate, genuine curiosity and concern; she really wanted to know if he was okay, how he was handling things after what had transpired between them. And no matter how hard Jungkook tried to fight this, fight her, fight himself, he was only human.

And so he stopped fighting.

“I– I missed you too,” he breathed out, and it was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders and relocated to his gut. He tensed at his confession, mentally berated himself for his words even though she’d been the one to say them first. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, what with the way his throat locked up.

Though the second he witnessed the smile that sprang to her tantalizing lips, he felt as light as a feather floating in the breeze.

“You did?” Her eyes lit up, sparkled under the fluorescent hallway lights that still managed to capture all of her beauty despite the unflattering lighting. He didn’t think it was possible for any scenery, not even that of a dull and stuffy university building, to make her appear any less breathtaking than she always was.

“I was so worried after I left last week,” she continued without prompt. The mention of his premature finish had him stiffening in dread, though she didn’t let enough silence fester between her words for the anxiety to claw its way up his throat. “I didn’t want you to beat yourself up. I’ve noticed you tend to be too hard on yourself sometimes.” She glanced up at him with the hint of a sheepish grin dancing on her lips.

Her expression said it all: that’s an understatement.

And this shocked him to his core, because she was absolutely right.

Just how well had she gotten to know him in their time spent together over the last few months? And how? And why?

The last question would always boggle him until the end of time; he would never understand why she was interested in him. Why was he the one she had feelings for, when she claimed she never had feelings for anybody? Though he supposed he could ask himself the same thing: why did he feel things for Y/N that he had never felt for anyone else in his life? And the answer was quite simple, really: because it was her.

He didn’t know what about himself was so special to make him stand out in her mind, and as a result he still couldn’t help but be skeptical, even after her confession. But it wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter on what to do with that skepticism—not when his heart kept leading him back to her.

At some point after her accurate description of the inner turmoil that’s been plaguing his mind, his mouth had fallen open slightly. He couldn’t hide the surprise from his face even if he tried; he was speechless.

Y/N gazed up at him, not seeming in any hurry to rush the conversation along, and for that he was grateful. He’d never met somebody so patient and understanding before—just another reason to make Jungkook’s heart flutter with endearment. And it was no secret to himself anymore that he yearned to be in Y/N’s presence for as long as possible whether he was aware of it or not.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know,” she continued as if she could read his mind, and that was when he realized the way his eyes avoided hers and the fact that his skin was the color of tomatoes must’ve been dead giveaways. “I meant it when I said that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Jungkook balked, practically choking on his spit at her forward, shameless words. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way she spoke her mind so openly without any fear holding her back. She’d gone through so much in her childhood, in her life—Jungkook not even knowing the half of it, he’s sure—and yet she was still so strong and brave and everything he wasn’t. He couldn’t help but admire the person she was today, despite all the prejudice and judgment he’d held for her when they first met.

He realized now that he was too quick to judge her, to write her off based on rumors and first impressions. He realized now that he was too quick to do that to a lot of people. Just how long had he closed himself off from others based on his skewed, morally righteous perspective? His whole life, if he had to say.

The epiphany that she was physically prying open his third eye with a crowbar, that he was now self aware and changing for the better for her—for himself—hit him all at once.

It was the most frightening sensation of his life, the introvert in him wanting to crawl back into his shell where it was safe and comfortable and dull. But deep down he knew it was also for the best.

“W-why?” He heard himself asking before he knew what he was doing. “Why do you keep saying that?”

He had to know why she insisted on standing by her statement that his mishap was not only hot, but the hottest ever. Why did she insist on lying to him, on giving him false hope? She spoke her mind in every other situation, or at least that’s what he assumed; why did she insist on sparing his feelings in this incident? Was he really that pathetic? Did she pity him that much?

She simply blinked at him once, twice, before: “Because I really like you, Jungkook.”

As if in slow motion, you could visibly see his eyes expand to the size of saucers at your words.

You would’ve found the sight comical had the situation been any different. But the way he continued to disbelieve that you could have feelings for him, that you could be attracted to everything about him despite who he was, despite his inexperience—it made your heart break in your chest. You now knew from where this inferiority complex stemmed—he’d told you himself about his family situation—and if anything, it made you want to rebuild his confidence that much more. He needed to see himself the way you saw him.

But you also didn’t want to overwhelm him, either. And you were more than willing to walk that fine line with Jungkook no matter how long it took.

“So are we on for a study sesh tonight?” You continued nonchalantly, wanting to return things to normalcy for him as much as possible before he ran away mid-conversation as he’d done so many times before. You wanted to ease his self-doubt so he’d stop avoiding you—like he’d been doing the past few days—as much as possible.

Jungkook blinked as if trying to adjust from the whiplash of your subject-change. “U–uh… if you want?”

“Of course I want to,” you replied without missing a beat, not caring how desperate you seemed so long as he didn’t question where you stood. You took a step forward, unable to help the intangible, magnetic draw you felt to him as you gazed up at him beneath your lashes. “That is… if you want to.”

You watched in agony as a gulp slowly raked its way down his throat.

“I–” his voice was hoarse before he cleared his throat. “I uh, can’t tonight. I have to study for math.”

You weren’t even sure how one studied for math, but you weren’t about to question the expert. “That’s fine! We could… do it tomorrow?”

Jungkook chewed at his bottom lip, an action he always did when he was internally struggling with something before he finally nodded his head yes in a slow, hesitant manner. “N–not in my room though,” he added as an afterthought, and when your gaze snapped to his he had a pleading expression in his eyes.

A mix of emotions rolled through you. On one hand, you were horrified at the possibility that he thought the only reason you wanted to study again was so that you could get in his pants. Which—okay, you’re not going to lie, you would love to have a repeat of last week—but that definitely wasn’t why you wanted to see him. He meant more to you than just a means to get off, which was what you’d thought of flings in the past. You didn’t want him to be just a fling, though.

You didn’t want to think of the meaning behind that fact right now, either.

But on another hand, you understood where Jungkook was coming from. Maybe it was because you’d studied him enough over the past few months to learn some of his behavior (for once you finally saw the appeal of studying), so you knew that level of intimacy was probably extremely overwhelming for Jungkook and he needed a moment to step back. Hell, it was even overwhelming for you, and that was saying something. Never had your senses, your heart, your body, your soul been attacked like that with such an abundance of emotional pleasure, and you hoped with all your might that Jungkook was feeling the same—that that was the reason he needed a breather from being alone with you, and not the fact that he just didn’t want to be intimate with you.

Unless…

Oh god, had you misread the situation entirely? Had Jungkook hated everything about that night?

Suddenly you were feeling sick to your stomach. The thought of you misunderstanding his confession—or worse, him changing his mind completely—made you want to escape to a dark and desolate stairwell and cry in the hidden nooks of the windowsill again; the irony that not only would you be pulling a Jungkook by escaping mid-conversation, but that the stairwell was also the place the two of you had your first real conversation, wasn’t lost on you.

“M–my roommate is staying in, studying for finals.” The sound of Jungkook’s voice was like a breath of fresh air whooshing into your lungs after almost drowning underwater. You blinked out of your inner turmoil, focusing on him. “So he’ll be there, i–in my room, this whole week.”

And suddenly your heart was warming with relief, hope, appreciation, like flowers blooming in the spring after a torrential downpour. Just when you thought you had him figured out, this enigma of a boy continued to surprise you. It was usually easy for you to hide your emotions—you’d been doing so for years, always wore a mask around others so that they couldn’t see the real you—and yet somehow, Jungkook must’ve sensed them anyway. He sensed the doubt, the pain, the fear that you vowed never to cage you crawling up your throat and threatening to consume you whole, and he eased it. He didn’t want you to misunderstand him. He wanted to reassure you.

If anything, that was just a testament to how Jungkook had broken down your walls—how much you had let him in, how well he was able to read the emotions you wanted to keep hidden. Your mask had begun to break, the real you showing through the cracks, and Jungkook was still standing here. He hadn’t run away.

You fought the urge to grab him and slam your lips onto his.

“Not in your room, then,” is all you managed to breathe out beneath a fluttering smile.

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts fanfic #bts smut #jungkook scenario #bts x reader #bts scenario #i hope this is good enough for the time being!!! im sorry its taking me so long to get pt 8 posted #u guys are the best i love u <3333

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writhe · 3 years

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just took olive to the airport

ive been really out of touch with myself. falling-asleep-half-dream-spirals have gotten worse, getting apocalyptic. it’s been hard to feel like there’s a future with these nightmares. they touch other things, too, but that’s one that’s hard to outrun. i haven’t really felt in my body, when i’ve had touch recently it’s felt faraway, like it’s being described to me instead of happening. been anxious and very scared. overwhelmed. uncomfortable. surpassed the point of allowing myself a crisis, succumbed to something that felt worse. have felt alone, but not in a way that’s solvable. it’s been hard to be honest when i could just be quiet but i’m trying to start trying

having her here was a dream. the first half of the week i felt spiral-y but i’m not sure if that was noticeable. tempered out the longer she was here. yesterday was a really good day, the most grounded i’ve felt in a really long time. i went on a run in the morning and i felt really really angry the whole time but i pictured all of that getting kicked into the earth, exhaled and spat and sweat out. resolve came, and i showered, and the soreness was (is!) grounding

me and frank and halliwell (and later, jasper!) hung out almost all day after that. i worked, packing orders, enjoying the idle chatter of having loved ones in my home. everything felt softer and safer. we held each other in bed and tried to convince bailey (frank’s cat) to hang out. we laughed a lot. we played a game, and i went and picked up food from my favorite bar. i haven’t been there since a pretty intense breakdown but when i walked in it felt lively and familiar. people grinned and waved and there were ‘hi levi! hi levi!’s and i felt something bright. i really miss it there, i miss feeling part of something. i’m trying to reach back out to people, unfurl these atrophied wings

me and olive sat in my bed last night and she cried about leaving. that’s a big love, and looking right at it feels overwhelming. like the sun. it’s hard living so far away from her

i made an entire big list of things i want to do and some commitments i want to keep for myself. i’m figuring it out with shaky legs. with ghosts. with grief!

i cried this morning as we started to walk out the door. it hit me like a tidal wave, the physicality of it stopping me in my tracks. i don’t know the last time i’ve proper cried (while sober, at least). it might be since summer, but even then i’m not sure. trembling and teary! and i held her as tight as i could for a minute after

i miss her. i’m back home. i’m glad i cried. frank and i will go on a walk later. this morning felt good. last night was the first night i didn’t spiral while i fell asleep. i dreamt about a big beautiful estate with wood floors and a staircase i’ve seen in other dreams (and being followed by a god?) and i woke up a little more clear-headed and surprised about that

i’m happy it’s spring tomorrow. i’m thankful for the full moon last week, for my loves, for the ache and the effort. i might even be hopeful

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aster-aspera · 3 years

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It’s just my skin

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: loss of hearing

Pairings: (platonic) jonmartim

Warnings: claustrophobia, hospitals, hearing loss

Masterlist

If you liked it please reblog <3

The aftermath isn’t as quiet as Tim thought it would be.

Maybe it’s the fact that he isn’t dead even though he should be, maybe it’s the dreadful ringing in his ear, maybe it’s the way his chest is heaving in gasping breaths he can’t hear.

There’s a thousand pounds of stone pressing down on his back and somewhere far above him he can feel the ground rumble and shift. He can’t even find it in himself to worry about the whole place coming down. He wasn't planning on making it out alive either way.

He thinks he floats in and out of consciousness for a bit. Time seems to wind and stretch and loop back, only the rubble on his back and the incessant ringing to keep him company.

Something shifts eventually, a change in the air at first, the darkness becoming just a bit softer, a bit less cloying.

And then there are hands and stretchers and needles and people pulling and prodding him and over it all is still that high pitched ringing, rising higher and higher into an impossible crescendo. He thinks they ask him things, he is sure he sees their lips moving and their expectant gazes. He thinks he tries to say something, but his lips feel awkward and unwieldy.

Everything goes dark after that. A cool blessed darkness where he just floats, no stone, no rubble, no dust, just peace.

He thinks about Danny for a while, and the ritual and the burning collapse of it all and the way Sasha smiled at him every morning when he came into the archives. Then he just sleeps.

He wakes up a bit more coherent the next time. The ringing isn’t gone yet, but at least his brain doesn’t feel like it’s through different planes of dimensions at a hundred kilometres per hour anymore. At least now he can breathe without the dust clogging his lungs.

He looks around the overbright hospital room, the disconnected monitor and the IV dripping a clear fluid into his veins. There’s a bouquet of orange flowers on the bedside table. Probably from Martin, he thinks bitterly. There’s no one else who would go through the trouble.

Martin walks into his room at some point and Tim wonders why he’s here and not hovering around Jon like some lost puppy. Maybe Jon didn’t make it out of the explosion.

Something sharp and painful shoots through Tim’s chest at the thought and he does his best not to examine it too closely.

He looks up at Martin, whose lips are moving as he fusses with the flowers on the little table. Tim stares up at him uncomprehendingly, waiting for sound to come through, waiting for that unbearable ringing to resolve itself into something he can understand.

It doesn’t.

“I can’t hear,” He says, his lips forming the words, his vocal cords vibrating, but no sound comes out, not to him at least. Martin looks up at him with concern, his mouth moving in shapes that should have been familiar, had they been accompanied by the right noises.

“I can’t hear,” Tim says again. And this time, it doesn’t come out half as controlled. He can feel something very close to panic crawling it’s way up his throat and he doesn’t quite manage to swallow it down.

Martin presumably says something else, before giving up and typing something on his phone, shoving it into Tim’s hands before stalking out of the room.

Getting a doctor, stay here

Well of course he’s going to stay here, does Martin really think he’s going to wander around London when he’s just survived an explosion? He isn’t Jon.

He waits impatiently in his bed, rubbing the uncomfortably thin hospital sheets between his fingers and trying to adjust the flat pillows so he can sit up.

Eventually the doctors come in and once again, it’s back to being poked and prodded. Doctors examining his ears and brain and all the million scans they take, with Martin occasionally coming in to hover over him, bringing along coffee from the cafeteria.

In the end, the verdict is predictable. Permanent damage from his proximity to the explosion. Figures he couldn’t just walk out of that unscathed.

And most people would probably consider being permanently deaf better than being dead. Tim wasn’t too sure he agreed with them yet.

They let him go home eventually, with a whole laundry list of instructions on how to care for himself. Tim throws the papers into a corner as soon as he gets home. He’ll be fine, he’s survived Jane Prentiss, he can survive this. And it isn’t like it matters much.

His phone buzzes to life when he sticks it into the socket, all the messages he missed streaming in at once, a tidal wave of promotional mails and push notifications. He’s half tempted to just shut it off again when he notices one text notification between all the others.

Jon

Martin had told him he was alive, of course. But something about seeing his name displayed black on white on his phone screen drives the point home in a way Martin’s scribbled notes hadn’t done. Something sharp and hot shoots through his chest and he wants desperately for it to be that familiar anger that carried him through the last few months.

But as he lets his head fall back onto the couch, he can’t quite feel it burn the same, and without its familiar warmth, he feels hollow in a way he hasn’t since Danny died.

He swipes away the message without reading it and curls up on the couch, pulling an old, dusty blanket over himself and shutting his eyes. He tries not to think too much of the darkness after the explosion, of the plaster dust swirling through the air and settling in his lungs, of the stone crushing his limbs at awkward angles.

A dark apartment isn’t much like a collapsed building but his brain doesn’t care when it brings up vivid images of his time under the rubble. Despite it all, he does eventually drift into the comforting darkness of sleep, his slumber taking the pain and weariness out of his bones for just a moment.

It’s peaceful, till he wakes up gasping from a nightmare.

His desk rattles slightly when a heavy book is dropped on it and Tim looks up in annoyance, ignoring the painful squeezing in his chest when he meets Jon’s tired, regretful eyes.

‘Learning sign’ The book proclaims and Tim feels irritation bubbling up.

“Fuck off,” He says, focusing his attention once again on his desk.

‘I know sign, I can help, or at least recommend you some classes/books’ Jon informs him through the notes app on his phone.

“I don’t need your help.”

‘I know you don’t, but I’d like to'

“Why? So you can feel better about everything that happened? You think this is going to fix it?”

‘I’m sorry Tim’

“Sorry is too late,” he bites out, shoving out of his chair roughly. He tries to move past Jon, make it out of this stifling, dusty room, get somewhere it doesn’t feel like the walls are watching him.

A rough, calloused hand shoots out, wraps around his wrist like a vice. Jon’s eyes are dark with concern and Tim feels an odd anger at the expression. How can he show so much empathy after everything that happened?

He looks at the hand wrapped around his wrist and suddenly, it’s all just too much.

The deafening ringing in his ears, this wretched place that trapped him and choked him and took his best friend from him. And Jon, eyes still hopeful, still compassionate, after Tim had blamed him and hurt him for months on end.

“Go away,” He tries to say and he doesn’t even make it to the first syllable before his voice betrays him with a choked sob. A shudder runs through him and he looks down at the wooden floor, trying to compose himself.

The grief has never felt as all consuming as it does in this moment and it chokes and burns and pulls him under all at once.

And then, there are arms around him. A familiar touch, a familiar weight, from days so long ago Tim can barely remember them. The first touch that isn’t hostile, the first comfort he has felt in so long.

And it’s all from the man he’s tried to hate for months.

His hands curl themselves tightly into Jon’s cardigan and he buries his face in his shoulder, biting back tears with all his might. It doesn’t do much good against the tidal wave of emotions sweeping through him and soon he’s shaking all over with the sobs that wrack through his body.

Jon’s hand comes up in a familiar movement, brushing through Tim’s messed up curls. It’s hesitant at first, as if Tim will yell at him again, but when he makes no motion to do so, only melting deeper into the hold, the fingers carding through his hair become surer.

There’s a rumble against his cheek as Jon says something and Tim wishes desperately he could still hear it, hear Jon’s sure and steadying voice.

He remembers when, near the beginning of it all, he would stand in the corridor outside of Jon’s office and listen as his voice drifted through the halls, all the pain and fear and emotions painted so clearly on it. He’d always thought Jon a bit ridiculous for the way he read those statements. Now he just wished he could hear it one more time.

He closes his eyes as the loss of his family and his friend and even his hearing tear through his chest, leaving him shattered and shaking.

Jon’s chest rumbles again and Tim presses his cheek into it, pretending for just a moment he can hear a sound that isn’t the awful ringing.

Another pair of hands close around him, softer ones, broader ones. They pull him up gently and he’s not entirely sure how they both ended up on the floor, it probably has something to do with how broad he is and how skinny Jon is.

He’s pulled close against a soft, broad chest and relaxes into it almost immediately. Martin’s safe, he always has been.

He’s deposited gently on the cot, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a warm mug of tea pressed into his hands. He feels a bit like a child, being coddled and carted around. But right now, he can’t find it in himself to care.

He thinks Jon and Martin are saying stuff. Martin’s chest is rumbling against his back and he tilts his face so he can feel it better. Martin runs a comforting hand along his face, brushing away the tears that stick to it.

A hand settles on his knee, comforting and grounding and he’s sure it��s Jon’s. Both of Martin’s hands are occupied holding him together after all.

He closes his eyes. He can deal with the mess of it all tomorrow.

Right now, he just feels safe. His friends are here and that’s enough.

#tma #the magnus archives #magnuspod #tim stoker #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jontim #jonmartim #martim #jonmartin #i do not know how to tag for this fandom yet #anyway tell me if i missed any warnings #bad things happen bingo #my writing

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talkfastromance4 · 4 years

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Against All Odds--Calum Hood (part IV soulmate!au)

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

Word count: 7.2k

Warnings: car accident, coma, stitches, an attempt at medical jargon, I did research but am in no way a doctor so if there’s fallacies, that’s why. I tried my best.

Song inspirations: move to you-jagwartwin; falling-tyler daniel; hesitate-the jonas brothers; falling-harry styles; stars in your eyes-ronnie hilton; want you back-5sos; what happens here-ASL; where will i remember you-ASL; all i want-kodaline

donate to my ko-fi here :)

Masterlist

The Click || Measured in Moments || Fractures catch up on previous parts here!

Enjoy! Feedback is always welcome :)

• • • •

Calum hears rain. He feels it as well, but it doesn’t feel like normal raindrops. His entire body hurts, but the pain is more intense in his head and in his chest. It’s as if he’s on fire with a thousand-ton weight on his head and heart. Voices float in and out of his ears, he tries to decipher the words and their meaning, but his main concern is to control his breathing.

When the pain becomes too much in his head, he forces himself to open his eyes. They’re heavy but he pushes through and blinks a few times until he sees Ashton and Ruby’s faces near his.

“Oh, thank God,” Ashton exhales dropping his head, “you scared the shit outta me.”

Calum tries to sit up but Ruby pushes onto his shoulders.

“Take it easy, Cal,” she says, her voice small, “you’ve been in and out for the past ten minutes.” The honey color in her brown eyes are brighter than usual. “What happened?”

“Where’s Rose? Something’s wrong… she’s… where is she?” Calum demands trying to sit up again, but Ashton is the one to keep him on the floor.

“Take it easy,” Ashton repeats what Ruby said, “you’ve been murmuring her name. Why do you think something’s wrong?”

“I felt it. I can…” Calum’s eyes search down his body frantically, “I feel it everywhere. I need to get to her, I need to—”

His ringtone he has set up for Rose blares from his pocket and he’s quick to pull it out. He slides his finger over the screen to answer it but before he can say a word, a man’s voice comes through.

“Is this Calum Hood?” the unfamiliar voice asks.

“Yes, who is this?” Calum sits up and swats Ashton’s hands away so he can stand up slowly. Ruby holds onto his arms for support, which he’s thankful for. He got a head rush from standing.

“This is Officer Mathers, um… your girlfriend—”

“Fiancée.”

“…Your fiancée was in a collision just now. When we arrived on scene, she was slightly coherent and kept saying your name… Can you come to the county hospital?” Officer Mathers asks.

Like a tidal wave, Calum nearly collapses again, but Ashton has a strong grip on him and keeps him upright. Ashton can see the fear in Calum’s eyes.

“We need to go to the hospital,” Calum whispers.

***

Calum tries to placate and identify every emotion coursing through his body. His whole body is wired, he’s rubbing his hands together in anxious anticipation while his leg shakes impatiently. His eyes are focused on the cracks in the tiled floor, he’s focusing on his breathing and trying not to let the heavy pain in his chest overtake him.

Ashton and Ruby sit on either side of him, they gave up trying to console him as soon as they sat down in the waiting area. Officer Mathers, the one Calum spoke to, was waiting for them at the Emergency Room entrance, a solemn expression on his face as he explained the accident.

Rose was at a four way stop just as the storm started and when she pulled forward, another car came speeding through the stop sign hitting the front end of her car. She went into a tailspin and the force of it overturned the car. When squad cars, the fire department and the ambulance showed up the car that hit her was already gone but a witness getting their groceries from their driveway who made the call saw the whole accident happen.

It took all of ten minutes to break her free from the vehicle—which was how long Calum blacked out—and when she was placed on a stretcher that’s when she started saying his name, almost like a mantra. Officer Mathers took her phone that was still somehow clutched in her hand and found his number just as she was wheeled into the back of the ambulance.

A nurse came by after the officer left and escorted Calum, Ashton and Ruby to the waiting area. Calum badgered her for questions on where Rose was, if she was okay; but the nurse didn’t have that information.

His mind races while he sits and waits. It’s been hours since they arrived, he doesn’t even want to know what time it is. Every minute of not knowing what’s happening with Rose seems like a lifetime. His heart is beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, he’s filled with adrenaline. He’s not sure if he wants to pace or sit here with his racing thoughts. He’s equally tired as he is wired, and he checks the glow in his chest every few minutes.

It hasn’t gone back to that dark orange, it’s as if he lost the part of Rose that helped complete him.

“I should have been with her,” he mumbles. Ashton and Ruby turn to him, their fingers are interlocked, and, in that moment, Calum is jealous of them. They have the comfort of their perfect counterpart, Calum’s never felt more alone.

“You can’t blame yourself, Cal,” Ashton tries to reason but Calum doesn’t want to hear it.

Not being able to handle sitting much longer, he rises from his chair and begins to pace. His head is still throbbing all around, so he tries to release the tension in his back by placing both hands on his neck. His fingers knead and rub the tight muscles but to no avail, his mind is still racing, and his heart is aching.

Calum.

He spins around abruptly hearing Rose’s voice, but is met instead with a woman wearing an orange surgical cap.

“Are you Calum Hood? Rose’s fiancé?” the woman asks.

“Ye—” he clears his throat, lowers his hands from his neck. “Yes, I am. Is she all right? Can I go see her?”

“I’m Dr. Robbins,” she says, “When Rose arrived, she was unresponsive, so we did some scans and found bleeding in her brain. We took her into immediate surgery to alleviate the bleeding. She has a femoral shaft fracture due to the collision and our orthopedic surgeon placed plates and screws to secure the fracture and an external fixator that holds it all in place. When you see her, it will look a little scary to see the fixator. She also has a few broken ribs and she’s being moved into the ICU so we can observe her on the clock.”

Her words fumble and stumble inside his brain, Calum tries to make sense of it all.

“Can I see her? Please?” his main concern is seeing her for himself, with his own eyes to make sure she’s all right.

“As soon as she’s settled, I’ll send a nurse to bring you to her. She won’t be awake yet, but the anesthesia should wear off in an hour or two. I’ll see you then.”

“Thank you,” Ashton says.

Calum thinks he says them as well, his mouth opens but he doesn’t hear the words. When Dr. Robbins turns on her heels, shoes squeaking on the linoleum, that’s when Calum loses his balance. Ashton and Ruby grab hold of his arms to steady him and bring him back to his chair.

Thankfully, it isn’t long before a nurse retrieves them escorting the three friends down the long, brightly lit hallway. Calum’s throat is sandpaper dry, he’s not sure what to expect when he sees Rose, but he knows when he sees her eyes, he’ll be able to tell how she’s really doing which will equally appease him.

Right when they’re about to turn into the glass paneled wall, curtains are pulled to hide the room, he takes a deep breath. When he sees her, he nearly falls to his knees. His beautiful Rose lies still in the bed, her head wrapped in cloth and gauze while her face is covered in bruises and scratches. Her left leg is elevated with small rods and screws holding her leg in place; now he understands what Dr. Robbins meant about the fixator. It makes her leg look bionic and very unnatural compared to her natural beauty.

His feet feel like lead as he steps forward moving against the curtain. Machines are beeping, while tubes, wires, and IV’s protrude from her chest and arms. When he reaches the side of her bed, he collapses into the chair placed next to it. His brown eyes are sad as he looks her over, his beautiful Rose. Carefully, he touches her hand and when he sees her ring still on her left finger, that’s what breaks him.

“Oh, Rosie,” he sighs letting his head fall onto the back of his arm. He kisses her fingers delicately, making sure not to jostle her too much. She smells like hospital, sterile and clean but he can faintly make out her distinct rose and rainwater smell.

He doesn’t notice Ashton and Ruby shuffle in and occupy the other chairs across the room. He holds her hand tightly in comfort, almost willing that he could somehow take her pain away. He’d rather it be him in the bed than her.

He doesn’t notice a nurse come in until he feels movement on the bed, and he sits up in a flash.

“Checking her vitals and numbers,” the nurse smiles as he eyes the monitors.

Calum watches him sullenly as he checks her breathing, and notices how he makes a face as he shines a small flashlight in her eyes.

“I’ll be right back.”

“What’s wrong?” Calum asks but the nurse is gone. “What’s wrong?!” he looks to Ashton and Ruby who shake their heads in confusion as well.

Dr. Robbins comes bustling in, bringing her own small light to Rose’s eyes, flicking it over as she opened her lids.

“Rose? Rose, can you hear me? I’m Dr. Robbins and you’re at the County Hospital. Rose,” she says in a cool affirmative voice.

“What’s wrong?” Calum demands, his voice hard.

“Check her blood pressure,” Dr. Robbins instructs the nurse. “Mr. Hood, I need you to wait outside.”

“What the hell is happening?” Calum roars rising to his feet. Dr. Robbins eyes him.

“I need to run a few tests on her right now, and for me to properly help her, I need you to wait outside for me, okay? Right outside the door,” Dr. Robbins speaks to him as if he’s a child but it’s not in a condescending way.

“C’mon, mate, let’s go outside,” Ashton says suddenly next to him.

Calum holds onto Rose’s hand as long as he can, his eyes never leaving her face until the curtains are pulled around her bed. Closing Calum off from her again. He hears medical jargon through the thin piece of fabric. He waits, he listens, he watches the glow in his chest flicker.

Five minutes later, Dr. Robbins pulls them aside.

“Rose has a traumatic brain injury and I believe that is what has her in a comatose state,” Dr. Robbins tells him, Ashton, and Ruby. “The impact of the other car caused severe trauma and her body is trying to heal itself in this way.”

“Will she wake up?” Ashton asks.

“It’s hard to say at this stage, statistics show—”

“I don’t want to hear the statistics. She’s going to wake up, what can we do to help her?” Calum asks with not even an ounce of doubt.

“Keep her as comfortable as possible, it’s a good sign she’s breathing on her own but we’ll set her up with a feeding tube so she can still get the nutrients that she needs. We’ll continue to monitor, do routine coma tests and make sure that her leg is healing properly.”

“Let’s do that, then,” Calum nods and moves to go back to her room. He looks back at Dr. Robbins, Ashton, and Ruby. The look they’re giving him is full of sadness. “She’s going to wake up.”

Two Weeks Later

Calum has been at the hospital day and night with Rose. Unwilling to leave her until she wakes up, the staff have brought in a bed for him to sleep in and placed it right next to hers. The first few days were the hardest, Calum was still in shock and trying to process all that’s happened. The guys stayed with him in rotation until it was well past visiting hours. The nights were the hardest, Calum ached to lay next to her and hear her true heartbeat rather than the beeps of the monitor.

As the days went by, her hospital room became like their own little one room apartment. Ashton and Ruby were kind enough to bring their pillows and blankets, clothes for Calum to change in and out of, their poetry books and record player paired with their favorite records.

Michael and Crystal have taken in Duke and Honey until Calum and Rose can return home. He wishes he could bring the dogs in so that their presence would somehow breakthrough to Rose, but the hospital wouldn’t allow it in case they bumped her leg or tugged on the multiple wires and tubes she’s connected to.

Calum also had flower arrangements delivered so the whole room was vibrant and floral smelling. He made sure they were always roses, hoping it would pull his Rose back to him. They also brought a little bit of light in here; it’s been raining for the last three weeks. He never lets one of them wilt, if it looks like it’s starting to brown he orders a new arrangement. He doesn’t want any form of death happening in this room.

The TV is on low volume when Jane, Rose’s primary RN whisks inside.

“How’s our girl doing today?” Jane asks brightly. She appears next to Rose checking her tubes, stitches, IV drip and her leg.

“Okay I think. I think I’m going to try reading her some poetry again,” Calum says stroking the back of Rose’s hand with his fingers.

“I think your love story is so sweet,” Jane smiles poking the earpieces of her stethoscope in her ears. She nods to his guitar leaning against the window. “I haven’t heard you play that yet.”

Calum glances at the instrument that Luke brought over for him one day in the first week of Rose being admitted. Luke told him music is what brought him and his soulmate together, and the love Calum and Rose also shared of music was bound to ignite something within her.

“I don’t really want to play the melodies that are in my head,” Calum says picking up a poetry book that’s on the makeshift nightstand next to his cot bed. It’s a hospital table-top cart that holds his and Rose’s notebooks along with their poetry books. He shuffles through the pages, inked words flashing by quickly. “They’re all sad and I don’t want her to feel that.”

Jane nods tucking Rose’s plush periwinkle blanket back into place, so she stays warm.

“I understand. Everything looks good, I’ll be back in a few hours. Don’t forget to eat, Calum,” Jane reminds him with a pointed look.

“Thanks Jane,” Calum tries to give her a grin, but he can feel it’s more of a grimace. Jane walks back out of the room closing the door behind her and Calum sighs staring at Rose. “Should I read some poems to you, Rosie?”

The page he landed on was of a poem titled Bloom,

‘Someone once planted your name

like a seed in my heart.

Only now I’ve met you,

Do I know what it means to bloom.’

And below the printed words are Rose’s own, handwritten in her beautiful cursive. Calum traces the written words with a longing he knows will never go away. It reads:

Calum and I said ‘I love you’ to each other. Not many soulmates do that but after that night with the storm when we had sex for the first time…it felt right. Like my world finally clicked into place. I’ve read about love, seen it with my own eyes from friends and family but to feel it? Love is such a strong word, since we’ve both said it I feel it blooming within me. When I say his name it grows, when he says mine it doubles, and when we exchange ‘I love you’ it triples.

Calum remembers that night perfectly. The provocative prose he read to her lead to their lovemaking while the storm rumbled on outside. It mirrored the storm within him at wanting to declare his love to her, but he kept it inside in fear of losing her. He knew he loved her the first time they kissed up in her apartment, that this was everything he’s ever wanted. Rose is the muse he’s been writing and singing about for all these years.

A loud roar of thunder shook outside, and Calum glances out the rain streaked window as lightning flashes across the sky. It’s as if the universe knows his soulmate is in turmoil because the rain hasn’t let up at all. Glancing back at Rose, he hopes wherever she is that it’s sunshine and happy memories.

He closes the book then moves to the record player in the corner of the room. Their favorite record is already placed inside, and he turns it on. Frank Sinatra’s voice fills the room as he sings about the moon. Calum inspects the flowers making sure they all have their vibrant color before sitting back down on his cot.

He picks up his Michael Faudet book and reads Chasing Love out loud to her. When he’s finished, he stares at this poem for a long time as Frank’s voice ricochets off the walls. The first half is a little broody, two pathways meeting but not crossing. He’s thankful his path and Rose’s crossed—crashed actually. He’s reminded of the ghostly dream he had of this phantom woman a few years ago that teased him of knowing him in his ear. Turns out it was her all along.

The last line pulls at his heart ‘how sunshine steals from autumn frost.’ What a conundrum because his sunshine was stolen from him. Instead of frost and snow the sun was replaced with the rain and thunder brewing relentlessly outside.

He looks at his Rose, frozen in sleep, and he’s desperate for her to return to him. his throat works as he realizes how too close their situation resembles to the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty. His sweet, sweet Rose in a deep slumber.

Calum traces the area of the diamond on her finger. It’s become a bit loose and he takes in her appearance for the thousandth time. Her complexion is dry and thin compared to her usual warmth and softness. She’s void of color and abundance. Like the other times before when he’s felt her anger or her sadness, he tries to place what she’s feeling now but comes up blank. There’s a faint buzzing and a very distant lilt of music, but that’s all he can gather.

The red glow is dim but still there, so that has to be a good sign. Calum scoots closer and with careful fingers touches her hair that is also less in color and dry. Some of it is growing back in baby tufts around her stitches. He caresses her cheek; her skin is lukewarm. On a normal day, this action would have made her cheeks heat up in a light pink pigment, but they remain the same pallor.

“Come back to me, Rosie,” he whispers anxiously. He curls her cool, limp fingers in his. “I love you so much.”

On instinct, he glances back to her chest, the red glow is still the weak glimmer but it’s that little bit of light that urges his hope to press on. She will wake again.

Four Weeks Later

Ashton is sitting with him today like he has been every Monday and Wednesday prior. The record player plays absently in the background and Ashton watches his best friend cling to the love of his life. Their talk is minimal, the weather has been the same onslaught of rain so that’s always out. After Calum informs him of Rose’s condition it goes silent between them.

When the record stops Calum shifts to that part of the room and grabs their album placing it on the B side of the vinyl. He feels Ashton’s gaze on him the whole time.

“Lover of mine is her favorite,” Calum grins then sits back down next to her bed. He’s hoping the music will awaken her at some point. He has to find the right song.

“I hate seeing you like this, mate,” Ashton finally admits. “You’re wasting away being cooped up in here.”

“I’m staying until she wakes up.”

“You have to start thinking of the possibility that she might not…” Ashton’s voice tapers off morosely. Calum’s eyes flash in white hot fury.

“She’s going to wake up,” Calum says firmly. “She’s in there. She can hear me and I…I feel her.” He flicks his eyes back to her then takes her hand.

A few days ago, while he was reading to her, the buzzing he always heard quieted and the musical melody became louder.

“How?”

Calum hesitates, his thumb rubs the back of her hand. “We love each other,” he confesses and Ashton gasps. “And since we’ve said it we’ve had a…a connection. It’s a warmth and a-a glow in our chests and somehow it combined into one. She still has her glow and I have mine.”

“When—why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s hard to explain and I know it’s not common for soulmates to say it to each other, because there isn’t really a need to but…I didn’t want you to think I was crazy.”

“I’d never think that. That’s incredible, man.”

They fall into a silence again. Ashton is still wrestling with the idea that even though Calum feels her, who knows how long it will be until she does wake up? He wants to be supportive of his friend, his brother, but it’s hard when he can see how harrowing this is for him.

He’s been stuck in this hotel for four weeks now, eating hospital food and never leaving. Calum has lost weight and he has dark circles under his eyes that never seem to go away. The similarities between Rose and Calum’s appearances is frightening but also adds truth to how Calum says he ‘feels’ her. Is he going through what Rose is?

Ruby arrives about an hour later with some take out food, her curls are dewed with droplets of the rain and her face falls when she catches sight of Rose and Calum. She looks to Ashton who nods; the two of them have discussed trying to get Calum to go home for a bit and today seems like a good time to do that.

“Hey Cal,” she greets him brightly setting the food bags on the table under the tv.

“Hey Rube,” he replies quietly, eyes never straying from Rose.

“What do you say about going home for a few hours?” She rubs her hands together trying to warm up from the cold rain. “Ash and I can stay here so you can shower and do some laundry.”

Calum turns to her stiffly, his brown eyes flat.

“I’m not leaving her, Ruby.”

“It’d only be for an hour or two,” she presses moving to the other side of Rose’s bed. She gazes at her own best friend, sadness welling up in her heart. “You don’t have to spend the night but just to stretch your legs, get a change of scenery.”

Calum licks his chapped lips, the thought of showering in his own bathroom is tempting. The one here gets the job done but he can feel the difference in comfort. He does have a pile of clothes in the corner that should be washed but the thought of leaving Rose tugs at his heart.

“What if something happens?”

“You know we’ll call you,” Ashton chimes in. “Rose would want you to take care of yourself, too.”

After careful thought he agrees, gathers his clothes then kisses Rose’s forehead. It’s clammy and each step away from her makes him feel horrible. It rises a panic in him he’s never felt before and it only increases when he gets in his car. The rain is a horrible reminder of the night of her accident when his world flipped upside down.

He’s anxious the whole car ride, it’s weird being in a vehicle after four weeks of staying in one place. He makes sure to keep both hands on the wheel as he drives not wanting to risk getting into an accident himself.

When he arrives home it’s dark and quiet without the welcoming of the dogs’ claws on the floor. He misses them and wants to see them at Mike’s house but that would make him be away from Rose longer and he couldn’t have that. Maybe he’ll go over there in a day or two.

The silence is deafening as he walks down the hall. He pauses at the Eiffel tower photos on the wall and gazes at each photo. Rose’s smile and the light in her eyes brings him both comfort and pain. Being home and out of the hospital makes him truly feel the huge weight on his shoulders

He tosses his clothes in the washer and pours in the desired amount of detergent. He selects a setting without reading it but sees it’s only for forty minutes. Good, the faster he can get back to the hospital the better.

Once inside the bathroom—he makes sure to avoid looking at their bed—he connects his phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the fan. Calum’s body feels heavier as he removes his clothes slowly, his arms like lead and his muscles throb.

He stands under the hot spray of water, breathing in the steam and letting it smooth out his strained muscles in his neck and shoulders. Memories of showers spent with Rose flood his mind. He always loved the way she’d stand behind him with her hands sliding up his chest as she kissed the space between his shoulder blades.

What he would give to have her behind him right now. If only he didn’t have to be at the venue early to set up for the show Rose would have been with him. She wouldn’t have had to drive by herself, she wouldn’t have been at that intersection and she wouldn’t be in the hospital right now.

The song changes and the all too familiar lyrics ‘remember the words you told me love me ‘til the day I die’ pierced Calum’s heart. His breath catches as the words sink in along with Ashton’s insinuation that she might not wake. Calum slams his palm against the wall, he continues to smack it until he feels the sharp pain shoot up his arm. He falls to the shower floor, water raining down on him as his sadness, hurt and confusion surface.

Calum feels so lost without Rose, his sobs bounce off the tile and drown out the music. He lets out a few shouts of rage to mask the song of hurt while his bleeds out. He’s not sure how long he sits on the shower floor before he cleans himself off and exits.

While he brushes his teeth, he stares at himself in the mirror barely recognizing the reflection. His cheeks have sunken in under the dark bags of his eyes. He’s so exhausted, sleeping on that cot isn’t as comfortable as his own bed. Calum replaces his wet clothes into the dryer, noting the time of an hour and a half. He shuffles back to his and Rose’s bedroom and falls onto the side that’s hers.

Her pillow still smells like her and tears well in Calum’s eyes at the all too familiar smell. He pulls the comforter over him, his eyes closing easily. He’ll just sleep until the dryer is done and he’ll be back at the hospital in two hours.

The next time Calum opens his eyes is due to a loud crack of thunder. He’s still on Rose’s side of the bed but facing the other way and his whole body feels rigid. His hand pats the bed until he finds his phone, the light makes his eyes strain and he blinks in confusion as he reads the time.

He slept for a whole day and a half. For a quick moment he forgot about the accident and thought he’d just come back from a tour. The phone drops to his chest as he rolls over to gaze at Rose but she’s not there. His small moment of bliss dissipates because he hasn’t been on tour in so long and reality sets in that Rose is back at the hospital.

He curses himself for falling asleep then stretches his limbs, the cracks of his joints are music to his ears and fill him with release. He lies in bed for a little while longer until he’s more awake then gets out slowly. His hair has dried oddly because it was wet when he dropped onto the mattress, but he doesn’t care. He has to get back to Rose.

When he arrives back at the hospital again, guilt ever present in his chest of being away from her so long, he finds there hasn’t been any change in her condition. Ashton and Ruby figured he fell asleep and were glad at how refreshed he looks. They stayed the night with Rose and he’s thankful for that but still feels awful for not sleeping next to her.

After catching up with Ashton and Ruby, they leave him with a kiss on the cheek from Ruby and a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder from Ashton. Calum kisses Rose’s forehead.

“Sorry for being away, sweetheart. Sleep took over me but I’m back now. Should I read some more to you?” he picks up a book and starts to read from Michael Faudet.

He stares at ‘The Northern Lights’ reminiscing about his and Rose’s own moment at the beach, much like what the poem is describing. He reads it out loud, twice then stares at Rose’s face.

“Remember that night at the beach, Rosie? The stars shone in your eyes and we got sand everywhere,” he smiles at the memory while Ronnie Hilton’s song ‘Stars Shine in your eyes’ plays just like that night.

It was a date night curated by Calum complete with a basket of food and a large blanket to lay in the sand. They were in a hidden spot unseen to other beachgoers with the perfect view of the ocean and the setting sun. It was twilight when he lit the candles for their dinner, feeding each other the small finger food with kisses exchanged in between each bite.

Rose pulled him to his feet so they could walk in the ocean for a little while, just until the sun disappeared below the horizon. When her feet became cold, she hopped on Calum’s back so he could carry her back to the blanket where he draped a second one over her legs while he got a fire started.

He remembers how he froze when he turned around to see her top off, a nipple peeking above the second blanket he gave her, and she flashed him the sweetest smile.

“Come warm me up?”

They created their own sunset between their hearts that night, the smell of ocean air and smoke clouded over their tangled limbs as they made love twice on the beach.

The loud ringing of his phone pulls him from the sweet reverie, he sees it’s his mom and he picks up right away. She asks if there has been any new progress with Rose and he tells her not yet and that she doesn’t have to come watch the dogs because Mike still has them. He promises he’ll call her when Rose does wake up.

He hangs up and is still thinking of the beach when he’s reminded of a poem Lang Leav wrote called ‘High Tide’. He goes to her book and reads out the first line.

“’Are you somewhere looking at the sea, my love?’ Is that where you are, Rosie? By the sea? The sand in your toes, salty seawater spraying your hair?” he chokes up as he gazes at her still face. He grabs her hand in his and kisses it. “Pick a pretty shell for me, okay? What should I read next?”

Five Weeks Later

It’s Thursday afternoon and Calum is doing the routine exercises for Rose, so she doesn’t get bed sores and her muscles don’t atrophy when Ruby enters the room. She is absolutely beaming, her eyes wide and bright accompanied with a huge smile on her face. Surprised at her elation, Calum’s first instinct is to look at her left-hand thinking Ashton proposed to her, but her hand is bare.

“Hey Rube, what’s up?” he asks bending Rose’s fingers down one by one, similar to the tactic of counting a child’s toes as little piggies.

“Ash and I said, ‘I love you.’”

“Really?!” Calum gives her a large smile then massages the palm of Rose’s hand. “That’s fantastic, how’d it happen?”

“We were making breakfast and he just said it,” she smiles breathlessly. “You and Rose were right about that warmth; I feel it everywhere…it’s like I’m floating on air.”

“That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you guys.” Calum sets Rose’s arm back down on the bed and moves down to her leg that’s not in a cast.

“We have you two to thank. Rose told me not to be scared and after what you told Ashton last week he said he’s been feeling different. I can’t wait to tell Rose.” Ruby smiles down sadly at her friend

“She’ll be happy to hear about it,” Calum smiles and lifts her leg to do the exercises. Dr. Robbins has said that her external fixator is doing a good job of healing her leg, it’s a slow process but with her current condition, slow is best.

Ruby recounts the whole moment for Calum while he continues the exercises with Rose. Ruby knew something was up because Ashton was being a bit moodier than normal and was acting nervous while they did their morning yoga session. It wasn’t until Ruby started their coffee and she asked for their two mugs did he say it after she said, ‘thank you.’

Calum knows Ashton will probably tell him about it when he comes to visit but it fills him with happiness that his two friends know of the same elation that he and Rose feel. When her exercises are done, and Jane has checked her vitals, Calum and Ruby sit down while he reads more poetry to Rose.

Before he’s about to go to sleep for the night he reads one more poem and notices all of Rose’s underlines in ‘A Letter to My Love’ starting with the word France and the rest as follows:

‘…how we pictured, but it is exactly how it was always meant to be.’

‘But building this life with you has been the grandest adventure.’

‘This is the happiest I have ever been.’

‘With you I have seen all my dreams to into fruition.’

‘All I ask now is for time with you, as much as we are allowed.’

He doesn’t like that last foreboding sentence, as if this time they’ve shared together is all they were allowed. This can’t be it for them. Then her handwriting appears on the page next to it dated the day they got engaged and of their graduation. She wrote an entry.

It’s the day after and Calum is sleeping next to me. He asked me to marry him! I woke up and opened to this poem, fate has been on m side since that day we bumped into each other outside the CBS. He’s my dream I’ve dreamt of since I was a little girl. There are many great loves, but non are greater than mine and his. I felt a flicker in my glow just now…excitement? You’re starting to mumble in your sleep my love, time to wake you up and celebrate our life of forever.

Calum stares at her phrase of ‘flicker in my glow’ did she somehow know about the accident before it even happened? Why else would it flicker? He shifts his gaze to her chest and the red glow is still there, still faint, but no sign of flickering.

Six Weeks Later

Calum is dreaming. Somewhere in his mind, he knows it but won’t wake. He and Rose are at the Dainty Dove. She’s leaning against him in their regular booth with his arm around her shoulders as they share a cup of coffee. She smiles like her familiar rose and rainwater smell; Moonlight Serenade by Frank Sinatra plays softly in the background from the jukebox. Their song from their very first date and they’re the only ones in the joint.

“It’s almost time,” she says twisting her fingers with his.

“Time for what?” he kisses her hair, breathing her in.

“The rain…it’s coming here. I am too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come dance,” she whispers and then suddenly they’re dancing.

The room darkens as clouds roll over outside the restaurant. Calum watches over Rose’s head through the windows in confusion. Rose touches his cheek and he looks down at her.

“Promise me something,” she says.

“Anything.”

“Be patient with me. The rain is coming,” she whispers, and his dream self is befuddled as she leans up on her toes, lips brushing his, “and I’m in close proximity.”

Just before her lips touch his, the rain falls heavily, and her voice lingers in his mind when he wakes up. Just like in his dream, the rain is hitting the windows harshly much like it has been for the last six weeks. The weatherman are calling it an unnatural weather phenomenon and have no real answer for the source of all the rain.

He checks that the time is 4:37 a.m. He rubs his eyes then jerks to a sitting position because Rose’s chest is glowing a burning red with much more strength. It isn’t dim at all, it’s vibrant and strong.

“Rose?!” his legs get tangled in the hospital sheets as he turns on the lights and he swears he sees her eyelashes twitch. “Rosie, baby?” he takes her hand. “Can you hear me? I’m right here, in prox…”

Calum swallows harshly then snatches up his Michael Faudet book opening to the poem titled ‘Proximity.’ He reads the prose quickly about joining the dots from A to B, empty shores and the sea and everything else in between all the way to the end.

‘For what’s real is meant to be, when two hearts beat—in proximity.’

Rose’s finger twitches against his and Calum’s heart skyrockets.

“Rose?” he whispers in shock. “Come on sweetheart, open your eyes for me. I’m right here. I’m here and I love you so much.” He gasps when the orange glow in his chest brightens and her does as well from his proclamation of love. Tears spring in his eyes then two more fingers twitch. “Rose, I’m here. I love you; I love you, come back to me, Rosie.”

Their glows blaze brighter still, something beeps but Calum pays it no mind because Rose’s eyes flutter for a few seconds and then open. Calum stares in astonishment, oh how he’s missed those ocean eyes.

“Rose?” he whispers. She blinks heavily and he’s smashing the nurse’s call button. “She’s awake! Jane! She’s opened her eyes!” he shouts into the speaker then takes her hand in both of his. Happy tears are falling down his cheeks as she comes to. “Hi sweetheart, I’m right here, you’re okay.”

She tries to focus on him, her mouth tries to open to speak but then she chokes on the feeding tube and he panics. He starts shouting some more for help then Jane and Dr. Robbins rush in. They’re quick to remove the tube and fix the alarms screaming on the machines. Jane pushes Calum gently out of the way so they can work, and other nurses arrive in the room.

“Rose, I’m Dr. Robbins,” Dr. Robbins speaks very slowly and clearly, as if she’s talking to a child. “You’re in the hospital and were in an accident. You’ve been asleep for a while but you’re okay.” She flashes a light in her eyes. “Good. Can you blink twice if you understand me?”

Calum watches in amazement as Rose blinks once…then twice ever so slowly. He could leap for joy.

“That’s good,” Dr. Robbins smiles warmly, “You’ve been in a coma for some time so things may be fuzzy. Are you in pain? Blink once for no and twice for yes.”

Rose blinks twice and Calum’s heart plummets. Has she been in silent pain all this time?

“Jane can help with that, she’s your nurse,” Dr. Robbins smiles again. “I’m going to do some quick tests okay?”

While Dr. Robbins does her testing Calum’s fingers are flying as he texts everyone in excitement. He would call but he can’t take his eyes off Rose and it’s extremely early in the morning. He didn’t want to alarm them in a panic when it was actually good news.

***

A few days have gone by, Calum watches silently as Rose goes through more tests to see how well her reflexes are and her strength. Calum only leaves when he gets a phone call from their friends or his mom to give them updates and share their excitement of her finally being awake. Her eyes are always on him with a twinge of confusion in her dark blue eyes. When she speaks, it’s soft and raspy but it’s the voice of angels to Calum. He’s missed her voice so much.

“I know you want to be alone with him, but I have to make sure you’re all right. He won’t go anywhere, I promise,” Dr. Robbins chuckles while she watches the orthopedic doctor check Rose’s leg.

Calum hopes she’ll be able to get the mechanical thing off her now and they can work on physical therapy so she can walk. He knows her recovery process is going to be long and strenuous. She’s been in a coma for six weeks; her body is stiff and probably feels weird to her, but Calum will be with her every step of the way.

Calum takes a step forward, smile on his face at being acknowledged by Dr. Robbins. Rose’s brows furrow in a concerned v.

“Who is he?”

The rain stops, and the clouds part to reveal a bright sun that shines in Rose’s eyes. The bad weather has ceased, and Calum should be happy that the light of his life is back, but a new storm has arrived as Rose stares at Calum like she’s never seen him before in her life.

• • • •

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#calum hood au #soulmate!calum #soulmate!calum hood #calum hood angst #calum hood fic #calum hood writing #calum writing #calum angst #soulmate!cal

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whumpywhumper · 4 years

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Here to Help

I’ve been waiting to post this section for forever.

Recently updated master post: Here

Follows: Aftermath

Edit for Masterpost

Tagging: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @0idril0 @captivity-whump @whumpitywhumpwhump @walkingchemicalfire @comfy-whumpee @insanitywishes @imagination1reality0 @voidwhump2 @untilthepainstarts

Markus woke up abruptly, jerking into consciousness with pain spreading through his chest as he gasped a full breath into his battered lungs, his back arching as his muscles rebelled at the unexpected agony. His eyes snapped open, and he whined as his nerve endings fully registered the deep, penetrating ache that dug into every crevice of his body. The sharp, consuming wounds in his stomach and chest.

His esophagus was raw from where the tubes had been removed from his throat, and it felt like he was breathing through razor blades. The breathing mask over his face pumped humid, tepid air into his mouth and nose, but it did nothing to soothe his abraded airways. The curtained area they’d moved him into was dark, the machines he was still connected to whirring and blinking, their small lights unable to completely light up the area.

He felt his eyebrows furrow in slight confusion, even at night, the curtained area hadn’t been this dark. The constant fluorescents had peaked underneath the floor length fabric, the air flow creating a dance of lights in the closed area. Picking his head up slightly, his throat rebelled at the new angle, lungs contracting viciously.

His barking, choked off cough was snuffed out by pain that drowned him. Smothering and opaque, the pain blocked everything out as it swallowed him whole. He went down.

Down.

. . . down.

Only to catch himself on the precipice, a sense of dread and fear keeping him from giving in to the tidal wave that threatened him. Something’s out there.

He crawled his way back to consciousness, prying his eyelids open as he sought what put his senses on edge. A brief, staccato popping followed by a demonic screeching in the distance made him wince, a cold sweat enveloping him as his stomach sank. What is that?

Markus felt his heart speed even through his drugged, feverish haze, his mind moving sluggishly as it tried to put two and two together. He startled as the blood pressure cuff around his bicep tightened, a lance of pain jolting through him with the unexpected movement. He moaned quietly, shuddering as the surge of adrenaline washed over him. Left him feeling so tired. He wanted to move, get off of the bed and hide, at least pull the blankets over his head. Feel safe. But that desire was futile.

He was still restrained, the soft cuffs around his wrists keeping him from pulling on the tubes and wires that framed his torso. The “nurses” hadn’t taken them off since he had ripped the chest tube out, had instead replaced them with buckled restraints that clicked in place underneath the bed. Stretching his drugged senses, he tried to hear anything that would give him an idea of what was going on, but quickly gave up. He was was surrounded by quietly whirring machinery, the bubbles of the replaced chest tube filling his ears. And he didn’t have the energy to care anymore.

Sinking into the pillow, Markus tried to ignore the pain in his body, letting his eyes fall closed.

Sleep hadn’t quite claimed him when the sound of muted voices entered his ears.

“Go, go, go.”

The heavy tramp of boots and jangle of tactical gear made Markus blink his eyes open, an odd clacking on the tile tickling his memory; so out of place in the vampire nest. But a heavy, anchoring fear made him freeze, hold stock still as his brain went offline. He bit his tongue against a distressed whimper caught in his throat. Cutting his eyes to the side, he saw the jumping, jerking flash of lights under the curtain that surrounded him.

Another soft voice, “clear,” followed the clink and slide of curtain rings in a metal track. He wanted to call out, but fear strangled him, made it feel like there was a fist clutched around his trachea. He was taking short, choppy, staccato breaths; the oxygen mask filming with condensation.

He stopped breathing altogether when the curtain around his bed was thrown open, black clad figures drowning him in the excruciating light of their halogen flashlights. He flinched, hard, his arms tugging on the cuffs in a pointless attempt at covering his eyes.

Markus could feel the gun barrels pointed at him, the deadly projectiles a hair pin trigger away from boring large, painful holes in him. He squeezed his eyes closed, turning his face away from the lights, and opened his palms on the blankets in surrender. Please, please just do it quick.

“Non-hostile, sending in Delta.”

It was impossible for the weakened witch to go anywhere when the heavy tread of footsteps came closer, the clack on the tiles sounding through the room again, but he tried to sink deeper into the mattress. Shaking uncontrollably, pain and fear stealing his faculties. The heart monitor he was hooked up to started to beep in warning.

A whimper forced its way out when a heavy weight bounced onto the bed near his knee, and he shrank away when something cold touched his hand. But the touch came back more insistent, the snuffling push and pull of air moving up his arm. The weight repositioned itself, pressing into the mattress by his ribs, away from the tubes and wires. Markus’s eyes fluttered open when he felt the tell-tale touch of a wet tongue against his cheek.

A dog?

Markus turned his head, still shaking and feeling weaker and weaker the longer he held onto consciousness, and was greeted by the serious gaze of a German shepherd as the animal retreated and lowered itself to lay against his side. Its heavy head rested comfortingly on his good hip.

Moving as far as his restraints allowed, he buried one hand in the dog’s soft fur, feeling the cold slide of tears down his temple.

The soft voice from before made Markus’s gaze slide to the black clad men. “Non-hostile is not infected, Ben and Kincaid, prep for evac.”

Two figures stayed behind as the rest of the platoon peeled off. The dog, Delta, jumped off of the bed as her handler fell back into his position. The retreating flashlights illuminated the rest of the room, and the pulled curtains partitioning the space into empty squares.

Markus immediately missed the warmth of the dog next to him, feeling bereft and vulnerable again. A renewed, hollow ache in his chest feeling a little more ripped open. He was supremely conscious of the trilling of the monitors beside him. The way the oxygen mask stuck to his face with a wet seal from the condensation his uneasy breathing caused.

Blackness was playing with the edges of his vision. It spread further when one of the men lowered his rifle, the shoulder strap making the gun swing to his back, and stepped toward him. He unclipped a small lantern from his belt, which he clicked on to illuminate the area surrounding Markus’s bed, hooking it to an abandoned IV pole from the neighboring cubicle. As soon as his hand was empty, he held it out to Markus while the other went to the balaclava covering the lower part of his face.

He revealed a handsome face with a square jaw and a hint of black beard. The guy’s smile was strained, but his voice was gentle. “Hey man, we’re going to get you home, okay? My name is Kincaid and this is Ben—“ he gestured to the other man—“he’s gonna make sure you’re okay to move, alright? How does he look, Ben?”

The other black clad figure also lowered his mask, adjusting his gun so that it was on his back, out of his way. “Vitals are a little strained, cupcake,” he said to Kincaid, “but I think we need to know more about what’s going on first, huh?” Ben’s smile was conspiratorial as he looked toward Markus, their flashlights and the lantern revealing the crinkle of his eyes as he stepped up to grab the chart from the end of his bed.

As he approached, Markus couldn’t help drawing away, inexplicably terrified of this new person invading his space. He’s just trying to help, fuck. His hands fisted loosely in the hospital blanket, his fingers still trembling, and he felt a bombardment of pain through his torso as he tensed. Sucking in quick breaths, Markus felt like he was breathing through a straw, and the machine next to him gave an obnoxious, shrill screech.

Kincaid’s eyes snapped over, and he opened both hands toward him. “We’re gonna move slow and easy, okay? I’m gonna tell you everything we’re going to do before we do it, and I promise that we’re gonna do our best to make this as painless as possible, okay? Can you nod if you understand me?”

Markus could feel the steady stream of tears leaking from his eyes, fuck, he was so scared. But he gave a tiny, slow nod, locking eyes with Kincaid’s honeyed hazel ones.

Kincaid smiled, keeping his open stance as Ben, in his hazy periphery, backed away to look at his chart. “Good, good job, is it okay if I come over there and take those restraints off?” Another tiny nod. “Okay, I know I wouldn’t want to be strapped down like that, so let’s get those off.” He stepped forward, and Markus shuddered, swallowing roughly against the short whine in his throat. He stared at Kincaid’s square hands as they came closer, feeling his heart galloping in his chest. “Hey, sweet guy, look at me, look at my eyes.” The hands paused, and Markus drug his eyes up to the other man’s face. “Just keep looking at my eyes, I’m not going to hurt you, okay?”

Blinking away tears, he nodded, taking a gasping breath. Kincaid didn’t touch him as he handled the restraints, clever fingers making quick work of the cuff even as he kept his eyes trained on Markus. The witch kept his hand buried in the blanket as the other man worked, too tired to even pretend to help. He couldn’t stop his sob when the cuff was drawn away, the bandaged scabs on his barely healed wrist aching.

“Okay, now for the other one, alright?” Markus nodded again, holding perfectly still as Kincaid leaned over him to reach the other cuff. He could feel his warmth through the blankets, and it was so fucking human that it made his heart clench. This time, when he was free, Markus turned his hand to grab the other’s, desperate fingers latching on to warm, human skin. Kincaid startled, and they both gasped as a spark of magic traveled between them.

A wave of relief washed over Markus, and he felt the tension in his body release even as tears still coursed from his eyes. A witch.

The other man closed his eyes tight as he gently squeezed Markus’s fingers, lips compressing into a thin line while he drew in a deep, shaking breath through his nose.

“Kincaid?” Ben had shuffled forward, looking at them over Markus’s chart, worry clear in his expression.

“We might’ve found who put that message out, Ben. . . “ His voice was strained, holding something that the barely conscious witch couldn’t identify.

Markus couldn’t make himself move his eyes from Kincaid’s face to see Ben’s reaction, but his voice held a shred of surprise when he answered. “Okay, that’s good to know, think it will affect anything on my end?”

Kincaid shook his head, opening his eyes with a sigh as he met Markus’s bleary gaze. His smile was even more strained than before, but Markus couldn’t find it in himself to worry anymore. Another witch wouldn’t leave him here. “No, it shouldn’t affect anything right now. Might help some things actually.” His other hand wrapped around Markus’s, warming the aching bones. His thumb rubbed a soft, comforting rhythm over his skin, interrupted by the bandages wrapped around his hand. He met Markus’s unwavering gaze, the sheen of professionalism worn away, “We’re going to get you out of here, okay?”

He nodded, no more than a tiny inclination of his head, and felt his eyelids start to droop as his body took advantage of the relief he was feeling. The shrill beeping of the monitors quieted as Markus drifted. He was safe.

“Kincaid, come here for a second.”

With a final brush of his fingers against Markus’s, he tried to lower his hand back to the bed, but Markus whimpered. His eyelids flickered as his fingers tried to hold on to him. Don’t go, please. Kincaid hummed at him, “Okay, I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry.”

Boots scuffed the floor, and Ben cleared his throat before whispering to Kincaid. “This chart is fucked, babe. I want a closer look before we move him, but right off the bat, we’re going to have to keep a pretty close eye on his airway. He’s got a chest tube, multiple broken ribs, and he’s apparently been recovering from a recurring bout of pneumonia—that’s on top of being stabbed and beaten. Even from here, I can tell his lungs sound like shit.” He growled through his teeth, “I’m not sure what kind of idiot took him off of the vent so soon, but I can see why they’re not actually practicing in a hospital.”

He sighed, “I’m going to need one of the e-vac gurneys, and a transport cart, but we’re going to have to wait until the area’s been completely cleared. I don’t want to run into any of the vamps while moving, and this bed won’t fit into the elevator. I’m pretty fucking sure none of the other captives we came across were this bad off, so we’ll have first pick of the ambulance, at least.”

Kincaid cut in, his fingers still wrapped around Markus’s hand, “What’s his name?”

“Hm?”

“His name, does it say what his name is?”

“Oh, uh, no. It just has some initials—“ there was the shuffle of movement, and Markus’s eyes slid open as a hand was placed on his arm. Ben hovered over him, on the opposite side of the bed from Kincaid, and lifted the corners of his mouth in a small smile when he saw Markus looking at him. “Hey there, honey, can you tell me your name?”

Markus drew in a raspy breath, and tried to push the syllables out of his mouth. “Ma—“, but as soon as the soundless roll of the “R” hit his palette, his lungs objected. A violent, barking cough made his frail frame shake in the bed, harsh, wheezing breaths sucked in through the oxygen mask. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to relax his body against the pain of his ribs, unconscious, inaudible whimpers falling from his mouth with every strained exhale. He was drowning again, circling down, a numb darkness cloaking his brain.

From a distance, Ben’s voice registered as he tried to breathe. “Shit, okay, O2 sats pretty low there. Try and breathe with me, honey. In. Out.” He stroked his arm in time with his over exaggerated breaths, Markus doing his best to hold on as the pain morphed, centralizing to an area in the right of his rib cage. His head lolled to the side as oxygen finally made its way back into his body.

He didn’t even try and open his eyes again, let alone talk, laying limply in the bed as if pure exhaustion had bulldozed him. “Okay, don’t try that again, that vital crash was pretty dangerous.” The medic’s voice was detached as he spoke over Markus, no longer trying to draw his attention.

“I need to see how bad this nest fucked him up. Can you go get that rolling gurney we passed in the hallway? Faster we get him loaded, the faster we can leave when we get the clear.”

“Yeah.”

It sounded as if Kincaid stepped away, and Markus realized he’d lost physical contact with the witch in his coughing fit, his hand laying abandoned on the mattress. He couldn’t summon the energy to feel afraid, the lingering feeling of sparking magic calming him. The unexpected sound of ripping velcro, though, made him flinch, and he groaned.

“Okay, honey, I’m going to listen to you with this stethoscope and try and get a feel for some of these other injuries.” Ben’s fingers started to peel back the blanket, and Markus didn’t offer any resistance as the medic pressed the cool circle of the tool to his chest, the bite of the metal dulled by his gown. He maneuvered the blanket out of his way as he listened at each new spot, making sure to keep Markus mostly covered and warm.

Ben muttered under his breath as he worked, hissing profanities. “Fucking hell, honey, what did they do to you? They tore you the fuck up, is what they did. God, fuck these assholes, your lungs sound like shit.” Markus tensed when he felt bare fingers worm their way under the top of his hospital gown. His weak hand automatically went up to the guy’s arm, grabbing hold, eyelids fluttering. Ben’s voice followed, gently soothing as he pried off Markus’s hand and pressed it back to the bed. “I need to see these tubes and what we have under some of these bandages, so don’t fight, okay? We’re taking care of you, I promise.”

The snaps of the hospital gown clicked open readily to the medic’s hands, and he concentrated on breathing through the harpoon in his ribs. Ben checked the placement of leads, his fingers clinically probing his chest as he methodically worked his patient over. Markus whimpered when that gentle probing turned painful, the medic’s fingers pausing as he found the insistent grinding in his side. “Fucking hell,” he growled, vehemently. Ben moved on quickly, loosening the sticky tape covering the bandages over his stomach to see his other incisions and stitches.

Boots and the metallic clink of rolling wheels announced the return of Kincaid, “How’s he look, Ben?”

He sighed, voice hard as he answered, “Like shit, how do you think? Come here, we need to get him loaded up.”

The air shifted as the gurney rolled up next to him, and Markus heard Kincaid give a sharp inhale as Ben lifted the bandage over his stomach. “God damnit, Ben, you’re not joking.”

“No, I’m not.” The tips of his calloused fingers nudged along his incision sites, and Markus flinched at how he prodded at the bruised and tender skin.

A spark of magic traveled through him as Kincaid put a hand on the crown of his head, fingers brushing against his hair in a soothing, comforting rhythm. He forced his eyes open, and looked up at the other witch, his fatigued eyesight turning him into a hovering blur.

“Alright, we’re as good to go as we’re going to be,” Ben pressed the bandages back in place before continuing, “just need to be careful of his breathing, like I said earlier. Help me keep an eye on that O2 sat, if it gets below 90%, we need to get him more oxygen.”

The blur that was Kincaid moved to his side, helping Ben re-snap the hospital gown, before they tucked him into the blanket. The warm material was drawn up to his shoulders, trapping his arms against his sides. Markus swallowed heavily at the change, feeling the weak trickle of fear in his stomach from not being able to move. But Markus was too worn out to put any fight against being held down again. At least these guys are kind.

“Okay, sweet guy,” Kincaid murmured, thumbing away the tear track from under Markus’s eye, “let’s get you out of here.”

He followed the other witch with his hazy gaze as long as he could, Ben taking care of the medical equipment as Kincaid prepped the gurney, before his heavy eyelids slid closed. Plunging him back into darkness. The coughing and physical exam—even as gentle as it was—had caused an inexorable wave of exhaustion to roll through him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to rest.

“Delta Team: Sparrow and Juniper, you are clear to move. Support headed up with rolling gurney now.”

The breaking crackle of the radio through the quiet room didn’t rouse him, didn’t make the others stop their quick efficient movements other than to reply a terse, “Heard, no support needed,” with the accompanying click of hard buttons.

Warmth wrapped around him, making his tired body relax, the slow meandering of his thoughts like molasses in winter. Markus sunk under, letting the sounds of their work roll over him. His awareness shrank to the feeling of blankets and bandages, the slow drag of air through parted lips, how his chest grated with the interspersed movement.

He drifted, and sounds translated into images as the clinks of plastic buckles against metal brought him the vision of ghosts knocking their chains on pipes as they sought for anyone to hear them. Moving down a hallway, in that sluggish, dazed way only dreams can conjure, searching for the dark figures that the two forms around him had turned into, rustling and shifting like birds in the treetops, or wolves in underbrush.

Something reached from the shadows, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him, Ben’s voice bubbling from the darkness—his gentle tone a stark juxtaposition to the macabre dreamscape. “Hey, honey, can you open your eyes for me?”

Markus’s eyes were open, he was searching for him, where did he go?

A warmth crept into his hand, and Markus found himself unable to look down and see what it was even as his stressed mind sought answers in the darkness. It squeezed around his hand, shaking it, voice louder than the other. “Wake up, sweet guy, open your eyes.”

Markus didn’t understand—he was awake—he tried to move himself through the sludge that coated him and find the other witch. He felt as if he was trying to move his very soul from the depths of his body, but it was like he had become detached. He couldn’t even move his body, let alone search for the guy in the nothingness around him. He could feel Kincaid’s magic, that spark sending a light through his hazy vision but it was a light twenty feet below water—shimmering and dim—completely out of reach.

A sharp pain lanced through his finger, and a moan hummed through his paralyzed vocal cords. His hand moved on its own, weakly pulling away from the spear through it. Help, please don’t.

“Fuck, babe, we gotta move.” Markus could feel his body being lowered backward, how each pull of oxygen into his lungs stuttered as he fought for a deeper breath. “On three. One. Two. Three.” A weak, little cry of pain cracked his mouth open through his fugue as his body was lifted through the air. The talons of a huge bird were in his chest, digging through his torso as it carried him away before dropping him and tearing away all of his air as it burst from his lungs on impact.

“O2 is at 89%, Ben.”

“Get his head up, grab that lever.” His head twirled with vertigo as the ground beneath him shifted, but air, plasticky and humid slid down his throat, and the fight to breathe wasn’t so overwhelming. “There you go, honey, O2 is already going back up. Hand me that strap, babe.”

“He’s secure, go go go.” The ground rumbled and shook, trapping Markus with waving tree roots as he slid back into his dreams.

#Markus/Lucien Series #finally rescued!#finally some actual comfort #medical whump #freed from restraints #Hurt/Comfort #whump

75 notes · View notes

blahblahwritings · 4 years

Text

Contracts and Captains. - IV

A/N: Remember how I posted something before one of my other fics saying that I had been consistently updating for weeks? Neither do I lmao who was she? Don’t know her anyway heres the fourth chapter of this black sails fic.

Words: 1823. Honestly I’ve been writing this since about 12pm I don’t know how its so short and its probably shit bc I haven’t written anything in months.

Warnings: Mentions of vomit as per the last chapter. Think thats it lmao. See you in three months.

As your eyes opened, there were a blissful couple of seconds where the previous night’s encounter didn’t exist in your memory. But, just like the sun flooding the room, unwanted flashes of vomit and slurred words rose like a tidal wave in your minds eye. You rolled over, burying your face and groaning into the pillow out of sheer embarrassment as a dull throbbing started in the depths of your skull.

Why did you keep drinking? You could’ve simply had one or two before retiring for the night and you wouldn’t have met that boatswain or thrown up on your own boots. What was his name again? Ben? Boyd? No, they weren’t quite right. Either way you made a mental note to apologise again whenever you next saw him.

Slowly, you tugged your still clothed limbs from the thin sheets, trying not to jostle your stomach too much for fear of whatever was left in there making an unwelcome appearance. Your pants were scuffed from where you took a tumble outside the tavern, your shirt was half undone, probably from a failed attempt to undress before not-so-gracefully falling into bed. A single boot was thrown on the floor alongside your coat, the other still stuck on your foot. What a mess.

A hot bath, that's what you needed, and a hearty breakfast if your insides don’t bring it back up. Pulling on the other boot, you made your way to one of the girls working downstairs, trading her coin to fill the tub in your room. You must’ve looked rough as you passed her to get to the man at the bar because when he turned to look at you, his brows shot up, disappearing behind his hair.

“You look like you could use a little hair of the dog, love.” He chuckled, eyes scanning your disheveled form. A grimace was your immediate response. “Some food then.” He offered, filling a bowl with something that you didn’t stop to look at as you practically inhaled it. The man watched you with a knowing smirk and had you not felt so terrible you’d have spat out a snarky comment. You chose to gulp down your water instead.

“Thank you.” You huffed with a small nod, tossing some money on the counter before you headed back upstairs. The state you were in just added to this morning's growing list of regrets but you weren’t quite sure if you cared how you looked to anyone else right now. All that was on your mind was a piercing headache and a good soak.

Stripping off, you stepped into the water, sinking down slowly as your body got used to the heat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, you rested your head on the back of the tub, your aching muscles beginning to relax. Scented oils and soaps were left on a stand by the bath. Working a generous amount between your palms, you massaged your limbs and torso getting rid of any tension and purging the memories of last night’s… festivities. In the quiet of your room, you took a moment to trace the small scars that littered your form, fingers landing at last on the freshly healed knife wound from only a few weeks ago. The soft pink flesh was still tender, and if you moved the wrong way it would ache. It was dangerous to be alone on this island, in this line of work. You needed friends, not just contacts. A crew, perhaps.

Letting your mind wander, you thought about your new found place among Flint’s men. You had to keep bringing in leads to be of any value to him, lest you risk being tossed aside and left in the dirt. He and his crew were among the most revered on the island, therefore cementing your part in that would bring security. It would ensure that other crews would leave you alone, as you were important to someone they feared and the consequences of harming you could be severe.

Then again, there was a little more than security on your list of perks as you thought more about the taller man from last night. He was kind to you, not that the others weren’t having bought your drinks and all, but, he made sure you were safe and fed. Billy Bones. You recalled. Replaying the meeting in your head, you winced at the slurred introduction and the puking soon after. Why did you care about how he saw you? Was it because he was the crew’s boatswain or because he was handsome and softer than most pirates you’d met.

Catching that last thought, you shook it from your head, refusing to let it take root in your brain. Attachments like that are a weakness here and you cannot afford to have those. You’d only met the guy once and he probably didn’t want anything to do with you anyway, especially after that drunken show you gave him. Cupping a handful of water, you splashed your face, scrubbing any further thoughts of the man from your head, instead, choosing to focus on finding a new lead for Flint.

They would be leaving to chase down the details you gave him yesterday in a couple of days, if not sooner, which meant you probably had around two weeks to find something of substance upon their return. You’d struggled last time but after sending out letters to old friends in neighbouring ports, you were hopeful something would turn up.

Padding your way to the dresser, you pulled out some fresh clothes and got ready, feeling much better than you did even an hour before. The food had settled your stomach and the water you guzzled seemed to bring some life back into your face as when you left to go hunt down some work, the barman from earlier spouted something along the lines of ‘A whole other woman’ when you walked by.

---

An uneventful morning led to an uneventful afternoon. There were no new letters or leads and the streets were pleasantly calm compared to usual. You certainly weren’t complaining, you had been feeling better since this morning but your body was still recovering. The easy day was probably just what you needed. You were sat on the beach, sipping some water and watching passersby as you sketched in the journal you kept.

It was something you’d taken to keeping since arriving in Nassau just over two years ago. A small leather book to help keep track of potential jobs and record anything interesting that happened. Really, though, you just loved to draw. You’d already filled a couple just like it with sketches of people, ships and landscapes that caught your eye, often accompanied by your messy scrawl. You were just about satisfied with your latest addition when Mr Gates clapped you on the shoulder making you jump and slam the journal closed. You’d never shown anyone the contents before.

“Sorry, Miss Devereux, didn’t mean to startle you.” He began, chuckling lightly at your reaction. “I heard you and the lads had quite the night..” He moved to stand by you as you got to your feet, dusting the sand from your pants. Tucking away the book, an amused smirk finds its way to your face as you look at him.

“Depends on who you ask.” You replied. “How were they this morning? Feeling sorry for themselves?” Your brows raised in question as you both started aimlessly wandering along the shore. A snort met your ears as his head fell forwards, looking at the ground then back at you. “I didn’t see the majority of them until at least noon and they were still in a sorry state, although I wonder how you must’ve been. I heard that you hurled your guts up right after meeting our boatswain.” Gates mused, eyes crinkling as he watched your entire face turn a lovely shade of red. You tried to keep your cool but your expression faltered into one of sheer embarrassment. Apparently, this was hilarious as Mr Gates exploded into a fit of hearty laughter, and as much as you told him to stop you couldn’t help but have a good chuckle yourself as you covered your face with a half-sandy palm at the thought.

When you both regain your composure, he gives you a reassuring pat on the back.

“Don’t worry, the only people who know are Billy and myself, the men still think you can hold your drink.” He winked. You made a move to argue that you could in fact hold your drink but he began talking about the plan to set sail the day after tomorrow. You listened intently and explained that you were awaiting correspondence from friends in other ports to supply more promising leads upon their return.

---

It had been four days since the crew left in search of another haul using your most recent information. Nothing out of the ordinary had happened, you’d made some money here and there through smaller jobs and pickpocketing but overall, there was nothing of real interest. You spent the days reading anything you could get your hands on or drawing and you’d even had your eye on some paints in one of the markets, but all you could do was wait. Checking for mail at the front desk of the inn you were staying at every morning had become a routine, desperate for any work or ships that you could relay to Flint. It was on the fifth day that you had gotten a response from someone in Port Royal.

As you read over the letter for the third time, you could feel your eyes widen in disbelief, your heart hammered in your chest and you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding. This was far too good to be true. Surely this was a myth. A prize of this magnitude was simply unheard of. Your eyes scanned over the paper again, barely able to focus on the words because your hands were trembling so violently. Calm down. You told yourself. It can’t be the truth. You thought as you stared at the other envelope that had arrived alongside it. At the bottom of the letter it read:

“P.S

Should you doubt my information, I sent you the correspondence shared between the dead man and the merchant with evidence pertaining to this gold. Best not ask how it came into my possession.

Your dear friend,

Josiah.”

You ran to shut the windows to your room and close the drapes. If anyone found out you had this information and the evidence to go with it, you would surely be killed for it. Tearing open the paper, you unfolded its contents. It was all here. The initials of the merchant, R.P., details alluding to the existence of this gold and the name of the dead man involved in plotting the course it would be on.

Vasquez.

#Black Sails #black sails imagine #Billy Bones #billy bones x reader #multi chapter #Captain Flint #mr gates

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clumsyclifford · 4 years

Text

i see us in black and white (i promise that i love you)

i’ve been listening to black and white - stripped by niall horan for an hour and a half and now..........this. i guess this is my apology fic for all the emo lashton stuff anyway probably the fluffiest thing ive ever written in my life enjoy

read it here on ao3

“Hey,” Luke whispers. Ashton’s eyes flutter open. “Can we get married?”

Ashton stares at Luke through half-lidded eyes, obviously still in that middle stage between asleep and awake. “Hm?”

“I want to get married,” Luke says. Absently he traces his fingers down the lines of Ashton’s bare chest, and closes his eyes again. Ashton’s familiar in every way; Luke doesn’t need to see him.

“Uh, what?” Ashton says groggily. “I have some questions.”

“Okay.”

“Well, um, you’re nineteen. I’m not much older.”

Luke shrugs, flattening his palm against Ashton’s stomach and sighing happily. This, he thinks, is bliss. Nothing else in the world could ever feel like this does, and nothing else ever will. “Fine. Not now, then. But in the future.”

“Oh.” Ashton exhales. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll marry me?”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I don’t know,” Luke says, and opens his eyes, barely, to make a face at Ashton. “You don’t want to get married, is that it?”

“No, not at all, of course I do,” Ashton says. “It’s just — we’re young, you know? And this is a bit random. And — I don’t know what. I love you.”

“And I love you.”

“Yeah, but isn’t there, like…something else?”

“Something else?” Luke repeats. “No. There’s nothing else, Ash. If we love each other, there’s nothing else.”

There’s a silence, and Luke studies Ashton’s profile when he turns his head to look up at the ceiling, obviously thinking. There are few things Luke enjoys more than this kind of morning, lazy and easy and untouchable. The warmth of Ashton’s skip seeps into Luke’s fingertips while Luke watches him, the cut of his jaw, the way the light from the windows glances just so off his eyes, turning them clear.

“Shouldn’t it be harder?” Ashton finally says, quietly, still looking up at the ceiling. “To decide you want to marry someone?”

“Not for me,” Luke says. Gently, he adds, “If it is for you, I’m not going to be upset.” That’s a white lie, but even if it hurts, Luke will understand. Ashton’s just got more walls, that’s all. Ashton’s been burned a couple times more. There are probably things he knows, or thinks he knows, about love and marriage, and Luke will respect that whether or not he agrees. If Ashton says he could never marry, Luke could learn to live with that.

Maybe it should scare him that he knows without a shred of doubt that he’d do anything for Ashton, hold the sky up on his back or deep dive without oxygen, but it doesn’t.

“It’s not.” Ashton’s voice is barely audible. He tilts his head on the pillow and meets Luke’s eyes. “That’s what I mean. I feel like I shouldn’t be so sure, but I am.”

Luke smiles. “It’s ‘cause you love me.”

“I’ve loved before.”

“Not like this.”

“Not like this,” Ashton agrees firmly, and leans in to give Luke a kiss, sweet and soft and sure.

“You can love me and not marry me,” Luke murmurs against his mouth.

“I’ll marry you,” Ashton breathes. “I will, really, whenever you fucking want, Luke.”

“Honest?”

“Honest. Whenever. Right now if you want, or tomorrow, or in a month, or in ten years.”

“Oh,” Luke says, and there’s a warmth in his chest, right under his sternum. “I’m surprised you agreed.”

“Me too,” Ashton says, “but then I thought about it and realized, like, this is it. You’re it. There’ll never be another. And I’d be the world’s biggest idiot to pass up the chance to lock down the most incredible guy I’ve ever met. I can’t believe you love me.”

“Of course I love you.”

“But how can you know you’ll keep loving me?”

“That’s a dumb question,” Luke says. “Nobody knows anything like that. I’ll decide to keep loving you. I love you now, and I’ll love you for the rest of my life, and if it takes work we’ll work at it, and if it’s easy, so much the better.”

Ashton makes a soft noise. “See, it’s when you say shit like that that makes me think this is all a hallucination. If fifteen-year-old Ashton could see us right now he’d never believe it.” Luke wrinkles his brow. “He didn’t think he’d ever be loved,” Ashton explains. “I didn’t, I mean.”

“And now?”

“And now…” Ashton trails off and gives Luke a smile that Luke wishes he could frame, or pocket. “I don’t know. I’m the luckiest bastard in the world.”

“Yeah you are,” Luke says, grinning.

Ashton huffs a laugh. “Shut up.” He kisses Luke’s nose. “What made you ask?”

“Ask what?”

“To marry me, you idiot, what have we been talking about for the last five minutes?”

“Oh,” Luke says. “I don’t know. I just woke up, and you were here, and…and I love you. That’s all.”

“That’s all? And you just decided you want to spend your whole life with me?”

“No,” Luke says. “I decided I wanted to be married. I’ve always known I want to spend my whole life with you.”

Ashton sucks in a breath. “You can’t have known that.”

“Just accept it, Ash,” Luke says sweetly. “I’ve always loved you, and I’ll always love you. From the day you rescued me like a white knight from those guys at the cinema.”

“God, that feels like forever ago,” Ashton murmurs. “We’re so much older. And so different.”

“Yeah,” Luke says, and then leaves it at that. There’s nothing else to say to it, really.

“I’m expecting a proper proposal when we really do get married, by the way,” Ashton says.

Luke smiles dopily and kisses Ashton, shrouded in the cozy blankets and the morning sunlight and the tingling feeling in his stomach and hands and feet. “Okay. Sure.”

“Can’t believe you woke me up to ask me to marry you,” Ashton mutters with a dry grin. “You’re unbelievable.”

Luke snuggles closer to Ashton. “Go back to sleep, then.”

Ashton yawns. “No, I’m up. I’ll make breakfast.”

“Husband material,” Luke says pointedly. Ashton shakes his head fondly and shimmies out of Luke’s grasp.

“Takes one to know one.”

Ashton leaves, and Luke watches him go, and feels a tidal wave crash over him, the kind he wants to ride forever. Maybe their wedding will be small, or maybe a big, flashy affair. Maybe Ashton will wear white — he looks great in white — or maybe they’ll both wear black, or maybe neither of them will, or maybe they’ll both wear tank tops and ripped skinny jeans and exchange vows on a sandy, remote beach, or a traditional church in New South Wales, near home, or maybe they’ll never properly get married, just buy each other rings and start calling each other “husband” — but it doesn’t really matter.

Some things are just easy, and don’t need to be overthought. Ashton is one of those things. Luke smiles, sighs, and closes his eyes. Ashton will wake him for breakfast.

#i genuinely.........like i have no idea what happened here #i had two DIFFERENT fics open that im trying to write and then i opened a new document and this just fucking SPILLED out #so thanks niall for making me write genuinely the most ridiuclously fluffy thing ive ever written in my life #luke hemmings #ashton irwin #lashton #lashton fic #5sos #5sos fic #fic #my fic #im pretty sure this is my first proposal fic and its not even really a proposal fic #also it doesnt even reeeeally do justice to black and white but whatever #ive been wanting to write hbw-inspired fics for AGES and ages #somewhere theres a doc..................#i VERY nearly put a hello hello reference in here but then i DIDNT #but i did put a malum reference JGKLDFMXLVCJB and its very obvious #what canon does this exist in? what 'verse? dont ask me #wouldnt you like to know.#stuff #this straight up is not on ao3 wow good for me #that might be the first time apart from prompt fics that ive done that #also i am not kidding you when i say black and white stripped is an out of body experience #everybody please listen to it right now immediately and report back

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cupidmarwani-archive · 5 years

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Let It Burn Out (Jockett)

Summary: Crockett’s really trying to keep going, but it’s hard. (The backstory fic).

WC: ~8k

Warnings: Death, Grief, Graphic Attempted Suicide

As far as Crockett has run, it simply hasn’t been far enough. There’s no amount of distance he can put between himself and his past, himself and his family, himself and a grave, that will free him from this ache in his chest that simply refuses to fade. How many months has it been, he wonders as he stares at the calendar on his fridge. It’s not quite a year. He was in the hospital himself for a long time before he packed up and left, but the days and weeks blurred with so few visitors and the majority of his time spent working up the strength to walk as far as down the hall to the bathroom himself.

Some part of him knew, when he kept working as a trauma surgeon, that it wouldn’t help the pain go away. Most, if not every single case, will bring the same memories back to him, but he can’t stop doing it. That would be giving up, and he owes it to himself and to the two people he loved with his whole heart not to give up on those who need better help than they received.

He kicks his fridge and it rattles ominously, a bottle inside falling over and rolling around to be picked up much later down the line, when he has the ability to concentrate and he’s not dangerously close to falling and hitting his head on the tile floor. Logically, he knows he should go to bed. Sleep it off. Pop an aspirin and some orange juice in the morning, maybe get some fluids in before his shift starts, and carry on with his life like the pain he’s been trying so hard to suppress hasn’t suddenly taken him over in a tidal wave.

His phone shows three missed calls when he fumbles to plug it in. He didn’t even hear it go off. Two from Dr. Manning. One from Dr. Choi. There’s tons of texts. All of them can be dealt with in the morning, and not as he curls up alone in his queen sized bed, still dreaming of what it felt like to have his husband holding him through the night.

When he left New Orleans, he didn’t bring his wedding ring with him. He buried it with its match in the casket. The only real memories he brought with him, he can’t bear to look at, so they stay boxed up in his closet for the hypothetical day in the future that he’s able to handle it. Deep down, he doubts that day will ever come.

Luckily, the amount of booze in his system and the exhaustion of the day catch up to him once there’s a pillow beneath his head, and he’ll be able to sleep without dreaming, if what he experiences can even be called that. They’re closer to hell than to anything that could be compared to the softness evoked by the thought of a dream. Nonetheless, he gets nothing of the sort when he closes his eyes for the night. Sleep brings no rest.

His hangover is best described as hellish when he crawls out of bed to the shrill alarm. His head throbs, almost as bad as the sensation of his chest being torn apart by grief that has never even begun to fade. As he makes his way slowly to the bathroom, fighting the urge to vomit, he seriously debates the merits of staying home as opposed to going to work. Dr. Manning will ask him questions, and the patients who need his attention will only bring more hurt to his attempts at recovery.

They wouldn’t want him to stay home.

With a grimace, he takes two aspirin and brushes his teeth to rid himself of the taste of stale liquor and sleep. Cold shower running down his back. No more sweat left on his sticky skin, only bags under his eyes and a faint tremor in his palms that he’ll have to eliminate before he gets back to work. Surgeons need steady hands. He forces himself to breathe deep until they stop shaking.

Going about his morning routine is like walking through molasses, ever so slow in the mire when he chokes down coffee and double knots his shoelaces. Traffic isn’t significantly better or worse than usual. He parks, goes inside. The flask in his locker offers him a small sip to numb him just a little more. There’s no real, physical evidence of the day before left in the hospital. That one little girl who Dr. Choi treated has been transferred to the ICU, and the other patients have been sent home or to recovery. Part of Crockett wants to go check on the kids from yesterday, but he can already tell that he’ll break if he does. They survived this.

He shoves his backpack into the locker with slightly more force than necessary. No one knowing provides a certain loneliness, but if he told them- the pity, the pushes to go home or to therapy or both- he just can’t handle it. Maybe his grieving process isn’t normal, but it’s working well enough for him. He’s still upright on his own two feet with a job and an apartment, which has to be worth something.

“Good morning, Dr. Marcel,” Noah says brightly, tablet in hand with the charts of the morning. “I was going to do a consult in six, did you wanna join?”

Normally, he would say yes. Noah needs his guidance to learn, and Crockett wants to teach him- there’s something so innocent and child-like in him that reminds him of someone he used to tuck into bed at night. Today, he can’t.

“Why don’t you do that one yourself, I’m not on the clock for a few more minutes and I’ve got something to do first.”

“Oh- okay. Everything alright?”

Crockett waves him off and goes into a treatment room, drawing the curtains and sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, arm out. He can insert his own IV, has done it plenty of times before and put a decent share of other things into his blood for less medicinal reasons. That part is no one’s business but his own. With the IV kit in the cart and an improvised rubber glove tourniquet, he starts himself on a bag of fluids and closes his eyes, willing it to give him some energy.

A darker part of himself, one that rears its ugly head on the worst of days, reminds him that he has access to things like morphine and oxy and xanax, any number of ways to calm him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. They’d be disappointed in him for that, too.

Eyes shut, breathing slow,w, he lets the fluids drain into his body to replace some of what he’s lost before spending a long moment going through the motions of removing the IV, applying pressure, disposing of the used equipment, and pasting a neutral look on his face. No one needs to know about why he’s here in Chicago or the way he wants to collapse to the floor and shatter into a million pieces.

Noah’s still with the patient, talking them through whatever procedure is on the table, so Crockett has a moment longer to take a deep breath and put himself together. At least, he had hoped so, but then Dr. Lanik is beside him, watching him with that almost-concerned expression usually turned toward Dr. Halstead’s latest bullshit.

“Dr. Manning is worried about you.”

He dutifully pretends not to have heard, and studies his nails. Short and clean, like always. Much more put together than the rest of him, he thinks. His scars are hidden beneath the crisp fabric of his scrubs, torso and legs. Plastics did a good job with his face. They told him his nose broke in the crash, but by the time he woke up, it had almost fully healed. He never noticed a difference.

“Crockett.” He slowly raises his eyes, meeting Lanik’s. “We’re all worried about you. Clearly, yesterday hit close to home, and-”

“It didn’t-”

“You have bourbon breath and your hands are shaking.”

When he looks back down at his hands, they are, even though he swears they weren’t seconds ago. Lanik’s hand cups his shoulder as he walks him to the doctor’s lounge, nudging him to sit down on the squeaky couch while he himself remains standing over him, imposing.

“I had a sip this morning, not even a shot. I’m not drunk, if that’s your concern.”

They spend a long moment staring at each other before Lanik sits beside him and picks up Crockett’s left hand. It’s not a clinical touch, but one strangely gentle, as though Lanik feels he’s holding something delicate. Up close, there’s still a faint tan line on his ring finger, where a symbol of a union used to sit. A gentle touch brushes over it, blue-green eyes soften.

“It’s okay to talk about it, ‘Kett.”

At the shortening of his name, Crockett rips his hand away and stands up. Too familiar, too painful, too much. He can’t deal with it. He adjusts his shirt and walks away in hopes Lanik won’t follow, just in time to see Noah approaching with another chart. The patient needs surgery and it’s one Noah isn’t too familiar with yet, so Crockett has to be there to help him, guide him, assist him. He’d rather be at home, but there’s no choice. Scrub in. Steady his hands. Don’t think about them, don’t think about the children from yesterday, don’t think about Lanik, and he’ll be alright, he tells himself. He has to be.

By the time the surgery is over, he just wants to go home, crawl under the covers and sleep. Dr. Charles might be able to give him something to put him at peace enough to avoid nightmares without giving himself alcohol poisoning, if he asks. It would be awkward, though, and he knows that will come with questions and urging toward counseling.

Even now, though, when he shuts his eyes, he remembers too well. The music playing, Crockett’s hand on his husband’s leg while their daughter chittered away in the backseat about her ballet class that day. A recital was coming up. Crockett even had the day off so he could be there to see her.

He desperately opens his eyes, but he still remembers the sound before it’s replaced by the ding of paramedics bringing in a patient. Stab wound to the abdomen, not too severe but not great either. Crockett can focus on that, does focus on that for as long as he’s able because he refuses to lose a patient today.

By the time that one is stitched up, there’s a car accident victim in her mid thirties, free fluid in the belly. It’s worse. But he does his job and he saves her too, the way doctors in New Orleans didn’t, with a promise to her waiting family that she’ll make a full recovery before they know it.

“Crockett,” he hears at the end of his shift, his flask already halfway to his mouth in the doctor’s lounge. Lanik is leaving for the day as well, hanging up his coat and cracking his neck while he watches out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never better.”

“Why don’t I- I-”

He turns to look at Lanik, waiting for him to just spit it out already so he can go home and drink himself into a stupor. Crockett is tired of being here today. He’s extra tired of the way everyone stares at him and tip-toes around him all of a sudden.

“Let me buy you dinner, at least.”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but it comes out of his mouth anyway. “I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for something like that right now.”

“Not as a date,” Lanik immediately corrects. “Just to talk. You look like you need it.”

Despite his first instinct being to refuse, Crockett does need to eat at some point, and this is a good way to make sure he remembers to before he gets drunk or otherwise incpacitated. Then there’s the puppy eyes Lanik is giving him, the outstretched hand, and it’s so difficult to say no to him. It was hard to say no to them, too.

“I guess I can make the time.”

Lanik smiles and offers him a ride, to the restaurant and then back to the hospital for his car, provided he’s sober enough for it. They wind up at a family owned greasy spoon diner, with bitter coffee and sweet pancakes, a homely air as the radio plays on the overheads. They don’t serve alcohol. Crockett pours a decent amount from his flask into his coffee mug, despite the disapproving look it earns.

“Should I be worried?” he asks idly as Crockett puts his flask away again.

All he can do in response is laugh dryly. No one worries about him anymore, not seriously. If they do, it’s only in the context of his capabilities as a surgeon, not his personal life or emotions. While alcohol hasn’t improved the taste of the terrible coffee, it makes him feel at least somewhat better to know that he’s on his way to a decent night’s sleep.

“Tell me about New Orleans,” Lanik says finally. “What was it like? Working there, living there?”

To find a memory that doesn’t hurt won’t be easy, but just brushing him off would be rude, and Crockett was raised better than that- he was raising his child better than that. His shoulders rise in a half-shrug, grasping in his mind for something to say.

“Hush puppies,” he blurts out.

“Hush puppies?”

Crockett puts his index finger and thumb together to make a little ball. “They’re this big, kind of like little savory pancakes. We deep fry them. Sure, they’re not super healthy, but I had those for breakfast all the time, and after long days at work. My-” his voice catches. “My family and I would make them on Sunday mornings.”

“What’re they made out of?”

“I use cornmeal, some flour. And milk and eggs. You gotta add onions and garlic and seasoning, though, give it something to- to cling to so it isn’t bland.”

He hasn’t made them since he came to Chicago. Not since before the accident, really. Every time he’s tried, it’s turned into tears over a hot stove and a distinct sense of loss that runs deeper than anything else manages to get. Just talking about them again is more than he’s done.

There are tears clinging to his eyelashes, just reaching his cheeks, that he doesn’t notice until Lanik reaches across the table to wipe them away for him. Slow. Careful. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t pull his hand back, instead cupping Crockett’s face. Some piece of him that craves being loved again leans into the touch.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

He ducks his head and takes a few long pulls of his spiked coffee. His heart is beating fast. Too fast. It tells him to think about the contact and to lean forward and to ask for a night where the bed isn’t as cold, but that’s too much of a betrayal to seriously consider. Crockett forces himself to pull away.

The pancakes are cold by now, but he eats them just for the sake of getting something into his system. Passing out at work because he hasn’t been eating would only add to the humiliation of how he’s visibly falling apart in front of them after a tough day that everyone else handled in stride. They weren’t as affected by the outbreak either. He’s willing to bet he’s seen worse than them, living in the deep alleys of New Orleans and helping those who so often died on the table from another stab wound, another bullet into soft flesh, but since coming here, it’s like he’s become a child again. Fresh out of med school, not used to the horror yet. He needs to get a grip, although that’s much easier said than done.

Even though dinner was offered by Lanik, Crockett still pays his fair share and tips generously before they leave. Home. Drink. Bed. Try not to cry. He has a routine that it’s easy to stick to if he wants to survive in this post-love haze that has sunk into his very bones.

“Come home with me,” Lanik says. “Again, it’s not- not a flirting thing. I’m just worried about you, and- and I get the feeling you could use the company.”

Refusal would be easy and simple. Crockett is better off dealing with his pain in solitude, and he has bourbon at home, and sometimes if he shuts his eyes he can still remember the way it felt to be held through the night. But he doesn’t want to be alone, at the same time, and this offer is the most intimacy he’ll have felt in ages, so he accepts with his head down and his jacket pulled tightly around his body.

Lanik lives nearby, with a cozy apartment and a pull-out couch he offers. It’s not as comfortable as his own bed, but the covers are warm and he forgets how to breathe for a moment when Lanik fluffs the pillow beneath his head and brushes an errant strand of hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll be in my room at the end of the hall,” he says gently. “Bathroom is on the left.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Crockett.”

He burrows deeper into the blankets. “Goodnight, Dr. Lanik.”

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy,” Crockett amends, and shuts his eyes.

Sleep comes surprisingly easy, but it is not restful. Without an aid to empty his thoughts, he’s given memories that start off so sweet and perfect. Cradling his little girl in his arms, singing her a lullaby while his husband sets up the changing table. Her first night home from the hospital, oh-so-small, face shiny pink and hand so small that it could barely close around Crockett’s thumb. He’s happy, they’re happy. A first day back at work and crying because he misses her, getting worried the first time she got the flu, driving her to ballet class, buying her new shoes.

He remembers hearing her scream, in the instant between the crash and the silence.

Going fast, not fast enough. Someone else ran the light. Passenger side, going fifty miles per hour into the crumpling metal door where there was a father playing with the radio and a rambling little girl, catching the brunt of it while the driver’s airbag exploded into his face. She had time to scream in pain. The body beside Crockett was silent. His daughter cried.

“Daddy, it hurts,” he heard.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” he heard.

“Daddy, wake up,” he heard.

His ears were ringing. Blood on the side of his face, nose throbbing, a deep ache in his chest where debris decided to pierce the skin. One of his legs was numb. He drifted in and out a couple of times, listening to crying and sirens. The last thing he heard was the silence. Dead silence around him. Nothing in the air. Nothing.

The room is dark when he wakes up, painfully so, and the sound that claws out of his throat. Raw, animal, feral and loud to the point that it hurts as he dissolves into sobs that shake his entire body and sound like dying things trying to break through his skin and swallow him whole. He cries like he’s never cried. While he can’t breathe and his world crumbles, there’s a presence that comes beside him.

The lights turn on, he can feel the yellow against his eyelids. A dip in the mattress marks a new weight, an arm around his shoulder and a hand on his damp cheek. Speaking, but nothing that Crockett is able to hear. Or process, is a better word. There’s too much and not enough around him to survive upon when he’s just absolutely overcome with the pain of what’s happening to him and has happened. It’s the past, the present, the future. His life and death. Every cell of his body is screaming while he just cries against a bare chest and his hair is stroked by a disembodied hand.

“Breathe, Kett. You’re okay. Just breathe for me.”

He falls asleep again, somehow, still crying but held.

When the morning truly comes, his face feels slightly sticky with what’s left of last night’s tears, and there’s a steady heartbeat against his cheek. For a moment, it’s peaceful, until he inevitably remembers that the heart does not belong to the love of his life and he’s not familiar with the scratchy sheets beneath him. Panic takes over for a moment, that he found his way to a drunken one night stand even though he swore to himself he would never betray the love he once felt. But then, the memories of the night before hazily filter into his mind. A diner meal and the briefest mention of hush puppies. Coming to Jimmy’s and sleeping on the pullout couch. The nightmare.

He leans away from Jimmy and buries his face in his hands. This was a mistake, and all he wants to do is go home and lay in bed, never get out of it again because he simply doesn’t have it in him. The opening up thing, he tried it last night. Just enough to be certain that it doesn’t work.

Beside him, his host stirs to life. One sharp inhale, a heavy exhale. “Kett?”

“Stop calling me Kett.”

When he swings his legs over the edge of the fold-out, he knows he’ll call out of work tomorrow. He has today off. Tomorrow, he’ll say he’s sick. And maybe by then, he’ll either be feeling better or have figured out a way to push the grief down to a tolerable level again. If he was a praying man, he’d already be on his knees.

“Are you okay?”

It isn’t even worth it to answer. He hails an Uber on his phone, trying to remember if he still has something to drink at home or if he should take the ride to the hospital to get his car for grocery shopping. Pints of ice cream and cheap whiskey to fill in the cracks where he’s splitting apart.

“Please, talk to me.”

Crockett doesn’t remember taking off his shoes, but they’re next to the door and fight him a little when he tries to slip them on. Eventually he gets them onto his feet, though, and throws open Jimmy’s door with the sole intent of isolating himself from whatever excuse for an outreach stole the night before.

“I know how you feel, I-”

“You have no idea,” Crockett growls, hand so tight on the knob he thinks his fingers will break, “how I feel. You cannot even begin to understand how I feel. And if God is merciful, you never will.”

He slams the door hard enough on his way out to splinter it slightly. It’s a strength he didn’t know he had. But he pretends not to notice as he goes to the curb to wait for his ride. Only a few minutes, according to his phone.

When he first got out of the hospital, having built up the strength to do basic tasks like bathe and dress himself again, he had almost given up. In a single instant, he lost the only two people who mattered to him in an accident where he sat at the wheel. Survivor’s guilt is more potent when the survivor was in the driver’s seat physically, not just metaphorically. That first night when he got home, he looked at the painkillers prescribed for the still healing incision. The whole bottle in his palm seemed so easy. He very nearly did it, too, because there was nothing left to live for.

The only thing that stopped him was the picture of his daughter on the mantle, and he couldn’t do it when he didn’t even know where she was buried.

Once he was eventually cleared for return to work, he went for a day. Everyone knew, and they treated him like a child, and wouldn’t even let him do his job. That’s why he came to Chicago, to get away from it and from everyone who knew, but it’s somehow made everything both better and worse.

There’s a hanging ceiling fan, unbelievably sturdy, in Crockett’s living room. He knows how to tie a noose. It would be simple, and put an end to all his suffering for good, and by the time anyone comes looking for him, they would simply be too late to do anything. No more nightmares. And, if the churches are to be believed, he’ll be reunited with his family, which he’s wanted more than anything. What he wouldn’t do to hold them again.

His Uber driver honks, apparently having arrived already, and Crockett forces himself to get up and into the backseat. Home will solve everything. He’ll figure out what to do next, and whatever happens, happens. If his life ends, if he drinks away the nightmares, if he lays in bed until his body turns to dust- he doesn’t care anymore. Any attempt at conversation on the driver’s behalf falls flat.

Like it’s waiting for him, there’s a half-empty bottle on the counter with a smooth glass neck practically made for Crockett’s hands. Bitter, painful taste in his mouth. He doesn’t mind it, welcomes it even as he goes to his own soft bed. They’d be disappointed. Not that it matters, because he can’t feel anything except pain right now, and he’d rather they be disappointed than out of his reach entirely. All of his memories of them have been tainted by the accident.

It would be easiest to just die already, he thinks, as he crawls under the covers. Finally, his suffering would come to an end. It would be over. At long last, it’ll be over. He’s almost calmed by the idea as he drinks and drifts off to sleep. Through the day, through the night, through the rest of his life, if he can.

He doesn’t know exactly when he starts to drift off, just that he does and his phone’s shrill alarm wakes him up, telling him he’s needed at the hospital. The ED needs him to come be a surgeon, and people will ask questions if he doesn’t go, but the mere idea of facing the world again makes him want to die. Even a phonecall seems too much. His hands shake far more than they should when he emails Mrs. Goodwin of his absence, and promptly shuts his phone off.

His chest aches as he chugs what’s left of his liquor and lets the bottle fall to the floor. Everything just… hurts. There’s not a single blood vessel, a single cell in the entirety of his body that doesn’t feel like it’s falling to pieces like ashes in the wind. He should have died, all those months ago, with his daughter and his husband and the driver of the other car, as opposed to this survival that’s a poor excuse for life. The time spent learning to walk again, stumbling over his words because his brain was rattled around, staring at graves whose funerals he never attended- it’s a waste.

Face buried in the pillow, missing the scent of his love’s cologne, he wishes to just die. Even if he doesn’t kill himself, which would take a courage and energy he lacks, he would rather be dead than live like this anymore.

Then it comes to him- he could walk into traffic. No one ever stops for jaywalkers in Chicago, and it would be nearly poetic to die the way he should have so long ago. Crockett forces his legs over the edge of the bed and wonders if he’s about to do this. If this is what he’s been reduced to. A once brilliant, confident, borderline arrogant surgeon who was also a father, now a drunkard going to make someone else take the poor excuse for his life.

Before this moment, he never really understood psych holds; he trusted patients to make their own decisions, and he would normally trust his own, but he understands how he’s a danger to himself. He’s aware of it. He knows he’s going to die. But he doesn’t care, craves it even, and if he was anywhere near Med, they’d have him committed before he could even blink or explain why it’s imperative that he leave this all behind.

Barefoot. Hair mussed. Still in scrubs from two days before. He walks out of his little condo complex where a busy street is racing with cars on either side, surpassing the forty speed limit by as much as they feel necessary to get where they’re going. He usually hates having such a busy road so close to home, but now, he’s grateful.

He takes a deep breath and waits for the traffic to have no stops, no gaps, nothing but rushing vehicles. And he jumps into the fray.

It doesn’t hurt, is the thing.

There’s the impact. The sound of bones breaking, brakes screeching, people screaming. He hits his head fairly hard on the asphalt, or at least he thinks so, because everything is wet. He can’t move. The sky overhead, grey with clouds that seem ready to spill, reminds him of clean sheets and an arm over his face, of making hot chocolate for three when it snowed. His eyes seem stuck open, hard to shut.

Hands on his face, on his chest, and he’s excited to see finally see them again.

At peace with the world, with himself, with his death, the world goes fuzzy around him and disappears.

When he wakes up again, the first sound he makes is a croaky “No,” difficult to say with how raw his throat is. No. No, he doesn’t want to fucking be here. They should have let him die. His eyes seem stuck together, not that he particularly cares, as he starts trying to take stock of his body. Moving it. Struggling. He can wiggle his toes, so he isn’t paralyzed. His fingers move fine on one arm, but on the other, they’re stiff, and the limb is heavy from the elbow down. His head is pounding, and his chest aches, and he should have written a DNR or something before he did this so that he wouldn’t have had to continue to live, let alone like this. He can’t do months of recovery and pity again, and he has nowhere else to go.

There’s a palm against his cheek, and for a moment he pretends it’s that of his husband, but he can’t when the voice accompanies it. “Can you hear me?” It’s Jimmy again, at his bedside, overstepping boundaries and refusing to let him just put an end to all of this already.

“Go away.”

At least he’s not being touched anymore, but he can tell that he’s not alone. They likely won’t be releasing him any time soon, not when whoever called 911 undoubtedly reported that he just threw himself in front of a car that obviously wouldn’t have had time to stop. It’s blatant, and it should have worked, but he’s here and his monitors remind him of the heart still stubbornly beating in his chest. If he could, he’d reach in and remove the thing himself. Bloody and raw, like he feels, and then as he dies, he’ll be free to rejoin his family at last.

By some miracle, he pries his eyes open, and spends a few long seconds adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights attacking him. The sheets are clean, and the room he’s in suggests he wasn’t in a coma for weeks, like after the accident. His stiff arm is wrapped in a heavy dark blue cast, from his wrist to his elbow, securing itself over his thumb and showing off a little bit of cotton placed to protect his skin from the harsh plaster.

Jimmy still sits at the bedside, watching him as though waiting for a complete meltdown, which doesn’t exactly feel too far off. Crockett reaches for the water bottle at the bedside with his good arm, fumbling with the cap with his teeth to get it open. His broken arm is like dead weight. Once again, he tries to move his fingers. They slightly obey. Not to the extent he thinks they should.

“Do you want me to bring your doctor in, to explain your injuries?”

Crockett grabs the cannula off his face and discards it, even if he notices the change in his ease of breathing almost immediately. He weakly bats Jimmy’s hand away when he reaches to replace it, and ignores the words of protest. All he wants is to get out of this place. He unclips himself from the monitors, and fumbles in the drawer beside his bed for a cotton ball to place against his arm when he carefully removes the IV of God knows what. The rational doctor in him figures fluids, painkillers, and antibiotics, but the father and husband in his mind doesn’t care.

“Wait, you need to lay down-”

“I’m going home.”

Jimmy is in front of him, hands out, as Crockett struggles to put his weight on his legs. They’re weak. He remembers this feeling, and he hates it. But it’s fine, he’ll be able to walk before he knows it, he tells himself. Just keep moving.

“Crockett, stop. Don’t make me do this.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re on an involuntary hold.”

That doesn’t surprise him, but he doesn’t really care, either. All that matters is getting the fuck out of here, so he pushes Jimmy out of the way with as much force as he can muster to continue his not-so-daring escape, holding a cottonball against his inner elbow and stumbling more than walking. He must look like a mess. It doesn’t matter. As soon as he’s out of this hospital, he’ll do it again, and maybe this time, the cars will actually kill him like they should have so long ago.

But of course, halfway down the hall, there’s security latching onto him and picking him up off the ground, in spite of his kicking feet and arguing with them. He’s in full presence of mind, and he doesn’t want to live. He wants his family back.

“Just let me die!” he screams at them, struggling to get out of their iron grips. “I don’t wanna be here! Let me go!”

Everyone stares at him. Each nurse and doctor on the floor, Jimmy included, as he’s returned to his bed and secured with the soft restraints so that he becomes a prisoner in this sterile little hospital room. As a nurse gives him a fresh IV, and Jimmy resupplies the oxygen, he wonders if maybe he did in fact die, all those months ago, and this is the hell he must endure.

“I want a DNR,” he says stiffly, tugging with little conviction against his restraints. “And a DNI.”

“You’ve been deemed non-decisional, by Dr. Charles when you came in.”

He makes a frustrated sound from deep in his chest. “I wasn’t even conscious.”

“Multiple people saw you try and kill yourself, and that stunt you just pulled didn’t exactly help.”

Crockett squeezes his eyes shut and clenches the fist he’s able to. When will it end? He needs it to end, finally, and yet he’s buried in their forced care and he wonders if they’ve tried to call his family. His emergency contact used to be his husband, and he doesn’t think he updated it. That number would have received no answer. If they even tried. He wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t, because no one who has someone to call would have done what he just tried.

“As soon as I’m released,” he says slowly, “I’m just going to do it again. Can’t we get it over with already?”

Jimmy’s face is soft and small, a child’s innocence and worry written into every wrinkle, when he leans forward and places a hand on Crockett’s cast. “We’re not going to let you kill yourself. You have a future. People care about you, and-”

“And I’m done living.”

With that, Jimmy presses his lips together and seems to consider it for a moment, before he stands up and tosses a comment over his shoulder that Crockett’s doctors will be in momentarily to talk about his recovery. Doctors, plural. If he had to guess, he’ll be seeing one for his main care, and one to try and convince him that dying won’t make the pain stop, even if Crockett’s pretty damn certain it will. One cannot grieve when they are gone and reunited with their family.

Dr. Charles and one of the GPs in the hospital join him, Dr. Charles hovering near the door while the doctor approaches to test his body, see if it’s working. She makes Crockett wiggle his toes and squeeze her hand, shines a light into his eyes and makes him follow it without moving his head, until she’s satisfied that he hasn’t sustained much brian damage. Then she reviews his injuries with him.

“You did sustain three rib fractures, but they’re minor and should heal on their own, so long as you don’t do anything too strenuous. The oxygen is to help keep your sats up even though you’re breathing shallower than normal. We also treated a half-inch depressed skull fracture, and a subdural hematoma, but we’ve got the bleeding under control and you should heal fine from that. In the accident, you also suffered a traumatic dislocation of your left knee with ACL damage, which we’ve repaired surgically, and we expect you to make a full recovery.”

Crockett raises his eyebrows and looks at his cast covered arm. Now, the doctor won’t meet his eyes.

“Your arm was an open fracture with a lot of debris from the asphalt and road surface. We were able to reset it with an internal fixation and grafted skin from your right thigh. Dr. Lanik told me you’ve already shown some movement in your left arm, and that’s a good thing-”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he interrupts.

She clears her throat. “There was significant damage to the muscle tissue and nerves in your forearm and wrist. Now that you’re awake and lucid, we’ll be able to make a better determination of what that will look like for you long-term.”

What she doesn’t say is the most important thing. They don’t expect him to be able to use his arm the same way again, which means losing the one thing he still has left. Had left. Trying to save people the way the doctors in New Orleans couldn’t save his daughter. Another reason he should have just died, if not in the first accident, then the second.

“Do you have any questions?” She asks.

“Can you bring me the paperwork to sign a DNR?”

She hesitates, and that’s when Dr. Charles pulls up a chair and asks for the chance to speak to him alone. No paperwork, then, just a conversation to try and convince him that this isn’t the answer. As if he deserves to live, especially with even his career taken from him too.

Crockett stares at him, almost daring him to speak. For a moment, he thinks he’s managed to silence the doctor with nothing but a glare, but then Dr. Charles asks him how he’s doing today, like he’s just a child. He just wants to sleep and never wake up.

“Dr. Marcel, can I um, can I ask you how long you’ve been feeling this way?”

He looks at his broken arm. A drink would be stellar, to cut off some of the pain threatening to tear him apart. The question isn’t so simple, and even if it was, he definitely wouldn’t be answering. He doesn’t want help.

“I took a look at your file, and it shows that you were in a car accident in New Orleans a while ago, before you came to Chicago, was that an accident, or-?”

��Shut up.”

“I also uh, was able to get ahold of your sister, Elodie? She’s coming up from Louisiana, said her flight should be landing at O’Hare within the hour. You know, she’s really worried about you.”

The last time he talked to his sister was before he got out of the hospital after the accident. She came to check on him, and he had been awful to her. It was the grief and the pain, but he hasn’t had the chance to apologize. Perhaps he should, since he’s here for now. He’ll have the chance to do so when she arrives and cries at his bedside, asks him why he did this, holds his hand and prays for him. Just like when they were kids and he got punched for mouthing off to the school bully. They were close, when they were young. Even when they were older, before Crockett lost everything.

“You know, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t want your help, and I don’t want to talk to you.”

Dr. Charles sighs. “You know you’re on a psych hold. We can’t let you leave until we’re sure you’re not going to hurt yourself, and I just don’t see that happening if you don’t talk to anyone.”

“I want to talk to my husband and daughter,” he says simply.

Then he watches confusion and concern flit over Dr. Charles’ face, trying to figure out how to make that happen because he didn’t know Crockett had a family. The key word is had. Crockett misses them more than anything in the world, and if they were still here, he certainly wouldn’t have done what he did today, and he would still be at home in New Orleans, in their little house, cooking dinner each night with leftovers packed for lunch. He misses helping their daughter pull on her tights for church on Sunday mornings and tying his husband’s tie. He wants to have all of it again.

“Can you tell me why you tried to kill yourself?”

“I want to talk to my husband and daughter.”

At that, he ignores everything else that Dr. Charles attempts to say to him, shutting his eyes and turning away until the man finally leaves and he’s left to cry in peace, unable to do something so simple as wipe his own eyes. This isn’t a life worth living. His husband would have understood, and would have signed a DNR for him.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for visitors to return, but he feels even worse when they do. Jimmy comes in first, checking that Crockett is awake, followed by Elodie, who looks a mess. Her makeup is smeared remnants of mascara beneath her eyes, and her usually put-together outfit has been replaced with rumpled sweatpants and a tee shirt. She looks the way his heart feels when she lunges forward to wrap her arms carefully around him.

“You can’t do that,” she says, the tears too evident in her shaking voice. “When they called- Kett, you can’t- what if you had died?”

And he doesn’t have the heart to say that’s what he wanted, but Jimmy meets his eyes and looks just as broken in a different way. He nods at Crockett and cocks his head toward the door before leaving, mouthing that he’ll come back later. Not that it really matters. If he tries really hard, he can probably convince Elodie to sign a DNR and get him released AMA, and then he can peacefully die in his home without the hospital’s intervention. So simple, it seems.

Elodie cups the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together, just like when they were kids under a blanket fort, hiding from the rest of the world. She doesn’t cry loudly, but it makes his heart jerk in his chest until she sits beside him and rests a hand over his cast.

“Mom and Dad couldn’t make it, but they’re worried too. And I- the doctor said your arm was in bad shape.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crockett says.

He means to keep his voice the same as always, but she hears the pain in it. She’s too good at it, when she considers the way he doesn’t even twitch at her gentle prodding of his fingers. The sensation of touch is there, but like it’s through plastic and not really on his skin.

It seems like Dr. Charles didn’t tell her the intention he had when he walked into the street, the smallest of miracles he can breathe deep into his chest in response to the emptiness inside of him. Elodie is the sort of sister who will stay here, not run away now that she’s seen that he’s alive, which means she’ll have to know that he died when he was within her reach, a grief he wouldn’t wish upon her, but is a necessary part of the process if he is to rejoin his family.

She tells him to rest, which he does only because there is nothing else for him in this hospital room. He’s biding his time until they let him go, at which point he’ll happily repeat the process as many times as it takes for him to finally ascend from his broken body.

When he wakes up again, she’s gone, and Jimmy is beside him again, typing on his laptop as though he’s relaxing in the cafeteria as opposed to keeping sentry’s watch over Crockett. It’s both sweet and irritating at once. He bites his tongue.

“You do have to talk to someone,” Jimmy says without looking up. “You tried to kill yourself.”

“Everyone keeps saying that to me like I don’t know.”

His sigh can only be described as irritation, which is fair. Crockett looks at the soft restraints on his wrists and flexes them, as though it’ll set him free. “Did Elodie go home?”

“She’s staying at a motel, I told her to get some rest and I’d stay with you.”

“Do you have a thing for my sister, James Lanik?”

Jimmy just stares at him. He looks tired. “First of all, I’m gay. Second, you have to stop deflecting. Everyone’s really worried about you. You don’t need- there’s reasons for you to live.”

It’s a fair statement that Crockett has said to patients, to Elodie before. But even if there’s some reason, maybe a handful, to stick around, they don’t outweigh how badly he misses his family. His family, who he suddenly remembers, wouldn’t have wanted this for him. The dam breaks. The tears start, and the shaking that comes with each gasping breath when his body is struggling around sobs, and he just hates that he knows they’d want him to live but he simply can’t stand to continue on without them.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, Kett.”

Jimmy holds his good hand, like he really does believe in the future, and kisses his knuckles.

“I know you have a long road to go, but I believe in you. It’ll be okay.”

#crockett marcel #chicago med #jimmy lanik #jockett #mine #fic #breathe!series

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padfootagain · 5 years

Text

The King And You (IV)

Part 4 : Pizza

Here I come with a brand new chapter for this Caspian fic!! I hope you all like it!!

I shamelessly stole a couple of ideas from the movie Kate & Leopold that I love so much. If you know the movie, I'm sure you'll recognize the references.

Caspian is still very confused and he needs a hug, the poor thing...

Word Count : 3345

He was back in your flat, and it was a rather strange feeling. For one thing, because it was where you had knocked him out and he had been arrested. For another, it was the perfect reminder that he had no way to go back to Narnia right now.

He had decided that he would deal with the issue the next day. For the moment he was famished and exhausted. He still had a little bit of food in his bag, and he would welcome even your floor to lie down and sleep for a few hours. The next day, he would try to find the Pevensies.

The sky was as dark as ink, filled with glimmering constellations Caspian didn't recognize. Lampposts shone through the streets, along with the headlights of the cars crossing the streets, their strange mechanic roars deafening to him. Despite the late hour, the city was still full of energy. It was not that surprising for New York, obviously.

He awkwardly stood in the middle of your living room, not knowing what to do next. He couldn't recognize several objects set against your wall, one of them looking like a large black mirror of some kind. Books covered shelves on the left wall of the room next to the window, and he felt grateful for the familiar sight, although he didn't recognize the style of the books and the material used for many of the covers. For sure though, they were not made out of leather…

"Sit down if you'd like. I'll get the pizza order… is there one you prefer?"

Caspian had no idea what a pizza was, so he preferred to not contradict you. He assumed it was food, but he was far from certain.

"No, I do not. Just choose what you would like best."

You gave him a confused and yet half-amused smile.

"You're talking funny. Why's that?"

"I… I don't know."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Of course not. I would never dare."

You opened your mouth to question his sincerity, but opted for a shrug instead. Nothing in this day was making any sense, and at this point you had given up on trying to understand the whole situation.

You called for a pizza, while Caspian was still trying to take in his surroundings, and failing for the most part. He patiently waited for you to finish whatever you were doing, and didn't dare to imagine the reason why you were talking out loud in a tiny box… you even seemed to be in conversation with that box…

For a moment the thought crossed his mind that maybe you were mad. It was easier, if just for an instant, to consider the entire world had gone crazy instead of admitting that he was the one crumbling. But the thought vanished like specks of dust scattered by the wind.

He found himself on the verge of tears again, and had to look away from you to hide his wet eyes. He was more terrified and lost and confused than ever before. But worst than anything, he couldn't see any solution. He couldn't merely call for an adviser this time. He couldn't walk through the castle in search for Reepicheep to get his point of view. No, instead, he was on his own…

He clenched his jaw to hold back the salty droplets that threatened to escape and wet his cheeks. Instead, he tried to clear his head. Fear was a tidal wave now, and he had to try and keep his head above the water, no matter how many times he would come close to drowning. He thought about his people, his kingdom. Narnians and Telmarines alike needed him. He had worked so hard to create a better world there, he couldn't give up now. He could never give up. All these innocent souls were his responsibility, and he wouldn't let them down, not for as long as he would draw breath.

He told himself one more time that he merely had to find the Pevensies, and the thought didn't fail to slow down his pounding heart. He wouldn't be alone then. He didn't think that they would know how to send him back, but they would help him, guide him, and make sure that everything would be alright. He would have help again. He wouldn’t have to worry about where to sleep and how to find food… they would help him with this world full of foreign objects and magic devices.

He took a deep breath. He simply had to find the Pevensies, and it would all be alright. How would he do such a thing? He didn't know for now, but he reckoned that he was too exhausted and too much on the edge of total breakdown to consider the question for tonight. It would have to wait for the dawn. For now, he just wanted to eat something and rest. He didn't have to worry about finding a place to stay in this strange land thanks to you, and he reckoned that it was enough planning for one night.

"Okay, we should get dinner in about 15 minutes," you chimed as you put your phone down on the coffee table before him and sat down on the sofa, joining the King. "While we wait, why don't you tell me who you are exactly and what you were doing in my bedroom. And I would very much like to hear the real story, this time."

He didn't flee your stare but his gaze was far from confident nonetheless, wondering what to answer. He couldn't simply tell you the truth, you would never believe him. How could you? He didn't even believe in it himself. His brain was still unsure if he was simply having the worst of nightmares, or if he really was in another world. He didn't even know if you were real yet.

"I told you, I was looking for my friends and…"

"Then you don't need me, and can just get in the right apartment," you interrupted him, crossing your arms before your chest.

He could read in your piercing stare that you weren't buying it. Not any of it. You were too clever to be fooled by his lies, and he knew it.

What to do then?

"I…"

He looked for the right words, but were there really even any right words to be spoken under such circumstances? Was there a way to express what couldn't possibly be imagined?

He could hardly blunt out of the blue that he was the king of a realm in another world, could he? And yet he couldn't lie either.

"I… I'm lost," he spoke softly, slowly, his voice hesitant, but not because he was looking for a strange story this time, simply because he didn't know how to articulate his ideas into a logical explanation. "I'm… I don't know how I've arrived in this town, and I am trying to find my friends. Maybe they can help me go home."

You frowned. He didn't seem to be lying, but then, you weren't exactly a lie-detector on two legs, were you?

"What do you mean by that? That you don't remember how you came here?"

"I… I don't know how I've arrived in your city. But now I cannot find the way to leave it and go home either. Which is why I need to find some people to help me get there again."

"Can't you just take a train? Or a plane? And how can you not remember how you came? Did someone give you LSD or something?"

Caspian had no idea what you were talking about whatsoever, and by the way his stare went all blank, you couldn't fail to notice it.

"I… I don't know," he carefully answered.

"Where do you come from?"

"Very far away."

"And where is that?"

"Just… you don't know the place."

"I've always been pretty good in geography."

He shook his head, but could read on your face, by the way your jaw clenched ever so slightly and your eyes narrowed a little, that you were losing your patience. So, he eventually answered. It couldn't be too bad… you would simply not recognize the name.

"Narnia."

And indeed, you frowned hard, but couldn’t find where this country could be.

"Where is it?"

Caspian's brain raced again as fast as it could.

"It's… an independent kingdom. Very little. Very far from here. It is quite hard to get in. We like to live by ourselves."

"Are you making all this up?"

"No, I am not."

Well, after all, he wasn't completely lying, was he?

"Why can't you go home?" you asked, choosing to move the subject to another direction.

But Caspian here again didn't have any answers to give you. Or are least, none that you would accept. So he chose to terminate the conversation.

"It doesn't matter, not to you. Tomorrow, I'll go and look for my friends again, and I'll be fine, and you can forget all that happened."

"Try not to go through the wrong door again, huh?" you teased, and he couldn't refrain a little smile.

"I am so terribly ashamed and sorry for what happened."

"Let's not mention that again. I've hit you on the head, so I guess we can say we're even."

You both chuckled.

"Actually, have they done something for your head?" you went on, studying his forehead and noticing in the blink of an eye the traces that remained staining his skin of dry blood. "I've hit you quite hard."

"They give me what I needed to clean up the blood, I am quite fine, thank you."

"I should take a look… I have some disinfectant, hold on."

You stood up and disappeared for only a few seconds before coming back with everything you would need to clean the cut you were sure to find under his hair, along a few sticking plasters just in case.

"May I?" you asked, nodding to his hair, and he held his long locks up for you to see his forehead completely.

Indeed, above his temple, right at the base of his hairline, there was a little cut, barely more than a scratch. Nothing serious, you reckoned, but you cleaned it up anyway, making him wince as you pressed the disinfectant against the wound.

"Sorry, I know… these things always hurt."

"I am quite alright. Thank you."

You couldn't help but notice how dark his eyes were now that you had the occasion to look at them from up close. You noticed the single freckle under one of them. You noticed how smooth his hair seemed to be…

You shook yourself. You were NOT finding this stranger that gave you the fright of your life attractive. NO! Y/N, get yourself together!

Gosh… these dark brown eyes, though… You could have lost your soul in them…

"So… hmm… Caspian," you stuttered a little, tripping on your words because of how deep and intense his stare was. "How are you going to find your friends?"

"I… I am not sure," he admitted, and fear and sorrow seemed to drown his gaze again, much to your displeasure. "I will try something tomorrow. I don't know for you, Lady Y/N, but my day was full of enough adventures for one journey of the sun."

You giggled.

"Lady Y/N? Are you serious? Gosh, you almost sound like the character from a book or something… Jane Austen's type of Regency extreme politeness."

"Is it a bad thing, my Lady?"

You could feel the heat spreading through your face, and he did notice that you seemed a little uncomfortable all of a sudden.

"There's no use to call me Lady… no one calls people like this nowadays… they haven't for a while. What are you doing that for?"

"I… I am sorry, I did not mean to offend you."

"Offend me? Well, here's another weird thing I haven't heard in a while."

You were interrupted by someone knocking on your front door, and guessed that the pizza was already there. While you disappeared again, Caspian tried to compose himself for what was to come. What kind of magic could a pizza be? Maybe it was an ancient spell. Maybe it was a weapon… What could he do to defend himself then? For sure, his sword was still by his side, hidden under his long cloak, but what good would his blade be against your foreign weaponry? He had seen the police weapons, and didn't dare to guess what their powers were. They seemed to be long-distance weapons, considering the way the officers had pointed them at him. Maybe some kind of advanced bows and arrows. Well then, he would struggle with a sword to say the list. Was that the name of these mysterious weapons? Pizza?

You were back in no time, carrying a large but thin box in your hands that you put down on the table between the two of you. And when you opened the top, Caspian couldn't stop himself from raising a surprised eyebrow.

It looked like… food?

You took a slice and then a bite, nodding in approbation as you chewed on the pepperoni pizza. Caspian couldn't refrain a relieved sigh. You had bought food for both yourself and him, and he felt guilty for the ill thoughts that had darkened his mind just a moment before. He had doubted your good intentions, but now he could see that you didn't intend any harm. In this strange world, how hard it would be for him to lay down his trust for anyone. But maybe… just maybe… you had earned a little of it tonight.

You noticed that he wasn't eating though, when you were already almost done with your first slice.

"You don't like pepperoni? You told me to choose…"

"I'm sure I will like it," he politely smiled.

"Well… dig in then."

He thanked you with a nod and picked up some food, using his fingers just like you had done. An amused smile crept up through your lips. This man was definitely the strangest guy you had ever met.

Caspian first took one careful, tiny bite. He recognized some ingredients without difficulty, and altogether, he quite liked the taste of it. The second bite was more confident, and the ghost of a smile curved up his lips ever so slightly.

"Are you going to tell me that you had never had pizza before?" you asked in an astonished tone.

"Indeed, it is the first time I taste this food, but it is quite good."

You let out a nervous laugh.

"Wow… you…" you let out a sigh, deciding to change the subject of the conversation. "What do you do for a living, then?"

What could he answer to that… he could hardly say he was king, could he?

"I… work for… the government of my… realm."

"Realm?"

"Realm. Yes."

"Narnia, right?"

"Yes."

"And what do you do for your government? Or is it a little secret?"

"Yes, yes!" Caspian seized the perfect excuse to not answer the question. "It is quite… sensitive. I can hardly say much about it."

"Why are you dressed like that though?"

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

But the second the question passed his lips, he found it rather stupid. He merely had to look at you, dressed in a pair of jeans and t-shirt, that for him seemed all but familiar. Of course, his own clothes were quite out of fashion here.

"I…"

But you suspiciously narrowed your eyes at him, and he fell silent, waiting for you to speak first.

"Are you an artist or something? Like… are these clothes for a play?"

That was as plausible as any other explanation he could have given you, so Caspian decided to unashamedly roll with it.

"Indeed."

"And you play a diplomat? Like a… renaissance period drama?"

"Indeed!"

"Why didn't you just say so!" you asked with a loud wave of laughter leaving your throat that sounded quite relieved. "It's less scary than what I had imagined you could be! You're just… a weird actor staying in character 24/7, not a serial killer! Why didn't you just say so?"

He shrugged.

"Well… my profession is not always regarded with kindness, so I preferred to leave you in the dark on that part."

"Really? Even now? Gosh, I thought the world had evolved enough away from that. I mean, just look at the movie industry and all that…"

"You would be surprised," he mumbled, hoping that his words fitted in the conversation, but you nodded in a silent understanding, and he guessed that it meant that he had spoken well.

"Why are you always in character though?"

"I… just need to do so."

"Where are you playing? And then… hang on a minute… that all story about you being lost and Narnia and all, it's in your play?"

Caspian wondered what by Aslan's name had happened in his brain to make him think that pretending to be an artist was a good idea. He didn't even like plays that much, he much preferred songs. But that was not the point, and he forced his mind to work at full speed in an attempt to find another explanation… any explanation… something!

"I am truly lost," he answered with wary and carefully chosen words. "And I do need to find my friends to find my way back home. The rest… yes, it is in the play."

"Right…"

He was strange. The weirder person you had ever met. You reckoned that this was for now his predominant characteristic, far above his good-looks and good-manners… and his very sexy British accent as well. Was he faking this as well, or was he really from the other side of the ocean?

You reckoned you wouldn't really learn anything about him, and you knew that you should have been afraid of someone like him. And yet… yet for some reason – and I promise that it has nothing to do with me, your favourite narrator, it all comes from your heart – you couldn't find a way to feel threatened by him. He seemed so fragile…

There was a short silence, and Caspian decided to take the conversation into his own hands. It would help him avoid more questions, after all.

"Do you live here on your own? Or… maybe your husband will be back soon?"

You snorted.

"No husband, thank you very much," you shook your head, swallowing another mouthful of pizza. "I'm single. And living here alone."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sorry? Why?"

"I… I don't know."

He bit his tongue. Maybe for this world, a woman living on her own was normal.

"Do you work then? If you live alone."

"Of course, I work," you suspiciously narrowed your eyes at him again. "Why… are you one of these sexist guys?"

He raised a hand in a soothing gesture.

"That was not what I meant. What do you do for a living then?"

"I'm a painter."

"Oh, how impressive! You must be very talented! I was never even able to draw as much as a tree."

You chuckled.

"Well… I'm good enough to pay my rent, I can hardly ask for more."

Without the two of you noticing, the pizza had slowly disappeared from its cardboard box, and it seemed that your meal was over.

"I'll give you enough money to pay for a taxi tomorrow, so you can go wherever you need to go," you smiled, standing up and picking up the pizza box. "I'll get you a pillow and blanket so you can sleep on the couch."

"Thank you again for your kindness and hospitality."

An amused smile appeared on your lips.

"Why do you stay in character talking like that?"

But you disappeared with a giggle, and he reckoned he had done good enough for tonight.

Tomorrow would be another day, and he could only hope it wouldn't be worse than this one. But then, how could it be worse?

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

Taglist : @ponycake27 @horsesreign @xinyourdreamsx @jbluevelvet @notkeppeki @daynigt-dreamer-stuff @fudgeflyss @stuckupstucky @snek-shit @suchatinyinfinity @i-padfootblack-things @buckybsarmy @heyohheyitsgabi @presstocontinue @ilmiopiccolounivers0 @madamrogers @drinix @sad-orange-thoughts @mxrihollxd @geeksareunique @giggleberts @sad-orange-thoughts @aylinnmaslow @benbarnes-world @ladyblablabla @drinix @joelynnp @wearetalkingtoyou @mxrihollxnd @rockintensse @cutie-bug @purplocity @rockintensse @newtstarmander @shinebrightlikeafanbase @millionsleeplessnights @goldenor5 @raquelbc2003 @marvelcapsicle @carolinesbookworld @roses-in-your-country-house

#caspian #caspian x #caspian x reader #caspian fanfic #caspian imagine #narnia #narnia fanfiction #narnia imagine #imagine #fanfic #writing

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carmenlire · 6 years

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Tell Me that It’s Okay Part IV

Read Part I

Read Part II

Read Part III

Read on ao3

(TW for mention of suicidal ideation and low-key references to depression)

It’s a warm June night and Alec is out on patrol. He’s ditched his leather jacket and is wearing a simple pair of black jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a black sleeveless t-shirt that shows off the runes on his arms.

He’s by himself because Jace and Izzy decided to hit the hot new club downtown and felt no compunction about leaving him to his own devices. Walking through the relatively empty streets of New York, Alec feels the restlessness that’s been gnawing on his bones for the last few months become that much sharper. He doesn’t know why he feels like this, but it’s like he’s waiting with bated breath for something to happen. It doesn’t make sense, but then when does anything in his life follow his carefully laid-out script?

By all rights, Alec should feel good, optimistic, like he has the rest of his life before him. He graduated with top honors from the Academy a couple of months ago and his mission success rate is unparalleled in North America. His whole life is ahead of him and it looks bright and golden and full of possibilities.

On the surface.

But the truth is, Alec is angry. There’s a bitterness that’s growing in his chest with every passing day and sometimes he thinks he’ll choke on it. The feeling swells and sometimes-- when Izzy talks about her latest conquest or Jace rambles on about his date for the weekend-- it claws at his insides and it’s everything he can do to keep the tidal wave of vitriol back.

For all that Alec has three siblings, two living parents, and lives in an institute full of people, he’s alone. Most days, he feels nothing. He wakes up, goes on mission after mission, eats food that leaves no taste, and goes to bed, feeling blank and empty and so damn tired.

Occasionally, he ducks out of the institute and goes to this small coffee shop a few blocks away. The atmosphere is dark and cozy and sometimes those few hours, drinking coffee that’s more sugar than espresso, and reading his latest novel, provide the only sense of warmth he gets that week.

His parents don’t help. When his father deigns to show up at the Institute, he’s distant and cold. He keeps the veneer of a loving father, but his eyes are far away-- never with his family.

Maryse, though. There are times Alec thinks his mother must have loved him once. But, he can’t quite recall when that would have been. It’s been so long since she’s touched him in anything but anger, too long since she spoke to him with any warmth in her voice. He doesn’t know when things changed. Or if that’s always been their relationship. Every time he meets her eyes, all he sees is the staggering weight of disapproval, disappointment, and bitterness. It’s suffocating.

It feels like there’s crushing pressure from all sides and Alec doesn’t know how much longer he can hold out before he collapses from it all. He works his damnedest, but it’s not enough. He’s not enough. His whole life is ahead of him and it’s nothing but a gaping chasm. Honestly, it seems a bit shit. Alec knows what’s expected of him. He has a few more years going on missions and perfecting his field work dossier. By his mid twenties, he’ll be married-- to a woman, absolutely no doubt about it-- and popping out kids as fast he can. God, just the thought of it makes him want to vomit, fills him with a desperation and hopelessness that grates on his nerves.

But he’s a Lightwood. He might not be straight but he damned well knows his responsibility. It doesn’t matter what he wants. It doesn’t matter who he is. What matters is family and reputation and his mission in life is to be perfect. A perfect toy soldier for a Clave he doesn’t even believe in most of the time, a perfect son for parents who despise him, a perfect parabatai and brother for those he loves.

There’s no room left for anything else. There is no Perfect Boyfriend Alec Lightwood. His dreams from so long ago are all but forgotten-- there’s no man coming to save him from himself, from a society that makes him feel other and wrong and invisible. Alec Lightwood saves himself. The problem is that he doesn’t care to.

For the Lightwood heir apparent, he’s frighteningly listless. Alec’s felt empty for as long as he can remember. He lives for Jace, Izzy, and Max. If it was just himself, he would’ve been dead long ago. He has to protect them, be the shoulder they lean on, the ear they use for their petty arguments and issues.

The truth, the shameful thoughts that never see the light of day but still somehow coat his very soul in darkness and despair, is that sometimes Alec wants to give up. To vanish. He’ll be in the middle of a fight and a thought sneaks in.

Just be a little slower lifting your Seraph blade.

Don’t move out of the way.

Alec would never, never, do anything-- he’s the perfect soldier no matter the circumstances; people are counting on him-- but he can’t help his insidious thoughts. There’s nothing for him in this life. What, he’s just supposed to fight demons for a few years, fight the Clave for a few decades after that, and marry a woman he cannot love and probably won’t like just because he’s a goddamn shadowhunter? It’s the biggest load of bullshit Alec’s ever heard but he’s trapped and sees no way out.

Alec’s walking down the street when a sudden need tugs at him. He thinks he needs a drink. He’s not much of a drinker-- he has to keep a level head at all times, has to keep Izzy and Jace safe while they indulge-- but now that it’s popped into his head, it’s all he can think about. Alec needsto forget, if just for a single night. Forget that he’s a perpetual disappointment, forget that’s he’s wrong, forget that his life isn’t his own and that that’s the most depressing shit he’s heard in his eighteen years.

He ducks into a corner shop that sells liquor and goes straight to the back. He picks up a bottle of whiskey at random and heads to the front of the store, the heavy steps of his combat boots bringing the cashier’s head up from the magazine she was reading. She tosses it out of the way and picks up the bottle he just placed down on the counter to scan.

Alec’s going for his wallet when the soft music playing overhead reaches him. He freezes as he takes in the lyrics.

Awake, wide eyed I'm screaming at me Trying to keep faith and picture his face Staring up at me

Stunned, Alec instead whips out his phone and Shazam’s the song. Heaven by Troye Sivan pops up and Alec feels like he’s going to pass out as he continues to listen to the song.

The cashier sees his phone screen and smiles at him. “That song’s pretty popular right now. You haven’t heard it yet?”

Alec croaks out, “no,” and focuses everything he has on the song.

She straightens a little before laying her elbows on the counter and leaning towards him. “His name is Troye Sivan and he’s an openly gay singer from Australia. You should check out his album Blue Neighbourhood. It’s amazing and he doesn’t shy away from using male pronouns!”

In a daze, Alec pays for the bottle of whiskey and walks out of the shop, slowing his steps until he’s sure he’s heard the rest of the song. With a brown paper bag in his hand, Alec quickly makes his way to the Institute. It’s around four in the morning and he walks in without alerting anyone.

Making his way to the roof, Alec sits on the ledge and immediately takes out his phone, opens Spotify, and downloads Sivan’s album. He puts it on repeat and then places the phone next to him. He takes the bottle out of the bag and twists open the top, taking a large swallow in defiance. He almost throws up from the heat, but soon enough warmth is the only thing he feels.

That’s how the next few hours go. Alec listens closely to the lyrics and his chest feels like it’s been cracked open, everything that he’s been bottling up is leaking all over the damn place and if Alec wasn’t numb from the whiskey, he’d feel the tears running down his face.

This album is everything. Alec feels at once cathartic and his most despairing. It is so gratifying to hear a man singing about being gay and loving another man. Shadowhunters aren’t as oblivious to mundane culture as they’d like everyone to think. Mostly, they just play it up because it makes them feel weirdly superior to everyone else if they don’t let on that they know what the NFL or Netflix are.

Alec’s favorite TV show is One Tree Hill and he has a guilty pleasure of listening to One Direction during his runs. Izzy is obsessed with Project Runway and went to a Kesha concert last weekend. Most of their generation has Snapchat and Jace even has a Vine account. They know what’s up.

Alec knows that mundanes can be just as hateful and intolerant as shadowhunters about sexuality. But, he also knows they celebrate Pride. The very concept is foreign to him.

Who the hell would want to celebrate being different? What’s the joy in that? Show him, where’s the fucking pride in feeling like your chest is being ripped apart every waking moment as resentment builds and scalds your throat?

And Alec is a coward. He knows he’ll take his shameful secret to the grave with him. There is no “coming out” in his future. The only thing that would be waiting for him if he was fool enough to do that is disownment, certain ostracization, and possible deruning. He’s not a fucking idiot.

He is more than a little drunk, though, and when he sways dangerously in his spot, he knows it’s time to back the fuck up from the ledge. He falls onto the roof in a slow topple that would probably embarrass him if he were sober and rests his back against the wall. Taking another swig from the bottle, he’s surprised to see it’s over halfway empty. With a careless shrug, he places it a little too hard on the ground and looks up at the stars.

For long minutes it’s just him, the galaxy, and Troye Sivan. His head is spinning and he feels an unbearable sorrow in his chest. He wants that. He wants a relationship, a man to come home to, a feeling like his world isn’t on the constant brink of imploding.

He’d almost had it. His mind is hazy, but it latches onto an image of forest green eyes and a soft smile.

Gray, his mind supplies. Grayson.

But, he’d ruined it, like he ruins everything he touches. He hasn’t talked to him since that night. Senior year had been awkward as hell and Alec will always thank the angels that, by some miracle, they hadn’t shared any classes together. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of Gray and not feel the well of grief, regret, and bitterness.

He’s drunk and forgives himself for thinking about the one person he’d promised himself he’d never acknowledge again. Alec sighs and brings his hands up to try and scrub the drunkenness off his face. His last thought before he passes out is that he thinks Gray might always be his biggest what-if.

Alec wakes up late the next morning with a raging hangover, no memory from last night after the corner store, and a heaviness in chest that feels just a bit more oppressive than usual.

He drags himself up to standing and immediately doubles over and throws up onto the ground. With a grimace, he picks up his phone that’s died sometime in the morning, leaves the bottle on the edge, and makes his way as carefully as he can down to his room. He takes a shower that burns a layer of skin off but wakes him up, throws up twice more, and all but falls into bed.

While he feels a bit like death, mostly he is still pervaded by emptiness. He knows that he’ll sleep until dark, eat yet another meal that might as well be dirt for all he cares, and will go on yet another mission. There’s a thousand days just like this waiting for him and Alec thinks it’s a little too exhausting to think about today.

Alec wonders if this is really all that’s left for him, if his life will really have so little meaning. He thinks, it’s not worth it, before sleep drags him down.

#TMTIO #My writing #I hope you guys like this chapter!#shit is Dark #malec #malec fic #malec fic rec #shadowhunters

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thelifetimechannel · 6 years

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#tlcstuck #kanaya maryam #davesprite #walkaround 1

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eve-the-egg-lover · 7 years

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Sith, Spies, and a Whole lot of Lies

Chapter 2

*Yay, chapter 2!! It’s shorter than the first, though I don’t know if this will be it’s normal length. Anyways, enjoy :)

For the first few moments after their eyes met, neither Rya, nor Theron moved a muscle. They just stared, eyes locked, mouths open, frozen in time. That was until the Director reminded Theron of his still open comm channel.

“Theron Shan, what the hell was that!? I swear, if you just started a gang war I’ll…”

“Call you back.” Theron spoke, adding in a whisper, “Disconnect.”

With the director’s interruption, time seemed to flow once more, along with all the dangers that came along with it. Rya sprung to her feet, igniting her blood red lightsaber, and Theron whipped his blaster from its holster.

She looked the same as she had on Rishi. Long, golden blonde hair tied in a bun, pale skin flushed with just a bit of pink, ice blue eyes piercing as she refused to even blink. Stars, she was beautiful.

Sometimes, Theron had imagined them meeting again. Sure, lots of them involved a lightsaber at his throat, but the sudden heat from the blade made him realize how easily she could end his life right then and there. The question was, would she?

Pulling her lightsaber had been purely instinctual. A foolish instinct here, but standing face to face with Theron made her do and say a lot of foolish things.

“Theron.” She put sternly. “Put the blaster down.”

“Not until you deactivate your fancy glow stick.” Theron responded, not wavering from his stance.

Gritting her teeth, Rya let her grip relax, the blade deactivating with a hiss. Theron lowered his blaster, leaving them suddenly very alone. The air was still thick with tension and from her current position, Rya could escape through the alleyways… but Theron would most certainly give chase.

“Rya…” Theron broke the awkward silence. “What in the nine Corellian hells are you doing here?!” His voice rose with every syllable until he was practically shouting.

It was understandable. If she were to ever stumble upon Theron on Dromund Kaas… actually, she had no idea what she’d do. She at first suspect he was doing work for the SIS, just as he was probably suspecting she was doing work for the Empire. Which she was (not that telling him would help her case). Telling him “I can’t tell you” would pretty much tell him I’m doing work for the Empire, and lying she wanted to see him would… well, that was all she had. Unfortunately for her, there was no way she could make it convincing.

“I…. uhhhh…. I was just site seeing.” She spluttered. Stupid.

“Wow. For a crafty Sith Lord, you sure have a way with words.” Theron narrowed his gaze, shaking his head from side to side.

Rya swallowed, racking her brain for something else she could say. Her previous elatedness at seeing Theron had all but disappeared, the understanding of how complicated she’d suddenly made the situation dawning on her.

“You shouldn’t have followed me. I could have killed you.” Rya said suddenly.

Theron’s caution turned to outright anger. “Following you? I was trying to help you! I’m assuming that weird man has something to do with why you’re here!”

Rya sighed. So it had been just another bar patron. Gritting her teeth, she ran her fingers through her hair, the loose wisps that had escaped her bun ghosting over her hands. She’d just exposed herself to the last person she’d wanted to see on Coruscant, all because she’d been overly paranoid. “Great.”

“What did you say?” Theron returned, his hand moving back towards his blaster’s holster.

“You weren’t supposed to know I was here.” Rya answered. Not the best choice of words.

“That doesn’t help your situation.” Theron grumbled, crossing his arms and glaring. Sighing, he put a gloved hand up to his forehead. “You know I’m going to have to turn you in right?”

Rya paused. And he caught it. Just a flash in her eyes for the briefest instant.

Fear.

Theron had always found it strange. Rya, she’d never been like the other Sith. Even Lana, as strange as she was, had never been quick to admit when she was afraid, or when she was uncertain. Nor was she ever willing to show gentleness or kindness. A weakness for Sith he supposed. Rya on the other hand… well, maybe she didn’t walk into fights with her heart on her sleeve, but she most certainly was not afraid to show such “soft” emotion. There was a tenderness to her that whatever training Sith went through hadn’t seemed to have been able to beat out of her.

Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke. “You must know what would happen to me should you do that.” She chuckled, her throat clenching a bit.

Theron swallowed. Unfortunately, he did know what they would do. Some flashy war trial where she’d be paraded around by the Senate, blamed for everything she may or may not have had a hand in doing, before being executed. Malcom would probably have a hand in it, she was a war criminal after all. And then when that was all said and done, she’d either be locked in the deepest depths of Belsavis to rot or be executed.

He could not deny what she had done. She’d killed so many from the Republic. She’d destroyed the War Trust, intentionally broken the Treaty of Coruscant, and reignited the war. Hundreds of thousands were dying because of her actions. Why was he even contemplating this?

His mind wandered to Jyvora. He could still hardly believe the Jedi Code spouting girl was a former Sith Lord. Not to mention Rya’s sister. She’d committed atrocities in the name of the Sith and the Empire as well. The difference was, she defected. She gave secrets in exchange for a chance to start over as a Jedi in the Republic. Something told Theron Rya wouldn’t agree.

“You’re right. I do know what they’d do to you.” Theron admitted, shifting his weight to his left leg. “And you know why.”

Rya looked to the ground this time. All early traces of her anger dissipated. “I know.” She laughed. “Guess the Coalition on Yavin IV or taking down Revan wouldn’t help my case.”

Theron chuckled in response, but quickly stopped himself. Sighing, he ran a finger through his hair.

“I can’t let you do that Theron.” Rya finally spoke, crossing her arms. The more they talked, the higher the chances she’d let her emotions win. She needed to leave now.

“And I can’t let you harm the Republic.” He responded, his eyes closed.

“I’m not here to do that.” Rya attempted to assure in vain. She knew she could not hurt Theron to escape, yet her feet were glued to the floor.

Theron chuckled. “Sure. Because you think I’m stupid enough to trust a Sith.”

Rya furrowed her eyebrows. “You trusted Lana.”

“Yeah, and look where that got me.” Theron grumbled.

“You trusted me.” Rya pointed out. “You said on Rishi you knew I’d come and get you.”

Theron grumbled something, placing his hands on his hips, his eyes seeming to take an awful lot of interest in a soaked flimsi on the ground.

The silence that passed between them gave Rya a chance to think. The logical, ultra-heightened part of her mind battled against the emotional torrent flooding her system. She hated the profound impact simply speaking to Theron was having on her. She was a kriffing Sith Lord, not some giggly actress from Vette’s holo-vids. Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. She clenched her fists at her sides. Passion only worked if it was short lived. What she felt for Theron on Rishi when he’d been captured had driven her to wipe the Revanites guarding the compound from the galaxy. Had given her an incentive to defeat Revan at all costs. That passion had fueled her, delivered her to victories doorstep. But passion fades with distance. So why did she still feel this way? It was taking all her self-restraint to deny she felt anything for Theron. Kriff, if he had been an Imperial it would have made everything so much simpler.

“I’m not asking you to trust me Theron, I don’t expect you to. Just know, if you try and stop me the whole galaxy will suffer.” It was all she could do to keep her raging emotions in check. Playing at Theron’s feelings was manipulation, plain and simple, but it was all she had. Going any further, using what had happened between them was her last resort.

Theron laughed. “You know, lying to me only makes this worse.”

“I’m not lying Theron.”

“Of course not, because Sith always tell the truth.” Theron had begun moving towards her, but she refused to back down.

“Not every Sith is evil, Theron. Look at my sister. You trust Jyvora, she was Sith.” She pointed out as Theron glared.

“Jyvora left the Sith because of their twisted ideals you still serve.”

“How do you know I still serve the Empire?” she spat, suddenly realizing how close Theron had come.

“Isn’t it obvious? Why else would you be here?”

Even in the dark, Rya could feel the emotions rushing over Theron like a tidal wave. The one, dim light in the alleyway cast shadows over Theron’s face. Rya could see the hazel of Theron’s eyes, the outline of his broad shoulders, his soft brown hair, the feint shimmer of his implants. The only other time she’d seem him this clearly was on Rishi. Then he had been bruised and bloodied, vulnerable. He’d winced a little every time he moved, his pride and confidence damaged. But here… now… towering over her, there was no inkling of that man. The anger from their argument made his eyebrows furrow, his nose scrunch just a little at the top, his lips downturned into a grimace. Lips that hadn’t wanted to leave her own when she gave him what he’d never realized he’d wanted. They had been soft and gentle, even in their hasty eagerness. Lana and Jakkaro’s long prep time had given them a lengthy opportunity to “get to know one another.” The memory of what Theron and she had done on Rishi caused her face to flush considerably, and she was suddenly grateful for the darkness of the alley.

Theron hadn’t even realized he’d been walking towards Rya until he had to look down to meet her eyes. The dark hid her features, but Theron knew she still looked the same. Sharp cheekbones, an upturned nose, clear skin, and ice blue eyes, her features unchanged from any kind of dark side corruption. He’d learned of Sith who used Sith alchemy to keep their features eternally youthful, but he simply could not fathom Rya taking such drastic measures. And yet, he knew the skin beneath her clothing was scarred from years of combat. On Rishi, he hadn’t taken the time to study them all, but he remembered a few. The slashes on her arms and the bite marks on her back from a Nexu. The raised skin on the side of her abdomen from being impaled by a collapsing pipe when her former master tried to kill her. The four gashes on her back from a Teratanek she had fought on Korriban.

He felt the blood pounding in his ears as he took his time studying what features his eyes could make out in the dark. The softness in her eyes and the slight flushing of her cheeks told Theron Rya was doing the same. It amused him he was not the only one so distracted.

He hardly remembered Rya reaching up to press her lips softly against his. Or when he’d wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her a little so she didn’t have to stand on her tiptoes. He could feel her thin fingers running through his hair, her warm breath on his face when they momentarily broke apart to breathe. She tasted of alcohol, a burning, bitter taste of something so strong and intoxicating with just a hint of sweetness, so like her. Oh kriff, Theron what are you doing? He thought to himself as his lips left hers and began a trail down her jaw to her neck.

“Theron…” Rya let out a breathy moan as Theron nipped at her neck, his arms pressing her to him. Her mind was racing, heat building in her core. Stars, she wanted him. But she also didn’t want to catch whatever strange disease was lurking in the stagnant pools of water. “Theron,” she said again, trying to get his attention. He pulled away, breathing heavily. She could feel his need pressed so close to him. “Theron, not here.”

“My place.” Theron whispered huskily, leaning down to kiss her neck again, but letting his grip on her loosen.

Rya couldn’t stop herself from thinking what a terrible, terrible idea this was. But the warmth of Theron’s hand when he took hers in his own quieted her mind. Right now, there was no Empire, no Sith, no spies, no war. It was just them.

#sith spies and a whole lot of lies #theron shan #rya verel #eyyyy they do the kiss #right into the romance

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