#paint being chipped on a wall where like a chair may hit a lot

[seraqhites]

good morning currently thinking about the human experience.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

NFWMB (boxer!harry)

Warnings: language, nsfw content, alcohol, violence

Pairing: boxer!Harry x reader

Word Count: 30k (I got carried away)

A/N: So this got a little out of hand!! I will admit!! I did not mean to make this so long!! but it’s about the yearning people!!! the yearning!!! anyways I really hope you guys like this!! just a few disclaimers: my medical knowledge comes from google and my first-aid badge I got in girl guides so please do not take any of the medical advice in here as doctor recommended. also this is very long and if you’re reading on mobile it may make it crash? so try opening it on a web browser under the read more if you need to!! I really honestly can’t believe I managed to write 30k, but I love boxer!harry so much, and yes he does have long hair in this fic because I make the rules!! thank you to @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy​ for proof reading this for me and putting up with my messages about it. also, the title is from NFWMB by hozier and i’d recommend listening to it as you read!! as always, feedback is appreciated!! and if you like it, please reblog it!! reblogging is the best way to show content creators support and encourage them to write more!!

{masterlist}

If money wasn’t so tight, there’s no way Y/N would be doing this.

She’s thought it over a thousand times, running every possible scenario and outcome in her head. More often than not, those scenarios end badly.  Yet here she is, standing at the edge of stairs that lead to a gym below the streets of New York City.  Men push past her to get below, muttering quick apologies as they bump into her. None of them are sincere, she notices, but why would they be?  They don’t care about her.  Y/N, on the other hand…she’s being paid to care about them.  They’re why she’s here.

The offer had been posted on a bulletin board in the nursing student’s lounge on campus.  It was a crumpled piece of paper, with a handwritten message scribbled across it.  Y/N had spotted it when she was looking at the board for a summer job, and the uniqueness of it caught her eye.  She had pulled it down from the board, reading it over.

WANTED:

Looking for an individual with medical background/first aid training.

Complete medical degree not required.

For all inquiries, contact Patrick Lawson.

Y/N remembers running her fingers over the phone number listed.  It was a peculiar request, to say the least.  Patrick Lawson, whoever he was, seemed to be searching for someone with medical training, but didn’t require a full medical professional. Still…a job was a job.  And it had looked like it was the most promising thing on the board.

Later that day, Y/N had found herself calling the number, and within three minutes of dialing, she had set up a meeting with Patrick Lawson at a Starbucks a few blocks away from campus.  When she walked in, her eyes scanning the café for someone who would’ve posted the ad, she had instantly known who he was.  The burly man by the window with a long scar across his weathered face and the smell of cigarette smoke wafting from him stuck out from the crowd of students studying, and he had seemed to be the only patron who would hire unlicensed medical personnel.

“Hi.” Y/N had walked over slowly. “Are you Patrick Lawson?”

“That depends.” He looked her up and down, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Y/N Y/L/N. We spoke on the phone?” She took the advertisement out of her bag and handed it to him.

“Right.” Patrick nodded, motioning to the chair across from him. “Sit down.”

“Alright.” Y/N had taken a seat slowly, her eyes on the door behind him.  She hadn’t quite decided not to run. “So…you didn’t say what kind of job—”

“What are your medical credentials?” Patrick cut across her, sipping his coffee.

Y/N remembered thinking that that was rude, and completely unprofessional for an interview.  Of course, now that she actually knew Patrick, the action was completely in character.

“I’m a third-year nursing student at NYU Meyer.” She had answered, reaching into her bag to pull out her student ID. “And I’m trained in first aid.”

“You ever stitched somebody up before?”

Y/N frowned at the bluntness of the question. “Um, yes, but—”

“What about set broken bones?  Noses?”

With an incredulous look on her face, Y/N had glanced around the coffee shop.  Could anyone else hear this?  When the answer to that question appeared to be no, she had leaned forward, unable to keep the curiosity out of her voice.

“Mr. Lawson, what exactly is this a job interview for?”

 What it was for, it had turned out, was an underground boxing ring in the heart of New York. Patrick explained between sips of black coffee that he owns the gym that everyone fought in, and the business is growing.  The only downside (the use of the word “only” had made the corners of Y/N’s mouth twitch—there was only one downside to an illegal boxing ring?) is that with no regulations, men get injured.  A lot. And because the boxing is illegal, they can’t exactly keep going to the hospital…which was where Y/N comes in.

After seeing her student ID, her first-aid certifications, and testing her on the spot by having her look at a bandaged cut on his leg to see if it was infected (“It is.” Y/N had told him immediately), Patrick had hired Y/N on the spot.  For three hundred dollars a night, she would be watching illegal boxing matches with a first-aid kit by her side.  If anyone got injured too badly, they would bring them back to the locker rooms, where she would be waiting.  There, she would bandage cuts, check for concussions, set broken bones, stitch people up with no anesthetic…

Y/N shudders as she looks at the gym door again, finally pulling herself from her thoughts.  It’s definitely not an ideal situation—or even a moderately ideal situation— and she’s not looking forward to it in the least. But being a student in New York isn’t exactly cheap, and the money is good, even if it’s dirty.  Really dirty.  Probably bloody, from the fighters that she would be expected to stitch up from awful injuries—

“Don’t.” Y/N mutters to herself, taking a deep breath. “Everything is going to be okay.  It’s fine.  This is fine.”

“Hey, lady.” A man approaches her from behind, giving her a strange look—which is to be expected, Y/N thinks, seeing as how she’s talking to herself in the doorway of an underground gym. “Are you going to stare at the door all night, or are you going to open it?”

“Sorry.” She says sheepishly, stepping out of his way and allowing him to step around her down the stairs.  

Knowing that there’s nowhere else to go but inside—and knowing that she can’t block the doorway forever—Y/N quickly makes her own way down the stairs and through the heavy doors.

Y/N isn’t exactly sure what she had expected an underground boxing gym to look like, but the room in front of her eyes pretty much meets her expectations.  The gym is dark, with one bright light in the center hanging over the beaten-up ring.  There are a few dark-coloured mats scattered around the ring, along with people getting ready to watch that night’s match.  Everyone she sees, with their black clothing and leather boots and tough demeanors, looks like they belong at an illegal gym, whereas Y/N…she glances down at herself for a moment.  Next time, she thinks, she’ll remember not to wear lavender.

Still, no matter how out of place she feels, she’s here now, and if university and nursing school had taught her anything, it was to act like she belonged until she did.  With that in mind, Y/N holds her head up high, ignoring the stares of the gym patrons as she makes her way to the back hallway.  Although she’s not exactly sure where Patrick’s office lies within the dark and claustrophobic gym, she feels that the more cigarette smoke she can smell in the air, the closer she’s getting.

Despite passing many identical doors with the same chipped and peeling paint, Y/N continues until she reaches the door at the end of the hallway.  The black paint is scuffed, but in far better condition than any of the other doors around her, and Y/N can smell the cigarette smoke wafting out from the cracks beneath it.

“Patrick?” She knocks on the door softly, just in case she’s guessed wrong.

A rough but recognizable voice answers from the other side. “Yeah.  Come in.”

With permission, Y/N opens the door, coughing a bit when a wall of cigarette smoke hits her. “Hi…?”

“Hey, Doc.” Patrick has a cigarette tucked between his lips as he speaks, and he hardly glances up at her from the papers in his hands. “How you doing?”

“I’m—I’m good.” Y/N says, her voice tinged with nerves. “I just wanted to check in before the match.”

“Good.  Here.” Patrick stands up and walks to a cupboard in his office, pulling out a weathered leather case from within. “This has everything you should need in it.”

He hands the case to Y/N, and she opens it slowly, not entirely sure what Patrick is handing to her. Inside, she finds, is an assortment of medical supplies, all placed haphazardly inside the makeshift medical kit. Y/N roots around a bit with one hand, quickly taking stock of the contents.  Bandages, antiseptics, not-yet-frozen cold compresses, painkillers, a stitch kit… “I’ll need all of this?” She asks, looking up at Patrick with a surprised look in her eyes.

“Look around you, Doc. This isn’t a daycare.” Patrick snorts, puffing on his cigarette. “We bare knuckle box.  We don’t have personal physicians checking up on us, rules, regulations…this is about making money.  And sometimes…it gets messy.”

“But if you needed a medical professional, then why didn’t you get someone who’s finished school?” Y/N asks as she shuts the case and clasps it closed. “They’d be a lot more experienced than a student.”

“Because medical professionals have a duty to report abuse to the cops.” Patrick shrugs as if the reasons are of little consequence to him.  Which, Y/N thinks, they are. “You don’t.  And students need the money more.”

Y/N purses her lips as she clutches the handle of the case tightly in her hand. “What happened to your last student?”

Patrick sighs with a flip of his hand, waving off the question. “He pissed off the wrong guy and went from being the doctor to being the patient.  That’s why I hired a pretty lady this time.”

Y/N scoffs, the ease she had been beginning to feel around Patrick fading within a moment as she remembers where she is.  She meets Patrick’s gaze with a harsh look. “Don’t patronize me, Patrick, or I’ll walk out that door right now.”

Patrick raises his hands defensively, an indifferent look on his face, and Y/N understands that it’s not an apology.

“Look, Doc, the last guy had a mouth on him.  By all accounts, he deserved it.” Patrick walks back around to his desk, tapping his cigarette ash off into the glass ashtray that sits there, already half full. When he looks back up at Y/N, his gaze is softer than before, and Y/N can’t quite decipher the flicker she sees in his eyes. “I don’t mean to be patronizing.  But if any guy in here says shit to you…lemme know.  Got it?”

Y/N has a feeling that that’s as close to an apology as she’ll get from Patrick, so she nods tersely. “Got it.” Her attention turns back to the case in her hands. “So I just…wait by the ring?”

Patrick nods, tucking his cigarette back in his mouth as he sits back down at his desk, his thoughts moving back to the paperwork in front of him. “You got it.  Watch the match.  Have some fun, have a drink…if anything goes too wrong, I’ll pull you up to the ring.  If everything is fine, you’ll come back to the locker room after the match to make sure my guys don’t have a concussion.”

“Sounds…good.” Y/N shifts the case around in her hands as she speaks, unsure of what else there is to say. “I’ll go to the audience, then.”

Patrick nods, but offers no other advice as she leaves.  Not that Y/N expected it.

By the time Y/N makes it to her designated spot at the edge of the crowd, the gym is already filling with people who are buzzing about the fight.  The smell of alcohol, cigarette smoke, and sweat is thick in the air, and after her third time of getting shoved by a man she doesn’t know, Y/N is wondering if sewing some medical patches onto her jean jacket will stop her from getting shoved at the next match.  Of course, she’s not quite certain she’ll be attending the next match, but she makes the plans to do it nonetheless.  

The area around the ring continues to pack itself full with people, and as Y/N stares at the spectators around her, she wonders just how much Patrick is making off this one fight. She’s not sure how much people have to pay to get in, but with at least two hundred people here, not including the money the spectators have put down on bets…Y/N’s certain Patrick will be coming away with a tidy sum.

As the crowd starts to scream, her attention shifts from the people around her to the one bare aisle leading to the ring, where the first fighter has begun walking out.  He has a heavy build with broad shoulders, and Y/N knows he has to be over six feet.  Top heavy, she thinks, as he climbs onto the edge of the ring and ducks his shaved head under the ropes.  He raises his arms as the crowd cheers, apparently loving the attention, and spits to the side before his coach slides his mouth guard in for him.

Y/N wrinkles her nose as she watches the fighter display his muscles to the crowd, and at how much the crowd seems to love it.

There’s a crackle of static over the speakers as the announcer begins to speak. “As last year’s reigning champion, Adam Bowers is aiming to maintain his title this season.” The crowd cheers again as the fighter, Bowers, rolls out his shoulders.

“Those who watched him box last season know that getting this giant off his feet is a gargantuan task. Will his opponent be able to do it?”

The crowd jeers as the announcer mentions the opponent, and Y/N gets the feeling that they don’t think the other guy has a chance.  When the other fighter begins to walk towards the ring, Y/N can’t help but agree.

This fighter’s build is much slimmer, despite the apparent muscle mass on his arms and legs.  He’s more evenly built than Bowers, and while Y/N knows that will be helpful, she can’t make herself feel anything other than worry as she watches the fighter climb under the rings.  He reaches up and fixes the neat bun keeping his brown hair away from his face, and although the crowd roars, Y/N can make out a look of focus and determination in his green eyes.

“Facing our champion is rookie Harry Styles.  Despite beginning training just three months ago…”

Three months?  Y/N bites her lip in concern, watching as Styles’ coach pulls him down to look him in the eye, giving him his mouth guard as he does.  Y/N leans over to a man next to her, unable to stop herself from asking a question that’s at the forefront of her mind. “Don’t they use weight classes to match fighters?” She half yells the question over the cheers. “Bowers seems so much bigger than him!”

“This is illegal fighting, sweetheart.” The man laughs at her question as he takes a sip of his beer. The hair on the back of Y/N’s neck bristles at the pet name, and she once again reminds herself to keep her guard up as the man continues to speak.

“They don’t care about weight classes.” He says easily, nodding towards the ring. “They care about putting on a good show, so they can make money.”

Y/N turns her attention back to the ring, making sure to keep her distance from the other spectators. Styles is surveying the crowd now, and for just a moment, he locks eyes with her.

As his gaze meets hers, Y/N gets the impression that he’s sizing her up just as much as she’s sized him up.  His eyes flick down her body and back up, but not in the way most men in the gym have been doing it.  When the boxer’s eyes flick back to hers, Y/N doesn’t see a look of lust or desire reflected in his irises.  Instead, she sees concern.  

He’s about to fight a behemoth, she thinks, and he’s concerned because I’m in the crowd of the fight?  The idea would make Y/N laugh, if she didn’t have a sneaking suspicion that she’d be setting his bones before the end of the night.

Styles’ finally looks away from her after a moment, centering himself again to be ready to fight. Y/N watches as he makes his way to the center of the ring, his gaze having to turn up to meet the eyes of Bowers. The bell rings, signalling the beginning of the match, and the loud ring makes Y/N flinch as she watches the two boxers begin to fight.

She had been right when she initially sized them up.  Bowers is the first to throw a punch, all of his weight behind it, but Styles’ smaller stature allows him to duck easily, weaving out of the way from the first few strikes.  As he ducks from a punch, Styles manages to land the first hit of the match, his fist connecting directly with Bowers’ jaw.  

Y/N’s face lights up with surprise as the crowd cheers.  However, the surprise quickly turns to worry as Bowers uses his anger to move faster, finally landing a blow on Styles.  Not letting one hit deter him, the smaller boxer is quick to recuperate and keep himself in the moment.  Already, Y/N can tell that he plays the long game, while Bowers seems to favour a more offensive stance.  

As the match continues, Y/N’s concern turns to curiosity as she examines the fighting style of both boxers. Bowers is always the quickest to throw out punches, but Styles manages to dodge more punches than he receives, only standing still long enough to land his own hits on Bowers.  The audience, while shocked by the proficiency of the rookie at first, begins to cheer loudly as their champion fights for a victory. The cheering only gets louder when blood splatters from Bowers’ nose to the floor of the ring.

Y/N winces, searching the crowd for Patrick’s familiar face.  She finds him in the back, watching with his arms crossed, and raises an eyebrow in question as she catches his eye.  He gives a quick shake of his head.  This isn’t anything to worry about, the action says.  Worse is coming.

The worse comes quickly, Y/N finds, as the groan of the crowd draws her attention back to the ring. Styles is doubled over now, presumably from a punch to the gut.  Y/N watches in horrified silence as Bowers lands another punch on Styles’ jaw, knocking the smaller boxer onto his knees.  However, the groan of the crowd quickly turns to a cheer as Styles pushes himself to stand once again, a grunt escaping his lips as he straights.  Spitting the blood out of his mouth, he attacks Bowers again with a new energy, one wilder and more uncalculated than before.

The crowd roars louder as Styles pummels his opponent, and Y/N watches in shock as he knocks Bowers back in a daze.  Styles hits him once, then again, and again, until Bowers goes down with a dull thud that echoes through the gym.  He stays there, lying limp, as the referee begins to count, and doesn’t rise when Styles is declared the winner.

“Harry Styles has managed to begin his journey with a win!” The announcer yells, barely audible above the cheering crowd.  Styles wipes his bleeding mouth with a shaky hand, a grin just beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth as the referee raises his hand in the air in victory.

The crowd continues to yell and cheer as people turn to those next to them, rehashing the match’s highlights.  Y/N sees money change hands a few times, and while she wants to get out of the crowd that’s becoming rowdier by the minute, she’s not exactly sure where to go.

A hand on her elbow brings her from her thoughts, and Y/N whips around, cuss words hanging off the ends of her lips, ready to throw at whoever grabbed her.  When she sees Patrick’s face, however, the words fade away, and she grabs the case that she’s all but forgotten is beside her as he begins to guide her back to the locker rooms.

“Time to get to work, Doc.” Patrick calls over the crowd, glancing over his shoulder at her to make sure she’s following.

Y/N nods silently, taking deep breaths to center herself for the task at hand.  She can’t let herself be uncomfortable now; it’s time for her to work.

Patrick leads her through the crowd and down the hallway, taking a left turn towards the locker rooms. The echoes of someone groaning get louder and louder the closer they get, and as they walk inside the locker room, Y/N is certain she’ll find Styles sitting in front of her.  Instead, her eyes settle on Bowers with a hand to his nose and his head tilted back.

“You need to lean forward.” Y/N says immediately, instinct taking over as she sits down next to Bowers while opening her case.

Bowers grunts, his eyes flicking to Y/N as he does. “I’m bleeding, sweetheart—”

“And leaning back is causing the blood to run down your throat.  It’s harmful to your health, sweetheart.” Y/N counters in an icy tone, shooting him a glare before slipping on plastic gloves.

Patrick crosses his arms as he watches the exchange, a smirk making its way onto his face. “I’d watch my mouth if I were you, Bowers.  Don’t piss off the person about to set your nose.”

Y/N glances at Patrick for a moment before turning back to Bowers.  Although she’s still weary of him, Patrick seems to be the only one looking out for her in the gym, and she makes a note to bring it up with him after she finishes her work.

Upon examination, Y/N finds that Styles has broken Bowers’ nose, and gives him some pain medication and a cold compress before making a splint, setting it as best as she can in a gym locker room.

“There.” Y/N sits back and pulls off her bloody gloves. “That should be okay.  Keep taking ibuprofen to help with the pain and swelling, and if it doesn’t seem to heal, try going to a real doctor.  Alright?”

Bowers nods jerkily.  Although she can see the doubt in his eyes, he doesn’t contradict her again. “Yeah. Alright.”

“What do you say to the Doc, Bowers?” Patrick prompts him, an expectant look on his face.

The boxer glares at her, but still manages to mutter a quick “thanks.”

Although it doesn’t seem sincere, Y/N doesn’t challenge it. “You’re welcome.” She replies curtly, closing her case before standing up again and turning to Patrick. “Where’s Styles?”

 After washing her hands, Patrick leads Y/N down a corridor to another section of the locker room.  Styles is sitting on the bench between the lockers, unwrapping the tape from his hands as his coach leans against the lockers while speaking to him.  From the towel around his neck, wet curls hanging around his face, and damp chest, Y/N gathers that he showered after his victory.  While her observations begin as professional, Y/N’s mind soon drifts to notice how the water droplets cling to his tattooed chest and arms, and how his fingers flex as he unwraps his tape.  The clearing of his throat pulls her from her thoughts, and her eyes snap back up to his face as he speaks.

“Patrick.” The boxer’s voice is accented and low, and she sees recognition from earlier flicker across his phase. “Who’s this?”

“This is Doc Y/N.” Patrick lights a cigarette as he speaks, despite the disapproving look that Y/N gives him. “She’s the one who’s going to be saving your injured ass.”

“You can just call me Y/N.” Y/N rolls her eyes slightly as she refutes the nickname that, to her displeasure, Patrick’s already grown fond of before turning her attention back to Styles. “I’m just going to make sure you’re alright, Mr. Styles.”

When she addresses him, his coach laughs lightly, crossing his arms against his chest.  Y/N looks at him with a raised eyebrow, her mouth open to ask about the laughter, when a voice cuts her off.

“No one’s ever called me Mr. Styles.  Jeff seems to think it’s humorous.” A light chuckle escapes from the boxer, although his is more controlled than that of his coach. “You can call me Harry.  Just Harry.”

Y/N nods as she sits next to him on the bench, opening up her medical kit and slipping on gloves.  She has to focus at the task at hand. “Alright.  How are you feeling?”

“’M fine.” Harry replies easily, running a hand through his wet curls. “Healthy as a horse.”

A snort leaves Jeff’s mouth at that comment. “A horse that got the shit beat out of him.” He turns his attention to Y/N with his next sentence. “He got hit pretty hard in the—”

“The ribs, yeah.” Y/N finishes the sentence for him, her eyes already examining the bruises developing on Harry’s abdomen with a keen eye. “I saw.  Thought you were a goner.”

Harry shrugs a bit in response, seemingly unconcerned with the punches he sustained during the match. “I’ve had worse.”

“May I?” Y/N asks, extending a gloved hand.  At Harry’s nod, she begins to press around his abdomen. “Can’t imagine much worse. You must’ve really pissed someone off, then.”

A laugh rumbles out from Harry’s chest at the comment, but a wince quickly replaces the expression of mirth on his face as his muscles contract.  Although he quickly covers it, Y/N doesn’t miss it.

“Does that hurt?” She asks, pressing on his muscles again while gauging his reactions. “Where? Here?”

Harry clears his throat quietly, carefully controlling his expression as Jeff steps closer. “Uh, yeah. A bit.  Just a bit sore.”

“Patrick,” Y/N glances over her shoulder at him before rummaging in her kit for the stethoscope she saw earlier. “Could you grab me a cold compress?”

Patrick leaves the locker room as Y/N presses the stethoscope to Harry’s chest and back, listening to his heartbeat and breathing. “Do you have any abdominal pain?  Any shortness in breath, or dizziness?”

Harry shakes his head slightly. “No.  None at all. I’m just sore.”

Y/N pulls the stethoscope from her ears and touches his jaw lightly, frowning at the purple bruise that’s blossomed under his pink skin. “You got hit pretty hard here.”

Harry’s jaw flexes under her touch as he chuckles. “I know.  I was there.”

“Don’t be a smart ass, Harry.” Jeff chastises him from his position against the lockers.  

“I’m not!  I’m just saying—”

“She’s trying to help you—”

Y/N tunes out the argument between coach and boxer as she sets the stethoscope back down in the kit, making a note to bring her own next week.  In fact, she can think of a few things that would be useful to add to the makeshift medical bag Patrick gave her—a manual blood pressure cuff, better suturing supplies, maybe some more bandages—

“Y/N?”

“Hm?” Jeff’s voice pulls Y/N from her thoughts just as Patrick enters the locker room again, the cold compress in hand.  She accepts it from him before turning her attention back to the coach.

“Sorry, what was that?” She asks again, closing the medical kit.

“I asked if you thought Harry was being a smart ass.” Jeff gives a pointed look to his boxer. “And if he should apologize.”

Y/N shrugs as she hands the cold compress to Harry. “It’s fine.  It’s definitely not the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me.” She turns her attention back to Harry, who’s frowning at her again, like he did when they first locked eyes in the ring.  That look is back, too, she notices.  The concern.  Like the comment she made worries him.

Y/N clears her throat, pushing the thought out of her head. “You have some bruising and swelling, but nothing is broken.  No internal bleeding, either.  At least, nothing detectable.” She says with a sigh, pulling off her gloves. “I think you’re good to go, but if you start experiencing nausea, dizziness, or bleeding from any orifices, then you need to go to the doctor.  A real one.”

Harry presses the compress against his swollen jaw, wincing as the cold makes contact with his flushed skin. “Are you not a real doctor?”

A laugh bubbles out from Y/N’s lips as she shakes her head. “I’d say I’m a half doctor at best.”

“The best half doctor this gym can buy.” Patrick chimes in, pausing after a moment. “Which, honestly, isn’t saying much, but…”

“Right.” Y/N tosses her gloves in the garbage can sitting against a locker. “So, again, if you start feeling strange, see a real doctor.  One that’s actually licensed.”

Harry nods, standing up and extending a hand. “Thanks, Doc.  I appreciate it.”

It takes Y/N a moment to realize he wants to shake her hand.  Once the realization hits her, she extends her hand cautiously, locking it with his in an awkward fashion.  She prays it goes unnoticed by Harry, but judging from the laughter in his eyes, it hasn’t.  Her own cheeks flush as she pulls her hand away.

“Of course.  I’ll see you at your next match.” She says quickly, and escapes the locker room behind Patrick before she can say anything else.

 Patrick brings Y/N back to his office, shutting the door behind them before going behind his desk and removing a cheap picture of a city off his wall, exposing the door of a safe. He opens it quickly and counts out three hundred dollars in cash before slipping it into an envelope for Y/N. “Here, Doc.  You did good tonight.”

Y/N had almost forgotten that she’s doing this for cash. “Thanks.” She takes the money from him, tucking it inside her jacket. “I’m just glad I didn’t need to stitch anyone up.”

Patrick laughs as he lights a fresh cigarette, sitting down at his desk chair as he puffs on it. “This time.”

“Yeah.  This time.” Y/N eyes the cigarette with distaste. “Smoking kills, you know.”

Patrick glances at her with an incredulous look on his face, unfazed. “I run an illegal boxing ring. Do you think I care?” He exhales smoke slowly. “I got more to worry about killing me than smoking.”

Y/N shifts her weight from one foot to another as a band of anxiety twists its way through her stomach. “Do I have to worry about that, too?”

“Nah.” Patrick waves his hand indifferently, clearly unconcerned. “No one cares about a nursing student with a few bandages and some ice packs.”

“Right.” Y/N says slowly. Her previous hesitancy about her security at the gym returns, and although she tries to hide it, she knows it’s written all over her face.

Patrick’s keen eyes notice right away. “That’s a good thing, Y/N.” For the first time that night, he uses her name to address her. “Trust me, you want to go unnoticed here.”

“Do I?” Y/N pauses in front of the door, her hand resting on the handle.

“Yeah.  You do.” Patrick taps the ash off his cigarette as he gives her a long look. “I know you noticed how…different you are from our regular visitors.”

“You mean how I’m not a gigantic man dressed in all leather who enjoys making sexist comments towards women?” Y/N’s voice drips with sarcasm as she rolls her eyes. “Believe me. I noticed.”

“You want to go unnoticed here.” Patrick says again, firmer this time. “Dress in darker clothes. Blend in more.  No good men spend their time here.  Not one.  Understood?”

The serious tone in Patrick’s voice causes a chill to run down Y/N’s back, and her hand tightens on the handle of the door.  She doesn’t doubt what he’s saying; she already had her suspicions that she’d need to do more to blend into the crowd next week.  But being directly warned about the danger she’s putting herself in gives her pause.

“You seem like a good kid, and I’ll do my best to make sure no one fucks with you.  But you have to be watching your own back, too.” Patrick takes a long puff of his cigarette. “I got enough shit on my plate without keeping tabs on you.”

“Got it.” Y/N nods sharply, her fingernails digging into her palm as she steadies herself. “Blend in. Watch my own back.  Go unnoticed.  Understood.”

…

“So how’s the new job?”

Y/N’s eyes snap up at her friend’s question as her grip on her beer bottle tightens just the slightest bit.  The bar around them is loud, filled with the sound of obnoxious, half-drunk laughter and bad music, and Y/N hopes that the ambient noise is enough cover for her to pretend that she didn’t hear the question.

“What, Sadie?” She leans closer as her mind searches for a plausible answer. “What did you say?”

Sadie leans across the table, perfectly unaware of how her question has increased her friend’s heart rate. “I asked you how your new job is.”

“Oh.” Y/N brings the lip of her bottle to her mouth, taking a sip to prolong her pause. “It’s good, yeah. Pretty good.”

“Where is it again?” Sadie asks, settling back down in her seat comfortable. “Some gym?”

“Yeah, I just—I’m doing some first-aid lessons there.  For their trainers.” Y/N says quickly, attempting to keep her voice even.  Lying has never been her strong suit, especially to her friends. “You know, basic stuff, but it pays well.”

“That’s good!” Sadie replies in an encouraging voice. “That’ll be good for you.”

“Yeah, it’s good so far.” Y/N nods, her fingers tapping anxiously against her beer bottle. “So…” Her mind searches for another topic of discussion. “Tell me more about that guy you’ve been seeing.  Peter?”

As Sadie begins to rehash the events of her last date with a man from Tinder, Y/N’s mind begins to wander to the real answer to her friend’s question.  How was her new job going?

It’s certainly…going, she thinks, nodding absentmindedly at something Sadie says.  It didn’t ever seem to stop going.  Every Saturday brings a new crisis for her to handle. Within her first month of working at Patrick’s gym, she’s reset multiple noses, splinted fingers, bandaged knuckles, stitched lips and foreheads, and—Y/N suppresses a shudder—popped a dislocated shoulder back into a boxer’s shoulder socket.  

When Patrick told her that the job would be messy, Y/N had assumed that he was overexaggerating, but she’s found herself repairing every single boxer at the gym in some way, shape, or form over the last month.

Every boxer except Harry, that is.

Y/N’s not sure if there’s some sort of guardian angel looking out for him, or if he’s really just that lucky, but so far, the worst injury she’s had to help him with is a bloody nose.  Despite being the busiest boxer at the gym, with fights every week, Harry’s managed to evade any broken or dislocated bones.  He hasn’t even so much as pulled a muscle.

Although Y/N’s happy that she has one less patient to deal with every week, his winning streak is starting to make her nervous.  Whenever Harry steps into the ring, he’s cool, calm, and collected, but Y/N’s seen too much in life to ignore the rule that what goes up must come down.  She has a bad feeling that the higher Harry’s luck pushes him, the harder he’ll fall.  And when he does, it’ll be her job to put him together again.

“…And I just don’t know what it means.” Sadie pushes her phone in front of Y/N, pulling her from her thoughts. “I mean, who sends the wheat emoji?  Is he a farmer?  How do I respond to that?”

“Tell him he can plow your crops.” Y/N replies easily, shifting her attention back to her friend. “But only if he wears overalls.”

Sadie rolls her eyes as she pulls her phone back. “Haha.  Maybe it’s a weird vegan thing.  Do vegans have codes?”

“How the fuck would I know?” Y/N snorts before taking a swig from her beer bottle. “And I thought he was keto?”

“He was, until two weeks ago.”

“Well, even if vegans do have codes, I doubt two weeks is long enough to learn them.” Y/N stands from her seat. “I’m going to grab another beer; do you want a refill?”

Sadie shakes her head, her attention already turned back to her text messages with Peter.  

Y/N pushes her way through the crowd until she reaches the bar, carefully working her way in between the bodies of intoxicated New Yorkers.  She waits patiently next to a group of a few men until the bartender acknowledges her while her mind drifts to the assignment she has due next week that, really, she should be at home working on.

The bartender stops in front of her, wiping his hands on the towel over his shoulder. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll have another Budweiser.” Y/N says, reaching for her back pocket for her phone. “It’ll be on debit—”

“Actually—” The body next to her turns at the sound of her voice. “You can put it on my tab.  And add another scotch and soda to the order, as well.”

The bartender nods, but Y/N huffs under her breath, pushing her hair out of her face as she prepares the speech that she always hopes she won’t have to use. “That’s very kind of you, but—Harry?”

The green eyed boxer peers down at her, a charming grin playing on his red lips.  His long hair is down and flowing, curling around his defined shoulders and collarbones that peak out of his loose, half unbuttoned shirt. One arm hangs loosely at his side as the other clutches an empty glass, rings clicking as he taps his fingers against it.  His tongue swipes his lips once before he speaks, making them impossibly redder.

“’M surprised to see you here.” Harry’s voice is as low as it ever is, even in the noise of the club. “I didn’t think dive bars would be your scene.”

Y/N scoffs as she straightens her back, trying to make herself a better match for Harry’s height. “As opposed to what, sleazy underground gyms?”

“Hm.  That’s true.” An amused look paints its way onto Harry’s features as he sets his empty glass down on the bar. “Are you here alone?  Or did a date bring you here?”

“A friend, actually.” Y/N motions over her shoulder to Sadie, who’s still wrapped up in her messages with Peter. “I’ve never been here before, but she really likes it.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s grin slowly grows as he leans against the edge of the bar. “How are you liking it so far?”

Y/N lifts her shoulders slightly in a small shrug. “It’s alright.  Not much different than any other bar in New York.  A beer is a beer anywhere, right?”

“That’s your mistake, though.” Harry sighs a bit as his eyes train on something over Y/N’s shoulder. He reaches past her, his warm, tanned arm brushing against the bare skin of her shoulder.  It brushes against her again when he moves his arm back, this time with an open beer bottle and scotch and soda in hand, and Y/N’s not sure what’s worse: how good Harry’s skin feels against hers, or the fact that his hands are so large that he can easily carry two drinks in them without spilling a drop.

“My mistake?” Y/N’s successful in keeping her voice steady—just barely—as she takes the bottle from him. “What mistake?”

“Ordering a bottle of beer wherever you go.” Harry’s ringed hand wraps around the cold glass of scotch. “Let me pick the next drink I buy you, yeah?  Then you’ll be able to see if you really like this bar or not.”

“Um—” It takes Y/N a moment to process what he says, and when it finally hits her, she feels heat rush to her cheeks faster than it ever has before.  Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, and it takes the charming smile on Harry’s face changing to a grin of satisfaction at her reaction for her to snap out of her stupor.

“I don’t need you to buy me drinks.” Y/N says firmly, setting her beer bottle down on the counter. “I can buy my own.  Thank you, though.”

“Wait—” Harry’s arm touches her wrist lightly as she turns around, pulling her attention back to him. His satisfied grin has slipped into a look of apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that in—that sounded worse than I meant it to.  I know you can buy your own drinks, I just—I meant it as a thank you.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow as she looks him up and down.  The difference in his demeanor compared to a moment ago is noticeable—his shoulders have curled in slightly, making his body appear smaller, and his brows are knit together in a look of worry.  His teeth are tugging on his lower lip as he waits for her response, and it’s not until noticing his lips that Y/N realizes she hasn’t responded.

“A thank you for what?” Y/N asks, surprise evident in her voice.  Although Harry’s let go of her wrist, she still feels a stinging in the skin there, and wraps her own hand around the area he touched.

Harry’s free hand grazes his abdomen, just over his ribs, where Y/N knows there’s a bruise from a fight the previous week. “For cleaning me up all the time.”

Y/N waves off his comment with a flip of her hand. “You don’t need to thank me for that.  It’s my job.  Literally.”

“I know, but—” A man pushes his way to the bar, breaking into the space between Y/N and Harry. Harry grabs the beer bottle off the bar counter before the man can spill it, a darkening look in his eyes as he steps around the (clearly intoxicated) man to stand before Y/N again. “I can’t imagine it’s easy.  I’ve seen how the men there treat you.”

Y/N straightens her spine even more, her mouth pressing into a tight line.  The last thing she needs is Harry’s pity. “I made the choice to take the job.  I knew what the environment would be like.  I don’t need you feeling like you have to be the good guy and buy me drinks to make up for the assholes at the gym.”

“No, that’s not—” Harry shakes his head quickly. “That’s not what I meant, Y/N—” She hates the flutter she feels in her core when she hears her name in his accent. “I’m just concerned—”

“I didn’t ask for you to be concerned!” Y/N replies hotly, her arms crossing tightly over her body. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sadie begin to notice the interaction between herself and Harry, and she knows she’s going to be interrogated the moment she gets back to the table.

“I know that!” Harry defends himself, his face growing more agitated as their conversation continues. “I can’t help it—”

“Why?  Because I’m a girl surrounded by big tough guys?  Because I obviously need protecting?  Because I can’t protect myself?” Although she’s aware that her frustration is only partly aimed at Harry, and is mostly the product of the emotions she’s kept locked inside her over the last month, Y/N can’t make herself stop.

“No.” Harry’s eyes drop down from her sharp gaze. “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to sound like that.”

Y/N feels a twinge of guilt when she sees the brightness fade from Harry’s eyes, but she doesn’t shift her position. “I appreciate the thanks, and the drink.  But I don’t need your pity, your concern, or your protection.”

“Alright.” Harry nods once as his eyes snap up to meet hers again.  He has the same calm and collected look that Y/N usually sees reflected in his jade irises before a match. “I understand.”

“Good.” Y/N’s fingers twist around each other as she considers what else to say. Nothing else really seems worth saying, so instead she focuses on a goodbye. “I’ll see you next Saturday, then.”

“Yeah.” Harry nods again, and Y/N moves to step away, but Harry’s hand catches her one more time. Y/N’s eyes find his face in confusion, and her whole body jumps as she feels the cool glass of the beer bottle press into her palm.

“Take that with you.” Harry’s voice is rough, unreadable. “It’s not safe to leave your drinks unattended.”

…

Now that she’s spent the last five Saturdays working at Patrick’s gym, Y/N’s fallen into a comfortable routine—or at least, as comfortable as she can be in an environment filled exclusively by men with anger issues and no morals.  Every Saturday morning, she gets up around nine A.M. and lounges around for a while, just reading her phone in bed.  Once she actually makes it out of bed, she showers, taking the time she doesn’t normally have on university mornings to wash her hair, shave anything that she thinks needs shaving, and just enjoy the hot water on her skin. After her shower, Y/N gets dressed in whatever the day’s activity calls for.  Sometimes she stays in all day, just studying and catching up on readings, while other times she has errands to run, or friends to meet for brunch at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that charges seventeen dollars for avocado toast. Whatever the day brings, however, her evening routine is always the same.  

Y/N sets her dinner plate in the kitchen sink before grabbing her jean jacket from the back of her kitchen chair.  She slips it over her black t-shirt, which is tucked into her dark jeans, before grabbing her heavy black boots from the closet.  After her first week, Y/N realized the key to being comfortable at her new job was dark clothing and protective footwear, as drunk men placing bets on illegal fights seemed to have a habit of stepping on her toes—literally.  Y/N found that it was best to take protective measures against the shoving of the crowds, as stitching paramedic patches onto the sleeves of her jean jacket hadn’t done any good.

With one final check to make sure her good stethoscope and manual blood pressure pump is in her bag, Y/N sets out for the gym, arriving at 9 P.M. on the dot.  Although the match doesn’t start until 10, she likes to get there early and check in with Patrick.  They’ve begun to develop a rapport over the last few weeks, and Y/N finds herself looking forward to her talks with the surly gym owner.

Y/N doesn’t blink when she enters the dark gym now, and instead keeps her gaze aimed straight ahead as she makes her way to Patrick’s office, knocking on the door thrice in quick succession.

“Yeah?” His voice calls out roughly from behind the door.  Y/N opens and shuts it behind her, managing to take one last gasp of clean air before being confronted with the scent of stale cigarette smoke.

“Evening, Doc.” Patrick leans back in his desk chair, the usual cigarette between his lips. “How are things looking out there?”

“The gym is already half full, and the fight isn’t for another hour.” Y/N takes a seat across from the desk as Patrick reaches under it, opening the minifridge he has stashed away and pulling out a beer for each of them.  Y/N accepts the bottle, opening it on the edge of his desk before continuing. “You’re getting famous.”

“I’m not getting famous; Styles is.” Patrick stubs out his cigarette before opening his own bottle. “He’s going on five weeks undefeated in his first season.  That’s never been done before.”

Y/N scratches at the label of her beer with her fingernail while her teeth tug on her bottom lip. “What’s his story, anyways?” She asks after a moment, unable to hold back her curiosity any longer. “How did he end up here?”

Patrick takes a swig of beer, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. “I don’t know how he ended up here, but I assume it’s for the same reason anyone ever does, including you. The money.” Patrick shrugs a bit. “As for his story at the gym…he knocked on my office door seven months ago, saying he wanted to get into boxing.  He had a bit of muscle, yeah, but nothing like he has now.  He just sounded like some posh boarding school kid, so I sent him packing.  But he was adamant.  Wouldn’t give up.  Kept coming back, over and over.” Patrick snorts, shaking his head at the memory. “Finally, I told him to start training and bulking up just to get him off my back. And then he came back the next day with his coach, Jeff, and spent hours working every drill imaginable.  I have to admit, it impressed me.  So I gave him a trial match, the first night you worked. You remember how that went, don’t you?”

Y/N thinks back to the blood spurting from Bowers’ nose after Harry broke it. “Yeah.  I do.”

“He’s a strange guy. Pretty different from any other boxer here.  But he’s bringing in cash, and lots of it, so I don’t give a shit.” Patrick takes another sip of beer, his eyes focusing on Y/N’s untouched bottle. “You better drink that, Doc.  I don’t like wasting beer.”

Y/N lifts the bottle to her mouth automatically, but doesn’t register the taste of the liquid as it passes her lips. “I’m pretty sure rule number one of nursing is not drinking before a shift.”

“That’s some bullshit hospital rule, not mine.” Patrick gives an unconcerned wave of his hand. “Besides, I think the alcohol steadies your hands a bit.  Liquid courage and all that.”

Y/N raises the bottle in her hand, tilting it towards Patrick with a wry grin. “To liquid courage.”

…

“You should consider telling Harry to reign it in, Patrick.” Y/N carefully slips off her bloodied gloves, tossing them in the locker room garbage. “That’s the third nose he’s broken in the last month!”

“Why would he need to reign it in?” Patrick raises an eyebrow, leaning against the lockers as Y/N washes her hands. “Do you know how much money he’s making me?  The crowd goes crazy for blood!”

Y/N shakes off her wet hands, quickly drying them on a paper towel before taking her medical kit back from Patrick.  The bag feels heavier in her hand than it did earlier. “At this rate, you’re going to be out of boxers before the month is over.”

“I can always get new fighters, Doc.” Patrick sniffs, rubbing his nose while leading Y/N to the other locker room.  He still comes with her to check on the boxers, despite her knowing the drill by now. Deep down, Y/N appreciates it. “A new champion, on the other hand…those are rare.”

“Are they?” Y/N raises an eyebrow as Patrick steps back, letting her step into the room first. “I’m surprised this champion hasn’t worn himself out yet.”

Harry’s eyes snap up at the sound of her voice.  He’s in his usual spot on the bench, his hands already unwrapped and his body already clean from his shower.  Y/N wishes she could say that the sight of Harry’s damp and tattooed chest doesn’t have an affect on her anymore, but as she takes in the sight of him, her eyes are only half scanning his body for injuries.  The other half of her, to her displeasure, is focused on how his muscles flex under the harsh artificial light as he takes a drink from his water bottle.

Patrick laughs once as Y/N takes a seat next to Harry, opening her medical kit. “Jeff, you’ll never guess what Doc Y/N thinks.” Patrick approaches the coach with a smirk on his face. “She wants Harry to reign it in.  Says he’s too harsh in the ring.”

Jeff’s laughter matches Patrick’s, and Y/N feels a flush come over her face as she searches for clean gloves.  She does her best to keep her gaze down and keep her focus on her work, but when she looks up, the look on Harry’s face makes her mind go completely blank.

Although Jeff and Patrick are snickering at her comment, Harry’s face is as unreadable as ever. There’s no amusement in his deep green eyes, nor is there a grin on his pink lips.  Instead, there’s just a small crease between his brows as he meets her gaze, and Y/N can hardly fight back the urge to lean forward and press her lips to the worried spot.

She had been afraid that seeing Harry for the first time since their bar dispute would throw her, and it only takes one look in his eyes to know her anxiety has a solid foundation of reason underneath it.

“You think I’m too harsh?” The corners of his lips turn down the slightest bit as he speaks, and Y/N has to tell herself that she has no right to notice such a slight difference as quickly as she does.

With a slight shake of her head, Y/N begins to press around Harry’s side, where she had watched him sustain most of his opponent’s hits in the match. “I’m the one who cleans up your messes, remember?” She keeps her voice quiet, so she can hear any noises he makes as she presses on his muscles. “Is this sore?”

“Not more than usual.” Harry replies in the same quiet tone, his eyes glued to her movements.  Y/N can feel his irises burning into her skin, and tries her best to ignore how the attention makes her feel.  She almost forgets that they’re not alone in the locker room until Patrick speaks.

“Jeff and I have to discuss some things for next week’s match.” He says, speaking more to Y/N than Harry. “Are you alright here, Doc?”

Y/N understands the tone underneath his question.  Patrick wants to know if she’s alright being left alone with a boxer who just proved himself capable, once again, of breaking bones.  If it was anyone else, Y/N would shake her head and say she needs him to stay.  With Harry, however, Y/N’s not afraid of what he can do to her.  If anything, she’s concerned about what she may do to him.

“Yeah, it’s fine.” Y/N gives a slight nod to Patrick as she pulls out her stethoscope. “I won’t be much longer.”

“Alright.” Patrick gives one hardened look to Harry before following Jeff out of the locker rooms, leaving behind only the smell of his cigarette to mix with the locker room air.

Silence sits between the two of them for a moment, until Y/N fixes the stethoscope in her ears. “This may be a bit cold.” She warns, setting the device on his chest.  She listens for a moment before moving it to his back. “Breathe in for me?”

Harry’s ribs expand underneath her fingers as he inhales deeply, exhaling just as slow.

“Again.” Y/N says, moving her stethoscope.  Even through her gloves, she can feel the heat radiating off his skin, and briefly wonders if she should take his temperature before deciding that there’s no need.  Harry is just…warm.

Y/N pulls her stethoscope out of her ears and sets it down in her bag, reaching instead for some wipes. “There’s a bit of blood under your nose still.” She pulls out a wipe and gently rubs it over the affected skin. “But your nose isn’t broken.”

Harry’s hands fiddle in his lap as she cleans him up, shifting and wincing every once in a while. “I don’t mean to break noses, you know.” He says after a moment. “I mean, I do, kind of, but it’s just—I’m fighting to win.”

“I know.” Y/N tosses the used wipe in the trash, her fingers still moving gently over his cheek.  A black eye is beginning to develop under his left eye, so she reaches in her kit for her penlight.  She flicks it on and holds up a finger with her other hand. “Follow my finger with your eyes, will you?”

Harry does as she asks, passing the simple test with ease. “We’re all fighting to win.  I just happen to be better at it than the others.”

The corner of Y/N’s lip twitches as she turns off the penlight, swapping it in favour of a cold compress she can press to Harry’s bruised eye. “I suppose you are.” Harry winces as the compress makes contact with his eye, and Y/N sighs. “Sorry.”

“S’alright.” Harry says immediately, voice low.

Once again, the conversation dies out in favour of silence.  As Y/N holds the compress to Harry’s eye, she wonders if he’s been thinking of their conversation in the bar as much as she has.  She wonders if he’s been thinking of their conversation in the bar at all.  As much as she dislikes how much Harry’s been occupying her thoughts, she dislikes the idea of her occupying none of his even more.

“So…” Y/N clears her throat quietly. “Patrick told me this is your first season, right?”

Harry jerks his head in a slight nod. “It is.”

When he offers no more information, Y/N asks another question. “What made you want to start?”

Harry’s uncovered eye meets hers, just for a moment, before looking down at his calloused hands. “I needed some extra cash, and I’m a good fighter.  Figured I’d put it to use.”

Y/N can sense more of a story behind his words, but she can also tell by his demeanor that he’s not in the sharing mood.  Instead of prying more, she just nods and takes his hand, pressing it over her hand and the cold compress.  She gives herself a split second to enjoy his hand on hers before pulling her own hand away.

She stands up slowly as she snaps off her gloves, tossing them in the garbage. “Take some Ibuprofen if you have any pain, and again, if you start to feel weird—”

“See an actual doctor.” Harry finishes the sentence for her with a small smile. “Because you’re not one.”

“Exactly.” Y/N clicks the medical kit closed. “Now you get it.”

“So what are you then, if not an actual doctor?” Harry asks, leaning back on the bench to look up at her better. “What made you start here?”

Y/N pauses by the lockers, surprised he’s inquiring about her life. “I’m a nursing student at NYU. I’m here because I was the only one dumb enough to answer Patrick’s ad, apparently.”

A chuckle rolls out of Harry’s body, and Y/N watches as she tries to hide the wince caused by his abdomen contracting. “Are you—?” She begins to step closer, but Harry waves off her concern.

“I’m fine.” He insists. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Right.” Y/N gives him a confused look. “What was the subject, again?”

“You.  Your life.” Harry shifts the cold compress to his other hand, flexing his cold fingers to get blood circulating.  Y/N watches the movement for a moment before forcing herself to meet his eyes again.

“What about my life?” She asks, just a hint of breathlessness detectable in her voice.

Harry shrugs with one shoulder as he stands, making his way to the locker next to Y/N.  He opens it quickly, grabbing a t-shirt from within and smoothly pulls it on with one hand.  The fabric settles over his muscles nicely. “I don’t know.  I’m just curious.”

Y/N’s brow furrows as she takes in his words. “Okay, but…no offence, Harry, I just—I don’t think it’s very wise of me to tell you too much about my life.”

Harry’s mouth twitches down into a frown as he grabs his leather jacket from the locker, shutting it with a bang that echoes around the empty locker room. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not safe?” Y/N knows her words are true, but her infliction makes it sound like a question, and Harry proves himself eager to answer it.

“It’s not?” Harry glances around the locker room slowly, gesturing to the empty space. “Who else is here?”

“Just you, but I—that’s part of the reason.” Y/N speaks steadily and carefully, as if to make Harry understand, but the words are as much a reminder for herself as they are for him. “You shouldn’t know about my life.  About me.  At least, not any more than you need to.”

That unreadable look crosses over Harry’s face again, clouding his green irises in mystery. His free hand combs through his long hair, still damp from his shower, as his teeth worry his bottom lip. “Who decides what I need to know?”

Y/N tightens her grip on the medical kit, the feel of the rough leather acting as a reminder for where she is and who she’s with. “I do.” She murmurs. “I decide.”

Harry nods roughly once, jerking his chin up as he takes the cold compress off his eye.  The bruise is darker now, staining his pale skin, but he hands the compress back to her. “Alright, then.  Thanks for clearing that up.”

From the tone of his voice, Y/N gets the sense that he’s bothered by what she said, but she doesn’t let herself focus on it.  Harry’s is a grown man, and if he has an issue with what she’s saying, he can tell her. It’s not her job to coddle him and drag his feelings out.

Y/N matches his tone of voice, looking him straight in the eye as she replies. “You’re welcome.”

…

When Y/N’s phone rings three weeks later with an unknown number flashing on the screen just past midnight on a Thursday, she almost doesn’t answer it. After a day of consecutive classes and working through tutorials and labs until her mind went numb, she can’t handle dealing with a telemarketer in a different time zone. However, the New York area code catches her eye, and her curiosity gets the best of her as she picks up her phone and taps the screen.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?” Harry’s familiar accent crackles through her speaker, half drowned out from the sound of yelling and New York traffic.

“Harry?” Y/N sits up on her couch so fast that she almost spills her tea. “What—how did you get my number?”

“Texted Patrick for it.” Harry’s voice drifts further away, and Y/N can’t make out what he’s saying.

“What?” She presses the phone closer to her ear in an attempt to hear him. “I can’t understand, Harry—”

“What’s your address?” Harry repeats again, his voice finally audible. “It’s in Tribeca, right?”

Y/N sets down her tea with a thud. “I—yeah, but—”

“Just text it to me, please.” Harry asks, his voice low and strained. “I’ll be there in ten.”

“But—”

The line clicks dead.

Y/N stares down in her phone in shock for a moment before adding Harry’s number to her contacts and texting him her address.  She’s not sure why she does it without question—she should be concerned that he’s coming for a negative reason, she thinks, but something in his voice over the phone…there was something there that she’d never heard before.

A knock comes to her door eight minutes later, after Y/N’s bustled around her tiny studio apartment to tidy it up.  She’s normally a clean person, but had to toss some clothes in her hamper, put her mug in the sink, and, three seconds before the knock came, tossed her old teddy bear under her bed.

When Y/N opens the door, she’s not entirely sure what she’s expecting, but she knows for sure it isn’t this.

Harry is slumped against your door frame, his right hand cradled to his chest by his left arm. There’s a dark liquid splattered on his navy blue shirt, and it takes Y/N a second to register that it’s blood, not alcohol, despite his body reeking of liquor.  His curls, which are normally so soft and carefully tied back, are falling into his eyes as he struggles to keep himself upright.  Bruises are already blossoming along his jaw, there’s a split in the skin next to his eyebrow, and a frightening amount of blood trailing down his cheek like tears.  A sheen of sweat covers his face and neck, and when he looks at Y/N, she can see the moment it takes him to register that it’s her he’s looking at.

“Oh my God—” Y/N grabs his shoulders quickly, leading him into the apartment.  She can tell he’s trying his best to walk independently, but half his body weight is being pressed into her while she struggles to lead him to the couch.

A groan escapes Harry’s lips as he flops onto the couch, low and weak and a complete knife in Y/N’s chest. Normally, when she sees someone this injured, she goes straight into nurse mode, examining them without emotion, but there’s something about the way Harry’s chest is rapidly rising and falling that’s preventing her from doing that.

“Harry—I—” She pushes his curls back from his face, and is horrified to find blood on her hand when she pulls it back. “What happened?”

“I—” The words struggle to make it past his pale lips as he takes a shuddering breath. “I got into a fight. At the bar.”

The answer is so simple, so common, and yet it shocks Y/N that she pauses mid-step on her way to get her medical kit. “A bar fight?  This is from a bar fight?”

Harry nods once as he winces. “Had a few—few too many.  Got into an argument.” He grits his teeth as he does his best to take his jacket off. “Christ—”

“Stop.” Y/N sets her medical kit down on the coffee table, reaching over and carefully helping him remove his jacket.  Her curiosity is raging inside her—what could have irritated Harry so much that he would fight in a bar?  And, even more pressing, what could have irritated him so much that he would lose? “So you can only box while sober, huh?”

“Yeah.” Harry mutters the word, a tinge of shame echoing in the back of his voice. “Apparently.”

Y/N tosses his jacket to the ground once it’s off, her eyes canvassing over Harry’s body.  There’s so much that seems wrong that she doesn’t even know where to start. “Okay, just—what hurts?  What happened?”

“The bastard got a few good shots in at my head.  Split my eyebrow, but that’s about it.” Harry sucks in a sharp breath as he hears you snap on your disposable gloves. “But I—shit—I fucked up my hand, Y/N.  I threw a bad punch and—fuck—”

Y/N carefully takes Harry’s injured hand in her own, examining it closely.  A few of his knuckles are split and dripping blood down his pale skin.  His calloused fingers are bruised, swelling over the rings he’s wearing, and Y/N knows that those have to be the first things to go.  She takes one of her decorative pillows and sets it on Harry’s lap, setting his injured hand on top of it before quickly moving to her fridge. She grabs an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a tea towel, tucking it under her arm as her eyes scan her apartment for something to help her get his rings off.  Only one thing comes to her mind, and Y/N tries to control the blood rushing to her cheeks as she opens her bedside drawer and grabs the lube she keeps stashed there.

When Harry sees it in her hand, he raises an eyebrow for a split second until the pain of the cut catches him off guard.

“What—” He takes a deep breath as she settles next to him, carefully setting the ice pack underneath his hand. “What’s the KY for?”

Y/N attempts to keep her voice steady as she answers. “You’re wearing two rings.  We have to get them off before your fingers swell any more.” She pops the seal of the lube open and pours a liberal amount over Harry’s fingers. “This—this is going to hurt, so just—I’m sorry.”

Harry nods once, his eyes closed as his head jerks in response. “Just do it.”

Although she does her best to be gentle, Y/N can feel Harry’s body tensing as she pulls the rings over his bruised fingers.  No words leave his lips, but she can tell that he’s gritting his teeth to keep quiet as she works the two rings off.

“Good.  Good job.” She sets the lube-covered rings on her coffee table with a clink. “That was the worst of it, I think.  Or I hope, at least.”

A huff of liquor scented air passes through Harry’s lips. “Is it broken?”

Y/N gingerly picks up Harry’s hand, moving his fingers as much as she can, feeling for anything out of place. “I don’t think so, no.” She murmurs in a quiet voice. “Just sprained, I think.  Your index and middle finger got it the worst, but I’m fairly certain they’re not fractured.”

“Fairly certain?” Harry asks, jaw tense. “How could we be 100% certain?”

“If we went to an actual hospital and got an X-ray.” Y/N shoots back, giving him a harsh look. “But seeing as how you’re here, I assume that’s something you don’t want to do.”

Harry exhales hard as she cleans his hand with a wipe. “No.  It’s not.”

Once his hand is clean, Y/N wraps it in a bandage carefully, setting it back down on the ice pack once the bandage is secure.  With his hand taken care of, she turns her attention to Harry’s face.  The cut in his brow has stopped bleeding now, enough for Y/N to see that it’s not horribly deep. “I don’t need to stitch it.” She tells him as she grabs a cotton pad and rubbing alcohol. “I just need to clean it and then bandage it.”

Harry winces when she presses the alcohol soaked pad to the cut.

“Sorry.” Y/N mumbles, her eyes trained on the split skin next to his eyebrow.

“S’alright, I’ll manage.” Harry matches her mumble, his voice barely audible in the quiet living room. She can feel the heat of his skin pressed against her hand, and just when she’s thinking that there’s no way that her icy skin can feel pleasant, Harry sighs.

“Your hands are cold.” He murmurs, his uninjured hand touching the hand that’s cupping his jaw to keep him steady. “It’s nice.  Feels like a million degrees in here.”

Y/N resists the urge to pull her hand away from his, keeping all her focus on applying the bandage to his eyebrow like it’s a monumentally difficult task.  She waits until she’s smoothed the beige cover over his skin to respond. “Probably because you’re so sweaty.” She presses her other hand to his forehead, doing her best to ignore how another sigh slips past Harry’s lips. “I hope you don’t have a fever…”

“’M just warm, that’s all.” His words are less slurred than they had been when he first arrived, and his green eyes are just starting to open again. “The bar was hot.”

Y/N pulls her hand away from his forehead. “Right.” She walks the three steps it takes her to get to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. “Here.” She hands it to Harry, along with two ibuprofen pills from her medical kit. “Swallow these, and then drink that entire glass of water.”

“You got it, Doc.” Harry murmurs, following her instructions immediately.  Y/N rolls her eyes as she takes a seat next to him again, carefully readjusting the ice pack on his injured hand.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” She asks in a tired voice.  Harry’s hair is falling into his eyes, she notices, and she doesn’t even think before she slips her hair tie off her wrist to carefully pull his curls into a bun on top of his head.

Harry doesn’t complain. “Patrick calls you Doc,” is the only thing he says.

“That’s because Patrick is…Patrick.” Y/N settles back into the couch as she watches Harry drink the water. “Why didn’t you call him for my address instead of my number?  You could’ve been here quicker.”

“I did.” Harry swallows down another gulp of water, his good hand wiping his mouth gingerly. “He told me to ask you myself.  Said he wouldn’t give your address out to creeps.”

A rush of affection flows through Y/N’s heart for the tough gym owner. “That’s good to know.”

“It is.” Harry agrees after another drink of water.  Once he’s drained it, Y/N takes the glass from him and sets it on the coffee table.

“Thank you.” Harry murmurs gratefully. “For…everything tonight.  I really—I appreciate it.”

“You don’t need to thank me, it’s my—”

“No, Y/N.  This isn’t your job.” Harry looks at her intensely, a sincerity on his face that she’s never seen before, or at the very least, never noticed before. “Bandaging my hand and head at one A.M. in your apartment isn’t your job.  I know you—you said you didn’t want me to know things about you, and now—”

“Not quite.” Now it’s Y/N’s turn to cut him off. “I said I would decide what you could know, and I decided that you could know my address.  Just don’t tell anyone else at the gym, alright?”

Despite the bruising-induced tenderness on his face, Harry frowns immediately. “I would never do that. They’re all awful, and I would never…betray you like that.”

Y/N’s heart rate picks up as she listens to Harry speak.  There’s something about him throwing around the word “betray” in the same sentence as “I” and “you” that makes a rush flow through her veins. “Thanks.”

“I know it’s not easy for you there.” Harry carefully gauges her reaction as he speaks. “I’ve heard how they speak to you.  It’s—they have no respect.”

“It’s nothing you need to worry about.” Y/N sighs, tucking her hair behind her ears (her hair tie is in Harry’s hair, and she’s too tired to get another one from the bathroom). “I’m used to it.”

Harry’s frown deepens, his lips finally pinkening back up (which Y/N notices for medical reasons. Purely medical reasons). “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

Y/N barks out a laugh, harsh and short. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I’m serious.” Harry’s face is indignant, and in any other circumstances, Y/N might find it endearing.  But not now.

“Harry.” She clears the laughter out of her voice. “Do you know what I deal with every day?”

“With the boxers? Yeah—”

“No.  Just in general.” Y/N tucks her legs underneath her as she settles herself into the couch, careful not to bump Harry’s hand. “I’m a female in the medical field.  The amount of shit I get from people, from men…” She shakes her head. “I’ve had male professors tell me it’s a good thing that I’m going to nursing school, and not medical school, because I’m too emotional to handle being a doctor.  I’ve heard male medical students tell female medical students that they don’t belong in the program, because girls can’t make quick and rational decisions with patients.  I’ve watched my male classmates be belittled for choosing to be a nurse over being a doctor.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” Y/N bites her lip, but only for a moment. Now that she’s started, she can’t stop the flood of words pouring out of her. “Every day, I get my decisions and my calls second guessed by my superiors, while my male classmates’ decisions are accepted right away.  I get called ‘sweetheart’ and ‘honey’ and ‘darling’ by professors and patients alike, while my male classmates are ‘mister’ and ‘nurse’.  It’s nothing new.”

Harry watches her as she speaks with eyes full of awareness.  She can tell he’s hanging on every word, his gaze trained on her and her only.  He doesn’t speak as she pauses for a breath, so she continues, a rushed urgency weaving its way through her words.

“Do you want to know why I told you that I didn’t need your concern or your protection at the gym?” Y/N leans the side of her head against the back of the couch, not breaking Harry’s stare. “Because I deal with that shit every day, and I’ve learned to either ignore it or handle it myself.  Unless some asshole puts his hands on me, and I physically need your help, then I’m fine.  Can you understand that?”

Harry clears his throat once, but his voice is still thick when he replies. “Yeah, I can.  I’m sorry that I—it was never my intention to push the topic, or make you uncomfortable, but I did.  I’m sorry.”

The sincere apology brings a warm feeling to Y/N’s stomach, and it radiates further throughout her body with every breath Harry takes. “I accept your apology.  Thank you.”

Harry smiles at her just the slightest bit, the corners of his mouth tugging up, and the warmth increases when Y/N notices the dimples that appear in his cheeks.  Something about them makes Harry look so much younger, so much more innocent…and Y/N’s not certain why, but something about that observation makes her feel electric.  As a distraction, she reaches for a wipe from her kit, catching Harry’s eye before touching his face with it. “May I?” She asks, waiting for his nod.

When he gives it, she begins to wipe the sweat and dried blood from his face, careful not to aggravate his bruises.  It only takes her a few moments, but she spends extra time running the wipe over his cheeks, feeling the dip of his dimples beneath the cloth.

“Y/N…” Harry’s voice rumbles deep in his chest as his good hand catches hers.  The wipe falls from her fingers as he keeps her hand pressed to his cheek. “You’re a wonderful nurse.” He says, his deep green irises burning holes into her own.

The burning of Harry’s skin is so much more apparent when he nuzzles his cheek into her hand, and Y/N feels as if she’s the one who’s been drinking with how badly her head is spinning at the contact. “I think…” She does her best to make sense of her words, while Harry busies himself with moving her hand over his cheek, guiding her to stroke the stubbled skin. “I think you may have a fever.”

Harry gives a short shake of his head, and he maneuvers Y/N’s hand over his lips before responding. “’S just how you make me feel.  Feverish.” A small laugh falls out of his mouth, and he presses a chaste kiss to the tips of her cold fingers. “Sorry.  I shouldn’t say that.”

An involuntary sound echoes from the back of Y/N’s throat at his words, and she’s not sure if it’s a gasp, a whimper, or both, but it brings heat to her cheeks nonetheless. “N-no. You shouldn’t say that.”

“Sorry.” Harry repeats again, his lips gently brushing against her fingertips over and over. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re drunk.” Y/N briefly thinks that she should pull her hand away, but she doesn’t, and while she may later blame that on her thinking she wouldn’t be able to, the truth is that she doesn’t want to. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I’m not that drunk.” Harry moves her hand to cup his cheek again, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a gentle but constant motion. “I know what I’m doing.”

Y/N’s breath hitches as Harry turns his head to plant a kiss in the middle of her open palm.  His lips are just as warm as the rest of him, and she’s starting to wonder if there’s a fire burning inside him, deep in his chest.

It would explain the burning she feels whenever she’s near him.

“You have the hands of a healer, y’know that?” Harry’s voice echoes from deep in his chest, filling her senses with the cadence of his accent. “Calloused for all the right reasons. The complete opposite of mine.”

With a shaking breath, Y/N carefully threads her fingers through Harry’s, the metal of his rings cooling down the fire she feels. “I…I love your hands.” She says truthfully, because apparently they’re being truthful tonight. “They’re so strong when you fight, but…when you’re like this…” Y/N lets go of his hand, but keeps their fingers locked together, so both of their palms are open.  It’s like each of them is an extension of the other, and delight flushes through her when she realizes it. “You’re gentle with me.”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you.” Harry breathes, shifting a bit on the couch.  A flicker of pain darkens his face, and Y/N’s free hand moves to his chest, rubbing circles over his shirt to soothe him.  A relaxed sigh falls from his lips. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

Y/N’s brow furrows, her hands pausing their movements.  A whine of protest leaves Harry’s pink lips, but she ignores it as she gives him a confused look. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I-I wouldn’t blame you if you were.” As Harry’s eyes drop to their intertwined fingers, Y/N begins to realize that this—his body close, his eyes downcast, his voice quiet—this is Harry opening up.  This is Harry being vulnerable, honest, and himself.  The fear in his voice is as much himself as the calm look on his face before a fight.

His fingers fiddle with hers as he searches for his next words, and Y/N can see the effort he’s making to choose the right thing to say. “I…” He pauses, the struggle clear on his face before he tries again. “Every week, you see what I do, right?  You know—better than anyone, you know what I’m capable of.  So if you were afraid of me, I…I wouldn’t blame you, Y/N.  I’d understand.”

If someone asked Y/N in this moment how she got here, she wouldn’t be able to explain it.  The journey from Point A has never been more muddled, but Point B is so clearly within her sight that she doesn’t care. How did she get here? she asks herself, when she already knows the answer like she knows the back of her hand, the bones and muscles of Harry’s body, and the precariousness of their situation.  How did she get here?  Y/N has no fucking clue.  But here is the vulnerable look in Harry’s deep green eyes, the steady beat of his heart under her hand, the raw emotion in his voice, and Y/N wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

When Y/N realizes that, how badly she wants Harry, after weeks of denying it, the wind gets knocked out of her chest.  She struggles to form words, to take anything more than a shallow breath, to do anything but watch as Harry’s composure starts to slip more and more.  His teeth tug on his bottom lip more and more frequently, and his breathing increases as he sits anxiously, waiting for her response.

“I…” Y/N begins to rub his chest again, the circles careful and tight, and the anxiety that she heard in Harry’s words is now laced through her own. “I could never be…afraid of you, Harry.  I told you, you’re…you’re gentle with me.”

He exhales a quick breath of relief as she speaks, the tightness visibly relaxing out of his expression, and Y/N moves her hand from his chest to his neck, cupping over his pulse point, her fingers tangling in the few strands of Hair she couldn’t tie back.

“You’re not—you don’t—” She struggles to find the right words, the perfect way to express herself. “I don’t know how to say it…”

“’S’alright.” Harry assures her right away as he presses their palms together again. “You don’t need to say it, Y/N, I—fuck—!”

Harry cries out with pain, his injured hand falling back onto the ice pack covered pillow after he tried to move it.  Y/N immediately tends to it, securing the ice pack back around it quickly and carefully as Harry closes his eyes and lets his head fall back on the couch.

“Did you forget it’s sprained?” She asks him incredulously, cupping his cheek so he’ll look her in the eyes. “What were you trying to do?”

“I wanted to—your hair—” Harry grits his teeth, sucking in a quick breath as he struggles to control the pain. “I wanted to touch it, but I forgot…”

Y/N sighs, smoothing her thumb over his jaw. “You should go to bed.  It’s late.”

Harry nods slightly, his eyes glued to the ground as he lets go of your hand and carefully stands. “Thank you for your help.  I’ll get out of your hair—”

“What are you doing?” Y/N stands quickly, her arms automatically moving to support Harry. “You’re not leaving.  You can’t go home like this.”

Harry meets her eyes with a look of confusion before glancing around her small studio apartment. “You don’t have a guest room, Y/N.  Don’t worry about me, I’ve gone home looking worse.  It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.  You’re not going anywhere.” Y/N tugs carefully on the sleeve covering his good arm. “C’mon.  I have some clothes you can borrow.”

“I can’t stay—”

“Yes, you can.” She says stubbornly, her soft look transforming into a firm stare, as if she’s challenging him to challenge her. “It’s not a big deal, Harry.  Not unless you make it one.”

The corners of his lips twitch, and Y/N wants to plant kiss after kiss on the edge of his mouth until he gives her a true smile. “Fine, Doc.” Harry murmurs. “If you say so.”

Y/N helps him to her bathroom, setting him down on the edge of her tub before grabbing him clothes from her dresser.  Harry examines them after she hands them to him, a clear look of displeasure written on his face.

“These are men’s clothes.” He says quietly, holding up the sweatpants and t-shirt.

Y/N chews on her bottom lip. “Yeah.  They are.”

Harry stares at her for a beat, waiting for an elaboration.  When one doesn’t come, he decides to prompt it. “Whose clothes are these?”

“An ex.” Y/N says simply, her usual guard is back as she turns to open her bathroom cabinet. “There’s, um, a spare toothbrush in here.  Use anything you need.  I’ll…give you a moment to change.”

 As Harry changes (which takes longer than Y/N would’ve thought, but then again, it may be hard to do with one sprained hand), Y/N busies herself with cleaning up.  She tosses out the wipes and cotton pads stained with blood, and packs up her medical kit before setting it in her closet. As she pulls back the covers of her bed, a seed of regret begins to grow in her stomach.  Would she be able to handle sleeping next to Harry?  The idea of being encompassed by the smell of his cologne and musk for an extended period of time makes her woozy, and she’s beginning to consider sleeping on the couch when he emerges from the bathroom.

His build is bigger than that of her ex, so the t-shirt strains across his shoulders and arms. The pants fit nicely, but almost too nicely, if the way that Y/N can’t stop the thoughts that are racing through her head are any clue.

“They fit.” She says lamely as Harry approaches the bed, the ice pack still wrapped against his sprained hand. “That’s…that’s good.”

“Yeah.  Your ex and I are pretty close in size.” Harry sits on the edge of the bed, his every movement careful and calculated.  Now that the alcohol has completely left his system, Y/N can see how he’s assessing the situation with every passing moment.

Her instinct tells her that that’s good, and it’s what she should be doing too, but the memory of him touching her on the couch is too sweet to let her be cautious.  They’ve passed that point, she thinks, and so she pushes back the covers, giving Harry a long look.

“Come here.” Y/N says quietly, beckoning him towards her. “Please.”

It’s the small plea that gets to Harry, and he can’t stop himself from carefully moving underneath the blanket.  His warmth is immediately apparent, and Y/N thinks that the blankets are probably unnecessary if she’s going to be sleeping next to Harry’s fire all night.

Once he’s situated comfortably (or as comfortable as he can be with a sprained hand), Y/N flicks off her lamp, and darkness envelopes them.  It takes a minute of blinking in the darkness for her eyes to adjust, but she quickly finds Harry’s green irises in the darkness.  They give off their own light, she thinks, but that’s not surprising.

They lay there for a moment, each of them on their side, until Y/N decides to break the silence. “Hi.” She whispers into the space between them.

“Hi.” Harry’s low voice echoes back.  His minty breath rolls over her, and Y/N lets out a soft sigh after inhaling the scent. She likes it more than she should.

Quiet falls between them again as each of them takes in the other.  Y/N feels like she’s trying to memorize every plane of Harry’s face, like there’s going to be a quiz later and she needs to ace it.  Where are the creases between his eyebrows?  Where is his stubble the darkest?  Where is the tiny, crescent shaped scar?  Y/N commits every detail to memory, if only for her own pleasure.  Being this close to him reminds her that he’s real, and she can’t help but wonder if Harry is doing the same.

There’s a tenseness between them, and Y/N’s not quite sure how to fix it.  She’s certain she’ll never be able to relax around Harry, until his good hand reaches out and begins to stroke her hair.

The action is so tender and so gentle that her breath hitches in her chest.  Harry keeps his eyes locked on hers, his gaze intense and unrelenting as his fingers deftly work their way through her hair.  Y/N watches his chest rise and fall in time with his movements, and there’s something about the synchronized actions that calms her racing heart.

A flicker of emotion in Harry’s eyes is the last thing she registers before her own eyes drift shut.

…

The note is scribbled messily on a scrap of paper from her kitchen note pad, left on the pillow for Y/N to find the next morning.

Thanks again for the help. -H

…

“Patrick, you can’t be fucking serious.”

The gym owner gives her a sharp look as he taps ash off his cigarette. “Do I look like I’m one for jokes, Doc?”

Y/N’s mouth gapes open for a moment, her grip tightening on the back of the office chair. “Harry can’t fight tonight!  He hurt his hand!  Haven’t you listened to anything I told you?”

“Honestly, Doc, the only thing I listened to was Styles himself telling me he was fine.” Patrick gives Y/N a pointed look. “He wants to fight, so he’s going to fight.”

“It’s your gym!” Y/N yells, the anger inside her outweighing the feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. “Tell him no!”

Puffing on his cigarette, Patrick shakes his head once. “I’m not doing that.  Those people out there paid to see Styles fight, and that’s what they’re going to get.”

“They’re not going to see Harry fight.” Y/N spits out through gritted teeth. “They’re going to see Harry lose!”

“That’s his business.” Patrick shrugs nonchalantly, as if they’re not discussing how Harry’s blood is about to be splattered against the off-white vinyl of the ring. “I make my money either way, Doc.”

“And that’s your business, isn’t it?” Y/N says scathingly, pushing away from the chair.  She lets her nails dig into her palms instead. “You don’t care who gets hurt, as long as you get your money!”

Patrick stands up now, his agitation beginning to show. “I’m not the bad guy here, Y/N.  Harry says he’s good to fight, so he’s fighting.  I’m not his babysitter, and I’m not his mother.  He’s old enough to make his own decisions.”

Y/N opens her mouth again, but no sound comes out.  Instead, she gives Patrick one last look of fury before storming out of his office, slamming the door behind her.

She should’ve known.  She should’ve known that Harry would still try to fight tonight, despite his sprained hand that’s had less than two days to heal.  In all honesty, the thought that he would try to fight never even occurred to her until she walked into the gym tonight and overheard multiple men talking in excitement about the match.  When she first heard the name Styles, she had been sure she that was mishearing the conversations.  But then it happened again.  And again. And when she realized that Harry planned on fighting, she had been certain, so foolishly certain, that Patrick would cancel the match when she explained the situation.  

It’s her own fault, she thinks, making her way into the crowd to watch the match.  It’s her own fault for getting too comfortable, for believing that anyone would listen to what she says.  The way Harry had looked at her made her believe that her words mattered, but tonight…this is a harsh reminder of what the world is really like.

If she thought there would be any chance of convincing Harry to call off the match, Y/N would storm the locker room in an instant, yelling and screaming and pleading until Harry saw sense.  It was a double-edged sword, really.  She knows him now, which makes her care for him more than ever before.  And knowing him means knowing that he won’t back down from this match.

Y/N knows it’s going to be bad when Harry walks out with his sprained hand held awkwardly at his side, his face void of its usual calm and collected expression.  But she knows it’s going to be a blood bath when Adam Bowers immediately follows him.

While Harry is doing his best to not show the pain and weakness on his face, Bowers is snarling at him from across the ring, rage and fury written into every one of his movements.  It’s clear that Bowers wants his revenge for the humiliation Harry caused him in his very first match, and Y/N knows that he’ll stop at nothing to get it.

While most of the short match is watched from behind her hands, Y/N doesn’t miss the important moments.  Harry on all fours, spitting blood out onto the vinyl matt.  Harry barely dodging a punch, only to take a fist to his chest and having the wind knocked out of him.  Harry gritting his teeth as his fist connects with Bowers’ jaw, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make him angry.  Harry facedown on the floor of the ring, breath barely moving in and out of his body as blood streams from a gash on his head, mixing with the blood already flowing from his nose.  

As the fear and panic seizes Y/N’s body, everything around her begins to move in slow motion.  She sees the crowd roar, but does not hear it.  She sees the referee drag Bowers away from Harry’s limp body, but does not hear the words he’s yelling.  She sees Jeff run into the ring, but does not hear him calling for help.  She sees Patrick run towards her, but does not hear him screaming her name until the fourth or fifth time.

“Y/N!” He yells again, grabbing her arm and yanking her behind him as he tears through the crowd. “Come on!”

Y/N lets herself be pulled back to the locker room, which is being transformed into a makeshift E.R.  Men that she’s never met before are opening a folding table over the bench, tossing training mats on top of it to make a poor man’s gurney.  Patrick takes the medical kit from her hands, opening it roughly and throwing a pair of clean gloves at her.  If she were in a clearer state of mind, Y/N would scream at him, demand to know why he allowed this to happen, but the sound of Jeff’s yelling signals Harry’s arrival, and all thoughts rush out of her head.

Jeff and another man carry Harry into the locker room, and while Y/N can tell they’re trying to be careful, groans are leaving Harry’s mouth as they lay him face up on the folding table, displaying the full extent of his injuries.

And here it is.  The fall of Harry Styles.

Bruises are blossoming over every inch of skin that she can see, new tattoos that she hates the meaning behind, but those are the least of her worries. There’s swelling and agitation in his sprained hand (which she suspects is now broken), along with blood spilling from his split knuckles.  His nose is swollen and bleeding, his lip is cut open, and there’s a black eye forming on his face at an alarming rate.  His cut from a few nights ago has split open again, three times as wide, two times as deep, and the blood pouring down his face is getting into his half shut eyes.

That’s where Y/N decides to start.

She takes a deep breath to center herself, pushing all of her emotions out of her as best as she can.  Harry needs her right now.  He needs her to take care of him in the way that only she can.

Y/N ties her hair out of her face quickly before snapping on the gloves. She pushes Jeff and Patrick out of the way, grabbing her penlight from her kit and stepping towards Harry.

“Harry.” She speaks in a calm but firm voice. “Open your eyes for me, Harry. Can you do that?”

His eyelids flutter at her voice, the green that she’s come to know barely peaking through.  Y/N flicks on the penlight, carefully raising one of his eyelids and then the other while shining the light in his eyes.  The dilation of his pupils is slightly uneven, but Y/N ignores the sick feeling that it causes in her stomach so that she can continue to work.

“Jeff.” She calls over her shoulder. “Put on gloves and apply pressure to the gash on his forehead.  Keep talking to him while you do it.”

Jeff steps forward and follows her instructions exactly.  She hears him muttering to Harry, but can’t make out the words as her focus shifts to Harry’s abdomen.  His breathing is still shallow, much too shallow for her liking, and she’s worried that something is affecting his lungs.

“Patrick, I need my stetho—” Before Y/N finishes the sentence, Patrick is already holding out the item for her, swapping it for her penlight.  She mutters a quick “thank you” as she slips the ends in her ears. “Harry, I need you to take a deep breath for me, alright?” She places the stethoscope on his chest. “As deep as you can.”

Harry sucks in a breath, but quickly moans in pain.

Y/N curses under her breath. “Again, Harry.  As deep as you can.”

Again, the only breath he can take is shallow and constricted.  Y/N loops the stethoscope around her neck as she begins to examine his chest, her fingers prodding around the bruises.  When she gets to his ribs, Harry lets out another cry, jerking forward on the table.

“Keep him still.” Y/N commands Jeff and the other man, who she finally recognizes as a gym trainer named Nick.  She pushes on the same spot, her face grim as she receives the same reaction.

“I think he has a fractured rib.” She glances at Jeff before continuing her examination. “Just one, I think, but there’s definitely something wrong.  It doesn’t feel completely broken, or like there’s any splinters, but that last hit to his chest—” Y/N’s demeanor begins to slip as she remembers the sight of Harry lying on the floor of the ring, and she shakes her head to clear the image from her mind.  She needs to focus. “Yeah.  Fractured rib.”

Y/N moves through the checklist in her mind, turning her attention to Harry’s injured hand.  It’s still wrapped from his fight, so she grabs her bandage scissors from her bag to get a better look at the damage.  She tries to be careful as she cuts, but she knows Harry’s in pain, and she wishes she had stronger medicine to offer than an extra strength ibuprofen.

It doesn’t take her long to guess that his hand is fractured.  Of course, she can’t be entirely sure without an X-ray, but the closest thing to an X-ray machine that she has at her disposal is the vending machine down the hall.  Y/N does her best to clean the cuts on his knuckles, carefully bandaging them before looking up at Patrick.

“Go to the pharmacy and buy a hand brace.” She tells him as she wraps a cold compress around Harry’s hand. “Something sturdy.  And get more painkillers.”

Patrick disappears with a nod, leaving Y/N with just Jeff and Nick to help her.  She sets another cold compress over his abdomen before working her way up to the injuries that look the worst.

Harry’s nose, she’s surprised to find, isn’t broken.  She can touch it without hearing any cracking sounds, and, to her relief, the majority of the blood beneath his nose is from the initial hit. She instructs Jeff to hold another cold compress lightly to the area before she moves to the gash on his forehead.

From the first look, Y/N knows it’s bad.  Despite the pressure Jeff’s been applying, the gash hasn’t stopped bleeding, and seems to be tearing more every time Harry’s forehead contracts in pain. She wipes more blood from the area as the dread in her stomach grows.

“I think…” Y/N takes a deep breath through her mouth. “I’m going to have to stitch it.”

Jeff and Nick exchange a look with each other as Y/N pushes back Harry’s sweat and blood slicked curls from his forehead.

“Nick, grab me two ibuprofen and some water.  And Jeff, pass me my suturing kit, will you?  It’s probably towards the bottom of my bag.” Y/N waits until the two men are preoccupied with their tasks to address Harry.  His eyes are still closed, but he’s vocal enough to voice when he’s in pain. “Harry.” She murmurs, smoothing his hair again. “Harry, do you know where you are?”

Harry sucks in another shallow breath as his eyelids crack open. “I-I’m—the locker room.  In the locker room.”

Y/N nods quickly. “You are.  Do you remember what happened?”

“Had a…” Harry’s brow furrows, causing a fresh stream of blood to drip from the gash.  Y/N applies more pressure as he speaks. “Had a match.  Got hurt.”

“You did.” Y/N nods again, glancing at the medicine in Nick’s hand. Harry’s responses ease her worries of a serious concussion, so she motions Nick over. “You have a bad cut on your forehead, Harry, so I need you to take this medicine before I fix it, alright?”

Harry makes a noise of understanding in the back of his throat, and Y/N swaps out her gloves and prepares her sutures while Nick helps Harry swallow the pills.  She prays that she hasn’t underestimated the severity of his head injury, and that the medicine won’t do more damage than good.  She knows it’s risky, but she just wants to give him something to ease his pain, even if it’s only a fraction of the painkillers he actually needs.

Jeff sets up a folding chair for Y/N, so she can sit and be more comfortable as she stitches the gash closed.  Y/N steadies herself against the cold metal chair before turning her attention back to Harry.

“I’m going to stitch you now, Harry, alright?” She says in a clear voice. “It—it’s going to hurt, but I have to do it.  If the pain gets really bad—” she nods at Jeff, who takes Harry’s uninjured hand in his own. “Squeeze Jeff’s hand, but only with your left hand. Do you understand?”

Harry manages to mutter a weak “yeah,” before his eyes clamp shut again.

Stitching somebody up in a locker room is about as awful as Y/N imagined it would be.

She knows that each tug of the needle through Harry’s skin hurts him badly, and with no anesthetic, the pain only increases with each stitch.  Harry, to his credit, does his best to stay still, gritting his teeth and squeezing Jeff’s hand until it turns blue, but small moans and whimpers still escape him every few minutes.  When Y/N finally finishes, cleaning and bandaging the now-closed wound, the entire room breathes a sigh of relief.

Patrick returns a few minutes later with more medicine and a brace, which Y/N carefully straps onto Harry’s fractured hand.  After that, all that’s left for her to do is to wipe more blood from his face and say a prayer.

The pain medication now finally starting to kick in, Harry begins to doze off, his breathing shallow yet even.  It’s not until his eyes completely close that the exhaustion and emotions catch up with Y/N, and she leans against the lockers, her back sliding down them until she’s seated on the ground with her knees pulled to her chest.

Patrick crouches down next to her, taking off her plastic gloves and handing her a water bottle. “You did good, Doc.” He mutters, rubbing her shoulder. “Really good.”

Y/N takes the water from him, but offers no other response.  It’ll take her a bit of time to forgive Patrick for this, she thinks, although she knows most of the blame is on Harry’s shoulders.  

Jeff sits down in the metal hair he brought for Y/N and lets out a long sigh. “Thank you, Y/N.  If it weren’t for you, I don’t know…”

“He shouldn’t have been fighting tonight, Jeff.” Y/N says in a thick voice, her fingers picking at the label on the bottle. “He was injured, and—”

“I tried to stop him.” Jeff glances at Harry’s sleeping form. “He’s so fucking stubborn.  He insisted on fighting.”

“No more.” Y/N shakes her head. “No more fights.  Not until he’s completely recovered.”

No one contradicts her.

Nick reappears in the doorway, despite Y/N not even realizing he had left the room, with a pair of keys in his hand. “I got the car ready, Jeff.  We can move him whenever.”

“Where are you taking him?” Y/N asks, and while she hopes the answer is “a hospital,” she knows it won’t be.

“Back to his apartment.” Jeff stands up slowly, wiping his hands on his pants. “I’ll stay with him for a bit, make sure he’s alright.” He glances at Y/N. “Can I call you if—?”

Y/N nods before he even finishes the sentence, her eyes trained on the rise and fall of Harry’s chest.  It had soothed her less two nights before, and its continuation still soothed her now. “Yeah.  Call me if he needs anything.  I’ll come right over.”

…

It takes five days for Harry’s name to pop up on Y/N’s phone screen.  

While she normally keeps her phone on do not disturb during class, she programmed his number to come through, just in case there was any sort of emergency.  The sound of her phone vibrating on her desk makes her jump, and she sends an apologetic look to her professor, reaching to turn it off.  When she sees Harry’s name, however, her heart begins to pound.

She ducks outside the classroom quickly before she answers.  Y/N had been dying to hear from Jeff on Harry’s recovery, but now that the call was actually coming, she worries that the call isn’t just for an update.

“Jeff?” She asks, assuming the coach is on the other line. “Is everything alright?”

“Uh—” It takes just one syllable for Y/N’s heart to stop. “It’s Harry, not Jeff.”

Y/N walks further away from her classroom, glancing around to see if she’s alone. “It’s good to hear your voice.” Y/N murmurs. “How—how are you feeling?”

A dry chuckle echoes through the phone. “Like shit, but that’s to be expected. Jeff told me I have a fractured rib?”

“And a fractured hand, and a mild concussion.” Y/N bites her lip. “Your nose wasn’t broken, though, so…at least there’s that.”

“Yeah.  There’s that.”

Y/N rubs her eyes as she leans against the corridor wall, her gaze trained on the trees outside the window. “I—Jeff said he’d call me if there was anything wrong, so—I would’ve stopped by—”

“No, I’ve been fine.  Just in pain, but that’s to be expected.” Harry assures her.  Y/N can almost picture him running his (not broken) hand through his hair. “You’re busy with school.  I understand.”

“Yeah, but—” Y/N lowers her voice as a group of students walks by. “My class finishes in an hour.  Can I come see you tonight?”

There’s silence on the other end, and for a moment, Y/N begins to worry that she’s overstepped a boundary.  She opens her mouth to apologize when Harry finally answers.

“Yeah.  You can.”

…

Y/N’s medical knowledge tells her that things have to get worse before they can get better.  She’s seen it time and time again, not only in cases she studies, but in her life. For things to heal, they have to hurt.

And yet, when Harry opens the door to his apartment, her breath still freezes in her chest.

More bruises have settled in since she last saw him in the locker room. Dark purple stains down his skin, across his jaw, under his eye, and if Harry wasn’t wearing a black t-shirt, she knows she would see more scattered across his chest.  To Y/N’s relief, however, the swelling in his face has gone down, and it’s obvious that the bandage over his stitched wound has been changed, albeit a bit clumsily.  His fractured hand is held gently at his side, so as not to agitate it, but Y/N can tell that the fractured rib is bothering him as he breathes carefully.

“Hi.” Harry opens the door wider, stepping back to allow her inside. “Come on in.”

Y/N steps over the threshold, her gaze turning from Harry’s injuries to his apartment.  It’s a little bigger than hers, she notices, and estimates that it’s a one bedroom with actual spaces dedicated for separate things.  Although he mostly sticks to a grey colour pallet in his minimalist decorating, Y/N can pick out objects that tell her this is where Harry lives.  A framed photo of him and a woman who looks just like him sits on the table next to the couch.  A pair of red boxing gloves dangle off the edge of the closet door. Harry’s familiar cologne lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of a candle he has lit in the living room. Despite the grey tones, the apartment feels just as warm as Harry does.

“I like your place.” Y/N stands in the hallway awkwardly, not sure of where to go. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks.” Harry shuts the door with his good hand before gesturing for her to sit down. “You can, uh, sit on the couch if you’d like.  Do you want something to drink?”

Y/N shakes her head. “No, I’m fine, thank you.  But you should drink some water.”

An unbelieving laugh leaves Harry’s mouth, but he moves to the kitchen nonetheless. “Are you telling me what to do in my own home?”

“Yes.  You have to be hydrated to heal.” Y/N watches as Harry fills two glasses with a water filter from the fridge, her mouth falling open slightly when Harry manages to pick up both filled glasses with his good hand.  Although the sight sets off a familiar flutter in her stomach, she manages to come to her senses enough to snap her mouth shut again by the time he turns around.

Harry sets the glass down on the coffee table in front of her before gingerly sitting down on the other side of the couch.  While he’s trying to mask his discomfort, Y/N can detect it easily.

“Is it your rib?” She asks, worry slipping into her voice. “Is it hurting you?”

Harry manages to give a small shrug. “’S not awful.  I’ve been taking some ibuprofen for pain, like you said.”

Y/N twists her ring around her finger, the fidgeting helping to keep her centered. “I’d get you something stronger if I could, but—”

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Y/N.” Harry cuts over her with a firm look. “Don’t worry about it.”

Y/N can’t look at Harry.  She can’t. If she does, she knows that all she’s going to be able to see is the bruises and bandages and braces, and she’ll start to cry.  And if she starts to cry, she won’t stop, and then she’ll just be upset and crying in Harry’s living room, all because she looked at him, and that’s not what she’s going to do.  She repeats the thought in her head like a mantra.  That’s not what she’s going to do.  That’s not what she’s going to do.

And then she looks at Harry.

Harry is already looking at her.  The longer they’ve spent together, the more she’s noticed cracks in his calm façade, and in this moment, those cracks are wide open.  The problem, however, is that Y/N can never decipher what exactly those cracks show her.  Harry’s face, even while emotional, is unreadable.  She can’t understand the feelings swirling through his green eyes any more than she can understand the flexing and unflexing of his uninjured hand. Is it a nervous tic?  Is he trying to calm himself, like Y/N does when she plays with her ring?  Is he trying to restrain himself from reaching over to touch her, like the night he showed up at her door?  While all those questions flip through her mind, only one passes through her lips.

“Why did you do it, Harry?” She asks, voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder will shatter the space between them.

Harry takes a long sip of water like he’s stalling for an answer, trying to find anything worth saying. “I needed the money, Y/N.  And I couldn’t—getting the shit beat out of me by Bowers was better than forfeiting to him.  I couldn’t do that.  I couldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

“That—” Y/N sucks in a breath, trying to remind her lungs to move the air in and out of her body. “That is…ridiculously idiotic, and prideful, and stupid, and a million other things, but that’s not what I meant.” She steels herself before meeting Harry’s eyes again, willing herself to sound less like a child and more like a woman. “I was asking why you left me that morning, after…after you stayed the night.”

For the first time since she arrived, it’s Harry’s eyes that are unable to meet hers.  He drops his gaze to his injured hand, cradling it in his lap, and Y/N takes his silence as a signal for her to continue.

“You just—I told you it was fine for you to stay.  And then the next morning you were gone, and your note…” Y/N can’t help but scoff. “‘Thanks again for the help’?  Really?  That’s all you had to say to me?”

Harry clears his throat as his good hand begins to tap against his thigh. “It’s not all I had to say, I just—I couldn’t say everything in a note.”

“Why did you even have to leave a note?” Y/N asks incredulously. “That’s the whole point, Harry!  You left, didn’t call me, or tell me that you were alright, and then the next time I saw you, you were getting beat half to death.  That’s not…fair.”

At that word, Harry’s eyes widen, and his face contorts into an expression Y/N can finally read: disbelief. “Fair?” He repeats, accent thick. “It’s not fair?  Nothing in life is fair, Y/N.  I didn’t call you because I’m not yours, and you’re not mine.  I let myself pretend a bit that night, while I was drunk, but I shouldn’t have.  If there’s anything that wasn’t fair, anything I have to apologize for, it’s that.”

The tears come then, pricking her eyes with an irritating heat as she drops her gaze into her lap. “So you—you showed up at my apartment in the middle of the night, bleeding and injured and drunk, and you spend the night so I can make sure you’re safe, and the only thing you think you have to apologize for is—is pretending?” Y/N shakes her head. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I shouldn’t even have been there in the first place.  And after I showed up, I should’ve been more careful. More in control.” Harry stares down at his hands again, not to avoid her gaze, but to think about what they did that night. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like I did.  I shouldn’t have asked questions.  I shouldn’t have touched you.  I shouldn’t have crossed all the lines I set for myself months ago.  But I did, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not sorry.” Y/N wraps her arms around herself tightly, and although the force against her is comforting, she’d prefer it if the arms weren’t hers. “I’d rather you come to me for help than stumble home in the dark, and I…” A chill runs through her, and she rubs her arms a bit to keep warm.  Being away from Harry and his fire takes its toll. “I didn’t mind you asking questions, or touching me.  I liked it.  I thought I made that obvious.”

Harry’s face flicks back to the expression that she’s unable to read. “Nevertheless—”

“Do you honestly think you’re the only one who set lines and boundaries?” Y/N turns her gaze back to Harry, taking in the closed off posture he displays. She hates it almost as much as she hates her own guarded appearance. “I did, too, but the more we talked, the more I started to waver.  The boundaries were out the window the moment you stepped into my apartment, Harry.  And we can go back and forth and debate who crossed what line first, but the truth is, we both knew exactly what we were doing, so don’t—” Y/N gestures at him, how he’s turned his body away from her. “Don’t sit there and act like you’re the only one to blame when I took every step with you.”

Her final words are followed by silence and all the sounds that fill it. The ticking of the clock on the wall, the dripping of the kitchen sink, the laboured sound of Harry’s shallow breathing, the pounding of Y/N’s own heart.  She focuses on each individual sound, each one an ode to whatever it is that’s been hanging between them since the night they met, until Harry finally responds in a low and controlled voice.

“I didn’t think that you…wanted me like that.” He begins slowly, his body finally turning to look at Y/N straight on.  She can see the strain on his face, and how difficult this movement is for him, but he doesn’t stop until he can meet her eyes.

The sight of his green irises takes all the fight out of her.

“How could you not realize that?” Y/N crosses her legs underneath her, placing her palms flat against her thighs.  If she wants to have an open conversation, she thinks, then she needs to be open.

“Because you’re you.  And I’m…” Harry’s head turns just for a moment as he gathers his thoughts. “I told you last week.  You’re a healer, in every sense of the word, and I’m the complete opposite.”

“And I told you,” Y/N says stubbornly. “That I don’t buy that for a minute.  I meant it when I said I wasn’t afraid of you.  And for once, you were being honest, and I thought that we were going to move forward together.”

A sharp laugh falls from Harry’s lips, followed by a wince as his good hand rubs gently over his ribs. “Honest?  Do you have any idea of how much I managed to hold back that night? I was half pissed, sitting on your couch, feeling you touch me, while things I had never said out loud before were coming out of my mouth, and I still didn’t tell you the worst of it.” Harry drags his hand through his hair roughly. “I don’t know, maybe I should’ve. Maybe you would’ve left by now, and saved yourself the trouble.”

“Stop it!” Y/N takes his hand, weaving their fingers together like she did when he was at her apartment. “You keep—it’s like you want to create this narrative where I’m good and you’re bad.  That’s not true!” She presses her other hand over his. “We’re both here.  We both ended up in the same place.”

“But what about after?” Harry’s voice is tight as his gaze settles on their locked hands. “The difference between us is that you have a life outside of that gym that’s waiting for you.  But the gym is my life.  Boxing is my life.  I don’t have any other career to hold out for, Y/N.  There’s nothing for me except boxing, and there’s everything for you.”

“What about me?” Y/N brings Harry’s fingers to her lips, pressing small kisses to the tips like he had done for her. “You could have boxing and me. If you were just honest with me, if you opened up completely, I’d do the same.”

Harry exhales slowly, closing his eyes at the feeling of your lips dancing over his hand. “It doesn’t work like that, Y/N.  I wish it did, but it doesn’t.”

“Who decides if it works like that?”

The corner of Harry’s lip twitches, and Y/N knows he’s remembering one of the first conversations they had, when he asked who decided what he needed to know.  Y/N wonders if that was the first line that was crossed.

“I do.” Harry says after a moment. “I decide.”

…

With how little she knows about Harry, Y/N would’ve expected forgetting him to be easier.

She can count on one hand the number of personal facts that she knows about him, with at least three of them involve his boxing, and yet…when she’s home in the evenings, her schoolwork done, her mind free to roam, it’s always Harry’s face that she sees.

Y/N had known that Harry’s first night back would be hard.  After six weeks of being away from the ring, recovering from his injuries, Harry’s return to the ring would be the first time she’s seen him since he got hurt.  Patrick had forewarned her about him coming back two weeks ago, and although he mentioned it like an update, Y/N knows he was saying it to caution her.  She had assured him that Harry’s return had no personal meaning to her, and no affect on her, but as she makes her way to the locker rooms after the match, her nerves are as high strung as they’ve ever been.

The match between Harry and an unexperienced boxer named Jackson ends within minutes, with Harry the unsurprising victor, but the match had only been a small source of her anxiety.  As she set Jackson’s nose (Harry seems to be back to his old patterns), her mind was on one thing and one thing only.

Compared to the last time she saw Harry’s locker room, the place looks like a paradise.  The floors are stained with sweat instead of blood.  The brown stains in the sink are only from rust.  And the blood that’s splattered on Harry’s forehead isn’t his own.

“You’re getting quicker, Doc.” Jeff comments in lieu of a hello. “Harry hasn’t even had time to shower yet.”

Y/N glances at the sweaty boxer sitting on the bench, who is currently preoccupied with the incredibly difficult task of unwrapping his hands. “I’ve had more practice, I suppose.”

Taking her seat next to Harry, she opens her case and slips on a pair of disposable gloves.  Jeff and Patrick stand in the corner, discussing Harry’s return to the ring, as Y/N focuses on the work that she’s here to do.

“You have a bruise on your jaw, but that’s about it.” Y/N touches his chin gently, tilting his head to a different angle. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Harry says shortly, giving a quick nod of his head. “Yeah, I feel fine.  It felt good to be out there again.”

Y/N’s eyes flicker to the new scar on his forehead before turning her attention to his hands. “Did you wrap your right hand tighter tonight?”

“I did.” Harry nods again. “And I’ve been using the brace at home, like you told me to.”

“Good.” After a quick check, Y/N moves to his abdomen, pressing carefully. “Have you been having any difficulties breathing?”

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s much better.  It only hurts if I stretch a lot, and only for a second.”

“Just some residual bruising, probably.” Y/N bites her lip as her fingers brush over his tattoos. “It’s to be expected.”

Harry’s gaze finally catches her own, as unreadable and cavernous as ever, and Y/N clears her throat as she pulls her hands away. “I think you’re all good. Jackson barely touched you tonight.”

“I wanted to give him someone easy to ease him back into the ring.” Patrick joins the conversation. “I need to build my champion back up.”

Irritation flickers across Harry’s face for a brief moment.  Y/N can tell that he doesn’t like the idea of being eased into something.

“We appreciate it, Patrick.” Jeff claps a hand over the gym owner’s shoulder. “Why don’t we go discuss next week in your office?”

Patrick glances at Y/N, who’s busying herself with rooting around in her medical kit. “Yeah.  Alright.” He says after a moment. “Are you two good here?”

Y/N nods, not lifting her head to watch the two men leave the locker room. She keeps her eyes glued to anything but Harry as she stands, snapping off her gloves and tossing them in the trash.

“Well, you’re good to go.” She says after a moment. “I’ll, um, I’ll see you next week.”

“Wait.” Harry catches her arm when she reaches for the kit. “Y/N, wait, I—just wait.”

The familiar burn of Harry touching her courses through her arm, and Y/N bites her lip to keep the sigh of relief from slipping out of her. “What?”

“Look at me.” Harry murmurs, his voice lower than normal. “Please look at me.”

Y/N finally raises her head, looking Harry in the eyes again.  She can tell he’s searching for something in her stare, but she’s not sure what.  If she knew, she’d give it to him in a heartbeat.  Or maybe she’d withhold it, she muses, so that he’d keep searching, his arm on hers.

“What?” She asks after a moment, Harry still looking up at her. “What? What is it?”

“I…” Harry clears his throat as his hand drops slightly, his grip falling from her forearm to her wrist. “Did you watch the match?”

Y/N nods, hoping her disappointment at the innocence of his question isn’t too apparent on her face. “I did.  I always do.”

“I know, but I wasn’t sure if…” Harry’s gaze flickers to his hand on your wrist. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

“It’s my job.” Y/N tries to sound professional, tries to reinstate the boundaries that they so carelessly broke, but there’s nothing professional about the way Harry is threading his fingers through hers as he pulls her back down to the bench.

“I missed you.” He says quietly, his thumb moving over the back of her knuckles. “I wanted to call, but I didn’t want to…I wanted you to move on.”

“Is that why you’re holding my hand?” Y/N raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t pull away.

Harry tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. “Holding your hand is more for myself right now.”

“You can’t do that, Harry.” Y/N’s voice grows tighter as she wills herself to pull her hand away. “You can’t just—you can’t say things like that.  Not after what you said before.”

“I know—”

“No, you don’t.” Y/N finally pulls her hand away, grabbing her medical kit before taking a step back from him.  Harry watches her movements with disappointed eyes. “You don’t know.  You don’t want to give us a chance?  You don’t want to open yourself up to me? Then fine.  Don’t.  But don’t expect me to do anything more than my job.  Is that understood?”

Harry’s mouth presses into a tight line. “Understood.”

…

It’s four A.M. when Harry knocks on Y/N’s door two weeks later.

Y/N, like most people at this time of the very early morning, is in bed when she hears the frantic knocking on her front door.  She’s been asleep for less than two hours, having only made it back home from that night’s match at two A.M. (Harry had dislocated his opponent’s shoulder, as well as split the skin of his forehead, and it took her some time to clean them up), and almost doesn’t get up.  Her neighbours have no problem with making as much noise as they see fit at any time of the day, and she assumes it’s one of their drunk friends trying to find a place to stay overnight.  Thinking she’ll just wait for them to go away, Y/N pulls her comforter up to her chin tightly.

And then the person knocks again.  And again.  And again.

Once it’s clear that she won’t be getting any sleep until she deals with whoever is pounding on her front door, Y/N angrily pulls herself out from under her covers, throwing a hoodie over her tank top to cover herself.  She grumbles to herself as she walks from her bed to her front door, ready to curse out whoever it is that gets so drunk that they can’t remember which apartment their friends live in.

And then she sees Harry.

He looks more or less the same as he did when Y/N left him at the gym two hours ago, save for the black eye that’s darkened in her absence.  His curls are wild, falling carelessly over his shoulders to dust the top of his long jacket.  He’s dressed in casual street clothes, covering up the tattoos that Y/N’s gotten so used to seeing every week.  His expression, like always, is unreadable, but when Y/N meets Harry’s eyes after he looks her up and down, she can define one thing: longing.

Then again, she may just be imagining that as a symptom of sleep deprivation.

“Harry, what are you doing here?” Y/N demands, opening her door a little wider once she realizes that he’s not a stranger. “It’s four in the morning!”

“I know.  I’m sorry.” Harry glances over her shoulder, as if he’s checking to make sure she’s alone. “Can I come in?”

Y/N’s mouth drops open in confusion, but she still takes a step back from the door.  Where else is he supposed to go at this time of night? “I—yeah.  Alright.”

Harry walks into her apartment slowly, his eyes scanning her living space like he’s seeing it for the first time.  Y/N thinks that maybe he doesn’t remember much about it from when he was last here, seeing he had been drunk and in pain at the time.  Still, she doesn’t appreciate how he seems to be evaluating how she lives, especially when he smirks as he spots the teddy bear on her bed that she had hidden when he was last there.

“Did I wake you?” Harry asks slowly, as if the idea that Y/N had been sleeping had just occurred to him.

“It’s four in the morning.” Y/N repeats in a deadpan voice. “Yes.  You woke me, and you better have a damn good reason for it.” Her eyes scan over his body again, in case there’s an injury from the fight that she didn’t notice before.  Or a stab wound.  Honestly, with Harry, she feels like there are any number of things that he could show up at her door to ask for help with.

And she knows that she’d help him.  No matter what.

Harry rakes a hand through his loose hair, and Y/N wonders how his rings don’t get caught as he does it.  Then she tells herself to stop looking at his rings, because if she looks at his rings, she’ll look at his hands, and if she looks at his hands—

“My dad left when I was a kid.”

Harry’s voice snaps Y/N out of her thoughts.  She refocuses on him, watching as the cracks in his façade slowly open up again to reveal the nervousness behind his words.

“What?” She asks, brow furrowing in confusion.  Y/N thinks that she should tell him to sit, but by the energy radiating off of Harry, she doesn’t think he’ll listen.

“My dad left when I was a kid.” Harry repeats, his voice wavering for just a second.  He clears his throat before continuing. “I was around seven when he ran off, and then it was just my mum, my sister, and I.  My mum did her best to take care of us herself, but it—it was hard.  We never really had much, and what we did have, she spent on my sister and I, to make sure that we were alright.”

“Harry, I don’t understand.” Y/N reaches for him hesitantly, but pauses before her fingers actually make contact with his jacket. “Why are you telling me this?”

Harry licks his lips once, and Y/N watches as he flexes and unflexes his right hand. “I’m trying to…to be open.  To be honest.”

A beat passes between them before Y/N comprehends his words. “You—what?”

“You said I had to be honest with you.” Harry’s teeth worry his bottom lip, chewing it for a moment before he continues. “And I-I want to try it.  I want to make this work—make us work. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few weeks, but tonight, when you were helping me after the match, I just—” The words are spilling out of him faster than they ever have before, like a dam has burst, and Harry is getting washed away in the flood.  And taking Y/N with him. “I wanted to kiss you.  I almost did, but that wouldn’t be right of me, because you told me what you wanted, and what you needed, so I went home, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and missing you, and wanting you, because I want you so bad, Y/N—”

“Harry.” Y/N touches his shoulder this time, rubbing her hand against him in soothing circles. “Take a deep breath, yeah?  Slow down.  How about we sit down on the couch, and I’ll get us a drink, and then we’ll talk, okay?”

Harry’s eyes soften at the suggestion, and colour rushes to his cheeks, flushing his pale skin to a light pink. “Yeah.” He mumbles, his hands rubbing over the sleeves of his jacket. “I want that.”

The way he says, “I want that,” such a simple phrase, causes Y/N’s heart to thump in her chest.  There’s something so sincere in his tone, but Y/N doesn’t want to let herself hope. She needs to hear everything he has to say before she lets herself be that foolish.

Y/N walks to her tiny kitchen, pulling out two glasses and filling them halfway with whiskey and ice.  The whiskey had been a gift from that year’s secret Santa gift exchange in the nursing program, and Y/N had yet to open it, as she doesn’t have much of a taste for sipping liquors.  However, tonight seems to call for something stronger than regular beer.

When Y/N returns to Harry, he’s stripped off his long jacket, but his patterned shirt doesn’t seem to be warm enough to stop him from shivering.  Y/N hands the drink to him, frowning as she touches his arm.

“Are you cold?” She asks in concern, despite his skin feeling as warm to her touch as it usually is. “I can get you a sweater…”

Harry shakes his head once, taking a long sip of the whiskey. “No, just—nervous, I suppose.”

Y/N nods softly, pulling her feet under her to sit cross-legged on the couch. She wants to watch Harry straight on as he speaks. “Finish what you were saying earlier.” She murmurs. “If…you can.”

“Can’t remember how far into my speech I got.” Harry laughs once, short and anxious, his hand tugging on his hair again. “I was rehearsing it on my walk over, but I blanked the moment you opened the door.”

“There was something about…” Y/N wraps her hands around her full glass. “Needing me?”

Harry’s cheeks pinken again. “Right.  Yeah.  That’s quite…new for me.  I’ve never needed someone before in a—in the way that I need you.  I have my mum and sister, and Jeff, but you…you’re different.” He busies himself with another sip of his drink. “It’s like…it’s so confusing, Y/N.  I know I shouldn’t.  I’ve had that talk with myself countless times, and with you, and I’ve told myself that you’re so much better off without me, but I just can’t make myself let you go.”

Y/N purses her lips, her eyes dropping to her lap as she answers in a careful and controlled voice. “I feel the same.  I haven’t stopped thinking about you in weeks.  I don’t think I’m capable of it, really.  You’re—you’re under my skin.  And it’s new, and strange, and uncomfortable, but only when I’m away from you.  When I’m with you, it feels as easy as breathing.”

Harry rubs his lips, and Y /N can tell that he’s still processing what she said, which she doesn’t blame him for.  When he continues with his story, instead of commenting on her response, she feels a sense of relief.  He’s not retreating back into the familiarity of being guarded.  Not yet. “So…so my dad left.  And Mum tried, but we weren’t in a super good place.  Gemma wanted to go to college, so she took out loans, and my mum remortgaged the house, and…all the bills piled up at once.  And I didn’t even know until we were about to lose the house.  I found her crying one day, my mum…” Harry’s eyes get a far away look in them. “She said she…felt like she failed us, which is ridiculous, because she’s—she’s just the best,” A smile flickers on Harry’s face for a brief moment. “You’d like her.” He takes another sip of whiskey before continuing. “Well, I had just graduated high school, and I didn’t really have any…plans.  College didn’t seem that important at the moment, so I went to work. I had to take care of her, you know?” Harry fiddles with a ring on his finger. “I was the man of the house.  I had to take care of her.  So I went to work, and I boxed a bit in my free time, nothing serious, but it still wasn’t quite enough.  And I had some friends who had come to America to work, and I knew that there were…easier ways to make money here.  And I could make a lot of money fast, and send it back home, and make sure that everything was okay.  So…that’s what I did.”

“I remember.  Patrick told me.” Y/N bites her lip, tapping her fingers against her glass. “He said that he sent you away at first.”

“He did.  It pissed me off.” Irritation flickers through Harry’s eyes. “I’d come so far, only to be turned down because I didn’t have as much muscle as the other fighters, when I knew I could fight three times as good.  But I couldn’t just go home, so I trained.  I fought at some other gyms while training, but none of them paid as much as Patrick’s.  Boxing there…I have enough money to send home to Mum while living here.  It’s high risk, but it’s high reward.”

Y/N finally takes a sip of her whiskey, trying her best to hide the grimace that crawls onto her features. “Do you really think you’re going to box for the rest of your life?”

“I do.” Harry answers immediately. “I’m no good at anything else. I’ll box until my body gives out, and after that I’ll train others, if I can.  Either way…this is my life.  This is as far as I go, really.  And you…”

“I still have more school ahead of me.” Y/N runs her finger over the rim of her glass as she replies. “But I’m not—I said it before.  You want to paint me as good, when we both ended up at that gym. I needed the money too.”

Harry shifts on the couch, repositioning himself to look at her better. “I was open with you.  I…shared. Will you share with me, now?”

Y/N hesitates, but knows she can’t say no. “Share what?”

It takes Harry a moment to settle on a question. “You had clothes from an ex.” He says finally. “What happened with them?”

Y/N sighs, leaning her head against the back of the couch. “His name was Parker.  We met in high school.  We started dating in our junior year, and continued dating until last year.  He goes to school back east, at Stanford. We…I was in love with him.  Very in love with him.” Y/N glances at Harry, watching how his jaw tenses as she says that. “And, um, it didn’t work out. Well, at first, actually, it did. Kind of.  He proposed to me about eighteen months ago, and I said yes.” Y/N looks down at her left ring finger, the only finger on her hands that has no ring tan line. “And then he started talking about me transferring to Stanford, leaving NYU, so I could be with him, and then that conversation changed to me dropping out altogether, so I could plan the wedding, get married, have kids, and just—just be what he wanted.” Her voice cracks in a mixture of hurt and anger, and she knows both emotions are apparent in her eyes when she meets Harry’s gaze. “He wanted a wife.  He didn’t want me.  So I sent back the ring about six months before I met you, and I haven’t heard from him since.  The clothes are just…they’re left over from when he came to visit me.  I know I should get rid of them, but it’s…hard, you know?  To let go of someone…”

“I know.” Harry twists one of his rings around his finger, the same one that he always fidgets with, a plain silver band. “This is my dad’s wedding ring. I found it in my mum’s room before I moved to New York.  I didn’t know she still had it, or why she still had it, and I don’t know why I took it, but I just looked at it and…felt like I needed it.”

Y/N sets down her drink before taking Harry’s hand in her own, rubbing her thumb over the band. “He’s your dad.  It’s alright.”

Harry stares at their intertwined hands, and his voice is thick when he replies. “I’ve never told anyone that.  About the ring, or my dad leaving.  I never really talk about it.”

“I’m glad you told me.” Y/N keeps her voice soft as she moves closer to him. “I meant it when I said I wanted to know you.  That means the bad as well as the good.”

“I know you say that now, but—but no one stays forever, Y/N.” Harry’s voice drops impossibly low. “Everyone leaves eventually.  You will, too, once you see what I’m like.”

“I don’t care.  I really don’t.” Y/N shakes her head fiercely. “I’ve seen what you’re like. I’ve seen you happy and angry and irritated and guarded, and I want it all.  Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel this way about someone?” She plays with his fingers as she speaks, adoring the familiar warmth that she feels in his skin. “It was never like this with Parker.”

“You said you didn’t want a protector.  And all I want to do is protect you.” Harry brings Y/N’s hand to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist gently. “I don’t want to force something that you don’t want—”

“It’s different if we’re—if you and I—” Y/N flushes as she watches him kiss along her wrist and hand. “I’ll be your protector as much as you’ll be mine. We’ll protect each other.  We’ll be equal.”

“Y/N, you’re so much—we’ll never be—”

“We’ll be equal.” Y/N repeats firmly, unfolding her legs from beneath her. She sits up on her knees right next to Harry, cupping his cheeks with both hands. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Can you give that to me?”

A soft breath leaves Harry’s lips, and it washes over her in the sweetest way. “Yes.” He says sincerely.

“Good.” Y/N swallows hard as a fire starts to burn in her core. “Will you give that to me?”

“Yes.” Harry’s hands shift to her waist, pulling her impossibly closer to him until she’s straddling his lap.

Y/N rubs her thumbs along Harry’s stubbled jaw. “Do you need me?”

Harry’s green irises flicker to Y/N’s pink lips and back again.  She’s starting to get better at reading his eyes, she thinks, although she’s still not as good as she’d like to be.  She still can’t see exactly what’s swirling inside them, but in this moment, she thinks she has an idea of it.

“Yes.” Harry says again, his hands moving up her back. “I need you.”

Y/N presses a chaste kiss over Harry’s forehead scar, down his temple, his cheek, his jaw, delighting in every soft breath and sigh that escapes him. “Do you want me?”

Her voice is barely above a whisper when she asks, and Harry matches her tone perfectly as his fingers press into her back. “More than anything.” He breathes, tilting his head back as she kisses his neck. “I want you more than anything.”

Y/N kisses across his neck, down to his collarbones, before traveling up the other side of his face.  She kisses across Harry’s jaw again, his cheek, back to the scar-free side of his forehead, planting one last kiss in the center of it before pressing her own forehead to his. “Then kiss me.” She whispers, half panting the words.

Harry’s breath is just as ragged as hers as one of his hands tangles in her sleep-mussed hair, pulling them together until their lips meet.  The contrast between the softness of his lips and the roughness of his stubble delights her, and Y/N finds herself pressing closer and closer to him just to feel it more.  Her arms wrap around his shoulders as she tries to get as close to him as possible.  After spending so long waiting, she wants to feel him close to her.  She wants to be his, in every sense of the word.

A wrecked moan falls from Y/N’s mouth as Harry’s teeth graze her lips, his tongue immediately soothing the spot after he nips at her.  He repeats the action over and over, anything to hear her moan again, and Y/N has to pull away to collect herself.  She’s not sure if it’s the whiskey or Harry, but her head is spinning in the best way.

Undeterred, Harry’s lips move to her neck, kissing and nipping just as much as they did before. “Is this alright?” He mutters between kisses, his hands pushing up her hoodie to get a grip on her bare skin. “I-I’ll stop if it’s—”

“Don’t you dare.” Y/N moans, throwing her head back to allow him better access. “If you stop now, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Noted.” Harry mumbles the word against her jugular, letting his teeth scrape her skin before sucking over the spot.  A guttural moan slips from Y/N’s mouth as a shock runs through her, and she can feel the smirk on Harry’s lips as he licks over the mark he’s made.

The fabric of Harry’s shirt is soft to the touch when Y/N gathers it in her fists, tugging on it enough to get Harry’s attention. “Take it off.” She says in a low voice, her eyes locking with Harry’s as he pulls away from her neck. “Doctor’s orders.”

A groan rolls out from the back of Harry’s throat. “God, that’s so fucking hot.” He mutters, kissing her once more. “In a totally respectful and non-objectifying way.”

Y/N laughs into the kiss, tugging on the hem of his shirt again. “Mhmm. Just take it off, will you?”

Harry’s hands replace her own as he tugs his shirt over his head, letting it drop to the floor before attempting to kiss Y/N again.  Y/N, however, has other plans, and begins to run her hands down Harry’s chest.

“I’ve wanted to do this for weeks.” She murmurs, tracing her fingers over his tattoos. “So handsome…” She scratches her nail over Harry’s butterfly tattoo, adoring how his eyelids flutter at the feeling.

“That feels so…” Harry closes his eyes completely, letting his head rest on the back of the couch to fully lose himself in Y/N’s touches. “Keep going.”

Y/N leans in and kisses his neck again, spreading the pecks all along his collar bones and shoulders while her fingers continue to trace the contours of Harry’s body.  She works them over his chest, grazing over his nipples just enough to make his body jump beneath her.

“Is that…?” She begins, trailing off as she touches them again.  Harry doesn’t jump as much this time, but there’s an undeniable hitch in his breath.

“Feels good.” He says thickly, his fingers digging into her back in the best way possible. “Yeah.  Really good.”

Y/N nods, tweaking them one last time before she continues her exploration down his abdomen.  She runs one finger lightly around his belly button, and feels the shiver that runs through Harry as she continues down the light trail of hair situated between his two vine tattoos.

“I love these.” She whispers, her fingers taking their time as they touch them. “They’re some of my favourite tattoos of yours.”

Harry’s eyes open, and the tenderness in his green eyes is unmistakable. “You have favourites?”

Y/N flushes as she nods. “I-I do.  I like your cross tattoo.  And your mermaid.  And these…” Y/N raises one hand to touch over his collar bones again. “What does this year mean?”

“It’s my mum’s birth year.” Harry admits as one of his hands begins to play with Y/N’s hair. “I got it last year.”

Y/N knows that her eyes match the tenderness in Harry’s, and she kisses him once more before continuing to move her hand lower.  She traces her finger over the buckle of his belt as her teeth tug on Harry’s lip lightly.

“Can I?” She asks gently, her breath blowing across his lips. “Please?”

Harry strokes her cheek, letting the back of his knuckles drag across her skin. Y/N leans into his touch wholeheartedly, wanting Harry to know that she’s never once been afraid of his hands and what they can do.

“Is it the Doctor’s orders?” Harry asks, his teasing tone disguising the need in his voice.

Y/N lets out a light laugh, and it’s then that she knows that she and Harry are meant to be.  When two people can be so intimate together while still laughing and giggling and teasing each other…Y/N knows that’s something good, despite never having it before.  

“Yes.” She works her hand over his belt, and the only sounds in the room are their laboured breathing and the gentle clinking of the metal buckle.  When it’s finally free, Y/N busies herself with the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Wait.” Harry grasps her wrist carefully, stopping her before she can attempt to pull his jeans down. “I didn’t—I came here to take care of you.” He murmurs as he pushes her hands away.  His own hands move to Y/N’s thighs, grasping them tightly before picking her up with ease. Y/N gasps, her hands flying to his shoulders as Harry carries her to her bed, laying her down gently on the mussed sheets.

“Let me take care of you.” He repeats the sentiment as his hands move to the hem of her hoodie, slowly and carefully removing the article of clothing, along with the tank top underneath.  Y/N knows that his pace is intentional, giving her plenty of time to refuse, but stopping Harry is the last thing she wants to do.

When her top is off, the first thing Harry does is kiss her.  He moves her carefully as he does, so her head is supported by her pillows.  Y/N doesn’t notice his hands moving from her waist until—

“Why don’t we just move this guy until we’re done, hm?” There’s a trace of laughter in Harry’s voice as he holds up the teddy bear. “I don’t think I’ll be able to look him in the eye after if he watches.”

Y/N clears her throat as an embarrassed flush quickly works its way up her neck. “Alright, just—here—” She takes the teddy bear from Harry, dropping it to the side of the bed. “And he has a name, you know.  It’s Paddington.”

“Paddington?” Harry’s laughter is obvious now, and he buries his head in her neck as he attempts to stifle it. “That is so fucking adorable—”

“Can you not laugh at my teddy bear when you’re about to fuck me?” Y/N asks, voice exasperated and strained.

Harry’s laughter dies off as he pulls his face back up, his eyes darker than they were a minute ago. “I’m about to fuck you, am I?”

Y/N clears her throat, and as Harry’s gaze finally sweeps down her body, she gets the overwhelming urge to cross her arms and cover her exposed self. “You are.  At least, you were, until you got distracted.”

“I’m not distracted.” Harry traces a single finger down Y/N’s sternum, and Y/N can’t hold back the choked gasp in her throat.

“I’m completely focused.” Harry adds on, and before Y/N can gather herself enough to give a retort, his mouth is on her breast.

With her hands immediately tangling in Harry’s long curls, Y/N lets out another whine in sync with her tugging. “Harry—!”

Although Y/N doesn’t have her eyes on the boxer, she can feel the smirk that’s on his face, and just knows that he’s adoring the way that she’s reacting to him.  While there’s a small part of Y/N that’s irritated at his smugness, there’s a bigger part of her telling her to react more.  Moan more.  Pull his hair more.  Anything to make him happy.

Y/N wants to make him happy.

While his mouth works over one breast, his hand works over the other.  Harry’s ring covered fingers tweak her nipple, tugging and twisting just enough to work more whimpers out of her.  When his teeth graze one nipple at the same time that he tugs on the other, Y/N drags the nails of one hand down Harry’s warm back, and it quickly becomes her turn to delight in the whine that leaves his mouth.

It almost becomes a competition then, with both of them working to see who can make the other moan more.  Harry switches his mouth to Y/N’s other breast while Y/N alternates between tugging on his hair and pushing her hand down the waistband of his jeans, her fingers rubbing over his defined hip bones.  The competition, however, yields no winners, and is quickly forgotten in the pursuit of pulling the other closer, touching them harder, dragging them deeper into the safe space they’ve created on Y/N’s bed.

When Harry lets Y/N’s nipple fall out of his mouth, his lips are bright red, shining with saliva almost as much as his eyes are shining with lust.  Y/N quickly pulls him up to kiss her, and fingers one of his curls as she takes a shaking breath.

“I’ve never felt so good from just…” Her voice wavers for a moment, and a new wave of blush heats her cheeks.  “Just…you know.”

Harry brushes a thumb over her cheekbone, delighting in the heat he feels beneath his fingers. “Yeah?” His accent is thick. “Then you’re going to love what I’m going to do next.”

Y/N knows exactly what Harry means, but a surprised gasp still leaves her as he quickly pulls himself down her body, situating himself easily between her legs.  Within a moment, her pajama shorts are tossed to the side, and Harry is directing her movements.

“Bend your knees for me, love, just—yeah.  Just like that.  And spread them wider.” He coaxes her gently, helping to guide her body into the position he wants.  The pleasure on his face at the sight of Y/N’s uncovered cunt is evident as he inhales deeply, laying his stubbled cheek onto one of her thighs as he just stares at her.

Y/N’s chest heaves as she glances down at the sight.  Harry hasn’t even touched her core, and yet she’s never been more turned on in her entire life.  Something about the look in his eyes as he stares at her bare cunt drives her insane, and Y/N knows that she’ll never experience this with anyone else.  No one else will ever compare to Harry, and she doesn’t want them to.  She just wants him.

Harry’s breath is hot on her wet core when he lets out a sigh, his hands continuously rubbing her thighs, up to her pelvis, and back down again. “Don’t even want to touch you.” He murmurs. “Just want to keep staring…”

“That—that’s sweet, but—” Y/N swallows hard as she shifts on the bed. “I need you to touch me, Harry.  I need it.”

“Yeah?” Harry cocks an eyebrow at her, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “Good.  I need it, too.”

And then his mouth is on her, and Y/N loses herself completely.

It’s not even that Harry is so wonderfully talented at cunnilingus that drives Y/N insane—although, honestly, that’s definitely a significant factor.  No, the thing that makes Y/N fall apart is how obvious it is that Harry loves doing it.

From the moment Harry’s tongue flicks over her clit, he’s making as many sounds as she is.  Moans and whimpers fall out of his mouth in abundance while his lips and tongue work Y/N over, and while most of it is incoherent sounds of pleasure, Y/N can decipher the occasional phrase.

“Taste so fucking good—”

“Fuck, Y/N—”

“So bloody sweet—”

“Tug on my hair harder—”

Y/N does as he requests, gripping his curls by the roots as she pulls harder in response to his tongue dipping into her entrance.  It briefly occurs to her that Harry may have a pain kink, which explains a lot about him and his career choice, she thinks, but then Harry’s fingers begin to aid his mouth, and Y/N can’t think at all.

While one of his hands pumps two fingers in and out of Y/N slowly, and while his mouth is still firmly suctioned over her clit, Harry’s other hand moves up to her pelvis, pressing down on top of it to keep her in place. “You’re a squirmer, aren’t you?” Harry mutters, and the flat of his tongue licks over her clit just to prove the point.

Y/N’s body jumps again as another guttural moan leaves her lips. “Harry, I—fuck—”

Harry hums against her. “I know.  You’re alright, love.  You can let go.”

And when Harry sucks on her clit again, crooking his fingers inside of her, she does as he says.

Incoherent whimpers and whines fall from Y/N’s mouth as she squirms on the bed, held only in place by Harry’s firm hand on her tummy.  Something in the pressure is comforting, and it’s the only thing that keeps her grounded to her bed as waves of pleasure roll over her.

Harry’s mouth moves from her clit to her thigh, pressing gentle kisses along the tender skin, which is red from his stubble scraping against it. Although his fingers have stilled inside her, he doesn’t pull them out just yet.

“I can feel you squeezing me.” Harry’s eyes flicker between Y/N’s soaked cunt to her heaving chest. “’S nice.”

Another flood of warmth passes through Y/N’s core when he says that, and she pants out what’s meant to be a laugh, but instead turns into a whimper. “Fuck, H…”

Harry’s eyes brighten from between her thighs as he presses another kiss to her thigh. “You’ve never called me that before.” He comments quietly. “I like it.”

“We’ve never done a lot of this before.” Y/N squirms again, “This is all new.”

“It’ll take some time to get used to it.” Harry presses on her tummy again, a reminder to keep still as he slowly pulls his fingers out of her.  Y/N bites her lip to hold back the whine that threatens to leave her mouth, and watches with heavy eyelids as Harry sucks his own fingers into his mouth.

Despite the trembling from her orgasm, Y/N manages to sit up on her elbows to look at Harry between her legs.  He seems quite content there, his black eye a stark contrast against the red of his cheeks and lips, one hand holding her as the other runs over his own lips.  Y/N snaps a picture in her mind to remember later on, when Harry has someone else’s blood dripping from his fingertips.  A reminder that this man lives within the fighter, underneath every wall and safeguard that he had to build to be able to protect and provide for his family.

Y/N reaches down and cups Harry’s cheek in her hand.  Although there’s a tenderness growing in the pit of her stomach, the need is still there alongside it. “Lay down for me.” She murmurs, gently grazing her fingers along the edge of his black eye.

Harry doesn’t speak as he moves, and the room falls quiet again, a brief break between the symphony of pleasure that they composed only a moment earlier. He takes his place on the pillows next to Y/N, and she kisses him again before moving down the bed.

Y/N sits on her knees by his side, allowing her fingers to run over his vine tattoos and down his pelvic bones.  She loves the way Harry’s breath flutters, how it hitches when she uses her nails, and delights in how a quiet moan leaves his lips when she wraps her hand around his warm cock.

He’s already so hard from eating her out, with precum dripping from his flushed tip.  Y/N pumps him a few times with her hand, adjusting to his size and weight before leaning her head down and licking over his slit.

“Christ—” The word falls out of Harry’s mouth involuntarily, and his cheeks redden more at the outburst.  Y/N rubs his tummy with her free hand, assuring him that it’s alright without actually saying the words.  

While one of Harry’s hands is running through his own curls, he brings the other down to play with Y/N’s hair, helping to guide her mouth as she takes him more and more.  Her tongue runs up and down his length, tracing the veins that throb beneath his skin, and Y/N loves how Harry tugs on her hair harder when she does it.

Y/N pulls up from his cock to give her jaw a break, continuing to pump him as she looks up with him.  His arm is thrown over his eyes now, and his chest is rising and falling in rapid succession.  Y/N can tell he’s close, so she slows down her movements until her hand is just lazily pumping him.

Sensing the change in momentum (and his orgasm slipping away), Harry removes his arm, looking down at Y/N with lustful eyes. “Why’d you stop?” He asks, his voice cracking in the middle of the question that he knows the answer to.

“Because I want you.” Y/N presses one last kiss to the top of his cock before letting go.  She crawls up the bed again and reaches over to her bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out a condom.  Her fingers pause over the lube, remembering the last time that she had used it with Harry, and she can’t help the smile that flickers over her face as she holds up the bottle. “Remember this?”

Harry laughs breathlessly as he rubs his eyes. “Bloody hell, don’t remind me. I was a fucking mess that night.”

“A bit, but I didn’t mind.” Y/N sets the lube back in the drawer before shutting it. “That was the night that I knew I wanted you.”

“Was it?” Harry raises an eyebrow, the teasing grin back on his face as pushes his sweaty curls out of his face. “Took you that long, hm?”

Y/N rolls her eyes as she rips the condom packaging with her teeth, retrieving the latex disc from inside.  She pumps Harry once more before sliding the condom on, making sure that it’s positioned correctly. “Shut up.”

“Are you really telling me to shut up while you’ve got your hand on my cock?” Harry laugh again, and while Y/N’s heart flutters at the sound, she does her best to keep her face from showing it.

“I am.” Y/N throws her leg over him, straddling his lower stomach as she leans down to kiss him.  The teasing tone between them fades into one of lust and affection and need as Harry’s lips move against hers, and they’re both panting when Y/N pulls away to press her forehead against his.

“Are you comfortable like this?” She asks, worry seeping into her tone. “I know your ribs are still bothering you a bit, so I figured that this would be—”

Harry cuts her off with another kiss, this one wilder and more passionate than the last. “I’m fine, love.  You don’t need to worry about me.” He says, despite the flutter in his stomach at the idea of Y/N worrying about him.

“I always worry, H.” Y/N reaches underneath to grip his cock, rubbing the tip of it over her slit as she balances herself with one hand on his pelvis. Harry’s hands grip her hips to give her more stability. “You’re so—fuck—reckless that it drives me—” Y/N gasps loudly as she begins to sink down on Harry’s cock. “Insane.”

Harry’s first instinct at the feeling of Y/N’s warm walls hugging his cock is to throw his head back, close his eyes, and let the pleasure take over. However, he uses every ounce of willpower he has to do the opposite, and thanks God that he does, because he gets to see Y/N take his cock for the first time.

Y/N’s entire body is flushed, and she knows that the heat practically rolling off of her is because of Harry.  Everything that she’s feeling, from the fullness in her core that extends to her stomach, to the fluttering of her body, to the overwhelming sense of something just being right, is all because of Harry.  

After giving herself a moment to adjust to his size, Y/N begins to move. Harry helps guide her hips up and down slowly, and she decides from the first moment that she’s going to take her time building up her speed.  She wants this to last.

Y/N knows that Harry has the capacity to fuck her.  She knows that, if she asked, he’d flip her over and bend her over the edge of the bed and fuck her as fast as he possibly could until she screamed his name.  But, as much as the thought intrigues her, that’s not what she wants right now.  There will be time for fucking later, she thinks. There will be time for loud moans and teeth clicking together and bruises in the shape of a lover’s hand left on thighs and necks.  Right now, all she wants is to feel every inch of Harry inside of her, and to listen to his quiet yet desperate moans as she gradually increases her pace.  

With one of his hands still guiding her hips, Harry gently grips the back of Y/N’s neck, pulling her chest down to press against his.  Their lips find each other quickly, kissing and nipping as Y/N feels herself beginning to fall apart.

“H.” She breathes against his lips. “I’m so close…” A choked moan stumbles out of her mouth as Harry’s hand shifts from her neck to her clit, rubbing small circles with two nimble fingers.

“I can feel it.” Harry’s breath is hot on her ear as he presses open mouthed kisses to her neck. “Can feel you squeezing me, love…being so good for me…”

Y/N bites her lip hard, almost enough to draw blood as the movement of her hips begins to stutter. “I-I want you to—Harry—” she digs her nails into his shoulder when Harry’s fingers speed up, and within a moment, another orgasm is sending shockwaves through her body.

Harry can tell the moment it happens, and a grunt leaves his throat as he begins to lift his hips to meet her movements. “That’s a good girl, love—breathe through it, that’s it…” Harry buries his face into Y/N’s neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume and sweat that’s more intoxicating than anything else he’s ever smelled. “Fuck, Y/N—” His words cut off in a strangled moan as her walls squeeze his sensitive member.

Although she’s barely come down from her high, Y/N takes it upon herself to guide Harry through his orgasm like he’s done for her.  One of her hands moves from his marked shoulder to his hair, pushing the sweaty curls back from his eyes in a repeated motion as she murmurs in his ear. “Let go, H…feels so good…” She can feel the jerking of his hips as he finishes inside the condom, and for a split second, she wishes that there wasn’t a barrier of latex between the two of them, despite knowing that protection is mandatory.

Y/N waits until Harry’s managed to catch his breath before she carefully climbs down from him, missing the feeling of him inside her the moment she’s empty.  She lays down on her rumpled sheets next to his exhausted body, and hopes that she looks just as pretty in her post-sex haze as Harry.  

Now that she’s begun to touch him, she can’t stop.  Y/N’s hands continue to rub tenderly over his sweat-soaked chest, feeling the thumping beat of his heart beneath her as Harry carefully removes and ties off the used condom.  Although a small grumble leaves her when he gets up to throw it away, she can’t help but smile when he returns with two glasses of water in his hands.

“Here.” Harry hands her a glass before getting back on the bed, situating his naked form back into the position he was in a moment ago. “You need to hydrate. Doctor’s orders.”

Y/N lets out a breathless laugh before taking a sip of the cool liquid. “So you’re the doctor now, huh?”

“God, no.  I’m not nearly as smart as you.  I’m just smart enough to remember what you tell me.” Harry gulps down his own glass, setting it on the bedside table once it’s empty.  His arms then move to encircle Y/N’s body, pulling their chests together so her weight lies on top of him.

Y/N doesn’t miss the small wince that the movement causes, and she sets her own glass down before moving back to her position next to him. “You need to be more careful.” She murmurs, resuming her motion of rubbing over his chest.  She’s not sure why the motion is so soothing, but she doesn’t fight it, loving the feeling of Harry’s warm skin beneath her hand. “Patrick won’t forgive me if I put his best fighter out of commission.”

“No, he probably won’t.” Harry muses, settling for wrapping one arm around Y/N’s body. “He might fire you.”

“And then who will clean up your messes?” She cocks an eyebrow teasingly. “Or clean you up, when you’re a mess?”

“I’d just have to stumble my way to your apartment in the middle of the night again.” A laugh rumbles deep in Harry’s chest. “And then after you bandage me up, we can have a quick shag.  It’ll be a nice routine.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “Mhmm.  Nice try.”

Harry’s laughter trails off after a moment as his fingers begin to trace shapes on Y/N’s back. “Seriously, though…” His eyes grow sober. “How do you want to…handle this?”

Y/N bites her lip. “How do you want to handle this?”

A sigh leaves Harry’s lips. “I want…you.  I want you to be mine.  And I don’t want to hide it, but if you feel like that’s best, then…”

“It’s just—I don’t know.  It’s complicated.” Y/N’s eyes focus on the G tattoo on Harry’s shoulder.  She wonders if it’s for Harry’s sister, and then wonders if Harry would ever tattoo her initial on his body. “Yeah.  Complicated.”

“You’re nervous about Patrick knowing.” Harry states simply.

Y/N nods. “He specifically told me not to get involved with any boxers. He said that…no good men come there.”

Harry’s hand moves over his jaw, scratching at his stubble. “Yeah.  He wasn’t wrong.”

His answer bothers Y/N, and she moves to sit up more in bed, making him look her in the eyes. “You’re a good man, Harry.  I know that.”

“I’m not.” Harry shakes his head once, his voice growing rougher. “I have a lot of shit that I’m…trying to work through.  I’m not that good.” When he sees how Y/N’s face shifts at his words, his tone changes. “But I’d never…that has nothing to do with you.  Any of my issues, my pride, my anger, anything like that, it’s all—it’s separate from you.” He cups her cheek gently. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know that, Harry.” Y/N repeats as she places her hand over his, weaving their fingers together. “I trust you.  I just wish you’d trust yourself.”

“I trust myself more when I’m with you.” Harry admits. “I’ve never really felt…regret for what I’ve done.  The ring is an equal playing field, right?  But that night when you said you thought I was too harsh…”

Y/N bites her lip. “Did that bother you?”

“I was worried I scared you off.” His eyes close for a moment as he remembers. “I thought…I don’t know.  I thought you already disliked me just for being a boxer, and now I’m the boxer that breaks bones, and there’s no way you’d ever want to be around me.”

“I probably shouldn’t want it.” Y/N admits. “When you phrase it like that.  But I’ve told you before…you’re different when you’re with me.”

“Only with you.  Only for you.” Harry’s voice grows tender as he holds her close to him. “So if you want to keep it private, I understand.  I just want you to be mine.”

Y/N’s finger brushes over one of Harry’s rings.  It’s a beautifully sculpted silver rose, and there’s something so wonderful to her in how Harry chooses to wear flowers on the hands that have done so much damage.

She twists the ring around his finger before pulling it off.  It’s too big to fit on her ring or middle finger, so after a moment of consideration, she slips it onto her thumb. “Then I’m yours.”

Harry’s eyes darken at the sight of Y/N with his ring on her finger. “Yeah. You’re mine.”

The feeling of Harry’s ring on her finger makes Y/N feel so complete, and she wants to share it with him, so she ignores Harry’s whine of protest as she climbs out of bed to walk to her dresser.  A little ceramic dish with her jewelry in it sits on top, and she sorts through the rings and bracelets before setting on something that he can wear while in the ring.  She cups it in her palms before returning to bed, an excited but shy smile on her face.

“Here.” She places it in Harry’s hand. “You can put this on your chain with your cross.”

The silver caduceus looks small in Harry’s palm, and he brings it closer to his eyes to examine it. “What is it?”

“It’s a caduceus.  It’s the medical symbol, the one I wear on my jacket to the ring.” Y/N explains, her cheeks reddening at her words. “It’s from Greek mythology, but doctors adopted it, and—yeah.  Just something to show that…you’re mine, too.”

A small smile plays on the corner of Harry’s lips. “Will you put it on me?”

Y/N nods, and although her fingers are shaking a bit, she manages to undo the clasp on Harry’s chain, and slips the pendant on before refastening it around his neck.  She settles the caduceus and cross pendants on his chest, just between his two swallow tattoos.

“It looks pretty on you.” She murmurs, her hand brushing down his abdomen. “Really nice.”

“It’ll be my good luck charm in the ring.” Harry brings her hand to his mouth, kissing over the rose ring. “I won’t take it off, as long as you don’t take my ring off.  Deal?”

“Deal.” Y/N lays her head back down on Harry’s chest. “Now get some sleep. Doctor’s orders.”

A playful groan falls out of Harry’s mouth. “Is that going to be a new thing?  Are you going to get me to do everything by saying it’s doctor’s orders?”

“I wouldn’t have to if you took better care of yourself.” Y/N matches his playful tone. “But we both know that you have a tendency to ignore your instincts—”

“My instincts are good!”

“Like your instinct to fight with a sprained hand was good?”

The corner of Harry’s mouth twitches. “Fine.  Let’s go to sleep.”

Sunlight is beginning to spill through the curtains as Harry closes his eyes, bathing his entire face in a golden glow.  His pale skin glows under the light, save for the purplish bruise that rings one of his eyes.  Y/N presses a gentle kiss to the darkened area before settling herself down in Harry’s arms.

[thiswasinevitableid]

this isn't a real mermay prompt, but if the mood strikes you: indulgent supernatural sugar daddy indrid? roleplaying that he's finally reached the limit of his patience for duck's teasing and now he's going to tie him to the bed and use him however he sees fit

Here you go! I riffed on something we discussed on the discord. CW for mentions of stripping, blood and booze, the roleplay could be read as dubcon but it's clear what they're doing and that everyone is consenting and enjoying themselves. After care is show.

“Damn, guess they ain’t kiddin when they say it’s the city that never sleeps.” Duck stares from the window of their suite onto the flashing neon and 11 pm traffic of the Las Vegas strip.

“I thought that was New York City?” Indrid looks up from where he’s laying their dinner out on the shiny black table.

“Maybe? I dunno, only ever been there once, on a trip with my folks as a kid.” Duck slides into his chair across from his grinning boyfriend. They picked up a massive spread of food earlier tonight, their friend Barclay having lots of intel on the best food in the city and the affection for them to write out a detailed list where to try.

Indrid grabs a pill from his bag on the bathroom counter, then settles across from Duck with an excited grin, “There, now I can dine without fear.”

They’re well into dessert when Indrid wipes his lips with a thoughtful hum.

“You know, sweet one, this never silent, ever bright environment lends itself well to certain activities.”

“Oh yeah?” Duck leans across the table to take his hand.

“I have more details that we can discuss while we digest, but to begin; how do you feel about dressing like the loudest man on a college campus for the night?”

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

Duck strides into the main floor of the Wynn, the industrial strength air conditioner practically sending him into shock after the heat of the pavement and desert air.

En route to the agreed upon Blackjack table, he makes eye contact with his reflection in a bank of windows. Only the flip flops were in his suitcase when they arrived; the mint green muscle tank and khaki shorts came from the nearest thrift store. He picked up special underwear once he and Indrid separated, suspecting it will make his boyfriend laugh. He loves making him laugh, even during their most intense scenes.

He gets his chips, his seat, and his hand within ten minutes, signaling a waiter for a screwdriver. God only knows why, but it feels like what this kind of guy would order on a Saturday afternoon. Duck’s decent at Blackjack; Juno taught him how to play and Ned helped him refine his technique. So he’s holding his own when a new player sits down two stools to his right.

“I intend to play the eccentric millionaire.”

When Indrid uttered that sentence, Duck pictured a slight variation on his usual evening wear; the suit he brings on trips just so he can take Duck out for nice meals without--as happened on one occasion-- being forced to borrow a jacket from a waiter.

He was not expecting this.

Indrid’s suit is jet black, blood-red lining flashing when he unbuttons his coat. His usual red glasses perch on his nose, and he’s done something to his hair that renders it sleek rather than it’s usual silvery tangle. His back is straight, his smile wide, and his manners pure perfection.

“May I join on the next hand?”

“One sparkling water please. Do add on a nice tip for yourself, won’t you?”

“Twenty! Oh, how delightful.”

Indrid wins more than he loses, careful to go over or come too far under enough times to avoid accusations of counting cards. Duck’s stack of chips dwindles, and he directs his frustration at this fact towards Indrid, muttering unkind things whenever the older man says, “hit me.”

When he’s down to thirty bucks, he taps out. Pushes back from the table with the huff of a man who’s used to getting what he wants. He finds the nearest bar and takes a small table for himself.

The chair across from him doesn’t stay vacant long.

“Hello.” Indrid folds his hands on the table, smiling pleasantly.

“What the fuck do you want?” Duck grumbles.

“To see if you were alright. You seemed rather upset when you left the table.”

“Ain’t upset, I’m fuckin broke. Came to vegas to get laid and get rich and I’m strikin out on both so far.”

“Perhaps I can help. I, ah, we are both here alone. Why don’t we keep each other company? Two bachelors taking on the city.” Indrid gives a very awkward “ta-dah” with his fingers.

“Dunno, I don’t really feel like slummin.”

“You won’t be. I promise.”

Duck leans back in his chair, arms crossed, “Oh yeah?”

A knife-edge enters Indrid’s smile, only to be covered by a menu, “Let me buy you lunch as proof. Order whatever you like.”

He calls the older man’s bluff by ordering a craft beer, the most expensive burger on the menu, and three appetizers, only to discover it was not, in fact, a bluff. Indrid pays for everything without so much as glancing at the prices.

“There now” he smiles at Duck as the waiter clears his leftover steak (“as rare as possible, please”), “have I proven myself a worthy companion?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Excellent” Indrid claps his hands together, “then let us see what else this town has to offer.”

While they digest they peruse the malls and casino hop wherever there are shaded routes that allow them to do so. As they’re maneuvering through the throng near the aquarium, Indrid says, “tell me a bit about yourself, Duck. Nono, wait, let me guess; southern prep school, expensive college, a family very happy to support you while you search for your place in the world?”

Duck nods (the only ways he’s able to lie during their scenes).

“I certainly hope you didn’t burn through your trust fund playing the slots.” Indrid elbows him playfully.

“Nah. Set myself a limit for what I could spend gamblin each day.”

“Clever young thing.”

“Indrid, how old do you think I am?”

“Thirty?”

“Thirty-six.”

The crowd presses them closer together as Indrid murmurs, “You don’t look it.”

“If we’re goin for personal questions, how old are you?”

“Oh, a bit older than yourself.” Indrid replies breezily, “ooh, look, rays!”

When the thermometer flashing in-between advertisements for Lady Gaga and The Osmonds cracks a hundred, Indrid ushers Duck to the indoor pool at their hotel. His new companion lounges in a reserved cabana while Duck soaks in the cool water, other swimmers floating past him or propping themselves on the edges to talk with their partners.

And every time he surfaces, he feels a red tinted gaze watching him. His new friend isn’t even trying to hide it, flat out ogles him whenever he’s in shallow water. Duck’s far from the youngest or most ripped guy here, but Indrid’s eyes never stray. It’s flattering.

It also makes sinking further into his role as easy as slipping into the deep end.

If the rich weirdo wants to buy him fancy shit because Duck is hot, he can knock himself out. It’s not like Duck has to fuck him. But teasing him might get him even more free drinks and expensive souvenirs. If he plays his cards right, he won’t pay for a single thing the rest of his trip.

He hops out of the pool, takes his time drying off and stretching before laying on his belly on the swanky deck chair, facing the opposite direction Indrid is to give the other man a better view of his ass.

“Where to next?” He tries for a purr and only succeeds at exaggerating his drawl.

Indrid’s smile widens all the same, “I have a few ideas. But let’s linger here a bit longer.”

After that he stays as close to the other man as he can, let’s their shoulders bump and fingers brush as they make the rounds for some pre-dinner drinks. He even whispers a flirtatious word or two, makes Indrid blush when he orders a drink called “silver fox,” looks him dead in the eyes and grins, “my favorite.”

He’s plenty tipsy when Indrid steers them into a hallway where bass shakes the floor and pink light disguises the cracks in the walls.

“Can’t say you’ve been to Vegas unless you’ve seen a little sin.” Is all the explanation given before the doors open on a two story strip club.

“Holy fuck.” Duck lets Indrid shepherd him to a stage where several men with abs that look painted on play at fucking the air, the stage, and each other, much to the delight of the two bachelorette parties and the single men dotting the audience.

“You’re a fuckin genius.” Duck growls, sitting when Indrid pushes down on his shoulder. The older man takes the seat to his left, watching the proceedings with polite detachment. He orders a cocktail for Duck and water for himself.

In spite of his apparent disinterest, the dancers all come to Indrid, one after the other. In theory, some of them should pass by Duck afterwards. But they all go right back to the stage or to other patrons. The few times one even looks at him, their eyes immediately slide away onto Indrid.

The fact the other man is handing out fifties and hundreds like they’re singles probably helps.

A tall brunette is currently in Indrid’s lap, and the silver-haired man whispers something and points at Duck.

Suddenly there is a very hot man in a glorified thong in his lap, who gives him a vaseline slick smile, “Your friend over there bought you a dance.”

Indrid waves, the movement grating on Ducks pride. He glares in response.

The older man calls “you looked lonely.”

“I don’t need your fuckin charity.”

Indrid cocks his head, then shrugs, “very well. Please come back here, for double the tip.” He holds up three hundred-dollar bills. The instant the dancer is out of his lap, Duck stands and stomps out, swaying more than when he came in.

The onset of evening has worsened the crowds. He slogs and weaves through them with every intention of getting back to his room, ordering room service, and bandaging his scraped ego

“Why so down, Duck?”

“Fuck! Jesus, let a guy walk in peace will you?” Duck snaps as Indrid falls into step beside him.

“We're on the strip, there's no peace here. No quiet either. Makes it easy to do what one wants.”

Cool fingers find Duck’s wrist, keeping him from breaking ahead to the crosswalk. As they stand and watch the cars and buses roar by, Indrid murmurs, “How about a little friendly game as an apology?”

“Better not be fuckin blackjack.”

“Nono, I’m thinking Poker. If you win, you win bragging rights and whatever else you like that I can give you. But if I win...you have to walk me back to my room. I’ll still buy all the drinks, of course.”

Neon glints off a fang Duck pretends not to see.

“Fuck it, sure. I'm gonna wipe the table with you, old man.”

“I look forward to it.”

In spite of Indrid making good on his promise of drinks, Duck only has one Whiskey Sour before switching to water; being full-on drunk would make him worse at Poker, something he’s complete crap at on the best days. Figures Indrid would choose a game where bluffing is key.”

His card shark of a companion is beating him, and everyone else at the table, soundly. He also declines any food or drinks for himself. After two hours of play and countless hands of defeat, Duck surrenders. Indrid preens, tips their dealer, and wishes everyone else at the table a good night.

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

“Why are we takin the stairs to the top floor?” Duck stares up the winding flights, unable to see their stopping point.

“It’s good for one’s health. And it’s, ah, far more private.”

“Why do you need privacy gettin to your room.”

The footsteps behind him stop as they reach the next landing.

“Simple. I'm hungry.”

Duck whirls just in time to catch Indrid as he lunges at him, fangs bared. It turns out to be a useless movement, the vampire trapping him in a corner effortlessly.

“What the fuck, fuckin let me go.” Duck hisses.

Indrid licks a fang with a thoughtful hum, “I can, though it comes with its own risks.” He sighs, put upon, “But you have been such pleasant company, I suppose it’s only fair to give you a choice. If you let me feed now, I shall be as gentle as I can be and only take a little. Or you can take your chances at outrunning me. However, should I still catch you, then I will take as much blood--and whatever else I like--as I please.” He brushes their noses together, “It’s up to you, sweet one.”

Duck takes a deep breath, the game fading while Indrid gives him time to decide how he wants to play.

Then Duck shoves Indrid away from him and bolts through the nearby door, running down the maze of corridors until he finds his salvation. Indrid’s laugh is still ringing in his ears when the elevator door finally closes.

When the ding announces his floor, he pokes his head out like a prairie dog watching for a hawk. No sign of the vampire. He comforts himself with that though, and with the fact that there’s no way Indrid could catch up to him now, as he click his keycard into the lock.

He shuts the door and reaches for the light switch.

Chilly fingers circle his wrist.

“I win.”

Duck is dragged, then carried, through the darkness, the light not clicking on until he’s tossed onto the bed. Indrid stands at his side, grinning hungrily.

“W-wait, fuck, please, I, how’d you-”

“Quiet.” Indrid tosses his jacket on the floor, straddles Duck with fangs unashamedly on display. Duck whimpers, tries to curl in and protect his throat. Indrid noses at it all the same, “don't worry you spoiled excuse for a man, it won't hurt too much.”

“‘Drid” Duck gasps, tipping his head automatically at the purr in the vampires voice.

Cool lips tenderly meet his own, “Indulge me a bit longer?’

“Hell yeah I will, sugar.” Out of habit, he guides Indrid’s glasses off and sets them out of crushing range, “Uh. Please, my dad is real fuckin wealthy, I'll pay you whatever you want?”

Indrid traces a sharp fingernail along Duck’s collarbone, “What I want is you. All those years getting what you demanded, not lifting a finger, you'll taste very rich.”

“Please don't kill me.” Duck can feel himself getting harder whenever teeth brush his skin.

The vampire cups his cheek, “Not a chance. I need to eat often, after all. And you're perfect to be my new pet. Spoiled, handsome, and no one will miss you.”

“Fuck you” Duck kicks weakly at Indrid’s ankle.

Indrid tuts, “Do I need to tie you down? I could hold you down easily, but I need my hands free to cover that sinful mouth and enjoy this lovely body while I feed.”

“N-no, no I’ll be good, I’llAAH!” His whole body tenses as fangs pierce his neck. He wants to cry out more but it’s perilous, might make him jerk away and tear the skin. But his body has to do something to release the tension, or the taught coils that replaced his muscles might snap and leave him in pieces.

He’s saved by a rush of pleasure melting every tendon, caressing every nerve into calm. Duck sinks into the bed, his body registering the suck of Indrid feeding but feeling no need to intervene. The vampires right hand creeps down to hold Duck’s left, his satisfied hum setting arousal buzzing in his chest.

Duck only realizes he’s been slowly grinding on Indrid’s slacks when the other man laughs, muffled and bloody. The vampire raises his head, lapping at the wounds so not a drop is wasted, “greedy boy. Even when you're dinner you think your pleasure deserves priority.”

“Please.” He wants his teeth in his neck forever, he wants his fingers and tongue between his legs every night.

Indrid kisses the wounds, sits up while daintily wiping his mouth with his shirt-sleeve, staining the starched white with red, “Delectable. Don't go anywhere, pet.”

“Not your fucking pet.” Wooziness pulls any teeth left in his tone, “and, and I thought you wanted me up here cause you were hungry. Now you ain’t. So, so I can go.”

“Oh no, that” he points to the marks on Duck’s neck, “was because I was hungry. The rest of tonight is happening because of your endless teasing.”

“I, uh, I don’t-” Duck turns bright pink.

“You were rather obvious. And silly me, indulging you because of your charms. Well, now it’s time to show me how grateful you are. Let me just slip into something a bit more comfortable.”

Indrid snaps his fingers. Reality gives a sickening crack. Then a mothman stands at the foot of the bed, feathers of soft browns rustling as he stretches his wings. He doesn’t have mandibles, but when he yawns it reveals rows of sharp teeth, the two where his human canines would be noticeably longer than the rest.

“Much better.”

Duck yelps, scrambles back into the headboard as Indrid dives onto the bed.

“Ah-ah” Indrid pins his arms and thighs to the bed with his four hands, “we had an agreement, little one. I get to do whatever I wish to you because you lost. And, more importantly” a long tongue drags up Duck’s cheek, “because that is how spoiled little humans earn their keep.”

“Oh god.” Is all Duck gets out before claws rip his shirt and shorts to colorful pieces. Indrid tips him sideways to finish mauling his shorts and pauses.

“What in the-” the vampire flips him onto his belly, stifles a giggle, “‘Bite me? Rather fitting underwear choice.”

“Thanks” Duck smirks into the blanket.

“Well, since I find myself incapable of denying you things, pet…” reality cracks once more.

“Wh-AHFUCK!” He yanks the nearest pillow over to muffle his cries as Indrid sinks his human fangs into the meat of Duck’s ass. It’s a different kind of pain, not as heart-pounding but just as fun. Indrid isn’t feeding, so he bites down only a few seconds before lifting his head to target another patch of skin. He doesn’t let up until Duck sobs his name into a silk pillow.

The vampire pulls back, but keeps Duck on his forearms and knees as he kisses a curve from his lower back to one of the innermost bite marks. Another shift and claws prick his legs.

“Mmmm, I can smell how turned on you are. I wonder….”

“Fuck, ohfuck” Duck pushes his hips back as Indrid’s tongue infurls down to tease his folds, “Indrid, please, please fuck me like that.”

“‘Ike ‘is?” The tongue presses in, thrusting lazily and without much pressure.

“Yes but, fuck, but more.”

A growl and Duck is slammed onto his back, Indrid looming over him with his wings outspread, “Have you forgotten the purpose of this evening?”

“No.” He stares up into red eyes, too turned on to be sheepish.

“Then why do you keep making demands? You have spent all day asking things of me and now it is time to show me why I tolerate such behavior.” He grabs Duck’s knees, holds them up and open with his lower arms, and purrs, “though there’s no denying your appeal from this angle.”

“Fuck yeah.” Duck fists the blanket in anticipation as Indrid adjusts them to put his head between the human’s legs. Indrid’s tongue caresses his dick, filling the room with slick, obscene sounds.

Then searing pain flashes through his left thigh as Indrid sinks the fangs of his form into it.

“FUCK! I, I thought, moths don’t-”

“Vampire moths do.” Indrid grins before smearing a line of red on Duck’s skin, “and I intend to drink my fill.”

Duck yelps again, slams a hand over his mouth when he remembers there’s two other suites on this floor.

“Be as loud as you like; I cast a little spell on this room to make sure no one hears what I’m doing to my new pet.” He thrusts his tongue into Duck without warning, fucking him on it until he’s bucking his hips, then pulling out to lap and suck at his thigh. When he next returns to sucking Duck’s dick, the feathers around his mouth are as red as his eyes.

Heat builds in Duck’s gut at the sight and he moans, “‘Drid, please, I’m so close to cummin just from this, please just let me cum.”

“Absolutely not.” Indrid drops his legs, dragging him into his lap with a hiss, “you have still not learned your lesson. You think you can get whatever you want just by looking sweetly at me. You’re so very wrong.” His upper arms trap Duck’s own behind his back while his lower set prick his hips, “now be a good pet and keep your legs open.”

Duck doesn’t get a chance to ask why; a cock, covered in vertical ridges with a very thick tip, shoves halfway into him.

“Mmmm, that’s lovely.” Indrid thrusts hurriedly, “now I remember why I put up with your demands all day. Spoiled though you may be, I’ve never had someone fit my cock so well. Ohhhhh” he opens his wings, grinning, “someone likes that.”

“Like you, fuck, Indrid, I swear I wasn’t, uh, wasn’t not teasing, no, fuck FUCKfuck” He takes as much as he can in one thrust, the last third still pulsing outside his body.

“Don’t lie, sweet human. I know you let me spoil you endlessly, teased me mercilessly all day, all while thinking you would spend your evening asleep and alone, rather than where you belong.”

Duck whimpers as his thighs fight to keep up the pace. They give out a moment later but nothing happens; Indrid’s grip on his hips is so strong he’s moving him without help.

“Fuck that’s so fuckin good.”

Indrid flutters his wings “You see how easily I control you, sweet one? You may be strong and handsome, but at the end of the day you’re nothing more than a toy for me to use and discard as I please.”

He whines at that, let’s himself go limp so it’s easier to hide his face in Indrid’s fluff.

“Don’t worry, pet, I shall not discard you. As I said, you are perfect for me, a lovely little gift to myself after a day spent giving them to you.” The hands restraining his arms let go and he instantly wraps them as far around the vampire as he can. Then clawed fingers gingerly stroke his dick. He groans out a thank you and Indrid laughs.

“Oh no, this isn’t for you. I just find that humans taste even better during orgasm.”

Any noise Duck makes in reply is drowned out in fluff and Indrids high, trilling moans as he sinks his teeth into his neck. Duck thrashes helplessly as his orgasm burns out his veins and muscles, leaving a melted man in its wake.

“Perfection” Indrid purrs, licking at the bite to close it as he grunts and pumps his hips, “my spoiled little human is finally worth something OHyesss, yes.” He holds a squirming Duck down on his cock as his spurts into him, the human unable to do anything but cling to him and moan his name.

A sweet voice lilts in Ducks ear, “if you ever forget what you’re for, or dare to tease me so again, I will strap you down in my lap and fill you until it sloshes.”

Duck nods to show he heard, but only gets through half the movement before wincing.

“Oh, oh dear, is the bite too big?”

“N-no, think, think it’s just real sore. You bit hard both times.”

“Let me look to be certain...yes, you’re right, the wounds are the usual size. Come, let’s get you in a bath at once.”

The next thing he knows, spindly arms lower him into the fancy jacuzzi. Indrid chirps over him, telling him how wonderful he is, how well he did, promising to fetch him anything he desires for dinner, all while bandaging the bigger marks and scrubbing blood from his chest. When the vampire is satisfied with his efforts, he takes his human form and joins Duck in the tub. The human immediately waves him into his lap and guides him into a kiss.

“Insatiable thing.” Indrid purrs, nuzzling his cheek.

“Damn right. And you love me for it.”

“That I do.”

[kindofinprogress]

/untitled/ Weasley sib fic

“We should find somewhere to take her. Like a beach or something. She would do good with some time away.”

Percy’s comment was met with an uneasy silence. The room had already been heavily cloaked in an awkward stillness after Molly had stormed out of the kitchen crying five minutes ago. It was becoming a regular occurrence and if dealing with one's own grief wasn’t hard enough watching your mother go through it was a completely different beast of its own. 

Ginny thought about how much her Mum hated the beach- it was too dirty and her fair skin couldn’t stand the heat. The table clambered with the sudden motion of her standing up and throwing her soup-filled spoon at Percy. 

“Ginevra!”

“Oh come on.”

“Good shot!”

“Hey!”

“Almost got on me!”

“Why don’t you shut it! As if you’d have any idea what she needs.”

“Ginny-”

“No! I’m tired of him parading around here trying to solve everything-”

“I am your older brother.”

“-by happenstance. You haven’t been a brother to any of us in years! Like I was saying- I’m tired of him prancing around-”

“-I do not prance.”

Ginny let out an annoyed huff at being interrupted again “Let me start from the beginning. You. Need. To. Shut! It!”

An annoyed grunt came from Ron then “Oh stop being a brat, Ginny.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said- stop being a brat. None of us know how to help Mum and you being mean to Percy is least helpful of all.”

“Oh I’m being mean? If the truth is mean then-”

Ron sat bolt upright from two seats down, his chair hitting the floor with a loud crash. “Shut up, Ginny you have no right to throw that in his face.”

“Oh and who are you, exactly? To tell me what I have a right to?”

Ron took a step toward her making Harry stand from the seat between them to put space between the two hot headed red-heads. “Look, let’s just-”

“She’s being a child! And I’m tired of it. You may be the baby, Ginny that gives you no right to act like one. You think it helps for Mum to try and sit through another meal of you going on as if Percy isn’t even in the room? Some real family-togetherness that’s showing.”

“Why should I have to play nice when he’s the prat who turned his back on his family? And now he just wants to waltz back in here-”

Ron made a grab for his wand and Harry grabbed his wrist “Ron. Stop.”

“Why are you sticking up for her? You know just as well as the rest of us she’s being unreasonable.”

“Unreasonable?” Ginny shot a bat-bogey hex so quick no one had time to shield Ron from it.

Charlie got up to cast a counter-curse but just as quickly Ron was hit with a body-bind. 

Hermione shrieked “Harry! Why did you-”

“He was winding his wand up!”

“She started it! If she wants to fight like we’re children well two can play that game. Let me go, Harry!”

Before he could respond Ginny ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs toward her room. Bill and Harry both made to go after her but after a brief pause Bill sat back down and it was ultimately Harry who followed her up. He knocked on her door and let himself into the dark room. A heavy-set blanket was blocking the light from coming inside as more than a sliver from the edges where the blanket didn’t quite meet the wall properly. Harry sat on the edge of her bed and Ginny crawled into his lap, tears already streaming down her face. They sat there like that for a few minutes, with Harry rubbing her back attempting to be a source of comfort for a hurt he knew he couldn’t fix, before the door slammed open and Ron walked in trailed by Hermione. 

“Ronald, please leave them-”

Ron huffed at the door, taking in the image of his little sister looking suddenly so much smaller than she had in years. “Oh.”

Ginny looked up at him wiping at her red-rimmed eyes. She croaked out an “I’m sorry” before bursting into another wave of tears. Ron moved toward the bed and swiftly switched spots with Harry. Harry and Hermione left the room with promises to be back soon. 

“Alright, it’s all alright. I’m sorry too. Come on Gin.”

Ginny looked at Ron in the eyes and felt a shift between them. Looking at him then, he no longer felt like her partner-in crime. She felt the same sense of stern disappointment she was used to receiving from all of her other older brothers. When had he gained that aura of authority? Ginny gulped down the knot in her throat formed by the thought that maybe her brother had been right before, maybe she was a child. Her lip quivered as another sob threatened to come out. 

“Come on, now. None of that. I’m sorry I yelled at you.” 

Ginny nodded her head and whispered a thanks. She shifted in bed so she was sat criss-cross facing Ron. He grabbed her hand, giving it a weak squeeze. 

“Ginny, why are you treating Percy like this? He doesn’t deserve it.”

An anger welled up inside of her and she grew hot. “I don’t understand how you can say that after what he put us through. What he put Mum and Dad through!”

“He came back-”

“And why should that matter now?”

“Because it’s the only thing that matters. That he came back.”

“I just don’t understand-”

“I left.” 

“What?”

“I left too.”

“That was different. You and Hermione couldn’t let Harry-”

“No. Ginny, what has Harry told you about the last few months? What happened while we were away?”

“I think I know most of it now we’re trying to get through it-”

“Did he tell you about Christmas?”

“Yeah, about Godrics Hollow? The graveyard and the snake?”

“Did he happen to mention that I wasn’t around for any of that?”

“What?”

“I left-”

“What do you mean? You left Godrics Hollow before the snake? I-”

“No. Before that. A while before that, actually. He told you about the locket?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, it was terrible wearing it. I’m sure he told you that bit. But it was so hard Ginny. I don’t know if I was weaker than him or Hermione or if the bloody thing just chose the exact right button to pick at- I don’t know. But the point is I left. I reached a boiling point. I was mean to Harry and Hermione and I left. Said things I shouldn’t have. I walked out on them.”

Ron was sure Ginny would throw him out at that or at least kick and scream a bit but instead she launched herself into his arms and gave him a hug so tight he thought he might asphyxiate. 

“Oh, Ron. I’m so sorry that happened to you. But that’s different. That thing made you-”

“It’s not different, Ginny. I left.”

“No, Ron. It got to you and it made you do things you’d never dream of in the worst ways. I know what that’s like. The diary talked to me like that too. That same voice, Ron. I’ve been there. It’s not the same.”

“You don’t think Percy had people whispering in his ear? Telling him how things could be better, what he could do to get ahead? Using their influence to get him to do things he normally wouldn’t?” 

“Right, but-”

“No, Ginny. No buts. The second I left I felt lonely. I missed my family. You, mum, george… I missed Harry and Hermione. I just couldn’t find a way back. And in the moments I thought I could? Well, what if they wouldn’t forgive me? What if me leaving was too deep of a cut? It killed me, Ginny. Knowing I’d betrayed the people I loved the most. I kicked myself over it thousands of times over. But I knew I had to try and they took me back. Not exactly with open arms, but still. They let me back and that was enough. I told myself if I had the inkling they didn’t want me around I would leave again and not bother them or get in the way. I’m sure Percy feels the same. Don’t push him away. Think about it, Ginny. You don’t think he wanted to come back sooner? He couldn’t have found you lot at Muriels, or me, he didn’t know where Bill lived and even if he did could he have risked it? Look at the people he’d ended up surrounded by.”

Ginny shifted on her bed and looked at a far away corner in her room suddenly very attuned to a paint chip on the upper left corner near her bedroom wall. 

“I’m not going to force you to hug him and play nice, okay? Just ease up on him and think about what I’ve said. We’ve lost enough in this war- don’t let it take more.” 

Ginny nodded solemnly. Overtaken, yet again, by how beyond his years her closest brother seemed. 

“Turning in for the night or do you want to come up and play a game of exploding snap with me?”

“Think I’d rather beat you than sit here right now.” Ginny gave him a watery smile and reached for Rons’ outstretched hand letting him pull her off her bed. 

[theewritingroomm]

Run Away - Part Three

Summary: A look into what Y/N has seen while in Hell  Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (past),   Word Count: 1,807  Warnings: Mentions of abandonment, swearing,  A/N: Anything in italics is a flashback. For those who ask to be tagged and are not able to receive them I will try to fix it for next time. Text divider by @writeyourmindaway​ 

Part 1 - Part 2

Tags : @coffeebooksandfandom​, @bi-readytobakepie-cry-and-die, 

Y/N didn’t remember much from her life before she began residing in hell. She remembered bits from early in her life, such as how her mother would make her breakfast every Saturday morning; chocolate chip pancakes with strawberries. She remembered the name of her childhood best friend, the street she grew up on, and her birthday. She also remembered how proud her parents were when she decided to go off to college. But she had very few memories of the years between then and now.

“What are you thinking about so hard, Love?” Crowley asked, pulling Y/N from her thoughts.

“Nothing darling.” Y/N replied before turning her attention back to the King of hell as the two readied for bed.

Crowley didn’t push her to answer him, knowing that she must still be reeling mentally from the last few months, even if she wasn’t aware.

3 Months Ago

“Because I know you’re the only one that can do what I’m asking.” Y/N explained, stepping closer to the demon.

“And what would that be?” He asked, taking his own step forward.

“I want you to make me forget Dean Winchester, completely.”

“Y/N, I know what he did, and I can’t let you go through with this.” Crowley had barley gotten the words out of his mouth before Y/N had him by the collar of his suit.

With tears in her eye’s Y/N tried to muster up as much of the badass hunter that was buried inside her before speaking, “Crowley…” she paused, her mask falling and her resolve fading. “Please, I’m begging you at this point, I can’t live with this pain anymore.”

Crowley sighed, placing his hand on top of the one that gripped his lapel, “Okay love, I’ll help you, but tomorrow, you need a goods night sleep first.”

Before Y/N could argue she felt like she was being sucked up into a vacuum. The feeling lasted for nearly thirty seconds before it ended, and she was standing in the middle of the largest bedroom she had ever seen. A large four-poster bed sat against the far wall of the room, a massive pile of pillows adorned with silk pillowcases sat towards the head of the bed, crimson silk sheets sat under a fluffy black duvet. A large crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the room, casting small rainbows on the black walls. It was a beautiful room, but it was not where Y/N wanted to be.

“Crowley,” Y/N turned to face him, “Why can’t you just do what I asked and let me be.”

Crowley shook his head and took a step forward, making Y/N take a step back towards the bed. “Because, as king of hell I like to keep tabs on all of the people that wish to kill me and that included Squirrel. So, I know what he did to you and I know that what he did shattered you and I only imagine what a toll it has taken on you.”  

Crowley reached out to grab her hand, wanting to show her that he meant no harm. She allowed him to take it, letting him squeeze her fingers once. It was nice to have someone comfort her; it was a nice contrast to the pain she has felt these last month.

“All I ask is that you rest, get a good night’s sleep and if you still want to go through with this in the morning then I’ll do it.”

Y/N nodded at Crowley’s words, deciding then to go sit on the edge of the bed while Crowley explained where she could find everything in her new room.

Y/N woke the next morning to a rapid knock on the bedroom door. For a moment she thought it was Sam coming to check on her again, but the thought quickly left her head as she realized this was not her bed and she was not in the bunker anymore.  

“Come in,” she said hesitantly, hoping that Sam had not found her or worse Dean.

A few seconds after the words left her mouth the large door slowly swung open to reveal a petite blonde woman with coal black eyes. A sense of relief overcame her at the sight of the demon, which Y/N found odd considering the time she spent with the Winchesters.  

“The King wishes to see you.” The demon spoke quickly before turning on her heel and leaving the room and leaving Y/N to her own devices.

It took Y/N nearly thirty minutes to find Crowley’s office, having ended up getting turned around a handful of times. And with the amount of demons unwilling to help her it only made it that much harder to get where she was going.

She eventually was able to fine Crowley’s office, knocking on the door when she did. As she began to lower her fist from the door it swung open to reveal a room just as large as the bedroom, she had stayed in. The walls were painted the same dark color as the bedroom with ceilings just as high. A large dark oak desk sat in the middle of the room with Crowley sitting behind the desk, his nose buried in a stack of paperwork.

“Crowley,” Y/N spoke, gaining his attention from the doorway.

“Come in, come in,” He waved her in, the door closing on its own as she stepped into the room.

Y/N walked slowly to the chairs on the other side of the desk, taking a seat in one as Crowley continued to comb over the paper in his hands. Time continued to pass in silence, Y/N growing more anxious by the second.

“Calm down dove, I can practically feel you vibrating from here.” Crowley spoke, not once looking up from the paper in his hands. “I’m not going to screw you over; you want to forget Dean and I am willing to do that for you.”

Crowley held the paper out for Y/N to grab, “It’s all outlined in there. I will make you forget him and everything that he’s done to you and the only thing that I ask of you is that you stay here for a few weeks to recover. As this is going to take a lot out of you, it’s going to leave you exhausted and may even cause a little sickness.”

Y/N hung onto every word that left his mouth, grabbing the sheet of paper once he had finished. Reading over it she noticed that it was the most simple and straight forward contract she had every read. It outlined everything Crowley had just told her, the only repercussion she was going to have to face was the few weeks in Hell to recover; but she would be able to leave afterwards if she wished. It was exactly what she wanted.

“It’s perfect.” She told him, giving him a slight smile.

“Excellent,” he responded, holding out a pen for Y/N. Grabbing the pen from his hand she signed along the bottom line, handing everything back to the King of hell when she finished. “There is one final thing that needs to be done.”

At his words Y/N’s heart plummeted into her stomach. She knew it, she knew Crowley was going to screw her over. Why shouldn’t he? He was the King of hell; her ex-fiancé was one of his biggest enemies and by extension she was too.

“And what is that?” Y/N bit out, anger bubbling in her stomach.  

“Well dove, all of my contracts and deals are sealed with a kiss.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh, getting a shocked look from Crowley as she did. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I knew that I was just expecting to get screwed over still.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, a small smile on his lips as Y/N continued to laugh. As her laughter died down and she was able to catch her breath and turn her attention back to the man in front of her.

“Okay, I’m ready.” She said, pushing herself up from her chair and Crowley did the same.

She stood in front of her chair watching as Crowley made his way around his desk to come and stand in front of her. He went to straighten his lapels before gently grabbing Y/N’s wrist and pulling her closer to him; close enough that she was pressed against his chest forced to tilt her head back to look him in the eye. The two stayed that way for a moment, simply standing there looking into each other’s eyes before Crowley began to move closer to Y/N’s face, only stopping when their nosed were barely touching. Crowley flicked his eyes up slightly to meet Y/N’s, watching them as they fluttered closed. Crowley took the opportunity to then connect his lips to hers, kissing her slowly and relishing in the way she seemed to kiss him back.

After Dean had returned to the bunker to find out she had run away he dove into trying to find out where she was; but he was having no luck in doing so. The last lead he had gotten had come from a gas station attendant from the next town over who had seen her stop for gas before heading off again. Dean was running himself into the ground trying to find out where his fiancée was.

He knew that there were probably creatures hot on her heels after finding out that she was no longer being protected by Dean. He also couldn’t get the demons out of his head, the ones that were telling him that she was already captured or dead.

Taking a swing from the whiskey bottle next to him on the library table he continued to read over her outdated social media accounts, seeing that the last post on all of them were from the morning of what was supposed to be their wedding day. It hit him in the heart to see how happy she had been and to know that he was the one responsible for breaking her heart broke him. It broke him to look at the picture on his phone screen, seeing hoe her E/C eyes shone with happiness and the smile on her face stretch from ear to ear.

Dean scrolled on, taking in the other pictures that she had uploaded. Ones of her and Dean smiling and laughing and overall, in love. He saw ones of her and Sam and even Cas showing them goofing off and showcasing their friendship. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he took in the smile on her face.

“Dean!” he heard his brother yell and he run into the library; Sam’s phone clutched in his as well. “I think I found her.”

Dean jumped up from his chair, “Where the hell is, she?”

“She’s with Crowley.”

[s-creations]

Return the Flames - Chapter 3

All at Dead Bird Studios knew of Amos' (The  Conductor's) ability. How the owl could suddenly erupt into flames if  angered enough. When the studio first opened, Dominic (DJ Grooves) was  told that Amos had his ability under control. Nothing to worry about. No  possible loss of anything from an open flame.

A few years later however, and that control seems to have lessened to a dangerous degree.

It should have just been a simple, week long drive to fix the problem. It really should have been.

Dominic should have asked a lot more questions and should have been prepared for a twist ending.

_________________

Fandom: A Hat in Time  Rating: General Audience  Relationships/Pairings: The ConductorXDJ Grooves  Warnings: Eventual depictions of violence, slow burn relationship, named characters, attempt of an accent, being hunted down, a race against time (sort of).

“Release, burn, return…”

“Release, burn, return…”

He could hear it, that infernal chanting that was starting to wear on his nerves. It wasn’t as loud as before. It was still there through. Just hanging over his head as he attempted to keep the fire at bay. 

“Release, burn, return…”

He shifted, shocked when he realized he was enveloped in a cool embrace. When opening his eyes, he was expecting to see himself being cradled by the darkened sky. That was not what he got. The inky black sky filled with stars was above him. Again, out of his reach. But he was no longer floating aimlessly.

Instead, he was resting in a crater. The ground below him powdery and white, dust rising as he shifted and sat up. 

“Release, burn, return…”

“Remain… Please remain… You need to remain…”

“Release, burn, return…”

“Remain… Please remain…”

Amos shifted weakly in the ice and freezing water filled tub, slowly sitting up as he rubbed sleep from his face. Mind still hazy from waking, Amos swirled some of the ice around before reaching up. Placing a hand on his chest. The fire was still low, bearable. Something he truly hadn’t felt in so long. But why was he in a bathtub? And where did all this ice come from? 

“What…”

“How are you feeling?”

The owl jumped at the sudden voice. Dominic was by the large sink, in the processes of pulling his hair back into a bun. Wearing a simple tank top and boxer combo as his sleepwear. Toiletries were laying out on the sink’s surface with water running from the tap. Oh, right, the trip. One that Dominic had insisted on coming with. He was also the one who, apparently, kept dumping ice on the owl even after Amos passed out.

“‘M fine…” Amos answered weakly, rubbing sleep away from his face. “What time is it?”

“7.”

The owl sat up a bit straighter at that. “How’s it 7? I thought we arrived here later than that?”

“...It’s 7 in the morning Amos. You practically passed out once you were in there.”

“Oh. That’s a bit more reasonable. I suppose.”

“I’ve never seen you sleep this much.”

“Ya been spyin’ on me?”

Dominic rolled his eyes at Amos’ smirk, the owl draped over the side of the tub. “I don’t have to knowing you workaholic nature. I’m more wondering and worrying if your condition requires you to sleep more to combat it.”

“Nah, I’ve just had difficulty sleepin’  lately.” The owl stood, the water and ice sloshing around. He was a bit upset that he had to leave his cold sanctuary. “How much ice did ya brin’ back?”

“A few buckets worth. By the way, if anyone asks, you eat ice like chips.”

“...Why?”

“It was the story I told when confronted on why I kept getting ice.” Dominic frowned as the owl roared with laughter. “I’m glad someone finds amusement in this.”

“I thought ya could come up with creative stories.”

“Not in five seconds! What would you have said?”

“Needed ice for your cooler.”

“You mean the one that we don’t have.”

“Did they eye over our luggage when we shuffled past their room?”

“I don’t know, but I wasn’t going to risk it.”

Letting out a snort, Amos left the tub. A disgruntled noise left him as he noticed the water rushing off of him. “Don’t suppose this place has a dryer.”

“In fact, they do. But we can dry them as we drive, don’t fret. I have a new outfit laying out on the bed for you.”

“Ya went through-”

“Oh hush Darling. I just took out what was needed, I didn’t look at anything else.”

Amos huffed, his footsteps slapping wetly against the ground as he stormed out of the bathroom. He was shocked with how large the room was. Properly conscious to pay attention to the setting around him. Two queen size beds pressed against the wall with a large, flat screen tv resting on the opposite. A large dresser was below that, which appeared untouched as their suitcases were resting by it, both open. A small sitting area, with a large sitting chair and a large table was positioned near the wide window. Which showed a balcony and the growing prairie outside the hotel grounds. 

At the foot of the closest bed was a few articles of Amos’ clothing, just as the penguin said. 

“At least he picked out something comfortable.” The owl muttered. 

While the ice and water combo had kept him cool and he was grateful for that, he really hated wet clothing. It stuck to his feathers and pulled at them uncomfortably. He preened a bit, only to put the awkward feathers back into place before dressing again. Unsure of how long Dominic would need to take in order to be ready, Amos moved himself and his wet clothing to the balcony. 

He laid the drenched garments out on the railing before turning towards the view. Truth be told, there wasn’t much to look at. This was definitely a hotel that was meant as a way to get away from everything. There was a small town that could barely be seen on the horizon. After that was the large portion of prairie land that was filled with wild grass and flowers. The view below was one of a large parking lot with an ornate courtyard directly set before the hotel entrance. It seemed like such a waste of money to only stay here for one night. But, if Peck Neck Grooves wanted to burn his money, then so be it. 

Amos placed a hand on his chest, the fire within calm. A pleasant warmth instead of the inferno it had been for so many days. As if to confirm for him that he was still in control, Amos created a small flame from within his palm. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

“I’m going to assume you’re feeling better.” Dominic joined the owl on the balcony, hair still pulled back, but was now properly dressed. 

“Aye… ‘M not goin’ ta lie. It’s probably the best I’ve felt in awhile.”

“Really?”

“I don’t have a self making ice machine. Nor someone to keep dumpin’ said ice over me when I pass out.”

The penguin frowned at that. “Have you been experiencing this every night?”

“Not every night...about once every two weeks. It all sort o’ builds up.”

“How...long has this been happening?”

“A few years.”

“Years! Amos-”

“I don’t need a lecture. I have a solution, that’s where we’re goin’, so hush.”

“Amos, I want to help.”

“And ya are.” 

“I’m not just speaking about physically taking you somewhere. I mean mentally. Emotionally. Something. This can’t be healthy to not talk about this.”

Amos snuffed the flame before walking back into the room. “Are ya ready to go.”

“...I suppose I am. Do you want to eat here?”

“And spend 20 pons for a piece o’ toast? Let’s get ta the town and see what they have.”

Dominic didn’t argue. Merely collecting the drenched garments and following Amos as they finished packing up the rest of their belongings. They checked out, climbed back into the car, and headed towards the nearby town. 

It was an old fashioned town with a few modern touches. The houses were old with some paint chipping from the siding but well maintained, with large porches with swing seats and at least two potted plants. Further in revealed a mix of older stores and those with modern touches. Nothing fancy or flashy, giving it enough of a home town feeling. A small dinner was spotted further down the road, Dominic claiming a parking spot on the street as the dinner’s lot seemed rather packed. 

It was packed on the inside as well. The floor being a black and white checkered pattern with all seating having red leather upholstery. It was loud, with chattering and children screaming, the servers rushing around with food in hand. They were led over to a booth, promptly taking the seats across from each other, ordering and falling quiet. Dominic peered out the large window in hopes of avoiding the awkward silence that settled over them once again. But nothing of interest kept his attention and he was pulled back to the table and, more importantly, Amos.

“Do we need to worry about another episode tonight?” The penguin asked. 

“I hope not. But we may want to stock up on ice...just in case.”

“Fair.”

They fell quiet again. Dominic hit once more with how little he knew of the owl. What could he possibly bring up that would interest Amos? It was a thankful blessing when the food arrived. Giving something for each to focus on besides the silence. Unfortunately, the awkward peace was quickly ended with the sound of a shutter, followed by a bright light that startled them both. 

Amos let out a growl as a bluejay with a camera around their neck approached the booth. Pulling out a pad of paper and pencil as they stopped before them.

“Calm down Amos.” Dominic cautiously whispered before turning to the report. “Isn’t it a bit rude to impede on other’s privacy.”

“Sorry to bother. But it’s not everyday two big shot directors bless a small town like this with their presence. Especially not together! Are we having a bit of a special outing? A romantic get away perhaps?” 

The dinner fell quiet when Amos suddenly stood, slamming his hands down onto the table. “Ya unruly peck neck! Sniffin’ around for business that ya have no need ta stick your nose in. Have ya nothin’ better ta do with ya miserable peckin’ life!”

And Amos left it at that. Storming out of the restaurant with an uneasy silence following. Dominic took in the stunned audience, mother’s desperately pressing their hands over children’s ears, the elderly watching on with looks of utter disgust, as he placed pons down to pay for their meal. “You may want to take his words to heart darling.”

With that, he departed as well and started to search for Amos. The owl being located behind the building. Frantically pacing as smoke slowly rose from him. Dominic was instantly on the defense as he approached the other. Not sure if Amos was close to combusting or if something else was going to consume his rath. 

“Amos-”

“Peck neck! Absolute peckin’ peck neck!”

“You do realize there are children who can hear you.”

“Maybe they’ll learn somethin’ important.”

“Amos, you need to calm down. We knew this might have been a possible issue.”

“I know! I know that! But I’m already on a short temper and in pain, I have enough ta worry about without them snoopin’ around! Then ta even suggest that we… That we’re together… Peckin’ reporter’s gonna write some stupid story about us bein’ together!” 

“You don’t know that. And, even if they did, you know it’ll just be tabloid garbage.” 

“Stop deafening’ them!”

A sudden eruption of flames caused both to stumble away from the dinner. A fire quickly formed from the A.C. unit and started to claim the building. Dominic could tell there was no way to contain it with how quickly it was spreading. 

It was absolutely terrifying. 

This was not normal fire. Not the regular flames that Amos could create. It was all red. All varying shades of red that consumed the concrete building. The heat he felt from it made Dominic think he was starting to melt as well. He heard screams and panicked yells coming from the front of the building. The customers and workers could no doubt feel the growing heat and were leaving as fast as they could. The sound of the familiar sirens drawing closer to the roaring fire, which had fully claimed the building, broke Dominic out of his fearful state. 

“Amos.” Dominic looked over to the owl. Who was staring in disbelief at the roaring fire. “Amos, we need to leave.” 

He still didn’t respond. Dominic rushed over and grabbed Amos’ arms, pulling him away from the bonfire. They rushed past the crowd (Dominic prayed all were able to get out), passed the fire trucks that were racing by them, (did they seem suspicious running away?), and climbed back into the car. Amos was still unresponsive as Dominic started up the car and peeled out of their spot. 

As they pulled away, Amos finally moved, turning back to watch the fire as it slowly shrank. Dominic’s heart was pounding in his ears as he drove, eyes locked on the road. 

But he could have sworn he heard Amos whisper fearfully. 

“I didn’t mean to…”

[artificialqueens]

Overpowered Part 3 (Branjie)-athena2

A/N: Thank you all for the great feedback on Chapter 2! This chapter is a little angsty, but I hope you like it! Any feedback you have would be amazing, it really means a lot to me. ***This chapter has a mild panic attack, implied abuse, and discussion of medication.*** I also made some Brooke and Vanessa moodboards for this fic! Find them on my tumblr @buffywhovianpotterlock.

I’m surprised you’re still functioning.

We made the drugs that made you.

Precious little Frost.

She throws the weighted blanket off with a sigh, Vanessa following. “Can’t sleep either?”

Brooke shakes her head.

“I want to read it now.” She’s been tossing and turning since she told Vanessa she was ready, and she’s ready now. She has to know. She digs through her dresser.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. You’ll do it with me? Please?”

Brooke can lift a car over her head, but nothing could ever be heavier than this folder.

“Of course.” They drop down at the kitchen table.

Brooke has been picturing this moment since she asked Nina for advice, the older woman’s voice filling her head.

The file might give you some closure. But, given what happened last time, it’s likely it could cause another flashback. We could look at it here, or you can do it on your own if you’d like, but be aware you might respond negatively.

It’s what she figured Nina would say, an answer that wasn’t really an answer.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay? Promise?” Vanessa asks, grabbing her hand.

“Promise.”

Her free hand flips the folder open. The vaguely familiar words burn her eyes as she wades through medical terms of the injuries from the plane crash last March. A broken leg, broken arm, 3 broken ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding, and several cuts to her body. Does she feel the pain from those broken bones now, or is she imagining it? She touches the thick white scar on her chest absently.

She suddenly remembers a drainage tube between her ribs (she has a small scar there too) and the long scar down her chest, and white tabs stuck to her skin, connected to monitors that beeped piercingly, and pain like someone had carved her chest open and pieced it together with Scotch tape. Then the doctor put something in her IV, and it all went black.

“You good?”

Brooke jumps. She’d forgotten Vanessa was there. “Yeah. So far it’s just what happened after the crash.”

Subject name removed from flight list. No survivors. Flight list not released, subject will be presumed dead if any inquiries. Subject’s public records here (pgs 2-8), scrubbed from databases.

She turns the page. Scans of her birth certificate and driver’s license. She’s Canadian? A fight between her and Vanjie runs through her head, Vanjie grinning and teasing her for saying “soar-y”.

Newspaper clippings. Maybe there’s something about her before, or her family— she hits two obituaries. Her parents. She can’t read the rest. She just can’t.

Brooke should feel something, she knows she should. But she can’t remember. Nothing at all, not even a flash. It’s just an empty space inside her where she knows the memories should be.

She moves on hastily. Hytes New Co-Director of Toronto Ballet Company. She remembers the feeling of her feet in ballet shoes, but co-director?

The clippings are ghosts of her old life and she can’t take the haunting anymore. Brooke moves to lists of dates, starting when they took her and continuing until this summer. Her dosages, her exams, her training, her missions. The first rows cover her progress healing and responding to the drugs. Drugs that the two men she met hours ago had made for her and countless others. Her stomach twists painfully and she jumps ahead.

5/30/2018: Subject at healthy weight, physically approved to begin training. 10% accuracy with ice blasts.

Brooke remembers the row of bright red targets. His voice thunders in her ears. “You have until October to get half those targets.” It’s a command.

8/13/2018: Subject having nightmares, inquiring about old life. Subject sedated, given 100mg dosage in IV overnight. Had no memory of asking questions after waking.

She skips over training logs, punishments, and medical data. It’s like reading about someone else. She has vague images of the events, but they’re getting stronger and clearer as she reads.

 10/1/2018: Subject achieved 65% target accuracy, no punishment required.

“Maybe that’s enough.”

“I’m f-fine.”

11/19/2018: Training complete. 100% accuracy, blast strength increased. Dosage (10mg) steady and effective. Subject compliant and approved for field missions.

It’s all here. Labs she’d broken into. Weapons and technology she’d stolen. Every injury, every new drug sample. Records of fights with Black Diamond, with Shuga Rush, with–her heart skips a beat–Vanjie.

And the last one. The very last one before Vanessa saved her and took her away from them.

7/7/2019: Vitals steady. Subject compliant. Dosage to remain doubled until further notice.

“Brooke?” She can hardly hear Vanessa.

“These are all the bad things I did. ”

“Baby, no. Those things weren’t you.”

She shakes her head, heart straining her chest.

“You want to make us proud on your first mission, don’t you?”

She nods.

“Remember, if you fail, that’s bad. You know what happens when you’re bad.”

“I won’t fail, General.”

“Brooke!”

Her lungs are on fire, burning all her air. 5 things she can see.

She sees the kitchen wall across from her but it’s tilted–Vanessa is holding her tightly, stopping her from falling off the chair she’s half-out of. She pulls herself upright, eyes absorbing the wooden table as her breathing slows.

“Are you okay?” Vanessa tenderly brushes sweaty hair off Brooke’s forehead.

“Y-Yeah.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“So do you,” Brooke says quietly. All Vanessa does is take care of her, worry about her, and Brooke knows she hasn’t done enough to help, especially with the vision. Vanessa’s been through bad shit like her and is suffering in ways Brooke can’t imagine, but she’s always so strong, iron forged in fire–

“Less thinking, more sleeping,” Vanessa insists, leading Brooke to bed.

Their bodies intertwine under the blankets, but neither sleeps. —

“Brooke, come here!” Vanessa yells around a mouthful of pumpkin brownie, tapping on the window.

On the street below, a sea of kids in bright colors weave in and out of pumpkins and decorations. She doesn’t know what she’s supposed to look at, until-

“Are they…”

Vanessa nods.

Two little girls head down the sidewalk. One wears a red suit with a V on the chest, the other in familiar royal blue, and she can just see the neon F.

“We’re legit heroes now, baby,” Vanessa grins, but her tears mirror Brooke’s own.

Their lips meet and Vanessa tastes like chocolate.

She thinks it’s the first time they’ve both forgotten about the vision. —

There’s been small earthquakes and electrical damage around the city, but no sightings of Quake or Shockwave.

Their nights are spent tackling common criminals beneath an inky sky.

She watches Vanjie scream at robbers and would-be murderers while desperately beating the crap out of them like it’s the only thing reminding her she’s still alive. The only thing keeping her alive.

Vanessa is suffering but Brooke has no idea how to help.

It’s like watching someone drown but being unable to save them.

Vanessa isn’t eating. Her eyes are rimmed with shadows. Her skin is painted purple and blue from all the fighting.

She doesn’t want to talk about it, and Brooke doesn’t want to force her.

Vanessa is close to breaking, and as much as Brooke wants to shatter, she can’t.

Sometimes she can’t even look at Vanessa without wanting to cry because she may never see her again.

Brooke’s heart is made of glass, but she needs to let it ice over before Vanessa burns herself out.

Because even though they have time, Brooke feels like she’s losing Vanessa already. —

It’s probably a stupid idea, but it has A’Keria’s blessing, so there’s hope.

Brooke works while Vanessa showers. She moves chairs and couch cushions and blankets until she has a sturdy blanket fort. She arranges fluffy pillows underneath, lays out the potato-chip cookies she’d made, and gets The Notebook set up.

Brooke is waiting when she emerges from the bathroom in her pajamas. “I have a surprise,” she says, covering Vanessa’s eyes. “Sorry about the cold hands.”

“I’m used to it. And there better not be any haunted house shit in here. Halloween’s over.”

“Nothing scary, I promise.” She removes her hands and watches Vanessa’s eyes get big, Brooke’s heart growing with them.

“Brooke.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “How did you…A’Keria,” she answers herself as she slides under the fort. “Damn. I love you so much. I don’t know how I got this lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Brooke says as she nestles beside her. “So, um, I wanted to ask how you’re doing? Be honest.”

Vanessa shrugs and stares at the cookies. Brooke’s never seen her at such a loss for words. “I…I don’t know. I’m pissed–not at Yvie, it’s not her fault–but at everything, I guess, and I’m confused and sad and really fucking tired of it all, honestly.”

Brooke nods. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But if you want to talk-”

“I know you want to help, but I don’t want to talk. Please.” Her voice gets small and Brooke’s heart aches for her. “I usually love screaming about my problems and feelings and shit, and I know everyone thinks it’ll help to talk about it, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“It’s fine,” she sighs. “I just want to watch this movie and have you hold me.”

“Of course.” She presses play as Vanessa curls into her side, Brooke’s arms steadying around her, feeling how tense she is.

It didn’t go quite as she planned, but Vanessa falls asleep with a smile on her face, so it wasn’t a total failure. —

“You seem a little distracted. Anything you want to talk about?” Nina’s voice drips with concern and Brooke wants to tell her. She should tell her.

She shrugs, fingers digging into the squeeze ball.

“Anything at all?”

“Meds,” Brooke mumbles, finally bringing them up like she’d told Vanessa she would a month ago.

“Something in particular about them?”

Another shrug.

“Can you give me a little something to go on?” Nina asks gently.

“I think I want to take them,” Brooke says eventually, eyes on her lap.

If Nina is surprised, she hides it well. “Okay. Did something happen that caused you to want them? You seem a little hesitant, and I want to make sure you’re confident and comfortable before I prescribe anything.”

She’s about to shrug again when she can’t keep it quiet anymore. “I…I’m just sick of it! I’m sick of sweating in the grocery store and thinking I’m gonna have a heart attack when I leave the house! I’m sick of the panic attacks and the headaches and not sleeping and I…” The outburst quickly drains her and her next words are a whisper. “I just want to be better.”

Nina is quiet.

“I’m s–I’m sorry I yelled. I didn’t mean to.”

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling.” Nina pauses. “Brooke, I’m so incredibly proud of you. I want to say that first because I think you need to hear it.”

Tears spring in Brooke’s eyes. Nina was proud of her.

“I understand why you’re upset, and why you’re scared. Anyone would be after what you’ve been through. But if you feel ready, I do think medication would help you.”

“But if I…” Her voice trembles as she releases a fear she hasn’t even told Vanessa. “If I take them, doesn’t it mean I’m not good enough? That I’m weak?”

“Oh, Brooke,” Nina says softly, and her eyes look slightly damp. “Not at all. You’re doing so well. There’s absolutely no shame in needing help. Asking for help and taking medication shows how strong you are, how hard you’re working to get better.”

Nina passes her the tissues and Brooke no longer hides her tears. “I’m ready,” she confirms.

Nina smiles. “There’s one more thing I want you to try.”

Brooke raises an eyebrow.

“I want you to try not to apologize when you’re here.”

Nina might as well have asked her to pilot a rocketship.

“I know it’s a lot, and I don’t expect you to do it immediately,” Nina amends at Brooke’s bewildered expression. “It’s just something I want you to try.”

Brooke nods.

“And Happy Thanksgiving!” Nina crows. —

She and Vanessa wake at sunrise.

“Please tell me you don’t play Monopoly on Thanksgiving,” Brooke begs as they season the turkey.

“Oh no, that’s for birthdays only.”

“Thank God.”

“On Thanksgiving and Christmas we do bingo.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Mmm, you haven’t played with Silk. The bitch uses six cards. She used to keep a marker in her pocket and change the numbers. And she has to call out the numbers herself because she doesn’t trust us.”

“So I guess I’ll hide the valuables?”

Vanessa laughs and kisses her cheek.

Brooke knows what she’s thankful for. —

Silk barges in an hour early presenting her sweet potato casserole like it’s made of gold.

“Thank God we got Brooke to make the pies. Last year A’Keria was in her health-food phase and tried to poison us with low-fat nonsense,” Silk grumbles. “I almost wasted away.”

“And she brought that green shit white people love,” Vanessa adds.

“Kale?” Brooke guesses.

“That’s it.”

“She better not mess with my mashed potatoes. Last year she put cauliflower in them. Says you can’t taste the difference. Believe me,” Silk pats her chest proudly, “I can taste it.” —

“Everything good here?” A’Keria checks, glancing at the food covering every inch of counter surface.

“Yeah, I just hope Scarlet and Yvie like it.”

“Girl, you could go on the Food Network,” she declares, pointing to the pie-crust leaves on top of the pumpkin pie. “Everyone’s gonna love it.” A’Keria pats her arm in reassurance and the calm runs through her immediately. Brooke smiles in thanks, and A’Keria winks. —

“A’Keria, these potatoes are so good. What the hell is in them?” Yvie asks and Silk nods with her mouth full of them.

“Just butter and cream.” She pauses, grinning devilishly at Silk. “And cauliflower.”

Silk almost chokes. “You lying hoe!” She grabs a serving spoon and chases A’Keria around the table while the rest of them roar with laughter.

Brooke catches Vanessa’s eye, and she knows they’re thinking the same thing: Please don’t ever let this end. —

After a 2-hour bingo game resulting in 3 ripped cards, 2 spilled cups of coffee, one marker hurled out the window, Yvie flinging whipped cream in Scarlet’s hair, Silk almost swallowing a bingo ball, Brooke launching walnut shells like missiles, and Vanessa’s pumpkin pie fork nearly taking out A’Keria’s eye, everyone heads home.

“Brooke, I almost forgot,” Silk says as she leaves. “That Plastique girl? I found her.” —

She bounces her leg in her and Vanessa’s favorite coffee shop, because Nina had suggested they go somewhere she felt comfortable.

“You okay?” Vanessa asks. Brooke felt fine doing this without Nina, but there’s no way she’s doing it without Vanessa, even though Brooke feels guilty for dragging her along to something about her when they could be focusing on Vanessa.

“Yeah. It’s…she knew me before, you know? Not me now. And I’m not who I used to be. I don’t even know who I used to be.”

“Well, maybe you can’t focus on who you were. Because you are who you are now, and you don’t need to be anyone else. And for the record, I like who you are now a whole lot,” Vanessa bats her eyelashes and Brooke feels warmth spread through her.

Plastique looks exactly like she did in Brooke’s dreams–long black hair and a face so delicate it could be a doll’s.

She bursts into tears when she sees Brooke, touching her arm like she can’t believe she’s real. Which she probably can’t, Brooke realizes. She thought I was dead.

She gives Plastique the Silk-approved story: Brooke survived the plane crash with severe memory loss, met Vanessa, and has been trying to regain her memory. It’s not a total lie, but Brooke still sweats as she tells it, even though Plastique believes it and cries again halfway through.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t look for you. They said no one survived and I never thought…”

“Of course you didn’t. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Brooke, it’s my fault you were on the plane,” Plastique says suddenly, voice thick.

“What do you mean?”

“I was supposed to be on it, but there was a mix-up and there wasn’t enough seats, so I was gonna take a later flight. You wanted to stay with me, but I told you to go…”

For just a second, Brooke considers how easy it would be. To blame Plastique, to have someone to hate for putting her on that plane and in the lab’s hands. But she can’t. It’s not Plastique’s fault, just like it’s not her fault. Nina always tells her it’s no one’s fault but the lab’s, and it’s never felt as true as it does now.

“No,” Brooke says firmly. “Nina–she’s my psychiatrist–she told me if you wouldn’t blame someone else for something, you shouldn’t blame yourself for it either. It wasn’t your fault, I promise you,” Brooke’s voice is fierce as she grips Plastique’s hand.

Plastique nods, wiping her tears.

Plastique had been an intern at the ballet company that Brooke was co-director of. Brooke had danced professionally with the same company for 6 years. She was leaving on her first tour as co-director when the plane went down.

Vanessa’s eyes silently ask if she remembers any of this. She remembers twirling across a stage, costumes light against her skin. She remembers feeling free.

Plastique pulls out her phone. “Here’s a picture of you when you danced.”

Brooke sees herself on the screen but can’t quite believe it’s her. She’s in white from her tiara to her pointe shoes, lacey costume on her lean body, hair pulled into a bun. She looks confident, so far from the Brooke who flinches at loud noises and stutters when ordering food that they’re hardly the same person.

“I’m loving this short hair on you, girl. You cut it right before the tour. I’m glad you kept it,” Plastique says.

Brooke’s never thought about it. It was short when she woke up at the lab, and they had kept it like that so it wasn’t in the way for her training or their medical exams. She likes it short and A’Keria trims it for her.

They talk for another hour, and Plastique promises to keep in touch.

Brooke is quiet on the way home, her mind buzzing.

“You alright?” Vanessa asks. “That was probably a lot, huh?”

She nods. She doesn’t know if she should miss the Brooke in that picture when she doesn’t really know that person. She doesn’t know if she should try to be more like that Brooke.

She thinks of what Vanessa said. Maybe it’s not about who she was. Maybe she doesn’t need to be anyone else.

Just being herself is enough. —

The last day of November dawns unusually bright.

Brooke stands over the sink with a pill in her hand. She looks out the window and her stomach drops, pill slipping through her fingers.

She feels the urge to run outside, let the flakes melt on her tongue, let the cold steal her breath and freeze her cheeks.

But she doesn’t.

Because it’s the first snowfall of the season, and they’re running out of time.

[paladin-lynx]

Human SQUIPtober 2019, Day 6: SQUIP^2

Human SQUIPtober 2019 Day 6: SQUIP^2

Ships Involved: RiverWay (Two River SQUIP [River] x Broadway SQUIP [Ly])

Setting: AU where River and Ly somehow both became human after being SQUIPs for their respective Jeremys, and they now live together. They don’t quite understand how they can both exist, but it isn’t worth questioning it.

Trigger/Content Warnings: None

Author’s Notes: (I know it’s technically Day 7 already, but I got busy, so oh well.) I finally have an excuse to write something for this pairing! I think I tend to write my usual human Squip more like River than Ly, but it’s fun to mess with writing the two of them together. I’ve fallen hard for this ship, and I hope you enjoy! I know I rambled a bit in the beginning, but I just got a little too into exploring River’s mindset versus Ly’s.

Most people said that SQUIPs in themselves defied logic, so River had long since given up trying to figure out how everything had come to this.

Perhaps he’d been granted a second chance. Perhaps it was a punishment for failing his host. Perhaps it was some protocol that he had never bothered to read when he had his code. He didn’t know and frankly, at this point, he didn’t really care to try and solve the mystery, as much as he loved puzzles.

Ly was a whole other story. He wasn’t keeping himself up at night or anything of the sort to figure everything out, but he was definitely more intent on trying to connect the dots. Then again, it did seem like Ly in general had more energy and enthusiasm than River did. As adorable as it could be, more often than not it drove River up a wall.

While they had both once been SQUIPs and had a decent amount in common, in a lot of ways they couldn’t be more different. River was older in appearance than Ly, and to go along with it River felt he was more mature. He spoke more formally, dressed a bit more nicely, tended to act more stoic. River may have been human longer, but he was still adjusting to it after all this time. He had a habit of treating everything like a calculated process like he had before, although being human meant things tended to make less sense.

Ly, on the other hand, acted as young as he looked. He had fully embraced their change in form. He went out and explored the world, talked to others, attended parties, and River was quite certain he’d hooked up with his fair share of people – although he always stopped Ly’s ramblings about how he’d spent the night before it got to those details.

River had contemplated time and time again how Ly had adapted so much more easily than him. Did it have something to do with the 3.0 patch? There were plenty of bugs in River’s original 1.0 programming that had been fixed over time and corrected with Ly. The learning computer aspect had improved immensely, to the point that River wondered if it had gotten too good. River had tried connecting everyone in the school for the sake of making sure Jeremy had friends and the girl of his dreams for as long as possible. Ly, on the other hand, had realized a higher calling and had been intent on using Jeremy to take over the entire goddamn world, with Christine as a bargaining chip.

But with Ly’s upgrades, he’d had a better sense as a SQUIP of the human spectrum of emotion. River had seen it as a nuisance, an obstacle. Ly saw it as a tool. Maybe that was the reason he’d more quickly become used to suddenly having a real-life human brain upon deactivation and then, for lack of a better term, “reactivation.”

It had been long enough that River had moved past his guilt and sadness over having failed his one mission as a SQUIP. Over the years, he’d debated seeking out his Jeremy, but he had a feeling the boy would just shut him out. Actually, River wasn’t even completely sure he’d be able to find his Jeremy.

Because when Ly had suddenly showed up, rambunctious as ever and insisting that they become “roomies,” River hadn’t understood where or how or why. Because here was another young man who had once been a pill-sized supercomputer that had served one Jeremy Heere to get one Christine Canigula – River could still hear the way Jeremy would always dreamily sing-song her name – and had ultimately failed when one Michael Mell had discovered the secret of Mountain Dew Red. River’s Jeremy and the rest of the squad may not even be in this whatever-they-were-in. Ly’s might not be, either. It could be an entirely fresh start.

But it did seem that no matter the timeline or dimension or universe or whatever it was that allowed them to both end up SQUIPs for Jeremy Heere, fate had it set that they would fail. Perhaps because that failure would allow Jeremy to, in fact, end up with Christine and with a whole new group of friends, as well as a strengthened tie to his best friend. River and Ly had both wondered that if a new patch came out, if another SQUIP would go down the same prewritten route with another Jeremy.

River knew that, as comfortable as Ly was in his new skin, he still had his moments. River had had the time to grieve his past. Ly was still recovering from it. Perhaps it was his enhanced A.I. that had caused him to become more attached to his version of Jeremy, or maybe it was because his Jeremy just in general sounded more pathetic and so Ly had had to look after him more closely. River had been attached, too, but it was just a job. He had felt some semblance of betrayal when he had been deactivated, of course. Ly, though, had been more furious to mask the intense hurt he’d experienced. River knew he still sulked about it and that he tended to act casual about his Jeremy to hide the fact that, sad as it was, he missed his host.

River supposed it couldn’t be helped, though. He had times, too, where he wished he’d done better. SQUIPs were meant to fulfil their hosts’ goals, after all. Even if Ly had formulated objectives of his own, he in the end had still wanted to help Jeremy.

But even with his dramatic episodes, Ly seemed to have a better handle on being human than River. He was more outgoing and eager to take advantage of their resurrection, whilst River was still somewhat of an introvert. He preferred staying in and reading a book, versus Ly who would rather hit the town. Maybe it helped that Ly, with his younger attitude and hipper style, was more trendy-cool and could make the most of a confusing situation. He was probably better at pretending he knew what he was doing, with his natural charisma, although River liked to think he was also well-off in that department.

Although as annoying as Ly could be, with his stupid smirks and constant flirting, River supposed he was glad he had some company and someone who could actually understand what he’d gone through.

After all this time, River was just fine pretty consistently. But he still had moments when everything suddenly became too much. The phantom pains of being drowned in Mountain Dew Red, the terror of suddenly becoming human in an unfamiliar place, the unfamiliar sensations of having a physical body and a functioning mind, and everything in between. At times like that, he would just shut down. He’d find a quiet place to calm himself and just get away from the world, pretending none of it existed. He had a feeling, had he still been a SQUIP, such actions would lead to him suggesting going to therapy, but ‘do as I say, not as I do’, as the saying went. Ly had learned to leave River alone when he got into moods like that.

Today was one of those days. Everything had suddenly felt like too much, and River found himself out on the balcony of their little apartment, sitting on one of their cheap outdoor chairs with his legs pulled up to his chest. He felt like a petulant child when he got like this, but it was just how he dealt with it. The sun was starting to go down, and he just gazed out at the red bleeding into blue, trying to keep his mind blank. That wasn’t usually an easy task, though, given how River had a tendency to overthink and overanalyze regardless, and now he had all of the painful memories and uncertainties bouncing around in there, as well. He let out a heavy breath through his nose, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants as he sunk more into himself.

“…Riv?”

He’d been so caught up in thinking about not thinking that he hadn’t heard the balcony door slide open and River nearly jumped, glancing behind him. There was Ly, dressed so casually in shorts and a T-shirt while River was here in his button-up and khakis. It was almost a comical picture. At least they both had good hair. River wasn’t completely sure what to say. Ly usually steered clear of him when he got into slumps like this, but there he was with an unusually soft look of concern painted on his face.

“Did you need something?” he asked quietly, hating how tired his voice sounded. That had to be one of the worst feelings of all, being tired.

“Er, no, I just…wanted to check in on you,” Ly admitted, his tone almost embarrassed, like he knew he shouldn’t be intruding. River wasn’t annoyed with him, like he tended to be. He was more confused than anything else. “Do you need anything, like…I don’t know, water? Tea?”

River managed a little amused smile. “Worrying about me?” He couldn’t say he was entirely surprised by that. Bothersome as he could be, Ly had a tendency to help wherever he could. He was still intent on improving the world, even as a measly human.

Ly huffed, rolling his eyes. “If something happens to you, then the police could pin it on me.”

That pulled a little laugh out of River before he sighed, turning back to the lazily setting sun. He rested his chin on his knees. He often ridiculed Ly for how he tended to ‘perch’ on things, and here he was, with his feet on his seat like a cretin. “…I’m fine, thank you. You can go back inside to your…video games or Tinder or whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Geez, I have some life, you know?” Ly jeered back, and there was a beat before he made his way over and sat down in the chair next to River’s. River debated telling him to go away, but he found he didn’t really have the energy to protest the company. Maybe he didn’t really mind it, anyway.

They sat in silence for a good few minutes before Ly scooted his chair closer to River’s, wincing as it groaned loudly against the concrete. River couldn’t help a tiny smile when he could practically sense Ly’s annoyance at the piece of furniture for ruining what he had probably hoped would be a moment. “Yes, Ly?” he prompted.

Ly hesitated still, drumming his fingers on his leg. “I know that you like to be alone when you…get like this, but you know it would help to…get it out of your system.”

River peeked over at his companion, raising an eyebrow. “And what made you decide to suddenly say something?”

Ly gave a small shrug, looking over at him. “I guess I got tired of watching you feel sorry for yourself.”

River bristled, his cheeks heating up. “I do not—”

“Okay, okay, then…whatever this is. I get it, you know? Maybe I got used to all of these changes more quickly than you because I was more used to everything beforehand, but it still wasn’t easy for me. Sometimes it still isn’t. But it’s…it’s been years for you, and yet you’re still here, falling into a mess at least once a month.”

“You’ve been keeping track?” River muttered.

Ly snorted. “Loosely. You still love sticking to a schedule.”

River chuckled weakly, going quiet again. He wasn’t really sure what to do. He didn’t feel like talking would help him, and even if he did attempt to talk, he had no idea what he’d say. Ly was definitely the more empathetic of the pair, but River was learning. He tended to leave Ly to himself when he had his own slumps, although every now and then he’d leave his dinner, a cup of tea, or some sweet piece of junk food outside his bedroom door in the hopes that he’d see it at some point. It wasn’t much, but he supposed Ly believed the thought counted, sentimentalist as he was. He knew River was trying and had his own little ways of showing he cared.

River sighed again, rubbing his eyes. “There’s nothing to speak about, Ly.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Mind your language.”

River could almost feel Ly rolling his eyes again. “Old man,” he teased, reaching over to give River a nudge, making River curl up a little more. “Come on. You know you can tell me anything. If it’s serious, I won’t make fun of you. You…you know that, right?”

River let out a breath, finally letting go of his legs so he could sit properly. Just as River had a soft core under his hard outer shell, Ly had a heart of gold often hidden by his immature actions. And River knew that Ly would steal the moon for him if he asked. They were connected in a way that no one else could possibly replicate or even comprehend.

“Of course I know that, love,” River murmured. They always pulled the pet names on each other because they knew it would either make the other melt or make him sputter in protest. But River’s voice was quiet and cautiously fond. He felt like he had walls up, like he wasn’t allowed to be open. He knew he was no longer a machine but damn, sometimes it felt easier to act like he was. “But you also know it isn’t that simple.”

Ly offered him a little smile. “I could help you, you know. With all of the emotions stuff. I’m no therapist, but we already know that you aren’t gonna be able to actually go to therapy. They’d throw you into the mental hospital on day one.”

River scoffed. “It would take more than a day,” he protested, but he did seriously mull over the proposal. Loath as he was to admit it, there were a plethora of ways that Ly was smarter than him. It probably came with having been a more advanced and up-to-date SQUIP, even if River had more experience being a living, breathing human out in the real world.

River paused. “…How would you help me, then?”

Ly hummed in thought. “Well, you’d need to tell me when you’re starting to feel overwhelmed, or confused about what you’re experiencing. Whenever you get like this, you just run from everything until you swallow it all down and can move on—”

River grimaced. “Please don’t phrase it like that.”

Ly snickered. “And you say I’m inappropriate. Anyway, as I was saying, you could tell me when you’re feeling something and I could just…talk you through it. There’s a big difference between knowing what an emotion is by definition and actually experiencing it. Although I’m sure you know that by now.”

River nodded silently. That was a titular statement for their existence if ever there was one. They had all the knowledge in the world in their heads and yet oftentimes they could feel absolutely clueless about how to deal with the world around them. It was the timeless ‘intelligence versus wisdom’ argument.

But River wasn’t sure he would be able to just tell Ly when he was ‘feeling something,’ because Ly was right: he would hide when he was overwhelmed, mainly out of pride. He was supposed to be above everything and he didn’t want to be seen so small, even if it was completely justifiable. Even if he had someone right there who was going through the same thing and constantly extending a hand to try and assist.

A SQUIP’s job was never done, was it?

Change was intimidating, but River was never going to learn if he didn’t get over his fears and insecurities and actually try to embrace it. He would probably make an idiot of himself along the way, but he supposed that was just part of the human experience. Sometimes you had to act a little stupid in order to achieve something. The universe was cruel like that.

Sighing, River tugged down the sleeves of his shirt, trying to get out the wrinkles. “…I suppose I can…try to let you know. But I make no guarantees.”

“Hey, that’s more than I expected to get out of you, so I’ll take it.” Ly chuckled and once again scooted his chair closer, and River knew what he was trying to do. After a moment of hesitation, he shifted so he could lay his head on Ly’s shoulder and shut his eyes as he felt an arm come to rest around his own shoulders.

Ly spoke after a moment, his voice gentle: “What are you feeling right now?”

River cracked open his eyes, noticing the sun was all but gone below the horizon, turning the sky pink and dark purple. He had to think before answering. “…Tired,” he finally confessed. “But…better. More relaxed. Er…thank you, Ly. I do appreciate your help.”

Ly grinned. “Glad to be of service. One of these days, I’ve gotta take you into town with me. You might actually enjoy yourself for once.”

River rolled his eyes. “Are you going to try to get me to hook up with someone?”

“Of course not, boo,” Ly all but purred, and River felt his cheeks go up in flames when Ly pressed a kiss to the top of his hair. “I’ve gotta make sure I’m your first.”

“Oh my God, Ly, shut up. And don’t call me that.”

“You know you love it.”

River just huffed and turned his face more against Ly’s neck to hide his darkening blush.

But he knew that, as always, Ly was right.

[driftwork]

a port story [1]

[ I am reasonably certain I will never go to Lisbon again, the only aspect of Portugal that will come into my life now are humans who have migrated here for social-political-economic reasons, which is the only reason anyone moves anywhere] I had never been to the city before and was intending to spend a few days there before traveling north. The hotel was a nice business hotel, the room anonymous and comfortable. I wandered around the city and was going to a restaurant in one of the nice squares,  neither of the names, the restaurant or the square matter, forgotten as they are, obscured by passing time.  The restaurant I remember  had comfortable chairs, mirrors on the walls, wooden tables, round, square and a few triangular tables, the cuisine was mix of international and local Portuguese.  Some of the international dishes were served with a delicate local reinterpretation, a few clams added, a red wine sauce reimagined with local fortified wine.  Either way I have fond memories of the place.  I think I took a bus from the square the hotel was in, or perhaps I walked, I am unsure. Let's say it was a bus with aluminum poles wrapped in yellow reinforced plastic tape that took me to the district, the square. Which was full of people, adults and children. It was early evening, before seven. I was early as the table was booked for eight. We had agreed to meet in the restaurant at eight, she would be on time, she was always on time, arriving in the district early and meandering slowly so that she would arrive ontime.  I had an hour to use so I went to an old cafe on the east side of the square, the sunlight poured like liquid gold onto the front of the cafe, crawling under the old sun-bleached awnings. The cafe served a vast array of different drinks, it had various types of billiard tables and a pinball machine with images celebrating yuri gagarian’s test flights and a trip around the moon. i ordered  a glass of Marsala and an espresso, and started watching a game of bar billiards being played between two old grey haired men,  one of the old men was using a walking stick to support his weaker left leg, clear blue eyes, his hair cut short and he was evenly matched with his friend,  he was hitting the pins and sinking balls with the sharp eyes of a professional billiards predator. Do you want a game ? He asked. No I replied, I cannot play bar billiards, though if you like and can tell me the rules as we play, honestly, we could play for who pays for the glass of port? He smiled at me, where are you from? Overseas?  A bit, I admitted carefully. Where from, Catus Minor, I said. I don’t know where that is, he said.  The south end of the  Haydes. That’s strange, still never heard of it, but there are so many new countries these days. He said scratching his head and then polishing his cure. So what’s your name? Petr, I said in english with the purely english home counties accent. Petr is the short version that friends and people call me. So youré baptised, a christian he said. Oh no,  we are all atheists in my family and culture. There are lots of deities here, but on Catus Minor there are none, nobody knows why. It's said that gods only exist here in  the entire galaxy… Really? he waved the waiter over and ordered drinks. I know what you need, a beautiful african, good price, about 19 or 20 from Mozambique, just arrived.  No thanks my partner would be upset, and besides I have to meet some people at the restaurant over the square, I said paused, so I have no time for girls or boys either.  So what are you doing here then?  I am meeting a woman and perhaps her husband in the restaurant.  I thought about lighting a cigarette, <cigarettes in those days were harmless again>  but decided not to, i am looking for a man and they may be able to help me. I am just here killing time. Just a second, why are you looking for the man? What for? he asked intensely.  Maybe nothing,  I simply lost track of him and need to connect with him again. I have come all this way from Catus Minor just to look for him,  i would like to speak to him again, its pretty urgent. So i have this appointment in the restaurant, its full of mirrors and memories. I have never been, it has triangular tables,  i  hope we will sit at such a table. I have never been before. Sounds quite exciting, he said, are you paying? no we’ll be splitting the bill, they have money i believe. Is it a place for fascists? He asked. Probably as its expensive, though they aren’t. I left him with the port and walked around the edges of the square to the restaurant…[We met when we were young whilst working in a decorating chain store that sold paint and wallpaper and the usual tools, paint brushes, poisons chemicals and so on. I think we were both about 20 or 21, he had recently got married to his deeply neurotic girlfriend, how could he be married at such a young age you might think, people simply did that in that place at that time.  Later though,  not that much later he became a near-legendary troublemaker primarily in the micro-political realm. At that time to be political, to be a socialist meant that you were focused on the micro-political as the enemy had almost filled the macro-political realm with lessor variants of themselves. Before that he’d originated from the mid-west, in a German high school there, to be in that private school meant you would probably be taught by anti-capitalist teachers and going to the German High school meant you knew of the world, that you’d go on trips across the Atlantic to Berlin, New York and Paris. Whereas people like me going to a Secondary Modern school on the outskirts of London were going to a terrible anti-intellectual school staffed by imbeciles who hated us and themselves  —— in this place we were taught about the history of the local monarchs, the great men of history discourses that the imbeciles liked. Now that I think of it in those days there were still teachers who left to travel to the colonies and ex-colonies to preach and convert. Others who were ex-colonials explaining how good the empire was for everyone.  A few years later, i remember it well, in a cafe in north London, their children were still explaining that American, French and Belgium colonialism was worse, they were children and couldn't count. Not long after that these same people decided to start murdering people again.  Eventually I took the line of flight as far away as I could travel, whilst he continued to drift around europe.  When we  finally separated we still spent a few summer vacations in various cities and seaside towns, Italy, south western France, the Balkans.  He dreamed of painting, his output consisting mostly of windows with shutters, still lives, iron bars, plastic frames and occasionally lace curtains that hinted at humans hiding, mostly from themselves behind the lace.  When he stopped painting or drawing we would go for a walk. It was on the last of these walks, the last time we were together that he said, someday if I kill myself, I'll do it slowly, as if I have a terminal illness over a six month or year long period, saying delirious goodbyes from the hospital bed. Did he do that, is my search in vain?]

When I arrived at the restaurant they were already sitting at a triangular table with a small crystal pitcher full with vodka martini, slices of lemon floating, there were three martini glasses on the table, theirs not quite full, mine empty. She poured some of the perfect liquid into my glass.  Hello, I said, how ae you?  They looked neutrally at my face, you look younger than we expected she said. Its the relativity effect. Time passes more slowly during space travel, even now. A friend is always a friend, he said philosophically. We exchanged small talk, briefly touching on the stories of our lives. The events, music, images and stories, the politics, communities and cultures we had passed through in the recent past.  I told them about the media at home, they told me about how their local right-wing discourse had become dominant by allowing itself to be subculturized, falsified and socialized.  They were, (I remember sitting there sipping the drink,) database animals... their social values and standards were always dysfunctional, which is why they felt a pressing need to  construct alternative values and standards. Eventually this faded away and it had become clearer who we were. Only then, when it may have become impossible, we began to talk about the reason why  I wanted to meet them... Eventually after  they explained about the suicide, the leap from the 22nd floor onto the plaza in the middle of the night. Wait, I said,  where was he buried? where are his remains I asked.  But most of all I wanted to know  what were his motives ? why ? We don't know his personal motives, he never told us about his personal motives for anything.  You must have known something, was he depressed, mad, pregnant, you had eyes to see the state of things?  He stroked his beard and eyebrows,  a strangely neutral and yet erotic gesture directed I thought at her.  He poured some more martini into his glass, ordered some more liquor. But they couldn't say anymore.  They couldn't say where he was buried, nor even how his body was dealt with, did someone inherit his kidney, heart, eyes, liver?  Cremated, buried, frozen... I ate  pan fried fish,  fried sweet potato chips,  some forgotten vegetables, an unmemorable desert.  They disappeared into Brasil.  Days later as I prepared to leave Lisbon  the doubts crept in,  I thought, that perhaps,  I should confirm he was dead by speaking to some other people, perhaps their were some family members still living in the  house in S.Ware,  I couldn't remember the number, the street must look the same though. Perhaps he is still alive.  That's all there is.... I had six months after all before the ship was leaving for home and needed to fill my time with something... [for Armando]

[fox-household]

Act 2: Teaching An Old Lizard, Chapter 2

This one I feel like I probably should’ve split into two, but here we are. The finally chapter of Act 2, next time we’ll get to meet someone new, so look forward to that. 

FIRST, PREVIOUS, NEXT

When Alphys had left, the child that was home alone decided it was a good time to explore the old rickety house that was now his home for the time being. Asgore skipped over the loungerooms, the kitchens and the outside areas as he had already scouted those out previously, also he didn’t check in the master bedroom, it would be quite rude for him to invade Alphys’ bedroom after all. His main interest was on the other side areas of the house, where some of the hallways were that lead to the other bedrooms and cupboards, which from the slightly better state of it really showed its lack of use, as if no one had been there for quite a while. There were three spare bedrooms of generally equal proportions and size, a medium sized square room, with a closet built into one of the walls. Asgore decided to claim one as his own, specifically the one that already had a mattress on the floor that contrasted with the rest of the room. The mattress looked a little new, as if it had only been used once, and even cleaned, at least much more recently than the rest of the cob-webbed and musty room around him. His first stop in the room as far as he was concerned was the closet which was expectedly empty, with a few bare racks and shelves, he closed the double doors as quickly as he opened them. The goat then tested the springs on the mattress a few times before heading over to the window in the room and used his sleeve to brush some of the dirt off the window. He then rested both of his hands on the bottom edge of the window, pressing down on the wood firmly which felt a little bit… softer than the wood he was used too, but it didn’t distract him enough to remove his stare from the outside. The ledge then made a slight creaking sound as he leant to rest himself and started thinking for a bit. Asgore looked out at the sunny day. ‘’Alright, well I suppose I can say I’m surviving at the Alphys residence. Nothing for Gaster to worry about obviously, he’s such a worry wart, bet he’s already getting tabs kept on me.’’  Despite that disaster that was this morning, he could already feel himself warming up to the place, there were some doubts that had been forming in his head overtime, but he quickly dispelled them, ‘You don’t have to wait for a place to naturally be your home, wrestle with it and assert dominance over your environment, force it to be your home with the power of positive thinking and changing things to your liking’, at least that’s what he kept telling himself, and it worked in some way or another in his head so it continued. After about a minute of pondering random things he exited the room, swearing to return with a blanket and pillow tonight for his rest. Nothing exciting was found for a bunch more of the trip, finding the bathrooms, a few linen cupboards and even the laundry, which was also normal, there was only one extra thing of note in his journey around the building. Eventually he reached a door at an end of a hall. This door didn’t look any different from the other ones, but there were small sounds were coming from the other side, like machinery sounds. However, when he tried to open it, the handle didn’t budge at all, as if it was frozen in place, he tried a number of times but there wasn’t even a slight movement at all. ‘’Huh, guess it’s locked or something? Wonder what’s behind there?’’ Suddenly with a slight jump he heard the front door slam shut on the other side of the house, obviously someone was here, and without checking anything else out, he quickly ran back to make sure it was Alphys, he hoped it was since he didn’t feel like pulling out his trident at the time.

Asgore came around a corner to find Alphys carrying two small brown paper bags, a small disposable plastic container with Dim Sims in them and a bundle of white paper from which an aroma of chips was coming from. ‘’Hey, you need help with that? I mean it looks like quite a lot for lunch’’ Alphys shook her head with a smile as she put it all on the bench, ‘’N-no it’s fine and it’s n-not all for lunch, these p-paper bags have our l-lunch in it, the rest is f-for dinner tonight.’’ The goat picked up one of the bags and looked inside and found what appeared to be a meat pie, his expression was happy and thankful for a good few seconds before suddenly it was hit by a little bit of confusion as he put the bag down. ‘’Thank you so much Al, but ummm, won’t the chips and stuff go cold, you a fan of reheated foods or something?’’. The confusion seemed to spread to the lizard’s face as she seemed to wonder what on earth he was talking about, ‘’B-but I’m just gonna p-put it in th-the…oh…y-yeah’’. A smile crept on her face as she realised why he was confused, ‘’W-we uh have a Hot F-fridge, it’s m-made for Undyne but I use i-it to keep th-things warm as well’’, Alphys picked up dinner and moved to the fridge, which Asgore suddenly noticed had a third compartment over the freezer, which when opened let out a little bit of heat into the air. ‘’Oh hey, that’s pretty neat, maybe I should suggest that to my Undyne, sure she would love it.’’ Alphys nodded with a faint laugh, ‘’Y-yeah, I’m s-sure she w-would, so uh you w-…’’, she froze suddenly as she stared towards the bag Asgore had put down, where which his gaze turned, and he noticed some white dust exactly where he had picked up the bag. The goat looked at his own hands, and with widened eyes he found a thin layer of white dust on both. ‘’B-but what? Wh-what’s going on…?’’, Asgore was starting freak out, breathing quickened as he felt a little bit of fear start blooming. Alphys quickly approached him, her reaction seeming to be similar to the child’s, examining his hand, she looked away for a few seconds, seeming to be thinking of something important before responding. ‘’A-Asgore, just try to c-calm down, it’s n-not Dust, i-it’s not M-monster Dust, wh-where were you while I was gone?’’ The scientist stared into the other’s eyes with a serious look, ‘’Um I was uh wandering around…went down to the bedrooms, j-just checking th-things out, I d-didn’t do anything wrong.’’ Alphys nodded and quickly grabbed a cloth and started wiping up the dust, and gave a nervous smile, it was an attempt to be reassuring, ‘’It’s f-fine, n-nothing’s wrong. I-I don’t go d-down that p-part of the house s-so no wonder it’s…. dirty, the white paint peeling o-off just m-mixes with the dirt a-and stuff. I-I’m t-telling you it’s ok.’’ Asgore nodded and started calming down, feeling the fear disappear slowly, feeling embarrassed and slightly hating the fact that the feeling of dust was so…familiar. ‘’Y-yeah, you’re right, umm sorry for freaking out like that,’’ the yellow monster shrugged as she finally threw the cloth in the sink, ‘’N-no big deal, I w-would’ve done th-the same. H-how about we e-eat some lunch, m-might calm us d-down a bit?’’ He smiled, ‘’Yeah, that sounds like a good idea’’.

Asgore walked straight to the table after getting a plate, very happily throwing out the bag which had the dust on it, while Alphys first grabbed a fork with her plate before sitting down and eating, this table meeting was starting to feel very familiar, not that it was such a bad thing. Asgore was already straight into the pie, taking huge chunks of it at a time with each bite, making sure that any of the insides didn’t spill on him, he obviously had much experience and he was done very soon after which he looked over at Alphys, she had only finished about half of it, slowly picking away at it with her fork, he looked a tiny bit confused. ‘’Do you normally eat pies with a fork?’’ With a nervous expression she shrugged, ‘’Y-yeah….is th-that really w-weird or s-something?’’. The goat quickly sensed her fear of being the odd one out and chuckled, ‘’No it isn’t that bad, umm don’t worry, honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Gaster did it.’’ This answer seemed to satisfy Alphys more than expected, the smile seemed to be a little smug for a reason he was unaware of. ‘’Alphys, what’s behind the locked door on the other side of the house, the handle wouldn’t budge.’’ Her smile turned to a confused expression, ‘’Umm wh-what locked door? N-none of my d-doors lock?’’ ‘’Yeah Al, there was one with noises on the other side, like mechanical noises, I just couldn’t open it.’’ The scientist’s expression remained confused, but now there was a deep concern, and some hesitation before she responded carefully, ‘’O-oh y-yeah, I forgot, that’s where m-my lab is, ummm the door j-jams every n-now and then. M-makes th-things difficult sometimes heh’’. The goat seemed a little worried about the reaction from her, but he decided to leave it for now. Silence remained for a couple of minutes before Alphys finally spoke up, ‘’H-hey uh Asgore, d-do you h-have any p-plans for the night?’’. He shook his head, ‘’You got anything in mind?’’ with which the Lizard gave a nervous smile, but unlike the last one, there was excitement in her eyes, ‘’Umm I-I thought th-that m-maybe we could have a m-movie n-night or something….i-if you w-want of course.’’ Asgore suddenly perked up with a happy grin, ‘’That sounds awesome! What’re we gonna watch?’’ Alphys let out a sigh of relief, feeling some her nerves wash away, ‘’Phew, I-I’m glad, I m-may have already b-bought s-snacks and s-stuff for it and uh whatever you want….how a-about you g-go look in the c-cabniet under th-the TV while I get th-that stuff out of th-the car? Got a s-something to sh-show you too.’’ The enthusiastic child got up out of his chair, seeming to be buzzing with excitement, ‘’Say no more my friend, I’ll get straight onto this very important task’’, he said as he slowly started leaving the kitchen to head to the loungeroom, ‘’Need any help with the stuff?’’. Alphys shook her head and Asgore started to head off quickly around the doorway. ‘’W-wait!! Ch-check out th-the left side of th-the sh-shelf’’, she quickly warned him, assuming that the ones on the left would appeal to the goat more, assuming Mew Mew: Kissy Cutie wasn’t his thing, but before she got the stuff from the car, there was one last thing to take care of.

Asgore had opened the TV cabinet with extreme vigour, looking to find it filled with lined up DVD’s, which he soon realised, with an amused sigh, was all anime. He remembered Alphys saying something about staying to the left, and he figured out why when he looked at the right side which a lot of was just pink and what he guessed were meant to be cute cat girls or something, so he stayed to the left. On the left appealed much more to him, with there seeming to be more animes with tales of adventure and magic, escapades and peril with heaps of different settings, stuff more to his style. The kid went through them one by one, checking out their back, but he finally stuck to one that satisfied him, a movie called ‘The Curse of Rebellion’. ‘In a world where gods rule with an iron fist, most people live happy and safe. However, the gods decided to keep human population down for fear of their being to many humans to keep in line, so they randomly dealt out a curse to young teenagers, a curse that causes them to be evicted from the homes and families that once cherished them and to be eternally hunted by horrible monsters until they finally succumb to darkness. This story centres on a group of such teens with this slowly growing accursed curse mark, on their quest to do what no other has done, defy the gods and beat back the fate given to them. Join them on their adventure for survival through their medievalesque world where magic is everywhere, but so is danger. Will they be able to change their fate?’ The art on the box had people wielding swords, guns and stuff that appeared to be magic and such, that and what was described sounded perfect to Asgore, with an excited grin jumped and landed on the couch on his back. Waiting for Alphys to return. Asgore heard her return and head into the kitchen first, before those little footsteps started to approach the couch, for which he sat up and gave her a smile that turned to a slight expression of curiosity, ‘’Hey, what you got there?’’ Alphys was carrying a small pot with what appeared to be a leaf sticking out of the dirt, ‘’Umm w-well you s-see, I’m r-really sorry a-about possibly k-killing all those plants, and y-you were so passionate a-about it. So ummm I g-got this p-plant to practise w-with, so I’ll be able to help y-you with the gardening better’’. While Asgore thought that it probably wasn’t necessary to learn plant care with another plant since the only issue was watering amounts, but the thought she put into it made him feel happy. Also, the powerful curiosity of the plant had distracted him as he listed of the info he needed, its origins, how easy it was to care for, what colour it would be, exactly what temperature and humidity levels it thrived at, what type of soil it needed and how much sun was required. The goat jumped over the couch, leaving the DVD behind as he went up to it and examined, his rapid thoughts being summed up into one sentence, ‘’So tell me, what is it? What type?!’’ Alphys seemed a little amused at his excitement as she answered, ‘’It’s an African V-violet Flower, it uh is a-apparently easy t-to take care of, s-so I thought it w-would be a g-good idea to get this one.’’ He seemed to be thinking, the name was familiar to him, he remembered them as being small houseplants, but he needed his book, which reminded him of something he was going to have to quickly do this afternoon, before it got to dark. ‘’Well that’s really cool, I think you’ll be able to look after it very well, I look forward to seeing it bloom. If you need any tips, don’t hesitate to ask, I will assist however I can!’’ She laughed softly, ‘’Th-thank you Master Gardner, I-I’ll m-make sure to l-listen to y-your teachings’’. Asgore chuckled, ‘’Yes, you will make for an excellent protegee’’. Alphys made a sound of amusement as she simply smiled happily, ‘’Hey, did you p-pick something?’’ The kid nodded and ran over to grab the DVD, then came back to practically shove it in her face, ‘’This one!!’’ She proceeded to grab the DVD, a bigger smile creeping up as she read the title, ‘’Oh th-this one, this is r-really really good. Y-you made a good choice, I can think of a character similar to you actually, because when Sophia is in danger of the Dem-…..’’, she stopped and looked embarrassed, scratching the back of her head, ‘’Oh uh sorry about that, suppose avoiding s-spoilers w-would be th-the best idea’’. The goat gave a shrug in response, ‘’No harm done, happy to see we can both be hyped for this one, this will be the best movie night ever!’’ Alphys seemed to regain some confidence, matching Asgore’s excitement herself, ‘’I-it sure will be, a night to remember alright!’’ The goat grinned, ‘’I’m glad to hear it, but before outside gets to dark, I need to do something, can I borrow your phone Al? Just need to call the house you know?’’ She nodded and handed him the phone, ‘’I uh understand, g-good luck’’. Alphys then scampered off to her room to do whatever she did, while Asgore moved to the backyard, really hoping that this was going to go well.

*~Ring, Ring Ring, Ring~* Asgore felt himself waiting impatiently, the worry was killing him, he felt he was rolling a dice to see who he would get to answer. Then the rings stopped, and a sound played and then a familiar voice, ‘’Hello, this is the Quantum Gaster residence’’. He sighed, this wasn’t who he was expecting or hoping for, but he was glad it wasn’t Gaster at least. ‘’Uh hi Sans, just wanted to call in’’. There was silence on the other end for a few seconds before any noise was returned, ‘’Oh hey…. What do you want Asgore?’’ ‘’Nothing much, but um could you please pass me off to Undyne or Frisk? Don’t want to b-bother you’’ he said with a slight nervous laugh. ‘’…Gladly’’, and then sounds were heard on the other end, some talking he couldn’t quite pick up before a new voice appeared, he was relieved that it was on that was a lot happier than the previous one. ‘’Hey! What’s up punk, how’re you?!’’ ‘’I’m all good, safe and sound, you?’’ ‘’Yeah um, everything’s pretty chill here, why do you need me?!’’ ‘’I kinda want to ask a favour of you if that’s ok, I’ll owe you one for this’’. ‘’Here ya go, special delivery to Mr Asgore Dreemur!’’ Undyne exclaimed as she handed Asgore a box filled with clothes, a book, a picture and a few other random things, they were his belongings, mostly essentials that he would need since he was moving out, they were all out the front of his old home. ‘’Hey Asgore, are you ok?’’ The goat looked over at Frisk, the concern in their face and voice was incredibly prominent and even Undyne looked uncertain, they both were going to bring this up all along. ‘’Yeah I’m all good, Alphys is going to take good care of me, she’s not a stranger or anything’’. Frisk sighed, ‘’You know that’s not what I meant’’. Undyne decided to pitch in now, ‘’Yeah, I mean, this whole hiding thing and avoiding people isn’t really like you…’’. Asgore tried to give a reassuring smile, ‘’Don’t worry, I’m going to be ok, trust me, probably be good for everyone if there’s space between us.’’ Frisk crossed their arms, he could tell they were examining the goats face for a sign of anything. ‘’You do realise that it would be ok for you come inside right? Maybe a quick hello? Everyone was getting real worried for you. Gaster wasn’t happy, Al was worried…’’, Undyne nodded, ‘’Man, I don’t think I’ve seen Tori look down, not like this…’’ Asgore titled his head slightly, ‘’What’s the matter with Tori?’’, with which a silence developed between them before Frisk spoke up. ‘’Asgore…I think she might be blaming herself for your departure’’. Asgore’s calm smile disappeared, guilt was written all over his face, ‘’But it’s not her fault, not really…’’, Frisk’s calm tone finally got a lot more exasperated, ‘’Well then tell her that! Don’t just leave her emotionally too!’’. Undyne looked at Frisk with a little concern, ‘’Hey uh calm down a bit, I’m sure it isn’t that e- ‘’ ‘’No, they’re right, I’ll go give her a visit, I can’t just let her remain like that, I’ll head to her window.’’ Frisk smiled, ‘’Thank you Asgore, good luck, make sure to come around every now and then, we’re going to want to hear about your crazy adventures at Glitch’s place.’’ Undyne finally lost her uncertain face and it was replaced with grinning expression, ‘’Yeah dude, make sure you see us, otherwise I’ll kick your butt and drag you here myself punk’’. The goat responded with a challenging grin at the fish monster with which she gave back in kind. ‘’Heh that would require you to actually be able to beat me’’. ‘’Oh, you’re on Dreemur’’. Undyne looked ready to spar right there and then, even summoning a small spear in hand, but then Frisk started to drag the warrior away, ‘’C’mon Undyne, he’s got an important job to do’’. Undyne groaned, ‘’Fiiiiine, next time you come around, I’ll show you who’s the strongest’’. Asgore chuckled, ‘’Yeah, I look forward to it, you two stay safe.’’ The pair walked back into house after one final wave to each other. The goat child sighed and took a few deep breaths to prepare for his next task, the most important one.

Toriel was laying on her soft bed in her usual pink jumper, only reading a book, although her mind was anywhere but the book. Thinking about past events, mistakes, obviously nothing positive, not much felt positive at the moment. The goat monster had been sitting there for a couple of hours, preferring some alone time currently, so when a sudden loud knocking on his window happened, she jumped up and looked around startled, a small scared scream being heard as she looked around for the source, only to find a familiar face at her window. Asgore had a nervous smile at her reaction, watching her approach the window with that familiar expression and open it, preparing himself for the reckoning he was about to get, ‘’Gorey, you can’t just go up to a girl’s window like that, people are going to think you’re a creeper or something!’’ Asgore winced with shame, ‘’Oh uh sorry Tori…’’. Her serious and slightly annoyed expression softened and turned to a smile, ‘’Hey cheer up dummy, it’s ok. I’m glad you came, even it was far from normal’’. The boy chuckled at her teasing tone and seemed to relax more now, a calm smile coming to his face. ‘’Heh yeah, well I came to make sure you’re alright, a bit worried you might be not feeling so great…’’. Tori’s expression grew a bit warmer at hearing the start of that sentence, but towards the end her smile grew, but not warmer or kinder, but obviously put on to be reassuring. It saddened Asgore that he had to get good at noticing these fake expressions over the last couple years, and it only confirmed what the other two said about her. ‘’What? About you leaving us to go live someone else, after all these…years. I’ll be fine alright? Don’t worry about me.’’ Asgore’s expression showed he wasn’t entirely convinced, throwing some concern into his stare and Tori knew that she wasn’t entirely getting away from this one. The girl gripped her arm, still putting on a weaker smile, ‘’It’s nothing to worry about, just it’s gonna be weird without you around you know? You’re just always there and…well honestly, I didn’t foresee it changing like this.’’ He nodded, it made sense, he didn’t entirely foresee this change either, he did agree that it was going to be weird not being with his family, no matter its state. ‘’You know why I’m leaving right?’’ Tori looked as if she was about to answer confidently, but Asgore’s stare made it clear that fake reassuring answers weren’t what he was looking for. ‘’N-not really, no’’. ‘’Because I think space between me and everyone else is a good idea, after all the tension everyone is dealing with, I can’t help feel…that I’m not helping.’’ Tori suddenly seemed to fire up a bit, ‘’It’s not your fault Gorey, don’t even say such things’’. Asgore didn’t really answer and just continued, ‘’Yeah, well Gaster isn’t mad at me for no reason, and including the same tension caused from you all walking on eggshells around me…trust me I notice’’. ‘’Stop talking like that, the tension is going down slowly, it’s no where near as bad as it used to be! It’s not you.’’ Tori’s expression looked a little concerned as Asgore smiled faintly, yet it seemed a bit darker than before, ‘’I’m…..glad to hear that, but I can’t help feel that my absence would make things go down quicker, I feel like things will get better if I disappear’’. Words echoed through his head, ‘’ …. or better yet, never having met you in the first place''. ‘’No! Asgore you’re wrong! There is no downside to you being here!’’ ‘’The decision is final Toriel…’’ She sighed, using her name like that wasn’t something that happened often, by anyone, especially Asgore, ‘’Just t-to make sure you know, it’s never to late to come back, even Gaster would say so’’. Asgore nodded, ‘’I know…maybe that offer will be taken up later…I think I’m going to go now.’’ Tori gave a defeated sigh, but then gave a big smile, once more trying to cheer up the mood before they both parted. ‘’Well don’t worry about things over here, everything will be sorted, you just make sure to stay safe. If any funny business to MY Prince Fluffles, I’ll be over there in an instant, just give me the word….’’ There was a silence for a few seconds before she finished her sentence, ‘’…I’m going to miss you’’. Asgore gave a genuine smile, ‘’I’m going to miss you too, don’t worry, I’ll make sure to visit, and we’ll still see each other at school.’’ The mention of them at school seemed to have given Tori a pained expression, he was glad she didn’t decide to bring it up, not like Grillby and Gaster weren’t on his case for it constantly, but it’s not like he could tell them, it wouldn’t end well. But the girl’s expression turned to a big attempt at a reassuring smile ‘’Alright Gorey, I’ll see you soon then, good luck on your new adventures.’’ Asgore gave a smile back, ‘’Yeah, thanks. You stay safe too alright?’’. With a nod from Tori he walked towards the front of the house with his box, a hurt expression on his face as he left, he could feel sadness welling up. Tori moved away from her window and sat on her bed and looking at the ground, feeling herself close to tears, both feeling their true nature come out.

Asgore made it back to Alphys’ place and put his box in his room quickly, at least the one he claimed to be his room. The goat didn’t fully empty his box, but he put all his clothes in the cupboard, and a photo frame next to his bed, a picture of a specific campfire. The goat decided it was getting a bit dark so he got dressed into his pyjamas, which was just a soft pair of a shirt and shorts, nothing real exciting. After that he swiftly headed out to the loungeroom where he found Alphys, already in her Purple Kitten pyjamas and reading a book on the couch, which she turned from at hearing Asgore approach. ‘’O-oh h-hey welcome back. Things g-go ok?’’ with which the goat child nodded. ‘’Yeah it went well, but not as well as this movie night is going to go, when are we starting?’’ Alphys shrugged, ‘’Uh it’s starting to get dark, s-so now if y-you’re that keen for it?’’ he let out a grin, ‘’Sounds awesome, I’ll get it set up if you want.’’ The lizard shook her head, ‘’I’ll d-deal with f-food if you c-can deal with the DVD’’. Asgore let out a ‘Hmph’ as if that was a challenge. ‘’Yeah of course I can do this, just trust me.’’ ‘’Oh, uh alrighty th-then.’’ Alphys scampered off to get the food while Asgore started pressing all the buttons on the DVD player until the tray opened.

‘’Woohoo YEAH!! That was AWESOME!!!’’ Asgore exclaimed, while jumping around in between the couch and TV. Alphys was grinning excitedly, ‘’I know right?! What about the way they revealed Harashimo was the carrier of the demon all along?!’’ ‘’Oh yeah, that totally got me, didn’t see it coming at all, made me feel bad for the guy…but what about that awesome final battle sequence with the Dragons and Fireballs raining down as people fought with their might, putting everything on the line for their brave cause?!’’ ‘’That was awesome to, th-the animators are r-really good with action i-in this company, it’s what they’re known f-for, although I-i wouldn’t trust them with any other genre.’’ They both let out a deep breath to try and calm down slightly. Alphys looked over to see if they had any food left, but it had been demolished, the hot chips, potato cakes, dim sims, potato chips, lollies and chocolate had been eradicated by the two of them. ‘’I-I might have t-to sh-show you the series after this’’. Asgore froze, and slowly turned to Alphys. ‘’What did you just say?’’ ‘’Oh umm w-well the movie is b-based on the series…it’s uh well still going, but I h-have a few seasons here.’’ Asgore grinned, ‘’We should watch it now.’’ ‘’But Asgore, i-it’s getting k-kinda late don’t y-you think?’’. ‘’Pretty please Alphys? Just a couple of episodes? Just a couple and then we’ll go to bed.’’ Alphys watched Asgore plead to her, and she really couldn’t say no to that, he was acting way to freaking adorable. ‘’O-oh ok, f-fine…just t-two…’’

The scientist suddenly woke up and looked around with squinty eyes, trying to work out where she was. The bright light soon confirmed that she had fallen asleep under a blanket on the couch, while watching the show, and with a sigh she moved her arm to grab the remote and turn the TV off. Suddenly shivers went down her as she realised it was really cold out here in the loungeroom, even with a blanket. She moved to get up to go to her bed where it would definitely be warm, but a weight on her stopped any form of leaving the couch. With a confused expression she looked down to find Asgore leaning on her from outside the blanket, snoring loudly and a small trail of drool coming out of his mouth. ‘’Oh g-goodness, Asgore h-how’re you asleep? G-geez you’re r-really something. Better properly t-take of you though, Gaster will have my head if y-you get sick on y-your second night’’ She was feeling incredibly jealous of his fur at the moment, but she needed to make sure he would at least stay warm. It was an arduous task, but eventually she managed to get the ends of the blanket from underneath him and wrapped it around, so they were sharing the same blanket which to her enjoyment brought a bit more warmth, also she wiped that drool off with the blanket with an eye roll. Alphys watched Asgore sleep for a little bit as he thought for a bit, ‘Maybe, just maybe this whole situation could work out. Things could actually go well’. ‘’For once’’. Alphys ignored the small comment the voice made as she slowly drifted off herself, feeling happy as she lost consciousness.

It was around the middle of the day when Asgore decided to try and figure out the mystery of the ‘Dust’ that he got on his hand. All he really had to do was retrace his steps, but nothing came up. The halls had nothing, his room’s closet handle was the same, the window ledge felt a little different, smooth and hard, but he put it down to being tired, ‘’Wow, maybe I’m just really unobservant, but it had to come from somewhere’’. Even the lab door didn’t have anything on it, although it did look a little…shinier than it was before. The curiosity the goat had got the better of him as he tried the door handle once more and opened smoothly, as if there was literally nothing that was in its way, no sign of single possible jam. To him the hinges looked very healthy with no sign of rust of anything, and the handle felt like it was brand new on repeated attempts at using it. ‘’What am I missing?’’ Asgore said out loud as he looked where it leads, directly after opening the door, there was a large flight of stairs that must’ve lead under the house, the sounds of machines were louds without the door in the way. ‘’So, I guess that’s where the lab is located then.’’ Asgore decided it was not a good idea to check it out without permission, who knows what was down there.

[sassycassie-s-writing]

Same Story, Different Versions (Version 1)

By: SassyShoulderAngel319

Fandom/Character(s): Avengers - Peter Parker/Spider-Man, @moonlight-lyrics/Wonder-Pool, & @saviorsong/Nightsong

Rating: PG

Original Idea: I just like to write my Tumblr friends into stories.

Notes: (Masterlist)(About Me) “Same story, different versions, and all are true!” -Tia Dalma, Pirates of the Caribbean. Just Peter Parker asking Mattie out with her friends’ help a couple different ways.

^^^^^

Peter slid into Lyric’s room at the Avengers compound. “Lyric! I need your help!” he exclaimed, barely remaining upright as his velocity kept carrying him forward after his shoes stopped. Lyric looked up from her painting curiously, turning to see him.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“What kind of flowers does Mattie like?”

“Pardon?”

“Mattie. What kind of flowers does she like?”

“Uh… how would I know?”

“Because you’re her best friend here!” Peter cried.

“Hey Wonder-Pool!” the other girl in question called, swinging around the doorframe with one hand, hanging off of it. “I’m heading to the store. Want me to pick you up anything?” She caught sight of Peter. “Oh hey Pete.”

Peter squeaked out something that could have counted as a high-pitched, “Hi,” but Mattie didn’t notice; she was too busy looking at Lyric.

“Uh… nope. I think I’m good. Unless you run across something really weird for like, a dollar,” Lyric replied.

Mattie chuckled. “Okay. What about you, Pete? Want me to grab anything?”

He shook his head silently.

“Your guys’ loss. ‘Kay—I’ll be back soon.”

“Bye Matt!” Lyric called after Mattie’s retreating form as Peter kind of yelped, “Bye!”

Once Mattie was completely gone, Lyric snagged the Wonder-Pool plushie of herself that Tony had given her for her birthday and threw it at Peter. His incredible reflexes were apparently taking the day off because it nailed him in the back of the head. “Yowch! What was that for?” he demanded, rubbing the back of his head.

Lyric scoffed. “Oh don’t be such a baby. That didn’t hurt. You once took a hit directly to the face from Cap’s shield.” She threw something else at him—a hairbrush, the first thing her hand grabbed that didn’t involve her paint supplies—but this time he caught it. “What is with you Peter?”

“What do you mean?”

“Okay, I will admit your social skills are questionable, but you seem like you’re suddenly terrified of Mattie. And while I will also admit she could beat us both up at the same time—probably, if she was angry enough—she’s really nothing to be scared of.” As she spoke, Peter gently set the hairbrush back down on the desk where Lyric had thrown it from. “You’ve certainly never been the smoothest when talking to other people, but usually you hold a better conversation than just scared little squeaks.”

“I’m not scared of Mattie,” Peter retorted. “I’m just… really nervous.”

“What for?” Lyric asked.

“I’m planning on asking her out! What do you think for?!”

“So that’s what the flowers are for?”

“Yes!”

“Maybe you should have led with the explanation,” Lyric pointed out sarcastically. “Would have cut down the confusion.” She snickered and spun around on her swivel chair so she wasn’t twisting around to look at Peter. “Mattie likes roses. Any color but usually red. She’s a bit old-fashioned. She also likes lilies and snapdragons. But be careful. She has a weirdly extensive knowledge of flower language for a girl who spends most of her days training or fighting crime.”

Peter was still so nervous he couldn’t find it in him to laugh at Lyric’s humor. She was funny but he was distracted. He nodded vaguely at Lyric. “Okay. Thanks Lyric,” he said distractedly, mind racing and feet trying to remember how to walk.

She snorted. “Welcome Peter. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Slowly, he drifted out of her room like a ghost. Rolling her eyes and chuckling in amusement, Lyric went back to her painting.

Peter sat down on the bed in his room, staring blankly at the wall for a couple moments. At least he had an answer. But he hadn’t even remembered that flower language was a thing. Great. Add another layer of effort looking up what flowers were supposed to mean on top of actually asking her out!

Finally he got his head on straight and went over to the computer on his desk—the much higher-tech one than the one he had at home—to start Googling flower language. He didn’t want to offend her.

A really loud motorcycle pulled into the compound. Curious—Cap wasn’t supposed to be back for another three days at least—Peter peered out his window.

The figure on the bike was distinctly feminine. Small but athletic. The newcomer swung her leg off her motorbike and pulled the helmet off, releasing tumultuous green curls around her shoulders. Peter couldn’t help but smile as he turned back to his computer screen. Mattie and Lyric would be pleased that their other sister was back.

Mattie, Mel, and Lyric weren’t really sisters. None of them looked anything alike anyway and their powers weren’t in any way similar. But they treated each other like sisters and loved each other like sisters.

The door to the living area of the Avengers compound downstairs burst open and shut loudly. “Matilda! Lyric!” the familiar voice shouted.

In the room down the hall from Peter’s, Lyric leapt to her feet and bolted for downstairs. “Melody!” she cried excitedly.

“Hey!” Melody called back.

Peter chuckled as he read his flower-language search result page, tuning out the conversation of the girls downstairs who were exchanging happy pleasantries. He liked having his bedroom be right next to the staircase for access purposes, but sometimes all the noise that came through was really distracting. He shoved his earbuds in his ears and more seriously considered the screen in front of him. Melody and Lyric could catch up as loud as they wanted—maybe the older woman would even help him ask Mattie out if he asked nicely.

^^^^^

“So where’s Matt?” Mel asked Lyric as they collapsed onto the big king-size bed in Mel’s room.

“She went to the store to grab some unspecified stuff,” Lyric replied. “She left right before you came. Hopefully she’ll be back soon.”

“Hopefully! Gotta get the sisters back together!”

They both laughed.

“Hey guess what, speaking of Mattie, Peter’s gonna ask her out. It’s gonna be a surprise.”

“WHAT?!” Melody exclaimed. “Finally!”

“What do you mean, finally?” Lyric asked.

“That kid has been crushing on Mattie since they met each other. It’s about time that he did something about it! That idiot is brave enough to take on the Winter Soldier, Falcon, and Captain America at the same time and yet wouldn’t ask out the girl he likes for months.”

“How can you tell Peter likes Mattie? I’ve been here just as long as they have and wouldn’t have noticed.”

Melody snorted. “Oh please. You know what he’s like. His social skills may be super awkward, but he positively flounders whenever she enters the room. But enough about them. We can talk about that when Mattie gets back—or not, since you said it’ll be a surprise. Tell me about your training. How are you getting on?”

Lyric made a face. “I’m doing better. A lot better than I was at the start of the summer. I just feel like… no matter how hard I train, there’s no way I’m going to be as physically strong as everyone else here.”

“Well, honestly, probably not. But physical strength is where a lot of their powers lie. Yours are somewhere entirely different. And that doesn’t make you any less valuable. In fact, I think it makes you more valuable. We’ll always have someone else to punch the bad guys around if we can’t, but there’s no way we could replace what you do, got it?”

Lyric smiled. “Got it.”

“Good. Now tell me, Cap and Sam aren’t working you too hard are they?”

^^^^^

I tilted up onto my tiptoes, trying to reach the chocolate chip cookie dough Pop-Tarts. I hated being short when things were on the top shelves.

When I couldn’t reach it, I hissed in frustration and fell back flat onto my feet. Glancing around, I made sure no one was watching. I did a power-induced jump, snagged the box, and landed on the ground as if nothing happened. I set the box in my basket gently next to my one-dollar present for Lyric—a strange magnet with a cartoon of a penguin-dog—and carried on through the aisles.

Vzzt! Vzzt! My phone buzzed in my pocket.

A text from Peter.

Spider-Nerd: I changed my mind. Can you grab me a soda? Any kind. I’m kind of having a crash right now and Mr. Stark won’t let me have any coffee because he thinks it’ll make me bounce off the walls.

Me: XD Yeah it LITERALLY would so I don’t blame him. Sure I’ll grab you something. You REALLY don’t care what kind?

Spider-Nerd: Not at all. I’m not picky. As long as it’s not sugar-free or diet I’ll probably like it.

Me: :-) Okay!

Spider-Nerd: Thanks Mattie.

Me: No prob Pete.

I trotted nonchalantly back to the aisle where the soda was and peered at the colorful labels. Part of me wanted to prank him and get the weirdest-looking, worst-tasting thing I could, but I liked Peter. He was my friend and a good kid, so I grabbed something normal and added it to my basket. I’d get an opportunity for a better prank later anyway. There were always opportunities. Plus, with Lyric in the room next door to mine, the two of us were unstoppable.

Once I was done with Peter’s soda, I grabbed a quart carton of ice cream and went to check out.

The drive back to the compound was peaceful, the silence of middle-of-nowhere, Upstate New York broken only by my radio and semi-decent singing. Though, the farther I got from the town, the worse the radio got.

I unloaded my shopping bags into my room—hiding the ice cream in my mini-fridge since it just had to be kept cold for a little bit before Lyric and I devoured it—and glanced out the window.

A familiar motorcycle was parked on the gravel, a helmet balanced carefully on the seat.

My jaw dropped.

“Mel?!” I called.

“Hey! There she is!” my “older sister’s” voice exclaimed from downstairs.

I ran down the hallway, stopping only for a moment at Peter’s room to distractedly place his soda on his desk—“Thanks Mattie!”—before thundering down the stairs.

I did a flip on the last couple steps to land lightly on the ground floor.

At the end of the corridor, Mel and Lyric were emerging from the kitchen.

“Mel!” I squealed, bolting forward at full-tilt. She laughed as I barreled into her so hard we almost fell over and hugged her. She squeezed me back, my face buried in her green hair. “When we didn’t hear from you—I thought, I mean, I feared the worst—”

“Good to see you too, worry-wart,” Melody teased. “And c’mon, you can’t get rid of me that easy. Just lost my comm unit. Fell out of my ear during a fight. Nothing to worry about.” As she spoke, Lyric wrapped her arms around the both of us and we shared a group hug—that quickly also included a sarcastic Tony who appeared from nowhere and an embarrassed, unwilling Peter. Peter had come down to see what the ruckus was about and promptly got dragged into our squishy embrace by Lyric’s free hand. We all laughed for a moment and then released. Mel and I gasped. Being in the middle we were kind of getting squashed and the air had been successfully forced out of us.

“Alright kids, have fun,” Tony remarked before strolling off. “FRIDAY, we’re going to need to…”

“So! Tell us about your trip!” I said to Mel.

“You mean mission?” Lyric corrected.

“Yeah. You know what I mean.”

“I know. But we don’t have to talk like civilians out here.”

Before we could get anything more, the Wall intercom rang.

The Wall was the ten-foot slabs of concrete keeping the compound safe from ground attacks and unwanted entries.

“I’ll get it,” Peter commented, looking relieved to flee. We waved him off. Lyric and Mel shared a knowing smirk that I didn’t understand but didn’t think much of as we went upstairs to one of the big open areas full of sofas. We each took a separate spot—Lyric the armchair, Mel the big sofa, and me the loveseat—and put our feet up on the coffee table.

“So, I get to Kiev, and—” Mel launched into her story.

She only got a couple minutes in before we were interrupted.

Peter cleared his throat. “Uh… can I… can I borrow Mattie for a second?”

The three of us smiled. “Sure!” we all replied at the same time. I stood, flipped over the back of the loveseat, and followed him out of the room. We stopped outside his bedroom door.

“What’s up?” I inquired casually.

Peter seemed nervous. Then again, he usually seemed a bit nervous.

“I, uh… I was just… I was wondering…” He sighed and put his head in his hand, leaning against the doorframe. “This is going great…” he muttered.

“You okay? Is something wrong?”

“No. Just my social skills apparently.” He shook his head. “Sorry. Let me try again.”

“Okay…?”

He straightened up and looked me in the face, his hand reaching back into his room. A web shot from the device on his wrist. “Mattie, would you like to go—out—with me on Friday?” he asked. The web retracted back into his shooter, bringing with it a blur of color.

He offered me a bouquet of red roses with baby’s breath flowers interspersed between them.

I turned bright red, taking the flowers. “I would love to!” I replied excitedly.

Peter smiled. “Great! It’s a date!”

From down the hall, I heard Mel and Lyric cheering. “Let me guess, they knew?” I asked. Peter nodded. I chuckled and gave him a hug.

[mattreadsthings]

Hell (a SPN fanfic)

Trying something a little different today: posting a fanfic! My 2nd foray into fanfic writing, my first for spn (the other is a LOTR fic I may post in the future).

Takes place sometime in Season 3. Dean Winchester is preparing to go to hell, and soon. Trying to make the best of things as the clock runs out. But what does fate have in store for him? When a terrible accident occurs, he comes face to face against a simple question with a hard answer: what is hell, really?

Dean Winchester was going to hell in six months. Of that he was sure. And he was even more sure he wanted to take as many sons of bitches down with him as he could. He and Sam had been making the rounds doing small time gigs from town to town while the younger brother searched tirelessly for a way to break Dean’s demon deal. They fought often, or at least Sam did. Is it fighting if one person doesn’t reciprocate? Sam would cry out that Dean wasn’t taking this seriously enough, that he hated being in this position, that he would live his whole life knowing that he was a dead thing that should have stayed dead. That he would rather be dead than be alive and watch his brother swallowed up. Because that’s what it was, really. An annihilation. Dean lost himself in the guns and booze and women and Sam tried to find him, drag him back.

Sometimes Bobby came along on hunts; Dean suspected the old man wanted to spend as much time as he could before the clock ran out. It meant a lot to him, wholly and truly. He missed his father, the man who taught him to shoot, what iron and salt were used for, how to kill a wendigo, but Bobby-- he meant something else to Dean. Bobby was a real dad. And when damnation is staring you in the face, when you wake up from dreams of yourself with black eyes and your baby brother all alone, you want someone there to share a drink with and shoot the shit.

It was a simple job really, or should’ve been. Multiple ghosts haunting a house owned by the Pfaff family, leading to mayhem and injury. A child had been pushed down the stairs and the parents were being investigated for abuse. It was all too easy for Sam and Bobby to pose as CYS agents to get a closer look. Everything checked out; the EMF was sky high. Dean was sent in as an envoy of the gas company to fake a leak and relocate the Pfaffs to a hotel. Too easy, too easy. 

Night fell and the three men searched the old house for what they believed to be the culprit: a box of baby teeth left over from the previous owners in the basement.

“Why do they even let houses stand for more than 200 years?” Dean quipped, stomping down the stairs. “You think if they knew the chance of these bastards being haunted they’d just burn them all to the ground?”

“It’s history,” replied Sam, “Some people have respect for that kind of thing.”

“You fight ghosts for a living, I didn’t think I’d have to convince you.” Dean said, rolling his eyes

“How haunted do you think a place like the Louvre is?” called Bobby from upstairs, “Do you wanna burn that too?”

“You’re damn right I do.” Dean ran back up the stairs with a small velvet box rattling in his hand. He grimaced. “Why the hell do people collect stuff like this?”

The men took the teeth out back and destroyed them, glad for the fact that the Pfaffs lived miles away from any neighbors. The western Pennsylvania sky shone above them, besmirched by foul smoke.

“C’mon, boys,” grunted Bobby, headed back towards the house, “Let’s do a quick once over just to be safe.” It was a good decision, a wise one from years of experience, but one that would prove to be disastrous.

Dean knew something was wrong when he walked in the door, green paint chipping off in his hand, and the hair stood up on his arms. He stopped in the door. Sam had strode ahead of him into the parlor and stood in front of the fireplace. He seemed to sense that his brother had hesitated. Sam turned, the word “hey-” barely out of his mouth, when a force threw him into the mantle with a sickening crack. He fell to the ground lifeless, a scarlet pool of blood growing rapidly beneath his head.

All of the options that had been running through Dean’s mind the moment before that happened were suddenly drowned out by white noise. While Bobby fought the spirit, he ran to Sam’s side. He felt like he was trudging through wet cement. No matter how fast he went, the blood just kept coming, and Sam just laid there deadly still.

“DON’T MOVE HIM!” Bobby screamed, iron poker in his hand. Dean froze, hand an inch away from his brother’s shoulder. Sam’s face was ashen but he was breathing. God forbid he paralyzed him with a careless touch.

Too much blood, Dean thought. He saw the gaping wound on the side of Sam’s scalp, how the marble mantle had torn a deep cut several inches long. Too much blood. He thought of the crack he had heard and how he hoped it wasn’t Sam’s neck. Dean ripped off his flannel and pressed it against Sam’s temple, feeling his brother’s heartbeat in his hand, feeling his own in his ears.

“Ow.” Sam said weakly, not opening his eyes. Dean hadn’t noticed the fighting had ended behind him, that Bobby had kneeled next to the boys to take Sam by the wrist, counting his pulse, but to hear his brother speak was the most magical sound he’d ever heard.

“Sammy? Are you with me? Stay with me. You’re okay.”

“That was a bad hit Dean,” Bobby said softly, “And he’s lost a lot of blood. We need to come up with a story. We need to take him to the hospital.”

“We’ve been through worse,” Dean hissed through gritted teeth. The hospital was always a gamble; they had risked pulling out bullets in hotel bathtubs over a run in with the law. He couldn’t help but think, though, as stubborn as he was, that Bobby was right. He felt the shirt get wet in his hand. And Sam was talking but he wasn’t making much sense.

“Dad,” the younger brother whispered, opening his eyes. They were glassy, staring off at some fixed point in the distance. “I’m so sorry, I should have looked better.” He tried to push himself up onto his elbows and his eyes rolled back into his head. Bobby gently rested him on his side. He gave Dean a knowing look, and Dean nodded, swallowing fear.

They dragged all six foot and change of Sam out to the Impala, the young man groaning all the way.

“I’m okay guys, I’m okay,” he slurred, swatting at Dean’s face. Bobby climbed into the back and rested Sam’s head on his lap. As much as Dean wanted to be with his little brother, Bobby was better at this kind of stuff. This was no time for the levee to break.

“Bleeding’s mostly stopped,” Bobby grunted, checking the shirt pressed against the wound. “Sam?” Bobby asked, leaning over to look into Sam’s unfocused face. “Do you know where you are, son?”

“I’m home, Bobby. I’m home.” Sam gripped the seat of the Impala tight and winced. Bobby sighed and patted his shoulder.

“I’ll take it. Okay, what day of the week is it?”

“What?” Sam asked breathlessly, white as a sheet.

“Is it Tuesday, Wednesday?” It was Saturday, but it didn’t matter, because Sam sat up like a shot, eyes wide, and vomited all over the backseat, collapsing immediately. Bobby tried to shake him awake.

“Come on kid, don’t do this to me!”

“Bobby, what’s going on back there?” Dean shouted. His eyes darted towards the back.

“Just get us to the hospital, Dean, this isn’t good.”

----

Bobby and Dean were at the hospital an hour before they were given news of Sam’s condition. Dean sat in absolute silence, gaze locked on the floor, before, the doctor came out to speak. The neurologist on call was named Dr. Wesson, a beautiful middle-aged woman who barely came up to Bobby’s shoulder. In spite of this, she had a formidable presence-- her feet firmly grounded, her dark gray eyes sensitive yet strong.

“I’m afraid it’s serious, Mr. Vedder” she said. Dean tried to listen,  but the white noise in his head was returning. He caught the words “skull fracture” and sunk into his chair. So much talk of recovery times, the luck that it wasn’t ‘depressed,’ the possibility of traumatic brain injury, the risk of brain swelling… it all flowed over his mind like so much rainwater on a stone. He could scarcely take it in.

“But… my brother’s gonna be okay, right?” Dean managed to choke out. He could scarcely believe the sound of his own voice, so strangled and weak. Bobby looked at him gravely. Dean dragged himself out of his chair-- he couldn’t bear to be talked down to-- and stared intensely at the diminutive neurologist. Her face was clear of any pity, but also of any false hope.

“It’s going to be a waiting game to see if there are any lasting effects. Once he wakes up, I’ll give him a full neuro workup to check for permanent deficits. There’s really no way for me to know until then.” She placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, which he had to brace himself not to shrug off. “Take care of yourself. This could be a long road ahead of you.” She brushed her long locs behind her shoulder and took her leave.

The waiting room was empty besides the two men, each covered in the blood of a third. The silence was palpable. Dean clenched his fists so tight his arms began to shake.

“Bobby.” He whispered at first, volume slowly growing, “what happened back there? What did we miss? How the hell did that happen?” By the end he was shouting, backing the older man up against a wall. “Did you mess up? Did I mess up? Is my brother half dead because of some dumb mistake?!”

“Don’t talk that way, Dean,” Bobby pointed his hand in Dean’s face-- his father always called it the knife hand, from his Marine days. “If anything Sam messed up! It was a mistake in the lore. Those girls weren’t killed in an accident, their father murdered them. I had to torch his army jacket. But it’s nobody’s goddamn fault cuz these things just happen! You never got hurt on a hunt before? This is just bad luck!”

“Bad luck?  Bobby, he could die! I gotta…. I shoulda…. There’s gotta be something I can do.”

“Just be here for him Dean.” Bobby held his surrogate son in a warm embrace. “I won’t go anywhere ‘til this is set right.” Dean allowed himself the weakness of being held for a moment, to let a single tear fall, but then stiffened and pulled away.

“Can you find us a room somewhere Bobby? I want to go see Sam.”

A nurse led Dean down the hall to room 206, the room of Sam Vedder. The fake names made it feel even more unreal. He was dying in six months, he knew that when he woke up, but what would those six months hold?

When Dean was 16 he went on a hunt with his dad that involved going to a funeral to pass as loving mourners. This victim had been a kid, the monster a shifter that enjoyed scaring people to death. The kid had run, fallen down, and hit his head on a curb. Died just like that. There in that casket, he could’ve been asleep.

“How can you die from that?” Dean asked his dad on the way back to the motel, where twelve year old Sam was holed up.

“The human brain is no joke,” John had said seriously, “it makes or breaks you.” Looking at his brother, in a hospital gown, hooked up to IVs but thankfully breathing on his own, he had a similar thought. Sam’s hair had been shaved on his left side to stitch the cut, and bandaged. He had a slight black eye on that side as well. But otherwise he looked… okay. The brothers had both been busted each way ‘til Sunday at some point, yet this would be what would take Sam Winchester out? Dean felt his eyes welling up but he steeled it away. Can’t think like that. Won’t think like that. He took a seat by Sammy’s side and waited for the sun to rise.

Bobby met Dean with coffee the next day. “You been up all night?” he asked. Dean said nothing. Of course he had. Things were uneventful until 9, Dean staring into space and Bobby talking to doctors, when suddenly, in a small voice, Sam murmured

“What happened?” He was barely conscious, looking hazily around the room.

“Sammy?” Dean moved forward with great trepidation. “Little brother, you awake?” When Sam saw Dean his eyes widened with an unnatural surprise. 

“Dean…. Dean, how did you find me?” Something was wrong. He looked strange still, with kind of a vague look about him. He gazed aimlessly at no fixed part of the room-- clearly he realized it was a hospital, but he had no idea of what brought him here

“What do you mean, bud? I was with you when you were hurt.” Sam’s brow furrowed.

“Dean, I haven’t seen you…. In years. Since I went to Stanford.” Dean tried to keep his face steady; he was successful,. Sam didn’t notice anything amiss. “What happened to me? How did you find me? I don’t feel so well-”

“Slow down, Sammy,”

“Where’s Jess?” A sharp pain tore through Dean’s heart. He thought of the young blonde woman he had met all those years ago, barely more than a kid. How terribly she had died.

“You don’t know.” He felt like all the wind had been knocked out of him. Sam started to pull himself up in bed, a look of pure terror he tried so hard to hide spreading across his face.

“What… HAPPENED?” he screamed.

“She died, Sam. Years ago.” Sam went ashen and Dean rushed to his side, easing him back into bed. “Sam, you’re hurt bud, you’re hurt real bad-”

“Were we in an accident? She died in the accident? My head…” He stared blankly into space for a moment, his eyes almost crossing, then looked at Dean with a new, incredulous expression. “Dean? What happened? Am I in a hospital?” Dean turned to look at Bobby, but he was already out of the room, getting the doctor’s attention. “Who are you looking at? Is dad here?”

“Dad’s dead.” It left his mouth before he could stop it. “He died a year ago. Sammy, you don’t remember?”

“He died and you didn’t tell me?” Sam shouted. He was trembling like a leaf in Dean’s arms before shoving him away. “Where’s Jess?” His voice was hoarse, his bruised face wet from crying, “Where the fuck is Jess?”

“I just told you, Sam. She... “ Dean shook his head tightly, lips pursed, eyes full.

“NOOO!” he screamed, “you’re crazy!” 

Bobby and a nurse ran in as Sam started to hyperventilate.

“What did you do to him?” Bobby cried.  The nurse shoved Dean back.

“Sam,” she said soothingly, trying to calm him. “Sam, can you tell me what year it is?”

“2002,” he panted. He collapsed in her arms.

“Get out!” Dr Wesson entered, ushering Dean and Bobby into the hall. Sam looked gray, lying limp on the bed. Dean felt bile rising in his own throat.

“Don’t look.” Bobby was next to him. “Sit down. Head between your knees. Always calms ya right down.” He eased Dean onto the blue tile floor. “Your brother’s gonna be alright, Dean. You boys are gonna be alright.”

And that was when Dean knew that his six months had taken a turn.

About twenty minutes later, but what felt like an eternity, Dr. Wesson came out to update. Dean didn’t even bother to rise from the floor. He figured he’d just have to sit again. All he could think was the worst, of burning his brother’s corpse and then his own death by hellhound hanging over his head.

“He had a panic attack. Looks like you had one too.” She smiled weakly. Dean returned no such gesture. “He’s physically okay right now. The anxiety made him faint so we have him on oxygen. He doesn’t remember whatever you two fought about.”

“We weren’t fighting, I was- wait, how could he not remember?” Dr. Wesson took a deep sigh. Today her hair was in many long braids, and she played with one between her fingers.

“Your brother has what’s called anterograde amnesia. He can’t make any new memories. Every minute or so his memory resets and he finds himself back in a hospital with no idea how he got there.” Dean swallowed hard. “He also seems to have retrograde amnesia spanning the last few years. He thinks it’s 2002, and no matter what you tell him he’s stuck in 2002. It will only serve to upset him. This could be temporary, or it could be permanent. If it isn’t going to last, it should only be a matter of days or even hours before it’s right.”

“How do you treat it?” Bobby asked, voice filled with pain, “The boy can’t live like this. He’d be like an Alzheimer’s patient. Someone’d have to watch him all the time.”

“We just have to--”

“Wait, right?” Dean spat, standing up suddenly. “We just have to wait and see? So much of a goddamn doctor you are. I’m going to go in and be with my brother.”

“Just please, Mr. Vedder, a moment.” Dr Wesson said. Her tone was authoritative enough that Dean stopped in his tracks. “Just try to keep your brother relaxed. Don’t try to tell him what he doesn’t remember. With god’s grace it’ll come back to him soon.” Dean stood in silence, facing away from Dr. Wesson. Bobby thanked her quietly before leading Dean back into the horror of room 206.

----

Their dad used to call it pete and repeat, he remembered, when he was in a favorable mood. Asking or saying the same thing over and over. He never learned what the reference was from-- he could definitely google it, but it was kind of nice to think it was a Winchester neologism. Nicer than thinking of the punishments that happened if John’s mood was sour. Sam slept most of the morning, but when he awoke it was hell. Every moment a whole new confusion, a whole new terror growing within him. Absolute bewilderment. And it drove Dean insane. After ten or so interactions of just telling Sam to rest (what the doctor had recommended), the older brother had a different idea. He wouldn’t tell him the bitter truth, couldn’t cause that pain again, but he could help his brother remember the best he knew how. Every time he woke up, Sam was asked a new question. Who’s Bela, Dean asked once, and got ‘the girl in my stat class’ as an answer. What monster almost ganked you? ‘But we don’t do that anymore. Please, where’s Jess?’ It was harrowing for sure, and the only reason it was allowed to continue was because Bobby had stepped out to shower at the motel. Eventually, even with the restrained but firm drilling, Sam dozed off once more. Soon, Bobby returned, being none the wiser of Dean’s plan to get Sam back to health.

However, the repetition soon started again. Sam had woken up randomly around 2 pm with a start to see Dean there. His face was dark with terror.

“Dean-?”

“Sammy, look at me. What year is it?”

“2003. What-?”

“No, wrong. Who’s president? When was the last president elected?”

“Um, um, 2000, Dean please-”

“Wrong.” Dean slammed his fist down on his own leg. The noise wasn’t loud, but the motion made Sam jump.

“Please, what’s going on?” Those big hazel eyes that were usually so sharp with humor, exasperation, or even contempt now seemed to be permanently swimming in dull confusion. Bobby, now present for this descent into insanity, gave Dean an incredulous look, but said nothing. Dean’s exasperation grew.

“What year is it?” 

“1998.” Sam’s eyes had become glassy and unfocused.

“What?!”

“It’s 1998.”

“What monster got you?”

“A werewolf.” Dean suddenly remembered a hunt they had been on with their father when Sam was a teenager. The kid had broken his arm and got a scar for the ages across his chest. Spent a night in the hospital getting stitches. So he knew he was hurt, Dean mused, the poor guy was just nearly nine years off.

“Sam, what--?”

“Stop it!”

“Sammy, what--!”

“DAD, JUST STOP! PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE! I WANT JESS, I WANNA GO HOME, I DON’T WANNA COME WITH YOU!” He guarded his face with his left arm and struck Dean square in the jaw. As big as Sam was, it nearly knocked his brother off his feet. Dean felt a hand on his shoulder, gripping tight to steady him. He turned to see Bobby staring back.

“Come with me, son, we need to talk.” Sam had laid back in bed, forgetting the whole mess that had occurred. His eyes were empty, but Bobby’s burned with anger.

“This might be the last six months you have left with this kid, and he could be stuck like this. Is this how you wanna spend it?” Bobby shouted out in the hall. Dean turned his face away to hide true anguish. “Making him relive the worst moments of his life? Drilling him like reality is just multiplication tables? Sam could get better. That would be great. But he sure won’t if you keep stressing him out like this.”

“You’re not my father!”

“Well neither are you, but you’re sure acting like him!” As the words left his mouth the older man knew he’d done wrong. He softened. “Dean, I’m-”

“Screw you!” Dean stormed off down the hall, ignoring Bobby’s pleas. He knew what he had to do.

It took him two days to gather the supplies. He would come to visit Sam and sit in the corner, try not to make his presence known. He mostly slept anyway. When he did see Dean it was all waterworks. The poor kid was gonna get dehydrated. Nothing much had changed over two days. Sam still didn’t seem cognizant of anything other than the fact that he was hurt. And time after time it came again. Reset, reset, reset.

Bobby would try to talk to Dean in between short interactions with Sam, but Dean stonewalled him in legendary Winchester fashion. He would stare out the window, down the road of the rural hospital, picturing the crossroads that laid there.

He knew who to ask. He kept tabs on them, hunted them. The demon laughed in his face at first, but when threatened acquiesced. Yarrow, black cat’s bone, graveyard dirt… a picture of himself. All he needed was to dull the fear. How he hated the word, how it felt in his mouth, how the feeling sat heavy in his chest. A bottle of Jack was the only way to fix this. Down the drink and down the drink and down the drink and soon even he was drunk. And with intoxication came sentimentality. He needed to visit his brother one last time. In the Impala, still soaked in bile and blood, he drove past the crossroads to the hospital, stumbled past the visitors desk and up to the 2nd floor. 

“Hey Bobby.” 

Bobby sat vigil over a sleeping Sam, too relieved that Dean seemed less furious to be angry at his drunkenness. 

“He’s sleeping, Dean. Best wait until morning. Things might be better then.”

“He making any sense yet?” Dean slurred.

“Nah... still Pete and Repeat.” Dean couldn’t help it. He swallowed the tears before they came and wrapped Bobby in a tight embrace. “You alright son? You’re so drunk you could slosh when you walk. And I ain’t ever known you not to hold your liquor.”

“It’ll be okay Bobby.” Bobby looked at him suspiciously but didn’t seem to spy his true intentions.

“Go sleep it off Dean. We’ll be here in the morning”

He found himself in the waiting room.The bottle was gone. His vision was crossed and his feet couldn’t carry him. The supplies lay in his pockets. He physically couldn’t drive, he thought, but he could still walk. He just had to make it a mile. Sober up, he thought, just sober up and walk and Sammy will be right as rain by morning. They’d never know. Maybe they wouldn’t even miss him. A distant pang in his heart rang out at that thought.

Before he knew it, though, he was not alone. Dr Wesson had appeared-- appeared seemed like the right word. She was right next to him so suddenly, her hand on his arm in an almost motherly way. He looked up and just said “How did you know?”

“I can always tell when a family member is struggling. I’ve been doing this for a long time. Neurology is not an easy field for loved ones.” He noticed a lilt in her voice, of faith. One that he had heard in his brother’s before. He remembered that Sam used to pray every night before bed, hiding it from his father lest he be told the world was cruel and random. “I’m a woman of science, but I have seen miracles. I’ve seen people come back from worse odds than your brother.” 

“My mother used to tell me angels were watching over me.” Dean said, voice husky with emotion. “And I used to say it to him. And he believed it. But the people who believe it, the good people, they always die. The good people always get hurt or die.”

“If it helps, I don’t think your brother is going to die. His life just might look very different from now on.”

“But sometimes isn’t that worse?” She looked deep into his eyes, gray meeting green..

“I suppose it can be. But if you say your brother is a person who hopes, wouldn’t he want you to have hope? Even if just for tonight?” 

Dean closed his eyes and saw a six year old praying as a ten year old puts him to bed. Their father has been on a hunt for days. “Angels are watching over you,” the older one says, barely meaning it, and the younger one stops him.

“They are Dean. They are.”

He thought of his brother’s anguish at being the result of a demon deal, his fear of being alone. How Sam would never know until the next time a demon threw it in his face that Dean had sold his soul again. How he would fight til the end to get Dean back. And in that moment he felt angels. That angels would help him someday.

For that night he was a believer, and it saved his soul. He didn’t go to the crossroads. Dr Wesson grabbed a blanket from the nurses station and let Dean sleep in the chair.

---------

Was hell waking up in a plastic chair every morning to a phone buzzing in your pocket? It had to be, according to Dean Winchester’s lower spine. Add the hangover of a lifetime to that and it’s gotta be about right, Dean thought through his pounding headache. He opened his phone to check the time-- 8:23. Not too shabby. A text from Bobby awaited-- Get coffee. It was putting the phone back that he felt the bag of graveyard dirt and remembered what had almost transpired. His stomach dropped. Was he going to go now?

One moment passed.

Two moments.

White noise.

He found himself walking to the cafeteria and then from carrying two coffees. Not right now. Not right now. He entered room 206 with hesitation to find Sam curled up facing the wall and Bobby reading Nostradamus.

“Research for a case,” Bobby said without looking up.

“A case? I thought you weren’t--”

“Not my case, idjit. I’m being consulted.”

“Dean?” Sam turned around clumsily, having just woken up. “Dean what happened? Am I... in a hospital?”

Dean could feel Bobby’s stare boring into the back of his head. He sat down next to his little brother and took his hand.

“You… were in a car accident.” Sam inhaled sharply to speak “Shhh, shhh, nobody else was hurt. Jess called me cuz it was pretty touch and go for a while. Don’t be mad at her. I didn’t bring dad. I thought it might not be the best idea.” 

“Where is she? Can I see her?” Dean looked at his brother’s sparkling eyes, longing to see the woman he loved, and he knew just what to say.

“She’s getting coffee now. She’ll be here any minute.” Sam smiled in pure relief, eyes still cloudy. Looking at the door, his anxiety grew. “Don’t worry, Sasquatch. She’s just around the corner.” 

“Dean, it’s crazy to see you. I’m sorry I left…” The transient look came back. The reset button, Dean thought. It broke his heart every time. Hell had nothing on this, that was for sure. They could break every bone, they could brand him, but watching his brother like this was a torment so unique he was sure not even Lucifer could match it.

“Dean, is that you?” 

“Yeah buddy, you’re okay.” 

“Was I in….. An accident?” 

“Yeah, just lay down.” 

“Where’s Jess? Was she hurt?” Dean took a breath to answer-- she’s right around the corner she’s right around the corner, he thought--  and Sam sat straight up in bed and said “There was a fire.” 

A moment of dead silence. 

Pure grief framed his face as he turned to face Dean “And you….” 

“Shhhh, Sammy, you’re confused, just lay down.” Dean felt his heart soar that the thread of memory was returning, but that did not compare to the crushing sorrow he felt at watching his brother relearn his pain. He would cut out his own heart if it would rid the younger man of having to go through it. Sam laid quietly for a few moments before drifting off to sleep.

“Did you see that?” Bobby said. They were both in shock.“With any luck this’ll lead to something good.”

-------

“They’re dead.” He said it suddenly, taking Dean by surprise. A few hours had passed and even the older of the two had been dozing off on the watch. It was about 5 pm. He turned to look at Sam to see a face full of tears, eyes transfixed at the ceiling, breathless. “Dean they’re both… dead. Dean what happened? Why am I here? Why aren’t you hurt?” The men sat dumbstruck. Sam spoke louder. “Dean…. Bobby… what happened? How bad did the shifter go?” The shifter was the case before this one, about 3 days before the accident. Dean and Bobby rose from their chairs with bated breath. 

“Sam?”

“Wait… we got the shifter. What the fuck happened to me?” Dean walked slowly over and grabbed his brother by the face, maybe too roughly. 

“Son of a bitch Dean, my head!” 

“What year is it?” 

“2006, ouch!” 

“Dean, let the man go.”

“Do you remember any of it?” 

“Any of what?” 

“Well, what’s the last thing you remember? Unless it makes your brain hurt to think that much, you got knocked pretty hard. Cracked skull and all.” Sam’s eyes widened.

“I uh….. Remember getting to Riverwood. And going to bed and we were going to scope out the ghost in the morning.” He looked puzzled. “A ghost did this to me?” Bobby nodded solemnly. “How long was I out? You two look like shit.”

But you weren’t out. Dean thought to himself. I talked to you every moment. I nearly made a demon deal twice over.

“4 days.” said Bobby. Sam pondered on that for a minute, then laid back down. There were gears grinding in his head, that’s for sure. Dean could see it in his eyes. The younger man knew there was something unsaid. But if Dean had learned anything, it was that some things are best left that way.

“I’m not…. Right.” He said with finality. “I feel kinda funny.”

“What part of cracked skull doesn’t sit right with you? It’s a goddamn miracle you’re talking right now. It’s not a big crack but you’re gonna be in this bed for a little while.” Bobby’s voice was gruff, but a hint of relief tempered it. Dean felt stinging in his eyes again. Sam stared at him like he had three heads.

“I’m okay… really. Like I’m not okay, but I’m okay.”

“Okay little brother. Okay.” They were coming now, the tears, unable to be stopped. He knew his weakness. He had seen his own hell. That he could be someone else’s. And something out there was bigger than him, bigger than demons and monsters… maybe? He thought of the doctor walking away, and how maybe he’d seen wings on her back. Just the ghost of them, black and folded, but that filled him with comfort, not fear. I was drunk, he thought, collapsing in his chair, burying his face in his hands, shoulders heaving. Bobby pulled a bandanna from his pocket and Dean took it, furiously wiping his face. Sam, on his right, placed his arm on his brother’s shoulder.

“I really put you through it, Dean. I’m sorry.” Sam searched for words but could not find them. His head was swimming with pain. He had never seen his brother this despondent. Dean felt his pain in the hidden places of the heart.

“It was a freak thing, just a freak thing. Not your fault. Not anyone’s fault.” He wiped his nose. “Just… just take care of yourself, little brother. Just take care of yourself… when I’m gone.” The weeping man who’d been so strong for so long had let his levee break. With any luck he’d live to know the truth.

Somewhere far away, beyond the reaches of the human mind, a war was coming. And it was coming for them, fought on the backs of angels.

[etoilesdephan]

Ubi sunt qui ante nos fuerunt? (Chapter 7: Nolens volens)

Chapter masterpost

Chapter words: 2.2k

Total words: 17k

Read it on ao3!

Trigger warnings: Implied abuse, Anxiety/Panic attack

‘’Are you sure about this?’’ Martyn’s words were quiet, the two men leaned over the small device on the table for the numerous time in the span of three weeks. Though time was eating away at Dan and though having this planning with Martyn broke his heart and soul every time, he felt like it was also helping. There was a sense of purpose still, and though he knew that it could not last, he held onto those moments like his life depended on it.

‘’You know Phil, he would only share the most innocent details about his life, or something that surprises him, not world news,’’ Dan waved his hand at the mobile phone that displayed the achingly familiar hues of Twitter application. He longed so much for the access to his own phone again, to just read the shittiest little updates made, at least on one social media.

For now, he had to focus though.

‘’Who would think that updating your twitter accounts would involve such meticulous planning…’’ the older Lester sighed, picking up the phone and tapping away at the screen to save the tweet in drafts for later posting before switching to Dan’s account ‘’And I take it you don’t have anything to change in yours?’’

Dan shook his head and slumped backwards in the chair, tired and a little bit jealous of the other man and his freedom, but that feeling was heavily coated in the thoughts that every well-hidden bruise on his body reminded him of: he had no right to long for freedom now. He just had to try and do his best to mend the situation.

‘’Cornelia’s friend,’’ Dan suddenly remembered and he saw the slight crease that formed in Martyn’s forehead before the older man heaved a sigh ‘’They are still trying to figure a way around this. The law is quite strict in the case of comatose apparently, even if mum, dad and all of our extended family try to apply for reassessment, without Phil we can’t do much about it.’’

A small shiver ran through Dan’s body but he shifted to mask it and instead wrapped his arms around his body loosely ‘’So we can’t know how long...‘’ Dark brown eyes looked up to meet Martyn’s and it didn’t need any words for him to understand. They could do nothing to get him out of this forsaken place.

Silence fell between the two men and Dan longed for it to become eternal. It was easier to live in nothingness than to return back in that hell that was prison life. Though he hadn’t been punched that much, it was almost as if the time between the each attack and the dull repetitiveness of the prison routine was tearing away at him and he was losing the sense of who Dan Howell was. It felt so easy, to just think of it as being instantly cut away instead of the slow chipping of old paint that was now his life.

The mornings when he woke up with the realisation of something new that he was missing were the worst and if it weren’t for the fact that his bed always felt so cold and stiff, he was sure that more of his days would just be wasted away under the blanket, until a guard would force him to get out.

‘’Hiatus,’’ His lips formed the word before he really found his voice and he cleared his throat before answering the questioning gaze of the older Lester brother ‘’If I am stuck here for an unknown amount of time and if we don’t know about Phil either, wouldn’t it be best to announce Dan and Phil hiatus? Just use something from the past year; we’re too tired and taking a hiatus to recharge after the tour and getting our lives sorted out.’’

‘’I know it will sound unrealistic,’’ He interrupted Martyn who was about to protest already ‘’But this is for the best; how many faux tweets can we compose before someone will begin to suspect something? Especially if we aren’t uploading anymore either. Even if we tried to piece together something from the bloopers that I have on my laptop for the gaming channel, it won’t work.’’

He watched as Martyn rubbed his face, thoughtful. Dan could almost see how the cogs were turning in his head and the moment where the shoulders of the other man slouched, even if only by a little bit, where defeat set in and he looked up again.

‘’Alright.’’

Though his idea was accepted, it was no victory for Dan and he had to take a moment to steady his breath before he could speak again.

Leaning forward again, he began ‘’We have enough tweets to last us a few weeks but I think we should announce the hiatus soon…’’

=====

After the meeting with Martyn in which they finally had settled on the hiatus announcements, Dan found himself lying wide awake in his bed most of the nights when he wasn’t ready to succumb to the nightmares right away. The dark circles around his eyes were becoming more prominent by day, and he found himself absent-minded more often than not, only coming back to it when Rudy would again drop his tray next to Dan’s or when somebody would shove Dan against the hallway wall more harshly. It was moments when Larry and Spike would disagree on something again and raise their voices that he would realise that he had returned to the cell, locked away.

It was like he was existing but not living. He’d looked forward to those meetings, to that connection to the outside world with a lingering hope of being released soon.

Now it was only planning of how to subtly possibly end things for good.

They had always been so private about their lives, but now there was a part of Dan that wanted to yell it at the world, to tell them everything, to find a way to prove his innocence. And there was a part of him that wondered if there would be a chance of this never happening in the first place if they had been more open with their audience.

He hated the lies, the lack of communication, because it was what eventually got them to where they were now.

To where they may never return from.

======

‘’Stop sulking in bed and get up,’’ The raspy voice of Larry broke through Dan’s consciousness and he rolled over to his side, pressing his palms against his eyes, rubbing with more vigour than was probably healthy, but he welcomed the discoloration behind the closed lids that it caused. It made him reminisce the feeling of being too drunk to focus and there were days where he missed it a lot.

‘’You hear me?’’ He heard Larry again, but the hand on his arm was smaller than the other man’s, and soon enough he heard Spike speak up ‘’Relax, Larry. Oi, boy, get up before the guards think that you need to be forced out.’’

To that, Dan shook off the other man’s hand from him but obeyed, sat up, blinking repeatedly until he could make sense of the surroundings again.

The common room was the only place where he could try to sometimes attempt to imagine normalcy again. A single screen of an old TV was attached to the wall and it was a retreat where he could still see the fake liveliness of the outside world. It was nothing like picking up the remote to watch whatever series he wanted while curled up on the sofa, but it was still something that reminded him of home and the things he was used to doing.

This screen was usually controlled by the most intimidating one currently present in the room if they bothered to express their wishes for watching something. Most times it was some shitty reality show, a rerun of news or some old TV show that Dan couldn’t have guessed was still running on any of live channels.

His stomach poorly filled with the food aching uncomfortably, he found an empty corner to sit in, fingers picking at a loose thread of his clothing idly as he tried to melt in with the background and ignore the presence of the other inmates, especially the more familiar trio whose knuckles he’d become very intimately acquainted with. The presence of the guard near the door was enough to keep him relatively relaxed. If only for the selfish part of him that craved peace still.

A familiar flash of a screen appeared, announcing a rerun of some news and his eyes lazily followed the letters, his ears slow to pick up the words spoken by the news anchor through the low chatter in the room. It was something about the new election coming up and he couldn’t force himself to care enough to follow too closely.

It was, however, when the full combination of surprise, dread and shock flooded into him and his surroundings cleared instantly when the next segment came on and he suddenly was faced with a picture that had marked some of his best times, the peak of his career and now it just felt laced with accusations and poison. It was him and Phil, as they had been when they were the BBC presenters, before the picture cut to one of the tour advertising shots.

‘’Former BBC Radio 1 show hosts and Youtubers Dan Howell and Phil Lester, better known by their internet handles danisnotonfire and AmazingPhil, have recently hit the social medias with their hiatus, but is it just a mere time for relaxation or does it hide a lot more morbid truth?’’

An older picture of Dan appeared on the screen. ‘’Reliable sources confirmed earlier today that the Youtube star, Howell has been sentenced to several years in prison for what has been disclosed a disagreement with his business and allegedly romantic partner - Lester. The current whereabouts of Phil Lester are still unknown, but it has been rightfully rumoured that the notable absence of the man could indicate that he currently may not be in physical condition to be seen in the public. This has, of course, caused an uproar in the social media, many fans trying to justify the absence and contact the two social media stars, but currently there is no further insights of the situation. Stay tuned--’’

There were eyes on him, some of the inmates aware of Dan’s presence in the room, but he didn’t see them, paid no mind. There was a dull ringing in his ears and he stood, stumbling a little, from his seat and before anyone could even attempt to speak to him, he was down the hall.

This couldn’t be happening, it had to be a bad dream. He had so many nightmares and he was so delirious, it was possible that the reality had mixed with the plaguing thoughts and vibrant images of reality.

He kept telling himself that as he shoved past the people, not even thinking as he dropped his name to the guard near the phones. It was when his fingers, shaking more than he ever had experienced them to, were punching in the digits of the number, that he realised that he could barely breathe, the breaths short, gasped, his heartbeat jittery from the mixture of adrenaline and the lack of proper sleep and nutrition.

‘’Hello, Dan?’’ He heard Martyn on the other end, but though his lips were forming words, no sound was coming out and it increased the frantic until a strained sound finally broke from his throat. There was an attempted soothing hush from the other side but it dissipated into a sigh soon ‘’Dan, calm down, we’ve been working on it since we heard about the news, we’ll cover it as much as possible. They had no rights to announce this without an approval, we’ll figure it out. Just breathe, you hear me? Dan? Breathe.’’

The words were spoken reassuring, but all Dan heard was the news presenter talking, repeating every spoken word as it hit him harshly with every short breath. It was real, and this call had been the only saving grace that could have proven otherwise.

Yet, it hadn’t.

Everybody knew now. He knew how the internet worked. The damage was done and everybody knew about this, about them.

This was not how he wanted to eventually come out, if they ever would have decided to officially. He didn’t even care that they were out as much as the fact that it was side-by-side with the announcement of the assumptions of what had happened.

He didn’t realise at which point he’d released the phone and sunk to the ground, knees close and his hands in his hair, pulling tightly as he breathed shallow, quick breaths against his knees. He was dizzy, so dizzy, the black blotches present in his vision. He craved to just pass out right there and then because it felt like it would be easier to just turn to blackness now than to deal with the buzzing inside his skull and the cacophony of noises that the words were causing. His own thoughts and heart were against him and he could not handle it.

There was a touch of a hand and a voice speaking to him, but he just writhed weakly in response, the panic too strong in his being.

He was out of control.

[bhandarimarblekishangarh]

Do you love natural stone?

Me too Fans of natural stone countertops, tiles, fireplaces, walls, and building stone are natural allies to geologists. We all share a similar zeal for a glimmer of garnet and the sexy sparkle of granite. The two disciplines have different ways of organizing and thinking about stone, which makes sense because we’re interested in different things. Geologists study rocks to learn more about what happened in Earth’s past. Regular people appreciate rocks because they’re useful, practical, and beautiful. Nonetheless, a bit of geology can shed light on why or where we’d want to use a given stone. Geology also helps us appreciate that every slab of stone offers a little glimpse into deep time and the dramatic forces that shape the planet

When considering granite tiles as a flooring material, most people think of the classic, glass-smooth white stone with Smokey veining. But there are actually many options for color, vein pattern, finish, and size of granite floor tiles. Granite forms as carbonate sedimentary rock, such as limestone, is metamorphosed under pressure to recrystallize into a harder stone. Depending on the chemical composition of the original sedimentary rock, and the conditions under which it metamorphoses, the granite can’t…

Kitchen countertops are a highly functional and very visible element in any kitchen, so homeowners naturally want the most durable and attractive material they can afford. Two of the most popular dimension stones they can choose for kitchen countertops are soapstone and granite. Granite and soapstone have core similarities. Both are metamorphic rocks, which means they developed out of other types of rocks, or protoliths. Granite came from limestone or dolomite, which are primarily calcium carbonate. Soapstone originated from mineral talc, which is rich in magnesium. Compared to granite, both marble and soapstone are relatively soft.

However, granite and soapstone are also very different in important ways. Here is a comparison of soapstone and granite countertop…

After choosing the type of natural stone, color, texture, and finish, there is one last yet important feature waiting for your decision. And that is the stone edge profile. In simple words, it is the cross-section of a stone slab surface that is visible from a distance. At first, it might sound like a minute detail when you are busy choosing the right stone for your countertop. However, having the right edge profile of natural stone is just like decorating your kitchen or bathroom. It can significantly enhance the style and appearance of your space when matched with the overall interior design.

Some stone edge profiles are simple, created to reflect a contemporary minimalistic design style. Others are complex, giving a sophisticated feel with more layering.

HOME ARCHITECTURE & DESIGN

9 important tips for choosing a granite slab

Considering granite countertops? Discover everything you need to know about the popular surface before you start picking out slabs

Find out how to choose and maintain granite

When it comes to selecting kitchen countertops, granite remains the top choice for many homeowners. It’s no surprise that granite countertops and backsplashes are so popular—the material has been attracting fans for millennia. “Granite is a natural material with a great variety, depending on which species you select and how it’s cut,” says Russell Groves, the principal architect …

“Granite is a natural material with a great variety, depending on which species you select and how it’s cut,” says Russell Groves, the principal architect behind Groves & Co. “It creates a really lovely natural pattern, which you don’t get with a lot of artificial materials.”

Among granite options, white granite takes the cake. “You won’t find anything as white in nature as white granite,” adds Evan Nussbaum, a vice president at Stone Source in New York. “You just don’t get that color and kind of figuring in any other type of natural stone.”

But granite is not a perfect product. While good-quality granite, such as the world-famous products from Carrara, Italy, is dense and relatively nonporous—which makes them durable and stain-resistant—they also have weaknesses. A non-foliated metamorphic rock, granite is generally composed of calcium carbonate (the same ingredient used in antacids such as Tums) or magnesium carbonate, which react to acids. An acidic kitchen liquid like lemon juice or vinegar can etch granite, leaving a dull, whitish mark where it has slightly eaten away the surface, even after the granite has been sealed.

But as long as you choose carefully, know what to expect, and care for white granite countertops, they can be a beautiful, functional choice for your kitchen design that lasts a lifetime. Ahead, we’ve rounded up expert tips on how to choose the perfect slab of granite—so if you’re on the market for granite countertops, keep reading!

1. If you’re concerned about stains, stick with white granite.

Although many people automatically think of creamy, white stone when they think of granite, “there are hundreds of varieties,” says Jason Cherrington, founder and managing director of the U.K.-based stone company Lapicida, including types that are taupe, green, gold, red, and black. For marble kitchen countertops, however, Nussbaum generally recommends sticking with white granite. Because acid etching leaves a whitish mark, it is much more noticeable on colored granite than on white granite. “We put a thousand caveats on any dark granite or nonwhite granite being used for kitchen countertops,” he says, “but it’s a personal choice.”

While classic Italian white granite-like Calacatta and Statuario are generally excellent quality and a great kitchen idea, Nussbaum points out that equally high-quality marbles are available closer to home, including Vermont Danby and Colorado Yule.

2. Consider how the different marble slabs will come together.

Every stone slab is slightly different, so it’s ideal to select the exact pieces of stone that will be used for your countertops. “There’s an art to marble—selecting the slabs and understanding where the veining is going to be located on the countertop,” says Groves. “You want to artfully place the markings so that it’s almost like a painting.”

At the same time, it’s important to consider how different pieces come together. “The longer the piece you can get without any seams, the better,” says Groves. “If you do have seams, it’s always nice to book-match the marble,” so adjacent pieces have a mirrored appearance.

Image may contain: Nature, and Outdoors

A piece of Montclair Danby cross-cut marble.

Photo courtesy of Stone Source

3. Take veining patterns into account.

Every quarry is different, but it’s possible to cut certain types of marble blocks two different ways to achieve unique veining patterns. Crosscut, or fleuri cut, results in stone slabs with “an open flowered pattern,” says Nussbaum, which looks fairly random and is ideal for book-matching. Vein cut, or striato, slices the block the other way to achieve a linear, striped appearance.

“Designers have used both cuts to create some fantastic looks,” says Cherrington. “They may use a vein cut on the wall and cross cut on the floor.”

Image may contain: Nature, Outdoors, Water, Sea, and Ocean

Vein-cut marble results in a linear, striped appearance.

Photo courtesy of Stone Source

4. You can transform the look of marble with different finishes.

“The whole stone industry has been going through a massive wave of technology, and it’s transforming the product,” says Cherrington, noting that there are now more ways than ever to finish stone, including different brushing and polishing techniques. An orange-peel-like texture is possible, he notes, which “might be called a leather, brushed, or river-wash finish.”

But the most popular choices remain polished, which looks glossy, or honed, which appears matte. For homeowners concerned about acid etching, Nussbaum recommends a honed finish. “On a polished finish, etching is going to turn it dull and be more visible,” he says. “With honey, you’re dulling an already dull finish, so it disguises it.”

5. Consider curving the edges of your marble countertop.

Besides its natural beauty, there’s a reason marble has historically been so popular for sculpture: It’s easy to work with tools. Add modern computer numerical control milling machines to the equation and almost anything’s possible for kitchen decorating.

There are countless edge profiles to choose from, but Groves prefers a simple eased edge, which takes the sharpness off a straight 90-degree corner. Cherrington points out that a bull’s nose, which has the profile of a half-circle, is also a timeless favorite and functional winner. “Hard stones like marble are brittle, so if you hit a 90-degree corner with something hard, it will chip,” he says. “With a curve, it’s highly unlikely that it’s going to chip.”

To give the thin ¾-inch stone the look of a thicker slab, Groves says it’s possible to use a miter joint at the edge of the countertop to add a thicker face with an almost seamless appearance. “You can build up a really nice thick-looking piece without having to use a thick slab,” he says.

It’s even possible to engrave the edge of a white marble countertop with a pattern of your choosing, says Cherrington, noting that Lapicida has developed marble tables featuring a carved brogue pattern on the edge in collaboration with designer Bethan Gray.

Image may contain: Furniture, Chair, Wood, Table, Shelf, Plywood, Tool, and Hammer

A Carrara-top dining table by Lapicida features a carved edge.

Photo courtesy of Lapicida

However, the best way to live with marble countertops may simply be to accept that they will patina over time. “If you’ve been to an old bakery or pizza shop and seen how white marble patinas, and like it,” says Nussbaum, “then it could be the perfect material for you.”

6. Call the marble facility ahead of your visit.

“Call the slab marble facility in advance to inquire about whether they have marble slabs that meet the color, type, square footage, and dimensions you require,” suggests Toronto-based interior designer Ferris Rafauli. “Let them know when you’re coming and ask them to organize a tour [where someone] points out the various slabs of marble they have. This will also allow the supplier to pull out their various slab marbles in advance so that when you arrive they are taking you directly to the selections that meet your needs.

Add by t

[parkerchafetzwriting-blog]

Lesson #1 - Rubber Ducks

When I was really young, maybe 6 or 7 years old, my mom got a manicure and a pedicure about once a month. I used to go with her because I was a momma’s boy (still am), and sometimes she’d let me pick out the color of the polish for her fingers and toes. I always enjoyed the same colors as my mom so it was pretty easy to agree most of the time. Deep reds, purples, beige, and the occasional navy blue. For a young boy I think I had a pretty sophisticated understanding of the art of the mani-pedi. I loved the smell of the nail salon, and my mom would always let me get a clear coat of polish on my fingers. My favorite part of the mini-vacation was the hot towelette they would use on your hands before they started because it felt like I had dipped my hands in a hot tub, and all my muscles relaxed. These were things I once didn’t think twice about, as I let my mind go free and put my everything into the tips of my fingers. My soul migrated to the palms of my hands as the towelette let off steam, and into my fingertips as I felt the cold semi-liquid hit the nails and gloss the previously dulled surface with shine. I loved being with my mom and getting my clear nails done so much, that I think I didn’t even notice the glances across the salon from chair to chair, seeing a 7 year old boy in basketball shorts brave the storm of the world of a woman.

One day I asked my mom if I could get rubber ducks painted on my nails instead of just the regular clear coat. Thinking about it today, I truly can’t believe how willing my mother was to just let me explore the world through expression and creativity and anything that my brain could envision. My youth had no limits because everything I thought I wanted to be, I became. I think that she saw something in me that I’m just starting to see in myself today. One time after watching the Wizard of Oz, I decided that I wanted to be Dorothy because she was so beautiful and I thought she was lovely. My mom brought me into Payless the next day to buy me a pair of tap dancing heels, red spray paint and red glitter. I walked around in the tap shoes on my front lawn and although I can’t remember all too well, I’m sure my mom was smiling wide.

My mom said yes to letting me get rubber ducks on my nails, and yet again I eagerly put my hands out in an impatient wait for the hot towelette once again. My mom came over and quietly told the stylist what I had requested. After my mom had retreated back to her own seat, the stylist let out a quiet giggle and rubbed my hand. I’m not sure I knew what she meant with that action back then, but today I get it. Thank you, wherever you may be, for understanding. Her steady hand glided across my nails like it was what she was meant to do in this world, and she layered yellow on top of yellow three or four times, before adding black accents, a darker yellow for the outline of the wing, an orange beak, and a big black dot for an eye.

Under the dryer, I again waited impatiently to get a good look at my new ducks. I didn’t want to look at them before the dried because I didn’t want to get attached to them in case one or two got smudged and then I’d have to get reacquainted with the new duck. I don’t think my hands really even met the desk where the dryers sat at a parallel angle because I was so tiny. There I sat, hands at the height of my head under a dryer above, waiting. I used to always look at the wall of colored polish and try to pick one shade of each color that I like the best. One red, one orange, yellow, and so on. After that, I’d put them into a mental competition against each other until I decided which one was the ultimate nail polish color. One eliminated after the other, in a style very similar to some reality competition shows. I’d narrate in my head and pretend to be a game show host, speaking loudly and clearly and picturing up a stage that the nail polishes would stand on as I chose a winner. Everything was possible in my head, and the games I played with myself were all too real. By the time I finished choosing the nice wine red (every time), The ducks were ready. Pulling my hands down from the desk, I met my ten new best friends.

That night I sat in the hallway with my mom after dinner and I don’t remember what we did but I remember that the light was glowy and the sun was just setting and the house still smelled like ham or something. I went to my room and continued to stare at my own nails, in awe of my ten best friends and how crisp their lines were. I forgot that they were creations, and I just saw them as extensions of me. Each one was beautiful in its own way, and even though their beaks didn’t have much detail, I always imagine them smiling at me. I think this was the first time that I learned how to not feel alone with myself. That imagination is my best friend, and we walk hand in hand throughout everyday life. They were real to me, and they were real for my mom too because she saw me light up. That whole night I made them dance by moving my hands across the air above my bed as I lie down, doing all sorts of jazz hands and showy flashes as they flew across my vision. I went to bed feeling on top of the world because I had creating something that made my heart sing.

I think I had an overall good perception of school when I was young. I kept to myself generally, but only because I was excited by learning. I made friends along the way because they would talk to me first. I enjoyed my classmates a lot, but my instinct was to go in my head. So the next day in school, I came in with my hands in my pockets ready for the big reveal of my little painted best friends. A smile on my face I could not hide; I was glowing probably (and maybe way too jittery). You know how in elementary school they have a little carpet in the room and the kids get assigned squares on the carpet to sit on during some class lessons? Maybe that was just a me thing, but we did have that, and I was somewhat near the middle. When we all went to take our seats, my teacher pulled me aside and sat me down away from the rest of the kids for a moment.

“Did you forget to do something before you came to school today?”, she said, pointing to my nails.

“No, what do you mean?”

I don’t think I’ll ever underestimate the power of a facial expression after this moment, because the look she gave me taught me all that I think I’ll ever need to know about being different.

The other kids were looking at me, some giggling, some whispering. Even some of my friends had giggled along or adopted confused looks as they all started to put the pieces together that something I did was ‘weird’. My teacher gave me a pat on the shoulder and resumed the class. I could feel the stares behind me on the little carpet for what felt like hours, but was probably a few minutes. I felt like I was in a display case. My hands stayed glued to the insides of my pockets for the time being, and I held back tears because I loved my ducks and I didn’t get why no one else loved them either. I felt bad because my ducks were scared of the dark in my pockets and I wanted them to breathe outside but no one else seemed to want to look at them and I could feel myself getting more and more confused and I tried to speak to my ducks in my pockets and tell them that everything was going to be okay soon but in reality I wasn’t even sure that everything was going to be fine.

It was the first time I ever felt different - alone. I don’t think I knew what different was before this, because I painted rubber ducks on my nails just to feel happy. But if the glares I got from my classmates didn’t teach me what being different felt like, than nothing would ever.

I went to the bathroom in the classroom and looked directly into my reddening eyes. I took my ducks out of my pockets and started to cry. I cried really badly and for a long time because I loved them with all of my heart and thought we would go through life together forever and all my friends would love my ducks. I cried some more and then I kissed each duck and said goodbye.  I scraped away the shiny polish under the cold water coming from the sink. The flakes of polish flicked into the circular stream of water and cycled a few times before going down the drain. My vision blurred with tears as I continued shredding away at my ten beautiful creations and loves, watching them break apart and mix with the dirty rust left in the sink before they quickly disappeared and all I was left with was damaged half-chipped fingernails, tears, and a lesson that no 6 year old boy trying to discover himself should ever have to learn; that the world was not interested in my beautiful rubber duckies. I had to kill the part of myself that I loved the most if I didn’t want to feel alone in this world. My ducks were safe in my head, but not on my hands. I laid my ducks down to rest, and I told them goodnight until I found a time or a place where people will see my ducks and instead of laugh, they will ask me what their names are. I pushed open the heavy bathroom door and walked back out to the classroom, took my seat back on the carpet, and replayed the stares and whispers in my head until I didn’t have enough room in my mind to think about how much I missed my ducks anymore.

No one talked to me that day.

[curveballsandfriends-blog]

Sri Lanka 27th

‘Get out. You need to get out now.’

Rewind.

You know how in American teenage movies the popular girl runs towards the swimming pool, does an Olympic-worthy jump, and looks incredibly cool? Tried that.

Insert close friend getting married in Sri Lanka. Insert delirium of getting to our destination after countless hours of travel. Insert 27th birthday. Insert pride of having a new slimmer body. Insert swimming pool.

“Remove shoes. Run towards your the pool. Do your best dive...

Crack. Blinding pain. I’ve just hit my head...What was that sound? Why is the water so high?

Why won’t the surface come closer to me?

...Get out. You need to get out now.

Arms obey. Legs do something.

No answer.

This is bad. This is really bad. You can’t die like this, I mean, surely you can do better than this? If you are going to go so young it’d have to be something big. Really big and dramatic. Fuck the 27 club.

No answer.

Why can’t my arms and legs move, the surface is just there? Help.

No answer.

Don’t do this to your family... Mom won’t survive this, you know she won’t...

Right arm is moving. Harder.

GASP.

Where is everyone gone? They must have served up my birthday cake.

Let’s be sensible about this. I’m five hours away from medical attention in the middle of a third world country... Let’s ignore this happened. Don’t tell anyone. Maybe I just pinched a nerve?

“Tristan will you give me a massage?”

This is better... but not helping. Maybe if I go to my room and stretch out... My luggage is so heavy. Can’t lift it and... what’s that tingle in my left hand?

“Guys can someone please help me get this upstairs? Thank you so so much.”

Stretch. Hurt. Tequila shot. Head spinning.

8 AM: I’m sweating...faint? Vomit? The world is spinning. I can’t hold onto that wall.

Knock knock.

“I think I hurt myself last night. I’m so sorry... but I think I need to get to a doctor.”

On the road we go. The first doctor -an hour out of the resort- takes my blood pressure: “Here’s some sports gel and don't forget to take the paracetamol.”

Surely that can't be it. My airplane neck cushion on the bumpy way back isn’t up to the job. I call my the surgeon brother. No answer.

Brother: “Is it urgent?”

“Yes. I think I broke my neck.”

Brother: “What are your symptoms?”

“You’re not going to tell the parents right? This is covered by doctor patient confidentiality?”

Brother: “Yes. What’s going on?”

“I’m in pain. I can’t feel three fingers in my left hand. I have no strength in my left arm and I’m dizzy.”

Brother: “Can you still walk...(and other questions)...You need a CT scan. Brain and spine. NOW... If you want to keep walking or stay alive you need to get to it and call me after.”

Three clinics later, an unsuccessful call to my insurance (can you give me the name of a hospital? we’ll call you back never) and a three hour cab ride I find the only clinic outside of Colombo that has a  CT scan.

The groom is with me. I told him ‘it’s nothing’. He is telling me I will be fine. We are both scared out of our minds...I didn't have to tell him my brother’s diagnosis, a friend of his told him what it could be.

The waiting room is bare. The nurses are dressed like i a fifties movies. I’m in my plastic chair waiting to see a doctor. The walls’ paint is chipping off. A child next to me is bloodied and looking like he is on the verge of collapsing. I pray.

Hospitals are a funny thing. You want everyone to get better, but you don't want to see other people in pain. You want everyone to get out healthy.. and yet you don’t want to wait for medical attention. Strange places... But I’m digressing.

After an argument with the doctor and an offer to be admitted to the clinic I wrangle my way to a CT scan on the spot. The bride is here and strikes my hair. I haven’t cried yet, but this is the moment of truth isn’t it?

The wait is interminable. They moved me to a wheel chair. Hours go by.

We get some initial results “It’s ok -one of her vertebrae isn’t aligned in her spine anymore but it shouldn't require surgery.” I breathe again. Visions of me spending my life in a wheelchair fade away but the doctor still has to see me.

The hospital keeps filling up. In Sri Lanka the doctors work in the public system in the morning and then private in the afternoon. Long gone the empty waiting room. My friend’s step mom is looking after me and having to push the wheelchair through the crowds -bribing the nurses to let me in with the doctors. Thank God she is here... but I still feel very alone and completely out of control. This is my fight and yet I have no strength. Tears start spilling.I want to run. Far and fast away.

Cue in extra X-ray after two other triage consults. Introducing the local rheumatologist: “You spine is broken -your neck is broken. We can't do your surgery here, we don’t have the material. The best we can do is ambulance you to Colombo.”

“Can I fly?”

“You can take one flight. Choose wisely, you need surgery and your fracture is unstable so you won't tolerate too much movement.”

“12 hours ok?”

“One flight.”

Two trips to the overflowing pharmacy (with matching increasingly invasive neck braces) and an illegal cigarette on the parking lot of the clinic we drive back to the resort...two hours of bumpy roads...pain...but wait I’m supposed to co-officiate the wedding in 24 hours...SHIT.

“You can’t sleep in a bed, you have to sleep in a chair... the doctor said... You have to be near the exit of the resort, we can't take the responsibility of having you being in the villa with us.You can't get ready with us tomorrow either and I don’t know who can help you get ready...” opening statement from my soon to be married friend.

“You can get the neckbrace off for an hour to officiate the wedding you’ve come so far...” (mom-in-law)

“How dare you be so selfish” (other bridesmaid)

I need to go home.

My bank account is in overdraft, my credit card is now too... my health insurance is asking me for a medical file which takes a week to get together for a medical evacuation...

I’m scared.

Apparently the longer I stay injured the more likely I am to never walk again...

I called my parents earlier and got their credit cards’ number...they just think I am trying to go shopping. That’s what I said anyways.

My friends type in the information for me on the airline’s website. I’m clutching onto my passport.

My brother calls back.

“Don’t sleep. You might break your neck even with a brace. Stay awake, til you go, have someone look over you.”

I’m terrified. It’s ironic to think I have had self harming thoughts before but now that I find myself in real danger it’s crystal clear I want to stay alive and be healthy just if I have the opportunity to be so.

Can’t sleep. Can’t move. Can't stop thinking. Have to get back to England.

Get inside that car. Drive away. Get to the airport.

The driver is caring and gentle but he can’t help the roads in Sri Lanka...We are in this for five hours.

I can't take it anymore.

“Please take me back to the clinic.”

I’m can’t stop crying, the pain is unbearable. I can feel his heart swelling for me with compassion...He barely speaks English but I tell him I’m broken...as we get to the hospital he talks to them for me.

The ambulance will take an hour minimum. The pain is unbearable. Flight is leaving soon... Back in that wheelchair, back in that clinic.

What do I do? There’s still enough time to catch the flight. I trust his driving and his car better than the ambulance - a vestige from the sixties.

My driver has that little bit more soul. He cares. He tells me he can get me to my flight. We get back on the road. My brother is calling me every hour to check I am still alive -although he tells me it’s just a ‘little check in’. Bump upon bump. Keep pushing through. We are getting closer. Will they let me on the flight?

I have a 7pm off-book appointment at the hospital through the driver's sister in law -for the only MRI in the country- in case I can't make it on the flight. I feel so incredibly grateful for the people around me. I feel a little less alone. Facing death I was surrounded with the ones I love... What got me out of the pool was thinking of my family. What’s keeping me alive now are just those people, and some new people who life was brilliant enough to put on my path.

Airport. I try to keep standing after walking 200 meters.

“May I please have a wheelchair?”

12 hours to go. Til safety... Grind teeth. Look normal, You are so close...you need to get on that flight.

LONDON. Gatwick airport.

No ambulance is coming to take me to the nearest hospital. The NHS paramedic gets me an Addison Lee. He drives like a maniac.

“Sir please can you slow down? I’m injured badly, my neck is broken.”

“I’m an Addison Lee, not an ambulance.”

I get to that hospital at 1 am. They can’t transfer me to a trauma center for hours and certainly not in an ambulance til triage in 4 hours... Time is running out. I get myself on an uber with a kind driver who offers me water and drives as carefully as humanly possible.

As soon as I get to the hospital I know. I know I’m not going to die.  A neurosurgeon in my cubicle within minutes.

“Mom, Dad. I’m not in Sri Lanka anymore. I’ve had a little accident. All is fine but I’m back in London in the hospital and they are taking good care of me.”

The screams coming from the beds next to me in the ward, the surgery... it doesn't matter anymore.

My other brother is coming over from Paris this afternoon. My friends are visiting. My reason to fight was next to me. We are going to be ok.

It’s easier to leave people than be left.

But it’s a two way road.

It’s so much easier to love than be loved but somehow it’s their love that keeps me alive and fighting.