#reaper doesn’t count bc it was very brief

[impossible-rat-babies]

eyrie as a dragoon can mean so much to me without me having any way of explaining it

[explosionshark]

31 the I cant keep kissing strangers one for jack/Miranda. U know, if u want to

I’m gonna cheat bc I remembered the prompt wrong and already wrote half of it in my head while I was showering, so

-

It’s years of experience, it’s meticulous and brutally honed control of her body, it’s her genetic predisposition to deceit and manipulation that keeps Miranda from reacting when her the alert pings, a brief series of flashes on the corner of her ocular overlay. S.O.S.

Dupont’s hand is on her thigh, just under the material of her dress, grip damp and too tight. He’s leaning in close, under the auspice of speaking into her ear in the crowded club, but she recognizes the clumsy excuse to peek down her dress for what it is. It takes every ounce of restraint not to shove him bodily away and rush straight for the rendezvous waypoint blinking on her display -- a maintenance closet beneath a stairwell at the back of the club. There’s a thrum of panic in Miranda’s chest that she squashes with a deep, subtle breath and a careful flick of her hair. She drags a teasing finger down Dupont’s chest as she leans back.

“Excuse me a moment,” she pitches her voice low, breathy, the way she knows he must be imagining it sounds in bed. She shoots him a smoldering look over her shoulder before she leaves, adding a bit of whine to her words. Desperate women are, to men like this, honey to flies. “Don’t go where I can’t find you.”

She’s careful as she slips into the crowd, gait controlled, face expertly molded into an expression annoyed enough to ward off potential interruption from men, yet still bland enough to fail to catch the interest of anyone watching.

It’s torture, keeping her pace unhurried as scenario after gruesome scenario of what could have gone wrong plays out in vivid detail. Jack wounded, bleeding out among the bleach bottles and filthy mops. A Cerberus trap, Jack captured, bait to lure her to the same fate. Dozens upon dozens of equally vivid, equally terrible possibilities conjured with each leisurely step, all laying the same accusation at her feet: Miranda’s mistake, with Jack paying the price.

Jack hadn’t been Miranda’s first choice.

Miranda’s list of trusted contacts is smaller than it’s ever been and shrinking by the day. Trusted and available? Smaller still.

She had wanted Shepard. Or, better yet, Kasumi. But Shepard was wrapped up on some affair on Tuchanka and Kasumi was running a different op for the Shadow Broker, out on the edges of the Terminus.

Jack had been an indulgence - and one that was proving to be foolish and selfish.

She was humanity’s strongest biotic and one of the most capable operators Miranda had ever known, but her strength lied in frontal assaults. Massive destruction, flamboyant, devastating attacks with lots of collateral damage. Not delicate infiltration missions like this.

She should have been safe with her students on Grissom Station, not here dying for Miranda’s cause, not--

--Grabbing Miranda roughly by the hips, slamming her back against the shelving unit along the wall hard enough to rattle the metal, laying the flat of her arm across Miranda’s chest, just under her neck, to pin her there.

“What do you think you’re doing?“ Miranda hisses. She can’t see any obvious injuries or damage to Jack in the dim light of the closet, not held in place like this. When she raises her hands to pat down Jack’s body there’s a flair of shimmering blue light in the air, and then the always disconcerting staticky sensation of stasis fields pinning them in place at her sides.

“What am I doing?” Jack huffs, fists still bunched in the material of Miranda’s dress. A shame - it had been nice. Expensive. She can feel the material ripping under the strain of Jack’s grip and despite everything, she finds it distantly erotic. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Miranda, for all of her considerable intellect, feels like she is at least three steps behind a conversation she doesn’t remember starting. She shakes her head, twisting as much as she can with her hands pinned. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m not fucking hurt,” Jack snaps, hips jolting forward to slam into Miranda’s rattling the shelf again. This time she hears the fabric of the dress rip in Jack’s hands, can’t contain the shiver it sends down her spine that Jack absolutely notices. “I’m fed up. I can’t keep watching you kiss strangers.”

Jealousy? Miranda doesn’t bother trying to hide her laugh. “If you’ll remember, my kissing a stranger was a key part of the plan you agreed to. I was supposed to be doing that while you were--”

“Keep him busy,” Jack growls, “You were supposed to keep him busy while I did all the hard work. You never told me your plan to distract the guy was to let him put his big stupid gorilla hands all over your--”

“Someone was taking their time ‘doing all the hard work,’“ Miranda sneers back. “I had to improvise. He was losing interest.”

“Hey, it’s your stupid hack module that wasn’t working,” Jack accuses.

Of course, at that exact moment, Miranda’s display pings again. The tracker she’d slipped into Dupont’s jacket shows him leaving the bar, headed for the elevator to his suite.

“Jack, let me go,” Miranda says quietly, urgently, and to her credit Jack does so immediately without arguing. “He’s on the move. I can try to head him off in the lobby, but-- Look, this is very important. Did you leave any evidence you were tampering with the safe or anything else in his room?”

“Uh, yeah,” Jack snorts. “I think he’s gonna notice his top secret Cerberus Reaper hacking plans are missing.”

“But you said the module--”

“Yeah, total crap. Useless. I just blasted the ever-loving shit out of the safe.”

“Jack.”

“Anyway, if he’s on the way up there he’s gonna notice uh. Pretty much right away. We should get out of here.”

“We should have been gone the moment you compromised the plan,” Miranda hisses, following Jack out of the closet, wincing at the sudden too-bright light of the hallway.

“Nag, nag, nag,” Jack drawls, throwing open the emergency exit door to the alley behind the hotel with a truly unnecessary flair of biotics.

“We went over the codes before we even got here,” Miranda reminds her. In the back of her mind, she’s counting down the seconds they have before Dupont realizes he’s been robbed, before he puts together she was involved, before he decides to come after them for the data (bad) or alert Cerberus to what happened (worse). She figures in how long it would take to stop running and strangle Jack in one of these dank Illium alleyways and realizes, regrettably, she can’t afford the slowdown. “There’s one for emergency exit, one for mission compromised, one for package acquired. Any of those would have done. S.O.S. is emergency only.”

“Well, it was an emergency, okay?” Jack says, stopping short at the curb while Miranda calls forth the skycar she’d arranged with a flick of her omin-tool.

“How so?” Miranda demands, shoving Jack into the back of the skycar first and clambering in gracelessly after her, ruined dress gaping open in the front. “This is coming out of your pay, by the way.”

“It was a pre-emergency--”

“That’s not a thing.”

“If his hand got any higher up your skirt I was gonna blow both of our covers by ripping his arms off in the middle of the bar.”

Miranda should still be mad -- furious -- that Jack had scared her so badly. Should be angry for the terribly botched mission as well, the absolute flouting of her discreet and effective plan.

But they’ve lived. Another day in a galaxy torn apart by war on multiple fronts, another day outmaneuvering the Illusive Man himself, another day Miranda gets to find herself in the company of this beautiful, blunt, maddening, impossible woman.

And they had gotten the data, despite everything. A success, however unconventional.

And if all she has to show for it is another burned identity and a ruined dress, Miranda finds she doesn’t mind as much as she might have in any other circumstance besides this -- in the backseat of a skycar with Jack, genuinely irritated to have seen someone else touching Miranda, a torn dress, the thrum of adrenaline still rushing through her veins.

“Never figured you for the jealous type, Jack,” Miranda says, relenting, twisting in the seat to pin Jack with a simmering look.

“Yeah, you did,” Jack mutters. “Were probably counting on it when you asked me to do this thing with you. Probably got off on it. Control freak.”

“Why would I do something like that?”

“Probably has something to do with you being an arrogant psycho that’s obsessed with keeping me under your thumb.”

Miranda pauses in the dark of the backseat and stares Jack down. She’s tense, pupils blown wide, breath coming in gradually quickening gasps.

Miranda has seen Jack scared and angry and hurt before. She’s seen her wound up tight on adrenaline, turned on to the point of recklessness too. Knows well enough the difference between the two to recognize this for what it is.

It’s that confidence that draws Miranda across the space between them, shrugging the straps of her dress down her shoulders in a movement that allows her to reach the zipper in the back and slide it down immediately after. Jack doesn’t move to stop her when Miranda drops a hand to Jack’s thigh, a more elegant parody of Dupont’s boorish groping earlier. The higher Miranda’s hand ventures, the further open Jack spreads her legs, nostrils flaring as Miranda leans in close, whispering into her ear at the same time as her hand slips past the waistband of Jack’s pants, to the soaked front of her underwear.

“Funny, Jack,” Miranda says, mockingly, stroking her slowly. She’ll draw this one out, as a lesson. “Under my thumb seems to be exactly the place you’re always so desperate to be.”

“Fuck,” Jack groans, a low hiss of air from between her clenched teeth.

Miranda grins in the dark. She’d been wrong, before. Jack had definitely been the right pick for this mission.

-

enjoy my work? wanna leave a tip?

ko-fi / cashapp

[archadianskies]

do u still write grelliam? bc grelliam - i said/did to make you laugh

→ ao3

If there is one thing Director William T. Spears detests above all else, it is inefficiency.

Yet how does one address inefficiency caused by injury? Harder still, when the inefficiency is borne from anxiety, from helplessness and frustration.

Both results have returned negative, small blessings and silver linings gilding an otherwise horrific situation. The Ancient one, so revered out of awe and fear, is the very reason the pair are here in the first place and had William known the extent of their injuries, of her injuries he wouldn’t have made her row them ashore.

“How long will they need to stay here?” He asks as Dr Charles Farrough comes to stand at Ronald’s bedside.

“A while, lad.” a heavy sigh as he glances at his clipboard. “In the very least, another week in recovery before they can begin physiotherapy. Scythe wounds can’t be healed using our regenerative abilities. It has to heal the long way.”

He’s no stranger to visiting the Infirmary, he’s even dragged Sutcliff here personally but even after her Jack the Ripper stint recovery had only taken a day’s worth of bed rest and a spoonful of Starlight analgesic before she was out the door; a week is an eternity for a Reaper used to healing in a few hours.  

“Tests came back negative for the Thorn for both of them, so at least there’s that.” Charles sighs, knocking his glasses up briefly so he can rub his eyes tiredly. “The stitches run deep for Grell, the deepest I’ve sewn in a while now. Even when Cooper had his leg sliced off I only had to tack it in place and let his healing do the rest.”

“The Ancient One’s scythe and skill are still as deadly as the day he began.”

“Don’t discount her skills either, William.” He chides with a shake of his head. “Had it been Ronald receiving the brunt of the scythe, the lad would have died. That she’s here at all is testament to her strength.”

“Are they still sedated?” William asks, sparing Grell a brief glance before looking to the doctor.

“They should surface soon, but be gentle with them they won’t be coherent yet.” He reaches down to smooth Ronald’s ginger hair away from his pale face. “It takes a lot to put a Reaper under, so it’ll take a lot for them to claw their way back up.”

“I will keep that in mind, Dr Farrough.” He nods as Charles claps him on the shoulder.

“It’s just a waiting game now, lad. Be patient.”

The younger Reaper surfaces first, blinking awake and whining in pain when he tries to sit up. William presses Ronald’s shoulder firmly to prevent him from moving.

“Don’t.”

“Owww…” The boy whines, face scrunching up in pain. “Head’s stuffed with cotton and chest is on fire. Callin’ in sick today boss, sorry.”

“None of this is your fault, there is no need to apologize.” It comes out too sharp, too biting, and Ronald seems to shrink at his tone. He tries again. “You and Sutcliff are heavily injured, no one expects you to return to your duties immediately.”

Ronald tilts his head to the side, squinting at the occupant on the other bed. “Cap’n still out?”

“Yes.”

“I’d be dead if not for her, y’know.” Ronald’s voice drops to a whisper. “Shoved me outta the way when she saw that scythe come down for me.”

“You are young,” he reasons, “she knew you would not have survived.”  

“But did she know she’d survive?” Ronald’s pleads, and lying there so pale from bloodloss and swamped with gauze and bandages he seems ever so small and even younger.

“I’m not sure.” He says, because it’s the truth and Ronald isn’t a child to be placated with sugary lies no matter the optimistic intent.

“I’ll be stronger, I promise.” His voice wavers, unsteady and unsure and William can count every single day of the scant century between their ages.

“Ronald I don’t think anything could have prepared you for that fight.” It’s the truth, again, but he hopes it’s reassuring in its helplessness.

“My chest feels like it’s on fire.” A couple of tears slip from the corner of his eye, rolling down towards his ear before he labours a hand up to brush them away.

“Recovery will be slow, Dr Farrough said.”

“Do we- do I have-”

“Tests came back negative.” William interjects, and then adds after a pause. “For you both.”

Ronald says nothing, but he sighs in such relief. He’s not used to giving comfort, but he manages to pat Ronald’s hand in a way he hopes to convey his well wishes. It seems to work. The younger reaper closes his eyes and sleeps.

He’s partway through the day’s checks and balances of deaths and souls when Grell finally surfaces from sedation. It’s more violent than Ronald’s slow awakening, it’s eyes snapping open it’s a strained gasp it’s a pained cry and she turns her head this way and that to take in her surroundings.

“Sutcliff.” He keeps his voice low and steady, and it’s enough to focus on her attention.

“Will?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m being held together by a single silk thread.” She huffs a tired laugh, sinking back into her pillow and staring at the ceiling. “Which I’m sure isn’t far from the truth.”

“Dr Farrough said the stitches are numerous and deep due to the severity of the injury.” William confirms with a nod. “Recovery will be slow for the both of you, even moreso for you though I’m sure you surmised that.”

“Didn’t think I’d make it, to be honest.” She grins wryly though she doesn’t meet his gaze. “Thought I’d be sliced in half and be done with it all.”

“I-” a sharp intake of breath, a gathering of courage and discarding of pride. “I didn’t realise the extent of your injuries when I made you row us ashore and I know that only exacerbated the scythe wound. You lost a significant amount of blood in the process and pulled the wound open deeper than it was.”

“An apology, my my.” Grell drawls, lips twitching up briefly. “Things must be dire, Will. Did my result come back positive for the Thorn?”  

“No. Both tests came back negative.” It’s a splinter, her words, burrowing beneath his skin and he accepts it as penance owed. “I’m apologising because you deserve an apology for my actions.”

“I’m exhausted, love.” She sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “I’ve never felt so tired in my life.”

“Then rest, Sutcliff.” He implores her, pride be damned as he reaches to squeeze her hand. “You need to rest.”

When William returns the next day Ronald is fast asleep, and Grell is propped up by pillows behind her neck and back. She gives him a lazy wave of her fingers.

“Good morning, Sutcliff.”

“Hello darling.” Her voice is softer and scratchier with fatigue. “Still holding together at the seams.”

He nods at that and takes a seat at her bedside. He’s come prepared, arms full of the day’s paperwork to manage.

“Ronnie and I will have to get Eric and Alan thank you presents.” She muses, fingers toying with the blanket hem. “All the inevitable overtime they’ll be doing because of us.”

“It’s not your fault.” He says firmly, frowning at her. “They’ll take on extra duties but that’s the way it has to be for now.”

There’s more to be said but she doesn’t say it, only purses her pale lips tightly and stares down at her hands. The bloodloss and fatigue make her look younger, more like the incorrigible student he butted heads with back in their Academy days. Without her makeup he can see the smattering of cinnamon freckles on her skin, can see the pale ginger lashes without their black lacquer framing her eyes. She’s without her painted mask, she’s without her bravado and everything feels wrong.

William focuses on his paperwork and she focuses on her chipped red nail polish.

The work is ceaseless and unrelenting but such is their duty. He was able to spare them several hours in the first two days but now he’s only able to duck in to see them and talk briefly with Dr Farrough to discuss their progress. Ronald is healing well, his injuries not as severe as his senior and Dr Farrough hopes to clear him for physiotherapy in three days time. Grell, on the other hand, is recovering slower than projected. The wound is deep, but clean, and by that logic it should be an easier recovery. It is not.

They haven’t had to resort to sedation again, but it’s come close to that, Dr Farrough tells him. Twice she’s woken from sleep in agony, and once he’s had to replace her stitches after she tried clawing them out.

It’s six days since he’s had time to properly sit in the hospital room, and by now Ronald’s been discharged to the care of Eric Slingby for light bed rest and physiotherapy thrice a week at the training facility.

Grell is a spot of red in a sea of clinical whites and muted greys, and the room seems to swallow her up. He brings her some tea and a pastry from the cafeteria, which elicits a small tired smile.

“You’re going to scold me for scratching my stitches aren’t you.” She sighs heavily, tracing the rim of her teacup.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand the pain you’re in, so I can’t make judgement on that.”

“It feels like ice.” She rests her palm gingerly to her chest. “I can’t describe it. It’s like ice but hot. A hot sort of cold. A cold so intense it feels hot.”

“It’s your body’s healing response trying to knit the tissue back together.” He leans over to cut the pastry for her to prevent her performing the repetitive back and forth motion with the knife that will aggravate her fresh stitches.

“This is going to leave one hell of a scar.” She toys with the handle of her cup, pointedly avoiding his gaze. “I already hate what I see in the mirror, what more now that there’ll be a hideous gash running right across my torso?”

He hadn’t thought about that, not at all because that’s a pain only she feels and the wound is yet another pain only for her to experience and all at once he feels like a fool, so very sorry indeed.

“I’m going to relive that moment every time I bathe, every time I change my clothing.” Her breathing comes quicker now, and her voice warbles with barely restrained tears. “Ronnie gets a scar he can brag to the ladies about and I get another nail in this goddamn coffin of a body.”

He doesn’t know what to say, he can’t relate to a fight that isn’t his and yet he knows he played some part in her suffering. William clears his throat, reaching over to pat her hand reassuringly.

“Drink your tea, Grell. It’ll go cold.” She manages a wobbly smile.

“Of course Will.”

A full eight days after the projected schedule Grell Sutcliff is discharged to the care of William T. Spears for light bed rest and physiotherapy thrice a week at the training facility. He takes her home on a stormy London afternoon wrapped in a thick coat and scarf. They have to travel the mortal way, as she’s too fragile to be leaping and bounding across rooftops and making the quick jumps that allow reapers to move at inhuman speeds. It isn’t a long journey by any means but she falls asleep leaning against him and he doesn’t say a word.

She settles into his guest bedroom and she’s too tired to joke about getting into his (pyjama) pants or between his sheets, Grell simply rests her head on the pillow and falls asleep again. He only wakes her later to coax her to eat a light dinner and then he leaves her be for the rest of the evening. Physiotherapy awaits the next day and he knows she needs her rest.

Physiotherapy, William learns, does not go well and Grell ends up back at the Infirmary for reopening her wound. When he’s signed off on the last of the day’s reports he finally heads over in the early evening to visit her only to be intercepted by Dr Farrough first.

“Not tonight, lad.” He grips William’s shoulder. “She’s a right mess and it’s not a good idea to see her.”

“She’s hurt again.” He tries to reason, but the doctor shakes his head.

“She is, in more ways than one.” Charles glances at the door of her room. “Come back tomorrow after she’s rested and composed herself. She’s in a bit of a state right now.”

It’s taken him too long to do the decent thing, really and he’s mentally kicking himself for not doing this sooner. The shop is a small one but it’s bursting with colour and the heady, heavy aroma of an amalgamation of blooms.

He selects a single red rose and then requests the florist build a bouquet around it so the rose is the centrepiece. It’s a large, dramatic arrangement which he thinks suits her quite well, and it’s finished off with a large red organza bow around the stems.

Unwilling to risk damaging the flowers, he travels the mortal way in a vehicle with the bouquet on his lap. He wrinkles his nose, feeling a tickle in his nostrils. Dust from the interior of the vehicle, surely.

It’s the pollen. William realises it as he’s walking to the Infirmary with his eyes watering and an incessant itching in his nose. He sneezes for the umpteenth time, startling a clinician who he apologises to immediately.

Grell is sitting up in bed, eyes and the tip of her nose pink from crying. He can tell she’s frustrated and upset with herself, but the expression vanishes when she spots him in the doorway with the large bouquet.

“Will?”

“Grell, these are for y-y-” He squeezes his eyes shut to fight off an impending sneeze. “For y-achoo!” It fails. “Apologies, it seems the pollen is a-aggra-achoo!” Another sneeze. “Oh blast it.” He mutters, crossing the room to thrust the bouquet into her hands. “Here, I- achoo!”

She giggles, shoulders shaking until the giggle turns into a bright laugh.

“Well I’m glad my suffering is amusing to you.” He comments dryly as she launches into another peal of laughter.

“They’re lovely.” She hugs the bouquet, burying her nose in it to savour their sweet scent. When she looks up at him, she smiles, eyes bright. “Thank you William.”

It’s all worth it, William realises even as he wrinkles his nose to try and stave off another sneeze. Leaning over he presses a kiss to the crown of her head.

“You’re welcome, Grell.”

*~*~*

[The amaranth flower is one of the symbols of immortality and has been used as such a symbol since the time of Ancient Greece. Indeed, the word comes from the Greek amarantos (Αμάρανθος or Αμάραντος), meaning the “one that does not wither,” or the never-fading (flower).]

It’s also a flower with a high pollen count sorry Will ¯\_(ツ)_/¯