#settle comfortably for a second and have some fluffy ficlet anyway

[youchangedmedestiel]

If some of you want to read a ficlet about Destiel finishing their salt and burn in time before midnight on New Year's Eve and engaged in that famous tradition that Cas just discovered, then let me tell you that I have something for you. And it's called Kissing you is like fireworks.

[justanotherfoolhere]

I managed to write something for the KakaIru Valentine’s Week 2021!

Me: I want to write something. Maybe a double drable or a ficlet. Shouldn’t take more than an hour.

Also me: spends the whole day writing a 3k words one-shot. Ooops.

Anyway:

Title: Soulmates (I know, very original)

Rating: T (could be gen)

Pairing: Kakashi/Iruka

Wordcount: 3283

Tags: Kakairu Valentines Week 2021, Fluff, Light Angst, Soulmates, First Dates, Friends to Lovers

You can read on ao3 too!

            Soulmarks appeared around six or seven years old.  But it was not as exciting as one could imagine: as much as the tropes of 'first words they say to you', 'a cool mark where they first touch you' or even 'matching marks' or 'their favorite thing tattooed on your skin' were popular in books and films, the reality was far less thrilling.

               Words appeared on your forearm, but not the first ones they would say to you. No. The words that appeared were the ones they would say the moment they realized they loved you. It didn't even have to be words they say to you. You could very well never get to hear the words yourself, if whoever your soulmate is realized it when by themselves.

               All in all, soulmarks weren't that important. They were not reliable and, even if they were, they just made sense when your soulmate already loved you. Not that helping at all. Sure, children loved seeing the words and tracing their little fingers over them, and teachers took advantage of that to teach them proper spelling, reading, writing and calligraphy. Nothing made a kid work harder at writing something right than copying the words on their forearms over and over again.

               Adults, on the other hand, mostly ignored them. Sure, some helpless romantics (cough, cough, Gai, cough) still clung to them like a lifeline, but most people just kept going about their lives and never seeking them out.  Let life that its course and everything.

               Kakashi avoided his like the plague.

               It hadn't always been like this. As a child, he liked to daydream about his soulmate as much as his peers. Things got different when his father died though. Grief settling in, chilling his bones and washing away his childlike hopes. Things only got worse when his team died, when he saw Obito be crushed and failed on his only promise, failed to keep Rin safe. Then their sensei died too and he was alone.

               He didn't deserve love. He didn't deserve a soulmate.

               And a bitter and irrational part of him reminded him that everyone who loved him died. He'd be doing his soulmate a favor if he never met them.

              *

               People thought Kakashi was being stubborn or proud when he refused to go to the hospital after a dire mission. He wasn't. Well, not totally.

               When he was a kid, the words on his forearm sounded odd yet funny.

               Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot.

               Like, him? Getting stabbed then just walking away? Sure, little Kakashi knew first hand how a ninja's life could be rough, but the idea was so foreign and ridiculous. He'd never ignore something so drastic!

               Also, it sounded like a funny thing to say when you love someone. Didn't sound affectionate at all.

               He was glad for it when he grew up. Maybe his soulmate wouldn't be burdened with loving him (sure they would like Kakashi a bit, but maybe not love him). And maybe Kakashi wouldn't even be present to hear it, since the sentence wasn't adressing him.

               Still, he didn't want to take any chances. So, since Kakashi can remember, he stitches up his own stab wounds. Avoiding getting stabbed also helped, but it was near impossible in fights with shurikens, kunais and the ocasional sword.

               He figured whoever his soulmate was, they must work at a hospital or be a medical nin. So he avoided both. Seemed like the best course of action.

              *

               It was just another day. A common, boring day. Kakashi was waiting in line to hand in his mission form (he was still scribbling some things on it as he waited) and could barely wait to be done with it, so he could drop dead on bed. The last mission was a nasty one and he had barely washed the blood off his face before coming here.

               Sure, he could procrastinate it, as he ever did, but now he had five old mission reports still blank and an increasingly annoyed Iruka who chewed him out for it. So he decided to drop the habit and actually hand in this one as soon as possible.

               His whole tired body complained about this choice, though.

               "I can't accept it," Iruka said with a thinly-concealed scowl.

               "Why not?!"

               "Well, for starters, you're still writing it," Iruka gestured to Kakashi still scribbling on the form, using the desk for support, "go home and rest a bit, Kakashi. You can give me the report tomorrow," wow, Kakashi thought, he should look really deplorable if Iruka missed the opportunity to reprimand him.

               He didn't recall when Iruka went from calling him "jounin-san" to "Kakashi", maybe sometime between their quarrels about what an acceptable form was, but it always made his heart skip a beat. A silly little crush, but Kakashi allowed his heart this treat. It's not like he'd ever act on it anyway.

               "Yeah, maybe I should," Kakashi concedes, too worn out to complain. A shame really, he wanted to see Iruka smiling at him for handing in a report in time for once.

               He manages to walk away two steps before Iruka calls him again, scowl deepening and something too akin to concern on his voice.

               "Kakashi, you're bleeding."

               "Oh, that?" He look at the growing blood stain on his vest. It didn't seem too serious in the fight, and he could barely feel it over his generaly aching body, "yeah, I just came from the mission, I'll take a look at it at home," he smiled, trying to look reassuring despite the mask covering most of his face.

               "Fine," there was a finality to his tone. Kakashi thought it'd be the end of the conversation.

               Than Iruka called someone to cover for him and, in less than a minute, he was up and grabbing Kakashi by the hand.

               Kakashi made a mental note that Iruka was fast and could move pretty silently when he wanted to. The blush on his face hidden by the mask.

               "Uh, you don't have to—"

               "I do," Iruka cut him with his best non-nonsense voice, "since you clearly can't be trusted to prioritize you own well-being, and I'm sick of watching it after every mission of yours."

               He let Iruka half-guide half-drag him, not even bothering to keep track of where they were going until he sees himself being pulled inside Iruka's apartment.

              *

               "I know it's a mess," Iruka didn't sound apologetic in the slightest, "but it'll have to make do," he gestured for Kakashi to sit on the sofa, throwing some things on the floor to make space, and went to fetch a first-aid kit in the bathroom.

               Kakashi took a moment to took everything in. The papers and books thrown everywhere, a few take-out packages littering the floor, the clothes scattered around. It was not dirty, just messy, which made sense with how much work Iruka had between teaching kids and scolding jounins. He probably didn't spend that much time here. Enough to make a mess, but not enough to tidy it properly.

               Still, it felt homey. Warm and safe.

               "Shirt off," Iruka came back, a serious expression, and motioned to his blood-soaked vest.

               "Maa, sensei, at least pay me a dinner first," Kakashi joked, attempting to both lighten the mood and conceal his own nervousness. Iruka didn't seem impressed.

               "Fine, fine," he took his shirt off, it landed with a wet thump on the floor.

               Iruka's eyes widened for a sec before he recomposed himself.

               "I can't believe you decided to wait on a line to hand me a half-written form after you got stabbed," Iruka sighed, pouring antiseptic on the wound without a warning, "whoever let you graduate in Academia is a moron. You have no sense of self-preservation. Or common sense," he admonished.

               Kakashi winced at the sudden sting of antiseptic, but accepted the scolding. It was fair enough. Despite the harsh words, Iruka's hands were gentle when he started stitching him up.

               "It was not really stabbing, just a tiny hit. With a kunai," He said nonchalant. Maybe Iruka would give it less importance if he did too, "I've had worse."

               "I don't doubt it," Iruka didn't look at him, his eyes on the task, "And most people call 'a hit with a kunai' stabbing," he said wryly.

               Ouch.

               When Iruka was finished with the stitches, he put some ointment over the wound and dressed it. Kakashi insisted it was more fuss than it was worth.

               "Just lie down and get some rest," Iruka sighed, "I'll fetch you some pillows and a blanket. Don't you dare getting up,"

               "Really, you don't have to. I'm fine, I can go and sleep in my own house."

               "I want to," and there it was, the finality to his voice that made clear not even the Hokage could get Kakashi out of that couch, "now stop being stubborn for a second and sleep."

               Kakashi complied (what other choice did he have, really?) and Iruka made sure to get him comfortable, a pillow under his head, another one supporting his sore legs and a fluffy, warm blanked tucked snugly over him.

               Kakashi was drifting off to sleep when he heard Iruka muttering to himself.

               "Of course he'd try to shrug off a stab wound, the idiot."

               Kakashi heart raced a bit, the too familiar words sounded weird now that he actually heard it. He'd have fled if he wasn't so comfortable and on the brink of sleep.

               His last thought was that he was wrong about his soulmate not liking him that much. He'd never imagined someone could say "idiot" in such a fond, loving tone.

               *

               Kakashi's half-baked plan of avoiding Iruka didn't even have a chance to be properly formed. It'd be a nigh impossible task when he woke up on Iruka's sofa, covered in Iruka's blankets, inside Iruka's house and with a very nonchalant Iruka sat on the floor near him with a new take-out bag on his lap.

               "Oh, good, you're awake," he said, putting his food down, "Hungry? I bought some ramen."

               "I— Ah," he said eloquently, "no, you shouldn't have bothered. I'll— I should head home now. Finish all that late reports and everything," he all but stumbled while trying to get up.

               There was a faint, amused smile on Iruka's lips.

               "That's okay, Kakashi, calm down," he handed him a bowl of ramen, "you can run away and never look at me again after you eat," his voice was even. It didn't sound like a joke nor a reprimand.

               Kakashi accepted the chopsticks offered to him and they ate in silence. there was still a bundle of warm blankets on Kakashi's feet and the sofa was more inviting than it had a right to be.

               Iruka didn't look bothered at all for the silence. His face was unreadable, as if he already expected it.

               Wait—

               "You knew!" Kakashi accused, pointing a finger at him.

               "I knew what?" Iruka feigned inocence, then, when Kakashi grunted, added more serious, "yeah, I figured it out some time ago."

               Kakashi was stunned by how lightly he said it.

               "How long ago? Exactly?" He narrowed his eyes. Iruka put a hand on his neck, a nervous habit.

               "Well... I kind of knew since we became sort-of-friends? But I just confirmed it some months ago," he tried to laugh it off, then extended his forearm to Kakashi's field of sight.

               There, in neat letters, was written Maa, Iruka, I already said I'll finish the reports! No need for violence.

               Kakashi kind of remembered this talk. It was so similar to all the others they had that it was hard to place exactly when this one took place. Iruka had rolled up a magazine and smacked Kakashi's nape with it, saying he would 'beat some sense of responsibility into him if he had to'.

               "There are not a lot of people who never hand in their reports and are on a first-name basis with me," he explains, "the 'maa' narrowed it down a lot too."

               "...I see," Kakashi was at a loss of words. So his soulmate wasn't a medical-nin like he thought, but a sensei with years of practice in patching up kids and adults alike.

               "Yes. Well, I, uh," this was getting more awkward by the minute, "I'll go back to work now. you can take you time before you leave. Eat, take a shower... You can hand all your late reports to someone else later."

               Iruka was already getting up to leave when Kakashi hastily grabbed his wrist.

               "Wait! Are you leaving just like that? After telling me you knew I was your soulmate for months?"

               "Well, I figured you didn't want a soulmate," He smiled, and there was no judgement there, "I wouldn't have told you, either. But, since, you know now, I guess it's okay if you want to put some distance between us," he motioned vaguely to the pillows Kakashi had knocked on the ground in his hurried attempt to leave.

               Kakashi couldn't find a good enough answer, so he watched mutely as Iruka made his way to the door and closed it after him.

               *

               Days passed.

               Kakashi thought it'd be fine. Iruka have handled everything so well. They hadn't sought each other out and, when they bumped into each other, Iruka was polite but distant. 'Kakashi' went back to 'jounin-san' or even 'Hatake-san'. He didn't act weird or sad either.

               So why did it hurt so much?

               Kakashi felt like he was missing something. Which made no sense whatsoever, because he and Iruka never were a thing to start with.

               Iruka was right, he didn't want a soulmate. Never wanted one. The lingering thought that he would hurt whoever it was or that he didn't deserve any happiness present on his mind since he was a kid.

               Yet there he was, hurting and wanting to go after him.

               He's better off without me, Kakashi reminded himself once again.

               *

               It took Kakashi almost a month to put his finger in what exactly bothered him so much. He came to two conclusions.

               One: Iruka was a good liar.

               The scene of him leaving with a smile played again and again in Kakashi's mind, haunting his dreams and following him through the day. It hurt, like being rejected on repeat, nonstop. A cruel thing, really, like his mind enjoyed torturing itself.

               But then he payed attention to details, like he should have done since the beginning. Like any good jounin would have done. Iruka left with a smile, and it looked real, but he wouldn't meet Kakashi's eyes. And his tone was too cheerful, as if he was trying to compensate for something.

               Every time he bumped into Iruka (accidentally at first, deliberately later), he saw it. The hesitance, the too-happy smile, the eyes wandering around but never quite meeting his eyes. The lingering touches and the sad look on Iruka's face when he thought Kakashi wasn't looking.

               Iruka lied to him when he said he was okay with parting ways. Lied when he said he understood Kakashi's wish, when he made it so easy to ignore everything and leave.

               Two: Kakashi had grown up.

               This one should be pretty obvious, yet it took him weeks of introspection to realize it. He had just... Grown up. Made peace with everything that happened. It still hurt, and he still caught himself sobbing after nightmares or feeling guilty, but he knew, deep down, that it was not his fault. And no one would die just for loving him. It was a childish idea.

               He spent years pushing away the idea of a soulmate, but he couldn't picture Iruka dying because of him. He knew Iruka could stand his ground just fine and, even if he couldn't, Iruka was far better than him at reaching out for help.

               And Kakashi deserved some love too. He blushed at the thought, but he knew he had to tell it more to himself. He deserved it. Iruka deserved it too, if he still wanted Kakashi after the shitty way he dealed with the situation.

               Well, just one way to find out.

               *

               "Oh, hello, Kaka— Hatake-san," Iruka smiled at him, like he always did, that fake yet convincing one.

               "Kakashi is fine, Iruka," Kakashi felt bold. Or at least maybe he would if he faked well enough, "I, uh, wanted to talk to you. In private. Mind if I pick you up after you're done working?"

               "I—," was Kakashi delusional or was it a faint rosy blush on Iruka's cheeks? "Fine, you can pick me up here in two hours. Sound good?"

               "Sounds perfect!" He grinned and with the last of his bravery added, "it's a date then."

               Iruka made a choking sound and Kakashi left with the goofiest smile.

               *

               Kakashi's place was different from Iruka's. Tidier, nothing out of place, but with a thin layer of dust on the less used things and too much free space. It wasn't as homey. Kakashi found himself missing the messy couch and thrown around clothes and books.

               "So, let me set it straight," Iruka gave him a pointed look, "you decided you want a soulmate after trying to run away and pretending nothing happened for a month. And you want to take me on a date," He briefed.

               Kakashi nodded, it seemed like an accurate description. He could unwrap all the insecurities and emotional baggage later.

               "Fine," Iruka pressed the bridge of his nose, "took you long enough. I don't even know why I try to make sense of it."

               "That easy?" Kakashi was a bit surprised, "I had prepared a speech and everything. Scribbled a half-decent poem," he threw some crumpled papers on the table. Iruka chuckled a bit.

               Good. He wanted to see his genuine smile.

               "If I wasn't willing to, I wouldn't have bothered to patch you up in the first place," He explained, "idiot," he said as an afterthough, but in the same fond tone he used before.

               Kakashi found himself smiling too.

               "Well, what about dinner tomorrow then? Anywhere you want."

               "Oh, I have a better idea," the smile on Iruka's face was a bit devilish now, "just meet me at my place tomorrow. Let's say... At seven?"

               "Deal," Kakashi really shouldn't have ignored the chill on his spine at the evil grin.

               *

               "That's your idea of a nice first date?" He whined, his wrist hurting from writing too much.

               "That's your idea of good penmanship?" Iruka retorted, giving him yet another blank report to fill, "We are almost there! Just two more," he said a bit more encouragingly.

               "We? What exactly are you doing?" He handed another complete and pristine form to Iruka.

               "Moral support," he didn't miss the slight jest on Iruka's voice.

               Accepting his fate, Kakashi sighed and prepared himself for a night of writing down mission details he just vaguely recalled whilst Iruka criticizes his calligraphy.

               "Don't sulk like that. I have some ice cream in the fridge. We can have it after you're done," he used his slightly-less-stern teacher voice. The one he used to bribe the pests to finish their homework so they could play.

               "My hand is killing me," Kakashi said with a dramatic flair, "you'll have to feed me, sweetheart," he mocked, making Iruka laugh at both the exaggerate whining and the sappy nickname.

               "You're impossible," Iruka rolled his eyes, which, Kakashi noticed, was not a 'no', "Does it mean you'll go to the hospital now after being stabbed at least?"

              "Never," he replied with a grin, "that's what I have you for now, right?"

              The glare he received wasn't enough to spoil his sudden good mood.

*

*

*

It was fun to write! And can fit in three prompts! (soulmates, first date, friends to lovers). That bit was mostly accidental I swear! It just happened.

I don’t think i’ll try my hand on other prompts, but it was fun! That’s my first time in a writing challenge. Thanks for @kakairu-rocks for the funny prompts and for answering my questions!

Also, you can thank @kakairuincorrectquotes for single-handedly giving me the headcanon Kakashi will never, ever go to the hospital after being stabbed. You’ll have to pry it from my hands now!

Bye. ♥

[welshdragonrawr]

When the Rest of the World Sees A Wall

Hello peeps, it’s been a while. I’ve been insanely busy, and also think I have major procrastination issues, which makes for a great combination. But I come baring a new (crack?) ficlet for the fandom. I imagine this is set in Coven during the mismatched-eyes period, so the foxxay is more implied as they’re still dancing around each other at this point. All I will say is this was based solely and impulsively on this gif:

  When the Rest Of The World Sees A Wall…

“What did you do?” Those were Misty’s first words upon finding the headmistress and Headmistress of Miss Robichaux’s stood at the kitchen sink running her hand under the cold tap. Any ‘hey’ or other fond and friendly greeting that might have passed the swamp witch’s lips had fallen away in the wake of the grimace on Cordelia’s face. A beat passed and noticing Misty was indeed not going to carry on her merry way and leave the Headmistress to her sulk, she answered;  

“I punched a wall.”

“That isn’t like you,” Misty’s surprise had her tone an octave higher than her usual low register.

“I know, I know,” Cordelia replied, her free hand twisting the tap off and reaching for a towel to dab the damaged digits dry. Having sidled up to the Headmistress’ side, Misty inspected her handiwork.

“That doesn’t look too good…”

“I wasn’t aware of that, thank you.”

“Hey, no need to chew my head off here,” Misty raised her own hands in mock surrender, though glancing dubiously at the Headmistress all the same for snapping. Under that sky-blue scrutiny, Cordelia’s temper withered to a shrug and a shake of the head.

“No, no, you’re right, I’m sorry. It just…”

“It hurts?” Misty offered, carefully taking Cordelia’s hand in her own, cradling it in her palm as she unwound the fluffy towel to take a closer look. The swamp witch nibbled the corner of her lip as she took in the raw red knuckles, swelling with petals already blossoming in a palette of fierce black and blue.

“Something like that…” How hard did you hit it? Misty wondered, what the hell was on your mind?

“I’ll get you some mud for the bruising, but first we should really do something about that thumb,” Misty said with an unmistakable grimace; it was hard for Misty’s trained eye not to notice how crooked the joint was, already swelling a painful shade of royal purple.

“What do you mean, it’s…” Misty nudged her thumb, eliciting a wince and slight whine from the Headmistress. Cordelia could say what she liked, but Misty was no fool when it came to caring for things like this.  “ahhh…”

“It’s dislocated is what I mean,” the swamp witch clarified, “I’ve seen my fair share.”

“Ok, ok, but don’t-“ Cordelia’s whimpering protests fell on temporarily-deaf ears as Misty took a more firm hold of her hand. “No, no, don’t do-ahhh.” Before the Headmistress could even count to three, she had forced the joint back into place, sending a throb of fiery pain lancing through Cordelia’s hand.

“How did you manage ta get it like this?”

“I told you,” Cordelia huffed, cradling the offending extremity in her other hand, while Misty pulled away briefly to rummage for a fresh towel.

“Well I hope the wall fared better…” Misty murmured, before catching the look in the Headmistress’s eyes, “sorry, I mean, you must’ve got that plaster all well an’ good there,” she amended, returning her gaze to rifling through the freezer for a handful of thick ice, if only to avoid Cordelia’s glowering look while she wrapped the bundle in the towel.

“Ha-ha,” the Headmistress’s sarcasm was cut short by a hiss as Misty touched the chilling towel to Cordelia’s hand, wrapping the edges around her palm to keep it in place. “Hfff…”

“Sorry, we’re all outta peas.” The apologetic statement did bring a slow sort-of smile back to Cordelia’s features, because of course Misty would apologize for that – particularly as it was her adamance a few weeks previously that they were ‘perfectly capable of growing their own damn fresh peas right there at the Academy, that they didn’t need to go stockpiling a bunch of frozen shit’ that meant there were no such pseudo-ice-packs readily available for Cordelia’s hand.

The Headmistress perched herself down on the nearest stool, leaning her arm outstretched on the countertop to inspect – and possibly admire – Misty’s quick work of her hand. True, the pain had dulled somewhat considerably to more of a dull throbbing sensation at the end of her arm instead of how it had been.

Misty however hovered not far from the counter’s edge, a curious look written on her face, brow furrowed in thought as her eyes seemed to wander between Cordelia’s hand and somewhere else in her head. Just as Cordelia was about to ask what on earth she was thinking of, Misty finally sat down on a stool opposite, and lifted her hand again, albeit much gentler as she turned it left and right. And as Cordelia’s brows pinched down in confusion as to what she was doing, in some twisted mirror of expression Misty’s own brow quirked upward with scepticism.

“You didn’t hold your fist right, did you.” It wasn’t so much a question, as a confirmation.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you probably weren’t thinking all that much anyway - for you of all people to do something like this– “ Cordelia wondered where she could be going with this, but held her tongue. “But I’m guessing seein’ as you’re hardly the throwing-fists type that no-one ever showed you how to hit something.” Misty nodded to herself; Cordelia however, did not seem so swayed by this assumption of her character – however correct it might or might not have been...

“I know how to hit something.”

“Without breaking fingers?” Misty half-teased, settling the woman’s hand back down to the table. She patted the back of her palm not covered in cold flannel kindly. “I’m not trying to offend you or nothing, but…”

“I know…” Cordelia sighed, conceding, picking at the curling edge of the towel. It had been a stupid, impulsive thing to do, and would now have to deal with. Thankfully not for long with the muds and salves they had stored in the greenhouse, although she did feel a pang of guilt for using valuable resources on something so trivial but wandering the house with a hurt hand for a week didn’t sound like a better option of the two either.

“Maybe you should stick to throwing things with those magic hands o’ yours instead of these,” the swamp witch said, having pulled Cordelia’s other hand away from the wrap and into both of her own warm hands, holding them together over the table top as Misty marvelled over them.

A calloused thumb, still stained with the mud she had come into the kitchen to wash from her hands from the greenhouse, traced smooth circles across the milk-white skin of Cordelia’s undamaged hand. The awe of how soft it was shone in those sky-blue eyes. “Can’t have you damaging these dainty hands for real now, can we?”

Cordelia’s soft laughter seemed to fill the kitchen then, such a sweet air that had Misty softening from the inside, wishing only that she could hear it more often. It shouldn’t have been such a rare thing within these walls as it was.

“Should I be offended or complimented?” The teasing smile tinkling in the older witch’s eyes was so bright, if only for a moment, for Misty at least it lit up the room. The laughter drifted away to a silence so comfortable, Misty felt she could almost stay there, almost sit still in the serenity of it. Cordelia’s very presence exuding a calm that may have been fringed with melancholy but the centre, filled with the two of them, was more than enough to leave Misty almost entirely at ease. It was only then she noticed their hands had never left the table, were still resting over one another. Despite the chill of the ice around Cordelia’s one hand, Misty’s hands felt so warm…

“Miss Cordelia?” Misty cleared her throat, drawing the other woman’s eyes to her own again.

“Yes?”

“I could show you, if you really want.” There was a moment, however brief, of bemusement flickering behind Cordelia’s eyes. Holding their hands together like this, the rare skin-to-skin contact, Misty could show her plenty of things, if she wanted to, if Cordelia wanted her to. But they both knew what the swamp witch meant and another chuckle of mirth escaped Cordelia’s lips again as she gently unwound her hands from Misty’s, pulling her wounded one closer towards herself again. For a moment, she could feel the warmth from Misty’s palm still lingering, melting the ice over her other hand until it soaked cloth, dripped between her fingers like rivulets of pure feeling left to seep into her skin.

“Thank you,” Cordelia said softly, offering a small smile, “but I think it will be a while before I try this again.”

“Well, alright,” was that a glimpse of sadness in Misty’s gaze then, with the decline, or was she merely seeing things that were not really there? Was that hesitance in her step, for a fraction of a second, as the swamp witch stood up from the table and patted her arm as she stepped around her again?

“If you say so,” Misty shrugged, returning the smile of her own. “Know where ta find me if you change your mind,” she teased, nudging the older witch’s shoulder while Cordelia shook her head smiling wider, creasing at the corners of those eyes, the curves of her cheek. That happy look that Misty longed to see. Did no-one know how pretty she was when she smiled like that? When someone took the weight of the world off her shoulders once in a while?

Misty leaned over, tapping a finger on the wet towel around Cordelia’s hand. “You keep some ice on that swelling for me now, while I go get that mud.”

“Misty, thank you,” Cordelia called after her, as Misty made her way back to the door. With one hand on the door frame, the tall witch turned again.

“And Miss Cordelia?”

“Yes?” Those eyes again, that patient smile.

“You have real nice hands.”

[hermannsthumb]

If it hasn’t already been requested, 66 would be fab! I’m a greedy goblin for fluffy Newmann sickfics. ❤️

ME TOO!! luckily a lot of these prompts arent specifically christmas-based lol. this ficlet brought to you by how i spent the last week of my life

66: you’re sick and I feel bad because I’m pretty sure i gave it to you, so I bring you some of my great grandmother’s soup and watch movies with you

from winter prompts here

There’s a nasty bug going around the Shatterdome--flu strain, in Newt’s expert biologist opinion. For all Newt’s general lack of hygiene, he is very conscientious about germs (he fucking hates being sick, hates how gross it makes him feel, no thank you), and he usually manages to survive these kinds of things unscathed. Just stocks up with an arsenal of hand sanitizer and the Lysol that, usually, resides in Hermann’s bottom desk drawer for easy access in threatening Newt when he gets a little too loose with where he puts his specimens, and ignores everyone who’s got even a runny nose.

And then Hermann got sick.

Probably a calculated move on his part, the bastard--getting sick just to spite Newt. He spent two days wheezing and coughing and sneezing around the lab and shouting in a hoarse, nasally voice before Newt finally snapped, threw his protective gloves to the ground, and steered Hermann out and to his bunk by the shoulders. (“Get some fucking sleep,” he begged, tucking him into bed aggressively as Hermann coughed out protests. “What do you need? Tissues? You want tissues?”)

If Newt is overly concerned about illnesses, Hermann is overly blasé. Newt’s sure he would’ve wasted away at his chalkboard if he hadn’t intervened. And he needs Hermann, for strictly world-saving reasons, obviously, just can’t do it alone, which is why he dipped into his own sick days to take care of the guy. (There’s medical, obviously, but if you want something done right, do it yourself and all.) It was all basic stuff--bringing Hermann food, keeping him warm and comfy, forcing him to take ibuprofen and cough drops (fluffing up his pillows, reading aloud old research to him, tenderly stroking back his hair and humming as he’d fall into uneasy sleep...). Standard, normal behavior between lab partners. 

So of fucking course Newt gets sick barely a week afterwards. That’s what he gets for being a decent human being.

He lies alone in agony in bed for the first day, eating shitty packaged junk food, downing more cold medicine than strictly healthy, and cursing Hermann’s name and entire existence; the second day, there’s a careful knock at his door, and Newt blows his nose and wheezes out “It’s unlocked.”

Hermann edges in awkwardly.

“Hello, Newton,” he says. He’s twisting his free hand in the hem of his sweater. “Can I...?”

He’s looking at the small empty bit of space on the edge of Newt’s bed, currently covered with used tissues and cough drop wrappers. Newt pushes everything into the trash can on the floor and nods. “Come on in,” he says. Hermann shuts the door carefully behind him and, to Newt’s surprise, eases himself down on the newly free spot. He’s holding a small tote bag that he sets at his feet along with his cane.

“Hello,” he says again.

“Already said that, bud,” Newt says, and sneezes into the crook of his elbow. Hermann winces.

“How are you feeling?” he says.

Newt stares at him.

“Right,” Hermann says.

“You need something?” Newt says, digging another cough drop out of the bag. It’s almost empty. Maybe he can guilt Hermann into getting him some more. “Come to yell at me for leaving samples out? Can you hear me sneezing down the hallway? My sincerest apologies, Dr. Gottlieb.”

“I’ve brought soup,” Hermann blurts out.

Newt fumbles the cough drop bag in surprise. “...Soup?”

Hermann pulls a small Tupperware container out of his tote bag and sets it down on Newt’s lap. It’s warm. “Soup,” he repeats, lamely. “And--” He sets a stack of DVDs (not even Blu-Ray, Hermann really is a vintage guy) down next to it. “Er. Some television shows. And movies.” 

Newt’s still not really sure why Hermann’s here, but he starts poking through the stack anyway. “You have a lot of documentaries about NASA,” he says. “And Alan Turing. And--” He pulls out no less than three BBC miniseries of Jane Austen novels; the box for Pride and Prejudice (1995) looks particularly well-worn.

Hermann snatches the stack back. “Do I?” he says, pink spreading across his cheeks, and Newt is struck--out of nowhere--with the thought that Hermann is kinda cute.

Newt averts his eyes quickly. “Tragically,” he says, “my laptop doesn’t have a CD-ROM, so...”

“Ah,” Hermann says. He tips the DVDs back into the tote bag, and then clears his throat and taps at the lid of the Tupperware. “I made this,” he says. “Er. It’s an old recipe. My grandmother’s, I believe. I thought--” He colors more deeply. “My mother would make it for me when I was sick, as a child. I thought you might like it.”

“Holy shit,” Newt says, because Hermann made him soup, and top secret Gottlieb family recipe soup at that. Where did he get the ingredients? How badly did he have to harass the mess hall employees before they let him use the kitchen? (To say nothing of the mental image of Hermann Gottlieb as a child. Newt always just pictured him springing forth, fully-formed, with a bad haircut and poor-fitting slacks like some sort of unfashionable Athena, and he’s having a hard time picturing anything else. Hermann, but slightly shrunk down, maybe. Rolling his r’s as a toddler.) “Thanks, dude.”

Hermann nods stiffly. “It’s the least I can do for you,” he says. “Considering.”

“Considering?”

Hermann shifts, clearly uncomfortable. “It is my fault you’re ill, after all. Since you--well.” 

Newt laughs, but it turns into a hacking cough that Hermann winces all the way through. “Ah, it’s cool, I’m not pissed or anything,” he says, voice hoarser than before. Yesterday, yes, Newt was pissed. Five minutes ago, Newt was pissed. Now, with a shy Hermann on his bed (his bed, wooee, under any other circumstances Newt would be making so many moves on him right now) offering up homemade soup and dorky documentaries, Newt can’t even muster up mild annoyance. “This is--really nice of you, Hermann. I mean it. Thank you.” He smiles. Hermann looks away quickly this time, down at where he’s folded his hands in his lap.

“Mm,” Hermann says, and picks at a hole in his slacks. Newt pokes his hip to get his attention, and scoots over a little. Hermann blinks at him. “Yes?”

“Get in here,” Newt says. “Get comfy, come on.”

“But you’re--”

“Yeah, I had exactly what you’ve already had,” Newt says. “You can’t get it again. I think. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not that kind of doctor.” Hermann quickly wipes the skeptical look off his face, and Newt--after shoving the Tupperware of soup temporarily back at Hermann--starts digging around in his blankets for his laptop. It’s in here somewhere. When Hermann doesn’t immediately cuddle up with him, Newt pokes his hip again. “Get comfy, Hermann. We can stream whatever you want. Or play cards.” And then, a little desperately, “Please. I’m bored as fuck here.”

Hermann casts a long look at the door before sighing in defeat, toeing off his Oxfords, pulling his legs up onto the mattress, and easing in next to Newt. Not quite entirely under the bedspread, but it’ll do. “Only for a short while,” he tells Newt, handing him the Tupperware once more. “I really must catch up on the work I missed.”

“Uh-huh,” Newt says, grinning. “Get the light, will you?”

Hermann’s not particularly warm, nor is he particularly soft (Newt’s taken one of Hermann’s elbow to the gut before, and he’s a sharp bastard), but Newt--somehow--feels twice as comfortable already. If Newt lets their sides press together, rests his hand on Hermann’s forearm, subtly hooks his ankle over Hermann’s, then he thinks he’s allowed. He’s sick. He’s in agony. (And Hermann doesn’t seem to mind; he way-less-subtly sneaks his arm around Newt and settles his head on his shoulder in retaliation, and Newt’s heart skips a pathetic little beat.)

He doesn’t bother waking Hermann when Hermann falls asleep twenty minutes into a Doctor Who episode, just shuts his laptop and joins him.