#than anything against wash. but he still remembers it. he is terrified of leonard

[oorevitcejda]

my rvb au longfic hinges on allison "agent tex" texas church letting the father of her triplet children name then Leonard, Leonardo and Leonarda.

my only reasoning is she thought it was funny and then they got home

[lucacangettathisass]

How The Light Gets In (Ch. 1)

Summary: After your home is ransacked by a group of strange men, you and your cousin are taken in by a group of outlaws. And that’s when the trouble really starts.

Pairings: John Marston x Fem!Reader, Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader

Notes: I know the dialogue doesn’t perfectly match the game please don’t get mad. I also highly recommend installing the Interactive Fics chrome extension if you haven’t already so you can use it to change ‘[Name]’ to your actual name! Shout out and god bless to the maker(s) of that extension!

Tagging: @mountainhymn if anyone else would like to be tagged lmk!

There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.

-Leonard Cohen

You couldn’t remember the last time you had so wanted to die. In the darkness of the cellar, you could barely make out Sadie’s form, but you could hear her ragged and furious breaths, and could feel how badly she was trembling. You tightened your grip on her nightgown, both to keep yourself grounded and to try and calm her down.

You felt her shift, and instinctively moved closer to her. “They have to sleep sometime.” She muttered, and you weren’t entirely sure if she was talking to you or herself. “And once they do, we’re gonna slit their fucking throats.”

A shiver went down your spine. You had never seen Sadie this vicious before. But then, what should you expect, given how brutally Jake was killed by men he wanted to help.

It had all happened so fast. One second you’re welcoming the gaggle of men into the house and trying to work out who would rest where, the next your ears were ringing from the sound of a gunshot and Jake was on the ground, blood slowly pooling around him. You had no idea you could scream so hard for so long.

Your hand went to your locket, fingers wrapping tight around the cold metal as you tried to calm your racing heart, and steady your breathing. “Sadie I-”

“Shh!”

You immediately shut your mouth and moved closer to Sadie, feeling her tense up. “They’ve gone quiet.”

She was right. The sounds of the men partying had suddenly stopped, leaving everything eerily silent. You looked up, and were just able to make out Sadie’s face. It was hard, mouth set in a half snarl and she had a wild, angry look in her eyes, like when you were both children and she was about to fight some of the neighbourhood kids for picking on you.

Sadie took a step forward, but then immediately pulled down and covered you with her body as best as she could when gunshots rang out. You shrieked and instinctively curled into the fetal position, momentarily forgetting that you were in the cellar, and unlikely to be hurt.

The sounds were faint from the cellar, and were made even fainter by the blood pounding in your ears. You remained silent and still, and watched Sadie to see what you should do.

Then, as quickly as it started, the gunfire stopped.

You finally exhaled, shakily, and kept your gaze on Sadie. “Do-do you think they’re gone?”

Sadie raised her head slightly, squinting at the hatch that lead into the cellar. Sadie cautiously approached it, going up the small set of stairs, and tried to open it, but it barely budged. “Fuck.” Sadie growled. She paused, then gestured for you to come over, never taking her eyes off the hatch.

You quickly got to your feet and raced to Sadie, staying behind her. “What is it?” You didn’t dare raise your voice above a whisper.

“Listen.”

You did as she asked, and picked up voices. They were clearly men’s voices, but it sounded like only two of them, and you didn’t recognize them. The voices of the men that had forced you and Sadie into the cellar were familiar to you. Their hoots and hollers haunted you, even in your sleep.

You clung onto Sadie’s nightgown again, your knuckles going white.

The two of you listened with bated breath as the strangers spoke and walked. You could barely hear them through the floorboards, and you flinched when the footsteps moved almost directly above you.

“What are we gonna do?” You asked, so terrified that you could barely hear yourself.

“We-We’re gonna-” Sadie gulped, and for the first time you saw uncertainty in her eyes. “I don’t know.” Hearing the defeat in her voice and feeling her deflate made you move closer to her. She let out a shaky breath before turning to face you and firmly hold your shoulders. “The second we get the chance, we’re runnin’. We’ll face whoever is out there and we are gonna get the hell off this damn mountain.” She swallowed again. “And, [Name], listen, if it comes down to it, you gotta run without me.”

Your eyes widened and you immediately grabbed Sadie’s arms. “No.” You said, somehow able to make your voice firm. “I’m not leaving without you.”

“[Name]!” Sadie squeezed your shoulders and made her voice more forceful. “I’m not debatin’ this with you. If you have to choose between savin’ me and savin’ yourself, I want you to choose yourself. I want you to get Gladys and get someplace safe. Do you understand me?”

It was clear that Sadie really wasn’t going to budge from this position, but you still hesitated. “Sadie-”

“Do you understand me?”

There was a tense pause, and you could feel Sadie was trembling.

Blinking back tears, you nodded. “I-I understand.”

“Good.” Sadie abruptly pulled you into a hug, squeezing you tight. “I love you [Name].”

You trembled and sniffled as you hugged Sadie back, burying your face into her shoulder. “I love you too Sadie.”

The two of you stayed that way a few moments longer, until you heard footsteps over your heads again.

Sadie quickly let you go and turned around, watching the floorboards.

There was another man’s voice, although if it was one of the earlier men you couldn’t tell. There was a pause, then you heard the horrible sound of something scraping against wood, like something heavy being pushed.

“Don’t forget, run if you have to.”

You could only nod, as the cellar hatch was suddenly flung open.

During the next few seconds, time seemed to slow to an unbearable crawl. You watched as Sadie launched herself at the unknown man, shrieking like a woman deranged. You quickly followed her out of the cellar, finally seeing the rest of the cabin for the first time in who knew how long.

It was an absolute wreck, with broken glass, splintered wood, and blood, both old and new, everywhere. Jake’s blood had stained the wood where he fell, but you couldn’t see him, and you felt a new wave of grief wash over you.

“Well would you look at that! Two of ya!”

You looked back to see Sadie grab a large knife off the dinner table and wave it in front of her, keeping the man at bay.

“[NAME]! RUN!”

Without thinking and fueled by adrenaline, you made a dash for the open door.

Just as you reached it, a bulky figure in black appeared, startling you and making you fall backwards.

“Micah! What the hell are you doing?!”

You quickly got back to your feet and looked around frantically for a weapon of some sort.

“Look at what I found Dutch!” The first man, Micah?, said with a cackle. “A couple of O’Driscolls!”

Unable to find anything, you went back to Sadie’s side and watched as another man in a large blue jacket entered the house behind the man in black.

“They ain’t O’Driscolls Micah!”

Sadie shoved you behind her and continued to brandish the knife, gnashing her teeth, a wild animal cornered.

Micah laughed, shoving the table over, causing the lit lamp to break and start a fire. You shrieked and backed away, Sadie remaining in front of you.

“You damn fool Micah!” The man in black, Dutch?, approached you both, holding out his hands as if he was trying to calm a wild horse. “Now ladies, please, calm down. We ain’t gonna hurt ya.” He took another cautious step towards you both. “Come with us, you’ll both be safe.”

You and Sadie looked at each other. You knew she didn’t trust these men, but with the spreading fire inside and the wild snow storm outside, you both knew that your choices were limited.

Sadie said nothing, but lowered the knife and cautiously approached Dutch. You stayed close behind her as he ushered you both out of the burning house.

Just as you stepped outside, you felt something heavy but soft fall on your shoulders. You looked up, and saw the man in the blue coat had draped a blanket over you, to shield you from the cold. It was a simple act, the kind any decent person would do given the opportunity, but it still made you smile.

“We’re bad men.” Dutch said, leading you both to tacked up horses. “But we ain’t them.”

As the man in blue lead you forward, you recognized the black and brown Dutch Warmblood that was hitched with the others.

“Gladys!”

Without thinking you ran to her, throwing your arms around her neck, relishing the heat that radiated off of her. “You doing ok girl?” You pulled away slightly, looking into Gladys’s big dark eyes.You smiled as she gently nuzzled you. “I know, I know. I’m sorry for being gone girl, but I’m back now. I’m back.”

“She yours?”

You looked up and saw the man in blue was beside you, holding your blanket. You hadn’t even noticed that it had fallen off. “Yeah.”

“Mind if I ride her?”

For a moment, you hesitated, clinging onto Gladys protectively. But as your feet got colder and your arms more numb, you knew that there would be no way you would be able to ride her, at least not effectively.

“Go ahead.”

The man nodded, holding out a hand.

Confused, you took it, and you were surprised as he helped you onto Gladys before he got on himself. “Be nice to him Gladys.” You said, patting Gladys’s flank, as you could tell she was more than a little apprehensive about this.

As the horses began to move, you turned and watched as the house Jake and Sadie had built, the house that had been your home these past five months, slowly burned and fell, half obscured by the snow.

“You got a name miss?”

You turned your head, and saw that Dutch was looking at Sadie over his shoulder.

“Adler.” Sadie’s voice was hoarse, and you could see the grief and sadness you were feeling in her eyes as she watched her life crumble.

“Adler?”

“Sadie. Missus.” She didn’t look away. “I-he was my husband.”

“I’m very sorry Mrs Adler.” Dutch said, and he sounded sincere.

“What about you?”

You looked up at the man in blue. “I-I’m [Name].”

He nodded in Sadie’s direction. “You two family or something?”

“Cousins.” You clarified. As Gladys trudged through the snow to higher ground, you looked back over your shoulder one last time at the burning house.

You wrapped your arms tight around the man, pressing yourself against his back for warmth. “And she’s all I got now.”

[randomly-random-jen]

Midnight in the Garden of Our Past Lives

Red vs Blue fic

1440 words | [PG-13] It's late, and Wash can't sleep. But he's not the only one. Maybe what him and Carolina really need is someone to talk them through the dark night. Cuddling also works.

Wash isn’t sleeping anyway when he hears Carolina call out from the room across the hall. He stares blankly at the gray ceiling trying to ignore the sobs—she would hate to know he was listening. But the sound is a knife through his heart in more than one way. Still, he doesn’t move because she’d probably kick him in the balls if he tried to play the half-assed hero with her. Carolina is no damsel in distress.

But when the noise from her room fades, he silently slips from his bed. Wash is the only one that knows the code to her lock, and the soft click of it disengaging sounds abnormally loud in the late night. He waits for Carolina to throw open the door, gun in hand. Or something equally dramatic, but it’s quiet. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or bad.

He finds her sitting in bed, knees to her chest, staring into the dark. “Hey,” she says without looking at him like she knew he’d come. He has no idea why she would think that. He’s never done this before. Well, not the breaking and entering part—he can’t count the number of times he’s listened to her cry from outside her door, though. He needs to know she’s okay.

Carolina scoots over so he can join her on the bed but says nothing else. Wash sits, legs stretched out, feet dangling off the side. Her blankets are a twisted mess and the sheets soaked with sweat. The only light in the room comes from the digital display of her old-fashioned alarm clock. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, not sure what to say or do except be there for her.

Eventually, she leans her head on his shoulder. “I couldn’t beat her,” she whispers.

“Tex?” Wash frowns. “That’s who you were dreaming about?”

Carolina scoffs. “I know, right? How pathetic is that? Even after all these years, she still gives me nightmares.”

He snorts. “Well, she was pretty scary.” He says it almost fondly because there are so many versions of Tex in his head—all hated and loved by the many other people stuck in there as well. Sometimes it’s hard to sort out which ones are his real feelings. He’s pretty sure he had no problem with Tex personally. At least not until he tried to kill her. Then she was all up in his business. And that was fucking terrifying.

“It’s stupid,” she says after a moment, wiping at her eyes. “God.”

Wash takes a chance, sliding his arm around her and pulling her close. She doesn’t resist. In fact, she buries her face in the crook of his neck, making herself comfortable. He’s not sure what to do with that. He suddenly feels sixteen and completely unready for Angie Beckett climbing through his window that one night. He blushes at the thought. Thankfully, it’s too dark for Carolina to see. He takes a deep breath, pushing away the awkward memories and lays his cheek against the top of her head.

Carolina plays with the chain of his dog tags. “Why was I never good enough?”

Is she drunk? Wash shakes his head. “I don’t-”

“I couldn’t beat her.”

He wonders how much she actually knows. And that leads to what the fuck do I tell her? He takes a deep breath deciding to just go with the truth because he’s too tired to keep dancing around shit. “You know she was an AI, right? The fact that you stayed number two is impressive.”

Carolina jerks away and Wash sighs.

“I’m just saying—it’s not exactly easy for a human brain to compete with an AI-”

She punches him in the arm. Hard. “Whose side are you on?”

He puts his hands up. “I’m not on anyone’s side.” Her growl is unmistakable. “Your side. I’m on your side,” he says, trying not to laugh. “Always your side.”

He doesn’t know why he adds the last part, but she melts against him again, and he decides he likes that. A lot. And there are those awkward feelings again. He closes his eyes, breathing slow. His brain is working overtime to sort out the memories and feelings.

“You think I could beat her now?”

Why is she torturing herself? Why is she torturing me? “No,” he tells her honestly, risking life and limb, “but that doesn’t mean she wins. Just because Tex was on the top of the leaderboard doesn’t mean anything. She had an unfair advantage-”

“She was his favorite,” she mumbles.

Wash has had enough. He grabs her by the shoulders. “I’m not doing this with you, Carolina, and I’m only saying this once so listen.”

She blinks up at him--a little confused and a lot of hurt in her eyes.

He’s pretty sure this conversation is a mistake, but he takes a deep breath anyway. It needs to be said. “The Director—he was a rat bastard, but-” He swallows hard, finishing softly. “But your father loved you.” She tries to pull away, but he doesn’t let go. “He loved you, Carolina, even if he didn’t show it. Didn’t know how to. He was as fucked up as the rest of us.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him. You of all people.”

Wash glares at her. “I think I’m the only one in any position to defend him. And that’s not what I’m doing. I’m just stating a fact. Leonard Church was an asshole in any incarnation, but he loved exactly two people in his life-”

“And he loved her more.”

Wash drops his arms and gets up. “Maybe you’re right. And I’m pretty sure nothing I can say will ever change your mind anyway. Good night, Carolina.” Sometimes he wonders why he even tries.

He’s barely back in his room when her door bangs open. She stomps after him, and in the dim light from his desk lamp, he can see the dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes. “I miss him,” she shouts, slamming his door behind her.

“The director?”

Tears slide down her cheeks as she looks away. “Epsilon.”

Oh. That makes more sense. He doesn’t know what to say so he just waits.

“He was-” She sniffles. She can’t seem to elaborate, wrapping her arms around herself.

Wash pulls her close. “He loved you too.”

She huffs. “You have that floating around in your head, too?”

He laughs. “No. His actions said everything.”

“Whatever. He was a jerk.”

“Yeah.” He hugs her tighter. “But he was our jerk.”

She glances up at him. He forces himself to keep eye contact because it’s the most intimate he’s been with anyone in a long time, and it’s the closest he’s come to actually talking about what happened, and it’s the first time he’s admitted that he actually misses Epsilon. Carolina smiles. Then laughs, leaning her head on his shoulder. “He was a jerk, and I miss him. He was-”

She still can’t seem to say the words so Wash fills them in. “He was like your father. The one you remember.”

“Yeah.”

“Your childhood must have been-” He bites back a grin. “Interesting.”

Carolina pinches his side. “Shut up.”

Wash pins her hands to her back then leans his forehead against hers. “You gonna be okay?”

She lets out a long breath. “You gonna get some sleep?”

“Probably not.”

She doesn’t answer his question—not that he expected her to—but the way she looks at him with a mixture of weary sadness and tender affection takes his breath away. Without really thinking, he walks them over to the bed, falling onto it when his knees bump the edge. He looks up hesitantly and with not a little bit of that terror he felt with Angie then slides over to the wall—an invitation. He’s not sure how crushed he’ll be if she walks out the door, but she surprises him with a soft smile, climbing in. He tucks her against his chest and tugs the blanket over them.

“I’ll sleep if you sleep,” he mumbles into her neck.

She tangles her fingers with his. “If you promise to tell me how you’re really doing with all this.”

Wash sucks in a long breath then exhales slowly. “Tomorrow, promise.” He means it completely.

“Deal,” Carolina murmurs with a yawn, snuggling closer.

Wash decides having her pressed against him—listening to her breaths even out—isn’t as scary as he thought, and as he drifts off, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, they can find some peace tonight. Together.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

Jeff Buckely Mystifying Caucasian Male  by KARA VANDERBIJL

Jeff Buckley’s brief intro before launching into a cover of “Dido’s Lament” is murmured in a ghost’s timbre, barely outdoing the white noise on the recording even at highest volume. His audience laughs, spooked, then the piano opens. “Thy hand, Belinda,” Jeff sings. His is a freakish voice, made all the more odd by the grainy quality of the recording; a high falsetto mimicking the dramatic mezzo-soprano for which Purcell wrote the aria. He wails — his voice almost breaks, but doesn’t. Listening, we want it to break; the melody is too pure, its perfect desperation too stringent for this wild, unpredictable thing. Remember me, forget my fate. It’s this drama, the constant rediscovery and redelivery of a familiar, worked-over, oft-repeated tune that defines Jeff Buckley’s work. Like his voice, each song defies an original genre or mood, turning back to a more primal source. Is it a lament? A mockery? A strange self-issued prophecy from a man who, two years later, would walk into the Wolf River in Memphis, TN and drown? Like many of his other performances, this one (a set at the 1995 Meltdown Festival in the UK) now only exists on the web, maybe even on fragments of a video somewhere. Had Jeff Buckley lived past the age of 30, it might have remained among the other, less-than-perfect detritus of a long and successful career. But when the talented die young, we like to watch their home videos. Their unprotected moments. Their failures, blow-ups, fuck-ups. Anything that might give us clarity about their end: what “brought them to this point.” Short of simply accepting that it was death that did Buckley in, we might say it was the success that got him.

Only four years earlier, Jeff had sung in public for the first time, at a tribute concert for his estranged father Tim Buckley. They had met once, when Jeff was eight, after one of Tim’s shows; two months later, Tim overdosed on heroin. Neither Jeff nor his mother Mary Guibert were invited to the funeral. When Jeff stepped onto the stage at Saint Ann’s in Brooklyn to sing Tim’s “I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain”, most people weren’t aware that Tim had a son, and most people who knew Jeff didn’t know he could sing — he’d patented himself, stubbornly, as a guitarist — so the evening unveiled not only Jeff’s vocal talent but also exactly where it had come from. This pissed Jeff off. If anything, he had hoped to use the brief set as his way of paying his respects, of breaking away from Buckley senior. Years later, when a fan shouted a request for one of Tim’s songs, Jeff looked her straight in the eye and said, “I don’t play that hippie shit.”

Jeff escaped Anaheim, CA, where he’d been born, leaving behind what he described as a “rootless trailer trash” existence. He’d been struck by New York fever. Over the next year and a half, he played at coffee shops and nightclubs in Lower Manhattan, and eventually earned a regular Monday night slot at Sin-é in the East Village, accompanying himself on the guitar. He covered Bob Dylan. Nina Simone. Van Morrison. Singing “Sweet Thing” once, with Glen Hansard, a then still-obscure Buckley drew a crowd — so large that people began pressing up against the windows outside the club — by taking the second verse through a series of vocal gymnastics that lasted fifteen minutes. A brief writing streak with Gary Lucas resulted in two original songs, “Mojo Pin” and “Grace”, that Jeff nevertheless rarely played in his set. Lucas also invited Buckley to perform in his band, Gods and Monsters, early in 1992. By that time, however, the streets outside Sin-é were lined with record label executives hoping to snag Buckley for a solo album. That October, Buckley signed with Columbia, hired a drummer and bassist, and recording for what would be his first and only studio album, Grace, began the next summer. A quick EP, Live at Sin-é was released in November ‘93, documenting Jeff’s coffee-shop years, a time he’d long for intensely almost as soon as he left it. Jeff was not prolific; of the ten songs on Grace, he penned only three on his own. Lee Underwood, Tim Buckley’s guitarist, said once that Jeff suffered from an all too-relatable sort of creative inertia. “[He] felt uncertain of his musical direction, not only after signing with Columbia, but before signing, and all the way to the end. He did not know himself — which musical direction he might want to commit himself to, because taking a stand, making a commitment to a direction, or even to composing and then successfully completing the recording of a single song, was extremely difficult for him. One the one hand, creativity was his calling. On the other hand, any creative gesture that offered the possibility of success terrified him.” To speak nothing of the looming shadow of a father he never spoke of, to whom he was inevitably compared, as well as a sort of dogged perfectionism that plagued his studio sessions.

Spending hours, as he did, overdubbing the vocals until he had reached what he felt was the optimal delivery, Jeff seemed reluctant to pin any one mood onto his work. Andy Wallace, Grace’s producer, had to piece several of the songs together from dozens of takes. The music was in constant metamorphosis, to the point where later, live renditions of the songs sounded different, singular, wed to whatever Buckley had learned or felt or needed in between one performance and the next. He seemed to rewrite them each time. Grace is disparate, wavering between the almost cacophonous landscapes of “Mojo Pin”, “Grace”, “Last Goodbye”, and “Eternal Life”, the hushed, sacramental “Corpus Christi Carol”, and the desperate “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”. Buckley alternately whispers or wails, seems to laugh and growl, shreds remarkably. The music is a story as emotionally complex as its author — calling it simply brooding or romantic minimizes its scope. In reality it is confused, mystifying, indecisive.

The album, like the EP preceding it, sold in a slow trickle. Jeff’s songs rarely made it to the airwaves. Critics were either charmed by its triumph or turned off by what, altogether, seemed to be a confusing melange of emotions and genres. The French loved it, though, and in 1995 awarded Jeff with the Grand Prix International du Disque, an honor he shared with the likes of Edith Piaf, Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, and Bob Dylan. David Bowie claimed that Grace was the one album he’d want with him on a desert island. Meanwhile, Jeff silenced restless crowds in concert halls across the globe with a few strums of his guitar, with a Buddhist-like opening chant called “Chocolate” that hushed chatter until you could hear a pin drop. Only then would he break into “Mojo Pin”. Putting Buckley’s cover of the Cohen song in a separate category — as I undoubtedly must — “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” is Grace’s masterpiece. Jeff introduced it first at Sin-é when he signed with Columbia, luring listeners who had previously doubted his ability to produce a decent song of his own. Back then it was just Jeff and his guitar, sans the divine harmonium intro, the swelling gospel choir, absolutely pure. Lyrically, it’s as seductive as it is sad — as Jeff escalates to “It’s never over/my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder,” a tingle begins deep down. It’s as much the power of his voice as the power of his poetry. He chokes it out, like an old love letter he’s been forced to read aloud.

I will say this about “Hallelujah” — everything blooms from the single, conquered breath that opens it. Buckley is remembered for these quieter contributions, and appropriately so; in a way they serve as auto-epitaphs. An incredible mimic, he nails Nina’s voice during brief moments in “Lilac Wine” and rivals any choir boy with Britten’s “Corpus Christi Carol”, which had been introduced to him by a friend in high school. But it’s palpable anger that colors the rest of Grace, anger that Jeff would take with him on tour and into the beginnings of his second album, My Sweetheart, The Drunk. He butted heads with the bigwigs at Columbia when he refused to make a music video. He alienated friends, his photographer Merri Cyr, and some of his strongest supporters with careless words. Seamlessly integrated into his public image were frequent moments of conflict, uncertainty, and stubbornness, most of them related to his burgeoning fame, and almost always triggered by casual comparisons with the late Tim Buckley. When People Magazine nominated Jeff as one of their “50 Most Beautiful People” in 1995, something snapped. He dyed his hair black and stopped washing it. He wallowed, thin, in giant thrift-store plaid shirts and Doc Martens. On stage, Grace changed: “Buckley and the band were now playing harder, faster, and louder than ever before, transforming slow-burning epics — ‘Last Goodbye’, ‘So Real’, ‘Eternal Life’ and the title track — into rock and roll firestorms that bordered on the metallic. ‘Mojo Pin��� circa 1996 was almost unrecognizable: Buckley screamed so hard as the song built to its thunderous climax that you feared he’d cough up a vocal cord,” wrote Jeff Apter, one of Buckley’s biographers.

Touring took its toll on Jeff; he needed peace and quiet to work things out, to create, but the frenzy of the road worked up a hysteria in him. Once, in Ireland, he disappeared for a few hours in the afternoon and walked around singing and playing guitar in the pouring rain, skipping interviews and a sound check. Another time he arrived so drunk on stage he broke into a rendition of one of his father’s songs. Yet another time, wasted, he fell asleep underneath a table at a show in Manhattan. Another musician would have been thinking of giving the public a second album to chew on; Jeff was just trying to stay alive. Returning to New York in 1996 after two years on the road, he found the Village, which had once afforded him the comfortable hum of cappuccino machines, the safety of coffee shop anonymity, completely transformed. Sin-é had closed its doors. What few shows he did play, he had to advertise under pseudonyms. He needed a quiet spot, a shrine. So, in early ‘97, he went to Memphis. During the last few months of his life, Jeff Buckley lived in a shotgun house which he rented for a paltry $450 a month. He owned little more than a couch, a telephone, and a telephone book. What time he did not spend cycling back and forth from a Vietnamese restaurant he spent lying in the grass in his backyard, or at the butterfly exhibit at the Memphis Zoo. He played at a beer joint called Barrister’s, quietly. He recorded sketches of new songs on Michael Bolton cassettes that he’d picked up for pennies and sent them to his band in New York. My Sweetheart, The Drunk tremulously came together. On May 29th, the band flew into Memphis to begin recording. That night, Jeff sang Led Zeppelin as he waded into the river.

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Mrs Kirk {Part 6}

Fandom: Star Trek

Pairing: Jim Kirk x Reader  (She/Her identifying)

Warning: N/A

Writer: @imaginesofeveryfandom aka @thequeenofthehobbits

Summary/request: You and Jim get married. Accidentally. On a new federation planet. Without knowing about it. Turns out its legally binding. Fuck.

Part 1 X, Part 2 X, Part 3 X, Part 4 X, Part 5 X, Part 7 X

He’s delirious and barely conscious for 2 days. Being kept hydrated by a drip and fed in the few moments he’s awake enough to swallow food. He won’t remember those 2 days far too delirious and disorientated to commit anything to memory. But you’ll remember that’s a fact you’re well aware of.

You’ll remember the fever breaking and the bruises that grew worse with time. You’ll remember the delirious mumbling and the fear of him not waking up or wasting away in a medical bed rather than being your every vibrant captain. You’ll remember falling asleep in a chair nearby and barely leaving the med bay despite working there every day. You’ll remember the panic when fever struck and the fear of infection. You’ll remember Leonard’s extra gruffness and the stiffening of your bones from rarely moving from your spot.

But he won’t remember any of it. Part of you is calmed by that fact. That he won’t remember your panic stricken face or your frustrated tears when no one else was around in the dead of night. That he won’t lecture you on staying there when you could go back to your shared quarters, take a bath, and sleep in a large bed. That he won’t see how much you’ve come to care for him and how terrified you’ve been at the prospect of losing him before anything has really come of this stupid marriage.

Over the 2 days you’ve come to terms with the fact that you are most certainly falling for Jim. That you feel a great amount of affection for him, and that it’s not entirely friendly. You don’t want to use the term love…you’re not sure it’s quite there yet, but it’s closing in and it’s terrifying. The prospect that you are falling in love with a man known for being reckless and risking his life at every point possible. That you are falling in love with someone who may never feel the same. That you may love him and still deal with a divorce that you don’t entirely want. The whole thing is a mess, but you can’t bring yourself to wish this had never happened. That you’d never joined the Enterprise or never accidentally gotten married to James Tiberius Kirk of all people.

It was an uncomfortable groan that made you look up from where you were sat staring at emails and bits of work on your PADD. You’d heard the noise multiple times before it usually signalled that Jim was awake…usually he was delirious and barely there when he woke up.

You put your PADD down to check on him, expecting that mile long stare, the look of a man barely registering his surroundings and instead found yourself faced with Jim looking right at you, more aware than you’d seen him in 2 days. He still looked tired and unwell, an even paler colour to his skin, and dark circles and bruises stark against it.

“James?”

“How…how long was I…?” You help him sit up, mindful of the still raw wound on his stomach. It might have been sealed but it wasn’t completely healed especially with how big it was. It’s hard to see him weak, but it’s a relief to see him awake and aware and not passed out still.

“2 days.”

“Shit.” Yeah, my sentiment exactly you thought. Shit was accurate, 2 days the ship went without its captain, 2 days friends went without him, 2 days you spent realising just how much you cared and just how terrifying that is.

“I was scared, James…you weren’t waking up and when you did…” You’re not sure why you’re telling him. He doesn’t need to know how worried you were but you felt safe around Jim and maybe telling him would relieve the ache. You sit on the edge of the bed, hands playing with the hem of your uniform.

A hand makes its way to yours, grabbing one of your hands and pulling it from your lap. His hand was so much bigger than yours, rougher, he had scars you’d never noticed before. Little ones across his knuckles. You watched Jim interlock your fingers together, squeezing your hand in a reassuring way.

“Moonbeam…I’m sorry, It’s the reality of my job…I get hurt.”

“I know that, don’t you think I know that? That doesn’t stop the fact that I…that I care and that it sucks to spend 2 days waiting for you to wake up.” You briefly think that maybe this is your first fight. Not a proper one, but this is still a fight in many ways. He expects you to simply accept it and you expect him to understand that you worried and that you were scared and that you couldn’t help that fact. Just because you understood his job was a risky one didn’t mean you wouldn’t worry. That wasn’t how things worked.

You look away from him, watching the rest of the med bay bustle about. You’re sure you look pissed off but you’re not angry at him. You’re angry at this whole situation.

“You were here for 2 days?”

“Yes.” You glance over at him to see a smile curling at his lips and you hate it. You hate that it makes you feel warm when you’ve been so worried. You hate that it reaches the blue of his eyes. You hate that it makes you smile back, your fingers tightening against Jim’s.

“I see sleeping beauty has finally awoken.” You pull your hand away from his on instinct when you hear Leonard’s voice come round the corner.

“Hey, Bones”

Moving off the bed you watch Leonard move a tri-corder over Jim before grabbing a hypospray from seemingly nowhere.

“No, Bones!” Leonard looks back at you with a sigh and Jim’s protest and you walk forward to take the hypospray in question from the man. You know that Leonard is unnecessarily rough with people with the hyposprays and you assumed that Jim had been on the receiving end of that more often than not.

He gives you the most pathetic look, but tilts his head to the side anyway, eyes closed waiting for the inevitable pain…which doesn’t really come. There’s a slight prick as you press it to his neck followed by you massaging the spot with your fingers rubbing any pain away.

“Can you always give me hyposprays? Bones, why can’t you be that gentle?!” You catch Leonard scowling at you for doing it so gently, knowing that Jim will avoid him even further when it comes to medical matters now.

“He’s been doing it roughly on purpose for years. He hates people.”

“Anyway, you’re free to go, Jim. But you better take it easy.”

“I don’t think I can do anything but, Bones.” You watch him struggle out of the bed, and reach forward with a hand wrapping around his arm to help him. He’s still very delicate on his feet and you’re sure that even Jim won’t push it too far at this point in time.

“I’ll help you get back, you need a wash and some new clothes.” He still in his original tattered clothes, no one wanted to undress while he was unconscious and you hadn’t expected him to be out for 2 whole days.

“Are you saying I smell?”

“James.” Your disapproving tone shuts him up quickly and you continue to hold his arm as the two of you make your way out of the med bay.

It is slow going. With a still delicate torso Jim walks incredibly slowly and you match his pace. You don’t want him to rush in case he does more damage and it doubles the time it would usual take to get from the med bay to your shared quarters. The people you pass seem grateful to see their captain alive and walking even if he was obviously not in full health quite yet.

You press the code for the door and help him inside and onto the edge of the bed. “Are you okay?” He’s breathing heavy and gritting his teeth, pretending that it doesn’t hurt quite as much as it does. You push hair out of his face gently, he’s sweating slightly from the exertion.  

“I’m fine…”

“Do you want me to run you a bath? It might be easier than standing up in the shower…?” You know you should be getting back to the med bay, but part of you knows you can argue that Jim is still a patient and thus helping him is technically your job. It just happens that you’re more invested in his comfort than you are with most patients.

“Please, Moonbeam.” He’s trying to smile but it’s not quite reaching his eyes. You’re not sure if watching him in pain is worse than watching him sleep nonstop.

You leave to run the bath, trying to make sure it’s warm enough but not too hot to hurt him further. It’s obvious he doesn’t have baths very often, there’s no bubble bath in sight and you attempt to use shower gel as an alternative. It makes some bubbles, but it’s not to the standard you would expect. But then most of you didn’t even have the option to have a bath in space, so surely it’s better than nothing.

He’s struggling out of his tattered shirt when you walk back into the main area, the shirt stuck between his shoulders and upper arms. It’s obvious that it’s hurting him to try and you overcome any personal embarrassment in favour of reminding yourself that you’re a nurse first and you’ve helped people out of clothes and into baths before. Maybe not in space, but this shouldn’t be any different.

You reach for the shirt, helping slip it over his head and throwing it in the corner, before reaching for his trousers. He flinches back like you’ve shocked him.

“You need help, Jim. I won’t look, but you need help.” You know it’s not that he doesn’t want the help, but it’s some natural aversion to you doing this. You’re sure it’s not from self-consciousness but rather a discomfort at you seeing him this way.

You avoid looking at anywhere but the floor as you help him out of the rest of his clothes before standing and helping a very naked Jim to the bath. You succeed in not seeing anything too personal knowing that he’d definitely be uncomfortable and that was most certainly not your aim.

“I’ll leave you to it…if you need anything, I’m here.” You leave him relaxing in the warm water, a sigh of relief falling from his lips and his head leant back. You know that water would have helped with some of the aches he had. It was nice to help.