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kicktwine · 8 months

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again. AGAIN!!! This time everyone worries quite a lot

••

Nothing of note had happened.

Or at least, Alisaie didn’t think anything of note had or was currently happening, she mostly thought things like “I’m glad I don’t have to deal with whatever this Hancock fellow is talking about now” and “How much Gil would it take to ship this back to Sharlyan?” and “By the Twelve, there is no way dignitaries can talk for this long” and things of the sort.

Until, of course, she notices that her brother is not among the long-chattering crowd currently taking up most of the East Aldenaard Trading Company office, like she thought. In fact, he hasn’t spoken in minutes, which is firstly unusual. He instead grasps her hand to arrest her attention and tugs, eyes straight forward.

“Alisaie,” Alphinaud says tightly, “We need to go outside.”

“What? Why?”

“Please.”

Alisaie frowns. Her brother does not say “please” to her that way. “Alright. Should I leave the bags here or take them?”

“Leave. Or — i-it doesn’t matter. Either.”

He keeps a tight hand on his, so copying the notion Alisaie brings the goods she’s procured from the Ruby Bazaar as a useful excuse for why they leave so quickly. She throws a quick “Be right back!” at Tataru, and allows her brother to escape the office and take, instead of leaving the area entirely — which probably rules out an attack or something, seeing as he also didn’t try to get Tataru to come with? Or anyone else — take a sharp right at the stairs and nearly collapse directly on the damp grass underneath the porch and out of sight.

Alisaie’s ears flatten against her head as a sudden spike of fear hits her right in the chest and sinks there. She drops her bags and darts under the porch to press her hand against his forehead. “Are you alright?! What’s wrong? Alphinaud?”

“Fine! Fine,” he says, righting himself — then leaning against the foundation, trying to find something even slightly comfortable. He pulls his knees in. “Just need— I,” he sucks in a tight breath.

“Should— should I send for someone?”

Alphinaud shakes his head violently. He’s given up on speaking, wholly focused on taking heavy, short breaths curled up against the rock. Something is wrong, though, not fine, he’s acting like he’s sick or injured or, something, or,

Alisaie wants to call for someone anyways. Ch’ari is not here, off doing errands on completely different continents. Maybe Tataru would know what to do — she’s always been resourceful, and she’d peel away from the conversation in an instant if she told her. Stubbornness is a family trait, he could be hurt. But should she leave him? What if — she almost hits her head on the underside of the porch — what if something happens? She should have kept her linkpearl, Garlean intercession be damned—

Alphinaud grasps at her, vaguely, arm still tight to his side. She abandons her train of thought and darts in next to him, as if they were children under a blanket after lights had gone out, huddling under a porch.

“Five minutes,” Alphinaud whispers, with no less than all the voice he can muster.

Alisaie doesn’t like this. “Okay. If you do not recover in five minutes, I’m getting Tataru.”

A tiny nod, and he puts his hands atop his head and becomes a tight ball. Alisaie really doesn’t like this.

Waiting, that is. Waiting around for something to stop. Or get better. Waiting is for people with no plan, with no solution, and she needs a plan. It is not a good five minutes, listening to her brother wheeze through his teeth as if strangled and trying not to skip seconds on her watch and feeling as if maybe there are ants on this grass (there are none).

But true to his word, as he always is, Alphinaud’s breathing slows, and calms, slowly, and he pulls his head off of his knees and leans backwards to take in the cool night air of Kugane.

“…Are you alright?” Alisaie asks, once she has studied him for a reaction.

“Mm-hm.”

“What was that?”

Her brother chances a thin look in her direction, his expression doing a funny jolt between relieved and worried at her own, and then seemingly getting too worked up and looking away again to breathe correctly. She must look like a timid mouse. And it’s only in the shelter of the porch that she admits she feels like one.

“I’m sorry,” Alphinaud starts. “I didn’t… mean to scare you.”

“You would have scared me less had I known you weren’t dying. …Right? You’re not, right?”

“No, no, I promise. No dying. Just…” He takes breaks to make sure he’s still breathing. “Sick. For a moment.”

“How?”

Alphinaud takes his head off the rocky foundation and begins to fiddle with his gloves. At least this is a sign of normalcy, something that makes Alisaie adjust her own position — she hadn’t realized how tense she was — to listen.

“I’m… sure there’s another word for it. But Ari calls it memory sickness.”

Alisaie’s eyebrows furrow, but she lets him continue. “He explained… how did he say it. That if something bad happens, sometimes the memory that contains that event — or, an object from the event, or something of that nature, can become tainted. And it can fester, if it isn’t paid attention to, so when the memory resurfaces, it can… You can get sick.”

“From a memory? How?” Then, “…Has something happened?”

Alphinaud shifts uncomfortably. He hasn’t — Alisaie realizes, he has only told her an abridged version of whatever he was up to in Ishgard, whatever explained his drastic shift in personality. It hadn’t bothered her before, quite the opposite actually she was very pleased and a bit smug and a bit proud and a bit worried, because her own shift from flat anger to full purpose was… riddled with events she would rather not recall, but now she’s more than a bit worried.

“Nothing I am able to discern fully,” he lies. She frowns, and almost chases it, but she can still feel his breathing against the side of her chest, so… she will let it go until she’s certain he’s no longer ill. And if it comes from a memory, further prodding may hurt more than help. She will remember it, though. “What is it like, then?”

His head tilts into his hand. “Ari says for him it is more like he thinks he’s inside it, and he can’t get it to stop. The memory is so strong he feels sensations that are not real. But, um— he’s figured out how to feel the memory hit him. So he knows to leave before it makes him sick and he can recover in private. That is why he disappears with no explanation, at times. For me… I don’t know. I cannot tell what is causing it, nor can I think of any specific memory that has fouled. Mayhap I need to pay more attention. But I just become ill like this, as if I were in battle. And then it passes. Eventually.”

Alisaie buries her own chin in hand, sorting through this. “Does it happen immediately?”

“I don’t think so? It builds. That is probably why I can’t pin down what causes it. It has only occurred twice,” Alphinaud admits, quietly.

“Well. What happened today? Mayhap you can narrow it down. We’ve been gathering souvenirs and repairs for the past hours,” Alisaie begins, stronger now that there’s something solid to puzzle out.

“Dinner was par for the course, Ch’ari took the entire teapot for himself yet again and the food was wonderful. Those dignitaries inside were quite dismissive, and rather crowded in there. The Bazaar was busy as well — there was that man who tried to sell you a necklace thinking you were me. He was altogether too handsy and I should have kicked him for it. Should I have kicked him for it?”

“No,” Alphinaud says, a weak laugh behind the words. “No, violence is disallowed, remember? I value my sister over petty revenge.”

“We have evaded capture once, we could do it again,” Alisaie sniffs. “But that is not what bothered you?”

Alphinaud drops his chin onto his knees again. “Any number of things could have caused it. Maybe all.”

“Oh.” Her ears lower. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how to help.”

“You are helping. Very much. And I greatly appreciate you being here with me, even if I pulled us out of the office without explaining.”

Alisaie leans herself against him, short and forceful. “If you think I’d abandon my dying brother, you’ve lost it entirely.”

“I am not dying,” Alphinaud snorts. “I am, however… a bit damp, now. And not bereft of embarrassment.”

Alisaie notices, finally, that the wet grass has soaked through her coattails and into her skirt somewhat. “Ah.” Alphinaud, too, must have a damp patch down his back and legs from his position against the ground. “Well, there is no shame in staying out a bit longer. Tataru won’t come for us for at least twenty minutes.”

She stands, brushing dew and grass off of herself. “Come on, then.”

Alphinaud takes her hand and heaves himself up, nearly hitting his head on the porch. “We can walk a moment.”

••

“Ch’ari.”

The Miqo’te tilts his head in her direction, indicating that he’s listening. Alisaie tries not to let her breath in shudder.

“When you spoke to Alphinaud about his memory sickness, what did you tell him?”

Ch’ari, ever perceptive, gets to the point she was trying not to dodge around with a concerned tail twitch. “Do you feel sick?”

“No.”

He tilts his head the other way and studies her. She folds her arms and looks up at him, normally as possible, the Doman morning just cold enough to seep through the bones.

Ch’ari knows, he knows she’s overly worried, and he’s not good at hiding how much he wants to do something about it. But how could you not be? And how is Hien so calm? If your brother went wholly missing not only in Garlean territory but in the middle of a wasteland of nothingness, with no one but himself and maybe — she doesn’t fully trust Maxima, they don’t know him — maybe one ally, maybe none, hunted down by the crown prince who doesn’t stop even without an Ascian in his skin Zenos doesn’t stop hunting until his quarry is dead or — she needs to stop thinking in front of Ch’ari.

Said cat folds his arms and hums. “Your brother has about as much courage as he does fear of simple things. When I explained it to him, he mentioned that it was not entirely fear that caused him to fall apart, it was mostly a sense of wrongness.” He gestures with one claw. “It happens without your consent. It isn’t a sign of weakness to be beset upon by illness such as this.”

“I never said it was,” Alisaie says, becoming very interested in her sleeve. “I just… Want to know how he got rid of it so quickly. My brother is on my mind, if you were unaware.”

At least the attempt at humor causes Ch’ari‘s shoulders to relax, a half-smile causing a fang to poke out from under his lip. “I couldn’t tell.”

He considers his words for but a moment. “Nali taught me a sequence. Firstly, you must recognize what your soul wants to do. Run and hide? Fight? Then, you must let it, but not let it at your objective. Give it a false target to exhaust itself on. For example — I often think I must either fight or hide. And so I have a terribly battered training dummy in my apartment that I allow myself to hurt.” He stops, and waits. For her.

Alisaie plays along, at least for now. The walkthrough is more important than her posturing, and so she considers it. And after considering, she concludes that it is decidedly not that specific. She feels antsy, like moving, like yelling for someone to fix it. Like stealing a falcon and searching herself. As if her soul is beginning to shiver. “I… I don’t know. I just want to go after him before something happens.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try running.”

“Right. Doma is big enough.”

“I’ll accompany you, then.” Ch’ari straightens, casting his lance into the impossibly deep fist-sized pocket bag he carries around his waist. Where he got the thing, Alisaie never figured out. “But, before— before we go, another word of advice. Sometimes, despite preventing it, you will get sick anyways.” He gently pokes her in the shoulder. “Like anything else. No matter the medicine, if you have the stomach flu, you might still vomit.”

“Gross.”

“Very. If you do get sick, all you need do is sit and wait. Breathe slowly. Do not focus on anything else. And it will pass soon enough.”

“Hmm.” More waiting. Taking laps sounds like a better option by the second. Alisaie remembers sitting with Alphinaud, however - the way his chest heaved in place and his shivers that passed him in waves. There is likely wisdom in staying still, at that point. She hopes she never experiences it. She hopes he’s not sick. Anything could have happened. Maxima could not possibly know all of this, could he?

Like reading her mind, Ch’ari pulls out a pair of daggers and closes his bag. “I am proud of you for holding it together,” he mentions, affixing them to his belt. “With Alphinaud’s temperament and your rather knightly tendencies, I half feared you’d be gone already.”

She exhales, focusing instead on lacing her boots. “Yes, well. I have always been less prone to illness than he is.”

“Full glass am I for that. Not that I dislike caring for — well. I’m just glad you’re alright. If we keep our heads on, we will find him soon enough. Shall we race?”

“Where?”

“Mmm. How about that tree?” He points — they have not explored much of the Doman enclave’s surroundings as of yet, and the tree in question rests on a high hill far in the distance. Plenty far to wear herself out.

“Deal.” She takes off.

(“Are you feeling any better?”

“No. But… less antsy, I suppose.”

“Good! Good.”)

•• authors note i suppose?? — Ari is conflating a number of mental illnesses, including PTSD and anxiety, all of which share the vague symptom “freak out and shut down due to a trigger of some kind”. I can’t imagine a nomadic tribe or a band of pirates has devoted the resources to mental health, and while I’m sure Sharlyan has picked the topic apart in full, I’m less sure they have a robust and considerate education program about it. Nanali, at least, comes from a large family with chronicled history, and taught Ari the term “memory sickness”.

I also don’t headcanon Alphy as having anxiety — you can have a panic attack or something similar without having a panic disorder, hence the nomenclature, and when you do, it’s probably a good idea to take the advice of the ones who have them often. He had a bad one early-hw, which scared him half to death and prompted Ari to open up about it. This time it was, like, almost random, but a few too many things happened too fast, and he should have sat down twenty minutes ago but didn’t recognize the warning bells. Alisaie either! She just needs to recognize when she’s starting to get overwhelmed, and already has the “go fast” coping method, but can apply in the short term too in maybe a slightly healthier way. They’re such worried little raccoons and I can’t blame them, not when they’re 16 and they hang out with Me, but auough. Help the

#my writing #ffxiv #yes… YES! the writers block is being defeated #And I only have fluffy comfort nonsense coming out. ah well it’s cute to me #alphinaud leveilleur #alisaie leveilleur #wol oc #ch’ari #it’s not like I get excessively protective of younger siblings or anything. In media. Its not like this happens to me #oH #stormblood spoilers #or patch 4.3-4 spoilers #This one is about the vague notion of panic

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karatekels · 3 months

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Mediation - Chapter 4 - TIGmas Day #9

I was initially worried about this chapter being too short, but we ended up with over 7500 words, so... crisis averted, I guess!

I blame the very fluffy smut. Speaking of which...

TW: graphic sex, oral sex (female receiving), questionable dubious consent (she's rather emotionally vulnerable but I believe she consents)

Enjoy, everyone!

Previous Parts: Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

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Mediation

Chapter 4: Causation

---

Reader's POV:

You emerge from the warehouse just as the sun is starting to set, the flashing red and blue lights of the cop cars that surround the building casting shadows of the action unfolding.

No one had sustained serious injuries in the operation – officers or suspects. The worst that you had was some bruising across your body and a small cut on your right temple, the bleeding long since stopped. The bust had been even more successful than you and Cash could have hoped for: a dozen thieves, a half-dozen of the supposed brains behind the operation, hard drives and shipping containers full of evidence… this one would go down in the history books.

You catch a flash of movement underneath the underpass next to the warehouse, still on high alert from all the adrenaline. Heading towards it cautiously, you recognize Cash’s silhouette in the shadows. Looking over your shoulder and seeing that everyone is still busy, you dart into the darkness.

“Cash! What the hell are you doing here?!” you hiss, shoving him further out of view. “You know you aren’t supposed to be this close to a crime scene; what if they think you’re in on it?”

“Oh come on. I’m far enough away. Besides, I’m sure the department’s rising star would vouch for my innocence,” he replies casually, unbothered as usual with the potential consequences of his actions. “Looks like everything went off without a hitch?” he asks, looking over the top of your head to observe other officers carting out perps in cuffs.

“It went perfectly,” you breathe, feeling like you’re nearly floating as you ride the high of the operation’s success. “I don’t even think Terry’s stubbornness will be able to hold out in the face of all this. This is huge, Cash.”

“I know. If this works, I…” he trails off, a slightly pained look flashing across his features before he looks down at you with a smile. “I really don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you for this.”

“Well, I do,” you inform him with mock arrogance. “You can get the hell off the premises and stop risking your parole!”

“Alright, fine – on one condition,” he amends, looking down at you with an uncharacteristic seriousness.

“I don’t think you’re fully grasping the concept of showing gratitude; it’s not typically a negotiation.”

“We should do something to celebrate tonight,” he says, ignoring your sarcasm. “Why don’t you come for dinner at my place when your shift is over.”

You mull the idea over. It’s not that you don’t want to accept his invitation; on the contrary, you think you want to more than is wise for your current situation. The two of you haven’t spent time together without the goal of working towards Cash earning Terry’s forgiveness. This would be the two of you, in his home, without the weight of responsibility on your shoulders. You don’t want to betray Terry, but then, who was he to decide who you could and couldn’t spend time with? He could have input as your partner and best friend, sure, but you were a damn adult.

“I’ll order a dozen spring rolls and let you eat them all.”

Well, that settles it.

“You drive a hard bargain, Cash Ewing, but you’ve got yourself a deal.”

He scrawls his address in your tiny notebook before you can change your mind, whistling as he walks away from you – you think you see his truck off in the distance.

You turn and head back to the crime scene without another word, intent on finishing up quickly.

You’re interested in finding out what the rest of the night has in store for you.

---

You arrive at Cash’s place just before 8:00, the Captain letting you off early and with strict instructions to rest for the next few days. You’d gone home to shower and patch yourself up a bit, confirming that the cut to your head wasn’t anything to worry about, and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

Choosing an outfit had taken some time – this wasn’t a date, and you want to make that perfectly clear, but you are still celebrating together. You eventually settle for dark jeans and a pretty blouse; a safe enough option for dinner at a friend’s home.

You have to park down the street, his small driveway not having room to accommodate your vehicle as well as his truck. You walk down the sidewalk to his house, a surprisingly large detached home, and the front door opens just as you approach. You’re struck with devilish inspiration, hiding behind a hedge to try to scare him.

“Yeah, I can meet you there no problem.”

You freeze, confused by his words. Sure, you were a little early, but where could he be going on such short notice?

“Yeah, the plan went off without a hitch. I’m really looking forward to seeing the payoff.”

Your whole body goes cold, and you find it hard to breathe as you watch Cash end the call on his cellphone as he hops into his truck, the engine thrumming to life.

Cash had… he had lied to you? Had this whole thing been a set-up, a way to get another player out of the way so that whatever shady business he was running with would have less competition?

Terry had been right the whole time.

You watch his truck drive down the street, feeling horribly betrayed and used and hurt, like your insides have been cut open and hollowed out. It takes you a moment to regain control of your body, but the moment you do you’re flying back down the street, throwing yourself back in your car.

You start driving before even consciously deciding where you’re going, just trying to push past your numb state enough to be somewhat aware of the road in front of you. When you park, two blocks away from the Deja Vu jazz club, you’re only half-surprised at where you’ve ended up. You don’t even know if Terry is back yet, but if anyone can understand what you’re going through right now, it’s him.

It’s a Sunday night, so the club isn’t in full swing, just a regular bar with jazz playing on the radio. You walk in feeling wooden, trying to keep yourself together for just a little longer.

“You look like you’ve had better days, Y/N,” a voice says from behind the bar. Turning your focus to the man, you give him a weak smile.

“H-Hi, Jake. Is Terry back home yet?” you ask, hoping that your desperation isn’t too evident in your voice.

“No, not yet, I’m afraid,” the older man replies, looking uncomfortable with your obvious emotional distress. “Can I get you a drink?”

You shake your head violently, unable to speak, your lips pressed together tightly to keep from crying. Jake surveys you with pity for a moment, before seeming to come to a decision.

“Right, come with me.”

He walks around the bar, wrapping a fatherly arm around you and guiding you through the bar to the stairs at the back.

“He got home a few hours ago,” Jake informs you quietly as he leads the way, presumably up to Terry’s room. “He’s out grabbing groceries right now, and asked me to tell anyone that came by that he wasn’t coming back until tomorrow if they asked for him. But I’m willing to bet that you’re exempt from that rule,” he says knowingly, and you manage to give him a grimace somewhat resembling a smile. This wouldn’t be the first time you crashed at Terry’s place – it was common to celebrate closing a difficult case with a late night at Deja Vu, and it was no secret that Jake wanted you and Terry to settle down with one another.

He reaches into his back pocket to retrieve his keyring, unlocking the door to Terry’s apartment and gesturing inside with an arm. “Make yourself comfortable, Y/N. He should be back soon, and I’ll send him right up.”

“Okay, Jake. Thank you so much,” you choke out, trying to hastily close the door behind you without being rude.

Turning on the light overhead, you take a look around Terry’s sparse apartment, eyes lingering on his travel bags at the front door. You assume he was only here long enough to bring his stuff upstairs before heading out again; he must be exhausted. You walk to the kitchen to look out the window at the city street down below in the hopes of distracting yourself from the guilt of bothering Terry with your problems that he had warned you about on multiple occasions. But before you can start mentally spiraling down that unpleasant train of thought, a couple of photographs on the kitchen counter catch your eye and, being nosy, you decide to investigate further.

You immediately regret your decision, even as you can’t take your eyes off of the pictures of Cash and Terry.

They could be brothers, with their twin blue eyes and their tall, strong builds. You notice that in one photograph, Terry has his arm wrapped around his partner’s shoulder in a friendly hug as they pose for the camera, a horseshoe ring on his finger just like Cash’s. There is something so beautifully carefree in their expressions, and it makes you ache. You’ve only seen flickers of the light and happiness reflected on both of their faces in these pictures, and you’re again overwhelmed with frustration and sadness at this messy situation.

You force yourself to look away from the pictures, unable to stomach the pain of seeing how much had been lost in this years-long predicament, not to mention where you stand in it all.

Hopefully Terry will be home soon, and hopefully he won’t hate you when he finds out what you’ve been up to in his absence.

---

Terry’s POV:

Terry arrives back home at 9:00, his arms laden with grocery bags. He still has a few days off before he needs to go back to work, and he doesn’t want to have to leave the apartment anymore than he absolutely has to. Working on the farmhouse had been no easy task, and he’s looking forward to a few days of rest before heading back to work.

As he enters the club, he heads over to Jake at the bar. Maybe a nightcap would help him get some restful sleep, or at least ease his aches and pains.

“Hey, Jake! Could I get a –”

“No.”

He goes to glare at the man, not in the mood for his snark, only to see a serious expression on the man’s face. Something is wrong.

“You need to go to upstairs; she’s waiting for you.”

He doesn’t even take a moment to thank the man, jostling his bags as he all but sprints through the bar and up the stairs. You were the only person on earth that Jake would let into his apartment without asking him first; the only person he still trusted or cared about beyond the scope of a typical friendship.

The only one he loved.

He tries not to anticipate the worst as he struggles to fit his key in the lock, opening his front door. He sets the groceries down on the counter by the front door, scouring the room for you and finding you curled up in a tight little ball on the couch, seemingly asleep. His gaze softens as he quietly closes and locks the door behind him, taking off his coat and shoes before slowly approaching you for a closer look.

You’ve taken the small trashcan out of his bathroom and put it in front of the couch, used tissues in and mostly scattered around it. Your eyes are red from crying, and the bags beneath them look like you haven’t slept in a week, but you look relatively unharmed. He can’t think of a time in the five years he’s known you that he’s seen you like this, and he can’t even imagine what has caused you to look like this now. Had someone died? You look heartbroken.

He immediately regrets leaving you by yourself to go work on something as insignificant as renovations, the guilt eating him alive. Desperate to be of use, he gently drapes a blanket over your body; you look like you need the sleep, and he’s not going anywhere.

He sets about tidying the place up, picking up the tissues and returning the trashcan to the bathroom before moving to unload the groceries. His travel bags are mostly filled with dirty laundry, so he doesn’t bother to unpack them yet; that could wait until after he figured out what was going on with you.

When you still show no signs of waking – he knew from experience you were a rather heavy sleeper – he decides to take a quick shower, hoping that it would help him be fresh and alert to help you with…whatever it is you needed. He rushes through the process, not wanting you to wake up without him there, quickly toweling off and changing into some of his last clean clothes, grey sweatpants and a black sleeveless muscle shirt. He’s in the middle of towel drying his hair when he hears you stir.

“Terry?” you call for him groggily, and he flies out of the bathroom, quickly coming over to you. He pulls one of the kitchen chairs over to the end of the couch that you’re curled up on, sitting next to you and hunching down to search your expression, your body for anything that might give him a clue as to what the fuck happened.

“I’m here, sweetheart, it’s okay,” he says softly, watching you blink up at him through your bleary eyes. His hands itch to hold you, but he keeps himself under control. He’s had years of practice, after all.

“What happened, Y/N?” he asks, gently pushing the question when you fail to do or say anything for several long minutes. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong, Terry!” you exclaim, though your voice seems incapable of the volume at the moment. “I fucked up, I was so stupid, and I’m so sorry!” you wail, hiding your face in your hands as you start to cry again. He immediately slides off his chair to his knees, his chest brushing your legs as he wraps his arms around you to grip your shoulders.

“Hey hey, none of that,” he tsks, wishing he could just scoop you up into his arms and squeeze all of your hurt out of you. Instead he stands, quickly moving to the kitchen to get you a glass of water and holding it out for you. You take several gulps, the glass shaking in your grip, and he gently takes it from you to set it on the coffee table.

“Look at me, Y/N, please,” he pleads with you, and after a moment you lift your head, your watery red eyes locked with his. “I promise, whatever you did or think you did isn’t going to be as bad as you think –”

You cut him off, keening loudly in a piercing, heartbreaking note that sends his heart up to his throat and down to the pit of his stomach all at once. Unable to refrain from comforting you any longer, he moves to sit next to you on the couch, wrapping one arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. You feel uncharacteristically fragile, so different from the fierce, confident woman that he’s come to know and love.

He gives you a few moments, and you manage to get your tears and your trembling relatively under control. He’s not exactly sure when he did it, but at some point his hand had guided your head to rest in the crook of his neck, and was now stroking your hair slowly, feeling you relax under his touch. He tries to stay focused on the matter at hand, but he can’t deny how incredibly natural it feels to hold you like this, to take care of you. Neither of you liked to be vulnerable, especially with one another, but he knows that the two of you had tiptoed around the issue more and more as your time working together had gone on.

“Terry?” you say his name in the quietest, most broken voice he’s ever heard, and it makes his heart twinge painfully. Instead of responding he releases you, turning you both so that you’re facing one another so that he can try to convey just how willing he is to do any-and-everything for you through his gaze alone. You seem to receive the message, taking a deep breath.

“Before I tell you, can you please promise that you’ll let me finish explaining myself before doing anything… rash?”

The request has his guard up, but he nods tightly. He’ll give you whatever you need.

“I’ve spent the last week working on tracking down the crime ring running that operation on scrap metal in the area,” you begin, your eyes watching his for any hint of a reaction even as he does the same to you. “We arrested nearly twenty perps today, and have secured a ton of evidence.”

“That’s… incredible, Y/N,” he says, more confused than ever. Why did this have you so upset? Had you been promoted as a result of your work? Were you leaving? “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you; that’s a lot of progress to make all by yourself.”

Guilt washes over your face, and you break eye contact with him. “I had a team of six with me today during the bust; I was covered, no one was seriously hurt on either side.”

“But?” he presses, losing patience now despite his best efforts to remain calm.

“I… I wasn’t working alone this week. I was working with Cash.”

Your eyes fly up to his to gauge his reaction, but Terry finds that he’s nearly going numb, staring out into nothing. You’d gone behind his back and lied to him? About this of all things? After everything he’d said and done to dissuade you from listening to that corrupt, lying piece of –

“How is that even possible?” he asks hoarsely, interrupting his own train of thought. He doesn’t want to get angry yet. He promised you, and unlike you – unlike everyone else, apparently – he kept his promises.

“Terry, I didn’t go looking for him, I promise. When we talked about it last month, I kept my word. I didn’t speak to him or so much as see him until the beginning of last week. We ran into each other while I was in pursuit of a suspect and he helped me get the guy down. I didn’t even know who he was at first, I swear…”

He bites his tongue so hard that he worries it might bleed, but nods at you to continue. You’re cringing away from him as though you’re worried he’s going to hit you, and while he is very upset with you right now, he knows himself well enough to know that he would never lay a hand on you in anger.

“He came to me the next day with some intel, that he thought he knew where the crime ring’s base of operations was. He wanted to report the crime to me directly, so that I would be able to tell you so you would see he had left all that crap behind. We got to talking and he offered to help me work the case since I was doing it all mostly on my own while you were gone. Everything went perfectly, Terry, until tonight. I thought that together we would be able to prove to you that he’s cleaned up his act, so that you would give him a second chance, but…” you stop, seemingly unable to continue past the lump in your throat.

“What happened, Y/N?” he growls, his temper starting to rise. If that fucker had laid one hand on you…

“We were going to get dinner tonight, to celebrate the break in the case, and I got to his house early. He didn’t know I was there, but he was on the phone with someone else and I overheard him talking about payoffs and plans. He left to meet someone, and then I came here.”

A part of him feels guilty for the relief that flows through him. Cash hadn’t hurt you physically or tried to seduce you – he’s rather surprised, the latter would be fairly par for the course for the bastard – but had deceived you rather similarly to how he had lied to Terry. His anger towards you all but evaporates; sure, he was disappointed that you hadn’t listened to him, but your intentions, as always, were pure and good. You were simply too trusting.

However, he’s still unsure of why the other man’s deception is hitting you so hard. If you were telling the truth, which he believes that you are, then you had only worked with the man for a week. Why was Cash’s betrayal so devastating for you?

“I’m so sorry, Terry! You were right and I should have listened to you. I j-just… I figured I owed it to you to tell you the truth myself, rather than you hearing about it some other way. I understand if you h-hate me, I really do, and I promise –”

He stops listening, his hearing disappearing completely as he tries to process what you’re saying. You were so upset – nearly hysterical – because you were worried about what he thought about you? That he would hate you for being lied to be the man that had done the same to him?

For such a brilliant detective, you could be so oblivious sometimes.

He suspects that that fucker has put it into your head that he would lash out at you for the smallest infraction against him. What other reason could there possibly be for you to be so wary about how he’s going to react to your confession?

“Right, I’ll be back in a bit,” he says abruptly, rising from the couch and moving to the front door. His temper had reminded him of its presence, and this time it wouldn’t be ignored. Cash lying to him all those years ago was bad enough, but doing the same to you was absolutely unacceptable.

“W-Where are you going?” you ask in a panic, clearly confused by his sudden shift in demeanour.

“I’m going to go try to beat some sense into him, at the very least,” he snarls, throwing his coat back on and digging through his pockets for his badge and gun. It couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

“Terry no, don’t! Please,” you beg, stumbling as you try to cross the room to reach him, your eyes brimming with concern. “This was my fault –”

“He took advantage of you, Y/N, of you and your kindness. He knew exactly what he was doing,” he insists angrily, speaking more to himself than to you at this point.

“I gave him the means, the motive, the opportunity!” you babble. “I encouraged us working together to solve the case, I made this mess! I was stupid to trust him, but I did, and I’m sorry. Please don’t throw your career away by confronting him about this. You’re all I have left.”

That gets him to stop in his tracks, frozen between you and the door. He glimpses the photographs of him and Cash on the kitchen counter. The two of them had been inseparable, closer than brothers… He couldn’t let what happened with Cash happen with you.

He doesn’t think he could endure it.

Terry turns back to face you, your small frame visibly trembling from the combination of emotion and fatigue, and he acts on instinct, closing the distance between you and gently taking your hand in his as he leads you back to his couch.

“Sweetheart, you need to calm down, alright? We’ll both stay here, okay? I promise. Just take a few deep breaths for me,” he croons, and sets about spending a few minutes helping you calm down and clean up. Soon you are breathing normally again aside from the occasional stuttering gasp, your eyes teary but dry.

“T-Terry, I’m s-s-so sorry. I should have believed you, I should have listened, I just wanted you to be h-happy again,” you stammer, and he can tell that you’re working hard to keep yourself from sobbing again. You were always so selfless, always prioritized him first. He knows that you’ve seen how affected he’s been from the way people have screwed him over, and he doesn’t like the person that he’s become, but to say he hasn’t been happy is patently untrue. Working with you, getting to know you… it’s been his greatest source of happiness.

He can’t say that he was planning on doing this at all, let alone now, let alone like this, but something is pushing him to be open and honest with you, maybe to set himself apart from Cash.

“You were right too, Y/N,” he says gently, lightly caressing the side of your face, needing to confirm that the small cut he sees is nothing to be concerned about. “We should give people second chances. Maybe if I had, he wouldn’t have gone back to that life, and he never would have hurt you like this. You just have more good in your heart than I do. Hell, you have more good in you than most people do…”

You smile up at him through your tears, and his heart takes off like a hummingbird’s, thrumming against his chest. He’s cradling your face in his hands now, and he doesn’t think you’ve really noticed.

“It’s one of the things I love the most about you.”

Your sudden intake of breath at his confession is the only thing that breaks the silence in the apartment, the two of you leaning in towards one another as though pulled by a magnetic force.

He gently presses his lips to yours, feeling your whole body shudder against him before you gasp into his mouth, kissing him back needily as you wrap your arms around his neck. Moving slowly – he doesn’t want to rush things and spook you, despite the unbridled joy thrumming through his veins as he’s finally able to kiss you the way he’s wanted to for ages now – he lifts you up off the couch, just long enough to sit down himself with you in his lap, your lips never parting. He brushes his lips against yours again and again, wanting to absorb your pain with every kiss, wanting to distract you from your hurt, wanting to do whatever it took to make you happy.

“Terry,” you whimper against his lips, and a part of him wants to interpret it as permission to continue, but he knows from your tone of voice that you’re having second thoughts. Reluctantly he pulls away, checking your expression for an indicator of what you’re thinking. He can’t resist kissing your forehead as he leans back, his arms still locked around you, one at your hip and the other tangled in your hair at the back of your head.

“I – we – should stop before we get carried away,” you breathe, unable to meet his eyes. He thinks he hears reluctance in your tone, and latches onto it with hope.

“What’s wrong with getting carried away, honey?” he asks, curling his arms to press you against him more firmly. “You’re safe with me,” he coos reassuringly. Give him the opportunity, and he would spend the night showing you just how much he cares for you with every single move he makes. He just needs a chance; he isn’t sure he can keep himself from you now that he’s had a taste.

“Terry, I’m exhausted, I’m an emotional wreck…I don’t want to do this if there’s even a chance I could lose you for good. If we go down this road and it doesn’t work out, I...” you trail off, unable to voice even the possibility of the two of you not being in each other’s lives.

“This doesn’t need to be anything but two people that care about each other being there for one another. Just for tonight,” he coaxes, feeling your doubt melt away. So the sex might mean more to him than it will to you; he’s more than okay with that, so long as you don’t regret it in the morning. He’s a simple man; he’ll take what he can get. “But you’re never going to lose me, Y/N. Let me prove it to you.”

He kisses a line from your temple down to your jaw, letting out a pleased growl when you tilt your head to the side to give him access to your neck. He lavishes the sensitive skin between your neck and your shoulder with lush kisses, finding a spot that makes you whine and honing in on it, sucking and nibbling the delicate flesh until you’re moaning his name, writhing in his arms.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he groans, surveying the dark hickey he’s left with a primal sense of dark satisfaction. You arch your body, your hips rolling against him as he runs his hands up and down your sides possessively, wanting – no, needing to feel you. Call him selfish, but he’s going to have all of you tonight, especially since he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get to have you again.

“Take me to bed, Terry, please!” you plead with him, and if you only knew the number of times he’s fantasized about hearing you say those words…

He stands, his hands at your waist, lifting you up with him until your arms and legs naturally wrap around his body tightly, your face buried into the crook of his neck as you pepper him with feather-light kisses that have him swearing he’s died and gone to heaven.

“Your wish is my command, princess,” he teases as he carries you over to his bed. He gently lowers you onto it, taking a moment to look down at you: hair fanned out around your head on his pillow, face flushed, eyes gazing up at him with lust.

You sit up as he takes a seat on the bed next to you. Terry watches you intensely, unblinking, his eyes noticing everything as your small hands brazenly trace the muscles of his bare arms up to the back of his neck to play with his still-damp curls, nibbling your lip shyly as you explore his body.

You take a brief reprieve to build your confidence, and he’s happy to grant it, then your hands slowly move down from his neck to his collarbone, your dainty fingers eagerly exploring his firm pectorals. He does his best to stay still, to be calm and patient, but as your hands wander down past his ribs to his abs he can’t help the groan that escapes him, his head dropping to rest on your shoulder. You let out a nervous giggle.

“Sorry, am I moving too fast?” you ask nervously, and he bites back a bark of laughter. Instead he silences you both with a passionate kiss, his tongue seeking entrance to your mouth. He doesn’t let up, intent on kissing you breathless as he lays you down on the bed again, keeping his weight off of you as he comes to lay on top of you.

“It’s been more than five years, Y/N; I don’t think we could move any slower,” he jokes once he’s let you up for air. You giggle, holding his face in your hands as you look up at him with a soft smile. “But I’m here for you sweetheart; have your way with me however you want!” he adds with a lopsided grin.

“So generous of you, Mr. McCain. Always the pinnacle of chivalry,” you tease, twining your hands back around his neck. He tightens his grip on your small waist in return, wanting to memorize this moment so that he can cherish it forever.

“Only for you, doll,” he replies in a husky voice, moving back as you sit up slightly, leaning on your elbows as you rest your forehead against his.

“Terry, I… it feels like so long since I’ve been able to think about us. Just us,” you clarify, and it’s clear you’re referring to Cash. “I don’t want to think about anything except you and me. Please help me forget.”

If he has his way, you’ll never think about Cash Ewing or any other man ever again after tonight.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you, always,” he promises, and he can feel you melt at his words. “Just relax, and let me make you feel good.”

You let out a wordless moan of consent that he captures with his lips, kissing you passionately as he pins you against his mattress. His hands trail down your body to your hips, his fingertips exploring the soft skin of your belly where your shirt has ridden up. You arch against him with a mewl, and he grips the hem of your shirt to pull it up and off of you, his eyes greedily roaming your torso. Your ample cleavage is too tempting to resist, and he buries his face between your breasts, kissing the bare skin of your chest above the cups of your bra. You throw your head back, letting out a wanton moan, your legs wrapping around his hips as you grind yourself against him, your fingernails digging into his shoulders.

“Terry, please!” you cry, writhing beneath him and even in this moment he knows he’ll never forget those words coming from your lips with such need.

“Don’t you worry, babygirl,” he coos, laying kisses all over your collarbone, his hands gently but firmly gripping your hips and holding them down. “I’m going to give you everything tonight, I promise. But let me take it all in, honey – I’ve been dreaming of this for ages now.”

You pout at him teasingly, and he takes the opportunity to suck on your lower lip until you groan at the throbbing ache. Smoothing his hands back up the sides of your body, he slides them beneath you to unhook your bra, tugging the garment down your arms and tossing it on the floor behind him. The instant your hands are free, you’re tugging insistently at the hem of his shirt, making him chuckle lowly as he takes the hint, pulling it over his head. Your eyes darken with lust as you take in his bare chest and you lick your lips, making him growl low in the back of his throat before bringing his hands down to cup your breasts. Your nipples are peaked and prominent against his palms, and he can’t resist the temptation any longer, bowing his head to take one into his mouth, one hand teasing the other.

“Fuck, Terry! You’re way too good at this,” you groan, and that stroke to his ego sends a jolt of desire right to his dick. He redoubles his efforts, teasing your breasts with his fingers and lips and tongue until your voice is hoarse from begging, your hands fisted in the sheets after you realized that clawing at his back wasn’t going to get him to let up on you. He’s feeling dizzy from the way you’re coming apart at the seams for him, his straining erection throbbing with need. He’s never wanted anyone so much.

“God Y/N, you feel amazing. I can’t get enough of you,” he moans, grinding against you as you lock your legs around him once more, pressing your centre against his cock.

“Try,” you demand sassily, looking up at him with a teasing smirk that has him growling and reaching for the button on your jeans and pulling your zipper down before tearing the pants down your legs. You gasp from the rough treatment, wantonly allowing your knees to fall open as you look up at him, breathless with need. His nostrils flare as he takes you in, eyes drifting to the scrap of silk and lace between your legs, the only thing concealing your body from him. He spots the damp patch on your underwear and it shatters his remaining resolve.

Lunging forward, he buries his face in the apex of your thighs, laving his tongue along your slit and up to your clit through your underwear. You shriek with surprise before clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle your cries of pleasure, and he groans against your pussy, dizzy from the heady, musky scent of your arousal. You buck up against him, your free hand tangling in and tugging at his curls, and he grips your inner thighs in his large hands, squeezing them possessively as he holds them spread open.

Your muffled pleas take on a higher and higher pitch as you reach your peak, and he chases after your orgasm hungrily, parting your panties to the side and delving his tongue into your tight channel. Your grip on his hair tightens, and he slips a finger inside of you, moving his mouth to suckle on your clit as he curls his finger up against your g-spot, your thighs clenching around his head as you come hard for him. You’re barely coherent at this point, but he manages to pick out a few words amidst your screams, ‘fuck,’ ‘Terry,’ and ‘so good’ among them. Eventually, he feels your muscles relax, and manages to slide up your body while you catch your breath.

“You taste better than I ever could have imagined,” he purrs in your ear, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of your neck, feeling your pulse thrumming under his lips.

“Oh my God,” you pant, squirming beneath him as he squeezes your hips, wanting to claim ownership of as much of your body as possible. “Terry, that was… you were amazing.”

“Just giving you a taste of the worship a woman like you deserves,” he croons in a light, teasing voice, moving himself around your body to lay gentle kisses on top of every bruise he sees; the day’s events had left you rather battered, though he sees no sign of serious injury. He would happily get on his knees and show you the depths of his devotion every day if you would allow it. He’ll do everything in his power to see to it that you do.

Unfortunately, you seem to have other plans, your hands moving to the drawstring of his sweatpants, one hand trailing down to stroke him over his pants while the other dips into his waistband, tugging him towards you.

“Your turn,” you inform him coyly, and he feels like a teenager again, getting close just from you fondling him over his clothes.

“God, sweetheart,” he groans, hips thrusting into your palm. “Feel how hard you make me,” he commands in a rough voice, and you squeeze his length in a way that makes him hiss with pleasure.

“I need to be inside you, Y/N,” he confesses, and you shudder against him. “Let me have you, let me make you mine, baby, please,” he begs, watching your eyes roll into the back of your head at his smutty words. You nod frantically, your eyes now scrunched shut, seemingly unable to speak. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, pulling his pants and briefs down in one fluid motion and kicking them off. When he looks back over to you, you’re staring at his cock with hooded eyes, your mouth agape.

“Terry, I…” you trail off, trying to find the words. “You’re so big.”

He can’t help the smug grin the spreads across his face at your words, and you giggle, rolling your eyes at him and rolling onto your side to bury your face in his pillow. He slides himself behind you, spooning you, his length insistently prodding between your thighs. You whimper, grinding your butt against him at the sensation.

“I’ll be gentle, honey; I promise,” he murmurs soothingly, running his hands up and down your arms as he clutches you to his chest. “Let me give you everything,” he coaxes, leaning down to kiss you as you turn your head to face him.

Occupying your mind with his tongue, he trails his hand down your body to your knee, lifting your leg up and back to wrap around his, allowing him to open you up. His other hand slides up your waist to your chest, his palm on top of your heart as he pulls you back against him. Guiding the head of his cock to your slick entrance, he slowly pushes inside you, swallowing your moans into his greedy mouth. You’re so fucking tight; it takes everything in him to keep from pounding into you.

“That’s it, baby,” he croons approvingly as you start to rock your hips back against his, letting out little mewls as you slowly take more and more of him. Your pussy feels like heaven, just as he knew it would.

“Mmmhhhnn, Terry!” you cry out, and he knows he’ll never get tired of hearing you moan his name. “M-m-more!”

“You want more, Y/N?” he asks in a low, harsh whisper, biting back a snarl as he grabs your knee possessively, bending it up towards his chest to spread you open more. “You want to take all of me?”

“Yes yes please!” you beg, and it’s music to his ears. He pulls out of you slightly, hearing you whine at the loss before thrusting his hips forward, sinking his cock fully inside you until he’s pressed up against your ass. He groans, your body gripping him tightly like it was trying to keep him there, sheathed inside of your tight heat forever.

“Oh fuck, baby, you feel amazing,” he pants in your ear, his arms wrapped around your torso as his hips set a slow, deep pace that has you nearly sobbing.

“Oh God, Terry baby, you’re so deep,” you whimper in his ear, still rocking your hips back and forth as much as you can in this position. “Your cock feels so amazing, fills me up like it was made to!”

He fucks you harder, spurred on by your dirty talk, and you let out a wanton wail in response, your fingernails digging into his forearms as you cling to him.

He pulls out before he loses himself completely, sitting up and kissing your ankle before rolling you onto your back. You hook your feet around his ass, pulling him towards you impatiently and making him chuckle at your enthusiasm. He eases himself back into you, resting his weight on his forearms to either side of your head and gazing deeply into your eyes.

Every time he’s fantasized about being with you for the last five years, he’s climaxed to the thought of your face looking up at him the way it is now. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t come in you for the first time while gazing down at your beautiful face, twisted into a mask of ecstasy because of him.

“You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart,” he breathes, looking at you with reverence. “You feel so good, I wish I could stay inside you forever.”

You hold his face in your hands, stroking his cheeks as yours flush from his praise. So innocent and shy, even while he’s balls deep in you.

“I want you to come for me, Y/N,” he purrs, trailing a hand down your body to where your hips are joined to play with your clit, watching every slight reaction you make with fascination. “Come on my cock, sweetheart – let go for me.”

Those seem to be the magic words; your eyes roll back into your head as your whole body clenches and twitches around him. You chant his name like a mantra, and he chases after his own orgasm, pumping his hips into you fast and deep as your cunt flutters around him, releasing inside you with an animalistic grunt of your name.

The two of you stay locked in an embrace as you both catch your breath, every inch of your bodies pressed together. He savours the feeling of bone deep satisfaction coursing through him, pressing kisses to every part of your body that his lips can reach.

Reluctantly, he twists himself free of your grip, smiling softly at your incoherent whine as he pulls away from you. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp cloth. You had been so tight, so much smaller than him, and he doesn’t want you hurting in the morning.

Tenderly, he takes the washcloth to your entrance, feeling your body relax under his ministrations. Finished with his task, he lifts you off the bed, holding you with one arm while he bends down to pull the blankets back before sitting you back down on the mattress.

“You’ll stay tonight?” he asks hesitantly, not wanting to push for anything more than you wanted but desperately wanting to spend the night holding you. You give him a shy smile and nod, wordlessly holding your arms out to him. He crawls into your embrace, sliding under the covers with you and taking you into his arms, murmuring sweet nothings into your hair and kissing your forehead.

He’s completely exhausted, but he fights to stay awake until after you’ve drifted off in his arms. The moonlight illuminates your face, and he’s pleased to see a soft smile curving your lips. Unlike when he’d walked in on you sleeping fitfully hours before, you now look completely serene. He feels a surprising amount of pride and pleasure at the fact that he was able to give you exactly what you’d asked for. He’d helped you to forget.

But he hadn’t forgotten.

At least one good thing came from knowing Cash Ewing: he had pushed you right into Terry’s embrace. Now that he’s finally got you, he’s not keen on letting you go.

*boos Anna Gilmour*

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Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

[Future parts go here!]

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