#today's second CLAMP rant of the day brought to you by PAIN

[the-musical-cc]

 OK so you know how we fans kinda sorta accepted as canon that Clow and Yuuko were steady, probably canoodling left and right behind the scenes and all that jazz?

I think we were wrong.

In the xxxHoLic Kei CD drama (The one that’s basically Yuuko telling Watanuki about some of the events in the Book of Mokona.) Clow says:  ‘However, this is the very first time the both of us spend so much time together.’ There’s something kinda weird when referring to two people who are in first-name basis and who tease each other so familiarly, so I’m not COMPLETELY sure of what it means, but we have Clow admitting they haven’t really spent much time together before. It doesn’t really negate any feelings they might have had for each other, but it does make it seem like they weren’t formal, so to say. I keep thinking about how in X/1999 Sorata upon meeting Arashi like once or twice decides she’s the woman he’s going to give his life for- it’s not that it’s exactly love at first sight, but it comes close.

This one comes with a grain of salt (Because while Yuuko doesn’t straight up lie, she tends to be cryptic about things- specially when it’s something the listener will understand in time.) but when Watanuki first asks her about knowing Clow she says ‘We were in the same line of business and we’ve known each other for a long time’ in a way that sounds like she’s talking about someone she had to suffer but wasn’t specially close to. A lot of fans (Myself included) interpreted this at some point as Yuuko just being kinda tsundere, because she refers to him in terms that make it seem she’s more than ‘Acquainted’ to him and gets annoyed at Watanuki’s pointing out that it sounds like they’re ‘Relations’. However, on revision, I don’t think she’s just doing that to be aloof. There was some real distance between them despite everything, for reasons we don’t really know- as for Watanuki’s comment irritating her, I feel like this might be more Watanuki hearing her call someone a creep and being like ‘Huh, sounds like someone I know.’ and making her annoyed by the comparison, which kind of lines more with how their interactions were that early on.

Going back to the CD drama, Yuuko tells Watanuki that Clow ‘Left his recipes and notes unwritten and left important things unsaid.’

There’s also Fei Wang’s words as he dissappears at the end of Tsubasa, where he says that along to her revival being the sole reason for his existance, delivering a message to her is part of what he must do. 

There is a part I recall also with Mokona (Though I can’t remember the exact chapter) saying the words ‘You can’t leave, you don’t know how much you mean to me’ and the panel cutting to a flashback of Clow. I used to think that was Mokona remembering him, but is it possible that was Clow’s sentiment when he subconsciously wished Yuuko back to life? 

What I’m getting at is I don’t think Clow ever actually told Yuuko he loved her. And it was part of why his wish for her to open her eyes was so strong.

If they hadn’t spent that much time together and he hadn’t actually told her he loved her, is it impossible that they were simply in love but not together? And then after shit hit the fan, they couldn’t be together anymore.

[raunchyom]

Vices, Not Virtues: Kindness

[ Chapter 3 ]

[ Previous ] [ Next ]

A/N: Surprise! Wasn’t planning to have this out on Levi’s birthday, but also wasn’t planning that hiatus. School, amirite? On the plus side, I’ll officially be free by May 1, at which point I can start updating this (semi-) regularly again, so look forward to it! Tagging: @devintrinidad // @dweeb-central

word count: 2.7k || warnings: n/a

Listening to Leviathan rant was pretty much something that came with the territory of being his friend.

Whether about anime, his brothers, video games, anime, school, socializing, normies… oh, and don’t forget anime. There was always something on his mind, and his severely limited social circle meant you were often the recipient of his rants. Today in particular, it spanned a lot of different topics. Your recent absence hadn’t gone unnoticed, and the way he was going on made it seem like he’d bottled up every single emotion over the past few days and shoved them into a box labelled ‘re-open for Mc.’ 

Not that you loved him any less for it, of course. Poor Levi really couldn’t catch a break, and he was so excited to have someone like you who really cared about him-- well, who could blame him for wanting to open up?

Over the past week in particular, he’d been subjected to the usual trauma around the house. Apparently, he’d had Asmo and Satan gang up on him about never leaving the house, even the bookworm agreeing that Levi was too far gone. Mammon had ‘borrowed’ something of his, only for it to never return. Levi knew it was a bad idea every time, but he was too easily won over by promises of his investments being worth it. The last Akuzon delivery was supposed to be a limited edition maid-cafe-style Ruri-chan figurine, that smelled like her bean-cake best friend Azuki-tan-- which, of course, meant that Beel took a bite out of the package before Levi could get there to stop him. Lucifer had lectured him about grades, saying that he knew Levi could do better, if only he stopped playing video games so much-- “as if that’s a compliment!” 

Levi finally stopped pacing, rolling his eyes at the mere memory of it. He glanced down to where you sat, perched on the side of his tub. 

It wasn’t the most comfortable seat in the house, but his room wasn’t exactly made for visitors; you had to make do when you were there for a rant. He’d generally start talking while playing a video game, then gradually pause it, turn around, and eventually stand up and act out his frustrations. It was better for you to just start off seated on the side of his tub, that way he would have an aquarium backdrop for when he inevitably paced in front of you. It gave you a nicer view from the start, and when he wanted to sit again, he could choose to pull up his gaming chair or, if he was feeling particularly bold, sit down next to you.

As if he heard your thoughts, Levi plopped down next to you with a frustrated sigh. “Ugh, they totally don’t deserve to have you helping them all the time.” He grumbled, almost as if talking to himself. “I mean, I don’t either. I don’t know why you spend so much time around some gross otaku. And listen to all my problems, and--”

“Levi, it’s fine.” You assured him, “I don’t mind; we’re friends.” 

Levi glanced at you from the corner of his eye, as if he didn’t believe you. He shifted his gaze back to the fish tank in front of him and continued, “Still, I know I’m always venting to you, and…” 

The lack of eye contact didn’t prevent him from seizing up in your presence. You could practically see the buffering symbol in his brain, mouth wavering as he tried to force the words out. His face was getting red just from knowing your eyes were on him, somehow feeling as if every moment you waited politely for him to continue was a moment of pure torture.

“You don’t ever talk to me.” He mumbled. The words slurred together, as if he could barely convince himself to enunciate the syllables. He fumbled with the cord of his headphones and his stare shifted to the floor. Even eye contact with the fish must’ve been too much.

“We talk all the time.” You sounded much less sure than you felt, probably more out of hurt than anything. Did your friendship not mean as much as you thought it did? 

“That’s not what I--!” Levi frowned harder, tugging more incessantly at his headphones. He huffed out a frustrated breath, knowing what he wanted to say but not how to say it. “You do talk to me, but… you listen to me a lot more…” 

“So… you want me to talk more?” Levi was usually pretty easy to read. Sure, he didn’t say his emotions outright, but they were often written all over his face. In times like this though, when he was stuttering and refusing to make eye contact even more than normal, he wasn’t quite as transparent.

“No! Well, I mean, yes, but not-- I meant-- why don’t you ever ask?” Levi finally blurted out, surprising you both. “...for help? Why don’t you ever ask for help?”

“Uh… what?” Well, this was out of nowhere. You were supposed to be listening to his problems, but now he was upset that you hadn’t brought up yours? Was there some part of his rant that you were supposed to cut into with your own? 

“I notice, around the house, and RAD, and-- and everywhere. You never let people help you with things. You never ask for it yourself, even when you need it.” After a second, his eyes widened. “Not-- Not that I watch you! I-It’s nothing weird like that! I-I’m gross, and an otaku, and-- b-but-- I don’t st-stalk you or anything!” 

It was funny, watching Levi dig his own grave deeper. On the one hand, it was amusing to hear Levi desperately try to explain away any potential misinterpretation, but it was mixed with a fair amount of confusion about what his point was supposed to be. Your face must have portrayed this in some way, or at least one of these two emotions, because a cursory glance from Levi had him forcing himself back on track before he could say anything worse.

“I mean, I get why you don’t want my help. I-I’m just some yucky otaku, who’s anti-social and um, probably couldn’t help with anything anyway.” Levi was really good at kicking himself while he was down. Given, he always seemed to be down, and he always seemed to be kicking himself.

“Levi, that’s not why...” The words fell away halfway through your sentence, having caught yourself before admitting to anything. 

“So why?” You may have caught yourself before admitting anything too damning, but Levi caught it too. He was dense, not an idiot. “No, you don’t have to tell me. I mean, there’s a lot of other reasons you might not ask for help, too. Maybe you don’t want to feel weak, or admit that you need help from other people. Or maybe it’s because it’s hard to ask someone for something, when you’re already annoying them just by being around them. Or…  that last one is probably just me.”

“You’re not annoy--”

“It’s not about that!” Levi cut you off, determined to make his point. “The point is, you can’t do everything by yourself. Even Henry has the seven lords to help him. And Ruri-chan has her friends. In fact, her friends are what make her so--”

Levi took a deep breath, for once stopping his own tirade about anime. “Can you just… tell me why, at least?”

Song references aside, it wasn’t an easy question to answer, even if you wanted to. Levi didn’t often ask for this kind of thing though, which made it hard to turn him down. “It’s a lot of things, like you said. I just want to show that I can. Do things on my own, I mean.”

Levi frowned, unsure how to combat you. He already wasn’t exactly a pro on asking people for help, he holed up in his room too much for that. He had been, so far, basing it off the rare times he left his room. But now you were mentioning something that he could relate to on some level, except… “You… want to prove yourself?”

“I guess.” Not how you’d phrase it, necessarily, but not entirely inaccurate. Or really, it was oversimplifying the issue by a long shot, but it was better to give Levi half credit rather than no credit. His self esteem could certainly use it.

“But why!? You’re-- you’re so cool! You made a pact with every demon in the House of Lamentation! You could make a pact with Diavolo if you tried! You taught Satan to control his anger, you got Asmo to care about someone other than himself, you stood up to Lucifer when he was going to kill Beel and Luke-- and you, too!--, you got Belphie to get along with everyone again, you even died and--” It could’ve been that he realized what he was saying, or it could’ve been that he saw your face when he brought it up; either way, Levi clamped his mouth shut mid-sentence.

“I-I mean, not everyone gets to respawn.” He mumbled, hoping a video game reference would make it less awkward again. After a moment of silence, he reiterated his original point. “You don’t need to prove yourself. You already have.” 

It was heartwarming, hearing Levi sing your praises as he did. But that wasn’t exactly a quick fix for the fact that asking for help meant admitting you were bad at something. Or even just admitting to needing help at all. Lucifer said he had to teach you some pride, well here was a lesson you could skip. This one you knew well: don’t want to swallow your pride and ask for help? Easy, just don’t ever ask!

Levi seemed antsy to fill the silence, but managed to hit the nail on the head when he spoke again. “I know how it feels, when you see someone that’s better than you at something. It’s frustrating. And painful. Especially if you’re supposed to be the best, and then someone else knows more than you do, about a book series that they just read for the first time, and then spoil stuff about the one that hasn’t even been released yet, even though you’re the number one TSL fan and they shouldn’t even have that informa--”

“That was one time!” You protested. Levi let out a puff of air that was somewhere in between a scoff and a snort, but he didn’t seem to be legitimately angry. Then again, leave it to Levi to hold a grudge from the early days of the exchange program.

“Sometimes though, you can use that jealousy. Being jealous of someone can drive you to get better at things, or to learn from them. Or just ask them for help, if you have to. I’m never gonna work out like Beel, so if I need help lifting something I’ll just ask him for help doing it.” He deliberately didn’t mention his past experiences in asking for Beel’s help in getting fit, hoping you didn’t know about the devilgram posts Asmo made about it. You did, but decided to let it go. After a moment of consideration, he added, “I usually have to pay him with food, though.

“We may not always get along, but at least my brothers and I know how to depend on each other. Lucifer may act-- well, be annoyed a lot, but there’s a reason everyone goes to him for help. He helps the people he cares about… even if it comes with a lecture. Everyone knows to go to Satan if they need information, or help studying. Asmo’s so good with fashion that he works with Majolish, and still--” Levi’s chest puffed out a bit as he spoke-- “he comes to me for help in design too, since he knows I’m the best at cosplays.”

“That almost sounded like you were complimenting yourself.” Levi deflated a bit at your teasing tone, both embarrassed and a bit self-conscious. You felt some guilt about the latter, but none from the former. Not when his embarrassment meant his face scrunched up like that, and he floundered to go back on his own claims.

“W-Well, I didn’t mean-- of course I’m good at otaku stuff! A normie wouldn’t understand!” He floundered, clearly at a loss for what to say if he was falling back on calling you a normie. That was pretty much his version of sticking his tongue out when he lost.

“It’s hard to imagine Mammon ever gets asked for help.” You offered, trying to get him back on track. ...and maybe continue to push his buttons just a tad.

“That idiot--” Levi took a deep breath, gritting his teeth as he sought a way to talk about Mammon without including some form of insult, “He gets into trouble all the time, obviously. He’s a moron because of the kind of trouble he gets into, not because he asks for help. At least he knows to come to us for help when he needs it.”

At that, Levi gave you a pointed look. Well, consider that the last time you ever try to help him get back on track.

“Mc, none of us will think less of you. People usually consider it an ego-boost if someone comes to them for help. Especially if it’s y--” Levi fumbled, quick to brush past his near-slip. “If anything, we want to help. If you asked for help with your work and school and things, you’d have more time to yourself; for watching anime and playing games.” 

Levi tried to make it sound like he was being benevolent, but the implied ‘with me’ was hard to miss.

“So, you could try asking for help some more, to lighten your load. If you want. It would make me--  um, make u-us feel better, too.” He seemed content in ending it there, and made an effort to end any potential continuation of the topic. Flipping on a dime, Levi was quick to talk over any potential response. “Th-That’s all, anyways!  Uh, we can just-- go back to, you know. Playing devilcart, or um, we can watch some anime, or--”

“Thank you, Levi.” You had to put a hand on his arm to make him listen, the simple action instantly sending the touch-starved demon into fight-or-flight mode. “I’ll try.”

He swallowed back his nerves and nodded, surprised he had managed to make it through that whole talk. You were too, really, as soon as you realized that this was supposed to be his intervention for you.

As much as you might loathe to admit it, his talk made sense. Or at least it had some aspects of truth to it, and perhaps you felt marginally better about asking the bros for help. Levi made it very clear how he felt about wanting to help you, the least you could do was see if the others felt the same. And hey, maybe he had a point about people wanting you to ask them for help in general, too. Who would’ve guessed it, but so far these demons seemed to know a thing or two about sinning.

---

“Is something the matter, my Lord?”

“It’s been awfully quiet the past few days. I wonder what those brothers are up to?” Boredom generally caused Diavolo’s mind to wander to the Devildom’s most notorious troublemakers, but this week especially. His fellow members of the student council had been quieter than normal, without even a yelling match in days; much less something exciting enough to warrant Diavolo’s attention. Thus leaving the prince here, sighing as he pondered their goings on.

Barbatos poured Diavolo’s tea with a knowing smile. “They have been quite busy this week.”

“Oh?”

“It seems they’re corrupting Mc.” Barbatos spoke as if it were a common occurrence. 

Diavolo chuckled. “Should we be worried?”

“Quite the opposite. They’re working together to get Mc to take better care of themself.”

“Is that so?” Lethargy had caused Diavolo to ignore his tea at first, but the new information made him forget about it altogether. Diavolo sat up straighter, excitement tugging his mouth into a smile. “Perhaps I’ll bring tomorrow’s meeting to Lucifer, and pay the house of lamentation a visit.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

[hawkbucks]

Prompt: AU where everything is the same except Howard wasn’t Uber-rich and Tony built SI ground up, focusing on clean energy and science and tech and Bucky meets him for the first time at the expo. (Nat can be his PA?) (modern setting AU?)

“What the fuck!” Bucky exclaims as he drops the laminated badge on the table. He stares at it in disbelief, ignoring Steve’s snickering. Then, he picks it back up and holds it up to the light coming in through one of the windows, scrutinizing it like a hundred dollar bill. His name is typed neatly in the middle, a string of words underneath declaring him to be a VIP pass holder which, holy shit. General admission tickets are hard enough to come by—they’re surprisingly cheap and, by that virtue, sell out faster than Bucky can recite the Stark Industries motto, but VIP passes? Those are usually reserved for rich tech enthusiasts. Insiders. CEO’s of the damn companies that went to the Expo to do some schmoozing, grandstanding, and bragging. People who are people. Not someone like… him.

“Nat thought you would like it,” Steve says, patting him on the back and picking up the now discarded box the badge came in. “Said that it’s her apology for not being able to celebrate with us today.”

“Natasha got me this?” He waves the badge around, wide-eyed, the laminate making wobbly noises with each pass back and forth. “How the hell did she afford it?”

Steve’s genial smile fades away, replaced by furrowed brows and a small frown. “She’s… Tony Stark’s PA.”

“What? Since fuckin’ when?” Last time Bucky checked, Natasha was still working in that old record store down the street with Sam and definitely not working as the personal assistant of one of the most influential men in the world of technology. Maybe the most influential, if Bucky is allowed to be a fanboy.

“Since 2 weeks ago?” Steve tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Remember when she brought you that mug? She said that she told you right after.”

Bucky ponders for a second. “She might’ve, but honestly, I was distracted by th’ mug,” he admits sheepishly. It was a very good mug, in his opinion. It had Tony Stark’s signature printed on it, along with their signature arc reactor logo (and, given the chance, Bucky could gush all day long about the arc reactor and the sheer brilliance behind it, but so far no one has been willing to sit down and listen to that).

Steve sighs. “Why am I not surprised?”

(As he scrolls through his Twitter feed before bedtime, he’s immediately hit by the memory of him fawning over Stark’s appearance in a video uploaded by Stark Industries a week ago. Natasha was visiting, humming as she listened to his adjective-filled rant.

Natasha heard him say that her boss has killer thighs and pretty lips.

He grabs one of his pillows and slams it down over his face, hoping that if he stays in that position long enough, he’d suffocate.)

“I don’t know what to wear,” he moans, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“It’s a convention,” Sam says, throwing him a sidelong look, “not a date.”

He lifts his arm up just enough to glare at Sam. Judging by Sam’s shit-eating grin, however, it’s not very effective. “Exposition,” he corrects. Blegh, he’s starting to sound like one of those pretentious technobabble YouTubers. “It’s an exposition, and I’d rather not go there lookin’ like I was thrown into a washer with my clothes and came out wearin’ whatever stuck.” He breathes in deeply. “And did you know that Nat is Stark’s PA?”

Sam laughs. “Dude, she told me that before she even went in for the interview. She was confident and, hey—” he shrugs his shoulders— “it worked.”

Bucky grunts. “Unfortunately. Or fortunately.” Without her, he wouldn’t have that pass, even if it is proving to be more of an inducer of anxiety than excitement. “Now are you goin’ to help me pick out an outfit or what?”

“Or what,” Sam snickers.

“No, no, the grey one would be better. It brings out your eyes,” Sam comments, leaning against the doorway and watching as Bucky takes off a dusty mauve long sleeve and replaces it with a dark grey button-up.

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “What happened to not helpin’ me pick out an outfit?”

“I thought about it, and, man… I can’t let you go out looking like a hot mess ‘cause you didn’t get my advice. I’d feel bad.” Sam crosses his arms. “Especially when you’re gonna meet your crush.” He wiggles his eyebrows and deftly dodges the discarded mauve long sleeve that Bucky launches his way.

“S’not a crush,” Bucky hisses, “and the pass isn’t a guarantee that I’ll meet him.”

Sam snorts. “It’s not a crush, you say, as if I haven’t had to listen to you go on and on about how Stark’s revolutionizing clean tech or how he’s donated, like, 3 gajillion bucks to a water charity. And c’mon, Nat’s his PA. You’d be lucky if she didn’t come up with a plan to keep him near you for every damn second you’re at that expo.”

As much as Bucky hates to admit it, Sam does have a point. Nat is notorious for meddling in their love lives for her own amusement, and she has concrete and definite proof that Bucky finds a modicum of attractiveness in Stark. He covers up a pained groan with one hand. Is it too late to send the badge back?

He is horribly, painfully aware that his expression must resemble a fish out of water as he steps into the admissions line. Double-check, triple-check. He has his ID, the badge, and his debit card just in case. Plus his phone, a portable charger, and its actual charger if he’s able to find the time to sit down. A backpack is slung over his shoulders, decorated with pins of his favorite sci-fi shows and a couple superheroes.

The smile he gives to the woman checking his items in is shaky at best, but he finds himself comforted when she picks up on his nervousness and tells him that there’s nothing to worry about, go and enjoy yourself now.

He clips the badge onto his front pocket and tries not to trip over his own feet as he enters the exhibition hall.

Pym Technologies is too busy showing off some sort of shrinking-slash-enlargening formula and he’s too busy trying to desperately not let his mind wander into the gutter to notice Natasha stepping up behind him.

“James,” she says, hand clamping down on his shoulder.

He does not yelp, thank you very much, but he does whirl around quicker than what should be humanly possible and levels her with one of his frowns.

“Grey looks nice on you,” she comments, ignoring his sour face. “It makes your eyes pop.”

“Sam helped.” His gaze flickers down to the clipboard that she’s cradling in one arm, then to the official-looking nametag that she has hanging from a lanyard around her neck. “An’… thanks for the pass.”

“It’s the least I could do for one of my best friends.”

Bucky narrows his eyes as Natasha’s sparkle. That sentence is so not Natasha that his gut is telling him that either a) Natasha has been replaced with a remarkable lookalike who is still trying to get the hang of it or b) she’s about to pull something devious and amuse herself at his expense. Going off the amount of time that he’s known her for, he’s assuming it’s option b.

She looks down at her watch that Bucky is pretty sure is non-functional and says, “I have to go, but you should come by the Stark Industries presentation area at 2. We’re not due to present until 3:30, but your pass will let you in.” She winks, and Bucky knows that should really means you better come or I will hunt you down and not even Steve could save you from my fury.

Each step he takes towards the Stark Industries presentation area feels like another step towards his demise. He can’t help the pounding in his chest or the way his arms start to turn into jelly. He can’t help the sweat threatening to fall from his brow or his knees valiantly attempting to give out. He has a sneaking suspicion in the back of his mind of what Natasha has planned, and he thinks back to what Sam said earlier about how Natasha would not let a second pass where he and Stark were not in close proximity.

He doesn’t even notice that he’s arrived until an arm clad in a black sleeve collides with his chest. He looks up, startled, at a stocky man with a severe expression. “You’re not allowed back here, buddy,” the man says, a firm crease between his brows.

“Uh.” Bucky fumbles with his badge before holding it up. “My friend said that my pass would let me in.”

“Well, your friend was wrong.” The man crosses his arms. “You should get going before—”

“Let him through, Happy.” In swoops Natasha in all her glory, looking like a fiery-haired angel sent down from the heavens. “I told him to come.”

The man—Happy, which is an unfitting nickname if Bucky’s ever heard one (and he’s heard a lot)—stares at him long enough that he contemplates leaving the exposition and quite possibly the country, before grumbling something unintelligible and stepping to the side.

He steps through, shoulders hunched. He doesn’t relax until he’s face-to-face with Natasha. “M’here. Like you told me to be.”

“Color me impressed. I thought you’d ditch.”

He snorts. “And risk havin’ you hunt me down ‘til I die? No thanks.”

“Smart.” She turns around, nearly whipping him in the face with her hair. “Now follow me. I have someone I want you to meet.”

Oh, god no, he thinks as he trails behind Natasha like a duckling. Her heels clack against the polished floor. People scramble to get out of her way, and, judging by the smirk she gives him over her shoulder, she enjoys it. “Tony!” she calls out as they approach a figure with a turned back and no, no, don’t turn around, don’t turn around, do—

and Stark turns around and he has to fight down a weird sobbing noise because Stark manages to look even better in person. Fierce intelligence glitters in his eyes and there’s an ever present curl to his lips, like he’s thought of a joke that he wouldn’t mind sharing if you asked nicely. “Romanoff!” he calls back. “My favorite PA.” Stark locks eyes with Bucky and he holds that gaze for just a moment before tearing away and focusing on Natasha.

“Please, you say that to all your PA’s.” Natasha pats Bucky’s back a bit harder than necessary. “Do you remember that friend I told you about? The one who is a fan of yours? This is him. His name is James and he is very excited to be here.” She lets her hand wander down to his side and pinches him lightly. You talk to him, he can hear her say in his head, because I do not want you to go home and mope to Steve about how you couldn’t. (Is Natasha actually telepathic or has he hanged around her enough that he has adopted a mini-Natasha in his mind? He doesn’t know and at this point he’s too afraid to ask.)

“And I’m very excited to meet him,” Stark says with a wink. Bucky wonders if he died somewhere along the way, because there is no way that Tony Stark just winked at him. Stark sticks his right hand out for a handshake.

Bucky swallows down his anxious thoughts before clasping his left hand with Stark’s right and giving it one, two, three quick shakes. They withdraw, and Bucky tries not to think about the fact that he already misses the weight of Stark’s hand in his own.

“Firm grip,” Stark whistles, and Bucky feels heat rise up on his cheeks. “Stark-made?”

Bucky rolls his left arm—his prosthetic that he’s been wearing since he’s come home from the military. “Baintronics.” Even if he wanted a Stark Industries prosthetic, Baintronics was the one with the military contract.

“Least it’s not Hammer,” Stark jokes.

Bucky chuckles, and that turns into him biting down on his lower lip when Stark smiles, pleased that he was able to draw a reaction. He really doesn’t need to be blurting out something like your smile is so pretty, please let me buy you lunch or I’ve admired you ever since you were in the newspaper for making an advanced medical drone at the age of 18, you’re so smart, please let me buy you lunch or I appreciate the fact that you donate so much to clean energy coalitions, please let me buy you lunch or anything else that would end in him extending an invitation to Stark for lunch. He might be a bit hungry.

“But you know,” Stark starts, taking Bucky out of all of his lunch-related thoughts, “we are starting a round of clinical trials for a new prosthetic designed by yours truly. It’s supposed to introduce finer motor control—sew some thread through a needle kind of fine, if my prototypes are to be believed—and the touch receptors are a thousands times more sensitive. You should be able to feel the ridges on the side of a penny!” Stark beams, the corner of his eyes crinkling. “The installation, though, would be a lengthy process—hopefully not too painful, I’m trying hard not to make it that way, and we won’t be able to get you fitted with one right away, but if it sounds like something you’re interested in, I can, uh… you can sign up. I can’t guarantee that you’ll be picked, but…” Stark looks at him with something like hope glittering in his eyes. “If you want.”  

Bucky considers Stark’s offer for all of 5 seconds before going, “Yes. Yeah. I know you’re not promisin’ it, but if I do end up gettin’ it, it’d be a hell of a lot better than this weighty thing.” He rolls his left shoulder, wincing as the anchor point tugs at his skin.

Stark hums and nods, a flicker of concern crossing his face when Bucky winces. “Much better.” He turns to look at Natasha. “Mark him down, will you, Nat?”

Natasha smiles graciously, whipping a pen out from god knows where, and scribbles something down on her clipboard. “His name is down, Tony. I took the liberty of adding his number, too. Now if you excuse me, Ms. Potts has just arrived and if I remember correctly, you asked me to escort her here.” She bows out of the conversation, subtly jabbing Bucky with her pen as she does so.

“Don’t forget to give her the slice of cake I saved!” Stark shouts as Natasha walks away.

“I never forget, Mr. Stark,” Natasha replies at a much quieter volume.

“She really doesn’t,” Stark comments to Bucky, shaking his head with a fond look on his face (and no, Bucky is not jealous that it isn’t directed towards him). “A true miracle worker. So, James—” and that bright smile is back on his face— “care to talk a bit longer?”

Bucky still isn’t entirely sure if this is a lucid fever dream that he’s having or not, because out of everyone that Tony can talk to, like Rumiko Fujikawa, the runner of one of the most popular tech-focused YouTube channels on the face of the planet, or Reed Richards, the founder of the ambitious Future Foundation, he chooses to talk to him. Plain James Barnes.

It’s mind-boggling.

And seeing this side of Tony Stark? Where he’s relaxed, his tie loosened with no qualms on questioning whether Anakin’s midi-chlorian count would’ve shrunk due to losing a good chunk of his body or whether his blood would simply make more to make up for it while they lounge on a couch that’s too comfortable for its own good? Well…

Bucky clears his throat, cutting Stark off mid-rant. “In Empire of Dreams, Lucas says that if Anakin didn’t get, uh, cut in half on Mustafar, he would’ve been as twice as powerful as Palpatine, so, yeah, I’d say that he lost some of his midi-chlorians.”

Stark stares at him. He looks down at his lap, unsure if he should’ve said that or if he should’ve just kept his mouth shut. “God,” Stark breathes out, “I could kiss you right now.”

Those words send a jolt of electricity down Bucky’s spine; he’s stunned into silence.

“Sorry. Sorry, that probably made you uncomfortable.” Stark waves a hand, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks. “I’m just—I’m not used to anyone listening when I talk about this stuff, so having you respond… I don’t have a filter. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Bucky says quickly. “S’flatterin’. Never had anyone want to kiss me after a conversation about Star Wars.” Sam did want to do something to him after he forced him to sit through a marathon of the entire series, but he’s pretty sure that that want was the want to strangle him with a plastic bag as opposed to kissing him.

“Maybe you just hang out with the wrong people,” Stark teases.

“I should tell Natasha you said that.”

“Perish the thought.” Stark grabs a handful of pretzels from the bowl set out in front of them by an intern more than likely wanting to get on Stark’s good side. “Anything you’re particularly looking forward to this Expo?” he asks, popping a pretzel into his mouth.

“Pretty much just SI’s presentation,” Bucky admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, Pym’s formula sounds promisin’, but… god, I must sound like a kiss-ass right now.”

“Keep going,” Stark says around a mouthful of pretzel, “it’s doing wonders for my ego.”

Bucky laughs, shoulders becoming less stiff. “Yeah. SI. I’ve been keeping up with your progress on the miniature arc reactors. S’probably the one thing that I’m real into right now.”

Stark leans forward. “The arc reactors?” he asks, intrigued.

“Yeah. They’re small, but they have so much energy in them, you know? 8 gigajoules per second, man,” Bucky whistles. “That’s pretty damn amazin’. Could probably run Times Square for a couple of weeks.”

“More like a couple of hours,” Stark chuckles. “If you ever want to see them up close, I’m sure I can arrange something.”

Bucky can’t stop his jaw from dropping. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah. We actually have the big one that powers Stark Tower on display for the people that take the tours, but you said you were interested in the minis…” Stark trails off, tapping his chin with his index finger. “Well, Nat… Nat trusts you, so I think it’s fine if I trust you. I wouldn’t mind bringing you down to show you the minis. ‘Course you’d have to sign some NDAs and go through some security, but, honestly? You seem way more excited and into this than the other people I’ve showed them to. Pretty sure they just want to brag about how the Tony Stark gave them the nickel tour as opposed to being genuinely curious about the science behind the reactors.” Stark leans back into the cushions. “You’re a breath of fresh air, James.”

“Bucky.”

“Hm?”

“You can call me Bucky. It’s what my friends call me.”

Stark throws him a pretzel which he thankfully catches. “And are we friends, Bucky?” he asks with that curl to his lips again.

Bucky barely represses a shudder at the way his nickname rolls off Stark’s tongue so casually, like it was meant to be there. “If—If you want to be.”

“Then we are.” Stark rolls his shoulders and allows himself to sink further into the couch. “I’d also have to insist on you calling me Tony, by the way. Stark is too formal. Because we’re friends.”

Bucky smiles. “Okay, Tony.”

“And, since we’re friends, why don’t you come out with us to dinner? Nothing too fancy, I promise, just some burgers and a milkshake. You up for it?”

Oh, god. He’s gonna have to pay Natasha back big time. Buy her some expensive knife that she’s been eyeing or something. Clean her apartment for a week. Grill her those steaks he makes that she likes so much. To have been given the chance to take Tony off of the pedestal that he built for him and be shown that he’s very much human, then to be given another chance to talk to Tony along with being offered a glimpse at the arc reactors, then to be invited out to dinner by the man himself… damn. “Burgers and a milkshake sounds good. Fries?”

“What meal would be complete without it?” Tony looks at his watch. “I’ve gotta head off to makeup now—they’re gonna make me look all pretty—but I’m gonna be looking for you when I present, okay? Ask Happy to bring you to the front row.” He takes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to Bucky. “If you’re fine with it, can you give me your number? I need a way to contact you for the arc reactor thing.”

Bucky hopes his hands aren’t shaking as he adds himself into Tony Stark’s contact list under “Bucky :)”. He hands it back to Tony, careful not to drop it.

“Thank you,” Tony singsongs and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. “I’ll hopefully see you later, Bucky.” He mock salutes him and ff Tony goes, a woman with a black apron and a brush immediately magnetizing to his side the second he gets more than a few steps away from the couch.

As he watches Tony leave, Bucky suddenly remembers that Natasha had already put his number down.

[king-finnigan]

(I’m So) Human - Chapter 3

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

A/n: Jaskier confronts Geralt, finally, and uhhh... yells at him (it’s what he deserves). This chapter contains lyrics from Arms Unfolding by dodie after every paragraph and I really recommend listening to it cause it’s a beautiful song! As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

A year. A year without Geralt.

A year without getting yelled at, without being told he’s a nuisance, without getting chased away – at least not by the Witcher. Without arguments over stupid, little things like who ate the last piece of bread or who spilled ale on his favourite doublet, or who ruined the other person’s entire life, apparently.

A year without having to wash out monster blood and guts from white hair, without threading his fingers through silver locks, without muck on his hands, without lightly dragging his nails across the Witcher’s scalp and seeing a tiny shiver run down Geralt’s spine. Without having to cower from monsters, without adventures, without new scars that take ages to heal, without adrenaline in his veins.

A year without stupid jokes and shared ales and sleeping close to someone he trusts with his life. Without deep chuckles and hummed approvals of new songs and making fun of people together. Without sunshine eyes and starlight hair and someone to run to when things get scary. Without his best friend, without the person he used to love most.

Without Geralt.

A year with hurt and sleeping around in an effort to heal what’s left of his heart and drowning his sorrows and being so goddamn tired all the time.

A year with barely anyone recognizing him without his Witcher by his side and getting robbed nonetheless and feeling unsafe and alone and scared.

A year with dwindling money as he drinks, in an effort to feel something, anything. Or maybe nothing at all. He can’t remember.

A year, two weeks, five days, six hours. Or so. He’s not keeping count. It doesn’t matter.

And then, a knock on the door of the run-down inn he’s been staying at for the past week. He opens it in a daze, thinking that, surely, it’s the innkeeper here to kick him out, or a vengeful lover of someone he slept with, or the nice barmaid, who keeps bringing him two meals every day even though he doesn’t ask for it and barely eats it – he’s just not hungry.

But no. It’s a figment of his imagination, a last hurrah of his drunken mind – even though he barely drank today – as it produces the one thing, the one person he so desperately wants to see and never wants to see again, at the same time. Everything about the vision is painfully familiar, and makes his heart clench in his chest. The black armour, the white, perpetually dirty hair, the sunflower eyes.

Jaskier sighs, scratching at his beard, and he realizes he forgot to shave. Again. For two weeks. Fuck.

He stares at the phantom in the hallway for another second, before closing the door. It slams shut, and he turns around, walking across the room to his bed. What time is it even? Doesn’t matter, I need a nap.

He chuckles – a little deranged, even in his own ears – as the memory of the djinn resurfaces. More specifically, right before his voice was attacked – which, according to a certain Witcher, was his own fault, but okay – and he had told Geralt that he needed a nap. He wonders, now, if this is how the Witcher had felt back then: sleep-deprived, confused, tired, not sure what’s real and what’s not, anymore.

Yeah, I definitely need a nap. He lets himself fall on the bed, closing his eyes against the late afternoon light shining through the window. Oh, look at that, I do know the time.

He frowns when he hears another knock at the door. Maybe, if he ignores it, whoever it is this time will just go away. Or not, if it’s still that figment of his imagination. Either way, he needs some sleep, and he’s not opening the door again.

He closes his eyes, letting himself sink into the not entirely comfortable mattress. Still, it’s better than sleeping outside on his bedroll, all alone. Not as good as sleeping outside on my bedroll with Geralt there, though.

He groans a bit, rubbing at his eyes with his knuckles, figures dancing behind his eyelids. He seriously needs to stop thinking about the Witcher all the goddamn time.

Another knock sounds on the door, this time a little more urgent. Then, a voice. One he would recognize in a million, and he shoots up at the sound of it. “Jaskier?” Maybe it’s not a hallucination, after all. Or maybe it is.

Only one way to find out.

He takes an apple, still on the tray the nice barmaid brought him this morning, and walks to the door. He waits for a second, taking a deep breath, before opening the door quickly. It bounces off the wall a bit, and maybe-Geralt looks up, almost startled, at the sound of it.

The confusion on the Witcher’s face turns into a frown when the apple bounces off his chest. “I deserved that.”

Oh. So it is real Geralt. Huh.

A year of imagining what he would say if he ever saw the Witcher again, what he would do. Would he punch him, close the door on him, would he kiss him? Now, his mind comes up empty, though, as he simply stares at the spot where the apple had hit the broad chest. There’s a piece of the fruit’s skin stuck on the armour, he notices.

He takes a deep breath, still unsure whether he’s going for a death threat or a love confession, or maybe neither. Or maybe both. Instead, he says: “What the fuck, Geralt?”

The Witcher presses his lips together, and looks to the side, clearly unsure as to what to say. His mouth opens and closes, his hand coming up to scratch at his neck. “I uh… had a speech prepared, but… I forgot it.”

Jaskier simply stares at him, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “You… forgot it?”

Geralt pulls the corners of his mouth down, chewing on the inside of his cheek so hard Jaskier can see his teeth grinding down on the skin. “Yeah… I… forgot it.”

They’re quiet for another few moments, Jaskier staring at Geralt, while Geralt stares at anything but Jaskier. Finally, the Bard’s had enough.

“Fuck you, Geralt. Seriously. What the hell were you thinking? I mean, really? Blaming me for all your problems wasn’t enough, you just had to tell me the things you wanted most in the world was me gone? Seriously?” He’s properly pissed now, the leftover alcohol in his veins only amplifying his emotions and lowering his boundaries, giving him the chance to dump out all the frustration and anger he’s felt over the past year. And two weeks. And five days. And six hours.

Geralt has the decency to look slightly guilty, his gaze directing itself to his feet, then to Jaskier’s grown out hair, then to the scruff on the Bard’s chin, then to his own feet again. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier puts his fists on his hips, blunt nails pressing crescent moons into his palms. “Oh, now you’re sorry? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s been well over a year since you, you know, fucking yelled at me for no reason. So now you show up here, after a year, and to… what? Say ‘oh, I’m sorry’? I don’t know if you know this, dear Witcher, but you really fucking hurt my feelings and ‘I’m sorry’ just isn’t going to cut it!”

He’s yelling by the end of his rant, now only a few inches from Geralt’s face, finger pressing into the armour accusingly. Geralt simply looks at him, ever present frown on his face, but guilt in his eyes, too.

The Witcher exhales, long, deep. “I know. I know there’s nothing I can do to make this right.” He sighs again, breath fanning over Jaskier’s skin. “I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I really am. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier takes a step back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And what if I don’t forgive you?”

The Witcher sighs, once more, seemingly deflating a bit with every breath. “Then I’ll leave. And you’ll never have to see me again, if you don’t want to.”

It is then that Jaskier realizes that he doesn’t want to never see Geralt again. Well, shit.

Hope I’m not tired of rebuilding, cause this might take a little more.

 He sighs, rolling his eyes. For a second he hesitates. Then, uncrossing his arms, takes a reluctant step to the side. “Come in, I don’t think the other people here will appreciate it if you and I keep talking in the hallway.”

He closes the door behind Geralt, who looks around the slightly dishevelled room. The Witcher bends, picking up an empty bottle of Cintran ale. “You’ve been drinking.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Yeah, well, you’ve given me reason to drink.”

Geralt sighs, putting the bottle down on the table, next to the still full tray the nice barmaid delivered this morning, the one that Jaskier had taken the apple from. The Witcher frowns, lightly touching the edge of the tray with his fingertips. “You’re not eating, either.”

Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes as he leans against the door. “Look, if all you’re going to do is start criticizing me again, then you can leave, Geralt. Seriously.”

Geralt turns around, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed. “I’m just worried about you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline again and he lets out a chuckle that contains no humour. “You didn’t seem to worry about me when you told me to fuck off on a monster-overrun mountain.” Geralt looks down at his feet again, but Jaskier can’t stop the words now, as old hurt resurfaces, still as painful as it was a year ago. “You didn’t seem to be bothered about leaving me in this big, scary world you kept warning me about.”

“Jaskier, I-“

“I’m not done, Geralt.” The Witcher clamps his mouth shut, still looking at his feet as Jaskier continues: “You warned me about how dangerous the world can be without a Witcher by my side. Well, you were right. I got attacked by monsters, I got robbed, I got beaten up for no reason other than people thought it was fun. So are you happy now, Geralt? Did you at least finally get your blessed silence?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, but opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, looking at Jaskier apologetically, shaking his head slightly.

Jaskier smiles tightly, the action almost painful. Guess I forgot how to smile. “I just have one question, Geralt. Just answer honestly, and I’ll consider forgiving you.” The Witcher looks up expectantly, sunflower eyes containing hope and sincerity like Jaskier’s never seen before, and he wonders if Geralt’s eyes have always been so beautiful, or if he’s just forgotten.

He shrugs the thought away, instead focusing on the anger and hurt that’s still there, in the pit of his stomach. “How could you, Geralt?”

The Witcher sighs, uncrossing his arms, gripping the table edge behind him. Vulnerable, open. “Honestly? I don’t know.”

Jaskier scoffs as the silence stretches between them. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say? Geralt, what you said hurt me, a lot. It fucked me up and… I haven’t been the same since. And now you come here after a year, and you tell me you don’t know why you said what you said, why you hurt me like that?” He sighs, casting his eyes up at the wooden ceiling. “If that’s really all you have to say for yourself, then I need you to leave, Geralt.”

“Look, I just… I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight and I was angry and I guess I just needed someone to take it out on. And you were there, and I just… snapped. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine.” It’s silent for a few more seconds, and finally, Geralt really looks him in the eye. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said, I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself. I’m sorry, I was wrong. Please forgive me.”

Jaskier narrows his eyes. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘please’.”

Geralt clenches his jaw, closing his eyes for just a second, before looking at the Bard again. “Yeah, well, you’re worth saying ‘please’ for.”

Jaskier genuinely smiles at that, a chuckle escaping his lips for what seems to be the first time in a year, two weeks, five days, and six hours. And a half. “Geralt, that has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

The Witcher laughs, too, sunshine on a winter’s day, the first light of dawn after a year of darkness. “Yeah, well, you’re worth saying stupid things for, as well.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Seriously, my dear Witcher, do you not have any dignity left? You show up to this shithole of a town, and – look at you – you haven’t taken a bath in weeks. And then you start saying corny stuff like that? I can’t believe this.”

Geralt frowns a bit, though the smile is still on his face. “You’re one to talk. You’re drunk in the middle of the day, you’re unshaven, your hair’s a mess. Seriously, of all people, I would’ve thought that you could handle heartbreak the best.”

They’re quiet for a moment, and Geralt’s smile dies down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“No, you’re right. I could’ve… dealt with it a bit better. But I’m glad you’re here now, Geralt.” He smiles, lightly, and feels an old spark rekindle in his chest as sunflower eyes look into his.

“I’m glad I’m here, too, Jaskier. I missed you.” That old, familiar, crooked smile, and the spark grows.

Jaskier laughs. “I missed you too, you big softie.”

I think I’d like to try look at you and feel the way I did before.

҉   ҉    ҉

They’re sitting downstairs, in a corner of the room – as Geralt prefers, Jaskier remembers. Though, after twenty-two years together, little things like that are hard to forget, anyways. Not that I haven’t tried.

The nice barmaid who always brings Jaskier food is surprised to see him outside of his room at this hour – he usually comes downstairs late in the evening, when he’s already well past drunk. She’s even more surprised to see him in Geralt’s company, her big, brown eyes asking him silently if everything’s alright. He nods at her reassuringly, as Geralt orders two plates of food and a pitcher of water.

Jaskier frowns. “Okay, first of all, you’re wasting your coin. I’m not hungry.”

Geralt scoffs. “I don’t care, you have to eat something.”

Jaskier ignores it, leaning back in his seat, arms crossed. “Secondly, since when did you stop ordering ale with your food?”

The Witcher blinks, once, twice. “Since now.” He leans back as well as the nice barmaid comes back with their food and the pitcher of water. Jaskier smiles at her and she smiles back, shooting the Witcher another suspicious glare before hurrying off to another patron who’s loudly calling for some wine.

I could use some wine right about now. Jaskier sighs, scratching at that annoying beard as he looks at the plate full of food. It doesn’t smell appalling, and it looks alright, but, as he said earlier, he’s just not hungry.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Eat, Jaskier.” He’s still leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, and the Bard can’t help but notice the way the Witcher eyes his own plate hungrily.

He sighs. “Geralt, I told you I’m not hungry. And I know you are, I’ve spent enough time with you to know what you look like when you’re famished.”

Geralt merely looks up, sunflower eyes stubborn. “I’m not eating until you are.” Jaskier sighs again, rolling his eyes. “Jaskier, I’m serious. You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

“So? It’s not as if you’re worried about me, clearly. You weren’t a year ago, so why would you be, now?” Anger flares up in him again, old hurt churning in the pit of his stomach.

“Seriously? That again? I said I was sorry, what more do you want?” Jaskier can see Geralt’s jaw clenching in annoyance, and it yanks his mind back to those twenty-two years, and how the Witcher had given him that look plenty of times.

He pulls his eyebrows up. “Oh, yeah, you’re right. ‘Sorry’ totally makes up for everything you said. Hell, it even makes up for the way you’ve treated me for twenty-two years. Yeah, it’s all fine now, it’s all completely okay.”

Geralt sighs, leaning forwards, his forearms on either side of his plate. “Look, I know I fucked up, and you’re right, you deserve better. But,” his hands clench into fists and Jaskier knows the Witcher is properly angry now, “you’re being a little shit for the sake of being a little shit, so stop it and just eat your goddamn food.” By the end of his sentence, his voice has dropped into a hiss, which is the Geralt-equivalent of shouting.

Jaskier leans forwards as well, placing his forearms on either side of his plate, too, hands flat on the table. He narrows his eyes at the Witcher, who clenches his jaw. “Maybe I am being a little shit, but you can’t tell me what to do here, Geralt. So no, I’m not eating the goddamn food.”

In reality, he is kind of getting hungry, but he’s also insanely stubborn, and not willing to give in to the Witcher just yet. Okay – maybe he is still angry about what happened, maybe he is still hurt. Maybe seeing Geralt again just makes things worse.

But maybe he’s also happy to see the Witcher. Maybe he misses the old banter, having someone who pushes back against his nonsense. Maybe he just wants to have an outlet for his anger and his loneliness, and maybe Geralt is just right there, being equally annoying and stubborn.

He nearly smiles at that. Two thick-headed, stubborn idiots. Just like old times.

They stare at each other for a few seconds, neither of them relenting, flames in their eyes, and it’s almost as though last year never happened. A stark contrast with the careful coldness between them less than an hour ago.

Oh, our fire died last winter. All of the shouting blew it out.

 He feels Geralt’s breath fanning against his skin, and his eyes flicker down for a split second to the Witcher’s lips, only an inch or two away from his. He looks back up, meeting sunflower eyes. He curls his fingers a bit, blunt fingernails scraping against the wood of the table, sending tiny shivers up his spine.

A heartbeat passes, and another, and another, and he can’t help himself. Softly, slowly, he leans forward, the gap between them narrowing bit by bit, and he can see Geralt’s eyes flutter shut, and-

“You two need anything?” They both pull back, looking up at the nice barmaid – who Jaskier thinks is not so nice anymore, all of a sudden. She looks between them, eyes nervous, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her apron, as she seems to realize she might have actually interrupted something.

Jaskier blinks, as the silence stretches between the three of them. He clears his throat, trying to find his voice again. “No… we’re good, thanks.” He tries to giver her his most reassuring smile, and she hesitantly smiles back, before walking away quickly.

He sighs, looking down at his still full plate, the food probably cold by now. He closes his eyes for a second, unsure of what’s going on, of what he’s feeling. He’s still angry with Geralt, of course, but just now it had felt as though there had ben a magnet pulling them together, somehow.

But that’s ridiculous, he concludes, as he looks up at Geralt, who’s staring daggers into his – also still full – plate. When he looks at the Witcher, he feels angry, and hurt, and sad. Not at all how he used to feel whenever he saw Geralt. And yet…

If it hadn’t been for the barmaid interrupting them, who knows what could’ve happened. Nothing good, probably.

He scoffs and Geralt looks up, dandelion eyes seemingly just as bewildered as Jaskier feels. The Bard sighs, rolling his eyes a bit before looking at the Witcher again. “Fine. I’ll eat.” Geralt smiles triumphantly, annoying the shit out of him. So, he puts his finger up. “But-“ Geralt’s smile falters “you have to take a bath. You’re filthy.”

Geralt frowns at him. “Fine.” Jaskier smirks, face dropping a bit as the Witcher continues: “But only if you take one, too. And shave.”

Jaskier leans forwards again. “Don’t think you’re in much of a position to bargain, Witcher.”

Geralt moves forward as well, once more, eyes narrowing at the Bard. “That gentleman in the corner asked the innkeeper in which room you’re staying. He has a knife and a brand on his arm that says he’s a convicted thief. Big chance he’s going to rob you tonight, if I’m not around.”

Jaskier cocks his head, glancing at the sleazy-looking guy, catching him staring. He looks back at Geralt. “So, you’re telling me that if I don’t eat, take a bath, and shave, you’ll go away and leave me in mortal danger?” The Witcher nods curtly, lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s not bargaining, Geralt, that’s blackmail.”

The Witcher smirks. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, but I think you do care, my dear Witcher.” Geralt frowns, looking away for a split second, and Jaskier knows he’s right. “I think you’re just willing to blackmail me as long as I ask you to stay.”

“And are you going to? Ask me to stay?” The Witcher is serious now, eyes looking into Jaskier’s unrelentingly, as though looking for a clue as to what the Bard is thinking.

Jaskier smirks, pulling up an eyebrow, looking to the side as he thinks. Finally, he looks back, purses his lips. “No.” Geralt clenches his jaw. “But I’m not going to tell you to leave, either.”

The Witcher leans back, extending his hand. “So we have a deal?”

Jaskier smiles, shaking Geralt’s hand, letting go quickly, his skin tingling where it had been touched. “We have a deal.”

You know I could live without or with you, but I might like having you about.

҉   ҉    ҉

The blade of the knife scrapes against his cheek as he moves it down, short hairs falling on the hand he’s using to pull the skin taut. He looks at the image of himself in the mirror, turning his head to take a closer look at the side of his face he’s just shaven. The skin is a bit irritated, red splotches forming, and he puts the knife down, walking to his bag to pull out a bottle of lavender oil.

He applies a bit of it onto his skin, looking in the mirror, checking for spots he missed or stray hairs, as Geralt sits in the bath behind him, scrubbing at his arm furiously. “Stop that, you’re going to irritate your skin.”

Geralt looks up, frowning at his back. “I don’t care.”

Jaskier scoffs, turning around to look at the Witcher. “Oh, you will once your skin gets all red and puffy. It’ll hurt and I’ll need to put lavender oil on it and you’ll complain that the smell makes your nose itch.”

Geralt frowns at him some more, and Jaskier turns back around, shaking his head slightly as he picks up the knife again, rubbing some soap into the scruff on the left side of his face with his other hand. “We’ve been through this before, Geralt. Several times.”

The Witcher scoffs, but does stop rubbing at the skin. “But there’s dirt on my arm.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, turning his head to get a clearer view of the left side of his face, carefully placing the shaving knife under his jaw. “Use more soap, then,” he says through clenched teeth, careful not to move too much against the blade.

Geralt dunks his head under water, fingers threading through the matted hair as he comes up, wiping some of the water out of his eyes afterwards. “I already did, and it didn’t work. It’s still there.”

Jaskier sighs, finishing the stroke of the knife carefully, making sure not to nick the skin. “Gods, Geralt, you’re such a big baby. Just use more soap, or leave the dirt there, it doesn’t matter. Just don’t start rubbing at your skin again.”

He laves the knife in the sink, filled with lukewarm water, before wiping it on the towel hanging over his shoulder. He looks in the mirror again, focusing on the rest of his chin and neck, as the silence stretches between them. The last stroke falters a bit as he sees Geralt, taking a towel from next to the bath. “Did you wash your hair with shampoo?”

The Witcher looks up, annoyed. “No. It’s not necessary.”

Jaskier turns around, hand on his hip, eyebrows in his hairline. “Gods, Geralt, of course it’s necessary! Otherwise, your hair’s going to smell like horse fur and smoke. And it’ll get really course once you dry off, and that’s going to make it harder to put in a hair tie. And that is going to make you extremely grumpy and annoyed. So yes, it’s necessary to put shampoo in your hair.”

Geralt sighs, dropping the towel next to the bath, looking up at Jaskier. “Can you pass me the shampoo, then?”

“No.” Geralt narrows his eyes, letting out a long, laborious breath through his nose. Oh, he’s really angry, now.

“Is there a reason you won’t pass me the shampoo?” He says it through clenched teeth, hands gripping at the side of the tub, knuckles turning white in an effort to not break the wood.

Jaskier smirks, putting the knife down, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Because you didn’t say ‘please’.”

Geralt rolls his jaw around a bit, and Jaskier knows it’s to prevent himself from chewing down on his cheek, a habit the Bard’s been trying to get the Witcher to break for years. “I’ve never said ‘please’, why should I start now?”

“Well, that’s not entirely true, Witcher.” Jaskier moves forward, resting his arms on the side of the tub, knees on the wooden floor, as his mind flashes back to fourteen years earlier, before the betrothal feast. Seems like yesterday. “You said ‘please’ this afternoon.”

Geralt simply looks at him, index finger picking at the skin around the edge of his thumbnail, something he tends to do when he’s annoyed or nervous, Jaskier knows. “Those are different circumstances.”

“Yes, but you seriously need to get some manners. Also, I like it when you say ‘please’.”

Geralt looks at the ceiling, exhaling deeply and quickly. “Fine. Can you hand me the shampoo, please?”

Jaskier laughs, standing up and walking to his bag, taking out a bottle that he’s kept in there for over a year, and tosses it to the Witcher, who catches it, looking at it quizzically. “See, Geralt, was that really so hard?”

The Witcher looks at him. “Yes, it was.” He opens the cap, pouring some of the liquid into his hand, rubbing it into the matted, white hair, before looking at the bottle again, sunflower eyes confused. “What scent is this?”

Jaskier leans against the wall, scratching at a beard that’s no longer there. “It’s cinnamon. Hard to come by. Expensive, too.”

Geralt frowns at the bottle, putting the cap back on, extending it to Jaskier, who shakes his head. “No, keep it. It’s yours.”

The Witcher pulls his arm back, and he looks up at the Bard. “Why?”

Jaskier shrugs. “I know you hate soaps that smell like flowers, but I also want you to smell nice, so… a compromise.”

Geralt blinks, once, twice, before one corner of his mouth lifts up ever so slightly, and he reaches back to carefully put the bottle on his bag, that is lying on a chair behind the bath. He looks at Jaskier again. “Thank you.”

The Bard waves his hand. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You better rinse it out, though, or it will start to cake together and gods know no one wants that.”

Geralt does as he’s told – for once in his bloody life – and Jaskier walks back to the mirror, putting some lavender oil on the left side of his face, dabbing at the red splotches that litter his skin. The smell of the flower overpowers that of the cinnamon he previously smelled, and he feels a bit sad. Cinnamon is his favourite scent, after all.

Geralt doesn’t need to know that, though.

Yes, these new walls are pretty hard to crack. And it might take a while before I trust you won’t attack.

 Geralt insist on getting clean bath water for Jaskier, no matter how many times the Bard tells him it’s a waste of money – it’s not like Geralt was covered in Selkiemore guts, or anything, so the bath water isn’t that dirty. Still, the Witcher doesn’t relent, and Jaskier gives up, sitting on the edge of the bed as Geralt helps the innkeeper dump the bath water out of the window and bring new, hot water from downstairs.

Eventually, the bath is completely filled again, Geralt downstairs, handing the innkeeper some coin, and Jaskier looks at his reflection in the still water. His hair is still too long, and he needs a haircut, but at least the beard is gone. Starting to look like myself again.

He sighs, taking a small tin of rose bath salt from his bag, sprinkling some in the water, disturbing the image of him-but-not-quite-him. He takes his clothes off, dropping them unceremoniously next to the tub, ignoring the way his ribs stick out a little further than they used to do. He lowers himself into the water, his muscles crying out in relief. He realizes that he’s been more tensed up lately than he had thought. Well, lately is an understatement.

It would be more accurate to say that he’s been tensed up for the past year, two weeks, five day, seven hours; until now, as he lets the warmth flood him, closing his eyes for a second, letting his body relax.

The door opens, and the peace is gone as Geralt walks in from the bedroom, dropping his half-empty coin pouch next to his bag on the table noisily. Jaskier looks back, pulling up an eyebrow. “You haven’t been busy, lately, I see.” He turns back, taking a bar of soap, rubbing it lightly over his skin. “Not a lot of money you’ve got there.”

He can practically hear Geralt shrug, even with his back turned to the Witcher, and he almost smiles at the familiar lack of verbal response. “You know I can’t see you and I can’t hear you if you don’t say anything, Geralt.”

The Witcher sighs dramatically, walking around the tub, standing in front of Jaskier. He shrugs again. “There, now you know.”

The Bard rolls his eyes, shaking his head slightly as he continues washing himself. “You can be so childish, sometimes, honestly.”

Geralt scoffs. “You’re one to talk.”

Jaskier looks up, eyebrows raised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Witcher hesitates for a moment, golden eyes suddenly a bit scared, it seems – clearly he regrets saying anything. “Well, I…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

The Bard rolls his eyes again, taking a bottle of honey shampoo from his bag, next to the bath, spreading some into his too long hair. ���Suit yourself then.” He dunks his head under water, rinsing the shampoo out, wiping at his eyes as he comes up again.

Yes, he’s curious as to what Geralt could be talking about, but he’s not going to press further. Firstly – gods know what happened the last time he did. Geralt will push back again, and the brittle trust and hesitant friendship they’ve built up over the past hour will come crashing down like a house of cards in a gust of wind.

Secondly – he’s scared of what the Witcher might say. Clearly, Geralt has never hesitated to call him out on stupid or childish behavior before. So, now that he seems to be holding back his words… well, Jaskier feels like he might not be happy with what the Witcher was going to say.

Still, Geralt hesitates again, opening and closing his mouth, chewing on his cheek. Jaskier sighs. “Please stop doing that, Geralt, you’re going to bite through the skin and you’re going to complain about the pain for the next three days. We’ve been through this before, and it’s annoying.”

The Witcher does stop chewing on his cheek, but adamantly keeps looking at anything and everything that isn’t Jaskier. “Gods, Geralt, just spit it out. You’re driving me insane, here. I can’t relax if you’re just going to stand there all evening, looking scared.”

The Witcher finally directs his golden eyes towards Jaskier, and takes a deep breath that makes the Bard kind of really nervous. “I was just wondering… why did you leave? It’s not like I haven’t yelled at you before, and you never left, then. So why did you on the mountain?”

Jaskier cocks his head, blinking once, twice. Seriously? “Well, you didn’t blame every problem in your entire life on me, any of the other times, did you?” Geralt is quiet for a second, and Jaskier balls his hands into fists as old hurt resurfaces – not for the first time today. “Geralt, you basically told me you wanted nothing more than for me to leave. So, I left.”

Geralt kneels on the floor, letting his arms rest on the tub – not unlike the position Jaskier was in less than an hour ago. “Yes, but I was being unreasonable, and I thought you’d know that, and you’d just ignore it.”

Jaskier leans forward, elbows on his knees in the water. “So, you yelled at me because you thought I would just let it slide? That I wouldn’t take it personally?”

Geralt frowns, rubbing at his eyes viciously with one hand. “Fuck. No, that’s not what I meant. I just… well, I wasn’t really thinking at the time but if I was, I probably would’ve thought you could…” He sighs, frustrated at his own lack of words, probably. It’s quiet between them for a moment, as Jaskier lets Geralt search for the right thing to say.

“I just thought… you could make everything normal again. That you would laugh in my face and tell me to stop being ridiculous. Just… all this… talk of Destiny, and dragons, and the Law of Surprise and all this weird shit. I was just confused, in over my head, and I needed an outlet, but it was never supposed to be you. You did everything right, actually. You tried to make things normal again. And I just thought… you knew. Which is why I was surprised you actually left, I guess.”

Geralt looks up at Jaskier from where he’s been staring at his hands, finger picking at the skin around his thumbnail, as the Bard scoots closer, the water of the bath sloshing a bit. “You said it was never supposed to be me you took your anger out on. So who was it supposed to be?”

The Witcher looks to the side, dandelion eyes avoiding Jaskier. “I don’t know.”

Jaskier sighs softly, slowly leaning forward to rest his forehead against Geralt’s. “I think I do.” Sunflower eyes are looking into his, and they both know the truth – but they both know one of them has to say it. And they also know the Witcher doesn’t have the strength to do it.

So Jaskier does. “You were supposed to take it out on yourself, weren’t you?”

Geralt nods, hesitantly, barely moving against the Bard’s forehead. The Witcher closes his eyes, finger picking at his thumb again, the skin starting to turn red. Jaskier lays his hand over Geralt’s, softly separating the fingers. “Stop that, or you’re going to have to put lavender oil on it.” He smiles lightly, as Geralt opens his eyes again. Open. Vulnerable. Hurting. “Yes, my dear Witcher, that is a threat.”

Geralt smiles back, though his face falls again after a few seconds. “How did you know?”

Jaskier chews at his lip, as his mind flashes back to the twenty-two years they spent together. “I know you always take your anger out on yourself, when you feel like you deserve it. You take more contracts, you eat less, take less baths, you zone out, you don’t listen, you look into the distance, and you’re always picking at your goddamn thumb.”

His finger lightly traces over the red skin of Geralt’s thumb. “Just like you’re doing right now.” He presses his forehead into the Witcher’s even harder, to let him know he’s there and that he cares, even if he’s still slightly mad at him for what happened. “And that, my dear Witcher, is how I know you really are sorry. And I forgive you.”

Geralt smiles back, dandelion eyes lighting up like the sun, and oh gods he’s really close, isn’t he? Jaskier pulls back, suppressing a shiver. “Bollocks, the water’s already cold.” He waves his hand in the Witcher’s face, rolling his eyes at the amused smirk Geralt seems to wear so well. “Scoot, I have to get dressed, I’m freezing.”

Geralt simply shakes his head slightly, rolling his eyes at Jaskier’s theatrics, and leaves the bathroom. The Bard can’t help but stare for a few seconds after the door closes behind the Witcher, as he realizes he did really mean what he said, just now.

He forgives Geralt.

Oh, I’d apologize, but it was only self-defense. Running away just made sense.

҉   ҉    ҉

Geralt’s already lying on the bed when Jaskier leaves the bathroom, and the Bard shakes his head and laughs. “Wow, made yourself right at home, I see.”

The Witcher simply shrugs, and remains in his spot, arms folded behind his head. “Nowhere else to go.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Jaskier walks around the room, blowing out every candle one by one, shrouding them in darkness. He realizes, too late, that he’s on the other side of the room and has to find his way to the bed blindly. “Ah, bollocks.”

He hears a deep chuckle and he scoffs. “Right, yeah, go ahead and laugh at my misery, Witcher. Really classy, I must say.”

“You’re so dramatic.” He jumps a little as he hears Geralt’s voice, suddenly right next to him, and the Witcher laughs again, taking Jaskier’s arm and leading him – presumably – to the bed. “Watch out for that floorboard, it sticks up a little.” The Bard feels around with his foot, his toes bumping into, indeed, one of the wooden planks, a little bit higher than the others.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, as Geralt leads him to the side of his bed. He sits down, and the Witcher’s hand is gone from his arm, the skin suddenly cold, mourning the loss of contact. He wills it to the back of his mind as he lies down, and he feels the other side of the bed dip next to him.

He manages to grip the blankets just as Geralt starts pulling them towards himself. “Oh, no, I don’t think so, blanket hogger. I’m not planning on freezing to death tonight, thank you very much.”

He can practically hear Geralt rolling his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.” But the Witcher’s grip on the blankets does relent, nonetheless, allowing Jaskier to pull them over himself.

His eyes widen a bit as a realization hits him. “Ah, shit.”

He can hear Geralt turn his face towards him on the pillow next to his, the Witcher probably – definitely able to see Jaskier in the darkness. “What?”

The Bard sighs, rubbing at his eyes with the mouse of his hand, trying to fight off the sleep that starts to pull at his limbs a little. “I’ve only paid for the room up until today, so I have to get out of here tomorrow.” He sighs again, flinging his arm over his eyes. “Don’t have any coin left, either. Should probably start performing again.” He mumbles the last part, but – of course – Geralt still hears it.

“Why’d you stop?” He only imagines the concern in the Witcher’s voice, he tells himself. Until he feels movement on the blankets, and knows Geralt is picking at his thumb again.

He slaps his hand in the general direction, somehow hitting his mark. “Geralt, would you please stop doing that? You’re going to seriously hurt yourself one of these days.”

Geralt sighs, but Jaskier can feel that he does stop, nonetheless. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He pulls his arm down from his eyes, looking at the Witcher, even though he can’t see anything. He knows Geralt can, though, and somehow, not facing the Witcher when he’s talking to him feels wrong. “Because, well… turns out heartbreak does the exact opposite to inspiration, than what I always thought it did. Apparently, real heartbreak doesn’t make you sing louder. It shuts you up.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, and all he can do is stare into the darkness. He knows the Witcher hasn’t fallen asleep yet, as his breaths aren’t deep enough for that. Turns out it’s not easy to forget the way someone breathes when they sleep if you’ve been listening to them for twenty-two years.

Eventually, Geralt speaks, voice soft: “I really am sorry, Jaskier. For everything.”

The Bard smiles. “I know.”

But here I am with arms unfolding. I guess it isn’t quite the end.

 He can hear Geralt’s head turning on the pillow again, probably looking at the ceiling. “You know, I could lend you some money if you’d like to stay here longer.”

Jaskier scoffs lightly, shaking his head a bit. “No, I’m good. I should probably start singing again, really. About time, too.” He narrows his eyes, desperate for a glimpse of the Witcher, something to discern in the darkness. “What about you, though? What are you going to do next?”

He feels Geralt shrug next to him, their shoulders briefly touching, and maybe his arm feels a little warmer than it did before – but that doesn’t matter. “I’m probably going to go to the next big town, see if they have contracts there. Do the same as always.”

The silence stretches between them, again, and the question hangs in the air, unspoken. Jaskier desperately wants Geralt to ask, but also really wants to ask it himself. But there’s no way to do it, really, without sounding desperate and overbearing. He’s only just now forgiven the Witcher, for god’s sake, how could he possibly ask to pick up where they left off without sounding like a stupid, love-struck teen?

And even then, what if Geralt were to turn him down? Don’t think I would be able to cope, really.

Still, the Witcher doesn’t seem to want to ask him, and Jaskier doesn’t want to ask, either. So they just lie there, staring at the ceiling, and Geralt starts fidgeting with the skin of his thumb again, infuriatingly.

“Gods, Geralt, are you just going to keep doing that until your skin breaks?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, I feel like I have to follow you around and slap your hand every time you do it. Maybe then you’ll learn-“

He clamps his mouth shut, as he realizes what he just said. What he indirectly asked.

It’s silent for a few more moments, and he feels like his heart is about to thump out of his chest, when Geralt chuckles. “Yeah, that’d probably be for the best.”

He hopes the Witcher is still looking at the ceiling and can’t see the Bard smile involuntarily.

He shivers a bit, the blankets barely able to keep the chill of the room away as it creeps into his bones. “Gods, it’s cold here. Aren’t you cold, Geralt?”

He can hear the Witcher turning his face towards him again. “I’m never cold, Jaskier. Did you forget that?”

The Bard frowns a bit. “Huh. Guess I did. Lucky you, I’d love to never be cold again.” He shivers some more. “Especially right now.”

He can hear Geralt chuckle again next to him, and he frowns at the darkness where he hopes the Witcher’s face is. “Great, just laugh at my misery, you cocky bastard. Unbelievable-“

His rant is cut short by a pair of strong arms wrapping around him, pulling him into Geralt’s side. “Please just shut up and go to sleep.”

He lays there for a second, muscles frozen, until he relaxes into the Witcher’s embrace. He has to admit, though – it really does help, and he feels warmth seep into his skin. “You’re a walking furnace, my dear Witcher,” he mumbles into Geralt’s shoulder.

Another low chuckle, this time right in his ear, that sends shivers down his spine that have nothing to do with the cold he no longer feels. “Just go to sleep, Jaskier.”

He smiles. “Okay, fine.” He risks slinging his arm over the Witcher’s chest, softly pressing his nose into Geralt’s shoulder, the scent of cinnamon filling his head. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Hmm.” He smiles at that, and he feels Geralt’s breath deepening. He’s definitely sleeping, now.

And, for the first time in a year, two months, five days, and eight hours, he feels himself drifting away into a peaceful sleep. Right before he slips into unconsciousness, he feels an old spark rekindling in his chest, fueled by the warmth of his Witcher next to him.

Old partner in crime, I’m going to try to fall in love with you again.

[sophisticatedloserchick]

Fanfic - Saving a Superhero - 1/1

Summary: Iris was just an intern working a hectic night at the hospital whose break was interrupted by a bleeding unconscious superhero 

Rating: PG

Word Count: 2360

A/N: Based on these promo pics in which Iris is a badass doctor

All Iris wanted was to have a nice, relaxing coffee break.

She was in the middle of one of the worst shifts of her life. A grueling fifteen hours where she'd been running off her feet dealing with every type of job. She bounced between being in the emergency room, to doing post op check ups, then working through piles of discharge paperwork. Anyone who said being an second year intern was hell didn't know the half of it. Iris couldn't remember the last time she'd slept more than four hours straight. Or had outside human contact beyond doctors and patients. Her life was a constant routine of dealing with an array of bodily fluids, stitching up damaged skin, setting broken bones.

She had few small pleasures remaining in her life. One of them was taking a cup of coffee and a chocolate chip muffin up to the roof of the hospital whenever she managed to sneak in a break.

Iris pushed through the metal door that led out to the roof. A sigh of relief actually escaping her lips. The cold breeze felt amazing against her heated skin. The lights of city burning bright against the night sky. She closed her eyes to listen to the hum of noise of the city. Iris immersed herself in the peace and quiet, completely different from hectic buzz of activity in the halls of the hospital.

Her plan was to sit down on the bench, left there for those with smoking habits, drink her coffee and eat her muffin. A plan that came to crashing halt when Iris saw someone already lying across the bench. Iris let out a sigh of frustration. Her day was bad enough without having the one good thing taken away from her.

She probably should have left and found another place to take her break. Iris however was nothing but persistent. She didn't understand the meaning of giving up something that she wanted. Her determination got her through medical school while working a full time job. How she pushed until she got into the most competitive intern program in the country. No way she was letting someone take her bench.

“Excuse me?” Iris squinted through the darkness trying to make out who was there. “I hate to say this but I was wondering...”

As Iris stepped closer expecting to see a fellow exhausted intern passed out on the bench but that was not what she found.

“Oh my god,” Iris gasped out while dropping her coffee. “The Flash?”

The Flash let out a pained groan in response.

Iris stood there dumbstruck. The Scarlet Speedster, the hero of Central City, was currently passed out on a bench. The pained pinched look on his face indicated he wasn't taking a nap either.

After the shock of having a superhero right in front of her Iris's medical training kicked into gear. She rushed forward, her eyes quickly examining his body. Her hands lightly skimming over the hard leather of his costume. It didn't take long for her to locate the gaping hole in his chest. Dark blood pooling out at the slightest touch.

“Oh no,” Iris breathed out, “That's not good. That's really not good.”

The Flash's breathing started to become more labored. His eye lashes fluttering as he struggled to keep his eyes opened. Iris knew she had a very small window in which to help him.

“Flash can you hear me?” Iris circled her hand around his wrist.

The Flash turned his head but Iris could tell he was struggling to focus on her.

“Listen to my voice,” Iris tried to sound calm and in control. “You're going to be okay. I'm going to help you.”

The Flash tried to get up but didn't get far before letting out a grunt of pain.

“Don't move,” Iris said firmly. “I don't know what your injuries are but you probably shouldn't move.”

Problem was Iris had no idea how she was going to get him down the stairs and back into the hospital. Iris didn't know what happened to him but knew he needed medical attention fast. The last thing Iris wanted today was to let the hero of Central City die on her.

But there was no way she could do this on her own.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“This is unbelievable,” Julian hissed at her. “How did you rope me into this insanity? I do know if our resident finds out I'm blaming you. I will not be kicked out of this program because you decided to take in a injured superhero.”

Iris rolled her eyes ignoring Julian ranting. Her fellow intern enjoyed putting up a fuss but in the end he always came through with helping her.

With great effort the two of them managed to man handle the Flash down the flight of stairs and into the nearest empty hospital room. Iris wasted no time examining him once they deposited him into a bed. She brought out her stethoscope to press against his chest, surprised by what she heard.

“What is it?” Julian asked with open curiosity.

“His heart is beating so fast,” Iris replied. “Not humanly possible fast.”

“Well he is the Flash,” Julian deadpanned.

“Help me get this suit off,” Iris ignored his smug British face. “I need a closer look at his injuries.”

The two of them took several moments to struggle with the hard leather jacket. Fastenings were not easily perceived. Eventually they realized the suit was in two parts when they were able to find the zipper for the top half.

“Oh boy,” Iris let out a breath at the sight of his chest.

“That is a decent sized hole,” Julian got serious quickly. “He should be dead.”

“Well he is the Flash,” Iris countered.

Julian gave her an unimpressed look as they both put on surgical gloves.

Iris was about to take a closer look at the wound when the Flash started to thrash about on the table. Sparks of lighting coursing up his body. Julian let out a string of curses jumping back.

Without thinking Iris lunged forward to press a hand to the Flash's shoulder, not the smartest plan considering he was an all powerful superhero who she could not control, to try hold him in place.

“Flash listen,” Iris called out, “We're going to help you I promise you.”

The thrashing slowed but his body continued to tremor. Iris squeezed her hand on his shoulder reassuringly. His head turned to look directly at her for the first time. Even with a mask Iris could see his eyes. A pretty shade of green fanned by long lashes. She could see fear in his eyes but also a question of whether he could trust her.

Iris smiled gently hoping he could see in her face that he would be safe with her.

“Okay, lets do this.” Iris nodded her head to Julian. “Bring the tray and a lot of gauze.”

With cautious steps Julian walked closer bringing over the that had all the supplies they would need.

“Lets clear this blood away,” Iris grabbed packs of gauze to soak up the blood. “Then we can see what we're dealing with.”

The two worked together get rid of the pooling blood. Iris felt through the shredded skin and could feel something lodged in his chest. If The Flash had any chance of survival they'd have to remove it before stitching him up. On the other hand they ran the risk of him bleeding out. Which meant they had a very slim chance of saving him. But Iris wasn't going to give up without a fight.

“Julian use the forceps to hold the tissue open,” Iris ordered.

To her surprise Julian followed her orders. Using clamps to hold open the gaping hole in The Flash's chest. Iris turned to her tray of surgical tools to grab the grasper, a tool that looked like a pair of scissors but with flattened pincers instead of blades.

“Hold him down please,” Iris asked.

Julian cautiously placed his hands on the Flash's shoulders. Iris peered through the mess of tissue and blood to find the object lodged in his chest. Carefully Iris lowered the graspers over where she had felt the foreign object. With a deep breath Iris moved in to remove it from his chest.

The Flash head thrashed on the bed as he let out another pained groan.

“Almost there,” Iris said in her most calming voice. “So very close.”

With one last pull Iris took out the object. Immediately she tossed it into the tin of sterilized disinfectant. Through the swirls of blood Iris could see it was the shape of a bullet only it was glowing a eerie blue.

“What in the world is that?” Julian peered over.

Iris didn't have a chance to answer. Too distracted by the Flash spontaneously vibrating. She turned to calm him down but it was too late. In a burst of yellow lighting he got up from bed and disappeared before Iris could blink her eyes. Nothing but a gust of wind blowing through her hair remained of his presence.

“West if a superhero ever shows up bleeding on the roof,” Julian glanced over at her. “Don't ever drag me into it.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A week passed with no word from The Flash.

Iris knew he was okay thanks to reports on the nightly news. He was spotted downtown capturing Captain Cold hours after Iris had removed that strange bullet from his chest. Since then he'd been zipping around the city being the hero everyone needed.

To be honest Iris felt put out. Not that she expected recognition or anything. But it would be nice if inbetween capturing bank robbers and taking down meta-humans The Flash would have thought to zip by to say 'Thank You'.

She'd then remind herself she didn't become a doctor to get thank yous, she did it to help people. If she was being truthful Iris just wanted another chance to stare into those pretty green eyes again.But she had to let that go, she was too busy at work to pine after a superhero dressed in red leather.

She was in the middle of yet another crazy work day. She'd been running off her feet since her shift started. Once again she was heading up to the roof with a coffee and muffin in hand ready to enjoy her spare fifteen minutes. She'd been doing this a lot lately. Secretly hoping to catch sight of her favorite speedster. So far no luck.

Iris sat down on the bench. She sipped on her coffee while picking at her muffin. All the while doing her best to keep her thoughts off a certain scarlet speedster.

Which is why it took several long seconds for her sleep deprived brain to registered that the Flash was stranding right in front of her.

“Oh! You!” Iris started in surprise, jumping to her feet and in the process dropping her cup of coffee onto the ground.

Great, Iris thought to herself, just great.

She just had to be a clumsy mess in front of The Flash.

“Um, hi there.” The Flash awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Its okay,” Iris smiled. “Good to see you again. Not with a gaping hole in your chest which is a good sign.”

Iris let out an awkward laugh that she quickly smothered when he didn't laugh too. The worst time for Iris's doctor humor to rear its head. To her surprise though Iris swore she could see him smiling despite the shadows shrouding his face.

“Um here...let me...” The Flash gestured down to her spilled coffee. “I'll be right back.”

Iris had no time to process anything as he zipped away then reappeared barely two seconds later.

“For you,” The Flash held out a coffee cup from Jitters with the steam still curling from it. “Thank you for the other night.”

As Iris reached up to grab the coffee her fingers gently brushed against the re-enforced leather of his gloves. A white spark of electricity passed between them causing both of them to jump back in surprise.

“Oh wow. Um...” The Flash awkwardly laughed. “That was weird.”

“Yeah weird,” Iris breathed out, her skin tingling where the lighting had coursed through her skin.

Now calming down Iris became more hyper aware of her appearance. Loose fitting purple hospital scrubs and her ratty old sweater. Her makeup had long ago smudged off and her hair was piled up in a messy bun. Definitely not the appearance she wanted to have when face to face with The Flash. He looked far more impressive in his dark red leather.

Yet despite her less than glamorous appearance Iris swore The Flash kept sneaking glances at her then would smile bashfully every time their eyes met.

Iris never thought herself capable of having that sort effect on a superhero.

“Seriously thank you,” The Flash eventually collected himself. “You saved me that night.”

“I did what any good doctor should do,” Iris shrugged. “Julian helped too.”

“But it was your voice.” The Flash insisted. “Your voice was what got through to me.”

Iris felt heat rise in her cheeks. No one had ever said something like that to her.

“Well you're welcome,” Iris tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “If you ever get injured again feel free to collapse on that bench.”

“Well I wouldn't want to interrupt your coffee break,” The Flash gave her a shy smile.

“Hmmm true,” Iris smiled at him teasingly. “Maybe you could join me for my coffee breaks instead?”

Iris had to admit watching the hero of Central City become a stuttering and blushing mess was a lot of fun. She took a long sip of the coffee The Flash had brought her feeling very pleased. She had a feeling this would be the start of something amazing.

[thoughtlesstales]

Come Home to Me | Chapter One

Title: Come Home to Me | Chapter One Word Count: 4933 Rating: Explicit Relationship: Oliver Queen x Felicity Smoak Characters: Felicity Smoak, Oliver Queen, Sara Lance, John Diggle Triggers: Angst, character missing 

“Don’t you dare!” A very agitated and now beyond pissed Felicity stared at her computer screens. Each of the three screens held up to four black and white squares of live security camera footage; however the middle screen was currently sporting one Oliver Queen, who was starring as his alter ego, ‘The Hood’. “Oliver!” She cried in frustration ripping the bluetooth device from her ear throwing it down on to the table. There wasn’t many days when Felicity was like this, she rarely got angry enough to cause damage to some piece of technology. But today, well this evening, Oliver had pushed her to far; again.

He knew, he knew she didn’t have eyes on the corridor he went down. He knew that Dig was still ten minutes out from his location, but like the hero he was, he still went down there to fight whatever he deemed to be ‘bad for the city. Felicity pushed herself up from her chair and started to pace. She paced back and forth in front of the computers, occasionally casting a glance towards them to see if he had reappeared.

She saw Dig, gun drawn and with carefully place footsteps around the unconscious bodies he too headed down the corridor, not knowing what to expect because she couldn’t see down there. Both her boys, both of them were out of her view and she worried; Felicity always worried. Every night they went out she would sit and worry until they back inside the confines of the Foundry. Oliver would always tell her not to worry and that he would be fine, but she still would. Dig would always promise her to bring himself home and Oliver, because he knew how reckless Oliver could be.  

It felt like hours had passed before she saw movement, a small amount of the anxiety lifted when she saw Dig. Well the first half of him, when the second of him came into view he was supporting most of the weight of a injured Oliver Queen. Felicity was back in her chair within the second. The bluetooth device back in her ear and she was barking orders down it to find out what had happened.

“Oliver?!” she half shouted half cried his name trying to get his attention, worry eating away at her as he tried not to think of all the things that could be wrong. Trying to get him to answer her and tell her that everything was going to be okay and that she had nothing to worry about.

“Oliver answer me, otherwise don’t you dare come back here,” she threaten her voice thick with worry and fists balling on the desktop. A husky chuckled came through and then the raspy voice of the man himself crackled through the earpiece.

“I’m good Felicity, nothing to worry about,” he said though the images on screen said different. The snort form Dig didn’t go unnoticed by her and she knew it wasn’t going to be until he got back to the Foundry that she would find out the real extent of his injuries.

It took them half an hour, a whole thirty minutes to get back. For those thirty minutes Felicity paced. She tidy the already tidy work benches. She got out the med kit and had it set up ready. Then she paced some more. When the door banged shut to the Foundry, a sigh whistled through her teeth and she darted across the large space towards the stairs. Oliver was again being mostly supported by Dig, he held tightly together and groaned with every step. She was ready at the bottom to help in anyway she could, but instead as soon as his two feet where on the floor, her arms wrapped around his neck, a little harder than she intended. But she needed to feel him in her arms, know that he was back and it was real, know that for today at least he was alive. She pulled back and looked at home, green paint smudged around his eyes, blood covering most places, but the look in his eyes settled her. The simple, yet totally over top love he felt for her and she felt for him. She pressed her lips quickly to his in a chaste kiss and then allowed Dig to cover the last few metres to the steel medical table Oliver had been on more times than she would like to count.

Once he was sat upon it, Felicity was at his side. “You’re an idiot, actually you’re more than idiot. You’re a fucking moron,” she cried hands on her hips, glasses halfway down her nose and if she could get a look at her own eyes she was sure she would see fire blazing in them. “And now look, you made me swear and you know how much I hate swearing, but like always the one and only Oliver Queen is here to push my patience and then that of a saints, come to think of it, I think a saint would have given up on you a long time ago you’re that much of an ass, so you should feel so god damn lucky I’m here to once again to patch you up!” Felicity continued to rant and ramble, her voice booming in the space around them. It was comforting feeling for not only Oliver, but her too, it allowed her to think of something else other than the pictures of worse situations than this. Oliver watched her with an amused expression while she either stood and glared at him or was helping him out of his upper half of his hood gear.

Dig knew better than to intervene, once he made sure Felicity had a handle on Oliver and was okay once again patching him up, he backed up and watched them from his bench pulling his gun from his holster and started to field strip it.

Felicity heard and saw Oliver wince and groan when it came to pulling the green leather jacket from around his his ribs. She knew there was no way she was going to be able to pull his black tee over his head, which meant she would be cutting up another one of his shirts. In her eyes it was a good job he was a billionaire, because the amount of tees he went through could have kept a store in business. She pulled a pair of scissors from her tray and started to hack away at his top so he wouldn’t have to pull at his ribs.Once the top was free and clear and he was sat there shirtless, his tattoos and scars on display, she had been running her eyes, fingertips over them for a few years now, but they never failed to take her breath when she saw them.

She wasn’t scared by them, she wasn’t repulsed by them. Every time she saw them she felt an overwhelming amount of pride, joy and thanks that he had been strong enough both mentally and physically to endure the torture he had been out through while away for those five years.  Standing back up and taking a good look at the already darkening ribs she started to poke and prod them along with the other injured extremities.

After some careful deliberation and a the general lack of blood for once. Felicity came to the conclusion of bruised ribs and then bruised everything else, including an ego. “You’re lucky,” she muttered under her breath as she started to wrap his ribs with white bandages, pulling tight and letting a small smile curl her lips when he gasped in pain. She didn’t enjoy seeing him pain, actually it was the complete opposite, but when it came to situations like these where she had told him in the beginning not to go some place and then he comes back clearly suffering, she did take some satisfaction out of being right.

“Aren’t I always?” Oliver offered up looking up at Dig with a smirk. Diggle had taken to cleaning his gun and enjoying watching Felicity put Oliver through just a little bit more hell before she took pity on him and offered him some pain meds.

A gentle hum came from Felicity in response, neither agreeing nor disagreeing that he was right.. Once his ribs were sorted, she started on the array of cuts on his face. Varying from his eye to his lip, he had really taken a beating this evening and it wasn’t often he came back looking this beat up, it was going to be hard to explain to people Monday morning. She wiped away the blood, muttering ramblings under her breath as she did so, ignoring the curl of Oliver’s lips when she said she loved him even though he was a dumbass that needed his head checked. She dropped bloody wipes into the dish and decided that none of them needed Diggle’s excellent stitching skills.

Felicity clamped a hand down on his bad shoulder; purposely. When the air whistled through his teeth and a curse slipped out, Felicity removed her hand and pushed her glasses up her nose. “Oops,” she grinned casting a quick look at Dig over her shoulder who was snorting with laughter, the grin showing he was enjoying the one sided chastising and loving abuse Felicity was putting Oliver through. She moved away from Oliver, who was shaking his head and holding his shoulder with his other hand, to get the pain meds and a bottle of water. Taking them back to him, she popped a couple into his hand and then passed him the uncapped bottle of water, eyes scanning him again and again knowing how lucky he was coming away with what he had. When he drained the bottle and passed it back, she threw it into the bin before starting the clear up of the everything she had brought out in anticipation to Oliver’s injuries.

Felicity cleared everything away relatively quickly, it was no secret that now she now just wanted to get back home and get settled for the rest of the night. Neither of them had work tomorrow as it was a Saturday, which meant a lay in was expected and instead of Oliver making her breakfast, it would be her picking up the slack, not that she minded; but a girl got used to waking up to chocolate chip pancakes every weekend.

After talking with Dig, Felicity found out just how lucky both of them were, there had been dozens of men there when Dig arrived and if he had got there minutes later he didn’t know how he would have bringing Oliver home. Dig left them not long after coming in, however that wasn’t before making sure that she wasn’t going to kill Oliver as soon as he was out of sight. Once he was sure, he slipped his gun into his holster and took the railing in hand and at a leisurely pace took the steps one by one, with each step getting closer to home.

When the door slammed from above Felicity let out a shaking breath, her palm rested flat against the nearest table top, her head bent and her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. The rush of worry, anxiety and adrenaline was fading, leaving her feeling more drained than ever.

“Felicity?” the whisper of her name from Oliver’s lips made her body shake. It still caught her by surprise on how silent he could be, even in a place as echoy as the Foundry. He was so close, she could feel the faint heat from his breath on her neck. His hand reached out and was laid flat on her back. The heat pouring into her, heating her skin.

“I was so scared,” she whispered her voice choking as she admitted how she really felt when Oliver had disappeared from her view earlier that night. “I couldn’t see you and I just... I just felt so powerless.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed back the tears that were threatening, she couldn’t cry, she wouldn’t cry.

“I’m sorry,” he answered, his hand moving from her back to her neck, his fingers sinking into the roots of her hair. “I should have waited for Dig, you were right.”

A watery laugh let her lips and she stood up straight moving to face Oliver. His cuts were still red and raw, standing out against his skin. “You should have, don’t do it again, please” she begged hand stretching up to place over his heart. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” Oliver pulled her into his arms, one arm snaking around her waist the other gripping her neck as her head rest on his shoulder. Her fists were balled up tight on his chest and he tried to ignore the feelings of guilt he felt.

“You won’t Felicity, you won’t lose me,” he promised firmly. He drew back to look at her face, he had to show her the sincerity behind his words. “I promise,” he whispered leaning forwards resting his forehead against hers. His lips grew near and Felicity could feel hot breath mingling with hers.

Felicity believed him and in the moment she pushed his lips against his, finger stretching, nails scratching his chest over the tops of his bandages. Oliver wasn’t at all surprised by the kiss, if she hadn’t of kissed him, he would have her. His hands glided up her back, one hand pulling the tie from her hair, they both sunk deep into her roots, pulling her head back he trailed kisses over jaw and down her neck; teeth grazing across her collarbone. A shaky breath was expelled from Felicity, her teeth sinking into her cherry red bottom lip as Oliver teased her skin with his mouth.

He dropped a hand from her hair to her waist, he pulled her silk shirt from the band of her skirt, his hand searching out the soft taut skin of her stomach. He found it, fingers spreading wide, trying to touch as much as he could. His other hand came from of her blonde locks, moving towards the white buttons of her dark blue shirt. He popped them one by one, pressing a kiss to her skin before popping the next. Felicity’s head stayed in the position he had pulled it, her hands gripped at the waistband of his leather pants, pulling against him in a haze of lust. Her shirt fell open and Felicity shrugged it to the floor, her hands moving back to his pants, wanting inside.

A low throaty moan left Oliver when she dragged his nails through the short hair of his happy trail, fingers popping the single button at the top, fingers dragging the zip down. She pressed herself close as she sunk her hand into the leather confines, palming his erection through the black briefs. Her mouth sought out the sweet spot in the dip on his neck, she flicked her tongue across it, her teeth grazing over it; all the while feeling Oliver grow harder at her touch.

A shudder raced through him as he felt her hand manipulating him. It felt so good her skin pressed against his. it was like she was made for him. Reaching up and undoing the clasp to her red lace bra, letting it slide down her arms, exposing her chest, Oliver pulled her hand from his pants; earning a moan from Felicity and a soft laugh from himself, he pushed the item of clothing to the floor. Pushing her back, so she was leant against steel table top, Oliver reached up and took her soft sweet skin in his hands. A slow grin crossing his face he moved in and kissed her quickly, all teeth and tongue, then moving his mouth to somewhere which required more attention. He didn’t stop to place sweet kisses down her neck, he went straight for her pebble hard nipples, lips wrapping around them as he sucked hard, teeth scraping at the sensitive flesh.

Oliver spent a few moments on one, soon moving to the other giving it the same attention, his hands moving to her waist at he searched for the zip, to get rid of the black pencil skirt in his way. Finding the zip and dragging it down, he pulled the skirt down over her slender legs. Felicity would have given him a hand, but her mind was rather preoccupied with the sensations she was feeling from Oliver’s mouth. A low rumbling moan came from Oliver when he got a look at Felicity’s matching red lace underwear, they were in stark contrast against her silky alabaster skin.

Dropping to his knees Oliver kissed the skin of her thighs, while his hands trailed up and down the sides; he looked up to meet the desire hooded of Felicity, her look only driving him forward. He caught the sides of her underwear and slowly dragged it them down, all the way down her legs and at the end he helped her step out them; it was the gentlemanly thing to do. He held them tight in his first for a second before stuffing them into the pocket of his pants. He looked her up and down again, the lustful look in his eyes giving away his intentions.

Starting at her ankles Oliver slowly wounded his hands up her legs, massaging each muscle, pressing kisses to where his hands had left. His nose skirted on the inside of her leg, right where her pulse was hammering away. His lips curled in delight when he felt her legs shake at him grazing his teeth over the sensitive flesh on the back of her leg. His hands continued northbound with his mouth catching up. When he reached the apex of her thighs, she was already wet, she was wet for him and only him. He dragged her legs apart and lift one over his shoulder. One hand gripped her waist, while the other rubbed over her wet folds. He pushed a finger inside, hearing the gasp and moan coming quickly from Felicity. He blew gently against her, feeling the shudder of her body at his cool breath on her heated skin. He blew again, but this time leant into the taste the sweetness he could already smell.

His tongue flicked in every direction over her clit, making letters, number and everything else he could think of, while his finger pumped at a steady pace inside her. Her breathing was ragged and her knuckles were white from where they gripped at the steel table top Felicity was now practically sat on. Her heel dug into his back, as her leg curled over his shoulder, trying to grip him as tight as she could as he brought her nearer and nearer the edge of ecstasy. Oliver increased his pace, adding another finger and curling them inside, a hiss escaped Felicity and hand shifted from the table top to Oliver’s hair which she used to keep his head in pace as he picked up the pace and found the spot which was working for her. She was so close, her whole body was trembling with anticipation. A soft shine of sweat covered his skin and chest heaved trying to keep up with her heart.

“There... just there,” she whispered, her voice hoarse as she struggled with the words. Oliver grinned as he found out a while ago that sex was the one the few ways Felicity was able to unwind. He continued his administrations, varying his speed, even upon knowing she could rip his hair out at any moment. He felt her tighten, so securing his hand on her waist he drove her over the edge.

“Oh christ,” Felicity cried the steel table digging into her palm, her tugging at Oliver’s hair, her toes curling and her whole body taut as she rode through the heart hammering orgasm Oliver had given her. Oliver didn’t stop when she came, he continued riding it out with her, moving his tongue through her folds, lapping up her sweet juices as she came into his mouth.

When she had had finally stopped shuddering and relaxed against the table top. Oliver stood, into the process lifting her onto the table top. The hard steel was cold and unrelenting against her skin, it was like a breath of fresh air as he mind found some clarity. Oliver found her lips instantly, biting down on those full cherry red lips, wrapping his tongue around hers, giving her a taste of what she was like.

“All mine,” he murmured, his mouth close to her ear, nipping at lobe. Felicity’s hands had found their way to his body. Running over his chest, scratching down his back, squeezing his very hard erection in his pants.

“All yours,” she answered before nipping at his collar bone. “I want you,” she said between grazes, her hands moving quickly to rid his pants and briefs. Oliver was all too happy to help rid the last of this clothing.

Felicity knew he was not small, but it still took her by slight surprise how hard he could get. She took him in hand and pumped him slowly, thumb moving to rub the glistening drop that had appeared over the head of his cock. His head fell onto her shoulder and fist sat clenched on the table top.

“Felicity,” he said in warning. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could last, especially with how she was tormenting, he knew from experience that it could only get better. He grabbed her hips and dragged her to the edge of the table, lining himself up with the help of her hand. In one swift move he was buried inside her the sounds from both of them telling each other how good it felt. When he started moving the pleasure only got better. Felicity’s hands were wrapped around his shoulders, holding on what felt like her life, the pain he had felt only moments before not regeristing in his mind over the pleasure he was now feeling. Oliver was pretty much holding her in his arms as he ground into her, strong hard movements bring them both closer and closer to that edge of satisfaction.

There was nothing slow about what was playing out between them. It was raw emotional carnage, everything spilling into one hot lust filled fuck. Felicity’s teeth sunk into his shoulder, she knew she had pierced the skin, when she tasted the oh too familiar matictic taste in her mouth. It was her way of claiming him as hers, just a she knew when she looked in the mirror her skin would be littered with hickeys. Felicity was still reeling from the last time she came, so it didn’t take her long to tumble over the edge this time bringing Oliver with her. They came together in a haze of crying out each others names with a frenzied list of swearing; it would be surprising if the club upstairs didn’t hear them.

Legs wrapped around his waist and head rested on his shoulder, Felicity’s heart pounded against her chest and her breathing came fast. She felt completely and utterly blissful.

Stood pressed against her, hands running up and down her spine, Oliver felt beyond anything he had felt before, he felt content and happy stood here with the woman he loved.

“We should get dressed,” he whispered, his breath playing over the blonde strands of hair that had come loose in the ordeal.

“Wham bam thank you ma’am,” Felicity chuckled pressing a kiss to the bite mark on shoulder which had thankfully stopped bleeding. Oliver chuckled and looked for a reply.

“I just want to get you home so we can do it again and again and again.” His lips curled in one of his signature sexy grins that always made her knees weak.

She nodded a little more eagerly than she wanted too, hoping Oliver had seen. She pushed away from him and went in search of her clothes, hoping no damage had come to them this time. Finding everything but her underwear she dressed quickly then moved to her computers to shut them down before waiting for Oliver. He had pulled on a loose pair of sweats and his grey hoodie which he kept lying around the Foundry. He was putting his own things away and throwing a few other items of clothing into a gym bag ready to take with him.

“Ready?” he asked looking back at her over his shoulder. Felicity nodded and joined him as they headed up to the car park above them.

The drive was quick and thankfully eventless, it wouldn’t have been the first time they had come into trouble driving back to her place from the club. Felicity had dug around in her bag for a while before Oliver finally gave up and pulled out his own set of keys and unlocking the door in front of them. Frowning and complaining about why he couldn’t have done that sooner, Felicity followed him to the elevator. Once inside and the doors had slid shut, Oliver turned and crowded her into the corner, answering her question from before.

“Because I love watching you ramble away at inanimate objects,” he smirked brushing his nose with hers.

“Really? Because I don’t see that as fair especially when I’m tired, overworked and in need of bubble bath because I’ve just been ravished by the local Vigilante,” she grinned her eyes narrowing slightly with humour.

“Do you think the vigilante would mind if I joined you in that bath?” Oliver asked feigning an all to serious look. Before Felicity could answer the elevator doors opened with a ‘ping’ and she was sliding out from the confines of his arms hurrying to her apartment.

Opening the door and headiing inside, leaving it open for Oliver to lock up behind him she headed straight for her room and into the bathroom shedding clothes as she went. But the time she was bent over the white tub she was naked and very naked Oliver was pressed up behind her.

“I take that as a no then?” he asked answering his question from before. She could feel the grin on his lips as he pressed a kiss to her spin.

A sleeping Oliver was a rarity, The combination of their after hours activities and the painkillers from earlier played a big part in Oliver now snoring softly beside her. He was nearly always awake before her in the mornings and she was nearly always asleep before him the evenings. Oliver’s compulsion to protect her was usually his reason for his lack of sleep, he was scared someone would come in the middle of the night and take her from him. She knew there was nothing she could do and that it didn’t matter what she said he would continue to look for ways to protect her, even if that meant losing sleep. She crawled into bed herself the grin still on her face. She flicked the light off and under the light of the street below and the light shine of moonlight from above she watched his carefree features in easy sleep and it wasn’t long before Felicity was falling asleep herself wrapped up under his good arm, dreaming of days where there was no one out to get them and they could just live a life in peace.  

A few weeks later..

Oliver had been tense all day, well all week if you wanted to get technical, Felicity could see something was getting to him and it worried her, especially when it was clear he wasn’t going to tell her what was wrong. She hated to push him, knowing he would come to her when he was ready. That was the thing their relationship, neither pushed the other, knowing the trust between them wouldn’t allow there to be secrets. She did her job as usual and when he sent her home early that day, telling her that he only had business calls for the rest of the afternoon meaning she didn’t need to stay and that he could handle it himself, she should have known something was wrong. The way he spoken to her was chilling, his tone was cold and distant like he was trying to push her away, like they hadn’t been together for the last 3 years, like she was just his secretary. Dig had driven her home and dropped her off, offering no explanation to why his boss was suddenly acting the way his was, he too had been sent home and told not to come back.

Felicity knew he had good days and bad days, but even on the bad days he was nothing like this. She hoped when she turned up at the Foundry later, he would be in a better mood, otherwise she was cornering him and making him tell her what was going on.

Felicity didn’t have the chance to corner him and make him tell her what was going on, as there was on Oliver to be found, only the note that had been left in his place. A note telling her he had left her and not to look for him. Her life had fallen apart at that very moment, everything she knew with him shattered. Her life shattered and she didn’t know how to carry on, except from finding Oliver and bringing him home whether he liked it or not.