#tomorrow night is my favorite holiday but it leaves me thinking a lot about devotion

[inmirova]

spending the small hours of the night thinking about how hdb views the mere act of caring for him as inhuman.

[j-pankratz]

The Slumber that Creeps to Me

Geraskefer. 7208 Words. Rated T.  Jaskier pulls an extreme all-nighter (read: 60+ hours) to finish a paper he procrastinated on, and finds at the end of it that sleep does not come as easily as he’d hoped. Tags for: Sleep Deprivation, Self Destruction/Lack of Self Care, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Overstimulation, Hurt/Comfort, Whumping the Bard, very loving partners, and a happy ending. <3 AO3 link in the reblog!

As with most disasters spurned by his own cockiness, Jaskier felt as thought that all in all, the situation could have been worse.

The idea to have Geralt and Yennefer spend the spring holiday break at Oxenfurt was, in his defense, ingenious. His students weren’t around, the weather was gorgeous, they all had varying degrees of business in the city, and they could fuck each other senseless at any hour of the day. In a bed. A nice one, provided he was a legitimate professor, now. Well, visiting. Well, it was complicated. But they were his rooms, and that’s what mattered.

When Jaskier gotten the prestigious offer to write the season’s main article for the Continent’s most respected Bardic Journal, he’d just sort of figured he’d… fit it in, somewhere. He had seventeen months, which was plenty enough for him. Then he’d just work with the editors, and have a centerfold piece. It was an honor. He was excited about it! He’d meant to get to it sooner, but decided the summer before that he’d devote the winter to it. But… he’d… he’d been distracted. It wasn’t often the entire family gathered at Kaer Morhen. So, he thought, he’d do it later.

But the first few weeks after winter were, of course, spent with Geralt. And the week after that, a trip to the coast, where he’d played a festival and met up with Ciri, who was becoming an amateur critic herself. And then by pure, absolute happenstance, after 3 more weeks of travel he happened to end up at an inn that he definitely hadn’t heard Yennefer was staying at. So that more time gone. And then he’d arrived in Oxenfurt, and he’d really meant to get to work on it, but there was so much to prepare for! He wanted things to be right for them.

And then Yennefer and Geralt had actually arrived, and the idea of anything possibly being more important than their presence flew his mind.

And now, here he was. If he wanted to get it in on time (unfortunately, that wasn’t a suggestion in this case, more of an actual, terrifying requirement,) he’d need to submit it in… gods above, less than three days. 60 hours, if he was doing the math.

There was no word limit, nor a minimum. But, ever the maximalist, he knew it was going to be… long, if he was going to do it right. They’d edit it down, but it was the focal point of the journal, they’d been leading up to it for ages now. Ahh. Well. There was only one thing for it, he supposed.

“I’m working through the night on my paper!” He’d announced that morning, sitting straight up in bed, jostling his sleepy lovers. “No one bother me! I will be at the dining table until further notice!” He swung himself out of bed and made for the door.

“Pants,” his lovers chorused together.

“Right!” he'd said, and marched back into the room.

He’d pulled all-nighters in his youth. In fact, he couldn’t count the times he’d worked through the night, deposited a composition or essay on his professor’s desk with some polite conversation and maybe a wink, and then promptly fallen asleep during the lecture itself. Just a 15-minute power nap, really! Then he’d be back up and at it again, working through another night just to sleep through the weekend. He’d done it before, he could do it again.

Well, it’d been 25 years ago, but that didn’t change much, did it? He still felt spry, agile, hearty— hell, he’d spent the better part of the last twenty odd years chasing after a Witcher, and later an additional princess and mage— surely he should be in better health now!

This was completely accomplishable. Admittedly, he could have written this sooner… but he hadn’t, and here he was.

Geralt and Yennefer both set out early on different errands, leaving the bard to some peace and quiet. Relatively.

He spread his work and references out before him. 7 books, 4 pamphlets, his favorite quills, a hundred fresh pieces of parchments, his lute at his knee. “Alright,” he said aloud to his empty Oxenfurt apartment, “Just sit down and write the damn thing. Sitting part, definitely done. Writing next. Just… write.”

He stared at the page.

“No! No, no, do not be impossible about this. Just start the thing.”

The page stared back.

“Ah, blast,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes. This was fine. Just… do the awful, disgusting part of beginning, and then he’d be off. The sooner he started, the sooner he’d finish, after all! He took a breath, and put his pen to paper.

xx

Yennefer returned a few hours later, a book and small parcel in hand. Jaskier looked up to see her sweep through the room, a commanding presence, though she didn’t acknowledge him yet. A few waves of her hands and a pot of tea was put on to boil, her hair was put in a bun, and three mugs were floating down from a shelf.

“Lovely to see you too,” he smiled as Yennefer poked through the tea collection. He could practically hear her fond eye roll. She neatly plucked two from one box and looked back at him in question. “Ah… peppermint, if we’ve got it?” and she turned back to the cupboard grab it.

“Any progress?” She finally asked.

“A bit, actually!” Jaskier said cheerfully. It didn’t look like much, but he’d done half a page with almost no errors, and he’d made plenty of notes in the margins of the books he’d need later. It was better than he’d hoped it’d be going by this point, at least. He was kicking academia’s ass. Or, he would be.

The kettle whistled and Yennefer poured the tea, bobbing all three of the tea bags up and down as they steeped. He watched her lean against the counter, casual, relaxed, gorgeous, before realizing she was staring back at him. “Um! Yes, no, definitely good. Got a lot of… those words, you know, they are definitely here. Looking very sexy. The words! The writing is looking… very sexy, very curvy… letters. Sensuous words, you know.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Sensuous words.”

“Yeah, yes. Like… contemporaneous… and… iguana.”

“Iguana.” She let out a little huff of a laugh and something in Jaskier’s chest tightened and loosened in quick succession. And in a moment she was there, sliding him a large mug with the carving of a rather playful looking bear on one side, batting at a butterfly.

“Oh! My favorite. Thank you, thank you.”

“Mmm,” she said before waving a hand to cool down their tea a bit. She took a seat opposite him, scanning an eye over the table. “Think you’ll be done by tonight?”

Jaskier laughed. “Darling, I’ll be lucky to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“You’re planning to stay up all night, bard?”

“Unfortunately.” He took a sip. “Should be done by tomorrow afternoon, if I keep steady at it.”

“After tea, of course.”

“Of course.”

Yennefer stretched out a bit, kicking her feet onto Jaskier’s lap and rolling her neck. They sat there a moment, sipping, pausing, drinking in each other. There was something nice about taking a moment of stillness with someone just as frenetic as he was, someone who was usually just as itching for something to do, even if she went about it differently. The grace of choosing stillness, he thought, was not something to ignore.

Yennefer reached the end of her mug and tapped its ceramic walls lightly.

“What’s next for you?”

“I have to refresh my potion stock, so I’ll be at the market for supplies. You sure you don’t want to take a break and join?”

Rat’s ass. He fucking loved the Oxenfurt markets. “I’m afraid I can’t. Academia calls.”

“Who does it call for, exactly? What’s that I hear…” She cocked her head and listened intently. “Who is it calling for… is that… V… Val… Valdo?” Jaskier hefted her feet off of his lap in protest, and she laughed. He plucked his quill from its stopper, and went back to hovering over his paper. Introduction mostly accomplished, now he had to really lead in to his point, give some proper context. He flipped through a book beside him.

Yennefer rose smoothly from the table and went to move her mug to the sink. “When Geralt gets in, tell him I need toadflax and bluebells from him? Might as well put him to use.”

Jaskier flipped through the pages, thumbing through for a note he’d sworn he’d made ages ago, when he belatedly tried to register his mage’s words. He could have his fun, too.

“Blue…Yennefer, you want me to tell Geralt that you need blue balls from him?”

“Bells! Bells, you absolute child!” she said. “Honestly. Blue balls? Really, Jaskier?” He was giggling. “I don’t need to ask to give either of you blue balls.”

“Exactly, Yennefer, you provide that service for us anyway, free of charge!” A balled-up napkin hit him in the head and he laughed joyfully.

“I can’t stand you. I’m leaving, you’ll never see me again.”

Jaskier looked up through his grin and met her twinkling, happy eyes. “Tonight then?”

“Tonight,” she agreed, and left with a quick ruffle of his hair.

xx

“Still working?” Geralt said as greeting later in the afternoon. The desk was neater than Jaskier expected it to be this far in, only a few books open, dog eared and marked in colored ink. He’d written a page and a half since Yennefer left, and it was good, it was, but he’d need to go back and make edits later. His long empty mug of tea sat far across him.

“Mm,” he agreed, continuing to write. “Ah, Yennefer came through earlier,” giving a gesture to the waiting mug of tea on the counter. Geralt made his way over to the mug, and gave it a small igni to warm it. He smiled fondly down at the drink—what a terribly lovely sight he was. Warm here, and safe. Couldn’t it be like this always? The three of them here, comfortable and happy? No, he supposed, but gods how he wanted it.

“She’s at the market now,” Jaskier continued, “wanted me to ask you about...” He lifted his pen and squinted. “Ah, toadflax and bluebells.” He looked up at Geralt, smiling. “Blue balls,” they said together, sporting matching shit-eating grins, Geralt’s albeit much smaller. “I made the same joke myself,” Jaskier added.

Geralt snorted. “How’d she take that?”

“Oh, as well as you’d hope. We’ll never see her again, of course.” He turned back to his work, reading over the last paragraph. He could feel Geralt approach to stand behind him, and while he’d normally shoo his witcher off, he was too deep in concentration to bother.

How long was too long to linger on the progression of oral storytelling to bardship? It’s not like he could ignore it, (Geralt’s hand came to grip his shoulder, a thumb rubbing against it tenderly) as it was a crucial tenant of the argument— but there was plenty to be said for assuming the literacy and foreknowledge of the reader. (He leaned in to get a closer look at Jaskier’s page, the soft warmth of the tea in his other hand bouncing off his chest) But this was to be in a journal often referenced by first years, and he knew how much he would have loved a paper that had everything all in one—

“How’s it going?” Geralt asked softly in his ear.

Jaskier waved a hand over the mess before him. “You know. It’s fine, I’m just not sure at what point I’m lingering on points to excess.”

“Mm,” Geralt hummed understandingly. “Tell the story. Trust your gut.” He gave Jaskier a nuzzle and light kiss against his cheek before taking up the empty mug off the table and walking off further into the apartment.

“I always do!” Jaskier called back. Mm, if only this were as simple as telling a story. Well…Oh—if he spent this paragraph referencing the progression it would end up taking up more room, be a run of the mill lead-in, but if he wrote the actual history as a short story itself, now there was an idea, he could make his point and give the context. Oh, fuck, brilliant—

“Back soon,” Geralt was saying as the front door slipped shut, but the bard was too lost in his work to do more than give a small nod of his head.

The sun was falling, making a graceful bow into the horizon. Warm light spread out over the streets of Oxenfurt like the last pushes of tide, ebbing, and flowing, and sinking back into night.

“Ah, fuck,” Jaskier muttered, crossing out a spelling error with a snarl.

His shoulders ached, and his lower back was going to be the death of him. He was on page 7. All he could see was the work ahead of him, winding off ad infinitum. If he didn’t pick up the pace, he might have to go 60 hours straight—he shivered. Not ideal. He took a breath, stood up and stretched a bit, his muscles groaning in thanks. A quick bathroom break later and he was sliding back into his chair, still warm, his papers grinning up at him, sardonic.

He’d take a meal break at 10 pages, he told himself.

He stood to stretch and his head swam. Well. Plenty of reason to stay seated, he supposed.

Geralt and Yennefer returned at 12 and a half pages. He turned his head in greeting, and when he looked back he got the first real look at the table in hours—it was a disaster, crumbled pieces of parchment, empty quills, and little notes strewn everywhere. Some books propped open, the pile of parchment looking more like a mountain slope, an empty glass from when he’d chugged water hours ago.

His loves were clearly a few drinks deep as they came through the door, and completely unmarred by the woes of academia. Bastards, honestly.

“Hi, hello, hope you had a good evening, I—”

“Come to bed,” Yennefer said, suddenly right behind him. Two small but firm hands came to his shoulders, rubbing deeply.

“Ah! Oh, fuck—oh, yes, darling, right there—”

Geralt came to his other side, tipping his head up for a kiss, which he moaned into. His witcher’s tongue was soft, pleading, tempting him—his mage’s hands pushing almost painfully against his aching muscles. He wanted to cry, it was so good. It was so different than the last… however many hours it had been that he had been sitting here. Geralt pulled away, and Yennefer’s hands came to rest as well.

“So?” Geralt asked, his voice deep and velvety. “Bed?”

“I…” gods, who had he become? “I can’t. I want to, I just—”

Yennefer placed a kiss to the top of his head. “It’s fine,” she said, and he knew it was, but he hated denying them something they all wanted. “Have you eaten?”

Jaskier frowned. “Fuck. Not really.”

Geralt sighed and went to the pantry. “You’re getting a sandwich,” he grumbled.

“Ooo, Geralt, dear heart, would you heat it up? Use some of your,” he wiggled his fingers “your witchery magic?”

Geralt turned and glared. “You’re getting a sandwich.”

“He’s so mean to me,” Jaskier muttered to Yennefer, “I can’t believe he’s so mean to me.”

His mage snorted a laugh into his hair. “You’re really staying up all night, then?” She waved a hand and the curtains around the room swept shut, and his lantern began to burn steadily.

“Looks like it,” he sighed. Geralt retuned a moment later, plated warm sandwich and glass of water in hand.

“Fuck. Thank you.” He took it and took a bite, suddenly ravenous. He looked up at both of them, staring down in fond amusement. “Fank—” he swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. “Thank you both, truly. I’ll be up a bit. If you need something, call, yes?”

They rolled their eyes. “He tells us to call if we need anything,” Yennefer muttered. “Don’t get into any trouble,” she said, and with a peck on the cheek from both of them, they disappeared into the bedroom.

He looked back at his work.

Okay. 12 ½ pages in. He could do this.

x

At 15 pages, he felt ravenous again, and made a second sandwich. Not as good as Geralt’s. Geralt’s sandwiches weren’t even that good, but they were made by Geralt, which added a certain kick, a novelty he adored.

He drank another glass of water and shook his head. Back to work.

At 17 pages, sometimes the world swam before him. He gripped the edge of the table. Fuck.

He was so tired. 23 pages. He kept writing.

It was terrible. The whole paper was a mess. Nothing made sense and people were going to laugh at him. 25 pages.

He heard a sound. Was that Geralt rising for the bathroom? Was it an intruder? Light crept in through the window. 27 pages.

There was a ringing in his ear. His writing was getting increasingly larger. 27 ½ pages.

Geralt gave him a soft nuzzle to the top of his head before padding through to the kitchen. Jaskier’s heart ached. His bones ached. Writing was hard but right then it felt impossible. 27 ¾ pages.

Geralt lingered, and Jaskier felt his nose twitch. He tapped his foot impatiently, waiting for him to leave. He couldn’t have any distractions right now. He shut his eyes tight until he heard the bedroom door close once more.

Yennefer entered hours later, sweeping the curtains over with a flick of her hand. Bright light flooded the room, painting the desk in all its full, disgustingly messy glory. “Well—”

“Could you ask next time?!” Jaskier snapped. “Some of us need consistency to concentrate!”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, and they stared at each other. Some part of him wanted to slap himself but the rest was just so irritated. Who’d she think she was, anyway?

After a moment, the mage turned and left with a flick of her hand to sweep the curtains shut again.

“Headed out,” Geralt said at 30 pages. “Contract.”

“Good,” Jaskier muttered. “I mean. Good that you’re—fuck. Whatever.”

Geralt stared. “You need rest. It’s been more than 24 hours.”

“I need to fucking finish.”

“Yen said—”

“I’m sure she did,” Jaskier muttered, driving his heels into his eyes. Gods, his eyes burned. Silence hung.

“She portaled out this morning.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Great. Love that. I’m a fucking disaster, thank you for the reminder, Geralt.” He waved toward the door. “Don’t you have a contract?”

He turned back to his papers, shifting around to look for page 11, and didn’t think about how long it took before Geralt left the apartment.

His hand was shaking but he was at 34 pages. He still had so much to say. Fuck. But he was in it now.

He scarfed down some soup that was mostly broth at some point, and he’d under-salted it, but it was something. His eyes kept going blurry; traitorous things.

The bear on his mug was plotting his downfall.

38 pages and Jaskier felt like the gods themselves had gifted him with the knowledge he now bestowed onto meager commoners. He was a genius.

At 43 pages, he had stopped to lay out the entire essay on the ground, so he could see it all. The words sometimes swam before him, and he had trouble remembering what he was meant to say next. Once, he looked up, confused as to where he was. And then, at 44 pages, the guilt of snapping at his dearest loves, the weight of this behemoth paper he wasn’t even sure he could finish, and his own self-doubt crept in and seized him up, leaving him breathless and in tears for… awhile. Everything hurt. He had to keep going.

At 48 pages, he saw a griffon fly through his window, and he named it Kalvin. He turned whatever color Jaskier wanted him to turn, which was very considerate of him. Kalvin was his only friend now, and with a little convincing, might become his editor, too.

At 55 pages his chest seized, and it was hard to breathe for a moment. He closed his eyes but—no, no, couldn’t do that. If he fell asleep now, he’d never finish in time. He tried to relax, got some water, leaned against the counter. Everything was a mess.

He sat back on the floor, his work around him. Keep going.

“I don’t think there’s anything about anything that I have to be doing right now. Kalvin, you’ve… you’ve got to understand, this could be my finest work! It’s good. It’s pretty good here in… in this part, here. In that other part it’s just okay, but that’s why you come in with your big claws and you’re gonna. Rip up the bad parts. Don’t rip up the good parts. Right? Yeah. Do you think they’ve forgotten about me by now?”

He looked down. 57 pages. Took a long blink.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “That’s fair.

He had to write two extra pages so that he could skirt around referencing Valdo Marx’s work as anything other than a contradictory point. Maybe it would have been fun to use his own writing against him but he didn’t want to give the satisfaction of being referenced positively in a centerfold piece.

He lost the essay.

“Fuck—oh, gods, where did—”

He turned around, looked down. Oh, there it was.

“Thank fuck.”

The curtains were still closed and the charmed lantern was still burning, but Jaskier knew it was night by the time he reached 63 pages and Geralt came in.

Jaskier looked up from his spot kneeling on the floor. Geralt looked fine. He was a little dirty. There were some gushy bits. Probably blood. He was tired. Or just mad. Maybe he hated Jaskier.

“You’re still—?!” Geralt asked, looking at Jaskier like he’d just said a griffon named Kalvin had flown in the window earlier and now they were friends.

“I met a griffon,” Jaskier heard himself say. Geralt stared. “We’re friends now.”

“…You need to fucking sleep.”

“No.” Jaskier went back to the margin he’d devoted to drawing circles in. “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

Geralt sighed. He might have talked but Jaskier didn’t hear, just kept writing.

“How often has that been happening?” he heard Geralt ask.

“What happening?”

“Where you fall asleep for a moment.”

“I haven’t! Fallen asleep.”

“Fuck,” Geralt said. He looked very nice, except for the goop all over him. Well. Even that wasn’t so bad, when the underneath bits were Geralt. His Geralt. Looked so warm, so strong, so able to carry him.

“Later,” Jaskier replied, and went back to his words. The familiar pop of a portal sounded in the bedroom. Their eyes lingered on the direction it came from, but Yennefer didn’t open the door. They looked at each other, and then back at the door which remained very much shut. “She’s mad.”

“Yep.”

“At me.”

“Yep.”

There was a pause. “Are you covered in blood?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Oh.”

“Not mine.”

“That,” he said pointing to the Witcher, “is good.”

“Mmm.”

“Sticky though.”

“Definitely sticky.”

Yennefer came out of the doorway, and Jaskier blinked. When he opened his eyes again she was much closer than she’d been and was in the middle of talking. Magic, he assumed.

“—yourself very lucky, bard.”

“Yeahh,” he said. “Sorry. ‘Bout… Sorry.”

She huffed and crossed her arms. There was a look in her face. Eyes? And her mouth. It was hard to name. Words were hard, when they weren’t the words he desperately needed to write.

“—for a while,” Geralt was saying. “Jaskier. How close are you to finishing.”

“Soon!” Jaskier said. “Soon! Soon. Due… 1pm tomorrow. What time is it?”

“10pm.”

“Fuck. Psshhh. I can… I can do it.” He looked up at Yennefer. “Sorry. Really. I… I’m just tired,” he admitted. “Shouldn’t have snapped. Not fair to you.”

Yennefer stood there, arms folded, emanating some emotion Jaskier had lost the concept of around page 41. Geralt walked further into the apartment, into the bedroom. Oh right. Blood armor. Ick.

He went back to writing and tried to ignore the desire to cry again, and then suddenly Yennefer’s shoes were in his line of vision.

“Let me read it,” she said.

“Oh.”

They stared at one another. She had such a pretty face. He might have been smiling. She rolled her eyes and then came to sit next to him. She quickly found the first page and began.

Halfway through it, he spilled ink on the bottom half of page 64, and wept. Yennefer gave him an attempt at a comforting pat on the back.

Yennefer had read the pages and risen; “It’s good. You need edits, but it’s somehow decent. Good. Whatever. A little… loose, toward the end, though,” made herself a cup of tea, and entered the bedroom.

Either a few moments, or 20 minutes later, Geralt emerged.

“What are you at now?”

“69 pages.”

“Nice,” Geralt said.

“Ha. Yeahhh,” Jaskier agreed.

“That’s not what I—” Geralt sighed the sigh that meant his face was going all pinch-y. “Close to the end?”

“Mmm. What is the end, really?” Geralt made a different pinch-y face. “Soon.”

“Come to bed tonight, Jaskier.”

“I’ll try,” he said. He blinked, and Geralt was gone.

There are a lot of words in an essay that are very hard to spell.

Jaskier ate the rest of a loaf of bread.

For a while, he swore he walked the streets of Oxenfurt while still warm in his professorial housing.

Kalvin’s accent changed three times and at one point he was on fire.

85 pages.

Geralt woke first, as always; There he was! That was his love. So much of his heart.

With shaking hands, Jaskier had brought himself up to sit in his chair, and sat staring down at his work. He looked up at Geralt with a lopsided grin. “I did it,” he said weakly.

“Need help putting it together?”

The tears fell so quickly he didn’t realize it was happening. “Really?”

Geralt sighed softly and knelt down, organizing the papers.

Yennefer emerged a bit later—There she was! His love, a chunk of him was hers entirely. He smiled. “Look!”

“Mmm. And now you can sleep.”

“NO!” Jaskier cried and leapt to his feet, “No, no, now… now is presenting time. To… the editors. Not Kalvin. But I turn it in… and then sleep,”

He had a sudden burst of energy, and tried to step over Geralt and the papers, but fell into the table instead, before the Witcher steadied him from below.

“Ohhhh, thank you dear. It’s time for… presentation! Mm.” He leaned into Yennefer’s warmth at his side, though she did not wrap her arms around him as he’d hoped. “Help me pick out an outfit.”

He blinked. Yennefer was in front of him now, looking at him with a frown, her hands around his waist. Geralt’s hand was against his forehead. “No! Stop that! I’m fine. I’m fine! See me! Fine. It’s action time. Let’s go!” and he marched off to the bedroom.

The floor was suddenly very close to his face.

“Did I—”

“You fell on your face.”

“Have I—”

“You’ve asked three times now, yes.”

There should have been fanfare when he turned it in, but there was only the grateful smile of Edmond, the young new assistant, a firm handshake, and a promise he’d hear back from them very soon, for a quick summarization of their initial thoughts. Or, he’d used all those words, Jaskier forgot which order they’d come in.

The three returned to the apartment, and everything happened very slowly and so quickly he found it hard to keep track. There was definitely a bath drawn for him—gods, it had been days, hadn’t it— oh, fuck, he was gross, wasn’t he��a full meal, and a celebratory drink. He’d made a few good jokes, and all he could see were Geralt and Yennefer, smiling at him. An empty glass. A bar of soap. A long quill. A messy table. A pile of books and an empty mug. They deposited him on the bed for sleep, and left together.

Jaskier lay there, waiting for sleep to take him.

It did not.

He was so tired he could cry. He did, a few times. He couldn’t think straight. All of it, everything, hurt. His body ached. He tried to soothe himself down alone, rocking himself in the hopes it would work. But nothing.

What if he could never sleep again? What if he would always be awake, forever? What if this was how he died?! Oh gods, he didn’t want to die! He still had edits to approve!

Eventually, he could feel himself getting closer. He adjusted himself, lay on his back and took deep, measured breaths, kept his eyes closed but relaxed. Okay. Okay. Sleep.

He was falling, so violently and so fast that when he jolted awake, he forgot he’d been lying on a bed in the first place.

Fuck.

He tried again. It happened sometimes, it was fine. He’d be fine.

He tried breathing deeply once more, trying to let the distant scents of Yennefer and Geralt now embedded in his pillows overtake him.

A fear so powerful it gripped his heart and twisted, whispered to him, ‘this is what dying is, you’re going to die’ and he once again jolted awake. He threw his head back against the pillow and winced; even that hurt.

Fuck. Fuck.

He kept trying. Over, and over, he’d get so close to sleep and then right at the precipice, something would yank him out of it.

Once, he saw Yennefer falling off a cliff. Another time, he saw Geralt stabbed through the chest. At some point, he saw Ciri screaming, and his hands flew out to pull her close, only to find nothing there. Sometimes it was himself falling, and sometimes it was the world below him falling instead.

He’d really done it this time. Stayed awake so long, sleep had abandoned him entirely.

It felt like twelve years before Yennefer and Geralt returned, slipping into the room quietly. He sat up in bed, startling them both.

“Please,” he said quietly, “I can’t. I don’t know why I can’t I just—I can’t. My body won’t let me, I want to but I can’t—”

“How the hell—” Yennefer started, walking over to him with a palm out to check for a curse, maybe? It didn’t matter. He wrapped her hand in his and clutched it to himself, desperate for her. She was so warm. So alive.

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed, “It’s been nearly 70 hours already, Jaskier.”

“Let me just put him down with magic,” Yennefer started, but Geralt put a hand up.

“We can’t. It’s a temporary fix. if he can’t fall asleep on his own without magic, it’ll get harder and harder for him. We need to get him to fall asleep without it.” They looked down at him. What a disgrace he must look like, how pathetic he was. He turned his face away in abject shame. He couldn’t even fall asleep right.

While he looked away, Yennefer tore her hand from his as she and Geralt discarded their clothes into heaps beside the bed, crawled beneath the covers on either side of Jaskier. They hated him. They must. How could they not?

“It’s fine, you don’t—fuck, sorry—”

Geralt shrugged. “Don���t be. I know how bad it gets. It’s different for a Witcher, but no sleep is the whole reason we met Yennefer.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jaskier said softly.

“As I recall, the solution then was to have vigorous sex on the floor.” Yennefer ran a finger along Jaskier’s chest. “Sound appealing?”

“I—yes, Yennefer, it sounds appealing.” He fidgeted, tried to focus on the feeling of Yennefer’s delicate touch. He was oversensitive enough that it felt like fire, but nothing… stirred, and each word he spoke felt like he was pulling honey from his tongue. “I don’t… much as I’d like, I’m not sure I’d be... up for it right now.” Yennefer’s head fell against the pillow and she flattened her hand, ran the palm up his chest to rest above his heart. Pressed a kiss there.

He closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, but they were looking at him, he could feel every inch of their gazes and it was all too much. He whined in agony. “I can’t do this. Fuck. I can’t, just put me out. We try it again tomorrow, I—”

“Jaskier. You can. Tell us what you need and we can help you,” Yennefer said, sweet but firm. And that was her, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t think. Wanted to. Wanted so much. Wanted to be asleep.

Jaskier curled up on his side, exhausted of being exhausted, when he felt Geralt slide up closer behind him. “Can I hold you?” he murmured into the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier nodded, and felt Geralt’s arm come around him and under his own arm, felt it slide up his chest and cross it protectively.

“Feel good?” Jaskier nodded, and then cracked his eyes open, met Yennefer’s, concern palpable.

He lifted one arm just slightly. “C’mere?” And she did, curled into his arms and around him, tucked her head under his, kissed the top of Geralt’s fingers. He held her close, and was held by the two in turn. Breathing, somehow, felt easier between them.

“Breathe, bard,” Yennefer urged him softly. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair, took in a deep breath, and Jaskier tried to follow.

They breathed softly, all together, slow and safe. Soon, he was drifting into sweet oblivion.

‘You,’ Fear said, wrapped around his sternum, ‘will crumble, the moment you let go of wakefulness.’ It gripped him, and tugged him back to reality.

He jolted again. “Fuck, dammit, cock wringing—”

Yennefer pulled back to look at him worriedly. “Is that what’s been keeping you up?” she asked.

“It’s, I don’t know, something just pulls me back, I try to fight it but…”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. “Sleep starts. Happens sometimes.”

“The hell are sleep starts?”

“They’re… when you’re too on edge to sleep, or just haven’t in too long, brains… fizzle. Keep you awake. It’s a survival instinct—it makes you think you’ve got to stay awake to stay alive. Feels like falling? Or… a shock. Sometimes other things. Hallucinations.” Geralt pressed a kiss to the back of his head. “It’s scary. It’s meant to be. Your body thinks it’s fighting for its life.”

“I am never letting you doom yourself like this ever again,” Yennefer said, and while it was probably meant to come out angry, she just sounded worried.

Geralt hummed and agreement. “Try again, we’ve got you. We’re not letting go.” Jaskier took a breath. They had him. They had him.

Yennefer lifted a hand to Jaskier’s temple. “May I?” And he let her in, easier than breathing. She gave him Ciri laughing, wind chimes on the breeze, the soft roar of the coast. Geralt hugged him tight, ran his other hand through Jaskier’s hair, tried to keep the bard’s breathing aligned. Now, what had he ever done to earn these two?

Soon, sleep came to him again, and he could feel Yennefer ready to soothe anything that came for him in his mind, Geralt ready to defend against anything that dared hurt his resting body. The darkness crept in, and he felt peace.

Geralt was reaching for him, falling, bleeding, screaming.

“FUCK!”

“Shh,” the real Geralt hushed him. “We’ve got you.”

“Fuck, there’s got to be something else,” Yennefer groaned. “What’ve you tried so far?”

“I have tried… to fall asleep.”

Yennefer and Geralt both huffed small laughs. “No. Positions—”

“Only the good ones.”

“Meditating?” Geralt asked.

“Darling, I haven’t had a thought in my head in hours. This is meditation.”

“Drugs?” Yennefer asked.

“I will try the drugs!” Jaskier said with a drowsy cheerfulness, as Geralt replied “No drugs. No.”

“Ugh,” Jaskier groaned, and shifted to lie on his stomach. Oh. This was… better. He nestled into the pillows, and a soft contented sigh drifted from him.

“That feel better?” Geralt asked as he ran a hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “Mmm,” Jaskier replied. Yennefer’s hand joined Geralt over his chest. Oh, they were going to make him cry.

And then it was too much, too much feeling, like his brain couldn’t handle all the sensation, and he felt Yennefer come to pause, and a moment later, Geralt’s hand as well. ‘That better?’ Yennefer asked in his mind. Jaskier gave her the memory of his favorite hug with her, warm and happy as her legs wrapped around his waist, and his favorite with Geralt, crushing and firm and full of too many emotions to speak aloud.

“Could…” he said softly, “Just. Talk? Not to me. Just… to each other. Just wanna hear you.” He could almost hear their smiles, and felt as they settled in on the pillows beside him, arms and hands intertwining on his back. Yennefer’s head on his shoulder, the gentle planes of Geralt’s chest on his other side. “If you need us, Yennefer and I are here. We’ve got you. You’re safe.”

He nodded into the mattress, cool and soft below him.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

“G’night Yennefer.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

"G’night, Geralt.”

He started to fade into oblivion, but stopped himself before he got too far. Not fear, not anxiety, a conscious stopping. Somewhere above him, Geralt was telling Yennefer about the contract from… sometime in the past few days, and Yennefer was telling her own story about some town gossip with a woman and her hens, which, it might have been a metaphor, but he’d basically forgotten what those were by now. He breathed deeply, felt their words flow through him, and when he felt brave enough, he let go, trusting they would catch him.

He could have sworn he heard wind chimes, somewhere.

x

The small amount of light filtering in through the curtains was golden when he awoke. His head both ached and felt light as a feather, his muscles screamed and cried but half of it was in relief. He gave a small stretch and yawned. “G’morning,” an amused Geralt said to him, lounging in a chair he’d brought beside the bed, reading a book. His legs were propped up on the bed beside the bard’s and Jaskier stretched to bump their toes together.

“What time…?”

“You slept 13 hours.”

“Fuck.”

“You probably need more.”

“Yeahhhh.”

“Feel alright?”

“Like a real human being,” he said. “Hungry, though.”

“Mmm.”

Yennefer slipped in the door, but, noticing Jaskier was awake, rose a hand. “May I?” she asked, voice dripping in sarcasm, gesturing to the curtains.

“You may,” Jaskier offered, covering his face with his hands. “Ohhhh, gods, how bad was I?”

“Genuinely awful,” Yennefer said, as Geralt was saying, “There’s been worse.”

“Normally I’d withhold this,” the mage said, withdrawing a small envelope from her pocket. “But, under the circumstances…” she cleared her throat.

“To one Julian Alfred Pankratz. We were extremely pleased to receive your manuscript yesterday afternoon. Our editors are will have their notes to you by the weekend, but we wanted to reach out and extend our most sincere compliments on your work. It is—oh, a flood of adjectives, I’m skipping these. Etcetera, etcetera, sucking your dick, etcetera alright, here—and meticulous in construction. We can tell,” Yennefer said, dragging out the final sentence, “you made good use of your year of writing time to complete the work.” Jaskier and Geralt by this point were holding back true howls of laughter.

“And won’t you believe it, there’s more. Ahem; we have a number of suggestions and questions already, but encourage you to get your well-deserved rest as we prepare our feedback. We are grateful to work with you, and thank you again for your stunning entry. There’s a postscript,” Yennefer added. “As a quick and personal note, we cannot have helped but notice the nature of your penmanship; we mean no offence, but would encourage you to see a doctor of the eye to fit you with some spectacles.”

“My—my penman…? What’d—” and Yennefer, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, brought out a rather crumpled piece of parchment with an ink stain at the bottom—ah, yes, the original page 64— and showed it to him. His eyes were… gods, they were aching, but he was clear minded enough now to see that each line had become at least twice it’s normal size. The lines were far from straight, dipping and bending toward the edge of the paper, the letters changed directions at random points, and a fair amount of the words were smudged so completely they were hard to make out.”

Jaskier stared in horror.

“They. Is that. Is that what it looked like? Really?”

“It’s worse than most of the ones that made it in,” Geralt said, carefully.

“Most?!”

“You drew pictures on one of them,” Yennefer said.

“Oh my god. They…they must…”

“Adore it, clearly,” Yennefer said, setting aside the paper. “It wasn’t worth the strain, and you’ve definitely firmly embarrassed yourself, but they’re either embarrassing themselves by fawning praise on you,” she said, sliding onto the bed, “Or you’re actually just… very knowledgeable and talented, even when addled by sleep deprivation.”

There was a pause, Jaskier soaking this in; it hadn’t been worth it, exactly, but it wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was quite good, and Yennefer was complimenting him outright, so, very good.

“Or both,” Geralt added.

“Definitely both,” Yennefer agreed.

Jaskier groaned. “You can’t be mean to me. You’re in my house and I am extremely tired, which means that you, by law, must kiss me and tell me nice things about myself.”

Geralt laughed, light and free, and Yennefer slunk slower down into the bed. “You get no kisses,” she said, “You get sleep and rest.” She grabbed a pillow from under her head and plopped it delicately onto Jaskier’s face.

“Boo,” Jaskier said, muffled beneath the thing. He closed his eyes. Geralt muttered something, and Yennefer gave a snort of laughter, and then there was silence.

“Are you two kissing up there?!”

More silence.

“UGH,” he groaned, and sunk into his soft, sweet mattress. Oh, beautiful mattress. How he adored it, how he adored his two loves on top of it. He listened to their kissing, soft, and sweet, and knew he’d join them soon. But it was so warm down here. Even as one of them removed the pillow, he could only bring himself to open his eyes for a moment, to see them both leaning to kiss his face gently, before returning to each other. He took a long, deep breath, and listened to them swirl around him, until all he could feel was their love and the sweet caress of his pillow.

[himbowelsh]

Hello! Can I please request the Valentine‘s Day Alphabet for Malarkey please? That would be wonderful, Thank you in advance!!! 😍

valentines day alphabet  ( accepting! )

A   :   AFFECTION.   how does your muse show affection?

He’s a hugger. Just a very physically tactile person  ---  like, Don speaks about three love languages at once, and honestly loves giving affection more than he likes recieving it? While he thinks very little of clapping people on the back of hugging them, he’s also very eager to do things for the people he loves, in order to show his devotion and dependability; he might not be able to fix the leak in his mom’s sink, but he really wants to try! And spending time with someone, making memories, is very important to him, so Don loves having people whose company he can just be comfortable in.

B   :   BOUQUET.   does your muse like flowers? which ones are their favourite?

Don has a very healthy appreciation for flowers, and a keen eye when picking them out; bouquets are his go-to for any family celebrations, and he’ll usually find them pre-arranged at the florists and pick out whatever appeals most to him. He’s tried to look into flower language, but found it overall goofy, and didn’t felve too deep into it.

C   :   CHOCOLATE.   does your muse like chocolate? which one is their favourite?

Chocolate! Literally just  ---  chocolate everything. It’s got chocolate on it, he’ll take it! Actively despises white chocolate’s existence, but would beg on his knees for a Snickers bar.

D   :   DATE.   what is your muse’s ideal date? where / who with / etc?

Don...  would love to do something unique. Fun and unique. Maybe go to a dog park, even if you guys don’t have a dog. Maybe go roller skating! Maybe rock climbing, or to a weird museum exhibit...  something exciting, where he and his partner can both enjoy themselves, laugh, and learn something new about each other. More than anything, he wants to make some memories to smile back on later.

E   :   EMBRACE.   does your muse like hugs? what are their hugs like?

Please give him hugs. He relishes them, he cherishes them, he needs them. Don will usually be the one to initiate, but if someone hugs him first? Ooh, he just loves it. His hugs are very secure, very warm  ---  sometimes a little too enthusiastic, if he grabs someone while excited, but he always means well.

F   :   FLIRT.   is your muse good at flirting? how do they flirt?

He doesn’t try that hard, to be honest. Don’s got a straightforward, good-natured manner; while he’s not a talented flirt  (if he tries to hard, he inevitably says something ridiculous)  his milkshake still brings plenty of takers to the yard.

G   :   GIFT.   is your muse good at gift - giving or do they struggle to get it right?

He doesn’t always get it right, but he definitely always tries. Don’s got a proud record of never missing a birthday or holiday, even if his gifts are...  questionable sometimes. (”Why did you give me a used toaster for Christmas? Where did you get it? Is it yours? There’s still bread inside ---”)

H   :   HEART.   is your muse quick or slow to give their heart away?

Quick  ---  dangerously so. Don is a lover, not a fighter, and he’s got such a big heart; his capacity for love is outstanding, and he gives it freely without a clear understanding of how ephemeral it is. He doesn’t think things through, like, “I shouldn’t fall for this person because they’re dating someone already” or “I shouldn’t let this guy become the best friend I’ve ever had because he could get blown up in a Belgian forest tomorrow”. Don doesn’t let himself care for people. It just happens, and he’s really helpless to stop it.  

I    :   I LOVE YOU.   does your muse find ‘i love you’ easy or hard to say?

He has to get to a certain point in the relationship....   but he’ll probably be the first to say it, and once he’s started, there’s no stopping him. He wants to say it all the time, just to feel the words bloom like a flower inside his chest. He loves his partner, he loves them, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

J   :   JEALOUSY.   does your muse get jealous in a relationship?

Here’s the thing  ---  Don needs trust in a relationship. That’s one of his biggest things. His partner is a confidante, someone he feels safe sharing his emotions with, and he can’t do that if he doesn’t believe he can trust them. Don’s not the type to overreact if his partner goes out with friends, or if he spots another person flirting with them. He’ll take it in good humor. As long as they have that bond, he trusts them completely...  and would be devastated if it were ever betrayed.

K   :   KISS.   is your muse a good kisser? why / why not?

Don’s kisses are 97% concentrated emotion, and that translates through his every action; he’s hesitant, he’s eager, he’s tender all at once. He pulls his partner close, a hand firmly planted on their waist; the other’s likely to find the small of their back, steadying him, because Don’s the sort of person who needs to anchor himself while kissing. Gentle is the best word, because he would never want to overstep a boundary  (he’s a gentleman); he is very in-tune with his partner’s feelings, going only as quickly as they’ll let him.

L   :   LOVE.   who does your muse love?

So many people!! So many!! Don loves his family deeply, and has such a wide circle of friends that he cares for with devotion. Don is just the sort of person who loves people easily, and when he does, he puts it all on the line for them. 

M   :   MOONLIGHT.   is morning or night a more romantic setting?

What’s wrong with afternoon? Cozy, not to hot, not too cold, some nice sunshine...  and he still gets to sleep in.

N   :   NAUGHTY.   what is your muse like in bed?

A lot of energy, not much finesse. Don is extremely eager to please...  which can be a great thing, but also cause problems at times. He’s not clumsy, but does tend to take more risks than he should. If he thinks he can lift his partner up? Let’s try it. If this surface looks stable enough? Let’s hop on! This has led to some...  mishaps. Thankfully, Don knows how to appreciate an absurd situation. He’s not afraid to laugh at himself in the middle of the act, and this makes it easy for his partner to feel at ease as well. It’s very important to Don that his partner feels comfortable; he would never enjoy anything too rough, anything that would leave them in pain in any way. Enjoys being told what to do. Probably pretty into body worship? He just...  loves to admire his partner, loves to make them feel good, and is willing to devote all his energy towards the cause.

O   :   ODE.   does your muse have a way with words?

He’s a pretty simple guy, but is well-spoken in his own way  ---  not a poet, by any means, but has a particular way of getting his point across that resonates.

P   :   PARTNER.   what does your muse look for in a partner? looks / personality?

Someone who loves to laugh, who brightens any room they walk into; who can be gentle and gregarious in equal measure; someone who doesn’t mind silence, and who understands that some days are not always good ones. They absolutely have to be an animal lover. If they like music, wonderful! If they can bake...  like, Don really likes baked goods, so that’s amazing. If they have a kind heart? That’s an absolute must. He’s got a weakness for bright eyes and dimples.

Q   :   QUESTION.   would your muse ask the big question or expect their partner to?

He’d ask, and actually be quite firm about it  ---  he doesn’t want to be asked, he’s got a plan, and it’s going to be great. Don’s the sort of guy to recruit his friends on a whole elaborate proposal, and would love public proposals  ---  but before doing anything, he’d test the waters to the extreme, dropping hints left and right just to see how his partner reacts and if they’re open to the idea. He wouldn’t propose unless he was 99% certain of their response. Frankly, Don’s not the most subtle about it, so by the time he finally drops the question, his partner probably sees it coming a mile away.

R   :   ROMANCE.   is your muse a romantic or a cynic?

He’s sure got a romantic soul, but life’s out to prove him wrong.

S   :   SWEETHEART.   did your muse have a childhood sweetheart?

Don had his fair share of elementary school girlfriends, and was the favorite of a few teachers  (he was an adorable kid, okay?)  but none really stole his young heart.

T   :   TRUE LOVE.   does your muse believe in true love?

He wants to, so desperately. He wants to believe in love, to believe that some people are right for each other and simply meant to be. He definitely believes that love is the strongest force in the universe, and that once someone enters your heart they can never really leave it... but true love will always be a question, until he experiences it.

U   :   UNREQUITED.   has your muse had their heart broken?

...  my man...  lost five of his closest friends in the span of a week...   his heart has been stomped on, smashed, steamrolled, ground up, and used as seasoning for someone else’s soup. The last thing he needs is more heartbreak.  (Outside of that, like...  Don’s the sort of person who takes things very personally, and awful things...  wear on him over a long period of time. His heart is very strong, but it is tired.)

V   :   VALENTINE.   how does your muse feel about valentine’s day?

Definitely doesn’t take it seriously, but he enjoys it! It’s a good opportunity to go on a romantic date, if he’s got a willing partner, and to get creative about it  ---  because whoops, he forgot to book a restaurant in advance, so now they’re going to have to go to the park and feed ducks or something.

W  :   WEDDING.   would your muse get married? why / why not?

Yes! Absolutely! He’d love to get married! Like, it’s not something he’s ever given much thought about, but the idea of a happy family really appeals to him  ---  not to mention, having something reliable and stable to come home to at the end of every day.

X   :   XOXO.   does your muse use / like pet names?

He doesn’t use them prolifically, but he’s been known to whip out the occasional “sweetie” or “honey”...   or something goofy like “sugarbuns”, when he wants to get a laugh out of his partner.

Y   :   YOURS.   does your muse get protective easily?

He’s...  I mean, it depends on which stage of his life you’re talking here. Pre-war Malarkey, who doesn’t really know what it’s like to lose someone? More likely to go with the flow, just laugh things off if someone’s encroaching on his partner. (Again, he trusts his partner very much, and that’s a huge component in their relationship.) Postwar Malarkey? Ooh man, absolutely protective. He’ll jump if it seems like anyone’s making his partner uncomfortable, and has no problem getting in their face about it. Depending on the situation, he’ll either politely but firmly suggest they back off... or tell them to, or else.

Z   :   ZZZ.   how many people has your muse slept with?

Look...  he’s a social boy. He’s not shy. If someone’s willing, and they’re flirting with him, and they want to...  he’s also a very active young man who is honestly never not in the mood, so...  there have been a few. A good few. Maybe he’s lost count.

[seungyovn]

it reminded me of you

prompt: 2/100 ways to say i love you. “It reminded me of you.”

pairing: han seungwoo x reader

genre: established relationship, fluff, lots of fluff

word count: 1768

warnings: none

The bright light of the morning's sunrise shines into your eyes, waking you up like a silent alarm. Your body tenses. The alarm or lack thereof sends your entire body into a panic. 

You had slept through your alarms.

The clock on your phone reads 6:41 in the morning. You were going to be late.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you firmly in your place next to him on the mattress. Seungwoo mumbles something incoherent in his sleep.

"What?" you ask him to repeat himself, your efforts to pull his fingertips away from you side only make him hold onto you tighter.

"It's Saturday, baby." he rolls over, opening a sleep filled eye to look at your face as you process what he is telling you.

"Saturday?" you look down at your phone, pressing the button on the side of the screen until it flashes the date and time. 

Your boyfriend was right, It was Saturday.

"Come back to bed." Seungwoo mumbles, tightening his grip so your body has no other choice but to lay back down.

 As if on autopilot, you unlock your phone, refreshing you e-mail to make sure that nothing had imploded at your office during the 8 hours you were asleep. There were several memos, invoices from your suppliers and a slew of time off requests from your employees hoping to make it home in time for the upcoming holiday. You start to reply to a few, keeping your messages short as you know none of your employees would read it until Monday.

"Y/N." you can't ignore the annoyance in your boyfriend's voice.

"Hmm?" you ask, reaching out to play with his hair while you read the last couple of messages.

"Can't that wait until tomorrow?" he asks, sighing as he rolls onto his back. “Or even better, Monday when you actually have to work.”

"Just one more minute." you assure him you'll be off your phone soon.

Except Seungwoo is impatient. He takes the phone from your hands, locking the screen before tucking it under his pillow. If you wanted it back you would have to crawl over him, and with the look he was giving you through his bedhead, you knew better than to try.

"Saturday mornings are for sleeping. Not work.," he reminds you, very much not awake.

"I know, I just wanted to make sure everything is going alright."

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. "Don't you think if there was an emergency someone would have called you, not sent it in an e-mail?"

You couldn't argue with his logic. "You're right."

"Now will you please just relax and cuddle with me? I can't remember the last time I got to wake up next to you."

You hate the way his words make your chest ache, especially knowing that he was right. It had been weeks or maybe even months since the last time the two of you were able to wake up in each other's arms. Most mornings started with you slipping out of bed hours before Seungwoo does. And most nights ended with you slipping into bed hours after Seungwoo does.

It was the price you paid for your dream job. The position you had been dreaming about since college was finally yours. And you loved it. It never really felt like "work". But in moments like these, where you can see how your devotion to your job affected those closest to you, almost enough for you to consider a different path.

It doesn't take long for Seungwoo to drift back to sleep, the grip he had on his waist lessens as his breathing deepens. You shift into his warmth, wrapping your arm around his large frame until your skin is pressed into his. You align your breathing with his, taking deep breaths in hopes that you will be able to slip back into your dreams for a few more hours.

Except your body betrays you, making you toss and turn for what feels like only 15 minutes before you can't take it anymore. You give up, sighing as you resign to your fate of alertness. Although technically, you had slept in for an hour, there was something so cruel about waking up before 9 AM on your day off. 

You reach out towards Seungwoo's side of the bed, expecting to feel the warmth of his body next to you but all you find is an empty space. The heat of his skin was long gone, leaving behind nothing but the shapes his left on the sheets. His absence makes you sit up, wiping the sleep out of your eyes as you look for any sign of him.

He wasn't in the shower as his bathrobe was still hanging neatly on the back of your bedroom door. You didn't see him in the rest of your shared apartment as you make your way to the bathroom in hopes that your morning routine will help bring some life back into your tired frame.

But once you look in the mirror you realize that there isn't enough toner and face cream in the entire beauty industry to wash away the dark circles that clung to your eyes like shadows. Their constant presence serving as a visual representation of you devotion to your job, and everything you sacrifice in order to do it.

You take your time however, using products you saved for days like today. You even throw on a sheet mask because you actually had the time to enjoy the serum soaking into your skin for the next fifteen minutes.

Seungwoo still hadn't returned by the time you peel the mask off your skin. His keys and gym shoes were missing so he might have gone out for a run despite his words earlier this morning..

It seems like you weren't the only one having a hard time relaxing.

You wander back into your bedroom and start to make your bed, placing the pillows exactly how you like them and admire your handiwork. You remembered arguing with Seungwoo in the middle of the store over whether or not it was a smart idea to get white bed sheets. He was convinced you would spill coffee onto them while working from home but you reminded him that bleach existed. Eventually he caved with the compromise of letting him pick out the sofa and buying a desk for you to use on days you didn’t go into the office.

You hear the melodic beeping of your front door unlocking, letting you know that Seungwoo had returned from his outing. His feet quickly shuffle towards the bedroom, making your heart flutter with anticipation until you hear the sound of a chair being dragged across the room.

"I'm sorry Y/N, but you can't come out yet." there is a secretive playfulness in his voice as you hear the sound of the chair being propped up against the door handle.

You rattle it, trying to open it but the wooden chair was holding the door firmly in place.

"Seungwoo?" you call out. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing!" he calls out over the sound of his hands shuffling through bags quickly followed by the cabinets opening and closing.

"Then why am I being held hostage by my boyfriend?" you pout even though he can't see you through the walls.

"Just be patient!" he tells you, clearly distracted by whatever it is he's doing.

You hear his footsteps headed towards the bedroom. You try to be patient as he removes the chair from the door, freeing you from your makeshift captivity.

Seungwoo looks at you with a mischievous smile on his face. "Are you ready?"

"Why do I feel like I should be scared?" you question him, hesitantly stepping into the hallway.

You can feel his eyes staring at you as you make your way into the living room. Everything looks like how you left it until your eyes scan across the dining table.

"Wow." is all you can bring yourself to say as you walk over to admire Seungwoo's handiwork.

The table was covered in your favorite treats. The flaky pastries from the bakery on the first floor of your building. The egg sandwiches from your favorite coffee shop down the street. He even brought you your favorite coffee order, decanting it from the reuseable cups he always reminds you to bring into the coffee mugs you drank out of at home.

Your hand moves on it's own, reaching out towards the large bouquet of flowers he had placed in a glass vase in the middle of the table. The petals of your favorite flowers are soft against your fingertips, making your heart feel light as a feather.

"It reminded me of you." Seungwoo whispers into your ear, wrapping his arms around your waist as he pulls you into a tight back hug.

"How did you? When did you?" Your eyes widen and you quickly turn around to face your boyfriend. "Did I miss something? An anniversary? What day is it today?"

He squeezes you gently as he realizes you are about to start panicking, knowing it wouldn't be the first time you had forgotten about a special date in your relationship. He runs his fingers through your hair, trying to calm you down. "Relax, Y/N. It's just a Saturday."

You take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down and look over your shoulder at the table and then back at your boyfriend. "Then what is all this for?"

Seungwoo smiles, placing a tender kiss to your lips. "You've been working so hard lately. Coming home late. Leaving for the office earlier and earlier. I know how difficult things have been and  I just wanted to do something nice for you."

He blushes at the way you look at him like he is made up of a million stars, illuminating even your darkest days. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

It was your turn to kiss him this time, letting your lips tell him the answer to his question.

"So you like it?" he asks after you pull away, his nervousness makes you fall for him even more (something you didn't know was possible at this point in your relationship.)

"I love it." you smile, leading him towards his usual seat at the table.

"I don't even know where to start." you tell him, trying to figure out what you wanted to eat first.

Seungwoo laughs. "We have all day."

You smile back and correct him. "We have all weekend."

[catgluue]

What Happens in Xing

I recently hit 100 followers which was super exciting for me! I really appreciate everyone who follows me and/or takes the time to like, reblog, or comment on my writing. It’s a huge motivator and seriously boosts my writerly self-esteem, such as it is.

Anyway this work takes place in my Price of Life/Portrait of a Family AU and so while that context will add to the fic (particularly the last time) it can also be read on its own. 

Read on A03

The royal palace in Xing’s capital city was nothing like Riza had ever seen. It was massive - at least the size of a city block, she thought upon first seeing it, but after walking the perimeter one humid afternoon she figured it would be big enough for the entirety of the small eastern town she grew up in to fit comfortably within its walls. Sections of the palace were clearly older, and at least one wing was walled off altogether, in need of repairs. When she’d asked their guide one day he told her that the palace had stood for at least a thousand years, although maybe not in its current form.

It didn’t escape her notice that she and General Mustang were given rooms several floors higher than the bulk of the Amestrian party; one floor higher even than Major General Kent, who was the other officer overseeing the diplomatic treatises and trade agreements they’d come here to discuss. Ling never came out and said as much, but she was certain that their rooms were some of the nicer ones in the gigantic palace: her room boasted a bed that could have fit three of her, a huge claw-footed tub, and a floor-to-ceiling window that gave her an impressive view of the city. She’d made a point, several times, to get up early and watch the sun rise over the sloping buildings so different from those at home.  

To her immense surprise the official business had been wrapped up around four days into the weeklong trip, at which point General Kent and his men promptly packed up and took the next train out.

“I suppose we’ll be leaving tomorrow as well?” Riza asked General Mustang as they stood on one of the massive balconies that overlooked the city. Nights brought some relief from the wet heat of the day; a gentle breeze blew over the wide river and across the city, making the heavy woolen uniform seem less oppressive.

“Of course not, Captain,” he said mildly. “Our train doesn’t leave for days; it’s far too late to change it now. You might actually have to take some time for yourself and relax a little. I hope that won’t prove too much of an inconvenience.”

Riza didn’t think she’d had a moment to herself to sit and read a book for close to a year and a half now what with the business with the Homunculi, Ishval, and now the Xing excursion.

“Not at all, Sir,” she said crisply, but she was smiling as she met his gaze.

The next few days they drifted around as civilians, generally together as holiday or not she was still his bodyguard, but the amount of Xingese bodyguards lent to them by the Emperor meant that Riza felt comfortable occasionally acting as ships in the night. After all, the museum of alkahestry didn’t particularly appeal to her and the General was none too interested in seeing the wing devoted to the development of gunpowder. At one point Riza looked up from her book across the  sunroom - a space with a glass roof to let light in, and a large fountain bubbling away in the middle that had quickly become one of her favorite haunts - to see Mustang in his shirtsleeves, heavily engrossed in something he’d borrowed from the Imperial library, a cup of tea in his hand. Occupying the same space as him and seeing him rested, at ease, living again was a gift she didn’t deserve but would value anyway. As though he felt her staring he’d looked up and offered a small smile. She blushed and ducked her head to go back to reading her book.

It was the morning of their last full day in the country: tomorrow they would be on the noon train heading back to Amestris. They were originally scheduled to go back yesterday- in fact the bulk of their accompanying military personnel had left - but she and the General, with a handful of soldiers, had stayed. She was standing straight-backed at Mustang’s right shoulder, thinking that if she’d been any worse a soldier she would have snuck a peek at her pocket watch already, when the reason for their delay finally entered the imperial throne room.

It was still strange seeing Alphonse Elric as a human and not as a suit of armor, but it was refreshing to see him looking robust and healthy, not like the frail wisp of a thing he’d been when they put him on the train, barely strong enough to walk on his own after The Promised Day. He and May Chang, now a young woman, made their way up the long carpeted entryway and bowed to the young emperor. Ling rose from his seat, inclined his head, and the ceremony seemed to be over.

“They certainly like processions,” the General murmured, soft enough that only she would be able to hear, while Ling and May said their informal hellos, which seemed to involve quite a lot of teasing, she noted with a smile. There was going to be a parade in a few hours, ostensibly as a homecoming for May, who had been traveling for the better part of a year, but realistically as an excuse for Ling to throw another lavish feast.

“I don’t see the harm,” she whispered back.

“Six feasts since we’ve been here, and this is the third parade,” he muttered. “It’s a little much.”

“Colonel - Oh sorry, it’s General now right? Brother mentioned in one of his letters,” Al said as he approached, offering a hand shyly but not looking at all upset when the older man pulled him into a hug instead. Not something he would have tried in-uniform but technically they were using vacation days for this last leg of the trip. With the exception of the parade later on they were dressing and acting like civilians.

“Hi Captain Hawkeye,” May said a little shyly, and Riza turned to smile at the younger woman.

“Hello May. You’ve gotten so tall,” she said. It was true; though still on the shorter side, May had grown half a foot since Riza had seen her last.

“And pretty,” Mustang added, ever the charmer. Al came over to wrap Riza in a hug and she was struck again by how much things had changed. He was taller than her, broad-shouldered and with a striking similarity to his brother, although even nearing twenty Alphonse’s face remained cherubic. She’d changed too, of course: there were lines by her eyes that hadn’t been there five years ago, and she’d cut her hair off and grown it out again, so that it now sat a little below her shoulders. Recently the heat had her thinking about cutting it as short as she’d had it when they first moved to East City all those years ago. The General was pulling something out of his pocket; a book wrapped in ribbon, and handing it to May. “I brought you something,” he said.

“Oh that wasn’t necessar- OH, General Mustang! Where did you get this?”

“You can call me Roy, and there’s certainly more where that came from, my connection is very reliable.”

“He’s talking like he got that book off the black market,” Riza said to Al, who just grinned.

“He might have; it was banned thirty years ago for the author’s, ah, unconventional ideas.” He wilted immediately under the look she gave him and put his hands up. “Nothing all that bad, promise, he was just before his time where some aspects of medical alchemy were concerned. His ideas are really interesting, if you-” Riza held a hand up.

“I’m afraid anything else is going to go over my head,” she admitted, still eyeing the book. The cover was roughened leather that still bore traces of gold leaf, and everything about this, from May’s reaction to Al’s explanation spoke to the book being very hard to get ahold of and also very expensive.

“How did you know?” May was squealing, arms clamped tightly around the General’s waist, her precious new book in her hands. Alphone grinned broadly as he pried her off of Mustang, standing with an arm casually slung over her shoulders as she turned the book over in her hands.

“I have my sources,” the alchemist revealed, with a wink at Al. “I do try to stay in touch, even though your brother and I have this game where he hangs up on me the first time and I have to wait for Winry to answer the phone and make him take the call.”

“But this must have been so… I mean, thank you very much,” May said. Riza knew enough about nonverbal communication to know that something in the look Al gave her told her to drop the subject. Her own sharp look at the General was met with careful avoidance. There was of course nothing wrong with bringing a gift to an eager young scholar, she reasoned, and let the matter go.

-x-

This was the third parade, but Riza was no less unsettled than she’d been at the first. Parades were liabilities, plain and simple; you might as well paint a target on the back of every person of interest who set foot within a hundred yards of the garish floats and ostentatious musical pavilions. She would have far preferred being a spectator; they milled around eating thornapples and skewered meats and waving miniature pinwheels. She realized suddenly that she hadn’t really been to an event in years that didn’t involve her acting as bodyguard.  

“Stop dancing around me, Hawkeye,” the General muttered after the fourth time she switched from his right side to his left.

“We aren’t properly staffed, Sir,” she replied. “I want to be sure I’m able to spot any possible threats.” He waved a hand dismissively.

“We’re in the center of a platoon of soldiers.”

“And the only ones in Amestrian uniforms in this section of the procession,” she pointed out. “We’re sitting ducks.” Mustang ignored this, tugging at his collar.

“I wish we’d get a move on, it’s sweltering .”

She had to admit it was; wool uniforms and humid summer air didn’t mix particularly well. They’d been in Ishval earlier this year overseeing reconstruction plans but it had been spring and they only had to contend with the dry heat that was more typical of the desert. Here there was no escaping the damp summer air. At long last the parade started moving, snaking its way through the city. They would loop around the outskirts of town and then end up back at the palace. The whole thing would last over an hour.

They were situated at the front of the same float they’d adorned for the previous two parades; a burnished gold monstrosity that Riza supposed was supposed to be a fish. Only this time instead of their military escort they were standing with a handful of Ling’s soldiers, with May seated on an ornately decorated chair reminiscent of a throne that was situated on the dais and Al just below. May had looked slightly uncomfortable at first, but soon adjusted, smiling and waving to the crowd as they trundled along.

With less people there was more surface area and therefore more blinding gold to contend with. Riza resisted the urge to shield her face with her hand as the sun danced across the multifaceted surface. The General looked to be concentrating deeply on something, but as she followed his gaze she didn’t see anything amiss.

“Cenz for your thoughts, Sir?” she asked and he seemed surprised.

“I’m thinking that the second we get back to the palace I’m getting a pitcher of iced wine and sitting next to one of those massive indoor fountains,” he said, and flashed her a grin. “You’re welcome to join me of course.”

She opened her mouth to say that actually they had some reports they could stand to go over and should probably pack as well when there was a sudden flash of movement overhead, and something hot and bright burst inside their float. Instinctively Riza flung her body sideways, into the General, forcing him to the floor and shielding his body with her own. For a few harsh moments she was far away, both in time and place, in a different desert, with a different threat, following the same man. Her breath caught in her throat as she willed herself back to the present, to Xing and the Parade. A few moments of relative silence passed, and she hesitantly looked up to see Alphonse and May also climbing to their feet, May’s ornate chair merrily burning under the ruins of a massive Xingese firework. There was a snort beneath her and she looked down to find that she was nose to nose with Mustang.

“A rogue firework,” he said, regarding the object. She couldn’t tell what exactly he did but a second later the flame was snuffed out, starved of oxygen.

She got to a sitting position, looking around at the crowd, but everyone seemed to be carrying on as usual, the spectacle over. With the sheer amount of explosives Xing boasted this can’t have been the first untimely detonation they’d ever seen. May was standing at the front of the float waving as though nothing had happened, Al at her side.

“You can probably let me up now,” he remarked dryly and Riza looked down to find she was still straddling his midsection. She got to her feet and offered a hand to help him up and he smoothed his uniform down. Was it the heat of the uniforms, or were his cheeks tinged pink? Hers felt hot too and she looked away towards the crowd. How many times had she pushed him aside, or covered his body with her own in times of danger, and yet she had never been as thrown off-kilter by the feeling of their bodies pressed against each other. Even through two sets of uniforms it was a sensation that made her breath catch somewhere behind her sternum.

Stoically she moved a half-step behind him, and the parade went on.  

-x-

After a very long and very convoluted feast, they walked back to their rooms in a comfortable silence.

“You know Captain, I’ve got a bottle of nice Xingese wine and a balcony, if you’d like to watch the fireworks,” he offered. She considered a moment; as the senior officer, his room was nicer. Hers was next door and had a nice large window, but no balcony to speak of.

“All right,” she said, surprising him as well as herself. “Let me change out of my uniform and I’ll be right over.”

She stopped in her room long enough to change into a soft knee-length skirt and hesitated before putting on a lightweight sleeveless shirt she would normally only wear to sleep in, because the top of her tattoo could be seen peeking out of the top. Her hair covered it, however, and the night was warm enough that she’d be glad to wear less fabric. She padded to the connecting door and knocked lightly.

He’d also changed, into a button down and slacks, and handed her a glass of deep purple-red wine as she walked in, which she sniffed at before sipping; they were fond of fortified wine here and so the vintage was peppery with a hint of berries and nutmeg that burned pleasantly on the way down.

“I think they’re about to start-” Mustang was saying, but was interrupted by a loud pop , and a bright display of color and crackling out over the city. Mesmerized, Riza drifted through the room and out the open glass doors to what was admittedly a very nice patio. It was large, with a iron-wrought table and chairs near the doors, a few potted plants, and an actual sofa towards the other end. Bypassing the furniture entirely, she walked to the rail and settled her elbows on it to wait for the next eruption.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she breathed, as Roy came to stand next to her, elbow barely brushing hers.

“I have,” he replied. “Not for years - they used to set off fireworks in Central every year on New Year’s Eve. But they stopped around the time I went to learn under your father.”

“No wonder you weren’t impressed by the sparklers we got from the village,” she mused, lips quirking upward in a smile. He had the grace to look embarrassed.

“I really was quite the insufferable city boy, huh?”

Two more glasses of the heady Xingese wine and they sat on the couch, her leaning up against the pillows with her legs bent over his lap, him sitting upright, absently tracing a finger around the bruising on her knee that had appeared after the scuffle at the parade.

“That was close, earlier,” he said finally, and she looked up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been attacked by a firework before,” she said dryly. “They’re very loud up close.” A warm feeling had settled somewhere in her stomach, courtesy of the wine, the fireworks, and the General’s proximity. The General’s proximity which was… entirely too near, now she stopped to think about it. She made to swing her legs off the couch so they wouldn’t be so entwined, but the weight of his arm across the bend in her legs stopped her.

“Don’t, please. Just… don’t. Let’s enjoy this.”

Normally she would protest out of some sense of country and duty but the wine and the warm summer air had affected her in equal measure, so she sat back against the pillows without another word. His hand that was tracing her bruises drifted up her thighs to trace the end of her skirt, however, and she cleared her throat.

“That was nice of you, to get that book for May. What made you think of it?” she asked, believing that to be an innocent, diffusing question. Diffusing of what, she didn’t quite know, she just had a vague sense of something needing to be doused. He chuckled, and the warm burning in her belly intensified.  

“You’ll think I’m being sentimental but I kind of feel like I owe her one.” At her puzzled look he shrugged. “On The Promised Day, if she hadn’t jumped in to heal you when she did… she saved your life.”

“So shouldn’t I be the one giving her presents?” Riza asked, amused. His eyes were oddly intense, and her smile quickly vanished.

“I almost lost you,” he said seriously, and he reached out, seemingly without meaning to, and caught a strand of her hair between his fingers, and it occurred to her how close they were sitting. “So no, it’s me who owes May Chang a debt I can never really repay.” a firework went up, and popped into the inky black night, illuminating them and for a moment time stood still.

“I’ve always been ready to die in pursuit of our goals,” she breathed, not knowing what else to say, unable to tear her eyes away from his.

“And if that’s what it takes to reach the top, I don’t want it,” he told her firmly. His hand was now resting gently on her chin, and she was surprised to find her own fingering his collar. She wasn’t sure if he was leaning in or if she was, but their noses lightly bumped together and he froze. “Tell me not to,” he said softly, like a prayer.

This was an order she couldn’t obey. She closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to his, just as another firework crackled overhead.  This was dangerous, she thought as she slid down on the cushion, using her hands on his collar to pull him down with her, something he was all too eager to comply with, sliding a hand behind her knee to hitch it over his hip. His body was a comforting weight on hers, and made this moment seem weighty and real, a culmination of what she had come to accept as pointless longing for something that needed to remain forever out of reach.

She ran her hand up through the back of his hair, tugging lightly as she kissed him hungrily. He ground his hips against hers and she gasped at the contact, hand resting lightly on the side of his face as he pulled gently away. For a moment they just looked at each other, and she found she was able to read the question in his eyes as easily as ever. Her lip quirked and at her silent response, he bent to trail kisses down her throat.  

She wasn’t sure how they’d managed to make their way back into the room, stumbling into door frames, shucking off clothes as they went. How strange that she’d known him for so many years, through so many triumphs and failures, but yet there was apparently still so much to learn. There was a particular sound he made when she grazed his neck with her teeth that was new, and so enticing she half-laughed as she brought her lips once more to his. Her naked back hit the cool silk of the sheets on his bed and she sighed as he kissed his way down her body.

The light from the fireworks lit the room through the open patio doors, but they hardly noticed, engrossed in each other with the heady desperation of people who were seizing an opportunity that may never come again.

-x-

Riza’s first thought upon waking was that she’d had too many glasses of strong Xingese wine. Her second was that there was an arm securely wrapped around her waist. Her third was that she was completely naked. She made to sit upright but the arm was utterly unyielding, so she settled for covering her face with her hands.

“Oh no,” she said out loud, and the body behind her snorted slightly, shifting under the thin topsheet that covered them.

“Wh- Hawkeye?” for there could be no mistaking her for anyone else he might have taken to his bed; he was face to face with her scarred back. She winced, thinking about the rude awakening that must be.

“Good morning, Sir,” she said tightly. The most embarrassing thing was that they hadn’t had all that much wine. Yes they’d been tipsy and she now felt like she needed to drink a whole pitcher of water, but she remembered everything. Oh how she remembered. She felt heat rush to her face as she rolled over, his arm still around her waist, to look at him.

“Good morning,” he said, eyes meeting hers and then drifting lower. She cleared her throat, studiously avoiding looking anywhere but his face.

“So this was a colossal fuck-up,” she said. “Sir.” He sat up on one elbow, leaning over her as he swept her bangs out of her eyes and leaned in to brush his lips to her neck.

“Mmph,” he said, and she took that as assent. The arm that had been situated across her hips withdrew, and his fingers ghosted over her hips, around to her stomach, and dipped lower, brushing between her thighs. She caught his wrist delicately and pulled his hand upward.

“We can’t,”

“We most certainly can,” he told her, kissing her hotly below her ear, “and have.” She sighed. Well the damage was done, it seemed early enough, and the way he was nibbling her earlobe was causing a familiar warmth to pool behind her navel. Using her legs and the element of surprise she rolled him over onto his back. He ran his hands up her thighs to her hips, grinning up at her wolfishly.

“Once more couldn’t hurt, I suppose,” she acquiesced, and bent to hiss him.

After, as she lay in his arms, both of them covered in a fine sheen of sweat, the panic really began to set in. He cleared his throat, apparently, and as usual, thinking along the same lines she was.

“What now?” he asked, seeming to echo her thoughts. “Do - should we figure out how to continue this when we’re back in Central?” She sat up on one elbow and regarded him seriously, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Do you want to?” she asked. He turned pink and avoided her eyes.

“More than anything in the world, but -”

“Not more than anything,” she finished for him. “I’m glad we agree. We’ve come too far; we’ve lived through too much to risk it.”

“Riza,” he said, and her name on his lips was both foreign and so familiar it made her chest ache and for a moment she couldn’t meet his eyes. “You have to know that I-”  she leaned down and kissed him soundly, her hair falling in a curtain as though to hide this brief moment of weakness on both of their parts from the world.

“Please don’t say it,” she said softly. “It’s going to make it so much harder to forget this.”

“But you know,” he breathed, and she nodded, blinking hard.

“I do. And… me too.”

-x-

Six weeks later Riza stood up from the bathroom floor, wiping her mouth, feeling as though a cold bucket of water had been upended onto her as she thought hard, counting weeks and sinking further and further into a certainty tinged with wild panic. This wasn’t the first time she’d been sick lately, and she had a suspicion it wouldn’t be the last.

She washed her hands robotically, thinking hard.

They had been so concerned with bureaucracy following their… indiscretion, that she hadn’t even stopped to consider biology. That there could be ramifications beyond losing their jobs. Since returning to Amestris they’d been particularly careful not to spend time alone, and a touch formal, and sometimes he looked at her in a way that made her face heat up, but everything had gone back to more-or-less normal. She had thought - they had both thought - that they’d gotten away with it, and they could put it behind them with nothing but a pleasant memory to remember it by.

She pressed a hand to her still-flat lower stomach. What would people say?

Well of course they’d say the obvious. She hadn’t caught wind of rumors regarding her and her commanding officer in years, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t there, simmering gently despite no evidence. They had been very careful never to act improperly towards each other. She would have to come up with a plausible story, and furthermore she would need to make sure that the General reacted in a way that spoke of his innocence in the matter.

Riza eyed herself in the mirror; a hard-eyed soldier stared back at her. As much as it made her feel like a hand was clenching around her heart, this child wouldn’t be able to know its father. Riza would do this alone because she had no other choice. She needed to protect him. She needed to protect them both.

-x-

“Hawkeye you have to talk to me.”

It was four days after her in-office revelation, something she had done specifically not to arouse any suspicion, and yet here he was, on her doorstep in the middle of the night, and she had a strong hunch that he’d been at his aunt’s newly reestablished bar. Riza wasn’t sure what she had expected but he hadn’t been taking the news well, she could see it in the lines beneath his eyes in the office today, in the flat quality to his voice when he spoke to her. She opened the door further and waved him inside to avoid making a scene where people might see.

“You’ve been avoiding being alone with me for days, please,” he said, standing in the middle of her living room and looking utterly lost, dark eyes wide and hair mussed.

“I haven’t…” she trailed off - denial was no good, not with him. “I haven’t known what to say to you. It’s a setback, to be certain.”

“A setback , try a disaster! I can’t BELIEVE we didn’t- That I didn’t - ”

“There’s no use blaming yourself. We can’t exactly take it back now” she said quietly, and brushed past him to put the kettle on. When she turned back around he’d sunk down onto her couch and was running a hand through his hair.

“What do we do now? Do we run away to Xing? We could, you know,” he said, looking up but not at anything in particular. “Ling would find a place for us, you could be his bodyguard and I could be Royal Alchemist or Official Firework-Starter, or-”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We stay, and we work, and I… I’m going to raise the child of a random Xingese courtier who shall remain nameless.” A knot had settled somewhere deep in her chest and she doubted it would come undone anytime soon. “And if the rumors get to be too much and they threaten your career, I’ll disappear.”

“With my child? Like hell you will,” he said, voice rough. This gave her pause. The clock on her mantle had never sounded so impossibly loud in the stillness of her apartment Slowly, she walked to the couch and reached out, not quite touching, fingertips grazing the fabric at his shoulder.

“You realize it can never be your child,” she told him softly. He put his head in his hands.

“I’m aware.”

She sat next to him and hesitated, before wrapping her arms firmly around his shoulders. He leaned into her, and she let her head fall to gently rest against his. For a while all they did was breathe together, in and out, soothing each other by sheer virtue of being present. A heaviness settled over them and Riza doubted they would have another moment together like this again. She turned her face into his shoulder; she would not cry, not now, not in front of him. There would be time for that weakness later.  

“This is going to be a nightmare,” he said after a moment.

“We can make the most of it.”

“Can I just ask you for one thing?” he looked up at her. “It might be a bad idea under the circumstances but the baby… if it’s a boy, can we name him after Hughes?” This was a bad idea, she thought. It would be the obvious choice for a child of Roy’s. But she had known and loved the man as well, and it couldn’t be seen as that unusual that she would choose to honor a fallen comrade when naming her firstborn. She nodded, running a hand down his arm and lacing her fingers through his.  

“I think we can do that.”

It was a girl, but they named her after Maes anyway.