#unfortunately I still have to read. oh god sixty eight more pages of this

[willowcrowned]

dark academia is when you want to punch the lights out of a professor

[becausethathappens]

Will you please write a super angsty fic where Link is freaking out because he thinks the wedding vows he has written aren't good enough and Rhett helps him go over them and make corrections and says they're perfect but also, just says the vows he would say for Link if it was them like it should've been because he's heartbroken and Link can tell but their hands are tied and they don't know what to do so they soldier on without saying a word, but wordlessly communicating lifelong love and misery and everything, maybe comfort as well?

i'm really really sad and i can't shake it off and i really want some good angst and hurt/comfort and i really love you, maura, you're awesome

I don't do unhappy endings, anon. I'm confident you don't either. In fiction or otherwise. So, pardon this if it’s not what you expected.

Please enjoy? This was done a little hastily to share it with you (and I should be writing other things per usual) but I've had a rough week and I want to hopefully make someone smile. (I have way angstier stuff in the drafts and I will be sure to get those out eventually, too.) You’ll feel better soon.  🤞  Thank you! 💞

-———————-

now or forever

4k - Rhett writes Link vows.

If you were my boy, Blue

I’d bathe you in honeys (sp?)

I’d sing write you a love song

I’d shoot you a star**

If you were my boy, Blue

There ain’t nothing in this life I wouldn’t give

From my heart, to my toes, to my fingers, my nose (**)

Whatever it takes just to watch you live 

continue to ‘ ’ grow with you like a vine ‘round a rose 

If you were my boy, Bue

I wouldn’t want you all for myself

There’s no star bright enough to match your lightin’

In sickness, blue, so certainly while we have health

Hand in hand, no longer fightin’

What’s destiny (**)

You and & me

If you were my boy, Blue

I'd marry you

&

Thank God for Rhett. Giving him, delivering him, blessing him with Rhett.

Link is in the middle of a spiral (what he’ll later recognize as a panic attack) when Rhett arrives, the eve of his wedding. Bailing him out of this with pen, paper, and a smile.

Link has always been good at improv.

Though Rhett tended to find the words to start. These were his own vows and Link has been putting time to sit and start them off for weeks. Now that he has to, he’s dumbfounded, despite being deeply in love.

Amidst all the planning and chaos, writing his vows was such a given that Link left it as priority sixty-seven on a list of many more.

Unfortunately, even as busy as they’ve been, that list was shredded with the “who gifted what” tracking sheet (both literally, accidentally, and figuratively) back around the bridal shower and it’s been anarchy ever since.

So he thanks God for Rhett, who’s here, to stop another needless disaster from happening.

That same generous God, however, watches him plagued with thoughts of utter devotion at Rhett’s willingness to drop everything on a weeknight and rush over to help Link find his words.

His lyrics, really, is what Link has in mind. Since they used to write songs together and this felt much the same. He’s been floundering all night and now that Rhett’s here, he knows he’ll at least get what he needs done. Even if it’s not all he wants, right now.

That same God seeks judgment on his every decision or flinch against His will, for any reason, to spite him.

For this reason.

He wants to smush Rhett’s face and kiss him. Deeply. He doesn’t.

Even if there were sometime in the past that he could get away with a platonic smooch, now he can’t. He simply could not prevent that from escalating.

So, he merely tightens his grip on the wrinkled scrap paper in his hand and scrunches his eyes.

“Why can’t it be you up there…” Link bemoans, loudly, in his frustration.

Rhett’s eyes widen, in horror, and Link slams his other hand at his mouth, rolling his eyes. “Not like - I mean - why can’t you go say my lines for me. You’re so much better at this kinda thing.”

“Let me read what you’ve got,” Rhett says.

After some review, Rhett sighs, not unkindly and sits down next to Link. “Let’s just talk through what you’re trying to say because, yeah, this reads like liturgy.”

“Ain’t is supposed to? It’s in a chapel!”

“What do you like about her?” Rhett asks, ignoring his nitpicking. “Christy?” Rhett stares at him, waiting, too upset for Link to chastise but clearly wanting to.

“She’s patient,” Link says, reminded by the similar. Rhett folds over the book to an open page and clicks the pen in his hand, writing that down. “A-And she’s kind. Like considerate, ‘specially with babies and little animals. Sh-She does this thing where she immediately drops to their eye-level to make sure they don’t feel unheard or seen. Probably ‘cause she’s always been so tall…”

Rhett’s still writing.

“Then when I’m sick, she forces me to rest. You know I hate that,” Link says, voice rising a little, at the memory. “But you know I need that. You won’t be the last to make me stop and smell the roses or take a break, once in a while.”

“Her hair, write, her hair - the way it looks in the sunshine. Like warm caramel with flecks of gold. She’s a vision, an angel. Especially when she’s wearing all white, like,” Link says, pausing to point to Rhett’s undershirt and pale grey sweats. “Makes blondes look ethereal-like, always has.”

“Oh, and her voice. Sometimes, the way her accent catches, well, you know she don’t like to sing like us, never has, but when she says certain things, asks a question the right way - it’s music. The way it harmonizes with my answer, reminds me of singing, reminds me of us.”

Rhett keeps writing, quiet, and focused.

After a short time, Link can’t stop and wants to crane over to see what he’s come up with. Rhett hands it over after crossing a final “t” somewhere on the page.

“Those’re good, Link, but I think you need to keep closer to what I wrote, leave out the stuff about me.”

“Stuff about you?” Link asks, having spoken in a stream-of-conscious style, Link forgets most of what he even said

Rhett looks away, shakes his head.

Distracted by the desire to read the rest, Link abandons the lingering questions he has about Rhett’s suggestion and response.

“These are great, man, thanks,” Links says, pushing a soft hand into Rhett’s side.

His eyes scan to the bottom where Rhett’s added a few lines about the journey, the marriage, all the ceremonial aspects of the day for him to close with, but then something more.

Something about him.

Rhett catches him catch it and looks further away. “I know Christy pretty well, too, y’know. Y’all are just alike, in that way. She might need some back-up vows, to have and hold.”

Link reads them.

“You know, just in case.”

Link looks up and tries to laugh.

He doesn’t laugh.

He goes back to reading them.

Rhett shifts uncomfortably, touches the back of his neck, and shuts his eyes.

“Rhett, these ’re…”

“I know, bo, you can forget ‘em,” Rhett excuses, still not meeting Link’s gaze. “You want me to… I can rewrite the others on a different - I can turn the page and write ‘em there so you can just…”

“Hey, hey,” Link interrupts him, mad at Rhett putting down his best friend, and eager to explain his actual thoughts. “Rhett, these are perfect. These are… I’m sad I can’t say anything as nice in return to you.”

Rhett finally looks up to acknowledge that and their gaze heats and lingers.

“Not that I…” Link stutters to clarify. “Y-You’d have to be a - if that’s something that was gonna - you know - if that was gonna work…”

His mind does it’s usual jump to a visual for the worst case scenario depicting the implication he stumbled across. Him out eight grand on the wedding. Not to mention a wife, a family, a future, a faith -

a friend -

Link gulps, pushing that back away, pushing them both forward, in his estimation.

It’s too much to bear to think about for another second. When he glances at Rhett, he can’t get a read on his face what he thinks about it, and that’s scary enough for him to want to abandon the concept altogether.

“Christy’s gonna love them.”

It’s enough, saying his fiancée's name, to ground him again. Enough to make it okay for him to grab Rhett’s palm and squeeze it in thanks, between them.

Rhett’s made his choice to give up on film school.

Link’s made his choice to give up on whatever schoolboy obsession he has with monopolizing all of Rhett’s days and nights. 

He’ll stick to the days or every other weekend, however they can still fit time together, is fine by him. This ceremony, tomorrow, feels as much about his graduation from friend to husband, and all that that entails.

They’re adults.

They both know there’s a lot of sacrifices to be made and this feels like the first time he’s really acknowledging how hard they’re going to be to make. He hopes they’ll still see each other.

He hopes their kids will get along.

He has a lot of hopes.

All of them involve Rhett.

There’s a lot he should write down for when Rhett finds his own bride to wed.

Link notices, suddenly, that Rhett is crying. The same part of him that's nearly broken the headwind of these conflicting emotions turns back to comfort him.

“Hey, don’t cry,” Link soothes, realizing he’s also still holding Rhett’s hand.

“‘M sorry,” Rhett intones, the words bubble up and out of him simultaneously, sounding like water draining in a filled sink. “And the night before your wedding, good Heavens.”

“Hey, I’ve been crying all week,” Link says, waving a hand at the stress that planning a wedding has kept put on him. “Nothing I haven’t seen in the mirror.”

Rhett laughs, rubbing a thumb over his own thigh in a way that brushes upwards against the place Link’s clasping his hand. Link nearly pulls his hand back, thinking Rhett’s trying to get him to sense his want for space, but when he meets his eye it’s clear he’d like nothing less.

“I think I’m just -” Rhett starts to say, trailing off. The light from the lamp on the far coffee table is the only thing on in the room. Link drops his gaze a few inches to try and see more of Rhett’s downturned eyes as he hems and haws. He squeezes their hands together, again, this time clasping it more firmly, still pressing Rhett’s large palm down from above. “I think I’m just a li’l jealous, is all.”

It’s the quietest admission he’s heard from Rhett since he told him he failed their chemistry mid-term in eleventh grade.

Link is also so lost at the innocence of the admission that he can only think of follow-up questions. “Of me?”

Rhett looks at him for a long, long minute and finally, when Link’s gaze remains confused for the whole length of the pause, he shakes his head, no.

Then he waits. 

He waits for Link to realize what he means.

But he’s still waiting when Link, oblivious, moves onward trying to comfort Rhett, instead of understanding him fully.

The tension in the room is palpable as Link talks, but only to Rhett, it seems. Only Rhett pictures air bags being deployed in a car safety video as metal hits cinder block. Only Rhett moves his hand, though it’s all it takes to dislodge them from each other completely.

“I know you’re gonna make an amazing husband some day.” Link is saying.

Rhett’s hand aches where cool air now surrounds it.

“I know your wife is gonna get to hear you say such wonderful things about her.”

Rhett wipes his hand of the misunderstanding on the cotton of his pants.

“I know she’s gonna say the same kind of things about you, when it’s your turn up there.”

Rhett mourns the idea that this would ever be requited.

“I know she’s gonna love you, just as much as I do, so she’ll have plenty to say.”

Rhett looks away, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes. 

 “I’ll make sure she has plenty of ideas where to start.”

Rhett pats Link’s leg, in camaraderie, and nods.

And that’s it. They shoot the shit, they make a plan to meet up at a donut place for the groomsmen’s breakfast to thank them for their help, before the ceremony, and they’ll talk things through if Link’s feeling jittery still. Then Rhett’s gone.

It’s not until the next day at eleven on the dot (everyone has an agenda to follow and every moment is accounted for) that Link understands Rhett’s pain.

His mother straightens his tie and flattens the edges of his suit. “You’ll wanna know I heard Christy looks like an angel in her dress, from the girls upstairs.”

“Those actual angels you been talkin’ to, Sue?” Rhett jokes, where he’s twisting his cummerbund around every so often, bored.

“Very funny, honey,” Sue ribs back. “From the cousins, Beth and Hailee Sue. Remember they’re friends with the hairstylist you got to do the curls for Christy’s hair, today? She was over last night getting Christy ready for bed with how to wash and dry it a special kind of way. They were there, too.”

Link starts to tune her out, since there’s a lot on his mind, but then she says more.

“She says the hairstylist was talking about how jealous she was of Christy, all night, getting to marry you,” Sue relays.

“Oh, mama, please,” Link dismisses. The compliments he’s been getting have felt faker than the toupee on his uncle Bruce. That girl has never even met him. “I’m the only person here people should be jealous of, who would be jealous of Christy,” he says, trailing off, muttering his reasoning as he did. “Marrying a trainwreck like me.”

Link looks up in the mirror where some of his friends continue to mingle in various states of undress. Rhett is already dressed, however, and staring straight at Link like he’s been caught with a hand in a cookie jar.

Link’s about to ask what’s wrong when he remembers his words. Then looks again over the planes of Rhett’s face.

Last night’s words slam back into his mind and Link’s mouth drops open.

The church organ belts out an opening flurry of notes before Canon in D begins playing loudly through the sound system built into the rafters above them. Link looks up to see one of the church staff at the door instructing them to join the bridal party to line-up.

Link’s mom dashes off to where she’s paired with her nephew, Link’s favorite cousin, to be escorted down the aisle.

Rhett sees Link’s face rushing through a wash of emotions from a distance, he nods to the staffer in silent understanding that he’ll handle it, and then they’re alone.

He walks up to Link and takes his hand. He squeezes it.

“Hey, you gotta go. We gotta go. It’s showtime,” Rhett insists.

Link looks around like a bomb went off, since in some ways it did, and he doesn’t know what to do.

Rhett seems to pick up on that. He squeezes Link’s hand again.

“I’ll get over it, Link, it’s okay,” Rhett whispers, on the verge of desperation.

That confirmation is enough to fully shatter Link.

Only for a moment. 

The music continues and Rhett keeps his hand hold.

They are adults. They are in love. They have to marry. 

None of these things can be helped.

“I’m gonna be so jealous of Her, too,” Link whispers back. He squeezes Rhett’s hand one last time, as they part.

They leave.

They walk straight.

They part again.

Until later.

They move houses and cities and states.

They move mountains, inside and out.

They move together.

Much later.

They join again.

They run crooked.

They return.

To one another.

Link has spent years worrying a ring that means too much to too few people.

In the beginning, when he cries himself to sleep at what he thinks has been the mistake of a lifetime, it’s His talisman. It reminds him of the expectations upon this life he’s made.

As the years pass, however, the adherence to the bogeymen of their childhood’s rules wears thin. It starts to strictly represent love and patience.

Sacrifice.

It begins to feel like a burden. A representation of what’s been lost, not what’s been found.

He contemplates taking it off, but believes that to be a betrayal of all that it stands for to the people he stands for. 

Then, one day, (surely mid-spin) he hears Rhett tell a story about wanting to change his ring.

He watches the silver twirl as Rhett explains.

He believes he was rushed into a certain type of marriage and a certain type of life by a certain type of person.

It’s a life that he’s grown to love but the ring represents a union forced by custom and not one that’s grown through devotion. 

His ring reminds him of that too often to be good for him.

Link twists his again at the admission.

So, Rhett’s thinking about replacing the ring.

Link returns home that night in a stupor. He’s sure he said one too many things to Rhett to emphasize how wild it felt to hear him talk about changing rings.

Any memories of that day, their wedding, bring up a rush of emotions that he’s never been good at sorting through.

Today’s admission makes him feel the same spur to make use of idle, betrothed hands he feels when he cleans the fridge.

He wants to clean the slate.

He finds an old DVD copy of their wedding ceremony that he paid to have converted from miniDV some years ago. Now he struggles to find a place to watch that DVD. How quickly time has flown by.

Eventually, he ends up in his son’s room - no one’s home for the remainder of the night but he and Christy - now, he’s sitting on a bean bag, squinting at the game console’s controller trying to get the joysticks to move to “play” on screen.

The ceremony bursts to life and, like it was yesterday, Link’s nerves fizzle awake.

About halfway through the video, Christy finds him like that and sits down next to him in a thwump absorbed mostly by the stuffing of the chair.

They watch themselves smile happily at each other and Christy takes his hand.

“Should I be happy or scared to find you alone watching this on a Saturday night?” she asks, wryly, squeezing his palm.

Link doesn’t know what to say. He’s caught up in Rhett’s bygone script being spoken on screen. Words about Christy and about Link that were not their own, declared loudly in front of the congregation.

“I don’t know,” Link admits, shrugging. He doesn’t. He squeezes her hand back.

“You wanna tell me what’s eating you?”

Link hesitates, but relents. He wants that clean slate, after all. “Rhett’s getting his wedding ring replaced.”

“Replaced?” Christy asks, balking.

“Replaced, yeah,” Link responds, sure he didn’t misspeak.

“With what?” she asks.

“Oh, some new one. Fancy thing, very cool, made of trees or something. Honestly he wears the other one, the slick black one more than his wedding band half the time. He says it feels like the old one? It’s the kind of ring you get in a bauble at a vending machine crank. So, he wants a new one.”

“Jeesh,” Christy says, making a face at the screen. The camera catches Rhett stealing glances at the couple, then at the crowd, beaming at all with unbridled pride.

“Wouldn’t you be mad if I did that?” Link inquires, still baffled at the idea.

“Well, no, but don’t you love your ring? Heirloom and all that,” she says.

Link cringes. “Yeah, yeah. Honestly, I do.”

“So?”

“So, I still kind of want to and I’m not sure what that means.”

They watch the screen together.

“Do you wanna stay married?” she asks, in a small voice.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

There’s a long pause.

“To me?” she asks, her voice even smaller.

“Yes,” he breathes in.

She squeezes his hand, her confidence built back up. She begs him to join her.

“And him?” Christy whispers.

They both look the screen, the lens centered on the two of them, but their gaze is mutually torn to where Rhett stands wiping a tear from his eye at Christy reciting the last of the vows that he wrote her. Wrote him. Wrote them both.

She squeezes his hand again.

“Yes,” he breathes out.

She leans her head on his shoulder.

“You should probably get another ring, then,” she jests. “We shouldn’t have to share everything.”

The slate is clean.

There’s a lot he wants to say to Rhett about it, but just as before, he’s relied on Rhett to give him the right words to say. So, instead of words, he starts wearing Rhett’s ring.

Then, a new one, when he realizes he can match him separate from the other, all told. Have something of Rhett’s, all to himself.

In his unspoken push towards something more, their hands now match along with their steps, as they walk forward.

On the last week in July, they get ice cream at the fifth place that month to mistake them for husbands, but the first one he hears Link crow an affirmative in response.

Rhett waits for him while he triple-tips the cashier (for the guess) and pays for their cones.

“Bad joke,” Rhett says, softly, but firm.

“Who’s kidding?” Link parries back, a smirk dancing it’s way across his lips.

Rhett watches him with a wistful look of disbelief.

“Link, we’re married,” Rhett warns him.

Link shrugs. “I know. I’m just waiting for you to figure that out and minding my ice cream here, all right?”

He’s got a mouthful of vanilla bean and extra cookie crumble, the next second, so his vow ends there.

Later, at home, Rhett startles Jessie awake when he fully realizes Link’s words.

He shakes her awake. He shakes them both awake.

“I’m in love with Link,” he says, like it’s a confession.

She kisses him because so is she. So are most people.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Rhett repeats himself.

So does she.

They stare at each other under the cover of silk and moonlight.

“We’re married,” Rhett whispers, touching his hand to hers. Their rings clink, new and shiny.

“Yeah, and so are we,” she whispers back.

They fall asleep smiling.

The next day, Rhett sneaks up behind Link while he’s working and causes him to spill his cup of coffee. He gets the stink eye for only a minute because it’s the same length of time he can stand Link’s grumpy mug before he has to swoop down and kiss him on the lips.

“You figured it out,” Link says, grinning.

“I did,” Rhett chirps as he kisses Link more.

They take a car to their house. It’s filled with their love and the history of it; before, during, and after.

“What’s this?” Link asks, dazed in their post-sex glow, naked and alive.

He spots an old chord book of theirs from last time they wrote music.

“Oh,” Rhett says, bashful. “I came looking for you here this morning, hoping you slept over again, but, uh,” Rhett stalls, looks away and tries to take the songbook from Link’s hand. Link pulls it far enough he can’t reach. “You were already at the job.”

“And?” Link asks, using his spry, sinewy body as an advantage to slink away from the bed out of Rhett’s grip. He still has the book in hand.

“Those are your vows,” Rhett explains.

Link looks down and squints, confused. These aren’t the vows that Christy read at their wedding. He’s seen that video only a few months back and is sure of it.

“Our vows,” Rhett whispers, explaining further, at Link’s puzzled look.

“It’s a love song,” Link notes, marveling at the gesture. What it means to a young version of himself that once felt like they had surely cut out and mourned the possibility of this - all of this - ever happening. To have that thought coexist with the image of a nude, hulking tree trunk of a husband laid before him smiling up adoringly felt panoptic.

“So are you.”

Link begins to cry.

“Play it for me.”

Rhett wipes his cheek.

“Get my guitar.”

They sing twice more that night, always in harmony (not always in lyric), then spend the rest of their lives together doing much the same.

[seriouslyhooked]

The Bast Bad Idea (Part 2)

Three-part CS AU where Emma and Killian are doctors working at the same hospital (world without pandemic). They’ve yet to meet, but Emma has definitely seen the sexy Dr. Jones in her travels at Mist Haven Medical. It’s generally a bad idea to get involved with a colleague, but a little fantasizing never hurt… right? Inspired by the song ‘Bad Idea’ by Ariana Grande and a TV couple who set the bar for true love stories.

Part One Here. Story available on FF Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hello everyone! First and foremost, I want to start with a huge thank you to all of you who have reached out about this story. The response was so far beyond what I was expecting, but I am thrilled to know that all of you enjoy a CS Doctor AU as much as I do. As someone who grew up watching Grey’s Anatomy, it’s essentially engrained in my DNA to love a medical romance, and this story is one I have wanted to write for a long time. I’ve had more than a month away from writing thanks to my busy schedule, but finally my muse came to play and add a bit of fluff to this sweet short story. Chapter two picks up with a critical question – what was Dr. Jones going to propose to Dr. Swan…? Without further ado, here is our answer. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…”

His eyes strayed down to her lips, and Emma wet them absentmindedly. She heard a low growl, and realized it was coming from Killian. She shifted in her seat, turned on in a way she had never been before. Instinctively she moved closer, sensing the sinfully sweet current between them, like lightning just before it cracked across a summer sky. The instant attraction was breathtaking. It felt almost out of time and space.

“We could…” she continued, nudging him along and hoping he would elaborate. She wanted so badly for him to say aloud what she herself was wishing for.

Yet where Emma expected words, she was instead met with action, tantalizing and surprising, but inspiring something in her she never expected. Before she knew it, Emma was in Killian’s arms, aching for this moment, kissing him and knowing she was positively senseless. All that existed was this kiss, this touch. It was electrifying and invigorating, a blaze rushing through her blood stream that emboldened a part of her she’d always held back. Desire. That was what this was, and it was luscious and intoxicating.

Following his lead, Emma broke away from the kiss only to gasp for air as he crowded her body against the wall. The hardness of the cement blocks behind her, coupled with the heat and definition of Dr. Killian Jones was too much to handle. She arched into him, striving for contact, and reveling in the feel of his skin on hers. The only problem was these damn clothes between them. Never in her life had she been irritated at this doctor’s coat she’d worked so hard to earn. For years she studied and poured everything she was into medicine, all for the authority this coat portrayed, but she practically purred when Killian stripped hers off and tossed it to the ground. Pushing his off of his body in return made her mind race. The muscles of his chest and arms were driving her to distraction. Then they flexed, and she swallowed harshly, earning a deep, decadent chuckle from this man who drove her crazy.

“See something you like, Swan?”

God that cockiness. They’d never had any kind of real conversation before now, but the way he smiled spoke volumes. His air and his persona were dripping in assuredness. Emma used to think that she hated so much confidence, but when it came to Killian, she craved it something fierce. It was somewhat infuriating, the way his eyes shone with mischief and conceit, but it was also hotter than anything she’d ever known. Still, part of her would rather die than admit that aloud. She had her pride, no matter how wrapped up in this moment she may be.

“It’s hard to say,” she replied, her voice sounding out with a shredded silkiness that she’d never heard before. “I haven’t seen much of anything yet.”

“My apologies, love. Allow me to rectify the situation.”

Emma watched as this ridiculously attractive man purposefully teased her. With deft fingers he reached for the base of his scrub top, inching the material higher up his body. The trail of dark hair he revealed was evocative, but it held no candle the shape and tone of those abs underneath. Sweet Jesus, were those real? Emma bit back a groan at the sight, her lip pressed tight between her teeth. It took everything in her to keep her hands from reaching for him. She lay them flat on the wall behind her at her sides instead, but they balled into fists unconsciously as Killian eventually tossed the shirt away.

His black hair was mussed now, both from removing the scrubs with that always-present swagger, and from her fingers having run through it during their never-ending kisses. His eyes were dark navy blue, but still they shone with hunger and delight. His grin was a mix of charming and predatory, but instead of inciting a fight or flight response, Emma only wanted to surrender. This was a man who knew he was in complete control. He had hooked her, totally and beyond any shadow of doubt, and all she wanted was for him to have his way with her.

The curses he whispered while helping her shed her own scrubs were like prayers on high, a sweet song to her ears that only added to his allure. Killian’s eyes never strayed from her, but his reactions were so open and transparent. He hid nothing, allowing her a glimpse to the world inside, and it caused the power between them to shift. If Emma was being hunted, then she was also hunting in return, and Killian seemed ready to be caught.

“Emma, I -,”

His voice faded out, and she struggled to hear him. Instead, there was a blaring alarm. Was this a fire drill? Why had the light in the room gone hazy? Still, Emma heard herself whisper his name.

“Killian?”

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The screech of the sharp, incessant chiming by her ears wrenched Emma’s eyes open, and immediately she groaned in disappointment. All of that – every exquisite moment – was a dream. Ugh, of course it was! Because this was her life now: fantasizing about a hot trauma surgeon ceaselessly and wishing that her memories of him were more than mere imagination.  

“Damn it,” she muttered aloud, covering her eyes with her hand in frustration. With her vision blocked, Emma was more aware of the feeling that her body was wrapped up in her sheets. She’d obviously been tossing and turning through the night, restless in ways she rarely was before seeing Doctor Jones. These freaking dreams just felt so real, and they’d only gotten worse since officially meeting him.

That was three days ago now, but things had been chaotic in the meantime. The level four trauma that came in when they’d been formally introduced totally swamped the ER. Emma was called down for consult on multiple patients, needing to give life and death assessments and treatment plans for half a dozen people. While down there, Emma had the chance to see David and Killian in action. She was struck, even in the grips of adrenaline, by their cohesion and capability. They were cool and collected, battling odds that were dire to say the least, but they prevailed. Emma had worked for years to hone her craft, to heighten her skills, and to meet the moments of medicine that her work provided. But the energy in the ER had shifted, and she felt her own abilities elevated by the camaraderie and collectiveness of everyone in the hospital.

That shared experience only lasted a short while, for after initial inspections and emergency consults, Emma was quickly rerouted to the surgical wing. For 16 hours straight she worked to save the lives of four people, and through something that felt like magic, or maybe divine intervention, she was successful each and every time. That good fortune held, not only for her, but for all of her colleagues as well. The hospital had managed something next to impossible – they had saved every victim of the horrible accident, but the work had been backbreaking. When she’d finally scrubbed out of her last procedure, Emma admitted defeat, heading home and sleeping for twelve straight hours.

Her next shift was markedly slower, and Emma had the chance to see the progress of her post-op patients, and to connect with the others in her unit. It was critically important that the doctors, nurses, admins, tech teams, and other staff were all feeling strong and secure. Patients needed everyone working as a collective whole, and Emma took it upon herself to monitor that. It was unusual for a Doctor, especially one who wasn’t overseeing daily operations, but it mattered to Emma. Saving lives took so much more than her medical degree and steady hands. She needed each and every person in the cardiac wing to be successful, and she valued every one of them for what they brought to the team.

Unfortunately, while Emma’s day was slower and steadier, there was also a favorite element now lacking. She wasn’t too proud to admit that she’d willingly joined Ruby on the daily trip to the coffee cart. Actually, she’d been the one to page Ruby this time, earning more than a bit of teasing from her best friend, but Killian and David never showed. Only later, when Emma was at the tail end of her workday and helping with a consult in the ER, did she learn why.

“He was here for sixty-eight straight hours,” David said bluntly, after having confirmed his diagnosis for a patient presenting with a blood circulation issue.

“I’m sorry?” Emma asked, confused for a moment at David’s turn of topic.

“Killian,” David said, prompting Emma’s face to heat. Here she was, hoping it wasn’t totally obvious that she was looking for a man she hardly knew beyond imaginings, but David had seen through her in a matter of moments.

“Oh, um – that’s, well that’s… crazy. Sixty-eight hours?” That beat even her record, and she’d been called a workaholic on more than one occasion.

“Mhmm. We were on the end of a twelve-hour shift when the call came in and he stayed, until every last patient in the trauma department was seen and attended to. I left for eight hours and was dead to the world the entire time. Still felt laggy when coming back. Meanwhile, he caught maybe four hours sleep total interspersed between rounds, crashing in on call rooms. You’d never know though. He was totally unfazed. Brilliant as ever. It was like being back in the field again.”

“Seriously?” Emma asked, amazed at that. She was no stranger to long shifts, but to work that hard for that long was a herculean feat. Somehow, though, she wasn’t surprised to hear Killian had pulled it off.

“Yup. I had to force him to go back to his hotel. Actually, Regina had to. I tried, but until the Chief said something, he wouldn’t budge. She had to spew all sorts of protocol and legal jargon at him to get him to go. Even then, I could tell he was debating whether to stay or not.”

“He has a real connection with his patients,” Emma commented, vocalizing a fact she’d ascertained by watching him in action. Killian cared deeply, and while his main job may be all about stemming the flow of crisis, and bouncing around from one case to the next just to keep people holding on, he kept track of all those he helped, and invested in each patient no matter what.

“Maybe. I think it had more to do with the fact that it was only eight am and you wouldn’t be at the coffee stand yet.”

Before Emma could respond, David was paged for something else. He’d left her with a polite goodbye, but also a knowing smile. Another time, Emma might have tried to fake that she wasn’t interested or deny that there was something between her and Killian, but instead she was too busy fixating on what she’d just heard. Emma carried David’s assessment around with her for the rest of the day, well after leaving the hospital and heading home. She spent the night wondering if what David said was true. Was Killian as interested in her as she was in him?

“This might be presumptuous of me, love, but I find I’m helpless to resist. I was wondering – that is, I was hoping that perhaps, you and I, we could…”

“We could what?” she whispered, getting out of her car, heading inside to her next shift. “What was he going to ask me?”

“Did you say something, Emma?”

Emma jumped at the unexpected question, senses on high alert as she stood before the elevator in the parking garage. When she found Mary Margaret only a few feet from her, and clearly the orator of the previous question, Emma relaxed slightly. She tried her best not to show her embarrassment, but it was difficult. Now she was talking to herself? Jeez, she was truly losing it at this point.

“Oh, uh, nothing. How are you today?” she asked her friend. Mary Margaret smiled widely. Her excitement was palpable, filling up the elevator car as the two of them stepped inside.

“I’m great! Just eager to get to work.”

“Any interesting cases on the schedule?”

“Oh, uh, sure, there’s a few, I guess. Well really most of my day is going to be in consult with the Chief’s office.”

“Wait a second, you have to spend a prolonged period of time with the Evil Queen and you are smiling? Who are you and what have you done with Mary Margaret?” Her friend now looked flustered, clearly trying to grasp at an explanation and then it dawned on Emma. “This is about David isn’t it?”

“David?” Mary Margaret asked, her pitch higher than it had been just moments ago. Emma laughed at her friend’s terrible play acting. Trying to pretend that this wasn’t about David Nolan was a lost cause. Eventually Mary Margaret realized that, and she sighed, releasing the tension in her shoulders as she exhaled. “Okay, yes, I am seeing Dr. Nolan today.”

“Let me guess, he’s also going to be at the admin meetings.”

“They’re about coordinating long term therapies better with our emergency protocols and treatments. So yes, the head of the ER is likely to make an appearance.”

“I see,” Emma said, biting back a smirk so as not to make Mary Margaret too uncomfortable. In the end though her curiosity won out, and she had to ask. “So, any movement there?”

“Movement?”

“Has he asked you out yet?”

“Not exactly.” Emma waited for her friend to explain herself. Mary Margaret held off for a few seconds before blurting out the truth. “I actually asked him.”

“Really?” Emma was shocked. Not because she thought any less of Mary Margaret. In fact, quite the opposite. She was proud of Mary Margaret for going for what she wanted. She just had never ever seen Mary Margaret step outside of a comfort zone like that, and certainly not with a hospital colleague. “Good for you. And he obviously said yes.”

“Why is it obvious?” Emma rolled her eyes, but in a teasing way.

“Come on, you know you two were making heart eyes at each other the other day. There was a definite spark. We all saw it.”

“I’m honestly surprised you noticed since you had your own, what did you just call them? ‘Heart eyes’? Well, you definitely had heart eyes for a certain trauma surgeon.”

Now it was Emma’s turn to blush, and what perfect timing, because the elevator doors had just opened to the lobby. They exited the quiet of the elevator to a hustle and bustle found only at a top tier hospital. It felt like a swarm of people, buzzing every which way, on their own individual paths.

“David and I going to dinner tomorrow,” Mary Margaret said quietly, looking around and finding no eavesdropping colleagues. When the coast was clear, she smiled, looking back at Emma with excitement all over her face. “That’s all I know though. I may have asked him out, but he made it very clear he had plans for how our first date was going to be.”

“I have a good feeling about this guy,” Emma said, referring to David. She had known Mary Margaret for a long time, and she knew how much her friend wished for a real and solid love in her life. Few people desired and deserved that kind of connection like Mary Margaret, and for Emma, there was a real satisfaction in seeing her friend’s instant connection with a stand-up man. Based on past experience, there weren’t too many of those to go around.

“Which one?” Mary Margaret asked. Emma stammered something non-committal out, causing her friend to laugh once more. “And that right there is all the answer I need. See you later, Emma. Oh, and when you see Killian again, just go for it. Believe me, it’s so much better than waiting and wondering.”

With that, Mary Margaret headed towards the wing of the hospital where the Chief and her admins worked. At the same time, Emma turned her attention to the cardiac unit.  She had a ways to go to get there, but while still in the main entrance of the hospital she was stopped short by a gruff, and somewhat uncertain voice.

“Excuse me, Doctor Swan?”

“Yes?” Emma replied, looking to the young man who approached her. Taking in his features, she realized she knew him peripherally. He was one of the new interns cycling through the hospital this year, but he hadn’t worked in the cardio wing or in a surgical capacity. Taking in his lanyard, which bore his ID card over plain clothes, she saw he was an ER intern. Interesting. “Can I help you?”

“This is for you.” The young man offered her a paper box. Emma accepted, thoroughly confused before the intern elaborated. “Curtesy of Doctor Jones.”

“Oh,” Emma said, suddenly incredibly interested. Unable to resist, she opened the box. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but what she found made her smile widely. “These are flowers. Paper flowers.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m not entirely sure of the significance, but Doctor Jones told me there is a note inside as well. He wanted me to be sure to mention that.”

Emma was more than excited to read what this astonishing man would write to her, but something the intern said reminded her of the awkwardness of this situation. Had Killian used his authority over the interns to have this delivered? It wasn’t a crazy assumption. Many of the residents and attendings here saw interns as the low rungs on the ladder. They were meant to be learning and training, but often they were sent on coffee runs and foolish errands. Emma never believed in that though. She found it unkind and unnecessary.

“To be honest, it was hard to convince Doctor Jones to let me bring these,” the intern said, perplexing Emma further while eerily reading her mind. “I had to offer about a half dozen times. My shift was ending, you see, and I’ve been looking for a way to thank Doctor Jones since he got here. You know he created extra hours in the ER skills lab? He’s working with first years too. We get very little access usually, because the third years are prepping for exams and stuff, but he convinced Doctor Nolan to extend the hours. He’s even hosting classes himself. Cool right?”

“Very cool,” Emma said with a nod, and another smile. She breathed out a sigh of relief, genuinely happy to realize this man she’d been thinking of was good to others. It also made accepting this thoughtful gift so much easier.

From there, Caleb said goodbye, heading out for whatever interns did with down time these days. Oh, who was she kidding? Sleeping. That’s what she’d done, and no doubt that was what all interns still wanted most of all. Emma though, felt more awake now than she had in a long while. She found a quiet corner in one of the corridors leading to the cardio unit and took a seat, opening the box away from prying eyes.

Inside the box there were six different types of what looked like origami flowers. They were beautiful and delicate, and she wondered where he could have bought them. Only when she opened the note did she realize the truth.

Emma,

As you know, I’ve been away for quite a while, out in the field in a completely different world. In the desert there’s not really that much to do, except survive and keep as many of your people as well as you can. The downtime is long and hot and quiet. I picked up these tricks from a fellow soldier. It kept my hands at the ready and my mind clear, and there’s an honest beauty in them that reminds me of you. 

Truth be told, there’s a flower for each time I’ve tried to catch you at the coffee cart since our meeting. Clearly my missions have been unsuccessful, so this calls for a change in tactics…

Emma smiled at the thoughtfulness and felt the pull of butterflies low in her chest.  He thought she was beautiful, and he said it without fear. Had a man ever said so much? Had it ever mattered? Certainly not like it did now. Reading on, Emma laughed at the lightheartedness of the note and the bit of cheeky humor that accompanied it. His easygoing candor and transparency enchanted her, drawing her in even more than she already was. Then she memorized the time and place he suggested that they meet at the bottom of the page, knowing nothing and no one was going to keep her from this meeting.

Only after reading through his handwritten thoughts three or four times did she realize an added layer of perfection: these flowers weren’t just handmade and crafted with intention. They were also safe for her to take with her to her ward of the hospital. Being in and out of the ICU and cardiac units, Emma couldn’t bring real flowers into her offices without putting some patients at risk, but she could have these. From within the box she selected a bright yellow blossom, beautiful and intricate and folded to perfection. Wordlessly she tucked it away in her pocket. The others were deposited for safe keeping in her office as soon as she arrived back in the East Wing, and displayed on her windowsill, brightening the space.

The hours between the start of her shift and the time she was meant to meet Killian passed by slowly. Her rounds usually distracted her, but not today. While she still gave all due attention to her patients, Emma had that sense in the back of her mind that this afternoon would bring so much more to the forefront. The promise of seeing him again kept her heart pattering faster than it should be, and by the time the clock was minutes from their meeting, she was positively bursting with anticipation.

“Okay, usually I would give you a hard time and pretend to tag along, but even I can’t mess with a smile like that.” Ruby’s words snapped Emma’s focus back to the hallway where she was standing, pretending to read a chart. As she looked to her friend, however, she would never be able to recall what was on the screen in front of her. Ruby grinned when their eyes met. “He gave you the flowers, didn’t he?”

“You knew?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded.

“Yup. Ran into him at the cart a couple of times. He was really starting to piss off the kiosk guy with all his loitering. Had to give him a hundred dollars just to shut him up.”

“He didn’t!”

“No, I wouldn’t let him. I told Boris to shut it unless he wanted a hospital wide nurses strike. Guy knows better than to cross me. He just acts tough for clout.” Emma laughed, knowing her friend truly ran this place in most ways. But then the apprehension of the moment caught up to her again, and Emma’s brow furrowed in worry. “Oh no you don’t. No doubting this, Ems. I’ve vetted this guy. Run all the background, checked all the sources. He’s a good one, a one in a million, needle in a haystack, diamond in the rough kind of man. And, to top it all off, he’s crazy about you.”

“You think?” Emma asked and Ruby nodded.

“I know, but that’s all I’m saying. Let Killian speak for himself, okay? And, even though it’s hard, try and trust this.”

“I think I already do,” Emma whispered. “Trust him, I mean. But that’s crazy, right?”

“Love tends to be that way.”

“Ruby.”

“Emma,” her friend parroted, taking her hand and squeezing gently. “Just go for it. Go for it and see for yourself.”

With a nod, and the validation that she needed to hear from a trusted friend, Emma headed off. It felt natural and expected to make her way towards the center of the hospital once more. This time though, she passed the coffee cart, with only a fleeting glance. Killian wasn’t meeting her there today. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure where they were meeting. She followed the directions he’d given her, up a few more flights of stairs and through the wing with pediatric patients and newborns. She had been here many times before, for consults and comfort. It was a draw here in the hospital – the cuteness of babies just starting their journeys in the new world. Emma looked at them today, noticing the vibrancy inside the nursery, but didn’t linger. Instead, she followed the last of the route that Killian had given her and ended up somewhere she’d never been before. A place that must have just finished being renovated.

“Wow,” Emma whispered, walking into the sunlight on the open terrace.

With the glass surroundings and the plant life everywhere, this place was beautiful. There were pergolas and hanging vines, topiaries and flowering plants, daffodils and tulips, all breathing in the spring. It felt like a park, floating in the air, with the sounds of the city barely audible below. Emma could imagine the kids and the families who would come here someday. She hoped it would be a space for them to find some peace and happiness while staying in this unfamiliar and often stressful place. Hospitals were rarely any fun for patients, necessary as they may be, but this space was beautiful enough to distract from that.

“You made it, love.” The deep rumble of that familiar voice sent a shiver through Emma’s whole body. She cast a glance over her shoulder, finding Killian, leaning against the stone façade of the building behind them. In his hands were two coffees, and as he moved towards her, he offered her one with a boyish smile. “This is for you. Didn’t want you missing a routine caffeine fix for my sake.”

“Thank you,” Emma said automatically, feeling his fingers brush across hers, sending a zing of awareness through her. Her eyes flashed up to his, and she knew he felt it too. Suddenly she had no want or need for this coffee. She cleared her throat slightly before continuing on. “Where exactly are we? And how, might I ask, does the new guy know about it before I do?”

“It’s the Hubbard Family Wellness Gardens, gifted by one of the hospital’s most loyal benefactors” he said, full of knowledge. Emma was shocked that he actually knew what this place would be but then he smiled, gesturing to the plaque bearing that information. She bit back a laugh. “And as for how I found it, that’s easy. I never leave well enough alone, and I’m curious by nature. I’ve been nearly everywhere in the hospital now, but this place seemed the best for what comes next.”

“What comes next?” Emma asked, her voice hitching up as she repeated the words.

“Aye,” Killian murmured, his tone dipping sensually low. She swallowed harshly as he entered into her space, and he tracked the motion. She felt the heat of his closeness, and caught his scent in the air, clean, and male, and with a hint of spice.

“I’m afraid I didn’t think this through,” he said, close enough to kiss her. God, how she wished he would kiss her. Emma vocalized her first thought.

“Really? I did. Like a lot.”

His smirk told her she’d said that aloud even though she never meant to, but before she could react, he took hold of her cup once more.

“I meant these,” he gestured to the coffee in her hand. Oh, right. “May I, love?”

Emma nodded, and shakily let go of the cup she forgot she was holding. With deft hands, Killian  placed their drinks back on a table beside them with far more poise than she could muster at the moment. When that was done, he stepped towards her again, looking at her with a glint in his blue eyes that made her heart skip. His hands came to her body, one to her hip, the other to cup her cheek. The rightness washed over her, and so did the realization that none of her dreams could actually prepare her for real intimacy with Killian Jones.

“Last time we spoke I intended to ask you something. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from wanting this so badly. Without thinking, she wet her lips, and he caught the action, letting out a groan that mixed pain with passion and pleasure. Then he cursed, a totally British ‘bloody hell’ falling past his lips before dipping his mouth to hers and giving them both a taste of temptation.

The kiss was… beyond incredible, but Emma was so deep in it she had no ability to comprehend anything at all. She was consumed with the moment, arching against Killian, feeling the silky strands of his dark hair and the scruff of his beard. His kiss was assured and passionate, dominant and indulgent all at once. She succumbed to the sensations, and let the rightness surge within her, not caring at all that they were outside or at work or that they’d just met. Instinct took over, and her gut, which Emma had always trusted, was telling her that this man was even more than she imagined, and someone she should choose to let in.

Pulling back from the kiss, Emma and Killian stayed close, and Emma took stock of all the places they were touching. His hold on her was firm but caring, like she was precious, and he wouldn’t let her slip away. In his eyes she saw so much emotion, and again she was struck by his transparency and trust. He wasn’t shying away from her or the moment. He was in the depths of desire with her, and their kiss, that perfect, sexy as all hell kiss, had left him tongue tied. The quiet wasn’t awkward, but assuring, and Emma felt secure here, safe even, while also being filled with more unknown wonder than she’d ever been before. Like someone at the start of a glorious adventure, she took a next step born of passion and hope.

“I’m off at six tonight… so, you want to pick me up at seven thirty?” she asked, referencing a date he hadn’t actually asked her out on. She feigned ignorance even though she could read him like a book. “Unless you were going to ask me something else…”

His hold on her tightened, and he shook his head immediately. She was right. He wanted a date – and she saw no reason to wait when she wanted one just as badly. She grinned at him, loving how the tables had turned. This time he swallowed harshly, and she was oh so tempted to kiss him again and see if he’d stay shy or rise to her challenge.

“It’s a date, Swan,” he said dazedly. 

Emma hummed out her agreement, going in for one last fleeting kiss. But where she meant to only tease, he took the reins again, kissing her senseless and leaving her breathless when they finally broke apart. Only when her pager beeped with an incoming call did they end their inevitable interlude, and as they did, Emma felt a pang of longing, wishing this moment could last so much longer than this.

“Tonight, love,” he whispered, running his thumb against her lips. “Far away as it may seem, I promise the wait will be worth it.”

“Good,” she replied, nipping his thumb ever so softly, and bringing the fire back in his eyes, before taking a step back. And with that, and just enough presence of mind to grab her coffee, Emma headed off, back through the hospital to the work that awaited her, knowing she could and would get through anything today for the promise of tonight.

Post-Note: Ah!! Finally!! I got the words on the page!! I did the thing!! I wrote the story!! And honestly, it’s such a relief. It felt, at some points, like I may never get this chapter written, but finally today it came. I know many of you were waiting, and I cherished every comment and review and message along the way. I hope all of you who wrote me, and those who read along with chapter one, all enjoy this installation. I write these stories for me and to brighten my world ever so slightly, but also in the hopes that they’ll spark joy for others too. In a time like this, a little joy goes an awful long way. Anyway, thank you all for reading, sending you the best, and hope you’ll join me next time for the final chapter of this CS AU! xE

[lopithecusfanfiction]

A Life So Changed: Chapter Sixty-One

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2775 Alternate: AO3, fanfiction.net Author's Note: So, I’m thinking one chapter a month is going to be the norm for now on. I hope that is okay. Once in a while I might be able to do more than that but adulting takes a lot of time, unfortunately. :/ Enjoy!!

Bruce lies awake in bed, Clark’s arms wrapped protectively around him. The Kryptonian is fast asleep, limbs heavy on Bruce’s body. He can feel Lara moving around inside him, the sensation weird and uncanny. Bruce shifts and Clark stirs, a sleepy mumble coming out of the man’s mouth. But Clark doesn’t wake and Bruce uses the opportunity to place his own hand on his stomach. Lara kicks and he feels it.

*~~~*

“You want to what?” Bruce asks Clark over breakfast. He’s feeling pretty good this morning which is a nice change. There’s a dull ache in his head but it is nowhere near the intensity the headaches have been recently and his appetite has come back full force. Alfred has made him oatmeal and toast with some scrambled eggs and a few berries in a bowl. He picks a raspberry out of it and chews, savoring the juicey flavor.

Clark swallows his own bite of eggs, the Gotham Gazette open in his hands. Bruce had asked him why he wasn’t reading the Daily Planet seeing as Bruce has a subscription to that as well, and Clark replied with that he wanted to see the differences between the two. Of course the Gotham Gazette focuses more on Gotham news while the Daily Planet focuses on Metropolis news, but even the world news the two writes about is different. Each puts priorities on different things and writes about them in different ways.

“I think it would do us both some good if we went,” Clark replies, flipping the page. “Ma and Pa have really started to come around now that they’ve realized I’m serious about us.” Clark looks up at him. “I’ll go see them alone if you really don’t want to come but I would love for you to join me.”

Bruce sighs and takes a sip of his green tea. “You’re talking about going to go see the two people that hate me. The two people that insulted me the last time I saw them.”

Clark nods, setting down his mug of coffee that he had just drank from. “Yes, I am. But it’s been a long time since then and I have only seen them once since that whole incident.” Clark shrugs. “I’ve talked to them on the phone a few times here and there but not as much as I used to. I think they’re getting the hint that if they don’t accept you, then I don’t want anything to do with them.”

“That’s a lie.” Clark raises his eyebrow at Bruce in question. “You could never say goodbye to your parent completely.”

Clark shrugs again, taking a bite of egg. “I suppose you’re right.”

Bruce sits there and watches Clark eat for a few seconds before he finally sighs heavily. “Fine, I’ll go. But you’re not flying me there. I’ll call the airport and have them get my jet ready.”

Bruce can tell Clark is trying to not smile. “Why don’t you want me flying you there?”

“Because I’m too pregnant for that now.”

Clark chuckles. “You’re in your sixth month and aren’t even that big. Wait until you’re eight months along.”

Bruce grimaces, stabbing a blueberry. “Please don’t remind me of the hardships I’m going to face. Lara is heavy enough as it is.”

“Lara is a nice name.” Bruce and Clark turn towards the voice, seeing Tim and Damian walk into the room. “Dick told me that’s what you are naming her.”

“And you didn’t believe him?” Clark asks the teen.

Tim shrugs and sits down at the table, stealing one of Bruce’s toast. “No, I believed him but I just wanted to make sure.”

“And you?” Bruce asks, turning to Damian who is grabbing at an apple from the bowl on the counter. “What do you think?”

“Tt, I don’t care.” Damian then stalks out of the room, giving Bruce’s stomach a quick glance. Bruce doesn’t miss the small smile the kid tries to hide.

“He’s coming around,” Tim informs and Bruce hums in agreement.

Clark stands up and walks to Bruce’s side of the table, leaning down and giving him a kiss on the temple. “There’s a few things I need to do at the Fortress but I’ll be back in a couple hours to go to Smallville with you.”

“Okay,” Bruce replies, giving Clark a smile in return. The Kryptonian leaves and Bruce is left sitting there with Tim stealing grapes from his fruit bowl. Bruce eyes him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” Tim pops a grape into his mouth.

Bruce narrows his eyes. “Tim.”

Tim lets out a long, deep sigh, hand falling to the table with a loud thud. “It’s really nothing. I’ve just been thinking about the baby and you and Kon.”

Bruce’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why are me and the baby in the same thought process as Conner?” Then Bruce’s eyes grow wide. “You’re not pregnant are you? Tim, I swear to God, I can’t deal with another accidental pregnancy.”

Tim shakes his head in amusement, short chuckle coming from him. “No, trust me, Bruce, I’m very careful during my heats.” He huffs. “I think Kon is even more careful than I am.”

“Good,” Bruce says with a nod.

“It’s mostly just the future I’m thinking about.” Tim picks up Bruce’s fork and starts playing with the eggs on Bruce’s plate. Bruce watches in annoyance. “You and Clark are going to have a baby together that’s going to take up a lot of your time. It’s not like when you adopted Dick, Jason, me, and then took on Damian. We were already kids at the time, self sufficient. A baby is needy and helpless. Yeah, you have Alfred but I suspect you two are still going to be doing most of the work.”

“Tim, is there a point to this?” Bruce asks.

Tim rolls his eyes and flings some egg at Bruce which Bruce dodges. “Yes, asshole.” Bruce smiles at his son. “I’m wondering if I want that when I’m older. Does Kon want that? The normal omega and alpha response would be, yes, we do but then I think about being Red Robin and him being Superboy and how busy we are and are going to be.” Tim twirls the fork. “I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a father, Bruce.”

“You’re still a little young to be thinking about this. You’re only seventeen, Tim, you have plenty of time to decide,” Bruce points out.

“That’s the thing, Bruce,” Tim continues. “I have decided.” Tim looks him in the eyes. “I want to be a father someday, I want it with Kon if I can though I know that might not be a possibility for many different reasons, but the problem lies in which whether or not I’ll have the time or if I’ll screw it up somehow.”

“Tim,” Bruce places a hand on the teen’s shoulder. “I think all parents have those fears.” He smiles at Tim. “And you know, if I end up having time to take care of Lara and I somehow don’t screw her up,” Tim chuckles, “then you definitely can do it too.”

Tim shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out eventually, won’t we?”

“Hopefully not too soon,” Bruce points out and Tim chuckles again.

“Yeah, not too soon.” Tim sets Bruce’s fork back down. “I don’t want to be Dick’s age either. I’m thinking early thirties… if I make it to that age.” The mention of Dick’s situation and then the possibility of Tim not living long enough to see his thirties dampens the mood instantaneously. Bruce frowns down at his food and Tim is staring at the table, solem. “Sorry” the omega says quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Bruce shakes his head. “It’s fine.” He stands and pushes his plates to Tim. “Finish this food. I don’t want it anymore.��

“Bruce,” Tim starts but doesn’t continue, looking regretful.

Bruce gives the omega a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really.” He then walks out of the kitchen, heading towards his office to make the arrangements to go to Smallville.

*~~~*

Clark and him are in Smallville, knocking on Martha and Jonathan’s door within a few hours. The older beta opens the door immediately and gathers Clark into her arms, squeezing the alpha tight. “Oh, Clark! It’s so good to see you. I’ve missed you so much.”

Jonathan appears beside his mate. “It’s good to see you, Son.”

Clark ducks his head in embarrassment. “Ma, Pa, it’s good to see you too.”

Martha smiles at her son then turns her attention on Bruce. “Bruce…” She trails off, face looking sad and regretful. She waves them in. “Come in you two.” They both follow the two betas into the house and Martha ushers them into the dining room where there are plates set up with food. They all sit, say a prayer, and then begin to eat. “Bruce,” Martha starts. “Jonathan and I are glad you came. We’ve had a very long time to think about how we acted the last time we saw ya and…” she looks down at the table.

Jonathan jumps in. “We regret how we treated ya, Bruce. It was wrong of us to judge ya without even knowing ya.” His eyes flick to Clark. “We taught our son better than that and, well, quite frankly, we should know better than that too.” Jonathan extends a hand. “We’re sorry, Bruce, and we hope ya can one day forgive us.”

Bruce eyes the hand but doesn't take it. “How do I know you’re not just saying that to get Clark back into your lives and have a relationship with our baby?”

Jonathan’s hand descends and Martha answers him. “We know we haven’t given ya any reason as to why ya should trust us, but we hope that we can try and earn that trust back. The little conversations that Jonathan and I had with Clark after how we treated ya, showed us how terrible we were and how much ya mean to our boy. We ain’t usually mean people, Bruce, and I’m ashamed to admit that that’s exactly what we were.”

“We know we have to gain ya trust,” Jonathan pitches in. “We just hope ya’ll give us the chance.” He looks to Clark as well, most likely knowing they lost their son’s trust as well. “Sorry isn’t enough, we understand that, but we really want to try and make it work. To understand what it is that ya and our son have, and about the baby.”

“Like we said, Bruce,” Martha says. “We had a nice long thought about this whole thing after we left Gotham. I know it ain’t no excuse, but I think the shock of it all is what caused a lot of our animosity towards ya. We should have given ya a chance before jumping to our own conclusions though, and for that, we are truly sorry.”

Bruce is looking down at the table, one hand on his stomach, and the other placed on the table. He thinks about what Jonathan and Martha had just said to him, wonders what Clark had said to them in order for them to really think about how they treated him, and then made his decision. “Her name is going to be Lara, after Clark’s biological mother. But I was thinking of having her middle name be Martha.” He shrugs. “Everyone seems to be surprised that that isn’t going to be her first name so I should probably stick it in there somewhere.” He looks up at Martha, eyeing Jonathan before moving back to Clark’s mother. “After all, there’s two Marthas in the family.”

Martha has tears in her eyes, recognizing the peace offering. She takes Jonathan’s hand and squeezes it, giving Bruce a small smile. “Thank ya, Bruce.” Jonathan smiles as well, nodding in agreement with his mate.

*~~~*

All four of them sit in the living room, watching a movie in the dark. Bruce is always amazed by how different darkness is in Smallville than it is in Gotham. In Gotham, there isn’t really truly a complete darkness. Pollution and clouds make sure of that. But here in Smallville, there are no clouds, there is no pollution, and better yet, there is no light from the city illuminating the sky. Pure darkness at its best, with a million stars littering the sky. It’s the most peaceful Bruce will ever get.

“Martha huh?” Clark whispers to him. They are secluded on the couch, Clark lying on it and Bruce squeezed on it in front of him, Clark’s arm wrapped around him to make sure he doesn’t fall off. Martha and Jonathan are in their own chairs, Martha rocking rhythmically and Jonathan leaning back, sinking into the cushioned chair. The male on the tv screen opens the door leading him to the murderer.

“It’s fitting don’t you think?” Bruce whispers back. “Honor all three mothers.”

Clark chuckles. “I just don’t know if I like the sound of Lara Martha Wayne-Kent.” He pauses. “Or will it be Lara Martha Kent-Wayne?”

Bruce elbows him in the side and Clark squeaks, causing Martha to look over briefly. “It might not sound poetic but I don’t care. My mother and your biological mother aren’t here so they both deserve to be honored. And besides, Martha Lara excetra sounds even worse.”

Clark chuckles, his whole body shaking with the attempt to stay quiet. “Nice job avoiding the last name issue.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and sits up, stretching. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Clark sits up too. “Oh no, is it starting?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at the alpha. “Is what starting?”

“The frequent bathroom trips.” Clark looks worried. Bruce picks up a throw pillow and smacks him across the face. Martha and Jonathan laugh and Clark grabs the pillow, tackles Bruce to pull him back down, and smothers him in kisses. He stops when Bruce starts to grumble and squirm too much, letting go. “I’m only teasing.”

Bruce sits back up and smooths down the front of his shirt. “I know. Now, the bathroom. I really have to go.”

Clark mocks an annoyed sigh. “Fine. Go. Scamper away little bat.” Bruce rolls his eyes again and stands, leaving the room with the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him and Clark’s laughs in his ears.

Martha and Jonathan have two bathrooms. One downstairs and one upstairs. The problem Bruce has always had, however, is the size of the downstairs one. It’s more of a half bath sized room but whoever built the house still decided to try and squeeze in a shower. The few times Bruce has been to this house, whenever the League was invited, he never once saw any of the members use the downstairs bathroom. No one but Clark, of course. Bruce does the same. Avoids the downstairs bathroom at all costs and now that his stomach is bigger, he really doesn’t want to try and squeeze his way around in there. So he heads for the stairs to go to the bathroom on the second floor.

The stairs to the second floor are steep but manageable. Wally once fell down them, clumsy as he is. He ended up breaking his calf and is lucky he heals so quickly. The bone was completely mended by the time the League left, the speedster running off to where he wanted to go after. Bruce now holds onto the railing, taking his time to make his way up. The last thing he wants to do is fall down the stairs.

The size of the bathroom up here is much more tolerable and Bruce feels a lot more comfortable doing his business in it. Once done, he washes his hands and then makes his way out. At the top of the stairs, he pauses. He stands there, not really seeing anything as he looks down them. Slowly, the feeling of leaving his body encompasses him and he sluggishly reaches out with a shaky hand to the railing. His fingers curl around it and grip tightly. His body doesn’t move. Blinks slow. Breathing shallow.

Suddenly, he’s snapped back into his body by an excruciating pain stabbing in his head, his ears ringing so loud that he can’t hear the tv downstairs anymore. He takes a sharp breath in, hands flying up to cup at his head, as he takes a step back away from the stairs. He stumbles and falls, hitting the floor hard, and curling into himself. His mouth is open, he doesn’t know if he’s screaming in pain, but his whole body convulses and then he blacks out.

A/N: You all are so, so close to finding out what is wrong with Bruce. So close!! I can’t wait until it’s revealed and see all your reactions. :D Thanks for reading!!

[sanguinarysanguinity]

@possibility221​ said they would enjoy a commentary on the various ACD canon references in my story A Handsome and Generous People, in which Sherlock Holmes is thrown a few centuries into the future and reads the ACD Holmes stories, looking to see if Watson has any insight on how to get back. There is a fair amount of snarkiness about canon along the way.

Most of the ACD stories referenced in “A Handsome and Generous People” are pretty popular, as I wanted the story to be halfway accessible without knowing a great deal about the canon stories. Thus, if you already know the Sherlock Holmes stories moderately well, this may not be that interesting of a commentary? (Although you may take this as an invitation to argue about canon with me, if you like. Your choice.)

Beneath the cut, spoilers for a goodly number of ACD cases, as well as for “A Handsome and Generous People”...

I had even attempted re-reading A Study in Scarlet... my refreshed memory of what a terrible novel it was.

A Study in Scarlet (STUD), the first of the sixty Sherlock Holmes stories, has a strange narrative structure: right smack in the middle of the novel there is a five-chapter-long flashback to decades earlier on a different continent with characters we’ve never heard of. (The first time I read Scarlet, I thought there had been a printer’s error whereby pages from some random other novel had gotten bound into the middle of the book. It doesn’t help at all that the chapter numbering starts over again with the flashback.) Even worse, that extended flashback is an old-fashioned Western store, and just fyi, whenever Doyle tries to write Americans it gets pretty painful. Fic authors love making fun of STUD for that random gawdawful Mormon section, and I’m no exception.

Wt’sn’s assessment of the novel might be a bit strong -- I personally enjoy the first half of STUD, and STUD was popular enough to get the whole Sherlock Holmes phenomenon started. But it amuses me to imagine that Wt’sn is one of those people who has never managed to make it through the Mormon section of STUD. :-)

The imp in me could not resist: I told him about a place that I had an eye on, one that I thought would suit us right down to the ground.

Wt’sn is quoting Watson and Holmes's first meeting. Watson writes in STUD:

Sherlock Holmes seemed delighted at the idea of sharing his rooms with me. “I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street,” he said, “which would suit us down to the ground.”

“Watson was a terrible liar,” he said. “You’ll be comforted to know I have never once been tempted to poison a fellow lodger.”

In STUD, Stamford introduces Watson to Holmes, but he isn’t prepared to vouch for Holmes’ character. Stamford says:

“I could imagine his [Holmes] giving a friend a little pinch of the latest vegetable alkaloid, not out of malevolence, you understand, but simply out of a spirit of inquiry in order to have an accurate idea of the effects.”

Some authors and adaptations use that line as evidence that Holmes definitely would cold-bloodedly and without consent poison or injure someone for science. For myself, I have never been convinced by that reading, mostly because the convo is raw speculation by a man who admits to not knowing Holmes well. Also, it’s clear over the body of the canon that Watson isn’t above fibbing about Holmes’ character in the early pages of a story for the sake of heightening dramatic tension later.

“You already know Watson was an incorrigible liar. You’ve read the one with the snake, haven’t you?”

In “The Speckled Band” (SPEC), Watson claims that a snake did several things that snakes don’t actually do. (Drink milk, hear a whistle, climb a rope...) The usual theories explaining this is that Watson is a) stupid, b) sloppy, or c) a liar, but there are also a few authors who assert that Holmes messed the case up without realizing it. (I recommend “...Could Fill A Book” by @plaidadder, who sends Holmes back for a second go at SPEC.)

For myself, I generally prefer to presume that Watson was a liar rather than sloppy or stupid, mostly because the narrative possibilities are better in that direction. (Why did he choose to tell that particular lie, and in that particular way?) Whatever the reasons, the impossibilities like that milk-drinking, rope-climbing snake pop up all over canon. The snake is perhaps the most well-known of them, which is why I used it here. “The Creeping Man” is another excellent example of Watson making shit up and attempting to pass it off as truth (albeit a much less well-known example). But we’ll get to Creeping Man soon enough...

“His dates are a disgrace. Always have been.“

You know, I’m not even gonna try to give you a list of all the dates in canon that are out-of-whack. It’s legendary in the fandom, and even Doyle himself admitted that they were a disaster. The man couldn’t even get the internal dates within individual stories right (see the so-called eight weeks between April and October in The Red-Headed League), never mind his failing to cross-reference his dates from one story to the next.

If you spend much time messing around with canon, you either blow off the dating inconsistencies or you build stories around them. I have an unfortunate tendency to roll them into my stories, which is why you occasionally run into a passage like this coming one, sorry. I tried to keep it as brief as I could.

“You fell in 1893?” I asked, consulting my notes... “Dr Watson wrote it was 1891.”

For some unknown reason, Sherlock Holmes in the 23rd Century sets Reichenbach in 1893, whereas “The Final Problem” puts it on May 4, 1891. Yeah, I dunno. But like I said, I tend to roll these things into the story...

“In 1908 Dr Watson published a case of that description including the detail you just gave me, set in March of 1892, titled ‘Wisteria Lodge.’”

According to the two Reichenbach stories, “The Final Problem” and “The Empty House,” Holmes was fake-dead from May 1891 to sometime in 1894. And yet in “Wisteria Lodge,” Holmes and Watson randomly have lunch together in Baker Street in March of 1892. I’m admittedly kind of obsessed with that particular weirdness; more sensible fans shrug and move on.

“The Cox and Company despatch box,” I whispered, reverent.

In the opening lines of “The Problem of Thor Bridge,” Watson writes:

Somewhere in the vaults of the bank of Cox and Co., at Charing Cross, there is a travel-worn and battered tin dispatch box with my name, John H. Watson, M. D., Late Indian Army, painted upon the lid. It is crammed with papers, nearly all of which are records of cases...

People who write case-fic, whether as professionals or amateurs, love to reference that dispatch box. “The box has been found! Here is a case from it!” Even the movies sometimes go there: The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes begins with Watson’s heir being called to Cox and Company to witness the unsealing of the fabled dispatch box.

I personally am not a fan of the dispatch box as a narrative device: I know what my folder of unpublished stories looks like, and it’s much closer to the open-ended, low-context mess depicted in Circadienne’s Primary Sources than the complete, polished, and fully-contextualized stories that allegedly keep bursting forth from that legendary dispatch box. 

“The Musgrave Ritual.”

“The Musgrave Ritual” (MUSG) is pretty much exactly as I describe it: it’s about a treasure map that most people inexplicably fail to recognize is a treasure map. Usually you just have to roll with things like that while reading the canon stories, but here I decided to add it to the list of lies Watson told.

“The abominable Mrs Ricoletti, for god’s sake!”

Watson loved to tease us with cases that he never mentions again; the abominable Mrs Ricoletti is one that he dangled in front of us in MUSG. Yes, I’m doing here pretty much what Watson did: suggesting there’s a good story behind that, and then refusing to tell you about it. :-P

“You are theorising ahead of the facts,” I said...

Wt’sn is paraphrasing Holmes back at himself:

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence.” (Study in Scarlet)

“It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data.” (Scandal in Bohemia)

“I had,” said he, “come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data.” (Speckled Band)

“The temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession.” (The Valley of Fear)

“Still, it is an error to argue in front of your data.” (Wisteria Lodge)

Wt’sn claims to not have read the stories, but given how often Holmes says this kind of thing in canon, I think we can presume that Holmes has kept right on saying it during his years in the 23rd century.

btw, I wrote this story in four days, start-to-finish, and I had no time to look up the actual canon quotes. I was surprised and a little embarrassed to discover while looking the quotes up just now that Holmes usually says “data” and never “facts.” OH WELL.

It was painful to watch Holmes read ‘The Final Problem,’ but ‘The Empty House’ was worse...

Respectively, the story where Holmes fakes his death, and the story where he reveals to Watson that he was alive all along.

...despite my fears that ‘The Dying Detective’ would reignite charges of Dr Watson’s mendacity, Holmes snickered from one end to the other like a schoolboy.

“The Dying Detective” is the one where Holmes fakes a mortal illness, sends for Watson, refuses to let Watson treat him, holds Watson hostage, makes Watson hide behind his bed and then forgets about him, and is generally a manipulative unfeeling asshole from one end of the story to the other. There are a number of stories in which Holmes lies to manipulate Watson (The Hound of the Baskervilles and “The Retired Colourman” both spring to mind), but Dying Detective is nothing but lies and manipulations, and a particularly cruel instance of it, to boot.

Whether Holmes is giggling because Holmes is just so much of a dick as to pull shit like that and laugh about it later (which is what Watson says he did in the similar part of Retired Colourman), or because Dying Detective references a private joke between him and Watson, is reader’s choice.

“He claimed that he was only— He likened himself to my cocaine!”

In “The Creeping Man” (CREE), Watson writes:

The relations between us in those latter days were peculiar. He [Holmes] was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable. When it was a case of active work and a comrade was needed upon whose nerve he could place some reliance, my role was obvious. But apart from this I had uses. I was a whetstone for his mind. I stimulated him. He liked to think aloud in my presence. His remarks could hardly be said to be made to me -- many of them would have been as appropriately addressed to his bedstead -- but none the less, having formed the habit, it had become in some way helpful that I should register and interject. If I irritated him by a certain methodical slowness in my mentality, that irritation served only to make his own flame-like intuitions and impressions flash up the more vividly and swiftly. Such was my humble role in our alliance.

For many of us who love Watson, that’s a painful passage. I always read “others perhaps less excusable” as a veiled reference to Holmes’ cocaine addiction, and then when Watson goes on to refer to himself as a stimulant and a habit... Well.

“And the ape-man was frankly a disgrace, I might have been reading Shelley or Stoker.”

CREE again! Creeping Man is a blatant genre change from the rest of canon, in that it is Victorian science-fiction/horror. Creepy shit happens until it is eventually revealed that an elderly professor has been injecting himself with monkey-serum Viagra and turning himself into an ape-man every few days. (No joke. That is the actual "solution.” Monkey-serum Viagra. Shape-shifting into an ape-man and back.) CREE unashamedly borrows from Frankenstein, Dracula, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, hence the “Shelley or Stoker” reference.

(ETA: for another view of the monkey-serum thing, see @violsva’s comments here about hormones being a new and exciting thing in 1920s medicine.)

I had enjoyed the jellyfish story, albeit by proxy...

“The Lion’s Mane” (LION) is perhaps the most-reviled story of canon. It’s allegedly written by Holmes (Watson doesn’t appear at all), and Holmes spends the story running around trying to figure out who is murdering swimmers before he belatedly realizes that it’s only a poisonous jellyfish that got itself trapped in the swimming hole. “Behold, the Lion’s Mane!” Holmes shouts, and then crushes the poor thing with a rock.

Yeah, I dunno. The Case-Book is a fucking trip, man. In addition to the jellyfish story, it’s also got the vampire and ape-man stories, both hurt/comfort stories (Watson gets shot in one; Holmes gets the shit beaten out of him in the other), a story in which a lady gets her face eaten off by a circus lion, another with a guy who gets his face melted off with acid... Doyle was fucking tired of writing Sherlock Holmes stories by the time he got to Case-book, and he gave no shits. Also, as Wt’sn suggests in the story, these were all written after WWI, when Doyle was still mourning the horrors of the war, so they run dark.

...the surprisingly racy version of what had happened at ‘Shoscombe Old Place.’

“Shoscombe Old Place” is the second-to-last story in canon. It’s weirdly grotesque in its own right (as is most things in Case-Book), but it has cross-dressing and no murders, which makes it a much better candidate for shenanigans than the horrorshow that is Retired Colourman. 

The illustration showed an elderly gentleman clinging by one arm to an ivy-covered wall, three stories above the ground...

From “The Creeping Man”:

The professor was clearly visible crouching at the foot of the ivy-covered wall. As we watched him he suddenly began with incredible agility to ascend it. From branch to branch he sprang, sure of foot and firm of grasp, climbing apparently in mere joy at his own powers, with no definite object in view. With his dressing-gown flapping on each side of him, he looked like some huge bat glued against the side of his own house, a great square dark patch upon the moonlit wall.

Frederic Dorr Steele’s illustration:

“Come, find a pencil, you must help me work out the dates...”

There are a fuckton of dates in CREE, to the point that Leslie Klinger’s Annotated Holmes has to organize them into two tables at the end of the story. As per usual with Doyle, the dates don’t quite make sense. More hilariously, Watson says this at one point during CREE:

“As to your dates, that is the biggest mystification of all."

Watson isn’t actually lampshading the nonsensical dates there; he’s only asking Holmes to explain his deductions. Nevertheless, the fandom loves to quote that line whenever the issue of Doyle’s self-contradictory dates comes up. BECAUSE APPROPRIATE QUOTE IS APPROPRIATE.

And with that, we settled in to making sense of Dr Watson’s dates.

Because it would take Sherlock Holmes to make sense of Watson’s dates. Certainly no one else has ever managed it. :-D