#when they almost certainly should have moved up a grade in Spring

[yaminerua]

There’s no consistency across the clamp school timeline and it’s hilarious bc everything is all over the place and god knows when these kids’ school terms begin and end lmfao

[masterwords]

rest

Summary: A virus sweeps through the Morgan-Hotchner household.

Pairing: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 2.4k

Warnings: illness, snot, fevers, meds...but soft and fluffy.

Notes: This is fluff. Just some sickfic fluff set in the Chicago semi-retirement years. How each member of the household deals with it when they get the cold that's going around. All because I wanted to write about Hotch and Clooney, old men napping together. Clooney is the goodest boy and ageless, really. I've had this in my WIP folder forever and it's one of those not getting any better or any more of a plot scenario so...I cleaned it up and now I give it to you. Making room for some new WIPs!

** The Chicago Times Masterlist **

**

The first sneeze of the season was always a benchmark.

In Spring, it let them know the pollen was on the move and that the trees were calling to the bees to do their thing. Derek would pull out the Claritin first, choosing not to even mess with the itchy eyes one moment. Hotch, on the other hand, would wait. His system was already inundated by pills of varying shapes and sizes, medications that ranged from benign to downright sinister, so a stuffy nose and some dry itchy eyes were not the end of the world.

Virginia hadn't ever treated him too badly, but he was convinced that Chicago meant him harm. Still, he persisted with a handkerchief stuffed into his pocket and saline drops for his dry eyes. He could wear his glasses now without fear of ridicule...it was almost expected of a man in his position. They may have clashed with his suit and tie, but they were the perfect accessory for his sweaters and khakis.

So, the first sneeze of Spring didn't worry him much.

The first sneeze of Autumn, however, set off the alarm bells. It was almost always Jack first with Derek hot on his heels. Hotch and Hank were sitting ducks, waiting for whatever germs the two of them brought home to fully culture inside their walls.

“Already?” Hotch asked, watching Derek rummage through the medicine cabinet for that damn box of DayQuil he knew was in there. “It's awfully early in the school year for this.”

“Tell that to my students. Jackson was puking in the trash can at football practice last night, Burkhardt was spitting loogies all over the damn field and where the fuck is my DayQuil?”

Hotch didn't even look up from the stack of papers he was grading. “Top shelf, right. Behind the contact solution.” His classes didn't start until 11, he really didn't even need to be up yet. Derek, on the other hand, should have been out the door a half hour ago and was certainly going to be late.

“It's not there.”

Hotch hummed. “Check under the sink, maybe you need to open a new package.”

Sick days were a menace at best. Everyone was grouchy, not a kind word in sight. Jack trudged around the house with kleenex shoved up his nose like walrus tusks and insisted on staying home while simultaneously refusing to actually rest. A nap was out of the question, which was a cause for more than one argument when Hotch demanded to know why he wouldn't nap when he was sick but he was nearly impossible to get out of bed in the mornings. Tensions ran high. To top it all off, his kleenex never quite seemed to make it to a trash can and Hotch found himself walking around picking up wads of the stuff from every surface of the whole house, scarcely wanting to imagine the state of the kid's room. That task he made Jack deal with on his own. He had his limits.

Derek was terrible at being sick. The minute he had a sniffle, he was grouchy. Angry at his body's betrayal. “Why do I workout so much, huh? Drinkin' those nasty green smoothies every damn day and for what? Huh?” Punctuate that with a cough or a sneeze and he was a mess. Hotch would only find it in him to smile, to press the back of his hand to Derek's fevered forehead and tell him to sleep it off.

“You always fight it off faster when you sleep,” Hotch said, guiding him toward the bed. “Take the day off.”

“I can't.” Cough, cough, wheeze. “We've got varsity tryouts today. I got some real boneheads thinkin' they're gonna make it and that damn assistant coach they gave me this year is a bleeding heart.” Sneeze. “He'll tell 'em all they got the job just to avoid the talk.”

Hotch had to smile at that. Derek had been complaining about his assistant coach since the summer, but he was a nepotism hire so Hotch understood and there wasn't anything he could do short of taking on twice the work himself so he could save himself the trouble on the back end. Unfortunately that meant going to work sick, pumping himself full of Sudafed and DayQuil at what he deemed to be safe intervals though Hotch had other opinions on the matter.

“Go lie down, I'll make you some tea. At least go in late. Take a half day.”

Thoughtfully, Derek considered the option. He was already late. Tryouts weren't until 4 anyway. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah...good idea.” He slept all day, right on through the tryouts, and didn't have enough energy to be upset about that when he finally did wake. Hotch stuffed him full of tea with honey, vitamins, extra water and a few more kisses right to the top of his head before leaving him to sleep.

He slept on the couch that night, his final attempt to stave off the germs. Clooney slept behind his knees, curled up in a ball there.

It only took a few days before Derek and Jack were on the mend, were carrying around the last of the dry coughs and stuffy sinuses. They would wake up in the morning and hack hack hack, then be fine by the time their showers were over.

Being the newest kid on the block, it only took a few days to take Hank the Tank down entirely. After that, Hotch knew it was only a matter of time before he followed suit. His immune system would fight the longest and crash the hardest. If you looked at most of the scattered pill bottles in their medicine cabinet, you would see plenty that read with simple, off-putting language like do not consume with alcohol, or may cause drowsiness, but then you would stumble on that token few that claimed that they might make it harder to fight off infections. He did a damn good job of not getting them in the first place, at least until now...until Hank. But he couldn't resist the little guy and his weepy eyes and snotty nose, his fevered skin and damp curls. Hank would hold his arms out and beg to be held by Hotch and Hotch alone, and what could he do but say yes and scoop him up? How do you tell a squishy little two-year-old no when all they want is a hug (and to rub their snot all over you)?

“You're toast,” Derek muttered, breezing through the room to try and find his slacks. The nice ones. He had meetings all morning with athletic scouts, setting up dates and times for them to come and check out his players. “You know that right?”

Hotch nodded and pressed his cheek into Hank's curls, closing his eyes. He was well aware that he was absolutely in for it. Didn't stop him from kissing Hank's forehead and humming little songs to him while the kid drooled all over his t-shirt.

Waking at 2am with the chills wasn't exactly out of place, except when he was buried beneath three blankets already. He pushed further beneath the covers and huddled there, basking in Derek's warmth, until he fell back asleep.

Waking at 7am dizzy, unable to focus his eyes...that one was a little more concerning. Swiping one hand over the nightstand, he found his glasses and that helped tremendously with one of the problems. It did nothing to ease the swaying dizzy feeling as he sat himself up, but at least he could see. “Derek?” he asked, pawing at the bed behind him until he touched the lump of blankets that he presumed was his lover. “Derek?”

“Mmmfff...” Derek grumbled, his face deep in a pillow. “Mmf?”

“I need your help, please.”

He'd gotten good at that, recently. Asking for help. One of the stipulations, agreed upon up front, like forging a treaty between warring villages. Derek wouldn't put up with him collapsing, excusing himself to do so, not again. No more avoidable scares. And Derek, to his credit, took every plea for help with alacrity. He never so much as batted an eyelash at it, he would drop everything to come and he always did so with a brightness that made Hotch feel at ease no matter what situation he found himself in.

This morning was no different. The minute he said the word help, Derek was sitting upright rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “What's up baby?”

“I need to use the bathroom,” Hotch started, a little sheepishly. “But I'm too dizzy to stand.”

“Hank the Tank's cooties got you, huh?”

“Looks like it.”

With Hotch settled against his side, hand possessive and firm against his hip, Derek walked them to the bathroom. He nudged Clooney's sleeping form out of the way and flipped on the light. The bathroom was always warmer than the bedroom, a fact that was not lost on Clooney and his old bones. By the time Hotch was leaning against the sink, staring into his pale and drawn features reflected back at him, he wasn't feeling quite so bad. The dizzy feeling had all but passed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and Derek took that as his cue to leave him to his business. Clooney had taken up residence on the bed in the warmth they'd vacated, he noted with some sourness, when he exited the bathroom. Hotch wouldn't mind. He'd call in sick and spend the day in bed with the dog now that he was the only one sick in the house. Everyone else would leave, let them to their peace and quiet. Two old men who genuinely adored hearing the creaks of a settling foundation over loudly talking voices. The hum of a refrigerator over music. The whistle of wind through their sparsely treed yard over the television. They love their family, but in times like this, quiet was the best medicine. Hotch was willing to ask for help, but he still wanted to be by himself when he didn't feel well.

“You call in?” Derek asked, bringing Hotch tea in bed. Hotch nodded and shifted his hips, trying to get comfortable around the deeply settled ache in his joints. He was radiating heat. Derek had already taken his temperature once, not alarmingly high yet but he'd take it again when he came home from work...or maybe he'd send his mother over to check on him in a few hours. She would have Hank for the day anyway.

“Go to work, I'll be fine.”

Clooney was lying beside him, the length of his back firm against the length of Hotch's side. Pressed in heavy. Hotch let one hand rest on Clooney's chest, against his ribs, delighting in the gentle rise and fall of the sleeping animal's breath.

“Your nurse is sleeping on the job.”

“He does that.” Hotch didn't cough, and he didn't sneeze. The cold settled deep into his sinuses and his chest, but only made everything ache and feel tight. Like he was pulling in on himself and expanding to his limits all at the same time. His skin hurt and his eyebrows hurt and his head hurt. More or less, everything hurt. It made his ears get stuffy, for a few days his hearing would be shot.

But there was no snot, and he considered that a win.

There was a time in his life when he would have pushed through, gone to work, pretended he was okay. He'd moved through one of the worst cases of his life feeling as bad as this once upon a time. He'd come face to face with George Foyet, handed him his glasses and told him that they'd catch The Reaper...he'd hung up on the man in his own hotel room...all with a fever high enough to warrant medical attention, and he'd watched Derek hold up the bullet intended for his head while that fever broke and left him chilled to the bone and hoping no one could tell he was sweating it out. Of course, Derek knew, had confronted him after, a fact that later led to their current ask for help agreement. Well, one of many facts. His life was a list of such occasions, such learning experiences.

You can teach an old dog new tricks, he thought hazily, his eyes heavy and unfocused as Derek kissed him on the forehead and told him he'd see him later. Maybe, maybe not. He intended to sleep well into the next century, the way he felt right then. Tired didn't even begin to cover it, and he dozed off thinking of every word in every language he knew that could account for how tired he was. None came close. Probably, he thought as he lost his battle with conscious thought, there was a phrase in German that would perfectly sum it up. Something about being so tired your bones ached, that would do.

He wouldn't remember that when waking. A pity, too.

Fran delivered chicken soup to him, secret Morgan family recipe that she claimed could kick any virus' patootie, and kept an eye on him while she cleaned up their house. It didn't really need much, they kept things tidy, but they didn't get into all of the cracks and crevices. She could do that to keep herself occupied while she waited for Derek to return home. Hotch and Hank slept soundly, flanking Clooney, all afternoon and well into the evening without stirring. It was Hank that woke first, hungry and weepy. His cold was mostly gone but he was crying a lot more than usual, and exhausted.

Hotch only woke once to sit up, wonder at the fuzzy face of the clock, trying to reason out the numbers that blurred one into the other. Deciding it wasn't of any real importance because he didn't plan to do anything other than roll over, he adjusted himself to the other hip, curled around Clooney, and went back to sleep.

“You have a lovely family,” Fran said, pulling Derek in for a hug before leaving for the night. “I adore each of you very much. But if I get sick...”

“You're sending me the bill. Got it.”

She patted him on the cheek and smiled up at him. “Good boy. I love you dear.”

“Love you too, moms.”

[motownfiction]

getting lost in a good book

Despite the clerical error that landed him in Honors English with his friends in ninth grade (and all the years he’s stuck with the class since then), Daniel’s never developed much of a fondness for recreational reading. Since starting high school, he’s read a few books before seeing the movie versions (Lucy’s rule among the desk clump, which they’ve all more or less followed, for reasons Daniel could not explain even if you paid him to try), but he’s not one to go to the library and browse for hours. Not one to fall in love with the smell of old books.

At least, not until today.

It’s October of junior year at St. Catherine’s, and Daniel has started to feel … differently … about Sadie. Maybe he’s always felt this way. He doesn’t know. He thinks back to the day Melissa Kaminski told him that one day, he’d realize how Sadie felt about him, and he figured it out not twelve hours later … he just can’t believe it’s taken him this long to figure out he might actually reciprocate. For the entirety of their sophomore year, Daniel thought Sadie was little more than his very good friend, someone who might have a crush on him, but who would certainly move past it. That’s what teenagers are supposed to do. Move past it. But the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that he spent the entirety of their sophomore year lying to himself – and poorly.

Their dance to “Shame on the Moon” back in the spring really should have given it away. He really should have figured out his feelings were changing then. She wasn’t even the one who asked him to dance. He walked up to her. Daniel walked up to Sadie, as though there weren’t at least five other girls on the dance floor who would have loved it if he’d asked one of them instead, and that’s not even counting the girls who had dates. For almost two years, Daniel DeLuca has been able to pull any girl he’s ever wanted, and he picked Sadie for himself. He should have known. He really, really should have known.

Of course, there��s not much he can do about it now. Sadie’s not the same swooning freshman she was two years ago, and just last week, she confided to Daniel that she’s getting more and more nervous about romance. She said she used to have fantasies about being Cinderella at the ball, waltzing with Prince Charming even after the clock struck midnight because love and clocks have never played together well, but since Lucy got pregnant over the summer, romantic love just seems kind of like a threat. Daniel wants to tell her she’s preaching to the choir, but for all his stories, he knows it’s not the same. And it’s not even what he’s worried about. He’s worried that his sure thing isn’t so sure anymore.

So, he decides to devote the rest of eleventh grade to figuring out a way to win Sadie back (as though she was ever really his to lose – a notion that’s on him, and he knows it). He’s already doing a terrible job (see his rendezvous with Andie Sullivan last week after running into her at the movies). But this week, he’s going to do better. This week, he’s going into the library.

Sadie has always liked to study in the local library on Thursday nights. Charlie’s at piano practice, Sam is usually out with Steph, and Mike and Maggie go out to dinner with Maggie’s parents, the Bradys. Even though she could have the house all to herself, Sadie likes the library. It makes her feel like she’s having an adventure, too. And so, tonight, Daniel decides he wants to have an adventure with her.

He browses the fiction section for something that looks good (and short). He comes back with something that looks familiar, but he’s not really sure why. Sadie’s in the middle of solving some equations when Daniel puts the paperback down in front of her.

“Why’s this title ringing a bell?” he asks.

Sadie looks up and smiles at him like her feelings are still there. Daniel feels like dancing, just like that song he’s heard too many times before. If her feelings aren’t there, he thinks his are strong enough for the both of them.

“That’s The Castle of Otranto,” Sadie says. “It’s a Lucy book.”

“What’s not a Lucy book?” Daniel asks as he pulls out a chair and sits beside Sadie at her table. He swears he can see her turn pink. She looks lovely.

“This one especially is,” Sadie stresses. “It’s the first British Gothic novel. Horace Walpole was the son of Robert Walpole, the first Prime Minister. And since Gothic novels are pretty trashy …”

“Can’t have been a good look for the country.”

“No.”

Daniel smiles and opens the book to the first page.

“Well, if it’s supposed to be trashy, you oughta sign me up,” he says. “You know me. If I’m not reading for school, I’m reading trash.”

Sadie nods.

“Uh-huh,” she says. “I see the way you have your eye on those discarded boxes of Corn Pops in my kitchen.”

“I’m just really interested in trash as a metaphysical concept,” Daniel says.

“Are you?”

“Nah. Just trying to see how many ‘Lucy’ words I can string together at one time. Instead of supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, maybe it could be …”

“Metareflexivefuturisticprimeapotheosis.”

Daniel laughs a little too loudly for a library. The lady behind the desk shushes him. He blushes, and somehow, he’s not acting.

“That was great,” he whispers. “Have you been sitting on that?”

Sadie shakes her head.

“No,” she says. “Just smart. A little quicker on the uptake than you thought.”

“How do you know what I think about you?”

And then, Sadie freezes. She drops her pencil on the table and clenches her fists two or three times. Finally, after too many seconds of silence, she shakes her head and laughs like nothing happened. Daniel lowers his head. Maybe she thinks it was a line. Maybe it was a little bit of one. He just doesn’t know how to make her see that everything he says to her is just for her. Nobody else but her.

“Well, if you’re really up for getting lost in a good book, I’ll read Otranto with you,” she says.

Daniel closes the book with his thumb between the cover and page one.

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ve always wanted to read it. Plus, it’ll give Lucy and me something to talk about other than … her being pregnant.”

Daniel smiles. He opens the book back up and moves closer to Sadie. She smells like green apples. He doesn’t know how. Just knows that she does. It’s perfect, too. When Daniel closes his eyes and thinks of Sadie, he thinks of green apples, like they’re the same.

Maybe she’s been circling his imagination for longer than he can trace.

She leans toward the pages and begins to read.

“‘Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter …’”

[after-witch]

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you. 

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

**

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh. 

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat.  And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately  as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

**

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure."  His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know.  You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do." 

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge.  Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine. 

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing.  You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours. 

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant. 

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

“If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.  

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

[thefactsofthematter]

hi bestie <3 you said send in some requests, so i'm suggesting:

javid with, "it's not okay! you're not fine!"?

i hope you have a good day !!!

hi bestie <333 i had so much fun with this, i haven't done a short little fic in ages!! here's a 2.7k javid fic - a college au and a classic (emotional) hurt/comfort type deal, heavy on the comfort ;)

-

"Wanna come for dinner at my parents' house tonight?"

Davey is laying on Jack's couch after his last class of the day, since Jack's apartment is just off campus, and it's a ridiculously convenient place to go nap after a long day of school. He honestly spends more time here than at his own apartment that he shares with his sister, a short train ride away.

"I'd love to," Jack replies, his gaze still glued to his computer screen, "but I totally forgot I have an art history paper due at midnight, analyzing a painting, and I haven't started. It needs to be ten pages, and I don't even have an outline. I'm gonna sit here and write until my eyeballs fall out."

Davey laughs softly.

"That sucks. Do you at least have some research done?"

Jack turns to him with completely dead eyes.

"Not a single academic source."

Davey glances at the clock. Jack has seven hours to pull this off, which is doable, but... intense. It would've been a lot easier to spread it out over a few afternoons, and it'll be a painful squeeze to get ten comprehensible pages of writing done tonight. Jack can write decently fast, but his spelling and grammar are atrocious, so he'll have to factor in editing time too. Davey is not envious of these circumstances in the slightest.

"Shit. Good luck. That sounds awful, but I'm rooting for you. What's your prof's late assignment policy?"

Jack, entirely beaten down, leans forward to rest his forehead on his keyboard.

"He won't accept them past the due date without a good reason... which I don't have. I'm just an idiot and forgot to put it in my planner— thank god Romeo texted me today to ask if I was done."

Davey pushes himself up and walks over to where Jack is sitting at his little dining table, under the constantly-flickering fluorescent bulb. He wraps his arms around Jack's shoulders and kisses the back of his neck.

"You got this. I'll come back here after dinner and bring you leftovers, okay? My mom's gonna be sad you couldn't make it, so she'll totally pack up a plate for you."

"You don't have to come all the way here," Jack sighs. "Your place is closer to your parents, and this is out of your way— you have work in the morning anyways, so you should go home and go to bed. I'll be fine, I'll probably write faster alone anyways."

Davey kisses him again, this time leaning around to plant one on his cheek.

"If you're sure." Jack's plan is probably the smart move, since Davey's shifts at his stupid coffee shop job start ridiculously early, and coming here would mean staying up with Jack until he finishes, probably distracting him. "In that case, I'll see you tomorrow after work, and I'll bring the food then... keep me posted about the paper, text me when you finish. And make sure you eat something."

Jack turns back to look at him with a strained, stressed attempt at a smile.

"For sure. Go have a nice time with your family, and tell everyone I say hi."

-

"Aba, you're doing it wrong. You have to use your left arm."

It's getting late in the evening, dinner has been eaten, and Les is trying to coordinate the family to make a TikTok with him. It's not exactly going well.

"My left or your left?"

"It doesn't matter, we have the same left!"

Davey has thankfully been placed in the back row, both because he's tall and lanky, and because he's so uncoordinated that Mom used to make you wear one of those leash backpacks as a kid to keep you from wandering into traffic... which is true, but Davey isn't sure why Les even knows about that. He certainly wasn't around yet when that was the case, so he probably heard it from Sarah.

While Les tries once again to explain how this little dance is supposed to work, Davey's phone starts to buzz in his pocket. It's probably a spam call, but he's not particularly invested in the dance lesson so he pulls it out to check.

Incoming call: cowboy babyy 💖🤠

Davey frowns. Jack never calls him. It's always texts or voice memos, since he's got some kind of weird aversion to talking on the phone. If he's calling, it must be important.

"Hi babe," he says, pressing his phone to his ear and walking off to his old bedroom to get some quiet, while Les shouts at him in the background for not taking this seriously. "How's the homework going?"

Jack is quiet for a second too long as Davey toes the door shut.

"...Not great. I'm really frustrated." He pauses and sniffles a little, sounding almost like he's holding back tears. "I don't know why I called you while you're having a good time with your family, though. I shouldn't be bugging you."

"Hey," Davey breathes, "you're not bugging me at all, sweetheart. Is the paper not going well?"

"I just... I'm so bad at writing, and I don't know what I'm talking about, and I have no idea how I'm gonna get this done in time." His voice is shaking, and it's breaking Davey's heart a little. "I'm being dramatic, though. I just need to keep working on it."

Davey sits down on the edge of what's now a guest bed, his old outer space-themed comforter replaced with something more neutral.

"You're not dramatic, it's okay to be upset. Do you want me to come over and help?"

Jack's breath hitches softly, and it confirms that he's almost definitely crying.

"You don't have to, you're busy with your folks. I'm sorry for calling." He shudders a little as he must try to take a deep breath. "It's okay... I'm fine."

Davey sighs, almost exasperated with Jack's self-sacrificial sense of pride. He'll never ask for anything for himself, not wanting anyone to go out of their way for him, even when he seems to be having a panic attack of sorts.

"It's not okay; you're clearly not fine, Jackie," he replies. "We already ate, and I'm not busy. If you want me to come over, I'll be there... do you?"

Jack is quiet for a moment again, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"Yeah. I do."

Davey nods, though Jack can't see him.

"Okay. I want you to take a little break from writing until I get there, alright? Change into your pyjamas and have a glass of water. Try to relax a little."

"Okay... thanks Davey."

The call ends, and Davey rejoins his family while tucking his phone away in his pocket.

"I have to go." He kisses his mother on the head as he walks by. "Thanks for dinner, Ima."

"Is everything okay?" she asks, catching him gently by the elbow before he can get too far.

"Yeah..." he sighs. "Jack's just having a hard time with homework, I'm gonna go help him out."

His father ruffles his hair and gives him a quick hug.

"You're a good boy, David. Take him those leftovers— your mother's cooking can fix anything."

"For sure. I'll see you guys next weekend, and I'll try to bring Jack along then."

He waves goodbye to Sarah and Les, grabs the dish of food, and then sets off on a speed-walk to the nearest subway station.

-

Jack is sitting on the couch when he arrives, his knees pulled to his chest, looking very soft and cozy in pyjama pants and one of Davey's old hoodies from some baseball tournament. He's staring into space, and he hardly even moves to acknowledge Davey's presence when he walks in.

"Hey darling." Davey leaves the dish of food on the counter and crouches down in front of Jack to try and catch his eye-line. He carefully takes Jack's hands in his own. "Hanging in there?"

Jack finally looks at him and nods, but as he blinks, more tears slip out and roll down his cheeks.

"I'm only done two pages," he mumbles, practically whispering. "I don't know why it's so hard, but I just can't do it."

"Oh, Jackie..." Davey reaches up to wipe Jack's tears, cupping his face gently with both hands. "Hey, you still have three hours, right?" Jack nods. "That's lots of time. We're gonna figure this out... let's just sit here and calm down a little first. It's gonna be okay."

He climbs up onto the couch to pull Jack into a hug, and the moment he's settled, Jack wraps his arms around him and breaks, sobbing into his shoulder. Davey cards his fingers through his hair and rubs his back; he's never seen Jack this distraught, especially not over homework. There's a good chance the problem runs a lot deeper, and stressing over an assignment was simply the last straw.

"You're alright," Davey continues, since talking is what he does best, even in moments like this. Jack is shaking with the force of his tears, breathing so hard Davey worries he might hyperventilate. "Listen, it's just one assignment, my love... if you get a bad grade, or if we don't finish in time, we can deal with that. We'll hand in whatever we finish tonight, so at least you won't get a zero. Worst case scenario, you retake this class in the spring... even that doesn't sound so bad, does it? I know you could handle it, if that's what happens."

Jack nods a little, but his tears don't stop.

"I'm so tired of being stupid," he hiccups, after a long while. "I keep getting distracted, and I can't word things right, and I spell everything wrong, and- and maybe I should just drop out, because I'm clearly not meant to be doing this."

"Baby..." Davey sighs, giving him a gentle kiss on the temple. "You're so intelligent, Jack. You're almost done your degree— after this term, you've only got one year left, and it's not like you do poorly in your classes, is it? Even when it's something hard for you, like writing, you always do well when you put in the work. What did you get on your sociology paper a couple weeks ago?"

"Ninety percent," Jack mumbles, muffled by the way he's speaking into Davey's shoulder. "But I spent so long on it, and you edited it for me. I'm gonna fail this one. I can't do it in one night, and I can't write papers without your help."

"Well, I'm here to help now, aren't I?" He rests his hand midway through brushing it through Jack's hair and scratches his scalp gently, which makes Jack shiver and laugh quietly through his tears. "Right? And you can write, darling— all I do is fix up the spelling and grammar for you. The ideas and words are all you, just like when you give presentations and knock it out of the park every time. I sure can't do that."

Jack finally looks up at him.

"Yes you can. You get nervous beforehand, but when you do a presentation, it's always really good."

Davey smiles at him, now that they're actually looking at each other.

"It's hard for me, though. Just like writing is for you— but with lots of effort, you're really good at it. See my point?"

Slowly, a small smile spreads across Jack's teary-eyed face, and he nods. Davey feels rather accomplished with this development.

"I guess so." He wipes at his eyes and sighs. "Sorry about this. I'm such a mess."

"No apologies. I don't blame you for getting overwhelmed— you're in a tough spot here." He pulls Jack in for a quick kiss, which they both smile into. "I brought you dinner. Go heat it up when you're ready; I'll look over what you've written so far and see if I can come up with some more ideas to add on. We're gonna work together on it, okay? What painting did you choose?"

"The Martyrdom of Saint Matthew by Caravaggio," Jack sighs, looking almost forlornly at his computer on the table. "I have a lot to say about it, and lots of good stuff in my notes, but I just can't put it into paragraphs and sentences that make sense."

Davey nods, watching Jack as he stands up to go put the leftovers from Davey's family in the microwave.

"Well, I don't know anything about paintings, but if you talk me through it, I can help you put the actual paper together." He pauses as an idea dawns on him. "I'm gonna email your professor and ask about an extension— it might be a shot in the dark, but we should at least try. The worst he can do is say no."

"Sure," Jack replies from the kitchen, his voice still shaky. "He's a total hardass, though. Fingers crossed for a miracle."

Davey sits at the table, opens up Jack's email, and starts a draft.

Hi Professor Diaz,

Apologies for the short notice, but I'm wondering if it would be possible to have an extension on the analysis assignment, even if it's just by a few hours. I unfortunately mixed up some due dates in my planner, and I thought I had an extra week for this assignment; I only realized the mistake today, so I'm currently scrambling to get it done in time.

Would it be at all possible to turn it in a few hours late, just to have a bit more time to finish it up? I would really appreciate any amount of time you're willing to give me.

Thank you in advance for your understanding, Jack Kelly

He shrugs, sends it, and sincerely hopes a little professionalism and a decent (if slightly fabricated to make Jack look less forgetful) excuse will go a long way.

-

It's quarter to eleven, the paper is now five-and-a-half pages long, and Jack isn't crying anymore. He's in the zone, talking aloud about the painting while Davey helps him get his vague ideas into concrete sentences, and they're on track to have at least seven or eight pages by the time midnight rolls around— it might not get full marks, but it'll be better than nothing.

Jack's computer dings with the sound of a new email while they're taking a two-minute break— something they've interspersed every half hour, since Jack's focus is best in shorter bouts. He's in the middle of walking laps around the apartment to get his energy out and annoy his downstairs neighbours, but he scrambles back to the computer at the noise.

"We got a reply!" he shouts.

Davey is over on the couch, and he watches Jack's face closely as he opens the email. So far, so good... and then he slumps down in his chair in a show of what could either be defeat or relief. Davey can't quite tell, so he jumps up to go read it for himself.

Sure. Email it by 11:59pm tomorrow.

Sent from my iPhone

"Yes!" Davey shouts, grabbing Jack by the shoulders. "I told you it was worth a shot!"

Jack laughs, and then reaches up to pull Davey down for a kiss.

"You're the best, Jacobs. A fucking lifesaver." He rubs at his eyes, and then pushes his computer away, across the table. "I'll deal with this tomorrow. Let's just go to bed— you still have to be up early."

Right. Davey has a dreaded Saturday morning opening shift tomorrow— they open at five, and he has to be there well in advance to get set up, so he's got no chance at getting more than a few hours of sleep. He's going to be dead on his feet in the morning, probably fuck up a few coffee orders, but it'll be worth it to have helped Jack through tonight.

Poor Jack seems completely exhausted— as anyone would be after crying so hard earlier— so collapsing into bed after washing up quickly is an utter relief. Davey, despite being tall and long-limbed, greatly enjoys being the little spoon and Jack is happy to indulge him, so they curl into the familiar position.

"Thank you for everything tonight," Jack whispers, practically into Davey's ear. "I love you so much."

Davey smiles as his eyes fall shut, and he kisses Jack's knuckles softly, where his arm is wrapped around him.

"Any time, darling. I love you too."

[onechicago-upsteadrhekker]

the trouble with wanting (is i want you) - part two

Friends!!!!! I’m here! I’m back! 

I can’t apologize enough for the long wait! It certainly wasn’t intentional, but alas that is the life of a college student and unfortunately school comes before upstead as much as I wish it didn’t!

I hope part two gives you all the feels and makes up for the long absence, however, I do have something to share with you that may make you want to kill.

Part two turned into part three...

So, SURPRISE! This isn’t a two-shot; it will definitely be a three part story and I am happy to say that part three is written (mostly, I have to tweak a few things) so that will be up sometime next week depending on my school schedule.

Thank you again for your patience and I sincerely hope that you enjoy this chapter that contains no real plot, a lot of fluff and mutual pining!

As always, let me know what you think in the comments!

Tagging: @imjustwritingg, @anniesardors, @thetwit, @angelsjedi, @chichichicken, @carissalizz, @maya-asturias

Let me know if you want to be added to this list for part three!

Read on AO3

The next few days are filled with mandatory walking sessions, pain meds every four to six hours and Jay’s smiling face. He was the only reason why she wasn’t absolutely losing it because while she despised hospital stays in general, hospital stays in another city filled with people she didn’t know were downright insufferable.

But he’d made it go from something akin to glorified torture to slightly tolerable.

The bullet wound was starting to heal and the incision from where they’d had to remove her spleen was looking great according to the nurses and everything seemed to be on the right track healing wise, but anything regarding this thing that she and Jay had going on? She had no idea.

One would think getting shot in a different city, causing one partner to literally drop everything and come rushing to the other partner’s side would end in heartfelt confessions and relationships born at hospital bedsides.

But that’s not what happened, and Hailey was seriously starting to wonder if she and Jay were ever going to be on the same page. Or at least read the page aloud because she was fairly certain he felt the same way about her that she felt about him.

Because just partners don’t fly eight-hundred miles to be by your side even if you are hurt.

Right?

And it didn’t help that he was there with her almost twenty-four seven, giving her no time alone to process what he was telling her without words because before this, it had just been subtle glances and warm smiles, teasing words and affectionate eyes.

But this. Flying eight-hundred miles. It was tangible and real, and she couldn’t quite believe it was really actually happening, but then he was there, bringing her her favorite foods from restaurants she’d found during her time in New York and barely going back to her hotel room for sleep, staying by her side to keep her company and catch her up on five weeks’ worth of Intelligence news.

He was there for every lap around the hospital floor and every dressing change. He was there to shoo out the nurses when they were starting to get on her nerves and he was there, rubbing her hand softly when the pain of her bruised ribs made it hard to breathe.

And then there was the way she was constantly being referred to as ‘Jay’s wife’ instead of her own name much like when she was back in grade school and her teachers would call her ‘Sam’s little sister’.

He’d made quite the impression on the nurses and for some reason neither she nor Jay had set the record straight on the actual status of their relationship since that first day when he was mistaken as her husband.

(It was probably the same reason that they hadn’t talked about what Jay flying to New York meant. And to be honest, Hailey was sort of hoping that Jay would set the record straight on their relationship, if only to let her know where they stood.)

And she definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge the dangerous little thrill she got from hearing herself referenced that way or think about what it would be like for real. Nope, not a chance or she might never come back down to reality after having narcotic-induced dreams of three little words, ‘I do’s’, freckled little faces and laughing green eyes.

But then it’s so close, she can almost taste it and it should scare her, but it doesn’t.

Because she can feel it in the way he grins at her and in the way he tells her goodnight at the end of a long day of keeping her company. It’s in the way his arm brushes hers when he’s helping her sit or stand and it’s in the way his eyes hold hers for far longer than he should; his green eyes swimming with hints of the things she dreams.

But until she hears it. Until one of them gathers the courage to actually say the words and put a name to what they already know and feel, then she’s going to wait and guard those dreams carefully because she knows deep in her heart that when they return to Chicago, it will have either worked out or it won’t at all.

She’s not sure exactly when the pieces will fall into place or if they’ll even fit together but she knows they are at the point of no return. And honestly, that scares her the most because no matter what happens, it will always be Jay for her.

Because he was her home, and he had a place in her heart no one else could ever have and that terrified her because she knows that she’ll never get over him if for some reason it doesn’t work out between them.

She tries not to think like that because she’s pretty sure what she’s seen in his eyes is something that looks a lot like love, but it’s hard to be totally optimistic when it seems like the universe is always keeping them not necessarily apart, but not really together. At least not in the way she’s pretty sure both of them want.

So, she sits in her hospital bed, watching him laugh at her attempts to renegotiate her discharge date with the nurses and listens to him chatter about what Will’s been up to and how much he hated being tossed between Kevin, Kim, Adam and Vanessa while she’d been gone even if he liked working with each of them.

They’d been flying crooked he told her and that her not being there threw them all off so he’d be happy when he could take her back home and so would everyone else. In fact, they’d told her as much when Kim had facetimed Jay the day after he’d arrived in New York to get proof of life and see for themselves that she was truly going to be okay.

It was sweet and nice, and it made her realize how much she really did miss her team turned family even if she already felt like she was home just because Jay was beside her.

He was beside her and he was there with her and every time he looked at her over the beeping of the heart monitor she was hooked up to, everything else faded from view. The facetime calls with their friends, the friendly nurses checking up on her every few hours, the general hustle and bustle of hospital life happening outside her room.

It was just them and she’d be lying if she wasn’t looking forward to her discharge date for reasons other than just being out of the hospital because she knew then, she and Jay would truly be alone stuck in a hotel room in a city that neither one of them knew.

And that, she knew, would be the true test.

*

On the morning of the third day she’d been in the hospital, Hailey was given the news that she’d be released by that afternoon. If she was physically capable, she’d be jumping for joy but because of the dozen stitches in her side, she’d had to settle for celebrating internally.

Moving was still slow-going and she still felt overly tired far too early in the day, but she was confident that a night in her own bed (or at least the bed she’d been sleeping in for the past several weeks) would do her a world of good.

And she wasn’t going to think about how Jay being potentially next to her would probably make her sleep better than she’d ever had.

She didn’t know exactly where Jay had been disappearing to when he’d left the hospital at night, but she’d given him the key to her hotel room and he always came back looking well-rested so she felt safe assuming he was sleeping in the same queen bed she’d been occupying for the past five weeks.

Hailey wasn’t quite sure what would happen tonight when it was time for him to go to bed, but she wondered if this was the day they were going to finally get it right, nestled under the bed covers, whispering dreams and promises, her side aching but her heart so full.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Her gaze flicked up to Jay who had entered the room and was walking towards her, his hands already reaching out to help her pull on her coat. Hailey looked up at him as he focused his gaze on putting her left arm carefully through the sleeve of her jacket.

She wasn’t sure if a person could have reversed déjà vu, but the action brought her right back to another hospital room in a different city when she was still reeling from the panic she’d felt surrounding Jay’s terrifying brush with death.

When she’d helped him pull his familiar, worn black jacket over his sling right before she almost told him she loved him.

And now here they were again, except this time it was him helping her and this time she knew they weren’t going home without having the conversation they should have had then.

“Thanks,” She murmured softly, trying to ignore the way her heart raced when he briefly squeezed her hand.

Hailey gingerly sat down on the side of the bed, already worn out and sore from the morning’s activities of getting ready to leave.

“I called a taxi. It should be here any minute,” He grabbed her duffle and sat it beside her, “You sign the discharge papers?”

“Yes, thank God,” She muttered accepting the pair of Sperry’s Jay was handing her.

He chuckled softly, “You are so impatient.”

She shot him a look, “I’m sorry. And who was the one practically begging me to spring him from the hospital the minute he was awake and talking?”

He had the wisdom to look sheepish, but he couldn’t hide the wide smile threatening to take over. Clearly, they were both happy to be leaving the hospital room behind.

As Jay busied himself with packing the last few items into the duffle he’d brought Hailey the day he’d arrived in New York, he can’t help but watch her. She’s moving slowly, but she seems pretty alert for someone who got shot and had relatively serious surgery only four days ago.

Her eyes are bright if not tired and her hair is haphazardly thrown up in her signature high pony, but Jay still thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world and he almost tells her just that.

His mouth is open, forming the words when she turns to him after sliding on her shoes, catching his gaze with eyes narrowed in suspicion, “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

And he thinks this is why he can never tell her how he feels. She’s always taking the words away with a flash of blue and a dash of blonde because he wants his future to look like her so badly, it terrifies him. And even when he does finally find the words, he knows he will never be able to tell her with words just how much she means to him.

His lips quirk and he shakes his head, turning his attention back to the duffle to zip it up before nodding towards the open door of her hospital room, “No reason. You ready to go?”

For a second, he thinks she’s going to push, and they are going to have the conversation they need to have right here and now, but then she doesn’t and some part of him feels disappointed that they are making themselves wait once again.

He’s not even entirely sure why because nothing is holding them back now. Not really. They are finally both in the same city with no kidnappings, rigged elections or anything else threatening to tear them apart and yet, they are still walking that very fine line of partners and best friends to something openly affectionate and loving and real.

It’s almost too perfect because while he rushed here in a state of panic, not knowing what he would find, Hailey, for the most part was okay and now they were stuck here with basically nothing to do but wait till she could fly without risk of infection or complications from surgery.

He’s not sure if he should be worried, waiting for the other shoe to drop or thrilled that the universe seems to be giving them a hint that it was finally time to take that leap of faith from partners and best friends to something more.

*

“Hailey, you are clearly in pain.”

After the short taxi ride from the hospital, they were finally in the hotel room and now firmly engaged in a battle of wills.

Hailey was currently giving him a glare that reminded him of the way she would silently warn him from across the bullpen to not do something he might regret or when they were down to the last couple of fries during a long stakeout and he was reaching for them.

Generally, he didn’t win the fights when she wore that look but today, he was determined to stand his ground.

“Jay,” It was practically whined and while he understood her reluctance to take the pain meds she’d been prescribed, he couldn’t stand watching her in pain.

In the few times that Hailey’s been injured during their partnership, it hadn’t been too serious, and she usually had a good attitude about doing what she needed to do to recover. So, seeing her like this, pale and tired and just not her normal, spunky self, broke his heart and he wanted to do everything in his power to fix it.

Starting with the meds she’s determined not to take.

He was happy to at least see the trait that was so undeniably Hailey in her eyes because otherwise, she looked like a lifeless shell of the badass detective he knows she is. The oversized pillows she was propped against makes her seem so tiny and she almost blended in with the sheets she was so white.

If he was being honest, she was starting to look worse than she did when she was in the hospital and that definitely concerned him enough to possibly make him take her right back there or at least call Will for his opinion.

Sighing, he uncrosses his arms to move from where he’s been standing a few feet away from the end of the bed holding the prescription bag in a clenched fist.

Her eyes track his movements as he comes to gingerly sit down at the edge of the bed, leaning over on his forearm to look at her closely, “Hailey,” He shakes his head, “Please just take them. At least so you can get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

For a second, he thinks that she’s going to keep fighting him, but then he sees the weak mask she’d had in place slip, the dull look of pain and exhaustion becoming clearly present in her eyes.

“Okay, fine,” She sighs out wearily, and he’s a little surprised that she conceded that quickly even if he knew he’d already won, but then she cocks her head slightly, “What do I get in return?”

Yeah, he didn’t think he’d won that easily.

Jay pushes the flirty and slightly suggestive response that instantly pops into his head to the back of his mind. There would be plenty of time for that later, or at least he desperately hopes so because he knows that now is not the time to start anything of that nature.

When he tells Hailey what she deserves to hear, he wants her feeling halfway decent and looking healthier than she does right now.

If they were in Chicago, he would bribe her with Bartoli’s, but they weren’t. They are in New York and she’s already made it quite clear that the pizza here is a tragedy, so he doesn’t think she’d want that particular food even if he could find a copy-cat deep-dish place.

So, he goes for the next best thing, “What about some Greek? It probably won’t be anything like Greek Islands, but I’m sure I can find a decent place. I could grab you some Pastichio. What do you say?”

The way her eyebrows furrow and her bottom lip sticks out adorably makes him want to kiss the pout away, but he doesn’t.

She shakes her head, “I don’t want Greek.”

Jay bites his lip briefly and refrains from making a comment on the childish tone of her voice as he regards her carefully for a quiet second.

He would never admit it, but he knows he’s a much worse patient when their positions are reversed so he’s more than willing to put up with her stubbornness because he knows it’s just a way to cope with the pain.

And besides, he loves her. He would do whatever he could to make her feel better.

“I’ll get you whatever you want as long as you take your medicine, so why don’t you tell me what it is you’d like to have,” He pushes himself up off his forearm to sit upright, but he still holds her gaze.

She sighs carefully, picking at the covers before answering him, “A Snickers bar.”

Jay raises his brows.

In the years he has known her, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her eat a candy bar. She could down a piece of chocolate cake at an event, or the random chip bag she’d found during a stakeout, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her eat the overly processed candy bar before.

“You like Snickers bars?” He can’t help the slightly disgusted tone of his words.

Hailey’s expression instantly morphs into a defensive one, “A girl can have guilty pleasures, and this just so happens to be mine. Now, you said you’ll get me anything if I take my medicine, so you’re lucky it’s not something like a new gun. Or a car.”

Jay rolls his eyes and Hailey desperately wants to swat him but she’s already in a significant amount of pain so she doesn’t think that would be the wisest decision.

“Relax, I will get you your Snickers bar. I promised, didn’t I?” He smirks a little as he moves off the bed to grab his coat that’s thrown over the back of the desk chair, “I just can’t believe I didn’t know you liked candy bars.”

Shrugging a little, she tries not to wince at the pain that small movement caused her, “I don’t indulge in them much; only when I’m not feeling good or if there’s literally nothing else to eat.”

After gathering up his wallet and phone, Jay stops in the middle of the room to regard her for another moment. He shakes his head, “What else don’t I know about you, Hailey Upton?”

She gives him a little smirk of her own, “Lots of things, I’m sure. I was once told I was aloof about my personal life.”

“And just when I thought I was getting to know the person under that tough exterior,” He feels the smile creep over his face, and he doesn’t care that he probably looks like a man hopelessly in love because he is.

He watches as her own expression softens and for just a moment, their eyes meet. A thousand words of unspoken love pass between them and he can see his entire universe in those captivating, blue orbs just as she can see a million promises in his.

Hailey shifts and winces at the sharp pain it causes her, cursing herself for ruining the moment. Those pain pills she’d tried refusing were looking pretty good right about now as the throbbing intensified around her still tender ribs.

Jay noticed her discomfort. He always does, and she could see the concern so clearly on his face it made her heart swell in love. He’s the most caring man she’s ever met, and it’s one of the things she loves most about him.

“As soon as I get back, you’re taking your meds,” Jay frowns, rubbing his thumb briefly along his hairline before dropping his arm, “I’d give them to you now, but I’m not sure I should leave you alone with narcotics in your system just in case. And besides, you need to take the antibiotics with food, so I’ll pick up something while I’m out.”

She just nods, picking up the remote for the television, “Sounds good. I’ll be here watching whatever trash I can find on TV, so hurry back.”

Jay gives her one last smile that warms her from head to toe before he opens the door and walks out.

*

When Jay walks through the hotel door about an hour later, he has the overwhelming urge to call out a ‘Honey, I’m home’, but he doesn’t want to wake Hailey if she’s sleeping and he’s not sure how she would respond to the term of endearment even if it is said teasingly.

It’s funny how that is the thing he feels would be crossing the practically non-existent line they have towing for the past several days. Or weeks really if he’s honest with himself.

As it turns out, she’s not sleeping but still in very much the same position he’d left her in. The TV was on, a rerun of ‘Happy Days’ playing quietly but she doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. Instead, she’s looking down at the phone in her hand, clearly scrolling through something before glancing up at him.

Her eyebrows rise as she takes in the various Target bags he’s carrying in both hands. Hailey let her phone drop in her lap, more interested in what Jay had bought because all she’d sent him out for were Snickers Bars, “Did you buy the whole store?”

He frowns at her as he finds the bag of take-out Chinese he’d ended up getting for their late lunch-early supper to set on the nightstand, “No, I did not, but I did get real food and,” He holds up the other bags he was carrying, “I got you your Snickers.”

Whatever else he’d bought was forgotten as she beamed up at him, already reaching for the candy bar he was digging for throughout his purchases. When he finally found what he was looking for, he tossed it to her, and she immediately ripped open the wrapper.

He makes a face as she bites into the sugary chocolate, “I still don’t know how you eat that crap.”

She responds with an eyeroll because her mouth was too full to make a witty comeback.

“You could at least wait till you ate actual food first,” Jay arched a disapproving eyebrow, his nose wrinkling as he watched her make an obvious display of enjoying her treat. He shakes his head and deposits the Target bags on the lower end of the bed to pull out the bottles of vitamin water he’d bought for her.

“Here, I got your favorite and a couple of new ones for you to try,” He handed her the blackberry flavored one before retrieving the pill bottles that were sitting on the nightstand beside their bag of food.

He read the instructions on each bottle then opened the oxycodone to dump one out, “Okay, you can have one right now and,” He checked his watch, “One at around seven then another at eleven.”

Hailey frowns, but takes the pill out of his outstretched palm anyway, “I hate the way these make me feel. My head feels fuzzy, and I can’t think clearly.”

Jay gives her a sympathetic smile and offers a simple, “I know” because he does know, but he also knows that if she has any hope of getting rest tonight, she needed to be well medicated.

“Maybe tomorrow we’ll try going all day without pain meds, okay? I just want to make sure you have a good night’s rest tonight since it’s your first night out of the hospital,” He tells her as he shakes out an antibiotic pill and then the iron supplement the doctor had prescribed her with for the next few days to hand to her.

Nodding, she knocks the three pills back and takes a swig of her vitamin water. Meeting his gaze, she reaches out to grab his hand and gives it a tight squeeze, “Thank you, Jay.”

The heavy tension that settles over them is now a familiar one and it’s almost comforting in a way as she tells him with her eyes how grateful she is for him.

After a few moments of silence, she clears her throat and withdraws her hand, turning her attention to the bags of stuff piled on the bed, “So, what’d you get?”

Jay blinks, shaking himself out of the trance they’d just been in as he rifled through the things he’d bought, pulling them out to show Hailey, “Well, I did some research and according to WebMD which was confirmed by my brother, weighted blankets can help with muscle soreness and speed up the recovery process.”

“I also got some ice packs,” He dumps out about a dozen before reaching in yet another bag, “And I picked up some of your favorite movies as well as a couple of pairs of fuzzy socks because I know you didn’t pack any and the hospital socks are terrible.”

The tears that spring to her eyes aren’t unexpected because the fact that he knows and remembers how much she loves wearing fuzzy socks when she’s at home decompressing tells her how much he cares even if he hasn’t really said it out loud yet.

The research, the weighted blanket, the movies, the treats, the socks; it’s slightly overbearing, but it’s sweet and it’s so undeniably him that it makes her heart hurt with the love she has for him.

She gives him a soft smile, “For someone who claims to not know me, he sure does take care of me and brings me all of my favorite things.”

“Well, after four years I would hope to know some things,” Jay smirks at her before moving to put the ice packs in the small fridge/freezer combo they had in the room.

He looks back at her over his shoulder, “But, I somehow missed your Snickers habit and it makes me wonder what else I should probably know, but don’t.”

Rolling her eyes, she watches as Jay moves back over to the bed, going for the food he’d sat on the nightstand.

“You know you’re not exactly an open book,” She points out with a wry smile.

He’s not an open book, it’s true, and even though she’s teasing him about it, she knows him better than anyone. Maybe better than even Will knows him. Maybe better than he even knows himself, and it’s ironic because the way she knows him better than anyone is more so through his actions and not his words.

She knows his heart through his acts of compassion. She knows his mind through his steady emotions. And she knows him because he lets her see the deepest parts of himself, unspoken secrets swimming in his eyes and dark memories whispered over drinks.

She knows the things that matter and the same could be said about the things he knows about her, but now that it’s being brought up, she does wonder if there are any meaningless habits she hasn’t bared witness to.

If her mind goes straight to those of a personal nature such as nighttime routines and shower preferences, then she’d never admit it.

“Well,” He handed her a container of Shrimp Lo Mein, “We’re stuck in this hotel room with basically nothing to do so,” Jay sat down on the bed, facing her with his own container of Chinese, “Let’s play a game.”

Hailey arches a skeptical eyebrow, “A game?”

“Yeah,” Jay nods as he takes a bite of his own Lo Mein, “Like one of those ‘get to know you’ games since we apparently don’t know much about each other.”

She frowns, a little unconvinced at this plan and what it could entail, but she’s curious and the slight woozy feeling she feels from the pain meds makes her ask, “What kind of ‘get to know you’ game? Like truth or dare?”

Smirking, he shakes his head, “No. Although, that could be extremely entertaining.”

“Uh-uh. No way am I drinking a bottle of hot sauce or jumping off the balcony or some other insanely difficult thing that you would think was easy,” She takes a bite of her food, trying to shake back the loose hair that keeps falling into her face, “I just had surgery.”

He’s full-on grinning now, chuckling at her impassioned response, “Nothing like that. I was thinking more along the lines of 21 Questions.”

Hailey tries to take another bite of her food, but her hair gets in the way again. She’s starting to get frustrated at the locks that keep falling into her eyes and mouth, making it hard to eat.

Sticking her chopsticks into the take-out container, she uses the now free hand to push her hair behind her ears as she shrugs, “Alright then. We don’t really have anything better to do other than watch movies and eat takeout anyways.”

The way his eyes sparkle at her answer is worth all the cheesy questions she’s sure he’s going to ask.

He stands up, shoving a used napkin into his now empty takeout container and she’s always amazed at how quickly he can down food when he wants to, “We can alternate asking questions and we don’t have to ask exactly 21 questions. It can be more, or it can be less.”

He throws his trash away and starts cleaning up the bed, moving all of the empty Target bags and the stuff he bought off to one side, “Is there anything off limits?”

She hesitates before saying no, shaking her head because while her natural inclination is to keep everything close to the vest, she knows there is nothing that she wouldn’t share with Jay if he asked her.

He makes her feel safe, and she’s constantly finding herself telling him things that she’d never said out loud before anyway, so she already knows that he will guard her secrets and feelings and thoughts deep in his own heart as if they were his own.

It’s like he knows what she’s thinking because the way he smiles at her is so gentle and the secretive sparkle in his eyes is what tells her that the same goes for him.

“You wanna go first or do you want me to?” Jay cocks his head, looking at her as he tears into the weighted blanket.

“You can go first,” She goes to take another bite of food when her hair falls into her face for what feels like the hundredth time.

She sighs internally, her frustration going unnoticed by Jay who had turned back towards the movies he’d bought, opening each of them as he tells her he has to make this first question a good one.

Pretty quickly after waking up from surgery, Hailey had found putting her hair up in its typical ponytail an almost impossible task because every time she raised her arms to gather her hair up, her stitches would pull, and her ribs protested loudly.

After several failed attempts that left her eyes watering, she ended up having a nurse put it up for her and she continued to ask for it done in the mornings before Jay arrived at the hospital to keep her company.

But now, there was no nurse to gather up her long, annoying hair when it keeps falling in her face and even though she’s stubborn enough to try it, Hailey knows if she pulls on her stitches or possibly breaks one, then she’s going to be paying for it tomorrow all because she wanted to put her hair up herself.

She sighs again, this one audible as she sets her Chinese container on the nightstand, “Jay?”

“Yeah?” He turns to look at her, his brows furrowed in concern.

Hailey bites her lip sheepishly as she snaps the elastic band around her wrist against her skin, “Can you put my hair up?”

He looks surprised for a moment before he smirks at the slight blush dusting her cheeks at having to ask for help with a task this simple, “Of course I can, Hailey.”

She hands him the ponytail holder as he walks over to the side of the bed, “But I will warn you. I’ve never done this before.”

She wants to tease him. Maybe tell him he’d better start practicing now if he ever hopes for a daughter one day, but it feels too on the nose when she wants that daughter to be hers too.

So instead, she smirks at him as he moves behind her to start gathering her hair up in awkward chunks. Hailey glances at him out of the corner of her eye, fake gasping, “Don’t tell me that the brave and noble Detective Jay Halstead, the man who jumps over moving cars and shoots sniper rifles doesn’t know how to put hair up in a ponytail.”

“Oh, shut up,” He grumbles good-naturedly, still trying to smooth her blonde hair into his loosely closed fist on top of her head, “It’s not like I’ve really had the opportunity or need to practice.”

Chuckling, she lets him concentrate on pulling her hair through the elastic and tries not to get lost in the feeling of his fingers in her hair and the warmth radiating off him. Her eyes flutter close and she marvels at how gentle he is even with the strength of his hands, well-conditioned in the act of squeezing a trigger.

And just like when making those shots, the precision in which he does everything is still there as he carefully tightens the elastic, securing her hair into place.

Hot breath hit the back of her now exposed neck and she can’t help but shiver. Before he’s stepping away, she swears she feels his hands brush her skin and she wonders if he’s equally as affected as she was by his closeness.

But before it can turn into anything, he’s smiling and settling back into his spot at the foot of the bed, gesturing to the ponytail he’d just completed, “It’s not as good as you do it, but I think it’ll pass.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Jay. It’s out of my face and it’s not like anyone will see it,” She grins at him as she picks up her food, intending to finish it off now that her hair won’t get in her way.

Jay frowns teasingly, “Hey, and what about me? Am I not someone?”

She smiles softly in amusement, “You’ve seen me in worse states and you’re not just anyone, you know that. You’re my best friend, Jay,” She hesitates because she knows that’s not strictly true. He is her best friend and he’s her partner but he’s also the man she loves, and it would be so easy to let the truth slip out.

Looking at him, she sees something in his eyes that looks like hope or maybe anticipation and she wonders if he thinks she’s going to tell him the one secrete she just can’t seem to get out. Maybe she would have told him if they sat there for a few seconds longer, but his phone buzzes and the moment is gone before it really even began.

Hailey wonders if phones are going to be their downfall.

She thinks she sees disappointment flash across his face, but she blinks and he’s looking at his phone with a serious expression.

“Is everything okay?” Her brow furrows as she watches him type out a quick response and put the device back into his pocket.

He shakes his head, sighing, “That was Kev. The Latin Players are on the verge of waging war against a new up and coming gang called The Jets.”

Interjecting, Hailey raises a brow, “As in West Side Story?”

“Yep,” Jay lets out a wry chuckle, “Anyway, the team flipped someone on The Jets’ side, and it looks like they are possibly willing to play ball so Kev was asking for some background info on my Latin Player connect because Intelligence is going to attempt to negotiate a truce before it can escalate to a full-blown gang war.”

She groans quietly, all too aware of the potential complications and ramifications that come from this type of violence, “That’s just what the city needs. A gang war.”

He huffs in agreement, dropping his head in disgust and she can see the tension in his shoulders. Even eight-hundred miles away, the crime and the innocent people that inevitably gets tangled up in it affects him.

Hailey frowns, her eyebrows furrowing in concern. She reaches out a hand to lightly touch his bent knee, “Jay.”

He looks up at her and the empathy she sees in his eyes makes her heart swell in what’s becoming a familiar sensation. Love and pride and admiration and respect for this man she has the privilege to know.

Her eyes soften and she smiles gently at him, an earnest look on her face, “If you need to go home, go home Jay. I’ll be alright here by myself. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

If the situation wasn’t so serious, she might have laughed at the way his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, clearly not expecting those words to come out of her mouth.

Recovering, his eyebrows furrow and he shakes his head adamantly, “No way. They can get along without me. I’m not leaving here without you and I don’t care if you think you can take care of yourself because who’s going to help you change your bandages or make you take your medicine or keep you company?”

He challenges in a slightly playful manner, but the eyebrow he raises dares her to contradict him and she knows he is serious, “Besides, I need to be here if I want to keep my own peace of mind. I don’t work well without you, so I’m not sure how much help I’d be anyway.”

She knows that no matter the circumstance, Jay would always perform above and beyond the call of duty, but she also knows that this is his way of telling her that he needs her and the way he was willing to stay with her in New York makes her heart stutter in yet another way.

Before she can dwell on the feeling any further, he’s smiling again, his eyes crinkling with mischief, “Now back to the game. I think I have the perfect question for you.”

Sorry it ended in a bit of an awkward spot, but I decided to split it into two parts when I hit 10,000 words and I still wasn’t done yet lol so I didn’t know this was going to be the ending of a chapter.

I’d love to hear what you thought and stay tuned for part three!

[neonponders]

👀 👀 👀 👀  Oh jesus oh lord. Deeper Than Skin is finished so I’ll enable another wip.

@ghostofjellyfishforgotten I hope you don’t mind me using your tags on this vampire!Billy / blood donor!Steve post as inspiration! Your brain is just too big for me not to pass up an opportunity to write vampire shenanigans.

Read on ao3 ~

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

Steve didn’t judge people who worked as donors—

Fine, as an adult with a better awareness and compassion, Steve didn’t judge donors. He might’ve said some shitty things to Jonathan Byers when he worked to make his family extra money.

Honestly? Steve admired that. Jonathan being underage and having the guts to figure out how to get into the donation clinic, and then to let…

Steve knew he was a coward in a lot of ways. He knew it when he called Jonathan a queer who enjoyed leeches sucking on him. He knew it when he lost to the punches Byers threw. For a skinny, half empty blood bag, the guy could really hit. And Steve knew it when he almost ran away from Nancy and Jonathan fighting off the rogue vampire who kidnapped little Will Byers.

But Steve didn’t run away.

Just like he didn’t run away from the couch he sat on with his mother while his father explained…a situation that left Steve digging deeper and deeper into the gap between fear and bravery. Maybe call it disassociation. Or confused shock.

“You what?”

Harrington senior never took well to being interrupted. But he sighed from across the coffee table and reiterated, “The family is in debt.”

“No. You. You’re in debt. This is your problem.”

The man certainly didn’t take well to having his own mistakes shoved under his nose. “This isn’t for debate. This is the way things are and need to be.”

“No,” Steve repeated like a broken record clinging onto its song. “This is your fault. Who’s made me work minimum wage jobs to teach me a lesson? Who’s refused to pay for me to go to community college? Who hasn’t let me work in their company? And who made the shitty gambles with your company’s stocks? You shoved me out, so it’s definitely not my problem—”

“The contract has already been signed.”

Now his mother shifted her posture on the couch beside him. “Excuse me?”

Steve’s father moved his blunt nails over the armrest of his wingback, fidgeting. At least something put fear into the old bastard’s heart.

“There’s nothing I could do. The market has been evolving ever since vampires gained their rights and opened up their decades and centuries old bonds—”

“Vampire legislation passed over a century ago,” Mrs. Harrington purred. Sometimes the worst anger was the quiet kind. “You have no excuse. You lost the game, and you sold our son. Is that what we’re to believe?”

“That’s not possible,” Steve intercepted. “Slavery isn’t a thing anymore. Even I picked that up in history. And I would have to be there to sign the contract! It’s my—”

“Steve,” his father silenced. “When enough money is involved, anything is bought. And you’re not like anyone else.”

Mrs. Harrington fumed, “Do not talk to him like he’s a prize pony!”

“Except to a wealthy vampire, he is.”

Steve could only sit in weighted silence for a moment. He always joked to himself that he’d be disowned one of these days. For being a disappointment. For all of his bad grades. For giving his friends alcohol and cigarettes. For only being able to get jobs that required no qualifications or experience level at all. For discovering he liked kissing boys at the grimy music venues Robin took him to. Maybe living at home for too long. Or leaving the smell of burnt pancakes in the air too often because he always struggled with the first one—

“Vampire?” he croaked. For some reason it hadn’t dawned to him until now but…shit.

Holy shit.

Steve wasn’t being sold off to be some billionaire’s secretary for life. He was being…truly sold. Like…goodbye, Steve, who likes spring nights and summer mornings. His favorite food is breakfast and he wishes he kept with the music lessons his mom paid for instead of being peer pressured into sports. Whose best friend was Robin Buckley because she was brave and funny and stuck with him during his ironic and a little bit terrifying queer awakening…

Hello, Donor 0235. Blood type O. Allergic to nickel and checks off all vaccination requirements.

“Steve’s not wrong,” his mother echoed like a voice deep in a cave, drawing Steve out of his thoughts. “He is the one to sign the contract. Not you.”

“He is still classified as our dependent and on our insurance,” his father refused.

“So being an adult means nothing in this country?”

“They have our family records, Annette!” he exclaimed. “There is a dual government in this country even if nobody below upper-middle class sees it. The human government had to cede a great deal because the vampire population is massive. And they’ve kept track of all the Sanguis families! Name changes, and two World Wars did nothing to save us—”

“The what?” Steve all but whispered.

His mother rotated her hips to face him. “We only have legends about how it happened. Paleolithic gods making deals, vampires crossbreeding humans to make a certain kind of blood donor, human evolution after symbiotic deals were struck—but that doesn’t matter. The point is that there are people in this world with abilities that preserve themselves against vampires. That’s why you healed in less than two days after that silly fight by the movie theatre.”

His father intercepted, “The genes skipped your mother but fell to you.”

Steve’s eyes widened as his mother confirmed, “To protect us, girls have been promoted in the family tree for generations. Through marriage, their names could change, and make them harder to track.”

Steve countered toward his father, “So this really isn’t your place to sign my life away. Like five times over.”

“I quite agree,” his mother turned back to the man she’d married. The man who was supposed to protect her and her children with his name and promising, growing business.

At least Steve wasn’t the only failure in the family.

His father massaged his forehead and defended, “As I said. Humans’ government is far easier to corrupt our way into forgiving any debt. The vampires, however, are inconsolable. The bastard would have my business, the cars, our house, and taken his time discovering Steve on his own if I hadn’t—”

Steve took after his father, but he was his mother’s son as they both stood up from the couch, furious that this man had thrown his own kid under a vampire’s bus—

“Get out of the house, Steve.”

His head whipped around at her. “I-What?”

“Get out of the house,” she seethed, but not at him. “I don’t care where or what you do. Go.”

Steve didn’t need to be told twice but he hadn’t managed to grab his car keys or his shoes before the house and his ribcage trembled with his parents’ arguing. He went in his socks outside and put the shoes on in his car.

Then…he didn’t know where to go. Running the hell away seemed like the obvious solution, but if vampires really had such a network, what was the point? And if he left, what would happen to his mom?

Steve drove on autopilot to the video rental store. Robin. All he had was Robin, who took the lollipop out of her mouth when the bell on the door twittered. “Hey, dingus, it’s your day off—Steve?”

He couldn’t really remember driving. That probably should have raised more red flags than he already had, but for now, the black and neon carpeting of the Family Video was blurring and swirling…

“I’m gonna throw up,” he heard himself say.

And Robin in that distant, echoing cave his mother had spoken from, “Outside! STEVE!”

[fandomdancer]

The Dance

In the year 2169, you are a senior in high school. You've been best friends with the same two young men since grade school. One of them is your date to the senior dance. The other is the class loner: Eobard Thawne. When your date make a suddenly unexpected move, you find yourself feeling like the perfect night is ruined. But then Eobard shows up...

Word Count: 3,754 words

Rating: T, but may be M

Pairings: OC/Reader, Eobard/Reader

A/N: First attempt at a reader-insert fic. Special thanks to @darlingpetao3 @yetanotherwells @wellsaddict and @hawk-lee for listening to me freak out about this, inspiring me, and giving me the courage to actually post it. I hope it's interesting and fun for you to read.

This is Mattobard's version of Thawne, since it takes place during his teenage years.

This fic was inspired by this song (which is the featured waltz in the story). 'Pride and Penance', from World of Warcraft: Shadowlands.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZtBflZHIcQ

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The moment you step into the darkened dance hall, you feel as though you have been transported back in time. In fact, you can’t help but wonder if the organizers of this year’s spring formal are utilizing some of Rip Hunter’s famous Time Couriers to literally open a door to the past. Everything around is, at minimum, dated back a hundred years ago, from the DJ setting up digital playlists to the black-light-illuminated chairs seated around tables littered with drinks, plates of food, and what looks like games. The music right now is from the early 2000s, but you expect the songs to range through decades, possibly even centuries over the course of the night. Multicolored lights hang from the ceiling, giving the place an overall ‘club’ look, accentuated by the powerful underlighting at the bar.

The temperature increases as you enter on your date’s arm, the exertion from the dancing and milling bodies heating up the air in the room. The dance started only thirty minutes ago, but the excitement in the room is palpable, and kids are wasting no time yelling ‘hellos’ and ‘how are yous’ as they toss back nonalcoholic drinks. One table is already full of kids engaged in what looks like an intense card game with multicolored discs sprayed across the table in front of them.

Catching the fever of the room, you cast a huge grin up at your date, a handsome young man you’ve known since grade school. The two of you are dressed perhaps a little fancy for the event, with him in a fine, high-collared suit befitting a 20th century aristocrat and you in a deep red 1940s princess ballgown. Overdressing is okay: the two of you were expecting a slightly more ‘ballroom’ shindig, not this ‘21st century club’ event, and upon looking around you can see that other members of your class had similar ideas, wearing everything from 1800s Victorian gowns to military uniforms.

“They did a good job,” your date says. “Though one would think they could have come up with a more original theme name than ‘Blast to the Past’.”

“Don’t cheesy titles comprise part of the charm of last century?” you ask as the two of you move towards the obligatory picture arena. “Wasn’t stating the obvious considered not only funny, but…what was the word…a meemee?”

“Meme. One word, one syllable. And yes. Memes were a rather popular form of communication in the early 21st century, though I guess they started well before that.” Your date eyes the line and the picture-taking arena before them. “Is that….a phone booth?”

You are both intrigued as you watch a couple go into the booth, pulling a curtain shut and separating them from the outside world. Their feet are obvious as they scrabble into various positions, each one punctuated by a bright flash ands lots of giggling. The couple emerges, looking flushed and full of smiles, and watch as two thin strips of plastic emerged from the wall of the booth. The two grab the plastic strips and look at them, giggling as they walk away.

“It’s a photo booth.”

The voice right beside you and your date startles you, and you quickly look over to see one of the chaperones for the event, Ms. Steinway, a few feet away. The young teacher looks stunning in a green floor-length gown, her blonde hair floating ethereally around her shoulders. She gestures. “You go in, and you have five pictures taken of you in quick succession. There’s usually only three to four seconds between each photo so people often planned ahead what they would do ahead of time. You can make faces, or be serious…whatever you would like!”

“Thank you, Ms. Steinway,” you say before looking back to your date. “Well. I guess we have about a minute to come up with five different poses.”

“Why don’t we improvise? We’re both good thinkers on our feet.”

The tension and pressure of racing to beat a timed photo session is appealing to you, probably a side effect of all the time you've been spending lately with your other friend, Eobard Thawne. He has a strong taste for competition and it’s been rubbing off on you in the years you’ve known him.

The sudden thought of Thawne makes you skim the room, wondering if the class loner has actually shown up to tonight’s dance. You’re pretty sure he’s not here; this isn’t his type of thing at all. It’s certainly why you didn’t ask him to be your date. It’s also the only reason why you didn’t ask him to be your date. Eobard Thawne’s proud, handsome figure and strikingly keen intellect has drawn many a girl’s attention over the years, including yours, and you’ve made a concentrated effort to ignore it. But lately, you’ve noticed that he seems to be hovering near you much more often. And he got into a fistfight with your date a few weeks ago…you never did quite figure out what had caused that argument…

Seeing him here tonight would definitely open a lot of doors, however. Perhaps you would be brave enough to ask him for a single dance. He can be a truly arrogant ass but he has always been at least civil to you…probably because the two of you have also known each other since grade school.

Your date pushes you forward and you realize that, as usual, thoughts of Eobard have distracted you for several seconds. It is your turn in the photo booth.

The booth is small and simple, with a little touch screen that simply says ‘go’. A quick glance over the screen shows that presets are in place, with no way to change them. It is a little aggravating to not be able to customize the photos but you suppose that’s to get the line of kids moving quickly. With a quick glance at your date, the two of you reach out and tap the ‘go’ button together.

The very first thing he does is kiss you. It’s so fast and so intense that you don’t even have time to react. Suddenly his mouth is open and wet and moving on yours and his hand is in your carefully-crafted hairstyle and you are shocked beyond words because of all the poses you had considered in this run of pictures, your longtime friend kissing you was not one of them. You’ve suspected he felt this way about you and there was no doubt in your mind that he would be an excellent romantic partner, but you hadn’t really…thought about him like that. In fact, the only person you really thought about like that was…Eobard.

He finally pulls back and looks quickly at the camera, grinning widely. Your brain is fuzzed and rolling with several unfinished sentences and questions, but some little part of you keeps control and turns to smile bright and beautiful at the screen. The two of you make silly faces next, and as you are setting up for what you think is the next picture, the screen goes dark. You realize in shock that he used three of the five pictures to kiss you. Feeling frustrated and cheated, you get out of the booth, pasting a smile on your face so as not to appear angry to the line of kids waiting outside. You’ll have plenty of time to discuss his choices later.

The pictures print out and they’re definitely difficult to look at. The first one shows your obvious surprise, but the second two are worse, showcasing your desperate attempt to keep control of what is happening by grabbing at his face and responding to his kiss. It was not your best decision, but you feel like it was your only choice at the moment – and that realization makes you furious.

The two of you head to an unoccupied table, and the moment you set down the photos you whirl on your date, your insides twisted in knots and your throat almost sealed shut from the force of your anger. “What the hell?”

“What?”

It’s even hotter in this room with your anger charging you up. You are pretty sure your face is the color of your dress. “You kissed me.”

He smiles. “Of course I did. What did you think we were going to do in there?”

Your mouth drops open. “Make faces and smile! When did kissing appear on the list of things to do tonight?”

His brow furrows. “When you agreed to be my date. Come now, you can’t possibly miss all the signs I’ve given you. You know me better than that.”

His self-entitled arrogance sets your teeth on edge and you clutch the table so hard you’re amazed it doesn’t bend. “I’ve known you for almost all of my life and you have never been so rude as to just kiss someone without making sure it’s all right with them! You wait for that kind of invitation! You don’t blindside her during a timed picture taking session!”

“Spontaneity has never been your thing, and I respect that,” he begins to say.

You cut him off. “Clearly not or these wouldn’t exist!” You wave the pictures at him before slamming them down onto the table. You don’t know what you’re angrier about now; being forced into this situation before you felt ready, his seeming blindness to how the whole situation played out, or the fact that you feel like what should have been a beautiful moment is ruined and you are never going to get it back.

A waltz begins to play, the very song the two of you were hoping would be the focus of the evening, and he reaches a hand out to you. “You’re right. I made a terrible mistake. I thought it would be fun and I assumed you would be all right with it. I am sorry. I truly am. We will go have the pictures retaken. But will you dance with me? This sounds like a beautiful waltz and I don’t want to have ruined the night by making a terrible decision right at the beginning.”

He sounds sincere but you don’t answer him at first. Your mind is still awash with anger and betrayal and a sudden desire to be anywhere but in this room right now. You don’t want to just forgive him for doing this to you. But you also don’t want the night to be ruined, and right now the song playing sounds like it could be a wonderful dance and you aren’t sure how many more will be played with the selection of music likely being offered. Reluctantly, you slip your hand into his.

“We aren’t done with this conversation,” you state firmly.

“Of course not.” He twirls you gently. “But this song fits you and I want to see you dancing to it.”

You don’t know the name of the song, but it has a haunting melody to it, almost ghostlike with sliding violins. Waltzes always have a kind of built-in grace to them, a slippery seduction meant to make it easy to move to. But this piece has an additionally dramatic vocalist that elevates the rhythm to something royal and aristocratic. You can almost imagine the two of you (and the couples that are joining you on the floor) dancing in the hall of an ancient, grand mansion while a dark storm swirls outside the floor-to-ceiling windows and the dry fingers of tree branches curl menacingly in shadows on the floor, trapping the dancers’ feet in their grip.

“Pardon me.”

The familiar voice snaps you out of the daydream you are drifting into, and you rock slowly back and forth in your date’s arms as you realize Eobard is standing in front of you two. Your breath catches and your heart rate picks up instantly as you look at him. He looks as though he has stepped straight out of your daydream: a young lord trapped in a dying manor, cloaked in high-collared black and red with the light shimmering blindingly on his short blond hair. Even more shocking is the dramatic flair he has added to the outfit: a full-length black cape fastened at his neck with a ruby. He is too beautiful to touch and yet your hands…and other, sweeter, deeper parts of you…ache as you stare at him.

His eyes sweep over you and you think you see his jaw clench slightly before he speaks again. “May I cut in?”

“You’re in our way, Bardo,” your date growls, all softness and politeness gone from his voice.

“I wasn’t addressing you,” Eobard responds to him but doesn’t take his eyes off of you. Your throat is growing dry from the simple intensity of his gaze. “I was addressing your partner." He nods to you. "May I cut in?”

You finally register what he is asking, and the thrill that races through you makes you shiver. You had thought you might have the courage to ask him to dance if you had seen him here, but him asking you is completely unexpected. Saying no to him might prevent him from asking again, but saying yes would probably send the wrong message to your date.

Then again, your date certainly sent you the wrong message when he forced you to kiss him in the photo booth.

It’s a very simple question with a very simple answer.

“I would be honored,” you reply, trying to sound as cool and proper as possible. As you pull away from your date, you feel his hands clench briefly on you. You quickly look up at him, seeing the betrayal in his eyes. At first you feel smug, but then you remind yourself that he did apologize. You give him your best comforting smile. “We’ll continue this later,” you say to him, making his expression soften just a little. But the look he gives Eobard is poisonous.

Eobard’s expression doesn’t change. Instead, he unfastens the cape from around his neck and whips it dramatically off, draping it unceremoniously on your date’s still-outstretched arms. “Would you be so kind as to place this on a nearby chair?”

Redness floods your date’s face, and you start to open your mouth to scold Eobard for his rudeness, but his hands grip you firmly and he spins you away into the dancing crowd before you can say a word. Your feet scrabble as you try to keep up, and you have a feeling he’s trying to get you as far away from your date as fast as possible. Focusing on your movements, you catch his rhythm and begin to move in time with him, gaining control over yourself while still permitting him to lead. You’re angry enough now that you’re tempted to just walk out the door after this dance. When did your two best friends turn into such boys? They’re acting like you’re a prize in a competition and while that might be flattering, it’s making you feel a bit like an object and not like the lady you want to be tonight.

“You dance well,” Eobard compliments.

You roll your eyes. “You dragged me out here and I just got my balance back. Don’t patronize me.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” he answers. “I mean what I say. I saw you trying to dance with your date over there. He was trying. You were succeeding.”

You snort and sigh. “I wish the two of you would tell me why you both seem to have lost your minds lately.”

Eobard tilts his head. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Your heart pounds and you know what you hope the answer is, but coming right out and saying it feels like a such a terrible risk. Eobard’s emotional difficulties make him dangerous sometimes, the wrong word or look pushing him away for days at a time. You are not going to ruin this night, this dance, this moment that has been playing in your dreams.

“Obviously not, or I wouldn’t have brought it up,” you say, trying to put an innocent look on your face. You aren’t sure if it works or not, but the hard look in Eobard’s eyes softens somewhat, and he guides you around the floor. Looking up at him, you surrender your mind to the daydream, milking this moment for all it is worth. The seductive waltz paints the image of a great hall, decadent in its decay, the memory of opulence just as romantic as the opulence itself. And Eobard, cold and proud and throat-achingly beautiful, spins you around it, commanding your body with his touch, and commanding your mind with his eyes.

“Your friend and I,” he says in a low voice, “are both seeking your approval.”

Dear God, he actually said it. You’re almost dizzy with excitement as you frantically think of how to navigate the next few sentences. Honesty is going to be key. “You have a funny way of showing it. First that fistfight a few weeks ago and now tonight he just kisses me out of the blue and then you drag me off like I belong to you or something…”

“He did what?” Eobard stops the two of you cold, and you blink, looking up at his grey eyes, watching in surprise as they turn stormy and dark. His pale face begins to flush as he gazes down at you. You can’t tell if what you’re seeing is anger or not, but as his eyebrows draw together you feel your insides flutter. It’s more than just anger. It’s jealousy.

Eobard is jealous.

The realization makes your throat close and you swallow several times as adrenaline floods your veins. The possibilities open up in your mind, and you suddenly realize that while both men are, in fact, treating you like a prize, you are still the one in control.

“He kissed me for our photo,” you say carefully, letting the frustration and hurt show on your face. “I didn’t know he was going to.”

Eobard looks at you, his jaw clenching and unclenching, and his face continuing to grow red. His hands tighten on your waist and hand, and a strange excitement blooms in your chest. Eobard Thawne, so aloof and elitist, suffering from the simple emotion of jealousy. And jealousy related to you, because he’s seeking your approval. Despite the heat of the moment, you find yourself fighting a smile.

“Did you enjoy it?” he asks tightly.

You know the truth and you know what saying it will mean. But right now, you are unable to lie to him, captivated by the thrill of his reaction and the intoxicating crescendo building around you.

“No.”

Eobard’s chin lifts and a smug satisfaction fills his eyes as the music crescendos loudly. With a climactic crash of drums, he decisively pushes you out into a firm spin, and then brings you back in, his hand slipping to the small of your back and holding you flush against his body. And for one fiery, fierce moment, you realize that you can feel him, dear God, all of him, pressed possessively against you, and a weakness makes your knees wobble and your mouth go dry as you stare into his eyes, only inches away, and realize what he is silently saying to you.

Then the two of you are moving again as he takes everything up another notch, whirling you both within the crowd as though you have all the space in the world. The music pounds with your steps, pulsing inside of you, the melody a full-throated cry from the whole orchestra, igniting adrenaline and fire within you. Your mouth falls open to gasp for air as your eyes drift closed. You don’t need to see, only to feel the clutch of his hands and the heat of his body and the light pressure on your waist as he leads you.

And then, in one powerful beat, the music stops. Eobard pushes you backwards into a dramatic dip, holding you up while your hands claw at him. You can’t see the ecstasy on your face but a few gasps from the people around you suggest that the two of you may be in a very compromising position. You don’t care. Your body is shaking and tingling. You feel sweat dampening your skin, and the heat…you’re drowning in it. But you don’t want to move. You don’t want it to be over. Most of all, you don’t want his hands leaving you. Ever.

Your breath comes in heavy gasps as he draws you up to your feet. He steadies you, and your eyes finally drift open. The sight before you makes you shiver again. Eobard is breathing just as hard as you are, and has the same slightly dazed expression on his face that you are feeling. You vaguely realize that while you were trying to keep your balance you gripped his hair and shirt because both of them are bunched and mussed. But neither of you can look away from the other for several seconds.

Finally, he is the first one to move. He gently straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. He brings his heels together and reaches for your hand. He bows, lifting your hand to his lips and placing a chaste kiss on the back of it.

“Thank you,” he says, “for the lovely dance. If you’ll excuse me, I believe I need some air.”

You nod slowly. “I…think I do too.”

Something sparks in his eyes, and he offers you his arm. You consider taking it, but the sensation that sweeps through you as you realize what the implications are stop you. You are awash in powerful emotions now, enough to know that if you go with him, you’re going to do something you want…

….oh do you want….

….but on impulse, caught up in the moment.

You know you need to gather yourself. The night has only just begun.

“I will see you back in here,” you reply, offering a polite curtsey. It isn’t a blatant rejection, just more of a ‘not now’. Eobard seems to understand and his withdraws his hand before turning and striding for the door.

You head for a different exit, catching a glimpse of your date just as you leave the room. His face is a thunderstorm, and you feel a slight chill that cuts through the hazy fog of your mind.

The night has only just begun, and you have a feeling it’s going to be a long one.

[collecting-stories]

Cowboy Blues - pt. 01 - Rafe Cameron

Summary: You swipe right on Tinder with some interesting results. 

One Thing Right Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

△ ▽ △ ▽

You weren’t traditional by any sense of the word. You’d given up all those crazy ideals that had been ingrained in your personality when you realized that you weren’t going to find a high school sweetheart to settled down with. Or a college one for that matter. You settled for nice dates with average guys and tried to remind yourself daily that you needed no one to complete your life. It was fine on its own.  

“I think the literal class of guy has gone down,” your best friend Nina mentioned as she scrolled through your phone. You loved Nina but she was tone-deaf to most of your single life complaints. She was already married, to the same guy she had been dating since middle school. After HSM came out she had been madly in love with Zac Efron and had managed to find the one guy in your school that looked almost just like him and they’d stayed together.  

“You’re on tinder right now, just to put that commentary into perspective for you.” You pointed out, annoyed mostly. Nina had invited herself to come have lunch with you while you worked on finalizing your classroom for the coming school year. While you tried to get actual work done, Nina just scrolled through the guys on your tinder and bitched about their profiles, as if she expected to find some great life partner for you.  

It was probably cynical of you to say but, if you never dated again, never settled down with anyone, it probably wouldn’t matter. Wedding fever sprung up whenever someone else was tying the knot or having a kid but when that passed you weren’t particularly eager to look for someone. People had been, for the majority, disappointing since you had turned 18 and, for the past eight years you hadn’t been proven right.  

Someone to cohabitate with might be nice. You certainly thought about it on nights when you were feeling particularly isolated from the rest of the world, but all that disappeared when you considered how used to being alone you actually were and what cohabitating would actually mean. Someone who would leave dirty dishes in the sink, leave water on the bathroom floor and track it through the house, who would chew too loud or hate the food you liked or snore too obscenely or drink too much. There were a million flaws with your imaginary future suitor and you listed them all anytime you got the bug to start dating again. But twenty-six was old, according to Nina, and you needed to get married.  

“What about him, he’s cute?” She held the phone out to you, the guy in the picture was smiling, sitting in front of a table with food. You looked up briefly from the lesson plan you were writing out, nearly losing your mouthful of coffee.  

You swallowed and took the phone, staring at the picture, maybe a little too long.  

“He’s cute babe, but he’s not like People Magazine’s hottest man alive.” Nina said in response to your out burst.  

“No, no, I know him.” You explained, eyes still on the picture. God, you couldn’t help thinking that he looked good. Did you look that good? He was the spitting image of what he’d been in the stairwell at Duke. Attractive, self-assured, a little cocky. “We went to the same college. I hooked up with him one time at a party before spring break…I uh, he told me to call him and I lost his number.”  

“On purpose?” She asked, plucking the phone out of your hands. She lingered on his picture, waiting for your either glowing recommendation or scathing review before she swiped. He was cute, she’d give you that. He was tan, tall, even in the picture it was obvious, and just nice to look at.  

“No,” You admitted. “I was gonna call him and then I got back together with Ian.” Your ex-boyfriend be damned, you left out the part where you thought about your random hook way more often than a sane person should. After spring break it hadn’t been hard to dodge him, Duke had a massive campus and you didn’t have any of the same classes but every time you and Ian had it out you couldn’t help wondering what it would’ve been like if you’d called him back. Even after you graduated and moved back home to Boston, you still couldn’t quite shake the memory of him.  

“Well Ian’s getting married and you’re not...so,” she swiped and then closed the app, sliding off your desk to take a slow appraisal of your classroom while she dug the knife in deeper, “are you going to Ian’s wedding?”  

Nina kept asking, as if you had much say in the matter, and you kept answering, deflating your ego every time you had to say yes. “I have to…it’s my grade partner. She even made me a bridesmaid.” Admittedly, you and Anya had been much closer before your boyfriend of three years dumped you and immediately started dating her. Now it felt hard to be around her for too long, like going home for the holidays and trying to keep quiet when your drunk uncle brought up the political climate in the country. Anya told you she had held off the wedding because she wanted to ‘wait until the dust settled’. As if it hurt less now. For different reasons, sure, but not less.  

In a month’s time you’d be sitting through a bridal shower that her sister kept texting you to help coordinate and plan. She’d tried to be nice, giving you a plus one to the wedding because you didn’t know any of her friends or family. The only other person you knew was Ian, ex-boyfriend and groom, not exactly who you wanted to be hanging out with. Of course, you knew his family and that just made the whole ordeal so much more awkward.

The plus-one was an empty gesture though. Just a reminder that there was no one for you to invite. But you kept hoping, maybe you’d meet someone. Maybe you could transport yourself into a Hallmark movie and rent a date or something. Fall madly in love in a week and move to their small town and never look back. Then, at least, you could miss the wedding altogether.  

“She’s a fucking back stabbing bitch.” Nina commented, as if this was some new piece of information that she was finding out about now.

“Anya is super sweet.” You defended, only because it was true. Anya might’ve been marrying your douche of an ex-boyfriend but she was categorically the nicest person that you had ever met. “It wasn’t like he cheated on me, we broke up.” You didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. Not two weeks before the beginning of school. Two weeks before you had to look at her face every day until the honeymoon.  

“They got together pretty quick.” Nina pointed out, not that she ever needed to. “Well, whatever, so what was this guy like, what was his name?”  

“Did you swipe right on him and not even look at his name?” You asked, reaching for your phone to check.  

“Yeah, so? She asked, “You said you knew him.”  

“I said I slept with him.” You corrected.  

“Same thing.” She shrugged, “name?”

“Rafe. Cameron.”  

She ‘ohhhh-ed’ appreciatively, “What was he like?” She asked. “He sounds rich.”  

“Hot,” you shrugged, “I don’t know he was probably a total fuck boy. He asked me to call him the next morning after breakfast and I said sure and then when I got back to my dorm Ian was there.” You provided the short story of events, omitting any major details about that night. You told Nina everything but you had never told her about Rafe, always a little wistful about the encounter. As if it was some personal memory that would lose its importance should anyone else know about it.  

“He made you breakfast?”  

“Yeah, so?”  

“That’s like jackpot. God you could be like, married right now, popping babies out for some Swedish Au pair to run around after.” Nina replied raising her eyebrows suggestively.  

“I’m glad you’ve created this weird ‘rich kid’ narrative but I have no idea. It’s not like I was checking the guy’s financials while I was sucking his dick.” You lowered your voice at the end of the sentence, just in case the pushing 80 secretary walked past and heard you.  

“Please, have you seen him? That is a baby-faced, rich boy living on his daddy’s money. And you could be too.”  

“Okay, look, I was 20, I wasn’t trying to settle down and get married. At least not to some random guy I only hooked up with because my boyfriend was a douche.” You replied. Not to mention that breakfast had essentially consisted of one bite of toast before he was eating you out on the counter of his off-campus apartment. Not exactly the romantic beginning to a relationship. “Wait, did you swipe right?” You asked, almost immediately horrified at the thought.  

“Maybe.”  

“No,” you groaned, “fuck, he’s gonna think I’m so weird!”

“He will not. Besides, if he’s as much of a fuck boy as you say then guarantee he doesn’t even remember you.” She replied. “Besides, if he answers, it’ll be kinda nice ya know? Go out, have a nice dinner, get fucked, all your problems melt away.”  

“He better not remember me.” You grumbled. You were not prepared for the absolute humiliation that would come from him seeing you on Tinder and remembering you.  

“Did you really sleep with so few guys in college that you remember him?”  

“You’ve slept with one person in the last decade…” you pointed out.  

“And?” She slipped her sweatshirt back on and grabbed her bag, “whatever, I’m heading out. I have work in 30.”  

With Nina gone, you slumped back in your chair and grabbed your phone. You had a tendency to never get rid of anything; it was the great downfall of your life. Someday you would accumulate so much stuff you would become a hoarder and then no one would love you but the cats that used your belongings as a litter box. It was a terrible habit but it lent to usefulness sometimes, especially in moments like this, as you scrolled through your phone, finding Rafe’s contact. You had told Nina that you’d lost Rafe’s number but in actuality you had kept it stored in your phone even though you’d never used it.  

Now, this wedding fever was doing nothing but confirm your fear that you were one step closer to an unfulfilling life alone. Even Lorelai Gilmore didn’t stay single forever.  

You stared at his name in your contact list, a little fire emoji next to it and you could remember laughing at him when he typed it in. It was more a playful jab at the way your Boston accent had pronounced the word fire than anything to do with him though you thought it was an accurate description.  

You wondered if he had the same number. If you’d called him that night, would it have been another failed relationship to catalog away for when you were feeling especially shitty. Or would he have left you for the bubbly grade partner that you wanted to hate so much but couldn’t. Nina had swiped right on him but you didn’t even know where he lived these days. You were living in Boston again. You’d moved home for your masters and stayed when the teaching internship turned into an actual job.

North Carolina had been fun for school, being 12 hours away from home had given you the most incredible sense of freedom but nowhere was New England and you’d been itching to go home again just as soon as you’d arrived down there. Though coming back to Boston, you had found it different than you’d left it. Even with Nina here, she was married, she had her own life away from you. As much as you tried to settle in and pretend that everything was fine, you couldn’t help but admit that Nina was right, you did need someone.

Single life felt a lot more routine than you imagined it would. A call from your mother, complaining that your sister was acting out and being generally awful, a call from your sister, accusing your mother of being overbearing, and hours of alone time filled mostly by reading, walking your dog, and binging TV shows.  “At least you got a dog and not a cat.” Nina had said when you brought Fivel home. He was pre-named and you were always partial to An American Tail.  

“Only so I would exercise.” You had replied, knowing you had to walk the dog, a black lab mix that was a puppy when you got him. “You hear that Five, I’m using you for my own gain.”  He had gotten big since then, fully grown now with a personality that included forgetting his size and spreading out on top of you when you laid on the couch.  

Your apartment was small, an old converted brownstone with three apartments, yours on the top floor above a middle-aged couple with a very spoiled seven-year-old. They were nice when they weren’t blaring Disney movies and you resented that even in your house you couldn’t escape children but you couldn’t be too upset. The place was nicer than you could’ve hoped, truthfully. Especially living alone.  

Even with a nice place to live though, it was always the same. Walking Fivel, making whatever dinner that came in the Sunbasket boxes at the beginning of the week, and watching Top Chef.  

You closed out of your contacts, going back to Tinder as if Rafe would’ve already messaged you. All Nina had written was ‘hey’, as if that was supposed to entice someone into replying. You doubted the stupid picture of you from last year at the beach really did anything special. You weren’t surprised to find that there was no reply yet. You read his profile over again, unsure what else to say. The night the two of you hooked up you had both been at a party though these days your partying had been replaced with drinking alone.  

Whoever said don’t waste your twenties would’ve recoiled in horror at the way you were living.  

-  

“Leaving so soon?”  

You turned away from the double doors leading out onto campus, the click of the bar as it released echoing in your ear for a second, drowned out mostly by the music that was coming from the various dorms that had their doors open. It was a floor party; one you’d come to with some friends in high hopes of forgetting your current ex-boyfriend Ian once and for all. Three months of condescending comments and gaslighting finally pushing you over the edge.  

“I was just...getting some fresh air.” You replied, shrugging. Trying to look calm, unaffected by this stranger’s sudden entrance into your life. He was cute, far more so than Ian. Taller too. You thought you recognized him from the lacrosse team your roommate was so obsessed with. “Lacrosse players are never unattractive.” She had argued once when she dragged you to a game.  

He definitely fit the bill for her ideal of the lacrosse playing frat boy. Hot, tall, tan, his cap was on backwards and he looked so relaxed but also so sure of himself. Like whatever was going to happen in this hallway was going to go exactly how he wanted.  

“Want some company?” He asked, taking a sip from the cup in his hand but not taking his eyes off you.  

You felt like your heart was hammering in your chest, head swimming and you’d not even had anything to drink that night. “I uh…” worse case scenarios increased by tenfold in your head given the context of the situation. You were alone in a hallway, potentially about to go outside, while everyone else was partying, where they couldn’t hear you, with some guy you didn’t know at all. A guy who gave off some pretty strong ‘get-whatever-I-want’ vibes and he’d said no more than two sentences to you. “I uh, kinda wanted to be alone.”  

“Cool, cool.” He shrugged, “no problem.”  

For whatever reason that possessed you to think it was a genuinely okay idea, so you walked out, the door clicking open as you stepped onto the pavement. You kicked the stopper so it wouldn’t shut all the way because you’d rather be able to get back in than somehow have both of you trapped out here if he did decide to follow you. No alcohol, your brain was just malfunctioning or maybe your roommate was right and your usual suspicion of everyone had turned a nice moment into an awful one.  

It was significantly colder outside than it had been in the dorms, even in the hallway, and you breathed out a sigh of relief. You wanted to scream at Ian for not even letting you have a good time when you were out with friends because you kept thinking of him. He was off somewhere, already on spring break, no doubt hooking up with girls you’d never know about because you had told him it was over. And it was, you were just so completely unsure-  

You’re silent berating ended mid-sentence when you turned around to see your lacrosse playing stranger sitting on the steps just inside the door. He smiled at you and waved and you almost laughed at the oddity of the moment as you came back inside.  

“What are you doing?” You asked, holding the door open and letting some of the cold air deep in.  

“You said you wanted to be alone. Figured I’d wait.”  

“For?”  

He shrugged, standing up and leaning against the bottom of the railing, “you, to not want to be alone.”  

“Well,” you were momentarily caught off guard, a nervous laugh escaping. Truthfully, you had never had someone flirt with you like this before, so directly obvious about liking you. Not necessarily one with quick-witted comebacks, you were still fairly good at deflecting when you needed too but somehow, he had rendered you speechless.  

He nodded his head toward the steps, “we can just sit? Door’s right there,” he offered, referring to the dorm room less than six feet away. The door was open and you could hear a mix of chatter and music.  

“Okay.” You agreed, letting the door close on the stopper, the slightest wave of cool air seeping in while you walked over and took a seat beside him. You introduced yourself, unsure what else to do, and probably sounded like every middle-aged family member he had when you asked him what his major was.  

“Rafe Cameron,” he replied, “economics.”  

“Oh god,” you said before you could stop yourself. He was the full package clearly, though of what you weren’t sure. He sounded rich, by the name alone, econ major, lacrosse player, potentially, and absolutely fuckable. There was no other coherent way to describe it. “I took an econ course as an elective freshman year, it really fucked me up.”  

“Not a math person?” He asked, another sip of his drink and you really wished you had one. Anything to occupy a little corner of your brain so everything wasn’t so solely focused on him.  

“No, no, not at all.” You shook your head. “So…do you live in this dorm?”  

“Nah, my roommate’s dating some girl in one of these,” he replied, the same head nodded toward the rooms as before, “I’m just here for the booze, and the company.”  

That wasn’t even that smooth of a line and you were melting at it. You weren’t sure if you were just dying for some positive attention or going through the motions of a breakup but either way you were seriously considering your roommate’s earlier encouragement of ‘letting yourself go’. Have fun, she had said, be bold.  

“You play lacrosse, right?” You asked, because you were 95% sure you’d seen him and it was eating at you a little bit.  You felt like you were grasping at straws trying to think of what to say. You were fairly positive that he was only talking to you because he wanted to have sex with you but honestly, you really wanted to have sex with him too.  

“I do,” he grinned and you knew you’d basically given him the upper hand. “You’ve been to a game?”  

“I’ve been to all of them.” You said before you could stop yourself. “I mean, my roommate’s a big fan of lacrosse or lacrosse players, not sure, so we always go.”  

“Not a fan yourself?”  

“No, I mean, I like it, you guys have a good team.” You shrugged. This was going terribly, or you would think it was if he wasn���t looking at you like that.  

“Yeah?” He grinned, sliding a little closer to you on the stairs.  

“I should close that door, it’s getting cold in here.” You mentioned, standing up suddenly.  

Rafe couldn’t help his smile as you walked down the steps to the door. He had come out into the hallway because the party was boring, the music was subpar, and Topper was starting to annoy him. He had considered going back to the apartment altogether but he’d just sat on the stairs instead, as if he was waiting for something. And then you’d come along. “We could head back to my place? It’s warm.” He offered. A stupid line, sure, but the last one had played well for him so he tried this one.  

You almost laughed at the cheesiness of his comment. The way he said it, even with how you’d felt when you first realized he was there, was easy, letting you know that the decision was yours entirely. Maybe it was a decision you shouldn’t have been making right this moment but he was gorgeous and anything that had you not thinking about your ex was good enough for you. “Yeah, but I’ll be cold on the way there.”  

His lower lip jutted out, pouting at you playfully, “We’ll drive, you can stay warm in the car, promise.”

-  

Sans Nina stopping by, the next day played out the same as the day before. You managed to hold off checking your Tinder until halfway through lunch. It wasn’t like you’d stopped thinking about it or forgot the whole exchange with Nina the day before. You’d locked the whole thing away to reminisce about at some later date when you were no doubt alone once again. Alone and-  

And he had sent you a message. It just said hey back, and a subtle compliment about your profile picture, telling you that he would kill for beach weather right now and that ‘blue is his favorite color’, you clicking back a second later and realizing that the bathing suit you had on in your profile picture was, in fact, blue. You half wondered if he remembered you and that’s why it was so casual. But he was arguably that casual the night you met too. If you’d been in a less hyper aware state of mind you would’ve never realized he was flirting with you.  

You stared at the message for half of your lunch hour wondering what to say in return. Something witty maybe, though you were feeling as tongue tied as you had that night six years ago. Not at all the confident person you always envisioned yourself being at this point in your life but the nervous one who said dumb stuff that you didn’t mean to.  

-I went last weekend with a friend and it was literally too cold to take my sweatshirt off...fall’s a bitch-  

You replied, attaching a frowning emoji to the end of your sentence. You hated your inability to be cool online. What else could you say though? You couldn’t ask if he remembered you. Say that if he did remember you than you were sorry for never calling and you know how much of an ass matching with him on Tinder probably seems. Or that pathetically enough for you that night and following morning are arguably the best sex you’ve ever had. Or even that his profile picture made him look better than you remembered, god why did you get back together with Ian.  

-  

Rafe had seen the match almost immediately. Working from home that afternoon, he’d only been half paying attention to the zoom meeting that he was on, scrolling through his phone when the notification popped up. He had clicked into Tinder, staring at your name and profile picture off and on for a good hour while he tried to think of something to say to you.  

Something clever.  

He wasn’t exactly the most sentimental person anyone had ever met and he’d slept with plenty of people in college but he knew you the minute he saw your picture. You looked exactly the same as you had that night, though the picture you used for your profile didn’t quite do justice to the way your eyes lit up when you smiled or how ridiculously easy it had been for him to be completely infatuated with you that night.  

You had never called him and he couldn’t fault you for that, it wasn’t exactly like he was screaming boyfriend material back then. He barely was now. Whenever he thought about you, and he was sure it was more frequently than it should be for a one night stand from college, he assumed you’d probably met someone, settled down...all that ridiculous stuff his sister was into.  

He said he liked the blue of your bathing suit in the picture of you and that he wished it was beach weather because seeing you honestly had him missing the Outer Banks more than he expected to. He sent the text and spent the rest of the night feeling like a dumbass. There he was, blowing his chances all over again. But then, halfway through the next day, you texted back.  

-You Bostonians need to work on your weather. -

He responded, as soon as he got the message, and then,  

-I’ll get right on it...any specific requests?-  

Your reply came back a few minutes later, after he checked his phone three more times.

-Warm enough to take you to the beach.-  

Rafe responded a little faster than he probably should have. Maybe a little more desperate than he should have too but he couldn’t be bothered about that.  

-Sans the sweatshirt? -  

-Exactly.-  

He followed the text up immediately with a,  

-but since I can’t take you to the beach, are you free for dinner this Friday?-

-I am, yeah. Where did you have in mind?-  

-Have you been to Menton? -  

-

It was warm in the apartment, even for mid-March with the windows opened. The kind of weather that made you want to stretch out in bed and do nothing all day. Except this wasn’t your bed or your room and the noise coming from the kitchen was definitely not going to help lull you back to sleep. Opening your eyes to the sun streaming through the window, you climbed out of bed, grabbing the t-shirt from the carpeted floor and pulling it over your head.  

You hadn’t intended to stay the night at Rafe’s but really, once you were there you hadn’t wanted to leave. Even now, all you really wanted was to find him and take him back to bed. Maybe not to sleep but definitely to sleep with.  

“Oh my god, you’re so loud,” you teased, walking into the small kitchen to find Rafe standing over the stove, back to you. He turned at the sound of your voice and you had to appreciate the lack of clothing he had decided to wear to attempt breakfast, just a pair of navy-blue briefs.  

“Watch it, you won’t get any of these world class scrambled eggs.” He replied, pointing his spatula back to the frying pan on the stove.  

You walked closer to him, letting him wrap his arm around you and pull you into his side. “Those do look like some quality eggs,” you observed, putting your arm around his waist.  

This felt so easy you were dreading going back to your dorm eventually. Ian hadn’t even made a guest appearance in your brain and he’d been pretty much the star since the two of you broke up. But right now, all you wanted to focus on was Rafe and getting to spend as much time with him as possible.  

Rafe moved the skillet off the stove and laid the spatula down, using his free hand to grab your waist as he maneuvered you around in front of him. You yelped in surprise when his hands fell to your thighs and he hoisted you up onto the counter.  

“Careful! You almost burned me!” You laughed, swatting his hands away.  

“You’re not even near the burner.” he laughed, pushing your legs apart so he could stand in between them.  

“I thought we were having breakfast?”

“We are.” He reasoned, the innuendo evident as he leaned down and kissed just above your bare knees. “When do you have to be back?”

“Whenever.” You shrugged, more than happy to have this moment play out, uninterrupted.  

-

Menton was the kind of place that other people went to. Not first grade teachers on first grade teacher salaries. Even when you were younger, growing up in the more affluent part of western Massachusetts, you had never really been part of a ‘fancy restaurants’ family. Menton was just some place Nina mentioned when she talked about restaurants too expensive for normal people.  

“What if he remembers me?” You had asked, a few hours earlier, when Nina showed up at your apartment with shoes for your outfit.  

“Did he say he did?” Honestly curious about this guy you had never mentioned to her before.  

“No. But what if he does?” You couldn’t help being paranoid about the whole date. You could still remember the feeling of being around him, of being with him. Rafe hadn’t mentioned to you that he remembered you, and thank god too because how awkward would that conversation had been? Just a ‘hey, aren’t you that girl I hooked up with six years ago in college?’. Why did Nina have to swipe right. Why couldn’t she have minded her own business and believed you when you said that you were over Ian and not at all concerned about the wedding.  

You were freaking yourself out for nothing. Or because you were dressed nicer than you had been in two years and standing outside Menton.  

“Hey.”  

You turned toward the sound of someone calling your name, seeing Rafe walking across the street. You felt very much like you were twenty again, finding him watching you from the stairwell, butterflies in your stomach.  You teetered for a moment on the sidewalk, unsure if you should wait for him to make it all the way to you or just walk up and hug him. That seemed a little extreme, honestly,  

You could still remember the feeling of his arms around you but if he didn’t remember you, and you were banking on him not remembering, it would be odd to just grab him in the street. He eased the tension for you though, reaching an arm out for a side hug once he was close enough. Casual but still not too personal.  

“Hey,” he repeated, stepping away from you for a brief appraisal. “You look beautiful.”  

“Ah, thank you...this place looked so fancy online, I wasn’t sure what to wear.” You admitted.  

“You googled it?” He sounded amused, even as he stepped in front of you to hold the door open and you could just imagine the smirk on his face. The same one he’d worn when you told him that you had seen all of his lacrosse games. (You had seen all the ones after that night too but you always made sure to sit high up in the bleachers and you never stuck around after a game.)

“Well, yeah...I wanted to read the menu.” You replied, pausing briefly as Rafe gave his name to the hostess and she grabbed two menus, walking you through the restaurant to a nice table in the back. Quiet but not too quiet.  

“Hopefully it’s lived up to its reputation so far?” He asked, biting his tongue to stop himself from saying that he remembered how bizarrely neurotic you could be, even in the few hours that he had spent with you.  

“I mean I haven’t eaten the food.” You stressed, looking at him over your shoulder as he pulled your chair out for you. “Thank you.”

He grimaced, as if the possibility of you rating this place, or the date, badly, was still an option then. “The oysters are really good...or the cappotelli.” He suggested, moving around to his side of the table, “do you have a wine preference?”

“Red, otherwise...not really.” You replied, letting him order a bottle for the table. This was somehow exactly the person you’d hooked-up with in college and not that person at all. As if you could see little cracks in the facade of his put-together appearance. “So, are you from Boston?”

“No,” he shook his head. He looked up at you for a moment, breaking his concentration with the menu before he laid the paper off to the side, “I’m from North Carolina, the Outer Banks, I actually ended up moving up here for work.”

“I know this sounds crazy-”

He hummed and you scrunched your nose at him.

“-I’m always like, surprised when people are like, from the beach.” You explained, “like I only think of the beach as vacation place not like a, live there all the time place.”

“That’s cause it gets ridiculously cold up here.” He replied, “No one wants to live on a beach where it snows.”

“The beach is nice off season!” You insisted. “It’s not crowded and you can just like, walk around-”

“If I have to wear a coat to go to the beach, it is not nice.”

“Okay,” you sassed, sticking your tongue out and making him laugh. “So what do you do then? Why’d you move to Boston?”

“That’s a loaded question,” Rafe noted, “I work for an economics firm here. Mostly I moved for the job opportunity but the distance from my family was an added benefit.”

“Well, I say this from a place of extreme bias, Boston is the best city.”  

“It has it’s perks.” He could’ve been talking about a good parking deal but the way he smiled at you when he said it made you feel like he was talking specifically about you.  

-

The date ended with Rafe walking you to the train, his coat over your shoulders because the light jacket that you’d worn had proven not warm enough for the early autumn chill that settled in. You talked about your first-grade class and being nervous for the impending year and he listened, saying that sometimes he felt like he was working with six year olds.  

“At least I can curse in front of my co-workers though.” He lamented.  

You laughed, “I’ve definitely let my fair share of curse words go...and heard quite a few from kids in my classes.”  

“Oh man, I’d fucking lose it if some kid started cursing at me.” Rafe replied.  

At the train station you argued for a few minutes over his coat, him insisting that you just hold on to it (“trust me, if I go 24 hours without seeing you again, I’ll be shocked.”), but you told him you had a severe inability to remember to give anything back and likely he’d never see it again, something he doubted, the implication that this would progress far enough that he would be in your apartment eventually there beneath the surface of his words.  

When the train pulled in, the coat left in your possession, Rafe pulling it tighter around your shoulders and promising that he would get it back eventually. “I’ll text you.” He said, as the doors closed. And, by the time you got home, there was a text from Rafe waiting for you.  

-

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[voidstilesplease]

Fandom/s: Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Heroes of Olympus

Pairing/s: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Rachel Elizabeth Dare/Percy Jackson

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Tags: Alternate Universe - Mortal, Cheating, Friends to Lovers, Friends With Benefits, Jealousy, Angst, Bad Decisions, OOC Characters, a significant amount of Taylor Swift references

Chapter 3

But the possibility that Piper knows about it didn't cross her mind. Percy had mentioned being back in town for a few days now, but Piper could not have known that, right? If Piper did, she would have told Annabeth right away because if anybody knows about Annabeth's broken heart pining after Percy all these years, it's Piper. She would've said something.

III.

And soon enough, you're best friends.

Laughing at the other girls who think they're so cool.

/./

Annabeth jerks awake from disturbances originating in the general vicinity of her kitchen. In her half-asleep state, her usually sharp mind turns to a useless mush. So with what mentality she can grasp, she concludes that it's possibly just her cutlery deciding to worm their way out the drawer to skydive to the kitchen floor. Her dream-silly brain likes the image she conjures. After all, not everybody's cutlery would be as adventurous as hers if that should be the case.

Maybe they want to remind Annabeth that they still exist, and she can use them sometimes. Good point, she thinks, but between blueprints after blueprints shoved to her at work, she doesn't have the time to be guilty about using only one spoon for her morning mashed potatoes. Unless it can wash, wipe itself dry, and put itself back to the drawer, she's sticking to her one-spoon-morning routine, thank you very much - that's all she can spare the time to clean.

She squints one eye open and sighs in relief to find that her entire bedroom blanketed in the same comforting darkness that engulfed her to sleep the previous evening. Yesterday morning had been hell. The sun had glared at her accusingly like she had done something wrong by sleeping it through past her alarm after a murderous evening at work. Usually, Annabeth scares people away when she glares at them, so she tried to glare back at the sun, and if she didn't have a degree in architecture and a line of buildings credited to her name, she'd have doubted her own intellectual capacity. She had hauled her ass up from the bed and went about her routine like she'd swallowed an entire pack of Sour Patch in one go. That morning would have sucked completely if it weren't for Percy.

Percy. Who's back in town. For good.

Whom Annabeth is going to have dinner with this evening.

A smile automatically tugs at her lips. In her kitchen, something clatters again, and she sighs. She moves her head to peek up at the alarm clock on the table. It's only fifteen minutes past seven.

She groans.

Now she can hear the blender whirring to life and the unmistakable 'ding' of her toaster. Any sane person who is aware of not having a roommate should already be springing off their bed and grabbing the nearest weapon they can use to bonk the intruder's head.

But Annabeth is used to the intrusion - this is her life now. So, she calmly gets off the bed and folds her sheets. She opens the door to her room and walks the short distance to her kitchen. As the whirring continues, she remembers the first time she woke to the noises. Annabeth wishes she can say that she was calm then, but she wasn't.

She had jumped out of bed, heart drumming so fast in her chest, and took the only item she could find in her room that could bash anybody's brains out - a baseball bat. (She didn't like the sport. It was just a souvenir from a memorable day. Her heart belonged to swimming. Or, though it wasn't clear to her at the time, to a specific swimmer.) As stealthily as she could, she tiptoed on the cold floor to knock someone out who thought they could use her kitchen while robbing her blind.

As it turned out, she had almost bashed her friend Piper.

Piper, bless her, had been unfazed. Not even after seeing the raised baseball bat and Annabeth's wide, frantic eyes. Piper gave her an innocent smile and a chirpy good morning, then went back to chopping celery, ignoring Annabeth's confusion and gaping mouth.

Piper grins as soon as Annabeth appears in the kitchen. "Good morning, Annie!" she lowers the cup of coffee she's holding on the table in front of Annabeth, who immediately reaches for it.

"This smells amazing," Annabeth closes her eyes and inhales. It is why she loves having Piper around for breakfast. She doesn't remember when Piper decided to be her mother, but as long as it benefits Annabeth with cooked meals and non-Starbucks coffee, she's not complaining.

But she can't exactly complain about Starbucks coffee, though. Not when Starbucks brought Percy back to her life - sort of. She realized that if Piper had come yesterday, she'd have missed Percy. But the fates brought Piper to her apartment today so she could meet Percy yesterday. She smiles contentedly at her coffee.

Piper doesn't miss her dopey smile. She raises a brow, pouring the contents of the blender on a tall glass. "Is it that good?"

"No words," Annabeth answers with a silly grin.

Piper draws her eyebrows in suspicion, "Why do I feel like we're not talking about the coffee?"

Annabeth shrugs.

Piper narrows her eyes but lets it go. Knowing Annabeth, it's probably a work-related high. Piper sets her glass of smoothie on the table and sits beside her friend. "Hey, I remember," she says, taking her phone out and starts browsing. "Juniper asked me to show you these." Piper swipes image after image as Annabeth waits curiously. Finally, she passes the phone to Annabeth.

Annabeth takes it and promptly gasps. "Are these for the wedding?" She draws the phone closer to examine the picture. It's of a forest-painted canvas with a man and a woman in the center, holding each other's hands as they walk side-by-side in the middle of a flower-field surrounded by butterflies. Annabeth looks up to Piper for confirmation. When she nods, Annabeth shakes her head in amazement. "That is beautiful."

"I know!" Piper takes the phone from Annabeth, glancing at the picture again before putting it down on the table. "When Juniper sent the picture to me, my eyes goggled."

Annabeth chuckles, "Grover and Juniper commissioned the right artist."

Piper nods in agreement, "And they're even getting it for, like, half the usual price. I suddenly want to get married." She smiles dreamily, reaching for her smoothie.

Annabeth laughs. Jason and Piper have been together since they were in High School. To be fair, they are practically like a married couple - sharing an apartment, sharing bills, considering the possibility of sharing a dog. They've even met each other's parents and got one another's mother or father smitten with them. It's perfectly sensible if they decide to legalize it. With that in mind, Annabeth asks, "So why don't you?"

Piper stiffens, and she briefly averts her eyes before giving Annabeth a wan smile. "He hasn't asked me yet," she says softly, looking away from Annabeth, slurping half-heartedly at her vegetable smoothie.

Annabeth bites her lower lip, mentally reprimanding herself for her careless asking. She didn't mean to poke on touchy subjects. She didn't even know it was a touchy subject at all. "Well," she begins awkwardly. "I'm sure you'll get there anyway." Annabeth offers a smile, hoping to ease the sudden tension.

Piper shrugs, "I'm not in a hurry. Jason's it for me." she pauses, then adds with uncertainty, "I just hope I'm it for him."

Annabeth frowns at the statement. "Now that's ridiculous, Piper." She reaches to touch her friend's hand a bit forcefully. She looks her dead in the eyes and says in total assurance. "Jason's head over heels for you, okay, it's almost criminal that you think you're not it for him."

Piper lifts her eyes, a hint of smile ghosting in her pouting lips. "You think so?"

"You're an idiot for even doubting,"

That seems to alleviate Piper's insecurity, at least for the moment, because she smirks at Annabeth. "Yeah, I guess I'm an idiot. Of course, Jason can't get enough of me. I mean, come on."

Annabeth rolls her eyes. Piper's weird sometimes.

She happily slurps at her smoothie now, humming a chipper tune. She reaches for the plate of toasts and passes it to Annabeth along with a jar of strawberry jam. Annabeth just watches her with amusement.

They eat in silence for a moment before Annabeth hears a clearing of a throat. She looks up to see Piper looking at her intently. Of course, Piper didn't come into her apartment early in the morning just to accompany her to a lovely, peaceful breakfast.

"…Yes?" Annabeth prompts with resignation. If this is happening -and it is- because it's Piper's business now to harass Annabeth, she wants to get it over with sooner than later. She mentally prepares for the onslaught of Piper's usual intros. But, instead of saying "There's this spa that we should check out," or "Do you remember Mark Castillo from 10th grade? Did you see his Facebook status change to Single last night?" or "We should shop new underwears for you, Annie. What you have are boring me to death", she said:

"How's work?"

That certainly catches Annabeth off-guard. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

At Annabeth's incredulous expression, Piper says defensively. "What?" she reaches for another toast. "Am I not allowed to ask about your work?"

"You're not interested in my work." Annabeth deadpans.

"I'm asking, aren't I?" Annabeth detects the unspoken 'duh'. "And I know a little about architecture, mind you. I just want to know how you're doing at work."

Annabeth hums unconvincingly, taking another sip of her coffee. She decides to ride along with it. "Well, for starters, I'm up to my neck busy. As always."

Piper nods for her to go on.

"We've contracted a new project for downtown."

Piper hums.

"It's nothing major, but the area is swarming with water pipes -many of which are old ones- so we have to be extra careful with the planning."

Piper nods, "But you aren't the only one working on it, right?"

"No. I have a team." Annabeth confirms.

"So," Piper stretches the 'o', studying the toast in her hand a little too casually. "That means that even if you weren't around, say you went out or something, a whole team is still gonna work on it?"

Annabeth narrows her eyes skeptically, "…I suppose. I'm not the project head." Annabeth answers slowly.

"So…" Piper looks away again, picking at the toast. "There's no reason to cancel Friday night, right?"

Annabeth purses her lips. She sets her cup on the saucer and folds her arms together, "I already said I would go."

Piper blushes crimson and gives up the innocent, interested-in-friend's-work scheme, "I just want to make sure!"

"I'm going, okay?" Annabeth huffs in mild exasperation. "And, if I ever go back on my promise, you have the permission to drag my ass over to the club."

"Deal," Piper quickly agrees. "Do we seal this oath with blood?"

Annabeth shakes her head as Piper starts laughing.

Piper is weird but a wonder. Annabeth is ever so thankful for having Piper as a friend. They have been friends since the 10th grade when the Cherokee girl transferred to Goode. They didn't particularly become friends instantaneously because she came around the school as Drew's half-sister.

Drew wasn't exactly Annabeth's favorite person on campus. She was a cheerleader who penned herself as the queen of Goode High, dated around, and clung to different guys when her grade couldn't even hang on to a C minus. And her face, always caked in make-up, always smiled condescendingly at everybody as if they were lesser beings. She made Annabeth want to punch something. Anything. Drew's annoying face would have been good enough.

When rumors scattered about Drew having a half-sister on campus, Annabeth was sure she'd be a clone of Drew, and Goode High was doomed. Frankly, their school had had enough mini-skirt, crop-top, belly-button girls who thought the ground they stepped on was sacred. Another one to add to them and Goode would have crumbled. After all, what else could they expect from somebody blood-related to Drew? Annabeth loathed her guts.

As it turned out, though, her half-sister hated Drew's guts just as much if not more. Literally.

She proved that during P.E. class in a volleyball game when she purposely spiked the ball straight towards Drew's midsection hard enough that Annabeth was surprised why Drew hadn't spewed her entire digestive system all over their gym court. Drew doubled over, wheezing in pain and yelling about how Piper tried to murder her. The teacher had to give Piper detention since the girl didn't deny the accusation and refused to apologize. When they took out Drew, who glowered at her sister the whole way out, Piper smirked at her unapologetically and waved her goodbye by flicking her fingers and blowing her a kiss.

Annabeth wanted to slow clap and pat her in the back for a job well done. She didn't need to anyway because the matching gleam in their eyes spoke enough for both of them. Piper and Annabeth became good friends, bonding over a mutual hatred of Drew. Then Piper started hanging out with Annabeth's group of friends, and the rest is history.

"You've got to be honest, though, Annie. You love it when I come by." She sips from her smoothie. "Because then, you won't have to eat packed mashed potatoes again."

"I love mashed potatoes," Annabeth says defensively, reaching for a toast and slathering it with strawberry jam.

"No, you don't." Piper also eats her toast with avocadoes. She gestures at Annabeth's food. "I hope you like strawberry jam."

"It's okay," Annabeth chews. It's decent enough, she thinks. Strawberry had been her favorite jam when she was younger, but that has changed now.

"I just thought maybe you should try a different flavor. All I ever see you have is blueberry. I figured maybe you miss your old favorite."

"I don't. Blueberry is everything to me."

Piper probably doesn't mean to sting Annabeth when she mutters, "Took you long enough to realize it, though."

But Annabeth is stung. And Piper is correct.

Blueberry is Percy's favorite. She had never appreciated it until Percy was gone from her life. She just one day found herself picking blueberry jam instead of strawberry at the grocery. Because, somehow, it made her feel closer to him. It was a futile act, but it was all she could cling to.

They ate in relative silence for a while before Annabeth remembers the conversation over the phone the previous day. It's time to question Piper about it. "Hey," she waits until Piper is looking at her. "You wanted to tell me something."

Piper's brows scrunch up.

"Yesterday," Annabeth clarifies. "Over the phone?"

Piper draws a blank.

Annabeth elaborates, "We were talking about Friday night, and I said yes to going, and then it's like you hesitated over something?"

Annabeth can tell when the realization hits. Piper's eyes widen a fraction. "Oh,"

Annabeth stares expectantly.

Piper looks down, breaking their eye contact, "It was nothing," she says with a small voice.

"You're lying."

Piper doesn't deny the accusation, but her eyes remain downcast.

"Piper, what are you keeping from me?" Annabeth asks, feeling that the playful air around them has been replaced by tension yet again. Piper bites her lower lip, only spurring Annabeth's curiosity. "Piper,"

"Annie, I'm sorry." Piper whispers. She raises her head to look at Annabeth with wide, desperate eyes.

"I can't accept your apology if I don't know what it is for," Annabeth's gaze doesn't leave Piper's. They look at each other - Annabeth urging and Piper trembling.

Finally, Piper sighs in defeat and quietly utters. "It's Percy."

Silence immediately follows Piper's statement. Because for the first time in many years, Piper openly mentions Percy's name in her presence.

Annabeth answers, trying to keep her voice level, "What about Percy?"

Piper gnaws at her lower lip, "I've wanted to tell you, but…"

"But?"

Like a dam breaking, Piper begins barraging. "I don't know if I should be the one to tell you this. I mean, yes, of course, I'm your best friend, but I'm his friend too. And after that-that," she wrings her hands. "I mean, he's been gone for so long, and maybe if I tell you, he's just going to disappear again. He never said anything about not telling you, but I - or, or maybe you're going to disappear this time and I - we can't have any of that, you know? Especially not now. So I decided to wait for the right time, but I don't know if there's ever a right time for anything, really-and, and,"

Piper is talking so fast that Annabeth struggles to catch up. "Piper, you're rambling."

"I know!" Piper whines in frustration. "And I hate to be turned into a blubbering fool, but I… but I want you to know that I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want either of you running away in different directions when the wedding's in a week!"

Annabeth grabs Piper's swinging arms. "Piper," she snaps to get her friend's attention and stop her from ranting anymore. "If you would just tell me-"

"He's in New York!"

It makes Annabeth pause. Well, she knows that. But the possibility that Piper knows about it didn't cross her mind. Percy had mentioned being back in town for a few days now, but Piper could not have known that, right? If Piper did, she would have told Annabeth right away because if anybody knows about Annabeth's broken heart pining after Percy all these years, it's Piper. She would've said something.

But Piper is in her kitchen with a guilt-stricken face. "How long have you known?"

Piper blinks, confused. "You don't sound surprised. Do you know he's back?"

Annabeth nods, "Only yesterday. We saw each other at Starbucks."

"Oh,"

"Piper, how long have you known that he's here?" Annabeth repeats her question, impatient to hear that Piper only actually found out the same day Annabeth did.

But Piper grimaces, hunching in her seat to make herself small. "Since he told Jason that he was coming home," she finally admits. She draws a shaky breath, hanging her head in guilt.

Something inside Annabeth collapses. She leans back in her seat in disbelief, "You all knew?"

Piper quickly shakes her head, "No, not all of us. Only Jason, Grover, and I." Annabeth almost sag in relief to know that she isn't the only one left in the dark about this. "None of us has seen Percy yet, though. He's been busy with the transfer of work location and settling in again. That's also why Friday night is important. He'd be there. For the first time in a long while, we'd be complete."

Annabeth is silent for a period, then nods weakly.

"Do you hate me?" Piper's voice hitches, and when Annabeth turns to her, her eyes are already brimming with tears.

She hates when Piper cries. God, it isn't even her fault that she knows. It isn't her fault that Percy told Jason and Grover, his best friends, and it isn't her fault that Jason told her. Annabeth knows Piper would rather not know. But now that she does, it's not her fault she wants to protect both Annabeth and Percy from each other. Not after what happened years ago between them.

Annabeth stands up and walks over to her friend, who is just about ready to explode. As soon as she opens her arms for Piper, her friend immediately melts into soft sobs. "I'm sorry, Annabeth. I didn't want to lie, but…" her voice catches again, and Annabeth rubs her back to soothe her. Piper must have felt bad about keeping the secret from her, knowing how important it is for Annabeth.

"I don't hate you, Piper. I can never hate you."

Piper sniffles, "I lied to you,"

"You kept a secret." Annabeth corrects. "That's hardly lying. And you did it for a good reason."

Piper pulls away from the hug to look at Annabeth, her eyes still misty from crying. "Thank you, Annie."

Despite herself, Annabeth smirks. "But you owe me a week of coffee and breakfast for this."

Piper laughs, and the heavy atmosphere around them dissipates completely.

/./ curt /./

[lunarsaga]

Chapter 6: The Poison Master

Here it is, Chapter 6!

Chapter 7 is in the works, and will be going up on patreon soon! Stay tuned and follow me on Twitter for updates!

Don't forget that this is meant to read like a graphic novel, meaning the art pieces are part of the story and aren't meant to be skipped!

Also trying a new thing! "========" <- Lines like this are scene breaks "// ~ ~ ~ \\" <- and these are perspective changes!

ENJOY, MY LOVES! (ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ

===========================================

“I’m going after Jakotsu.”

It was said with such confidence—the confidence of a man who had not just been struggling to keep himself from getting sliced to pieces by an undead murderer that kept trying to flirt with him—that Luna just had to wonder if it was really Inuyasha saying it. (It was, of course. She was just being sarcastic.)

“That’s funny, I thought I just heard you say you were going after that psychopath.” Luna said to the half-demon. She idly pulled her hair down from her ponytail and began to weave it into a loose braid.

“I am!” Inuyasha said, indignant. “He couldn’t have gotten far.”

“Yes, but Inuyasha,” Miroku interjected, “aren’t you worried about that poisonous gas?”

“Whaddya mean?”

Thoughtful, Miroku glanced off in the direction where they’d encountered the first of the Band of Seven. The cloud had almost entirely dispersed, but if you looked hard enough, you could still see wisps of the toxic smoke drifting into the sky. “Well, Jakotsu seemed to know something about it.”

“You’re right…” Inuyasha said, “You think it’s another member of the Band of Seven?”

“Could be…” Sango mused, “but didn’t Jakotsu seem to be in danger himself? Why would a member of his own team endanger him?”

“Infighting?” Luna guessed, running her fingers through the tangles in her hair. “They’re ruthless mercenaries, I wouldn’t expect them to be one big bloodthirsty family… Unless…” She tilted her head, trailing off in thought.

“Unless what…?” Kagome asked, looking at her sister in concern.

Luna paused another second, still deep in thought as she began to weave her hair into a loose braid. “I mean… If Jakotsu knows the guy? He probably knew that there was still time to avoid the poison. He did tell Inuyasha to get out of the way, remember.” Only Inuyasha, but still.

Inuyasha turned away from the rest of them, uncrossing his arms. “Whatever the case, I’m not letting him get away. You all stay here, and stay safe.”

“Don’t do anything stupid!” Luna called after him as he ran off.

“You’re one to talk.” Ai snorted, earning her a gentle kick from the Hunter sitting next to her.

Kagome stood from where she’d been rifling through her bag, holding a nearly-empty plastic bottle. “Ah, we’re almost out of water… I think I saw a well on our way over here, I’m gonna go fill this up.”

Luna arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Is going off on your own a good idea when there’s a bunch of killer zombies in the area?”

Kagome sighed, smiling back at her. “I’ll be fine, it’s not far. Shippo, why don’t you come with me?” Shippo grinned and jumped into Kagome’s bike basket as she got it on the road. “You should show Sango your crossbow, Luna.”

“Crossbow?” Sango asked.

“Ah, yes, I’m actually interested in seeing how it works up close,” Miroku said, “I saw you use it on Jakotsu, it was impressive.”

Luna smiled and shook her head. “Alright, be safe, Kagome.” She hoisted up the crossbow to show her friends how the arms unfolded, getting a little chuckle out of it when the two of them jumped.

“It does that all on its own?” Sango asked as Luna handed it over to her. She was unsure where to hold it for a second, but Luna showed her how.

“Yep, they’re spring-loaded, so they just pop out,” Luna explained.

Luna went on to answer all sorts of questions about it, and while Sango and Miroku (and even Kilala) seemed interested in the strange contraption, Ai had heard it all before, when Luna had first returned to this world with it. She stretched herself out, her tail fluffing itself out as she curled up against a warm rock. Mmm… warm… Her eyelids began to droop as she got comfortable there; it had been such an exhausting day already…

But as she was about to drift off, she took a deep breath, and a rancid smell hit her nose. She jolted upright with a disgusted hiss, trying to find where the smell was coming from.

“Ai?” Luna asked, “What’s up?”

Kilala seemed to pick up on the scent too—something foul was drifting in the air. The elder cat demon transformed into her full form, and Ai stood, hair bristling.

“Something doesn’t smell right.”

Luna picked up on the tension right away, and her thoughts immediately went to her sister. “God damnit, Kagome...” She hissed, going to her backpack and rifling through it.

“Kagome’s in trouble?” Miroku stood, worried.

“The smell’s coming from the same direction she went,” Ai said.

“And the smell could be that person with the poison,” Sango had already grabbed Hiraikotsu and was putting on her Slayer’s mask. “We don’t wanna take any chances—it’s too bad I only have one of these…”

“No worries, I’ve got these. Here, Miroku.” Luna pulled a medical mask out of her kit to hand it to her friend. “It won’t do much, but it’ll at least keep you from inhaling anything.”

“Thank you, Luna—what about you?”

Luna held up something from her bag: her own mask. It was a military-grade gas mask with a clear face shield, modified to fit a Hunter’s needs. “This one’s mine. It’s made specifically for Hunters like me,” She said as she slipped it over her head. She was well aware that to the locals she might look like a demon, but fuck if she cared; her sister was in danger. The first thing in hand was her crossbow, and she grabbed her ammo bag as she was taking off running.

As it turned out, they were right to call the masks, but Luna certainly didn’t expect to find an entire village choked with poison like a deadly mist. It was barely past lunchtime, and they’d already seen so much death—it was disheartening to see bodies strewn everywhere. But through the mist, they could see Shippo rolling on the ground and coughing, Kagome crouched on her hands and knees, and some weird little figure looming over her. (Well, maybe looming was a strong word. The guy was like three feet tall.)

Sango didn’t hesitate to swing Hiraikotsu; the first swing shattered the poison bottle in the creep’s hand.

“Stay back!” Shouted the little toad of a man.

“Like hell I will,” Luna snarled, aiming her crossbow at the poison master. “Step away from my sister. Now.”

Shippo was finally able to scramble to his feet, and, unsure of what else to do, proclaimed: “I’ll go get Inuyasha!” and took off running.

“Ai, go with him!” Luna said to her friend. The Bakeneko hesitated a moment, worried, but then shifted into her full form and took off after the young fox demon.

“He had to be the one behind the smoke,” Miroku said, of the poison master, “Which means he must be another member of the Band of Seven!”

The laugh that exited the little man made Luna want to vomit. “Yes! I am Mukotsu, Poison Master!”

“Then tell me, Mukotsu, someone must have resurrected you all,” Miroku continued. “Is Naraku behind all this?”

“Hehehehehe, couldn’t tell you! You’ll have to ask the Captain…” He trailed off, reaching back into the little box he was carrying on his back and quickly retrieving another bottle of poison. “Should you survive, that is!”

Luna wasn’t about to give him another second to unplug the bottle. She tried to step toward her sister again, but she only got to fire once before her vision was blocked by powerful black smoke that ejected towards them. Kilala—completely unaffected by the poison, it seemed—jumped in front of Luna to block the bulk of it.

“NO!” Luna shouted, trying to see around the giant Nekomata, “Kagome!”

Luna felt the crushing weight of helplessness almost immediately. That was her sister, helpless and about to pass out, and she couldn’t help. She couldn’t see, couldn’t move, couldn’t do… anything.

It was less than a minute until the smoke cleared, but it felt like an eternity. When she could see again, it only confirmed what she already knew: her sister had been taken. She knew her mask would’ve filtered out whatever the poison was made of, but her legs were still shaking. Not with pain, not with shock… but with pure, unbridled anger. Her lungs could only draw in sharp, furious breaths.

Lock it up, she told herself. She focused the energy buzzing around in her head on keeping herself contained—as best she could. Her face was solid as stone, and she snapped into work mode. She needed to make sure Sango and Miroku were okay—she could just see them again through the dissipating smoke. She looked them both over quickly, trying to make sure they hadn’t been affected.

“We’re alright, are you okay?” Sango asked her, “Where’s Kagome?”

“Gone.” Luna said flatly. “Let’s move. That little freak couldn’t have taken her far.”

“We should go back to where we were first,” Miroku suggested. “I have a feeling we are going to need the rest of both of your supplies.”

==============================================

When Kagome regained consciousness, she was in a completely different place. Her vision was still blurry—all she could make out was a wooden floor beneath her, and a hearth a few feet away. She tried to reach up to rub her eyes, but her arm wouldn’t move. She blinked, but her eyelids were so heavy. That was the only movement she could manage, and it was like trying to lift blocks of concrete.

My body… I can’t move…! She could feel her heart pounding in terror. She was trapped, in the worst way possible.

That guy—the “Poison Master” guy—he was a member of the Band of Seven. He’d done something… She could hear him, a few feet away from her, cackling in a way that made her stomach turn.

“We’re surrounded by a barrier of poisonous gas,” He uttered as he moved closer to her, “no one can disturb us!”

If she could move her face, she would have winced in disgust. This guy was creepy to the extreme—she knew in the back of her mind that if Luna were here, she would’ve kicked the absolute crap out of him. Kagome wanted to, too, but…

The Poison Master—Mukotsu, that’s what his name was, wasn’t it?—he kept chuckling as he grabbed Kagome’s chin. “Such a rare beauty—I’m so fortunate getting married to such a pretty girl~”

MARRIED? Kagome felt sick.

“You see, believe it or not,” Mukotsu reached up to remove the cloth mask covering most of his face, “there are some that find me unattractive.”

And no wonder, she thought as she was able to take in his full visage. He looks like a toad!

Kagome had no option but to physically abide by the “bridal preparations”; she felt like a ragdoll. It was humiliating. Surely her friends were coming—lord knows Luna would tear the countryside apart just by herself to find her, and if Shippo went to get Inuyasha? Kagome knew she was going to be okay, eventually, but she wasn’t about to just sit here and let this creep treat her like an object.

I have to find a way out of here, she thought, resolute. But how…?

She couldn’t move her head more than a little, but as Mukotsu was trying to dance her around for a “Marriage Ceremony” (gross), she caught sight of something glinting in his neck.

That has to be a Jewel Shard! If I can just get it somehow… Now she had to figure out how she was going to do that. Thankfully, the Universe provides. Mukotsu returned her to the floor after their “marriage dance”, this time directly facing the hearth, and she saw her opportunity: sticking upright out of the ashes was the fire poker. Now if I can just grab it...

Then, like a miracle, help finally arrived. “Arrived”, meaning “crashed through the roof”, but her friends and her sister arrived all the same.

“Kagome!” She heard Sango’s voice first, right next to her. Her friend helped her roll over, and from there Kagome could see her sister and Miroku: Luna had her crossbow ready to fire, pointed at Mukotsu—and she had on this odd-looking mask. Something from her arsenal, no doubt.

“Kagome, are you alright?!” That was Miroku.

There was a click as Luna drew back the crossbow’s string, ready to fire. “Get the fuck away from my sister.” Her voice was gravely steady—she almost didn’t sound like herself.

“How dare you interrupt our wedding ceremony!” Mukotsu grabbed one of his poison jars.

“Oh, so you wanna die, then!” Luna snarled.

Sango stood, quickly drawing her katana and brandishing Hiraikotsu like a shield. “Luna, leave him to me! Get Kagome away!”

No time to argue. Luna growled and stooped to grab her sister, just as Mukotsu unleashed the contents of the jar. Kagome watched Sango and Miroku stagger back, before Luna rolled her out of the way.

As the poison billowed around the room, Kagome felt her fingers regain some motor control. As her sister pulled up the hood of her flannel shirt to try to shield them from the cloud, Kagome managed to tug on it.

“The Shard…” Kagome managed to utter. “In… his neck…”

She saw the realization in Luna’s face, and the older girl nodded. “Got it, aim for the throat. Try to hold your breath, sis, I’ll have everyone out of here in a sec.”

“Those masks of yours won’t help!” Gloated the Poison Master, “This poison enters through the eyes and skin!”

“God damnit!” Kagome could only watch as her sister swore and staggered. Sango and Miroku had already fallen to the floor, and Luna was clearly not going to last much longer, either.

I have to help! Steeling her resolve, Kagome forced her hands to move. Come on, body… move! She pushed herself up just enough to grab the poker from the fireplace.

// ~ ~ ~ \\

Luna refused to crumble. She stood between her sister and Mukotsu, stumbling and shaking but still able to raise her crossbow. But with her arms getting weaker by the second, aiming steadily was getting pretty damn hard. Still, if she could just hit the bastard…

She was only able to let off one bolt, and the force of it sent her staggering backwards, until she stumbled into the wall and hit the floor. She felt sick; she doubled over onto her hands and knees, her vision drifting between blurry and straight up red. She was not going to be defeated by this lowlife.

You keep fighting, kid. No matter what happens, you keep fighting.

The voice echoed in the back of her mind, a voice she knew all too well. Her arms couldn’t hold her up anymore, but as she watched Mukotsu get closer to her sister again, she pushed herself away from the wall. Tears in her eyes, she struggled a few feet across the floor on her stomach to grab her crossbow again. She saw her sister, finally getting her strength back, stab the motherfucker in the throat. She wanted to cheer for her, but that would have to wait.

Mukotsu smacked Kagome back to the floor, which only fueled Luna’s rage. Her crossbow was ready to fire—but damn, she couldn’t see through the cloud of poison! It was starting to fog up the face shield on her mask, making it even harder to aim. But with the fucking creep trying to choke her baby sister out, she had to fight.

Dammit!

Luna took a deep breath, ripped the mask off, and got in position to aim—which was a tall order. Everything was fuzzy and she was mere seconds from passing out. She saw the light of the jewel shard (was that what that weird glow was?) and aimed for it. She only had one shot, it had to be enough. She hoped it would be enough. She let the bolt loose… and heard Mukotsu cry out.

She could barely see, barely breathe, barely move—but… wait… that glow wasn’t the Jewel Shard after all, was it? This glow was a sickly sort of green. And there was a lot of white behind it. Was she… was she seeing things? Was that….

“Kags…” Her voice was weak as she tried to crawl toward her.

“Luna…!” Kagome was still just as weak, but managed to shift toward her sister.

“Tell me, is Inuyasha here?”

Kagome turned back toward the powerful demon who stood over them, completely unaffected by the cloud of poison. Luna followed her gaze, and for a second she thought she was hallucinating; she could’ve sworn, even in her delirium, that she saw the bolt she fired buried deep in Sesshomaru’s shoulder. The end of it was letting off little sparks of purple light that quickly faded—but Luna’s vision was finally going out. She could hear her sister calling her name one more time before she fully passed out and crumpled to the wood floor.

[phantomrose96]

Ghost Speak: The Teacher Part 6

part 1- part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5

A secret santa gift for @thickerthanectoplasm - who asked for something with an OC of hers (I chose Annie!)

...

When Annie Fenton got home from school, she shut the door a bit harder than usual, and wriggled off her shoes a bit more forcefully than usual, and stomped to the kitchen to start eating cereal out of the box a bit more angrily than usual.

“How was school, Annie?” Danny asked over his shoulder. He kept his words light, hands still tinkering with the ecto-earpiece he’d been trying to sync to his phone’s bluetooth for a while. The gadget was meant for communication during battle, but Danny wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity for ecto-powered (therefore, him-powered) running headphones.

Annie only huffed. The sounds of fist-being-shoved-into-cereal-box and angry-cereal-crunching got louder.

Danny set the ear pieces down, and sat up straight on the living room couch, now properly angling his body around to see his daughter standing on the other side of the kitchen counter – phone in hand, angry-cereal-grabbing with the other. “Not great then?”

“School was stupid. I wrote an awesome essay and Mr. Flannigan failed me on it.”

James, seated at the kitchen table, perked up a touch. “Mr. Flannigan’s an asshole. You probably shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Hey, language,” Danny chided, now fully rising from the couch.

James looked up. “Dad I’m 15. I can say asshole.”

“No you can’t. I was 15 once and I definitely couldn’t say asshole.”

James grumbled. Danny smiled. He rounded the couch and stopped just shy of the kitchen counter. He lowered his elbows onto the countertop and leaned in. “So, that essay?”

“Look!” Annie tossed the cereal box down, yoinked her bag from the floor, tugged the zipper hard enough to risk snapping it, and rifled through the scores of smashed and stashed papers in her bag before emerging with a crumpled, stapled-at-the-corner document. “Read it!”

Danny took the paper from her. A half-sheet rubric was stapled on top. At a glance, Danny could see all categories of the rubric had been slashed-through. Scrawled at the top in black ink it said, “Not legible. Cannot grade. Please write neatly next time.”

Danny flipped the rubric. He cleared his throat and began reading. “In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, numerous types of symbolism are used throughout the story. Such things as Gatsby’s car, the green light, and T.J. Eckleberg’s eyes all are symbolic of the themes in the story.--”

Annie slammed her hands on the counter, then threw both arms out. “See! You can totally read it!”

James nudged his way into the kitchen, ducking under Annie’s outstretched arms and sidling up behind Danny to glance at the essay.

“Annie I can read this too. I don’t know what the hell Flannigan’s problem is.”

“Language, James.”

“What the heck Flannigan’s problem is,” James amended.

Danny focused back on the essay, a bit of righteous indignation rising in his chest. He continued to skim, and not a single word was illegible. Annie’s handwriting wasn’t perfect, perhaps, and the ink had smudged in a few places. But it was neat enough, and clear enough, and certainly readable.

The front door clicked open, a gust of crisp fall air funneling in as Sam wiggled her key loose, a complicated effort with both arms wrapped about brown bags of groceries. Danny, Annie, and James all turned to watch her as she kicked off her shoes, and kneed the door shut, and set the bags down on the counter.

“You would not believe the lines today. I’ve never seen that place so crowded on a Tues—what?”

Sam paused mid sentence, eyes flitting among her family members all gathered in the kitchen, hunched over a sheet of paper. “What did I walk in on?” Sam asked, more than a little used to catching her whole family conspiring to do something stupid, dangerous, or both.

“Mr. Flannigan failed me because he’s an asshole!” Annie shouted.

“I said language,” Danny responded.

“What?” Sam asked.

“He said my writing ‘isn’t legible’,” Annie continued with air quotes. “But that’s bullshit because Dad AND James can read it no problem. Flannigan’s just a jerk and too lazy to read the essay I SLAVED over.”

“Annie’s totally right like it’s not even that messy,” James chimed in, head angling past his father.

“Yeah I skimmed the whole thing and nothing’s wrong with it,” Danny said.

“See?! Validation! And corruption in the system!” Annie banged her fist on the counter top. “I will not stand idly by as the oppressing teaching class tries to tank my grades!”

“I think we should call the school, maybe,” Danny said.

“Or I can talk to Flannigan. He knows me, and I think kinda likes me,” James offered.

“And I’ll kick his butt!”

“Or we could—” Danny started.

“Give it,” Sam said, hand outstretched and fingers curling in twice in quick succession.

“Huh?”

“The essay in your hands that you’re waving around. Let me see it.”

“Oh, right,” and Danny handed the paper over.

Sam set her eyes to it. Annie pounded one fist into her open palm.

“Whole Fenton family’s got my back,” she said. “Flannigan’s ass is grass!”

Danny cuffed her lightly on the shoulder “Language.”

“Yup, it’s exactly what I hoped it wasn’t,” Sam declared, hefting a sigh that could be felt across the room as she set her free hand to her forehead and dragged it down her face. “It’s been what, 20 years maybe? Since I’ve seen this stupid language.”

“Wait, language?” Danny asked.

“What language Mom? This is my English essay.”

“Maybe she means all your swearing?” James proposed.

“Why the hell would I swear in an English essay James? I’m not stupid.”

“Annie for the last time you better watch it with that langu—” Danny stopped cold. “…Oh. Oh. Oh no,” he said with a single quiet breath. “Wait, give it back. Give it here.” He motioned for the paper, which Sam handed to him. He smoothed out the wrinkles, and began skimming the essay again.

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, numerous types of symbolism are used throughout the story. Such things as—

No, Danny stared closer, squinted at the paper, willed himself to see the words one-at-a-time. Dissect. Isolate. Read. Really read.

Im F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, hyrrelt num krechnor fa knurriert gan tepeirier van flyrr. Grakk kann nyrut—

“Oh no,” Danny muttered. “Oh no Annie, not you too.”

“Oh thank god!” Sam declared, throwing her arms up in the air. “Some sweet sweet English!”

“Some sweet—wait—wait was I--?” Danny motioned to himself, fingers spread, palm toward his face, hand waving up and down. “Have I not been speaking English? This whole time?”

“Nope,” she poked Danny in the chest, “not a single English word until ‘Oh no Annie’.” 

“…Really?” Danny asked.

“I walked in here. Put the groceries down. Asked ‘what’s going on?’ And all three—all three of you—just went off. None of it was English. I’ve been working off context clues.”

“Hang on what do you mean not English?” Annie grabbed her own paper back, skimming through. “I only know English. What other language could this even be in?”

“Danny, please, answer whatever she just asked, because I don’t have the first clue what she said,” Sam said, turning to rifle through her grocery bags. “I already did this whole dance with you. I’m clocking out on this one.”

“Ghost, Annie,” Danny answered, angling his shoulders just slightly to face his daughter head-on. “Ghost Speak. Ghosts and half-ghosts just kind of, know the language, I guess. We slip into it sometimes without meaning to. Well, I usually don’t. Anymore, at least. But I did right now, I guess, accidentally.”

Annie squinted at her paper. “I wrote an essay in Ghost? I can speak Ghost?”

“You’re speaking it right now.”

“This is Ghost???”

“Listen to yourself closely. You can like, hear it on the fringes of your words.”

“Are you messing with me?” Annie shut her mouth, suddenly tingling with the feeling of sharp edges and enunciations from her mouth that she wasn’t used to. Weird curves and curls of her tongue. A hiss. A light growl. Her smile spread across her whole face. “Oh wicked. Hell yeah, hell yeah! Also, um, how do I stop?”

“With practice. And with training. And with… help… unfortunately,” Danny muttered, seeming to go a little pale.

“Oh no.” Sam paused, letting the groceries sit. “Danny, you’re not going to.”

“I am. For Annie’s sake, I’m willing to make this sacrifice.”

“What sacrifice?” Annie asked.

Danny pulled his phone from his pocket. He thumbed through his contact list and settled on one, and raised the phone to his ear, and the sound of muffled ringing filled the room. A click. A muted hello?

“Hi. Mr. Lancer? It’s Danny. Yeah. Yeah. Good, and you? Yeah, so, I need a favor from you. And before you ask, yes I’m serious—”

…

Hardly 40 minutes had passed when the doorbell rang. Annie opened the door to the sight of an old man almost too tall for the frame, and yet comically too lithe for it as well, almost like she had opened the door for a tree sapling. The old man tipped his bowler’s hat, and seemed to roll and bounce into the house with limbs made of springs.

“Yo! Danny! It has been ages! How the kryypt are you?!”

“Ryan, language,” Danny said, his tone every ounce defeated.

The bean pole man wrapped Danny in a hug, gave him two quick pats on the back and shoved him back. “Yes, language for sure. What’s the damage? Where’s the culprit? I need details.”

“This…” Danny started slowly, motioning to Annie, “is my daughter, Annie. She slipped into Ghost today and hasn’t yet been able to unslip.”

Annie blinked, trying to catch up with the conversation. She got a good look at the newcomer for the first time, as he had finally stopped moving: The man was definitely in his 70’s, his graying hair spiked up front, smushed and disheveled slightly from the bowler hat. His face was deeply wrinkled, skin practically carved into puzzle pieces from—Annie could only speculate—the way his face seemed to bend to an absurd degree with every single emotion that crossed it. He wore square-frame glasses that magnified his eyes, bug-like. His outfit was thrift store chic: hawaiian palm unbuttoned shirt, graphic T beneath with a winking cartoon alligator, tie with stacks of library books printed on it, military camo pants, socks, sandals.

“Your outfit…” Annie spoke slowly, almost in mirror of her father. Her eyes lit up. “absolutely fucking rules.”

“Ha!” the man struck a pose, superman-like, and then flipped his tie over his shoulder. “Thank you! Someone who appreciates fashion!” He stuck a comically-too-large hand out for Annie to shake. “Ryan Finn, spectral enthusiast, and long-time-Fenton-family-friend!”

“More of an acquaintance,” Danny interjected.

Annie took his hand and shook it vigorously. “I didn’t know my dad had any cool friends. Besides maybe Aunt Val.”

“I set a high bar, that’s for sure!” Ryan angled his head over his shoulder toward Danny, still shaking Annie’s hand. “Danny, this child is fantastic!”

“I’m gonna take a nap,” Sam said, rising from the couch and shutting the book she was reading. “Wake me up if anything’s on fire.”

Danny watched her go, staring at the creaking staircase until she had vanished entirely. He looked back on the room, eyes a bit wider, as if suddenly much more afraid of his current company.

“Yeah I’ve um… got to go… patrol… actually… Box Ghost… you know… yeah…” Danny rose too, much more suddenly and tensely than Sam, and transformed on spot. “If you two need anything, don’t hesitate to call Mr. Lancer.”

“Good ol’ Edward!” Ryan chimed back.

“Wait, as in Zelda’s dad?” Annie asked.

“He owes me like, a million times over. Ryan’s kind of his, anyway.”

And with that, Danny shot through the roof, disappearing as a pinprick on the horizon already several hundred feet away. Ryan watched him disappear, then turned back to Annie with a grin.

“I’ve got plenty of experience teaching Ghost, so trust me you’re learning from the best of the best. I also had plenty of time to iron out the wrinkles with my lesson plans when I was running this course on your dad.”

“Wait, you taught my dad?”

“Oh he taught me plenty too. It was mutual! It’s the mark of real life-long friends to bring out the best in each other.”

“How long ago?”

“Oh, man, 20 years ago at this point.”

“So like, you taught him as a teenager? As in when he was my age?”

“Yup and yup.”

“Do you have embarrassing stories about him I can use as blackmail? Can you tell me?? Dad acts like he was only ever cool growing up, and I need to know these things. I need dirt.”

“I will tell anything to anyone who asks with enough enthusiasm! I can keep no secrets, ever! Except one, which is your dad’s identity. I kept that one. But you already know that so I am sworn to no one and nothing! And I can confirm your dad was an absolute mess as a teenager. But still, you have to earn embarrassing stories. Do well with these lessons and we’ll see what I can dish out on your dad. So! Ghost Speak Lesson One! How to stop speaking Ghost! Are you ready kid?”

Ryan struck another pose, and with a grin, Annie mirrored it.

“Oh fuck yeah I’m ready,” she answered.

“Hey!” Ryan stuck a finger out, pointed at Annie. He paused, and the grin on his face spread wider. “I like your fucking language, Kiddo.”

[oureuphoria]

Worst of You - JJK 04

You meet him under horrible circumstances but that doesn’t stop you from developing a very abnormal and completely unsolicited crush on your local hot police officer™. Too bad you have a bitch of a best friend, anxiety and an inability to learn from your mistakes which cripples your chances to be with the man of your literal dreams. Oh, and he has a lifetime’s worth of emotional baggage at 23.

Or

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong.” “Cool, I’ll let everyone know that you’re moving in then.”

Genre: fluff, angst, comedy

Pairing: officer!jungkook X collegestudent!reader

Word count: 2,067

Note: Admit it, we’ve all panicked over grades.

| 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 

You were never this anxious over a grade before but that essay had to have been some of your worst work yet. You were distracted - so much so that you forgot to fill out a misadventure form - by not only the traumatic events of that solemn Saturday night but also a specific officer that rudely invaded your thoughts and a best friend who wanted nothing to do with them. So yes, you were completely and undeniably panicking.

Unfortunately, there were still 7 hours before you’d get your grade back and you had no idea how you were going to kill the time. You dwelled for a bit, which was a pretty great distraction for the 8 blissful minutes that it lasted, but to no avail. You had nothing to do. Your morning class was cancelled, you had no students to tutor and you’d just finished the only Netflix series that you’d actually enjoyed and with it left your hope.

Sure, you were a little dramatic but there was absolutely no way you were going to get through the day without crying if you didn’t find a distraction and fast. Your mind went to a lot of weird places like taking a walk, or cooking, all very normal everyday activities that you would frankly rather die than do voluntarily.

However, the worst place your mind went to was when it hovered over Jungkook’s contact for a moment too long. Your finger slipped. No, it literally slipped and you didn’t even realise you were calling until you heard his distant voice from your phone. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” “Hello, who’s this?” You panicked and your hands began to fumble with your phone like it was some foreign object. Eventually you grew the courage to just greet the poor confused man on the phone.

“Hi.” The line went silent and you looked to check if he’d just hung up but he was still there, you could hear his breathing. “Who’s this?” Right. He didn’t save your number, and therefore gave you a chance to hang up and pretend this entire ordeal never happened but you didn’t think that far and before you knew it you were telling him your name. “It’s Y/N…” You heard a sigh of relief and then a sound of realisation before Jungkook started using coherent words. “So, Y/N, what’s up?"

“Did you try your best?” You groaned in frustration at his very general and unhelpful comment. “Of course I tried my best but this isn’t kindergarten. I’m not being graded on effort.” You angrily poked at your burrito and Jungkook just blinked in astonishment. Comforting you was a challenge and now he was fighting it first hand. “When I invited you to lunch, I’d assumed you’d be eating it.” You stopped poking the poor burrito and looked at him with a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry, I’m just stressed.” He waved you off, mouth full with his now devoured burrito.

After he finished his mouthful, he was staring at your food obviously. “Are you gonna e-” “Just take it.” He smiled before taking a giant bite of your rather untouched burrito. “Chief has us working double shifts, spring break is approaching, kid’s are getting reckless, you know the drill.” You nervously laughed though in your current state everything you did was nervous.

“Jeon!” A man dressed in a similar uniform approached the desk you were both seated at. You gave him a small smile once you noticed the badge that read ‘CHIEF’. “I’m sorry to cut your break short but that stolen car you’ve been looking for has been traced. You should go check it out before it’s moved again.” Jungkook nodded and gave you an apologetic smile that you immediately waved off. “Go save a life or something.” Although your comment was entirely sarcastic, Jungkook gave you a playful salute in response with a smile that made your heart swell. “I’m sorry, let me know how that grade goes.” You nodded absentmindedly, you’d momentarily forgotten about the grade and the fleeting feeling made you sad in its absence.

You walked slowly back to your dormitory from the police station and allowed yourself to be distracted by anything and everything. You even followed a pigeon for hell of it but just like you, the pigeon was going in elongated circles. You needed to return to your dormitory eventually and face the sad truth that was your grade.

Eventually, the time for the results to be uploaded had come and you were patiently waiting for your grade. You needed a 90 to maintain your GPA but you braced yourself for the outcome. All you needed was to pass and yet even that seemed so out of reach.

89.9%. You tried to laugh but it lacked emotion. Your professor had to be kidding. He seriously couldn’t just round that 0.1% to the 90% that you were sure he knew you needed. “Asshole.” You muttered under your breath but you smiled nonetheless. You did a lot better than you expected and this incredibly frustrating score was still a miracle.

Before you could get a chance to scream into the void, your phone lit up and the quiet buzz caught your attention. You were just expecting a message from your classmates wondering what your grade was so you certainly didn’t approach your phone with enough preparation for what you were going to face.

Jungkook 👮‍♂️ Hey, how are your results? Read 7:28pm

You stared at the phone for far longer than normal trying to formulate a reply but it was like all the brain cells in your head had collectively decided to combust without prior notice.

You Not my best but way better than I expected!!! Delivered 7:31pm

There was no time to dwell over your excessive use of explanation marks because within 2 minutes he was already reading your message. When the typing bubble began to show up you nervously gnawed at your lips to distract yourself from the anxiety. You were just talking about a grade and yet your fear was almost tangible.

Jungkook 👮‍♂️ That’s great! We should celebrate. Cafe at 3 tmr? Read 7:36pm

You were definitely not expecting that. In fact you were so unsuspecting that you almost replied with a thumbs up emoji. You typed and deleted at least 10 times before you replied with, ‘yeah sure :)’. Unfortunately, you couldn’t throw your phone into the depths of the pacific ocean from shame so instead you turned it off and prayed the horrible, tacky smiley face would erase itself.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

[goindownshipping]

‘ this is your favorite, right? ' - frostiron, if you please :D

A few of my favorite things

Pairing: Tony Stark/Loki (Frostiron)

Rating: Gen (G)

Notes: Some snarky frostiron fluff for your consideration! Thanks for the prompt @ohwereusingourmadeupnames​!

Warnings: Quasi teacher/student (Tony is a student teacher, Loki is his cooperating teacher), but everyone is of age and nothing happens until it would be deemed appropriate :)

Word count: 2k

Summary:

The last day of school was always bittersweet for Loki, but this year brought a whole new meaning to the word ... Anthony Stark, his student teacher for the semester, was causing more trouble for him than he ever expected. The trouble had nothing to do with his knowledge of science or his teaching ability. As a student teacher, Mr. Stark excelled and had a bright future wherever he chose to go next. No, the challenges came in Loki’s personal attachment to the man.

Or, Loki and Tony connect when Tony is assigned as Loki’s student teacher for a semester. Some lack of communication can’t get in the way of their witty infatuation and eventual love for each other.

The last day of school was always bittersweet for Loki, but this year brought a whole new meaning to the word. He had some of the brightest students he’d ever taught in his classes that semester; the AP students were bright and up for the challenge, the ninth graders were eager to learn, and his research students asked all the right questions. He knew all those students were going on to bigger and brighter things, many of them would be back the following year, though. 

However, the students weren’t the challenging ones to say goodbye to. Anthony Stark, his student teacher for the semester, was causing more trouble for him than he ever expected. The trouble had nothing to do with his knowledge of science or his teaching ability. As a student teacher, Mr. Stark excelled and had a bright future wherever he chose to go next. No, the challenges came in Loki’s personal attachment to the man. 

Five months ago, Anthony Stark walked into Loki’s classroom with a natural affinity for science and education that Loki had never seen or experienced. Sure, he was a young teacher himself, but he knew that what Mr. Stark possessed was special. He was proven correct when he observed Tony build real relationships with students, reimagine teaching styles to meet their needs, and take on responsibilities that neither Loki nor his professors expected of him.

Tony’s knack for high school chemistry and physics only scratched the surface of who he was. Loki couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t struck by Tony’s beauty from the very beginning, but he knew that wasn’t a subject that he could broach while Tony was under his mentorship. Tony never pushed it, but he knew the lingering glances and accidental touches were mutual between him and his cooperating teacher. There was one particular interaction between the two men that neither of them seemed to be able to shake.

About halfway through the semester, right around spring break, Loki and Tony were sitting around Loki’s desk grading exams and going over Tony’s progress. Loki had his daily English Breakfast tea in hand and Tony had to physically force himself to keep his eyes on the stack of tests in front of him rather than the gorgeous man across the desk.

“You know, these kids are only doing so well this year because you’re such a great teacher,” Loki said.

Tony blushed slightly. “I don’t know about that. You designed the curriculum.”

“Sure, but you’ve been taking the lead for the past few weeks. You figured out the best way to teach the concepts, not me.”

“Well, thank you. But I really am learning from the best.”

Loki blushed this time, but couldn’t bring himself to meet Tony’s gaze. “Have you thought about your plans for after graduation? You could get a job teaching physics or chemistry anywhere, Anthony. You’ve done really well here.”

Tony shrugged. “I’m not sure. My family really doesn’t want me to go into teaching at the high school level. I’ve been accepted to a Ph.D. program with a research emphasis…” Tony trailed off.

Loki looked up at the hesitation in Tony’s voice. “Is that what you want Anthony?”

Tony held his gaze. “It doesn’t really matter what I want, does it?”

Loki paused. He knew Tony’s family life was complicated. Being a Stark certainly wasn’t easy. He also knew that Tony wasn’t only referring to that particular situation with his comment.

“Anthony,” Loki started. 

“No, don’t,” Tony said firmly. “Please.” His shoulders sagged, all the fight going out of him with that final plea.

“For what it’s worth, I know what you mean,” Loki conceded.

Tony snorted, “Thanks, Mr. L.”

“Really, Tony? Mr. L?” Loki’s face morphed into a combination of hurt and confused. Over the past few months he and Tony had grown close; closer than he could’ve expected to grow with a student teacher. He knew it wasn’t breaking any rules, but he made sure that their relationship, if you could even call it that, never crossed any lines.

Loki cherished their daily chats over coffee and tea, countless inside jokes, and private smiles more than almost anything. He would give anything to explore a relationship with Tony outside the classroom, but he couldn’t do that - not yet. Tony just had a few more months under his guidance, then they could figure it out. He only hoped Tony would still be interested that far down the road.

“Sorry, Loki. It’s just- you know.”

“I know, Tony. Let’s get just get through this,” he gestured to the tests between them, “and go from there. Then once the semester is over, we’ll figure that out too,” he said hopefully.

The rest of the semester passed smoothly. Their students continued succeeding and Loki and Tony moved around each other seamlessly in the classroom, creating a positive learning environment for everyone. After school hours, Tony and Loki chatted over their hot beverage of choice and continued to build a connection neither man saw coming.

That was why Loki was so surprised when the last day of school came and went without so much as a goodbye from his student teacher. Tony’s semester had ended a few weeks prior, so his final evaluations and observations were already completed. When the high school semester came to an end, there weren’t any loose ends for him to tie up. As soon as that final bell rang, he was out the door without so much as a backward glance.

At first, Loki was hurt and confused. He thought they would’ve at least talked about whatever they could be once the school year ended. Tony’s disappearance made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in figuring anything out. 

A few weeks into summer, Loki’s confusion turned into acceptance. He knew how much pressure Tony was under, both self-inflicted and from his family. Loki resigned himself to thinking wishful thoughts that Tony found a way to pursue his own dreams, not the ones he was pressured to explore.

--

3 months later

The start of the school year was always chaotic. No matter how much planning and preparation Loki did, the first day of high school chemistry never seemed to go smoothly. From the fear in the eyes of his advanced placement students to the sheer boredom of his last class of the day, it was always the longest day of the year. At the same time, he never seemed to have enough time to actually get the ball rolling. When the last 16 year old sluggishly exited his classroom at 2:30pm, Loki was ready to collapse.

And he would have if there wasn’t an immediate knock at his classroom door. So much for catching his breath. He glanced through the narrow rectangular window and was surprised by the familiar dark eyes he found peering back at him. He nodded at the visitor, indicating for them to come in. His breath caught at the sight of Anthony Stark standing on the threshold of his classroom. It was a familiar sight and yet everything was different from that day nearly nine months prior.

“Anthony?”

“Figured I should make the rounds finally,” Tony shrugged. “Being the new kid on the block can be pretty tough.”

“The new- what?”

“Didn’t Fury tell you there was a new Physics teacher in the department?”

“Well, yes, I knew we were hiring, but just last week it was still vacant.”

“Well just last week I decided research was overrated,” Tony said with a smile.

“It’s lovely to see you, Anthony.” Loki’s face stretched into a grin without his permission and suddenly he was grinning like an idiot at the man in front of him. He took a few steps toward the door as Tony pulled the door shut behind him. 

Tony smiled that crooked grin and Loki’s resolve nearly broke. “Oh,” Tony closed the distance between them and reached a hand forward, extending a large reusable mug into Loki’s hand. “This is your favorite, right?”

Loki looked down in disbelief then back up at Tony as the scent of English Breakfast filled his nose as the steam billowed up from the mug. “Depends on what you’re referring to. You or the tea? Because it’s a hard decision right now.”

“I’ll leave that up to you,” Tony smirked. With that, he spun on his heel and headed for the door.

“Wait!” Loki called, desperate to stop Tony before he opened the door to the chaotic after school hallway.

Tony turned around, his hand loosely gripping the doorknob. “Yes?”

“Don’t just leave again,” Loki whispered, a hopeful smile on his face.

“I couldn’t have gone far, Loki. My classroom is just down the hall.”

“Still. Let’s get out of here. There’s never any real work to be done on the first day, right?”

Tony’s face broke into a grin again. “You tell me, Mr. L.”

“Oh god, no. None of that,” Loki groaned.

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot in 15 minutes.” Tony waved and before Loki could reply, he was disappearing down the hall.

Loki smiled as he sipped his tea, not quite sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t be mad about it. He quickly straightened up his classroom and locked the cabinets before laying out his plans for the following day. Before he knew it he was packing up his briefcase and locking his classroom. The halls were gratefully quiet by then, and when he made it to the parking lot he couldn’t help the pleasant butterflies in his chest at the sight of Anthony leaning against his car.

By the time he was directly in front of the slightly younger man, he had to physically stop himself from reaching out.

“So, where to Mr. Stark?”

“You’re not too far from here, yeah? Is it too forward to invite myself to your house?”

“Certainly not,” Loki smiled. “I’m just over there,” Loki gestured to his car across the lot. “Follow me out?”

“Sure thing!”

Loki stood still for a moment too long, and Tony didn’t miss the opportunity to let his eyes sweep up and down Loki’s tall figure. Loki felt a blush rise to his cheeks at the attention Tony was giving him. After just a few months away, he couldn’t seem to get his fill.

“You want a ride or something?” Tony asked with a smirk.

“Excuse me?!” Loki spluttered.

“To your car, Bambi. You look like a deer in the headlights.”

Loki cleared his throat and took a small step backward when he heard a group of students on the field behind the parking lot. “I’ll be just fine, Anthony. I’ll see you shortly.”

Loki could hear Tony laughing softly as he took long strides across the concrete, desperate to stop embarrassing himself for just a moment. He knew it would continue at his house, but a short break was better than nothing. As soon as he was behind the wheel he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His cheeks and the tops of his ears were bright red, no doubt due to Tony’s flirting and teasing. Loki shook his head with a smile. He was in for an interesting afternoon.

--

3 years later

“Hey, Lokes!” Tony called down the hall. “We’ve gotta go if we don’t want to be late!”

Loki scurried down the hall from their bedroom into the kitchen, looking nowhere near ready for the day. His hair was barely pulled back and the buttons on his shirt were off by one, creating an unintentional asymmetric look.

“Fix your shirt, I’ll get your tea,” Tony said fondly.

Loki pressed a quick kiss to Tony’s cheek, continuing his tornado-like movement throughout the kitchen. “Thank you, Anthony. You’re the best.”

Tony just nodded and smiled to himself, watching his fiance bustle around the kitchen and grab random papers and books that had been strewn across the counters for weeks. As soon as Tony placed a lid on Loki’s tea and his own coffee, he turned to find Loki smiling right back at him.

“Ready, love?”

“After you, Mr. L.”

“Hey, that’ll be Mr. S soon enough,” Loki retorted as he headed for the front door.

Tony shook his head, “You still sure about that?”

Loki squeezed Tony’s hand, “More than. After all, you are my favorite.”

[theshopislocal]

corinth rains

New and improved Heaven may well be the Happiest Place (not) on Earth. But Dean, it turns out, is still Dean.

(also on AO3)

chapter five

Baby rumbles against Dean’s back, purring as she idles at the roadside.

He’s been sat here, hands on the wheel in a stiff 10 and 2, languishing in indecision for a good while now. Though the windows are down and the visor out, he’s still sweating a wet spot onto the back of his henley, hair damp at the base of his skull.

He glances at the passenger seat, empty but for his phone lying face down.

The phone was something of a turn up. It had appeared at his bedside sometime during his first night in Heaven. He’d awoken to the sound of it buzzing against the tabletop, a message from Sam - You good? - flashing on the screen. He’d picked it up and fiddled with it, running his fingers over the burnished metal and smooth glass. If he’d never seen any of the crazy shit Charlie’d cobbled together, he would’ve said the thing looked Space Age - all sleek lines and sharp angles, no buttons to speak of.

As it stood, he’d shrugged and tapped on the message from Sam. He’d typed out a brief response - Peachy - and chucked it back onto the nightstand, pulling the covers over his head. He’d slept until the sun went down.

Dean winces as a bead of sweat drips into his eye and cranes his neck to wipe his face on his shoulder. He looks back at the phone and rolls his eyes.

It’s in his hand a moment later, his thumb hovering over the screen. There are no icons, no home screen, just a blank black surface. Like most things in Heaven, it seems to just... operate as expected - to do whatever it is he wants it to.

Trouble is, Dean doesn’t know what he’s expecting. And he certainly doesn’t know what he wants.

He peers through the windshield, eyes squinting against the light, and observes the sparse spring clouds drifting over the pass. If he looks hard enough, he can probably find Sam and Eileen’s place - a little white dot on the mountainside. Instead, his eyes cut to the lowest point between the peaks, though he can see neither hide nor hair of what lies beyond.

His thumb brushes against the phone’s screen, and he glances down when it illuminates.

On first glance, it looks no different from any other satellite map - a blinking blue dot with his name hovering over it, little broccoli trees and crosshatch roads. But as he looks closer, he sees movement: the trees seem to sway, the shadows shift, and there’s a dancing white speck where a bird flies figure eights.

On a whim, Dean double taps his location, zooming in tight. He sticks his other hand out the window, waving skyward. On the screen, he sees himself, flailing his arm like an idiot, crystal clear and moving precisely in time.

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he snorts. “We have the technology,” he mutters, pinching the screen to zoom out again. “We can make it better, stronger—”

He stops short at the sight of another little dot, this one in a soft, glowing white. It’s across the bridge on the other side of the forest, in what looks like a sprawling botanical garden.

The Library, reads the text.

Dean frowns and lowers the phone, staring blankly at the steering wheel. He’s got that feeling again, like he’s a damn open book - though he’s not sure why anyone would bother to read.

He shakes his head and huffs a dry laugh, chucking the phone onto the dash. He flicks on the radio, Zeppelin IV blaring from the speakers, and throws Baby into gear.

“Over the river and through the woods,” he murmurs, and he pulls onto the road in a cloud of gravel dust.

~*~

Though stately and finely architectured with pillars and white stone, the building that houses the Library is surprisingly small.

He’s driven past it a few times, but never gotten too close; there’s something mildly forbidding in the way it juts out of the earth, its stamped concrete walkways a jarring foil to the surrounding flora. From his perch on the front steps, it looks like any other city library - modern and well-maintained, if a bit oddly placed.

Dean presses his phone closer to his ear, eyes fixed on the tall, imposing doors at the top landing. “You sure this is a good idea?”

Charlie’s voice comes through, clear and a little echoey. “Well, it was your idea, so… No, not at all.”

Dean’s eyes roll skyward at her chipper tone, and he fiddles with the odd little trinket in his other hand. “I mean, is it gonna work,” he grunts out.

Charlie makes an offended noise, and there’s a low thud that sounds like a book snapping shut. “Of course it’s gonna work,” she says, tone sharp with a nerdy bluster that has Dean cracking a smile. “I poured my flesh and blood and a tiny bit of weapons grade plutonium into that amulet.”

Dean feels his smile slip, and he peers down at the little talisman. It’s a rusted iron triquetra with shining gemstones inlaid, the whole thing no bigger than his palm.

He’d called Charlie just as he pulled up to the garden. After a brief back-and-forth, she’d given a disgruntled “you owe me one,” and - through some sort of Heaven-magic that he doubts anyone besides Charlie could pull off - the amulet had appeared in his glovebox.

She definitely hadn’t mentioned any fucking plutonium. “Did you say—”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Winchester.”

Dean pulls the phone away from his ear and briefly presses the back of his hand into his eye socket. He nods to no one in particular, pulling his lips through his teeth. Sure, plutonium. Why not.

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “Yeah, okay.” He holds up the amulet, extending his arm as far from his body as possible; he’s pretty sure nothing can kill him now, but he’s not particularly interested in testing the theory. “So how do I use this thing?”

Charlie clears her throat. “Push on the gems - red first, blue last. Plop it on the door, and it’ll automagically—” Dean frowns, automagically? “—open. Badabing...”

“Badaboom, right.” Dean nods around a grimace and casts his eyes about the courtyard. It’s quiet and empty, the last rays of the evening sun glinting on the white stepping stones. “And if someone from the Arch sees me?”

“Well,” she begins, lofty and facetious. Dean gives a preemptive sigh. “They can’t kill you, can they. They’re angels, not juggalos with rusty barn nails.”

Forty years. He’s been dead forty years, and he still hasn’t lived down the juggalo thing. “Alright, first off,” he says, gesturing wildly with the nuclear weapon in his hand, “it was rebar. Not a nail. Rebar. And second,” he ticks two fingers up, “they were vampires,” he complains. “Big, scary vampires.”

Charlie snorts indelicately. “Yeah, well, I got gutted in a motel bathtub by a frickin’ Frankenstein. So, I win.”

“You—” Dean pauses for a moment to consider his argument. But toeing up against Charlie is a bit of a nonstarter, and, well... Frankenstein is pretty badass.

He sighs, resigned, and gives a shrugging nod. “Yeah.”

There’s a crack and hiss in the background - a beer can opening, Dean thinks - and he can hear the snarky smile in Charlie’s voice. “Tell Kevin I say hi.”

Dean blanches. “I—”

“Toodles!” Charlie says, and the line clicks dead.

Dean pulls the phone from his ear, glaring at the black screen. “Toodles,” he sneers, and slips it into his back pocket.

Dean peers around the plaza again, though there’s not a soul (he snorts) in sight. He squares his shoulders and straightens his spine, giving himself a little shake.

The steps are short and shallow; he takes them two at a time until he comes to the landing. Up close, the building looks bigger, the door a huge, imperial thing towering several feet over his head. It’s a smooth, dark wood, its wide panels inlaid.

Dean grasps at the amulet, sucking in a deep breath. “Here goes,” he murmurs.

He ghosts his fingertips over the gemstones. Red first, blue last. He pushes his forefinger against the red stone, face screwing up in a wince. It depresses and clicks into place.

After a tense moment, during which his entire body clenches like a vise, he opens his eyes. He peers down at himself, patting a hand around his chest. He’s still— well, not alive, per se, but at least he’s not a smear on the stone floor. He breathes out a relieved sigh and wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

He runs his tongue over his chapped lips and clicks in the green stone, then the blue one.

For a moment, nothing happens. He frowns down at the amulet, turning it between his hands. Then there’s a soft pop and a little sizzle, and the metal begins to glow, warming against his palm.

“Uh...” His eyes go wide as it glows brighter, nearly scalding him now. “Shit, shit—” He approaches the door in two long strides and smacks the amulet against the lacquered wood.

He draws back his hand, blowing out another sigh when the damned thing stays put. It’s glowing almost painfully bright now, the light leaving red spots on his retina. He peers around the landing, wondering belatedly if he should take cover.

There’s a soft click and a groaning creak. Dean turns toward the sound just as the amulet winks out and falls, clinking as it lands. He stoops down to pick it up; it’s cool to the touch now, and Dean shakes his head. As he slides it into his pocket, a musty draft hits his face - the scent of old paper and tanned leather tickling his nose.

The door is open.

~*~

Dean gets the sense, as he steps over the threshold, that he’s walking through several doors - all of which, he presumes, are marked ‘staff only’. Confirmation comes when he steps fully into the room - not a foyer or a lobby, but a sprawling study, densely packed with overstuffed bookshelves.

He turns around to shut the door - quite a different door than the one he opened, knotty pine and regular sized. Dean feels the weight of the amulet in his pocket and gives an involuntary shiver; this magic shit always gives him the willies.

He steps further into the study proper. There are two rows of bookshelves to his left, one directly before him, and several more a little ways down on his right. The books are all bound the same, in a deep beige leather with some sort of gold insignia etched into the spines. He doesn’t recognize the symbols, or any of the books themselves. He doubts any of them are Vonnegut.

He peeks around the nearest shelf and finds a central area with several long oak tables. He glances left, then right, then down at his feet.

It occurs to him, of a sudden, that he’s got no damn idea what he’s doing here.

“You’re late.”

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and whirls around, hands going for the gun he no longer carries.

The door he came through is gone, and the wall along with it. Instead, there’s a raised platform with short stone steps before it, and what appears to be an exact replica of the Resolute desk at center stage.

Seated behind it, slightly frazzle-haired and scribbling away, is Kevin Tran.

Dean feels his jaw go slack, and his eyes get a little misty. Kevin is in Heaven, and he’s sitting at a giant desk with a frickin’ eagle carved on the front, and he’s running what Dean imagines is the celestial Library of Congress, and Kevin is finally - finally - in Heaven.

Dean gets a sudden, painful urge to hug the kid. He takes a faltering step forward to do just that, and the amulet jostles in his pocket.

Oh, right. This is a B&E.

Dean’s arms flop down to his sides, and he feels his face warm.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck and tries for nonchalant. “Heeey, Kevin,” he says, wincing at the slight crack in his voice. “How ya doin’, bud?”

Kevin glances at the little clock on the desk, then turns back to the tome he’s scribbling in. “Your appointment was ten minutes ago.”

Dean frowns and takes a cautious step forward. “I... didn’t make an appointment.”

“I made it for you,” Kevin sniffs. He turns a page, unperturbed.

Dean frowns harder. “How’d you know I was—” He bites down on his tongue, swallowing down the stupid question with a snap of his fingers. “Right,” he nods. “Prophet.”

Kevin gives a hum of confirmation and continues his writing. Dean clenches his jaw against the sudden awkwardness; he feels out of place (which he is, it’s a frickin’ library), like an interloper (which he also is, in an almost too literal sense). He sucks his teeth and saunters over to one of the long tables, running his fingers over the polished surface.

He glances up at Kevin, still scrawling away. He looks different than Dean remembers - broader in the shoulder, stronger around the jaw. There’s a dusting of stubble across his chin and a line etched into his forehead. He’s gone a little grey at the temples.

Dean squints, perplexed. While he himself looks almost exactly as he did when he bit the bullet, nearly everyone else in Heaven looks younger than he remembers them; Charlie looks about the same as when he first met her, and his mom looks almost as she did in his childhood memories. Kevin, on the other hand, looks quite a bit older. Certainly older than he was when—

...when he died.

Dean curls his fingers into a fist, pressing his knuckles into the table until zinging pain shoots up his arm. Dean’s not a complete idiot; he gets Heaven’s schtick. It gives people what they want - what they couldn’t have during their lives. Charlie wanted a 64K TV. Mary wanted a house with a white picket fence. Apparently everybody wanted endless spring days.

And Kevin wanted to grow old.

Dean swallows dryly, and his teeth grind together.

“So,” Kevin says, setting his pen down finally. “You’re here.” He looks up at Dean, and his eyes are dark, lined with crow’s feet. “Did you...” He pauses for a moment, head tilted in mild expectation, “...need something?”

Dean stares for a second, jaw working soundlessly. Then he bites down on the inside of his cheek, giving Kevin a tight, crooked smile. “Oh, just,” he gives a twitchy shrug. “Thought I’d stop by.”

Kevin watches him for a short, taut moment, eyes flicking across Dean’s face. Dean swallows again, shoulders coming up.

Finally, Kevin gives a solemn nod and picks up his pen. He turns back to his notebook and jots something down. Dean thinks he sees a tiny smile around his mouth.

Kevin turns another page. “If you’re looking for Lady Death in Lingerie, it’s been checked out.”

Dean frowns for half a second, then his chin drops to his chest. Right. Cartoon porn.

Dean nods his head, pursing his lips. “Funny,” he murmurs, and Kevin’s eyes flick to his for an instant, squinted and wry.

Kevin goes back to his scribbling, and Dean inches closer, curious, but a low harrumph from Kevin has him taking a step back.

He sits down on the end of the nearest table, twiddling his thumbs. From this distance, he can barely hear the pen scratching over the paper, and the interminable silence grows oppressive.

Dean clears his throat. “So,” he says, and waves a hand in a broad gesture. “What, uh. What all you got in this place?”

Kevin turns another page and doesn’t look up. “Everything ever written, said, or done by everyone in the universe.”

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and his head tips in a bemused nod. “Oh, is that all.”

Kevin sniffs. “And the Ark of the Covenant.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, brow furrowing. “Wh-. Seriously?”

Kevin gives him a flat, baleful look that clarifies precisely zero, then turns back to his giant book.

Dean nods at nothing in particular and chews his lip. “How do you keep it all organized?”

A muscle in Kevin’s jaw twitches. “Automagically.”

Dean blows out a sigh, making a note in his head to inform Charlie that he’ll be cheesing Scorpion for the rest of eternity, thanks. Presuming Kevin doesn’t send him off to Heaven jail.

Dean winces. “So you heard all that, did ya.”

Kevin hums, scribbling away.

Lost for words, Dean casts his eyes about the study. Now that the door through which he entered is gone, there don’t seem to be any doors at all. He sighs and peers around at the walls; maybe there’s a window he can throw himself out of.

His eyes catch on something high up on the far wall - not a window, but a block of text in a language Dean doesn’t recognize. It looks to be handwritten in some sort of deep gold paint. It glows faintly against the eggshell wall.

Once he sees that first scribble, he begins to notice several others. There’s one nearly at the ceiling kitty-corner to Kevin’s desk that looks like it might be in Japanese. Another on the wall opposite him that’s comprised of funny little hieroglyphs in a spiral pattern that he thinks might be Linear A.

Dean points a finger toward the script and glances at Kevin. “These wards?”

Kevin looks up briefly, eyes flicking to the symbols on the wall. He shakes his head, going back to his notebook. “Inspirational quotes.”

Dean gives a rumbling snort of laughter, and Kevin peers up at him, one eyebrow arched. He gestures with his pen towards the far corner of the room. Dean frowns and looks over.

Smooshed up against one wall is a rudimentary drawing of what looks like a fluffy kitten clinging to a tree branch. Underneath, scrawled in plain English: Hang in there!

Dean’s eyebrows pop up, and he nearly laughs before wrestling his face into a bland smile. “Oh,” he says, glancing back at Kevin. “Uh. Cool.”

Kevin huffs a dry laugh and leans back in his seat. “It’s not really,” he says, and points a finger toward another quote Dean hadn’t noticed. “That one’s a proto-Germanic joke about a walrus. And that one—” he points towards the circular one done in hieroglyphics, “—is in a pre-Sumerian language. No one has any idea what it says.”

Dean’s lips turn down, and he nods. “Huh.” He cuts his eyes sidelong to Kevin. “Who wrote them?”

Kevin shrugs and hunches forward, eyes settling again on his book. “Senior members of the Arch. Angels mostly.” He breathes out a little sound that might be a laugh. “Pretty sure a couple of them are just graffiti.”

Dean nods and stands up. He spins in a slow circle, looking for any that he’d missed, and finds one directly to his right. It’s one of the only ones written at eye level, but its lettering - Latin, Dean notes - is pale, almost translucent. As he stares at it, it appears to grow darker, bolder against the wall.

Si ego loqui, it reads, lingua angeli, autem ego sine amare, ego modo sum turpi strepitu.

Dean’s face scrunches up in a frown. He wouldn’t have called himself fluent in Latin, even on a good day, but now that he hasn’t read any in forty odd years, he can barely suss out any meaning at all. Lingua angeli, he thinks. Angelic mouth? He smirks a little bit. Kinky.

He stares at it for another few moments. It’s eerily familiar, though he can’t place why. There’s something manifest, nearly recognizable about the handwriting.

“I’ve read this one before,” he surmises, nodding towards the text.

Kevin glances up, following Dean’s eyes. “Yeah,” he says, matter of fact. “Most people have. First Corinthians thirteen.”

Dean frowns for a moment. Corinthians. Corinthians. Corinth—

“The Bible?” he says, incredulous.

Kevin gives him a bland, slit-eyed look. “This is Heaven, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw snaps shut, lips pursing, and... yeah, that tracks. “Right,” Dean murmurs, tipping his head back in a nod.

Kevin’s eyes roll, softened by the tiny smile around his mouth, and he goes back to his writing.

Dismissed, Dean turns back to the latin inscription. He wracks his brain for Corinthians, but comes up empty; generally, everything he remembers from the Bible is out of Revelations, since he’d essentially lived his entire life in a state of on-again-off-again apocalypse.

He eyes the script, following its neat, angled lines. He recognizes a few of the words - ego, loqui - but can’t quite attach them to their meanings. He squints his eyes tight, as if by looking hard enough he might divine a translation.

There’s a deep sigh from behind him, and he turns to see Kevin, weary-eyed and grumpy, peering past him to the inscription.

Kevin taps his pen against his open book. “If I speak,” he recites, “in the tongue of angels, but have not love...” he squints his eyes in a frown, “...I am only a vile noise.”

Dean stares blankly at him for a moment, then turns back to the wall. He remembers the verse now, and the bit that follows: love is patient, love is kind. He recalls seeing it printed on greeting cards, boxes of chocolate, Valentine’s bouquets - the sort of shit normal people busied themselves with.

That first bit, though. If I speak in the tongue of—

Dean sniffs and hunches his shoulders against the swelling pressure in his chest. Kevin said these were written by Arch members - angels. He clenches his jaw, grunting, “Funny sort of thing for an angel to say.”

Kevin hums. “It’s also mistranslated.”

Dean frowns and cranes his neck to glance at Kevin. “Oh?”

Kevin peers up at the verse again. “Amare should be caritate.”

“Caritate,” Dean intones. He rolls the word around in his mouth, and it’s coming back to him now. “Charity?” he guesses.

Kevin tips his head side to side with a little shrug. “Literally, yes. But it’s usually used to connote a—” he frowns, chewing his lip, “—a general kind of love. Caritate would mean love for all humankind.” He tips his head toward the inscription. “Amare is love for one person.”

Kevin holds Dean’s gaze for a split second, face inscrutable, before hunkering back down over his work.

Dean’s face goes hot then cold - the thing growing in his chest reaching some sort of critical mass - and the words resound in his head:

Love for one person.

Love for one person.

Love for—

Dean sucks in a breath like he’s breaking the surface.

Because you cared, I cared.

His hands clench up tight, fingernails digging into his palms. The whispering voice speaks full volume now, coming from somewhere near his heart, echoing through the hollows inside.

I cared about you.

No. Shut up. Just—

I cared about the whole world because of y—

Dean’s fist comes down on the table - harder than he’d intended - with a dull thud and a sharp, throbbing pain.

He looks over at Kevin scribbling away, oblivious. Dean calls his name, but it comes out in a cracked, stammering whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “Kevin.”

Kevin’s head tilts, but he doesn’t look up. “Hm?”

Dean licks his lips, dry tongue sticking to the skin. “Who wrote this,” he whispers.

It’s a stupid question. He already knows the answer - knew the second he saw the sharp, looping script. The instant he read the word amare.

It’s almost funny, really. Turns out living in the Happiest Place Not on Earth hasn’t changed Dean much; he still divides his time evenly between knowing he’s wrong and hoping he’s wrong.

Trouble is, with the thrum of a headache pulsing at his temples and the ache in his eyes from the overbright sun, he’s not sure he’s even got it in him to hope.

“Couldn’t say,” Kevin says, voice cutting through Dean’s wayward thoughts. “It was there before I got here.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and he nods to himself. Kevin scribbles on for another few seconds, then stops and glances up, face bemused. “Kinda weird though,” he says, squinting, “the mistranslation.” He shrugs mildly and turns back to his book. “Guess even angels make mistakes.”

Dean frowns and curls forward, chin dropping to his chest. The whisper in his head makes a short utterance, and Dean sees himself, greyscale in his memory. Face blank in the aftermath, bones numb from the onslaught, and all he can think, can feel, can say is—

Why does this sound like a goodbye?

“Yeah,” Dean says, and his voice is gruff and too loud. He thinks one of his fingernails might have pierced the skin of his palm. “Yeah, they do.”

Kevin looks up at him - face blank, eyes opaque. He stares at Dean for a long moment, and whatever he sees on Dean’s face has his eyebrows rising.

Dean holds his gaze for barely a second, then looks down at his feet. His boots are scuffed, layered in fine dust. He glances at the floor - pristine white marble shot through with gold rivulets - and wonders if he’s tracked dirt onto it. He figures he must’ve done. It’s sort of his M.O., after all. Messing things up.

“Look, Dean,” Kevin says, sotto voce. “It’s...” he shakes his head, thumping his pen against his palm. “It’s nice to see you and all—”

Dean snorts a bitter laugh, and sucks in his lips. He peers up at Kevin with sharp, squinted eyes.

Kevin sighs, and his face softens, mouth forming a flat line. He gives Dean a look - admonishing, with the barest hint of pity. “It is good to see you, Dean,” he reiterates, and the sincerity in his tone nearly makes Dean believe it. “But...”

Kevin sucks in a breath and gestures to his open book, then to the stack of several more at his elbow.

Dean’s spine stiffens, and he nods. Right. Some people do more in Heaven than just drive around in circles, listening to the same six cassettes on an endless loop.

“Yeah,” Dean says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, no, I- sorry, I just, uh...”

He just... what? Broke into Heaven’s Library? With a frickin’ plutonium bomb? Drove a hundred miles (or maybe a thousand, he didn’t check the odometer) because, what, his SpacePhone™ told him to? What is he doing here?

What is he doing here?

“There’s a- a place,” Dean blurts, then scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Just past the mountain. A little forest in a field. Apparently there’s rain and lightning, and I. I’m just—” paranoid. Terrified. Losing my goddamn m— “It’s pretty close to Sam’s place,” he posits, which is ostensibly true. “And I—”

Dean’s not sure what more to say - what more he could say without making him sound crazier than he rightfully is. Fortunately, Kevin is already pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. He comes around the desk at a trot and descends the stairs.

He arrives at the head of the table, nearly abreast of Dean, and smoothes a finger over the pale wood surface in an intricate pattern.

Instantly, the tabletop is transformed. From the tight woodgrain rise sweeping swathes of squiggly lines, odd little symbols and soft, muted colors. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and he leans closer.

The whole thing is a sprawling map. Not the sort he’d seen on his phone, but the sort at the beginning of a fantasy novel, with little hand-drawn forests and ink-flowing rivers. Dean stares for a moment, dumbfounded, his eyes running over the fine details and cross-hatching.

A soft harrumph draws his eyes to Kevin, staring at Dean with mild amusement and open expectancy.

Dean frowns, face warming. “Sorry, what?”

Kevin gives a crooked half smile and nods toward the map. “Your little forest,” he says. “Where is it?”

Dean sucks in a short breath and nods. He steps forward, thighs nudging the table edge, his shoulder nearly butting against Kevin’s. He does a quick double-take when he realizes that the kid - that Kevin - is nearly as tall as he is.

He shakes himself and peers down at the map. His eyes follow the mountain range, inked in broad jagged lines, to the river - a flowing swirl in a dull, washed blue. North of the mountain is a colorless expanse, marred only by a cluster of tiny dots.

Dean points. “There. I think.”

Kevin notes the location, tapping the spot with his finger. A tiny block of text appears next to the cluster, its symbols strange and unfamiliar.

Kevin gives a little hum, then extends his other arm, hand outstretched. A book - identical to all the others lining the shelves - materializes on Kevin’s palm, as Dean watches with wide eyes.

Kevin lays the book on the table, rifling through the pages. Dean peeks over his shoulder, but the text is inscrutable, Greek to Dean.

Apparently not to Kevin, though. He stops on a page about halfway through, tapping his finger near the top.

“It’s a domicile,” he murmurs, squinting at the little symbols.

“A—” Dean starts, then shakes his head. “Someone lives there?”

Kevin gives a humming nod, inching his finger across the crinkly page. “An Arch member, it looks like.”

Dean’s jaw tightens, molars grinding together. An Arch member.

That could be any number of people. Eileen, Jo, Ellen. His parents, Bobby. Even Charlie has offered a hand here and there.

But it isn’t any of them.

Dean bites the inside of his lip, pressing his palms - clammy and tense - against his thighs. “Who lives there,” Dean asks, and it’s a stupid question again, barely a question at all. Dean’s heart beats in his ears.

Sine amare.

Kevin shakes his head. “No name listed.”

Sine amare.

Dean’s fingernails scratch against his pants, hangnails catching on the denim. “How would I find out?”

It’s another stupid question, and Kevin clocks it quick. He sighs a dry laugh and snaps the book shut.

“Well,” he begins, making a swift volte face toward his desk. “You could do it in some—” another soft chuckle as he climbs the short stairs, “—convoluted Winchester way.” Dean rolls his eyes, head tipping forward, but he doesn’t offer a counter.

Kevin moves around the desk and settles himself in his chair, grabbing his pen. He clicks it once, twice, three times, and presses it to the page, jotting something down in quick, spare movements.

“Personally,” he murmurs, as he inks a full stop, “I’d just knock on their door.”

chapter four | chapter six

table of contents

[fortheloveoffanfic]

You (pt.2)

Keanu Reeves x Reader (A/n- A continuation of this fic-.> You. Also, it’s veryyy long, but I really couldn’t help myself)

Spring, Napa Valley, 2000 In the walled off backyard of a large winery, Keanu stood, that day, dressed in formal cloths that fit perfectly. White-tie grade suit that reflected the vintage theme that they had chosen. The freshly cut, green grass felt soft under his shining black shoes and the smell of flowers, coming from hedges against the vine adorned walls intermingled with the ever-lingering smell of oak and wine. A quiet chatter ran through the gathered crowd; his family and friends on the right and hers on the left, though, as the heavy doors creaked open, it stopped and everyone stood.

Keanu’s back straightened at the sight of her and he inhaled deeply. She looked better and more beautiful that anything he could have ever dreamed of. Y/n wore cap-sleeved, lace adorned, mermaid cut, ivory dress. An old fashioned veil hung over her forehead and eyes, skewing her vison as her father walked with her towards Keanu. In her hands, Y/n held a bouquet dominated by colorful wild flowers in blatant homage to all those pretend wedding they’d have when they were just children. Neither of them could believe it. Who would have thought that summers spent in her backyard would turn out to be practice for their real wedding decades later?

When they reached the alter, Y/n’s father pulled Keanu into a short hug, whispering in his ear, “Of all the men that I could have handed my baby girl over to, I’m glad it’s you son.”

Keanu smiled proudly in thanks. Her parents, like his mother, had been welcoming to their relationship and when they announced their engagement two years after that memorable night in her bedroom, her mother had exclaimed, in an exact quote, “Finally! I thought I’d die before we got this news!” His mother had been just as excited, murmuring something about finally getting grandchildren. 

As they faced each other, Keanu's sister standing as the officiant before them, Y/n beamed brightly and Keanu couldn’t help but return her glee. The ceremony went on without flaw and eventually, it was time for the vows. Like years of practice had preached, Y/n went first, “Keanu, three years ago, if someone had told me that I had known the love of my life since I was three, I’d have laughed in their face and called them crazy. But today, as I stand before you, more ready to become your wife than I’ve ever been to be anything else, I think I’d be the crazy one for not believing them. We’ve grown together, you’ve loved me when I felt un-loveable, taken care of me when I didn’t what to be taken care of. You’ve made me laugh and you’ve dried my tears. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe that our love has been over thirty years in the making, that it’s taken us so long to get here, but I don’t regret it. If anything, it’s taught me that the best things are right there if you choose to look for it. Thank you, for loving me, and for helping me find it. Thank for thirty two years of unconditional love and I hope that in our next thirty, fifty, or how much ever it ends at, that I could, at the very least, show you a fraction of the love you’ve made me feel.”

With the bouquet having been handed of to her sister and maid of honor as she took her place at the alter, it was easy for Keanu to clasp her smaller hands in his as he recited his vows, “Y/n,” he began, trying to suppress the nerves, “You’d think after all those years I’d know exactly what I was going to say. But the truth is, I don’t. All I can say, is what I know. And what I know is that thirty-two years ago, I didn’t just meet a girl who lived a couple houses away, or my best friend, I met the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. My soulmate. My home. And even though we’ve known each other for this long, it’s still hard to believe that I’m the man you chose, which is why I promise to make every day for the rest of our lives, worth it. I can’t always promise a walk in the park, but I can promise that even when things don’t seem that great, I’ll be right there with you, through it all. I love you Y/n, my love, my soulmate, my home and very soon, my wife.”

By the time he was through, Y/n’s eyes had begun to shine with tears. They exchanged rings, a thin gold band with diamonds on it for her and a slightly thicker one for him, both with the word ‘forever’ engraved on the inside. Afterwards, they ended with their first kiss as a married couple, the photographer stepping in front of them just in time to capture the moment.

Early 2001 The move had been tough, changing jobs had been tougher and with three movies being released that year, Keanu had been gone a lot. Which is why when she found out, Y/n was a little more worried than excited. 

A baby?

In the midst of their crazy lives?

By the time Y/n had found out, Keanu had been gone for a couple weeks and, unable to keep the news to herself for any longer that a few hours, Y/n hopped on the red eye to New York. On the plane ride, all the way through the cab ride to his hotel and even as she walked to the conference room on the first floor, Y/n’s stomach made a habit of twisting in and out of knots. 

On one hand, they were a stable couple. Married for just about a year, happy, in love. With both their pay checks, they could easily afford about three babies, though Y/n was glad it was going to just be the one.

However, on the other hand, while they were certainly finically able and mentally stable, Y/n wondered if they even had time for a child. Keanu was travelling a lot lately and she would often spend hours past midnight at her office. Then, there was the fact that they had never talked about children. They had known each other, for what felt like forever and still, they hadn’t talked about it. Sure, jokes had been made, little hints been dropped by their families and even the tabloids had seemed smitten with the idea. Since they had married, entertainment journalists had banded together to scrutinize her. If she drank water or wine, what she had at the sushi bar, the possibility that her doctor’s visit might not have been for an ear infection, but an ultra-sound. The question had even come up in Keanu’s interviews, with prying minds being bold enough to ask, “When are you going to take the leap and knock her up? She’s gorgeous, you’re a heart throb, the world needs more of your genes.”

And still the topic hadn't come up between them.

Of course, it was about to. On wobbly legs, Y/n stood at the back of the small crowd, watching as Keanu and his co-star got interviewed. She was a beautiful, tall, blonde who looked amazing in anything, but the despite it all, Y/n knew that she could trust her husband around the woman and thought very little of their light hearted banter for the cameras. 

Next to her, was Keanu’s publicist, who was more than surprised at her impromptu appearance, “Y/n, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

“What? Huh? Yeah!” Y/n waved her off nervously, going to toy with the visitor's badge that hung around her neck.

“Are you sure? Yesterday Keanu was thinking of flying back home, he said you were sick,” the older woman said, concern written on her matronly features. 

“Oh, yeah,” Y/n nodded, weakly, “I was. I am, but I felt a little better so I flew out to surprise him.” 

Thankfully, before Y/n could suffer through anymore nervous attempts to hide the truth, the interview was over, and having spotted her through the crowd, Keanu was headed their way, “Y/n?” he said, a note of worry etching his tone as he immediately pulled her into a hug. His co-star and publicist quickly excused themselves and when Y/n requested that they speak in private, he took them straight to his room. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but what are you doing here? You’ve been sick for the past couple weeks and you’re looking a little pale. You should be home, resting.”

Y/n smiled at his concern. He was always more worried about her than she was about herself. “I know,” she nodded "I went to the doctor a couple days ago. He ran a couple tests, I got the results back on Tuesday." It was Thursday. She had kept it to herself for almost two days and she was itching to tell him.

"Oh?" Keanu's frown deepened, worry lines creasing his brows. As he sat on the bed next to her, Keanu took Y/n's hand, lightly squeezing, trying to contain his worry. Swallowing thickly, he asked, "What did he say? Y/n, babe whatever it is, we'll get through it, together."

His words serves as warm comfort a d Y/n offered him a meek smile as she said; “He said that I’m pregnant.”

Keanu sighed in audible relief and it took a minute before a wide grin brightened his handsome features, “Y/n,” he breathed, pulling her into a crushing hug as he pressed a passionate, love-filled kiss to her lips, “I’m going to be a dad! We’re going to be parents!”

“You want to keep it?” Y/n laughed, relived that he was excited.

“Keep it?” Keanu scoffed, “I can’t wait to meet this little guy,” he pulled away to lay his hand on her still-flat stomach, “Or girl. A girl would be great too. Like a little you,” he wondered out loud.

“Or a little you,” Y/n mused, taking his hand, “I’m so glad you’re okay with this. We’re gong to be a family.”

“We are,” Keanu declared, pulling Y/n in for another kiss.

2003 Just let him be okay. Just let him be okay. Just let him be okay.

Those were the words that formed a mantra in Y/n mind as she weaved through Los Angeles traffic. Her hands maintained a tight grip on the wheel as she ignored blaring horns of those she had cut off in her panicked frenzy. The girls were home with the housekeeper, Nelly, who had essentially pushed her out the door when she got the worrying news, assuring Y/n that her kids would be fine and that she should focus on Keanu. 

Keanu. Her husband of three years, a man she had known for thirty-five years. The same one who drove well below the speed limit on he both times his newborns slept peacefully in the backseat. The man who usually pressured them to leave their house an hour earlier so he wouldn’t have to speed with his kids and wife in the car. Keanu was a careful man, the kind that thought things through, the only one she had ever fallen in love with. And now he was in the hospital. 

Just a couple hours after he had phoned home to tell her hat he’d be leaving set in a few minutes, Y/n had gotten a call. It was the kind she never wanted to receive.

“Y/n Reeves?”

“Yes? Who is this?”

“Ma’am, I’m calling from Los Angeles General, you’re husband has been in an accident.”

Without waiting to hear the rest, Y/n had hung up, already telling Nelly as she shrugged on her coat over the old band tee she was wearing and grabbed her keys. Her daughters, who had gotten more from her than they had from Keanu looked on at their mother with a kind of naivety that told her that they didn’t quiet understand the seriousness of the call. Not that anyone could blame them, they were still so, so young. Their oldest, Rosie was barely three and Taylor had joined their family in a flurry of cries only seven months before. As young as they were though, they both adored their father, maybe, just maybe, a tad more than she did.

With barely a beat to shut off the engine and grab her purse, Y/n was stumbling out of the car, almost losing a shoe or both in the process. With heaving breaths and barely contained sobs, she ran through the glass sliding doors.

Almost everyone’s head raised at her entrance. Probably because she was the widely adored wife of a block-buster movie star. Probably because her hair was a mess and there was spit up on her shirt. Or probably just because of the manner of her entrance. Y/n didn’t care about their reasoning, she only had one goal. Find her husband. “Where’s my husband?” 

After the grueling process of filling out insurance forms and hearing the occasional, “He’s going to be just fine Mrs. Reeves,” a nurse led Y/n to a private room.

On the bed, Keanu laid propped on some pillows, a few cuts and bruises on his face. The worst of it was his left leg, casted up to the knee, “What the hell Ke?” Were the first words that left her lips, tears finally falling as she rushed to his bedside. 

Taking her arm, Keanu pulled her down into a hug, shushing her like he usually did their girls when they cried, “All this for me?” He chuckled.

Pulling away from him, Y/n swatted at his arms, “Don’t make fun of me! I was worried out of my mind.”

“I know,” his chuckles died into a soft smile and he held on to her hands, “One of the nurses said that you hung up on her.”

“Well, obviously! She said you had been in an accident!” Y/n’s shoulders dropped, defeated, “We could have lost you, this isn’t a joke!” She explained, Y/n’s voice breaking with emotion, “If this were more serious, I don’t know what I’d do. Rosie and Taylor, they need a father, they need you. I need you! If I lost you, god,” she breathed, hot tears spilling down her already stained cheeks, “I just can’t okay? So be careful when you’re out there, if not for yourself, for the three of us.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Keanu cooed, shifting awkwardly so he could pull her down next to him, “Don’t cry baby,” kissing her forehead, he mulled on his next words. Just the thought of his family being without him was upsetting, missing the birthdays, the anniversaries, graduations, not seeing his girls grow up and his wife achieve everything she dreamed of, “Listen, if I have anything to do with it, you three are going to be stuck with me for a very long time. I’m going to be right here, at your side while they grow up and we grow old, okay?” He kissed her hair again.

“Promise?” She turned to meet his dark gaze.

“Promise.”

2005 Fuming. That’s what she was. Y/n was surprised that there wasn’t smoke coming from her ears yet. How dare he? After everything! Acting like he didn’t know her at all. It was enough to make Y/n want to just turn around and walk out the front door, slamming it in his face. She might have, if Keanu didn’t beat her to it. 

As Y/n plopped onto the sofa, not really paying any mind to the clutter of children’s toys around her, she tried to take a calming breath and not scream in a way that would wake their sleeping children. 

Lately, it had become almost routine. Bouts of giving each other the cold shoulder and then, when Taylor and Rosie were finally tucked in bed, they’d engage in a shouting match. Taking turns at spatting accusations and insults that they didn’t even mean. Neither of them was sure when it really started. Maybe it was when he had temporarily moved their family to Portland at heel of Christmas, and then, when the girls had gotten sick, Y/n was left alone in their rental taking care of them without an ounce of help. Instead of offering to clear his schedule a little, Keanu had offered the aid of a nanny. Or, it could have been when Y/n had hired a new assistant, nearly twenty years their junior, though he had taken a keen liking to his boss. Offering to bring dry cleaning to their house, buying her coffee every morning and staying late with her when everyone else had left. The advances were subtle, but Keanu had noticed and when he brought it to his wife, she had waved him off, saying that Jack was just a gentleman.

Their latest fight had been more explosive than the others.

Y/n had gotten home just after Nelly had left and dinner had already been put away. From the minute she entered the kitchen, she had noticed the tension in the air. The girls were playing in their playroom and Keanu was just reentering after having a smoke. “I told you not to smoke around them,” were the first words she huffed as she dropped her bags to the counter, “Who was watching them while you were out there?” She pointed, anger growing.

“God, they’re fine Y/n. It wasn’t even in front of them,” he whispered angrily, “They’re playing, I was out there. Didn’t even see the fucking cigarette.”

“So now you’re cursing in front of them?” She fumed, trying to contain her tone. as mad as they were, the last thing they wanted was for the kids to see them like that.

“They’re not here,” he hissed, clenching the pack of cigarettes and lighter in his fist, “You know, if you don’t trust me with them, you should have come home instead of staying at your office to fuck your boy toy!”

“Boy toy?” She quoted. Before Y/n could get another word out, their eldest, Rosie ran in.

“Mommy!” She squealed, hugging Y/n’s legs, “You’re back. We missed you.”

Opting to ignore Keanu right then, Y/n scooped Rosie up in her arms, “I missed you too bunny! Come on, it’s late, lets get ready for bed.”

(2 hours later) With the girls fast asleep in their rooms, loud whispers had turned to shouts, “What do you want me to do?” Y/n yelled, “The firm is just getting off the ground and I’m supposed to be here at your beck and call? I have a life too you know?”

“Oh, I know!” Keanu accused, “How’s it been, living it with Jack? He seems to see more of you anyway, kind of makes me wonder why.”

“God!” Y/n groaned, hitting her fists against the marble counter, “For the last time, I’m not fucking him! He’s my assistant, and he’s been more help in a few months than you’ve been this past year!”

“So this is my fault now?” He tone incredulous, strong arms folded across his broad chest.

“Congratulations! Get the man a fucking trophy!” She mocked angrily, “You say I’m never here, but you leave for months, filming and doing god knows what else. News flash Keanu, if anyone’s cheating, it’s you!”

“Me?” He chuckled, rage evident, “You know what Y/n? I don’t need this bullshit tonight,” he began, walking through the house, collecting his coat and keys.

“Where the hell are you going?” She probed, annoyed.

“Out.” Was all Keanu offered, slamming the door behind him.

September, 2005 Things hadn’t gotten better, but they hadn't gotten worse either. After a night away, Keanu had returned home, wordlessly, moving some of his things to the guest room. They carried on like that for months, fights, teary nights apart and tension filled silence. Whispers had started going around, that one of Hollywood’s favorite couples was on the brink of divorce. Y/n didn’t want to leave him, Keanu didn’t want her to go, but it really didn’t seem like there was anything else left to do.

Until Y/n had spent an hour on the phone with her mother, the first draft of divorce papers opened on her computer, “This isn’t what you want Y/n,” her mother declared plainly.

“You don’t know that,” she huffed in return, “Things haven’t been great lately. All these fights, the accusations. We’re barely holding it together for the girls, I don’t want them to grow up in a home with this much anger.”

“Do you want them to grow up in a home without their father?” She asked and Y/n could swear that she saw her mother siting right there in her office, arms folded, eyebrows raised in question.

“They would still see him. We’d-”

“Share custody? Mhm. It starts with trading them every week. Then he gets a new girlfriend that you don’t like, probably because you’re jealous and you still love him, and then it turns to the weekends. Then, he moves on some more, and it’s every other weekend and you keep going like that until its once a month and, finally a few times a year. That’s not how you’re raising my grandbabies.” Her mother paused for a minute then cutting her off before she spoke again, “And don’t say that it’s what’s best for them. It’s not. I know you. Both of you. That boy is like a second son to me! Are you really going to throw away thirty-seven years over a fight?”

“It wasn’t just one fight mom, it’s been like this for months,” Y/n tried not to sound like she was whining, but she was sure she failed miserably.

“Doesn’t matter dear. Can you really sit in you office on this beautiful Thursday evening and tell me that you don’t love that man anymore? And I know you lawyers lie a lot, but I also know you like the back of my hand and anything but ‘no’ would be a lie.” Y/n was quiet for a while, lost in thought, worrying on her bottom lip, “Well?”

“Well what?” Y/n sighed.

“Can you say you don’t love him?”

Y/n leaned back in her chair, eyes falling on a picture near the end of her desk. One of the first ones taken after they had brought Taylor home from the hospital. She had looked a tired mess, but Keanu had kept saying that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. Sighing as thirty-seven years worth of memories washed over her, Y/n realized that her mother was right, “No, I can’t,” she concluded, “I still love him. I always will. But it’s not that easy mom.”

“It is. Just talk to him. And listen too.”

“I tried,” Y/n argued weakly, “But it didn’t work.”

“You didn’t,” her mother objected, “You yelled, you argued and you accused. But you didn’t communicate and you didn’t listen. So get divorce out of your mind, open your ears and get your ass home .”

“Fine,” Y/n grumbled. 

That night, Y/n had gone home and after putting the children to bed, she had flopped down on the sofa next to Keanu, “I fired Jack today.”

“What?” He turned to her.

“You don’t trust him and I shouldn’t have kept him around that long if it was making you uncomfortable,” she explained quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Keanu sighed, “I shouldn’t have accused you of those things and I should have put you in a position that would make you think I’d do that.”

“I’m sorry too,” Y/n laid her hand over his, squeezing reassuringly, “I should have understood that you’re just trying to provide for us, and you’re not gone by choice,” Keanu smiled sadly at her as she declared, “I still love you.”

“I still love you too.”

Winter 2006 Y/n huffed as she stood at the entrance of the cleared out guest room, hands bracing her strained back as she declared, “I’m too old for this.”

Keanu’s eyes widened at the sight of her, scurrying of the ladder, dropping the paint brush as he hurried to her side, “Honey, what are you doing?”

“Checking on you. The last time I left you alone on a ladder we had to go to the emergency room,” she giggled, not acting on his concern.

Keanu placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her out of the unfinished nursery, “I was fine,” he argued.

“You threw your back out,” Y/n reminded lightly, “It looks nice by the way. I’m actually surprised that you chose that color on your own,” she teased leaning into his side, her hands going to rest on her swollen stomach.

“Thank you. I think,” Keanu shook his head, unsure on whether or not it was a compliment, “You shouldn’t have been in there though, the fumes aren’t safe.”

Y/n sighed, rolling her eyes, “Ke, I love you, but this worry is unnecessary, I’ve been around this block twice.”

“I know,” he agreed, “But this little guy hasn’t,” Keanu rubbed her stomach affectionately. Everyone had been worried when Y/n had conceived over forty, even he had had his doubts. What if they were too old? What if this one was too much younger than the girls? But from the minute he saw the first ultrasound, Keanu knew, it didn’t matter that they had slowly started to go grey, that the doctor had said that there were risks, not of it mattered as long as they thought they could do it. And do it they did. 

“Fine,” she huffed as they descended the stairs.

“I can’t believe that this is the last time I’m going to see you like this,” he leaned his head against hers.

“I thought the last time would be with Taylor but you just had make us go to Prague for our anniversary.”

“Me?” He shot back, hand going to his chest in defense, “You’re the one who was hot for it in the airplane bathroom!”

“What?” Y/n playfully slapped his arm, “Our son was not conceived in an airplane bathroom!”

“I think he might have been,” Keanu carried on nonchalantly, “Don’t worry, it’s a cool story.”

“No, it’s not. And it’s not true either. I refuse to believe that,” she plopped onto the couch, getting to work on folding some clothes from a laundry basket on the coffee table.

“Refuse if you like, but I think it’s true,” he laughed.

“It’s not. Now go get cleaned up or something, you’ll get paint everywhere,” she shooed him. “Bye!” She laughed as he walked off, back in the direction of stairs, waving dramatically.

2007 Y/n stood in the doorway of Rosie’s bedroom, admiring the sight before her. Keanu sat on the bed, Rosie and Taylor on either side of him already dressed in their colorful, printed pajamas, their dark hair falling in their faces and their little hands fought to brush it away. Their son, Henry, barely a year old by then sat against his father’s chest, cubby fingers trying to grab at the excitable pages of the story book. Already, he looked so much like Keanu and the little bits of his father that he had taken on showed up more and more everyday. 

Bed time rituals usually ended in Rosie’s room. Keanu would read them whatever story they pleased, sometimes he’d even make one up if they asked. And then, when they were falling asleep, He’d scoop Taylor up in his arms and hand Henry over to Y/n, tucking their eldest in before they took the other two of to their rooms. 

“Daddy?” Taylor spoke up as he closed the book.

“Humm?” He hummed, preoccupied with Henry trying to put the corner of the book in his mouth. Their youngest babbled in frustrated discontent when Keanu finally got the book, placing it on the near by night stand, far out of his reach. For a minute or two, he fussed but when Keanu started bouncing him in his lap, all signs of sorrow were replaced with tiny giggles. “What’s up princess?” He finally turned to her.

“Can you tell us another story?” She looked up at him, wide eyes pleading in a way that he couldn’t reject, “Please....”

“Yeah,” Rosie clapped her hands, jumping up a little, “Tell us another story daddy! Please! Henry wants to hear one too!”

“Does he now?” Keanu raised his eyebrows, amusement softening to adoration when Taylor started playing with Henry’s fingers, “I guess we can do another story. It is Friday,” he chewed on his lip for a minute and then his face lit up again, “Tell you what; we can have another story, if mommy helps me tell it.”

In the doorway, Y/n folded her arms, giggling and they all started up at her, the girls with anticipation in their eyes, “I guess that can be arranged,” she obliged, stepping further into the room. Taylor crawled out from her father’s side and when Y/n was sat next to him, she shifted into the space between Y/n’s legs. Feeling a little left out, Rosie hopped onto Keanu's free thigh, curling against him, giggling when Henry tried to get on top of her. “What story are we telling?”

“The one about how you met! Nana says it's really romantic!” Rosie sang and Taylor offered her own excited noise of agreement.

“Okay,” Keanu agreed and then he began, “Well, it was thirty-nine years ago and-”

“Thirty-nine years!” Taylor exclaimed, pressing her little hands to her opened mouth, “You guys are old!”

Chuckling quietly, Y/n lightly pressed her pointer to Taylor’s button nose, “Listen to the story monkey.”

“As I was saying,” Keanu laughed, “It was a long time ago, and I had just moved to a new place and my mom, your Nana, took me and your aunt to the park. We hadn’t lived there for very long, so I didn’t have any friends yet.” At that, the girls made a quiet coo of sympathy and not really caring about the whole thing, Henry started playing with the end of his sister’s hair. Smiling, Keanu continued, “I didn’t have any friends, but on that day, I met your mommy at the swings, she had come with her brother and sister.”

“Was she pretty?” Rosie interjected.

“She looked just like you two. So very, very pretty. And I didn’t know it yet, but she’d grow up to be the most beautiful woman I’d ever meet.”

The girls smiled and then Taylor turned to her, “Your turn mommy, did you think daddy was handsome?”

“I thought he was adorable. And a little weird,” she added at the end, “He never liked to cut his hair.”

“You said you liked it,” he scoffed defensively.

“I did! I do!” Y/n laughed, pecking him quickly on his lips, “Anyway,” she continued, “Your dad, came to play on the swing next to mine, and we played together for the entire evening. And as it turned out, he lived just down the street, a few houses away from where Gammy and Papa still do and after that day, he’d come over all the time, and we’d play together for hours.”

“Until it was past dark,” Keanu chimed in, stroking Henry’s hair, “Sometimes Gammy would even let me sleep over.”

“When did you know you loved her?” Rosie looked between them with hopeful eyes.

Smiling softly, Keanu turned to Y/n, meeting her eyes, seeing the same thing he always saw, that still, he could never grow tired of, the sparkle of love, staring right back at him, “I always loved her.” Laughing softly, Y/n blushed for a reason she couldn’t quite understand and Keanu draped his arm over her shoulders, “I just had to grow up to realize how much. And you know what?” he looked between their daughters, “She’s a saint for waiting for me.”

“Oh,” Y/n lightly slapped his thigh, “Your daddy was worth the wait, he’s worth everything. Just like you three,” she laughed and the children giggled when Y/n pulled them into a hug, with Keanu quickly joining in.

“Nana was right,” Rosie began after they finished the story, “It is romantic!”

“It is!” Keanu declared, handing Henry over to Y/n, “But it’s also way past bedtime.” After noises of protest and the ‘I’m not tired’ argument, Y/n and Keanu finally got all three of them into bed. When that was over, they resigned to their own room where Keanu fell face first into bed, patting Y/n’s usual spot next to him.

Smiling, she crawled up next to him, getting under the covers, turning on her side so she could caress his cheek, “You look beat,” her thumb glided over the apple of his cheek while the tips of her fingers brushed against his recently shortened hair; he had cut it for a part.

Keanu chortled quietly, “Well you look lovely as always.” Slowly, Keanu shifted until his face was inches from hers, drinking her in before he pressed a kiss to her lips, his hand skimming her side clad in a silk nightgown. One of her legs hooked over his and soon his hand was slipping under her nightie, groping her.

“I’m guessing you’re not that tired,” Y/n giggled against Keanu’s lips.

“I’m not,” he smiled before moving on to pay attention to the soft, warm skin at her neck. Eventually, with hurried hands, Keanu turned off the bedside lamp, right before he pushed Y/n’s nightgown over her head, tossing it to a place that could be the next day’s problem.

2019 She looked beautiful, she always did. Much like the same woman he married almost twenty years prior, though, by then little strands of grey had started to show up in her hair and there were the slightest hints of laugh lines on her face. It was like she was caught between youth and maturity, aging slowly and gracefully, like the finest of wines. Most of the world had started to consider her a beauty icon, marveling on how, after three children and fifty-four years on earth, Y/n could still mange to barely look her age. Keanu often found himself in awe of her too, and sometimes, it was hard to remember that they had been married for almost twenty years.

One of those times was the night of the premier of his latest action movie, an expected hit in the box office even before it’s release. Y/n strolled arm in arm with him along the carpet, donning gorgeous deep red dress that boasted a high slit on the right side. He couldn’t even blame the photographers for wanting her attention, she looked amazing. 

When they stopped, it was for him to be interviewed by a popular media outlet and the young woman looked as about excited as they both felt, “Hi! How are you feeling tonight? Hope you’re feeling as fabulous as you look,” she gestured to their outfits.

Keanu laughed quietly before; “Well I came with the most beautiful woman here, so I’m feeling pretty great.”

The interviewer laughed and Y/n swatted at his arm playfully, “You did, didn’t you? I must say, Y/n you look absolutely stunning and I’m sure our viewers will agree.”

“Thank you,” Y/n nodded, “But I’m just trying to keep up with all of this,” she gestured to Keanu, who bent his head, chuckling quietly.

The young woman laughed loudly and then continued with her questions, “So, I know tonight is about the movie, but I just have to ask; how do you make it work?”

Keanu’s brows knitted, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you two have been married for almost twenty years, and you’ve known each other for over fifty. It’s been a long time and you still seem every bit in love”

Keanu scoffed a laugh and suddenly the microphone was near Y/n’s face. Smiling, she easily handled they question, “You know, sometimes, its not always easy. We’ve been at each other’s throats a couple times,” Keanu nodded in agreement and they both reflected on a time that seemed so distant, when they thought that their marriage was over. “But when it gets like that, I try to remind myself that it’s us against the problem, that we want the same thing, it’s just that sometimes, we have different ways of getting it. But that doesn’t mean that one of us is wrong, or right, it just that means that we still care.”

“Yeah,” Keanu agreed, “It’s what Y/n said, and you know, I think if it starts feeling like work, like we have to make it work, then we’re doing something wrong. Because this isn’t a job and at the end of the day, all we want is what’s best for out kids, our marriage and each other.”

The interview went on for about another half hour, and for the briefest moment, they talked about their children with proud smiles and eventually, things steered back towards the topic of the movie. At the end of it, the woman offered them a couple more compliments and praises and finally, when it was over, Keanu looked down at Y/n, smiling as he asked; “Ready?”

In response, Y/n nodded eagerly, reaching up to give him a quick peck on the lips. With his arm secured around her waist, Keanu and Y/n continued down the carpet, occasionally stopping for pictures until they disappeared through the double doors, ready to spend the rest of the night, and the next fifty years and whatever came after, not only as an internationally adored couple, but also as two people who loved each other dearly.