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#fix-it fic
bebx · 5 months
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AO3 writers when canon sucks:
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oonajaeadira · 5 months
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A Welcome Home At Resolution Ranch
Fandom: Kingsman: The Golden Circle / Jack "Whiskey" Daniels
Pairing: Jack Daniels x reader
Reader: Adult female. Former agent, now the manager at a guest ranch. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n.
Rating: T. Fluff.
Warnings: A little bit of angst, but on the edge of healing
Summary: When the news comes through that Jack met his end in Cambodia, you know better.
A/N: Well howdy, friends, and welcome to a good, soft, fix-it fic. What inspired this? @writeforfandoms did when she sent in an ask for a game....
"I wish you would write a fic where Jack is fine and nothing hurts and there are stars in the sky and there is plenty of banter and softness. Maybe horses."
Since her birfday is this week and writing Jack for each other is a love language, this is especially for her. <3
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“You sure I’m ready to go on my own?”
Charity is a good girl. A little accident-prone at times, sure, but it’s mainly out of a lack of confidence. She’s got a real knack with the horses though, and you’ve learned to let her be on hand whenever the ranch has new guests check in; that million-watt smile of hers is worth a welcome mat covered in gold. She is Jack’s kin in every way, except he sucked up all the ego in the family and left little over for his niece.
Handing her the roster clipboard, you grant her an approving grin. “You grew up on these trails. You know them better than I ever will. You’re every ounce the guide any of us are. Now you’ve got eight guests riding with you this evening, two of them are about your age, and pretty handsome young gentlemen. You’re about to win the hearts of some suitors with that sweetness of yours…and if not, then for sure their grandparents. Have fun. Oh,” you remember, pointing to a name on the roster, “this lady here is a bit of a tick, but she has it bad for Morgans. Put her on Sasha and she’ll be shining so bright there’s nothing gonna dim her stars.”
“But Sasha’s your horse.”
“She won’t mind. Now get. And remember–”
Charity rolls her eyes. “Don’t let anyone tell me that they know horses better than I do, I know.”
“Good girl. Now you do a good job on your first solo run and I’ll have a big surprise waiting for you when you come back, hear?”
“I’m not a kid. I don’t need a reward.”
Turning the girl around by the shoulders and sending her off in the direction of the stables, you refrain from swatting her playfully, showing her the respect of a coworker. “And I’m not baking you cookies either. I’m not going with you tonight because I have something I gotta do. You’ll get the benefit of that thing whether you do a good job or not. I was trying to be encouraging.”
Her black braid swings down her back as she walks off to her task–both excited and scared, clutching the clipboard with both hands. 
“Oh, and Charry?” She stops to turn and listen. “Don’t put anyone on Whiplash. Leave her in the stable tonight.”
Once she’s given you a nod and marched out of sight, you wander back into the main lodge and relieve everyone for a few hours. You’re ready to take the front desk on your own. No worries, you explain, there’s only one guest booked to come in in the next hour and everyone else is out on the twilight ride. You’ll take it from here.
Once the lobby is quiet, you prop yourself out on the porch in a rocking chair with your boots up on the railing, tip your hat down low, and keep your eyes on the horizon--gradually more pink and gold by the minute--where any cars coming over the mile-long driveway can’t pass your notice.
It’s been six years now since you were secretly decommissioned from Statesman and your agent status revoked. Emotional trauma is a hell of a thing, and some agents take a beating. When head of the organization deems an agent unfit for duty with needs of long-term recovery and care, it’s their call to order it and–with the help of one other top officer–secretly install the probationed agent in a situation where they are anonymous and removed from any society that they could harm or could harm them. The organizational file would relate how the agent was killed in action, with the true story being kept by the two in charge. A total erasure of personage, total disappearance.
If and when the agent passed an evaluation and elected to return, they became extremely valuable as a secret operative, since everyone would assume they were deceased. 
If they decided not to return, the agency made sure they were provided for. For life.
Sometimes they came back; thrill of the hunt, what they know best and all that. But overall, the return rate was low. Something about a slow down calls after a life of deception.
In your case, Jack was chosen as Champ’s second and–having always been one of the only agents that damn cowboy liked working with–suggested you head up his family ranch for your rehab period. Tasked you with making it a nice working vacation ranch for families. Came out and visited you often enough to make sure you were getting on.
And, of course, to make sure you were getting off too. 
There was a lot of hay on property, and Jack was a damn nice rolling partner. Said that he liked that he never had to pretend with you. Not now, not ever.
And you always felt exactly the same.
But the timing was never perfect. And the world had always needed one or the other of you to save it.
Distractions.
After the requisite five year probation, Champ and Jack made the ceremonial trip out and asked if you’d like to be re-evaluated and “reborn”. As much as you’d been itching during the first couple of years to get back in the game, the quiet life had softened your body and won your heart. You’d gained the trust of the employees. Knew all the horses and their idiosyncracies by heart. It had become your home. Walking away to spend days without sleep, lying, taking lives without stopping to think twice….just didn’t appeal anymore.
With Champ’s understanding, you had respectfully retired, and with Jack’s blessing, you’d planted yourself permanently. The ranch was your calling. Your heart. Even with some of Jack’s relatives working and living here it could get lonely at times, but then you’d catch yourself watching the fireflies in the sunset or riding Sasha through a particularly pretty meadow and everything seemed right with the world.
And hells. If the lack of companionship was the only thing you had to complain about, well the universe must have heard. It’s rung the hospitality bell for you.
Taking the letter out of your pocket, you glance over it one more time. An announcement of an agent down. Cambodia. Drug conspiracy. Agents Galahad, Galahad, and Merlin of Kingmen, London. Agent Whiskey showing mental trauma and poor judgment. A violent engagement. A meat grinder. Signed by Head Agent Champagne.
So that’s the story they assigned him, huh. A meat grinder? Really? So stupid. But then, you got to assist in penning your own death, so it makes all the sense in the world that Jack got to have a say in his. Of course he was going to go out in the corniest way possible, of course he was.
Tsk. A meat grinder. Jesus.
Before long, the stars are starting to peek out and there’s a plume of dust on the horizon. Then a black car at the core of it, making its way along the drive. By the time it pulls up in front of the porch, you’ve hidden the letter back in your pocket, stood and made your way to the bottom of the steps. 
Two doors open. From the front a driver emerges, short and sturdy, young and hale, heading for the trunk to retrieve luggage. But when the back door opens, there’s the duo of a boot and a Stetson which emerge together then unfold into a tall, cool drink of Jack Daniels.
It’s a showdown at twilight, but you both keep your hearts in your holster for the time being and instead reach for your sass. “Driver? This here’s a working ranch, so you can just leave the luggage. Guests here are required to haul their own.”
They do as they’re told with a nod, dropping two suitcases and a duffel in the dust. The whole time Jack stands, unmoving, hands on hips, watching with a bemused incredulity as the driver then simply gets back behind the wheel and literally drives off into the sunset, leaving Jack's bags like carrion.
“Well shit. Is that any way to welcome a man home?”
“Maybe I just wanted you all to myself, cowboy. You ever think of that?”
There’s a delicious moment underscored by cricket strings that allows for both of your grins to stretch to full capacity.
But still, he’s a man whose wind has abandoned his sails and you both know why he’s here. It doesn’t mean he’s not still Jack Daniels though. And while he might not come at you with an oppressive swagger, he still comes to you, the cockiness giving way to a genuine fondness.
“Well. Hello, gorgeous.”
“Let me guess,” you tease, opening your arms to guide him to his landing, “You have a pack of cold ones and your roomie’s out so I can scream your name as loud as I want.”
His embrace is more than just happiness to see you. It’s heavy with relief, with longing. He needs it from you as much as you from him, and he hums low into your neck as he lifts you so that your toes just leave the ground before plopping you back down. This is the point where the usual hug might end, but he stays. He stays just a few more breaths and you can tell he’s taking a cure in the moment.
“Come on, cowboy,” you hum into his shoulder. “Let me help you with these bags. I prepared the best room in the house for you.”
Silently, you both heft a suitcase and he takes the extra duffel, and you make it up the stairs of the main house to the biggest bedroom and flip on the light.
“Isn’t this your bedroom, Brandy?”
Throwing a suitcase on the quilted bed you shake a finger at him. “Uh uh uh, that’s not my name anymore, Whiskey.”
He follows suit, unburdening himself. “And that’s not mine. Belongs to Ginger now.”
You can’t--and won't--hide your delight. “Well hot shit. Good for her. She’s always wanted to go out into the field.” But it’s also bittersweet. It's been six years. “How is my girl?” 
“Oh, she’s doing real fine. Took over as Champ’s right hand when I went out and Tequila hopped the pond to work for those Brits.”
“Damn. Well, I’m proud of her. I wish I could tell her. If I could have just had one more agent to keep in touch with….wait.” Something in Jack’s little smile gives you pause. “Waaaaait a minute. Did she–???”
He finishes the thought for you. “With the transfer of title, she also became Champ’s number two. So she’s got access your retirement file. I’m sure she’ll be booking a vacation here soon enough.”
Turning to the window and clamping a hand over your mouth, you hold your own reflection and do your best to keep the tears for later. It’s been six years and your old friend is in Kentucky right now, finding out any day now that you’re not dead after all, that you’re only a plane ride away. A long dreamed-for reunion is coming. Oh god. 
But Jack’s here now, and he’s going to need your support. And of course he’ll demand your attention–”You never answered my question. Where are you sleeping if I’m in here?”
Turning to him, you wink. “Who said I was moving out of this room?” His blush signals that you’ve just out-Jacked Jack Daniels. Stepping in closer, you take his hand. “Hey. I just wanted to give you a view of the stables. If you want me here, I’ll share the room with you. If not, the guest room is free and I’m comfortable sleeping there too. This is your home now, cowboy. I want you to see the sun in the morning. Give you a reason to get up every day.”
“Sunshine’s wherever you are, partner. It’d actually be real nice to have a reason to stay in bed.”
His words spread through you like a good bourbon. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” It’s a warm moment, new for both of you. Instead of the thrill of the promise of sharing a bed and the obvious adventure that awaits, you have something now that you both never had before–time. Time to hold. Time to breathe. Time to heal and take it soft and slow. “Come on, cowboy. I wanna show you something.”
Picking up his Stetson from the bed, you place it lovingly on his head, your fingertips lingering as they trail down his sideburns. He wears the hat well, and the facial hair. And the deep adoration. Before he gets lost in the moment, you lead him out of the main house and down toward the stables.
“So. A meat grinder.”
He grins as he watches his feet, big hands swinging at his side. “Can’t blame a man for people wanting to remember his demise. That one’ll be talked about.”
“Little over the top, isn’t it?”
“That’s the way I went in, apparently.”
“Stupidest death I’ve ever heard of.”
“But you’ll remember it, won’t you.”
Rolling your eyes, you lead him to one of the front stalls of the stable. “Yeah, but I’d never believe it. Jack Daniels? Taken down by an unarmed, unstable agent and his apprentice? This hulk of a man tossed around and yanked into a grinder as if there’s one big enough to take you?”
“You’re real hung up on the meat grinder part, aren’t you. You do know the target was actually processing people and making them into burgers, right? I don’t see why it’s so unbelievable–” But he stops like stone when you reach your target stall. “Is that…Well slap my chaps. That’s the prettiest mustang I’ve ever seen.”
“You like her?” Clicking your tongue, the lithe and beautiful bay immediately comes to you, tossing her mane, ready for the apple you’ve got on offer. And when you hide it behind your back, she knows to put her nose to yours, to nuzzle you gently. “This is Whiplash. Fast as a shooting star and twice as bright. Picked her out myself. Helped Charity to train her up, which is why she’s also sweet. That girl has the patience of a saint. Must get it from the other side of the family. But this mare was a passion project for both of us. Thought you might like to claim her,” you say, handing the apple over to him and, with it, Whiplash’s attentions. “Anytime you need to clear your head, she’ll run you to the moon and back.”
Jack holds out the apple reverently with one hand, running the other along the mare’s neck. “Always wanted a mustang. Thought I’d have to settle for the automotive variety. They’re not the kind of horse you keep at a pedestrian ranch for just anyone to ride.”
“I know. It was meant to be a surprise for your next visit. But now that you’re here to stay, she’s even more yours than she was before.”
Now it’s Jack’s turn to hold those tears for later, his beautiful brown eyes gathering up all the rising moonlight. Swallowing hard, he gives you a nod, a thanks that he can’t put into words just yet. Instead, he deflects. “Where is my favorite niece?”
“Your only niece is out leading a twilight ride. It’s her first lead. I told her I’d have a reward waiting for her when she got back as long as all the guests are alive and kicking. She doesn’t know you’re coming yet.”
He nods. Goes back to petting Whiplash. The full day and the journey finally come to settle on him and all his thoughts seem to rise to the surface and float in his tired expression.
You reach out. Hook a finger in his belt loop and give it a coy tug. “Hey. Can I ask you...what happened, Jack?”
He has to take a breath. Two. Then he gives Whiplash a final pat and takes your hand, weaving it through the crook of his arm, and you wander out into the darkening pasture together.
The mission was nearly doomed from the start. With Tequila down and Harry still recovering and Eggsy still green, it was just a mess. It didn’t help that his heart wasn’t in it, that he kept thinking about his loss so many years ago, that maybe it was better if all the addicts were just taken down in one fell swoop so they could stop hurting themselves and everyone else. Running the New York branch and distribution on top of fucking saving the world every five minutes–the burnout was getting to him and just made him fixate more. 
Harry saw through him but misinterpreted his reluctance. Harry shot him to take him out of commission, knowing full well that Ginger could fix him. Jack went back into action too soon, too hot. Went straight to Cambodia. Joined in the fray. Ended up taking out his rage on Poppy and brutally jamming a needle in her neck, overdosing and killing her rather than neutralizing her and taking her in as he should have. Harry and Eggsy were kind. Stood up for him with Champ. Helped to corroborate a story so he could step down. Jack let the record show that they were the heroes so they could go back to the Kingsmen in triumph and he could heal in peace.
This is what surprises you the most.
That Jack let himself go down as the bad guy.
“You could have just said you were taken down by one of Poppy’s men and walked away a martyr.”
He simply watches the first fireflies come out in answer to the first stars, squeezes your hand a little tighter, shakes his head. “If I’d had my head in the game, a good agent wouldn’t have died. Merlin. His name was Agent Merlin. Damn fine man. And if Harry and Eggsy hadn’t been the excellent agents they are, my lapse of judgment could have killed a lot more folks. This is my way to atone.”
“And there’s no way in hell you’d let anyone think you got taken down by some nameless thug.”
“Shit. Got me there.”
All you can do is show agreement with a knowing nod. “You know, when I first came out here, I couldn’t wait to leave. But you knew, didn’t you. You knew that I needed this.”
“I did.”
“Cocky bastard,” you mumble in loving admonishment. “Did you understand that you were nearing the end too? That you were sending me out here to give me time to be ready to bring you home?”
“I wasn’t aware of it at the time, probably a little too confident to ever think I should stop.” He turns to you, a sweet little apology in the corner of his smile. “But maybe a little part of me knew.”
“Yeah, that little part of you has gotten me into trouble before.”
He huffs a little laugh, tilts your chin up with a knuckle. Still holding your hand and sliding it inside his jacket against his chest he whispers, “Ain’t the part I was talking about, sweetheart.”
When he kisses you, it’s a different Jack than the one you used to settle for on occasion. This Jack is ready to put down his revolvers and his whip, ready to concentrate on himself, on you, on a life far from trouble. His kiss holds in it the promise of summer sunsets and long trail rides, of barbecues and lemonade and lazy mornings sleeping in. And there will be stars that are brighter...and nights under them for just the two of you. It’s a kiss that leaves no doubt that there will be many more to follow, each one with its own brand of sweetness and a happy ending well-earned.
No more distractions.
Time enough.
_____
MASTERLIST
CHARACTER MASTERLIST
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teencopandthesourwolf · 5 months
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HOME
for the @sterekdrabbles 03/11/03 challenge. the words were SINCERE, FRAGILE and BELONG.
.
God, he smelled exactly the same—like sunshine and cinnamon and bravery—but he looked so different.
No longer the fragile boy Derek remembered, Stiles stood in Hale Auto, a man.
His hair was shorn short again; his beautiful face sporting a dark beard; his body broader, filled out (a lot). But those amber eyes… Sincere as ever. They'd never change.
"You're back," Derek muttered, stating the obvious.
Stiles shifted his weight, cleared his throat and looked at Derek, like he was the one who'd been pining for the last fifteen years.
"Where I belong, Derek—by your side, if you'll have me?"
.
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teteminne · 2 months
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In honour of the new wonderful news of the jonsa gothic horror movie coming up, I just posted chapter twenty-four of flatlands!!!
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helloliriels · 6 months
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ANTAGONISH
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"As I was walking up the stair,
. I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
. I wish, I wish ... he'd go away."
. - William a Hughes Mearns
.
John had stepped into the flat only a handful of times since Sherlock's demise.
The pain of memories ... happy, whole, perfect memories ... too much to bear.
It was empty now. Their flat.
. Theirs.
. And it had been.
Once.
.
John steeled himself for what he was to face - going up those seventeen steps ...
The unshakable feeling that if he was just to turn around ... ?
Sherlock would be right behind him.
Coming up the stairs.
That if he turned back around ... Sherlock would be before him.
Beckoning him home.
.
John huffed a laugh.
Foolish.
His childish imagination.
But the last time he had been here, he could have sworn ...
.
He took one last look around to confirm that the hall and the landing were, in fact, empty.
Then he took a firm step forward. One.
Then two. Three.
.
He paused.
The hair on the back of his neck rising.
Shaking his head against the urge to look.
.
Don't turn around ...
. Don't turn around ...
. Don't turn.
.
He took another step.
Willing himself to keep moving.
.
A creak on a stair below him.
He isn't there ...
.
The echo of a step ...
Stop it!
.
John froze. Willing his eyes to stay downcast on his own shoes. He studied them. As worn and haphazard as his hope ...
Then forced himself once more, to move.
.
Three more steps. Two more steps. One.
His hand reached out for the door to 221B.
He took a deep breath.
.
This time the step behind him on the stair, was unmistakable ...
As was the fall of a large hand onto the wooden railing below.
.
"Sherlock?"
.
John spoke the name aloud before he could stop himself.
The stairwell was silent.
John's grip on the door handle tightened.
The tears stinging at the corners of his eyes ...
.
He took another deep breath.
His imagination.
Just his imagination ...
A wild, hopeful, god damned wishful and desperately-longing-for-all-of-this-to-be-just-a-magic-trick imagination ... begging the universe not for an empty stairwell ...
... but for an empty grave.
.
"I asked you for one more miracle," John told the air.
Oddly. The confession seemed to help quiet his nerves.
He looked up. Pinpointing the light of the setting sun.
"I asked you not to be dead."
He knew the words were final. Closure.
.
Somehow ... the air in the hall itself, held its breath ...
.
Then he heard a gasp.
And a heavy step below him.
Accompanied by the very real feeling ... Unmistakable.
That of a warm hand moving along a polished wooden rail. The slightest friction echoing up the stairs ...
.
John tried to steady his heart rate. His pulse thrumming in his ears, nearly drowning out the sound ... If it even had been real ...?
Sherlock's voice broke the silence next, barely a whisper ...
. "I heard you."
.
It sounded unsteady ... shaky ...
. fragile ... ?
Like a ghost.
.
But the next thing he heard was a very real hiss of pain, shattering his illusions ... even as he felt the thud of a body collapsing onto the stairs below.
John was down the stairs in seconds.
Gathering the long-missing detective into his arms. Every sense taking in and cataloguing what his eyes could not yet believe ...
(... continued below the cut)
"Sherlock? Oh, God - Sherlock!" John cradled his friend closer, rocking him into a better position where he could check him for wounds ... for anything he could do to help alleviate his pain ...?
He couldn't make out was cause of Sherlock's distress, but the man was fading into unconsciousness.
"Just ... hold on, Sherlock!" John commanded hauling Sherlock up into his arms.
Despite Sherlock's thin stature, he had been almost pure muscle before, but now ... John didn't want to think about how Sherlock could have lost this much weight in the time he had been away?
He was real. He was here. That was all that mattered.
John found the strength to carry whatever weight Sherlock had, gladly.
.
Upstairs, he tucked Sherlock into a bed that lay fitted and ready for use as if he had never left it ... and then stared at the sight in wonder.
Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was home.
John felt Sherlock shift and those crystal blue eyes blinked open for a moment. He could see Sherlock fought against the sleep that desperately wanted to overtake him.
How tired was he ... ?
John shushed him and managed to settle him back down. Watching as his friend's demeanor relaxed. His eyes closed, and his breathing evened out ...
Seconds passed. Minutes.
Maybe hours.
When John felt Sherlock's hand reach out in his sleep ... and grasp for his hand.
"... John, I ..."
The baritone voice poured into John's veins. Hot liquid. More valuable than blood. More heady than pure oxygen. Speeding up his heart rate again ...
"... I heard you," Sherlock sighed with relief, "I heard you ..."
.
John sighed too.
. Sherlock was dreaming.
This time ... John knew he wasn't the only one wishing for an empty grave. A successful magic trick.
They were both experiencing a miracle.
John gripped Sherlock's hand firmly, caressing the knuckles as he watched his miracle ...
. Sleep.
.
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@flashfictionfridayofficial @whumptober
@johnlocky @fluffbyday-smutbynight @totallysilvergirl @gregorovitchworld @lisbeth-kk @john-smiths-jawline @chinike @rhasima @calaisreno @discordantwords @raina-at @kettykika78 @khorazir @hasenkind687 @iwlyanmw @missdeliadili @safedistancefrombeingsmart @iamjustreading @jobooksncoffee @topsyturvy-turtely @keirgreeneyes @peanitbear @amyreadsandstresses @shiplocks-of-love @caffeinatedanxiouscucumber @timberva @colourfulwatson @arwamachine @peageetibbs @meetinginsamarra @whatnext2020 @purplevatican @ineffableuser @estrella-creek @k2ntwo @kaursblog11 @mrb488 @justanobsessedpan @gaylilsherlock @sarahthecoat @7-percent @lillysliterature @ninasnakie @the-reading-lemon @a-victorian-girl @wizama @jawnscoffee @13monkton ... I'm getting back into writing, go easy on me!
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rcmclachlan · 8 months
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Notoriety
good omens :: season 2 fix-it :: 8.9k
As it turns out, Aziraphale has a bit of a reputation in Heaven.
"I-I beg your pardon? The Demon Tempter?" Zadkiel gives an enthusiastic nod and leans forward. "I didn't come up with the name, but you have to admit it's rather clever! Because, you know. It's usually demons doing the tempting, but this time it's you! Tempting demons. Well, one demon." "I don't—tempt." He doesn't technically possess a trachea at the moment, but it feels as though he does. One with something lodged rather firmly in it. "I've never—" "You know what I mean." She waves her hands between them in some vague gesture he doesn't understand. "You tempt the demon into thinking you're on his side, that you love him back, and then BAM! You pull the rug out from under him, leaving him utterly devastated. And because he never learns, it just keeps happening over and over! It's monstrously funny. Wherever did you get the idea?" It's impossible for his Heavenly form to crumble to dust, but it certainly feels as though it's happening.
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wheels-of-despair · 1 year
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The Fastest Fix-It (Or: How a Jealous Girlfriend Shut That Shit Down and Saved Eddie Before the Bell Rang) Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: A jealous girlfriend completely de-rails season 4, but Eddie's fine, so it's all good. Contains: Thinly veiled rage, openly hating on the popular kids, foiled Duffer Plans. Word Count: 400ish
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"You'll neeever guess who just left a note in my locker," your boyfriend drawls as he drops into the seat next to you.
"Jason Carver," you deadpan without looking up, digging through your backpack for yesterday's homework before the last class of the day begins.
"Close," he slaps a neatly folded piece of notebook paper onto the table between you. "Chrissy Cunningham."
You pause your search to look at the dainty handwriting. Of course it's written in pink. You're surprised she didn't dot the "i" in "Eddie" with a little heart.
"What does she want?" you feign disinterest, resuming your search for… whatever you were looking for a minute ago.
He lowers his voice and delivers the word "druuuuugs" in an exaggerated whisper.
Your hands still and you look over to study his face, a mixture of disbelief and excitement. This asshole.
Pretending that your blood wasn't starting to boil at the thought of him spending time alone with a cheerleader - you knew he was a sucker for skirts, no matter how much he insisted he loved the way your ass looked in jeans - you calmly place your backpack on the floor and try to unclench your jaw.
"So you're gonna go meet her?"
"It's business, sweetheart."
"Riiight." You turn in your chair to face him. "So Chrissy Cunningham just contacted you, completely out of the blue, never having spoken a word to you before… and you're not at all suspicious."
"Why would I be suspicious?"
You heave a sigh.
"Where were you two hours ago?"
He looks at his watch. "Lunch?"
"And did you happen to do anything loud and obnoxious at lunch today?" He smirks. Of course he did, he's Eddie. "Something involving stomping across a table… yelling at people… for example, Jason Carver? You know, the guy who's been betrothed to Chrissy Fucking Cunningham since their perfect little blonde heads exited their mothers' perfect asses?"
You can see the wheels start to turn beneath that unruly mane.
"You think it's a set-up?"
You give him a pointed look.
"Shit."
"Think with your main brain, Munson." You flick him on the fly, making him jump. He fakes a glare that turns into a sheepish smile as the bell rings. Grinning, you turn to face the front of the room.
What would this sweet doofus do without you?
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natchastxin · 8 months
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trip to venice.
Summary: Ilsa brings you to Venice despite your refusal and you confess to her the feelings of hurt you’ve had since she left you in Amsterdam three months ago which leads you to join Ethan’s team. You find her in the aftermaths of the fight on the bridge.
Pairings: Ilsa Faust x f!reader
Warnings: blood, slight smut
A/N: I just finished watching Mission Impossible: Dead Reckoning Part 1 so I’m writing this to make myself feel less sad. And obviously there are spoilers for MI Dead Reckoning so don’t read if you don’t want to.
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You loved her, you really loved her and you thought she felt the same way too. She told you so herself just that night she spent in your room in Paris after a stressful mission. So why did you find your bed empty and apartment bare as if she was never there? Had you dreamed the whole night?
The only evidence that proved that the night had transpired was the singular note she left on your nightstand, propped up against a glass of water. On it, etched on the delicate white paper was a single letter: I. The letter was accompanied with a heart that was drawn in the same swoopy style as the letter.
You picked it up and quickly turned it over in your hands to see if she had written anything else. Much to your disappointment, that was it. You laid back in your bed with the note clutched over your heart and closed your eyes as the scenes of last night flashed behind your eyelids.
A frenzied knocking woke you from where you had fallen asleep on your couch while watching your movie. Worried sick about Ilsa, you thought it best to distract your mind with something else. She came to your apartment before she left for Kashmir, letting you know how the mission was going to go down as you braided her hair.
You met her while in the MI6. She was the agent and you were... well, you were also an agent but you were better known for your bomb-diffusing skills, how well you handled a knife, and your medical skills. Funny thing, that was actually how you met her, in a knife combat. You were tasked to bring her in because she had information on a known terrorist and caught her off guard. The fight ended with both of your legs wrapped around one another's necks until you called truce.
You fell for her quickly, quicker than anyone you had ever fell for before. It hit you that you were falling for her the way waves break against a barrier of rocks. You came to the realization one late night that two of you had gone to a bar for drinks.
You sat across from her in the headquarters in London, staring at her in your own subtle way— in a way that you thought she didn't notice— but she soon caught on whenever she looked up and you would quickly look back down at your paperwork. For her, she fell for you more gradually. It was a gentle love for her that she received from you, it was like the cool afternoon breeze that rustled through the trees of the forest; it enveloped you and left you wanting more when it left. This pining between the two of you lasted for years, through her disavowal which was shortly followed by your resignation from the MI6 to do privately contracted work all the way to the day she confessed to you that she loved you when she showed up at your apartment front door.
You opened the door and she was greeted by your very disheveled appearance. "Hey," she croaked out and your eyes immediately brightened, any trace of fatigue disappearing from your eyes.
"Ilsa."
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she said, smirking.
"You're one to talk," you said, pretending to be cross and resting your hands on your hips. But you can barely keep your facade up long. Your real emotions of fear quickly break through your expression. Your lip trembles and you pull her towards you. She drops her duffle bag onto the ground and lets you melt into her embrace. "You were supposed to call," you tell her, you voice muffled by her shoulder. She laces her fingers through your hair to hold you close.
"I'm sorry, darling," she tells you and hugs you tightly, "I'm here now, I'm okay. We got to the bomb in time."
"The bomb?" You said, wiping your nose on your sleeve while pulling away, "Why didn't you call me? I could've helped."
"We didn't have time," she sighed out, "I got here as fast as I could."
"Come on," you said pulling her in, "I'll make you a drink."
The night progresses rapidly and both you and Ilsa down multiple drinks as she tells you how the mission unfolded.
"I have something to tell you," Ilsa said.
"Hmm?"
She pressed the lip of her beer against her chin and leaned towards you. "I love you," she said. Your heart beats rapidly against your rib cage and you breathe in that intoxicating perfume scent of hers. Her grip on the slippery glass tightened for a few seconds while silence filled the air as you came to terms with what the woman before you confessed. "I love you too," you whispered out. She takes your beer out of your hand and places it on the coffee table along with hers. She kissed you then, threading her fingers through your thick hair, trying to bring your lips closer to hers.
"I've loved you all these years," she tells you.
"Let's not waste any more apart," you said, "Do you want this?" You bring your hand to the first button of her shirt to indicate what you meant.
"I have longed for this day since the day I met you," she tells you, "I want this— I want you."
She straddles your waist and your arms encircle around her, bringing her impossibly close to your body.
You bring her to your bed and you make sweet love to her that night, you're gentle as she is with you. She lets you worry over her injuries and press kisses to the bruises on her neck. She cums on your fingers then your tongue multiple times and you bury your head into her heat for as long as she lets you, she then returns the favor until you're shaking from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Mustering the remaining strength you had in your legs, you straddled her and brought both of your cores to each other, rubbing until she sobbed as she came and your thighs burned with exhaustion. You collapse next to her and bring her close to your chest. You kiss the top of her head and brush her hair with your fingers.
"Stay," you tell her, whispering it into the dark corners of the room, "I know you have to leave soon, but stay for the next two days— for me."
She closed her eyes tightly and let out a hesitant breath, "Only for you."
She kisses your chest, then your neck— sucking on your pulse point to mark you as hers. To be fair, you had done your fair share of marking up her body so now it was time she took her revenge. She kissed you long and slow, nibbling on your bottom lip until your lips became red like cherries. She takes your breath away every time she pulls away and you stare into her beautiful iridescent eyes. She slowly falls asleep in your arms and you spend the time counting the freckles on her eyelids before falling asleep as well. You held her close that night, not wanting to let go.
You woke up that morning blissful— if only that lasted for more than a minute. The bed was empty and so was the apartment. She had vacated and left not a single trace of her presence. That broke you. You collapsed to the floor, sobbing and clawing at your chest. Little did you know, this started a cycle for you and Ilsa. A cycle that always led her back into your arms in that tiny apartment in Paris. The next year, she waltzes in and out of your life whenever she pleases. It was as if she had forgotten that first night you had with her entirely. She would fuck you then leave the next morning and you were happy to give that to her if that meant you could have her for that little while.
You used to tell her about the dream you had for the both of you. The one that included laughter, coffee dates, the strolls you would take at the local park, the paintings the two of you would pick out to decorate your apartment, the patter of small feet that would fill the silence of the morning, and the infinite love that the two of you would share. She would lay there with her eyes closed, smiling happy. It was the only way this dream existed for her— in that small bed inside of the small Paris apartment you owned. The only place that dream lived was in yours and Ilsa's minds. You dreamt of a world where no one knew your names, a world where you could live anonymously, stroll down the streets hand-in-hand, free from the fear of someone harming you or Ilsa. She hides her tears when you describe this dream to her each time the two of you lay naked, sprawled together late at night. She let you dream for the two of you because that was the only way she could truly make you happy. You knew that she didn't want the same future you wanted but you endured.
Three months of taking the torture, you had finally confronted her. Not given the response that you deemed to be the truth, you sent her out of your apartment in fury, swearing that you never wanted to see her again.
"I thought what we had was real, Ilsa," you had told her, "You told me you loved me that first night in Paris when you got back from your mission with Ethan."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she mumbled.
The truth was that Ilsa was scared. She was scared what would happen if other people knew just how madly in love with you she was. She saw what happened to Ethan and how it affected him. She didn't want anything bad to happen to you so instead she kept you a secret and kept the relationship to a minimum because she saw it as the only way she could protect you. She would have you in the only way she could but she never knew how much she would hurt you in the process. You finally came to the realization of why she was treating you like such an ass one day the both of you had spent the night in Amsterdam.
"You're not Ethan," you told her in bed one night as you held her close, "And I'm not totally helpless. I know you love me, Ilsa. And I love you, more than you know. Despite everything you've done these past three months, I still love you even though I shouldn't."
"But I can't protect you."
"Baby, I can protect myself. You forget that I was a trained agent too. This is my life, I'm not going to let some future terrorist dictate who I should be able to love."
She left again that morning and that was the last you saw of her for the next three months.
Your head throbbed as you sat up. You quickly began taking in your surroundings and noticed that you were in a moving van. You clutched your head in pain.
"Hey, darling," a familiar voice said and your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach. Familiar hands grabbed yours but you shook them off.
"Where am I? What are you doing here? What happened?"
No one gives you an answer. It seems like the two men at the front are waiting for Ilsa to answer you but she doesn't. All she does is stare.
"Fine, I'm leaving then if you won't give me an answer."
You stand up and you're about to open the door when Ilsa grabs your free arm. That does it for you. You twist in her grasp and eventually pin her down in the van.
"Don't fucking touch me," you spat.
"Hey now, c'mon," Benji in the passenger seat finally said, "Just tell her, Ilsa."
"We knocked you out when you came out of your favorite cafe. Something bad is happening, I— we need you," she said and it comes out barely a whisper. Your expression changes.
You finally let her go and sit up. She sits up and coughs, rubbing her chest.
"Why? Why now?" You asked, looking deliberately at Ilsa, waiting for her to answer.
"We're going up against this new enemy and we could use your help," Benji answered instead, "Ilsa has told us about your skills and, well, we need someone like you."
"Thanks, but I'm not interested. She knows why."
You motion to stand up again and this time Ilsa speaks in a stronger voice.
"Y/N. Please," she pleaded. You look at her, which was the first mistake. You could never deny her anything. You would always say yes to her even if it cost you. Your jaw clenched in frustration.
"Fine. But if I do this, I don't want to talk to you or see you ever again. You got it?"
"I understand," she said even though it felt like her heart was being wrenched from her body.
"You've hurt me enough times," you told her.
The two men at the front of the car exchange looks.
You sat in the back of the van when Benji brings Ethan in. You had only met Ethan once before, he was nice. But you didn't tend to base how good a person was from first impressions.
"Y/N," he said when he noticed you.
"Ethan," you replied.
"Nice to see you."
You nodded. He looks back and sees Ilsa's deliberately avoidant gaze, looking anywhere but at you. He lets out a very small sigh and looks at Benji who gives him a grimace, shaking his head. He knew what happened between you and Ilsa, one of three people that knew. He knew how much the two of you loved one another and how stubborn Ilsa could be. You, on the other hand, from his singular encounter with you, he knew that you had a kind soul. Why else would Ilsa love you so? Even if she refused to admit it.
You hold up a paper clip and help free Ethan from his handcuffs. "Are you okay?" He asked.
You nodded your head, busying yourself with unlocking his handcuffs.
"I'm always fine," you told him once you freed him.
"So what's the plan?" You asked.
"What would potentially happen if a government got their hands on this AI tech?" You asked while sharpening your knife nervously.
"We don't know," Ethan said, "We need to find the other half of the key to find out."
Luther shows him the surveillance footage from the chase in the airport, "I took out the footage from your glasses and looked through everything. See anything strange?"
He notices a man glitching and replays the footage, "It's like he's a ghost."
"We can't find actual video of him except for right here," Luther stops at a frame of Grace, "He only exists in this reflection."
"The Entity," Ethan says, his voice dropping to a whisper, "It's protecting him."
"You saw him, didn't you?" Luther said.
"I did, but I wasn't sure."
"Well who is he?" Benji asked.
"Someone I thought died a long time ago," Ethan said, "In another life, before the IMF. Before I was offered the choice."
Ethan looks up at Luther, "In a very real sense, he made me into who I am today."
Luther grimaced.
"Does he have a name?" Luther asked.
"He calls himself Gabriel," Ilsa said, turning from the window. You look over at her and she meets your gaze before switching to Ethan's.
"You know him," Ethan said.
"There is no knowing him. He has no recorded past— the Entity made sure of that. He's a dark Messiah. The Entity's chosen messenger and he sees death as a gift he wants to share with the rest of the world."
"How do you know this?"
"I still have a few friends in MI6."
She looks back at you but you look away. "Friends who are afraid," she continued, "Of the British government gaining control of the Entity. Any attempt to try to stop them would be seen as an act of treason."
"And because you're disavowed," you said, "Friends called and asked you for help."
"They knew Gabriel served the Entity," she said, "They knew he was on his way to Istanbul to acquire one half of the key but I beat him to it."
"Do your friends know what this key leads to?"
"They believe it leads to its source code."
"Source code," Luther echoed.
"When were you going to tell me this?" Ethan asked.
"I'm telling you now," she said.
"Hold on, did you talk to them in person?" You asked, "Your friends. Did this happen over a phone call?"
"I'm disavowed so they had no way of contacting me in person."
Her expression changed when she realized what you were implying.
"He wanted you to find the key," you said, your voice coming to a whisper, "He wanted you to bring the key to Ethan. This was a trap."
"No, we can't be sure that was the Entity," she said.
"We can't be sure it wasn't," you replied.
"We can't believe anything outside of this very conversation," Ethan said, "None of you should be here."
You sat with Benji in the other room as he revised the firewalls on his laptop. You leaned back in your chair, having switched to a different knife to sharpen.
"Why did you guys choose me? Of all the people you could've called, why me?"
"Ilsa wanted you here. She wanted to see you and make sure you were safe."
"Bullshit. She doesn't care about me," you laughed.
He looks at you and your belief in your words falters.
"Why did she leave me then?"
"It's the only way she could think to protect you. Yes, I know how that contradicts the fact that you're here now but you're the best agent she knows and she thinks that maybe she can better protect you this way."
"That's stupid," you scoffed.
"Not everything is always a clear path in Ilsa's head."
You look away to where Ilsa is standing in the other room. Benji follows your gaze.
"She still loves you, despite everything she's done to make it look otherwise and I'm guessing you still love her too."
You give an imperceptible nod of your head.
"Go tell her before it's too late. With our line of work, we never know how much time we get with one another."
"You're very wise, you know," you said, "When you want to be."
"Thank you," Benji said, his face brightening.
You walk to the room in which Ilsa is standing in. You tilt your head to the door leading to the roof and she nodded. You went first. She follows a few minutes later.
You stood on the rooftop, gripping the railing tightly. You bent down and stretched your shoulders before resting on the railing with your forearms. She walks over and leans with her back against the sunset. She lets out a loud sigh.
"You're mad at me," she noted.
"Great observation," you said sarcastically.
"Y/N..."
"What? What do you want from me, Ilsa? I've given you everything I have. Every time you turned for me I was there and now you pull me into this mission. You couldn't even talk to me first? I would've said yes, you know. All you had to do was ask. I would always be there, despite everything."
She doesn't say anything so you look at her. Hot tears are rolling down her face. Your heart broke again even though you knew that it shouldn't.
"I'm sorry," she said, "Those nights in Paris then in Amsterdam."
Silence fills the air when she pauses. "I had a mission after Amsterdam and faked my death," she said quietly, "I wanted you to come with me but then I remembered everything I did— how I hurt you."
You turn around and lean against the railing, crossing your arms over your chest.
"I didn't realize that in my efforts to protect you, just how much I was hurting you in the process. I know that I don't deserve your forgiveness but I want to give this a chance, a real chance this time."
You looked over at her, "I wanted to give this a chance too. I always have. But I don't want to get hurt again. I can't keep doing that to myself."
"I know. But what if I promised you that I would try? I want to be with you, whatever it takes," she said.
You think about it, was it really worth it to give her another chance? She was the love of your life, yes, but she had hurt you so many times, though not intentionally.
"Fine," you said, uncrossing your arms, "I'll give us a try. But I want complete honesty from here on out.
She nods, "I can do that."
So you let her back into your heart because your love for her outweighed the grudge you held against and it was the only thing you ever knew how to do.
She hugs you hesitantly and you move your arms to hold her closer. She smelled the same as the night in Amsterdam. You brushed your fingers through her desert colored highlights. She tucks her head under your chin, revelling in the comfort your embrace brought her.
"I promise that I won't hurt you," she said, "Not intentionally."
You kissed the crown of her hair and she looked up at you before meeting your lips. You let her deepen the kiss as you pull her even closer to you. She found a home in you that day. You held her closely by the waist, not wanting to let her go. A smile tugs at both your lips.
"You know, I've never been to Venice," she said.
"Really?" You said.
"Yeah, it's my first time here."
"Hmm, maybe I'll show you around after this mission's over. What do you think?"
"I think... it sounds like perfection."
She bit her bottom lip adorably before snuggling her head into your chest. You never wanted to let her slip away ever again. She feels your grip on her waist tighten as your mind drifts once more to the plan. She was going to meet Gabriel at the bridge and fake her death. The margin for error was so small, barely imperceptible to the human eye.
"What's wrong?" She asked, brushing her nose against your jaw.
"I don't like this plan," you confessed, "There's too many things that can go wrong. It's not safe."
"Darling, it's the only way we'll be free," she tried her best to make you see the brighter side of the plan.
"You could die, Ilsa. I can't have that happen."
"I'll be careful. He'll hit me here," she said, guiding your hand just clear of her heart, "I'll be sure of it. Besides, if things get out of hand, death will just have to withstand my will to stay alive."
"Ilsa, don't joke," you said, looking away. Your eyes sting with tears threatening to run away.
"I'm not joking- hey, look at me," she cups your jaw with one hand, "I'll come back to you, I promise." She rested her forehead against yours. "I'll be fine," she told you.
She follows you back down where everyone is changing into their attire for the party. Ilsa pulls you into her room and sits you down on a crate. She sits in between your legs. You give her a perplexed look.
"Could you braid my hair?" She asked quietly and your mouth breaks into a smile. "Of course."
You brush her hair gently to one side. She plays with her fingers while you comb through her hair, plaiting it expertly.
"I haven't had my hair braided since you left me," she confessed, "You've always been the person to do it for me."
You smile to yourself at the thought of this simple activity she saved just for you. You finish braiding her hair and place it over her shoulder. You kiss the side of your neck and she turns to capture your lips. She rises onto her knees and laces her fingers through your hair, pulling you to her. Her tongue slides against yours as you deepen the kiss. She moans into your mouth and you grip her waist tightly. You nibble on her bottom lip before she does the same to you.
Ethan walks in and the two of you break apart. A smile creeps onto his face. "Glad the two of you finally came to your senses," he said and a blush rises to both your cheeks, "Could I get a minute with Y/N?"
Ilsa nods and leaves the two of you alone but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your palm.
She walks back into the common area where Luther and Benji are working on their laptops.
"Nice hair," Luther commented.
"Why are your lips red?" Benji asked.
Her fingers rises to her lips instinctively and she blushes.
"Oh my god," Benji said and Luther smirks.
He stands up and points his finger while following her. She ducks and speed walks to the equipment. "You guys are back together aren't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Benji," trying her best to keep a poker face.
Benji smirks and crosses his arms across his chest, "I like seeing you happy. The two of you are good for each other, clearly."
Ilsa blushes again before ducking her head and rummaging through a duffle bag, "Thanks."
"I have a task for you," Ethan said, "While we're at the party, I want you to follow us from a distance. We have the advantage of Gabriel not knowing who you are. I need you to follow Ilsa and protect her. I won't be able to do that while I get Gabriel. Can you do that for me?"
"Of course, Ethan," you replied. He nods, "You'll be off comms so that there's no distractions. I just want you to follow Ilsa, don't worry about me. Alright?"
You nod.
"Take the weapons you need. I'll come find you when everything's done," Ethan said. He goes to stand up but you grab his arm, "Stick to the plan. Let her fake her death. I know it's going to seem real but don't worry, we've got this."
He blinks appreciatively at your reassurance. "Good luck," he said.
You were following Grace, Ilsa, and Ethan to the party. Watching them from a distance. Ethan had told Ilsa to run so you followed her to make sure that she would be alright. You finally caught up to her in a deserted alleyway. She swings at you with her fist before realizing who was following her. You duck and grab her arm.
"Y/N?" She said, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Ethan sent me, he told me to follow the three of you from a distance. He asked me to protect you." You moved in closer to her and inspected her face and she closed her eyes, taking in your concerned touch. "I'm alright," she told you.
"Good, you had me worried back there," you said. She opens her eyes and sees that you haven't moved from your spot. One of your hands moves from her face to her hip and pull her flush against you.
"I missed this," you whisper to her. She puts a hand against your abdomen. "What are you waiting for then?" She husked out. Her hand scrunches the front of your shirt and pulls you even closer to her body. You meet her lips, they were soft and they enveloped your own.
You pull away and rest your forehead against her. "We should probably go," Ilsa told you and you nodded, agreeing.
"I'll be right behind you," you said, "Do you have a weapon?"
She half unsheathes the sword she's holding and you smirk. "That's my girl," you said. You take one of the five knives on your body and tuck it into the back of the waistband of her pants, you hide the weapon with her shirt.
"I added a little something special," you told her.
She smiled and kissed you, "Let's go."
She takes off running and you run behind her. You hear faint sounds of combat and Ilsa comes to a quick stop, causing you to crash into her. She held a finger up to her lips. She motioned for you to stay here but you shook your head. She motioned for you to just wait and you reluctantly agreed.
She walks up to the bridge and you wait tensely behind the corner, glancing over to your girlfriend to make sure she was alright. She starts fighting Gabriel and she gets stabbed in the leg. She lets out a heart wrenching scream and you run over swiftly and quietly. You unsheathe the knife from behind your back and slash his thigh— his femoral artery. He yells in pain and clutches his leg; blood gushed past his fingers.
"Who the hell are you?" He grunted. "No one that you need to know." You flip your knife and help Ilsa stand up. "Go check on Grace. I'll handle him."
She limps over to Grace and checks her pulse. You momentarily let your guard down and Gabriel gets back up. "Y/N, look out!" She screamed. Gabriel punched you in the back of the head and knocked you out.
Ilsa's vision turned red with anger when she saw your body crumple to the ground. She picks up the sword again and advances toward Gabriel. Her swipes are sloppy and Gabriel can see it but nonetheless she gets a few slashes in. He takes advantage of her sloppiness and knocks her sword away easily. He slashes at her abdomen and it barely misses her. He cuts open her stomach and she lets out a gasp and clutched her stomach. He pins her against the side of the bridge. "This is what happens to whoever cares about Ethan Hunt," he hissed in her ear, "When I'm done with you I'll carve up your little partner. She'll look so pretty all slashed up."
"Don't ever fucking touch her," Ilsa gasped out in between breaths. Her hand inches to the knife you had tucked into her waistband.
"I kill you first and she won't have anyone to protect her," he cackled.
"She doesn't need me to protect her."
She pulls out her knife and stabs the side of his body. "If anything, she's been the one to protect me all along." He doubled over in pain.
He grunted angrily and stood back up, stabbing Ilsa in the chest, she moved slightly to the side as he did so. Her eyes opened in shock, letting out a shaky breath. She looks down at the knife then back at Gabriel.
Gabriel stumbles back and lets Ilsa slide to the floor. She closes her eyes to control her breathing. You finally open your eyes, your head is throbbing and you look around. You push yourself up with much difficulty and see Gabriel's retreating figure. "Hey, asshole," you yelled out, "You forgot to kill me."
"Your time will come," Gabriel said.
You stumbled to your feet and pulled a small dagger from your boot. As he turns his back, you throw the dagger at him. It lodged in his back and he fell over before crawling away.
You look around and see Ilsa and your heart drops to your stomach. You run over her and see the knife. Quickly taking her head into your lap, you check her pulse, letting out a temporary sigh of relief. However, that relief didn't stay for long, you had a performance to put on. You hunch over Ilsa's body and cry. Your shoulders shake as you discreetly take out her earpiece and crush it beneath your boot. You lower your lips to her ear.
"You did really good. I'm so proud of you," you whisper into her ear. From a distance, it just looks like your grieving over your lover's dead body.
You brush her hair soothingly, continuing to let the tears flow.
"I love you," you told her. Her eyes twitch so you press a kiss to each of her eyelids, over her freckles. You hold her head close to your body and she stays motionless.
You hear heavy sounds of footsteps from the distance and you know it's Ethan. Grace would be waking up any minute now.
"No!" Ethan yells when he sees Ilsa's limp body in your arms. He places his finger to her pulse and his eyes soften to sadness. "Y/N, I'm so sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen," he said.
You sniffle and brush your tears, "She died protecting others. It's what she would've wanted."
Grace finally comes to and realizes what happened. She's in shock seeing Ilsa's "dead" body. "No, that wasn't supposed to happen. She's not supposed to be dead, she wasn't supposed to sacrifice herself," Grace starts hyperventilating, "Why did she do that? I didn't ask her to do that."
You lovingly brush at Ilsa's chestnut hair. "Ilsa was doing what she loved," you tell her without looking at her. You look at Ethan and place a hand on his knee, "Go talk to her."
You continue talking to her despite the fact that you look mad doing it. "You did good, my love. You did so good. I hope you can finally have some peace." You press a kiss to her warm lips before pressing your forehead against her.
Benji quickly but surely arrives only a couple of seconds later. He takes in Grace's hysterical expression and Ethan comforting her before his gaze landed on you. Your back faced him but he could see the tip of Ilsa's head. He hops out of the boat and rushed over to you.
"No, it can't be true. Ilsa..."
He takes in her pale complexion and the lack of movement from her chest. You look up with your tear-stricken eyes and a string of silent communication travels from your eyes to his. It was done.
"Y/N, I'm so sorry. This wasn't how it was to go down."
You nodded sadly, "I know."
You sniff harshly and brush your tears away roughly. "Please can we just take her home," you clear your throat, "I don't want us to be all exposed here and she deserves a proper burial."
Benji nods, understanding, "Do you need me to help?"
You shake your head and lift her easily into your arms. You take her back onto the boat to the underside, safe from the eyes of the Entity where she finally opens her eyes. You burst into tears then, for real this time. She brushes them away, shushing you.
"I love you too," she whispered to you, "I'm okay. Didn't I tell you everything would be fine?"
You nod, still trying to recover from the events of the bridge.
"If you could give me a hand though," she said pointedly, looking at the knife.
"Oh yes, of course."
"It's a cute knife but it would be better out of my body," she muttered.
You chuckle before indicating to her shirt then your knife, she nods. You slice open her shirt to get better access to the wound. "If you wanted take me to bed you could've just asked," she teased and you rolled your eyes.
You open your duffle bag to take out your medical supplies. You spray antiseptic over her wound and she hisses. "Sorry."
She shook her head, "It's fine. Do whatever you need to."
You get a firm grip on the knife and give it a big tug. It comes out quickly and leaves Ilsa groaning in pain. You toss the knife across the boat and rip open a packet of gauze and cover her wound. "Here, apply pressure. I'll stitch you up."
You take out your suturing kit and help her lay down in the cramped cabin of the boat.
"I only have numbing spray," you tell her and she nods, "Okay, it might sting a little."
She nods again. You remove the gauze and throw 3 tight but delicate sutures on her shoulder before wrapping her chest with bandages.
"Now let's look at that stomach of yours," you said before moving to her abdomen. It had a wider slash but the cut wasn't as deep as the one of her chest. You stitch it up nonetheless then wrap it. You move to her leg and she very gracefully takes off her pants to reveal the wound. It was a small slice, 2 inches wide. You stitch her up and bandage her.
Benji stomps on the floor of the boat to indicate your arrival. You look back at Ilsa. "Ready to hide again?" You asked and she nods. You drape a sheet over her body before lifting her into your arms and carrying her to the safe house. Luther gives your arm a squeeze when he sees you and you blink appreciatively before going to the room you had claimed and laying her on the bed. You remove the sheet and she looks back at you.
"Get some rest," you told her.
She was still bleeding heavily despite the stitches you gave her but you were on your own. The rest of the team had left to deal with the mission while you stayed behind and cared for Ilsa. You cleaned her bandages each night and replenished her with nutrients. You bought medical supplies and stole some from a local hospital and brought them back to her. She gets a fever on the second day and falls unconscious, shuddering ever so slightly in her sleep.
You took in her pale appearance in the bed. She sunk into the bed and her freckles looked dull. They never looked like that. You prayed for her to wake up so that the color would return to them. She looked so weak, her skin as pale as moonlight. She looked too frail. Too unlike the Ilsa you knew. You knew she had to get better soon, she had too. You wrung put a wet cloth and wiped her burning forehead. She starting to show early signs of infection so you fed her antibiotics and stayed by her side every night, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.
Her fever finally broke on the fourth day. She wakes up and say your hunched over position by the side of her bed. She smiled gratefully at her guardian angel and combed through your hair. You sat up quickly at the feeling.
"You're alive," she croaked, her throat raspy from disuse.
"You're awake. God, I thought we would never make it out of that," you tell her.
"Oh baby," she said, a hand coming up to your face, brushing your cheek, "I'm okay. I'm alive. See?"
She brings your fingers to her wrist and you felt her soothing heart beat. You laid your head against her wrist. "Come, lay with me."
She slowly scoots over and you slide onto the bed with her and take her into your arms. "Don't move too much," you told her, "You'll tear your stitches."
"Thank you for being here," she said.
"I wouldn't be anywhere else. Just get some sleep, darling. I'll be here when you wake up," you told her, smoothing her hair. "Thank you for coming back to me," you whispered into her hairline and she closed her eyes with a smile on her face. You kiss her freckles repeatedly until she falls asleep.
When she finally heals, that's when the two of you say your goodbyes. Ethan, Benji, and Luther were the only ones there.
"But if you need me, I'll only be a call away," she told him and slipped a flip phone into his front pocket, "Only use it for emergencies. As far as the world knows, I'm dead." She gives him a tight hug. "And what about you?" Ethan asked, "What happens in your story?"
You shrug, "The love of my life dies and I decide to move to the quiet countryside of France and teach English." Ethan smiles, nodding his head, "That suits you." He gives you a hug as well.
"Treat her well," he told you and you nodded.
"If you're ever in France and need somewhere to stay..." you trailed off.
"I look forward to taking you up on your offer," he said.
"You ready?" You asked Ilsa and she nodded. She picked up her duffle bag and gave her last farewells to Luther and Benji.
"Come visit, okay?" She tells the both of them and they nod.
"Take care, Ilsa," Benji said while hugging her.
You approach Ethan one more time and take your favorite knife out from behind your back. It had an ivory white handle, a Persian tip, and a beautifully intricate wave pattern over the blade.
"This is for Grace. Tell her it's my gift to her for joining the IMF and taking Ilsa's place. We finally gets our happy ending now and it's all thanks to her."
Ethan nods, "I will."
"If any of you ever need us, I'll be there. You're Ilsa's family— mine by extension, we will show up, no matter what."
Ilsa laces her fingers with yours and nods. She gives you a kiss.
"Bye," you said. You and Ilsa exit to the boat that Ethan bought and placed under his name. The plan was to sail to France. It was a short ride and Ethan had packed everything you could possibly need into the boat.
"Go hide," you tell Ilsa and she nodded, "I'll let you know when we reach open waters."
You and Ilsa move into a chateau in the countryside, 30 minutes away from the beach. A place where the two of you could start fresh and build your family. There was a quiet town about a 10 minute bike ride, no surveillance cameras, just the eyes of locals who admired the love you and Ilsa had for each other. You and Ilsa went there on the weekends for grocery shopping before wandering around, trying the new patisserie shop around the corner, letting Ilsa feed you bits of croissant. The town made you and Ilsa feel young again, you would go out dancing like you were in your 20s, giggle in the back corners of the bookstore as you kissed one another and picked books for each other, let each other try their ice cream before agreeing which one was better. This quiet life, the one you and Ilsa always dreamed of was finally happening.
The two of you lounged on the couch together, reading. It was raining outside and the fire was crackling. She laid against your chest and you had an arm flung over her shoulder. She looks at your hand, the ring she gave you and smiles contentedly. She fiddles with the ring on your ring finger before smiling back up at you.
"Hey," you said, noticing her staring.
She moved your glasses from your face to the top of your head before cupping your face to kiss you.
"I'm happy we did this," she tells you.
"Me too."
She plays with your fingers while waiting, hesitantly, for the right moment to ask you a question that could change your lives.
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" You asked, noticing her shift of mood.
She sits up and turns around, sitting on the backs of her heels, so she can talk to you face-to-face. "Would you ever want kids?" She swallowed harshly, waiting for your answer.
Your lips eventually break into a smile and nod, "If it's with you, then yes."
You put down your book and take her hands into your own before pulling her to rest on your chest. You stroked her back and played with the ends of her hair.
"Is that what was worrying you so much?"
She nods against your chest.
"I've been dreaming about having kids with you for forever, Ilsa. Of course I want them. I can't wait to see a mini you running around the house."
"I could settle for a mini you too," she tells you.
She smiled against your skin, her chest warming at the idea.
She lifts her head and kisses along your jaw. She nestled into the crook of your neck, breathing in your perfume. She felt a sense of fulfillment resting here in your arms. A fulfillment that she never got from joining Ethan's team. You offered her a life filled with love and safety and she wishes she had seen that earlier instead of running away. But there was no point in dwelling on the past now. You held her in your arms and she was going to cherish every single moment she could spend with you.
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ashfae · 3 months
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Post s2 angry desperate loving angsty hopeful shamelessly cathartic smut. That's it, that's the summary. ;)
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Chapter 4, in which our two little space nerds might just go on a cute little date in Brazil. 12:01 by sparkle_platypus Chapters: 4/5 Fandom: For All Mankind (TV 2019) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Margo Madison/Sergei Nikulov, Margo Madison & Aleida Rosales, Sergei Nikulov & Aleida Rosales Characters: Margo Madison, Sergei Nikulov, Aleida Rosales, Irina Morozova (mentioned), Emma Jorgens (mentioned), original character Additional Tags: season four divergent, fix-it fic, we're going to Brazil baby, literal journey, healing journey, slow burn, letting them have nice things for once, discussions and depictions of PTSD Summary: Margo and Sergei find their way towards Brazil and each other.
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triscribeaucollection · 10 months
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Can’t Breathe In
(SO. What if, way back during Infinity War, the group on Titan fighting Thanos managed to get the gauntlet away from him? Say, for example, Peter yoinks just a tad harder at the right moment, pulling it and the four already-retrieved Stones off. There’s still the problem of keeping them away from the purple bastard, so Strange opens up a portal back to Earth, tosses the kid, the gauntlet, and the Eye of Agamotto through for good measure, before he and Tony and the Guardians do their level best to put Thanos down for good.
One thing leads to another, all roads converge in Wakanda, and there ends up being a knock-down drag-out free-for-all fight between the present Avengers and the remaining Children of Thanos for six Infinity Stones in one room (Shuri having just enough time to cut Vision free of the Mind Stone before shit hits the fan).
Stuff is exploding, containers are breaking, half a dozen all-powerful artifacts tied to the foundations of Existence are flying through the air, and a certain Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Doofus manages to grab two at once.
Things get... interesting, after that.)
---
Peter is so screwed.
Even if he survives, even if he manages to change enough things to save the day for everybody else, he is so screwed, because he did the one thing Doctor Strange explicitly said not to and at this point it’s definitely going to kill him.
Just. Slowly. Because that’s Parker Luck for you.
Panting through the pain, Peter manages to finish scrawling out the last of his future-notes, doubled up at the very bottom of the page. Then he promptly drops the pencil and grasps at his head, whining faintly.
Some of it’s definitely a residual after-effect of accidentally grabbing two Infinity Stones at once and super accidentally activating them. The rest is a miserable combination of adjusting to no longer having his powers, adjusting to once again having asthma, and of course the bout of bronchitis his thirteen year old body happened to be dealing with when Peter’s sixteen year old mind got dropped into it.
Zero out of five stars, do not recommend.
A hand knocks on his bedroom door, and Peter barely bites back an instinctive whimper. “Y-yeah?”
“You okay in there, kiddo?”
And there’s the other thing. Ben is still alive.
Ben is alive, May isn’t a widow, and Peter really needs to make sure they both stay that way.
But he also needs to warn Mister Stark about everything that’s coming.
“I- I guess,” Peter says miserably, and it’s enough to make his uncle open the door and step inside. The kid’s heart stutters just at the sight of him: familiar concerned expression, rumpled well-worn clothes, brown hair that’s only just started to turn gray around the ears.
“Well, you must be feeling a little better, at least,” Ben mutters, glancing between Peter at his desk and the abandoned bed. “I’m ducking out to run a couple errands, kiddo, shouldn’t be gone too long. Want anything?”
He takes as deep a breath as he can manage at the moment. “Actually- yeah. Could you drop off a letter for me?”
Ben raises an eyebrow, mouth quirking up a little at one corner. “A letter?”
“Mmhm.” Peter reorganizes his papers real quick, then folds the four sheets in half before taping them closed. On top goes a post-it note, and one final scribble: for FRIDAY or Happy Hogan, please.
...after a moment’s consideration, ‘please’ gets underlined an extra time.
Ben’s second eyebrow has risen as well by the time Peter turns back, holding out the makeshift envelope. “Where am I taking this, kiddo?”
“Manhattan. Stark Tower.” He can see the startled blink, and hurries to go on, “It’s really important, Ben, please. If I could take it my- myself-” His lungs choose that moment to induce a coughing fit, and Peter practically doubles over as his whole body shakes.
One of Ben’s large hands settles between his shoulder blades, rubbing up and down until Peter can breathe again. “Okay, buddy,” his uncle murmurs, gently tugging the papers free of his grasping fingers. “Okay. Stark Tower. I can do that. Might take me an extra hour, though- are you going to be okay by yourself?”
Rather than speak and irritate his poor throat, Peter raises a thumb’s up.
Ben grins, just slightly, and ruffles his hair. “Go on back to bed, then. I’ll top off your water cup and head out.” A+ plan. Truly phenomenal. Peter drags himself out of the wobbly desk chair and shuffles over, dragging the same blanket he’d brought along with him in the first place. Toppling over onto his old mattress is easy; so is making an unintelligible noise of gratitude when Ben sets down a refilled plastic cup. And from there, Peter slowly... drifts... off.......
...only to lurch back upright in a panic, mere minutes later, because he addressed the notes to Friday.
FRIDAY, the AI who doesn’t exist yet. Instead of JARVIS, the one who does.
Several curse words drop from his mouth, as Peter scrambles to try and find his- his phone. Which he does not have yet. Because it was a Congrats On Starting High School present after he turned fourteen. Because of course.
Nothing for it, then. As miserable as he feels, Peter needs to get dressed, go after Ben, and swap out the incorrect post-it for a properly addressed one.
When asked, he will very much blame his current fever and illness to explain why he didn’t go out into the living room, and use the landline they still possess at this point in time to call his uncle and fix the error. But that’s later, and this is now, and Peter fumbles for his jeans and a mostly clean t-shirt.
---
Ben Parker would like to claim he isn’t a terribly gullible person. Nor a distrusting one, either. But this feels like a delicate balance between the two, as he takes the subway to cross from Queens over to Manhattan, and then walks a couple blocks to a particular nigh-infamous building. ‘Stark Tower’, ‘Avengers Tower’, either way, the gleaming structure easily attracts attention, even when you aren’t a rubber-necking tourist.
The sheaf of papers crinkles in his back pocket.
If Peter weren’t so sick, Ben probably wouldn’t be humoring him like this. Then again, if Peter weren’t sick, he’d more than likely have found a way to sneak off to Stark Tower himself to deliver the mysterious letter. Taking a deep breath, Ben steps through glass doors, and does his best not to hunch his shoulders or otherwise look nervous around so many people in business attire.
Even so, his thrift store outfit and old leather boots draw at least a few stares.
The young woman at the desk he goes up to at least smiles welcomingly, and Ben does his best to return the expression. “Hi there. This is going to sound weird, and I apologize in advance, but my kid’s sick and begged me to drop off a letter for him.”
“A letter for whom, sir?”
“Ah-” Ben pulls the folded papers from his pocket, miraculously managing to avoid losing the post-it note on top. “-Friday or Happy Hogan? He wrote down both their names, but I’m afraid I don’t know who either is.”
The woman’s face does something complicated when she sees the taped letter, but thankfully doesn’t laugh or scoff. “Well... Mister Hogan is Mister Stark’s head of security, but I’m afraid I haven’t heard of anyone named Friday who works here.” Something chimes on her computer screen, and she glances away to tap a quick reply.
Ben can’t help but blink. “Security? Huh. I would’ve figured a scientist or something...” Well, to be completely honest, he figured a feverish Peter would write directly to Tony Stark, considering how many Iron Man posters occupy the kid’s bedroom walls. But a security man just makes no sense at all.
“Pardon me, but what was your name, sir?”
“Parker. Ben Parker. Uh, like I said, I’m really just humoring my kid while he isn’t feeling well - I understand if you can’t actually get this to Mister Hogan-”
“On the contrary, sir,” a British voice says out of nowhere, making Ben jump. “I have already taken the liberty of summoning the appropriate individual to meet with you.”
He stares at the young woman, who looks startled but not nearly as confused. “That was Jarvis,” she quickly explains, “Mister Stark’s AI. Jarvis runs most of the building’s automatic functions, but- he doesn’t usually speak to guests without prompting.”
An uneasy feeling creeps up the back of Ben’s neck.
‘Jarvis’ doesn’t talk again, and the young woman directs him to wait by the end of the welcome desk for whoever’s coming down to meet him. It’s awkward, to be sure, especially as more people idly glance in his direction.
But then an elevator dings, and Ben turns, and shock overwrites literally everything else.
“Mister Parker?” Tony Stark asks, walking briskly towards him. Behind his glasses, the man’s eyes dart to either side of where Ben is standing, and they flicker slightly with something he would almost call disappointment. “Hi, welcome, sorry to startle you, but we’d better have this conversation in private. Jarvis said you’ve got a letter?” Wordlessly, Ben holds it up. Stark huffs, quickly plucking it from his fingers, but doesn’t bother to do anything besides tucking it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Then he claps a hand on Ben’s shoulder, and steers him straight into the waiting elevator. “How’s Peter?”
The shock is still going strong. That’s the only explanation for why he blurts out the single word response, “Sick.”
Stark’s head snaps around. “Sick? With what? How bad is it?”
“Bronchitis,” Ben barely manages to say, most of his brain power currently occupied trying to reconcile the fact that Tony-Iron-Man-Stark apparently knows his nephew. “Not- not too bad, this time. How do you-?”
“J, you downloaded the kid’s medical files, right?” Stark asks the open air. 
“Yes, Sir,” the same disembodied voice as early rings out. “This would be Peter Parker’s fourth bout with bronchitis in the past three years. Records indicate he is taking appropriately prescribed medication and has been home from school for the past two days.”
“Good, that’s good.” Still, Stark’s expression is twisted unpleasantly, and Ben can only stare in a sort of detached fascination. “Double check that our pharmaceuticals division doesn’t have anything better for him, J.”
“Of course, Sir. I also need to inform you that we have received confirmation from Prince T’Challa of Wakanda, and reassurance that his family is taking the necessary precautions.”
“About time Pink Panther got back to us. Anything from Fury and our super-duper wonder spies?”
“They have yet to emerge from the secondary conference room. Mister Barton’s only communication at this point has been to request another round of takeout and coffee, as it looks to be, and I quote, ‘a long-ass day on top of a long-ass night’, Sir.”
Stark snorts. “Got it. Approve whatever he and Nat want. Anyone in the lounge?”
“Negative.”
“Right, take us there, then.” Sighing, the celebrity finally turns to actually face Ben. For a long moment, he only stares. “It’s different, seeing you in person. Good different. Peter actually say anything about the letter?”
“...no,” Ben manages to answer. “No, and I don’t- no offense intended, Mister Stark, but what the hell is going on?”
“Tony, please.” A flash of genuine pain crosses Stark’s face, before he returns to the bland observing expression. “And none taken. I’ve had a lot of people ask me that question since two this morning.”
The unease returns, this time in Ben’s stomach. At 2am, he and May were woken up by Peter shouting in his room - a fever dream turned nightmare, or so they assumed.
He doesn’t particularly care for the coincidence.
“So tell me, Ben Parker: do you believe in time travel?”
---
Peter is so, so screwed.
He left the apartment without his key. Without his shoes. And the longer he attempts to keep shuffling down the city sidewalk only in his socks, overwhelmed by noises and smells and the bright sun overhead, the more it becomes abundantly clear:
He messed up.
Majorly messed up. On top of his other major screw-up, and the more he tries to squint at street signs without the glasses he also forgot at the apartment, the more his head pounds and his nose runs and his chest hurts.
Eventually it’s just- too much. Peter coughs weakly into his elbow, and scoots into the first alley he can find.
---
Once, not so long ago, Ben didn’t think aliens or superheroes existed outside of books and movies. Time travel isn’t that far a leap in comparison.
But the more Stark keeps talking, the less Ben takes in, overwhelmed by a couple of things the celebrity breezed over, which stand out all the more for his lack of emphasis. First and foremost: Tony Stark cares about Peter. Knows him. Likes him. Invites him on weekend visits to work on personal projects. Illegally hacks medical databases to double check that the boy is getting appropriate medication for his current illness. Ben might actually laugh if it weren’t for the second thing:
He’s going to die.
Stark doesn’t outright say that, of course, but he tip-toes around the fact that he knows Peter well enough to care about him, and he knows May well enough to be wary of lying to her, but today is the first time he’s ever laid eyes on a living, breathing Ben.
Peter is going to be a superhero. May is going to be a widow. Peter caused some kind of magical accident that sent the Avengers back in time three years. May is going to be a widow. Peter apparently wrote out four pages of notes about incoming disasters for nothing, because Stark and his teammates have been scrambling for the past ten hours to prevent all of it and more.
May is going to be a widow.
Eventually, Stark must realize Ben’s only absorbing every fourth sentence or so, because he abruptly finds himself pushed down into a sleek leather chair, glass tumbler in hand. He doesn’t bother to check exactly what kind of alcohol he’s been given; it burns going down, and that’s good enough to restore some clarity to his overwhelmed mind.
First thing’s first. “Peter has superpowers?”
“He will. Probably. We know when and how he gets them, at this point it’s just a matter of making sure he’s in the right place at the right time. If he still wants- I mean, I’ll be honest, I’d probably sleep a little better knowing the kid isn’t swinging around Queens stopping muggers in the middle of the night, but I also know there’s only a point oh two chance he’ll willingly avoid becoming Spider-man again.”
Ben nods, swallowing down his initial reaction to that word-vomit. “Okay. Okay- next question.”
“Shoot.”
“How do I die?”
Stark promptly winces. “...alright, poor choice of words on my part. Look, Ben- can I call you Ben?” He nods. “Thanks- look. I don’t know all the details, but Peter definitely will, and between the two of us I can guarantee you won’t this time. Hell, I’ll get you a nano-tech bulletproof vest if I have to, but we’re going to make damn sure you live to a ripe old age no matter how many burned casseroles May tries to fix for dinner. Alright?”
Something in the back of Ben’s mind whispers that it can’t possibly be that simple, but he’s willing to take the other man’s words at face value for the moment. “Alright.”
“Sir? Captains Wilson and Rogers have returned, with two guests.”
“Hot damn. Okay, Ben- just hang tight for a minute, I need to say hi to Ruby Tuesday and her delinquent brother, and then we’ll see about getting Peter up here, yeah?” Ben doesn’t have a chance to respond before Stark is up and moving, heading for the elevator just as it slides open.
Captain Rogers is apparently that Captain Rogers, and Ben’s eyes widen so much he half-wonders if they might actually fall out of his face.
Steve-Captain-America-Rogers steps out of the elevator, face tired but triumphant, dressed in civilian clothes rather than his iconic uniform. That’s definitely The Shield slung across his back, though.
Behind him comes another man, dark-skinned with short hair, rolling his eyes as he finishes saying something to the people behind him. Both young, on the thin side - the girl’s hair is long and dark, the boy’s shifting from a similar color to silvery-white in a way that doesn’t look like a dye job. He’s nervous; she’s relaxed. Stark approaches them with stiff shoulders and a careful smile.
“Tony,” the girl says warmly, and half the tension drops away from Stark’s frame.
“Wanda,” he replies, stopping short of arm’s reach. “You’re okay?”
“I will be. I have Pietro again.” She reaches out, and catches the boy’s hand where he meets her halfway. “Ultron?”
“Shut down for good. Never even got the chance to wake up and cause trouble.”
The girl lets out a low, shaky sigh, squeezing her eyes shut as she nods. “Good. That is- very good. Vision?”
“We’ve got him. Sort of- no body for him to land in like the rest of us, obviously, but Cho’s putting one together, and there’s a copy of his consciousness tucked in with Jarvis right now.”
“One moment please, Miss Maximoff,” the AI says. A moment later, what sounds like the exact same voice speaks again, but with a great deal more emotion. “Hello, Wanda.”
“Viz,” she replies, a smile slowly spreading across her face. “You are alright?”
“I am much better, now that you’re here.”
Well didn’t that sound adorably sappy. Some small sound must escape Ben’s mouth, because a moment later the girl, Wanda, is looking right at him with a frown. “Who is this?”
“Ben Parker,” Stark promptly answers, shifting in place to make a sweeping gesture. “Better known as Spider-man’s uncle. He came to drop off some notes from the kid, who apparently didn’t realize we all got swept back in time thanks to his stunt with the Mind and Time Stones. Speaking of whom- Jarvis, have we got eyes on Underoos yet?”
“Yes, Sir. But I am afraid Peter Parker is not in his Queens apartment.”
Like a storm blowing out a candle, Stark’s face turns immediately grim. “Beg pardon?”
“Facial recognition picked him up eight blocks from his home building, moving slowly. Approximately nine minutes and thirty-four seconds ago, he entered an alleyway without any available security cameras. To my knowledge he has not yet emerged.”
Ben couldn’t say when exactly he got to his feet, but he suddenly finds himself standing next to Stark, hands clenched to keep from shaking. The other man meets his panicked gaze, and a flicker of understanding passes between them. “Show us, J.”
A holographic screen pops up. Footage plays. Ben barely pays any attention to Captain America stepping closer, too focused on the little figure helpfully highlighted by Jarvis.
(Peter isn’t even wearing shoes.)
“What, did he feel the need for a Delmar sandwich?” Stark grumbles, before the image zooms in. It becomes abruptly clear that Peter isn’t feeling suddenly better - his face is tight with desperation, mouth open to breathe, and every few steps he pauses to lean against a wall, eyes screwed shut. Ben feels a vice grip squeeze his heart, especially when his nephew staggers between two buildings, disappearing with his head down, arms tucked in close.
“Yeah, he’s not doing so hot,” the other man beside Captain America states.
“Understatement of the year, Wilson. Alright, everything else is on pause, I need to go get him-”
“I am faster.”
They all turn to stare at the boy still standing halfway behind Wanda. Even she looks surprised. “Pietro?”
He shrugs, a small nonchalant twitch, belied by the concern in his eyes. “I am faster. Show me a map from here to there, and I can pick him up without attracting attention.”
Ben glances at Stark. The celebrity offers back a flat smile, face carefully blank. “I mean, he’s not wrong. Speedy Gonzales here could probably run to the other end of Long Island and back in a couple of minutes.” There’s a moment’s hesitation, and then- “Your call, Mister Parker. He’s- your kid. First and foremost.”
...after a long, painful moment, Ben turns back towards Pietro. “Please.”
---
It feels like his life is just one big mistake after another.
Arguing with his uncle, distracting him at exactly the wrong moment, and paying for it with a funeral. Ignoring Mister Stark’s orders, almost causing all those people on the ferry to die. Not pushing harder to get a message through to Happy, almost allowing the plane to be stolen.
Grabbing the first two Infinity Stones to go flying past his face, in a room full of aliens trying to steal them and Avengers trying to protect them. Peter can still feel the burning in his hands, like catching a pair of electrified cables except dialed up to eleven, and every time he tries to take a deep breath it just gets worse. Not even the spider bite had caused him to hurt this much.
Wind whistles, short and sharp. A train going by- or maybe just a single car? No, wait, that didn’t make any sense-
“You are Peter, yes?”
Slowly, agonizingly, he manages to peel one eye partly open, and squints at the guy crouching in front of him. Familiar, but- not in the way that meant Peter had seen him somewhere before. “Y-yeah?”
“I am Pietro Maximoff,” the guy says. “Tony Stark and your uncle are upset you left home.”
Ah.
Well. On the one hand, Ben clearly made it to the Tower. On the other, Peter’s probably going to be in a lot of trouble for this. On the third- on a metaphorical third hand, Peter hurts. He can’t even bring himself to say so to this guy, Pietro- Maximoff, does that mean he’s related to Wanda- and instead whines, hands pressing tighter against his head.
“I am going to take you to them,” Pietro goes on. Peter lets his eye squeeze shut again, and jerks his head in a short, shallow nod. Hands carefully drag him out from his hiding place between two dumpsters, and then he’s being picked up, cradled close like a much younger kid. Normally he’d protest, insist that he’s sixteen- or thirteen- but honestly, Peter can’t bring himself to care.
There’s a distinct lurch, and a thousand sounds bombard his ears, horns and voices and wheels turning and doors opening and it’s way WAY too much too many too soon-
-and he checks out.
---
Ben doesn’t quite stare at his watch the entire time Pietro’s gone, but it’s a near thing. Steve Rogers takes a moment to introduce himself, along with Sam Wilson and Wanda Maximoff, but thankfully none of the Avengers try to force any strained small talk. Stark barely makes a sound at all - he keeps on staring at the blue-tinted holographic screens, eyes glued to the replaying clip of Peter stumbling into that alleyway.
It’s a relief when Pietro blurs back into existence in front of them, Ben’s actual physical nephew held securely in his arms.
But only for a split second.
Because Peter looks awful.
In the time since Ben left their family’s apartment, his kid has somehow managed to slide from pale to almost ghostly white, tremors wracking his entire body. He doesn’t react to Ben or Stark calling his name, eyes screwed shut and fists pressed hard against both ears, breathes coming short and shallow.
“Jarvis, vitals,” Stark orders, gesturing for Pietro to set his burden down on the nearest sofa. Peter whines when the young man lets go, but Ben slides right in, one hand carding through his nephew’s hair while the other presses flat against his scrawny chest. He doesn’t pay attention to whatever the AI relates to Stark; there’s just Peter, and his ragged breathing, and his pounding heart.
“Okay, kiddo,” Ben murmurs, soft but hopefully loud enough for the kid to hear. “We can make it through this, and you’re going to get better, if only so I can ground you until you’re eighteen.”
Peter’s next breath comes out more like a huff than a gasp, and one corner of his mouth turns up, just slightly.
“Only eighteen?” Stark leans a little over Ben’s shoulder, not quite intruding though it’s pretty clear he’d like to. “I’d make it twenty-five, at least.”
“M- Mis’er S’ark-”
“Hey, kid. Fancy seeing you here, when you should be tucked up at home in a nice warm bed. What’s the idea, huh, giving me and your poor uncle a matching pair of heart attacks?”
Peter coughs weakly, eyes still closed. “Wrote- wrong. Fuh-friday, not- Jarvis.”
Ben sees Stark stiffen in the corner of his eye, and holds back a sigh. “Friday’s the name of another AI?”
“Back-up for Jarvis,” Stark mutters. “I would’ve switched to her in a few days, if we were still following the original timeline.”
That manages to make Peter’s face scrunch up with confusion. “-what?”
“We all came back in time, kid. Whatever the hell you did with those Stones, they picked up every Avenger plus a few bonus people and tossed our minds back to the good old days before we’d even heard of Thanos. Possibly those Guardian idiots too, but we haven’t been able to make contact with them yet.”
“Oh,” Peter croaks, finally cracking his eyes open. “Good?”
Rather than answer, Stark sucks in a startled breath, and Ben feels his stomach swoop unpleasantly. From the abrupt silence behind them, where the others had been murmuring amongst themselves, he figures everybody’s equally stunned.
Peter’s eyes are glowing.
The kid just stares upward for a moment, obviously aware something’s wrong. “...Mister Stark? I don’t- feel so good.”
To Be Continued...
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fix-it fic for me is literally just either "holy shit canon really glorified this guy's horrible behavior so I've gotta give their love interest/friends a better ending" (i.e. glee, ofmd, etc.) or it's "i can feel the author's unintentional prejudices/hang-ups/etc. digging their fingernails all over the writing of this character that had so much potential so I've gotta wrest them away and fix some shit" (i.e. doctor who, avengers, once upon a time, the magicians, supernatural, narnia, etc.)
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Just A Trick
It’s a fucking joke. A trick. Loki’s at it again.
He’s going to snap out of this any second now, whole and well, definitely not impaled on six inches of rebar right through his back.
Dean palpates his chest, puzzled that it looks fully intact. He must be imagining the pain inside, that eerie feeling of metal grinding against bone, of cartilage and flesh shredded and bleeding.
This cannot be happening.
“AHHH!” he barks, furious, and Sam in front of him flinches.
His little brother looks frozen in shock. Dean told him not to move him, that the stupid piece of rebar that cannot be real is holding him together right now. Sam seems at a loss what to do, and Dean knows he has to take charge.
“Call 911, Sam,” Dean tells him through gritted teeth. “Now.”
At the command, Sam snaps out of his stupor.
“On it.” His fingers fly over the display of his phone.
“Tell- tell them to bring rescue equipment,” Dean rasps through the burning in his chest. There’s a mounting pressure behind his breastbone, and breathing is becoming more difficult. “They’ll have to- to cut me loose.”
Sam nods, and when the operator picks up, Dean hears Sam rattle down the five w’s in quick and coordinated order, emphasizing the fact that Dean is fucking impaled on a fucking metal rod and that there is no time to waste. Thank God the woman on the other end knows her job: In the next few minutes she does her best to keep Sam calm and Dean alive while ensuring them that help will arrive in a matter of minutes.
Hopefully, that’ll be fast enough. Dean’s lungs feel like they’re filling up with sand (although it’s probably blood), and the pain from his injury radiates through his torso in bright-hot rays.
“…him awake,” Dean catches the 911 woman’s voice through the speaker. (Did he zone out for a moment?) “And keep him still.”
Dean almost has to laugh. Keeping still won’t be a problem, pinned as he is, like a fucking butterfly in a glass case. The staying awake part, though, may become a little too much to ask. He’s tired, so very tired, and, really, who wants to be lucid with a metal rod rammed through their insides?!
He feels Sam pet his cheek and hears the urgency in his voice when he tells him to “open your eyes, Dean, stay with me, stay awake, come on, eyes open!”
Nevertheless, he feels his eyelids droop. But as his gaze wanders down, earthbound, he catches sight of one of the bodies strewn on the floor, and-
“Sam!” His consciousness snaps back to red alert. “Shit, Sammy, the- the bodies!”
His brother, eyes wide and fixed on him, shakes his head. “I don’t care, Dean. I don’t care what they’ll think. We’ll figure it out. Doesn’t matter now.”
It’s Dean’s turn to shake his head. Fuck, even that hurts. “Sam!” he urges. “You’ve got to hide- put them into the-“ He tilts his head to indicate the boarded-up stall in the corner of the barn, where the vamps had hidden the children.
Sam looks but doesn’t want to listen.
“No, Dean, it’s no use. And I’m not leaving you.”
Only now does Dean realize that Sam has gripped him under the elbows, supporting him as best as he can. Not that it’s doing much, and it doesn’t have to; the rebar is keeping him upright well enough, and Dean can still feel his legs underneath him, stubbornly holding his weight.
“No, please, you-“ Dean quickly squeezes his eyes shut against a stab of pain. “I’m not surviving this to rot in prison,” he croaks, his fingers digging into Sam’s forearms. “I can’t do it, Sammy. You can’t.”
“But-“
“We’ve gotta try, Sammy!” Dean is desperate, so desperate a stupid joke bubbles up in him. “You look like crap in orange.”
Miraculously, that works. Maybe Sam believes that it’s not as bad as it really is because Dean’s still cracking jokes. In any case, he lets go of Dean’s arms and drags the bodies, cut-off heads and all, into the stall one after the other, and he padlocks it. Then he quickly spreads straw over what little blood there is on the floor - their luck that vampires don’t bleed much, what with not having a heartbeat.
“Okay. Okay.”
A little out of breath and sweating, Sam’s back in front of Dean, back supporting him, and Dean vaguely wonders when his little brother became so strong and fast.
Everything is becoming kind of vague and cottony in his head. Flashes of panic, flashes of pain - it all bounces off a veneer that seems to lay itself between him and the world. He’s running out of time, and it’s a scary thought, and shouldn’t the ambulance be here by now?
“I’m fading- I’m fading pretty quick,” Dean manages to articulate.
Sam’s eyes flare with fear, but dammit if he isn’t trying to be brave about it.
“You’re not,” Sam says stubbornly, his grip on Dean intensifying. “You are not dying on me, you hear me? You are Dean fucking Winchester, you’ve been through worse, and you’re going to make it out of here alive! And when you’re out of the hospital, you’ll hang out in the bunker for a few weeks and watch soap operas while Miracle sheds all over your goddamn sheets, and I’ll be pissed at you for drinking beer in bed. You’re going to pull yourself together now and stay awake, or I’ll have to slap you in the face!”
Dean wants to grin but isn’t sure if it shows on his face. Everything is growing a little numb.
“Easy, tiger,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper, his throat scratchy and tight. “Take it easy on your old-” He has to cough and, Jesus Christ on a stick, it hurts like fucking hell. His ribcage clenches around the rebar, his heart hurtling into a frenzy as the pain starbursts through him. He hasn’t lit up in agony like this since his days in Hell.
Choking helpless coughs, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and tries to ride it out.
“Dean! Breathe! Come on, just breathe!”
Dean latches on to Sam’s voice until his ravaged lungs can pull in enough air again to at least keep him conscious. When the fit is over and reality returns, Dean’s cheeks are wet, and his mouth tastes like copper. Sam’s face is his anchor, his hazel-brown-green-blue eyes searching and holding Dean’s gaze as if he could tie him to this world with the love and the iron will Dean recognizes in them.
“There you go. That’s it,” Sam says firmly. “You’ve got this.”
He’s not got this. “I- hnnngh”
Dean’s legs give out, and pain tears through his chest when the rebar takes his weight like a meat hook. God no, Dean thinks, not this again. Memories of Hell flood him, red-hot and blinding.
“Dean! Hang on!”
Sam is there, ducking under his right arm and pulling it across his shoulders, his other hand on Dean’s belt. It hurts, pulling on everything that’s torn in him, and through his own choked noises of agony he hears Sam’s “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry”, but at least Sam’s manoeuver keeps him from being cut in half.
I’m not going to make it, Dean thinks. And: Cas. Please. Help me!
It doesn’t make sense. Cas is gone, absorbed by the Empty. The angel cannot swoop in to save him this time. Dean’s heart stutters at the memory of his loss, of Cas’ sacrifice. Of Cas’ love for Dean. That stupid, stupid, soft son of a bitch.
“Come on, Dean, stay with me! They’re almost here!”
And Dean hears it: The wail of an approaching ambulance - no, more than one? A cacophony of sirens closes in on them.
“Hey, hey! Dean! Stay with me!”
And somehow, Dean does. He’s wheezing, and his vision is a narrowing tunnel. Blood pools in his mouth and dribbles down his chin. His heart is a piece of burning coal, his whole chest on fire. His legs don’t belong to him anymore.
But he can’t do this to Sam. He won’t do this to Cas. The angel gave his life for him. He’s not going to die like this - a stupid, senseless, idiotic death. It’s not going to happen.
The barn’s bathed in light now, and Dean distantly wonders if Cas has come after all, but then there are voices and uniforms and gloved hands on him. Sam’s warmth leaves his side, and Dean finally loses consciousness to a chorus of questions and medical lingo washing over him.
xxx
It’s not the first time he’s woken up choking on a breathing tube, but it never gets any easier. At least he knows the drill - alarms blaring and people rushing in while he gags and bucks and panics. They put him under again, and the next time he comes to, the wretched tube is out, and he’s left with a nasal cannula and the feeling of a cut-up throat. They’ve draped him on his side, propped up by pillows, and he doesn’t even want to know where all the tubes and wires lead that disappear under his hospital gown. It burns here and itches there, and his chest and back feel like hamburger meat held together by duct tape.
“Dean? Hey…”
Sam untangles his long limbs from where he’s folded himself into a chair by the bed, a blanket slipping to the floor.
“Hey, you’re awake!”
“S- … S’my”
It’s a pathetic attempt at pronouncing his little brother’s name; he sounds like a rusty door hinge. But it seems to be good enough for Sam whose eyes - Jesus, when was the last time he slept - light up in his tired, scruffy face.
“Man, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
Sam reaches for Dean’s hand, carefully, as if he were made of something breakable. But his grip is warm and firm, and Dean doesn’t shrug him off.
“How’re you feeling? If you’re in pain I can call the nurse and she can give you more of the…” He waves at one of Dean’s numerous IVs.
“Peach-... peachy,” Dean croaks, forcing one corner of his mouth into a smirk.
“That can’t be true,” a different voice says from the door, a deeper voice, and Dean almost stops breathing at the sight of the hallucination that walks into his line of vision. It must be a hallucination; it can’t be Castiel, Angel of the Lord, in his rumpled trench coat, tie loose, beardy, with a paper cup of coffee in his hand.
“You’re recovering from complex cardio-thoracic surgery. They had to crack your chest and resuscitate you - twice. You’ve been on a ventilator for eight days. I don’t believe “peachy” is an accurate term to describe your physical condition .”
Dean stares at the angel, uncomprehending. His heart throws a drumroll, for everyone to hear as it beep-beep-beeps in agitated spikes.
“Cas?” His voice cracks.
Castiel hands the coffee to Sam and steps closer until he’s right by the bed, standing there in typical Cas-fashion - a little slouched, arms at his sides, head slightly canted, blue gaze intense and ethereal.
“Hello Dean.”
There’s no saliva in Dean’s mouth. Something twists in his chest, both painfully and warm. His head is swimming with half-bred thoughts, clouded by too many fucking drugs. He doesn’t know what to feel, how to deal with this sudden, bright blue shock of elation.
“How…?” is all he manages.
Sam has risen to his feet, smiling through the exhaustion etched into his features.
“He showed up while you were in surgery. When your heart stopped. We don’t know exactly how, or why. If Jack was involved. We think that maybe it was you who brought him back.”
Dean licks dry lips. “Me?”
“I heard your prayer,” Castiel elaborates. “I wanted to come. But I was stuck. The Empty - it had me pinned down. I couldn’t even move. But when your heart stopped, I felt it, and something - something happened. It shook me loose. I felt a surge of power. And then…” He gestures around the room. “Then I was here. Human. I think you pulled me out.”
It’s all a little too much for Dean. His body is a mess, and his brain is bubble-wrapped. Words want to surface from where Dean tucked them away, rehearsed over and over, certain he’d never get to say them. His throat hurts, his chest tightens, and he is not going to fucking cry.
“I’ll give the two of you a minute,” Sam says, running a hand through his too-long hair. “And I’ll go get your doctor. She’ll be happy to see you awake.”
His brother leaves, and Dean is left with a staring angel and blinking tears away.
He lifts a shaking hand to wipe at his eyes, but the movement is pulling on tubes, and he’s weak as a kitten, so he lets his arm sink again.
“There’s so much-” he starts and stops, sandpaper for vocal chords. He can’t look at Cas anymore; he wants to look at nothing else for the rest of his life. He’s been such a damn fool.
The angel reaches out a hand and gently lays it on Dean’s left shoulder, where it’s always belonged.
“It’s okay, Dean,” he rumbles softly. “We will figure this out when you feel better. You need to rest now. I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s the permission Dean needed. Exhausted and overwhelmed, he closes his eyes.
Tomorrow, he thinks, Cas’ hand still warm and safe on his shoulder, tomorrow I’m gonna say it back.
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ordon-pumpkin · 5 months
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Summary: Apollo is at Camp Half-Blood when Will and Nico return from Tartarus. Will reacts strangely upon seeing him again and admits that while he was in the Underworld he forgot that his dad ever returned after regaining his godhood. Which leads to Apollo reflecting about his past and working to continue being better in the future, for his children and his “future son-in-law.”
Reflection, fluff, healing, and Apollo just trying to be a good (if not somewhat embarrassing) dad.
Words: 2720
Status: Complete
Note: Recently read The Sun and The Star and I spent most of it hoping for a scene like this at the end to explain the whole Will forgetting about Apollo returning thing. Since the book seems to have er forgotten. So here’s what I envisioned happening. From Apollo’s POV because I miss it.
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jomiddlemarch · 1 year
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touching each forehead, breathing a soul into each immeasurable other
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“The problem with wanting,” Aleksander paused, touching her cheek very lightly as if it were a choice and not the consequence of how they had come together, touching her cheek as if she would not recoil and so to spite him, she did not recoil, “is that it makes us weak.”
Candlelight trembled around them, the sense of his shadows as powerful as their actual presence. Alina held her breath, her eyes focused on his lips, curiously more sensitive to him through the tether than she might have been should he have been standing before her in the flesh. He would kiss her next, she was sure of it, and also as uncertain as she’d been when the Fjerdan assassin had tried to murder her in the field twelve miles out of Os Alta. He must and he wouldn’t, not if she listened to the words he said, if she heard the timbre of his voice within her mind like a bell tolled across the sea as a warning of a storm. Or a fire.
She would taste smoke when he kissed her, the fragrance of destruction, of autumn leaves bright a second time in an early evening.
He leaned closer—and pressed his lips very gently to the center of her forehead, a gesture without any carnal desire, the tenderness given as a blessing. He kissed the scar above her brow, whose provenance remained unknown, an injury survived. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the look in his, and he kissed her closed eyelids, even more delicately, first the left and then the right, his hand still cradling her jaw. Next he kissed the apple of her cheek, the slight roughness of his beard against her more compelling than any profession of adoration. He murmured something, some word of endearment in Ravkan so old she could only just recognize it as the most distant echo of the language she spoke, his intonation grave and pure. He kissed her temple and spot beside her mouth where she dimpled when she smiled, each caress filled with a tremendous warmth and the most generous affection that asked her for nothing, praised her for everything, that conveyed respect and delight without any demand or condition.
“I don’t want you,” he said.
“You don’t,” she said, as evenly as she could. He saw the self-control she mustered to keep the remark a statement, not a question.
“I love you,” he replied. “That is something beyond want, beyond need.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. He would argue now, that he had given her ample evidence of his uncompromising devotion, had shared himself in degrees unfamiliar to anyone else living, had made love to her with a near-abandon and sought her with an unflagging determination; he would make excuses for the stag’s collar and the Fold, excuses for himself and excuses for her. He would argue and she would stop him with her mouth on his, taking the words from his tongue with her own ravishing.
“I know, moya dusha, I know and I carry that, the way I carry the wounds on my face, my hand,” he said. “I hope you will stop needing to believe and will begin to feel. To know that whatever mistakes I have made—and there have been too many—that I have loved you throughout, so thoroughly I could not always have recognized it, as I could not always be aware of the blood in my veins, the thoughts that I would dream when I dared to sleep.”
“A pretty speech,” she said. She tried to sneer and failed, the words uttered with more despair than she would have liked him to have noticed.
“A pack of lies is what you mean, but I cannot find a way to make the truth truer,” he said. “I would ask you to consider, for your own safety, those you have decided to join forces with, their motives, their actions and the consequences thereof—”
“Because you’re so much better? So much kinder and gentler?” she snapped.
“Marie, Pavel and Polina are not here to speak for themselves, but they died for you and the Little Palace, at the hands of the ones you call allies,” Aleksander said. “You have told me yourself of Orestev’s choices. Nikolai is the best of the Lantsovs but true only to himself, absent when the people have needed him most. It may take more to kill you than an otkazat’sya, but Grisha, Summoners such as we are, are not true immortals. I have trusted the wrong people myself. I have paid the price in my own blood and in the breath of those I loved most dearly. I would not have that for you. Become a Sankta if you will—don’t become a martyr.”
“You’re not being fair,” she said. He touched her cheek again, brushed back the hair coming loose around her face. No one had ever looked at her with such an expression before, knowing and care inextricable, Alina herself precious.
“I’m sorry I haven’t made a world for you where that matters,” he said. “I tried, Saints know I’ve tried but I failed. I didn’t want this for you—”
“I’m not a child,” she said.
“You are my beloved, whatever I am to you,” he said. “I’ll leave you now, but you have only to call for me and I will answer.”
“And if I don’t call? If I never call?” she asked.
“I will still wait for you. Waiting in a world you live in is nothing to me—I waited so long in the world before you came, when you were only a hope, not Alina,” he said, smiling at her. His dark eyes shone, perhaps with tears. The tether made it difficult to ascertain, though she tasted salt in her own mouth. He began to retreat, the space between them opening, his image losing definition.
“Don’t,” she said, her impulse made into a word, a gesture with her palm outstretched, the one that would take his injured hand. She hadn’t stopped herself, finding, when she considered it, that she didn’t want to.
“Don’t go.”
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helloliriels · 1 year
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And the Award goes to ...
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Since the Oscar Award ceremonies are tonight ... I thought it a good time to kick off some awards to the fandom for brilliant and outstanding performances.
🥇 KHORAZIR - NIGHTJET
For a unique and brilliant post-TRF fix-it fic! Just in time!
I am Sherlocked. Join me in honouring your favorite fics and art now through April 15th! Award season is ON!!! (Click on GiF if play does not start automatically) ✌️(Have I been saving this for March 12th?? Why yes... yes I have)
OUR GUEST OF HONOUR: @khorazir
@johnlocky @totallysilvergirl @ohlooktheresabee @chinike @rhasima @topsyturvy-turtely @justanobsessedpan @amyreadsandstresses @missdeliadili @masterofhounds @onesmallfamily @calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @myriath @discordantwords @ewebie @221b-alovestory @safedistancefrombeingsmart @anyawen @raina-at @gaylilsherlock @gregorovitchworld @john-smiths-jawline @mutedsilence @i-call-me-clarence @copperplatebeech @demonicangeling @anyway-kindness @arabbitjohn @bluebellofbakerstreet @sarahthecoat @inevitably-johnlocked @whatnext2020 @hasenkind687 @solarmama @kettykika78 @peanitbear @peageetibbs @simplyclockwork @possiblyimbiassed @inatshej @wizama @teamkidman @deelaundry @bertytravelsfar @meetinginsamarra @aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain @zira-and-crowley @estrella-creek
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