#i can tell my kneecap is back in the socket because girl i made it upstairs. like. yes it hurts like hell but i don’t think anything
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Funny Bone
The other day Supernatural9917 threw out this meme as a cracky Halloween Dean/Cas prompt and I was SO MAD, because I then had to write it:
And so here it is. Goddammit.
Funny Bone
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761150
Words: 4930
Castiel/Dean Winchester
Fluff and Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Skeletons, Bad Pick-Up Lines, No Angels AU, Men of Letters Bunker, Mild Gore
Mature (mentions of lewd acts, canon-typical violence, and some truly horrible pickup lines)
It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.
It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.
Discovering the bunker in the first place was a helluva surprise. The whole facility is legitimately batshit; Dead Guys of Letters knew how to live (and, apparently, die. All at once.).
But after plowing through a dozen rooms worth of priceless treasures and crusty boobytraps, even Sam was looking kinda full up on shock and awe.
“We can hit the basement tomorrow,” he said. There was a big smudge of dust across his nose and some cobwebs in his hair.
“Nuh uh,” Dean answered, kicking the door shut with the toe of his boot. “If there’s shit still kicking down there, we gotta clean it out before it cleans us out. It’s that or we’re sleepin’ in the car.”
“Ugh,” Sam said, as if twenty minutes ago he hadn’t been losing his mind over a rare book about werewolf hemorrhoids.
So discovering that the basement included a no-shit actual dungeon felt more like an unanticipated bonus, and stumbling across a skeleton while exploring it barely even registered. Skeletons and dungeons! They go together like rama lama lama ka dinga da dinga dong.
It wasn’t even a particularly creepy skeleton; it was in kind of a “just chillin’” pose on the floor, inside a big circle of greasy black ash. It looked a little mildewy in in places. One ankle was still locked up in a heavy iron cuff, at the end of a short chain leading back to the wall. Snoresville, as dead stuff goes; Dean’s seen worse at Disneyland.
It was the skeleton’s comment about Dean’s ass that really livened things up.
“Welp,” Dean had said, holstering his gun and wiping his hands on his jeans. “We’re all clear. Let’s head back upstairs, salt the shit out of everything, and then we can pick up some groceries.”
“Do I get to buy a vegetable that doesn’t fit in a bun, or are we still in the refractory period?” Sam snarked from the corridor.
“I don’t see you cookin’, “ Dean started, shuffling back towards the hall, and that’s when the skeleton butted in.
“Are those astronaut pants?” it asked. “Because your ass is outta this world!”
Dean absolutely did not scream, but it’s possible there was a yelp.
He almost unloaded a clip into it – unclear what that would’ve possibly done, but it’s good to start with the simple, available solutions. Next he nabbed the lighter fluid off of Sam and dumped out half a pound of kosher salt as a chaser and set the fucker alight.
This does not have the intended effect.
“Baby, I’d like to put my meat on your grill,” the skeleton says, greenish flames dancing between its ribs, “because you’re hot, and I’m smokin’.” Then it sits up a little, just enough to shoot Dean some finger guns.
“What the fuck,” Dean says.
Sam makes a little evaluatory noise. “Sexually harassed by a skeleton,” he chuckles. “I think that’s a new one. Even for you. Is that a new one? I know a lot of strange shit went down in Purgatory.”
The skeleton perks up even more at that, grungy eye sockets sweeping up and down Dean’s body. “Are you a time traveler?” it asks. (Maybe he asks, because the voice is pretty deep and dude-ish, although possibly just on account of its vocal cords being leather shoelaces.)
“Wh…no, I’m not a time traveler,” Dean fibs. He’s more of a time trafficking victim, anyway. “Oh, wait, god,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re asking that because –“
“– I can see you in my future,” the skeleton finishes, eagerly, and Dean really wishes this thing had eyebrows so he could tell if they’re waggling.
“Yeah, okay. That’s enough for today,” Dean groans. “I need a drink.” He starts to back out of the room as a pre-emptive strike against Bones commenting on how he hates to see Dean leave, but loves to watch him go. Dean’s working on stumbling back again Sam’s left shoe when the skeleton pipes up one last time, this time with a husky, anxious edge.
“I realize that Purgatory isn’t accessible through a simple chronological shift,” it says, teeth chattering. “But it does require travel between modalities, and if you’re capable of that, I would very much like to speak with you again.”
Dean and Sam’s heads slowly swivel back towards the skeleton, like two little pizzas on the same Lazy Susan.
An hour later, they’re still in the dungeon, working on dousing the skeleton with every possible anti-bad-stuff solution they’ve got, just in case he’s a vampire skeleton or a ghoul skeleton or a witch skeleton or maybe just a wendigo that’s incredibly bad at its job. In between progress reports, he’s still hitting on Dean.
“Dude, don’t you have an off switch somewhere?” Dean asks him.
“Well, Dean, you certainly make me feel like a light switch,–“
“– because you turn me on,” all three of them say in unison.
The skeleton looks a little embarrassed, which is kind of impressive when you think about it. “You’ve…heard that one before?” he asks.
“I spend a lot of time in bars,” Dean deadpans. “Okay, sage is a no-go.”
Sam strikes a line off on the clipboard he found upstairs. “Is this part of a curse or something?” he asks, glancing up at Bones. “Like on top of being a sentient skeleton, you can only speak in horrible pickup lines?”
The skeleton shakes his head, which produces a sound Dean recognizes from his kneecaps on cold mornings. “No, the spellwork allows me to speak freely on most subjects; except who I am, or how to free me. But it’s helpful to use language modern humans can easily understand.”
“Huh. Well, in a way, it is Dean’s native tongue,” Sam says, smirking.
“You shut your face,” Dean hisses.
“When I first saw you, I lost my tongue. Can I try yours on for size?” Bones asks Dean.
“Buddy, I don’t know where you get your information from, but nobody actually talks that way,” Dean tells him. “Nobody sober, anyway. Who isn’t a virgin.”
The skeleton slumps. “I learned from my last visitor. He tried to release me on several occasions, but he either died or abandoned the project.”
Dean arches a brow. “The project being…you?”
“I would be very valuable under the right circumstances.” The skeleton shrugs and casually holds out an arm for Dean to scrape at with the demon blade. “He gave me lessons in modern vernacular as a way to pass our time together.”
“Sounds like a peach,” Dean says, before he can catch himself. “If you have a peach-related pickup line in there, man, you’d better just sit on it.”
“That’s what-“
“I will smash you with a hammer,” Dean barks.
The skeleton relents, but with obvious reluctance.
They call it quits before Kansas rolls up the sidewalk for the night and leaves them stranded with nothing but two Clif bars and a gross of septuagenarian cans of franks ’n beans. Bones shifts nervously when Dean leaves – “Which is better, pancakes or waffles?” he asks.
“Pancakes,” Dean says, with a sense of grim duty.
“Because I’d like to know what you’re making me for breakfast,” says Bones, his voice trailing off as Dean books it down the stony corridor.
By lunch the next day (bologna sandwiches, so sue him, he’ll make something good later) they’re pretty sure that Bones doesn’t pose any known, immediate threat – other than to Dean’s sanity – so they switch gears to springing him. Maybe he will be worth something, or maybe he’ll crumble into dust and Be Free, or maybe he’ll just stop being chained to the basement wall, in which case he can become their skeleton butler or something.
There are weird runes on the ankle cuff, so Sam snaps some quick photos and heads upstairs to feel up the library. This leaves Dean in the basement with Bones, some good old-fashioned power tools, and Bones’s ex-suitor’s gross sense of humor.
“You know I can understand you just fine when you’re talking normally,” Dean says. “You’re just reciting some prehistoric shit that idiots say to girls to get a pity-laugh, hoping it leads to a pity-fuck.”
“What’s a pity-fuck?” Bones asks, all mildewy innocence. Dean’s pretty sure the grunge in his eyeball sockets is dried eyeball.
“Pretty much what it says on the tin, my guy,” Dean answers, and reaches for the acetylene torch.
“Enochian,” Sam says, when Dean surfaces for another sandwich and possibly a beer. He’s really disappointed about the torch.
“Gesundheit?” Dean replies, around a mouthful of bologna. Like everything else here, the kitchen is pretty schwa, although the inside of the fridge required three exorcisms and half a jug of bleach.
Sam paws around the smelly old book in a way that makes Dean feel sorry for the girls Sam dated in high school. “The symbols on the cuff. I think they’re Enochian. It’s a fake celestial language made up by some sixteenth century con artists.”
Dean coughs up a bit of Wonder Bread. “I respect the hustle, but what’s it doing on an ankle cuff in a dungeon younger than Mickey Mouse?”
Sam frowns. “Well, it could be for show. But just because some nutbars made it up doesn’t mean it’s totally powerless. Maybe it does have some kind of…heavenly mojo.”
“Liwl probbem,” Dean observes, finishing off his sandwich. “Def nuh heggen.”
“Huh?”
Dean takes a swallow of beer. “I said: there’s no heaven.”
Sam shrugs. “We didn’t think there was a Purgatory, either.”
“Okay, but if we find out angels are real,” Dean snorts, “then Bones can fuck me in the ass.”
Sam reports his findings to Bones, who sits placidly on the back of his pelvis, carpals splayed out on his kneecaps. What’s even holding him together? Dean can see what’s left of his ligaments, but they look like petrified gas station jerky.
“Do you know what they mean?” Sam asks him, pointing at the sigils.
Bones’s jaw creaks open a little, then closes again, and then he shakes his skull (something rattles inside.) Finally he makes a little frustrated noise and replies – “Baby, are you a book? Because I’d like to check you out.”
“Hey!” says Dean. “Keep it in your pants, man, I’m right here.”
Sam squints. “I think…Dean, I think he’s trying to tell us something, but the spell on him means he can’t say it directly.”
Bones clenches his fists, releases them, clenches them again.
“Yeah. Keep him talking. Let’s see how close he can get.”
Clack clack clack.
“Uh,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Do I need to, like. Give you some kinda opening?” he asks Bones.
“Sweetheart, I’d like nothing better,” Bones answers, then clacks his knuckles on his brow with exasperation.
“Sorry, Christ. Hit me with your best shot, buddy. Dealer’s choice.”
Bones clears his…ghost throat? and tries: “Tell me, Dean…did it hurt?”
Dean blinks. “When I…fell from heaven?”
Sam claps his hands. “Fucking knew it. It is Enochian, and it does have something to do with this. I think he wants me to check the library for another book. Maybe there’s one misshelved or something that I can actually use to translate. Or I can Google around, maybe there’s a subreddit.”
Dean’s pretty sure Bones has never heard of a Google or a subreddit (for that matter, does Dean actually know what a subreddit is?), but it seems like there’s a glimmer of hope deep in those scum-holes.
Sam gets translations for a few of the words – “obedience” and something he’s fifty percent sure means “millstone” – but the rest is still gobbledygook, and he hasn’t come down with another update in hours. The dungeon is pretty roomy, but it’s not like there’s a foosball table or a cable TV pickup down there, so Dean and Bones wind up lying on the cold-ass ground, staring up into the dark reaches of the ceiling together and, like. Chatting.
Occasionally Bones goes quiet and Dean glances over at him. He really could just be a totally normal, completely dead dungeon skeleton. A good power washing and the right mounting hardware and he’d be ready for a high school biology classroom.
“So if these runes are a celestial thing, does that mean you’re some kinda demonic...thing?” Dean asks. “Cause I gotta say, you’re a much less of a douche than the demons I’ve met.” He snorts. “I know you probably can’t say.”
Bones sighs (how? With what lungs?). “The last person who tried to free me was a demon.” He shifts a little, maybe surprised that he can say this out loud. “It had been so long since somebody had spoken to me…I’m afraid I came close to actually enjoying his company. But he was no better than his kind usually are.”
“Don’t suppose you caught his name? Maybe Sam or me killed him for you already.”
“He called himself—no, I can’t say it.” He makes a sound resembling a harumph.
Then his skull creaks over to look at Dean. “Does your name start with ‘C’?” he says, very deliberately.
Dean is momentarily puzzled, but he works it out by the time Bones wincingly adds “…because I’ve got a D that wants to come behind you.”
There aren’t too many demons under the “C” tab in Dean’s blood-stained mental rolodex, and when he says the name out loud, Bones makes a sound like an entire set of dominos being thrown down a spiral staircase.
Crowley is pretty pissed, which is fun.
It’s nice that the dungeon floor already has a perfect trap on the floor; they don’t even have to hit up Ace Hardware for paint. A damp shop cloth and a little nail polish (Wet ’n Wild in “Red Red,” don’t leave home without it) brings it right up to working order.
“Why does it smell like a nail salon fucked a bloody wine cellar?” Crowley says, after he’s settled down a bit. He manifested right in the creepy torture chair (in the shackles, even! What service!) and he made some escape attempts followed by angry noises about rust stains. Now he’s recovered his dignity and has kicked back a bit, legs crossed, fingers steepled, oozing maximum levels of 2 cool 4 school.
“How do you know what a nail salon smells like?” Dean retorts.
“I get a monthly mani-pedi. There’s no shame in a little self-care, boys.” Crowley’s eyes trickle down to their feet. “Imagine what fungal horrors those work boots must conceal.” Then he squints, and looks up, finally taking in the whole room. “Could swear I’ve been here before. Little upscale for you, isn’t it? Did we splurge for a vacation rental?”
“Crowley, why don’t we roleplay Titanic?” Bones growls from the wall behind him, and Crowley’s face goes slack. “I’ll be the iceberg, and you can go down.”
Crowley swallows and slowly twists back, as far as the shackles let him. “Feathers, is that you? Well, as I live and breathe.”
“You do neither,” says Bones, with so much gravelly contempt that Dean suppresses a little shiver.
“Oh, I still breathe now and then, when the mood takes me. I’m a sentimentalist.” Crowley cranes his neck a little harder and squints into the dim. “Goodness, you’ve dropped some weight since we last spoke, haven’t you. Finally let go of all that pesky soft tissue?”
Bones tilts forward and kind of clatters onto hands and knees, then tipsily begins to rise up to standing. Dean’s a little concerned he’s gonna topple right over and they’re gonna spend the next two hours collecting him in a basket, but when he moves to help out, Bones waves him off. After a couple false starts he makes it up onto his feet bones and then shuffles out to the end of his chain, right under one of the overhead lights. He’s still a good couple feet off from Crowley, but Crowley looks like he wouldn’t mind a few extra acres.
Bones sways a little bit, just enough for Crowley to wince. “You didn’t come back.”
“I got busy.”
Sam shifts impatiently. “What is he?” he snaps, gesturing at Bones.
“Exceedingly dull,” Crowley says. “I should’ve guessed you were friends.”
Dean uncorks a fresh bottle of holy water.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Crowley amends, quickly. “And even if you did, you wouldn’t know what to do with him. It’d be like giving a laptop to a pair of howler monkeys.”
Dean puts his thumb over the mouth of the water bottle and holds it over Crowley’s head. “Try me.”
Crowley scoffs, rolls his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what he is, since he’s useless as long as he’s chained up. And I wouldn’t have left him down here if I had a single clue how to smuggle him out. I haven’t even been in here since the Bay of Pigs; I’d worked a loophole in one of the defense spells here that let me in. When it broke down, I lost my exploit. Wasn’t worth the bother after that.”
Dean slides his thumb a millimeter north of a perfect seal, and a fat drop of water busts its ass open on Crowley’s forehead and sends up a thin line of steam. “Good thing I’ve got a limitless supply of bother,” Dean notes. “Sam, we still got those syringes in the trunk?”
Crowley snarls. “Go ahead and melt me like the cartoon shoe in Roger Rabbit, it’s not going magically make me come up with a solution.”
Bones grunts and rattles his leg chain. “Do you speak Spanish, Crowley? Because you look like the Juan for me.”
“Did I teach you that one? You absolute xylophone.” Crowley glances back at Dean. “Do your worst, Squirrel, I deserve it.”
Sam frowns. “He uses the lines to get around the spell’s speech restrictions. This is something about speaking languages…were you able translate the Enochian symbols on his cuff?”
Crowley blinks. “What symbols?”
After a whole lot of faffing around with mirrors and terrible cellphone photography, they confirm that Crowley can’t see the symbols at all.
“More demon-proofing. Clever little buggers, those Men of Letters,” Crowley sighs. “A real shame they were peeled and eaten like bananas.”
Finally Sam just hunkers down with a pencil and pad to transcribe the entire ankle cuff, and Dean awkwardly holds up Bones’s ankle, like he’s being sized for a glass slipper. When they shove the results in Crowley’s face, Dean watches his eyes dart along the words.
“Well, it’s your lucky day, boys. Along with the usual wankery, there are instructions on how to release the cuff. I can translate it,” he finally says, with an unusually low inflection of bullshit, “but I’ll thank you to release me, first.”
Dean is flummoxed. “What, you’re not gonna haggle for a cut of the profits or anything?”
“Activating the release mechanism will free him completely, and restore his…restore him. I’d rather be at a safe distance.” He glances back at Bones, looming in the shadows. “A continent or three should do the trick.”
“If it doesn’t work–“
“I’d be more worried about what happens if it does,” Crowley sighs. “But feel free to summon me back for tea and sympathy. Here, I’ll even give you my number. But please, no personal photography. I pity you enough as it is.”
Crowley finally smokes out, and Dean has a beer to celebrate while Sam looks over the list of what they need and Bones clatters his fingertips like castanets. The ingredients are (as always) larded with shit that’s exotic and expensive; Sam is looking crestfallen at some of the items. “I’ve heard of all of this, but I’ve only seen maybe half of it for sale anywhere.”
“Baby, are you a yard sale? Because you’ve got some serious junk in that trunk,” Bones monotones. He’s back to lying on the floor.
At least it’s getting easier to translate this shit. “They’ve got all the ingredients here somewhere,” Dean says. Sam looks skeptical. “C’mon, Sam, no way these dudes would use a lock when they didn’t have the key.”
The ensuing scavenger hunt takes a few pints of elbow grease, but at least by the end they’re both familiar with the Bunker’s floor plan, document filing system, and inventory records. They find virtually everything in-house, though they do end up driving to the nearest farm stand for some hen’s eggs and rosemary (and heirloom tomatoes, because they look bomb).
Dean christens – or maybe exorcises – the kitchen range with some red meat, and they fuel up with burgers before taking the plunge. Dean’s still licking the ketchup off his fingers when Bones pipes up one last time. “Can I ask you something?” he says.
Dean and Sam brace for impact.
Bones sighs. “That’s not the start of a pickup line. I genuinely have a question.”
“Shoot.”
“Why are you so intent on freeing me? You could have just left me down here. I’m not a threat this way. You only have Crowley’s word that you might profit - or suffer - from my release.”
Sam gives Dean a look; it’s the look that says I sure hope you have an answer, because I think this entire thing has been dumb as shit and half as necessary. It’s a look Sam uses pretty regularly.
“Uh. It’s the right thing to do? As far as I can tell, you haven’t hurt anybody or done anything else to deserve being down here. We went through all those records upstairs, and there’s no note that says ‘by the way, that skeleton downstairs eats babies for breakfast.’ This place is cool, but the dudes who built it were obviously shady as fuck.”
“I see.” Bones sounds a little disappointed.
Sam fake-coughs into his hand, and Dean sets down his paper napkin. “Also, you seem cool. Like, you’re easy to hang out with. Other than the stinky one-liners, and we’re gonna wean you off of those.”
Bones straightens himself out a little. “Thank you, Dean. You know, on a scale of one to ten, I’d rate you a nine.”
“Okay, okay. Why not a ten?”
Bones sets his chin on his knuckle bones with a tidy little clack. “Because I’m the one you’re missing.”
Dean groans, but he thinks the guy might be smiling, somewhere behind that skeletal grin.
By hour two, Sam’s pretty tuckered out from pulverizing a billion and three mummified dove livers while reciting nonsense syllables, and Dean’s right arm is about to fall off from holding up this giant silver swizzle stick that’s either a really weird short sword or a decorative javelin, but Bones has never looked perkier. He’s lying on a nice white bedsheet and looking fresh as a recently exhumed daisy.
“Okay,” Sam rasps. “Light the candle and we should be good to go. Any last words, Bones?”
“Are either of you religious?” He crosses his arm bones over each other.
“Fuck no,” Dean answers, before Sam gets a chance to launch into it.
Bones shakes his skull fondly. “You should reconsider. Because you’re the answer to my prayers.”
Dean makes a gagging noise and lights the candle.
What happens next (well, after the cuff pops open) is some of the freakiest shit that Dean has ever seen, and his Freaky CV is pretty fucking impressive, thanks. Bones tells them to avert their eyes, “just in case”, but he takes a peek between his fingers anyway, because he’s an idiot.
For a second Bones is just lying there, and Dean has a second of real disappointment that maybe he’s Moved On Past The Veil or something, but then he starts…foaming. It starts out kind of uniform and colorless, but then it really picks up speed and volume and starts to separate into swaths of distinct and horrible colors and textures. He closes his eyes again for a second to give his stomach a chance to reboot, and when he looks again the foam is gone, and instead there’s a whole lot of angry jelly trying to form into organs.
Just as the jelly is really getting its shit together and looking more like lungs and intestines and stuff, the heart-jelly pulses once and sends out a fistful of big squishy vines…veins? and a fat white worm of nerve scrambles down the spinal column and starts putting out franchises. This is followed by some disturbingly tasty-looking red sheets of muscle that swiftly sheathe over all the whole scene, and then the muscles start sweating out fat and cartilage and this is the point where Dean decides that looking away is actually definitely one hundred percent for the best. Even then, the sounds are tough to handle.
Kinda wild: he’s seen people taken apart, but watching one get put back together is somehow gnarlier. Well, if this guy is even a person. It’s a human skeleton, sure, but god knows even Mickey Rourke has one under there.
Finally everything seems to have quieted down.
“How you doin’ over there, Bones?” Dean asks, and dares to take a peek.
Bones is crouched down in front of them, fists balled up in the bedsheets (it’s a relief that the bedsheets didn’t get accidentally sucked into the muscle layer or something, like one of those surgeons who leaves a sponge behind). Dean sees white guy skin and some dark messy hair and gets the gist of a decent build.
The face slowly cranes upwards, and Dean is really truly ready for anything here; tusks, fangs, Klingon forehead ridges, gingivitis. Instead he gets a faceful of hot math teacher. Bones’s eyes are still closed, but he’s frowning like he’s mentally reviewing his strategy to explain the quadratic equation to a roomful of horny teens.
He slowly rises to standing (yikes! Naked! Dean is a Moderately Bad Man, so he glances, but just long enough to register “nice), uncurling slowly and carefully.
Then he’s all the way up. Bones squares his shoulders and straightens the last kink in his spine, and the frown resolves. Dean’s about to say something, when his eyes snap open, and this cold white light absolutely blasts out of them, and fuck, Crowley wasn’t kidding: this guy is definitely A Thing. The whole room flattens and distorts in the light. Shadows race up the walls like they’re looking for a way out, then snap together into the shape of enormous ragged wings, stretching thirty feet higher than the actual ceiling clearance.
Then the light dies down; the wings fade into regular-grade shadows. Instead of a terrifying unearthly avatar of Oh Shit, Dean’s looking at a buck naked thirty-something math teacher. Who happens to be an unearthly avatar of Oh Shit. And has nice eyes.
“My name is Castiel, angel of the Lord, Seraph of the First Shield,” the avatar says, in a piss-shakingly resonant version of Bones’s voice.
Then: “Do you speak English, Dean?”
“Yes?” Dean fumbles.
“So do I,” says Castiel, and smiles.
Then he makes finger-guns.
Castiel sticks around for a grand total of five minutes before he’s suddenly gone again, because angels are (a) real and they can (b) teleport? at (c) any moment because (d) fuck you, then he reappears six hours later (clothed) standing over Dean’s bed, having apparently forgotten that humans like to sleep; this time Dean does shoot him, but luckily he doesn’t seem to take it personally.
“I located Crowley,” Bo- Castiel says. The silver sword-javelin thing is sitting on the kitchen counter in front of him; apparently it’s an Angel Blade and it lives in Castiel’s coat sleeve and can vaporize demons. It doesn’t look like it has any Crowley on it, but maybe it’s self-cleaning.
“Did you kill him?” Dean asks, now that he’s semi-coherent and wrapped around a cup of coffee in the kitchen.
“Not this time,” Cas answers. “He did help, after all.”
“Sure,” says Dean.
“You don’t need to let me fuck you in the ass, either,” Castiel says, and Dean honks some coffee up the back of his nose.
“Oh,” he gasps. “Okay. Cool. Thanks. Didn’t realize you could hear that convo all the way down there.”
“Angels have excellent hearing. Mine wasn’t impacted by the spell.”
Dean can think of at least three very private moments Castiel almost definitely could hear every instant of, and longs for death. Or maybe not, since apparently this guy lives in Heaven and could hear him there, too. “Great. Good to know. Noted.”
“But…” Castiel looks wistful.
“What?” Dean nudges him. Dean Winchester: angel nudger.
Castiel frowns. “If I said…” he stops himself. “This is…what I want to say is very irregular, at least between angels and humans.”
“Jesus christ on a goddamn pogo stick, man. It’s three in the morning, some of us have a circadian rhythm and a limited lifespan. Say whatever it is you gotta say.”
Castiel looks up and drowns Dean in his swimming pool eyes, which Dean has learned belong to a radio ad salesman in Illinois, who Castiel possessed a few years back before jumping several decades into the past to run some errands and getting rope-a-doped by the Men of Letters and then warehoused in their basement; after they all spontaneously bought the farm, he just slowly ran out of the power reserves needed to keep his vessel from turning to mush and hey presto, talking skeleton.
Classic story, really.
“If I said you had a beautiful body, Dean,” Castiel says, solemnly, “Would you hold it against m-“
Dean doesn’t let him finish.
{AO3 version}
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soulmate au wit oikawa where soulmates feel each others pain and oikawa isnt the one who hurt his knee, his soulmate is a soccerplayer and got slide tackled. i really love your work, tysm!!!! 💐
» Word Count: 6,080 wordsCross-posted on AO3
Omg i was looking for references on what to base the scene where the soulmate gets tackled from and this is what i imagined! Just scrub the video to 0:14! I know jack SHIT about soccer though. Everything in this work was purely based off research, so feel free to leave me a message if you spot some errors!
And MAN this was meant to be a short scenario with quick transitions but it turned into a whole drama bomb. You can keep scrolling if you’re not up for a 6000-word oneshot ++ as usual, my shit is terrible on tumblr mobile pls bear with me.
Oikawa loved the thrill of the game.
The incessant beat of his heart against his chest, the adrenaline that surged through his veins, the buzz of confidence that washed over him as he hit powerful serves at the other side of the court – he was enamored with his own capabilities, so to speak.
Today was like any other day. Seijoh was hosting a practice match against Datekou and Oikawa was in top form. They were already down to a match point in the second set. But just before he could land the killing shot that would decide the winner, he halted mid-air as a searing sensation ripped through his knee.
The volleyball bounced aimlessly for having been forgotten. Oikawa fell on his side against the hardwood floor, clutching the afflicted knee to his chest as agony bloomed across his nerves. He bit his lip, not allowing himself to utter a single sound as everyone else on the court crowded around him.
“Coach, Oikawa’s injured!”
The sound of your knee popping from its sockets from where the enemy defender, Yamanaka, kicked you from the side was sickening. Even through the incessant cheer of the audience in the stands, you could hear it loud and clear. The moment the sole of her shoe made brutal contact with your knee, Yamanaka even brushed her torso against yours, roughly toppling you off balance and forcing your kneecap to absorb the impact of your fall.
For a moment, your vision darkened from the agonizing pain that flared up your right knee as you fell onto the grass. A scream ripped its way from your throat, your hands scrambling for purchase to alleviate the mind-numbing sensation that burned through your nerves. You’re sure that your leg was twisted in an unnatural angle, too.
The distant sound of a whistle rang in your ears. Even through your current state, you were hyper aware of everything that’s happening around you. Players from both your team and the opposition flocked around you with concerned stares. Your best friend, Harada immediately crouched beside you, careful not to move your injury.
“Hey, (Name)!” Her eyes were wide with dread. “Can you hear me? Can you stand up?”
You shook your head with minimal effort, groaning as you did your best to remain still to avoid inflaming your knee. A few moments later, a couple of medics arrived in the scene, telling the others to give you some space to breathe. You wanted to tell them that you could breathe fine, but your voice failed you.
As you were being carried onto a stretcher, you could see one of the referees giving Yamanaka a red card. She only shrugged, as if getting penalties was a regular thing for her. But before she could step off the field, she took the liberty to cast you a self-satisfied smirk.
A sob unknowingly made its way from your lips, gaining the attention of one of the medics that was about to bring you to the first aid station. He murmured something about everything being okay in the end and that you’d get to play with your teammates soon enough.
Today really wasn’t your day.
“So,” Doctor Yamano began, “what seems to be the problem here?”
Iwaizumi nudged Oikawa, who was fidgeting nervously under the professional’s gaze. For some reason, he harbored an inexplicable discomfort around doctors. Whenever he visited one, it was either because he was sick or sustained an injury. Frankly, he wasn’t a fan of both.
“While we were playing a practice match against another school earlier today, I…” His voice trailed off. How the hell was he supposed to explain it to him?
Yamano hummed. “Yes?”
He sighed. “…I felt my right knee give out.”
“Did you apply the proper first aid procedures, Oikawa-san?”
Oikawa nodded, recalling the urgency in Coach Irihata’s voice as they lugged him to Seijoh’s infirmary.
“Is it severe? It probably isn’t if you’re not in the emergency room, I presume?”
He scratched the back of his head, laughing nervously. “It felt serious. I really thought my whole career was done for just because of a practice match.”
Yamano nodded in understanding. “Did you have your knee x-rayed already?”
“Uh, no.”
He sighed before lacing his fingers together. “Well, I’ll be needing a clear image of it so I can make a proper diagnosis, Oikawa-san. I’ll write you up a request form to show the radiologists.”
“Ah…” Oikawa wanted to tell him that it really wasn’t necessary. That maybe going here was a mistake because his knee still looked pretty much intact, save for the dull throb that pestered him throughout the day. Iwaizumi even jokingly berated his soulmate for getting such a severe injury. But Oikawa didn’t really know how doctors reacted to that.
So when he was given the green light to get an x-ray, Oikawa told Iwaizumi that he’d be all right on his own and that he should get going. There was obvious apprehension in his best friend’s eyes, but he indulged Oikawa’s request, regardless.
He was glad. If there truly was something wrong with him, he wouldn’t want Iwaizumi to be there to see how bad it was. He already worried about him far too much than Oikawa deserved.
“You go here often?”
You shot the guy that was sitting a few seats away from you in the waiting room a bizarre look. If you could recall perfectly, you were in a radiology center, not a bar.
“I’m not even from here,” you explained gruffly, pressing your legs closer together. They exchanged your uniform with a hospital gown to minimize the pressure on your knee as much as possible. The injury was beyond what the stadium’s first aid medics could manage, thus the impromptu trip to the Sendai Medical Center. But before the doctors could assess the severity of your condition, they needed a visual.
“Hmm, so am I.” The stranger sighed miserably. “I live in another district, but this is the only hospital that covers my insurance. So, where you from?”
Your brows scrunched up at his nonchalance. Did you not look distraught enough for him to just leave you to your own devices? Maybe he was just like that as a person?
You exhaled. “I’m from Hyogo.”
His noticeably brown eyes widened in surprise. “What’re you doing all the way here, then?”
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
A soft-hearted laugh escaped his lips as he flashes you a cheeky grin. “When I see cute girls looking like their whole world just ended before their eyes, it’s kind of my thing to swoop down and comfort them.”
“Like a knight in shining armor of sorts?” you snorted.
He shrugged. “Take it as you like. All I’m saying is that I’m a pretty good listener. It’s not like we’ll cross paths again for me to hold anything you tell me against you, right?”
You managed to give him a lopsided smile. The gravity of everything that’s transpired today was slowly beginning to weigh down on your shoulders.
When the coach’s assistant arrived in the hospital, the game had already been concluded. Without their main offensive player, Mikage Shihan had to surrender their title to Aomori High for this year’s tournament.
When the news fell upon your ears, the sting of loss almost rivalled the throbbing ache in your knee. But before you could get emotional about your own hastiness, the nurse that attended to you in the emergency room informed that they needed an x-ray so the doctors could treat you accordingly.
Your eyes trailed back to the chatty stranger. He’s gazing at you expectantly and though there’s something about that sympathetic look he’s giving you that’s making warmth dance across your skin, you weren’t really the type to confide in people you just met.
Just as you were about to reject his offer, the door to the room where they conducted the x-rays swung open. The person inside called out your name, saying the machine was up and running. Talk about being saved by the bell.
You gave the stranger a curt nod as you tried to stand up from your seat, almost crumpling to the floor when the sharp pain from your knee shot up in your leg again, but you resisted it. Too many people have seen you in this sorry state already. You didn’t intend to add more to the list.
When the door closed behind you, you completely missed the way Oikawa Tooru clutched his own knee in a deathly grip as the pain, that he’s now realizing really wasn’t his own, came to life once more.
His knee was fine, but he’s pretty sure he accidentally stumbled into his soulmate in the process. At first, Oikawa didn’t know if Iwaizumi would understand, but thankfully he did.
“It happens,” he told Oikawa as they were heading home from practice. “Not everyone experiences it though.”
Iwaizumi told him about how Hanamaki and Matsukawa used their own bond to grate at each other’s nerves. Oikawa did a double-take on that one. He asked Iwaizumi why they didn’t bother telling him, their most trusted friend, about their status as soulmates. Iwauzmi smacked his head, reminding him how much of a chatterbox he was and that Makki and Mattsun wanted to keep it private.
“Ow!”
The woman that’s overseeing your therapy shot you a concerned look. You’re in the middle of doing the exercises that aid in rehabilitating the torn ligament in your knee, and you were on the last of your reps when suddenly, you lurched forward as if a ghostly hand had smacked you upside the head.
“You doing all right there, bud?” your therapist asked, placing a hand on your shoulder.
You rubbed the side of your head, still stinging from the contact (or lack thereof). “I feel like my head was spiked by a volleyball player.”
She laughed. “Really now?”
“Yeah, I’ve been feeling it really often. One time, I was eating and my face nearly pummelled into a bowl of ramen.”
“Your soulmate must piss a lot of people off, then.”
You stared at her, but laughed it off as one of her jokes. Surely, she didn’t mean you actually had a soulmate right? Only a few people were blessed enough to be given one. Besides, whoever got stuck with you as a soulmate would be damned to the achingly slow healing stage of your knee for an indefinite amount of time.
But a hopeful part of you wished that, if you did have a soulmate, they wouldn’t be an athlete like you. Your own tribulation would only weigh them down in ways you can only imagine.
Oikawa could bear with the pain.
On good days, it was just a faint throb in his knee that he could ignore for the most part. His performance wouldn’t be easily affected by a twinge of pain. He had a pretty high tolerance for it, after all.
But there were also times like these when he’d wake up in the middle of the night, clutching his leg as he stifled a scream. What were you doing in such an ungodly hour?
He laid in his bed until the agony subsided back into the usual telltale throb that reminded him that though it’s no longer volatile, the sensation was still there. You were still in pain. He didn’t like the idea; not one bit.
That was the first time he looked you up. He clumsily spelled out your name on the search engine in the way that he remembered the x-ray technician from nearly a month ago pronounced it. He expected to see links to social media accounts you probably owned, but instead he was faced with a bunch of news articles from online high school sports magazines.
Curious, he clicked on the first link.
“Hyogo’s Own (Surname) (Name), Out of Commision for Good?”
Oikawa vaguely recalled you mentioning that you were from Hyogo and nothing else. It was a district far off on the other side of the country. It would take more than twelve hours to drive there, yet he had found you sitting in a hospital in Sendai with a dead look in your eyes. He always wondered how exactly you wound up waiting to get an x-ray of whatever was afflicting you so far away from home, but the pieces slowly came together as his eyes grazed every word in the article.
“The coach of Hyogo’s Mikage Shihan is yet to release a statement with regards to their star player’s condition. But from what we’ve gathered from the team’s captain, Matsumoto Hiyori, she sustained a severe injury in her right leg. Some speculate that it was a dislocation, but others insisted that it was just a torn ligament. Whatever the cause may be, the football scene would be having scarce glimpses of one of Japan’s top three high school strikers, both in the male and female divisions.”
Your back collided with the wall as Harada roughly pressed you against it, holding you by the shoulders as unveiled fury burned in her eyes.
“Do you really want to end your whole career because of your own stubbornness?” she spat.
You have half the mind to tell her that your career would end sooner if you didn’t practice, but Harada would only remind you that you were given a three-month probation from any sporting activities. You hated that your doctor was right, that Harada was right, but could they blame you?
Soccer was all you had – it’s all you’re good at. You wanted to feel the rush of running through the field, the sun glaring at your skin, and the sound of grass crunching under the soles of your shoes. You ached for it.
“Just one month more, (Name),” she whispered, her fingers trembling. “One more and you’ll be free to play again. But right now…your knee still needs to heal.”
You knew that. You knew it far too well more than Harada or anyone else could ever understand. The burden of waking up every morning, feeling like your knee was going to snap off its sockets at any moment was already fair enough of a warning. But you couldn’t help yourself. You needed to move, to constantly be doing something because you’d rather incapacitate yourself entirely than spend another second feeling worthless. Seeing everyone do their drills on the field as you watched them between the barrier of a chain-link fence ate away at your sanity more than you expected it to.
The door to the locker rooms abruptly creaked open as your team’s goalie, Suzuhime, and your captain, Matsumoto, made their entrance, shattering the tension that nearly suffocated you.
Their gazes, oh how sick you were of those pitiful gazes they sent your way. Why did they always look at you like you wouldn’t be playing alongside them anymore? It infuriated you to no end and the frustration that’s been building up in your chest for weeks just…burst.
“Why does everyone have to keep deciding what I can and can’t do for myself?” you snapped. “It’s my body, it’s my career, why do you have to meddle with what I want to fucking do with my life?”
Poison might as well dribbled from your chin at the sharpness of your tone. The two newcomers shot you wide-eyed stares, unused to your seething behavior, but Harada remained unfazed. She’s known you since you were children and even if you were a collected person for the most part, she’s borne witness to your rage a handful of times. And she knew how to handle the situation accordingly.
You were armed with an arsenal of even more hurtful things to say, but before any of them left your lips, the sting of Harada’s palm smacking against your face snapped you out of your haze of indignation.
The frown you didn’t know you’ve been making loosens as your lips parted in surprise when tears fell from Harada’s eyes.
“You’re not the only one who’s hurt by this, you know?” she interjected with a shaky breath. “We hate seeing you in pain. We hate it when you try to push yourself to limits you can’t reach anymore. So please just–” she exhaled, “–try to understand why we’re keeping you from training.”
Matsumoto came forward, pulling the two of you in a tight embrace. Suzuhime muttered something about unwarranted affection, but joined in regardless. You couldn’t react. You never really thought of it that way until Harada slapped you with the truth (no pun intended).
“Can you promise me one thing, as your captain?” Matsumoto pressed her lips in a thin line.
You nodded.
“Focus on getting better. The field won’t disappear, but your career can. Wasn’t that one big shot university in Tokyo eyeing you for a sports scholarship? You can’t lose that.”
And she was right. There was more to your life than this measly little slip-up. In five years give or take you’d be laughing at this whole thing like it was an inside joke. Everything was going to get better.
With that, you wiped the tears that ran across Harada’s cheeks, mumbling an almost inaudible apology.
“Man, you guys are too uptight,” Suzuhime whined. “Let’s all just get some pork buns like we used to!”
The idea never sounded better.
“What’s up with you?” Iwaizumi spared Oikawa a mindful glance. Their captain was rubbing his cheek instead of warming up for practice.
“I think she got slapped,” he muttered.
Hanamaki, having found out about Oikawa’s newly discovered soulmate bond, cackled. “You want to return the favor?”
“Shut the fuck up, Makki.”
“A soulmate?” Harada cocked her head to the side. “Don’t you have one, Suzu?”
Redness crept up Suzuhime’s face for having been singled out. “Um, yeah. It’s my childhood friend. You don’t know him. He goes to another school.”
Matsumoto scoffed. “That’s just high school girl-talk for ‘my soulmate doesn’t exist’.”
“Hey! He does, too!”
Harada waved away their impending banter, her attention solely on you. “So you think you have a soulmate?”
You nodded, eyes drifting towards your half-eaten pork bun. “They get hit a lot. I’m worried they’re in an abusive environment.”
“How sweet,” Suzuhime sighed. “My soulmate doesn’t care about his health at all. He always gets into scuffles and the bruises take ages to heal. When I talked to him about it, he just shrugged it off!”
“If he exists, that is,” taunted your captain.
“Matsu, I am going to tape your damn mouth.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Ignore them,” Harada told you. “So, what do you plan on doing about it?”
You’ve been asking yourself the same thing. Soulmate bonds are a surefire way of determining that someone was out there fated to be with you. But the tricky part was finding them. They could be anywhere in the world and the only means you had to contact them were the shared sensations of pain you felt on both ends of the bond.
Your eyes drifted onto the black knee brace you’ve been coerced to wear for the duration of your therapy. It served as a visual reminder of what had happened. But then again, the dull ache that made itself known every now and then still haunted you. Did your soulmate feel that slight ounce of pain, too?
“I think,” you sighed, “I’m just going to wait it out.”
This was bad.
Oikawa Tooru was known for his exceptional talent as a setter and a jump server. He wouldn’t have the audience from the stands hyping him up when it’s his turn to send a merciless blow towards their opponent. But jump serves were the only serves he made, since he refused to settle for anything less. This put an unnecessary strain on his knees that he knew, from the start, he would pay for when the time comes.
That time was now.
He hissed as Iwaizumi soothed the taut muscles in Oikawa’s legs. Matsukawa handed their ace an ice pack, which he placed over their captain’s aching knee.
“Is it yours?” Iwaizumi asked.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
Matsukawa snickered at the side. “Of all the soulmates you could have ended up with, they just had to be an injury-prone idiot, too.”
Normally, he would’ve told Mattsun off for being mean, but honestly, he couldn’t have been more right.
“Shouyou’s playing volleyball now?” you clarified to your mother, who was giving you your afternoon massage.
She hummed. “Your aunt told me their school’s fighting to qualify as Miyagi’s representative for nationals. They got us tickets to watch their semifinals game.”
You couldn’t ever picture your little cousin, Shouyou, being able to touch the top of a volleyball net. He never even showed the vaguest interest in any kind of sport! Whenever his family visited yours in Hyogo a few years back, you always tried to get him into soccer one way or another. But he was as stubborn as an ox. Now, you’re hearing he’s playing to qualify for a national-level tournament for their prefecture?
“Miyagi, huh? That’s where I…” You frowned. No, you weren’t going to dwell on it any longer. “When’s the game?”
“This Friday, but we’re leaving on Thursday night. Your father’s driving.”
School wasn’t particularly hectic this time around, so you shrugged, agreeing with your mother to go all the way back to the place where some of your dreams were crushed. It wouldn’t do anyone harm, right?
Things were looking pretty dire for Seijoh. The little chibi – no, his entire team wasn’t letting up at all. It annoyed Oikawa more than it should. How did they still have that much determination left?
Oikawa’s breath came out a little shaky as Mr. Refreshing and the little shrimp attempted to send the ball back to Seijoh. But Oikawa saw through the feint. Sugawara set it into the ace’s direction instead, who promptly slammed it down with unparalleled precision. Hanamaki was quick to react, diving for it without a second’s hesitation. The receive was off and it was flying away from the court, but Oikawa’s feet moved before he could even set a plan in stone.
He forced his legs into sprints as he snapped his arm and pointed an index finger in the direction of the person he trusted most. His eyes flashed with fiery determination and the flames spread to Iwaizumi’s as well. It seemed impossible. It would be one of the riskiest sets he would have to make in his whole career thus far, but if he didn’t take it, he would just be admitting defeat.
Oikawa launched himself into the air, twisting his torso in the direction of Seijoh’s ace and put the ball back in play all the way from where he set it from outside the court. Iwaizumi nodded in understanding, bending his knees for the sole purpose of connecting it. Naturally, the rules of physics still applied in a volleyball game and gravity eventually brought Oikawa back on the ground, at the cost of his back colliding with some of the metal chairs set aside.
But Iwaizumi didn’t disappoint. He was already flying, arm pulled back in a spiking stance before the ball could even come to him. He trusted Oikawa’s accuracy enough to make this shot possible. There was no one else that could pull this off.
The captain grit his teeth, struggling to get back on his feet, but a sheet of black cloth was on the floor, making him lose traction in his shoes. The urgency in his action made him slip, his bad knee – your bad knee – colliding with the floor. The familiar sting in his bones flared back into life, but he couldn’t afford to pay it any mind.
He was running. Running even if his knee screamed for him to stop. Running even if his lungs burned for a breather. Running because even if Iwaizumi connected his set with a beautiful spike, that blasted Karasuno delinquent was definitely going to receive it–
A pained scream momentarily distracted him from everything happening on the court. It was strange. He never let what was going on in the stands distract him from a game, whether it be Seijoh’s supporters egging them on or some other matter than didn’t require his attention.
But he could see it. The way you crumpled on the stairs a few levels above in the stands, clutching your knee to chest as you howled in agony. His heart stopped at the sight.
What were you doing here?
“It hurts! It hurts!” you sobbed into your father’s shirt, fingers clamped around your aching leg. The all-too familiar pain erupted in your knee at the very same time that familiar face slipped on the court. You knew it wasn’t just a coincidence that the chatty stranger from a few months back was in the very same match as Shouyou.
“Shh, we’re going to get your meds, baby,” your father cooed as he carefully hooked his arm under your knees and supported your back with the other. “Just hold out for a while.”
You could vaguely hear your mother apologizing to your aunt, but all your mind could focus on was how beautiful his eyes were. They were looking straight at you with crackling intensity. But before you could spend any longer drowning in those hazel eyes, your father carried you out of the stands, whispering words of consolation in your ear.
“Oikawa-san!”
Yahaba’s shout pulled Oikawa back into focus and he could clearly see Tobio running about on the court, going into position for their freak quick. A menacing smile graced Oikawa’s lips. That’s what he wanted – for his junior to use their ultimate weapon and fail.
But something was wrong.
Iwaizumi, Kindaichi, and Kyoutani – the three of them, at the same time, lunged in an attempt to sully the ball’s trajectory. But they shouldn’t. The chibi’s arms were angled too obtuse. The shot was definitely going outside. He was about to bark at them to stop being a couple of idiots, but there was no reversing it.
Even if you can’t stop it, touch it, that’s what Oikawa always told them. He shouldn’t go back on his own teachings now.
The chibi’s spike grazed Iwaizumi’s fingers. Out of instinct, Oikawa pulled his arms to the side in a pathetic attempt to receive, but he knew it was in vain. If only he stood a few feet at the back, maybe he could have had better odds.
But fate has always been cruel to the ordinary.
As all eyes were on the outplayed volleyball, none of the players dared to draw a breath. But seeing that Oikawa was already their last line of defense, it collided with the floor, the echoing sound imprinted in his mind for the rest of his days.
Seijoh had fallen.
“When I find that boy, I’m going to beat him to a pulp,” your father flatly proclaimed when you finished your story. The three of you were back in the Hinatas’ living room, your mother having soothed your knee with her otherworldly massage.
“Dad, no,” you pleaded, but knew he didn’t mean the threat. At least, not entirely.
“I’m going to have to agree with your father, sweetie,” your mother caressed your hair. “He must know what’s going on with you by now. He should be more careful.”
You rolled your eyes. “Mom, I should have been careful. Who knows what he went through when I got slide tackled in the Aomori game.”
She hesitated before sighing in defeat. Your parents then shared a look, presumably having a telepathic conversation as to what your next course of action should be.
But before they could make that decision for you, Shouyou emerged from the hallway.
“You’re…soulmates with the Grand King?”
You didn’t know who this ‘grand king’ was, but he probably meant the chatty stranger turned volleyball player you met eyes with earlier today. You shot Shouyou a pained smile.
“Yeah.”
“Iwa-chan, I don’t get why we’re in rival territory. Why won’t you just tell me?” Oikawa simpered as Iwaizumi dragged him along further inside Karasuno’s campus. A few girls they passed by shot him knowing glances, which was odd. Most females would swoon at the sight of Oikawa Tooru.
“Shut up, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi dismissed before letting go of his best friend’s collar when they arrive at the school’s gym. “Someone wants to see you.”
Oikawa narrowed his eyes. “If it’s Tobio-chan, tell him to forget it! As if I’ll let him gloat about their victory in my face.”
“Dumbass, it’s not him! None of the players are looking for you!”
“Then why are we even here in the first place?”
“Uhm, hello?”
It’s been months since Oikawa’s heard that voice, but even now, he could still associate your face with it. You peeked your head from inside Karasuno’s gym. The sound of volleyball shoes scraping against the polished floor spilling from inside almost made Oikawa nostalgic, but he was preoccupied with something else entirely.
You grinned at him, but your eyes held a hint of shyness in them. Oikawa didn’t know whose breath hitches, but he’s definitely having a hard time taking in oxygen at the sight of your face, more vibrant than the first time he saw you in Sendai. His eyes glazed over the knee brace slapped on your right knee – it looked painfully similar to the one he needed to wear in games.
“I’m sorry I gave you such a hard time,” came your sheepish apology. “If I’d been more careful back then, you could’ve beat these guys… But I was rooting for Shouyou from the start, so…”
Oikawa didn’t know anyone named Shouyou, but he must have been someone close enough to you that you’d go all the way from Hyogo to watch their game against Karasuno. He made sure to shower whoever Shouyou was with infinite affection for finally, finally bringing you back to him.
Shit, he’s hot.
You didn’t remember mister chatterbox from the hospital being this attractive. Maybe you just had such a terribly pessimistic view of the world at the time that you missed how unfairly good-looking he was.
You could feel the warmth spreading all over your face at apologizing profusely for your past mishandling of your current predicament. But he dismissed all of your concerns with a lighthearted laugh that sounded like a symphony in your ears.
“(Surname) (Name), Japan’s number three striker, is apologizing for an injury she didn’t even mean to get? You’re quite the saint, are you?” The way your name rolled off his tongue tugged at your heartstrings more than it should. Stupid soulmate bonds, making you lose composure all the damn time.
“You know who I am?” you queried, rather amused with this revelation.
He offered a nonchalant shrug. “I do my research.”
The two of you stood there, carefully taking in each other as much as you could. You almost felt bad for the friend he brought with him, who stepped aside as to not interrupt your first meeting with your soulmate. But knowing that he’s the boy who’s always getting smacked in the head, the one that made you feel the sting of a service ace on the tips of your fingers, and the very same guy that powered through the burden you unknowingly shoved into his plate all with an award-winning grin on his face, it was all worth it.
This was Oikawa Tooru, one of the most amazing setters in the high school volleyball scene.
But why did he look like he was about to cry?
Oikawa couldn’t help it. He threw his arms around you and took a long whiff of your scent. Ever since he ensured your identity, he couldn’t help but think of all the times your pain was transmitted to him. Those days were difficult for him, alone, already, what more for the person actually suffering the affliction?
Gentle fingers tangled themselves in your hair as he pulled you as tight as he could into his own body. His arms shook with the sheer emotions coursing through his veins and–
“Why are you crying?”
He sighed, placing his hands on your shoulders. You eyed him bizarrely, but concern was lining your features, nonetheless.
“I hurt you.”
You snorted.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve hurt you more times than the other way around,” you retorted, smiling up at him. “What kind of athlete would I be if I had a shitty pain tolerance?”
His eyes widened, taken aback with your reply. Admittedly, he already planned his first meeting with you in his imagination dozens of times. Only he didn’t expect for it to be in Karasuno, a day after his last volleyball game in high school. But he imagined himself letting his emotions lose, apologizing for hurting you, and you clasping his hands in forgiveness. He didn’t exactly write it in the script for you to take the blame, yourself, too.
You were simply full of surprises.
You spent the rest of the afternoon talking and talking until the sun was beginning to bleed into the horizon.
Oikawa Tooru was an interesting person. He loved volleyball, had a penchant for milk bread, and admitted that he may be quite the narcissist at times. He told you that Tobio-chan, one of Shouyou’s teammates, was a junior that finally surpassed him. (There was a bitter undercurrent to his voice as he told that part.) He was going to Tokyo for college and–
“For real? I’m headed for Tokyo, too,” you chuckled, lacing your fingers together on your lap.
Oikawa quirked an eyebrow. “Do you happen to be on a sports scholarship as well?”
You hummed, smiling playfully. “I dunno. Could the number three high school striker of Japan be able to land a scholarship even after this shitty injury?”
“Hmm…probably not.” Oikawa shook his head.
That reply garnered a pout. “Why not?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t seen her play yet. She’s seen me play, and we both know that my skill is already university-tier.”
“Yet, you still lost,” you sighed dramatically.
The offended look on his face was priceless. “You didn’t have to go that far!”
You bellowed a hearty laugh, clutching your stomach at the puppy eyes he’s sending your way. Never could you have imagined that same boy from the radiology center being gifted with a whimsical persona so in tune with your own. Weirdly, you’re thankful for the injury that linked you to him.
But as your laughter died down, the sun had already set. Your mother told you to be back with Shouyou and from the looks of it, the boys were already cleaning up inside the gym.
You glanced at Oikawa, who was contently gazing at you with a small smile.
“I’m going back to Hyogo tonight,” you imparted.
He gave you a curt nod. “Have a safe trip.”
“What, you’re not going to proclaim your love for me and force me to never leave your side again?”
Oikawa wrinkled his nose at such a bold statement. “You’re pretty, but not that pretty.”
“Hey!”
“I jest. I jest,” he chuckled, tucking in a lone tuft of your hair behind your ear. The graze of his fingers against the skin of your cheek made your lips part in a mute sigh.
“All I’m saying is what’s there to fret about when we have–” he gestured towards your knee, “–this bonding us?”
“You saying you want me to get injured again, Tooru?”
“Oh, say my name again.”
“Pervert!”
“No! It really sounded nice in your voice!”
“(Name)-neesan!”
Your heart almost sank at the sound of Shouyou’s voice. He emerged from the entrance with his gym bag slung across his shoulder. With a polite smile, he asked if you were ready to go.
You almost told him that, yes, you were, but that’s until Oikawa hissed at him like a cat.
“You’re the Shouyou that brought us together?” he accused with thinly veiled apprehension, to which Shouyou laughed.
“That’s right, Grand King! You owe me now!”
“I owe nothing to any of you Karasuno folk!”
You rolled your eyes to pull Oikawa into an abrupt embrace, which effectively snapped him out of his hostility towards your younger cousin. He stammered with his words, but they remained forgotten when you whispered in his ear:
“See you in Tokyo.”
#haikyuu!!#haikyuu!! headcanons#haikyuu x reader#oikawa tooru#oikawa tooru hc#oikawa tooru x reader#im crying#soulmate au#this was so much fun to wrITE#I LOVE HIM#the grand king of mY LIFE#hqscenario
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the day i stopped crying.
it was a wednesday in late october at about seven o’clock and i was sitting on my mothers purple couch. it was the first thing she took with her when she left and it matched the purple walls and the purple couch before it. After my sister threw up on the old couch one too many times my dad told my mom to go pick out a new one. the only thing he told her when she left was “don’t pick another purple one, i can’t stand that color.” and so my mother left the house, picked out another purple couch, started sleeping with my best friends mom, and painted the walls to match. macey was half a year old and emma was eight. i had just turned ten a month ago. macey was on my lap playing with my hair and laughing until she saw my moms tears. my hair in fourth grade was awkwardly just above my shoulders and frizzy. really frizzy. i had a cone-head and glasses and after this day i would have two houses. they say hindsight bias is when an occurrence only becomes obvious after the thing has already occured. i knew my parents wouldn’t be together forever at the age of six. My mom was tucking me into bed after a particularly loud argument and i said “you don’t love daddy do you?” she said “not today, no.” if i’m being honest i don’t think she ever loved him. which would explain why while sitting on that couch i heard her scream “i can’t do this anymore” through the walls. it wasn’t that my dad didn’t try, it’s that he and my mom are really different people; who met when they were young and made the mistake of getting pregnant instead of divorced like they had planned. i found that out one night after my dad drank too much, and after my mom left my dad drank too much a lot. but before my mom left there was one night, the first time i ever saw my dad drunk, that he told me i couldn’t see zeke anymore. i met zeke when i was in second grade and he was in third. he was my best friend. he pushed me on the swings at recess and i went home and told my parents i found the boy i was going to marry. the following year when he shattered his kneecap i spent recess indoors with him for the entire school year, playing an imaginary game called “pig farm” where we just threw mini rubber pigs at each other. we were so small, so innocent. two years later he would cry when i had a “kick me” sign put on my back because “everyone knows lesbianism is contagious.” his mom was called to the school and raised hell because of the girls who were making fun of me. i started eating lunch with my brothers, because i couldn’t eat lunch with my friends. which is funny. because i can’t remember when my friends became by brothers. it could have been when we moved in together, or maybe a little bit after. but somewhere along the line we stopped being friends. i remember the day i found out my mom and his mom were more than friends. zeke and i were riding bikes at our elementary school the summer before fourth grade. the summer before this wednesday. i fell off my bike and dislocated my elbow. the entire bone popped out of socket, i lost motor function, and my fingers were turning blue. i walked home screaming. my dad saw my arm, threw up in the bushes, and went inside to my sisters. my mom threw karen her car keys, put me in the car and yelled to my dad “we’ll call when you can come.” the last thing i remember before passing out is karen holding my mom’s hand while she cried and telling her it’s going to be okay. i remember crying. but i was still crying then, at least publically. the day i stopped crying was the day my mom said she was moving out. both my parents were crying and i was on that purple couch holding macey. emma was sobbing and looked to me, as if i had the answers for what was to come. i realized that if everyone in my family was going to cry in this moment they needed me to not cry for them.
So i didn’t.
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Troy Otto One Shot Series #4
Chapter 4
Troy wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly what Arya was doing but he played dumb and walked into every manipulative trap she had set out for him. It was a game of cat and mouse, and what made it truly exciting was that she didn’t know he was the cat and she was the mouse. It started off subtle and really, he commended her for her efforts. She almost had him fooled with the way her glances towards him got more frequent and her smiles prolonged. Her touches lingered as she brushed past him and she never disagreed with him in front of his men. She’d always take her concerns to him in his office, when they were alone.
She had an angle behind every action. She revealed things about her life from before but the way she said them was so very tactical. She’d talk about her Father and her three brothers; how she felt like she had to prove a point to them, all her life – that she was strong and just as capable. Well, turns out she did – she survived longer than all of them. It was amusing for Troy at first – to let her think she had the upper hand just because he was somewhat attracted to her….but pretty soon things started to blur. He started finding it hard to say ‘no’ to her. He had even let her give some of her rations to Luciana every night. All Arya had to do was ask. She had stared at him with those big brown eyes of hers, placed her palm on his arm and had spoken in her most sincere voice, “I can’t let her die, Troy. She reminds me of what could have been my fate had you not been in charge. Please.”
Please. He was addicted to the way that word sounded, coming from her lips.
Troy struggled with his thoughts on where to draw the line with Arya for he enjoyed their little games. There was more to this though – she had potential- they had potential to be something great. He just had to make her see it. He waited for opportunities but nothing seemed to sway his way. Nothing, till the Clarks visited his base.
----
Maddison Clark had a way about her. Troy was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. There was also the added benefit of using this entire situation to stir Arya a little. He was intrigued to see how she reacted. His footsteps even had a little bounce to them as he finished his meeting with the Clark women and made his way down to the basement where Travis was being processed. Checking his watch, he smirked; Arya was down there changing Luciana’s bandages. Like clockwork she visited Luciana at 7 every evening.
She stood up with a curious look on her face as he spoke to Travis. Then Nick piped up and asked about his mother and sister. Troy’s eyes lit up as he watched Arya’s mouth lilt to a frown. She remained silent though, simply watching his interaction with Travis.
“She’s dying.” Travis had spoken, with a morose look on his face.
“Everyone here dies.” Troy snapped, “It’s the only mercy I can offer.”
“Troy..” Arya called but he ignored her, choosing instead to order Travis to take a seat.
She had followed him all the way back to his office. She waited till the door shut before her eyes narrowed. “You gave me your word you wouldn’t hurt her.”
“And I’m a man of my word.” He looked at her pointedly before shrugging, “I’m not hurting her, she’s just dying of her own volition.”
“She’s dying because you’ve not allowed me to bring her up here and treat her properly!”
“She’s weak. If you really want to look after women, I’ve got two in the waiting room. Didn’t even process them – I knew you wouldn’t approve.”
She scoffed, her gaze burning with anger.
“I don’t care about the other women, I care about Luciana.”
“No you don’t.” he growled, “Don’t get weak on me.”
“You’re going back on your word, Troy.” She spat, “don’t.”
There it was, Arya’s eyes widening, even watering a little. Troy’s tongue clicked, “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? It only worked as far as I let it work. I’ve had enough now. You’re not wasting any more resources on Luciana. Not when we’re taking Maddison and her daughter back to the ranch.”
Arya’s entire demeanour turned austere. It was a rather sinister to see the way her rage bubbled till it fell behind a mask of cool indifference.
“I’m glad you have new playthings. They’ll make up for my absence at the Ranch.”
Troy’s jaw clenched as his hands grabbed her arm, squeezing it till he was sure it would bruise her skin.
“You said you’d be on my side. That you’d come to the ranch.” His voice was soft but deadly.
“And you said I had a choice. Are you a man of your word now, Troy?” She was taunting him. It amazed him how quickly he felt he was losing his grasp on her. He hadn’t expected the conversation to escalate like this. He just wanted her to toughen up. He wanted her to prove she was on his side – not threaten to leave.
“You won’t leave.” He called her on her bluff, “I’ve treated you well-”
“Doesn’t matter.” She growled, “I want out. You’re a despicable human being and I’d rather get eaten alive than spend another day in your presence. Now let me go before bruises form on my wrists and you find yourself turning into your abusive Father.”
The sheer venom in her tone surprised him enough to cause his grip to loosen. He knew she had seen scars on his abdomen before. They often spoke late into the night when he wouldn’t wear his uniform shirt and his sleeves would be exposed. She’d seen raised scars on his elbows, faded welts on his forearms…but she had never questioned them. For her to have connected the dots and to speak so callously about it- to insinuate that he was abusive- it stung him. He spent the night pondering on how to deal with her. He had stalked the corridors looking for her at one point in the night; he was spoilt for a fight but it only further upset him when he couldn’t find her. She hadn’t left the base; her backpack was still here. So it meant she was hiding from him. She knew him well enough to know he’d come looking for her and that in itself pissed him off. He was supposed to have the upper hand here but somehow she was the one calling the shots now.
---
Despite an entire night passing into morning, Troy still couldn’t let go of her words. It simmered in the back of his head, quietly, angrily, waiting for the moment he saw her again. He’d show her she couldn’t fuck with him like this. She wasn’t better than him.
“I’m not a bad person.” He clarified to Maddison, Arya’s words still playing in his mind but it surprised him to find that the longer he spoke to Maddison, the less his thoughts revolved around Arya. Maybe he should take them back to the Ranch. Maddison was special. She wasn’t special like Arya was – they were different kinds of special- but he could work with this. He just needed to eliminate Travis and Nick and definitely Luciana.
Gun shots rang loud and in an instant Troy was on his feet, running to the basement. He had locked the door to the waiting room, trapping Maddison and Alicia there. He had promised them he would let Travis go but he had a feeling he’d have to break that promise sooner than he’d like. Another thought niggled in the back of his mind; one that he had to suppress – what if Arya had something to do with the gunshots? What if she was hurt or worse…what if she shot one of his men to escape?
/-/-/-/
Arya’s brows furrowed as she saw a girl sneaking around the jeeps at the base. Arya hid low in Charlie’s jeep seats before the girl could see her. Arya figured she was one of the women Troy wanted to take back to the ranch. If she was sneaking around then it meant she had managed to escape which, in itself, was a rather incredible achievement. She knew how careful Troy was with his captives. She crawled into the driver’s seat of Charlie’s jeep, careful to not get noticed by the younger girl who seemed to be trying her hand at hot-wiring one of the other jeeps. Scoffing silently, Arya huffed and threw a pair of keys out the window, in the girl’s direction. She had swiped a pair from Charlie and a pair from Mike the night before and she figured that leaving one on the ground would be filling her good deed quota for the year. Just as she was about to start the jeep and get the hell out of here, she heard his scream.
It was instinctual for her feet to move towards his voice. She did it faster than her senses could comprehend- faster than her mind could berate her on how stupid she was being. Then she saw a blonde woman screaming bloody murder; threatening to pop Troy’s eyeball out with the spoon she had stabbed into his eye socket. A familiar rush of adrenaline flooded through Arya’s veins as her body prepared to fight.
But fight for what? Her mind taunted her and she froze in place.
“Where is he?! Where? You said he was alive.”
Arya’s mouth dried out as her muscles tensed and stiffened.
“Back off, wide berth.” Troy screamed, till his eyes fell to her.
“Arya! Get her off me! Get her the fuck off.” He was frantic and pleading for her to help him. So she did.
“Are you looking for Nick?” Arya asked Maddison, with her hands raised. That seemed to aggravate the woman more as she kicked Troy’s kneecap and forced him to kneel on the ground.
“Nick- where is he?? Where is my family!? I just want my family!”
“I’m Arya and I was a prisoner here too ok? I’m not one of them!” Arya placated, her arms still up, “I saw your daughter by the jeeps- I even threw one of the keys at her. I was hiding there all night. I just want to get out- just like you ok? I can help.”
All the while, Arya moved closer, step by step. Just as the woman seemed to ease up on her, Arya tried, “Let him go.”
“No!” She spat out, digging the spoon in deeper. Arya let out an involuntary scream only reinforcing Maddison’s suspicions of her.
“Look at me!” Arya screamed, “I don’t have a gun on me and I’m the only thing standing between you and all these people with guns. They will kill you and then what happens to your family? Listen to me. I’m trying to help you.”
“Get him to tell me where they are. Where Nick and Travis are!”
“I can’t. I don’t know.” Arya licked her lips as she tilted her head, “You’ve seen how stubborn Troy is. He has a goddamn spoon stuck in his eye and he still won’t tell you where your family are…but Jake will. Jake’s a good guy- just let me go get him ok?”
Arya didn’t have to get Jake. The screams and havoc already drew him to their location.
Arya had met Jake a couple of days ago when he arrived at the base to help get everyone ready to leave. She hadn’t had many opportunities to speak to him though, considering Troy always had a deep scowl on his face whenever he spotted the two of them within talking vicinity of each other. Jake had tried to speak to her at first but he’d fast gotten tired of his brother’s displeasing Arya hadn’t seemed very approachable either so Jake had given up.
True to Arya’s words, Jake had managed to calm matters down enough to get Maddison to tug the spoon out of Troy’s eyes. Troy didn’t let up though as he attempted to tackle Maddison to the ground. Jake intervened and pushed him down, forcing him to reveal where Travis was. Reluctantly, Troy pointed them towards the pit. As everyone started to walk towards the pit, Arya hoped to slip away but like an iron vice, she felt a large palm grab her wrist. She knew that hand…that hold. She was very familiar with it. Troy.
Spinning to meet his bloodied gaze, she tugged her arm back with force. Catapulting back, rather unexpectedly, she’d have tripped over her feet and fallen on her back if it wasn’t for his quick reflexes and his arm wrapping around her waist.
“Wait.” His voice shook, “Wait till this all dies down and I’ll give you supplies and a jeep.” He seemed sincere enough to her so she nodded and followed him. She made sure to distance herself from him though. She didn’t want to tempt him into thinking she was his captive again. She wasn’t. She’d break out of here even if she had to kill him.
Arya stood to one side and impatiently watched the Clark family reunite. She didn’t pay much attention to it for fear that it would bring up long suppressed memories of her own family. Instead, she stared at the pit and the sheer number of dead walkers in there. It was impressive. She assumed Travis had killed them all without any weapons so to speak. He must have used his hands or that concrete block-
She was winded as a small body collided into hers. Blinking, she looked ahead to see Luciana had hobbled over to her and was now hugging her. Unsure of where to place her hands, Arya settled for awkwardly patting the woman’s back.
“Thank you.” She spoke with utter gratitude that it caused a lump to form in Arya’s throat. She hadn’t heard anyone speak to her in that way in a long while. Her actions hadn’t allowed for such gratitude from a stranger- not since before the world went to shit. Arya caught Nick’s relieved gaze as he nodded his thanks to her and she stiffly nodded back. She felt another set of eyes boring into her back but she ignored it. She didn’t so much as want to look at Troy before she left. True to his word, Jake guided them all back to the pantry and brought out supplies. Arya had remained quiet as Travis and Maddison thanked her. She hadn’t intended to help them; it just sort of happened, so she didn’t want to take credit.
Jake began raving about the Ranch in his attempt to persuade them all to come there. Arya had scoffed and rolled her eyes repeatedly, till Travis ended up voicing one of her thoughts. Jake had called the Ranch a ‘sanctuary’ to which Travis had dryly responded with, “We’ve heard that one before.”
Jake went on to explain how Troy was different from the rest of the men at the ranch and they were genuinely a good bunch of people but neither Maddison nor Arya entertained his arguments.
“I came here with knives and a machete. I want them back.” Arya demanded after Maddison asked for her guns back.
“I also want a hand gun and a riffle. I’ve been here long enough to earn it.”
Jake took in a deep breath and nodded, “I need you to do something for me first.”
Arya laughed in interruption, “I’m done, doing things for you or your people or Troy-”
“I’ll give you how many ever guns you need, I just need you to come with me to see him.” Jake pleaded, “I know he listens to you. Please.”
Arya mulled it over in her mind. She needed ammo- lots of it, if she was going to survive out on her own. Ignoring the look Maddison was shooting her, Arya nodded, “10 minutes and I’m done. I get a jeep, two cans of gas, five boxes of ammo and I’ll stick with two guns.”
Jake nodded without thought and Arya half scowled; she had underestimated how desperate he was. She should have demanded more. Arya quietly followed Jake inside to where Troy was being patched up. Once the room cleared, Arya leant against one of the bunk beds, watching the brothers argue. She felt herself tense up as she watched Jake shove Troy against a wall. She hadn’t seen him this vulnerable before. He still had fight in him even when he had a spoon stuck in his eye but now, he was completely docile as his brother held him by the collar. He couldn’t even raise his voice to argue. Then Jake said something about their Father sending Troy away. ‘Cast one out to protect the many.’ And she felt like she got it. She saw parallels between her old life and his- he wanted to prove a point to his brother, to his dad, just like she once did.
Troy walked out without a backward glance, leaving Jake to spin around and raise his hands in annoyance at her.
“Why didn’t you jump in? I brought you here so you could-”
“So I could what? Intervene in your family drama? Fix Troy? He doesn’t give a shit about me or you or what we think. You must have figured that out by now.” Arya felt unnerved and uneasy – just another reason for her to leave. She didn’t like feeling sympathetic towards Troy. Infact, she was pissed she wasn’t indifferent towards him. Even hatred was a feeling and as long as feelings were present, it meant that she was bothered by him.
Stalking towards the armoury, she nodded at Mike whilst pointedly ignoring Troy. He, however, didn’t feel like doing the same. As she was collecting her promised riffles, he stood in her way, blocking her exit.
“So that’s it huh? You’re just going to leave?” His tone was high pitched; like this was all affecting him in some way.
“Yes.” Arya growled and slapped his hand away as he tried to grab the riffle.
“This is mine”
“Well now it’s not.” Arya argued, “Jake said I could pick two riffles and have all my daggers back so hand them over Troy. I know you still have the one with the serpent carving.”
Scowling, he shook his head, “Jake’s not in charge, I am.”
“Sure doesn’t look like that from where I’m standing.”
Swallowing his bruised ego, he softened his tone as he leant closer to her. “Listen to me, you won’t last out there much long. Not with two riffles and alone. The ranch is safe-”
“The ranch has you in it.” She barked.
“What’s the problem!?” He blasted, “Your mexican girl is being taken care of and no one got hurt. No one, except for me. So why won’t you come?”
Just as Arya was about to yell out her reply, another scream distracted her. Maddison was surrounded by Walkers, pooling out of the North tunnels. Nick had run in to join her, tyre iron in hand. They were far enough away for Arya to escape- to just grab a pair of keys, get into a jeep and get the hell out of here but then she saw Travis and Alicia drag Luciana through the group of walkers and her decision was made. She would not see the girl die. Absolutely not.
“Fuck!” Arya cursed as she shoved the riffle into Troy’s hands and ran towards the group with her machete in hand. One by one she hacked at their heads as her, Maddison and Nick formed a triad with their backs against each other.
“Expand out slowly,” Arya instructed as one walker lunged at her, knocking the machete out of her hands. Pulling out two daggers from behind, she sunk both into either side of the walker’s skull. Kicking his chest for leverage, she released the daggers and shoved him back into a pool of other walkers. Gun shots rang loud, fast approaching the three of them. A circle of Walkers that had been approaching Arya fell dead at her feet. Her eyes narrowed as she saw Troy standing at the back of a pick up, riffle in hand.
“Hurry! C’mon, get in!” He yelled, motioning for Arya, Nick and Maddison to jump in. Arya watched Maddison struggle with the decision.
“We’re all going to the same place.” Troy motioned towards the Helicopter that Travis, Alicia and Luciana had just entered. That was all it took to convince Maddison and Nick but Arya was unsure. She started doing a headcount of the walkers as her mind raced on possibilities of her escaping the base without having to join Troy.
“Arya.” Troy shouted, “Survive.”
She glared as she was reminded of her own words to him when he first took her in. ‘Survive.’ With one final shove at a walker, she found her feet racing to get to his moving truck. She grabbed onto his extended hand and let him haul her on. Tugging her against his body, he shoved a riffle in her hands. Her response was automatic as she uncocked the riffle and fired at Walkers surrounding the helicopter. Troy shot down the three that were handing onto the landing bar, weighing it down.
“Move, move, move!” Troy smacked the hood of the truck and Mike hightailed it out of the base. Heart pumping wildly as adrenaline rushed through her veins once again, Arya didn’t so much as protest when Troy pulled her down to sit beside him in the truck. As her nerves settled a few minutes later, she realised why Maddison and Nick were staring at her disconcertedly; she was leaning against Troy. Her had his arm around her shoulders, with a mercurial grin on his face.
“We’re all going to the same place now!” He beamed, happy with the day’s events. His smile didn’t fade, even as Arya shoved his chest as she distanced herself from him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sheathed dagger.
“Here.” His smile was shy as he pushed it into her hands. She blinked in confusion. The leather casing wasn’t hers but the dagger underneath it was. Her fingers ran over the familiar serpent engraving on the flattened face of the double edged dagger as a soft smile graced her features. Her brows furrowed as her eyes fell to a matching serpent engraved on the leather case Troy had given her. Her cheeks flushed warmly under his inspecting gaze. Gulping, she grunted before turning her body away from him, her head turned to look out at the vast wastelands they were journeying through.
Maybe the Ranch wouldn’t be so bad.
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