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beewolfwrites · 3 years

Note

Do you write requests? I mean... chishiya getting his hair washed by his s/o... and it's so intimate that he really struggles with his emotions... dunno if you'd write that, tots fine if you don't. Just saying... would be cute wouldn't it...

Hello! I'm always happy to write requests, though this is the first one I've ever had :)

I wasn't sure if this managed to get across enough emotion on Chishiya's end (because that boy is like an emotional breezeblock) but I hope you like it all the same!

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You were never worried whenever Chishiya left for a game. Well, that’s not entirely true. He was smart enough to wriggle his way through almost any situation, you knew that. Rationally and logically, Chishiya would survive. But there was always that tiny voice whispering, ‘What if’.

What if he ends up in a Spades game and isn’t athletic enough?

What if he’s ambushed by other players during a Hearts game?

What if there can only be one survivor, and by chance, it isn’t him?

Interestingly, ‘What if he gets so covered in blood, it forces him to finally wash his hair properly?’ never once crossed your mind.

Half-asleep, you heard the door to your shared room creak open as someone shuffled inside. At any other time it could have been an intruder, or even one of the militants, if not for the beam of light from the hall slicing through the darkness. Chishiya’s features were briefly illuminated, then he shut the door.

You dreamily watched his silhouette as he rummaged through the drawers, dragging them open one by one until the noise woke you up completely.

‘Chishiya?’

‘Go back to sleep.’ He shut another drawer.

By now, sleep was too far gone. Sitting up with a yawn, you switched on the bedside lamp, but when the yellow glow filled the room, it became horribly apparent why Chishiya was turning out all your clothes drawers.

His white hoodie, sweatpants, and even his skin were all spattered with blood. And within an instant, there was only one question pressing on your mind.

‘Is it yours?’

‘I told you to go back to sleep.’

The side-glance he gave you as he reached for a towel revealed that he wasn’t in the mood for this, probably because his favourite white hoodie was stained. But neither were you.

‘Is it yours?’

‘Does it look like it’s mine?’

Eyebrow raised, he turned to face you fully, letting the light accentuate every stain in his clothes. On closer inspection, no. It couldn’t possibly have been his. The speckled pattern of the blood suggested that it must’ve come from someone several feet away. Realising that he was unharmed, you instantly relaxed.

‘Was it those collars again?’

‘Yes, actually.’ He paused, smiling curiously. ‘But the players weren’t the ones wearing them.’

Ah. It was one of those games where one of the others hunted the players down. You’d survived them before, and their lives were almost always pitted against yours.

If Chishiya had any intention of telling you about his game, it certainly wasn’t right now, because he suddenly turned towards the bathroom, giving you a full view of the back of his head.

‘Wait!’ You threw back the covers, managing to catch him by the elbow just in the nick of time. ‘Wait a second.’

‘What is it now?’

You lifted up locks of his hair, inspecting the dry, tangled mess. Aside from a couple of specks at the front, he’d somehow managed to avoid getting blood in it. However, that didn’t mean the overall state of his hair wasn’t nasty as hell.

‘I thought I told you to brush it properly after you shower,’ you said, feeling the damaged stands between your fingertips. ‘And we have conditioner. Don’t you use it?’

He looked at you tiredly, as though he couldn’t believe he was even having this conversation. ‘Conditioner is waste of time and money,’ he said. ’Now go back to bed.’

He tried to shut the bathroom door between you, but there was no way you could let hair like that pass. The moment the door closed, you yanked it open again before he could lock it, catching him by surprise.

‘Nope. You’re not getting away that easily.’ You pushed your way into the bathroom. ‘There’s no money in this place, and no excuses.’

He leaned against the bathroom counter, watching impassively as you started to run a bath. ‘I don’t take baths.’

‘Well, you do now.’

Opening the bathroom cupboards, you pulled out some of the nicer hair products that you’d collected from abandoned salons in the city. Since the only currency in the Borderlands was human life, luxury hair products were free game.

You could feel Chishiya growing more and more irritated. ‘Pull the plug, or I’ll do it myself.’

Ignoring the comment, you pulled gently at his hoodie in a signal to remove it, only he shifted away from you and muttered that he wasn’t a child. Despite his small, reluctant comments, it was surprising how easily he’d given in. Perhaps he was simply too tired to argue, though you knew you’d get an earful about this tomorrow.

Once his bloodied clothes were in a pile on the floor, he uncomfortably climbed in the bath. Neither of you were particularly bothered by nudity, and it was hardly the first time you’d seen him like this. There was just something about baths that he hated, and seeing him sitting grumpily in the water, it was impossible to keep from smiling.

‘I’m sorry,’ you said. ‘If it’d been a shower, I would’ve had to get in too.’

‘And that’s a bad thing?’

‘Pff, stop trying to distract me,’ you snickered. ‘I’ve got so much work to do if I’m going to rescue this mess.’

Tilting his head back, you used your hand to pour water over his hair, taking your time to dampen it thoroughly before squeezing in shampoo. You had never been very good at massage, but you tried your best, rubbing the lather in to make sure every strand was coated, and every drop of blood washed away.

Chishiya didn’t seem to protest. It was a stroke of luck to catch him while he was too tired to put up a fight. You snuck a glance at his face while shampooing his hair, only to find his eyes closed, expression peaceful.

‘Chishiya?’

One eye cracked open. ‘I’m awake. Don’t get any ideas.’

Smirking, you started washing the suds away. ‘I guess my plan to attack you when you were sleeping has been foiled.’

‘What a coincidence,’ he mumbled. ‘I had the same plan earlier.’

Once the shampoo had melted into the bathwater, you pooled conditioner into the palm of your hand and started combing your fingers through his hair, coating the locks while gently easing out the tangles.The silence was comfortable, and neither of you spoke until Chishiya let out a small sigh.

‘I preferred what you were doing before.’

Your hands stilled in surprise. ‘You actually like this?’

‘I wasn’t convinced at first,’ he replied. ‘This is the first time someone’s washed my hair like this. I suppose it’s not too bad.’

Chishiya’s words opened up a lot of doors, and you couldn’t help but ask, ‘Didn’t your mother wash your hair for you? When you were small, I mean.’

‘Ah…’ He smiled wryly. ‘We had a nanny.’

Your hands slowed as you mulled over this new information. Chishiya had only vaguely told you about his parents. He barely spoke with his father, and his mother was no different. But that was all you really knew. Maybe he was raised entirely by staff.

‘Was the nanny nice?’

He hummed under his breath. ‘She was underpaid, and she let me know it.’

Did he mean to say, his nanny took her frustration out on him? The more he spoke, the more unsettled you felt learning about this. ‘She helped during bath times, right?’

‘She supervised.’

It wasn’t difficult to read between the lines. He must’ve been washing his own hair from the moment he was able to, and even then, it would’ve been impossible to remember what the experience was like before. No wonder he was terrible at looking after it now.

Bad habits die hard.

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around his neck and shoulders, pressing your cheek against his damp skin. To your surprise, he leaned into the embrace. It was a small slip that he would never show anybody else, a fracture in his apathetic facade, and there were no words shared between the two of you. Just understanding.

That was, until the silence was ruined.

‘Hurry up. The faster you finish messing with my hair, the faster I can get out.’

Chishiya really didn’t like baths.

#alice in borderland #aib chishiya #chishiya #imawa no kuni no alice #aib #chishiya shuntaro

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luvvewan · 3 years

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promptsssssss!!!

13: “Just listen to the sound of my voice.” 🥺🙏❤️

Thank you for the prompt, @sanerontheinside ! I went full Obi-whump, so I hope you like it.

—

The healer crouched at the edge of the bunk and took Obi-Wan’s bare feet in his hands.

Obi-Wan cried out, trying to pull away from the touch, twisting in the blankets.

“Caht, nah.” The elderly man, Hagit, said softly. He glanced up at Qui-Gon. “Numo.”

Qui-Gon had garnered only a handful of words in the native tongue, but he didn’t need to know what the healer said; he could see it in his eyes. Pity. For Obi-Wan, yes. But also for him? Fear lodged in his throat.

“Evvi, eh. Uh…here. Boy…numo.” Hagit motioned to Obi-Wan’s foot.

“Keep him still, Master Jedi, please.” Evvi, their young interpreter and Hagit’s grand-niece, translated. “He sees the spine in the left heel.”

Qui-Gon suppressed a shudder and turned away, leaning over his insensate student. Obi-Wan’s face was covered in sweat, eyes half-lidded, lips cracked and quivering. His Learner’s braid had plastered itself to Obi-Wan’s pale neck and chest. Qui-Gon smoothed it carefully between his fingers. “You are doing very well, Padawan. Just stay still. I know it’s difficult but you must not move,” he used a gentle voice better suited for younglings, despite the fact Obi-Wan was twenty three years old and a newly senior apprentice.

He watched Obi-Wan try to look at him, but another wave of pain erupted through their connection in the Force, and his eyes rolled back. Qui-Gon absorbed what he could, wanting to take it all, though even the echoes of Obi-Wan’s agony were enough to make him briefly light-headed.

He noticed Hagit was speaking again, a distant noise. Evvi said something back to him, then Qui-Gon heard several small, hesitant steps. A hand touched his arm.

“I’m sorry, Master Jedi. Removal is very painful and delicate. He does not want the spine to break apart while still in the foot. It will release more poison.” Evvi explained. “Can you hold him down?”

Obi-Wan was more powerful than his small frame would suggest. The pain and delirium made him combative, and when Qui-Gon gripped his arms he thrashed and snarled. He had never seen Obi-Wan, obedient and self-possessed Obi-Wan, untethered this way. Fingernails raked down his forearm, tore at his robe sleeves.

Sedation was not possible. The medical supplies were limited anyway. They were lucky to have Hagit, who was old enough to remember when the stone-fish were plentiful, before a plague wiped them out. Now it was exceedingly rare to catch a stone-fish on the shore, due to both its near-extinction and impressive camouflage. Obi-Wan had accompanied some of the village’s children to the water, or really they had accompanied him, starry-eyed at the presence of an offworlder, a Jedi. He had been stepping along a path of craggy rocks leading to the ocean when his foot landed on a stone-fish, its spiny, algae-crusted body hidden amongst the rocks and sand.

The pain had been immediate. The children had run, screaming, for help. By the time Qui-Gon found him, Obi-Wan was screaming too.

Other villagers had come. Among them was Hagit, helped along by Evvi at his elbow, his grey eyes milky and grave. Obi-Wan was administered a general anti-venom there on the beach, already overwhelmed by the agony that radiated from his foot through his entire body.

Evvi had told Qui-Gon the poison was brutal and quick. It was not always fatal, but it triggered something nearly as cruel: most victims were gripped by an unbearable sense of dread, demanding to be killed before the poison could fully take them.

From his admittedly foggy calculations, it had been close to an hour since Obi-Wan was attacked. Qui-Gon’s stomach lurched. He did not look behind him, where he knew Hagit was hovering at the wound site, arthritic hands shaking, preparing to perform a task of great precision.

“Still, Master Jedi. He must be still.”

He brought the Force to bear down on his Padawan while using his own brute strength to pin Obi-Wan’s wrists back onto the bunk. Obi-Wan whimpered and moaned, whipping his head to the side. Tears streamed freely down his face, snot and sweat dripping from his nose.

“Help!” He kicked his legs, trying to free himself from the healer’s grasp.

Hagit made a sharp noise under his breath, likely a swear.

“Obi-Wan, listen to me! We’re trying to help you!” He barked hoarsely, wiping sweat from his own brow before straddling his Padawan and laying over top of him, using his weight to hold him down. Their heads were pressed together and Obi-Wan wept and keened in his ear.

Qui-Gon’s heart found new ways to break. The Force was overrun with panic and hopelessness. Obi-Wan twitched and fought under him, desperate to get freed. Qui-Gon tried to use a sleep suggestion but his Padawan’s aura was clouded, elusive.

And time was draining away. He imagined the spine lodged in Obi-Wan’s tender heel, the poison seeping into his blood and causing more damage. “Just…breathe with me, Padawan, alright? There is no pain, there is the Force.”

“I can’t.” Obi-Wan whimpered.

He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Obi-Wan’s temple. “Leave it to me, then. Trust in me, young one. Whatever else is happening…it doesn’t matter. Just listen to the sound of my voice.”

He knew it was a risk, to appeal to the dutiful instinct in Obi-Wan that very well might be overridden by poison-fueled anxiety. But what else could he do? Hold his delirious student down with every last bit of strength he possessed, and possibly break his bones in the process?

Obi-Wan bucked against him, sniffling and gasping. “It won’t stop it won’t stop oh gods…”

“Shhh,” Qui-Gon smoothed his damp hair. “You are so far away from that, aren’t you? Safe with me. Safe and very tired. Only you and only me, far away.”

Nerveless fingers clutched at him. “M-Make it stop make it stop I can’t—“

“Of course I will. Hold onto me and keep your legs very still. You can do that, I know you can. Put your arms around me and hold on, as tight as you can.” Qui-Gon blinked back the sweat pouring into his eyes, body vibrating with hope and dread as Obi-Wan slowly obeyed. “That’s it. Now I want you to keep the rest of your body very, very still, Padawan. Do you understand?”

Obi-Wan heaved an exhausted sob, but nodded. His arms gripped around Qui-Gon’s back while his legs gradually relaxed on the bunk.

Hagit murmured to himself. Evvi touched Qui-Gon’s leg.

In the stuffy little room, everyone tacitly understood what would happen next.

Qui-Gon felt Obi-Wan begin to tense. “Far away,” he continued, as if there had been no interruption. “We can go anywhere, can’t we? We’ve been to so many places together.”

“Nuh, Evvi.”

“Uncle says now, Master Jedi.”

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and released his fear to the Force. “Where do you want to go, Obi-Wan? I remember you enjoying Alderaan, with all the beautiful trees. The people there were so kind, weren’t they?” He did his best not to think of the fragile procedure happening inches away. His muscles shook, ready to react if necessary. He knew once Hagit began removing the spine it could not be halted. “I can’t remember…did we visit in the summer or winter?”

Obi-Wan was holding onto him for dear life, strangled moans catching in his throat.

My brave boy, Qui-Gon thought to himself. The pain was unreal. He couldn’t begin to comprehend what it felt like for Obi-Wan.

“Kill me Master Master oh Force I can’t…”

Qui-Gon squeezed him close. He thought of what Evvi had said--the poor victims who begged for death. He had not thought Obi-Wan would reach that point. But even the Force could not insulate the young man from such all-encompassing agony.

Obi-Wan wept openly against Qui-Gon’s neck. “Master, Qui-Gon...it’s moving..what….what is it doing..?”

“Don’t move,” Qui-Gon warned. “Do you want to go to Alderaan? Or someplace else? Someplace warm?”

They had just finished an extended mission on a frigid planet, yet Obi-Wan shook his head. “N-No deserts.”

Qui-Gon chuckled. Obi-Wan sunburned easily, returning from desert assignments with pink cheeks and ears. “Of course not. No, someplace cool enough to sleep out under the stars. Kodasta, perhaps? Remember how the stars seemed so close, as if we could nearly touch them?”

Obi-Wan clutched at the robe on Qui-Gon’s back. “Y-Yes…ahhh…”

“What was the constellation you saw? I can’t remember. It was quite rare, wasn’t it? I’m never any good at that but you spotted it right away. What was it called?”

“…Th-The El…usive Mage.”

“Oh yes. That was it.”

Obi-Wan moaned into Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

Qui-Gon held him steady. The pain was beyond excruciating and Qui-Gon could only feel the edge of it; Obi-Wan had long since given up any attempts at shielding from him. It was a testament to Obi-Wan’s endurance that he had not passed out.

“Nearly done,” Evvi said.

Thank the Force. “You’re doing so well, Padawan,” Qui-Gon praised him quietly. “Keep right here with me, can you see the Mage? Close your eyes and see if it’s there.”

“M-Master…”

“I know. But we are so far away from that, aren’t we? Among the stars on Kodasta. I see them when I close my eyes. Close your eyes and you’ll see them too. No, no, you can’t twitch like that. Squeeze me instead. That’s better. Now look for the Mage with me. Help me see it.”

“Ugh…” Obi-Wan groaned and panted. “Mmmmph…”

Qui-Gon could not let their progress unravel, not now. “Is it there, towards the left?”

For several strained seconds, Obi-Wan made harsh, pained sounds and struggled for breath. Then, finally: “Y-Yes. You have to…un…ah…unfocus your eyes to see. Look for the hat f-first.”

Qui-Gon smiled, blinking back the tears gathering in his eyes. “Ah, of course.”

“It’s out, Master Jedi.”

“I see it now, Obi-Wan. It’s beautiful.”

His Padawan sagged under him, unconscious.

—

Qui-Gon went to the shore and walked along the rock paths, fingers hooked in his belt. The stone-fish had been immediately killed, its remaining spines safely collected and the rest of it burned by a few of the villagers. Evvi told him some of the men searched the beach until dawn, out of caution.

They had not come across a single other stone-fish. Obi-Wan’s foot had apparently found the only specimen on the entire beach.

But then, Obi-Wan had always been blessed with a particular sort of luck.

He came to the place where Obi-Wan was stung. Specks of blood stained the rocks there. His instinct was to throw them into the ocean.

Instead, Qui-Gon left everything as it was, sea spray misting his cheeks as he turned back towards the village.

—

When he returned to the little cottage, Hagit was sitting at a sun-bleached wooden table in the kitchen. The red-tinged spine, still full of venom, was sealed in a plastibag and held loosely in his liver-spotted hands.

Hagit looked up at Qui-Gon. He was quite old, skin sagging and eyes permanently wet.

“Boy…yes.” Hagit nodded firmly at him.

Qui-Gon found it difficult to swallow. He bowed before the healer. “Graz-ta,” he said. Thank you.

—

Obi-Wan was curled up on the bunk. A heavy blanket was wrapped around him, his bandaged foot sticking out from the bottom. Though he had improved since the day before, his face still looked drained of its color.

Qui-Gon glanced around the quiet, dark room. He noticed Obi-Wan’s clothes and boots tucked under a chair. Evvi had done it, probably, but it was still a familiar sight, reminding him of how Obi-Wan tended to neatly fold his tunics, no matter where they found themselves. His heart tightened; he let it pass. He knew he would feel this way after such a close call. Small, tender things about Obi-Wan were going to strike him at odd times—he knew that, unfortunately, from experience.

Like the way he would hold his braid between his fingers when he slept. Qui-Gon could not recall Feemor or Xanatos ever doing that.

He sat on the bunk beside Obi-Wan and listened to the quaint sounds of life beyond the door. He appreciated the borrowed sense of domesticity that came with staying in family houses: home cooking, careworn sheets, a calmness and mildness in the Force. He wished they could stay here until Obi-Wan fully recovered from his ordeal, but the Council had already sent them their next assignment.

Qui-Gon brushed his fingers against Obi-Wan’s forehead. Glassy grey eyes fluttered open.

“Only a slight fever now,” Qui-Gon told him.

Obi-Wan kept his braid laced between his fingers. He looked swallowed up by the thick weave of the blanket and the night shirt that was several sizes too big. Or was it simply the absence of Jedi trappings that made it more obvious that he was young, human and fragile? “Well,” he croaked, voice ruined from prolonged screaming followed by prolonged silence, “I didn’t die.”

Qui-Gon tried to laugh, but it came out as an awkward huff. He touched Obi-Wan’s cheek. “No. You seem very much alive to me.”

Obi-Wan smiled, his eyes already drifting closed. “I didn’t sense it. The…ah…thing.”

“Neither did I,” Qui-Gon admitted, gazing out the window above Obi-Wan’s head. The villagers had searched the beach, but who could search all of the sea? He began to think of other dangers on other worlds, the unnamed masses of threats that awaited Obi-Wan in his life, on their next mission, even tomorrow. “If we could sense everything, our lives would be much easier.”

“Mmmhmmm. Less interesting?”

“I’m slipping. You’re guessing my lessons before I can give them.”

“Mm, but I can…always sense you, Master.” Obi-Wan mumbled. He would be asleep soon.

Qui-Gon leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “May the Force be with you, my Padawan.”

—

They rarely dreamed together, but that night they did, climbing through constellations in the dark sky, safely above the sea.

#star wars #obi-wan kenobi #qui-gon jinn #obi-wan #qui-gon #writing prompts #obi wan and qui gon #obi wan whump #luvewan fanfic

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thatrandomwriter · 3 years

Text

Returning the favor

Merle x female reader, reader saves Merle’s life after he cuts off his hand

Warnings: sexual language, slight gore, cursing

A banging at the door made me jump awake - I never slept deeply anymore, and I spent most of my nights in and out of what could barely be described as sleep, easily woken and constantly exhausted.

My first thought was a particularly persistent walker. But then I heard a voice, raspy and southern “I saw you through the window. Open up. Or I swear, I’ll kick this damn door down.” It was most likely a looter. Opening the door to him seemed immediately like the stupid option, but if he was serious about knocking my door down then I would have to find a new place to hide out, an extra risk I could not afford to take. My best bet was to overpower him at the door. He’d seen me through the window and probably assumed that I’d be easily threatened, but what he hadn’t seen was the pistol I kept hidden by the door, or the knives I had stashed under my mattress and around the small room.

The banging on the door got more persistent. I grabbed a knife, and ensured my gun was easily in reach. It wouldn’t hurt to have extra weapons he didn’t know about.

I swung open the door. A tall, broad man stood in my doorway. One arm was pointing a gun vaguely in my direction, the other dripping so much blood it almost looked black. His hand had been cut off.

“Get out. All your shit is mine now, don’t think I won’t shoot you just cuz yer a girl,” He sneered at me, feigning confidence, but his skin was tinged grey and sweat was beading on his brow. He was weak and there was no way he could physically overpower me in this state, despite his muscular frame.

I raised a sceptical eyebrow at his threat. Then, in one swift motion, I knocked the gun from his hand and pushed my knife to his throat, firmly enough for a small bead of blood to gather on the edge of the blade. He opened his mouth, probably about to say something stupid, before the full weight of his body collapsed into me and he lost consciousness.

Somehow, with strength I hadn’t even known I had, I half lifted, half dragged the man’s body over to my mattress on the floor. It was clear he had lost far too much blood. I knew it was stupid, but some part of me wanted to help him, even though I knew he had come here to rob me blind, and possibly to kill me after he had taken all of my possessions. I told myself it was because leaving him outside would attract walkers. But really some part of me was still weak and soft, and somehow I had sympathy for a man who could not give less of a shit about me.

Minor medical training from books I had scavenged and stolen told me that he was in desperate need of stitches, and likely had a severe infection from his wound, and that it needed to be treated fast or there was no way he could survive without a hospital, which, for obvious reasons, was not an option. The building I had set up camp in was a small convenience store in the city which I used to run, and decided to stay in when the dead started walking. Unfortunately, the store had tempted many thieves in the early days, but as time went on, less and less people braved the city. The man must have seen that my store was the least damaged for several blocks, and identified it as his best bet at survival. He was right - behind the counter were antibiotics and just enough first aid equipment for me to have a chance at saving him. Even if he had stolen my supplies, it was unlikely that he would have managed treating his own wound.

The stitches were the worst part. I had never liked needles, and as far as facing my fears went, this was seriously hands on. It was messily done, probably a laughable job compared to professional standards. And I was sure that the amount of blood on the floor, my hands and staining my clothes was biologically impossible. But somehow he was still alive, something I still hadn’t decided was a good or bad thing. At least he was unconscious for now.

Two days passed. I was getting used to sleeping with him around, trying not to think about what he might do if he awoke while I was asleep- waking up to a gun in my face was a real possibility, but one that I had to risk. I slept on the floor next to the mattress he was occupying, uncomfortable enough to be exhausted but easily woken if he or the walkers became an immediate threat.

I sat next to him on the mattress, cleaning his arm, checking that the infection was fading and that the stitches were holding like they should be. It was strange looking after someone who had barely spoken two sentences to me, those sentences being delirious threats after severe blood loss. I often found myself wondering what he would have been like if we had met before the world had ended, at a bar maybe, where he could have bought me a drink or two. I like to think that he would have been the type to hit on me shamelessly and I would have been cynical but secretly loved his advances. I cut myself off in my head. It was ridiculous to think like this. With some effort, I focused back on his arm and began to change his bandage, but my eyelids were growing heavy and I had forgotten how comfortable the mattress was. Every time I closed my eyes, sleep tried to pull me down. I just had to keep them open, just had to focus-

I jolted awake. It almost pitch dark, if I had to guess a time I would have said an hour or two before dawn. There was a hand around my mouth and an arm was around my waist, holding me still against the warm, hard body behind me. He had woken up. Immediately I struggled against him, biting his hand and elbowing him in the stomach. He swore under his breath, but his grip only tightened around me.

“Stop wrigglin’. There’s walkers in here, I’m tryna figure out how many, so for fuck’s sake stay still.”

I nodded. He removed the hand from my mouth, but the arm around my waist stayed. Probably a precaution in case I tried anything again.

“Sorry,” I whispered back. “How did they get in - and when did you wake up? What’s your name? Why haven’t you killed me yet?” Now wasn’t the time for questions, but I was desperate for answers. For all I knew, the only reason he hadn’t killed me yet was to keep me as bait for the walkers.

He shushed me. Then, he finally let go of me and stood up. “Wait here.”

He walked off in the direction of a shuffling noise, and seconds later I heard the thunk of a knife through a skull, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. The sound, quiet as it was, caused another walker’s movements to become frenzied. I heard snarling and then the sound of a second body hitting the floor. There were no more walker sounds, just the sound of the man walking back towards me.

I jumped to my feet and reached for the knife normally hooked through my belt. It was gone, as was the knife under my mattress. I had no defence against the stranger that I had so stupidly taken care of.

“Window’s broken, s’what woke me up. You were out cold. Hope ya had a nice nap.”

I stood up, trying to read his face in the growing bit still dim light.

“Name’s Merle. And you, sugar tits, are exceptionally lucky that I believe in returning favours.”

So he didn’t plan on killing me after all. I shook off the lingering fear caused by both him and the walkers getting so close.

“Thanks. And you’re welcome, I stitched you up good. And don’t call me that, or I’ll chop of your other hand,” He smirked at me, knowing my threat was entirely empty.

“Oh yeah? I’m not so sure you wanna do that, sweetheart, you haven’t seen the half of what I can do with this hand,” His smile was suggestive and I could feel my face getting hot.

“I’m gonna board up the broken window,” I attempted to ignore his last sentence, but it was clear he could tell I was flustered as he stepped forward, closing in on me.

“Don’t ya think we should get to know each other a little first?”

#merle dixon x reader #merle dixon #twd #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #imagines #oneshot

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maggies-scribblings · 3 years

Text

Yarning For Her

Adrien is smitten with the girl who's always been there, in the row behind him. But when his plans to ask Marinette out unravel, a secret throws him for a loop…

Written for the Miraculous Writer's Guild April Event 2021: Followers sent five emojis as prompts to the @mlwritersguild Tumblr for the writers to pick one to write for. I chose the emojis sent by @ladycat1: ✨ 😊 👀 👩🏻 🧵

Canon compliant up to Season 4, Episode 4: M. Pigeon 72.

👩🏻

It was finally happening. The event everyone was waiting for… well, everyone except the main protagonist of said event.

Marinette could feel it, though she could hardly believe it. She noticed Adrien looking at her with more intensity, when he thought she wasn’t looking. How he had trouble finding the right words when talking to her. All the tiny gestures of attention, like offering to help with a difficult subject or a complex art project, or praising her outfit every day, even if she’d worn it several times before.

Nino could tell, too: questions about Marinette and her favourite colour, food, flower, or whatever else were whispered in his right ear all day.

Actually, the whole class noticed Adrien’s marked change in behaviour. His cheerful hellos were now stuttered in Marinette’s general direction. His head hid on his shoulders whenever Marinette sighed or yawned, as if his neck couldn’t handle her fresh breaths. Even his athletic skills were now replaced with an unexplained jerkiness. The fact that the weather was warmer and the girls’ gym suits gave way to short shorts and strappy tops might have had something to do with it.

In short, Adrien fell in love with Marinette. Hard.

👀

When it started, Adrien couldn’t exactly tell. Ever since that first day of school, Marinette had held a special space in his heart (most of which had been stolen by Ladybug the previous day). She was one of his first and dearest friends.

But now… after getting to know Marinette, her loving and kind nature, after seeing her helping others without asking for anything back, after finally noticing how pretty she was… he wasn’t so sure.

That day at the pool was definitely a turning point.

First there was that unplanned double dive. During those milliseconds when they were falling, Adrien’s thought process went something like this:

Danger!—Why is Marinette here?—Protect!—Wow, she looks so cute in that swimsuit!

As they hit the water, their arms instinctively reached out to the other as they sank, swirling back up to the surface in a soft embrace — just like that night in New York, when they had danced floating in the air, under the full moon.

And when they were leaving the pool, Adrien was so happy and surprised to see she still had the umbrella he’d given her way back then! Sweet as always, she offered to give it back to him, even though it was raining and she had to walk home.

She was standing next to him (she linked her arm in his!) when that pesky umbrella decided to close on them, and they were pulled even closer for a few seconds. Very close. He could smell the chlorine in her hair mixed with the scent of sweets that always surrounded her. He thought he felt her heart beating faster and faster. Maybe it wasn’t. His heart certainly was. He could feel her warm breath through his shirt, and it drove him a little crazy.

When they said goodbye that day, he could hardly take his eyes off her. He even bumped his head on the car door frame. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s the charming, elegant model Adrien Agreste, unable to enter a car (come to think of it, he seemed to have a bit of a problem with doors whenever Marinette was around).

✨

The few weeks that went by did nothing to sort out Adrien’s feelings about the two black-haired girls in his life. His days were mortifying, his nights restless. On one such night, Adrien tossed and turned, but sleep wouldn’t come. The full moon and bright stars shining through the window frames painted his room with grid patterns, a constant reminder of his confined life.

Adding to that, his mind was racing with memories of his (now frequent) clumsiness and embarrassment at school. He recalled the fumble of the day: going into the classroom while trying to look cool, he managed to snag his bag strap on the door handle, causing him to jerk back and hit the ground on his butt in front of the whole class.

Adrien groaned and turned again. Worst thing was, he had no idea how she felt for him. She kept sending mixed signals. Her behaviour towards him wasn’t as weird as it had been, but that didn’t mean a lot. He’d even asked her a couple of times. He remembered the time they visited the wax museum, when she said she didn’t like him like that.

“What’s the matter, kid?” Plagg yawned from his side of the pillow, annoyed by his bearer’s restlessness. “Who is it this time? Spots or bakery girl?”

Adrien didn’t bite, going back into his musings instead.

His mind turned to Ladybug… These days, Spots occupied a much smaller part of his thoughts. He still got the occasional butterflies in his stomach when he saw her, or when she praised him and his humour. She would always be his first love, and not an easy girl to forget… but she was right, of course — she was always right — as long as they had enemies, they couldn’t reveal their identities, much less deepen their relationship. Back when Bunnyx first showed up, they found out that there would be a new Hawkmoth and countless akumas in the future, and who knew when that would end?

Plagg was still grumbling about sleep and cheese. Adrien playfully flicked his kwami’s ear.

“Shut up, Plagg! I’m trying to sleep!”

“Very unsuccessfully, I might say,” Plagg flew out of his reach. “You sighed four-hundred and fifty-eight times in the last hour.”

“Come on… can’t you see I’m in turmoil here?” Adrien turned his back to the kwami. It was no use arguing with a deity, no matter how minuscule.

“Four-hundred and fifty-ni—” Plagg’s teasing was interrupted by a pillow hitting him.

😊

This wouldn’t do. Adrien couldn’t stand his own indecisiveness any more. He decided to ask Marinette out, that very day. After a reviving shower, he got dressed and looked in the mirror. The dark circles around his eyes were evident, but he hated wearing concealer to school. He might as well add a couple of details to his usual get-up: a pair of Gabriel’s new collection sunglasses and his favourite blue scarf.

He arrived at school early, and while most of the class was either chatting in the courtyard or going into the classroom, Marinette was nowhere to be seen. Adrien went into the locker room, and lurked behind the last row of lockers while students got in, got their things and left.

Finally, the hurricane that was late-for-class-Marinette thundered in, scolding herself for oversleeping as she got her books for the morning. When she closed the door, there was Adrien, leaning against the cabinets with his best Chat Noir smirk as he looked over the rim of his sunglasses and greeted her.

“Good morn—”

He didn’t have time to finish his line, as a very startled Marinette squeaked and grabbed his free arm to spin him around and pin him to the lockers with an elbow to his throat.

It took a few moments for Adrien realise exactly what had happened, before she released her hold.

“I’m sorry, I… panicked,” Marinette said, as she stepped back and continued to gesticulate wildly and mumble more awkward apologies.

Still frozen in place, Adrien managed to adjusted his crooked sunglasses.

“Marin—” he had to clear his throat. “No, I— It’s o-ow!”

Adrien tried and failed to step forward, as he heard a ripping sound — his scarf was caught in Marinette’s locker, and the momentum slammed him back into the metal doors with a loud bang.

The proverbial stars that blurred his vision cleared up to show Marinette very close to him, fumbling with the lock to release the scarf.

“Sorry, so sorry, I’m such a klutz!”

“It’s okay, no harm do—”

Adrien stopped talking when he saw that the scarf had a large rip, disappointment obvious upon his face.

“Oh no!” Marinette covered her mouth as she saw the damage. “Your scarf! I ruined it!”

At this point, Adrien would usually smile and say something like ‘it’s okay’ or ‘no worries’, but he couldn’t lie: he really loved that scarf. It was his favourite colour, warm and cosy, yet light enough to wear on a spring day, and a rare thoughtful gift from his father. He pouted a little as his fingers traced the tear.

“I can fix it!”

He lifted his eyes to Marinette as she got on her tiptoes to unwind the scarf from his neck.

“I can make it look as good as new. I know you’re worried, after all it’s your dad’s birthday gift,” she rambled as she delicately folded it, “but I have leftover yarn— I mean, I think I have the same colour, and it’s a simple pattern.”

There was something odd about the way she worded that, but Adrien dismissed it. He must have made a weird face, because now she had a concerned expression.

“I mean, if you trust me with it… I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t after I destroyed it. ”

“No—I mean, don’t be silly, it was an accident… I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you like that!” He managed a relieved little smile. “Still, my father might be upset if he saw I ripped it. Are you sure you can fix it?”

Marinette’s eyes averted his for a moment, as she returned the folded up scarf.

“I’ll do my best! I’m not a pro like your father, but I’m sure I can make it as good as new in no time at all!”

They agreed to go to Marinette’s place after school so that she could start working on it right away, then ran off to class as the second bell rang.

Not exactly the way I planned it, Adrien thought as he scrambled onto his seat, but I guess it worked!

🧵

Adrien reclined in the chaise-longue and looked around Marinette’s bedroom. It was the total opposite of his, huge and aseptic and cold. On the contrary, these walls had warm colours and pictures everywhere, and it smelled amazing, fruity shampoo mixed with glue and ink from her many design projects, mixed with sweets from the bakery, and everything about it was so welcoming and cosy and so… Marinette.

“Yes!” Her delighted voice interrupted his reveries. “I knew I still had it!”

Adrien chuckled as he saw Marinette triumphantly holding a ball of light blue yarn, then get several needles from her yarn basket and sit at her sewing station to start working. He switched seats to her desk chair and rolled close to her.

“Can I help?”

“Sure! Let me just…”

Marinette picked up a long, thin knitting needle and started to thread it on the scarf, just above the tear. She was so concentrated and her movements so careful and precise, she might as well be defusing a bomb. Adrien noticed her tongue sticking out the corner of her mouth and wondered what her kisses would taste like.

“There. I have the brakes on, now let’s get going.”

Marinette found the end stitch at the corner of the scarf and cut it. Giving Adrien the end of the yarn, she continued.

“Hold this. Make a ball while I unravel it.”

“Huh? Un-what?” Much as Adrien trusted her skills, he panicked. “Won’t you make it worse?”

“No, because I’m holding the knitting with this,” she pointed at the longer needle she had threaded through the scarf.

Marinette turned her chair, so they were sitting face to face, knees almost touching, and started to quickly unravel the bottom part of the scarf, while he rolled up the thread in a ball, both enjoying the comfortable silence. He noticed a small piece of fabric falling from one of the edges and bent down to pick it up.

“What’s this?” Adrien thought out loud while examining it.

As soon as Marinette lifted her eyes from her work and saw what he was holding, her eyes went wide and her cheeks red.

“Oh, it’s nothing—” she tried unsuccessfully to snatch the fabric from his hand. “Probably just the washing inst—”

It was not an ordinary washing instructions tag. It was tiny and had been woven into the knitting, so discreetly he’d never noticed it before. He turned the fabric over to see a recognisable signature.

Marinette

“Wait— you made this?” Adrien picked up the other end of the scarf from her lap and examined like he’d never seen it before. “Wha—? How? D-did my father buy it off your website?”

So that’s why she was so confident about fixing it. He searched Marinette’s face for an explanation, but she just shook her head and kept looking down, unravelling the loops one by one.

“No— of course not— your site wasn't set up back then, we only took those photos later…”

Adrien thought back to the time Nathalie handed him the present, neatly packed in a box with a ribbon. He’d never seen that kind of care in his father’s presents, just standard gift bags with expensive pens, straight from a corporate catalogue. His train of thought was broken by a couple of tears falling on his hands.

“Marinette…” he murmured, lifting her chin to look into her misty eyes. “Did you make this for me?”

She nodded with a tiny smile. He moved his hand from her chin to cup her cheek, wiping her tears with his thumb.

“Was this supposed to be your present for me?” Another nod. “How did this mess happen then?”

“I…” Marinette had to clear her throat and finally looked at him. Something in her eyes changed from avoidance to determination. “I wanted to give it to you personally, but I couldn’t gather the nerve… then one thing led to another, and I left it in your house, and I even signed it, but…” she shrugged.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just… couldn’t. You were so happy with the present from your dad. I couldn’t ruin it for you.”

Adrien made a mental note to find out exactly what had happened, then set all his negative feelings aside. His heart was too full of love to think about anything other than the girl in front of him.

“Oh, Marinette…” he softly chided as he hugged her. How could this girl be so selfless, on top of everything else? She cared for him, really cared for him, even back then. “I wish you’d told me.”

He released the hug and pulled her closer, into his lap. Marinette set the scarf on the sewing table and put her arms around his neck. Her tears were gone and a hint of a smile played on her lips.

“That way,” Adrien caressed her nose with his, “I would have thanked you properly.”

“Oh yeah?” Marinette breathed, her lips very close to his. “You can thank me now.”

They closed the distance between them, their lips melding into a sweet kiss, then another, and then a few more. Adrien’s heart was beating so fast he could hardly bear it. Then he remembered he should probably breathe at some point.

“Wow.”

“If that’s the way you thank a person for a present, I’ll start giving them more often,” Marinette joked.

“Not anyone.” He pecked her lips. “Only you.”

They kissed again, this time more passionately. He kissed her eyes, the tip of her nose, her forehead, her neck, then back up to her lips…

The scarf was left forgotten on the sewing table. It could wait a few more hours before repairing.

Fin

Thanks to @hari-writes and @deinde-prandium for the beta read! ❤️

Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated. English is not my first language and I tend to use UK English. If you catch any inconsistencies, please let me know.

My AO3. My Twitter. My Instagram.

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allmightluver · 3 years

Note

So, what is your take on the EM relationship? Who was the one to fall first and confess? Please support your speculations/opinions with canonical evident, if you'd like 😏 (BECAUSE YOU'RE SO DAMN GOOD AT IT ❤️) Thank you for your time 🙏

Oh goodness

You really want me to go all out huh Kunshi 😏

Well, I’ll try to summarize this as best I can ***(This may have some spoilers so be warned)**

The relationship between All Might and Eraserhead has been quite the journey. You can say, frenemies to “hey you’re not so bad”. They’ve known of each other for years, before the present timeline. Here in Vigilante’s, Eraserhead tells Tsukauchi that the situation they’re in is so dire, they need the Number 1. Aizawa acknowledges how powerful All Might is, despite disapproving of how handles media and fame.

But they didn’t really know each other until All Might started at UA.

Aizawa believed Yagi to be reckless, irresponsible, and foolish in taking a job he has no training for. Not to mention the obvious favoritism. Yagi believed Aizawa to be too harsh and cold hearted on the children. Though as the two got to know each other, and went through traumatic events together (USJ and Kamino), they started to warm up more to each other, actually taking the time to get to know one another.

All Might rushes to an injured Aizawa’s side, and the sight of how broken, bloodied and damaged his co-worker is visibly upsets him. The way Toshinori’s voice softens as he apologizes to Aizawa, unclear if it’s out loud or in his mind. Toshinori probably feels terrible whenever anyone’s been injured, but he seems particularly held up over Aizawa, most likely because he himself couldn’t be there when it happened. He was of being a hero all morning, and wasted all his time in his muscle form, so he wasn’t there with them like he should have been. Which meant Aizawa and (Thirteen) had to fight to protect the students, even if they were clearly unmatched. They were both badly injured in the process, all because Toshinori wasn’t there.

Then after the fight, Toshinori cuts his friend, Tsukauchi, off and asks how Aizawa, wait, Eraserhead, is doing. Oh and Thirteen too. He was relieved to find he they were alright.

When Kamino hit we see how intently Aizawa watches the news, watches All Might, watches Toshinori. He was clearly concerned, and in seeing AFO summon his many quirks in order to eliminate All Might once and for all, Aizawa’s concern only grows. And for good reason.

As an after effect, the students needed to move into dorms. Aizawa and Toshinori are paired together to speak to 1A’s students. It’s in the car that Aizawa, awkwardly, offers to buy Toshinori a drink. To which Toshinori politely declines, as he can’t drink. (*face palm*)

However, after dealing with Bakugo’s...different family, Toshinori nudges Aizawa with an elbow his injured arm no less, and whispers that he now owes Aizawa a drink.

Dunno about you, but I’d have to be pretty comfortable with someone before I’m close enough to nudge them and whisper secrets. And Toshinori is always seeking to know Aizawa better, be closer, impress him.

They even go out on a date to get a drink together. Toshinori’s inner dialogue is the most interesting, from “I’m going to be even better friends with Aizawa-kun...!” to “All Might, you just gotta push past the walls of Aizawa-kun’s heart!” ...uh huh. To which Mic and Midnight totally crash their “Secret Dinner Outing” and invite themselves to stay, much to Toshinori’s (”Or on second thought...probably not then.”) and Aizawa’s despair (”Go home!” x3). Get outta here, you’re ruining our date! And after Toshinori takes his leave, Aizawa chases him down outside to say....? “Thank you very much. I’m drunk right now so I probably wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t. But because you fought at Kamino and took down AFO for us, I’ll do my part and look after the students as much as I can. That’s why I want to thank you for everything.” To which after a silence, Toshinori responds with, “Aizawa-kun, let’s watch over the students from here on out together.” ...to which Aizawa mentions he won’t remember any of this and to never bring it up ever again. (*repeat face palm*)

This only proves they’re becoming much, much, closer. They’ve gone beyond plus ultra frenemies and onto true friends. They take each other’s words and thoughts into account in a serious manner, like how Yagi managed to convince Aizawa to let him go to Bakugo and Midoriya when they snuck out, as well as going easy on punishment for them.

Aizawa’s also shown growing concern for Toshinori after his retirement. Firstly from seeing Toshinori out and about so soon after Kamino while he was still recovering from his injuries. And on the occasion a falling rock nearly connects to Toshinori’s head, you can see how quickly Aizawa reacts. The way you can almost see a flashback of his childhood friend’s unfortunate death running through his head as he tries to save Toshinori from the same fate. Once Midoriya saves Toshinori, Aizawa still reaches out to him, like he’s worried the man may get hurt, break, as he tells him that it’s not safe in this environment, and that Toshinori should leave, go where it’s safe.

When Aizawa couldn’t attend Bakugo and Todoroki’s extra classes, he asks Toshinori to go in his place, and even makes Present Mic go along as a body guard. He’s clearly concerned for the former hero’s safety and well-being. Toshinori now often fills in for Aizawa if he can’t make it to his own class.

When Midoriya’s new quirk is discovered, Aizawa takes Toshinori’s anxiety about the situation seriously, and they immediately go to put a stop to the training battle.

But once Midoriya’s quirk settles down, Aizawa decides to let this play out, and calms Toshinori, saying he’ll put a stop to it if the situation happens again.

He later describes Toshinori as a genius, naturally talented, when explaining to Shinsou how he doesn’t expect the kid to be on the same level with the others in the hero course right off the bat. Aizawa has extreme respect for Toshinori.

The biggest moment between the two is late on a snowy night, when Toshinori sits outside in the cold, alone, contemplating...well, his life honestly. Aizawa find’s him, “there you are,” apparently looking for the taller man. Toshinori at first automatically deflects any questions about himself, and asks about the children. He then offers to help Aizawa with training Eri, in which the underground hero gladly accepts (something that Aizawa would not have done in the past, as he hated even speaking to the older man before). But Aizawa can see through the façade, and asks what’s wrong. Aizawa is one of, if not the only, person Toshinori confides in so deeply. Horkioshi confirmed recently that of everyone (adults, I assume), pro heroes included, Toshinori is the closest to Aizawa. Toshinori decides he can trust Aizawa with his mental weights. He’s decided to live, but feels useless staying alive, powerless, unable to help anyone, or at least how the children need him to.

Aizawa’s initially unnerved at the fact that Toshinori decided to live, as if the contemplation of otherwise was there. But he listens quietly, intently, to what Toshinori says. Finally, he tries to reason with the older man that being a workaholic, and never having time to rest, isn’t good either, points out that after holding up the country for decades, suddenly not having it has left an addiction. Toshinori doesn’t know what to do if he’s not running himself ragged. But also tells him that he is helping the students--by being alive, and by being here for them. There are a lot of people (Aizawa included?) that gain strength, just by Toshinori being there, alive. And he asks him to please keep on living and acting like his normal self. Toshinori’s overcome with emotion at his words.

For a relationship between the two, I’m sure they both would have had feelings for quite some time before ever admitting to it. Knowing their personalities, Aizawa would feel his feelings were illogical and deceptive. Toshinori is just a tad older than him, has met probably thousands more people than Aizawa ever will, and he was the number one hero. Falling for a guy like that just seemed too predictable and annoying. But Aizawa soon learns the differences between All Might and Toshinori, and while the latter still rubs him the wrong way at times, the tall, willowy man has managed to capture his heart. He feels compelled to care for the other, make sure he’s taking proper care of himself. And yet he tells himself it’s too invasive of the other man’s privacy; none of his business. When Mic and Midnight drag him to the bar and question him why his mood was off, he’d give no answer save for a shrug, and down another beer.

Toshinori would have feelings rather early, but most likely not realize they were more than just finally getting the grouchy Aizawa-kun to tolerate him. As weeks go by, he would catch his heart racing at Aizawa’s presence, blushing when the scruffy man would make tea for him after a coughing fit, and way too elated when Aizawa accepted the invitation for a drink together, alone. One night it would hit him just exactly how he feels for the younger man, and his heart would clench. Surely Aizawa couldn’t feel the same way, especially for a man as old, sickly, and awkward as himself. Even if it were possible, his own death is due to come within the next year, and he couldn’t do that to Aizawa-kun. He’d spend several nights fighting and eventually failing to quietly let his tears fall into the pillow below him as he tries to sleep, alone.

The two would cautiously work together, stepping around their own feelings to keep things normal between them. All the while Aizawa’s brain would fight against his heart, and Toshinori’s chest would tighten until a bloody cough was produced.

Finally, finally, after Mic and Midnight pry it out of Aizawa like a game of Operation, they force him to ask Toshinori out. It takes a week, but Aizawa finally finds the right moment to ask the former hero out for a drink and bar food. Glamorous as always, especially for a first date. But Toshinori gladly accepts, and spends the rest of the day convincing himself it’s just a friendly supper, between friends, not a date.

That night the two have a lovely evening of greasy bar food (which Toshinori politely only orders a small plate of fries, as there’s nothing blander on the menu) and beer (Toshinori also drinks a plain water). Aizawa apologizes for not taking Toshinori’s diet into account when picking where they met, and says he’ll let Toshinori pick the restaurant next time. Toshinori freezes at his wording. Aizawa’s quick to try and resolve, but Toshinori stops him. Asks him what exactly this is. A friendly dinner? Or something more? Aizawa buries into his scarf, and answers with a question in return; what do you want it to be? It’s then Toshinori sets his glass down, takes a moment to breathe, before spilling that he’d hoped it was a date. He’s bright red as he explains how he believes he’s developed...feelings over the months working together. That he wanted to go out again, but that he hadn’t wanted to force his feelings on Aizawa. Who would want someone like him?

These two have so much chemistry. They’ve been through so much together already: disagreements, near deaths, critical injuries, awkward moments of a budding friendship, talking each other off the ledge. In all the ships of the series, EraserMight has one of the most obvious connections and chemistries.

#lover talks #ask me #head canons #EraserMight #sorry this took me so long :(#Thanks for putting up with me <3 #all might #toshinori Yagi #Eraserhead #Aizawa shouta #relationships #mha #bnha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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guro-giri-letters · 3 years

Note

imagine... the dabi hair dye scenario but one of the league finds/sees him and decides to help? my heart

(SO, I totally meant this to be shorter but I got a little in my feels. Plus the lowkey Dabi and Mr Compress friendship is so underrated, I adore it. Anyway, here it is, a little comfort fic.)

The Boy Can't Cry - By Guro. ♡

/Dabi gets overwhelmed dying his hair to cover up his past and Mr Compress comes to his aid. Any fics like this where it’s just the league interacting together I’m going to lovingly tag ‘League of Family’. Hope you enjoy! ♡/

/Tags l Tw ; Dabi being emotionally unstable, some cursing, Mr Compress being fatherly, friendship, league of family. ♡/

“How can a man head a group of villains…” Sako murmurs aloud to himself, pulling another card from the messy pile upon the small table between his knees. Sighing, he flicks it into one of several other smaller piles he’s made around the main one, tsk-ing to himself quietly. “...but he can’t keep a pack of cards together. Really.”

Pure boredom, and an inability to get himself over to sleep, is what inspired one Mr Compress to take up and look through Shigaraki’s deck. It’s late in the night now, maybe early morning, and he’s sorting each of the cards into their respective groups by lamplight. It’s a comfortable, mindless task, the showman dressed down to his shirtsleeves and balaclava. In the rare quiet he lets his mind wander, and wonders where Shigaraki had gotten the cards from.

Had he stolen them? Or were they given to him? Gifts from his master, maybe. Either way dearly cherished, he decides, running his thumb over the faded face of an ace of hearts. He’s pondering still when the quick tip-tap of feet on metal steps reaches his ears.

“Mr Compress!”

Blinking, he lays down his hand and turns to find Toga halfway down the rickety staircase, hand cupped around her mouth dramatically as she whisper-yells. Her eyes are big and wide in the dim light, uncharacteristically appearing almost… frightened? What? Right away Sako is on edge, cards forgotten. “What is it dear?” He asks, lowering his own voice in response to her whispers. His worry only grows as Toga’s lips seem to tremble, looking over her shoulder before back to her elder.

“It’s Dabi…” She replies quietly, hugging her arms around her nightdress-clad self. “Somethings wrong with Dabi.”

Sako isn’t sure what he’s seeing at first as he nudges in the bathroom door. Toga is at his back, gripping his sleeve and peering around his side as the door falls slowly open. The old tiled room is lit by dim, yellowed light, and he can just make out Dabi’s shape hunched over the tub at the far end. “He keeps talking to himself-” She murmurs, only to jump at the sound of an open growl, Dabi’s form twisting to glare over his shoulder in their direction from the shadows.

“Get out, Toga.” The burnt man snarls, sending the girl flying away without hesitation. Sako watches her go, a little shocked at her fear in the face of her own comrade. Dabi doesn’t even seem to be looking right at the doorway, stark blue eyes wide and lost. Vacant. Thick, inky black lines run down his face and throat, dripping off of his chin. What the hell is he doing?

“What’s going on, man?” Sako demands, crossing the threshold and approaching Dabi where he kneels. “What’s gotten into you? You’re scaring Toga.”

“Fuck you.” Dabi snaps back, fingers digging into his hair. The same black sits in smudges over the back of his neck, staining his pale fingers. In the dark it almost seems like the villain has been infected, taken over by some dark, miasmic mess. Squinting up, Sako reaches and with a gloved hand, twists the hanging bulb around in it’s socket. Suddenly the room is filled with brighter light, everything coming into focus, and he looks down at Dabi.

His eyes widen a fraction.

Dabi’s coat lies discarded on the dingy floor at his side, the villain kneeling, almost unnaturally bent over the shallow bathtub. His body is shaking, chest expanding and falling rapidly as he scrapes at his own scalp. His hands are trembling, veins visibly risen up on their backs. It seems like he’s working the blackness into his hair almost desperately, hushed words falling barely audible from his lips. “-away. Get away.”

“Dabi?” Sako tries again. And this time he gets a reaction; Dabi’s head twisting to glare in a manner almost animalistic. The black has run in streams down his face and into his eyes, scleras bloodshot deep red and burning. He can’t even see right now, Sako realises, without the ability to produce tears to get rid of the chemicals. Being so close for the first time, he takes note of the sparse, white hairs appearing in his league-mates' thin brows. Oh.

“Get out, Compress. Get out-”

“Do you need help?” He ignores Dabi’s demands easily. The young man isn’t himself right now, and his voice is hoarse, even more gravelly than usual. In response to his question Dabi’s hands clench in his hair, tight, tendons bulging as his knuckles turn white. Sako can hear the strands tearing and grabs for Dabi’s quivering hands. “Good God, man. Stop it!”

“Get off of me!” Dabi practically howls, twisting out of the older man’s grip and slipping, slumping shoulder-first against the side of the tub. He seems to deflate all at once, his head hanging low. Sako can only stare at him, his heart pounding with adrenaline and hands still outstretched, Dabi’s breath comes quick and loud, his own hands coming up to cover his face. He’s an utter mess, what Sako has now deduced to be black dye staining his hands, shirt. Everything. A stretch of silence passes between them, and then Dabi makes the last noise his companion expected to hear.

For a moment he thinks Dabi is laughing, finding some kind of twisted amusement in all of this. But then it starts coming louder, his shoulders shaking, chest and throat convulsing uncontrollably. A dry, hacking cough leaves his throat before he presses his palms harder against his face, knees pulling in close to his body. A noise like barely concealed sobbing reaches Sako’s ears.

He’s crying.

Well… no, the boy can’t cry. He knows this; Dabi’s tear ducts have been damaged beyond repair for years now. But his body still betrays him, shuddering through bouts of broken weeping, dredged up from somewhere deep inside of him. It feels almost wrong, Sako thinks, to see him so vulnerable. It’s clear he’s witnessing something deeply personal. A moment of distress so jarring that Dabi holds fast onto his own arms and curls in on himself, almost like he’s trying to comfort himself.

Almost like he’s done this a hundred times before.

The feeling of Sako’s arm wrapping around his shoulders makes Dabi jerk, looking up with bleary eyes as he stoops down to his level. “What are you doing?” He snaps weakly, but there’s no real conviction in it. His nose is running, his voice broken up. Whatever kind of mental breakdown Dabi is currently having, the older man simply can’t bring himself to leave him. Doesn’t want to leave him to fall apart on his own.

“Quiet.” He admonishes, crouching before Dabi and pulling him closer bodily, so that his head comes to rest on Sako’s shoulder. Still breathing raggedly, Dabi stares at a space somewhere on the wall beyond Sako’s shoulder for a while before his eyes close, a worn out sigh leaving his lungs in pieces. No attempt is made to shove him away this time. He gives in.

At one point in his life, another entertainer had told Sako that when a child hugged them, they should never be the first to let go. ‘Because you never know how badly they might need it’, they had said. Keeping his arms around Dabi and remembering that message, he tightens his grip a touch, resigning himself to remaining in a crouch and getting sore knees. Not that Dabi is willing to be held for very long. He pulls away with a sniff, hand on Sako’s shoulder to keep himself steady. “Fuck- my eyes.”

He’s not wrong. His eyelids are irritated and swollen, both his regular skin and the grafts beneath. Sighing, Sako loosens his grip and lets Dabi lean back, against the side of the tub. “Put your head over.” He advises, straightening to his feet and pulling off his ruined gloves.

“Why?” Dabi rasps.

“To wash the chemicals out of your eyes, Dabi.”

Dabi considers this with a glance at the dirty tiles then nods his head once. He looks, to put it in a word, drained, straightening himself up and turning to rest his elbows on the tub's edge. Sako watches him as he finishes rolling up his sleeves, shaking his head slightly.

“Where on earth do you young people find the energy to get so worked up?” He chides, not cruelly, turning the faucet and cupping his hand beneath the sluggish flow of water. With his free hand he brings Dabi’s head over the lip of the tub with a nudge, and brings his cupped hand to the fire-user's face. Dabi hisses but doesn’t recoil as Sako rinses the remnants of dye from his face and eyes, pausing only to say; “I’ll do your hair.” and washing the remainder from his unruly mane. His skin will stain for a while, but it’ll wash away in time. He’ll be alright.

To his credit, Dabi has stopped shuddering and seems to be slowly coming down. Slumped against the lip of the tub he lets out a long, slow breath, sniffing and wiping his nose on his forearm. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hold it, I’m almost done.”

With the sting in his eyes finally dulling, Dabi cracks them open halfway to watch the blue-black water flow down the drain. His throat feels suddenly raw, aching. His face hurts.

“Compress.” It hurts to talk. Jesus.

Sako shuts the water off when Dabi’s hair is running mostly clear, a brow arching beneath his balaclava. “Yes?”

“...don’t- Don’t go telling them.” He manages, fingers twitching where he holds the edge of the tub. “I don’t-”

“I understand.” Offering the cleanest looking towel in the room, Sako gives Dabi a faint smile, nodding when he pulls it from his grip. “It’s not for us to know… Are you alright?”

Dabi rises slowly, using the ledge to pull himself up before rubbing at his freshly dyed hair. There’s a moment of hesitation, then; “Yeah… thanks, Compress.”

Sako smiles fully now, spreading his arms and giving a short bow. “I do what I can.”

Dabi snorts, pulls the towel down around his shoulders. “I owe you, I guess.”

“Well… how do you fancy aiding my endeavours to organize Shigaraki’s card collection?”

“No thanks.”

“Understandable.”

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thetriggeredhappy · 3 years

Text

yo whats good @engiespyweek this is a day late but like dont worry abt it

day 2: hurt / comfort

(warnings for injury, specifically from burns. takes place around Robots Time)

Back before the robots, they were expected to work regular hours. Normal days. Practically a nine-to-five, plus a couple of hours most days, but never too long after sundown—and unless they had a mission off-base, they’d get weekends off. It was the most organized war any of them had ever been a part of, to be honest. And it was taxing, sure, the pain and bloodshed, but at least according to Scout it still beat working in food service.

And it wasn’t even all that scary half the time—before the robots, the team was invincible in most senses of the word. It would take some extremely particular situations to kill them, situations they were rarely anywhere near. A doctor on staff, bars in town and a full liquor cabinet on base, a pay grade that few of them even dreamed of, it was a good place to be in their lives. They considered themselves lucky, most days.

But that was before the robots.

The sun was setting over wherever the hell they were. They were going on their second day here, which was usually about how long they spent in one place before they had to move again, following some fickle change of the wind to intercept the next few waves of automatons.

They were exhausted. They didn’t have breaks, truth be told, and only sometimes got to sleep—mostly on the drive to their next destination, sometimes woken up during the night by the distant metallic clanging that functioned as the trumpets of war. Modern era, and all.

Medic was truly running on his last legs. He half operated his infirmary out of the back of one of the trucks they used to transport their equipment, not seeing reason to bother unpacking most days. Soldier was in a tizzy himself, constantly checking and rechecking their supplies, inventory being the only job left out of the multitude he’d had on base before and therefore being one he did near-constantly, and his consensus seemed to be that they were running low on... well, everything. Raiding abandoned warehouses for ammunition and guns just wasn’t cutting it anymore. They’d started to send some of the mercs out hunting for scrap metal when they had the time, and the Engineer was left to work practically around the clock trying to feed it to dispensers and restock to have at least enough to be prepared for battle, and Heavy tended to take over when he absolutely needed to sleep.

But then there were the mercenaries who didn’t have much to do but sit and stew. Sniper mostly took to perching alone somewhere he could watch for the distant dust clouds kicked up by the tanks. Scout ran laps around the perimeter of wherever they were posted up, and on a couple of occasions the two of them were the only warning the team got before the robots showed up. Pyro fretted, for the most part, would sweep by the busy members of the team with something to eat and a supportive pat on the arm. But even then, it was obvious the rest were going stir-crazy. Wanted to help, to take some of the weight back, to help share the load if they could.

This was about the only way Spy could help.

Engineer was having trouble keeping his eyes open, but the fatigue fought against his need to eat the tin full of... something. Meat, some kind of sauce. Spy had cooked it, since they apparently had a stove squirreled away somewhere in this particular warehouse, rations, and the team needed something ‘real’ to eat by his measure. The Engineer managed to keep awake, keep shoveling food into his mouth. Distantly, he understood that it tasted very good, and it overcame the nausea he’d been increasingly plagued with ever since all of this started.

The food was one comfort. The warm weight of Spy leaned against his back was another, the man leaned against him as he ate. Outside there was a particularly vibrant sunset happening, that was a third one, the way the light poured through the window briefly driving away a sort of bone-deep paranoia about darkness. About fear. Apparently that was one reason his father always tried to work with the big garage door of the shop open—being in the sun from time to time was important for all types of health. Or, as Spy put it, he needed to get out of his terrible little machinery lair from time to time or else one day the team would find he’d begun transforming into some sort of mole man.

It made him laugh. He missed laughing, he realized.

Once he had some food in his system, some calm, some time to sit in a position other than bent over a drafting table—and, hell, maybe the sun helped too—he started feeling remarkably more like a human being, started relaxing in increments. Started noticing little things. Dust mites lingering in the last light up above their heads. Distant talking, the distinctive laugh of Demo, Soldier barking something in reply. The sound of Spy taking a pull from his cigarette, quiet enough that he’d only really hear it this close. Quiet motion, like fiddling almost, which struck him as odd. Spy wasn’t much for fiddling and fidgeting. Broad, sweeping, dramatic gestures, those he did every time he got a good excuse—but not fidgeting. It was enough to draw his head up from where it was hanging, casting eyes back over his shoulder.

Spy wasn’t looking at him, apparently focused. “What’re you up to, there?” he asked, suddenly made aware of how rough his throat was. Probably from the near-constant full-volume shouting followed by stretches of silence he got up to these days.

“Simple first aid,” Spy said entirely too casually. So casually, in fact, that it took the Engineer a few seconds to realize what he’d even said.

“What?” he asked, turning more fully to look at Spy, at which point he blanched.

Spy had shed his jacket and rolled his sleeves up neatly a short way past his elbows and taken off his gloves and watch, and appeared to be almost done cleaning up and bandaging his left arm, having not started yet on the right one. All up and down his visible skin, and in particular across his palms and wrist, there were a series of mild to severe burns, speckles of dark red and black patching up his forearms, and the Engineer could immediately identify them as being electrical burns, not heat ones.

“How the hell did that happen?” he asked, deeply startled.

A huff of a laugh from Spy. “Mon ami, I go onto the battlefield and am expected to attack mechanical men with a metal blade,” he said, a note of amusement in his voice. “Electrocution is par for the course, I’m afraid.”

“You really oughta... find some way around that,” the Engineer said carefully. “Rubber hilt, or...”

“Most often I can only even tell I’ve caused enough damage to take down any given robot when the shock happens,” Spy shrugged. “It is not terribly painful, especially compared to gunfire. They simply begin to stack up after a while.”

A careful nod from the Engineer, even if it didn’t quite sit right with him. “Want me to help treat those?” he asked, nodding at where Spy was clearly having a bit of difficulty with bandaging his wrist one-handed.

“Our medical supplies are being too regularly depleted even besides superfluous healing of minor injuries, and as much as I would appreciate a moment sat beside one of your dispensers, I’m afraid it would not be very much in the spirit of teamwork to accept your offer, Laborer. If the remainder of our dreary little group is not allowed to accost the dispenser unnecessarily, neither am I, oui?” Spy asked, tone light.

That was one thing he’d started to learn about Spy, especially as of late. Lying and stealing were things he was well acquainted with, but never for something he considered important. To get on other people’s nerves, to get information maybe, but not something important on a whim. Getting on everyone’s nerves was a different beast than intentionally sabotaging them.

“Well,” the Engineer said, still not quite feeling right about it all. “If not that, I can at least lend a hand with wrapping those up. I know a thing or two about getting shocked. Ain’t a fun predicament to be in.”

Only a moment’s hesitation before Spy shrugged, turning to face him, and the Engineer picked up the salve and bandaging and set to work.

This was more his element. Practical problems. Practical solutions. None of the overarching dread, the waiting for the next disaster, the not quite knowing what to do with himself in the miliseconds before the next chore, the next job, the next drive. Just wrapping a wound. Just fixing a problem.

Distantly, there was the sound of something clattering, Demo cheering. The sun was now out of view, and he heard the sound of lights buzzing to life across the area. The light was getting low, and cold was starting to settle into place, more than welcome after yet another sweltering desert day. The smell of hot metal and sweat faded with each breeze that passed through, leaving only the smell of chilly night air, fresh and welcome. By the time it got dim enough to start making him squint to see properly, and he started to wonder whether he should just push through or get a light from somewhere, he realized he was done.

But instead of a twitchiness, an itch to find something else, the urge to keep moving and to find the next thing he needed to work on, he just felt satisfied. Clean bandages, neat wrappings. A vast improvement over before. And when he looked up to see how Spy felt about it all, the man was smiling, just a little, just enough to see even in how dim the room was.

“...What’s the smirk about?” he asked, feeling a bit embarrassed, as if he was missing something.

“Nothing,” Spy said easily, “I suppose I’m just glad you seem to be feeling better.”

A pause, during which the Engineer realized Spy was right. The tension was gone, the ache in his head was fading into a simple weight, and the nausea had settled into nothingness, leaving him relaxed, steady. He blinked.

“Apologies if I’ve overstepped my boundaries,” Spy said after a few moments of that stunned silence, searching his face. “It’s just that for the last several weeks you’ve been stomping around with the third most sour expression I’ve ever seen on you, and it seemed as though nobody else was going to bother stepping in any time soon. I thought that perhaps food and fresh air and polite company may remedy things somewhat, and you seemed determined to only interact with us when you deem it productive.”

“You burned yourself just to get me to sit in one place for a while?” he asked, taken aback.

“Oh, no, non, these burns are truly fairly standard by now,” Spy waved off easily, carefully pulling back on his gloves and watch over the bandages, “I simply prefer to tend to them on my own, the majority of the time. Non, simply a convenient excuse to need your help.”

A pause. “Of all the ridiculous things,” he marveled, blinking at Spy.

In the darkness, he could only barely make out the way Spy’s mouth ticked up into a smirk, watching as he rolled his sleeves back down neatly and reached for his suit jacket. “Well, believe it or not, Laborer, I have been known to stoop to such lows as doing what you call ‘ridiculous things’,” he said, doing his jacket up in an easy motion in the same moment that he rose to his feet, “when I find them to be the only way I can possibly break through to ridiculous men.”

He only had time to sputter over the comment for a second before a gloved hand found his chin, tilting his head up just enough for Spy to lay a kiss soundly to either cheek, and only had time to sputter over that for a second before Spy was snickering and cloaking, a puff of smoke in his wake as he disappeared into the increasing night.

His face felt hot, and he felt that restless energy again, but for an entirely different reason than before, because he wasn’t positive, but he was fairly sure cheek kissing was the sort of thing you greeted someone with when you only meant it in a friendly sort of way, and his brain was far too scrambled to remember it properly just then.

Well. Now he had something to think about besides the robots, at least. Damn shame it couldn’t be a nice, neat, practical problem, but despite his best efforts, he really couldn’t find it in him to mind.

Oh, damn it all.

#engiespyweek21 #engiespy #napoleon complex #tf2 #team fortress 2 #shut up me #my fanfiction #here's hoping this formats right fingers cross

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whump-town · 3 years

Text

Tough Love

I’d like to thank my sociology professor for basing today’s lecture off of my favorite sociological phenomenon (anomie) and A Little Life for, once again, making me cry :) this one’s for you baby

The hospital waiting room had chattered away. Mother’s impatiently fighting with sick babies, men crumpled in their seats waiting in misery for their name to be called, and three teenagers occupying a corner to just themselves. There, off to their own side, a bruised and battered man, a shadow, wedged between his old mentor and the only person brave enough to challenge the prognosis deeming Hotch concussion free.

Despite what Morgan thinks, he doesn’t have a concussion. There’s just only so much one person can take before they break. It’s just that Derek Morgan would rather a blow to the head be the reason his boss can’t even look him in the eye rather than the blood staining his swollen hands. One will heal with what can only be hoped is minimal damage. While the other might result in early retirement and a battle with depression or anxiety or something dark and murky. And Morgan is so fucking tired of the twisted way things keep panning out.

The car stops, auto-pilot bringing the necessary life to their limbs. Stepping out of the car, Morgan can’t consider himself surprised but he’s still taken aback by how quickly the other’s fill out the lawn. All of them standing and watching from differing levels of distance. Emily has planted herself right outside Hotch’s door and just as Morgan’s walking around she opens it.

If the darkness in Hotch had not concerned Morgan previously, the similar depth of Emily Prentiss’ eyes might startle him even more. But they’ve all found themselves lost to those thoughts and Morgan is already well aware of the complexity of the relationship between Emily and Hotch. Evermore, the similarities that damn them.

“Come on.” The moment that the curt order leaves her mouth several heads snap her way. Of all the comfort, the gentle hands, and soft tones, Emily has been the kindest. Quick to forgive Hotch’s temper flares and the first person to ease him into a hug. If there’s a partnership that will drag itself into the ground, it's the two of them. Defending one another even when they don’t deserve it.

It just seems… a strange turn of events that she’s the cold one. The angry one now.

Hotch just blinks at her from the back seat. He’s doped up and aching. Not that he’d been rather chatty on the way to the hospital or there, but he hasn’t said a word since they found him. Even sobbing in the hospital had been with his back turned to them and muffled by his hands, trying for some hopeless reason to preserve some part of his dignity. He had hardly managed to shake or nod his head to the questions the nurse was asking.

His ears are ringing and all he sees are her tight lips, pulled down into a stubborn but not unfamiliar scowl, forming words but he can’t make out a sound. “S-Sorry?” he winces when Reid moves and stops blocking the sun with his body. The rays came in to hit him in the eyes. He raises a bandaged fist to cower from the light.

Emily opens the door more, offering no sympathy. “Get out of the car, Aaron.”

Dave frowns at her.

They’ve just had an awful day.

Every single one of them on the phone call as Haley was killed. Forced to listen to Hotch’s pained cries following it. She’d seen him. The way he’d cradled Haley’s body to his chest. Hell, she had been the one to shush his sobs and help him rise to his feet. She’d cradled his head when he’d sobbed into her shoulder, hardly able to stand.

Where is this hard edge coming from?

Biting down a whimper, Hotch sits up. A pained grunt leaving his mouth as he eases his body from Dave’s car. His feet touch the ground and he tries but it hurts and he sinks back against the car to help hold him up. Derek moves mindlessly but Emily stops him with a simple shake of her head. “He can do it,” she affirms.

Morgan looks over his shoulder, shooting Dave a look. No one else can step in here, there is no authority that Emily or Hotch hold themselves to aside from one another. They pull each other from the ledge but Dave holds seniority and they know that he is the only person who can do anything. They both look to him for guidance. Now, as Morgan waits for something, anything Dave just watches.

Emily stands close but doesn’t crowd Hotch. He knows that if he really needs the help, she’s right there, and she’s watching for when his body decides it’s fighting a futile battle. If she’d allowed Morgan to step in, he would have panicked and fought back. Forcing him even further away from them.

Turning from him, she looks out at them. If she can feel them watching, there’s no way that he can miss it. “Go inside,” she instructs. “We’re right behind you.”

Again, Morgan looks to Dave but the older man simply does as instructed. Going as far as to tap Reid’s elbow and motion for the genius to follow along. The others move, JJ and Garcia talking softly to one another as they allow themselves back into Dave’s house without a fight. Morgan… he’s frustrated with what he perceives to be giving up. He wants to fight but, in reality, there is no threat to beat. There is only Hotch and Morgan is not angry with him.

The decision to return to Dave’s house was an easy one to make.

Knowing the ghosts haunting Hotch’s apartment, no one in good conscience could say they thought his own home is the safest place for him to be. Never mind that there is no way they were letting Jack stay in that apartment. To see him walk over the section Hotch had laid out on, bleeding for hours as Foyet tortured him.

So, JJ and Garcia had taken what they could think of from Hotch's apartment. Guided by Dave and Emily’s suggestions: a worn copy of Anna Karenina, sweatpants to change out of his suit, a few flannels, and (the crucial detail not to be missed) his heated blanket. He covets that thing and there will be not even the hope for rest if they forget it.

They’re both familiar with Dave’s house. The general floor layout is not complicated but the days they have both spent here-- camped out on his sofa or sleeping in his guest room-- are numerous. This is a place of comfort for them both and Dave doesn’t even have to say it because they know they’re always welcome here. Beaten dogs returning home.

He sits down on the corner of the guestroom’s bed, holding his side as he watches her pull out a duffle bag. She lays down the things she knows he needs, doesn’t bother with the rest. Things like his toothbrush, the Advil, or boxers are just not a priority. “Here,” she places the sweatpants in his lap. Unwinding his heated blanket cord and plugging it into the outlet by the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

Though she’s seen him naked before-- in the mix of changing his shirt or in his boxers for a variety of reasons all not worth explaining now, she knows that he will not change in front of her. She’s seen the scars, changed his bandages when he was still weak enough to be unable to do it himself, but now she has to act like she hasn’t. Pretend to be unaware of the landmines carved into his flesh.

Closing the door behind herself, she takes a breath. She doesn’t want to be with any of them, not even Hotch. Which pains her. She loves them and she needs them for support but she can’t face them. She’s not strong enough for Hotch or broken enough to seek the other’s comfort. But she can not sit outside this door because she knows that if she hears his pained noises as he contorts himself into clean clothes that she will regret it.

“How is he?” She keeps moving, ignoring JJ’s softly asked question. How the hell would she know? But she has a better chance of understanding than any of them. He doesn’t tell them things. For months he’s pushed them all away. Keep them as far from him as possible but she’s allowed to remain close. To see the cracks where Foyet got in.

“Where’d Derek go?”

Rossi is making food. Pasta, she assumes, because that’s always what he makes them for comfort food. He looks up from the pot of water he’s heavily salting but doesn’t comment on his general surprise to see her so soon. He expected her to lock herself in that room with Hotch. “They called him back to the scene. Duty rang.”

She does not envy him.

“How’s he holding up?”

She shrugs, going to the fridge and pulls out a water bottle. Sipping the liquid she itches to go back to the room already, to get away from their whispers and glances. “He’s alive,” she answers. In her distinct dark way surmises, “but who knows how I’ll find him when I go back.” It’s not like they haven’t all thought about it. They know the signs and they’ve watched him pull away.

It’s not even the first time it’s occurred to her what he’ll do the moment he’s left alone.

No one comments, she’s not surprised.

“Emily--”

She puts the water bottle on the counter, knowing someone will probably finish it off. Someone says something, it might be directed to her, but she keeps walking. Headed back for the guest room.

She finds him wrapped around himself. Knees drawn up, arms curled to his chest. His face is turned, hiding the pained furrow and curls of his expression from anyone who might enter. Even the blankets drawn up to his chin are an effective measure to hide himself, to burrow deep and loose himself. She knows that he isn’t aware of the fact that she’s entered the room. Normally, she might find this fact more worrisome but the sensitivity, the vulnerability of this is more alarming than his ability to perceive his surroundings.

She knows that he won’t let her help, not in the ways that will actually produce effect. His pain is manageable. In the duffle bag, hidden deeply underneath gauze, antibiotics, and a plethora of drugs he is now required to take daily to live, is the prescription of opioid painkillers. The seal is unbroken. He will not touch them. She commends the effort, there’s something to be said there about his self-restraint but she knows it’s not some moral things. He’s punishing himself.

Without invitation, not that she would ask for it, she sits down on the corner of the bed. Despite this sudden invasion, he doesn’t move or even look over his shoulder. He already knows she’s the only person brave enough to break the vow the other’s have taken to leave him to his misery. Not out of insensitivity, it’s just better to leave some things to settle themselves. You’re not going to nuke a hurricane, you’re just going to wait for it to die down.

Drawing her legs up underneath her, she gets comfortable. Crossing her legs and settling herself right beside him. Her thighs touching his back, he continues to lay on his side ignoring her. “Dave’s making everyone some food,” she informs him. The heat of his blanket is nice and, despite this, she can feel him trembling and shaking as if chilled. “I assume your vow of silence has extended to testing just how long you can go without eating as well?”

She doesn’t really need to wait for a response, or lack thereof, because she knows the answer. She knows him. Humming, she rolls her eyes. “Noted,” she replies to his silence. Leaning against his hips she peaks over his back, frowning. “Have I told you that I hate you recently? I don’t want to say it too frequently but I can feel one building itself up.”

Again, she’s met with silence. “I know you’re not sleeping,” she informs him. “You snore.”

Just as she’s starting to give up, he cracks an eye open. It’s red rimmed, bloodshot from his crying and general lack of sleep. “Do not.” His voice is whispery, faint. It sounds entirely unfamiliar and it strikes her, makes her grit her teeth down against it, as she realizes there is still a very real, very broken part of him that she will never understand. Born from desperation and acts he committed today. That there is a damaged broken boy that he keeps so safely guarded that not even she will ever be able to comfort him.

It makes her feel strangely isolated.

Gently, he maneuvers himself. Wraps an arm around his ribs-- afraid that without the support he’ll simply come undone-- and uses the other to slowly push himself up. The low light of the room safely guards his features from someone who might be standing at the door but Emily is right beside him, now moving so they are hip to hip and he knows that she can see every micro-expression he can’t contain.

“Easy,” she breathes, her hand falling between his shoulders as he bucks against the way his entire body tries to pull him back down into the covers.

Humiliated, cheeks flush with sweat, he turns to her and softly admits, “I’m gonna be sick.” He knows he can’t get to the bathroom fast enough. That his legs will not bear his weight and even if they do, his chest cannot stand the weight of him sitting up. He will fall and he’s not sure he’ll get back up. The last thing he needs, atop the general failing of today, is to pleat to the ground with limp weight.

Emily effortlessly leans down and produces the trash can that Dave keeps at the bedside. It brings to him a memory from the hospital, of the fuzz and haze of his first hours of consciousness after the attack. Her coldness, her distance, but mostly of the way she spoke to him. As if he were a victim, the kind that he finds himself sending her to talk with. The kind that are one intimidating male away from coming undone. The kind that needs empathy and warmth and her impeccable ability to talk anyone off the ledge.

And as he chokes up vomit, crying as his muscles contract around his ribs, he realizes that he really is no different from the victims they see everyday. He is… He is a victim. Not even for the first time in his life.

He doesn’t fight the hand she presses to his face, gently guiding him back down into his blankets. She pulls his blankets back up to his chin, discontentedly scowling when she sees that he’s still shaking. “I’ll get you another blanket,” she offers, despite the heated blanket and comforter he’s got tucked up around him.

He swallows thickly, wishing that he had the strength to stand and get this taste out of his mouth. His throat burns but not nearly enough to distract him from the phantom pains in his chest-- but can they really be phantom if the scars are still lined with red anger? If he can feel the knife slipping in and Foyet’s weight settled across his hips?

“No,” he whispers and is silent for a moment. “Nothing will--” he looks away from her. “Nothing will help.”

“What can I do?”

“Stay.”

She lays herself down beside him, scooting under the covers, and pressing their sides together. It takes her a moment but she finds his hand and clenches her jaw when her eyes water as he grips her hand tightly. He turns his head and she welcomes it, reaching up to guide him closer. Her fingers pushing up the hair on the back of his head and they tangle together. “If you ruin our reputation as badasses because of this cuddle,” she admonishes, “I’m never going to forgive you.”

He manages to crack the faintest smile. The soft scabs forming on his lips peeling back and bleeding again but she won’t mind the blood. “I hate you,” he whispers so softly that she only knows he’s spoken because of the ghost of hot air that ghosts over her neck.

“I love you too.”

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #not hotchniss #but like lowkey it is #and you know it #hotchniss #hotch whump

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snowe-zolynn-rogers · 3 years

Text

Pairings: None

Word Count: 1,945 Words

Summary: Five worried members of class 1-B and a day off for the hero courses.

Warnings: Cursing, Injury Mention, Caps, Death Mention, Broken Bone Mention, Panic Attack Mention, Abuse Mention, Disownment Mention, Blood Mention, let me know if I should tag anything else.

Usernames: Existence Is A Prison Aizawa: feral cat dad, Aoyama: gay salt, Hagakure: ranch flavored jello, Tokoyami: foil-mecha, Shinsou: farmer toshi, Kuroiro: life is a nightmare, Shiozaki: saviour, Tsunotori: schrodinger better run, Honenuki: pure, Monoma: nat20

Aizawa, We Agreed No More Cats: Chapter 4

2:55 PM

Existence Is A Prison

nat20: @feral cat dad @gay salt @farmer toshi @foil-mecha @ranch flavored jello

nat20: Are you guys okay? There was an announcement for all available staff to come to the USJ asap. Isn't that where you are?

nat20: Guys?

nat20: I get that y'all are training but can one of you answer? I'm getting worried.

nat20: Akemi, sis, you better fucking answer me.

3:00 PM

Existence Is A Prison

nat20: Akemi, this is breaking law three of being half-siblings. Getcha ass in the chat and fucking respond to me or I'm taking a protective quirk and coming down there myself.

saviour: You will do no such thing. Clearly it's dangerous since the announcement was directed toward all available teachers. That doesn't sound normal to me, even if someone had been just injured. Seiko, it's best to try to make things decently safe for their return instead of hound a response.

life is a nightmare: Six different news sources say that three unidentified people were admitted to a hospital nearby UA, said to have been transported from the USJ, which was attacked this morning by an unidentified villain, the attack being resolved by UA's pro hero staff members only ten minutes ago. Two more people were injured and are supposedly in Recovery Girl's office.

nat20: AKEMI @gay salt

gay salt is now online

ranch flavored jello is now online

foil-mecha is now online

gay salt: I'm back, Seiko. I'm fine. Almost everyone is fine.

nat20: Five people are hurt!

ranch flavored jello: Yeah, all three pros were hurt.

nat20: Which students got hurt!?

foil-mecha: I think you already know what you're suspecting, Seiko.

nat20: No. No, he's not dead. If Shinsou's dead, I'll personally bring him back to life to scream at him. My little brother isn't dying dammit.

gay salt: Not dead, mon dieu. Shinsou is severely injured but he isn't dead.

nat20: Who else is hurt? That green kid again?

ranch flavored jello: Yeah, Midoriya's hurt again. To be fair, he wasn't thinking about how he was using his quirk, just that he was using it period.

foil-mecha: Hold on, they're calling on Aizawa and Shinsou's condition, I'll do a video chat with you guys.

foil-mecha has started a video chat

The bones in his arms are splintered and he's got facial fracturing. Fortunately there doesn't seem to be any serious brain damage. But his orbital floor has been almost completely destroyed. We have no way of knowing if his eyesight will be impaired or not once he's healed. -Unknown

Well, you heard the man. -Unknown

Sir, what about Thirteen? -Unknown

No need to worry there, despite some pretty bad lacerations to the back, Thirteen is gonna pull through good as new. And AllMight is also without any serious injuries. He's in the nurse's office right now. Recovery Girl's power should be all that he needs.-Unknown

What about Deku!? -Unknown

How's Midoriya? -Unknown

Midoriya? Oh, Recovery Girl was taking care of him too. He's fine.-Unknown

How is Shinsou!? -nat20

Who was that? -Unknown

My half-sibling, we both live in the dorms with Shinsou and Aizawa. They're worried about them. So is the rest of the class 1-B students that live in the dorms with us. -gay salt

Shinsou has a mild concussion, a severe bruised nasal bone, and his jawbone was fractured so he needs to have his jaw wired shut for a bit until he's back to being strong enough for Recovery Girl to heal him. He should be better in about a week or two.-Unknown

What the fuck happened to him that he got that badly hurt? -life is a nightmare

During the villain attack, Shinsou decided to fight alongside Mr. Aizawa. against the villains and this big monster thing was hurting Mr. Aizawa and this creepy guy was about to hurt Asui, Mineta, and Midoriya. -ranch flavored jello

Call me Tsu. -Unknown

Tsu, Mineta, and Midoriya. But Shinsou got the creepy guy to respond to him with the mist guy's voice and he brainwashed him. Then the monster hit his face into the ground really hard. But he covered Mr. Aizawa with his own body and got his face hit down again. -ranch flavored jello

Shinsou was really out of it, ribbit. He was calling Mr. Aizawa his dad.-Unknown

Tsu, Mr. Aizawa legally adopted Shinsou as of 8 o'clock this morning. -ranch flavored jello

I'm gonna hang up, we're all gonna head back. I'll visit you Seiko. -gay salt

You better. -nat20

gay salt has ended the video chat

2:40 AM

Existence Is A Prison

farmer toshi is now online

farmer toshi: WHY CANT I TALK WHATS HAPPENING WHERE AM I

life is a nightmare: Shit, I'll shadow over, hold on, Shinsou.

2:50 AM

Existence Is A Prison

life is a nightmare: shinsousleepingagainsther.jpg

life is a nightmare: Guess I'm claiming he's my boyfriend when they ask why I'm here because I can't even shadow out right now without waking him up.

gay salt: rip to you, Kageya, but me and Seiko need our beauty sleep.

nat20: so go to sleep, Kageya, you need to sleep.

2:16 PM

Existence Is A Prison

saviour: I'm pre-making some easy meals since they both have facial damage and need softer foods.

farmer toshi: What are you making?

saviour: Well, I have Seiko working on frozen smoothie bags. Kiyomi is helping precook some vegetables and stuff that can be blended down to baby food consistency. Pony's really good at making homemade juice so she's making you juice with lots of protein and stuff so you don't loose too much weight and set your progress back.

ranch flavored jello: Me, Akemi, and Fumikage are making soft food for you both once Toshi gets his wires off. We've been making a lot of soup. We may have gone overboard.

ranch flavored jello: So far we have chicken soup, broccoli and cheese, potato soup, split pea soup, egg drop soup, cheese soup, soft curry, corn chowder, turkey rice soup, ham chowder, cheeseburger soup, creamy meatball soup, chicken cordon bleu soup, chicken pot pie soup, and and miso soup.

farmer toshi: You guys are so sweet. Thank you so much. I wish I could hug you guys right now but they want me in the hospital today for observation.

gay salt: I expect a hug when you come home.

feral cat dad is now online

nat20: DAD'S BACK!

feral cat dad: Hello, dorm children. This is Mr. Yamada, Mr. Aizawa told me to tell you all thank you for making him and Hitoshi food for when they come back on Friday.

pure: It was nothing! We want to help them get better as fast as possible and, to do that, we need to keep them healthy!

feral cat dad: I'll add myself so Shouta can have his phone back.

feral cat dad has added Yamada

farmer toshi has changed Yamada's name to President Megaphone

nat20: Wow, you don't waste a second, do you?

farmer toshi: I didn't when I was attacking villains in the USJ.

schrodinger better run: What happened in there, by the way? My phone went missing yesterday and the day before and I finally found it last night.

farmer toshi: Well, you see, some wannabe criminals calling themselves the League of Villains teleported themselves into the USJ just before we were about to start training and our communal father figure was about to go fight them and all my instinct just told me to follow him so I did.

President Megaphone: Kid, you really don't have to tell them just because you live with them.

farmer toshi: These are basically my adopted siblings, Mr. Yamada. Of course I want to tell them.

farmer toshi: Anyway, so I was fighting thugs and Dad had already gotten to this "Shigaraki" dude who was like their leader or whatever and the fucker decayed his right elbow and I was trying hard to get to him but the fucking cronies wouldn't let me by them.

farmer toshi: Then this huge fucking monster grabbed Dad and hit him into the ground and broke his arms. That thing couldn't be human, it's brain was out and it was like 9 feet tall.

farmer toshi: That Shigaraki fucker spoke to me. I can't even remember what about, but he was mocking me, I can tell. But the teleporter told him they needed to leave because Iida had made it out by that point.

farmer toshi: So this fucker tries to decay either Midoriya, Asui, or Mineta to "break AllMight". But I used the teleporter's voice to brainwash him and that monster hit my head into the ground like he did with Dad for brainwashing its friend.

farmer toshi: I knew Dad was out because the thing had hit his head into the ground again and knocked him out and that thing would try to hurt him again if I didn't do something. So I put myself on top of him because I couldn't lose a Dad I just finally got. But the monster hit my head down again.

farmer toshi: I had finally managed to get up to get me and Dad out of there when AllMight showed up. AllMight put us on a stair landing and I had to get up the rest of the way. Another villain tried to get us while I was getting him up there to get out but I just stabbed her and pushed her down the stairs.

farmer toshi: Mind you, I was running on adrenaline this whole time. So, when the UA teachers came in, I was pretty numb emotionally because I was basically out of steam but I wanted to get Dad out of there so I kept going until Sero and Uraraka helped me up the rest of the stairs while the teachers got there.

farmer toshi: I'm pretty sure Snipe is who caught me but then I just passed out and woke up in the hospital not being able to speak and had a panic attack.

feral cat dad: I've figured out speech to text and I appreciate what you did for me, Hitoshi, but I was worried about you when that thing had me. I don't want you dying to protect me.

farmer toshi: Trust me, I don't plan to nearly die again. The headache was killer and I'd rather never experience that again.

feral cat dad: Good. Now, make sure you rest, kids.

2:15 AM

private chat with Bakugou and Yamada

Bakugou: Look, I know it's late, but my mother kicked me out and she's disowned me because she now wants me to drop from UA and I won't do it. I need somewhere to stay and I know Aoyama and them were talking about dorms yesterday after the USJ incident.

Yamada: It doesn't matter if it's ideal. Head to the school, I'll come get you inside and we'll go for your stuff from your parents' house tomorrow after school and I'm putting a rush order for emergency UA protection for your custody right now.

Bakugou: I think I need Recovery Girl, she got my arms pretty bad. I'm losing blood like crazy and I can barely grab things to keep going but my leg is sprained so I need help moving.

Yamada: We can worry about healing injuries once you're here. Until then, just be safe and get here as fast as you can. If you can't make it here, then I'll come get you.

Yamada: Just keep responding, little listener. How bad are your injuries?

Bakugou: bloodyleftarm.jpg

Bakugou: bloodyrightarm.jpg

Bakugou: sprainedknee.jpg

Bakugou has sent their location

Yamada: Fuck.

Taglist: @everythingisstardust

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listentothelittlebird · 3 years

Text

TW: dissociative episode

This was a whole scrapped oneshot, mostly because I couldn’t fit it in properly... I misread something on a wikipedia page and somehow ended up with “Jason revisited Ethiopia sometime during the Red Hood and the Outlaws, and had major PTSD”. I’m fairly sure I was sleep deprived at the time... (I’m honestly happy with how this one turned out, but it was just out-of-place with the rest of the other oneshots)

This is a “deleted scene” from my series on ao3, Code Bat!

It was a quiet, peaceful night, until the comms crackled to life.

“N,” Oracle called, “RH entered Gotham an hour ago. The new Super he befriended brought him in, but he hasn’t moved from his location since. Can you go check on him?”

Nightwing frowned. Jason was in town?

He was happy to have a chance to see his Little Wing, of course, but this was an unplanned visit. Usually he would at least radio in ahead, and dramatically announce his return by searching for them during patrol time.

Something was wrong.

“R and I are still dealing with the drug ring,” Batman grunted, “We’ll be with you as soon as we can.”

It seemed even the Bat himself was getting worried.

“I’m turning in for the night. BG’s headed towards RH right now. Let me know how he is, alright?” Spoiler paused, before adding, “I can pull an extra patrol or two, if he needs you guys for company. I’m not an official fam’ member, but I’m more than ready to help.”

Nightwing would have hugged Spoiler if she was standing next to him.

Batgirl was already at the rooftop when Nightwing arrived. She was crouched directly in front of Jason - in his Red Hood outfit, skull-like helmet still on his head - and staring. Nightwing had learnt to read Cass’ body language, and right now she was practically screaming concern. She straightened when Nightwing touched down.

“Unresponsive,” she signed, “Alive, but not there. Like the victims we saw last week.”

Nightwing sighed, a rush of air escaping his chest. It was relief mixed in with new pain, because something had happened to his brother for him to shut down. Something had triggered this.

“RH is dissociating,” Nightwing reported to the comms, “BG says he’s unresponsive. B, once you and R are done, get the Batmobile here.”

“We’re on our way,” came Robin’s tight response, crisp and serious but betraying the slightest of quivers.

In the meantime, Nightwing busied himself with removing Jason’s helmet. His face was blank, devoid of his usual snarky grin or unimpressed eye-roll. His chest was rising and falling in slow, mechanical breaths.

“We’ll take care of you, Little Wing,” Nightwing laid a hand gently on his brother’s shoulder, smiling warmly, “Take all the time you need, okay? We’ll be here.”

There was not so much as a twitch to acknowledge his words. Dick’s gut clenched tighter, even having expected the lack of response.

Batgirl had drifted away, standing several steps back. At Nightwing’s questioning glance, she murmured haltingly, “Scary.” She raised her hands to elaborate.

“No body messages. Nothing. Cannot tell what he is thinking, or if he is thinking. I’m scared for him. With other victims, it’s bad. With family...” the next motion was not proper sign language - she made a heart with her hands, then split it.

It hurt to see family like this.

Nightwing gave a sad, quiet smile in response, and the way he turned back to eye Jason was enough to convey his agreement.

Jason came back to himself slowly.

He was never truly gone, not quite. Not for a while, he thinks.

He’s… not sure about much. Just that he had been able to tell Artemis and Bizarro that he was going to pull a few strings in Gotham to get them a permanent base.

He remembered fumbling out an address for a safe house that he had, which would be able to last his two teammates for more than a week. He remembered Biz dropping him off in Gotham. He remembered sitting down on the filthy rooftop.

He thinks Batgirl came, then Nightwing. He thinks they helped him into the Batmobile, and he thinks he saw Batman and Robin.

He… can’t quite recall what happened next. It was like his memories were grinded to a pulp and then drained of substance, leaving behind the crusts of barely-coherent scenes. Flashes of what had happened.

He was in the Batcave, then he was being walked up the stairs to the Manor, one large arm wrapped around his shoulders, one large hand gripping firmly onto his elbow.

There was the rustling of old paperbacks, distant and distorted, like hearing through water.

There was Bruce, blue eyes focused on him, gazing at him and murmuring something soft.

“...here for you. You’re safe, Jaylad.”

He felt a sliver of pressure on his face.

Jason blinked. His hand rose to the spot, to where the mildest of pressures were, a calloused hand cupped against his cheek. He blinked two, three times, Bruce’s face morphing into the most genuine of smiles, even as the smell of the library and faint tightness of hunger greeted him.

“B?” Jason croaked, his voice hoarse from something more than dryness. Bruce was still quick to supply him a cup of water. The hand had yet to leave his cheek. Jason, still thrown off and trying to piece together his scattered mind, leaned into the hand even as he downed the glass.

There was a reason his throat felt scratchy. He had been screaming. Screaming at…

By the time Bruce had plucked his empty glass from his hand and set it down, Jason had jolted violently, as the realisation of how he got here, on exactly why he had returned back to Gotham, hit him like a train.

Ethiopia. The rebuilt warehouse. The living nightmare of his latest Outlaws mission.

“B?” Jason’s voice was desperate now. Logically, he knew Bruce was right there. Trying to convince his tortured mind though, as it finally came to terms with what had happened, was not as simple.

“Dad? Dad…” Jason’s hands reached blindly for Bruce’s arms, scrambling to tighten clenched fists into the fabric of the man’s sweater. Bruce pulled Jason into his chest.

While Jason tried and failed to quell his breakdown, Bruce had maneuvered himself back onto the couch, Jason sat half in his lap and half on the couch. Jason’s arms, tight around his father’s shoulders, loosened as he let out a shaky gasp.

“We - we had a mission,” Jason rambled before he could stop himself, “Artemis was looking for something, and we were helping her look, and-“

“Jay,” Bruce cut in gently, “Don’t force yourself. Please, son.”

Jason, his forehead pressed to Bruce’s shoulder, shook his head even as he barreled on. He had to get this out before his walls went up again, before it became too blissfully peaceful to even broach the subject.

“I- fuck. We went to Ethiopia,” Jason gave a hollow laugh, even as Bruce sucked in a sharp breath of air, “It was fucking hell, B. Pretty sure they were just doing the generic torture shit on me, but they didn’t even need to do anything, really. The location was enough to…to-“ Jason’s voice cracked. There was something wet leaking out of his eyes.

“It looked exactly the same, B. I checked after - it was the same place. It was-“ Jason’s voice gave out for real, then.

Bruce pulled him tighter, holding his son close as he cried himself dry. Bruce was just glad that Jason had been able to come back to Gotham, that his son was here for him to comfort - was willing to accept that comfort from him still, even after everything that had happened.

“You’re here,” Bruce hushes, when Jason’s sobs had died down to sniffles. He gave the boy - he would forever be a boy in his eyes - a squeeze around his broad shoulders. “You’re here.”

Jason sniffed again, and squeezed back, tight and desperate.

Later, Alfred would enter, guided by his butler senses to bring a meal for Jason. Later, his siblings would check in on him, and Dick would pile everyone into the living room with a movie marathon and a sleepover. Later, Jason would figure out a permanent base of operations for the Outlaws.

For now, it was just a father holding his son, both undeniably grateful to be alive.

Jason led Biz and Artemis to an underground bunker at the outskirts of Metropolis. They were right under Superman’s nose, which was both exhilarating and concerning.

He did not fancy meeting any one of Bruce’s colleagues.

On the other hand, if Superman did stumble upon them someday soon, Bizarro would finally get to meet someone like him. Well, someone who might see him as family, at least. Jason had heard from Tim that Superman was a big-hearted family man that had taken in Kon-El the moment he had trusted the clone.

He hoped Superman would take Bizarro in. The big guy deserved someone else besides him and Artemis.

Speaking of…

“Say, since we’re gonna be working with each other a lot more from now on, can I get insurance that you won’t take a swing at Wonder Woman while I’m in the collateral damage zone?”

Artemis glared at him, but Jason had weathered Bat-glares, and this was nothing compared to the man. His helmet was off, so she could see his smirk, his red domino stretching as he raised an eyebrow.

“I’d have thought you’d be on better terms with the lady. I mean, she’d gladly offer you any support you need,” Jason pointed out.

Artemis huffed, “Themyscira should have done more to aid my tribe. They still have yet to do more to aid my tribe. As Diana is a representative of her people, my grudge is against her tribe, and not her personally. Truthfully, Diana saved my life, and I am grateful for that.”

Jason hummed contemplatively. “Well, you should be a bridge between the two tribes,” Jason thought aloud, “Just saying, you basically became your tribe’s champion by getting back the Bow of Ra. If anyone could get them more aid, it’d be you.”

He could tell that the Amazonian needed time to think on his words, so instead of continuing. Jason splayed his arms, “Besides, sweet-talking gets you places!”

It was implied that such was how he had gotten their base, but the circumstances were probably far from what Artemis assumed. All Jason had needed to do was talk over conversations during dinner and Bruce was showing him possible locations even before patrol rotations had begun.

Artemis latched onto the new topic, regarding their new base with a satisfied tilt to her head, “What were those connections that you managed to find? Gotham is one place in Man’s World that I have yet to understand.”

“Eh, you learn to deal with the city’s fuckery. Like I said, I just had some old strings that I could pull to get us here,” Jason shrugged, and paused for a moment. Everything had been moving a mile and minute, from when Jason had first met Artemis to when they and Bizarro became a team.

He had neglected to tell them his name. Not that Bizarro needed his name, since he even called Artemis Red Her, but Artemis herself had always referred to Jason as Red Hood or Red.

“Jay.”

At Artemis’ questioning glance, Jason huffed, “It’s my name, I guess. Close enough.”

It was the name the Titans, Roy and Kori, knew him by. Artemis and Bizarro were shaping up to be his second round of Outlaws, and he wanted them to have his trust, too.

There was a weighty glint in Artemis’ eyes. “It is an honour to work with you, Jay,” she stated solemnly.

Jason cracked a grin, “Aw, c’mon, don’t go all mushy on me. Let’s go get Biz before he ransacks the whole pantry.”

He turned to head in Bizarro’s direction, his loud rummaging making Jason glad he had chosen to put them significantly low underground. Artemis trailed behind with a warm smile.

#probably not accurate to actual dissociation #there's an extra scene after the angst #Batfam #Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #Dick Grayson #Cassandra Cain #Tim Drake #Code Bat #artemis of bana mighdall #Angst #Comfort #fanfic #straight from the trash doc

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kittybellestark · 3 years

Text

Straightening Things Out Part 2

Part 1

This is it guys, part 2, and then this fic is doneeeeeee, I can’t believe I actually finished this today, hope you enjoy it also why ya’ll gotta go and call it CPS, every time i go to write it i’m like uhhh american CAS

When Peter finally woke up he was in a bed. There was the familiar sound of his heart rate beeping out, the lights dimmed and a hand on his own. An oxygen mask was on his face, and he was hooked up to an IV.

Peter freaked out. This wasn’t where he was meant to be. He tried pushing himself up and off the bed, which caused horrible pains in his abdomen, stopping him from moving. Groaning Peter fell back onto the bed.

“Hey, hey, hey, Pete, it’s just me, Mr. Stark. You’re safe. We’re in the Med Bay. You’re okay. Put the Bambi eyes away, I’ll back up, whatever you need.”

Tony held both his hands up, keeping them in clear view of Peter. He took a few steps back watching Peter relax with each step he took backwards.

“Sorry. I just- sorry. I shouldn’t have called you.” Peter’s voice was rough and quiet, and it hurt him to use.

“No apologies, you did the right thing, kid. I’m glad you called, even if it was to have a panic attack in my car while spitting up blood and passing out. You felt safe around me. You did the right thing.”

Peter went to speak again and Tony held his hand up.

“You shouldn’t really be talking. You’re esophagus was torn pretty bad. Do you want to full run down?”

Peter hesitated before nodding.

“Torn trachea, bruised neck, broken ribs, bleeding stomach, bruised liver and kidneys, tear in the gastrointestinal track, as well as significant damage to the anus, what seems to be whip marks down your back and what appears to be self harm on your arms, legs, chest and stomach. And a concussion, with a broken nose, and a fractured cheekbone.”

Tony sat down on the chair across the room from Peter, trying to respect Peter boundaries. Peter’s eyes welled up with tears and Tony wanted nothing more than to go and hold Peter and make everything better.

“We, uh, had to call the police. They want to ask you some yes and no questions right now, and then when you can speak again they’ll want actually talk to you. I have to ask though, because of the severity and where a lot of the injuries occurred, did Skip rape you?”

Peter bit his lip, before making the active decision to ignore the question outright. Sure, he knew he should confirm the allegations, he knew he should. Peter knew it was wrong. Horribly aware that what Skip did was illegal and horrible, but he couldn’t help that one part of him that saw it as help. Because that is what Skip called it. It was only ever supposed to be to be help Peter. Skip only ever did this for Peter.

So Peter turned away and closed his eyes, hoping that his mentor would believe that this didn’t happen to him, that he wasn’t a sin, or shameful. Peter wanted to believe that Tony wouldn’t just abandon him. He had brought it on himself.

The pain. The torment. This was his responsibility. He knew better. Peter was supposed to be Spider-Man. He was supposed to be a hero and know right from wrong. And yet, it’s different when it happens to him.

It’s not abuse, it’s just a thing that happens. It’s not self harm, it’s just a way to have some relief. It isn’t rape, it’s just learning a way to only like women.

Peter has rationalized it all. Made up answers for everything. Fallen deep into a pool of lies. Drowning under the weight of his soon-to-be uncle and the rest of the world. Spider-Man isn’t there to help him. Spider-Man said “fuck you, buddy,” and took a nice little wander away from Peter’s life. There’s no want to help himself, or others, and there’s no guilt for not putting on the suit. Spider-Man was just a phase.

“Okay buddy, I get it you’re tired. You’ve been through it. I’ll tell them to come back in a little bit. But I’m not going to judge you, no matter what, okay? I’m not going to toss you out or throw you to the side. You’re important and whatever you’re going through I want to help.”

The next time Peter woke up his friends were there in the place of Tony. Ned, MJ and Harley all managed to fit themselves on the one small chair in the room, talking in hushed voices.

Peter watched them as they giggled to themselves, something about two pretty best friends or whatever. The trio all seemed tired, apprehensive even, but they were doing their best to remain positive.

“Oh my god, Peter you’re awake!” Ned shouted out, the first to notice.

Peter flinched back at the loud voice and the sudden movements of the three as they scrambled to try and get up, too entwined to be able to do it with any ease. They made it to Peter’s bedside flushed and with minimal injuries.

“Dude we were so worried. MJ and I were heading to your place because you weren’t answering and then we saw May and Skip get arrested and be put in the back of a police car.”

MJ elbowed Ned in the stomach, urging him to shut up, as clearly this wasn’t the best time to talk about Peter’s family getting arrested. Ned mumbled out some apologies, yet Peter didn’t seem to react. His eyes were blank and the expression on his face hadn’t changed since the group noticed he was awake.

“Peter?” Harley whispered.

Peter’s eyes flicked over to focus on Harley, and it was clear to everyone just how terrified Peter actually was. His jaw was tight and eyes just a little too wide. Peter was as stiff as a board, focused on whoever caught his attention and tracking their movements to make sure they aren’t a threat. The three moved backwards as slowly as they could so that Peter wouldn’t feel as threatened by their presence.

“Tony wouldn’t tell us the extent of your injuries because of HIPPA or whatever but he did say you’re not allowed to talk, so I guess it was really serious.” MJ started to say. “But don’t think I didn’t notice your arms and leg, I’m really angry that you lied to me, but I get it, okay? Whenever you want to tell us what happened we’ll listen and we won’t judge you or your actions.”

There was a moment where Peter considered telling them. He could write things out. Peter had already told the police using a written statement. If he just wrote it down, then they’d know. But then Peter thought of what Skip did to him. He remembered how Skip told him that he needed to be cured, that no one would love him or accept him as he is now.

Skip wasn’t a kind man, but Peter also knew that he had his moments. Like the time he held Peter as he sobbed, rubbing his back and carrying him to bed. Skip was doing it for the right reasons. He cared. It hurt. It hurt a lot when Peter got to know how nice Skip could be to then be face down on his bed, begging to be let go and free of Skip’s torment.

Instead of saying anything and letting his friends know what’s been happening Peter shook his head and turned himself to face away from them. The trio couldn’t see Peter like this. Not broken in a hospital bed over something he could have stopped.

He would have stopped it, right? If he truly didn’t want what was happening, he’d stop it. Instead he allowed it to happen for the results. For May. To be loved for who he is, even if he has to fake it. Peter knows he should have stopped what Skip was doing. He had the power to the entire time, and yet, he didn’t.

It was his own fault. MJ said that they won’t judge him, but Peter knows they would. They’d think he’s disgusting and want nothing to do with him. Peter created this situation and now he was going to lose everyone.

Peter was tired. He was going back to sleep.

He was finally released from the Med Bay. Dr Cho had finally deemed him strong enough to not be hooked up to an IV 24/7 and with no need of oxygen. Peter was still on bed rest, and he wasn’t allowed to be alone for long periods of time either. He had to drink protein shakes to regain his weight and he has sessions with a therapist set up for the next forever.

He was lucky that Tony has taken temporary custody of him. So instead of being in the Med Bay, Peter would be in his own bedroom. Tony and Pepper had both been incredible, extending their home to him and being by his side through everything. They hadn’t kicked him out yet, nor have they hit him or told him they don’t love him. Instead they continued reject what Skip had done. Tony and Pepper knew what Skip did to him, they were aware that he could have stopped it, and they still let him stay.

“Hey Roo, so I just got news that the police released May. Your statement pretty much cleared her because she wasn’t ever home. Obviously CPS won’t release you back into her care yet, but she had been asking to see you. I wanted to tell her no, but it should be your decision.”

Phineas and Ferb automatically paused when Tony started talking, thanks to FRIDAY. Tony kept his voice soft and held a reassuring smile on his face. Peter pulled his knees up to his chest, feeling himself start to scratched at the exposed skin on his ankles.

“Hey, hey, Pete it’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want too.”

Tony was quick to move to Peter, looking for permission before pulling Peter’s hands away, stopping him from hurting himself any further.

“Sorry, sorry- I didn’t- sorry. Didn’t realize what I was doing.”

“It’s okay kiddo, recovery isn’t always linear. You don’t need to talk to May, I’m more than happy to tell her no. It’s at your rate, no one is going to judge you for it.”

Peter nodded, leaning into Tony for the first time in a months for comfort. Tony stayed still for a moment allowing Peter to acquaint himself to kind human contact.

“Can I put my hand on your back, Peter?”

Peter nodded again and Tony beamed with pride, proud of his kid to be able to accept physical contact. Tony kept his one hand on Peter’s upper back, rubbing small circles in an attempt to bring comfort.

“I want to see her. If she didn’t know we shouldn’t punish her. It isn’t her fault he used May against me. I should have known, I should have.”

Tony felt Peter shake his head as his whole body seemed to fight itself between discomfort and trying to relax. Peter moved himself closer into Tony, resting his head on Tony’s shoulder instead.

“Pete, it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that yet, but I promise, this isn’t on you. If you aren’t ready to see May yet everyone will understand.”

The teen pulled away from Tony and considered the words spoken, face twisting in thought. After a moment Peter huffed and nodded. Tony smiled trying to be reassuring.

“I’ll be okay, can you just be in the room? It’ll just, make me feel better if someone else is there, I think.”

“Of course, I’ll be there if you need me.”

May sat in a chair, hoping to have chosen the right spot to not make Peter feel trapped. She hated what she had done to her kid. How could she had been unaware of what was happening in her home? To her family?

She deserved to have custody revoked, the fact that CPS wasn’t doing that boggled her. This situation only happened because May allowed a bad man into their home. Peter had said that he wasn’t getting along with Skip, that there was something off, and May should have believed him. But she was blind, and now Peter has paid the price.

Why did May allow herself to believe Skip’s word? She saw Peter slipping, she saw him struggle but then Skip would talk about how Peter confided in him and that he was giving Peter advice. Skip had made it seem like he was helping Peter. May had taken the extra shifts at work and was out more, unable to help, and was made to be a fool.

She should have never started dating again.

Peter and Tony finally enter the room and May’s heartbreaks at the sight of her nephew. Peter looked decades older with the guarded look on his face, holding himself. The clothing Peter wore was much too big, barely hanging onto him. There was an elastic band on each wrist, a clear sign to May that Peter had relapsed.

This was all her fault.

Tony sat on the couch sitting closer to May, leaving room for Peter farther away. Peter glared at the couch like it was a personal offense before sitting on the ground, leaning onto one of Tony’s legs.

“I’m sorry Peter, I didn’t know.”

May wanted to hug him, to make him feel better. Yet that was probably the last thing that Peter needed or wanted from here right now. Instead she dug her nails into the upholstery, trying to quell the urges to hold Peter and never let go.

“He said that you never accepted me. That you thought I needed to be cured. Was any of that true?” Peter’s voice was cold and hard, it didn’t hold any of the kindness it used to, no longer soft and light.

“No, baby, no of course not. I’m so sorry he used me against you. Skip manipulated the both of us and I’m so sorry I didn’t see it. I love you and accept you no matter what. What he said wasn’t true.”

The room fell silent. Peter started to rock back and forth as he processed May’s words. It didn’t take much longer for his eyes to look empty or for him to sob, burying his head in his hands.

“Hey, Roo, you’re gonna be okay, you aren’t there anymore. We’re in the tower and you’re safe.” Tony whispered trying to get Peter to not fall into a full blown panic attack again.

“No, no it has to be true. I let him, he said- he told me that- no he was telling the truth. You don’t love me, not while knowing I also like men. You can’t. I let him- I did it for you, I didn’t want to be a disappointment anymore. He was in my head, he told me to hurt myself. I let him May, because I thought you didn’t love me. You said you were proud of me, because you talked to him, I told him it was working, that I was straight and he- and he raped me. Then you said you were proud of me because I was getting help from him. I- Ben would hate me. He would. He always said ‘With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility,’ and I had the power to stop it. I’m supposed to be Spider-Man I stopped this sort of thing from happening to others. I had the power to stop him, the responsibility to stop him and I didn’t because I wanted you to love me and not be disappointed in me. It has to be true. I didn’t go through all of that for you to say it wasn’t. No. I disagree with you.”

Peter pressed his nails into his face and started to drag them down, scratching at himself. Tony was quick to move down onto the ground, making sure not to touch Peter, only speaking in a soft whisper to help calm the teen.

May couldn’t help the tears that sprung to her eyes, or the way her heart crumbled at being the cause of Peter’s pain. She should have kept her eyes open, or listened to Peter when he said he didn’t like Skip. Why would she let herself believe that Peter’s problem was Skip was the fact that he was in Ben’s place? May caused all this pain and now she can’t even help him.

“I’m sorry, I should go. I’m so sorry Peter, I never wanted any of this to happen.” May spoke out as she got up and exited the room, needing to walk away, needing space, needing to give Peter his own space. She caused this, she can’t punish Peter for it either.

Peter didn’t like therapy very much. He didn’t like talking through his ‘traumas’ or his emotions either. She made Peter talk about his sexuality and his confusion over it now. Peter discussed how he used to identify as bisexual but how Skip wanted him to be straight and his he thought he was except for the fact that Harley existed.

Apparently he was making great progress. Though she might just say it to all her clients, Peter wasn’t sure. He just knew it didn’t feel like he was making any progress.

Peter still couldn’t be alone in a room with older men, except for Tony, he could hardly be alone with those his own age. He couldn’t help the anxiety that anyone was judging him and wanting to fix him. And his therapist said he still wasn’t ready to go back to school, or big crowds.

Really, it was a fancy way of saying Peter wasn’t ready for anything. Couch’s were still a no go, and beds depended on the day. Peter knew he could never go back to that apartment, but he also knew that May was looking at new places for them.

Progress was hard and slow and sometimes it didn’t feel like progress at all. But Peter was doing it. He’s getting there.

“Hey,” Peter said just slightly too loud.

He bounced on his heels, standing in the doorframe, ready to leave at any moment. Harley jumped in his seat, dropping his book onto his desk. Harley was quick to regain his composure resting his chin on his hand and his elbow on his desk.

“Hey, hey Peter? Uhm, do you want to come in, I can give you this chair if it’ll make you more comfortable.”

Peter considered for a moment, before deciding to stay where he was, not quiet comfortable with entering Harley’s room yet. So he shook his head, trying to get comfortable leaning against the doorframe, keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

“That’s okay, Peter. We can both sit on the ground? That way you can lean against the wall behind you, and then I can stay over here against the desk.”

Peter nodded, appreciating Harley for letting him stay outside of the room. He sat down on the ground before sliding back the few feet to lean against the wall. Harley sat down too, leaning on the side of his desk.

It took Peter a moment to find his words. Looking at Harley and his stupid lop-sided smile. Just existing near Harley made it hard to breathe, let alone hard to talk. And it just wasn’t fair. But he needed to do this. It was important.

“You terrify me, Harley Keener.” Peter’s voice was soft and his smile sad. “Not because I think you’re going to hurt me. Skip, uh, he never did anything, not until he found out I was bi. I didn’t like him very much before everything, but I feel he did the right thing, and I know my therapist says he did the wrong thing, but I disagree.”

Peter took a breath, and Harley just wanted to give Peter a hug and to comfort him. But that isn’t what was needed here. It was obvious Peter needed to talk to someone who won’t judge him. Harley was someone Peter could relate to because of what he went through in Rose Hill. Of course the homophobia never hurt Harley in the ways it hurt Peter, Harley was never raped, but he was beat up over and over and the church goers were never nice either.

“It started when I was talking to May. She was asking about school, and I had started talking about you. Please don’t blame yourself. It isn’t your fault and I didn’t get hurt because of you. But I was talking about you and May asked if I liked you, and I said I did. That’s when he started doing things. I brought up the new dreamy transfer from Tennessee and that was it.”

Pausing for a moment, Peter felt his throat burn and how hard it was to talk. Peter squeezed his eyes shut and took a shaky breath in. Harley held a hand over his mouth, feeling responsible for the pain that was inflicted on Peter. This was harder than Harley thought it was going to be.

“It’s not you’re fault Harley. Okay? It’s my own. At first he just wanted me to cut myself, anytime I had a sinful thought, I used to do that when I was younger, so once the razor was in my hands it was just so easy. But it wasn’t making me straight like he wanted, so he started beating me, but that still didn’t work. Then he came in my room drunk once, claimed I was rubbing off on him. That was the first time he ever touched me. And I started to look at you, and all men really with fear. I didn’t feel attraction, only fear. I thought it worked. I was finally straight y’know. I was so excited to tell Skip, because it was working and May was going to love me again and I was going to be normal. I told him. But that’s when things started. He said I gave him my disease and he had to cure himself. I was straight Harley, I was finally normal, but it kept happening and I was going to die. I knew it. He was going to kill me, Harley, and I ran, which I shouldn’t have. Skip was just trying to help. He wanted to make me better. It was all my fault and I shouldn’t have left. I’m supposed to be Spider-Man, I should have been able to handle it. I should have stayed longer.”

Harley couldn’t help the tears, letting them silently fall. He hated that Peter blamed himself for this. All Peter did was admit his attraction to his family and it nearly killed him. While Harley knew he wasn’t the reason for Peter’s pain, it surely felt like it.

“Peter-“

“No, wait, I’m not done. I said you terrify me. But it’s not because you’re scary or I think you’re going to hurt me. You terrify me Harls, because no matter what Skip did, I still liked you, and I shouldn’t have anymore because he was fixing me. Skip was fixing me but he couldn’t stop me from liking you, Harley, and that terrifies me.”

Peter’s shoulders shook as he tried not to cry, to not dwell on his trauma. He still believed that Skip did the right thing, no one was able to convince him otherwise. It broke everyone’s heart how Peter knew that the things were done to him were wrong, but believed that they were done for the right reasons. Harley hated that Peter hated himself over something he used to be so proud of. It was torture to watch Peter go from this bubbly ball of joy, to someone who retreated so far into themselves and couldn’t trust anyone around him. Harley watched Peter’s spirit die and he tracked his food intake. He should have known.

“Did I ever tell you why I moved to New York?” Harley then chose to say.

He knew that Peter probably didn’t want apologies or reassurance that things weren’t his fault. Peter wouldn’t have come to Harley for that, that was Tony’s area now.

“To go to a better school and work with Mr. Stark?”

“I was forced out of the closet back home. Some kids found out and then spread it around town. Now it spread like wildfire as we all knew each other. My mama was scarred for me. I couldn’t go to church without someone spittin’ at me and I couldn’t go to school without getting beat up. People were tryna’ hit me with their cars. All because I was ‘against the word of god.’ Then one day I was pulled into the fields behind the school and these kids held a gun to my head. The local police blamed me for having a gun to my head and my mama and sister thought I’d leave the house and never come home. So I got sent here when Tony found out about it. I didn’t choose to come out here, but they were going to kill me one day and it was the only way my family could make sure I’m safe.”

Peter was silent to Harley’s confession and Harley couldn’t stop the self-deprecating smile that made its way to his face. It wasn’t something Harley liked to talk about, but this is what Peter needed. Harley blamed himself in the beginning the same way Peter blames himself now. Peter needed to relate and to see that someone else gets it. Nothing was going to change for Peter if he didn’t see that others knew what it was like. Peter was just too stubborn like that.

“Harls…” Peter finally whispered, moving into the boys room.

Peter was cautious with his movements, his eyes holding no trust and he moved closer to Harley. Holding his breath to not scare Peter, Harley did his best to not move, to not do anything that could harm Peter. Finally, Peter stopped, still in the ground and kicking out his one leg to lean against Harley’s. It was a stretch for Peter to reach Harley and he was closer than he originally thought he’d be. Harley’s eyes were wide, blue eyes filled with tears, as the look on his face seemed to ask permission for this to be okay.

“You didn’t deserve that Harley. That was your home and it isn’t fair that you didn’t feel safe there because of who you are.”

Harley smiled and nodded. This, this is what Peter needed. Harley told Peter something personal and hard and something he never wanted to talk about, and Peter got it. He understands the problem.

“I know that now. But I didn’t when I first got here. It was my home, just like it was yours. We should have been able to feel safe.”

And then Peter really got it.

Tony, Pepper, Harley and Peter were all having breakfast together. It was Friday, and Harley didn’t have school. Peter was in a new spot around the table was between Tony and Pepper, and across from Harley. The new spot was a safe enough spot where Peter could actually eat some of his food. So they had pancakes and some fruit, hoping to get Peter engaged and acclimated to a scheduled like again.

Everyone was dressed in regular clothes, ready for their day, except for Peter who wore his pajamas and oversized hoodie. Peter hadn’t had a haircut since the beginning of things with Skip many months ago so his curls were long and unruly, covering his face well enough when his head was tilted forward as it so regularly was now.

“Peter, honey, do you have any plans today?” Pepper asked, keeping her tone light.

“I’m supposed to FaceTime May later, she wants to show me the new place and get my opinion on couches. And Dr. Mitchell says I need to leave the tower and go on a walk or something, I guess.” Peter’s voice was barely above a whisper, and he shrugged as if it didn’t matter.

Pepper hummed, adjusting one of Peter’s curls to fall more naturally.

“Would you like one of us to come with you? Tony has made these great nano-tech masks so we wouldn’t be recognized.”

Peter seemed to consider this, eyes flitting back and forth between Tony and Pepper, before they moved to the elevator. It took another moment for everyone who wasn’t advanced to hear the movement of the mechanisms. The doors opened and Happy came out a smile painted onto his face.

“Guys, the jury made their final decision. Skip’s going to jail, they’re putting him on the predator registry. He’s going to be there the rest of his life.” Happy announced, dropping donuts onto the table.

Everyone cheered except for Peter, happy to see such a horrible person go to jail. Yet through everyone’s happiness, Peter couldn’t help but feel it was wrong.

“Kid, you okay?” Tony asked when the boy stayed silent for too long.

Peter looked up at him, wide eyed and ready to cry. He did feel relief about the idea of never seeing Skip again, but he couldn’t help but feeling like this wasn’t the right move either. Of course Peter couldn’t help but reflect to the conversation with Harley, about how he would have died if he stayed in Rose Hill, the same as if Peter stayed with Skip. It was finally starting to make sense that Skip was wrong, even though it didn’t feel like he was and Peter was confused.

“I need- I need- I can’t.” Peter sobbed. “Where’s May- I need- I can’t- May- I just. Please.”

He tried pushing himself away from the table, to get himself away from the people from his thoughts. Peter shoved at the table, moving the whole thing and felt his legs crumble when he tried to stand up. Breathe, he needs to breathe, and he needs air and he needs to get away.

Someone touches him.

Peter fly’s farther back, crawling away from Skip, from his touch. This was not where Peter wanted to be. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing his nails into his skin, didn’t realize as he dragged them and ripped his skin open. Peter was scared and he just needed to go away.

“Don’t- don’t touch me, please, no.”

He needed to get away. Away, away, away. Not here. Not with Skip he couldn’t let Skip come near him. Skip was a threat, an enemy, except he helped. He did it to help, he was always nice after. Skip would hold Peter as he sobbed and give him a bath and take him to bed. He wasn’t all bad, he was nice sometimes. Bad things just happened because of the man.

“Hi baby, it’s me. You want to tell what’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours?” May spoke.

Peter couldn’t remember May arriving. But here she is, crouching down in front of him wearing her scrubs. Mays hair was falling into her face, and she made sure to stay just a few feet away, in his full view.

“He’s gone. May, he can’t- he wasn’t bad be he deserves it. He deserves it, May. Oh my god. Skip is gone.”

Relief flooded Peter. He was free, finally free. No one in his home was going to tell him that he is a disgrace or a sin. Peter is safe, for the first time in forever, he is safe again. No Skip, no unsafe home. Peter has his family, and that’s really all he needs.

Peter feels safe. His family isn’t going to hurt him.

He’ll be okay.

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escxpedes · 4 years

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loopholes (cont.)

I literally can’t even begin to tell you how much everyone’s support meant to me on the last chapter. All your comments and tags were so sweet, it was seriously the highlight of my day. I’m sorry for the delay, I meant to get this out a couple of days ago, but I’ve come down with a bad cold. This part, while fun, was so hard to get right. Angus Macgyver is a genius, his mind goes a mile a minute, and I wanted to do my best to replicate that. This part is a little slow in getting to the Macriley stuff, but I wanted to show how much he really thinks about things. He’s such a complex character, that if I didn’t do him justice, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself. Also, there’s dialogue in this one! Sadly, Jack isn’t mentioned in this chapter, but he’s there in spirit. Clearly, we all love and miss him. I hope you guys enjoy, the last part will be out soon! x

loop·hole

noun | A loophole is an ambiguity or inadequacy in a system, such as a law or security, which can be used to circumvent or otherwise avoid the purpose, implied or explicitly stated, of the system

Riley finally moves into her new apartment, but struggles to adjust after the events of Codex and the realization of her feelings for Mac. When Mac finds her passed out over her keyboard after a late night of coding at Phoenix, he decides a talk is long overdue. Just some slightly angsty soft!macriley to help you cope with this season 5 hiatus.

of lips that i am yet to kiss (and eyes not met my own.)

It's highly unlikely that you'll find Mac walking down the halls of the Phoenix Foundation so late at night. Without the bustling energy of his coworkers fetching important documents or discussing the best way to break down one of the many mysteries the foundation deals with, the darkened hallways and quiet atmosphere can be unnerving.

Sure, he spends nearly every waking hour employed there, but he'd rather be outside the office in different countries, doing hands-on work and saving lives. When you work in his profession, It can be difficult to separate business and pleasure, but that only makes it more important—if only to conserve what mental health he has left.

However, in the haste of putting together last-minute preparations for yet another meeting with the Department of Justice and trying to make it back to his house in time for something Desi whipped up, he managed to forget his cellphone.

It's funny, mainly because of how little the small device truly matters to Mac.

It only goes to show how insignificant material objects, or even human beings in general, are. The idea that something so meaningless can affect someone's life so much when, if they just looked past that obsession and considered its part in the profound scope of the universe, another perspective would take shape.

It's fascinating stuff, really.

There's a concept essential to understanding Japanese aesthetics, otherwise known as an ancient set of ideals important to Japanese society, called Yūgen. When applied in the right context, Yūgen underlines this deep awareness of the universe and the experiences we have within it. It's often the feeling interpreted when you gaze at the stars late at night or watch the sunset dip behind a hill.

Mac wouldn't think twice before breaking his phone, or rather, breaking the phone of his nearest friend, open for an obscure part that might make one of his many homemade devices come together. However, when he's the only person able to communicate the scientific specifications of an unheard-of-until-recently base plan for saving the planet, he's practically on call 24/7.

He remembers having it in the labs earlier that day when he stopped by before his meeting to remind Bozer to come by his house on Friday for the team's new weekly attempt in group-bonding.

After the betrayals that surfaced during the climax of taking down Codex, the team collectively decided to spend more time as a group in hopes of eliminating any lingering doubts.

They used to hang out all the time before the government dismantled the Phoenix Foundation.

Mac still can't believe that, after everything they had been through, he allowed his friendships to dissipate over the year they had been separate.

Bozer is his childhood best friend, and Riley had become a solid foundation in his life. He didn't have anyone outside his team at Phoenix, and while he deeply cared for Desi, their first relationship was proof that too much time—and too little communication—with each other can do severe damage to one's sanity.

If Russ hadn't brought them back together, would they have tried to reconnect at some point?

Mac wants to say they would have but wouldn't blame them if they didn't; they all lost something they cared about, and each served as a constant reminder of it.

It would've been hard, but part of him feels like living without them is a lot harder.

When he manages to access the lab, flipping his shiny new I.D. card over his fingers and into its place in his wallet, his eyes scan the room. It's empty, which isn't unusual at this time, but years of military training have rewired his brain to notify him of threats, even if there aren't any.

Just like he thought it would be, the device sits untouched a few tables behind Bozer's workspace where Mac had been sitting.

Quickly, because he left the house in a hurry and forgot to leave a note, he scoops up his phone and makes his way towards the exit. There's a couple of missed calls, but it doesn't seem like he missed anything too important.

Not that they would let him.

At any rate, they would probably show up on his doorstep if they couldn't get a hold of him. With days off so few and far between, that's the kind of interaction he's hoping to avoid. Hence, why he came to pick up his phone when he realized it was missing instead of waiting until the next day.

He's nearly made it to the end of the hall when a light flashes in his peripheral vision, coming from the I.T. department.

His body is tense with apprehension; his mind races with several different kinds of possibilities and outcomes. He slows his pace, his movements fluid, silent, and controlled from years of stealth practice.

The light is soft, he notices, as if only one or two monitors are in use.

When he gets to the doorway and nudges open the door, hands at the ready, his entire body sags in relief to see the dark wavy hair he's come to associate with one of his closest friends.

"Riles?"

The nickname falls from his mouth before he can stop it, and even though the light from the monitor creates a halo above her head, shadowing her features, it's unmistakably her.

She doesn't move.

It becomes abundantly clear why as Mac moves towards her and notices the monitor's screen filling up with a sequence of letters that look nothing like coding despite his lack of knowledge in programming languages.

Her elbow balances precariously on the edge of the table, her arms creating a makeshift pillow for her head. The weight of her forearm bears down on the keyboard, causing the side of her hand to press down multiple keys at once.

He shakes his head a little, amused by the situation unfolding.

Her cheek rests comfortably on her hand, a serene expression masking the signs of exhaustion that showed on her face.

Mac's lips curved into a soft smile, seeing Riley in any state that wasn't cloaked in layers of worry or anxious determination always washed away any doubts he might have about working in such a stressful field.

The scars that covered his body, the secrets he has to keep, and the pain he has to endure are so unbelievably worth it as long as she out of harm's way and able to sleep peacefully.

Of course, he couldn't imagine anyone else by his side on a mission, knowing they share the same love and passion for kicking ass and saving lives.

However, he also knows that more lies underneath the surface.

He wouldn't wish the hardships of this job on anyone. Seeing it affect someone he cares about, watching it break them down slowly pulls at his heartstrings and fills him with a knowing sadness.

When a piece of hair falls into her face, his fingers don't hesitate to gently brush it behind her ear, lightly tracing her cheekbone and caressing her cheek.

Kneeling, his hand drops to her shoulder in an attempt to gently wake her.

After a couple of shakes, the expressive brown eyes he's come to look forward to seeing begin to flutter open and nearly render him speechless.

She blinks a couple of times, inhaling slowly, "Macgyver."

Her voice is full of sleep and breaks from misuse, but the way she says his name—like there's nobody else she'd expect to see when she wakes up —has him grinning from ear to ear.

"Good morning, sleepyhead."

Rising from her position on the table, she scans the room before meeting his eyes and scoffing, "It's hardly the morning."

He laughs softly, holding back the urge to mention that technically it is morning considering its past twelve. Instead, he focuses on the matter at hand, or more likely, the question at hand.

"What are you doing here so late?"

She's more alert now, sitting back in her chair and lifting her arms to stretch out the muscles that stiffened while she slept, glancing at her work on the monitor.

Her face drops into a grimace when she notices her mistake, "Matty and I were talking about updating the foundation's firewall and spyware," she yawns, "I must have been more tired than I realized."

Mac's eyebrows scrunch in thought, remembering something Bozer said earlier about Riley spending quite a few nights this week working late.

Between going over his mother's scientific data, trying to patch up whatever relationship he had left with Desi, and making sure he didn't go off the rails with grief, his effort to check in on everyone decreased significantly.

"Yeah, you've been doing that a lot lately," his hand returned to her shoulder to emphasize his point, "Everything okay?"

She waves him off, "There's too much work that needs to be done around here before we can get things running the way they used to."

Riley doesn't lie to him—if you overlook the whole situation with her ex, Aubrey, that is, but the movements she's making indicate otherwise.

Her eyes refuse to meet his, flickering down and to the right. When she talks, her head shakes lightly, and she purses her lips in an attempt to give off a careless impression. Maybe someone who doesn't know her or didn't train to pick up on it would believe her, but he knew better.

She was definitely hiding something from him.

Part of him understands that if she wanted to talk about it, she would. However, his instincts urge him to press harder, locate the problem, and bring back her contagious smile that always seems to fill him with warmth.

As much as he doesn't want to admit it, you can't patch some things together by sheer will and sellotape, so instead, he stands up and drops his hand from her shoulder.

"Let's get you home."

#macgyver #macriley #angus macgyver #riley davis #i really hope you like this

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litwitlady · 4 years

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2x13 Interlude

Takes place immediately after they find Tripp’s body beneath the tool shed and Michael ostensibly moves yet another body. This is very heavy Alex angst - please be warned. Warnings also for anxiety and panic attacks, abuse and violence. The end is slightly fluffy, I promise. But it takes a minute to get there. I wrote this mostly for myself, but thought I’d share anyway.

After Michael leaves, Alex slips back into the house and heads directly to his old bedroom. The one he shared with Flint for so many long, miserable years. The door is ajar, and he nudges it fully open. He sucks in a breath as he looks around and notices that next to no memories from his childhood remain. The walls have been repainted; all his stuff removed – likely thrown out with some random week’s trash. In the corner by the window, a single desk and chair remain. Both flea market finds he and Greg had hauled home one Christmas. Alex walks towards the small desk and opens the top right drawer wondering if it’s possible his old eyeliner had somehow managed to escape his father’s purge. But no – just a bare, wood drawer. Only the memory lingers.

Alex sits in the middle of the floor and notices one of his knuckles is bleeding. He sucks on the injury and lets the coppery taste of iron sit on his tongue. He thinks about how much blood the past has taken from him, from Michael, from Tripp. That tool shed built by an evil man and maintained by another evil man. Both men a part of him. Connected through the very same blood he spent so many years shedding at his father’s hands. The overwhelming shame of his legacy still clasps at his heart, threatening to never let go no matter how many tool sheds he destroys. Tears crawl down his face, burning his skin along the way.

He reaches inside his shirt and grips Tripp’s dog tags that are quickly becoming the lifeline he never knew he needed. Not every part of himself is inherently evil. God, how much he wants to have faith in that belief. He lays back, staring at the ceiling trying desperately to believe Tripp is just as much - if not more so - a part of him than Harlan, than Jesse. Alex knows he’s done evil things – in deserts halfway across the world. To people – men, women, children – that he’d never even met. How many times he’s lain awake staring at similar blank ceilings reliving those memories and trying to convince himself what he did was for survival, for love of country. But ultimately being left with the hollow truth that none of the people he’s killed had to die in order for him to live. A truth locked deep inside his heart, but not so deep that he can ever forget. No. He’ll have to live with that truth for the rest of his life.

His thoughts wonder back to Michael, replaying the way he’d swung that axe so gleefully. Alex could almost see the weight falling off his shoulders. Closing his eyes, he tries to write that memory onto his heart. That’s how he wants to remember tonight. As a healing for Michael – the boy, the man – he’s loved for the past 11 years. And it doesn’t matter if Michael never loves him again because he’ll have this memory to keep him warm now. Maybe it will never replace the horror of what Jesse did all those years ago. But it’s enough for now. Like a cozy blanket he’ll pull out when those terrible images reappear. He’ll wrap himself tight in this memory of a sweaty, smiling Michael Guerin wildly swinging an axe and destroying the thing that has haunted his hand, his memories, his heart for over a decade.

Several long minutes pass as Alex lays there running his fingers over Tripp’s engraved name again and again. He wants to call Michael. Ask him to come back. To lie there with him for the rest of the night. Maybe the rest of forever. But he can’t because Michael is no longer his. The ache in his heart pulls more tears from his eyes as he curls up on his side. He knows he needs to go home. Take off the prosthetic. Do his PT. That he’ll regret this in the morning when the muscle spasms come for him. But there’s a small voice inside his head whispering that maybe he deserves that pain. After all, he, too, is complicit in so many of the ways Michael Guerin has hurt over the years.

A soft knock on the door jars him from his emotional spiral. He turns to find Greg looking down at him clearly concerned. He sits up, dropping the dog tags back down his shirt to rest against his heart. Greg reaches out a hand to help him up. Alex gladly accepts but can’t quite meet his brother’s eye. ‘You alright?’ Alex sighs and nods. He can tell Greg doesn’t believe him and well, who would?

‘Guerin go home? You guys did some real damage back there.’

Alex doesn’t say anything, just shifts all of his weight to his left leg and grimaces at the pain in his right hip. Greg grabs his elbow to help him balance. ‘Come sit down and talk to me, Alex.’

But Alex doesn’t want to talk. He wants to go home, crawl into bed, and spend the rest of the night chasing nightmares. Or maybe he’ll finally take one of his sleeping pills and erase the world for a little while. At least he has options.

Greg seems to understand. ‘Well, at least let me drive you home. No need to stress your leg any further.’

Alex finds the energy to speak and shakes his head. ‘It’s okay. I drive with my left leg, anyway. Plus, both my crutches are in the car. I’ll be fine. Just been a long day.’ Week. Year. Life. He swallows and tries to muster up something he hopes resembles a smile. Greg’s face lets him know he’s failed. ‘Listen, I’ll come back tomorrow. Help you eat all those disgusting casseroles. I’ll explain everything. I promise.’

Greg helps him out to his car. Once he’s inside with the door blissfully closed to anymore questions, Alex deflates, sagging back against the leather seat, and starts to cry again. He knows that there’s something incredibly broken deep down in the dark place he tries not to think about. The stress of the past week is finally catching up with him and he knows he needs help but can’t figure out how to ask for it. Instead, he starts the car and heads home, tears freefalling and chest heaving. He’s scared to look at the passenger seat, scared he’ll see his father sitting there. Smug and gloating that somehow even in death he’s still winning.

Alex focuses as best he can on the road directly in front of him and manages to make it home safely. When he turns into his driveway, he’s shocked to find Michael’s truck parked in his regular spot – tailgate down and waiting for him like so many nights ago. Alex’s chest clenches at the memory of Michael’s ‘I like Maria, okay’. He can feel panic rising and worries that he’s now in danger of a full-blown panic attack if this night doesn’t end quickly.

He shuts the SUV off but doesn’t move. Tension begins to coil in his chest, wrapping his lungs in a vice grip that he’s having a hard time breathing around. Michael must notice that something’s wrong because he hurriedly moves to open his door and unbuckle his seat belt. Alex barely registers any of this as he tries to focus on his breathing. He can distantly hear Michael calling his name, feel his hand wrap around his neck. And then there’s Michael’s hand on his chest and his hand on Michael’s chest. Alex can feel Michael’s heart beating solidly beneath his palm. Can feel the strong in and out motion of his breathing. He clings to that and tries to match him, breath for breath. It takes a moment, but eventually, the pressure in his head eases, sounds return to normal, and the weight on his chest finally subsides. He sucks in as much oxygen as he can in long, deep breaths.

Michael takes a step back giving him some space, not knowing what to do next. Alex hates the lines of worry written across his face. Hates that he’s the one who has put them there. But he’s also never needed someone as much as he needs Michael in this moment. He moves to get out of the car, but his right leg is no longer obeying him, and he can’t hide the groan that escapes him as he shifts towards the door. But Michael’s hands are there to catch him and ease him off the seat, taking the brunt of Alex’s weight onto his own shoulders.

‘My crutches are in the back.’ Michael helps Alex lean against the driver’s side door and then turns to grab the crutches from their perch on the backseat. He hands them to Alex and watches as he puts his arms through the grips, adjusts his stance until he’s as comfortable as he’s going to get. Alex closes the door behind him and notices that Michael has his keys. He presses the lock button on the key fob and follows Alex up to his front door in silence. Alex suspects Michael’s using his telekinesis to ease the walk. They turn to face each other, neither knowing what to say. All that comes to Alex is a simple thank you. He knows it’s not enough.

Michael thumbs away the tears that are somehow still falling down Alex’s cheeks and unlocks his front door. The alarm starts to beep when the door opens, and Alex gives Michael the code to disarm the system. He makes his way into his bedroom and collapses on his bed. Michael takes the crutches from him and places them next to his nightstand. He kneels at his feet and begins taking off Alex’s shoes. He glances up at Alex, asking for permission to remove the prosthetic next. Alex gives a small nod and watches how gently Michael tends to him, all soft tugs and gentle pulls. He’s too tired to care how intimate a situation this is between the two of them. Too tired to think about Maria or not being good enough. He just unbuttons his jeans and lets Michael pull them off him as he tosses his shirt to the floor.

He watches as Michael grabs the lotion from his bedside and begins to massage the tight muscles in his right thigh, from his knee to his hip. Alex relaxes back onto his pillow, closing his eyes and thinking that maybe the nightmares won’t find him after all. His thoughts drift as Michael’s fingers continue to work their magic, shifting to his left leg knowing how much extra work it’s put in today as well.

What feels like a just a moment later, Alex jerks awake suddenly not realizing he’d fallen asleep. Michael is curled up next to him, snoring softly. He considers waking him and telling him to go home or to Maria or wherever he belongs now. But he can’t bring himself to give up the alien warmth and the way his body fits so perfectly next to his own. It’s selfish and he knows it. But he doesn’t care. Alex settles back against Michael and pulls his arms tightly around him. Michael’s left hand comes to rest on his chest and Alex realizes that the bandana is gone. And for the first time, Alex thinks he feels something inside him start to heal.

#malex #malex fic #alex manes #the angst is so strong with this one

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dreadwulf · 4 years

Text

after every plan had failed and there was nothing more to tell

(pt. 1 is here)

It seems she will live after all.

Her body is stubborn. For all the damage done to it, it clings robustly to life. It does not require any desire on her part to live, it just goes on doing it. Her wounds close and bones mend, and day by day there is less pain than before.

Even after days without food, she does not simply fade away. She lingers, she feels, she sees. There is not much to see in her darkened tent where she is staked to the ground, but she sees things anyway. She thinks of the white beaches of Tarth and the waves breaking on the shore, and they are as real to her as her hand before her face. She can hear the roaring of the surf and smell the salt in the air. Remember, her mind is telling her. Tarth is still there. You can see it again.

In time she is hungry. It does not rouse her right away, but grows slowly and steadily until it seems to consume her entire being, slowly tormenting her awake until she eats the food they have brought her simply to be rid of the feeling.

Again her body has made her choices for her, and she will have to go along with it. After that, she eats whatever’s offered her, even if a bit sullenly. It makes her feel more herself, and she will need her strength if she is going to go on being alive.

Then they bring her heart back to her.

Two soldiers, heavy-handed, not knowing what riches they carry, lift the flap of her tent. They call out to her and when Brienne looks up she sees in silhouette a small figure, a boy, held between them.

“Pod!” The name escapes her lips like a bark of pain. Pod is dead. It cannot be. This is a cruel trick.

“My lady ser!” The boy squirms in the guards’ grasp, kicking at the air. They jerk him this way and that and finally release him; the boy hits the ground running and rushes straight for Brienne.

Podrick falls on her weeping so she can barely make out what he is saying. “My lady Ser, after that night I thought you were surely dead. When I learned the Lannisters had you I came to help.”

Over them the soldiers frown. “He was trying to rescue you. He managed to injure two of us. Not very badly - he isn’t much with a blade.”

Brienne holds him at arm’s length and looks him over, trembling. “You are unhurt? How is this possible?”

The boy hiccups, tears and snot running down his face. “I was playing dead, my lady. When the fighting started I took a blow to the head and fell down, but it seemed sensible to stay there. I saw milord Jaime hit you with his dagger and you went down too. I laid still amongst the bodies until the shouting stopped and the soldiers rode away. Next morning I looked and looked for you and you weren’t anywhere. I thought you must have burnt up, with the Dread Lady.”

He sniffles and looks utterly miserable. Brienne wipes at his face with her sleeve.

“I am well, Pod,” she lies. “What about Ser Hyle?”

He shakes his head no. She does not inquire further.

“The Brotherhood is gone. The soldiers killed many of them and the rest scattered. The Red Priest ran off into the woods. I was too scared to go very far at first and then I couldn’t find where they had gone, but I saw Lannister banners at Pennytree and I followed them back here. I’m sorry Ser, I meant to rescue you but I failed.”

She holds onto the lad tightly. “Thank you,” she tells him over and over. At least he tried.

The guards shift restlessly as they embrace, until at last they seem to lose patience. “You will come now and join the other boys, squire. There are several lads your age we are keeping in this camp, and you will sleep with them.”

A fierceness that Brienne does not recognize rises up suddenly within her. “You keep children as prisoners? Have you no honor? Let the boy go. He is no danger to you.”

They are unmoved. “We’ll take good care of him. Come on now.”

“Please, at least allow him to stay with me!” she pleads with them. Here, she can protect him, even if she cannot set him free.

Too many hands grab at him, drag him up and away from her. “He will stay with the others. Come now.”

Brienne snarls at them like an angry mongrel, but she cannot prevent the soldiers taking Pod away. Not while she is chained to the ground, and weakened by injury.

She recovers herself in earnest after that. Podrick needs her; she must be strong, alert. If indeed she is given the opportunity to leave, or even if she is not, she must escape. Wherever Pod and these other children are imprisoned, she will free them. They will return to the road, find somewhere safe to ride out the winter.

The next morning they march. Well, Brienne does not march - she rides in a wagon with the army provisions, her hands bound. Around her the Lannister army is on the move, men on foot and horseback with arms and provisions, moving slowly but steadily from morning to night. It is a monotonous journey but the ride is almost pleasant -- the chilly air and dim sunshine are refreshing after so long in a darkened tent, and they return her strength to her rapidly. She still winces at every jolt, the wagon bumping over the snowy terrain reminding her of every wound she carries. But it is less and less, and day by day she is stronger.

This will heal, he had said.

When Brienne has strength enough, she might leap from the wagon and make a run for it. But she does not know where they are keeping Podrick, and so she will wait. She does not know what she is waiting for, but she will know the moment when it arrives.

When you escape the villainous Kingslayer in the Riverlands you can safely journey North, or wherever decent people go now.

Jaime Lannister rides at the front of the army on his destrier Glory, a magnificent grey stallion dressed in the crimson of his house. His golden hair shimmers with flakes of snow when she catches sight of him, and his mien is grim and serious. He does not look upon her.

Perhaps he means her to take the initiative, and get herself out of his sight. Part of her wants to do it, to run away and away and never come back. Another part of her simply wants him to look on her again, just once more. Let her tell him again how she had agonized over her choice, so that he might despise her just a little bit less. One ounce of forgiveness, and she will ask for nothing more in all her life.

Jaime does not come back to her. While they are stopped at the end of each day Brienne stares at the tent flap well into the night but he does not appear. Only her meals come to her, and she finishes them. She stands, cautiously, so much as her chains will allow, and moves her body experimentally, testing her limits.

She must be strong for Pod.

After several days of marching, when the sun is dipping in the sky and they stop to make camp, Brienne is left behind in the wagon to contemplate the sunset until they have put up her tent and prepared her shackles. But this time the guards who have staked her into the ground each night and left her, they instead bring her to the Commander’s tent and bid her stand between them, her hands bound together.

She is filthy, her hair caked with dirt, and her own blood is dried on her clothing, on her skin. Amongst the finery of the Lord Commander’s tent, where everything is clean and polished and fine, she feels even more unkempt and ungainly. She stands between her guards and slumps, her chin nearly resting on her collarbone.

The Lord Commander takes no note of her, seemingly. His armor is gleaming, his crimson cloak spotless at the edge of her vision. He stands behind a fine desk that they have seemingly carried across the Riverlands for him. All around him is crimson and gold, the ghastly colors of House Lannister. In the torchlight the billowing walls look bloody and foreboding.

He scrawls orders and hands them to men who run eagerly out of the room. He takes messages from other men who come running in. Something is happening of great import, she gathers, and it must have to do with where they are headed to. She hears fleet and Golden Company, and references to someone called Aegon. Named for the dead prince? There is an invasion, it seems, by some other forces who march under the Targaryen banner. Brienne hadn’t thought there were any Targaryens left. Regardless, someone is marching on King’s Landing, and the Lannister forces are racing back to the capital to aid in its defense.

After a time of quiet conference with his men, Lord Lannister raises his voice just loud enough for her to hear.

“We camp at Maidenpool tomorrow, and then to King’s Landing. Set camp just south of the hills, a good distance from the hamlet - there are Tully supporters sheltering there, and we should not court skirmishes at this time. We will have battles enough ahead of us when we reach the capital.”

Brienne listens carefully. Tully supporters. Might she reach them there, and travel with them North? If she tells them she has escaped from the Lannister camp, will they believe her? She does not know what news has traveled of the Brotherhood’s demise, whether she is denounced a traitor or praised an ally of that grim fellowship. The Brotherhood had hung her, but would anyone still living know that?

Again Jaime’s voice cuts into her whirling thoughts. “The Riverlands are riled after we dispersed the Brotherhood, but we left few survivors to tell the tale and none would know what precisely occurred. We should not antagonize them, but I do not expect any trouble.”

Though he does not look at her, she knows for certain this last is aimed precisely at her. He may stand surrounded by his men, and speaks to them, the words are meant for her ears.

Brienne’s eyes widen. He has summoned her here to seemingly no purpose other than to overhear this information. Why is he doing this?

His eyes flickering to her capture this reaction, and as quickly shut it down. With a dismissive gesture he addresses the guards at her elbows. “Take the oathbreaker back to her cell. I can’t stand to look on her a moment longer.”

Tomorrow, she thinks again. Tomorrow I must escape. And then Jaime will march on and I will never see him again.

“My lord,” she speaks up as her guards take her by the arm, “don’t you wish to interrogate me? There is much that I can tell you.”

Let me explain. I’ll tell you everything. Only give me a chance.

He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “I know all I need to.”

“At least free the boy,” she suddenly pleads, and at her plaintive tone her captors slow and stop. “He has raised no arms against you.”

Jaime hands a new missive over, and several of his lieutenants rush from the tent.

Desperately, she raises her voice. “Please, Ser. He had no part in my actions. He was a prisoner of the Brotherhood just as you were. He is a cousin to your Ser Illyn, is he not? His name is Podrick Payne.”

“I know,” the Lord Commander responds, finally, without looking up from his missive. “I know very well who I have taken into this camp. Ser Illyn has little use for a squire and less for a child, so he is staying with the other boys. I spoke to the lad myself and he seems in good health.”

He interrogated poor Podrick? Brienne is incensed. Her hands form fists at her sides, at least partly in frustration that even now he will not look at her, and she draws herself up straight and tall.

“You would imprison and question a child? How many children have you taken from their homes, that they have their own jailers?”

Several unpleasant expressions pass across his face in succession. The last is harder, and angrier. The letter falls to his desk forgotten, as Jaime comes around his desk and approaches her in sharp strides.

“The boy,” he tells her firmly, stopping just before her, “is comfortable. We had a perfectly pleasant conversation, no tortures involved. You can ask him of it yourself.”

He holds her gaze firmly now, his green eyes steely and sharp. Though she wants to falter, she stands her ground. Looks right back, and does not blink.

“Did he tell you what happened with the Brotherhood?”

“He tells me you were forced to betray me to save his life.”

For the first time, Brienne feels a spark of hope. Surely he must believe Podrick’s tale, he is only a boy, and too frightened to lie. “Then you believe us?”

His smile is cutting. “I’ve decided that your actions were more in stupidity than malice, yes.”

“Stupidity, Ser?” She gapes at him, shocked. “I had no other choice!”

“You might have asked me for help.”

Brienne is thunderstruck by the simplicity of the idea, which she had so quickly dismissed at the time.

“Ask you to willingly make yourself a hostage? To save two people you had never met? I had assumed you would say no.”

His eye twitches subtly, almost invisibly. His voice sounds dispassionate, but he is not.

“Did it not occur to you there were other solutions? I have an army, we might have simply invaded their camp.”

She falters. It sounds so reasonable now. “They would have killed Pod and Ser Hyle the second they saw your soldiers.”

“And you wouldn’t risk them.”

“No.”

“But you could risk me.” He lands on the last word like a blow, and there, there it is, the hurt. His face tightens, and he swallows. The wound her betrayal opened bleeds still, though he covers it well.

There’s no way to respond to his accusation, because obviously she could take that risk. She did. She hadn’t thought of it that way because she had no intention of letting any harm come to him. She had some idea that if she played along, followed their rules, honor would show her the way to get them all clear of it alive. She would have risked any kind of harm to herself to make that happen.

Maybe it was stupidity, after all.

She bites her lip hard, and then tries to explain. “They told me there were spies in your camp, loyal to the Brotherhood, and if I tried to warn you they would kill us all.”

He scoffs, stepping back from her. “What would they need you for then? Why not have these ‘spies’ murder me themselves? There is no sense to your story.”

She hangs her head again, has to look away. “I know it makes little sense, Ser. I think they meant only to be as cruel as possible. They wanted to take you alive, for their sport.”

Jaime laughs. “I gathered that. I saw enough of their sport before my men came to my rescue.”

He had. The Brotherhood had put him in stocks, kicked him, spat on him. And Lady Stark had-- but it wasn’t really Lady Stark. It was a monster.

His cruel smile tightens; he is remembering the same scene, she knows it. How it must have looked from his position. How nightmarish. And her the cause of it, leading him blithely to his doom.

Accusingly, he goes on. “If Ser Ilyn hadn’t followed us your Brotherhood would have roasted me on a spit. Or worse.”

As earnestly as she can, she tells him: “I would never have allowed that.”

“Forgive me if I don’t find that especially comforting,” he snaps. “I don’t fault you for trading a Kingslayer’s life for that of an innocent child. But you cannot expect me to trust in you after that. Not ever again.”

“But you can,” Brienne says breathlessly. “I swear to you that you can.”

“Swear it on what? Your honor?”

She flinches.

Brienne takes a deep breath, fighting to keep her voice from quavering like a child’s. “You march to battle at the capital, I heard you say. Return the sword to me and I will aid you.”

Jaime takes no time to consider her offer.

“No. I will find another to wield Oathkeeper. You are not worthy of it.”

Her vision blurs. She closes her eyes over the tears but it can’t stop them trickling down her face. The best she can do is stay silent and not break out sobbing, though the sobs are there, caught in her chest like an animal in a trap.

“Take her back over the hillside,” she hears Jaime say, and she allows the guards to lead her away.

********************************************

The hillside is not a convenient way back to her shackles. It requires that she be led outside the camp and a little way up an incline, so that she can see against the setting sun the entirety of the camp spread out before her, and to the other side a grassy valley dusted with a layer of snow.

She sees them over the rise now, through the tears still shimmering in her eyes. A small crowd of boys running together freely over the valley, playing some sort of game. Sliding in the snow, crashing into one another purposefully. Their laughter and shouting reaches her on the wind, and she thinks she can hear Pod’s amongst them, where he races towards their shared goal.

These boys don’t look like prisoners. They look more like wards of the camp, and well cared-for. They aren’t locked up anywhere. They look happy.

“Call them back for supper,” one of her jailers says to the other, “and take this one back to the holding tent.”

***********************************************************

Brienne lies on her back in the holding tent and her tears dry on her face.

She had it wrong about the children, clearly. And he wanted her to know it. It seems it bothered Jaime that she would think so little of him. Her opinion of him still matters at least this much.

He cannot entirely hate her, if that is so.

But Oathkeeper… she opens and closes her hand at her side and she can still feel the place where the lion’s head pressed against her palm, feel the weight of it in her muscles, the perfect balance of it as the blade cut through the air. Her magic sword. She will never hold such a blade again.

He is right; she is not worthy of a valyrian sword. What has she ever done but fail? Fail repeatedly and worse, and become ever more ragged and battered in the process. She has been a poor knight; she has broken all her oaths and lost her honor.

Maybe Pod would be better off here. With boys his own age, safe and well fed and out of danger.

She might believe that, except that they are marching into some kind of battle at King’s Landing. Surely the Crown forces, added to House Lannister banners, can handle any sort of attack with ease, but the thought of Podrick squiring for some stranger fills her with frustration and worry.

Podrick came to help her; she has to be worthy of that. She will have to find her way back to honor, and bring Pod with her. Perhaps someday, with great striving, she will accomplish something deserving of the faith that has been placed in her, and in so doing earn it back.

Maybe then Jaime will forgive her.

************************************************

The boys are dumping snow over each other when she sees them next, in the morning, when she has been allowed to relieve herself outside. Two smaller ones had filled a bucket with snow and overturned it on an older boy when he stopped to fix his boot. Then they had all shrieked and run, gathering snow midstride and forming hurried snowballs to fling at one another. She stops to look at them, fixing her trousers between the guards perpetually at her elbow.

She hears laughter, so familiar it makes her ache.

Brienne turns to look for him, could not have stopped herself turning to him if she had tried. She finds Jaime standing not far away. He looks like he has just risen from his bed, not yet fully dressed in his commander’s gear. His golden hair is slightly wet and in disarray, as though he has just splashed water across his face. He must have been passing by and, like her, stopped to watch their antics.

When he notices her his laughter dies. For a moment he just looks at her, and she looks at him.

Then he gestures after the shouting boys.

“Noble sons of the Riverlands. They’re intended to be hostages, but I have more or less forgotten to imprison them, and they have more or less forgotten to escape. I suppose we will have to leave them behind soon, when we march to King’s Landing. I think the men will miss their adventures, when they are gone.”

She speaks up quickly. “I mistook you Ser. My apologies.”

He nods shortly, and visibly relaxes.

“My squire has neglected me,” Jaime says, gesturing to his disheveled state. He sounds far better humored than the day prior. “He has been running about with the boys, supposedly monitoring your young Podrick. Well, I won’t begrudge Peck a few more months of playing in the snow. One can’t do it forever, and he will be of age soon, and I’ll have to knight him. No more snowballs after that.”

He stops himself. Turns his head away. It seems he must remind himself to be angry with her, and not to fall back into the kind of easy rapport they once had.

Before her guards can react, she breaks out into a run - painful and listing, ungraceful - the twenty feet to reach his side and grasps Jaime by the arm so that he will turn his face back to her. She has to see his face. Today they will reach Maidenpool.

He lifts his hand to the guards, to keep them at bay, and glares at her challengingly. His beloved face, beautiful and cruel, turns back to her.

Her heart pounds in her ears, drowning out all else. She must try again. What can she do? What can she possibly say to make up for what she has done?

It pains him, though not so much as it pains her. This double-edged blade they are both gripping onto, when perhaps they should let it go.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks in a low voice, so that no one can overhear. “I know you have not forgiven me. Would you really help me now? You would release me to your enemies, where I could do any amount of damage to you?”

Jaime laughs. It is a mirthless laugh, one she has heard him give many times before she understood how much it concealed behind it.

“I don’t know why. I suppose…” he trails off. His green eyes appear uncertain, and then he is slipping out of her grasp. “I suppose I’m a great golden fool.”

Before she can reply, he turns and disappears into his tent.

***********************************************************

The ride to Maidenpool is uneventful, and she dozes through much of it as she rocks back and forth in the provisions wagon. As they reach the edges of the Riverlands the rood becomes smoother, and in contrast the snow falls heavier. The horizon turns white, and a terrible quiet falls over the countryside.

She wakes with a jolt when they begin to unpack the wagon. Dazed, she climbs out from the back, sees in the distance the smoke and movement of the hamlet in the fading afternoon light, and shivers in the icy breeze.

Maidenpool. Where Tully sympathizers might receive her. Jaime told her she would escape, and this is where she will do it. Perhaps in the night, when everyone is asleep. Perhaps right now, while they are unpacking the wagon. She stands and stares at a puff of smoke lazily lifting into and merging with the cloudy sky.

“You stink,” today’s guard tells her, when he grabs her by the arm. She could throw him to the ground if she wanted, but she does not.

In her tent she sits and thinks, and watches the tent flap all night long.

In the morning they bypass the breakfast cookfire and the ditch where the soldiers have done their business. “We’re taking you to bathe in the brook while the others strike camp.”

You must want me to freeze to death, she thinks. No stream would be bearable in this cold.

But she does not think on it much at all as she walks between their armored shoulders, their blonde heads bobbing several inches below hers. She only walks, and watches her breath cloud the air. Inside she is quiet and blank as untouched snow.

Behind a stand of trees, her companions prod her forwards. They will remain here. She is to keep walking.

There before her, through the trees, is the brook. Unfrozen as yet, though no doubt as cold as ice, and babbling merrily.

Waiting beside it is Jaime, in his fine commander’s armor, and nearby him nibbling at a spare patch of grass stands a pretty chestnut mare.

For a moment she cannot move.

Of course he kept his word. He had not even really given it, but somehow she had never doubted him.

She walks to him like a sleepwalker, slowly. He does not hear her at first, over the sound of water. Not until she is close enough that she could easily overpower him, if she had wanted to. They are alone here together, and she is at his back, and he is unguarded. Relaxed, unconcerned. It is in a way an accusation, and an admission.

“This is where you escape,” he tells her, turning.

Here? Now? But Jaime is riding straight to King’s Landing to defend it, and she will have no more plausible opportunities to run away.

“I cannot leave without Pod,” she protests, and he smiles.

“I know.” Jaime gestures behind her, into the trees.

When Podrick appears through the trees, he is breathless with laughter, his cheeks ruddy, and she almost doesn’t recognize the quiet, downcast boy who had followed her from King’s Landing. Beside him is an older boy, taller and skinnier, with just the beginnings of a beard. He grabs Pod around the shoulders affectionately and rubs his head, mussing his hair in all directions. They look more like brothers than a chaperone and a captive.

Her heart grows even heavier, seeing that.

“It was the worst thing I have ever done,” she says suddenly, very aware of Jaime standing at her side. “Lying to you. I hated it, and I hated myself for doing it. If there had been any other way --”

“You did the right thing,” he says, solemn, still watching Podrick and Peck. “The right thing is often the worst thing, I can tell you that better than anyone.”

She wonders then what he is thinking - is this why he is helping her now? Is he comparing her to his younger self, her soiled reputation like his own? But then, who is her Aerys Targaryen?

“Peck,” Jaime says to the older boy. “Did you bring it?”

“Of course, Ser.” The older boy takes something out from under his arm. “The boys were quite impressed with it, like you said. I had to fight to keep them from running off with it themselves, once we snuck it out of the armory.”

“Good work.” Jaime takes the linen-wrapped item from his squire. “I assume you took the opportunity to try it out yourself?”

The skinny lad looks abashed, and Jaime claps him on the shoulder. “Of course you did.”

Podrick, grinning, ambles to Brienne’s side and squeezes her arm. He looks like he’s had a fine time. “Ready to go?” he asks her.

Still, she hesitates. “But I -- I don’t have --”

“You do.” Jaime hands her the wrapped bundle. “This is how you got away. Your squire snuck away from his games and attacked Peck here, and he found you bathing in the brook. Or something like that, I’ll work out the details.”

She knows the weight of it immediately. Oathkeeper. He’s giving it back to her. “But you said --”

He cuts her off. “You won’t get far in the Riverlands without a blade.”

“Not this blade.” She tries to meet his eyes. “I cannot wield this sword and call it Oathkeeper when I betrayed you with it.”

He keeps his grass-green eyes on their hands, where he pushes the sword at her. “You can. You swore me no oath, so no oaths were broken.”

I could swear new oaths, she thinks. I could swear them to you. I would fight with you in King’s Landing, I would fight for your son. For you.

It strikes her that there is nearly nothing she would not do for him, if he only asked. In that moment she knows herself better than perhaps she ever has, knows that all she has ever wanted was for someone to rely on her, to have complete faith in her. Jaime had that once, and now it is gone. He will not ask.

“Thank you,” she whispers. How do you thank someone for your life, and for being in it, even if only briefly? Words seem insufficient.

She wanted it to be him. She wanted to restore him to honor and to have his admiration for it, wanted that as much as she had ever wanted Renly’s regard. More, if she is honest.

If he says something, she tells herself. If he says anything, even one word, I will stay. I will pledge him my sword, and fight for him.

But Jaime says nothing more. Not to her. He and his squire help Pod to mount the chestnut mare, and he is advising the boy to keep working on his swordplay, if his rescue attempt was any indication he is going to need a lot more practice.

Brienne straps Oathkeeper to the fine leather saddle and watches Jaime for any sign. But he’s not even looking at her. If he’s not looking at Pod or Peck he’s looking up at the treetops, at the sky. Anywhere but her.

It seems there is nothing left for either of them to say.

So she mounts the chestnut horse with Podrick and rides away.

#ring of fire #the worst-case scenario fic continues!#this is really rough but I'm working on not taking months to fix every little thing so here #tumblr fic

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youllallriseintheink · 3 years

Text

Close Call

Okay, so this is going to be heavier than the stuff I usually write. If that’s not your cup of tea, don’t worry! I have something much more fun and visceral in the works and I plan on dropping it next Wednesday (nine days from now).

---

It was the early morning hours when Shawn returned home from a night of drinking like any other. He and Grant and Lacie had played cards, pool, and darts (the latter they'd played in such a state of intoxication that it was lucky they hadn't hurt anyone). Shawn was glad that Grant had showed up this time. They'd been dating for several months now and probably still were. It was hard to tell. Grant hadn't had the time or "hadn't been up" to going out anywhere in a month, and it had Shawn wondering if he'd just tapped out of the relationship. He had seemed worse for wear lately and of course things at Joey Drew Studios hadn't gotten easier on anyone, so maybe he wasn't lying. At very least, this night had been great, just like things had been before (well, before Grant left a bit early in tears. Sometimes booze just did that to him and he needed to sleep it off), so maybe everything was about to go back to normal. On that comforting note, Shawn dragged himself to bed.

Shawn was awoken by the ringing of his phone. The voice on the other side struck him with fear- it was Grant, and he sounded terrified.

"Shawn, get over here right now. I did something stupid. Please, come here. Help me."

"I'll be right there," Shawn promised.

The door to Grant's house was unlocked. The house was deafeningly silent.

"Grant?" Shawn called. Nothing. Shawn checked around the house. Once he came upon the bathroom, which reeked of alcohol and vomit, he knew he'd found the place. Clicking the lights on, he found his boyfriend passed out face-down on the floor, surrounded by empty or half-empty bottles of pills.

The next twenty minutes were an absolute blur, not helped by the substantial amount of alcohol still in Shawn's system. Shawn remembered calling an ambulance and waiting for it to arrive with his boyfriend unconscious in his arms. He remembered picking up two sheets of paper, which he'd vaguely identified as a suicide note, from the floor. He remembered crying, and panicking, and confusion. Soon enough, though, Shawn was being reassured by a paramedic that given how recently he'd consumed the pills, Grant would almost definitely make it.

The next day, Shawn took out the letter. It had clearly been written ahead of time, unless one of Grant's hidden talents was managing such neat handwriting while heavily drunk. Shawn wondered if that meant that Grant had planned to do this. Slowly, he forced himself to consume its contents, line by line.

If you are reading this letter, I am dead of suicide. I promised myself that I'd never do this. It's been a temptation at the back of my mind for long enough, however, that I thought I should get out what I would want to have out, just in case. I feel like if it ever does happen, it will be in a moment where I'm barely in control of myself.

The first thing I'm going to do is to write out why I promised myself I wouldn't. There are three reasons why. The first is because my mother is the kindest, most loving person in the world, and I know she'd be devastated if I killed myself. There's a good chance she'd end up dead of suicide as well in that situation, and I would never want to cause that. The second reason is for the light of my life, Emily. She has so much promise in her. She has my eyes, the curiousity I had when I was younger, and thankfully just a touch of my sensitivity. She loves me, and I'm trying to be the force for good in her life that my mother was in mine. I would never give her the pain of losing a parent, and I want to see her grow up. The third reason is that I have friends that make me happy, and days when I genuinely want to be alive. Sometimes it feels like life is drudgery, but that's when I most need to remember that it isn't always like that.

Unfortunately, because this will be written ahead of time, I won't be able to say what specifically caused me to go through with this. What I will say, though, is that my life feels like it's falling apart, even when it isn't. My worries about losing my job aren't completely unfounded, given that working at Joey Drew Studios is most often like bailing water out of a sinking ship. I don't know how realistic it is to believe that my career in this industry will be over after that, since I'll have two failed businesses on my record and nothing else. It's hard to tell when I'm being realistic and when I'm letting pessimism get the better of me. I worry constantly about losing the people in my life that make it tolerable, and I don't know if that's realistic either- whether they're getting sick of me or not. Sometimes, it feels like like life is a pointless struggle against the inevitable. I have better days and worse days of course, but, well, if I didn't feel like this a substantial amount of the time, I wouldn't be writing this letter.

Whoever it is that's reading this, you could not have prevented this, it is in no way your fault, and I'm sorry for putting you through it.

—-

There was a banging on Lacie's door. "Lacie! Lacie, open up!"

Lacie, groggy and still in her pyjamas, opened up. "What?"

"I need your advice. Badly."

Lacie could see how distressed he was. "Come on in."

A few minutes later, They were sitting across from each other in Lacie's living room, Shawn had explained what had happened the night before, and Lacie had read the note. It might have been a violation of privacy to show it to Lacie, but he needed her advice.

"Wow, that is serious. Is he okay?"

"Yeah, that's the way they made it sound. I'm going to see him as soon as there's visitin' hours. Just... what do I say to him after this?"

"I don't know."

"Well, if it were Abby what would you do?"

"Abby wouldn't put me in this situation." Lacie saw Shawn getting indignant. "Calm down, I'm not saying 'because she's so strong and he's so weak.' But we've been together for two years, we live together, and we're at the stage where we owe it to each other to look after ourselves and be honest if we're going through issues like this. So, yeah, she'd never catch me off guard like this. Clearly, you two aren't at that point, or at least he doesn't think you are. So, here's my advice: make sure he's getting professional help, and then ask yourself if this is the person you want a partnership with. Also, to temper your expectations: whatever his problem is, you can't solve it, it won't go away immediately, and it's ultimately his responsibility to fix it. If he won't be honest with you about stuff like this, you're under no obligation to help him with it. Honestly, if you do stick with him, chances are that nothing in your relationship will change and in a couple weeks this'll just be an awful memory."

"Well, that's a bunch of heartless nonsense. But you're probably right." Shawn honestly didn't know how to feel about any of it, but he felt like he had to say something. He didn't find it terribly useful since his problem wasn't that he didn't know whether to stay with Grant, it was that he didn't want him to die or to want to be dead.

Lacie shrugged. "I mean, I'm just an untrusting old sea hag. If all you want is dating, or if you honestly think a partnership with him is possible and a good idea, knock yourself out, I guess."

"Okay." Shawn got up to leave.

"Hey. Best of luck, Shawn. I'm always here for you. No matter what you choose to do, here."

—-

Grant was still asleep when Shawn was allowed in to see him, but there weren't any obvious signs of physical damage on him. Shawn gently shook him awake. "Hey... ah just wanted to check in and make sure everything was okay with you. Ya gave me quite a scare last night."

Grant turned to look at him. His movements suggested that he was feeling pretty weak from whatever he'd taken last night. "Oh. Hey, Shawn. According to the nurses, I'm fine. I have to stay a few more hours to get tested for organ damage, but that's it. What... happened last night? I remember I was with you for a while. How did I end up here?"

Oh, Shawn did not like this situation. He didn't like it at all. "How much do you remember?"

"I was drinking with you and Lacie for a while. And... I had a dream last night where I killed myself. But it had to have been a dream, see? I woke up for a minute and I felt you holding me. You must have come home with me after we went to the bar, right?"

"Oh, well, yes. That's what happened. But you... you got alcohol poisoning."

Relief rushed over Grant's face. "Thank God. That's all it was?"

"Yeah. You were trying to keep up with me shot for shot." Shawn gave Grant a little jab with his elbow in a sad attempt to act casual. "Ya really shouldn't do that. I'm a professional, after all."

Grant forced a smile. "Got it."

"Umm... listen, Grant? I love you, and I care about you, and you said some pretty concernin' things last night. Is there anything you need to talk about?"

"No, I'm okay. Sorry for worrying you."

"No. It's fine. Ya want company?"

"Honestly, I'm feeling pretty sick. Can we catch up another time?"

"Okay. See you then."

"Okay. I love you, Shawn."

Shawn got up and left. In the hallway, he dug the note out of his pocket and looked at it one last time, trying to wrack up the courage to go back and admit everything. Instead he crumpled it up and threw it away. Nothing had happened last night. Soon, Grant would go home, find the empty pill bottles on his bathroom floor, connect the dots, and knowing him, probably keep that revelation to himself. And that was okay, right? As Lacie said, it was his responsibility to take it as a wake-up call and deal with whatever it was that had made him do it. Lacie would think this was okay, right? Shawn hoped so. It felt so wrong.

#Bendy and the Ink Machine #shawn flynn #grant cohen #lacie benton #my fanfiction #tw suicide #just to be totally clear: I don't completely agree or disagree with Lacie. It's just what I thought she would think.#Also this isn't anti-grant x shawn at all- I like that ship #grant x shawn

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