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writefasttalkevenfaster · 3 years

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Take My Hand (Part Four)

Summary: doing what you think is best for another person never ends well (four of ??? parts - more parts to come!)

Pairings: Sonny Carisi x Reader, Rafael Barba x Reader

Word Count: 7,579

Song: I don't like slow motion, double vision in rose blush / I don't like that falling feels like flying 'til the bone crush (gold rush by taylor swift)

Warnings: T, lots of angst, but a happy ending?

A/N: thank you to all of you for reading, your comments and reblogs have kept me going! thank you to @laneygthememequeen and @bucky-of-the-opera for being the best beta readers!!

“Rafael, you don’t have to leave—” Sonny crossed his arms, as Rafael raised an eyebrow at him over his drink, sipping at his scotch mournfully, “McCoy said you could still work—”

“You know a lawyer’s reputation is everything, Carisi,” he swirled what remained of his drink in his glass, “it’s our main commodity, and mine has been taken out back and shot — by my own hand,” he downs the rest of the drink, “besides,” he sighs, “there’s nothing left for me here.”

Sonny frowns, sipping at his own drink, “What’re gonna do next?” Rafael shrugs, “I think I’ll broaden my horizons— this is the first time since before law school that I haven’t had a plan for my life — it’s just wide open.”

“And that’s?”

“Terrifying, surprising — I never thought I’d have to start over at this point in my career, but,” he leans against the counter, “it’s a change,” and then he looks over at Sonny, “and what about you?”

He furrows his brow, “What about me?”

“Are you going to apply for the opening in the D.A.’s office?” Sonny nearly chokes on his drink, “come on, Carisi, you’re more than qualified.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t know — I’m not sure if I’m ready for that change quite yet, besides,” he shifts in his seat, “I heard from Liv that McCoy has someone else in mind for the job.”

“Stone?” Rafael asks, and Sonny tilts his head, “I may not be in that office, but it doesn’t change the fact that it leaks like a rusty faucet.”

“If you know that—”

“Sonny, a piece of advice,” Rafael turns to face him, one elbow on the counter, “no one job is forever — Stone may last a while, he may not — but get your name in the ring at least because the next time the position is open, they’ll look to you—”

“But—”

“You have been part of the squad, you’ve seen these cases for years, you’re an officer and you have the education to back it up,” he pulls his wallet out, waving off Carisi, and placing a few bills on the counter, “Look, you went to law school for a reason right? If you keep making excuses, you won’t be able to do the good you could do.”

Sonny knew, he knew that he should but— “I’m just afraid that I won’t be able to handle it,”

Rafael raises an eyebrow, “You are a detective in one of the toughest units in the NYPD and you went to law school at the same time — I think you’ll be fine.”

Sonny blinks, trying to hide his smile, “Thank you — for everything. I’ve appreciated you mentoring me these past years.”

Rafael gives a small chuckle at that, “You shouldn’t be thanking me,”

Sonny tilts his head, “Then who should I be thanking?”

Your name leaves his lips, and Sonny frowns, “I didn’t really want to mentor you, but with some encouragement, well—” he shrugs, “my point is there’s no need to thanks, at least not me.”

A sentence burns on his tongue, hot as the anger sitting on his chest, and I should thank the person who cut me out of their life without any to-do? But Sonny doesn’t say that, he only smiles — as always.

He didn’t want to admit how much it hurt when you left. When you didn’t say goodbye. When you quit without warning. When you left him with nothing but a note and no explanation, only the feeling of your lips on his.

But it did hurt.

Especially because he didn’t know if it was because of him. He didn’t presume himself to be that important in your life — and maybe he wasn’t with how easily you had removed yourself from his life — but what other explanation was there really?

“I should go,” Rafael slips off the stool, pulling his coat on, and he holds out his hand to Sonny, “I hope to see you again sometime, Detective,”

Sonny offers a smile, shaking his hand, “Counselor, I expect to hear things about what you do next.”

“Same to you — your name is associated with me, I can't have you sullying it, now can I?” but then he grimaces, shrugging, “well, at least the bar is low.”

“Bye, Rafael,” and he nods, disappearing out the door, and Sonny straightens his coat, walking towards the door, before glancing at the bar stool you had sat at the night he picked you up — so much had changed and in so little time.

“How long has it been, Jack?” you skip the handshake for a hug, sliding into the booth across from him.

“Far too long,” he sighs, already had ordered his own food, “I heard about the stir you’re making in the Bronx,” he splits his chopsticks, dousing in his food in a very modest amount of sriracha, as you raise a questioning eyebrow at his remark, “The Brown case — I heard an earful from the Bronx D.A. about that case.”

You shake your head, ordering yourself a soda, “It was his fault that he didn’t have proper chain of custody on that evidence—”

“I know,” Jack nods, “it was a good catch.”

“Thank you,” you smile, pleased with yourself, “although I suspect this isn’t just for you to compliment me on my exceptional work.”

“Developed an ego at No-Go?” you roll your eyes at his “loving” nickname for your firm, Noble-Gordon LLP, before shrugging, “you know you could start your own practice and make more money.”

“I could, but I also wouldn’t get some control over where their pro bono hours go,” you order your food, stirring your drink with a straw, “now what do you want McCoy? And then I can bore you with the details of my life plan.”

Jack smiles, “Always straight to the point, huh, counselor?” he leans back, “what do you think of Detective Carisi?”

You furrow your brow, “Sonny? Is something—”

“Nothing is wrong,” Jack waved you off, “but what was your opinion of him?”

You tilt your head, “As what? Detective, a barred attorney, or person?”

Jack raises an eyebrow, “Let’s start with detective, and then we’ll get to the other two,”

You pause — how could you describe Sonny? “When he first started, I didn’t know what to think of Sonny — he was eager to learn, but green,” you suppress a snort at the thought of him the unfortunate incidents of him pestering victims and suspects alike, “but despite that, he was always willing to learn, quick on his feet. He was good with the victims, maybe not at first, but he’s a seasoned detective now, and I have confidence in his skills.”

“And as an attorney?”

“Well, I never was around to see him get barred,” and you feel a twinge of guilt crawl up your throat — you had promised to help him study, promised to help him celebrate — you didn’t do either, “but when he applied his legal knowledge to cases we worked on together and while shadowing at the Manhattan office, he showed aptitude, skill, and passion.”

“And as a person?”

You smile softly, “Sonny is kind, to a fault, but he’s practical, he knows there are grays to S.V.U. cases — he’s seen them firsthand. He knows how to handle tough cases, while having the empathy to handle victims,” Jack nods, sipping at his drink, “now I assume you’re asking for a reason?”

“Stone resigned,” Jack sighs, “effective immediately — and we’re looking for someone to get their foot in the door — quick.”

“Peter? What—”

“It wasn’t the right fit,” he shook his head, “he’s landing on his feet — don’t worry.”

You frowned, you didn’t know Peter personally, but you had heard stories of him and his father — both were legendary, “I’m sorry to hear that, but,” you tilt your head, “you’re considering Sonny for the position?”

“Yes, and now hearing what you had to say, I think I will," and you smile, "after an interview, of course."

"Of course," you shake your head, "I remember interviewing with you."

He raises an eyebrow, "And?"

"I think I convinced myself you thought I was a moron, until you gave me the offer after a week," he shrugs.

"Had to make you sweat," he purses his lips, "do you regret saying yes?"

You glance at the bar, a frown pressing onto your lips, "I regret a lot of things," and your food arrives at the table, and you break your chopsticks, smiling, "but never that."

You were not happy.

You hurried up the steps of the Manhattan courthouse — steps you had hoped you wouldn’t have had to hurry up ever again — not only had this case been unceremoniously dumped on the firm with a notice of one whole day, but it had been shafted to you with a whole two hours notice after one of your junior associates called out sick.

Sick or hungover? You couldn’t tell over from the 4:00 AM message left on your voicemail, but by the sounds of the clinking glasses in the background — they certainly didn’t have the flu.

This was not only the son of one of your firm’s biggest clients — the firm practicing not only criminal defense but also some business law matters. It was a simple case — a white first time offender on a petty marijuana possession — he would likely get no jail time, and get time served at most — with an expungement in the near future.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The crime was committed and the son charged in the jurisdiction of Manhattan, so that meant this was in a Manhattan courtroom, one that you hadn’t stepped into in what — two, nearly three years?

And on top of it all, there was the matter of who the prosecutor was. A silent curse muttered under your breath as you rushed to the courtroom — and it was someone you hadn’t seen in about the same amount of time.

Why a sex crimes prosecutor was covering for a narcotics case — you didn’t know, but you figured it was either a chance to learn the ropes in different departments or the D.A. needed someone to cover, and the new guy drew the short straw.

Just your luck.

You stood outside the courtroom, catching your breath, your heart thumping against your ribs — and you didn’t know whether it was from the running or from the fact you were about to see Sonny again for the first time in three years after you kissed him.

And he didn’t know you were coming.

Fuck it, you pulled open the door, stepping inside.

And you saw him— standing where Rafael and you once stood, his eyes first lying on his notes, but drawn to the noise of the creaking door and your footsteps against the marble floor.

You try not to look at him. You can’t help it, as you pass him by you catch a glimmer of his reaction — shock scrawled plainly across his face, eyes widened and nearly slack jawed.

“Your Honor, I apologize to you and to my client, ” you spare a small smile to the privileged 18-year-old, Jason Baker, beside you, before your eyes flicker over to Sonny — dress in a pressed suit, his hair slicked back, lips no longer curled in the smile he once had for you, but instead, in a thin line, “ as well as A.D.A. Carisi. I was only informed of this case this morning and I rushed here as soon as I could—”

“Yes, I understand,” Judge Lopez nods — Lopez being a judge you had dealt with many a time on cases — tough, but always fair, a definite leftist progressive (even by New York standards), “Do you need a moment to confer with your client?”

“Just a moment,” you confirmed the details of the case with Jason, before nodding, “I think we’re ready to proceed.”

The hearing went without much to-do, both of you agreeing to meet about a plea agreement to settle this case out of court. You promised your client you would meet with him after, as Sonny began to make a beeline out of the courtroom.

You barely caught up to him, on the heels of him striding toward the elevators, jaw set, “Sonny—”

“Counselor,” he replied coolly, and you frowned, “do you want to set a time for your client’s plea agreement?”

“Yes, but—” the elevator dings and he steps in without another word.

“I’ll send you and your office an email,” his smile is curt and cordial, but his words have an edge to them, “nice to see you again.”

And the doors shut.

So, you stare at the closed elevator doors, he was mad.

"Can you believe—"

Rollins sighs, leaning back against her sofa, head resting against the top, "No I can't, Carisi, just like I couldn't the first twenty times," she murmurs under her breath.

He pauses, his jaw tight, “Am I annoying you?”

“No, Sonny, but—” she gestures for him to sit, “you’re stressing me out with all that pacing, can you sit down?”

Sonny collapsed into a chair, arms crossed and leg still bobbing up and down, “I always thought about what I would say when I saw—” he cuts off, “it was like no time had passed, acting like nothing had happened—”

Amanda raises an eyebrow, “What did happen between you two?” Sonny falls silent, his eyes falling to the carpeted floor, “this is what I mean, you’re telling me half of the story and expecting me to have a reaction,” she pushes his knee, “what happened?”

He said nothing, and Amanda sighs, “When I gave you the sweatshirt, you barely said anything, and now you’re not saying anything when you saw—” a cry breaks her sentence off, and they listen as the baby settles back down, “You know I always knew you had a thing for—”

“I didn’t have a thing—” he cuts off when he sees her raise an eyebrow, “okay maybe I did, but it has nothing to do with this—”

“If it doesn’t, then why are you mad?”

“I’m mad,” his voice raises, before she shushes him, and he sighs, apologizing, “I’m angry because I didn’t get a goodbye.”

You were gone.

You were gone before he woke up. You were gone from S.V.U. before he came in. You were gone from your apartment when he came knocking — moved out.

And he was only left with a note and a sweatshirt.

He continues, “I didn’t get a goodbye, but guess who recommended me for the A.D.A. position?”

It hadn’t been long enough since the last time he had thought about you. And the last time was his interview for the A.D.A. position.

“I’ll cut to the chase, son,” Jack said, making Sonny sit up straighter in his chair — he had spent the last forty-five minutes trying to impress Jack McCoy only for him to cut the chase now, “You know I’m not the type to mince my words, so I’ll ask you the question that really matters — why should we hire you over other candidates with more experience?”

This was the question he was dreading — he fought the urge to tug at his collar or wipe the palms down the front of his pants.

“Honestly, sir, I’ve thought about this question a lot, and yes, I don’t have the legal experience of some of the other candidates,” he didn’t — he had shadowing, he had done clinics, but he hadn’t practiced since being barred, “but I know S.V.U. — more than any of your candidates because I’ve seen these cases firsthand. Not only have I seen the cases, the victims, but I’ve worked with the team — I know the ins and the outs, and I’ve worked with A.D.A.s before—” he nearly flinched at the thought of you, “I know what I’m getting into — I know a lot of cases aren’t a win and I know we have to push sometimes, and I’m not afraid to do that,” he swallows, his throat dry — unable to discern the expression on Jack’s face, “You’ll have to train any candidate you have — whether they have practiced or not, especially when it comes to S.V.U., but you will have to teach one less thing, and it’s the most important one.”

And after the longest moment, he smiles, and Sonny can barely hear what he says over his blood roaring in his ears, “I think you’re right,”

“You do?”

Jack laughs, “Don’t sound so surprised, Dominick,” he tilts his head, “after hearing you talk about your work in and out of the department, I thought you would have more faith in yourself.”

And you would think that but—

“I’ll work on that,”

Jack smiles, clearing his throat, “Based on that and the recommendation I received from who you shadowed—”

He frowns, “You talked to someone I shadowed?”

When your name leaves his lips, he blinks, “Haven’t you spoken—”

Not since leaving my apartment and disappearing, “Not in a long time,” he gives a tight smile, “How are—”

“Doing great at Noble-Gordon as a defense attorney in the Bronx — giving the Bronx D.A. hell,” he smiles with pride, and he remembers how you had told him that McCoy had been one of your mentors, the man who had helped you become the attorney you are today — and now he was Sonny’s boss, “Better them than us, right?”

“Sonny—” Amanda’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

He gets to his feet again, walking towards the window, “Leaves, and then thinks to interfere in my life, doesn’t even bother to reach out, I haven’t heard a thing in years — years — but still gives me a recommendation,” he gives a bitter chuckle, “apparently our friendship meant that little.”

Apparently he had meant that little.

“I’m sorry, Sonny,”

He shakes his head, “What are you sorry for?” he asks, getting to his feet — I got kissed. I got cut out. And I didn’t even get an explanation — “Nothing happened.”

“I want jail time,” your head snaps up at the sound of Sonny’s voice, closing the door behind him, as you sat waiting in his office — the one that was next door to your old one, “at least six months.”

“What?” No greeting, no handshake, no smile — that much you half-expected, but jail time— “it’s a first time offense, and it’s not 1980, we’re not in the war on drugs—”

Sonny slides into his chair across from you his hands folded, “Counselor, your client isn’t an innocent school boy — he is an adult—”

“Barely, he just turned 18—”

“Exactly my point, he’s an adult, and—”

“And no competent attorney would ever take that deal—”

Sonny leans back in his seat, “Well a competent attorney would consider any deal in front of them, wouldn’t they?”

And your eyes narrow, “My client will not accept anything more than probation with no jail time, and hell, maybe we'll even throw in drug tests in, but anything more is a disgrace to the legal system,”

“Then I guess a jury can decide,” his jaw is set, and you see the quiet anger in his eyes — frigid as an icy lake, one that you were currently drowning in. His chair screeches as he moves to rise, and you stop him.

“We both know this isn’t about the case, Sonny,”

He raises an eyebrow, “Are you questioning my prosecutorial authority?”

“Are you trying to send a barely adult first time offender to jail when it makes absolutely no sense?” he grits his teeth, “is that justice? Is that what you’ve learned in S.V.U.?”

“I’m sorry that I’m not playing soft ball with you, counselor—”

“I’m sorry that you’re trying to take your anger at me out on my client,” you snap, rising from the table. And it snaps him into silence, his eyes falling to his notes, brow furrowed, mouth a thin line. Your anger simmers slowly, but as you speak again, your voice is even, but tempered, “The way I see it — we have three options — one, get over yourself and let us make a reasonable plea agreement; two, I get someone else from my office to handle this; or three, we work out our issues like fucking adults and move on with this agreement,”

His voice is quiet when he speaks, “So are we finally going to act like adults now?”

You waver, “Sonny—”

“After you cut me out with no explanation and left, I didn’t realize now we could act like adults,” he flips shut his leather folder, “I apologize for my behavior — maybe you’re right, someone else from your office should handle—”

“I’m sorry,” you cut him off, and he doesn’t look up, “I’m so sorry, Sonny, I didn’t mean to—” you swallow, fuck, “I thought — I thought it would be easier after—”

“Easier? For you or for me?”

The truth cut deep, especially when you know it was true, “You’re right — I know, what I did,” you sigh, “It was awful — I was so embarrassed after how I treated you, after I kiss—” you break off, “I know I have a lot of things to make up for, but I want you to know that I didn’t cut you off because of anything you did — even if you know that already — it was me, I didn’t want to burden you—”

“How did you think cutting me off wasn’t going to burden me?” his words are softer, but sharper, digging into your chest with the guilt you knew was yours only to bear, “how did you think losing one of my friends wasn’t going to— you kissed me after I picked you up, and then nothing for three years. Nothing.”

“I wanted to call, I wanted to text—”

“Then why didn’t you?” and you wonder if this is how a suspect felt when they were being interrogated by him, but surely his eyes weren’t nearly this glassy with emotions then, “You promised me — you promised me you would be there for me—”

Your voice breaks, “Sonny—”

“Do you know the hell I’ve gone through?” His voice is quiet, “do you know?”

And you didn’t, “I don’t,” your words are quiet. “Because you’re right — it was easier, after what happened — not with you — with everything else, it was easier to cut ties and move on. It was easier to pretend none of it happened,” you admit, “but it wasn’t right — and I can’t change that. But I’m sorry,” you add, “and I know I have a lot of making up to do, if we ever can get to that point again, I would like to try.”

His expression is inscrutable — and you know Sonny has changed, you could read him so easily before — an open book who’s pages that you had familiarized yourself with, his emotions scrawled clearly across his brow, nose, lips, and eyes. And now you could barely make out a single word.

“Try?”

“Try to be your friend,” you bite your lip, wringing your hands in your lap, “I missed you, Sonny, and I know I don’t have a right to say that, but I did. And seeing you has only made me realize how shitty I’ve been — please?”

A frown pulls at his lips, and he wavers, before rising, tucking his folder into his briefcase, “Probation with weekly drug tests, and I want him do some community service—”

“But—”

“He’s spent years with a silver spoon in his mouth — let’s try to fix that,” and you tilt your head, hiding a smile.

“I’ll talk to him about it,” you get up too, beginning to pack up your things even as you watch him turn to the door, “Can we discuss it over lunch? My treat.”

He pauses, his back turned, “I’m a little busy these next few weeks,”

You wave him off, feeling your chest squeeze, rejection stinging — as it should, as you deserve — “Of course," nothing was that simple — trust was easy to lose, hard to get back.

“But how about I call you?” you blink, as he looks over his shoulder, there’s a hint of a sigh in his throat, a certain sort of begrudged reluctance, but still an almost undetectable smile ghosts his lips — and you’ll take it.

“You got it,” But it wasn’t impossible to earn trust back. Your heart swells with hope, your hand brushing as your hand moves to hold the door open — and you would get it back, one way or another.

“Penny for your thought, counselor?” Sonny’s head snaps up, finding you standing, suit jacket slung over your arm, a smile on your lips, “I would say a dollar, but I know you took quite a pay cut compared to your old job.”

“But I could make a buck prosecuting you for stalking,” and you scoff, looking at the table strewn with pages of briefs and yellow legal pads marked in reds, blacks and blues. It had been your fifth time running into him the last few weeks — and you had weaseled your way into conversations, though not a lunch. You were trying to earn his trust back, and you had gotten a little closer each time, but it didn’t mean it was all over and done with.

The distrust still sat squarely in his expression — but this time it was being overwritten by something else — stress.

You gape at him, affronted, “Forlini’s was mine before it was yours, thank you very much,” you gesture to the seat across from him, he grunts, nodding and you slide in, “I think I can settle for joint custody if you can.”

“I’d fight ya on it, but,” he sighs, eyes flickering back to his notes, “I got my hands full already.”

You purse your lips when you see the heaviness in his brow, “What’s wrong?”

He gives a grim smile, “You already know what’s wrong,”

Yes, you knew it well — your first tough case had the ability to unravel you to pieces, especially one from S.V.U., “Well, the facts aren’t any different when you’re the prosecutor versus the detective,”

“But the job is completely different,” he shakes his head, covering his face, before wiping his palm down it, “and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You frown, “Have you eaten?”

“Eating isn’t the problem,” he shoves his papers aside, a few wrinkling and falling under the booth, the legal pad slamming against the end of the booth. He squeezes his eyes shut, before relaxing, “sorry, I—”

“No, trust me,” you catch a glimpse of the photos of one of the victims — a bruised and battered girl no older than fifteen, “I get the frustration, but you know there’s only so much you can do in these cases.”

“I’m not doing enough,” he leans on his elbow, his fist pressed to his mouth, before resting it against his forehead, “I don’t know what I’m doing. I have my first grand jury tomorrow and I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“Sonny,” you resist the urge to reach out to him, “you can do this.”

“You would say that,” he mutters, and you tilt your head, “you recommended me for the job, McCoy told me.”

“I didn’t recommend you — Jack was already looking at you, he asked for my opinion and I gave it,” you raise an eyebrow, “do I need to tell you now?”

He shakes his head, “I—”

“Sonny,” he looks up at you, “I have not an inch of doubt in your abilities — I’ve seen you grow as a detective and as a law student, and now,” you smile softly, “I’ve seen you grow as an attorney the last few weeks. You are ready — you know why?”

He sighs, his hands folded on the table, “Because of my training?”

“No,” you say, and he frowns, “because you are sensitive and kind, but you are also tough — tough enough to make the hard calls,” your hand brushes his tentatively, hovering before settling, “weren’t you nervous before becoming a detective? When you were a cop?”

“I was, but I was confident, bordering on arrogant — I always went in, guns blazing, so to speak,” he adds, shaking his head at the implication, “now, I’m—”

“Now you’re cautious — it comes with experience, that’s normal and good — overconfidence bites you in the ass, every time,” you squeeze his hand, “you will do great — and more importantly,” he raises his gaze to meet yours, “you will do your job and do it well — and that’s all you can do.”

He purses his lips, “You really believe in me?”

You scoff at his disbelief, “Sonny, I’ll always bet on you — every single time,” his gaze softens, a smile gracing his lips and your stomach flips when he squeezes your hand back.

“Thank you,” his words are as soft as his touch, his fingers intertwined with yours for a moment, and your eyes flicker across his face — how was it you never realized just how beautiful he was?

And the moment is broken when he pulls his hand away, gathering all his materials and slipping them into his bag, “If you need any help—”

He frowns, “Y’know as well as I do that these cases are—”

“I meant with your self-esteem or advice about how to phrase questions — no specifics and no actual questions,” you cross your arms, “I know about confidentiality and professional responsibility, counselor — I have been at this longer than you have. You could afford to take my advice.”

He raises an eyebrow, teasing, “Pulling seniority? You’re not at the D.A.’s office anymore,”

“But I know your boss,” you tease right back, and he rolls his eyes, as you lean forward, “and it’s ‘counselor’ to you,”

He dares forward, “Well, counselor,” he replies, lips curled in a smile, “I’ll take it under advisement, and I’ll give my boss your best,” And he slips from the booth, pausing only to add, “do this again?”

And you can’t hide your smile, “Next week?”

He nods, slipping out of the doors from Forlini’s and you watch him, your eyes falling across the bar — and the two seats where you had sat, now reupholstered and refurbished — and then back again to the door he left from, before turning back to your booth. As you sat, his smile and the faint fluttering left in your chest, a smile you couldn’t stave off

Things really did change, didn’t they?

“Trial’s in a few weeks?” and Sonny nods, Rollins sips at her drink, “you have to testify, Amanda?”

“Unfortunately,” she jerks a thumb towards Sonny, setting her drink down on the counter of the bar, “he’s been prepping me and it’s somehow worse than Barba.”

The sting of his name hurt less, your easy smile not wavering, “I find that hard to believe,”

“Oh believe me,” Amanda turns to Sonny, who sips at his drink sheepishly, “how long did we practice yesterday?”

“Not important,” he brushes her remark off, as you and Amanda share a look and chuckle, “I just want to be ready — Hadid has been all over me about this trial. If she’s been looking for an excuse to fire me, this would be the perfect one.”

“Hey,” your hand finds his, “you’re going to do great. You have practiced your closing a thousand times — I’ve heard it half a million times — you know what the points you have to make are. I know you’re ready.”

He squeezes your hand back, smiling softly, “Thank you,” and butterflies bloom under his steady gaze, before he slips from the stool, “I’m going to use the bathroom, I’ll be right back,” his hand grazes your back before he finds his way to the restroom.

You sip at your drink, before you find Amanda staring at you. You frown, placing the drink down, “What?”

“What’s going on between you two?”

You wrinkle your brow, as Amanda scratches her brow, her lips pursed.“What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to get involved, but,” she craned her neck to check if Sonny was gone, “I know something happened between you two before you left,” Your head snaps to your drink, biting your lip, “I may be a detective, but it doesn’t take a genius to see that you two, whatever this is,” she gestures, “it’s not just a friendship,”

You blink — but wasn’t it? “But—”

“I don’t know how you feel, but I’m not blind,” she tilts her head, trying to catch your gaze, “just don’t hurt him okay?”

“Amanda—”

“I don’t need to hear specifics about what happened,” she shrugs, “I just want him to be okay ‘cause he may not be my partner now, but he is my best friend.”

You nod, “Of course, I won’t, Amanda — I care about him too.”

But it was complicated.

It was simple before — but it was different — you were in love with someone else — blinded. Sonny was your friend, one of your closest, but a friend nonetheless. Your stomach didn’t flip when you saw him, you didn’t text him so often, there weren't brief touches that you wished would last forever — like there was now.

And you couldn’t deny it forever.

Amanda chuckles, shaking her head, “I can’t believe I just said Carisi is my best friend,”

You smile, “Guess he really grew on you after he shaved the ‘stache,”

Amanda raised her eyebrows, snorting, “Like an infection,”

You grinned, sipping at your drink, “What are you two laughing at?” and both of you share a smile, “what?”

“Nothing, Sonny,” Amanda waves him off, “I gotta go — babysitter’s time is almost up, and I have to check on the girls,” Amanda nods at you, “It was nice to see you again, counselor.”

“Same here, Amanda,” and she nods at Sonny, slipping from the bar, as he takes her seat, leaning against the counter, his knee brushing yours. The low light of the bar catches in his eyes, a dark blue that makes your heart stutter a moment as his lips curl into a smile. And you remember the moment you kissed him.

“Now what?” you blink, biting your lip.

Would it be so bad to fall in love with him?

To fall in love with an A.D.A. again? Falling into old habits?

“Walk me home?”

And fall you would.

~~~

It wasn’t a walk so much as it was a subway ride away and a walk to your apartment, “Do you ever miss the D.A.’s office?” and you spare a glance at Sonny.

“Why? Want another person bossing you around the office?” he chuckles, licking his lips.

“When you put it like that,” and you laugh, “no, I just mean—”

“You mean if I ever miss being on the right side of justice?” and he opens his mouth to retort, “I’m joking, Sonny — I mean criminal defense is a different way I can do justice — I get to take on a lot of the firm’s pro bono work and I get to help people who are at the lowest points of their lives put it back together.”

“Even murderers?” he frowns.

You bite your lip, “You saw the Ortiz case on the news didn’t you?” Ortiz, a husband who murdered his wife in cold blood — or that was the story the media and prosecutors’ were selling, “Did you read his interview?”

He raises an eyebrow, “No?”

“It turns out his wife had been abusive for years — verbally, emotionally, and physically—” your shoes scrape against the pavement, “he snapped when she turned it on their son.”

“Is that an excuse—”

“Yes, by law it is — it isn’t premeditated murder, it’s manslaughter,” you slip your hands into your pockets, “but even then, do people get any better locked up in cages?”

“Do you think they should be—”

“Walking free and clear? No,” you look up at the sky, “but you know in Sweden — they have one of, if not the, lowest recidivism rates? They have less than 4,000 prisoners, compared to America’s millions. It’s because they focus on rehabilitation, not punishment. Instead of locking up people in tiny cells and inhumane conditions, they give them care in all aspects of their lives — education, psychological help, medical — everything,” Sonny opens his mouth to interject, and you hold your hands up, “I’m not saying all people are capable of reform — but a lot of them are, and don’t we owe people that chance?”

“But with S.V.U.—”

“With S.V.U., it’s more complicated — I won’t deny that, rapists are more likely to victimize again compared to other crimes,” you shake your head, “I don’t have all the answers, but I know locking people up and having them be victimized in prison isn’t the answer,” you offer a small smile, “but to answer your question, I miss the people, but I’m happy where I landed. I think it’s the right place for me.”

“How do you know? I mean, how do you know it’s the right place?”

You shrug, “You just feel it after some time—” you tilt your head, “where’s this coming from?”

Sonny sighs, “I got a big case coming up in a week,” his hands slipped into his pockets, “My first trial.”

“Hadid letting you off the leash?” he barks out a laugh.

“Barely,” he shakes his head, “not that I blame her — this job, I swear I come home more tired than I did chasing down perps.”

“That seems like a stretch, and hindsight bias,” you add, elbowing him before rubbing your shoulders, biting back a shiver — wearing only a suit coat out was a mistake, “besides I know you can handle it.”

He unwraps his scarf, as you open your mouth to protest, but the scarf is already around your neck, and you can’t help but smile — it smells like him — “Sometimes I think you have more faith in me than I do,”

“I have enough faith in you for the both of us,” you pull the scarf snug around yourself, resisting the urge to bury your nose in it. You bite your lip, “is the gallery open to the public?”

“Think so,” he nods.

“Do you want me to be there in court?” the words come out carefully — afraid to cross a line you weren’t sure was there.

“Watching the case?”

“Just the verdict,” you say, “I didn’t get to be there for you when you passed the bar or when you got hired at the D.A.’s office — we could get dinner after — guilty verdict or not.”

“Not gonna disappear on me for three years, are you?” you flinch, and he sighs, “sorry that came out wrong—”

“It’s okay,” you smile ruefully, “I kind of deserved it, but,” you add, “I’m not going anywhere — and this time I mean it.”

The quiet settled over you both for a moment, and you knew he was going to ask — you knew he was working up the courage to do so, “Why did you leave?” you cross your arms, “you don’t—”

“I want to,” you shake your head — and you could see Rafael’s smile, feel his touch, and see his heart break — “It’s just complicated.”

“So complicated that you had to leave?” he pressed, and you nodded.

“I didn’t want to — but I had to,” you glance at him, see his brows knit together, “but the one thing I regretted and I will always regret is leaving you too, and I promise, I won’t do it again,” you reach for his hand, your fingers intertwining, just as you reach the doorstep of your apartment, “you can hold me to that.”

He stares down at you, the flickering light of your apartment barely illuminating his face, but a soft smile on his lips, “I will, sweetheart,” and warmth bloomed in your stomach — no, you really couldn’t deny it anymore could you? But he squeezes your hand, stepping back, “See you in a week?”

You lick your lips, heart thumping in your ears — you nod, “Yeah,” you feel his coat around your shoulders, “oh your scar—”

He waves you off, “Keep it,” he walks down your steps, turning around, pointing a finger at you, grinning, “But make sure Rollins isn’t the one bringing it by.”

You hear the humor in his voice and smile, “No promises.”

And you spare one more glance at his returning back, before slipping inside your apartment building and into your apartment. Your fingers fisted in the soft red cotton of his scarf — your cheeks and heart warm.

Oh, what were you getting yourself into?

Sonny tried not to glance behind him — you still hadn’t arrived. His nerves were shot after this week — everything that could have gone wrong had gone wrong.

Of course it did — it did little to inspire faith in himself, or in Hadid for that matter.

“All rise,” Judge Abbas said, and Sonny had to stop himself from jumping to his feet — he knew, he knew in his gut that he had given his best case, though this case was sticky to begin with, “Foreperson of the jury, what say you on the charge of rape in the second degree?”

Sonny’s heart jumped into his throat, blood roaring in his ears, and he barely caught the verdict, mouth dry — the feeling of the victims’ gazes boring into the back of his head.

“We find the defendant guilty,” and he nearly couldn’t believe it — he had done it, they had done it. The judge announces they will reconvene for sentencing in two weeks. He turns around, shaking the hands of the victims, thanking them for their testimony, sparing one glance at the defendant.

Adneradline and relief is pumping through him, his chest lighter — he had done it, he had gotten justice.

And then he sees you — through the crowd, you’re standing by the door, smiling brightly at him, mouthing congratulations, jerking your head and slipping from the courtroom. He nearly trips over himself to get to you, trying to maintain decorum as he leaves through the double doors. He slips by people he knows and those he doesn’t until finally he finds you in a discrete corner of the courthouse, away from prying eyes and reporters.

“Sonny, I’m so proud of you,” you say, your hands on his shoulders, your lips curled in a smile he hoped that was just for him, “I knew you could do it,”

And you did — you had told him he could do it time and time again when he didn’t believe in himself, you had been there for him, as you promised to be.

Everything slows for a moment.

And he couldn’t help think you were the only one he needed to believe in him, to be by his side, the one he wanted to tell good news first, the one he wanted to wake up beside in the morning. He’s breathless as he looks at you, and you seem to realize — the air between you two becoming thick, as he looms closer, a bag on your arm, slipping to your fingers now.

“Sonny,” you breathe, as you tilt your head upwards to look into his eyes.

And he knows this may be a mistake — the last time he kissed you, you disappeared, and every relationship he’s had has ended in disaster, but he can’t bring himself to care — not when he could kiss you again.

“Can I kiss you?” the words slip past his lips without much to-do, and he has to stop himself from biting his tongue or stumbling back, especially when you nod, and his lips crash to yours.

His kiss is still hesitant, and so are you, your lips parting and meeting again and again — chaste, but he tasted you — and he swore he never tasted anything like you before, nothing so sweet. And he pulls away a moment, eyes fluttering and he sees your eyes do the same. And his heart is in his throat again — what if you thought it was a mistake?

But you only smile, your warm hand cupping his cheek, the bag slipping from your fingers, as the other intertwines with his fingers, “Where do you think you’re going?”

And you kiss him again, and he doesn’t hold back this time, his arms wrapping around you, tugging you impossibly closer, smiling against your lips. And he couldn’t help but think — as warmth bloomed in his stomach, your fingers curling in his hair — how did he ever get so lucky?

#sonny carisi x reader #sonny carisi #sonny carisi imagines #rafael barba #rafael barba x reader #rafael barba imagines #svu #svu imagines #law and order: svu #svu fanfiction

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vanchlo · 4 years

Text

The Assistant / Chapter Thirty-Seven, “The Tables Have Turned”

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SNEAKYYYYYY PEEEEEK

“At least I had my orientation with Harry to look forward to that coming Friday, but I still wouldn’t start at his firm for another week after that. The anticipation was killing me, and so were the little moments Harry and I shared when I happened to remember them. Sometimes I wish the alcohol had stolen those memories away, because they hurt too much to remember, but then at other times I’d never wish them away, because they give me something irreplaceable - hope.”

Music Inspo: Everywhere by Niall Horan (click to listen)

“You think I like having you in here, destroying everything that was me until all that’s left is you and a dead shell? You're all I bloody think about ... dream about. You're in my gut ... my throat ... I'm drowning in you.”

- Spike, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (S5 x E14)

“How’s yer dad doin’?” Harry asks me when I return to my seat across from him, the soda threatening to spill over the top of my cup.

“He’s doing good, thanks. It took a while for his energy to come back, and sometimes he gets tired easily, but it’s a process,” I answer, plucking a chip from the small white bag and drenching it in the yellow queso. “He’s pretty happy to have all of his hair back, and he’s started to get back into running and lifting weights. Late last summer he started back to work where he does construction.”

“Wow, I feel like I learn mo’ ‘bout yer dad e’ry time we talk ‘bout him. I didn’t know he was into weights and all that, good fer him. Bloody hell he’s like superman. Ya dunno how happy I am t’ hear he’s back on his feet, and doin’ well,” he murmurs with a gentle warmth adorning his features.

It spreads with a spark across my skin when I feel his fingers wrap around mine, squeezing my hand. I’m guilty again with an absence of words when I look back into his eyes, all syllables stolen away from me at the sight and by his gesture. I don’t need to say anything though because unspoken words pass between us as he stares back at me, memories unraveling from all of the times he showed up for me. I still don’t know how I could have ever doubted he cared about me.

“Thank you,” I reply emphatically, squeezing his toasty hand in return. His thumb brushes along the back of my hand before letting it go.

“Welcome, Becks. ‘m sorry I wasn’t there at tha end t’ celebrate,” he responds softly, sadness laced throughout his words as his head falls. His eyes avoid mine as he picks up a few pieces of shredded cheese that fell onto the wrapper laid in front of him.

“It’s okay, Harry, we both kinda forgot.” His head of curls goes up and down at my softly spoken words that only brush the surface. Regardless, I think that it did the job and he knows what I mean. We both know that we ignored the other and forgot, whether on accident or purpose. “I guess there are several reasons for our celebratory dinner and drinks.”

“Very true, bug,” he agrees, the dimples finding their way back onto his cheeks once again. The itchy nervousness abates when his eyes lift again to mine and he holds out his half-eaten taco, grease and warm sour cream dripping from it. “Cheers t’ yer dad’s recovery, catchin’ up with old friends, and tha best o’ all - Becks gettin’ tha associate position at me firm workin’ with me. ‘m excited t’ see what tha future holds for me new favourite lawyer.”

“Stop it, or else I’m going to start crying, and you’ve seen me cry more than enough,” I smile, blinking back the tears as I hold out my taco and bump it against his. “Cheers to new beginnings, Harry.”

“Cheers, Becks, and ‘s okay if ya cry. Happy tears are good too.”

“Very true,” I agree, taking a page from his book before I finish the rest of my taco, a silence falling over our table. It’s replaced with crinkling of wrappers, sips of soda, chewing of crunchy chips and chocolatey churros, and stolen glances at the other.

“How’re Skye and Robbie these days? What’re they up t’?” he inquires, squashing the wrapper of his third taco into a ball that he sets on the side of the tray for our trash. I watch as he plucks a quesadilla from the stack of dwindling food, but he stops and grabs a churro as well with a sly grin. “Hey, they’re fer me too.”

“Harry,” I warn teasingly, a giggle peeking out from my words which he quickly echos, although accidentally. “Um, they’re both good. Skye got a new job at a salon on the west side that she likes. It’s called Roots or something or other, and Robbie is still working at Black and Blue. He actually started dating a girl recently, but I’ve yet to meet her. God, it seems like everybody else is having luck with love, beside us. Myles told me he’s engaged now, and then Robbie’s girlfriend, and Skye said the other day she has a date this week.”

“Ya, we’re ratha pathetic, aren’t we? We haven’t even had any drinks yet and we’re gushin’ ‘bout bloody love,” he cracks, clucking his tongue before feeding the rest of the crisp churro between his rose lips. My oh my, is that a scenic sight right there.

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” I remark, finishing my second taco and grabbing the remaining quesadilla, earning a disapproving head shake from him.

As the flavors of the tangy sour cream, fiery seasoned chicken, and gooey cheese melt on my tongue, our words hit a sensitive spot in my heart. I just hope we can avoid it for the rest of the night, or else I’m afraid I might blurt out some words I’ve been itching to say.

“Hurry up, ‘s bloody cold,” Harry titters, digging his hands further into the pockets of his matte black coat.

“How far are we even going?”

“Oh, hush, you. ‘s not very far, jus’ anotha block,” he answers, his lengthy legs far ahead of mine.

“Harry, that’s what you said like five minutes ago, and slow the fuck down!”

“Hey, watch tha language, there’s no need t’ swear,” he remarks, meeting my eyes over his shoulder with his brows quirked into a V. When we arrive at a busy intersection, our feet stop on the sidewalk, and a muttered curse falls from his lips.

“Oh, so you can swear, but I can’t?” I quip, poking his arm playfully.

“Yes, li’l one, I can. ‘m not bein’ a very good role model fer ya, am I now?” he replies, a hand leaving his pocket to pat the top of my head covered in a knit hat. I respond with a roll of my eyes as his sly grin graces my eyes. “Are ya shrinkin’ on me, Becks?”

“Don’t.”

He only giggles, turning back to the onslaught of moving lights around us. I’ve always enjoyed the sights of London like this, the neon and fluorescent signs hugging every street, and the towering buildings. Harry mumbles a ‘c’mon’, tugging on my sleeve until I follow him across the crosswalk. Soon, we come upon a pub with a green neon sign donning the front, reading ‘Murphy’s’ that Harry pulls me into. His long legs lead me through the entryway, across red-tiled flooring, and to the long wooden bar where boisterous laughs sound.

“Can I have two Purple Haze martinis, please?” Harry says to the bartender, a tall fellow with an interesting red mustache that curls at its ends. He nods and turns around to grab two martini glasses.

“What are Purple Hazes, like is it something Prince liked to drink?” I ask Harry, falling onto the black bar stool beside him.

“I dunno, but you’ll like it. Jus’ trust me,” he smiles as he slides off his coat, and I admire the new view of his side profile. Something I haven’t seen in a long time. Seven months both does and doesn’t feel like forever, especially compared to that day I found him standing at the front of that lecture hall. Yesterday, when I turned around to find him standing in Myles’ office, it felt like it had been years. I blame it on all of the hurt. “‘Scuse me, can we also get two Skittles shots? Thanks.”

“So, now you’re my drinking mentor too, huh?”

“Pretty much, ya,” he smirks, balling his hand into a fist that he lays his cheek on to look at me. The smile winding its way along his lips under the dim lights drills a hole into the armor around my heart that’s cracking more and more. “And yer not doin’ that sissy thing ya do where ya have a glass o’ water on tha side.”

“Harry, I don’t want to be hungover tomorrow!”

“Becks, you’ll be fine! T’morrow’s a Saturday, anyways. What will it hurt?” he answers, shrugging his shoulders as the crinkles begin around his eyes. They almost disappear from my view when he looks to the bartender who sets the shots down in front of us, Harry mentioning adding it to his bill after thanking him. “Bottoms up, bug.”

“Oh, God,” I sigh, taking the greenish-yellow shotglass of liquid from his outstretched hand. “Stop looking at me that way.”

“What way?” he inquires with a furrowed brow, holding the shot close to his grinning lips.

“Like you know we’re about to get drunk.”

“Cheers,” is all he says, clinking his glass against mine before downing the liquid effortlessly. Shaking my head, I exhale loudly as the liquid nears my lips, and then it burns with hints of sweet and sour on the way down. “See, not so bad, was it?”

“Shut up,” I retort in the middle of a cough racking my chest, setting down the glass with a clunk.

“I have a question,” he announces after his giggling dissolves into the air. “Ya neva told me how you and Skye met, so how’d it happen?”

“You’re thinking about that right now?” I quip, carding a hand through my hair after I slip off my mauve-colored beanie. He shyly nods as he fidgets with a ring on his left hand, meeting my gaze only shortly. “We met in first grade. She was scary at first, because one day early on she got mad at me for stealing her friend, or something- I can’t remember. Then the next day, she came up to me and we were both wearing pink Hello Kitty shoes, and decided to be best friends. Like they say, the rest was history, and we were joined at the hip from then on. We were in the same class a lot throughout the following years, took the same electives in high school, and moved to London together to go to uni.”

“Sounds ratha picturesque, dontcha think? Or I s’pose that’s how it goes with five-year olds,” Harry murmurs, nodding to the bartender when he brings us the purple martinis. An awe leaves my lips when I see the ombre of purple hues filling the glass. “‘s vodka, Curacao, Black Raspberry Liqueur, and cranberry juice. I think you’ll like it. Go ‘head, try it, Becks.”

I obey and bring the chilly glass to my mouth, relaxing at the sweet taste of berries, filling me with the color purple. Then I wince at the harsh bite of the alcohol, eliciting a titter from Harry whose foot I kick with mine. Beside me, he gulps down a quarter of the drink, unfazed.

“How about you and Myles?”

“Good question, I dunno if ‘ve eva told ya that story,” he hums, tickling his stubbly chin with his fingers while thinking. Even the way the skin between his eyebrows disappears when he’s thinking is cute. God, everything about him is and I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it to myself once all of this alcohol passes my lips. As another drink of the martini burns my throat, I think I may be warming up to that idea, but there’s the possibility it could all be for nothing if the alcohol steals our memories away.

“We met in high school inn’a class I can’t rememba tha name of, but we both hadd’a crush on tha same girl, and we both played guitar. So it was natural,” he mumbles, licking his lips and making me feel woozy all over at the sight.

“Sure, that’s a real natural friendship,” I giggle. “You know I’m a lightweight, by the way.”

“Oh I know, ‘m bettin’ onnit,” he returns with a wink, bringing the large glass to his bubblegum lips.

“You know what’s good?” I follow, watching his thick eyebrows hike up his forehead. “That Kinky stuff,” I respond, taking another sip. I almost choke on it when I glance at the shocked look screwing up his face.

“Becks.”

“No, God- t-the vodka, Harry . . . not that other stuff,” I chuckle, my entirety collapsing into nervous laughter. His own echoes mine as a prickly warmth spreads like fire across my body.

“My bloody God, Rebecca Holte, are ya already feelin’ that drink?” he hums, his bony knee knocking against mine underneath the table. The fiery nervousness abates briefly at the mention of my formal name, one I can’t recall the last time I’ve heard him say in its entirety. It comes as a shock to me, considering at times I’m convinced he’s forgotten it.

“No, I-I just thought a liquor connoisseur such as yourself would know what I’m talking about.”

“Sure, I totally don’t believe you on that one, love,” he replies, scoffing when I softly hit his shoulder. “Yer prolly into handcuffs and gags, arentcha?”

“Harry Styles!” I exclaim, squirming when his hand covers my mouth. It falls within seconds, but the spicy vanilla smell coating his body remains with me, along with the warmth of his touch. Most of all, the familiarity and safety wrapped all in it causes a pang in my chest. “I do not do handcuffs, or bloody gags, and nor would I ever tell you, if I did.”

Words fleet his lips as he drowns them with another swallow of his violet martini. I turn away with my hair tickling my cheek as it shakes from side to side. It flies in front of my eyes when his fingers plunge into my sides, yanking laughs from my mouth as he lifts his eyebrows at me with a look that tells me to be quiet.

“I missed you,” I blurt out at random, feeling his fingers still on my side and his expression relaxes. The happiness falls from his eyes and cheeks, and with it I turn away, unable to deal with the disappointment I’m sure I’m on the verge of.

“I missed you too, y’know . . . loads,” Harry concurs, his fingers dangling at my side until they wander to my hands clasped in my lap. He steals one of them away and holds it against his leg, rubbing circles into my knuckles.

If this doesn’t make me spill the beans, then I’m positive the following liquor just may, and it all might come crashing down in front of me.

The next shot, a Lemon Drop, didn’t go down as smoothly. I felt like I was going to hack up a lung when I feel Harry’s warm hand on my back.

“Alright?” he murmurs in a rush, patting my back firmly until the cough subsides. “Sorry, that lemon one ‘s kinda hard sumtimes, ‘s ratha sour.”

“Ya think?” I respond, trying to make it go away with the last gulp of the Purple Haze, but it’s only a few seconds of relief.

I exhale and only feel his hand leave me when he orders a water, and two Tequila Sunrises, his a stronger one.

“Breathe, love, a water’s on ‘s way,” Harry hums, squeezing my arm. I nod and swallow hard, embarrassment coating me like a musty sheet.

“I thought you said no water.”

“Hush, I gotta take care o’ me li’l one,” he assures me, bringing a finger to his lips when I dare a look at him. A smile returns to my lips and remains there when the cold water graces them, him sipping at the Tequila Sunrise sat between his ringed fingers.

Oh, what I’d give to be able to wake up to a sunrise with him by my side. Oh, Harry.

“Hey, wha’s that ya got there?” he inquires, soon his painted nail lifting the bracelets from my right wrist. “Becks has a tattoo?! Since when?” he exclaims, astonishment and shock mixing into a cocktail amongst his features. His eyes bug out of his skull and then narrow when they return to my wrist.

“It’s a Queen Anne’s Lace, Robbie has one too, just on his upper arm and bigger. We got them when we were eighteen, um . . . . after our Gran passed. Grandma Holte . . Ann Holte,” I explain, helping him by removing the bracelets from around my wrist.

I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol or just him, but my wrist finds a new home in his palm that he turns to better look at. The shock is replaced by a slow smile transforming his face, bleeding into his eyes that find their way back to mine.

“‘s gorgeous, Becks, truly. ‘ve always found tattoos o’ flowers t’ be so beautiful, yer makin’ me want t’ get anotha one even mo’ now. I mean, I have tha rose and anotha sumwhere I think, but now I want anotha thanks t’ you,” he hums, tracing the ink with the tip of his thumb, just a whisper of his touch. “‘m sorry ‘bout yer Gran, sounded like it was premature which ‘s always tha worst. Knew ya were strong, but fook, ya amaze me e’ry day, Becks.” Unannounced tears press warmly at the back of my eyes as he admires the sprawling flower, tracing each little petal until he’s tracked them all.

“You didn’t think I was that badass, huh?”

“No, ‘ve always thought ya were a badass, babe. A flower tattoo jus’ takes the cake,” he quips, looking me in the eyes and sending another crack down the case in my chest.

I don’t know how many more little shocks like this I can take, or my heart, before it breaks free from the cage I locked it up in so long ago. I hid it there to protect it from him breaking it, again.

“This ‘s me,” he announces, bringing us to stop in the parking lot. My confusion only grows as I look around, until my eyes stop on the black Harley Davidson in front of us.

“What? It’s the middle of winter, Harry.”

“I know, I know. That’s what e’rybody says, but I dress warm. I like t’ take her out e’ry once in a while t’ keep her runnin’ good. Maybe ‘ll hafta take ya onn’a ride when ‘s not too cold fer pussy Becks,” he coos, voice rising to a mocking tone.

“I’m sorry I don’t like the cold wind ripping my skin off,” I titter and his eyes roll into the back of his head with a groan. I stand there awkwardly, eyes following him as he grabs the helmet from the locked bag towards the back seat.

“Ya sure yer good t’ drive, bug? I can give ya a ride if yer not too much o’ a puss puss,” Harry remarks, turning to face me as he holds the buckle strap to the side, a smirk claiming his face.

“Yeah I’m good, thanks. Those four waters and twenty trips to the bathroom helped,” I answer, although regretfully as everything inside of me screams at me to accept.

Girl, how dumb are you?

Quiet, demon, I can’t take it back now.

“Good, ‘m glad t’ hear that, love. I uh, reckon ‘ll see ya inn’a week then?” he replies, sliding the helmet over his dark curls, fingering the chin strap.

“Yeah, the eighteenth.”

“Don’t miss me too much now,” he jests from behind the lack of visor that he had pushed up and out of the way. Even with the bulky metallic gold helmet, he’s so goddamn sexy it’s unbelievable.

“As long as you don’t miss me too bad either.”

“Eh, ‘ll try not t’ but it’ll be hard,” he echoes jokingly, squishing his lips to the side with a thought and suddenly they collapse into a pout. Then, he winks at me as he settles onto his bike. “See ya inn’a week, Becks.”

“Bye, Harry. Have a good weekend, and careful driving.”

“You too, bug, drive safe. ‘ll talk t’ ya soon, gotta get tha recipe fer that Kinky Blue drink from ya,” he tells me, the bike rumbling to life when he twists the key in the ignition.

“Bye,” I exhale, taking one last look at him before I turn around. I put one foot in front of the other and walk away from him, my least favorite thing to do of all things on this planet.

From behind my steering wheel a few cars down, I watch in awe as he slides on gloves before toeing away the kickstand and pulling out of the lot, looking more handsome than ever.

Just when I think he can’t surprise me, he does just that, and in the best way possible. Every time.

“Care to explain where you’ve been all night, missy?”

“It’s not even eleven, Mom,” I respond with a firmness trying in my voice, but I can’t muster it as I slide off my boots. No, there’s not really any reason in the world that I could be upset right now, or feign anything other than utter happiness.

“I know, I can read a clock, Ree. Hey, what’s that big smile for? I never got to hear how your interview went yesterday.”

“Oh yeah,” I realize aloud, the words falling automatically as I hang up my coat in the closet by our front door. Boy, is that a lot to unpack and rehash, and yet I look forward to relaying it all to her. That way, I get to relive all of it a little bit, and I don’t mind if I do. “Well, you were out all night partying too, so you can’t be mad at me.”

“You got me there, I’m guilty. Or can I say that yet, Ms. Lawyer?” Skye responds, a lightness showing in her words. After closing the door to the closet, I find the anxious eagerness waiting in her eyes, bringing elation to the front of my mind as I nod.

“I got the job yesterday,” I barely am able to say before she crossed the room, surrounding me in a hug. “Harry called me when I got home from work and told me the good news!”

“Oh my god, Ree, that’s so amazing! I’m so happy for you, holy shit!” she exclaims, amazing me at her strength when she squeezes me with her noodle arms. “Was he happy to see you?!”

“Yeah, I think so, and fuck he looked so good, Skye. He hugged me the first second he saw me.”

“Aww, that’s so bloody cute. So, when do you start?”

Pulling away, I look her in the eyes and revel in the happy celebration coating me in waves again.

“Monday the twenty-eighth, but I have orientation with him next Friday.”

“Oooo, lucky you!” she smiles, and I swear my happiness about the whole thing has only doubled since she stopped being angry at me for applying.

“And I may or may not have just went out for those belated dinner and drinks with him tonight,” I reveal slowly yet eagerly, watching more shock paint her face and her jaw drops.

“Ree, you basically went out on a date with him, that’s my girl!”

“Skye, it wasn’t a date!” I protest feebly, because once again any of the negative emotions have no chance at outshining the wonderful positive ones right this second. “It was just to celebrate my new job, and to make up for the dinner we never had this summer, and the drinks he wanted to get for my birthday which also didn’t happen.”

“Wait, what?!” she almost explodes, nearly all of the emotions under the sun covering her face, if only for a few seconds at a time. “I thought you didn’t talk to him on your birthday?”

“Well yeah, I didn’t besides that one text,” I answer, and then I slowly see the realization shine in her eyes.

“You opened his presents?!” she shouts, coming to grab my arms as I giggle with a nod.

“Yeah, after I got home and right before he called. Talk about a lot of happy tears yesterday.”

“No wonder you weren’t answering my calls, and I don’t blame you, you were a busy girl. Busy with Harry,” Skye notes aloud, the same sunny emotions showing in her words, but they die down as she nears her finish. “I told you he still cared about you.”

“I know, you were right all along, and it kills me that I ever believed he didn’t. He got me a mini purple piano keyboard, a journal to write songs in, the first season of FRIENDS, and wrote me the sweetest birthday card. Then, he called right after to tell me I got the job, and fuck, it all seems like a dream sometimes. But then I called him at work today to set up the orientation, and he had the idea to get together tonight, and it’s all like a dream come true,” I tell her softly, and slowly it all doesn’t seem so fake anymore, but instead it feels just like the dream I’ve always wanted my life to become.

“Girl, you are so lucky,” Skye comments, dragging me by the hand over to the sofa where we fall with a thud, heads resting on the back cushion. “Did you kiss him tonight? Because God, Ree, you are both so in love with each other, I dunno how you haven’t kissed him already.”

“I don’t know,” I muse aloud, staring at the ceiling, but really all I can see is him smiling at me at the bar. His hand on my back when I was coughing, bringing my hand into his when we said we missed the other, and all of those feelings sitting in his eyes that I’m sure he could’ve seen in mine as well. “I think I’ll wait until I get settled at the job, because starting a new job is always the worst part and overwhelming enough as it is.”

“If you say so, Boops, but I figure that’s not too bad of an idea.”

“Yeah, guess why?” I counter, turning my head to face her, finding strands of purple hair sticking out of her messy bun. She looks back at me, confusion etched into the lines in her forehead. “He’s my mentor for the next few years and I’m his mentee, so I get to work with him every day and all day.”

“Ree, you should’ve led with that! Holy shit, why didn’t you?” she exclaims, swatting my arm in disbelief as I dissolve into a happy laugh. “That’s amazing! You get to work with him and under him, it sounds like a pretty good deal,” she chuckles, her laughing lips falling into a please smile.

“I know, I really can’t believe the last two days sometimes. I hit the jackpot, the Harry jackpot,” I giggle happily, relaxing against the sofa, trying to remember his spicy vanilla scent. If I try hard enough, I can smell it when his hand covered my mouth in a joke, and the warmth of his touch the few times our hands met. It wasn’t nearly enough times, though. “I have to work with Myles my entire second week though, because he’ll be in Scotland to try the case I’m helping him prep for my first week.”

“That’s shitty,” she grimaces, crossing her arms over her chest clad in a fuzzy blue bathrobe. “Just ask him out when he gets back then, it’d be too annoying starting to date while he’s away. If you didn’t, I’m pretty sure you’d die from missing him, Ree.”

“Fuck, I already might, I’m dreading it,” I sigh sadly, not even wanting to think about how pathetic I already feel not looking forward to that week.

“I know you are, but don’t. You have so much more to look forward to just in the next few weeks, and maybe you can sneak your second and third date in there, and a kiss perhaps.”

“Oh my God, Skye, shut up,” I retort, but it’s soon consumed by my laughter as she pulls me into her arms and her chin rests on my head.

“I’m so blooming happy for you, Ree. I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

“So have I, Skye, so fucking long,” I recall aloud, trying not to let the melancholy find me as I lose myself thinking about how ungodly perfect he looked tonight. And how I get to see that handsome face five days a week for the near future; talk about lucky. Talk about a dreamboat finally lifting its sail.

The next few days seemed as if they took twice as long, and the mild headache I woke up to on Saturday morning didn’t help. Although relaxing, the day dragged on and soon it was Sunday, with another long week ahead of me. At least I had my orientation with Harry to look forward to that coming Friday, but I still wouldn’t start at his firm for another week after that. The anticipation was killing me, and so were the little moments Harry and I shared when I happened to remember them. Sometimes I wish the alcohol had stolen those memories away because they hurt too much to remember, but then at other times I’d never wish them away, because they give me something irreplaceable - hope.

One of the many things they don’t tell you about becoming an adult is how music makes everything all the more tolerable, and exciting. Air Hostess by Busted fills one of my ears as I pass the aisle for boxed pasta, pasta sauces, and the like. On an endcap, I grab a box of fettuccine that I toss into my cart. Lifting my eyes, my legs move again and come across a figure that walks right out in front of me. Our metal carts bang against the other’s as a warmth tickles my insides, and my lips.

“God, Styles, you’re an awful driver,” I remark with a tsk, removing the earbuds to stuff into my pocket.

“Oh, hey, Becks. ‘m sorry I didn’t see ya there,” he comments, turning his tired green eyes to mine. He messes with the gray knit beanie covering most of his messy locks, and it suddenly makes me hyper aware of my godawful just-fell-out-of-bed appearance.

“No duh you didn’t,” I snicker, kneading the plastic sheath on the cart’s push bar. “Wow, nice Sunday Best, I’m impressed,” I tease, running my eyes over the baggy gray sweats covering his legs and the cream Abbey Road crewneck on his torso.

“You as well, Ms. Power Rangers,” he quips, nodding his head at my outfit that compares very much to his with black cheetah sweats, a hoodie, and beanie. “Which one was yer favourite since there was neva a purple one when we were li’l?”

“I know, I felt so ripped off by that,” I sigh, following him as he takes off and turns into the next aisle. “But I always loved the red power ranger, I don’t really know why.”

“Hmmm, interestin’ seein’ how he was always tha one in charge. D’ya have a thing fer bossy men or sumthin’, Becks?”

“Oh, shut up,” I laugh, tapping his bum with the front of my cart, earning evil eyes from him over his shoulder. “Who was your favorite Power Ranger, then?” I say, turning the tables to him. He comes to a stop in front of me, straying from his empty cart to grab a few cans of corn and peas.

“Green, I think. Can’t really rememba why,” he shrugs, placing the cans in the cart, soon returning to another section of shelves to pluck a large can of crushed tomatoes from it. “Which season was yer fav’?”

“Time Force, for sure.”

“Oh c’mon, Dino Force was far betta,” he scoffs disbelievingly, giving me another dirty look as he sets down the large can in his cart, crossing off something on the piece of blue paper he holds.

“Maybe you should be friends with my brother, seeing how you like all of the same stuff. The green Power Ranger was his favourite, and so was Dino Force,” I laugh, comparing two different brands of green beans, deciding on the cheaper one that I grab. My legs pass his cart and when I see him shrug his shoulders with a sly grin, I softly swat him on the arm, his name leaving me.

“Becks, ya betta watch it,” he giggles, catching my arm in his gentle grasp.

“Or what?”

“Don’t test me,” he warns, but the grin creasing his cheeks tells me otherwise, he’s harmless. I bump my shoulder against his after he lets go, but not without a tickle from him.

“Harry Styles,” I groan, grabbing a can of tuna from the shelf. His grin is wider when I turn around, rolling my eyes at him on my way back to my cart.

“Rebecca Holte,” he whines in a mocking voice, once again shocking me with his recollection of my name.

“Don’t, it sounds weird when you say my name like that.”

“It really does tho’,” he remarks agreeingly, words falling into a hearty laugh. I almost echo it until I spot the look on his face. Following his eyes to the shelves, I find his stuck to a display of Spaghettios. Some have meatballs in them, hotdogs, the pasta are in different shapes, and some cans are bigger than others. I’m not sure which one he’s looking at, but the absence of anything on his face whisks that question away. “Alright?” I ask softly, taking a few steps towards him, and he wakes back up when my hand touches his arm.

“Y-Ya,” he hums sadly, letting my fingers come around his forearm, almost as if I’m about to hook arms with him. God, I wish. “‘s been a while since ‘ve seen these, and even longa since I ate ‘em. I always used t’ eat ‘em at me granddad’s house with a piece o’ buttered bread,” he explains, nodding towards the arrangement.

“Oh, Harry,” I exhale, sadness bending my features as I squeeze his arm. He musters a forced laugh, carrying his eyes over to mine with apology held in them. “It’s almost been a year, hasn’t it?”

“Ya, this week. I can’t believe it,” he remarks softly, kneading his bottom lip between his thumb and pointer finger of his free right hand. “Almost think I should grab a can fer him, but I dunno if ‘d like ‘em now. I don’t wanna ruin that memory.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to buy it. You could buy or do something else to remember him, Harry.”

He nods beside me as I look up at him and watch the thoughts paint his face. It seems his face goes through every emotion within a minute - sadness, regret, confusion, frustration, grief, etc.

“Maybe get something you both like.”

“Ya, he loved those fudge-striped cookies, maybe I can find some o’ those instead,” he decides, tearing his eyes away from the lines of cans to meet mine. “Thanks . . Boops,” he smiles, that simple image calming the worrying of my heart.

I laugh and walk away from him, returning to my cart that I begin to push, but I find Harry’s in my way. With a playful groan, my lips part, “Come on, Harold, move it so we can go to the cookie aisle.”

“Hey, that’s not me name,” he responds, wrapping his bare fingers around the handle, giving me another glare over his shoulder.

“Well, neither is Rebecca, so don’t call me that.”

“But it ‘s actually yer name. Yer confusin’, y’know that?” he tuts, shaking his head as he looks straight ahead, moving down the aisle. “Hey, how’d ya eva come t’ be called ‘Boops’, anyways? I rememba Skye would call ya that sometimes when ‘d come ova.”

“God, I can’t believe you remember that nickname,” I groan, receiving a light chuckle from him ahead of me. On purpose, I bump the front of my cart against his bum again as he waits for somebody to pass.

“Becks- I mean, Rebecca, stop,” Harry says, turning halfway to meet my giggling eyes. One sits in his greens as well, but he only lets it show as a curling of one side of his mouth. “Ya I rememba, that’s all she called you. I think she did it on purpose.”

“Probably, knowing Skye she did it to bug me or embarrass me,” I comment, taking a right down the big aisle in between all of the smaller ones. Rows upon rows of cookies come before our eyes soon, along with baking supplies like flour, sugar, and chocolate chips. Dang, the amount of chocolate in this aisle is unreal, and somehow comforting. “My dad started it when I was a baby, or so I’ve been told. He’d tap my nose with his finger and it always made me laugh, I guess, so it stuck.”

“Aww, that’s adorable. Does he still boop yer nose when he calls ya that?”

“Sometimes,” I laugh, leaving my cart on the side as I pull out my phone, bringing up my shopping list. “So what are you all buying today?”

“That’s cute, y’know, and jus’ stockin’ up on some stuff. ‘m makin’ a pot pie t’night, so needed stuff fer that - carrots, an onion, celery, pie dough, broth, chicken, y’know,” he answers, bending down to squat so he can pull a pack of fudge stripes from the shelf. “Ah, here they are. I can’t rememba tha last time I had these eitha, but ‘m excited t’ try ‘em again, and think of Granddad when I have ‘em with a glass o’ milk.”

“Good idea,” I agree, patting him on the back as I tote a sack of flour in my other arm.

He finds me with his eyes over his shoulder, and those to-die-for dimples make an appearance again as his lips open with a smile, “Thanks, Boops,” he grins, tapping my nose with his finger. I want to tell him how original he’s being with that response, or the lack thereof, but the butterflies taking flight in my stomach consume all the bravery I had. “What’re you buyin’, hmm?”

“Same, just necessities.”

“Looks like yer bakin’ or sumthin’ with all that flour,” he comments, nodding to it as I set it down amongst the other items.

“Well, I’m going to make brownies, so yeah it’s a necessity, but that’s nothing new.”

“Ah, so Becks has become a baker, has she now?” he inquires, filling his arms with items up and down the aisle, because of course he is. I nod, joining him by a box of premade mixes, watching as he debates over which brownie mix to buy.

“I literally just said two seconds ago that I’m making homemade brownies, and you’re buying a box mix of them! Homemade is always better!” I exclaim, then groan with a disapproving shake of my head. “Harold.”

“Boops,” he returns, a smile winding its way up his cheeks covered in a light layer of dark facial hair. Now, that’s new, and what’s not to like? “I don’t mess with bakin’, so yes, ‘m buyin’ a box o’ premade. Unless ya’d like t’ make me some?” he suggests, wiggling his eyebrows at me with an idea forming inside of my head.

“Maybe if you stop calling me Boops and Rebecca, I will one time.”

“Noted,” he responds, winking at me as he replaces the box on the shelf.

“Good boy.”

He continues to smile at me, and quickly I remember what it’s like to stare into this sunlight, and how it’s not so bad sometimes. It’s quite wonderful, actually. The buzzing inside of my chest grows when his finger nears my face again, and then brushes under my eye.

“I like seein’ yer birthmark when ya don’t cover it up, ‘s pretty, Becks,” he hums, tracing his thumb over it, tickling my skin. A small ‘thanks’ drops from my lips at his words, and the buzzing only intensifies as he stares back at me. In that moment, I swear I could do it and I almost try to until he turns away. I attempt to find comfort in assuring myself that I don’t want our theoretical first kiss to be in the middle of the supermarket, lest anybody join us in this aisle. “I think that’s all I needed t’day.”

Thoughts are building into words on my tongue until the ringing of my phone interrupts my plans. This is definitely not all that I needed today, per say. Lifting it towards my face, I see my dad’s smiling face waiting for me, reminding me I haven’t spoken to him in days amidst everything going on. He’s already called a few times and I wasn’t able to answer, and he’s probably starting to grow concerned. I also really need to tell him about the new job. He’ll be so happy, and I can only imagine the suggestive things he’ll say about Harry. Oh boy.

“I should take this,” I announce, bringing my eyes back to his. He nods as he arrives back in front of his cart. “It was nice to see you and only one of you,” I snicker, alluding to the far too many drinks we consumed the other night.

“You too, Becks, it was nice runnin’ into ya. ‘ll try not t’ crash carts with ya tha next time,” he returns with a warm smile, coming towards me as he pushes his cart. The next time? Can you please not tease me like this, Harry? I want all of the grocery shopping trips with you, even if they’re only like this where I can’t have my arm hooked through yours. Maybe one time we’ll only need one cart, just maybe. He lifts an arm and squeezes mine on his way down the aisle. “Take care, bug, ‘ll see ya Friday.”

“Bye, Harry. Careful driving that thing!” I call out, and this time he doesn’t give me a dirty look when he looks back at me. Instead, he sends me that blinding smile of his I love so damn much. “And, I’ll be thinking of you this week, I know it’ll be a hard one.”

“Thanks, bug, I appreciate it,” he returns, winking at me before turning back around and rounding the corner, just as I press Accept on my phone.

“Hi, Dad,” I say, waiting to hear my dad’s comforting voice.

“Hey, Boops. How’s my favourite girl?” he asks, the warmth in his voice providing me with happiness, and stealing it away at the same time. God, I miss him sometimes, I realize inside my thoughts. As I still stare down the aisle, I miss another man too.

It seems I’m always missing these two every second of every day, and one of Harry’s hugs that I wish I’d stolen a few seconds ago.

As the numbers climb in front of my eyes, the last few days flash before them. Somehow, I’m amazed when the number seventeen appears before my eyes in a bright red font. The last week has dragged on at times, thoughts of Harry and standing in this very lift occupying my every thought. Checking my watch, I’m glad to see I’m early, just like I had planned.

The gunmetal doors part in front of me and I’m rewarded with the sight of Seventeen in all of its glory. The buzzing returns in my chest, and so do the multitudes of butterflies in my gut as I look around. It does and doesn’t look the same as before, but it smells the same, and in some ways it sounds the same. The Cubiclers are gone and now more offices line the walls, and a certain somebody sits inside of one this very instant. The very same person I get to spend the entire day with, and it’s the first of oh so many. I take a long look around, admiring the gleaming tiled floors and the dark wooden walls, a new cream chandelier or two dotting the ceiling. God, that remodel must not have been cheap, I think silently, and soon wonder if a certain somebody’s father in construction had anything to do with it.

I almost expect to see him round one of the corners of the large floor dedicated to the firm, but I don’t, and I’m unsure of how I feel about it. It’s all washed away when I find the door I’ve been looking for, and it’s open.

“Hey, stranger,” I announce, leaning against the door frame with a cheeky grin plastered across my face. “Look at you with the fancy new office all to yourself.”

Their tousled head of sandy hair lifts from their computer screen, and I watch his eyes change almost entirely. My name falls from his lips as he stands up and crosses the room to me, enveloping me in a hug.

“What are you doing here? Does Harry know you’re here?”

“Yeah, he knows,” I smile against Asher’s shoulder, pulling away after a moment of being surrounded by his crisp cologne. “I work with him uh soon - I got the associate job, and he’s my mentor.”

Again, the look on his face changes in a blink, and astonishment paints him in stripes. A nervous laugh falls from his lips as he grips my shoulders and clucks his tongue in disbelief.

“You’re always good with the surprises, aren’t you?” Asher replies and I nod, waiting for him to say more. “Becky, t-this is what you want?”

“Yeah, it’s what I want. He’s already been so kind to me, and we’ve been talking a lot. He picked me over everybody else, Ash!” I respond, watching the words register with him as he nods the slightest. “I’m not going to let him get away this time.”

“As long as you’re happy, and he’s good to you,” he insists, pointing a stern finger at me dotted with shiny blonde hairs.

“Yes, he’s already being good to me, Ash. We went out for dinner and drinks that we meant to do this summer, and things are already looking up.”

“Good, good. That’s already progress, Becky,” he hums, and I mumble a brief agreement. “But still, what are you doing here now?”

“Oh, I have my orientation with him today, but I don’t start officially until the twenty-eighth, after I finish my job at the courts,” I reply, and he nods a little harder this time, biting on his thumb.

“I see, it’s all making some sense now, thank God. So, when are you going to ask him on a date?”

“Ash!” I exclaim, following him further into his plain looking office where he sits on the corner of his desk. He crosses his arms over the ochre button down showing a white t-shirt underneath. “It’s not even my first day of work yet!”

“So? You’re wasting precious time!” he argues, his loud chuckle soon stealing away his words. I groan as my eyes roll into the back of my head, soon pushing up the sleeve of my dark violet blazer to find my brown leather watch.

“Yeah, sitting here arguing with you,” I giggle, returning my eyes to his summer blues.

“No, you’re right, because you could be talking to him right now. You know, flirting with him and asking him on a date.”

“Ash, stop!” I laugh, turning to walk away, but I stop when I reach his door. “I like the new office by the way, I’m happy they finally made you head of I.T. I’m really happy for you,” I say softly pointing to the words on his door, hanging onto the handle as he meets my eyes softly.

“Thanks, Becky, I appreciate it. It was about time Bitchie Trishie retired anyways, fuck was she old.”

“Ditto,” I smile and he returns it right away. “I’m really happy to be back.”

“I’m happy you are too, and I’m sure Harry is as well. You should get going, you don’t want to make a bad uh, second impression,” he notes, shooing me away with his hand.

We say our goodbyes and I return to the hallway, straightening my unbuttoned blazer over my long slacks the same color for probably the twentieth time this morning. What feels like for the fiftieth time, I smooth down the chiffon black blouse tucked in underneath, hoping I ironed out every single wrinkle. Skye’s words from his morning when we said goodbye come back to me with a warm smile.

“Ree, if he doesn’t realize what he’s been missing the second he sees you in that outfit, I’m going to be very disappointed in him,” she mused, shaking her head with pursed lips and arms crossed over her chest as I laughed nervously.

My black pumps echo with every step I take on the immaculate floors, soon finding Amelia at the front desk who I wave at, not bothering to check in again. Asher’s comment and its ambiguity comes to mind as I take a right through the lobby. What did he mean that he’s sure Harry is happy I’m back, too? Since when do Asher and Harry talk, or when have they ever spoken to each other with more than three words? Does he know something that I don’t know?

I don’t get another second to think about it, because soon I turn down the hallway. His hallway. The nerves of anticipation and excitement come over me as a smile grows hastily on my lips. I’ve been waiting for this moment for longer than I think I know, probably months, or even years. It’s hard to believe that the last time I was in his office, it was two years ago. The thought appears with a sting when I remember the last time I was in his office, because of him walking in on Amber well, assaulting me. A moment that I ended when I walked away from him, and here I am walking back to him, and I couldn’t be happier.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

I see his door first, and how it’s ajar, letting a section of his office peek through. Then, I hear the Paul McCartney song escaping from his office, followed by his humming. The humming doesn’t match the song oddly enough, but it transports me back to the hospital in Madley when I was wrapped in his arms. It’s the same song he was humming then that I still can’t figure out. God, those kinds of things bug me.

I see him first, and I couldn’t be more grateful for that, because I get a few extra seconds to admire him. It allows me to remember the way he absently twirls a piece of hair around his finger when he’s lost in a thought, how he always crosses his legs at the ankles under his desk bobbing a foot to the music, and just how incredible he always manages to look in a suit. A pastel teal number hugs his trim body with a cream button up underneath, giving me a peek at his thick chest hair underneath. Oh, I could just eat him up. If only.

Swallowing, I take the time for a silent deep breath before rapping my knuckle against the cold glass of his door with nervous lips, “Good morning, boss.”

His head flies up and I think I’ve scared him almost, but the happiness that consumes his face is instantaneous and contagious as ever. It spreads across his flushed skin until my favorite little things about his smile appear before my eyes, making this all the more real. The perfect little curls falling over his forehead make it all the worse, and the better.

“Mornin’. Are ya ready t’ get started, Ms. Holte?”

“Yes, I’ve never been more ready,” I reply, the anxiousness abating as he stands from his chair.

“Great, then let’s get started with yer official orientation as a lawyer fer Styles and Lawson,” he announces, firmness playing in his words until they end with sunshine dancing across them, his footsteps finding their way to me. “Y’know, ‘ve been waitin’ a long time fer this day, Becks, too long.”

Me too, Harry. I’ve been waiting for what feels like forever for this new beginning.

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holdyourbreathuntilyouseelight · 5 years

Text

The Bodyguard - Chapter 8

Summary: Magnus is a dancing popstar sensation whose popularity continues to climb. Alec, an ex-Secret Service agent, is hired on as a professional bodyguard in charge of Mr. Bane’s personal security by insistence of Magnus’ manager. Despite their initial differences, Magnus finds himself falling for Alec the more time they spend getting to know each other and relies on him for more than physical security as his safety gets threatened. Loosely based on the 1992 film The Bodyguard.

Rating: M

Genre: AU, Everyone is Human AU, Celebrity!Magnus, Bodyguard!Alec, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fluff, Friendship, Romance, Eventual Smut, Mutual Pining

Author: holdyourbreathuntilyouseelight

A/N: You guys are much more than I deserve - thank you so much for being so patient. I am trying my hardest to keep up on writing better going forward so I can deliver the rest of this story in a more timely fashion. Thanks for sticking with me!

Click here to read on AO3.

Previous chapters on tumblr: Prologue // Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4 // Chapter 5 // Chapter 6 // Chapter 7

* * * * *

Magnus woke up feeling like something died in his mouth overnight, but at least he was warm. He nuzzled into the pillow further, no desire to open his eyes coming once the head pounding kicked in.

His pillow felt oddly firm – not that he didn't like a well supported neck, but he was used to fluffier pillows at the hotels Raphael usually booked.

Consciousness gradually caught up with him, and that's when he realized he wasn't laying his head on a pillow at all.

It was the movement of the material under his cheek that alerted him of the fact whatever he was laying on was clothed, not a pillow case. And, drunken night or not, he knew there was only one man he could be tangled up with in his hotel bed.

Magnus opened his eyes slowly, peeking up to see that Alec was thankfully still sleeping soundly. He was spread underneath Magnus, Magnus somehow becoming an octopus overnight if his body curled around Alec's was any indicator. He had a leg between his, one arm stretched across him and tucked near his ribcage, and of course his head nestled comfortably on his torso.

He gently took back his enthuasiastic limbs and pulled away. Magnus couldn't help but stop to admire the man laid out in bed sleeping peacefully. His body was well defined, a light dusting of chest hair peeking up through the lopsided t-shirt, and his dark eyelashes framed beautifully against his pale skin.

He was gorgeous. Breathtaking. Lying there like the angels had carved him from marble. At least he was comfier than stone.

"Uh, what are you… is this comfortable for you?"

"Very. This okay?"

"Uh, yeah, yes. All good."

Magnus nearly groaned at the memory. Drunk him was not very restrained. He thought back to the night before, how he ended up tangled around Alec, and he was stunned by the bluntness of his desire for the other man.

How had Alec not been freaked out?

Magnus had blamed a lot on Alec being his bodyguard and his work ethic being the reasoning behind why he was kind or protective. But he knew he wasn't crazy to think there was something growing between them. At the bar last night, there was no way Alec wasn't flirting with him, showing him how to play pool the way he did. And Magnus stroking down his body did nothing but darken his gaze with desire.

His musing about all the times he maybe wasn't misreading Alec's feelings only lasted so long as he felt a sudden lurch in his stomach, and then he was running to the ensuite with his hand over his mouth before he could lose the contents of his stomach all over the hotel rug.

He closed the door a little too hard behind him, dropping to his knees as he began retching in the toilet, the disgusting regurgitation spilling out of him before he even made contact with the floor.

It didn't last long and was all liquid – his own fault for not eating enough the night before – and he shakily sat back against the wall as he recovered his breath once it was over.

"Magnus? Magnus, are you all right?"

Damn it. He woke Alec. He was hoping he could miss hearing him puking his guts out like some sort of freshly-turned-legal young adult. It wasn't exactly a shining achievement.

"I'm fine." Magnus croaked back, his throat more raw than he'd anticipated, making him sound like a long-term smoker with tar-drenched lungs.

"What can I do?" Alec asked, softer now, the concern slipping into his voice.

Magnus couldn't help but feel his heart warm at the sound. He and Alec may have had their differences, and frankly they still bickered regularly, but he knew there was no denying that Alec genuinely cared for his well being. He had made that pretty clear over the last week.

"Nothing. I'm fine, Alexander, I promise. I'll be out in a minute."

"Okay."

Magnus heard him step away from the door and he took that as a win. He got to his feet and splashed some cool water on his face, trying not to groan at how the pounding in his head didn't seem to want to let up any time soon. He needed more sleep and hydration. Maybe some more cuddling wouldn't hurt either, seeing as Alec apparently wasn't opposed.

He brushed his teeth quickly, wanting to rid the vomit taste from his mouth, and headed back to the bedroom.

He was surprised to find Alec not there, but he was too tired and feeling too gross to go investigate where he disappeared to. For all he knew, he could be checking on his siblings in the other room. Izzy especially had matched him pretty closely drink for drink and he doubted she had the level of tolerance he did.

Magnus collapsed back on the bed, letting the duvet envelope him in a comforting cocoon of fluff, and he closed his eyes in the hope that the room would stop spinning so much.

He heard someone enter the room, and though he normally was more paranoid, he didn't have the energy to be anxious.

"Hey. Can you sit up for a minute?"

Alec had returned. If Magnus wasn't so hungover, he'd probably be grinning giddily at this point, now that he had some time to reflect on things. Could Alec really return his feelings?

He did as he was told, opening his eyes to see Alec holding out a cold bottle of ginger ale for him and some aspirin.

"I think you're going to need these." he explained.

Magnus nodded his thanks as he swallowed them down, the cool fizz easing his sore throat.

"Thank you, Alexander."

He watched as Alec headed into the bathroom and he closed his eyes again, ready for sleep to take him under to avoid feeling so wretched. He could celebrate his potential romantic victory later.

A loud noise made his eyes snap back open and he saw Alec flash a sheepish smile.

"Sorry. This thing isn't very cooperative."

Magnus stared as Alec carried over the obnoxious stand-up fan that was knocking against the floor every few steps. Alec turned the air on and pointed it at Magnus. He then moved to sit on the edge of the bed, running a cool cloth over his face and leaving it resting on his forehead.

The cool blowing air mixed with the damp cloth immediately helped ease some of his headache and discomfort, and Magnus found himself sighing in content as he laid flatter on the bed.

"That should help get you to sleep." Alec explained, the smile evident in his voice even if Magnus wasn't looking at him.

"You never cease to amaze me, Alec."

"Sleep." Alec murmured, running a comforting hand through his hair, and Magnus found his body obeying.

* * * * *

The next time Magnus woke up, he was feeling much more like a member of the living.

The damp cloth was off his forehead now, but the cool air blowing against his skin made it clear it hadn't been missing for long.

His headache was gone and his stomach was already beginning to grumble in protest at how empty it was. It seemed his puking earlier in the night was all it needed to clear it of the junk he had forced it to digest.

Magnus couldn't help but reach out to search for Alec, hoping to find him asleep next to him, but his space was empty and a little cooler than Magnus would like. It was clear he had left him to sleep a while ago.

He finally sat up and stretched, figuring he could use a shower before hunting down his bodyguard.

* * * * *

Alec had gotten up a couple hours prior to Magnus' second wakeup, knowing his siblings would be leaving soon. He knew Magnus would normally be the perfect host and want to make a fuss about them before they left, but he also knew his hangover was going to be rough enough, so he figured Magnus would forgive him for letting him sleep it off.

Izzy and Jace were fairing a bit better, Izzy the worst of the two, but that didn't stop her from being her usual meddling self.

"Hey, big brother. How'd you sleep?" she teased when he came back to the room after his morning workout.

Something must have shone in his eyes because her expression immediately melted from taunting to concern.

"Hey. You know I'm only teasing, right? You can tell me to screw off."

He shrugged, not meeting her eyes. She wasn't one to give up easily though.

"Alec. I know I push all of your buttons, especially about this stuff. But I'm not trying to be malicious. I'm sorry if I've pushed too hard." she said honestly, squeezing his arm. "I just want you to be with someone who you can be yourself with, who appreciates you and you have actual fun with. I haven't seen you this comfortable with another person outside of family before. You just seem like… you're actually happy. That's all I ever want for you."

"I'm not upset with you, Iz. I know you're only teasing. I just… it's not like you and Jace are wrong. I have fallen for him, against my better judgment. I know I'm falling too fast but I don't know how to stop it now. The more time I spend with him, the harder I fall. I just… I'm terrified. Of how this is all going to blow up in my face."

Izzy took his hands in hers. "Alec. Have a little faith, okay? I know you're not alone in your feelings. But even if things don't work out? You are amazing. Nothing can change that. You deserve big love and you will find it someday, I know it."

"Thanks, Izzy."

She pulled him into a tight hug. "I love you, big brother. I'm so glad we got to see you even for a day."

"Same here." he agreed.

Jace chose that moment to come out of the bathroom, running a towel through his hair. "Aw, did I miss the sappy family hug moment? What a shame!"

"Oh get over here, you idiot." Izzy laughed.

Jace fake-sighed before bounding over and tackling the two of them in a group hug, the trio laughing together.

Jace ruffled Alec's hair as they separated. "Thanks for having us, Alec. We better head out since security takes forever at LAX. But take care of yourself, all right? And we're just a phone call away."

Alec hugged him solo this time, patting him gratefully on the back. "Thanks, Jace. I'll see you guys again soon, okay?"

"The tour is only a little longer!" Izzy added, slipping her sunglasses back into place and tugging her suitcase behind her. "Now let's go get some greasy airport food!"

Alec waved the pair of them out of the door before locking it properly. He would definitely miss them, but he also wasn't entirely adverse to having Magnus to himself again. He liked being 'forced' to share a bed with Magnus, but at least when they shared a hotel room it was a time when it was just the two of them, no other members of the team imposing on their space.

He figured he should go check on him but Izzy's last comment made him pause. Jace had said Izzy had been up a few times puking – if she was hungry for food now, maybe Magnus would be too.

Alec changed his direction and headed to the hotel phone, picking up the room service menu as he began to dial.

* * * * *

Magnus, feeling much more refreshed, headed out into the main area of the suite to find Alec waving off the hotel employee dropping off breakfast.

There were multiple trays on the trolley and Magnus felt his stomach grumble in anticipation.

"Feeling hungry this morning? I suppose with a body like that, you need your fuel."

Alec ducked his head at the compliment, busying himself with pushing the trolley further into the room and over to where Magnus had settled into the couch.

"It's not all for me. I figured you'd probably be hungry when you woke up. I wanted to get a jump on ordering it since I know you have such specific needs."

"Excuse me, are you calling me a diva?"

"When it comes to how you like your food, yes."

As Magnus eyed the food laid out before him, he felt his curiosity peak. "And how do you know how I like my food?"

Alec rolled his eyes. "Magnus. I've been by your side for pretty much every meal you've eaten for this entire tour. Let me prove it."

"Fine. Dazzle me with your knowledge." Magnus said with a smirk, crossing his arms behind his head as he leaned back in his seat.

"All right. First up, eggs. If scrambled, you want cheese in them. Cheddar is preferred but you'll take Monterary Jack if you can get it. Smoked cheddar is ideal. However, you prefer poached eggs. Medium, because you like a bit of a loose yolk but not too runny. If you're having toast, you want the poached eggs on there unless you're in the mood for your usual – which is sourdough toast with jam when you have a full course breakfast. Raspberry jam if you can get it. Bacon – cooked to the point where it's stiff but not crispy or crunchy. You want a little give to it, a little flexibility. Hashbrowns are always a must – you typically eat them with ketchup unless you have egg yolk to dip them in. And then of course freshly squeezed orange juice as you like lots of pulp. And coffee. With far too much cream and sugar for my taste. Unless you're half-asleep and it's a lighter roast or flavoured then you like it black."

Magnus simply stared at him, taken aback at Alec's detailed summary of his breakfast preferences. It was a little scary how accurate he was, down to his cheese preferences and ideal choices for bread type and jam flavour.

"So. Do I get full marks?" Alec asked, biting into his toast.

"Yes. You continue to amaze me, Alec." Magnus admitted, taking a drink of his coffee before moving to dig into his eggs.

Alec shrugged one shoulder, looking a little bashful as he continued eating, and Magnus knew this man was going to be the death of him.

"So. Plans for today?"

"I figured you'd be sleeping off your hangover." Alec told him.

Magnus blew out a breath. "To be honest, I'm feeling much better. Was thinking about getting Raphael to book me some time at a local studio, get some rehearsal in. I have to make sure I bring the final tour performance to the next level. Can't be rusty after these few days off."

"I don't think a man with your talent and dedication gets 'rusty' but sounds good. I was thinking I should get the team together for some more training, so I can always keep busy with that if I can get an adjacent room. Don't want you too far away just in case."

"Works for me. I'll text Raph."

"We have to leave tomorrow for the next tour stop, don't forget. So don't work yourself too hard and put yourself out when you do have to get back on stage."

"Yes, Mom."

* * * * *

It was a few hours later when Alec finished up with the security team and set them free so he could go track down Magnus. He had received a call from Raphael regarding their flight changes and wanted to make sure Magnus wasn't planning on a repeat of the night before with the extra time they were allotted.

He hoped the fear of another hangover after the rough one he endured was enough to keep him away from binge-drinking. It probably helped he didn't have special company to entertain as well.

Still, Alec wasn't getting a response to his texts and he couldn't help feeling a little uneasy at the fact that, room apart or not, he had left Magnus alone without backup. It was unlikely that his stalker would show up to the rehearsal space they only had booked earlier that day, but Alec hadn't ruled out the fact that it may be someone on Magnus' team who didn't have his best interests at heart.

He could hear the music pumping through the door so he figured Magnus was still working away.

Alec slipped unnoticed into the room, unable to help the corner of his mouth upturning at the sight of Magnus moving in front of the mirror. Not many people had the pleasure of seeing him practice unrestrained, without an audience to woo or play off that he's perfect. Instead, his face would furrow in concentration as he tried move after different move, trying to find the one he liked. Redoing certain choreography, replaying the song or parts over and over again until he found the thing that worked.

Although Alec had been reluctant to be personal security for a celebrity, it was because he had assumed it would be a spoiled airhead who had just been blessed with talent and the kind of personality that attracted attention. Instead, he discovered just how much work and how many hours were spent making things seem effortless. It wasn't just Magnus' design team, who plastered him with make-up, hair products and spent hours having him try on every clothing item they had come across to find the right combination. It was the hours of sound checks, rehearsals, choreographing, vocal work, from sun up to sun down day after day and then full on nonstop live performances night after night. Every waking minute for Magnus was spent perfecting his image, his showmanship, or travelling and Alec was rather blown away by all of the little things that went into making him successful. He felt exhausted just watching him sometimes.

But he also saw the exhilaration and pure joy on Magnus' face after a performance or a great rehearsal in a new venue. The way he lit up like a thousand suns as soon as he stepped out onto stage and had the audience lose their mind.

The few days off they had had been used productively, outside of Izzy, Jace and Catarina's visit. Magnus had squeezed in a few more interviews on both TV and radio, but the last tour performance was in a few short weeks and Alec knew Magnus would bring his all to it for the fans.

"Like what you see, Alexander?"

Magnus' coy voice interrupted his contemplation.

Alec's smile widened, stepping further into the room now that he was caught. He couldn't help the small chuckle from escaping him. "Just thinking about how exhausted you look."

Magnus pouted, but Alec could see the hint of a smile threatening to break out. He picked up his towel and wiped off his face, making his way over after turning off the music.

"Well you try doing these moves without breaking a sweat."

Alec laughed fully. "I don't dance, thank you."

Magnus grinned. "I could make you."

"Now that sounds like a nightmare come true." Alec teased, rolling his eyes at the foolish man.

Magnus looked him up and down, a hint of suggestiveness in his eyes. "Not for me."

Alec chewed his tongue, trying not to read into anything too much. He knew Magnus was like that with people. Automatically flirty. It didn't have to mean anything. But he couldn't help the swoop in his gut from the flattering attention, hoping he could rely on the genuinity in Magnus' eyes and the encouragement from his siblings.

He knotted his hands behind his back and let out a breath. "Magnus… I came here to let you know that the flights got moved tomorrow to a later time so we've got some time to kill in the morning. I wasn't sure if you had anything you wanted to do while we wait. Raphael mentioned he could likely set up another interview or two."

"Hmm… I think I'm interviewed out for now. I have a better idea – I want you to come with me somewhere."

"All right, where are we heading? I'll need to figure out where to station the others…"

Magnus interrupted, sly smirk gracing his handsome face. "Oh, no. Not everyone. Just you."

"Okay…. Now I'm afraid." Alec admitted.

Magnus grinned. "Don't worry. I'll protect you."

* * * * *

"You know, I can't ensure your safety if you don't give me a warning for where we are going." Alec reminded him as he followed Magnus through the streets of LA.

"Oh lighten up already. It won't kill you to be spontaneous." Magnus threw over his shoulder.

"But it might kill you." Alec reminded him.

Alec didn't have to see him to know he was rolling his eyes. "Now who's being dramatic?"

"You're insufferable."

"And yet I'm right." Magnus quipped.

Alec looked up at the blinking sign before following Magnus through the door – Pandemonium.

Leave it to Magnus to take him to a busy night club.

There were people packed on the dance floor and many seated at different booths around the place. There were multiple bars to buy drinks from, and Alec knew immediately where he'd be spending his time.

"Now this… this is exactly what I've been looking for." Magnus said, spreading his arms widely as he took in the scene.

Alec looked sideways at him to see him beaming, trying not to roll his eyes at how different they were.

He may be feeling something for Magnus, something he was trying to bury until he was positive Magnus returned his feelings, but it was times like these he wondered how he ever imagined they'd work when they were so opposite. Where Magnus saw fun and a good time, Alec saw a headache and claustrophobia.

Still, it was worth it to see Magnus so excited.

"Drink?" Alec asked, placing a hand on the small of his back to tether them together as they wove through different bodies.

"Mm I like the way your mind works." Magnus purred, leading him to the more empty of the bars towards the back.

Alec followed obediently, keeping his hand glued to Magnus even as he leaned against the dark wood.

"What's your poison?"

"Uh, beer, usually."

"Well we can't have that. Can we get two Singapore Slings?" Magnus asked the bartender when he came to their end, flashing a brilliant smile.

Alec sighed and accepted the drink that was passed to him, trying a sip.

"All right?"

Alec was surprised by his own answer. "Uh, yeah, it's actually really good."

Magnus beamed. "I had a feeling you'd like gin."

Alec took a deeper drink, enjoying the flavours mixed together.

"So. You got me here. Now what?"

"Now we dance." Magnus beamed.

"Oh no, no, no. I told you already I don't dance."

"Now, now. Remember who your partner is. I won't let you make a fool of yourself. You tutored me in pool—now it's time for me to return the favour."

"How about I stay here and keep an eye on things and you dance? I can already see several interested people watching you. I'm sure they won't step on your feet."

The song changed to an upbeat dance song and Magnus sighed.

"Fine, I will start without you. But only because I refuse to waste this Selena song."

Alec smiled, happy with his victory, and slid onto the bar stool. He swiveled to face the dance floor, eyes only leaving Magnus to make sure there were no impending threats and to signal the bartender for another when the time came.

A group of young girls, likely only recently of legal age, were down a couple paces clinking shot glasses and chatting animatedly.

Their eyes kept sweeping the dance floor and then glancing at Alec while they whispered to each other, and Alec felt his discomfort rise. He really hoped he wouldn't have to turn down yet another request to dance, this time from those very much not his type.

A blonde man stepped forward to order a drink, putting a barrier between Alec and the girl group. It wasn't until he accepted a very full beer from the bartender that Alec's luck declined and one of the girls bumped into the man, causing him to lose his footing and stumble backwards, accidentally sloshing his beer onto Alec.

Alec could hear the girls giggling and apologizing and the man dismissed them politely before turning to him with apologetic eyes.

"I am so very sorry. Can I do anything?" he asked with a strong British accent.

Alec accepted a couple paper towel sheets from him that the bartender had given him to help clean up the mess.

"No, no, I'm fine. It mostly landed on my shoes, and they'll be fine."

"Can I buy you a drink? It's the least I can do."

He was certainly good looking, with a megawatt smile and smooth voice, but Alec's heart was already well and truly stolen.

"I appreciate it but I'm really fine. Still nursing this one." he added, gesturing to the drink in his hand that only had a few swallows out of it.

"So are you drinking alone?"

"No, I just lost the person I came with to the allure of the dance floor."

The guy chuckled, eyes following the line of sight Alec kept returning to, and he held out a hand.

"I'm Sebastian."

"Alec." he replied politely.

"So why aren't you out there? It looks to me like you're in impressive shape so I bet your body knows how to move."

Alec didn't miss the purr to his voice as he said it, and he tried not to blush at the attention. He wasn't used to being outwardly flirted with by men. The odd woman, sure, but they were far less intimidating. Usually he let off such an unapproachable vibe he was left alone.

"I was born with two left feet."

"Oh dear. Did you see a podiatry specialist for that?"

It took Alec a beat and then he laughed despite himself. "I suppose I should have. Now it's too late."

Sebastian moved closer, sitting in the stool next to him. "I could always try to teach you. Can't say I'm any better of a dancer though."

Alec opened his mouth to reply then shut it, not sure what to say to that.

Sebastian smiled for a moment, looking like he was about to say something, but a body pressing into Alec's and an arm snaking around his waist interrupted the private conversation.

"Okay, I've been patient, but you really need to come dance now." Magnus whined, leaning his weight into Alec before turning to the blonde. "Who's this?"

"Sebastian Verlac." the British man explained, reaching out a hand to shake.

"Magnus Bane." Magnus said, arm tightening around Alec, and Alec tried not to smile at the possessiveness in his hold and the fact that he didn't lift a hand to reciprocate.

Sebastian clearly had picked up on the tension too, hand lowering slowly. "I had just been apologizing to Alec for my clumsiness. I managed to spill some of my drink on him."

"It wasn't your fault. You were bumped into. And you barely got any on me." Alec reminded him.

Magnus' eyes darted between them, narrowing at the soft smile on Sebastian's face at the defence.

"It was nice to meet you, Sebastian. Magnus, shall we?" Alec said, steering Magnus away without waiting for an answer.

It was hard to keep the grin off of his face, and Magnus' glare once they were alone made it clear that he was failing miserably at doing so.

"Why are you so amused?"

"I didn't take you for the jealous type." Alec admitted.

"I am not jealous!" Magnus exclaimed. He then seemed to catch on to the hysterical edge to his voice and pouted.

"It's flattering, really. A celebrity like yourself…" Alec teased.

"You know, your smugness is not an attractive quality."

"Mm I don't know. I think you find me plenty attractive anyways." he grinned.

"Oh, shut up and dance already." Magnus grumbled, twirling away from him as he started moving to the song. Alec recognized it as a popular single by Camila Cabello that Izzy used to sing around the house.

Maybe it was the alcohol in his system or the ego boost from Magnus' obvious jealousy at another man stealing his attention away, but Alec was feeling more confident that he was right that there was something growing between them.

Alec reached for Magnus' waist, tugging his body flush to him, and he saw Magnus' eyes darken immediately.

"I thought you wanted to dance together?" Alec murmured, hands clutching Magnus' hips to keep their pelvises snug as they moved in rhythm.

Magnus' body responded immediately, grinding against him, and his hand slid up his chest to cup Alec's neck.

"I thought you said you don't dance." Magnus breathed into his skin, nosing along his collarbone.

"I said I don't–not that I can't." Alec replied, palming across Magnus' lower back and slipping under the hem of his shirt to stroke his skin.

It was like it was just the two of them in the room. A fight could break out inches away and they'd be oblivious, far too focused on the feel of being so close after so long of denying themselves.

Alec rotated Magnus so they were entwined back to front, Magnus' ass nestling into the contour of his hips. Magnus grinded back into him, groaning at the feel of Alec's arousal trapped between them and feeling his own spring to life.

"Alexander…" Magnus whispered, head falling back to his shoulder so he could speak against his cheek, intentionally letting his lips brush the soft skin. "We're going to have to move this or this is going to get very embarrassing for me soon."

Alec knew he wouldn't be alone in that, and that Magnus must be able to feel his body responding to the friction they were creating between their bodies.

"Let's go." Alec said huskily, separating them and heading towards the door.

Magnus interlaced their fingers and let Alec lead him out of the club, the shiver that went through his body having nothing to do with the night air.

* * * * *

Continue to Chapter 9

#malec #malec au #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #shadowhunters fic #the bodyguard fic #malec fic

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roonil-wazlib-at-221b · 5 years

Text

Four Years: Part 1

Looking

Pairing: Sam Winchester x reader

Dean jumps when Ash drops a thick folder on the counter next to him.

His hand knocks over the room-temperature beer bottle he’d been nursing from last night and it spills in his lap. The liquid, and smash of the bottle on the ground, make him open his eyes with shock. The light hurts his eyes and starts a throbbing headache that feels like his brain is just a bit too large for his skull. Dean throws up a hand to his face to shield his eyes but, having forgotten he was sitting on a stool when he passed out, tilts back just a bit too far.

“Whoa!”

He hits the ground and has to gasp for a second to get air into his empty lungs.

All this happens in a span of five seconds and Dean’s hungover brain makes that whirring noise old laptops make when they’re turning on before he can fully process that, yes, he is on the ground, his shoulder and tailbone ache now, and his headache was only worsened by his head hitting the hard floor.

A loud burst of laughter makes Dean groan.

Sam bends over at the waist, shoulders shuddering as he laughs.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles. “Bitch.”

Sam hiccups, unable to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face. “You’re not very alert for a hunter, you jerk.”

“I’m allowed to celebrate saving a kid’s life,” Dean mumbles back, cracking open an eye with caution.

The smile slides right off Sam’s face at the reminder of the case they’d just finished. A lone werewolf had been hiding in the woods near a town and kidnapped a bunch of kids in order to turn them and create a new pack. They’d all been turned except one.

It makes Sam a little sick to think about walking into the bloodbath—one of the turned kids had gotten loose and killed the others.

“I guess,” the younger Winchester mutters.

“Why’d you wake me up?”

Jo nudges his form with the toe of her boot. “We’ve got a roadhouse to run. Plus, we have a case for you. And it was really funny.”

That piques Dean’s curiosity. “What is it? Vamps? Wendigo? Werewolf?”

“We’re not sure,” Ash answers, handing the folder to Sam to rifle through. “Hunters have been dropping off the grid. A lot.”

“We’ve got people that’ve been finding abandoned cars and phones, too,” Jo adds. “Then the missing hunters show up—sometimes—and they set up a normal life. These are people that have shown no inclination to leave before, mind you.”

“So hunters are leaving the life?” Dean asks, sitting up to frown at Jo. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Uh, the disappearance?” Jo snaps. “The abandoned cars and phones? They don’t go back for their shit, Dean. It’s just there, and police have been finding the arsenals in the trunk. There are more cops breathing down people’s necks at all times. Hunters leaving the life? Some of them, sure, but people like Bruce Chappell and Y/N Y/L/N—they like the life. Y/N said to me a bunch of times how much she’d hated school.”

“Hold on, did you say Y/N Y/L/N?” Dean interrupts. He and Sam share a worried look. Now there’s no way they won’t take the case.

“Yeah.” Jo bites her lip, eyes scanning over Dean’s face. “Why, you know her?”

Sam and Dean nod in unison.

“Her dad and our dad were friends—sort of. I mean, her dad used to drop her off with us whenever they went hunting together. She was a year younger than me and a terrible influence,” Sam reminisces. “Our dad always got so mad whenever they’d get back because she’d always get us in trouble but he couldn’t stay mad at her for long. She was really good at pretending to be innocent and sweet.”

“Yeah,” Dean grumbles, glaring at Sam as he hoists himself up into a chair, “and I almost always got in trouble, because Sammy always backed Y/N up. She’s like a fucking spider and Sam got caught up in her web, but goddamnit…” he sighs and leans across the table for the case folder Ash had compiled. “I got stuck in her web too. She was a little heathen.”

Jo blinks at them. “That’s… I’ve never heard you speak better about someone.”

“Well, she’s basically my little sister… in law.” Dean grunts when Sam kicks him under the table. “Hey! Sorry, ex -sister-in-law.”

Jo laughs, confused but knowing that what she’s watching is funny.

“Sammy here had a crush ,” Dean sings. Sam kicks him again. “Ow! You’re a menace, Sammy.”

“Y/N never mentioned you two,” Jo says, frowning. You’d only ever talked about hunting and made empty, half-drunk, and not-remembered promises to take Jo hunting after she finished high school. Then, about four years ago, you’d stopped dropping by so frequently and never brought up hunting together again.

“See,” Dean points at her, “that’s why I say ‘ex’. Sam left to go to college and Y/N didn’t like that. She hasn't contacted us since. Hell hath no fury, right?”

“It’s not like that,” Sam mutters, embarrassed and red. “She’s my annoying little sister and she felt like I was abandoning her. Dean’s always been annoying about his fantasy about me liking Y/N. He wants her to be really in the family. But anyway.” He grabs the case file out of Dean’s hands. “She’s missing?”

Jo nods. “I tried calling her a week ago and she hasn’t picked up since. I don’t know how long exactly she’s been missing, but Rufus and Bobby found her car and brought it back to Bobby’s.”

Sam swallows and Dean’s face goes somber.

“We should head over there, then,” Dean declares. “Maybe there’s a clue in her car about what happened to her.”

Sam nods but keeps his eyes glued to the picture Ash had used for your profile in the file. You’re older than he’d ever seen you in life. His chest aches when he thinks about how much of pure you he’s missed out on for years. It’s crazy to how he saw you constantly as a kid and he doesn’t even know what you look like now.

And it was all for nothing. He’s hunting again, but without you in the backseat. And you’re missing.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Sam says suddenly, his eyes watering because of all the dust in the roadhouse, and nobody mentions his choked voice.

“Little sister my ass,” is all Jo mutters as her eyes follow the boys out.

Sandwiched between two boys both six inches taller than you, fifteen-year-old you leans back on the couch and pouts as both fathers lecture the three of you.

“Dean, you’re twenty years old,” John scolds. “You should know better than to help Y/N and Sam sneak into an amusement park!”

“We just wanted to see if we could,” Sam protests. Your dad crosses his arms.

“Yeah, and if you all got caught? You would all get arrested.”

“We had a fake story all planned out!” you pipe up indignantly. “Dean had a fake I.D. and everything! Besides, we just would’ve broken out.”

“Put a finger to your lips, Y/N!” your father barks. “You are in deep, deep trouble.”

“Nothing even happened!” you snap back, clenching your jaw and narrowing your eyes slightly.

“John and I came home and we didn’t know where you were! There was no way for us to find you!”

“You never tell me where you’re hunting!”

“What if there had been a monster at Kings Dominion?” Your dad’s face is starting to turn red, as is yours.

“Y/N,” Sam mutters at your side and you very deliberately plant your hands on the couch and lift your butt so you move away from him. Sam falls silent as if struck dumb.

You like to run the show whenever you’re with the Winchester boys and do not like it when they back someone else over you. It may be a little childish and petty, but you’ll be petty when you can. Almost every other aspect of your life requires you to be generous and self-sacrificing.

“We had our weapons,” you reply to your dad, ignoring Sam. Your voice is suddenly cool and aloof. It’s your way to assert dominance—acting like you’re above everyone and you couldn’t care less about them. “We’re allowed to have fun sometimes.”

“Not dangerous fun,” your dad mutters, beginning to cool down as you freeze. He can’t stay mad at you for long. None of them can.

“All fun is dangerous,” Dean butts in but raises his hands in surrender when your dad glares at him. “Never mind.”

“Coward,” you mumble under your breath and Dean jabs you in the side with his ebow. You squeal and fall into Sam’s lap. Your dads roll their eyes and the past is behind you all, even though everyone knows you’ll come up with another crazy idea the boys will follow you into executing soon.

Sam sticks a finger into your side and you twist away from him, too, pink from laughter or embarrassment or something else you’ve decided to ignore so it’ll go away staining your cheeks and making your ears hot.

Your elbow hits Sam in the gut and he groans. Dean laughs and then grunts when Sam hits him lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh, it is on,” Dean growls and lunges at his younger brother. You scoot away from the fight you’d started and laugh as the brothers tussle.

Even while fighting, Sam’s ears recognize your laugh and he blushes at the thought of you watching him play fight with Dean.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean whispers while Sam has him pinned, “your pathetic puppy-love crush is super obvious.”

“Hello?” Dean waves his hand in front of Sam’s nose. His little brother is staring out the window with no expression on his face and vacant eyes. “Earth to Sammy?” He snaps again and Sam blinks, disoriented, before shoving Dean’s hand away from his face. “Where’d you go?” Dean inquires, switching his gaze back to the flat expanse of pavement Baby’s cruising along.

Sam clears his throat and replies, “Just... lost in thought,” deliberately avoiding the question.

Dean can tell that immediately, obviously, but he doesn’t question his brother. “Okay.”

The silence between them lasts only ten seconds before Sam angles his body in Dean’s direction and says, “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam furrows his eyebrows. “Why’d Y/N never contact you? Me, I get… sort of. But you’d think she’d still want to keep in touch with you.”

“It’s like I always said, Sammy,” Dean grins, “Y/N was only using me to get to you.” He chuckles.

Sam rolls his eyes. The idea of him having a crush on Y/N is laughable, but not even a love potion could get you to like him in any way other than as a brother. Which doesn’t make Sam’s stomach churn. It was the roadhouse food, for sure—Jo and Ellen are great, but the food they serve is just as good as any other roadhouse’s food—which is to say, terrible.

“Nah, I’m joking. We all know I was her favorite, at least until she started blushing at the mere mention of you.”

Sam shakes his head.

Dean shrugs. “Fine, believe what you want to believe, it’s your loss. We both know Y/N would never make the first move if she actually liked a guy. If you don’t accept your feelings she’s gonna move on eventually. If she hasn’t alrea—”

“Look, you’re not my relationship counselor or whatever,” Sam interrupts. “Please stop with all that crap.”

The elder brother sighs. “You know full well Y/N’s spotty with her comms. I guess she was so mad at you she got mad at me because we’re brothers or some weird excuse—so thanks for being such a humongous dick my baby sister hated me, by the way—and I didn’t call her and she didn’t call me. At first she was probably just mad but then she probably got anxious and then I got a new number because my phone got smashed, so I wouldn’t be able to answer any of her calls if she did call me and then she would probably think that I hated her for disconnecting my number so…” Dean heaves a sigh and shrugs again. “You left me with a heaping pile of shit, man. And you broke her heart. I don’t care if you think Y/N loved you romantically or platonically, she felt abandoned by you.”

Sam stares at his lap. “I know Y/N can hold grudges, but still. That’s pretty extreme.”

“You give her too much credit, man,” Dean replies. “Y/N isn’t good with emotions that aren’t anger or happiness, so she just changes all the other ones to those two. You know her mom was shit, plus she’s a hunter… I’m not surprised she reacted like that. Hell, we’re better adjusted than her and you know what Dad was like.”

Sam shifts in his seat. “She’s pretty good, Dean.”

“Yeah, she is.” Dean looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye. “We helped. You, especially, what with your desire to turn our life into a chick flick.”

Sam laughs, not because it was especially funny, but to break the tension, and after a pause Dean gives a chuckle too. “Nothing could turn our life into a chick flick.”

“Maybe an action-slash-romance after you save her,” Dean muses.

Sam shoves him.

Sam goes to search your car while Dean passes out in one of Bobby’s spare rooms. He’d wanted to come along too, but a full night of driving had him struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Her keys were in the ignition,” Bobby says while unlocking the car with said keys. “Rufus and I cleared out the trash in the back and washed the laundry, which I put into the trunk. I doubt you’ll be able to find anything we didn’t. I know all Y/N’s tricks. Good luck, though, boy.” He pats Sam on the shoulder and leaves him with your small Prius. Dean had always hated it because of its boringness, and you’d always responded by predicting his unusual car be the thing that helps cops track him down, if cops were ever on his ass.

“My car is normal and small,” you’d always said. “Nobody will ever notice it, and I don’t have a Bigfoot brother to lug around.”

“And you’re too small to see the road when you’re driving bigger cars,” Sam always teased, grinning, and you’d always gone a bit red and aimed a kick at his shin.

Sam has to crouch to start feeling around in your car, but one accidental brush against a hot seatbelt buckle makes him hiss and flinch away.

When Dean comes out, all four of the doors of your car are opened and Sam’s ass is sticking in the air as he feels around the car in the driver’s area. There’s got to be a hidden compartment somewhere, if Sam knows— knew you.

Maybe you changed.

Dean’s voice shakes that thought from Sam’s mind as he says, “Wow, this really brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

“Not really,” Sam’s about to say, because you’d only had the car for two months before he left for Stanford and whenever the three of you hunted together you always traveled in the Impala, but Dean continues to talk.

“Remember when I got stabbed by a vamp and had to lie in the backseat but there wasn’t enough room?”

“I do not remember that,” Sam replies. He can’t even imagine the three of you in that car together. He and Dean are just too big.

The humor slides right off Dean’s face. “Oh, yeah,” he says flatly and turns around.

“What’s the sudden attitude about?” Sam asks.

“You didn’t go with us on that hunt because you were too busy watching the mail and, more importantly, making sure Dad wouldn’t find your Stanford letter. Remember?” Dean leans against the car’s opposite side. “We got patched up, came through the door, Y/N said something about all hunting together, and you just blurted out, ‘I’m leaving you guys’.”

Sam sighs and gives up on the search momentarily, standing up to glare at his brother. “Dude, you gotta stop guilt-tripping me about leaving for college. I get that you were hurt by my decision, but it’s just that—my decision.”

“I’m not getting into this argument with you,” Dean mutters and crouches down to search through the car as well.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean—”

“Aha!” Dean holds up a box that he’d pulled from somewhere, but Sam had checked that side twice and found nothing. Where could you have hid a box about half the length of a pillow where Sam, Bobby, and Rufus wouldn’t have found it?

“Where’d you—”

“Me and Y/N hollowed out the passenger seat a bit and stuck this box inside for her to hide stuff. It’s where she keeps her journal, mostly, so maybe that’ll help us figure out when and where she went missing. We invited you to help, but you needed to study.”

“Dude.” Sam stands up and slams the driver’s door shut. “Stop, okay? I get it. I left. I’m back now, aren’t I?”

“Just wait until we find Y/N,” Dean says. “If you think I’m being bad or annoying about how you abandoned us and, if it was up to you, Yellow-Eyes would be running rampant and killing people’s moms.”

“I’m sure I’ll get it bad from Y/N!” Sam replies. “But you can’t hold that against me for the rest of my life, okay?”

“You’re right,” Dean concedes. Sam’s mouth barely has enough time to quirk up before he adds, “I’m sure you’ll do something else I can get pissed at you for doing sometime in the future.”

Sam rolls his eyes and turns back to the house.

“Well, you are my younger brother!” Dean yells at his retreating back. “I’m always gonna be on your case about something !”

“Idjits,” Bobby mutters and Dean takes the box from Sam, which is much lighter than it looks (and should be, Dean’s brain says, but you might have gotten a new, smaller journal after filling up your first one, and used the burner phone without getting a new one, and put the photo album somewhere else in the car) and sets it on the table.

He pats his pockets up and down until the zip-up one on his left leg yields results. A relatively new-looking silver key glints in the light as he puts it in the lock and turns.

There’s nothing in the box.

“Did you find anything apart from the trash, clothes, and weapons?” Dean asks.

Bobby shakes his head.

The boys scour your car for three straight hours but come up with nada again. Sam hit every square inch of the car’s interior to knock loose any secret compartments. Dean cuts open every seat for more hidden boxes, reminding himself to just buy you a better car. His little sister won’t be driving around in a Prius.

Bobby even looks at the interior and exterior of the car with a blacklight on the off chance you’d left a message in invisible ink.

There’s absolutely nothing.

“I wanna key this car so bad,” Dean finally grumbles when they all give up.

“Y/N’s already gonna be pissed about her seats,” Sam points out. He wouldn’t stop Dean if he did, though. He’s just as frustrated as his brother, and also exhausted. He has to run a hand through his hair to get it away from his forehead to cool down a bit. “Hey, Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“How come you had a key to Y/N’s box?”

“We got them driving home on the night you left,” Dean starts.

“Shit, did you and Y/N decide to do everything in the few days before I left? God damn it.” Sam has to stare up at the sky and count to three before gritting out, “Sorry. I’m just annoyed by your constant guilt trips and anxious about Y/N. By all means, continue and make me feel even worse, please.”

Dean leans against the car and closes his eyes. “You know perfectly well Y/N was always doing fifty million things at once. It was just convenient, what with how we had recently made the box but Y/N wanted a lock on it, and we saw a place for that at the Walmart we stopped at for snacks. She got three.”

Sam exhales sharply and closes his eyes as well. Both brothers lean against the car with no clues, the sun just starting to set. Without opening his eyes, “Sam asks, sounding like someone is twisting his arm, “Is it too forward of me to assume the third key was to be mine?”

“Nah, it was,” Dean replies. His eyes burn.

“Great,” is all Sam mutters. Dean hears him walk away but can’t bear to watch him do it. He doesn’t know where one of his siblings is, and the one that’s walking away from him now is the one that always walks away. The one that never walks away walked away from him too.

After a while Dean remembers to put the empty box back in your car. It seems like too much hassle to put it back inside the seat correctly, so Dean opens up the trunk to set it inside. The trunk doesn’t close fully when he tries to, even when dean slams it, so he shoves some knives away from the space he wants it to go in. One knife slips under the carpet bottom of the trunk, even though there shouldn’t be a slit in the fabric there. You’d probably torn it while tossing weapons in after a hunt.

Dean lifts up the flap to retrieve the knife and his mouth drops open.

“But if she didn’t want anyone to find them, Y/N would’ve put them in the hidden box that only she and you can open!” Sam argues.

“Maybe someone else knew about the box or had the key? There’s not a lot of other possible scenarios, Sam. A monster would’ve just dumped the whole book instead. Why take the trouble of taking every picture out of its page and putting them in the trunk of her car? Y/N obviously wanted to keep them safe.”

Bobby ignores the bickering brothers and sorts through each of the pictures separately. They’re the Polaroids that print immediately. Your dad gotten you one of those cameras because they were easier to use than trying to go through the whole printing process at, like, a Costco or whatever.

One picture is of Bobby cleaning out one of his guns, another a sopping-wet Sam next to a grinning Dean. There’s one of the dog you and Sam had had for a week when you’d run away as kids.

A few feature a man who looks almost sickly-thin next to a smiling version of you Bobby hardly recognizes: you, a full adult now, without Sam or Dean by your side to make you look small, new slashes on your body from hunting.

Bobby’s seen you maybe twice in the last four years. He’ll be sure to rip you a new one when the boys come home for being so immature about your feelings being hurt.

Bobby was your second father, just like hwas to Sam and Dean, but maybe, because of how little you saw your dad, Bobby was more your primary father.

And you called, sure, sometimes, but you could never be bothered to show up and visit for fear of Dean being there.

“How did I raise such a dumbass?” Bobby asks himself, his beard twitching as he smiles. If you’re dead, he’s going to kill you.

The Winchester brothers look away from each other angrily, unable to keep the conversation from going in circles. Dean storms off to get a beer and Sam sits down next to Bobby.

“There’s a lot of her and that one guy,” he notices, pointing to the pile Bobby had made.

“Yeah, she and Garth were hunting together before they both dropped off the comms,” Bobby answers his unasked question. “He’s a good guy. I don’t think he’s her type, though.”

Sam wants to ask Bobby what he thinks your type is, but he bites his tongue. He doesn’t get to be interested after leaving, and anyway, he’s not even interested. You’re his little sister.

“How about this,” Bobby says loudly so Dean, who’s sulking in the other room, hears him too, “we all go to bed. Tomorrow, we clear out Y/N’s trunk to see if there are any other pictures or clues hidden in it, all right?”

“Whatever,” Dean grumbles from the kitchen, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t he listening. Sam hears him open and close the fridge, probably to put back his beer, and then the heavy sound of Dean stomping to the bedroom he always sleeps in.

Bobby stands up as well. “Sam? You coming?”

“In a sec,” Sam replies distractedly. They both know it’s a lie.

“Make sure you sleep soon,” is all Bobby says before he, too, turns away.

Then it’s just Sam and the pictures. Pictures of his maybe-dead little sister hanging out with people he doesn’t know.

The don’t capture you, at least not exactly. The photographer was too far away or the camera’s too shitty, but your eyes look like only one color instead of the thousand flecks Sam knows better than anyone else’s eyes. Your skin looks paler than he remembers and the wrinkles on your forehead aren’t captured either.

Or maybe Sam doesn’t recognize you because it’s been four years. Maybe the creases on your forehead have smoothed without Sam and Dean at your side. Maybe you’ve spent less time outdoors. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Sam rubs his hand together. If Stanford taught him anything, it taught him to never act solely on your emotions. Be analytical. Investigate every path you can find.

Well, Sam’s going to investigate this path. He doubts he’ll be able to find anything, looking through these pictures, other than an immense feeling of loneliness, but you’re gone. Sam’s going to find you.

He’s already wasted four years pretending you’re still around.

(Maybe he doesn’t recognize you because you’re not with him and Dean. Maybe he’s never met a Y/N that hasn’t been a Winchester.)

Bobby’s surprised when Sam’s not still up in the morning. Obviously it had taken him more than ‘a sec’ in getting to bed, though, because all of the small photographs have been lined up in a small block of orderly rows. Three empty beer bottles stand on top of three, completely covering them.

Bobby frowns and crouches down to move the bottles. The pictures Sam had deliberately covered up are a bit wrinkly from the bottle’s condensation soaking into them but they’re not ruined. Bobby can clearly see the subjects of the photos, and they’re all the same: you and a boy with tousled dark brown hair. In the first, the boy is kissing your cheek as he hugs you. In the second, you and the boy are sleeping in the same bed, lax bodies curved towards each other though you sleep on the far sides of the bed. The third picture is blurry. The boy’s form is easy to make out, only his arm blurry, and you’re a blur as you spin around. You’re dancing with him.

Bobby remembers, once, Sa had twirled you around and round in this room. You’d giggled and moved on to Dean, but Bobby had watched Sam’s face.

His emotions were written on it clear as day.

“Whoa,” Dean says as he enters the room, the beer from last night already in his hand. “Sam went OCD, huh?”

“They look to be in chronological order.” Bobby takes the beer from Dean, silencing his protests with a stern look, and stows it back in the fridge. “I’ve got eggs, bacon, and waffles. That sound good to you, boy?”

“Sounds great!” Dean smiles at Bobby. “I mean, you just put my regular breakfast in the fridge, so. That sounds awesome.”

Bobby frowns while pulling the frozen waffles out of his freezer. “Shouldn’t Sam be taking better care of you?”

“What, are you kidding?” Dean snorts. “Kid can barely handle himself. Half the time he would forget Y/N wasn’t in the backseat.”

“Huh.”

The two men share a look but decided against any further commentary. Sam might be awake and listening. Plus, breakfast needs to get eaten quickly so the case can resume. Dean doesn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself if they find you and all the other hunters, only you’re freshly dead, and him eating waffles for breakfast—having any breakfast at all, really—was what slowed him down just enough he couldn’t save you.

Dean leaves Bobby to his cooking and goes back to the living room. Considering how hectic and disorganized the rest of the room is, the pictures on the ground almost blend in.

Dean flips over a picture of you and a dog. The date it was taken is scrawled on the back, and your familiar handwriting knocks the air out of Dean’s lungs. He hasn’t had anything of yours for the last four years, save five pictures on his phone he knows by heart. If he had known how soon you were going to leave after they were taken, Dean would have taken a lot more.

Handwriting Dean both barely and clearly remembers is scrawled on the backs of most of the pictures.

“So Sammy hadn’t been doing it all on guesswork,” Dean muses. “Huh.”

Your alien face scares Dean. It’s one he used to know well, one he thought he would know forever. It’s in almost all of the pictures, whether you be hugging a dog, leaning against a car with a scared-looking little girl clutching at your leg, or the only person swimming in a dark lake.

“We’ll let Sam sleep,” Bobby says from the doorway. “Losing two people you love so quickly can be rough. Come and eat.”

“Y/N’s done well with herself,” Dean remarks with a mouth full of scrambled egg. “She’s got two hunting partners, one of which is her boyfriend. I guess she’s even got a dog.” Never mind that Dean had always thought your two partners would be him and Sam, and your boyfriend would be Sam instead of a shaggy stranger.

“Weird choice of pet for a hunter.”

“Weird for a hunter to have a pet at all,” Dean counters and frowns. “Bobby…” He sets down his fork and locks eyes with him. “What you said, about Sam losing two people he loves… you don’t think Y/N is dead, do you?”

Bobby shakes his head. “Y/N’s a fighter, and in her prime. I’m sure she’s fine. What I was talking about was losing Y/N to that boy she’s with now.”

Dean scowls. “Hey, Sam was the one that left us. He couldn’t seriously think we’d wait our whole lives for him, especially after he said he wasn’t coming back.”

“I’m not blaming anyone,” Bobby interrupts, glaring at Dean. “Personally, I think you all were in the wrong.”

The face Dean makes tells it all.

“Sam, for leaving the way he did,” Bobby explains. “Y/N, for leaving, too, and ignoring us for four years. And you, for not trying to broker peace between your brother and father. Sam goes to college and the rest of the family breaks up too, is that it? You’re going to lose people in this line of work and you can’t break up every time that happens, because shit like this will happen.”

Dean drops his fork and stands up. “I’m going to search Y/N’s trunk.

“Dean,” Bobby calls, exasperated, after his retreating back. “Boy!”

He doesn’t turn around.

Dean sweeps the mess of weapons out of your trunk carelessly, hardly registering the clatter as they hit the ground, and yanks the carpet out. Two little pictures come with it and drift to the ground while three polaroids wedged partly behind the far right corner stay. You’d obviously hidden them on purpose, maybe from whoever took you.

It’s hard to get them out without ripping them completely, and one of the corners of the first picture tears off, but Dean can be patient sometimes.

The top picture is one Dean remembers taking. It features you and Sam sleeping on a couch together, his arm thrown over your waist casually and your feet tangled together. You’d written the date on the back like the other pictures.

The second one doesn’t have a date, and it’s blurry. It looks to be a lit up sign of a store or something, which is useless.

The third picture you’d hidden is just as useless. It’s a picture of a hotel door labeled 20.

The two pictures that had fallen to the ground fit more in the theme of your other pictures: one of that dog, a German shepherd, with snow on his nose, and another of you with someone you’d saved: a little boy with rope burns on his wrists with a name dean assumes is his on the back.

“All right, so there’s nothing in the pictures,” Dean mutters aloud. He still pockets the three hidden pictures, though. “Let’s try the weapons.”

The only thing Dean discovers is that you like to label your knives by writing what they are on a piece of tape and sticking the tape on the weapon’s handle. You’ve got knives dipped in virgin’s blood (Dean makes a mental note to tease you by asking if it’s your blood), brass, silver, and bronze knives, and one labeled ‘Demon’ that looks to be made out of bone. Dean’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean because you can’t kill demons with knives; you can’t kill demons at all—maybe it’s one that exorcises it immediately?

He just keeps getting more impressed by your arsenal. You have darts filled with Dead Man’s Blood, bullets made out of every metal, and even bullets with Devil’s traps carved onto them.

With all these weapons at your disposal, how could you have been taken? What if they’re walking into something they’re not prepared for?

Sam wakes up at one in the afternoon.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Bobby says when he sees him conscious, albeit bleary-eyed and with hair that looks like he just walked through a tornado because of all his tossing and turning during the night.

Sam huffs out a half-laugh and rolls his eyes.

“Dean’s looking through Y/N’s trunk,” Bobby adds. “But if you’re hungry, there’s food.”

Sam shakes his head and hurries out to the car, mentally berating himself for sleeping in so long. You need help, damnit.

“What did you find?”

Dean spins around. Sam doesn’t miss the hand that automatically flies to his right jacket pocket. “Just three—two! Two pictures I’m pretty sure Y/N intentionally hid because of where they were in the trunk, and a Girl Scout-level of weapons.” When Sam doesn’t get it, Dean elaborates, “She’s prepared for everything. Some of these things I don’t even know what she could use them for.”

“Huh.” Sam kneels and picks up the knife you’d labeled ‘Demon’. “I don’t think Y/N’ll be too happy about the mess you made of her car.”

“She’s getting a new one anyway.” Dean hands Sam the pictures of the neon sign and hotel door labeled 20.

“Maybe they’re clues?” Sam suggests. “She doesn’t usually take pictures of stuff like this.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s either that or she took them on accident but then she would’ve just thrown them away, so I’m betting that’s what it is.”

“All right.” Sam shoves them into his pocket.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Dean grins sheepishly at his younger brother, just now remembering the photos of the dog and you and the boy. The picture he’d wanted to hide from Sam—the one of you and him—comes out as well, and Dean tries to act nonchalant about putting it back in his pocket. “But these look normal.”

Sam flips over the one of you and the boy. “Dennis Walker, July 2006. And nothing on the picture of the dog, as usual. I wonder why she hasn’t said anything about the dog or…” he trails off, a shadow falling over his features, and Dean doesn’t know how to feel about the pain on his baby brother’s face. Maybe he deserves to be in pain for how he’d treated you, treated them all, but Dean also doesn’t want Sam to be in pain.

“Her partners?” Dean suggests as a less painful alternative to ‘boyfriend’. “I don’t know. It’s Y/N, man. You can’t understand her.”

“I used to,” Sam mutters. Dean pretends not to hear. It’s his fault.

“I’ll see if these mean anything,” Sam says, half-turning around before jerking to a stop. “What’s the third picture you don’t want to show me?”

“Huh?” Dean laughs nervously. “It’s really nothing. Just another picture of that dog—”

“Then show it to me.” Sam tilts his head and shifts his feet. “What, it’s not a picture of her having sex with that new boy, is it?” He means it as a joke but realizes as the words leave his mouth that he really wants to know the answer to that question.

“It’s nothing, Sammy.”

“Then why did Y/N hide it and why are you hiding it? If we’re going to—”

Dean starts to walk inside and Sam splutters, “Dean! I need all the information—”

Without turning around, Dean says, “ Drop it, Sammy.”

Sam grabs his shoulder and whirls him around. “Dammit, Dean, just show me it!”

“It’s not important!”

“If you and Y/N both felt the need to hide it, then—”

“Fine!” Dean fishes the pictures out of his pocket and rifles through them. He shoves it at Sam, who almost tears it with his mixed annoyance and curiosity when he grabs it.

Dean almost blinks and misses the grief Sam works too hard to mask at the reminder of how things used to be, of better times.

“She hid it?”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t chuck it, though.”

“Sammy—”

Sam angrily drags his sleeve over his eyes. “Let’s just find her, Dean.”

“Hey, you wanted to see it.”

“Shut up. Is Bobby read to drive?”

“Yeah. We were waiting on you. The town she disappeared in is only five hours away, so get ready. I’ll pack our stuff.”

“I’ll get Y/N’s stuff.”

Dean pretends to look through his pockets until his brother’s gone inside, and then he hurries back to your car. He has a weird feeling about your odd knife.

After a moment of hesitation, he pockets it. As a hunter, you should always trust your gut, and his gut is telling him the knife fits into all of this… somehow.

“Could you stop with the pictures?” Dean finally snaps when Sam starts to rifle through the large stack for the third time. “None of them are going to change anytime soon.”

“A lot are missing,” Sam replies, frowning. “There’s at most six in here of us, but I specifically remember Y/N taking so many more of us.”

“They were probably in the photo album,” Dean suggests. “The one she either tossed or lost.”

“Just like her notebook,” Sam murmurs. “Doesn’t this feel weird to you, Dean?”

“Well, yeah, but what do you think is weird, Mr. College?”

Sam shoots his brother a side-eyed glare but decides not to rise to the bait. “Hunters dropping off the grid all over the place—like, maybe all in one town, sure, but Rufus’s been finding trucks all over. And there’s no sign of a struggle in here but Y/N’s gone and so are all her pictures of us, yet whoever took her didn’t take her weapons.” Sam sighs. “It’s just weird .”

“Sammy, we hunt monsters. There’s no such as weird for us.”

“This is,” Sam insists. “This feels big.”

“Sure.” Dean glances at his brother and sighs exaggeratedly. “Fine, Sam, if you think this is so ‘big’, what do you propose we do about it? What does your prophecy change, exactly? Let’s go with the facts instead of what this feels like.” He knows he’s being a total hypocrite, considering he stole one of your knives because he felt that it was important, but Sam’s emotions are more messed up because of this case than Dean’s.

“Don’t be such a jerk.”

“Then stop being a bitch,” Dean retorts, a small smile on his face, and he grins wider when he turns up his music and Sam rolls his eyes. There’s still too many things left unsaid between them that’ll probably never get said, but they’ll get through this like how they get through everything.

They’ll have you back soon, too, and then things will get even more back to normal.

Or maybe it won’t.

The grin slides off Dean’s face. Maybe you still won’t want anything to do with them. Maybe you’ll say that you’ve moved on. Maybe you won’t want to leave your new partners.

Dean’s cell phone rings and he answers it immediately, mindful of the way Sam’s eyelashes are fluttering and the hands he’s using to prop his chin up as he looks out the window.

“Yeah?”

Bobby’s voice growls, “Drive faster, ya idjit!” before he promptly hangs up.

Dean chuckles and presses harder on the gas pedal.

Dean and Bobby check in with each other just before entering the small town you’d disappeared in. Sam had fallen asleep minutes after Bobby had told him to hurry up and started snoring soon after. If Dean was more of a jackass he would’ve cranked his music up or woken him, but even though they’ve been fighting lately, he still cares about his little brother. Even if his brother is, has been, and always will be an idiot.

Bobby peers into the Impala to check on Sam before walking around to where Dean’s standing, one hand over the mysterious knife you’d labeled ‘Demon’ in his jacket pocket. Bobby eyes the odd placement of Dean’s hand but decides against commentary. He trusts Dean, except for when he’s being an idjit.

“He’s really taking this hard.”

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders. “You weren’t there the night he left, Bobby. They both said some really nasty things, and now Y/N’s missing. Plus, he loves her. Loved her. You can’t really tell with Sam.”

“Yeah, you can, but enough sappy talk.” Bobby holds out a hand and Dean places the two mystery pictures of yours. “I’ll find the motel that labels their rooms like that and then figure out what place Y/N was trying to take a picture of. You and Sam—”

“We’re gonna ask around, see if anyone’s seen anything strange.” Dean nods and takes a step back to the Impala. “You call when you’ve located the room. Sam and I will check it out so you don’t have to.”

“Why, you think I’m too old for some recon?” Bobby growls.

“I wanna get both of these places identified, that’s all,” Dean almost yelps. “Thanks, Bobby!” He practically throws himself into his car and slams the door so hard behind him that Sam wakes up with a jump, looking around wildly before he gains his bearings.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean teases, which is probably a joke he and Bobby use too much. “We’re here. Pretty much. We’ve got, like, thirty seconds more to drive.”

Sam rubs the sleep out of his eyes and sits up straight. “Why’d we stop?”

“Bobby had to go over our game plan and we didn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “So what’s the plan, then?”

“You and I,” Dean starts, tossing Sam a FBI badge so he knows the name on it, “are going to ask around for our friend. We’re from the FBI but here because we’re personally looking for Y/N, not officially.”

The Impala rolls past the town’s ‘Welcome’ sign. Underneath the ‘welcome’ is one of those corny phrases you hear in commercials: ‘Where your kids come home’. Sam huffs at that, wondering just how many kids hate their circumstances just like he’d hated growing up in a car and hunting the nightmares people hope are fake.

“Okay, hottest girl we see, let’s see who can get her number,” Dean challenges, his head on a swivel as he looks for anyone that looks suspicious.

Sam follows his lead. Everybody looks pretty normal and like they’re not paying attention to the hunters. By chance, his eyes meet someone’s in the passenger mirror, but they slide away before Sam fully realizes what had happened. He’s almost positive he just saw your boyfriend in the mirror, but when he turns around, there’s no one resembling him.

“What’s up?” Dean asks, also looking back like he’ll see something off.

“Nothing, I just—my eyes playing tricks on me, I guess,” Sam replies, settling back into his seat and slapping his brother’s shoulder. “Eyes on the road, Dean. I just think I’m still tired.”

“That, little brother, is why we don’t drink to forget the ones that get away,” Dean says wisely. “We always remember.”

“Shut up,” Sam replies, and pushes him. “I don’t know how many times I have to say this: I think of Y/N as a little sister. Nothing more.”

“Yeah, and I went to Stanford,” Dean says in such a serious voice that Sam stares at him. “I thought we were describing each other!”

“You’re a real jerk, you know that?”

“You��re just a bitch.”

“Hey, did you tell Bobby to go to the first motel in the phone book first?” Sam checks, only just having remembered the system you had used when you hunted with them.

“Yep, and if the labeling mathes we’re gonna ask the desk about Harriet Mills, presumably in room 20.” Dean gives a half-laugh as Bobby pulls into the parking lot of a motel in front of them. “Dude, I’m not the rusty one.”

Sam purses his lips and begins to drum his fingers on his seat. “So are you taking us to a grocery store or bar?”

“As much as I’d love to grab a beer right now,” Dean sighs, “Y/N was more likely to have visited a drugstore for Ibuprofen and chips than a bar for alcohol.”

“You always were disappointed she’d practically sworn off alcohol,” Sam says softly, smiling wistfully. “You always teased her about it, and she’d always tease you about the latest crazy stunt you’d pulled while drunk. You remember when you peed in a motel’s closet and made a bed out of your dirty laundry?” Sam chuckles. “Classic.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that she’s a little too uptight, you know? Nothing wrong with getting drunk every so often.”

“Except the utter humiliation and shame I’d make you feel,” Sam says.

“Sammy, you’re so considerate,” Dean says sarcastically while pulling into the parking lot of the first grocery store he sees. “And totally not part of the reason why Y/N doesn’t drink. All right, you ready to rock n’ roll?”

“Which picture are we using again?”

Dean holds out a picture of you smiling and leaning against your car with that dog next to you. “This one is good, right?”

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, that’s fine.” He doesn’t move when Dean opens his door.

“Huh. Well, I’m glad it pleases you, Mr. Stanford,” Dean snarks. “Now are we going or sulking in the car all day?”

“Jerk,” Sam says, opening up his door with more aggression than necessary.

“Bitch.”

They stride inside the girl behind the register obviously looks Dean up and down and he flashes a cocky grin at her. Sam rolls his eyes but trails after his brother.

“Hey,” Dean says, leaning against the counter.

“Hi,” she responds. “How can I help you?”

“Yes, um, Shelly?” Dean says, reading her nametag. “I was just wondering if you had seen this girl anywhere?” He hands her the small picture. “That’s our little sister. She was on a road trip and last we heard from her she was in this town.”

“Oh, no,” Shelly gasps. “That’s awful.”

Sam shrugs but no one notices him. As usual, he’s pushed into the limelight. One good thing about you was that you never really favored one brother over the other. Too bad you’re missing. Sam would love to be able to exchange looks with you behind Dean’s back.

“That’s so sweet that you drove all the way out here to find your sister,” Shelly gushes. Dean shrugs and smiles.

“So, um, have you seen her?” Sam butts in. Shelly and Dean both shoot him matching glares but he can’t be bothered to care. Dean’s apparently forgotten that you’re missing and could even be dead. Sam hasn’t.

“Um, yeah, maybe,” the cashier snaps. “I think I saw her at the Silver Diner with two other men. I thought it was weird because one of them was pretty old and the other was, like, way out of her league.”

Sam snorts and turns away. If Shelly had seen you with your boyfriend and other hunting partner, then she was dead wrong: you are so out of your boyfriend’s league it’s crazy. And even if it hadn’t been them, you still would have been out of anyone’s league. You’re, like, perfect.

Dean thanks the cashier, his voice significantly cooler.

“Come on, Sam,” he mutters and tugs him by the sleeve out the door. “There’s only trash in there anyways.”

“So, a Silver Diner with two other men,” Sam says, deciding not to say anything about the cashier’s comment because it’ll make him even angrier. “I bet it’s that Garth dude and that boy.”

Apparently too angry about the cashier too, Dean doesn’t even make a biting comment about how he’s actually boy friend and instead just grunts in what Sam takes to be agreement.”

Before they can get into the Impala, Dean’s phone rings. He flips it open. “Bobby? Yeah. Okay, we’re on our way.” He ends the call. “So the first motel was a hit. ‘Harriet Mills’ had actually checked in to room 32, so I’m assuming something else happened in room 20.”

“Or maybe she was in a hurry and just needed to leave any clue so she took a picture of the numbering,” Sam points out. “It led us to the motel either way.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll figure it out, then,” Dean says, and off they speed in the Impala.

“Here they are,” Bobby says when they walk through the door. “My associates,” he adds. The brothers take the hint and immediately reach for an FBI badge. They don’t even have them out before the receptionist starts to yell.

“I don’t care if you’re FBI or what! You’re going to pay for your damages or… or I’m calling the cops!”

They all would be amused by that ineffectual threat except for the fact that this receptionist that they’ve never seen in their lives apparently knows them and has a bone to pick with them.

“Calm down, buddy,” Dean says, stowing his badge. “Why don’t you tell us what you’re talking about, all right?”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t remember!” the weaselly little man yells, pointing a finger at him like he’s lecturing him. “You two scumbags come in here just a few weeks ago and check out room 20!”

Sam and Dean look at each other, but the receptionist isn’t done.

“All I know is that you two go out for dinner and come back with a girl, and the next morning the room is trashed and all three of you have vanished!”

All three hunters are stumped. As Dean hands the receptionist a credit card to settle the cost of the repairs, Sam looks at the picture he has of you. Going on a crazy hunch, he asks, interrupting the conversation between his brother and the therapist, “Is this the girl we had with us?”

The receptionist looks at him like he’s crazy. “Shouldn’t you know?”

“Just answer the question,” Sam replies.

The man glances at the photo and nods. “Yep, that’s her. Harriet Mills. She came in with her brothers a week before you two. She must’ve been the first visitor we’ve had in a year. What, did she lead you scumbags here or somethin’? Were you two following her? Did you kidnap her?” The excited receptionist hops up and down. “I should call the police on you!”

“Again, sir, we’re with the FBI,” Dean says, exchanging a dumbfounded look with Sam. The man visibly deflates. “We’re going to need to see room 20, as well as anything we might have left behind that you cleaned up.”

The receptionist glares sullenly at the three hunters, but, recognizing that he’s outnumbered in every way, hands over a key to the room.

“Do you have any security tapes of that night?” Bobby asks.

The man shakes his head. “They got wiped. I’m guessing,” he glares at Sam and Dean, “by you.”

Dean taps Sam’s shoulder. “That’s all you, bro. Bobby and I’re gonna go check out the room, ‘kay?”

It’s not terribly hard to retrieve the tapes. Somebody had deleted them and locked down a program that would allow them to be retrieved. It’s almost too easy to hack, and Sam keeps glancing over his shoulder like it’s a trap. It certainly feels like one.

Sam clicks on the tape for rooms 20 to 30 on the day he and Dean had apparently checked in at the motel. A few minutes after check-in time, he and Dean appear on the screen.

Sam’s heart starts to pound. Their eyes flash.

“Shifters,” he says out loud. “Why would shifters—”

“What did you say?” the receptionist asks eagerly.

Sam lifts his eyes from the computer’s screen. “Nothing.”

“What’s a shifter?” the receptionist presses.

“It’s code,” Sam says shortly. “And you don’t have enough clearance to know what it’s code for.” Maybe he’s still tired, or maybe he’s just worried about you, but this guy is really rubbing him the wrong way.

He speeds up the tape until he and Dean appear on the screen again. There’s someone with them, a girl with Y/H/H hair and Y/S/C skin. She turns around, probably to see if anyone’s watching, and reaches into the inside of her jacket. She doesn’t get the chance to take whatever it is out, because the shifter that looks like Dean sneaks up behind her and wraps his arms around her torso. The shifter that looks like Sam quickly ties her hands together.

The girl spits something at the fake Sam, who punches her in the face.

Sam stomach flips when the girl leans her head back and he can finally confirm that it’s you. You do know that that wasn’t Sam, right? Sam would never do that to you. Never.

He can only watch as his body reaches into the jacket pocket you’d been reaching for and pulls out a familiar notebook. It’s your hunting journal.

Sam rewinds the video, a faint hope making him blind to the situation. Maybe your eyes will shine on the recording too and Sam will stop feeling so queasy. He’d rather die than watch you get hurt by himself.

But he hadn’t died the last time you’d been hurt by him, had he? And that had actually been Sam, too. He’d savored every cutting word that came out of his mouth. He’d been so angry he’d relished the look on your face as he’d spit at you.

You’re making the same face in the tape as you had when Sam had left for Stanford.

So there’s not much difference, is there?

The fake Sam says one more thing to you. You spit in his face and he hits you so hard you’re knocked unconscious.

Sam can only watch as the shifters drag you away. Only minutes after you disappear, a man runs up to door 20 and takes a picture of it. Sam’s stomach drops. That’s… your boyfriend, isn’t it?

He’s barely left before the fake Sam and Dean come back. They both both look directly into the camera before going back into room 20.

Having seen all he needed to see, Sam deletes the video for real. When he stands up, the receptionist looks up quickly. “Did you find anything?”

“Uh, no,” Sam lies. “It was deleted completely.”

“Then why’d you say something about shifters?”

“They left their signature in the codings,” Sam quickly invents. “We’ve been tailing them for months.”

“What?”

“The people that trashed our mouth,” Sam explains, hoping his explanation is confusing the receptionist just enough that he won’t ask more questions. “They wiped the tape.”

The receptionist nods, looking a bit bewildered, and watches Sam as he leaves to go to his brother and Bobby.

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfic #reader x sam winchester #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fic #spn fic #spn fanfic #spn #reader insert

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looselucy · 6 years

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- Catch Up -

It was grim Friday afternoon when I rushed into the restaurant where I used to work, shaking my umbrella dry by the front door and beaming up to Craig as soon as I saw him. “EY, IT’S BELLONA BROWN!” He cheered. “Long time no bloody see!” “It’s because you call me Bellona, so I avoid you.” I tittered, smiling wide as I moved towards him.

I certainly didn’t miss the job, but I missed the people. Never before had I been surrounded by so many wonderful people on a daily basis. No matter how long or tedious a shift was, it was hard to leave that building without feeling like I’d enjoyed myself, despite dick-head customers and piss-poor management. I leant over the counter and planted a big smooch on Craig’s cheek, before he quickly went back to preparing behind the bar for what was bound to be a hectic Friday evening. “You come to bother Harry on his lunch?” He questioned, moving around and wiping down surfaces. “He asked me to!” I cried. “Miss you like mad round here. How long have you been gone now?” “Almost a year!” “Fuck off.” His eyes widened. “That’s gone so quick!” “Glad I’m still missed.” “All day every day.” It was early afternoon, so they were just preparing for the busy evening, setting tables and making sure everything looked acceptable for when the nine to five lot finished their days and headed over for some cheap but decent food, people celebrating the start of the weekend. “Right, I’ll go get Harry for ya.” “Cheers.” “Watch the bar for me.” He called over his shoulder, setting off to the kitchen. “There’s literally no one bloody here!” I laughed. He shrugged, pushing through the swinging door and going to find Harry for me. I eyed up the place, wondering how the year had gone so quickly but at the same time, it felt like a lifetime since I’d worked there with them all. Harry appeared a few moments later, clutching rather desperately at a single lettuce leaf, looking absolutely exhausted. I knew he’d been out the night before, and he always thought he could hack it, but Harry was absolutely useless on a hangover. “You look… bad.” I gawked. He shoved the pathetic excuse for food into his mouth before dragging his feet over to one of the semi-circle booths, and I followed, sitting myself down on the fake, red leather seat that curved around the table and smiling across to him as he dramatically threw himself down, clearly feeling very sorry for himself. “I usually love prep shifts.” He groaned, laying himself down, facing towards the ceiling. “Don’t have to deal with any bloody customers. Just get everything ready and go bloody home as soon as it starts getting busy.” “You need to learn that you’re bad on a hangover.” I instructed, aware he would never learn. “You can only go out the night before work when you’re at work in the evening.” “Mm.” He grumbled. “And also, you need to eat more than a single fucking lettuce leaf.” “Mm.” He didn’t sound too convinced. I was expecting him to be a tad more entertaining when I’d arranged to go around and share my lunch break with him, and I was definitely expecting some free grub at the very least. He could barely keep his bloody eyes open. I decided to grab his attention. “I reckon they’re gunna fire me.” That did the trick. He shot his eyes open, the lights that were embedded into the low roof above us clearing aching his irises, his brows lowering and squinting in the light. “What?” “Mm. They got rid of two people today, and said they won’t be the only ones. I don’t reckon the work I do is important enough for them to keep me when they’re literally… burning money at the minute. So… Yeah.” “Shit.” He sat upright, rubbing over his eyes a few times. “That’s fucked.” “Yeah.” “You been looking for something else?” “No, because I feel like that’s jinxing it.” I could see he was about to argue with me. “And I know that’s stupid, and I should be looking, otherwise I’ll be fucked if and when it does happen, but… I’m clutching at straws.” Harry liked to be safe within his life. It was one of the reasons he’d been working in the same place for so long. He knew his routine, he knew his outgoings and he liked the feeling of being secure and safe. I knew the very idea of me not applying for new jobs even though I could practically feel my current one slipping through my fingers would set his mind off into an absolute frenzy. “Right… well… you know they’d take you back here in a heartbeat, so at least you’ve got that.” He groaned. “I don’t wanna come back here.” I huffed. “Why?” “There’s a reason I left in the first place.” “Don’t be a dick.” He seemed disgruntled, almost rolling his eyes. “It’s a decent job.” “I know it’s a decent bloody job, Harry!” I wailed. “I’m not being one of those dickheads who… shuns customer service jobs! You know I’m not one of those people. I hate those people! I just mean… it’s not for me.” He nodded, untensing his shoulders. I’d been the one who turned Harry into this person who became very protective and defensive about his job in the first place. The number of idiots I’d stumbled across who felt like poorly paid jobs in that sort of area meant someone wasn’t smart or wasn’t hard working was extortionate, and I’d seen Harry sit idly by in conversations he was clearly hating. I’d told him he needed to stand up for himself a bit more, make a point and not take shit from people. “Thought you’d turned into a proper nine to fiver then.” He smirked, using the term we’d used a million times. “Not all nine to fivers are like that. This is something I’ve learnt… being one of them.” He smiled across to me, easing even more when I stuck my tongue out at him, then practically falling back against the chair, returning to his painfully hungover state. “Well, still… You’ll be welcome back here, if it comes to that. I hope it doesn’t, but still.” He shrugged. “Thanks.” He closed his eyes, and he honestly looked like he was going to fall asleep, which he probably needed. I kicked him under the table but earnt barely any reaction from him. I kicked harder. “You’re weak as fuck, Lona.” He smiled, eyes still shut. “Bet you’re shit at footy.” “You better make it tonight!” It was officially the evening of our double date, just under a week after I’d first met Lewis. According to Sara, Lewis had bounded over to her desk first thing on Monday morning and asked about me and where I’d disappeared to. She’d done her job wonderfully and suggested a double date to him without making it seem like I’d already planned it all out. She made it all seem like it was her idea, and I planned on giving her a very big, appreciative kiss on the cheek as soon as I saw her. I didn’t know what the hell to expect, but it had been a long time since I’d been on a date, and Lewis seemed nice. I was looking forward to it. But it definitely needed to be double date, so I needed Harry to stay awake. “Urgh. Do I have to?” He mewled. “Yes! You’re the one who made me… bloody dependant on the double date thing.” “I’m rough.” He drawled. “Harry, I need you.” I stuck my bottom lip out. “Pretty please?” He opened one eye at me, grinning like an idiot when he saw my pouty little face, shaking his head before cracking his neck. I kicked him again. “OI!” “The amount of times I’ve accompanied you on painful dates, Harry.” “I’ll be there! You know I’ll be there.” “Thank you!” I cooed. I kicked him one final time, much more affectionately that time around, and he seemed to appreciate it, sweetly returning the gesture.

“I’m going on a date with a nice Liverpudlian boy, and he sounds like Paul McCartney, and I’m very excited.” I beamed down the phone to my mother. “Do you know him at all? Or are you only excited because he sounds like Paul?” “Um… We spoke briefly.” I tried to button up my coat with one hand, fiddling with the buttons and trying to get them through their designated slots. “It is… largely based around his accent, thus far. But he seems nice!” I’d usually have a weekly catch up with my parents over the phone. I only really went back down south over Christmas, so this was the best we had. It was nice though. I liked the little routine we had, where I’d call them on a Friday night before my mum started watching her soaps and when my dad had come back from working away all week. “I don’t know how I feel about you going on dates with random men you don’t know based entirely on their accents.” “S’alright. Harry’s gunna be there, so I’m safe.” “Oh good. That’s good news. How is he?” My parents still hadn’t met Harry, despite the fact we’d been so close for four years. Harry would always go home to his mum at Christmas time, and I would go back to my parents. We’d made a few plans whilst drunk, that we’d go down to London to see them, but they’d never amounted to anything. It was easier with his mum, because she lived so close, but he had yet to be blessed with meeting Sharon and Richard Brown. “He’s good, yeah!” I answered. “As cheerful as ever. He’s good.” “Well send him our love!” “I shall do! I’m outside now, so wish me luck!” “Good luck! Don’t rush into anything!” “I never bloody do. Goodnight, mum. GOODNIGHT DAD!” I yelled, despite the fact there was no way he’d be able to hear me. “Rich, your daughter says goodnight!” I just about heard him yell his goodbyes in the background. “Have a lovely time.” “Thank you! Bye-bye!” “Bye!” I shoved my phone into my pocket and walked into the restaurant that Sara had booked us into, hoping they would all be there already because I was purposefully running late in the hope of avoiding being the first one there. I spotted Harry and Sara rather quickly, seeing her bright blonde hair and his short locks which were trying desperately to curl, their hands intertwined on top of the table and a huge smile on his face. It didn’t take me too long to realise they didn’t have company. Harry took his eyes to the door, spotting me and then waving me over, still smiling brightly, but I couldn’t return it. I’d been good at taming my nerves all day, and after so many experiences of dating alongside Harry Styles, I was used to the setup. It was almost mundane. But seeing that he wasn’t there, I felt otherwise. “Has he stood me up?” I blurted before I could even officially greet them, shuffling my coat off and hanging it on the back of the chair. “If he’s not coming, I’m giving up on men completely.” “He’s coming.” Sara chuckled. “Just text me saying he’s stuck in traffic.” “Bloody hell.” I exhaled, plonking myself down, flimsy as hell. “I thought I’d hit a new dating low, which would be a miracle, considering my track record.” I shot Harry a look, just to remind him that my poor track record was almost entirely his fault, and he just shrugged rather innocently. “Hopefully tonight will be better.” Sara encouraged. “Fingers crossed.” I took my eyes to Harry. “You’re looking better than you did this afternoon.” “You saw each other this afternoon?” “She came round to see me on her lunch,” Harry answered. “And I was not in a good way.” The two of them started discussing the night they’d both been on the night before, where Harry had finally introduced her to some of his uni lads, the ones that were still in Liverpool, and from what Harry had told me earlier, they’d all liked her, which I knew would mean a lot to him. I glanced back over my shoulder, watching the doorway, biting nervously at my lip. It felt like a damn lifetime before he turned up.

I was in extremely high spirits, which was basically foreign ground given the circumstances. I was used to everything going incredibly wrong rather quickly. This time around, it took some time for things to turn sour. We were looking at the dessert menu by the time Lewis ruined bloody everything. He ended up arriving not much later than I had, looking amazing and being charming and I finally felt like I was in for something good. Harry had been shooting me looks all evenings, kicking me under the table and raising his brows at me, and basically making the whole thing very obvious. He wasn’t too good at being inconspicuous. I was debating between the selection of sorbets and the chocolate cake when things changed. “Am I the only one getting dessert?” I sulked, seeing that everyone else had left their menus on the table. “I hate it when I’m the only one getting dessert. I mean like, it’s definitely not going to stop me, I just… don’t like it.” I looked around the table, my eyes finally landing on Harry who was sat directly across from me, batting my eyelashes at him. He merely picked up his menu, and started searching over his options. “So what’s with you two?” Lewis asked after silently watching the interaction. “Huh?” I bolted my head to him. “Your weird… little friendship.” He gestured between myself and Harry. “How did that come about?” “What’s weird about it?” Harry got defensive almost immediately. “I dunno. I guess I just don’t understand how you can be such good mates with a girl.” “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I scowled. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time myself and Harry had met an idiot who was completely baffled by the concept of a guy and a girl being friends and nothing more. I think it helped the two of us, working in that restaurant for so long and being in that environment. We were constantly meeting people our age, who were gorgeous both inside and out, and the initial instinct would always be to make friends. There were far too many men in the world who limited themselves to male friendships and only saw women as a walking vagina and not much else. I’d just been really hoping that Lewis wasn’t one of them. “Nothing.” Lewis backed down pretty quickly. “I can see I’ve hit a nerve, so I’ll shut up.” “You not got any female mates?” Harry asked that question with a completely dead tone. He had been compelling all evening, as he usually was, but that had changed. Sara picked up the menu, probably just as a way of avoiding the current conversation. “Well… y’know,” Lewis shrugged, taking a sip of his drink to clear his blatantly dry throat. “There are girls I work with and stuff. But… no, I guess I don’t have any girl mates I’m close with.” “That’s the only weird thing here, mate.” Harry grumbled, not dropping his eye contact for even a second, but I appreciated the fact that Lewis managed to hold it. Harry could be quite intimidating when he wanted to be, and he was definitely showing that then. “Y’know what, you’re probably right. It’s just… not something I’ve seen much of before. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.” I was rather quickly willing to forgive and forget the whole thing, to be honest. I could tell he hadn’t meant anything by it, and he definitely wasn’t ready to argue his point, so I was hoping he’d just made an off comment and I could just ignore it. But things were only going to get worse. “I’ve seen it happen to lads I know, especially at uni and stuff.” Harry elaborated. “You’ve gotta have girl mates that you’re close with, it changes shit. Changes how you view things. I know lads who just see girls as like… a sexual thing, and it’s fucked up.” “I’m not like that.” Lewis shook his head, but I could see Harry wasn’t convinced. “But… yeah, I know what you mean. I guess I’ve never really thought about it.” Harry’s mum had brought him up all her own, and clearly done a brilliant job. I guess he’d always had a positive relationship with the females in his life, and I think for Harry it was pretty much always on a friend’s basis before it was anything else. I felt like that might have been one of the reasons he was so terrible with girls romantically. I’d seen it shock Harry time and time again, the way some guys were with girls, and how they saw them. I’d also seen Harry change boys; sit them down and really talk with them about it, and helped those lads flourish, and I felt positive for a few brief moments that he was doing the same with Lewis. Usually it helped when the lads were drunk, but he seemed to be really accepting what Harry was saying, truly considering it all. “Maybe you’re reading into it a bit much.” Sara finally spoke up, directing her words to Harry. “I think… it's rarer than you think, the friendship you two have. It’s easy to… misconstrue things.” “He didn’t misconstrue it though.” Harry answered. “He’s seeing it exactly how it is, he’s just questioning it.” Even though he’d never told me directly, I knew that Sara had questioned our friendship when her and Harry first started talking. Ash had been the same with me. It was a topic that usually died pretty quickly, but over our four years of friendship, we’d had plenty of people question us. “I actually do volunteer work with a local party, and I get to meet new people all the time.” Lewis smiled. “So… I think it’s good I have the opportunity, y’know? The older you get, the less chances there are to form friendships and stuff, so… I know what you mean. Maybe it is weird, I dunno.” “You do work for a local party?” I questioned brightly, smiling alongside the query because at first I thought that was brilliant. “I do yeah! Just volunteer stuff, nothing too serious.” “Which party?” “Conservative.” I swear, I thought Harry was going to smack his head against the table on my behalf. That was all I needed to know. I wish I’d just got up and left rather than fallen into a political argument, but I couldn’t help myself. “Are you serious?” I cringed. “It’s a powerful party.” “Yeah, because they have the money to manipulate the media and they belittle working class people.” “That’s just not true. We-” “You’re burning the NHS to the ground and spending the taxpayer’s money on all the wrong things. Our emergency services are fucked because of you lot.” “You shouldn’t believe everything you read.” He huffed. “It isn’t stuff I’ve read, this is what people who work for the services that hold our country together are saying. This is what everyone with half a brain is aware of! You’re all… steal from the poor and give to the rich, and it’s just fucking wrong.” He started droning on and on about Tory policies and how they were the better party and how they got too much stick for no reason, and I found my eyes going to Harry, who was slyly trying to cut his hand across his throat, clearly agreeing with me that Lewis was a definite no-go, what with the inability to be friends with girls without being lectured about it, and on top of that being a fucking Tory. It meant, really, that I’d reached the end of yet another unsuccessful date, and this time I couldn’t even blame Harry for it. We let him go on and on about it, rolling our eyes and both knowing we were completely set in our ways, so his ramblings were falling on deaf ears, but we let him have his moment. He must have dragged on for a good five minutes of solid speaking, to which Harry just replied ‘okay’ and didn’t rise to him any further, which I think riled Lewis up even more. We all eventually decided against getting dessert.

Lewis and Sara both had work in the morning, so he’d offered her a lift back to her flat, and she’d taken it, leaving myself and Harry to walk home together. We were all very aware that nothing was going to come of the date. After the whole politics argument, barely any words had been shared between any of us. Someone with political opinions so far from my own was never going to work, and I imagined it was exactly the same for him, there was no point even pretending we were going to see each other again. Once we’d reached my building, I invited Harry up for a brew and a bitch. My place wasn’t much special. The building itself was an absolute eye sore; I’d once been letting myself into a building and heard a drunken bloke behind me question if it was brothel, so it definitely wasn’t easy on the eye, but that meant cheaper rent. However, my flat had everything I needed, really, three doors leading down a thin corridor on the right-hand side, the first being my tiny living room and kitchen that they’d just about squeezed in, my second a stick thin bathroom, and the third and final door leading to my bedroom. I’d done everything I could with it, making the place colourful and littered with posters and cushions and throws and basically an abundance of things that didn’t match in the slightest, but it made it feel homely. Harry immediately threw himself down onto the sofa as I went towards the kettle, checking it was sufficiently full before flicking it on. “Imagine being our age, in two-thousand and bloody eighteen, and being a Tory.” I huffed, still baffled by it. “It literally doesn’t make sense.” Harry groaned. “Also, what the fuck was that with him not having girl mates? Like… I think I got it more, when I was at uni, but a grown man not having any female friends is fucking weird.” “Agreed.” I prepared the brews for us as Harry got back to his feet momentarily to approach my LP system, flicking through my box of vinyl’s before settling on Dire Straits, and by the time he was sat back down, I was sitting myself next to him, passing over his tea. “Sara hates confrontation.” He huffed after thanking me for the drink. “I can tell she felt so awkward during that. I found it hard to… keep quiet though.” I lay my head back too, then turning it to the side and gazed at his profile, the way his eyes were closed, his jaw sharp, resting his mug on the arm of the chair and tapping his fingers against it to the beat of So Far Away. “Is Sara okay with how close we are?” “To be honest,” He swallowed. “I think… at first, she didn’t really get it, but I’ve spoke to her about it loads. And obviously, now she’s spent more time with you, and you two get on, so she’s chilled out about it. I don’t think she’d wanna spend time with you if she had a problem, and she’s always keen on seeing ya.” “That’s good.” I smiled. “Better than bloody Jess, eh?” “Shit. That was a nightmare.” He sniggered. A couple of years back, he’d met a girl who practically leapt on him. It was when he’d first cut his hair, and he’d been so worried about it and so uncomfortable with his new look, but then we went on a night out and he received as much, if not more, female attention than he’d ever had before. One of those girls was Jess, and she was so adamant on getting to know him and so infatuated him, even how awkward he was didn’t stop her from pinning him down. It only lasted around a month though, because she hated the two of us. She basically ended up giving him an ultimatum, me or her, and he’d thankfully chosen me. She just didn’t trust how much time we spent together. I could tell Sara wasn’t on that level, not even close, but I knew at the beginning of their relationship it would have been something she fretted over. Six months down the line, I was glad to hear those worries had passed. “I like it in a way, y’know?” He smiled, his eyes fluttering open. “That we have a friendship that… it’s so tight, that people don’t even… understand it. I’m not even sure it’s about gender, really. You’re my rock. Wouldn’t… trade what we have for anything. Sometimes… it makes sense to me that people don’t fully get it. I dunno if I know anyone else who has a friendship quite like ours.” “I guess not.” “We’re special, aren’t we, kid?” He turned to face me before saying that, the left-hand side of his lips lifting, winking sweetly. “If you say so.” I chuckled, rolling my eyes and turning away from him. We fell into a comfortable silence, and I could feel my eyes closing, genuinely exhausted by the evening. I didn’t want to let on how disappointed I was by the way the date had played out, but I knew that was useless, because Harry was bound to bring it up, and even if he didn’t, he could read me so well and look right through me. He knew it had bothered me. “Sorry tonight didn’t go well.” “Should be used to it by now,” I grumbled. “But it’s still shit.” “Mm.” “I just didn’t think it would be this fucking difficult. There’s fucking billions of people on this planet and I can’t find even one of them to love me.” I hadn’t ever been in love. I’d thought I loved Ash when we were together, but it was one of those relationships where I looked back on it and knew that wasn’t the case. Before that, I’d been in a two-year relationship that spanned from college and into my university days, but even that didn’t feel like real love in hindsight, and I’m sure he felt the same way. On top of that, I knew for a damn fact that Ash had never loved me. He’d never even managed to fake it to save my feelings. “Oi!” Harry scowled. “I bloody love you!” “You know what I mean.” “You have a lot of people who love you!” He argued. “You’re surrounded by people who think… you’re the best thing in the world. People feel lucky to have you around, and that’s fucking important. You might not have found… that kind of love, but you’ve got plenty of people who love you.” “Stop trying to think of things sensibly and just let me complain!” I tittered, lolling my head back and groaning. “You know I love a good whine, Harry.” He took a sip of his drink before placing his mug down on the floor, twisting his body so he could look directly at me, leaning my way. “M'being serious, Lona. I think you’re the fucking best, because you are the fucking best. When you meet the right person, you’ll know it. And I can tell you now, the right person for you is not a fucking Tory!” He gawped, and I giggled. “You cannot twist this into being disappointment. You don’t wanna get on with a lad like him anyway. Fuck it!” “That’s true.” “You should feel glad things didn’t go well. Better that, than be someone who… doesn’t know what they want, or settles for some dickhead. Be picky as fuck, it’s the best way!” I reached out and pinched his cheek, shooting him a sweet smile in an attempt to portray how grateful I was that he’d managed to change how I was feeling about the evening. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?” I muttered. “I’m very smooth.” He lifted his brows. “No you’re fucking not.” I chortled. He stuck his tongue out at me and then reached back from his tea before resting once again, and there was just something about him being there; almost as though he was in his own home. It didn’t feel like he had to leave. There wasn’t a single inch of his exterior or that suggested he was a guest. “How’re things with Sara?” I asked after a short while of no words being shared between us. “You were feeling pretty… weird, last week.” He finished his tea, cracking his neck before her answered me. “M'feeling alright, y’know.” He explained. “I know I’m just being stupid. I think I just… need to get over my own insecurities.” “I hope she smothers you with compliments.” “She does.” He smiled, wide and real and perfectly endearing. “It’s just me, and I know it is, and that’s what I find frustrating.” I’d spoken with Harry about it all before, and he’d explained why he felt he was the way he was. His father had left before he was even born, and he’d had to experience a few men falling in and out of his and his mother’s life since he was small. He’d seen his mother be heartbroken too many times. He placed women on a pedestal and had so many examples of how not to treat women, he cowered from them in the hope of not completely fucking up, in the hope of not being one of those men he’d seen too many of. Harry was intelligent enough to be aware that no matter how hard he tried, he would be a negative part of some people’s lives. Relationships fall apart, and things often get messy, and Harry was conscious of the fact that he would become a bitter or infuriating or painful memory for some people, and he hated that. He never wanted to hurt anyone, so he backed away from situations where he felt he had the power to do so. He'd barely ever given himself the chance to gain confidence in romantic situations, because it was always something he took steps back from. It was only around a year earlier when Harry declared this to me, drunk and vulnerable and sat with his back against the statue of The Beatles at the Pier Head, his spine resting against John Lennon’s legs, his head balanced against the bronze jacket slung over John’s arm. He’d had his eyes closed for most of the conversation, hiccupping sporadically, but he knew exactly what he was saying, making it clear that he had thought about this aspect of himself often, but maybe never voiced it. He'd gotten much better than he had been when he was younger, and I believed a lot of that was down to the dating, and simply allowing himself to open up to the idea of being with someone. Even so, there were still some things he was getting used to and wrapping his head around. “M'proud of you, y’know?” I smiled. “I know it’s still a bit weird for you, but you’re so much better with this stuff than you were when we first met.” “I’m just a growing boy.” He fluttered his lashes, his dimples digging into his cheeks, his attempts at innocence false but endearing. “Growing into a… wanker.” He merely scowled and shook his head as I placed my empty mug down on the floor and lay myself down across my miniature sofa, resting my feet upon his lap. I closed my eyes, trying my best not to drop off, but with Dire Straits still playing in the background and Harry gently smoothing his hand up and down my shin, it wasn’t an easy task. My eyes opened for a split second, seeing his slouched posture, his head back and his eyes closed. “I should probably go home.” He just about said. He never made it. The two of us fell asleep in that position, and even when I stirred in the middle of the night, Harry gently snoring with his hand still resting on my leg, I didn’t move, I just fell back to sleep, a minor smile sitting upon my lips.

#HAPPY SUNDAY #Here's some Harry and Bellona #IYS2 #In Your Splendour #1dff

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chubsonthemoon · 7 years

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Natsume Week, Day 2

written for @natsumeweek! also on ao3. yes I know I’m like three or four days late I apologize blame finals lol

prompt: Celebrations/Get-togethers

title: home

summary: Natsume worries (again). Set one year after his arrival at the Fujiwara’s.

words: 2080

The day starts out like any other.

After he shakes off the inevitable morning drowsiness, prodding awake a disgruntled (and most likely hungover) Nyanko-sensei, and finishing breakfast with Touko and Shigeru, Natsume breathes a sigh of relief. No ayakashi banging on his window in the time between dead of night and early morning, none of the bone-throbbing tiredness that came with returning names for hours on end. Just him, his foster parents, his cat, and his schoolbag hanging over his uniform, pressed free of wrinkles thanks to Touko-san’s impeccable ironing.

He almost could forget that today is slightly different than the rest.

(He had decided, about a week ago, that he wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. To the others, it is just a normal day).

Halfway to school, after Nyanko-sensei has at least somewhat recovered from the bright morning sunlight peeking through the cracks in the nearby hills, he notices it, too. “You’re in an awfully good mood this morning,” he muses, momentarily distracted by a dragonfly. “Did you finally decide to hand over the Book of Friends?”

Natsume raises an eyebrow, unimpressed with Sensei’s attempts to nab the dragonfly. “No, Sensei,” he says. “I’m just glad I finally got a full night’s rest for once. Returning names is hard.”

They come up to the bridge that spans the river across from their school, its faded red beams now familiar to Natsume after one year of walking past them everyday. “Then you should just give it to me now, and save yourself the trouble,” Nyanko-sensei says, having given up on the dragonfly with the air of one who has not really given up at all. He waddles ahead, round head held high proudly. “Besides, a weakling like you wouldn’t be able to handle this for another year, or however long you humans stay in one place.”

Thankfully, Natsume is spared from responding by a friendly call of his name behind him. He turns to find Tanuma and Kitamoto, with Nishimura sprinting not far behind.

“Natsume!” Tanuma raises his hand in greeting.

Once again, Natsume is struck with the realization that these are his friends. He cannot help but smile, and wave back. “Morning!”

“You wouldn’t be able to handle this for another year.”

He tries his best to shake away Nyanko-sensei’s words and continues on with the others, Nishimura wheezing as he runs to catch up with them, the sound of everyone’s laughter filling the morning air.

He hopes that his smile doesn’t slip at the thought of a year going by, of a year closer to the end of whatever he has now.

He hopes that they don’t notice when it does anyway.

It’s around lunchtime that Natsume begins to realize that the day had been going a little too well for it to last. It begins with Nishimura, who seems distracted all throughout class, even when Taki asked him if she could borrow his eraser. When Natsume asks if he’s feeling alright, he snaps his too-intense gaze up from his shoes to Natsume, eyes wide with fear.

“I’m--uh, yeah. Everything’s fine,” he mutters, then glances nervously towards the door. “Oh, well--gotta go!” he stands quickly, ignoring Natsume’s puzzled expression, and makes a beeline for the door, where Natsume swears he sees Tanuma’s unruly black hair disappearing around the corner.

Kitamoto is quick to follow him, sparing Natsume a quick glance as he goes. “I’d better follow him,” he says apologetically. “Never know what trouble he’s getting into.”

Natsume watches them leave, hand outstretched, mouth halfway into asking if they wanted to eat lunch on the roof together. “Oh, a-alright.”

Throughout the day, he can’t get Nishimura’s expression out of his head. It’s been awhile since he’s seen that kind of...

“Sorry about that, Natsume-kun,” says Sasada sympathetically, at the end of class. “I’m sure that they’re just being stupid again. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Natsume nods slowly, feeling as if his head has not quite caught up with his body.

Even though his physical reflexes have rarely let him down, his gut-reaction when it comes to emotions is not so quick on its toes. He supposes that months of allowing himself to enjoy his time with others has made him accustomed to it, so much so that he has almost forgotten what it feels like to be left behind.

“You wouldn’t be able to handle this for another year.”

For the second time that day, he ignores the pit that grows ever-larger in his stomach. It’s probably nothing, he tells himself.

He tells himself this up until even Tanuma starts avoiding him, declining Natsume’s request to walk home together with a nervous laugh and a hasty excuse.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Natsume says with a smile that nearly hurts his face. “Tell your dad I hope he gets better!” He walks away from the front gate as quickly as he can, hoping he hadn’t looked too dejected.

Nyanko-sensei follows him home though, singing about steamed buns and the fried shrimp that Touko-san said she would make for dinner tonight.

“Oi, Natsume!” he says once they’ve crossed the bridge for the second time. “Let’s go to that store, the one that sells those cookies that you bought the other day.”

“Not today, Sensei,” Natsume sighs. “Besides, you were the one who ate all of them in the first place.”

“That’s besides the point,” says Sensei haughtily. “We’re going, or I’m telling the mid-ranks that you’re hosting dinner at your place for the next two weeks.”

Natsume knows he’s joking, but figures he should indulge him, just this once. He thinks it’ll be a nice distraction. “Fine. But I only have so much allowance, and I’m not asking the Fujiwaras for anymore.”

By the time they exit the supermarket, Natsume’s pockets considerably lighter than before, the sun has already begun to set. Now, it is golden hour, the light like strands of fine silk against the greenness of the hills, slowly filtering into splashes and spots that dot the trees. Natsume wonders if he could reach out and touch the beams that slat across the forest floor; if he, too, would slip right through the cracks of this world, into the mysteries of the other one. It has given him so much grief already, caused him so much pain, would it really be so hard to become a permanent part of it?

(Although, he supposes, some of his encounters with youkai have also been nothing short of amazing).

Sensei is surprisingly quiet as they walk along the “shortcut” he found a couple weeks after they had met. Natsume figures it must be the cookies that rendered him speechless, and lets him be.

However, as they approach the Fujiwara’s, his feet seem to root themselves to the ground, and his pace slows. “Hey, Sensei.”

Sensei keeps walking, his stubby little feet only carrying him so far away from Natsume. “What do you want now?” he says, mouth full of sarcasm, and possibly cookies.

Natsume wonders if it’s possible to feel like the world is beginning and ending all at once. He lowers his eyes to the dirt path, unsure of where to look. “Do…do you think it’s been too long?”

Sensei scoffs. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Since I came here. I’ve never…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Natsume,” Sensei says, suddenly serious. He stops walking up to turn and look behind him, his black eyes narrowed to sits and the shadow of his true self stretching out behind him. It’s times like these that Natsume remembers what his bodyguard really is underneath all the fur and squabbling.

“Your existence is a mere blink of an eye for me. One year is nothing. I have existed for so long that I’ve seen things you wouldn’t even dream of, boy.”

He turns back around, his voice, if Natsume is not mistaken, a few hairs softer, maybe even begrudgingly fond. “You humans. Always measuring time by your own standards. Gimme a break.”

Natsume’s lips quirk up. “I suppose you’ll always be with me, no matter where I go, then?”

“Don’t kid yourself. I’m just here for the Book of Friends. When you die, it’s mine.”

Natsume figures that it’s a good enough answer, and looks up from the ground to glance behind him. He swears something is following him again, but all he sees are the trees a few paces from the foot of the hill. The forest waves back at him in a friendly manner, spring wind stirring up the branches, leaves whirling in little eddies, as if saying hello. Natsume allows himself another little smile. “Whatever you say, Sensei.”

With an unconcerned hmmph, Sensei continues on his trek towards Touko-san’s fried shrimp, and Natsume turns back around to follow him.

He slides open the front door, removes his shoes, hollers “I’m home!” as always.

Silence greets him.

“Touko-san? Shigeru-san? Hello? Is anyone here?”

No response.

Oh, no.

All the blood drains from his face. He can feel that pit grow in his stomach once more, clawing up to his throat and forcing his breath out in quick, uneven gasps. He looks around frantically, glancing in dark corners full shadows that could quickly turn into hands that grab, into teeth that tear--

“Sensei, do you sense anything--?”

There is no sign of Nyanko-sensei, either.

Natsume runs through each room of the house, tearing away doors, feet thumping against the wooden floor.

He should have known that his peaceful days here wouldn’t have lasted.

“You wouldn’t be able to handle this for another year.”

Natsume doesn’t know what he would do if something happened, if some particularly nasty youkai with a taste for cruel irony decided to destroy the little life he’s built here exactly one year after his arrival, but if that’s the case, then--

He bursts into the backyard, and promptly trips over his own feet, sending him sprawling.

“Natsume?!”

He looks up.

His eyes widen.

There, in the Fujiwara’s backyard, is everyone.

Touko, her hands clasped around her heart fondly; Shigeru, arms folded and a proud smile on his face. Tanuma, dark hair ruffled as he sheepishly runs his hands through it, Taki, beaming at him while also side-eyeing Nyanko-sensei, Kitamoto, flashing him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, Nishimura, asking him to hurry up and give him the lighter so he can begin lighting the sparklers, and Sasada, nudging Nishimura and hissing “he’s already here, you idiot!”

Natsume turns towards the more shadowed areas of the forest that resides behind the house, and sees the mid-ranks, cheering him on with bottles of sake swinging precariously between them, Hinoe raising her pipe in the barest of acknowledgment, Misuzu’s enormous form looming within the trees, Benio’s butterfly mask glinting in the evening sun, Chobihige’s hands folding and unfolding nervously in his robes, Kappa waving eagerly at him, and Nyanko-sensei, trying to pry the sake away from the mid-ranks with as much dignity as he can muster.

Everyone.

“Welcome home, Natsume!” they all cry in unison, their voices echoing across the grassy lawn just as the sun hits the treeline, and for a moment, Natsume cannot see anything, just golden light, so bright he has to squint and raise a shaking hand to his face. He picks himself off the floor, nearly trembling, his emotions so much a whirling mess he can’t make sense of them. Relief tinged with the traces of fear, shock colored with awe, but most of all—

Happiness.

He is so happy it spills over his face, across his lips, bringing to life the small dimples around his cheeks that Touko-san likes to squeeze and sparking little prickles behind his eyes that he hopes won’t spill over, because it’ll just make them worry more. His next words, though, are pitched a little higher than normal, his voice cracking ever-so-slightly.

“I’m home,” he says, because he is.

It has been one year since Natsume first showed up at the Fujiwara’s doorstep with demons that no one could see behind him, glassy eyes facing towards nothing that anyone could see ahead.

One year later, the demons are still (mostly) invisible to others (and perhaps no longer demons), but Natsume is not invisible, or feared, or passed along to the next house of judgment and hardship, of locked doors and harsh whispers.

And his eyes, now more full of light than ever, have turned outward, not inward, to the rising sun that is his family, his friends, his future.

He is finally home.

#natsumeweek #day 2 #natsume yuujinchou

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ecotone99 · 4 years

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[RF] A Salivation Of Words After A Robbery

Ravi had just worked a double shift and was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Wearily, he said goodbye to the employees he managed and handed the keys to the store over to the much younger assistant manager. He slipped into his almost stereotypically bad car, lit a cigarette, and sped off into the night accompanied by some forgotten 80’s music. Finally after a longish boorish drive, he was free to sequester himself away in his empty apartment, drink in hand, by the stabbing blue light of a TV screen.

Since leaving University Ravi’s life had ordered itself, quite efficiently, into a perfectly routine, routine. A routine which Ravi adhered too with the clinical detachment of a doctor observing the decline of a long suffering terminally ill patient. He would rise late and usually hungover, unless work demanded an early start, then he would spend the rest of the morning (by which I mean the time between 11am and 1pm) drinking coffee and watching cricket reruns. After dressing he would go out to a café somewhere for ‘breakfast,’ then loiter around the parking lots of second hand bookshops, smoking, until he had to leave for work. On the days when he didn’t have work he would return to his apartment to read and watch even more television. Sometimes on the weekend he would go out to a friend’s house for a party. And sometimes his friends would come to his apartment for one.

As Ravi had grown older the type of parties that he attended changed. When he was young and still frittering his time away at high school his revelries where pure Dionysian triumphs. With enough music, drugs, and alcohol abuse to make even the most hardened libertine nervous. Now, however, the gatherings he attended where ascetic celebrations of restraint; without music or fanfare, with far less drugs, and far less alcohol. These adult gatherings, party isn’t really the right word for them, weren’t any less fun than the outings of his youth, all the same people were there which is what counts after all, it’s just… they were different somehow, less explosive. It was one such gathering, that Ravi found himself hosting, which set in motion the events of the coming months.

This story isn’t particularly concerned with the motivations and backstories of every character at Ravi’s gathering that night. However, some parting sentences to describe Ravi’s soon to be accomplices seems in order. Nevertheless I hesitate to tell my reader the names of my secondary characters and give their essence form, as if such a futile gesture would stave off the necessity of telling this most accurate history. But they can wait no longer. Their names are like two impatient children pressing their noses up against a car window in order to hurry me their long suffering parent along… Charles and Tom. There I have named you, happy?

Both Charles and Tom had, like Ravi, found occupations or put more accurately distractions to occupy their time on Earth, little trivialities and empty ambitions to cherish and nurture in order that their lives might have some semblance of purpose. We might as well begin with Charles, a freelance journalist who desired nothing more than for his bottom draw fiction to be published. And then admired. I have heard that he used to ease his anxieties surrounding the lack of literary success he experienced by recalling an anecdote he had overheard somewhere about James Joyce submitting the manuscript for Ulysses forty two times before it was serialised. On the other hand, Tom had married young and was currently ‘raising’ a son while his wife supported him, the child being the reason for the young marriage. It was Tom, I might add, who was responsible for the limited range of illicit substances present at Ravi’s gathering that night.

As I speak to you, my dear reader, tapping out my little words on a keyboard in the dark, Tom was holding forth to Charles and Ravi about the realities of economic inequality, whilst cutting weed for a joint. That discourse sounds more interesting than the overly indulgent descriptions I find myself writing so I might as well draw your attention to that, which appears to me to be far more interesting than this.

“Under capitalism,” began Tom in a self-important manner, “Us workers are given the choice between employment and unemployment. By who? It’s not important right now. But it appears to me that any distinction between the two is arbitrary. We have to work or we starve to death.”

“Listen, man, what your describing is called wage slavery. You’re not being new. You’re not being original. So you can shelve the rhetoric,” said Charles, “Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“What are you going to do about it then? Seeing you know all the answers,” retorted Tom.

“Nothing,” answered Charles, in a bored voice, “We’ve already tried guillotining the rich and heading up new regimes. It doesn’t work. The only thing we can do is to build up enough cash to escape this rat race we’ve been trapped in.”

“Goddam it! Are we doing this or are we going to spend the rest of the night arguing about Marxism 101. Because if it’s the latter, I’m out. I’ve already sat through enough beer hall pushes in Uni. I’m not going to sit through another one now,” exclaimed Ravi, a man with his priorities in order. Tom stopped fiddling with the papers he was trying to roll and looked with wounded revolutionary pride at Ravi. A moment passed. Then Tom finished rolling his joint, lit it, took a drag, and handed it to Charles. Pointedly.

“Here’s something for you to consider Ravi,” said Tom, “How much money does the Pizza shop you manage make in a week? And how much is it you get paid a week?”

“That depends on the week,” said Ravi evenly, taking a drag from the cigarette proffered to him by Charles, “On a good one, when like the footy is on or the ashes, the store makes about $90,000. I make about $500, enough for my rent and other expenses like funding these soirees.”

“And what does your owner, sorry, the owner contribute besides his capital?” continued Tom.

“What’s the point of this inquisition, mate?” asked Ravi, “Some Second Directorate banter to check if I’m a good party member?”

“No point,” said Tom, “But imagine how much easier our lives would be if we had even a third of that.”

“Whatever comrade,” said Ravi.

They finished the weed in silence. After which, Charles quietly got drunk in a corner. Tom left early because he had to look after his kid the next morning. Ravi flirted with a girl who clearly, well… clearly for everyone except Ravi, had no interest in him. However, the next night while Ravi was finishing up after a particularly exhausting shift he thought of what they had discussed that night. He opened the safe underneath the store-front counter and absentmindedly leafed through the envelopes inside which contained the fruits of that week’s labour. Then he shut it and went home.

An idea was slowly taking over Ravi’s mind and the more he refused to acknowledge it the more its hold on him grew. It appeared to him while he was falling asleep, it confronted him while he was in the shower, it menaced him at work, and it threatened to break his kneecaps whilst he was doing the thousand menial chores and duties people find to occupy themselves throughout the day. A true intellectual shake-down. Finally, so as to satisfy his idea’s incessant blabbering he decided to share it with his friends and receive their learned opinions on it. His reasoning being if they were against it, it would disappear and if they were for it, it would be eliminated by action.

He organised a meeting (Meeting? Yes, meeting it the right word) with Tom and Charles at an old diner early one morning. Ravi, being the first one to arrive, reserved a corner booth to wait and drink coffee at while he worked out what exactly he wanted to say. Soon he was joined by Charles, who sat down opposite him and struck up a conversation.

“Did you get a chance to look at the manuscript I sent you?” asked Charles, attempting to take a nonchalant tone but failing.

“Yes. I did,” said Ravi, with a vacuity purposely designed to provoke Charles.

“Well, what did you think?” asked Charles.

“Have you been reading Camus again?” said Ravi, and Charles nodded guiltily, “You know the effect he has on your narratives! I thought you wanted this one to have a happy ending. Isn’t that what you told me when you showed me the outline the other day?”

“I couldn’t help myself!” said Charles, echoing that famous junkie line to the dismay of everyone familiar with absurdism, “I was cleaning away some books and I glanced through a copy of The Myth of Sisyphus. It’s something that could happen to any artist, if he’s caught off guard. French intellectualism ruined my life!”

“Parts of it were certainly absurd,” said Ravi, then he relented, “But it lacked action! Your characters need to do things for a story to be satisfying. They can’t just sit around in café’s all day. There has to be a call to action so they leave their comforts and enter an unfamiliar situation otherwise a story feels flat and lifeless. I couldn’t find an inciting incident in that thing if you pointed it out.”

“What’s up dickheads?” said Tom, sitting down next to Ravi and picking up a menu.

“We were just talking about a short story I wrote,” Charles said, then growing defensive, “What would you have my characters do instead? Didi and Gogo don’t do anything for an entire fucking play! I might not have Beckett’s gift for being unintelligible but I can write a good narrative. So what if there’s not a lot of action?”

“You didn’t send me a copy,” said Tom.

“No offence, but it’s not finished yet and you’re not the best at literary criticism. The last time I asked your opinion on something you took a week to essentially say: ‘needs more sex.’” Charles said.

“It was meant to be a Romance story! Noting happened!” exclaimed Tom, “And just because I didn’t spend four years studying lit-ret-tuah like you and Ravi doesn’t mean I’m not right!”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up!” said Ravi, playing the role of peacemaker, “Tom your opinion’s not invalid. Charles grow up and accept Tom knows more about relationships than you do. Let’s move on to something else. What are you guys getting?”

“Salad looks good,” muttered Charles.

“I want to try one of those breakfast rolls,” declared Tom.

And having successfully steered the conversation in such a way that neither Charles’ artistic integrity nor Tom’s sensual pride were damaged, Ravi ordered an omelette. They ate in relatively peaceful silence. When they had finished and the waiters had cleared their food scraps away Ravi leaned forward to speak.

“Listen, do you guys remember what we were talking about the other day at my gathering?” began Ravi, “How it isn’t fair that I run a business basically by myself and that my boss gets to keep everything just because he inherited a bit of capital?”

“Vaguely,” said Tom, “But I also remember somebody… suggesting that there wasn’t anything we could do about it but buck up and work under it.”

“Well what if we could do something about it? What if I had a way that we could take a piece of that pie for ourselves and use it to get away from it all?”

“Are you suggesting we start our own company or some Pizza Shrugged Ayn Rand shit like that?” asked Charles, “Because we’ve firmly established by now that none of us have any money.

“That’s not it. I have a way that we could take enough money from that parasite with which we could all live a bit more securely for a few years,” said Ravi.

“What, do you mean steal it?” asked Tom.

“Exactly, but before you answer. Do you remember the figure I told you $90,000? The long weekend is coming up and the people who collect the money will be off and so instead of just one week we could get a fortnights ransom. Almost $200,000!” said Ravi, and though Charles looked hesitant Tom seemed excited.

“Jesus Christ!” he said, “How would you even pull something like that off?”

“Simple, we wait until late at night. I’ll schedule the roster so it’ll just be me and some other random there, corporate policy says there has to be two of us there the whole time. Tom you come in with a shotgun or something, wave it about and demand the contents of the safe under the counter. It has all the money in it. Then I’ll just give it to you! You fuck off and Charles can be the getaway driver,” explained Ravi.

“Hold on just a fucking second,” said Charles, finally getting a chance to speak, “You can’t be serious. This is armed robbery you’re talking about here. Is this really what we’ve come too? What about the cameras? Won’t the police notice if we suddenly come into hundreds of thousands of dollars after the store you work at is robbed?”

Ravi paused for a second before answering, “For a start the cameras are only pointed at the employees to make sure we don’t steal anything, ironic I know, but they won’t see anything incriminating. And while I admit that the methods are detestable $60,000 is two years wages for me. I could do anything with that, I could be free. Live my life…”

“As for the police tracing our bank accounts I know a guy who could launder the money for us,” said Tom, “He could even find a getaway vehicle for you and me, Charles.”

“Who’s this? How do you know him?” asked Charles.

“I… uh… used to sell pot for him,” said Tom.

“Charles you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. It was just an idea I had. But if we do it and you’re not a part of it I guarantee you’ll regret it,” said Ravi.

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it,” said Charles. And so it was decided that the idea that had been tormenting poor Ravi mind was to be put into action.

Now I have established this story’s conceit, I hope in a way that seems believable, and since our characters are now entering an unfamiliar situation (finally, I know) I think that we can take a break from all this exhaustive conversation and just describe the plot. Don’t get me wrong I like the dialogue, when Ravi told me about it I thought it was funny and meta and philosophically inclined. But I have pages of handwritten notes to transcribe and a deadline (just between you and me the deadline was the real impetus for this narrative shift). But I digress. It is sufficient to know that Charles, Tom, and Ravi continued to meet and flesh out the details of their plot without my supervision.

Ravi wok late (or for him, usual) on the day of the robbery to discover Tom had acquired the getaway vehicle and he and Charles were waiting inside his apartment. He made coffee and greeted his co-conspirators like Brutus greeting Cassius some fateful morning (Hyperbole! Ha, Ha cue laughter). And after going over the plan several times they sat in silent apprehension, watching television, barely talking, until it was time for Ravi to leave.

Throughout his shift Ravi watched the clock tick down like a condemned man waiting for the appointed time he was to be taken to the scaffold. He spent most of his shift that night sitting in a small office located just off the kitchen, ostensibly going over the hours but really waiting. One by one he watched his co-workers leave as he had scheduled them to until it was just him and a girl named Sophie alone in the shop. He left his office and paused. Through the front window he saw the getaway car pull up and he watched Tom get out of it wearing a balaclava and holding a shotgun. Tom advanced on the store with all the fortitude of a soldier storming Omaha beach. He opened the door, stepped inside, and shot a round into the ceiling causing a chunk of plaster to be blasted from the roof with deafening force. Tom stepped towards Ravi, holding out the bag, and pointing at the safe. Just as Ravi had planned. As Ravi started to fill the bag an alarm blared out from the kitchen behind them. Not at all like Ravi had planned. Tom strode forward to discover Sophie curled up on the floor next to a flashing security button. He dragged her to Ravi’s office and locked her inside it, although it would have been clear to anybody thinking rationally that she was in no condition to try anything else. He returned to where Ravi was holding the bag, in time to see Charles driving away. In the distance the sound of sirens could be heard.

“Fuck,” said Ravi. “Now what?”

“I don’t know,” said Tom.

“Here, you take these,” said Ravi, holding out the bag and the keys to his car, “I’ll distract them while you run.”

“No,” said Tom, “I’m the one with the gun. My prints are all over it. You fuck off. I’ll distract them.”

But Ravi hesitated, the very picture of indecision, “Are you sure?”

“Fucking go!” Tom yelled. And Ravi fled.

Now that I have recounted to you all these true and most accurate events I hesitate to write my conclusion lest I be accused of sentimentality, an egregious offence in the literary community to be sure. After all this story wasn’t about anything nearly as grand as a Napoleonic war, it was the simple story of a robbery gone wrong. But as this chapter draws to a close I think that the reader might find it interesting to know how I came to be in possession these facts. Rest assured though, I will enlighten you with as few words as possible knowing that by now the reader has more important things to do and is becoming tired of all this pretentiousness.

I met Ravi in a bar in some tropical shithole that my magazine felt compelled to send me to. We were the only people there, besides the bartender, so it was natural that we should start up a conversation. He must have been in his late thirties by that time although he looked as if he had been chewed up by the sun. After the usual small talk had been talked (and I had purchased several drinks for him) he described to me the events which I have now described to you.

“Well, what happened next? How did you end up here?” I asked.

“It was pretty simple really, looking back on it,” said Ravi. “I went to see the guy who was going to launder the money for us and he, after some discussion, arranged for me to be smuggled out of the country, to a dump pretty much like this one. I meandered about for a year or two until the money ran out then I took a job as a, shall we say, flower farmer. In the beginning I felt like Count Levin scythe in hand, living a good life. But unlike old Kostya I didn’t have a mansion to return to at the end of it all. I soon got tired of it…”

“What happened to Charles and Tom?” I asked, by now in full reporter mode.

“I don’t know what happened to Charles, my guess is that he was probably arrested. And Tom? He held those bastards off,” said Ravi.

“Do you regret it?” I asked.

“It was all over too quickly for me to have any real regrets. But I’m sad about what happened to my friend,” said Ravi, then adding quietly, “… I conclude that all is well.”

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