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chicgeekgirl89 · 3 years

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The Good, the Bad, and the Very Ugly

Fandom: 911 Lone Star

Characters: Carlos Reyes, T.K. Strand, Tommy Vega, Nancy Gillian

Summary: When Carlos is struck down with a nasty bout of the stomach flu he needs rescuing from the best paramedic trio in town.

A/N: I have a Bachelor's degree in Emergency!, a Master's Degree in Royal Pains, and an MD in Grey's Anatomy so I can assure you that everything in this fic represents a very real, accurate depiction of how the stomach flu would hit a perfectly healthy young police officer. I took no liberties. This is science.

Massive thanks as always to @bluenet13 for beta-ing!

For the @badthingshappenbingo prompt “Stomach Flu”

Read on AO3

Carlos was really trying to listen to this woman complain about her neighbors and their noise level, he truly was. He took every call seriously, even completely ridiculous ones like this, but today he was struggling. His stomach gurgled unpleasantly and he had to suppress a burp as the woman told him for the third time about how loud her neighbors were being.

“Ma’am, they are allowed to mow their lawn during daylight hours,” he said.

“Seven am?! Seven am is considered daylight hours?!” the woman cried. “I am trying to do my morning meditations and all I hear is lawnmowers and power tools!”

“Well then I would try headphones,” Carlos said, voice a little snappier than usual.

Mitchell looked at him with raised eyebrows, clearly amused by the lack of his typical diplomacy.

The woman glared at him. “I want your badge numbers.”

Carlos and Mitchell both gave them over willingly but it was another ten minutes of listening to her rant before they were finally able to escape and head back to the station. “You all right Reyes?” Mitchell asked as they got back into the cruiser. “You look a little green.”

“I’m fine,” Carlos said, even as his stomach lurched unpleasantly while he pulled the cruiser into traffic.

“You were a little snippy back there. Trouble in paradise?”

“T.K. and I are fine,” Carlos said. “That woman was in the wrong, there was no point in standing there and continuing the conversation.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Who are you and what have you done with Carlos ‘Calm and Patient’ Reyes?”

“Maybe he’s on vacation today,” Carlos told her.

“Mhmm…” she continued to look at him suspiciously, but didn’t say anymore.

His stomach had not improved by the time they got back to the precinct. In fact it seemed to be getting worse. Everything was bubbling and gurgling and cramping and making him extremely uncomfortable, but he set his jaw and sat at his desk to file the paperwork from their morning on patrol.

“Reyes, Mitchell,” their captain walked over and stood by their desks. “I’ve been on the phone for half an hour with a Mrs. Donnelly. Care to explain?”

Mitchell shook her head and rolled her eyes. “She called in a noise complaint. Lawnmowers.”

Carlos would have added to the conversation but he was growing oddly hot and his mouth had filled with coppery tasting saliva.

“She said you were,” the captain held up a piece of paper and read directly from it, “disrespectful, unhelpful, and bigoted.”

Mitchell snorted. “Okay. Was she describing us or herself? Because I’m pretty sure she ticks all those boxes.”

The captain turned and looked at Carlos. “Reyes? Anything to say?”

Carlos opened his mouth and then closed it again, swallowing hard. “Carlos are you okay?” Mitchell asked with a concerned frown.

Carlos’s stomach squeezed and he knew there was no hope for it. “Excuse me,” he said, then turned and threw up directly into the garbage can beside his desk.

“Whoa!” their captain said. “Reyes what the hell?”

Carlos spat into the garbage can, the acrid taste of stomach acid burning his throat, mouth, and even up into his nose. “Sorry sir,” he choked out.

Mitchell uncapped a bottle of water and handed it to him. He took a careful sip, swishing it around in his mouth before swallowing tentatively. Somehow he felt worse than before throwing up; slightly cold and shaky, and like he might throw up again.

“Reyes if you’re sick get out of here and go home,” his captain said. “We don’t need you bringing the whole bull pen down.”

“I’m fine sir,” he said and then blanched, doubling over the garbage can again.

“No you’re not. Get out of here. And don’t come back until you can keep your lunch down,” his captain ordered.

“Carlos are you okay?” Mitchell asked, genuine concern on her face. “You look terrible.”

“I’ll be fine,” Carlos rasped. “It’s probably just something I ate.”

“Looks more like it ate you,” Mitchell said with a grimace as he got to his feet. “Do you want me to call you an Uber?”

“No,” Carlos shook his head, gripping the desk tightly. “I can make it.”

“Well text me when you get home so I know you’re okay,” she said.

Thank god he only lived fifteen minutes from the station because the drive was so nauseatingly horrible he wasn’t sure he could have made it much longer. His stomach clenched and tightened at regular intervals and he was breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth like it was his job because he really didn’t want to pull over and be sick on the side of the road.

He pulled into the driveway and got his key out with shaky hands, stumbling in the front door and practically falling into the powder room where he once again violently emptied his stomach into the toilet. God, how could there be anything left after the first two rounds? He’d barely had anything to eat besides coffee and half a bagel.

He groaned as he pushed himself up and flushed the toilet, using the sink for leverage to get all the way onto his feet. He felt like shit. He hadn’t felt this bad in…well he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this bad.

He knew he needed to hydrate before he went upstairs and collapsed into his bed so he slowly and agonizingly made his way to the fridge, searching for a Gatorade, his stomach still sending stabbing pains through his gut at regular intervals.

There were footsteps on the stairs and T.K. appeared, uniform half buttoned. “Carlos? Babe what are you doing here?”

Carlos looked at his watch. It was nearly noon but he’d forgotten that T.K. had a late shift today. “Captain sent me home,” Carlos said, struggling to reach an orange Gatorade tucked in the back.

“He sent you home?” T.K. walked toward him, confusion on his face. “Why? What’s going on?”

Carlos straightened up, wincing as his stomach cramped violently. “He thinks I’m sick.”

“He thinks you’re sick?” T.K. repeated, taking a step closer. “Why does he think you’re sick?”

Carlos grimaced. “Probably because I narrowly missed throwing up on his shoes.”

“You threw up?” T.K. snapped into paramedic mode, automatically pressing the back of his hand to Carlos’ forehead to check for a fever. “Oh baby.”

“It’s fine. Probably something I ate.”

“Do you want me to stay home today and take care of you?”

“God no,” Carlos said quickly. The last thing he wanted was for T.K. to see him puking his guts out repeatedly. “No I’m just going to get in bed and ride it out. I’m sure I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

His stomach felt like knives but surely a nap and some electrolytes would take care of that. “Are you sure?” T.K. asked, running a hand down his arm. “I hate to leave you like this.”

“I can take care of myself T.K., even when I’m sick,” Carlos said. “I promise,” he added when T.K. didn’t look convinced. “I’m just going to go upstairs and sleep it off.”

“Well make sure you hydrate,” T.K. told him. “I’ll call you in a couple hours to check in.” He pecked Carlos on the cheek. “If you need something text me okay? I’ll keep my phone on me.” He said as he walked toward the door, grabbing his overnight bag and shoes.

“I will. Have a good shift,” Carlos said.

He waited until T.K. had locked the front door to drag himself up the stairs. He fell into the bed and curled himself into the fetal position, begging his stomach to stop its agonizing assault.

The hours passed in alternating blurs of fast and slow. He was hot and then freezing, his body aching, stomach churning relentlessly. Even the Gatorade refused to stay down, sending him staggering to the bathroom to heave up the liquid and then, eventually, nothing.

He tried to read but he was too restless and even the television couldn’t keep his focus as wave after wave of agonizing stomach pain assaulted him.

He attempted sleep but it was fraught with discomfort; half awake, half dreaming, too hot and then too cold, body tangling uncomfortably in the sheets, never fully sinking into the blissful darkness of true unconsciousness.

He was dragged out of his misery after several hours by the ringing of his phone. “Hello?” he croaked when he finally managed to answer.

“Hey babe, how are you feeling?” T.K.’s voice was slightly distorted, it sounded like he was in the rig.

Carlos cleared his throat. “Fine. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” T.K. asked. “You sound weird.”

“I was sleeping,” Carlos told him, wincing as pain stabbed at his stomach again.

“Oh good,” T.K. said. “Did you eat something?”

Carlos grew nauseated at even the mention of food. “Not yet.”

“Well try okay? Some crackers or some soup or something?”

“Yeah I will,” Carlos told him. He would not. He didn’t think he could make it down the stairs let alone manage to scrounge up any food.

Carlos heard the siren turn on. “I have to go. Call or text if you need anything all right? I love you!”

“Love you too,” Carlos mumbled, his eyes already sliding closed.

The next time he woke it was the middle of the night and he felt worse. So much worse. How was that even possible?

His stomach clenched so tightly that he couldn’t breathe. He moaned as he struggled to his feet again, the world spinning around him as he walked unsteadily toward the bathroom, using the furniture to stabilize himself.

He leaned over the toilet bowl stomach cramping and stabbing at him, but nothing came up. Instead he just retched helplessly for god knew how long until the episode passed and he collapsed onto the tile, shaky and sore and freezing.

He swallowed hard, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes, praying that whatever this was, it would be over soon.

Several Hours Later…

T.K. hung up his phone and sighed, checking his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. It was nearing seven am and he hadn’t heard from his boyfriend in a long time. He was starting to get worried, even as he tried to convince himself he was overreacting. It was early. Carlos was probably still asleep.

“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked.

T.K. looked down at the screen again, as if possibly a call or text had come through in the three seconds since he’d last checked. “Carlos was sick when I left yesterday morning and now he’s not answering. I figured maybe he was asleep but it’s been…a really long time.”

“Do you want to swing by?” Tommy asked. “It’s on our way back to the firehouse if we take the long way around.”

T.K. vacillated with uncertainty. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah dude, we’ll just swing by and make sure he’s okay. Can’t have you worrying about him for the rest of shift,” Nancy said.

T.K. hit the blinker and turned them right. “I’m probably overreacting.”

“Then Carlos will smile and thank you for it like the good, understanding person that he is,” Tommy said with a smile.

The house was quiet when they pulled up. T.K. felt his concern double as he took his key out and strode quickly to the front door. “We’ll wait here,” Tommy said when they reached the stoop. “Call if you need us.”

T.K. left the front door open behind him and strode upstairs. “Carlos?”

There was no answer and T.K. knew, deep in his bones that something was wrong. The bedroom door was open, but the the bed was empty, sheets and blankets mussed in a way that said Carlos had at one point been there, even if he wasn’t anymore.

The smell of vomit and sweat hung in the air. A barely touched bottle of Gatorade and Carlos’ phone sat on the nightstand. “Carlos!” T.K. called again more urgently.

“T.K.?”

The reply was croaky, weak and T.K. turned in the direction of the master bath. What he found hit him like a punch in the gut. Carlos, in nothing but his boxers, sweating and shivering as he sat on the floor, his back pressed against the bathroom wall.

T.K. dropped to his knees, hands running over Carlos’ forehead and down his face, fear spiking as the heat of Carlos’ skin seared his own. “Hey baby,” he said softly. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

“T.K. I don’t—I can’t—” Carlos looked panicky beneath his exhaustion and T.K.’s stomach clenched in fear.

“Cap!” he yelled out the door, voice cracking. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re going to help you all right? How long have you been here like this?”

Carlos just shook his head, all his effort apparently going into breathing and remaining conscious.

“T.K.!” Tommy and Nancy appeared in the bathroom doorway, both of them looking concerned.

“He’s burning up,” T.K. said, panic seeping into his voice.

“Nancy, call it in,” Tommy ordered. “And go get our kits from the rig.”

“Dispatch this is RA Unit 126 responding to a call at 540 Lynwood Avenue,” Nancy said into her radio as she flew out the door.

“Let’s get him on the bed,” Tommy said, getting under one of Carlos’ arms as T.K. scrambled to get under his other side.

Carlos moaned as they walked him out of the bathroom. “I know, I know baby, you’re okay,” T.K. said, voice thick as Carlos shivered violently against him.

Nancy returned quickly, pulling equipment out of their kits as T.K. and Tommy gently laid Carlos on the bed.

“T.K. check his pulse,” Tommy ordered. “Nancy get a BP.”

Thank god someone else was taking over and telling him what to do because he felt completely shattered right now by the image of his strong, beautiful boyfriend reduced to such a fragile state. “Pulse is rapid,” T.K. said, his own heart rate matching it as Carlos’ eyelids fluttered.

“BP is low,” Nancy said.

“And temp is up,” Tommy said, lifting the thermometer to look at the reading. “One hundred and two point seven. Carlos, can you hear me?”

There was no response and T.K. thought he was going to lose his mind with panic.

“No rebound tenderness,” Nancy said, palpating Carlos’ abdomen. He let out a moan as she pressed directly on his stomach but she continued her exam with professional precision. “Belly is soft. I don’t think it’s appendicitis.”

“I think we’re looking at a severe case of dehydration,” Tommy said. “Let’s get some fluids going.”

“I got it,” Nancy said, pulling out bags of saline and potassium.

“Should we take him in?” T.K. asked.

“Let’s just see how the fluids go first,” Tommy said. “I’m sure Carlos would prefer to avoid the hospital, let’s give him a chance to come back on his own.”

The next few minutes were agonizingly long as Nancy and Tommy started the IV’s and they all waited to see if Carlos would come around. He wasn’t completely unconscious but he wasn’t totally with it either, breath coming out labored and harsh, limbs moving restlessly, eyelids fluttering up and down as his head turned from side to side.

T.K. stroked his fingers through Carlos’ damp, sweaty curls, biting his lip as anxiety and guilt ate away at him. “I thought he was all right by himself,” he said. “If I’d known…”

“T.K. this isn’t anybody’s fault,” Tommy said, reaching to take Carlos’ pulse again. “Sometimes it just happens. Carlos is young and healthy, nobody had any reason to suspect he would go down so hard.”

“Yeah dude, you can’t blame yourself for the violence of the stomach flu,” Nancy said, adjusting the IV’s.

Carlos stirred a little more and blinked a few times, eyes trying to focus. T.K. instantly went on alert. “Carlos, babe? Can you hear me?”

“T.K.?” Carlos shifted, and T.K. put a gentle hand on his shoulder to keep him from dislodging the IV’s.

“Hey Carlos,” Tommy said, giving him a smile. “How are you feeling?”

Carlos groaned and swallowed hard. “Bad,” he croaked.

“Well we’ve got some fluids going, that should help. Give it a few more minutes and we’ll see how you feel,” Tommy said. “Can you tell us what happened?”

“I uh, I don’t know,” Carlos said. “My stomach just…I couldn’t stop throwing up. And after a while I couldn’t even get off the floor, everything just hurt and I was so cold. I think maybe I passed out a couple times, I’m not sure.”

T.K.’s heart squeezed at the thought of Carlos alone and suffering on the cold bathroom tile. “Do you remember the last time you ate or drank anything?” he asked.

“Nothing stays down,” Carlos croaked, his voice weak and raspy after so many hours of throwing up. “Makes my stomach hurt.”

“Baby you should have called me,” T.K. admonished him, tears dangerously close to the surface.

“T.K.,” Tommy said quietly. “Give him a minute to catch his breath. Save the lecture for later.”

Carlos seemed to grow even more aware of the situation and closed his eyes. “Oh god, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” Nancy asked.

“This,” Carlos said, gesturing aimlessly with his hand. “This is…”

“Hey, nothing to be sorry for,” Tommy said reassuringly. “Happens to the best of us. The twins both had a stomach bug last year at the same time and it was a total nightmare.” She gave him a smile and then turned back to her team. “Nancy, why don’t you and I head downstairs and get Carlos some Gatorade? We’ll call the station too and tell them we’ll be a little longer.”

“He uh, he likes the orange ones,” T.K. said.

Tommy put a hand on T.K.’s shoulder and squeezed. “Orange it is.”

They both slipped out of the room leaving Carlos and T.K. alone. “Babe what happened?” T.K. asked, still stroking Carlos’ curls. “When I called before you said you were okay.”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Carlos said. “It wasn’t so bad and then…it was.”

“I’m so sorry, I should never have left you like this,” T.K. said.

“T.K. I took care of myself just fine before you came along.”

“Yes and using the current situation as evidence it’s a miracle you survived.” T.K. was unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

“T.K.” Carlos tried to sit up, but T.K. shook his head and pressed him back down into the bed.

“No, no. Do not try and take care of me. I’m here to take care of you. Just rest okay?”

“Are you going to make me go to the hospital?” Carlos asked.

“We’ll see,” T.K. told him. “You really, really scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” T.K. bent over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “This isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault.”

Tommy and Nancy returned, Gatorade in hand. “Any better Carlos?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Carlos said.

It had been about forty minutes since they’d arrived and Carlos was less pale and more alert, but he still didn’t look well. “Are you just saying that so T.K. stops freaking out?” Nancy asked knowingly. “Because T.K. is always going to freak out so you may as well just be honest.”

“Bedside manner Nancy,” Tommy said lightly as she uncapped the Gatorade. “Carlos do you think you can sit up?”

He nodded and T.K. and Nancy helped slide him up against the pillows until he was propped up enough to sip at the Gatorade. He eyed the bottle nervously as Tommy uncapped it. “Just a couple sips,” Tommy said. “If you can’t keep it down we’ll take you to the ER and have them run some more tests. My guess is this is just a particularly violent strain of stomach flu, but I don’t want to leave unless we’re sure you’re on the mend.”

Carlos’ hand shook as he raised the bottle to his lips and he grimaced as he took one small sip and then another, managing a couple tablespoons before the bottle tipped dangerously in his unsteady hand.

T.K. reached out and caught it, removing it gently from Carlos’ fingers and setting it on the nightstand.

“Temp is down to one oh two point one,” Nancy said.

“And your blood pressure is looking better too,” Tommy said. “How’s your stomach?”

“It still hurts,” Carlos said, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.

“But you’re keeping the Gatorade down, so that’s good,” T.K. said, trying to comfort himself as much as his boyfriend.

“I don’t think a hospital trip is necessary unless it would make you feel better to go,” Tommy said.

“No, I’ll be fine,” Carlos said firmly.

“He can’t stay here alone,” T.K. argued.

“Which is why you’re staying with him,” Tommy said smoothly. “Shift’s almost over, you’re already here, there’s no point in dragging you back to the station.”

“Yeah don’t worry about it,” Nancy said. “We all know Cap and I do the heavy lifting on this team anyway. We don’t need your manly self getting in the way. Girl power and all that.”

“Nancy,” Tommy sighed in exasperation.

“I’m just kidding!” Nancy said. “Don’t worry about it Strand, we got you covered.”

“T.K.,” Tommy nodded toward the corner of the room and T.K. left the bed to follow her as Nancy chatted at Carlos and packed up their equipment. “I’m going to leave another bag of saline with you, just in case. If his fever spikes again or his abdominal pain increases…”

“I’ll take him in,” T.K. said immediately.

“And you’ll call me,” Tommy said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “And call me tomorrow regardless. Let me know how he’s doing.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you for everything.”

“You’re family T.K., you and Carlos. We do what we need to for family.”

T.K. walked Tommy and Nancy to the door and then spent a few minutes downstairs heating up some plain chicken broth before returning to the bedroom. “Still okay?” he asked as he set the bowl down on the nightstand.

Carlos nodded. “Beyond embarrassed, but okay.”

“Stop it,” T.K. said as he settled on the edge of the bed next to him. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“I’m pretty sure having to be carried to your own bed in your underwear by your boyfriend and his teammates is embarrassment worthy,” Carlos said.

His voice still sounded rough and there were dark shadows under his eyes. Just looking at him made T.K.’s heart hurt. He wanted nothing more than to take away every second of his pain from the last twenty four hours.

“They’re just glad you’re all right,” T.K. told him, knowing that was one hundred percent the case. His teammates were truly the best and had proved that once again tonight with the way they’d dropped everything to come to Carlos’ aid. “Besides, we’ve seen plenty of bodies in the field. That they got an eyeful of you…they’ve seen a lot worse. Trust me.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t really make me feel better.”

“Sorry,” T.K. said, rubbing his knee through the sheets. “I think you should try and eat something.”

Carlos grimaced. “My stomach still hurts.”

“But you haven’t thrown up in,” T.K. checked his watch, “thirty seven minutes. I think it’s worth a shot.”

He still looked hesitant. “Hey,” T.K. said. “I’m here now. I’m going to take care of you. What happened earlier won’t happen again, I promise. Just try? Please?”

He picked up the bowl and spoon, offering them to his boyfriend. Carlos reluctantly took hold, hands still not quite steady, so T.K. helped him hold it. He managed about a third of the bowl before handing the bowl back to T.K. “Happy?” he asked tiredly.

“I won’t be happy until you’re better,” T.K. told him.

Carlos nodded in agreement. “Me neither.”

“How does a bath sound, hm?” T.K. asked. “I’ll put in some essential oils, you can just relax and let some of today go.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Carlos said.

“I want to,” T.K. said. “Let me take care of you, okay? It makes me feel better too.”

“Okay,” Carlos relented. “Yes, a bath sounds good.”

T.K. leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

Carlos spent about half an hour in the bathtub. T.K. used that time to change out of his uniform and do a little bit of cleaning and sanitizing in the bedroom and bathroom. He returned the soup bowl to the kitchen and started the dishwasher, gathering up a few things Carlos might need and then heading back upstairs.

Carlos was standing by his dresser, slowly pulling on a pair of sweatpants, clearly in discomfort. “Whoa,” T.K. set everything down quickly and then moved to stabilize him. “You should have called me.”

“I don’t like feeling helpless,” Carlos said, frustration lacing his tone.

“I know,” T.K. said, gently moving him back toward the bed. “But you’re going to get some sleep now and when you wake up I think you’re going to feel a lot better.”

“What if I feel like this forever?” Carlos asked miserably.

“You won’t,” T.K. smoothed a hand over his forehead. “Your captain called while I was downstairs. Apparently this bug has swept through your whole department. At least twenty people have called out sick and five have been hospitalized. You all got hit with a pretty violent stomach bug. But it seems like a forty-eight hour thing; most of them are on the mend.”

“Oh god,” Carlos said. “I should call him back.”

“I told him you were out of commission,” T.K. told him. “He said to feel better.”

Carlos rolled his eyes. “No he didn’t.”

“Okay,” T.K. said. “Technically he said, ‘Nobody who’s barfed their guts out in the last day is allowed in the office without a doctor’s note.’ But I think the sentiment was the same.”

“That sounds about right.”

He grimaced as he settled under the covers. “Come here,” T.K. said, sliding in next to him and pulling his head into his lap, fingers running gently through his hair. “Close your eyes.”

Carlos did so, body relaxing into T.K.’s touch. “I love you,” T.K. said quietly. “So much.”

“How can you say that after you just cleaned up my vomit?” Carlos asked, eyes still closed.

“Because that’s what love is,” T.K. told him. “Love is being here with you. Through it all. Every day. For every moment. The good, the bad—“

“And the very ugly,” Carlos murmured.

“You’re far too pretty to be ugly,” T.K. assured him. “Even when you’re barfing.”

“Oh god stop,” Carlos moaned. “Don’t make me laugh, it hurts.”

“Go to sleep,” T.K. told him again. “I’ll still be here when you wake up. And I will happily clean up your blood, your sweat, your tears, and your puke every day for the rest of my life if I need to.”

Carlos cracked an eyelid. “I know you’re trying to be sweet, but that’s pretty disgusting.”

T.K. shrugged. “Like I said before, I’ve seen a LOT on calls. You can’t scare me off Carlos Reyes.”

Carlos closed his eyes and snuggled closer into T.K. “Good to know.”

#911 Lone Star #Tarlos #Tarlos Fic #Sick Fic #Bad Things Happen Bingo #Sick Carlos #Hurt Carlos #Hurt/Comfort #The Good the Bad and the Very Ugly #Badass Paramedic Trio #Nancy is the sassmaster #And Tommy is calm #And T.K. is freaking out #Vomiting #Fever #I am doing a very bad job of getting myself a Bingo #I am all over the place

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redchestnut · 3 years

Text

Close Contact

Written for Levihan Drabble Week (@levihan-drabbles)

Tropes (I know I had to pick one, but I think I picked two, sorry): Stranded together + Injured/hurt Levi & caring Hange.

TW: COVID-19 mentions. (But fluff and humor)

Words count: 1148

AO3: here

Close Contact

Ah, life is a bitch, huh? From the first day the damn virus hit their country, Levi had probably been the most responsible and cautious person in the entire world. His cleaning habits, already strict, had hardened even more. His college classes were online and he had a treadmill and sports equipment, so he never left his house except once a week when he did the shopping. And when that day of terror arrived, he prepared himself with two masks, protective glasses and gloves. At home he bathed, washed all his clothes, and sanitized the groceries twice. And then the whole house, just in case.

When the pandemic started and the university closed, Nanaba and Mike decided to return to their respective hometowns. Levi decided it was better to stay in the city than go back to his mother's house, where his irresponsible, skeptical and idiotic uncle also lived. But Hange, his other roommate, had just started an internship at one of the most important laboratories in the city, which was now taking part in the vaccine research. So he was forced to live with someone who left the house almost every day to work on the damn virus. And that's why he always thought that if he got infected, it would be her fault. But, hey, life is a bitch, after all.

"Yeah yeah, don't worry Moblit. I'll be fine. But don't forget to send me the data later, okay?" Levi heard her pacing out of his room. "Thanks, bye"

A soft knock on the door warned her entrance. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Same as before. Headache, some coughing," Levi replied from his bed.

"That's good. You're strong, I don't think the symptoms will get worse," she said as she sat down next to him.

"What about you?"

"I feel perfectly."

This morning they had received a call from the health service. The results of both tests had been positive. Since Levi didn't have a fever, he had only been told to rest. Hange turned out to be asymptomatic, however, both had to be quarantined.

"I'm sorry. For your research. I know you were excited to be a part of it."

"Oh don't worry, I'll keep working from here. And don't apologize, it wasn't your fault."

Of course it hadn't been.

Last Friday, when someone knocked on the door of the apartment, Levi believed it was some delivery man bringing the food that Hange had possibly ordered. Oh, what a mistake. As soon as he opened the door, Kenny walked in.

Without a mask.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he said in a panicky voice.

"Oh boy, is that the way you greet your uncle after not seeing him in months?" Levi was already rummaging through his supply box. "What are you looking for?"

"A damn mask."

"Easy, I have one here." Kenny pulled a dirty piece of cloth from his jacket. "Don't tell me that you are one of those who believes in this bullshit?"

Levi, shocked, didn't reply. Instead, he took the disinfectant spray that was within his reach and began spraying it directly at his uncle’s face. "What the fuck?" he complained as he tried to cover himself. Once the liquid was gone, Levi threw the empty can at his head, prompting another curse from Kenny.

After fifteen minutes of discussion, and Hange's educational and scientific intervention, Levi had managed to get rid of his uncle. But it was too late. Two days later his mother called him. Kenny had been having severe headaches. She convinced him to take the test and it came back positive. At least his mother, like Hange, was asymptomatic, and that idiot Kenny had had no further complications.

"I made some soup. I bet it will make you feel better," Hange said before leaving his room.

He sighed and tried to sit up better on the bed. His body ached as if he had run a marathon for hours and hours. He was a physiotherapy student and an amateur athlete, yet he had never felt his body this tired.

"Everything ok?" Asked Hange concerned, who had already returned from the kitchen with a tray with a steaming bowl in her hands.

"Yes, don't worry," he replied. Upon receiving the tray, their hands touched and Levi, against his will, turned red.

To make matters worse, Hange stared at him. "What's wrong?" Levi asked with a racing pulse as Hange cradled his cheek.

"You're hot," she said in a soft voice. Levi gulped. He wasn't going to lie. He had dreamed of the moment when Hange would tell him that she had feelings for him. But he never thought it would be this way.

"Um, thanks?"

"No, you're hot and your cheeks are flushed. Maybe you have a fever. I'll go get the thermometer."

Of course.

Maybe the virus also made you stupider.

Levi reacted quickly and grabbed her forearm before she could stand up. "No, it's nothing."

"Levi, it could be a fever. Better to be safe."

"It isn't, I promise you. Just stay." He saw the doubt in Hange's eyes, but she finally decided to relax. "Okay, just promise me you'll tell me if something's wrong."

"I promise" he said, taking a spoonful of soup to his mouth. "Delicious".

The afternoon passed quickly. After the soup they decided to start watching a show that Nanaba had recommended. The daylight had said goodbye an hour ago, and through the window it was possible to see the night and the hundreds of windows with the lights on from the buildings of the city. They almost looked like stars. Hange had laid down on the bed next to him to watch the TV more comfortably, and Levi's headache had finally subsided.

'I'm the Armored Titan and he's the Colossal Titan'

"What the fuck?"

"Wait- what!" Hange shouted next to him at the same time. "Rewind it. Rewind it" she said, taking his hand and shaking it.

"No, no, shhh" Levi said, putting his other hand on hers.

They were both silent. Hange's mouth was open and her gaze was fixed on the screen, but Levi wasn't paying much attention to the show anymore. Her hand felt too good in his.

Suddenly Hange relaxed and leaned back again. The ending music made him realize that the episode had already ended.

Levi stared at her. From the moment he moved into that apartment there had been something about her that intrigued him. However, Levi had no idea when the intrigue turned to nervousness and butterflies. Would he be able to open up and tell her what he felt?

Hange turned to look at him. "Another one?" She asked excitedly.

Levi nodded enthusiastically in response. She hadn't removed her hand from his yet.

Maybe, two weeks was enough time to take the courage.

And maybe, just maybe, life wasn't a bitch after all.

#Levihan Drabble Week #Levihan #levihan fanfiction

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whatacartouchebag · 4 years

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Any fair game fics ur reading??? (WIP are good! And AUs!!) Links pleeeaaase!!

where do i even begin to make a list can i just say the whole tag is a blessing jkahdjkh

So this took some digging! Mainly because I’ve never really used the bookmarking system on AO3, and I had to go through the Fair Game tag to refind and add things lmao. I also can’t wait for tumblr to eat this for breakfast due to the sheer amount of links in here.

Anyway! This is going to be a list in no particular order, but a general collection of fics that have really tickled me in the past. Everything’s gonna be tagged with appropriate warnings, so take note! Some are completed, some are ongoing, so enjoy!

Connection - Oneshot - Qrow can’t stop Doing Bird Things around Clover and it’s adorable as hell.

One For Sorrow - Ongoing AU - GODS I was late to the party on this fic and it punches you in all the right ways. Medieval fantasy mixed with magic that just hits all the right notes for me.

Ribcage Roots - Oneshot - First up, please read all of Agent’s stuff, they’re an amazing author. Secondly, this fic is about an amazing trope I’d never heard of until this piece. Stunningly beautiful and achingly sad in all the right ways.

To The End of a Dream - Oneshot - Chapter Twelve Fix-it - This was one of the first ones to come out post Ch12 and it has such a good tone to it. One of those rip the bandaid off fix-it fics, but I adore it so much.

Gods Do Not Play Fair - Oneshot - Chapter Twelve Fix-it - Another piece centred around Clover’s return, but from his perspective instead. Another of the ones I read after that episode, and it’s so good.

Hints of Vanilla - Oneshot AU - A cute little AU about Clover becoming infatuated with the guy behind the counter at the local ice cream parlour. It’s just short and sweet and I adore it so, so much.

Stages of Love - Oneshot - A series of snippets focusing on when and how Qrow realises his affection and adoration for Clover.

Cinnamint - Oneshot - Chapter Twelve Fix-it - On the way to Vacuo, the two of them simply talk over coffee before dawn. It touches heavily on Qrow’s feelings post Ch12, but it’s such a wonderful take on his emotions coming out of it.

Rent-A-Date - Ongoing AU - Alludes to Chapter Twelve - The old fake dating trope, but in a modern setting! Rated as explicit, but as of writing this, nothing has happened aside from swearing and things being mentioned.

Trust Love - Ongoing series - Alludes to Chapter Twelve - Gods, please read all of Delta’s stuff; she’s got such a wonderful grasp on everything. This is part of a bigger series, that culminates in a rewrite of Chapter Twelve. Snapshots of their lives and how they fall in love and just. It’s just so good you guys.

Moonshine Smile - Ongoing AU - Alcoholism - Qrow taking care of his kindergarten aged niece whilst Tai is out of town, and he meets Clover on the pick-up/drop-off run. The two hit it off and it’s just really cute.

A Term of Endearment - Oneshot - Cute. Nicknames. AUGH.

Where It Rose or Whither It Rushes - Ongoing AU - This fic is my current jam right now, and it’s gorgeous. Qrow as a lighthouse keeper, and Clover as retired military, and they meet by pure chance. The imagery in this fic is gorgeous, and I adore getting update notifs for it.

Nightly Visit - Oneshot - Explicit, deals with depression and alcohoism - Clover’s called to find a missing Qrow and finds that he’s relapsed. Talks heavily on his depression and trust issues, and how this shaky thing between them has become such a tangible thing.

Impressions of Teeth - Ongoing AU - Alcoholism - Werewolves! Qrow and Clover team up to track down and hunt werewolves and things get... dicey. This one’s up there as one of my current jams because it’s so good jkadhs

These Celestial Bodies - Oneshot - I swear, I should just put all of Agent’s stuff here lmao. It’s a 5+1 fic that deals with Qrow forgetting special memories between the two of them, and the one time he remembers. Such a stunning read and so, so gorgeously soft.

Lucky You, Huh? - Ongoing AU - Alcoholism - What better way to get the cute guy’s number than get arrested by him. And then dealing with the mortifying ordeal of being known to him.

An Affair of the Body and the Mind - Ongoing AU - Explicit - Professors at each other’s throats, or is it only one-sided? I mean, if you’ve made it this far through the list, you know what’s up. Gods, but this is such a good fic, and it’s so well-paced; the imagery of it is just gorgeous, and it’s one of my all-time favourites.

And if you’re in Love then you are the Lucky Ones - Ongoing AU - I found this one by pure chance, read it all in one sitting and then spent the next month wondering if it was a fever dream because I am garbo at bookmarking things lmao. Qrow as a reclusive metalworker, meets Clover his neighbour who runs a bakery. It’s so super cute, and I adore it so, so much.

So there you go! If you made it to the end of this list, holy shit, but also, now you’ve got a pretty good list of fics to go through and devour! ♥

#anonymous #Fair Game #fic recs #writing #reading

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sdottkrames · 3 years

Text

I Know My Sister Like I Know My Own Mind

@comfortember Prompt 5: Cuddles

Summary: Penny Parker is sick, and when she is sick, she needs cuddles

Notes: I have fallen in LOVE with Penny Parker, especially her as Peter’s twin. I always wanted a twin, so I definitely live vicariously through fanfics. Drop some Peter&Penny twin recs for me. I will love you forever if you do!

Read on AO3: Here

It was a bad day.

It had technically been a bad week, but Penny had been trying so hard to ignore it. It was her last group of exams before finals next month, and she couldn’t afford to get sick. She had an exam in Calculus, AP US History, and AP Lit, plus a huge project due in Chemistry, and two essays.

Her teachers were trying to kill her, obviously, and the worst part? It was working. Penny woke up that morning feeling like she was dying.

At least I got through this week from hell. Only one day left. She thought, and rolled out of bed, nearly crying as her feet hit the cold floor. Literally everything hurt, and she just wanted to get back in bed with her aunt to be snuggled and coddled by her until she fell asleep.

Penny was especially clingy when she was sick. Even without the spider powers, her ability to stick to anybody who was willing to cuddle could rival Peter’s. They’d definitely overwhelmed their aunt one winter after both getting sick. May hadn’t been able to leave the apartment for three days.

But, alas, the snuggling would have to wait. May had to work early that morning and would be back late, and Penny had one last test to take. Stupid AP Lit.

Penny forced her aching arms into her comfiest, warmest shirt, and headed to the kitchen to force some breakfast down her burning throat. Peter looked up from his bowl of cereal and concern immediately washed over his face.

“You’re wearing your ‘sick shirt,’” he said, and Penny looked down at the oversized, light pink shirt she was wearing. “You always wear that one when you’re not feeling good,” Peter explained. He abandoned his Lucky Charms to feel Penny’s forehead. “You’re definitely a little warm, Pen. You should stay home.”

Penny was shaking her head before he finished. “No. I’m fine. I have one last exam in AP Lit, and you know Mr. Gardner doesn’t do make ups.” Peter made a face. He did know. They both despised the man’s rigidity and often talked about it at length. “It’s Friday, anyway. I’ll take a nap after school.”

He looked at her skeptically before sighing. “Okay. But we’re coming right back home and watching a movie. No homework, no Spider-Man. Just cuddles and tv.”

“That sounds perfect.” It took all of Penny’s self control not to whimper. She wanted to ask him to snuggle with her right then, forget school. But she took a breath, forced back the tears threatening to fall (she was also very emotional when she was sick), and went to grab the instant oatmeal.

After breakfast, the twins made their way to school. Peter chatted the whole way, obviously trying to distract his miserable sister, and silently cheered when he was able to earn a few small smiles.

The promise of cuddles and an evening being taken care of by her brother carried Penny through the day. She nearly lost control of the dam holding her tears when Flash, who always extended his taunting to both Parkers, made some stupid comment.

But MJ came back with a snappy response and took Penny’s hand. Penny shot her a grateful smile, so glad that her brother’s girlfriend liked her so well, and was able to make it through the day. She was even fairly confident about the test, though she honestly didn’t care all that much about what she got on it at this point. She was just happy to be done.

Finally, finally the last bell rang, and Penny had to restrain herself from cheering. She and Peter walked home, and as soon as they opened the door, Penny was in her room, changing into her comfiest pajamas. Trailing a blanket behind her, she made her way to the couch, where Peter was already set up, his arm extended out for her to snuggle under.

The relief was instantaneous. She burrowed into his side, shivering in delight. Peter chuckled.

“What movie would you like, honorary spider?”

Penny giggled. The last time Peter and Penny had hung out with Black Widow, Nat had insisted they be the spider trio. When Penny had pointed out that she had no Spider qualities, the other two had brushed it off, saying she was an honorary spider. Very prestigious, indeed.

“Uh, I think I’m in the mood for Episode IV. I need a comfort movie.”

Peter pulled up A New Hope, and ran his hand through his sister’s hair, gently raking out each curl. Soon, Penny’s head was feeling exceptionally heavy, and she laid it down onto Peter’s shoulder. Her breathing evened out, and then she was blissfully asleep.

***

When Penny woke up, the first thing she was conscious of was the darkness. She’d obviously been asleep for a number of hours. The second thing was pain. Her head, her throat, her eyes. Everything was on fire. The last thing she realized was that she was alone.

“Peter,” she croaked out, her throat chafing. She tried again, putting some more volume into the word. “Peter!”

She was about to panic, but then she saw the note.

Penny,

You were completely out, and I got a S-M emergency alert. I’ll be back in just a few hours. If you wake up before I get home, I’m sorry. I’ll get back as soon as I can. There’s some Motrin and water on the table for you.

Love you.

Peter

Suddenly, Penny was crying. She couldn’t help it. She was sick, she was hurting, and she was alone. She didn’t blame Peter for leaving, but she just wanted him back. Needed him back. The tears wouldn’t stop, which just made her headache worse, which just made her cry more. It was a ridiculous, vicious cycle.

Her fevered, mushy brain tried to grasp hold of someone, anyone, who might be able to fulfill the need to be snuggled, cause her blanket and pillow weren’t cutting it. She grabbed her phone and clicked on the first number that came to mind. It rang twice before-

“Hey, sweetheart! How’re you doing?” Tony's voice rang out from the other end of the phone. Penny opened her mouth, but only a sob came out. “Penny. What’s wrong?” He asked sharply, and she heard him suiting up already.

“Don’t feel good,” she managed to get out, her chest continuing to heave. “P-Peter’s on patrol and May’s w-working.”

“Oh, piccina,” he said, sympathy replacing the panic in his voice. “You at home?”

“Yeah. It’s d-dark.”

“I’m on my way. I’ll stay on the line.”

Tony’s voice held the dark at bay until he was knocking on the door. Penny forced herself up to let him in, and Tony was out of his suit and hugging her to his chest as soon as the door was open. He scooped her up, brought her back to the couch, and held her as her sobs and shivers slowly subsided.

“Sorry. I just, I fell asleep snuggling with Peter and when I woke up he was, he was gone.”

“And let me guess. You’re just as clingy as he is when you’re sick?” Tony asked, chuckling slightly. Penny nodded, then smiled as he wrapped the blanket around her and pulled her into his side. “Well, I’m not going anywhere. I’m glad you called me, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” Penny whispered, her body aching but the need for comfort and contact had finally subsided, making it manageable.

After a little while, Tony started to move, making Penny whine.

“You need food, piccina. I’m just going to go get you some toast and cocoa.” Penny pouted, but let go of the arm she’d held hostage to keep him there.

Tony returned shortly with the promised food and some medicine, and Penny gratefully took it all. Once her belly was slightly filled and the medicine took the edge off the ache in her body, she started dozing off again, snuggled tight into Tony’s side.

Penny was just starting to dream about swinging through New York when a noise jolted her awake and made both her and Tony jump three feet into the air.

“Peter,” she gasped, a hand tight to her chest.

“You nearly gave us a heart attack, kid,” Tony complained.

“Sorry,” Peter said, but his grin negated the apology and Penny rolled her eyes at him. “What are you doing here, Mr. Stark?”

“Well, Ms. Spider here woke up and you were gone, and apparently she’s just as sticky as you are when she’s sick. So I came to fill in.”

Peter tapped the spider emblem and his suit fell away. He threw it over a chair, and then squished himself onto the couch on the other side of Tony.

“I gotta get in on the cuddle action!”

“Geez, you two are a pair,” Tony griped playfully, and then yelped as Peter dug an elbow into his side in retaliation. “Watch it, underoos.”

“Oh, you love me,” Peter giggled, and Tony simply wrapped his arms around his kids in response, pulling them closer.

Eventually, they decided to order soup and watch Episode V, and soon Tony was trapped between two sleeping, snoring spider babies. (He’ll never admit that he took about 27 photos and texted both Pepper and Rhodey to gush about their cuteness.)

May came home just as the movie was ending, and he looked up, hopeful that she would help him get out of his predicament. As much as he loved being snuggled up with the Parker twins (gosh, he really was going soft) he couldn’t feel his arm and really needed to stretch his leg. But May took one look, snapped a picture, and laughed.

“Nope. Sorry. You won’t be leaving for another two days. Get comfortable,” she said, heading into the kitchen.

“That’s not funny, May,” he called. “MAY!”

All he got in response was a laugh.

#comfortember #comfortember 2020 #mine #i freaking love Penny Parker #Peter and Penny Parker #i love my iron dad and spidey son

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ajoblotofjunk · 4 years

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I have SO MANY fics on my ‘To Recommend’ list, including a bunch I recommended back on my DW months ago when I started reading, so I’m going to try to definitely get out a list once a week for Spotlight Saturdays. I figure given the quarantine for the next however many weeks people will be looking for things to read. In the interest of consolidation, I’m going to start with my DW recs first. I posted these last year when I was still fresh to reading J/B fic so there are some very familiar titles in this and the next list, but no reason to leave them off just because they’ve been rec’d before. I tagged on tumblr the people I knew, but some folks don’t have the same tumblr and AO3 names (*cough*) so I missed a bunch if they are here.

Open by ssstrychnine This is one of the earliest fics I read when fannishness hit me. It's set post-8x03 (before 8x04 had aired) and it's warm and sweet and hot in turns. Brienne shaves Jaime, exposing both of them.

Untitled tumblr ficlet by @qqueenofhades This one is post-8x04 and focuses entirely on the weeks they spent together without directly referencing anything else. A happy, sweet, short dream of a story.

What is love but a chemical reaction that causes insanity by starforged Post-804 fic that I felt was a great take on both Jaime & Brienne and Jaime & Cersei's relationship without shortchanging anyone. Angsty.

Count on me by BrightDream This is post-8x04 and has Brienne discovering she's pregnant and Pod stepping up and being a wonderful friend. Sweet and a little sad and - if you don't consider what happens in the canon - hopeful. Heh.

Heart's Desire by Miss_M This one is book canon, set post-A Dance with Dragons. It's a first time fic and is deftly done. Jaime is such an asshole but you remember 'ah yes, I love this particular asshole' in it and Brienne is sweet-hearted and tender and deserving of all good things.

41 Nights and A Day by rhye This is the first of a series. I've only read the first two so far but they’re both good. This first one goes day-by-day through their time in Winterfell together (as per 8x04) and it made me so, so happy to read even though you know how it will end because it's canon-compliant with that episode. It veers off from there and in the second fic Brienne is pregnant (so many of us were convinced she would be pregnant on the show! Because otherwise WHAT WAS THE POINT, but. WELL. WHAT FOOLS WE WERE.) Where was I? Right she's pregnant and she goes after Jaime and I enjoy how quietly optimistic the second fic is under the dark surface (looks like others follow suit) because I want them to be happy.

Promising Light by Dollsome ( @dollsome-does-tumblr) This was the first post-8x05 fic I read and it does not ignore the fact that Jaime went back to Cersei but it makes it all okay. Jaime wakes up alive and Brienne is there. It does a lot in a short space and the last few lines break me in the best way.

Fever by Lady_in_Red ( @ladyinredfics) THE RODEO AU, Y'ALL. THE RODEO AU. This fic permanently changed my relationship with Jaime/Brienne as a fannish interest for me. I have never really read AUs ever in any fandom. I'm not usually interested in the characters outside of their canonical space and honestly on the whole I don't read a TON of fic, even for my fannish OTPs. But J/B is entirely different. Is it because they're different in the two sources we have and so I'm already primed for it? Who knows. But this was a great way to jump into the AU pool for me. This is a modern-setting AU and the author CLEARLY has all the knowledge about rodeos and I learned so much while also getting a wonderful love story that was true to the characters. (Side note: this fic is the reason HFoG exists at all, I suspect; it showed me what was possible and was kind of my goalpost for when I was considering mine.)

One of the Few Things by anniebibananie (alindy) I LOVE THIS STORY SO MUCH. I've read this SEVERAL times and I squeal like a child every time at the text messages. This is a modern AU where Sansa and Jaime work at a bar together, become friends-in-pining, and then get everything they ever wanted. The Sansa/Jon, Jaime/Brienne relationships are both delightful and I don't really even ship Sansa/Jon. This fic is PURE JOY. HIGH RECOMMEND.

Beast and the Beast by SigilBroken ( @chickren ) What to even say about the swimmer & quarterback AU? I'm not sure there are words enough to encompass my feelings for this fic. It's just...I mean...the Harrenhal scene ALONE. I just wanted to live in this world forever. This is a really interesting Jaime; it's still very true to his character but there are some things about him that feel unexpected although I do like them, too. Swimming star Brienne is a hero worth rooting for, as always. This is set with them in college, but the college part of this only matters insomuch as the sports matter. I'm not doing this story justice with this rec; I just really strongly recommend you go read it.(At this point I’m sure everyone has, but JUST IN CASE.)

two halves of a soul by angel_deux You know what else I definitely absolutely never EVER read? High school AUs. Also works in progress. You know what this was when I started reading it?

Yeah. A modern, high school, soulmark AU that was still being finished. This fic snagged all the people I shared it with at entirely different points but ALL OF US are goners for this story and I don't know that any of us can explain why. Everyone is just so....them? But young? But not so young? There's hoodies and puppy Jaime and Brienne thinking 'someday I will be loved' (MY HEART, MY HEART) and it ends beautifully.

#jaime x brienne #jaime x brienne fic recs #i still haven't gotten back to 41 nights and a day and it's been months since i first read it #too much fic not enough time #a good problem to have #spotlight saturday

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gra-sonas · 4 years

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So, this afternoon I spent 54 minutes listening to the Shipping Room Podcast episode with Michael Vlamis, because I was interested in whether he’d be asked about 2x06 (he was). Amongst other things, I also learned that

MICHAEL VLAMIS KNOWS AO3 AND HAS READ MALEX FANFIC. 🙃

But back to 2x06.

One thing beforehand: the podcast host didn’t have any problems with that scene. They didn’t touch on the subject of consent (or the possible lack thereof) which caused issues for a lot of people, they only said they saw many different reactions but they themself didn’t have any issues with the scene itself.

This is a transcript of the podcast segment starting around minute 15:13. Vlamis phoned in for the podcast, and sometimes it’s hard to understand what he said. I may have missed words, or misheard something, so please keep that in mind.

ShippingRoomPodcast: Let's talk a little bit about last week’ episode and sort of the intense reaction. I saw a lot of different stuff online, I feel? And one of them was this concern about erasing Alex’s identity and I kind of just wanted to talk about that for a minute because I didn’t experience it that way at all. For like any number of reasons. First of all, I think you can experiment with different things without impacting your identity and then also, I’d like to hear you take on this. I watched that scene and for me it wasn’t actually about Alex being bisexual [WHICH HE IS NOT, HE IS GAY!], it was about Alex and Maria sharing you [Guerin]. So, it didn’t really change anything to me about who Alex was. I just saw him wanting to be with you and not being the way that he was able to do that. So he took it.

Michael Vlamis: Yeah, I definitely think that the intentions in that scene were— they were very heightened, because, we’ve all been through experiences that changed our lives, that really shook us. And not many of us have been in a corn field with scare crows [?] So who knows, how you’d actually react, after a situation like that. What we were trying to, the take in our show was the idea these three characters, just after this specifically traumatic experience, they wanted to feel love(d). And that is a group of three people, who love each other very much, maybe in different ways, and at different times. But the love that was in that Airstream was palpable, and there was a moment where everybody just kind of wanted to feel protected, wanted to feel safe, and I think, you know, especially from watching my performance.

You never really know what the editors are going to throw into the episode. I do every scene so many different ways. There was a take at the end of episode 2x05 when I’m having my monolog with Max where I like broke down and was like crying on his chest, and that didn’t make it in the show, you know. It’s like sometimes you watch it and like “Oh, it doesn’t need to this here, right?” It just needs the intentional holding back or letting the audience cry for you instead of the character indulging in his tears.

Uhm, and I think with the Airstream, Michael Guerin was like “What are we doing???” He was like “This is unbelievable.” But from his perspective, I don’t think he was thinking to hurt anybody. I don’t think anybody was thinking to hurt anyone. I think there was just “We’re all here, we love each other a great deal and what’s happening, I don’t know, but let’s see it out.” And I think that was the intent was love and feeling protected. [inaudible]

ShippingRoomPodcast: Yeah, yeah. I mean, that came through for me, for sure. And then the other thing that I found so interesting also was this argument that people were making about representation. You know, where they felt like Alex no longer represented who he was supposed to be representing and I sort of felt like this interesting thing where I was like “Okay, well, maybe he doesn’t represent X anymore, but like now he maybe he represents Y.” And maybe there are other people who’ve been watching the show who for the first time feel like they’re seeing themselves in a character, and maybe that’s not you anymore, and that’s something to deal with for sure and something to work through, but it’s not necessarily bad that there’s somebody else now who gets to say “Oh, there I am.”

Michael Vlamis: Yeah. I totally see what you’re saying and, you know, I have to be careful speaking about this stuff because in life, I’m a straight male. So, no matter how deep I go into the character, I don’t know actually, what it is like to live day by day as a gay man, or a bisexual man. I just know what I know, and I try to bring my experiences to the table under these different circumstances which my character lives in.

But, I mean, have you never heard of a fully straight man or woman hooking up with the same sex? Has nobody ever heard of a gay man hooking up with a woman? You know, I’ve heard so many stories and you know, we touched this earlier, being 30 now, and having lived, you know, about a third of a life, I come across so many people that have experimented or in the heat of a moment have done something that maybe wasn’t what they represented. So, what are you supposed to represent? What are you even supposed to do in life?

You’re supposed to do anything but follow your truth and follow your instincts and do what makes you happy while being respectful and having your moral compass, going in the right direction. So, I don’t know if there’s like a— I don’t know if there’s a “supposed to”. In that moment, that’s what that character did, was that mean [not sure if he actually says mean, hard to hear]? He’s bisexual in the show, I don’t know, does that mean he’s not 100% gay.

I don’t know what that’s supposed to look like. I don’t know, and I don’t think anybody knows. Which is kind of the most interesting thing to me. That we can be one thing one day and another thing the next. And it’s okay to experiment sometimes and figure out, you know, who you are or what you want, or why you did something in a given moment.

Totally. But I also feel like, especially with sexual experiences like, and I can speak totally from my own personal experiences on this. Like I feel sometimes, you make choices, that are the wrong choices for you. And that’s sort of what clarifies what the right choices are. And so, to me also Alex walked away from that being like “Nope, I don’t need to do that again.” That’s super legitimate also.

Yeah, I mean, he even kind of talks up on that in our conversation outside the Airstream after it happened, in the episode. Like he would never in a million years have envisioned that was going to happen. but it did and so many things do happen in our lives that we don’t plan for or, you know, that we’re happy we did or ashamed we did or you know, exactly what you were saying, it’s those choices that maybe are a hundred percent you know, who we are, but we have to make those choices, to figure out who we are.

ShippingRoomPodcast: Exactly. Yeah, so, going forward, like do you […] when you got the script for this scene, what was your reaction?

Michael Vlamis: I mean, I couldn’t believe it. I was like “Oh my god, the internet is going to break. Uhm, but the biggest conversation for this scene in this specific episode was how does Heather Hemmens, who plays Mar!a, feel about the situation and how can Tyler and myself make her the most comfortable she could be. Because shooting a scene like that is not easy. In a tight Airstream, and it’s a bunch of actors— we’re not dating in real life or anything, you know. We’re there, working, doing our job, portraying our characters as truthfully as possible. And you wanna make sure everyone’s comfortable. So that was really one of the first things I thought of. It’s like “okay, how do we make sure, that we’re completely comfortable.” That really started with C*rina. You know, she approached Heather and talked her through it and just made sure that Heather was game for it. Because C*rina really respects our feedback, and our input, and would never want to put us in a situation that doesn’t feel right to us as people, but also maybe doesn’t go with our characters. So we were all down on the same page about that, after the kind of old shock factor of it all. But it made sense, that that scene would happen in that specific episode, because that whole episode was almost supposed to feel like a fever dream or something. It’s almost like a Halloween episode on the show without it being Halloween. It made sense that it’s something that while it’s going to happen, it was in that episode.

#michael vlamis #rnm 2x06 #malex #alex manes #mgv interviews

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sadaboutniall · 4 years

Text

hi! this is my very first crack at niall x reader. i hope it’s okay! thank you so much for reading and for giving me a chance, and an extra thank you to @gotloveforyou and @wowweeharrystyles for being my first readers and for being endlessly supportive, especially when i felt like writing this was both a lost cause and the wrong move. i don’t deserve that kind of support; thank you.

what you need to know: this is an au in which your boyfriend niall makes it big in his twenties. 1D never happened. harry is mentioned; he and niall are not former bandmates, just friends. this fic includes angst, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, and food. there is no smut. additionally, it’s open to sequels, depending—you’ll see.

that’s that! thank you so much again if you do read! please feel free to let me know what you think if you have thoughts! i’m not sure where else to post niall x reader fics, becasue ao3 doesn’t feel like the right place? so for now this will live here. thank you thank you!

rather be cold in your bed than warmed by someone else;

Coming home drunk and alone never gets easier.

It’s this sinking feeling, after a night out with your friends, tears of laughter pooling in the corner of your eyes, cheeks sore from smiling, stomach pleasantly heavy with liquor and snacks and love, that you’re going home alone. Again.

Going home with someone else only makes it momentarily better—pretty thighs straddling you in the backseat of the cab, a stranger’s hand on your throat, their tongue in your mouth, their body in your bed—because they leave before the sun comes up, every time, and then it’s dark and you’re alone.

And it’s all over again.

But the worst. The worst is that going home alone makes you think. No matter how piss drunk you get, no matter how much your head hammers the next morning, no matter how hard you beg whatever merciless God exists above, it’s impossible, when you’re tucked into the backseat of a dark cab, cold and alone and keeping an anxious eye on your route, not to think of him.

Not to think of the way he’d tell the driver where you take you both, confident that you were coming home with him.

Not to think of the way he’d hold your hand in his lap some nights, guiding your fingers up, up, to ghost over the seam in his jeans.

Not the way he’d do the same to you, one hand between your legs, the other holding his phone as he watched Instagram stories from the night out, feigning disinterest just to drive you mad.

Not the way he’d thank the driver and help you out of the cab, let his hand slide down to rest on your ass as he shut the door behind you.

Not the way he’d crowd up against you as you unlocked the door to his apartment, the front of his body pressed into the back of yours, his hands sliding around your waist to toy with the button on your jeans while you tried, as hard as you could, to focus on getting the key in the fucking lock.

Not the way he’d fuck you in the front hall, your legs around his waist, one of his arms bracing against the wall, his lips at your neck, his pants only pushed down to mid-thighs.

Not the way he’d carry you to bed after that, clean you up and get you a glass of water and a couple of cookies to share, kiss your temple, tell you he loved you, and fall asleep clinging to your body.

Not waking up the next morning, the way he’d—

“Excuse me? Is this you?” The driver’s voice shocks you out of your head and you feel unsteady, your stomach sloshing with memories and alcohol and arousal and shame, as you lift a shaky hand to open the car door.

“This is me, yeah,” you manage. Your voice feels thick, like slogging through a muddy field in heavy wellies after the rain. You and Niall did that once, when you went to visit Bobby for the holidays. You’d arrived back at the house covered in mud and soaking wet and even more in love than you’d been when you left. “Thank you so much.”

You hear the driver bid you goodnight as you gently close the car door behind you. On your own. You can do this on your own.

Your apartment is empty and dark but, mercifully, warm. You toe your shoes off inside the front hall, hang your coat on its hook, and it doesn’t fall off, the way it used to when Niall’s bulky coats took up too much space. It’s a blessing, you tell yourself as you wander into the kitchen, not to have to pick your coats up off the floor anymore.

The cabinets are sinfully bare—you still shop like a college student with four roommates to mooch snacks off of, even though you’re not—but you find half a bag of cheetos, a little stale but better than nothing, and set about making yourself a cup of tea. On your own. You can do this on your own.

Unsteady on your feet, still drunk, you wait for the kettle to boil and you don’t think about it. You don’t think about the way he would slide his arms around your waist while the kettle boiled and slow dance with you in the kitchen, gently humming a tune in your ear. You don’t think about how his voice used to be for you and you alone, how his singing was something soft between the two of you. You don’t think about your hands, clasped together on his chest, your foreheads pressed together as you danced, his accent, thick with alcohol and bliss and love when he’d tell you how much he loved you.

The kettle screams. You make one cup of tea and you don’t think about it.

Settled comfortably on the couch, you shoot of the requisite “home safe! Love you all! Thanks for such a good night! xx” text to your group chat, and then you lock your phone, put it face down, and don’t look at his Instagram.

It’s been seven months. Last you checked, four weeks ago, he had over eight million followers.

You don’t look at his Instagram anymore.

Instead, you flip on the TV, find an episode of The Great British Bake Off you haven’t watched too recently, and cradle your steaming cup of tea. On your own.

—

You wake up on your own.

It’s still dark outside, Bake Off is still on, and when you bring the mug to your lips, you realize that your tea is still lukewarm—you haven’t been asleep long at all. But rather than curl up on the couch and let yourself slip back into sleep, you haul yourself up—your body will thank you for not sleeping out here, and your skin will thank you for at least making an attempt at washing your face.

The last thing you remember, after putting your mug in the dishwasher, cleaning the cheeto dust off your fingers, and washing your face, is that your phone is still face-down on the coffee table.

Sixteen notifications. Six of them are perfectly explicable: your four best friends texting to say they’d arrived home safe as well, a couple of “heart” reactions on your message. Ten of them are a fucking fever dream.

Niall Horan

1:37 AM: Hi

1:37 AM: Are u awake ??

1:38 AM: Txt me back , I’m nearby 1:38 AM: I’m in London for a few days . On tour break . Can i See you?

1:39 AM: Will u call me ?

1:40 AM: Was with the boys but

1:42 AM: Bein drunk in lONdon makes me think of you .

1:42 AM: remember that time I fucked you on th e kitchen table and we were so drunk we didn’t even realise you left the kettle on ? Lmost burned the whole fucking place down just to have you

1:43 AM: I’d do it again

1:45 AM: Call Me

If this were a movie you’d probably drop your phone on the floor in shock. And then you’d let Niall inside, drenched from the rain, and he’d put his hand on your jaw and he’d kiss you. He’d confess his undying, unrelenting, passionate love for you and take you on the kitchen floor and never, ever leave you again. If this were a movie, this would be when everything goes back to normal.

But this isn’t a movie—it’s not even raining tonight and you can’t afford to replace your phone if you drop it right now. And Niall left. Seven months ago.

And you know he’s not coming back.

So, instead, you stare at your phone like an idiot. Like a person who can’t read. Like someone who doesn’t want to let the one that got away barge back into their life.

And you are a lot of things. You know that. But you’re not any of the above.

A quick glance up at the top of your phone tells you it’s 1:57. Twelve minutes since Niall’s final text—twelve minutes, a million alternate universes, and countless things that could have happened between then and now. Niall could’ve fallen asleep. He could’ve sobered up. He could’ve found someone else to take home. He could’ve realized what an idiot he was being and blocked your number. He could’ve already forgotten.

Or he could be waiting.

You could be keeping him waiting.

You’d like to think, looking back on it, that something akin to blind bravery overtook you in that moment; that a warrior inside you, one who knew you’d be okay regardless of the night’s outcome, rose up inside you and texted Niall back. In reality, though, it’s closer to desperation—it’s the realization that you’re about to let Niall slip through your fingers again, the knowledge that you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you let that happen. This might kill you—it really, truly might—but you’ll die knowing you had him one last time, at the very least.

So you do it. Blind with something—alcohol, bravery, desperation—you text him back.

1:58 AM: Hi. I’m at home. And, me too.

It takes him twenty nine seconds to text you back.

1:59 AM: Be there in ten

—

Panic sets into your stomach like a sinking stone, mixing with the alcohol to freeze you in your tracks. Ten minutes is not enough time to prepare for seeing the man you loved—the man you love—for the first time in seven months. Not like this.

Your eyes sweep your small London apartment—the floors that you haven’t gotten around to taking a Swiffer to in a few weeks, the empty wine bottles on your bar cart, your slippers stashed under the coffee table, the bag of Cheetos still sitting on the couch—all marks of someone single. Of someone getting through all of this on their own.

Seven minutes—you don’t have time. Should you shave, too, just in case? Should you do something with your hair? You’re still in your outfit from earlier, still dressed for a night out, but your face is clean and your apartment is the opposite and you can’t move from this spot, in the middle of your kitchen, and it doesn’t matter but then again it does, because, yes, Niall has seen you in every state, at your best and at your worst, dressed and undressed, apartment clean and apartment dirty, but he’s also spent the last year touring the world, seeing places the two of you had only dreamt of, getting drunk with supermodels and producers and billionaires, becoming a millionaire himself, performing an album full of songs about you for screaming fans in foreign languages. Niall’s seen you in every state, known you in every way, and you could once say the same for yourself about him—but not anymore. This is someone else. The man coming to your door is someone else.

You can’t let your guard down.

—

He makes it in eight minutes.

You’ve seen enough paparazzi shots of Niall stumbling out of the backseat of big, black, expensive cars that you expect to find the same image outside your door: the man who used to go down on you in the backseat of his blue 2003 Vauxhall Corsa sliding, drunk and glowing and beautiful, out of the backseat of an £80,000 Cadillac Escalade—but there’s no car in sight when you open your door.

Instead, you find Niall—your Niall—standing at the bottom of the steps. He’s got a paddy cap pulled down low over his forehead, one hand holding a brown paper bag, the other shoved deep into the pocket of his coat—the coat you bought him, last year, for his 24th birthday.

It’s an image you’ve seen so many times, you almost think it’s a hallucination.

But he’s climbing the four steps from the sidewalk to your front door and he’s real: when he stands in front of you and holds up the bag and says “brought McDonald’s” he’s real, when you silently nod and let him into the building he’s real, when he follows you up the three flights of stairs—not complaining about the climb the way he used to, because he has a trainer now—he’s real, and when you shut the door to your apartment behind you he’s real.

Standing in the hallway of your apartment, lights still out, taking off his coat, he’s real.

Putting the bag down next to his hat on the front table, he’s real.

When he steps forward, grabs your wrists, and pushes you back into the wall, he’s real.

And when his lips hit yours, he’s real.

He kisses the same. Seven months, countless trips around the world, experiences you can’t even imagine, millions of pounds—and he kisses exactly the same. His lips are cold from the night and chapped from the wind and there’s alcohol in his mouth and it’s exactly the same as it’s always been, the way he has one hand on your jaw and one on your wrist, pinning you to the wall, the way his leg slides between your thighs, the way he tilts his head ever so slightly to gain control. The way he pulls back, looks you in the eye, and dives right back in again.

It’s exactly the same.

Still kissing you, he releases your wrist, his hand sliding across the wall until it bumps into your hips and finds purchase there. He makes quick, easy work of getting his hand up underneath your top, running it across your stomach and up, up—

“Fucking missed you,” he says into your neck, “fuck, you’re—”

“Niall,” you hear yourself say it like you’re a mile away. “Niall, Niall, stop, stop, fuck, stop,” your hands scrabble at his shoulders as he sucks into your neck, hips pressed into yours, hands everywhere. You push him back, half an inch, and try not to cry when you look at him.

He’s so fucking beautiful.

“What?” He pulls back, eyes blue, cheeks red. Your heart is in your throat.

“What are you—why are you—what’s going on?”

“Missed you,” he says again, like it’s obvious. “I’m home for a few weeks, decided to go out with the boys tonight. I didn’t put two and two together—the pub Willie chose is the one up the road. Didn’t realize ‘til I was four drinks in. And then I just,” he leans in for another kiss, “I had to see you.”

You can’t think. He kisses at your neck while you try, fail, to unscramble your brain, to make sense of the way he said he had to see you like he wasn’t the one who ended things. Like he wasn’t the one who disappeared. Like he didn’t sit you down on a rainy Sunday night seven months ago and tell you this was no life for you. Like he didn’t tell you that he was leaving on tour—a world fucking tour—and didn’t want to put you through this. Like he hadn’t said, “I don’t want you to sit here and wait for me to come back. I want you to live.”

Like you hadn’t sat here and waited for him to come back, anyway.

“Niall,” you gasp, tangling a hand in the back of his hair. It’s so dark—almost all the blonde is faded. All those nights you’d bleached his roots for him in his tiny bathroom, no ventilation, peroxide fumes making you both hysterical, faded too. He’s someone else now. He’s not yours anymore. “Niall. The McDonald’s is going to get cold.”

He pulls back so fast it knocks the wind out of you. And then he laughs. And you think you’re going to be sick.

“You serious?” He gasps out between laughs. “You’re thinking about the McDonald’s right now?”

“Yeah,” you can’t help the smile stretching across your face. “What’d you bring?”

With a sigh, Niall disentangles himself from you and clicks on the light. He does it so casually, like he never forgot where the switch was. Like he still spends half his time here. Like you could come home from work, the way you used to, and find him in his sweatpants, eating snacks in your bed. “Nuggets for you, burger for meself,” he grabs the bag off the front table, the smell wafting through the hall. “Big fries to share. That… is that still what you like?”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Haven’t had McDonald’s in a while but… yeah.”

You haven’t had McDonald’s in seven months. It doesn’t matter.

—

The thing about Niall is that it’s impossible for you to feel uncomfortable around him.

It’s always been this way—from the first time you met him, when he performed at the open mic night at your local pub. It was the place you and your friends met every Friday evening for drinks, where you all usually dreaded the one-Friday-a-month open mic night, and the way it meant you’d have to shout over struggling musicians in order to speak to each other.

But then one night there was Niall, with his ruddy cheeks and his charming accent and his cover of Dancing in the Dark that you didn’t actually want to shout over. And there was the way your best friend laughed at you when he finished, the way she said she’d never, in the fifteen years you’d been friends, seen you so blatantly eye-fuck someone in public. And then he stood alone by the bar after his performance, and your friends teased and shoved and plied you with promises of brunch tomorrow morning until you worked up enough courage to talk to him, to congratulate him on a great performance, to buy him a drink.

He took you home that night, and you didn’t make it to brunch the next morning.

And from that first drink, things had flowed easily between the two of you. It’s not that there were never any conversational lulls, or misunderstandings, or rows, but that you never, ever felt awkward, or uncomfortable, or out of your element when you were with Niall. Even if you were fighting, you were comfortable—you knew you could shout, and he’d forgive you. It was how you knew—you used to say—that he was The One.

But it’s been seven months since you spoke to him last. He’s a different person now. And yet—it’s like nothing has changed.

He eats his french fries three at a time—it’s one of his routines, his repetitive patterns, an easy, doable ritual that leaves his skin crawling if he abandons it—and it makes your stomach do something weird when you watch him, sitting across from you on the couch, shove three into his mouth. He’s like a ghost except he’s real—the spitting image of the man you used to love, who left, who you’ve mourned and buried and tucked away, refusing to disappear.

“Still warm,” he passes the container to you, fries sticking out of his mouth like a walrus.

You take a handful and pass it back. “Thank goodness.”

“Mm,” he hums, making for his burger. “You want a bite? They were out of secret sauce but I got mayo.”

“No, I—” you shake your head. The fries feel rubbery and stiff as you swallow them down. “I don’t want a bite.”

He shrugs, says “suit yourself,” and then shoves his face into the burger, the way he always used to, to make you laugh.

And you burst into tears.

Hands flying up to cover your eyes, you try to choke back your outburst but you have no control—you’re drunk and you’re tired and you’re confused and Niall is here and the whole place smells like McDonald’s and it’s like the wound in your heart has been violently ripped back open, like someone shoved a pick-axe into it and twisted it around until you had no choice but to scream in pain. Your tears fall fast and hot and you’re blubbering, like a fucking idiot, in front of the man you love.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Niall drops the burger immediately, boxing it up and shoving the bag out of his way. He scoots across the couch so his knees touch yours, both of you sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce facing each other, and brings his hand up to tug at your wrist. Gently, he pulls your hands away from your eyes, and says, “s’wrong?”

Looking at him feels like when you’re driving on a dark road at night and a car in the opposite lane comes around a bend with their high-beams on. You flinch, your eyes snapping shut, and try to shake the scene of the accident out of your head.

Seven months ago. Right here. He sat you down just like this—facing each other on your couch, a place where he’d held you until you fell asleep, fucked you until you could hardly breathe, kissed you until nothing hurt anymore, tickled your sides until you cried and fell off the cushions and took you down with him, poured your heart out to him while he did the same to you—and broke your heart harder and with more care than you ever imagined possible.

He was making it. After all the open mic nights at the pub, all the tiny shows booked in basement venues in dark corners of London, the gigs opening for the city’s bigger names, your boyfriend was making it. Invited to tour with Sam Smith, to open for their entire tour, across the UK and then Europe and through to the Americas, with the possibility of an extension through Asia, Oceania—Niall was finally going to play his music around the world.

Just not with you.

He’d told you he didn’t want to put you through this—that he’d seen and heard what touring does to relationships, that you deserve a life, that you shouldn’t have to sit here and wait for him to come back, for your life to resume. It was about you, he’d said, holding your hand as numbness settled around you and an alien feeling creeped in—he was doing this because he loved you. And he wanted you to have a better life than the one he could give.

You hadn’t wanted a better life. You’d wanted him.

After he smushed your heart into the floor he fucked you goodbye, his face tucked into your neck, his hands all over your body, so he wouldn’t forget how you felt. He kept his cock inside you for as long as he could after you both finished—until he was gone, and you were cold, and alone, and tired, and numb.

And all on your own.

“Sorry, sorry,” is what you manage eventually, opening your eyes to look at the Niall in front of you. The now Niall. Sitting in the scene of the wreck, unscathed. “I’m drunk.”

“Don’t apologize,” Niall’s hands, holding yours, land in your lap. He’s gentle as he runs a thumb across the inside of your palm. “Is everything okay? Did something happen tonight?”

He asks it like he doesn’t know. Like he doesn’t understand that this is because of him. That he broke you, that he left you to pick yourself up, that he showed up again just after you’d started managing it.

It hits you all at once that he’s being a fucking asshole about this, actually. You’d had a perfectly nice night out with your friends—had even managed to run into one of Niall’s million cousins and have a pleasant conversation without bursting into tears. You’d only thought about him once or twice, if you don’t count the car ride home, and that was something of a new record for you. You were moving on, finally, getting your shit together, getting back on your own two feet, putting yourself back together again.

And then he had to show up. And barge back in like he still owns this place.

It’s rude. You realize it suddenly, like a car coming to a quick stop to avoid slamming into someone else’s bumper. It’s entitled. He has no right to you anymore.

“I had a great night tonight,” you tug your hands back from him, steel yourself, and carry on. On your own. “Really fun, actually.”

“That’s good,” he smiles, soft, a dimple digging into his cheek. “I’m happy to—”

“I barely thought about you at all.”

“I… okay?”

“Why did you come here?”

He reels, for a second, but recovers well—he’s always been good at that, but you can see the media training, just for a second, click in his head. “I told you,” his eyes soften, confused. “I miss you.”

“That’s not a good enough reason.”

“What?”

“That’s not fucking good enough, Niall. It’s not good enough that you miss me and just—I’ve spent seven months missing you, asshole, and I learned to fucking deal with it. You don’t just get to do this.”

“I—” Niall shakes his head. “I didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t realize? You didn’t—Niall, what did you think?”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!

“The right thing?!” You’re watching yourself from across the room, an out of body experience as you raise your voice and Niall does the same to match, yelling at each other the way you’ve dreamt, so many times, of doing. Ripping his heart and his guts out the way he did yours—but not casual, not thoughtful, not measured, like him. You go for the trachea, because he deserves it, because you might never get the chance again.

“You broke up with me,” you tell him, pushing yourself up on your palms, like a pre-game hype-up, “you sat me down and you broke up with me because you didn’t want to have to deal with a relationship while you were touring. You wanted to be able to drop all your responsibilities—including me—and fuck off on tour without having to report back to anyone. And you got what you wanted, didn’t you? Broke my heart and disappeared so you could fuck Victoria’s Secret Angels on a private jet and do lines of coke off their abs and leave me here, in the apartment where I fell in love with you, alone, to wait for you to come home—”

“I told you not to wait for me to come home. That was the whole point, fuck. The whole point was so that you could live a full life, too, without waiting for me. It’s not my fault if you chose not to—”

“What the fuck did you think I was going to do? Three fucking years, Niall. You really thought that after three fucking years I would just move on, live a fulll life? While you were out there—”

“Why does it matter what I was doing? Why does it matter who I was fucking? Like you didn’t fuck anyone? Like you’re some kind of a saint? You didn’t hide what was going on between you and Harry, it’s not fair to say—”

“Don’t,” you hear yourself say it before you can think it through, before you can fully comprehend what a bad idea it is. “Don’t bring Harry into this.”

And the thing is: you’ve seen Niall look angry before. You’ve seen him get mad—at homphobic preachers in the street, at guys hitting on you in the bar, at Trump on TV—but you’ve never seen him look like this. This combination of anger and hurt and disbelief, of fury and sorrow, settling into his features right now. Those familiar features, and such an unfamiliar expression. “You’re the one,” he says, voice low, scarier, somehow, than shouting, “who brought Harry into this. Not me.”

“What, so you can sleep with other people, but I can’t? What kind of double standard—”

“I didn’t sleep with your best friend.”

“You haven’t spoken to Harry in six months, Niall. He’s not your best friend anymore. And that’s your fault, not mine, and definitely not his.”

You watch Niall’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly, and carries on, “whatever happened between Harry and me, that doesn’t make you sleeping with him any less—”

“How do you even know I slept with him? I never—did he tell you?”

“No,” Niall softens, for just a second, can see the worry flash behind your eyes. “No, he—he’s not like that. I just. You made it pretty obvious on Instagram that something was going on. I figured… and then I asked Mully.”

“You asked your fucking cousin to report back to you on who I was sleeping with? Do you hear what that sounds like?”

“I,” he shakes his head. He’s not angry anymore, and it’s making it hard for you to be, too. It’s still second nature, matching his emotions. Melding into him. Your minds working on the same wavelength. “I was jealous.”

“You’re the one who broke up with me.” It’s weak. You say it anyway. “You’re not allowed to be jealous when you broke up with me.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Niall says. “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t have.”

He can’t. It’s not fair. You’ve been dying to hear him say it.

“But you did,” you managed to say it with more conviction than you feel. You’re shaking when you stand up, your heart slamming against your sternum with rage, with a warning: there’s no going back now, you’re sealing the deal, you’re taking what you’ve dreamt of for seven months, looking it in the eye, and spitting in its face. If you do this, you’re done. Everything’s done.

“I—”

“You need to go, Niall,” you say. You’re standing over him now, where he’s sitting on the couch, fries still in his lap. “You need to leave.”

Niall has never been pushy. He doesn’t start now. Instead, he swallows thick enough for you to hear it, nods, and stands up. “Okay,” he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I understand.”

And that’s it. He collects his things, throws away the McDonald’s, and you watch it happen—watch as the love of your life walks out on you, again. Except this time, because you told him to. Because you can do this on your own—you don’t want to, but you can.

You have to.

At the door, Niall pulls his hat down over his eyebrows, takes a deep breath, and looks at you. You flashback—all the times he’s had you here, all the times he’s kissed you here, all the times he’s made you laugh here, helped you zip your coat up here, told you you looked beautiful here—how he looked, seven months ago, standing here, and leaving for the last time. That night, you didn’t even have the energy to beg him not to.

Tonight, you wouldn’t even know how.

“It was good to see you,” is what he says, hands in his jacket pocket, eyes steady on yours. “I’m in London for a few more weeks. Through Christmas. If you want… you have my number. If you—if—I’d love to see you again. Sober. Even if it’s just as friends.”

You can’t find your voice. All the right words are there, somewhere, in the air between you. You just nod.

“I’ll, uh,” he’s stalling. You feel tired, and a little dizzy. The french fries are starting to give you a cramp. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” you’ll throw up if he doesn’t leave soon. “Maybe.”

“Cool.”

“Get home safe,” you bite back the question of whether or not he’s going to walk. It’s late, and dark, and cold, and you’d rather he didn’t—but it doesn’t matter anymore. “Or, to wherever you’re staying.” He sold the apartment ages ago—you’d seen it listed in the window of a realtor’s office, months ago. You’d cried for six hours after you found out—drank yourself to sleep, for all the memories scrubbed away, tucked into a place that neither of you could reach anymore. The next morning, you threw it all up—the wine, the memories, the lining of your stomach and your soul.

“At Mully’s,” he rushes to answer, “if you need to find me. I’m staying at Mully’s.”

“Right, okay. Well. Goodnight?”

“Right,” he nods, “goodnight. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, Niall.”

“Of course,” he steps forward, gentle, and wraps his arms around you. You let him. It’s easy enough—melting into his hold, fitting your body to his, sliding your arms around his waist. He’s not as skinny as he used to be, muscle lining his back, his arms bulked out, his body firmer than you remember but somehow just as soft—the slight, gentle curve of his stomach against your own, his fingers tender on your back. He tilts his head down to press his nose into the top of your hair and squeezes you, ever so slightly, as he does, and he still smells the same: cold air, a tiny bit of McDonald’s clinging to him, but the same cologne, the same smell of his skin, the warmth and musk and kindness of him. It hasn’t changed. He hasn’t changed.

Ever so gently, Niall presses his lips to the top of your head.

And then he pulls back.

You’d be stupid to let him go.

He leans forward, pushes a strand of hair out of your eye and toward your ear. “I’ll see you later,” his voice falls to that whisper. The one that’s just for you.

And you let him go.

He lets himself out, closing the door quietly. The front hall still smells like him as you lock the door behind him, and, like a child after their parent leaves them at preschool, make your way to the window to watch him go. You catch him just as he’s stepping outside, shoulders pulled up to his ears, head angled down, braced against the wind and the night and prying eyes. He walks, and he’s the same—the same confident walk that used to send your heart soaring when you’d see him walking toward you, on the street after work, in the pub on a Friday, in the morning bringing you breakfast in bed. You think of all the times he walked toward you, and you watch him walk away.

And then you let the drapes fall, take a deep breath, and head to bed.

On your own.

####

#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH #god okay #i feel very vulnerable about this #anyway #niall horan #niall horan x reader #niall horan x yn #niall horan x you #niall horan fic #niall horan imagine #niall horan fan ficton #niall horan self insert #god idk what tags people use #????#one direction #mine

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eileen-crys · 5 years

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Wipe my nightmares away

So here’s my lil Johnica oneshot- Mind that English is not my first language so there may be errors. I hope not too many-

John Deacon x Veronica Tetzlaff

You can also read it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049028

Warnings: it’s fluffy, so be careful for your teeth with all this sugar. Also Veronica has bad nightmares, brief mentioning of death.

Words: 2.6k

Summary: 1985, while Queen are working on their new album A Kind of Magic in London, John can spend some time at home with his family. One night Veronica wakes up after a nightmare with a high fever and John decides to take care of her instead of going to the studio. NOTES: The wedding ring episode is completely invented by me, I don't know why Deaky stopped wearing it at some point but I like to think for the best, and I'm sure he still loves Ronnie anyways, with or without ring. Enjoy!

Veronica was at the side of the stage, in the front rows right underneath John, surrounded by the rest of the audience and with her kids carefully clinging together at her legs while she held little Joshua on her hip. Usually she'd stay in the backstage, safe and sound with the security and the roadies, but today was a strange exception. She didn't mind enjoying the concert as part of the audience, though.

She heard Robert's voice calling her.

"Mom, I'm going to the bathroom!" But before she could reply and go with him, Robert flee in the middle of the audience, disappearing through all the dancing and singing bodies.

"Robert! Robert, wait!" She yelled and held Josh steadier in her arm, while grabbing Michael with the other hand, trying to follow her eldest son.

"Mike, hold Laura's hand and don't let go!" Mike turned his head and his sister wasn't there anymore. "Laura? Laura's gone!"

"What?" Veronica saw the pattern of her daughter's dress moving and then disappearing in a forest of legs.

She began to panic.

"I'm gonna find her, don't worry mom!" Mike escaped from her grasp and followed his younger sister.

"No! No, Mike!" Veronica cried out, but the music was too loud and nobody in the audience was letting her pass to find her children.

"Michael! Laura! Robert!!!" She called again, despair growing in her chest as tears filled her eyes.

"Please help me! I can't find my kids!"

No one, not even the closer people, seemed to hear or see her, everyone was too focused on the stage.

"Someone please help me!"

Her screams went into the void. Josh began to cry desperately in her arms, she held him even closer and began to cry as well, her eyes darting in the audience, almost blinded by the tears.

Suddenly, she felt the weight of her youngest son being lifted from her chest. She turned, horrified, to see a security guard holding Joshua and carrying him away from her.

"I'm sorry, lady, this kid is too little to stay here."

"NO!" She reached out to take him back, but the guard walked away and she couldn't move, blocked by other people.

"I'm the bassist's wife! That's his son, he can stay! Please!" Her voice cracked, a sudden pain hitting her throat as the man disappeared.

"Help me! God, please!"

What was happening, how could it be possible? Where were her kids?

They were gone .

All four.

Sobbing uncontrollably she ran under the stage and called John, even if he was playing and probably already a bit drunk.

"John! John I can't find the kids!"

He heard her desperate cry, but all he did was smiling and waving at her with the most shining smile ever. He didn't notice the absolute horror in her eyes.

Hopeless, she felt like throwing up and turned to face the rest of the audience. Everyone too busy ignoring her. Veronica buried her face in her hands and let out a scream, tears falling through her fingers.

When she lifted her face, she was now on the stage. She froze.

" How… ?"

"John? Is everything alright?" Freddie was on her left staring at her, Brian right behind him. Veronica looked around, but John wasn't there. She felt a weight on her shoulder: she was holding his bass.

"Our Deaky seems a bit lost tonight, huh? Give him an applause, come on!" Freddie cheered up the audience, who roared loudly.

What the hell was happening?

Ronnie ran her fingers through her hair and finally realized: now she was John. On the stage, about to start playing Under Pressure. She was completely petrified, cold sweat soaking her back.

Freddie reached next to her and whispered, full of worry. "Darling you're supposed to play, what the fuck is going on?"

She just let it out without thinking. "My children, Freddie! I've lost them in the audience, I can't… I don't know…" she muttered, John's voice coming out from her mouth.

Freddie gave her a questioning look. "Dear, you don't have kids. Ronnie died from childbirth ten years ago, but I thought you went through this."

She did what?

Freddie waved a hand in front of her face. "John?"

"John!"

She cried out at the top of her lungs and sat on the bed, panting and covered in sweat.

"Ronnie I'm here! I'm here, it's ok… It's over…" John wrapped her in his arms, swinging her gently as her body was shaken by sobs.

"The kids… they were gone… I couldn't- Oh my God..."

"Shh, it was a nightmare, but it's over." He placed a kiss on her temple to calm her down a bit and noticed she was burning. "The kids are sleeping in their rooms, we're home, safe and sound." He put a hand on her sweaty forehead. "I think you have a fever, love…"

Veronica was still shaking, feeling her head wrapped in a bubble. John helped her laying down and held her hands. It wasn't the first time she had nightmares about their family, but this time seemed to be worse than ever.

"Wanna talk about it?"

She nodded, and told him about her dream with broken voice, needing to stop a couple of times to catch her breath. He held her closer and she buried her face in his neck, feeling his hands running on the back of her head. When she finished, John softly wiped the tears from her face. "You're burning like crazy, Ronnie. Try to sleep, I'm here now and you're safe. Ok?" He whispered, his heart broken at the thought of her nightmare. It was one of the most terrible things he could ever imagine and he thanked God it didn't happen for real.

"Mmh…" Ronnie groaned and tried to relax, even if it took a while.

John left another kiss on her forehead and waited for his wife to get asleep again in his embrace.

---

The scent of eggs and toast hit her nostrils and she blinked a couple of times before opening her eyes. She was feeling like being underwater, her head was incredibly heavy and her whole body aching, making it almost impossible to get up. Memories of the previous night came back slowly, she had another nightmare about her kids, but at least John was there to comfort her. The last time she had a nightmare like that he was on tour on the other side of the planet and she almost lost her mind the next day, worried for her children while they were at school. She heard his voice echoing in her mind: "I think you have a fever, love…" and he was right. But Veronica was too stubborn to stay in bed the whole day, so she tried to get up, wrapped herself in a cozy night robe and walked unsteadily to the kitchen.

"Mommy!" Laura ran towards her and and hugged her tight, looking up with big green eyes. "How are you?"

"Dad told us you have a fever!" Robert added, his mouth full of scrambled eggs. Ronnie patted Laura's head, who freed her from the hug, and sat at the table.

"Apparently I do…" she was feeling awful, though the sight of the children reassured her.

"'Morning, honey." John placed a kiss on her temple like he did during the night, not just to show affection, but also to check her temperature. "We're staying home today, I'll take the kids to school."

"No, no, you're recording today, I can take them to school." Ronnie fought back, part of her believing she was in condition to drive.

"Already called the studio." He smirked. She lowered her head, defeated. There was no way to change his mind and he already organized everything, she knew it too well.

"Fine, remember to give them the umbrellas, It's supposed to rain today..." Ronnie groaned, pinching her nose.

"Don't worry." John replied and set a cup of tea in front of her.

While she was drinking her cup, John helped the kids preparing for school and all of them said goodbye to the feverish mom. Feeling sleepy, she took an aspirin and got back to her bedroom, falling fast asleep.

---

"Mommy! Mommy!" A 5 years old Robert was running towards her, coming out from the groves.

"What's up, honey?" Her attention shifted from Mike, still a toddler sitting beside her on the picnic towel, to Robert and she caught him in her arms. He's been scared by something and kept looking at the trees where he came from.

"It follows me, wants to eat me!" The boy sniffled and sobbed loudly on his mother's shoulder, while Mike whined and clung to her dress with his tiny hands, his lower lip trembling in fear.

A dark figure appeared from the woods, growling deeply and showing his fangs. The biggest wolf she'd ever seen slowly approached them, his burning eyes fixed on Veronica.

"Where's papa? I want papa!" Robert cried and the beast walked nearer.

Suddenly, a deep slow melody filled the air and echoed in her chest, and for some reason she couldn't explain it made the wolf run away.

She woke up and the sound of John's bass was reverberating in the house from the room below hers. Ronnie sighed in relief. Checking the clock, she noticed she's been sleeping for a couple of hours. It also started to rain outside. She closed her eyes and let the music pound in her chest and in her head, losing herself in bliss. When she heard John stopping and huffing in frustration she got up and went downstairs where she found him sitting with the bass on his lap.

He saw her leaning on the door's frame and gave her a soft smile. "Feeling better?"

"A bit, I took some meds and a nap right after the tea."

"Good." He rummaged the papers filled with notes and scribbles in front of him, lost again in his thoughts.

"Thank you."

John looked back at her, a bit confused.

"For what?"

"For staying home today. And… I was having another nightmare and somehow your music saved Robert, Mike and me from a beast that wanted to eat us. I heard you playing and… I don't know, that wolf disappeared." She waved her hand. "Don't mind me, it was just a dream."

He gave her a loving gaze. "No, that's great… it's lovely, I'm glad my music saved you all." He chuckled, looking at his papers. "I always do my best, you know…"

"Sure I know." She got next to him and peeked at the papers, stroking his curly hair. He lifted a hand around her waist. She was feeling cold and the warmth of his body was like a balm.

"New song?"

"Yes, I'm writing it with Fred. I'm trying to find a proper bassline now, he gave me a couple of hints, but… Uhm, maybe I'll try something else."

"The words are beautiful." She smiled fondly reading the title: 'Friends' and some of the lines, almost all of them handwritten by John with some addings in Freddie's calligraphy.

"Just writing down some feelings and thoughts as usual…"

She gave a light smack behind his head and giggled. "Stop being always so humble!"

"Okay, okay, sorry!" He laughed back. "We actually want to make it a song anyone can sing along with their friends, you know, maybe like 'Champions' , all together... Do you recognise these lines?" He pointed at the sheet and she read it.

'It's not easy love, but you've got friends you can trust / Friends will be friends / When you're in need of love they give you care and attention.'

"You told me that."

"Yes, I remember... You really needed a break then." She gave him a rub on his head. The band had a rough time some years before while recording Hot Space and she remember John being very nervous, almost hating his bandmates. All she could do was distracting him and giving some hints to relieve the stress.

"I went skiing with Rog and spent some time with the guys without thinking about music. Just as friends." He raised his chin to look up at her. "Thank you for the advice. I almost forgot they were friends before colleagues. And I'm glad we're doing good now."

"You know I'm always here for you, love."

"I also know you're my best friend." He turned to place a kiss on her belly, over the dress. Veronica rolled her eyes, blushing at his pun on the song. He couldn't help but teasing her with it and she knew. It was still her favourite, after all.

Suddenly a feverish shiver ran down her spine, making her freeze.

"I think you should rest again, Ronnie."

"Mmh, want to stay here with you…" she shrug, but her temperature was rising again.

"Ok then, if I have to carry you upstairs-" he stood up, carefully putting the bass on its stand, and tried to grab her, but she fought back giggling. He tickled her sides and she bursted out a laugh, her knees giving up and finally she fell into his arms.

"Look at what you make me do at my age, damn!"

"I surrender, sir." She giggled again and let him lead her to the bed. When Veronica slid under the covers, John tried to go back to work, but felt a hand grabbing his shirt. His wife was looking at him with liquid eyes, a sad smile on her lips.

"Can you stay for a bit?" She begged.

Usually she was capable of letting him go and focus on his work, but the illness always made her quite clingy. The new song could wait, John thought, she deserves it.

"Sure, love." He sat on the bed and held her hand.

"I don't want to have another nightmare…" she confessed, looking away.

He nodded and stroked her hand with his thumbs in silence. Just letting her know he was there. Fidgeting with her wedding ring, John felt guilty for not wearing his. He lost it during the last tour: he used to wear it constantly but one day, during a sound check, he had to remove it because a scratch on his bass's neck was making friction against his ring and he decided to try playing without it. He played well, but somehow the ring wasn't in his pocket anymore after the show.

"Still thinking about the ring?" Ronnie's voice guided him back on earth. "You know I'm not mad about it."

"Yes, but I still wonder how it could've been possible…" he closed his eyes, pouting.

Veronica took his left hand and placed a kiss on his ring finger, making him smile.

---

The whole day passed quietly under a pouring rain, Veronica managed to rest without nightmares, the medicines began to work and her fever got better, while John had some time to go on with the song, adjusting some lyrics and finding a good bassline. After taking the kids home, he watched a movie with them, trying to not disturb their mom, then prepared a hot soup for everyone and Ronnie finally joined her family for dinner.

"Mommy, how do you feel?" Laura asked.

"A bit better, sweetie. Dad took good care of me today."

"I even saved your mom from a wolf that tried to eat her in a dream!" John was absolutely proud of his heroic action and caught all the kids' attention.

"Really? How?!" Robert was eager for details.

"I played the bass while mom was sleeping and 'woosh!' the wolf disappeared!" He made little Joshua giggle in ecstasy.

"Is it true?" Laura turned to her mom.

"Yes, absolutely!" She nodded fiercely.

Suddenly, Mike sneezed .

And sneezed again.

Everyone stared at him, the table became silent as he sneezed the third time in a row and sniffled loudly.

John and Veronica exchanged a worried look.

"Mom, dad… I think I'm sick."

#queen fanfic #johnica #john deacon #john deacon fanfic #john deacon x veronica tetzlaff #john x veronica #veronica deacon #veronica tetzlaff #john deacon queen

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anneapocalypse · 5 years

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Chorus Rewatch: Season 12: Story & Characters

Crossposted from dreamwidth. Back in March, I started a full rewatch of the Chorus Trilogy with the purpose of studying its worldbuilding more closely. This series of posts is from that rewatch.

Season 12 is one of those that always held up better on the rewatch than week-to-week. While undeniably enjoyable, episodically it comes off a bit repetitive before you can see the whole arc. I remember at the time having complaints to the tune of multiple episodes in the first half in which the Reds and Blues try to train their soldiers and fail, and multiple episodes in the back half in which they try to evade the pirates, get found, escape, and so forth.

But my biggest beef with season 12 the first time around was definitely how it treats Carolina. I’m not really going to get into that here, because much was said about it and Miles heard the disappointment and he very much rectified things in season 13, and I forgave him! And since then I have only looked more kindly on season 12, appreciating it more and more not just for what comes later, but for what it accomplishes in its own right.

There is so much to talk about in this season that I’m splitting it up—the worldbuilding stuff, which was my primary purpose for this rewatch, will be its own post. In this one, I’m just going to talk about character stuff and general storytelling observations.

I like the way the helmet cam is planted early in the New Republic portion of the season, and paid off at the end when Tucker uses it to outsmart Felix.

I will always remember @farfromdaylight’s theory about Dr. Grey being Control rather fondly, even though in the end I’m glad she turned out not to be, both because Hargrove was a fantastic villain and because the Fed side of things desperately needed some sympathetic characters. I notice how genuinely scared Dr. Grey seems when the pirates attack her base; she sounds equally terrified when the pirates catch up to them at the jungle temple in season 13. Given how rarely her cheerful demeanor breaks, this comes across as sincere.

Yet there is also an odd moment with Dr. Grey, and for me this moment really fed the theory about her being Control. When the mercs offer the Reds and Blues safe passage off the planet, Dr. Grey seems to believe them, and actually encourages the Reds and Blues to take the deal and go home. This seems particularly strange given that she’s witnessed the mercs’ brutality firsthand and seems genuinely afraid of them in other scenes. I still don’t really know what to make of that, or why she would believe the offer to be genuine, other than the fact that narratively it’s useful to have a Chorus character tell them it’s okay to leave so as to increase the impact when they choose to stay.

Dr. Grey also drops a couple of odd worldbuilding elements in dialogue that aren’t really corroborated anywhere else in the text and yet we have no reason to doubt her on them. But we’ll get to those in another post.

This is not quite a new observation, but I am convinced Doyle has never actually been in combat himself. He faints at the sight of a weapon pointed at him, and when he confronts Kimball in downtown Armonia he says, “Don’t make me use this!” and I’m pretty sure his hands shake. It speaks to not simply cowardice but a lack of experience; how that reflects on Doyle’s character honestly depends a lot on how long he’s been the General. If he’s been in the position for a long time, sending a lot of other people to fight and die, the fact that unlike Kimball he’s never seen combat himself just isn’t a cute look.

I think Miles did make a real effort to smooth over the weirdness of the season 10 epilogue, letting Carolina and Epsilon talk a bit about what motivated them to go off alone. It’s still rocky, and I still don’t totally think the epilogue holds up as canon, but I can much more clearly picture how it would happen—Carolina and Church searching the wreck of the Merope for supplies, spotting some pirates boosting cargo, picking up radio chatter about selling a cloaking device, and setting off to investigate. Maybe they don't intend to be gone long, and then one thing leads to another and they travel farther and farther from the crash site, and then when they try to radio back they can’t get through. I tend to think Carolina was not at all sure the others even wanted her around at that point. It’s still weird on both ends, both that Wash seems to know they ran off on purpose (and aren’t, you know, injured or dead) and that it doesn’t occur to Carolina that Wash might not know that. But you know. It helps. An effort was made.

I was always disappointed Carolina and Wash never really talked during the Chorus Trilogy. While I don’t primarily ship them romantically (I enjoy other people’s portrayals of the ship but it’s not one I’m drawn to write myself), their relationship is important to me, in fact one of my favorite relationships in RvB; if you look at my AO3 stats from a few posts back, Agent Carolina & Agent Washington sits just below my two OTPs as my third most commonly-used relationship tag. They are important to me, with their shared history, their sometimes rocky relationship and the understanding they eventually reach. And I’ll admit, I’m partial to seeing characters actually talk things out, especially characters who don’t often open up, as that makes it all the more meaningful.

However, as a long time Rooster Teeth fan I’ve come to recognize that in RT shows, action sequences often serve the same purpose that conversation would for showing character dynamics and relationship growth. “Great Destroyers” served that purpose for Wash and Carolina in season 13, and I’ve come to appreciate that for what it is. But I’ve also come to appreciate some of the small things in season 12 that show their bond. There is a moment, for example, when Epsilon is a massive dick, acts like everyone but him is the problem, and goes offline. Carolina wearily announces she’s going to go check the perimeter. And Wash? Immediately volunteers to go with her. They both sound tired and stressed out. We don’t see them go patrol together, and maybe they don’t even talk. But they go together, for a moment away from the Reds and Blues, and I think that says something.

Much has been said and much will be said about Wash’s writing across RvB’s many arcs; that’s Another Post and one I’ve been working on for some time. But I will say that for me, most of his Chorus writing really does hold up these days. Perhaps I have more appreciation now for any proactive Wash at all, after the crash dummy seasons 15 and 16 made of him. But I like Chorus Wash, even when he’s wrong. I like that he still (consistent with past seasons) has trouble with unfamiliar weapons and prefers a trusty battle rifle. I even like that he’s the one who most conspicuously refuses to take sides in the Chorus conflict, where Donut and Sarge show at least a bit of an affinity for the Feds, and the Captains are pretty invested in the New Republic. Wash has been there, done that, and served the prison sentence when it comes to believing in the wrong cause, and he is not about to throw his allegiance behind either of this planet’s factions. The Reds and Blues are his people now, full stop.

So we come back to that Locus-Wash parallel. And I have to say—this time around, it almost works for me. It works a lot better when I set aside its narrative utility and the way it’s framed, and look at it from both characters’ perspectives mostly independent of one another. I have @hokuton-punch to thank for some of this, as our conversations on my season 11 post have sparked some further thought for me. I’d like to expand my present Locus thoughts into their own post, so I’ll keep it brief here—only say that I think Locus wants to see himself in Wash, wants to see something in Wash that probably isn’t there, while Wash sees in Locus what he doesn’t want to be and lets that drive him to some self-reflection he’s long been avoiding. And that reading mostly works for me, for both characters.

Wash’s fever dream is the stickiest part of it for me, but I think I’ve worked out a reading of that I can live with as well, which will also be another post.

Something else I notice about Locus is that he does not like the plan to use the Reds and Blues to fuel the civil war—pretty much from the minute go. It’s not just a season 11 anomaly that Locus thinks killing the prisoners on the Fed side is a better idea. He does a very poor job of gaining Wash and Donut and Sarge’s sympathy for the Federal Army—to the point that it really doesn’t feel like he’s trying. He repeatedly points out that everything will be fucked if they make contact; even Felix acknowledges Locus’s concerns on that front.

Notably, none of this is Locus having misgivings about the overall mission or about killing. No one can tell me that Locus’s “Like sheep to the pen” and his insisting to Wash repeatedly that he completes his missions at all costs doesn’t sound self-satisfied. Locus is against the plan to divide and use the Reds and Blues, specifically, because he thinks it’s too risky, and he ends up being pretty much right about that.

“They were underestimated,” he says tersely, which might as well be an “I told you so.” I think if it was just Felix he would just say “I told you so” outright, but given Hargrove’s prior history with the Reds and Blues I’m pretty sure this was at least partially his plan—finish off the Chorusans and tie up some of Freelancer’s loose ends in one fell swoop.

I watched all the special features, including the character journals. The Reds and Blues’ journals aren’t super illuminating but they are really entertaining. (Simmons writes BSG fanfic!) Locus’s journal is, in hindsight, really funny. But I’ll have more to say about that in a future post on Locus. For now I will just say: “Could I have been a Freelancer? Or would they have feared me?” is hilarious and Maine would have stuffed this nerd in a locker on day two.

#avian dentistry #chorus trilogy #red vs blue

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caddy-whump-us · 5 years

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I got tagged by @the-wandering-whumper!

Name: Cat

How old were you when you first realized you liked guys getting hurt?: I'm not completely sure, but I can definitely remember really liking any kids' cartoon that had the characters getting captured or kidnapped for an episode or two--and I still have an inclination towards captivity whump. I know that by the time I was a teenager and getting into animanga, I got into Gundam Wing and X/1999 and I really did like seeing Quatre and Kamui getting thrown around (those two especially).

What was that very first scene you remember gave you those glorious butterfly feelings?: Probably the scene in Disney's Robin Hood where Robin Hood's disguise at the archery tournament is literally sliced off him and Prince John just says "Seize him" and the next thing you know he's pounced on by guards and he's all wrapped up in chains and ropes and looking helpless.

Or else it was a scene in a Wonderworks cartoon where a werewolf has captured a young human character in a forest, rendered them unconscious, and then the character wakes up tied sitting in wooden chair with tall sides (so the character's hands are tied above their head to each side) and they wake up pulling on the ropes and saying, "Please let me go!" but the werewolf is very precisely telling them that he is going to bite them at midnight so they'll turn into a werewolf too--I literally recreated this scene secretly in my room with my toys I liked it so much.

Bonus for the text-based choose-your-own-adventure RPG computer game I played in 5th grade where one of the paths ended with "you" being captured, tied up, and dumped off the back of a truck in the woods (and I always pictured a boy character for this).

And there's an episode of the original TMNT where April is held captive by Shredder for, like, the whole episode and it was my secret fave, but that centers around a female characters, so does that count?

When and how was it that you realized “Hey, I’m not so messed up in the head!” and that there’s a definition and community for this sort of thing?: I guess I never really thought I was all that "messed up" for liking this (after all, they put these scenes in kids' movies), but it seemed like it was just something that one wasn't supposed to talk about. It was a bit like liking scary movies: some people like it, but it's creepy to most people, so it's not polite to talk about it. (I was always afraid of getting in trouble if someone found some of my writings and drawings, but some of it was more vent art than whump stuff.)

I played out some whumpy scenes in my LJ and DW RP days without knowing the terminology for it at the time ("hurt/comfort" was a more common term then) and wrote whumpy stories with OCs for years and years. But it's only been in the last few months that I've realized there's a separate, identifiable community just for these kinds of scenes, even though I've been either imagining or writing them for ages. And y'all are the nicest bunch of sadists I've ever met, it's really true.

What’s your favorite whump trope?: The Helpless Look. You know the one. It's the face-down/eyes-up, soft mouth look when a whumpee is good and stuck and hurting or about to hurt. It's so good. (Weirdly young Hugh Grant makes this face a lot--albeit in non-whump scenes?)

Along with that or following after it is the Submissive Look Down, which is like, so yummy, with the whumpee both feeling helpless and afraid and accepting of the circumstances. Bonus points for a little heavy breathing here.

Helplessness seems to be a recurring theme for me and whump. It may be why I really like whumpees in bandages too--especially kind of trying to get on with things despite hurting. Patched-up and bandaged is a great look for whumpees.

But I'm also a fan of Tied Up and Tied to a Chair and Tied Down to a Bed. Chained to the Wall with a Collar is good, and so are cages, but I'm really more fond of just Tied Up.

I do like a good beatdown, sure, but I really seem to like a lot of "non-traditional" whump, like non-con body mods (ear piercing or tattoos or traumatic haircuts). Surprise, whumpee: you're now part of a human experimentation project, so hold still while we ink on your identification numbers with a needle. Or, oh, hey, the whumper just carved a magic sigil into the whumpee body, making the whumpee into an unwilling magical familiar and storage space for the whumper's spare magical energy.

What’s a whump trope that you hate?: Mindless or aimless physical beatings. It just gets boring to me? I really need some connection between the characters or something to make the situation more interesting. I'm also not a huge fan of whump by inanimate object--like a car accident, say--unless there's some good focus on the aftermath.

What’s your favorite whumped character?: I'm honestly not into all that many fandoms and I've found I really dig OC whump, strange as that sounds. But if I have to choose, I'll look to my past: Kamui Shiro from X/1999 is so pretty when he bleeds or when he's wearing all kinds of bandages.

Quatre from Gundam Wing takes a stab to the gut with a broken fencing foil late in the series and I loved that (and the dozens of doujinshi where Trowa comes to his rescue after) along with the Zero Wing mind-control stuff (again, rescue).

Now for the last several years, I've been hung up on Cain Hargreaves from Godchild/Cain Saga. He's got a painful childhood (which is another issue), but he takes a few hits now that he's grown. He's quite pretty when he's helpless. Now, his faithful servant Riff gets fully whumped on several occasions, which leads to some wonderful emotional whump for Cain, so that's a win-win.

And Setsuna Monou from Angel Sanctuary is great for blood and bandages and drama--he’s a bit spunkier than some, but he gets whumped quite a bit too, and he’s pretty, so it’s nice.

I really think Kamui and Quatre are the base elements for my favorite OC whumpee Julian.

What’s that whumped scene(s) that you’ve watched over and over again. (We know you do it and we understand): I actually don’t have an answer for this? I’m really not into a lot of fandoms (especially not television or movie fandoms), so I’m going to have to skip this one.

Bullet or stab wounds?: Stab wounds, for sure. They're somehow...slower? More intimate? Don't get me wrong: a good bullet wound is fine too (and I wrote a very long big bang fic about the Clint Eastwood character The Man With No Name that involves both bullet wounds and a no-holds-barred beatdown--it's on my ao3 if you want to see it, wink wink). But I love knives--for stabbing characters, slicing characters, holding to their throat, &c. Mmmm good stuff.

Fevers or Hypothermia?: Fevers! Hypothermia doesn't really do it for me, but I bet there's some good whumpy hypothermia that would. But, of the two, fevers: whumpees confined to bed, with caretakers (grumpy ones, kind ones, unwilling ones, resigned ones), labored and shuddering breathing, chills and sweats, delirium, bad dreams, glittery feverish eyes--I love it.

Emotional or physical?: Psychological, actually. That is, what the whumper is doing might or might not be all that painful physically, but the psychological toll might be higher than the physical. I think it’s somewhere between emotional whump and physical whump--or it unites the two.

If I have to choose between the two, though? Physical, but I really need some emotional involvement in it. It's not just about the physical, it's also the emotional (whether I know what the emotional whump is because I know the story or I'm picking up/projecting the story).

Injured and asks for help or tries to cover it up?: Both of these are so good! I think it depends on the character and what's going to make for more delicious whump, really. Because I've got some OCs who are delicious when they're hurt and asking for help and others who are amazing when they try to tough it out.

My fondness for helplessness really does mean I like both.

Lastly, does anyone know about this addiction of yours?: Not...that I know of? Now, someone might and they just haven't told me that they know. I was always down for a whumpy scene in my LJ/DW RP days, but that wasn't so unusual there--it was all for the sake of character angst (as we called it then). I've not confessed to my addition to anyone, though. So there you have it.

Pass this on!

#not whump #chatter #meme

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humble-wayside-flower · 6 years

Text

Title: Ship in a Bottle Category: Gen Characters: Fjord & Mollymauk Tealeaf Rating: G Word Count: 1,231

Summary: After returning to Zadash from their mission in the Labenda Swamp, Fjord has a bit too much to drink, and Molly tries to offer some comfort.

(Also on AO3)

He sits heavily on a stool by the bar. With a quick knock on the counter to catch the attention of the barmaid, Fjord slides two gold pieces over. He orders as much whiskey as that will get him- about two-thirds of a middle shelf bottle’s worth. She sits it in front of him with an empty glass, walking off to help another of the few remaining customers seated around the inn. He pours a half glass, knocks it back. He pours another, this time full, and does the same.

The third pour he lets sit. It’s funny how a few days on the road, sleeping in a variety of uncomfortable places, can make anything feel like home. The Song and Supper Inn in Zadash is not ship off the coast of Wildemount, but it is a sight for sore eyes upon arrival nonetheless. It had been late when the Mighty Nein finally rolled into the city, and even later still when they finished unpacking their things into their rooms after visiting the Gentleman to report on their mission.

He rolls his neck, left then right, then knocks back the third drink. It burns his throat the whole way down, settling like a lead weight in his empty stomach. He pours a fourth glass. Caleb and Nott had trudged upstairs almost immediately, claiming sleep and study needs. Beau, Jester, and Yasha followed soon after. Fjord had opted to stay up for awhile longer. He had not slept much in the last few days since his episode in the safe house, and what hours he had caught were more restless than restful.

Still, he was not ready to take that plunge again quite yet. He closes his eyes and water swims in front of him, dark in all directions. He opens them again. He knocks back the fourth drink, following it with a grimace as he clears his throat. The alcohol leaves his chest feeling buzzy and warm, almost uncomfortably so, while doing his headache no favors. His vision starts to swim a little, even with his eyes open, so he closes them, then opens them again. It doesn’t help.

A hand rests on his shoulder and he whirls around, fist raised in the ready, to be met with the sight of a startled purple tiefling. Fjord drops his fist immediately, using that hand to scrub his eyes now. “Fuck Molly! Give a man some warning.”

Molly holds his hands up in surrender, sitting smoothly on the stool next to Fjord. “Sorry friend didn’t mean to scare.” His gaze moves from Fjord’s flushed face to rest on the now slightly less than half full bottle. “Might want to slow down on that.”

Fjord barks a sharp, mirthless laugh. “That’s rich, Molly. I saw how hungover you were the day after that gnoll fight in Alfield.” And before Molly can get a word in edgewise he continues, “And don’t try to tell me that was different. Ain’t nothing different about it.” He shuts his mouth now, pouring another drink. His real accent had started to poke through at the end, the twangy accent harder and harder to uphold the more the liquor works its way through his system.

His limbs feel heavy now, but the weight on his chest is lessened. He feels looser than he has in days…weeks…months, and that’s nice, but dangerous.

The tiefling raises his hands in the same gesture again, turning it deftly into a wave at the barmaid. “Another glass please?”

“Anything you’d like sir.” She says, voice betraying fatigue at the late hour. Even Molly’s accent has grown thicker as the evening wears on. She hands him the glass, and walks off again, this time disappearing into the kitchen.

Molly tips the glass wordlessly towards the bottle, now only a quarter full, as if to ask you mind? Fjord debates grabbing the bottle and downing the rest of it right there, out of what, spite? Frustration? Instead he slides it over towards the tiefling, who fills his glass to the brim, draining half of it in one sip. He takes the burn like a champ, though Fjord is not surprised. He’s seen Molly drink worse swill than this in larger quantities.

After a few moments of silent reflection as Fjord drains his last glass, and Molly sips slowly at the last half of his drink, the tiefling breaks the silence by asking, “Copper for your thoughts?”

Fjord’s head is buzzing like a hornet’s nest now, the alcohol hitting fast and heavy all at once. From his, admittedly impaired, judgement, only maybe an hour and half had passed since he first sat. “Don’ have anythin’ to say.” He mumbles, words sliding and colliding into each other, crashing on a wave of drunken nausea that turns his stomach.

Molly’s gaze is impossibly soft, and Fjord just can’t handle it, so he looks down at his lap. His hands rest there uselessly, so he starts fidgeting with the red cord he keeps tied around his waist.

“You need to get some sleep Fjord.” Molly’s voice is not forceful, nor is it pleading. It simply is, a statement of fact, thought tinged with real concern. “I don’t think I’ve seen you sleep more than a wink in three days.”

“Don’ wan’ t’a sleep.” The half-orc says, twisting the loose ends of the cord around his pointer finger so tight the digit goes pale. “Th’ dreams…” He trails off into an inaudible mumble. He loosens the cord again and the color rushes back.

“You’re already exhausted. Going to make yourself ill if you haven’t already.” Molly sets his glass down, reaching a hand to rest the back of it against Fjord’s forehead.

Emotion lurches inside his chest at the easy touch, clenching around his heart and squeezing. Jester flashes through his brain at that, but he shuts it down quick. She deserves better than his drunken musings. “M’m not ill.” He will not cry, damn it, he won’t, though his eyes sting at the corners.

Molly tuts maternally. “That fever says otherwise. C’mon, up to bed with you. The room’s ready.” He slides off the stool, placing another gold piece on the counter for the barmaid to pick up on her way out. He grabs the half-orc’s shoulders, twisting gently to get Fjord to slide so he is standing on the floor.

The floor sways slightly, or maybe it’s just Fjord, a combo of alcohol induced vertigo and the shivering that wracks his frame. Either way he feels like he did fifteen years ago on his first time sailing with Vandrin.

If Molly notices his tears, he does not say anything, just hoists Fjord’s arm around his shoulder’s and walks him up the stairs. Fjord has not been a praying man for many years, but he sends a prayer of gratitude to whichever deity happens to be listening for the tiniest blessings.

Molly helps the half-orc strip down to his underclothes, which are damp with more sweat than expected, and lays him down on the bed on top of the blanket. “Got to get that temp down.” The tiefling explains, stepping away to undress himself and complete his nightly sword wrapping ritual. The last thing Fjord remembers before sleep overtakes him is the press of a cool cloth against his temple and the small comfort of knowing someone who cared was there.

#fjord #mollymauk #mollymauk tealeaf #critical role #wildemount campaign #cr2 #critical role spoilers #my fic #excuse me I am here

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rustandruin · 6 years

Text

can’t buy me love (but you sure can show it)

AO3

Home isn’t the four walls you stay in, day in and day out. It’s a place where you feel free to be yourself, and are cared for.

Or, Robert, Aaron, Liv, and Gerry’s lives together observed through a series of vignettes about the random purchases they make for each other.

Day 1: Home/Domesticity

“He doesn’t even like yoghurt.” — Ancient Dingle Proverb

:::::

Dark Chocolate

Robert Sugden doesn’t have a lot of indulgences, but he does like to reward himself with a single square of dark chocolate every now and then, usually after a meal, or a job well done — and sometimes, very rarely, when he’s stressed about something big.

It’s not until they’d officially moved in together (the first time) and bars of some kind of dark, bitter German chocolate started appearing in the refrigerator that Aaron had put it together. Because as much as Robert likes his treats rich and somewhat sweet, he also likes them in small bites doled out over a long period of time.

They’ve never quite talked about it, but anytime Aaron sees that telltale bar is nearing its second or third last square (usually once every couple of months), he makes sure to pick another one up at David’s shop, even noting the name of the exact brand Robert likes so as to never deviate from the norm. The older man never says anything when he spots it among the rest of their groceries, but always finds a way to show his gratitude; cooking a favourite dish the next day, or being a little extra attentive in the bedroom that night.

When Robert moves back in (the second and final time), there’s already an unopened bar of chocolate sitting in the refrigerator — one of the many surprises Aaron has had waiting for his husband. Only this time, the older man proceeds to unwrap it in front of him, breaking off squares for both of them, and offering Aaron his with a soft smile.

Despite the slightly bitter taste, their kisses that night are little sweeter than usual.

:::::

Pads

She can tell who’s bought them based on which kind appear in the little wicker basket under the bathroom sink. If it’s Robert, there’s usually two kinds (regular and overnight), both always the same brand. If it’s Aaron, it’s the standard kind, with the brand varying based on what kind of sale there might be at the chemist’s — or if Tracy’s working at David’s Shop that day, eager to give her big brother a quiet but understanding nudge in the right direction. (She’s never been so grateful they’ve started stocking up on and selling these kinds of necessities.)

It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Not because they’re both men daring to buy feminine hygiene products in public or anything silly like that. But because it’s a sign that they’re thinking of her and what she might need and making sure she’s always provided for. Even though she’s more than old enough to take care of this kind of thing herself. Even though this is something they could have left to Chas.

(And because she can still remember the first time she’d gotten her period while in their care, and how they’d both been ill-equipped to deal with it. But now? Now, one of them — probably Robert — has figured out that she prefers pads to tampons, and so stopped them buying those, the box of them mysteriously vanishing after their first few months living together.)

There have been many times she’s wanted to thank them. But it always feels silly, in very much the way it feels absolutely ridiculous to say, “Thank you for loving me.”

Only that actually is what she does mean to say.

Because she is thankful that they love and care enough to know these things about her, in very much the same way she knows little things about them. Like how Robert has instructed Marlon and Vic to always give him double the regular helping of chips for when Aaron doesn’t order any, so her chip-loving big brother can pick them off of Robert’s plate, while still enjoying whatever it is he has decided to order that day, or how Aaron’s been secretly learning Klingon so he can surprise the older man on his birthday by saying something in it. (She didn’t ask.)

And because she’s never quite able to form those words, she does her best not to be so gobby every now and then, or just help out around the house more. But then, there are days like today, where she’s seized with the sudden desire to give them both a hug as they’re sitting there watching yet another episode of Top Gear, quietly bickering among themselves, their conversation intersperse with low chuckles at the other’s jokes. It’s all so utterly domestic — and nothing like she’d have ever dreamed she’d be a part of. So she gives in to that particular desire, going over and leaning forward and squeezing them both from behind, before quickly heading upstairs, a hot blush staining her cheeks red.

“What was that about?” She hears Robert ask, confused by this sudden turn of events.

“I have no idea,” Aaron replies, sounding just as baffled. He then calls out, “Liv? You okay?”

Yeah, she thinks to herself before yelling it out. I’m doing just fine.

:::::

Frozen Pizza

He’s never been the best cook, but Gerry knows a thing or two about frozen pizzas. After all, he’s only been buying and making (and eating) them his entire life, seeing as how his parents were never very good cooks — if they ever bothered putting food on the table, that is.

So the first chance he gets, he goes down to David’s shop and buys five personal size pizzas and a range of different toppings, rushing to get home before anyone else.

Thankfully, Liv’s the only one there, spread out on the sofa, watching yet another rerun of The Simpsons.

“What’s all this?” She asks, intrigued enough to get up and come see what he’s up to.

“What does it look like?” He asks her as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m makin’ tea.”

“Not sure it counts if you’re just reheating something in the oven,” she teases, examining one of the boxes peeping out of the bag.

“Yeah, but I’m not just doin’ that, am I?” Gerry says, as he takes the box from her and starts opening it. “I’m makin’ them special.”

He nods at the other bag beside the first one. “I got toppings for each of ya.”

Liv’s expression softens at that.

“Why ya doin’ this?” She asks, but judging from the way she’s picking up and opening the other boxes for him, he guesses she already knows.

“Just wanted to say thanks, I suppose,” he shrugs at her. “They don’t have to keep lettin’ me live here like this.”

She nods and starts unpacking the rest of his purchases.

~~~~~

Aaron and Robert are both surprised and touched by his display of gratitude, neither of them having expected this. For once, neither man teases him, even though dessert is quite literally a cheese pizza with Nutella spread across it and various chocolate candies stuck on it, as well as crushed peanuts. (When he was little, he named this creation the “Peanut Butter Gerry Time.”)

(And though no one really says it, they all kind of get it. Because home isn’t the four walls you stay in, day in and day out. It’s a place where you feel free to be yourself, and are cared for.)

As they begin to clear up, Gerry does his best to explain what tonight was about. But Aaron quickly brushes it off. “Come on mate, it’s us that should be thankin’ you. Never had freshly fried bacon on a cheese pizza, but I’m tellin’ ya, I’m never going back.”

“Duly noted,” Robert had replied, before turning to Gerry. “I know you’re a master of frozen pizza and all, but if you ever want to learn how to make one from scratch, I can teach you. It’s quite fun actually.”

It hardly takes him less than a second to agree.

~~~~~

It takes them less than a month to institute “Pizza Night,” a night where he and Liv relieve Robert of all cooking responsibilities as they do their best to follow his carefully demonstrated instructions.

It’s then, gently stretching the freshly risen dough in his hands — and listening to Robert and Aaron discuss something Vic had said earlier in the day — that Gerry smiles quietly to himself.

He may know everything there is about making a frozen pizza, but he much prefers this instead.

:::::

Cold Medicine

There’s a lot of things that make Aaron Dingle grumpier than usual — and falling ill is one of them. In that regard, he gives Robert a run for his money as the worst patient in the Dingle-Sugden household. (Though he is fairly less dramatic about the whole thing, preferring to suffer in silence, except for the occasional sneeze or cough.)

So anytime the older man hears his partner produce even a hint of a telltale sniffle, he springs into action, first hitting up the chemist for the extra-strength cold and flu medication before stopping over at David’s for every manner of Dingle comfort food possible. (A box of milk chocolate Digestives, a bunch of bananas, and this awful powdered chicken noodle soup that his husband really shouldn’t eat but remembers fondly from the days Chas used to make it for him as a teen.)

By the time Aaron gets home from work, the entire place is smelling of Robert’s own made-from-scratch, Thai-influenced chicken soup — the blonde deciding to save the packet kind for if his husband really finds himself in the throws of a fever — and the sofa’s been turned into some kind of blanket fort hybrid. (The first time Gerry’d seen it, he’d wanted to dive right in, but had quickly changed his mind after seeing the ice-cold glare Robert had thrown his way.)

“You don’t have to do this you know,” he grumbles even as he kicks off his shoes and strips down to his usual hoodie and slides under the comforter Robert has purchased for this purpose alone. It’s clear from his slightly sluggish movements and a grumpier-than-usual demeanour he’s well on his way to a head cold.

“I know I don’t,” Robert tells him, bringing over a tray of soup, as well as a tiny bowl of those oyster crackers he loves so much. “But I’d rather over-pamper you now than sit through two weeks of you refusing to see the doctor until you’re on Death’s door, in which case I’ll have to carry you to the hospital myself.”

“What happened to, ‘In sickness and in health,’?” Aaron asks in between loudly slurped bites, drops of warm soup splattering across his chest.

“When you’re sick, it’s more a case of, ‘When will Death do us part’?” Robert jokes, joining him under the covers with a tray of his own.

The younger man takes a break just to elbow him in the stomach, before resuming his eating with gusto.

Robert switches on the TV, already having cued up Rocky Balboa for them to watch. But before he hits play, he turns to Aaron and softly says, “I only do all this because I’d like to keep you around for as long as I can, you know.”

This brooks him a response from the younger man, who turns to him and gazes at him with warm, understanding eyes. “I know.”

Robert leans in for a kiss but Aaron doesn’t. He shakes his head. “I’d like to keep you around a lot longer as well.”

A twinkle of mischief finds its way into his face as he quickly adds, “Because if you get sick, it’ll definitely be Death doin’ us part. ‘cause I’ll have to kill ya to stop all the moanin’.”

“I don’t moan when I’m sick,” Robert protests, insulted by the very notion.

Aaron gives him a pointed stare.

Finally, Robert concedes, “Okay. Maybe I do moan. But it’s only a little.”

(Aaron just snorts, but quickly covers it up with another loud slurp.)

:::::

Candles

It’s Liv that first alerts them to the fast-approaching date, something Gerry, rather surprisingly, doesn’t say a word about — even though they’d all expected him to not shut up about it for at least a week.

“Maybe he doesn’t want us to make a big deal of it?” Aaron suggests as he laces up his work boots, one morning before work.

“Have you met Gerry?” Robert asks him, only a hint of sarcasm in his voice, as he buttons up his shirt. “He texted me pictures of the first carrot he pulled from Doug’s garden.”

“Then why wouldn’t he mention his birthday?” Aaron asks, getting to his feet.

“How should I know?” Robert shrugs. “So, what are we going to do then? The usual?”

“The usual?” Aaron asks, confusion entering his voice as he turns to face his husband.

“Breakfast, cake, and presents?” the other man explains, as he checks himself out in the mirror. (The younger man uses this opportunity to admire his husband’s firm behind, sending out a mental thank you to whoever sold him that pair of jeans.)

Aaron tears his eyes away a moment later and nods thoughtfully, “Yeah… And then maybe a small party at ours later.”

“Sounds good,” Robert confirms, stepping forward to give him a kiss on the lips. “Alright. I have to rush to that meeting, but we’ll talk about this later, yeah?”

Aaron smiles back in response. “Yeah.”

~~~~~

When he doesn’t show up the morning of his actual birthday, they all exchange concerned glances across the table, while a chocolate ice cream cake slowly melts, and a stack of freshly made pancakes begins to cool.

Liv goes up to check on him but returns shortly thereafter. “He’s not up there, and the bed doesn’t even look slept on.”

“Does that mean he just didn’t come home, then?” Aaron asks, confused by this development.

“He could be staying at a mate’s,” Robert suggests. “It is a Sunday.”

“No,” Liv tells him, sure of herself. “Gerry always comes home. He would have told me. He never stays out this long.”

“Alright, let’s give him a ring then,” Robert tells her. “Find out where he is.”

Liv does as he says. But she shakes her head a second later. “It went straight to voicemail.”

“It must be switched off,” Aaron says, running a hand through his hair. “Like usual. This is why I’m always tellin’ him to keep it charged.”

“Let’s not panic. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this,” Robert says calmly. “I’ll ring Doug. Aaron, you call Belle and see if Lachlan’s seen him. Liv, ring Chas and find out if he was at the pub last night.”

They all get to work, each calling the person they’d been assigned, despite the relatively early hour.

Doug, an early riser, is the first to confirm he hasn’t seen Gerry. Followed by Chas, and eventually Belle (and Lachlan).

No one’s seen him today — or last night for that matter.

“What do we do?” Aaron asks, worry starting to creep it’s way into his voice. “Do we call the call the police?”

“Maybe we better check with a few more people first,” Robert says, even though there’s more than a hint of doubt in his tone. (If anything, Gerry is an over-texter, constantly alerting them to any update in his or Tip’s lives. Robert’s never known so much about a dog’s poo in his life.) “It could just be that his phone just died before he could phone Liv or one of us. Do we know any of those friends he’s always hanging out with?”

He sounds like he’s barely convinced himself.

“Know any of whose friends?”

They all look up to see a slightly sweaty Gerry standing in the doorway, none of them having noticed his entrance. He’s dressed exactly the way he was yesterday.

“Gerry!” Liv exclaims, the first to recover from her shock. “Where were ya?! We were worried sick.”

It speaks volumes that neither man corrects her or makes a joke. Because it’s true. Though they’d been hiding it, they really had been concerned for his welfare.

Thankfully Gerry has the grace to look apologetic.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry ya,” he says, concern etched all over his face.

“That still doesn’t tell us where you were,” Aaron points out gruffly.

Gerry’s cheeks turned pink.

“Today’s my birthday,” he tells them, unaware that they already know, and not nearly observant enough to have noticed what’s been sitting on the table. “Thought I’d go and see my mum and dad.”

The mood in the room instantly shifts, the intense worry transforming into a more gentle version of itself.

“So, how’d it go?” Liv asks after a long beat of silence has passed.

“They weren’t there,” Gerry shrugs, as if it was the response he’d expected.

Robert and Aaron exchange a look at that. Liv’s attention is focused on her mate. “So they just left ya?”

“I guess,” he says with another shrug. “I tried to ask around about them, but no one remembered. They still thought I was in prison. I was gonna call you but then my phone died and I used the last of my money to get back…”

No one says anything for a bit, each one of them knowing there aren’t enough words for a situation like this, and that nothing they say will be adequate enough.

“Is that an ice cream cake?!” Gerry suddenly exclaims, unfettered joy shining through his voice in that way it always does. “For breakfast?!”

It takes him another second to realise the significance of it. “Wait… Is this for me?”

“No, you idiot,” Liv tells him warmly. “It’s for the other Gerry Roberts who lives here. Of course, it’s for you!”

Gerry looks at all their faces, one by one in succession. “I love it!”

And then, a little more shyly, “You didn’t have to.”

“We know,” Aaron tells him firmly. “But we wanted to.”

“Everyone deserves a birthday celebration,” Robert adds, leaving the counter he’d been leaning against and taking the empty seat by Aaron at the table.

“Even teenagers who never remember to charge their phones,” Aaron adds, slightly sternly, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Gerry’s cheeks turn pink at that, but it does nothing to dampen the sunny smile on his face.

“Alright,” Robert says, clearing his throat. “Let’s get this party started. Liv, pass me that knife.”

~~~~~

Finally, it’s time for presents, which of course Gerry is completely bowled over by. (“You mean this wasn’t it?!”)

Robert and Aaron go first, the scruffy haired man handing him an impeccably wrapped rectangular package. The teen opens it to find a set of grey sheets. The look on his face is a mixture of confusion and delight, clearly not having anticipated this at all.

“Uh. Thanks. I’ve never owned my own bed sheets before!” He tells them, running his hand over the soft, folded fabric.

Both older men trade knowing glances and smiles at that.

“We’ve all had a chat,” Robert informs him gently. “And we decided you won’t be sleepin’ in our guest room anymore. You’ll be sleeping in your own room instead.”

“You’re kicking me out on my birthday?” Gerry asks in surprise, pausing from feeling the softness of the fabric in his hands.

“No, you muppet,” Aaron says, shaking his head. “We’re giving you the guest room. It’s going to be your bedroom from now on.”

The boy’s eyes widen in disbelief at that news. He looks at Aaron, before turning back to Robert, before turning back to Aaron again.

“What… What about Seb?” Gerry asks, turning to Robert. “Won’t he need a place to stay?”

The older man smiles at the consideration the boy is showing.

“Yeah, well, we decided I didn’t really need a home office after all,” Robert tells him, his eyes flitting to Aaron for half a second. “We’re going to turn that into Seb’s room instead.”

Gerry nods, but now there’s a confused frown on his face. “But… Why?”

“You’ve been livin’ here long enough,” Aaron explains with a shrug. “Just thought we’d make it official. Give ya an actual place to call ‘home.’”

“I don’t even have stuff,” the teen insists, the news still sinking in.

“Then it’s a good thing it’s ya birthday,” Liv pipes up. “Now you have someplace to put all your presents.”

He blushes at the very thought.

“Speakin’ of which,” Liv says, before sliding over her present.

Gerry picks up the long, thin, rectangular object and rips away the paper to reveal a wooden sign bearing his name. He grins at the sight of it.

“Just thought you’d like to really make it official,” she tells him, happy with his reaction to it.

“I don’t know what to say,” he says, unable to take his eyes off of it.

“That’s a first,” Robert quips, eliciting a chuckle from all of them — including Gerry, who’s still clutching the sign.

“Thank you,” he finally manages, the word laced with all the emotion he’s currently feeling but simply unable to express.

“You’re one of us now,” Aaron tells him firmly. “So you better not go out without telling one of us ever again. You get that?”

“Yes sir,” Gerry replies, bashfully.

“Good,” Robert says, stepping in. “Now go upstairs and start figuring out where you’re going to put your stuff. Aaron and I have got to start clearing up if we’re going to get ready for your party tonight. Half the village is coming. Even Cain.”

“When did you get so popular?” Liv asks, surprised by this news.

“I dunno,” Gerry shrugs. “Guess I just have a way with people!”

~~~~~

“So, what’d you wish for?” Liv asks Gerry as she removes another one of the candles she’d picked up from David’s Shop earlier in the day off the cake they’d gotten for the party. Beside her, the older boy is busy helping himself to yet another slice, effectively reducing the amount they’d had left over even more, reasoning that this would make it easier for her to store the rest in only one container. Neither Aaron or Robert say anything, seeing as they’re currently preoccupied with their own task in the living room, the younger man playfully taunting the slightly annoyed older one by repeatedly moving the big black garbage bag he’s holding just out of reach any time he attempts to deposit an empty plastic cup or a used napkin.

Gerry thinks back to that moment right after they’d finished singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him, when he’d looked up and seen Liv and Aaron and Robert all smiling at him from off to the side, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing really,” he tells her earnestly, using a fork to cut carve out a bite for himself. “Don’t really need anything else, do I?”

NOTES

I’ve always thought you can learn a lot about someone by what they’re choosing to buy at the grocery store and who they might be making that purchase for. It’s a nice little act of domesticity that can be filled with so much meaning. Hopefully, I nailed all that.

I DID tweak a few things from canon (like Liv’s choice of period management products), but I just felt like it lent something to the story to do it this way. (Also, the Dingle proverb thing cracked me up and I couldn’t bring myself to cut that weird joke. So apologies for that.) I’m also not quite sure about the characterisation and tone in certain parts, so if there’s an issue, please let me know. As always, please leave any thoughts, comments, questions, or concerns you might have below, or come find me over on Ao3 under her_dark_materials.

#robron #emmerdale #rw18 #robron week #robron week 2018 #roblivionberry #aaron dingle #robert sugden #liv flaherty #gerry roberts #her dark materials #rust and ruin writes #my fic #robron fic #robron fanfic #robron fics #my writing #rw2018 #their dark materials

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