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togetherwearerapture · 2 years

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FEVER (NS*FW)

BOOK: Open Heart (Book Two; post Chapter 2) PAIRING: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Laura Levchenko) RATING: MA WARNINGS: NSFW (contains explicit language, adult themes, and sexual references); DNI unless 18+ WORD COUNT: 2,909 words SUMMARY: After an evening full of temptation, Ethan Ramsey must face the inevitable truth – Laura Levchenko is a woman impossible to forget. AUTHOR’S NOTE: Well… and here it is. My very first attempt at writing something mildly smutty with a generous dose of pure angst! A.k.a. a passionate, tormented ode to Laura Levchenko. Ethan in denial and desperately trying to convince himself he is doing things for the greater good? That’s my jam. Fingers crossed that it feels right. Now allow me to humbly hide for eternity. A big thank you to my brain twin @mvalentine for being my beta reader on this piece! Her support means everything. ❤️

July 2019

Cool whiskey stones clink against Ethan’s favourite glass as he tosses them in, the sharp sound momentarily making him snap out of his thoughts. He received them from Naveen as a present for his thirty-fifth birthday, stored in a box made of dark walnut wood, with his initials carved into the top. They both laughed that it was supposed to be Ethan’s small SOS kit – a purist like himself would never put ice into his favourite liquor. Ice dilutes it. It reduces its richness. A heinous act such as that would most likely feel like committing a crime.

The box is usually displayed on a kitchen shelf, more to admire the thoughtful gesture than to put them to use. Ethan prefers to treat himself to top-shelf scotch as it is. After all, there is no better feeling than the delicious burn of warm golden-hued liquid running down his throat.

Tonight, he does not want to treat himself to such luxury. He needs to soothe the burning fever raging inside him. He needs to dull the pain.

He opens the kitchen cabinet, a single fingertip skimming over the tops of the expensive bottles. His eyes briefly run over the various labels. Johnnie Walker. Macallan. The Glenlivet. Weller. Jack Daniel’s. Yamazaki. Lagavulin. He almost reaches for the cheapest bottle in his impressive collection but changes his mind and grabs the half-opened Johnnie Walker instead.

He is profoundly desperate, but not desperate enough to torture himself like that. Besides, nothing could ever punish him more than her. And he rightfully deserves so.

The memories of the night come crashing over him like a sudden tidal wave of a tsunami, all detailed snapshots of her that are now forever etched into his very core. He will never forget the charming outline of her spine as she elegantly leant forward in an enthusiastic conversation with Governor Rivera – a view he could enjoy plentifully thanks to the backless silk halter top that gently caressed her skin with every slight movement.

He will also never forget the breath-taking sight of her graceful, long neck as she ran her fingers through her rich copper waves and gathered them together, tossing them over one shoulder. The air around her faintly smelled like mandarin, grapefruit, and juniper, but upon closer inspection, he noticed subtle hints of amber woods and musk. There was a slight oceanic note to her cologne, something salty that instantly reminded him of long summer days by the sea, fresh citruses cut on a plate in front of him. It was a bright fragrance, delicate but sharp at the same time – particularly fitting for someone like her.

But he will also never forget the palpable distance between them that evening, tangible and sturdy walls that now separate them being the result of their mutual stubbornness. (Though is truly their stubbornness at fault? Is it not his unwillingness to face his demons that has driven this wedge between them?) With every attempt to get closer, she pulled away ever further, and he could not blame her one bit, for he is the exact same person who made things so irreparably complicated.

However, he did not expect her to be so masterful at it. He still feels her beautiful eyes of the same shade as his preferred liquor boring into him as she extended her hand at the end of the dinner, offering him the most impassive goodbye possible.

“Have a good night, Dr. Ramsey.”

He takes the glass in his hand, gently swirling its content before taking a generous sip.

Her beautiful eyes of the same shade as his preferred liquor.

Ironically, what once used to offer him the much-needed escape from any distraction has become the one thing that immediately reminds him of her. Laura Levchenko. The woman that can both heal and completely ruin him at the same time.

That moment of utter hostility is nothing new to him. He has seen her beautiful face become the most flawless mask of utter coldness many times, sometimes divinely astonishing and sometimes downright cruel. But there is always that unmistakable spark in her eyes, even during moments such as those. The fire behind them rarely subsides, and one can see it clearly, as long as they pay meticulous attention.

His memories immediately start drifting to a very dangerous territory, one that he knows he should not revisit. For he remembers seeing a different kind of fire in her eyes, the type that was once reserved only for him and made him wish it would set him ablaze.

He is standing under the stream of icy cold water, teeth chattering in his head. Despite the freezing temperature of the water, he feels like he is burning within. He knows it is not physically possible, but all reason abandons him at this point, and he starts wondering if his skin might start sizzling as the cold droplets of water fall on his body. He is desperately trying to convince himself that enduring this self-imposed torture in the middle of the night is a remedy for his inebriated mind. His tolerance is no longer what it once used to be, and he can certainly think of more enjoyable activities for the day ahead than sipping on Alka Seltzer in a darkened room. Nevertheless, no half-truths nor blatant lies prevent his mind from wandering to the actual cause of his state, the beautiful woman now sound asleep in his bedroom. She is the reason why he is desperate to sober up. Her presence leaves him more intoxicated than any top-shelf liquor ever could. A part of him – the tiny fraction of his intact rationality that realises they have irreversibly made everything much more complicated for themselves – should feel guilty about the events of the past few hours. He is waiting almost impatiently for the appalling wave of remorse to invade his thoughts like a disease, involuntarily dragging him back to reality. This was not supposed to happen. But the minutes keep passing by, and regrets never come. Instead, he discovers that he would happily do it over again. The noisy thoughts that occupy his mind evaporate with the sound of the shower door being opened behind his back. He almost finds it ironic that despite his never-ending desperation for solitude, he has never welcomed anything more than her presence at that moment. She remains fixed in one place, unmoving and silent, but he can feel her eyes unabashedly observing his figure, almost reminding him of two hot coals burning through his skin. When she presses herself against his back to reach for the shower knob, she shudders under the stream of icy water, rosy nipples hardening against his cool flesh. Deft fingers quickly change the temperature, and the biting chill is suddenly replaced by soothing warmth spreading through his tense muscles. She wraps her arms around his torso and lets her cold hands rest on his pecs. The way she tenderly caresses his chest is a stark contrast to how she raked her nails across his back when his cock filled her so deliciously only a few hours ago. She undoubtedly has a marvellous view of the crimson marks on his skin, her very own work of art reserved for her eyes only, now slowly fading away. “Are you in dire need of some hypothermia to finish this memorable night?” she eventually speaks into the silence, her melodic voice cutting through the comforting drizzle of water. He scoffs incredulously, tugging a large hand through the soaked dark locks and pushing them out of his face. “Haven’t I tired you out enough after that marathon?” “Do not flatter yourself so much, Ramsey. Pride comes before a fall.” There is another sardonic remark already forming itself on the tip of his tongue, ready to strike. Sarcasm has always been their language. They have relished in the personal verbal sparring, exchanging witty quips and misanthropic comments, turning impatient just to see who gives up first like a pathetic loser and who turns out to be the winner of the day. But then she stands right in front of him, and all those words turn to ashes in his mouth like flowers withering in the scorching sun. His gaze shamelessly roams all over her as he allows himself to savour the tempting sight in all its allure. She is painfully beautiful in the simplicity of the moment, face scrubbed off any traces of make-up and messy ginger waves growing wet under the steam of water. Her flawless skin appears almost luminous under the lighting, luxurious, sinful – Bernini’s carved masterpiece brought to life under his touch.

Whenever he sets his eyes on her and momentarily gets lost in her beauty, he feels something ignite within him, as if his whole body has been suddenly set on fire. If he did not know any better, he would swear he was coming down with a severe bout of fever. She begins exploring the broad expanse of his chest with her hands and lips, fingertips trailing down his side and across his ribs, tracing the curving indentation just above the cut of his hipbone. Despite the water no longer chilling him to the bone, he finds himself shuddering. Laura pulls herself up on her tiptoes to sling a slender arm around his neck, slanting her lips over his in a searing kiss, fingers finding their way into his hair. The sudden need to touch every inch of her is becoming all-consuming, almost maddening, and he pulls her even closer, pressing her back against the cool tiles as he deepens the kiss, their tongues fighting for dominance. He has been with impressive women before, but no memory could ever compare to the feeling of having her – his fierce mythical Amazon, surrendering to no one but him. She has him wrapped around her finger, and the power she has over him is both deliciously liberating and frighteningly exciting. When she breaks the kiss, she presses her lips against the shell of his ear, and the way her teeth softly tug at his earlobe makes him see stars. If this is a dream, then he wishes never to wake up. “I woke up feeling extremely hungry,” she breathes against his skin, putting extra emphasis on the last two words, and the sound of it immediately takes him back to the moments in his bed, when she was fervently chanting his name like a prayer. She trails a fingertip down from his navel over the thin line of hair that leads to his groin. “Give me five minutes, I’ll find something in the fridge,” he says with his eyes half-closed, his mind becoming foggier with every trace and caress. It’s only when he hears her soft laughter that he momentarily snaps back into reality, realising that she has a different type of hunger in mind. “You look good enough to eat.” Oh. Ethan groans in relief at the contact as his cock eagerly springs into her touch. She is savouring the pulsating warmth, now having all of him in the palm of her hand in the most literal of ways. She begins working his length slowly and deliberately, as if they had endless time on their hands. Being with Laura makes him lose the last scraps of control left in him, and he has never welcomed anything more. Whatever fears and doubts he nurtured, whatever rationale he possessed, it is all gone – he is offering it to her like a sacrifice. The whole world ceases to exist, and he willingly surrenders to her, to the feeling of the silky skin beneath his rough fingertips, to her unyielding grip around his manhood. His mind quickly wanders back to the now half-empty packet of condoms on the bedside table. “You know the best we can do here is an hors d’oeuvre.” Her clever brain immediately connects all the dots, offering him a knowing smile full of promise. “Perfect. And let’s serve the main course in bed.” She gracefully sinks down to the floor, kneeling at his feet as if to worship. She tilts her head forward, running her tongue along the underside of the shaft before taking the whole of him into her mouth. She hums around the thick length as she takes him lower, tightening her lips to increase the pressure around the base of his cock. His hips buck involuntarily at the magnificent sensation.

She never breaks eye contact, and the fire behind her irises is enough to make him burn within. He is drowning in the amber pools of her irises, and at that moment, he realises he has never desired anyone – never needed anyone – as intensely as her. While one hand finds its way through the wet, fiery hair and grabs a hold of it to guide her movements, the other rests on the tiles for support. His fingernails absentmindedly dig into the cool tiles as if they could somehow keep him steady, though he knows nothing will help him anymore. Any and all thoughts evaporate from his mind, leaving it blissfully blank, his sole focus on the feeling of her plush lips wrapped around him. For all he cares, the Charles River running below them could overflow and wash over the whole city, and he would not bat an eyelid. As long as he can have her, the water can swallow him whole.

Ethan feels constricting tightness in his chest, as if he were held underwater against his will, dark currents sucking the breath out of his lungs. He almost wants to hurl the glass against the wall just so the shattering sound of its rupture could take his mind off the never-ending cycle of thoughts that always involve her.

And he knows he should avoid those at all costs. Especially when he remembers her in moments like that. Especially when he is desperately trying to move on and forget anything that ever involved her as more than a colleague.

He wishes to be able to down on her with the same ease that he does with so many other people. He wants to see her as nothing but another co-worker that he sees passing by every day through Edenbrook’s endless maze of corridors, perhaps even less than that. Rookie. He craves the advantage as though it were the most addictive drug – the sense of total control over every action performed, over every step taken, just like he did in the past.

But he realises that it will never be possible. She will never be just another colleague. Laura has a hold on him as no one has ever had, and he is urgently clinging to Laura's presence and the memories they had like a castaway clings to a life raft, keeping him safe from the wide sea.

He starts becoming more and more aware of how dangerous his feelings for her are. She has completely permeated his bones, gradually tearing down the many layers of the protective icy walls that surround him. Before she walked into his life and threw everything into disarray like a deadly cyclone, he was solid, impenetrable, and unmoved. Now, no longer will a moment go by when he does not think about her in some way, making him lose his footing and fall straight back into the fleeting solace she brings.

It took him two months to painstakingly fix the shattered walls he had always shielded himself with through which cracks she succeeded to catch a glimpse of the real him, in his most vulnerable state. Now that he is back, it only took her mere moments to totally breach his defences all over, leaving him raw and aching for her.

He genuinely despises himself for being unable to reason clearly and resist the temptation. Or so he believes. In fact, he loathes himself for being such a coward, for his inability to face the unavoidable truth, and for always making things so complicated, bringing tragedy with him wherever he sets his foot.

He has been at war with his feelings for too long but is only now beginning to acknowledge that he has long lost. He is a man wounded in the middle of the battlefield, hoping that his downfall will be quick and merciful. A woman like Laura Levchenko is impossible to forget. No matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, reality always prevails in the end.

He was certain that the distance between them was precisely what he needed. Seeing her carry on with her life as if nothing ever transpired between them should therefore feel like salvation. Instead, watching her keeping him at arm's length does not only reopen old wounds from months ago, it even adds salt to them.

Sometimes, in moments like this one, he wants the white-hot pain to overcome his senses.

But as a doctor, he knows that all pain, no matter how severe, is only temporary. After any moment of despair comes relief – his could be found in forgetting anything that happened and moving on, no matter how excruciating it might be. He may have briefly caved in during the evening, but he will find a way how to put an end to it, for both their sakes. She will eventually thank him for it.

Either he will find a cure or embrace his death with dignity.

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NOTES ET CETERA:

To explain the setting of the fic to avoid confusion – this takes place right after the dinner with Governor Rivera. The reset from Chapter 1 is in full swing… except Dr. Ramsey miscalculated badly. Without giving much away, Laura makes it clear that she is not interested in having anything to do with him on a personal level. And Ethan wants to be glad and relieved… except he is not.

Yes, cologne. You read that right. Miss Laura prefers male fragrances.

The smutty scene is supposed to be their first sexy time together… a.k.a., my humble addition to that glorious night from 1.15.

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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Ethan x Mc 😍

#beautiful

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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I’ve always thought this description was so hot 🥵 Ethan’s angry but mostly sexually frustrated at MC

Okay, his arms may not be folded but listen...

#let’s be honest

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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Ahh no matter how many times I read this I still get goosebumps. I still remember exactly how it felt to read this last year, the excitement and anticipation! After all the angst and pining and longing at the start of book 2, and the frustration that Ethan was still keeping his distance. FINALLY his resolve was broken here and he gives in and it’s just so good. One of my favourite scenes also ❤️

And I should have finished this about an hour ago, but my dog said otherwise needed a walk, so...

R.I.P. ME

I just can't with this scene... I can't... my two fools are so in love that I can't deny them this kiss... it's just...

What happened after she left? What happened when she got home? Did they text to each other later that day? Did they talk on the phone? What did Alan say after she left? I know there are many fanfics about it... but... so many questions!

I'm just so proud of my babies!!

🥺🥺🥺🥺

😭😭😭😭

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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My heart 😩❤️

Mentally, I am here

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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I need this more than ever today

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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its so shiddy when u have to convince yourself to do your hobbies. like, its fun, you like it, why cant you just do it. do it. do it. but what if.... mindless media consumption instead....

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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Guys you are absolutely both spot on with this! Girl you know I love me some broken down text evidence 🙌

I hurt my feelings today and now I need to share them with you, because I’m crying 😩

I was thinking about how MC is super affectionate with Ethan, and always so open about their feelings, etc. and then I was like, I bet it startled him at first because, while alan was a great dad, I feel like Ethan didn’t get a lot of affection from him growing up, especially after Louise left. And so MC being so affectionate and unconditional about their love for him and always showing it in a million different ways was probably so startling to Ethan.

Obviously he’s been in relationships before, but clearly it’s a million times different with MC (he even said so), so I’m just sitting here crying about how our pixelated man, was probably so caught of guard by how loving MC is and how it felt so different compared to his past relationships.

I don’t even know if this makes sense outside of my brain, but I just had to share it with you.

No, but this makes total sense, Sara!

I imagine that after Louise left, Alan worked long hours to provide for them. As a result, Ethan learned to be self-sufficient and take care of himself from a young age. This, I believe, went beyond learning how to cook and find summer jobs. I think Ethan worked very hard to avoid relying on anyone (physically and emotionally.)

Which is why I also believe he was very guarded in all his previous relationships. There was always that wall he built from a young age to protect himself from the pain of being abandoned again.

When you say he was caught off guard by MC's outpour of support and affection, I believe you are absolutely right. I would also add that he was shocked that MC had somehow knocked down those defenses somewhere along the way. (Eventually and very gradually, Ethan himself began to return those small gestures of affection. I think that's the reason for all the handholding in book 2. It's his way to breakthrough his own emotional walls. )

All of this is evident by his reaction to something as small as physical touch: (Text evidence ahead because y'all know that's my favorite)

I think it's surprising that someone he barely knows is so willing to give him the comfort he needs at that very moment. No reservations. No expectations of anything in return. It's really sad to think that on top of everything he went through with Louise, he is also guarded because he is the famous Ethan Ramsey and someone always wants something from him for their own gain.

I think Ethan not moving is another reaction of surprise for the reasons listed above.

And let's not forget the most telling interaction:

This one is different too because Ethan and MC have already put their romantic feelings for one another out in the open. They have already slept together (depending on the readers' choices) and are in a tentative, upspoken romantic relationship.

Aside from physical touch, it's also obvious very few people checked up on Ethan or took care of him on the most basic level (this because he pushed everyone away when he was younger or because eventually, he became almost like a deity to other people because of his fame. What could the famous Ethan Ramsey want or need from anyone?). Just look at these interactions:

This is when MC is following him and he confronts them. Though MC is technically fibbing, Ethan is surprised when they say they only wanted to see how he was doing. As though people rarely ask him that...

And also:

The way he leans into MC's touch, longing for their care. Very telling and sad.

Anyway sorry for the novel!

All of this to say that I think you're 100% on the money!

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togetherwearerapture · 3 years

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I adore this premise for these two, please add me to your tag list! 😍 Do you know when you’ll be updating new chapters?

in plain sight | Ch. 1 | Ethan x MC

Book/Pairing: Open Heart / Ethan Ramsey x female MC

Word count: 3.3k

Rating: T

Summary: After Senator Farrugia's mysterious death at the Edenbrook, an upscale hotel in Boston, Special Agent Ethan Ramsey and CNN investigative reporter Sloane McTavish must untangle a web of secrets and murders before time runs out.

Category: AU

Warnings: mention of off-screen su*cide, language

Link to AO3 (to be added)

Link to Spotify playlist (to be added)

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Saturday, January 11, 8:34 p.m.

“They could at least shut off the car alarm,” Bryce complains as they weave through the crowd.

A sea of phone screens float above their heads, all capturing the same lousy photo of a blue-tarped Nissan Rogue. Glass from the shattered windows sprinkles the pavement, where investigators are circling like vultures in their white Tyvek suits. Police cruisers and fire engines form a protective circle around the spectacle. Though their sirens are quiet, their lights flash in bright strobes of red, blue, and amber -- more of a crowd deterrent than anything else. Clogging the rest of the street are vans from all the local stations. Reporters are scattered about the sidewalk, all vying for the best angle of the scene, all spouting the same minute-thirty soundbites for the viewers at home. One of their own, Elijah, waves at them from his spot amongst the circus.

Above it all, rows upon rows of faces press against the glass of their windows, hands covering their mouths at the sight, ignoring the officers’ shouts to close their curtains.

“No way we’re getting a peek at whoever’s under that tarp.” Next to her, Bryce pauses to readjust his bag, trying to make it look less obvious. “So, how you wanna do this?”

From underneath her hat, Sloane shoots him a grin.

Pushing through the stragglers at the crowd’s edge, they navigate around the border of emergency vehicles and into the ornate building. The lobby is just as flashy with its gleaming floors and wooden panels. A chandelier hangs in the center, formed from hundreds of blown glass leaves suspended in a spiral. A marble staircase leads up to the second floor where the bar’s warm lights shine through floor-to-ceiling windows. Piped in through hidden speakers, classical music floats under the anxious murmur of guests. Bellhops herd them towards the elevator bank, urging them upstairs to their rooms. A woman sits on a velvet chaise lounge, black lines running down her face as she gives her statement to a trio of detectives.

It’s not hard to spot the stairwell door, teeming with cops as it is. Bryce frowns when he spots the uniforms. Sloane reads his expression with ease.

“It’s your fault for wearing that jacket everywhere.”

“It’s your fault for not snagging one of those for me.”

Patting him on the arm, she tugs the hat down further and slips into the group of officers headed up the stairs. It’s easy to go unnoticed in her dark clothes and makeshift disguise -- especially when one of them loudly jokes about out-of-shape cops, prompting a wave of sarcastic remarks. Despite the jesting, they all make it up to the twelfth floor landing to join three detectives, some CSU techs, and a hotel employee.

“Why are you all here?” one of the detectives demands to know.

“Lozoya said you needed us to secure the--”

“It’s a fuckin’ roof. What the hell is there to secure?”

The officers grumble at the tone, but stand firm. “Fine, sure.” The detective waves them through. “But no takin’ photos for your Pictagrams and no botherin’ the feds.”

Sloane steps out onto the roof with the rest, lagging behind but not pulling away completely. Two men stand near the door, their backs turned away from the wind as they converse. Whatever they’re saying is lost to the noise carrying up from below, so she passes on eavesdropping and trails after the officers as they circle towards the building’s front. Yellow tape has already been posted around a section of gravel, where the loose stones have been kicked around. From someone pacing and contemplating their decision, or two someones having a fight, she isn’t sure. One of the cops makes a comment about how he must have hit the fire escape on the way down, what with how his face was caved in. The others cringe at the mental image.

Slipping her phone from her coat pocket, Sloane hides it in her palm and snaps a round of photos. At least one of them will be useful, she figures. She’s edging closer to the tape and feigning interest in the view below when she spots the signet ring. It’s gold, made of three bands stacked and melted together. On the front is a small, black triangle with the number “33” stamped in gold.

“You’re not being as subtle as you think you are.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she raises an eyebrow at the man approaching her. He’s one of the FBI agents -- obvious by the expensive suit and coat, and from his lack of a visible badge. Homicide always wears theirs around their necks.

“I’m sorry?” she asks when he comes to a stop in front of her.

He’s tall -- like really fucking tall. This close, she can see the striking blue of his eyes as he glares down at her. His breath fogs out in a heavy sigh.

“Just because the majority of these morons don’t watch CNN doesn’t mean you can get away with trespassing.” With a pointed glance down at her hand, he continues: “Or taking pictures of active crime scenes. I could have you arrested, you know, for impersonating an officer.”

She slides her phone back into her pocket and reaches up to adjust her hat.

“Maybe I’m a fan.”

He levels an unimpressed look at her.

“No one is a fan of the Boston Police Department.”

“What’s your name?” she asks, sidestepping his attempt to corral her towards the access door.

“I’m not interested in being interviewed.”

Sloane tilts her head back and assesses him: no-nonsense and a little condescending, but there’s enough of a spark of sardonic humor in there to use. She could play up the charm, but she has a feeling he wouldn’t fall for it. Getting under his skin it is, then.

“Well, considering you aren’t in coveralls and booties, you’ve clearly nothing better to do than stand around anyway.”

“Getting you out of an active crime scene is in my job description, actually. Besides, don’t you have a war-torn country to parachute into?”

“They’re on a ceasefire right now. And besides, I know who’s under the tarp downstairs.”

The agent snorts at her claim and guides her closer to the door, his hand hovering near her back but never making contact.

“You and every other lookie-loo down there with a camera phone.”

“I was supposed to have a meeting with him tomorrow,” she tells him, keeping her voice low.

The brief chuckle is enough to tell her that she isn’t winning this one.

“Looks like your schedule cleared up a bit, then. Now, if you’d like, you can join your friend in the garish Hawaiian-print jacket who’s shooting B-roll in the lobby. But if I see you up here again, I won’t hesitate to arrest you.”

Sloane shrugs off his warning and digs into her pocket for her business card.

“I have information that might be relevant to this case, if you’d like to get in touch with me.”

“I’m sure you do, Miss McTavish,” is all he says as he takes the card. “But I’m not one for schmoozing, even if you deem it ‘relevant.’”

With an aborted gesture, he waves her to go on through the door and leave. She does so without comment, which surprises him. Though the look she gives him before she disappears down the stairs tells him that this may not be their last communication.

“Reporters,” he scoffs and crumples her card into his coat pocket. With that distraction taken care of, he turns to find his partner.

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Tuesday, January 13, 12:46 p.m.

“Ethan, hear me out: maybe we try a different type of knock.”

His hand pauses in front of the door as he turns to his partner, asking his question by raising a single brow.

“I was reading about intimidation tactics in regards to psychological manipulation,” Baz continues. “It talked about the ‘cop knock’ and how commonly associated with guilt it can be. Maybe we try a softer knock, to let them know they aren’t in trouble.”

“They might very well be in trouble, though, if they lied to the police,” Ethan points out, to which Baz blinks at him and then sighs.

“I know. But we drove all this way and if we have to turn back around because another person decides not to answer their door I’m going to scream.” At Ethan’s look of doubt, he shifts on the stoop. “Okay, fine. I’ll sigh really, really loud.”

“Very out of character for you.”

Ignoring the comment dripping with sarcasm, Baz leans forward and knocks a gentle melody against the door. To the right of the stoop, the curtains in the window move back a few inches before falling back into place.

“Mr. Stevenson, I’m Special Agent Mirani and this is Special Agent Ramsey,” he speaks to the closed door. “We’re just here to ask a few follow-up questions.”

Inside, there’s the high tone of a woman’s voice before the muffled roar of a television reaches them. Knowing that camping out front of their door isn’t going to do them any good, Ethan nudges Baz and tips his head to the sidewalk. With a sigh of defeat, Baz follows him down to the SUV parked down the block.

“That’s the third one this week,” he whines, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm as he waits for Ethan to unlock the car. “And it’s only Tuesday.”

Pulling the keys from his pocket, Ethan curses when a paper falls out with them and onto the asphalt. He bends down and snatches it up, crushing it in his palm to relieve some of the frustration he feels. Because Baz is right -- that’s the third witness who has refused to talk to them about what they saw Saturday night. The distrust of law enforcement he can understand as a reasoning, but for there to be so many in such a small span of time is nothing less than odd. It goes against the average, which is something he finds frustrating.

He slides into the driver’s seat and turns on the car. Baz lets out a weak cry of relief as he climbs into the cab and flips on the seat warmer. The crushed card ends up tossed into the other debris of the center console, where Baz eyes it with interest.

“Have you reached out to her yet?”

“Have I reached out to the person who trespassed onto a crime scene?” Ethan scoffs. “No, can’t say that I have.”

“Maybe you should.”

“It would be a waste of time.”

Baz shoots him a look, as if he’s the one being insufferable.

“And driving out to Quincy isn’t?” he questions with a gesture to the neighborhood around them. “She said she had information. Right now, she might be the only one who’s willing to talk to us.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, then berating himself for the bad habit, Ethan glares out at the wintry mix settling on the trees and shrubbery. As much as the bureau likes to brag about solidarity with the press, he doesn’t like dealing with them. It’s no surprise that people whose job it is to stick their nose into other people’s business aren’t the easiest bunch to work with. Though the same could be said for his fellow agents. Including his partner.

Heaving out a sigh, Ethan hands the card over. The momentary event is cut short, however, when her phone rings out and then rolls over to her voicemail.

“This is Sloane. Leave your name, number, and reason for calling at the--” Baz hits the end call button and classical music plays through the car speakers once more.

“I could’ve left a voicemail.”

“Nobody leaves voicemails anymore.”

“Then how will she know it’s me?” Ethan asks.

With an elaborate gesture, Baz opens up the messaging app and begins tapping at the screen. Ethan rolls his eyes as he pulls out into traffic. The muddy water of the Neponset River churns below them as they head north along the interstate for Boston. The chime of a text notification rings through the cab.

“‘Can’t talk right now, in a meeting. Ready to share?’” Baz reads off.

“Tell her yes.”

Another moment of silence, then: “She says ‘no beating around the bush, then. I like that.’ Um, then says she’ll be downtown for the next hour, then has an interview at two. Are you able to meet her today, or do you want to do this over the phone?”

“I despise texting.” Ethan does a double-take when Baz’s fingers move in a flurry across the screen. “No, don’t send--”

Another chime sounds.

“She says ‘that checks out.’”

“What does she mean by that?”

“That you’re a classic type of guy, you know,” Baz fumbles. “Really… old-school, but in a cool, retro way.”

“Uh-huh. So, where does she want to meet?”

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Tuesday, January 13, 1:34 p.m.

“Where’s your hat?”

McTavish lets out a dry chuckle at his question and hops down from the retaining wall as they approach. The leather messenger bag she carries smacks against her hip; she immediately shoves it behind her as a reflex.

“Last time I wore it, I was accused of impersonating an officer. Figured it would be safer to leave it at home.”

“A wise decision,” Ethan says. “An even wiser one would be to toss it.”

At the suggestion, she wrinkles her nose and shakes her head.

“Nah. But c’mon, you aren’t here to share fashion advice. Let’s walk and talk.”

This time of year, the Common has nothing more to offer than the bare limbs of the famous oaks and elms. Being the middle of the day, only a few people are out skating on the frog pond. Dreary weather aside, Ethan likes the winter season -- there’s less violent crime when it’s cold out. It’s hard to motivate hardened criminals into action when it’s below freezing. Not that it stopped whoever tossed Senator Farrugia off the Edenbrook’s roof.

“I assume you’ve had less than good luck when it comes to follow-ups,” McTavish says as they wander down a branching path.

“What makes you say that?” Baz asks.

Rolling her head to the side, she glances between the two of them before settling on Ethan.

“Because you wouldn’t have stooped to contacting me if things were going fine. How many times have you been stiffed?”

“One no-show and two others that wouldn’t come to the door.”

“Damn.” McTavish clicks her tongue. “And it’s only Tuesday. Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had about the same luck.”

Ethan stops short, forcing the others to halt, as well.

“We’re not here to make conversation. At the hotel, you said you had information.”

“I do, or -- at least, I’m trying to uncover a deal he was working on with--”

“Everyone knows the deal he was working on,” he interrupts, much to her obvious frustration. “That addiction rehabilitation bill was all over every news site for the past three months. Including yours.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “and everyone knew he wasn’t going to go through with it. Not when the Cyrus Brothers donated to his campaign last week. It’s no coincidence that they’re one of the biggest players behind privatizing the prison system in Massachusetts. The less people clogging the prisons, the less money in their pockets.”

When he glances over to his partner for confirmation -- he’s never been one to pay much attention to the finer workings of corporate America -- Baz gives a small nod.

“Tell us something that everyone isn’t aware of, then,” Ethan demands.

“The Edenbrook and a big-name pharma company have something going on under the table.”

It’s certainly not what he was expecting her to say, as evident by the fact that he has to bite back a reaction.

“Who we talkin’?” Baz jumps in. “Lavinium? Cale-Anderson?”

“Bigger,” McTavish says with a shake of her head.

“Sachmis?”

“Think Greek.”

“Can you two stop--” Ethan tries to quash their guessing game, but he’s drowned out by Baz’s excited gasp.

“No way! Panacea?”

“Bingo.”

Crossing his arms, Ethan frowns at the name.

“What do they want with an old-money hotel, though?”

McTavish bites at her lip and fiddles with her bag’s strap.

“I’m not entirely certain just yet. But it can’t be pure coincidence that their CEO Declan Nash stays at the hotel pretty often, especially when he owns two properties in the area. I suspect it has something to do with the fact that legislators who stay at the Edenbrook later pull their support from anything that would wound Panacea’s revenue. There’s something suspicious going on there, though, I’m sure of it.”

“Nash is a total scumbag,” Baz agrees. At Ethan’s pointed look, he doubles down with: “In my professional opinion, of course.”

McTavish gives a not-so-subtle gesture to her watch.

“Damn, and it’s almost two. Okay, so here’s my deal: I give you whatever information I learn from my interviews if you share the tox results from Farrugia’s autopsy.”

“We won’t get those back until--” Baz tries to deflect, but it’s no use.

“You mean you won’t share results with the public until three weeks from now as a precaution. Especially since everyone thinks he killed himself since his mistress came forward.”

“Ah, but you don’t?”

She levels an unimpressed glance at Ethan for his tone. He doesn’t bother adding that he’s fine with the public thinking that; it gives them more time to work behind the scenes. He gets the sense that she’s smart enough to know that.

“Politicians don’t commit suicide over infidelities -- they go to sex rehab or church and then pay to get themselves out of the news circuit. C’mon, guys, you’re the feds and he’s a United States senator. Give me a little credit.”

“Why do you want them so badly?”

“I’ve got a hunch.”

Humming as he weighs his options, Ethan scrubs a hand across his jaw.

“And I’m supposed to let you in on an investigation because you have a hunch.”

“I think my hunch record speaks for itself,” she says, her chin lifting as she smirks. “I was the one who dropped the Nighthawks’ doping scandal. And I uncovered Farrugia’s shady dealings when he was the mayor of Worcester in the mid-2000s.”

The agents share a look. Maybe adding another player to the field wouldn’t be so bad. After all, they have been trying to talk to the senator’s aide for the past few days and haven’t had much luck. Though his whereabouts were confirmed the night of the supposed murder, Ethan has his suspicions. And if there’s anything the guilty hate, it’s talking to the feds.

“How easy would it be for you to secure an interview with Travis Perry?”

McTavish’s mouth curls into a scowl at the name.

“Not very,” she murmurs. The grimace drops from her face a moment later. “But I’m always up for a challenge. I’ll see what more I can do. But I think something bigger is at play here.”

“So do we,” Ethan assures her. “Like you said, this is a senator’s death we’re dealing with. We have to be methodical about this. If that means taking the time to clear some names from the board, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“But keep in mind that we are on a tight schedule here because they’re firing up the retort next Monday morning. Any physical evidence will be gone.” The corner of Baz’s mouth dips into a frown. “There’s no exhuming and running another autopsy on ashes.”

“Understood. And as much as I’d love to stay and discuss funeral plans, I’ve got an interview with a former bellhop.” With that, McTavish readjusts the strap across her shoulder and nods at them. “I’ll be back in touch when I’ve got something to share, boys.”

“Ramsey,” he offers as he reaches out to shake her hand.

“Baz,” his partner says as he does the same. “It’s what all my friends and/or secret press contacts call me.”

He rolls his eyes at Baz’s comradery. McTavish flashes him a smile, her nose scrunching up as she does, as if this is some private joke he isn’t privy to. Ethan shoves down the immediate notion of how charming he finds the expression.

“Well, you can call me Sloane, then.”

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Taglist: @openheartfanfics @writinghereandthere @maurine07 @lsvdw-blog

|| || || || || || || || || || ||

Author's notes and what-have-yous:

*rolls up to the club six months later to find a closed sign on it*

Okay, all kidding aside, I've been working on this thing since September 2020 and decided it was high time to post. I'm breaking my Number One Rule posting it now, since this story is technically still incomplete, but I am currently working on the final chapter.

38 notes · View notes

togetherwearerapture · 3 years

Note

🙌🙌🙌🙌

N*FW Question:

Easiest way for Lilac to get Ethan in the mood/turn him on, and vice versa?

I imagine it wouldn’t take much 😂

I love this question so much. Anon whoever you are, I hope you find money on the ground today

You're not wrong. All Lilac really has to do is give him bedroom eyes and he's ready. She wears the workout leggings he likes so much? Bed. She bites her lower lip? Bed. Lilac stretches and "accidentally" moans? Right to bed.

Other times she just tells him what she wants him to do. Poor man never stands a fighting chance.

I don't think Ethan has to try very hard either. Eye contact is a huge turn on for her because goddamn. That man's eyes. They fucking press into you when he gives you that intense, piercing look of his. More often than not he turns her on without intentionally meaning to because have you seen him?

Their sex life is off the charts and I will never be sorry about that. I'm so happy for them

42 notes · View notes

togetherwearerapture · 3 years

Text

Absolution (Ethan x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x MC (Elle Valentine)

Descripton: After the funeral, Ethan and Elle both struggle to process the aftermath of the attack. They talk about death, life, things that came so close to being unsaid forever, and the elephant in the room. Ethan realises there is something that Elle really needs to hear.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, angst, some dark humour, death and illness, but a big dose of hope and fluff. Characters and some dialogue belong to Pixelberry.

Word Count: 5.2K

P.s did I proof read this? Absolutely not

*****

The December drizzle has half-turned to sleet, and Ethan keeps his head low and his strides long as he hurries down the street. Delicate, twinkling lights and gilded evergreen arrangements fill every shop window. But even the warm displays aren’t enough to lessen the bite of the bitter wind against his cheeks; or quell the gnawing anxiety in his chest.

It is an unpleasant feeling- one that he is trying not to acknowledge. It’s irrational- unwarranted; but as much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, the miserable weather is not the only reason he hastens to return home.

The echoes of his confession from a few days prior ring in his ears.

‘I keep worrying that if I lose track of you…if I leave you alone…it could happen again. That I won’t have the power to stop it this time…to save you.’

The alarm bells have started to ring.

……………

Finally entering the threshold of his apartment building, Ethan retrieves his keys from his pocket and repositions the bag of groceries under his arm. As he steps into the elevator, he muses over the last few days.

Since the funeral, Elle had been staying with him in his apartment. She had been signed off from work, but she found the prospect of sitting at her place, alone with her grief, unbearable. Of course, her roommates had tried to support her, but they couldn’t give her the comfort she needed.

“It makes me feel like I’m a bomb, and everyone thinks I’m about blow,” she had told Ethan a few days ago. “No one knows how to talk to me, touch me, even look at me without that look in their eyes. It’s like a mixture of pity and fear. It just makes me feel worse.”

Ethan, concerned for her wellbeing and extremely reluctant to leave her alone while she was still recovering mentally and physically, had spoken with Naveen. He had insisted Ethan also take some time off. Baz and June, also unsettled from the attack, and their inability to save Danny in time, were both more than happy to stop taking on cases for a while. After Naveen made a few phone calls to a surprisingly understanding Tobias Carrick, it was agreed that any of Edenbrook’s potential diagnostics cases would be redirected to Mass Kenmore for the remainder of the week.

And so, that left Elle and Ethan alone together. For the past few days, his apartment had served as their paradisiacal bubble. Protected from the outside world, and all of its judgements and morals and pain. Ethan knew it wasn’t a long-term solution, that they couldn’t hide away forever, but in their perfect little limbo, he couldn’t bring himself to care about what came next.

They had been having a lot of sex. Since the night of the funeral when they finally, finally gave into their desires in his car, neither of them had wanted to stop making love. Morning sex, lazy afternoon sex, sex all through the night. Sex on every surface; the sofa, the kitchen counter, the floor, the wall, his bed. Many, many times in his bed. The sex was just so good, for both of them, so why would either want to stop?

He just couldn’t get enough of her. He didn’t think he ever would. The more of her he drank, consumed, he thirstier for her he become. Like a goddess, she had risen from near death and he was in awe of her. She was so perfect, he wanted to worship every fibre of her being.

Her body was a shimmering map of paradise, every co-ordinate bringing the promise of precious treasure to be unearthed with kisses and caresses. She never disappointed; each time he brought his lips to her skin, they came away dripping with sweet, molten gold.

Ethan would leave no stone unturned in his exploration. He would roam the sharp contours and ridges of her body, he would ascend all of her soft hills and mountains, he would wade through the currents of all her rivers. In his fervent, desperate conquest of the map of Elle, no inch of her body would remain unmarked by his X’s.

A few times, he had wondered if they were self-medicating with sex. But after months and months of excruciating restraint from both of them, he told himself that they were simply making up for lost time. Making love provided them both with a much-needed comfort, and with it, he was more than happy to fulfil her every need.

But their purgatory had been infiltrated with signs of darkness. Since the attack, Elle had lost her appetite, and had hardly eaten. Ethan, growing increasingly concerned- she was already so slight- had given her his laptop with a recipe website on it. He had told her to pick a dish, any dish, and he would make it for them both tonight. She had eventually settled on ramen, in a shiitake miso and tofu broth.

“Noodles are the ultimate comfort food,” she had told him.

Though somewhat unaccustomed to vegan recipes, Ethan had risen to the challenge, dutifully heading to the local oriental supermarket to pick up the necessary ingredients. Her wish was his command, he realised, though she didn’t know it.

He would do anything for her. And he needs to be with her, have her back in his sights.

The elevator doors slide open, breaking Ethan from his thoughts. He hurries to the door of his apartment, and jostling with his keys, steps over the threshold.

‘Elle, I’m back,’ he calls.

Silence.

The kitchen, and living room where he had left her twenty minutes ago on the couch, are empty.

‘Elle?’

There is no reply.

Groceries and keys thrown haphazardly on the kitchen counter, he hurtles through the apartment, throwing open the bedroom door.

The tangled sheets are empty.

Unwillingly, he feels his heartbeat begin to rise in his throat.

‘Elle!’

A faint voice comes from another room.

‘Ethan? I’m in here.’

It’s coming from the bathroom. The panic rises, and before he knows what he’s doing, he bursts through the unlocked door.

Elle is sitting in the bath, hugging her knees. She looks up at him, eyes wide.

Relief washes over him, and he lets out a sigh.

‘Ethan, what’s wrong?’

It then occurs to him how utterly ridiculous and strange his behaviour must appear to her, and he tries to play it down.

‘I just…uh…wondered where you were.’

For a few moments, Elle seems perplexed, eyebrows raised. Then suddenly, an unspoken understanding seems to dawn on her features. Ethan wonders if she is remembering what he said to her the other night, about being afraid something might happen to her if she loses track of her.

Of course she is.

She knows. She always knows.

‘Are you okay, Ethan?’ she asks tenderly. She outstretches a hand to him, willing him closer.

Even now, she thinks of him. She always puts others before herself.

He remembers when she stayed up all night with him to watch over little Ethan. When she gave Mrs Martinez the drug that allowed her to live her life and see the world. When her ethics hearing was two days away, and she showed up to his apartment to ask how he was doing.

Selflessness will be the death of her, he remembers he once thought. Now, the phrase and its mention of her mortality makes his blood curdle.

He can’t bring himself to answer her question, but instead, with the pulse in his ears subsiding to a steady rhythm, he steps forward and takes her outstretched hand, squeezing her small fingers.

‘We showered together before I left,’ he states.

‘Yeah, we did.’

Ethan thinks back to a few hours ago; their joint shower had culminated in him holding her up, driving into her, her legs wrapped around his waist and her nails clawing into his back; the air hot and thick with steam and both of their moans.

The question falls from his lips before he can help it.

‘So…why are you having a bath?’

He didn’t mean to sound accusatory, or scornful; not in the slightest. But the silence that hangs in the air after his question is heavier than lead, and he suddenly wishes he hadn’t asked.

Elle opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, smiling as though embarrassed. She lets go of his hand and looks away, training her gaze instead at her fingers, which are now swirling through the bath water.

‘It’s…it’s the maitotoxin,’ she mutters. ‘Ever since the attack, there’s been times when I’ve felt it’s still on me. All over me. It’s been days, but sometimes I swear I can still smell it. And I just want to get it off. No matter how much I wash, no matter how much I scrub at my skin, I never feel…clean.’

At the final word, her voice breaks a little, and Ethan’s heart breaks a little too.

He suddenly remembers the other night, where he had stirred in in the early hours to find her side of his bed empty. The sound of running water from the ensuite had quelled his panic at her whereabouts before it had a chance to rouse him completely, and, assuming she was just using the bathroom, had let himself drift back into sleep. The moment was forgotten.

It now occurs to him that the sound may not have been from the sink, but the shower.

Ethan considers his response. He could reassure her that it’s all in her head, that it’s a natural psychological response to being exposed to trauma. He could emphasise that the maitotoxin is long gone, with no trace in her bloodstream or on her skin. He could tell her not to worry, to get out the bath and dry herself off, because she’s perfectly safe, perfectly clean, and she’s worrying for nothing.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he discards his jacket, and repositions himself on the edge of the bath.

‘Ok. Let me help.’

His fingertips lean down and touch the bathwater, which is slightly tepid.

‘Would you like it hotter?’ he asks

Elle nods wordlessly, now hugging her knees again.

He turns on the hot faucet, hand rowing back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, to distribute the heat. As if hoping it will melt away her pain.

They sit in silence for a few moments, his hands continuing their rhythmic movements. His mind drifts back to the day that everything changed.

***

The second their eyes met through the glass, he knew something was terribly wrong.

Instinctively, his hand had travelled towards the handle of the door. Methodical assessment of whatever was going on inside the diagnostics room could wait until he was inside; all he could focus on was the terror in her eyes, and his need to go to her.

‘Elle…’

But, anticipating his movements, and needing to protect him and everyone else from harm, her hand had clasped like a vice around the handle from the other side.

‘What’s going on, Elle?’

‘Travis just tried to kill Senator Ed with whatever was in that canister. Ed got out, but we have no idea what was in there,’ she told him breathlessly. This close, he could see the oily sheen on her perfect features.

‘Bobby took a full blast of it to this face, and Danny and Raf were both right there when Travis deployed it. And I breathed some in. Whatever it is, it’s clearly dangerous. We can’t risk it getting out into the rest of the hospital.’

At that, he had cast his eyes around the room, taking in the scene before him.

He had seen Bobby the security guard, sprawled lifeless on the floor. Danny the nurse was slumped against the wall, coughing heavily. He saw Travis vomiting into a trashcan, then Rafael Aveiro slamming him into the wall, demanding to know what was inside.

That’s when it became real.

He could barely take his eyes off her as he pulled out his phone to make frantic calls, to Naveen and 911. His blood ran cold as he saw Elle and Rafael frantically searching supply cupboards for plastic sheeting, then him lifting her on his shoulder to tape up the air ducts.

Aveiro set her down to the floor, and once again, their eyes met through the glass. Her green irises, so always full of optimism and warmth and life, were bloodshot and wild, filled with a horror he had never seen before, and never wanted to see again.

Shit.

Right now, he can’t bring himself to think beyond that point. To Bobby and Danny dying, to wheeling Rafael’s almost lifeless body out of the room.

To her, lying in the hospital bed, being unable to hold, her, touch her without the bulkiness of the hazmat suit in the way.

The dread of thinking he’d never touch her, kiss her, feel her, skin to skin again.

Abruptly, as if thinking it will also stop his torrent train of thought, his hand flicks off the hot faucet.

At the cessation of the gushing water, the silence echoes in the bathroom once again.

‘I keep thinking it’s in my hair,’ Elle whispers.

Ethan reaches towards her bottle of coconut shampoo. Since she’d been staying with him, her belongings and toiletries had found a temporary home in his place. It had felt like they had always been there. And always should be there.

‘Allow me?’ he asks gently, and she nods.

He squeezes a dollop of the creamy liquid into his palm, then deposits it onto her roots. With firm but gentle fingers, he begins to massage her scalp.

Elle closes her eyes and sighs, leaning back into his touch.

‘That feels amazing,’ she breathes.

He makes sure he works his fingers into every spot. Her scalp, the crown of her head, the soft skin behind her ears, the nape of her neck.

His fingers now working from muscle memory, Ethan allows his own eyes to close too. He inhales deeply, feeling the warm water vapour in the air, his nostrils filling deliciously with the scent of Elle’s shampoo- the smell of her.

His touch descends to the slender column of her neck, gently pressing and releasing on the soft, warm skin. He is almost incredulous to the fact she is here- really here, alive; real flesh and blood and life beneath his fingertips. With the anatomical mapping that only a doctor of his prowess could know, he can’t help but blindly trace his fingers to the pulse points behind her ears, the arteries in her little neck.

He lets himself feel it.

She’s here. Alive.

His eyes snap open again; he has to look at her.

She has turned to look at him too, a slight smile on her lips. Perhaps it’s just the swirling steam from the bath, but she looks almost ethereal. Ethan wonders briefly whether he’s dreaming this moment.

His massaging touch seems to have loosened some tension within her, because she finally speaks.

‘Sam called me while you were out.’

‘Your brother?’ he asks.

Elle nods.

Ethan had called Elle’s father and brother, her two closest relatives, while she had laid fighting for her life in the isolation room. The pair had been making panicked plans to drive over to Boston in the middle of the night, until Ethan had called them again to tell them that they had found an antidote, and Elle was going to be ok.

The relief and gratitude in Sam and Thomas Valentine’s voices when Ethan told them the good news, had filled Ethan with an inexplicable rush of familial affection, and made him keen to meet the two men were closest to Elle’s heart.

‘He said he and dad want to see me. They said they’d come down to Boston, but I’d quite like to go back to Vermont to see them for a few days. I might book my tickets tonight.’

‘Don’t,’ Ethan says, and Elle turns to look at him again, frowning.

‘Book tickets,’ he adds. ‘I’ll drive you up there. It sounds like a lovely idea, for you to see them. I know how worried they’ve been about you.’

Elle’s face floods with warmth and gratitude.

‘You’d do that for me?’ she asks, incredulous. ‘You don’t have to, it’s a long drive, I can-’

‘I want to. And I’ll pick you up.’

He presses his lips to the top of her head, and can feel her relax beneath him.

‘Thank you, Ethan.’

He continues massaging the shampoo into her hair, now reaching the lengths of her golden locks. The silence is comfortable this time.

‘Naveen text me to say he’s sending me a card, and flowers too, bless him.’ Elle says after a while. ‘He somehow knew I’d be at yours.’

‘Trust Naveen,’ he smiles. Of course he knew.

Elle sighs contentedly, relaxing between Ethan’s arms.

‘I love Naveen,’ she says. ‘He’s so pure, so wholesome. I can see why you look up to him as much as you do.’

‘Wholesome…you clearly haven’t seen him at enough Christmas parties yet,’ Ethan snorts. ‘A few drinks down him, and his humour’s dark enough even to make me cringe.’

Elle laughs at that; her soft lilt is music to Ethan’s ears.

‘Oh trust me, I’ve heard my fair share of Naveen’s jokes. I still remember the first time we sat down for lunch and he started showing me, in his words, “doctor me-mes.”’

Ethan blinks.

‘Pardon?’

‘Memes, Ethan.’

‘Such as?’

‘The first one was: Doctor: I’m afraid you’re dying and you don’t have much time.

The patient says: Oh no, that’s awful, how long have I got?

Doctor: 10.

Patient: 10? 10 what? Months, weeks, what?

Doctor: 10…9…8…7…’

Ethan rolls his eyes.

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ says Elle. ‘He was absolutely wheezing at himself. I think I stared at him for a few seconds in disbelief after me said it, wondering if he was serious. But the more he told me, I couldn’t help but laugh at just how awful it was.’ Elle chuckles at the memory. ‘He always says to me, you’ve got to laugh or you cry.’

The smile on Ethan’s lips gives way to curiosity.

‘Since when have you and Naveen started bonding over questionably dark memes?’ he asks.

Elle pauses.

‘He was telling me about his sister. And I was telling him about mom,’ she says quietly.

The sudden and unexpected loss of Naveen’s sister, Kirti, was something that Ethan remembered all too well. And all too more, the effect her passing had on Naveen, and ultimately, on him.

That was a memory he wasn’t ready to recall.

The passing of Elle’s mother, however, was a topic that they had touched on a few times. Ethan remembers Elle first mentioned her at the night in the NICU, where she confided that she had passed away when she was 11 years old. Since then, Elle had shared with him in quiet moments, personal, precious pieces about her life and her mother.

She had told Ethan that after Elizabeth Valentine had passed away from late-presenting cancer, her father, had to up his hours at the garage as a mechanic to pay the bills. Elle helped raise her younger brother Sam and essentially ran the house; cooking meals, doing laundry, and taking on weekend jobs from thirteen to help keep the Valentines afloat.

He sees now, several parallels between Elle’s adolescence and his own.

‘I’ve been thinking about her a lot more, since the attack’ says Elle quietly. ‘About mom. I’ve felt closer to her…closer than I ever have before, since she died.’ She takes a deep breath before continuing, as if her next sentence is painful and heavy to unload.

‘Which is comforting, of course. But it also makes me feel like part of me is with her. Like I’m only half here, and the other half is…with her…wherever she is.’

Ethan feels his blood chill at this; a combination of being stirred by the depth of her words, and haunted by the fact that Elle feels like part of her has passed from this world.

Instinctively, he leads forward and wraps his arms tightly around her. Bath water soaks his shirt, but he doesn’t care.

‘You’re here Elle. You’re here, fully here. It’s good you feel your mom, but that means she’s come to you. She wants to be close to you here. It doesn’t mean you’re any less here.’

The words escape from him before he can rationalise them. All his opinions of the spiritual and supernatural, and above everything else, science, don’t matter. Right now the words he speaks are the only truth, because they bring comfort to Elle, and he believes them.

Elle reaches up from the bath and touches his arm.

‘I’m glad I’m here,’ she murmurs. ‘I’m glad I’m here with you.’

With his free hand, Ethan strokes her cheek, pressing his lips to the top of her head once again.

‘I said to Sam that I wanted to visit her grave when I’m back home, with him and dad,’ she continues. And then, tentatively, she adds, ‘And maybe, when you pick me up…I..’ she hesitates, but Ethan doesn’t prompt her, letting her continue in her own time.

‘I’d like if we went together to see her too. Just me and you.’

He’s deeply moved. That she would allow him, want him even, to join her in an intensely personal moment. It stirs something in him, something that has been there for a long time.

‘Of course, sweetheart,’ he murmurs.

‘Thank you.’

They drift back into a comfortable silence. Still weaving his fingers through her hair, he casts his mind back to earlier in their conversation.

‘I didn’t realise you and Naveen had become so close.’

‘We meet for lunch every Wednesday afternoon, when we’re both on admin time,’ Elle explains happily. ‘We have done for the last few months, ever since…’

She falters then.

‘Since you went to Brazil.’

Ethan’s fingers freeze at that, and he swallows.

‘When you were…gone,’ Elle continues, ‘Over the summer after my ethics hearing. I didn’t really let anyone know, or want anyone to know. But I, um, was in a pretty bad place,’ she says quietly, head bowed. ‘But Naveen could tell. He could see straight through me. He invited me to his office one afternoon for lunch, and, well, it’s one of the things that kept me going. Still does actually.’

Ethan feels a rush of pride and affection for his mentor, but mostly, a sinking feeling of guilt, eating at his core like rot to wood.

It’s odd, he thinks. She had just shared something deeply intimate with him, and undoubtedly, many barriers between them had been broken. But there is so much about her he doesn’t know. This gaping, unmistakable fact- her pain- was a black hole in his soul. But it’s all his own doing. He only has himself to blame for his ignorance.

This is the elephant in the room. He swallows hard.

Now is the time to face it.

‘Elle.’

She cranes her neck to look at him, caught off guard.

‘I’m so sorry that I left you, Elle.’

Her eyes widen a little in surprise.

‘And I’m sorry that so much of the pain you carry,’ he takes a deep breath. His next words tear up his throat like glass as he speaks them, but they need to be said. ‘Has probably been from me.’

She falls silent at his words, brow furrowed with a mix of concern, affection, and wonder.

‘You’ve done so much for me…when you followed me to check on me in that construction wing, before you even knew about Naveen. And then when I told you about him, you were by my side every step of the way, never giving up on him, never giving up on me.’

He feels a lump in his throat, but he presses on.

‘When I kept telling myself that I’d given up on Naveen…you taught me to forgive myself. You’ve helped so much with my dad when he came to visit, with my mom. I pushed you away. All I’ve done is push you away, and slammed doors in your face.’

His eyes fill with tears, and his jaw clenches. With guilt, sadness, with anger at himself.

‘And Elle, I’m so, so sorry. I left you to go to Brazil when you needed me the most. When you were hurting, suffering, so much too. All I wanted to do is run away from my own pain, and it made me blind to yours. I should’ve been there. I left because I-’

He stops himself, but he knows.

Since she’d joined the diagnostics team, he’d tried so hard to repress his feelings. But her tenderness had slipped through his steely defences effortlessly, somehow without eithern of them even being aware of it. It had crept in through hand holds and thumb strokes in the diagnostics office, and in Derry Roasters after she’d brought his dad to see him. It had been laced in the voices full of concern, the tender cheek caresses, their easy banter and chemistry, and the quiet domestic intimacy when they stayed to research Gwyneth Monroe on his laptop, side by side on the sofa.

Her eyes begin to water, and he reaches up to brush a lingering tear. She clossed her eyes at his touch, and Ethan wonders if, like him, she was remembering the first time he had done that while they watched the opera together.

‘I want to be there for you. Wholly, fully. From now, until always.’

‘Ethan…’ she breathes, her eyes beginning to spill over.

‘You’ve been so strong,’ he says as he wipes another of her tears away. ‘And you’re incredible. But I don’t want you to have to be strong, if you don’t want to. Or to put on a brave face, I want you to be you, however you’re feeling. I want to be whatever you need.’

‘Thank you,’ says Elle.

There is such a weight and sincerity to her words, and it strikes him then, that for the past few days, she had opened her body for him, but now she had opened her soul.

Ethan is moved to the core at being lucky enough to explore both.

It is as if the world had tilted on its axis somewhat. Something has changed in the universe, or at least, in their little world, though to Ethan it is the same thing.

He can’t place his finger on what it is, but it makes an unmistakable feeling of hope blossom on his chest.

Detaching the showerhead, he rinses her hair, thoroughly, carefully, from root to tip. After applying her favourite leave-in conditioner, he asks if she feels better now.

‘Yeah. I feel clean. I don’t feel like it’s on me anymore.’

Leaving only briefly to retrieve a warm towel from the rail and lay it on the bed, Ethan returns, and scoops her from the bath into his arms. Tenderly he carries her into the bedroom, and lays her down on the soft white cotton.

‘You warm yourself up. I’m going to start on dinner,’ he murmurs, gently caressing her cheek.

***

A short while later, Ethan has finished chopping the vegetables. The ramen is boiling, the broth bubbling merrily on the hob, filling the kitchen with gorgeous umami flavours.

The bedroom door creaks open, and Elle wanders into the kitchen. Ethan looks up and smiles, and his heart melts at the sight of her wearing nothing but his blue sweater, adorably engulfing her small frame.

‘That smells good,’ she says, padding over to his side.

Instinctively, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she circles herself around his waist, clinging to him.

‘It’s nearly done,’ he says, giving her a squeeze. ‘Ready to have something to eat?’

She nods earnestly, and Ethan’s chest feels a little lighter.

He continues stirring the broth for a few moments before he speaks again.

‘I know you mentioned starting therapy before, and I was having a look earlier. I found one with a with a private clinic just round the corner from the hospital. She’s a female therapist, specialising in trauma. I thought it might be good, for you.’

‘I’ve seen her too,’ says Elle quietly. ‘Marie Lavorne, right?’

He nods.

‘She seems really good, doesn’t she? But long term…I’m not sure I could afford her. You know the residents have had to take a pay cut,’ she mutters awkwardly.

‘Book her in. Don’t even think of the money, I’ll take care of it,’ he says firmly. Elle turns to look at him, and he adds, ‘if you think she’s the right one for you of course, we can keep looking.’

‘Oh Ethan, are you sure?’

‘I’ve never been surer of anything,’ he says, and he means it.

Her happiness, her peace of mind, is priceless to him.

‘That means so much to me…thank you,’ says Elle, burying herself even closer to his chest.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks. Making them dinner, holding her close, her arms wrapped around him, clad in his old sweater.

‘I feel so safe with you Ethan,’ she whispers.

He loves her. The thought is loud and clear in his head. He has loved her for a long, long time.

He has realised that he’s in love with her before, but in this moment, the realisation dawns on him just as breathtakingly, just as the same sunrise for many millennia never gets less beautiful.

He can’t recall a time when he has known her and not loved her.

Ethan’s heart swells with affection and emotion. With Elle’s head resting against his chest, he is certain she can feel it; feel the love radiating from it like the beautiful sun. How he longs to say it- shout it, scream it; to her, and to the world. She knows, she must do.

But in their little oasis, and her delicate state, he can’t bear to throw their perfect harmony out of balance with the weight of his confession.

Now is not the time for impassioned declarations and burdening her with his own feelings, not again. Even if they’re the most joyous feelings he’s ever known. The right time will come. Recent days have been dark, and he knows they are not out of them yet. Soon, they must face the outside world, and the pain that easing back into reality from their bubble will inevitably bring. But she is here, and, as she has always been to him, is a beacon of light.

So instead of saying it, he presses his lips to her forehead. He is certain she can feel the smile on them.

He turns off the hob, ready to serve up.

The broth is the perfect consistency.

Elle lets out a hum of appreciation at its aroma.

For the first time in a long time, he knows everything will be alright.

Notes: Thanks for reading this rollercoaster with me! Grief can be a whirwhind and I think this fic reflects that. It’s always bothered me that Ethan never fully acknowledged the impact he had on MC by leaving for the Amazon for 2 months, and never apologised for the hurt it caused. In my mind, Ethan stopped shutting her out from this point on, ignoring the clown shit of OH3

#ethan ramsey #ethan ramsey x mc #ethan x mc

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