#close up shots of his fingers tracing soft patterns around her IV (if she needs/has one) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

cajunquandary · 3 years

Text

Hands that Heal

Link: (coming soon to Ao3)

Summary: Sometimes all you need is a little push the right direction...

Created for: @negans-lucille-tblr SPN Secret Santa Fic Exchange

Rating: 18+ only

Pairing: Dean x OFC (Jay)

Warnings: Jealous Dean, fluff, smut, smidge of angst, medical IV (briefly), unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap the willy)

Wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: Happy Holidays, @jay-and-dean! I was so ecstatic to have received your name and hope that my ramblings make you smile a little.

It’s a funny thing, the way everyone goes on about the eyes being windows to the soul. Of course, they can be very telling, and if you ever catch yourself getting lost in those of the Winchesters, how could you believe anything else? Or perhaps you are more like Jay.

Jay has been with the Winchesters for quite some time. She’s been lost in those eyes. And she’s been found. The pure green folds of Dean’s have scooped her up, swaddled her, saved her. So have Sam’s hazel, but not in quite the same way. Not that either brother knows. Only Cas.

Cas has seen the way her deep brown eyes linger just a little longer than they ought to, can feel the ache in her chest. There are times when Jay meets the angel’s gaze just afterwards but looks away just as quickly. They both know, but they won’t talk about it. And that’s okay.

But for Jay, she can see beyond the green. Beyond the freckles and blushing pensive lips, the curve of his jaw, the gently rolling hills of his chest and arms. She traces the majestic waves and ripples beneath his warm skin with only her eyes and her heart. They come to rest just past strong wrists and fall like weighted feathers upon Dean’s weathered hands.

You see, that’s where the soul really reveals itself closest to visible flesh. Each scar and busted knuckle tell a story. The pattern of freckles and tan lines speak of years in the sun. The calluses of his palm and fingertips disclose a rough life, a tough job. They are toned with skill, accurate in all things. They can field strip a gun and put it back together in the blink of an eye, tie complicated knots with dexterity, bait a hook and cast a line without hesitation, and even mold and create custom parts for Baby as they fix her up.

And yet, the skin between those marks is soft, no longer as elastic as it once was, but still full of life and love. The very muscles that hold together the bone and sinew have the capacity to both take life, and give it. Jay has watched them rip apart monsters and gently caress and hold victims within the same minute.

Such an extreme duality shouldn’t be so neatly wrapped up in one man, but it was. It was both Dean’s light and his curse. Jay shivered as she hesitated just a moment too long on the fantasy of those thick muscled, deadly, yet oh-so-gentle hands, imagining how they might tickle as they might glide over her smooth skin. Of course, Dean notices.

“There’s no way you’re cold, Jay. It’s a hundred friggin degrees outside!”

Right. Jay had to remind herself that they were on a case. No distractions. “Yeah, I-I’m good. Just got a chill because, ya know, we’re next to human refrigerators.” She swallowed hard and clenched her teeth to help ground herself back to reality.

It really was hotter than a witch’s tit out there and not much cooler inside the mortuary. Dean continued to read silently from some forms on the coroner’s clipboard before licking his thumb and index finger to turn the page. Heat washed over Jay, spreading like drunken honey from her scalp all the way to her toes. She tried to steady her breathing, remain in persona as a stoney FBI agent, but the hot red of her cheeks was giving her away.

She tore her gaze away to inspect the body. Not that anything she made mental note of would stick at this point. Dean cleared his throat and pulled the clipboard closer to his face before setting his thumbnail between his teeth the way he always did when he was laser-focused on something. She only caught a glimpse out of the corner of her eye, but it was the final bit to break her.

With a huff, Jay exclaimed a little too loudly, “There’s nothing here for us, Dean. I’ll be in the car.” Her legs carried her much too quickly out the swinging doors and up the stairs.

“Um, okay?” Dean grumbled to himself before setting the paperwork back in its place and following Jay. “What the hell got into her?”

Jay was glad to leave Texas. Mid-July heat drained her, along with every plant and tree scorched under the unrelenting and searing white sun. The world around them was bleached and bathed in the almost-eerie too-bright light. Well, everything except what existed in the shadows of the Impala. The sparse countryside rolled away mile by mile as time ticked by with every song on Dean’s favorite cassette.

The air conditioning just couldn’t keep up, so Dean rolled down the windows. Jay tied up her locks in frustration, leaving a messy excuse for a bun resting on top of her head. The leather seats did nothing to help as she sweat through her shorts until she was nearly sliding off the seat.

“How much longer until Oklahoma?” She sighed. For the third time that hour.

Dean shot a glare in her direction before settling his attention back on the highway. The heat was getting to him too, and even with sunglasses on, spots were gathering in his vision and impairing him with every piercing flash of the sun off of the windshields of passing cars. “Jay, I swear if you ask me ‘are we there yet’ one more time, I’m going to friggin pull over.”

“Ugh, FINE.” Jay wished to be nearly anywhere but here. Resignation set in and she slumped in the seat and let her bare feet hang out the window, crossing her arms.

Dean turned the music louder, trying to drown out his own misery rather than her. He began to belt out slightly off-key to “Dazed and Confused.”

Jay cracked a half smile but hid it from Dean.

He rapped out the solos on the steering wheel, his hands keeping perfect time as they danced upon the taught leather.

Maybe pulling over wouldn’t be a half-bad idea, Jay thought.

She closed her eyes, allowing the steady rumble of the engine to echo through her as hot wind whipped through the cab. She cracked them open again just long enough to witness the stretch of tight skin over Dean’s knuckles, the way the washed out wilderness blurred past behind them and accentuated the tan he’d gained from driving.

The image was burned into her mind. To help pass the time, Jay granted herself permission to linger on it, explore it. Despite the heat outside, a new, different heat grew steadily in her core, stirring somewhere deep between her heart and soul.

Not too long after, the Impala slowed and turned into a run down gas station--the first one in an hour. As Dean filled up, Jay took the opportunity to find shelter in some air conditioning and hopefully an ice-cold drink. Inside the store was no better. In fact, it was worse. The air was still and thick with humidity from the cooler, which buzzed and whirred as if it were possessed.

“Sorry, Miss. Cooler is out. Hot drinks only,” a disheveled and sweat-drenched employee slouched over the register.

“Thanks… got any pie?” Jay decided that if they had to drink hot water, they may as well have some comfort food.

“Whatever we got is over there.” The clerk motioned with his eyes, no strength to even lift a finger.

Jay stalked back to the car empty handed and more pissed than ever. If the summer heat was something tangible, she could just strangle it. Kick it, punch it. Anything to fight it.

Dean finished up just in time, careful not to touch the scorching black paint and chrome on the car. “What, you go pee and come out with nothing? I’m dyin’ here!”

Jay snapped. “NO DRINKS. NO PIE. NOTHING. K?!”

Dean was taken aback by the outburst. It was then he noticed the sunken look and dark circles under her eyes and the red sheen over her face and neck. She was getting pale and wasn’t sweating anymore.

“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.” His brows knit as he drove slowly through the town, hoping for a decent motel to rest at for a while. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait but a few blocks before The Moonlight Motel came into view.

Pay by the hour may not be the greatest, but at least it was cheap and would likely be empty this time of day.

Jay was losing touch and the following events were a blur. The next thing she truly could grasp and remember was lying mostly clothed in a cold shower. Dean sat facing her atop the closed toilet seat, a worried face perched upon clasped hands. Still a bit out of it, Jay relaxed into the cool water as it slowly washed the fever down the drain. The world slipped away, replaced by a gentle, dark nothing.

When Jay stirred, the room was too dim to still be day and shadows were held at bay by only a small lamp on the far side of the dingy room. She couldn’t remember how she got there at first, but as she woke, things gradually came back to her.

Dean had practically carried her to the room. He’d carefully set her in the bathtub and removed her belt, overshirt and boots. He’d turned on the cold water and at first, she’d protested, but slipped in and out of consciousness. He’d retrieved ice from the machine down the hall and poured it over her as he constantly monitored her vitals and temperature.

He’d withdrawn her, a soaking wet dead weight, stripped away the sopping clothes while careful not to look where it would make her uncomfortable, and buttoned her up in the softest flannel he had.

Jay glanced down at her right hand, as it felt stiff and sore. A needle was taped there, no longer hooked to the empty bag of saline, taped down and left in place just in case. Jay wiggled slightly when she realized that her other arm had gone quite numb beneath her and--Dean?

His soft snores disrupted as she shifted, equally mortified and elated to be nestled into the crook of his arm. Dean woke and rubbed his eyes, as if pretending he’d been awake the whole time. His voice was low and gravely from sleep.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” He looked down at her, so small in his arms, furious with himself for not taking better care of her.

“M-good,” Jay choked out, completely entranced by being so close to the hunter. Close enough for their breath to mix and his cologne to shroud her senses. Close enough to see the flecks of golds and blues and dark greens in the folds of his irises. Her breath caught and she shivered. Again. Jay mentally kicked herself for that tell. “Thank you… Sorry I was being a brat.”

“No. No, this is on me. You were sun-sick. I’m sorry. I should’ve--”

Jay put a finger to his parted lips with only the intention to stop Dean from blaming himself (like always,) but the touch sent electric pulses through her fingertips and set fire to every nerve in her body. They were impossibly soft and warm.

Dean caught her hand tenderly in his before she could pull away and planted a slow kiss on her knuckles. He watched anxiously as her pupils dilated and her breathing became more shallow. Pulling their hands out of the way, Dean leaned forward just slightly and planted a firm, reassuring kiss to her forehead.

Jay’s mind was a mess. This was more than familial. Were they crossing a line? Or maybe it just meant that Dean was comfortable with her, and concerned. But even as the thoughts swirled, her lips had a mind of their own. As Dean traced his nose down hers until their heads were pressed together, Jay angled upward to meet him.

When their lips locked, there was no more question. Jay loved Dean, and he knew and he loved her back. It was soft and sweet, with their eyes shut tight, just exploring and tasting and sucking gently.

The remainder of the trip back to the bunker was spent with Dean humming, a stupid smile plastered on his face, and Jay resting across the front seat, her head in his lap. Dean stroked her soft, brown hair adoringly. The night was much cooler and comfortably dark with only dim, scattered stars to blanket the hunters.

Everything was different after the motel. The kiss.

Almost six months had gone by and for the most part, they’d been wonderful. Jay spent more time in Dean’s room than her own, and the hunts had been good so far, like old times.

Until this one.

Jay, Sam, and Dean were doing a bit of recon at a local bar to dig up some answers, or at the very least, a lead. Jay had dressed to stun, as usual. (After all, men’s lips tended to be a bit more loose around a pretty girl.)

Dean was hovering. Everytime Jay got close to some useful information, Dean would scare off the burly locals with a death glare.

Until this one.

This man was built like a tank. He towered even over Sam by a few inches and dwarfed Jay in comparison. Sam eyed her uncomfortably from a few tables over, but he always got like that when someone was bigger than him. Dean didn’t adjust his tactics at all, and when the big guy had enough of Dean dancing around him and bumping his chair with an insincere, “sorry, man,” the guy stood up and puffed out his chest. Dean moved to both protect Jay and get in a prime fighting position, but Jay yanked him away by the collar of his jacket faster than he could complain.

She didn’t stop until they were completely outside the bar, then shoved him into the soot-covered brick wall. Dean opened his mouth to spout something pigheaded, but stopped himself as he felt the chill of her glare more than the chill of the snow flurries swirling around them.

“Would you just trust me to do my job? What is your problem?”

“I do! I just--” Dean waved in a flustered motion, unable to find the words. All he knew was that when she got a little too... comfortable... with anyone, he saw red.

Still, Jay seemed to understand. She reached up and held his face firmly between her palms, forcing him to maintain eye contact.

“I’m yours. I know that you worry, what you fear. I’m not going to leave you. Ever. No one can ever take me from you, either, because I’ll haunt your ass and you know it.”

Dean’s bottom lips quivered just barely, and he quickly bit it back. “Don’t you even joke about that,” his voice broke.

“De- I’m right here, okay?”

He nodded and leaned into her until his face was buried in her neck. He squeezed his arms around her, never wanting to know what it would feel like to have to let go.

A muffled “let’s go back to the motel” emanated from somewhere within Jay’s scarf and she nodded in response.

Dean grasped her hand as they walked the short distance back to the rented room. Jay stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide and pointing over to the edge of the woods. A startled “Dean!” escaped her, and Dean dropped her hand and withdrew his gun, ready for a fight. His plumes of hot breath on the air slowed to nearly nothing as he steadied himself and visually searched the area.

What had she seen?

Before he could ask, something hard, round and icey struck the back of his shoulder with decent force. He spun on his heels and lowered his weapon to find Jay wide-mouthed and laughing, another snowball forming in her hands.

“Son of a bitch! You want to play dirty, huh?” Dean howled. He holstered the pistol and raced to close the distance between them. With a squeal and a grunt, the two ended up in a heap in the wet, mushy snow.

Jay managed to end up on top of him and leaned in for a deep kiss. She could feel the smile on his lips as his tongue graced across hers. When at last they came up for air, Dean was moving his arms and legs haphazardly.

“A slush-angel?” Jay giggled at the sorry creation.

“What, my art not good enough for you?” Dean retorted while wearing a shit-eating grin. “And no, actually, it’s a Yeti.”

The wet chill began to sink into their bones, so they hurried onward. Dean fiddled with the key card but the lock gave him fits.

“C’mon, Dean! I’m freezing to death!”

“Yeah, yeah, me too. Hold your horses.”

At last, the door swung open and Jay rushed inside, leaving Dean to close and lock the door behind them. She’d already started stripping off the wet outer layers when Dean approached. With every step bringing him closer, his heartbeat rose and he wrestled out of his own layers.

Jay moved to lift off her shirt, but Dean covered her hands with his, intertwining their fingers. He stood against her, and in one swift move, wrapped both of her wrists in a single firm grip behind her, and with the other, pressed an open palm against her belly.

Jay gasped, her knees going weak with what she knew was coming next. Despite the weather, his touch was toasty. Coarse skin slid over her soft flesh, causing a friction that left Jay needing more. Heat flushed her cheeks and pooled deep in her stomach. Dean melted with every shuttered breath of hers as he stroked up and down beneath the fabric of her shirt, making sure to linger over the more sensitive areas as she twitched and bit down on her lip.

Dean massaged her breasts with skilled fingers for a few moments, but a sensual twist of her nipple sent Jay reeling backwards, supported only by Dean’s other arm. With her head tilted back, Dean took the opportunity to kiss and suck and nip zig-zagged lines over the most delicate parts of her neck and along her collarbone.

Jay squirmed and panted with lust-blown pupils and a cry just on the tip of her tongue. Dean’s grasp only steadied her against him more until he found himself grinding into her, faint moans already filling the air. The growing bulge in his pants drove Jay mad. She wanted to be covered by him, skin on skin, needed him inside her.

“D-Dean please, please…” Jay whimpered and attempted to wiggle out of his hold once more to no avail.

“Please, what, pretty girl? Tell me what you want.” Dean breathed against her ear, just above a whisper. He sucked and nibbled in the hollow behind it.

A shudder wracked Jay, but this time, she didn’t mind the tell. She had him. He was hers. But right then, she needed more and she knew he was holding back. “Unnghh, please… need you, now,” she managed.

“Okay, Baby,” Dean crashed his lips to hers and shifted until Jay was suspended in the air and straddling him as he walked them towards the bed. He dropped her playfully and they scrambled to see who could lose their remaining clothes the fastest.

In a fray of scattered clothing, Dean climbed on top of her, comfortably crushing Jay into the lumpy mattress. He let his full weight rest upon her.

“Stop it,” she giggled as his scruff tickled her cheek.

“Why don’t you make me?” Dean grinned between planting kisses everywhere he could reach.

Before he could react, Jay had him rolled onto the floor. She straddled him and tried to concentrate despite his hard cock resting perfectly between her hot, dripping folds. Her hair created a curtain around their faces, blocking out everything but that moment and the sensations it was riddled with. Dean’s eyes closed and mouth opened like a fish out of water. His breaths were shallow and shaky. Jay fought the urge to lift her hips just so, knowing that if she did, and she came back down upon him, his throbbing dick would line up just perfectly… and they’d end up on the floor for the remainder of their romp.

She rose to her feet, grasping his hand and pulling him up with her. Dean’s eyes were full of question, longing. His cheeks were flushed and hot to the touch. He was melting at every touch and could do nothing about it but wait for her.

Jay led him over to the chair and pushed him into it. He nearly tripped on his way down. That stupid smile she loved so much spread across his face again as he dug his fingers into her hips and pulled her onto him. She let out a yelp as the broad head of his large cock spread her entrance, dripping with precum, and buried itself deep inside until her walls stretched almost uncomfortably. The shock of his size was something she’d never get used to. Each time was like the first, the same butterflies swarming in her stomach, the same jolts of pure lust burning through her veins.

Dean gasped and held her close to him, trembling hands roaming her back and squeezing her ass. Jay carded her hands through his hair and pulled just slightly at the nape of his neck as he whined in approval. Those laments made her head swim and her limbs weak. Drunk on Dean, she adjusted her position until he was sunk deep into the spot that was just right, then began to move back and forth, slow and steady. Dean’s breaths stuttered and his head fell back, leaving his neck open for Jay to take into her mouth.

“Fuck--Baby you feel s-so good,” he stammered between increasing moans and grunts. She could see in his eyes that he was losing control.

Jay cried out as he began to fight her movements with his own, pounding up in all the right spots. She arched her back as the coil wound tighter… higher… tighter… higher... until she shattered in his arms, his name and curses spilling from her gaping mouth.

He held her through it and chased his own orgasm, sucking a mark onto her chest before he spilled into her. Everyone would know she was his, and only his. Her walls clenched in waves and he pulsed within them, his delicious sounds filling her ears as she came down.

Jay crashed her lips into his, and he returned with fervor until they were both completely breathless. Wrapped there in Dean’s arms, Jay was home.

No, nothing was ever the same after that first kiss. And that was okay. It was amazing.

WAYWARD PEEPS:

@carryonmywaywardcaptain @manawhaat @supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79-blog @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction @taste-of-dean @impala-dreamer @arryn-nyxx @idk-life01 @attorneyl @deathtonormalcy56 @xwing-baby @wonder-cole @itsangelpie @thinkinghardhardlythinking

ANGST BABES:

@trexrambling @abbessolute @emptywithout

ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

@akshi8278 @will-winchester

@waywardbaby* the smut was heavily inspired by The Scene. Tagged as promised lol

Tag List now open!

#spnsecretsantaficexchange #hands that heal #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean x ofc #dean x jay #fluff #smut #supernatural

100 notes · View notes

nalgenewhore · 4 years

Text

A rogue storm had her presumed dead and stranded on the red planet. Left on her own, astronaut Aelin Galathynius has four years to make it to the next drop-site, some two thousand miles. Armed with her smarts and dwindling supplies, Aelin attempts to survive on an inhospitable planet, when the nearest help is only millions of miles away.

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Rowan wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t doing anything but fighting against the tether as Aelin let go in every way possible.

Aelin was so tired. She was so gods-damned tired. “It’s ok, Ro, I’m ok-“

“Don’t let go, you can’t let go!” He couldn’t live without her. He’d done it for over a year and he couldn’t – refused to do it again. “You’re not letting go, Ae, don’t you dare let go.”

The comms were silent save for his yells and Aelin’s soft reassurance. The crew was sitting in a horrified silence as they listened, powerless to change her mind.

Nesryn’s gaze was locked on the computer screen, feeling queasy as the distance grew smaller and smaller. She didn’t want to interrupt Rowan’s concentration, but, “Distance to target – seven metres.”

She was so close, Aelin was so close and upon hearing the distance, she half-sobbed, keeping her arm reached out to Rowan as the tether slipped free and he blasted towards her, desperately reaching as their hands brushed against each other’s and she was in his arms seconds later. “Ro,” she croaked, smiling so widely as their helmets knocked together.

“Aelin,” he said, tears blurring his vision. “I got her.” Cheers erupted throughout the comms and Mission Control. “I got her.”

“Lochan, bring them in,” said Lorcan, a smile on his face that no one but Elide ever saw.

“Copy that, Commander.” The MMU moved backwards and Aelin clung harder to Rowan, closing her eyes as tears slipped down her cheeks and she smiled. It seemed the gods had finally answered her prayers.

Everyone was waiting in the inner airlock as they floated in. Aelin waved to them through the window as the outer door closed and Rowan helped her snap her helmet off. The door hissed and Elide was the first one to reach her, the others hanging back – letting the sisters have a minute. Lorcan could just make out Elide’s threats through her tears, “…ever do that shit again, I’ll kill you.”

Aelin laughed and groaned, “Don’t make me laugh, my ribs are broken.”

Elide let go of her, wiping the blonde’s tears away before the rest of the crew swarmed her, enveloping her in a snug hug, careful to not squeeze too hard. Nobody mentioned what Rowan had confessed, just so unbelievably happy to have their girl back.

Nobody knew how long it was until they reluctantly let go and moved as one to the medical bay, waiting anxiously as Rowan checked her out. With a smile, he lifted his head, letting the stethoscope down, “You’re good, Ace. Ribs are broken and I’ll set you up with an IV and might need a feeding tube to replenish the calories you’re missing, but you’re good.”

The crew let out a relieved breath and Rowan relayed the information to Manon. Aelin waggled her brows at Lorcan and Elide, who were standing by the door. Elide was leaning back against Lorcan’s front, his hands in the front pocket of her hoodie. “So, is there going to be mini Lorcan or Elide at the wedding?”

Elide groaned, their sex life was something the crew had always loved to tease them about, “Anneith below, why did we come back for you?” Lorcan just winked at Aelin and bent down to whisper to Elide, nipping at the soft shell of her ear. Her cheeks turned pink as she elbowed him in the stomach as a response, “You’re disgusting. Both of you.” A sly grin grew over her lips as Aelin and the rest of the crew cackled.

Rowan chuckled and knelt, searching for a roll of gauze to wrap her ribs. “You’re gonna need to strip, so…” he arched a brow and she nodded.

“Bye, guys,” she told the rest of the crew. They all got up from their various positions and waved goodbye to her, hesitant to leave, as if she would slip away again. “I’ll be fine. Go,” she shooed them away, smiling softly as they left and the door clicked shut behind them.

Silent as he worked, Rowan ignored the feeling of her gaze burning into him as he wrapped her ribs, “How’s that feel?”

Aelin breathed in slowly, it was snug. “Good, really sore still.”

“If it’s still sore later, let me know, I can get you-“

“You love me?”

Her words had him choking and looking up from the IV he was preparing. “I-I…”

“I heard you, buzzard. Was it a lie to get me to hold on?” A heartbreaking light fractured her eyes and Rowan cursed himself, quick to shake his head.

“What? Gods, no, it wasn’t a lie, Ae.” He floundered, searching for the right words, “I know… we didn’t always get along very well and I was an ass, but I love you.” He waited for her response, tensing as he prepared to hear the worst. When she stayed silent, his brain short wired and he began rambling, “I’ve loved you for years, Aelin. Gods, you drive me crazy and sometimes I didn’t know if I wanted to kill you or kiss you because you’re you. You’re the smartest person I know and you’re completely unapologetic for it. You’re curious. You want to know everything about the world and I-“

She stopped him by pressing her fingers to his mouth, “Shut up.” His stomach fell at the two words before she whispered, “I love you. So much.”

“You do?”

“Most ardently, Rowan Whitethorn.” Tears were caught in her lashes and he gently cupped her face, swiping his thumb under her eye to catch the drops.

“Why do you cry, Fireheart?” Aelin fell further every time he called her that.

“Because I was lost and I didn’t know the way.”

“And now?” He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers, the tip of her nose cold against his.

“I’ve been found.” And never to be lost again. He would follow her to the ends of the universe and whatever they found after it.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

“Stop staring at me,” Aelin said, already tired of everyone’s mothering. She slowly chewed on her pasta, using most of her energy to keep it down. “I’m fine.”

When she snapped her head up, glaring at everyone, they all held her gaze, arching their brows as if to say she’d have to try harder than that. Lorcan laughed quietly, “Can you really blame us? You can barely keep your plain noodles down.” Rowan shot him a look and Lorcan read what was happening, a satisfied gleam entering his dark eyes. “Ah. Well, not to be blunt or anything but gods above, fucking finally.”

Fenrys and Elide hooted. Nesryn was able to control herself more and smiled fondly, as if they were children, nodding once and returning to her meal.

Rowan near growled and his brother just cocked his head to the side and smirked, “At least we didn’t bet on it.” Elide turned in his lap and smacked his chest, glaring at him. He just shrugged, Am I wrong?

“You’re awful, all of you,” Rowan seethed, calming as Aelin patted his knee. He gave her a secret smile and then blushed when she returned it, lifting her hand and kissing the back of her knuckles.

“Oh good gods, my eyes! Premarital affection!” Fenrys cried out, grabbing Nesryn’s hand to cover his eyes.

Everyone promptly ignored him and smiled softly to themselves, exchanging amused glances at Aelin and Rowan’s expense.

After dinner, they all lingered, explicitly rejecting Aelin’s request that they ‘cease and desist being overprotective mother hens’. Finally, Aelin bluntly told them to leave before she started kicking ass and they all dispersed, humouring her. She watched her sister and commander leave together, no longer feeling that same aching sense in her chest.

Lorcan tugged Elide along, whispering low enough that Aelin couldn’t hear it. Elide gave him a fond look, tangling her fingers in his and pulling him behind her, their joyful laughter floating along as they disappeared from view.

Aelin turned, spying Rowan a little ways away, watching her. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replied smoothly, finally making his way over to her. Rowan rolled his eyes when she lifted her arms and he scooped her up, holding her against his chest as he walked to the couch and sat down.

Her eyes were begging to be closed but still she kept them open, tracking over Rowan’s face as he gazed out the windows. Eventually, he slid his gaze to her, a brow quirked up. “What?”

She shook her head, her throat tight, “I just… I would have these dreams that you were right there with me. And we were so happy-” her breath hitched and he opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t need to hear this right now but she needed to tell him this. “We were so happy and then I would wake up and not be able to sleep again because I thought I would never get to tell you that I love you.”

A tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek as she slid her fingers across his face, feeling the contours of his features, the smoothness of tattoo ink. “You’re real.”

Rowan nodded, tracing a comforting pattern over her side, “I am.”

His eyes were like liquid emeralds as she met his gaze and tilted her chin up, so soft as she brushed her lips against his. Rowan sucked in a sharp breath as she pulled away, still close enough to touch his lips if either of them spoke.

Aelin didn’t know how long they had been trapped in that moment until his lips were on hers again, gentle and tender, but strong, full. A gasp escaped her as she gave into the feeling, her long lashes brushing against his cheeks as her eyes fluttered shut.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, using every ounce of strength in her weak body to hold herself to him as their lips moved against each other’s. When his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, she opened for him, tasting his soft groan at the first brush of her tongue against his.

Kissing him was like a breath of fresh air, the first real breath she’d inhaled since the rescue. Aelin still wasn’t convinced, was sure that if she moved too quickly, it would all disappear. Again.

But it was real, the feeling of his hair tangled in her hands grounding her to the moment as she threatened to float away.

Somebody coughed and they broke apart, chests heaving, gazes wide and pupils dilated. Aelin looked over Rowan’s shoulder, spying Lorcan and Fenrys standing there. “What, in Hellas’ cold and dark realm, do you want?”

“Oh, nothing, just in the communal area, getting some tea before bed, don’t mind us” Lorcan replied, a shit-eating grin on his face. He took one step forward and smirked at the look on Rowan’s face as he turned to glare at Lorcan and Fenrys. “On second thought, it’s late, probably not a good idea to have caffeine. Have fun, you two.”

“But not too much fun,” Fenrys yelled as they left, snickering the entire way. They were almost gone when Lorcan’s wolf whistle pierced the air and he howled, the sounds amplified by Fenrys’ roaring laughter.

“We’re surrounded by animals,” Rowan muttered, his frown melting as Aelin smiled at him. “I hate them.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, kissing away the tears that streaked down her cheeks. She only cried harder, “Buzzard.”

“Fireheart.”

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: see! i told you it would all work out 💛 nine chapters down, one to go!

@mythicaitt @tinywolfofeyllwe @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @westofmoon @empire-of-wildfire @rhysands-highlady @city-of-fae @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tangledraysofsunshine @ttakeitbacknoww @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere @queenofxhearts @that-other-pineapple @sleeping-and-books @superspiritfestival @faerie-queen-fireheart @chemicha @rowaelin-cressworth @mynewdreamwasyou @candid-confetti @bat-wing-rhys @the-reading-obsessed-stitchbear @feyrethedarklady @booklover41802 @rowaelinforeverworld @jamesxdaisy @julemmaes @hellas-himself @kayjaybea @ghostlyrose2 @but-she-was-aelin-galathynius @queen-of-glass @can-dreamers-be-lost-too

118 notes · View notes

dank-hp--memes · 5 years

Text

A Fate Worse than Death

This is a few chapters long...

Tags: @johnlockismyreligion @royaltydowntonandlife

---

It was the middle of the morning, around seven when Ulana left the hotel. She often went out to take her own readings and do impromptu calculations. This morning was no different. Dressed in a creme blouse, a black skirt, and heels, Ulana made her way through the exclusion zone, taking some readings and recording the numbers. She had made her way to the outskirts of Pripyat, walking alone. Little did she know, an animal control team was in the same area with a rather trigger happy liquidator. It happened in a split second. Ulana rounded a corner, there was a loud bang, then silence. She felt a searing pain in her lower chest before falling onto her back, her legs were beginning to go numb. The grimy water from the puddle she had fallen into slowly soaks into her clothes as Ulana gasps for air, her lips parted slightly, her chest seems to spasm as her need for oxygen increases. Ulana stairs, wide-eyed, up at the greyish blue sky. Her body aches with an immense searing pain that originates in her lower chest. She can feel her warm blood soak into her blouse, leaving it stained a crimson red. She can hear the voices of the liquidators who were a part of the animal control squad, but they seem distant and muffled. Almost as if the liquidators were in another room, far away from her.

The clear sky reminds Ulana of her childhood. She would spend hours upon hours laying in the soft grass of the Belorussian countryside when she would visit her grandmother's house. She could watch the sky for hours, often lost in thought. Her grandmother would often scold her for slacking off on her chores, or simply for spending too much time lying on the ground and doing nothing. The sun had always warmed the long grass, making it a fairly nice spot to lay and relax.

As Ulana laid there, her mind wandering about her thoughts, she could not help but think of Valery. Recalling all of the time they had spent together. The many seconds they had spent together in bed, with minimal clothing on, holding each other close. Valery always wrapped his arms around Ulana's middle and held her close. He would press soft kisses on her slender shoulders and up her neck. He would run his hand down her stomach to rest it on her hip. They shared more than just many sweet nothings in their hotel rooms. Ulana felt her breath hitch in her throat as she thought of the sweet and dorky smile Valery always had when he looked over her shoulder at her in the mirror after they got out of the shower. He would place his hands on her hips and rest his chin on her shoulder, whispering many sweet nothings to her as he looked at her in the mirror. She remembered the way looking into his icy blue eyes sent shivers down her spine and made her hair stand on end. As the world around her began to fade and her ears began to ring, Ulana could only hope to see Valery one more time. She felt someone lift her up off the ground and she could see the outline of a figure before everything went black.

One of the liquidators had lifted Ulana off the ground and was carrying her to the truck. She needed immediate medical attention, for it was clear that, along with her blood, the life was draining out of her. The liquidators drove her back to camp, arguing in a panic. Their loud voices make Ulana stir a little, but she does not wake up. Her skin seems to become paler by the second. Upon their arrival back in camp, Ulana is handed off to two soldiers and flown to the nearest hospital equipped to treat her in Kyiv. The flight is long and bumpy, and Ulana is quickly losing blood. A cold sweat is soaking her clothes as she lays there unconscious. So far, no one has thought to notify any of the higher-ups, except General Pikalov, who is handling the situation on his own. Upon their arrival in Kyiv, Ulana is swarmed by nurses and doctors who quickly take her back to an operating room. They quickly begin transfusing blood, but it is hardly fast enough. They cut off Ulana's clothes and quickly begin operating, doing their best to stop her bleeding. They are extremely careful as they remove the bullet, for it had been resting over Ulana's spinal cord, but it is too late. The damage had already been done. She would have nerve damage in her upper body and there was a chance she would never walk again if she even survived. Hours had passed, and Ulana was still in critical condition. Her poor heart had stopped twice, only to be shocked back to life. The doctors managed to finish the surgery and close Ulana up, but, no matter what they did, the damage had been done. Ulana was taken to a small and cramped room in the ICU, it looked more like a supply closet than a proper room. She was hooked up to an insane amount of machines. They all served to keep her alive. A tube had been shoved down her throat and was breathing for her. One of the monitors was monitoring her heart rate and oxygen levels. Another was simply controlling her morphine drip and IV. There was also a feeding tube stuffed down Ulana's nose. She was still receiving blood and platelets so that just added to the whole mess of machines and IV's. They kept Ulana heavily sedated to make sure she was not in any pain. Other than that, there wasn't much that could be done for her.

A few days passed. Valery had assumed Ulana had gone back to Minsk, as she did sometimes when she needed to do something important that could not be done in Pripyat. He had no idea that Ulana was on the verge of death and that he may never speak to her again.

There was a knock on Valery's hotel room door. It was from Boris. He looked at Valery and Valery's heart sank. He knew from Boris' expression that something was wrong. He stood in the doorway, too nervous to ask, not truly wanting to know.

"You should sit down…" Boris croaks, his voice dry, for he dreaded breaking the news to Valery.

"What happened?" Valery asked, not moving from the doorway.

Had something happened with the reactor? Was there another accident at the plant? Did something happen with the reactor core?

Valery mind was racing, but Ulana being injured, let alone shot and dying never crossed his mind, not even once.

"Valery, you should really sit down" Boris' voice came again, interrupting Valery's thoughts.

Valery retreated into the room, followed by Boris. He could sense the older man's nervousness as the tension in the air grew. Very gingerly placed himself on the sofa, looking up at Boris.

"It's about Khomyuk…" Boris begins

He pauses the words trapped in his throat. Valery leaned in in anticipation. What had happened? Had Ulana been arrested again? Or was she in some sort of lab accident? Did she have radiation poisoning?

"A few days ago she was involved in an accident… she was shot in the chest" Boris says, stopping there, not knowing how to continue.

Valery's heart seemed to have disappeared. He could feel his throat tighten and his mouth goes dry as his lips parted to reply. Never in his worst nightmares could he imagine Ulana, his lovely Ulana, being shot.

"What?" Is all he manages to say, his eyes wide as he looks up at Boris, not truly believing him.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. They must have had the wrong person. Ulana had to be okay. He needed her. Not just to help him with Chernobyl. It was like he did not know how to breathe without her. He needed her to survive. She was the only thing he truly needed in his life. She was like his other half. She was his soulmate. She understood every word from Valery's lips, and he understood every word from hers. She was also the most wonderful cuddler. Her body always seemed to radiate heat and her skin was soft like silk. Not to mention that especially soft spot just over her hip. It was the perfect place for him to rest his hand and trace his fingers over while they cuddled. Valery suddenly looked up at Boris. Boris had said someone, but Valery had been too enveloped in his thoughts to comprehend what he had said. He simply stared blankly at Boris, his mouth slightly agape.

"She is in the Kyiv trauma centre. She is in critical condition. The bullet ripped through her at an odd angle. It tore through her liver, and one of her lungs before resting over her spinal cord. Her heart stopped twice during the surgery, leaving her brain without oxygen for an extended amount of time… so, if she does wake up, she may not be the Ulana you and I know" Boris says, trying to make sure Valery mentally prepares himself.

Boris looks at the carpet for a moment, his eyes studying the grimy, horribly patterned carpeting. Over the phone, the doctors had said much more. Ulana could be brain dead or mentally impaired from how long her heart had stopped. She could be paralyzed. She likely had nerve damage. She may not recover. She could get a blood clot and die of a stroke or a pulmonary embolism. She could suffer a heart attack and her heart could stop again. Ulana could die before they even got close to Kyiv, fuck she could be dead as they speak. She could die of internal bleeding if the clotting agent they gave her does not take effect, for the radiation exposure had caused her some issues with her blood. There were many possibilities with what could happen to Ulana, and most of them had far from good outcomes.

Valery sat in silence, processing what Boris had just said. He can hardly imagine Ulana, his Ulana, being shot in the chest. He could feel cold sweat dripping down his back as he placed his trembling hands on his knees. Valery took a deep breath before standing up.

"How was she shot…" He mumbles, a dark rage slowly building within him.

Boris pauses for a moment, surveying Valery, contemplating how much to tell him. He opens his mouth a few times before simply sighing. What on earth was he going to tell Valery?

"It was an accident with some animal control liquidators…" Boris says, not wanting to say too much.

He feared to upset Valery more, for he did not care to see him in such a state. Valery simply swallows and nods, unable to find the words to respond. His jaw is clenched and his hands balled into fists. Valery's mind is surprisingly blank.

"I need to see her," Valery says, his voice flat and his tone dark.

His eyes are burning into Boris from behind his smudged glasses, but behind all of the rage, Boris can see the fear and helplessness that plagues Valery.

"There's a helicopter waiting to take us to Kyiv…" Boris replies.

The next few minutes are a blur. Valery hardly remembers leaving the hotel room, let alone walking out to the helicopter. The animal control team is standing outside the hotel with Pikalov, who looks quite unsettled.

Valery looks at them, a few stains of Ulana's blood that they had been unable to wash out still on their clothes.

"Which one of you shot comrade Khomyuk?" Boris begins, planning on having them sent away.

A rather small young lad steps forward, cowering in fear in front of Boris. Boris opens his mouth to speak hut is interrupted.

"How could you shoot her? She is not some animal!" Valery shouts, his voice shaking with anger.

An older man, obviously a soldier steps forward, his chiselled face, looking rather irritated. He was much taller than Valery and rather intimidating.

"Nobody told us there would be someone taking measurements. She just appeared out of nowhere. It startled us. She wasn't wearing anything protective, and wandering around alone was rather stupid" he mutters, not wanting to defend himself to some stupid scientist.

That was it, the soldier had crossed the line. Nobody called Ulana, his Ulana stupid.

"She has a name…" Valery growls his face bright red.

It looks as though Valery is ready to kill them with his bare hands. Boris grabs Valery's shoulder to pull him away. Valery's reaction had surprised Boris, and he was unsure of what Valery was capable of in such a state.

"So what? We all have names? Do you think the higher-ups care about what happens to us? Why should we care what happens to her" the soldier barks, irritation rising in his voice?

The other members of the animal control team have backed away, rather scared of Valery's reaction.

"She is one of the most important people here… AND YOU'VE SHOT HER! YOU SHOT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE!" Valery shouts, finally admitting that he loves Ulana out loud.

The tension in the air seems to thicken. Everyone has gone silent, even Valery. He had surprised himself by saying that. Never in a million years did he think he would admit, in front of people, that Ulana was the love of his life. Suddenly, Boris' hand was back on Valery's shoulder and pulling him back onto the helicopter. Valery did not protest, he was too busy being stuck deep within his thoughts. Valery aimlessly plopped down into one of the seats, his elbows going to rest on his knees, and his head resting on his trembling hands. He was silent except for a few stifled sobs. Boris did not take his eyes off Valery throughout the entire flight. He knew that if Ulana did not get better, Valery would never recover.

#chernobylhbo fanfic #chernobyl fanfic #chernobylhbo #chernobyl hbo #chernobyl #hbo chernobyl #fanfiction #fanfic #writing #valery x ulana #ulana khomyuk #valery legasov/ulana khomyuk #valery legasov

12 notes · View notes

thedistantstorm · 6 years

Text

A Shipwright Worth Her Salt Chapter 14

Progression in fits and starts: Zavala is mentally exhausted, Shaxx makes a deal, Saladin arrives, and Amanda causes trouble.

“The swelling is getting worse,” Shaxx says, when Zavala all but tiptoes back into the room. His voice is grave behind his helm, but he keeps his volume soft.

There is a mask on her face providing oxygen now, and an intravenous line propelling a large bag of solution into her arm. She shifts fitfully then falls limp, a sleep pattern that is not altered by medication. Zavala approaches the side of the bed and adjusts the plush blanket over her good leg. Her face is pinched and uneasy, and her fingers are twitching. She's likely in pain. She'll wake soon, he thinks.

“They are afraid to medicate her,” Shaxx answers his unspoken question. “Concerned that she will require intubation if they do.” He crosses armored arms. “The IV and oxygen mask were enough of a battle. She is a stubborn one,” He muses. “I was rather pleased to see she hadn't lost that as well.”

Zavala hums. He does not pull over a chair, instead resting on the edge of her bed. She moans under the clear mask, both legs shifting. When her eyes start to water, he gives the Crucible Handler a look. Shaxx excuses himself without pause, squeezing the other Titan's shoulder in a gesture that spoke volumes coming from someone like himself. Comfort was not typically a measure he willingly provided.

Her eyes are dark and stormy when they open a short while later. It takes a minute to focus, and when she does, she sees the figure sitting intently at the end of her bed. Zavala blinks, and it looks almost like lightning to her, in the darkness of her room. She pushes herself up, and blinks back.

“Nightmare?” His baritone is a balm for her thundering heart.

She nods. Tugs at the oxygen mask.

“Don't pull.”

Sighs. She scooches over so that there’s room next to her near the head of the bed and blinks a few more times at him. She isn’t going to ask, he realizes, when she apparently gives up a moment later and huffs before lying down.

“Would you like me to sit with you?”

She turns her head away. She’s a stubborn thing, but he can see the pink of her cheeks even with the mask intruding and how dark it is. Her breathing is still heavy. He flips his palm face up and Aashimah seems to know exactly what he needs, transmatting his armor away.

“Amanda.”

She opens her eyes and looks over at him. Hands go to her throat before she moves to pull her good leg up to her chin again. He recognizes the defensive position for what it is. His lips pull in a concerned sort of smile that isn’t one at all, really.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

Head shake. Pause. She darts her eyes at him and looks back toward the wall, as if he absolutely has not caught her doing so. Ridiculous child. He stands and she immediately freezes.

“I will not leave,” He says, when her wide-eyed gaze finds him standing by the window. “I promise.”

The puff of oxygen being fed to her through the mask is the only sound in the room. When he looks back, her hands are tracing the line along the column of her throat. She looks pointedly at him, then away.

He sighs. “Does it hurt?”

She shrugs.

“Yes, then.” He answers for her.

She swallows and winces.

“Your throat hurts more than the wound.”

Nod.

The force of breath leaving his lungs on this sigh is larger than the others. “You know they cannot give you anything for it.”

Nod.

He returns to her side, one hand on her head. “I do not know what you were thinking,” He says quietly. “I cannot pretend to. I can only beg you not to do it again.” She can hear the reserved tone in his voice, knows that he is upset. “When you have... recovered from your injuries, it is all I can hope that you will speak to someone about this.”

She pulls the oxygen mask off her face and the hardness of her eyes stops him from scolding her for a quick second. She inhales with a rasp, deep as she can to try and force the words out.

“I never wanted to be anyone’s burden.”

His eyes flash wide. “You are not!” He almost yells, reigning it in at the last second.

She looks down. “Doesn’t feel that way,” She replies like someone is choking her, before pushing the mask back on her face and rolling over and away from him.

He sits down on the side of the bed, his back to hers. “I suppose it might not,” He finally concedes. “This is an adjustment for both of us, you know.” He can tell that she sighs because her shoulder moves in a deep motion, out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t comment on it, instead saying, “I am taking some time away from my duties.”

She rolls back over so quickly he would be surprised if she isn’t dizzy. She throws the mask off this time and lets it hit the ground behind her. “You can’t!” Her fists pound on his back.

“Calm down,” Zavala replies calmly, watching the flicker of the alarm above the bed come on. “I can, and I have.” He stands and turns so that he’s fully facing her. “Stop that,” He says in a tone that brokers no argument. “Look at me.” He takes her chin in his hands, and she flinches hard and pulls back, nearly falling off the bed. The movement startles him, too. “Amanda-”

“Go away.”

“Listen to me. You come-”

“GO,” The strain of trying to yell at him is enough that he can see her wide, terrified eyes tearing, small hands clutching at her throat like it would help. “Away!”

“-First.”

She breathes heavily, drawing herself into the smallest ball she can become when he gives her space but refuses to leave. Her eyes dart around as each breath becomes a strained rasp. He does not approach, his eyes are on the numbers on the monitors. The amount of oxygen she’s getting is dropping rapidly.

“Amanda, I need you to put the mask back on,” He tells her, picking it up from the floor. “It’s important.”

She shakes her head.

“I don’t want them to put that tube down your throat again.”

Bright eyes stare back at her but she does not move. He’s scared, she can see it in the swirl of lights under his skin. “Please put it back on.”

She extends a hand and he hands it to her. She puts it on with trembling fingertips. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes and she looks at him looking at the monitor. She blinks away the tears clouding her vision, and tries to get her breathing under control. He blinks back at her in the dark after a time, pulling a chair up to the edge of her bed, close enough that if she wants, he can hold her hand. He lays his palm face down gently beside her. An invitation that she may, if she wishes. He was not joking when he said he would not go anywhere.

She looks away, still shaking hard, but wiggles her hand under his, curling her palm up and squeezing tight.

The next week is spent like this, in fits and starts. One day she does well, the next she is despondent. Some days she wakes up seeing things he cannot, fighting shadows that exist in her mind. She has not been taking care of herself, and her leg is red and infected underneath heavy wraps. They give her medication, but it only makes her ill.

By the time Lord Saladin arrives for Iron Banner, he's grateful for the reprieve. And he's furious with himself because of it.

The Iron Lord is his usual self, stoic, confident, and calculating. He braces arms with Zavala - their usual greeting - and immediately can see that something has his student off-kilter.

“You are well?” Saladin asks, gruff in his delivery.

“Yes. And you?” There is a small chime of the Commander's handheld, and his fingers twitch by habit to reach for it before he remembers his manners in present company.

“Fine,” The elder Titan hedges. There are several more chimes, and the Commander finally reaches for the thing tucked under his other arm and turns it off without looking away. “Is everything else alright? You seem… strained.”

Zavala sighs. Saladin can see the stress. It's more obvious in the curl of the Awoken man's shoulders. “Nothing that cannot be seen to,” He finally says.

Looking around, Lord Saladin determines that the Tower is capable of completing setup for him and steps around his junior. “Come. My journey has been long. You look like you could use some ale and I require a meal.”

When Zavala does not argue, not even a little, Saladin frowns.

Shaxx is not surprised by the grit of the girl. She is angry, seething, and full of rage. She woke this morning to find Zavala gone, with only the word of a nurse to corroborate his story, no note to speak of.

She has not spoken to anyone, refused to eat, and instead shot what he assumes is message after message to the Commander(based on frantic typing), before slamming the tablet down on the stand beside her bed and pouting like a child half her age.

She's been stone still for almost an hour now. It is almost palpable, the rage that swirls around her in the air. She is focused, he'll give her that.

“He is spending some time with his mentor, Lord Saladin,” Shaxx finally relents, some time later. “He did not abandon you, Little Mechanic.”

That gains him a look. A moment later, she clears her throat and asks, “Isn't he your mentor, too?” She sounds much better, more like she has a cold than anything else. The welt around her neck is hidden and healing well.

A scoff. “Once. But he and I have our differences in opinion.”

“Zavala said-” She looks at him fearfully when his posture tenses, like he's about to yell.

He corrects it immediately, and redirects. “When are you going to get your legs out from under you? Certainly you can get a prosthetic by now. Do you prefer being helpless?” Behind his helmet, he winces. He did not mean to sound so rude, this was a human child, after all.

She shakes her head, but does not seem slighted by his tone. “'m leg's still infected. I wanna walk, y’know.”

“You ought to start acting like it,” Shaxx cautions. “Zavala is blinded enough by his emotions to let you milk this for all that it is worth. What happens in here,” He taps the side of his head missing one horn, “Is a different animal, and that is alright. You'll figure it out.” She sits up and swings her legs off the bed, looking at her crutches and back. “But you must rise every day and fight.” He grips his fist. “Regardless of it.”

Amanda nods, and for a second, he sees the little girl he remembers. “Will you help me walk? When they let me try?” Her eyes are cool and clear, and she whispers quietly. “I don't wanna be coddled. You won’t pity me. I know you won't do that.”

He laughs, and it makes her smile. “Prove to me you want it, and I most certainly will.”

She doesn't move from the side of the bed, swinging her good leg quietly. Eventually, she looks up at him and says, “D'ya think they'll get food?” Her stomach rumbles. “I want somethin’ good.”

Shaxx summons his Ghost, who does a quaint sweep before disappearing into motes of light. “I happen to know they are at a benull little tavern that serves excellent beef stew.”

Amanda reaches for her tablet. “Lord Saladin, right? He’s got a handheld? Zavala's is off.”

The Crucible Handler sees her play from a mile away, the spark in her eyes fractionally brighter. “You won't find him in our system,” He says with a chuckle. “I can-”

“I can do it.” Her tongue peeks out through her teeth as her hand dances across the touchpad.

“Perhaps next time I come visit, I'll bring you some of my broken tech. Zavala will not like you hacking Saladin’s equipment.”

“I'm not hacking Saladin's.” She smirks. “I'm hacking his.”

A quiet tone sounds while they are waiting for the waitress to order. Saladin, expecting it to be Shiro or one of his own, reaches for his device and opens it. His eyes narrow.

“What is it?”

Saladin shakes his head, types a reply, and sets the device down.

Another tone. Same response, different message sent back.

The third message makes Saladin's eyes widen. He looks up at Zavala. Back at the screen. He sets the handheld face up, returns to the other set of messages, and types another reply.

“Did you know someone hacked your handheld?” Saladin asks, when the waitress walks over and attempts to gather their order.

Zavala orders, keeping his voice down when he turns back to reply. “Impossible.”

“That is what I would have said, however they know where we are, and what we are doing.”

The Awoken Titan pulls out his handheld, powers it on. There are fifteen missed messages, all from one sender. There are also messages currently being sent back and forth, between himself and his mentor. Ones he has not had anything to do with. He is afraid to see what trouble she has caused, the fractal aura of his face almost pulsing while he feels his ears grow hot in embarrassment.

He sighs and summons his Ghost. “Tell her to stop.”

Aashimah spins, looking down at the messages and then up at him. “But, Zavala, it's a good thing. She hasn't-”

“It's inappropriate.”

A twitch of cones sends the Ghost fluttering off to the side. “It's her. It's more like her than we've seen in,” She seems to think it over, “A long time. Let her down with a warning this time or tell her yourself.” She phases away.

Before Zavala can reply, Lord Saladin pipes up, “Shaxx just sent me a message that reads, 'If the Commander does not bring the girl back stew and some of that lovely crusty bread they serve, I will take it as yet another personal offense. Do see to it that he agrees.’” Saladin looks at Zavala. “That's more cordial than he has been in years.” Then, he turns to the waitress, giving his order before adding, “I'll also have an order of the stew, to go.”

Zavala sighs, nursing his beer. “It isn't what you think.”

“Truly, I do not know what to think. Perhaps it is best if you start at the beginning.”

“Have you ever heard of the scrapper who had a workshop in an old house, near the wall?”

“Perhaps in passing.”

It's enough to start with. The Commander takes a sip of his ale. “Her name is Amanda Holliday. She is,” He pauses, “Special.” His lips pull to the sides. “But, she is sick. I have… taken some time away to keep an eye on her.”

Saladin frowns. “That so?”

Zavala nods. He wasn't particularly expecting a positive response. “A temporary arrangement while she acclimates to her life here.”

“Here being…”

“The Tower.”

“A wolf cub,” Saladin likens it to, stroking his chin. “I didn’t see you as the type.”

“Neither did I.” He shrugs.

“Any regrets?”

“None.”

“Of course.” The Iron Lord chuckles. “Didn’t suspect you would. How is she sick?”

Gaze darkening, Zavala replies, “You’ll see. I assume you’ll like to meet her.”

“Obviously. Tonight, barring any issues starting Iron Banner, should you be agreeable.”

“My schedule is surprisingly open,” The Commander concedes. “I’m sure she’ll itching to thank you for the stew.”

#destiny fanfiction #commander zavala #amanda holliday #lord shaxx #lord saladin #swhs fanfic

17 notes · View notes

winterinpanem · 6 years

Text

Christmas Angels - Chapter 3

December 20

I was unprepared for this madness. The mall, five days before Christmas, is a nut house, crawling with wild-eyed shoppers determined to spend every cent in their pockets. Gigantic Christmas balls dangle from the ceiling between long garlands of flocked greenery. From my perch on a high stool in the food court, I spot Santa on his throne offering half-hearted ho-ho-hos to a squalling child while an unfortunate woman in an elf costume tries to take their picture. Honey, you can shake your stupid monkey at that baby all you want. He isn’t going to smile.

To top it all off, Burl Ives is wishing everyone a Holly, Jolly Christmas. I’m pretty sure that’s impossible in this little slice of suburban hell.

Justin Bieber starts singing in my pocket. I’m still not sure what I was thinking when I assigned that particular ringtone to Peeta, but it doesn’t really matter anyway because I never let it play very long. I unlock my phone and open the message.

You’re prettier when you smile.

My head whips around, eyes scanning the crowd, looking for his familiar mop of hair. Finally, I spot him, leaning against a nearby pillar while sporting a lazy grin, a baseball cap perched on his head. He waggles his fingers at me as I move toward him.

He looks so different in something other than his bakery uniform. His biceps practically burst from the sleeves of the t-shirt he’s wearing. The pinky-orange fabric clings to his pecs too. I think the colour is called coral or something, but I’ve never seen it on a man before. Whatever. It looks hella good on him. The jeans are perfect for him too. They’re clearly soft and well worn; neither too baggy nor too tight.

A fantasy flies unbidden into my mind of me stepping casually into his arms like I belong there, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his lips. I command my imagination to heel. I barely know this man.

“Hi,” I force out, but it sounds breathy and girly and nothing like me.

“Hi,” he says with a bright smile and pushes off the post, his winter jacket clutched in his fist. “Did you want to get some dinner?”

I do, but not at the food court, so I just shrug. “Maybe after? Let’s get the shopping done first.”

Before long, we’re walking in circles around the scraggly artificial tree still dripping in paper angels. Rue, a teenaged volunteer from the food bank, is manning the table. Her chocolate eyes are dancing when we approach. She’s Chaff and Seeder’s daughter and I’ve watched her grow up, helping her parents on Saturday afternoons. But, it seems that she knows Peeta too.

“Katniss! Peeta! I didn’t know you knew each other. What are you doing here?”

“Just finishing my Christmas shopping,” Peeta says easily as he peruses the angels on the tree, plucking the odd one off it’s branches.

Rue leans over the table to whisper conspiratorially. “Are you guys dating?”

I shake my head vehemently and then feel guilty for it. “We’re just friends.”

“He’s kinda cute, Katniss. Do you want to be his girlfriend?”

I must turn three shades of red because Rue giggles. “We just met Saturday,” I hiss, which only makes it worse. Honestly, she’s as boy crazy as Prim was at her age. I’m still shaking my head at her when Peeta returns to the table so Rue can jot down the requests he’s promising to fulfill.

“All set?” she asks.

He nods. “I think so.”

While Rue and Peeta finish their business, I start checking out the other wishes on the tree, finding dreams of dolls and video games, Lego and science kits, Nerf guns and teddy bears. Then I spot it - an angel hung so that the wish on it is hidden from view. I turn it so I can read it better, the card stock seraphim stiff between my fingers. An eight-year-old girl wants a pair of winter boots. Size 13. My heart pounds in my ears and I have to remind myself to take my next breath. And the next one. When I step away from the tree, I can’t let it go. Instead, I march over to Rue and slap it down on the table.

“This one,” I tell her and she looks up at me, startled. “I’ll take this one.”

As soon as she’s finished with Peeta’s angels, Rue picks up mine and gets ready to assign it to me in her book.

“I can get that one, Katniss,” Peeta offers. “Let me put one of these back and-”

“No.”

Rue hands the angel back to me and I stomp towards the nearest shoe store. There’s a storm raging inside me and I won’t be able to think clearly until I’ve got the boots in my hands.

“Katniss!” Peeta calls out, scurrying to keep up with me. There’s a hitch in his step. His injury must be bothering him again. “Wait up a minute.” I sigh and roll my eyes skyward. His face is twisted in concern when he finally catches up. “Why are you so upset? I thought we were having fun and then you just took off. Did I do something?”

“No.” I try to brush past him and continue my mission to Payless Shoes, but he catches me by my sleeve.

“Katniss? What’s wrong?”

“Boots, Peeta! Boots!” He stares at me blankly, so I shake the little paper angel in his face. “This little girl – this eight-year-old girl – gets one Christmas wish, Peeta. ONE! And she’s so desperate for warm winter boots, that’s what she asked Santa for. Not a doll. Not jewellery. Not even a teddy bear. Boots!” I’m shaking with rage. “Well, I’ll make damn sure she gets her boots.”

By the time I’ve finished my rant, Peeta has grabbed me by the shoulders. I wait for him to walk away. He should walk away. I’m a crazy woman who just lost her mind over a pair of boots. But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls me into his arms and lets me bury my face in his shoulder. My lips are a hair’s breadth from his neck and I inhale the warm, yeasty scent of his bakery. Against my cheek, his shirt is as soft as I thought it would be when I saw him standing by the pillar only minutes ago.

I don’t know what possessed him to hug me, but somehow it was exactly what I needed and I know I will not be the first to let go.

“Okay, Katniss,” he whispers in my ear,` “Let’s go buy that kid some boots.” When I finally raise my head from his shoulder, Peeta threads his fingers through mine and leads me into the shoe store. He says nothing as I inspect the warmth of each pair of boots in the kids’ section before finally landing on a pair exactly like what I would have purchased for Prim when we were kids. They’re bright pink pull-ons, with a thick liner to keep the little girl’s feet warm and a chunky sole that’s perfect for the icy sidewalks in our town. The price point is perfect, so I pay for them and we head out of the store.

“I think…” says Peeta thoughtfully, swinging our still-joined hands between us, “that it’s time for hot chocolate.”

Calmer now with the bag for from the shoe store clutched in my fist, I ponder his suggestion. “It won’t be as good as yours.”

He chuckles. “Spoiled you for everyone else, have I?”

I can’t hold back the eyeroll. “Something like that.”

Before long we’re back in the food court, blowing the steam off a couple of grande hot chocolates from Starbucks. It doesn’t even come close to the goodness Peeta served me a few days ago. Nevertheless, it’s soothing.

Peeta shifts in his chair. The corner of his mouth ticks down and the cords in his throat tighten. When he speaks, his voice is full of concern. “Are you feeling better now?”

Good God. I’ve made him think I’m a mental case. Playing the scene again through his eyes, I can only imagine how crazy I seemed to him. We only met a few days ago. He knows nothing about me, really, and now he’s probably wondering how fast he can shake me. I should just thank him for the hot chocolate and go home; mark this down as the time I had a shot with a really amazing guy and blew it.

“Katniss?” The gentle prod brings me back to the conversation. “I said, are you feeling better now?”

I nod slowly, tracing the pattern in the Formica tabletop with my free hand. “Yeah, I am, thanks.”

“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” No, not really. I could go quite happily through the rest of my life and never mention what my mother put my sister and me through. “I mean, you don’t have to, but sometimes it helps to talk about things.”

“We had a hard time,” I blurt out, deciding it’s rude not to offer him at least some form of explanation. “After my dad died, I mean. My mom- We struggled, for awhile. And we had to use the food bank. A lot.”

Peeta chews his bottom lip. “So that’s why you volunteer.”

I grimace. “I have to pay Mags back. For what she did for us. I owe her my life, really.”

“I doubt she’d agree.” Peeta jerks his head to the left, toward the tree where Rue is still assigning angels. “Did you ever?”

I nod. “For my sister, Prim.” I wriggle in my chair and clutch my cup in both hands. “Anyway, the idea that a family is so hard up that little girl’s gift from Santa had to be winter boots, well-”

“It brought it all back.” Peeta gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry about that. This was supposed to be fun,” he says, and he looks so crestfallen that I squeeze his hand back and then take a long slurp of my hot chocolate.

“I’m fine, really. It’s just… Everybody has their triggers, you know? Kids not having the necessities? That’s mine.”

Peeta watches me closely over the rim of his cup, his blue eyes searching my face for any further signs of distress. He must see whatever he’s looking for because he nods. “Okay, I’ve got $300 burning a hole in my pocket. Let’s get this done so I can get them wrapped tonight.” He gets up from his chair and offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

The gallant knight routine makes me laugh and I tuck my arm into his. “Lead the way.”

We spend the next two hours wandering through the toy store. Peeta mounds the cart with Baby Alive and Little People, a Spiderman mask and gloves with real, shooting web spinners, video games and gift cards. He holds up the cans of silly string required for Spiderman’s gloves and chortles, “these too.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I roll my eyes. Peeta takes that as a yes and tosses it into the cart.

Before long, we’re moving through the checkout and are waddling across the parking lot, weighed down by his purchases.

“I don’t care what you say, Peeta. Baby Alive is a creepy frigging doll!”

He snickers as he adjusts his packages to dig his keys from his pocket. “It’s just a doll, Katniss, not Chucky.”

“Could be. Any vacant-eyed creature that actually dirties a diaper has got to be possessed.”

The headlights on a black Jeep flash when Peeta presses the unlock button, so we move in that direction. “Okay, maybe Bride of Chucky.” We’re still laughing when he throws up the rear door of the Jeep and we load the parcels in. When the door slams down, we’re left shuffling our feet in the amber glow of the parking lot lights.

“So, um, I better take these home. Get them wrapped.” Like the gifted orator I am, I mutter ‘yeah’ or something equally eloquent. I kick at a rock in the hard-packed snow beneath our feet. I am not ready for this night to be over.

“Hey,” Peeta says suddenly. “I still owe you dinner. Would you like to come over and help me wrap and I’ll make us something to eat?”

It feels like someone has thrown me a life preserver, so I don’t argue. Instead I agree to meet him at his place and pick my way across the parking lot to my rusty red compact. When she was in high school, Prim dubbed it the POS. It was part of the vernacular at our house. Was there gas in the POS? Could she borrow the POS? And most recently, when was I going to replace my POS. I told her I couldn’t afford to get another car until she finished med school. She wasted no time reminding me that she was on a full scholarship and I should stop being so cheap. I almost laughed out loud when she said it. She has no idea how I’ve scrimped and scrounged for her. It’s just second nature to me now. Last fall, I filled the worst of the holes in the POS with Bond-o and painted it with a brush. Prim’s going to have a fit when she sees it. Whatever. I still don’t have a car payment and there’s nothing wrong with being frugal. Anyway, I’ve been assigned a truck by the state for work. The POS just needs to get me to the office and back. And around town, occasionally.

It shudders and shimmies when I turn the key, but it gets me to the bakery safely enough.

Peeta is already unloading his Jeep when I pull in. He offers me a wave and a bright smile. Before long, we’re in the apartment and he’s in his kitchen throwing together a pot of homemade soup.

I lean on the island of the open concept space as he makes an instant broth from some bouillon, and pulls pre-cooked chicken and fresh veggies from the fridge. Onion, celery and carrots soon form neat piles on his chopping block. My hand gets a swat when it sneaks in to steal his carrot coins. We’re both still laughing as he scrapes it all into the broth along with a handful or two of rice. A couple of sprigs of sage and savory are snipped from pots growing on the kitchen window sill and tossed on top.

To be honest, years of being poor taught me to make some pretty good soup from almost nothing, but this is a level of skill beyond even me. In less than 20 minutes, a delicious and hearty meal made from fresh ingredients is simmering on the stove, freeing us to wrap the gifts.

We settle on the rug in the living room surrounded by all of the evening’s purchases and everything we need to wrap them with enough panache to outdo Martha Stewart. It’s overwhelming.

Peeta offers me a bright smile. “So how are you at tying bows?”

My eyes are rolling again before I realize it. “I’m the girl who buys a bag of stick-on bows at the dollar store and then can’t be bothered to use them.”

Peeta’s face contorts in mock horror and then he hands me the scissors and tape with orders to wrap. “If you think you can manage it, Katniss.”

A huff of annoyance passes through my lips as I hack a piece of snowman paper off the roll closest to me. “I can handle it,” I grunt, and snatch up the box for the creepy doll. The sooner she’s gone the happier I’ll be. I start to surround it with snowman paper while Peeta carefully measures out a green ribbon that perfectly matches the scarf around Frosty’s neck. “Effie’s going to weep when you bring these in. I thought she was going to have an orgasm over your bows on Saturday.”

Peeta shudders. “Thanks for putting that in my head. Guess I’ll be having nightmares tonight.”

I pass the gift over and reach for the Little People fire truck. When I go for the snowman paper again, Peeta protests and forks over a roll covered in dancing Santa Clauses. “Each one should be slightly different,” he insists. That seems ridiculous since they’re all going to different homes, but whatever.

It takes him only a minute or two to tie the bow and so he struggles off the floor to check the soup while I get the last pieces of tape secured on the fire truck’s wrappings. His leg must have had enough for the day, which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask.

“So how is it that you know Effie and Rue and her family, but not Haymitch,” I call out, putting the truck aside and reaching for the Xbox game. The paper I pick this time is dotted with reindeer.

Peeta puts his spoon down beside the pot. “Haymitch. That’s his name,” he groans. “ I don’t know. Maybe he’s like you and only comes in on Saturdays? Soup needs a little more time.” He settles back down beside me and goes back to choosing ribbon.

He surveils his purchases and smiles.. “These kids are going to be so happy, but there were still so many kids on that tree. I wish I could do more.”

Is he kidding me? “Honestly, Peeta. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”

His grin fades a bit. “This is making my Christmas, Katniss.”

I know that, of course, and I feel badly for stealing his joy, but I press on. Surely he understands that this is extravagance beyond reason? “I know that, Peeta. You’re doing a beautiful thing. But you’d already spent thousands and today you spent even more. I’m sure the bakery is successful, but you’re a small business person and you give so much already. I just don’t want you to over-extend yourself.”

His face turns to stone. “It’s nothing, Katniss, really.”

“Peeta,” I say in a serious tone as I reach for something else to wrap. “What you’re doing is everything. But the expense! I know you did fundraising for the first gifts, but these-”

“Katniss,” he sighs. “This is no big deal.”

“It is,” I insist.

Peeta snips the ribbon a little harder than necessary. “We’re finished talking about this.”

“Peeta-”

“I mean it, Katniss.” His tone brokers no argument. “This is the only thing getting me through this Christmas. I thought you’d understand that, if anyone would. I won’t let you ruin it for me.”

My heart drops somewhere around my belly button and I lower my scissors to the floor. “I guess I’ve overstepped my bounds.” I know my lips form the words, but I’ve never sounded as much like an offended school marm as I do now. “I think I’ll just go home.” I lift myself up off the rug and dust off my legs. “See you around the food bank, Peeta.” I pick up my purse and coat from the couch where I left them.

“Katniss-” Peeta calls as I make my way to the door. He’s struggling to pull himself off the floor..

“Don’t get up, Peeta,” I reply. “It’s fine.”

The door closes behind me and I climb down the apartment steps to the POS. Once inside, I turn the key, crank up the heat and bang my head against the steering wheel. Me and my big mouth. I’ve ruined a chance with one of the good ones. The Biebs starts singing in my purse, but I ignore him.

With “let me love you” ringing in my ears, I pull out of the bakery parking lot and point the POS towards my empty house. My stomach growls and I’m reminded that I didn’t get any supper. No soup for me.

Which makes me the both Grinch and the Soup Nazi.

Merry fucking Christmas.

~~~

Thank you @burkygirl!!!

70 notes · View notes