#my husbands is cherry so we always get the medicine flavored things no one wants

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 8: The Light]

Hi y’all! Thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing. Each and every message/reblog/comment/etc makes me smile, and it’s a dream come true to get to share my work with you! 💜

Chapter summary: John shares a secret; Y/N excels at Scrabble; Brian makes peace; Roger suffers a misstep.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, medical stuff, pregnancy (not who you think!).

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @bookandband​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

Medicine teaches you to be fiercely skeptical of things that seem too good to be true. Bodies fail—completely and inevitably, though the timing may differ—and patients lie. Medical records don’t, fingerprints don’t, track marks up the underside of an arm don’t, blood and paternity tests don’t, oftentimes the eyes don’t; but given half a chance, people will lie themselves right into the grave.

Those bruises, doc? Got ‘em from a nasty fall down the stairs. I’m lucky I didn’t break my neck!

Nope, never done drugs, not even a joint, I swear on my mother’s life.

I’ll give it up, I’ll go to rehab. Never again. I promise. I don’t want to die.

Doc, I don’t care if the timing doesn’t seem quite right. My husband IS the father. There’s been no one else!

That doting fiancé is flirting with the nurses. Those grown-up children who fluff pillows and dab away tears are asking about the will. That wife is never going to testify against her abusive husband. That addict is going to relapse again...and again...and again. Are there exceptions? Of course. But if you get in the habit of trusting people—of believing all those tantalizingly attractive, hopeful lies—it’ll break your heart six ways to Sunday. There is no perfection in medicine, and there are very rarely miracles.

And so during those first few weeks with Roger—as you watch him from the reeling crowd, from the other side of the tour bus, from across the restaurant table, from the tiny viewfinder of the Canon F-1—you can’t stop searching for the cracks, the shadows, the lies, the dark malignancies breeding beneath the surface. Because everything about Roger Taylor is too good to be true. He’s bright and he’s loud and he’s brilliant and he’s always smiling, always warm. He careens backstage after every show—you keep bracing yourself not to be disappointed when the novelty wears away, when it ends, but it doesn’t—pushing aside roadies and reporters, shouting “Where’s the love of my life? Where’s my Boston babe?” with the most absurd grin you’ve ever seen until he finds you, collides with you, scoops you up and spins you in ungainly circles as your toes skim the floor. Then he cradles your face in his scarred hands and kisses you, breathes you in, tells you everything about the show (even though you were there to see it) in a rush of pure, manic adrenaline. And you stumble into some dressing room together—or a hotel room, or a taxi, or a limousine, or an elevator—and finally it’s your bare thighs his palms are gliding over, your tongue tasting the Heineken and craving on his lips, and it feels impossible for that to ever change. Roger is too good to be true, that’s undeniable; but when you watch him with those doubtful, cautious eyes, you can’t find anything but light.

He wakes up at 6 a.m. to join you on a bayou tour in New Orleans, taps his cigarette over the moss-covered sides of the boat, points out the alligators with leathered skin and ancient yellow irises lurking in the depths. He walks Fremont Street with you in Las Vegas and makes you choose his numbers for the Roulette wheel, for his fate. He snaps photos of you on a sun-drenched balcony in Miami, roaring cobalt waves crashing in the background. He takes you to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, the Art Institute of Chicago, the National Aquarium in Baltimore, the Philadelphia Zoo, Myrtle Beach and the Saint Louis Arch and the Santa Monica Pier. Because he was telling the truth when he said he could show you the world all those months ago when Queen was at Top of the Pops; he was telling you the truth about the list that’s etched into the rushing scarlet chambers of his heart.

When the American leg of the tour ends and the band gets a brief reprieve in London, you move into Roger’s paltry, disorganized flat and scrub away all the remnants of his past life: dust and empty cigarette boxes and women’s socks, ashes and copies of Vogue, a tube of lipstick that isn’t yours. You don’t complain, don’t even frown; you’re under no delusions that something eternal can be founded on resentment, on lies. And so you clear out the clutter and open the windows so sunshine and crisp spring air can breathe through the apartment, so you can both start fresh along with the bellflowers and delphiniums and roses and the tawny newborn ducklings scampering behind their mothers. You hang photos from the tour and John’s sketches on the refrigerator, place your Canon F-1 and pink conch shell from Ostia on the nightstand, litter the drawers with your own socks and makeup. You teach Roger how to sew (although he’s not much good at it) and how to treat blisters (although you’ll always be there to do it for him); and in return Roger teaches you how to trust, how to believe, how to stop searching desperately for faults in the light.  

On the second day of April, Queen boards their flight to Tokyo. Brian settles into a plushy, billowing blanket and loses himself in an astronomy magazine; he’s an engaged man now, an honest man in the eyes of society at large...and, far more importantly, his parents. Freddie pens lyrics in his notebook, humming disjointedly, napping like a cat when the mood strikes him. Roger snacks constantly and tries to get John chatting, but John is particularly subdued today, preoccupied, prone to gazing unfocusedly at the clouds that drift by outside and wringing his hands.

And you think, as you peer down into the glistening sapphire waters of the East China Sea: Brian’s a willow tree, Freddie’s a lightning storm, Roger is wildfire...but what is John?

Something deep, something beautiful and strong and constant and hidden.

The ocean, you decide as Queen’s private plane soars over the quicksilver waves that conceal the abyss. John is the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~

“You didn’t have to stay, you know.”

John is lying on his back under a small grove of cherry blossom trees outside the hotel, sketching grey outlines of petals and arcing branches in a new notebook. He hasn’t given any sign that he heard you coming, doesn’t turn his head to see you. You freeze, startled.

“How’d you know it was me?!”

“You have very distinct footsteps. Dainty, yet purposeful.” He sets aside his notebook and sits up, crossing his long legs. “Why didn’t you go to lunch?”

“Because you didn’t. You turned down ramen, and you never turn down ramen. I was worried. Plus someone has to make sure a roving posse of screaming Japanese girls doesn’t carry you off.”

That makes him laugh. The Japanese fans are inexplicably obsessed with John; or maybe it’s not so inexplicable, maybe they just have a better eye for quiet, unassuming wonders. “Always so thoughtful.”

You sit down beside him, open a pack of chocolate-flavored Pocky and offer John a piece, frown when he lights a cigarette instead. “That’s really bad for you. Seriously. You should quit.”

“At last. One thing you and Brian agree on.” He exhales a gale of smoke and peers up at the cherry blossoms.

“John?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t break up with Veronica, did you?” Chrissie and Mary didn’t mention anything about her tearful devastation, and you suspect they would have had John gone through with it.

He sighs. “I did not.”

“And...are we feeling...okay about that...?”

He twirls the cigarette nervously between his fingers. After a silence, he surrenders. “Look, I haven’t told anybody yet, but I’d tell you first anyway. So here it goes.” He glances over at you guiltily, gloomily, wishing he could disappear. “I didn’t break up with Veronica because she’s pregnant.”

Your jaw falls open. A half-eaten stick of Pocky rolls out of your mouth and onto the grass. She’s what? She’s WHAT?

“Please don’t be disappointed,” John pleads. “I’m disappointed in myself enough for both of us, believe me.”

“I...I...I’m not disappointed, John, I’m just...” You blink at him. “Oh my god.”

He nods, acquiescent. “I’m in complete agreement.”

You shake your head, gaping at him, stunned; and suddenly you don’t like what you’re feeling at all. Because it isn’t just shock and horror, it isn’t just apprehension. You hate the thought of him touching her, of her delicate white hands on him, of innocence stripped away and memories impressed into muscle, into soul.

Because you know she’s not right for him. Because you know he doesn’t love her the way he should. Because you want the best for him and always have.

Oh, there’s a comforting rationale; but is it true?

And then: You fucking hypocrite. Since when do you get an opinion on who anyone sleeps with?

“It must have happened in January,” John says miserably. “Right before we left for the States. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone...I guess maybe she thought if she did I’d never come back. So she told me as soon as I landed in London. And here we all are.”

You stare down at your shoes, trying to compose yourself. “What are you going to do?”

“There’s only one option.”

“Actually, there are quite a few. But I know you’d never consider them.” John’s father died when he was ten, and he never talks about it; which is precisely how you know it’s a wound that can’t ever heal, a gash that goes straight down to the bone. He would never leave his child, never banish them to some dusty, repressed corner of his consciousness while he moves on with a blissfully unencumbered life. You whisper: “I’m so fucking sorry, John.”

That snaps something in him, something he was choking back. He buries his face in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing?” he moans. “I’m twenty-three years old, I’m broke, I turned down loads of jobs, good jobs, as an electrical engineer, I’ve somehow become the bassist in an increasingly famous rock band...I mean, how the hell did this happen? How did any of this happen?”

“It’ll be okay,” you insist with newfound resolve. I have to save him. I have to protect him.

John rolls those soft greyish eyes, hopeless, distraught. “Sure.”

“It will be, I promise you. The tour is going great. I had my doubts about the band when I first met you, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know if there was a future for Queen. But you’ve made me a believer. You’ve made millions of people all over the world believers. The money will keep rolling in, Queen will finally start seeing some of it, you won’t be broke forever. You’ll have two more months on the road and then we’ll be back in London, and it’ll be on to recording the next album, more shows, more money...the hard times are almost over, John. You can do this. And I’ll help you.”

His brow furrows. “You will?”

“Of course. If it’s easier for Veronica, it’ll be easier for you. So I’ll be extra friendly, take her to appointments when you’re busy, help organize the wedding, babysit the littlest Deacon whenever she needs me to. We’ll get through this. I’ll be there to help every step of the way.”

“You’re happy, aren’t you?” he asks suddenly. “You and Roger. You aren’t going anywhere.” He’s reading you closely, sifting through your words and forced smile for something deeper.

“I’m happy,” you assure him. “You don’t need to be concerned about that. I’m staying with the band, I’m staying in London. Whenever Queen is home, that is.”

He nods, but perhaps that wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. He finally accepts a piece of Pocky from you and takes a bite. “Then I guess we’ll plan for a summer wedding.”

“You could do a double one with Brian and Chrissie.”

He laughs so hard he almost inhales the Pocky, then doubles over coughing. “I think Bri would rather slit his own throat, but a charming thought. Thank you for that. Bravo.”

You smile at John, genuinely this time. “You’re going to be an amazing father. I hope you aren’t worried about that part of it, at least.”

“Will you be their godparent?”

“What? Me?!”

“Yeah. Because, you know...” John averts his gaze. “You’d be the person I would want to raise them if something happened to me and Veronica. You’re the most dedicated, stubborn, capable, nurturing, remarkable person I’ve ever met. You’re my best friend. And maybe Roger’s your best friend and you’re his, and that’s all fine, that’s alright, but you’re still mine.”

“Roger is a lot of incredible things, but he’s not my best friend.” You lie flat on the grass and lace your hands behind your head, tracking the weightless snowy clouds as they float by above. When did we become adults? When did all of these rules catch up to us? “I would be honored to be your child’s godparent.”

John plops down beside you. “Don’t tell the others yet, okay? I want to wait until the tour’s over. I don’t want them to panic and think I’m leaving and try to replace me or anything.”

“They wouldn’t try to replace you, John.”

“No?” he asks doubtfully.

“No. Roger knows it, Fred knows it, I think even Bri knows it.” You reach out and weave a lock of his hair through your fingers as cherry blossom petals tumble in the breeze. “You’re irreplaceable.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sod,” Freddie mocks. “That’s the best you could do? Really? Sod?”

Roger flings up his hands in frustration. “Freddie, I’ve got like a million Cs!”

“You could have done cod,” Brian notes, sipping a cup of hot tea. “Cods, actually.”

Roger glowers down at his Scrabble tiles. “Fuck.”

“And I’m so delighted he didn’t!” You place your tiles, expanding on sod to make rhapsody. John high-fives you and records the points in his notebook. Freddie and Brian groan in defeat.

“What the hell is a rhapsody?!” Roger snatches the Official Scrabble Dictionary off the table and flips through it.

“It’s a, like a...” Freddie waves his cigarette, scattering smoke through the air. “It’s like an epic poem. Or an opera. With lots of bizarre, different parts all pieced together.”

“That sounds made up.”

Freddie cackles. “Darling, it’s a real thing, I swear!”

Roger locates the pertinent page in the Scrabble Dictionary and his shoulders slump. “Goddammit. Fucking...too smart...nerdy...college-educated...girlfriend.” He drags you into his lap and kisses your temple. “You’re lucky you’re cute. I don’t usually tolerate being conquered like this.”

Bri smirks from behind his teacup. “I rather think you conquered her, Rog.”

“Oh, a rare good one from Bri!” Freddie trills as everyone laughs, although John soon busies himself with clearing empty bottles and cigarette butts off the table.

“Yes,” Roger agrees. “Against her superior judgment, I finally won her over. Only took eight months. Which is approximately...wait, let me count...seven and a half months longer than it has ever taken me before.”

You trace your fingertips across his stubbled cheeks, his soft lips, his little dark blond tufts of sideburns. “No one knows how to say no to you, do they?”

“It’s impossible. I’m too charming. Blindingly heroic. Perseus in the flesh.” He kisses your forehead and steadies you, his hands on your waist, as the brakes squeal and the tour bus lurches to a halt.

Freddie leaps to his feet and claps. “Alright, darlings! Off to the new digs we go. Deaky, hand me my shoes, they’re under the table...yes, right there...and toss over Brian’s hideous clogs as well.”

You help the roadies and the band drag luggage into the hotel (no small feat, as the elevator is out of order), unpack your toothbrush and hairbrush and a floral-patterned dress for dinner, giggle as you listen to Roger’s feral, raspy singing in the shower. It’s something about loving a car, how perfectly on-brand for him. Then Roger goes to fetch Freddie and John for dinner while you find Brian. Bri is collapsed on his bed in a striped t-shirt and jeans, freshly-washed and dewy, gazing up at the ceiling in a daze.

You tap gently on the doorframe. “Bri? You want to join us for dinner? There’s a sushi place a few blocks away that’s a local legend, apparently. Lots of veggie options too.”

He looks over at you. You haven’t spoken about the argument since you had it two months ago. Brian sometimes grimaces or smirks or rolls his willowy viridescent eyes, but he never says anything; not to you, and not to Roger as far as you’re aware. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I may have been out of line before. Incorrect, even.”

“No need to apologize, Bri. I’ve forgotten all about it.” You haven’t, but there’s no reason for Brian to know that.

“I just want what’s best for you. For you to be happy.”

“I know, Brian.” You cross the room and take his long, moon-white, artful hands in your own. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll be in the wedding party, won’t you? I know Chris will ask.”

“Of course. And I’ll proudly wear whatever dreadfully tacky and uncomfortable bridesmaid dresses she picks out.”

“Even if they’re a frightful shimmery green?”

“Oh god.” You swallow noisily. “I’ll still do it. And then burn the photos.”

Brian chuckles as he climbs out of bed. “In a stroke of luck, I suspect she’ll ask you to take the pictures. So you can avoid being in them as much as you’d like. And conveniently lose the unflattering ones.”

You study him thoughtfully. “Are you happy, Brian?”

“I am. Chrissie’s excited, my parents are thrilled, they’ll be sitting in the front row with the proudest smiles you’ve ever seen. Next comes a proper house, and children, and all the rest of it.” But something in those mellow olivey eyes is resigned, melancholy. His words from two months ago echo in your skull: It’s necessary. It’s self-preservation. Because sometimes the people who set us on fire would burn us alive.

“Do you still think about New Orleans?” you ask softly. About the woman he’d fallen in love with there before you ever met Queen, about the utopian passion he never quite stops searching for. Everyone has demons, secrets, shadowy trenches like cracks in porcelain; you’ve learned all about Brian’s. What about Roger’s? What about mine?

He shrugs, staring out the window at the dusky skyline of Yokohama. “Maybe I’ll always think about New Orleans. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to grow up and start taking responsibility.”

“Responsibility,” you reply cynically, before you can stop yourself. “Is that all love is about anymore?”

“Not for you. Not for Roger. You both want your freedom, your adventure, your true and uncomplicated love. And you’ll get to keep it.”

For now. But you don’t say that. Instead, you smile appeasingly and gesture for Brian to follow you out into the hallway.

The others are waiting by the door to the stairwell: John in a smart grey suit, Freddie in his black-and-yellow jacket, Roger in sunglasses and a ridiculous leopard-print vest he’d dug out of a trashcan somewhere and precariously tall boots.

“At last, Nurse Nightingale and my darling Brian!” Freddie chirps. “Come on, I’m positively famished, and also I’ve bet five pounds that I can consume more sake shots than Roger and I could really use the dough.”

Roger pushes through the door, leading the way. “Prepare to lose!”

“Roger, please,” you implore. “New livers don’t grow on trees, and I can’t give you half of mine. I’m the wrong blood type.”

Roger laughs as he bounds down the steps, then whirls to grin up at you as he walks backwards. “Relax, Deaks will share! You’re type A, aren’t you John—?”

Roger’s heel slips and he plummets down the flight of stairs. He tumbles as the four of you shriek in horror and bolt after him, slams into the wall of the landing, ricochets off of it and plunges down the next flight as well. There’s blood, you think frenziedly as you descend, screaming Roger’s name. There’s blood all over the steps.

Roger, crumpled on the maroon-streaked landing, slowly unravels and groans. He glances down, appraises himself, then hammers his left fist against the concrete wall of the stairwell, roaring in raw agony and rage. “No no no no no no!”

“Roger—!”

And then you see it.

Roger’s right arm hangs uselessly, unnaturally, his snapped radius bloody and splitting through the skin.

#but you can never leave fic #but you can never leave series #but you can never leave #roger taylor fic #roger taylor x reader #queen fic #queen fanfic #queen fanfiction

[beautifulterriblequeen]

so after the tomfuckery that's being going on in the fandom, think you can maaaybe spare some tinkaan goodness? even if just hc's or a small text, honestly i just need something to make this whole thing a bit more bearable :/

Tinkaan goodness is just what the doctor ordered.

_______

“Runaan?” Tinker’s hand automatically reached out in the darkness. But it fell on empty space, on sheets long since cold.

And the angle… Tinker turned his head in the dark. He was sitting up, propped on a stack of soft pillows. Pain began to blossom behind his eyes, and his ears were full of a strange ringing, as if he were sensing a crowd full of Moonshadows on repeat.

His hand tightened on the unfamiliar sheets. This wasn’t even his bed.

It wasn’t dark, either. Something was wrapped protectively around his eyes, letting no light in. He felt at it with his other hand and encountered soft bandages.

Tinker tensed, and the pain in his head skyrocketed. Something bad had happened, and he was going to feel pretty grumpy about it when he remembered what it was. He raised his voice. “Runaan?”

“I’m here.” Runaan’s hand gave Tinker’s foot a reassuring squeeze, and a gust of Runaan-scented air wafted past Tinker’s nose, indicating the assassin had hurried in from somewhere and come to a sudden stop by his feet.

With food. Something smelled delicious. But Tinker had other priorities.

“Two questions,” Tinker began, tilting his face up toward Runaan’s voice. “What happened, and where am I?”

A silent pause was interrupted by the soft clinks of two dishes being set on a wooden surface beside him. Tinker jumped as Runaan took his hand, and he flailed for his husband’s arm, seeking comfort as well as Runaan’s position.

Runaan sat on the edge of the bed, and he took Tinker’s other hand as well. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I guess you’d better keep your hands on me so you know where I am.”

“Or you could, you know, make noise for once,” Tinker sassed.

Runaan spoke through a loving smile. “Ha, you’re funny when you’re concussed.”

“Concussed?”

“Lightly. The healers are more worried about your eyes. That flash was incredibly bright, and the Fulminis spell didn’t do the rest of you any favors, either. You need absolute darkness and plenty of quiet to let your systems settle. I’m staying here at the healing house with you to make sure you get it.” Runaan squeezed Tinker’s hands gently.

“Rayla?”

Runaan’s voice softened, reassuring him. “She’s with friends. They’re taking good care of her. I just want to focus on you and what you need.”

Tinker nodded gingerly. “Did I… Did I hurt anyone?”

Runaan ghosted one hand up Tinker’s arm and cupped his cheek, staying in contact so he didn’t startle Tinker a second time. “This wasn’t your fault, and no one else was hurt. Everything is being taken care of. Including you, by me. Do you hear me?”

Reluctantly, Tinker relaxed, feeling tension draining out of his shoulders. He leaned into Runaan’s hand. “Yes, Runaan.”

Runaan’s hand dropped to Tinker’s shoulder and squeezed. “That’s what I like to hear. Now. I brought you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“A little. My head really hurts.”

“I brought something for that, too. The healers gave me a potion for you, but I thought you might enjoy it better with a little honey and a strawberry than drinking it straight.”

Tinker hummed softly in interest. “That does sound better, yes.”

One of the dishes on the table next to Tinker’s bed slid off the edge as Runaan shifted toward it from the edge of the bed. “All right, then. Open up. And stick your tongue out in case I drop any of this honey.”

Tinker’s brows rose under the bandages. Runaan, drop something? The idea was nearly unthinkable. But he did as instructed and pushed his tongue out a little.

Runaan’s soft chuckle was all the warning he had before his husband’s warm tongue lapped across his own, ending in a warm, firm kiss that made Tinker gasp and hum delightedly. Runaan gently rested his forehead against Tinker’s temple and murmured in his ear. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. You’re too precious. Here. The strawberry this time, I promise.”

As he pulled back, Tinker let out a soft mumble of dissatisfaction. “Fine, the strawberry. But I found that kiss very therapeutic, and I want that information recorded in my chart.” Then he opened his mouth again, trying not to grin too widely even though his head hurt something fierce.

A cool strawberry slathered in honey rested gently on his tongue, pooling its tangy sweetness, and he quickly closed his mouth around it, capturing one of Runaan’s fingertips before he could pull away. Tinker took hold of Runaan’s wrist and gave his fingertip a thorough lick. Runaan let out a soft whuff of amused interest and allowed Tinker to place a soft kiss against his fingertip before letting him go and eating his medicinal fruit like the good patient he was.

Runaan scooped up Tinker’s hands again and kissed them both. “I’m glad you’re still with me, Tink. When they told me what had happened, how they found you…”

Tinker felt the potent herbs begin to seep into his system, dulling the pain in his head. He squeezed Runaan’s hands tightly. “I’m so sorry, my shade. That must have been awful.”

Runaan slid his hands up along Tinker’s arms until he cupped both sides of his jaw. He pressed a light kiss to each of Tinker’s cheeks, then to his nose, and finally against his lips. “We both know which of us is supposed to die first. It’s against the rules for you to jump the line like that. I forbid it, now and forever.”

Swimming in a black sea of heady drugs and sweet kisses, Tinker could only cling to Runaan’s wrists and smile. “You’re too soft to let me go. That’s what you’re saying.”

Runaan pressed the softest of kisses against Tinker’s forehead, atop the bandages. “That is what I’m saying. I’m too soft to lose you, and I always will be.”

Tinker felt Runaan’s tension in the shivering breaths he puffed against Tinker’s cheek. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll be more careful.”

“Please. Please be careful. Your talents are beautiful and amazing, but… but I need you, Tinker. Please don’t leave me.”

Tinker heard the faintest tremble in Runaan’s voice and felt a cold shiver plummet down his spine. Runaan truly had been afraid for Tinker’s life. Tinker traced Runaan’s arms until he could hold his cheeks and bring his face close. “Never. Never ever. I promise.”

The long, sweet kiss that followed felt exactly like the one they’d shared the night of their vows.

And then Tinker’s tummy growled.

Runaan broke the kiss with a smile. “Oh. You are hungry. Good.”

Tinker grinned. “You just want to feed me what you brought. What is it? It smells good.”

“I call it autumn soup.”

“You actually put cinnamon in it? And…” Tinker sniffed appreciatively, “…cloves? Who are you, and what have you done with my spice-averse husband?”

Runaan chuckled, and the second bowl on the table slid free with a tiny porcelain noise. “Well, I wasn’t planning to eat any, so I made it exactly the way you like it. Plenty of flavor and spice. If this doesn’t cure you, nothing will.”

“Promises, promises. Let’s see what you made. Metaphorically speaking.” Tinker rested a hand against Runaan’s wrist, opened wide again, and murmured an expectant ahh.

Runaan sighed as if bracing for bad news, but he spooned up a bite of something warm, sweet, and spicy and let Tinker guide it into his mouth. The flavor hit Tinker like a series of little fireworks in the darkness: Part pumpkin, part apple, with high notes of cherry and lemon rind, as well as crunchy chopped pecans, this concoction of Runaan’s was fit for Winter’s Turn itself. Tinker’s hand tightened around Runaan’s wrist in pleased surprise. “You made this?”

“I… I did. Is it all right?”

Tinker tsked apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m going to need another sample to be certain.”

Runaan’s soft exhalation of relief told Tinker that he’d said exactly the right thing. “It’s not too much?” he asked as he scooped up another bite.

Tinker guided the spoon in the general direction of his own mouth. “Too much what?” he asked, just before opening wide.

“Cinnamon? Clove? Runaan?”

Tinker snorted around his soup, and a dribble escaped through his laughter and ran down his chin. Runaan didn’t miss a beat, though, capturing it with the spoon and tucking it back where it belonged. Tinker made quick work of it before he laughed it out onto his lap. “I should’ve known,” he said when he could speak again.

“Known what?” Runaan asked fondly.

“That any soup made by an assassin is danger soup.”

“Wh- Danger soup?” Runaan’s voice rose in mock outrage. “I ought to shoot you for that entirely uncalled-for comment.”

“Mmm. Promise? You know I can never have too much Runaan, right?” Tinker let go of Runaan’s wrist and reached further, finding his shirt near his waist and tugging. “C’mere.”

The bowl immediately slid back onto the wooden table. “I don’t want to hurt you. Is it a good idea for me to…?”

“Only one way to find out. Now, scoot.” Tinker pulled insistently, reaching for his favorite landmarks on Runaan’s person, settling the tall assassin astride his lap. Runaan eased down with infinite care, as if afraid of squishing Tinker though he’d sat in his lap like this a thousand times before. Tinker’s hands rested comfortably, at home on Runaan’s hips, and he grinned widely, blindly, toward Runaan’s face. “There we go. Right where you belong, Shadebaby,” he sassed his husband.

Tinker felt Runaan shake with silent laughter. The assassin’s weight shifted. “You’re still too far away, Tink.” Runaan’s hands gently pulled Tinker forward from his stack of pillows and cradled him against his chest, holding his head with a delicate hand and pressing his ear against Runaan’s heart.

Tinker slid his arms around Runaan’s waist and held on tightly. His chest tightened, and his heart overflowed, pricking the corners of his eyes with happy tears. They soaked right into his bandages, and he didn’t care at all.

Runaan pressed a soft kiss to Tinker’s horn. “I’m not leaving until you feel better, Tink. I’m never leaving you again.”

Tinker breathed in Runaan’s familiar, intoxicating scent and felt the secure embrace of his husband’s loving arms. “I’m already better.”

Runaan’s murmur was a velvet promise. “Well, now I’m definitely staying.”

#runaan #tinker #runaan x tinker #tinkaan #tinkaan fanfic #tdp fanfic