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isawrightless · 4 years

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I’ll Drown When I See You

Jill Valentine, Carlos Oliveira After escaping Raccoon City, Carlos offers Jill some shelter.

set directly after the events of resident evil 3. Rating: M -----

Finding herself homeless and directionless after Raccoon City’s destruction, Jill kept clinging to the only real leads she had: Chris was somewhere in Europe, and Barry was helping from the background, prioritizing the safety of his family. She’d be meeting them soon. But she was tired and hurt. There was not a part of her that didn’t ache, mentally or physically, and for now she needed a place to rest.

Checking in at a hotel proved itself to be a difficult task. For all she’d been through, all the tragedy she had endured, Jill Valentine couldn’t stand the glare and the whispering about her reasons and the state of her body; Why does she have so many bruises? Why is she limping? Is she on the run from something? Is it even safe to be here? Did she come from Raccoon City?

Those questions lingered on the eyes of anyone who even glimpsed at her. Sure, the blood and dirt were gone and the clothes were new (she’d made good on the promise of burning the old ones), but the situation remained the same. She had just escaped from a city that had been wiped out from existence and her own figure was a walking reminder of that.

Then Carlos; sweet, compassionate Carlos, all battered and bruised too, offered shelter. Asked Jill to stay with him in this small rented cabin he’d found.

And now here they are.

She’s not allowed to worry about anything else besides her own healing, that’s the deal. When the topic of buying new clothes and some other necessesities comes up, Jill’s adamant that she’ll buy them herself with whatever money she still has stored somewhere but Carlos stands his ground. She’s his guest, after all. And he’s taking the couch, no problem, she gets the bed. She needs it more.

When she tries to reason with him that she doesn’t mind the couch, it falls on deaf ears.

“Don’t worry, Supercop,” he says. “Just take it easy.”

And she does. Or at least tries to. The second her head hits the pillow, she can’t close her eyes. Whenever she does, that thing shows up, or the corpse of another teammate. Joseph always makes a guest appearence in her dreams. The first real death she’d witnessed at the start of this entire nightmare. He always stands there, half-eaten, limbs missing, speaking through a hole in his face, asking her not to leave him there. It’s cold. It’s cold and he’s alone. And she wants to scream, to tell him she did try to save him, she tried to save everyone, she really did.

She always wakes up before she can hear an answer and spends the rest of the day haunted and frustrated.

Which is why she’s more than confused when she sits up on the bed, sweaty amd startled, looks out the window and finds out it’s night time. A glance on the clock tells her it’s 22:00 PM.

She doesn’t feel rested at all.

Spotting a bag near the end of the bed, she leans over and brings it to her lap, looks inside to find some toothpaste, a toothbrush, soap and a body moisturiser. A couple of other bags are neatly placed on the floor, next to the bed. Inside them, she finds tank tops and t-shirts, two pairs of sweatpants, shorts and brand new underwear. It makes her smile, her first moment of true relief afer all that hell. But the thought of Carlos trying to guess and pick which kind of underwear she’d like is almost too cute.

On the nightstand there’s a water bottle that she opens and drinks in small sips even though what she wants is to drink it all in one go to quench her thrist. When she’s done, her lips feel softer, something she appreciates immensily. Ignoring the aching muscles, she picks some of her new clothes (a pair of sweatpants, the tank top and her brand new cotton panties), stands up on unsteady feet, takes a few steps foward and realizes she needs to brace herself against the wall to get some support.

Heading to the bathroom, she refuses to look at herself in the mirror while setting the clothes she’s going to wear on top of the sink. Undressing, she holds herself when a chill runs down her spine. It’s fine. A false pretense, perhaps, but it’s fine, it’s a worthy delusion. Let her drown in it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine.

Starting the shower, she rests against the tile wall as she waits for the water to get warm. The cold tile against her skin makes her gasp in surprise. She stretches a hand out to check the water’s temperature and then steps right in.

She can barely move her arms without feeling them burn, but she scrubs her body and washes her hair until her skin is red and her scalp hurts. Something needs to be done, something needs to happen, but her chest feels broken and she’s got no home, no plan, no instructions to follow now. Only ghosts that haunt her at every corner.

Calling her out.

Daring her to go on living while they remain dead and frozen in time, wiped out from existence as if they never even mattered in the first place.

As the water runs down her body, she realizes the extent of her injuries. Her right shoulder is bruised, left arm stinging as the soap clings to that wound, her thighs are purple and yellow on different places, and if she squints she can almost pretend they’re something pretty and delicate, like little glaxies on her skin.

There’s a cut and a bruise just above her hip that probably need more attention than she’s currently showing.

She stands under the showerhead for a while, letting the hot water hit the back of her neck, easing her strain. The urge to cry is strong, eyes already rimmed with tears, but she’s way too stubborn to let them fall. Not the smartest choice considering all the words she refuses to say out loud are choking her, chest tight with agony as she swallows back a sob.

She’d give anything to disappear right now.

Taking a deep breath, she finds the courage to cut off the water and step out of the shower. She dries herself with a towel, biting her bottom lip to keep the discomfort that raising her arms brings, and puts on her new clothes, feeling at least a little bit refreshed. She brushes her teeth with her brand new toothbrush and when she’s done, she stares at object for a moment.

He’s thought of everything.

Back into the bedroom, she can hear him pacing around the main room, and she tries to prepare herself to go meet him. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous or why her heart is beating a little faster and she refuses to think too much on it.

But that’s Day 1.

Day 2 is quiet.

She’s siting on a worn out couch, body finally giving in to all the injuries it sustainted just a few days ago and it’s hard to move. Her arms feel like they’re about to fall off and she’s sore all over. Some wounds are still tender, and speech doesn’t come easily without the presence of a headache.

Carlos goes out again, brings her painkillers, helps her chase them down with a glass of water. She smiles at him because she can see how worried he is, can even guess what he’s thinking.

Maybe the vaccine didn’t work.

“Do you wanna watch TV?” he asks, voice giving him away. “The reception is, uh, pretty bad but there’s gotta be something good to watch.”

She shakes her head no, still eyeying him like a hawk, and he moves back to sit next to her. “You hungry then?”

“Not at all,” she manages to say.

“You sure? I don’t mean to brag but I’m a great cook.”

“You are?”

“Best one around.”

“Hit the jackpot then.”

It takes a second for her words to sink in and when they do, Carlos gives a boyish smile and says, “That’s my line.”

She tries to laugh and move but that ache pulls at her strings once again, making her flinch. He draws her closer to him, and she lets him.

They fall into a routine by day 4.

Carlos cooks for them and does some errands and no matter how much Jill protests, she’s told she needs to stay still and heal. She does point out how flawed that train of thought it considering he went through hell too but he always ends up making an excuse.

To say that her heart is free from all that agony from before would be a lie but by now the only thing that truly bothers her-physically- is her left arm. It aches from time to time, a jolt of pain that stings and keeps her awake at night, completely alert, a reminder of what could have been.

She looks at the wound that monster left her, a little gift, exames it again and again, and it’s closed and healing but the pain is still there and Jill knows, she knows that it will never go away.

Carlos comes back that day with some new blankets (the ones at the cabin are simply awful and prickly) and some pepperoni pizza.

This sort of domestic bliss, where they function on pretending the outside world doesn’t exist and they won’t have to figure out what to do about all they’ve been through carries on through day 5 to 6.

On day 7, Jill gets out of the shower, puts on a t-shirt (blue, as Carlos assumed that’s her favorite color), a pair of panties and some shorts and heads to the kitchen to help with dinner.

He smiles when he sees her, a beer in hand, and jokes he’s got a great taste for clothes.

Perhaps it’s the sense of peace that has fallen over them, even if temporary, or maybe it’s just the carefree way he makes her feel, but Jill sticks her tongue out, steals his beer, takes a sip and smirks at him.

She expects some teasing, some kind of silly payback. Instead, he steps closer, leans in and kisses her. Just like that; no warning, no nothing, as if the two of them have been doing this forever, like it’s a habit they’ll never grow out of. And she responds eagerly, kissing back, arms going around his neck when he deepens the kiss, his tongue on hers, hands firmly placed on her hips, holding her steady, afraid she might slip away.

The tenderness is almost alarming. He’s taking his time, enjoying every sensation and she can’t help but press against him. He gets the hint, smiling in the middle of the kiss, sliding his hands down her body, grabbing her ass and squeezing, drawing a moan out of her. She steps back to catch her breath, already missing him. He brings a hand up to cup her face, thumb swiping across her bottom lip as he rests his forehead on hers, staring right into her bright blue eyes.

There’s another kiss before he drags his mouth away to focus on her neck, gently biting and sucking, leaving his mark on her soft flesh. She gives in to him so easily, mind racing with need. Reaching down she tries to unbuckle his belt but the action proves to be a bit too much for her sore shoulder and she ends up hissing in pain, wincing as the burning sensation flares up then goes all the way down to her hand. The wound on her left arm stings like crazy, and she tries not to think too much about it, despite the ache.

There’s no running from Carlos’ sweetness, though, and he stops everything he’s doing, stepping back to look at her. She can feel a slight blush sweeping across her face and she hates it.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” she says.

The last thing she wants is to ruin the mood, especially when he’s got her all worked up already and she’s been waiting for this, been needing this for a while. Carlos shakes his head, “So stubborn,” he breathes out before picking her up. She doesn’t really know his plan, but she hooks her right arm around his neck as he takes her to the bedroom. His scent is intoxicating and by the time he gets her inside the room letting go of him seems like the hardest thing in the world. But then he sets her down on the bed, all handsome and sweet, shaggy hair all over his face, that crooked smile still plastered on his lips and she can hardly wait for what’s to come.

Sitting up, she adjusts herself a bit and watches as he takes off his black t-shirt, takes a second to admire his hairy chest and toned abdomen and then goes back to watching, biting her bottom lip while he unbuckles his belt, kicks his shoes and socks off before climbing on top of her, diving back in for her lips, hands working on taking off her t-shirt, helping her out of the sleeves. He discards the piece of clothing by throwing it across the room and draws back to take a good look at her. She’s at his mercy, breasts exposed, nipples hard, scars spread across her skin; some are rather large and faded, gifts from that cold, horrible mansion; some are new, pearly white and glistening around bruises and light scratches still lost in the process of healing. And she’s beautiful.

“Oh, c'mon,” Carlos starts, licking his bottom lip. He leans down, right hand fixing up a few strands of her hair. “You can’t be real.”

Jill chooses to hide how much his words mean to her in a small smile and a scoff; she was never one to open up properly and she’s not about to list all the reasons why she has been avoiding looking in the mirror, at least not now. Thankfully, Carlos goes back to kissing her and that suits her just fine.

She trails a hand down his torso before reaching his unbuckled belt and then going further, palming him through his pants. He’s hard and she’s soaking wet and anxious and the little grunt he lets out in her ear doesn’t help things. All hope of self control goes out the window the second he kisses his way down to her breasts, bringing a hand to cup one of them while his mouth works on the other one, the tip of his tongue circling a nipple before sucking on it, making her arch her back and moan. He steals a quick glance at her, wishing he could frame the moment forever, as cliche and cheesy as that sounds. But she’s gorgeous, she’s absolutely gorgeous, and to have her unguarded like this, for him, it sends him into a state of euphoria that he can’t quite explain.

He alternates between one breast and the other, enjoying her gasps and moans and by the time he’s done, when he comes back up for a kiss, her breasts are glistening with saliva, a slight flush covering them. His actions serve only to encourage her, demolishing any kind of hesitation or worry. She wastes no time unzipping his pants as he kisses her long and good, reaching inside his boxers to pull his cock out, holding it in her hands firmly; he is big and thick, smooth, veiny and throbbing, precome trickling down his length, and she starts stroking him slowly, up and down, pressing right against that sweet, sensitive spot under the head of his cock with each upstroke. He groans, mouth open against hers, closes his eyes and lets himself fall into her touch, hips thrusting into her hand, trying to set his own rhythm, showing her how he likes it.

Jill doesn’t see or hear anything that isn’t him. It’s impossible to think of anything else when he’s so handsome, throwing his head back and moaning only to stare at her with those kind eyes of his. She thinks she could stay like this for a long while, just watching him, her hand wrapped around his cock, feeling him hot and twitching, begging for something else.

He doesn’t give time for her to improvise though. Panting, he grabs her wrist, ceasing her movements. Grinning, he leans back, hands sliding up and down her legs until he hooks his fingers on the waistband of her shorts and pulls them down along with her panties. She can’t help the small smirk as she lifts her hips and bends her knees to help him take them off.

He’s stealing kisses, dragging his mouth down her body, marking her here and there, being careful around the bruises, fighting the need to just have her every time she lets out a shaky breath. He grabs one of her thighs with his right hand, the other one staying firmly on her hip, his mouth not once leaving her skin, and she gets the hint, spreads her legs to accomodate him further. That’s when he glances at her, finds her staring down at him, her short hair framing her face, and he almost loses it. But he carries down with his mouth, teasing and kissing her inner thighs, his beard tickling her, soft licks against her skin, breath ghosting over the spot between her legs until she gasps out his name.

And then there’s this moment, a fraction of time in which he realizes that this is happening, this is really happening and she wants him, too, she wants him and she’s waiting and so he runs his tongue along her slit, feels proud when her hands goes on on top of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. He licks her slowly, explores every inch, every fold, wants to taste every bit of her.

When she moans he changes the pace, teases, circles her entrance with the tip of his tongue, presses it flat against her and licks like a hungry, needy man, eats her out nicely, takes his time. Then she begs, asks for more and he swirls his tongue around her clit one, two, three times, moves his head up and down, his nose adding a much needed friction and then he sucks on her clit, keeps going until she’s arching her back off the bed and grinding against his face. He follows her rhythm, the one she imposes, eyes closed, voice cracking.

“Carlos,” she says, sill holding on to his hair, desperately lifting her hips, rocking on his mouth. “I’m gonna come-” It’s the way her voice cracks at the end of the word ‘come’ that drives him insane, eager to taste more of her, to have her melting on his tongue.

He hums in response, increases the pressure and holds her tighter as she squirms and writhes, moans his name again and again until it turns into a soundless cry, until time stops and she tenses, comes on his tongue, muscles spasming and toes curling while he helps her ride out her orgasm. She tries to pull away, it’s too much, she’s too sensitive, but he can’t help himself, he wants just a bit more because maybe he’ll never have her like this again, maybe this is just a one time thing so he wants every drop of her, he wants to be a little selfish here, make sure this day will be burned in his brain forever; she’s honey scented, holy in every way, and so he gives her one final lick and stops when she starts shaking.

The sound of her breathing echoes through the room, her chest rising and falling rapidly as he backs away and looks up at her, a satisfied grin on his face when he sees the state she’s in. He’s got something to say, a little joke to make, but it fades to nothing the second she grabs his face in her hands and pulls him into a bruising kiss.

Too many things hide in that kiss, from little trinkents to precious jewels, that kiss changes everything the second she tastes herself on him, the second he grabs hold of her again and deepens said kiss, finds all those treasures hidden in each soft breath, and he feels her hands tugging at the waistband of his pants, “Take these off,” she says through gritted teeth and he does as he’s told, moves away from her for one second that feels like forever and slides out of his pants and boxers, cock twitching, missing her hand, wondering how her mouth would feel on him, knowing that there’s no way he can let her do that to him now otherwise he won’t last, he won’t last at all.

“Come here,” her voice is low and demanding in the softest way possible. He gets back on the bed, sits in front of her, kisses her again, and they stay like that for a while, just exploring each other’s mouths until she can’t help herself and grabs hold of him and he grunts in her mouth because he’s been hard for so long now, been needing her for so long, and watching her orgasm a few moments ago, knowing he provoked that almost made him burst right then and there, and now her hand is on him again and he can’t control himself.

“You’re the sweetest thing I have ever tasted,” he confesses, breathless, “Jill, you’re the sweetest fucking thing.”

And Jill nods, not really knowing how to respond to such a bold statement, her face flushed, she nods and flattens a hand against his chest and pushes him down on the mattress, straddles him and although her plan is clear, she winces and hisses in pain the second she tries to move her other arm and as much as she tries to play it off, it doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos.

He’s quick to sit up, to cup her face, eyes scanning her frame. “You alright?” and his words are a bit rushed, stumbling in his own want and worry. “Wanna stop?”

“No, don’t even think about it,” she adds quickly.

“You sure?”

“Wait, I’m not Supercop anymore?” she says with a smirk. “I’m just a little sore.”

“Then let me take care of you,” he says, caressing her face, robbing her of a kiss. “If it’s still okay.”

The concern is endearing, the implication of his words even more so. “Of course it’s still okay.”

Another kiss, he lowers her onto the mattress, runs his hands up and down her body until he stops them at her bent knees. She spreads her legs for him again, and he’s so consumed by her he feels almost tipsy, everything goes hazy for a minute. He’s been hard and aching to the point of desperation even, but he swears, he does, that if she asked him to just go down on her again he would, oh god, he would, no doubt about it.

Except she’s waiting, the gleam in her blue eyes making him fall in love with her, because yes, that’s what he’s feeling, love. He’s known for days and she’s changed his entire life and he won’t stomach it when she leaves. She’s worked her way into his heart, growing around it like a vine and he doesn’t want her to let go.

“Carlos,” she whispers, but there’s urgency hiding behind her tone.

He grabs her legs, bringing her closer to him, holding his cock by the base then gently guiding himself inside her; just the tip first, to see her reaction, and then he moves an inch more and she bites her bottom lip again, looks down at him, expectation written across her face. Then he goes all in; she’s so wet, so ready, there’s no resistance. They both sigh in relief at the feeling, her little moan contrasting with his grunt, and she’s grateful for the time he gives her to get used to him; it’s been a while since she’s been with anyone but even then she had never felt as complete as she’s feeling right now.

He fits so perfectly, stretches her up good, and he’s looking at her as if she’s made of diamonds, searching for any sign on discomfort on her face and honestly, having someone care so much like this is bringing her to the edge of tears.

This is not a quick fuck. This is not a we made it out alive kind of celebration. There’s more here, there’s so much more, she can see it in his eyes.

He leans forward, his body covering hers as he props himself up with one arm on her side to keep from crushing her. Staring right into her eyes, he kisses her lips and starts moving. It’s a steady pace at first, as if he’s trying to understand her, trying to see what drives her crazy, what she likes.

Can he be rough?

Can he hold her a little tighter?

Those silent questions are answered when she urges him on, her hands on his shoulder, bringing him down on her so her breasts are flush against his chest and his face is an inch away from hers. He kisses her when he starts moving, feels her breaking into a moan but then respond, moving her hips in accordance to his, but even so she’s letting him lead; he’s the one in control this time around.

So he thrusts slowly, long strokes that make her want to just push him down again and ride him because she thinks he might have made her a little insane here, a little too obsessed. She watches him, his handsome face and its perfect features, then darts her glance down to where they’re both connected, sees him move, sees and feels him pullig back until just the head of his cock is inside, and then he slides in again, repeats the motion again and again until she can’t take it anymore, wraps her legs around his waist and says, “Faster.”

“Yeah?” he asks, still set on that same rhythm, looking for permission, focusing his gaze for one instance at a huge bruise near her hip.

“Please,” she begs in the middle of a kiss. “Please.”

He increases the pace gradually, watches the changes on her face, and when she throws her arms around his neck (all the flinching and wincing still there but to hell with them to hell with them, this means so much more), he finally lets go. His thrusts grow harder and faster, so much so that he accidently slips out, and when that happens he drives her mad by grabbing his cock and rubbing it on her clit for a few seconds, a small tease that earns him some more pretty little moans, his name spilling out of her lips like sugar.

He’s in trouble, he concludes, he’s in trouble. This woman may as well be his everything.

He will drown himself in her if she asks him to.

Lodge himself into her bones.

Never let her go.

If she wants him as much as he wants her.

(and he hopes she does he hopes she does)

When he thrusts back into her, he wastes no time, no more teasing, he moves, feels her nails digging into his flesh, little red moons forming all over his skin, she’s clenching around him and he’s pounding into her so fast and hard the slap from skin against skin is loud enough to reverberate on the walls. Throught it all, he doesn’t break eye contact, no, looks at her as if she’s meant to be worshipped.

Jill is lost in a trance, feeling his cock in and out of her, he’s so big and hard, he’s so perfect, so good, she could stay like this forever and then he hits that spot, that little spot and she clenchs around him and moans, which in turn makes him groan. “Right there,” she says, “Right there, don’t stop, please, just like that.”

Carlos nods, he’s mesmerized, trying to hold back his own release, showering her neck with kisses, licking the salt off of her skin, hips working nonstop. “Fuck,” he says, voice hoarse. “You feel so good. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

She clings to him as if her life depends on it (and god knows it did), she clings to him, their hearts beating in perfect synchrony.

This is meant to be, she thinks, this is meant to be.

His thrusts are even harder now, rocking them back and forth on the bed. He buries his head on the crook of her neck, muffling his groans. She gives up on trying to follow his rhythm, gives up completely, this is too good, too fucking good, she can only take it. She’s so close, he knows, she doesn’t even need to tell him with the way she tightening around his cock, the way her moans are turning into almost sobs, her shaky voice trying to utter a warning, one that he loves so much.

He keeps up the pace while sliding a hand down her body, finding her clit, still a little swollen and sensitive from his earlier ministrations. This time she does cry out, holding on to him. It’s overwhelming; she’s right at the edge and she doesn’t want it to end, fuck, don’t let this end.

He’s losing control, pumping into her, his warm breath on her skin, and when that wave hits her, when her face gets hot and her breathing heavy she asks for one thing, just one tiny thing. “Come with me,” she says. “Come with me, please, please, come with me.”

“Inside you?” and such simple question should sound a lot more like caution than it does in that moment. In that moment though, that simple question is about trust above anything else, and she nods, all desperate and pretty, she nods.

“Inside me,” she orders as he kisses her. “Inside me, it’s okay, fill me up, let me-” her voice breaks when he speeds up the pace. “Let me feel you, I need to feel you.”

He places a hand around her neck, doesn’t apply pressure, just keeps it there and stares at her and fucks her and kisses her and says “I’ll fill you up then, I’ll do it, you’ll be all mine, right, just mine?” he asks in between pants, voice rough and brash and still laced with adoration.

“Just yours.”

She means it.

He thrusts into her with hard, fast, long strokes, and she’s clenching around his thick cock, coming with such intensity that she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from truly screaming.

At the same time, his movements grow erratic, his grunts and groans a lot louder, and then he’s burying himself into her to the hilt and coming deep inside her, breathing so hard he feels like he might pass out.

She holds on to him as they both wait until they can breathe normally again, but he can’t resist kissing her, not when she’s giving him that look, not when he’s so scared of never seeing her again after this that he can feel his bones trembling. After a moment, when the world goes back to existing, he slips out of her and rolls to her side, brings her with him. She’s curled up around him like a cat, and he’s smiling, stroking her hair idly.

“You’re not in pain, are you?” he asks.

Shaking her head, she chuckles. “Sex is one hell of a drug, you know.”

“You’re one hell of a drug.”

“Oh god,” she laughs at the line.

“No, I’m serious. Got me screwed up for life here,” he admits. “Pretty sure I’m addicted.”

It’s quiet for a moment, Carlos is already cursing himself for ruining this. Too blunt. Too blunt and they don’t even know what they’re going to do tomorrow.

But then she looks up at him, and says: “For life is a big commitment.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a man of my word,” he says.

“That’s good to know,” she smiles at him, rests her head on his chest and closes her eyes.

Carlos wraps an arm around her then, holds her tight and close, the stupidest smile decorating his face.

And for the first time in months, Jill sleeps peacefully.

--- a/n: i’m rusty as hell but writing this brought me joy. i dedicate this to my lovely friend @passionedance because holy shit she put up with me gushing about these two a lot. <3 also, i hope everyone is okay and taking care of themselves. <3

#valeveira #jillxcarlos #jill valentine #carlos oliveira #carlosxjill #resident evil 3

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ladyoutlier · 5 years

Text

Earth Angel

In which Crowley accidently miracles a love song for Aziraphale

Read on AO3 | Listen to the song for context

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Crowley didn’t spend much time across the pond. Didn’t matter much whether he wanted to or not. The fact was that he didn’t need to. Ever since the colonies broke off and forged their own path ahead (a path that was quite destructive to anything and anyone that wasn’t an ex-settler), they had done quite the good job of spreading evil into the world themselves.

For Hell’s sake, the Americans were doing Satan proud with their segregation laws. Dehumanizing people because of how much melanin was in their skin. Crowley thought it would be a real kick to let them all know that Adam and Eve had been black, but his lot probably wouldn’t be too happy with the miracle it would’ve taken to convince these stubborn Yanks that he was telling the truth. He didn’t much feel like outing himself as the demon that caused humanity to fall anyways.

Still, he wasn’t in much of a mood to be partaking in these backwards American habits, much like how he wasn’t all that interested in involving himself in the horror of the previous World War. Minus, of course, a small dip in with his angel friend. So he found himself in the most progressive diner in Los Angeles which wasn’t saying much with the segregated seating, bathrooms, and drinking fountains. 1954 America was a mess, and Crowley couldn’t wait to get out of it.

He wouldn’t even be having nearly as bad of a time if Aziraphale were here. But no, Crowley had lost the coin flip, and as their Arrangement stated, he was the one to go to America on both their behalves. It’s not that he hated the country. Rather it was a case of the wrong place at the wrong time. He actually appreciated the American spirit with their rowdiness and party-going nature. It’s just he wasn’t in the mood to enjoy it.

The location hardly helped either. Los Angeles of all places: the closest Earth had to a Hell of its own and the one place that literally translates to “The Angels.” Wasn’t he already homesick enough? He had a right mind to think this was all some sick practical joke She was playing on him. As if She hadn’t tormented him enough these past 6000 years with Aziraphale.

He didn’t even really understand what he was supposed to be doing over here. Something about inspiring a witch hunt, but that nonsense had burned out centuries ago. He would’ve thought it was just another case of Hell being behind the times, but they threw in some major keywords that’d shown up on almost every newspaper he came across. Some dickhead named McCarthy and this looming “Red Scare.” As far as Crowley could tell, nothing about the States seemed all that red or all that scary, but humans always made a bigger fuss of things than he did.

“Can I get you anything, dear?” A waitress pulled him out of his self-pity session. “Coffee perhaps? Or well, I guess you folks are more fond of tea, aren’t you?”

“Coffee’s fine.” He gave her a wide smile that all but added on: Now, go away.

Truth be told, Crowley didn’t feel much like socializing with humans, well, ever, but specifically not today. What was the point of chatting any of them up when their short life spans meant they could croak before you’d get a chance to finish your thought?

Really, he wanted to head back to his hotel room and sleep until this McCarthy guy did something evil enough for him to be able to go home. And that’s exactly what he would’ve done if it wasn’t for the simple fact that he had to handle Aziraphale’s miracle as well.

Do general goodness. That was it. That was all he had to go off of. When he had expressed his annoyance to Aziraphale, he had just shrugged and said that sometimes it was about finding where miracles were needed rather than where they’d be the most profitable.

Couldn’t he have given him any tips? For Satan’s sake, he was a demon after all. Picking out where good was needed wasn’t exactly his expertise. Sure, he hadn’t asked Aziraphale for advice, but a demon would think after 6 millennia he wouldn’t need to.

So he was stuck in this sorry excuse for a place to grab a bite, surrounded by these no-good Americans for Aziraphale. Er, well not for Aziraphale. For their Arrangement. Which he purely posed for self-gain and not at all because he wanted a reason to see the angel more. Not at all that.

He was making a bigger fuss out of all this than he should have, and he knew this. Finding someone in desperate need of a miracle wasn’t all that hard. He could probably walk in any direction for less than a minute and find some poor homeless bastard that would consider even a week’s worth of wages to be the greatest miracle they could receive. Everyone needed something after all.

The problem was that Crowley was quite good at lying to himself. Well, not good at it. He had been failing to lie to himself about his feelings towards Aziraphale since the beginning of time itself. So deep down, he knew his difficulty with providing a miracle had absolutely nothing to do with him being a demon or with the company he found himself around. It actually had everything to do with the fact that he wanted to impress his angel. THE angel. Impress the angel. Not his.

It was quite the internal conflict. His feelings of course, but also deciding on a miracle. What he wanted to do was snap his fingers and end this whole racism thing, but even if Hell didn’t figure out it was him that did it, Heaven would be pretty pissed at Aziraphale for abusing his powers. A bunch of bollocks, wasn’t it? That an angel could cause too much good. How stupid did that sound?

No, he had to find a way to do something that would make Aziraphale beam without completely redesigning this awful country. Something that would make Aziraphale look at him the same way he had back in 1941 after Crowley had saved his books. It was a once in a lifetime look -- well, a once in a 6000 years look -- that Crowley really wanted to see again.

Maybe he would just drown himself at a bar and start fresh tomorrow. It’s not like the atmosphere was doing him any good. The air was just not putting him in a good mood tonight.

Usually, that had never mattered. Aziraphale could make a war zone enjoyable. Not that Aziraphale was required for him to have a good time. But it did help. Or no, it didn’t. He got along perfectly fine on his own. Aziraphale was completely optional, and Crowley couldn’t care whether he was there or not! Yeah, couldn’t care less.

“Oi, hun!” he called to the waitress. “Why don’t you make that coffee something a bit stronger, yeah?”

The waitress gave him a nod and ducked into the kitchen.

Crowley sat up in his booth. Enough of the internal sob story. There had to be someone here that needed a miracle, right? The next Charles Dickens, or more likely the next Mark Twain, that he could help along on their path towards success. Aziraphale had been really fond of him throwing Shakespeare a bone back in the day, so he just needed a modern day literary genius he could do the same thing with. Simple.

The diner was a lot more lively than when he came in. He must have been lost in thought for quite a while. Businessmen sat at the counter reading newspapers with cancer sticks smoking from their lips. Crowley did wonder when humans were going to figure out that cigarettes weren’t all that healthy. Influencing them into breaking bad habits would count as a miracle but that was hardly all that special.

A group of teens were tucked into the corner, drinking milkshakes. What could he do for them? Help them with their homework? Point them in the direction of a good college? Yeah, boring. Wasn’t going to work.

Four young men sat over in the segregated section having a rather intense conversation. The two guys closest to the door were leaned over the table. One of them tapped on it as he spoke. Crowley figured a bit of eavesdropping couldn’t hurt. Plus, it was in his nature with the whole demon thing.

“Okay, how about this? It’s you, you, you my dear. Always been you-ou-ou.”

The one across from him shook his head. “Too much like The Ames Brothers. We need our unique sound.”

The first man sat back down against the seat, and the guy next to him spoke up. “Duncan, it’s not like either of us know that much about love. We both had, what? One date for all the school dances we went to back at Fremond?”

“But love songs are what’s popping. What the people wanna here!” The man now known as Duncan replied.

Crowley rolled his eyes and turned to look out the window. Funny that humans thought they knew anything about love when he still hasn’t figured it out in the whole time humanity has existed. Maybe they did know more about it than him. They had a good 60 or 70 years to figure it out before they’d have to deal with never knowing. Maybe that made all the pins click into place quicker.

He, on the other hand, wasn’t on much of a time restraint. Sure, there was the whole End of the World thing Hell was so dead set on rolling into action, but if he had to guess, that wasn’t going to occur for another millennium or two. Not really the same as a human that barely gets used to the world around them before needing to figure out the whole love thing.

All he knew was that he was indeed capable of feeling love which was something he didn’t know he could say about the other demons. If he couldn’t feel love, then why the Hell did Aziraphale make him–

Nope. That thought ends there. Not entertaining that at all. He was not going to think about any of that. Not about their first meeting in Eden where Aziraphale had surprised him not only by giving away his flaming sword but by also telling him about it. Or about how Aziraphale was the only angel in all of Heaven that seemed just the tad bit concerned about drowning the human race. Or-or even about the little things like the bashful smile he’d oftentimes wear on his face. Or how his fun hobby of book collecting had turned into a full blown obsession. Or how he straight up refused to modernize because God damn it he had found something he liked and was going to stick with it. Of course, Aziraphale would never put it that way. Blasphemy and all. But the point still stands! And even just the way Aziraphale says his name. It was enough to make him forget he was a demon at times. And oh, oh in the name of Lucifer. He didn’t just do that, did he?

“Guys, if I haven’t just had a stroke of genius!” Now Duncan was the one leaned over the table.

One of the four passed by Crowley on the way back to his group. “What’s buzzing, cousin?” he asked, taking a seat.

“Got the song and it’s a real good one,” Duncan replied.

“Let’s hear it then.”

Just a coincidence. Surely he didn’t.

“Earth angel, earth angel.”

Fuck.

“Will you be mine?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“My darling dear. Love you all the time.”

“Hold up, Duncan. Let me write this down. It’s gold. The Penguins are going international!”

Yes, he had done it then. He had just accidentally miracled a love song. And an all too personal love song at that. God’s really got it out for him, doesn’t She?

If Aziraphale was here he surely would’ve said that Crowley’s mistaken miracle was ineffable, and if Crowley wasn’t too busy trying to conceal his embarrassment, he would’ve sneered in response because of course that’s what Aziraphale would say.

But the angel wasn’t here, and Crowley instead promptly left a wad of cash on his table and got up to leave. He’d most certainly overpaid, but who could be bothered to figure out American currency when the Americans couldn’t even be bothered to figure out equality? He’d count it as Aziraphale’s miracle anyway. The waitress could probably do with a bit of extra money.

As he left the diner, Duncan continued, “I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.”

The door slammed behind him. Surely he had nothing to worry about. Yeah, he had accidentally given away 6000 years worth of secret emotions as inspiration to this band of musicians, but on the other hand, he had never even heard of The Penguins. They’d become a local phenomenon at best. Whatever this song was, it wasn’t going any further than Los Angeles. Definitely not past California.

He’d keep Aziraphale out of the whole country until the turn of the millennium just to play it safe. He’d rig their coin flips for future American assignments if he had to. As much as he wasn’t fond of coming back any time soon, he hated the idea of Aziraphale finding out about this song all the more.

He’d just blacklist the whole western hemisphere. Didn’t exist to him. Really, he didn’t even have to be this extreme! The song was NOT going to be popular!

When “Earth Angel” came out that following October, it definitely didn’t stay local. By the following year, all of America was spitting out Crowley’s love song. The Penguins were happy with their first, and to be only, Top 40 hit, but Crowley sure wasn’t.

It was an absolute nightmare, and though the song was still mostly American-based, Crowley had no plans of facing Aziraphale until he was sure it was dead. He’d wait another century if he had to, and perhaps he would have if the angel hadn’t approached him first in 1967.

When Aziraphale left him with a thermos full of holy water in his Bentley with the words: “you go too fast for me” still crisp in the air, Crowley wondered if he had heard the song after all. Even if he had, he wasn’t planning on asking.

Flash forward 42 years. The Antichrist was born. The End of the World came and sputtered out before it could really begin. An angel and a demon got comfortable in each other’s skin and were now faced with the rest of their lives without any sort of guidance. And when faced with infinite choices, they chose to continue what they already had been doing. 6000 years makes any habit hard to break.

While Aziraphale had always loved the Earth, he found himself appreciating it all the more post Armeggedon’t. Although it had been two months since Adam had quite literally told Satan that he wasn’t his real dad, it might as well have been yesterday as far as the angel was concerned. Two months was hardly a lot of time when one has seen the rise and fall of civilizations.

In his reawakened joy of the world, Aziraphale found himself outside his bookshop more often. The blues of the sky were brighter. The giggling of children was all the more heartwarming. Even the crisp, cool air of autumn felt refreshing. The Great Plan had been weighing him down for some time without him realizing it, and now, that weight was finally gone.

And after his and Crowley’s stunt, he was more-or-less free to do as he wanted. No more waiting to hear word from Above. Yes, Heaven likely wouldn’t leave him alone forever as Hell wouldn’t with Crowley, but for the time being they were radio silent. The freedom strangely felt more heavenly than Heaven itself.

The park was exceptionally lovely with the birds singing up in the treetops and the few remaining bees buzzing from blossom to blossom. He watched one particular bumblebee lazily land on a hydrangea.

If Crowley was here, he would have made some off hand remark about how he couldn’t remember whether they were yellow with black stripes or black with yellow ones. Aziraphale would’ve told him that he was thinking of zebras, and Crowley would say but they don’t have a hint of yellow on them. Instead of further clarifying that what he meant was that zebras were the ones with confusion about their base color and not bees, he would say quite right, dear boy and they’d keep on walking. But Crowley wasn’t with him today.

They had spent a lot of time together since the End of the World that Wasn’t. Hardly a day went by where Aziraphale didn’t see the demon. Other than when raising Warlock, which hardly counted because they couldn’t be themselves, they had never spent so much time together. It wasn’t uncommon for years to go by in between their visits. Perhaps the past eleven years had made him used to it. Aziraphale found himself quite fond of the recent companionship.

He smiled a half somber sort of smile to himself as he left the bumblebee. Crowley would also say that this whole garden needed a good thrashing looking the way it does. And Aziraphale would remind him that it was fall after all and this is what happened to plants in the fall.

Crowley was to be seeing him this evening where they’d clink a few glasses in the back of his bookshop. Still, Aziraphale wished that they had decided to spend this afternoon together as well. He did enjoy Crowley’s commentary on things. In fact, he had been enjoying everything about Crowley. Maybe now with how things were, that was okay.

Now that he wasn’t under the pressure to behave like a proper angel, he could pay a bit more attention to those feelings that had been swirling much more violently within him for the past 78 years. He and Crowley were on their own side now. There was no longer any ifs, ands, or buts about it. They only had each other to depend upon for the rest of eternity. Maybe this should have been a scary thought to Aziraphale, and not too long ago, it probably would have been, but now, it was more of a comfort than anything else. The rest of existence with Crowley was hardly a bad thing.

When he really looked back on it, Crowley had been the only one there for him in all his time on Earth. Whether he needed rescuing to keep his miracle numbers to quota or someone’s company over lunch, Crowley had oftentimes been there. He couldn’t say that about his fellow angels. Whenever he had seen them, it was strictly business. Crowley had proven himself as a friend, and although Aziraphale had denied it in the past, they were friends. And perhaps there was more to it than that.

There had to be a reason he would find himself lost staring at Crowley’s face or found himself taking a quick glance to the demon to read his thoughts on the situation. A reason for why he chose to sit beside him at a table rather than across from him. Why he’d catch himself smiling at the sight of Crowley without meaning to. The demon meant an awful lot to him. That much was certain. But how much. Now, that was an actual scary thought to think.

“...angel. The one I adore. Love you forever and ever more.”

Well, that most certainly brought him back to his stroll in the park. What was, that is, who sang that? At such a—such an odd moment no less! He turned back to the source.

An eldery couple sat on a bench. A man holding a woman’s hands. He continued singing. “I’m just a fool. A fool in love with you.”

Aziraphale cautiously approached them and, seeing that they were at a break in the song, spoke up. “Excuse me. I’d hate to interrupt such an intimate moment, but please, what is that song?”

The woman turned to him. “Oh, this was the song we met to. I was on holiday in America. Went to a party and this lovely man asked me to dance.” She kissed the singer on the cheek.

“Why that’s very lovely.” Aziraphale fumbled with his hands. “But what’s the name of the song? When-when did it come out?”

The man answered him this time. “‘Earth Angel’ by The Penguins. Was early on in their career because they never wrote a song like that again. Although I may be a bit biased.” He glanced to the woman and back. “Couldn’t have come out earlier than 1954 though. That’s when we met.”

“1954. America. Earth angel…” Aziraphale replied, becoming rather lost in thought. “Yes, thank you.”

As he walked away, the older gentleman picked his serenade back up. “I fell for you and I knew… The vision of your love-loveliness. I hoped and I pray that someday… I’ll be the vision of your hap-happiness!”

Just a coincidence, obviously. That—that this song would be sung as he passed by. And that this song would just so happen to have come into existence when Crowley was over in America. Just a coincidence that Crowley had been rather scarce on the details on what he had done over there even though he was usually a bit more thorough regarding the miracles he did on Aziraphale’s behalf. And it was nothing more than odd that he had been the one to next engage Crowley who then wouldn’t engage him again until the Antichrist was born. Just a strange set of events that only seemed to be related but weren’t.

He really wanted to believe that, but he was an angel, and when it was this obvious, he could tell when God had placed pieces in a certain order. It was entirely what he was thinking, and if he didn’t admit that it made his heart jump just the tiniest bit, well that would be a lie. Feeling were so much easier to admit when reciprocated.

Crowley met up with Aziraphale just like they planned. They had gone into the backroom where Crowley had noticed a new edition of a vintage record player. Odd, but he didn’t mention anything about it. Within the hour, he had completely forgotten all about it as he and Aziraphale finished off a bottle of Bordeaux wine.

“Crowley, I heard the strangest song today,” The angel said, swirling his glass.

“Really?” Alarms began to go off in the demon’s head although he didn’t exactly know why.

“Well, it was quite nice actually, but I found myself perhaps reading into it a bit much.”

“Yeah, how so?”

“You were in the States in the 50s, weren’t you? You were there for both of us.”

Ah, so that’s what the alarms were for. Crowley sat up, straightening his shirt. “I, uh, fail to see how that’s related.”

“This particular song is American and released a few months after your visit.”

“So?”

“I was wondering if you, perchance, had anything to do with its creation.”

Trapped. Completely and utterly trapped. Aziraphale had figured it out, and Crowley was not going to be able to talk his way out of this one. He needed some time. He hadn’t expected to ever actually have this conversation, and now, it was all moving too fast. Too fast, huh. Funny that.

“I uh hardly remember anything I did over there. America really was rubbish at the time. Just wanted to get our jobs done and leave.”

“It’s really sweet.”

“Say again?” He blinked rapidly. Fuck, where were his sunglasses when he needed them.

“The song. It’s really sweet.”

“Oh, then it must not have anything to do with me then.”

“I think that means it has everything to do with you.” Aziraphale smiled.

“Angel, how many times do I gotta tell you? Sweet, nice, good-hearted is absolutely as far from me as you get. I’m scary nightmare fuel. Black demon wings and snake eyes and—”

“Crowley, I love you too.”

That shut the demon up. In that short moment, Aziraphale’s heart fluttered, and he worried he’d gotten this whole thing wrong, and it really was a set of coincidences that led him here, but then Crowley spoke up.

“You really mean that? You’re not just throwing me some sympathy for making a fool out of myself?”

“Yes, I really mean that.”

Crowley stood up. A bit too quickly for the amount of alcohol in him, but he held his balance. “I’ve been wanting to hear you say that, angel, since the dawn of time.”

Aziraphale stood as well. “So, are you going to say it back then?”

The demon stumbled over to his angel and pulled him into his arms, breathing onto the back of his neck. “I love you so goddamn much.”

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale replied, wrapping his arms around Crowley as well.

“Oh, shut it.”

They stood like that for a while. Perhaps only a few minutes or perhaps hours. Perhaps long enough for the world outside to have become completely new. Just holding one another and making up for 6000 years of never embracing. It was a still silence, but not that of an awkward variety. The kind of silence that is more comfortable than anything else. A silence that let’s one know they are exactly where they need to be. One where they’re free to melt into each other and become one and let souls entwine in a never-ending dance that’s stronger than any marital bond. It felt like hardly a moment had passed when they finally pulled away.

“The song then?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah.” Crowley stared into his angel’s face as if it was his whole world which was hardly a jump from the truth. “It was one of mine.”

“Oh, well, would you like to dance to it?”

“Dance to it?”

“Isn’t that what songs are for?” The softest smile painted Aziraphale’s face. “For dancing to?”

“Suppose.” He couldn’t help but return the smile. “Do you even know how to dance to a song like that?”

“Modern dances aren’t that complicated. Nothing like they once were. Isn’t it little more than swaying back and forth?”

“Angel, only you would call a song from the 50s modern.”

“Relatively speaking, it is. So would you like to? Dance that is.”

“S’pose.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and a record appeared on the player. The disc spun, and the song began to flow. The two grabbed onto one another once more.

“Funny that Shakespeare thought he knew what star-crossed lovers were.” Crowley swayed as he laid his head on top of Aziraphale’s. “Romeo and Juliet? Pah. I’d say we’re a better example.”

“We have a happier ending too,” Aziraphale hummed from the demon’s chest.

“Always been a bigger fan of the funny ones.”

And they were silent once more, listening to a song that was little more than a happy accident. An accident Crowley most certainly no longer regretted. Eternity really wasn’t all that scary anymore. If every day was like this, he’d be just fine. He fell back into the lyrics his heart had written for his angel 65 years earlier:

“Earth angel, earth angel

Please be mine

My darling dear

Love you all the time

I'm just a fool

A fool in love with you-ou (you, you, you)”

________________________________________________________________

Special thanks to my test readers:

@avuck @justkeeptrekkin @fandomens @booklover223

#Good Omens #Good Omens fic #ineffable husbands #my writing

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emetoandotherthings · 6 years

Text

A/N: So @ocsickficsideblog is being super patient and amazing by collabing with me! (April you are actually the best! 💙). This is with her new boy Oliver, and my old boy Jack when he was still using. TW: Drug mention, also lil bit of omo. I hope you enjoy as much as I did writing it! 😊

When Oliver staggered home that evening after buying himself a meagre dinner of a stale pizza slice and on the turn meat from the reduced section of the supermarket, all he wanted was to lay down and sleep. You wouldn’t think it was very tiring, begging - after all, it’s just sitting on a street or in a doorway waving a paper cup. But it was mentally taxing; there was the humiliation, the people who berated you for being a layabout, and then the people who ignored you completely, staring through you like you were a ghost. Oliver almost preferred those who yelled at him. At least that reminded him he was alive, he was human.

So when Oliver staggered back to the squat to find some strange boy sprawled out on the mattress he claimed with eyes as big as dinner plates, he wasn’t happy. He nudged the boy irritably with the toe of his shoe. “Oi, you! Shift yourself! That’s where I sleep.”

The boy stirred, opening a bleary eye and looked up at Oliver. “An’ righ’ now it’s where I’m sleepin’...”

“No you ain’t. Move it or I’ll tip you off,” Oliver threatened. “What the hell have you been takin’? I keep tellin’ all the others that I don’t want anythin’ to do with that shit.”

“Jus’ - jus’ lay down beside,” he slurred, waving his hand slightly haphazardly. “There’s plen’y space… I’m - I…” He trailed off into nothing.

Oliver sighed irritably. He shoved the boy to the side and curled up beside him, not quite mean enough to tip him onto the floor, but not about to take the floor himself. “You’re an asshole.”

“Don’t I know it…” He mumbled, then Oliver saw him grimace. “Agh..”

Oliver frowned. “What?”

“Ach...nothin’...” He muttered, but he was shivering where he lay.

“You get used to the cold,” Oliver mumbled to him. That was a lie - or at least getting used to the cold took longer than the nine months Oliver had been on the streets, but it seemed like the right thing to say. Lies could be very comforting sometimes - at least for a while.

“I-know,” he shivered, his teeth chattering. “ ‘t’s not… it’snot…”

Oliver rolled over. “Are you alright? Really? You better not be OD-ing. I’ve seen a couple of guys go that way, fuckin’ scariest shit I’ve ever seen.”

“‘M not…” He opened his eyes, they were glazed over. “I don’t… I don’t know…”

Oliver propped himself up on one elbow, looking the boy over carefully. “Are you on the streets? What’s your name? I haven’t seen you around.”

“I’m… I’m…” He started, then seemed to crumple, his face screwing up, as he pushed himself up slightly. “I’m so stupid!”

Oliver frowned. “Whoa, hey. What’s goin’ on?”

“Oh god…” He sat upright and prompted swayed so badly that he fell against the wall with a large thump. “I dunno what I’m doin’ - why am I here? I…”

“Mate, chill. You’re alright,” Oliver said, rather flustered. “Look...you’re too well-scrubbed to be homeless. Let me take you home, yeah? Do you ‘ave family? Friends?”

“No…” He whined, clapping his hands to his face. “I fucked up… again!”

Oliver took hold of his wrists. “What’d ya do? Come on, mate, it can’t be that bad.”

“It’s - I jus’ always do… Jack the bloody fuck up,” he muttered, sagging down into himself.

“So you’re Jack,” Oliver said unhelpfully. “I’m Oliver. And mate, if you’ve got good friends, unless you’ve killed someone or fucked someone’s missus, they’ll forgive ya. And they wouldn’t want ya lying here off ya face in a squat.”

“That’s wha’ I keep doin’ wrong…” He moaned, running his hands through his hair and tugging at it harshly. Oliver tried to grab his hands again.

“Stop hurtin’ yourself! You mean you’re addicted? What’re you pushing?” He asked.

“Wha’ am I no’?” Jack didn’t seem able to keep himself steady, every time he pushed himself away from the wall he ended up sliding back down again.

Oliver held his shoulders tight, swearing. “You’re a fuckin’ mess. I’m takin’ you home.”

“No… I jus’,” Jack slurred a little. “Jus’ give me a minute, I’ll go…”

Oliver scoffed. “As if I’m lettin’ you go off alone!”

“I’ll - I’ll be fine,” Jack said. “I always am…”

“Bollocks. I’m comin’ too,” Oliver said stubbornly.

“You… You don’t have -” Jack slowed to a stop. Oliver frowned.

“What? You alright?”

Jack slumped forwards, his head was spinning and the room seemed to be following with it. He took a few short gasping breaths in, trying to make everything stop whirling around. Oliver swore again, gently pushing Jack’s head down so he was hanging over his lap. “Careful. Fuck, how much did you have?”

“I… I don’t know…” Jack’s voice was barely more than a whisper; his head was pounding so hard he could feel it in the back of his eyes. He felt shaky and cold all over. “I need… move…”

“You need to move?” Oliver asked, not understanding. “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

Jack swallowed hard, all of his insides felt like they were in a tight knot, and Oliver’s features seemed to be dancing about on his face. “ ‘m gonna be sick…”

That got Oliver moving. He leapt up at once, out of range, but he moved behind Jack and kept hold of his shoulders. “Look at the fuckin’ mess you’re in… This is why I don’t take shit.”

“I’m s-sorry…” Jack howled, trying with difficulty to crawl along the mattress to the end of the room where a patch of damp was growing up.

“Jack?” Oliver called, feeling slightly guilty. “Come ‘ere, would ya? Stay fuckin’ still.” He went over and gripped his shoulders again.

“I don’t - don’ wanna get sick on your bed,” Jack forced, his voice strained as his throat tightened involuntarily, and he bit back the heave.

“Doesn’t really matter. I can sponge it off okay. ‘Ere, you focus on the task at hand. Breathe when you can,” Oliver said, massaging Jack’s quivering shoulders.

“Oh..oh god,” Jack leant forward, his shoulders jerking as he tried to stop the heaves. “Hmmrrkk!” He retched dryly, then rubbed his hand across his chest. Oliver wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him steady.

“That’s it. Just spew it up, mate, you’ll feel better.”

“Ohh…” Jack groaned, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose. “G’kkklluuuuuurrrggghhhh!” Suddenly Jack couldn’t breathe, his nose and mouth were full as a massive gush of liquid came flooding up from his stomach and splattering on the floor. He coughed and spluttered, his eyes watering as he tried to get a breath in.

Oliver cringed a little, looking away, but he rubbed between Jack’s shoulders blades. “Ugh - um, doin’ great.”

“Huh - sorry…” Jack mumbled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, but he mistimed as his stomach gave another squeeze and another wave of puke deluged down his front.

“Shit, now you’re covered, mate,” Oliver said regretfully. “I’m definitely draggin’ you home after this.”

“Oh…” Jack said, looking down at himself almost in confusion. “Hmmmblllrruuuhhh!” Something was caught in Jack’s throat, he gagged repeatedly, unable to clear whatever it was; he felt light headed and the only thing keeping him upright was Oliver’s hands. “Hrrrk!” His stomach was still cramping, but now he felt something wet and warm dripping down his leg and when he looked down he could see a large damp patch from the crotch of his jeans spreading down his legs. “Fuck…”

Oliver didn’t notice at first, thinking he was just reacting to vomiting so harshly. It wasn’t until a puddle started growing across the grubby floor that he caught on. “Oh…”

“Hmmlk!” Jack retched dryly again, then muttered mournfully. “I - I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, mate. Seen it before,” Oliver mumbled awkwardly, his pale cheeks pink.

“I didn't… I'm - ugh - sorry,” Jack flustered. “Thanks…”

“You can tie my jacket around ya waist. You empty?” Oliver asked.

“Yeah…” Jack wiped his mouth again with his dirty sleeve. “Shit I'm fucked Oliver… I didn't mean for this…” He sounded choked, emotional.

Oliver wasn’t great with tears either. “Hey hey, you’re alright. Ya can get cleaned up at home, yeah? Come on, ya need a warm place to sleep.” He tried to help Jack stand up.

Jack wobbled, steadying himself by putting his hand on the wall and looking precariously like he might be about to fall into the puddle of sick.

“Yeah,” Jack said, subdued. “You can too…”

Oliver slung Jack’s arm over his shoulder. “Where are we goin’ then?”

“I'm, I stay up by the uni,” Jack answered, his knees taking a bit of time to work again. “I'll - I'll direct. “

Oliver nodded, half-carrying Jack in the general direction of the university. He knew the area well; he knew the best places to sit and beg at each part of the day, he knew the places most likely to be monitored by CCTV, he knew the places where you could curl up in a doorway and usually be left alone.

“I’m up in here,” Jack mumbled when they drew close to the apartment building, but he hesitated, still leaning on Oliver. “God Blake’s gonna murder me…”

“That your boyfriend?” Oliver asked, pulling Jack along with him. “Come on, may as well grab ‘im by the horns.”

“Nah, my best friend,” he said, “he’s forever telling me to stop.”

“Well, I fuckin’ agree with ‘im,” Oliver said dryly.

“‘M sorry…” Jack mumbled. “Everyon’ does… I just can’t.”

Oliver sighed sadly. “I’m not gonna judge ya. Everyone has their demons. I don’t know you from Adam, I don’t know why you’re doin’ this. Come on, let’s go face the wrath of Blake.”

“Why you doin’ this?” Jack asked, frowning at Oliver.

“Doin’ what? Helpin’”

“Yeah… like, you coulda just kicked me ou’ and left me,” Jack shrugged. “Most people do…”

Oliver paused. “When I first ran off, I learned a lot, ya know. I’ve seen people do shit that would make ya sick. And I know ‘ow much a tiny bit of kindness makes ya feel better. Like the bloke who gives me chocolate and drinks for free, and he’s only got a little shop, he’s not even makin’ much. Or the old guy who always buys me a cup of coffee on Fridays when I’m beggin’ near the church. They don’t remember it, but I do. So that’s why I’m helpin’ ya. ‘Cause sometimes it’s all that keeps ya goin’.”

“You’re… you’re so nice,” Jack made this sound like it was unusual and Oliver gave a little chuckle. “It’s this door,” Jack pointed, fumbling in his pocket trying to find the keycard to let him in. “God, I can never ge’ my fingers to work…”

Oliver rolled his eyes at him. “Give it ‘ere, i'll do it.”

Jack handed over the card and Oliver waved it across the box, the light turned from red to green and the lock on the door clicked. Oliver pulled it open.

“I’m on t’ second floor,” Jack said, leading him over to the staircase. In the full glare of the flat hallway Jack could see the state he was in, his trousers still damp and vomit all down his front. Oliver practically dragged him up the staircase, letting Jack lead him to the right door and knocking loudly.

There was a pause, then the door creaked open and a pale face with a mop of curly brown hair peered out.

“Oh, fucking hell Jack,” the guy muttered, flinging the door wide and rushing out to support Jack. “Aiden! Aiden! He called over his shoulder into the flat. “Oh Jack! What’ve you done now?”

“It’s alright, mate. He’s not dying. He’s walkin’ and talkin’, makin’ sense. He’ll be fine,” Oliver said. “You’re Blake?”

“Yeah,” the boy nodded, half dragging Jack into the flat hallway as another red-headed boy emerged from one of the rooms. “Come in.”

“Oh… ‘S alright. I was just makin’ sure Jack got ‘ome safe,” Oliver said, looking flustered, but Jack’s hand shot out and grabbed Oliver’s jacket.

“Com’ in,” he said firmly, tugging him inside. Oliver had no choice but to follow, rolling his eyes fondly. He had to admit, the warm air in the house felt good when it hit his face. He looked around with a sigh, feeling a tug of melancholy. He’d stayed in any number of places in his life, posh places, poor places, flats and bungalows, tidy places, messy places - but none of them had felt like home.

Jack was sagging more against Blake, his eyes half shut and bleary.

“You brought him home, you're staying,” Blake told Oliver. “Aiden - come help, we need to hose Jack down.”

“Make sure he takes a piss before you put ‘im down to bed,” Oliver advised. “Don’t want ‘im wettin’ on your sofa. And put ‘im on ‘is side. But I guess you know that.”

“Oh yeah,” Blake nodded, “We're well experienced… Look - that room there is Jack’s, use it - I think I'll be up with him for a while.” He pointed to one of the doors, trying to tug Jack more upright.

Oliver hesitated. “Don’t you want me to ‘elp?”

“Nah, it's fine,” Blake shook his head. “I'm used to this.”

Oliver sighed and gave him a sad smile. He went and perched awkwardly on the sofa, peering at the photos, wondering why those guys trusted him to be left alone. He could have taken anything - and he was tempted too. But Oliver couldn’t do it, not to these guys. He’d just delivered their friend home, off his head and coated with vomit and piss. He wasn’t about to rob them too.

The door pushed open, and Blake reappeared, carrying a towel in his arms.

“Sorry, I didn't ask your name,” Blake asked.

“Oliver,” he said with a nod. “Don’t worry, I could see you were occupied with Jack.”

“Thanks for bringing him home,” Blake said. “I really appreciate it… Look, we'll be ten or fifteen minutes cleaning Jack up, then he'll sleep through with me so I can check on him. The shower’ll be free then, and just help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen, and use Jack’s bed… he bloody owes you!”

Oliver paused, considering. “You sure? ‘Ow’ed you know I needed a bed?””

“Positive,” Blake nodded, then he smiled. “Most people that ever bring Jack home, or contact us about him could do with a helping hand too - and I ain't meaning charity!” Blake put his hand up firmly. “Jack’s bloody lucky he's got folk… I know not everyone does.”

Oliver smiled wryly. “He’s bloody lucky he’s got you, let me tell ya. Okay, if you’ll ‘ave me, I’ll stay.”

“Honestly, you’re more than welcome!” Blake said genuinely. “Bed, shower, food, whatever - okay?”

Oliver couldn’t help but smile at him. “You sure you don’t want ‘elp with Jack? Wouldn’t be the first time I ‘osed someone off.”

“It’s not ours either,” Blake smiled, but he looked a little tired. “Aiden’s training to be a nurse, so he’s always the best at it. You chill…”

Oliver nodded. “Okay. Thanks, mate. Really, I mean it. This...sort of thing means a lot.”

“It’s no problem,” Blake headed to the door. “Absolutely none.”

#emeto #emeto fiction #emetophilia #ocs #original character fiction #puking #vomiting #omorashi #drug mention #Oliver #Jack #ocsickficsideblog #yooooo #collab

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muridgreenthumb-blog · 7 years

Text

Chapter 2

Meant to post this last week but I got busy and distracted >_>

Chapter 2

A Kind Witch…?

They boy struggled to breathe as he twisted and turned and ran and drowned in his dream. Angry colours at first and then twisted trees enveloped him, terror gripping his mind. He tried to run from the monsters who gave chase, but a great tidal wave rose up and swallowed him, leaving him in the suffocating dark…

~ ~ ~

His mind slowly awoke from its sleep, though his eyes remained closed. He tried to remember what woke him and images of his nightmare came back and his heart began to race. Trying to sit up set him into more of a frenzied panic as his body seemed locked into place, like he was paralysed. The dream, the nightmare he had had, once so vivid now seemed so lost, dissipating like steam in the wind while he tried to remember what the heck had happened. He cracked an eye open to get his bearings but snapped it shut almost immediately as the piercing morning light stabbed his eye.

Squinting his eyes open, the black shapes surrounding his vision turned into frost-bitten trees. A light fog hung in the air and grey clouds choked the sky. His senses became aware of a sizzling sound and the quiet plinking of strings pulled in a melody.

He tried stretching his head backward to look above and got a face full of pumpkin. That wasn’t what he had been expecting.

The sensation of not being able to move proved too great as panic started to rise inside him. He twisted and turned, a searing pain from his ribs ripping across his torso as he tried to find out what on earth was going on. He rolled onto his side in his struggle, an arm stuck down, the other across his chest, cheek in the dirt, facing the music - and froze.

~ ~ ~

The witch sat on her stool, looking at her surroundings with bleary eyes, breathing in the crisp, morning air. With ice shards lining everything like cream on a cake, the temperature was colder than an ice selkie's breath.

Ice selkies were like these adorable chinchillas that looked like their bodies had been stretched long and turned white. They were deadly because people would pick them up and suddenly freeze as its breath froze them from their adorable tiny mouths. There was an epidemic for a while before a doctor made a cure for the frozen and a vaccine for the untouched. Now people could keep them as pets.

Usually prepared for this type of weather, she had wrapped herself in her thick, baggy, woollen pyjamas, hand knitted by her. So of course there were holes, and so she also wore a dressing gown made from kangaroo fur and leather slippers with woollen insides. Her long, wild hair hung down her back and shoulders, keeping the edges of her face warm. She kept her stitched-up hat on her head for good measure.

Her arm was aching.

She had woken up two hours ago, and waited for the boy to wake up as well. She was supposed to be leaving today, and she couldn’t bring him with her. After a while of waiting, she grew tired and got out her violin, hoping that maybe the melody would wake him up with ease. Thirty seconds into her plan that wasn't working she grew frustrated. She dug the bow across the strings, causing a cacophony of squeaking and the pain in her arm to flare and yelled “Wake up!”

Nothing.

Well, she couldn’t really blame him, being half starved and half dead. At least he looked half dead. Again, she hoped he wasn’t dead.

Having bad experiences with people before, she felt the need to practice introducing herself. Not having much contact with the world at large left her feeling like she had missed out on learning social skills:

“Hello! Oh my goodness I sound like a little girl.”

“Hiya mate, I’m Murid! I... I’m a flippin’ captain of a pirate ship, wanna go across the seas? UGH.”

“Hello I’m Mughidgrenthumnb- Greenthumb, Greeeeeenthumb… I’m extremely glad you’re not conscious.”

“You’re alive right? …yep, you’re alive.”

“Hi I’m Murid and I really wish you’d wake up. I need to leave.”

“Hello poor and malnourished boy whom I saved from death last night, I’m Murid. Wake up.”

“I. Am. Murid. Greenthumb. How. Are. You? As you can see, I barely interact with any other sentient beings.”

“Hi I’m Murid who are you why are you homeless.”

“Hi I - oh my goodness what am I doing.”

She grew bored and self-conscious, so she decided to just get on with breakfast.

So she sat on her stool, watching over the last of her eggs and bacon with a little remorse. She had plenty of other food, but she had to steal this stuff - it's not like she had any pigs or chickens to make food from. Her violin lay across her legs as she played a quiet tune, plucking the strings and cradling her right arm.

Alright, what on earth am I gonna do with this boy when he wakes up? Murid pondered as she shifted in and out of thoughts. Well feed him obviously, but what after that? I don’t wanna try any introductions again, that went terribly and he wasn’t even conscious for that. He’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know what kind of accommodation I can arrange for him; I can’t arrange anything. They’d probably execute him if they knew he’d been with a witch… I hope Thatcha’s ok.

She shifted her gaze to her wagon, covered entirely in vines and leaves of a pumpkin plant. The boy was lying near one of the pumpkins. Well, it’s not like I don’t have plenty of space…no, no, no, no, I don’t know this boy and for all I know he could be a witch hunter or something. A homeless one. Plus, he’s a human. And why on earth would he wanna stay with me? The only reason would be if he were really desperate. Or, he could just stay with me until I come across a suitable village, or even an orphanage! Then I can drop him off and be on my merry way! Alone.

Murid gave barely a pause to that last thought. She heard movement behind her but kept on strumming then stopped when she heard it a second time. She looked behind her thinking He must be moving in his sleep agai- oh!” she started. The boy was staring straight at her, twisted in his sleeping bag. Murid stared straight back at him, her heart rate rising with the colour in her cheeks. Trying to keep calm, she had to remind herself that there was no way at all that this boy could harm her. He was sick and his bones, while mended, would still be painful, there was no way he could harm her. He was just a simple, injured human. He couldn’t hurt her.

He couldn’t hurt her.

“Uh, mo-morning!” Murid finally blurted, fumbling with her violin and words. She placed it down (the violin, not her words) and got up. She then proceeded to trip over her violin, stumble, almost knock over the pan on the fire and hit her violin, the thing pulling notes on its own accord, and finally toppled the stool over to its side. Murid got out of the entanglement and looked at the mess.

“That wasn’t really what I wanted my first impression t’be...” She muttered under her breath. The boy continued to stare at the strange girl as she straightened her violin and up righted the stool and pan. He didn’t dare move, even as she walked over to him (who was trying to act like nothing had happened).

“Hello! I – ugh… are you alright? ‘Cuz you look kind’v… caught up in that.” She pointed out, keeping at a safe distance. He paused when she said this, taking a look down at himself, then tried to pull his arms out. Murid let the show continue for a while but was getting frustrated just by watching him; she crouched on the balls of her feet and reached out with caution but he jerked away from her hands, making her jump. Murid looked at him and recoiled back slowly, a resentful expression on her face.

“I’ll, um – I’ve got your breakfast cooking. I’ll just, go get it.” Murid muttered. Her voice lilted with a strange accent, with her 'r's relaxed and her 'a's and 'ou's drawn out. Her “i’s” sounded she was saying “i-ye” or “oi”. And she seemed to mistake sentences for one big long word, joining two to three words at a time into one. The boy finally got his arms out despite the fiery pain stabbing into his side, and shuffled back against the pumpkin behind him.

He stared at this creature as she made her way around the camp fire, quiet terror gripping him. He had seen her face, the colour of this girl’s skin and hair, the iconic style of that pointy hat – she was a witch.

Witches were vile. They were evil, they were wicked, they were awful, and deemed justly so because of their use of Black Magic… whatever that was. Ok, so he didn’t know what was so bad about Black Magic or what magic even was, but still, people talked about it with enough distaste for him to know it was a Bad Thing. Being a witch meant that you lived in exile, banished to the wilderness, and you were to follow those rules unless you wanted to hang. He had come across the carcass of a burnt down house in town once. Apparently, the couple had come into a close encounter with a witch from the outside as they were travelling back to their home town. Simply for that, the witch had burned their house down. Witches were bad, bad, bad, bad. Even so, he had to admit… this one was prettier than what he had imagined them being.

Coming over with full hands, cutlery rattling, the witch laid a plate of food in front of him. A clay mug followed next, full of steaming tea. He noticed that she kept her right arm in a crooked position.

“Ugh… food,” she pointed at the plate then hurried away. The boy looked at the breakfast as if it were a live octopus. It was bacon and eggs, and it smelled delicious, but he couldn’t make sense of it; why was this witch giving him food? Why had she not killed him yet, or used him as a specimen to test Black Magic on like all those horror stories he had heard about? Who was she? Why was she acting like a… like an actual person?

He snapped his head up at the witch as she sat down in front of him, still keeping a distance between them. She winced when she put down her mug and plate, rubbing her right arm. Her eyes shifted up to him and he froze.

“…food,” she pointed again.

The boy looked at the steaming plate and then back at her. “Because you kinda look like you haven’t eaten fer a while…” He continued to stare at her. She sighed, putting down her fork.

“Alright, here’s the deal O silent one. We eat our breakfast, and if you don’t eat yours, I’m gonna have it, cuz I've been savin’ that beggs and acon. UGH eggs and bacon. And then I’m gonna bring you back inta town, and leave you there. How’s that sound?”

Murid waited for some kind of reply from him; when it didn’t come, she just shrugged and tucked into her breakfast. She looked like she was struggling to get the food on her fork, like she wasn’t used to her left hand. His eyes trailed up and he studied her face. She had laugh lines around her mouth, like she smiled a lot. Her eyebrows were low and determined, but her eyes had a more innocent nature, more trust in them. Looking at them he noticed something odd about the colour. The left one was a light, sea blue while the other was dark blue, not quite black but… duller.

She raised an eyebrow at his gaze and he switched to his plate. It occurred to him that he might anger the witch if he didn't eat her food. Thinking fast he grabbed the fork and played around with it, hoping he looked like he was about to take a bite at any moment.

Murid leaned forward slowly. “…y’do know what do with food right?” she whispered loudly. He flinched and looked at her.

“Y’know, you cut it up, then you put in ya mouth, and then you chew-” The boy squinted and started nodding along with her, as if to say “Oh haha, very funny”. Murid stopped and snorted, smiling at him, and the boy surprised himself by smiling back. Something changed in her face.

“I’m, Murid, by the way…” she introduced herself. “What’s your name?”

The boy paused, considering his options. Murid watched him quizzically as he grabbed a nearby stick and started scrawling in the dirt. Murid tilted her head around to read the shaky writing.

“…Todd, Wor…Worthington?” she repeated aloud. He nodded at her.

“Well. Hello! Todd.” She gave a tentative grin. He smiled back and took a nibble of the fried eggs. That small nibble awoke a hunger in him that had since been dormant for weeks. With all honesty, he did not care if this food was poisoned or not, it tasted good and he was hungry, end of story.

~ ~ ~

Murid doused the fire with a bucket of water before taking his and her plate. The witch paused, looking from the dirty plates to the freshly put-out fire.

“Darn it,” she whispered and clenched her fists. “Ah I’ll clean ‘em later…”

Todd felt, so good. But it was a painful kind of good; though his stomach had cried for food for weeks, finally giving it some made it realise it didn’t think it would get this far. Now it was trying to remember what to do. While he watched Murid move around her campsite, Todd thought, weighing his options and choices. She looked like she was packing up. He picked up his stick.

Murid came over to her… guest, fluffing a coat she got from the wagon. “Alright, I got you a coat so you won’t be so cold…” she quietened when she saw him looking up at her, his stick pointing down at the ground. More writing. It said, “what’s going to happen to me?”

“Oh…” was all Murid could mutter. Todd thought it was because she found the answer hard to say, but really she was just thinking ‘Is this an existential question or is he literally asking me what I’m going to do with him in the next hour or so? ‘Cuz I don’t know what happens when you die’. She decided it was the latter.

“Um, well, I was going to take you as far as the edge o’ town. Then leave… you there… y’know, like, like dropping you back home after a sleep ovah!” she gave a smile, but it was a forced one. She knew how cruel that sounded. Save a homeless guy’s life then leave him back in the situation that had gotten him into trouble before. His eyes stared into hers, wandering.

“Look… I’m sorry I can’t help you more, but I’ve done all that I can. I took you to the doc, almost got HIM in trouble, I saved your life and gave you a meal. And if I could, I’d seeya every day and cook you meals and help you to find some way of livin’ and get’ya off the street. But I’m a witch.” She crouched on her haunches. “I can’t DO anything. If they saw you with me – the rest of the humans – thay’d kill me AND you. Every moment you’re with me you’re in danger and it’s bad enough you’ve spent half a night with me. Green Skinna’s, y’know how they work?” Todd shook his head and Murid’s face fell. “Darn it I wish someone knew. But what I do know is, thay can track me, like I’ve got a scent or something. And that’s gonna rub off on you.” Murid paused. “Not, not that I’m saying I smell. I-I take, baths, quite regularly th-thank you, I don’t stink. I mean, mean that thay have devices, and thay know things I’ve been near if, if I linger-” Murid flailed her arms. “Look, it’s just too much, ok! I’m a danger t’you, and your a danger t’me… I’m sorry…” she shrugged with a grim look. He took a moment to take in what she was saying. He knew she couldn’t take him in – he didn’t even think she’d offer – but he was hoping for help of some kind. If he went back there and onto the street again, he’d…

His eyes pricked and his mouth contorted, biting away tears and he tried to hide his face. The witch’s eyes widened; ok she’d expected him to be upset, but she didn’t expect him to cry. Another bewildering thought slapped her - when did she get attached to him?!

“Oh, um, ugh, oh gosh don’t- don’t cry, please, uh… HERE WAIT-” she yelled and bounded off, flinging away the coat as she darted into her wagon again. Todd sniffed curiously; what could she possibly give him that would make this all better? It may have been his ears playing tricks, but he swore when Murid ran out of the wagon again she had sounded far away, as if down in a long corridor. She jumped down and crouched in front of him, a necklace with an orange crystal pendant dangling from her hand. She was holding it out to him.

…

Was she bribing him?

“This! Is a magic thing! It does magical stuff! Here, take it ‘n’ sell it off back in town. Take it to the lady with that weird eye, she’s nice and can appraise it for you for a good price. It’s worth a lot, trust me. Probably’d, rent you… food Idunnohere.” Without waiting for a reply she slipped it over his head, patted said head, and got back to packing. He clamped a hand over his head with a frown and looked down at the pendant.

‘What does it do?’ he thought.

“It gives you the ability t’read aloud your thoughts.” Murid replied over her shoulder.

‘Oh ok, well it would be worth a lot if itWAIT WHAT?!’

“Well, I’m assuming y’can’t talk ‘cuz you’re a mute?” Murid guessed, looking at him. Todd stared her. How could she hear him? How was he talking? He hadn’t spoken to anyone in years. No, no he couldn’t talk. This necklace didn’t do anything, she was just playing a trick.

‘She’s just trying to get rid of me with a trinket.’

“She’s just tryina get rid of me with a trinket,” Murid mimicked with her arms crossed.

‘You can hear me?!’

“Y’can hear me?”

Todd made a face at her. ‘Ok, you can stop copying me.’

“Ok you can stop copying me.”

‘I’m the ultimate fart master.’

“I’m the ultimaHEY” and he laughed. She came over to him, holding out her hand.

“Here, give it,” she gestured to his necklace. He took it off and handed it to her.

“Ok, now say something.” She instructed. She waited but not a peep came from him. She re-placed the crystal against his collarbone.

“Now say something.”

‘…what are you doing?’ Todd’s thoughts rang out clear in her mind, as if he were speaking aloud.

“See? You can talk now. Either use it to get a job or sell it off,” she said not unkindly, handing it back to him. He looked at her, the necklace, back at her and at the necklace again.

‘So you can actually hear me?’

“For goodness sake, yes.”

‘What number am I thinking of?’

“Potato- potato?” she stopped and gave him a weird look.

‘I wanted to make sure you weren’t lying,’ he grinned a sheepish grin.

“I am currently having a full on conversation with ya, how could I fake this?” she said dubiously. Todd didn’t know what to say so he just offered another grin. It stayed there and grew wider.

‘This, this is fantastic! I can, I can talk to people now! Sort of. No more flimsy sign language! Ever! At all! Hey how does my voice sound? Is it deep? I bet its deep.’

“Ugh, well…” Murid began. Todd’s heart immediately sank when she uttered the word ‘ugh’.

“It’s kind of hard to describe. Do you know how t’read?” Todd shrugged. “Ok, well… when you wrote your name inta the dirt, you sounded out the lettas in your head, right?” He nodded. “And you said your name in your head?” He nodded again.

“Your voice is kinda like that – when you’re reading something and you have that little voice inside your head that says the things you’re reading out loud, and you can hear it but your not forcing it. It’s kinda like that. As if I’m reading, the words, that you’re… saying.” Murid looked back at Todd’s blank face.

“Y’know what telepathy is?” He nodded. “You’re now telepathic, ‘s’long as you keep it on.” Explanation. Done.

Murid motioned towards the fallen coat. “Go ahead and put that on and get up.” She turned and pulled something out of her pocket. He couldn’t see what it was until she threw it into the air; the marble caught the light and seemed to hang suspended in the air for a millisecond before it came back to Murid’s hand. She flicked her hand around and smoke poured out, spreading long and tall. The smoke solidified, forming a staff with a milky blue crystal ball at the end. The more he looked at the ball the more details surfaced from within. The centre was a pearly white, dissipating into a blue, semi-transparent outer layer. Little fractures dotted throughout the sphere reflected and caught the light like tiny little stars. Wow it was pretty. And big. Todd thought she could wallop someone in the head pretty good with that thing. She chucked the staff out in front of her and it landed in the air sideways, hovering. It grew stirrups, bristles at the other end and two metallic rotors.

Well… This was the weirdest Monday.

“Ok. Get on!” Murid stuck out her hand at the hovering broom with a big, plastered smile.

He raised an eyebrow at her. They were going, to fly, on a broom? He had thought that at least that part about witches were just a myth. Alright then.

“How’s your feet? Y’can walk, right? I mean, you’re standing…” Murid nodded at him, breaking off his thoughts. Todd looked at his legs. Yes, he supposed he was standing. He couldn’t… really feel his legs though…

“So you can walk?” Murid asked again. Todd nodded, not moving. ‘Just gimme a sec,’ he said off-handed. Murid inched closer but didn’t say anything. He brought a skeletal, veiny foot forward, and took one step. He smiled at Murid, showing her that he was ok and she raised an eyebrow.

Then his vision turned splotchy and a million bees were buzzing in his ears. He fell forward, feeling lighter than air and heavier than stone in a bizarre combination. When his head stopped tingling and his eyes refocused, he realised he was looking up at the witch, her arms hooked under his armpits.

“So you can walk?” she asked again, both eyebrows arched. He gave a sheepish smile. Murid rolled her eyes and pushed him forward, giving herself room to manoeuvre his arm to sling around her shoulders. The two hobbled over to her waiting broom and she made him place his hands on the broom to keep his balance.

“Alright, now just hook your legs underneath my broom and hold on with your hands.” Murid instructed, lowering their ride a little.

‘You’re so good with helping you should be a broom instructor.’ Todd cracked, lifting a shaking leg. This caught Murid off guard and she spluttered.

“Well if we’re goin’ off on talents here you should go talk to actors about howta faint!” she jeered.

‘Ha.’

She looked at how he was seated and gave an over-the-top thumbs up and a wink. He squinted his eyes disapprovingly at her. She got on in front and pulled a pair of goggles out from beneath her hood and fitted them over her eyes as Todd slowly leaned to one side and fell off.

After a few minutes of laughing Murid helped Todd back up.

“Ok enough fooling around! I’ve really gotta go.”

‘Oh but I’m having so much fun. Any other household items you want me to mount? A tea pot perhaps?’ He barely got that joke out between his grinning and Murid doubled over, shaking.

“It’s a flipping impressive piece of magic and metal so stop makin’ fun of it!” She gasped.

‘Doesn’t change the fact you can still sweep your floors with it.’

“Shut up!” She looked at this grinning boy and she was glad that her eyes were full of tears of laughter, otherwise he would’ve noticed they were actual tears now. This wasn’t fair.

Her smile faded and her eyes grew wide when she heard them, her gaze growing hunted. Her ears pricked and her stomach shot cold. Todd noticed the change of mood and he gave her an odd look. She looked off in the direction of the town and she listened, hearing their intent and their gadgets whirring and their… they were barking.

“Ah, shivas tonight,” she breathed. Murid didn’t give Todd an explanation; she just turned and grabbed the broom. It reformed into a staff and she picked all of her campsite up, the pans, the rug, her violin, the stool, all in a dark purple vapour and moved it into her wagon with a wave of her arms. She cringed, keeping her right arm stiff.

‘What’s wrong?’ Todd asked, utterly confused. She ran to her wagon and sat down on the seat at the front before she looked at him and he could see the raw fear in her eyes. She flickered them from the trees and back to him. After a moment, she got up again and rushed over.

“Ok! Todd Worthington! Y’got one of two options because I gotta scarce myself immediately. One: you go off and hide somewhere, wait for the Skinna’s to pass and get back t’your town and hope by the Five they don’t execute you for bein’ witha witch or Two: …you can come with me.” The last words hung in the air. Her shoulders were so far up they were almost stapled to her ears and she was holding her breath. After a heartbeat she reached her hand out. Todd stared at her then down at her hand. He could hear them now, a group of these “Green Skinners”. He could hear strange machines whirring and beeping and horrible dogs booming. He looked at her hand, looked into her eyes, grinned and took it. Murid flinched like she’d been shocked, taking a moment to look at his rip and then at him in disbelief. She made a better hold on his hand and hauled him over to her wagon, Todd running like a newborn foal.

‘Uuuuhhh, shouldn’t we be getting away from these people?’

“We are.”

‘Then why are we sitting on a wagon that’s stuck to the ground?’

Murid reached up and pulled down a smooth pumpkin vine, holding them like reigns.

“Who said it was stuck?” she tilted her head, and pulled. The vines that encased the wagon moved, writhing like snakes and he felt the air rush past his ears and his stomach drop. He looked over the side and gasped; they were very high up. Four strong, spindly vines held up the wagon like legs, each attached to a pumpkin below as if they were feet. Murid raised and lowered and shifted her arms and the vines responded, swaying the wagon and turning towards the forest, the opposite direction of the town. The trees were a bit dense. Todd was worried they wouldn’t be able to make a quick getaway. Murid wasn’t. She just raised them up high above the tree tops and now the path was clear as day. Howls and whirrs resounded behind them and there was a woosh and Todd fell back against the force of the wagon leaping forward and they left the danger, the town, his home, her fear, and the morning behind them. Before them was the day.

(pls tell me if you find spelling errors I somehow miss them???)

#magicandmettle #writing #imaddcraze #maddinup

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maddinup · 7 years

Text

Magic and Mettle

Chapter 2

A Kind Witch…?

~ ~ ~

He tried stretching his head backward to look above and got a face full of pumpkin. That wasn’t what he had been expecting.

~ ~ ~

Her arm was aching.

Nothing.

Well, she couldn’t really blame him, being half starved and half dead. At least he looked half dead. Again, she hoped he wasn’t dead.

“Hello! Oh my goodness I sound like a little girl.”

“Hiya mate, I’m Murid! I... I’m a flippin’ captain of a pirate ship, wanna go across the seas? UGH.”

“Hello I’m Mughidgrenthumnb- Greenthumb, Greeeeeenthumb… I’m extremely glad you’re not conscious.”

“You’re alive right? …yep, you’re alive.”

“Hi I’m Murid and I really wish you’d wake up. I need to leave.”

“Hello poor and malnourished boy whom I saved from death last night, I’m Murid. Wake up.”

“I. Am. Murid. Greenthumb. How. Are. You? As you can see, I barely interact with any other sentient beings.”

“Hi I’m Murid who are you why are you homeless.”

“Hi I - oh my goodness what am I doing.”

She grew bored and self-conscious, so she decided to just get on with breakfast.

He couldn’t hurt her.

“…food,” she pointed again.

The boy looked at the steaming plate and then back at her. “Because you kinda look like you haven’t eaten fer a while…” He continued to stare at her. She sighed, putting down her fork.

Murid leaned forward slowly. “…y’do know what do with food right?” she whispered loudly. He flinched and looked at her.

“I’m, Murid, by the way…” she introduced herself. “What’s your name?”

The boy paused, considering his options. Murid watched him quizzically as he grabbed a nearby stick and started scrawling in the dirt. Murid tilted her head around to read the shaky writing.

“…Todd, Wor…Worthington?” she repeated aloud. He nodded at her.

~ ~ ~

Murid doused the fire with a bucket of water before taking his and her plate. The witch paused, looking from the dirty plates to the freshly put-out fire.

“Darn it,” she whispered and clenched her fists. “Ah I’ll clean ‘em later…”

…

Was she bribing him?

‘What does it do?’ he thought.

“It gives you the ability t’read aloud your thoughts.” Murid replied over her shoulder.

‘Oh ok, well it would be worth a lot if itWAIT WHAT?!’

‘She’s just trying to get rid of me with a trinket.’

“She’s just tryina get rid of me with a trinket,” Murid mimicked with her arms crossed.

‘You can hear me?!’

“Y’can hear me?”

Todd made a face at her. ‘Ok, you can stop copying me.’

“Ok you can stop copying me.”

‘I’m the ultimate fart master.’

“I’m the ultimaHEY” and he laughed. She came over to him, holding out her hand.

“Here, give it,” she gestured to his necklace. He took it off and handed it to her.

“Ok, now say something.” She instructed. She waited but not a peep came from him. She re-placed the crystal against his collarbone.

“Now say something.”

‘…what are you doing?’ Todd’s thoughts rang out clear in her mind, as if he were speaking aloud.

“See? You can talk now. Either use it to get a job or sell it off,” she said not unkindly, handing it back to him. He looked at her, the necklace, back at her and at the necklace again.

‘So you can actually hear me?’

“For goodness sake, yes.”

‘What number am I thinking of?’

“Potato- potato?” she stopped and gave him a weird look.

‘I wanted to make sure you weren’t lying,’ he grinned a sheepish grin.

“I am currently having a full on conversation with ya, how could I fake this?” she said dubiously. Todd didn’t know what to say so he just offered another grin. It stayed there and grew wider.

‘This, this is fantastic! I can, I can talk to people now! Sort of. No more flimsy sign language! Ever! At all! Hey how does my voice sound? Is it deep? I bet its deep.’

“Ugh, well…” Murid began. Todd’s heart immediately sank when she uttered the word ‘ugh’.

“Y’know what telepathy is?” He nodded. “You’re now telepathic, ‘s’long as you keep it on.” Explanation. Done.

Well… This was the weirdest Monday.

“Ok. Get on!” Murid stuck out her hand at the hovering broom with a big, plastered smile.

He raised an eyebrow at her. They were going, to fly, on a broom? He had thought that at least that part about witches were just a myth. Alright then.

“Alright, now just hook your legs underneath my broom and hold on with your hands.” Murid instructed, lowering their ride a little.

‘You’re so good with helping you should be a broom instructor.’ Todd cracked, lifting a shaking leg. This caught Murid off guard and she spluttered.

“Well if we’re goin’ off on talents here you should go talk to actors about howta faint!” she jeered.

‘Ha.’

After a few minutes of laughing Murid helped Todd back up.

“Ok enough fooling around! I’ve really gotta go.”

‘Oh but I’m having so much fun. Any other household items you want me to mount? A tea pot perhaps?’ He barely got that joke out between his grinning and Murid doubled over, shaking.

“It’s a flipping impressive piece of magic and metal so stop makin’ fun of it!” She gasped.

‘Doesn’t change the fact you can still sweep your floors with it.’

“Shut up!” She looked at this grinning boy and she was glad that her eyes were full of tears of laughter, otherwise he would’ve noticed they were actual tears now. This wasn’t fair.

‘Uuuuhhh, shouldn’t we be getting away from these people?’

“We are.”

‘Then why are we sitting on a wagon that’s stuck to the ground?’

Murid reached up and pulled down a smooth pumpkin vine, holding them like reigns.

Author’s note: This is the second chapter of my novel! Tell me what you think and if you’d like to read more! MAn I dunno I just like wriiitiiiing stooriiieeesss...

#magicandmettle #magic&mettle #writing #muridgreenthumb #toddworthington

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