#and at the beginning of his twelfth life he no longer felt comfortable with himself

[little-diable]

Trust - Aaron Hotchner

I’ve been watching too much Criminal Minds lately, so I had to go ahead and write something for Hotch. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: the reader gets involved in a case that pulls her deeper into her dark past, now she’s a suspect, involved in the murder of her ex-boyfriend, will the team still trust her? Will Aaron fight for his one true love? 

Warnings: 18+, smut, angst, abusive ex-boyfriend, violence, unprotected sex 

Pairing: Aaron Hotchnerxfem!reader

Word count: 4k

“The best way to finding out if you can trust somebody is to trust them” Ernest Hemingway

She was late. Not once had she been late to any meeting ever before. He instantly missed the by now all too familiar scent of her perfume that would linger in the air as (y/n) would enter the conference room, he missed the sound of her fingertips nervously drumming against the wooden table as he’d present another case. This wasn’t like her.

“Anybody heard of (y/l/n)?” Aaron tried to keep his voice calm, eyes nonchalantly wandering around the room, making eye contact with every team member. Just as Spencer opened his mouth to reply she stepped into the room, hair slightly tangled in knots, hands tightly holding onto her bag, one didn’t need to be a profiler to tell that something was going on with her. “I’m sorry, I slept in.”

He almost didn’t recognize her voice, hoarse as if she had been screaming for hours, quieter then it had ever been, she felt ashamed, but he didn’t know why. 

Aaron had to stop himself from asking what was going on with her, forcing his mind to focus on the case, the dead body that had been found in the early morning hours, though something caught his eye. Some purple spots were lingering on her throat, (y/n) had seemingly tried to cover them up, though the makeup didn’t manage to hide it all. 

Bruises? Hickeys? A weird feeling began to spread through him, he had no business in digging deeper, should leave it, he could trust her. But his mind couldn’t help but begin to spin imaginary scenarios, would she cheat on him, even before they’d make their relationship official?

“Aaron?” Her soft voice ripped him out of his cruel thoughts, dark eyes meeting hers, she tried to reach for his hand, though he flinched away, reaching for his cup before she could touch him. The crease between her eyebrows got more prominent, she had to blink a few times, bile crawled up her throat, she felt awful.

It had been a rough night, she didn’t catch any sleep, was currently running on her twelfth cup of coffee. (Y/n) was officially worse than Reid.

“Joseph McQueen had been found stabbed to death around 6am this morning,” Garcia kept on talking though (y/n)‘s mind was no longer focused on her, he was dead? Shudders ran down her spine, skin littered with goosebumps, palms sweaty. He couldn’t be dead, not when she had last seen him a few hours ago.

The further her mind faded away the more suspicious Aaron grew, eyes wandering back to the dark spots on her throat. “(Y/l/n),” her eyes met his, pupils visibly dilated, she was hiding something, ”Morgan and Rossi you’ll drive to the crime scene.” He should have pulled her back, should have asked her what’s going on with her and the bruises on her skin, though he kept silent, too scared to face the truth.

Aaron couldn’t lose another woman he loved.

Even Morgan and Rossi seemed to notice that she was awfully quiet, not uttering a word as they drove through the busy streets, making their way towards a house she had been in one too many times before. “You okay sweets?” Morgan’s eyes met (y/n)’s through the rearview mirror, she quickly averted hers, scared that he could feel her pain, that nagging feeling that reminded her of all the things she had been going through.

She couldn’t look at the body, would break into tears before she’d be able to stop herself. Deep down she felt relieved, finally it was done, he no longer could hurt her, could no longer keep her awake at night. Not once had she thought that he’d end up like this, (y/n) knew that there had been quite a few people on his bad side, he hadn’t been a gentle character, not a man you’d willingly mess with.

(Y/n) did the one thing that instantly came to mind, searching for the file, the one thing he had been holding onto the night prior, playing another mindgame with her.

“Joseph, give it to me and I’ll be gone.” (Y/n) clicked her tongue, arms akimbo, cheeks burning from the heat that flooded through her. “Where would be the fun in that baby?” 

Disgust flooded through her, how she ever could have willingly spent some time with him seemed inexplicable to her. “Give me my file.” The yellowish file was the only thing she could hold onto, the last piece of sanity she clang to, like a life insurance that would help her in times of need.

“No, I don’t think I will.” He stepped closer to the fireplace, about to throw her file into the fire as a shot echoed through the night. Her gun fell out of her grasp, wide eyes stared at the gunshot in his upper arm, “you fucking whore.”

A dark picture frame caught her attention, she tilted her head from left to right, praying that nobody was watching her. If she’d be careful enough she’d manage to get rid of any traces she had left behind, hiding everything that would tell her family, the team, about her dark past. 

“(Y/n)?” Morgan stepped into the bedroom, not noticing the picture she was holding onto just yet, “anything worth telling?” She only shook her head, swallowing down another sob.

Before she followed Morgan out of the room she slipped the picture into her pocket, keeping it safe and hidden from curious eyes. Though with every step she took it seemed to burn itself into the fabric of her jacket, adding to the weight she carried on her shoulders, reminding her of her weakness.

The day had been long, with exhausted steps she walked up to her apartment as Aaron was sitting in his office, hand clutching his phone. “We found agent (y/l/n)‘s DNA on the body, the bullet in his arm got traced back to her gun.” The words rang in his ears, body not moving an inch. Had she killed him? Was the woman he loved more than any woman he had ever loved before a killer?

What was she hiding? What wasn’t she telling him?

Three strong, urgent knocks echoed through her apartment, Aaron was standing in front of her door, with Emily by his side. She stared at them for a moment, cleared her throat and reached for her coat, “I’m coming.” 

A shuddered breath left her chapped lips, tears blurred her vision, she should have confessed right there and then, should have told her friend and lover what was going on. Though her words died on her tongue, another deep secret she’d probably take to grave with herself.

She stayed silent. Didn’t say a word. The only sound that could be heard were her sobs, the cries that bled from her lips. With every pained cry his heart kept on clenching further, he was sure that he’d get a cardiac arrest every moment now. He hated to feel like this, in this very second she was a suspect, nothing more, nothing less, though Aaron couldn’t treat her like any other criminal, after all she was still the woman that held his heart in her hands.

“I think it’s time we finally tell the team.” Her lips moved up his throat, she was straddling his thighs, dressed in an old shirt of his. “Are you sure? It would certainly complicate things.” His hands wandered up her legs, moving around her to knead the flesh of her behind. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to, Aaron. I love you and I’ll do whatever you feel comfortable with.”

(Y/n) always had wondered how the suspects would feel as they were waiting for the agents to step into the interrogation room. Now, as she was one of them, a suspect apparently involved in a murder, she wished to never know this feeling.

Who would interrogate her? Aaron? Morgan? Maybe even Spencer?

The team must hate her, she was sure of it. (Y/n) couldn’t help but curse herself for not letting them in on her past any sooner, all of this could have been avoided if she had managed to overcome her fear of rejection. But now it was too late and she was the one to pay for her sins.

“You look awful sweets.” Morgan’s calming voice left her heart racing, wide pupils stared at him, “I feel awful.” He studied her, trying to find any explanation to the question that kept the team on their toes, but his mind was blank, could only picture her as the murderer of Joseph McQueen.  

“I’m sorry.” He whispered the words, as if he was scared that the tape would record something he didn’t want to share. Morgan was out of the room before she could reply, leaving her confused and lonely once again.

Hours seemed to pass by, she’d fall asleep any moment now, body exhausted from the past 48 hours. 

“How did you know him?” Aaron’s voice sounded rougher than it ever had been before, dripping with disappointment and anger. She didn’t answer, eyes staring at her hands, trying to stop her tears from streaming down her cheeks. “(Y/n)!” He growled her name, hands pounding against the table, her heartbeat picked up its pace once again, body flinching away from the man she loved.

“What aren’t you telling me? Why aren’t you saying anything? Did you kill him? Did you do it?” He was freaking out, not able to think rationally, another woman had played with his feelings, another person he had let into his life had fucked with him once again. “No I didn’t.” Now it was his turn to stay silent, chest heaving, jugular vein pulsing underneath the thin skin of his throat. “How did you get those bruises?”

“You shot me, you bitch.” He kicked against her knee, watching her crash to the floor with a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Let go of me Joseph.” Her voice trembled, she was buried underneath him, body pressed against the scratchy rug, feet kicking. 

He had his hands wrapped around her throat, choking all air out of her lungs, “I should have ended your pathetic excuse of a life years ago.” Her ex boyfriend panted his words, wondering if he should truly go through with it, killing the FBI agent.

She could only think about Aaron, his soft touch, the voice she fell in love with years ago. He didn’t know where she was, didn’t know anything about Joseph and their past relationship. There were too many things she wanted to tell him, too many secrets she’d need to let him in on, she couldn’t die, not yet.

Aaron longed to pat her tears dry, wanting to pull her out of the room, telling her that everything would be alright. But he couldn’t trust her any longer, couldn’t trust the one woman that had kept him safe for years. She had been his friend long before they had shared a bed, had been by his side for as long as he could remember, though she was fairly younger. A part of his life he didn’t want to erase.

“(Y/n), you know how this works. I need you to cooperate.” She shook her head no, fingernails pierced into her palms, leaving wounds that would stay for days. They already hated her, she didn’t want to burden them with her past any further. A disappointed, tired sigh left Aaron, chair scraping against the floor as he rose from it, storming out of the room, she was a lost cause.

“This doesn’t add up, why won’t she tell us? Doesn’t she trust us?” Spencer paced the room, eyes switching between his teammates and (y/n)‘s file, looking for the missing piece of the puzzle. “Do we still don’t know where they met or how they knew each other?” The sound of Aaron’s quiet, broken voice coaxed a cry out of Garcia, she trembled, barely able to properly do her work. “No, I have nothing, she certainly knows how to hide things.”

Sunrays danced on her cheeks, her lips were pulled into a thin line, sunglasses hiding the black eye Joseph had put onto her face a night ago. She should have called for help, should have told the team as she was laying in the hospital, for the fourth time that month. But who was she kidding, those were her own problems to deal with, her own sorrows, nothing her team should waste their time on.

The day was long over, though none of them were thinking about going home. (Y/n) kept on uncomfortably shifting in her chair, thinking about her next move. She didn’t need a lawyer, after all she wasn’t the one who killed him, wasn’t involved in the murder. Would she need to resign? Leave the people she loved behind because a mistake she had made in the past?

“Morgan and Dave, go back to his house, see if you can find anything that connects the two.” While the agents combed through the house once again she was sitting across from Strauss, staring at the elderly woman, listening to the words she knew by heart. “I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen next, do I (y/l/n)?”

Morgan’s heart raced, gloved fingers searched through every bookshelf, every drawer he could pull open, desperate to find anything that would help them with her case, not giving up on their friend just yet. He didn’t understand why she kept quiet, didn’t understand who she was trying to protect. 

“Derek, look here.” Rossi was staring at a yellowish paper, a file that had been hidden beneath a few books, clearly stating her name. The further they read through the paper the more confused they got, medical records were listed on the file, telling them all about past injuries. It took them minutes to understand what the paper was about.

“What do we have on her?” Strauss's shrill voice left the team growling, reminding them of the ticking clock, they didn’t have much time left to explain what was going on. She was the only suspect, the only name on their list so far. “Nothing, she won’t talk.”

“Garcia,” Spencer combed a hand through his hair, rethinking his chain of thoughts, “pull up any medical file we have of her, check for any hospital visits in the past years.” Her fingernails left a clicking noise on the keyboard, eyes widening as she read through (y/n)‘s medical bills. “Why didn’t she tell us?”

“He abused her.” Morgan stumbled into the room, Dave hot on his heels, mind trying to process what they had just learned about (y/n), the secret she had kept hidden. She was ashamed, too scared to let them in, too scared that they’d leave her behind.

(Y/n) was slowly going crazy, feet whipping to the sound of her exhausted breaths, eyes closed, she’d pass out soon, her body won’t be able to keep this level of stress up any longer. The door got pushed open, she didn’t need to open her eyes to tell that Aaron was the one who stepped into the small room, she’d recognise his tread everywhere. “You should have told me, (y/n).”

No words left her, trying to drown out his voice, he was pitying her, staring at her with hurt clearly visible in his eyes. “We found this in his house.” It was her file. The one thing she had tried to rip away from Joseph, the one thing that had protected her from him. “Tell me, (y/n), what happened?”

It was late in the afternoon as she entered her apartment complex, tired from a long case. Though just as she wanted to unlock her door she noticed that the lock was broken open, somebody had entered her apartment. (Y/n) reached for her gun, slowly stepping into her home, checking every room, trying to prepare herself for the worst.

The apartment was empty, she was alone. Maybe she was too paranoid, mind coming up with cruel scenarios, things she had seen in numerous cases. But something caught her attention, her safe was open, she was sure that she had locked it before she had left for work. Panic flooded through her, it was gone. The one thing she had clang to, the one thing that had kept her protected.

Without thinking twice she stormed out of her four walls, running towards her SUV, she’d kill him, would rip him to shreds. 

She didn’t care about speed limits, didn’t care about anything but her file, she needed to get her hands on it, before he could destroy it. “Fucking open your door Joseph.”

She hadn’t seen him in years, had managed to cut him out of her life, in hopes of never having to see him again. “I was waiting for you baby.” (Y/n) should have shot him right there and then, ending his pathetic excuse of a life. “Joseph, give it to me and I’ll be gone.” He pulled her inside, locking the door.

(Y/n) clicked her tongue, arms akimbo, cheeks burning from the heat that flooded through her. “Where would be the fun in that baby?” Disgust flooded through her, how she ever could have willingly spent some time with him seemed inexplicable to her. 

“Give me my file.” The yellowish file was the only thing she could hold onto, the last piece of sanity she clang to, like a life insurance that would help her in times of need.  “No, I don’t think I will.” 

He stepped closer to the fireplace, about to push her file into the fire as a shot echoed through the night. Her gun fell out of her grasp, wide eyes stared at the wound in his upper arm, “you fucking whore.”

“You shot me, you bitch.” He kicked against her knee, watching her crash to the floor with a satisfied smirk on his lips. “Let go of me Joseph.” Her voice trembled, she was buried underneath him, body pressed against the scratchy rug, feet kicking. 

He had his hands wrapped around her throat, choking all air out of her lungs, “I should have ended your pathetic excuse of a life years ago.” Her ex boyfriend panted his words, wondering if he should truly go through with it, killing the FBI agent.

She could only think about Aaron, his soft touch, the voice she fell in love with years ago. He didn’t know where she was, didn’t know anything about Joseph and their past relationship. There were too many things she wanted to tell him, too many secrets she’d need to let him in on, she couldn’t die, not yet.

A scream rippled out of her, with one final push he rolled of her body, trying to reach for her once again. But she was faster, grasping her bag as she was running out of the house, file long forgotten.

Tears dripped down onto the back of her hand, before he could stop himself Aaron pulled her into his arms, chin placed on top of her head. “I’m sorry for ever doubting you.” (Y/n) clang to him, hands fisting the fabric of his white shirt, tears leaving wet patches on the crook of his neck, “I am sorry for not telling you.” He combed a hand through her messy hair, pulling her even closer, hearts slowly beating in sync.

“Can we go home now?” She mumbled against his skin, knees giving out, not able to keep her supported any longer. Aaron picked her up, carefully carrying her out of the room, she was fast asleep by now. “I’ll drive her home.” (Y/n) was his only priority, he trusted his team, knew they’d be able to work without the two of them for a while, worrying about her just as much as Aaron did.

He let her sleep for hours, working on his files as he kept on watching her, heart clenched at the thought of (y/n) getting hurt, Aaron couldn’t help but feel guilty, he should have listened, should have known that she’d never go against him. “I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, thumb tracing her cheek, waking (y/n) from her deep slumber.

She met him halfway, lips pressed against Aaron’s warm ones, hands reaching for his neck, pulling him even closer. “I love you.” Her words filled him with an all too familiar warmth, a feeling only she could wake inside of him, she was the one for him, Aaron was sure of it. “I love you too, I’m sorry love, I,-” with another kiss she shut him up, pushing herself into his lap, straddling his thighs.

The kiss grew more passionate, hands tugging on one another’s clothes, hastily undressing themselves. “I don’t want to hurt you.” His confession made her smile, lips moving down his throat, sucking on the spots that would drive him crazy, “you won’t, make love to me Aaron, please.” He flipped them around, front pressed against hers, knee tugged against her pulsing clit, slowly grinding against the wet spot on her panties.

She shuddered in anticipation, body tingling from his touch, he’d always known how to take care of her, how to make love to her in the best way possible. Carefully he pulled her shirt over her head, exposing her naked chest to his dark eyes. His boxers grew tighter, hard length pushing against the thin fabric, desperate to be freed, to feel her wrapped around him.

Aaron Hotchner was like a thunderstorm, crashing down onto her with as much force as possible, his touch was like lightning, filling her with electricity, every sound he made represented a powerful thunder that rolled through the dark sky. She was caught in a storm, drenched by his love and admiration, hooked onto his every move.

“Let me make it up to you.” His lips left a wet trail down her upper body, hands cupping her naked breasts, teasing her hardening nubs, touching her like she longed to be touched. “Aaron, I need you.” Impatiently she pressed her core against his knee, moaning into the dark room. His chuckle vibrated against her skin, hands moving down to her soaked through panties, pushing the fabric down her legs, “I got you love.”

With his arms wrapped around her thighs his head disappeared between them, tongue pressed against her wet folds, moaning at the taste of her arousal. Her fingernails scraped his scalp, urging him on to go further, to properly touch her. “You’re always so ready for me.” The praises lightened a fire deep inside of her, moan after moan rolled off his tongue, back arched off the mattress, god, he was an expert at this.

He pumped two fingers in and out of her, eyes hooked onto her face, watching his love slowly fall apart in his grasp. “Feels so good, don’t stop Aaron.” Though he would stop any moment now, he wanted to feel her come undone around his length, splitting her in half as he was making love to her.

The room was spinning, head pounding, he was moving fast, ripping his boxers off his body, length slapping against his abdomen. (Y/n) tried to reach for him, wanting to touch his soft skin, but he had seen it coming, pushing her hand away before she could feel him. They had already lost too much time, he didn’t want to waste another second, needed to bury himself deep inside of her.

No words could ever describe the sensation of Aaron perfectly filling her, length thrusting in and out of her as she gave her body to the man she loved. She could feel his every vein, every inch of his size, body reacting to the man that was hovering above her. His hands explored her body, touching her as if it was their first time together, cherishing every spot, every place of her gorgeous self.

Aaron could read her every expression, he was a profiler after all, though his profession didn’t play a big role in this. He loved her, knew her like the back of his hand, probably knew her better than she’d ever know herself. Wordlessly he picked up his pace, skin slapping against hers, length glistening with her arousal.

“I’m close.” His name bled from her lips, fingernails scratching down his shoulders, walls tightening around him. He connected their lips, tongues battling as her orgasm rumbled through her, leaving her breathless and trembling. “Oh fuck Aaron.” Her head fell back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut, face displaying an expression full of euphoria.

He followed soon after, heat spreading through her as he let go, collapsing on top of her sweaty body. “I should have trusted you.” It would take Aaron a long time to forgive himself, to let go of the guilty feeling nestling inside of his heart. But she had faith in him, had forgiven him for every doubt that had ever clouded his mind. 

She trusted him with all her heart.

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[awkwardpenguinproductions]

Education

Part 12 of the Dragon of the Yuyan

Read on AO3 | Series Masterpost

Aang has never seen Zuko so furious. He paces around their campsite like a caged tigerdillo, clenching and unclenching his fists, while Aang and Katara watch him warily and Sokka whittles unconcernedly.

Every so often Zuko will stop, grit his teeth, and sign rapidly to the open air. He doesn't seem to care that he's going too fast for anyone to understand him, he seems to just be signing to vent the way Aang sometimes just talks to Appa or Momo without expecting any response.

Maybe Aang shouldn't have asked Zuko if Jeong-Jeong had been right about the nature of firebending. They had made camp for the night after fleeing the Deserter's base, and had just finished dinner when Aang's curiosity had been piqued by Zuko using his bending to stoke the campfire, making it smell wonderfully of sandalwood and hot spices. The question had tumbled out of his mouth without his permission, and Zuko had stopped and stared at Aang before turning fully to face him and demanding in slow, careful hand-language exactly what Jeong-Jeong had said.

Aang had told him, Katara had added some stuff that Jeong-Jeong had told her, and Zuko had sat blinking at them for a moment before jumping to his feet and starting to pace. And five minutes later, he still hasn't stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, Aang is nervously watching the campfire swell and shrink with the firebender's angry breaths. It's started to smell less of warm, comforting incense and more of something like burning hair.

"Hey Jerkbender," Sokka calls suddenly, slicing a curl of wood off of whatever he's carving, "might want to cool down and explain what's got you puffing smoke before you get dumped in a river."

Zuko stops short, takes several deep, slow breaths, then walks back to sit in front of Aang with slow, careful movements.

Sorry, he signs, and Aang tries to make an effort to pay attention to both his hands and his face, because Zuko has said over and over that so much of his language is spoken through facial expressions, and right now Zuko looks tired and upset as he rubs his fist against his chest twice in a circle.

"I'm sorry for getting so impatient and for not listening to Jeong-Jeong and for burning Katara," Aang says.

Zuko shakes his head as he makes the sign for "angry" and then points at Aang. Not angry at you.

"But I hurt Katara!" Aang protests. He can't believe that that huge tantrum the firebender had just finished wasn't about how stupid he'd been.

Zuko smiles sadly. He signs "fire", and "dangerous". Fire is dangerous . His expression goes firm, and he signs "control", "need", and "strict", and points at Aang. You need strict control. Then he smiles again, kind and understanding, points at Aang, and signs "new", "mistake", "happen". Mistakes happen when you're new.

Aang knows that, he does , but bending has always been his thing . He's always been really, really good at it. He got his Airbending Mastery tattoos a week before his twelfth birthday! And he's the Avatar . But the idea of causing pain , of hurting someone … his stomach roils.

A fingertip gently flicks the center of his forehead, just above the point of his arrow. Aang looks up to find Zuko studying him in that way that makes Aang feel like he's reading every movement Aang makes. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets it out silently.

He makes the sign that he'd made up for Jeong-Jeong, and "places" him to his right. Aang remembers how confusing that had been the first time he'd done that, talking about his brother Kai, and how he'd had to write out an explanation for it before Aang and the others had understood. Then Zuko points to himself, signs "angry", then points at "Jeong-Jeong".

"You're angry at Jeong-Jeong?" Aang asks. What? But Jeong-Jeong was a Master , and had been one for way longer than Zuko had.

Zuko nods and scowls. He points to "Jeong-Jeong", signs "not", shakes his head as he signs "understand", and then "firebending". Jeong-Jeong really doesn't understand firebending.

WHAT?

"But he's a Master Firebender!" Aang gasped. "How could he not understand firebending?"

Zuko signs "fire" and "what" with his brow furrowed. What is fire?

"Dangerous," Aang answers immediately. "Hot. Destructive."

Yes, Zuko replies with a shrug. He turns to Katara, and signs, "your", "home", points to her, "house", "make", "warm", and "how" with furrowed brow. It takes Aang a minute to put the sentence together in an order that makes sense: At home, how do you make your house warm?

It takes Katara even longer, but eventually the copper piece drops and she blurts out, "Oh! We have a hearth in the middle of our igloo with a fire."

Zuko nods, and signs "cold" and "dangerous" with a raised brow. Cold is dangerous?

Katara nods. " Very . If you get wet and don't warm up fast enough, you freeze to death. If you stay outside too long, and fall asleep, you freeze to death. Hearthfires keep us alive."

Zuko points at Katara and grins broadly. Then he turns to Aang and signs "fire" and "life" and "same". Fire and life are the same.

Aang and Katara glance at each other, baffled.

Zuko continues. He signs "fire" and "without", and shakes his head as he signs "food" and "warmth" and "light". Without fire, there's no food, no warmth, and no light. He signs "fire", "life", and "same" again, and then "fire" and "life"––wait, he'd double-signed "life", so that meant "alive". Fire is life, and fire is alive. He points at Aang, signs "fire", "its", "life" scowls strongly as he snaps out the sign "must", and uses two hands to sign "respect". You must respect fire's life. Then his expression softens, and he signs "firebending", "afraid", and "need" while shaking his head. You don't need to be afraid of firebending. He has a confident smirk on his face as he signs "control" and "need", then shakes his head as he signs "afraid". You need control, not fear.

He gently flicks Aang's arrow, then orders, Come. First lesson.

Aang follows Zuko away from the campfire, and sits down cross-legged on the ground. He motions for Aang to sit across from him.

"Firebending", "strong", "from", and "breath". Firebending strength comes from the breath. "Control" and "breath", points at Aang, and then "control" and "fire". Control the breath, and you control the fire. "Breath" and "copy me". Copy my breathing.

He begins to take deep, even breaths that Aang matches easily, and he finds his eyes closing involuntarily as he focuses on the soothing rhythm. After a few moments, Zuko touches his knee, and Aang opens his eyes without losing the cadence of his breaths.

His teacher holds out a hand, and a small flame blossoms above his palm, crackling merrily and giving off the wonderful aroma of sandalwood and hot spices. Like an incense stick made with the ingredients for curry. Mmm, curry.

Great, now Aang’s hungry again.

A firm poke to the center of Aang’s arrow reminds him to focus, and then Zuko gently grasps his hand by the wrist and pulls it toward him. He deposits the flame from his other hand into Aang’s open palm, and Aang feels the heat of it racing up and down his chi paths in a steady pulse.

Aang breathes in, and the flame grows. He breathes out, and the flame shrinks. The pulses of heat through his chi paths is steady and constant, like a heartbeat. He’s never felt anything like it before.

He meets Zuko's eyes, and the older boy grins at him. Fire is life, and fire is alive , the firebender signs again, leaning forward eagerly as he double signs the second "life". “Firebending”, points at Aang, “strong”, “stubborn”, and “need”. To firebend, you need a strong will. With a stern expression, he signs "your", “stubborn”, “more-than”, and “fire”. Your will must be stronger than the fire. “If”, Aang’s “stubborn”, “strong” + “enough”, “then”, Aang’s “control”, “strong”. If your will is strong enough, then your control will be strong.

“I think I get it,” Aang says, watching the flame in his hand dance. He can feel it reaching, wanting more, more , but he keeps his breaths even and deep, and refuses to let it grow. “Jeong-Jeong said Zhao had no self-control, which is why his firebending is so wild. But I don’t get what he meant when he told Katara that whole “razor’s edge” thing. If you have self-control, and have control over your fire, doesn’t that mean you’re not savage?”

He looks up to find Zuko smirking at him proudly. Good question, he praises. Then he starts signing again, very slowly. "During", "S-O-Z-I-N", "reign", "spirit", "firebending", and he finishes with "awful" and "change" signed with a huge gesture and a thoroughly disgusted face. During Sozin's reign, the spirit of firebending underwent a horrible change. "Firebending" + "people", "start", "use", "negative", "emotion", “power”, “firebending”. Firebenders started using negative emotions to power their firebending. “Angry”, “fear”, “hate”, “aggressive”. He snaps out the signs as though they would infect him if he didn’t get rid of them as fast as possible, his expressions magnifying and reflecting the emotions he’s listing. Rage, fear, hate, aggression. His shoulders slump and his expression turns sad as he continues to sign. “Spirit”, “firebending”, “true”, “lost”. The true spirit of firebending was lost.

“So what’s the true spirit of firebending?” Aang asks.

Passion. Zuko’s golden eyes gleam, and his jaw sets behind his determined smirk. He signs “people” ending with his hand on his chest, signs “save” with a fierce and protective expression, points to himself, and finishes with an emphatic “want”. I want to save my people. "Passion" ending with his hand on his chest. That is my passion. He signs "happen", "difficult", "enthusiasm", and then "continue". It drives me to keep going when things are hard. "Firebending", "power", "use", "enthusiasm". I use that drive to power my firebending.

He signs "your" at Aang, then signs “passion” with his eyebrow raised. What is your passion? "Happen", "difficult", then points to Aang and signs "enthusiasm" and "continue" with a furrowed brow. What drives you to keep going when things are hard?

Aang stares at the slowly dwindling flame in his hand, still pulsing steadily, and can't think of an answer. The monks had always taught him to let go of such attachments, because they got in the way of a free spirit. He thinks about his growing feelings for Katara, but that doesn't really feel right. What Zuko is talking about… it sounds like conviction. An absolute truth that would never change. Aang can't think of anything he feels that strongly about.

His confusion must show on his face, because Zuko gives him a small smile and pats his shoulder as he stands up. He signs "tonight", "enthusiasm" with a raised eyebrow, then he makes a small circle with his finger near the crown of his head with a pensive expression––Aang guesses it might mean "think about"––, and then points at Aang. Tonight, think about what drives you. "Sunrise", "we", "meditate". We'll meditate at sunrise. After a gentle flick to his arrow, he signs Goodnight and strides off to set up his bedroll. Momo glances up at him from where he's curled up in the center of Sokka's back, and as soon as the firebender has arranged his bedroll the way he likes and pulled off his boots, the lemur purrs and scampers over to burrow into the crook of the older boy's arm. Zuko runs his hand down Momo's back, from between his ears to the tip of his tail, then with the same hand makes a gesture like pushing something down, and the campfire shrinks to glowing embers.

Aang lies back against the ground, hands folded behind his head, and stares up at the stars. He has a lot to think about.

Previous | Next

#atla #atla fanfic #awkpenproductions presents #dragon of the yuyan #part 12 education #full text post

[reyescarlos]

sanctuary || a tarlos fic

chapter 2/3 read on ao3

It’s been one month since TK packed up his life and headed to Austin for a fresh start. In a new city, he struggles with between defeating old demons and reinventing himself. On a night when he feels close to falling through the cracks, he meets Officer Carlos Reyes, a man who could very well be his salvation.

Two days of casual texting since running into Carlos earlier in the week has led TK to trying out what Carlos promises to be the best meal he’ll ever have. It’s a pretty tall order but TK is more than willing to test out Carlos’ theory. After all, it means actual face to face time with the man he’s quite eager to know better.

Carlos steps up to the truck and begins talking with the staff in Spanish, conversing and placing their orders. TK’s understanding of the language goes as far as twelfth grade and even still, he barely remembers much aside from the basics. He’s only able to piece together a few bits here and there. Regardless, it doesn’t take much for him to see that Carlos is truly a regular at this truck and that the staff genuinely likes him. That doesn’t come as a surprise to TK. Carlos is kindhearted and people like that tend to draw in others like the sun.

As they wait for their order, TK takes in the area around him, the sights, the sounds, and of course the smells. His stomach is practically doing flips and growling the longer he stands around breathing in the delicious smells of meat and peppers and whatever else is being made inside each neighboring truck.

“Come here often?” he muses, using the cheesy pickup line to kick off conversation.

Carlos laughs and nods. “Yeah, it’s my absolute favorite in all of Travis County. It might actually be better than my tía Lucy’s. But if you ever tell her I said that, I will have no other choice but to lie and say I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

TK mimes zipping his lips, tossing away the imaginary key for good measure. “Your secret’s safe with me, I promise.”

Carlos is about to speak when one of the ladies inside the truck calls his name. He turns and heads back to the truck, thanking her and taking the food she hands over. TK spots an empty bench and hurries over to it, taking a seat, Carlos sitting right across from him a few seconds later.

“God, this smells amazing,” TK notes, unwrapping his burrito from its foil and taking a considerable bite. He stifles a moan but doesn’t shy away from tossing his head back. “Holy shit, that’s incredible.”

Carlos laughs at the theatrics. “Like I said, hands down the best in town.”

“I definitely have to come back here soon. Is tomorrow too sudden?” he jokes.

They fall into a comfortable silence as they eat. Every now and then he looks over at Carlos and on some instances, he finds the other man glancing at him too.

“So, what is that you do?” Carlos asks conversationally after a time.

TK licks his lips, pulling in the lower one. It’s a harmless question, in general, but for TK it’s actually a loaded one. When making the move down to Austin, he also made the tough decision not to hop back into work. The time for himself is certainly needed but it makes him anxious thinking about having to explain why he isn’t currently part of the 126.

“I’m a firefighter. Or I was. I’m taking a bit of a break right now,” he finally settles on. It’s a half truth as he hasn’t fully explained but the last thing he wants is to unload all his drama on a man he’s only just met a few days ago.

Carlos considers his words and nods, dipping one of his chips into salsa. TK prepares himself for an onslaught of follow-up questions but they never come. Instead, Carlos gives a response he wasn’t expecting at all.

“I can understand that,” he says, popping the chip into his mouth and making quick work of finishing it off before he speaks again. “What we do isn’t easy. Sometimes you need to take time to recharge before heading back out there again. In order to really help others, we have to be at our best.”

TK can only stare at him. He was so sure Carlos was going to hound him with questions about what prompted the break but instead he opted not to pry at all. TK wasn’t used to that sort of thing. Most people would make it their personal mission to find out the details but not Carlos. Relief soon washes over TK.

“Yeah, definitely. I plan on getting back into the swing of things soon, though. Until then, I just live vicariously through my dad. He’s the new captain over at the 126. Whenever I’m ready, I’ll be working alongside him.”

A part of TK is chomping at the bit to get back to his old routine but he knows he still needs a bit more time to feel as if he’s standing on solid, stable ground again.

“Wait, seriously? My best friend is the EMS captain there.”

“Michelle Blake? No way, I’ve met her a few times. She seems pretty great.”

Carlos nods enthusiastically and laughs. “Damn, maybe you’re right and this town really is too small,” he muses, TK not missing the reference back to their conversation outside the boba shop.

“See? Six degrees of separation is too high of a count for this place.”

Carlos tosses a chip at him but TK is fast and swats it down to the table.

“Jerk. Is that any way to treat your new friend? You wouldn’t want to go giving me the wrong impression of your precious Austin, now would you?”

Carlos makes a face and it’s undoubtedly one of the cutest things TK has ever seen.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, man,” TK laughs, “you have no idea.”

~*~*~

At lunch, TK finds himself incapable of looking away from his screen. He and Carlos have been chatting since morning with Carlos sending him updates and random pictures of odd things he sees while out shopping with his aunt Lucy. TK has seen everything from ridiculous items for sale at a thrift store to Carlos frowning in a chair with Lucy’s purse on his lap, reflected in the store’s mirror while his aunt is in the changing room. This most recent image is instantly followed with a text reading “SOS!”

TK grins at his phone, zooming in on Carlos’ face. The furrowed brows, the pleading brown eyes, the pout. It’s almost too much for him to handle.

“Earth to TK. Are you with me here, bud?” Owen says.

TK snaps his head upward, finally tearing his eyes away from his phone. “What’s that now?”

Owen shakes his head and laughs, lightly kicking at his leg. “My god, where is your head today?”

TK smiles bashfully and shakes his head. “Right here on my shoulders.”

“Could have fooled me. I could have sworn I saw it floating in the clouds. What’s going on with you?”

TK opens his mouth to speak but closes it back, shifting in his seat to turn to face his father. Try as he might, TK cannot erase the wide smile that breaks across his lips the second he looks at him, his thoughts already filling up so deeply with images of Carlos’ face. A part of him feels silly for being this caught up with someone he’s just befriended but he and Carlos have spoken every day for the last two weeks. Carlos is truly his first and last thought each day. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all in one breath just how much they’ve grown close to each other. It leaves TK’s head spinning.

“You met someone, didn’t you?” Owen says, his grin mirroring his son’s perfectly.

“Wow, you beat me to it.”

“To be fair, it wasn’t exactly a hard guess to make. Tell me all about him.”

TK draws in a deep breath to collect himself. “His name is Carlos and he is…kind of unreal,” he laughs. He can feel his cheeks warming up. “I don’t know. We talk all the time and it’s just…nice? Normal. It’s good to have a friend in this city.”

“A friend, hmm.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Owen holds up his hands, letting out a playful laugh. “Nothing, nothing. Friends are great to have but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get this worked up over one before.”

“Yeah, well, Carlos is a special friend. It’s different with him.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” his father says, lifting his brows.

“Seriously, it’s not like that. At least it can’t be right now.”

Owen’s smile fades from his face as he looks at his son and TK can feel a sinking sensation in his chest. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a less than platonic pull towards Carlos but the man knew nothing of his last relationship and the major impact it had on him. There were still so many secrets, ugly truths that TK hadn’t shared yet and was, truthfully, terrified to ever do so. Things with Carlos were light and carefree. For someone like TK who had been living so long with a darkness in him, he wanted to preserve this kind of joy for as long as possible. He thought perhaps it made him selfish to a certain degree but he couldn’t help it. For the first time in over a month, he felt weightless. A feeling like that was too rare and he was in no position to pass it up.

“Why do you say that?”

TK scoffs and shakes his head. “Come on, dad. We both know why we’re down here in the first place. Look at what happened the last time I fell hard for someone.”

“But look at how far you’ve come since then,” his father counters. “Look, you may have a real chance at something great here, whatever it may be. It’s been over a month now, TK. I think it’s time you start taking some wins. You’ve more than earned them. I haven’t seen you this happy in ages.”

TK swallows the lump in his throat, the guilt that rises like bile. His life and actions didn’t only have consequences he had to face. While he knew his father didn’t hold it against him, TK couldn’t help but to feel responsible for them upending their lives and moving away from home.

“I don’t want to wreck this. Carlos is a good guy. Genuinely good, you know? I don’t want to mess that up or put anything bad on him. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Owen searches his face but TK can’t bear it and looks away, back to his plate.

“Tell me about him. How’d you two even meet?”

TK hesitates, fumbling with his fork and turning it over in his hand. He still hasn’t mentioned his panic attack out on the bridge that night. After all, he’d returned home in a better mood than when he left and had been fine in the weeks since so it didn’t seem like something worth mentioning or making his father concerned over. But now, being asked so plainly about how he met Carlos, it feels like something he needs to disclose. TK was skilled at hiding things but he made a vow to himself on the plane ride from JFK to Austin-Bergstrom Airport that he’d truly turn over a new leaf and maintain transparency with his father going forward.

He licks his lips and clears his throat before speaking, avoiding his father’s gaze until he finally speaks.

“When I went out running a few weeks back, I sort of…had a moment. My head was kinda all over the place and I needed a break.”

Owen shifts in his seat, his eyes glued on his son. It was such a bittersweet thing having a father that cared so much at times. On one hand, TK was comforted in knowing that his dad was always willing to listen but on the other, it made him dread his father hearing all the less than pleasant things he had to say from time to time.

“What do you mean?”

TK sets his fork down. “I don’t know. I was thinking a lot about Alex and it just got to feel like too much so I stopped out on the bridge to get myself together.”

“TK—”

“God, no! Not like that. Sorry.” TK sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “It just so happened that I stopped there. I swear, dad. Anyway, clearly it looked troubling because Carlos was on duty and he came up to me to make sure everything was alright. He got called away to an active B&E and I thought that was the last time I’d see him. But literally the next day, after group, we bumped into each other downtown and exchanged numbers.”

Owen settles back against his seat, his fingers splayed on the dining room table. TK watches the parade of emotions that flit across his father’s face from fear to uncertainty to controlled hurt.

“I should have told you more about that night,” TK admits. “I just didn’t want you to worry. I’m so tired of making you worry.”

Owen places a hand on TK’s shoulder and gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Whether you tell me everything or not, I’m always going to worry. That just comes with the gig of being a dad. But what makes it easier is if we’re on the same page at all times.”

TK meets his father’s gaze and nods, worrying his bottom lip. Owen sighs softly and drops his hand, trading a concerned look for a warm smile.

“So, Carlos is a cop. What an interesting first responder pair you guys make,” he teases.

TK is glad for the joke as it alleviates some of the tension in his chest. He laughs and rolls his eyes.

“It’s crazy; what are the odds, right?”

Something warm glints in his father’s eyes and TK is almost moved to tears because of it. He can admit he’s been particularly hard on himself over the last month and a half, so convinced that he shouldn’t even allow himself to move on from Alex. He feared he wasn’t ready and that he couldn’t be trusted. But already, in such a short time, he was willing to give a part of himself to Carlos. He didn’t stand much of a chance, in truth. He couldn’t imagine a single person who wouldn’t be disarmed by the other man.

Owen searches his face for a moment as TK focuses back on their conversation.

“Looks like the tide’s starting to turn for you down here in Austin; things are really picking up. Maybe meeting Carlos is just the thing to make you more comfortable.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he parrots. I hope, he thinks.

~*~*~

The next day TK is in his room folding laundry when his phone lights up on his bed. TK cranes his neck to read the text from Carlos.

Hey, you busy tonight?

TK puts down the shirt in his hand and grabs his phone to reply, seeing that Carlos is already typing out another message to him. He waits for it to come in.

If you are, feel free to ignore me. I know it’s kind of short notice to be making plans.

TK can only roll his eyes to this. How many times and how many ways does he have to show Carlos he has nothing else going on in the Austin? And even if he did, Carlos would always be the better option; any plans he may have had could easily be tossed to the backburner.

Ah, yes, let me check my oh so busy schedule. Please hold.

A few seconds later he sends:

Hmm, sitting around the house doing nothing. Online shopping. Scrolling through social media right before bed...yeah, sorry. Booked solid for the evening, I’m afraid

He takes a moment to appreciate his own humor before his phone is vibrating with an incoming call from Carlos.

“How may I help you?” he greets.

“Do you make it your mission every day to be a pain in the neck?” Carlos’ voice is so light and teasing it makes TK’s heart clench in his chest. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to the way they complement each other so perfectly.

“We all have special skills in life. One of mine just happens to be pushing your buttons, what can I say?”

Carlos groans and sighs. “What have I gotten myself into?” There’s no bite to it. If anything, TK can practically see the smile he knows is painted on Carlos’ lips right now.

“I told you there was no going back. So, what’s going on tonight?”

“Ah, right. I thought we could hang out and I could take you to one of my favorite bars downtown.”

TK’s shoulders stiffen at the mention of a bar. He hasn’t stepped foot in one in what feels like forever. He knows he isn��t obligated to drink and that Carlos probably wouldn’t even notice or care if he didn’t indulge. It’s just been easier to eliminate the temptation by steering clear altogether. But a Friday night out with Carlos isn’t something he can shy away from, especially not when Carlos sounds excited to share something special to him.

“Yeah, I could go for that,” he replies.

“Yeah? Great. I’ll text you the address and we could meet up around 9 or so. I hope you’re ready for some dancing.”

“Is this going to be a hoedown? A real, genuine Texan hoedown?”

Carlos’ laugh is strong and clear. TK feels like patting himself on the back for job well done. His favorite thing these last two weeks has been making that sound come about. It does something to his heart to know that Carlos is happy, mainly because of him.

“Yup. I’m looking forward to seeing your moves, New York.”

“I won’t disappoint. I can promise you that much.”

“I never had a doubt.”

TK opens his mouth to reply but can’t. His heart is racing and all he can picture is the two of them out on the dance floor, moving together. It’s an image that lays down roots in his mind and grows so large it’s all he can see.

“Damn, I have to get back to work but I’ll see you tonight, alright?” Carlos says, bringing TK back to the present moment. “I’ll send you the address in just a minute. See ya.”

The call ends before TK can even get a word out but he figures that’s for the best. Carlos has managed to stun him into silence, a feat not many people are capable of.

So maybe his budding friendship is proving to have more weight to it than he wants it to. All the telltale signs of a crush are there, regardless of if TK is ready for them to be or not. It’s not as if he had much of a choice, he reasons. Right from the start Carlos caught his eye and every day that they’ve spoken since has only served to strengthen that. The other man would make such offhanded remarks but TK had to wonder if Carlos was even aware or if it just came by so naturally that he truly didn’t notice. TK wasn’t sure which he preferred.

If Carlos wasn’t being intentional in his flirting, then they were truly just friends and he could be okay with that. Simply having someone to talk to so frequently that wasn’t related to him was a major win. But if there was some sort of hidden code behind his words, TK was almost nervous about uncovering it. In a life post-Alex, he hadn’t been prepared for the possibility of meeting someone he could actually see himself with. But maybe he was alone in thinking there was even something here. And that, TK knew above anything else, was the worst conclusion of all.

~*~*~

“I don’t know what I was expecting but this wasn’t it,” TK says as he and Carlos enter the bar.

“Maybe you’ve seen too many movies? It’s clouding your judgement.” Carlos bumps his shoulder lightly against TK’s arm.

“You might have a point there.”

It’s a lively night and the place is comfortably filled with people already out on the dance floor, moving along to the music being played by a live band in the corner. TK stays close to Carlos’ side even though the place isn’t that crowded and they aren’t likely to get separated. But Carlos doesn’t seem bothered by their proximity. He merely throws a warm smile over his shoulder at him as he leads them to the bar and TK does his best not to melt right there on the spot.

“What are you drinking?” Carlos asks, holding up his fingers to signal the bartender.

“I’m good with mineral water for now,” he replies casually, his eyes fixed on Carlos to see his reaction but the man simply nods and orders for them when the bartender comes over, opening a tab.

If there’s one thing TK has been learning about Carlos these last few weeks is that he doesn’t push in the way virtually everyone else he knows would have. TK appreciates that more than he’ll probably ever be able to express to Carlos.

He takes the glass Carlos hands him, slick with condensation and thanks him. TK is unable to pull his eyes away from Carlos’ mouth as it takes a sip from his beer bottle, his throat going a little dry. He soothes it with a swig of his mineral water and averts his gaze and instead focuses on something safer like the crowd of people dancing. The music becomes a bit more folky and the footwork a bit more intricate but TK is fairly confident he can follow along easily enough.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten,” Carlos says, forcing TK to glance back at him.

“What? About me dancing? Pfft, I can hold my own out there.”

Carlos eyes him from top to bottom and back again. It’s such a simple move and yet it makes TK’s skin tingle to be held in his gaze. Not for the first time since meeting Carlos, he wonders what the man thinks when he looks at him. Smugly, he hopes Carlos feels the energy between them too. Surely, he does, TK reasons. There was nothing casual about that look just now.

“Alright, let’s see it then.” Carlos downs the rest of his beer and sets it down on the bar. TK follows suit, finishing off his drink in kind.

He isn’t expecting Carlos to reach for his hand but he gives it up willingly, feeling warmth course through him that has absolutely nothing to do with being surrounded by people. Carlos leads them right to the center of the dance floor, a large smile on his face. He doesn’t waste a single second in falling into line with everyone else. TK does his best, trying hard not to look at his feet. That’d be a dead giveaway that line dancing is kind of a foreign concept to him. He manages well enough after a few seconds.

“There you go,” Carlos encourages.

TK can’t take his eyes off him. There’s something just so alluring about watching Carlos move freely, completely at ease and assured in his movements.

They keep dancing for a while, TK relaxing into it and matching Carlos beat for beat. The music eventually changes to something slower, couples remaining on the dancefloor and settling in close to each other. TK looks around at everyone before glancing to Carlos who gives him a questioning look. TK gives a small smile, silent confirmation that he doesn’t mind having this dance with Carlos. He keeps his eyes on Carlos’ face, trying to decipher the expression in them. It’s like he can see it all in real time, Carlos making the decision to try for something a little more. The man brings his face closer but TK stiffens in his hold and takes a step back.

“I think I’m gonna get some air. Just a sec,” he says, pursing his lips and walking off.

He’s cursing himself for panicking and being a coward. The most frustrating thing is knowing that had he been in a different place mentally, he absolutely would have followed through on kissing Carlos. He’s spent a fair bit of time over the last two weeks picturing what that would feel like. Here it was now the opportunity was presenting itself and TK’s initial reaction was to run.

He stands outside of the bar, leaning against the building with his eyes closed, replaying the exchange over and over.

“Do you just want to get out of here?” he hears Carlos say. When he opens his eyes, Carlos is standing right in front of him, his face unreadable. “We could go for a drive, if that’s alright with you.”

TK pulls in a breath and nods. What he wants to do is apologize a million times and let Carlos know that none of this is his fault. Carlos is truly perfect, almost scarily so as far as TK is concerned. He can barely take the shift in Carlos’ mood. Not even five minutes ago the man was smiling brightly. Now he looked unsure and uneasy, all because of TK. If he could have even a minute to explain, TK would be grateful. A car ride with just the two of them was ideal.

Carlos nods too and leads the way over to his car, the two of them climbing inside. Neither of them says a word as Carlos brings the car to life and begins to drive. TK knows he should be the one to break the silence but his thoughts are a riot in his mind and nothing makes sense. Every time he starts to form a sentence in his head, the words don’t sound right. Carlos keeps driving, eventually coming up to an empty area.

He stops the car and looks over at TK. In his eyes is fear and concern, so much so that TK feels guilty, already able to see that Carlos blames himself for the awkwardness earlier. It’s so incorrect and misdirected but Carlos is already speaking before TK can even dispel the man’s thoughts.

“I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” Carlos’ chest rises and falls heavily. TK isn’t used to seeing him uneasy and it doesn’t sit well.

“God, Carlos, no. You didn’t—I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

TK sighs and tilts his head back against his seat. The silence in the car presses down on his ears but he needs a few seconds to get his thoughts in order.

“The whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ thing completely applies here, as cliché as it is,” he starts out, turning his head to look at Carlos.

Carlos’ expression is so serious, like he’s truly giving his full attention over to TK, like he sincerely wants to understand what he’s thinking or how he can help. The level of kindness and sincerity Carlos has shown him since day one is unparalleled and given how his last relationship ended, TK is in awe of the fact that someone is willing to extend this generosity to him.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet. In time, I really do want to share it with you because I think you could be good for me. Knowing you has already been good for me and you don’t even realize it.”

TK swallows thickly before pressing on. Carlos remains perfectly still, searching his face. TK can’t help the fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach. This man owes him nothing and yet here he is, willing to hear him out.

“I was a bit of a mess back home. I was in a pretty serious relationship that sort of blew up in my face and I just…I couldn’t stay in the city anymore. My dad got offered the job down here and the timing…it seemed like the univere’s way of giving me something of a clean slate. I’m not where I want to be exactly but I’m working on it.”

He stops short then, his breathing shaky. This was more than he thought he’d share with Carlos this early on and while it feels scary to admit to such heavy things, it’s also freeing. Carlos may be new to his life but every instinct of TK’s is telling him that he can trust this man beside him.

Carlos finally moves, reaching out and holding onto TK’s hand. He doesn’t lace their fingers or anything, just simply holds on to it, as if reminding TK that there’s someone here with him. TK’s eyes start to sting with unshed tears.

“Thank you for telling me,” Carlos says. “I know it couldn’t have been easy. We don’t…I’m just happy to be your friend, honest. We don’t have to make something of this. Seriously, just knowing you is enough.”

Despite his best efforts to stop them, TK can feel traitorous tears running down his cheeks but he can’t find it within himself to be embarrassed over it. Being around Carlos is like existing in a judgement free zone. With his free hand, he wipes at his face and Carlos gives him a soft smile. The sight alone is like a balm over TK’s hurt.

Carlos leans forward, resting his forehead against TK’s. It’s such a tender expression that TK’s breath hitches and his heart skips a beat.

“You’re going to be okay,” Carlos says softly, confidently as if he has some crystal ball that can predict this.

Either way, TK gladly takes the assurance as a fact, clinging to that promise like a life raft in a heavy storm.

#tarlos #tk strand #carlos reyes #tk x carlos #911 lone star #sulkybbarnes #rafasilvas #bighimboenergy #brillliantbanshee #sunshinestrand #tiniestmite #kimmy writes

[memelovescaps]

Even if it sends me to Heaven

Summary:

The Doctor has been taken and made to see horrors he can't unsee. When he manages to escape, battered, in the haze of exhaustion and need of comfort, he goes to the only place he feels safe: with Clara. It's up to her to bring the Doctor back from the depths of his own terror.

Twelfth Doctor Whump, hurt/comfort and fluff.

ALSO ON AO3

The Doctor doesn’t know how he manages to get into the TARDIS. A second ago he was handcuffed and when he saw a window of opportunity he ran and ran... until he saw the big blue box parked exactly on the spot he’d left it. He doesn’t know how long he’s been running, his body is in override, driven only by sheer adrenaline, the exhaustion coursing through him buried deep in a corner of his mind.

All he knows is that as soon as his body is through the threshold his beloved sentient machine closes the door and he grabs onto the railings, his body failing him and his energy draining rapidly.

“Clara...” is all he manages to croak before the machine comes to life, the lights switch on and the engine starts roaring.

He notices the TARDIS humming urgently, trying to keep him awake, and he stumbles towards the console, grabbing onto the brake lever as he pulls it down. Not a second later he hears the wonderful sound of the machine dematerializing, he’s never been so glad to hear that sound in all his life.

He doesn’t know how long it takes to travel through hyperspace, he’s only partially aware that he’s moving until he notices the machine coming to a stand-still and parking itself with a thud.

Come out, my Thief... I brought you to her... the machine seems to be telling him. He gulps and walks, almost tripping over his own feet, towards the TARDIS door. He opens it and closes his eyes as he breathes in, the smell of her, of Clara, getting into his nostrils and succeeding in calming him, if only briefly.

It doesn’t take him long to realize she isn’t home, perhaps she’s working still, he has no idea what day or time it is. He can’t care less. His legs take him to the sofa and give out when his knees brush against the nice cushions. His body falls onto the sofa rather gracelessly, all long limbs sprawled around him, and he feels his eyes closing. Exhaustion. Bone-deep exhaustion, it had been a few centuries since he’d felt it so deep.

But Clara isn’t here. Clara. His eyes open again, wide in alarm and panic, not knowing where she is making him anxious and terribly scared. He had to see her, now. Whenever his eyes close he still can see her pale face, his open, lifeless eyes looking up to him without seeing anymore. His lips let out a sob and he tries to pull himself up, but his body refuses to. He’s so tired he can’t focus, his vision blurring on the edges, and he falls flat on the sofa again. He passes out without noticing.

It’s been a long day for Clara, and all she wants to do is change into her pyjamas, have a glass of wine or maybe two, and curl up in the sofa with a ridiculously romantic movie she knew were predictable from the first minute but she loved anyways.

Being a school teacher wasn’t an easy job, and dealing with certain students with the tact and kindness required but still with severity was a constant struggle. She certainly had had practice with that, she thinks as she mentally laughs, thinking of the Doctor. She briefly wonders where he is right now, and what sort of trouble he managed to get himself into without her.

When Clara turns the keys and gets into her apartment she’s still wondering how her newest student, Sophie, could be so manipulative towards her classmates. She’s taken out of her thoughts and her hands stop mid-air, still holding the keys after opening the front door when she sees the TARDIS.

Her trained eyes travel from the blue machine parked in her living room until they land on the slightly slouched figure on the sofa. Alarm bells go off in her mind when she sees his face pale as death and his curls wilder and a bit longer than she remembered. His clothes are torn and wrinkled, his hoodie ripped in a few places, and his grey T-shirt looking older than it sure was. She knows in an instant something’s wrong.

“Hi Doctor” she greets in a light-hearted voice, hoping to bring him calm now that she’s home.

“Clara...” his low exhausted gruff with a hint of fear takes her out of her pretence almost instantly. She looks at him and sees one of his arms tentatively reaching towards her, silently asking her to go by his side. She sighs and walks up to him, leaving his school bag on the dinner table, until she kneels next to him, and when she does he’s fast in grabbing her hands and pull her towards him, his face mere inches away from hers, inspecting. His attack eyebrows are even wilder than before, his white curls untamed and dishevelled. His eyes are wide with panic, his fingers grabbing her wrist with a bit too much strength; but she manages to press her thumbs against the back of his hands, in what she hopes is a soothing gesture. He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t have to, she knows that gaze and the terror in those eyes.

“I’m fine” she hurries to say in a soothing voice “I’m okay, nobody hurt me. I’m safe. And so are you”

She never stops pressing her thumb against his hand, willing her fingers to bring him back to the present, until she can notice his frown relaxing and his eyes losing the edge of panic and terror in them. His small hands bring his right hand to her lips, kissing the back and the knuckles delicately, bringing him back to reality. She feels him breathing deeply and she smiles after a few kisses, leaving his hand on his lap.

“Wait here. I’m going to prepare tea and some biscuits, I don’t want to know when was the last time you ate. I’ll be back in a sec”

She knows that always, but especially when he’s in this state, this Doctor needs clear instructions. In the beginning, he claimed he didn’t follow orders, but it didn’t take long for Clara to realize that that was just lies. She’s seen him react to her clear, straightforward orders, and he’s even taken up the habit of calling her ‘boss’ when doing what she asks him to do. Even if he’s a 2000-year-old alien, this particular incarnation is very responsive to a certain kind of authority, she’s seen many times he just needs her to take control and guide him, and this is one of those times.

So, she waits until he’s ready and gives her a simple nod, to get up and walk to the kitchen, making sure to be noisy. Noises help the Doctor, they keep him calm, they give him data of what is happening, of what Clara is doing. Opening the tab and leaving it to flow, filling in the kettle, rummaging through his cupboards... the Doctor can hear the tap running, the water boiling, the packet of biscuits being ripped open... and it calms him. Knowing means safety.

She knows better than to push him for an answer, though. Right now, when he’s hurting, the Doctor will most probably fall silent and answer in monosyllables, if he answers at all.

Clara hates seeing him that way. It doesn’t happen often, mostly because the Doctor’s very good at hiding when he’s in pain, but she always recognizes the ghosts in his big sad eyes. And she feels something warm spreading from her stomach when she realizes that what the Doctor does when he feels hurt, what he considers his safety net, is her.

Perhaps not to talk, for some reason, this incarnation still has difficulties when it comes to putting his feelings into words, but that doesn’t bother Clara. In fact, she’s touched because even in his inability to put his feelings into words he recognizes in Clara an escape. She’s his coping mechanism.

As she thinks, half her brain focuses on serving two mugs of tea, the Doctor’s with insane amounts of sugar, and a few biscuits she knows will help cheer him up, if only momentarily. She then brings the tray to the living room and leaves it on top of the coffee table.

The Doctor reaches to grab her wrist as soon as her hands are free from the tray and pull her down, making her fall to the sofa in a half-laying position next to him. She’s about to complain and move away when she freezes as he throws himself at her. Suddenly she notices his rather larger body on top of her, his long arms going around her middle as he moves his own body down a few inches so he can hunch his shoulders and hide his face against her chest, right under her chin. She’s so taken aback she doesn’t know what to say, so she lets him try to find some solace by laying on top of her, his head on her chest, his impossibly long and wild curls tickling her chin as he clutches at her.

As soon as she can react, though, her arms go around his back and bring him closer to her, one of her hands playing with her hair while the other draws soothing circles on his back. His breathing is irregular, and she starts to gently shush close to his ear when she notices his body shaking slightly and his throat emitting pitiful sounds, much like muffled sobs. She tries not to think about how those sounds are breaking her heart, how much it hurts to see, to feel him so lost and so broken.

Instead, she focuses on whispering reassurances to him, her voice just a whisper close to his ear. She tries to control her breathing and hopes her heartbeat goes back to a regular pace, knowing the Doctor is listening to it. She focuses on how soft his hair is when her fingers run through the grey curls, or how remarkably solid his back really feels even if he seems like a tall stick insect when he’s standing upright.

Clara’s taken out of her reverie when she notices him rubbing his face against her jumper as if he’s trying to impregnate himself with her scent, as his arms pull her closer to him. She shushes again, craning her neck so she can kiss his temple and forehead hoping it would help in calming him. She looks down and feels a bit hopeless as she sees the mighty proud Time Lord, always so full of pent-up energy and knowledge, silently sobbing and curling himself up in a ball as though he wanted to become smaller and smaller until he disappeared.

The silence stretches, his whimpers becoming more like sighs until Clara realizes that he seems calmer. His breathing has become regular again but, much to Clara’s relief, he makes no indication that he’s uncomfortable or overwhelmed by being so close to her.

That’s one of the things Clara has noticed have changed since Christmas. Before their second chance at travelling together, the Doctor would be very adamant to keep displays of affection to a minimum. She never knew what it was exactly that made him as tense as a ramrod whenever she hugged him, rested her head on his shoulder, or even just held his hand.

After the affair with the dream crabs though, he seemed like a kid who’d been given the present he’d been asking for years, and he changed. The Doctor that emerged from the months apart and their reunion was kinder and warmer, and what previously scared him or made him tense, now seemed to make him happy and relieved.

He seems to revel in the new-found physicality of their relationship, and it still takes Clara by surprise when he unexpectedly holds her hand, moves to hug her or squeezes her arm. She can’t help but appreciate every single one of his gestures, though, and can’t do anything else but smile. And he smiles back, his eyes warmer, his smile softer, even his attack eyebrows don’t seem as stern as they were before. She’s grateful of the long way they’ve both come and most especially tonight, since right now, with the weight of the Doctor’s body on top of her, she’s relieved to be able to be affectionate to him without being afraid to overwhelm him.

Clara comes back to the present when finally, after a long while of hiding his face against her chest, the Doctor moves away a few inches and looks up at her.

“Hey,” she whispers, smiling softly.

Her smile falters momentarily when she realizes his eyes are sad, red-rimmed and wet, as well as his cheeks, the tears had left a mark where they rolled down. She doesn’t let her smile disappear, though, and with gentle movements she cups his cheeks with her small warm hands, wiping away the tears with her thumbs as she looks at the man who’s stolen her heart with a soft, loving expression. He doesn’t move, simply lets her have her way and clean his face as he closes his eyes, breathing deeply.

She realizes he hasn’t said anything except for her name when she arrived. It’s not unheard of, this incarnation more prone to falling silent than the previous one, but it still makes Clara anxious. When the Doctor is silent it means there’s something wrong and she doesn’t like it. She’d rather have him ramble away in his Scottish gruff she’s come to appreciate, than his silence.

However, she knows he won’t talk. At least not now. She’s been with the Doctor long enough to know that whenever he was in deep pain he tended to run away, putting the pain away in a corner of his mind until he could be functional again, and never talk about it again. It was a recurrent theme with him, and something extremely hard or painful had happened for him to come to look for her, something she wants to help with but doesn’t know how.

“I know something happened, Doctor” she whispers, looking at him in the eyes. His own widen in panic but she’s quick to shush and caress his cheek before he can even think of pulling away “I know, I know it hurts” she continues, her voice soft, full of understanding and so low it’s a mere whisper “it’s okay. Just know that whatever it was, it’s over. You’re with me and nothing can hurt you here. Or me. We’re safe”

The sad but hopeful expression in his eyes breaks her heart, and she doesn’t hesitate in leaning in and kissing the tip of his nose, smiling and nudging him to return to his previous position. He does, his arms surrounding her body as he takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out, his chest expanding against Clara’s stomach.

Suddenly, she thinks she hears something. It’s subtle at first, like a mumbling of words you only hear the noise of but can’t distinguish a single word, but after a while, it becomes more insistent. For a split second, she’s about to ask if he said something but decides against it. She keeps silent instead, her ears straining to hear the noise again when she realizes it’s not a noise. It’s a voice. His voice. But it doesn’t come from his throat, it’s not the usual gruff that erupts from his chest, but the voice inside his mind, the same voice that kept rambling on probably even when he was taking one of his cat naps.

And it’s whispering some words, over and over again. Clara focuses more, closing her eyes and opening her mind, wanting, yearning to know what he’s saying. And then she hears, as clear as day, his voice inside her head.

Clara... my Clara...

It takes her a while to realize why she’s hearing that until it dawns on her that Time Lords are telepathic beings. This Doctor hardly ever uses his telepathy so it’s easy for her to forget, but now she can hear his thoughts loud and clear in her mind.

Clara... scared, so scared... Clara, safe...

It shocks her that his thoughts are not complete sentences or even ideas, just a string of unconnected thoughts all jumbled with each other. She hears and can almost feel his fear reverberating through his words, though, and realizes that when his thoughts are clouded by his terror his arms cling to her a bit tighter. She’s shocked and touched by just how much the Doctor truly considers her safety, by how his only thought when he’s frightened is her.

Clara, my Clara... safe... not hurt... alive...

She considers his thoughts for a moment. He isn’t only scared for himself, he seems to be fearful for her safety. She notices his arms impossibly tight around her, his body craving to feel the closeness of her, to feel her against him. She frowns, her brain going at a thousand miles an hour to guess what had happened to the Doctor to bring him to this state.

“Yes, your Clara... I’m here, I’m safe... and so are you. I’m not going anywhere” she whispers, dropping a kiss on top of his head while trying to allay his fears. He moves his face away from her chest, one of his eyebrows raised impossibly high, and her throat emits a half-laugh “I can hear you, Doctor”

“You can... hear my thoughts?” he manages to ask, his voice raspy and croaked.

“I can” she answers, nodding slightly “I never could until now”

“I’m sorry,” he says almost immediately, trying to pull away from her, but her hands stop him “I don’t normally do this, this stupid, stupid body is so useless sometimes...”

“Hey, it’s okay” she interrupts soothingly. She grabs the lapels of his wrinkled coat and stops him from pulling further away “it’s okay, nothing’s wrong” then she pauses for a moment “why do you say useless?”

“Time Lords are telepathic, you know that. But some are better than others, and some incarnations are better than others. I used to be good at this; I used to be good at reading people’s faces and emotions and at keeping my thoughts from leaking when people touched me...”

“Is this... why you’re so averse to hugging?” Clara asked, suddenly the pieces falling into place in her mind.

“Partly, yes. Your brains are fragile, Clara. Having a connection with mine, having your mind attacked by the force of a Time Lord brain could kill you... I... I can’t...”

“Shhhh it’s okay... it’s okay, you didn’t hurt me” she soothes when she hears the Doctor’s voice breaking, his eyes averting her gaze. She can feel his hands on her hips, his fingers grabbing her clothes desperately, silently pleading for her to not leave “you can never hurt me, you daft old man...”

One of her hands travels to his face, caressing his chin with her index finger before she gently tilted his head up to make him look at her. He squeezes his eyes shut at first, refusing to do so, but Clara uses the same finger to trace his bushy eyebrows and eyelids, very gently and slowly, until he finally opens up his eyes. When he does, she isn’t surprised to see them glassy with tears, his face contorted in a pained expression of pure guilt and fear she hates seeing. And her eyes well up too when his leaked thoughts travel to her mind, pulling at her heart a bit more.

Clara… don’t leave me, please… please… I’m sorry, please…

The fear and need she hears leaking from his mind and the utter desperation in his words and his eyes do it for Clara. She closes her eyes and feels a couple of tears flow freely down her cheeks as she grabs the lapels of his torn suit jacket and pulls him in, just at the same time that he lunges forward at her, his arms encircling her immediately. Tears flood his eyes as he rests his face against her shoulder, hiding his face in her hair as he clings to her in desperation, his arms squeezing her upper body with so much strength he seems to want to disappear altogether. His previous muffled whimpers become audible and she does what she can to hold him tight and whisper reassurances close to his ear.

“Shhh, it’s okay Doctor… I’m not leaving you…” she whispered, again and again, hoping that some of the meaning behind those words get into his broken hearts.

She desperately wants to know what happened to bring the Doctor to this state. This isn’t like him. They’ve lived hundreds of adventures together, she’s seen him angry, frustrated, hurt and sad; but he’s never had an emotional breakdown in front of her. Not like this, not like he’s so terrified of losing her that he’s trying to be engulfed by her small body, much smaller than his. And it’s starting to truly scare Clara, not knowing what it had caused the Doctor to flee to her apartment and wait for her, and hide against her in pain and terror.

She feels something pull inside her chest, her mind remembering that old boy inside the barn, crying himself to sleep. She felt his terror that day as she feels it now, and she does what she wishes she had done back then: hold back her tears and hold him tighter, protectively passing one arm around his back while the other hand strokes his hair in calming motions that she hopes help in soothing him.

“Doctor I’m alright. I’m okay, you didn’t hurt me. Nobody did” she reassures him, her lips kissing the top of his head repeatedly “you don’t have to be scared. It’s all over now, whatever that was. It’s over”

“But it isn’t” she hears him say, his voice raspy, broken and terribly sad “it’s still in my mind, when I close my eyes... I...”

“Shhhh” she soothes him. She manages to grab one of his hands, gently disentangling the fingers from its death grip on her clothes and brings it to her chest, placing it just above her left breast, where she knows her heart is beating “it’s still over, Doctor. Listen to my heart, I’m okay. I’m alive...”

She’s about to tell him that it didn’t happen but the words die in her mouth before she can spill them, and she feels momentarily grateful for it. She feels a bit out of her depth, without knowing what had happened to the Doctor she can’t reassure him except to tell him that she’s alive and well, but what if she wasn’t? What if the Doctor had seen a future where she isn’t okay, where she’s dead? She feels terrified for a second before she puts those thoughts away, they don’t matter now. Compartmentalise, come on Clara she tells herself shaking her head slightly.

She can feel the Doctor’s large hand on her chest, his fingers grabbing the fabric of her jumper as the palm is pressed against it, and slowly the Doctor’s whimpers start to diminish. She allows herself a small breath of relief.

When his sobs are nothing more than quiet sniffles she squirms a bit under him, but his arms tighten their hold again. She awkwardly turns her head and presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Doctor, I’m not going anywhere” she whispers, her voice incredibly soft and in a tone she usually reserves for when the Doctor is feeling low or hurt, even if he never admits it to her in words “I won’t disappear on you. I promise”

But he shakes his head.

“You can’t promise that”

“I can’t promise tomorrow. But tonight, I’m all yours” she keeps her voice low as she manages to disentangle a reluctant Doctor from her and shifts on the sofa to sit on her heels. The Doctor slowly moves away and sits on the sofa facing her with his legs crossed, she doesn’t fail to notice just how close he sits, so close that her knees brush against his shins.

Her face leans forward until it’s mere inches away from his as he watches, using the back of one of her hands to caress his cheek and dry the tears. She didn’t know how much she hated seeing his tears until now, and she can’t be quick enough to get rid of them. If there’s one thing in the whole wide universe she simply cannot bear is seeing him hurting.

She leans even closer until her lips find his other cheek, brushing against his pale skin as they kiss the tears away.

“Tea is cold” she whispers, their faces so close that her lips almost brush against his nose. He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, but when she locks eyes with him she’s momentarily breathless.

They’re still glassy and look impossibly old and sad, but they gaze at her with so much affection and, she can’t describe it any other way, devotion in them, that she feels her chest tighten and a shiver spreading throughout her body.

“What would I do without you, my Clara...” he whispers as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers.

His voice is open and vulnerable, his walls completely crumpled at his feet, but he doesn’t seem to care anymore. She tries to rationalize it, she tells herself that must be the hurt, fear and exhaustion talking, she’s noticed how slow his movements are and wonders just how he copes to even be awake in his state, but all those thoughts are nothing compared to the impact his words have on her. She feels her eyes welling up again and she gulps at his confession, feeling her heart explode with how much love and care he’d put in those words. She smiles.

“You won’t have to worry about that for a long time, old man” she whispers, her trembling fingers caressing his cheek, putting a few of his unruly curls behind his ear and her smile softening when they move out of their own accord to go back to their previous position.

“I will... soon... it will happen in an instant, and then I don’t know what...” he stops talking and breathes a few times, trying to calm himself.

She frowns.

“What did you see, Doctor?” she asks.

He feels his entire body tensing and she knows this isn’t what she set out to do in the first place. But she takes in his state: not only is he terrified and had come looking for her, scared for her safety as well as his own, but he’s also looking pretty dishevelled. His clothes are torn at a few spots, all wrinkled and dusty, and his face looks like he hadn’t washed it in a couple of days. His eyes have dark shadows under them, and he looks even thinner than last time they saw each other. He’s clingy and needy, something that truly concerns Clara as he never, ever showed her his pain to this extent. This isn’t the Doctor she’s used to, he’s close to a tipping point, and it is her job to care for him, especially when he’s at his lowest.

“I know you don’t want to tell me” she continues, her voice just a mere whisper “but you’re not yourself. You’re hurt and scared. Let me help you”

“No, you can’t” he starts and tries to pull away, but Clara’s hand goes towards the nape of his neck, holding him in place.

“Shhh... don’t go. Don’t hide from me, Doctor. Don’t go to a place I can’t reach you” she pleads.

She looks at him as she tries to hide her tears, blinking repeatedly to dispel them, but seeing him like that is one of the hardest things she’s ever done. The Doctor is pulling away from her, or at least it seems he’s trying to, but she knows he isn’t really trying.

“Let me help” she insists “you’ve held the weight of the universe on your own for so long it seems that only you can do it, but you don’t have to do it alone…”

“I can’t... if... if I let you in, I’ll lose you and... the memory will be too hurtful, the pain too great...”

“And yet, whether you want me in or not... I’m already in” she whispers. He looks at her quizzically and she smiles warmly and softly before placing a kiss on his forehead, one of her hands still at the nape of his neck and her fingers playing with the curls there “you’re with me and I’m with you. I won’t stand here and let you torture yourself”

“Clara…” he’s tired, she can sense it. His accent gets thicker, his r’s rolling even more when he calls her name “you don’t know what I’ve seen, or the things I’ve done...”

“Maybe not everything, no. But I know you” she answers, insistently “and you’re here, with me. That tells me everything I need to know”

The Doctor doesn’t answer, his lips are pressed into a thin line, but his right hand hesitantly travels towards her. It rests on top of her chest and she hears him breathe deeply and close his eyes as he feels the drumming of her beating heart under his fingers.

Clara’s rather small hand cups his face, so small it can barely cover the cheek and uses her thumb to stroke the skin, dry and dusty but still beautiful to her eyes. The Doctor’s eyes flicker open again and focus on her, solely on her, and she feels her breath taken away as the man who’s seen burning stars and the birth of entire galaxies looks at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing in the entire universe.

She opens her arms as she realizes the exact moment the Doctor gives in, his body sagging against her as it falls forward, trusting she’ll catch him. And she does. Her arms receive his battered, lanky body as if they had been doing this all their lives. He breathes her in, her scent intoxicating his nostrils as his arms tighten around her.

“I was taken. And they made me see... I saw you. I lost you, Clara. You were... Gods, there was so much blood…”

His voice is raspy and his words slurring even deeper in his Scottish accent, it seems to Clara that every word said was agony.

“I felt your life leaving your body as I held you in my arms, and then all I could see was darkness tearing me apart... there was nothing for me, I couldn’t breathe...”

His voice breaks as he sniffles and catches his breath, finding it impossible to continue. She gently cradles his head and strokes his hair, letting him try to calm himself down and not making an effort to stop his choked sobs.

“And then I saw myself... drifting in and out of consciousness, and wanting to be dead when realizing that... that you won’t be here anymore...”

His breath hitches and a sob interrupts him, but she doesn’t need him to continue. She understands now. She grasps why the Doctor feared for her safety, and why he was so scared of being alone. But above all, her eyes are open to her own mortality.

They’d been open before, or at least she thought they were, with Danny Pink’s passing. She thought she’d realized just how fragile her human life was, and decided to make the most of her years and youth with the Doctor. She wanted to see all those wonders he’d promised week after week so that when she was old and frail she could have those memories to look back at.

Now, she realizes that the Doctor stands to lose much more than a friend and companion. She becomes aware with painful clarity that losing her will break the Doctor, in all the ways a Time Lord can be broken, and she fears he’ll be so far gone nobody will be able to bring him back.

“I’m so sick of losing...” his broken, gravel voice utters, muffled by her clothes. Clara tightens her hold on him, wishing nothing more than to open up his hearts and get rid of his immense pain with her own hands. She gulps.

“I’m sorry Doctor... I’m so, so sorry...” she whispers, sniffling against his hair. She hasn’t realized when she started crying, but she cares not “I’m sorry you’ve had to see that and it got you so scared...” she pauses, craning her neck and kissing his cheek “but I won’t feel sorry for being with you”

His breath hitches and she knows, even though she can’t see his face, that he wants an explanation.

“All of us lose at some point. All of us lose people who are precious to us, people we can’t bear to lose, without whom we think life has no meaning. And yet, we live. We go on, day after day, putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that the world is a little bit more grey because of their absence”

She feels the Doctor nodding. Both of them have had to deal with losses that have shaped and made them who they are now.

“But if there’s one thing I know is this: what we do, what we have, is worth more than every ounce of pain it can bring later” her voice is soft but clear, determined “I’m better because I’m with you, Doctor, and I’ll never regret a single day I spend travelling with you”

“But I will. Clara, this... it’s become too dangerous, I can’t keep you safe if...”

“You don’t have to keep me safe, I never asked you for that. I’m with you by my own choice, and I won’t leave” she knows this is something he doesn’t want to hear but needs to hear anyway “isn’t this life worth living and remembering, precisely because there will be pain later?”

She feels the Doctor is about to speak, but she cuts him before he can even open his mouth. It’s important to her that he understands.

“And one last thing: isn’t this why you keep us? Isn’t this why you befriend us, why you make us your companions, why even after losing so much you keep coming back?” she asks.

The Doctor removes his face from her shoulder at her words, and she feels his eyes focused on her, but she can’t say what she needs to say and look at him at the same time. She casts her eyes down and fixates upon a hole in his hoodie, one of many it has, as she gathers her thoughts.

Their relationship had been marked by silences and lies they told each other to protect themselves. The lies and the deception had been the constant in their friendship, but no more. Clara had had enough of feeling a rift between her and the Doctor, she had had enough of wanting to get close to him but struggling to find the way. She realizes now that the only way to do that with the Doctor is to strip down of anything that covered her, to get rid of all the lies and layers and layers of coolness detachment. She cleared her throat, this was the moment.

“I don’t think you travel with us just to show us stars and planets, or to live adventures in some far-off universes no human has heard of. It goes beyond that. It’s to do with pain and grief, and sadness and loneliness” she infuses her words with a gentle caress of his cheek with the back of her index finger, still not looking directly at him “what you do, Doctor, is never about travelling and stars and planets. It’s about compassion, friendship, and loyalty. It’s about love. Love for every sentient being in the universe, for every person that is brave enough to stand next to you when all you have in front of you are hard choices”

Her eyes stop avoiding his gaze and lock onto his. They’re glistening, his eyebrows raised in an expression of warmth surprise.

“Why do you come with me, Clara?” he asks, emphasising with his index finger towards her “why do you do it still, after everything that’s happened?”

And Clara takes a deep breath, looks at him in the eye with warmth, and smiles.

“Because I see wonders” she repeats the words she said long ago, now a seemingly distant memory “I see wonders beyond my imagination, I discover new things every single day...”

She pauses and smiles warmly, one of her hands travelling to his forehead, brushing a few strands of hair off his face.

“And because I see a beautiful universe hidden inside a blue time machine”

He raises his eyebrows, his eyes posing a question so innocent she’s tempted to giggle, but she just smiles, feeling her cheeks burning.

“The universe is vast, wonderful, scary and mysterious. But there's no bigger mystery that I’d love to spend my life exploring than this one” she places her hand on his chest, right between his two hearts, and she feels him shiver with the contact “and if one day I die next to you, in one of our adventures - ”

She feels his breath hitch but she presses on.

“I want you to remember my words. I want you to remember that there’s no other place in the universe, no one else I’d rather spend my life with than you. I’ll never regret that decision.”

Her eyes travel to his cheeks and she smiles when she sees him blushing slightly, her pale cheeks gaining a bit of colour and even the tip of his ears are of a slight pink. And she knows he finally understands. It’s not easy, they both know it won’t be, and when the time comes he’ll need reminding of the words exchanged right now at this moment. But for now, Clara is satisfied.

However, all breath is taken out of her lungs when she finally locks eyes with him. There is no fear or panic anymore, there is no sadness. Instead, she sees them warm and dangerous, glistening with a burning fire that threatens to consume everything. And for a mad second, she thinks that burning surrounded by that fire wouldn’t be such a bad death after all.

Neither of them knows who makes the first move. Suddenly, all her doubts, the lies she’d told herself, the walls they’d built... they all come crashing down at their feet as their lips find each other. It’s tentative at first, a mere brush of lips against lips, but the touch is electrifying and soon their mouths are demanding and giving at equal parts.

My Clara...

She hears inside her head as her arms surround the Doctor’s body and pull him towards her, deepening the kiss. The Doctor responds by passing his long arms around her back and pulling her against him, his legs moving out of the way so their bodies can be even closer. She won’t lie to herself, she’d imagined before what it would be like to be kissed by the Doctor, but she’s glad to prove that none of her fantasies came even closer to the sensations coursing through her body now. Her mind is fuzzy and she can’t think, only enjoy the wonderful feeling spreading to every single cell in her body.

She only comes back and feels she can think coherently again when she hears a muffled moan coming from the Doctor, stifled by her own lips. She doesn’t want to rush things and she knows this will take time, so her kiss begins to transform into something kinder, softer, less urgent. The Doctor responds, he seems confused at first but relents until she ends the kiss with a slow, warm kiss on his upper lip.

“Is this... okay?” he asks, his voice sounding tentative, concerned and just a tiny bit scared. She thinks it’s adorable.

“More than okay” she answers, smiling widely as she leans again and places a warm, loving peck on his lips.

After a quick dinner, Clara sees the Doctor begin to slip, and she knows he needs to sleep, she’s surprised at the Time Lord’s stamina to even be awake in his state. He’s physically and emotionally exhausted, and she offers him her bed to spend the night.

He gets flustered when she offers and tries to tell her that there’s no need to, he can sleep in the TARDIS, but she can read him so well he knows he was just trying to be polite. His eyes have lost that panic and terror edge they had when she came in through the door, but she knows the horrors that await in his dreams and she won’t let him be away from her tonight.

So, she uses her ‘carer’ card and tells him she would worry less if he’s sleeping next to her, just in case he wakes up, she’d rather be by his side. His eyes soften, his lips drawing a wonderful warm smile and he nods his head slowly, his hands pulling his suit jacket off and discarding it on top of one of Clara’s chairs.

She watches as he gets undressed, making sure to pretend averting her gaze to give him a modicum of privacy. But she doesn’t have to be telepathic to know that his methodic, shy and studied movements are a result of shame, he doesn’t like the body he’s in right now, and she’s seen many instances in which he referred to bow-tie him as a “dashing young time traveller”. She knows he’s convinced this incarnation is not something nice to see, and that Clara would much rather be with his previous, much younger-looking version of him. He confused her coworker Adrian Davies with her boyfriend only because of his nice hair and bowtie, it reminded him of his previous incarnation and the one he thought Clara was attracted to.

What he doesn’t know, what Clara is dying to tell him, is that no other Doctor has awakened in her the feelings he does, and that’s all because of him, and only him. She will tell him, of course, but not today. For now, all she does is change into her nightwear and climb into bed, waiting for the Doctor to strip to his wrinkled T-shirt and boxers. When he does she stretches her arms into a silent but clear invitation, smiling when she sees he’s still blushing slightly, his eyes darting to a hole in the blanket and bouncing slightly on his toes. When he looks at her, though, his eyes still hold that blazing fire and she gulps as he finally climbs into bed.

Once the mattress sinks under his weight he moves closer to her, at first tentatively but when Clara manages to pass an arm around him he presses himself to her until half his body is on top of her. She notices one of his long legs bending and coming to rest in between hers, his cold toes caressing her shins as one of his arms rests over her stomach, his hand grabbing her pyjamas between his fingers.

She sighs against him and brings him closer to her, letting him rest his face near her breastbone, his nose inhaling her wonderful scent as she pets his hair in slow, soothing motions. She closes her eyes and lets the silence fill the room until she can hear drumming close to her. She focuses on the sound and realizes that it’s the beating of his hearts, strong, pumping; a set of four beats that make her relax instantly, the cadence of it calming and soothing.

“Good night, my Doctor” she whispers as her lips kiss the top of his head, her eyes still closed.

Good night, my Clara she hears in her mind before his eyes close and she feels his body relax against her.

#doctorwho #whouffaldi #twelfthdoctor #twelveclara #claraoswald #claraoswinoswald #doctorwhofic #fanfiction #thedoctor #thetwelfth #hurt/comfort #crying #saddoctor #thedoctorneedsahug #softdoctor #protectiveclara #doctorwhofanfic #doctor who fanfic #whouffaldi fic #whouffaldific #scareddoctor #fluff #POV Clara Oswald #twelfth doctor x clara oswald

[ohprettyweeper-fics]

The Last Bandito: Vulture Generation

Part Two: Statement of Purpose

Summary: As adjustments are made to the way life is now, some decide their next move. Warnings: Sickness, mentions of death.   Word Count: 1860 A/N: Book #2 of The Last Bandito series. Prompts are in bold; translations are from Google Translate.

Masterlist

Nico looked out over the district of Dema he presided over as the Heathens returned to their assigned quarters for the evening. They filed toward the buildings silently; one man looked up to the window where Nico was, paused and pursed his lips together, and then continued on his way. 

This man — who was no longer a man, really — had once looked at Nico with eyes that longed to be privy to every bit of truth and knowledge the Bishop held. Now, after the last invasion from the Bandito child and another nemesis they had yet to name, all of the Heathens looked at him differently. Respect and adoration had changed to tolerance and skepticism. 

“You are troubled, my lord.”

Nico turned away from the window. He had been aware of Keons’s presence before the other Bishop had even arrived to his quarters, but had been too lost in thought over the grouping of Heathens to acknowledge Keons before now. 

“They are losing their faith in us,” Nico stated. “This Bandito child coming here, taking away Heathens and humans alike — threatening the Bishops. She’s given them something new to have faith in.”

Keons did not look bothered. “They will return to us, as they always do. The older generations of Banditos filtered out, eventually. It takes time for them to see the truth, but what is time to us? Nothing.”

Nico pondered over the words for a full minute before shaking his head. “This feels different. Do you remember what you told the child’s mother the first time you visited her?”

“I told her that the child would be something new, something different. That was no great prophecy, Nico. A Heathen and a human had not before created a child together, and they haven’t since. We knew that whatever being was born from that woman, it would be a creature the world had not seen before.”

“Perhaps you were more correct than you understand,” Nico suggested. “She is something new. Something different. She threatens our way of life here. If we are to take over the new city, expand the old, then we must have the full faith and trust of every citizen of Dema — so long as she is doing what she has always done, that will not be the case.”

Keons stood a little straighter. He did not want to ask his next question, but he knew he must. “What would you have me do, pochesnyy?”

“Break her. They need to see her broken so we can gain the respect that we deserve.” 

* * * * * 

Tyler was beginning to worry about Ildri. After she went into her tent following the conversation on the ridge, she refused to come out for several days. Tyler brought her food, forced her to eat, and, eventually, slept on the ground next to her. He gave up his tent to a couple of newcomers who had almost nothing, save for the clothes on their back. He wanted to comfort Ildri, but he had to admit that he felt more comfort, too, being close to her. 

One morning, he woke up and Ildri was gone. He told himself not to panic; she was likely around camp, maybe washing up in a cold creek somewhere. The sun was barely visible over the horizon — in fact, some areas of camp were still mostly dim. Tyler rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wandered over to the big fire in the center of camp, warming his hands and his body by the flames. 

The group that had assigned themselves as the cooks of the camp were cleaning up from breakfast before Ildri came back over the north ridge. Her hair was fixed in intricate braids away from her face, with metal beads adorning her stitched locks. Yellow paint was smeared in two upward-pointing arrows under her left eye, with three small lines set over her nose. Yellow dots arched over her right eyebrow, and a thin yellow line divided her bottom lip. 

Tyler jogged to meet her halfway and gestured to her face and hair. “That’s new.”

“I had a dream last night,” Ildri started her explanation, “about the Banditos who used to live here. Generations before we were born. The women did their hair this way, some of them, and all of the ones who rescued escapees from Trench wore the face paint. They all stood at the top of ridge and looked down on a man in Trench, running from one of the Bishops. The Bishop caught up to him, but they made plans to go into Old Dema and get him — not through the front gate like Quinn and I did, but underground. They took him out of Dema and into Trench — Tyler, what if we did that? Some of them can escape on their own, but a lot of them can’t. That’s what I did for New Dema. If I can do it on my own, rescuing some here and there, why couldn’t we rescue more of them together? We gather a group of —”

“Wait, Ildri. Breathe.” Tyler put his hands on his shoulders, gripping gently. “I’m all for this, but you understand, if you start this, you will be the leader Josh said you already are. There will be no handing it off, no going back.”

Ildri took a deep breath. “I know that. And, I think, this is what I was made for. Not to be a victim of the Bishops, not to be a pawn of The Conference, but to do this. To give others a new beginning. I am the last Bandito, Tyler. Shouldn’t that mean something big?”

Tyler could feel the Heathen virus boiling in his blood at the thought of doing anything to go against the Bishops. He had known even when they were young that Ildri was going to do big things with her life; it was an unspoken truth, something understood but not talked about. Never, in either set of memories, did Tyler ever imagine he would be part of something like this — something life-changing, not only for them, but for so many others. 

* * * * *

Faylinn lay awake in her hotel room in New York, wondering at all the noise outside her twelfth floor window. Cars raced past at all hours, voices floated through the hallway at any given time, and the lights of the city were so bright, she often felt the sun never went down. 

She got up to pull the blackout curtains closed. The thick material didn’t block out the noise, but if she turned on the television set, maybe that would give her brain different noise to concentrate on. 

“Comedy,” she muttered, coming across reruns of an old sitcom she had loved as a child, “that’ll work.”

When the sound of the television did not help her sleep, Faylinn pulled the heavy, paper copy of her manuscript from the nightstand onto the bed beside her before opening the document on her laptop. The publisher was extremely interested in circulating her manuscript, but an editor had nearly torn the thing to pieces, marking it all up with suggestions in red ink — although the term ‘suggestion’ had been used lightly. 

Faylinn couldn’t help but feel her past hanging over her like a thundercloud as she worked through the recommended edits of her novel. As she read over the words she had written about Old Dema, her mind wandered back to the night she had followed Ildri and Quinn there, then watched them murder those innocent people. 

That was part of the reason she was still in New York. She could have easily gone home to do these edits, but it was so much easier to keep the distance between herself and what now felt like her old life. 

Then, a wave of realization hit her. “I don’t have to go back. I could stay here, forget everything about my life there. Only this novel would remind me. After all, I betrayed them all. What do I have to go back to?”

Her cousin’s words echoed in her mind then. When you realize who you are, then maybe you’ll understand. Ildri didn’t hold Faylinn to any fault, so why couldn’t Faylinn release herself from the guilt? Perhaps it was the way Josh had looked at her when she said she was coming to New York. Or the way Quinn wouldn’t even meet her eyes. 

“There’s nothing to go back to,” Faylinn spoke out loud, closing her laptop and pushing it, and the manuscript, to the foot of the bed. “So I won’t.”

* * * * *

The blood pressure cuff around her arm was tight — too tight, really — and gave Quinn the urge to tear it the monitor off and run far, far away. Her decision to stay in New Dema had been the safe decision; the one she had made after coming down from her bloodlust, unable to believe the carnage she had left behind her in Old Dema. 

And now, she was dying. New Dema’s best scientists were trying their best to come up with a cure for the Heathen virus, and it was Quinn’s only hope at the moment. 

The best anyone could surmise was that the Heathen virus was, essentially, not compatible with the dearg-due genes. The two strains were going after each other, and her tissues were caught in the crossfire. 

“Same as yesterday,” the nurse told Quinn, jotting down numbers on a notepad to later put into a computer. “Feeling the same?”

Quinn shrugged and nodded. “More or less. I think I slept a little more yesterday, but it may have just been the day.”

“Do all the resting you can,” the nurse encouraged, “your body needs it to recover.”

“If I recover.”

The nurse pressed her lips into a thin line. “You know, you’re the first non-Heathen patient here. They brought you down from The Conference, and I couldn’t believe that you had the virus — your eyes weren’t red and you weren’t hungry for blood or anything.”

Quinn whispered, “Not at the time.”

The nurse forced Quinn to look at her. “My point is, Quinn, you are different. Not everyone goes into Old Dema and comes back out, for starters, but the virus hasn’t become who you are. You can fight it. You have to fight it.”

Quinn looked at the other woman with tears in her eyes and hurt in her voice. “How do I fight death? Do you understand, that’s what’s what I’m doing here? I came here to stay in the place that’s become my home, and found out I’m dying. I’ve accepted it, and you should, too.”

The nurse stood from the bed, tucked the note with Quinn’s vitals into her pocket and gave a single nod. “Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, then I won’t bother.”

The lump in Quinn’s throat as the nurse left the room was nearly suffocating. She hadn’t truly accepted that she was dying, not yet. There was still that last, frayed strand of hope she was clinging to, hoping and praying that the scientists would soon find a cure for the Heathen virus and save her life. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Tags: @takenvysleep @tylersheavydirtysoul @apurdyfulmind @adversaryproject

#twenty one pilots #dema #trench #bandito #the last bandito #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #tøp #dema inspired #trench inspired #can you save my heavydirtqueue

[personaehq]

INCOMING MESSAGE …

FULL NAME: jitae bang ALIAS: haze DATE OF BIRTH: 2119/02/14 ALIGNMENT: pro-android OCCUPATION: student at shujin, psychology major; clerk at yamazaki antique shop AFFILIATION: n/a ACCOMMODATION: orchard housing, jinbocho FACECLAIM: kim seokjin

ACCESSING: BACKGROUND …

haze | noun | /hāz/ : vagueness or obscurity, as of the mind or perception; confused or vague thoughts, feelings, etc.

Jitae Bang is the son of a well-off family. One look and you could think that he was just another rich, spoiled brat with a silver spoon in his mouth the second he left his mother’s womb. But of course, it’s never right to judge a book by its cover. Unlike most of the high class children Jitae went to school with, he was not lavished in presents. He was not taken out to grand family trips. And he was most certainly not given his own personal android to play games with after school.

While he did live in a rather excessively large house. And have house keepers, cooks, drivers, and nannies – human and android. None of it was his. It was all his parent’s wealth. And as a child they made sure to make this information known to their son. Their luxuries and wealth are all because they worked hard to achieve this success. And as their son, he too, will learn the notion of hard work.

His place in academia was to be the number one student. Regardless of the subject. Because report cards are the single most determining factor to consider when judging the worth of an individual’s life. His place at the house was to maintain a clean and proper home, his parents having requested that the hired staff educate and show Jitae how to clean and care for the house as they worked. Regardless of the task. Because a clean home is a proper home. Jitae lived his childhood under a strict set of rules, and watchful eyes. While his parents were never physically around much, they were always calling (phone or video) their son to make sure he met their expectations. While technology was flourishing and adjusting into the lives of many homes and families, the Bang family preferred the more traditional methods to raising their child and maintaining order within their four walls. Things continued simply this way for many years, until Jitae’s tenth birthday that is.

Boarding schools were such a unique concept. The promise of a well-to-do education for well-to-do children from well-to-do homes. Promises of accepting your sons and daughters as children and returning them as respectable men and women of society. He never really understood why he was being sent to a boarding school in the first place. Jitae was a very well behaved boy, and his teachers praised his intelligence and participation in the classroom. He couldn’t possibly think of a reason for why his family would want to send him away to a strange campus in another country. His brain, still too young, cannot begin to wrap around the idea that it’s a rather cruel tradition for wealthy upper class families to get rid of encourage new ideas for growth in their children. By introducing them to new environments, languages, and cultures. To open new doors. And shut old ones.

Of course, that didn’t matter. They sent him off regardless of his confusion. He could not oppose the words of his parents. For what they said was final. Their words, sacred. They were law, and they were order.

And on his twelfth birthday, Jitae stood there at the airport. With a one way ticket to Switzerland in his clammy hand. Just outside of the entrance to the terminal gates. His suitcases by his side, backpack adjusted tightly on his shoulders. His new school uniform crisp and freshly pressed, shoes buffed and sealed under a fresh coat of wax. The airport’s busy commotion did nothing to stop, seemingly unfazed as a lone child simply stood there. Wearing a blank expression… one that could be confused as sadness if they simply glanced at him. Jitae stood there, motionless, a few moments longer. Waiting. Hoping. The air around him slightly suffocating. He willed himself to stand strong and refuse to let his tears well up and fall. He was valiant. However, the airport security was growing worrisome. It wasn’t long until someone came to the boy and gently ushered him into the gates. Turning his back away from the central hub of the building. He was never given a proper send off to his new school. One that was far away from the country he called home.

His parents had never given Jitae the opportunity to even so much as glance at the campus prior to his send off. He had little to no idea about the place he would call home for the next several years, unbeknown to him. However, the moment he arrived on campus and stepped foot on the gravel, he knew it was going to be troublesome.

It was a citadel for canned though. Finding vapidity in uniqueness. Sharing disinterest in dexterous thinking.

Oh, how he struggled to integrate into the new society he was placed in. None of the other children really showed much interest in Jitae’s fascinations about psychology, nature, or about daydreams. He quickly became an outsider. Excluded. Segregated away from everyone else. Yet, what the other children failed to realize was that Jitae was used to this. In fact, their efforts to make him feel unwelcome only made him feel at home. Solidarity was his only companion.

He continued on like this for years. Excelling in academics, and yet, showing little to no interest in social activities. Instead he stuck to his books, his ideas, and all the wild fantasies he could conjure up in that head of his. Seeping away further and further from reality. Deeper and deeper into the world of dreams. It became so easy for him to do. He could just gaze out, slowly disassociating from reality, and suddenly be on another planet entirely. It was safe. It was comfort. It was the only place where he could really be himself. Since the real world didn’t want him to be that.

His dorm was piled up with novels, research studies, and thick textbooks ranging from the bottom of the sea floor to the careful and detailed analyzations of Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy. On his desk was a composition book full of his daydreams. His personal philosophies. And his innermost thoughts. Every inch of the book was filled, carefully with dates and times. Brackets off in the margins providing supporting source material for his ideas.

While his imagination grew to tremendous heights, it eventually backfired on him. Developing strange quirks that seemed to bother him to no end if he didn’t complete them. He spent more time focusing on words, numbers, and colors than on actual interactions with people. Sometimes stopping mid-sentence just to finish counting the number of letters a word had. He would lose his train-of-thought easily, and would cover many topics at once without taking a breath. It became overwhelming at times… even becoming a walking hazard to himself when he would walk into things or end up leaving scuffs and bruises all over himself. All habits he never learns to outgrow.

He spent more time in his false reality than he did in the real world.

And as such, didn’t pay it much notice when graduation was just around the corner. Rather than choosing to go back to South Korea immediately after completing his secondary education, he chose to wander around Europe and explore the sights for a while before returning back to his home country. Truly letting his mind wander. Finding peace in the open world, as compared to the confines of his school.

The moment he returned to his parent’s home in South Korea he was to begin applications for university. His time spent abroad in Switzerland would prove to be beneficial, as he was able to enroll in his first choice school with ease. Shujin University. Jitae’s parents were proud of their son’s academic success, and they expected him to continue to bring honor to the Bang name. As soon as all documentations were finalized, Jitae was shipped off once again.

Japan and Switzerland felt similar for some time. Both incredibly foreign upon arrival, but both starting to feel more like home than his actual childhood abode. His time at Shujin University seemed to go by much easier than in secondary school. The other students paid him no mind, not because of his strange antics, but because there were simply so many students. So many things to do. So many things to study for. Everyone was just trying to stay afloat…

Jitae preferred to stay as far away from the commotion of Tokyo as possible. Finding solace in The Orchard Housing in Jinbocho. In the outskirts of the lower level. While the travel times were a little bit of a hassle, Jitae much preferred the comforting silence of a good night’s rest. Of a long commute where he could daydream, count the numbers in the letters of signs, or catch up on class material before the next lecture.

It’s no trouble being away from South Korea. Away from his family. Because while all the other upper class children his age got to play with their sparkly new androids and go on expensive trips abroad, he learned to maintain a house. To cook, clean, and care for himself properly. He’s learned to take care of himself as early as he could remember. Never having to rely on anyone else for much. He could fulfill all his childhood wishes now that he’s older and away from his parents. He could daydream selfishly. After all, university is supposed to be a memorable experience, right? What could possibly go wrong?

ACCESSING: PERSONALITY …

POSITIVE TRAITS: humble, outside the box thinker, stops to smell the roses NEGATIVE TRAITS: clumsy, always thinking but rarely pays attention, easily distracted

a seemingly old soul. jitae is a simple boy with simple interests. he likes to read and think. the world is so large, so much larger than we could ever know… and he just wants to understand it, and understand those who live on it. he is soft spoken, but the meaning behind his words are deafening. he’s definitely not the type of person to put himself out there, much preferring to stay in the library or in the comfort of his apartment. spaces out more than anyone would like, and talks some nonsense from time to time, but means no harm. when listening to music he prefers to lay on the floor and shut his eyes, letting it envelope him completely – of course, this looks ridiculous to onlookers, but he pays it no mind. while he is proud of the technological advancements that humanity has achieved in the past hundred years or so, he feels bombarded by it constantly. always feeling overwhelmed by just how much stimulus there is all around him. he finds relief in printed media and things without screens. there is tranquility within it. maybe it’s the fact that it reminds him of his childhood house. the old stillness.

… END OF MESSAGE.

#human #t #a

[sluttytonystark]

One Big Fucking Headache

Read it on Ao3!

     Tony Stark wants it on record, that since he met his son all those years ago, he had tried and tried, to give Peter the closest thing to a normal life he could get. He also wants it on record, that for the first eleven years, he had succeeded in this. Even with the hecticness of switching between his father’s place and his aunt’s and uncle’s place every other week, Peter Parker had had a normal life outside of the public eye, his father’s fame, his father’s moonlighting as a superhero, and the Avengers.

    In all reality, it wasn’t even Tony’s fault-- and no, he was not above blaming his child for this mess, because it was Peter’s fault. Had it not been for the kid's recklessness, the kid would have been home that weekend. Away from the compound, and away from the Avengers. But, if there was one thing Tony Stark had learned in all his years, it was that things never went to plan.

    Ever .

   Honestly, it was a constant struggle for him.

     He'd been going on his twelfth consecutive hour in his lab (Pepper was out of town, he could get away with it), when Friday cut out the blaring music playing over the speakers to announce the arrival of May and Peter Parker at the tower.

  Tony looked up from his latest project, brow creasing. “What?” He said, “Is it Monday already?”

   “No boss, it is currently four thirty-two P.M. on Friday.”

   “Huh.”

   He glanced around his lab, beginning to put things away in preparation for their arrival.

“Well,” he said, “let them down when they’re ready.”

  “Will do.”

   It wasn’t a minute later that a very frazzled looking May walked in with Peter trailing behind, holding his Spider-Man suit.

   “Tony, you need to take your kid for the weekend,” May announced, shooting a look at the teenager.

   Tony raised an eyebrow, “Ah, so now he's just my kid.” He fixed his son with a pointed look, “What'd you do, kid?”

  Peter looked around sheepishly. “Uhh, I might've stayed out a little past curfew...”

   Oh, well that wasn't that bad.

  “... And I kind of hacked into the suit again.”

    Okay, scratch that first part.

   “And I might've gotten stabbed. Just a little bit--”

  Jesus Christ.

   “Just a little bit?” May cried, “Peter, for god’s sake, you came home with a stab wound and you didn't think to tell anybody?”

   Tony rushed to his Peter's side, fussing over him like a mother doting on her hurt toddler.

   Peter rolled his eyes, huffing indignantly. “I'm fine, Dad. It was just a shoulder wound-- and it was already healing when I got home.”

   Once assured that the kid wasn't somehow hiding any injuries, he stepped away, pinching the bridge of his nose.

   “Jesus Christ kid, what were you-- nevermind. Just, give me the suit and go sit down at your desk or something. Let me talk to your aunt.”

   Peter did so, sulking greatly, and Tony had half a mind to remind him that he'd only brought this on himself. He didn't, but he made a point to remember to give the kid one hell of a lecture later on.

    Once the spider kid was over at his desk, and out of earshot (or as close to out of earshot you can get with enhanced teenagers), he turned back to May.

  “So…” he started, “Is this a thing, just hoisting the kid off on each other whenever we're upset with him? Because if I had known that, I would've done that.”

   May rolled her eyes. “No, I told you, I was going out of town for a work function during Peter’s spring break.”

   Tony racked through his memories trying to recall such a conversation, his mouth making an ‘O’ when he did eventually remember. Shit. Did he tell her he would take Peter early?

  May went on. “I was just going to let him stay home Saturday and Sunday, you know he's old enough to take care of himself, and he was going to stay with you starting Monday anyways… but after this?”

   Tony nodded, knowing how she felt.

   May sighed, “I mean, I just don't want to be coming home and finding out he went out and got himself shot or something.”

   “Yeah, he's a great kid, but he's got the self-preservation skills of, oh I don't know… Me!”

  He recoiled at the thought, “Oh my God, that's where he gets this shit from! It’s me, isn't it?”

   From across the lab, Peter yelled: “You're a great influence, Dad!”

  Tony rolled his eyes but let the comment pass.

   May frowned. “So you understand the problem?” She said, giving him an expectant look.

 Tony brought his hand to his head, rubbing at the ever permanent, Peter caused headache.

 “May…” he started, “You know I'd love to, Peter's welcome here anytime, but-- You've seen the news, right? The rouge avengers are back upstate, and I was gonna head up there to discuss things this weekend…”

   He looked to May, hoping that she understood, but she just raised an eyebrow at him, daring him to continue with his excuses.

  “Look, I do have a room there for him-- but May, you know how I feel about Peter meeting the team.”

  “So?” She snapped, “You know how I feel about Peter going out in pajamas every night, and I've allowed it.”

 Tony took a step back, hands up in a placating manner, and she sighed.

  “I know how you feel about it, and I've even agreed with you in the past but, Tony, he's already out there risking his life every night, do you really think the Avengers are going to be any sort of threat to him?”

 When Tony still looked unsure, she added “Please, Tony. I really don't feel comfortable leaving him home all weekend.”

 Tony took a long breath, he really wasn't going to win this one, and he knew it.

 “Fine, fine, you know what? That's just fine.” He raised his voice, directing his words to Peter. “Kid, pack your shit, we're going upstate.”

   Peter cheered.

--

   The next morning found the father and son on the road at the ungodly hour of nine, which, by normal standards isn't ungodly at all-- but Tony Stark had found that his circadian rhythm had synced up with a nearby raccoon some time ago. Of course, the apple never did fall far from the tree, which led to Peter's insistent whining about being up so early on a weekend, after staying up for who knows how long.

   He had explained to the kid that the Avengers meeting he was supposed to be going to started at ten, and really, they should have left an hour earlier if he was going to get there in time.

  Peter had nothing to complain about either. He was fifteen; he had the benefits of being able to sleep through car rides. That's what he did too, damn kid slept for the first hour and a half, and left Tony to stay awake talking to himself, or whatever people did on long car rides by themselves.

  He didn’t sleep the whole time, though. Peter woke up with an hour and a half still left to go. That wasn't that long, he'd had longer plane rides. But knowing that he could have taken a suit and gotten their much faster kinda put a negative spin on things. There were also the questions-- questions that he knew that Peter knew the answer to already, but asked about anyways.

   “So…” He said, “Am I gonna be allowed to meet the Avengers?”

   Tony's grip tightened on the steering wheel. “No.” He said, “Absolutely not.”

   “Why not?”

   “Pete, a big reason why your mother didn’t want me in your life at first, was because she wanted you to be a normal kid.”

   Peter stiffen in the seat next to him. The topic of his father’s absence for the first four years of his life was a touchy subject for both of them.

   “When your aunt and uncle came to me with you, they also wanted you to be a normal kid, and so did I. Being buddies with the Avengers isn’t exactly normal.”

  “But I’m Spider-Man ,” he said, turning to give his father an exasperated look, “my life isn't exactly normal anymore.”

   Tony shook his head. “It doesn't matter. I'm your father and I don't need a reason.”

   Peter was quiet for a moment. Thinking carefully about what was to be said next.

   “Is it because of the accords? Because of Siberia?”

   When Tony didn't answer he took it as an invitation to continue.

  “They say don't meet your heroes,” he said, “But... they stopped being my heroes when everything happened last year.”

   An uncomfortable silence followed. Peter twiddled with his thumbs, suddenly finding the outside scenery to be the most interesting thing, while Tony stared straight ahead at the road, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel never weakening.  

   “The other's weren't wrong, kid-- well, not completely.”

  “Yeah, but--”

   “Nuh-uh, the adult is talking,”

  Peter huffed, slouching in his seat.

   “Do we need accountability as heroes? Yes. I said it then and I stand by it now.” Tony paused, taking a minute to think.

   “But the accords weren't perfect. I knew that-- I even told Steve they could be changed... But then he got upset about the Wanda thing... He acted stupidly, it happens. Doesn't mean he didn't have a point though, if the accords were left as was, that would have turned into a shitshow very quickly.”

   “What about Siberia?”

   “Mistakes were made.”

   “That guy killed your parents, and fucking Steve stuck a shield in your chest.”

   “Hey!” Tony snapped, “Watch your language.”

   Peter sputtered, “Really? That’s what you’re caught up on? How are you calm about this?”

   Tony shrugged. “I've had time to think.’

   Peter took in a shuddering breath, “When Ben was killed,” he began slowly, “I wanted nothing more than to hunt down and kill the guy.”

   Tony nodded. “Yes, I remember that. But remember, that guy acted on his own accord, James wasn’t. It's different.”

  Peter shook his head. “That's not what I'm trying to say. I-I’ve lost three parents, and I know how it feels, a-and I know that you don't lie, or try to cover up that shit.”

   Tony let out a long, drawn-out breath. “No, kid, you really don't. That was shitty.”

   Another drawn out uncomfortable silence followed. Peter pulled out his phone and half-heartedly started scrolling through some app, and Tony kept driving, looking at the billboards that flew by when they passed a sleep number advertisement.

   “How've you been sleeping lately?”

    Peter groaned. “ Dad ,” he said in the typical teenage ‘please-don't-talk-to-me-about-things-I- don't-want-to-talk-about’ voice.

   Tony scoffed, “Don't ' Dad,’ me. It's a legitimate concern. I'm your father, I have a right to be worried.”

   “I'm fine, ” he insisted, throwing his head back against the seat, “I got a whole six hours last night.”

   “You're supposed to be getting nine. ”

   “Why are you so worried about this?”

   Tony threw an incredulous look at the boy. “Why am I worried? Seriously, Peter? You wake up screaming in the middle of the night. Your aunt tells me you've haven't been sleeping as much as you should lately, that’s a problem.”

   “I'm fine . I mean, I've had some trouble sleeping, but not as of late.”

  The father gave him a doubtful look but let the subject drop. He had Friday, she could tell whether the kid was telling the truth or not. And of course, May was more than capable of taking care of Peter when she had him. Maybe he should relax a little.

   At the lull in the conversation, Peter took the chance to put on some earbuds, and turned his head to look out the side window, a gesture that said, “I'm done talking to you, go away.” Tony rolled his eyes and turned the radio up to a level that would be heard over the music coming from his phone.

  Peter shot him an annoyed glance, and Tony made no attempt to hide his smirk.

   When they were coming up on the property, Tony turned the blaring music off and reached over to take one of the headphones out of Peter's ear.

   “Look alive kid,” he said, “We'll be there in… I don't know, five minutes?”

   Peter looked a little chafed from having his earphone ripped out-- because really, who does that-- but nodded anyway, sitting straighter in his seat and putting his headphones away.

   “When we get there,” Tony started, “I have to go straight to that meeting I was telling you about. Friday will tell you where to go. Stay on our floor, no wandering off.”

    He gave his son a look that said “Because I know you love doing exactly that,” Peter rolled his eyes but didn’t push on the subject. He knew perfectly well how both his father and his aunt felt about him meeting the Avengers, and by saying “Don’t wander off,” his dad actually meant “Don’t go getting seen by any of the others.”

   They didn’t go in through the main entrance because that would be very obvious, so they instead went to one of the many alternative entrances that were reserved only for Tony, one that he was pretty sure none of the others had discovered yet. He had designed a few different places of entry for the specific reason being his current situation: having to have Peter tag along with him. Was it extra? Yes. Did he care? Not particularly.

   He sent the boy off with a ruffle to the hair, promising he’d be back later, and that they’d watch a movie or something. Peter didn’t quite seem to care about their parting, as he was preoccupied with marveling at his new surroundings. Tony couldn’t help but be a little offended, because he was going to be stuck in a conference room with the Avengers for six hours, and his own son was too busy looking at a wall to give him the time of day.

   Well, he soon wished that it was later rather than now because he’d much rather be watching a Star Wars movie he’s already seen eight times than stuck in some tense conference room where hostilities still ran high.

   “Stark.” Romanoff had said when he walked in, “You’re late.”

   The greeting was terse, and as Tony surveyed the room (Wanda, Wilson, Romanoff, Rhodey, Vision, and Cap were there,) he noted that the team was more than irritated with him, which was fair, he was an hour late-- but he didn’t really care.

   “What can I say?” He said, “Traffic was hell.”

   Steve frowned at him from across the room, “It's a Saturday morning, how bad was it really? And why didn't you just fly? That would've been faster and wouldn't have left everyone waiting on you for an hour.”

   The others, of course, wouldn't know that the circumstances of his arrival had been changed by the sudden acquisition of his reckless son for the weekend. Because Tony had been planning to just fly a suit upstate, it would have been quicker, but he obviously couldn't fly with Peter. Even if he wanted to, he knew Peter wouldn't have it.

   For all the Avengers knew, Tony was just being an asshole with no concern other people's time, and since they couldn't exactly know the real reason, he might as well just play the part.

  “Hey,” he said with a shrug, “I have a flair for the dramatics. Being fashionably late and all that shit.”

   “Do you ever have any consideration for others?”

   “Do you?” Tony said, fixing Rogers with a look that said more than words could convey.

   Steve didn't rise to the challenge, but he did return the glare at Stark that led the two men into a long and uncomfortable stare off that was awful for both them and everyone present.

   “Enough,” Natasha said, slapping her hands down on the table. “We haven't even started here and you two are already fighting. I'm sure the two of you will find plenty to fight about today, so save it, yeah?”

   The two backed off, muttering some half-baked apologies, that neither of them really meant.

   Natasha was right anyway, they disagreed about anything and everything. It wasn't just Steve and Tony, either. Despite the Avengers being back together, the lot of them very quickly split up into their respective teams, which left Tony with only Vision and Rhodey, and Romanoff being her own party.

   It was all one massive headache. When they talked about the accords, the fought. When they talked about the team being back together and where to go from there, they fought. When Tony's shitty attitude was brought up, they fought.

   By the end of it all, Tony swore he'd never complain about having to sit through Stark Industries meetings again, because compared to this, those were walks in the park.

  When discussions for that day was done, Tony clapped his hands together and announced, “Well, guys it's been hell. Same time tomorrow?”

   Silence and unamused frowns across the board. Sam coughed awkwardly, and Steve shook his head like a disappointed mother.

   Fortunately, the smothering silence didn't get to go on for more than a couple seconds at most before a series of dings sounded from Tony's suit pocket.

Peter: you've been gone way too long

Peter: i am about to die

Peter: I'm hecking hungry

Peter: if you do not make me food in twelve minutes I will be forced to take matters into my own hands

Peter: vevskxjekdbalal

   Tony smiled fondly at his son's antics. “Well, that's my cue to leave,” he said.

   He knew full well that that had just raised a bunch of questions, but he was more concerned about not coming back to find his nice kitchen completely destroyed at the hands of a ravenous spider child, than leaving the others in suspense or whatever.

   When he was on his way out, he stopped in the doorway on his way out to say, “Someone mentioned Barton was coming later tonight?”  Natasha nodded, so Tony continued, “Well then, send him my greetings. I’ll be on my own floor, do your best to steer clear-- not you Rodey-- but for the rest of you all: that wasn’t a suggestion.”

--

   “You couldn’t wait five minutes?” Tony said as he entered the kitchen.

   Peter looked up from where he was stationed on the counter, a family sized box of Froot Loops in hand, which he had filled with milk, because apparently, bowls weren’t a thing. He shrugged, looking unabashed.

   “You took too long.”

   He snatched to box from his son’s hands on his way to the medicine cabinet, “Milk better not be leaking all over my counters from this,” he peered inside to find that half the newly opened box of cereal had already been eaten in the short amount of time that it took for Peter to text him, and for Tony to get back, which-- big yikes.

   He knew the kid ate a lot, and he ate fast, and that was expected with his enhanced metabolism, but Christ, all that sugar in that amount of time, and with very little nutritional value, he might add-- a sharp pain shot through his head from his ever-present migraine. God, he needed aspirin, like, yesterday.

   Peter snatched the cereal back from his father, who was resigned to just let him have it, because you can’t exactly put away a family sized box of froot loops once it’s already half filled with milk.

   “So, how was your Avengers conference thing?”

   Tony groaned as he shook two tablets from the bottle. He swallowed them dry before putting the bottle back in the cabinet and slamming the door shut.

   “That bad, huh?”

   “You don’t know half of it, kid,” he said, eyeing Peter wearily.

   Peter hummed, his attention going back to his cereal, “Well at least you're done for the day, and you promised we’d watch a movie, so I was thinking Matilda.”

   Tony made a face, “Matilda?”

   “What do you have against Matilda?”

   “Nothing, I was just expecting you to say Star Wars or some shit, Matilda was not expected.”

   Peter shrugged, “Well if you would rather watch Star Wars again…”

   Tony put his hands up in a haste, not particularly eager to watch the Empire Strikes back for a fifth time. “No, no,” he assured, “Matilda’s fine, I’ll have Friday rent it.”

   Peter cheered, jumping off the counter (with his froot loops,) and booked it to the living room, Tony followed behind, wondering where Peter got his seemingly endless supply of energy, because Tony was always tired, and now Peter was making him feel old, which frankly was just rude.

   Two hours later, though, the kid was fast asleep, and Tony had to wonder where all his previous energy had just gone. He was dead tired too, that was sure, but Peter was a teenager, and teenagers were not supposed to knock out cold on their father’s shoulders at eight o’clock in the evening. He remembered with a frown that Peter had mentioned earlier getting six hours like it was an achievement, and Tony realized the kid must’ve been missing out on sleep again (so he was right earlier, and Peter was a liar).

   He supposed that right in that moment, it didn’t really matter, because at least he was sleeping now, and Tony couldn’t help but smile, because lately, Peter had picked up the habit of shooting webs at Tony’s face if he even got near him. May had laughed when he told her this, and assured him that he was just going through that “I’m too old to hug my parents phase,” and that she got the same treatment.

   That sucked for them though, their kid wanting nothing to do with them, like that didn’t hurt at all. He’d get over it, because it was just part of being a teenager. And he was lucky too, lucky that Peter hadn’t turned out like him, because at least he didn’t have to worry about his kid going out and getting shit faced drunk.  It was a nice moment though, and he was at least grateful for that.

  Of course with Tony, all good things must come to an end, and that they did. One moment he was sitting there enjoying some quiet with his sleeping child, and the next minute--

   “Hey Stark, I was told you were sulking, and honestly, I was kind of offended when you didn’t-- whoa, what the hell?”

   Tony quickly shushed Barton, gesturing to the sleeping teenager next to him, the sign all parents knew as “Hush! Baby sleeping!” But then it clicked and, wait, what the hell?

   “What thefuck?” Tony said, glaring accusingly at the offending person. Peter stirred at the noise, he leaned away from his dad and blearily examined the current situation. It took the kid a second, but when he processed what had just happened, and who was standing in his father’s living room, his eyes grew comically large.

   “Peter, go to your room,” Tony said.

   Peter looked like he wanted to argue, but Tony fixed him with that “Do not test me” look, so he trudged back to his room.

   When the bedroom door had opened and closed, and Friday confirmed that the teen was in fact in his bed, he turned wildly to Clint.

   “What the hell are you doing here?”

   “Uh.. Why am I at the Avengers compound? Well everyone is getting back together, and I was told I should be here for this, so...”

    “Why are you on my floor.”

   Clint shrugged, “I don’t know. To say hi? The others were pretty much egging me on up here, I’m guessing they were told to stay away?”

       “Yes,” he said through grit teeth, “Yes, they were.”

   Clint shrugged again, “Oh well. Oops. Nice kid by the way, is he yours?”

“No, Barton, I just let random teenagers hang out in the compound and drool all over my jackets.”

   Clint put his hands up to placate him, “Alright, alright, I was just making sure-- how long have you had him?”

   “Since before any of you came along,” he scoffed, not wanting to go into specifics about his family past with fucking Barton.

   Clint sputtered a little, “Wait, are you serious? I assumed you would have just met him or something. How did no one else know-- and oh my god that actually explains a lot.”

   Tony glared at him, jerking back in offence at the suggestion that he hadn’t been present in his son’s life all this time. The headache that had started yesterday just kept getting stronger and stronger with each new situation. He groaned into his hands, and wondered how the hell things had even gotten to this point.

   “Hey,” Clint said, reassuring, “Secret dad club, Stark. I won’t tell anyone about this, but if your kid is in the compound, I wouldn’t expect to hold onto that secret for much longer.”

   Tony eyed him wearily, knowing he was probably right-- which sucked. He had no idea how the possible confrontation others would react if they found out about his son.

   The two stood there in silence, neither knowing where to go from there, Tony rubbed at his collar, and Clint glanced around the room, and down the hall Peter had just went down.

   He looked back at Tony, “So, he said,” wearing a shit eating grin, “Just to be clear-- that isn’t a small agent?

   Tony picked up a throw pillow from the couch and pegged it at the other man’s head. “Get the hell off my floor, Barton.”

   The next day, Peter moped around the kitchen while Tony drank his coffee at the table.

   “How do we not have cereal?” He whined, opening and closing cabinets.

   “We did have cereal, you ate it all.”

   Peter frowned. “Well, why was there only one box?”

   Tony scoffed, “Because we’re only here till Tuesday, I don’t like cereal, and an entire family sized box of froot loops can feed one person for three days. You did this to yourself, kid.”

   Peter groaned, slamming a cabinet door shut, and dramatically draped himself across the kitchen counter. “I have no will to live.”

   Tony rolled his eyes. “Peter, get up, and don’t say that.” He walked over to the fridge and inspected it’s contents. He’d had it stocked before they came upstate, so there was a decent amount of food. He grabbed an orange from the crisper and threw it at Peter. “Here, have some fruit, it’s good for you.”

   “I want Froot Loops, not actual fruit.”

   Tony hummed, “Sucks for you, Kid.”

   He grabbed the orange that Peter had pushed away, and forced it into his hand. “Eat,” he said, “I have to go, and Friday will tell me if you throw that away.”

   Peter scowled, Friday (and JARVIS when he was younger), had always been the bane of existence. Normal kids could discreetly toss their unwanted food to their dog or in the trash, Peter couldn’t. Friday would always snitch on him.

   “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “I know the drill.”

   Tony smirked, “Good, then we’re on the same page. I’ll be back later,” he said, ruffling Peter’s hair as a goodbye. Peter pressed a quick hug to his side in return.

   “You better not take ten years, today,” Peter said, “I wanted to go in the lab but Friday said I couldn’t go in by myself.”

 “She’s doing her job then. I don’t trust that you won’t set the lab on fire if I’m not there.”

   Peter Pouted, “That was one time.”

  “Yeah, one time too many,” he said, “I’ll be back at three, stay out of trouble till then.”

   “And don’t set the kitchen on fire,” he called over his shoulder.

   ”It was one time!”

    ---

   Tony was early when he got to the conference room, which would have been a surprise to everyone, had anyone else had been there. The only other team member there was Cap, nursing a cup of coffee. Figures that grandpa would be the first one up and about.

  Steve was mid sip when  Tony had entered the room, so he choked on his coffee when he realized who had come in so early. Tony barely suppressed an eye roll at this, sure he wasn’t always very punctual, but it wasn’t like him being early warranted such a reaction.

   “Tony,” Steve spluttered, “You’re early.” He glanced at the clock sitting in the corner of the room, “like, fifty minutes early.”

   Tony shrugged, pulling out a laptop and setting it down infront of him. “I got up early, and I have work to do.”

   “Why?”

   “Why do I have work to do? I literally own Stark Industries, and I have all this avengers shit going on too.”

   “No. Why’d you get up early?”

    Because of a certain spider child happened to wake up early.

    “What, is having a decent sleep schedule not a thing anymore?”

   Steve narrowed his eyes, “Not for you.”

   Tony dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I just got up early, and even if there was a greater reason, it really wouldn’t concern you, Rogers.”

   Steve looked a little offended for a second before schooling his expression back into place. He stirred his coffee and Tony turned his attention back to the computer in front of him. The next forty or so minutes were spent in an uncomfortable silence before the others started trickling in, some earlier than others. A few of them (read: Wilson and Maximoff) took a visible double take when they noticed Stark there before anyone else, and others had the decency to not to react because really, him being on time really wasn’t that big a deal-- nor was itthat unusual.

   When Barton entered, Tony felt a spike of anxiety when he whispered something to Natasha, but the latter just laughed, and Tony was able to relax, because they were just talking. The way that friends do. He wasn’t exposing anyone’s secrets. It was fine.

   Throughout the meeting, Tony felt constantly on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop-- for Clint to announce what he had learned to the rest of the team. But he wouldn’t do that, right? He had kids that he’d kept from the Avengers too, he wouldn’t do another parent dirty, like that. Right?

   It didn’t even make sense that only now he was worried about anyone finding out about Peter. He’d had him for eleven years, and no one had found out. Maybe it was the fact that he was just a couple floors above them. All the other times he’d been with the team, Peter had been with May, or on a few occasions, Pepper had volunteered to look after him. This was an entirely new situation. He supposed that his constant unease could also be over their recent falling out. Over what happened in Siberia.

   Maybe he’d felt uncomfortable with his child being around the same man who’d protected the man who killed his parents.

   Minus Clint and Rhodey (and Rhodey was obviously a given,) no one even suspected that he might be hiding a secret child. They would have no reason to, and he wouldn’t give them a reason either.

   Ding

   Peter: so hypothetically, i could drink clorox, right? Cause like with anyone else it would destroy their tissue, but I really think my enhanced healing could keep the bleach from corroding my cell tissue

  Peter : I mean not that I want to drink bleach but like,,, i could

   “Oh, for christ’s sake,” he groaned aloud and all eyes turned to him. He mentally slapped himself when he realized he had voiced his frustration.

   “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he said, “Don’t mind me.”

   Steve, the current speaker, gave him a skeptical look, but nonetheless turned the attention back to the discussion, brushing past the disruption.

   Once the attention was turned back to the captain, he discreetly passed his phone to Rhodey who was in the seat next to him. ‘Should I be concerned?’ Tony’s face read. Rhodes turned his attention to the phone and snorted when he saw the texts.

   “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he whispered, handing the phone back to Tony. “He’s not stupid enough to try it.”

    Tony hummed, typing out a message in response. No, Peter wasn’t stupid at all, but sometimes Tony suspected he might have just a littletoo much faith in his abilities.

   Me: You are not allowed around cleaning supplies ever again.

   Peter: oh cool you should tell may that

   Peter: I won't have to clean the bathroom :)

   “Who’s Peter?”

   Tony jumped at the voice right by his ear, and jerked his head to the side to see Natasha reading over his shoulder. “None of your business,” he snapped, “Geez, Romanoff, ever hear of privacy?”  

   She shrugged, “Ever heard of being discreet? Who’s Peter and why isn’t he allowed near cleaning supplies?”

   Tony sighed, and felt a slight bit of relief at the fact that she hadn’t seen Peter’s little “I could drink bleach comment,” because that would certainly raise questions. He slipped his phone back in his suit pocket, “Mind your own business Romanoff,” he said.

   Tony turned his attention back to Steve, who looked like he was becoming mildly irritated with all the chatter. Natasha turned and raised an eyebrow at Clint, who in return, shrugged like he had no idea what any of that could have been about, a gesture she didn’t believe for a second. Clint had found what Stark was hiding last night, despite his claims otherwise.

   Well then. Natasha was a spy, she was trained to question everything. And if Clint wasn’t going to let her in on whatever secret Stark had sworn him to, she’d just find out herself.

--

   It was late. So very late. Tony sat in the living room clutching a cup of coffee like someone was going to take it. He should be sleeping, or at least trying to, but something about lying in a dark room for hours on end just didn’t seem all that appealing. He sat with the TV on, playing ever so softly in the background. He’d sent Peter to bed about three hours ago, it was now three o’clock in the morning, and still, sleep evaded him like a student who’d seen their teacher out in public.

   He figured it was the stress, or the headache, or maybe it was the headache, and that headache had been caused by the stress. Maybe his insomnia had just came back with a vengeance. Maybe it was all the coffee he had been consuming-- is consuming. He might never know.

   He considered going down to his lab, maybe work on a suit, he still had to rewrite what Peter had changed in the Spider-Man suit, and that included making it harder for the kid to get in to too. The longer he thought about it, the better tinkering around in his lab sounded. It certainly beat just… sitting. Sitting was boring, not his style.

   Well then, that sounded like a plan. Too bad he was Tony Stark, because for the second time, plans don’t ever work out for Tony Stark, so…

   “You’re hiding something Stark.”

   “ Jesus fucking christ!” Tony spun around so quick he could hear the air rushing past his ears. Coffee spilt everywhere, on his shirt, on his couch, on the floor-- God, what a mess.

   “ Natasha, ” Steve chided, “I thought we agreed not to sneak up on him.”

   Tony sputtered, “What? What the hell are you two doing up here?”

   “You’ve been acting weird,” Natasha said, “We want what the hell is going on with you.”

   Steve muttered something about phrasing things nicer, but agreed that yes, he was acting weird.

   Tony gave the pair an incredulous look, “I’m sorry but can we go back to the part where you thought it was a good idea to dismiss what I asked of you, and snuck up on me at what, three twenty six in the fucking morning?”

   Natasha shrugged, “Friday told us you were still up.”

   “Get off of my floor!”

   “Give us answers.”

   “Tony,” Steve started, “We’re just now getting the team back together, and you’re here keeping secrets.”

   Tony scoffed, “What? So you can have secrets but I can’t?”

   “This is about you, Tony, not me.”

   “Oh, get your head out of your ass, Rogers.”

   “You first.”

   “Both of you, shut up!” Natasha said, getting between the two.

   “Seriously? You come to my private quarters, and you’re going to tell me to shut up?”

    “Tony…” She started, ever so carefully, “ Who is it that you don’t want us to meet?”

   “What? No one.”

   “Don’t lie, you’re no good at it,” She said, “You’ve been so adamant that no one comes up here, Barton clearly found out about somethingup here, and there’s that Peter guy you were talking to earlier.”

   “Is it an enhanced person?” Steve asked, “A potential team member?”

   “What? No,” Tony said, “Nothing like that.”

   Nat quirked an eyebrow, “So it is a someone.”

  “No! I am not hiding anything or anyone from the rest of you, I don’t know why--”

   A panicked scream came from down the hallway where Peter’s bedroom was, capturing all three of them’s attention. Steve and Natasha shared a concern glance, and Steve looked like he was ready to rush down the hallway to take on whatever danger there was head on.

   Tony threw up an arm to stop him, “Stop, it’s okay-- don’t follow me,” he said, taking off.

  They did follow, despite being told otherwise, but Tony didn’t have the time to tell them off as he threw his son’s door open.

   Tony’s heart ached when he saw the sight before him, Peter was sitting upright in bed with his knees curled to his chest. His breathing was ragged and his entire form trembled through tears.

   “Oh, buddy,” Tony tsked, rushing to his kid’s side, “It’s okay, Peter, you’re okay.”

   Peter looked up at the sound of his father’s voice. His eyes were watery and his lip wobbled, more tears threatening to spill out at any minute. He eyed Tony warily, almost like he didn’t believe he was real, afraid that him being there was just some trick.

 “You-you’re alive?” Peter asked.

   Tony frowned, “Of course I’m alive,” he said gently, he pulled peter into a tight hug, “I’m not going anywhere buddy.”

   Peter buried his face in his father’s shoulder, who in response just held him tighter. “I- I had a dream,” Peter choked out, “Y-you and May… dead. I-I-I was alone.”

   “Shh. Shh. It’s okay, Pete. We’re okay, you’re not alone.” He gently rocked the two of them back and forth, a move that both Tony and May had used to ward off bad dreams since Peter was little. It was a comforting gesture, and also extremely personal-- no other people outside Tony’s makeshift little family had ever seen him show anyone that much affection or comfort. So it was very uncomfortable for the father knowing that both Natasha and Steve were standing in the doorway gawking like a couple of idiots.

   He shot them a look over Peter’s head that said: “If you’d be so kind, pleasefuck off.”

Steve nodded, but sent him a look that said “this isn’t over,” before the two retreated back to the living room.

   Once they were gone, Tony returned his attention back to Peter who was slowing starting to relax, showing signs of returning fatigue. “You getting tired, kiddo?” Pete nodded against his dad’s chest, but made no move to let go.

   Sensing that Peter didn’t want to be left alone, he said: “Do you want to sleep in my room tonight?”

   Peter sighed a breath of relief, “Y-yes,” he spit out, and Tony felt a little relieved too, because he never did like leaving Peter by himself after these particularly rough nightmares.

   Peter was still very shaky, so Tony scooped him up and carried him the way to his room. On any other occasion, Peter would be mortified at having his father carry him like a baby, but in this instance, he let himself be carried, finding comfort in the protective gesture.

   Tony set Peter down on the side of the bed that Pepper generally used when she was at the compound with him, and draped the blanket over his shoulders. “I’ll be right back,” he said, running a hand through Peter’s curls, “Do you want the light on?”

   Peter didn’t answer, already falling back to sleep very quickly, so Tony had Friday leave the lights on for him-- just in case.

   When he returned back to the living room, he found Natasha and Steve bickering.

   “You were a shield agent! How did you miss him having a child?”

   “I wasn’t looking for a kid, I was scoping him out for the Avengers Initiative.”

    Steve scoffed, “Really, Nat? It’s a child, you don’t just miss that! If you’re scoping someone out for something, a good thing to notice would be them having a son, I think.”

   “In her defense,” Tony intervened, “The kid was staying with his aunt and uncle when all that shit went down. And it’s not like you ever noticed either, Rogers.”

   “Tony, you’re back.” Steve greeted, Tony brushed past him, making to sit on the couch where he could put his face in his hands.

   “The kid’s aunt and I worked real hard to keep the fact that he’s my son under wraps. His name isn’t even legally Stark.”

   Tony glared at them, “You know, there’s a reason I wanted to keep him from you guys. And when someone tells you to stay on your own floor? There’s a reason for that too.”

   Steve frowned, “We’re sorry, Tony. We were afraid you might be doing something reckless. Natasha was pretty spot on about you hiding someone rather than something… But yeah, we’re sorry.”

   Tony grunted, neither accepting nor out right rejecting the apology.

  “So, we have a lot to talk about.” Nat said, Tony nodded.

   “Yeah, we do-- but not tonight, I’m tired and I’m going to bed.”

   “Tony, you can’t just drop a bombshell like that, and then not explain,” Steve argued.

   “I will bring it up tomorrow, Rogers, so the entire team can discuss it. But right now, it is well past three in the fucking morning, my kid just woke up screaming-- I’m going to bed. You two should do the same.”

   Steve sighed, “Fine. Good night Tony, let’s go, Nat.”

   Natasha, who hadn’t had a lot to say about the revelation, gave Tony a long lasting look before following Steve. Once they were gone, Tony breathed out a long sigh of relief, and brought a hand to his temple, because Christ, this headache was never going to go away.

   He guessed all of that meant working in the lab was now off, but he didn’t really care that much, because all of his energy had been sucked out with a fucking vacuum cleaner after all that.

   Tony thought as he climbed into bed next to Peter, that the only bright side to all this was that at least he’d be able to go back to Manhattan tomorrow.

   He ran a hand through Peter’s hair as the boy slept peacefully curled against his side, and he smiled. It was a moment like the one last night where Peter had fallen asleep on his shoulder, only this time, Barton wasn’t there to barge in and ruin that. He frowned thinking about Clint, and the rest of the avengers. They would know about Peter now-- that was an eleven year old secret that had just been tossed out the window (he blamed Peter.) He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, nervous for sure. And he was a little worried about breaking that news to May, (though she didn’t seem like she really cared all that much on Friday).

 And well, despite any uncertainty he had right about then, he did know one thing: this headache? It was never going away.

#iron dad and spider son #spiderman #spider man homecoming #ironman #avengers #tony stark #peter parker

[lovelyfictional-imagines]

Coffee. (Twelfth Doctor x Reader)

I may or may not have based this solely off of how I make my coffee in the morning. You can’t prove it.

I wrote this a few days ago, my fingers were just off and I’m quite happy with it. I’ll probably end up editing it hundreds of times before I’m remotely content with it. Part of what inspired me is Move Together by James Bay, despite it not having anything to do with it.

I like the idea of Twelve being soft on the human. I also have another in my drafts describing her flat, and it hits home. Twelve is definitely my top favorite Doctor, I’m sorry about the spam, I hope my Four and Bill fics broke the monotony.

Not much to really say about this one. Another Four will be coming soon, though! As always, I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always welcome!

Until next fic,

- Ashley

Word Count: 1231

The Doctor had actually slept, spent a bit longer than his usual cat nap on his companion’s couch. It was more comfortable than it looked, as he felt properly refreshed. At least more refreshed than before. Looking around the small living room, he watched the sun begin to slip into the room, barely seen.

Normally resolute eyes seemed to melt into something more affectionate upon seeing his companion. (Y/N) was balled into her large, pea green armchair, (S/C) legs draped over the arm, covered entirely by a large quilt. Black fabric was balled up and tucked tightly into her arms. Recalling her saying she was going to bed and then vanishing into her bedroom, he was confused as to why she was there of all places.

“Must’ve been a result of a night terror, or something of the like.” He mumbled beneath his breath, careful not to wake her. Up he went as he observed more light make its way into the room. Pale yellow walls met white countertops, basic in design but optimal in practicality in her rarely used kitchen. Beneath the counters, tucked away in cabinets were barely used utilities that he rummaged through, looking for one particular piece of kitchenware.

“Mr. Coffee? Sounds about right.”

Emerging from the cabinet, miniature black coffee maker in hand, he placed it on the counter with a grimace. He set to work, grabbing filters and coffee grounds and sugar jars. Quickly the pot was filled with water, grounds carefully measured, and the maker was started. At least, to the best of his abilities it was.

The Doctor leaned against the counter, watching London below begin to stir. Cars were being started, cabs were being hailed, and people began to file out of their respective apartment complexes and onto the sidewalk, briefcases in hand. A certain feeling of contentment filled him as he knew he’d never be a part of it. Another feeling of wonder followed for the same reason.

How simple humans could be. Many had quite obvious aspirations, like to build a home or family, or to seek monetary fulfillment. Others he found were more like his dear (Y/N), who wasn’t completely content with the humdrum of day-to-day life. She took pleasure in small domestic activities, such as brewing coffee or sitting in to read, instead of joining boisterous colleagues at a pub. But she found gratification in these undemanding tasks in the TARDIS, off in another time and away from her Earth.

The Doctor took great pride in all of his companions, especially those similar to her. Wanderlust seemingly thrummed in her veins, she always wanted more, to see more, hear more, experience more. Homey habits were cast aside to run alongside him, to never slow down. Until they had to.

Just like now, as he stood in her kitchen preparing a massive cup of coffee for her, is a time they had to stop. Small flats with just enough space for the TARDIS seemed to be ideal for her when she needed time to recuperate from never ending adventures. Not that the Doctor minded much. Much.

A bit of him enjoyed the domesticated portions of their time together, feeling as if the universe has removed her prying eyes for a moment to allow them respite. Seeing his companion—friend, he should call her—resting, comfortable, and most importantly safe, brought him more peace and genuine happiness than saving entire worlds’ worth of people.

The telltale thumping of coffee spewing from the maker had stopped, signaling its end. He poured the steaming liquid into her enormous mug, and began spooning in large lumps of sugar. Scoops of cream followed until the color had gone from one shade to the next, from as black as night to ivory-colored silk. Shaking his head, he released a dramatic sigh.

“I’m getting soft, too soft on this girl, too soft for this... this human..”

Despite his monologue, he carefully took the mug in hand and walked it into the living room. Positions of the hands on the clock indicated it was nearing dawn, and he knew she’d be up soon. She never rested enough, even with his constant “harping”, as she’d lovingly deemed it, for her to sleep more, but he couldn’t change it. Couldn’t speak out too much against her insomniac tendencies, when he slept for an hour or two at a time himself, even if it was all he needed.

Hushed yawns erupted from the lump on the armchair, and the Doctor couldn’t resist the tranquil smile that spread across his features. Small hands extended out, quiet pops indicated her stretching. Making his way round to see her, he held the porcelain cup carefully. Heavy circles still remained beneath her (light/dark) eyes, though alleviated somewhat. A sleepy smile stretched her lips, though.

“Good morning sleeping beauty! Time to get up and going, today’s bad decisions aren’t going to make themselves!” The Doctor knelt down to be level with her own face. A groan tumbled from her mouth, and she twisted to face the back of the chair.

“It’s too early.”

“I am quite aware, but we both know you’re not going back to sleep now.”

“I might.”

“(Y/N).”

“Alright, alright. You enjoy being right at all times, even this early, huh?”

“It’s never too early to be right, now come on.”

With that, she maneuvered into a sitting position, rubbing her eyes as the black fabric she’d previously been clutching fell to the floor. The Doctor replaced it with the cup, and received a grateful smile in return. Remaining in his crouched position, he watched her throat as she drank. Hypnotizing, almost, the way it rose and fell with each gulp.

“Ready to go? I’ve already got our next journey planned, we can pop right over into the—“

“Doctor! Wait! What’s the rush? Late for the early bird special? Bingo already started?”

The Doctor fixed her with an intense glare, causing her to snort and put her glass down onto the end table in front of her.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing! Don’t get your unders in a twist. I’m just saying, I’ve some laundry to do, I need a bit of time. Then we can go. Okay?”

Hmmphing in mock contempt, he crossed his arms. “Fine. But don’t take too long.”

Victorious again, (Y/N) broke into a grin. “Thank you, Doctor. I won’t be long, I swear.” Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “And thank you for the coffee, you’ve somehow made it better than I would have.” Another kiss pressed to his other cheek, leaving a dumbfound Time Lord crouching in front of her chair as she hopped up, moving off in direction of her room, caffeinated beverage in hand.

As he recovered from the bewildering effect that her lips had caused, he allowed his fingers to ghost over his cheek. Before standing the Doctor realized she’d left the black garment on the floor at his feet. Taking it in hand, he realized what it was. He smiled, an actual toothy grin, as he recognized his coat he’d worn there.

In an instant he resumed his usual dissatisfied expression. Smoothing out the wrinkles in his outer layer, he slipped it on over his hoodie. “Too soft indeed, very much so.”

But still he simpered to himself, hoping to be thanked in such a manner again very soon.

#twelfth doctor #12th doctor x reader #doctor who #whovian #fanfiction #fandom #doctor who imagine #fandom imagines #the doctor x reader #doctor who fanfiction #coffee #reader insert #domestic #kind of #sorry for the spam

[krustywhore]

epilogue

here it is. sorry in advance. (also, tumblr doesn’t keep italics and stuff and i’m too lazy to add them back in, so here it is on ao3 with all that jazz)

tag list: @the-woild-is-my-what-now @wetcoffeejpg @disasterbisexualhere @landofgoodbye @queer-pippa @king-of-new-yoirk @hellomynameisjo @hufflepuffpride210 @turnitoffspot

Guilt isn't something real. It's not physical, you can't touch it or get rid of it, but it's always there. It's almost as if it's an entity of its own. Guilt is a force that eats you up from the inside, clawing away at every last piece of hope that you had until it's gone and the only thing left is the knowledge that there's always something else you could've done.

The moment that Jack and Race walked into the lodging house, everything was different. None of the other newsies dared to say a word. They just sat there staring as Spot set Skip down on Davey's lap before rushing to the two. He slid an arm around Race's waist, supporting the boy a little more as they walked into a small room off the main hallway. The two older boys gently maneuvered Race onto one of the beds, closing the door behind them.

Jack finally let himself breathe as he sat down on the old, wood floors. The cracking paint on the walls, the rumble of the old plumbing running throughout, and all the things that reminded him that, as completely insane as it felt, he was home. He was home and the strike was over. He was here and so was Race. They were home. He and Spot carefully made sure the boy was comfortable before he heard the door behind them creak open.

Spot turned around expectantly like any regular person would've.

Jack immediately dove in front of Race, keeping the boy tucked behind him. He shut his eyes fiercely as if prepping for impact, but nothing came.

"Jack?" That wasn't Snyder. That wasn't Snyder, or one of the bulls, or a guard, or anyone that would ever hurt him.

He cracked his eyes open just the slightest amount and Davey was standing terrified in the doorway. His chest felt tight just looking at the boy so afraid of him, but he couldn't help the relief that flooded over him.

"Fuck," he muttered, running his hands through his hair as he felt his heartbeat begin to slow. He stood, wobbling a little on tired legs, and collapsed into the taller boy's arms. "Dave I's so sorry."

His tears poured down his cheeks as he clung tightly for dear life. "I thought I'd never see you again, Jack," Davey's voice shook as he spoke into Jack's hair. "God, I thought I almost lost you."

Their heartbeats were beating perfectly in sync, Jack finally letting himself relax even for just a second.

"I don' wanna' talk, I don' wanna' talk 'bout it, Dave," he breathed, his voice wavering a little as the other ran his fingers up and down Jack's spine.

"That's okay," Davey quickly assured him. "I won't make you talk about it until you're ready. Don't even worry about it."

Jack let out a shaky exhale and tightened his grip on Davey's waist.

"Come on, Jackie, let's go sit down. We can talk about this later, but let's get you to bed for a little while-"

"No!" Jack interrupted, holding onto Davey tight enough to probably leave a bruise, but the boy didn't make any attempt to move him. "I...I can't leave, I-I can't leave 'im."

" 'S fine, Kelly. I got 'im, jus' take care a' ya'self," Spot spoke up, his normally steely gaze now just as afraid as Jack's, a strange sort of comfort to the boy. "Let Dave take care a' ya', I'll be sure ta' let ya' know if anythin' happens, I promise."

Jack hesitated for a moment before he nodded against Davey's chest and the latter led him upstairs to the rooftop.

The silence of the increasingly emptying room was deafening. Spot felt like he could finally relax a little, though, as he closed the door and sat down on the edge of the small cot. He gently ran his fingers through Race's hair, trying as hard as he could not to think about how high his fever felt against his hand.

He couldn't lose Race. He just couldn't.

He took a chance on that kid, really opened up to someone for the first time since he'd been living on the streets, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to do it again if anything happened to that boy. So he couldn't lose him. He couldn't watch the one person he truly loved slip through his fingers without ever being able to do anything.

So that was why he took up a small collection from the kids in Brooklyn, he made some bets at the Sheepshead, and even took an extra few papes every day so he could get that boy a proper doctor. A little voice in the back of his head was warning him that it was hopeless. It was screaming not to waste his time on something so doomed, but he didn't care. Besides, it was for Race. Even if it was for nothing, it wouldn't be wasted. Any effort he made would be worth it for every single day they got to spend together.

And as he sat in that room for days just talking to the boy and waiting for him to wake up, he began to realize things. Like all the years that he had taken for granted. He never once sat down and thought about what his life would be like without Race sneaking in through his bedroom window every night. He never imagined what it would be like to sell alone at the races, never once daring to risk his money on the bets. Hell, he never thought he'd lose Race to the refuge even for just a few days! They spent years hiding what was then only an innocent friendship with Race somehow finding the means to sneak back and forth between Manhattan and Brooklyn hundreds of times.

Race never got caught. Not doing anything. He stole Finch's slingshot? No one would ever know. He snagged one of Henry's combs? Hell if anyone else knew! The refuge never even seemed like a problem until all of a sudden there he was.

Spot spent that night and many others not leaving that tiny room for longer than it took to go to the bathroom or to grab Race a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen.

Two days had gone by when Race finally started getting antsy. Hell, he hadn't seen his friends in ages at that point! Jack and Davey had been paranoid, not letting anyone into the room without showering first, swearing that if there was any way to prevent any more germs from getting in there, they would take full advantage of it.

But then Race asked to see Crutchie.

They all knew he was going to eventually. Crutchie had even been asking Jack if he could ever since the boys got back, but it was just too risky at first.

Until they thought, maybe it wasn't.

After all that time, Crutchie would finally get to see the boy that literally almost died just on the off chance he would save him. He wasn't sure if he could even bring himself to do it.

It wasn't until December twelfth. The worst day.

Everyone had thought things were getting better. They all thought the refuge was behind them. The strike was over, the newsies throughout the city were living better than ever before, and it seemed like that meant Manhattan too.

But that was before Race seemed to stop getting better. Sure, anything had been better than that cramped little cell in the refuge and it did wonders at first just to be back in the lodging house, but soon enough, there wasn't much else that fresh air and a bed could fix.

And that was when Jack started working harder. He took at least an extra fifty papes every day just in an attempt to get some more food for the boy at the end of the day.

And then Spot stopped leaving Manhattan. He would sell some papes through Manhattan's circulation if Race was asleep, and if he wasn't, he refused to leave his side.

It was awful not knowing whether anything they were doing was making a difference at all.

Most of Manhattan's boys weren't even allowed into the room where they were keeping Race. That is, unless he specifically asked for them. They claimed it was too dangerous and they couldn't risk the chance of making his infection worse by bringing in any unnecessary germs, but Race knew the other side to it.

They didn't the boys to see him.

Race couldn't really see what he looked like, but he knew it had to be bad. He knew however bad it was, it was enough to scare the kids, and that was all the answer he needed.

So he played along and agreed when he needed to that letting any extra germs in was a risk no one was willing to take.

But that morning of December twelfth, Jack came into Race's small room to try and get some fluids into him. Spot, who had refused to leave the boy's side yet again, was still asleep against the wall by the bed, his hand in Race's.

Race sat up slightly as he heard the boy walk in, accepting Jack's glass of water and sipping it slowly. The lukewarm drink still felt like heaven on his dry throat. He had gone a few days without speaking more than a few instances, but every breath was like sandpaper in his throat and he could barely fill his lungs from what felt like a pile of bricks on his chest.

Jack looked like a trainwreck. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and that didn't help the darkening bags under his eyes either. He never smiled anymore, not real ones anyway. He was too busy driving himself insane with guilt.

"Jackie," Race rasped, grateful that the boy was still close enough so he wouldn't have to strain his voice much. Jack looked up and met his gaze, a mutual sadness behind their eyes for the other's state. "D'ya think Crutchie's ready ta' see me?"

Jack twisted up the corner of his lips almost like the signature smirks that always used to paint his face, but this wasn't the same. But he nodded, shrugging his shoulders.

"I know ya' wanna' talk to 'im, he jus'...he's tryna' take tha' blame for all a' this. He's jus' scared, 's all. I's sure if I told 'im you's real eager ta' see 'im, he'd give in," Jack spoke with something akin to fondness in his tone when he spoke about his friend, almost like he felt the same.

He did, Race knew he did. Jack just wouldn't let himself admit it, but he felt responsible. He tortured himself with that guilt just the same.

"Thanks," Race mumbled, a small smile creeping its way out in hopes of reassuring the other.

Jack nodded once more, bowing his head as he stood, carefully closing the door behind him.

As soon as Jack was gone, Race squeezed Spot's hand gently, watching as the boy began to stir. God, he really was nearly as bad as Jack. He instantly sat up on his knees, switching his position to be able to assess the other. The panic in his eyes was almost natural at that point as Spot quickly feared for the worst.

Race smiled weakly, reaching up as he cupped Spot's cheek in his palm. The latter chuckled awkwardly, still slightly uncomfortable by the affection.

"I's okay, Spotty. Ya' don't gotta' worry all tha' time, I ain't goin' nowhere," Race whispered, softening the other's expression. Spot covered Race's hand on his face, leading it over slightly as he quickly kissed the boy' palm.

"I ain't gonna' stop worryin'," he stated, Race nodding as he knew it was true. "But I'll try."

The other smiled, his baby blue eyes once again holding a sparkled the way they used to.

"Thank you," he mumbled, leaning over the edge of the bed as he bent his head forward onto Spot's shoulder. He tilted his chin just enough for his chapped lips to meet the other's tanned neck and he felt his pulse beating.

Spot ducked down, his fingers curling gently around the other's shirt collar as he found Race's lips and kissed him for real that time. It felt like it had been so long. So, so, long. The hand holding his shirt slid back up to hold the base of his neck and Race tossed an arm over Spot's shoulder. They couldn't stop smiling. It was like a trance had suddenly changed everything, even for just a moment.

For just a moment, Race didn't feel like he was breaking apart. He didn't feel like every touch on his body was a burn. For once since he had left, he felt like he could breathe right and his headache wasn't making him dizzy, this time it was just the giddiness in his heart that made him feel like he was floating.

"I love you," Race murmured breathlessly as they broke apart, leaning their foreheads together. "I nearly lost my head in tha' refuge  afta' ya' said that, Spotty. I...I thought I wouldn't eva' be able ta' say it back, but I love ya'. I love ya' so much."

Spot had tears in his eyes when he leaned back. His hands were shaking as he quickly reached for Race's.

"Wait, did I...did I do somethin'? Spot, baby, I's sorry, I didn't mean ta', I swear, I jus'-"

Spot kissed him again, holding the back of the boy's neck as Race's surprise slowly turned into pleasure and he relaxed, winding his arms around Spot's shoulders.

"Don't ya' dare apologize," Spot grumbled breathily, only pausing for a second before diving back in. "I love ya' too, you goddamn idiot."

Race chucked, freezing as he heard the door creak open. He pulled away, looking up towards the door as his face went beet red. Crutchie was standing in the doorway, a mix of relief and embarrassment on his equally-red face.

'H-hey Crutch," Race spoke up, his voice cracking and definitely not helping his embarrassment.

Crutchie smiled, shifting in place awkwardly as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I, uh...I can go if ya' want," he suggested, an uncomfortable forced smile on his face.

"No! No, it's...it's okay, we's jus' sayin' goodbye, right Spotty?" Race nudged his boyfriend's shoulder as the latter only gave a small sigh of disappointment. Race glared a little, but Spot just stood, bending down to quickly kiss the other's forehead, and he reluctantly left. "Thanks for comin'. I, um...I didn't really know what ta' say. Still don't really."

Crutchie crossed the room, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside Race as he listened to his friend ramble.

"Oh, it's okay," Crutchie quickly assured him. "I didn't really...know what ta' say either, I guess."

They didn't speak for a moment. Crutchie couldn't speak as soon as he heard Race cough. He watched the boy clutch his hands to his chest as his throat rasped and Crutchie felt sick.

"I can't," he mumbled, leaning forward to bury his face in his hands. "I can't jus'...sit here."

As Crutchie stood, dragging himself over to the door, he looked back at Race and the heartbroken look on his face said it all.

"Char-"

"I fuckin' did this ta' you," he breathed, his hands gripping at his face and hair as tears pooled in the corners of his eyes. Race tried to stand up, immediately wobbling like a foal on his stick-thin legs. He hadn't tried to stand without help in ages. He should've known he'd be in a sheepish heap on the ground within a few seconds. Crutchie tossed his crutch to the side as he tried to catch the other, but, as he should definitely know after years of using his crutch, he too, found himself on the ground.

And then Race laughed. It was small and hoarse, but it was a laugh. Crutchie looked up from frantically trying to make sure the boy was okay and felt himself relax.

"Sorry," he mumbled, blushing a little as he brushed away the tears that had been spilling down his cheeks just moments ago.

Race smiled sheepishly, folding his legs underneath his body as he picked himself up off the floor. He opened his arms, gesturing for the younger boy to come closer as he pushed himself across the floor to hug the other tightly. Race winced at first at the tightening of his skin that stung his chest, but it soon began to fade into numbness and he let himself focus on making sure that his friend was okay.

"I's so sorry," Crutchie mumbled into Race's shoulder, the shakiness returning to his voice. Race forced out a weak chuckle as he curled his arm up around the boy, ruffling his hair a little. "I's so sorry, this is all my fault, I...I should'a been tha' one in there, not you's. We don't...we don't trade lives."

Race felt his heart fall through his chest as it shattered on the floor.

"W-we don't trade lives for each other," Crutchie shuddered, gripping onto the back of Race's shirt in tight fistfuls. "Y-ya' can't give ya'self up jus' for me, I don'-"

"Crutch, I ain't tradin' my life for anythin'," Race interrupted. His eyes were tried and puffy, but stern. Not a hint of anything but honesty. "I wasn't gonna' let ya' in there, I know it ain't a place you's eva' gonna' get out of, so's I figured I'd give it a shot. Ya' know me, I's too stubborn ta' let 'em keep me locked up for long. It's jus' a matter a' days b'fore I bust outta' this joint too."

Crutchie giggled a little, redness filling his cheeks. He let his smile stay that time as Race coughed again, this time a little harsher, but Crutchie tried not to worry as much. Race was still there. he was still the annoying asshole who wouldn't let anyone keep him cooped up for long and before Crutchie could even blink, he'd be back on the streets jogging over to Brooklyn like nothing ever happened. He knew it. At the time felt so real he could see it when he shut his eyes.

So he did it again.

That night, just before the sun went down, Crutchie looked up from his book. With more convincing than the boys would like to admit, Crutchie was able to get them to agree to let him keep watch that night. He was almost certain Spot was probably still sitting right outside the door and Jack was probably sitting in the common room right next door with his ear to the wall, but he didn't care. It had only been about half an hour since Crutchie came back, but he was so much more relaxed than when he first showed up. Race was just drifting in and out of sleep, coughing every one in a while, and then going back to bed.

He never could've seen it coming. It didn't matter how many times Davey told him it wasn't his fault, or that he couldn't have known something was up, but he couldn't stop thinking about all the things he missed.

It had been less than half an hour when Race started coughing and didn't stop. After a few coughs, he closed his book, rolling over onto his side.

"Race? You okay?" He tried not to let the increasing worry show in his voice, but he could tell it was plastered all over his face as soon as Race rolled over onto his back and looked up at the other. "Oh shit, okay, j-jus' hold on a second, I's gonna' go get Jack, jus' s-stay right 'ere." Crutchie rambled, scrambling to his feet as he collected his crutch and practically flew out the door.

Just outside the door, as they both suspected, was Spot. He dashed in right behind Crutchie as he slid to his knees, immediately looking everywhere but Race's face.

"H-hey baby," he whispered, trying to choke back the panic in his voice as his throat went dry. God, his heart was going to beat right out of his chest if he didn't find some way to fix this. "It's gonna' be okay, I promise. I won't let anythin' happen to ya', I swear. Not ever again."

Race smiled a little, mainly just for Spot's sake, but it was there. He couldn't deny that the way Spot took Race's hand and held it to his own chest to prove he was there made him feel just a little bit better. Race opened his mouth to speak, a dry, raspy sound coming out instead as Spot quickly reached over to run his thumb over the boy's lips.

"Shh, don't hurt ya'self, Tony. It ain't worth it, jus' save it for later," he teased at the end, a little watery smile covering up the little devilish, self-conscious voice in his head telling him there wasn't going to be a 'later'. He blocked it out. He had to.

So Race didn't speak, he just pulled his hand away from where it held Spot's against the latter's chest, bringing it to his lips and kissing it softly where their fingers wound together. As he lifted their hands away, he closed his eyes softly for just a moment, taking a couple slow breaths as if he had the wind knocked out of him. His shaky inhales were painful, it was written all over his face, but he still held it back and didn't let it show.

That made all the difference after Jack stumbled in the door, catching himself from falling on the doorframe. It was like slow motion as Jack's confused look shattered into horror. He clutched his mouth, leaning his head into the doorframe, a few seconds of hesitation, possibly disbelief, crossing his mind before he opened his eyes again and nothing had changed. Not a dream. No, not even a nightmare.

"J-Jack?" Race spoke up, looking over Spot's shoulder as the mentioned boy moved to kneel beside Spot.

"Yeah, kid. I's right here," he spoke, forcing his lips to curl up, but not even coming close to meeting his eyes. "I's right 'ere, jus' like I's been every step a' the way. I ain't goin' nowhere, kid."

Race managed a small smile before coughing again, this time too fast to grab a scrap of the old rags and simply coughing into his hands instead. Nothing could ever prepare the boys in that room for the look on Race's face when he pulled away his hand and blood came dripping through his fingers and dribbling down his chin. He looked dizzy, like the thought of seeing something so horrific had finally sunk it, but Spot quickly climbed around on top of the bed, seating himself right beside Race as he sat up against the wall.

"C'mon Tony, ya' gotta' sit up, jus' come 'ere n' sit wit' me," he murmured, sliding his hands under Race's shoulders and pulling him back from behind, holding him tight against his chest. Spot wasn't sure if Race could feel his heartbeat pounding against his back, but it was there, searing and throbbing and absolutely fucking terrified. "That's it, you's okay, I got ya'."

Race winced a little as he finally reached a comfortable position, but he knew he would rather be curled up with Spot than alone in that claustrophobic little room drowning in his own blood.

"J-J-Jack?" He croaked, the aforementioned boy taking one of his hands as soon as he spoke.

"Right 'ere, kid," Jack sighed, trying to keep the fear out of his voice to the best of his ability.

"I don't wanna g-go," he cried, his eyes wide and full of tears as Jack froze under his gaze. "I...I's scared, Jack."

Spot's arms tightened around his boyfriend as he leaned forward, kissing the crook of the boy's neck. There was a small spot on Race's shirt where the other's tears had fallen.

Jack couldn't move. His mind was spinning in circles and everything hurt. He couldn't. He couldn't just...die.

He had promised. Jack made a promise when he took over Manhattan that he would protect those kids and now...now he had no idea what to do anymore. He wasn't sure if he was still crying, he couldn't feel anything, just the dizziness in his head and the knife that felt like it was twisting right into his heart.

Spot whispered something into Race's ear that only seemed to make things worse. Jack would've been the first to go after him, but for once, he couldn't bring himself to move.

"Everythin's gonna' be fine," Spot rambled, almost as if he was trying to convince himself, rather than Race. "I ain't gonna' let anythin' happen to ya', don't ya' know that? I ain't gonna' let you go, ya' should know by now, I ain't good at giving up, Tony."

Race smiled weakly, a slight tilt of his head giving him space to bury his face into Spot's neck, rolling onto his side and giving Jack a full view of the thing that was causing this whole mess. Right there, in the middle of Race's chest, was a spot of blood seeping through the front of his shirt and dripping slowly down through the holes in the fabric. Jack felt sick.

"I-I-I's so s-sorry," he shuddered, surprising himself that he was actually able to form words. Race looked up, his tired blue eyes meeting Jack's teary brown ones and not moving even for a second.

Race didn't move, instead, he just reached out a hand and grabbing onto Jack's. He was shaking so much Jack wasn't sure he was even consciously moving, but the second he could, he held tighter than he thought possible.

"J-Jackie, I ain't m-mad at ya'," Race whispered, Jack shaking his head, his hand covering his mouth as he tried to get himself to breathe easier. "I-I ain't mad at all, jus'...jus' d-don't leave m-me."

Jack shook his head again, firmer this time as he sniffled, ducking his head as he lifted their conjoined hands to his forehead. "I can't lose ya', kid. I ain't goin' anywhere, but you gotta' promise me ya' won't go neither."

Race laughed, a tiny, raspy, heartbroken laugh, and Jack blocked out every other sound. "Jack, ya' know I c-can't do that."

The latter sniffled, nodding slowly as he took shaky breaths.

"Y-yeah...," he sighed, his voice cracking as he forced out a smile without an ounce of believability.

They could've sat like that for hours with Spot holding Race tightly as he whispered quiet sweet-nothings in his ear and Jack sat beside the bed holding onto his hand and refusing to let himself think about anything else. It was almost so perfect. It was almost as if nothing earth-shatteringly awful was happening, but then he heard the screaming.

"Jack! Jack Kelly I know you's in there, c'mon! Let me in! Kelly, I swear ta' god, let me see Race! I's done waitin', let me in for fuck's sake!"

Race would recognize that voice anywhere.

"A-Albert?" His soft whisper was almost inaudible, but it was enough to raise Jack to the door and get him to open up.

And, speak of the devil, there he was. Albert stood at the door, Skip standing beside him leading him over. She was frustrated, it was written all over her face, but she didn't falter when Jack opened the door looking like someone who'd already been to hell and back.

"I ain't allowed in, I's sure," Skip sighed, almost as if she just wanted to say it to call Jack out. He glanced over his shoulder, but shook his head as he turned back to her. "Sorry, kiddo. I jus'...I don't want ya' ta' see this," he sighed, his voice heavier as Skip nodded, hugging him quickly before turning away.

"Tell 'im I miss 'im," she mumbled before turning away without another word. Jack looked up, his eyes meeting Alberts as the red-haired boy who always seemed to be sporting the palest skin of the group somehow seemed to have gone even paler. His face looked like he'd seen a ghost and Jack ran a hand through his hair, preparing himself before he opened the door for the boy, knowing that even if he didn't like what he saw, Albert didn't care.

"Be careful. I...I know I don't gotta' tell ya' not ta' say anythin' too scary, but he's terrified, Al. Jus' be there for 'im," Jack spoke, the other sniffling as he stepped inside.

"Oh god...," Albert whispered, Jack turning around as he shut the door behind them and Albert shakily stumbled into the place Jack had just been sitting. "Oh god, oh god, oh my fucking god, Race."

"Al-"

"No!" He snapped, sinking to his knees beside his best friend, taking his hand just like Jack had just been doing. "N-no...ya' don't get ta' tell me how ta' do this, Jack. Not this time. I's done listening ta' you's, not when this is what comes from it."

Race looked between Jack and Albert, shrinking away from both as he moved to sit closer to Spot. He couldn't bring himself to deal with his friends fighting, especially not over him.

"Allie, c'mon, it...it ain't w-worth it," he mumbled, but Albert wasn't having it.

"No, ya' know what? No, I's done 'ere. I paid for a week 'ere n' as soon as tha' weeks done, I's out. I got a fam'ly I could stay wit', n' I's been stayin' 'ere for so long 'cause I thought I had a fam'ly 'ere too, but from everythin' I know, a fam'ly wouldn't stand for one a' they's own stuck on his fucking death bed 'cause you thought we needed a few extra pennies," Albert cried, tears spilling down his cheeks as he glared at Jack, the latter slowly backing away as he looked back and forth between Albert and Race. "I don't care what ya' think ya' could or couldn't do ta' stop it. You's still tha' one that got us all inta' this mess, n' you's always gonna' be tha' one responsible!"

The silence that followed Albert's outburst was nearly deafening.

Jack stood there frozen for ages before he simply nodded, ducked his head, and turned towards the door.

"Jack," Race spoke up, his voice breaking as the former turned back around, looking at Race, now shifting away from both Spot and Albert. "Jack, y-you promised."

He froze, his hand shaking right above the doorknob. He promised. God, he had never wanted to keep a promise less in his life, but...he would do it if it was what Race wanted.

"Jackie, ya' s-said ya' w-w-wouldn't leave m-me," he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he finished, a smeared line of blood now brushed from his lip and down to his chin. Jack felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. He turned, not meeting Albert's eyes as he slid down on the end of the bed, facing the three others.

"I ain't goin' nowhere, kid. B'sides, you's ain't allowed no go nowhere either," he supplied, smirking half-heartedly.

Race didn't respond, he simply dove back into Spot's shoulder, his shoulders shaking heavily as he coughed, the other running his hands up and down the boy's back. Race pulled away, tears pouring down his cheeks so quickly they mixed with the blood running from his lips. He frantically tried to rub as much of it off as he could, the red stains now covering the front of his shirt and his hands, not to mention the boy behind him.

"S-s-stop," he whispered, his voice wavering as if he was dizzy, still not looking up at anything.

"Race-"

"A-Albie, ya' g-g-gotta' g-get outta' 'ere," he slurred, looking up as he met the boy's eyes. Albert had angry tears brewing in his eyes as the horror took over his expression. "P-please."

"Wait, what? Race, what tha' hell? I can't jus' leave ya' here!" He grabbed for one of Race's hands, but the latter pulled away, grabbing at Jack instead. He took a deep breath, wiping the corner of his mouth once more before he spoke.

"Al, y-you's my b-b-best friend. Ya' know t-that, b-b-but I c-can't have ya' b-b-blamin' Jack. He...h-he's tha' only one that's b-b-b-been wit' me t-through this whole m-m-mess. I c-can't do this w-without 'im," he cried softly, his voice barely audible and so raspy it sounded painful just to listen to. "Albie, ya' g-gotta' let us d-d-do this. I love ya' s-so much, b-b-but I c-can't h-have ya' in 'ere."

The mere seconds between that last word and the moment Albert moved to stand up could've been hours if you asked any of the boys. But he stood anyway, leaning over as he wrapped an arm around his shoulders, gripping the boy so tightly the others were afraid he might break, but Race did the same and they stayed like that for a moment before they finally began to move.

"I really do love' ya, brother," Albert spoke sadly, the tears in his eyes now beginning to slowly fall. "I-I's so sorry."

"I k-know ya' d-do," Race smiled, his eyes genuinely crinkling at the corners. "D-don't touch any a' my f-fuckin' cigars, a-asshole."

And Albert finally smiled as he stood, walking right up to the door before he stopped, balanced on the balls of his feet and he turned his head over his shoulder, a watery smile on his face.

"No promises," he whispered, both of their smiles fading the moment he stepped out the door.

So Race leaned back against Spot, wheezing a little like he was out of breath.

"Kelly," Spot started, absentmindedly weaving his fingers through Race's hair as he caught Jack's attention. "Get 'im some water or somethin'."

Yeah, Jack could see it in his eyes that Spot wanted a couple minutes alone, and yeah, he could hear it in his voice that as soon as Jack left the room he would break, but he stood anyway and nodded, not saying a word as he left. He took one look back at Race to make sure he was alright with the boy stepping out for a second, but he was way too distracted by Spot and frankly, getting his attention was a situation he definitely didn't want to be in.

"Tony?" Spot's voice was shy and soft as his breath nipped the back of Race's neck. He turned his head, looking up at the boy with his arms around him. A small smile appeared as their eyes finally met. "You doin' okay right now?"

Race shrugged, curling himself up a little as he looked away, resting his head under Spot's chin.

"C'mon, T, ya' gotta' help me out 'ere. I ain't goin' anywhere, I's here ta' help ya'. I gotta' know what's wrong so's I can fix it, okay baby?" He was so soft, so gentle, it was no wonder he wanted Jack to leave first. "Please, Tony. There's gotta' be somethin' I can do ta' fix this."

Race just tightened his arms around Spot's middle, shaking his head against the other's chest.

"Race, baby, I...I ain't jus' gonna' give up on this, you...you know I can't do that," he spoke, his voice wavering like it was seconds away from breaking.

"J-jus' hold m-m-me...please," Race mumbled, not really sure if it was even loud enough for Spot to hear, but it seemed to work because Spot just pulled him closer and ran his fingers through his hair, just like he always did whenever they were lucky enough to be alone. The silence was nice. It seemed like they were constantly slipping in and out of silence in that room, but it was nice. It was comforting the way they never needed to say anything, they were just perfectly happy laying there together.

That is, until things really took a turn for the worst.

Race coughed. Just once, nothing they hadn't all seen before, but then it happened again. And again. And again, and again, and again until he couldn't stop and there was blood all over his hands and dripping from his lips and he was crying and screaming with pain until Jack came running back. That moment as Jack ran in the door and Spot looked up at him with his boyfriend screaming in his arms, they knew

They were in the endgame now.

Everything was moving in slow motion. Spot's hands gently running up and down Race's back as he coughed, Jack's footsteps as he moved to crouch back down beside the bed, even Race's own tears seemed to be falling slowly as they all carefully made sure not to scare the boy further.

"H-hey, kid," Jack spoke, placing a hand on Race's knee. He was going to put on a brave face. He was going to put on a brave face and make sure that kid knew he wasn't alone and he was going to do it no matter what was about to happen. He owed the kid that much, at least. "You...you feelin' okay right now? Ya' know, like...ya' pillows n' shit?"

Race chuckled and both of the other boys had to admit it was nice. Just seeing another genuine smile was really, really nice. He nodded and Spot slowly kissed the side of his head, where his forehead met his hair and Race leaned back against him.

"Good ta' know I's makin' a good pillow, T," Spot said, pretending nothing happened when his voice broke as Race interrupted his sentence to cough his lungs out again into the crook of his elbow. He leaned back as he finished, his face plastered with pure exhaustion. No one should look like that after just coughing. His eyelids were drooping and his cheeks were so flushed it reminded Spot of the first moment after Race kissed him for the first time and-

No. Nope, he wouldn't ruin the best day of his life by thinking about it during the worst. No way.

"Jack?" Race asked, making Jack's heart jump into his throat for about the fiftieth time that day. "A-am...am I gonna' d-d-die?"

And there it was. The painful truth none of them had let themselves accept until that very moment. He said it. He said exactly what they were all thinking and that made it real because if Race felt it too...then they weren't just worried for nothing. So Jack ruffled his hair and pulled him in tight against his chest. Just in case he didn't get to do it again. Just in case.

"Don't worry 'bout anythin', kid," he spoke softly, nodding to Spot who had finally, after that entire ordeal, let his tears fall. Jack knew he had been avoiding the exact same thought. "That 'aint anythin' you's gotta' worry 'bout, I promise. Me n' Spotty, we's gonna' worry 'bout that, you-...you jus' try ta' relax, yeah? Think ya' can do that, Racer?"

A shrug and a small nod between wheezes and coughs was enough of an answer to Jack and it wasn't like they would get more even if they wanted it. Race laid almost fully on Spot, resting his head against the boy's chest with an arm wrapped around his middle and the other gripping the front of Spot's shirt tightly. They could both tell he was in pain just from the way he was laying. He didn't want to say anything, Race literally never did, but this was apparently no different. Always one for pride, Race would swallow his own and wouldn't let a soul know he was anything but perfectly fine. There was no reason to hide it anymore, but old habits die hard and that was definitely a very old habit.

"H-hey, S-S-Sean?" He stammered as he spoke, not even lifting his head from off the boy's chest.

"Hmm?"

"I's s-so t-t-tired," he whined, a hint of a yawn sneaking into the end of his words.

Fuck.

Spot looked at Jack and Jack looked at Spot and they both knew exactly what the other was thinking and hell no. Nope. No. No way.

"Y-yeah?" God, he tried so hard to stop the tears from falling as he started to rock back and forth just a little, keeping his love securely wrapped in his arms. "W-well, I think ya' can h-hold on a little longer for me, Tony. B'esides, it-it ain't even m-midnight yet."

Race nodded, rubbing his eyes and keeping them open a little longer.

"R-right," he breathed, not looking at either of the boys as if he was simply thinking out loud. "I get t-ta' see Sean at m-m-midnight, d-did ya' know t-that, Jackie?"

Shit. Okay, delusions kicking in was definitely not a good sign.

"O-oh, yeah? That's funny, because I think he got 'ere a little early, ain't that right, Spotty?"

Spot bent his head in, kissing the boy's cheek as Race beamed.

"Y-you...you're 'ere already!" He grinned as far as he could, his eyes lighting up and his trembling hands reaching up to cup Spot's face. "I m-missed ya'."

Spot took one of Race's hands and dragged it over to his lips, kissing the inside of the boy's palm. Jack honestly felt like he was intruding a little, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Not now, not ever again.

"I missed ya' too, baby," he mumbled against Race's hand, dipping his head and letting himself be held for once. "B-but it's okay, I's here now, yeah? We's got plenty a' time now."

But Race shook his head. "I...I-I's still so t-t-tired."

Jack lifted himself off his knees to sit on the edge of the bed, accepting as Race reached for one of Jack's hands. He ran his thumb over the now fading bruises that remained on the boy's knuckles from their stay in the refuge. God, it seemed like so long ago now. He honestly thought things couldn't get any worse after that.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

"Jackie, you's a g-good big b-brother," he spoke, smiling as Jack quickly brushed away a few tears that fell. Maybe Jack smiled back because he didn't believe it, or maybe he smiled back because just seeing Race's undeniably contagious smile was rubbing off on him, or maybe he smiled because deep, deep down under layers and layers of self-doubt and constantly questioning if he did enough for his kids, he knew they all turned out alright. Some of them, so much more than just 'alright'.

"Thanks, kid," he sighed, reaching up to ruffle Race's hair just a little. "You's a pretty good little brother too."

And that seemed to do it. Pleased with his affirmation, he turned his head back up to Spot and laid as comfortably as he could in his arms.

"H-hey Sean?" He asked, the tiniest flush of color rising to his pale cheeks. "C-can...can I have a k-kiss g-g-goodnight?"

Spot nodded, biting his lip and shutting his eyes tight as Jack watched tears roll off his cheeks. He looked back down as Race's shaking hands reached up to gently brush away his tears.

" 'Course," he whispered, taking Race's face in his own hands. Even through it all, his eyes were still that beautiful baby blue that made Spot fall in love from the moment he first saw them. He couldn't even imagine what he would do if he never saw them again. His boy and his beautiful, beautiful face. His smile and how it spread across his face when he laughed, creating dimples in his cheeks and crinkles in the corners of his eyes, and...before he could make himself think of all the things he wanted to see right then more than anything, he just kissed him and prayed it would never end.

"Love you," Race mumbled as they slowly pulled away, a small yawn following as he kept his eyes shut for just a few extra seconds before he opened them again.

"I love ya' too, sweetheart," he spoke against the boy's lips, pecking them once again as he slipped a hand into Race's hair, wrapping his fingers around the boy's curls. "So, so much."

"Good...g-good, that's...that's r-real nice Spotty," he rambled, sinking into the boy's embrace. "I...I's gonna' take a n-nap, 's that o-okay?"

Silence. Purely terrifying silence. The kind that feels like if someone breaks it, the whole world will shatter into millions of pieces. The kind that, once it starts, it feels like it's never going to end. Even if you don't want it to. And Spot and Jack? God, they never wanted it to end.

"Y-yeah baby, if you's sure," Spot spoke, his voice shaking with every word.

"Y-yeah, I...I's sure," he yawned, curling around Spot. "A-actually, no."

Jack chuckled, a watery sniffle to follow it and he wrapped both his hands around one of Race's own. "Take ya' time, kid."

"N-no, I, uh, I w-wanna say s-somethin'," he mumbled. "J-Jack, I...I wanna t-tell ya' s-somethin'."

"Go for it, Racer."

"J-Jackie, don't b-beat ya'self up, p-p-please," he sighed. One look up at the other and Jack Kelly would never forget the look on his face. "I k-know you's g-g-gonna' feel like...like it's ya' f-fault, but I...I d-don't care 'bout w-who s-started tha' strike, I j-jus' hope ya' let ya'self g-g-get over this."

Jack shrugged, leaning his head against the wrapped bundle of their hands.

"P-please?"

"Sure thing, Tones," Jack smirked, the smile not even coming close to meeting his eyes.

"Heh," Race chuckled. "Y-ya' 'aint ever c-called me that b-b'fore."

"Ya' like it?" Race smiled and Jack took that as a little victory.

"Y-yeah...yeah t-tha's...," he trailed off, rubbing his eyes with his free hand before wrapping it around spot's shoulders and burying his face in his neck. "Hey, S-Spotty, t-thanks for n-not soakin' m-m-me the first t-time I k-k-kissed ya'."

Even Jack could laugh a little at that.

"Me too, babe," he smiled. "H-hey, how's about ya' relax a little, yeah? I know how much ya' love ta' talk, but I don't want ya' hurtin' ya'self, Tony."

Race shrugged, coughing a few times into his palms before he swung his legs off the edge of the bed, grabbing Jack's shoulders for stability as the other two freaked out.

"Race? Race, kid, c'mon ya' gotta' stop, jus' sit back down n' we's gonna' relax jus' like Conlon was sayin'," Jack spoke, quickly opposing the boy's force and trying to law him back down.

"I-I's fine, jus'...jus' let m-me...," Race trailed off, his grip faltering on Jack's shoulders as he let his chin fall against his chest and he hung his head in exhaustion, wheezing breaths filling the stressful silence. Jack let go with one hand, letting Spot catch Race from behind as he reached for the boy's face to lift his gaze.

Race shrugged himself away from the boys' efforts, sinking his head into his hands as he groaned meekly, a pained whine slipping from his lips as his breaths became labored.

"Kid, c'mon ya' gotta' sit up, it ain't good for ya', Racer," Jack mumbled, replacing his arm around Race's shoulders and quickly maneuvering him back to lay as flat as he could against Spot's chest.

Race's incoherent mumbling continued, making his slow, disoriented blinking slightly more worrying. He just looked dizzy.

"J-Jack?" He slurred, not meeting the former's gaze as his eyes fluttered sluggishly. "Jack, Jack, J-Jack, Jack."

The almost rhythmical chanting of the boy's dazed rambles shouldn't have meant anything to Jack, but he couldn't help but feel the sick stiffing in his gut that kept pleading for him to do something, to help him, to make it stop.

"Ya' gotta' focus for me, Ant. I can't make it stop if ya' don't try ta' work with me 'ere," Jack spoke, reaching for a glass of water beside the bed. Race shook his head when he saw it. He placed a hand on his own chest, his breathing dry and painful and confusing Jack for a moment before... "No. No, c'mon, kid, I ain't givin' up, ya' can't give up on me, I cant-"

He cried, finally letting the tears that had been brewing in his eyes burst as one sob made him grab for Race's hand.

"Tony, listen ta' me," Spot whispered softly from behind him. He kissed the underside of Race's jaw gently before continuing. "I know it hurts. I know it's so hard, n' I would take it myself in a heartbeat if I could, but ya' gotta' hold on. I can't lose you, T."

Race inhaled sharply, a small stream of blood trickling out from the corner of his mouth. He looked exhausted. Spot wasn't even sure if he'd understood what he was saying, but he needed to say it.

"I-I...I c-can't, Sean," he rasped, so quietly Jack didn't even hear more than breath, but Spot sure seemed to know what he said. He kissed Race on the forehead, rubbing circles on the boy's hollow cheeks as he started to slowly rock back and forth.

"Please," his voice cracked, his pleas falling silent as Race ignored his words and simply laid back against him.

Jack had a million things circling through his head that he wanted more than anything to be able to say. Besides, how do you even begin to pick your last words to someone when there's so much left unsaid? His head was throbbing and his ears were ringing and he couldn't tell if he was even speaking or not, but he needed that boy to know. He needed him to know everything.

And then it ended. Pleas fell on deaf ears and hands reached for limp ones and racing heartbeats met halted ones. His eyes were closed softly and it hit Jack like a ton of bricks as he stared at the boy laid in his friend's arms. They wouldn't open again. His lips were parted so slightly that one look at them felt wrong. Those lips always had a cigar between them and on the off chance that they didn't, they were spouting insults and jokes left and right but...not anymore. He couldn't look at Spot, he didn't want to see his face. He could see the tears falling off his cheeks and onto Race's but, he couldn't look at his face. If he looked at Spot's face, he'd see his own in it. Race didn't know. God, he had so many things left to say and now he lost his chance. 

How Jack had gone almost three years of leading Manhattan without anything like this. He had somehow found a way to keep his entire family of brothers and sisters safe for nearly three years to the point where he almost felt untouchable. It got to the point where he didn't even worry. He dove right into the strike without thinking twice about what could come out of it. It just didn't seem like an option. Never once in the strike did he think of the refuge, or his kids getting hurt, and not once did he think something like...this would ever happen. All throughout their time at the refuge, Jack wouldn't let himself believe anything could get any worse. When the strike rally took a turn for the worse, he thought that was as bad as it could get. When he watched the bulls go after Crutchie, he didn't think it could get any worse. When he immediately got caught up in his own fight, barely holding his own against Snyder's goons, he still thought that was as bad as things could get. Alone in the refuge? Nope, it got worse the moment Race got tossed in there with him. With every passing day in that absolute hell-hole, he told himself that that was the worst of it. It couldn't get worse than that. But it always did. It got worse every single day without fail.

Now here they were.

And Spot.

All those years ago when he ran away from his family after his father died, he didn't even think he had a future. He just wanted to get out. To get away from his mother and away from his house full of memories of his dad, and he never expected for some kid just a few years older than him to ask him if he needed a place to stay and actually give him a home and a job. He thought he was untouchable simply because no one dared to get close enough to him to do it. Until Race. Antonio "Racetrack" Higgins was an asshole with a quick wit, luck too precise for his own good, and probably the most addicting smile Spot had ever seen. One joking insult Spot had tossed his way on Race's first day selling at the Sheepshead and the smile that followed meant Spot was doomed. He never had a chance. In all honesty, he never had a chance against Race. From the moment Jack Kelly brought him over to Brooklyn and around the rest of the city to formally arrange his second-in-command, making sure they all knew who to go to if anything were to happen to Jack.

They never once planned what they would do if something happened to Race.

Spot took one look at him as he shook that boy's hand and he decided somewhere deep within his fortress of walls that he didn't want to let go. He decided that day and no matter how hard he tried, it never seemed to go away. He was glad it didn't. God, he wouldn't give that up for all the time in the world. It was selfish, he knew it, but he would rather have a short time than no time if it meant they could be together. He didn't even know what he would do now. He couldn't just go back to Brooklyn like nothing ever happened. For the rest of his life, he'd be carrying that on his shoulders, no matter what. But he had a job to do.

How were they all even supposed to do that now? Jack had to go out there and tell all of them their brother was gone, Spot had to go back to Brooklyn and pretend "that kid from Manhattan" wasn't the love of his life that he held in his arms as he died.

Manhattan would have to go out there and clean up the mess of the strike like it wasn't the worst decision they had ever made. Jack would have to go out that door and tell Skip that the lodging house wasn't always like this. That she just lost another brother and it hadn't even been a month since they'd come home.

Jack had to tell Crutchie the boy who saved his life had just lost his own.

Jack had to tell Davey their little 'crusade' had its first casualty.

Jack had to tell Albert his best friend was gone and there was nothing left to do.

Jack had to tell the whole house that...by the terms of the city's newsies they had to replace him already.

Jack had to tell them all that their friend was dead and it was his fault and he was terrified and in pain and Jack didn't do anything to stop it and he lost a kid oh my god he lost a kid.

Manhattan was crumbling to the ground from inside one tiny room. And no one knew but the remaining two of a trio that once ruled the whole world, whether the world knew it or not. They were kings in a world full of helpless subjects, terrified of the ones who did not hesitate to show their power. There was no hesitation when it came to homeless kids trying to keep themselves and their families alive when they got in the way of someone more important. Someone who doesn't know what it's like to find your own family. To pick up your sisters and brothers off the ground all tell them you'll make it through together. To find someone who's willing to put their own life before yours without a moment of hesitation. When someone knows there's no reason to do something for you, but they do it anyway because you're family and family doesn't care about the consequences of sacrifices.

When hesitation was gone, that was how they found their family. When Jack and Davey didn't hesitate to go on strike on the off chance that their families might not starve to death. When the kids didn't hesitate to jump into the fight the moment the bulls laid a hand on one of their own. When Race didn't hesitate for a second to step in and take Crutchie's place in the refuge because even though he knew he might not have much time, however little he had, Crutchie had less and that was always a sacrifice he was willing to make.

They didn't know what to do. How could they? It wasn't like they wanted to think about it and they definitely didn't have a plan, but they had to do something. They couldn't sit around because the longer they just sat around, the longer Jack let the guilt eat him alive, and the longer Spot cursed himself for not joining the strike before it was too late.

They were safe to pretend it was all a dream in that little room. As long as they didn't look and kept their heads in their hands and let their own sobs drown out any sounds around them, then they were fine. The moment they stepped out that door, they were not.

When they stepped out that door, it was hell. They were out, they were vulnerable, and it was real. They couldn't make it real. Jack knew exactly what his boys would say the moment he stepped out that door because they would see exactly what had happened written all over his face and they wouldn't be able to hide it for a second.

Or maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they'd be just as broken as the two and maybe they would understand. Maybe they would hug him and tell him it was okay when they all knew it wasn't and they wouldn't let that guilt tear him up from the inside out.

Because their family grew together, slowly but surely, and when they broke, they all broke together.

#sprace #my writing #i could never rescue you

[rebaobsessivelywrites]

Emotional Intelligence Ch1 (SS:BH Pt1)

You can find this entire series here on AO3. This chapter is here.

Fandom: Sanders Sides (Web Series) and Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)

Fic Description: Logan was a genius. Everyone said so. He was also the most self sufficient 12-year-old you would ever meet, and he was very happy with that--thank you very much. If there was one thing he did not want, it was an android. Thankfully, things don't quite go his way.

(This is the first installment in a 5-part series. I expect 3 chapters currently.)

Warnings: ‘benign’ neglect, trouble with emotions, and misgendering? (it vs he)

Chapter word count:  3,597

Headcanon post, master list, next chapter. Please read and let me know what you think and if you want to be tagged @rebaobsessivelywrites or @reba-andthesides.

A/N: This went a LOT faster than I expected. I have over 2,000 words of the next chapter done too ^.^

Logan Sanders was a genius. That was not a boast, just a simple statement of fact. Logan himself had never stated the fact, but he had heard it more times than he could count. His parents, his teachers, his classmates and peers—they all commented on his intelligence, in one form or another. It was obvious to him that it was true, but sometimes he wished they’d stop. Especially the children. Over time he had become desensitized to all forms of the observation, but it had been difficult in the beginning, when he began to skip grades.

He was now, at the age of 12, enrolled in the equivalent coursework of a junior in high school, although he was ‘homeschooled’. That term was rather insufficient, considering he was mostly self-taught, but it was as honest as his parents would allow. He had no problem with that, however; if he told the truth, other adults would panic about supervision and guidance and proper care… and that simply would not do. He was, for all intents and purposes, already an adult himself and wanted nothing to do with the constraints normally placed upon children his age.

Logan was self-sufficient. He got up on his own, obtained his own sustenance, dictated his own schedule, kept his room tidy, and ensured his laundry and trash were placed in the proper locations on the designated days. As long as he told his mother’s assistant where he was when he left the house, he was left to his own devices. It was a suitable arrangement. He may be more isolated than the average 12-year-old, but his autonomy was far more valuable than fleeting childish connections. After all, he could clearly remember what it was like before his parents pulled him from the traditional education system. It had been a… displeasing experience, and one he would prefer to avoid repeating.

So, he went about is business, comfortable in his routine and isolation, uncaring of his parents’ absence or the strangely empty feeling that would follow him through the empty hallways in his luxurious family home. (It was simply quiet— peaceful. That was the only logical conclusion.) He was content. That was all that mattered.

But now, out of the blue, his parents were suddenly no longer satisfied leaving him to himself. He was getting a babysitter. Sure, it was an android, not an actual person who could risk his precious freedom, but it was infuriating all the same. Now, of course that’s not what they told him. They were buying him an “assistant” to help him “manage” his studies and daily life… but it was a babysitter. A machine meant to cater to his every need. He didn’t want that! He could do it himself, hadn’t he already proved that?

Logan could remember when he had first heard about androids. He had been around five years old when he picked up a stray technology magazine and read about the extraordinary RT600, a humanoid android that had publicly passed the Turing Test, proving an extraordinary capability to mimic human conversation. Following that discovery, Logan had idolized the inventor Elijah Kamski and obsessed over biomechanics for years, carefully following the development of CyberLife’s groundbreaking technology, starting with the release of the first commercial model, the ST200. The world was blown away, hundreds sold despite the model’s staggering price, and Logan was thrilled to occasionally see a humanoid machine with a LED glowing blue on their right temple. Over time, sightings became more and more common. By 2027, just after Logan turned nine, CyberLife had streamlined their android production and released the JB100; it cost a fraction of previous models, dropping to only four figures. Sales skyrocketed, and it became more common to see the extraordinary machines on the streets with their owners.

The company had only improved in the three years since, adding features and dropping prices constantly. Sales continued to increase and androids became analogous to cars (expensive but extremely useful) throughout the city of Detroit and (Logan presumed) the world. Logan found every new model and feature extraordinary and awe-inspiring. When his father bought a secretary android a few months before his twelfth birthday, he had been fascinated to examine it and admire the craftsmanship and remarkable programing.

That did not, however, mean that he wanted one!

Logan valued his independence. He liked doing mundane tasks and taking care of himself. It proved that he was more than just a brain, that he was capable and functional despite his obvious lack of social aptitude. He ran his own life and he was good at it. An android was meant to care for it’s owner, handling tasks like cooking, cleaning, and scheduling so the human could “get more out of life.” Logan loved technology, but having a personal android went against everything he wanted.

He found, as he descended the elegant darkly stained wood staircase in his house’s entryway, that he felt like he was going to the slaughter. The decision had been made before he had even been told about it and no matter what argument he presented, his parents had insisted. And now his android was here, and his parents were officially killing his independence.

“Logan!” his mother’s excited voice cut through his somber reflection as he stepped into the entryway itself, the soft carpet giving beneath his shoes. She was standing next to a human-sized box and an exhausted looking uniformed technician, her eyes gleaming, “Come on, lets get it activated for you!”

Logan cautiously approached the pair, giving his mother a strained smile before resituating his glasses and pasting an expression that hopefully passed for friendly. “Salutations,” he turned to the technician and attempted to hide his displeasure at the situation, “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to come here in person.”

The haggard looking man gave him a wry smile, “Not a problem, kid, it’s part of the job.” Before Logan could decide if he should take offence at the term, he turned to pop open the box, “This will only take a few moments, and I’ll get out of your hair so you can enjoy your new toy.”

Staring at the back of the man’s head, Logan felt his lips twitch downward into a frown. Androids weren’t toys. They were efficient, cutting-edge, and extraordinary machines. He found himself almost disturbed at the implication— that this man had activated androids for children who intended to use them as toys. His inner inventor was downright offended! His brows furrowed and his frown deepened slightly as the technician unwrapped the android, muttering something under his breath, but Logan instantly realized his mistake; he caught his mother giving him a sharp look out of the corner of his eye and quickly pasted a smile back onto his face before the man turned around.

“Alright, this’ll only take a few moments,” the technician moved back so that he was even with both Logan and his mother, before turning back towards the android. It was of average height with light mousy brown hair about two inches long and one of the more standard face shapes for caretaker androids, however it’s skin module was obviously special order— it was a light tone, slightly tanned, covered in hundreds of freckles. Logan couldn’t help but feel slightly betrayed by his mother; she knew that he had wanted freckles when he was younger. His own skin tone had always been horribly pale, certainly not aided by his dislike of outdoor activities, and he hated how it contrasted with his stark black hair.

“HK400, confirm voice recognition,” the man commanded, breaking through Logan’s thoughts.

The android’s eyes flicked open, revealing eyes just as startlingly blue as the LED on its right temple. It blinked once, twice, “Voice recognition confirmed.”

“Good. HK400, perform a system check.”

Its LED indicator flashed blue, indicating rapid mental processing, before it gave a bright smile—its first facial expression—and happily announced, “Everything is working perfectly.”

The technician gave a small smile, and glanced at Logan, “You have a name for it, kid?” Logan, caught completely off guard, wasn’t certain what look he had on his face, but it must have been answer enough because the tech simply gave him an amused look and turned back to the bot, “HK400, postpone name identification.”

The android nodded, the picture of geniality, “I am HK400.”

“Alright, HK400, these are your owners, Sarah and Logan Sanders. Understood?” the technician gestured towards his captive audience. Logan’s mother smiled warmly at the man, but Logan himself was transfixed watching the machine in front on him, his light brown eyes wide and searching.

“Of course!” it beamed, skin stretching in complete realism and accentuating the dusting of dark dots over the bridge of its nose.

Logan tilted his head in fascination, watching as its vibrant blue eyes flicked back and forth, following the movements of the technician and Logan’s mother as they wrapped up business. He became so engrossed in just observing that he didn’t realize the man had left until his mother embraced him unexpectedly from behind, jolting him from his peaceful state of non-thought and causing his spine to go rigid.

“I know you didn’t like the idea when your father and I brought it up… but look at it Logie! Isn’t it amazing?” she gave him a squeeze, “Just imagine everything it’ll do for you!”

Logan desperately inhaled through his nose, swallowing the bitter sensation rising in the back of his throat. For one terrible moment, he was furious beyond belief. He wanted to rip himself out of his mother’s arms, storm up the stairs and slam the door to his room. He wanted to yell and kick and scream until his face was red and his shins were bruised… but he sucked it down. Such impulses were childish and pointless; he was better than that.

He forced a smile back onto his face, refocused his eyes on the android—whose eyebrows were creased as it gazed down at the pair—and turned stiffly to face his mother. She reluctantly let go and smiled warmly in return, before clasping the side of his face (unknowingly setting off another internal struggle as the 12-year-old fought the urge to jerk away) and pushing his glasses back up his nose.

Seemingly satisfied, she straightened, tugging at the bottom of her suit jacket, and turned her attention to the new machine, “HK400, you will take care of Logan, make sure he’s healthy, and do anything he asks.”

It smiled warmly again, “Yes, Mrs. Sanders.”

“Good.” She glanced down at her son, “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

Logan kept the smile on his face until his mother disappeared down the hallway to her office, before sagging. Running a hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew, the 12-year-old turned to peer back up at the android. It was standing exactly where it had been last time he looked, with the exact same expression on its face. It was rather unsettling how statue-like it appeared.

“What can I do to help, Logan?” it asked brightly.

Logan could tell that was going to get old really quickly. “I do everything myself,” he crossed his arms, “I didn’t want an android.”

The HK400 gave him a sympathetic look, “I’m very sorry your parents went against your wishes.”

“It’s not…” he squeezed his eyes shut, “not your fault. Just. Don’t… interfere with my routine or start doing everything for me, alright?”

“Of course, Logan,” it agreed easily, “Just let me know if I overstep your boundaries.”

Logan’s lips twitched downward and his eyes flew open to stare at the machine; he didn’t know what he had expected, but for some reason he hadn’t expected easy agreement. He didn’t know why—it was an android! Of course, it agreed with him. That was what it was programmed to do. But, as he examined the crinkled freckles, brilliant white smile, shining blue eyes and matching LED… he couldn’t fathom why his chest felt heavy.

A week later, Logan was settling into a new routine, one that was not as horrible as he had expected. Yes, he did fewer chores and he rarely obtained his own sustenance, but he had almost double the amount of time to spend studying and exploring avenues of academic interest. It had been wonderful! He was almost complete with his Calculus course and was preparing to start his next math course (Calculus 2).

Although… he could do without the HK400 hovering over him, harping about optimum sleep cycles and hydration and nourishment—he already knew all of that! He just… well, didn’t do as good of a job on his own as he thought. It was just so easy to get lost in his books. It had been strange, at first, having his work flow interrupted unexpectedly for such necessities, but after seven whole days he was almost used to the bot’s presence and was learning to tolerate its more annoying qualities in favor of the benefits it clearly provided.

“Are you lonely?” (Speak of the devil…)

Logan was sitting in one of his favorite spots in the house, perched on a windowsill overlooking the small garden in the backyard, when the voice broke through his thoughts. Caught off guard, he blinked blindly at the book in his hands a few times before glancing up. Standing in the doorway to the room was the HK400 unit, its face crinkled in something that resembled concern and its head tilted curiously to the side. For a moment, Logan was dumb founded at how human it looked, with its vibrant blue eyes almost glowing with emotion. After several seconds, however, where the android stood perfectly unmoving showing no reaction to the lack of response, he was able to shake of the knee-jerk reaction and turn his attention to the question it had asked.

“No,” he finally pronounced, pushing his glasses back into place, “No, I’m not lonely.”

If it was possible, the HK400’s brow creased even farther, its LED changing from blue to yellow, “Are you sure? You’re always alone—over the past week, I haven’t seen you interact with anyone but your parents, and even those interactions have been brief and distant.”

Logan frowned at the concern somehow lacing the android’s voice. “Just because I am alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely,” he explained as firmly as he could. After a beat, the machine’s LED stopped flashing yellow and its face smoothed out slightly. Logan nodded to himself, taking that to mean it would cease its line of questioning, and turned back to his book.

However, it persisted, “Logan, as you know I was made to care for whoever my owner might be. That means I know a bunch when it comes to human health.”

Logan looked back up, a frown once again plastered across his face—both at the strangely colloquial wording and utter bafflement at the android’s goal. “I am aware.” The android shifted under his gaze in manner that seemed… uncomfortable? Logan stared as it lifted a shoulder in an aborted shrug, lips twitching upwards in a half smile he was sure would mean more to him if he knew anything about body language. (And what did it say about him that an android was better than him with the nuances of human expression?)

“Humans need social interaction,” it stated, ignorant to Logan’s internal crisis, “You need social interaction.” Logan wasn’t aware that he had opened his mouth until the HK400 raised a hand as though to stop him. “I know you don’t want to play like other children, but there are other things you can do… and as your caretaker, I have to advise you do something.”

Logan squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a sigh, finally giving in and shutting his book, though he kept his finger in it to mark his place. “Look, I’ll admit I’ve appreciated your assistance more than I anticipated. It has been beneficial to my studies to not be responsible for every meal and chore necessary to sustain my lifestyle, but I stand by the boundaries I gave you a week ago. I do not want you to affect my way of life.”

“And I won’t,” it immediately insisted, LED shining a steady blue, “so long as it doesn’t go against my primary mission—your wellbeing.”

“HK400—”

“A walk,” it interrupted him, “Just once a week, go out into public and at least see other people. Please.”

For a long moment, the room echoed in silence and they stared at each other, human and machine, both attempting to understand the other. Logan’s light brown eyes searched those of his android, finding nothing but honest concern and determination, and he sagged. For that moment, at least, he didn’t care if that emotion was real or merely a feat of programming.

“Fine,” he sighed, setting his book aside, “One walk.” He would humor the android. He could, after all, spare the time now.

The HK400 unit beamed at him, his face and eyes lighting up, “Thank you.”

Logan sat there staring at the doorway for a long time after the android left, attempting to decipher the unanticipated behavior he was witnessing in the machine and resolutely ignoring the bizarre sensation in his chest.

(It felt suspiciously like hope.)

Logan was reasonably certain he had just experienced a perfect day, or at least as perfect as feasibly possible. He had spent his morning reading Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and several research articles relating to a tangential interest in genetics, before his HK400 unit herded him out of the house for his second weekly walk. Unlike last week, the android insisted he go to the park it recommended, and Logan certainly ended up thankful he had listened; the park was equipped with chess tables and a surprising number of players.

Needless to say, Logan’s walk lasted about three hours longer than planned.

“Well, I’ll be!” Logan’s current opponent leant to offer a hand over the table, “Third time in a row! Well done, ki—” he cut himself off and gave a wry shake of his head, “I mean, Logan.”

After a moment of hesitation, Logan accepted the handshake, “Thank you, Mr. Stokes. It’s been a pleasure.”

The man gave a warm smile, the worn creases around his eyes crinkling, “Likewise.”

“Logan,” a voice that was growing familiar sounded from just behind him, “We might want to head home soon. Dinner is at 6.”

For a second Logan was confused—although the HK400 attempted to keep his meals and sleep on a schedule, it wasn’t typically that strict. As he frowned to himself, the android moved to stand beside him. It had its normal warm smile plastered across its face and its LED was a bright blue that accentuated its eyes in a way that continued to fascinate Logan.

“It’s Friday today,” it prompted helpfully.

Realization and dread swept over him. He had forgotten. His parents were having a dinner party, and he was, of course, required to attend. Their precious little genius. Logan couldn’t help letting out a huge sigh, swiping a hand over his face. Well. There went his perfect day.

“Oh, well I take that to mean you need to get out of here,” Mr. Stokes chuckled a little.

“Yes, that is correct,” Logan muttered, indulging briefly in his frustration before pulling himself together and smiling politely, “Thank you again.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it, kid,” he waved him off, “Like I said, it’s my pleasure. I know I speak for the others when I say you and your tin can are welcome here whenever.”

Logan chose to overlook the demeaning nickname the chess player had let slip and gave him a genuine smile as he stood, Mr. Stokes following his example. They shook hands a final time and Mr. Stokes wandered off to find another partner while Logan set off home with his android. Despite the direction he was headed, Logan couldn’t help smiling. He had enjoyed his day and he wasn’t going to let it be ruined by a dinner.

“Do you think they’ll be here next week?” the HK400 examined him intently from its spot at his side, blue LED flashing.

“Well,” Logan shrugged, his smile growing at the thought of repeating today’s experience, “that’s anybody’s guess.”

The android grinned, “Don’t you mean it’s anybody’s chess?”

“Did you just—” he stopped mid stride and turned to stare at the android.

The HK400 froze, its smile fading slightly and its LED flashing yellow. “I’m sorry, Logan,” it turned back to him, widening its smile again and looking earnest, “what did I do?”

Logan stood there and simply stared up at the machine, examining its face to the best of his meager ability. Ever since it was activated, it seemed different. It kept doing things Logan had no idea androids could do, and it was always so… emotional and expressive and baffling.

And now it was looking at him with an expression so obviously fake that Logan could tell. Well—it helped that its LED was rapidly flashing yellow, but the point was still valid! There was something off in its expression; he wasn’t quite sure what was hidden underneath the false cheer and all too real concern, but it unsettled him.

“Nothing,” Logan shook his head and started walking again, “You didn’t do anything.” Out of the corner of his eye, Logan clearly saw the HK400 sag in relief.

What, exactly, was going on with his android?

A/N: Idk how I like this first bit, but up next are more puns (and dad jokes!) and HK400 gets a name :)

Next Chapter.

I will be reblogging with my taglist on my Sanders Sides specific blog.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #detroit become human #reba's d:bh au #i'm really really nervous about this b/c this is the first time i'm posting something on my writing blog i know people are going to see...

[rainy-rose]

So I did a thing!

Disclaimer, trigger warning etc:

I haven’t written anything longer than 1k words in years and even then they were in Romanian because it is the language I am the most comfortable with. The following short story has almost 4k and it was initially written for one of my classes, but I decided to post it here as well. That being said, if anybody reads it and has any kind of constructive criticism to offer, please write it as it is both needed and wanted!

TW: mental health - possible depression, character death, self harm

Fragile

     The morning light made its way through the window, slowly bringing the old furniture in the small room back to shape. The drapes were slowly moving due to the light breeze. On the dark wood table a half empty bottle stood next to a glass, a bit of amber liquid still left on its bottom. The birds were chirping happily in the trees in the garden, their songs invading the room and inevitably waking up the sleeping, curled up figure on the couch. The man’s eyebrows were slowly forming an annoyed frown as his mind was leaving the land of dreams behind. With a groan he turned around, hoping to block both the birds and the light. Somehow he had forgotten to close the window and the drapes last night and was just now being painfully reminded of his mistake.

       His arm moved under his head, a makeshift pillow. A futile effort as soon he would have to embrace consciousness. He tried moving again, wanting to run from the real world. He was happy in his dreams, only there. His stiff back protested, another groan escaping the man’s lips. But alas, he was stubborn, refusing to open up his eyes, although the rest of his body was already awake and ready to face the day. His eyelids were shut tight wishing for sleep to come back and drive away the beginning of what was sure to be a pounding headache.

          A child’s cry of joy came from outside. His neighbors, the other occupants of the one story building,  whose company he rarely sought, must have left their toddlers outside already so they could get fresh air and ran after the stray dogs and cats that always seemed to find their way in the garden. Together with the noise made by the children, a restless one that he knew way too well. In the small barn his horse was wide awake, hungry and grumpy. The two sounds made him realize that he had spent way too much time on the uncomfortable couch. The outside world needed him, especially today since he had places to go and people to see. More like a person, Liam, the young lad eagerly waiting for his bimonthly visits in his small room in the mental asylum located on the road, just about a half an hour from the city. Hmm, maybe he could visit the blacksmith after that as well. He groaned again shutting his eyes tighter. Now was not the time to think about Cedric, or his baby, or the fond way his beautiful blue eyes had followed him across the room the previous evening. No, definitely not the right moment.

          With a final displeased sound, followed by a heavy sigh he rose from his accidental bed. Sleeping on the couch was not something he was doing deliberately, but sometimes, when the world was to overwhelming and his mind was running, he would end up there, usually after drinking a few glasses of brandy, which was exactly the case this time.

          The water in the pitcher by the window chased away the final remnant of sleep from his face and changing his wrinkled clothes with a set of fresh ones from the dresser made him feel more human. Unfortunately nothing could be done for his headache, he would have to endure it, but luckily he was used to them by now.

          The next half an hour was spent taking care of the horse’s daily needs, eating and packing his bag. Conrad was no horse show champion, he had brown-reddish hair that ended in white socks bellow his knees. Hector had bought him as a calf five years prior when it became apparent that walking everywhere was no longer a viable option. He had never been interested in riding a bike and automobiles were too expensive for the little money he made as a librarian and since he had not published any of his poetry books at the time, Conrad was the best option.

          Riding always had a pleasant effect on him, taking his mind of things. It was just him, the almost clear road, the strong animal whose every breath he could almost feel and the wind running through his curly hair and making his soft dark brown coat fly behind him. At a crossroad he had to correct Conrad’s course with a strong pull at his rains. The animal was still used to going towards the blacksmith’s workshop as Hector used to visit the man on a weekly basis. Almost a year ago the man was the sole reader of his poems, but that was before, before he got stuck in a loveless marriage.

        “Duty be damned!” The rider cursed pulling again at the rains, using a lot more force than necessary and making the horse go faster.

         His mind was spinning again. Memories drifted in and out, memories of strong arms holding him close, intimacy and a gruff voice whispering dreams that could never be fulfilled. He cherished them, held them close to his heart despite the pain, anger and crushing sadness that came with them.

           “Damn it all to Hell!” he cursed under his breath repeatedly, his now white knuckles holding the reins tight.

           He leaned forward, wishing, hoping that he could become one with the animal beneath him, that his small frame will somehow dissolve until he was no more. Until just Conrad remained, a free horse running without a break, forgetting the ways of the man and what he had been taught. Unfortunately, like all his dreams and wishes, like all their shared memories, his and Cedric’s and even Liam’s, they were destined to be crushed by the strong punch of reality. The world was cruel towards people like them and they were forced to fight with it Their fight was not easy. The weak rarely survived, but the strong? They were condemned to a future filled with lies, deceit, pretend and unhappiness. In this case weren’t the weak more fortunate, embracing death? Choosing release instead of the constant torture of this monstrous world that saw them as shameful, as sinners, as sick individuals that should not be allowed to live. Creatures that were less than human, condemned and confined, if they were lucky, in asylums? Sharing the same space with other people whose minds refused to help them?

             Hector hated having this kinds of thoughts, especially before visiting Liam. But he could not control them. They were constant, coming and going the same why the fingers of his left hand always found their way to the improperly scarred tissue on his right wrist. He had caught himself doing this numerous times, sometimes stopping just before the blood started dripping, turning the ends of his white shirts scarlet. He started doing this now, holding the reins with his right hand and slowing the horse’s pace. He could see the building now. In less than fifteen minutes he would see Liam again. Just two years his junior, the boys towered over him and was hyper and curious the same way small pups are, and just as loving, eagerly offering bone crushing embraces. He missed him, missed his questions and his soft, almost shy voice and the carefulness with which he picked his words. Seeing him twice a month was not enough and again, probably for the twelfth hundredth time, he wondered if there was any way to get him out of there. He was not family, but since he was the only person who had been paying for the boy’s care for the past three years since he had been admitted in the facility, maybe, possibly, probably they would be more lenient. If only he could present his case right. If only he could get him out of there he would be closer to realizing his dream. But alas, he knew that was not possible. The same way he know that he was partly guilty for the boy’s current situation.

           He had met Liam almost three and a half years ago while courting his older sister Grace. Hector was not in any way attracted to the woman, yet she seemed nice and kind. Maybe enough so he could fool himself into trying for the pretend game of the strong. It did not happen. While spending time with Grace he would occasionally spend time with Liam and he soon realized that he was not visiting their household to see the woman, but to see the boy. He was the one more than happy to see him. Desperate to share all the new and interesting things he learned in school. Eager for the older man approval and attention and clearly, at least from Hector’s point of view, clearly infatuated. Liam was a ray of sunshine, stubbornly poking his way through the dark, grey, heavy clouds that were a permanent fix on Hector’s sky. He found himself drawn to the boy, smiling at his antics which felt so strange. He had not smiled in years! But he did that, Liam did that and the librarian was grateful. But how did he show his gratitude? How did he repay him for the joy he was bringing to the surface? By ruining his life!

           Hector bit his lip hard, remembering how he had destroyed everything. How foolish he had been, how stupid! His eyes were prickling with tears he refused to shed. It was a mistake! A mistake! A mistake! He repeated as a mantra trying to convince himself that it was not his fault. But it was and he knew it. He was the one who initiated that kiss. It was a chaste and innocent kiss, a mere brush of their lips. It was a simple gesture of affection for them. But for Grace who has discovered them on a hidden stone bench in her family’s yard, it was betrayal. It was sin, sickness and corruption and Hector was at fault. He was sent away all ties cut off and the courtship interrupted.  Liam was sent to the asylum to get treatment. Or so they said. Hector had found him again by chance, a rumor heard from a work colleague. But the reunion crushed his heart and made him hate the world, their society even more. Grace and the rest of the family had just left Liam there, abandoned, scared and confused. Hector did not know if the so called doctors and nurses were treating him or not, but whatever they were doing did not help him. Liam’s mind, once healthy, beautiful and bright was slowly deteriorating, and so was his speech. Guild made him tremble with fear and anger. How could they do this? What gave them the right to turn this beautiful innocent and artistic boy into a shell, a shadow of what he had once been?  They were monsters! All of them! Grace and her family and the so called doctors. Without thinking he took out the envelope that contained the salary he had just received and placed it on one of the doctor’s desk offering to pay for Liam’s care. That night he had drank himself to sleep, but not before breaking a few glasses by throwing them against the wall and making the first shallow cut on his wrist. The wound was small and did not bled for long, but it was just the beginning. Many followed, all too shallow to cause any serious damage. In the months that followed, the money earned him visiting rights, two times a month, on Saturdays for a few hours. The so called treatment was not helping him. Whatever they were doing to Liam his situation was getting worse and Hector’s money was no more than a bribe. But he had to keep doing this, he would not abandon him, not like him family did. He would be there for him even if that meant watching as his former somewhat lover, for whom he felt bond as to a brother now, was withering away both mind and soul.

            The trip down memory lane did not do him good. It never did! He stopped under a tree in the asylum’s yard, scratching at his wrists. Small drops of blood found their way onto his shirt but he ignored them, pulling his coat’s sleeves to cover everything. He dragged his hand through his wild curls several times in an attempt to calm down him nerves. He did the same to his face in order to make himself look less tired and hangover. After he was done he left Conrad in the care of a stable boy and made his way towards the building, towards the front desk and soon, towards Liam.

             “Good day, miss! My name is Hector Kook and I am here to see Liam Dunn” he addressed the nurse that was managing the reception.

             He usually did not have to give his name as he was one of the facility’s rare visitors. However, the woman seemed new, it was his first time seeing her. She looked at him for a few seconds, probably assessing and judging his exhausted look. She flipped through the register and scribbled down his name, but when she was about to write the purpose of his visit she lifted her head abruptly, her big eyes questioning and uncertain. “Could you tell me again the name of the patient you are seeking, sir?” Her voice was betraying her, it was lacking the calm, polite indifference with which the other nurses were treating him whenever he came. Hector swallowed, dread reaching her long, sharp claws towards him, his headache intensifying.

              “Liam Dunn,” he repeated, as clear as possible. His fingers found his wrist again, scratching, leaving small red marks on his flesh. Something happened, something surely had happened! The nurse offered him a small, sad smile. Pity? Sorrow? No! He must have been mistaken, his mind was tired and foggy, he was seeing things. Everything was fine and soon a male nurse in a white coat would lead him towards Liam’s room and the boy will hug him, laugh and play with his hair while making small indistinguishable noises. He had to calm down, no need to panic. He forced his hand down taking small breaths. “I am so sorry, sir! Could you please wait here a bit while I get his doctor? It is better to hear this from him than from me.” She gestured towards one of the uncomfortable, wooden chair and disappeared along a corridor before Hector could ask any questions.

           What? Hear what? He was almost trembling now. Why was she getting the doctor now? That happened at the end. What could she not tell him? He swallowed and bit his lip, feeling the taste of blood on his tongue. No, no, no, no, no! He had to remain calm! Not think of the worst scenarios! Those did not exist! This was just a change of procedure! He was pacing now, scratching at both of his wrists. Liam was okay. He had, needed to convince himself that. He was okay and healthy, as healthy as he could be in that forsaken place!

             “Mr. Kook?”

             Hector head snapped towards the voice, his hands falling at his side, his breath heavy as if he had ran a race and climbed a mountain. The doctor, Andrew Colby, a fifty something, man, short, but still slightly taller than he was, and usually sporting and easy smile was beckoning him to come closer. The smile was gone, his expression serious, somber. Behind him the nurse was biting her thumb, her eyes watery.

           No!

           Hector approached the man, with heavy legs, barely aware that he was moving them. Colby touched his shoulder. It was meant to be comforting, fatherly, his tone steady and apologetic towards the man half his age. “Mr. Dunn died this morning, sir. In his sleep, natural causes from the looks of it.”

           What?!

           He flinched, putting distance between himself and the asylum’s personnel. His throat was dry, his hazel eyes ablaze with barely contained fury . Died in his sleep? Natural causes? Who were they talking too? He was not a child, he might have been twenty six but he was not fool, not their fool. “How dare you?” he growled curling his fingers inside his fists, his nails hurting his palms. “Natural causes on a case of confirmed homosexuality? Who do you think you are taking to! That pathetic story would work with his sister bur not with me!” He was almost screaming now, clenching and unclenching his fists. Tears were streaming down his face, he did not notice them and made no effort to stop them. He wanted to punch him, beat him up, make him regret everything he had done. “He was just a child you devil and you… you killed him! All of you!”

              The nurse let out a yelp and covered her mouth with her hands. He was frightening her, he was making a scene and attracting attention. But he did not care! He was hurt, his heart was being constantly stabbed. His brother was dead, murdered at their hands because he was different, because he loved the wrong person. How could that bastard look himself in the mirror in the morning and not hate himself? How could he still offer pleasant smiles knowing that he was killing a boy, probably not the only one, and bribing another dry? He was shivering, he felt sick, his head was hurting harder than ever so he turned away and ran. Colby shouted after him, but he could not, did not want to hear. Liam was dead. One if the few precious people in his life, the few he felt connected to, his little ray of sunshine was gone.

              The next few minutes were a blur, he did not remember entering the stables, getting Conrad and running towards the city. But he must have since now they were galloping, the wing whipping his hair and face, his tears still falling. They stopped shortly after that, Hector almost falling of the horse’s back in his haste to reach a tree and hide behind it. He bend over ad threw out the little food he had eaten earlier that day. With trembling hand he took a handkerchief from his pocket and whipped his mouth, face and coat. The tears did not stop. He waited but they kept on falling. He could not do this. He kept seeing Liam’s face in his mind, serene and happy. The pain was unbearable and he wanted to scream. Slowly he made his way a bit deeper into the forest beside the road, fell on his kneed and let out a howl, he cursed, and cursed and screamed and punched the ground until his hands were red, raw and bleeding. His shouts were not the same, Liam’s name turned into Cedric’s and back again, mixed with long shrieks and long streams of profanities addressed to no one and everyone. He kept at it until his voice became weak, until Conrad found him and nudged gently at the back of his neck, then at his cheek. He would have stayed there for hours but an idea started forming in his head. It was stupid and realistically it made no sense, but he wanted to do it, at least part of it. He need to see the blacksmith!

              His legs were still shaking when he got back on the horse. He tied the handkerchief around his bleeding wrist and started galloping towards the city. He did not correct Conrad when they reached the crossroad, on the contrary, he wanted him to hurry!

             The workshop was at the end of a street, a small yard with soft grass in front of it. Conrad stopped at his well-known place near a wooden bench and waited for his master to climb down before he started grazing at the thick, fat grass.

             Hector ran inside the shop, startling the three apprentices. They stared at him, at his now dirty clothes, tear streaked face and red eyes. It was the first time they saw him like this and they were more than confused at his appearance.

             “Were is he?” he asked his voice hoarse, but determined.

             One of the boys let his hammer down and pointed a gloved hand towards a door in the back, Cedric’s makeshift office. Nodding his head towards the apprentice, Hector made his way between anvils and forges almost barging through the door. He closed the door behind him and threw himself at the man, not caring if he was making a mess of the work space.

            “Hector what happened? What are you doing?” he asked with panic and worry in his voice. They had established long ago that their feeling for each other had to be kept a secret, that Cedric had a duty, Cecily needed him and now so did his child.

             Even so, he could not ignore the trembling man in his arms, not when he was clinging to him for dear life wretched sobs and gasps escaping his mouth and chest. “Hector?” he asked again, concerned, his arms finding their way around him in a familiar embrace. One of his rough hands gently caressed his back while the other did the same with his hair in an attempt to calm the smaller man. Hector was not like this, he was a fighter, stubborn as a mule and whatever got him in such a state was scaring him. “Talk to me, please?” he tried again, his voice as gentle as his caress. He moved slowly, sitting down on the chair behind him and cradling the other man in his lap like a child that needed protection. He kissed his forehead tenderly, then his hair, and started wiping his tears, while still combing his fingers through rebel dark brown curls.

            A mumble reached his ears, Hector’s voice to broken for him to understand. He kissed his forehead again, prompting him to repeat.

             “He is dead!” Hector gasped between sobs. “Liam’s dead, they killed him! I do not know how, but they did!”

             The blacksmith’s features hardened, his blue eyes flashing in anger. He had never met Liam, but knew how much Hector cared for the man, knew his story, where he was and the librarian’s fears. He held him closer, not trusting himself to speak, burring his face in his former lover’s hair. He heard him mumbling again, but he did not ask him to repeat. He did not need to. Hector’s wish, what he wanted since a long time ago was loud and clear. He wanted to leave, to run away and start somewhere where nobody knew him and he wanted Cedric to come along. But could he?

#short story #writting #mine #oc #mlm #trigger warning #possible depression #self harm #character death

[five-hour-anxiety]

Something To Believe In

Tag list: @zerogettie  @spacevirgil  @tree4life25 @thebiggestnaturaldisaster @pailettehazel @jordandobbertin @coffeestudylive @thecityofthefireflies @the-fabulous-kimball @azuranightsong @virmillion @erlenmeyertrash @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch  @the-sanders-sides @punch-you-with-friendship @captaincantatrice @clovenpinetree @jughead-is-canonically-aroace (if you would like to be added or removed, just let me know!)

Word Count: 3500

Rating: General

Paring: Platonic Royality

   Wow, hindsight really is twenty-twenty, I should have seen this coming.  Okay, what is the tap count again? Step SHUFFLE STEP, STEP shuffle step ー or was it SHUFFLE step STEP? Ugh, okay just… just start over.  You can do this!  You’re Roman Palmer and this is a simple dance! What on Earth’s gotten into you? This should be the ー wait. Was the emphasis step for the left foot or the right? It’s… didn’t the Emo Nightmare say it was the left foot? Yes! Left foot ー and he wouldn’t lie to you, you know that!  You’re actually friends now, and friends don’t screw friends over.’

    It was the day of an audition, and for the first time in a while, Roman was letting his nerves get the best of him.  He had no idea what he was doing ー he had only learned how to tap dance about a week ago and up until about five minutes ago he was doing spectacularly.  Then he got the dance routine he was supposed to perform and realized that he was not as prepared as he had hoped.  Everything Virgil had taught him about the dance style seemed to have been deleted from his memory and he was left grasping at straws just minutes before it was his turn to perform.

    Regardless, the show must go on and Roman was not going to let this little memory lapse deter him.  It was only auditions after all, and as long as he got the rhythm down clean then it shouldn’t really matter what foot had the emphasis.  He could feel the doubt begin to ebb away as he practiced, and he knew he would be fine ー he nailed the singing portion of auditions, and Bobby was a character who sang a lot.  There’s no way those directors could ever pass him up!     His brain conjured up a memory of his first audition back when he was in high school ー  he was only a freshman that year, but he had still managed to snag a large role for himself; however, it was the person who claimed the main role that year he remembered most.  That person had the voice of an angel and couldn’t for the life of themselves dance even the hokey pokey.  But the directors had been so impressed by their singing that they still gave them the role and just spent more time working on the dances than the songs.  If that person could still get a role, then Roman could too.     Besides, beyond his talent and incredible performance, there was little to report from the singing auditions.  Most people had stumbled on stage and sang the typical audition songs: “Defying Gravity”, “Corner of the Sky”, anything from “Phantom”, etc.  Honestly, Roman was the only stick out talent there and he was glad he risked singing Bobby’s song from the show.  It’s fairly common knowledge that one should never audition with a song sung by the role you are trying out for, but Roman did it anyway and, in his educated opinion, thought he sounded amazing.     “Roman Palmer? You’re up.”     And just like that, any doubt he had flown out the window.  He was Roman Palmer, and he was going to nail this audition, just like he always does.

***

   “Greetings, you’ve reached Roman Palmer! Unfortunately, I’m away from my phone at the moment-”    “Or you didn’t charge it.”    “Oh hush, Hot Topic, I charge my phone all the time, in fact, it’s on the charger right now thank you very mu-” The recorded message cut out with a loud beep, and Patton found himself leaving a message for the tenth time that day.  It wasn’t like Roman to ignore his phone for this long ー the man had a hard time going even five minutes without checking his notifications.    Patton was definitely worried about Roman by now.  He hadn’t received any new selfies in the last two days, and Roman almost always sent him a few texts a day complaining about Virgil or wondering when Logan would be coming home.  The radio silence was concerning and after leaving his twelfth message, Patton had finally had enough.  If their resident drama queen wouldn’t pick up the phone then Patton was just going to march over there and demand answers.  Or bribe Roman with the cookies Patton had made that morning ー he had yet to decide upon his interrogation tactics.    It was fortunate Roman only lived a few houses down from Patton, as the short distance made storming the castle that much easier. Grabbing his bag, Patton set off towards the Palmer residence with his plate of sweets, which was all he needed to cheer Roman up if he was feeling down.  Inside the bag was the backup plan ー  a meticulously wrapped gift, courtesy of one Logan Shumaker.   Earlier that month, during one of his weekly visits home, their whole group had been out shopping.  While Roman had been distracted by a jacket, not unlike four he already owned, the other three had wandered into a different part of the store.  Virgil had found a Disney movie Roman didn’t own, which was what was currently in Patton’s bag, and until that day neither Patton nor Virgil had ever seen Logan that gleeful over anything that wasn’t space or math related.  It was concerning, but not enough for them to leave the disk there.    It was a quick walk to Roman’s house and by the time Patton had snapped back to the present he had already reached the front door.  The actor was definitely home ー Patton could see his old minivan parked in the drive.  Virgil had laughed when Roman first rolled up to school in that thing but had quickly learned to love it when Roman gave them all rides to school.  It had been dubbed “The Chariot” by Logan of all people, insisting it was a history joke and the group should not have taken the name seriously.  Roman, whether out of spite or a genuine love of the name, had had his license plate changed to “chariot” by the end of the week.    After knocking a few times, Patton gave up on being welcomed by Roman and let himself in with the spare key kept under a potted plant.  The door swung open and Patton marched in without a moment’s hesitation.  Dropping his stuff off in the kitchen, he continued down the hallway to Roman’s bedroom.  If he was sulking anywhere in this house, it would be in there.    Roman’s room was almost as extra as the man himself, and his entryway was a great indicator of that.  The door had been removed ー in its place was a heavy red curtain, and when it was left “open” it was held back by a gold colored rope.  Inside the room was a large canopy bed and multiple posters that ran the gauntlet from classic Disney movies to black and white musicals from the classic Hollywood age.  Some of these posters were signed, and those hung above Roman’s huge vanity.    The only source of light in Roman’s room, besides his window, was a dozen strands of fairy lights and one spotlight in the corner of the room.  The spotlight was set up next to Roman’s closet and every once in a while the whole gang would pile on to the bed to watch Roman model some new clothes.    When Patton pushed back the curtains, however, he was surprised to be met with darkness.  There was a figure illuminated by the window, and they were currently wielding a bat.  Patton shrieked as the figure let out a war cry, and quickly exited the room.    “Exit stage right!” He cried, as he sprinted down the hallway and towards the front door.    “Wait! Patton, it’s me! And that’s technically stage left!”    Patton stopped and turned back towards the figure who was now quite obviously Roman.  The bat he was holding was made of styrofoam as a leftover prop from one his shows ー Patton briefly recalls it being “Those Damn Yankees”.  Roman had started to sniffle as he lowered the bat, interrupting Patton’s train of thought as tears started streaming down the actor’s face.    “Oh, gosh kiddo!  I should have announced myself when I got here, I’m real sorry for spooking you!” Patton quickly moved in for a hug, and that seemed to break what little was left of the dam holding Roman’s sobs back.  They stood there for what Patton guessed to be ten minutes, Patton rubbing Roman’s back while he cried.  It was worrying ー Patton had never witnessed a complete Roman breakdown before, as those were almost always handled by Virgil.      Once Roman’s sobs became small hiccups, Patton stepped back and made an attempt to lighten the mood.  Moving Roman to the kitchen, he retrieved the cookies and watched as the other devoured half the plate.  As he inhaled the food, Patton tried out some new jokes on him, earning a few weak giggles and half-smiles.  A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.    “Roman, what happened?” Patton loathed to ask the question so soon, but Roman had a habit of deflecting issues so the longer he waited the harder it would be to get answers from the thespian.    Roman stilled and lowered the cookie in his hand.  He mumbled out a response, but Patton couldn’t hear him through the food in his mouth.  Patton leaned forward and asked the distraught man to repeat himself.    “I didn’t get the part.  I failed the audition.”  Roman ducked his head and wrapped his arms around himself as if he were trying to hold himself together.    Patton surged forward and enveloped the other in another hug, reassuring the actor that one failed audition did not mean the end of his stage career.    “There will be more auditions, Roman.  That role just wasn’t meant to be, and that’s okay!  You’re one of the best actors I know kiddo, and I know you’ll nail the next audition!”    Roman sniffled but didn’t start crying again.  Instead, he smiled softly and scooted his chair closer to Patton.  The two leaned against each other and continued on their quest to clean the platter of baked goods.  A comfortable silence stretched between them for the first time that day, and Patton couldn’t stop the small burst of pride he felt for both Roman and himself.    Eventually, Patton felt the silence had become too thick and once again tried to fill the space ー he never could be quiet for too long.    “Hey, not that I’m complaining about your weapon choice, but why did you grab the foam bat? I know for a fact you have a katana in your closet from Into the Woods, so why didn’t you just use that?  I mean, it was just me and not some creep, but…” Patton trailed off and leaned forward on his hands, expecting Roman to tell one of his grand tales like always.    “…I may have had the katana taken away.”    This gave Patton pause, as that was not the type of response he expected and had no idea what to make of that.  He quietly chewed on yet another cookie while Roman kicked the bat away from the table where it had fallen earlier.    “May I ask how on Earth you managed that?” Patton finally asked, concerned and intrigued at the same time.    “I uh… tried to slice a few soda cans with it?  I may have missed and hit the armchair, so Mom took it away?  She said that as long as I lived in her house I couldn’t be swinging it around all willy-nilly and breaking her nice furniture.  I think she was afraid I’d target the china cabinet next.”    Patton couldn’t help but giggle as he pictured the situation ー Roman was going to be turning twenty in a few months but at heart he was still the adventurous child he met in kindergarten.  Roman joined in the laughter too, and the tense atmosphere melted away as their laughter grew and they finished the plate of treats.    “Well, forget second cookies Padre ー we had tenth and eleventh cookies today.” Roman said, leaning back in his chair.  Patton smiled but was quickly enveloped in concern.    “You never eat that many, Roman.  When was the last time you ate something?”    “Yesterday.  I ate a cheese stick.”    “Roman Palmer, that is not good enough.  Go start the DVD player, I’ll make something else to eat.” Patton declared, pushing his chair back as he suddenly stood up.  The chair made an awful squeaking sound, making Patton’s stern voice crack with surprise as he spoke.  The change in tone left both men cackling as Roman moved over to the living room and Patton rummaged through the pantry.

***    About an hour later, Roman had finally gotten the DVD player set up and Patton had managed to make a bag of barely edible popcorn after burning four others in the microwave.  Roman complained the smell would never go away and had accused Patton of trying to smoke him out of the house.  Patton immediately denied the claim on the grounds that if Roman left the house he would be stuck staying at his and he did not want to share his home with the thespian.  Patton had a very small bedroom and three younger siblings ー there was no way he would ever share what little space he had.    The two had made it through “Treasure Planet” and “Robin Hood” before Patton remembered the gift in his bag.  He jumped up and over the couch, leaving a started Roman behind.  When he returned from the kitchen he bounced over to Roman’s half of the couch and shoved the package toward him.    “What on Earth is this?  Is this another movie?” Roman shook the gift slightly and could hear what sounded like a disk rattle.  He grinned and looked up at Patton, a questioning look in his eyes.  “What could this possibly be ー you three already got me every Disney movie in existence!”    Patton giggled and made a gesture for Roman to open the gift.  “Well, we got you this one in case you didn’t already own it!”    “…was that a play on DVD case or…?”    “Yes.  Now, kiddo, I would appreciate it if you would open that presently!”    With a dramatic war cry, Roman ripped the paper off and the cry immediately turned into an exasperated groan.  He turned the front of the case towards Patton and gestured at it with an expression that could only be read as really? You really got me this?    “What?  I know for a fact you don’t own this movie!”    “Patton, I swear to Shakespeare.  You know I don’t acknowledge the existence of this movie, why would you three purchase Chicken Little?!” Roman squawked, his hand flying to his chest as if the very action offended him.  Patton broke down into hysterical laughter and took the movie from Roman.    “Logan thought you would enjoy the movie, he insisted we finished the collection.  He’s gonna be upset he wasn’t here to see your face though.  Can I snap a quick picture?”    “No, you cannot! I haven’t taken a selfie in days and I refuse to let the first picture of the week be sent to the nerd for blackmail!” Roman whined, falling back with a dramatic gasp, a hand clutching his chest.    “Well, you have to watch it at least once.  Virgil was excited to finish the collection and I will not let you disappoint my little shadowling.”  Patton got up and popped the DVD in, and Roman groaned again.    “Fiiiiine.  But the next time Logan’s home, he has to watch it too.”  Roman compromised, and Patton giggled at the image of Logan tearing the movie apart for its inaccuracies like he did during “The Bee Movie”. The two spent the movie giggling and throwing popcorn at each other, and after it ended they went through nine more movies.  Roman had fallen asleep halfway through the last one, and once Patton was satisfied that the man wouldn’t stay up crying all night he finally nodded off as well.

***    The next morning found the two in the kitchen, Patton making breakfast and Roman singing off key to some pop music.  Every once in a while Roman would pull Patton into a dance, and the two would jump around until the smell of burnt food became overbearing and threatened to activate the smoke alarms. It was nice, Patton decided, and he wouldn’t trade this for anything else in the world.  He loved seeing his friend smile, and if the awful singing is what made that beautiful grin stretch across his face then he would happily go deaf.    All good things must come to an end, however, and Patton knew he had to once again broach the topic of auditions and what Roman would do next.    After they had sat down at the table and started eating, Patton put his fork down and leaned forward, a sense of deja vu washing over him.    “Kiddo, I know it was only a few days ago but you should start preparing for other auditions.”  Patton had said more but was cut off by Roman throwing his fork down.  He stared at his plate, the apple pancakes suddenly unappetizing and offending.    “Roman.  At least eat one pancake ー you haven’t had any real food in days.” Patton began and quickly continued when Roman opened his mouth in protest. “No, popcorn and cookies aren’t real food.  Those have no nutritional value and so help me God you are going to finish those pancakes.”    Roman paled and stabbed a bite of pancake, knowing that once Patton makes his mind up there’s no stopping him from getting what he wants.  His face was still cold and angry though, and Patton had no idea what he was supposed to do next.    “Roman, come on ー don’t make me break out the musical puns! I have no standard for them so Anything Goes!” Patton had laughed at his own puns and the sight of the freckled boy enjoying his own jokes brought a small smile back to Roman’s face.    “Oh please, Patton, you know I enjoy your clever puns.  It’s Logan who doesn’t appreciate your fine wordplay.”    “So I guess you could say he is in Agony whenever I make one?” Patton wiggled his eyebrows at the “Into The Woods” pun, knowing that the show was one of Roman’s favorites.  “I know that they’re not very Popular with him, but they are pretty Wicked!”    Roman finally broke and for the second day in a row they were laughing like maniacs in Roman’s kitchen.  A few more puns were shared between the two and as they laughed, much to Patton’s relief, Roman finally finished his breakfast.    After the laughter died down and they grew silent again, Roman cleared his throat and made a show of looking away from Patton.    “I… I want to go to school for performing arts.  I’ve decided that’s what I want to do with my life, Patton, but the audition has left me thinking I may never make it very far.”  Roman continued to look away and wrung his hands as he spoke. “And you’re right.  It’s only one audition and I need to keep going.  I just don’t know if I can do that right now.”    “Kid- Roman.  It’s okay to be afraid right now, that’s completely natural.  I don’t have any theatre experience, but I imagine these auditions are just like riding a bike ー once you get started it’ll all come rushing back to you.  And you know how to tap now!  Even if you didn’t get the part this time, I wouldn’t call it a waste of time.  Not many people can walk into an audition and say they can dance like that, so that’s a huge leg up on the competition!”    Roman had started to smile as Patton spoke, and by the time he had finished it was a full-blown grin.    “You’re absolutely right, Padre! That is something a lot of people can’t do, but I can!  That’s going to look amazing compared to my common and casual competition!”  Roman cried, starting to sound more like his normal self.  Patton pointed this out, and Roman had corrected him by stating he was acting more like his fabulous self, as he was far from normal thank you very much.    The day went on and by the time Patton went home, Roman had been dancing around his kitchen and snapping selfies like the last few days had never happened.

***    A few weeks later, Patton’s phone buzzed with a text from Roman.  It was a picture of what looked like a music sheet and a script for “Newsies”.  The caption was short, but it brought Patton to tears nonetheless.    “Thanks for giving me 'something to believe in'" it read, and Patton knew everything was going to be okay.

#sanders sides fic #roman sanders #patton sanders #sanders sides platonic week #royality #ali writes #damn i have a lot of ideas for these versions of the sides #this may just become an au

[finnpves]

Give you something good to celebrate

Alec woke up early as always. Although, now it was less about his duty, and had more to do with his issue falling asleep. Since the demon attack, he still felt weird around Clary. And now he had the added guilt of aiding Clary in her quest to get her mother, and how he had let Iris split them up. And Valentine was still very much on the loose, plotting God knows what. When he closed his eyes, he saw himself covered in blood, heard Izzy's voice, or imagined himself running through Iris'. With the stress of everything going on his quick glance at the date didn't ring any bells. He went through the motions of his boring routine, grabbing a small breakfast with coffee, reporting to the OPS center, filling out reports concerning the demon attack. No one paid him any more attention than usual, still reeling from the attack on the Institute and the Silent Brothers. He had his head bent, shoulders slouched as an extra precautionary measure. He was unbothered for a few hours as he worked before he felt two arms wrap around him.

“Hello, big brother.” Izzy had been more careful with him recently, offering her silent support, but never prying. She too was healing still from the attack. She had been physically injured, along with the possession, but being with each other, quietly reassuring the other, kept some of Alec’s worries at bay. He turned around and embraced her, squeezing her a little and kissing the top of her head. Alec was forever indebted to whoever decided to give him Isabelle as a little sister. She had supported him through so much and had been his anchor for so many years. They pulled apart after a few more moments and Izzy had a smile on her face. “I know that it doesn’t feel very celebratory around here, and I’m sorry, but I think you deserve to have a slightly better day than surveillance and paperwork.”

“Isabelle, why would I be celebrating anything today, Valentine is out there plotting against us, we’re down quite a few men, and the Clave no longer has the soul sword.” Alec pulled back once he realized he had been ranting again. Izzy sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Alec, its September 12.” She looked at him expectantly as his brain worked for a few moments for the significance of the date. Once it dawned on him Izzy started chuckling. “23 years and you still don’t know your own birthday.” Alec sent a faux glare her way. “I’m heading to Aldertree before I go the Iron Sisters. I’ll see if I can get you the rest of the day off. And before you start, I am feeling good as new and ready for this, and you deserve some time to yourself. I don’t care what you do, read, nap, ride the subways for five hours, I just don’t want you over working yourself.” Alec knew it was a lost cause once he noticed the determination in her eyes. If he didn't acquiesce, she would find a way to get him out of the OPS center for the remainder of the day.

“You’re going to do amazing, Iz. I’m so happy you get to see them.” Izzy’s childhood dream of becoming an Iron Sister may have faded, but her admiration had not dwindled. “I’m a little jealous, I’m not going to lie. The Citadel must be amazing.” Izzy’s eyes became dreamy and distant.

“Alec, I finally get to see them!” Alec’s smiled brightened. Excitement in the Institute was rare to begin with, but with each passing day, it seemed as though a little more hope drained out of them. The situation with Valentine had taken tolls on each of them, but it was moments like these that Alec was reminded of how resilient they were. Izzy stood on her toes, kissed his cheek, and started backing away. “Happy birthday! Love you! And remember: today is your day!” With that she hurried away, presumably to Aldertree. Alec went back to watching the monitors when Lindsay came to relieve him a few moments later. He nodded and smiled at her before going back to his room. He looked around and picked up the book he had started three weeks ago, right before his life had been turned upside down. Before a new Shadowhunter entered their lives, and before he had met Magnus. That thought brought a smile to his face.

He thought back to his last birthday, how he had been happy to be surrounded by his family, followed by the crushing weight of his parents’ expectations when Maryse and Robert took him aside and mentioned that twenty-two was a wonderful age to find a wife. He always knew his sexuality would become more of a burden, but for awhile he was allowed to be young and untethered to one person. The first mention of looking for a wife came on his twentieth, a reminder that he was now adult enough to decide his future. His twenty-first brought Aline, his mother’s first attempt to match him up. They were already friends and each of them knew that they could get married to end the uncomfortable conversations and neither of them expected a true marriage from the other. Yet, they both yearned for something more. His twenty-second had brought the not so gentle reminder, and threat of his parents finding someone they approved of. His parents, ever the Shadowhunters they were, arranged a modest dinner with the entire family for birthdays. As they entered the field, they would get better patrol routes and a shortened day. The siblings, under his direction, would sneak into the kitchen and bake a cake. They would quietly celebrate like mundanes and sing and blow out candles. Those moments in the kitchen were the highlight of every birthday he had. Alec had forgotten most of his wishes, too caught up in the spirit and laughter, but last year’s stood out to him. He felt quite foolish in the moment, wishing for a way he could be true to himself. And then Magnus came along and Alec saw what he wanted.

What he felt for Magnus was what he had been searching for, and the full between them was undeniable. The more he learned about the other man, the more he wanted to be with him, no matter what. Magnus reminded him of what he really wanted, to be understood and loved by someone, and he knew that exploring what they had to could lead to that. He had gotten side tracked, but he was ready to commit to Magnus, if only they ever had the time to talk. It was at that moment that fire message appeared in front of him. He was puzzled as to who would send one to him. Normally fire messages were reserved for important information and generally the head of the institute was the one to receive them. He grabbed it out of the air and quickly recognized the writing. He read the message and his heart started pounding before he reached Magnus’ signature. He threw his jacket on and was out of the Institute in record time. He rushed over to Magnus’ having flashbacks to their first meeting, the Circle members swarming the loft. he could only imagine that Magnus was easier to find now that he was no longer employing the use of his more powerful wards. He had only been there a handful of times, but is feet knew the way.

He reached the building and entered, feeling the wards as he did so. The feeling was warm and familiar, much like when he and Magnus had shared strength. Nothing appeared to be wrong as he approached the door. He opened it and called out. —————————————————————————————- “You have a spare room?” Alec had never considered killing his brother but he was pretty close to it now. He and Magnus had just returned from their date and his birthday was looking up. He now officially had a boyfriend, and of course his brother had to barge in. “Aldertree isn’t happy with what happened at the City of Bones and I need somewhere to lie low.” Magnus sighed and snapped his fingers, a blue spark lighting up his hand. “The guest bedroom is all yours.” Alec looked at Magnus. He knew he was generous but letting someone into your home was a big deal, especially taking in a shadowhunter. “Thank you, Magnus” Jace began to walk to his new room, before turning around. “Wait, Alec, its the twelfth isn't it. Happy birthday!” As  he walked off, Alec could feel Magnus stiffen. He turned toward him and couldn't read the look on his face. “Magnus, thank you for tonight, I had so much fun, and thank you for what you just did for Jace.” Magnus sighed.

“Alexander, were you really going to let the whole night pass without telling me today's your birthday?” Alec shrugged.

“It didn't seem that important. Our date  was better than any birthday dinner with my parents.” Magnus looked thoughtful at that before moving to the kitchen. Alec could hear him rifling through his pantry and his curiosity got the better of him and he followed him in. Magnus had set some ingredients down and was taking out a pan before he looked up and noticed Alec in the doorway. He smiled at Magnus and took a closer look at everything on the island. When he put the pieces together he started beaming.

“Is the High Warlock of Brooklyn going to bake a cake?” Magnus rolled his eyes at Alec’s shocked tone.

“I can cook you know. Believe it or not but I do things without magic sometimes. And this is extra special and deserves a little more care.” Alec smiled.

“Thank you. Funnily enough this is what I usually do on my birthday. My siblings and I would sneak out and make it. Izzy is closely monitored.” Magnus smiled as he started mixing ingredients together.

“I'm sorry you couldn't celebrate with your family today. I hope this is a good substitute?”

Alec nodded and moved closer. They started working in silence and Alec felt at ease. It amazed him that he was able to feel this comfortable with someone else so soon. Magnus was a comforting presence and he never felt the need to break the silence. They started up the mixer a little too high and when batter flew everywhere they looked at each other and laughed. Magnus’ eyes went to his mouth and Alec saw the mischievous glint is his eyes.

“You have some batter on your lip.” Alec raised an eyebrow. “Let me help you.” And then Magnus was in his space and they were kissing again and Alec hoped and prayed he would never get used to this. He always wanted to feel this excitement, the nerves, and the spark that Magnus  lit in him. Everything was warm and Alec never wanted it to end. But soon enough Magnus pulled back and gave him an appraising look. “Much better.” With that they went back to the cake and it was ready. Magnus stuck some candles in it and lit them with his magic. When he opened his mouth and started singing Alec was not at all surprised that his voice was beautiful. And when it came time to make his wish, he was at a loss. Standing in front of him was a man that was everything he could wish for and more. He quickly blew out the candles.

“What did you wish for?” Alec gave Magnus a smile.

“World peace.” Magnus looked confused. “Being with you is better than anything I could wish for, so I thought why not use my wish for the greater good.” Magnus’ face was fond as he looked at Alec.

“Happy birthday, Alexander Lightwood.” Alec’s twenty-third birthday brought him the love of his life and the most important relationship he would ever have.

#alec lightwood #magnus bane #malec #fan fiction #magnus x alec #claryfightwood #gayndsoft #happy birthgay #isabelle lightwood #Jace Wayland #mine #i didnt write the dae becasue lets be real you all know it by heart #shadowhunters 2x06 #malec date

[whyspeakin]

All About Kalpana Chawla, Why She Is Best Astronaut

Kalpana Chawla Death Reason

Kalpana Chawla,  died on February 1, 2003, in an accident in the space shuttle Columbia somewhat over Texa, United Status, while approaching to earth, in an accident.

It is just after 9 a.m. at Cape Canaveral. At the Command Center in Houston, the first wave of panic takes over. Kalpana Chawla Husband - Jean Pierre-JP,  response to their last message from mission control had been aborted midway. All communication with Columbia got disconnected. However, it is a routine when a spaceship re-enters the earth's atmosphere. Jean Pierre-JP to those who know him—to is aware that this is commonplace. However, successive calls go unanswered. At about the two-minute mark, before touchdown, JP does not hear the expected double sonic booms of the shuttle overhead. As the minute pass, the silence becomes deafening. For the first time, the ground crew feels that something has gone wrong. On television screens across the world, the white streak has turned to a series of white spots in the sky. At this moment speculative ideas began to trade-in media about Kalpana Chawla death reason. The first fearful questions have begun doing the rounds; phones are ringing all over the world and what can be the Kalpana Chawla Death Reason. At the landing site, officials with cellphones glued to their ears are exiting the viewing area. The worst is feared. The world does not have to wait until the official word is out. Columbia has blown up, and its debris is raining down on the southern states of Louisiana, Texas, and Arkansas. It is darkness at noon. At the Kennedy Space Center, workers hunch over their terminals in complete shock, while at the same time, family members of the crew are being herded together at Cape Canaveral. Shuttle contingency is declared. In the Houston home of Kalpana, her family stares in disbelief at the television screen. Monty won't be coming home. And, in her hometown, the party for the schoolchildren is over. Instead, the stunned inmates of Tagore Bal Niketan join one billion countrymen in mourning their brightest star. An abrupt end to a space journey for six other brave astronauts too. But in her wake, forty-one-year-old Kalpana leaves behind many unanswered questions. What made it possible for this petite girl from Karnal to successfully undertake such an incredible journey that spanned not only continents but also cultures and finally ended in space? Unlike what many others would have done, Kalpana had chosen to come out of the comfortable cocoon of a well-to-do family, preferring instead to explore the world, taking the challenges as they came. Overcoming a host of prejudices, this five-foot-tall, slightly built girl, armed with only her radiant smile and fierce determination, had managed to realize her dream. Therein lies one of the most compelling stories of our times, one that begins in a house in downtown Karnal in 1961.

Kalpana Chawla Family Details

Father: Banarasi Lal Chawla Mother: Sanjyoti. In 1961, the household of Banarasi Lal Chawla, in Karnal, was expecting the arrival of a baby. By the persistent kicking in the stomach, Sanjyoti, going by midwife tales, felt that it was probably going to be a boy—she already had two daughters and a son. But lo and behold, the fourth member born to Banarasi Lal and Sanjyoti Chawla turned out to be a very energetic baby girl. It wouldn't be the last time that Kalpana would surprise her parents. The Chawla household had only recently moved to Karnal. Banarasi Lal, like thousands of others in the wake of the Partition riots, had trekked across from Pakistan, with precious little of his own. Only those with grit eventually made it and, more importantly, we're able to put the bloodshed behind them and move on with their lives. For Banarasi Lal, then a teenager, and his family, the first stop after leaving Gujranwala in Pakistan was Ludhiana. As refugees, they had to begin from scratch, and Chawla senior, along with other members of the family, started on a host of businesses, including selling wares as a street hawker. With each change in occupation, he started nudging up the social ladder. The progress was slow, till the extended family finally moved to Karnal. They took up a two-storeyed house in the middle of the town, close to the family business, which at that time was merchandise in clothes. A little later, the family took to the company of manufacturing tyres, which turned out to be very lucrative. Through all this, the Chawla household retained its spirituality. Banarasi Lal's parents had abdicated worldly existence and moved into a little house on the outskirts of Karnal town to spend their last years in spartan life. The religious attitude in the family was secular. While Banarasi Lal himself read the Guru Granth Sahib, his wife Sanjyoti followed to the preaching of Pune-based Swami Rajneesh. As far as food was concerned, the household was uniformly vegetarian, a habit Kalpana retained even years later when she went up in space as an astronaut. The years of struggle were not lost on Montu, as Kalpana came was popularly known affectionately known in family circles. Though by then the family business had begun to thrive, the basics-never let up in your effort-were never forgotten. From virtually nothing, her father had built up a lucrative business and had even received a laurel from the President of India for an indigenously designed machine to manufacture tyres. Just before the Columbia launch. Her easy-going nature and by then radiant smile masked the extent to which the child had absorbed her father's experience. It would be many years before the family would first realize how this slightly built, the dark-eyed girl had imbibed the family traits of grit and determination. Time and again, after that, the baby of the family would prove unflinching in her resolve-something that would come handy in surmounting the barriers that Montu faced growing up as a girl child in the state of Haryana. Speaking to friends who had dropped in to offer condolences at the Houston home of Kalpana, her mother said, 'Kalpana was born in our family, but she had a mind of her own.'

Kalpana Chawla Childhood in Karnal, Haryana.

Kalpana Chawla’s childhood was spent in the town of Karnal, Haryana, which lies on the Grand Trunk Road, halfway between New Delhi and Chandigarh. Located along the west bank of the river Yamuna, the town and its adjacent areas have a legendary history linked to it, dating back to the Mahabharata. Legend has it that neighboring Kurukshetra-also in Karnal district—was the battlefield that launched the famous war of Mahabharata between the Pandavas and the Kauravas. Centuries later, the town's penchant to be associated with history has not changed. Growing up in the sleepy town of Karnal was quite an experience. For girls to be given the privilege of studying was rare, and not many families encouraged the idea. According to Kalpana's contemporaries from Karnal, a fifty-strong class would be hard-pressed to have even five percent girl students-a far cry from the average has seen today. In the Chawla household, however, there was an enormous premium on academic prowess. Elder sister Sunita was already a trailblazer, setting a benchmark as it were. By the time Kalpana came of age, money was no longer an issue in the family. At the same time, the family was not keen to send her to a school far from home. So they opted for Tagore Bal Niketan, which was located in the vicinity of the Chawla home. Captain D. Sharan, who grew up in an adjoining village and is now a pilot with Indian Airlines he was, in fact, piloting the aircraft that got hijacked to Kandahar-recalls that Tagore School was among the best that the town could offer. 'Women were never encouraged to study at that time, he recalled. 'In one class you would have only about three or four girls. For a girl in Karnal to get through (academically) was next to impossible. For that matter, even for a man, it was not easy.' He should know, having cycled every day to go to college and later to the local flying club for his first lessons in aviation.

Kalpana Chawla Education

Kalpana Chawla School: Tagore Bal Niketan Kalpana Chawla College: Dayal Singh College Tagore Bal Niketan was not the best school in town, yet it was unique in the way it was founded and run. At Tagore Bal Niketan, Kalpana's class had only fifteen students. Most classmates remember her as a shy individual. Though she never stood first in class, she stayed among the first five. Her energies were now increasingly towards raising the bar as it were. Her upbringing in a small town and her measured victories against tradition would be valuable lessons, as helpful as the support she drew from her female mentors, not the least from her mother. Given the family's conservative background, Kalpana skipped the better option in Dayal Singh College and opted instead for her pre-university from D.A.V. College in Karnal. It was only in the second year (equivalent to the twelfth grade) that Kalpana moved over to Dayal Singh College, that too because D.A.V. did not offer science beyond the first year of pre-university. As her teacher of English, Dr. Kamlesh Sharma, mentions, Kalpana was never traditional or conservative in her ideology, her thinking. By the time she finished her pre-university from Dayal Singh College, the petite girl with large black eyes, high-pitched voice, and luminous smile had set her sights on a graduation degree in engineering. It was not surprising, therefore, when news filtered home that Kalpana had to attend Punjab Engineering College (PEC) in Chandigarh. The Chawla household was initially reluctant to send her out of Karnal. Ultimately, however, they relented, and as a safeguard, ensured that Kalpana's friend Daisy too got admission in Chandigarh for a graduate degree. Recalling the moment, in the NASA interview, she said, 'I was lucky to get into aerospace engineering at Punjab Engineering College. And, in my case, the goal was, at that stage anyway, to be an aerospace engineer. The astronaut business is far-fetched for me to say, "Oh, at that time, I even had an inkling of it." The time had come for this small-town girl, who weighed ninety pounds with rocks in her pocket, to move on in her journey.  She could well have rested on her laurels and earned a more than comfortable livelihood as a civilian.

Kalpana Chawla Death Reason

The horrific turn of events after the space shuttle made its re-entry into the Earth's atmosphere on its home run are now history. For NASA and people all over the world, the end came as a tragic shock. A host of reasons have forth to explain Columbia's break-up on re-entry into the Earth's atmosphere. The most plausible reason out is that debris from the shuttle's external tank had struck Columbia's wing, just eighty-one seconds after launch on 16 January. The foam insulation purportedly fell and hit the shuttle's left flank on at least two, possibly three, locations. Titis believed, caused damage to the heat resistance tiles covering the wing and eventually proved fatal to the craft on re-entry. Retired Navy Admiral Harold Gehman, head of the independent investigation, is looking into this and other plausible causes. Progress has been painstakingly slow, which is understandable given that the debris from the shuttle is still being located and put together. Therefore, it may well be a long time before something gets is conclusively established. Meanwhile, the initial shock of losing Kalpana and her six colleagues in the unfortunate accident is now gradually wearing off. And the harsh realization has dawned that life has to go on without these magnificent seven among us. Comforting to many people--including her . own husband is the thought that Kalpana's death doing something that was most dear to her. Kalpana Chawla Death reason whatever maybe, 'The initial shock has worn off, aided by a constant stream of prepared meals, friends arriving from far-off places, and ever-present Astronaut Office contacts,' wrote JP on the Iweb log maintained by a Gillan of the rock group, Deep Purple. 'Intellectually, we all realize what has happened. Emotionally, none of us can yet connect the dots. We all take solace in that the crew was doing what they loved, with people they loved and respected. When the end came, it was instantaneous.' It is what makes her legacy enduring-an inspiration for generations to come. In many ways, the spirit of the seven astronauts, lost on that fateful morning on 1 February 2003, will always be with the world. Kalpana's journey from Karnal to space will forever remain a part of us. It did not end with the mishap or after her ashes were spread over Utah. It is not just because of her incredible achievements. It will be as much for her ability to achieve the impossible. Though being born into an upper-middle-class family helped, she struggled against very much the same odds as the rest of her countrymen. As a young girl born in the 1960s, she had no model to follow, no godfathers in the system. She did not use the prejudices and handicaps as an excuse for inaction. She sincerely believed that there was no alternative to hard work. And that if you believed in something genuinely, then it is yours. Her origins and life were, in a sense, very much commonplace. But her achievements were not. That is what makes her extra special--a role model to be emulated by generations after her. That, in many ways, is the central element of her legacy. In her last interview to India Today, she summed up the sine qua non of her incredible achievements thus: 'In one word-perseverance. There have been other factors too. Taking the time to follow other interests such as reading and exploring that have helped to widen the perspective and have enriched the journey.' Kalpana's strengths also flowed from the fact that she did no wanting for effort. She drew inspiration for this from ordinary individuals around her. People who gave it their all, no matter how commonplace their tasks might appear to be. For her, the commitment of her teachers—with their constant ability to devote attention daily to almost every student-was a cause for inspiration. So were the initial struggles of her parents to establish themselves again after being uprooted from their homes by the flames of Partition. The steadfastness and commitment that all of them displayed as they went about their daily lives inspired her in her journey. She looked for very much the same qualities--perseverance and courage-in the stories of explorers like Shackleton and Matthiessen. Another quality—which endeared her to those who knew her and will continue to inspire many, was her bold approach to life. Almost everyone who has been touched by Kalpana recalls the adventurous spirit that was so intrinsic a part of her. As her friend Acuff wrote on his web page after the accident: For Kalpana, the words she wrote on the photograph she gave to Amy (his wife) and I sum her up: In the spirit of adventure. She was always seeking new knowledge, new experience, and a unique wonder. She wrote to David (his son), 'Reach for the stars.' That is the message she would want all the children of the world to hear. Only by reaching beyond what we believe is possible can we achieve the impossible. Also striking was her desire to give back to the community and her commitment to preserving nature. It was this that motivated her to help not only young children from her old school in Karnal but also other deserving people from all over the world. It prompted her to painstakingly track down her alumni to share mementos from her first trip into space. To keep this legacy of generosity alive, her family has set up the Montsu Foundation (PO Box 58937, Houston, TX 77258, USA). As JP put it: 'The Foundation's first objective is to sponsor the university education of bright young men and women whose only obstacle is lack of funds, or means to acquire those funds. Sponsorship is open to anyone anywhere in the world ... The second objective is to acquire and preserve the natural environment, such as the purchase of land used by migratory birds during their stopovers.' Very appropriate for someone who drew inspiration from the words of the philosopher, Seneca: 'I was not born for one corner. The whole world is my native land. It was a connection that she sincerely believed in till the very end. Born Indian, yet died as an American, in space. Indeed a global citizen. As she said in her final interview to India Today, 'I have felt that connection and stewardship for Earth as long as I can remember. And not just for Earth, but the whole universe.'

Seconds before disaster Columbia Space Shuttle

A Timeline of Events in the Last Flight of Space Shuttle Columbia (All times EST) 16 January 2003 10.39 a.m.: Columbia rockets into orbit from Kennedy Space Center 1 February 2003 8.15 a.m.: Columbia fires braking rockets, streaks towards a touchdown. 8.53 a.m.: NASA loses temperature measurements for the shuttle's left hydraulic system. 8.58 a.m.: NASA loses measurements from three temperature sensors on the shuttle's left side. 8.59 a.m.: NASA loses eight more temperature measures and pressure measures for left inboard and outboard tyres. One of the measurements remains visible to crew on a display panel, which crew acknowledges. 8.59 a.m.: Final transmission. Mission Control radios: 'Columbia, Houston, we see your tire pressure messages and we did not copy your last.' Columbia replies: 'Roger, uh. 9.00 a.m.: NASA loses all data and contact with Columbia at 207,135 feet. Residents of Texas, Arkansas, and Louisiana report hearing a big bang' and seeing flames in the sky. 9.16 a.m.: Columbia's scheduled landing time. 9.29 a.m.: NASA declares an emergency. 9.44 a.m.: NASA warns residents to stay away from possibly hazardous debris. 11.00 a.m.: Kennedy Space Center lowers the flag to half staff. 2.05 p.m.: President Bush announces: Columbia is lost; there are no survivors.' Read the full article

[multi-fan-dom-madness]

Just You

(gif just because he’s cute)

Fandom: Supernatural Pairing: Rob Benedict x reader Warnings: Rob isn’t married in this. Jason Manns is reader’s BFF. Slight angst, fluff. Type: One-shot Word Count: 3,378 A/N: This is my fic for @iwantthedean'sTwo-Prompt One-Shot Challenge! I would have had this written sooner but I knew that seeing Rob at the Station Breaks concert in Georgia would give me an idea, and it did. Also, work got in the way, which is why this is a little late. (In-concert dialogue edited to fit the tone.) My prompt is in bold. Enjoy!

You hadn’t told Rob you’d be at the show tonight. It was supposed to be a surprise for the whole band, but a week before the concert Jason had stumbled across the plane ticket you had left sitting on top of your dresser. You grin at the memory. You had nearly choked on toothpaste when he came into the bathroom, eyebrows raised in an incredulous expression. “This is real, right?” he’d asked. You had rolled your eyes, rinsing your mouth before answering, “No, dummy, it’s a Monopoly plane ticket. Yes, it’s real. Surprise.” There are no secrets between you two. Even when you try to keep something from one another, it’s nearly impossible to hide it for long. You’ve been best friends with Jason for what felt like your entire life, even though the two of you met when you were in sixth grade and he was in eleventh. The school you attended went from sixth grade up through twelfth, and it was a group of heckling seniors that Jason protected you from. Regardless of the five years between you two, he quickly became a brother-figure and a best friend. When he discovered that you’d be flying from California to Georgia just to see the show, you made him promise not to tell Rob. He agreed, but of course the rest of the band knew within the hour. So as you take your seat at the top of the wooden stadium seats in the back of the small room of Eddie’s Attic, you know that the texts coming through to your phone are from four of the five members of the Station Breaks. Sure enough, you have five unread messages. One each from Billy, Cooper, and Kiel (who is filling in for Humphreys), and two from Jason. The first three express similar sentiments hoping you enjoy the show. The two from Jason make your heart beat a little faster.

7:39pm I’ll be looking for you out there. Really glad you came to see us play 7:41pm Can’t wait to see Rob’s face when he finds out you’re here You shake your head, sending quick replies to the four of them before locking your phone. There’s still some time before the show is set to begin, leaving you with your thoughts. You think back to a few years ago when Jason had introduced you to what has become like his second family: Jared, Jensen, Misha, both Marks, Matt, Rich, Rob, and the rest of the Supernatural Family. You had been blown away by how attractive Jared and Jensen were, but it was Rob who you kept coming back to talk to. You couldn’t help it. From the moment you met him, he’s had a comforting aura to him, much like your best friend, and the way he looked at you with those bright blue eyes of his made you feel some kind of way. Jason knew before you did that you had a crush on Rob. You denied it for months, but after Jason invited you to a convention just last year, you couldn’t hide from the truth any longer. If Jason is the first person you reach out to when something happens in your life, Rob is a close second. In the few years that you’ve known him, he’s been nothing but kind to you. Always willing to listen, always supportive, always ready to offer help. You could sit and talk for hours with him and still find new things to say. It doesn’t hurt that he’s easily as attractive as J2. That patch of silver in his beard and the laughter-lines around his eyes never fail to make your heart stutter. Your phone vibrating jolts you out of your thoughts of Rob. Glancing down at the screen, you fight back a smile. It’s from Jason. 7:57pm Are you sure I can’t tell Rob you’re here? The man won’t shut up about you Your thumbs dance over the keyboard as you contemplate what to say back. No you can’t tell him, is what you type out. Deciding to ignore the second half of the text, you hit send. 7:59pm Fine, fine. Spoilsport Rolling your eyes, you again lock your phone. Jason has never outright said that you aren’t the only one with feelings, but he’s hinted at it a handful of times over the years. Every time he brings it up, you laugh and say, “Yeah, just like Tommy had a crush on me in the seventh grade.” He never says anything after that, but he’s never dropped the subject completely. You catch yourself wondering, not for the first time, whether your best friend is telling the truth this time. Even if he is, part of you is convinced he must have misunderstood whatever it is that Rob tells him. You’re nearly fifteen years younger than Rob, and even in today’s world such an age difference would be frowned upon, especially since Rob is something of a celebrity and you’re just another person working towards an impossible goal of breaking into the screenwriting industry. Truth be told, you’re more worried about the fandom than the media. While most fans are the good kind, you’ve heard stories about certain fans who give the rest a bad rep. Pulling yourself away from that train of thought, you shake your head and look around the room. There are at least twenty people here wearing Rock God shirts. That makes you smile. It’s always nice to see the support the actors are given. After another few minutes of waiting, Jason’s friend Hayden Lee is introduced shortly after 8 o’clock. He carries his guitar to the stage, and you cheer with everyone else. You’ve known Hayden for many years now, and you’ve been to countless jam sessions between him and Jason. You know all of Hayden’s songs by heart, so you find yourself quietly singing along to each of them. He ends with your favorite song of his, “Revolution,” and when it ends you whoop louder than the rest, proud of your friend. He’s come a long way, and hopefully he’ll go even further. He thanks the crowd one last time before adjusting the mic stand down a good half foot. Laughter ripples through the room; Rob’s height is a known source of humor in the fandom, as you’ve come to learn. To you, everyone is tall, so you never really understand why Rob always jokes about his stature until he’s next to guys like J2. You shoot a quick “good luck” text to the band, excluding Rob, and then it’s only a few minutes later that they are being led through to the front of the room. Your eyes follow each of the men – Kyle’s charming looks, Cooper’s lanky frame, Billy’s combed=back hair, Jason’s curls – before settling on Rob. Your stomach flips at the sight of him: a dark button-up shirt, skinny jeans, and a brown hat. It’s something he would wear to lunch with friends. Casual, and 100% Rob. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. They waste no time launching into their first song, “Slightest Thing,” and you tear your gaze away from Rob to watch Jason. As if he can feel your eyes on him, he looks around the room before he catches sight of you in the back. With a quick smile, he returns his attention to the song. You look back to Rob. As much as you’ve always enjoyed watching Jason sing, Rob is on a whole other level. Watching him is damn near hypnotizing. You quickly get lost in the lines of his forearms as he strums his guitar, the way he jumps with excitement, the honest and heartfelt “thank you” after every song. You’ve never felt overwhelmed by him before, but tonight is different. Electricity courses through you, skittering to the rhythm of the music and spiking with each perfect blend of Jason and Rob’s harmonies. Goosebumps dot your skin. The energy fades only when they pause between songs to tell stories. You’ve lost track of how many songs they’ve played, but you somehow know as soon as Jason starts talking, the next one will be their last of the night. “This next song has a particular significance for Rob and I,” Jason says. He catches your eye for a brief moment before turning back to Rob, continuing with a mischievous grin. “And, uh, Rob’s gonna tell you what that is.” Rob throws his head back, laughing with the crowd. “Well, it- it means a lot to us because it really was the- it was the birth of the Station Breaks some five, six years ago in Rome.” He looks to Jason for confirmation and the taller man nods. “We played a gig and, uh, he was like, ‘Hey, hey, Robbie, you wanna come play with me?’ And I said, um, ‘I’d love that.’ So he was like, ‘How do you feel about Hallelujah?’” The crowd screams its approval. You shift in your seat, feeling the change in the atmosphere. Everyone loves the song, but you know it’s going to be a tear-jerker for most of the people in the room, yourself included. Billy plucks the opening notes, and Jason takes the first verse. Before long the electricity returns as Rob’s voice washes over you in the second verse. Already there is a familiar tightness in your throat as your eyes prickle. It doesn’t matter how many times you listen to this song on the album or watch the boys play it in hotel rooms, it always gets to you. Rob puts so much emotion into it every time. It never ceases to amaze you how open he is with everything he does. How selfless he is. How compassionate. How unapologetic of being himself. It hits you, as Rob croons out his ending “hallelujah,” that you’re in love with him. There are no bells, no fireworks, no singing cherubs. Instead, the realization crashes into you like a two-ton weight, knocking the breath out of you. If you weren’t already sitting, your knees would have given out. You’re in love with Rob Benedict. How could you have been so blind to not have seen it before? It only takes another moment for the doubts to come flooding in: You’re too young for him. He doesn’t see you that way. You’ve been reading too much into him for way too long. With an effort you clamp down on those thoughts. Without knowing why, you decide, for the first time, to trust Jason on this. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Rob does have feelings for you. There’s only one way to find out.

As soon as the band is off-stage and back in their dressing room, you type a frantic text to Jason, asking if he could let you in with them. He answers with a simple “yes,” and a minute later you see his familiar curls and broad shoulders peeking out from the door in the back right corner of the room. Weaving through the crowd, you almost make it to Jason when one of the employees stops you.

“I’m with him,” you say, gesturing to Jason. The woman looks at you with one eyebrow raised before turning to look at him. “She’s with me,” he echoes. The woman lets you pass, and as soon as the door is closed behind you, Jason picks you up in a rib-crushing hug. “Jace,” you groan. “Can’t breathe.” He chuckles and sets you down. “Come on. Let’s go surprise Robbie.” You walk with him through the short hallway to another door, which he opens just enough to peer outside. You can hear people talking, Hayden’s voice among them, so it must be the merch room. He did promise hugs to anyone who bought a CD. Jason motions for you to follow before dashing to a nearby third door. The two of you make inside without being noticed. Jason shuts the door as you take stock of your surroundings. The room is just big enough for the boys and some spare guitars. Billy lounges with a leg over the arm of a crimson plush armchair next to the door. Cooper and Kiel recline on a sofa of the same hue against the wall. Rob has his back to you, occupied with something at the table under the window. Billy winks at you  before saying, “Jason’s back.” “Oh good, we were just-“ Rob’s voice cuts off as he turns around. You half expect the two glasses of amber liquid in his hands to plummet to the floor, but instead he just stares at you with wide eyes. You give him a little wave. Warmth begins to bloom in your cheeks. “Y/N?” “Hey, Rob,” you say. Your voice sounds breathless, even to your own ears. He rushes across the small space to wrap you in a hug, and you squeeze him just as tight. When he steps back, a wide smile is affixed to his face, the light in his blue eyes dancing. His hand slides down your arm to hold your own. “What are you- when did you- how-” He shakes his head, laughing. “It’s so great to see you! I didn’t know you’d be coming.” “That was the point.” You smile. The warmth in your face has become a burn. “The show was awesome. You guys keep getting better.” You look around the room to include Billy, Cooper, Kiel, and Jason in your statement. They each accept it with a quiet “thank you.” You turn back to Rob. There is a beat of silence where you swear it’s just the two of you in the room. You can’t see anything but the sparkling blue of his eyes, can’t feel anything but his hand in yours, and your heart threatens to beat right out of your ribcage. Three words hang on the tip of your tongue, ready to be blurted out, but Jason clears his throat. The moment passes. “Guys, why don’t we go meet some of our fans out there?” Jason suggests. Billy is the first to jump up. “Sure. Come on, Kyle, Coop.” The men file out, stepping around you and Rob. You break eye contact with Rob to look back over your shoulder at Jason. “Thank you, Jace,” you say with a smile.” He ruffles his hair like he did back when you were still in middle school. “Anytime, Y/N/N.” “I’ll be out in a minute,” Rob says. Your heart drops; maybe that little moment was just in your head. Maybe you won’t get the chance to find out what he really feels about you. But Jason shakes his head. “Take your time, Rob. I mean it.” The door closes with a click before Rob can reply. You turn back to face him, your eyes downcast. You study the way your hand and Rob’s fit together. “Hey.” His voice is quiet. When you don’t respond, he repeats it again, a little louder. “Hey. Look at me. The silence is making me nervous.” You oblige. With a half smile, you say, “Sorry. Just thinking, is all.” “Thinking what?” “That it’s good to see you, Robbie.” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “I still- I can’t believe you flew all the way here just to see us.” You shrug. “I wanted to see the five of you play. I… I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.” “We just saw each other last month.” The words don’t sound harsh coming from Rob’s lips, but you suddenly feel childish for missing him. You step back, pulling your hand away to cross your arms over your chest. “I know that, but…” Turning away from him, you try to sort through the whirlwind of emotions rushing through you. The last few minutes have been a rollercoaster, from happiness at seeing him again to that inexplicable urge to confess in front of the others to this sudden onset of doubt. You’re not quite sure what you should be feeling or what you should be saying. “But?” Rob prompts. “But,” you repeat, letting out a pent-up breath, “I missed you.” “I missed you, too, Y/N.” His confusion is evident in his voice, but you don’t have the words to make him understand. You try anyway. “I’m not… I don’t know a good way to say this.” You weigh each word before speaking it. “Do you remember when we first met, what you were wearing?” He’s quiet for a moment. “No. But I remember what you were wearing.” “You had on jeans and that black Smoke Pit t-shirt. I was wearing a Manns Beard tank top, wasn’t I?” “Yeah, yeah you were. Your hair was in a bun that day.” You turn to face him again. “What’s my favorite color?” “f/c.” “Why?” “Because it reminds you of the first bike you had growing up.” You nod. “That’s why I miss you, every time we’re apart.” Rob tilts his head to the side. You can almost see the wheels turning in that beautiful mind of his, and you let him have a moment to work through his confusion. “I’m sorry, I don’t- what does your childhood bike have to do with you missing me?” You chew on the inside of your cheek before answering. “It has everything to do with it. I’ve never felt at a loss for words, but you seem to just get me. You make- I don’t know. You’re just you! And I can’t think when you’re around me.” “Wait, what- what are you saying?” Your heart jumps to your throat and proceeds to jackhammer there. You swallow around it. “I’m saying that I love you, Rob. I love you, and I’m praying to God that you feel the same way, because if you don’t-” He pulls you to him, cutting you off with a kiss. His lips are soft against yours, and his beard rubs against your face as you kiss him back, wrapping your arms around his neck. One of his hands cups your face. The other slots into the small of your back to press you closer to him. He pushes you back until your legs hit the edge of the sofa. Pulling him down with you, you knock the hat off his head to thread your fingers into his brown curls. You hook your legs up around his hips to keep him close to you. All you can feel is Rob: lips, hands, body, warmth. Heat scorches through you. Kissing him is better than anything your imagination could come up with, and desire is already clouding your mind. Only when his tongue swipes your bottom lip do you pull back to look at him. Your chests rise and fall at the same rapid pace. He smiles down at you, thumb tracing your cheekbone. “I never thought Jason was telling the truth about you. Guess I was wrong, huh?” “Me neither,” you admit. “Maybe we should listen to him more often.” He doesn’t answer, opting instead to kiss you again, mouth moving against yours with such fervor that your mind goes blank. When he breaks the kiss, it takes you a moment to regain your wits. “You should go out there. They’re probably all wondering why you’re not with the others.” “Come with me,” he says, a soft smile bringing out the laughter lines around his eyes. You smile without realizing it, but you shake your head. “What will they think?” “Who, the fans?” Without giving you time to respond, he continues, “I don’t think- it shouldn’t matter what they think. Is this-” he presses a chaste kiss to your lips “- what you want?” You can only nod. “Do you want them to know about it?” “No. Do you?” “I just got you. I’m not ready to share you yet.” Your heart melts at that. “Then let’s go.” He pulls you to your feet. Grabbing his hat from the floor, you resettle it on his head and straighten it before he takes your hand again, fingers lacing with yours, to lead you forward. “Oh, Y/N?” he says before opening the door. You give him a questioning look. “I love you, too.”

#2p1s challenge #iwanntthedean 2p1s challenge #rob benedict x reader #rob benedict x you #rob benedict #just you #my writing #supernatural rpf #spn rpf #supernatural fanfic #spn fanfic #thank you again for the extension on this #i feel much better about this version than the first draft #angst #fluff #and tbh the angst is so typical to rob fic? so i apologize for the basic writing

[safestsephiroth]

Drabble prompt for any character: Thirteen days.

He knelt before the shrine he had fastened to the wall, bowing his head. He worried it was an insult to his departed loved ones; that this meager display, despite being all he was capable of, would only anger their spirits.

He prayed. From outside the inn room, the sounds of the wilds came in to greet him. Cicadas. Birds. A lazily lapping brook.

He was cold. The humidity in the air had soaked him to his skin.

“Hear my plea,” he asked, in the language of the people who gave him the home he’d never had. “Protect those who survived. Comfort them for their losses. May they find hope. May they find life. May they find prosperity. Above all, may they find peace and a calm heart.” Several seconds of silence later, he continued: “I ask not that you destroy our enemies. There are enough committed to this. I ask that you soothe the spirits of the innocent. They did not deserve to pay for our recklessness. They did not deserve to suffer for our choice. I pray they find comfort. I pray they find peace. I pray they find answers.”

It was a familiar prayer, one he had recited many times, with slight variations here and there. But it always ended the same way: “Spirits, I beg of you, protect and guide my daughter. May she live free of the burden of my mistakes. May her grandfather raise her well. May she know happiness in this world.”

He remained in perfect stillness, not a single muscle twitching, until at last he was ready. He stood, carefully lit sticks of incense on the altar and bowed again.

“I remember your words, teacher. It is now my thirteenth day.”

—–

It was a small building in which children trained for dexterity, for flexibility, for the basic movements that would later in their lives be expanded upon again and again until they were ready to fight on their own. Today was the first day he stood, limping along with a crutch under his arm. He had been sent to this place to begin training.

How he could train with his injuries, he did not know. Only that he had to uphold his agreement with the people kind enough to shelter him or he would be an oathbreaker. Sometime between losing his best friend and striking the deal, he had nurtured a sense of honor. He had lost everything - his life, his only friend, his health, his strength, his speed, the treasure he’d almost died for - and honor was all that he had left. Despite a life of crime, he had been given an opportunity to start over. To be clean once more.

To have another chance.

He would not squander it. He would not waste it.

And that was when he laid eyes on the weather-worn old hyuan woman hunched over a knobby walking stick.

—–

“The first day, I was brought into this world.”

—–

“It’s you. You yet live.” Her voice creaked like old floorboards.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How many days have you lived?”

“I am twenty-six summers, ma’am.”

“I did not ask that. Days.”

“I do not know, ma’am. I cannot do such math in my mind. I need paper and ink.”

“You do not understand. I have lived a long life. Peril. Excitement. Joy. Fear. Loss. Gain. I have lived four and fifty days.”

“…Summers?”

“Days.” She raised her free hand, made a closed fist, then extended her thumb. “On the first day, I was brought into this world. As all are.”

—–

“The second day, I formed a fist.”

—–

His body now healed, he exercised constantly. It was his training. He carried buckets of water, sacks of rice, pulled carts, weeded gardens, tended farmland. When the old woman deemed him ready, he went once again to the small building. The old woman told him to prepare a punch. He clenched his hand tightly.

“No,” she said. “Open your hand.”

He did so, but didn’t comprehend why. “You said a fist.”

“Thrust your arm, quickly. The base of your palm for hard targets. Soft? Hit hard, with a fist! With this, you protect your hands. Your hands are vital. You live by them. You die by them.”

—–

“The third day, I walked for the first time.”

—–

“I cannot see you,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Here,” the old woman’s voice said, but it rang from all directions. “I am here.”

“How?”

“Clear your mind. Stop thinking, ‘it cannot be done’. An old woman can. You can. Calm. Slink into shadow. Fade from view.”

It took weeks of effort, and he wondered if he was taking longer to master it than a child would, but in time he was able to master the meditation. In mastering this ultimate calm, he understood how all else worked. As he began to dissolve into the shadows, he heard the creaking voice again.

“Good.”

—–

“The fourth day, I learned the signs.”

—–

“Ten. Chi. Jin. They are three. They are all you need. Four elements you will command. Mystic circles you will command. Life and death you will command. So will others. So will elders. So will children. The signs themselves are not enough. You must not grow overconfident. This power is not a god’s, but a man’s. Learn speed. Practice. Make your hands remember so you don’t have to.”

For a month straight, the old woman drilled the knowledge into him. She made him slip into shadow, form the specific signs she demanded, reveal himself, then fade again.

“This will save your life,” she told him.

—–

“The fifth day, I took up blades.”

—–

“What are these?”

“Wooden. Practice. They weigh the same. They hurt. You will adapt to the weight.”

He nodded, then followed her instructions and began attacking the dummy. The same three attacks, over and over, over and over. It must have been thousands of strikes before she moved on.

—– 

“The sixth day, I learned to evade.”

—–

The moment he stepped through the door, she hurled a small rock at his skull. It grazed his brow, tearing open a gash.

“You have strength. You have knowledge. You require reflexes, now.”

“Yes, teacher.”

“From here on, until your training is completed, you will be followed. At any time, more rocks will be thrown. You must dodge all of them. You must learn to sense them coming.”

“Yes, teacher.” He started to bow, and ducked under the next rock.

“Good.”

—–

“The seventh day, I learned endurance.”

—–

“Children can cut. Children can bleed. Children can use mudra. Children can hide. But children cannot run for day and night. Children cannot fight on as their arms ache, as their lungs burn, as fire scorches their flesh. That is the realm of a full Shinobi. You must be prepared to run until you die. You must be prepared to fight, even if your blades are broken, even if your body is torn apart. So long as your soul contacts your body, you must not stop. With or without food, with or without rest, you must continue.”

“How is that possible?”

“You must defy Death. You must stare at her, as you will see her all your life, and you must deny her. You will imagine her mocking you, waiting for you, and you will fight and fight and fight until she is gone. You must keep in your mind your target, your goal, and let nothing extinguish your flame.”

—–

“The eighth day, I learned humility.”

—–

He was attacking faster than his own eyes could follow. He had never felt so powerful in his life.

“Do you respect your elders?” the old woman asked.

“What? Of course I do. Your wisdom is great.”

“Then fight me,” she replied.

“What?”

“I am your opponent. Fight me.”

He scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

The old woman stood straight up, opened both her eyes, took the cane in her hand and swept his legs out from under him. In a flash, a blade was drawn, and he didn’t have time to rise off the floor before it was close enough to shave his neck.

“You underestimate at your own peril. Our way is to be unknown. They will see what they wish to see, so long as you let them. You desired a feeble old woman passing on knowledge. You did not consider why I have lived so long. Do you understand?”

It took his brain a moment to catch up, but once it had he spoke, as softly as possible: “Yes, ma’am.”

“We will start again.”

—–

“The ninth day, I lost you.”

—–

He had visited the grave the past three nights. The man who had been born decades past was long ago dead and replaced, and in the grave beneath him was the teacher who had guided him to where he was now. He dropped the flower to the earth.

A rock hit his neck. It was the woman who had saved him all that time ago - or rather, saved the man who died to become who he was now.

“Why?” He asked.

“We all loved her. But if you live, then she lives, as do her teacher, and her teacher’s teacher. We live through what we have made. If you can’t dodge stones, then she is truly dead. Will you let her die?”

He said nothing for several minutes, and when he turned to face her she was gone.

—–

“The tenth day, my heart was forged.”

—–

It had been a beautiful wedding.

He didn’t want to dwell on it any further. Not today.

—–

“The eleventh day, my heart was whole.”

—–

They named her after her mother’s grandmother, a wise old woman who was the greatest artist the clan had ever seen. They swaddled her in red, with cloth that had once held her mother and grandmother.

—–

“The twelfth day, my heart was broken.” This was where his cadence broke. He stumbled on the words, trying to slip past them. It was not the full refusal of a child in denial, it was the slow sampling of a poison one desired an immunity from. Just a little more every day.

—– 

The red cloth. The lightning above him. The bodies around him.

His life shattered. Yet again.

He had to go. The Garleans were coming. His father-in-law had already taken his daughter.

It was for the best.

—–

“For two years, no more days came. But now… now, it is my thirteenth day. On my thirteenth day, I undo a clan’s wrongs, and I protect a child in need. I will finish my final mission by erasing the treacherous Tachibana from history, and replacing them with something better. With this girl’s kindness.”

thanks so much for sending this in, I’m sorry it took like six months to finish! also mentions @red-dlai ‘s Cardelica!

#onwesterlywinds #clyde arrowny #shadows of othard