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jamespotterthefirst · 4 years

Text

Enchant Me

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2.5K (sorry!) Warning: None Author’s Note: AU where Ethan is the one asking MC questions for the fMRI scan (book 1, ch 6).

Catch up here.

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Green eyes meet his briefly before hurriedly glancing away, the movement so fleeting that he could have attributed it to his imagination. Except, the way his stomach flutters as a result is very real and very annoying to Ethan. When at last he forces his treasonous mind to the task at hand, he determines she is nervous, the tense energy radiating from her almost palpable in the bright imaging lab.

Guilt takes root in his stomach as he begins to regret asking this of her. The flimsy request for her help, blurted out after he reluctantly turned down her party invitation, seems downright embarrassing now. What the hell had he been thinking?

He pauses to consider that therein lies the problem: He hadn't been thinking. What a dangerous and inane side effect of being in her presence. What a humbling yet disconcerting notion that all it takes to disarm an intelligent, highly educated man is a pair of clever, emerald eyes, a lovely dusting of freckles, and a pretty smile.

Ethan opens his mouth to offer himself up as the subject instead, but Lilac gives him a brave, determined half smile. Her cheeks flush and he can see the visible effort she spends in getting the words out. “There is no dignified way of saying this, so please don't fire me,” she begins, not looking at him.

“I won't fire you for changing your mind, Rookie.”

Lilac shakes her head. “It's not that. It's just that I'll need an injection of the magnetic contrast media…” Her eyes swivel to meet his pointedly, as though expecting him to catch her meaning from it.

Ethan is not following and that much must be evident in his face because she sighs.

“I can't have any metal on me,” she continues, face growing bright pink to the root of her dark hair. “So I'll have to remove my bra.”

Silence.

“I… Erm... That's…” Ethan's ears flare with heat, his throat feeling suddenly dry. “That's true. I'll leave the room.”

“No need,” she assures him, already peeling off her coat. Before Ethan can even react, she reaches behind her back and under her blouse.

He is momentarily frozen, eyes watching her expertly work the clasps, before hastily turning his back on her and busying himself with the gadolinium. The way his heart clamors wildly at his ears is guarantee enough of the sinful thoughts his mind will torture him with later, thoughts of Lilac undressing in many different ways for him.

Get it together, Ramsey.

“I'm ready,” she announces to his sheer relief.

That relief is short-lived, however, when his eyes catch a glimpse of the lacy, bright red garment on the floor, unsuccessfully concealed by her discarded lab coat. Every inch of his traitorous body reacts on sight, reducing him to just another weak-willed man, uninhibited by the mere sight of a bra.

Lilac, meanwhile, watches him from where she lays on the table, decent enough in her loose fitting blouse. That lopsided smirk of hers makes a reappearance and it only makes his thoughts sputter further.

“Stay still,” he manages to instruct, his voice quiet and gentle.

When his fingers palpate the veins in her arms, Ethan struggles to think of much else but the feel of her soft skin against his, incinerating his fingertips. He makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, finding that all traces of humor are long gone as she watches him, lips slightly parted. A white hot current of tension crackles between them, dangerous and capable of consuming him whole. With a surge of recklessness, he finds that he wants it to. The blazing look she fixes him with makes Ethan wonder if she wants it too.

Swallowing hard, Ethan forces himself to glance away.

After a brief pause, she teases, “You do know how to perform an intravenous injection, don't you?”

“Ha. Ha,” he returns sarcastically. Her own genuine laughter rings around the imaging lab.

Ethan injects her with ease and presses the button to slide the table inside the magnet enclosure, hiding that infuriatingly distracting smile from view. Soon after, he sits at the workstation, checking on Lilac through the glass and powering up the magnet.

“How's it looking up there, Doc?”

“Like a brain,” he says dryly.

“So...average?”

“Very average.”

“Ouch.”

Ethan allows a resigned grin, shaking his head and feeling a wide lightness spread in his chest. Silence ensues after their banter and he realizes she waits for his question.

A thrill shoots through his core at the ocean of possibilities before him. At last, he can catch a true glimpse of the mystery she has proven to be. Isn't that what he longs to know the most ? Isn't the enigma that is Lilac Allende the true allure for him? Isn't that the reason he can't stop thinking about her?

He can ask anything, and finally know the answer.

“Do you prefer cats or dogs?”

There is an anticlimactic pause and Ethan wants to slam his head against the console.

Really, Ethan? Cats or dogs?

Lilac is silent, so silent Ethan wonders if the speaker system is working.

“That's the type of question you have for me?”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “Just answer it, Rookie.”

The image shows activity in the temporal lobe at the use of the nickname.

“I like them both,” she answers before Ethan can interpret the previous reading. “Though dogs tend to love me almost instantly.”

An uninvited mental image of Jenner, paws on her chest, tail wagging at blurring speed upon meeting her, crosses his mind. Ethan dismisses it as an impossibility, unable to think of a scenario where both creatures would meet.

“We have a family dog back in LA named Lobo,” she continues.

“Wolf?”

“The third,” she adds cheerfully. “My parents name all of our dogs Lobo or Oso.”

The memory elicits notable activity in the hippocampus. Ethan is unable to see her face but he finds the reminiscent lull of her voice utterly endearing. Catching his own reaction with a flare of annoyance, he dismisses it, clears his throat, and moves on to the next question.

“What inspired you to become a doctor?”

The longest pause yet befalls them. Already there is activity in the right temporal cortex, peaking his own curiosity. Every second that she doesn't answer is agony.

Finally, she says, “Pass.”

“Excuse me?”

“I pass on this question. I plead the fifth.”

“Overruled.”

“You can't do that,” she protests, though he can hear the laughter in her voice.

“Just answer the question, Rookie.”

There is a loaded, tense silence that slowly tapers to a boiling point, then—

“You.”

Ethan blinks, speechless.

“Don't you remember?” she says, an edge of embarrassment dripping from her voice. “You signed Landry's book for me.”

“Who?” he blurts out. Not waiting for an answer, he asks, “Wait, so you didn't keep that book, Rookie? I am offended.”

“No, my copy is much more worn, annotated, and well-loved,” she explains with a chuckle.

A small whirlwind of emotions takes root in Ethan, who is still at a loss for words.

“In a literal sense, your research inspired me to go to med school,” she continues, interpreting his silence as encouragement to go on. “I read your book from cover to cover as an undergrad and was so inspired, for once in my life I knew where I had to go. I wanted to be here, at Edenbrook, working alongside the best.”

Ethan's throat is tight as he listens, the activity in the scan completely forgotten.

“The more sentimental reason I was inspired to be a doctor is, of course, my parents.” Lilac pauses and clears her throat as a pretense. “They– They came to this country in pursuit of a better life, leaving their family and everyone they loved behind. All to be in a brand new place, not knowing the language or the culture, often taking up backbreaking jobs for miserable pay...to be looked down by many as inferior. All that sacrifice, for us.” Her voice cracks at the last few words. It takes her a moment to recover. “That sacrifice drove me through my worst days in medical school. It's what drives me today.”

She says this with a renewed, fierce pride that evokes a surge of admiration from him. It tears through his chest unlike anything he has ever experienced before, but then again, she is unlike anything he had ever seen before. Wildly, he wishes they were sharing something so precious face to face. His hand flexes reflexively as his mind imagines sweeping a thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone.

“If not a doctor, what career would you have chosen?” He is surprised by the gentleness of his own voice, the sound foreign to his ears.

When she speaks, she sounds almost like her usual, cheeky self. “A beauty guru.”

“A what?”

“It's people online filming their makeup routines.”

Ethan has never heard of anything so pointless in his life. “Be serious.”

“I am! There might still be some videos online of my failed attempts,” she says, laughing. “But in terms of a realistic career, I would've probably chosen to be a homicide detective or a forensic pathologist.”

He raises his eyebrows at this, stunned for a moment at their shared interest in detective work. “Why?”

Lilac mulls over her answer in a characteristic silence. “Obviously, there is the allure of gathering evidence and solving a mystery.” A deliberate pause, then—“But I always thought that was a bit selfish.”

“Selfish?”

Ethan can't help the outburst. After all, connecting the pieces of an unknown puzzle is precisely why he once considered that career.

“Yes, some doctors want to deliver the perfect diagnosis in a self-congratulatory way. To help the patient, yes, but to walk away with the gratification of having conquered a mystery.”

His itch to argue is quelled by his curiosity and so he says nothing.

“I wanted to be a detective to solve the mystery as a way to fight for the voiceless.” Her voice drops to almost a whisper as she admits this. With a rush of satisfaction, Ethan realizes he is probably the first one hearing this reasoning. “There is something sick about being able to name notorious serial killers without a problem, but we can't do the same for their victims. They are the ones whose stories should be told, whose memories should be celebrated. They are the ones who deserve the accolades and the justice of finally solving that mystery.”

Ethan has no rebuttal for the first time in his life.

As his brain struggles to reconcile the young doctor's words with the inexplicable thundering of his pulse, Lilac laughs.

“No offense, Dr. Ramsey, but I was expecting a different line of questioning here.”

Ethan forces himself to recover. “How so?”

“If I were asking you questions, I'd be a lot noisier,” she says, unabashed.

Ethan allows a chuckle. “That's not surprising,” he comments. “What type of questions would you be asking?”

“I don't know…” She trails off pensively. “Maybe your type?”

Ethan's mouth goes slack. He recovers enough to say something, though he is not sure what. Luckily, he doesn't have to know because she continues, “I'd definitely ask about relationships, past and current.”

By this point, his heartbeat is an uproar in his hearing. The brash comments should be concerning coming from a subordinate but he feels like a fraud when he considers chastising her. Though he would never admit it out loud, the answers to those questions intrigue him to the point of restlessness.

“Fine,” he allows quietly. “Answer those.”

A surprised little laugh comes through the speakers. “Really?”

“Yes, let the record show this was your idea, Rookie,” he says in what he hopes is a casual tone. “What was the first one you mentioned? Ah, yes—What's your type?”

The image of her brain activity, which Ethan had forgotten to glance at until that moment, lights up at the amygdala. An emotional response.

He can sense the reluctance in her silence.

“Tall. Definitely taller than me,” she begins at long last, her voice dignified, as though she is forcing herself to push past any bashfulness. “Dark hair.”

The answer is exasperatingly vague. The descriptors easily fit the surgical intern he saw her kiss all those weeks ago and the muscular paramedic who glances at her with besotted eyes every chance he gets.

“Intelligent,” she continues.

The diagnostician in him almost discounts Lahela on the sole basis of being a surgical intern.

Lilac clears her throat so subtly, he almost attributes it to static in the speakers. “Someone with a dry sense of humor and sarcastic to a fault,” she says, a lot softer now. “Someone who can keep me on my toes.”

The scan displays activity in the frontal lobe, similar to what he saw when he called her “Rookie”. The small media room, despite having the air conditioner at full blast, feels suddenly sweltering.

“What did I say next for my questions?” she asks, saving his mind from traveling a dangerous path.

“Relationships.”

“Right,” she says with an exhale.

Ethan says nothing, afraid even the slightest sound will discourage her.

“Past relationships are… complicated and mercifully ancient history.” On his screen, he sees the most activity yet. A visible reaction in the right hippocampus, the amygdala, both sides of the prefrontal cortex, and the insular cortex— undeniable anger.

Lilac, however, does not elaborate any further. Instead, she hurries on, “Current relationships are also complicated, frustrating, and nonexistent.”

The words hang between them, like a pendulum. He is convinced they carry more meaning but Ethan's own brain feels abuzz with activity, too tumultuous to formulate follow up questions. When his eyes fall on the clock, he notes they have been at this for almost an hour.

“I think we're done here,” he says.

He leaves the media room, deliberately pausing outside the imaging lab to give Lilac enough time to put all of her clothes back on. By the time he enters the room, she is throwing on her coat, hands raking through her shiny hair.

“Everything working okay?”

“Like a charm,” he responds, mind still spinning.

An incessant stab of dread begins to pierce through him as they prepare to go back to work. His mind wanders to Naveen, weak and alone in his room, and icy twines of fear take root deep in Ethan’s stomach once again.

“Thank you… for the assistance.”

Lilac flashes him an easy smile. “Any time.”

Ethan manages an awkward nod turning to leave. Something powerful holds him back before he can take another step. As full fledged panic about facing Naveen's new symptoms grips him, he wants nothing more than to confide in her.

He stops and turns to face her.

Lilac tilts her head to one side, watching him curiously.

The magnitude of what he is about to do hits him like a train and his newfound courage vanishes at once. With a grimace, he waves the idea off and exits the room.

______

Author’s Note: A HUGE thank you to everyone who sent me questions Ethan could ask. I tried my best to include them here.

“Do you prefer cats or dogs?”-- @drethanramslay

“What inspired you to become a doctor?” -- Anon and @scorpiochick8

“If not a doctor, what career would you have chosen?” @scorpiochick8

The not so subtle questions about her love life-- @eramsey28

Answering the career question wit banter, then with a serious answer. -- @whippedforethanramsey

Ethan’s slightly jealous thoughts about Bryce and Raf-- @schnitzelbutterfingers

Sorry if I didn’t include all requests! This would have been 20 pages long if I hadn’t trimmed some of it lol.

I swapped some of the dialogue from the original. Also, I’m so sorry to @takeharryandgo for the horrible brain science here. Forgive me, Doc.

What Lilac said about her parents is exactly how I feel about mine. So I just had to include that here.

Finally, I intend to continue these from Ethan’s POV. However, for personal reasons, I will keep my next few projects under wraps.

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@dulceghernandez | @lion-ess24 | @emotionalswift2 | @the-soot-sprite |

#open heart #ethan ramsey #ethan x mc #playchoices #My writing

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cosmicbash · 3 years

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(answer only if ur comfy with answering) i’m pretty sure 3/4 of the boys (em, kells, rook, and pete) prolly self harmed, i mean the fuckers are covered in tats, i won’t be surprised if the “it looks cool” is just an excuse. how would their s/o react to the scars?

Pete:

Pete talked alot about his self harm in his interview early on this year with Charlamagne. I highly recommend anyone who likes Pete, doesnt like pete, or just wants to know who the fuck he is watches is. Its an hour long but I literally sobbed while watching it because its just so heartbreaking some of the stuff hes gone through and how deeply I can relate to alot of his struggles.

Fuck it imma link it.

youtube

But anyway. He's said he used tattooing for a while as a less destructive form of self harm because the pain from getting them done worked the same way cutting did for him. Also he had them done to cover up some of his self harm scars because he used to cut his own chest. Pete's always been very open about this kind of stuff. Especially so in the interview where he goes into a lot of explicit detail so if thats potentially triggering I would have to also recommend AGAINST watching it unfortunately.

But as for how his SO would react?

Rook would already know ahead of time about Pete's past and current self harm habits. In interviews Pete talks alot about how he "warns" his partners when they first get together about how he's "crazy" and regularly will need to take "vacations" to the mental hospital to get a handle back on things when his meds need readjusted or his mental health gets to be too much of a struggle to handle on his own with his outpatient therapy. So, by the time they're actively dating, in a serious relationship Rook would already probably have figured out what days are going to be bad ones for Pete and what he can do to help.

Like noticing Pete looking more disheveled on their facetime calls, or his jokes leaning a bit too far on the scale of self deprication. They can't always be together because of their careers and living situations (at least not until they move in together) but Rook would drop some of their usual teasing banter for the day and instead fill their conversations and calls with reassurances and check ins on what Pete might need. The most important thing for him would be making sure Pete knows he loves him and that he's not going anywhere just because Petes having a low day and acte snappy or distant.

Rook doesn't notice Pete's scars most of the time. Not unless he looks closely for them and, except during the dim quiet nights where they're laying together and his fingers are tracing the random explosion of art lining Pete's chest the drummer actually forgets they exist at all. When they first met it was hard for him to even imagine cheery, sweet always giggling Pete in such a dark space that he would do things like that but, once the proof is infront of his eyes it's hard for Rook not to feel his heart ache even before he's fallen completely in love with the man. Rarely he will find his fingers catching on a feather thin line on Pete's skin, and when they do the kiss that follows is not out of pity but one of acceptance. Pete's perfect. Even with all of his sharp edges and missing pieces. That's just more space for Rook to fit himself into to act as support.

Kells:

Kells has said similar too, I think I remember an interview with him saying he also got tatts to cover up some self harm scars (also to fight some of his body dysphoria. Which actually got heightened really badly when he had to wear all that makeup for the dirt and see himself truly 'naked' again.) Cutting himself, including on the chest like Pete has mentioned. He also drinks and does drugs to self harm and numb the pain.

The majority of his scars are hidden away by his colorful tats. The few Em discovers are like Rook, through accident. The pads of his fingers catching on a slightly different texture or a close examination of some of the blonde's artwork. Kells is less vocal than Pete. If Em presses, depending on the day he might give a detailed account for each gash or on a less comfortable night he might change the subject with a "i dunno, probably happened when i was drunk/high/a kid"

Em does his best to respect Kelly's comfort but the few scars he finds uncovered down around the blondes ankle become a favorite spot of his to hold and stroke whenever available. Theres just something about them. Maybe the strong need to "protect" that rushes through him when he touches them or it could be the almost possessive idea that while the world may know every tiny piece of art that litters his boyfriends flesh, this small patch is his and his alone to see. Like a secret held between the two of them.

Em:

Em's obviously talked about his own self harm in the past. His "slit me" wrist tattoo an unashamed statement to it. Even after he got sober and stopped doing the "usual methods" like cutting, drinking excessively, and nearly overdosing, he did struggle with starving himself or abusing his body by over exercising instead. Like Em tore his hip flexors after getting sober because of it. I'd hope that nowadays he's got a better handle on things but it wouldn't be shocking if he still struggled from time to time.

So, Kell's being a huge stan of his. Even before the beef is guaranteed to know about it. He looked up to Em and compared the similarities of their lives for years.

That doesn't make it any less jarring when they get together and he stumbles upon the scars though.

The faint faded lines across Em's wrists he expects. Even the almost undetectable jagged line along the older rapper's scalp from his childhood bully is something he knows enough about to immediately place. But the paler crossing lines he spots one day between Em's thighs are what make them all feel "real" and less like some tiny little trivia fact he read in a magazine, heard in an interview, a song. Them and Em's quiet almost reluctant admission of their placement being the only true "private" space he thought he could use crushing the final leg on the unreachable pedestal a younger Kells had placed the man up on. Allowing him to actually see Em. To fall in love with him.

From that moment on Kells hands find themselves glued there every time they go to sleep. It doesn't matter the position. Big spoon or little spoon he will twist his wrist or arm to curl one hand around the soft flesh of Em's inner thigh. Just to feel them against his palm or to sleepily stroke with his thumb.

Sure, it might be a little like how his knowledge of them tickles that posessive side he and Em both share. But, it's actually mostly just because Kelly finds them beautiful. Scars have always been attractive to him and every bitter huff or dismissal of how they're ugly or childish from Em just makes him want to kiss and stroke them more.

Rook:

I unfortunately don't know much about Rook's history with self harm. Its reasonable to assume he shares the same "drown your sorrows" habits kells and Pete have/did. And from what I've seen and learned about him through his lives and just following his social media I couldnt speculate one way or another.

Regardless any kind of scars Pete might discover on Rook would be treated with care. Lots of soft fluttered kisses and gentle brushes of fingers.

Pete wouldn't pry. Current Rook and the risk of any future scars are far more important to him. If Rook wants to share or talk about them he's of course eager to be there for him to listen and support. And even though he knows the struggle with mental health and jow unavoidable some heartache and pains may be that doesn't stop him from feeling any less grief over not meeting Rook sooner to prevent the drummer from experiencing some of it.

And ahh its almost 1:30 am anon 🥺🥺 sorry I got a little carried away with this ask. I hope it's close to the type of answer you wanted but I'm gonna cut it here because I'm hitting a wall.

#emgk #pookie #TW selfharm #tw #self harm #ive never tagged something with a trigger warning before #so im sorry if i do it wromg #asks #i love asks

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pittstick · 5 years

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In Observance of Suicide Prevention

Trigger warning for anyone who struggles with depression or self-harm.

Background - I was diagnosed with depression in June of 2015. I also have anxiety. My depression diagnosis changed in early 2018 to dysthymia - which is persistent mild depression.

Since October 2018 I have been struggling with my mental health. In October I knew the medication I had been on since June 2016 was no longer working. I was actively going to therapy, but things just didn’t feel right. I just felt blah all the time, and if I did have any joy it was very short lived. But I had a moment of hope/happiness at the end of September early October. I thought I had found the next guy I was going to date. I had an amazing first weekend with this guy (before this we had talked for a month) – and he too felt this way, or so he said. He eventually ghosted me. I was heartbroken. This guy was everything I wanted. Everything I had been looking for. I cried to my best friend, as many of us do. My best friend told me if she ever saw him, she’d tell him off. When she got her chance, she backed down. She instead played nice with him and his new girlfriend…. I didn’t find out from her but through snapchat. So, on top of my medication not working, the guy I fell hard for ghosted me and was dating someone I knew was not a nice person, and my best friend betrayed me (she broke all her promises of standing up for me). It was the perfect storm. I fell apart. By this time it was early November. I came home every day and curled up on my couch and cried. Or I went to bed. I felt like I had lost everything. I was unhappy at work, I was unhappy with my life, and I no longer had my best friend. I thought my life would be very different than what it was. Things that normally brought me joy no longer did. This is a huge red flag for those with depression. My life was, wake up, go to work, go home and maybe eat, then straight to bed. I stopped meditating. I stopped watching tv. At lunch I’d take a nap instead of eat. I was a shell of myself. I didn’t talk to anyone at work.

I know it probably sounds silly to let a boy and a betrayal ruin my life. But it was more than that. I was already depressed – I was already feeling low, and struggling with getting together with my friends. I was already isolating myself. I was already not wanting to participate in conversations. But then to have these huge life hits was more than my already fragile psyche could handle. It felt like the only person I could turn to was my mom. My mom is the hero of my story. She would come over and do my dishes – when you have depression doing anything is hard. I couldn’t clean my house, and then when your house gets messy, you feel more depressed because the house is disgusting and you feel worthless for not doing the littlest thing. So my mom would come over. She’d clean my house. She’d wash my dishes. And she would sit with me and watch movies or shows while I cried. I know it killed her.

On November 22nd, Thanksgiving, also my mom’s birthday was the first day I thought seriously about killing myself. The only reason I didn’t was I knew it was my mom’s birthday. And I knew my parents would pick me up to go to dinner. I held on for a little bit longer. Then my nurse practitioner who specialized in psych meds changed my medication. It was not a good fit, to say it plainly. December 8th, was the next time I was going to kill myself. I got home from work and just started crying. I cried telling my mom I didn’t want to go to the hockey game that night. I was exhausted and felt hopeless. I looked up how to kill myself with my medication. I knew I had extra from my previous medication. And I knew what I currently was on. I thought it would be so easy – so peaceful. That no one would care but my mom and dad. That my friends would get over it – that I didn’t see them often since they lived in other states. Work wouldn’t care – they could get another designer. I was sobbing and texting my mom. After looking it up I knew I needed help. I told my mom I needed to be admitted into a hospital. My mom (she is a social worker and my dad is a psychologist so are capable of handling this) decided that no I’d stay at their house until I wasn’t suicidal. I felt awful and said no I’d just go to bed. She didn’t believe me. And drove to my house, where I was now sobbing on the couch instead of bed. And grabbed my clothes, my cat, and me. I stayed at their house for 4 days, and she and my dad monitored me. They also took all my extra medication so I couldn’t commit suicide. I told my doctor the medication wasn’t working – but you have to give it 6 weeks before you can change. This was the first Christmas I couldn’t be happy about.

On December 27th, two days before my birthday, I almost killed myself again – it wasn’t as strong as an urge as December 8th. But definitely not good either. I decided to leave my parents house and go home. I felt too much family pressure to be okay. I didn’t celebrate my birthday last year.

Since this happened, I’ve changed medication and I am doing much better. Since then I’ve met Taylor Swift. I got a puppy, I am doing my hobbies again, and I am talking to my friends and trying to be active in social situations. None of the positives would have happened if I had killed myself. I wouldn’t have met Taylor. I wouldn’t have met my puppy Moe. I still have moments of real sadness but I’ve survived the hardest time of my life. When I wanted to give up. Podcasts, audio books, and Taylor helped me. They helped me focus on something else. But I also am so glad I reached out to my mom and she was strong enough to disagree with me and make me be monitored. I am so thankful I didn’t do it.

If you don’t want to do what you love. You want to sleep all the time. If picking something to watch on tv is too hard and sleep is a better alternative, you might need help. If you don’t eat because you’ve lost all appetite. If you’ve thought life would be better if you died. Or if you just feel a heavy cloud all the time you might be depressed. You might need help. If you are struggling reach out! Talk to someone. Go to therapy. Its cliché but there it will get better. Things won’t always be so dark. You are not alone - even though it feels like it, and feels like no one could understand.

National Suicide Prevention Number 1-800-273-8255

#World Suicide Prevention Day #Depression #Living with Depression #you are not alone #You are worth life #you deserve happiness #Taylor Swift #thank you Taylor Swift #suicide prevention #get help #Suicide isn't a joke #Seek help for depression

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fortunefavorstheway · 4 years

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Fortuna Chapters 1 & 2

AO3 link

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 12k+

Din/OC

Din wakes up with a cold, he’s out of medicine, and the closest shops are sold out. He seeks out a blind healer living in the mountains and ends up getting more than he bargained for. Meanwhile, the Child makes absolutely sure the helmet stays on while Dad’s sleeping.

Long buildup of caretaking and fluff, ends with masturbation

When the Mandalorian woke up with a sore throat, his first instinct was to ignore it like always.

His developing paternal instincts swiftly squashed that first instinct. The sore throat did not go away after a meal and a couple of hours, so it wasn't fatigue. As he coughed from the growing itch in his throat and felt his face warm up, he knew that the first priority was to make sure the Child didn't catch anything, followed by getting well as soon as possible.

Din peered into the crate that currently served as the kid's cradle. Nestled among the blankets, he was still fast asleep, one hand outside the covers rising and falling on his chest as he breathed slowly and evenly. Smiling, he resisted the urge to get any closer in his present condition, and returned to the lower level. Opening his med-pack, he groaned when he saw the only medication available was a single dose of painkillers rattling around. He considered swallowing some bacta gel instead, but if there were unintended side effects there'd be no one left to take care of the kid. He wondered if he should save the painkillers for the kid, but dismissed it; it was too high of a dose of too strong a medicine for his ad'ika. He sighed and regretted it as it nearly became a cough. His carelessness had left his clan vulnerable to a simple cold, and he should've restocked sooner, but credits and discretion had both been scarce since they'd begun their journey to seek out the Jedi.

He tightened his fists with resolve, but weariness weighed down his limbs. He took the painkiller with water and then set about disinfecting everything on the ship, starting with his own clothes and armor. His limbs felt less tired as the painkiller did its work, but his skin was still warm with sweat. It only got worse as he slipped back into his clothes and armor, but if it meant the Child was safe from his sickness, he'd gladly endure the discomfort.

Weapons were last. He had finished disinfecting them and was about to begin regular maintenance when he heard the Child fussing. "Ad'ika," he croaked, hoarser than he anticipated. He grabbed some food and water and returned to the crate, where the Child was sitting up and holding his arms out, cooing with urgency. Din was more than happy to oblige.

"Ahh," the Child whined, pushing at the helmet. Ever since Din had made the adoption vow and revealed his face to the Child, the Child had grown used to him having his helmet off when they were alone.

"Not now ad'ika," Din said, sniffing as his nose stuffed up. "I'm sick and I don't want you to catch it."

The Child stopped pushing at the helmet, but didn't remove his hands entirely. His ears drooped in concern and he tilted his head before leaning against Din's chest. Something about Din's breathing must've been off, because the way the Child's brow furrowed was almost funny for how out of place it was on the face of a baby. The Child straightened and his ears perked as he held up his hands and reached towards his father.

"No!" Din said, startling the Child. "It's too much to ask for something as small as this." The Child's ears drooped once again and he pouted, eyes shining as he whimpered protests. Din sighed, and this time he couldn't stop it from turning into a cough. Once his body settled, he gently took the Child's hands in his own and then held him close as the Child had his breakfast. Once that was done, he continued to hold the Child close to him as he went up to the cockpit to navigate.

His throat wasn't as sore as earlier, so he felt comfortable talking to the Child as usual. "We're gonna need to re-stock on some medical supplies and refuel the ship. We're far from Imperial presence out here so we can go somewhere industrial, but even then, we'd better stick to somewhere that has a lower population density," he said, bringing up the map. The Child relaxed at this familiar routine, bouncing side to side in his embrace, and giving a small cheer as Din unscrewed the ball and handed it to him. He kept giving commentary as he went through each planet. "Too backwater, we won't be able to restock here... terrain is too dangerous and there's a strong criminal presence, so our ship would get scrapped immediately... this one would be perfect if we had enough fuel to get there..." On and on it went, and Din felt a steady fuzz taking over his brain. The next planet he checked, however, gave him pause. "Lisera." He selected it and read through the specs. "Mostly mountains, but they've got a small trade center in this valley that's away from any active volcanoes or earthquake zones," he leaned back into his chair and set the coordinates. "I'd say it's our best bet, what do you think ad'ika?"

"Eh!" the Child agreed.

-----

"I'm sorry, but we're out of medicine."

It was a mixed blessing that the cold and painkiller dulled his senses, or else Din might've done something truly regrettable right then and there. Instead, he said, "When will you restock?"

"I don't know. None of the other vendors have any stock either," the vendor forced a sympathetic smile. "You arrived at a bad time I'm afraid. A trade dispute higher up in this territory meant certain goods are a lot scarcer, and most of the residents here stocked up in case. Had you arrived one week earlier-"

"It's fine," Din said. It was something out of both of their controls, but that didn't make it any less frustrating. He'd hoped to get everything done in one stop, and the idea of having to spend more credits for fuel just to find medicine was making his stomach churn. At that, a coughing fit surged through him, and he struggled to keep his hold on the Child. The Child, in turn, drummed on his chest in a state of alarm, anxious to do something, anything that would help his father feel better.

The vendor winced at the Mandalorian's current state, then said, "If I may make a suggestion, Mandalorian," she turned her head towards the mountains. "There's a healer, Silla, who lives up in the mountains. She sometimes comes down here to sell some medicine and herbs, but in your circumstances it'd be faster to seek her out."

Din cleared his throat. "How much will it cost?"

The vendor frowned. "I've never been a patient of hers, but I've heard she's generous and willing to barter services. I will caution you however," she dropped her voice low, "I've also heard rumors that she has mystical powers. For a blind woman, even for a regular person, her diagnoses are inhumanly accurate, and they say similar things about how powerful the stuff she brews is."

Din considered this, his free hand cradling his child's head closer to his chest. If this woman was a sorceress, maybe he had a lead on finding the Child's kind. "Has anything bad ever happened to any of her patients?"

The vendor shook her head. "I've witnessed the occasional arguments when she comes down to trade, but otherwise no. It might just be that she's a stranger on this planet, and people talk." Sensing the Mandalorian's next question, the vendor said, "She arrived a few standard months ago on a cargo ship and almost immediately went for the mountains."

A freelancer who likely wanted to stay hidden. Din would have to be on his guard. "Thank you. Where in the mountains does she live?"

"Follow the path and you'll eventually find her. You'll know you're getting close from the smell," the vendor said. "A piece of advice: Under no circumstances are you to stray from the marked path, unless you want to be eaten, lost, or crushed." The vendor glanced up at the sky, where the sun was high enough to cast short shadows on the ground. "If you start now, you should be able to find her before nightfall."

Din nodded his thanks, and turned to start his way up the mountain.

-----

It was only until the town was out of sight that Din felt the painkiller begin to wear off. He wasn't aware of any pain or discomfort while he was moving, but the moment he stopped to catch his breath, fatigue seized his body and the sweat soaking his clothes felt heavier than his armor. He wished he could set his child down to give his arm a rest, but if they were this far and he still hadn't found the healer, then he couldn't afford to walk any slower. He switched which arm was holding whenever he began to feel tired, but the frequency of his switches was increasing. The Child, normally so curious about every new sight, was unusually subdued, as if sensing his father's distress. Every once in a while Din caught his child raising his hands, only to gently grasp and lightly squeeze them in his own in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

His throat felt parched and hot, but when he took a sip from his canteen he coughed at how scratchy it felt. How bad was it that it would hurt to drink plain water? The Child reached for the canteen, and Din almost gave it to him on reflex before he stopped. He needed to disinfect it first, and he fumbled around his pockets for where he would keep the alcohol wipes, only to come up empty. He wanted to grind his teeth at how stupidly unprepared he was, but that would only worsen his headache. The Child whimpered and a faint rumble came from his belly, so Din put his canteen back and grabbed the bottle of ration bar mush he prepared when they both had to be away from the ship. The Child wrinkled his nose at the familiar smell, but Din didn't have the energy to argue, simply pushing the tip of the bottle at his child's mouth until the infant's hunger won out and he began drinking from the bottle.

The sun was still up, but much closer to the horizon than when Din had first started. He stared at the railings on the mountain path above him, tempted to scale them to save time, but aside from the vendor's stern warning and the wire nets that held back rocks, there was no way he could do it with in his sweating, aching condition. His limbs were burning as he kept climbing and climbing but he still couldn't see any signs of the healer. The vendor had said he'd smell it when he was near, but as the snot dripping from his nose was making that difficult. Every drop that slid down his upper lip seemed to replace his fatigue with sheer rage and frustration, but all he could do was keep climbing, even as the inside of his helmet smelled more and more like raw bantha meat. The child soon fell asleep, and was wrapped in a makeshift carrier from Din's cape.

Din wanted to feel relieved as the sun began to set and the air cooled, but once it was too dark, Din would need to make camp for the night and delay medical treatment, and being exposed to the elements, even in his armor, wouldn't help any. The Child stirred and shivered but didn't wake, and Din found the resolve to walk still a few more steps. How could he protect his son if he was sick like this?

The sun was touching the horizon when Din smelled it, even through the congestion. It was a spicy smell that reminded him of the food the tribe served, and his nose itched at its presence. He picked up the pace and Din could've cried when he saw a light in the distance. Energy rushing to his limbs with the knowledge that his destination was in sight, he found himself in a flat clearing where the healer had set up camp. Past a single light where the path first entered the clearing, there was a large tent. Next to it there was a low line with clothes and a high line with plants, fish, and meat hung to dry. The fireplace wasn't going right now, but a black kettle hung over it.

His body was begging for sleep now that Din had paused, but not yet. He went up to the tent and knocked on the front panel, but nobody answered. "Hello?" he called out in a cracked voice, hoping he was loud enough to be heard but not too loud to wake his child. Still no response. He stepped into the tent and his heart dropped upon seeing it empty. There were shelves of glass bottles and various instruments strewn about, but Din didn't have the energy to focus on those right now. Instead, his eyes turned to the bedding on the floor, and he felt himself floating towards it as he his strength dwindled to nothing. Even if the healer was out, having a comfortable place to sleep after such a long journey would do for the night.

This, of course, was the moment the Child chose to wake up, and Din sighed long and low when those adorable green ears perked up. The Child did not fuss or cry, but turned his head outwards and began reaching for something out there. At this, Din stilled, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. We're being watched. Much as it ached to do so, he switched on the thermal tracking. There were no footprints in the tent except the ones he'd made, so he stepped outside. Scanning the ground, he still found nothing. As he remembered how Cara had jumped from above, he barely picked up the sound of wood creaking above the clearing. He whipped his head up towards and got his hand on his blaster, confirming a humanoid heat signature up in the trees. The tightening in his chest triggered another coughing fit, and with the sudden dizziness from his head movement Din struggled to keep his balance. The Child cried as he fell, though he managed to roll so his child did not get crushed underneath.

The figure climbed down from the trees, and after he switched off thermal vision he struggled to keep his eyes open as they approached. They were dressed in white robes and knelt before him. "Can you stand?" a soft, low voice asked. Another coughing fit and he strained to get his legs to straighten, but soon he was leaning on the healer as she led him back into the tent. He set his rifle to the side while she laid him on the bed and gently shushed the Child. "Your guardian needs rest. You can stay with him, but I'll need you to move." The Child barely paid attention to her, clinging to Din's chest with all his might, whimpering in distress.

As the darkness overtook his vision, Din murmured, "Helmet... stays on." Clutching his child's hands to his chest and weakly patting his back, Din's eyelids fell shut and he slipped into a dreamless sleep.

-----

If this one insisted on keeping his helmet on, then he was more likely a true Mandalorian than a mercenary simply wearing the shell of one. Silla wondered if instead it might be an urgent need to keep a criminal identity secret, until she knelt down to pick the child off of his guardian and a pendant brushed against her gloved fingertips. The Child cried out and seized the pendant, putting it in their mouth while their other hand clung to his guardian's chest. "Ah, it's yours then." Holding out her hand, she asked, "May I hold it for a short while? I want to know it's shape." When the child's answering noise was full of caution, she added, "You can hold it, and I'll let it go after a few seconds. I can tell that it's important to you." She smiled warmly, and after a moment's hesitation, the child removed the pendant from their mouth and held it out to Silla. Brushing her fingertips on the metal, her smile broadened when she recognized the shape. "A mythosaur skull. So you are a Mandalorian too?" When the child cooed in the affirmative, she let go of the pendant and brushed a hand along their head, feeling the light hair on top of thick, but soft skin, with their ears being the softest of all. "I must say, you are the most adorable Mandalorian I've ever met." The child giggled as she stroked their ears, but soon became distressed again when she held their waist to lift them away from their father.

"Now now, I need to change his shirt for a dry one so he can sleep comfortably tonight," Silla said. The child's weak whine said that letting go was out of the question. "Why don't you sit where his helmet is? I'll be moving him around a lot, and it might come loose. Can you help me make sure it stays on?" She moved her hand to the bottom of the helmet as if to take it off, at which the child gave a high-pitched shriek and launched themself onto the helmet, growling as menacingly as he could but to Silla's ears sounding like a tookit. "That's a start. Can he breathe like that?" The child went silent, slid down so they were laying on the pillow and clinging to the side of the helmet, the sounds they made softer than the earlier growls, but that nonetheless told the healer that they were watching her. Silla smiled. "Wonderful. You're such a good child."

The cape, boots, gloves, and pauldrons were the easiest and removed first, and Silla smiled when she felt the raised sigil on the right pauldron. A mudhorn skull? The bandolier and cuirass would be a challenge. She had to dig for the straps both on his shoulders and sides, and to remove them completely, she had to lift his shoulders up while keeping his head and neck steady, no small feat even if the child weren't clinging to his helmet as if both their lives depended on it. She unzipped his armorweave jacket and pulled his arms out of it, and finally reached the damp undershirt. Silla wrinkled her nose at the scent of disinfectant mixed with musk, and remembered her sisters complaining about how dirty "boy clean" was. She managed to move his arms and get them out just as she'd done with the armorweave outer layer, but now she had to slip it over his helmet.

"Can you help me?" she asked the child, moving her hand to the side where they were holding on. The child made a chirp, then got up and shuffled to the top of the helmet, where a slight movement and light pressure told Silla that it would be safe to remove the shirt now. It was a struggle to stretch it over and Silla winced when she heard some threads snap, but they managed to get the undershirt off while keeping the helmet in place. Throughout all of this movement the patient didn't even stir, to both Silla's relief and alarm as she recognized the signs of acute fatigue. He must've been determined to make the climb from the town to her tent, and given how tightly his child clung to him, she had to admire his dedication.

"Good job, thank you," she told the child. The child replied with a happy coo and reached up for the undershirt. "Ah, no, this needs to be cleaned," Silla said, tossing the shirt into her laundry basket. "How about the cape your father carried you here with?" Placing the blanket over the Mandalorian and wrapping the child in his cape, the first order of business was checking her patient's vitals. His skin was cool and but the monitor read his temperature as high, so his fever hadn't broken yet, and the sweat was likely from his hike. Otherwise, his signs were within normal limits.

After she wiped down her monitor with disinfectant, Silla grabbed a clean, dry towel and uncovered her patient, gently patting away all the sweat. Now that he'd been stripped of his armor, it allowed her to take him in more clearly. Though people knew of her as the blind healer, that wasn't entirely accurate. She could no longer see the surface details like most others, but she could see the energy, the Force even, that pulsed throughout the universe. She could see the disruptions in people where their bodies held pain and tension, and she could see when their souls were red with malice, no matter how soft their spoken words tried to hide it. Experience had taught her that it was easier to explain her observations using her other refined senses, because if she told others about her special sight, they were more likely to pry into vulnerable areas.

When she had first heard the ship fly overhead, she had finished her chores as quickly as possible and then climbed to her tree stand to observe in case it was a brigand. She was relieved at first to see a weary grey soul wander into her camp, but the bundle he carried made her pause. She had seen children before, and no matter what the state of their souls were in, the colors were intense. Mostly white, but when a child had red in their souls, it was like a firework, as intense as it was impermanent. The intensity of the white in this child's soul, however, was brighter than she had ever seen in any living creature, and it made her cautious. White could mean innocence instead of goodness, and neither of those were the same as harmless, so it wasn't until the Mandalorian had fallen to his knees and she heard the child cry out for his father that she felt it safe to descend.

As she continued moving the towel over her patient, her eyes turned to the beacon of light wrapped up in his father's cape, their hold on the helmet more like a comfort-seeking embrace than a protective cling. Her patient's energy was muted, as expected of someone who was ill, but it was unmistakably white. Even when he had reached for his weapon, no red had tainted his soul, his faded energy instead surging with brightness for a brief moment. There were several disruptions that she noted now, injuries and aches that he'd likely powered through to keep providing for his son, not knowing that he was putting the both of them in long-term jeopardy. As she placed her gloved hand directly onto his skin, the extent of his injuries and neglect became clear, and that was just on his torso. Still, he had a solid foundation, a body that had been trained well and experienced a lot of combat. Perhaps with some persuasion, after he recovered from his illness he could do some maintenance. The Mandalorian groaned and Silla flinched, realizing she'd held her hand to his bare torso far longer than necessary She finished patting him dry and got up, throwing the towel into the basket to join his sweaty shirt, and got a cloth patient robe from her supplies. She slipped his arms through the sleeves, and finally, she covered him back up with the blanket.

"Child," she whispered, "I have another bed for you to sleep in." The child's soul flared with oncoming refusal, so she continued. "You might get sick if you sleep near your father tonight, and your father would be upset if that were to happen."

The child made a noise of reluctant understanding, and Silla wondered how old the child was for them to be so intelligent and yet so quiet. "If you stay healthy, it would make him happy, and he'll get better faster." She knelt down and patted an area a few feet from where the Mandalorian was sleeping. "It would be dangerous to sleep on top of him, but I can put a bed for you here so you can sleep close to him. What do you think?"

The child tilted their head in consideration of this offer, then let go of the helmet, giving it a solemn pat before waddling over to where Silla was kneeling. They opened their mouth to say something, only for their stomach to rumble. Whatever the child wanted to say turned into pained whimpers.

Silla smiled. "Of course I can make you dinner. Food is medicine too, you know."

-----

The sound of wind and the soft light through his helmet made Din momentarily panic when he woke up, but the smell of spice and cooking food brought back his memory of the day before. The fact that he could even smell at all through his helmet was a relief, though now he was stuck with one nostril that could breathe fine while the other one was completely blocked. He sat up and found his body feeling lighter, his skin no longer a steaming hot prison, and he briefly froze when he saw that his shirt had been changed for a robe that was open at the back. His helmet was still on, and the rest of his clothes and armor were placed neatly at the foot of his bed. And the kid? A basket sat near the pillow, and Din looked inside and found his child sleeping on top of a folded blanket, wrapped in his cape. He reached a hand out to stroke his head but stopped when he saw his bare hands. Not yet.

Now that he had the energy to keep his balance and his eyes open, he got a good look around the tent. Opposite of him and the kid was a hammock with a fur throw inside. Around the perimeter were bags filled with various plants likely harvested from the mountain. In the center of the tent was a firepit that had been dug into the ground, filled with sand, and lined with stone. A large steel pot was boiling above a steady fire, and smaller pots of clay and steel cooked on top of a grill over a separate fire in the corner of the pit. Around the pit was a dense woven wire barrier, and Din blinked. Had that been there yesterday?

At the wall farthest from the door was a hovercraft. Drawers and shelves folded out of it and on the shelves were various glass jars containing what looked like dried herbs, cooking spices, and other medicinal materials. A table was laid out on top of it all, cooking and medical utensils strewn about on faded white cloth. His lip quirked when he noticed a snake submerged in a dark liquid in one of the larger glass bottles. Would it catch the kid’s eye and stomach?

The crunch of footsteps on earth accompanied by the tock tock of a walking stick approached the tent and Silla stepped through the entrance carrying a few bags. She paused, her head first turning towards the Mandalorian, and then towards the basket. “Good morning,” she whispered.

The Mandalorian nodded, then he remembered. “Good morning,” he whispered back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he said. “Lighter. I can breathe easier but-” As if on cue, his body was shaken with coughs, his ribs straining as he struggled to keep them quiet. His mouth and nose filled with phlegm, and he sucked swallowed it back in with a grimace.

Silla nodded. “I’m going to prepare breakfast and some other medicines. We can discuss further treatment and payment while you...” She paused, her mouth hanging open as she remembered. “You can eat while I take care of a few things around the campsite, and when you’re done, call for me and we’ll talk.”

“Okay.” With a nod, Silla set her bags down below her hammock and switched her leather gloves for rubber ones. She took some clean towels out of a basket and lifted the smaller pots from the fire pit, then returned to scoop some hot water from the large pot into a small saucepan. She brought everything over to her hovercraft workstation, and soon the tent was filled with the ambient sounds of cooking: pouring liquid, sliding drawers, the clink of metal against glass, and chopping.

While Silla focused on her work, Din’s eyes focused on her, gathering as much detail as he could now that his vision was no longer clouded by fever or fatigue. Loose-fitting pants were tucked into dark leather boots, and over that she wore a long tunic that was tied at waist and had a hood. Her hair was completely wrapped in a scarf that sat tight and high on her head, and a blindfold that covered her eyes and eyebrows tucked into the scarf. Except for the black blindfold, all of the cloth covering her body was light gray. It matched her pale skin, and it was here that Din drifted from observation to guesswork. She looked young, but the quiet confidence in her stance, the way she spoke, and the way she moved reminded him of someone closer to Omera’s age. Right now, he was most impressed with how quickly she chopped the vegetables and flung them into a pot with a flick of her knife. Soon, she was scooping the food into small bowls and laying out two trays, one for him and one for the Child. She brought both of them over to the bed, setting it down near the basket where the Child still slept, while she knelt on the floor.

“I advise you to finish as much as you can. You were suffering from acute fatigue when you collapsed here last night, and everything here is meant to restore your strength and clear your airways as much as possible,” she gestured to the tray. There was meat and vegetable stew that was red with spice, rice porridge, a mug of tea, and a spoonful of dark syrup. “The two things that are non-negotiable are the syrup and the tea. The syrup will taste awful, but it’ll expel the mucus in your lungs and help soothe your throat. That will make it easier to drink the tea, which has a medicine dissolved in it that should help you breathe through both nostrils again.” She brought out a box of tissues and a large metal thermos. “Here’s more water if you need it. What questions or concerns do you have?”

Din eyed the syrup dubiously, vague memories of his illnesses as a foundling and even vaguer memories of his illnesses as a youngling and of the bitter, sickly sweet medicines he had no choice but to take. Surely he could maintain a poker face now, but just to be sure, he asked, “You said they're going to clear my nose and throat?” Silla nodded in response. “How much coughing and sneezing will they trigger?”

The corner of Silla’s mouth quirked upward. “Even outside, I’m going to know if you don’t take the medicine as directed,” she said. She straightened, realizing his concern. “Your child has been sleeping soundly since I put him to bed last night. The tissues can help muffle your cough. That said, do you want me to move him to the other side of the tent so he can continue sleeping?”

Din sighed as he considered it. The viciously protective part of him did not want to be separated from his child more than necessary. The pragmatic part of him said that if the Child woke up while his helmet was off, there was no way he could hold and comfort the kid without potentially infecting him. “Other side of the tent, not under the hammock,” he said. “Just in case.”

If Silla was insulted by the implication, she didn’t show it, instead smiling as she turned to gently pick up the basket and slowly stood from her kneeling position. With steady, fluid steps she brought the basket where Din had requested. Reaching into her tunic, she brought out a metal ball the size of a fist, and Din stiffened as she set it near the child. Then he heard the turn of a mechanical key, and as a soft metallic tune played throughout the tent, his shoulders relaxed. Silla’s went back to her workstation, rummaged through the drawers, and brought a few towels and a spray bottle back to Din. “I imagine you’ll want to clean your helmet after all that it’s absorbed for the past half day or so. This disinfectant can also be used on your hands before you eat,” she set them down. “You can leave your trash on the tray. What else will you need?”

“You’ve done more than enough,” Din said. “Thank you.”

Silla’s smile this time flashed a small bit of teeth, and he found himself weakly returning one of his own. “I’ll be right outside. Call me if you need anything,” she said. Once she ducked out of the tent, he checked to make sure the cover on his window was secure, and he waited until he heard the sound of carving wood to finally, finally take the helmet off.

Just being able to breathe in fresh air that wasn’t saturated with his own snot was clearing his head already, and first he sprayed as much disinfectant as he felt comfortable with inside his helmet on the more-than-off chance the unexpected happened. Setting it aside, he blew his nose and lightly coughed into a tissue to clear himself as much as possible for what was to come next. After spraying his hands, he picked up the large spoon with the syrup, grimacing at the sickly bittersweet smell of it as he brought it up to his mouth. Before he could psyche himself out any further, he stuck the whole thing in his mouth and swallowed. A burst of bitter cold hit Din’s chest and tongue as his face squashed painfully, and he managed to grab a tissue as a series of violent coughs burst out of his lungs. Over the rattling noise of his own body, he could’ve sworn he heard Silla murmur, “Ah, there it is” with an amused smile in her voice. Then, as the syrup aftertaste lingered on his tongue, he swallowed and found that the scratchiness was all gone. When he took an experimental breath in through his mouth, he found it didn’t trigger a cough either, not even an itch in his throat. Glancing over at the basket, he listened for any signs of the kid stirring, but after a minute of silence, Din sighed and got to work on the rest of his meal.

After the punch of the syrup, the tea was nothing. What bitterness the medicine had was blended with a spicy sweetness and a citrus flavor that reminded him of shig. Pouring himself more hot water, he dipped the syrup spoon into the mug to make sure he got all of it, then when he finished that cup he poured another one to wash out the aftertastel. The warmth traveled to his head and chest, and once the tingling hit his nose, he was a lot better prepared for the sneezes that followed. Afterwards, he was able to fully breathe through both nostrils, and with his renewed energy he found himself more ravenous than he expected. He tried to savor the porridge and the stew as the first non-ration meal he’d eaten in ages, but they quickly vanished from their bowls and he poured himself another cup of water to wash it all down.

The sigh Din released this time was one of satisfaction. He soaked one of the towels he’d been given in hot water, using it to scrub his teeth and his face. He was overdue for a shave, but that could wait until he got back to the ship. At the quiet he realized that the music box had stopped playing a while back, and he listened again for any signs that the kid was awake. Still silent.

Well, it was time for breakfast anyway, but before he could wake the kid, he needed to get dressed. Din gently nudged an arm out the tent window, making sure the flap stayed mostly shut. “Silla, could I have my shirt back?” he called out.

“Of course. One moment.” She went away from the tent and he heard the sound of rope twisting and the flutter of fabric, and then Silla came to the window and placed the shirt in his hand.

“Thank you.” It smelled fresh and he sighed at how cool it was when he slipped back on, but he didn’t linger on the feeling long as he closed his jacket and got his armor and boots on. After he got his gloves on, he gave his helmet one last wipedown with a damp, still hot towel. A deep breath, filling his clear airways with one last gulp of the mountain air, and Din slipped it back over his head.

He picked up the tray with the kid’s food and went over to the basket. The Child was stirring a bit, bunching up the cape in his hands and chewing on a corner, his eyes still closed as he made some soft smacking noises. Din smiled, reaching in running a finger gently over the kid’s forehead and cheeks, and at that, the Child woke up. “Ah,” he cooed, reaching up to be held, still clutching the cape in his hands. Din happily complied, and the Child patted his helmet and chest, as if sensing his renewed spirits.

“Yeah, I’m better now,” Din said. “Still gonna keep this on even when we’re alone just to be safe, okay?” The kid pouted a bit, but the sight and smell of breakfast brought back his good mood immediately. Din got a bit of porridge into the spoon, but the kid ignored it and grabbed the bowl, gulping it down. He made quick work of the stew too, and all Din had left to do was wipe at the kid’s chin to make sure his clothes didn’t get too dirty. “Slow down, or you’ll choke,” he said

To which his ad’ika only gave an indignant “Hrmph!” and tilted the bowl almost upside down to get the last few drops of stew. Another wet towel to wipe down the Child’s face and scrub his teeth, and Din called out to Silla that he was ready for her. He could’ve done so earlier, but he wanted to relish some quiet time with his child a bit more, and he dreaded what the cost of medical treatment including a night’s stay and breakfast would be.

“I heard your purse when I put you to bed last night, and I imagine you’re in financial straits at the moment,” Silla said, not unkindly. “In such cases, the payment I ask is that you help me make my rounds around the mountain this morning. If you wish to stay for lunch, you will accompany me into town while l take care of business there. If you wish to stay another night, I will lead you back up the mountain--I can do it even after sunset--and you will help me with anything that remains.”

Bartering services. Just as the vendor had said. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Silla smiled, then continued, “I mentioned further treatment before breakfast. While your cold should definitely be gone by the end of the day, your body is under a great deal of stress. Without proper rest, you’ll continue to be vulnerable to illness and your recovery times will be longer than if you were healthy. When do you need to leave Lisera?”

Din wanted to say “after the morning rounds”, but he thought about it. He was unlikely to find room, board, and medical care for this kind of a bargain anywhere else that he could reach with his remaining fuel and credits he had left. There wasn’t any significant criminal activity that he’d observed, let alone Imperial presence, and since he kept the kid close to him, he’d be prepared for any rogue bounty hunters. For long term gain, he could afford to stay for a few days. He looked at Silla’s face, an enigmatic smile gracing her lips, and for a moment he felt a chill, as if she could see right through his helmet and into his mind. Was this why the others thought her a witch? He wanted to observe a while longer before he brought up the subject. No need for her to think his kid was anything but his kid.

As if sensing his thoughts, the kid wriggled out of his grasp, waddling towards the music box and giving it a light teething before holding it out to Silla. Her smile warmed as she wound it up again, and the Child squealed with delight before resuming his gnawing.

“Your child was such a good assistant, holding onto your helmet to make sure it didn’t come off last night,” Silla said. “You should feel proud.” The child stopped gnawing for a bit and glanced up at Din, ears perked.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, patting the kid’s head and earning a happy coo. “I’ll see how I feel after this morning.”

Silla nodded and then stood. “First order of business then,” she said. “Get some hot water from that big pot and clean these dishes.”

-----

The morning in the mountains felt as much like meditation as it did work. Din was reminded of those precious few weeks he’d spent on Sorgan as they hiked through the mountains, Silla bringing a wheeled cooler that had a tray on top for her to set some cloth bags. She wore her hood up to block the sun and had a multi-purpose shovel strapped to her back.

Silla had given him a bag padded with a small blanket so that he could carry the kid over his chest, but every time they stopped to forage for food the Child insisted on jumping out to help and explore. On one occasion Silla had stopped him from picking up a poisonous mushroom, and Din couldn’t help but ask, “How could you tell?”

Silla smiled. “I know where they grow,” she said, “and how they smell.” She then plucked a few blades of grass and folded them together to make throwing stars, and presented them to the child, tossing one in the air to demonstrate. The Child’s happy peals echoed throughout the mountain and it was all but impossible to get him back in the bag after that. He threw the stars on the path ahead and then dashed to retrieve them. Keeping up with the Child as he continued this cycle still let them make their way through the mountain at a steady pace.

After what happened with the mushrooms, however, Din picked up on something, and he walked closer to Silla to silently confirm it. Whenever she came to the next plant to harvest, he could see her turn her head first, then she would sniff to confirm her findings before she touched the plant. As they approached a riverbank, he could see some apples growing on the trees far overhead, and when he looked at her, he could see her craning her head as if to look at them too.

Once they were underneath one of the trees, Silla said, “I usually climb up there to harvest those, but I’ve already gotten the lower hanging ones and it’s becoming increasingly difficult.” She turned towards him. “Do you have anything with you that could get them down?”

Din shot his whipcord at one of the apples, only for it to go straight through, and the broken pieces fell to the ground with a soft splat. Silla smiled with a sigh. “Maybe that can make it easier for you to climb up there, but it’s not necessary.”

The Child had paused ahead on the trail, seeing that Dad and Soft One had stopped. Gathering his stars he shuffled back to where they were standing, and he looked up to see what they were looking at. Ah! He knew the round sweets that hung above them, and it sounded like Father and Soft One were confused about how to get them. He held his hands up, seeing where the sweets clung to the tree. To me! To me!

The branches above rustled and Silla’s mouth dropped as an apple fell, and she held out her hands to catch it. “That was… very lucky,” she said in a mystified voice. Turning towards the Child, she scooped him up in her arms. “Did you do this?” she asked, holding the apple to his mouth. The Child dropped the stars to grab the apple, then cried out for his fallen stars. Silla laughed and picked them up, tucking them into a fold in his hood. “Can you do that again?”

“I don’t think-” Din said, the Child held up a hand and this time an apple fell for his father to catch. It was one of the easiest things he’d ever done, since all he had to do was give a little twist and the fruit would fall on its own.

Din watched Silla closely for her reaction. Her smile looked genuine, but when she spoke next, her trembling voice betrayed her. “You really are such a precious one aren’t you?”

They were deep in the woods and likely had privacy, but Din did a quick scan of the area just in case. Once he confirmed they were alone, he said, “Silla, how much can you see with your eyes?”

She went still, then turned towards Din. “What do you mean?”

Din shared his observations with her, how her body language seemed to use sight first before her other senses, and how quickly she’d drawn the conclusion that it was the kid who’d made the apple fall. “I’ve never met a blind person who moves as you do,” he concluded.

“Hm. Makes me wonder how many blind people you’ve met,” Silla said, lightly bouncing the Child in her arms as the air grew tense. “I will say, you’ve made your observations a lot more politely than most.” She brought up her hand to run them across the black blindfold. “I don’t see in as much detail as most others,” she explained. “I mostly can see the shapes of things. As for how I concluded that your Child got that apple,” she took a deep breath and faced him, and he could see her internally calculating if it was worth the risk to tell him. Another deep breath breath, and she continued, “I can see the energy present in all living things, and sometimes in the non-living, though that’s more restricted. There are some who call this energy the Force.” She went on to list a few of the colors she could see and what they meant, and then she addressed the apple. “For a moment, the Force in the tree seemed to have sparked as a thread in a brilliant white like your Child’s tied itself to one of the apple stems. I couldn’t believe it, so I asked him to do it again, thinking I just imagined it. But that same thread and spark happened again, and this time I could see the way it came from his body.” She sighed, then smiled at the Child. “You, I must say, have the honors of being the most adorable Mandalorian and the most adorable Force-user I’ve ever met.” The Child’s ears wiggled at the praise.

“Can you teach him?” Din said with urgency. “I’ve been searching for a Jedi who can-”

“I’m no Jedi,” Silla interrupted, “and I’m afraid my use of the Force is limited.” She reached up to touch the blindfold again. “I wasn’t born this way, but after an… accident with a more powerful Force user, I wound up with this form of sight in exchange for the normal kind.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I cannot be the one to teach this child.”

Din wasn’t as disappointed by the news as he thought he’d be. It was the strongest lead he’d had in a while. “Even so, I could use someone like you as my crew,” he offered. Silla’s spine straightened in surprise, and she stopped bouncing the child. “I need someone to look after him while I run jobs, and with you could make sure we--especially him--stay healthy.” Her mouth had dropped open again and she remained silent. “The pay is… sporadic, but I can give you a cut of every job, and you’d have food and shelter.”

The silence stretched on and Din found himself wishing he could see her eyes to get more information of how she was feeling, and then he wondered if she could see his embarrassment and desperation. Her mouth snapped shut and she said in an even tone, “You’ve had to leave your son alone in your ship?”

He couldn’t stop himself from ducking his head. “I take him with me when I can, but most of the time it’s too dangerous,” he said. “The Empire is after him for what he can do, and it’s usually a choice between which one means he’s safer with.”

Her jaw tightened and Din braced himself for a more scolding of his parenting, but then Silla nodded. “Yes, yes I would gladly join your crew. I’ve seen-” she stopped, then hugged the Child close to her. “Just one thing. Could we leave tomorrow? I want to forage one last time on a different part of the mountain, so we can stock up.”

“Yes,” Din answered, and her face finally relaxed into a small smile.

-----

With the Child’s help, they gathered enough apples to fill a small bag, and soon after the Child nodded off from the most practice he’d gotten in a while. Just as well, because when they got close to the net that had been set up near the river bank, Din saw a buffet of amphibious and aquatic life that would’ve sent the kid into a feeding frenzy. Silla opened the cooler to reveal it was filled with water in three separate compartments, and the two of them gathered enough crayfish, crab, and fish to fill all compartments to half capacity each. Din reached down to seize a frog that fit in his palm, and when Silla saw, she said, “Oh, they don’t eat those here.”

“No, but he likes eating these raw,” he said, gesturing to the baby sleeping on his chest.

The corner of Silla’s mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said. “Unless he has an incredibly strong immune system, raw animals often contain parasites.” Din went frozen with dawning horror, and she continued, “If it’s any consolation, I don’t see any Force signatures of other lifeforms in his body. She glanced in the cooler. There weren’t any compartments remaining, but she grabbed a cloth bag and went to the shore. Finding a small, flat piece of driftwood floating in the water, she placed it inside the bag, then soaked the bag in water. “We can put the frogs in here, then put this bag in the same compartment as the fish. Once we get back to camp, we can cook them.” He admired her cleverness, and though the frogs burrowed deeper into the mud as the sun rose higher, they caught enough for a decent snack. They both dismantled the river net, and began the trip down the mountain.

Despite their greater burdens, the trip down the mountain was easier and their footsteps felt lighter than it had been the way up. Perhaps it was the figurative weight off their shoulders now that she knew about the Child and he knew about the source of her “mystic” eyes. Once they returned to camp, Silla retrieved the bag of frogs, removed the piece of wood, rinsed the bag with hot water from the center pot until the frogs inside stopped moving, then threw the frogs into a smaller pot filled with boiling water. She then separated some of everything else they’d gathered into bags and water-filled jars inside the tent. When Din noticed she left all the crabs and crayfish in the cooler, he asked about it.

“I’m allergic to shellfish,” she explained. “Would you like some later?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” So she prepared a water jar just for the shellfish.

She loaded the bags with what remained onto the hovercraft shelves, then with a click of a button, everything folded back into the hovercraft as it came to life. By now, the frogs were done, so she scooped them back into their bag and gave it to Din. She showed Din where and how to secure the cooler, and they settled in as the hovercraft went the rest of the way to town. There was a red scanner in front that allowed it to self-drive, and once again, now that Din was still did he realize how much physical exertion he’d been doing. They were content to sit in silence, enjoying the ambient sounds and sights, surface or deeper, of the mountains.

As the town came back into view, the Child woke up, smacking his lips. When Din opened the bag to show the Child the boiled frogs, the Child responded with bulging eyes, high-pitched squeals, and clapping hands before he seized one and shoved it into his mouth. At the sound of him gulping it down whole, Silla laughed, and the Child giggled in return before shoving another one into his mouth. He made quick work of all the frogs, moping as he shook the bag upside down to no avail. He began to whimper and fidget in Din’s arms, and Din murmured apologies that those were all that they could find. Still the Child whimpered, and soon began to softly cry.

Silla spoke up. “He’s not hungry, he’s gassy,” she said. Din picked him up and patted his back, but still the Child continued to cry. “Here, let me try.” Din handed the Child over, and after a bit of bouncing, Silla struck his child’s back with a soft thud.

“HEY!” Din shouted, lunging for his son, only to stop when the Child belched loudly enough to echo. With a sigh, the Child nuzzled into Silla’s shoulder, peering over at his father with some concern.

“You do a firm strike with the heel of your palm right here,” she turned to gesture to a place off center left below his shoulders. “Children are tough, but I can understand your concern.” She handed the Child back to Din, who lightly placed the heel of his palm where she’d shown him. The Child turned and held his hand, patting it in reassurance.

“Sorry I yelled.”

“Don’t worry. It’s a parent’s prerogative to worry about their child.”

-----

Once the townsfolk found out that Silla was leaving Lisera tomorrow, they gave her well wishes and gifts to send her off, to the point where they soon gathered enough food gifts to take care of lunch. The harvest she brought with her sold out quickly, and soon all that was left was the bottle of what Din learned was snake wine. She brought it to a Sullustan technician at the spaceport where the Razor Crest was docked, and while she worked that out Din went to the Razor Crest so he could eat lunch and both he and his son could use the refresher. When they returned, Din caught the end of their conversation.

“-dy for you when you arrive tomorrow.”

“Thank you Jae,” Silla said. “Hope you and Hiung enjoy the wine.” She turned towards Din and smiled. “That’s everything! Shall we head back?”

“Yeah,” Din answered. “We should start preparing as soon as possible.”

“A Mandalorian huh? So you’re the one taking our witch away from us, and after we were all startin’ to get to be friends with her,” Jae said with a laugh. “You take care of her huh?”

“Yeah,” Din nodded. “I will.” As they left on the hovercraft and went back towards the mountain, Din asked, “What was that about?”

“Oh! Since I thought you’d be gone for awhile, in lieu of his usual payment, I asked Jae to run some diagnostics on this-” she patted the hovercraft, “right here, and he threw in an offer to craft some simple medical tools to make my new job easier.” She opened one of the food gift containers and found herself with a box of spicy noodles. “Ah, Mala knows these are my favorite.” The sound of slurping and chewing filled the air until the town was once again out of sight, and Silla sighed and sat back in satisfaction, her face red from the spice.

Din reached out to touch her face, and Silla stilled. “Wha-”

“You had some sauce on your cheek,” he said, wiping at it with his thumb.

“Ah, thank you,” she said, and her face turned redder where he’d touched her.

They rested for a bit when they got back to camp, and as the sun set, Silla set out a clay pot of rice to cook and then began packing away as much as she could while Din prepared dinner. The Child first resumed the throw-and-chase of his grass stars, but soon grew bored and climbed onto his father’s shoulder to watch him work. It had been a while since he’d cooked over an open flame, but as long as he paid attention to the food instead of the fire he was fine. In addition to a pot of soup he was making for all of them, he cleaned and stir fried the crab and crawfish for himself and cooked the fish in a separate skillet for Silla, tossing both of them with some vegetables. Silla came over to add some of the dried meat to the soup, then sighed at the smell of sizzling shellfish.

“Crab and shrimp used to be my favorite foods, but after I reached adulthood I suddenly developed an allergy,” she said with a laugh, rolling up the clotheslines. “I used to beg my family to let me have just a small bite but they refused.”

“I won’t be breaking tradition then,” he said, and she laughed again. She’d taken care of everything that was outside the tent, and he told her that dinner would be ready soon. Soon, the soup had simmered long enough, the meat was the right texture, and the rice was steaming and fluffy. He portioned out some of each dish for tomorrow’s breakfast, placing them inside the now dry and empty cooler. When he finished making the dinner trays, Silla took hers and stepped towards the entrance of the tent.

“I’ll go,” Din said, getting up with his plate and the Child’s, but Silla shook her head.

“You’re my guest for now, and I don’t want either you or son to be exposed to the cold,” she said. “Besides, I imagine after I fed him dinner yesterday while you were sleeping, the two of you might want to catch up.”

“I’m wearing armor, and he’s-”

Silla held up a hand and set down her tray. Walking over to her hammock, she pulled out the fur throw, which Din could now recognize as a wolf pelt. Wrapping it around her shoulders, Silla retrieved her tray. “As your host and healer, I insist that you eat inside,” she said. Without waiting for his response, she turned and left the tent.

-----

He hadn’t been as hungry as he’d been for lunch, though the Child took his portions with his usual gusto. Hesitatingly, Din brushed a bit of the crawfish against his ad’ika’s cheek and waited for a reaction. Nothing happened, but he decided to wait at least another day just in case. He’d have to ask Silla if she had the equipment and knowledge to run some tests. The thought of his kid having an allergic reaction, of hives and difficulty breathing, made him shudder. He was snapped out of his morbid thoughts when the Child reached up to pat his face, then reached for the shrimp. “Not yet, ad’ika. I’m not sure it’s safe yet. If it is, we’ll get you some more, okay?” His son pouted a bit, but didn’t protest. Once they’d finished dinner and brushed their teeth, Din got the helmet back on and called in Silla.

The dishes were cleaned and packed away in the hovercraft along with a few remaining bags, and the tent felt a lot larger to Din now that the only things left unpacked were the beds, the large water pot, the cooler, a basket of towels, and a bag of medical supplies. The Child settled into the basket-crib with Din’s cape as his blanket, and with a turn of the music box, he was soon fast asleep.

Silla smiled one of her warm smiles as she kneeled and peered into the basket, and Din wondered the Child looked like through her eyes. She’d said his soul was a brilliant white, but what did that look like when the Child was at peace, well fed, and happy? She then turned towards him, and Din felt her eyes scanning him.

“Were you caught in an explosion recently, or a similar sort of accident?” she asked. When Din answered in the affirmative, she explained, “I’ve noticed several disruptions in your energy along your neck, shoulders, and back. The most critical damage has been healed, but what remains can become an aggravating problem if left untreated. I can start now if you’d like.”

There was likely a reason she’d waited until the child was asleep to bring this up. “What kind of treatment?”

She retrieved the bag and brought out what looked like four pads hooked up to a small radio, along with a metal tray filled with smooth, flat stones the size of her palm. “I can loosen your muscles first with a small electric current, and then do a manual adjustment. I’ll need to apply the pads to bare skin in order for the current to do its job properly, but if you’d rather not, I can do the manual adjustment as long as your armor is removed.”

He had to admire how she was able to say it with such a neutral expression and tone of voice, as if oblivious to the implications or, more likely, aware of the implications but experienced enough for it to not phase her. “So it’s massage therapy.”

“A little more intense,” she said. “Like with the medicine this morning, noise is expected, and in case your helmet has a setting to turn the mic off, I’d rather you didn’t, because if I hit a particularly painful spot, I’d rather know. If you’re in pain and tense up, that works against the treatment. However, it’s all up to you.” She set everything down and folded her hands in her lap.

Din considered it. She’d already undressed him once, the only difference was that this time he’d be conscious of it. The electric current seemed a bit suspicious, but in the unlikely (and it was highly unlikely, given how the kid approved of her) event that she tried something funny, he’d still have his blaster at his hip. “We can do it with the current. Give me a moment.” Silla nodded and closed the tray with the stones, latching it shut. Just like this morning, she gently picked up the Child in his basket and set it on the metal tray, then lifted them both and brought him over to the other side of the tent, out of the shadow of her hammock. She dropped the tray into the large metal pot in the center fire, then stirred the pot and stoked the flame while Din undressed. At some point, satisfied with the fire, she returned to the basket-crib to check on the Child, that smile returning to her face, and she reset the music box. She grabbed the pillow from her hammock and returned to the fire pit, sat facing away from Din, and then simply waited.

He finally got his undershirt off and he told her he was ready. She placed her pillow next to his in an inverted V-shape, and said, “On your stomach. I’ll do your back first.” He did so, and she adjusted the pillows so he could lie face down comfortably. His vision cut off, all he could focus on was the activity of her hands as she applied the pads to his back in a 2x2 grid. She switched on the machine, and the feeling of the electrical current going through him made him shiver. “I’m going to turn up the intensity. Let me know when to stop by raising your left hand.” He heard her turning a knob, and the tingling in near his left shoulder grew until it felt like someone was squeezing the muscle, at which point he raised his left hand. She repeated the process for all four pads, and Din couldn’t help but sigh at the surges that ran through him, squeezing and then relaxing his muscles like… like…

“We’ll let that do its job for 10 minutes,” Silla said. She got out two towels and laid them over the pads, then stood and went back to the fire pit. He heard her slip on gloves and get the metal tray out of the pot, then she returned to his beside and he groaned as he felt the heat on top of towels, making the electric pulses feel even stronger as they both melted him. He barely registered her “Let me know if it’s too hot” as she covered him with the blanket, and for what feels like an eternity Din just shut his eyes as what feels like years of stress dissolved away with each electric pulse under the heat. He lost track of Silla’s footsteps, but at some point the music box stopped playing and he heard it wind up again.

The electric current stopped and Din shivered as Silla removed all the layers and pads, only to sigh when he felt one of the hot stones digging into his back. He groaned as she pressed it into him, hissed as the pain seemed to build as she dug into a pressure point, only for something to give an audible pop and he released a breath at the same time as she did. “There we go,” she murmured, a pleasant tingling sensation radiating throughout his back while she moved on to make another part of his body feel sour. When the stones had cooled down and it felt like his back muscles had been tenderized, he felt her hands on him. She pressed lightly, but everywhere she pressed made sent a small jolt through him, and he wondered if it was a lingering effect of the electric pads. In particular, when she pressed her hands into his lower back, he felt something travel up his spine to the base of his neck, and he swallowed a lump in his throat.

She asked him to flip over, and the whole process repeated on his chest. Now that Din was facing up, she took back her own pillow. The electric pulses went for longer as she needed time to reheat the stones and metal tray, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. Everything went about the same until it came time to apply the hot stones directly to him. Face up, he could see her sitting at the head of the bed, and when she leaned over, her chest hovered right above his face.

Din was now truly grateful for the Creed and how she respected it, because the only thing that would’ve made this silent torture worse was if she could see the expression on his face. The fact that she’d cured his cold this morning now felt like a curse as he could breathe in her scent with her so close to him, something that smelled like almost over-ripe fruit and steam. His eyes drifted to where he could see a shadow of a nipple poking through her robes and he clenched his teeth. He closed his eyes to rid himself of the temptation, but with that image in his mind, all he could focus on was the heat of her hands travelling and digging into the vulnerable parts of him, taking his pain and replacing it with a warmth that slowly pooled lower and lower. He could mask his groans as the result of the pressure from the stones, but he felt himself growing hard. This time when she set aside the stones and pressed her hands to him, every single touch seemed to send that electric jolt from straight to the base of his skull and then back down. He wasn’t aware of how much he was sweating until Silla shifted to the side of the bed and made small patting motions all over his torso with a dry towel. At that point, Din decided he would risk opening his eyes.

Her expression was neutral while Din focused on keeping his breathing steady. If she said anything about his breathing patterns, he could easily say he was making sure the cold wasn’t returning. She set aside the towel and reached for his undershirt, but paused. Her head turned towards Din, her brows furrowed in concern, and a frown on her face. The tent was silent save for his breathing, and then her brow relaxed and her lips parted a fraction of an inch.

Then Silla leaned down, close enough that he could feel her breath next to his ear, and whispered, “Just so you know, that is a completely normal physical response.” Din continued to focus on his breathing as if the denial made it more likely she meant something else. “While this-” she held up his shirt, “-is still off and your son sleeps, do you want me to take care of that?”

Din’s breathing stopped, and he wondered for a moment if he’d been poisoned and was hallucinating. That would explain why his throat suddenly felt tight. “You don’t-” he stammered. “You’re not-”

Silla’s mouth quirked into a cheeky smile. “There’s a euphemism where I grew up for whores,” she murmured, dark honey dripping into her voice. “Intimate healers. We were taught that for many, sex is as important as food, water, and sleep.” She gently lay herself next to him on the bed, and the hand that had been resting on his shoulder drifted downward. “Considering all the stress and anxiety that surrounds it… and you have been under so much stress already. I would gladly help you with it.” She paused at his stomach, tracing light circles that made his insides twist with heat. “If it’s payment you’re worried about,” she continued, fingers dancing tantalizingly close along his belt, “I’d say after all you’ve given me, you’ve more than earned it.” He seized her hand, squeezing it tightly in his own, holding it just above his belt. He could feel how soft it was, and he loosened his hold only slightly when she gave a small grunt of pain. Slowly, he steadied his breathing and he turned to look at her face. The way her mouth was parted promised warmth and comfort, and when his gaze drifted downward to see her breasts pressing into his side, he groaned before he could stop himself. “One word, yes or no, Mandalorian, and I will respect it,” she said, voice low and breathy.

He wanted, ached to give in, but the tremors in his limbs and the sight of her teeth in that small smile she was giving terrified him. If he gave in to what he wanted, he felt that this woman, this healer, would devour him with her devotion. That he felt scared at all filled him with self-loathing, and soon his mind was locked in a downward spiral. He kept a tight grip on her hand as he pulled it up, where he pressed it against his chest and relished the feel of it for just a while longer. A few more deep breaths, and he croaked, “No.”

And just like that, she lifted herself up, pulling her hand out of his grasp. She handed him his undershirt, and left his side, and while he got the undershirt over his helmet, he glanced over at the basket in case the kid had woken, relieved to hear only silence. He started when Silla appeared again at his side, which in turn caused her to flinch, but she simply handed him a cup of a sweet smelling beverage with a straw sticking out of it. “This tea should help you sleep tonight,” she said, the smile on her face small and tight. “Goodnight Mandalorian.” She rubbed the hand he’d gripped and returned to her hammock. Once she adjusted her bedding and zipped herself inside, silence filled the tent once more.

Din sipped the tea to the last drop and settled back on the bed, breathing deeply and forcing his eyes closed, but it was no use. His mind kept going back to how Silla pressed herself against him. One word, just one word. He tried to simply let the thoughts flow through him, but his body grew unbearably hot, and as he clenched his hand at the sense memories flooded, he knew he couldn’t hold out any longer.

Switching the mic in his helmet to off and grabbing a towel, he slipped off a glove and undid his pants, and shoved his hand inside, hissing at the sweet relief as he found himself as hard as a rock. He rubbed his thumb at the tip, pre-cum dripping into his hand that let him slip it over the rest of his length. He sighed as he squeezed up and down his length and he felt the calluses on his hands Silla’s hands were soft so soft suppose that she were the one doing this right now. She’d lick her lips and let out those breathy moans while she ran her hands up and down his dick, slipping her tunic off her shoulders to reveal those breasts- Din gasped at where his mind was going but he was lost to his own fantasy, pumping faster, his hand catching the tip with each stroke as if-she the tip in her mouth no it was too much she’d been kind too kind and generous with him but she pressed her breasts around the rest of him and how could he refuse. He imagined untangling her hair out of the scarf she wore, imagined that it was as pale as her skin as it flowed down and then he pulled at it then pushed her head down, made her take all of him, and she gasped and gagged around him but soon started moaning and he could hear her saying “Mndhh! Mndhh!” He let go of her head and she sucked hard on the tip, pressing her tongue at the spot that made his head spin. “Mando,” she gasped, a trail of spit going from his dick to her mouth. A smile spread over her face.

“Din…”

The burst of heat slammed into him and he gasped as he came, thick white ropes splattering onto his belly and the towel. He kept stroking for as much as he could, but the fantasy image began to fade along with the body heat. Before long, his head cleared, and he could feel his breathing return to normal. He absent-mindedly wiped himself off with the towel, thinking for a moment that he should toss it in the fire when he was done, before deciding on the less stupid idea of just hiding it on his person. Once done, his arm hung limply at his side. Din sighed at how his body felt like his own again, and he closed his eyes to welcome sleep.

In the dead silence of the tent, Din’s heart just about stopped when he heard Silla sigh and groan, and it didn’t start beating again until he heard the faint snoring that followed. He was beginning to regret offering her a place in his crew, but to rescind his offer after all the preparation and packing they’d done would be an act of complete cowardice.

Maybe once they were on the ship and some time had passed things would cool down, but even as Din considered such a chain of events, his instincts warned him that a professional relationship was not going to make this any easier.

#The Mandalorian Fanfiction #Din Djarin #The Mandalorian

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writethiswaymaam · 4 years

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Love Undone

CHAPTER TWO

Summary: Andria finds comfort and solace at a Mayan's party, but her interaction with the club causes tensions to rise between her and Antonia.

Andria looked at the time on her phone before punching her pillow in frustration. She had been home for almost a week and sleep still evaded her. She rolled on her back looking around the guest room at her sister’s house. Her sister’s wife, Katrina, had went full on Joanna Gaines with this mother trying to make Andria feel welcome, and Andria had never felt more uncomfortable. She would much rather be back in her childhood home sleeping on a thin, worn out mattress on the floor with the cracked and peeling plastered ceiling than atop this Egyptian cotton covered pillow top mattress while staring at freshly painted walls that felt like they were closing in on her.

She wished she had the strength and stamina to go for a run right now, but her leg and side were still too far from healed. Even the light exercises at physical therapy left her in close to crippling pain. So short of popping a sleeping pill or maybe drinking herself into oblivion, there was little hope of sleeping tonight. Andria dreaded the idea of another night of counting down the hours until it was acceptable to exit the bedroom without drawing suspicion. Her mind began to wander back to her time spent overseas. She never struggled with sleeping in a combat zone. The continual physical stress and exhaustion with the added security of being around her brothers and sisters in arms often meant that Andria could sleep anywhere, in any position. A fact that often made her the butt of many jokes among those she served with. She missed them. She missed never getting the chance to be alone. This house left her entirely too much room to be with herself.

She sighed looking at her phone again. It was 2 am on a Saturday night. The only reason people were out this late was to party and most of the bars and clubs she would even think about going to would be winding down at this time of night. Unless…. The Mayan’s parties usually lasted till dawn. But it would be disrespectful to show up uninvited. The only women that did that were las mujerzuelas, and that is not what Andria had in mind. But, the idea of loud music, good food, and the general chaos of a bunch of drunken bikers sounded appealing. This house was way too quiet to drown out the noise in her head.

With that thought she soundlessly got up and got dressed. Running a quick brush through her hair and not bothering with makeup, she padded silently through the house and out the front door undetected. Starting Antonia’s or Katrina’s car had the potential of waking up her sister, but it was a risk she had to take, because there was no way she could make the trek on her bum leg. She reasoned that if she was taking the chance of pissing Antonia off anyways, she might as well drive the Lexus. That’s how she ended up parked in the road in front of the gated club yard, leaning against the expensive silver car, debating her next step. She could probably call Bishop and ask for an invite, but that could come with questions, or even worse, the possibility of interrupting his bedroom activities with one of the club’s putas. That did not sound appealing. That’s why when she heard a deep voice asking her if she was okay, she sent a silent prayer of gratitude into the universe, and turned with a smile on her face, “Hey EZ, I’m good. You?”

He took a moment studying her face before a look of recognition crossed his, “Andria Pena? A.P. Physics class, senior year.”

“Yep. I see that photographic memory of yours is still serving you well,” she laughed.

“It has its moments. So, what are you doing here?” he motioned to the yard behind her as he took a spot leaning on to the Lexus next to her.

“Couldn’t sleep. My hours are still all turned around from the time difference, so I decided to take a drive. You caught me having the inner debate of ‘should I take the chance of making an ass out of myself by walking into a club party uninvited, with the sole intention of eating a ridiculous amount of food’, or if I should just go back home.”

A smile spread across EZ’s face, “I think I can solve your dilemma. Come on,” he said with a nod of his head, “consider yourself invited.”

Andria followed him, both making a beeline for the buffet once they entered the gates. He placed his freehand on her back guiding her to the bar where he set down his plate before grabbing them drinks, then sat down on the barstool next to her. They barely talked while they shoveled food into their mouths. “Hmm, I hope you’re not judging me right now,” Andria said after downing half a beer, “I haven’t had real Mexican food in such a long time.”

“No judgement here,” EZ said between bites, “so how long have you been deployed?”

“I enlisted straight out of high school. This last stint was my longest, a 3-year deployment,” she shoved her fork into the rice and beans, “or, at least it was supposed to be. This med leave cut it 6 months short.”

“Are you planning on going back? After your recovered, I mean?” EZ pushed his now empty plate away.

“To be determined,” Andria sighed, “I’ve got to get med clearance before they would redeploy me with my unit. The way this leg feels, I’m not sure that’s going to happen anytime soon, and the Army isn’t known for its patience.”

“What would happen if the leg doesn’t pass snuff,” EZ turned in his seat.

“They’ll send me where they can use me. Training maybe, possibly recruitment, or a medical discharge,” she scooped the last forkful forcefully into her mouth.

“You don’t seem very excited about any of those options,” EZ looked at her inquisitively.

Andria took a moment to gather her thoughts, slowly peeling the label off her beer bottle, “It would be very difficult for me to admit that part of my life is over. I’m very good at what I do. I’ve built my entire military career proving that. I just…I want it to end on my terms, you know?”

She met his gaze and he nodded his head, “I definitely get that.”

Just then Bishop and Tranq walked out of the templo in the middle of a conversation headed toward the bar. Bishop stopped short at seeing Andria and EZ together, his brows furrowing before he yelled out, “Yo prospect, looks like the bar needs restocked.”

“Yes, sir,” EZ stood making himself scarce as Bishop came up to Andria.

“Hola Preciousa,” he said wrapping her in a warm hug, “what brings you here tonight?”

“Honestly? I think this place feels more like home than Antonia’s Barbie Dreamhouse,” she looked around at everyone laughing, dancing, and drinking.

Bishop looked at her with a knowing smile, “You know you’re always welcome here,” he kissed her forehead before sitting down in the bar stool EZ just exited.

His smell engulfed her. Leather, whiskey, and cigarettes surrounding her like a comforting a blanket. She really had missed the steadiness that Bishop seemed to exude over her life. Even her mind seemed quieter with him around. Bishop took swig if his drink, a smirk crossing his lips, “Barbie Dream House, huh?”

“Dios mio, what happened to my sister, Bishop?” she asked laughing, “Do you know they have a weekly game night with their neighbors? Fucking Monopoly, Bish. MONOPOLY. And don’t get me started on the ship lap.”

He laughed as she ranted. Her hands moving wildly as she described this new life she had been dropped into, and how often she humorously struggled and failed to fit into it. Just when they had finally reigned in their laughter, a woman approached them. It was clear that all this woman’s attention was on Bishop. She was dressed in a low-cut, blood red top and black leather pants. Her eyebrows were thinly painted on, along with a lip liner that was two shades darker than her lip stick. She was the epitome of a Mayan puta. Completely ignoring Andria’s presence, the woman pressed her body against Bishop, placing her hand on his chest, and leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Andria turned back toward the bar, downing her third beer and motioning a man they called Chucky for another. Bishop was a grown man who could do what or who he wanted, but Andria couldn’t help but feel a little disgusted at how desperate putas got around bikers. They’d spread their legs to anyone in a cut, just hoping to be one of the chosen few to stick around. Being El Presidente and unattached made Bishop a frequent target for las putanas. Antonia and Bishop had gotten in plenty of fights back in the day over women just like this, even though to Andria’s knowledge Bishop had always been faithful. It was still hard to see someone you love to get constantly hit on by other people. She spared a glimpse back over to Bishop, as he grasped the woman’s hand and brought it to his lips. Andria rolled her eyes thinking that she was about 5 seconds away from getting the blow off when she heard Bishop tell the woman, “Not tonight, sweetheart. I’m catching up with an old friend.”

If looks could kill, Andria would certainly be dead from the scowl the woman gave her before she stalked off. Probably in search of another biker for the night. “She seemed nice,” Andria deadpanned taking another pull from her beer.

Bishop just shook his head and laughed lighting another cigarette, “What about you, princesa? Got a special someone?”

Andria snorted, “Ummm, no. Turns out I’m pretty terrible at relationships, or so I’ve been told.”

Andria started peeling the label of her beer bottle again. “Whoever told you that sounds like a real pendejo who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, princesa,” Bishop tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette.

“Eh, he wasn’t completely wrong. I was really focused on my career, and he never quite measured up to my idea of what the perfect guy would be,” she swiveled in the bar stool, absentmindedly running her fingers through her hair.

“Well, you’re still young. You’ve got plenty of time to find a guy that checks all the boxes,” Bishop finished his whiskey, “Speaking of age, I think I’m going to call it a night."

She stood gingerly, the prolonged sitting making her leg cramp and stiff. Bishop held out his hand offering assistance, but she shook her head, "I'm good. Just takes me a minute to work the kinks out."

"Do you need help getting home?" he asked wrapping his arm around her.

“Nope, I can handle it. Goodnight, Bishop,” she hugged him goodbye.

“Goodnight, princesa,” he kissed her hair keeping her tucked to his side until she reached the door.

She walked, rather stiffly, out to the car in relative solitude. The music had died down along with the dancing. Most of the people still awake were huddled around bonfires talking quietly or amid a sloppy-drunk, far-too-handsy-for-public-consumption make-out session. She smiled to herself. “Did you have a good time?”

EZ fell into step beside Andria. “I did,” her smile brightened, “thanks for inviting me.”

“Anytime,” he smiled back as he started walking to his trailer and she continued toward the Lexus.

“Hey Andria,” he called, and she turned back to him.

He looked like he was going to say something and then changed his mind, “Have a goodnight.”

“You, too, EZ,” she gave a slight wave before climbing into the car. She blew out a deep breath before starting the engine and driving back to Antonia’s.

She pulled into the drive and got of the car. She was still smiling to her herself when the front door flew open, and she came face-to-face with a very pissed off Antonia. “Where have you been?” Antonia questioned in a harsh whisper.

“I couldn’t sleep so I went for a drive, ended up at the Mayans party,” Andria shrugged walking past her.

“With my car?!” Antonia’s voice raised slightly in anger.

“Is that a problem?” Andria asked turn toward Antonia confused.

“YES! It’s a problem. Alexandria, I am the mayor now. What do you think my constituents would say if they saw my car parked outside an outlaw motorcycle clubhouse all night?” Antonia seethed.

“I’m guessing the answer you’re not looking for is ‘good for her?’” Andria snickered.

Instead of diffusing the situation like Andria had hoped, Antonia was even more angry, “You think that’s funny? You come here, and I do everything I can to help you, and you just mierda mi vida like it’s nothing?”

“If me going to a party on a Saturday night with some of our oldest friends is the equivalent of shitting on your life, I don’t think staying here is going to work out for either one of us,” Andria exclaimed, “I want to respect you and the life you have built Antonia, but I’m sure as hell not going to live my life by the rules you have set for yourself. Bishop, the club, that life might be part of your past that you want to keep buried, but you don't get to make that decision for me.”

“You’re right, Andria,” Antonia threw her hands into the air in exasperation, “this isn’t going to work out. I think you should leave.”

“Well, look at us, finally agreeing on something. Here’s your keys back. I’ll go pack my stuff,” Andria angrily hobbled her way to the bedroom.

Antonia stared down at the keys in her palm before following Andria to the bedroom. She took a deep frustrated breath. “Shit. Look, Andria, I’m sorry. You don’t have to leave tonight. We can talk about this in the morning and try to find something that works for both us,” Antonia tried to reason as Andria hastily threw stuff in her bag.

“I think we just need to realize that we’re too different now for this to work, Antonia. You’re the mayor, you’re married, you have a baby, and play Monopoly on Wednesday nights, and that just isn’t me. I don’t know what I am anymore, but this isn’t it,” she walked back to the closet grabbing a stack of neatly folded clothes.

Antonia rolled her eyes, “The only reason you hate Monopoly so much is because I always win.”

“Yeah, well you cheat,” Andria zipped her bag and put her hands on her hips the fight leaving her frame.

“I do not,” Antonia halfheartedly argued.

Andria sat on the bed, “The last time we played you offered your wife a sexual favor in exchange for Park Place.”

Antonia sat down beside her, “I already had Boardwalk. I like to think of it as an effective gaming strategy.”

“I wonder what your constituents would think about that,” Andria quipped.

“Ugh. I’m sorry,” Antonia laid down on the bed, “there’s a lot of outside pressure with my job right now, and I’m just trying to be extra careful. Sometimes it feels like this life I built is hanging together by a thread, and there are so many people pulling strings, it would be nothing for them to take it all away.”

Andria laid down next to her, “What kind of outside pressure?”

Antonia sighed again, “How much do you know about Miguel Galindo?”

#mayans #Mayans MC #mayansmc #mayans bishop #bishop losa

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missmarquin · 5 years

Text

Magnetic, Ch. 3

In the future, romantic attraction is literal: each person is fitted with an electromagnetic bracelet which will pull you to your soulmate. It’s hard, wondering who’s out there for you. It’s harder yet, when you have to come to understand yourself first.

Read on A03 (proper italics and such!).

Armature

‘In a DC machine, the armature reaction changes the distribution of the magnetic field, which affects the operation of the machine as a whole.’

---

“I’m so fucking exhausted,” Yuri groused, leaning against the headboard of Mila’s bed. He didn’t have many friends this side of Moscow, but he was lucky to know her. For the times that he and Otabek weren’t glued at the hip, she filled in quite nicely. He moved to pull off his shoes, intent on massaging away the day’s practice and--

“Ew, get your nasty feet off of my comforter--”

“Your feet are just as nasty,” Yuri snapped, ignoring her plea. The moment his boots were off, he shook out his foot, trying to stretch the soreness away.

Mila stuck her tongue out at him, plopping down next to him. She removed her shoes as well, pulling a roll of bandages out from her bedside table. “I swear, Madame is cruel to us.”

“I’m pretty sure that she delights in seeing our feet bleed.”

“No pain, no gain,” Mila hummed, rubbing her fingers along the fine bones of her foot.

“I’ll take the fucking pain,” Yuri groused, following suit. His feet were worse than hers, all bunions and crooked toes and purple nails. The look that Mila shot him was laughable, like she couldn’t comprehend such a ridiculous thing.

“Yuri, you hate pain,” she deadpanned.

“Yeah, but it’s a welcome distraction,” he replied, and then he hissed slightly as his fingers ran over a tender area of skin. He opened up a tub of some numbing pain cream, slathering it over the area.

Mila watched for a moment, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to continue, she said, “Explain.”

Yuri looked up at her, ready to dodge the question, but the moment that he saw her determined expression, he knew that it would be a futile effort. So instead, he sighed heavily, and replied with, “It’s the fucking bracelet.” He shook his wrist for dramatic effect. “It won’t shut the fuck up.”

“What do you mean shut up?”

“The stupid tug. Or whatever it is. You know, the feeling.”

Mila was older, and had her own bracelet. Yuri knew that it was active too, he’d seen the gentle green light as it blipped quietly. Mila had never really seemed to pay attention though; she’d never seemed bothered by it. She lifted her wrist slightly, looking at it.

“I mean… it’s not like I feel nothing,” she finally said, regarding the thin metal links wrapped around her skin. “But it’s not like…”

“Not like what?”

“It’s just there,” she finishes. “It’s a gentle tug, but it’s not going anywhere, you know?”

Yuri just blinked at her, uncomprehending. “Gentle,” he repeated. “What the fuck are you on about? Mine’s practically roaring in my veins.”

It was Mila’s turn to blink, her lips tugging into a slight frown. “Yuri, I don’t think that’s normal--”

“It’s constantly distracting me,” he cut in. He wasn’t looking at her, aggressively wrapping sports tape around his toes, fingers curled tightly around the sticky cotton. “It’s like this searing itch, a burning underneath my skin. My blood is practically on fire, and I’m trying to ignore it, but I just--” He paused, sighing, dragging a hand down his face. “My body wants to go. Wants to follow it, and I just can’t--”

Yuri tied off the tape, flopping onto his stomach, laying there pathetically on the covers. “I have things that I need to focus on,” he finished with. “Primo Ballerino is right fucking there for me, and I can’t be dealing with this shit.”

Mila was quiet a long moment. In fact, the moment was so long, that Yuri was concerned that he broke her, but then-- “Are you sure that this isn’t about Otabek?”

Yuri froze.

Yuri felt the little tendrils of anger flood him slowly. How dare she bring that up, how fucking dare--

Yuri regretted telling Mila about that. It been years ago, but it had been a mistake. Mila rarely mentioned it, knowing how testy it made him, but it was the wrong fucking thing to say at that moment, that was for sure.

She couldn’t hide the sly little smile that tugged at her lips though, like she just knew she’d hit the bull’s eye on the target.

Yuri refused to answer, so she spoke again. “His bracelet never turned on,” she said quietly. “And now yours has, and the pull is so strong that your body just wants. But your head doesn’t, Yuri, because--”

“Don’t,” he snapped.

“Because--”

“I fucking swear to God Mila, if you finish that sentence--”

“You’ll what, kick me out? This is my room.” Yuri practically hissed at her in response, which only caused her to sigh. “You know, tons of people ignore their bracelet,” she continued. “If it bothers you so much, then just take it off.”

It was such a simple solution, really. And Yuri had considered it. But then there was just the question, that entire what if of the entire thing and--

And then there was Beka. His nearest, dearest friend Beka, who he cared more about in the entire world. Who, once upon a time he hoped to have something with. But then there was Amita.

And then there wasn’t Amita.

And then there was nothing, nothing for Otabek. Which was ridiculous because as far as Yuri was concerned, Otabek was fucking perfect.

“It’s not fair,” Yuri finally said.

It was Mila’s turn to sigh, leaning over, moving to run a gentle hand along his back. “It’s alright,” she tried to soothe, moving her hand in comforting circles along the curve of his spine.

But it wasn’t okay.

Otabek didn’t have a bracelet that worked.

Yuri’s tugged him somewhere else, and he just couldn’t follow it because--

It wasn’t okay, because Yuri loved Otabek, and he had for as long as he could remember.

How was that for fucking fair?

…

Yuri never asked the Piggy for advice.

Usually Yuuri just gave it to him, free of charge. Or you know, forced it upon him. Yuri wasn’t the kind to ask for help, so when he did, Yuuri knew that something was very wrong. He immediately met him for coffee, a little bit too eager to lend a hand.

Maybe that was why Yuri fidgeted in his seat, his fingers tapping against the ceramic mug set between them. It was hot to the touch, and he knew that the liquid would burn, but--

“Yurio,” Yuuri started with, causing him immediately sneer.

“Don’t fucking call me that--”

And then Yuuri smiled gently, his eyes practically shining behind his stupid glasses, and Yuri realized that he’d been duped. He’d fallen right into the Pig’s trap, his attempt to gain some normalcy between then.

Yuri was pissed, because it had fucking worked.

Yuuri watched him worry the handle of his mug for a minute, before asking, “Yuri, what is it? Is something the matter?”

“Why did you follow the tug of your bracelet?”

Yuuri blinked at that, and then looked at his wrist. He didn’t wear the gadget anymore, he didn’t need to. Instead there was a gold wedding band on his ring finger, because he’d found his one, and while Yuri would never fucking admit it, he was a smidgeon jealous that he could accept it so carefree and--

“Oh I didn’t,” was Yuuri’s reply.

It wasn’t an answer that Yuri expected, but far more in line with the man’s personality. Yuuri was a nervous ball of anxiety, and somehow, he’d managed to snag fucking Victor Nikiforov, the world’s most eligible ballerino-turned-bachelor.

“Explain,” Yuri demanded.

“I ignored it,” Yuuri said quietly, before sipping at his tea. He would always complain about the quality of the green tea in Russia, but drank it anyway. “I was too busy with school you know,” he continued, swirling his finger along the rim of his mug. “Med school isn’t easy and my eyes were set on becoming a doctor. Besides, the idea that there was someone out there for me-- well, it didn’t sit easily.”

Yuri cocked his head to the side at that. “Why?”

“Yuri, look at me. I’m an anxious, nervous mess. Do you really think that I wanted to introduce someone to that? That they’d like it?”

“But I mean,” Yuri started, but then struggled to find the right words. “Soul mate,” he finally blabbered. Not his most articulate moment.

“What if you crossed the world to find that special someone, only to have him turn out to be like me?” The face of disgust that Yuri pulled was almost immediately, but Yuuri laughed. “Exactly.”

“But Victor--”

“Is an absolute idiot,” Yuuri cut in, but he said it with affection. “And a brilliant example of how you can’t always escape your fate.”

“Explain,” Yuri said for the second time.

Yuuri sighed, warming his fingers on his mug. “I spent so much time ignoring my own bracelet, that I didn’t think of the alternative.”

“Alternative--”

“That the person on the other end might come looking for me instead.”

That effectively shut Yuri up. He worried his lip between his teeth, worried his mug between his hands, worried just about everything on his body, because that was something that he had never even considered.

He might be adamant about forgetting it, but that didn’t mean that the person on the other end wouldn’t. And even if he took off, even if he never wore it again, it didn't matter-- the damned thing was a fucking beacon, and it would remain that way until they met.

Yuuri must have seen the panicked look on Yuri’s face, because he spoke again. “I thought it was the end of the world, at first. Victor is a gorgeous man, and I mean, how the hell could he be my soulmate?”

“Yeah, what the fuck is with that?” Yuri’s ill attempt at humor made the other man crack a smile, at least.

“I know you’re scared,” Yuuri said. “And I know it probably has to do with Ot--”

“Nope, stop right there!” Yuri snapped, his chest suddenly tight. Jesus fucking Christ, was there anyone that apparently didn’t know?

But unlike Mila, Yuuri did as he asked, dropping that particular topic. “It worked out for me,” he said quietly. “I never would have thought it would, but it did. And now I’m happy.”

“But was it worth it?” Yuri asked, a rare moment where the question was genuine, and he wanted the answer to be as well.

“It was worth every fucking moment,” Yuuri said with an uncharacteristic swear, a wide smile crossing his features.

And that’s when Yuri might have thought he saw it-- whatever it was that Victor saw in this man.

The difference was that they were apparently made for each other.

Yuri left the coffee shop with things to think about, but his heart wasn’t quite as heavy as it had been. Maybe there was something to what Yuuri had said-- maybe things would just work out.

And then Yuri laughed bitterly. What a joke.

Things didn’t work out for him, they never did.

They never would.

…

Skype calls were hard.

They were the highlight of Yuri’s day, sure, but they were hard. When Otabek had first moved away all those years ago, they were like a lifeline to him; the only way to see his most precious friend. But as the years wore on, the harder and harder it got because there was just no---

Well, he couldn’t ignore Otabek so easily anymore.

When Amita was still in the picture, it was easier. Otabek was getting married, Otabek loved her. Yuri could look and never touch, and Otabek would be none-the-wiser, because he had this amazing woman by his side. But then Amita left, and things got awkward, they got really awkward.

Otabek would sit there in his sleeping clothes-- loose shirts and soft pants hanging low on his hips-- and suddenly, Yuri didn’t have to keep it so clean anymore. And who was he to blame? He was a young adult, with raging hormones. And those hormones all pointed to dark, brooding and handsome that graced the screen in front of him.

Otabek made it effortless, which pissed part of Yuri off. He went out of his way to seem inviting. Low-necked shirts, sitting across his bed certain ways, laying across his stomach to show off his perfect calves-- but Otabek seemed immune. Yuri wished that were the case for him. It’d save him the headache at least. All it took was one stupid smirk from the other man, and Yuri would be melting into the bed, ready to turn off the camera as soon as possible, so he could rut into his hand until he couldn’t think anymore.

File that under things he’d never fucking tell anyone, ever. Was there anything more embarrassing than furiously masturbating to the thoughts of your best friend? Probably not.

So like always, he distracted himself with something, anything really. Something Mila said earlier had stuck with him, and so Yuri turned to the vast world of the internet to figure it out. Too much information, perhaps, but he prepared to sift through it all.

And then an article stood out to him, as he skimmed it.

“Huh,” he breathed. “Beka, did you know that the bracelet tugs harder, if the two people already love each other?”

He looked to the computer screen. Otabek was laying against his headboard, legs stretched out in front of him. He had his old and dingy, dog-eared copy of Dune in his hands, flipping through it slowly. Glasses perched across his nose, his hair unstyled, curling around his forehead as he looked up. His lips parted just slightly and--

Yuri forced himself to turn away and take a deep breath. “At least, that’s the theory. No one really knows and there’s not a lot of evidence because… well, you know. They can’t prove what the pull feels like for people, I guess.”

He turned back to Otabek, who shook out his wrist slightly, a line furrowed across his brow. The video feed was grainy, but Yuri could tell that he was thinking hard about something.

“Well, in any case, it sounds stupid,” Yuri continued with. “I mean, who believes this shit, right?”

“Hopeless romantics?” Otabek supplied, his tony only a tad bit dry.

“Oh, so people like you,” Yuri joked with good nature. Otabek finally smiled that tiny little smile of his, and it felt genuine, and God above the things it did to Yuri. He shifted slightly on his bed, adjusting his legs.

“Would it be so bad?” Otabek asked him suddenly.

“Eh?”

“Would it be so bad?” Otabek repeated. “For it to be someone that you already know?”

“In a perfect world, maybe,” was Yuri’s reluctant reply. He knew that it was a load of shit though, because there was only one person he loved, and it was clearly unrequited. “Really, I can’t think of anyone that I’d want it to be,” he finished with, trying to maintain a cool tone.

No point in scaring off Otabek with maybes and what-nots.

But to his surprise, Otabek looked… deflated. Yuri could count on one hand, how many times he’d seen that particular expression across the older man’s face-- when they said goodbye at the airport the time he moved away, and when Otabek introduced Amita to him.

Yuri didn’t like it, the subtle downturn of his lips, the furrow in Otabek’s brow. He didn’t like it so much, that he changed the subject.

“Hey, remember that I’ll be offline for the rest of the week.”

“Ah, yes,” Otabek replied, slipping back into his usual ease. Maybe Yuri had seen something that wasn’t actually there but… well, he knew Otabek. “Your big debut solo,” he continued with, a proud smile spreading across his face.

“Ugh, I’m so fucking nervous.”

“Yura, you’re never nervous.”

Well, Otabek was kind of right, he rarely felt the gut-wrenching butterflies that people often complained about. But this was different. “If this goes well, Beka, I have a shot,” he said quietly. “A real shot at Primo Ballerino. Could you imagine?”

“Yes,” Otabek replied easily. “Always. In fact, I don’t imagine it, because it will just be.”

“God, you’re such a sap,” Yuri groused, smacking a hand across his forehead.

“Yeah, but I’m your sap.” Otabek punctuation the sentence with a laugh, but all Yuri heard was the word your and he just about died inside. When he finished, Otabek leaned closer to the camera, setting his book aside. “I wish I could be there for it.” He sounded regretful.

“Yeah, same.”

“You’ll do great though, you always do.”

“Hey Beka,” Yuri said, but then hesitated. “Thank you.”

Otabek raised his eyebrows. “For what?”

Yuri sighed. “I don’t know. Or everything? You’re like… you’re like my person and all that. Friends are great, but you’re just something else.”

Otabek smiled, really smiled. Wide across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It took Yuri’s breath away.

“I know what you mean, Yura,” he said in reply.

They said their goodbyes and Yuri disconnected the call. His heart felt light, like he had gotten something off of his chest. And you know, Otabek’s smile didn’t hurt.

It was something he could go to bed to every single night.

….

Yuri’s feet were fucking killing him.

He was used to pain. He was used to the pain and the aches of being a ballet dancer. He was used to to stress fractures, the cracks and bruises and even his fucked up feet. Of the pulls in his back muscles, of the strains in his legs, of everything.

But the last four days had been, by far, the most brutal workout, he’d ever put himself through. But it was necessary. It was worth it, to see the look of utter satisfaction on Madame Baranovskaya’s face. She never handed out compliments, but she had sent him home early, with a simple request to rest.

That alone was worth a thousand words.

Yuri stumbled into his apartment, broken and weary, but good. He had this in the bag, he’d fucking nail his solo and then--

Well, and then he’d be the prime pick for principal male of the company. And if he did, it’d be the best achievement of his life. Victor Nikiforov had snagged principal at twenty-one, over a decade prior. It was worth his bleeding toes, to see the smug smirk wiped off the idiot’s face when Yuri did the same at twenty.

He dropped his duffel by the kitchen table, collapsing onto the couch. He was too tired, too sore to properly undress at the moment, so he just sat there, sinking into the well worn fabric. He turned on the television, the volume low. He just wanted a quiet distraction, something to play in the background as he closed his eyes and--

There was a knock at the door.

At first, he thought it was part of the television program-- until he heard it again. The second time, the knock was louder, more insistent. Yuri groaned softly, before pulling himself to his feet. The only person who could possibly bother him this late at night, was his neighbor Vera. And as much as he’d like to just leave her hanging in the hallway, she was just too much of a sweet old lady to ignore.

She probably needed help turning on her space heater, because her fingers just didn’t work the way that they used to. Her words, not his.

He pulled open the door, a greeting ready on his lips-- only to freeze immediately.

Because it wasn’t Vera on the other side of that door.

“Ah, Yura,” Otabek said, shifting around the duffel thrown across his shoulder. He was wearing his old leather jacket, the one that was Yuri’s favorite. He’d spent days wrapped in that jacket when it was cold and Otabek was too kind to let him freeze to death--

“Beka,” he breathed, leaning against the doorframe, trying to make it look casual. Not like he was trying to hide the sudden hammering of his heart. “Not that uh, not that I don’t want to see you or anything, but what are you doing here?”

Otabek hesitated, which was something he never fucking did. “I, uh--” Yuri crossed his arms over his chest as he listened, waiting patiently. And then Otabek raised his hand, shoving his wrist out towards him.

Yuri saw the bracelet.

And the bracelet burned a brilliant green, not like the gentle little blipping he was accustomed to seeing. Not dead, like it was supposed to be.

Yuri blinked, as he regarded it. And then he left the doorway, leaving Otabek behind, following him in confusion. Yuri ignored him as he dug through his practice bag, looking for-- there it was. He pulled out the metal circlet, holding it like it might shock him. He had taken it off for practice, and then he’d kept if off at the advice of Mila.

And then Yuuri’s words came back full force. I didn’t think of the alternative.

Otabek paused in the kitchen and Yuri looked back at him, still holding the bracelet.

That the person on the other end might come looking for me instead.

There was no way, Yuri concluded. There was absolutely no fucking way. Otabek didn’t love him like that, Otabek wasn’t even fucking gay. Otabek was his best friend and the only person that meant something to him, but that didn’t mean he had to reciprocate.

Otabek was clearly in the wrong place, and Yuri would prove it. He opened the clasp on the bracelet and slapped it around his wrist and--

The tug was so strong, it felt almost like his heart was being tugged right out of his body. It didn’t just burn anymore, it was like an all-consuming fire. It was like electricity, crackling through his veins, surging through his blood. Yuri stared at his wrist for a long moment, before turning back to Otabek, swallowing thickly.

And Otabek just stood there dumbly, scratching at the back of his head like an idiot. Like he didn’t know what to fucking say.

Which is probably why he settled on, “So uh, I guess we should talk, huh?”

#otayuri #otayurismut #Otabek Altin #otabek and yuri #OtabekAltin/YuriPlisetsky #yuri on ice fanfiction #Yuri on ice #Yuri Plisetsky

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