#ive never posted anything like this or this suggestive in my life please be gentle with me 😭 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wizkiddx · 3 years

Text

worst case scenario part 3

umm so, never ever intended it to be this long but here we are. again this is v dark so please please read the warning!! also [and obvs] this is very medically inaccurate and just a work of my head aha

[part 1] [part 2]

warning: mentions of death / hospital / mentions of childhood abandonment too- please don't read if this could affect you <3

||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||

His heart was thundering in his chest, so much so it drowned out all other sounds making all the doctors words fade into the background. Conciously, he really was trying to listen to what the doctor was saying; consciously he knew she was trying to prepare him to see Y/n; consciously he knew she knew he wasn’t okay. But really? It didn’t matter, and as they drew closer to his fiancé Tom felt an urgent sense of relief purely know she was there. She was there and she wasn’t dead…yet.

Only two people were allowed to go up, just because the nature of the ward - everything was meticulously controlled, including the comings and goings of visitors. If you’ve never been in an ICU it’s a pretty hard environment to describe. Really, it’s just another hospital ward, with capacity of about 20 beds. Each bed has much more equipment surrounding that the average and a nurse is stationed per patient, monitoring every possible variable that the machienes are measuring, so any trend (either positive or negative) can be identified at the earliest point. Though in everyones head, it seems as though ICU is a common place ending up for some unfortunate sod when something bad happens, it’s actually really rare for someone to be so ill and dependant on medicine to maintain normal body functioning. Only the most severe trauma, infection of the most dangerous microorganism, surgery of such high stakes normally make an appearance on the ward. And ,on average, between 8-20% patients that are admitted to an ICU never make it out.

And those grim figures were unignorable to anyone. As soon as you walk through the doors, the atmosphere is intense and ineffable. It’s not spoken, but is so incredibly morbid it makes anyone shiver.

Dom felt this, squeezing his sons shoulder as he followed Tom and the doctor, just a pace or so behind them. Having offered to go with Tom, whilst Harrison took Nikki to see the baby, Dom was now feeling just as clueless as his son did. Except he was actually listening to what the doctor was trying to warn them about and it scared him. The three, made it to the door and with a swipe of her ID card the doctor admitted the Holland men in. Gratefully, none of the staff took any notice of who was walking in, they were much too busy for that - Dom was incredibly relieved, had someone recognised Tom when he was in this state, god knows what would’ve happened.

The doctors pace was with purpose, perhaps so that the two couldn’t spend too long ogling the other patients in the beds - who all looked almost unhuman with the amount of tubes and wires coming out and into them. But then, she slowed up, halting infront of a bay about 5 or 6 down the ward. Spinning on her heel and with a subtle nod to momentarily release the nurse from her post at Y/n’s bedside, to give them a bit of privacy, she looked at the two men.

“You can touch her, just be gentle with the wires.”

Shellshocked and terrified, Tom was frozen those 2 metres away from the bed barely able to see her face over all the equipment. Yet undoubtedly, it was his finance’s delicate visage lying on the white pillow, with a thick white mouthpiece and tube covering her mouth and stuffed into her nose. Not able to move, both Dom and Dr Goodwell sensitively waited - it was an adjustment to say the least, seeing someone you knew so well look so different. With quiet tears starting to roll down his eyes, Tom eventually started to inch toward the bedside, taking his time to try and absorb everything of this frankly ridiculous situation. He couldn’t get over how, even considering it all, above her nose it just looked like Y/n. Like she was asleep in their bed, eyes closed as if she had once again fallen asleep infront of a random Netflix movie Tom had bugged her enough to watch in bed. And it was, ever so slightly comforting. That was still her, that was still the love of his life lying there. And she was still alive - which given the last few hours, was enough.

Reaching the bedside, Tom naturally reached out and stroked the top of her head delicately, pulling into place a few rogue strands that seemed to have a mind of their own - she had always hated when her hair got frizzy. The picture had Tom’s mind casting back to their first holiday, a serene if quick few days in Fiji- though Y/n didnt know this , that holiday had been one of the most important times in their relationship for Tom. Until then, given the nature of his job, the couple had only ever managed brief periods together. They spent time together as and when they could in between Tom’s busy schedule but it was never as long as they’d like. Somehow though, he’d managed to squeeze a few days away to surprise Y/n with the trip.

It was everything he’d ever hoped it would be and more. In fact it was then Tom was oh so sure he would be spending the rest of his life with her. This thought crossed his mind on the last morning, when he had for once woken up before Y/n - her head mere cms away from his on the pillow. Just like now, her hair had been all over the place and her sparkling green eyes locked shut. Contrastingly though, in Fiji the sight had made him smile softly; now it just made him cry again.

“Would you like a minute alone Mr Holland? We will just wait outside?” Not even turning round to properly respond to the doctor, Tom just nodded violently, not taking his eyes off his fiancé - waiting till he heard his Dad and the doctor leave the bay; then the curtains be completely drawn to a close, before he shakily cleared his throat to whisper.

“Hey darling… you um-you’ve scared me shitless today… and… and I’m supposed to be the dramatic one in the relationship.” Chuckling wetly, Tom clasped his other hand in Y/n’s - still mindful of the IV port coming out of the top of her wrist. Not that he was expecting any sort of response, yet the lack of her squeezing his hand back still had his heart sink. “Look I…I love you so bloody much and I really need you to get better okay? You’ve never listened to me before but I really am begging you to now, I just.” Swallowing thickly, he shut his eyes momentarily and delicately rested his forehead on hers - his touch feather light. Just needing to feel her. “I just really need you and I really love you., okay?”

Unsurprisingly he didn’t get a response. The rhetorical question hung in the air alone, safe the mechanical whir of the ventilator and various chimes of the machines and monitor, till his Dad came in. Grasping and squeezing his shoulder lightly, Dom provided the stimulus for his son to unfold from over the bed, standing upright, as both men just took in the sight of Y/n lying there for a minute or two.

“I need her Dad. I-I-“

“I know Tom.” Speaking so quietly it was barely audible, Dom’s eventual agreement at what Tom was saying was in a way a relief. Haz and his mum had both either been saying or implying that they would be okay no matter what - which came from a good place but was so infuriating. Because god forbid, if this situation got worse Tom knew it wouldn’t be okay. Nothing would ever be okay again. So his Dad’s simple acknowledgment meant a lot, causing Tom to turn round and embrace his slightly shorter father.

Dr Goodwell silently watched the exchange for a short while and once the men eventually pulled away she stepped forward to give some more information. She went through what all the biggest and scary looking tubes and wires were doing for Y/n, before explaining the next steps.

“Now as I said before we are sedating her at the moment, while we wait and see if she gets any complications from the surgery that are better treated while she is asleep. By this afternoon we will have a clearer idea and by that point we may choose to withdraw that sedation. It’s important that you are aware though that she might not wakeup immediately. Sometimes some people that have suffered similarly to your fiancé will be unconscious for a while in what I’d presume you’ve heard of as a ‘coma’. Now it’s not as dramatic as you see on TV shows, it’s just Ms Y/l/n’s brain giving her body a chance to recover. It’s often a longer process, which I know is something you don’t want to hear, but I have to be honest.” The doctor was stern but in a softer and from-a-caring-place. “These patients are suggested to possibly recover quicker if they have a steady support network behind them, which it seems like she does. That means that you need to look after yourself so you can help her sir, especially in what could be a long process. It’s not going to be helpful for Yn if you’re killing yourself trying to be here all the time… It seems like Y/n already has quite a big group of you here for her, so please remember you’ve got all of her care team here and everyone else to help you too….Does that make sense sir?”

“Tom” His Dad, in a gentle but firm warning tone, urged Tom to speak and to listen. Properly listen.

“Yeh… I-yeh It’s just all a lot right now.”

“Of course… and we promise that if anything changes with her condition, you will be phoned straight away. You are welcome to stay as long as you want - the only rules are two at a time, no flowers, sign in and out and then sanitise your hands pretty excessively. If you need anything, Ms Y/l/n’s nurse will be your first port of call.”

“Thanks for everything” Dom nodded in a gracious manner, which the doctor seemed to massively appreciate - apparently, for the job they do not receiving a hell of a lot of thanks.

“I’ll pop back in a little bit.”

And for a couple of hours everything everything felt like a bit of an anticlimax, nothing happened, not a lot changed. Just Tom and Dom sat next to Y/n’s bed in silence; Harrison and Nikki downstairs with the baby, till Dom got a phone call from Nikki asking them to meet at the neonatal unit - which was limited by visitor numbers unlike the ICU. Thinking it’d be simple, the elder man gained Tom’s attention with a call of his name, explaining they should go down to meet up.

“I’m not going down there.”

“Son, I know you’re worried by Y/n isnt going anywhere right now. The doctors said they’d call you if anything happens.”

“It’s not-“ Tom stopped himself, biting his tongue and looking away from his Dad. “I just don’t want to go down there.” Slowly, Dom was more and more realising Tom’s thought process and honestly… it scared him. In the hopes this was just a big misunderstanding he offered a different option - hoping Tom would equally refuse that. Dom suggested going down to the cafe instead, which most unfortunately Tom agreed to. It wasn’t leaving Y/n that was the issue, it was being near the baby.

Tom’s daughter. Unnamed and apparently abondoned by both parents.

Anyhow, Dom resigned to playing into Tom’s choice, perhaps Nikki and Harrison would be able to swing him round, to see sense. It still took Tom getting the nurse to triple check they had his correct number on record , just in case, before Dom could tear him away from the bed. Fortunately the pair found a quiet and secluded corner table, where Tom was still yet to be recognised, while Nikki and Haz found them too.

What followed was Tom answering all his mum and Harrison’s questions about Y/n’s condition, in a blunt and emotionless manner - without Tom returning fire by asking any questions at all about his beautiful little baby girl. Eventually Nikki braved it, someone had to bring it up.

“Well it sounds like littles going to change for a while… maybe you should head home for a bit? You’ve been up half the night and you look shattered love. You don’t have to go back to yours… you could stay in your old room for a bit?” Tom being by himself at the moment sounded like the most incredibly stupid idea ever, Nikki was offering it as a choice - when in reality there was only one option.

“Maybe later this evening I will? Just don’t want to leave her alone yet.”

“It’s already 7 love, you’ve not eaten all day, you got to look after yourself too.” Harrison and Dom sat awkwardly while Nikki tried to delicately encourage Tom into what was the only sensible plan, watching him nurse the small hot choclate in both his palms. Time really had lost all meaning at this point, for him it felt both years since he’d first arrived with Y/n and at the same time barely 10 minutes ago. It felt weird.

“We can take shifts? If-if you want someone with her I mean… I don’t mind staying for a bit longer if it means you head back to your parents.” Harrison really truly didnt mind, in fact he sort of wanted to. He wanted to see Y/n’s face definitely alive, wanted to feel reassured by the monitors. Shockingly, Tom slowly nodded his head, surprising everyone with his lack of argument. None of them could work out whether it was a good thing him not putting up much arguement ; either he was heeding everyones advice of taking care of himself - or he had just given up. Harrison, as much as he didn’t want to, was favouring the latter.

“Okay” Nikki declared optimistically “So maybe you and Harrison go up so you can say good night to Y/n, then we can all go and pick up the baby?” She opened the plan to the floor, allowing for input but got nothing - except maybe Tom’s jaw unconsciously tensing uncomfortable at the latter part of her statement. Dom noticed.

Not one noticed but knew what it meant. His son blamed his granddaughter. His son, right now in that moment, hated the unnamed and totally helpless baby girl.

part 4?

#tom holland #tom holland x reader #dad!tom #tomholland #tom holland angst

137 notes · View notes

warmau · 4 years

Text

painter!au jihoon

*this post was commissioned | based very lightly off seventeen - fallin’ flowers tw: break up mention/general angst

“something in your gentleness entraps him you make it look so easy, to love and provide for something he knows a flower is one thing, a human is another - but could you do that for him too?”

you had thought jihoon was going to marry them

so standing in the middle of his studio with the remnants of their relationship, a broken vase of lilies in the corner, his undone portrait of them dripping down with the streaks of paint he’d thrown at the canvas in a fit of confusion and pain

feels .......... wrong

as if you were the one who was broken up with, and not jihoon who is on his knees a couple of feet away

hands stained in watercolors, eyes blank and burrowing

you reach for the wilting lilies first, you’ve known jihoon long enough to be aware of the fact that trying to use words to comfort him right now won’t work

so you silently begin to clean up, plucking items that belong to his ex and placing them out of sight

you take the ruined canvas with half their face sketched out and turn it over

jihoon doesn’t move from his spot as you work - doesn’t say anything - doesn’t even look at you

when you’re done you finally kneel down beside him, bring the hot wet towel to his hands and start to scrub the dry paint from his palms

you try to be gently but jihoon finally speaks

“harder, you have to scrub harder if you want to get rid of them.”

you can’t tell if he’s talking about the paint or of the memories that must be flooding into him

you had remembered how happy he had looked, being in love, being with someone who seemed to understand him

now he was empty and you were scared of what could happen if he was left like this alone

you don’t argue, you scrub harder and finally you get some of the colors off his skin

there’s still smudges thought, the same way there will still be those pieces of his ex scarred across him

time heals everything - you want to say that, but its too early to start preaching

instead you tell jihoon he should go to bed now, you’ll take care of the rest of the cleaning up and put his art supplies away

he gives a vague sort of look toward the bedroom and then back at you

“i broke the vase, the one with the lilies.”

“it’s ok, ive already cleaned-”

“i should go buy fresh ones.”

his eyes glaze over, he gets up and you scramble to your feet in the process

you put a hand on his chest to stop him and jihoon stares at you, but you can tell he isnt focused

“ill buy them, please jihoon. go to bed.”

somehow you manage to get him to turn around

and you are standing now in the doorway to his apartment, with a trash bag full of his exes things and the pathetic looking lilies

you had bought them as a gift when you’d come over to celebrate jihoon’s successful art show

his ex had put them into a vase and gushed over how pretty they looked - jihoon had never been one to be so romantic, but he had said that they looked almost as pretty as his ex did

you had watched them be so loving toward each other just days ago

but now it was all gone and part of you is angry at both of them

at jihoon’s ex for leaving him, out of the blue and with no real reason but the excuse of having “outgrown” him

and at jihoon for calling you after it had happened

but that anger toward him is really just a cover for something else

the hollowing pit in your stomach that has always been there since you met jihoon in college.

the pit you’ve covered with years of support for him and his relationships and his art

the pit, in which sits the actual emotion you’ve been hiding from the world

if you had picked me, i would have never hurt you like this

the thought is cruel and you tell yourself never to think such a thing like that again

but its there, it will always be there, because you love jihoon

not that you ever plan to let that truth come to the surface......

the next morning, you stop by the florist to pick up the lilies you promised you’d buy

you look at them, watching as one of the petals sags to the side, threatening to fall

you dont know what it is about lilies in particular - they bloom so big and beautiful that they often steal the attention in a garden

they’re quite the opposite of you

who has always found yourself more of a queen anne’s lace, playing a side role in the main stories of all your friends

but you adore them above all other flowers, touching the petal made of velvet and suddenly remembering that you had seen lilies when you first met jihoon

you had taken art in college as an extra credit class

you weren’t at all any good, but it was enjoyable to take a course that didnt demand much from you but creativity

one of the first assignments had been still life: drawing baskets of fruit, books on tables, flowers in vases

you had ended up with a vase with one purple lily in it.

the only other person who had also chose it was jihoon

you didn’t know his name back then

just that he was so beautiful, like he had been drawn himself and came to life off the page

his eyes like umber, russet sunsets - his mouth slightly parted in concentration as he let his pencil flow across his canvas

you had trouble focusing on the flower, which is probably half the reason it came out terribly

but it had also allowed jihoon to look over and offer with a quiet tone, that you maybe work on shading here - and dimension here

you had told him you weren’t in the art major and he had given you the kind of look that read, i could tell

before smiling to himself in the way you caved your head in a bit of embarrassment

it wasn’t like you ever thought the meaningless, sometimes only minute long conversation you’d have with him in the art room would turn into a friendship which harbored its way into one-sided love

somehow you had just ended up being invited warmly into his small knit circle

jihoon extending his hand to you after getting a text about dinner with seokmin and jeonghan

jihoon allowing only his and your eyes to fall upon his works in progress, you taking the free time you had to spend at his studio mixing paints and organizing his drawing materials

he never ask you to do those things - but he also never chided you for it

jeonghan had mentioned it once, when you were all walking in the summer evening after a movie outing

that you being able to earn jihoon’s trust was a higher honor than one might think

you had looked from jeonghan to jihoon - who had been walking a bit in front with the rest of your friends

head turned, his profile against the setting sun

“ah - are you buying another bouquet for your artist boyfriend?”

you jump at the sudden question and shake your head

“he’s not my boyfriend.”

you swallow and find that your throats gone dry

“he actually just got broken up with so......”

the florist frowns, taking you gently by the hand and leading you away from the lilies

“then those are not the flowers you should be getting him, you need to get him something that will say cheer up! there’s someone better out there for you - could i suggest tulips?”

you give a polite smile

“no, i think i have to take the lilies.”

when you arrive at jihoon’s apartment, the door is unlocked and jihoon is still in bed

from the way the kitchen is untouched and he’s wearing the same shirt he was yesterday you assume he hasn’t moved in all this time

“jihoon”

you softly speak

“it’s already well past lunch, have you eaten?”

he pulls his feet up so they disappear under the covers again. you look around the room and find a vase full of old paintbrushes

you take it and tell jihoon you’re going to go make him something to eat and that you’ve brought the lilies

he doesn’t reply, not until you turn in the doorway and his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard before

“can you put the lilies in here?”

“you don’t want them in the studio?”

“no, please put them here.”

you quickly fry up an egg and make some coffee, which you set down on the night table beside jihoon’s bed

you move his sketchbook away and realize that it’s open to an empty page

your eyes briefly glance to see if jihoon has reacted at all, but he’s still

you go back to wash out the waves and put the lilies in

you wrap a rubberband around his paintbrushes and set them by the others which are stock piled in the studio room

a small ping of relief floods through you when you enter the bedroom and jihoon is up, holding the cup of coffee in his hands

usually people would suggest you make conversation to help ease jihoon’s mind out of whatever dark place it has wondered into it

but you just put the lilies down and tend to cleaning up whatever other paper and things you can see on the floor

even though jihoon only finishes the coffee and maybe a quarter of the egg, it’s still a start

the pain he’s feeling is fresh and you don’t want to push anything

but as you tell him you’re off to leave again - you remind him that he does have another exhibition planned in two weeks

on the way back home you hope his love for painting can cradle him through this all

whenever you think of the sadness that comes with being unloved, you throw yourself into your hobbies, scribbling down poems or re-reading novels from your time in school

you’d done it all to stop thinking about jihoon - you hope he does the same too

about a week passes when you return to jihoon’s again, and it’s only because this time jeonghan calls you with a serious worry about jihoon’s exhibition

“he isn’t painting, that’s the problem.”

“what do you mean he isn’t painting?”

“when i came over, he was sitting in front of the canvas with his hand pressed against it - but ........ he wasn’t drawing or painting or doing anything.”

you show up to the apartment after the call and take a deep breath before you let yourself in

today might be the first time you mention the breakup to jihoon, and you don’t know if its too early yet

to make the dread bubble even harder in your stomach is the fact that sitting outside of his apartment is that undone portrait of his ex

its half shrouded with other trash bags left to be collected

you look at the familiar face and clench your fist a bit tighter

if you hadnt done this to him, if you hadnt made this mess - i wouldnt be stuck cleaning it up.

you chide and immediately fall into regret

its not a mess, taking care of your friends is not a mess.

you knock on the door and wait for a moment till you hear jihoon turn the lock

you’re relived to see that his hair is wet from a fresh shower, but the bags under his eyes like crows wings cancels it out

as well as the fact that he looks as if he’s seen the devil himself

“what’s wrong?”

jihoon’s shoulders shrink

“do i really have to answer that?”

you step inside and the door closes behind you two

“jeonghan said you’re having trouble painting”

jihoon’s head drops and the darkness of the hallway makes everything feel closer and more intense

he turns and starts to walk toward the studio and you follow, gasping a little at the sight of it

canvases broken in halves, paint spilled on the floor - but not a single new painting, not a single completed project

jihoon sits down in the middle of it all and puts his head in his hands

he looks like he’s in agony, silent and torturous

is this what happens when an artist loses their muse?

you don’t know how to help and that makes it all the more worse

you just sit down beside jihoon

he lets you take his hands in your own

in the corner of the room those fresh lilies youve bought have wilted again

on one of the broken canvases, the only thing jihoon has been able to paint is those scattered and browning petals

you start to come by everyday after that because as much as you share jeonghan’s worry about the art

you are more so worried about jihoon shutting down

now he has nothing to focus on, just the fact that he’s lost the love of his life

so you try and entertain and keep him alive to the best of your ability

with groceries and company, bringing over his other friends - trying to coax him into going outside

jihoon reacts on some level, but you can tell that he just wants to paint again

all he’s done is brush strokes on the white paper, the shape vaguely like that of a flower but you cant ever tell what kind

he also keeps asking you if you can bring him lilies again

you do, and this time they live longer because you tend to them - and when you do you fail to realize that jihoon starts to watch you

he takes note of the way you move the vase with both hands

the way you keep the steams between the same two fingers every time

you arent burdened by the little chore because its takes at most five or so minutes out of the day

but jihoon unfolds each step you take like a storybook page

something in your gentleness entraps him

you make it look so easy, to love and provide for something

he knows a flower is one thing, a human is another - but

could you do that for him too?

he looks into his hands and the cup of coffee you made for him is sitting on the table to the left

have you already been doing it, all this time?

which is why on the day before the exhibition

when you ask him if he wants you to help him cancel it

he says no, he thinks he can fish something in time

you light up and ask if he’s finally found a new muse, but jihoon blinks slowly

“a new muse?”

“yes, i mean i thought - well i thought they were your muse and losing them meant you couldnt paint but if youre saying you can now then-

jihoon’s eyes turn to ice at the mention but then he shakes his head

“they ...... i never saw them as a muse.”

he stops to think on it, he isn’t lying

“but you loved them, i mean -”

he keeps his eyes down and you fidget, “sorry, let’s not talk about that.”

“i did, you’re right i did love them but that doesn’t mean they inspired me.”

he taps a finger and then looks at you

sitting across from him, how you’ve done a million times before

suddenly jihoon thinks if he can look at you like that for a little while longer

he can create again

he can paint something

so when he asks you to stay still, you do - and jihoon brings his pencil down to paper

only to get up half an hour later and take you with him

he sits you down again and sets up a bigger canvas this time, brings his paintbrushes

and then he moves the vase with the lily from behind him to sit at your feet

“jihoon, are you going to paint me?”

“yes”

“why?”

he looks from the lily to you

“because i want to, and it’s the first time in a while that i think ill be able to.”

you don’t realize it yourself not until you’ve fallen asleep in your position and jihoon is deep into his painting

that the muse you were talking about and thinking he’d lost

had been you all along

jihoon knew it, even when he was in a relationship, that there was no one else in this world that could make him paint

he’d felt it the first time you met in that art class, he’d watched you fumble through your drawing

and usually he wasn’t inspired to draw the mundane, the everyday

until he started seeing just how much it could mean to him

he had been painting that portrait of his ex out of obligation, they had asked him to do it

and so it had been taking a while - it had been unfinished not even because of the breakup but because jihoon didn’t want to do it

and yet here he was, the brush strokes pouring out of him in an attempt to capture every little detail there is to you

he had been wallowing in his pain and hadn’t bothered to look at you again

until you started to be there, everyday, like those lilies

and those lilies, beautiful and sweet

they were yours, you were theirs. to jihoon something about the silk of the petal and the sway of your hair made sense

he doesn’t wake you up, he’s been your friend long enough to know the parts of you he wants in the painting

he only stops when he’s done and his hair is stuck to him with sweat and the sun is rising outside his window

you’ve slumped over completely onto the couch and jihoon comes closer to move you into a more comfortable position

this is the first time in these weeks that he is taking care of you instead of the other way around

when his fingers touch your skin he suddenly feels the kind of sparking urge he has only felt with others who hes been intimate with

your small stir in his arms causes him alarm and excitement all at once, when your eyes open slightly he jumps back before he fears he’ll do something you wont like

in the morning, jihoon is passed out cold in his bed and you get up and rub your eyes

finally you let yourself move toward the canvas to see what jihoon has painted

its you.........its you in every way..........you stare at that face of yours like a mirrored reflection

seeing it like this something ties a knot in your heart

“is this what its like to be a muse?”

jihoon’s voice floats through the room

“you’ve always been mine.”

you turn - because you don’t think you’ve really heard it - maybe its just your drowsy imagination speaking

but jihoon is there and the phone is ringing, jeonghan about the exhibition

neither you or jihoon reach for the phone

instead you ask him,

“what do you mean?”

he doesn’t know how to explain it

instead he looks at you and then over his shoulder into his room

the exhibition doesnt start until the afternoon, and you are in his studio and you are whats brought him back from a point of emptiness

you are more than a muse

somehow you end up with his hand on yours again and this time that spark is searing up through both of you

jihoon’s paint stained fingers splay on the small of your back

you are still a little scared that its too early for this, if its just the wounds on his heart speaking

but jihoons lips only centimetres from yours promise that its more than that

its all that time wasted, his attention was yours that day in the art classroom

and he was an idiot for ever trying to put it on someone else

but like all good things - they come with time and if you want him how he wants you then hes here

and he’s ready to let this between you bloom into something more

you giggle when his breath tickles you before you finally kiss

you wonder if everyone will be surprised by that painting jihoon has done of you when its up in the wall of the gallery

when the lily petals fall from the flower in that vase and land at your entangled feet.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #seventeen au #jihoon scenarios #jihoon imagines #jihoon au #woozi scenarios #woozi imagines #woozi au #member: woozi #sfw #writing commissions #seventeen #woozi #park jihoon

263 notes · View notes

stevenuniversetanzanite · 4 years

Text

I made a prompt list out of three other people prompts so I can practice stories.

Links to originals

https://wayfaring----stranger.tumblr.com/post/186040990132/fluff-prompt-list

https://sparklyhyunjinnie.tumblr.com/post/622355495153451008/my-prompt-list-give-me-the-numbers-and-the-idol

https://imnotcreativeenoughtomakegoodurl.tumblr.com/post/186758228060/mmm-love-me-some-casually-aggressive-fluff

Feel free to suggest or use for your own purpose.

I’m only posting in case people wanted to suggest some otherwise I’ll let google random number generator decide.

Out of: 1-132

1. “I really want to kiss you right now”

2. “Stay with me.. please?”

3. “I am so madly in love with you”

4. “As long as I’m alive, I will do everything I can to protect you”

5. “I’ve never felt so strongly about someone before. I’m terrified”

6. “I can’t stop thinking about you. No matter how hard I try, you’re always on my mind”

7. “Don’t go on that date” “Why?” “Because it will kill me if you do”

8. “Just say the words, and I’m yours” “I love you”

9. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me”

10. “Please tell me you want to kiss me as much as I want to kiss you”

11. “Is this okay?” “It’s perfect”

12. “It’s okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you now”

13. “Seeing you this riled up really makes me want to kiss you”

14. “Shut up” “Make me”

15. “You’re the most beautiful person in the room”

16. “I’ve waited too long to do this”

17. “Part of me wants to keep the promise I made to myself.. the other half wants to say ‘screw it’” “Which half is winning?” “The latter”

18. “Why don’t we just stay here a bit longer? In our little cocoon”

19. “Were you jealous?” “No… maybe…”

20. “As if I’m going to let go of you that easily”

21. “okay, but first kiss me.”

22. “i don’t like the dark”

23. “can i hold your hand”

24. “i cant sleep when you’re not beside me

25. “i’m sorry i cant help but stare”

26. “will you stay?”

27. “i promise i won’t let anything bad happen”

28. “i’m so goddamn in love with you”

29. “thats my ex, make out with me and make him jealous

30. “spin the bottle is chiché, i’m in”

31. “i don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before”

32. “i know it’s 2am but can we meet up”

33. “your lips are getting really close to mine”

34. “shit, how’d you make me blush like this?”

35. “why do you always call me when i’m on a date?”

36. “don’t be silly i want to stay up with you”

37. “Have you ever kissed anyone?’

38. “I really can’t take it when you cry like that… smile for me, alright? You’re so pretty when you smile.”

39. “How do you want to die?”

40. “I’ll feel much better if you let me walk you home.”

41. “Are you flirting with me?” “You finally noticed?”

42. “Sorry… your hair was in your face… thought I should move it so I could see you better.”

43. “Just trust me”

44. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

45. “ive missed this”

46. “Did you just slap my ass?”

47. “Sharing is caring, now give me the hoodie!”

48. “Can you please…? Hmmm, I don’t know. Maybe put a shirt on?!”

49. “Give me attention.”

50. “Do we like…hold hands now?”

51. “I know I’ve kissed you like, ten times, but just like another ten, please.”

52. “Don’t be nervous, you can come closer”

53. “I-I miss your arms around me as I slept, I know it’s embarrassing but you made me feel safe.”

54. “I have a feeling we should kiss.”“Is that a good feeling or a bad feeling?”

55. “You’re so soft, if I could ever touch the clouds, this is what they’d feel like.”

56. “we’re in public, you know”

57. “either take it off, or I will happily do it for you.”

58. “This is embarrassing but I had a bad dream and back home when this happens I normally just crawl into bed with my mom or sister but since they’re not here anymore can I sleep with you?”

59. “are those my hair clips”

60. “we need to talk about what happened last night”

61. "You're hiding under that blanket because you're blushing?"

62. “I’ll fix it.”

63. “Why are you unbuttoning your pants?”

64. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”

65. “You’ve been so bad, haven’t you, baby?”

66. "The sunset isn't as beautiful as you, my love."

67. “Quit it or I’ll bite you.”

68. “I told you to bring a jacket”

69. “dont cry”

70. “if I was there, you’d be getting all the cuddles you deserve”

71. “Did someone say shower time?”

72. “I had a sex dream about you and honestly I don’t know how to feel about it

73. “We always share blankets on the couch, im sure sharing a bed isn’t much different.

74. “How much did you hear?”

75. “why are you so jealous?”

76. “you keep a photo of us in your wallet?”

77. “Bite me” “where”

78. “and just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?”

79. “I'm not going anywhere”

80. “are you sure, once we start I might not be able to stop”

81. “behave”

82. “Tell me what you want”

83. “I cant keep kissing strangers and pretending they're you” 64 - “why don’t you come over here and make me,”

84. “tell me again”

85. “Don’t ruin the sofa”

86. “Prove it”

87. “If you keep dancing like that I’m going to cum in my pants”

88. “Stop distracting me”

89. “Did you just look me up and down and bite your lip?”

90. “Are you sure that’s what you want, I could hurt you”

91. “What happens if I do this”

92. “Why don’t you put something pretty on for me”

93. “It was you this whole time”

94. “Is that a tattoo”

95. “I wonder what your boyfriend/girlfriend would do if they knew what you were doing right now

96. “No im not letting you go, its too early to get out of bed”

97. “Can you stop playing connect the dots with my freckles?”

98. “poor baby, do you want me to take care of it for you?”

99. “You can pull my hair all you want”

100. “that tickles,”

101. “your duality scares me,”

102. “What do you have behind your back?”

103. “You snuck into my room to cuddle?”

104. “Hold my hand please”

105. “Wait we were supposed to bring presents?”

106. “I know all of your weaknesses, but this ones new”

107. “We could go together if you wanted”

108. “oh my god do that again”

109. “Do you even know how to load a dishwasher?”

110. “I have a surprise for you”

111. “you're so cute when you pout like that”

112. “we should get a puppy!”

113. “I never cried over a gift before, but there’s a first for everything”

114. “was I too rough”

115. “You’re the one I want, is that so hard to believe?”

116. “I like the way your hand fits in mine”

117. “Wait don’t pull away… not yet”

118. “I love you”

119. “You cant leave without letting me hug you”

120. "I probably wouldn't care if you died because then I would just summon Satan to bring you back to life; It's no biggie at all."

121. "Say you're not worth it one more time, I dare you. I will throw hands with you, I swear to Go-"

122. "You make me want to punch the sun just by looking at you-But like, in a sorta declaration-of-my-undying-love kinda way."

123. "Jesus christ, I- It's nothing, I just realized that I would legit eat my kidneys for you. I just love you so much."

124. "Oh god, if you only knew the things I'd do for you."

125. "Sometimes I feel like all the love you give is going to make me implode one day."

126. "You call the shots; I would walk into a volcano with you if you felt like it."

127. "Here's the thing; there's no way you're stronger than me. I guess you're just gonna hafta miss a couple hours of work and cuddle with me then."

128. "I will boop your nose as many times as I like, thank you very much!"

129. "'Aight wanna bet? I will phisically fight you for little spoon rights!"

130. "You're so cute! I just wanna hug you, and squeeze you, and love you and hold you until the end of time an- Oh sorry, it wasn't supposed to sound that creepy, I swear!"

131. "You know I would die for you, but for the love of all that is good in this godforesaken world; when I say 'bite me' during an argument it isn't and invitation to get horny."

132. "Don't be so gentle. You can hug me tighter y'know- I'm not going to pop or anything."

1 note · View note

qqueenofhades · 6 years

Note

What do you think is the likelihood that Richard II of England was queer?

Short answer: Possibly yes, but most likely asexual if anything.

Longer answer: Have some Thoughts on the ways in which we construct historical “queerness” and standards of proof (this also serves excellently as a post for Queer History Friday thank you very much) and emotional relationships vis a vis sexual ones, especially in the limited medium of medieval chronicles.

To start, Richard was only 10 years old when he became king (his father was the Black Prince, who died in 1376, and his grandfather was Edward III, who died in 1377) and he died when he was only 33 ( b.1367-d.1400), so he was quite young during all of this time. Even during the 1387-88 crisis with the Lords Appellant, which set the stage for the troubles that basically ended his reign, he was only 20 years old, so it’s pretty understandable that a young man would turn to wise older courtiers for experience and advice. This was especially the case because Richard had three powerful and full-grown uncles, led by John of Gaunt (whose son, Henry Bolingbroke, would later depose Richard and become Henry IV). They were definitely viewed as a possible threat to the throne (as was usually the case with primogeniture, when an underage son of an eldest brother got the heirs and honours and the other brothers missed out) and a regency council was quickly established in hopes of giving Richard a power base away from them. But the English people deeply mistrusted these councils/councillors, and that discontent led to the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381, the first major crisis of Richard’s reign (he was only 14). In the aftermath of that, there was continued shuffling around as to who had the effective reins of government and who had influence and so forth. So there was plenty of environment for an ambitious man to get close to the young king and influence/try to win his patronage and trust.

Richard was definitely known to have had male favorites, particularly Robert de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, and Michael de la Pole, his chancellor. The only actual imputation of his possible homosexuality with de Vere comes from the Chronica Maiora of Thomas Walsingham:

According to rumour, his [Richard]’s closeness to Lord Robert and his deep love and affection for him was not without some taint of an obscene relationship, and Lord Robert’s fellow nobles and barons spoke in whispers of their indignation that so mediocre a man should aim at so high an office, seeing that he had no nobility of birth or endowment of other virtues that might rank him above the others.

While Walsingham’s work is one of the major and indeed only sources we have for some events in mid-to-late 14th century England, he definitely had a few axes to grind (against John of Gaunt, Henry IV, and others, as well as to some degree Richard himself) and furthermore, all this proves is that jealous rivals of de Vere’s had no trouble suggesting that he and Richard must be having a sordid affair. This is very understandable given that Richard’s great-grandfather, Edward II, had also had male favorites (Piers Gaveston and Hugh Despenser the Younger) who he had extensively relied upon and given honors seemingly above their station (and as I have discussed in some other posts, 14th-century England was ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED with class/station. It was the be-all and end-all of their lives, including dictating how they were allowed to behave and what clothes they were allowed to wear; the heretical/religious reformer group, the Lollards, and their leader, John Wycliffe, mocked this with their famous couplet “When Adam delved and Eve span/Who then was the gentleman?”) Furthermore, Edward II was absolutely having affairs with Gaveston and then Despenser, and he had been forced to abdicate (as indeed Richard II was later deposed) and this memory was definitely the first thing that would come to mind for the question of whether a 14th-century English king was once more too dependent on and attached to male favorites.

Jean Froissart, a French chronicler, describes Michael de la Pole in his Tales as a sort of Iago/Wormtongue figure giving Richard bad advice, but doesn’t seem to think there was anything scandalous about their relationship per se:

But in one night, Michael de la Pole, earl of Suffolk who at that time was the heart and sole council of the king, and in whom he placed his whole confidence, undid the whole business. I know not what his intentions were for so doing; but I heard afterwards, he should say to the king, “At, ah, my lord, what are you thinking of? You intend then to follow the plan your uncles have devised. Know, that if you do so; you will never return, for the duke of Lancaster wishes for nothing more earnestly than your death, that he may be king. How could he dare advise your entering such a country in the winter? […] Take care of your own person, you are young and promising; and there are those who profess much, but who little love you.“ (ch. 173).

As noted, Froissart was French, therefore not intimately familiar with the inner workings of the English court, and the takeaway here seems to be that de la Pole, supposedly warning Richard against the treachery of his powerful uncles, steers him into a military disaster instead. He describes de la Pole as “the heart and sole council of the king” but again, doesn’t feel the need to intimate anything else. (Which, although the French got along fairly well with Richard II after the endless wars of Edward III, Froissart would probably do if that was there for the bad habits of an English king to be remarked upon.) Furthermore, both de Vere and de la Pole were definitely into women: de Vere caused a scandal by divorcing his wife, Richard’s cousin, and marrying one of the queen’s bedchamber attendants instead (so yes, powerful people have always had affairs with the nanny, apparently) and de la Pole had eight children with his wife. As we like to remind folks around these parts, Bisexuality Exists, so obviously, both of them having affairs/fruitful marriages with women would not necessarily preclude some kind of strategic sexual liasion with Richard, especially if questions of power or career advancement were involved. But given that the only source on this is the hostile hearsay passed along by Walsingham, aka that de Vere’s enemies were happy to accuse him of deviant sexual behavior with the king in the model of Edward II’s scandals, I am less inclined to think so.

Furthermore, Richard’s relationships with both of his wives were emotionally close and loving. His first wife, Anne of Bohemia, married him in 1382, when they were both about 15. They quickly became devoted to each other and she was known for her influence on him. What is now known as the Crown of Princess Blanche may have been made for her, and she appears alongside Richard in the Liber Regalis, a book possibly made for her coronation service and which still mostly functions as the order of service for major royal ceremonies. Anne’s death in 1394, probably from plague, absolutely devastated Richard, to the point he ordered the manor where she had died torn down. The Historia Vitae et Regni Ricardi II notes this and memorialises her warmly:

Hoc anno, die 7 mensis Junii, die viz. festo Pentecostes, apud Shen Anna, Regina Angliae, diem suum clausit extremum. Propter quod Rex, ejus mortem dolendo, illud nobile regiumque Manorium solo prosterni fecit. […] Sepulta est cum maxima solennitate in Ecclesia Westmonasterio, in die Sanctae Annae sequente, cujus festum ut Ecclesia Anglicana solennius celebraretur ista Regina et Domino Papa impetravit. (p.126)

I can’t be arsed to do a full word-for-word translation, but the sense of the passage is that Anne died on the 7th of June, near Pentecost, and that Richard in his grief ordered the manor where she died to be destroyed. She was buried at Westminster with full solemnity and feasts and commemoration from the English church, and from the Pope. The chronicler goes on to praise her kindness and her piety, as Anne came from Bohemia and was not popular at first because Foreign, but had won over the people with her charity and mercy. We see this also in Richard Maidstone’s Concordia, a verse epic detailing Richard II’s reconciliation with the citizens of London in 1392, in which Anne’s intervention was pivotal. Multiple passages are devoted to praising Anne’s beauty, her love for Richard and vice versa, and her moderating effect on him:

The queen is able to deflect the king’s firm rule, So he will show a gentle face to his own folk.A woman soothes a man by love: God gave him her. O gentle Anne, let your sweet love be aimed at this!(line 227-230)

A queen can, for her people, speak the words that please - None but a woman can do what no man would dare.When fearful Hesther stood before King Assuer’s throne, She brought to naught the edicts that the king hadpassed.For this, no doubt, almighty God gave you to be A partner in this reign, a Hesther for the realm.(439-444)

At his command she stands. “What, Anna, do you seek?” He asks. “Just speak, and your desires will bemet.”“Sweet king of mine,” she said, “my man, my strength, my life! Sweet love, without whom life to me would be likedeath! (465-468)

Therefore, Richard and Anne’s devotion to each other can barely be questioned, but nonetheless, they had no children. (They are now buried jointly in Westminster, and Richard had ordered their effigies to be carved holding hands.) Jeffrey Hamilton suggests (p.190) that the marriage may not have been consummated (though I’m not sure on what evidential grounds, and unfortunately a page is missing in the e-version so I can’t get his full argument). (See my followup discussion of the deep unlikeliness of a fully chaste marriage here.) Furthermore, when Richard did remarry in 1396, it was to the seven-year-old daughter of Charles VI of France, Isabella of Valois, in an attempt to make a peace treaty. The youth of the bride was brought up as a potential stumbling block in negotiations, but Richard essentially replied that he was fine waiting (he himself was still only 29) and that wasn’t a problem. He then proceeded to befriend the seven-year-old girl, visit her often at Windsor, make funny conversation with her, and otherwise be genuinely decent to a young girl in a foreign country, and he’s not recorded as having any mistresses or illegitimate children that we know of. So even if he was married to a young girl, he a) treated her respectfully and kindly and like a friend, and b) apparently didn’t have the need to go elsewhere for sex. For her part, Isabella adored Richard, so much that she flatly refused a remarriage, after being widowed at the age of 10, to Henry V, son of Richard’s usurper Henry IV. It’s fair to say that she probably wouldn’t have if he mistreated her.

So as ever, this has gotten long, but yes. This is why I am inclined to suggest that if anything, Richard II was probably ace. He had close and loving emotional relationships with both men and women (and as I’ve also discussed a bit, emotional/romantic male friendship was a thing in the medieval era, especially as related to knights and chivalry, in a way that would be considered homoerotic today). However, his political difficulties and probable personality disorder ended up getting him deposed, and he didn’t have any children even though he and Anne loved each other very much and were married for 12 years. He was also fine marrying a young girl for political reasons, but was not very interested in/fine with waiting for any possible sex, and instead actually treated said child well and kindly. The accusations (and as ever, it is “accusations”) of homosexuality come from hearsay hostile sources, and Walsingham is, as far as I know, the only chronicler to suggest it (in comparison to the numerous pieces of chronicle evidence in many different places that discuss the queerness of Richard I). Which as I said above, makes sense given that Edward II had been brought down by reliance on (sexual) male favorites, and it was an easily available paradigm to critique the resented influence of Richard II’s male favorites.

In terms of “Probably Asexual/Ace-spec Historical Figures,” moreover, there is almost no way to prove it, since the underlying assumption (as @extasiswings and I were chatting about) is that all people must be having sex with someone, and the “default” for this sexual expression is het/straight sex. Richard II was by all appearances biromantic, and emotionally close to members of both genders, but it is less clear if that translates to sexual relations with either.

#history #medieval history #queer history #queer history friday #richard ii #whysogrimm #ask

44 notes · View notes

tellmevarric · 7 years

Text

(We Ourselves Must) Walk The Path

Welp, the 15th is nearly over here so I might as well post there! This is my fic for @macpye for the @dailyspiritassassin Dailyspiritassassin Summer 2017 Spiritassassin fanworks exchange over on tumblr!

This is a post Rogue One Everyone Lives AU that takes bits and pieces from Guardians of the Whills. Also, the Force probably doesn’t work this way but what the hell, until they explain it in universe, we can make up whatever we want.

Baze has always walked a rocky, jagged path. Now, in the wake of Scarif, his path turns in a direction that is both new and old.

I hope you enjoy it, @macpye. This fic can also be found over at AO3.

It was the sounds and smells particular to a medbay that convinced Chirrut that he was actually alive. He’d been awake for several minutes and had felt confused and uncertain, sure that he’d died on Scarif. He knew he’d been badly wounded, that had been obvious not only in the physical pain he’d been feeling but also in the anguish and grief in Baze’s voice. When he’d felt his consciousness fleeing, he’d surrendered to it willingly, trusting himself to the Force and content in the knowledge that, in the final words he’d heard from Baze, his husband had found his way back to the Force. He hadn’t needed any words of love to be content. Baze’s love was the one absolute, unshakable constant in his life. No, it had been the knowledge that Baze had found his way back to the Force that had been enough for him.

But he was, without a doubt, alive. His surroundings were far too mundane to be anything else. It seemed that the Force was not done with him just yet. He drew in a breath and shifted slightly then heard a small gasp from beside his bed.

“Jyn?” he ventured. The timbre of the gasp had been too high to be Bodhi or Cassian and he would know Baze anywhere. As there was nothing mechanical about the gasp to suggest it was K-2SO being sarcastic and obvious, that left only Jyn.

“Yes, it’s me,” Jyn replied and he felt her take his hand. He tightened his grip around hers as much as he could. He hadn’t felt this weak since the aftermath of the sickness that had robbed him of his sight.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Yavin IV,” Jyn replied. “We… we all made it but…”

Chirrut drew in a small breath. No, it couldn’t be. He would know if the worst had happened. He asked anyway. “Baze?”

“He… he’s badly hurt,” Jyn said. “He’s still in the bacta tank.”

Chirrut clenched his jaw but he was grateful that Jyn had not tried to sugar coat her answer. Many did, thinking that because he was blind, he needed to be coddled. He always disliked that. He drew in a deep breath then let it out slowly, calming himself.

“Baze will be fine,” he said with a confidence he mostly believed. “The stubborn old bantha is too contrary to die just because everyone thinks he may.” Jyn gave a soft laugh and he smiled faintly at her. “And the others?” he asked.

“Cassian’s going to be fine,” she said. “He fractured his pelvis and femur and cracked his skull when he fell but he’ll heal. Though they say he may have headaches for a while. Bodhi…” She broke off for a moment and gulped. “Bodhi lost the lower part of his arm and they’re not sure if his hearing will recover.” She managed a shaky laugh then. “I still don’t know how the two of them got us off the planet. They barely had one whole person between them.”

“And K-2SO?”

Jyn was silent for a moment. “He… he died making sure Cassian and I could get the information about the Death Star. But Cassian’s been muttering something about a backup when he’s conscious so he may not be quite as dead as we think.”

Chirrut nodded then he squeezed her hand slightly. “And you, little sister?”

He could hear the smile in her voice when she answered. “I’m fine. I… got off the lightest. They’d have discharged me already but I think they know I wouldn’t leave.”

Chirrut finally asked the question that would make all of this worthwhile if he got the right answer. “And did we succeed?”

“Yes.” Now he could hear the joy and wonder in her voice. “And the Rebellion destroyed the Death Star. I’m surprised the celebrations didn’t wake you up earlier. It was a little noisy.”

He chuckled. “Baze would tell you that I sleep very firmly once I do manage to get to sleep. He’s the light sleeper.”

Silence fell then and Chirrut could feel the uncertainty and hesitation coming from Jyn. He suspected he could find out more if he reached for the Force but he was weak and tired and he knew trying would sap him of whatever strength he possessed in this moment. He would have to be more direct.

“What troubles you, little sister?”

Jyn sighed heavily. “I… I don’t know what happens now.”

“We heal,” Chirrut said. “We recover and we rejoice that we are all alive. We mourn those who died. What comes after that… can wait.”

Jyn was silent for a moment then he heard a little huff of laughter from her. “I guess you’re right. I’m not always good at patience.”

“Neither am I,” Chirrut said in a conspiratorial manner.

“Really?” Jyn said, a little sceptically.

“I learned patience,” Chirrut replied, grinning. “With Baze, it is a necessity and since I wished to have Baze, I learned to be patient.”

Jyn giggled and Chirrut felt pleased with himself that he’d taken her mind away from the futile worrying she was doing. It was understandable that she would be fretting about the future but it didn’t help. Another lesson he’d learned the hard way.

He turned the conversation to more mundane matters. “My staff?”

“It’s beside your bed, leaning against the table,” Jyn replied promptly. “Your lightbow and Baze’s repeater cannon have been stored in the armoury. Some of your clothes were beyond salvaging but there’s a small group of Jedhans here in the Alliance and they organised for new ones to be made. Um, and…”

She paused then and there something about her hesitation that had Chirrut cocking his head curiously. “And?” he prompted.

“I, well, I’m assuming that what you wore is…?” she trailed off, as if unsure how to finish the question.

“They are the robes of a Guardian of the Whills,” he said then chuckled. “More or less. I did have to replace things as best as I could as they wore out over the years.”

“Okay,” Jyn said. “So… they have new robes for you and… for Baze. One of the Jedhans recognised him as a Guardian as well. Said they’d seen him at the Temple.”

An impish smile appeared on Chirrut’s face as he contemplated his husband’s reaction to that. Baze would wear them, Chirrut knew, he would never spit in the face of such generosity, especially from fellow Jedhans who clearly held some respect and honour for their order. But Baze had not worn the robes of a Guardian since his had worn out after the fall of the Temple. Chirrut had mended and repaired his as best as he could, Baze had simply replaced them with something he felt was more fitting since he had stated more than once that he was no longer a Guardian.

But Baze had found his way back to the Force on Scarif and Chirrut knew that it had not simply been empty words meant to appease him in what had appeared to be his final moments. Baze had found his balance again. Chirrut had felt it, had nearly wept for it, had rejoiced before he’d lost touch with the world. He wished it hadn’t taken such extremes for Baze to find his way back to the Force but it had taken an extreme to destroy his balance and his faith so perhaps there was some serendipity in it.

“It will be fine, Jyn,” was all he said.

“If you say so.”

Chirrut laughed at Jyn’s dubious tone then he surprised himself by yawning widely. That got a laugh from Jyn and she squeezed his hand.

“Get some rest. There’s plenty of time for whatever nefarious thing you’re thinking about Baze.”

Chirrut wanted to protest that he wasn’t thinking about anything nefarious at all but instead sleep claimed him with far more ease than it usually did.

******

Chirrut spent much of the next few days asleep, his body demanding the slumber as it continued to heal. Despite that, he’d spoken to Cassian and Bodhi over that time. Cassian sounding weary, a little lost and a touch grouchy due to pain and his forced immobility, while Bodhi had been half-deaf and high on whatever painkillers they’d given him, making narcotic induced plans for a prosthetic arm and hand to replace what had been lost. And he was awake when they brought Baze back in from the bacta tanks. In fact, he all but climbed out of bed, stopped only by Jyn’s hands on his shoulders and her quiet pleas that he not reinjure himself.

They did at least install Baze in the bed next to Chirrut’s and he fretted as he listened to the medics and droids talk amongst themselves. Finally one of the medics came over to stand next to Chirrut’s bed.

“Master Imwe, your friend…”

“Husband,” Chirrut snapped, ignoring the startled gasp from Jyn for the moment.

The medic was silent for a moment and when she continued, her voice was warmer and softer. “Forgive me, Master Imwe. We didn’t know. Your husband was severely injured. It appears he took the brunt of a grenade blast. Apart from the external and internal injuries he suffered, we thought he may lose a leg and part of an arm but he’s responded well to the bacta and that danger is past. There may still be some impairment of the arm or leg but we won’t know to what extent until he wakes up.”

Chirrut drew in a shaking breath and clenched his hands tightly until he felt Jyn pluck at one clenched fist. He relaxed then and let her take his hand, holding tightly to keep his anxious worry in check. He had never liked seeing Baze hurt. It seemed wrong somehow, that a man who was, at heart, so kind and gentle, should be hurt. From a selfish point of view, it made him feel lost when Baze was unconscious or ill. They gravitated around each other’s orbits too much for either of them not to feel lost and unsettled when the other wasn’t there, whether that was physically or otherwise.

“When will he wake?” he asked, surprised that he was able to keep his voice so calm, though he suspected he was not fooling either woman at his bedside.

“Soon,” the medic said. “We don’t want to rush the natural healing process. We expect it may be today but he will wake when he is ready.”

Chirrut swallowed. “Thank you.”

The medic patted the side of the bed and then he heard her walk away. Jyn cleared her throat and he turned towards her.

“He looks… fine,” she said a little awkwardly. “What I can see anyway. There are some scars but he’s… fine.”

She paused again and there was a trembling in that hesitation that made him frown.

“What is it?”

“Um… they cut his hair. Shaved his head down to about your length or maybe a bit shorter actually.”

Chirrut sucked in a breath. “No,” he whispered.

“I can see why they had to,” Jyn said hurriedly, sounding confused by his reaction. “There’s a big scar on the left side of his head. Though, it can’t have been from a serious head injury or the medic would have mentioned it. But it’s long and messy. Maybe he was clipped by some shrapnel?”

Chirrut swallowed around the lump in his throat. Baze’s hair was often a mess, yes, but there had never been enough water on Jedha after the Empire came to make cleanliness a priority. They’d both hated it after their years at the Temple but it was what it was. Scarce potable water was for drinking, not to be wasted. But they’d kept Baze’s hair as neat as possible and Chirrut had always loved running his hands through it, first to work out the tangles and knots then once that was done, just to feel it flow through and curl around his fingers. Baze had always indulged him, leaning back into his touch and almost purring as he relaxed. And the braids… Baze had left his family to come to the Temple when he was young but he remembered the marriage braids his mothers had worn and had mimicked them as best as he could remember after they’d pledged themselves to each other.

It was foolish to mourn something that was done as a necessity but it didn’t stop the lump from forming in Chirrut’s throat.

“Chirrut?”

Jyn sounded worried and Chirrut managed a wan smile. “It’s alright, little sister. I have just always been very fond of Baze’s hair.”

“Uhuh.” Jyn was clearly sceptical about his explanation but she didn’t press the subject.

“How are Cassian and Bodhi today?” he asked, firmly changing the subject.

They weren’t often all awake at the same time, usually only two of them, and while they had spoken, they were each disinclined to share their medical states. Jyn, on the other hand, thought they were all idiots and made sure they were all reassured about each other. For Chirrut’s part, he was less inclined to hide his condition as he was to ensure Jyn had something to do that made her feel useful. She did not strike him as someone who liked to sit idle.

Jyn was silent for a moment then she relented. “They’re going to release Cassian tomorrow as long he agrees to use the crutches they’re going to give him.” She snickered. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he does. And Bodhi will be here for a while. They are going to start weaning him off the narcotics from tomorrow so that they can move forward with preparing him for a prosthetic.”

“His hearing?” Chirrut asked. “It seemed good when I spoke to him yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Jyn said, sounding a little happier. “He still gets bouts of tinnitus but they’re fading and he seems to have gotten lucky there.”

“Has he explained what happened?” Chirrut asked curiously. “He’s not precisely been in a state when I’ve spoken to him.”

Jyn laughed this time. “He told Cassian the other night, though Cassian isn’t sure what to make of it and thinks half of it might be due to the narcotics. He suggested waiting until Bodhi’s a little more coherent.”

Chirrut chuckled but his head turned almost inexorably towards Baze. He wished they’d moved the beds closer or that they’d let him get up. He wanted… needed… to touch Baze, to feel him, warm and alive, under his hands.

“He’s okay, Chirrut,” Jyn said softly. “Though… he looks odd without his hair.”

Chirrut smiled a little. “His ears stick out. He’s always hated that.”

Jyn laughed. “How long have you known each other? And… you’re married?”

Chirrut’s smile widened into something more genuine, soft and fond and delighted. “We’ve known each other since we were children. And he said since no one else would have me, he might as well keep me.”

That drew a giggle out of Jyn and he let himself relax just a little. Jyn would tell him if anything changed with Baze, he was sure of it.

“He was sent to the Temple as a child,” he said quietly, almost contemplatively. “His mothers wanted him to get the best education possible. He’s so intelligent, Jyn. You have no idea how good a scholar he was. He was the pride of the Temple.”

“He was?” Jyn said and from the noises of her moving and the way her weight settled on the bed, she was leaning forward to listen comfortably.

“He was.”

“And you?”

Chirrut laughed. “I was the obnoxious street urchin that was dragged in by Master La’a because he sensed my Force sensitivity and thought there were better uses for it than swindling gullible tourists.”

“Somehow that’s much easier to see,” Jyn said dryly. “You could see then?”

“Yes,” Chirrut said. “I didn’t lose my sight until my late teens. A disease that tore a terrible swathe through NiJedha. It took a huge toll at the Temple because we did not close our doors to those in need. It killed the elderly and very young and of those who were healthy and hale, well, you either recovered in full or… it took something from you. Something permanent. We both came down with it. Baze recovered. The disease took my sight.”

“He must have hated that.”

Chirrut nodded. “He did. Foolish old bantha. He blamed himself. Felt that somehow he did something that allowed him to recover and robbed me of my sight.”

“Why?” Jyn asked, sounding baffled.

“Because he’s Baze,” Chirrut said simply. “It’s… just how he is.” He laughed softly. “Oh, I was terrible to him in the aftermath. I was convinced he was just staying with me out of pity and I wanted none of that. And Baze was never good at articulating his feelings unless he was pushed. We argued.” He laughed again, though this one had less humour and more pain. “Or rather, I spat horrible words at him, trying to hurt him and make him leave first because he hated me rather than end up abandoning me because I was useless and crippled.”

Jyn sucked in a breath. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did.” Chirrut sighed. “And he just stood there silently and took it all until I finally ran out of words. Then he took the staff from my hands and pulled me into his arms, told me he loved me and kissed me.”

That startled a laugh out of Jyn. “He did? Really?”

Chirrut smiled. “He did. He’s very romantic really. He also said some things about pity being no part of how he felt and that he’d felt like that for a while and he’d been terrified that I was going to die and he’d take me however I was.”

“He doesn’t seem like the type,” Jyn mused.

“I know.” Chirrut let himself look smugly pleased. “That’s why he’s mine. Because I looked past the exterior to the beauty that was inside as well as outside.” He closed his eyes. “And he is beautiful, Jyn. So very beautiful.”

“I feel almost jealous,” Jyn said, an edge of wistfulness about her voice. “I think my parents were like that.”

Chirrut raised an eyebrow. “You think you will not find the same?”

Jyn made a self-deprecating sound. “I tend to scare people off, Chirrut, or annoy them so much they give up on me. I’ve been told I’m prickly.”

“You are confident,” Chirrut countered. “And firm in your opinions.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it,” Jyn said.

Chirrut chuckled. “Trust me, little sister. When the right person comes along, they will love you because of your flaws, not in spite of them.”

Jyn laughed softly then sighed. “I like that idea.”

They were silent for a moment then Chirrut felt sleep creeping up on him again. He wanted to fight it, to stay alert in case Baze woke up, but he was helpless to fight it as he had been since he’d woken up. His body’s demands were not to be ignored as he healed, it seemed.

******

Baze woke slowly, almost reluctantly, aware that he had been hurt but momentarily unable to remember why or how. It was only when he opened his eyes and saw the professional medbay he was in that it all came flooding back – Scarif, Chirrut, the explosion. He would admit to being surprised that he was actually still alive but the moment his memories returned, only one thing was important to him – Chirrut.

He moved to sit up and immediately bit back a curse as his body told him quite forcibly how bad an idea that was. He looked around the room then he saw who was in the bed next to his. Chirrut was fast asleep and doing so in something as close to his usual boneless sprawl as he could manage in the narrow bed. His world righted itself and he let out a gusty sigh. Chirrut was alive. Everything else could be dealt with.

It was just as well he had that thought in mind when he became aware of the coldness of his head and the lack of the familiar weight of his tangle of hair. He raised his hand and ran it over his head, wincing as he realised his hair had been shaved. His fingers found the long, jagged, meandering wound that ran from behind his left ear up to just past the crown of his head. He sucked in a hissing breath as he realised how close he’d come to having his skull cut open by whatever had hit him. He did vaguely remember something hitting his head but he’d blacked out shortly afterwards, no doubt because of that blow.

“Baze?”

He looked around and saw Cassian levering himself awkwardly out of a bed across the other side of the room. The Captain grabbed a pair of crutches that were leaning beside his bed and limped over to Baze’s bed, lowering himself gingerly into the chair that sat between his bed and Chirrut’s.

“We’re alive,” Baze said. It was more of a statement than a question.

Cassian nodded. “We all made it.” He flinched and grimaced, swallowing hard before continuing. “Except Kay but… I can fix that.” He waved that away with a sharp gesture then shook his head. “Bodhi. It was Bodhi who did it. I don’t know how. He was… pretty badly hurt. Got you and Chirrut on board somehow then picked up me and Jyn. We got off planet in the nick of time.” He shook his head again, his eyes distant as though he was reliving the memories. “It was chaos up there. The Rebellion had done some serious damage to the Imperial fleet stationed at the planet but there was… there was a star destroyer there. No idea where that came from. We didn’t stick around to find out.”

Baze listened to Cassian without comment. The man was clearly still a little rattled by what had happened but his summary was concise enough. “Bodhi?”

Cassian’s lips thinned and turned down. “He’s… lost his left arm from the elbow down. They were worried about his hearing but that seems to be coming good.”

“You? Jyn?”

Cassian shrugged. “Fractures of the pelvis and femur. Bacta can’t do much for that. Just time and…” He waved an annoyed hand at the crutches. “Those. And rest.” His expression was so sour that Baze barked out a brief laugh. Cassian shot him an irritated glare then he sighed and smiled wryly. “Jyn’s fine. Some bad bruising and a few torn muscles. She was the lucky one.”

Now Baze arrived at the subject he’d been slightly avoiding. “Chirrut? And me?”

“Chirrut’s going to be fine,” Cassian replied. “He’s been in the bacta tank. Now he just needs to heal. But he’s fine. As for you…” He hesitated. “I should get a medic.”

“Just tell me,” Baze said dryly.

Cassian stared at him for a moment then sighed in resignation. “Fine. You nearly lost your left leg and part of your left arm but you responded well to the bacta, according to the medic. There may be some impairment though. You had a lot of internal injuries and…” He gestured towards Baze’s head. “Well, your head. It didn’t look good on the shuttle, there was blood everywhere, but the medics said it must have been a glancing blow.” He paused again and when he continued, his tone was a touch hesitant. “Chirrut seemed… upset that they’d shaved your head.”

Baze grunted at the news about the possible impairment. He’d noticed the leaden sensation in both arm and leg when he’d woken and had refrained from moving them too much. He’d have to try a bit later, see what sort of pain and impairment might exist right now. He wasn’t concerned with the prognosis. He’d manage. He always did. But Cassian’s mention of Chirrut’s reaction to the loss of his hair made him chuckle.

“He’s always been fond of my hair,” he said, allowing his amusement to show in order to reassure Cassian. He knew precisely why Chirrut was upset and he would confess to some regret himself at the loss of the marriage braids. “It will grow back.”

“Has it always been long?” Cassian asked curiously.

Baze shook his head slightly and levered himself into a slightly more upright position, grunting with satisfaction when his injured arm didn’t complain too much about that.

“All new acolytes had their heads shaved when they first joined the Temple,” he said. “But we were allowed to grow it out after we passed our third duan.” He smiled slightly. “But we were only allowed to keep it long if we could prove that it wasn’t a liability in battle.”

Cassian nodded. “Makes sense.”

“Chirrut wore his hair long back then,” Baze said, his voice a low rumble. He smiled faintly at Cassian’s look of surprise. “He was always the best of us. Quick, agile, highly skilled. He arrived at the Temple later than I did and caught up to me with ease.” He laughed. “At least when it came to zama-shiwo. He was not a particularly diligent student unless the subject interested him.”

“Why did he cut it?” Cassian asked as he shifted in his seat, looking for a more comfortable position.

Baze was silent for a moment. “He went blind. Then, in his mind, his hair became a liability.”

“You don’t think so?”

Baze shrugged. “It was not my decision to make. It was something he felt he needed to do.” He smiled a little. “I miss his hair. It was beautiful. But I would not have tried to convince him otherwise. If it was what he needed to help him recover then so be it. And he did have a point.”

Suddenly from behind Cassian came Chirrut’s sleep-blurred voice. “Baze?”

“I’m here.”

Cassian gave a strangled cry and scrambled backwards out of the way as best as he could even as he reached out to try and steady Chirrut as the blind man all but launched himself out of his bed and across the space between the two beds to land awkwardly half on/half off Baze’s bed. Baze seemed unsurprised by the reckless action and just helped Chirrut settle himself more comfortably under the blankets, curled around him.

“Baaaze,” Chirrut said happily, patting Baze’s chest and burrowing his face into the crook of his neck and breathing deeply.

Baze chuckled fondly and ran his hand over Chirrut’s hair. “Did you hurt anything doing that, you fool?”

Chirrut made a negative sounding noise. “Your fool,” he said, still sounding smug and happy.

“Did you hurt anything when he did that?” Cassian asked Baze, one eyebrow up though he was clearly amused by Chirrut’s behaviour.

“No,” Baze said. “Nothing hurts more than it did beforehand.” He sighed and wrapped his arms around Chirrut, lines of strain on his face easing as he did so. “This is better.”

Cassian smiled and levered himself to his feet. “I’m going back to bed then.”

“Sleep well,” Baze said then he turned his attention to Chirrut. “Are you well?”

“Better now,” Chirrut hummed then he reached up and brushed his hand along Baze’s face and over to his ear and hair. “They shaved your head,” he lamented.

Baze grabbed hold of Chirrut’s hand and kissed his palm. “It will grow back.”

Chirrut made a discontented noise and raised his head, his unspoken request obvious to Baze. He let go of Chirrut’s hand and curled his hand around the back of Chirrut’s head, guiding him in for a soft, chaste kiss. They both sighed at that and Chirrut settled down happily again. Baze closed his eyes and let himself drift slowly back to sleep, content to let whatever was to come arrive in its own time now that Chirrut was with him again.

******

Baze scowled at the clothes lying on his bed. He and Chirrut had finally been deemed well enough to be released from the medbay. They weren’t completely healed but whatever was left could be done without constant supervision and in the comfort of their own quarters. Now Baze just had to dress.

He should have known something was wrong when Chirrut turned that particular grin on him as the clothes were brought to them. He knew that grin and it always meant trouble. He’d been told that his jumpsuit had been a complete loss, having had to be cut off him when they brought him back to Yavin IV. He’d expected it to be replaced with another jumpsuit or perhaps a shirt and trousers like those Cassian and Bodhi wore. Instead, he’d been presented with… these.

He picked up the robes, perfect replicas of the ones he’d worn for years before the arrival of the Empire on Jedha and the subsequent fall of the Temple, and glared at them. They’d apparently been made and gifted to him by a group of Jedhans in the Rebellion who had been overjoyed to learn that two Guardians numbered among the survivors of Scarif. To refuse the robes, to refuse to wear them, would be beyond rude but that didn’t mean Baze felt comfortable about it.

“You have found your way back to the Force.”

Chirrut’s voice was quieter than normal, more contemplative than anything else. Baze sighed and turned to see his husband, resplendent in his own new robes, edging past the privacy curtain.

“Yes,” he finally admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I am a Guardian again.”

“Baze, my heart,” Chirrut said with a smile. “You’ve always been a Guardian. That you denied it, that you chose not to wear the robes or claim the title meant nothing.” He closed the gap between them and placed his hand over Baze’s heart. “You have always been a Guardian where it mattered the most – here.”

Baze closed his eyes and bowed his head, his heart heavy in his chest. He drew in a shuddering breath, unable to articulate what he wanted to say. “Chirrut…”

“Oh, Baze, my heart, my love.” Chirrut gave a helpless laugh. “Still doubting yourself, even now.”

Baze let Chirrut pull him into his arms and allowed himself the comfort his husband was offering. It was true that he had always had his doubts, dark thoughts running around in his mind, occasionally growing stronger but always kept in check by Chirrut’s relentless optimism. After the fall of the Temple, Chirrut had turned his despair and anger into renewed faith in the Force, Baze had let his anger and despair draw him away from it.

Lying in bed these past days, he’d felt it as he once had when he’d called himself a Guardian, the Force lingering on the edges of his perception. He knew if he meditated, he would be able to grasp it, albeit fleetingly, and listen to what it had to tell him. He didn’t have the same level of Force sensitivity as Chirrut but he had always been able to find his way there in the end, when he truly needed to.

He’d let himself forget that in his anger, his bitterness, his grief. He’d blamed the Force for… not warning them perhaps. For allowing the Temple to fall. For the deaths of the Disciples and Guardians. Foolish of him really. The Force didn’t work that way. The only one responsible for all of that was the Empire.

But there, on a beach on Scarif, so far away from what had once been his home, he’d found his way back to the Force. His fear for Chirrut, his grief and despair at what he’d thought was his husband’s imminent death, had not driven him away from the Force but instead had shown him the path back to it. And just before he’d lost consciousness after the blow to his head, he’d felt the comfort and peace of the Force once more.

Now, in the robes still lying on his bed, was another path. This one back to something that had once been his life, that had given him pride and joy and a sense of purpose, that had given him Chirrut and all the love, wonder and joyous frustration the man brought with him. This time, as always, the path was his to choose. He could turn away and have the Force direct him back again and again… or he could accept it. He smiled faintly, knowing, as he had back when he took his vows as an acolyte, before he’d passed even his first duan, that the acceptance wasn’t giving in or being defeated, it was peace and joy and honour and knowledge. It made his decision easy.

He gently pulled away from Chirrut and stripped off the white tunic and loose pants of a patient and slowly donned the robes of a Guardian. It felt oddly ceremonial, though there had been nothing beyond the ceremony of his vows back when he was a boy becoming an acolyte. He’d have laughed at his own fancy but the expression on Chirrut’s face told him that his husband felt the same thing lingering in the air around them.

When he was finally done and he settled the robes into place, he realised that he felt… whole for the first time in a very long time.

Chirrut’s hands came up and flitted over the front of his robes, twitching things unnecessarily into place. He then smiled. “Guardian Malbus.”

Baze considered those words. They still didn’t quite fit, feeling a bit like an old coat that needed letting out, but there was some comfort in them that he realised he had missed.

“Guardian Imwe,” he replied, letting his acceptance of this new-yet-old path be reflected in his voice.

Chirrut’s smile turned incandescent with delight. “We shall have to find you the makings of a new lightbow.”

Baze rumbled thoughtfully as they made their way towards the door. They were no longer limping – though the injury to Baze’s leg meant that his days of scrambling over rooftops were over – but they were moving slower than they normally did and Chirrut had tucked his free hand into the crook of Baze’s arm, a concession to both his physical state and Baze’s peace of mind. “I have some ideas how to improve it.”

He had refused to touch the lightbow he had carried out of the Temple when it fell. It had sat in the corner of their tiny room in NiJedha, gathering metaphorical dust. Not actual dust though. He might have rejected all that the lightbow stood for but Baze had been too well trained by the Temple to let a weapon gather dust and rust. He’d cleaned it every few months, making sure all its parts were in working order before putting it back in its corner. He remembered how his last blaster had overheated and been slagged and how Chirrut had quietly but pointedly reminded him that he had a replacement weapon. Thankfully, he’d found the repeater cannon shortly afterwards and avoided more pointed remarks and now, well, that lightbow had been lost along with the rest of NiJedha

Chirrut chuckled, his eyes shining with delight that Baze didn’t reject the idea of returning to the lightbow as he had so many times in the past. “With no Master La’a to flail his arms around and chide you for destroying a wall or a door?”

Baze’s laughter rang out as they walked down the corridor, making a few of the rebels they passed turn their heads curiously. “I’m not sure if I’ll miss that or not. Besides, I only destroyed a wall one time.”

“I will miss it,” Chirrut replied. “His voice always reached new and interesting octaves when he was chiding you, like he couldn’t believe his favourite student was being so rash. He always blamed me for leading you astray.”

“You did lead me astray,” Baze said mildly.

“You didn’t argue very much.”

Baze shrugged. “I didn’t mind being led astray.”

“Who’s being led astray?”

They both turned to find Cassian coming up behind them on his crutches, Jyn on one side and Bodhi on the other. Jyn had a faint expression of exasperation on her face that grew every time she looked over at Cassian, which Baze took to mean that the Captain was being stubborn. Bodhi had the stump of his left arm tucked tight against his side and he canted slightly in that direction, as though the loss had left him unbalanced and lopsided. Baze noticed that Cassian had planted himself on Bodhi’s left side and the young pilot eventually came to rest gently against the Rebel captain.

“Me,” Baze said.

“By me,” Chirrut added smugly. “Again.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Jyn said dryly. She then raised an eyebrow at Baze. “I see he got you into those.”

Baze smiled slightly. “I chose to wear them.”

Jyn arched an eyebrow. “Did you have a choice?”

“There is always a choice, little sister,” Baze replied.

“Did I miss something?” Bodhi said, looking between Jyn and the two Guardians.

Cassian’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Uh, Bodhi… Baze is wearing…”

“Guardian robes,” Bodhi said with a nod. “Yes, I know. But he’s a Guardian.”

They all looked at Bodhi strangely at that and he began to fidget until Cassian wrestled free of one of his crutches and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“What do you mean, Bodhi?” Chirrut asked, his voice gentle.

“Well, he… just… is,” Bodhi said, looking more and more like a startled rabbit as everyone stared at him.

“Huh,” Baze said contemplatively. “He’s Jedhan. How did the Masters miss him?”

Chirrut snorted. “The Masters were too busy looking inward in those final months, even years if we’re being honest. We would not have been caught so unprepared if they had listened more and looked less.”

“True,” Baze said with a resigned sigh.

“Did that make sense to anyone else?” Jyn asked, cocking an eyebrow at Cassian and Bodhi.

“No,” said Cassian while at the same time, Bodhi said, “Sort of?”

Chirrut began to smile as he glanced over at Baze. “Well? You were always the better teacher of the two of us.”

“Teach?” Cassian said suspiciously, his arm tightening around Bodhi’s shoulders. “Teach him what?”

“Bodhi is Force sensitive at the very least,” Chirrut said. “That’s why he knows that about Baze.”

“Me?” Bodhi squeaked, his eyes widening. “You mean… you want me to become a… a Guardian?”

Baze chuckled. “No, that decision is a long way off, little brother. But if Chirrut says you’re Force sensitive, then he is unlikely to be wrong. He very rarely was, back in the day.”

“You always knew as well,” Chirrut said, poking Baze in the side. “You were just never confident enough to tell the Masters. And the one time you disagreed with me, you were the one who was correct.”

Baze waved that away with the pretence of an irritated scowl. “It is your choice, Bodhi. Your path is always yours to choose.” He smiled ruefully. “However, from experience I can tell you, that if the Force wishes you to take this path, you will not be able to avoid it. You can fight it but it will just bring you back to the same point again and again until you get the message.”

Baze was surprised when it was Cassian who gave a startled jolt. The pilot stared him with a troubled expression then shook his head and turned his attention back to Bodhi, who was staring at the floor.

“Bodhi?” Cassian said worriedly.

The pilot’s face was a picture of apprehension and wistful hope when he looked up. “Could I really… be a Guardian?”

“There is little left to guard and precious few of us left,” Chirrut began.

“But it’s not lost,” Bodhi said and they were unsure if it was a question or a statement.

“No,” Baze said softly. “It is never lost while there are those who believe.” He snorted and nudged Chirrut. “Like this fool.”

Chirrut prodded him right back. “And you, you stubborn old bantha.”

Baze shrugged equably, willing to admit to it for the first time in years. “And me.”

“But… what about the Rebellion?” Bodhi asked. “They’re going to help me build a new arm and they said I might qualify for the X-Wing program and I… I want to stay. I want to help.”

“The two are not incompatible,” Baze replied.

“Then you two are willing to stay?” Cassian asked. “To help the Rebellion?”

Baze hesitated and Chirrut leaned against him. “It will not be like working for Saw Gerrera,” he said.

Cassian frowned. “Wait… you two worked for Gerrera?”

“Briefly,” Baze said. “He approached us and for a period of time our paths were… compatible. We did not part company on particularly amicable terms.”

“He did keep his part of the bargain,” Chirrut said. “At least until the end.”

“What bargain?” Cassian asked, frowning deeply.

“Food, medical supplies, whatever else he could spare for the orphans under our care,” Chirrut replied. “He was as generous as he could be with such things. We have no cause to complain about that.”

“And in return?”

“We aided him,” Baze said. “We knew the city better than many of his operatives and we had been fighting against the Empire in our own small way. Gerrera was pulling together many of the disparate rebels in the city. We were not the only ones he sought out.” He grumbled under his breath for a moment. “I suspected we would not last long allied with him. He was willing to use methods that we were not. It was only a matter of time.”

Cassian nodded slowly then his lips twitched in a small smile. “I imagine he found you two very frustrating.”

Chirrut laughed. “Oh, he did. And he didn’t much like me.”

“You unnerved him,” Baze said dryly. “You saw too much of him.”

Jyn nodded in understanding. “He wouldn’t have liked that.”

“Explains why he put a bag over your head anyway,” Cassian said with an edge of teasing in his voice that Baze thoroughly approved of. The Rebel captain was far too dour and he said that with full knowledge that it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Chirrut harrumphed but he was grinning far too broadly for anyone to believe he was put out. The others chuckled then Bodhi swallowed audibly.

“I… I’d like to do it.”

“Wonderful,” Chirrut said, then he turned his grin on Baze. “Do you still remember the lessons of the first duan, my love?”

Baze snorted. “I’m not that old, Chirrut. Besides, you were always better at zama-shiwo than I was.” He gave Bodhi a sharp look. “And with his build, you will be the better teacher for that.”

“Zama-what?” Bodhi said hesitantly.

“You saw the way Chirrut fights?” Baze said. “That.”

“Oh,” Bodhi said and while he sounded rather intimidated, there was a thread of interest and excitement in his voice as well. Baze was not surprised. Chirrut had been one of the finest fighters the Temple had ever produced.

“Think of it as both a useful skill and a form of meditation,” Baze said, reading Bodhi’s apprehension correctly. “When done correctly, zama-shiwo centres both the mind and the body.”

He caught Chirrut’s smile and audibly grumped at his husband. Chirrut just laughed in return and Baze shook his head. It still felt strange, talking about this, and even stranger to be thinking of actually teaching someone. The robes still felt just not quite right and there was an itch in the back of his mind that was urging him to rage against all that had happened.

But… overlying all of that was the sense of peace, of balance, he’d lost during the Imperial attack on the Temple, when he’d seen the dead and dying, when he’d realised the futility of fighting the faceless, remorseless Stormtroopers of the Empire. That terrible moment when he’d lost track of Chirrut and every body lying on the ground had suddenly looked like him.

It didn’t matter that the path he was walking now was still a little strange, still rocky and uncertain. It didn’t matter because it was the right path. He knew that because he felt at peace. The path would smooth out, would become familiar and certain. The robes would stop feeling like a stranger’s skin. It was ironic that it had taken such pain and suffering, such agony and fear to bring him back to the Force. Maybe he really was just the hard-headed, stubborn old bantha that Chirrut teased him about that needed such extremes to remind him of what was important.

He looked at Chirrut and then over at the three young people who had become their friends (family!) and he felt… content. It was something he hadn’t felt in a long time and he decided that whatever else was going to come their way in the future, he was ready for it.

#macpye #dailyspiritassassin #spiritassassin exchange #spiritassassin #baze malbus #chirrut imwe #fic #writing

27 notes · View notes

megabadbunny · 7 years

Text

Rose x Ten, post GitF-au/fixit; angst, fluff, romance, more angst, and possibly some smut later, but this part (and all parts on ff.net) is sfw (minor exception for brief language).

(full-size image)

Minuet, Part III

Stunned, Rose can’t summon the words to argue with him—Please don’t take me home, at least let me say goodbye to my friends first, please just talk to me, please—they all just drift around uselessly, unable to climb their way out of her throat. Silently, she follows after him.

***

The first thing Rose hears upon setting foot in the TARDIS is the sound of her own name, nearly lost amidst the full solid weight of Mickey barreling into her like a freight train.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it, I thought you’d never make it back!” Mickey half-laughs, half-shouts into her ear. His arms wind snugly around her, a pair of friendly boa constrictors squeezing her in happiness. Rose hugs him back just as tightly, barely managing to blink back tears; she didn’t expect to cry right now, but god, it just feels so comfortable and warm, and it’s been so long since anyone hugged her.

“The Doctor said all the links were severed when you when through the mirror,” Mickey continues. “He said it was impossible, he said—”

Suddenly Mickey steps back, his nose scrunched in confusion. “Hang on,” he says, holding Rose at arms’ length while he looks her up and down, eyes traveling over her coiffed hair, her heavy silken gown. “Wow. You look different.”

“Wow,” Rose teases. “You don’t.”

“Well, it’s only been a few hours for me—what about you?”

“About six months.”

Mickey’s face darkens, his eyes flickering over to the Doctor. “Six months?”

“Yep, looks like my calculations were a bit off,” the Doctor says, his voice tight as he breezes past them up the ramp. He rounds the console, tossing a switch here, a lever there. “Well, to be fair, it’s less to do with my calculations, more to do with an unstable time window—difficult to predict, those, especially when they’re in such a sad state of disrepair. But luckily for us,” he says, and his gaze very carefully avoids Rose at that last word, “there was a loose connection.”

The TARDIS shudders around them as it dematerializes, and Rose closes her eyes at the sound of the time rotor grinding, the still-familiar vworp-vworp noise and the soft and gentle buzz-hum underneath. She places a hand against a coral strut, relishing the sandpaper-roughness beneath her fingers, and this time she doesn’t fight the tear that trickles down her cheek. It’s as if a hole was gnawing away in her chest over the last half-year, no matter how she tried to ignore it, but now it’s filling in again. Good grief, but she’s missed these sounds, this place.

“So that’s that,” the Doctor says, as if it’s final, somehow. Rose opens her eyes to find him galloping down the ramp, striding out of the console room. “End of one chapter, beginning of another. Welcome back to the TARDIS!” the Doctor shouts over his shoulder.

And just like that, he’s gone.

“Huh,” says Mickey, watching the Doctor’s retreating form. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“I dunno. I guess I expected him to, like, run in here holding your hand and babbling about all your adventures or professing his eternal love or something.”

Rose laughs, and it’s only a little sarcastic. “Yeah, right. Me too.”

“I’m serious.” Mickey glances both ways before leaning in closer, his voice lower now, as if he fears being overheard. “He wasn’t half-mad while you were gone. He was downright manic. It was all sonic this and reverse the polarity that and maybe I’ll check some timey-wimey-whosie-whatsit and what if I could punch a hole in the local space-time continuum without compromising the fabric of reality and blah blah blah, just a bunch of muttering to himself while he ran around the TARDIS and pulled at his hair.”

Running a hand over his own hair, Mickey shudders. “It’s a wonder he didn’t yank it all out.”

“Yeah, well,” Rose replies, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Maintaining the timelines and all that’s sort of stressful, I guess.”

“It was almost scary, the look in his eyes,” Mickey continues, crossing his arms over his chest, protecting himself against the memory. “Like he was a wounded animal or something—you know how they get in the movies, like when they’re cornered, but they’ve got nothing to lose, nothing left in ‘em but the fight, and then everything goes to hell? It was just like that. He couldn’t see or hear anything in front of him, couldn’t think about anything that wasn’t you.”

Something sickly bubbles up in Rose’s stomach, weighing heavily at the pit of it, and she has a sinking suspicion it’s got nothing to do with the corset cinched around her waist. She can picture the Doctor just as Mickey described him, stalking about the console room, alternately muttering under his breath and shouting at the top of his lungs, his frame shaking with the effort to contain the desperate energy inside. She imagines the way his hands would fist in his hair and his mouth would contort in a grimace, his eyes scanning frantically over everything while his mind raced through nearly a thousand years’ worth of memories and facts and tricks and hints. Rose has seen it all before, when they’re trapped at the end of the line, no way out, the fate of a life or a town or a planet or a galaxy weighing on the Doctor’s shoulders.

(She has never seen him act this way because of her.)

“Anyway,” says Mickey, snapping out of his reverie, “Glad that’s done with. Bloody terrifying, that was. Not to mention exhausting. Feels like I haven’t slept in days.”

He punches Rose lightly in the arm. “What about you, though? How’ve you been? Six months, that’s impressive. Probably got a whole truckload of new stories to tell, yeah?”

Distantly, Rose hears everything coming out of Mickey’s mouth, but for some reason, she can’t seem to focus on it, much less discern any meaning. She can’t stop her gaze from wandering over to the corridor where the Doctor disappeared, twisting her hands together while her teeth sink into her lower lip.

“So, you gonna go after him, or what?”

Rose blinks. “Sorry?”

Mickey offers her a wistful grin. “You waited for him all that time, didn’t even know if he’d find you again—but you still love him, don’t you?”

Rose can’t find the words to reply, but really, she doesn’t need to; her silence seems to tell Mickey everything he needs to know.

“You know he’s not good enough for you, right?” Mickey chuckles. “You deserve better.”

Smiling, Rose wraps her arms around Mickey in a tight hug, pecking a kiss on his cheek afterward for good measure. “So do you.”

“Don’t I know it. Now run your arse over there so I can go get some sleep!”

Rose doesn’t try to find the Doctor straightaway. Instead, she takes her time, wandering through the halls of the TARDIS. She kicks off her heels and sighs in relief, delights in the coolness of the floor beneath her aching feet, one hand running along the wall as she walks. Its pebbly surface rasps against her fingertips until they’re pleasantly numb—she imagines it’s like a series of little kisses from the TARDIS, welcoming her back.

“Glad to have your wolf again, hmm?” she asks quietly, and maybe she’s just imagining things again, but she can almost feel the hum shifting in the back of her head, its pitch changing ever-so-briefly, like a little flash of golden happiness in her skull. Grinning, Rose pats the wall. “Missed you too,” she whispers.

She thinks of stopping by her room. This dress isn’t getting any more comfortable, after all, and a hot shower or relaxing bubble bath sounds absolutely divine. But that sick feeling still burbles in her stomach, and Rose knows that no amount of scalding water or fruity soaps will drive it away.

Rose could play dumb, if she wanted, checking the garden or the pool or the galley or any other room first, to buy herself some time, to rehearse her words in her head, but she knows exactly where the Doctor is, and she allows her feet to carry her there.

She finds him, of course, in the library.

Evidence strewn about the coffee table in front of the settee suggests that the Doctor must have been tinkering, books and papers and tools and sonic screwdriver all piled atop each other in a miniature mountainous landscape. Amidst everything else is a small globe of some sort—astrolabe is the word that comes to Rose’s mind, except that she doesn’t actually have a clue what an astrolabe is, or even how she heard of it in the first place—but it has been long-since abandoned, its mechanical guts spilled and forgotten. As for the Doctor, he leans back on the settee, his hands clenched over his face, pushing his specs up into his hair.

He doesn’t move when Rose steps into the room. She tries to remember the last time she was able to sneak up on him like this. She can’t.

Rose clears her throat and the Doctor snaps to, slipping his specs back down and reaching for the globe and the sonic as if he never let them go.

“Did you need something?” the Doctor asks. Rose can’t help but notice how tired he looks; she swears the lines around his eyes run deeper than they used to.

“Yeah,” she says. “I…”

She hesitates. Silently, she berates herself for her cowardice. Why can’t she just talk to him—why can’t she just say what’s on her mind? She’s never had this problem with anyone else, not ever, never had to stopper her words or tiptoe on a thousand invisible eggshell-thin rules the way she does around him. Squirming in her gown (god, but it’s absolutely murdering her ribcage), Rose casts about for the best words to open this discussion, because she absolutely is going to initiate this discussion, she’s not going to let him squirm away from her this time, she spent more than enough time putting up with pinching shoes and heavy underskirts and beyond-stupid 18th-century customs and she’s had enough of the bloody damn rules. She’s not going to let him close around her like a corset, cinching her closer and closer only to push her away when things get too tight; she’s going to put her foot down and they’re going to have a bloody talk because it’s ridiculous for them to keep brushing everything under the rug, and this dress is hot and scratchy, and he’s infuriating, and why didn’t she just go take her dress off before this, and wouldn’t it be so much better to have things out in the open instead?

Yes, she decides; yes, it would. Rose steels herself.

“I need help taking my dress off,” she blurts out.

The Doctor’s eyes raise a little in surprise, and Rose furiously fights the blush rising in her cheeks—of all possible things, why, why was that the one that popped out of her mouth?

“It’s just, back in France, there were people to help with this sort of thing,” she rushes, stumbling over her words. “And Mickey’s already gone to bed, and, you know, it sort of seems like a bad idea to show up on the Estate wearing something out of the 1700’s.”

“The Estate?” the Doctor asks, frowning.

“Yeah.” She swallows. “You said you were gonna take me home, remember?”

“Right,” says the Doctor, diverting his attention back to the instruments in his hands.

Rose waits for him to speak again, but he’s strangely quiet. “You are still planning to take me home, right?”

“Well.” The Doctor fiddles with the globe, tapping the sonic against it in a rat-a-tat-tat. “Certainly, yes, I did say that. And. And I meant it. That was indeed a valid threat. No, not a threat—a promise. I am absolutely, positively, definitely taking you home.”

He sneaks a glance up at her. “Unless. You know. You’re not ready to go home yet.”

Relief washing over her, Rose hides a smile. “I think I can wait a bit.”

“Good,” replies the Doctor just a little too quickly. When Rose can no longer hide her smile, he points an accusatory finger at her. “I did mean it, though,” he insists.

“Sure.”

“I am taking you home. Just not right this instant.”

“Got it.”

“It wasn’t a bluff.”

“’Course not.”

“Just…no reason to rush, right?”

Rose beams at him. “No reason at all.”

“Excellent.” The Doctor brushes some nonexistent dirt off his trousers before standing up from the settee, placing his instruments back down on the table. “Glad that’s sorted. So, I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early, then? Tomorrow and early being relative terms, of course.”

“Sure, but, erm…”

The Doctor watches her expectantly, and Rose’s cheeks grow warm beneath his gaze again. “I still need help,” she admits, gesturing over her shoulder, to the laces on the back of her dress.

Eyes following the line of her hand, the Doctor’s face goes blank. Rose thinks she can pinpoint the very moment realization dawns on him, his eyebrows arching once again in surprise.

“Right,” he says, shaking his head. “Yes, of course.” Wordlessly, he spins his finger in a circle, a silent suggestion that Rose should do the same. Rose turns away, forces herself not to twitch at the coolness of his hand on her neck as he brushes a tendril of hair out of the way.

They both fall quiet, the silence only interrupted by the soft sounds of silk and linen whispering against each other while the Doctor works, deftly untying knots and unlacing laces. But for all that his fingers are talented, the Doctor isn’t quite as adept at this as the women at court, and more than once, Rose’s breath hitches as the corset tightens before loosening.

Rose stifles a laugh. She’d be lying if she said she had never fantasized about this at least a little bit, the Doctor slowly peeling a gorgeous gown off her body, unwrapping her like a delectably rich gift. But between the pinch at her waist and the anxiety in her tummy and the ache in her ribs, this just might be one of the single unsexiest things she has ever experienced.

“So, what did you two get up to while I was away?” Rose asks—she tells herself it’s an attempt at playfulness, just a distraction, and not related in any way to what Mickey told her in the console room. (It’s certainly not a quiet way to test him, definitely not a subtle way to see how far she can push.)

The Doctor pulls a lace a little too tight and Rose bites her tongue to stop herself from grunting. “Not much,” the Doctor replies, and Rose could almost believe him. “We mostly just did a bit of research, poked around until I figured out how to get back to y—how to sort things out.”

“Yeah, Mickey said it was only a few hours here.”

“Yeah,” the Doctor echoes, but something about the way he says it is flat, empty.

His fingers still at her back. “Rose, I’m sorry.”

Rose shrugs, squirming in her half-done corset. “Eh, you’re doing your best. Eighteenth-century underwear’s a right bitch.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t come back sooner.”

Rose’s lips part in surprise. “Ah,” she says, softly.

The Doctor resumes his task, pulling at the laces once again. “It shouldn’t have taken me so long to figure it out, the loose connection in the fireplace,” he continues. “It’s ridiculous, really. I don’t know what came over me.”

At that, Mickey’s words resound in her ears. He wasn’t half-mad while you were gone.

“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again,” says the Doctor. “But still: I apologize. Six months is a long period for a human to be stranded anywhere, especially three hundred years out of their own time.”

“It was only five and a half months,” Rose mumbles halfheartedly.

“Still. I should have done better.”

“Eh,” says Rose. “It’s all right. I knew what I was getting into, crashing through that mirror. I mean, you were pretty explicit about what would happen.”

She drinks in a deep breath now that her ribcage has the room to expand. She can tell by the position of the Doctor’s hands at the small of her back that he’ll be done loosening the corset soon; she tells herself that if she’s going to talk to the Doctor, really properly talk to him, she needs to do it now, while neither of them can see the other’s face. She tells herself it will be easier that way, even if she can imagine exactly expression his eyes and mouth will make.

“I’m actually more upset about how you treated me afterward,” she admits, her pulse thundering at the confession.

The Doctor falls silent once again—doesn’t even emit an irritated sigh or let loose an explanatory bit of babble. He just works on pulling the last of the laces loose, his pace steady and never-changing. Lightheadedness suffuses Rose’s head, filling it like a dull fog, and she knows this time it’s got nothing to do with the corset.

“Look, I know you were just frustrated, and concerned about the timelines, and—and maybe a little worried about me, too,” Rose rushes. (A wounded animal, she remembers Mickey saying; Couldn’t see or hear anything in front of him.) God, she hopes the Doctor doesn’t notice the way the back of her neck flushes. “But you can talk to me about it, yeah? Just let me know those things are going through your head, instead of being all mean and angry at me.”

“I was never angry with you,” the Doctor murmurs.

Brow wrinkling in confusion, Rose glances over her shoulder. “What?”

At last, the gown and corset completely loosen around Rose, enough that she has to clutch her arms to herself to keep the garments from slumping to the floor. “All done,” says the Doctor, and Rose hears him step back, step away. “You’re good to go.”

Pulling together the last threads of her courage, Rose whirls around to face him.

“Doctor—”

He stops, hands shoved in pockets, mouth stretched thin. He waits.

“Just please tell me what’s going on,” Rose says, pushing the words out before she has a chance to overthink them.

Glancing around the room—at the books on the shelves, the other books scattered on the floor, the faded rugs and comfortable old afghans, the imitation Tiffany lamp (or a genuine Tiffany lamp, one never knows)—the Doctor plays for time. “I’m sorry I was so unpleasant to you earlier,” he tells her slowly. Carefully. “You’re right. It was unnecessary. I let my frustration get the better of me. And you didn’t deserve that. You…you only did what I would have done, after all.”

Shaking her head, Rose allows her corset and gown to fall to the floor, leaving her in nothing but a thin white shift. She steps out of the garments, toward him, watching him as he watches her. If the Doctor registers how bare she suddenly is, he doesn’t show it; somehow, despite being fully-clothed, despite the gates shuttering his face, he seems more naked than she does.

Rose approaches him slowly (gently, so she doesn’t scare him off). “Please.”

“What more could you possibly want from me?” the Doctor pleads tiredly.

“Doctor,” Rose breathes, her stocking-feet padding silently over the wood-paneled floor until they come to a stop opposite his plimsolls. She stands very close to him, now, close enough to count every single one of his eyelashes, chart a starfield out of his freckles.

(Rose wonders if Reinette noticed any of these things. Did she admire the shape of his mouth when he spoke excitedly of science and adventure and awe at the majesty of the universe and the turn of the earth—did she feel a warm glow in her chest when his eyes landed on her face, did she sense his double-heartsbeat when they drew close for a kiss?)

“When everything’s said and done, what do you think you’ll regret more?” Rose asks, her voice gone quiet and soft, and maybe just a little sad. “Everything you said and did—or everything you didn’t?”

The Doctor’s hands ball into fists in his pockets, and Rose fully expects him to turn and flee. But before Rose has a chance to react, his hands are no longer in his pockets—instead they’re cupping around her jaw, shocking her with their coolness as he draws her face upward for a harsh and bruising kiss.

A strange buzzing fills Rose’s head and her mind goes completely blank.

For a moment that stretches into eternity, she can’t hear anything but her pulse rushing and roaring in her ears, can’t feel anything but the cool pressure of the Doctor’s hands framing her face and the warmth of his breath on her lips. She stiffens, mouth parting in surprise as her brain races to catch up with everything that’s happening. She half-expects the Doctor to take advantage of the opening, invade her mouth with his tongue like any other bloke would do, pushing past the swell of her lower lip and tasting her like she’s a whole new world for him to explore, but he doesn’t; for all that the kiss is frantic and she can feel his teeth in it, it’s surprisingly chaste.

It’s still too much.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, by the Doctor’s closeness and the way he trembles as he clutches her, by the hormones fizzing up drunkenly in her head, raging a fierce battle with everything else crowding in there—the confusion, the hurt, the shock, and yes, the want, of course the want, the want that kept her going in France, kept her awake more nights on the TARDIS than she’d ever admit, the want that had burned so hot and so shamefully and so deep in her gut that it was easier to pretend it wasn’t there than to acknowledge its scorching existence, always the want—

(But the look on his face when he talked about Reinette, but the things she’d heard and seen back on that spaceship—)

Couldn’t think about anything that wasn’t you

—Rose shoves at the Doctor’s chest, pushing hard so she can break away with a ragged gasp. The Doctor staggers backward, panting a bit himself, his eyes blown as wide as Rose has ever seen them.

Chest heaving, Rose stammers incoherently, steadying herself against a bookshelf. Her mind fishes about for something to say (absolutely anything will do, anything, anything please), but her heart flutters madly in her chest and she can’t think of anything else but that and the taste of the Doctor on her lips.

The Doctor blinks the shock out of his eyes and pushes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

Rose knows she should reply, but her vocal chords don’t seem to work at the moment.

“I’m so sorry,” the Doctor repeats breathlessly as he pushes past her out of the room.

Rose doesn’t turn to watch him leave; she’s stuck in place, her feet frozen and unmoving as if they were glued to the floor. The only thing she can do is shiver, and whether she should blame the cold or something else entirely is anyone’s guess.

Rose gulps.

***

Next Part

***

256 notes · View notes