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statticscribbles · 3 years

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Misunderstoond

Summary: Newt Scamander/Reader; Nothing’s worse than a family misunderstanding

“Dougal can you not sleep?” You frown when the Demiguise tugs at your leg and then slowly clambers up to rest in your arms. He makes a soft chittering sound and you frown; he was still sick and no matter what Newt had given him it didn’t seem to help. You were hoping it was just a mild flu. You wrap him up in a blanket and place him in the hammock you normally sleep in when you need to stay in the case. You sigh running your hands through your hair before thinking maybe a warm bath would help the Demiguise; considering he had quite a few aches and pains from how he whined and mumbled to Newt. You watch as he blinks, his eyes glowing blue before he smiles slightly and rolls to his side, managing to cover himself in the blanket fully so he’s just a lump on the hammock. You leave him when you hear the door open.

“I’ll be just a second; I bet that’s your daddy with everything.” You chuckle at the joke, Dougal having acted like a clingy toddler the minute he first sneezed. You turn watching Thesues awkwardly standing there. “Y/N. I was wondering if uh, Newt was around.” He breaks the silence. “Oh no, I’m sorry Theseus he stepped out for a minute; had to get some stuff. I’m really sorry we haven’t visited; we’ve been swamped here. Dougal has some sort of cold and we don’t really know what’s wrong; I’m convinced it’s the flu but Newt says it’s something else; so he went off to go get whatever herbs he needs to treat whatever he thinks is wrong. Sorry I’m rambling.”

“No I; uh; Dougal?” Thesues question; you can see what you think is a faint recognition on his face and you smile. “Yes; I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced; the last time we saw you was what about six or so months ago; Dougal wasn’t really that comfortable around new people. I really am sorry we haven’t stopped by. Oh but he’s sick; I’d hate for you to see him when he’s grumpy.” You frown and Thesues looks increasingly surprised. “Really Y/N; it’s alright; just come round when he’s feeling better. We can all talk over dinner. If you and NEwt can make it next week?” You beam at him, turning slightly when you hear a faint whine from the hammock. “Give me a second sweetie.” You offer but Thesues shakes his head smiling. “Don’t worry about it, tell Newt I stopped by.” He smiles waving and you nod turning to Dougal as Thesues leaves.

You mention to Newt that Theseus stopped by and he sighs nodding pinching his nose. “He’s been bothering me about a family dinner.” “I know he mentioned it to me.” You smirk when Dougal lifts his head and Newt chatters softly to him. “Did you miss me huh Dougal?” He grins offering out a potion he’d mixed and Dougal frowns reaching towards you. “Aww you’re gonna have to take some medicine Dougal; it’ll make you feel better.” You assure him as he wraps his arms around your neck.

It had taken a week and another two days of the potion Newt had created but Dougal was fully recovered although he still looked wary when Newt would walk around with the bottles he used for medicine. You’d been surprised to find four bright red letters all addressed to Newt; as well as two plain envelopes addressed to you from three separate owls. “Newt. Do your family normally send Howlers?” “No did they?” He peers from where he’s feeding the mooncalves. “Yes; one from your mother, one from your father and two from Thesues.” “Did one get lost in the post then?”

“No they were sent at the same time; apparently he has very strong feelings about you not taking him up on his dinner offer.” You chuckle and Newt nods. “He was very odd when I ran into him at the ministry the other day.” “Really? Did you talk about the dinner? Maybe he’s bothered about that or maybe that you weren’t in?” “We didn’t; he did ask about Dougal though; seemed really concerned about him. He asked me how old he was; seemed horribly offended with my answer.” “What did you say?” “Well I told him that age doesn’t really matter in my line of work; but Dougal was very young in comparison to most of the other creatures here.” You nod along with his explanation.

“He then complained it was rude to you that I forget; and ‘preposterous’ that” he mimics Thesues’ voice and you chuckle “I couldn’t remember Dougal’s age; since you said it had been around six months since we last seen him and taking care of him couldn’t have scrambled my brain that badly.” You furrow your brow but nod for him to continue. “He scolded me for not informing him and that he’d told mother and father and they were furious with me as well. He glared at me when I left after I said we’d make it to dinner this week, and I could bring Dougal if he wanted to see him so badly.” “Did anything else happen? Maybe someone told him what a demiguise can do; and he wants to see it in person?” “I can’t think of anything. Maybe we should check the letters.”

“Maybe let’s open mine first and see if they give us any clues.” You peel the envelope from Theseus open. “Oh no.” You sigh scanning back over the letter that Theseus has written, before turning to Newt. “Good news it’s all been a huge misunderstanding.” “So it explains the Howlers?” “Yes. The bad news is; Theseus doesn’t know what a Demiguise is; at all. He thinks Dougal is a human child; specifically our child.” “Oh.” Newt nods slowly turning in horror to the Howlers. “So which one is the worst?” “Which one did Thesues send second?” You hold up one of the letters and he sighs pushing it away. “Let’s start with my fathers first.”

You’re sitting with Newt trying not to laugh at his fathers stuttering anger and his mothers cutting tongue both describing how horrified but unsurprised they are that they haven’t met their sweet grandson Dougal. You can hear the overlap of the letters; the ending outrage the same sentence reminding you both that they need to meet Dougal. “How upset do you think they would be if we brought him?” Dougal appears at the edge of your vision before vanishing and you watch one of the nifflers run past; a small shimmer in it’s mouth, you watch Dougal, invisible yank the niffler up and pull whatever the shimmering object is back towards his habitat. “Oh they’d be furious. I think Theseus might actually faint from anger. Which I would pay to see; maybe we should bring him. If he’s our son after all.” He laughs about to open the first letter from Thesues.

“NEWTON ARTEMIS FIDO ; I AM APPALLED that this entire situation has transpired! I just-“ You chuckle when Thesues trails off muttering in anger before sighing and resuming his yelling; you let it go on for fifteen minutes of him repeating how horrible it is that Newt left you alone to care for Dougal; and he should take more pride in his son and everything being a parent to a human child entails. He’d spent a further twenty minutes explaining how he had to be the one to tell not only their parents but also his own friends. How Queenie was so shocked she didn’t actually say anything despite reading his thoughts. You’re trying your best to keep quiet with your laughter Newt looking more and more ashamed as Thesues continues to berate him. “Now the second letter I sent. Is just for you Newt. I don’t want Y/N to hear any of it. And you don’t either.” He snaps and you tilt your head confused Newt rolls his eyes and the Howler tears itself up and you pass him the other one. “Do you want me to go tend to the Kelpie?” “No I’m sure he just says a curse word or maybe swears to hex me next time we see him.” Newt laughs and you nod. “Alright; here we go then.” He nervously tears the seal on the howler and grimaces when it forms and there is silence before Thesues voice snarls from the paper tongue.

“What on earth happened to you wanting to marry her!! You had a plan! Bring her to New York to meet everyone under the guise of a MCUSA meeting; and then show her Frank! Have a nice dinner and ask her to marry you! You’ve gone and muddled that all up! I know you’ve never been one to do anything traditionally but think about how Y/N feels in all of this Newt. She loves you. She loves you so much and you probably never considered how alone she might feel! She hasn’t even met our parents and she already has a family to take care of! I’m ashamed of you Newt; I hope when we see each other next you’ve apologized to Y/N properly.” The letter goes silent and tears itself up. Newt stays just as quiet.

“I’m sorry Y/N Thesues is-What?” He looks confused at your face which you’re sure is flushed. “You want to marry me?” Newt furrows his brow. “Of course; that’s a silly question dear; but what Thesues was saying; about me not considering your feelings about-“ “About Dogual? The Demiguise?” You chuckle a bit and he shakes his head. “No about traveling; about running across every continent looking for creatures and never staying n one place long enough to see the towns; let alone find a home or friends.” “Newt; if I didn’t want to be with you out here discovering these creatures with you; then I wouldn’t be. Thesues was right; I love you; I love you so much; and that means I love travelling with you, and sleeping in the case and running through god knows what forest to find something everyone thinks is going to kill us but was really just scared because it doesn’t like copper.” “Oh well since we don’t have a son to show my family when we visit; how about;” He pauses whistling softly and you watch Dougal appear nest to Newt and hand him whatever the shimmering thing the niffler had earlier. “Y/N; will you marry me?” He offers out the ring and you nod tearing up slightly. “Of course Newt.” He grins, pulling you up from the hammock and spinning you around. “So; would you like to meet Frank?” “The thunderbird?” “Yes; as well as my friends.” “I would love to, shall we respond to Thesues and your parents about joining them for dinner?” “We should; but maybe a quick trip up to the market; the prices of some of the magical herbs they have is so low. i could restock everything and- Right. What do you want to do?”

“Well personally I’d love to go check out the market; I got a really good tip off that they have incredibly low prices on some herbs we need.”

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capseycartwright · 3 years

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but at the cost I payed, I'm pretty sure I got screwed

buck wasn't exactly sure how to process the fact he'd been lied to, his entire life - that his parents had forced maddie to keep such a fundamental part of his past, his life, from him. but - at least he wasn't alone.

or - eight conversations between buck and his true family as he comes to terms with the existence of the brother he never knew he had. set post 4x04

ao3 link

i. albert

Buck had forgotten that Albert would be home, when he managed to stumble through his own front door – breath catching in his chest as he tried to process the bombshell Maddie had just dropped on his life. Maybe – maybe it was rude of him, cruel to forget that he shared his apartment with the younger man, that Albert lived on his couch, but Buck had forgotten, and how he wasn’t sure of a kind way to tell Albert that if he had to have a conversation with another human being, there and then, that he would scream.

And he might not be able to stop screaming.

Albert was looking at him with genuine concern written all over his face, sliding the pan he was using to cook off the hob, so it wouldn’t burn. “Are you okay, Buck?” he asked, and Buck knew he could talk to Albert, and he would try to understand; burdened by his own family issues in ways that would make it easier to admit the insanity of the Buckley family aloud.

But Buck couldn’t.

“That’s kind of a loaded question, Albert,” Buck managed to choke the words out, anxiety clawing at his chest.

Albert inclined his head slightly. “Okay,” he conceded. “Are you well enough to be here, alone – or as alone as you can be with me, here,” he grinned slightly at his own words. “Or do you need me to call someone?”

“I don’t think I know,” Buck admitted, forcing himself to sit at the kitchen table, his blood thundering in his ears as he tried to process everything.

He had a brother. He has a brother – even if that brother wasn’t alive, anymore. Buck had a brother – he wasn’t the only Buckley boy, like he’d believed for so much of his life. For twenty-nine years, he’d thought Maddie was his only sibling, but she wasn’t, and Buck’s entire world felt like it had been spun on its axis and nothing made sense, anymore; but somehow everything made more sense than it ever had before, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

Albert pushed a glass of water toward him, a kind look on his face.

“I don’t think I can talk about it, yet,” Buck admitted, the cool condensation dripping down the side of the glass – a housewarming gift from Hen and Karen, glasses nicer than he’d ever buy himself, if he was being honest – grounding in the way it reminded Buck that he wasn’t dreaming, the glass wet to touch.

“That’s okay,” Albert shrugged. “I can talk, instead, if you want.”

Buck could have cried, with relief. “Yeah, that would be great, Albert.”

Albert grinned. “Okay,” he nodded, moving his pan back onto the hob. “So – I had an online class, today, and one of my classmates, they were clearly not paying attention, but as it turns out, they had taken a series of photos of themselves, and were playing it as a video……..”

Buck forced himself to focus on Albert’s words, his roommate talking about the perfectly mundane happenings of his day, how his online classes went, how their neighbour down the hall still firmly believed he and Buck were a couple, and how its quite sweet, really, because she’s trying her hardest to make sure that they know she accepts them, and she’ll be dropping by a loaf of banana bread, in the morning.

It wasn’t until Albert set a bowl down in front of Buck, a simple pasta dish that made Buck’s stomach growl in acknowledgement of how hungry he was, that Buck spoke, looking at his roommate – his friend – with watery eyes.

“Thank you,” Buck managed to sputter out.

Albert shrugged. “You need to eat,” he said, pushing a fork toward Buck. “My grandmother – she always said that the problems of the world looked a little less daunting, when you looked at them with a full stomach.”

“I don’t just mean for the food,” Buck croaked, though he was grateful for the food – because he wasn’t sure if he had the mental energy to try and make himself dinner, to remember how to cook any of the ingredients that sat in his well-stocked kitchen. “I mean – for taking me out of my head, for a minute.”

Albert smiled, in that endearingly sincere way he always did, Chimney’s brother always one to wear his heart on his sleeve. “What are roommates for?”

ii. bobby

It’s not as though Buck particularly wanted to tell Bobby, about what was going on – but after the incident at the fire, after the way Buck had been acting, he knew he had to, he knew that he had to admit to his boss what was happening. He’d been insufferable to work with, Buck knew, and his boss was owed an explanation.

What Buck hadn’t expected was Bobby’s reaction. It wasn’t – it wasn’t the reaction of a Captain, a professional acknowledgement of a personal trauma that Buck wasn’t able to compartmentalise and leave at home, like he was supposed to, it was the reaction of a friend, Bobby pulling Buck in for a determined, bone-crushing hug.

“I’m so sorry, Buck,” Bobby’s voice was calm, against the sea of static that was buzzing in Buck’s head, something Buck could cling to as he stood, still as a statue, in Bobby’s embrace.

“You didn’t do anything,” Buck found himself saying, confused.

Bobby pulled back, hands on Buck’s shoulders. “I can be sorry, even if I didn’t have a role to play in this,” he said. “Buck, I’m sorry for you as your friend – what your parents hid from you, it was cruel. You didn’t deserve to be lied to like that.”

Buck swallowed his tears, focusing his gaze on one of the photos hanging on the back wall of Bobby’s office. “Their kid died,” he said, voice robotic as he voiced the sentence he’d practiced over, and over. “I can’t blame them.”

“Yes, you can,” Bobby’s voice was fierce. “Buck – I had to bury my own children. That is a pain I will never forget, and one I will live with for the rest of my life. I can’t even begin to describe to you what that grief, the grief of losing a child, feels like, and I hope you never, ever understand it,” he said. “But I have never put the burden of that grief on May, or Harry. Your parents had no right to force you, and Maddie, to bear their grief in the way they did. It was wrong. It is wrong.”

Buck hated how easily he was crying – how easily he’d always been reduced to tears, too soft, too emotional, not enough of a tough guy to please his father. “It was?” his voice was tiny as he spoke, unsure if he could take Bobby’s words at face value. Was Bobby saying that just to placate him? To make it so he could suck it up, and work?

“Yes, Buck,” Bobby’s voice was firm. “It was wrong – and no one in this team is going to begrudge you the time you need to process this. We’re your family, and we’re here for you. Okay? I’m here for you Buck, whatever you need.”

Buck hadn’t been hugged a lot, as a kid – not by his parents, at least. That was a pitifully sad thing to admit, but it was the truth – for all the ways Maddie had been kind, and affectionate, pressing kisses to Buck’s curls and hugging him close, his parents had been cold, and physically distant, never giving Buck more than a pat on the shoulder.

He knew why, now. They looked at him and all they saw was Daniel – all they ever saw was the son who would forever be twelve, frozen in time. They had watched him grow up, and maybe he was tolerable, when he was younger, when he was going through all the same phases that Daniel had – but as soon as Buck had turned thirteen, and lived longer than the brother he didn’t know existed, his parents had kept their distance more, and more, and then Maddie had left, and Buck had been left to crave physical affection, taking that intimacy wherever he could get it, regardless of the impact it had on him, regardless of how it would all leave him feeling even lonelier, when it was over.

But –

Bobby was a dad.

Not his dad –

But someone’s dad.

“Could I…” Buck cut himself off, embarrassed. “Could I have another hug, Bobby?”

Bobby’s eyes were sad, and full of sympathy – but not pity, Buck noted. “Yeah, kid,” Bobby said, pulling him in for a hug, Buck forced to stoop a little, to match Bobby’s height, comfortable in the embrace, this time. “You can have a hug.”

iii. hen

“Hey there, Buckaroo.”

Buck looked up to see Hen approaching him, doughnut in hand.

“You were missing out on the sugar delivery,” Hen explained, hanging him the plate. “So I snagged you your favourite flavour.”

Buck wanted to cry. “You didn’t have to do that, Hen.”

Hen shrugged, sliding down the wall so she was sitting on the concrete next to him, the bright sun of the Los Angeles afternoon beating down on them, the corner they were sitting in slightly secluded, distant from the noise of the firehouse that Buck normally thrived in – just, not today.

“I wanted to,” she said, taking a bite of her own doughnut – cinnamon sugar, Buck noted, her favourite. She’d always been the one to support Buck’s belief that simple was best, when it came to doughnuts, never making fun of Buck’s preference for plain old raspberry jelly flavour; unlike Chimney and the rest of the team, who favoured the hipster doughnut place around the corner from the station, and all the weird flavours they sold.

“Because you feel sorry for me?” Buck found himself asking.

“Because you’re my friend,” Hen corrected, nudging Buck’s knee with her own. “And I can see you’re hurting, Buck, so I wanted to do something nice for you.”

Buck knew he didn’t look the best, rocking up to their shift that morning – his eyes were red raw from crying, because he was in that stage of processing it all, now (Dr. Copeland had assured him that crying was a perfectly healthy trauma response, but Buck was tired of Albert’s quietly concerned looks, because apparently even crying alone in his shower didn’t guarantee privacy in the tiny space they co-existed in.)

He just hadn’t realised he looked that bad.

“I guess you know, then,” Buck murmured, poking at his doughnut. He’d given Bobby permission to tell the team, if he felt it was appropriate – he just hadn’t been able to face the prospect of telling them himself.

“No,” Hen’s voice was firm. “Whatever is going on with you, is your story to tell, Buck. Unless you want to tell me, I have no intention of finding out what is happening.”

Buck shot her a confused look.

“Chimney, he gave me the impression that whatever you’ve found out, is something that was kept from you by the people you love most in the world, and you didn’t have a choice in who found out, because Maddie told him first, and when – and when you got trapped, in that fire, Chimney panicked and told some of the team,” Hen said, explaining what Buck already knew – what Chimney had already desperately apologised for, terrified that Buck’s newfound knowledge of his dead brother had pushed him from resident daredevil to on the verge of suicidal.

Buck didn’t blame him, really.

“I didn’t hear the secret, at the fire,” Hen said. “And I asked Bobby not to tell me. I want you to be able to tell at least one person, on your own terms, if you want to tell me. And if you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay too – I just want you to have the option. I’m happy to be the friend who doesn’t know, if that’s what you need.”

Hen’s sincerity was making Buck want to cry again, his friend looking at him earnestly as she spoke. He knew that if he asked her, Hen would do her best to never find out what Buck’s secret was – Hen was good with secrets – and Buck wasn’t sure how to voice his appreciation out loud in a way that felt appropriate for the magnitude of what Hen was offering him.

Peace.

The power to take control of his own situation.

Buck hadn’t felt in control from the moment he had picked up that photograph of Daniel, and Maddie had admitted who it was, but now, for a second, at least, he felt in control.

“I had a brother,” Buck admitted, hot, angry tears rolling down his cheeks. “I had a brother, and they never told me – they kept him from me. For my whole life, they kept him from me, Hen.”

“Oh, Buck,” Hen’s voice was thick with emotion as she spoke. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“I know – I know it wouldn’t have change the fact he died, when I was a baby,” Buck continued, managing to talk about it, even just a little, for the first time since he’d found out. “But I deserved to know, Hen.”

“Yes, you did,” Hen was fierce in her agreement. “They had no right to keep his existence from you, Buck.”

“It explains it, you know,” Buck glanced at Hen, the protectiveness that was written all over her face making his heart twist in his chest. “Why they never loved me, not really – I was never Daniel.”

“I’m not even going to pretend to understand your parents,” Hen said, wrapping her arms around Buck’s shoulders, pulling him close, running a hand through his curls, the same way Maddie used to, when he was younger. “But I’ll tell you something for nothing, Buck; I love you. I love you like a brother, and I know its not the same, but I love you. And loving you has been damn easy, from the moment you stepped into this fire station – because you have a heart of goddamn gold, Buck. And your parents inability to see that is not your fault.”

Buck let out a shuddering sigh, leaning into the comforting embrace Hen was offering him. “I’m not sure if I believe you, Hen.”

“That’s okay,” Hen reassured. “I’ll keep reminding you until you do.”

“You will?”

“I will,” Hen confirmed. “Because that’s what family does, Buck. Now – eat your doughnut before we get called out.”

iv. chimney

Buck hated the tentative way that his friend – and teammate, and future brother-in-law, probably – approached him, looking nervous. He hated it – and he hated how he didn’t have it in him to put a stop to it, just yet.

“Hey, Buck,” Chimney greeted.

Buck paused what he was doing, the chrome of the ladder truck already gleaming from the thorough polish he had given it. “Are you here as my sisters boyfriend, Chimney, or my friend?”

“As your friend,” Chimney answered without a second’s hesitation, which Buck had to admit he appreciated.

“Okay,” Buck put the polish down entirely, nodding. “Because I’m not ready to talk to Maddie about this yet.”

“She knows,” Chimney nodded, quiet for a second. “I wanted to talk to you as my friend, Buck, because – and I would walk through fire for your sister – you were my friend before I ever met Maddie, and I don’t want you to forget that. I care about you as more than just my girlfriends brother, Buck, and I’m – I’m sorry this is happening to you.”

Buck didn’t have a reason not to believe Chimney – really, he didn’t. “I’m still angry,” he admitted. “That you knew before I did. You had no right to know before I did, Chim.”

“I know,” Chimney agreed, rocking forward on his heels as he spoke. “I wish I didn’t know, Buck,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t found out before you. I – I said, from the moment I knew, that you deserved to know, but as much as it wasn’t my place to know before you, it wasn’t my place to tell you. It needed to come from Maddie, and your parents.”

Buck nodded. It was true – that it would have been worse to hear it from Chimney, and not Maddie, or his mom and dad. Of all the people to hear it from, Chimney would have been the worst one. It should have come from his parents, really – from the people who’d forced a child, their daughter, to keep their older brother’s existence a secret their entire lives. Maddie had been nine, when she’d been forced to pretend Daniel had never existed. She couldn’t have possibly understood the consequences of their parents refusal to acknowledge that Daniel had been a part of their lives, once.

“I know,” Buck said finally. “I know, Chim. I just – I can’t pretend like I’m feeling all that logical, about all of this. I’m trying – I’m just not there yet.”

Chimney’s expression was genuinely understanding. “You don’t need to be logical about this, Buck,” he shook his head. “You’re entitled to deal with this and grieve – and be angry as hell – in whatever way works best for you. I just – I wanted to know that I’m here for you, that I’m your friend. And if you need to talk to me, I can be your friend – and just your friend, not Maddie’s boyfriend. What we talk about, it stays between me and you, Buck.”

Buck gave Chimney a grateful smile. “Thank you, Chim,” he said, awkwardly wringing his polish rag between his hands, twisting, and pulling, the material taut in his hands. “I just don’t think I’m ready to talk about it with anyone, yet.”

And that was the truth of it –

Buck wasn’t ready to talk about it with anyone, not his friends, not Maddie, not even with his therapist – not yet.

“Then let’s talk about something else,” Chimney said, grabbing another polish rag, smirking at Buck. “Like your terrible polish job.”

Buck glared good-naturedly at Chimney. “I’m not a probie anymore, Chim, don’t start this.”

Chimney whistled cheerfully as he started to polish, grinning. “You’ll always be a probie to me, Buckaroo.”

v. athena

Buck hadn’t seen Athena in a while – their calls didn’t actually crossover, all that much, so it wasn’t all that unusual to have not seen her in a few weeks. A part of Buck was glad – and not because he didn’t love Athena, but he wasn’t sure if he could cope with seeing the anger she carried on his behalf in person. Buck didn’t like when other people felt burdened by his issues.

“Buck.”

Buck paused, halfway back to the truck. He couldn’t exactly ignore his Captain’s wife – or anyone, for that matter. Maddie (Maddie, always Maddie, not their parents) had raised him better than that, had raised him to be polite. “Hi, Athena.”

“I know you’re not ready to talk about it,” Athena said, hands on hips, stance fierce and protective and everything Buck never had in a mother. He was glad, May and Harry had her, at least. “But I wanted you to know – parents shouldn’t lie to their children the ways yours have lied to you. It’s cruel, and I’m sorry it happened to you, Buck.”

Buck didn’t quite know what to say. “Uh – thank you?”

“I’m not trying to overstep,” Athena raised her hands in surrender. “I’m not your mother. I’m your friend, though, Buck – and I’m someone’s mom, and I can’t stand the thought of you thinking that your parents did all this out of some twisted sense of protection for you, and Maddie. Parents – however hard – should teach you how to grieve. Not teach you to be invisible as a punishment for something you never knew happened.”

Buck nodded, shaking hands gripping tightly to his halogen. “You’re a great mom, Athena,” he said quietly.

“And you’re a great man, Evan Buckley,” Athena gave his elbow a squeeze. “I just thought you should hear that from someone today.”

vi. christopher

Buck had an armful of Christopher the second he walked through the front door of the Diaz household, the little boy flying at him, crutches and all. “Oh, hey, buddy,” Buck laughed, easily scooping a wriggling Christopher up, easing his crutches off of his arms so he could hug him properly.

“I’m glad you’re here, Buck!” Christopher said, grinning widely at Buck, his new braces glinting in the soft light of the evening, reminding Buck of how grown up the kid in his arms was getting – on the cusp of his teenage years, all too soon.

“I’m glad I’m here too, buddy,” Buck replied, holding Christopher close. He wasn’t even the kids dad – and he couldn’t imagine ever lying to him, like his parents had to him, couldn’t imagine doing anything except loving the little boy with everything he had.

“Dad said you’ve had a bad week,” Christopher said matter-of-factly. “So we have a surprise for you.”

“Oh, you do?” Buck gave Christopher a watery smile, flashing Eddie a confused look.

Eddie raised his hands in surrender. “It was all this guy,” he said proudly. “I just did the driving.”

Buck laughed, looking back at Christopher. “Where are we going, then?”

“Kitchen!”

Tossing a giggling Christopher over his shoulder, Buck made his way to the kitchen, Christopher chatting excitedly as he moved. Buck felt like he was going to cry – really, properly cry – when he spotted the feast of all of his favourite things on the Diaz kitchen table.

“We got all your favourites!” Christopher explained. “Popcorn, and chocolate – and pizza! And we’re going to watch Inside Out, because its your favourite film, and me and dad, we’re going to make sure you feel better, Buck.”

Buck wiped roughly at his eyes. This kid. “I already feel better, buddy.”

Christopher’s brow was furrowed. “But you’re crying.”

“People can cry when they’re happy, Chris,” Eddie explained, running a soothing hand down Buck’s back. “It doesn’t always mean someone is sad.”

“Your dad is right,” Buck confirmed. “I’m crying because I’m happy – and I’m very grateful to have such a thoughtful kid taking care of me.”

Christopher grinned again, patting a sticky hand against Buck’s cheek. “You’re gonna be o-kay, kid,” he beamed, and for the first time, Buck almost believed it.

vii. eddie

“He’s out like a light,” Buck said softly, half closing the porch door behind them – enough that they wouldn’t wake Christopher, with their conversation, but still open enough that they’d be able to hear if Christopher woke up in the night.

Christopher had insisted on Buck being the one to put him to bed, that night, despite how hard Eddie tried to get Christopher to give Buck a break – but Buck had enjoyed the routine of it all, if he was being honest, Christopher’s happy snorts as Buck (badly) danced around the bathroom while Christopher brushed his teeth making him forget the car-wreck his life was for a few minutes, at least.

Eddie nodded, nudging a beer toward Buck. “You spoil him, you know,” he said, not a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I know you read him two chapters of his book, not one.”

Buck hummed gratefully. “I know,” he said, voice dropping. “Kids deserve to be spoiled, a bit at least.”

“How are you doing Buck? Really?” Eddie asked, and Buck felt a dam inside him break – he’d kept everything he was feeling so bottled up, for so long, and all of a sudden, on his best friends back porch, it all came pouring out, tears cascading down his cheeks.

“I had a brother,” Buck hiccupped out, bordering on hysterical as he cried, Eddie moving quickly so he was crouching in front of Buck, soothing hands on Buck’s knees. “I had a brother, Eddie.”

Eddie’s face was twisted, a mixture of heartbreak and sympathy. “I know, Buck,” he soothed softly, gentle hands wiping at Buck’s tears, taking Buck’s hands in his own, grounding Buck in the new reality he had found himself in, the past few weeks – a world where he was suddenly the youngest of three siblings, the third Buckley, not the second.

“I always wanted a brother,” Buck admitted out-loud for the first time, unable to stop his tears, gripping tightly to Eddie’s hands. “I love – I love Maddie, but I always wanted a brother, too, and I had one, and I didn’t know, and I can’t stop thinking about how different life might have been if he was still around. He was ten years older than me.”

Eddie was quiet.

“His name was Daniel,” Buck said, shakily voicing his brothers name out-loud for the first time to someone other than maybe. “His name was Daniel, and he was ten years older than me, and I’d have been a really good brother to him, and that’s all I know, and I just – I wish I knew more.”

“You know,” Eddie’s voice was soft, and reassuring, comforting and grounding in ways that Buck wasn’t sure how he ever lived without before, his best friend the kind of anchor Buck needed, in his life. “I bet Maddie knows more.”

“Eddie….”

“I know it hurts,” Eddie squeezed Buck’s hands, his expression encouraging as Buck forced himself to look at the older man. “And it’s going to hurt for a long time, Buck, and I’m sorry for that – but you’re not alone in that hurt. Me, Chris, Hen – the others – we’re here, and we love you, and we’ll do our best to understand, but there’s one person in the world that shares this hurt with you.”

“But she knew, Eddie, she knew all along, and she didn’t tell me – and I know she was a kid and it wasn’t her fault, but it still hurts, because she got to know him and grieve him, and I didn’t.”

“Did she?” Eddie countered, wise as ever now he went to regular therapy. “She had to pretend he didn’t exist. To grieve properly – you need to talk about the person, about who they were, and Maddie didn’t get to do that. As much as she can help you get to know who Daniel was, you can help her grieve the brother she wasn’t allowed to remember. I can’t help you do that.”

Buck tightened his grip on Eddie’s hands. “I can’t, not yet,” he admitted hoarsely. “Not tonight.”

“No,” Eddie hummed his agreement. “Tonight its just you and me, and the rest of these beers, and as much crying as you want. Okay?”

Buck laughed. Back when he first met Eddie, he could never have imagined their friendship getting to this point – to where they could sit, and talk, and drink and cry together. Somehow, somewhere along the way, they’d created this safe space, together, and Buck had never been more grateful for his best friend than he was, there and then.

He had a brother.

And tonight – tonight was the first time he’d said that out loud and hadn’t felt bitter, and angry, about it. Tonight had been the first time he’d said those words out loud and wondered who the person was, who Daniel had been – instead of focusing on the lies, the hurt of it all.

That was progress.

Swallowing thickly, Buck wiped at his sore eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know,” he directed his question at Eddie.

“Anything?” Eddie’s lips quirked up in the beginnings of a smile.

“Anything,” Buck confirmed.

Eddie grinned. “Did you know - nearly three percent of the ice in Antarctic glaciers is penguin urine?”

Buck snorted, the sound outrageously loud in the quiet of the evening. “I don’t want to know how you know that.”

(He knew – of course he knew. Eddie was the only person who knew exactly how to bring Buck out of his own head, with odd facts and quirky news articles, anything to distract Buck from the overwhelming noise of his own thoughts).

Eddie took a swig of his beer, smiling contently. “You’re not the only one who can know weird things.”

viii. maddie

When she opened the door, Maddie greeted Buck with a relief he didn’t feel deserving to be on the receiving end of.

“I’m sorry, Maddie.”

“No,” Maddie interrupted, pulling him close, clinging tightly to his shoulders, refusing to let her pregnant belly be an obstacle to squeezing the life out of Buck – and he couldn’t say he was opposed to a bone-crushing hug from his sister. “You don’t need to apologise, Buck, not to me – not about this. I should be apologising to you.”

Buck pressed his face into the material of Maddie’s cardigan, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. She’d worn the same one since she was a teenager, and in the years when they weren’t in contact, Buck – well, he’d sometimes go to the perfume section of the department store, and sneak a sample, desperate to feel close to his sister, even if Doug had long since cut her off from him.

“I can’t hear you,” Maddie admitted, her voice soft as she ran a gentle hand through Buck’s hair.

“I said,” Buck pulled back slightly, Maddie’s tears reflecting his own. “I know we’ve got a lot to talk about – but uh, Maddie, will you tell me about him?”

Maddie brushed away a few stray tears of Buck’s before they had the chance to drip from his chin, nodding. “I’d really like that,” she confirmed, tugging Buck toward the couch. Her baby box was still on the coffee table, a photograph of Daniel – the same one Buck had found – propped up against the wood, another one next to it.

Of the three of them.

Buck looked as though he couldn’t be more than a few weeks old, in the photograph, Maddie proudly holding him in her arms, a little boy who was familiar, in so many ways, hair blond and bright like Buck’s had been, as a child – and unfamiliar in so many others, a kid who would forever be twelve years old.

“Is that us?” Buck asked, doing his best to fold his long limbs, curling himself up against Maddie, thinking back to when they were kids, and all the evenings they’d do the same – Buck curled up in her lap as they watched TV, or as Maddie soothed his tears after a fight with their parents. Her belly got in the way, a bit, and a part of Buck’s heart ached with the knowledge that someone else, his niece, would curl up in Maddie’s lap the same way he used to, in just a matter of months, but he pushed the thought aside.

“I told everyone you were my baby,” Maddie said, sounding like she was smiling. “Oh, I loved you so much from the moment you were born, Buck, and I wouldn’t let Daniel go near you – because you were mine.”

Buck didn’t try and stop his tears, now.

“He loved you just as much,” Maddie continued. “He would tell dad, how excited he was to be able to teach you to play soccer, one day, and ride a bike.”

All the things Maddie had taught him, in the end, Buck thought to himself.

“He picked your middle name,” Maddie continued. “Because he had a best friend called EJ, and he told mom and dad that you should have the same initials – Evan James - because you were going to be his new best friend.”

Closing his eyes, Buck let Maddie’s words wash over him, painting a picture of someone he would never have the chance to know – but loved, Buck thought, all the same, because Daniel couldn’t have known, how life would turn out without him, because he had only been a kid, when he died – and he wouldn’t have understood.

“He’d be proud of you, I think,” Maddie said quietly, pressing a kiss to Buck’s curls. “Because I am, Buck, I am so proud of you. You are not a disappointment. You are the greatest man I have ever known and I am so proud of you, and I love you, and I’ll tell everyone the same thing I told them when I was eight and I held you for the first time. You’re mine, Buck, not theirs.”

Buck nodded, not trusting himself to open his eyes. “I love you, Maddie.”

“I love you, little brother,” Maddie sounded like she was crying too, now. “We’re going to be okay.”

Buck –

Well, he didn’t have a reason not to believe his sister.

He wanted to believe her.

And maybe –

Just maybe.

He already did.

Yeah.

They would be okay.

#911 fox #evan buckley #maddie buckley #911 fic #in which i ramble #in which lorna writes fic #this is what i did instead of working this morning yes #don't @ me i;m overflowing with feelings after that episode

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avaria-revallier · 3 years

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A dragons wish Chapter 6

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The dwarrows hadn’t moved an inch since Bilbo had left the forges running after Ruby. They stood around the cushion-castle the little girl had built, like fierce guards made of stone, staring into space. He stopped, right in front of Balin, frantically trying to catch his breath.

“The… The dragon! It was huge. A gigantic beast! Even larger than I ever dared to imagine,” he huffed.

Instantly he had their attention. The dragon was real, and very much alive. A cold shudder ran down the hobbit’s spine. The whole situation had just drastically changed.

The eyes of the company simultaneously shifted from Bilbo to Thorin. The king hadn’t said a word so far, in fact he hadn’t shown any kind of reaction since the young girl had left them in a hurry.

“Thorin?” Balin tried it again.

He didn’t react, didn’t move. Thorin just stared into the empty hallway where Ruby had vanished not long ago.

Ruby!

“It has Ruby,” Bilbo whispered in horror.

Just now he remembered the clothes the dragon had in his massive claws. Looking up he could read the same horror in the faces of the dwarrows.

Yes, he was their king, and yes he had become a good friend for Bilbo over time, but his behavior was just too much!

Ori sat down next to him, taking a break from barricading the large entrance with massive boulders. The young scribe was by far stronger than he looked. When Bilbo had complimented him for it, Ori had only shyly mumbled something about having it inherited from their mother and that Dori was even stronger.

Glancing to the side he could spot a familiar book in the scribe's hands. The book he had received from Ruby. It was bound in leather and rather plain looking. There were no golden ornaments or embedded jewels on the cover.

Thinking back, the hobbit hadn’t seen any fancy jewelry or other valuable things on or near Ruby. The braids in her hair were held together by wooden clips and beads, she hadn’t worn any bracelets, rings or necklaces. Even her clothes looked rather old and had many patches and parts that were repaired.

“What is it about?” the hobbit nodded towards the book, watching the nimble fingers of the scribe caressing the worn pages.

“Stories, it seems, about adventures and magical creatures from faraway places. One is about a young elven woman visiting her grandmother in the dark forest. Sadly the grandmother had been eaten by a warg, which now posed as the grandmother to also eat the young girl. Luckily a ranger comes by, freeing the grandmother as well as the young girl. Which is highly unlikable, but still… I like the happy ending,” clutching the book even harder he stood back up, rejoining his brothers.

Bilbo was the only one who noticed the faint brushing of the young scribe's hands against the rough palm of the warrior as he passed by him.

Dwalin sighted. This was not what he had hoped for, not at all. Still, having the little scribe by his side gave him strengths to press on. With a last look on the youngest of the dwarrows he left the front gate to inform his king of the newly arrived visitor.

“Thorin,” upon entering the grand hall of the forges he noticed how the king hastily straightened himself, “we have a guest on our front door.”

Hope sparked up in the blue eyes, but almost instantly died down again as Dwalin lightly shook his head. Thorin’s head dropped, facing the floor. His hand clenched around a silver necklace of some sort, he continued to stare at the floor in front of him.

“Who is it?” Thorin managed to ask after a moment of silence.

The warrior tried to gloss over the amusement in his voice with a khoff. This was really not the time to laugh at the childish reaction of his friend. Still, seeing Thorin, king under the mountain, his brother in arms and on the battlefield sitting in the middle of a cushion castle, surrounded by fluffy blankets, soft cushions and pressing a vibrant pink, flower-shaped cushion against his chest, was rather unsettling and strange.

“Bard the bowman from Lake Town is asking for an audience with you,” the warrior simply answered.

Thorin didn’t react. He hadn’t really moved since Ruby had left and had holed himself up in the forges as soon as the devastating news Bilbo had brought them had gotten through to him fully. Even now he was only staring into the empty hallway, while his fingers fumbled with the strange silver necklace.

Dwalin sighted again. If he hadn’t saized command shortly after Bilbo had returned, who knows what would have happened. Sure, they all were shocked and devastated at the horrible news of the dragon returning and taking the wee lass with him, still, Thorin was their king, their leader. The warrior hadn’t seen his friend like this since Frerin had gone missing. Enough was enough! There was a pile of work left and Dwalin was rather sick of it.

“Thorin, you are my king and friend. I respect that you are…” not sure how to describe the sight he saw before him Dwalin coughed again and continued on, “You will come with me and if I have to drag you there myself. You ought to be king and welcome our kin not long from now, so behave like one!”

Bombur nearly choked on the bite he had just taken from the large sandwich Bifur had brought them all. Hastily he took a large swig of the water he held in his other hand. Blinking twice the cook realized that this was no daydream or illusion at all. There was Dwalin, which was nothing out of the ordinary, striding down the hallway and dragging something behind him.

Only after looking a second time he identified the thing as a person, huddelt into a fluffy blanket and clutching a bright pink and flower-shaped cushion as their king. The glare thorin gave him was not to be misunderstood. Still, how was anyone able to take their leader seriously after seeing him like this ?!

Shoving the rest of the sandwich into his mouth he poked Bifur in the back. The old warrior spun around and the axe in his head gleamed in the low light. Letting loose a wave of rapid Khuzdul he picked up a pebble and threw it across the hallway at Gloin, who was currently talking to Balin.

Gloin reacted as expected. Angrily he turned around to look for the person who was responsible for interrupting his chat with the king’s advisor. Before he could utter a curse his eyes locked onto the scene right in front of him. Dwalin, dragging what looked like a pink-reddish lump of clothes behind him towards the main gate. The pebble surely couldn’t have hit him that hard!

Balin on the other side only buried his face in his hands. He was used to seeing his brother doing impulsive and sometimes rather stupid things, as he had always been there to help him out in the end an straighten things out. But this was a first in case of stupidity and impulsiveness. Dwalin had to see how to get out of this mess afterwards all on his own.

Bilbo stopped abruptly in his movement. He had rushed to the front gate as soon as the raven had delivered the message that the rest of the company and two other people were making their way towards the mountain. He didn’t want to wait any longer to finally see Bofur again. Surely he would get an ear full, cause he had left his dwarf behind and didn’t wake him in time. But at that time Bilbo was rather fond of the idea to at least assure Bofur to survive the wrath of the dragon.

Bofur, still holding the hobbits hand, was forced to stop as well. Questioning he followed the line of sight of his beloved. With the utmost of his will and control he was able to disguise his laughter as mere coughing. Bilbo’s elbow in his ribs made him turn towards the hobbit again, he also couldn’t contain his wide grin. For the dignified leader of the company to be dragged through his own mountain at that!

Bilbo’s amusement vanished and was replaced with worry and sorrow. For a moment there he had forgotten the reason for the king’s odd behavior. Bofur frowned, there seemed to be more to this situation than they all had let on.

“* Kidhuzel , what is the matter?” concerned he lightly squeezed the hand holding his.

“I’ll tell you the story behind that in a bit,” Bilbo promised him, before moving on.

(*gold of gold)

Oin had stayed with Bard and Tauriel to chat some more about medicinal herbs after reassuring himself that the two princes and especially Kili were alright to go on on their own. The elven woman had fussed some more over the dark haired prince, but respected the decision that she would have to wait outside.

Kili still leaned on his older brother even though he tried his best to walk on his own. Facing down he made sure not to trip over anything and to burden Fili any further. Strangely enough the floor was sparkly clean aside from the trail of mud the others must have left behind.

To his own surprise the front gate was almost unscratched and not missing as he had assumed from his uncle's stories. Even more, it was warm inside and the hallways were lit! There was no foul smell of dragon or whatever he might have left behind. It felt almost homely and welcoming. The others had accomplished so much in such a short amount of time! He could do nothing else but be astonished by their capability.

Fili stopped abruptly and nearly let his brother slide from his shoulder. Luckily Kili was quick enough and steadied himself before kissing the floor.

“By the beard of-” looking up, Kili had wanted to lecture his older brother on how to properly handle hurt and ill dwarrows, but stopped himself.

There must be some poison left inside his system, which made him hallucinate once more. No other explanation was reasonable or possible. With his free, left hand he rubbed his eyes. Still there.

Pinching Fili’s arm he tried to wake himself. The immediate response, a light jab in his stomach assured him that this was real.

Not being able to take his eyes off of the unreal scene in front of him he wasn’t able to see the unbelieving look in Filis eyes and how the blond prince's jaw seemed to drop even further.

“Uncle… is that really you?!” Kili was not entirely sure if he was seeing things or if this was reality, but either way, it was hilarious.

He couldn’t wait to write to his mother about it! This would provide them with amusement and embassesment from the king till forever! Fili also seemed to have overcome the shock. Leaning onto his older brother Kili could feel the faint shaking, which got stronger by the second, signing that Fili was trying his best to hold in his laughter.

A sly grin appeared on Kili’s lips. He would certainly have to help his older brother, no? With a hearty jab of his elbow he forced the first prince to break into laughter. Not able to hold in his own amusement he joined in and filled the halls with their voices. Even the deathly glare Thorin was rather known and feared for couldn’t stop them. The pink cushion and the blanket he was wrapped into made him look rather ridiculous than intimidating.

“I brought the king.”

Tauriel’s face turned to stone, expressionless as only elves were capable of, while Bard tried his best to keep his mouth shut, the face strangely red as if he had forgotten how to breathe. Confused Oin turned around, the rather worn trumpet in his hand. What was going on?

@jumpingmanatee @tschrist1 @savvy-the-human @ayamenimthiriel @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @animestuff123 @blankethalfling @all-seeing-storm @nightmarewalker @lunasnow20 @coolleviauchihadreamerlove @chocolateintolerant @givashel @shrimpsthings @grunid @swagbearfishturkey @angelic-kisses13 @nickangle13

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kaminobiwan · 4 years

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indulgence

pairing: obi-wan kenobi x jedi!reader

summary: Obi-Wan tests the waters of his feelings for you.

a/n: Oblivious pining turns into….well, just plain pining! I’m so happy you guys liked my first fic, so here’s another glimpse of Obi drowning in feels loll (I promise these two will graduate from this stage eventually). Again, thank you so so much — your support and feedback is so touching, more than you know! You guys are the best!

It’s a long trip back to Coruscant from Saleucami, and for once, a moment of peace imbues the Jedi cruiser as it travels through hyperspace.

After losing the trail of General Grievous on the backwater planet, Obi-Wan and his troops had been picked up by none other than the Resilient — your flagship — and he’d had the sense to think himself lucky as he approached you, looking at home in command on the bridge.

Obviously, he’d been vexed that he’d failed in capturing Grievous. But the frustration had melted away once you’d laid a hand on his shoulder and reassured him that he’d have another chance.

Then you’d forced him to join you for a late-night snack and catch-up session in your cabin after he’d been patched up and you’d finished the last of your duties for the day. “Some time alone,” you’d insisted. “When’s the last time we’ve had a minute to ourselves without the Padawans?”

Obi-Wan hadn’t needed any convincing.

Here, in the intimacy of the small room, it’s easy to forget your ferocity and sheer effectiveness on the battlefield as you sit cross-legged across him, contentedly munching on a blumfruit tart from your secret stash on the Venator. Happy, as if you hadn’t just clashed with Grievous yourself in an untamed explosion of lightsabers the day before.

You’d come to his rescue — again. This time, with Master Gallia as she’d saved him from the ruptured air lock while you’d taken on the droid General.

He’d given up on keeping count at this point.

Instead, he’d taken to repaying you in small ways, like gifting you the Endorian pastries you were currently eating, or quizzing each other on planetary politics whenever your spare hours coincided — a habit the two of you had formed in your early years of training. (Though now, Obi-Wan suspects that it’s more of a disguised attempt at getting him to sit down and rest once in a while. He doesn’t mind. In fact, he appreciates it — at least that way he can play it off as appeasing you rather than him taking a break from his duties.)

It was the least he could do for you. He’d seen the barely concealed worry in your eyes when he’d left in pursuit of Grievous, the way the tension had visibly left your body when he’d returned to the fleet shortly after.

It wasn’t that your concern was misplaced. He did tend to get tunnel vision when it came to the monstrous cyborg. As his closest friend, you’d been apprehensive at his blind determination to not let the General escape.

But the curt way you’d told him to come back safely had made him feel guilty. Even though he had done as you’d asked, he’d made a mental note to review as many political and military updates as you wanted to after his debrief.

Plus, it was a professional excuse to enjoy a private tradition with you. Obi-Wan could almost fool himself with the excuse that the occasional quiet nights you’d spend together were purely intellectual.

What he’d never tell you, though, was that he sometimes liked to purposely answer questions wrong just to see the gleam in your eye as you’d supply the correct explanation. Your enthusiasm was achingly contagious.

“Senator for Malastare?”

It’s the tie-breaker question — you’d accurately remembered the capital of Haruun Kal seconds prior.

“Senator Moe?”

You shake your head. “Senator Aak,” you wrinkle your nose at the name, and Obi-Wan smothers his amusement. “Took office when Aks Moe was assassinated on Aargau. I remember because he kicked up a fuss about the failed negotiations on Trandosha.”

Obi-Wan raises his brows in recognition. He’d known that, at least. Just before the war, you’d been sent along with Oppo Rancisis to facilitate a peace treaty between Trandosha and Kashyyyk, but the mission had ultimately failed. Obi-Wan had heard the story from you dozens of times, to the point where he was almost able to recite it himself.

Still, he’d never been able to stop you. It would be a lifetime before he’d tire of hearing you recount your adventures, and he’d been the one to ask every time, anyway. Even if all he’d wanted to know was if the Caamasi peace officers you’d travelled with really did smell like Corellian whiskey.

(They did, according to you. Or rather, Corellian whiskey smelled like them.)

“He’s not the biggest fan of the Jedi.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts and brings his attention back to the conversation, back to Senator Aak. “Seems to have it out for Master Rancisis.”

Obi-Wan hums pensively. “I see you’ve gotten over your dislike for the old master.”

You blink at him in surprise, but it quickly washes away to a bitten smile. “I never disliked him, I thought he disliked me. You know how hard it is to read Thisspiasian facial expressions.”

“Isn’t that a little —” he begins on a joke about species, but the look you give him is enough to silence him in a heartbeat. Regardless, the air between you is charged with mirth.

“I respect him, greatly. He’s one of the best tacticians in the Order. I certainly hope you haven’t been spreading any rumors about him because of me.”

“More like the oldest tactician,” he mumbles, but you still match his grin.

“I’m serious! Maker knows how much of a gossip you are, Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

He feigns theatrical offense at that, and you throw the wrapper of your pastry at him playfully. He bats it away with a laugh, and observes you appreciatively as you get up to discard it properly. Every time. He knows you can’t bear to leave even the smallest of messes. Part of your ‘leave-the-galaxy-better-than-you-found-it’ ideal, he supposes. It’s one of his favorite things about you.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t said a thing. Your secrets will always be safe with me.” He emphasizes sincerity at the end of his sentence, and it’s a thrill to even push the boundary of platonic conversation. Even if his true meaning is hidden by layers and layers of restrained camaraderie. You mean more to him than you’ll ever know — he’ll always be loyal to you.

In his contemplation, he misses the way your cheeks burn.

“I’m having tea with him soon after we return,” you murmur softly, without the humor of before, but your eyes remain bright with affection. “You should join — I think you’d like his stories. Did you know he turned down the throne of Thisspias when he was just a knight? He could have been a Blood Monarch, but he abdicated to stay with the Jedi instead.” It almost looks like you’re searching for something in his gaze as you speak. “Kind of admirable, isn’t it? All he gave up for the Code.”

….He doesn’t know what to say.

Stars above, is this your way of telling him it’ll never happen? Do you even know?

Thankfully, his brain goes into overdrive as his heart stutters. “Of course,” he finds himself replying. “Of course, it’s very selfless of him.”

You smile roguishly. “Though I’m sure he indulges himself in other ways. We can’t all be perfect devotees like you.”

And just like that, the practiced composure he usually reserves for everyone else is gone again, replaced by the warm familiarity you always surround him with. He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“I assure you, I’m not perfect,” he says, gently, like your touch on his shoulder as you pass. “Far from it. I myself have certain indulgences that might surprise even you.”

“Oh?” Your voice rings with delight, and he chases your presence, leaning your way. “Do enlighten me, Obi-Wan, of what the person that knows you best is supposedly not privy to.”

If only he could tell you. He’s simultaneously dying to confess and unwilling to sacrifice your steadfast friendship with an admission that would undoubtedly change your relationship forever.

You begin to clear off the small table you’d both been gathered around, and he watches you comfortably in lieu of responding. “I’m only teasing. I don’t mean to put on more pressure on you than you already do yourself —” he rolls his eyes at that, “besides, I’m not sure I even want to know how you manage to get your hands on blumfruit tarts with all the trade regulations in the Outer Rim.” You settle down next to him, in a position he knows you’ll be in for the rest of the night if he doesn’t leave. And he doesn’t plan to — if you let him, he’ll spend the entire ride home by your side, shoulder to shoulder until the blue streaks of hyperspace fade into the blinking lights of Coruscant. Before settling into a comfortable silence, you nudge him fondly. “I’ll take it to be one of those indulgences.”

“Yes,” he whispers, as you relax against him. “I’d say this is one.”

He’s not talking about the pastries.

#rini writes #obi wan kenobi x reader #THEY ARE SUCH NERDS HEHE!!#i like to think that obi-wan studies in his spare time #and what better way to study than with a partner?#that you may or may not be in love with?#anyways i love you guys #thank you so much for the support #as always i hope you enjoy!#obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi imagine

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luytenae · 3 years

Text

Fishing lesson

Hello there! Enjoy another one of the kiss prompts!

Kiss number 22: in a rush of adrenaline

Matenro, the division from Shinjuku, had an entertaining tradition. Every once in a while, whenever their days off coincided with each other’s, they would go fishing. It was a hobby Jakurai had in common with Hifumi, and Doppo ended up tagging along with them. This weekend would be no different, and the doctor even made a reservation to have a guaranteed spot...

If it wasn’t for Doppo’s boss.

“I am truly sorry, sensei… I am just garbage, the worst kind you can find, and I ruined our day out…-“

The salaryman apologised, showing once again his low self-esteem, and sounding pitiful even during a phone call. Jakurai felt he wasn’t helping Doppo enough during their appointments.

“Do not worry, Doppo-kun. Don’t say such things, as it is not your fault after all. We will go fishing the next time, alright? There’s no need to be so hard on yourself…”

Jakurai cut him during his speech, not wanting Doppo to deprecate himself. He knew well his teammate was sorry, so everything the doctor needed to do for him was to reassure and calm him down. After all, Doppo didn’t ruin a single thing nor was his fault. If it was someone’s fault, it would be his boss for not respecting his leisure time. As he had predicted, Hifumi would make him company in order to finish Doppo’s tasks as soon as possible, so it would be just him at the fishing centre this time.

After –once again– reassuring the couple at the other line of the call that it was going to be all right, he hanged up the phone, making a half smile as he put it back on his pocket. He found lovely how Hifumi could be so devoted to his partner, sacrificing his own day off to help him and keep him company. With his teammates still on his mind, he started gathering his supplies: fishing rod, a replacement reel, lures and everything else he could need.

Just when he was going to leave his house, his phone buzzed again, this time receiving a call from someone completely different.

“Hey hey old coot! Whatcha doing on this loooovely Saturday morning?”

Ramuda’s voice announced him as cheerful as usual. Of course, who else would call him during his free day?

“Why, good morning to you too, Ramuda-kun. I was about to go fishing-“

He announced, holding his phone with his shoulder as he fetched his car keys, opening the vehicle’s trunk to start packing his gear.

“Ohh, one of your booring hobbies? Lemme guess, you’re going with your teammates, right?”

The fashion designer laughed at the other side, rummaging through his desk to pick a lollipop to unwrap and enjoy.

“That was our initial plan, yes”

Jakurai left out a heavy sigh, deciding that his gear could wait for a little, as he found himself incapable of holding the phone with his shoulder as Doppo could do.

“What do you mean with initial?”

Curious, the younger man popped the candy out of his mouth, paying real attention to Jakurai.

“I mean that they cannot come this time, so I am going alone”

“Boo-hoo, then Jakurai must be feeling soooo lonely!”

His curiosity changed to a tone that could be considered a mock or real concern. The doctor, knowing his partner, interpreted his words like what they were: something in between; real concern disguised with jokes, because that’s just how Ramuda was. Jakurai laughed softly, shaking his head a little.

“Why don’t you come with me, if you are so concerned about me being lonely?”

A small gasp was heard at the other end of the call, audible enough for Jakurai to notice the fashion designer’s surprise.

“Uh-mhhhh, fishing sounds a bit too boring for someone like me, but I guess I could go and make you some company! Don’t want my old man to be all gloomy!”

That was Ramuda’s way to announce that he was free and willing to go with him, if only he was honest enough to recognize he wanted to spend the day together with his lover.

“Alright then. I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes, so get ready. I guess you do not have a rod, do you?”

“Nuh-uh! As I told ya, I’ve never went fishing. You see, I don’t have grandpa’s hobbies!”

“Very funny, Ramuda. I’ll lend you one of mine, then”

“Wow, so cool! Thank you babe! See you real soon!”

Before Jakurai could reply, Ramuda ended the call, leaving the older man wondering whether he liked or not to be called “babe”. Letting that aside, he finally got everything in the car and, before heading to Shibuya, he came back home and fetched another rod for his new companion.

As scheduled, the doctor was in front of Ramuda’s shop just in time, only to see Ramuda was waiting for him. Jakurai chuckled, not expecting him to take fishing so seriously. He was dressed with a knee-length jean overall full of patches, a plain and short-sleeved blue crop top, matching sneakers and bucket hat.

“I didn’t imagine you would take this so seriously”

The doctor announced jokingly, rolling down the window and inviting the designer in.

“I must follow the aesthetic, you know!”

Replied the designer, opening the door and hopping in the passenger’s seat, grabbing the seatbelt and securing it. He then kissed his partner on the cheek as a greeting, giving him a paper bag.

“And I got you something too! You gotta be fashionable if I’m coming with you. I can’t let you ruin my reputation as a top designer”

Sceptically, Jakurai took the bag before starting up his van, checking what was inside. The contents surprised him, as he was expecting a present like the one he received last time –when Ramuda gifted him that one hat with the “women want me, fish fear me” phrase–. This time it was also a hat, but a decent one. One Jakurai could wear without having everyone’s eyes on him. The doctor smiled, putting it on and kissing his partner’s cheek.

“Thank you for gifting me this. I shall cherish it”

Ramuda giggled, opening a lollipop and lifting it cheerfully.

“You’re soo cheesy! I just wanna see you dressing fashionable for once, and not like a grandpa!”

Soon enough, the couple headed to the fishing centre, Jakurai driving back to Shinjuku. The ride was short and full of bickering from Ramuda to Jakurai and vice versa, since the doctor couldn’t help but fall right into the other man’s shenanigans.

After parking the car, they both got out of the car –Ramuda previously put on a pair of sunglasses–, got the fishing gear, and proceeded to go in. The staff welcomed the older man, as he was a regular there; and was asked about where did his teammates were as well as who his new companion was. It didn’t take them longer to realize he was the leader of Shibuya division, because Ramuda soon started to behave like, well, like him. The room was soon filled with cheers echoing how cute he was, as the designer was laughing and taking pictures with everyone that wanted one.

“I’m glad you’re already having fun, Amemura-kun. I can’t wait to see how will you react to fishing itself”

Jakurai waited for the crowd to calm down, heading right to his partner and gently reminding him what were they going to do. The smaller man put his phone back on his pocket, grabbing his boyfriend’s hand and going with him to the ponds.

“Since it’s your first time, I should tell you about this place”

The older man led the way, waltzing around fellow fishermen and families that went to enjoy their day.

“This is the Ichigaya Fish Center. People from both Shinjuku and other places frequent it, and, as you can see, it is family friendly. That’s because they don’t have a focus on professional fishing, having a small pond with goldfish that’s very popular among children”

Seeing his usual spot free, Jakurai went there, placing everything –starting by opening their chairs– down. Ramuda launched himself to the chair, enjoying the remains of his lollipop while the doctor continued his explanations.

“Since it’s your first time fishing, I’ll guess you don’t know how a rod works, am I right?”

“Yup! I mean, I know that you have to use a bait and things like that…”

Ramuda stopped mid-sentence, appearing paler and frowning.

“Wait wait waaaait a minute there. I’m totally NOT touching a worm, for your information!”

Jakurai laughed, sitting by Ramuda’s and starting to assemble both rods.

“Rest assured, it is not allowed to use live baits. They only permit mashed baits, so you will not be touching any worms”

The young man let out a relieved sigh, now intrigued by the doctor’s assembling task. He would ask him whenever he got a question, no matter how silly it could be; and Jakurai replied with pleasure, thanking Ramuda’s interest. It didn’t take them long to be completely ready, Jakurai handing Ramuda a rod and making sure he was holding it right.

“Always make sure to tie the knot tightly. A bad knot may make you lose a good catch. Understood?”

“Right and clear, mister!!”

And, like that, Jakurai taught his partner how to throw the rod, what led to a couple of failed attempts –where a fisherman’s hat was related, as well as an apology for “fishing” his hat– and a final success that made Ramuda enthusiastic enough to keep going.

“It’s important to know that fishing takes patience. Do you think yourself capable of such thing?”

Jakurai joked, receiving a pout as a reply from the pink haired man.

“I can be pretty patient if I want, humph!”

“Alright then. Keep an eye on your bobber, and if you see it shaking, then a fish is nibbling on the bait. If you see it going completely under the surface, quickly set the hook before losing the fish”

“Aand… How do I do that?”

His question was answered with actions: a fish happened to nibble on Jakurai’s bait, and he took that as an opportunity to teach Ramuda.

“It’s simple. You just have to do this–“

As soon as the bobber submerged completely, the doctor quickly rose the pole, pointing it straight in the air.

“By doing this, the fish will swing to you. Like that, you will have successfully catched a fish”

The designer looked at him in awe, amazed by the scene –and by how hot the doctor when he rose the pole–. He set down his rod and rushed to Jakurai, who was now holding his catch gently.

“Remember to hold it carefully. Pond fishes don’t usually have sharp teeth, but you may find fishes with spiny fins and, overall, they are very slippery. You have to hold them behind the head, without fear and gently”

Ramuda looked at the carp full of curiosity, admiring how his partner was holding it. He estimated that it was about 60 centimetres long, and laughed at the sight of its moustache.

“Before releasing it back, we remove the hook with these–”

Jakurai motioned to his other hand, showing a pair of needle-nose pliers. He took out the hook with ease, showing his skills and how accustomed he was to the activity, leaving Ramuda to wonder for how long he has been fishing.

The younger man took out his phone, making the doctor pose for a picture. Jakurai agreed happily, letting him take a picture.

“This is bringing back some memories! I used to be your teacher, but you’re the one teaching me now!”

They both smiled bitter-sweetly, remembering the old TDD days. The bitterness didn’t last long, because now everything was in the place it should be. No more misunderstandings that could make everything tangle up the way it was tangled before.

“Now it’s your turn, Ramuda-kun. Show me what you can do”

As soon as the picture was taken, Jakurai put the fish back on the pond, watching it swim away before sitting back and launching again his rod.

“Alright! Well then, here we go!”

Ramuda launched his pole, looking to Jakurai occasionally in order to check if he was doing it right. After he reassured him, he gazed again to the bobber, frowning as he focused on the task.

“UGH! This is taking forever! Why don’t they come faster?! Silly fishes!”

As the older man had anticipated, after 10 minutes motionless, his partner lost what little patience he had.

“What was the first thing I told you before starting, Ramuda-kun?”

“That it takes patience…”

He replied, somewhat irritated and frustrated.

“And what did you answer?”

Jakurai kept the conversation going, taking his chance to bicker the designer.

“Geez, I know, I know! I gotta wait! Now shut up, old coot!”

The lilac haired man laughed, launching his rod back in the water and providing Ramuda with small talk to help him overcome dullness. As someone who had lots of energy, he needed to be in constant movement; and activities such as fishing could be frustrating due to long waiting times and needing to be calm and quiet. For that, they kept talking about whatever topic they could find, keeping the designer entertained and focused –not losing his patience was the main goal–.

Their counting, after a while, was still negative for Ramuda. Jakurai managed to catch three medium sized carps and a big one, whereas the younger man only had a couple of failed attempts.

“I swear if I don’t get one the next time, I’m launching this stupid rod to the pond and never coming back!”

The doctor could notice how this was more frustrating than entertaining for his partner, and started to feel sorry for bringing him here. But the feeling didn’t last long, because soon enough Ramuda’s bobber went underwater again.

“Now, Ramuda-kun! Do it as I taught you, quickly!”

The designer reacted swiftly and, thanks to his efforts, he finally succeeded and raised the pole straight, catching his first fish. He grabbed it just like Jakurai told him to, and right after taking out the hook, he started to jump enthusiastically, laughing with pride and showing off his “prize”.

“Look!! I got it, I got it!!”

He couldn’t help but laugh, smiling widely for his picture. The doctor felt relieved, letting his recent thoughts go away, washed by his lover’s laugh.

“Yes, you did it very well. Congratulations on your first catch, my love”

Moved by the adrenaline, Ramuda jumped to kiss him after releasing the carp, clutching to the doctor’s neck and trusting him to hold him. The kiss was eagerly replied, Jakurai caressing his hair after putting him down again. The designer’s broad and sincere smile was something he would never get tired of watching.

“See? You just needed to be patient”

#hypnosis mic #hypmic #ヒプノシスマイク #jakurai jinguji #hypnosis mic jakurai #ramuda amemura #hypnosis mic ramuda #jakuramu #jakurai x ramuda

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rainydaymiddleearthimagines · 3 years

Text

The Arrangement pt 5

“Please. Stay alive.” It sounded so distant “Please.”

The echoes of your words hung in the air as a bare whisper, barely audible as it graced his ears. He couldn’t even tell if that was your voice or not. He was clearly laying on some sort of grass from what he felt. The sky was misty, almost like some sort of hazy memory as he leaned up. There was a small reflection pool in his line of vision. Next to it was a figure. It was clearly a woman, he just couldn't make out who. As he got up he expected pain, but nothing afflicted him. Painless. Was he dead?

He walked over to the fountain, the woman turning. “Arwen?” He asked. She looked over. “You’re here.” She said, almost sounding disappointed. “should I not be?” He asked. “Not if you wish to continue living.” She said. He frowned. “Am I dead?” He asked. “No. Not yet. But if you’re here, you are typically supposed to choose if you wish to live or cross over.” She said. “Typically? Is there no choice for me?” He asked. She looked at him, a very serious look on her face. “Not as long as I am here greeting you at death’s door.” She said. “Why stop me from death?” He asked. “My father did not raise you to die and leave my sister heartbroken.” She said. He blinked. “Your father has not--” “You still have the mind of man Aragorn, I do not expect you to remember.” She said. “...What?” He asked. “We did raise you Aragorn. Make no mistake. We knew exactly who you were after spending two weeks with you.” She said. “I have no idea what you’re speaking about.” He admitted.

She reached into the pool, tapping the water so that it rippled. It was a memory that surfaced, one of a very young Aragorn. He was sitting in Elrond’s lap with a book. Aragorn blinked. “...Why do I not remember this?” He asked. “You were two. I’d be surprised if you did remember.” She said. “Where was Y/n?” He asked. “The Undying lands. They’re a peaceful place, I don’t think I have to explain why she didn’t exactly like the area.” She said. Aragorn nodded, knowing damn well if you spent at least 2,000 years there, you most likely became very bored or reckless over time. “She didn’t return until you were gone. You grew up Aragorn, and with age, time passes. My father raised you. We all did. You learned your skills from my brothers, you learned everything to do with our languages from me. But it was safer for us for you to forget who we were. Safer for our kingdom when a heir of Isildur came of age.” She said. He frowned. “You forced me to forget.” He said. “My father did. To keep Y/n safe. He knew how reckless and insane she could get, someone who had a tendency to go off and find adventure, regardless of danger was not the best idea, not when she had no idea how to even begin to rule a kingdom.” She explained.

“So you sent me to Gondor?” He asked. “Yes.” she said. “I... Wait, when did Y/n come home?” He asked. “Six months before you met her.” Arwen said. “did you know who I was then?” He asked. “You had aged quite a bit so not at first. I had my suspicions though. Then I saw the way you wielded a sword. Similar to Elladan. Then I watched you from afar when you were hunting. You did so like Elrohir.” She said. “So you did not use foresight at all to know my identity.” He realized. “No. We did not. We told you who you were when you were twenty. We sent you to Gondor in hopes of your claiming of the throne but you decided you didn’t want it. While I admired your carefulness, father was less than thrilled. Then when you wanted to go off on your own, father couldn’t stop you but he couldn’t allow the location of Rivendell to be fully revealed so he--” “Forced me to forget.” He repeated. “...Yes.” she said.

Hearing all of this made Aragorn’s head spin even if he was dying now. “I’m surprised you never questioned the blanks in your memories.” Arwen said. “I... always assumed I was blocking out something that I didn’t want to remember.” He admitted. “Aragorn. I can fill in the blanks later but right now my sister needs you.” She said, more urgent than the last time she brought this up. “Is something happening to her?” He asked, concern clearly creeping onto his face. “She is dying Aragorn. She needs you there.” Arwen said. “She wasn’t struck in battle, how is she dying!?” He asked. “Elves can die of a broken heart.” She said, looking at him. “wouldn’t she be reborn?” He asked. “Do you really wish to die now?” Arwen asked, clearly avoiding the answer. “Arwen, would she not be reborn?” He asked. Arwen went silent and he frowned. “Arwen...” He asked. “...That is not my burden to share.” She said. “She is no longer immortal, yes or no?” He asked. “Yes.” Arwen said.

Granted Aragorn, at least in the moment, was in a different plain, he felt his heart pound. “why would she make that choice?” He asked. “that is not--” “Arwen, please.” He said. She sighed. “She felt it to be... unfair. To so many who were not blessed with our long lives.” Arwen said. “Is that the only reason she gave?” He asked. “She has another reason. But that reason is something she would have to feel comfortable coming to you about it.” She said. He nodded, looking down. “You have yet to answer me. Do you wish to die, or do you want to live?”

Silence fell over him and Arwen gave him a questioning look.

The sun was slowly rising, the rays of light hitting your face. Aragorn was still unconscious and had been for four days now. You slowly opened your eyes to see Aragorn still as a rock. You closed your eyes and sighed, Legolas looking at you from a chair next to the window. “You’re awake.” He noticed. “yes.” You mumbled, brushing the strands away from Aragorn’s face. You closed your eyes, silently praying that he’d wake up soon. “He’ll need a medic to change his bandages soon.” You muttered. “Would you like me to go get one?” Legolas asked. “No... No I’ll go.” You muttered. As you got up to leave though, a hand grabbed your wrist and you froze. “Aragorn!?” You gasped. “What does a dying man have to do for some water?” He asked, Legolas gaping. “You-you’re alive!” you gasped. “It’s going to take a lot more than two arrows to kill me Y/n, I promise you that.” he said with a chuckle. You looked at him, concern filling your gaze. “I’m sorry I worried you Y/n.” He said. You shook your head. “I should’ve reacted quicker. I should’ve made you go with me--” “You were worried about your family, I understand that. Y/n, you owe me no apology.” He halted. “I failed you--” “There’s a lot of things you’ve done Y/n, but failing me is not one of them.” He said.

Arwen walked in and sighed with relief. Aragorn was unsure if the odd dream state he was in was a shared memory between him and Arwen. However something about her gaze was telling him that there was a good chance it was. “I need to speak with your father.” He said to you. “I’ll go get him--” “No. I need to get up.” He said. “You need rest.” You said. “I’ve been in bed resting for what feels like years. I am done resting.” He said, leaning. He got up, leaning against you. “Oldie.” you muttered, earning a chuckle from him. “Says the woman who’s thousands of years old.” He said, slowly walking on his own. He winced, the wound in his leg clearly affecting him. “Aragorn, maybe you need a cane?” Legolas suggested. “Or my friend.” He said. Without hesitation, you walked over, escorting him to your father.

Elrond was walking with Elladan, speaking with him when Elladan stopped, gaping at what was in front of him. “What is it-- Aragorn!?” Elrond gaped. Relief washed over him and he walked over, bringing surprise to you as your father hugged him. Elrond pulled away and Aragorn’s gaze went to Elladan. “Come here old friend.” He said, Elladan hugging him. You rose a brow. “You know my brother?” You asked. “I know both of your brothers.” Aragorn said. “You remember?” Elrond asked. “While I may not understand your reasoning for making me forget, I understand your need for Y/n’s safety.” Aragorn assured. “Am I missing something here?” You asked. “... I suppose you do need an explanation.” Elrond said. “I’ll tell her. After I get something to drink.” He said. “And food. You need food.” You said. He chuckled, looking over at you with adoration in his eyes. “You don’t even have all the answers and your still insistent to take care of me, hmm?” Aragorn asked. You felt your cheeks flush and you assisted him once more in walking.

You walked to the hall of fire, sitting at the table. “Y/n-” “wait a moment.” You halted, pouring him water. “I think you deserve to know-” “I’ll see if I can get something to eat.” You said. You turned to leave but Aragorn gripped your hand, looking into your eyes. “Y/n, wait.” He said. You swallowed, looking into his eyes. “Why do you wish to halt answers?” He asked. “Will this change us? Our friendship? Is it bad? Aragorn I’m terrified.” you said, voice daring to crack under the pressure of the secrets. “No. It is not bad. It’s odd, but nothing worrying.” He assured. You sighed, closing your eyes. “I’m being ridiculous.” You muttered. “Your anxieties are reasonable mime melin (my dear).” He said. You blinked.

“What did you just call me?” You asked. “Mime melin” he repeated, looking in your eyes. You swallowed, debating on asking about the nature of his words, whether they were endearing or romantic. You figured yourself to be reading too much into this but his fingers drew to your face, brushing back your hair. Your breath halted and he looked into your eyes. “What is it that... You wished to speak about?” you asked. He cleared his throat, a servant putting food next to him. “right. I know about your sacrifice.” he said. You rose a brow. “My ‘sacrifice?” you asked. “You chose to give up your immortality.” he said. You swallowed, avoiding his eyes. “Do you know why?” You asked. “I know one reason why.” He said. You looked up. “How do you know this?” you asked. “I seemed to receive a lot of answers as I was potentially dying.” He said. “You felt that it was unfair for you to have a lifelong advantage when so many did not have one.” He said, sipping on his water. “That was one reason.” you muttered. “Might I hear your other reason?” He asked.

You retreated, looking down. “Do you feel uncomfortable with sharing your reasons?” he asked. You debated, truly wrestling with your emotions on whether or not you should voice your feelings. You nodded though, ultimately sealing your lips on the matter for the time being. “Then we will discuss this when you’re comfortable.” He assured, his hands clasped around yours. You nodded slowly. Something was different with him. Something had changed. He was more gentle with you. More affectionate. But why?

Truth be told, Aragorn’s time in the Fade was not spent idly. Arwen had spoken with him on various subjects, all of them having one common theme. You. You weren’t exactly intended to be the subject on most of his answers either. You were the natural answer to a lot of the questions.

“If you did take the throne, who could you see taking the throne with you?” Arwen would ask. “Y/n.” He would respond, so quickly it nearly sounded rehearsed. “If you died who would you actually want to see in the Fade?” Again, his answer was “Y/n.” You were his constant. Around the fourth or fifth time, it slowly dawned on him that he loved you. Truly, deeply loved you. He was frozen when he figured this out. When he felt it. His heart swelled with this overbearing emotion, swaying his ultimate opinion to stay. Aragorn survived because you kept his heart beating. You kept him alive, you kept his mind from choosing the option to die. You were his reason, and you had no idea that you were what made him pull through despite the odds.

You swallowed, looking at him, heart pounding before a servant put food in front him and you. “I...” You breathed before pulling your hands away. “I’m glad you’ve survived.” you said. He nodded, looking down with a slight blush on his face after he realized his forwardness. You swallowed, looking at your plate in silence.

Legolas stood in the doorway with Arwen, watching you two from afar. “I think they’re finally realizing their feelings.” He said. “It only took Aragorn almost dying for him to realize he loved her.” She muttered. “Did you meet him in the Fade?” He asked. “yes.” She nodded. Legolas nodded, turning his vision back to you and Aragorn. “Do you think they’ll admit their feelings soon?” He asked. She shrugged. “It’s hard to say.” She said. “At least we know it’ll happen.” He sighed. “Perhaps it will happen soon.” Arwen muttered. “With how stupid they are to love... Are you sure?” Legolas asked.

She looked at you who was staring intensely at soup to hide your blush.

“...No.”

#aragorn x reader #aragorn imagine #aragorn

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do-androids-dream-ao3acc · 3 years

Photo

Done on request (out yourself if you dare): What if Geralt receives fan mail? Well. Have 2317 words of corniness. On AO3 or below the cut.

It began, of course, by accident.

Geralt now spent almost half the year in Vizima, less when he was on contract or on his vineyard or Emhyr was called to Nilfgaard by matters that could not be postponed. So Emhyr had a room set up for him in the palace. Geralt used the place to make potions when he needed them; he kept a second armor set there (after some events had taught him that this might be necessary), and at some point even had Eskel send him some books from the old fortress.

That evening, Emhyr found him in that room. Geralt had not bothered to arrange the chamber in any way to his liking. This was an indelible trait about him, a habit with such a pull that even the – compared to the capital palace – rather modest luxury of the surroundings did nothing to change it. In principle, Geralt knew all facets of comfort. Still, he had slept outdoors longer in his life than in a bed with silk sheets, so perhaps it was no wonder that he didn't value the furnishings in this room. There was a kind of work table against one wall, a few bookshelves, an armchair, and a desk, which he at least used occasionally to write letters. It was austere and utilitarian, more a place of work than relaxation, so Emhyr was almost surprised to find him sitting in an armchair reading.

"Please tell me this is not another one of those erotica slush from that anonymous hack," Emhyr said as he entered.

Geralt looked up in surprise. "If I were you, I wouldn't be so disparaging about the author – as far as I know, you've profited from his fantasies," he replied with a wink. "And no, it's nothing salacious."

He lifted the booklet so that Emhyr could read the title. As he did so, a slip of paper, apparently used as a bookmark, fluttered out of the pages. In a fit of gallantry, Emhyr bent down and picked up the sheet. He glanced at it, suddenly frowned.

"What's that?" he asked, his voice a mixture of amusement and, oddly enough, nearly accusation.

Geralt shrugged. "You remember that tournament I told you about?"

"In Touissaint? Hard to forget, since you won it – and are fond of telling about it when you've had too much to drink," Emhyr replied dryly. "However, there had been no mention of love letters in the stories so far."

"That hardly passes for a love letter," Geralt replied.

Emhyr turned the paper back in his direction and read aloud, "To the owner of those strong arms, men like you drive me wild. I want to have a herd of your white-haired, scar-faced babies. Signed by an enthralled admirer."

"I got another one that describes me as perfectly muscled," Geralt said.

Emhyr's raised brows might indicate surprise or disapproval; it was hard to tell.

"Flattering, I'm sure. But why did you keep the letters?"

Geralt thought about it for a moment. "I don't really know," he finally admitted.

"You use them as bookmarks."

"Fine, let's say they're flattering," Geralt replied lightly. "You should have seen the ones in Palmerin de Launfal's tent."

On the surface, that was the end of the matter. But somehow, it wasn't. The sex they had that night was... interesting. They were often tempestuous, usually of a fervor that was difficult to contain, and it was noticeable that Emhyr's lust was not infrequently linked to his moods. When he was troubled inside, for whatever reason, it always showed in their love life. But this was different. It was rough, hard, but in a different way than usual; wilder, downright dominant – and above all, extremely exciting.

The following day, they did not address it, although they both seemed utterly satisfied. On the other hand, they were usually easy to please as far as that was concerned; they fitted each other like lock and key, were almost physically addicted to each other. The fact that they sincerely loved and adored each other was like icing on the cake that no one had expected because the filling was already so satisfying. It had taken them a while to realize that that one did not work without the other because that's just how they were.

Despite everything, it was hard to define what had been different, and everyday life left them little opportunity to delve deeper into it, even if it had been significant enough to them at all. Life went on as usual, as far as could be said in this case, when one ruled the greatest of all empires and the other willingly threw himself in the way of monsters.

Neither Geralt nor Emhyr were really convinced of the power of coincidence, and yet Emhyr stumbled upon a little secret purely by chance. That day he sat in his study, as usual, alone in the contemplative quiet that came both from his surroundings and his work routine. The things he did here – reading, evaluating, deciding, signing – were little different from anything he did in the many hours he spent in public; here, however, there were not the manifold distractions of the overloud, exceedingly annoying courtiers and his advisors, who were always trying to outdo each other in their boot licking.

There was something familiar and reassuring in the stack of papers on his desk. There were always a good number of letters among them; petitions, invitations, reports, and the like. One of the envelopes caught his attention. It was narrower than the others, inscribed in fine, delicate handwriting, and surprisingly, a slight hint of a rosy perfume emanated from it. Although Emhyr made a point of handling his mail almost ritualistically from top to bottom as it was presented to him, he pulled out this envelope and noticed to his surprise that the letter was not addressed to him at all. It was for Geralt.

What exactly was it that drove him to pull the ornate knife through the envelope and open a letter that was obviously not meant for him? Emhyr preferred to ignore a certain voice inside him, too tempted by the scent and the handwriting. It was, of course, a love letter, a many-line ode to white hair and, by the great sun, strong thighs.

He did not even try to claim that he had opened the letter by mistake, and strangely enough, there was no expected accusation from Geralt as to why he had read his mail. Emhyr felt strange as he presented the letter, and his tone sounded rather strained with amusement as he said, "I guess you have more admirers than you think."

Geralt said nothing to this; he took the letter, skimmed it, made some mocking remark, and put the paper aside. They spoke no more about it, but that night they loved each other again with that distinct fierceness. Their passion was almost painful; still, at the same time, of a kind that needed no words, no explanations. But once again, neither of them drew a connection or wondered what exactly was so different. Those were unprecedented, memorable moments, and in the face of permanent, smoldering danger, they had learned to live in the present: to enjoy what they had, to appreciate when times were quiet.

They might never have talked about it because it might never have happened again – and it would have been all right, a special gift at an ordinary time; a surprise no one expected and could never hope to repeat. Until that particular evening, which seemed almost like a repetition of the first event, a strange deja vu. It had been a particularly long day, a day full of things that threw Emhyr out of his usual routine, and as for Geralt, he had spent hours poring over an old potion recipe that Eskel had sent him and asked him for an opinion on. That they found time for each other was more than a welcome change, and the kisses they exchanged were a mutual assurance that their companionship, their love, would always be their common refuge.

How exactly it came about that Emhyr stumbled upon the pile of letters was hard to reconstruct later, and it was not important. As a matter of fact, a loose piece of paper and a note in a fragrant envelope had turned into a whole bunch of love letters. A pile of love vows, adorations of pale skin and milk-white hair, of tight muscles and... well, powerful privates.

"When did they all arrive?" asked Emhyr, a little stunned, although always trying to keep his composure.

"In recent weeks. Well, months," Geralt admitted bluntly. "Basically since the wedding... I hardly get any to Corvo Bianco, but they seem to find it kind of stimulating to send them here."

He actually seemed blatantly amused by this fact, and Emhyr didn't ask why he had kept the letters. Instead, he pushed Geralt onto the desk, and then across it; and what happened next had as much to do with the word lovemaking from one of the letters as a body of stagnant water has to do with the ocean. It wasn't just rough, it was close to absolute ruthlessness, and it didn't stop at the desk.

The polished stone floor of a plain study room was hardly the appropriate place for the conversation, but now seemed like the right time, and they realized they had simply been delaying the inevitable. It was the floor where they ended, breathless and amazed.

"I don't know why you're angry, but.... could we do this more often?"

Emhyr appeared taken aback as he replied, "What makes you think I'm angry?"

Geralt looked at him for a long moment. His hair was a mess, and he lay there almost shattered. It wasn't true that witchers couldn't blush; there was this particular spot on Geralt's neck that bore witness to the past few minutes. Emhyr couldn't stop staring at it.

"I don't know," Geralt finally replied, "but if that wasn't rage sex..."

"You're still reading those stories," Emhyr sighed. Then he half straightened, propped himself on his elbow, and admitted, "I don't know what that was."

Geralt shook his head. "Are you perhaps jealous?" he asked frankly. "Don't get me wrong; I really want us to do this again. But didn't you notice that it has something to do with the letters?"

"They're love letters, Geralt."

"Yes, and they're flattering, sure, but..."

"Is that what it is about?" asked Emyhr. "Do you want me to compliment you? You're as romantic like an old ass, Geralt, but maybe there's more to you than…"

The words came mockingly, but Emhyr broke off when he saw Geralt's perplexed face. Then he smiled one of his incredibly rare and special smiles.

"You have no idea," he said. "After all this time, you still have no idea how beautiful you are, and that's why part of you doesn't believe that anyone could give you an honest compliment. But another part of you wishes that's exactly what happened, and that's why you kept the letters."

"Men are handsome, not beautiful," Geralt said evasively.

"I suppose it depends on who's looking at them. Anyway, there are obviously more who appreciate your features than you think," Emhyr said as he ran his fingers over some of the scars on Geralt's chest, causing the latter to shiver with pleasure.

"Jealous after all," Geralt returned, almost sounding as flattered as he was by the stately number of letters he had received.

"Stupid after all," said Emhyr, tenderly knocking his fingers against Geralt's sweaty forehead. Considering the fact that he extremely rarely joked, that was almost an accolade. Then, suddenly, he became serious. "You're right," he admitted unexpectedly, "it has to do with the letters. My life is predictable to a certain extent, Geralt. Determined by routines, rules, and regulations, full of constants, and that's good, that's... order. And then there's you. The one undeterminable, the unknown in the equation."

"I bring chaos?" Geralt teased, but Emhyr didn't buy into it.

"You bring life. A whole other constant. Trust without rules. I don't know what it is that keeps you, but it's not power or wealth or prestige. To try to hold you anywhere at all seems to me like trying to... well, let's save comparisons with wild animals. But you could always decide to leave, couldn't you? You are not bound by any etiquette, tradition, or rules."

Geralt shook his head, almost indulgently. He took Emhyr's right hand in his, pressed a kiss on it, and then held it in front of his face.

"Isn't that a bond? Is that not a promise? I don't even know who you think less of, me or yourself."

"I think very highly of you," Emhyr said softly.

"Well, I guess the feeling is mutual. And if I had known that love letters would spur you on like that, I would have written some myself. Besides, you get mail from admirers yourself, my dear."

"In which I am not usually promised kisses on my white neck," his spouse replied dryly.

"Unimaginative," Geralt returned, and his smile shone up to his eyes. "Maybe I really should write some of these letters myself and mix them inconspicuously in with your mail. I could praise myself being a white stallion..."

Emhyr raised his brows and sighed. "You have been reading those books again, haven't you?"

"I don't know where you get that idea. But if you need inspiration outside of corny letters, there's this one, it suggested…"

Geralt leaned forward. White hair and warm breath brushed Emhyr's ear, and at a few whispered words, his eyes widened. He pressed his hands against his witcher's chest, pinning him to the floor.

For this, he did not need instructions.

#writing #fanfiction #fanfic #Emhyr x Geralt #Geralt x Emhyr #witcher 3 fanfiction #Emralt #Emhyralt

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stattic-writes · 4 years

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Misunderstood

https://statticscribbles.tumblr.com/post/639099629845233664/masterlist

Support My Writing?

#newt scamander #newt scamander x reader #newt scamander x you #newt scamander x y/n #newt x you #newt x y/n #newt x reader #fantastic beats and where to find them #fbawtft #fantastic beasts and where to find them imagine #fbawtft imagine #harry potter #harry potter reader insert #harry potter imagine #eddie redmayne #eddie redmayne imagine #female reader #female reader insert

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honestsycrets · 5 years

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The Third Wife

❛ pairing | Ragnar x reader

❛ type | (?)

❛ summary | Ragnar is caught in a lie he can’t take back.

❛ warnings | murder, death, younger seasons, polygyny, dark!lagertha

requests filled | Hi I was wondering if it would be possible for you to write a story about the reader and Ragnar as they have their first child together and she decides to name him after athelstan. And as their child grows Ragnar notices how much his son remind him of his old friend

Can you please do a series where Ragnar has a secret family with the reader that no one in his family know about until they one day catch him out and about with the reader and their child. Aslaug decide to tell the reader the truth about Ragnar. Now Ragnar has to manage the flames he caused.

Hi, I have a request for a Ragnar x reader one shot about Ragnar marrying (after leaving Aslaug) a younger woman and having children with her. Thanks!

In a home of many children, it is scarce to get time alone.

Sliding out of the home during midday was the only way to take your beloved bath on those days. Your beloved thralls would care for the children as you bathed in a clear stream, the pebbles under your toes and fishes dancing delightfully underfoot.

In these spare minutes, you can run the hunk of soap over your body. Honey is a distant pleasure. One that your oldest son… Vesteinn had given you. Your nipples perk under the soap, the cool water from your hands falling over the perk of your breasts. Your mind wanders.

“Touch her here.”

Fingers drifted between your lips. Shy, quiet gasps from his lips. His hips snapping, time with rapid thrusts of fingers over your clit. A silent scream. A slap of hips. Cumming, cumming and-- god, those blue eyes set into a pale face. Not your husband’s sultry eyes. No.

They were far too… concerned for that.

“Are you alright, (Y/N)?”

Your fingers sneak between your lips at the memory. It was this memory that left you questioning. Was Vesteinn really ever your husband’s child? Was it… his?

“Queen (Y/N).”

The voice comes somewhere behind you. You turn, long hair slapping your naked breasts. A woman stands where you expect a man. Her hair cropped short like a slave’s, eyes trained upon the postnatal bump that distended your stomach.

“Excuse… me?” you tremor. Your hands snap in front of your body, pressing a line of cleavage together.

“That is what they call you, is it not?”

You wad closer, making out the sharp angles of this woman’s face. A coin sits upon her forehead etched of gold. A rune that has been turned down. The headdress of a queen. Your hair diffuses into the water at your waist.

“It is,” you say, approaching a respectful distance. “My husband is--”

“Ragnar Lothbrok.”

Her thin lips purse. Yours press together, then puff out like a flower. Before you can ask her relation to your husband, the willowy woman outstretches her hand. You wad your way out of the water, taking her slender hand.

“How did you…” you trail off, staring up at her. Her tall, willowy features. Almost like a witch. Perhaps she is a witch. You determine yourself not to upset her.

“Ragnar is my husband.” She begins to draw a tale. You cut her short.

��That is impossible. I assure you, he would ask me for a sec--”

“You are the third wife.”

Her voice commands both your respect and your understanding. You look up to her, eye to eye, understanding what she says to be the truth. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to,” Aslaug assures. She opens her lips to speak again but no words come from them. You repeat a respectful title when she slouches forward, her wolfish smile growing by the second. She collapses upon you.

“Lady?” You grasp the furs over her chest, quickly realizing your hand runs over the wood shaft of an arrow that has pierced into her chest cavity. A nearly immediate kill. You drop onto the grassy plain underneath your ass, cradling her body. The bow woman behind her rests her shoulders and arms, having loosened her shot upon her kill.

“You’ve killed her!”

“An unfortunate necessity,” the blonde bounds from her steps. She flicks the Queen Aslaug onto her chest over the grass. You shift the redhead’s hair behind the shell of her pale ear. The blonde strides forward, and when her boot hits the bottom of your foot, you realize that she will not go away. “Aslaug was a witch. You shouldn’t grieve for her.”

“But you had no right! She was doing nothing wrong.”

The woman bends down, bringing your head from Aslaug’s crumbled form over the ground. She forces your eyes to meet hers. They’re unwilling to meet her eyes. You hold her gaze for a scant few seconds. She hums in approval for your motion, angling your cheek this way, then that, admiring your soft and pleasant face.

“I see why he likes you,” she whispers low, hand at last dropping from your face. She sets it with little regard over her knee.

“What do you mean?”

“Come along.”

You’ve no clothes and no will to walk down the curving road toward home if that is where you are going at all. But when you look back toward your pile of clothes, she grasps you by your upper arm and all but throws you in the right direction. You stumble naked down the road, your hands covering your exposed breasts. To escape with a bow, would be risky. This woman is of even mind. If she were to aim, you feel she would not miss.

The farm is empty.

Strange as it were, a gathering of men clears the way with much ribaldry on their parts. The woman commands the rowdiest of the men to clean up her work in the river’s path. A black banner flies. It’s wings soar in the wind, almost as if flying toward victory rather than defeat. Lagertha! The men and women shout.

The shieldmaiden queen?

Lagertha pushes open the door to your home. Inside you smell the seared flesh of horse meat. Sitting there on your marital bed is your husband. He sits with his legs slightly ajar. A slim overtunic on his gut. Beside him though-- is your son. Your oldest son with hid black hair braided over his shoulder. The beginnings of a nice beard on his chin. He looks up, then his eyes flicker back down in respect to you. Ragnar sits taking your sight in, his hand at his beard.

“You lied to me,” you know how little your words mean to him.

Little enough that he took three wives. Not two, as he would have you think could be a possibility in the future, but three. His actions saturated in disrespect, his head turns very still. Vesteinn suddenly breaks the interaction.

“Father…” he trails in a soft, smooth voice that sounds so… so familiar. “May I get mother a gown?”

Ragnar pushes the boy in the direction. He trudges off and brings back a beautiful dress, simple as it were. You take it from him when Ragnar speaks again, shooing Vesteinn off. “You see it in him too.”

“Of course I do,” you say as you slip it on. “He’s just like him.”

Lagertha settles beside her husband. They exchange a short few words before turning up to you. His voice commands a sigh, exasperated like a husband who has been pulled around by his wife. Perhaps that is what has happened, also.

“It’s true that I lied,” Ragnar begins his explanation. “Aslaug was my second with, Lagertha my first and current.”

“So then taking me from Kattegat was--”

“So that Ragnar could breed two different homes.” Lagertha finishes your sentence, head level and proud. Your head snaps to meet her gaze. “But there has been a development.”

“What is that?” you ask.

“Mother, look at this baby!” your daughter, young Dagny, comes in. She’s no older than the youngest of Ragnar’s children with Ubbe and in her arms is a large bundled package. You gasp, realizing that a small child is in her arms.

“A boy,” you gasp, taking him from his half-sister’s arms.

“His legs are funny.”

Funny? Your hand slinks into the blankets, feeling his legs. The poor thing-- you exhale, realizing what sort of child you have in your arms. One that had been… touched by the gods. Ragnar sets his hands to his knees.

“Aslaug can’t bring him up the way you can,” he speaks.

“Why do you say that?”

Ragnar’s eyes flicker toward the other room where Vesteinn exited. There is your answer. You brought up another man’s son without blaming him for that night. For letting Athelstan cum deep inside of you and taking his seed into the one-child he cherished as dearly as he cherished Bjorn. Your teeth crunch together but you nod.

“Stoke the flames, Dagny.”

You turn toward the fire, holding the small boy in your arms. “If I bring her children up,” you begin. “It will be in the old ways, Ragnar.”

“There is no other way,” Lagertha says. No doubt having killed Aslaug of some lover’s quarrel. Why else would she have murdered her in such a way?

You settle with the knowledge, looking over your shoulder toward Ragnar in full knowledge of the doubt of the gods Athelstan helped curdle in your husband. Ragnar nods in agreement to your terms and then stops as if he wants to say something to you. He sneaks behind you, pressing a small kiss to the junction of your neck and shoulder. Strong hands keep you in place there, recognizing your doubts.

“Was I always only your womb?” you ask him.

“You’re much more than that.” He speaks, but you aren’t sure you believe him. You call your thralls to help instill a bed for the king-- and true queen, slipping out from his arms behind the divider to where the children were. Your five. Aslaug’s four.

Home just got more complicated.

“Mother?” Vesteinn comes beside you. His thumb comes up, pushing away dripping tears over your cheekbones. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” you answer quickly, holding your newfound son to your chest. “Look, your new brother. His name is Ivar. Ivar the Boneless.”

Vesteinn grimaces internally, but smiles as he turns his brilliant blue eyes to the boy. You’re lying-- and he knows it. “He’s beautiful, mother.”

@supernaturalvikingwhore @generic-fangirl @unassumingviking@babypink224221 @multi-fandom-fanfiction @beautifully-quixotic@tomarisela @alicedopey @candyheartsandcigarettes @majikpyrohades@p8tn0lish @naaladareia @allvikingsfanfic @bat-fam-blob @vikingwolfsworld23 @notyouaveragegirl @ladywolf44005

#Ragnar x Reader #Ragnar/reader #vikings imagines #vikings imagine #vikings #the vikings #Ragnar's Ravens #ragnar's lambs #viking/reader #vikings x reader #king ragnar x reader #Ragnar imagine

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myhauntedsalem · 4 years

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Terror on Clinton Avenue

On a cold December night in 1878 Edward F. Smith decided to walk down to the Myrtle avenue police station. He hadn’t had much sleep in the past two weeks and was beginning to question his own sanity.

Mr. Smith was as passionate as a skeptic as he was a master builder. He worked in a world with tangible objects, and rational fears. A world where ghosts and spirits were nothing but mere tales for distraction. However for the past few weeks Edward, his wife and his two young daughters had been terrorized by what they could only assume were phantoms living inside their old Knickerbocker-styled home on Clinton avenue in Brooklyn, New York.

Barging through the precinct’s doors Edward rattled the late-shift awake. The few police officers unfortunate enough to work the late shift that cold night stopped and stared at the wild-eyed man. The man’s bloodshot eyes conveyed a sense of deep disturbance and a desperate plead for help: “I need help. Someone has to help us.”

Edward told the officers about strange and disturbing activity occurring in his home on Clinton avenue. He reported that someone or something had been pestering his family by ringing the front door excessively. Ringing in the middle of the night and when he ran to check, there would be no one at the door. Edward went on to tell them that it wasn’t just the ringing of the bell, but also loud knocks on their front door. There was also something else. Something terrifying enough that had made Edward trek down the icy streets to the police station in the middle of the night.

He told the officers about his dinning room. About how it and the kitchen were separated by heavy doors. Doors that shook violently at night as if someone was trying to shake them off their hinges. The officers looked at each other with yawning disbelief. However seeing how upset and shaken Edward had become while explaining his situation, Detective Price decided it was worth investigating. On a Wednesday night Detective Price, along with a few other fellow officers, went to investigate 136 Clinton avenue.

Four corinthian pillars stood before the Smith’s front door. A respectable entryway for a respectable, two story affair. But the men were not there to marvel at the the old colonial architecture, they were there to investigate the supposed phantom ringer. They first performed a visual examination of the doorbell, it revealed nothing unusual. Inside the residence the police were greeted by a nervous, almost panicked, Mrs. Smith. The couples young daughters were also present and like their mother, terrified with what was happening inside their home.

Price instructed one of the officers to stand by the front door and sit and wait for the bell to be rung. When it did, he was to open the door. He instructed the other one to hide and wait by the dinning room, ready to pounce on the would-be pranksters Price was convinced was behind the phantom noises. During the middle of the night, as the Smith’s daughters lay in bed and their concerned parents entertained their guarding guests, as it had done for the past few weeks, the front door bell rang. It’s metallic ringing echoed through the cold, dark house. Everyone froze.

The officer standing-by opened the door expecting to catch a child prankster in mid-act. Instead, he was greeted by the same uneasy emptiness that had been greeting the Smiths. The confused officer checked around and behind the massive pillars by the front door.

Nothing, no one in sight. When asked, the officer told the detective that he had only felt a freezing gust of wind blow past him. He said that after the bell rang and he opened the door there wasn’t a soul in sight. The three policemen did a perimeter check of the property. The front porch sat about forty feet back from the main street. The property was fenced and it would have taken someone a considerable amount of effort and skills to run across the yard undetected and jump over the fence before the bell was answered.

The uneasiness soon spread from one of the men to the other two, like the heavy coldness that began to creep in.

They went back to the doorbell and this time really taking their time to examine the rig. However the baffled police found nothing out of the ordinary. No tricks, no wires, no mysterious springs that could have set off the bell. It became apparent to the policemen that the bell only rang because someone pressed the lever. The police came back to the family perturbed and empty handed. Just then the doors that separated the dinning room began to shake in a violent manner. Everyone in the living room jumped at the loud banging and thrashing noises the instantly filled the residence on 136 Clinton avenue.

The deafening clattering and banging against the doors shook the house’s skeleton. Strong and loud enough to make Edward think that the once solid structure was about to collapse on top of them. However just as the thunderous ruckus appeared to be shaking the entire house off its foundation, it abruptly ceased. Like the creeping cold, a dead silence soon engulfed the nervous crowd. Upstairs, the two girls had slept peacefully. Unaware of the bedlam below.

The men inspected the entire house and the outside and found no signs of another person, prankster or not, outside in the freezing cold. It was then suggested that they sprinkle flour and ashes near the doors to try and catch the intruder’s footprints. Once the trap was set, they all went back into the living room and waited.

Not long after that the banging and ringing broke the silence once again. Immediately the officers went to check on the traps they had set. They anticipated finding footprints that would lead them to the hidden prankster. When they neared the front door the ringing stopped. Again they found no one on the other side of the door.

Inspecting the flour and ash mixture yielded no settling answers. The flour remained undisturbed throughout the house even though the ringing and banging of the doors sounded louder and more aggressive than before.

Detective Price threw his hands up in despair. “This is too much…it’s beyond me.”

Just then, in plain sight of the detective and everyone else, three loud knocks reverberated off the opened front door. The keen-eyed detective stared at the emptiness in front of him, trying to make out a silhouette or a hand of the phantom knocker he had come to believe in. It was then that a brick crashed through one of the living room windows, landing on the wooded flooring with a heavy thud. The two officers quickly ran outside and just like before, found not a living soul out in the streets.

The night sky dissolved into a crimson hue as the sun warmed away the frost. Inside the house Edward stoked the fire as his wife poured coffee for them both, another sleepless night had passed and the Smiths were on edge. The police had left just hours before and were of no help besides proving to the Edward and his family that they were not crazy. That something supernatural was occurring inside 136 Clinton avenue. That following night a small crowd had gathered outside the Smith’s residence. Curious onlookers stood outside for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghostly activities they’ve come to hear about the place.

Mrs. Smith looked out her window to see neighbors, friends, and strangers all gathering outside her home. She saw a group of policemen part through the throng of onlookers and walk up to her front door. It was Detective Price with other uniformed men. The detective introduce Captain Mclaughlin and his squad to Edward and his wife. The captain assured the couple that they would do anything in their power to help them with the situation. An assurance that both the Smiths and the detective knew meant nothing. The captain’s words fell on listless stares.

Detective Price had noticed that Edward had muffled the bell next to the door by wrapping it and jamming it up with some cloth. It had been done out of desperation, a shoddy temporary fix from the master builder who by now was visibly overwhelmed by the unseen forces that fell upon his home.

Weeks passed and the poltergeist activity lessened around the house. Months after their terrifying ordeal started, the Smiths reported that only light tappings could occasionally be heard throughout their home. Neighbors and officers soon forgot about the haunting that reportedly plagued the Smith residence. The bell ringing, the shaking shutters, and the breaking windows soon ceased and tranquility once again fell upon Clinton avenue. No explanation was ever given for what happened inside the Smith residence.

To this day, the house stands tall with its prominent pillars facing Clinton street. Holding up the dark history behind one of Brooklyn’s classic poltergeist cases.

#Terror on Clinton Avenue #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

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debbie-tanthorey · 4 years

Text

65 DAYS IN MAY

CHAPTER ONE

Cosmic irony. A dentist saved me. You read that correctly – saved my LIFE, albeit inadvertently. An action as mundane as having one’s teeth cleaned, set fate in motion. Was the week of Thanksgiving 2019, bi-annual check-up. Dentist does his thing after the hygienist finishes. You know the drill (pun intended). Only this time he uncustomarily offers me a hand-mirror, tells me to look in my throat, asks me if I've had my tonsils out.

“No”

“You have a white spot back there, see that?” My eyes shift toward the mirror – I LIE – say I see it (don’t have my glasses on, PRIDE won’t let me admit I can’t see any white patch) He continues, “If you don't mind, am referring you to an oral surgeon for a biopsy.” The nefarious B-word; brain fires a warning shot. B-word leads to the C-word.

Alone now in my car, I fall apart. Hi, I'm a hypochondriac; I don't handle health challenges well despite the jovial persona folks see. A paralyzed-with-fear hypochondriac. Foremost in my thoughts is a long-time friend from high school, currently dealing with a devastating throat cancer diagnosis; I know not to minimize this. (R.I.P. Grady, August 8, 2020 😔) Get to my desk, dial my primary physician immediately, which is a big deal for introverted-me; set up an appointment for a second opinion. The Thanksgiving holiday means I can't be seen until the following week. What is normally a fun, family-gathering time of year, is effectively fogged in with dread, I go through the motions. All-consuming thoughts ruminate incessantly - I'm dying. Yeah, it's what hypochondriacs DO, we ‘dive off into the deep end,’ thrash, drown in ‘what if’s??’

The next week, my doctor smiles after he peers past my tongue into my throat, “Where?” Looks twice, insists I relax, “It's nothing.” He knows me well, adding, “if it would make you feel better, let's follow-up in three months.” His reassurance tempers my panic . . life resumes.

CHAPTER TWO

December 2019, January, February, 2020 the winter that wasn't. Work that was. Mid-February Housing fair at Ohio University's Walter Hall Rotunda. Event coordinator, Donna, introduces herself to Dave and me at our display table. Lively-soul, (I admire extroverts) she explains she recently transferred to this area from Columbus and, among other things, is a Stage 4 breast cancer survivor. Woman is spunky. Piques my interest. I share my sister's email address with her, explaining Cheryl is an 18-month soldier waging the same battle.

March approaches and the little nagging voice in my head reminds, “3-month follow-up, Deb, just do it.” Did. Friday, March 6. Confirmed, no dumb spot. Ha!! Your basic normal appointment. Crisis debunked. As visit concludes, Hillary, his nurse, scrolls through my medical record, turns to mention it's been more than a couple years since my last mammogram, they’ve all been clear, but I'm due, and would I want to set up one.

“Sure”

My youngest, Leah, works in this same medical facility, stop at her desk near the lab to say ‘hello.’ She’s my last to leave home, miss her in my house still. Always good to see and talk to her. She and Ian were married 18 months ago. Her desk-mate, Jordan, coincidentally one of Leah’s friends from her high school days, sets up my mammo appointment for Monday.

MONDAY, MARCH 9. Say ‘hello’ again to the girls at their desk. Check-in. Take a seat, wait my turn. Have had plenty of these 'grams in my lifetime, no big deal, no dread. Bare 'em, squash 'em, and get back to work. This time though, the tech knows my sister, and as I dress when we are done, from behind the screen she casually asks how old Cheryl was when she got her diagnosis and how’s she doing. (60. She is doing remarkably well, maintaining) 10 minutes later, I’m back at my work desk, phone rings, the mammo-tech is on the phone, needing me to return the next day for “a couple more, 'maybe clearer' pics, and an ultrasound.” That’s never happened before. A fleeting shot of panic surges, but since my most recent dread has been unfounded, I attempt to not over-react.

TUESDAY, MARCH 10. Keenly study the radiology-tech’s face for clues when she comes to fetch me from the lobby, I examine her demeanor as if I’m a police detective on a high-profile murder case and she’s my prime suspect. She's calm. So I'm cool. Rescan first, ultrasound second. Not especially pleasant the latter, (idiotic thing to say, was wholly unpleasant ) having your chest unceremoniously smashed in a circular motion against your ribs. The techs are studious, the room silent, I stare at the ceiling. Last time I had an ultrasound was 26 years ago and I was pregnant. Today, no fun at all. Understand now why my sister mentioned she is not a fan of these during her breast cancer struggles.

CHAPTER THREE

SATURDAY, MARCH 14, a knock on the front door, mailman is standing on my front porch and in the time it takes me to scribble my name on a card, I'm staring down at a certified letter in my palm, the return address of the clinic lunging off the paper at me. There's a low, barely-audible, foreign sound in my head. It's 'control', in human form, and is protesting/whining as she’s being forcibly dragged away from me. Remind myself I'm somewhat sane, an adult - just open the envelope. I do. And there it is, in black and white, the word -

ABNORMALITY

The rest of the weekend is a blur, debunking the need for concern with my daughters. Every excuse, every plausible explanation of why a letter like this would be mailed. A mistake, surely so. Just a glitch in the system. “Mom, if it was bad, they wouldn't notify you by letter,” Leah insists.

MONDAY, MARCH 16, my primary physician calls in regard to my somewhat-panicky email fired-off to him on Saturday, the day the letter arrives. He speaks in calm tones, explains he was on vacation the past week, is sorry he could not talk to me before the notice arrived, he's seen the offending spot on the film, offers it's so small, unlikely any cause for concern. “Indistinctive,” he assures. Forwarding to a surgeon for review.

CHAPTER FOUR

TUESDAY, MARCH 17, mama-daughter call . . normal stuff .. she’s working today at the clinic. She mentions the aforementioned surgeon has office hours today, maybe I could be squeezed in. I’m in luck, they can. So in a couple hours, I am shaking the hand of the head of surgery. Personable guy, he tells me he's reviewed my pics, if the radiologist had not circled the area, he would not have noticed it right away. Optimism duly noted. He thoroughly examines that body part, pokes and prods, asks me if I feel a lump. “I have not.” Today he doesn't either. Every woman knows about lumps. I absolutely know about lumps. I would never ignore one. Fact of the matter, there is NO lump!

We go over my less than stellar immediate family history of C. (HATE that word). Lung, breast, leukemia. He recommends biopsy to rule out any true problem. The B-word again. This day I say, ‘ok'.

Right here is where COVID-19 makes it's bizarro presence known, personally impacts ME. Doctor advises local surgery center is now closed due to the virus and procedures are limited to emergencies only but he is willing to go before the Board to plead my case. ???? While thankful he is willing to intercede for me; I am tamping down anxiety fighting to rise up, mentally jumping up and down, stomping on it, both feet.

Couple days later I get the call the Medical Board approves me for a needle biopsy. Control-of-my-life, she is sitting on the floor in a fetal position, rocking, whimpering in a locked padded-room somewhere.

CHAPTER FIVE

TUESDAY, MARCH 24, Jess drives me to Jackson. I don't need driven. Appreciate my oldest’s company though. COVID rules necessitate only a patient be permitted to enter any facility; Jess has to wait in the car. At the door, am screened for symptoms, this is the Twilight Zone. And it's too quiet in here. The place is dark and weird and I don't want to be here. I'm the ONLY person in the entire surgery center, I overhear the staff talking, they weren’t on the schedule today, I’m the only patient. hhmmmm, why am I so important?? Creepy.

Am ushered into the procedure room, nurses are professional, put me at ease. Entering, it’s impossible to miss my film aglow on the lighted-box on the wall; she asks if I want to see it. (NO!! I don’t want to see it!!) In reality, robotically, walk over to look. There it is, plain as day. The previously described small-likely-nothing indistinctive spot. Yikes, it's a glaring, ominous, bright white glob with literal tentacles reaching out, it’s in the middle of my precious flesh. No denying this now. Thing’s staring back at me. The only way I know how to describe the rest of the appointment, is that I am having an out-of-body experience, it’s not happening to me. No . . . is not.

You know the lifts in a garage of an auto repair shop? That's what this is. Clumsily climb aboard, assume a face-down position. There's no delicate way to explain the procedure. There's an enormous hole in the table, chest area, your beloved body part dangles and the table is raised, surgeon accesses it from below. Area is securely taped, prepped and numbed. Needles are fun, aren't they??! (eye roll) Am told the table will vibrate, surgeon cautions me to lay perfectly still or the laser will slice me. (no problem, I float away, not even present in the room) And it begins. Computer guides a gatling gun of needles as it commences to stab the tumor, withdraw specimens of cells. Sounds horrific, but it isn't, numbing tends to that. Divert my eyes from the red, fleshy goop siphoning into the container, my eyes clamped shut much of the time. Lasts just a few minutes, dress, then am on my way. Visit the same surgeon in a week for the results. Will not come back to this location, by then this center will also be closed by the pandemic mandate, next appointment is at a nearby hospital.

CHAPTER SIX

APRIL 1, 2020, APRIL FOOL'S DAY. First time I have ever visited this hospital, enter alone, virus protocol at the door. Surgeon’s office on the second floor, take the elevator. Few folks in the building, those that are, like me, are wearing masks. As I wait, pilfer on my ipad. Name is called, off I go. Today I find out this thing is benign, that I have been spazzing for weeks over nothing, naturally. Don't wait long for the Dr., I remain seated as he enters, greets me. He begins talking as he walks across the room, lays down my chart, then turns, making eye-contact, “you are so lucky to have had this test, mammogram did what it was supposed to do; we've caught it early.”

“...(I go effectively deaf) blah-blah-blah-blah-blah CARCINOMA.” A cataclysmic concoction of consonants and vowels strung together into syllables, words, in sentence form, delivered matter-of-factly. What happens here is nothing short of BIZARRE. Always imagined if I heard the words, “you have cancer,” I would react BADLY.

I would -

be angry

weep

go to pieces

vomit

all of the above

In reality -

I did not cry

I did not faint

I did not scream

Instead, sit calmly, silently. Stoic. Utterly, absolutely, wholly dumbfounded. ( this isn’t real - my head hurts - is this a stroke!?) REALITY Brain cells scramble to focus, I listen intently to every word, nod occasionally. Hearing all, absorbing little, during this a crash course on three types of breast cancer and treatment options available. (drifting off - I like him, he gestures with his hands as he speaks of surgery options.) Reconstruction; their plastic surgeon is top notch. The decision is mine. The doctor adds simply, “you know what will happen if you do nothing.”

I do

Unceremoniously and without a second’s hesitation, I react, “Get it off me,” hand on my chest. (subconscious protesting, “I feel FINE!!!! THIS. IS. STUPID!!”)

He nods in acknowledgement of my words, continuing, discusses recurrence rates on the opposite breast. Fuzzy math. Right here I interrupt him with the wave of a hand, “Get them both off me!” For good measure, I repeat it. Decision made, bilateral mastectomy it is, ASAP. Hands me a print-out with my diagnosis, I roll the paper up like a diploma and slip it in my bag. Stare down at the bag I take to work everyday . . (new-reality thoughts commence) or did … back when life was normal.

“Lousy April Fool’s Day, ya gotta admit.” I mutter out-loud to him as I rise to my feet, reach for the door. (how am I walking??!)

Ah, but COVID-19. Global pandemic, if it were a person, he’d be a cold-hearted, merciless jerk. I have to wait 14 days, be symptom-free in order to be permitted in their surgery unit or risk contaminating the whole place. Condemned to live with my killer for 15 more days, let it sleep with me, go to work with me, hang out with me while I visit my kids, grandkids. Melodramatic? You betcha, but the truth. All the while knowing the beast is growing.

I don’t exit the building until I am pre-registered for surgery, receive copious instructions, am assigned a day, APRIL 16. Next to the radiology waiting room, there I message my sister, she is the first to know. I have breast cancer. There’s lab work, x-ray, EKG. Am a zombie. A polite zombie with cancer making idle chitchat with techs who have no freaking clue my unremarkable and average life has evaporated in the last 45 minutes.

Poked, prodded, scanned and x-rayed - my walk across the parking lot is a 1,000 mile trek. Open the door, slide into the seat, fasten the seat belt, inhale deeply, fill my lungs with air just so I feel alive and less numb. Stare at my hands. Wish I could scream without attracting attention. Vomiting would be a blessing about now. I seem to be the same person that got out of the vehicle two hours before. No, am not the same at all. HOW do I do this????! Any of this??

HOW??????????!!!!!

In the days that follow, I will unroll my biopsy report, familiarize myself: invasive lobular carcinoma, 1.6cm, grade 1, ER+PR+HER2-. (translation = hormone fed) I will become versed about the enemy within, that if left untreated, would put me in the ground. Knowledge is power.

CHAPTER SEVEN

How do you tell the people you love, you have cancer? How do you toss a live emotional-grenade in a room? As terrifying as it is for me, I have to watch the realization sink in, the fear in their faces. Jess and Leah, my girls, having initiated a video chat with me as I wait for labs at the hospital. “Mom...well, how’d it go??” Not necessary to share details out loud, I crack, my eyes said all there was to say. Tough to hide that. Awful is the fact I’m in a public waiting room as they ask, am trying to hold it together, not disintegrate, explode into pieces. Watch them absorb what they now understand. I can’t help them.

Morning of April 1, the plan was to go back to work after the appointment. I don't. I aim the car toward home.

But first, I stop at my mom's house, to reveal the diagnosis to her and George. This is the first time I will say the words. Standing in the middle of her living room, my mouth opens and the emotion-less words fall out, “I have cancer too.” It is weird to hear it voiced and I feel bad for her. (her sister, my dad, my brother, my sister, now me) Explain to her what I plan to do and comfort that it'll be alright. She supports my decision: show no mercy to the beast.

Head home.

Turn onto my county road, Jameson calls, asks how the Dr. visit went. Avoiding answering, instead, ask if they are home, that I will be right there. Am thankful I am not them. He ‘knows’ from my tone, detects from the question. My son and wife, Patty, live 1/4 mile from my house, I arrive at their place in only a couple minutes, walk into their living room where they both were, learn the kids are upstairs, state the fact to the both of them, and I sit down for a bit. Just like that. Keep it light and matter of fact.

Life is insane.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What follows is 15 days trapped in a state of in-between. Desperate for normalcy yet knowing I can’t have it. What to do. What. To. Do. Staying right-minded is the aim. Crave it. C-word rarely leaving my thoughts. Every day ‘hospital Jessica’ calls me to ask a series of Covid-19 related questions and asks my body temperature that I am tasked with taking each morning upon waking.

What I CAN maintain right now, is routine.

COVID locks my office door in mid-March, am the only one staffing there. OU student move-in/move-out day is May 3. I’m the one in charge of this, making sure everything is ready. Can’t cancel it . . it goes on with or without me. Scheduling surgery mid-April, slashes two weeks off my prep time for this once-a-year event. Realize the timing could not be better, if there IS such a thing, I have little free time to ponder what’s coming, am too busy. Every day I plow through my work to-do list. Go home too tired to indulge doom and gloom.

Away from the office too, I quickly find another diversion, researching and shopping for items I might need after the surgery. Soft tops with inner pockets for drains management, ice packs, hot packs, special propping pillow. A miracle they all arrive on time because Amazon Prime has been waylay-ed by the corona virus. A sick and twisted ‘Merry Christmas to me’ as each package arrives. In some small way, gives me a semblance of control.

Sleeping is not an issue during these days. It’s my safe place. Sleep deep and well, courtesy of a little purple pill discovered years ago. (thank you, menopause) Each and every morning, have about 30 seconds of ‘normal’ before I remember what demon is living in me.

An entertaining activity during this time is staring in my lingerie drawer at the start of every day, choosing which style, what color bra for one last travel in the rotation. I waffle. At first, suffer pangs of melancholy while looking at the neat row of vibrant colors and lace. Then chuckle, cups are large enough to be made into hats for small children. No one wants to discuss my boobs, but this is an important part of the process of letting go. Acknowledgement. A girl spends what seems like her whole life waiting for these body parts to materialize; coveted, we dress them up, suspend them with steel reinforcement, make the best of them. They feed our children, we rock our babies/grandbabies against them. They’re part of who we are. Mine are set for execution. It’s them or me.

Time ticks by.

CHAPTER NINE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 15. Mastectomy Eve, am something I have never been, radioactive. True. This day go into the hospital ALONE, pass through the covid-19 gauntlet; escorted to a quiet room with a massive machine, bet it was a CT scanner, I don’t ask, I lay down on a metal table and a needle is inserted in my chest region, right side (still find it weird to use the word ‘breast’) and a radioactive tracer is placed in my body at the sight of the tumor. I’d researched the procedure a little (LIE . . I researched a LOT) beforehand, and read it would be EXCRUCIATING. So expect the worst. Naturally. Tech is kind and reassuring; small talk. I notice what great hair he has. Stare at the ceiling as I lay there. Then the doctor comes in, says I’ll feel a stick (had read the area is numbed first) expect that. Did. Not horrendous - that’s an exaggeration, barely felt anything. Assume we wait for the numbing to take effect before he drills through to the core. What I DIDN’T expect, is him to say, “you’re done.” Meaning that tiny prick was it. Say what now? Before the morning’s surgery, I’ll come back to this table, and will find out if the cancer has leeched into any lymph nodes. I dress and exit the building.

ESCAPE! The rest of this day IS MINE. I take my dreary thoughts, my diseased chest, the ‘DD girls’ , and we hit the road, took the long way home. Gave ‘them’ the best darned last-day-alive you could ask for. Was the least I could do considering what I was consenting to do to them. Pitied them and wanted them DEAD at the same time. Them or me.

Flowers waiting for me when I got home, the first time I sobbed in earnest. A torrent of tears.

CHAPTER TEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2020. DtoDD DAY. Death to DD’s Day. (and my Mom’s 81st birthday) Eerily calm. I grab my packed bag, stare at my freshly-made bed as I turn to exit the bedroom. Oh here comes one of those bizarro thoughts I have at times like this. Glancing around, mutter, “when I return, nothing will be the same. Gee, I hope I come back.” Melodramatic to a fault I am. Patty drops me off at the hospital door at a ridiculously early hour. Did I mention this is during a pandemic so no one can come in and that the hospital is spooky-empty and hushed?? Well, it is. Apocolyptically-quiet. Surreal. Check-in is swift and efficient and a surgery-nurse retrieves me promptly, accompany her to the prep area. this is real?

This unit has a circle of several cubicles, all but three are empty though. Settled in, changing into hospital gown, then I have three hours to ponder the fact that the last time I had surgery was 26 years ago and I am not as young as I used to be, and nowhere near ready to die, and lordy, I am no fan of pain. I feel FINE . . how can something deadly be in me yet I feel this HEALTHY??

In the hours I wait, return to scan-room to see if this thing has reached my lymph nodes. Dark room, humming machine. Same tech lets me watch the screen, bright lights like tiny fireworks become visible. No clue what I am watching.

My appointed time arrives, was about 9:30 a.m. Accompanied by a surgical nurse, I walk down the hallway to the O.R., my IV pole in tow. this isn’t real Three surgical staff are busily prepping. Funny how apprehension makes one awkwardly talkative with strangers, more so than normal. I greet them and cannot shut up, blather, “you know how kids took home tonsils in a jar?? (clutching my chest) you have a gallon jug I can take these home with me?” (yes, I really did say it) Laughter from them, that’s good. Am offered a stool to climb onto the table. I do. My God, to the gallows, ‘girls’

Jettisoned into the Twilight Zone right here. In the time it takes me to scoot, get comfortably horizontal on the table, sterile people descend on me, all over me doing things. Arms, legs . . belt around my abdomen. Am picturing masked-ants. Busy, busy. Big light on the ceiling lowering, settles above my upper torso and head. I feel FINE Am here, but not here. Oh God. Gentle voice to my right, as a mask is fitted over my nose and mouth, “take a couple deep breaths.”

Blackness.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I’m struggling in deep water, not diving down - but up, shooting to the surface of the water, I need air. Regaining consciousness, a jostling, repeating, “Debbie, wake up. Can you hear me?” Awake. Literal first conscious thought, drenched in relief -

“... NOT DEAD”

Body is being tugged, moved, but I’m not doing it. Realization hits me, where I am and what's happened. Conscious, I no longer feel fine, unrelenting waves of nausea wash over me. I give myself over to whichever medical professional wants to tend to me. They can have me, I don’t want me. Not this me.

End up in a hospital room, no recollection whatsoever how. Silence interrupted only by BP cuff on an ankle, inflating noisily at intervals reminding me I’m alive. Not moving. Lord, what have I done? Ice packs under both arms. Detest feeling this gross. I hang onto the sheets for hours, ride out the nausea.

As terrible as that was, and it was horrendous, it ends abruptly once I am fully awake later in the afternoon. In fact, feel remarkably good - considering. Any pain is well-managed. I can move, even lift my arms. I can walk to the restroom, tend to myself. Am hungry and eat a good dinner. Pleasantly surprised at this half of the day.

Curious. Here’s where I gingerly lift the blanket to get my first look. DD-girls are gone, replaced by a thick layer of bandage all across my chest, tubing, two drains, and . . . oh my lord . . . HOW long has my belly been that size??????! God bless boobs, they divert one’s attention from a myriad of flaws. Geez-louise.

Thank you, Covid-19, for the hospital stay’s solitude, I don’t mind, I welcome not having to share this day with visitors. Am only interrupted intermittently by nurses and the doctor. No big deal. Not much to tell. Post on facebook that I survived. Was released to go home the very next day with surgeon’s, “no restrictions. See you in a week, will have lab results for you then.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

FRIDAY, APRIL 17. HOME. Here’s where it gets funny. Seriously. Humorous. Reality. My youngest, Leah, volunteers to stay for the first few days. Plan on not needing much in the way of assistance. Stubborn. Not too uncomfortable, prop on pillows, watch tv, pain meds. First-night, decide my bed is where I will sleep, let her have the couch. Undeterred in the middle of the night, manage to get myself to the bathroom alone. Good for ME!! Ah, but then the sun comes up. Right here I discover Super Woman I am not. Attempt the same maneuver and the stabbing pain angrily asserts, “NOT THIS TIME, SISTER!” Ah, bladder is bossy and insistent. But Pain is in charge. “#*&@*#&$}” a little too loudly (translation) “Leah!! Help!!” She comes trotting and I’m laughing, trapped in my own bed. Arms frozen at my sides, literally cannot move under my own power without an instant excruciating reaction. With urgency (full bladder loudly protesting) instruct her to wring a bed sheet, get to the foot of the bed, hold the ends, let me grab the middle . . . PULL!! It works!! Whew, lesson learned, until I could get up and down on my own unaided, I didn’t sleep there again.

Drains. Grateful to only require two. Three times a day they need emptying. Unceremoniously, Leah’s job. When large portions of flesh are removed, one’s body compensates by attempting to fill the space with fluid, drains are typically inserted to draw off this fluid, speeding recovery. These ‘things’ (drain hoses) are just under my skin across the width of my chest, a stitch holding them in place at the hole (yikes) where they exit on either side. The bulbs at the end of the 12 inch lines are clear grenade-shaped receptacles collecting wound-juice. (you winched at the visual, didn’t you? haha) They get full. Necessary to milk the line first, with sterile gloved fingers of one hand, she grasps and steadies the line where it exits my body, with the other, she slides her pinched fingers down the tubing, pushes the ooze and any clots to the end. Pops the top of the bulb, empties 'ick' into a measuring cup, and logs the amount and color. Squeezes the bulb as she closes the lid so siphon will commence. My only job is to 'enjoy' the vigorous suction. eek

I sit dutifully still on a stool while she goes about her ‘work’, chit-chatting about this and that, am intentionally not watching the gore slipping, dripping into the bulb. She's not hurting me but every now and then will feel a subtle tug, a movement of the tubing. (shudder) Sunday evening she taps the bulb’s bottom on the table, remarking, “darned clot won’t fall through.” (rap, rap, smack) “Eww, that’s gross,” she says, “clot (tap) won’t (tap) let go ( jiggling it, the dangling, stringing bloody blob just hanging there, swaying back and forth).” My skin is warming . . . interesting sensation . . getting hot. Really HOT. She is sitting right next to me, is talking but her voice is fading. Am looking her direction, but she is drifting away in a misty vapor . . . waaaaaaaaaaaay over there now, voice, can’t hear her. Vision going and the room is moving ever so slightly.

I see my girl in slo-mo, she realizes what is happening, "Mom, Mom ... MOM!" (my mouth no longer works, cannot respond) hear her excited, “DAD!!!! Come quick!! Help! Mom’s passing out!!!”

Didn't. (did get to the couch . . sat still for an hour, feet up . . w/ice pack alternating on my neck, forehead) Didn’t vomit, so that's a 'WIN" for the day.

I learn to do it myself once she goes home. No big deal.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 23. A week passes, mostly uneventful. Sick leave, lounging, medicating, tracking excretion of Deb-juice, healing. Tough to remember the days in March and early April when I felt GOOD. I feel terrible. Blah - which to me, IS terrible. No fever, no signs of infection, just a general feeling of malaise. (such a descriptive word, ‘malaise’) Post-op visit, a follow-up with the surgeon. Oldest daughter Jess, chauffeur for the day. The entire drive down to Gallipolis, I imagine they’ll take one look at my sorry self, react in horror, re-admit me immediately. I have to be dying, something has to be terribly wrong. No one can feel this bleak and survive.

Mull my life over for that hour drive, did I live it adequately, what is left that I have not done, am I going to throw up IN or OUT of her car . . oh woe is me . . my thoughts are rambling, disjointed, grim. (BEYOND melodramatic) LOL Get to the hospital, I have to admit I cannot even walk in under my own power. I have no power, drained dry. Jess requests a wheelchair and I feel how I imagine being 150 years old and feeble feels, reliant on a stranger for transport up to the waiting area. Pitiful. I hate this. Too puny to care.

And remember COVID . . Jessica can’t come in with me. My mummified remains parked in a desolate waiting room. sigh I need a transfusion. I need a transplant, I need SOMETHING . . want my life back. Where’d Debbie go??!!

Eventually wheeled into the exam room (decrepit thing that I am) to wait. Surgeon enters, his normal perky self, smiles my direction. I lament the state of (absence of) well-being and inability to go to the bathroom for DAYS. (how embarrassing) “Sweetheart (NO, he did not say 'Sweetheart’) it’s your pain meds doing this to you. STOP THEM.”

huh?????!

Examines the 12-inch incisions on either side of my torso. Both doing well. No stitches to remove, interior stitches will dissolve on their own. Exterior sterie strips will fall off in the next week. He studies my drain-log, then simply remarks, “looks great, amounts are decreasing steadily. You want them (drains) out today?” (glimmer of hope) Instantly agree, so without ceremony and with a quick snip of a stitch and a wiggle of the tube and a firm TUG, one Jackson Pratt drain is out. Nasty thing now coiled on the exam table. OUT!!! The other follows swiftly. Oh dear lord . . feels soooooooo good to be rid of those things. Best part . . expected to have them at least another week, that the extrication of same, would be horrendous. Wasn’t. Didn’t hurt actually. Bandaids applied to my newest holes. No stitch, no nothing. “See ya in a month. No restrictions.” Surprised he didn’t pat me on my sorry head.

Trip home is infinitely better, envision the tunnel and light shining in the distance. aaaahhhhh

Not another pain pill crosses these lips . . the man is a genius. (epilogue: my decline was indeed induced by the pain meds . . out of my system - recovering was a breeze. TIP: get off them as soon as you can)

P.S. Almost forgot the most important part!!!!! Lab results!!! Geez . .the tunnel, the light . . THIS IS WHY!!! TODAY I learn I am CANCER-FREE‼️‼️‼️ Well, I would hope so!! Nearly six pounds of flesh sacrificed / removed . . CLEAN MARGINS around the tumor. Lymph nodes are CLEAR!!! Sentinel node removal a bit messy, seven others unable to be separated from it, come out as well. Sobering fact is that I, nor the surgeon, felt a telltale lump - but it was there. In black and white, sobering words, “STAGE TWO”. Appointment with oncologist in May to discuss options. Why??? Here's the thing about breast cancer, sometimes IT COMES BACK.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Want to tell you the euphoria was warmly welcome and long-lasting. Yes and no, in that order. Sharing with friends that surgeon ‘got it all’ was met with copious genuine exclamations of ‘thank God!’ and ‘hallelujah’. For good reason. Pathology report of clean margins and clear nodes is a positive outcome. IT’S GONE!! And like me at this juncture, believe that’s the end of it. Too few days of relief pass swiftly - the reality that it may not be over, steadily seeps back in as I educate myself. But with a stubborn childlike optimism, trust the oncologist will study my diagnosis, pronounce my journey with this evil thing over. “Deborah, congrats, you’re finished with it and it with you. Have a nice life.” Let’s go with that. I want it.

Just a couple more weeks to find out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the meantime, at home I’m getting bored. ‘Bored’ is WONDERFUL. It’s normalcy. And a strong signal that it’s time for life to go on.

I am well enough to attend to work emails, becoming more frequent as students prepare to leave Athens officially, the stalwart diehards who came back after Spring Break despite the lockdown that commenced mid-March. Boredom, the impetus, that gets me out of the house.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 12 days post-op, several days free from pain-killers and feeling almost back to my old self, I slide behind the wheel of my car, new precious pillow between sensitive chest and the seatbelt and drive to work. Man oh man, how I missed 70′s radio . . sing all the way. I last at my desk for 4 hours this first day, mindful to recognize limitations, cut the day short, but go home triumphant.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THURSDAY, APRIL 30. Meet-my-oncologist day. (mentally mark off THAT on my ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’) First things first, why am I here??! Surgeon recommends I have a chat with the man . . rule out the need for anything further. Youbetcha. Today is THE. DAY!! Fully expect to be ‘blessed’ and sent on my way . . “Debbie, you were lucky, it’s all gone. Your cancer journey was intense and brief and now it’s over. Go live your life, girl.”

Check in. Hunker down at the back of the vast lobby, comfy chair. I absorb the room. Oh you know I don’t want to, but I do. A few patients are here. One unhealthy looking older lady on a hospital stretcher over there. Another slightly-weathered woman near the wall, wearing a turban. And there’s me. Odd-man out, pain-killers now out of my system: (yes yes, am minus the ‘girls’) full head of thick hair, kinda sorta minimally wrinkly, feeling strong and healthy . . . like me again.

Name called. BP and weight. Perks of the day . . bp is good, especially good for me. Literally-asked-the-nurse-to-repeat-the-numbers good. And am down 10 lbs. I’ll take it!! Gee, this visit is headed in the right direction!

Lead to an exam room, given a questionnaire. Ugh. Bottom of the page. Please list details of immediate family members . . . health issues, explanation. Here we go . . Melvin / dad / died in 2000 @64 / lung cancer (scribble to the side ‘life time smoker’ . . like it somehow negates the dying) Tim / brother / died in 2000 @39 / leukemia (again, the scribbling, master mechanic, hands in chemicals) Stephen / brother / died in 1957 @6 weeks / S.I.D.S. Bottom of this page is an OCD nightmare, ink scribbles in every direction, sad that I ran of space. Add, “Cheryl / sister / is 61 / @60 stage IV breast cancer (’maintaining’ . . didn’t add, but wanted to, “THANK YOU VERY MUCH!!”) Janice / mom / is 81. Terry / brother / is 55.” Finishing up, as MY oncologist enters the room.

Brief introductions . . Cursory physical exam of surgical site.

Oncologist reviews the information I provide, studies my chart. Two verbal inquires of me -

do you or have you ever smoked? “no”

do you drink alcohol and how much? “rarely”

He pauses. He can ascertain I’m not fudging the details. “Never?” he queries again. Shake my head in the negative. Sincerely he adds, “this makes NO sense. Risk factors are not there for breast cancer. No sense at all.”

Dr. Hamid relates there is a genetic test that can be performed using my tumor tissue, (eewwww, they still have it!!) the results determining whether or not chemo therapy would be of any benefit to me. Again - I am confused why a person who is now disease-free, minus seven pounds of her best flesh, needs ANYTHING additionally. I consent. He jots down for me the chemo recipe that I would receive if it’s indicated. Metaphysically burns my fingertips as I take the slip from him. (chemo??! stifling a scream) If not, I would be prescribed a pill to stop my body's remaining production of estrogen. Anastrazole is the drug of choice, there are a few common side effects: bone/joint pain, fatigue, etc. Majority of women experience no side effects of any kind, he assures. (mental note of an over-achiever: I will be one of THOSE) Dr. adds, “Lab work takes about two weeks to get back. Come see me in two weeks please. Oh wait . . you drive quite a distance to get here, right? Just call my office on May 13, we can handle this over the phone.”

uh huh . . . so much for being blessed and sent on my merry way. CHEMO, sub-set item under 1. CANCER on ‘Life’s List-of-Dreads’. TRULY . . . there is nothing I enjoy MORE, than waiting on test results. (epic eye-roll right here, stomach twists in knot)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This is the last chapter of ‘65 DAYS IN MAY’ (today it’s February 25, 2021) I am a procrastinator. Am still me, after all. My instructions were to call oncologist’s office on Wednesday, May 13, 2020, to learn whether or not chemo therapy was the next step in my cancer treatment. By now I have little recollection of the blur of days between April 30 and when Dr. Hamid called me with my genetic testing results, my Oncotype score. Every day seemed endless, recovering well, feeling progressively more like myself. I let work duties bulldoze me through those days, thoroughly occupied. I was thankful to have nearly 300 college students moving-out and moving-in on May 3rd. Grateful to be bone weary at the end of each day, having little time to thrash about the prospect of chemo - that, and staying safe as COVID rampaged.

TUESDAY, MAY 12, at my desk, alone in a pandemic-locked-down office. One last day not having to call, know anything. Ignorant bliss. Phone rings, spy caller I.D., uh-oh, cancer center. I stop breathing. Lift receiver, ‘Hello, this is Debbie.’ Not breathing. HERE WE GO (9+ months later now, still recall the catch of my breath and pounding heart. Am not exaggerating when I tell you time froze.) Dr. Hamid’s voice was soft, he wasted no time relating my Oncotype score plus chance of recurrence is low and chemo is not necessary in my situation. He’ll call in an Anastrazole script for me, it cuts my chance of recurrence to less-than 5%. Only question I had, “what exactly was my number?” 17 “See you again in 6 months,” as he ends the call. Stare at the phone receiver clenched in my hand.

NO CHEMO . . with exorbitant gusto, I EXHALE

Celebration fireworks in my head, both hands in the air, stifle an audible, triumphant HALLELUJAH! For the moment, issued a reprieve. I soak it up. Once composed, swivel chair to my right, run my palms slowly, purposefully over the desk calendar, lift the pages, studying, absorbing. Begin to count . . . .

STINT IN PURGATORY - 65 DAYS IN MAY

EPILOGUE

(stay tuned)

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hanhan156 · 5 years

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Epilogue: Insomnia

I wasn’t really inspired by continuing Halloween fics (tbh, I think I’m not gonna finish those all by October because I’d prefer to make something I like to publishing something shitty everyday) today, so instead, I finished the next Stadium fic which has been in progress for way too long.

It’s an epilogue for the last chapter, and this time, from Richard’s POV with a nice flashback scene included. ^^

Epilogue: Insomnia

The petite figure was merging with the dark night and even though he tried his best, Richard couldn’t take his eyes off from the gorgeous silhouette - the one which had become so familiar over 25 years of knowing each other. After today’s unpredictable incidents though, Richard felt like he was looking at his old friend with brand new eyes - with a kind of vague yearning both in his heart and in his soul. The emotion made familiar lyrics to loop in his head:

Sehnsucht versteckt,

sich wie ein Insekt.

Im Schlafe merkst du nicht,

dass es dich sticht.

It was like an insect indeed - like an annoying, itching feeling inside he couldn’t shake off.

Sehsucht ist so grausam.

Richard could only wonder what was Paul now thinking of him - had he gone too far? He hoped they could talk all of this over as soon as possible. Sooner or later, he was sure that the uncertainty would make him crazy if he wouldn’t do anything about it.

Awoken from his thoughts by Paul’s waving and then making his way to the backyard, Richard knew he had to leave as well. It was indeed a bit weird to stalk his bandmate from the car at midnight, even though how pleasant it had been. For a second, Richard had considered that should he follow Paul and ask still the one last time what was going on. His friend hadn’t been behaving like himself at all even though he had been assuring that everything was fine. These moments, Richard hoped to have the superpower to read minds. It would have made the situation way less complicated and wouldn’t have left him with all the questions.

The journey back home went on automation - even if there would have been police on the road, Richard wouldn’t have noticed anything. So many thoughts and concerns were revolving around his head that it was difficult to focus on anything that was going on outside.

Richard collapsed on the sofa with a huge sigh when he had finally reached his destination. His eyes were heavy as lead, but he couldn’t fall asleep. Instead, he tried his best to keep himself busy by putting the tv on maximum volume and lighting up probably the millionth cigarette today. Luckily, there was nobody complaining about smoking inside now.

A lady on the tv’s reality show was weeping when she had been voted out from his team, but Richard didn’t get what was going on in the mindless program even though his eyes were fixed on the screen.

Oh, Paul Landers, you sweet, sweet man, what have you done to me?

He tried to make sense of his feelings: what on earth had actually happened today? Of course, he knew the script very well: they had agreed to make this one little kiss on the stage, meant to be an innocent act. He and Paul were at first pretending it was nothing, no big deal - hell’s, they had performed embarrassing and awkward stuff together several times before. In the end, it had taken forever, and finally, when they’d had the courage to actually make it happen, Paul had fainted. Richard didn’t like that something he’d done had made his friend to feel sick.

Richard had been scared to death - in the worst scenarios in his mind he had thought that Paul wouldn’t have woken up anymore or would have had amnesia. What a nice start for a tour it would have been.

Holy shit.

And even more disturbingly, even though how sorry he was for Paul, he didn’t want to admit how much he had enjoyed the situation. Like a lively gif image, Paul with raised eyebrows, lurking him in, was looping in his already way too messed head. Richard had been sober as a judge the whole day, but still, a dizzy feeling was distracting him constantly - like he’d been drinking nonstop for a week and didn’t really know what was going on anymore. How could he make this to stop? Could he live his normal life, to proceed with their band and their tour, when he was having painfully strong feelings like this?

What if he hates me for the rest of his life because of this? At least he talked with me afterward, but what if he was just pretending, just being polite? Have I ruined everything now?

Nothing made sense anymore.

Despite all of this vague mess, from one thing Richard was completely sure: that thing which was painful to admit, yet so self-evident. It had been clear as a day for a long time, but he had tried to push the feeling away. So far, he had managed pretty well, but something about today had revealed it once again.

Love. The sweetest, yet the most hurtful word known in mankind - and he had been in love for so long now that it almost hurt physically.

The target of his desperate love wasn’t the easiest one indeed: his long-time friend, colleague and almost like a brother, their relationship slowly, but steadily developing and changing. Richard had tried to avoid thinking about it too much - he was totally sure that Paul wasn’t interested in him in that kind of way and their semi-romantic moments had been just playing in his friend’s opinion. Because Richard had always been a person who wasn’t ashamed of physical proximation - Till was still reminding him occasionally from that interview in which he’d hugged the poor girl when she had asked how Germans express their feelings - he had so far managed to use the trait as his excuse when something he’d done had raised questions.

But, of course, he couldn’t keep lying forever - neither to himself nor to others. Richard was totally sure that their bandmates - especially Till, whose eagle eye didn’t seem to miss anything - had started to suspect that there was something going on between the two guitarists.

Richard wrapped himself tightly in a blanket. He wished he would have been a chameleon and could blend into the sofa material - disappear from this planet and from all the conflicting human behavior and feelings.

He closed his eyes and tried - almost forced himself - to think about anything else, but the only thing that came to his mind was Paul.

P-A-U-L

A simple word, with four letters, but yet, the word which was capable of doing nasty things inside him. The word which had been the theme of his way too lively, even sensual, daydreams.

Sigh. Paul was so close to him, yet unreachable.

While being in a dream-like state, random memories and thoughts about his dearest bandmate looping on, the cinema of his mind sent him suddenly back to the early 90’s - back to the very first moment which had led to this eventually. At least it was something else than Paul with a kissing face, thank God.

The slightly moldy scent of their rehearsal room in the basement was still so vivid, even though it was already decades from that fateful night when Paul Landers had stepped into Richard Kruspe’s life.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Richard snorted. “Where on earth is this ‘second guitarist’ of yours you promised? It seems like he’s only in your imagination.”

“He promised to come, so we’ll wait,” Till said, trying to calm their edgy guitarist down.

They had been expecting the possible new player to show up at 6 pm - the clock on the wall showed it was 6:30 already. The lingering was especially difficult for Richard who had already earned his reputation of being an exaggeratedly strict and punctual person. “A perfectionist, straight from the infernal flames of Hell,” like Schneider had described.

“Flake knows the guy from their earlier band, and he assured he’s gonna be trustworthy,” Till said and was about to continue while the keyboardist shouted behind him: “He’s just really bad with schedules. I know him, he’s a gifted musician and a nice person. We should give him a chance. Let’s don’t judge him by this, ok?”

But Richard wasn’t convinced. He was always uncertain about meeting new people - he thought they could be a threat to him. “You really think so?”

“Let’s just be patient. I’m sure he has a good explanation for the delay,” Flake replied. He didn’t want to start an argument now.

“And why do we need a second guitarist anyway?” In Richard’s nightmares, the new guy would take his place and act as a bandleader - or even worse, be more gorgeous than him.

As usually, Schneider started to get annoyed at their guitarist. “You know very well that our riffs are so plain that we need something more. And, it’s always nice to have a new perspective as well. I agree with Till and Flake, we should wait and see who this guy is. If we don’t get along, we can dump him and that’s it. Not necessary to make so much drama out of this.”

The percussionist’s straightforward style of expressing opinions was unbearable for Richard. Till had joked that they often resembled two roosters having a fierce cockfight when they were arguing over which one of them was right.

“…you claim that I’m the one making drama?” the guitarist lashed out and approached Schneider, leering him. Every single time that particular gaze made the drummer uncomfortable. “Last time when I checked, it was this guy, who we don’t even know yet, who hadn’t kept his promise, so piss off for accusing me!”

“W…hat?” Schneider was so shocked about the insult that he froze for a moment.

When he had finally gathered his thoughts and was about to say something against, the guitarist was quicker and announced: “Screw this, I’m gonna have a smoke. Please let me know when this imaginative creature comes. If he doesn’t appear, I’m going home. I have more important things to do than to wait for him ‘til the end of the world.”

At the same time, while Richard was yelling, Schneider’s mom arrived with a bunch of freshly made sandwiches and beercans in her hands. She startled when they almost bumped into each other with the guitarist who was rushing outside.

“Hallo, wie geht es dir?” she asked with a sweet voice when she stood in the middle of their basement, now changed into her son’s and his friends’ rehearsal room.

“Gut, gut…we are Mama quite busy here now…”

Even though they all were adults already, Herr and Frau Schneider wanted to treat their son’s friends as a part of the family. The drummer thought it was embarrassing while the rest accepted offered food and drinks with pleasure - none of them showered in money, so they welcomed all free stuff they could get.

But Richard wasn’t interested in snacks now. He preferred to pout alone, enjoying his smoking moment.

The guitarist had pondered the band’s future quite a lot. Even though it seemed pretty promising, he doubted it now and then. Did this make any sense at all? Everyone around him had all of his life claimed that he should get a degree and get a real job - get a normal, adult life. He should take his head out of the clouds and be responsible. In a weak moment, when nothing had seemed to work out in his life, he’d been convinced that maybe he’d really been wrong. Maybe he should try this “adult life” thing. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. Not his dream, but a way to adapt to society, to make himself accepted - the first time in his life.

But all those doubts had vanished into thin air when he met Till Lindemann - a sensitive poet, who seemed to understand him completely even though they were so different as persons. What had brought them together were the crazy visions, the lust for life: the lust for being an artist and not to give a shit about what the others were thinking.

Richard knew in his heart his real dream: to express himself and to be respected by what he was doing. For Christ’s sake, life was too short not to be lived to the fullest, and music, that was his whole life. It was the torch of creativity he had to feed regularly - otherwise, he would slowly and painfully perish.

He sighed and looked at the sky, trying to blink back tears. The last thing he wanted now was to weep like a baby.

The sensitive thoughts didn’t have a chance to last for long though because they were interrupted by a distant, loud rattle - it sounded like somebody had made an orchestra out of pots and pans. Richard was sure it was the neighbor’s kids goofing around and didn’t mind about it so much at first.

But the noise kept getting closer and closer to the house - seemed like kids couldn’t have been blamed for it anymore.

Richard rubbed his eyes. What in God’s name is it?

The question got its answer in a minute when Richard saw a small cycling figure approaching the house with a huge guitar bag.

The figure - now Richard could see it was a blond man, probably around his age - stopped and so did the cacophony. “Is this…Christoph Schneider’s house?” he asked, still panting from the cycling.

“Yes.”

The incognito man smiled so brightly that it almost seemed like the whole dark street was suddenly lighted up. “Wunderbar! So umm, this band about Stein…something is rehearsing here, am I right?”

“Rammstein, yes.”

“Then I’m in the right place! And I’m terribly sorry I’m late, there was a huge traffic jam and I got stuck. Also, I didn’t realize this place was on the other side of the city.”

Richard didn’t reply anything - he kept staring at the distance, busy with smoking. Seemed like their new guitarist had finally appeared. He wasn’t sure, was he ready for this.

The guy left his wrecked bicycle - Richard could only wonder, what kind of torture the poor vehicle had been going through - in front of the house and with his guitar bag, came back to the other man. “So, we finally meet, I’ve been looking forward to this! Flake has told me so much about the new band project of yours. I’m Paul Landers,” he said and offered his hand.

But Richard acted like he had forgotten completely how human interactions worked. “Let’s go inside,” he answered nonchalantly to the other man’s friendly gesture. Paul almost had to run to keep up with his pace.

Finally, they both were in the basement and when Schneider’s mom saw there was a new guest in their house, she hurried to get a sandwich and a beer for Paul as well.

All of the band - except for Richard, who was still acting grumpy - greeted the new musician and with Flake, they hugged: it was nice to reunite after playing in the same band for so long.

“Okay, so what kind of music do you guys play?” Paul asked while munching his bread.

“It’s a bit difficult to explain. Maybe we’ll just play something and you’ll make your own opinion,” Flake answered.

“Do you want to hear the lyrics first?” Till asked.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, we have one completed song and it’s called Herzeleid.” Till looked at their possible new guitarist’s curious face and continued: “The other guys composed and arranged it and I wrote the text. Let us know what you think of it and please be straightforward, if it’s completely Scheisse.”

He cleared his throat and started to read the text out loud:

“Bewartet einander vor Herzeleid,

denn kurz ist die Zeit die ihr beisammen seid.

Denn wenn euch auch viele Jahre vereinen,

einst werden sie wie Minuten euch scheinen.

Herzeleid

Bewahret einander vor der Zweisamkeit.”

When Till had finished his recitation, nobody said anything for a while. The singer got a bit uneasy. “Yeah, well…I know the lyrics are a bit cheesy, I’m not sure from where they actually came from…” He knew very well that the text told about his own recent painful break-up, but he didn’t want to open up about his love life now.

Paul stood up and gave Till the brightest smile possible. “No need to worry, it was beautiful! Very heartbreaking and melancholic. You truly are a talented writer.”

Till wasn’t sure was the new guy flattering or did he really mean what he said. “Danke…”

“I’m curious to hear the whole song while already the lyrics sound so awesome.”

Richard was in a mood for challenging. “We are here to play so just grab your guitar and start.”

Paul took the last sip from his beer and said: “Yeah, sure, but can I get the chords or some kind of instructions? And is there a second amplifier somewhere? I couldn’t take mine on my bike.”

He expected to get at least some guidance, but to his surprise, there was none - Richard just started playing the heavy riff without even bothering to look at their new possible bandmember.

Okay, did I say something wrong, or is this how this band usually works? Well, if I want to be in, I just have to adapt, Paul thought, and with Flake’s help, got another, smaller amplifier. He tried his best to mimic the chords by ear and occasionally trying to stalk the lead guitarist - it was quite impossible though when he seemed to have turned his back from Paul on purpose.

Even though with all his best effort, Paul could hear he sounded like absolute bullshit. His precious instrument had turned into a torture machine - he could have never imagined he could create discords so horrible.

When the song ended he didn’t dare to look at anyone - maybe they had supposed that he would have had a perfect pitch and were now disappointed. He’d made them wait and it had ended up being a failure.

Scheisse.

Paul thought that maybe it would be best if he’d pack his things up and leave without saying anything. The cocky guitarist of this band seemed like he knew what he was doing so why he should be bothered any longer.

Till came next to the new player when he saw that he was visibly disappointed. “Es tut mir leid, Reesh isn’t the easiest person to deal with, he takes this band death seriously. It’s nothing personal against you,” the singer whispered so quietly that Richard couldn’t hear.

But Paul wasn’t convinced of the soothing words and continued with his packing. “C’mon, you have to admit that I sounded like shit.” He stopped for a while and nodded towards the lead guitarist. “I can see from his face that he’s unsatisfied. He probably hates me already. Maybe it’s better that I leave and you continue while you still have a good start here.”

Till tried his best to be supportive and explained: “None of us is a professional musician, so no worries. You at least tried your best. The only problem was that our little diva didn’t bother to tell you that the song is in drop D tuning. Let’s try again.” He squeezed the new player’s shoulder gently like begging him to stay with them.

Paul sighed. “Okay, one more time then.” Even though he was disappointed to himself he had an instinct that he should give it a try.

He grabbed his guitar back from the floor. “Let’s play.”

He didn’t know at that moment that the decision changed the band’s path completely.

After the surprisingly successful band practice, everybody had left except for the two guitarists who were having the last smokes before heading home.

“I really like what you have here. It seems promising and I’m more than happy to be a part of it. I can only imagine what we will achieve together.” He didn’t think that the band would get very popular - it was technically impossible to be world-famous with dark German lyrics and simple, aggressive riffs. At least he hoped they could record some albums and have small tours around Germany. To have fun and create art with a bunch of guys who seemed quite nice already.

To his utter surprise, the other man said unexpectedly: “I have to admit that you weren’t so bad at all in the end.”

“R-really?” Paul didn’t know his fellow guitarist so well yet, but he seemed very picky. Even this small kind of compliment must have been a huge thing from him.

Richard nodded. “After you figured the song out, you played just fine. I’m looking forward to what we can achieve together as well.” He turned and the first time that night looked at Paul straight in the eyes. “You passed the test. Welcome to the band.”

The target of the small compliment tried to act as casual as he could even though his heart started pounding disturbingly rapidly. He didn’t have any clue what this “test” he had just passed was, but it sounded nice to hear he had succeeded.

Paul cleared his throat and said: “One thing bothers me still though.” He came a bit closer and continued: “We didn’t say hi properly and actually, I haven’t even heard your whole name yet.”

Richard stared at the offered hand for a while, but finally - to Paul’s surprise and relief - he took it. “Richard.”

Paul couldn’t hide his smirking - the other man had announced his name so comically officially like he would have been the most important person walking on this earth. “Richard, who exactly?”

“C’mon, do you now want my social security number as well or what? Very well then, it’s 705…”

“What on earth you think I’d do with your social security number?” Paul interrupted even though he had to admit that he liked the new acquaintance's sarcastic sense of humor already. “Just that it would be nice to know the full name of the guy, whose band I’m apparently in now.”

Richard straightened his back and with another firm handshake, announced: “Richard Zven Kruspe, nice to meet you.”

“Paul Heiko Landers, pleased to meet you too.”

Richard knew from that moment he would never forget the name - the bond had been formed for eternity on that fateful night.

He sighed. Till death do us part, mein Paulchen.

#rammstein #richard kruspe #paul landers #flake lorenz #till lindemann #alternative band history #alternative first meeting #fanfiction #my fics

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bffhreprise · 3 years

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Entry 361

“Aaliyah?” I called, finding my breakfast on the warming-thingy my daughter had built. She was obviously up already, but I couldn’t come close to keeping up with her. My tiny daughter had boundless energy and a mind that somehow outpaced her body in its zest. “Aaliyah, are you around?” I asked, staring across our strange, wonderful household.

She didn’t reply.

“Mila, where’s your mother?” I asked, knowing she’d have an answer. Mila was better at tracking her mother than I was. I still struggled thinking of MIla as a granddaughter. I wasn’t old enough for a granddaughter, especially not one that was fully electronic and grown! Only my daughter would do such things to someone… “Hmm?” I asked when I realized I had missed the reply while thinking to myself.

“Mother went into work early, Grandfather.” came the prompt reply.

“Oh.” I dumbly replied. Our colorful home was always more lively when Aaliyah was home, but I did have a pile of work to do today. I loved my job, but translating documents wasn’t the enjoyable part. I much preferred going places in person, seeing the sights with my daughter when she could come along, and translating directly for people. Sighing, I started my breakfast.

Barely a few bites into my breakfast, my thoughts were interrupted by a very loud, clanging noise. I ignored that noise and the occasional clanking for another few bites, then I got up to investigate. Back inside my daughter’s castle sat the very large, strange machine she had built without telling me anything about it. Nothing was smoking or looking wrong in any other way I could understand. She had told me something to do with it if there was a problem, but I couldn’t remember what.

After returning to my breakfast, I managed to finish my meal, but my alarm was growing with the sounds from the machine. Something was wrong. “Mila, do you know what’s happening?” I asked, motioning to the noise.

“Sorry, but no. Mother failed to share that design with me, so I’m at a loss as to what the machine does and what’s happening.” she replied, clearly worried as well.

“Is James busy? Your mother forgot her phone again.” I explained after hearing her ringtone upstairs.

“He has time for you. Would you like me to connect you to him?” she asked.

I nodded as I said, “Yes, please! Thank you, Mila.” I really liked James and was overjoyed that Aaliyah had found a place for herself at his strange company. She rambled on and on about the things they did there to me, but I never could follow half of the things my daughter said. Her explanations were always overly detailed and extremely technical no matter the language she was speaking. I hoped she understood how proud of her I was, but she really did need to tone down the explanations if she wanted anyone to understand.

Barely one ring into the call tone, James greeted me.

“Is Aaliyah with you?” I asked, not even trying to keep my panic from my voice.

“Oh, yes. Is something wrong?” questioned James with obvious concern.

“A month ago, she built this large machine in her castle. The thing is making a racket, we don't have a clue what to do.”

“We'll be right over.” he assured me before hanging up.

I would have preferred staying on the phone with him. James was a very calm person, and being around him, even just on the phone with him, was nice. Putting my phone back in my pocket, I hurried over to the machine, looking for any sign of what I could do to help it. There were panicked-sounding beeps now. Something was very wrong.

The minutes seemed to stretch on and on as the machine’s beeping plea became more and more panicked. I tried a few buttons, but they didn’t seem to help.

“Chad, we're here.” came James’ voice over the racket. “Aaliyah's grabbing something.”

I hurried out of the castle area as fast as I could past all my daughter’s tools and toys. She hated cleaning. Spotting James, I said, “I was scared that I somehow broke it.”

James wasn’t worried. He never was these days. The boy had grown a great deal since the first time I had hired him. “What is it?” he asked, easily seeing over the castle wall with his height once he had approached.

“No idea. I've caught her feeding it cake though.” I admitted.

“Cake?” asked James, surprise plain on his face.

“Yep! Cake!” exclaimed Aaliyah, coming up from behind us. She easily stepped around us, maneuvering a plate of cake on her hand as she tiptoed around her mess.

“Why does your machine need cake?” asked James flatly. His expression seemed darker than normal now.

“It doesn't!” exclaimed Aaliyah quite giddily.

“Then why would you waste cake?” I asked in complete shock. There was little my daughter loved more than cake.

“She wouldn't.” stated James, his voice grave. “Aaliyah, what is this?”

“An artificial womb!” she exclaimed enthusiastically.

The words hit me like a Mack truck. My mind was reeling. Something living was inside of that machine. I knew there was laws regarding such things, but Aaliyah knew them better than I did. Still, what was she making? A dog? I liked dogs. “I don't suppose a litter of puppies are going to come out in a basket…” I asked hopefully.

“No, silly. I'm having a baby!” she replied, her enthusiasm unabated by my concern.

“What? How?” asked James, sounding just as concerned as I felt.

“You and Alma are having a baby, so why can't I, boss-man, sir?” she asked him, staring up at him in confusion.

“Aaliyah… you're twelve.” I reminded her.

“Thirteen next month!” she exclaimed with a grin.

“I think your father feels that's a bit young.” stated James, his eyes looking into mine with commiseration. Then his head rapidly swiveled back to my daughter as he demanded “You're feeding an unborn baby cake!?”

Seeming to ignore him, Aaliyah called out “Health report!” The banging, clanging, beeping, and whirring had settled down again. A screen on the machine instantly lit up, displaying all sorts of numbers, and Aaliyah started rambling on about what they all meant.

I didn’t know medicine and had no idea what most of it meant, though even I knew the part about the cells being perfectly healthy was good.

“Congratulations in advance on being a grandfather.” stated James as he gently patted my back. He understood how shocking this was, though my daughter never would.

Aaliyah did things at her own pace no matter who tried getting in her way. I had taken her to visit other lawyers—my daughter was already an exceptionally capable one herself, judges, doctors, and sat in on some lectures she had given for local colleges, though I doubted anyone really could follow everything she had said.

Still, there was one thing I had to ask. “Aaliyah, I understand that to have a baby you need… uh… genetic material from two individuals, so… Who’s the father?”

She grinned at me as if I asked a billion dollar question, which couldn’t mean anything good for me. “Didn’t need one!” she happily exclaimed before going straight into how she artificially created something sufficient.

As she rambled, I put concerns about broken laws and the child’s health out of my mind. My daughter would be too far ahead of any concerned parties for them to cause much ruckus, and more than one of her doctorates from that school she attended would probably cover any medical concerns. This was happening, so I needed to prepare for a flesh and blood granddaughter now.

#Best Friend For Hire Reprise #Best #Friend #For #Hire #Reprise #Jovial Times #Jovial #Times #Fantasy #Fiction #Story

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svu-stories · 7 years

Text

.83 | Mended

Characters: Barba/Reader Warnings: Medical Emergency, Mentions of alcohol use Word Count: 2,052

You had always known that you were the oddest of couples.

He was an ADA for Manhattan. A snappy dresser full of quick wit and looks that could kill best described your other half. Well educated, always hard working, and not afraid to follow his gut, even when it meant going against the status quo, he inspired you every day. He had a taste for expensive liquor and three course dinners, an overwhelming and sometimes welcome treat.

You, on the other hand, felt like the complete opposite - a plain Jane job hopping your way through the city. Waitressing here and there, a short stint as a library assistant, and finally a full-time nanny for the family next door to him was what lead you to cross paths. You were bubbly and innocent - holding on to a midwest naïveté that seemed to make you vulnerable. Not to mention that sarcasm flew so far over your head that it didn’t even touch your hair and when offered a drink, you tended to gravitate toward the classic flavored malt beverages; a Mike's Hard Lemonade would suit you just fine.

It wasn’t supposed to work out, you figured.

But you never once fought the spark it as it developed.

And the fate that ensued for both of you had led to a million memories that were sweeter than your grandma’s strawberry rhubarb pie. From the first time he offered piping hot coffee as you got to work to the time you surprised him with a polka dot tie in a green that brought out his eyes, you found a perfect friendship.

A friendship that somehow withstood the horrors of prosecuting sex offenders.

A friendship that somehow withstood the night you called him, needing a ride out of a drunken party that spelled out disaster if you stayed.

A friendship that somehow withstood a first date, first kiss, and first passionate overnight until you suddenly realized that you could no longer introduce him as just your friend.

Instead, it tumbled off of your lips lazily at a friend's gallery showing one even, “And this is my boyfriend, Rafael Barba.”

And the butterflies that had once existed when his name popped up on your phone screen or fingers brushed haphazardly against another were suddenly multiplying as you realized you were falling in love. You were waiting for the perfect time to say it, but somehow Barba beat you to the punch.

And somehow, you withstood all of those stepping stones together, too.

Which was why you found yourself numbly fighting with your key chain, fingers running over rough metal edges as you dug into them. Your eyes closed as you grasped the key that would open his apartment door. You were supposed to be working, but instead you had to call the mom of the twin three year olds you had been nannying for and lied through your teeth. Claiming you had fallen ill from what appeared to be a nasty flu bug, you pleaded with her to relieve you.

You weren’t suddenly sick, as you’d told her, you were just broken.

Cursing quietly as you struggled to finagle the key into the lock, you heard footsteps approaching behind you. A lump caught in your throat and you dropped your hand to the side as a voice rang out around you, enveloping your being into its warmth.

“Mi amor,” Rafael greeted with a quiet confusion. His arms wrapped around you, his own key navigating its way into the lock seamlessly and twisting. You pressed your back into his chest, thankful that the work was over. That your brokenness could be put back together by his love. You could feel in the way he pulled his hand from the key and let his fingers squeeze your upper arm that he was worried. And perhaps he should be. “Let’s get you inside. Hmm?”

You nodded slowly, forcing one foot in front of the other as you led the way through the wood floors. Your shoes kicked off at the door, socks gliding over the flooring as you found the couch, the soft rug beneath your toes reminding you gently of where you were.

His plush surroundings were noticeable in comparison to the sanitized simplicity of your much dingier apartment. It was normally a stark contrast, but today it all seemed to melt into the background as you collapsed to the couch.

Cushions barely held you up as you retrieved your favorite red and black plaid throw from the other end of the couch, spreading it gingerly over your frame. It was well worn - rougher to the skin than when it had been purchased new, but it provided warmth for your psyche. You were wrapped in memories of late night movies and teenage makeout sessions. Of spilled white wine and reconciliation from petty arguments. Memories that filled you with love and joy, rather than your current reality.

A reality you wanted nothing more than to run from.

You felt the couch cushions dip as striped orange and pink socks perched on the coffee table in front of you, feet crossing perfectly as a glass was held out. You couldn’t help but smile as the scent of a peach moscato filled your nostrils and you accepted it lazily, adjusting so your head rested on his chest, the feel of the vest he was wearing pressing into your cheek. An arm fell over your back and you sighed, lifting the glass to your lips.

It’s light essence floated as you swallowed, eventually reaching to rest the stemware on the coaster that had become your own.

Always in the same spots on the couch. Always with the same drinks. Always the same people. You weren’t in a rut, necessarily, but you found comfort in the human habits that had been developed while you were dating Barba. He did, too. In his spot, he could drink his beloved scotch and talk to you all night long, or let you fall asleep against his shoulder while he read up on the latest case law floating through the all-too sponge-like brain he had.

“You’re supposed to be working right now,” he observed quietly, finally breaking the silence you had accepted as easier than explaining why your trembling hands had been fighting their way into his abode earlier.

“The girls’ mom got home early from her yoga class,” you lied, voice filled with an abnormal rigidity.

“Should I be cross examining you at the moment, or are you going to come clean with less pressure?”

You heard the doubts in his voice, and even though you desperately wanted to insist that you were fine - that Mable Lee and Nora Mae were simply under the care of a mother who was also capable of macaroni and cheese night and bath time bubble fights, you knew he was already certain of a more truthful scenario. You rarely showed up at his home unannounced. You never went without telling him you loved him in the first five minutes of seeing him. You always offered to share your blanket on the couch. Not tonight, however, when the world was falling apart before your very eyes and the core of your value system was shaking the foundation of your stable exterior.

“My mom is in the emergency department back home,” you whispered.

You felt his fingertips dig into your side as he pulled you closer. Barba knew how much your family meant, even if they had stayed in their rural midwest home when you found your way to the East Coast shortly after high school. You talked every day, iMessages flying and emojis speaking in tongues as you shared your stories between siblings and parents.

He only understood from life with his abuelita and mami, but he understood enough.

“What happened?” He coaxed gently, head turning to press lips into your hair.

Your eyes closed, “They think she’s having a heart attack.”

It was as if you could almost feel the color draining from your face as you said the words out loud. Your free hand, which wasn’t resting on Rafael’s chest and absentmindedly drumming in time with the beat of his heart, reached into your pocket and felt your phone. “Dad said he’d call with any news. She’s having a chest x-ray now, I think.”

“We’ll go,” he nodded, immediately reaching for the iPad resting on the end table.

You gripped at his vest, shaking your head, “Not until we know more.”

“They’re your family, querida. We need to be there.”

“You have court tomorrow,” you reminded, your voice quiet, but firm. “And...I don’t want to see her. Not right now.”

Your eyes drifted to Rafael’s face as he settled into the couch. You could see the furrow in his brows and the fight on the tip of his tongue. And your heart swelled as you realized how much he loved you - how he would give up important days in his career to hold you through the fear and pain of not knowing if your family was all right. If the unit that you depended on would still be standing the next time your phone rang.

“You don’t want to see her?” He questioned softly, giving several moments of silence as you both processed the situation at hand.

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. You counted each breath that entered and left your body, willing yourself not to show emotion. If you weren’t happy, you didn’t want to be anything.

“Talk to me,” Rafael urged, his voice laced with a concern that ran deeper than words could express.

You swallowed hard, searching for the explanation that would give him comfort. That would tell him that you had thought about your options - that you knew what you were saying, “People having heart attacks, Rafi, they look so sick. They're pale and weak - fragile, even. I don’t want to see my mother that way. I want to remember her as I knew her.”

“She’ll be fine,” he assured you, realizing your fears ran deeper than the ocean. You didn't think this - whatever it was - could be survived. “She’s not going anywhere, love.”

“You can’t promise me that.”

“I can,” he nodded. “And you know why?”

You shook your head again, sitting up to look at him better. Your legs crossed beneath the blanket, and you picked absentmindedly at a string coming loose.

His fingers fell under your chin, lifting your face up so your eyes met. The sea of green you stared into was lined with tears and filled with compassion, “Because my abuelita lives on in my heart, with me and through me. I know what she would say to anything, and she gives me strength. Whether or not your mother is the same physically after this, I promise that she will be with you. No matter what.”

You swallowed hard, trying to look away as his hand held your chin in place. You collapsed into him, the tears that had been threatening just below the surface falling into his vest and leaving water marks that only the dry cleaner could do away with.

Arms tugged you close as your body was shifted to rest in his lap, fingers tangling in your locks as kisses fluttered around your eyelids and cheeks, one landing on your lips. You returned it gently, hand cupping Rafael’s cheek before you pulled back and looked up at him, “Maybe we should book that flight?”

Without a second thought, your forehead pressed against his. The tears had subsided for the time being, but you knew it was only a matter of time before they resurfaced. You felt your noses collide in the most gentle of eskimo kisses.

“It’s up to you, mi amor, but I’ll be by your side whatever you choose.”

You nodded, reaching for the iPad as you settled next to him again, fingers navigating to travel sites.

Your family had grown larger when you met Barba. He was faithful. He was loving. He was always ready with answers. He loved you, even when you had shattered into thousands of tiny pieces.

And, as much as you hadn’t expected it when you first met, he was the only one who could possibly adhere the brokenness back together.

#rafael barba #barba x reader #barba imagine #svu imagine #svu fanfiction

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lawlight-week · 7 years

Text

Title: Now The World Is Ours

 Name of creator: @shipaholic

 Created for:  @tsuki-keehl

Prompt: “Angst” + “bottom!Light" 

Characters: Light, L

 Rating, warnings and no. of words (for fics): R (M for part 2), nuclear apocalypse, 1781 words (this part)

It’s day thirty-eight. The air is yellow and L is still not back.

Light sips his coffee. There isn’t much else to do. The monitors have been blank ever since the bomb hit, and the back-up generator hasn’t brought them back online. Venturing beyond the control room in search of a fix has been deemed inadvisable.

So, this is where they’ve holed up. This bland square space filled with non-functioning tech is all that’s available to them. Light considers his good luck, in spite of it all. Of all the places to be when nuclear warfare breaks out, L’s stupid ostentatious building had turned out to be a godsend. Radiation-resistant walls. The backup generator whirs along and keeps the lights on and the kettle working. A water filter, for L’s million cups of tea. Gas masks.

The only exit to the room is the exit to the building. L goes out to get supplies. Mostly other people’s radios and televisions he’s deconstructed. They don’t need food, for now - the kitchen is well-stocked, and Light has drawn up a plan for rations, just in case. Neither of them suffers easily from cabin-fever. Light learned that about himself during his fifty days’ confinement. As for L, Light wonders if his stint at university was his first time out of doors.

Light takes another sip of coffee. The handcuff chain clinks against the arm of his chair.

Ah, yes. Those. Light had really, really hoped he’d seen the back of those.

L had disillusioned him the first day he’d decided one of them would need to go outside.

—

“Kira cannot be trusted on his own.”

Light had stared at the twin loops dangling from L’s crabbed, pinched thumb and forefinger. He’d pushed down the urge to scream.

“We proved my innocence. You stared at those rules for hours and you couldn’t think of a loophole.”

“I think we’re beyond proof now, Kira-kun. Hold out your arm.”

“I am not Kira. It is impossible for me to be Kira. The policemen of my country have determined that I am innocent. I don’t have to do anything you say.”

L sighed. Light laughed. The sound was sharp and echoing in the metal box they now called home.

“You must be overjoyed, now it’s just the two of us. Nobody can stop you tormenting me now. It was never really about proof, was it? You know I didn’t do it, and that’s why you’re out to get me - because I showed you up. I showed everyone The Great L was wrong. You want to punish me for not being Kira.”

L’s jawline twitched. It was the first time Light had seen an emotion force its way onto his face.

“I went easy on you before, Light.” There is no pleasure on L’s plain, tired face; only immovable dislike. “During our fistfights. A trained martial artist versus a teen with a handful of high-school boxing lessons under his belt? Don’t fool yourself into thinking we were evenly matched. If I’d fought back with no care to your safety, I would have done you a serious injury. Now, I could spend the next few hours laying out why you are Kira, and why those rules in the Death Note are fake, and how you have engineered this situation to provide yourself an alibi. But I am tired, and we are out of time. Hold out your arm.”

Light laughed again. It was hard to hold back, in this new ruined world. His laugh rolled around and around the room.

He refused.

It was a miscalculation.

—

That was weeks ago.

Light rubs his jaw with the hand not holding coffee. It still twinges when he presses too hard.

In the end, he can’t stop L doing what he wants. A small light of rage burns within him, replenishing every time he looks at L, every hour he spends tied to this chair. But it isn’t defeat, not really. L is just as trapped as he is.

Footsteps sound in the corridor outside.

Whenever L comes back, Light has a shameful urge to prick up his ears and lean towards the entrance, like a dog. He only does it because nothing else happens here. But for an instant that flame of rage gets directed at himself, for feeling anything at L’s comings and goings. Light’s priority is to ensure he stays alive and L dies, and the latter will happen as soon as the former is assured.

The door sweeps open, and a yellow astronaut steps into the room.

The astronaut places a backpack carefully on the ground. It straightens up and removes its helmet. Underneath is L’s head, smaller than usual with his body covered in bulky hazmat-wear.

Light lets out a breath. He hates the feeling of relief creeping up inside him. If L became a shambling radiated zombie, or got his head bashed open by some desperate person, Light’s only reason to mourn would be for his own odds of survival.

“You were gone overnight. I was worried,” he said out loud.

L starts to wriggle out of the hazmat suit. No doubt it’ll be left in a pile on the floor until the next trip. “Apologies, Light. I found an office that was still accessible on the ground floor. It made sense to work through the night.” Just as Light knew he would, he discards his suit on the ground like an old skin. L crouches on the floor and unzips the backpack.

“Well, I’m glad you’re alive. I could do with another coffee when you’ve got a moment.” Light watches L pull bits of deconstructed computer out of the backpack. Unusually for him, he has remembered Light’s request for more toothpaste. A bright pink, half-empty bottle of shampoo, obviously stolen from some teenage girl’s bathroom, is crammed at the bottom. And so are… condoms.

Light blinks as L lays the little box on the floor with the other personal items. Definitely condoms. There’s no reason Light would hallucinate that.

“That’s a little presumptuous,” he says.

L lifts his huge eyes. His dark circles are worse than ever. If he stayed up all of last night, Light calculates he must be nearing hour eighty without sleep.

“It is still possible there are other survivors. In case we end up accommodating more people, I am trying to prepare as broad a range of supplies as possible. These don’t expire for another five years, so that gives us plenty of time.”

Light wants to laugh, but he feels too exasperated. “L, quite besides the fact that no-one else in Tokyo is likely to have been inside, effectively, a nuclear bunker when a bomb was dropped on them with no warning -”

“Breathe, Light,” L mutters.

“- And besides the fact that we now live in a single room, which while spacious, does not provide for privacy or sound-proofing -” Light does pause for breath at that point. L inspires a lot of run-on sentences - “I doubt anyone with the dubious luck of being alive in this hell on earth has sex on their mind.”

“Oh well. I’ll put them with the spare batteries.” L sets the condoms aside.

Light watches him as he sorts through the guts of the computers he’s shredded. He feels vaguely rattled, though he doesn’t know why. It isn’t just because he spent the night chained to a chair, while L was apparently raiding strangers’ night stands for sex aids.

“You’re lying to me,” he says, half to himself.

L’s nimble fingers stop sorting bits of metal. Light’s always found them interesting to watch, the strange crabbed way L holds them at odds with their dexterity. They remind him of spindly pale insects he once saw in a nature documentary.

“I regret, due to the nature of my work, I am frequently lying to you, Light-kun. As ever, I pray you won’t take it personally.”

“Oh, spare me,” Light snaps. “It’s the goddamn apocalypse. Nobody has a job any more.”

The words surprise him. The concept of an apocalypse feels straight out of comic books. It’s not a word he would normally reach for. Still, he realises that this is how it feels. Not just that Tokyo has ended, but the world has.

His New World has died, right when he’d begun to shape it for the better.

L gives him a look, but doesn’t comment on his odd word choice. “As far as I am concerned, L is a job for life. It’s not as if I was drawing a salary. I am still working a case, even as the circumstances I am working in become… highly irregular.”

“Ah, the case.” Light rolls his eyes and tips his chair back. “Some might call it selfish to fixate on catching one murderer when millions are dead and the world is in shambles.”

“What an abrupt change in Light-kun’s attitude.” L’s voice is sharp. “I recall you giving me a black eye the last time I lost focus on the Kira case.”

“Well, what can I say. Statistically, Kira is probably dead. And if not, he must be having a job locating new victims at the moment.” Light sets his empty cup down on the ground. His eye catches the condom packet and he almost loses his train of thought. “But far be it for me to question your priorities, L. One: acquire as much junk as you can carry. Two: provide for the sex lives of hypothetical guests. Three: chain up the one person who could help you and call them a murderer. Four -”

L drops the bit of piping in his hand to the tiled floor. The crash rings throughout the room.

Light almost jumps out of his skin. He stares from the pipe on the ground to L’s tightly drawn mouth.

“Light. Shut up.”

Light’s mouth snaps shut. He has never seen L lose his temper.

L resumes picking through his stack of parts, while Light’s brain whirs into overtime. It is the condoms that’s bothering him. L’s explanation makes no sense. And everything he does is calculated. Dropping them in front of Light like that… it was a provocation.

The conclusion drops neatly into Light’s head like the answer to a test. He smiles.

“You’re lonely,” he says.

L pauses. He doesn’t look up.

Light’s voice brims with satisfaction. “You’re afraid you’re going to die. So you’re hoping for a pity-fuck.”

L still says nothing. Light doesn’t need him to. His smile widens.

They spend the rest of the hours until bed in silence. Light doesn’t get his coffee. He doesn’t care. The triumph burning inside him, for once, is enough to drown the anger.

#lawlightweek2k17 #submission #fanfic #tuski-keehl #shipaholic

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