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xxkellsvixen19xx · 3 years

Text

Spotlight: A Life Of A Troubled Celebrity Heartthrob Ch 7

Word Count: 3,437

Colson continued to be sick as the night dragged on. Dr Lander had warned of the side effects and advised Colson to keep hydrated. Tired of rushing him to the bathroom, Y/N called room service and requested a bucket filled it with sand and put it at Colson's side of the bed; in case he had another bout of nausea-which he did, for most of the night.

"I'm so sorry baby..sorry for putting you through this," Colson mumbled repeatedly.

"I got you babe. Don't worry... I'm here okay?" she cooed soothingly.

Y/N patiently wiped his face or mouth whenever he dribbled and held up the bucket for him when needed. She constantly made trips to the bathroom to wash the towel; to wipe the sweat off to keep his body cool. Colson was delirious until his fever broke, which was the point they finally got to rest.

Colson's phone kept buzzing on the night-stand until Y/N reached over and answered it; because she couldn't take it anymore. "Hello," she said groggily.

"Good afternoon Y/N," Byron said, "Any chance I can talk to your husband?"

"Hmmm.." Y/N groaned, "No can do By."

"Why? He still asleep or..? It's way after lunch-"

"Rather you come over and see for yourself," she croaked in her sleep deprived voice.

"Is everything okay?" Byron started to panic.

"See you soon By. I need to go back to sleep now so-bye," she hung up and went to the bathroom. Then called room service and ordered breakfast for herself since Colson was still knocked out.

Colson was still sound asleep so she tiptoed around as she cleaned up the bedroom. She flung the windows open and the fresh air that invaded the room was a welcome intrusion. The curtains she kept closed so as not to wake him. Colson's phone rang again and she rolled her eyes before answering.

"Hi Mrs Baker! How are you this fine afternoon?" Jax said with enthusiasm.

"Jax," Y/N groaned.

"Everything okay there? Anything I should know?" he inquired.

"Just get here and you will find the answer to all your questions," she sighed as she cut the call.

"Hey-is Colson around?" Slim asked.

"Hey Slim. Yes but he's still asleep," Y/N said for the umpteenth time.

"We have a sound check at four so was wondering-"

"It's not going to happen," she said flatly.

"I'm coming over," Slim saved her the trouble of hanging up.

The phone wouldn't stop ringing. She was almost tempted to switch it off.

"Hi Mrs Baker this is Dr Lander..from last night at the hospital?"

"Oh hi Doc," Y/N said, "I'm going to get the driver to bring you tickets right away. Take care."

A few minutes later she heard a loud knock on the door; when the door swung open Slim, Jax and Byron were waiting outside. Y/N glanced at them and grunted a greeting before walking back into the bedroom. She had thrown on decent PJs and tied her hair in a messy bun. They trailed behind her quietly and stood at the door waiting for her to allow them to get in.

"Colson is sick," she stated in a flat tone, "I took him to the hospital last night but he seemed better and then he got worse. Fever, nausea-all of it," she leaned against the headboard and rubbed her forehead.

"Why didn't you call us?" Slim asked.

"He insisted that you all needed a day off and he was against the idea of calling any of you," she dug her hands into her luscious long hair as she pushed it back. Slim stared openly and shook himself before anyone else noticed.

"Let's not have this discussion here, we might wake him up. He needs his rest and so does Y/N," Byron led them back into the living room.

"So today is the last day of the tour and Colson seems out of it," Byron rubbed his chin worriedly.

"What do we do?" Jax asked as he sat down.

"We can improvise.." Slim suggested.

"How?" Byron asked in a low voice.

"We can give him a little pick me up.." Slim smiled slyly "it works like a charm.."

"No!" Jax said adamantly as he rose to his feet.

"Look-it's the last concert guys c'mon. We can't be refunding fans that got tickets already. Need I remind you it was a sell out show?" Slim whispered defensively, "Besides everyone in showbiz does it."

"What you're proposing will do more harm than good," Jax whispered fiercely.

"Guys let's take five shall we? Deep breaths everyone.." Byron raised his hands, "That's it.."

"Don't tell me you're in agreement with him??" Jax turned to Byron, shock registering on his face.

"Well..I.." Byron looked around in discomfit.

"You can't-" Jax looked distraught.

"I don't really need anyone's permission besides Col's. So I'm going to ask him what he thinks when he wakes up," Slim challenged.

"Why would you want to put him through that again? He's been clean and it should stay that way...Don't do it Slim," Jax glared at Slim, "Just because you're beyond redemption doesn't mean you should take Colson down with you."

"Well, we will have to see about that the, won't we?" Slim sneered and walked out of the hotel room. It was time to put his plans in motion..with a little help from unsuspecting friends of course.

"Hey Slim," Ashleigh opened the door and let him in.

"Hey Ash, listen..I think you need to take Y/N out of the house or something. She seems like she could use a friend right now you know?" Slim said with concern.

"Oh..is she okay?" Ashleigh asked as she sat on the couch opposite Slim.

"I think you should just go over and suggest lunch or shopping or whatever it is you girls do to de-stress," Slim shrugged as he leaned forward.

"Okay, I will do that..maybe Sommer can join us?" she said brightly.

"Yeah, that would be great. It will give the boys a chance to bond," Slim stood up and made to leave, "I'll go and tell Sommer to get ready, so long."

"She can just come over to Y/N's once she's done," Ashleigh said as she walked him to the door.

"Thanks Ash, you're a great friend," Slim said as a parting shot. He smiled to himself as he walked back to his hotel room. All the pieces were falling in place. He would get his revenge before he left and he wasn't going out without a fight. Colson would pay.

*********************************************

"Hey Byron..have you sorted out the venue for the after party? The Banquet Manager just sent me a text that there was a mix up with the booking," Jax looked at his phone and frowned.

"What? I thought she had sorted out the issue with the double booking??" Byron stood up and raked his hand through his hair in frustration, "this is just what I need! I need to get this thing sorted before Colson finds out," Byron grabbed his coat, "please make sure he's on time for the sound check," he said before he rushed out,

"Checkmate," Jax grinned as he made his way to Colson's bedroom. He knocked softly and Y/N's melodic voice told him to come in.

"Hey Y/N-we need to get Colson out of here. I'll explain later," he hurried over and effortlessly lifted Colson over his shoulder, "please get dressed quickly."

"What's going on? Is everything okay?" Y/N furrowed her brows as she threw the covers aside and grabbed her shoes.

"That's what I'm trying to do-make sure everything is okay..including Colson," Jax made for the door, "Let's go-hurry please!" he implored.

Jax hoped that they didn't bump into anyone as they escaped from the hotel room. There was no way he would allow them to manipulate Colson-they would have to kill him first. Jax had vowed to Colson's father to protect him at all costs and he would; no matter what the cost. He would deal with Byron and Slim later. He was actually disappointed in Byron, he didn't expect him to go along with Slim's pea-brained scheme. Clearly Byron was all about the dollar signs and didn't care about Colson's well-being.

"Please open the door for me?" Jax asked when they got to the car.

"Sure-sorry let me get it," Y/N ran forward; opened the back seat of the SUV and then jumped in from the other side. She cradled his head an her lap and he began to stir. Colson's eyes fluttered open and then he fell asleep again, oblivious to what was going on around him.

"So we're going to hideout at a guest house close to Genval Lake until this whole thing blows over okay?" Jax drove away quickly but cautiously.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on now?" Y/N pursed her lips in a grim line as she stroked Colson's soft platinum hair.

"I will but you're not going to like it..just promise me you won't confront anybody?" Jax stared at her through the rear-view mirror, "promise."

"Fine," she sighed.

Jax filled her in on the whole debacle and Y/N went from shocked to super-pissed. Jax had to tell her again that confronting the perpetrators was not an option. She argued with him until she was red in the face but Jax was adamant.

"Let me handle this," he insisted; then "please?" in a gentle voice.

It was inevitable that Colson would wake up because of the heated discussion that was taking place, while he was half-asleep.

"Stop the car!" Colson shouted as he scrambled to sit up.

Jax didn't hesitate he slammed on the breaks by reflex. Colson threw open the door and barely made it out. He spewed his guts as soon as his knees hit the ground. Y/N grabbed a box of Kleenex and a bottle of water then went after him. Jax was crouched close by rubbing his back with a concerned look on his face.

"I'm sorry sweets. I know you didn't sign up for this," Colson croaked as Y/N dabbed his mouth and wiped the sweat of his face.

"I said I do didn't I?" Y/N jabbed at a joke.

"Guess you did," he gave a lopsided grin and drained the water from the water bottle.

"I feel like a third wheeler," Jax grumbled as he stood and dusted his jeans.

"Nothing new," Colson muttered and Jax punched his shoulder playfully.

"You're ready to go?" Jax asked.

"Yeah..just give me a minute," Colson leaned on the car as another wave of nausea seized him.

"I've got your meds in the car. Should I get them? They kind of helped last night.." Y/N suggested.

"Baby, I can't tell you how sorry I am.." Colson said dejectedly; his face filled with shame and remorse. He pulled her into his arms and leaned his forehead against hers.

"There's no need to apologize..I know you would do the same thing for me," she kissed his forehead then pulled his hand, "Let's get out of here."

"Are you good to go?" Jax started the car.

"Yeah," Colson replied, "what were you two arguing about earlier on? The truth please?" Colson put emphasis as he held Y/N's hand.

"Well..if you really want to know.." Jax sighed deeply; his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"I do," Colson stated firmly.

Jax told him about the discussion that went on while he was in oblivion and didn't leave anything out. Colson clenched his jaw and didn't say anything until Jax was done talking. They even arrived at the house but Colson remained in the car and told them to go ahead without him, he would follow.

The house was a beautiful cosy villa consisting of an entrance hall, a bright living room with a wood stove and beautiful bay window overlooking the lake, a fully equipped kitchen with a breakfast corner, the floors had a sumptuous studio and its adjoining terrace. It had four large bedrooms, including a master room with a dressing room, two large bathrooms with bath and shower. A haven of peace, in a quiet close with outdoor parking included.

Y/N went straight to the shower and afterwards proceeded to make brunch but Colson had beat her to it. He was busy cooking up a storm with the help of Jax. She stood at the door and just observed for a while before they noticed her.

"We're almost done here. Maybe you can help set the table on the terrace or the garden? You can choose," Colson turned back to the stove and busied himself again.

"He'll be fine. Don't worry okay?" Jax startled her and intruded her thoughts. He set the steaming, delicious food on the garden table, then put his hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah..of course," she gave him a stiff smile and proceeded with him back to the kitchen.

"I think we're all set. I'll take the coffee outside and you kids can bring the toast once it's done," Jax said.

"Have you taken your meds?" Y/N asked Colson as she leaned on the counter.

"Yes mum," he teased, "stop worrying okay?" he kissed her on the cheek and smiled, "can we go and eat now? I'm staving!" he tugged Y/N's hand and pulled her back outside.

They made small talk as they ate and Y/N noticed that Colson seemed to be in a better mood. Either that or he was a very good actor..come to think of it-he was. He even had an Oscar to prove it..

*********************************************

"Sweets-please stop worrying! I'll be fine okay," Colson reassured his wife for the umpteenth time, "beside you will be right with me on the stage-isn't that enough?" he chuckled and cupped her face. She tried to focus on his hypnotic blue eyes instead of his enticing well-toned body. He had just stepped out of the shower with a towel loosely tied around his waist; smelling so fresh and looking too sexy. His golden locks were still dripping with water that slid slowly down his neck and coursed down his chest. She had never been so turned on by him as she was at this moment. He could literally make her do anything right now and she would be more than willing to oblige.

"Alright, alright," she said weakly when she remembered that they were supposed to be having an argument, "but if I feel that you are straining yourself then I will be forced to do something about it," she was bit her bottom lip.

"Gees sweets! You're beginning to sound like a typical nagging wife!" Colson laughed and she broke out of his embrace. Y/N couldn't get over his laugh. He looked so young and carefree. His beautiful features really stood out whenever he was happy; which was very rare.

"Cut it out Baker," she swatted his arm and folded her arms.

"I'm just teasing Bambi," he pulled her closer and kissed her softly. Unable to resist him as usual, her lips melted into his and they became one. The kiss ignited something in them and it went from being a mere spark to an uncontrollable inferno. Without breaking contact, Colson lifted her and gently placed her on the bed. Her hands were deeply buried in his hair; his hands were tracing every contour of her body. Their bodies fit perfectly together and they were lost in each other. Caught up in a world of their own where only two of them existed and their need for each other was the main purpose of their existence.

"I need you Y/N," Colson whispered as he pleaded with his intense arctic eyes that bored into her very soul. She could see the need in them and she needed him almost as much as he needed her. He turned up the music on the iPod when she silently gave her consent with a silent nod. He was sure that things were about to get a bit loud and more heated.

He was bound to lose control once he got a taste of her because he had wanted her from the moment he laid his eyes on her. She pulled him back to possess not only her lips but her mind, her body and her heart.

𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒆

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆

𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝑰'𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆

𝑳𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆

𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑾𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏

𝑰'𝒎 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒖𝒇𝒇𝒆𝒓

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏

𝑰'𝒎 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖

(Credit: Devil Within by Digital Daggers)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jax checked his watch and noticed that Colson would be late if they didn't leave soon. There was no sign of either him or Y/N and by the sound of the extremely loud baby-making music streaming downstairs from their bedroom; he knew they were definitely not playing Karaoke.

Jax sighed as he made his way upstairs. He didn't want to disturb them but he had to. Nonetheless he still felt bad. He raised his hand and pounded on the door and got no response until the third knock. The music was turned down considerably and Jax could hear movement.

"Go away Jax! We're almost ready," Colson called out.

"Don't let me come back again," Jax called, "you have exactly one hour to get ready," he said before turning to leave.

"I wish we didn't have to go," Colson groaned as he brushed his lips on Y/N's neck.

"The show must go on Baker," she pulled the covers over her exposed body and sat up.

"Do you regret it?" Colson asked as he furrowed his brows.

"Never," she said with pure conviction.

"Neither do I," his face broke into a smile, "I just wish I could do you all day.."his skilled hands started to rove again.

"Colson.." Y/N gasped as his lips found her weak spot.

"I love it when you say my name like that..it makes me want to take you over and over again.." he trailed her body with feather-light kisses and once again she was at his mercy.

Jax checked his watch again and shook his head. It's a good thing he told them they had exactly an hour to get ready instead on two hours. He knew they would disregard his warning. He stood outside the door and pounded on it once again. The door flew open and Colson stood there fully dressed but cussing him with his arctic orbs.

"That scowl on your face tells me that you're happy to see me," Jax grinned, "it's a good thing you're ready though..where is that dangerously gorgeous wife of yours?" he peered over Colson's shoulder.

"She's almost done," his face softened, "can we go and talk downstairs?"

"So what's on your mind?" Jax sank onto a nearby couch and stretched out his long legs.

"Did you make doubly sure that security will keep Slim out? I don't want him anywhere near the stadium," Colson stressed.

"Yeah I did. We got everything covered. It's under control okay?" Jax reassured him, "if you can step outside, you will see that we have beefed up the security around you as well."

"Good," Colson nodded and ran back up the stairs.

"I didn't know what to wear so.." Y/N shrugged as Colson gave her a once over. She was dressed in full white- ripped jeans, t-shirt and matching converse sneakers.

"You look good baby..you always do," Colson stepped forward, "except there's one little problem," he undid her messy bun and her beautiful, lush hair came tumbling down her back, "I prefer your hair like this," he kissed her nose and smiled.

"If it pleases the master," Y/N bowed her head and they laughed.

"Let's get out of here before the master throws you back on that bed," Colson jerked his head towards the bed.

"Not if I do it first.." she purred as she traced her finger suggestively down his chest. With that she exited the room without another word.

Colson stood there gulping down his own drool; every fiber of his being on fire...

Tagged: @kellysimagines

#machine gun kelly #colson baker #mgk #colson baker x reader #colson baker imagine #machine gun kelly x reader #machine gun kelly imagine #fan fiction

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lovelazarus · 3 years

Text

rating: Mature

archive warning: graphic depictions of violence

words: 2645

tags: Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Suicidal Thoughts, Self-Harm (fairly graphic), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, graphic description of suicide attempt, Flashbacks, Trauma, Fluff, Fix-It of Sorts, Dean is alive, Castiel is alive, Hurt/Comfort, POV Dean Winchester, brief mention of John Winchester - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Sad with a Happy Ending, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Past Abuse, Homophobic Language, 15x20 Fix-It

summary: (This fic starts out with a graphic dream/flashback of Dean's mid-20s.) Cas showed up to save Dean in 15x20 after he let himself get impaled on rebar, his attempt to stop living while thinking Cas was truly gone in the Empty. It's been a few months since that event in the Barn. Things have been calm since Chuck lost his power & Jack brought Castiel back to help rebuild heaven (although Jack isn't in this directly!). Even with things being okay, Dean's decades of trauma are still bubbling up and Dean has to face the reality of his actions (past & present).

PLEASE read all tags before reading!

The last thing Dean remembers is sitting down on the couch in the Deancave, waiting for Cas to come pick tonight's movie. He must’ve dozed off at some point because suddenly it's 2004 and he’s 25 years old again.

The two years Sammy was off at Stanford was one of Dean’s lowest points in life; including his trip to hell, being a demon & helping kick start the apocalypse. He was completely alone.

Sam was gone, John was irate and blamed Dean for Sam leaving, for not stopping him from leaving. Dean was hunting alone, without his family, for the first time in his life. His last hunt however was the first to deeply scar him irrevocably.

A father and 2 sons, roughly the same age apart as him and Sam. Both attacked by an extremely vengeful spirit, the father was gutted and the sons were supernaturally manipulated into hanging themselves. Dean walked into their house hoping to save the family after following trails of the case, but he walked into a gruesome scene that left him shaking and holding back from vomiting.

In Dean’s mind, it was a representation of his own torn apart family. He left the home, found the grave of the spirit, and put it to rest with unsteady hands and bleary eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to you in time… I could’ve saved you and I wasn’t there. I wasn’t good enough to help you. I’m so sorry.” Dean whispers, half to the victims and half to his younger brother, thousands of miles away and unable to hear his plea.

He gets to the motel room he rented with his duffle slung over his shoulder and stands outside the door with the key in his hand, almost afraid to enter, lest he finds another sick and twisted scene inside. He exhales roughly and shoves the key into the door and strides in.

All that's inside his cheap bottle of gas station whiskey and a pack of menthols.

He drops his duffle on the extra twin bed before scooping up his liquor and smokes. He wants to erase this entire hunt from his mind if he can.

Oh, how he wants to.

Three hours later his whole pack is gone, cigarette butts shoved into an old ashtray, and 3/4th the bottle of whiskey is sitting harshly in his stomach. Dean can’t stop picturing that family as his own. Thoughts of his father’s anger circle inside his mind like a tornado.

“I told you to watch out for Sammy, boy! Do you even use that brain other than to continuously disappoint me and fail your brother? To fail Mary?”

HIT

“I left you alone for two weeks! TWO WEEKS THAT'S ALL! Now Sam has run off and you’re going to pay for it.”

HIT

“So you blew through all the money I left you and now you’re turning tricks like some little faggot? You’re going to influence Sammy to that shit and I won’t allow my sons to be like that.”

HIT

With each memory of John rushing back into Dean’s mind, he can still feel the physical hits coming. His dad was right. This would never have happened if he hadn’t been more careful. If he had protected Sam like he was told to. If he had been a better son.

He finishes the last of the whiskey as the screams of his father’s voice start to fade back into the black void inside his mind. But the moment the last drop of liquor touches his tongue, he breaks. Every punch landed by his father that he took in order to protect Sam comes rushing back. Every harsh word and drunken fight he got into. Every argument with Sam over being too controlling, too much of a soldier.

Dean feels sick.

The toilet in that crappy motel room has certainly seen better days, but no matter how much Dean vomits, he stays just as drunk.

In a moment of blind anger, he destroys the kitchenette, the TV, and the nightstand. He chucks the empty whiskey bottle at the wall and watches the glass fly everywhere as it shatters.

He absent-mindedly picks up a large piece of glass.

This could kill me. One quick and easy slash to my neck or wrist and that’d be it. No more pain for Sam, and no more disappointment for dad.

He lets his hand drop to his side and allows the shard to fall to the floor. This isn’t the first time he’s had thoughts like this in moments of weakness, but it's certainly the first time there was a calm push behind it. He collapses to his knees with a broken sob. He doesn’t want to do this anymore. He's tired.

God, he is so tired.

Dean isn’t sure when he decided this was his only option to stop the deep visceral pain he’s feeling, but it's where he’s at now.

Swallow all the pills in the med bag? No, that's what bitches and girls do, plus… it's painful.

Slit his wrists in a nice warm bath? Even worse than pills! You really are some kind of faggot, aren’t you?

Shotgun to the face? Now that's the man’s way out.

He pauses, looking over to his favorite sawed-off. It’ll be an absolute mess if that’s the way he goes. He thinks again to the family he couldn’t save; how gory and horrific it was. He shudders and breathes in sharply. He can’t do that to someone else, especially not some innocent civilian.

“Of course,” he mutters under his breath “I have a rope in the trunk.” So that’s the plan.

He stuffs all his shit into his duffle, writes out an apology to Sam, Bobby, and John (it’s a suicide note, but it doesn’t explain anything), and then he ties a military-grade noose. He finds a chair that isn’t completely destroyed by his earlier rage and begins to tie the rope onto the ceiling fan.

He stands there for a moment, contemplating. “Am I really about to do this? I’ve fought monsters and demons and ghosts for twenty years and this is where it ends?”

He shakes his head and shrugs.

“Always knew I'd die before thirty.”

He raises the noose to his head and just as he is about to slide it around his throat… The chair breaks apart, and he's left lying on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

“FUCK!” he manages to yell out before his lungs and chest start burning again. Tears begin to pinprick at his eyes as he lays motionless (and probably concussed, he didn’t break his fall at all). “I can’t even kill myself right.” he thinks to himself.

Slowly, he gets himself off the floor, groaning at the pain in his skull and back as he does. Crawling over to his bed, he sees the glass shard he dropped earlier.

“I just want to stop this fucking FEELING” his mind screams. “Just do SOMETHING you worthless son of a bitch!”

He picks the glass back up.

Everything is hazy when his brain starts to come into focus again. His hands feel slick and wet, so he brings them to his face to see what he touched.

Blood.

His own blood.

Three long gashes across his forearm, roughly a quarter-inch deep and four inches long each. He needs to stitch himself up for sure.

30 minutes later and it just looks like a hunt gone bad, his arm is sewn up and all the motel towels are stained red.

For a fleeting moment, he feels at peace. The rush of discovering what he did in a fog of failing to kill himself and the overwhelming feeling of failing his family, he feels like this was something he deserved. Like he deserved to be punished.

After an hour of dissociating and staring at the wall, he passes out and sinks into a moment of silent nothingness. No nightmares, not yet.

Dean practically jumps out of his skin when he hears Cas’s voice from the doorway.

“Dean? You look pale. What's going on?” Castiel asks with his familiar cadence.

Dean wishes he knew what brought that memory back up. Instead, he plasters on a fake smile and shakes his head reassuringly the best he can.

“Nothing Cas, just thinking I guess. What took you so long? You burn the popcorn or somethin?” Dean knows he sounds insincere, he knows that Cas knows, too. He doesn't want Cas to worry any more than he already does, though.

“Dean, your heart rate sped up and you were on the verge of hyperventilating, what happened?”

Damn it. He should’ve known Cas could still do that weird x-ray angel shit. Instead of trying to hide it further, he sighs and motions for Castiel to sit beside him on the couch.

However, he blanches when Cas passes behind him and brushes his hand against Dean’s shoulder. Cas sits down carefully, not to overwhelm Dean. Castiel has seen him during a flashback before, especially after hell. Cas looks inviting, ready to listen to whatever Dean has to say. Cas was always trying to be open with him lately, Dean knows it’s because of the struggles the last six months.

Cas dying, if briefly. Dean ALMOST dying, because of it.

Wait…

That's when Dean realizes.

Every time he’s lost someone, it's been bad. Drunk passed out on the floor, let Baby be filthy, run into hunts without any concern for his safety, bad…

The two worst times were when he lost Sammy, and when he thought he lost Cas to the Empty.

Dean must’ve been sitting there with a strange look on his face for a while cause Cas reaches out gingerly to silently ask if he’s alright. Dean gives him a half-smile and lets out the breath he was apparently holding.

“Cas, did I ever tell you about what I did in 2004 when Sam was off at Stanford and I was hunting by myself?”

Cas tilts his head in that endearing way he always does, “Not that I recall. Is something from back then troubling you now still?”

Dean clenches his jaw and runs a hand over his mouth, a nervous tic he picked up from John decades ago. “I did something similar back then to what I did in that barn. I gave up.”

Castiel’s eyes widen a bit, starting to understand what Dean is trying to say, but staying silent, to let him get this out.

Dean cracks a wry chuckle, “y’know, when you pulled me outta hell and into my body again, I was surprised you wiped the slate and got rid of all my scars.” He glances at Castiel, just for a moment, to see his reaction. It's soft but a little confused.

“At the time, I thought you would like to come back whole. A fresh start after what you went through in hell. I know now that life is about the imperfections and that the littlest things have meaning and memories. I’m sorry if I took those from you, Dean.” Cas meets Dean’s eyes with apologetic fondness and sincerity.

“Cas, it's okay. Really. Sometimes… I don't know, there's some scars I just miss sometimes.” He runs his hand along his forearm, where the self-harm scars would’ve been. “The ones that were here… they gave me a constant reminder of what almost happened. What I almost did.” Dean can feel his face getting warm as he talks about it, eyes watering up but no tears slip down his face.

Cas seems to nod along, waiting for him to continue with concerned patience. “I tried to kill myself back in ‘04. Sam was gone and doing fine without me, he had Jess. Dad was pissed at me for not getting him to stay and hunt. I had no one. I hit a low point after finding a really fucked up case about a vengeful spirit that gutted a family, father, and two sons…” Dean chokes up, as he pictures the glazed eyes of the corpses he found. A shiver runs down his spine as he can still picture it like it was yesterday.

“You saw your father and Sam in them and it brought up a lot of emotions, that’s understandable.” Cas tries to reassure him but doesn’t quite understand what Dean’s trying to get at.

“I got drunk after I salt and burned the spirit's corpse. I felt empty inside and like nobody needed me. I couldn’t save those kids and I didn't see any point in saving myself…” tears are now flowing gently down Dean’s face as he tries to push out what he needs to say, what he needs Cas to understand about this. “When you, when you said all that stuff before you left… I felt that same exact way. Even though I had Sam and Jack and then the whole bullshit after with Chuck and Lucifer and Michael… I felt so damn alone. Like I’d failed you, cause I couldn’t even save someone I love the most.” Dean’s voice goes harsh as he full-on sobs at those last few words.

The past few months since Castiel has been back, they haven’t talked about Cas's confession before being taken by the Empty, and Dean hasn’t said it aloud (even though his mind is screaming those three words every time he looks at Cas). Dean feels Cas touch his hand gently, reverently. A sob violently racks his body as he looks up into blue eyes also filled with tears.

“I’m so sorry Dean. I’m sorry.” the last word catches in his throat as Dean grabs his hand fully, intertwining their fingers.

“I know Cas. You did it to save me. You seem to keep doing that, huh? From hell, saying yes to Michael, Billie, from myself…” Dean softly strokes his thumb against Cas’s hand while tear tracks continue to stain his face. “Cas, thank you. I know I’ll never be able to pay you back for all that you’ve done for me and for Sam but… thank you.”

They lock eyes for a moment, Dean knows Cas loves him and he knows he loves Cas. He can’t think of a goddamn thing standing in the way right now. Dean releases Cas’s hand, cups his face, and brings their lips together, finally.

It takes a moment for Castiel to understand what's happening, but he quickly catches up and kisses Dean back fervently.

Cas tastes like summer rain after a long drought, like lightning and thunder all at once, like earth and something ethereal Dean can’t quite place. Cas tastes like coming home, and he is.

“Me too, Cas. Son of a bitch, I love you too.” he whispers into Cas’s mouth as Cas lets out a sob-laugh.

They pull apart for a moment, hands still against each other's cheeks. Communicating with their eyes is something they’ve mastered after 12 years, but there's something unknown now. Something new, something hopeful. And dammit if Dean isn't going to latch on to that hope.

They decide on an old western, Dean’s seen it a hundred times before. They’re leaning into each other silently watching as Dean’s eyes begin to close. He can feel Cas running his fingers against his arm, where those scars would’ve been. It's then, in the comfort of his Angel, that Dean falls fast asleep.

For the first time in 40 years, he doesn’t have nightmares. Not of yellow eyes, not of losing Sammy; not of John’s anger, not of hell; the apocalypse, Michael, Chuck, losing Cas… it all feels distant and far behind him now. When Dean wakes again, Cas still has his arms around him, eyes closed, and is running his fingers through Dean’s hair.

Dean knows all his trauma won't just vanish, but in this moment with Cas...it feels possible.

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xxx-cat-xxx · 4 years

Text

I walk this lonely road

Characters: Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers

TW: Self-harm references, Coronavirus (but nobody gets infected), Alcohol

A/N: This fic makes reference to self-harm and to the coronavirus. I know the latter is a really sensitive topic at the moment, so if that’s something that might upset you in any way, please be careful.

The virus affects almost everyone in the world at the moment at some level and this fic is meant to explore one particular experience among millions. I do not claim that this experience is representative in any way, and I definitely do not claim that it is worse than what others have to deal with. Nat is in a very privileged position, but she is still hurting, and that’s what I wanted to write about.

As always, thanks to @whumphoarder for beta reading.

They lock down the tower in the second week of the pandemic.

Steve, while helping to set up tents next to the already overcrowded Metro General, shared his lunch with another volunteer who tested positive two days later. Since tests are hard to come by and none of them were showing symptoms, the team decided against using their influence to get tested through the backdoor and instead are self-quarantining for at least two weeks.

Bruce and Tony are elbow-deep in research to find a vaccine and wouldn’t leave the tower if an armed battalion tried to force them out. Clint went back to stay with his family at the farm as soon as the first cases started being detected in New York. Steve is keeping busy by exercising, recording PSAs about everything from handwashing to social distancing, and sending uplifting video messages to infected fans.

Meanwhile, Nat is slowly coming apart at the seams.

Before the self-enforced quarantine, she was distributing essentials to homeless and low-income families, but now, trapped inside the tower, there isn’t really anything she can do remotely to help the population.

(Except maybe taking out the president with one of his own killer drones, but that’s not exactly in the realm of legality.)

It’s not that she hasn’t experienced being locked down somewhere for weeks at a time before, but that was on missions, with work to do and a goal to achieve. Right now, she has nowhere to go and nothing to do, and for Nat, that is the worst possible combination.

The first few days are comparatively easy to bear. She runs the better part of a marathon on the treadmill every morning. Brushes up on her Mandarin. Hacks the Pentagon for the sheer thrill of it.

Anything to keep her from spiralling too far down.

Five days in, she wakes up at midnight from a nightmare about the Red Room, feeling like there’s a boulder on her chest weighing her down. She scrambles up to open the window and takes huge, gasping breaths of the cool night air, trying to convince herself that it doesn’t make a difference whether she’s inside or outside the window frame.

Finally, she slides down onto the carpet and digs her fingernails into her bare shins, heart still beating way too fast and too loud in her ears. Catches herself wishing for a task, an attack, anything she can do, eyes the small imprints of her nails in her legs, a few of them oozing blood. The pain is tempting, much too tempting. She tries not to think of the blades under her mattress, in the cupboard, below the bathroom sink.

She knows it’s not exactly pain she longs for, but it’s a functional substitute for everything else.

Nat swallows. Then she makes the executive decision that she needs to go for a walk.

She wears a mask and gloves when she slips into the darkness. Even with the protective outfit, she keeps away from walls, streetlights, shop windows, anything she could potentially contaminate.

The night air is just the right kind of chilly to feel alive. The city, devoid of people, cars, and pollution, is a different kind of beautiful. The huddled groups of desperate families in front of the downtown hospital are not.

Nat finds a children’s playground with monkey bars wedged in between two residential buildings. She does pull-ups until her shoulders are on fire. Then she climbs up and lies on top of the climbing frame, her gaze getting lost where the skyscrapers meet the night sky.

She only climbs down when she can hear the sirens of an ambulance from a nearby street. Then she wipes the bars clean with the hand sanitizer and paper towel she brought along. When she makes her way back to the tower, it finally feels like she can breathe a little easier.

Tony and Steve are waiting for her when she sneaks back in through the delivery entrance.

Tony looks tired, three-nights-awake-in-the-lab kind of tired, but there’s a manic energy radiating from him that almost seems electric; Nat wouldn’t be surprised to see sparks flying off his fingertips. It’s the kind of energy that keeps him up and running until whatever problem he is working on is completely solved, until the world is saved once more.

Nat would love to say she feels guilty upon seeing him. But the ugly truth is, all she can feel is envy.

Steve looks… not exactly angry. His face is stony, but something else flickers in his eyes. Nat takes off her gloves, the coat, the mask, and that’s when she realises. He looks disappointed.

“What were you thinking, Natasha?” he says, his voice low and tight. “You know we’re all under quarantine! What, do you think you’re above this or something?”

“I was wearing a mask—” she begins in a weak attempt to avoid this conversation, but he doesn’t even let her finish.

“You know damn well they’re not a hundred per cent.. You’re just tempting fate for no good reason.”

“I don't—”

“What, you don’t get sick?” he interrupts and maybe it’s a good thing because what she was going to say was something else: I don’t care if I get sick. It’s the truth, but it’s nothing either of them want to hear.

“It’s not just about you, Nat,” Steve continues, ignorant of her thoughts, his voice rising and a vein starting to swell on his forehead. “What if you infect someone else? For god’s sake, Tony’s only got two thirds of his lung capacity left. Did you think of that before putting him in danger?”

“Calm down, Cap,” Tony interjects. “I’ve lived through worse—”

“No, I’m not calming down!” Steve snaps. “We are so privileged to be able to live here with all the food and money and medical services we could need―all we have to do is endure a few weeks of boredom, which really shouldn’t be too much to ask in exchange for everyone’s protection. And you decide to throw all of that out the window for a stroll?”

He stares at her for a moment as if waiting for her to defend herself, but there’s nothing she has to say. What should she tell them? I couldn’t bear the thoughts in my own head? I can’t deal with not knowing when I can be out again? It was either that or sitting on the bathroom floor, cutting lines in my own flesh just to fucking feel in control of something?

“I really expected more of you,” Steve says finally, an eerie calm in his voice. Then he turns on his heels and leaves.

“Well, that was dramatic.” Tony rubs a tired hand over his eyes before looking at Nat directly, his expression sober. “His mother died of TB, you know?”

Nat feels numb. “Yeah, I know,” she says quietly.

Tony’s expression softens. He seems to make a decision. “Come on.” He waves roughly in the direction of the elevator. “I guess we both need a drink.”

“Okay.” Nat takes a deep breath. “I’ll take the stairs.”

When she enters the living room fifteen minutes later—after showering thoroughly and changing her clothes—she finds drinks on the table and Tony on the sofa, working again. Nat sits down on the armrest of the chair across from him, keeping a safe distance. Jazz music is playing in the background, the fake fireplace is lit, and it all just feels wrong.

Nat takes her time to fill her glass and slowly drain it. When she looks up, Tony is observing her, his dark eyes unusually warm.

“I get it, Nat,” he sighs when their eyes meet. “Trust me, I do.” He nods at the tablet sitting in his lap. “Why do you think I keep busy with this all the time?”

She gives a tiny nod of appreciation and hopes he gets that too. Tony smiles at her with a bit of sadness and then turns back to his work.

Nat goes to the kitchen to refill her glass. When she comes back, Tony is asleep, twisted up on the couch as if he just fell over from exhaustion, tablet still in his hand. She goes back to wash her hands thoroughly, and then, holding her breath, takes the device out of his hand and covers him with a blanket.

She sits there, alone with the scotch bottle, Tony’s snores, and her thoughts, until pink clouds start to creep over the sky.

At 5:35 on the dot, Steve appears in the doorway, dressed in his workout clothes. He stops just outside of the room and leans against the doorframe, taking in the scene. The look on his face makes it clear that it’s her turn to speak.

Nat takes a moment to weigh her words. “It’s just… I can’t sit in here not knowing when I’m going to be out. Not again,” she finally admits into the fake fireplace that has now grown cold.

Steve doesn’t reply, but he relaxes just the tiniest bit against the doorframe and something in his expression shifts.

“Are you up for a sparring session before hitting the treadmill?” he asks.

“You want to work out with me?” Nat doesn’t look him in the eyes.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

This isn’t an apology—not from either of them. Nat isn’t guilty, just sad. And if Steve was sorry, he would’ve said so straight away. But this is not a concession―it’s a I don’t approve of your actions, but I’ll still be here for you. Just like Tony’s glass of scotch, what it means is: You don’t have to go through this alone.

“So?” Steve asks.

Nat pushes herself up from the armchair. The residual alcohol in her bloodstream and the all-too-familiar tiredness make her head swim for a moment, but she’s stable once she gets to her feet. “Fencing. Let’s go.”

____________________________

This is part of the Red in my Ledger series.

All my fics

#natasha romanov #hurt natasha #tony stark is a good bro #team feels #steve rogers & natasha romanov #People disagree but they are still there for each other #self-harm #corona #alcohol

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tallmansions · 7 years

Text

A Fallen London Story in Four Parts

This was originally a Christmas present for @anakronisma, but as my “Inspired...” quality is always reset every time I sleep, I only just got around to finishing it. Hope you like it, dearest. I tried to do your character and the world justice, but I probably didn’t lmao.

Part I: The Sociable Clockmaker, Veilgarden

A flurry of unfortunate circumstances brought Doctor Kohri to me that afternoon, three o’clock on a particularly brisk winter day. From what I understand—and I can guarantee I understand most of it—she was in hot pursuit of a suitable gift for her friend, subsequently settling on scouring the streets around Veilgarden for something marvelous, something quite unlike anything else in the window displays. She had tried the Bazaar, and while its many splendors and varied specialty shops had drawn her eye, her friend had access to the same mannequins and arrangements in addition to her more esoteric selections—selections that Doctor Kohri would not think to peruse even had she the contacts, which she did not.

I had learned of these events not because Doctor Kohri had any desire to tell me, but because the friend in question had cautioned me that the good doctor might come looking my way. How this suspicion came sneaking to this friend is not, in good manners, mine to say, but it would have been even poorer manners not to take such a suspicion into consideration. I was polishing the counter when Doctor Kohri entered. The bells in my shop chimed the time as the door jangled shut behind her.

She didn’t introduce herself, but as no one had come into my shop at all until that point and she fit the description given exactly, I knew it was her. No one else in Veilgarden, wearing such a sober grey dress, would walk with such a straight back. She asked me if I sold baubles, to which I replied that I sold only what interested me and so should be more appropriately termed curiosities. I don’t think she saw the humor in it, but I don’t take my stock humorously, and so I appreciated her reserve.

Doctor Kohri took her time in browsing, asking questions about my products when one struck her fancy. I remember she paid careful attention to the small silver clock with the brass doors above the clock face. I explained to her that the doors would open on the hour, and out would pop the tiniest of bejeweled owls—right on the hour, like I said. She had just missed the three o’clock mark and looked rather interested in seeing the spectacle unfold, for it really is not a sight to be missed. One can get so lost in my shop when the clock strikes the hour. The place erupts into chaos. All the clocks show off each of their tricks—all at once, mind you—and a small bejeweled owl behind brass doors set in a small silver clock can go quite unnoticed in the bedlam. One gets accustomed to it, after all these years, but for the first-time customer, it can be jarring. I’m surprised Doctor Kohri didn’t startle when she first entered the shop.

I could tell she wanted to see the thing in action, but she hadn’t quite persuaded me to deconstruct my piece on display. I asked her to wait one moment while I fetched the extra owl from the back of the shop, and so I can’t say for certain what transpired in the minutes I was indisposed. I do know that I heard the door jangle open and shut once more, then a bit of a scuffle, but as several boxes had toppled out of their proper places in my storeroom, I found myself in a scuffle of my own, trying to make sure no parts had got mixed up.

Once I emerged from the back, with apologies for my age and slow movements on my lips, I found Doctor Kohri bent over a fallen figure, utterly ignoring my excuses. She seemed to be trying to revive the person, pressing her fingers here and there along the body in what I can assume was in a medically sound fashion. I tried to assure her that the person would be quite fine, but she told me she had taken a very chancy risk in fighting her assailant off and hoped to extract some information. Alas, it seemed the person was dead for the time being.

The good doctor was rather put out about that, I can tell you, but there was nothing to be done, and she said she was rather in a hurry and couldn’t stand around waiting. This moment did not appear to be the time to be polite and ask to where she was off or why she had stopped in my shop at random if she were so desperate to secure a gift in a timely fashion, and so I opted for understanding silence. Well, said she, I must be off. And so she was. I admit to some disappointment at not being able to show her my owl, but I remained composed and soon the door closed behind her.

As for the cadaver, the constables made quick work of it and I soon returned to my usual puttering about the store. The lady did not come by to inquire about the doctor until later.

Part II: The Scattered Zailor, Wolfstack Docks

Well, it was ‘round four o’clock, and I’d got my pay, see, so me and the crew was doing some comparisons and gaming, for you best be careful with some of them harbormasters before you get to the gaming part. Glim’s not the quality it used to be when you have pirates from here ‘til the Principles of Coral raiding honest ships for their cargo, so sometimes when the pirates’ve been fiercer, that harbormaster you see there sometimes gets the plaster.

That doctor, she looked Tengrist to me, I don’t know about you. I’ve never gone as far as the Khanate—pirates about, y’see—but ever so often you get some from the Khan’s Shadow who’re even sick of that life, you get ‘em over here as stowaways or passengers. She looked like she had some of that blood in her. Came up to me and the crew like she were ready to push off port, only she asked if we had any trinkets to sell. Trinkets! Like talismans and the ink on my chest are trinkets! This one here, it ain’t any of that Salt creepy-like get-up some of them other zailors got. It keeps the zee-bats away like no one’s the wiser. And it ain’t for sale.

Stone, did that make her skin go pale! Anger, I’d wager. Didn’t look like she’d heard the word “yes” today. Kept trying to barter with me and the crew, kept saying she needed a gift for her friend. I said Lady—and she says It’s Doctor—so I says Doctor, you’re asking the wrong crew and you’re in the wrong part of London.

So the other zailors lurking about have a good chuckle at that, let me tell you! But that dress keeps her ramrod straight like, and she says something about getting jumped in Veilgarden and the foolish sod was dead for now and anyone who’d like could find out how he died. Doc didn’t have a weapon to grab and looked pretty stick-like to my eye, but the laughing sort seemed to take her seriously enough, don’t know why. Something about her eyes.

Now some right idiot says something about how she knew who’d jumped this doctor—probably hoping for some more glim, greedy thing that she is, I know her. Well, Kohri—because the lady told me later that was the doc’s name, it’s Kohri—looked snap up at that, started edging towards the zailor who’d gabbed, but then every son of a b— on the docks started saying they knew something, and then even I couldn’t tell who’d spoke up first, much less figure if anyone had the truth.

Kohri went somewhere during all this, I don’t know. Saw a group of zailors shouting and heading all in a pack towards some building, but since it was pay and all, I expect they were headed for a mushroom wine or for honey or anything other than some good glim gaming, hey, nice and legal.

Now that I scrub my brains a bit, the lady came by just not too long after that. She plays a good game herself, but don’t you mention that to her.

Part III: The Voracious Lurker, Spite—perhaps

I send people out, I send people to hunt, to find, to feed me

They scribble and wriggle into every little corner of every little shop of every little house

I don’t like scraps. I demand decadence.

My little ratlings, my scrabbling people

And she hurt them the doctor Kohri she hurt them she hurt them and didn’t bring me

something to eat.

She can kill my ratlings, they’ll be fine, I always have more, I always want more, but she has to replenish

which she didn’t.

She was like a ratling herself, scurrying to search for something to send her friend

She found me instead.

Followed a tip, the tip of a zailor off the tip of her tongue, wondered why a ratling would cause her harm

None of my people cause harm

They feed me

Spices and salamanders and zee-bats and soft skin and syrups and

I’m hungry again. What have you brought me?

Ah, yes

Of course

Doctor Kohri.

It wasn’t the ratling’s fault

It wasn’t personal

I was just hungry

And oh

Kohri stumbled her way to me

I used to be like her

Inquisitive

Daring

Watchful

Reserved

No.

I was never reserved

I liked to eat.

Spite is good to me

This place gives me lost ratlings

I feed them—for a time, I give them someplace to stay, I set them free again to bring me my dessert

Give me give me give me give me Kohri’s head on a platter.

Let me eat.

She killed my ratling.

She came in here and I was ready to eat.

But the lady followed her in and swept her away.

Part IV: The Irresistible Lady, The Shuttered Palace

Kohri? She’s safe at home, I’d assume. She finds herself in the strangest situations, did you know? I had a feeling she’d contort herself into all sorts of delightful and embarrassing positions the moment I told her I had a gift for her. I knew she’d go running all over London and perhaps even beyond trying to return the favor. Can you imagine having a friend like that? I can, and it’s tiring, let me tell you!

I mean that in the best possible way, of course. “Tiring” means you’ve done something exciting enough to wear you out.

Well, I don’t like to spy on my friends, if that’s what this is all about. I keep an eye out. They can handle themselves, certainly, but some of them are newer to London than others. Some are newer still to the Unterzee itself. So I keep a close watch without interfering too much—just the right amount. Enough to excite me, to tire me out.

Now, I happen to know a little shop in one of the cozier corners of Veilgarden, and one of my friends—I do have many friends, you know; being the poetess-in-residence gives me many friends—this friend told me of another friend headed to that shop. Friends everywhere, you see! I thought I could catch up with her, but by the time I arrived, I could see the constables clearing out. I pay my dues as rightly I should, but that isn’t to say I like hanging about a constable when I see one, and so by the time I was able to pop my head in, Kohri was already gone.

I heard she had a scuffle on the docks, if that’s why you’re so concerned about her wellbeing. I most certainly would not have had anything to do with that. One of my friends might have done, however.

But Kohri does have the habit of watching for things beyond her, and then following them into the twisting shadows and searing secrets they spin for her. Someone has to have friends enough to protect other friends. Perhaps she thought to find me something in that hoard of luxury hidden under cobwebs and rust and bones and spilled wine. Perhaps she thought to seek answers for a day spent fruitlessly wandering, wandering, wandering. Perhaps she was not as familiar with London’s more reclusive and interesting denizens as she believed. Perhaps she thought she could handle herself when faced with ancient horror.

Or perhaps I’m making all this up! Kohri is asleep at home, that I can tell you. If you ask her anything about the matter, I assure you she won’t have any answers for you. She will most likely have fewer, in fact. I highly doubt she remembers anything of today at all! Silly doctor doesn’t even know her own health. Tomorrow she will awaken with a signed copy of my latest verses by her bedside table, and I will tell her how I delivered it during her most delirious moments, and she will not question me. I recommend you do the same.

I suppose this means I won’t be getting my gift from her, but don’t you go telling her that.

#fallen london #failbetter games #fallen london fanfiction #anakronisma #my fics

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