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maddiewritesstucky · 3 years

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Whenever You’re Ready

I am equal parts excited and terrified to share this story with you all. This one is very special to me, and it has been an Emotional Experience putting these words to page, so far removed from what I usually write. Huge acknowledgement to @doctorenterprise whose honest critiques vastly improved this story, and @buckyandthejets who validated the hell out of me, thank you both so much 😘

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve/Bucky (Modern AU)

Word count: 5189

Tags: Angst, infidelity (not between Steve/Bucky), heavy on the feels, reference to past internalized homophobia, lost love, reunions, emotional sex, happy ending

*CW: Infidelity - In this story, Bucky has sex with Steve even though he is (unhappily) married to someone else. Please avoid this story if you will find this triggering, or feel free to DM me if you need more details. It all ends well!*

***

“Never changes, does it?”

It goes straight to Steve’s bones, that voice, all the way down to his marrow. He doesn’t turn around at the sound of it, nor at the muted clunk of footsteps on the dock behind him; slowly closing the distance to where Steve’s standing, thinking.

Waiting.

He’s been out here long enough to have watched the sun disappear behind the mountainous horizon, taking with it its warmth and making way for the quiet chill of evening to set in. It’s far enough away here, from the music and revelry and reminiscence, that Steve can almost pretend those words are true; that nothing’s changed, that there’s nothing and no one else in existence but the two of them, and the reflection of the moon rising over the lake.

“Some things do.”

It comes out bitter, even though Steve’s spent years telling himself he’s not; that the pit in his stomach and the hole in his chest have a different name, a different face. It’s a pointless grief, after so many years. Decades, now, as the banners and balloons up at the reunion were boasting.

He knew what he was doing, coming here tonight. Like pushing on a bruise to make sure it still hurts. And it did, it does, because Bucky is right - the camp hasn’t changed a bit, and Steve might be pushing forty now but his heart is still nineteen; still standing at the end of this dock at sundown waiting for those footsteps behind him, for that warm hand slipping into his and that familiar voice saying his name like it’s music, like it means something.

“Steve…”

...There’s no hand, and his name is just a name. It aches in the exact place Steve had thought it would.

“She’s pretty, Buck. You look good together.”

He thinks he hears Bucky’s breath hitch, but it could have been the breeze catching in the trees, or the lick of water at the splintered edge of the dock. It would be easier if it were a lie, might sit sweeter on Steve’s tongue if he were sugar coating something false, something to say for the sake of speaking, but he means it.

That aches, too.

“I married her,” Bucky says, and the way it sounds like an apology sinks like a lead weight in Steve’s gut.

“I heard.”

“Steve, will you please look at me?”

Despair frays the edges of each word, and Steve shakes his head, blows out a ragged breath into the cool night air.

He had looked at Bucky, had watched him walk in tonight looking every bit like the man Steve always knew he’d grow into - strong, kind-eyed, beautiful; age starting to show in the soft flecks of grey at his temples, but missing from where Steve thought it’d make itself known first.

“You don’t have smile lines,” he can hear the frown in his own voice as the thought slips past his lips, “always thought you’d have smile lines, way you were always laughing at everything.”

“Steve...”

It’s a sob, this time; unmistakable, and it rips the ground out from beneath Steve.

There’s a hand on his back, slipping down the column of his spine; a shivering body pressing up close behind him and a forehead dropping against his shoulder. Tears soak wet through the back of Steve’s shirt and two arms circle around his waist, a hold long-forgotten and achingly familiar all at once, and Steve can’t remember how to breathe.

“Bucky,” he begins, though he has no idea where it ends.

His hands come up to cover Bucky’s, threading their fingers together and pulling Bucky’s arms tighter around himself, and it feels nothing like it used to because Steve’s heart wasn’t broken back then.

When Bucky’s lips find the crook of his neck, that doesn’t feel anything like it used to either, but Steve tilts his head for it anyway; offers up the expanse of his throat like he’d once offered up the rest of his life to the man holding him.

All of me, he’d said so long ago, every day of every year I have left. All for you.

Bucky’s hands slip to Steve’s hips, his mouth at the hinge of Steve’s jaw, and it’s so wholly selfish, the way Steve wants this. It’s years of longing and anger and loss made harder by all the ways Bucky wasn’t gone, and the tattered vestiges of Steve’s heart are screaming at him to stop before there’s nothing left of himself to salvage.

“You left me.”

There’s no emotion left in the statement, not anymore. It bled out years ago, muffled into Steve’s pillow and screamed into voids and hurled at the walls of his too-quiet, too-empty house.

It’s hollow, now, but Steve feels how heavy it lands in the way Bucky’s entire body curls in on itself behind him.

“I know,” Bucky whispers, his tear-stained cheek tucked against the side of Steve’s face.

The immensity of pain buried in those two words sinks jagged teeth into the meat of Steve’s heart, and he can’t believe he still bleeds for it after all these years. He knows he should walk away from this, pry himself free of the physical hold Bucky has on him and spend the rest of his days praying those soul-ties unknot themselves too.

But the wound is open now, if it were ever really closed, and he can’t stop himself from tugging on the busted stitches to see just how raw and messy he can make it.

“Tell me why,” he turns in the circle of Bucky’s arms, cups the back of Bucky’s neck and makes him meet the full force of his gaze.

Give me salt for this wound, he’s pleading, and Bucky would have every right to deny him because this conversation has no place here; has no place in any universe where there’s a ring on Bucky’s finger.

But Bucky came to him, Bucky broke the silence and put his hands on Steve like he’s just as hungry to hurt for this again, and maybe they both just need to bleed it out together.

“Because we couldn’t,” Bucky twists his fists tight and frantic into the fabric of Steve’s shirt. “I couldn’t...Jesus, if my family had found out—”

“I loved you,” Steve spits, “it was real, and I loved you, and you loved me too.”

“Fuck, Steve, of course I loved you!” There’s desperation there now, in Bucky’s hands on him; not just clinging but clawing, no space between them for air or reason or good judgement. “You think it didn’t break me, too?”

“I wouldn’t fucking know what it did to you, Bucky,” Steve runs a fingertip across the plain gold band hugging Bucky’s finger, digging his nail in under the ridge of it, “but it seems like you bounced back just fine.”

Bucky sucks in a breath, and Steve doesn’t hear him let it go again. He’s doing nothing to mask the anguish on his face as he stares up at Steve, lips parted and eyes welling over; his brow knotted into lines that form all too easy, like they’re well worn at this point, and it’s so so wrong.

Steve smoothes his thumb over the groove between Bucky’s eyebrows; pushes at it like it’s something he can rub away.

“Aren’t you happy?” he hears himself ask, hurt and exhausted and terrified of the answer.

It’s not until Bucky shakes his head, tears spilling anew from his red-rimmed eyes, that Steve realizes there was any part of himself left that was yet to break.

“Not a day of my life, Steve. Not without you.”

Steve will never be emptier than this, seeing the truth of it all spelled out across Bucky’s face. It had been all the light Steve had left, that small embittered part of himself that’d believed Bucky was better off for the way things had gone.

What was left, now? It had burned Steve down to ash, losing Bucky, but loving him was inextricable, and thinking he was happy out there was the only reason Steve could sleep at night.

“What do I do with that, Buck?”

There are tears in Steve’s eyes now too, a tremble in his voice and the dead weight of regret hanging off his words.

Bucky takes Steve’s face between his hands, too tight to be tender. When he sweeps his thumbs across the tears tracking down Steve’s cheeks, it only spreads them further.

“Kiss me?”

Bucky leaves it in the space between them like it’s the only answer he has left, and Steve wishes it didn’t make sense.

Another place, another time; a different dock and a different sky, and Steve might see the insanity of it, the notion that putting his lips against Bucky’s could be a salve instead of just another scar.

But they’re here, with those same stars and that same rundown boat shed with it’s broken door, and Steve lets himself close the distance between their mouths, because it’s the only answer he has left, too.

He kisses Bucky with every minute of every day of every wasted year sitting there on the tip of his tongue. He holds Bucky too close and breathes him in too deep, leans all too willing into the pass of Bucky’s hands over his body.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Bucky sobs brokenly, slipping his hands up under the hem of Steve’s shirt to splay across his bare skin.

Steve shakes his head because he can’t hear that now, with Bucky’s hands on him. Remorse can’t coexist with the warmth of Bucky’s palms and the slick press of his mouth, not when there isn’t even room for moonlight between them.

“Don’t,” Steve whispers, “don’t tell me that.”

Bucky’s hand finds its way up to the center of Steve’s chest, his fingertips curling into a grip on Steve’s flesh like he can reach in and take hold of what lies beneath. Steve’s not sure there’s anything left in there to grab onto, but he lets Bucky try anyway because if there is, it will only ever belong in his hand.

“Can I tell you I still think of you?” Bucky kisses the words against Steve’s cheek, trails them down the line of his jaw. “Never stopped thinking about you, Steve.”

You should have, is what Steve should say, you’re not mine anymore.

“Someone will see us,” is what Steve does say, even as his fingertips dip beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pants.

Someone is probably looking for Bucky right now, but there’s no room for that truth here, either. Especially when Bucky pulls back and looks toward the long abandoned boat shed, and then back at Steve.

There are so many opportunities for Steve to choose differently, to tell Bucky to stop. When Bucky takes him by the hand with a plea in his gaze; when he pulls Steve down the dock, and into that boat shed...it’s been a lifetime and Steve is a grown man, too old to be this foolish. But he’s tired, too worn down from years of unmet longing to be anything other than reckless when presented with everything he’s lived without for so painfully long.

So he doesn’t say a word.

He lets it happen, and he helps it happen. He raises his arms for Bucky to pull off his shirt, tilts his hips when Bucky works his belt loose and tugs down his pants.

He strips Bucky bare with his own two hands and pulls him against his own naked body, sobbing open and unashamed for the way it makes him feel whole for the first time in twenty years.

He maps the planes of Bucky’s body, no longer rounded and softened by youth, but every bit as warm as the memories Steve has clung to, and it shouldn’t feel right because it isn’t; shouldn’t feel so familiar when there’s been decades of distance between them.

“I miss you.”

It trips off Steve’s tongue before he can stop it, small and breathless. Of all the three-word truths he could have let slip it isn’t the worst, but Bucky’s wounded noise says that it cuts just as deep.

He catches Bucky’s lips against his own before Bucky can do anything stupid like say it back; fisting his hands up through Bucky’s hair and pushing his tongue into Bucky’s mouth.

He wants to do this slow, to sink deep enough into it that every touch and every moment cling to him like a brand. But it’s only ever been a headlong tumble, this journey that begins with Bucky’s bare skin against his own, and Steve can feel himself falling the same way he always did.

Open palms turn to pressing fingertips, lips on skin turn to grazing teeth, and a dusty hammock spread across the floorboards. It’s another twist of the knife, the way Bucky’s body still fits beneath his own just as perfect as it ever did, the way Bucky’s spread thighs still make the perfect cradle for his hips.

Bucky still looks up at him from the flat of his back with the same awe he’d turn upon the night sky, like Steve’s still the only heaven he believes in, and there’s too much gravity in that gaze. There always was, but there was no reason not to get dragged into it back then.

It’s not until Bucky’s fingertips brush softly over his eyelids, tracing the sweep of his lashes, that Steve realizes he’s closed his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky whispers.

Steve almost wants to laugh, because if he were thinking at all, he wouldn’t be here.

He’s not laid out naked on top of someone else’s husband because he’s thinking; not about to put his mouth and his fingers and his cock where they don’t belong because he’s in his right mind.

Steve is an exposed nerve, a callous that’s been rubbed raw, and he’ll pretend that’s all he is for as long as it takes to see the man he never stopped loving fall apart beneath him one last time.

He buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck and bites down on the softness he finds there, all the answer he intends on giving. There’s no good reason for him to still know the exact spot to sink his teeth into, but he’s not about to waste time pretending he doesn’t remember every last touch point that ever made Bucky lose his mind.

His right earlobe, the notch of his clavicle, the tender space beneath his ribs.

His hip bones, and his wrists, and the soft insides of his thighs, sensitive all the way down to his knees.

Maybe after all this time it’s only nostalgia, only because they both want so badly to be who they once were to each other. But Bucky’s body still sings the exact same tune when Steve plays it, tongue and teeth and fingertips in all the right places.

“Please,” Bucky gasps, giving over to it just as easy as he always did. He’s hiding nothing of himself, not in the sprawl of his body or the longing in his gaze, the breathless sounds dripping off his lips.

He arches into the rub of Steve’s skin against his, splays his thighs wide for Steve’s hips then wider still for Steve’s shoulders, and he looks down the line of his body with all the same rapture when Steve finally takes him into the heat of his mouth.

“Oh...”

It’s so soft, the sound Bucky makes. One tiny word, more breath than anything else, yet it somehow holds all the sentiment of of course, and how have I lived without this, and Steve is ruined for it.

He’s sixteen again, realizing that want begins and ends with Bucky Barnes.

He is seventeen, discovering that the only thing better than getting his hands on Bucky, is getting his mouth on him.

He is eighteen, and nineteen, and twenty; bone-deep certain that for him, there will only ever be Bucky.

“Stevie,” Bucky sighs. He reaches gentle fingertips to brush the hair back off Steve’s forehead; traces the stretch of Steve’s lips around him with all the tender wonder of their youth.

...Steve is thirty-nine, and he will never come back from this.

He holds Bucky’s gaze as he swallows him down, watches the play of pleasure across Bucky’s face like it’s still his to behold.

He sinks all of himself into chasing those awed, quiet sounds that have existed only as echoes for so long, and pretends it’s not the worst kind of cruelty that this act should still feel so sacred; that Bucky should still be that breathless, trembling embodiment of surrender.

Back arched, thighs twitching, face flushed and lips parted…it’s as devastating as Steve remembers, and so much more so for the fact that he has no right to witness it anymore.

“Steve, please...”

Bucky looks down at him imploringly, reaches for him with open hands.

Steve hollows his cheeks as he pulls off him, slow and tight. He crawls back up Bucky’s body until they’re face to face, until he’s covering Bucky’s body with his own.

“I’m here, Buck.”

I’m weak, Buck.

He cups Bucky’s face in his hands, strokes his thumbs across Bucky’s cheekbones and nudges their noses together. He breathes Bucky’s air and kisses his lips, soft and careful until it’s not; until it’s just Steve pouring all his hunger and his longing and his desperation into Bucky’s mouth.

And he is desperate. Every last part of him is breaking for the feel of Bucky’s bare skin, his bare arousal, rubbing up against his own; for the responsibility of holding Bucky’s vulnerability and his nakedness and his pleasure in the palms of his hands.

“God, it’s been so long,” Steve’s voice splinters around the words, around the sobs that want to keep coming, “it’s been so long, Bucky...”

He rolls his hips heavy and deep, slips his hands beneath Bucky’s shoulders to keep them locked tight together. There’s sweat beading between them, spit and precum slicking their skin, and every promise they ever made weighing dense in the air.

Bucky’s fingernails are sunk deep enough into his back that Steve can feel the half-moon imprints forming; Bucky’s legs hitched up around his hips and soft moans passing back and forth between their open mouths.

Steve had always wondered what this must look like from the outside, the way they get lost in one another. The quiet gasps and heavy breaths, the pleasured sounds that catch between their lips. Bodies shaking, hands clinging, eyes open because it’s the closest thing to heaven you’d ever see.

It’s immensity was always buried in the slowness of it all, but it’s as consuming and inevitable as it ever was.

He knows Bucky’s close before Bucky tells him he is; can feel it thrumming through Bucky’s body beneath him. He knows he shouldn’t watch it happen, shouldn’t sharpen that mental picture back into focus when it had taken so long to blur its edges in the first place.

He shouldn’t moan brokenly into Bucky’s mouth and rock harder against him; shouldn’t push up onto his hands and fix his gaze squarely on Bucky’s face.

‘Shouldn’t’ doesn’t mean a goddamn thing anymore.

“Come with me?” Bucky pleads, eyes glassy and body strung taut.

He presses a trembling hand to Steve’s heart and the other to Steve’s neck, holding his racing pulse and his heartbeat in his hands just the same as he had the first time they made love, and Steve comes apart at the seams.

It’s unending, that wash of raw feeling. It’s galaxies inside his rib cage and oceans in his veins, and wildfire curling around the base of his spine. He breathes Bucky’s name, spills all over his stomach, and when Bucky follows him over he ducks down to drink the wonder of it right off Bucky’s lips.

The quiet weighs so much heavier, as they lay pressed together in the aftermath.

Steve looks down at the man beneath him, watches his breathing settle and the flush subside from his cheeks, and the ache of the past suddenly pales in comparison to what lies ahead.

What exists for them beyond this moment, here and now? Bucky’s face is cradled in Steve’s hands and his nakedness is sheltered by Steve’s body, but even this was never Steve’s to offer. It’s time and touch already stolen, and the rhythmic lap of water against the dock outside may as well be the ticking of a clock.

“What happens now, Buck?” he asks, knowing there’s no comfort to be found in the answer.

Bucky shakes his head, touching gentle fingertips to Steve’s cheek and searching Steve’s gaze.

“I don’t know.”

The night air is cold against Steve’s back, all the warmth that had seemed to wrap so close around them dissipating.

He slowly moves off of Bucky and gathers up their clothes, redressing himself with fingers that fumble weak and uncoordinated with the fabric that had been so very easy to take off.

“...If you asked me to leave her, I would.”

Bucky’s voice comes small from behind him, but the words take up every last inch of space in the room.

Steve turns to look at him, and there’s something so painfully close to hope on his face, it makes Steve’s chest ache.

“I can’t do that, Bucky,” he rasps, “it can’t be up to me.”

The regret in it is palpable, the ‘I wish it was’ joining the thousand other things that live, unsaid, on the tip of Steve’s tongue.

I am so much yours that it hurts

I will never stop hoping for you

I will love you for the rest of my life

It’s years too late, for all of it. But those words still throw themselves against the backs of Steve’s teeth, because if not now, then when?

“Bucky, I—”

“James?”

...The soft call comes from outside, carried on the breeze from a little ways off.

There’s nothing in it, no suspicion, no concern. Just someone looking for the person they’ve lost, wondering where they’ve gone to.

Steve’s stomach sinks, and the clock runs out.

Bucky looks at him, eyes wide and lips falling open like he intends to speak. No sound comes out, but Steve understands all the same - Bucky’s gaze always said more than words ever could, anyway.

“You should go back, Buck.”

Steve says it gently, though neither of them deserve that kindness after what they’ve done. He picks up his sweater, and he leaves what’s left of his heart on the floor, because he’s got no use for it without the man he’s about to walk away from.

“If you ever…” Steve starts, and stops himself, shaking his head softly. His gaze sticks to the spot just in front of Bucky’s feet, his body half turned toward the door.

“...You know where I’ll be,” he says instead, and then he gathers up his shoes in his hands and steps back out into the evening, because he’s no more capable of saying ‘goodbye’ to Bucky now than he was back then.

***

It’s a half hour walk home along the edge of the lakeshore, but it takes Steve hours; tears washing a salt-sting down his cheeks and his feet in the too-cold water the entire way.

It doesn’t even scratch the surface of what he deserves, that frigid needling against his skin and the stones underfoot. But the greater punishment will come, he knows.

When he gets home, and has to live the rest of his life knowing not only what he lost, but what he did to try and dull the ache of it.

When he gets home, to that rambling, too-quiet house on the lake edge, where Bucky’s touch is set into the very foundations.

The roof they had helped Steve’s dad patch, the summer Steve turned eighteen; the creaking window ledge that would betray Bucky’s midnight visits to Steve’s bedroom, and that same kitchen table where they’d try not to blush at each other’s gaze.

The porch swing where they’d watch the sun go down; every wall and doorframe they’d kissed up against when Steve’s parents weren’t around to see it; every tree they ever made love or fell asleep beneath...

He may not have seen Bucky in the flesh in almost twenty years, but there hasn’t been a day of Steve’s life since that he hasn’t felt the echo of his presence, and now it will hum under his skin the same way it always has in his house.

The sky is awash with stars he can’t bear to look at by the time he makes it home, feet numb and shivering all over.

He trudges the path from the lakeshore back up to his house, clearing the tree line and stepping into the moonlight spilling full and bright over his yard, over his homestead.

Over the unfamiliar car parked in his dirt-track driveway, and the figure sitting, waiting, on his porch.

“...Bucky?”

His body slows in its tracks, stops halfway across the yard and won’t carry him any further forward.

Bucky makes no move to close the distance between them either, save to stand slowly on unsteady legs and step down onto the silver-lit lawn.

“Hey, Steve.”

His arms are curled around himself, his shoulders rounded and his feet shifting on the grass. Even in the moonlight, Steve can see the swell of too many tears shed around Bucky’s eyes, and he’d look like he was about to run if not for the set of his jaw; the unwavering hold of his gaze on Steve’s.

“Buck, what are you...how long have you—”

“I did it.”

Bucky’s voice cracks - not like a heart breaking, but like a weight falling away, like a world upending, and it hits Steve like a blow to the back of the knees.

“You did what, Bucky?”

He knows what he’s hearing, what Bucky has just laid before him, but he asks anyway because it can’t be that; that terrible, selfish thing that Steve has dreamed of and hoped for and hated himself for wanting all these years.

Bucky can’t be here, standing under the light of the full moon, hours after they made love that was all passion and no integrity, telling Steve that.

Bucky takes a step forward, just one. Not close enough to touch, but close enough for Steve to see that he’s shaking.

“I told her, Steve. I told her what I did tonight...told her the truth about me.”

“The truth...”

Steve’s chest is crushing in on itself, the air between them so thin and fragile he’s afraid to breathe it in.

Bucky wraps himself tighter in the circle of his own arms, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the ground.

“I was scared, Steve,” he whispers, “back then...We were kids, and I was so scared of what it meant, the way I felt about you. And I thought I could...make myself feel that, again. For someone else. Someone who was...”

He blows out a shuddering breath, kicking at the ground in front of him.

“...Someone that everybody else would accept. But I couldn’t, Steve. I tried, I tried so fucking hard, and I thought that if I got married, then maybe...maybe it’d be better, because I’d have no choice but to love her. But I just...I couldn’t feel that again. I couldn’t, because I never fuckin’ stopped feeling it, for you.”

Steve aches, in every part of his being, all the way down in his soul. He stares at the man he’s loved his whole life, and he aches for the both of them; for the half-lives they’ve been living, tied to one another with string that had stretched when it would have been kinder to snap.

“I got it so wrong, Steve,” Bucky sobs, his eyes screwing shut against free-flowing tears. “I chose so wrong. And I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

Steve’s body moves without thought, reaches and wraps itself around Bucky’s trembling frame; tight like he can save Bucky from this inevitable unraveling.

“Jesus, Bucky,” he shakes his head, heartbreak spilling raw into his voice, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Bucky’s face is tucked into the crook of his neck and his tears are catching cold against Steve’s skin. But Steve’s own are falling into Bucky’s hair, and his hands are shaking too hard for their strokes up and down Bucky’s back to be any real comfort, and neither of them move to change a thing about it.

“I’ve thought of you every day,” the confession slips quiet from Steve’s lips, and he lets it, “I’ve missed you, every day.”

Bucky gasps a hitching breath into Steve’s shirt, holds tight to the fabric at his back.

“Fuck, I got more to make up for here than I’ve got years left,” he shudders, pulling back to find Steve’s eyes. “I got no right to ask you for anything ever again, and I know I gotta put some things right first, get myself right, but...but would you ever...could we, ever…”

Steve is nodding. Before Bucky’s even gotten the words out, Steve’s nodding.

There are so many questions still to be asked and answered, so many conversations to be had and blows that are yet to land in the aftermath. The road that lies ahead is unpaved and unmapped, and the sunrise will shed light on realities they haven’t even considered.

But none of that changes what Steve knows to be true, here and now.

He knows that the window ledge still creaks; that that tree still bears more fruit than he knows what to do with, and the roof hasn’t once leaked, not during a single storm.

He knows that in any lifetime, any versions of themselves...they could.

“Whenever you’re ready, Bucky,” come home when you’re ready, Bucky, “you know where I’ll be.”

***

It takes time, just like Steve knew it would.

It takes tears, and words that are just as hard to hear as they are to say.

It’s wounds reopened just to be stitched back together better, right this time; stitched to heal instead of just to survive.

Bucky is gone again, for a while, but his absence isn’t the bleak void it once was. It’s time apart for the sake of a life together, for both of them to rebuild what was broken and find a new sense of ‘whole.’

It’s Bucky finding his feet as the person he’s always been, and learning to speak his truth. It’s untangling himself from the life he was never meant to live, and finding forgiveness where it’s needed.

It’s Steve ripping up those floorboards that creak, and it’s letting himself sleep. It’s replacing the wallpaper that was more peel than pattern, and it’s teaching himself to roll with the waves of joy and grief until he can sit just as comfortably with both.

It takes time; eight months and twenty-one days worth of it.

But they heal, and Bucky finds his way home.

And this time, it sticks.

#stucky fanfic #stucky #steve/bucky #stucky au #angst #all the feels #angst with a happy ending

139 notes · View notes

narakurosaki · 3 years

Text

equivalent exchange 6/?

summary: ed experiences pain during a rainstorm. thankfully, winry is there to help.

rating: t

words: 1860

read on ao3!

accepting prompts!

He wakes in a cold sweat, golden eyes focused on the spinning blades of the ceiling fan, a gasp leaving his lips. His left leg—what’s left of it—burns, as though someone was deliberately digging hot knives into his skin, twisting them around and tearing away at his muscle. It’s nothing new; it was the price one paid when having automail installed, and he’d dealt with the agonizing, sleepless nights for years.

He can hear the wind howling outside, the deafening tapping of a tree branch against the window. Rain pours against the roof of the Rockbell family home, and for a brief moment, he hopes the repair to the roof he’d made earlier was keeping water out of the attic. The change in the barometric pressure explains his agony, at least.

He drags his upper body up, pushing himself back towards the headboard with his hands. His right arm—his now flesh arm—struggles with the task, his muscles still not on level with the rest of his body. A dull ache spreads across his shoulder blade like a lightning bolt; the automail may be gone, but the scar tissue beneath his skin serves as a reminder of what once was. Pathetically, he cradles his metal leg to his chest, fingers poking and prodding at the skin around his port. If he could massage it, maybe the pain would subside. If not, he’d end up vomiting his dinner on the old floorboards.

The presence beside him stirs. He glances to his right, watching Winry’s hand desperately search for the warmth of his body. She groans when she comes up empty.

“Ed…?” Her eyes are still closed, voice rough with sleep. Still, her hand searches, and Edward can’t help but to offer her his hand. Their fingers interlock.

“I’m right here, Win,” he manages to sound as normal as possible. Maybe, if he played it off right, she would believe he’d woken to use the bathroom. The last thing he wanted was to worry her.

A moan, and she turns onto her side, facing him. He watches her eyes twitch, lids fluttering open. He can barely see the blue behind her lashes. “Why are you awake?”

He’s never been able to lie to her. And, even when he did, he’d never been particularly good at it. Winry knew him like the back of her hand—she’s been his best-friend since childhood; now, she’s the woman he proclaimed his love for after returning home. Any lie he came up with, she could see right through. What use was it to give her the bathroom story? What use was it for her to discover the truth in the morning, when the bags were beneath his eyes and he struggled to stay awake, when the rain continued and he remained in bed for the entirety of the day?

A pain branches out from his port, spreading upwards to his thigh. For a moment, he swears the pain spreads down his automail, lighting up every pain receptor that no longer existed. His metal toes curl, and he draws his leg closer to his chest, letting go of Winry’s hand. “Shit!”

He’s never seen her move faster than in that moment. In his peripheral vision, Winry sits up, turning her body towards him. Her eyes are wide and alert, sleep having been forgotten, and her hands forcefully pull away the covers. She eyes his port, then the window, then his face. He hasn’t seen such a look on her since Alphonse had carried his bloodied body to her doorstep that fateful night.

“Aspirin,” she mumbles, somewhat incoherently, nodding to herself. “You need aspirin. And… and wet, hot towels. Maybe a hot bath, if you can move.”

In this moment, she isn’t his girlfriend, she is Winry Rockbell, daughter of the doctors Rockbell, automail mechanic and engineer, and amateur surgeon. Her mind runs at a mile a minute, mentally checking off possible solutions. She’s advised her clients of remedies for the debilitating pain that came with automail installation, but she’s never dealt with it firsthand. She’s never dealt with it in the middle of the night. She’s never dealt with it when the one in agony was her boyfriend.

The pain comes in waves, radiating into his hip, shooting down a limb that no longer existed. His stomach churns, bile burning his throat. This was it. He was going to vomit, and on the floor of Winry’s bedroom if he didn’t hurry and make a run for the bathroom.

He moves in a daze, barely hearing Winry’s protests from the bed. The weight of his body on his leg worsens the pain, and he swears that the rod drilled into his femur is splintering the bone. The hallway spins as he exits the bedroom. Thankfully, the bathroom isn’t far. Each step he takes, however, is unbearable. He fumbles with the doorknob and forces his way inside, collapsing in front of the toilet. He heaves into the bowl until the contents of his stomach are evacuated. Edward struggles to catch his breath between episodes, coughing and spitting out the taste of being ill. A hand settles on his upper back and rubs him in a soothing manner. He knows it’s Winry kneeling beside him, gathering his hair and holding it back. He vomits again until his stomach is emptied, dry heaving shortly afterward. In his ear, he hears her whisper, “Shh, it’s okay, Ed. It’s going to be okay.”

“Is it?” A stupid question to ask. As a storm left, it took the pain with it. He was always okay afterward, no real damage done. He’d often contemplating clawing at his automail when the pain became too much to bear—when his right arm was made of metal, the agony spread throughout his entire body. Alphonse could only watch from a distance as his brother writhed in pain, unwilling to voice his troubles to his little brother.

“It is,” she reassures, pressing her lips to his temple. He spits into the toilet. “I’m going to draw you a hot bath. That should help somewhat with the pain. While it fills, I’ll grab you some water and aspirin, okay?”

There’s no use in arguing with her. It’s late and he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, breath smelling vile, hair disheveled, a pathetic mess. He reaches for the chain and tugs, flushing the toilet. He gives a stiff nod.

Winry rises to her feet, flips on the light switch, and walks to the tub. She turns on the faucet, allowing it to run a moment while she tests the temperature with her finger. When she’s satisfied with the result, she reaches into the tub and clogs the drain. “Alright, Ed,” her hands settle beneath the pits of his arms. She tugs, and he stands with her assistance. “You get in, I’ll be right back.”

Another stiff nod. He begins to remove his boxers as Winry exits the bathroom, closing the door behind her. He bends forward, pulling his underwear down to his feet, and carefully steps out of them. The cool air nips at his bare skin. Quickly, he climbs into the tub and settles in the hot water. His skin is set ablaze due to the drastic change in temperature. He straightens his left leg, hanging his foot over the edge. The pain in his thigh has yet to dull. He sinks nose deep into the water and closes his eyes. Maybe, if he focuses on something else…

But the bathroom door opens, and Winry enters with a sympathetic look. He straightens his posture, bangs dripping water. “Okay, open your mouth.”

He does as instructed. Winry sets the aspirin on his tongue and offers him the glass of water. He takes it in his grasp and takes a swig, swallowing the medication. He hands the glass back to Winry, who sets it beside the sink. “You think this’ll work?”

She offers a shrug. “I’m hoping it will at least make it bearable.”

Suddenly, she’s lifting her shirt over her head. Edward’s eyes widen, glueing themselves to her bared breasts. His cheeks grow hot, something he can blame on the water. “What the hell are you doing?” he splutters.

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles. She hooks her thumbs in the waistbands of her shorts snd underwear, and tugs them down her legs. His eyes travel down her naked body, settling on the tuft of coarse blonde hair between her legs. “You’ve literally been inside of me three times. How can you continue to act like such a prude?”

He forces himself to look at her face. There’s a dusting of pink spread across her cheeks. She could call him a prude all she wanted, at least he could tell that she was just as nervous as he was. “I’m not a prude…”

“No,” she begins, lifting her leg and stepping into the tub, “you’re just a bit of a pervert. Don’t think I didn’t notice your staring. Now move so I can sit.”

And just like that, his embarrassment is replaced with fear. He spreads his legs to make room for her, but scoots back as far as he can. “Don’t sit on my dick!”

Her head whips around as she lowers herself into the water. The glare on her face is deadly. “I’m not going to sit on your dick! God, can you just shut up for a second? Give me your leg.”

She settles between his legs, back against his chest. He offers her his leg, and her hands wrap around the skin above his port. She begins to knead the muscles beneath his skin. “Does this hurt?”

Between the temperature of the water, the distraction a naked Winry provided, and the massage she was giving him, he’d managed to forget the pain even existed. It’s started to fade, no where near as terrible as when he’d awoken. The deep ache he’d felt within his bone is no longer constant; the stabbing of the muscles around his port dulls; the churning in his stomach had vanished. He feels like he can finally breathe. “No. Feels good, actually.”

His head falls forward, nose burying itself in Winry’s hair. He inhales her scent—sunlight, floral, the faint hint of grease—and closes his eyes. His arms wrap around her frame, hugging her close to his chest. It momentarily interrupts her work, forcing her to untangle herself from him in order to continue.

“How’s your scar?”

He offers a lazy shrug. “It aches, but it isn’t bad.”

“You should exercise it more to break up the accumulated scar tissue,” she murmurs softly. Edward finds that her fingers lose their rhythm against his thigh. She leans against him and sighs.

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

She giggles. “All the time.”

“Mm.” He lifts his head, right hand cupping her chin. Gently, he tilts her head backward, smiling down at her. “Well, all the time isn’t enough. I need to do it more.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

He presses his lips to hers in a loving kiss, his pain having melted away.

#edward elric #winry rockbell #edward x winry #edwin #edward/winry #fma #otp: equivalent exchange #my fics #iakajwjdnejdike please enjoy 🥺

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sweetestlamb · 3 years

Text

Touch My Heart Part 2

Summary: Baby come back, you can blame it all on me. Or how to get your man back using bath soaps.

She has to cry silently, let her heart crack and splinter in silence because she doesn't want to explain her tears to Hong Yeon or Court Lady Choi. She should have expected nothing, should have known the King would want the one he truly fell in love with. But she'd still hoped, wished, dreamed selfishly that he would accept her and her feelings.

That he would beg and plead with her to stay, would declare that he loved her too. She knew that wasn't the case but still her useless heart had been holding out, only to be shredded apart when his eyes revealed how much he missed Jang Bong Hwan. It wasn't fair for either of them, she couldn't be a replacement and he would be forever longing. They would live eternally in limbo, that was no life worth living.

It was a fool's dream, she'd thrown away her chance when she jumped into the lake drowning both her desires and ambitions. She thought filling his shoes would be doable, some of his quirks and behaviors had left a lasting impact on her soul and they had many hobbies in common. But they weren't the same, maybe cut from a similar quilt but the patchwork was too intricate to be replicated.

So she cries, gasping sobs that rattle her bones and wreck her lungs; for the life she couldn't have and for the pain she knows the chef must be going through. If she was this heartbroken at the thought of being without the King, he must be crushed; soul and spirit pulverized to dusty remains.

Sleep comes to her painstakingly, her eyes so raw and red that even the act of closing them hurts and she twists and turns all night until the sandman pulls her under.

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"Hong Yeon-ah, you have been loyal to me since the day I was brought here." The young court maid looks at her with a puzzled smile at her sudden reminiscing, but nods as if she's used to her oddities by now, barely pausing her actions.

"Yes, you're highness. You are always most important to me. I will be loyal to you until the end. And when your child is born, I shall be loyal to them as well." Hong Yeon smiles sweetly at her whilst gently brushing her hair, putting fragrant powder on the roots as she twists her hair into braids.

"I will always cherish you."

"Your highness?" The court maid stops braiding her thick hair, peering into her eyes inquisitively through the mirror. "Why are you speaking as if you will not be here with me?"

She forces a content smile, having now accepted what she just do for herself, the King and most importantly Jang Bong Hwan, the one who saved them all.

"I might be going on a faraway trip, don't look for me. Just care for my baby and take care of the King." She can tell that the younger woman has many questions on her mind but mostly she seems...saudade; she understands more than she wants to and she's sad but she knows the Queen well enough to know why she must do this.

"I too, will always cherish you. I hope we meet again and I can be by your side once more, it was my greatest achievement."

She hugs the court maid, no her close friend probably one of her best friends. Remembering how eagerly she would follow her around, becoming her confidant and supporter as she found her footing in the palace.

"I hope I meet you in another life." She whispers into Hong Yeon's trembling head, embracing tighter because this is her last time.

The others are not as perceptive as Hong Yeon, but she does notice tears lingering in Court Lady Choi's eyes before she blinks them away.

"Thank you for always nagging me, it made me feel like I finally had a mother. I hope you can find your own happiness now." She knowingly looks over at the royal kitchen, making the older woman blush and turn away.

"Are you going to be okay?" She thinks about the question, and she smiles as she answers, "Yes. I'm going to be happy, I will make sure of it this time." She now knows that she has the power to do so, nothing can control her life besides her.

She sends for her father, hugging him tightly despite his apparent confusion. He's been all she's had for so long, it's her hardest goodbye of all. He will never know she's gone but she will mourn his loss until she takes her last breath.

"Father, I love you. I know everything you did was for my future, I know you made mistakes along the way but I couldn't have asked for a better father. In another life I want to be your daughter again." She cries into his shoulder, childishly gripping the bottom of his robe like she did when she was young and had a nightmare.

He looks at her with wet eyes and a huge grin, chuckling before rubbing her belly and showing her all the new gifts he's brought for his grandchild. She smiles and listens, soaking up all his love and warmth to keep her warm on those lonely days.

Later that night, she presses her palm to her stretched skin she's barely showing now only a minor bump under her clothes. But she can feel the life inside of her, her sweet baby.

"My baby, know that I loved you. That I would do anything to protect you. Please be good to them and have a happy life. I hope we too will meet in another life, you are blessed to have two mothers who adore you. Never want for anything." When she feels light taps at her belly, she grips her belly tighter.

She has no regrets, it's time.

The next day, she goes through her day as expected. Letting her servants serve her and enjoying the breeze from the lake, she takes in the majesty of her life and smiles at the sky.

When night falls, she stealthily rises from her bed donning only socks on her feet to make her steps undetectable, she's already said her goodbyes so there is nothing keeping her back now. Only her fears but she's stronger than she was before, there's no turning back now.

The lake glistens remarkably under the mystical glow of the moon, calling to her like a siren. The water sloshes as she steps into it, hissing at the cold that prickles at her skin before her body adjusts. She keeps walking until the water buoys her off her feet and licks at her collarbone, taking a deep gulp of the night air she plunges her head under the watery sheet. Water burns her lungs as she loses the ability to breathe, resisting her bodies urge to escape.

This time is different, this time she's here to live.

He goes through the motions of life, but everything feels like a chore. He quits his job, deciding to open a a small restaurant with his savings. His restaurant instantly becomes a fan favorite because of his delicious flavors and affordable prices, he also takes to cooking at a soup kitchen on the weekends. There's a young girl whose innocent smile reminds him of Dam Hyang, he always gives her extra meat with a wink.

That's the only thing brings him joy these days, he had so desperately wanted to be back and now, now he was miserable.

What had he been missing so much? His body? His job? Technology? All of it meant nothing now, it couldn't fill the void in his heart. Nights are the hardest, sleep is elusive and his thoughts race thinking about them- how were they living without him? Was his Cheoljongie able to fall asleep? Did Court Lady Choi and the head chef make it official? Was Hong Yeon doing well? Did they even notice that he was no longer in the body of the Queen or was he already forgotten?

Did he mean anything to them or was he easily replaced by Soyong? Those thoughts haunt him daily and he starts drinking, blacking out every night in a stupor just trying to turn off his brain. But that does nothing to soothe the ache.

He tries to find comfort in others.

Finding willing partners is easy, women throw themselves at him but he's more thoughtful now, no longer seeing them as conquests. He remembers their names and cooks them breakfast in the morning, but he still feels hollow like all of his innards have been scrapped out with a jagged spoon.

So he sleeps with men, gets fucked hard into his bed stifling his moans into pillows trying to feel something, anything. But being taken does nothing, he's still empty even while stuffed full. Nothing compares to him, everyone else falls short and it makes him crazy; he has to move on. One night stand after one stand does nothing to abate the emptiness he feels.

Spending time with his mother brings him solace, she's older so he has to care for her but it's not a chore, he's happy to.

"You seem different these days." He hums as he bathes her, swiping a soapy loofah across her shoulders and wetting her short thin hair.

"How so?" He hasn't mentioned anything to her or anyone, there's no way anyone would believe his story. Sometimes he wonders if it was all a vivid dream that he created to deal with his coma but the proof is in the history book, the one he keeps on his bed side table. A reminder that it was real, that he's not crazy. It's both grounding and soul crushing.

"You're waiting for something." She answers mysteriously, eyes sliding shut as he tips her head back to wash out the shampoo.

He doesn't reply. He's not waiting for anything, there's nothing coming. This is his life now. He's just waiting for the end.

After putting his mother to sleep, he travels back home his body aching, tight from lifting another human. Mentally fatigued from suppressing his feelings all day.

He watches idly as the water fills up the tub, his fingers dancing across the surface before he stops the flow squirting a honey scented bubble bath until the water is foamy. He undresses dropping his clothes carelessly on the ground before dipping one toe into the bath, he groans at the welcoming heat letting the water envelop him fully.

The bubbles tickle his nose as he sits in the tub, his muscles slowly relaxing under the luscious heat. It feels nice. He should be content, he's able to take a warm bath in his lavish apartment that should be enough to raise his spirits.

Tears start pouring from his eyes, he hadn't let himself cry that day that feels like a lifetime ago. Had sucked up all his sadness and loneliness and pushed them in a corner of his mind, but now the corner is exploding and he can't control his emotions. All his walls are crumbling in his mind.

He sobs, choking on air and wiping at the moisture on his face but they are falling too quick for him to catch and he starts to hiccup.

"I'll never see them again. Hong Yeon, Court Lady Choi, head chef, Cheoljong, my baby! It's like I never existed, why did this happen to me? I never asked for any of this!" He screams at his ceiling, he's never been a religious person not wanting to put that much trust in an intangible being in the sky, but if there is some omnipresent being, he curses them for punishing him.

"Why me?" He pounds at the water, shouting when soap splashes back hitting him in the eye. Flailing and attempting to rub it out, he's unaware of how close he is to his shower caddy until his hand hits the metal contraption, causing the suction cup adhering it to the wall to lift and the caddy precariously dangles before loosening and crashing down. Pain explodes in his temple before he slides into the water, excess leaking over the edge and onto the floor. Soapy water fills his lungs until he loses consciousness, everything fading to darkness.

"Jang Bong Hwan! Wake up! Open your eyes."

A familiar voice penetrates the foggy cloud in his brain, as he struggles to clear mind.

"Please! Wake up. This may be our only chance!"

The voice pleads with him, he feels wispy threads weaving around his mind and finally he starts to force his eyes open, willing his body to follow his commands.

Wake up. Wake up. WAKE UP!!

Bursting free of his prison, he jolts awake looking around wildly shocked to see himself submerged in water far deeper than his tub is capable of holding, everything feels familiar. Eerily so.

Then he glances in front of him and a face he's grown so used to seeing is peering back at him.

"Kim Soyong?" He barely whispers, certain he's having a ridiculously vivid dream.

"This isn't a dream. I've been waiting for you."

He stares at her in shock, in complete disbelief about the situation. What the fuck was going on??

"What the fuck is going on?" He voices his thought, watching as she smiles and swims closer to him.

"I'm bringing you back. I'm giving you back this body." She states confidently, taking his world and knocking it upside down.

"What are you talking about? Everything is back to the way it should be, the King loves you. History changed. Everything is as it should be." He squashes the desperate hope that blooms at her words, nothing was that simple. It simply wasn't their fate to be together.

"Is that how you truly feel? Is everything as it should be? Are you happy?"

Happy. That feeling is foreign to him now. But he has accepted his fate, he was able to help his King that was enough.

"I helped him. That's enough. I can't ask for anything more." He answers honestly, resolve melting as he thinks of his King and his smile.

"He loves you. I thought what I felt for him was love but I know the difference now, love is earned. You earned his love."

The tears start again, he looks at her lost. He doesn't know what to do.

"But you deserve to be happy too. I know everything you went through, I felt it too. I can't let you die because of me, I want you to live Soyong." He cries heart aching for the woman in front of him, she only ever did what she thought she had to. If someone had truly been there for her without any motives, this could have been different.

"I do deserve happiness too." She agrees and his heart jumps because this is it, he'll truly never see Cheoljong again.

"But I won't get it in this universe." Blinking through his tears he stares at her, a sad accepting smile on her face.

"I will always live in your shadows. That is not a true life, I want a fresh start. I deserve a live of my own without any regrets." She swims closer until they are face to face, nose barely grazing as she carresses his cheeks. It's clear what she intends to do, her lips moving closer until only millimeters separate them.

"Take care of him and our baby." She whispers before closing the gap, warm lips pressing against his and then he feels a sharp tug from the center of his stomach lurching him forward and then suddenly backwards.

He's only able to get out two words, "Thank you." Before he's plunged into darkness again.

He swirls in a sea of nothing for what feels like eternity, locked somewhere he can't escape. He wanders and wanders trying to remember who he is and where he is? The darkness is unchanging and he feels smothered by it, running only to end up back at the same spot. But then he hears a sound, something soft and sweet. A voice, a voice he recognizes but he doesn't know how.

Who is that?

Where am I?

Those questions spin around and around in his head, vicious cycle that leaves him feeling no closer to the truth or the end.

Then he hears another voice, louder and deeper. It's pleading and pained, his heart aches for the agony he can feel and then he feels a sensation, a distant touch and suddenly a door opens in the darkness, light pours into the once desolate room and he rushes to the door, chasing the light. Needing to be closer to that voice and that touch.

His head is throbbing, opening his eyes feels like a splitting headache but he pushes through the pain desperate to see where is he. His eyes are burning but he forces his heavy lids up and sunlight floods his vision, making him wince and shut them once more.

"My Queen?"

It can't be. No. He's dreaming.

He feels a hand wrap around his own, completely cocooning it.

"My Queen! You're finally awake!" The King cries, relief emitting off his body as he clutches him to his chest. His hot tears landing on the thin material covering his shoulder.

Throat scratchy and aching he licks his lips before speaking, "Cheoljongie?"

Immediately the King freezes in his arms, it's so quiet he can hear the crickets outside chirping loudly. The King slowly leans back, his eyes darting all over his face with something that looks like nervous wonder.

"What did you call me?" He whispers, his eyes wide.

"Cheoljongie!" He screams suddenly throwing himself into his King's arms, which are loose at first but then they become rib straining tight but he doesn't care, he needs this hug more than he needs air.

The King breaks them apart grabbing his face ardently, "Is it really you? Jang Bong Hwan?" His name sounds foreign on his tongue and now it's his turn to be speechless.

"You kn-kn-know my name? You know who I am?" He stutters incredulously, feeling the tears streaming from his eyes but this time doing nothing to stop them.

"I know everything. I know you're a man from the future, you were telling the truth. You always told me the truth."

He feels steamrolled, pressed out and flattened by this discovery. He knew that and he was still here hugging him? It didn't make sense.

"How do you feel? About the truth?" It's not an easy question to ask but he needs to know the answer, there are in a different time now. Cheoljong hadn't said such when he had explained to him that sexuality was more fluid in the future, people were allowed to express themselves in many ways. There was no right or wrong way to love.

It was a nice sentiment, but this was a Joseon period. Everything was different here.

"I love you."

He's not expecting that answer and he stares with his mouth open, feeling himself being drawn into a tighter hug his small body slotting perfectly into Cheoljong's. It's unnerving and familiar being this much smaller than him again.

"I love you so much. I don't care what form you take, I'll love you every single time." He growls the last words, rumbling between their bodies.

He's never said these words out loud to anyone but his mother, but he knows that he means it. He's never wanted to say them to anyone before but now he can't wait, he's bursting with it.

"I love you too. Life was empty without you, I was walking in an endless desert. You are my oasis." They stare at each other passionately, the King's fingers warm on his cheeks as he clutches at his royal robes. They gravitate towards each other as their lips meet and the universe rights itself. He moans at the sensation of having his King's lips back on his, the kiss tethers into frantic in mere seconds. All of their longing and heartache colluding as they slam into each other.

Their tongue slide and twist around each other, he nibbles at the King's lip letting him lick at his open mouth gasping as a hand grips the nape of his neck.

He grabs the King's hair pulling him closer so he can plunge his tongue deeper, swallowing his hardy groans and letting some breathy moans escape from his bruised lips. It's going to take some getting used to, being so slight once more, whimpering as the King easily manhandles him pushing him back onto the bedding and bracketing him in his powerful arms.

The move knocks his head into the floor, momentarily dazing him as a soft "Oof," falls from his lips.

The King reacts immediately, drawing away with concern pouring from his face.

"I apologize my Que...en I was too eager, you've just woken from a vegetative state. Now is not the appropriate time for such.... activities. I will control myself." He notices the King's hesitation as he pauses while saying the title which has become something more for them.

"It's okay. You can still call me that it means too much to me now and I don't want you to be careful. I've spent all this time feeling alone and empty, trying to find other," now he hesitates and the King's eyes widen and then scowl in comprehension, "Means to feel alive. It was all futile, nothing compared to you."

The declaration does little to douse the jealousy he can feel surging off his King, he almost purrs in response. Excited. Electrified.

"I will make you forget about all others. My name is the only that will fall from these lips," Cheoljong rubs a large thumb across the his full bottom lip, seductively. "I missed you so much and I'll show you just how much."

"I spent so much time hoping to get back to my dragon, only to miss yours too much to enjoy my own. It's sad isn't it?" He pouts reaching out boldly to grab the King's thick cock peeking through his layers.

The King smirks, crawling over him before lifting up his dress easily and lowering his undergarments with a swift tug.

"My dragon missed you immensely, it's time to get reacquainted. " Cheoljong warns before slipping into his body without preamble, he shouts and tightens at the intrusion.

Every cell in his body feels alive and buzzing.

They get acquainted all night, into the wee hours of the morning hoarse shouts filling Daejajoen hall as all the court ladies blush and cover their faces bashfully. Hong Yeon smiles knowingly at Court Lady Choi, both with matching 'earmuffs' the Queen had gifted them long ago.

"Mr. Jang, can you hear me? Mr. Jang?" She struggles to regain conscious as a light is shined into both of her eyes, blinking wildly she turns her head away trying to escape the bright glare.

"I apologize. I had to check your pupils. How are you feeling? You've been in a coma for three days. We were very worried since you had been comatose just a month prior. It's not good for the human brain to be in that state several times." She listens absently to the doctor(?) too fascinated by all the unfamiliar things surrounding her.

There's a strange machine beeping away next to her and something attached to her arm, her eyes bulge at her arm, it is larger thick with muscles she's never had before. She flexes and watches entranced as her arm gets even bigger.

"Mr.Jang, are you okay?" Finally she glances over at the feminine voice, clipped and professional but a tinge of genuine concern.

She's gorgeous, a round face and wide almond eyes that are scanning something in her hands, she has thick hair that is held up in a topknot with tendrils framing her face and her lips are succulent and rosy red, she feels blood rushing to her nether regions. When the doctor notices her staring she puts down the thing in her hands, to meet her gaze head on.

"Mr. Jang?" She finally realizes that's her name, Jang Bong Hwan.

"What's your name?" She feels compelled to ask as if this is the most important question she'll ever utter, something tugs in her stomach as they stare at each other.

"Dr. Won Beom."

She smiles.

Author's note: This will be my canon moving forward in my future untouchable updates, I'll also be incorporating a love story behind Director Hong and Kim Hwan because they are the sweetest beans and I feel like they can get great advice on their relationship from our King and Queen. 🥴😉 I was very selfish with this fix-it I don't want to let go of my Joseon family, so we're staying here instead.

#mr.queen #queen cheorin #king cheoljong #kim soyong #jang bong hwan #sobong #mad homo #as it was intended #bath tub time travel #science #no touch princess

52 notes · View notes

there-must-be-a-lock · 4 years

Text

Coming Home

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4980

Warnings: Smut. Relatively vanilla, but decidedly explicit.

A/N: For @impala-dreamer and the “Make Me Feel It” challenge. My prompt was “The Story,” by Brandi Carlile. To me, that song feels like letting your guard down and trusting someone to see you at your worst.

Major thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 and @stunudo for the read-throughs and suggestions, and to @justcallmeasmodeus @thoughtslikeaminefield and @cracksinthewalls for listening to me grumble about this monster all day.

October, 2006

Dean can’t sleep, and what-fucking-else is new? Not like he was Sleeping Beauty to begin with, but it’s harder since Dad died. He tosses and turns on the lumpy motel mattress, listening to Sammy’s snores. His muscles ache and his eyes itch and he can’t stop clenching his jaw. It’s been a couple days since he’s managed more than a catnap at a rest stop.

If he pauses for too long, if he lets himself rest, the grief catches up and chokes him. Dean’s fine, or he will be. He just has to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He gives up around 4am, leaves Sammy a note and trudges down the block to the all-night diner.

Left foot, right foot. Don’t look back. Don’t stop.

All the diners are starting to look alike. On good days, the familiarity is comforting. Today it just feels surreal, like he keeps driving and driving and never really gets anywhere, and the grey fluorescent lights make his vision skip and skitter strangely.

There’s one other guy at a table in the corner, a trucker nursing a cup of coffee; otherwise it’s empty apart from the waitress wiping down glasses at the other end of the counter. He blinks away the disorientation and sits down heavily on one of the cracked vinyl stools.

She sets down her rag and comes over, smiling, and it cuts through the grey and the cold and warms him from the inside.

He orders a coffee and a slice of pie, and he starts eating without really tasting anything. He feels fucking cold, like he brought October into the diner with him.

He watches the waitress tidying up, rolling silverware, cleaning the counter… Dean catches himself staring at her hips, the way she shifts her weight as she stands.

Maybe it’s the way she moves that’s got him distracted, maybe it’s just sleeplessness making his vision blur, but one way or another he misses his mouth entirely when he goes to take a sip of coffee. Blistering-hot liquid sloshes over his hand, and he promptly drops the mug. It shatters at his feet.

He looks down numbly at the splintered pieces as the puddle begins to spread. She’s there with a towel before he can really register what happened.

“Jesus,” Dean spits, finally snapping back into his body. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

She just gives him a little half-smile and shrugs, and Dean slides off the stool to get out of her way. He tiptoes gingerly around the mess and grabs a handful of napkins to get the worst of the coffee off his lap. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

When she’s done, Dean perches back on his stool to shovel down the last few bites, ready to get the hell of her way, but she sets a fresh cup in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says automatically.

She quirks her lips in a tiny smile, and fuck, she’s cute. Dean tries to muster up his most charming grin, but it feels stiff and twisted on his face.

“Long day?” she asks softly. She’s watching him with her head tilted to the side like she actually wants to hear about it.

“I’m fine,” he replies. Smile, shrug, don’t think.

She looks tired, too. She’s got dark circles under her eyes to match Dean’s, but there’s something sweet and open in her expression that makes him feel comfortable, somehow. Something about her is warm, and Dean’s first instinct is to hold out his hands like he’s thawing them over a fire.

Her smile isn’t pitying, just empathetic, a sort of bone-weary been there, done that look.

“My dad died,” Dean blurts out.

He wasn’t planning on telling her that. It’s the first time he’s said the words quite so bluntly, let alone to a stranger. He’s not that guy, he doesn’t go around dumping his problems on other people, but… he looks up, meets her eyes. His chest hurts.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

Fine. Smile, shrug, don’t think. You’re fine.

Dean heaves in a breath. His ribs are being squeezed by some cold iron grip, and his throat is tight.

She reaches out across the counter and puts her hand over his, and she gives it a tiny, gentle squeeze.

“You will be,” she offers.

He’s not that guy, he’s just not, and the ache in his chest is this massive unbearable thing that’s about to split him open, and the longer she looks at him with that warmth, the harder it gets to hold himself together. And he needs to hold himself together. If he lets go, even just a little, he’s going to fucking drown.

Dean yanks his hand back like he’s been burned.

“Sorry,” she says. Her eyes look sad, but she’s giving him a tiny smile, like she understands.

“I gotta -” he chokes out, and he stumbles as he gets off the stool. He throws some bills on the table without really looking, and he turns to go.

Left foot, right foot.

He doesn’t look back.

***

March, 2008

“Fuck, Dean, just take this exit,” Sam says. He’s got that bite in his voice again.

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He burps and puts the cap back on the flask one-handed. He gets in the right lane, though. Time for food.

Signal. Turn. Brake.

Time’s passing strangely. He blinks and there’s another day gone. He hasn’t got that many days left. If he closes his eyes for long they’ll disappear.

He pulls into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Sammy jumps out and slams the door before Dean can even cut the engine, like a petulant fuckin’ kid.

Dean shivers, goosebumps running down his neck. He takes one quick slug from the flask, then another, trying to shake off the chills, before he follows Sam inside.

He hasn’t been sleeping. Better ways to spend his last weeks. He’s crystal-clear, though. He’s fine. Everything is bright and sharp and hard-edged around him. The whiskey just warms him up a little.

“Ordered you a burger,” Sam mumbles, when Dean sits down next to him. “To go, so we can get to a fucking motel.”

“Told you, Sammy, I’m fine,” Dean says breezily, and asks the waitress as she passes, “Could I get a coffee, when you get a sec?”

He ignores Sam’s glare.

The waitress comes over, and Dean gets a quick impression of a soft smile and curious eyes as she passes him a steaming mug. He takes a greedy sip and burns his tongue.

“Hot coffee,” he says hastily, setting the mug down to blow on it, and then he delivers the line with an almost automatic grin. “You know what else is hot?”

“Come on,” Sam mutters.

Dean finishes with a wink: “You.”

“You’re not gonna spill on me again, are you?” she smirks.

He looks up at her, really looks. Something about her smile says come inside, stay a while, like stepping in from the cold to the golden flicker of firelight.

“I remember you,” she says. “You were having a rough night.”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Oh.”

He stares as she introduces herself. It feels so far away, now. Feels like he’s lived a few lifetimes since then, but he hasn’t, not really; he won’t even have a chance to live this lifetime.

He shudders and wishes he’d brought his flask inside.

“Sorry,” she says, “Not a good memory to look back at, I guess.”

He shakes his head.

“No, I’m fine, just… took me a second,” he says, and recovers, pasting on a bright smile. “Don’t know how I could forget such a pretty face.”

Sam makes an exasperated noise next to him.

“Smooth,” she says dryly. “What’s your name, butterfingers?”

“Dean.”

“Well, Dean, if you make a mess again because you’re too busy flirting to remember where your mouth is, you can clean it up yourself this time. Okay?”

The words are light and teasing, but her smile looks like an apology, like she knows all too well how hard it is to look back sometimes.

“How ‘bout you let me make it up to you?” Dean offers. “Let me buy you a drink when you’re done here.”

She’s eyeing him up and down, and Dean flashes his most winning smile, even though he has a sudden inexplicable urge to hide his face. There’s a bell from the kitchen window and she turns without answering. Dean’s pretty sure he just struck out, and he’s more bothered by it than he’d like to admit, but then she’s back.

“Yeah, okay,” she says casually, handing over a couple takeout containers. “I’ll be done in fifteen.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Sam grumbles, as he counts out bills.

“Hey, you get your wish,” Dean says, grinning. “You get to sleep in a bed tonight. Motel’s right up the road, if I’m remembering right.”

“Yeah. Great.”

She’s talking to the cook, hands on her hips, and Dean catches a string of profanities. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, trying not to stare.

“I’ll meet you out front,” he says. She gives him a little wave, and he almost trips over his feet on his way to the door.

Sam shoulders his bag, jaw set, eyes tired.

“I can drive you,” Dean offers, guilt slithering through his stomach, but Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll walk. I can see the sign from here.”

“I just - I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.”

“Yeah. I won’t wait up.”

Sam turns to go, and Dean feels panicked, for a second. He’s going to blink and lose another day. He’s spent too many days sniping and snapping and being a shitty fucking brother.

“Sammy,” he says, and Sam looks back, tight-lipped. “Thanks.”

Sam’s expression falters, the bitter mask falling away and leaving sadness in its place.

“It’s okay, Dean, I get it,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost to the wind.

Dean doesn’t watch him go. He gets in the car and fishes his flask out of the glove compartment. Then he leans against the hood of the car and eats his burger.

Chew, swallow. Don’t think about it.

He sees her through the window, coming out from behind the counter. Dean sets the takeout container on the hood and gets to the front door just in time to open it for her.

“So, where to?” he asks.

“Not sure,” she says softly, looking down at her feet and fidgeting with the strap of her purse.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean snorts. “I’ve told that one a few times myself.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs, sheepish. “Yeah, okay. I… I don’t usually do this.”

“Hey, no pressure,” Dean says. He holds his hands up and takes a step back. “If you say the word I’ll leave right now, no harm done. Okay?”

She’s evaluating him, and it feels like an x-ray, the way she stares. He can see the moment she makes a decision.

“I’ve got drinks back at my place,” she says, and adds sharply, “I’ve also got mace, so… don’t get any ideas.”

It’s oddly endearing, for a threat.

Her place is a tiny, cluttered studio apartment in a not-great part of town. When she opens the fridge, he sees a mess of takeout containers and bottles.

“Beer, tequila, whiskey…”

“Whiskey’s good.”

He looks around and realizes there’s nowhere to sit. There’s a single stool at the kitchen table, and an armchair in front of the coffee table; the only place big enough for two people is the bed. He looks at her, and she’s blushing, like she just had the same realization.

“Shit, sorry, this is weird,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t - I’m in a really fucking strange place in my life. Everything is… temporary, I guess.”

“You and me both,” Dean mutters. He sits down on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She gives him a grateful little half-smile and hands him a glass.

“Tell me about it?” She settles on the floor too, cross-legged, rolling her glass between her palms like someone who’s very used to holding a drink.

They skip all the small talk, the flirtation and the easy questions, and they dive right into the things that Dean fucking hates talking about. Somehow he doesn’t mind.

This was supposed to be a simple pickup, one fun night, a distraction, and instead he’s sitting on this chick’s floor asking about her childhood, finding that he actually cares about the answers… this isn’t like any one-night stand he’s ever had. It’s so much more intimate than that.

The rules are different, with her. He doesn’t have to pretend to be fine. She doesn’t seem to pity him, when he talks about some of the fucked-up things in his life. She just accepts it. She accepts him.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, when he finishes his third drink, but he’s starting to go hoarse. She doesn’t ask if he wants another, just takes the empty glass out of his hand. Her knee pops audibly when she gets up, and they both laugh.

“I’m too old to be sitting on the floor, I think,” she says, heading to the fridge. “If I say we should relocate to the bed, are you going to take it as a come-on?”

He smiles up at her, exhaustion and whiskey making his vision blurry around the edges. “Only if you want me to.”

“Jury’s still out.” She looks down, cheeks flushed like that’s not entirely true. “But I think for the sake of my fuckin’ kneecaps… make yourself comfortable.”

He does. He sits back against the pillows, sinking into them. She comes over and passes him a drink, and he looks up at her, feeling oddly vulnerable stretched out on her bed like this.

“Be right back,” she whispers, and sets her own glass on the nightstand before she heads for the bathroom.

Dean closes his eyes, thinking, just for a second.

He wakes all at once. There’s bright gold sunlight streaming through the windows and a quilt on top of him. She’s curled into his chest, nose brushing his collarbone where his henley is unbuttoned. His hand is resting on the curve of her waist, tucked under her thin shirt. She’s just starting to stir; she shifts, settles closer, and he feels her lips on his throat.

Dean can’t remember the last time he felt this rested, or this warm.

He can’t remember the last time he wanted to stay somewhere. He wants to stay right here in this moment, taking in the tickle of her breath on his neck, the cheap pillowcase under his cheek, the sound of a siren in the distance.

She pulls back slowly, sleepy-eyed. Then she smiles. It feels like coming home.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he remembers who he is. He remembers that this isn’t his life.

He digs the phone out of his phone and snaps it open long enough to growl, “Be there soon.”

She’s still smiling, but her eyes are sad. Dean wants to stay, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, and that’s why he makes himself pull away. If he lets himself have this, even for a morning… if this was his life? He’s not sure he could let himself be dragged away from it, hellhounds or no.

She takes the phone out of his hand and enters her number, “Just in case you’re ever passing through.”

“I doubt it’ll happen,” he says roughly. “But… if I’m passing through.”

Stand up. Deep breath.

He feels cold, the warmth leaching from his bones already.

This isn’t your home.

He doesn’t have a home. Now he never will.

She walks him to the door and he hugs her, barely feeling it, barely noticing the feather-light kiss she presses to his cheek.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I’m fine,” he says, and he turns to go.

Right foot, left foot. Don’t look back.

***

October 2008

If Dean doesn’t get out of this fucking motel, he might lose his fucking mind.

He paces the bathroom, back and forth, feeling brittle and edgy and hollowed-out. One more nightmare, one more argument, and he might snap. He’s sick of Sammy’s fucking face, and looking at his own in the mirror is even worse.

He sees hell whenever he closes his eyes.

He dials her number before he can talk himself out of it, and she picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t - I mean, I ended up coming through after all. I don’t know if you remember me, but… this is Dean.”

“I remember you,” she says. He can hear the warmth in her voice, even through the static.

She texts him the address: new place, same town. He tells Sam not to wait up.

He’s not sure why he’s nervous. He’s not sure what it is about her, but there’s something about this chick that he can’t shake. The important thing is that it’ll be fun. It’ll get his mind off things for a night. He rolls down the window and turns the music up.

Don’t think about it.

When she opens the door, Dean’s heart jumps crazily in his chest.

“So, do you want to go out, or...” Dean starts, as she closes the door behind him.

“Can we just pick up where we left off?” she asks, breathless.

Dean can smell the fresh, sweet scent of her hair. He feels dizzy, hot and cold all over, and when he leans in to kiss her it feels like falling. It’s deep, syrupy-slow, her mouth opening easily under his, intimate and familiar.

She lets out a barely-there whimper, deep in her throat.

“Bed,” he chokes out. He’s not sure he’ll make it that far.

He grabs her again, stumbling, as they practically fall through the bedroom door, and she whirls around to face him with this fiery, blazing look that makes him forget how to fucking walk. Her back hits the wall and he crashes into her. She slips her hands under his shirt and drags her nails down his lower back, and Dean gasps, grinding into her helplessly.

“Please,” he pants. He kisses her neck, bites her jaw, whispers it again: “Please.”

She yanks at the hem of his shirt. He almost rips her tank top. She shoves, sends him stumbling backward, and reaches back to unclasp her bra, letting it fall unceremoniously. Dean takes a step backward, still staring, so the edge of the bed against the back of his knees takes him by surprise. He sits down hard and scrambles back.

She pauses at the foot of the bed, letting him look. He rakes his eyes over smooth curves, speechless, as she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her hips, and she crawls up the bed in nothing but plain black panties.

She straddles him, pushing at his shoulders until he falls back against the mattress. He runs his hands over her, up her sides, trying to memorize the lush pillowy swells and dips of her, the velvety feel of her skin. Her mouth is hungry on his.

She’s moving, slow and snakelike, rolling her torso so that he can feel the slight drag of her hard nipples up his chest, then twisting her hips, rubbing herself against him. It’s almost too much even through his jeans, all this hot rough friction. He grips her hips and rocks up against her, and she lets out a tortured little whine as she breaks away from the kiss.

She gets Dean’s zipper down, tugs, and he lifts his hips obligingly so that she can get his pants off. He kicks at them awkwardly, making a face, and she giggles; it’s a nervous giggle, and it dies in her throat when he rolls on top of her. He pauses with his hands braced on either side of her head, and she stares up at him, cheeks flushed.

“What do you -” he starts, and before he can finish the question, she reaches up and brushes the pad of her thumb over the curve of his lower lip. He flicks his tongue over it and watches her eyelids flutter. He ducks his head to kiss the hollow of her throat, then her collarbone.

“Thought about this,” she says. “I was kicking myself, after. For being too scared to make a move, for -”

She gasps when he slips his hand down the front of her panties, dragging two fingers down through silky-slick heat, running them up again, teasing before he pulls the thin fabric down.

“I was wondering,” he confesses. He hooks his hands under her thighs and holds her in place, and she shudders at the first brush of his tongue.

“I don’t do that - don’t invite strangers over,” she pants. “I don’t trust people, but you - fuck, do that again.”

“Taste so good,” he mumbles. It’s barely audible, the way his face is buried between her legs. She squirms, thighs shaking as he gets his lips around her clit.

The words are rushed, high-pitched, spilling out along with tiny gasps and sharp inhales: “Thought about your mouth, fuck. Thought about this. It was - you do a thing, with your tongue, and - right there, oh, fuck, just - you kept licking your lips, and... Dean. Dean.”

He sneaks a glance up at her. She’s arching her back, fingers twisting in the sheets, saying his name over and over in this broken, reverent voice. Dean feels raw and strange, like he’s the one spread-open and vulnerable here. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it.

She practically convulses when he slips two fingers into her, but he’s holding her down with his other hand. He works her with his fingers and sucks in quick little pulses, lost in the way she tastes. She grabs his hair, pulling him down against her, gripping so hard it stings his scalp, and it’s so fucking hot he feels like he could come just from this: her taste on his tongue, her fingers in his hair, her ragged voice as she says his name one more time. She shakes and shudders as she comes.

“Gorgeous,” he can’t help but whisper, pressing a kiss to one of the stretch marks that show like pale tiger stripes on her thighs. The scar tissue doesn’t taste any different than the rest of her skin, but he kisses another to be sure, then drags his mouth up, nipping at the soft skin under her belly-button, licking a drop of sweat from the valley between her breasts.

She’s panting, cheeks stained pink and sheened with sweat, looking up at him with glittering unfocused eyes, and the clench of pure fucking desire in his gut hits him like a freight train. The first slick press of his cock is almost too much. He closes his eyes and sinks in slow, feeling the give where her body opens up and lets him in. Her breath hitches in her chest when he grinds down, as deep inside as he can be.

One of them is shaking, and Dean thinks it might be him.

He kisses the underside of her jaw, mouthing at the soft salty skin there, and rolls his hips, and the wet-hot surge of friction is so fucking good. Part of him wants to move, snap forward and give in, fuck into her hard enough to obliterate the swelling sensation in his ribcage. Part of him wants this to last forever.

He’s present in his skin in a way he hasn’t been in ages, frantic with all the input from his senses, lit up and fizzing with it. The strangled cry that rips from his throat sounds foreign, like an animal, like something wild… she digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, tilts her hips up, and he’s so close to the edge of his control already.

The physical details of it, the actual act, that’s nothing new. It’s this feeling in his chest. It’s the way he feels like he’s about to shatter.

“There,” she groans. He opens his eyes enough to see her, and his vision is blurring, images of her coming through like shots from an unfocused camera: lips parting around his name, eyes rolling back in her head when he hits the right spot, sweat trickling down her temple to soak tendrils of hair.

Dean’s so fucking close, so fucking hard, it’s like his entire universe is narrowing down to the throb of blood pulsing in his cock, the way she’s clamping down around him as she grinds up to meet every thrust, writhing under him, pulling him close, her fingernails fiery points of pain at the small of his back.

This is so much more than he expected. He can’t breathe.

She lets out a gasp and a sweet little sob, arching up, and he can feel her all around him, soaking wet and searing hot, so good it blinds him. His hips jerk forward one last time, as if he could possibly get any closer to her. He gives in and lets himself go under.

The tension bleeds from his muscles, leaves him wrung-out and quiet. He keeps rocking into her, soft shivers of pleasure rippling through them both, as she reaches up and cups his face between her hands, tugging him down for a kiss. He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, close enough that their breath mingles in the damp thick air between them. He kisses the tip of her nose, then her eyelids. He moves back to pull out.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she whispers. “Stay.”

“Can I go like six inches to either side?” Dean asks, and she makes a face, giggling, as they shift over together, trying to move without putting any real space between their bodies.

Dean settles in between her sprawled legs, resting his head on her chest. Her heartbeat is slowing, gradually. He focuses on the sound of it, the feel of her ribs rising and falling under his cheek as she breathes, and she runs her fingers through the short damp hair at the nape of his neck.

He wants to stay right here, just like this.

He could pretend, for one night. He could pretend to be someone else, someone who gets what they want.

“If I fall asleep, wake me up in half an hour,” she says dreamily. “Let’s do that again.”

He can feel the waves closing in over his head.

Her fingers slow and then stop. Her heartbeat goes low and even.

When he’s sure she’s asleep, Dean shifts, doing his best not to disturb her. She doesn’t stir. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed silently.

She looks so peaceful: hair tangled, skin glowing, lips curled up in a smile. She looks warm. Dean’s chest aches. He sneaks one last glance at her before switching off the light and turning to go.

He doesn’t look back.

***

February 2010

Dean waits for a moment, staring up at the dark sky, but there’s no answer. He wasn’t really expecting one.

Deep breath. Drink. Swallow.

He wipes away the tears, steeling himself to go back inside and pretend that nothing’s wrong.

The wheezy voice echoes in his ears: going through the motions.

Deep, dark… nothing.

He wants to deny it, is the thing. He wants to deny it, but he can’t, even to himself, even to the quiet nighttime sky. But that dark nothing is easier than letting himself feel. When he slows down, when he rests, when he allows himself to feel anything, it all crashes over him, swamps him, fills his lungs and makes him choke.

Inside, you’re already dead.

When was the last time he felt alive?

He sees her clearly: head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted, saying his name like a prayer. If he lets himself remember, he feels a ghost of her warmth and a swelling, fluttering fullness in his chest.

Something inside him snaps.

He practically runs to Baby, flings himself blindly into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with trembling fingers. He hits the gas and the tires squeal.

The cold air slaps against his face, and his heart pounds, and he almost turns around five times before he hits the right exit. It’s not hard to find her place again, but it doesn’t occur to him until he’s knocking that she might’ve moved. She might not be home. She might have a fucking boyfriend who’s going to punch him in the face.

She opens the door.

He can see hurt and shock and something bright (hope?) flickering across her face, and then she looks him up and down.

“Dean,” she says softly. “Are you okay?”

“I’m -”

“If you say ‘fine’ right now I’ll punch you in the mouth,” she says matter-of-factly. There’s no judgement in her eyes, just familiar wide-open warmth. “It’s three in the morning. You snuck out, like a fucking asshole, and then I didn’t hear from you in over a fucking year. So. Are you okay, Dean?”

He has to force the words out; it feels like they’re scorching his throat.

“No. I’m not.”

He sways on his feet and sags against the doorframe. It’s pulling him under, one wave after another.

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, holding him close, right there in the doorway. He runs his hands up her back and buries his face in her hair, taking deep heaving breaths that burn his lungs. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water.

She presses her lips to his pulse and whispers against his skin: “Come inside, Dean. Stay a while.”

She pulls the door closed behind him as he takes one shaky step, then another.

He doesn’t look back.

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vulturhythm · 4 years

Text

until the blue ocean turns green - part two

part one

- - - - -

It's been years since Geralt left the merman alone by the shore.

Two, three?

He doesn't know.

Nearly six months since he left Yennefer behind.

She was too much, too soon... too intense.

They were doomed from the start.

Maybe... maybe, he admits, late at night when it's just him alone in his head, he should have stayed by the sea.

Maybe he should have stayed with Jaskier.

He travels.

He goes north.

He goes north, and he goes east, and he goes west.

Anywhere but south to the seas.

He takes contract after contract, kills creatures for peasants and nobility alike... never lays a hand upon a human, not again.

Every drop of blood he spills, he remembers the glistening silver of Jaskier's. He remembers how it laid upon the surface like liquid moonlight, how it soaked into the bandages and turned them a murky platinum...

Every time he meets the gaze of a monster, he thanks the gods that it isn't Jaskier's, that his merman isn't at the point of his sword.

Every time he makes camp near the river, he watches the water flow, and he wishes it were deep and rolling, capped with foam.

Five years pass, and then ten.

Time is kind to his type, his only claim to age an addition smattering of scars across his body, torn into his flesh by blades or teeth or claws.

There is one blessing time continues to withhold, however...

He has not yet managed to forget.

He sleeps with countless women, and yet, never with a man.

He tries, once - lets a young, pretty-eyed thing woo him with his words, gets as far as setting his teeth to the side of his throat, hands beneath his shirt and thigh between his legs...

... and the image of deep blue eyes and deeper scales flashes through his head, and bright, bright silver blood.

He draws away, steps back... leaves the man behind the tavern, mounts up on Roach, leaves the town he's only barely gotten to know and leaves it all behind.

That night, he doesn't sleep.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jaskier floating in the sea.

It's when he sees the scales of sea things at a market that fear clogs his throat.

Harpy scales, selkie scales, merfolk scales... blacks and grays and greens and golds, and blues - bright blues, dark blues, ocean blues, sky blues...

He confronts the man running the stall, demands to know where - and why.

"They're quite coveted for jewelry nowadays," is the simple response, and there's fear in the man's eyes when Geralt looms closer. "I'm not the, ah, the collector, I don't hunt the things - I just sell them and split the profit - "

"Split it with who?" he growls, and he knows, almost before the answer comes...

"Why, the witcher, of course."

Months pass.

Slowly, he wanders south, along mountain trails and through little villages he hasn't seen in years, along the outskirts of kingdoms and through valleys and forests...

He sees the scales in nearly every market, and in the richer regions, he sees them around the necks of women, at the fastenings of men.

As time goes on, he realizes it's not just scales - there's teeth and claws, too, and feathers, and as Geralt rides on through or walks on by, he realizes the witcher is killing not for contracts, but for sport.

It sickens him to imagine.

Worse, however, is the nagging voice at the back of his head, the one that urges him to try and remember the exact shade of...

No.

Geralt loses track of time again, as he often does now. With more than a century of his life beneath his belt, the years feel more like months sometimes.

Cycles, as Jaskier would have said.

He's begun to think like that with increasing frequency, evaluating things from the merman's eyes... he wonders what Jaskier knew of the human realm before he met the witcher.

Wonders if he's found another human to tell him of tavern songs.

The air grows salty as he draws further south.

It feels... it feels like returning to a home he never truly had.

To a love he never allowed.

He awakens from a dream one night, a nightmare... awakens from the vision of Jaskier, split and flayed open on the shore, his beautiful, beautiful tail sawed off and skinned bare, his scales shorn off and cleaned and sent to be draped about the neck of a queen.

He's barely been asleep for an hour, yet if it weren't for Roach's weariness, he would have taken to the road again immediately.

Things begin to look familiar, though changed with the passage of time.

He remembers this tree, that stone... remembers when that husk of a farmhouse was once active and lively, remembers when this town was small, little more than houses.

He stops at the new tavern, buys himself some ale.

It's here that he learns the witcher has all but set up camp along the shore, where the rivers feed into the sea.

Geralt's stomach churns at the thought.

He pushes Roach hard the next day, urges her on, on, on...

It's nightfall when he reaches the edge of the sea.

The water is dark and calm, but there's clouds upon the horizon, clouds that roil with lightning and threaten to mask the crescent moon overhead.

Geralt leaves Roach tied to the fallen tree. It's splintered with age, no longer sturdy enough to support his weight. She shies from the wood, and it's no wonder - it's splashed with platinum blood, dried into the bark.

The air reeks of death. Coppery blood blends with salt and fish and sand, and Geralt snarls beneath his breath as he paces along the water's edge.

He comes to the tide pool before long.

Much the same as always, full of life, of clear and gentle water that sloshes when the tide eases in. Standing at its edge, Geralt remembers the deer hide he'd spread across the stones, the cloths he'd draped upon Jaskier's back.

His gaze wanders back to the sea.

As clear as ever, he can see Jaskier floating just past the shallows, testing the strength of his newly-healed tail, calling the songs of the sea to Geralt and laughing aloud at his bewildered stare.

The faintest of smiles tugs at Geralt's lips, but it's dashed away an instant later by the memory of that silver cloud of blood, drifting upon the surface, calling his attention to the body out in the water that night long ago.

He thanks the gods above that he wasn't greeted by the same tableau tonight.

That doesn't mean he won't encounter it soon.

Geralt heaves a quiet sigh, turns to look back at Roach, who's watching him with those soft, wise eyes. "Hopeless?" he half-asks, his voice low.

She whickers in response, and he turns his gaze back to the water.

Two weeks pass.

He comes across no other signs of the witcher, but, as he learned long ago, invisible demons are no less a threat than those that you can see, hear, feel.

Then again, he supposes he can see, sense, touch the evidence of the other witcher... he sees the blood splashed across the driftwood and stones. He hears the way the shore is all but silent except for the lapping of the waves, even the gulls overhead scarce. He feels the way every living thing seems to have drawn back in fear.

He hates it in a way that he cannot describe.

He's seen horrific things - battlefields sprayed with blood and brains, homes torn apart by violence, corpses left hanging half-eaten from trees or mountain ledges, bits of rotting flesh on the teeth of the creatures he's meant to kill - and yet, not in his century-odd of living has he ever encountered such a dreadful aura, such an air of gloom.

Distantly, he knows that it's because of the fear roiling deep within his chest, a constant ache that refuses to ease away. He sets up camp less than a half-mile from the sea, where the wind will waft the scent of blood in his direction, should anything... go awry.

For a while, nothing happens.

The days pass without event, and the nights, much the same.

It's about three days later that he begins to notice the gulls are returning.

At first, it's just a couple, cruising along overhead, their calls rare and quiet, as though they know better than to speak too loudly.

Later in the afternoon, as Geralt paces along the shoreline where he'd met Jaskier all those years ago, he notices more of them, perched upon a rock that crests above the sea a short distance out. The sight is oddly familiar, enough to jog Geralt's memory. He goes still, frowning toward the stone.

He doesn't think he's imagining the way the gulls are staring at him, tilting their heads, cawing between themselves.

It's unusual, to be frank, but...

... nothing comes of it that day.

The next day, there are more. A lot more.

One awakens him in the late evening by lighting upon a branch near his camp and squawking loud enough to wake the goddamn dead.

Geralt jerks upright with haste, staring at the bird in the sort of confusion he usually reserves for sorceresses and their type.

Realization strikes him a moment later, and he scrambles to his feet. Roach is already snorting her protest before he even approaches her. She seems far, far less than impressed to be saddled up and nudged into a trot all thanks to the appearance of a single gull, but Geralt pays her disgruntled sounds no mind, for a memory has risen to the surface...

... the memory of his merman, rambling on and on about the stories the gulls told him.

As soon as it sees Geralt is in motion, the gull springs into flight, rising up through the trees into the open air above. Geralt catches enough of a glimpse to track it westward; he's quick to spur Roach along, heart caught in his throat.

It's easier to follow the gull once they're beyond the trees, once it leads them out to the shoreline. It's now that the gull is joined by two - three - more, all circling impatiently then flying on ahead while Roach finds steady footing in the sand.

Geralt imagines they've gone nearly a mile before, suddenly, the wind shifts, and he's hit with -

with -

with the stench of blood, hot and wet and not... not red, no, silver, unicorn silver, a cloyingly sweet scent that bites the roof of Geralt's mouth when it settles there, horrific in its familiarity.

No longer minding the gulls above, he kicks his mare into a canter, praying to the whole damn pantheon that he isn't too late.

The moon is high overhead when he finally catches sight of the bleeding thing.

There's a fishing net halfway submerged in the shallows, one end tangled and tethered amongst the mess of rocks and logs on the sand. It's clear that the net was hauled ashore once it was full... hauled ashore so its contents would dehydrate and rot away in the heat of the day.

As Geralt draws near, he slows Roach to a walk, and then to a halt, his heart rising and catching in his throat.

Through the strands of the net, he can see pale skin and deep, deep blue scales.

He's out of the saddle and in motion almost before he realizes it, calling Jaskier's name, and the creature tangled in the net - they stir, they thrash, they try to pull away -

Geralt drops to his knees beside the mess of rope and blood and flaked-off scales, fumbling to pull his dagger from its home at his belt. "Jaskier," he says, and then, louder, when dazed blue eyes meet his own, "it's me, I'm here, you're - don't try to move, I don't want you hurt - "

"You came," croaks a familiar voice, weakened with illness, laden with relief. "You - I thought you were gone..."

"The gulls led me to you," was Geralt's simple response; he was frozen now, staring at - at all of it, trying to find the weak points in the rope, the points where he could cut through without hurting his siren any more than he already had. "I'm - I'm sorry, Jaskier, I should have come back before."

His merman shakes his head, or tries to, and fuck, the rope is digging into his face, and Geralt's heart fucking aches with the sight. "Don't blame yourself," he mumbles. "Don't."

All Geralt can do is look at him, look at him and try to fucking breathe.

It's been years since he's let himself cry, but he thinks he might now.

He shakes himself into motion with a muffled curse, grabs for the loosest part of the rope that he can see and - and tries to cut through, he fucking tries, but there's more resistance than he expects, and it's then that he realizes the rope is glinting with silver - silver for monsters - and the anger that rises in his chest gives him the strength to slice through the metal strands.

Jaskier, to his credit, lays still as Geralt reaches, grabs, pulls, cuts - shows no sign of fear - and Geralt breathes in, forces himself to listen, feels dread settle in his stomach when he realizes the merman's pulse is weak, so weak... when he realizes his merman is dying.

"Stay awake," Geralt grits out, and he knows he sounds harsh, he sounds cruel, but - but he doesn't know how else to sound, not when he thinks he may have to scare death off his own goddamn self, just to keep his mermaid safe. "Stay awake, Jaskier..."

It becomes a fucking mantra, one he repeats over and over again as he cuts the net apart, as he slices through what feels like fucking miles of silver thread, careful - so careful - not to cut into lacerated skin or shaved-off scales. It feels like a fucking eternity before the last of the net falls away and Geralt can breathe again, can sheathe his dagger in a hurry and look Jaskier over.

His anger returns tenfold as he takes him in.

The merman is badly sunburnt, bright and horrific red, a salmon shade joined by deep silver and deeper gray where he's bleeding and has bled. A closer look tells Geralt that the silver has done a fine job of eating into his skin in some places. As for his tail, well... it's easy to tell that it'll be marred by quite a few new scars, and the fan at the end is bordering on ruined.

"I'm sorry," says Geralt at last.

He's met with silence, and fear clogs his throat as he looks up to Jaskier's face.

Jaskier is merely... he's just watching him, those deep blue eyes glazed and unfocused.

He looks half-dead already, and yet, despite that - despite the blood on his skin - he looks... trusting.

Geralt can't quite wrap his head around that.

"Stay awake," he says again, reaching beneath the merman - just like years before - and lifting him with arms that want to shake despite his best efforts to the contrary. "Let me get you to the water..."

Jaskier gives a quiet sound in reply, and he tips his head to the side, resting against Geralt entirely even though he whines with pain. "They told me a witcher was nearby," he says, hoarse. "I thought... I thought it was you."

Anger wells up yet again - anger, and hate, and malice, and... and remorse.

Guilt.

He heaves a sigh as he carries his merman to the water's edge, wading into the shallows. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm going to set you down for a minute so you can cool off... I have potions in my saddlebag."

The other man doesn't respond, and Geralt fights the fear clenched tight about his heart. He kneels down, easing Jaskier into the water, and he can't help but grimace at the pitiful little sound of pain the sting of salt earns. "I'm sorry," says the witcher again.

He's as gentle as he's ever been as he sets the merman down in the shallows, eyes on Jaskier's tail as it rests limply upon the shifting sands. Jaskier, of course, offers no resistance, merely tenses and huffs when Geralt slips his arms out from beneath him. He dips his head back to submerge his face, and Geralt watches the subtle gills along his throat flex as he readjusts. It brings relief, almost, knowing that maybe he'll survive.

Geralt kneels there in the sands for... gods, he isn't sure how many minutes pass before Jaskier finally stirs again, opening his eyes and blinking up at Geralt from where he's only barely floating above the seafloor. He's almost limp, laying on his side, less-lacerated shoulder supporting him, tail motionless and arms halfheartedly folded.

It... hurts to see.

"I'm going to go get the potions," Geralt says, voice a bit louder than normal; he knows Jaskier can hear him. "Focus on resting."

The merman, once again, doesn't react, and Geralt tries to ignore the stab of pain that goes through his gut. He stands with a sigh, returning to Roach, who has been observing everything in telling silence. She stands patiently as he rummages through her saddlebags; he keeps the potions safe for humans and other non-witcher beings here, not wanting to clog up his own belts and pockets with things he can't grab and down in a heartbeat.

He picks out a vial full of a deep green liquid, one that glistens in the sunlight as he walks back into the gently-rolling water. Jaskier twists over onto his front when Geralt nears, and it's obvious the motion causes him pain; his tail convulses briefly, and his face contorts, but he rests his elbows on the sand to lift his head from the water regardless. "Can you drink?" Geralt asks.

Jaskier merely nods, watching him with an unreadable expression in those glossed-over eyes as Geralt kneels at his side once more. Deciding that's answer enough when Jaskier could well die before the sun rises, Geralt uncorks the vial, setting a gentle hand beneath Jaskier's chin to steady him as he tips the potion to his lips.

His eyes rake over the merman's body once more as he drinks, taking in the way his throat works, the deep and angry burns across his skin, the lacerations here and there...

He won't survive, not like this.

Suddenly lost within that train of thought, Geralt goes still.

It isn't until Jaskier begins to cough and choke that he jolts himself back into the present, pulling the half-empty vial away from the merman's mouth and waiting until he's steadied out some before he says, "Jaskier, you... is there any safe spot nearby? Like the tide pool?"

Something like pain flashes through the merman's eyes, but it's not physical pain.

Geralt recognizes it all too well.

"I'm not going to leave you," he breaks in, before Jaskier can get a word out. "Not again. I need to get you somewhere safe so I can treat the wounds and so you can rest. That's all."

Jaskier hesitates, looks away; finally, he nods, saying quietly, "Further south along the shore, there should - there's a little lagoon..."

"How far away?"

"Around the next bend," he mumbles, and he sounds tired, so tired...

Geralt curses under his breath, saying as he reaches for him yet again, "Stay awake... just a little longer."

It's maybe a ten, fifteen minute ride along the shore and around the curve.

Geralt keeps Jaskier cradled in his arms, clucking to Roach and nudging her with his heels to keep her straight, but the mare knows what to do; she moves slowly, head steady and pace even, as if she knows just how important the extra weight on her back is.

The lagoon is small, barely any wider across than your average tavern, shut off from the ocean by bits of shore that stretched too far into the waters and refused to draw away. The inland forest has crept up close, heavy trees fading into palms near the water's edge, and it's...

Well, it's beautiful.

Even Geralt, halfway blinded by the panic that rises in his chest with the merman's every labored breath, has to admit it.

"We're here," he says aloud, soft, and Jaskier jumps, his eyes blinking open. "I'm going to set you in the water, okay?"

He isn't surprised when Jaskier doesn't react.

That doesn't make it any easier to bear.

Heaving a sigh, he adjusts his grip on the merman, swinging his leg over Roach's back and sliding to the ground in as smooth a movement as he can manage, bearing a couple hundred extra pounds in his arms.

Jaskier stays quiet as Geralt carries him to the lagoon, stays quiet as he's laid down in the clear and shallow water. He rests his body on the sands without being told, deep enough that he's submerged except for his head and shoulders when he props himself up once again. Geralt's hand brushes over one of the worst cuts when he draws back, and Jaskier winces, nearly whines -

"I'm sorry," Geralt says, low, and turns back to Roach. He comes back with another potion and a small vial of salve, one he's opening as he kneels at Jaskier's side. "I'll set up camp here, just inside the trees..."

"Don't stay for me," Jaskier interrupts, and it's the first thing he's said in quite a while, and it's so soft, so uncertain...

Geralt feels his heart break.

He shakes his head, dipping his hand into the salve and reaching beneath the water's surface to smooth it along Jaskier's sun-raw back. It's waterproof, or at least waterproof enough, so he has few qualms with this. "I'm staying," he says, just as soft. "I won't leave you again. I shouldn't have left to begin with."

The merman says nothing.

Geralt didn't expect him to.

It's difficult, those first few days.

Jaskier lacks the strength to move much on his own - to do anything beyond sinking below the surface and raising back up to drink whatever potion or plant concoction Geralt is offering.

Food, he says, nauseates him to even contemplate.

Geralt tries to hide how badly that thought scares him.

The fourth day, Jaskier begins to decline.

Despite Geralt's best efforts - despite countless fucking hours of sitting at the shore, of kneeling beside him in the water, of pouring every potion he thinks could possibly be safe down his throat - the merman is weak.

He is weak, and he is dying, and, well...

Geralt sees only one option.

It's a day's ride to the nearest town, but it's less than a half day to the mouth of the river the other witcher is said to be stationed alongside.

Leaving Jaskier with a quiet whisper of, "I swear to you, I'll return," and a kiss upon his forehead, he mounts up on Roach, and turns for the trees.

He prays to the whole fucking pantheon that things will be okay.

- - - - -

@xdandelionxbloomx @w-s-kibela @justjessiehere @wrenbug @golden-aire-girl @the-little-red-queen @littleredhotsridinghood @ladyaulis @flootzavut @g-e-r-a-s-k-i-e-r @insert-cleverurl @animaniac1017 @brothers-of-the-heart @jaskierisanangel @gray-coal @weakforjaskier @xpixelle @teddylacroix @flustratedcas @1stbonesfan

i hope i didn’t miss anyone! thank you all. third part on the horizon!

#blue waters verse #merman au #mermaid au #merman jaskier #mermaid jaskier #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #gerlion #holy shit i love you guys #thank you for your support #if i didn't get you on the list lmk

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litwitlady · 4 years

Text

What We Carry With Us

CW: Alex experiences a combat flashback in this fic. There’s mild depictions of blood and violence. Please read responsibly.

The snowstorm hits earlier than forecasted. Alex hadn’t expected to be locked away in Michael’s bunker while the snow accumulated up above. Hadn’t expected three feet of snow to fall so quickly with at least three more on the way. Hadn’t expected to be snowed in with no one but Michael Guerin for the foreseeable future.

Michael manages to shovel a path from the bunker to his airstream with his telekinesis. They hole up in the trailer for warmth, the generator prepared for a few lingering cold days. Alex doesn’t know what he and Michael are at the moment. Only knows they’ve been spending a lot of time together. Meals at the Crashdown, long discussions about Caulfield and family legacy down in the bunker, drinks at the Pony. Maybe it’s just friendship. Maybe it’s more. Maybe it’s both.

The point is – he doesn’t know. And there’s danger in not knowing.

Michael throws himself on his bed, kicking off his boots and propping himself up on his pillows. Arm thrown lazily behind his head. Alex watches out of the corner of his eye, still taken all these years later at the long, lean form he paints against crisp, clean sheets. It’s one of the main reasons his sheets never stay crisp or clean for very long.

Alex doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s standing awkwardly, shoulder sloping into Michael’s makeshift closet. The door nothing but prettied up plywood that scarcely holds his weight. He tries to act natural, but his brain keeps attacking him with explicit images of the last night he spent here. How he’d climbed behind Michael and fucked him so hard the thin bedframe started to splinter. And then waking up the next morning to Isobel and those goddamn bagels.

There’s a clock somewhere ticking, echoing loudly in the narrow trailer. Alex feels his eye start to twitch. Tries to think of something to say – anything to break this uncomfortable silence. He dares a glance at Michael. His eyes are closed, his breathing has deepened. Alex wonders at his ability to fall asleep in a moment this rife with tension. But then Michael’s hand pats the bed next to him. ‘You can sit down, Alex. I’m not going to bite unless you ask me to.’ He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, but his lips quirk up. Doesn’t need to see Alex to know the effect he has on him – will always have on him.

It's a risk. Getting that close. But then Michael looks at him, eyes filled with a naked need, and Alex is moving as quickly as he can to close the distance between them. Falling on the flat mattress at Michael’s feet. He hates himself just a little. For all the ways he never says ‘no’. For all the ways he always says ‘no’. And how quickly he manages the contradiction.

But he’s trying to change that.

Michael pushes himself up a little higher on his pillows. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ Lines are suddenly furrowed across his forehead. They put Alex on edge immediately.

‘Okay.’ Alex sounds hesitant, worried. And he is those things, but he’s also curious. He watches Michael bite at his bottom lip, running the question back and forth in his mind. Working out the kinks and formulating the perfect calculus.

‘You’re going to think this is weird. And it probably is. So, feel free to tell me to fuck off.’ He’s fiddling with the bottom button on his shirt, pushing and pulling through the wrong buttonhole. Alex can’t help but fixate on the small patches of skin he keeps exposing. He knows every inch of Michael’s body, can feel that precise stretch of skin yawn beneath his fingertips, and yet he’s still such a marvel.

Alex settles back against the headboard that doubles as a kitchen wall. ‘Whatever I’m imaging in my head right now is probably way worse.’ He shrugs and picks at his cuticles. Heartrate slightly elevated. He notices how close their knees are, wonders what would happen if his leg crossed that invisible barrier to rub against Michael’s. Would there be any room left in the airstream for questions? For any words at all?

The yellowed newspaper normally taped to the window has come loose and is flapping softly against the glass. Michael reaches up to flatten the corner back into place, but the act is futile. ‘What was it like over there? In the Middle East?’

Immediately, a distant desert landscape unfolds in Alex’s mind. He’s back in Iraq, at that tiny village market. A bright Friday morning. Sun so low he can feel his skin burn. The hustle and bustle of people kicking up the dirt and dust, his eyes watering. In the muddy road, there’s a boy kicking a soccer ball. A little girl cries in her mother’s arms. Several dogs sniff the food stalls. A group of men are having tea outside a small bakery. And then the world is upside down. The earth shakes with so much screaming. The spray of someone’s blood soaking through his fatigues. A sudden, searing heat and his skin on fire.

He comes to with Michael violently shaking him. Shouting his name in frantic whispers. But Alex can’t hear him. There are tears falling down his face, dotting his t-shirt with little minuscule constellations. His hands are shaking and his breathing ragged. Michael’s hands have moved from his shoulders into his hair, pulling their foreheads together. Alex concentrates on the jagged edges of Michael’s half-chewed fingernails scraping across the sensitive skin of his scalp. Syncs his breathing to that soothing back and forth scratch.

When sound returns, Michael is saying sorry on repeat. Alex takes several deep breaths and puts his hands on Michael’s chest, pushing gently. Wanting to calm him but also needing space. Alex reaches up and rips the flapping newspaper from the window, flattening his palm across the freezing glass. The cold grounding him in time and place. He continues to breath for several more minutes. Michael has gone silent.

Alex’s heartrate slowly returns to normal and he grabs Michael’s hand. ‘I’m okay. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting that. Just got caught off-guard. That hasn’t happened in months.’

‘No, Alex, I shouldn’t have asked. And with no warning. I’m so, so sorry.’ Michael’s hands reach out for Alex but stop short. The rules have changed, and he doesn’t want to make another mistake. Doesn’t want to end up hurting Alex more than he already has. He balls his hands into fists and drops them at his side. ‘Do you need anything? Some water?’

‘Water would be good.’ His throat is dry, and he knows Michael needs something to do. While Michael digs through his mini-fridge, Alex hugs his good knee to his chest and stares down at the indent in his jeans where his prosthesis ends. He tries to curl the toes on his right foot, but, of course, nothing happens. He hates how much his chest still aches at the disappointment. He’s never told anyone about that day. Decides to change that as Michael returns with bottled water.

‘Thanks.’ He uncaps the water and gulps down half the bottle in one go. He swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and tugs Michael back down onto the bed. They sit facing each other, legs touching at every point possible – Alex no longer needing or wanting the extra space. Just the opposite, actually. He places the water down behind his head and grabs for Michael’s hands. ‘I’m glad you asked – despite what just happened. I feel like if I was allowed to talk about it more, I might be able to heal better. But no one ever wants the truth about my service, about my leg. Everyone just wants a hero to martyr on main street. A celebration and a parade. A purple heart for the front-page picture. And in all that, I get lost.’

Michael pushes a stray lock of Alex’s hair behind his ear. ‘You’re never lost to me. I always see you. Maybe sometimes I just don’t know how to ask. I guess that’s pretty obvious by now.’

Alex smiles at him and puts his hands on Michael’s knees, using them to center his focus for what he’s about to say. ‘You know, war is often boring. You sit in makeshift buildings in crumbling old air bases or bake beneath the desert sun in stitched together tent cities. You talk about home and play cards. Go on routine missions that result in fucking nothing. Wake up, repeat. Wake up, repeat. And so much of that was not bad. So much of that was forging an odd sense of family. Which felt good.’

Outside the snow has briefly turned to ice. The wind has picked up and the trailer sways. The temperature has dropped despite the generator’s best work. Michael grabs a blanket from beneath them and spreads it across their laps. Searches underneath for Alex’s hands on his knees. Waits for him to continue.

Alex inhales deeply, squeezes Michael’s knees and keeps going. ‘There are maybe a handful of days when anything big happens on purpose. Missions you understand are likely to go south sooner rather than later. Moments when you stare at a living, breathing person. Finger on a trigger. And every time you squeeze that trigger, so much time spent trying to convince yourself you’ve saved American lives. But you haven’t. All you’ve done is commit murder. And all you are is a murderer.’

He feels Michael flinch at that word – ‘murderer’. But it’s the truth Alex has to live with for the rest of his life. And now, so does Michael. Michael, the not so secret alien. Alex, the not so secret murderer. One of those things decidedly worse than the other.

‘You’re not –,’

Michael tries, but Alex will not let him. ‘I am. And no one – especially not you – gets to pretend otherwise.’ Alex is staring him down. Eyes wide and as serious as he’s ever been. Holding his breath waiting for Michael’s acceptance. Otherwise, the conversation is over. And perhaps so much more.

There’s a showdown happening between them. He can feel Michael’s resistance. Is surprised when Michael slides impossibly closer, practically climbing into his lap. Large, familiar hands on his cheeks – his head held steady, golden-hazel eyes boring into his own. ‘You’ve killed people, Alex. I get that. I do. And I hate the fucking military, so I know there was no noble reason for what you did. That American patriotism is a scourge upon this planet. It preys upon the most vulnerable among us. Scared kids with nowhere else to go. I have understood that since the day you left for basic. Better than you, even. I have never and will never see you as a murderer. I have never and will never love you any less.’

They are both right and they are both wrong. And for the first time, that’s okay.

Michael places his hand on Alex’s right leg. At the exact spot where what remains of his leg gives way to his prosthesis. ‘You don’t have to tell me now. But I’d like to know what happened when you’re ready.’

Alex rubs the sore muscles in his thigh. ‘Suicide bomber. Well, three suicide bombers. We weren’t on mission. Just visiting a village market on a quiet Friday morning.’

Michael shoves Alex’s hands aside, replacing them with his own. Massaging the knots out with his talented fingers.

He sighs and continues. ‘I don’t remember much other than the putrid smell of burning flesh. May not have even been my own. Everything erupted into chaos. My ankle had been severed by a burning piece of twisted metal. They had to field amputate my foot. I woke up in Germany with a bad infection. More surgery, less leg. But I was lucky. We were a squadron of ten and then we were three.’

Neither says anything for a long time. What is there to say anyway?

Alex yawns. Michael can see the exhaustion settling in around his eyes. ‘You should sleep. It’s getting late.’ The sun long since disappeared beyond the horizon. ‘Take the bed. I’ll crash in my chair.’

But Alex won’t let him leave. ‘Help me with the prosthetic.’ Together they remove Alex’s pants and free his leg. Michael strips down to just his boxer briefs. Alex follows suit. They curl together underneath the wool blanket. Michael tucking Alex into the crook of his shoulder. Alex’s arm tossed across Michael’s stomach, fingers stroking at the soft skin along his ribcage.

‘Thank you for telling me.’ Michael whispers the words into Alex’s hair, following them with a kiss. Alex stretches his neck up and Michael bends down to kiss him on the mouth. Slow and easy.

There’s a clock somewhere ticking, rhythmic and lulling. And as the snow piles up outside, they fall into the best sleep of their lives.

#malex #malex fic #alex manes #michael guerin #i've wrestled with this for days #pretty sure i'll never be satisfied #content warnings above #angst and very serious topics

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theshipsfirstmate · 4 years

Text

Agents of SHIELD Fic: Come On, Sweet Catastrophe

post-7x09 dousy (sousy? daisysous?) angst and talking and a little bit of sweetness. Because Daisy’s got some stuff to work through.

Title from “Hurricane” by Something Corporate, because yes, I was an aughts emo kid and yes, “you don’t do it on purpose, but you make me shake” was a line written for Daisy Johnson.

Come On, Sweet Catastrophe (AO3 - wc: 2393)

She and Coulson sit there with Enoch for what feels like forever. Even after he’s gone, even after they’re out of danger, even after Mack sends the all clear over the comms, they just sit there in silence.

She had told him, however many loops ago, how sure she was that they’d figure it out. She should have known it would go like this. They’re not that lucky. There’s no victory without consequence these days, not when the stakes get higher every time she looks up.

Sousa is the first of the team to get to them, of course he is. She can’t even pretend that she’s confused about why anymore. She knows now, just like she knows how frightened he looks when he’s about to die.

“Daisy!”

He says her name when he sees her slumped on the floor, and looking up at him is enough to push forward the tears that have been threatening to fall.

She’s not sure who moves first, but she’s reaching for him as he’s crouching to help her to her feet and it feels more natural than it should when she turns and buries her face in the crook of his neck.

“You did it,” he whispers, and it’s not as comforting as she hoped it might be.

She nods against his shoulder, taking in a deep breath as a fresh wave of grief and worry threatens to take her knees out from under her. “But, Enoch...“

“I know.” Daisy loosens her grip to see May and Mack are already seeing to the body.

“Why did he-”

“It was the only way.” Coulson answers before she can finish the question — even though she’s not entirely sure it’s the one she was trying to ask.

Deke nods in agreement, swiping at his cheeks with a jacket sleeve. Simmons can’t meet her eyes.

Suddenly, inside her, the sadness begins to crystallize into something darker. Coulson was right, it’s a special kind of devastation to be the one carrying the memories of all the failed loops. It feels almost like her childhood, packing her lonely memories into those flimsy black trash bags when it came time to move on to the next home. She can blink and see Mack going blind, Simmons gasping for breath, Sousa falling to the ground right in front of her.

And they’ll all leave her again, Enoch had warned with his last breaths. A bitter, angry dread pushes its way up her throat, blurring her vision and crawling across her skin, and an old familiar instinct returns.

She pushes Sousa back a step and turns for the door, ignoring his confused look and the way he calls her first name again as she leaves without a word.

_______________

The thing about this ship, she’s learned over the years, is that there’s really nowhere to run away. She makes it to the loading bay before setting down in an exhausted huff, and when Sousa follows moments later, taking the seat next to her, it feels like deja vu. Daisy remembers the fire in his eyes when he talked about taking on HYDRA single-handedly if he had to, remembers how it had ignited something in her own chest.

She remembers how he had told her time wasn’t the only thing he’d lost in the fight so far. She remembers wanting to tell him that she knows that feeling too.

Now, he just sits in silence, waiting for her to make the first move. When she finally does speak, she wonders if she surprises them both.

“When all of this is over, if we survive,” she asks, even as the odds of that seem lower than ever after today, “would you want to go back?”

“What do you mean?”

“Back to 1955. Back to your life.”

“I-I couldn’t. I’m dead, remember?” There’s a crinkle in the corner of his eyes, but his gaze is serious and she can tell he’s trying to feign a playful response to put her at ease.

She’s had countless extra time to try and figure him out, but when, in the midst of all this chaos, did he learn to read her so well?

“You work for S.H.I.E.L.D.” She adds a sarcastic eye roll for good measure, and hates herself immediately for it. “I think they could figure out how to keep that secret. Or you could have a whole new life, travel the world, I don’t know.”

“Why are you asking me this?”

It’s a fair question, and one for which she has no good answer. Maybe she’s selfishly trying to get him to reveal even more of himself to her. Maybe she’s trying to push him away proactively, to blow this up before it can even really begin.

“Just wondering, if you could. You said it yourself, there were some goodbyes…”

“Daisy.” It’s sharp, but not angry. He knows what she’s up to, even if he has no idea why. Even if she’s not entirely sure herself.

She sighs, and looks down at where her fingernails are dug into her thighs.

“You don’t call me Agent Johnson.”

“No,” he answers, immediately back on an even keel. “I guess I don’t.”

“You call the others by their last names,” she ventures, forcing herself to meet his eyes again.

“Yeah, I do.” This time the crinkle is genuine, and her heart gives a warning thud in her chest.

She wants to tell him everything. How many times she woke to find him at her bedside. How he’d sacrificed himself without a second thought, trusting her completely. How he had answered so simply when she asked why he cared.

(“Because you don’t.” Not a moment’s hesitation, nothing ulterior about it. The same way he’s had her back since the first day they met.)

She wants to tell him that she’s ashamed for only working up the courage to kiss him after she knew what it felt like to lose him.

But she decides to tell him something else instead.

“HYDRA destroyed my family,” she says softly. Out of the corner of her eye she watches his right hand flex into a fist. “They tortured and killed my mother, and drove my father mad, and left me alone in this world.”

She takes a deep shuddering breath and purposely doesn’t meet his eyes. “S.H.I.E.L.D. gave me a purpose, and a home, and if it’s all falling apart, I don’t know what I...”

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know who I’m going to be. I don’t know how I’m going to survive.

The violent voice in her head is silenced, though, when Sousa reaches out gently to take her hand in his.

“Did you learn something, in one of the loops?” he asks. She has to stop herself from scoffing — if only he knew — but she doesn’t pull away. It feels like she’s mere moments from coming completely apart, and that’s the last thing they have time for right now.

“Enoch, as he died, he warned us that this would be our last mission together,” she tells him. “I can’t even imagine a world where that’s true.”

Sousa hesitates but only for a moment.

“Well, it’s not like we haven’t changed the future plenty already.” Of course he still has faith. Of course he’s still unflinchingly in her corner. It shouldn’t surprise her, of all people. She’s the one that watched him wake up in that uncomfortable chair time and time again, ready to give her any support she needed.

“But Daisy,” he continues, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit. For as much as S.H.I.E.L.D. made you, you made it what it is, too.”

His eyes are just as earnest as she expects them to be when she finally looks up. And it feels like her whole rib cage splinters when he gives her hand a little squeeze and continues.

“I know your type. You’re the kind of person who fights tooth and nail to hold onto the things she loves. If you have any say at all, you’re not going to lose this family.”

It’s impossibly unfair to hold against him things that he hasn’t even said in this timeline, but she can’t help it. It’s the only part of his whole lovely sentiment that she actually hears clearly. “I know your type.” It echoes in her eardrums, throbs at the base of her skull.

It was perhaps the kindest thing anyone’s ever said to her, his little lost speech about being there to pick her back up, and it makes her ache to think about how it didn’t really happen at all. Not for him, at least.

But he’s still sitting here, isn’t he? He chased her down to hold her hand and look at her with those earnest eyes. It’s a look that tells her he’d give that speech all over again if she asked him to.

She wonders what Peggy Carter felt when he looked at her like that.

“Did you love her?”

It is absolutely, categorically, not at all the question she planned on asking him. Probably ever. But it’s the one that comes out.

He blinks, and then shrugs, pulling his hand away, and she realizes: this is what it looks like when he’s shaken. If she could reach out and take it back, she would in a second.

“I, uh- I don’t know,” he admits. “I think so. We didn’t really get a chance to…”

Now he’s the one who won’t meet her eyes, and it’s agonizing. He rolls with the punches so well, but Daisy should have known that there would be a breaking point. He lost 30 years — his whole life — in a blink, and the fact that he doesn’t dwell on it publicly is no excuse for her carelessness.

He even told her, back in that speech she can’t forget, that things weigh heavier on him than he lets on — and she blew past any semblance of propriety and pressed a thumb into his metaphorical bruises.

But before she can tell him any of this as part of a much-deserved apology, he’s standing to leave, rubbing absently at the knee joint of his new bionic before he does.

“You really should rest some more after… all of that,” he says softly, casting a quick, inscrutable glance at her as he goes. “Just for a little. I’m here if you need me.”

He says that, but then he’s gone. Down the hall towards his makeshift bunk. She wants badly to follow him, can feel the selfish ache in her fortified bones. But she’s not sure she deserves that kind of validation.

_______________

In another life, another time, Daisy’s sure she would stay behind and wallow in the callous way she’d let her own emotions step her so clearly over the line. In this one, where she’s ever cognizant of just how precious each moment can be, she gives him five, maybe ten minutes.

Thankfully, his door is still open. He’s sat on his bunk, fiddling idly with his wristwatch, and when he looks up he doesn’t seem surprised to see her.

“I shouldn’t have-“

They say it at the same time. It tugs at the corner of her mouth, but there’s no way she’s letting him apologize to her, so she speaks first — telling him another thing that’s true, another thing that’s been weighing on her mind.

“I’m afraid that if I go to sleep, I’m going to wake up in the loop again.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just pats the bunk next to him, and she doesn’t hesitate.

“Was there anything good in any of them?” he asks as she sits down beside him. “Other than the last one where you, you know, saved all of our lives and the entire human race? Anything else worth remembering?”

She turns to watch him as he speaks. She’s closer here than she was in the bay, and she thinks she could lose a few good minutes remembering what the salt and pepper on his temple or the line of his jaw or the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt look like up close.

“Yeah.” Her voice comes out thick, and she has to clear her throat. “Yeah there were some moments.”

Sousa looks down at her as he waits for her to continue and the softness and trust in his gaze is another thing worth remembering.

“In one of them, I asked you why you care so much,” she tells him, readying herself for more honesty. “Why you’re always willing to help, no questions asked. Why you had my back right from the start.”

“And?”

Part of her had worried he was making some kind of comparison, Daisy realizes, but she knows now that it’s not about who she is to him, or who Peggy Carter was. It’s about the kind of man Daniel Sousa is, and seemingly always has been.

She leans back against the wall behind them and he follows. She tilts her head against his shoulder. Again, he follows, leaning softly against her.

“And you told me,” she answers, sure he already knows somehow.

“Good,” he says. Daisy can feel his mouth curve into a smile, and it feels almost more intimate than kissing him. “I’m glad I did.”

“Yeah?”

Her eyes feel heavy as the adrenaline from earlier finally starts to dissipate, and she wonders if she could actually fall asleep here, upright, but next to him. It’s the safest she’s felt in a long time.

“Yeah,” Daniel answers. “And there’s something else you should know, too.”

“What’s that?” Daisy feels his hand wrap around hers again as she drifts off.

“When all of this is over, the only place I want to be is where you are.”

#first mate fic #dousy #daisysous #daisy johnson #daniel sousa #agents of shield #agents of shield fic #sousy #daisy x sousa #daisy x daniel

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beinmybonnet · 4 years

Link

21st December 1907, Iquique, Chile

The church bell rings out in three joyful tones. With a sharp inhale, Joe sends a prayer skywards on the tails of doves.

Gunfire chases the echoes.

___

Joe is vaguely aware that Andy is dragging him backwards, snarling at his ear. His own fury is there, churning low in his stomach but for now a numbing shock has won out over his body. They’re killing them… he thinks as Andy shoves him sideways.

She punches the brick beside his head and her own embittered howl joins a building symphony of screaming. He pulls her bloodied hand to his chest and holds it firm, thumb rubbing at the stain. He swallows.

“We have to be ready,” he grinds out, their eyes meeting wide and furious. Andy nods, digging her thumbnail into the back of his hand and then pulls him further into the alley. “As soon as it stops.” He’s desperately trying to think practically now; they need a way in, a way out, god they might even need to dig in right here, and Nicolò-

“Now, move.” Andy’s rounding corners with clipped efficiency, and he remembers to pull the pistol at his belt. The noise is dying down now. “We can get back in through the playground,” she says in a tight voice over her shoulder. Joe flinches and quickens his pace.

The rear of the schoolhouse comes into view and Andy pauses at the low fence. There are yellow ribbons twisted up the slats of the gate. Every window is shattered, every shutter is swinging. Broken glass and shards of wooden frame litter the hard court and herb gardens. A group of women are hunched under a windowsill, hands over their shaking faces as they cower against the stone. Final bullets thud into the interior wall and Joe is moving, skirting the fence and pointing out towards treeline.

“Go. Into the trees, go now,” he tells the women, pointing east. One has a baby in her arms, nodding, sobbing as she stumbles backwards. Two are tugging on the sleeve of another, a gaping wound in her cheek. “You have to go, she’s gone – run.” he says, swiftly detangling their hands. A wailing child trips out of the doorway and is scooped up by the women as they stagger away. Andy moves into the space at his side, eyes fixed on the roof.

“Book was up top with the miners,” she says. While there is noise coming from within the school, there’s no movement from above. “Goddamn Silva, hijo de puta!”

“They can’t leave survivors, they’ll be sweeping the buildings – if it gets back to Santiago-”

“I know – we’ve got minutes. I’ll get Booker, meet you at the church. Fallback to Quipisca if it all goes to shit.” Joe’s nodding before she’s finished speaking, already inching towards the door. It’s been too long, where-

“Joe.”

“Church, shit, Quipisca – I heard you.”

Andy holds his gaze for a moment, then turns away towards the school. “Be fast.”

___

Joe finds him in the westernmost classroom, body curving up from the stone.

For every room searched in stoicism, blinkering himself against the mounting horrors – this one rushes up to greet him in obnoxious lividity. The little ones lie amongst their splintered desks like discarded dolls. Their limp bodies curled together in their fear. There is a small boy slumped against the wall at his feet, his white smock drizzled in ropes of crimson over a heaving chest. Joe allows himself one aching glance across the room at Nicky’s still form, and then crouches quickly before the child, cupping his shaking face in his hands.

“You’re alright, you’re alright – let me see,” he murmurs in Spanish, shifting himself to block the boy’s view of his classmates. He moves his fingers quickly over the small chest and torso, finding a shallow graze across his ribs and a deeper one along his collar. The boy’s red eyes are fixed on Joe’s own now, sobs seizing and catching within him. Joe unties his neck scarf quickly and fastens it tightly around the boy’s own throat, pressing firmly. “There now, looks much better on you.”

Little hands grip tightly at his wrists, trying to pull Joe closer. He’s about to lift the boy up into his arms when there’s a crunch of broken glass from the hallway, and a young woman drags herself through the door on her knees. Joe spins sideways, pistol raised - but she’s crying out desperately, hands tacky with blood and reaching for the child.

A choked cry for his mother the boy and is wriggling toward the door and then clasped in her arms. Joe exhales heavily, opens his mouth to tell her to go, to run-

-and there’s a shallow breath from behind him

He’s across the room and on his knees in the space between heartbeats. Nicky is facedown, arms curled in against himself but now breathing raggedly. Joe’s eyes roll up in fierce gratitude for those breaths and he quickly runs his hands over Nicky’s shoulders and down his spine, following the line of scarlet rosettes stained over his bowed back.

“Nicolò?”

Nicky presses his palm to the stone to raise himself up, struggling for purchase on the bloody floor. Too bloody. Joe’s hand clenches hard in the damp fabric at the small of Nicky’s back, fingers tightening in dread- that’s too much blood- he’s still bleeding-

But his eyes catch a neat plait trailing under Nicky’s arm. Joe’s breath stalls violently in his throat.

Lifting his head sharply now, Nicky scrambles for traction in the blood with his free hand, his right curled beneath the head of the girl within the cage of his arms. He lifts his body away from her, their clothes clinging and sticking together. His brows knit briefly, ducking his chin to peer at his own chest. Then raises his eyes to trace her form. “No, I…”

The holes piercing her pinafore are a perfect reflection of the exit wounds on Nicky’s own chest. Joe’s heart seizes painfully, and he slides his hand up to rest at the nape of Nicky's neck as he whispers his uncertainty once more. “But I-

“We have to go Nico,” Joe tells him quietly, hating- hating the world beyond the window with every fibre within him. Nicky nods absently but is still staring down at the little body cradled in his hands. He doesn’t move. “Come on, we-”

“I don’t understand.” Nicky's voice is quiet but clear. Eyes locked on unseeing eyes. Joe wants to yell, wants to hold him, wants to lead him out to the Plaza and unleash unholy hell at his side. But he touches the pads of his fingers to Nicky’s chin and tilts his face gently.

“I know.” He pauses, so Nicky can see the truth in his eyes. “But you have done all you can.” A harsh sound claws from Nicky’s throat and Joe winces, knowing. He opens his mouth to speak again, but there is a sharp call and response from the school’s forecourt and Nicky meets his eyes with a grimace. Joe cups his hands beneath slight shoulder blades, and together they lower her back to the floor. Nicky pulls her sodden plaits back to rest across her front, and Joe gently closes her wide eyes with a whispered prayer to carry her on. As they stand Nicky turns to survey the tragedy littered around him, and his expression starts to quake in a way Joe cannot bear for a second longer.

He knots their fingers together and pulls him from horror.

___

In the end, they don’t speak of her until they have crossed the Bolivian border and made a more private camp. At the church, they stood with Booker as he roared into the rafters, blood still dripping from his coat. They had moved quickly through Quipisca, following Andy through the protective grooves in the earth with what was left of the miners and their fractured families – seeing them safely into Noasa.

Nicky is sat at the ridge’s edge, feet hanging in the open air when he speaks the words once more.

“I don’t understand.”

Joe looks up at his side but does not speak. This this will have been taking form in Nicky’s mind since they left Iquique. He hasn’t pressed or pushed – knowing the words would come when Nicky was ready to speak them into the world. He's felt his turmoil in other ways of course, the bite of his nails into Joe’s wrist as they slept, the hard press of his boots into the ground as they hiked – as though he could stamp his rage back down into the earth that had birthed it. Finding words to compliment such depth of feeling has always been harder for Nicky, less instinctive. Thus all that fall from his lips do so with the deliberation and care - never wishing to be misunderstood. Joe swore to himself aeons ago that he would treasure them all.

“There are days, when I don’t understand,” Nicky corrects softly, lifting his left hand to drag his fingers down his own chest. “What is the purpose of my body if not to fall, so that others can stand? What is the purpose of this gift, when I cannot give it?” He pauses, taking a measured breath. “I had her, I shielded her, and it still was not enough. My body could not save her. My death was not enough.” Nicky sags back slightly now, jaw tightening in distress and Joe aches with him. “If death is not enough… I have nothing else to give.”

Joe takes a raw moment to absorb the words, to give them space to breathe – but his own are formed and sure.

“Our deaths can be a gift for this world, I agree. We can give, and give, and we can give again. But all we can do is give, Nicoló . We cannot control what is taken.” A charged pause chases the affirmation.

“So much was taken.” Nicky whispers into the sky.

“It was. What was her name?”

“Magdalena. Her name was Magdalena,” Nicky smiles around the sound. “I was trying to teach them the polka. She was the quickest.”

Joe grins now, his laugh a bark in the night. “I could hear them laughing from the Plaza, I wondered if you were trying to teach them arithmetic.” He takes a neat elbow to the ribs and uses the leverage to tug Nicky’s hands into his lap where he clutches them tightly, running fingertips over familiar knuckles. The view before them is effusively beautiful. The slighter hills roll together casting deep shadows into the valley’s clefts, and he can hear the rush of shallow rapids far below them. The red rock ridge they have settled on juts out into the clean air with pride, confident of its strength and place in the world. But the stars boast their beauty too stridently to be ignored. Joe cannot remember a night he could trace the constellations he learnt as a child so clearly.

Nicky dips his head to the cradle of Joe’s shoulder, tension starting to leach from his frame. But Joe will not allow them to rest this night until one issue is unwaveringly refuted.

“My love, being unable to prevent their deaths does not void the joy brought to their lives that morning. I would have you know that.” His words are steady. “Death is not your only gift, nor is it your purpose. You have so much more to give this world”

Nicky blinks slowly against the cotton of Joe’s shirt and presses his lips to his collar for a long moment. It’s acceptance, Joe knows. Grateful receipt of honest words.

“Do you feel it Yusuf? What is happening to this world?”

He does. Like a gnawing shadow on his heels. He struggles still to give it form. It’s like the world is racing against itself, ever hastening its pace. He can feel the panic of it - the pressure. It has always been this way, the bitter bite of competition having wounded lands of his heart long ago. A prize sought was a holy land, a shining and maddening city toyed over for generations. Deemed a worthy reward for the sacrifice of many lives.

Today it is 18 pence. A quick little girl, and her whole community lie cold in their grave this night for 18 pence. The exclusivity of their dirt such a point of pride for a country that its people ceased to have meaning. The behemoth of industrial greed blindly claiming them.

Joe’s words are heavy. “I feel it.”

“The world is changing. This is not the end, this growing carelessness for life.”

He picks a star, and pulls Nicky closer.

#okay i guess i'm writing again #immortal historical husbands #i tried to resist them and have admitted defeat #the old guard #usermarwan #whose set on joe's hands reminded me whilst writing to convey how tactile he is #the old guard fic #my fic #chasing the echoes #mine

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iron--spider · 4 years

Text

you save everybody, but who saves you?

It’s been.

It’s been—

It hasn’t been long enough, because Tony’s brain is still scrambled, and his body is still broken. The scarring still crawls across his right side in smoky tendrils, and he doesn’t like anyone touching it, not even Pepper when they’re alone, not even Helen when she’s checking him out, not even Peter when he’s holding his hand. They still don’t know if he’ll lose the arm, and they talk about that in hushed tones behind his back, like he can’t handle it, like they know he can’t handle it.

What can he fucking handle?

It’s been—two months. Two months, since Tony dropped to his knees and made a decision that he thought would result in his death. There were so many times in his life before that moment where he did the same—thought he was dying for something that was worth it, and he’d wanted it, he could deal with it, his own death. He’d been rolling towards death his whole life, with all his poor choices, and he was lucky to die for people he loved—

—but this time he didn’t want to go. He felt selfish. He was willing, he was...he was willing, because his love was bigger than it ever had been before, but that made it worse. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave them. He’d finally found what he wanted, what he needed. All the elements had finally come together like a completed puzzle.

He didn’t want to die, but he knew he was going to.

But he didn’t. And now he’s here and he’s someone else. He can barely fucking walk, he can barely fucking move, and Helen keeps using the word unprecedented. She’s got no idea how to track his progress. They don’t have any examples to follow. They don’t have shit. They’ve got his wasted, useless body, taking up space.

Tony doesn’t wanna be this guy. He doesn’t want to be this fucking guy.

“And this one is on a big billboard facing I4 in Orlando,” Pepper says, leaning her head on his good shoulder, laying on the bed beside him. She’s flipping through photos on her tablet, each one showing yet another Iron Man tribute. There are hundreds of them now, thousands in different places all over the world. He gets tons and tons of letters each day.

“So kids can pay their respects on the way to Disney World,” Tony says.

“Disney World is probably gonna do a meet and greet with Iron Man,” Pepper says. “You know. Costumed guy, like Chip and Dale.”

“Oh. Cute.” Tony sighs, and he reaches up, pinching the bridge of his nose. His arm shakes and he could barely get through his walking exercises earlier, and he just feels like crumbling into nothing.

He was supposed to die. He didn’t want to, but he was supposed to, and now he’s a shell of what he once was. He’s glad he’s here, he’s glad he’s with them, but he’s not the goddamn type to lay around and watch the world move on without him. He did that once and it was a mistake, a result of severe depression and a mark of his failure, and he doesn’t want to do it again. Morgan, for all her love and attachment to him, is best friends with every remaining Avenger, and Tony has never been so angry about a puzzle being completed without him than when he heard she and Sam finished off the Eiffel Tower one while he was taking one of his long naps.

And Peter. Peter is out there helping anybody and everybody, and coming back here bloody and beaten more often than not. Everything irritates Tony nowadays, from the way the water comes out of the faucet to the irregular beat of his heart, but that gets him most of all. And the kid refuses help, actively avoids Rhodey and everybody else who says they’ll help him, because he and Tony are cosmically linked in the way that they both have people who love them but they both go off on their own, like dumbasses, to keep everyone else safe. Seeing his own reflection in someone he values as much as Peter makes Tony feel insane, throws up walls and roadblocks and all kinds of confusing shit in his head, because he wants to be mad at him, wants to scream and throw tantrums and work in tandem with May to tell the kid never to leave the facility again, but he knows he’d do all the same things Peter is doing. Make all the same choices.

It’s his karmic justice, watching Peter step into the line of fire. That’s what Rhodey always says. But in the end, after everything, Peter is just better than Tony.

And Peter was dead. Peter was dust, Peter was a shining memory floating around Tony’s head every moment of every day, present in every fleck of sunlight, silent, silent, gone—and now he’s back and Tony is aching with the fear that he’ll die again. Die in a way that they can’t get him back, because Tony himself is torn, laid up, miles and miles from being worth anything to anyone.

“Where are you going?” Pepper asks, brushing Tony’s hair back now.

“What?” Tony asks, his neck hurting when he looks at her. “Did I move?”

“You’re far away in your eyes,” she says.

“Don’t go getting all metaphorical on me,” Tony says. “I never had the brain capacity for that shit, and now—”

“What are you thinking about?” Pepper asks, laying it out plain.

Tony sighs. He tries to shift on the bed a little bit without her help, but she offers it anyway, latching onto his arm. He grits his teeth and moves so he’s sitting up more, and his whole right side still feels like it’s on fire. Burning up, from the inside. His right arm isn’t worth shit anymore, he can’t put any weight on it without it threatening to collapse.

“Where are the kids?” he asks. He knows it’s late—well, late for him, considering he falls asleep at like eight now.

“Morgan’s watching TV with Cassie and Hope, but she’s got bedtime in like half an hour, and Peter...Peter…”

She looks like she’s trying to think on her feet for a lie, and Tony sighs, leaning back on the pillows.

“He’s gonna check in with me and Rhodey when he gets back,” Pepper says.

“Uh huh,” Tony says, trying not to imagine what the hell the kid is getting into now. The world is putting itself back together but it’s still a goddamn mess, and things aren’t like they were when Peter first disappeared. They never will be again. Is he even adapted to all that? Are these new, shithead villains allowing him to adapt? Tony knows the Raft lost a bunch in both snaps, in all the insane confusion. Where are they? Are they going after Peter?

He clears his throat. “Just remind Helen that I’m tired of being down here and I need to occupy the room you’re occupying before I have an entire fucking meltdown.” He knows he sounds petulant, but he doesn’t care. Pepper’s heard it plenty of times before.

She smiles, and leans in, kissing him on the cheek. “I’ll let her know.”

Tony doesn’t sleep, because he can’t, because too many things are plaguing him, most of all where Peter is and what he’s doing. Tony has a good view of the hallway through the windows to his room, and he stares and stares until his eyes cross, until he hallucinates, until he knows he’s going insane.

He sees Peter sneaking into the med bay at about four in the morning.

The kid’s mask is off and he’s got two short, harsh slashes across his cheek, and he’s bleeding from a slice across his neck. His suit is ripped in a few places and he’s holding onto his middle, and Tony can see his hands are shaking.

It’s like something splinters in Tony’s already broken brain, like his world narrows and there are hazy edges, both weakness and strength entwining in his veins when he sees Peter struggle up onto one of the beds in the main atrium, starting to tend his wounds without calling anybody to help.

Tony pulls his IV out with a wince, unhooks the heart monitor, and swings his legs over the side of the bed with every ounce of determination inside him. His cane is beside the door from where he left it earlier, and he’s counted the steps from his room to the main atrium a thousand times, and he can definitely make it.

He struggles over to the cane and grips it with his good hand like he wants it to break, and he doesn’t want to be an old man anymore. He called himself an old man years and years up until he actually became one, in a small, earth-shattering moment that changed him and everything else.

He hones in on Peter when he gets out into the hallway.

“What are you doing?” he calls.

Peter immediately looks up from his work on his side, and his brows furrow. He jumps off the bed with a little groan and rushes over to him. “Tony, what are you doing, you’re not supposed to be just wandering around—”

“It’s my facility,” Tony says, leaning into Peter when he comes over to support him. “I own it. I’ll wander. I can wander.”

Peter scoffs and moves him over to the closest chair, and Tony’s stupid cane clangs on the ground every time they take a step. Peter helps him sit and Tony can hear him wheezing.

“What happened to you?” Tony asks, leaning his cane against the wall. “What the hell are you doing out there, Pete? Shit, you keep coming back all fucked up and it’s...it’s making me nervous, kid. Recall, you were recently...very much not around—”

“I’m okay,” Peter says, patting Tony’s shoulder. He pulls up another chair and sits right next to him. “It’s just—a couple flesh wounds, you know? They’ll heal fast. I heal fast.”

“What about emotional scars?” Tony asks, raising his eyebrows, his heart still hammering from his brief stint on his feet. “Those stick, bud, and I know. I’ve got lots of ‘em. They’re littered all over me.”

Peter stares down at the ground for a second, bleeding. Tony sighs and reaches back up behind him, grabbing a box of Band-Aids from the shelf. It hurts to reach, it hurts to walk, it hurts to breathe, but it hurts worse to see the kid messed up like this. He takes one of the Band-Aids out and hands it over, replacing the box on a lower shelf. “Please put that on your face.”

Peter sighs and opens it up, looking at Tony as he sticks it there, trying to keep out the bubbles. Tony knows they have to clean it out, too, and the other one across Peter’s neck, let alone whatever’s going on with his ribcage.

Tony’s mind races.

“Why aren’t you giving yourself a break?” he asks. “Huh? Sam is laying around here like he’s on vacation. Clint’s whole family is staying in the west wing and nobody’s left for a week, we check on them to make sure they’re all still goddamn alive. Even Bruce is just sitting around playing video games with Thor, and me, I’m the biggest bag of bones there is, Pete, I’m just—”

“You’ve done enough,” Peter says, fast, and Tony sees that his eyes are red.

“You’ve done enough,” Tony repeats. “You’re busting your ass every night, doing God knows what, along with trying to adapt back into school—”

“You save everybody, but who saves you?” Peter asks, loud. His jaw is set, his brows furrowed. “You saved the whole entire world, no, universe, sorry, universe—you risked your life, you almost—you almost died, and most people are rightfully thankful and paying tribute but there are still assholes out there who want to—who want to try and hurt you, threaten you while you’re—while you’re recovering, and I found them and I—I’m just—I’m the one that saves you, okay? It’s me. I’m doing it, my job, you saved me, you’ve saved me—more than one time, multiple times, and I just—you’re—you’re too important to me to allow these guys to skulk around and make plans against you and I just—I gotta take care of it, my wounds heal and you’re safer and it’s...it’s fine.”

It’s quiet, after that. The kid’s rambling used to irritate him, in the beginning. Then he started to find himself endeared by it, and then he went looking for it, and then he missed it so desperately it was like he was missing a limb.

But this is like…this is…

He reaches out and takes Peter’s hands. He squeezes them, puts all of his might into his right. He doesn’t think about the scarring or being embarrassed about it, not right now. It doesn’t matter. “Peter.”

“Don’t tell me not to do it, because I’m—”

“I love you, kid,” Tony says, his voice breaking. “I love you. Okay? Just...it’s important to me that you know that. I don’t say it to a lot of people, but you’re—you—”

“I love you too,” Peter says. He squeezes Tony’s hands back, and looks miserable.

Tony wonders what the hell he’s found. He wonders if he’s even willing to share. He doesn’t think he has the strength to push him on it, not right now. “I know, after hearing all that, that there’s no way I can tell you to stop, like, not even if I special ordered those churros you like from Coney Island—”

“Nope, but it’s tempting,” Peter says, laughing a little bit.

“Just…please let Rhodey help you,” Tony says. “Please, Pete. Rhodey, Sam, Clint, Strange—please, please, Jesus, kid, let them help you. Let them help you with this, however the hell you’re going about it, let them help you with bank robberies and ATM holdups and stolen bikes and bodega brawls. Okay? Okay? You want me safe, I want you safe too, and that’s the way it’s gonna happen until I can suit back up and fly out there with you.”

Peter looks at him a particular way, when he says that. Like new hope dawns in his eyes. Tony hasn’t said anything about suiting up since—well, he hasn’t. Not at all. He hasn’t really considered it, since even the smallest things have felt insurmountable. But Peter, his loyalty, his love and dedication, shit, that’s...Tony doesn’t know how he’s earned that. If he’ll ever be truly deserving of it. But he wants to repay it.

“Please,” Tony says, squeezing the kid’s hands again. “I know I’m stubborn. I know May is stubborn. Don’t be stubborn like us. Not about this. Let us be stubborn, you be safe.”

Peter swallows hard and nods. “Okay,” he says, gently. “Fine. I’ll—I’ll give Rhodey the information and—have him go along with me, next time.”

“Good,” Tony says, relief in his shoulders.

“You gotta get back to bed,” Peter says, letting go of Tony’s hands and wincing to his feet. “For real. Pepper and Morgan would knock me into next Tuesday if they knew I was the reason you were running around.”

“Running around, please,” Tony says, watching him move over to the stock cabinet. “I’ll be doing marathons around this place if you don’t call Helen right this instant. Then she’ll have to deal with me on the ground and whatever the hell is going on with you.”

“I feel bad for her, dealing with us,” Peter says, looking over at him.

“Don’t worry,” Tony says. “I’m gonna give her as much money as she wants and a spa weekend, once her favorite spa reopens.”

“Good,” Peter says. “Okay, I’ll call her, lemme just—get some things ready for her, make it easy—”

The moment strikes Tony, suddenly. So unbearably real. Peter’s alive again. Alive. He’s really here, and he cares so goddamn much. “Pete,” Tony says.

“Yeah?” Peter asks, glancing over at him again.

Tony has been overwhelmed for two months now. Longer than that, if he thinks about it—five years, really, since Titan, since an empty grave and so much crying he nearly drowned in it—but the past two months he’s been a different person. But Peter still wants to protect that person. Peter still wants to stand by him, and for some reason, the others do too. Pepper, Morgan, Happy, Rhodey—his family, and the others, his team. Were they ever really a team before? Well, they are now. And the kid is the best of them.

If Peter thinks he’s worth protecting, worth saving, maybe that means all this turmoil is worth it. That all these little steps, despite how tedious and tiresome, might lead to him becoming...himself, again. And Peter is making sure there’s a place for him to come back to.

“Thank you,” Tony says, nodding to himself, a lump in his throat.

Peter smiles broadly, and holds his head high. “No. Thank you,” he says, right back.

#tony stark #peter parker #iron man #spider-man #iron dad #my fics #this one had a mind of its own lemme tell you

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sunflowersunshinevol6 · 4 years

Text

Crawl Before You Walk

Part 3

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Warnings: domestic violence, angst, child abuse, death

A/N: this is a hard chapter

Throughout the rest of the day Jake is the perfect gentleman. He walks me to my classes and waits for me after. He even carries my books for me.

“See,” Gemma points out approvingly. “That’s the type of relationship you need." I just grin, feeling like the happiest girl in the world.

“Can I give you a ride home?” he asks at the end of the day as I grab my book bag from my locker.

“Sure. If you want to.” I see Gemma meeting up with her brother down the hall and wave. Sbe waves back, but Harry averts his eyes. Whatever then.

We pull up outside my house and he parks. I sit there for a moment. I haven’t been home in a while and I’m not ready for what I’m about to walk into. Jake must have noticed the change in my demeanor because he places a hand on my shoulder.

“You okay?” I nod.

“Yeah….Thanks for the ride.” He leans over and pecks my lips. I reluctantly get out of the car and slowly make my way up to the old apartment we’ve lived in my whole life.

It’s a duplex, but the other half of the house has been vacant for years. No one can stand living next to my parents and people got tired of calling the cops all the time. I can’t blame them for that. I take the key I’ve placed beneath the mat and unlock the door. Anxiety floods me as I step through, the stench of neglect filling my nose. I see my father in the kitchen. He slams the refrigerator shut, cracking a beer. He’s dirty, unshaven and looks like he hasn’t changed his clothes in days. He sees me immediately and narrows his eyes. He stomps around the island in the center of our kitchen and barrels towards me. I back up.

“Where the hell have you been?” my dad corners me as soon as I close the door, specks of spit hitting my face as he towers over me. I look down and away from him, he hates it when I look him in the eye, I am not his equal.

“With the Styles family dad. I was staying with them,” he shoves past me, raising the bottle to his lips.

“What was that?” I hear my mother shriek.

“Your slut daughter was over at those boys’s house again.” I quickly walk to my room, trying to ignore my mother as she berates me and yells about how if I get knocked up she isn’t taking care of the baby. I lock the door and press my back to it. Sighing, I sink to my knees and wrap my arms around them.

“Who are you?” The officer asks Harry, I see him from the police cruiser I’m sitting in. My father’s already gone, my mother is on her way to the hospital and I am a ten year old sitting in a police car. I haven’t bathed in three days and my stomach is growling profusely.

“I’m Harry. Her friend. My mom sent me to get her.” he hands the officer a note, the officer reads it over before stepping out of the way.

“She’s over there.” I wipe my face, praying he doesn’t notice I’ve been crying. My father is scary and you never know what or when he’s going to go off

Y/N?” Harry is eleven. He reaches out and gently grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet. I follow him willingly and he helps steady me on the handlebars of his bike.

“You two be careful,” the officer calls after us as we ride off into the night.

I cover my ears as the screaming intensifies. I’m hyperventilating, I can’t breathe. I hear things being thrown, the sound of flesh meeting flesh and my mother’s screams. Tears fall from my cheeks as I listen to them fight. I can’t take the fighting anymore. I get up and put my coat on and grab my shoes, deciding to go out for a while.

“Damnit Angela!” I hear my dad shout, and then I jump, dropping my shoes to the floor as I hear the sound of a lone gun shot ring out. I’m frozen to the spot. There’s another shot. And then one more.

I hear my father moving around, I flinch as I hear the sound of him reloading the gun, an old one, that belonged to my grandpa. It was his most prized possession. My mind tells me to run, but fear grips me tightly as I hear the sound of his footsteps coming towards my room. My heart is pounding in my chest.

“Y/N!” he screams through the door. He kicks it in, wood splinters go everywhere. I still can’t move, my eyes wide and filled with tears. Remorse crosses his face, but only for a moment, before he’s seized again with his drunk demons. “I’m sorry.” he aims at me.

And fires.

“I wish I lived here.” I say to Gemma. We’re in her room playing with barbies. I am six, she is nine.

“You can if you want to. My mom and dad love you.” I smile at that thought. Living with her and her family, nobody screaming and fighting, always feeling safe and comfortable. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of life.

A knock on the door makes us both turn our heads. Gemma's mom stands in the doorway, she looks uneasy, as if she’s wrestling with herself about something. I smile at her. I hope she isn’t mad at me.

“Y/N...Honey. Your mom is here to get you.” the smile falls from my face. I don’t want to leave. But Ms. Styles walks over and gently takes my hand. I wish she was my mom. And leads me from Gemma's room.

“See you at school Y/N.”

“See you.”

I wake up on the floor. My whole body is aching. I grown, reaching for my stomach. I am mortified to find a hole there. “Jesus Christ.” I sob in pain as I try to sit up. I grab the edge of my bed and pull myself up into a sitting position. I take a deep breath and look up.

My father lies in my doorway. His chest isn’t moving. I don’t know where my mother is. But I know what happened. I want to cry. I should cry. But I don’t feel like it. I just stare at his body. It’s over. I think. It’s finally fucking over. Then something else occurs to me. I’m bleeding, badly. And my parents are dead.

I struggle to my feet, staggering against the wall, my shoes left behind, my coat half hanging off of my body. Fear fills me as I step around my father’s lifeless corpse and into the hallway. I see my mom, she looks like she’s passed out, slumped over in her chair. The kitchen and the living room are destroyed. Broken glass cuts my feet, but I have to keep going. I have to get out of here.

I make it to the front door and throw it open, not bothering to close it behind me. There’s nothing there anymore. No reason to shut it. No more fighting. No more screaming.

I walk, my feet are cold, blood dripping through my fingers, five blocks, towards the Styles household. I keep my eyes open and focused on what’s in front of me. I don’t want to think about what I’ve left behind. Not when I don’t even know how I feel about it yet. Regardless of how they treated me….They were my mom and dad….And I loved them. I really fucking did, as twisted as that sounds.

I struggle up the steps to their house. It’s getting harder to put one foot in front of the other, black spots dance in front of my eyes. I don’t have the energy to press the code. I knock. Softly. I lean my forehead against the door, letting the cold wood cool my head, and maybe help me get rid of this headache. I knock over and over and over again, hoping someone hears me.

Gemma's P.O.V

I stop, looking at the front door curiously. I wait and listen, then I hear it again. Knocking, soft and repetitive. I look at my watch. It’s late, one in the morning. Everyone is asleep, we have school in the morning. Cautiously I walk towards the door and flick the porch light on.

“Who is it?” I call out as quietly as I can. The knocking continues, uneasiness settles over me, but something tells me to open the door. That I need to open the door. Now.

Your P.O.V.

The porch light comes on. I hear Gemma call through the door, asking who it is. I don’t answer, I’m tired. I need to lie down. I slump to my knees, my head falling to my chest. I knock. One more time. Hoping she won’t turn me away, I can feel myself slipping back into unconsciousness.

Just let go. I can hear a voice say in my head. Just let go. The door swings open and I fall forward. Before the darkness overtakes me, I can hear Gemma scream.

“What do you want to be when you grow up Y/N?” Harry asks me. We’re at the lake. This is the first time I’ve ever gone fishing in my life. I’m not very good, but Harryis a good teacher. I am thirteen, he is fourteen.

“I know what I don’t want to be,” I say. I bring my pepsi to my lips and take a long sip. It’s very refreshing as it is nearly 100 degrees on this beautiful summer day. Harry waits patiently for me to continue. “Drunk and angry like my parents.” I look over at him with a sad smile. He nods in agreement.

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that.”

“Me too.”

“I wish there was something I could do.” He said this to me a lot. His sister did too. They hated it when my mother came to pick me up, nearly having to drag me out of their house every time. “I always feel so helpless,” his fishing rod jerks, he begins to reel it in. Our conversation is forgotten for a moment as he pulls up a catfish. “Look at this!” he shouts excitedly. I think it’s gross.

“Throw it back,” I say with recoil. He dangles the fish close to my face. I laugh. “Come on.” he pulls the fish off the hook.

“Sorry fishy.” he says before gently placing it back in the lake. I look away unsure if he had killed it while he was taking the hook out.

“Did it swim away?” I ask. He pauses for a moment before shrugging.

“Yeah. It got away.” He picks up the cooler that sat between us and his pepsi. “Let’s go home. I’m hungry and mom’s making Gemma's favorite tonight.”

Third Person P.O.V

Everyone is exhausted. Gemma'’s scream had everyone out of the beds and in the hall in seconds.

“Y/N!” Gemma cries out, falling to the floor beside a scarf pressed against Y/N's wound. The grey fabric darkens with blood.

“Harrt.” his eyes flicker to his mother, she has tears in her eyes. “Harry call the police now.” Harry nods, darting from the hallway and into the kitchen, confusion and guilt filling him as he dials the number.

“Hello? We need an ambulance….my friend’s been shot.” He quickly gives the operator the address and rushes back into the hall. His father is holding his mother, who’s sobbing, a look of absolute heartbreak on her face. Gemma's shaking Y/N, trying to wake her. Y/N’s lips are turning purple, the rise and fall of her chest is slowing. Harry bites his lip and punches the wall in anger, startling his mother and earning a glare from his father.

He walks down the hall and begins to pace, placing his hands behind his head, tears roll down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know what happened. All he knows is if he hadn’t lead her on and then rejected her, if he hadn’t given in to the secret thoughts he’d had about her, she would have been here. At his house sleeping. Not lying unconscious bleeding all over their hall floor.

Gemma rides in the ambulance with Y/N. Harry and his parents follow behind. Y/N is rushed into emergency surgery. No one suggests going home and coming back later. Y/N is like a daughter and a sister. They will stay with her. They will be there.

“How is she?” Anne asks the doctor. A police officer stands beside him. The doctor shakes his head.

“She lost a lot of blood….Would you be willing to donate? Are you type A?” Harry walks up, placing a hand on his mother's shoulder.

“I’m type A. I’ll do it.” The doctor nods appreciatively.

“I’ll tell the nurse and bring you in, in about five minutes.” he walks away. The police officer clears his throat, snagging Harry's and his mother’s attention.

“I’ve gone over your statements. You seem like good people. Taking this girl in….We went to her parents house as you suggested….” he hesitates, not wanting to tell them what happened. It’s one of the worst crimes he’s seen in years.

“What happened?” Harry jumps, he didn’t notice his father walking up behind him. Gemma is dozing in one of the chairs.

“It appears to be a murder suicide….Both parents are dead.” Anne gasps, covering her mouth with her hand, his father wraps an arm around her, holding her tightly. Harry feels sick to his stomach. “The place was completely destroyed….The girl...Y/N...He door was kicked in.”

“Oh my God.” his father says in disbelief. “That crazy bastard finally did it.”

The doctor finally returns, he motions for Harry to follow him. Harry sits down and rolls up his sleeve. His eyes are burning, he’s exhausted, but he’s going to do this. He’d do anything for Y/N. He loves her. Maybe he fucked up, maybe he encouraged her, but never in a million years had he come close to losing her. His best friend.

“Ready?” The nurse asks. Harry nods, closing his eyes as the needle pierces skin.

“You can get Hepatitis.” Gemma says rolling her eyes. Harry laughs, shaking his head.

“No you can’t. And besides, you’re my sister. We have the same blood.” Gemma points at Y/N, who stands there with her finger out, a bright drop of blood on the end.

“She doesn’t though.”

“That’s kinda the whole point Gem. We’re making her one of us.” Harry pokes his finger and hands the small tac to Gemma, who does the same.

“Okay. We’ll be blood brothers,” Harry says excitedly. The push their pointer fingers together, smearing each other’s finger with their blood. They’ll always be together now.

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #solo harry #hs fandom #hs imagine #hs fanfic #hs2 #hs1

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kelseaaa · 4 years

Text

Alone with the Sunrise

Part One: When It’s Over

Masterlist

Pairing: Lieutenant Oliver Cochrane x f!MC (Abigail Bellamy)

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: angst city b

Series Summary: What really happens when Abigail goes back through the time portal after their fight against the Admiral? And how will Oliver and the pirate crew handle it? This is a follow up series to my first Oliver fic: Together with the Sundown.

~~~~~

Tagging: @jaxsmutsuo, @krishu213, @greedy-choices, @imrookieramsey, @choicesficwriterscreations please let me know if you would like to be tagged or removed :)

~~~~~

Oliver had never known love. Not true, head over heels, make your heart stutter, love. He knew the love of his mother. He regretted not being able to tell her how much he loved her when she was here. He knew the love he held for his father, once. Though that love was long gone now. He had a love for the sea and her mystery. But none of that could compare to the love he held for Abigail Bellamy.

As they laid in his cabin, the gentle waves had already lulled her to sleep. He was sure she was exhausted, just like him. They had been through a hellish ordeal, fighting his father’s and Robert’s crew then his father himself on that strange island that came from the sea. But they had won. And now, after a night of love and passion, him and Abigail were finally together.

And she was beautiful. Her warm, bare body curled against his now-healed side. Her long hair fanning out over his shoulder and pillows. Eyes closed and lips parted slightly, her gentle breathing filling the space between them.

Oliver had never known love before. But right now, at that moment, he knew it well.

He tilted his head, letting his lips brush against her hair to leave a feather-light kiss. He inhaled, reveling in the sea salt and sun scent of her skin. Wrapping his arms tighter around her body, Oliver closed his eyes and settled further into the bed. His fingers trailed down her spine, across her waist and settled on her hip. With one final kiss to her parted lips, Oliver waited for sleep to consume him.

But before he released his mind to dream, he opened his mouth one more time to whisper in her ear.

“I love you, Abigail.”

Oliver knew that when he woke up, his new future - their future - awaited them. And with that knowledge, he could finally rest.

~~~~~

When daybreak hit, he was alone.

Oliver slowly opened his eyes, already sensing the lack of heat next to him. When his eyes were fully opened, he scanned the bed. Empty. Then scanned the room. Empty, as well. The only sign of their tryst from last night was the pile of his discarded clothes. Only his. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing she must have already left the room for the day.

Oliver stood from his bed and quickly got dressed. He walked out of his cabin, pulling his loose blonde hair back and out of his face, and made his way up to the helm to check in with his men. Both Officer Doyle and Officer Alvarez were standing there, deep in conversation. They quickly broke apart when Oliver cleared his throat and greeted them.

They spoke briefly, talking about the ship’s course and the next port they were headed to. Doyle filled them in on how the night went - uneventful. After a few more minutes of conversation, Oliver finally asked them if they had seen Abigail.

“No, sir,” Doyle replied quickly.

Alvarez shook his head. “Haven’t been up here long but I haven’t seen her yet. Might check the mess hall.”

Oliver nodded his head and bid his men a good day then made his way down to the mess hall. He pushed open the door and was greeted with a large, empty room. Save for the one man sitting in the galley.

“Mornin’, Henry,” Oliver greeted the old pirate who simply waved his hooked hand lazily in response. “Has Abigail been by here?”

Henry tilted his head, possibly in thought, then eventually shook it. “Haven’t seen her all mornin’.”

Oliver frowned but nodded his head in thanks. He turned around and headed back out of the mess hall onto the top deck. All around him the Poseidon’s Revenge’s crew worked the sails and rigging. Oliver still couldn’t believe that this was his life now. A Navy Lieutenant defying the law. But it was all worth it because Abigail was worth it.

His eyes scanned the many faces, looking for one in particular. He frowned when he didn’t find it.

Making his way across the deck, Oliver joined a group that consisted of Jonas, Kendrick and Charlie who were talking casually.

“Ollie!” Kendrick exclaimed, clapping his hand on the Lieutenant’s shoulder. Oliver didn’t flinch at the nickname this time, though he wasn’t exactly used to it. Maybe this crew of criminals were finally growing on him.

Oliver smiled and greeted the rest of the group. “How was everyone’s evening?”

Jonas grunted and Kendrick started to drone on about needing more rum. Charlie rolled her eyes at the two pirate men then smiled a dangerously coy smile to Oliver. “I should ask you the same question,” she said through a smirk.

Oliver felt the heat rush to his face but cleared his throat, brushing off the insinuating remark - no matter how true it may be.

“My evening was… pleasant,” he responded. He didn’t miss the slight eye roll Charlie shot him but chose to ignore it.

“I see,” Charlie replied. “So ‘pleasant’ that Abigail couldn’t even bother to get out of bed?”

Oliver opened his mouth to respond but shut it quickly. He furrowed his brows and for a moment, he thought maybe she was joking. But the look she gave him proved otherwise.

“Abigail was gone before I awoke,” he said quietly, nervous.

Charlie’s smile faltered as her eyes started to wander around the deck, just like Oliver’s had earlier. When she realized that Abigail was nowhere to be found, she turned to Kendrick and Jonas. “Have you seen her?” she asked them.

Jonas and Kendrick looked at each other before turning back and shaking their heads.

A pit was now forming in Oliver’s stomach. His palms grew damp and he had to remind himself to breathe. He turned in a circle, eyes scanning everyone on the deck again, hoping that he had been momentarily blind earlier.

He distantly heard Charlie calmly say his name before he turned back around to the pirate group. “Fan out!” he instructed, his mind switching into military mode. “Gather everyone that you can and search every deck. Every room.”

The three pirates didn’t argue, quickly breaking away to do as they were told. Oliver didn’t wait to see where they went. He broke out into a sprint, heading to the door that led inside to the cabin Abigail had been staying in. He quickly pushed the door open and his heart nearly shattered.

It was empty.

His eyes flicked between the desk, the bed and finally to the trunk at the foot of the bed. He opened it and had to hold in a cry. Inside the trunk were the two weapons that Abigail carried on her at all times, the detailed pistol and Robert’s sword. His fingers grazed the hilt of her blade, feeling it to make sure it was real. When he felt the cold of metal on his fingertips he nearly collapsed.

No no no no no.

Oliver ran out of the room, nearly colliding with Ginny as she bounded down the hall. Her face was one of determination and Oliver silently begged that her search would prove bountiful.

Oliver walked back out onto the deck, his steps sluggish with no direction. His thoughts were clouded with concern and confusion. He eventually made his way back into his cabin, searching the small space of any sign that she had been there. That he hasn’t made up everything.

When his search turned fruitless, he made his way out onto the small balcony. He knew it would be empty, and being right didn’t help the large pit in his stomach or the ache in his chest. He gripped the railing, fingers digging into the wood so hard that he silently hoped it would splinter beneath his hands.

He had believed Abigail when she told him about the time travel nonsense. As absurd and outlandish as it had sounded, somehow it had all made sense. When they had touched the amulet together in the cave - when he saw their future - he knew that there was nothing more he could ever want in this world. And when they closed the portal, he thought that maybe the fantasy they had envisioned would actually become reality.

But now...

Oliver dropped his head into his hands. “Please,” he whispered to the ocean, a hope and prayer that somehow she would hear him. “Abigail, please. Not like this. I… I can’t…”

He was silenced when he heard a knock at his cabin door. He quickly tried to regain his composure then went back inside to answer the door. Hoping that when he opened it, this nightmare would be over and he would be greeted with the woman he loved. But when he opened it, he was surprised to see Captain Edward on the other side.

His expression was forlorn and Oliver felt his heart plummet. Every fear was making its way to the surface and Oliver wanted desperately to be anywhere but there.

Edward frowned, his eyes looking down at the deck below him. Then finally - finally - he spoke.

“She’s gone, Lieutenant.”

~~~~~

#oliver cochrane #oliver x mc #lieutenant oliver #lieutenant oliver x mc #distant shores #fic #my writing #alone with the sunrise

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pandoraborn · 4 years

Text

DAY 13 BREATHE IN, BREATHE OUT. || oxygen mask. ||

------------------------------------------------------------------

So much for trying to print up ‘Missing’ posters for Erin. Between the printer jamming and the tea almost burning because of their worry, there are now four people in Henrik’s living room, most of them covered in blood. Jameson’s jumping to his feet, dropping his cup of lukewarm tea onto the carpet, spilling the liquid everywhere with his hands flailing, signing his confusion at a rapid pace. Henrik pauses briefly, wanting to demand answers, but the sight of Jackie unconscious and bleeding profusely has him already turning on his heel to storm off toward his lab. Priorities: Jackie first, everything else second.

It makes no difference if people show up by ambulance or portal, he’s going to ask no questions, he’s just going to bark orders for Amon to follow him down to the lab. Inside, he pulls a bed out and clears it for Amon to set Jackie down. Henrik gets to work, poking at Jackie and figuring out where all the injuries are. There’s hardly a spot on Jackie’s body that’s free of blood or any sort of marking, so Henrik mutters to himself in German as he rushes around, grabbing things he may need, or even may not need, but might find use in anyway.

As the sole medical staff present, he feels a burden he doesn’t like feeling, like Jackie’s fate is completely in his hands. It’s overwhelming, his mind racing with thoughts of trying to save Jackie and thoughts over Erin missing. Come to think of it, it hadn’t just been the kids going missing, Marvin and Jackie had turned up missing as well, and had been for a few days now. Henrik sucks in a few deep breaths as he tries to focus only on the task at hand.

One thing at a time.

He grabs his portable oxygen tank and drags it over. Placing the mask over Jackie’s face, Henrik makes sure it stays in place before rummaging through his cabinets for drugs, anesthetics, and anything else that’ll help numb the pain. He wishes he had better equipment to help stabilize Jackie’s breathing, because the flimsy mask is barely doing anything.

Don’t panic. Just focus.

His movements are methodical, calculated. He hasn’t realized he’s even stopped speaking completely as he drags the syringes and bottles back to Jackie’s side. Stitches. Surgery. Coma? Maybe. Probably needed.

Next is a blood bag. Jackie’s going to need a blood transfusion. He has the blood for it. Not a whole lot, but a couple of bags for Jackie’s blood type should be enough to help, until he can get more. The hero also needs stitches. Surgery might be needed, to reset and fix splintered bones. Henrik knows he has synthetic materials for that very purpose.

What he wants is a team.

No, no, no time. He grabs one syringe and fills it with an anesthetic. He’s going to have to put Jackie in a coma in order to do everything he wants to. He gets about halfway when Marvin jumps to his feet, cluing in on what Henrik’s doing.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Marvin protests. He gets up, as if to stop Henrik, but Chase throws an arm out to block him. “I can help-”

“Nein, Jackie needs medical attention. He’s suffered too much damage to his body. I need to put him in a coma, I need to perform surgery, I need to do so many things to heal him. Where were you?” His own voice is short, temper barely kept at bay. He’s not angry at Marvin, he’s angry at Jackie. He’s angry at himself. He’s angry at this entire situation in which he’s left out of the loop and has a child missing.

“I was with him!”

“No you weren’t,” Amon whispers. “You were outside your apartment.”

Marvin feels like his head is going to burst, along with his heart. Seeing his husband in critical condition, barely clinging to life already aches, but now that Amon is throwing digs at him, it’s even worse. Marvin is struggling to breathe as he tries to keep the tears at bay. “Jason...Jason he…”

“Enough. I do not need to know details,” Henrik snaps. “Jameson, please take all of them upstairs so I can tend to Jackie. I need to concentrate!” He leaves it unsaid that he’s not going to let them distract him; he refuses to lose Jackie right here when Jackie’s in his hands.

He washes his hands and puts gloves on, just as Jameson gently guides the other three out of the lab and back up the stairs. He watches them leave, before carefully injecting Jackie with the anesthesia, purposely giving him a higher dose than normal, to ensure he stays asleep for awhile. He knows Jackie can handle the dosage.

“I’m sorry for the coma, mein Freund. But I’d rather you not feel pain anymore.” He wipes his own eyes with his sleeve before grabbing all the tools needed to operate on Jackie to make sure he lives. On top of all this, he’s worried for Erin. All the kids have been missing for days, and Henrik and Jameson had no idea where everyone had gone off to. He feels like he missed something important, but hopefully Marvin can offer the missing pieces when Jackie’s stable.

Upstairs, it’s quiet. Marvin still feels like he’s going to burst, and no one’s looking at each other. Amon especially is avoiding his gaze, so Marvin just gets up and walks outside, a little relieved to see Jameson following him.

{I know you’re distressed over Jackie, Marvin. But we’re going to need answers.}

“I... Everything’s a mess, Jameson. The kids are still missing, Vin’s missing, Jackie’s dying, and I just. I feel alone and helpless. I don’t know who all is doing what anymore, and I can’t breathe.”

Jameson mulls those words over for a minute before shaking his head. {I’ll start off by reminding you you’re not alone. But I need more to go off of than that, please. Erin is my son too.}

Marvin sucks in a breath, dabbing at his eyes. He murmurs a quiet thank you when Jameson offers a handkerchief, and blows his nose into it. “Jason captured Jackie and me, held us captive. He spent the whole time torturing Jackie, and I managed to escape when Jason’s back was turned. I didn’t have enough time to grab Jackie too, and my hands were bound-”

{Yes, I can see the markings around your wrists, and I could see the condition Jackie was in. What about Erin? What about Nebula and Alphie?}

“We think Jason got them too. I don’t know. You can ask Amon too, he and Chase might know something.” Marvin winces when he realizes how bitter he sounds. Is he subconsciously mad at Amon for blaming him? Marvin doesn’t know anymore.

{Amon isn’t my concern right now, you are. You showed up covered in blood. It doesn’t matter if it’s Jackie’s blood, you’re clearly not handling things well right now. I’d like to help, and please don’t tell me I can’t.}

“No, you can help. I’m so used to-”

{You and Jackie being the protectors, I know. Henrik and I know how to fight as well. Maybe not as well as you, but we have our own ways of outsmarting an enemy. I would like to know who that enemy is. I’d like my son back.}

Marvin nods absently. “You’re right. You’re right, I’m so stupid.” He lets out a quiet sob, leaning against Jameson for comfort. Jameson wraps his arms around Marvin, giving him the comfort he clearly needs right now. They both remain silent as Marvin cries for a long while, letting most everything out. He’s not sure what scares him more: two people he loves losing faith in him, failing as a parent, or just feeling utterly helpless at this point. It’s too overwhelming.

{We’ll figure out everything together. We need to be a team now. Can you come back inside and tell us everything we need to know? I don’t want to lose more sleep over worry.}

Marvin nods and pulls away, dabbing at his eyes with a clean corner of the handkerchief. “Yeah, I’ll tell you everything I know.”

He falls quiet again as they head back inside, where he sits down again. The scene is much the same: with Amon and Chase sitting on the couch together. Chase is staring at the floor, playing with his hat, and Amon is purposely ignoring Marvin. Marvin sits down in a chair and slumps back, fighting the overwhelming urge to sleep. He hasn’t slept in days, he’s aware, but he knows if he tries now, he’ll fail.

{Start at the beginning, please.}

“Danielle has the kids somewhere,” Amon pipes up. He’s sitting up straighter, wings folded around his torso again. “At least, I think she does, or at the very least, played a role in taking them. One of her lackeys said as much when I was trying to escape out a collapsing building.

{Where was this building?}

“Middle of the city. She drugged me with something to make me vulnerable to smoke and debris, so I barely got out with my life. Jumped timelines to get Chase’s attention and help.”

{Ah, I was wondering.} Jameson manages a small smile. {It’s lovely to meet you, Chase. I do wish it was under better circumstances.}

“Likewise.” Chase returns the smile. “Amon took me back here and we ran into Marvin unconscious in front of his apartment. He had shackles around his wrists, so we took him inside. I had ‘ta saw them off.”

{Marvin, what happened when Jason had you?}

“He had Jackie and me locked up in some dungeon-esque room.” Marvin shrugs, letting his head fall back so he can stare at the ceiling. He doesn’t do that forever, because he’ll still need to communicate with Jameson, after all. “He shackled me to the wall and kept me silent with a gag so I couldn’t perform magic on him. He spent the entire time torturing Jackie by poisoning him, shocking him, kicking him around. At one point, he made a taunt about the kids, so I assumed he had something to do with it.”

{That’s two different people who have a role in where our children have gone. Something doesn’t seem right here. Would they be working together?}

“Doubtful,” Chase says. “I don’t know this Jason, but I know Danielle, and she’s really calculating. If she’s working with someone, it’s because she’s drugged them into complacency.”

“Jason doesn’t seem like the type to let someone get that close to him,” Marvin points out. “Chase, is there anyone else from your timeline that Danielle might know? Or anything that might connect her to Jason?”

Chase hesitates, setting his hat back on his head. “There…is someone else.”

Amon nods. “It’s Cian. I didn’t get a great look at him, I only saw him from a distance. But I saw Vin with him.”

{Pardon, but who is Cian? Isn’t Vin-}

“Vin is Marvin, yeah,” Chase says. “Cian is a fae, but not like your average one.”

“Let me explain this,” Amon says sharply. “Think of your worst encounter with someone. Imagine them to be a fairy. Now this particular fairy doesn’t just steal your name or is averse to iron, he’s deadly and dangerous. He doesn’t care about petty tricks, he actively seeks to cause chaos and strife. Hell, wouldn’t put it past him to be influencing us right now, especially if he’s in this timeline.”

Jameson’s expression turns into a worried one. {This can’t be good. Isn’t there a way to stop him?}

“The best we can hope for is to try to find where he’s got Vin.”

“What if Vin is working for him too?” Marvin asks. “He was corrupted awhile ago.”

“No,” Chase snaps. “Vin’s smarter than that. I know my best friend, I know he’s not about to fall for some stupid demon or otherworldly creature’s stupid magic twice. No, if he’s with Cian, it’s not by choice.”

“So. Then we need to find where Cian might be. If we find Vin, we could probably find the kids, too.”

“If a dark fae wants to have his way, there’s only one place he’d store a prize for all eternity, and it’s not a place I want to think about going to.” Amon wrinkles his nose. “It’s going to be deadly and we need a ritual to open the portal.”

“You don’t mean-” Marvin lurches forward, mouth agape.

Amon nods. “Better get some sleep, Marvin. Eat some god damned food because you’re going to send me to Tír na nÓg.”

---

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#whumptober2020 #no.13 #oxygen mask #jse community #septic egos #fic #ego shipping #long post #miishae writes

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