#where someone is recalling pleasant memories on their death bed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

undergrounddweller89 · 3 years

Text

Pen pals

Killian's in prison, one that belongs to the agency but it's more of a place to help people reform, but that's not the main part of the story , this is just Killian going though the moments he and Walter interacted , thinking about what he'd like to do with him and gets a surprise request later that day.

This is a one shot, so if you want to know what happens next well that's up to your imagination to decide <3

Killian likes to think of Walter...alot.

and I'm just hoping you enjoy this.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Everything followed order, up by seven, breakfast by eight, therapy by ten, lunch by one so on, so forth…

Killian was tired though, he was plagued by nightmares of the past, thankfully not every night, there was respite on the nights he dreamed of one Walter Beckett, his therapist had called these dreams and his emotions a form of rescue romance.

It was yes a reasonable conclusion but at the same time, he was willing to indulge his fantasies for the peace they brought him.

To have been faced with someone so kind, someone willing to save him, he found he could not turn away from the idea of that light after so many years in darkness.

He had to be strapped down when he slept, with the screaming and thrashing they’d said it was for his own good, after the first few times he’d hurt himself and other staff members.

Killian could tell, none of them wanted to admit it, he made them uneasy, he’d nearly destroyed their way of life, he would have succeeded if not for one man he’d greatly underestimated.

Kindness, a better way?

These ideals, ideas had once been a joke to him and yet they were exactly what brought him down and the reason he was alive.

Yes a better way.

Leaning on the cafeteria table, elbow on the surface, chin in palm as he played with the plastic fork, how easily he could crush it between his fingers, turn it into tooth picks between steel claw tips.

It was thanks to Walter Beckett he was here; thanks to him he still had his robotic arm with controlled strength so he couldn’t crush anyone’s skull with it…sadly.

They couldn’t exactly rip out his eye… but then again considering the history of the agency, Killian would not have put it past them, all they would have to do was put him under and have it removed and if they felt kind enough replace it with something plain.

Yes he’d heard about it, agents had even mocked him saying he had a fan in that little nerd, they called Beckett a weirdo for standing up for him, his devices had been disabled so they only functioned as eye and arm, again, that was because of Beckett.

A fascinating creature, unusual…what would it be like if he could sit down and talk with him, properly.

Man to man.

He took a bite of the mashed potatoes on his tray, lip curling, bland as anything.

Oh one more thing Walter had written and appealed to let him have his face mask, his argument had been closer to the truth than he cared to admit.

He did hate seeing it, that ugly reminder of what Lance had done to him, on bad days he couldn’t bare to look at it, the scars felt fresh as the memories would come crashing back…it wasn’t always like that but to have to see them constantly may have caused a genuine decline in his mentality.

Killian did miss having decent hair product and his own hair brush, of course, something he wasn’t allowed, you could easily shove the handle down someone’s throat, gouge an eye out, find a way to whittle the handle and make your own shiv.

You know just the small personal things.

Killian stared at the food; of course it was hard adjusting to what limitations he had but did the food have to be so plain.

Would it kill for a little seasoning, though Killian was sure if he filed a complaint it’d be put through the shredder, it wasn’t as if he was a favoured prisoner after all, his crimes he was sure made the guards act less than favourable, oh nothing that would get them in trouble, just looks, only going to points A and B, no conversation unless it was to get answers or be given orders.

He was grateful to be alive all the same, it meant he could still enjoy the ocean view, to see such vast waters that could lap gently one moment into great thundering storms...some people did not know just how privileged they were to see such things, he’d grown up in a land locked country with next to no time to travel, spending time with those he’d cared about and lost.

Poking at the tasteless food with a sigh, he thought of Beckett’s eyes, some type of god had poured the ocean into them...replaying visuals like a little black box, ones he could only see, he’d often look at Walter and how the light caught them, they were beautiful...his hair fire and copper, pale skin dusted lightly with freckles he wondered if they were also on his shoulders or the back of his neck, the idea of pressing his lips there tenderly was certainly a warming fantasy.

Killian smiled just a little, a fond one, you might just think he was planning revenge and enjoyed the thoughts, he knew others assumed all he was doing was cursing him, thinking up violent ways to tear him apart.

No, he was doing anything but that.

Killian’s days here had been spent reminiscing, going over each moment, ohhh having bionics that could record and store whatever he wanted was truly a wonderful thing.

Of course there was that first moment, where he’d stepped on him, being able to go back over the moments, he could think about how the dirt on his face made his eyes all the bluer, how brave he’d been, to face him, he’d only mildly fascinated him when he’d flipped him over onto his back with his foot, moving his shoe from his pretty face down to his chest.

A fleeting thought of what was someone like him do running around trying to stop him, he should be in someone’s bed surely...perhaps his had it been another time another place.

Walter had been surprisingly calm, but still trying to tell him there was a better way but the moment he’d heard Lance’s name, such pleas were falling on deaf ears, at that moment Killian would do anything, anything to hurt Sterling and a pair of pretty ocean eyes were not going to deter him from his mission.

So simple and yet genius to have escaped using a handful of breadcrumbs, the agency would have sooner murdered him, heh darling sweet Beckett perhaps a little too innocent for this world despite his age, no doubt reality had at least begun to set in even just a little ehhh probably.

Reaching for the salt and pepper in an attempt to bring some flavour to this god awful meal, brow furrowed in thought, recalling the battle, when he’d almost shot Walter when the M9 drones gun had been knocked from his hand, the laser fire just missing him and knocking down the wooden planks hiding his location at the time.

Until that point he’d believed he was dead...because he believed he had killed him in that moment when he’d sent the M9 drones to blow up his submarine, just to get back at Sterling ...well at least he’d tried to make that death quick, he could have taken him in and tortured Beckett right there in front of Lance.

There had been a moment of satisfaction in Lance’s pain, but it was fleeting, after he’d left Sterling to mourn he himself had needed some privacy a stiff drink...a moment to mourn the young life, the ocean had reclaimed that strange creature once more.

Killing was easy, but...that one, Beckett, hadn’t even screamed, kicked, cursed, scratched at him, didn’t even try to dig his fingers into flesh as he was pinned down, he continued to tell him there was a better way right up until the moment where he’d nearly mangled his face, anything he could do to hurt the agent who’d ruined him, he’d been willing to do.

Yes, when he’d seen Walter was alive there was a sense of relief and guilt lifted for that death...after Sterling through the effects of the truth serum exposed Walters plan, he’d briefly thought about incapacitating Walter, but no, he had a chance to let him live this time, instead he’d called a drone to run, Beckett was not a part of his vendetta, something about him was different than the others and despite his rage and pain when he looked at Walter he saw innocence, something similar to how he’d once been before Kyrgyzstan and the events that’d occurred there.

Killian felt a twist in his stomach at the thought of someone killing Walter, guilt at his own attempted, scrubbing a hand down his face; unable to eat he pushed his tray away.

Hearing the guard clear their throat and glance at the tray, Killian rolled his eyes, picking it up he disposed of its contents, he’d lost his appetite anyway and decided he’d feel more at peace in the recreational green house and headed off there.

They’d been given a choice of small jobs here and he’d chosen to work on the maintenance of plants, after all if he ever managed to leave this dammed place, a pleasant little flower store on the corner of Beckett’s Street might be a rather good way to live out his days even to just make sure he was safe.

But there was another reason he’d chosen the greenhouse besides that, entering through the steel and glass door, outside of the windows framed iron, with wooden paneling and seating beside them, you could see you were high up, oh but that view, the ocean vast and wide as if it never ended, all manner of colours during the summer days from blues to emeralds scattered in gold, grey and destructive during storms and rain would hit like mini stones over the glass...beautiful.

He touched over the soft velvet petals of white roses and irises, they were his favourites, stars in the night or perhaps as he looked them over, there was another reason he favoured the contrast, light and darkness could not truly co exist without the other, you could not appreciate much unless you had the opposite to see the difference.

Pulling on a glove for his human hand, he took up the pruning sheers on the table where the tools were set, if he so much as tried to leave the room with these an alarm would go off, they were all tagged and would cause problems for anyone trying to smuggle them out of their correct location.

Tending to the plants, making precise slow cuts, searching for any little weed, the soil was rich and soft, rolling small pieces between gloved finger tips, there was a peace to be found in tending to such beautiful fragile things...he’d tend to Walter if he could.

It had all meant to end in bloodshed.

He thought to himself.

Justice for what happened to the people who’d been innocent, the ones who’d sooner have died themselves than spilt a single drop of blood purposefully.

Killian honestly didn’t give a shit about any of the people he was surrounded by now, he had no ties no reason to, the spies the people of the agency, oh he still hated them, he would gladly see them die and-

He stilled a rose head falling against the dark earth...his bionic eye went from red to blue again, staring down at the flower, a wasted life that had done nothing but simply exist...

Placing the shears down, clearly it wasn’t a good idea for him to he holding sharp instruments right now, instead he picked up the white flower and cupped it in his palm, long metal fingers gently prying off each petal and placing them on the dirt one by one...looking up he knew exactly why white roses....

Beckett’s pale skin and the ocean waves that paled in comparison of his eyes...why did Walter of all beings bring him the same peace of a sunset shore highlighted in warm tones fading into the calming tones of dusty pink as the night sky began to settle in.

Hands empty now he stepped closer to the window, looking up out into the spread of clouds highlighted in the afternoon sun, only now beginning to show signs of the evening.

Killian had depended on that one moment when he’d brought Walter face to face to him, he could have head butted him, he knew exactly how to do that and carried him off, dropped him even, but that moment of fear that showed in his eyes, his first thought was perhaps he could reason with him.

“If you shut them down now you’ll kill us both.”

That look as Walter had turned his head to see just how high they were, he could have used the drone right there at his disposal to shoot him, destroy the device on his wrist, something anything, but the idea of seeing the light gone from those eyes, empty and cold...no he’d had to hope he could change his mind...but then again negotiations had never been his strong point.

“And you’re no killer.”

That was it.

That was all he could think off to say to him!

He could have said

‘I’ll stop the attack if you come with me, I’ll leave, drop this mission if you come with me! ‘

Instead he’d just assumed that Walter wouldn’t dare cause them both to die, with his talk of doing things differently...that moment when he’d said

“No I’m a hugger.”

It had baffled Killian entirely and then...that device separated them, Mcford had tried to reach out, he couldn’t believe it, despite their difference, his naive view on the world, Walter chose to save him.

Seeing him fall, time itself had slowed, he knew what was going to happen to Walter, his despairing gaze only turning when the drone had been deactivated and realized he too was heading back to earth.

Now the question was...would Walter have done the same...if he’d not had the inflatable hug? Indeed that was something to ponder on.

Something told him though his choice would have been the same...but at the price of both their lives, he could settle for losing his own but it grated him, the idea of such wonderful potential almost lost because of his own rage, the idea of Walter being...

Killian glanced over at the scattered white petals...yes just like that.

It was strange...

Killian sat on the window seat, the cushions were thin and in need of a change for new ones, however this was a prison not a five star resort, shoulder pressed to the glass and looking down where the docks were, empty at present, no new arrivals, visitors usually came by helicopter.

How peculiar that a man he barely knew had wormed his way under his skin, into his heart, was it infatuation?

Scratching at his cheek lightly, disrupting his hologram, metal softly grinding on metal.

The thought of Walter being dead, cold, buried in darkness unsettled him, something more like a glass coffin would be more suitable, he should be displayed like a pretty china doll, yes the idea of him being dead that alone could smother out the sun itself.

Killian would never forget that moment he was sitting inside that inflatable ball, defeated, arm inactive, at first stewing in his defeat, the fact that glitter and bubbles had practically put an end to his plans to get the justice he’d for the last ten years had been seeking, that irritating squeak as the waves caused it to gently bounce against the rocks, he remembered feeling exhausted, knowing it had all come to an end and not the one he’d wanted, how his victory had been stolen, he was supposed to die getting that revenge , end all that anger, to have his pain silenced.

Oh it still hurt to think back on the past but as he heard Eye’s voice, that amazement and awe.

“He saved him.”

It soothed something in him, his rage dissipating as he placed a hand on the interior of his plastic prison and asked, even though he knew it was impossible his first response, his first question had been a small yet hopeful thing

“Is he alive?”

Killian had expected the worst but to hear he’d survived, he didn’t care how, Walter was alive and that was all that mattered, his choked sob of relief had left the onlookers baffled but he didn’t care, their opinions didn’t matter to him just Walters.

In a world where violence was met with more violence, death, endless and continuous…his angel had taken the hands that had intended harm and smiled, offering his life for his, not literally of course but the metaphorical substance was there, Beckett could have saved himself and the agency, but those eyes looked up at him and without a word said

'You are worth saving.'

How could he ever thank Walter for that chance to live and start over, Killian didn’t think he could ever repay the mercy he’d been given.

No one had ever done something so selfless, at least not for him, the best he could do was to try to think more like him, even if to show he valued Walters ideals and respected him, he’d been reminded that violence was not the only solution, but learning to forgive, to try and move on was a start, it would be a long and arduous that much was clear, especially with Lance in the mix, that definitely soured things but maybe there was more to Kyrgyzstan, metal claws flexed instinctively, he’d locked in one thought , a play over again and again of what happened until he was no longer a man but a monster, now that life had been breathed into him…what did that make him now?

Sighing, Killian rested his forehead on the window, everything was so complicated now, if he could time jump, reverse it, he’d slip back into that moment when he and Walter where being carried away, he would make a bargain, a trade of shutting down all of the M9 assassins from their course, all but the one that held them above the surface of the world in their own private little paradise, all Walter would have to do was agree to come with him, be with him forever and ever, after all that wasn’t really so long at all was it, not if it was happy and full of wonder.

A small smirk formed on Killian’s lips, knowing already what the answer would be, after all Beckett was so eager to save people wasn’t he, but he, Killian would actually show his genuine appreciation for it, he wondered what his darling sparrow was up to now, had the agency thrown him in a corner, commemorated him for his astounding work, one could never be quite sure especially with how they continued to allow Lance to carry on after what happened in Kyrgyzstan.

Killian had, had his little daydreams though, like waking up and finding him sleeping on his chest as the morning sun caressed over them, exposing those subtle freckles that dusted over Walter’s cheeks highlighting auburn hair, which would be a mess after a night of love making, fingers stroking through it and down his spine, Killian couldn’t help but wonder if Walter’s skin was soft.

Thinking of his own scars, Tristian was also curious to know if Beckett had any of his own from science projects gone wrong, in places he’d never see but long to kiss if only to show him he found each and every part of his body beautiful.

He wanted to know how he looked when laughing, the sound of his laughter, to see how his look of want would be beneath or above him, back arching and flushed.

How sweet would he sound at tender kisses to his neck, being held and softly whimpering, maybe the fantasy was better than the reality, but with his current situation he would never have the chance to find out and well…it was highly unlikely that Walter would ever see him in such a way right?

Killain smiled at the thought of getting to talk to him in a situation as simple as having a coffee at some quiet little corner shop, asking about his day, even if there was no chance for romance…the man who’d helped Sterling still had to be interesting to say the least.

Someone who could hack into his bionic arm had to be highly intelligent, no one else had even thought of it…himself included, obviously or he would have put in more precautions to make sure that couldn’t happen, Killian knew he was lucky in that circumstance that Walter was kind that he believed in a better way or he could have very well turned his own robotic arm against himself, what an irony that would have been.

He flexed his metal claws, of course it had the right firewalls and software now after Walter put in the safety measures himself.

Looking up as the greenhouse door was opened, was it another inmate? As much as he wished the place was just his he was not the only one who enjoyed a little therapeutic time with the plants, it turned out to be a guard holding an envelope, looking less than pleased.

Sitting up Killian eyed the paper with suspicion, usually guards didn’t hand deliver letters unless it was from someone higher up, had something been overturned, given the death sentence behind Beckett’s back…no if that was the case no doubt the guard would be looking pleased with themselves, either way it’d been opened and the vetting team hadn’t even tried to hide it…maybe it was the guards and they had come to tell him something, after all who was even left to send him mail, who’d want to.

“Seems that weirdo, wants to write to you.”

The guard laughed extending their arm as they handed Killian the letter.

Frowning at them, he purposely took it with his claws, finding satisfaction at how they flinched when they snapped sharply together.

“I think you’ll find that weirdo has more intelligence in his little finger than you do your whole body…are you jealous that he’s not writing you, after all I hear you constantly bragging that you think if some nobody can become boss of his own division why can’t you, he’s not a no body unlike you he’s a genius you troglodyte.”

Smirking as their expression soured, the guards fingers flexed, they were someone who thought themselves above the rules but Killian unsettled them enough that they didn’t mess with him, it wasn’t worth the fear of looking over their shoulder and with Killian's model behavior since arrival they wouldn’t be able to say that it was in Mcford’s character, it would look alike they’d provoked him…of course there were also cameras in the corners of the green house to.

“Whatever.”

They grumbled and left.

Killian pulled off the gardening glove he’d been wearing and set it down before pulling the paper from the torn envelope , Walter’s stationary had pigeons on it at first he wondered if it was some in joke about their first meeting in Venice, though as he read through the five pages the young man had sent him he understood and somehow Beckett was now ten times more endearing to him, it was easy to imagine him being excitable as he told him about his day of course keeping out top secret information he wouldn’t be privy to but still.

The numerous facts on pigeons, talking about the little things that went on through the day, asking if he was alright, hoping he was being treated well, that one day he’d like to come visit him.

Beckett couldn’t be real, no one was this nice and genuine, he had to be in a hospital bed in Kyrgyzstan in a coma and dealing with death and Walter was just waiting for him in a heaven he was welcomed in, that had to be it.

The hand writing a mix between messy and curly, written in Walter’s own hand, it made it all the more personal than some printed out thing that was signed at the bottom, finger tips tracing over the paper, this was something Walter had touched, it was for him.

These words were written for him, even if the security had checked it over, it made it no less important or special to him.

He would of course have to write Beckett back, it would be a terrible thing to leave him hanging like that.

Reaching the final words on the last page he stilled and had to read it again…and then again…and again to process what he’d been asked by the younger man.

Pen Pals?

He wanted to be

Pen Pals?

Well now wasn’t that interesting.

‘Would you like to be Pen pals and see what the future can bring?

Sincerest wishes for your better future

Walter Beckett

P.s

I sent a picture of myself if you want to throw darts at it in case you hate me, but if not use it as a book mark or something.’

Killian looked at the picture he realized was still in the envelope which surprised him, his heart nearly exploded from how adorable he looked, smiling at the camera with a white and brown pigeon nesting in his hair, oh that must be the Lovey he’d mentioned in the letter, how cute, he smiled fondly, well he’d be doing more than just using it as a book mark, it’d help him get through lonely nights to, not that Walter needed to know that.

The gesture was wonderful, if he could hold him he would have, resting his back against the window he held the letter and picture to his chest, the giddiness that swelled inside him was like being in love for the first time all over again.

In a soft tone he whispered a thank you, eye closing as the other went dim.

Could they be pen pals?

Of course the answer was yes.

He’d love to.

#Walter x Killian #Killian x walter #lime #killian has suggestive thoughts #it's really just a long thought process #spies in disguise

62 notes · View notes

azucanela · 4 years

Text

HOME PT. 1 | ZUKO

HOME MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: In which Zuko has a chance to go home.

WORD COUNT: 2.9k

WARNINGS: blood, weapons, fights, death threats

A/N: we love zuko in this house, also send stuff into my ask box im bored and need ideas to write kashdkfkjasdhlf

When Zuko was banished, it seemed that Ozai was more upset that Y/N intended to go with him, than at the pain he had caused his son. She was a talented firebender, capable of defeating even Azula, his prodigal daughter, in an Agni Kai. Her tactics and strategies, despite her young age, proved effective time and time again. She had the makings of a great General for the Fire Nation Army, and Ozai saw it as a waste for her to search for someone who would likely never be found. Not when Y/N L/N had so much potential.

Y/N just saw it as proof that Ozai never truly cared for his son. His recognition of the impossible task he had bestowed upon his own child.

At the end of the day, her loyalty lied with the prince, so she set sail alongside him and his Uncle, in search of an avatar that had been gone for a century. They had known each other since they were children, when Ozai had taken interest in her natural talent for firebending. She had been raised alongside Zuko and Azula, training with them. But as most knew, Azula had an affinity for inflicting pain to those around her in her free time, so when the time came for a sparring match between Y/N and Azula, the results were deadly.

Ozai decided Y/N would stick around a little longer when she managed to beat Azula that day.

Zuko had never been competitive, not like Azula was. Though he’d asked her for tips on how to improve, and she’d graciously assisted him. And so, a friendship blossomed in the fire of their youth. She became his sparring partner, and as they grew older, his right hand.

She never regretted stepping onto the boat with Zuko the first day of his banishment. But she was beginning to regret ever speaking with him in the first place. He had no goal other than finding the Avatar, it was his sole purpose at this point, even after nearly three years of searching. But there were moments in which she found him rather… peaceful. He was almost the same boy who Y/N had played tag with as a child all those years ago. And in these moments, when she caught a glimpse of the real Zuko, she couldn’t help the warmth that blossomed in her chest each time they had an actual conversation.

One that wasn’t about his never ending quest to find the Avatar.

The conversations they had in the middle of the night, when sleep failed to reach them. The ones they never mentioned when the night was over. Because what happened in Zukos’ room at night, stayed there.

Y/N had only ever needed to knock once and Zuko was opening the door to his room on the ship. She gave him a tight lipped smile as she slipped inside, hoping no one noticed because they both knew what it would look like from an outside perspective. Not that she cared what others thought. What happened between her and Zuko was their business, though nothing ever really happened. He would try to make tea, they would dump the tea because of how bad it tasted, Y/N would remake the tea, and then they would talk.

Sometimes she wished it was more than that though.

It was a foolish dream to have, she recognized that as she took the teapot before he could even make an attempt to boil the water. “You couldn’t sleep either?” She asked as she began to heat the water with her firebending, holding the pot above her free hand.

Zuko scoffed, sitting back on the mat he referred to as a bed, “no, I just knew you’d be awake.”

Y/N frowned, “you should’ve gone to bed.” She places the tea leaves into the steaming pot, moving to sit with her legs crossed, across from him on the floor.

“And put the entire ship at risk?” Came his response, his brow raised.

Y/N laughed lightly, “what are you talking about?” Her head tilts as she looks at him in confusion, grabbing the two solitary teacups on his desk.

“Last time you were left unattended you nearly blew up our only means of transportation.” He deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes, looking to him as she spoke, “that was one time-”

Zuko was smiling now, “remember the time you nearly killed that man with a cabbage cart because he-”

“Okay! I get it, you can stop now.” Y/N exclaimed, cheeks warming as she recalled the event. She handed him his cup of tea, and for a moment she could even forget that the only reason that they were on the ship in the first place was to find the Avatar, for a moment she could forget that Zuko had changed

His hand grazed hers as he took the cup, mumbling a small, “thank you,” before he took a sip. Looking out the small window of the ship, he realized he would never forget his banishment. His home. He quickly brought his attention back to Y/N, only to realize she was already looking at him.

She brought herself closer to him on the floor, “what are you thinking about?” She recognized the look on his face, the nostalgia, the pain.

If he was honest, he was now thinking about the small amount of space between them since she’d moved to be seated beside him on the mat. Though he responded, “home.”

Y/N hummed in response, taking a sip of her tea, “you miss it?” She asked.

Zuko scoffed, “that’s a dumb question. Of course I miss it. Why wouldn’t I?” Y/N was tempted to tell him that he shouldn’t miss the home that cast him aside for thinking of the best interest of the people. The home that was ruled by the man who scarred him for life. The man he still seeked validation from.

Instead she shrugged, placing her tea onto the floor of his room, “well I don’t.”

His head snaps up, eyes meeting hers, he looks to her incredulously, “what do you mean you don’t? We’ve been away for so long!” He exclaims, his temper beginning to show. It was rare for him to explode at her like he tended to with other crew members, Iroh had pointed it out to him, and though Zuko shut him down quickly, nobody could deny the accuracy of the statement. But they had grown up there, together. All of his happy memories, all of his dreams, his past and hopefully his future, were all there. Had that all meant nothing to her?

“The Fire Nation was never my home, Prince Zuko.”

He almost flinches when she uses his title. And she quickly changes the subject, though she can feel it lingering in his mind as they have their tea.

She ended up falling asleep in his cabin after they talked for the rest of the night, awakening in the room she internally groaned, knowing what it would look like when she set foot outside of his room. Being on this ship for so long, she knew her fellow crewmates were looking for some gossip to spice up their lives a bit. Looking around, Y/N realized he wasn’t there. She brought a hand up to rub her temple she sighed when she sat up, deciding she’d go back to her room and get dressed before heading up to the deck.

They’d been coasting around Earth Kingdom waters that recently been put in Fire Nation control, and as she entered the deck of the ship, Y/N realized they had docked on one of the piers. The sea of people around the market made her wonder what the area could have to offer as she turned to look back on the deck, where Iroh had been seated with his Pai Sho board, along with several other crew members loitering in the area. “Good morning Iroh,” she said with a smile as she made her way towards him, “do you happen to know what we’ll be doing today?”

He smiled up at her, gesturing for her to take a seat as he responded, “well Prince Zuko was not very pleasant this morning, so perhaps something more violent.” He took the teapot on his side, “you should probably go look for him before my nephew does something unwise.” Iroh explained with a sigh, refilling his cup.

Y/N gave him a tight lipped smile, suddenly grateful she hadn’t gotten comfortable and taken a seat when he’d offered it, “of course. He likely intends to do something irrational and stupid.” She cracked her knuckles, aggressively securing her dagger at her side as annoyance bubbled up inside her, “I’ll see you later Iroh.”

She decided that if thugs hadn’t attacked him yet, she would, stepping off the ship and into the crowd. She slipped between the people with ease, making her way to some of the stands, shopkeepers yelling out deals as they tried to sell some of their products.

And then Y/N got distracted. It started out with a new dagger for her growing collection, then a new holster for said dagger which was now strapped to her leg along with the weapon. Would you look at that, with all this new stuff she was getting she’d definitely need a bag to carry it. Right? Right. Then it was some rare tea leaves for Iroh and new cookbook for the chef that lived on the ship, though it only served as a reminder that she was yet to eat.

Making her way towards the part of the market that specialized in foods, the aroma filled her nose. Holding the strap of the bag tighter as she maneuvered through the busy market as she’d spotted a stand with a variety of foods. Y/N inhaled deeply, taking in the sweet smell as she reached the stand before picking out what she wanted to purchase. In the corner of her eye she saw cabbages and couldn’t help the smile that found its way onto her face. Bringing out her small pouch of money, she went to hand the shopkeeper some coins, but the old woman shook her head.

“The young man over there paid for your things already Miss.” She explained, “scary guy. Just shoved this bag of money at me and told me to keep the change while you were on the other end of the stand shopping.” Though she ended up pointing in the direction of this elusive ‘young man,’ Y/N already knew who it was as she turned around and saw Zuko brooding against a wall in one of the emptier parts of the market.

She sighed, “thank you ma’am. Have a nice day.”

The old woman nodded, and Y/N put the foods into her bag as well, grateful for the variety of pockets within it as she made her way to where Zuko stood. “She had cabbages. I’m shocked you didn’t attack her.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, “where have you been all morning?” She pulled two of the bite-sized pastries she’d bought from the old woman, handing one to Zuko that he begrudgingly accepted as they began to walk down the empty street before taking a bite out of her pastry.

“Around.” Came Zuko’s response as he ate the small pastry. “I just wanted to browse the marketplace.” Y/N took another bite of her pastry as she listened, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

She scoffed, “Zuko, I swear.” They were entering a plaza, with a fountain in the center, “it’s my job to know where you are. I’m here to make sure you don’t die during your search for the Avatar, because I’m your right hand, remember?” She exclaimed, hoping he hadn’t noticed that she got side tracked in her search for him,

“You were my right hand. At home. Not that it was your home.” He corrected her pointedly. It was quickly becoming clear that her statement had bothered him, and he wasn’t going to let this go.

She looked at him incredulously, throwing what was left of her pastry at his chest, causing him to roll his eyes and throw what was left of his own at her face, though she dodged it. Y/N raised her brows, taken aback by this statement and action. He continued to walk as she stopped, dead in her tracks, “oh, is that what this is about? Because if you wanna talk about that we can-” A deep exhale escaped her, followed by silence.

Zuko’s brows furrowed, “what? Don’t wanna finish the sentence?” He asked as he turned around, only to find that she had a knife pressed to neck, and was surrounded by a group of men.

Of course it had been thugs.

One of them reached to the pouch on her side, yanking it from its place on her belt while the other looked up to Zuko, “you’re going to give us your money, or your little girlfriend is gonna die.” He threatened, pressing the knife harder onto her neck, drawing blood.

Inhaling sharply, Y/N managed to let a bitter laugh escape her despite the situation, “in case you didn’t notice, we had just been arguing. I doubt he has a problem with my death at this point.”

Zuko glared at her, “could you shut up for one minute?” He exclaimed.

“Oh, I think I’m about to be shut up permanently but okay Zuko.” She replied, a sarcastic smile on her face as he narrowed his eyes at her.

He quickly returned his attention to the thugs, who had exchanged looks due to the strangeness of the exchange they were witnessing. “Here’s what’s actually going to happen. You are going to let her go, and if you don’t, you’re going to die.”

The man with a knife against her throat laughed, “and how are you gonna manage that?” He asked, his four companions moving forward to form a circle around Zuko, weapons in hand. “We’ve got the upper hand.”

“Well, I’m not going to kill you. My little girlfriend will. And,” Zuko paused, eyeing the men surrounding him as he cracked his neck, “you don’t have the upper hand. Not while I have Y/N.”

The man was about to speak when a dagger suddenly pierced his leg, causing him to yelp in pain, dropping the knife he’d held into Y/N’s free hand. She threw the blade in Zuko’s direction and he caught it with ease as he dodged one of the men that lunged at him.

Y/N kicked her captor’s injured leg, causing him to fall to the ground and allowing her to slip her bag off of her shoulder, wrapping the strap around his neck as she rammed the hilt of the dagger onto his head, effectively knocking him unconscious. Turning around to assist Zuko, she had a deadly realization.

One of the men was missing.

Everything happened rather quickly after that, she extended her hand, preparing to begin firebending at the man that was attempting to sneak up behind Zuko, except no fire came out. Instead, a whip of water extended from the fountain, slamming him into a nearby building.

The other three men exchanged looks, stopping their movements momentarily, then taking a few steps back before breaking into a sprint in the opposite direction.

Y/N was still staring at her hand in shock, though her eyes soon rose to find Zuko staring at her as well, the look in his eyes unreadable. A shaky breath escaped her, “guess that conclude your search.” She swallowed nervously, squeezing her eyes shut as she continued, “you can go back home now.”

“We should get back to the ship.” Came his response. “You need medical attention.” Moving towards her, she took a step back.

“Zuko-”

“You aren’t the Avatar, Y/N.” He stated firmly.

“Really?” She exclaimed, disbelief clear in her voice, “because it sure does look like I am. No one else is capable of bending more than one element!” She pointed out.

Zuko shook his head, “the Avatar is an Airbender. You were born and raised in the Fire Nation.” He rationalized. “It’s not possible for you to be the Avatar, even if the Airbender is dead, the next Avatar would be from one of the Water Tribes.” Zuko opened his mouth to continue speaking but Y/N cut him off.

“Zuko.” Her voice came out as a whisper. “What are you doing?”

In that moment he is silent, and she wonders if he’s reconsidering his choice. In actuality, a million thoughts are running through his mind, maybe he could fake her death? Tell them that she died in this town, let her live out her life in peace while he continued a false search for the Avatar. Maybe this was a fluke, or there was a Waterbender hiding in the shadows that saved their lives. Or maybe he was in denial.

The only thing he was sure about was that Y/N wasn’t going back to the Fire Nation a prisoner.

“Protecting the only home I have left.”

Because sometimes home isn’t a place. It’s a person.

You can imagine their shock when they discovered the last Airbender.

a/n: are there two avatars? maybe. is the reader a dual bender? maybe. will we ever find out? idk

#zuko x reader #prince zuko x reader #zuko #zuko atla #avatar the last airbender #atla #lok #legend of korra #prince zuko #prince zuko atla #atla x reader #avatar the last airbender x reader #iroh makes an appearance #zuko atla x reader

960 notes · View notes

vanderlindemorgans · 3 years

Text

Cross My Heart (Chapter 5)

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+

Summary: A traitorous Agent Whiskey returns to the United States on the run. Being cast out by Statesman, he soon finds that you’re the only person he can turn to - the embittered former flame from years long passed

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: Eventual smut, some references to alcoholism and drug use. Reader is in her late twenties but there is an age gap between her and Whiskey. Chapter specific warnings: one scene takes place in a hospital, some medical talk, more heavy drinking, talk of death and alcoholism (specifically related to drunk driving), mentions of drug addiction, Whiskey being a dick, lotta heavy topics in general.

Read on AO3 | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

“Alright, so the X-Rays have come back and as you can probably already guess your left arm has been fractured”.

The news hadn’t been a shock to you at all - it was only logical that the result of being thrown off the back of a horse was your arm breaking from the impact of the fall, nevermind the sheer amount of pain that it had already caused you was even more indication that something was definitely wrong there. All things considered, it still wasn’t a pleasant piece of news to receive, causing you to let out a low groan as you settled back into the hospital gurney they had allocated to you after the ambulance had pulled you in. Dressed in only a hospital gown, you felt the chill from the room's air conditioning prick the edges of your skin, the coolness of temperature making the whole experience even more foreign to you. Of course, it wasn’t like you’d never been to a hospital before - an unlucky bout of croup had sent you to the emergency room as a little kid when you’d almost stopped breathing. At the resurgence of that particular memory you felt yourself shudder, recalling the hours spent passed out in a brightly lit room and being forced to drink gross tasting liquid that was meant to clear up your airways. At least you weren’t choking on your own breath this time round.

“Well that’s just fantastic. How long will it take to heal? I kinda got a ranch to run” you asked the doctor, who was standing off to the side consulting the clipboard nestled against his arm. Sighing, he looked up at you with a look of sympathy while he ran through the information he’d jotted down on his notes. “Usually it takes twelve weeks for fractures to heal - given the fact that a good part of your arm has been displaced you’ll need to be put into surgery to shift the bone back into place, which we’ll have scheduled for you in the next twenty-four hours. Afterwards, I’ll be putting you in a cast for a couple of weeks and you’ll have to come back in for checkups weekly. I’ll also give you a list of rehabilitation exercises you can do to ensure the recovery process goes as smoothly as possible” he explained. “After your surgery and subsequent discharge, I heavily recommend a few days bed rest due to the concussion you have sustained”.

“So I’m guessing most physical labour is out then” you muttered under your breath, sighing once you realized how heavily this would impact your ability to keep things running smoothly back at the ranch. Yes, you had employees but without you to oversee everything things would slow down and descend into madness real quickly. You wished you had allocated some sort of second in command for times like this, a manager of sorts to keep things in place while you recovered but you’d just never gotten around to it, brushing the thought aside every time it sprung up with a simple “Why would I need extra help anyway? Nothing ever happens around here”.

“You’d be correct on that. Now, I have some other patients to check on but I will be back in about 20 minutes or so to prep you for surgery, though I will send a nurse to give you some painkillers so you can stop feeling the worst of the pain for at least a little while” he replied. You went to thank him but before you could you felt a light touch graze along your right arm. Your eyes glanced over to where Jack’s hand was placed, his touch delicate and comforting, sparking that same feeling in your chest that you’d felt when he’d stroked your forehead back at the ranch. His eyes met your own for a moment, deep cedar brown looking at you with nothing more than concern and worry, somehow pulling at a single string of your heart even though you wanted to fight against it with all your might.

Snapping you focus back into place, you nodded back over to the doctor and thanked him for all he was doing, listening to his reassurances that he’d have you fixed up as soon as possible as he hurried on out of the room to his next patient in need. Once he was gone, you exhaled in annoyance and went back to staring aimlessly at the ceiling, mulling over the inconvenience of your predicament.

“Everything ok, sugar?” you heard Jack ask you, feeling his enchanting eyes study your expression, his anxiety over your wellbeing plain as day. Letting out a small laugh, you returned his question with a small smile of your own. “Does it look like I’m ok?” you joked, gesturing vaguely to your fractured arm.

He chuckled at your sarcasm, always enjoying that certain fire you had to your character that refused to silence itself. Unbeknownst to you, that was one of things that drew him towards you in the first place - his own air of cockiness and confidence was equally matched by your spitfire and sarcastic wit. Finding out the sweet disposition that lay behind that harshness the first time round had taken him by complete surprise, but only did more to endear himself to you. God, he was such a fool for losing that. He was certain that your sweetness was still there, closed behind even more layers of hurt and pain that he’d caused such a large hand in.

From the moment the ambulance had arrived, Jack had stayed beside you, refusing to leave for even a single moment. It was quite endearing, truth be told, a feeling that attempted to worm its way through your steadfast reasoning against him. He’s a liar. Don’t fall for his shit again, you repeated to yourself. Though it was becoming harder and harder to continue regarding him as your greatest mistake when he was behaving so kindly and gentlemanly towards you. Just a part of his deceptive charm, I guess, you thought bitterly.

“Y’know, you don’t have to worry about things gettin’ outta hand down at the ranch. I’m more than happy to step up and help” he spoke up, snapping your attention back to his words and out of your own contemplation. You thought about his proposal for a minute, the temptation to say yes seeming very appealing towards you, though somehow that felt like admitting to weakness. The ranch wasn’t his responsibility, it was yours, left to you by your dear parents. It was your obligation to run it in their stead - there’d been difficulties along the way, sure, including the occasional nasty cold every now and then but you had pulled through without any trouble. You didn’t need help or any sort of handout, and you were more than capable of taking care of business by yourself, even with a broken arm.

Then again, it is gonna be kinda hard to run a business while being confined to bed rest. Briefly you thought about just closing the ranch for a couple of days while you got back on track yet once you thought about the loss in profits you discarded that idea quickly. It wasn’t like you were struggling to make ends meet but a dip in profits could cause a bit of issue.

“Yeah but...It’s my responsibility. I can’t just ignore that because I got a stupid broken arm” you rebuffed, though you didn’t sound entirely convinced of what you were saying yourself. Sadly, stubbornness was your nature and even if you knew you were fighting a losing battle, sometimes it was more about the principle of having a position rather than whatever thing you were debating over. Some would say that was quite a counterproductive way to look at things, and you’d agree with them, yet you still remained stubborn in spite of them, feeding back into the cycle.

“Darlin’, with all due respect, I think what’s best for you is that you take a step back and let someone else take the reins. You need to allow yourself to rest a lil. Tell me, in all the years of runnin’ the ranch by yourself, have you ever once taken a day off?”.

“No, but-”.

“Exactly as I thought. You’ve been doing an amazing job at keeping things together for all these years, sweetheart, but you gotta relax a bit. Let me help you” he interrupted, gazing at you with those heart-meltingly sweet eyes of his, a look which made you seize up ever so slightly in minor fake annoyance. Little shit, he had to be doing that on purpose.

“Fine, only if it’ll get you to shut up” you relented, rolling your eyes in a dramatic fashion and hitting your head back down into the pillow below, eliciting a playful smirk from him in return. “That’s my girl, stubborn as always” he jested.

To that you cocked an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “Your girl? Careful there, Jack, for a minute I thought you were capable of genuine compassion and care. I may have once been your girl, cowboy, but not anymore. Or did you happen to forget?”.

His own expression softened slightly in regards to your snide remark, his mischievous grin faltering while he turned his gaze to the floor, looking somewhat sheepish towards what you had said, a far cry from his usual air of arrogance. “Yeah, I guess I deserve that” he murmured. “Tell me, sugar, do you ever think one day you’ll believe me when I say that I’m sorry?”.

“When pigs fly, dearest” you smiled with a shit-eating grin, though you couldn’t miss that momentary flash of hurt in his eyes that made you pull back, a sharp pang striking through your chest that hurt harder than the agonizing ache in your arm, which really, was saying something. Could that be...guilt, perhaps?, you thought, searching Jack’s face for any further sign of offense. If he was feeling hurt, he was doing a pretty stellar job at hiding it. Maybe it was nothing, and even if he was hurt, well, he said it himself, he deserved it. Without giving you another minute to ponder your own feelings, a welcome interruption in the arrival of a nurse found you, shifting your thoughts towards the relief of finally getting some painkillers into you.

___

The surgery had gone over well, and after a grueling day spent hanging out in that hospital room hopped up on painkillers you were finally discharged late afternoon the following day. The worst of your concussion had cleared itself up too yet you were still confined to your bed for those first few days - the doctor was insistent on that fact, saying you could never be too careful. You’d begrudgingly complied, not wanting to cause any further problems to your health, and even if you had tried to go against the doctor’s orders, you knew that Jack would be there to send you off back to bed if you dared lift a finger.

Jack had doted on you the entire time, making sure you were well hydrated and cool enough in the midst of the hot Texas summer, fetching you snacks and whatever else you needed from downstairs. In his own words, what kind of man would he be if he didn’t take care of an ailing woman. You’d rolled your eyes and insisted that he didn’t have to go all out with looking after you yet he’d insisted. It was somewhat heartwarming, and it felt nice to be taken care of again after those last few years alone. It reminded you of when you’d come down with the flu back in third grade, staying home in bed lazily watching television and barely being able to keep your eyes open while your mum made soup in the kitchen. You could feel your heart drop at the mere recollection of your parents, pain that stayed beneath the surface rising up in full force. Usually you pushed those feelings down, not wanting to become distracted from the business, but today, you allowed yourself the indulgence of missing them. What would they think if they could see you now? Would they be proud, or disappointed?

Feeling your stomach grumble, you shifted over in bed and reached your only good arm out to grab onto the half-eaten grilled cheese Jack had brought in for you five minutes before, letting out a low wince at the pain that writhed through your other arm, which had been placed into a cast and sling for the time being. Already you couldn’t wait for the day you could get the damned thing taken off - you hadn’t been able to shower and you felt grotty and gross. It wasn’t like you had to impress anyone, it was just you and Jack lying about the place. Still, you could only take so many days of waking up with unwashed greasy hair. And it was itchy too. Oh dear god, it was fucking itchy. You’d heard about how itchy the plaster could get second-hand but you never anticipated it to be that bad.

Directing your eyes to the clock on your bedside, you took notice of the time and let out a small relieved sigh. You could finally take another one of those painkillers, the fourth and dismally last one for you of the day.

Your relief quickly fizzled out into disappointment when you realised the packet of painkillers that had been sitting by your bedside was empty. “Seriously? It’s only been a few days, I couldn’t have gone through them already…” you muttered to yourself in annoyance. Nevermind, there was another packet downstairs. You may have been perfectly capable of getting out of bed and retrieving it yourself, though you found yourself not wanting to be bothered with such a task. “Hey Jack, you there? I ran out of painkillers, could ya run some up to me?” you called out.

“Sure thing, sweetheart” you heard him shout back, and no more than two minutes later he was striding through your bedroom door, carrying exactly what you had requested within his palms. “How are you feelin’?” he asked.

“No better than six minutes ago when you last asked me that. Thanks for bringing these up though, fuck that stupid horse for bucking me off” you grumbled, sniping the blessed white packet out of his hands and into your fingers. “Pain making you grumpy, sweet girl? You seem a bit more full of spitfire than usual today” he joked.

“Nah, you’re getting the discounted version today. If I wanted to vocalise exactly what I was feeling right now you’d be obliterated in a second” you laughed, chucking a tablet into your mouth and washing it down with a large gulp of water, anxious to feel some semblance of relief.

“You don’t say. How’s your head doing, though? No dizziness or anything like that?”.

“I’m fine, Jack, I promise. You don’t have to fawn all over me just because I broke my dumb arm” you assured, rolling your eyes at him.

“I wouldn’t call in fawning, I only want to make sure you're comfortable and all that. Not only because of your arm and all” he smiled gently, reaching out to brush a stray hair off your forehead. It could have been the heat of the room but you could have sworn your skin felt on fire the moment he touched you. You could feel him press the back of his fingers against your head, unconsciously allowing your breath to hitch at his touch. And just like that, the warmth of his hand was gone, leaving an invisible searing mark in its place and your own head full of frenzied and confused thoughts.

“Like I said earlier, just call out if you need anything else, alright darlin’?” he said as he was leaving, words that you didn’t care to take notice of as he left you to yourself again. Blinking slowly, you couldn’t even fully begin to describe what had just taken place, or why one little gesture was throwing your mind into somersaults. Why did his mere touch have to affect you like that? Why couldn’t he just leave you alone? Groaning loudly, you settled yourself underneath the sheet covering you and huffed at nobody in particular, cursing both yourself and him for even existing. For fucks sake...

___

Taking a sip of bourbon from your glass, you leaned against the side of the stairs of the veranda with your gaze fixated off into the distance, though you didn’t take any notice of what lay ahead, lost deep in your own thoughts that clouded your mind. It’d been a couple more days, and you’d finally been able to get out of bed and get back to helping out around the ranch - not that you were still of any use to anyone, given the state of your arm. It felt good to be back overseeing things, albeit a bit more behind the scenes than you had been in years. It’d be a good month or so before you were able to move your arm properly and have things back to normal. At first that fact did nothing short of irritating you, since you weren’t one to lie about helpless when work needed to be done. Over the last few days though, seeing the ranch go about with business as usual with Jack’s extra help had put you at ease a little. It still bothered you somewhat that you had to be asking any sort of help from Jack Daniels of all people, though really, he was the one offering it in the first place so you hadn’t so much as asked him to do anything, moreso conceding to his instistance at the behest of your stubbornness.

The pain was getting a little better too, though whether that had more to do with the painkillers or not remained to be seen. For example, you couldn’t feel anything now but you had just ingested two glasses of pure straight bourbon, so of course any type of pain would be numbed. Remember when it could numb more than just that? You let out a small snicker at the thought, sounding as hollow and empty as it felt. Once upon a time you might have been classed as relatively lightweight, a fact that changed after years of the trials and tribulations life had thrown your way. You still got drunk easy, but it took a good few glasses before you actually passed out.

“You know, you should let me sign that for ya”.

Hearing that familiar voice ring out from behind you, you swivel around so see its owner standing right in the opened doorway of your home, his hands casually resting in his pockets and his frame leant against the wall. “What are we, in middle school? I don’t want it getting dirty” you scoffed, rolling your eyes at him for good measure.

He smirked right back at you, letting out a small snicker that mirrored your own. “Why not? It’s not like you're gonna have to be wearin’ it forever. A little scribble in permanent marker wouldn’t do ya any harm” Jack grinned, taking a large step forward to descend down to your level, seating himself right next to you on the veranda. You cocked an eyebrow at him, letting your fingertips trail over the edge of the glass in your hands while you stared at him with utter audacity. “And yet I know you’re only so persistent in signing it because you’ll write something crude or vaguely flirty” you snipped.

“How little you think of me, sugar. I’d never dream of doin’ such a thing. I am nothing if not a gentleman”.

“Oh, do cut the charm, Jack. What is it you want?”.

“Please, can’t a man share a glass of bourbon with a lady without being subjected to the Spanish Inquisition?” he asked, wearing his devilish and frustratingly charming grin as he spoke, the appearance of which you swore made your cheeks flush a little bit hotter. Probably because of the alcohol...and it is hot out here after all...

“Not this lady, cowboy” you stated, gulping down the last dredges of bourbon in your glass and placing it back down to the floor with a thud. You went to go grab the bottle from beside you but found Jack had already snatched it up, pouring you another glass. Mumbling out a small thank you, you considered asking him if he wants a glass of his own, however once you caught sight of his silver Statesman issued flask in his hands you dismissed the idea entirely. With nothing else left to say, you glanced back up to the sky above towards where the moon was hanging over you two, the delicate light illuminating the stretches of countryside around your property in a soft glow, one that was both enchanting and eerie at the same time. Every now and then you would be reminded of how beautiful the Texan countryside could look, whether it be bathed in the rays of that damned blistering sun or the enigmatic glimmer of moonlight. It could pull you back to moments lost in time, years ago sitting right where you were in that very same spot, seven years younger and with the exact same man sitting beside you, head rested on his shoulder and looking out into the vast expanse of midnight black. Funny how things change, don’t they?

Out the corner of your eye you saw Jack shake his head, his eyes quiet, the sparkle of stark confidence bordering on plain arrogance missing. It was a similar look to the one he’d given you at the hospital that night, before he’d tried to cover it up with a certain facade of indifference. “What will it take for you to believe I’m sorry? What happened between us, it was all-” he started before being unceremoniously cut off by your interjection.

“In the past? I’m well aware of that. Doesn’t change how I feel” you stopped him. You’d anticipated him throwing out that line from day one and you’d come prepared. Shut it down. Don’t let him try to swindle you for a fool.

His expression changed to one more serious, a hint of him being slightly miffed that you cut him off in the first place. “Let me finish, darlin’. I’m gonna level with you for a second - what I did to you was one of the worst mistakes of my life. Letting everything fall apart like it did, I never should have let it happen” he expressed, his tone straddling between being firm and also being gentle. Cocking an eyebrow at him, you turned back to your glass of liquor, swirling the liquid around idly in a way that reminded you of that persistent thought running round your head. Did he have a point? Were you being too harsh on him?

Don’t become soft on him. Don’t do it. You shifted back into focus, pushing those thoughts far to the back of your tipsy mind while you took a couple large sips of liquor as if it were a lifeline. “Worse than whatever mistake led you to showing up on my doorstep?” you asked, eager to direct the conversation right back out of that uncomfortable territory and into something a bit more easier to stomach. Maybe later on you could ponder the true depths of your perceptions of Jack. Right now, though, you wanted to get wasted and not have to think about anything anymore. And hey, it’s not like I wasn’t wondering about the events that led him here in the first place anyway.“You never did tell me what happened. I know you said it was none of my concern but...I want to know. Call it a spate of drunken curiosity, if ya want”.

The question alone was enough to draw Jack’s face from being merely serious to an expression more cold and distant. He looked away from you entirely and rested his gaze to the few steps below the two of you, his hand clenching in a subconscious act that alone was enough to tell you his own reservations regarding the topic. “Truth is, I’ve been fucking things up for a good couple of years. What happened to lead me here, well, it ain’t a pretty story”.

“I don’t care, Jack, I wanna know” you asserted, surging with a sense of fiery confidence. It might have been the alcohol giving you a bit more moxie to push the topic. One thing was for sure though: you wanted answers, and you didn’t wanna let this go. Stretching your legs out, you finished off the glass you had while you waited for him to reply, not wanting to cave to your request even if he was looking at you like you’d threatened to kill the President.

Finally, he let out a low groan of annoyance and leant against the side of the veranda, not affording you a single look as he launched into his tale. “Basically what happened is some agents from an English based secret service came over to the states as a last resort - their base got blown up by someone and the two guys that approached us were the only ones left alive. Well, them and this other guy we had at our headquarters, but that’s a whole other story. The people behind the attack were a group called the Golden Circle, and Statesman had already been investigating them for awhile. I was called in by Champ to partner up with the Kingsman fellas, do the regular secret agent spiel of espionage and savin’ the world and all that crap. But, me and these other agents, we had an...ideological disagreement. I was covertly tryin’ to hinder them until the older guy got wise to my shit and shot me in the head. Ginger managed to bring me in and revive me, I went over to Cambodia where the two agents were confronting the leader of the Golden Circle, and to make a long story short things got nasty pretty quickly. I barely escaped with my life” he explained.

You nodded along to his explanation, the load of information being a lot to take in the first time round. You were always somewhat aware of Jack’s position as a secret agent though you were never privy to the nitty and gritty details - in fact, the way you’d found out about it in the first place was by complete accident and Jack had to beg Agent Champ to allow you to become cleared on even knowing the basics of his true work behind the front of being a Statesman investor. “And these ideological disagreements were…?” you pushed.

“Trust me, you don’t wanna know” he deflected.

“Try me”.

He didn’t reply to you straight away, instead staring at you with a stark look of confliction across his face, an inner turmoil brewing inside of him on whether or not he should tell you even more. Being cast out as a traitor, he didn’t have to worry about breaking any sort of rule of confidentiality, so if you had to wager a guess at what his dilemma was, then it must have been that he felt mildly ashamed, or even embarrassed about the whole situation. In your mind though, you’d let him keep his secrets for weeks now, but if he was going to stay in your house you wanted to at the bare minimum know what he did that was so bad that he simply couldn’t return back home anymore. “Well go on then, hit me with your best shot” you prodded further, hopefully enough to get his demeanour to crack and for him to spill what exactly the entire fuss had been about. And sure enough, crack he did.

Running a hand across his forehead, he let out a low exasperated sigh, one that would have been inaudible if you hadn’t been seated beside him, indicating the exact moment he finally decided to break his own silence and reveal everything to you. “The Golden Circle were primarily a drug cartel and terrorist organization based out in the hidden depths of the Cambodian jungle. Their leader had devised a plot that involved lacing their distribution of drugs with a new type of chemical she created that caused death. Since their supply was mass distributed over the globe, they were holding the entire populace of drug users and addicts hostage to their respective governments, demanding a payout for the antidote. They didn’t, however, anticipate the President and other world leaders not really giving a red hot shit about the lives of junkies. Being the noble men they are, the Kingsman agents as well as the rest of Statesman were striving to get ahold of the antidote to save all those people. And that, is where me and them disagreed” Jack elaborated, avoiding your gaze in what appeared to be a calculated move in order to refrain from seeing your reactions to his admittance. In the span of two minutes, your expression had shifted from intense curiosity to straight up bafflement at what he was saying. It didn’t make sense - why was he against distributing the antidote? He was a secret agent, wasn’t he meant to save the world and innocent lives and all that?

“Let me get this straight - you were assigned on a mission to try to save the lives of innocent people, and you chose...not to do that” you asked, your tone laced with judgment. Not that you had intended for what you said to have come across any different. If what he was implying was right, then that would mean...

“Well, when you put it like that, sure, it sounds awful. I will concede, it wasn’t my best move. But all the people who ingested those drugs did so willingly. They knew they were taking a gamble on their lives the moment they stuck a damn needle into their arms” Jack grumbled defensively, allowing you to gawk back at him in utter disbelief. “Jack, no, you can’t seriously believe that? So what you’re saying is that the kid that decided to get high with his mates one weekend at a party deserves to die? Is that right?”.

“No, no, I didn’t mean like that, I just…”.

“Really? ‘Cause it sounds a lot like you’re saying that innocent people should die for their poor choices” you cut in, shaking your head to further drive your point in. “Jesus, just when I thought you couldn’t be a bigger asshole you proved me wrong”.

“Sweetheart, please, I know. It was a mistake, you don’t have to keep rubbing it in”.

“You know it’s a mistake, but do you truly feel it? Do you really feel remorse? Because if you don’t then it’s just a bunch of empty words” you rebuffed, shooting him with a cold piercing glare that could make an entire continent freeze over. Around about this time, you really began to take notice of the dazed feeling clouding you, every glass of liquor draining straight into your brain and making you feel like your entire head was swimming. Maybe take it easy on the next glass, why don’t ya? With that thought, you shoved the glass off to the side with your free arm and bit your lip, debating whether or not you should even say what you wanted to next. That debate, however, did not last very long as you found yourself blurting out exactly what was on your mind within two seconds of your last thought. “Jack, look...maybe I’ll hate myself for saying this later, and maybe it’s just the liquor talking but I don’t think you’re an inherently bad person. I think you’re an arrogant son of a bitch who does cruel stupid things but probably has a decent enough heart. You just...you gotta stop with this shit. Stop with the betrayals, and the lies, and the false promises, all of it, and just be the real you. The Jack I knew may be a prick but he was never one to let an innocent die on his watch. What’s really behind all this?”.

He continued to glare from his position beside you, somewhat intent on making you recant and drop the whole subject entirely. You wouldn’t go down that easy though, and he knew it, for as stubborn as Jack was you were at least ten times moreso, so when he folded first and trained his eyes low to the ground, you knew that he’d finally conceded. You could feel a whole shift in his demeanour from where you sat, the mask of defensive anger slowly falling away to reveal what was truly underneath: hurt. Pure, raw, unbridled hurt. Anguish that felt especially familiar to you and spoke to a part of yourself that you’d been turning away from for years, and even before he said those words you knew exactly what he was going to say.

“Years ago, before I became an agent to Statesman, I was married to the young woman I’d fallen for in high school. I think I told you about her in passing maybe once, or twice, I don’t know…” Jack started, trailing off once he began to fully re-immerse himself in the past, heartache plainly sewn across his features. It was then that you felt an ache of your own in your chest, a heavy feeling of guilt descending upon you once you realised the gravity of what he was saying. “I remember. You said her name was Lily, wasn’t it?” you murmured, your voice small and unsure, with a hint of something else present too. Regret? Guilt? Whatever it was, you couldn’t quite put a name to it, but it was there, strong as anything and clearly wasn’t going away any time soon.

Jack let out a small hum in reply, everything about his composure presumably a million miles away from everything around the both of you.“So you do remember” he muttered, brushing his fingers over the edge of his silver flask that he had cradled in his handles, tracing the Statesman logo engraved on the side with the pad of his thumb. “I remember you askin’ me about her the first time you came back to my apartment in New York - you saw the photo of her I kept on my desk and asked who she was. I only told you briefly that she was long gone, but I never told you how. The both of us were only twenty-three, and she was pregnant with our first child, a baby boy. Last time I saw her she left the house to go to the convenience store a few streets over”. He stopped himself for a split second, the darkness of his eyes being the all-too recognisable sign of falling deep into his own recollection, feeling as if he was reliving every memory that he revisited in his mind. “Twenty minutes later I get a phone call from a cop, saying there’d been an incident. Meth addicts had robbed the store at gunpoint and she’d been caught in the crossfire. She died instantly, and I wasn’t there to say goodbye. I never got to meet our baby boy, I never got to hold her in my arms again and say how much I loved her, because she was taken from me by a couple of meth-addled scumbags”.

You were honestly at a loss for words, not knowing if saying something would be the appropriate option or not. He was right, you knew he was married before - the time with the picture that he mentioned was the most you had heard of her. He never brought Lily up again, and you never thought to ask, since in your mind it wasn’t any of your business who Jack loved before. Now, the pieces were falling into place, the interwoven connections of his past to his actions as an agent making all the more sense to you.

What you wanted to do most was lean forward and envelop him into your embrace, tell him that you understood more than anyone what exactly that felt like, and even permit yourself to pour out your own heart to him. Drunk as you were though, you couldn’t talk yourself into doing anything more than placing a reassuring hand on his knee, letting your touch be soft and hesitant in case he shrugged you off, since you did basically just goad him into revealing his own wounds in the name of having answers. “Jack, I...I had no idea, I-”.

“How could you have known? I never told you” he mumbled flatly. In the dim veranda light, all though it was faint, you could swear that there was a teardrop lingering in the corner of his cedar brown eyes, nudging the dagger of guilt further into your heart. Say something, you idiot.

Starting off softly, you let your hand rest firmer on his knee, trying to catch his eyes into your own. Tearing his glance away from the flask, he looked back at you with the same raw grief that you had seen on your own face so many times. “I know it must have hurt like hell losing her. And you have every right to feel angry, and hurt that she was taken, but that doesn’t give you the right to hate. Every addict in the world is not the same man who took her life. You can’t just-” you started, before the sound of Jack’s harshest tone cut through your words like a knife.

“How would you know? Do you have any idea what it feels like to hurt, to have lost everything because of someone else’s choices?” he spat, anger seething in his scowl that was directed solely at you. It had taken you by surprise at first - as a reflex you withdrew your hand quickly from him as if he were burnt, perplexed at his sudden outburst. That didn’t last long however, as soon enough confusion was replaced by your own flair of anger. Now it was your turn to get defensive.“I think I do know what it’s like to hurt and to lose. In case you’ve forgotten, dickhead, there’s two people who should be right inside this house that aren’t anymore and haven’t been for about six fucking years now!” you yelled back.

Shit. He’d forgotten about your parents. The anger that had been in him disappeared without a trace right then, being replaced by something close to resembling remorse over his behaviour. “I...I didn’t mean...fuck, sugar, I…I’m sorry. I don’t even know what to say” he apologised. You didn’t say anything back to him. You didn’t want to dignify him with any sort of a response. First of all, how dare he? You were only trying to empathise with him, and here he was biting your head off for daring to suggest that he doesn't hate every drug user on the planet. Why do I even fucking bother?

The awkward silence between you hung for awhile, the two of you not wanting to break it for your own different reasons. You could feel Jack stealing glances at you, like he was trying to talk himself into saying something but never had the courage to follow through. Huffing to yourself, you took in your next glass fast enough to make your head spin. You’d have to turn in for the night eventually, and truth be told you were considering doing so right then when you heard Jack speak up.

“I never did ask...if you don’t mind me askin’ that is...what happened to your folks anyway?” he asked hesitantly, as if he knew the question was fat-witted to begin with. Not that you minded too much by then. Drunk you was a lot more forgiving than you were sober.

Taking in a heavy breath, you relayed your tale of woe to him, one hand placed steady to your side to keep you sitting upright. “It was late, and they were coming back from a friend’s 50th birthday party. Their friend lived in downtown Dallas, so they had a fair way to go to get from there to here. When they were almost on the highway, an out-of-control car barrelled towards them, smashing into the front of their windscreen and killing both of them instantly. The driver of the other car had been drinking - according to the local news he was a known alcoholic and had been out having a heated argument with his friend in the passenger seat. The only survivor of the entire collision had been his friend”.

You saw Jack blink at you in silent shock, the weight of your words falling heavily on him while he continued to process it all. “Shit, darling, I feel like an even bigger piece of shit than I already did. If you slapped me clean across the face and kicked me out on my ass after this I wouldn’t blame ya one bit” he replied to you solemnly in a way that didn’t leave you questioning the authenticity of his words - he was genuinely sorry this time round. Taking his apology in stride, you shrugged back at him and acted as nonchalant about the whole thing as possible, not wanting to ponder the topic further. As far as you were concerned, you’d felt enough things for one day and would very much like a break from it all.

“It’s fine. You had no way of knowing. But please, if you take anything from this, at least listen to my words: externalising hate towards random people only feeds your trauma. It doesn’t resolve anything, and the only person left suffering in the end is yourself”.

He furrowed his brow at you, most likely feeling a little defensive that the topic had circled back around to here, but considering his unruly display of anger earlier he wasn’t one to indulge in his own instinctual need to defend his position. “But...didn’t you want the man who took your parents away to suffer? Didn’t you look at every other drunk driving incident in the papers with a little more anger and rage than before?” he asked, earning a single eyebrow raise from you in return. “I mean...I guess what I’m trying to say is...it’s so easy to hate...why didn’t you fall into that trap?”.

“Well, I did, for a little. It was almost tempting to look at every person I saw struggling with alcoholism in red. Since the man who caused the collision was already dead as a result of his own mistakes, at times I’d externalise part of that pain I was feeling onto others, and sometimes that anger became so hot and so burning that it was almost impossible to ignore. I realised pretty quickly that hating alcoholics wasn’t going to bring my parents back and that I’d have to make peace with their passing at some point. Honestly, I still haven’t processed a lot of that shit myself yet I’m still out here living my life as best I can, and really, with my own drinking habits I’d be a goddamn hypocrite to even try to find any true hatred in my heart towards heavy drinkers” you explained. Taking one last sip of bourbon, you discarded your glass off to your side and chuckled lightheartedly. “God, If I drink another glass I’m gonna collapse on the fucking floor. Think it might be time for me to turn in for the night. At least it’s Sunday tomorrow so we can sleep in a lil”.

“Y-you’re goin’ to bed? You’re not telling me to get lost or anything?” Jack sputtered in disbelief, which in turn earned him a minorly strange look from you. “Why would I do that?” you asked.

“I quite literally just admitted to treason against my former organization to you”.

“So? You made a mistake. A pretty fucking big mistake, and a shitty one at that, but still, a mistake. You obviously have some of your own pain you need to work through, and I can get that. Doesn’t mean I agree with what you did, but I get it. I’m not gonna kick you to the curb just because you have issues”.Upon saying that, you hoisted yourself up by latching your free arm onto the veranda’s fenceline, stumbling a little as you fought to maintain your balance while being both drunk and unable to fully utilise one of your arms. Nevertheless, you’d managed to straighten yourself up, and once you’d determined that you were alright to take yourself upstairs you faced on towards the front door and grasped at the brass knob in your hands, taking a brief pause to turn back and nod softly towards the man behind you. “Night Jack, I’ll see ya tomorrow” you called out, leaving him to sit there and watch you disappear back into the house with a certain look of dumbfounded astonishment.

Tag list (lemme know if you wanna be added): @giselatropicana

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels #jack daniels x reader #Kingsman #kingsman fanfiction #cross my heart #Kingsman: the golden circle #Pedro Pascal

69 notes · View notes

liddolwhynot2000 · 3 years

Text

Ruins: Part 2

____________________________________

Summary: Anyone he allowed close would have to understand that there was no compromising-not when it came to you.

____________________________________

Pairings: Levi/Reader, Mike/Reader

Genre: Angst, romance, Levi falls in love, landlords are scared of Levi for a very good reason

____________________________________

Ruins : Part 1 is right here. Please read this first to understand this fic!

____________________________________

Warnings: mentions of prostitution, violence, death, brothels

____________________________________

Your existence was mind numbing, really, for someone like Levi. There's something about you that makes him feel over a thousand emotions, yet also rendered him unable to identify even one. Was he happy? Sad? Thrilled?

Levi didn't know, and with the passage of time, he found himself caring less about being able to properly word how he feels. Instead, his mind opted to drift off to the easiness of being with you. Like a moth to a flame, your peaceful and gentle demeanour draws him in. Ever since he's met you, you've left him befuddled, to say the least.

Levi clearly recalled the first time he laid eyes on you, a shivering, scared mess of a woman, chained to the bed like a captive. Tears had streaked down your cheeks, as you tried to get get out of your restraints. Pleas for mercy had escaped your lips, while he walked towards you.

The scene was painfully familiar for him, reminding him of another woman who struggled in fear of a man approaching her.

Unlike her, you were lucky, for Levi had no interest in using you like all the other disgusting pigs in this hell hole.

In fact, the only reason he had been in that brothel was for some revenge.

In his younger years, he recalled a Military Police member that had frequented his mother at her job. So many times, he had stood by, helplessly watching as she was used over and over again by him. Treated as a toy to sate his lust, and left bruised and battered for days.

He'd hated him so much, to the point that he had vowed he would kill the man if he ever saw him again. And it was sheer dumb luck that the same man had been about to be your first customer, and Levi had caught him just as he was about to visit you.

Levi had committed the sight of the pigsty officer's freshly rotting corpse, and the blood stains on the wall, to his memory. It was a view he had no intention of forgetting, and a feeling of satisfaction he would cherish.

He remembered being unsure of what to do with you. He had walked into that room with every intention of setting you free and then going his own way. But once he'd caught sight of you and your watery, pained eyes, he'd found himself revising his plans.

Just by the look of you, Levi could tell that you weren't a fighter. You wouldn't be able to fight off the vultures in the dark depths of the underground, not on your own. If he simply freed you, you would either be captured again or die of starvation on the streets.

Even though you were a stranger, someone he owed zero of his care, someone he had no obligation towards, Levi found himself conflicted. He was used to walking past those who couldn't fend for himself, but his feet wouldn't obey him in treating you the same way.

The result of his inner conflict has been you stumbling, shaking as he hurried to drag you out of there.

As the two of you exited the establishemnt building-- Levi had felt as though he had started something beyond him, something he honestly didn't know what to do with.

Later, he would admit to himself, that he had felt excited.

____________________________________

Levi was used to being alone-to taking on his opponents with his own hands. There was no back up, no team to rely on. Just him and his bare fists.

And despite how tiring it could get, he liked it that way.

By the time he taken you in, he had used his strength to establish a home for himself. It was a small hut, and he was on good terms with the landlord.

It hadn't started out that way, of course, but the Old Relic had learned not to mess with Levi.

He had led you straight to his house, noting your solemn expression. You were troubled-as you should be. He was a man you had never met before, dragging you to his house. But you also had no choice-who else but him? The people that had sold you?

He hadn't been worried about leaving you alone in his house, and had simply ordered you to take a bath before taking off. He would need supplies for you, clothes and what not. It was a pain--and Levi had the feeling his teenage hormones had contributed to this-- but he hadn't minded putting in the extra effort.

The fact that he found a dress that matched your eyes, well, that had been a coincidence.

And the only reason you'd gotten more dinner then him that night was because he just hadn't been that hungry.

Your longing glances at his bread had nothing to do with it.

____________________________________

You were quiet the first few days, not making eye contact with him, barely speaking beyond telling him your name. You had thanked him softly for the clothes, and he had pretended not to notice the tears welling up in your eyes-you had been relieved to be rid of those those rags, and being able to wear proper clothes again.

Without needing to be asked, you took over maintaining the house. Levi had been impressed by how you had quietly adapted to his cleaning standards, not needing him to direct you on what to do beyond the first two days.

It was an unspoken agreement that you would keep the house clean, cook and stay home. While Levi would be the bread winner, bringing in money and clothes and food into the house.

He hadn't even intended on this, on you living with him. But at the time, he hadn't seen any other option. He'd gravitated towards you for some reason, allowing the softness in his heart to overcome him for once. He not only wanted to help you- he wanted you to stick around.

Maybe it was because he'd never had a friend at that point, or it was those blasted hormones that Kenny had obnoxiously lectured him about once, but Levi just hadn't been willing to let you go.

And years later, in an open field, surrounded by the rain, Levi would acknowledge that out of all the deicisons he had ever made, not letting you go had been the one deicison his heart could never regret.

____________________________________

You begin to speak up a little, talking to him, asking him about his day. It takes a month, but it's still progress. The two of you learn to cordially co exist with each other.

One day, he had returned home, covered in blood. Usually, he was sparkling clean, maybe a little ruffled up. You weren't used to seeing him in this bloodied state, and had panicked once he had set down the bag of fruits.

'So, these are actually pretty fresh-'

'What happened to you!?'

You cut him off, immediately bee lining towards him. Levi had been perplexed as you grabbed his arm with barely any hesitancy, and made him sit on the couch.

'Tch-Oi, the couch will get dirty-'

'Forget the couch, just look at you. I'm getting the medical kit.'

You had snapped at him, your movements panicky as you looked at him with worry in your eyes. Levi had been startled-not used to anyone looking at him like that.

As though he actually mattered.

In fact, as you bandaged his arm, a concerned frown firmly set on your face, Levi had felt strangely warm.

His heart beat had gotten erratic, and his eyes hadn't been able to keep themselves off of you.

Whatever this was building towards, it only made you more intriguing in his eyes.

____________________________________

After that, the two of you stop engaging in polite chit chat-and actually start opening up. You're more comfortable around him, more relaxed.

You don't harbour much fear of him- not like before, when you straightened up as though he were some drill seargent whenever he was in the vicinity.

When he walks in to the kitchen now, rather then tensing up and gripping your knife tight, as though you might attack like before, you lightly smile at him.

You welcome him home, as you engage you in household tasks. It's domestic, as though you're an old married couple, who have been doing this for 40 years. The two of you banter with each other even-

'Please tell me that stain on your shirt isn't what I think it is.' '

'......'

'Levi!'

'It's not what you think it is.'

'So it's not blood?'

'I never said that its blood. I also never said that it's not blood.'

'Levi-you did it again! How could you be so reckless-'

The days of the two of you being in the same house, sitting in haunting silence, slowly start to fade away. You begin to approach him, spending more time in his company.

And he enjoys it. He can tell its not out of loneliness, or because you're forcing yourself. Much to his pleasant surprise, he can tell that you're seeking him out for all the right reasons, because you want to.

And Levi finds himself edging towards you, just the same.

____________________________________

Your interactions get more and more friendly with him, and Levi finds him spiralling head first into his first ever friendship.

He learns about you, how you had lived on the surface. How your parents had been neglectful bastards. It had burned inside of him, his insides had twisted at the fact that they were still alive and kicking, the fact that they had abandoned you.

You tell him about Mr and Mrs Zacharius, about how kind they had been to you. How they had taken you in, offered you the warmth of a home. They had been so loving towards you, as though you were their actual daughter. You don't speak much about their son, Levi had noted, but he didn't think much of it at the time.

Your growing trust in him has Levi offering the same. There are nights where he sits by you, near the fire place. The two of you share warm food, while being wrapped up in blankets in an attempt to defeat the chilly night air.

He finds himself speaking to you without meaning to. He's so used to keeping it all in, he's never once worded out his life story, let alone tried to explain how he feels about it.

But with your honest gaze on him, and the knowledge of your life in his mind, he let's it all out.

When he mentions his mother's job and subsequent death, there isn't any judgement in your eyes. Neither is there any pity or sympathy, which makes him feel glad. He doesn't want any of those things.

You look at him softly, with genuine compassion aimed right at him. When he pauses, feeling choked up, you inch closer to him. Your small form is right next to him, which he belatedly registers, too caught up in his distress.

It's when your hand rests on top of his that he understands what being comforted actually feels like.

It's like his mother's embrace, an act he can hardly visualize in his mind. It's been too long since she left him, so he can't say it's just the same. But all Levi knows is, he feels cared for. Just like back then.

Ever since his mother took her last breathe in this cruel world, he often wished that he had done the same back then.

But now, as he sits by you, feeling warmth like never before, Levi feels like he's been given a reason to breathe again.

He wants to keep breathing, for you.

And most importantly, he admits to himself, that he wants to live-

-With you.

____________________________________

Roughly after a year and a half of living with you, Farlan makes an entrance into your lives. It had been a calculated decision on his part-one he had thought through numerous times. If it had been just him, he might have given it less mind and simply gone along with it, hoping for the best.

But he had you to care for now. You had become a non negotiable part of his life, one he felt fiercely protective over. He couldn't afford risking you- not when you had become so precious to him. You just weren't built to be a fighter, which meant that he had to take extreme measures to ensure your safety.

Kenny would call him a whipped rat for it, but Levi refused to change his mind.

Anyone he allowed close would have to understand that there was no compromising-not when it came to you.

Which was why he had put Farlan through the ringer-testing him severely. To his credit, the man hadn't complained much. He had been rather accepting of the fact that earning Levi's trust wouldn't be an easy journey.

But he had done it nonetheless, which was why Levi allowed him to meet you. Once you had given your approval, liking the man's respectful demeanour towards you, no doubt something Levi had demanded of him, Levi set out to carry out the next stage of the agreement.

He and Farlan secured another house, bigger then the one he was staying at with you. The old relic had been glad to see the last of him, though Levi had noted how his hands had shook as he waved them off.

The new Landlord, Pigsty Vermin; as Levi likes to call him, soon learns why the old relic had despised him so much.

At least they manage to live in relative peace after that.

And to think, all it took was Levi breaking Pigsty Vermins wrist.

____________________________________

Levi was a man who had come from nothing, inheriting just a shirt from his mother. You had been born to people who had material assets, only, they wouldn't use them on you. The end result had been the two of you struggling in your attempts at building your lives, trying to cut your way through a forest that had too many branches with spikes.

Levi had succeeded somewhat, but you had gotten knocked down mid way. By the time he found you, you had lost even the hard earned clothes on your back.

He knows there are things you wish you could get back-particularly, a book Mr Zacharius had gifted you, a set of jewellery from his wife. You've accepted that you won't ever see those cherished items again, even though Levi knows it upsets you a great deal to not have them anymore.

He's not some miracle worker, so despite how much he wants to, he can't find them for you. But, as he watches one of those noble women ride in a carriage, he thinks he can maybe you give something else to cherish.

And maybe, it'll help him muster up the courage to say something he's been wanting to for a while.

He's nervous as he approaches you. The last time he had been this jittery was when Kenny had threatened to feed him to wolves if he didn't do well in knife welding practice. His hands aren't shaking per say, but his heart is beating too loud.

He's clutching a velvet box in his hand. It's sparkling clean, a big contrast to the initial state he had found it in. He had wanted to give you your gift in the best condition possible.

After giving himself a stern talking to, he approaches you, urging his legs to stop being so cowardly. There was no way he could turn back now.

You're hunched over the sink as you clean dishes. He clears his throat, causing you turn to him. You sweetly smile at him, and it only serves to make him sweat some more, how could you look at someone like him with such a positive expression?

'Hey, just give me a second. I'm almost done here-'

You trail off, as your eyebrows furrow. Of course, you can tell something is up with him, you know him too well. Usually, this would make him happy, the possessive part of him adores that you pay that much attention to him. However, the part of him that's nerve wracked by what he's about to confess is overwhelming him.

'Is everything okay?'

He snaps out of his thoughts, desperately trying shove his doubts away. What if you don't feel the same? What if he loses you for this?

Levi can promise alot of things. He can promise he'll always want you the way he does right now, that he'll never leave you. He can guarantee that no one else has ever made him feel this way. That everything he has, undoubtedly, will always be yours.

What he just can't say for sure is if he can live without you.

You look at him patiently, concern shining in your eyes. Levi extends his hand, presenting the box you.

You blink in surprise, pointing at yourself.

'Th-this is for m-me?'

Your cheeks turn a little red, and if it weren't for the anticipation bubbling in his stomach, Levi would smirk. Instead, he nods wordlessly. He inwardly counsels himself, he can't just be mute.

You take it from him, a flustered smile lighting up on your face. You look at it in wonder.

'Any year now.'

You roll your eyes at his dry quip, your smiling getting wider as you wave him off.

'Oh hush.'

You open the box, gasping in delight. Inside are a set of earrings and a necklace. A pair of small, golden hoops are delicately placed. There's a tiny, intricate flower hanging from them. The necklace bears the same pattern as the flower. It's a very simple design, but you love it nonetheless.

Your eyes water a little, and you find yourself carefully setting the box down on the table, before hurrying to embrace Levi.

He's caught off guard, not used to physical contact like this. But when it comes to you, no part of him bothers to think much. His arms, having a mind of their own, and carefully loop around your waist. Your head is buried into his chest, arms clutching his shoulders.

'Th-thank you.'

Your crying, and even though it's out of joy, he doesn't quite like it. Pulling back a little, his hand moves to wipe your tears away. He looks at you meaningfully, holding himself back from saying the words he desperately wants to. He doesn't know if someone like him is even worth you, and that thought has the words stuck in his throat.

It shouldn't surprise him though, that you know him well enough to hear what he wants to say, without him having to say a word. You look at him with an understanding expression, somehow catching on to his feelings and consequent dilemma. A gentle hand cups his cheek, and you blush as your eyes shyly flicker to the ground for a second. You manage to muster up the confidence to look at him again, and his heart nearly stops at what you say.

'I love you too.'

The two of you are lost in each others eyes, and Levi finds himself tilting his head, resting his forehead against yours.

A rare, soft smile is visible on his lips, one which most would come to learn, is reserved only for you.

____________________________________

A/N: Heyooo! So this was highlyyy requested and I honestly couldn't wait to write it either. I hope y'all enjoyed this! I couldn't help writing Levi falling in love in the underground. This just came to me as I wrote, and it made me feel pretty emotional ngl.

Also look at me, writing a confession scene, when I still haven't completed the confession sequel for falling. Those who want that confession fic, feel free to throw some virtual shoes my way. Hopefully it'll motivate me to stop being so lazy about it.

So, again, this depends on all of you. I have a part 3 mind for this. It would focus on being out of the underground and on the surface, which means Mike is back in the fold. Do tell what y'all want! Also, thank you for all the love and support you've given my work, I'm truly grateful that my clowning about work is so appreciated by all of you. 💕

#AOT #Attack on titan #Levi/Reader #Levi x reader #Levi Ackerman #Fluff love #Angst #Self doubts

78 notes · View notes

haloud · 3 years

Text

an overture bold and beyond

for the Roswell New Mexico Big Bang (@rnmbb)

[AO3 link]

Jesse is dead, and Alex is left standing in the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions left behind by the events of Crashdown and the days leading up to it. With the dust settled, Alex and Michael pick through the debris--they've argued many times before, but the last one, in Michael's workshop, lingers over them, demanding...something, demanding to be seen, to be spoken, to be soothed. Through three conversations, they search for an understanding they've never found before, one that brings them closer together. (An episode 2x10 fix-it fic)

with art by @bisexualalienblast!

The shed is as it always was and at the same time something else entirely. Small and dusty, smelling of wood, at night it would throw weird, spiked shadows from the tools and trophies adorning the walls, but during the day the light is pale yellow and pleasant against the pine. Ten years of light and absence have faded the posters that still shroud the walls. The floor is clean and swept and no amount of scalded memory could make Alex recall exactly where the blood used to be.

Dad is dead, and that means there is a life’s worth of unloading and sorting and dispersing to do of the things he possessed and left a mark on, and Greg has done enough, which means it falls to Alex. And it’s only fitting that the shed go first.

Still, where to begin? Should he get a dumpster for the antlers or a box to collect the tools for donation? Should he be cold and unfeeling, or should he pore over the cracks of his soul and salvage some sentimentality, some silver lining for the toolbox that built his treehouse, or the low bench that served as his bed on the safe and hidden nights, or.

For so long, this tiny, old, unused building loomed so large in his mind it blotted out any light that could shine on anything else. And then, through sheer stubbornness, he told himself it was just a building with such intensity that now, here, with the boogeyman six feet deep for good, it’s shocking all over again to find out that he was right.

It’s just a building. There are cobwebs so thick one corner is entirely grayish-white. The windows are grimy; the floorboards creak. Alex stands in the middle with his hands in his pockets. Somehow, he always thought there would be more screaming, like the soft and sweet-smelling pine might have captured the echo. It’s almost as unsettling as seeing a ghost, to stand at the center of his nightmares and not be haunted at all.

Greg would have come out here with him if he’d asked—but he didn’t ask. Greg would have hovered, looked at him all full of concern, like he thought Alex was being some sort of martyr for tackling this alone. Hell, maybe Alex thought that too, just a bit. Maybe that’s why it’s so bizarre to stand here and be...fine.

He’s fine. He’s too fine. He’s so weirdly, blissfully, mind-numbingly fine.

No grief. No celebration. Just a fineness so complete and immaculate it could be mistaken for emptiness if his head were a little clearer.

Alex takes in a deep, woodsy breath and blows it out slowly, making dust motes scatter and dance.

He left the door open intentionally, to hear if Greg shouted for him, for a quick escape, just in case, for a breath of fresh air. When a shadow falls across it Alex freezes, braces for impact, until he jerks his head up and sees the reason.

“Hey,” Michael says. A smile flickers across his face and then it’s gone, and Alex breathes through the blow of it.

“Hey.”

A beat passes. Alex chews on the inside of his cheek. They’ve been alone together once since their fight, and that was a hostage situation.

“Maria made me bring food over. I gave it to Gregory. Seems to be holding up okay.”

Was that true? That Maria made him? Or was it a cover, a thin, defensive veneer protecting him from—well, if he was really just here on an errand of respectability at the behest of someone more respectable, he could have—it would have been easy, the easiest thing in the world, to leave the food and slip back out without Alex ever having even known he was there.

Yet here he is, having sought Alex out. Should Alex let himself hope that this means something, that everything they were building, all closeness and understanding, wasn’t set aflame and burned to ashes in a furious, impulsive whirlwind?

He’s here. It’s something.

Alex has been practicing, since that last night they were alone together, since the bunker. He had a lot of time to think and could only hum the melody he found for his song so many times. So he’s been practicing what he’d say next time he saw Michael, what he’d say to make it right. To stretch out an open hand and not snatch it back, to allow himself to be reached for and not snap at it, all teeth. It all feels like a ridiculous fantasy now, looking at Michael’s quiet, expressionless face. He’s never known what to say. Maybe he never will.

Clearing his throat, Alex says, “Yeah, he’s, uh, made his peace, I guess. Still, we’re keeping each other company for now. How’s Maria doing?”

“Hanging in there. If it wasn’t for Liz…” Michael swallows and glances away.

“Yeah,” Alex replies hoarsely. Yeah. If it wasn’t for Liz, Flint’s body count would be up by one, and it would be Alex’s fault. Should have secured him better. Should have made sure there wasn’t a second key. Should have warned Charlie instead of going out the back. Shouldn’t have been distracted by his father. Should do something to stop him from acting again. Disaster struck. Justice done. Should…

“Hey. Alex,” Michael says, and Alex snaps out of his head to see him hovering closer, concern all over his face.

“Just,” Alex waves his hand, waves him off. “Just thinking about where we’d be without Liz. Not a pretty picture.”

“Yeah.”

Michael retreats just a pace or two back to the door. For a moment, Alex jolts like he could stop him from leaving, but then Michael turns to talk again.

“And…how are you?”

“What?”

“I mean. I’m not sad the bastard’s dead, but.” Michael leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “I’m not gonna break out the champagne until I know it’s cool with you, I guess.”

“Ha. I…I think the feeling’s a little more ‘lazy Sunday’ than ‘wild party.’”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like…I can breathe easier now. I’m not ready to celebrate, I just want to drink it in, you know?”

“Sure. We can make it mimosas instead.”

At that, Alex laughs, a short and underused thing. He runs out of stamina quickly. Part of him aches to invite Michael in, to sit beside him on the bench and talk about all the things they aren’t saying. But how would Michael take that? Here, now? Alex needs more time to consider all the pieces on the board.

“And physically?” Michael steps back toward him, nearly pacing for the number of times he’s walked those three feet of floor. He touches his own forehead where Alex is cut in two jerky movements, one forward, one up. “No concussion or anything?”

Alex shakes his head. “Clean bill of health.”

“Good. That’s good.”

The awkwardness dances between them like the dust does, and Alex measures his breaths to keep calm. The light should make things easier; it couldn’t be more different from the dark underground of Michael’s workshop, but the tension between them is the same.

“You were right,” Alex blurts.

“I should go,” Michael blurts at the same time, and then the two of them are frozen again until Alex breaks the ice.

“No, don’t. Please. I didn’t get a chance to really say this when you found me, but I need to.”

Michael hesitates. Alex holds his breath. But then Michael sighs, shoulders lifting and falling, and nods.

Bracing himself, Alex continues.

“You were right.”

Michael makes another aborted noise of protest, but Alex barrels on.

“My father was lying and manipulating the way he always has, and I was so ready to think that he was defeated that I stopped trying to see through him. I wanted to be right so badly that I convinced myself I was, and I hurt you, and I could have hurt so many more people if Liz hadn’t been able to—if Isobel wasn’t there to hold off the fire—”

His voice falters and he closes his eyes, then forces them open. No hiding.

Michael works his jaw for a minute or so like he might respond, might get angry, but he takes so long to start talking Alex almost continues his speech.

But then Michael says, “You don’t have to do this. You’ve got no obligation to make me feel better or whatever. We both had a hand in making bombs this weekend, and I’m the one who knew what he was doing.”

“For me. You made a bomb for me.”

Michael levels him with a golden look.

“Yeah. I did.”

“To save me. And maybe I didn’t know what my father would use that piece for, but it was never going to be anything good. I just wanted answers, it didn’t have to be life or death. I’m—sorry.”

Alex hates apologies. Always has. After growing up the way he did, they always felt like a test, a test of his own commitment to forgiveness, to the value he chose for himself, the value his father never would have tried to beat into him. Or like an exertion of that same pressure on someone else, a desperate, pathetic cry for acceptance, for absolution.

And apologies were always particularly difficult between the two of them. Like each one granted might rip the bandage off all the old wounds that were never treated at all. But it was time, long past time, however, that they began to face these things.

Michael sucks in a breath and blows it back out in a huge sigh.

“Look,” he says. “It doesn’t make me feel any better to listen to you beat yourself up, okay? It’s not like you were entirely wrong; it’s not like I was making any strong effort to see things from your perspective. I…”

Michael flexes his left hand, then shoves it in his pocket, and another wave of guilt drags at Alex like quicksand. He can’t look away from that pocket even as Michael starts talking again.

“I still don’t understand. Why you would want him to change, why you would want anything from him after all this time and…everything. But there’s a lot I don’t get about family. And I probably would have told you giving up the piece was a bad idea no matter what, but I shouldn’t have to understand everything perfectly to listen when you’re telling me something’s important to you. I’ve been talking to Maria…” He pauses.

“It’s okay,” Alex prompts. It’s been months; there’s no point in pretending like what’s happening isn’t happening.

It would be easier if any of their endings felt like the end. If he could shake off the certainty of old habit that time would pass and gravity would bring them back together. Michael and Maria have a good thing. Alex is taking steps, trying new things. And yet…

Neither of them would ever say it. They’ll both push it to the back of their minds, paper over longing with something new.

Yet.

Michael says, “Maria isn’t sure if suppressing her powers her entire life is what she wants. And I feel like an asshole because we both know that I’m asking her to do something I might not be able to do myself in her shoes. So I’m trying to understand where she’s coming from, no matter how much it hurts. I’m putting in the work. In every part of my life, okay?”

Alex nods, not knowing what to say.

And Michael carries on, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “Anyway, I figure I might at least try and earn those second chances you keep giving me, right?”

His tone is light and weightless, but it sends Alex’s heart plummeting into his stomach.

“What does that mean?” He asks, even though he already knows.

Michael shrugs. “Look, I should really get back to the hospital. Text me if anything comes up, okay?”

“Michael!”

“What, Alex?”

His voice spikes, then his lips press together in a harsh line, but Alex doesn’t wait for any attempt at an apology. No amount of yelling ever made him scared of Michael.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “And it may be out of line for me to say this outright. But. You’re nothing like my father. Never have been. Giving you second chances—I mean, letting anyone make mistakes and work past them—it’s nothing you have to earn any more than, I mean, I have to earn them, which isn’t to say I don’t know I have things to work on—”

“Alex, stop.”

Michael mercy-kills his rambling, and Alex inhales deeply and bobs his head once in a nod, and Michael drops his eyes to the floor.

“Gonna tell you something I’ve never said to someone who wasn’t comatose, so, uh. Be honored, or something.”

Alex nods to tell him to go on, even if Michael can’t see it.

“Look, I know you know what it’s like to grow up under shitty circumstances, so I won’t waste your time getting into it, but. Growin’ up, and then even when I was older, in high school and after, all my relationships had always been…transactional. Except you never saw the price tag and you just had to guess.”

A soft noise escapes Alex’s mouth, and Michael glances up then lets his eyes slide away again. Alex doesn’t say a word to interrupt him. Alex is tense with a strange mix, gratitude and regret at how little he knew, how little he still knows, about how Michael the boy makes up Michael the man, and how little Michael knows in return. How much he still has to learn.

All he wants is for them to be in each other’s lives to keep that learning going. But how to say that in a way that isn’t begging Michael to be pinned down by him?

Michael continues, “That’s why I didn’t believe you at first when you said people could just be nice for no reason. You were the first person who showed me there was another way, and then after you, I…stopped believing in it again. Partially ‘cause I knew I’d fucked up with you, so I didn’t deserve you anymore. That’s a kid’s way of thinking at it, but yeah. With Max and Iz, with Sanders, with Maria, and yeah, with you, trading favors is what I default to, and I’m trying to stop thinkin’ of it like that. I am. But trying to earn things, people, second chances...it’s the kind of habit that’s stubborn to break.”

“I’m trying, too.” Alex measures his breath again and wonders if Michael can tell he’s doing it, how obvious he is. Does he owe Michael at least as much vulnerability and courage as that took, or is that transactional thinking too? “I’m trying to remember that my morality isn’t always universal. I thought I was doing what was right, and in some ways I was, but I was acting in a world where everyone thinks exactly like myself, and that’s just not the real one.”

Michael stands up a little, then. His eyes sharpen. Alex doesn’t know what he’s going to say, so he keeps talking.

“I subsumed my moral compass in work, in mission for so long, that the second I started recapturing it…I lost sight of so many other things.”

“No. No, Alex,” Michael says firmly. Outside, the sun is beginning to set, the light deepening, the blurriness of early dusk. It smudges Michael’s edges; it softens him. It’s reminiscent of how he looks at dawn, a sight Alex may never see again, and his chest aches. And he aches for the fine, furious tremble, the certainty in that fixed jaw.

“Yes,” Alex disagrees. “Your faith in me is…” So many words are so loaded. Unearned? Undeserved? “It’s, um, an honor. But…I think I know who I am now. And I’m learning more every day.”

He winces as his own cheesiness, but Michael just softens, slouching back against the door, a flicker of a smile on his face.

The light is truly dying, now, and Alex looks around the shed. He didn’t get anything done he intended to tonight, but it can wait for another day.

He looks back at Michael and asks, “Is it hard for you? Being here again. I should have asked earlier, I…”

His voice dies off as Michael takes a step inside, looking all around himself before his eyes settle on Alex again. He’d stayed so close to the doorway and the open air the whole time they were talking. Inside, with the broad shoulders and strong hands that had been budding and awkward on his seventeen year old self, he takes up so much room there’s none left for the last of the ghosts.

“I’m okay,” Michael says. “He’s gone. Never gonna hurt me again. Never gonna hurt you again.”

“I know it’s just a building, but it seems like it should be more. It was the only place I felt safe, and then in one moment he tore that away. It’s hard to process that someone like that is just…gone. You know he used to tell us all about how his grandfather built this place with his own two hands? I just…”

Michael looks at him, then, and it’s the same like the shed is the same. Ten years of safety, ten years of hiding and neglect. He looks at him like he always has, the careful, creative study of men who named constellations.

He has a hammer in his hands. He holds it out to Alex handle-first.

“Yeah. This place sucks.”

Michael looks like shit. His eyes are ringed with purple shadows, both from sitting by Maria’s bed and from the sleepless nights present and future, his hair rough from where he’s been running his hands through it. Isobel rests a hand in the crook of his arm, close enough to him that he can physically feel her comfort. If it were Alex, he’d chafe at the pity, but at the same time he’d do anything to be in Isobel’s place, to be allowed that closeness, to be that part of Michael’s life where he knew how to provide any comfort but silent presence.

Isobel, however, doesn’t stick around long after they read Tripp’s journal, leaving them with a tousle of Michael’s hair. They’re left to the bustle of a busy diner, but the world seems to shrink all the same. Alex fiddles with the loose vinyl strings at the edge of the booth and searches for the right thing to say.

“So do you think they were? Cosmic?” He asks, watching the cover of the journal like it could tell him anything more than it already has.

“Does it matter? They’re both dead.”

“I. Yeah. They are,” Alex says, then leans back in the booth and lets out a carefully measured sigh, working his fingertips into the muscle of his right thigh, hoping to ease the persistent ache.

His head hurts, too, and he closes his eyes to give himself a break from the pressure and strain behind them. It blots out the journal in front of him. It blots out Michael’s weary, troubled face; it blots out his strong, whole hands folded on the table.

Tripp must have closed his eyes too. For decades, as the woman he loved was tortured and imprisoned and experimented on and left to die, to die in front of her son’s screaming eyes as Alex held him back from joining her.

When he opens his eyes again, he almost expects Michael to be gone, but he isn’t.

“How are you holding up?” Alex asks, tentatively. His hand inches across the tabletop like he might take Michael’s, soothe him where he’s begun picking at the skin around his nails, but he forces it back before Michael even notices his approach.

“Fine. I’m…ha.” Michael shakes his head. “Gotta be fine, right? Been here before.”

“Michael…”

“It’s true.”

“I know.”

Alex doesn’t apologize. It wouldn’t mean anything anyway, not here and now with all that’s gone between them. Michael’s eyes flicker up to him as if checking his reaction; his shoulders curl inward, making himself small.

“Don’t know why I thought this time would be different. But now I know, I guess. Common denominator. Should’ve already known, but I’m a dumbass like that.”

“No, you’re not, you’re—”

Michael ruthlessly cuts him off. “Shouldn’t you be asking how Maria is, anyway? I thought you were her friend.”

Alex blinks at him, cocks his head. But it doesn’t take a genius, or an expert in Michael Guerin, to see that for the deflection that it is.

He has been to the hospital to see Maria, plenty of times. It’s basically only hospitalization that’s kept him from bringing it up, from asking what she’s thinking. Michael and he are here, now, only feet between them once again like the feet between them in the tiny shed as they tore it down around them. No closer. Alex wants to get closer, but denial is the reliable companion comfort is not. So Alex focuses on his body and filling it, staying within it, staying present, while Michael bleeds the love of two people and ten years and one into the space between them, walking wounded.

“I am, but I’m your friend too. And to hear her tell it, she’s the one who broke up with you. So I think my priorities are okay for now.”

“Oh, we’re friends now, are we?”

That one hurts, but Alex just shrugs. It’s true that friends might not be the right word for what they are to each other. What they are has to be a word that doesn’t quite exist, at least not in the only language either of them knows how to speak. If Alex lingers too long on the potential of the languages either of them could know if it weren’t for the confluence of violence and neglect, he would be lost.

Michael flattens his palms and leans over. “Nothing to say? Really?”

Alex replies, “I don’t want to fight again.”

“Why?” Michael snaps. “Because you don’t want anything from me right now?”

At that, Alex can’t help but flinch, muscles locked up and frozen like a wolf inches from the teeth of a trap, and Michael flinches as well.

“I—I didn’t mean that. I—” Michael shakes his head. His face twists into something awful, something grieving, something inward. He rocks back, muted colors all but disappearing against the bright vinyl cushion behind him. God, Alex just wants to touch him. A hand on his shoulder, a hand on his hand. It’s the only way they’ve ever been able to communicate. But just because it’s familiar doesn’t mean it’s enough.

“No, you’re right,” Alex reassures. “You’re right. In your lab, I was wrong to come at you like that, and not just that, I was completely out of line not taking no for an answer—”

“No, Alex, no. You might have been wrong about your father changing, but we already talked about this, and I should—I should be able to control myself by now.”

A prickle of unease trickles cold across the back of Alex’s neck. He lowers his voice, though it’s probably too late to prevent any eavesdropping. “What do you mean? Control yourself? Michael, you’re one of the most controlled people I know. I hate that you’ve had to be, but from what you’ve said, the control you have over your powers is amazing. Admirable.”

Michael barks out a dry laugh. “My powers. But it’s more than that, it’s always been. You know that better than anyone; you said it yourself, and you were right. Fucking wasting my life, right? And now here I am, wasting this chance to be there for you because I can’t just get over some hurt feelings.”

There for him. Michael is the one with the freshly broken heart, and he’s coming down on himself for not comforting Alex about the death of a great-uncle he never met, a great-uncle who abandoned his mother when she needed him. A great-uncle who should have died somewhere his brother never could have buried him on family land, should have died where he stood, like Alex would, like Alex would if it was Michael, if it was his—

Alex shakes his head frantically at that, at Michael’s cold shutting down of his own pain as just hurt feelings. What a screw-up. Michael isn’t perfect either, but Alex was never taught to pull punches, neither with fists nor with words.

“Michael, do you want to know why I said those things to you last time we fought?”

“Because I wasn’t listening! ‘Cause you were pissed at me, I don’t know—”

“Because the change in my father had me confused and scared, and I was floundering for control.”

Michael opens his mouth, eyebrows scrunching together like he’s ready to argue, but Alex barrels on, staring straight into Michael’s eyes, knowing in his core that Michael isn’t going to look away from him.

“I thought that piece could be leveraged against him, and I didn’t care how you felt about it. I was hurting, and I took it out on you because you were an easy target. A safe target. I know in every part of my being that you would never hurt me.”

“No!” Michael protests.

“So when I tell you some garbage about you not deserving my faith in you, it’s gospel, but when I tell you I was wrong, it’s too much?” Alex demands.

To that, Michael has no answer. His mouth falls open, but nothing comes out, so it snaps shut again and he shakes his head.

“I’m the last person who’s gonna get on your case for not watching your mouth when you’re pissed,” he says with a casual shrug.

The ache in Alex’s thigh has radiated all the way up into his hips and lower back. In the kitchen, something clatters to the ground, the sound bringing the setting back in harsh relief, the very public diner loud and living all around them. Michael takes notice too, leaning back self-consciously, pulling his jacket tighter around himself.

Alex doesn’t know how to argue anymore; he knows he doesn’t want to. He can’t undo a lifetime of evidence built up inside Michael that he’s worthless with a few pretty words, no more than Michael could do for him over ten years. Trying is how they got here, at least in part. A good strategist knows when to retreat and try again another day.

Michael hasn’t said anything more, hasn’t probed farther for a fight, so sensing they’re done here, Alex takes the journal from the table to put it in his jacket pocket. But when his fingers touch leather something about the sensation makes him stop.

“Do…do you want to take it? I mean, he wrote about your mom, I…” He swallows, and continues, “I can’t give any part of her back to you, but if it gives you any comfort at all to read about her…”

“He was your ancestor. A Manes man. One who wasn’t a bloodthirsty bag of dicks. You should give it back to Maria or keep it if she doesn’t want it,” Michael says gruffly.

Not bloodthirsty, perhaps, but Alex is less sure that he was any sort of hero or any sort of comfort to Alex now. Tripp’s dog tags hang around his neck, warmed to the temperature of his skin but still palpably there, the feeling strange in a way his own never were. A reminder of what can happen if you believe in something but fail to act upon it.

“Yeah, it belongs to the Delucas. I wish Patricia had gotten to read it. I don’t know why Tripp didn’t...”

“And we never will. I’ll leave returning it to you. Can’t imagine Maria’s eager to see me at the moment.”

“You might be surprised.”

Michael just shrugs again and slides out of the booth, shoving his hands in his pockets when he stands.

Alex does a calculus at this point grown familiar, of whether he should nurse his drink for a little while longer so Michael doesn’t see how hard it is for him to stand, how painful to walk. So Michael doesn’t see him as weak. So they don’t have to have the awkward moment where Michael drives off while Alex calls an Uber or something because he walked here from the coffeeshop when Michael and Isobel texted him and now he can’t make the return trip. So—

“I got street parking,” Michael says.

“What?”

“My car’s right outside. Let me give you a lift home? We can stop by and grab whatever you need from your car and I’ll come back and get it, give it a tow or something.”

His eyes flick to Alex’s, briefly, then dance away. He doesn’t say it out loud, that he’s been able to notice that Alex is hurting.

“Or you can call Greg or Forrest or Kyle or something and I’ll get out of your hair,” he continues. “I know you don’t need my help—”

Alex grabs his wrist. He gets half cuff, half skin.

“Michael. I’d appreciate it, actually.”

The smile he gets is a half-bitten thing, brighter than the sun itself.

The sun sets in their eyes as they turn onto Alex’s street, and after ten minutes of silence, Michael speaks.

“I was out of line, spoiling for a fight with you back there. I won’t do it again.”

Alex doesn’t need to look at him to know that he’s golden, pure gold.

“We’re both on the remedial track for emotions and handling conflict. I understand, Michael.” He curls his fingers around the truck’s bench seat like he did when he was seventeen and they couldn’t hold hands in public. He can almost imagine there are grooves there that fit just him. “It isn’t second chances, or third, or fourth. It’s proof we’re learning how to make mistakes without ending the whole world over it.”

If he stole some of that from his therapist, so be it.

Michael’s voice is a little thick when he replies.

“That...that sounds pretty good to me.”

When they pull up to Alex’s driveway, he doesn’t get out right away, though he picks up his crutch and settles it over his lap, partially for a quick escape if he loses his nerve, partially for something to do with his hands.

Alex watches the lavender-gold sky and says, “It’s okay, you know. To be angry. I know I said the opposite, before, but…” he swallows harshly. “But it was hypocritical, and I regret it, and.” Horribly, tears prick at his eyes, but he has to get through this. “You deserve to feel safe. I don’t want to make you feel unsafe, ever. I walk around saying I’m doing the opposite like I deserve some kind of medal, but then I attack you, and I put you in danger—”

He chances a glance Michael’s way, only for the crack in his heart to widen at his hunched, defensive posture, curled around the steering wheel like it’s a shield to protect him where he’s most vulnerable.

Michael says, “You were the first person. The only person. Who ever made me feel safe. Who ever cared enough to make sure I had a place to go even if I didn’t trust you or if I pushed back on it. Who didn’t ask anything in return. We share a lot of the same pain from those days. But I don’t know if you know what that meant to me. I don’t know if you know how fucking hard it is for me to hear you talk like this now. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Horror creeps in at the edges of Alex’s vision. His lips are numb, but they still form, “Michael, you...you haven’t thought that you owe me for that for all these years, right? Please, please tell me you haven’t…”

“No! God, no.”

Michael looks at him, the sunlight turning his eyes to honey. His mouth is chapped, but it just makes Alex want to feel that roughness with his thumb, cup his jaw and feel the stubble against his fingertips.

Those instincts may never go away, but that doesn’t mean they have to suffer, even if they can never make being in love good for the both of them. A life where their jagged edges align in the way only they can for each other, where they find that perfect angle where nothing, nothing hurts at all when they sit beside each other...that’s all they need.

Michael turns away before he says anything more. The sun doesn’t turn, though, just limns his eyelashes in gold, casts his cheekbones in dramatic shadow, and Alex lets out a soft sigh from somewhere deep in his soul that Michael can be, from every angle, this unchanged.

“I don’t want to owe anyone anything. I’m tired of it,” Michael says, voice low and rough. “And I found out recently that some people in my life I thought I was racking up debt to I’d die without repaying had wiped my slate clean long ago. I can be wrong about stuff sometimes. I’m pretty smart, but I’m a big boy.”

He flashes a quick morning-mist smile, eyes quirking sideways to look at Alex as he does it, and Alex smiles back, shoulders dropping as some tension leaves him. Michael’s eyes flick down and away before he speaks again.

“But where do we go from here? You and me, I mean. We keep tripping over ourselves to make up for the last fight out of too many to count in our lives, but there’s gonna be an after, too. What’s that look like for us?”

Alex rests his hand on the bench seat between them, just so it’s there, in case Michael wants to take it. And Michael glances down, and the apple of his throat bobs, but his hand doesn’t inch any closer.

That’s okay.

“Do you want to come inside?” Alex asks.

“Huh?”

“Friends hang out, right? No starting over. Let’s start from right here. Still got a guitar you can use, if you’re into that. Or we can crack open some beers and watch Netflix or something. Anything you want.”

Michael faces him for real for the first time, his generous mouth parted in shock, but then his face goes soft.

“Sure, yeah. I’d like that.”

Alex meets Michael’s eyes from across a crowded room. His cultural knowledge suffered significantly while he was active duty, but throughout his life he’s watched enough rom-coms curled up on the carpet with Liz, Rosa, and Maria to know how that’s supposed to feel, and to know now that the movies never did the feeling justice. Michael slowly removes his hat, and Alex’s heart swells so much he can hardly stand it.

And then Michael is gone, somewhere and sometime before Alex has lanced himself of all the words that have built up inside his skull, pounding against his temples, spilling out his eyes and ears and mouth. Only Isobel remains, and she gives him a sympathetic look and two thumbs up, whatever that means.

Well, not just Isobel. Greg is here, and Forrest, and some coworkers Alex turned Maria’s way to keep traffic up at the bar. But the space Michael left is vast and empty, and for all Alex didn’t ask him to come, it hurts a little like rejection would have hurt if he had asked and Michael told him no or hated the song.

At least he can hope that Michael heard something of what he’s trying to say and will carry that with him, whatever happens next.

The song ends. His fingers stutter and linger over the keys; the spell shatters around him and the world rushes back in with applause. Forrest beams at him from the front row, and he smiles back a little awkwardly. Being so vulnerable so publicly…not really his thing. But maybe not all bad, not when it brings tears to his brother’s eyes and he kisses a man in the open, his father’s voice drowned out by ivories and drunkards and his own heartbeat echoing off his bones.

Forrest squeezes his hips and smiles up at him as the next person takes the stage and the night goes on around them. “I’m proud of you,” he says, just for the two of them to hear. “How do you feel?”

“I feel…good.”

He does. He does feel good, in a way that’s refreshingly distinct from the haze of okay he’s been drifting in for weeks.

“Buy you a drink?” Forrest offers, raising his eyebrows, hooking his thumb back at the bar. Maria is still at home resting, so she isn’t there to support and/or lightly judge him.

“Uh…”

Say yes. He probably should, right? Just see what it’s like dating someone in the open. But would it be fair to use Forrest like that, as an experiment?

“…Can I take a rain check? This,” he gestures back at the stage, “Was kind of a lot for me, believe it or not, so I’m not in a chatty mood. Is that okay?”

Forrest’s smile doesn’t budge. “Okay, man, sure. See ya around.” And he heads to the bar alone.

Alex’s shoulders drop, feeling a little disappointed, feeling a little like he isn’t as disappointed as he should be. Hands in his pockets, he makes his way over to the door, only to stop short when he sees Kyle at a table in the back. Sheepishly, Kyle lifts his beer at him in a salute—but that isn’t an explanation, so Alex beelines for him anyway.

“I thought you hated this shit,” he says mildly, without preamble.

“Oh, I do. The second someone starts in on some amateur poetry, I’m out. But I was just being a dick earlier, and that’s not what I do these days so…”

“Apology accepted.”

Alex glances around before sliding in across from Kyle. It’ll get awkward if Forrest sees him, but oh well.

“Hell of a performance,” Kyle says, going to flag down a waiter until Alex stops him.

“I’m not sticking around for long. But, uh, thanks.”

Kyle takes another long pull of his beer, and Alex raises an eyebrow at him.

He says, “You know, if I was so bad you have to drink to forget, you can just say so. My delicate feelings have been through worse, actually.”

“Ha! No, it’s…” Kyle trails off, staring at his beer instead of anywhere near Alex. “Eh. It’s part of the deal, but sometimes it still sucks to get slapped with reality. No matter how much you change, the people you’ve hurt don’t have to forgive you.”

“I…”

“No, don’t apologize. I get it. I was a big part of the reason you never would have sung that song in this town without the people that support you now. It’s okay that you still hesitate sometimes about me. Just, you know,” he shrugs with a small smile. “Sometimes I’m gonna drink about it.”

Alex leans across the table. “Kyle. You’re a good man. And my friend. Okay?”

Kyle’s shoulders drop an inch or so, and his face shifts with a more genuine, soft smile. “Okay.” Then he turns serious again, and continues, “But you know it’s going to be the same for Flint, right? First, that you can’t redeem someone who has no remorse—I had to make my own choice to be a better guy, to live by a better code, and no one could have done that for me. Second, that even if he does make that choice, the people he’s hurt have no obligation to forgive him. Michael has no obligation to forgive him, and you can’t force him to. You have to make peace with that now, before you start down this road.”

“I know. But thank you, for the reminder.” Alex lets out a long breath. “I don’t know if I can forgive Flint. But he’s a part of my father’s legacy, too. I can’t undo all the harm, but if I can reduce any harm in the future, if I can even do that much…”

“I wish you luck. But, man, just...don’t try and bear too many other people’s sins, okay? You’re not responsible for what Flint does. You gotta look out for yourself, too, you know.”

“Thanks,” Alex says. What else is there to say? He might disagree with Kyle both on what makes someone responsible and also the degree to which he’s already acting in his own self-interest. A truly selfless person would focus on what’s already within control in order to do the most good, not on trying to control everything they could. But if Alex doesn’t know how to live with himself and his choices at this point, he’s already lost. There’s a certain comfort and strength in that.

“Any time,” Kyle replies, saluting him again.

Alex leaves the table and leaves Kyle to it, making for the door and for fresh air. He’ll go home and have a beer there, maybe. Look at his keyboard and think of other songs to write, now that he’s gotten Michael’s song out of his skull.

Like all songs won’t be about Michael, somehow, always.

That thought might have been depressing six months ago, six years ago, in the middle of all the missing they’ve done. But now Alex lets the nostalgia wash over him, welcomes it as an old friend. As a part of him, natural, not something that needs to be fixed or cut away. Every song is about Michael because Michael is a part of him. Nothing wrong with that, no matter how their relationship keeps changing, even if Alex never gets what he wants. He can live with that.

He steps out onto the Pony’s empty patio. Most likely everyone is either still inside watching other performers go on or has already left in disgust at the whole affair. The glow of the string bulbs softens the night, turns the bar into a welcoming place, an oasis of light, makes it hard to take that last step off the porch and into the parking lot. That’s probably the idea. Maria’s savvy like that.

According to Max, Michael helped her hang these a few years back, and somehow he always comes up with replacement bulbs when they’re needed, always knows just what the fix is. It’s so easy to imagine him up on a ladder, deft hands weaving the cords around the wooden lattice, winding a perfect web, not too bright or harsh, just right. Alex sighs, and if it’s overly wistful, well, that’s a secret between him and the night.

“Everything okay?”

Alex jerks around at that voice. He’s heard it from nowhere before, but this probably isn’t one of those times, and sure enough, Michael lifts his head to give Alex a look of concern, head tilted to the side. That dramatic black hat, along with his dark clothes and curled-in posture, it makes him blend into the background, no matter how large he looms in Alex’s eye. He’s always been good at diminishing, at blending. Alex wishes he’d never had to learn to do that.

Alex forces his shoulders to lower, forces a smile to his face. “Yeah, you just startled me. Didn’t think anyone was out here, and, um, I thought you left. During the song.”

The silence stretches too long, too awkward as Michael rolls his shoulders in a shrug, does a familiar old nervous gesture of taking off his hat, running his hand through his hair, and settling his hat back down. Alex spent two weeks trying to find the chords right for that memory, the quiet yearning it awakes in him.

“Yeah, I—I don’t know,” Michael says.

He doesn’t lean against the wall; he doesn’t fold his arms in front of him. He has nothing in his hands. Alex can’t remember the last time he saw him so without a shield, and it takes his breath away.

Michael continues, “I know I wasn’t invited. I mean, uh, I think you didn’t mind seeing me too much, if I can read your face half as well now as I used to, but I wanted to respect that.”

“I didn’t! I didn’t mind.”

Silence falls again. Alex should say something more, should explain himself, shouldn’t let Michael walk away from this thinking he wasn’t wanted.

He blurts, “I thought about inviting you, but I—well, you heard the song, and with things with Maria still so recent and up in the air, I didn’t want to put you in a tough spot. I understand.”

Michael smiles at him, a look so soft Alex can hardly stand it. He licks his lips as if to check if he can still feel, still taste Forrest there, like that might be some sort of reminder that there are other things in life than Michael. He feels nothing, tastes nothing—but how much of the way Michael has always lingered on his skin and on his senses has been psychosomatic all along, because of how much he wished Michael would stay? No one could ever compare. It’s wrong of him to even try.

“You could have asked,” Michael says. “Let me know what it was about. I would have been here. I would have come. I’m happy—proud of you. For doing that, in there. I hope it was everything you wanted it to be. The moment you needed.”

“I don’t know. I honestly don’t. I want to say I was doing it for me, but...it’s hard to tell. Something else I’m working on.” Alex shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets just for something to do with them. “It...it definitely meant something, though. I’m happy.”

“Then I’m happy, too.”

Alex shakes his head. “You don’t have to say that. You wanted so badly to be open with me, but I was never ready, and now that I am, it’s…” Too late. But he doesn’t say it, like filling the air with it might make it even more real than it already is.

“Alex. I lived in this town with your father for ten years. I got it. It hurt, and that hurt might have been screaming louder than the fear we both shared, but I did feel it too.”

The silence that follows has a hole in it where another apology might fit, but if they get started they’ll be here all night.

“Look, um,” Michael says, “Were you looking to get out of here or do you want to sit for a while? It’s a pretty nice night.”

What had previously been the truth—that the show had him feeling good but wanting privacy after willingly divesting it so dramatically—goes right up in smoke, and in its place is just the clean, simple desire to be in Michael’s company, close enough for their knees to brush under the small table, under the fairy lights, under the sky.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. Alex sucks in a sharp breath.

He hadn’t expected the apology to actually reach the air. Hadn’t even wanted it to.

Alex has never liked apologies. What good is an apology? Greg used to apologize, sometimes, in hushed words when their father wasn’t listening. Flint and Clay never bothered, and Alex preferred it to empty words. Greg’s apology is easier to accept now, with the advantage of hindsight, coupled with action, but Alex doesn’t know how to react to Michael’s sorry.

Jesse Manes never apologized. Not for anything. And now he’s dead. Alex sits across from Michael. The slam of the Pony’s door as someone leaves, the slam of a car door as someone arrives, it all just sounds like hammers falling one after another.

How long did it take for Alex to stop flinching at the sound of military-issue boots approaching? At the shape a man’s shoulders made in uniform towering over him? At the snap and bark of a sergeant’s voice?

Michael’s shoulders are rounded. He always slouches so much.

Alex misses flinching, sometimes. He misses simple, unconditioned, weak prey instincts, universal signals of the vulnerable, of the frightened, so someone capable of comforting him might know how badly he’s in need of comforting—

“Alex?”

Michael’s hand rests in the middle of the small table, bare, his palm upturned like it’s just waiting for the weight of Alex’s hand to settle on top of it. It’s his left hand. Over ten years and one hundred hoarded golden hours, Alex loved the way that hand touched him, like it was all of Michael contained in one small limb. Hurt and hopeful, with a necessary tender lightness, with a shape that sometimes made his throat ache to look at it. Some days he couldn’t use it at all. But he never hid, never tried to cover that part of himself to make Alex comfortable. Maybe that’s why Alex reacted so poorly to the bandana he wore these past months. He made the mistake for so long of thinking that a baring of scars was the same as a baring of souls, and then he learned he was wrong. And then Michael’s scars were gone…

But the hurt still lingered.

Alex puts his hand in Michael’s.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Hearing you sing in there…you’ve got me thinking about how much time we missed. The part I played in all that, pushing you away time and again. Not trusting you, not talking to you.”

“We were just kids.”

“I know. Still. Kids hurt each other all the time, and worse than adults do, most of it. And I’ve done my fair share of that, too.”

Oh, Michael.

“The hurt kids do to each other, it’s not the same,” Alex says softly, as gently as he can muster. “I’m thirty years old. If I can’t look back and forgive the kids we were over the past ten years, what hope is there for me now?”

Michael shakes his head stubbornly. “I was old enough to know better. To be better. To use my words instead of just lashing out when I was hurt. Maybe you don’t remember some of the shit I said, when we used to fight over you leaving, but I do. If we’re turning over a new leaf now, sayin’ sorry just feels like the right thing to do.”

He makes himself look so small. The table forces the barest necessary space between them, but not so little Alex can gracefully lean across it to press their foreheads together, or to rest his hand against Michael’s heart, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how tightly he presses their hands together to make up for it. He wants to feel that heartbeat, let Michael feel his own, match themselves to the same vital rhythm.

But this is about new leaves, like Michael said. So Alex takes a deep breath and lets the words stretch and burn and breathe between them, strengthening the muscles that he let grow so weak for so long.

“Michael. Listen to me. When you were seventeen, homeless, and vulnerable in ways I couldn’t even comprehend, you threw yourself onto my rich, homophobic, military father to protect me. That takes more courage and goodness than it takes to throw yourself on a grenade. Trust me, I know.”

“But—”

Alex leans in, the table biting into his stomach, close enough now to feel Michael’s breath on his cheek and smell rain off the collar of his shirt. “I refuse to blame us—to blame you—for the way it broke us afterward. Okay? No more keeping score. We have the pieces—we can, maybe we can work together to put them back together. No matter what the final picture turns out to look like, even if it’s something completely different than we thought it would be at seventeen. Is that—would that be okay?”

Michael’s thumb passes over the back of Alex’s hand, a simple gesture that makes the hair stand up on his arms. All static, all electric. Alex aches, but it’s a good one.

“I don’t know if it’s too late for us. And you weren’t wrong when you said that things are still rough with Maria. It doesn’t even feel real that things could be over between me and her. And I saw the way Forrest Long looked at you.” Michael’s voice goes so soft Alex can hardly stand it. “If that’s something, you should let it be something.”

“I don’t know if it’s something. I don’t know if I want it to be.”

Alex’s words are distant even to his own ears.

Michael says, “That’s okay too. I’m just tired of pushing, tired of pulling. I want us both to be free, to, to just follow our hearts and see where we end up. I guess that’s my version of not keeping score. ‘Cause I know that you’re in here,” he puts his other hand over his heart, “No matter what our relationship is like. Fighting that just hurts us worse.”

Hope is such a painful thing. Michael told him that for years and years and Alex never quite believed him. But now that he’s asked to hold true to his own beliefs—that hope is necessary, that hope is a tool against yesterday, a compass pointed firmly in the direction of tomorrow—he wavers.

“It shouldn’t have had to be a fight,” he says. “You tried to tell me that you just needed space months ago, and I didn’t—couldn’t—didn’t want to listen. I wanted us to be okay; I thought if I atoned or whatever, we would be okay. But I wasn’t doing it for you. Digging for information, turning over every rock to find the ugliness underneath, that’s what I needed, not you.”

“But you were trying. I recognize that now, I do.”

“I—” Inches from arguing, Alex stops himself short. Patterns, it’s all patterns. They both have to get better at recognizing them, and that means Alex can’t do the same thing he’s told Michael is wrong, where he believes Michael’s assessment of him only when it suits the ugliest voices in his head.

So he says, “Yes. I was. I wanted to empower you the way I feel empowered when I have all the information at my fingertips, but I didn’t ask you what you needed.”

Michael leans forward. “And I should have told you outright that I needed space instead of trying to make you leave so it would make sense when you did—or just trying to hurt you for staying this time and not any other time when I really needed you to.”

Alex swallows hard and nods. He leans forward too. Michael’s hand is so, so warm in his. The two of them walk the same tightrope toward solid ground.

“I’m glad,” Michael says. “I’m glad that you stayed this time. You deserve to know that. I’ve been fighting to get free of the past; I know it’s unchangeable, but it’s always there, telling me all the ways I should have been better, and. Right now, in the present. Thank you. For being there this year.”

Michael smiles at him, a real smile, the kind of look Alex thought he might have imagined from across the bar, with music in his lungs. His eyes crinkle up, sparkling, face utterly transformed with what can only be utterly consuming fondness.

I love you. I love you. I love you. How could he not? How could he have ever convinced himself he was capable of stopping? Michael’s laughter is the joy of knowing someone. Alex hasn’t felt so seen and so unafraid since he was seventeen years old.

Maria and Michael just broke up a few days ago, and it wasn’t mutual. There are so many leaps Alex wants to take now that he’s taken this one, to see how they feel, to reshape and reaffirm his comfort zone now that some of his ghosts have been put to rest. There are so many reasons to wait, to make sure that this time they can get this right.

But what if Michael doesn’t know? Even at this stage down the long road of getting to know the man he loves, Alex knows how easily he doubts his own worth

He and Maria understand each other, as ever. He would give up his brain to see the future, too.

Michael’s face has gone soft and concerned the longer Alex hasn’t responded. Tingling spreads up Alex’s arm when Michael’s warm, rough hand tightens around his own, and the softness he feels helps unloosen his chest and let the words come out.

“No, thank you,” he says, fitting his other hand around Michael’s knuckles so Michael’s healed hand is cradled between his.

That touch lingers for a long moment. For most of their lives, Alex hasn’t been able to read Michael’s face, has second-guessed what he thought each little flicker meant, has held back from acting on what he thought Michael was telling him, no matter how achingly open Michael’s face was. Now, though, Alex just has no idea what is going through Michael’s head as he watches their joined hands, Alex’s fingers against Michael’s bare skin, the bandana abandoned somewhere before Michael even came to the Pony tonight.

“Should we...should we talk about this?” Alex asks, letting his finger draw gently against Michael’s middle knuckle. Michael’s fingers flex in his grip.

“Don’t know what there is to talk about.”

“I don’t know.” Alex shifts and clears his throat. “Just...anything you want to say. Anything you’re feeling. Anything you want to say to me specifically.”

Michael glances around. They’re alone on the patio, but Alex understands. The silence of the night and the muffled clamor of the bar on the other side of the wall give the illusion the whole world is listening.

Then, bluntly, he says, “It hurt. What you said. That you so obviously didn’t understand I might have a hard time looking at it for personal reasons, since I never asked for it to be healed. I thought if anyone understood that, you would.”

Alex’s knee twinges in concert. He itches to rub it, but his hands stay still wrapped around Michael’s.

Michael continues, “Hiding the healing had nothing to do with you, and if I was still pissed at your dad for causing it or at Max for healing it, that wasn’t really any of your business, either. That’s all.”

Deep breaths. Having all that out in the open is a clean thing, a necessary thing. Alex nods. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Michael nods back and lets his shoulders drop. “But Max is the person I need to get into it with, not you. Then he was dead when I really needed to, so it got all twisted up and stuck inside of me, and I didn’t say anything to anyone. I don’t blame you for not being a mind reader and coming to some wrong conclusions.”

It’s that—it’s that that leaves Alex floundering for a moment, that instant of Michael seeing his guilt and cutting through it with a few words. He leaves a vacuum in its place and all of Alex’s other feelings, so carefully compartmentalized, have to rush to fill it in. Michael lets the silence linger, but Alex can feel the quickness of his heartbeat in the small of his wrist.

“What about you? Anything you want to say to me?” Michael says. “‘Cause we’ve fought before, but for some reason we keep coming back to the bunker. Feels like maybe there’s something there.”

“I…”

That...yeah. He was right. So many times, they’d fought. When they were kids and everything was falling apart. Over ten years, among the pieces. The argument they had in the bunker was practically a level-headed disagreement compared to the fight they had before Alex’s last deployment, the worst one, the one that cut them apart for almost two years without a word to each other. Even that one had scattered like mist under the morning sun when they were in each other’s arms again.

And maybe that’s part of it. That their physical relationship has changed, that without the language of touch everything feels harsher and harder to forget. But the other reason lurks behind the walls in his mind.

He’s supposed to be better now. More peaceful, more understanding, more balanced. To preach forgiveness then lash out at Michael, the one person it’s always been safe to be angry with—it’s an ugly thing. Alex doesn’t want to hold it. Doesn’t want to be that. He’s supposed to be better now. It doesn’t matter how often a therapist tells him progress isn’t a straight line. It shouldn’t matter.

If he can fix this, make it like it never happened, maybe he can fix them.

Alex doesn’t want to look that feeling in the eyes. Has avoided it, so far. And how to say it? He doesn’t even know if Michael wants them fixed. Not the same way Alex does. And now’s not the time to ask that question.

“I just want us to be okay,” he says. Simple. Weak. He hates the sound of pleading inside his own skull. He isn’t used to it. It’s just Michael. Michael won’t use it against him, won’t hurt him, he knows this, but inside something turns and hides and covers its head with its arms waiting for the blow. To buy it time, he babbles, “Not talking about it feels like hiding. All the times we let arguments go in the past—I want to do things differently, to actually say I know what I did wrong and say that I know we, I, can do better, I don’t know, I just want things to be different, to change for good—”

“Okay.”

Michael’s voice is soft. So soft Alex wants to whimper.

“Okay, Alex,” he repeats. Now his other hand, hesitating just slightly, comes up to rest against Alex’s, so they’re holding onto each other as fast as they can with the distance and objects between them.

That’s it? Just okay?

Michael shifts their hands, slides their fingers together slowly, and gives them a squeeze.

Oh.

Okay.

“Were you wanting to get out of here?” Michael asks suddenly, dipping his head slightly so his hat hides his eyes.

“No, um. Actually, I think I’ll stay a while. It’s a nice night.”

He’s exhausted, but nothing could tear him away. Not now. And it is a nice night, clear and cool, the sky wide and velvet above them, in their little bubble of light.

“Cool,” Michael says. He leans back in his chair, though he leaves their hands connected, and he looks up at Alex again, eyes glimmering with a smile. “‘Cause I want to hear more about how you got into songwriting for real. You didn’t tell me about it when we hung out the other day.”

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Alex replies, but his heart sings at the interest.

“Ok, sure, uh-huh. Well I’m going to go get us drinks, and when I get back maybe you can distract me and pull a rabbit out of a hat.”

“Between the two of us, you’re the one with the magic hands,” Alex says, only for his mouth to drop open when he realizes what he’s just said.

But Michael is already cackling, and the sound is so soothing to Alex’s soul he can’t interrupt, and he’s standing up to go inside, and it’s impossible not to notice how he doesn’t let their hands drop until the last possible moment, and then he’s sweeping his hat off his head with a dramatic bow and a cheeky smirk, and Alex can’t help but smile back at him.

He turns to head back into the Pony, and as Alex watches and mirrors the motion, he flexes his hands, rubs them together, then slides them into his pockets as if to hide the lingering feeling of touch for safekeeping.

And then Alex is alone, still smiling, knowing Michael will be back soon.

#rnm bb #roswell nm big bang #my fic #malex #malex fic #alex manes #michael guerin

85 notes · View notes

janetbrown711 · 3 years

Note

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone," wakko?

Wakko never thought of himself as a worrier. He always held out hope that somehow, someway everything would work out- that Good would prevail and Evil would fall. He believed with all his heart it was his and his sibling’s destiny to defeat Salazar. He knew Dot was going to get better, and that Yakko would finally be able to relax for more than just five minutes.

However... being on his own for the first time challenged that.

He had taken the baker’s advice and went straight to the apprenticeship with the blacksmith. It had been excruciatingly difficult, and Wakko put a lot of blood sweat, and tears into the work he did. He had been revolted to find out that he was only paid a ha’penny a week. Sending letters had cost at least three ha’pennies so by the end of week one, he had had to get crafty.

He ‘borrowed’ paper from the blacksmith and wrote as neat and concise as he could manage before putting in the one ha’penny and the letter in an envelope (also ‘borrowed’ from the blacksmith) and snuck it into the mailman’s bag when he wasn’t looking. As for how he got food, he would take a piece of fruit or bread from the man when he wasn’t looking.

It wasn’t easy to do though, the blacksmith was a good person; he was stoic and old, hardly ever talked, except the occasional warning to Wakko that he shouldn’t touch or eat something, despite how delicious it looked. He was patient, though at the same time very distant. It was hard for Wakko to read him.

However, Wakko had gotten too comfortable too fast, as he had gotten caught stealing the blacksmith’s food and he fired him, said it was “a betrayal of his trust”. His words had stung Wakko, and he left without fighting, but not without taking a few pieces of paper and envelopes- Yakko and Dot would kill him if he didn’t write.

The letters.

Wakko thought he would love writing them, but it got harder and harder the more time passed. Wakko embellished how he was doing a lot, but he could tell Yakko wasn’t being entirely honest either. His words were fancy and he tended to dance around questions Wakko had asked. Wakko wished he had the energy and paper to argue with him, but he didn’t. He hated being lied to, but they quite literally couldn’t afford to bring it up.

After he got fired, he wandered and worked as an errand boy for a senile, but wealthy woman. He didn’t like it though- she was rude and she constantly spat on him, or hit him with her cane, which left him with nasty bruises.

He was almost thankful when she dropped dead one day.

He stole as much silverware, stamps, papers, and envelopes as he could fit into his hat before he alerted anyone of what had happened.

Still- seeing a corpse hadn’t been... pleasant.

It reminded him that, yes, death was a thing and was inescapable and could happen to his little sister at any moment while he was gone.

Needless to say, he did his best not to dwell on that, and sold all of the silverware as soon as possible and gave almost all the money to Yakko in the letter he wrote.

That should help delay Death for a while... hopefully, Yakko could buy her a new blanket, or a shawl. She always got so cold in the winter with just her skirt.

Wakko then went to work as a berry picker at the farm of an old cat couple with a few other children his age, though none of them liked talking. However, he only worked there for the month of May because he had gotten fired once they found out he had been eating more berries than he turned in. Wakko was hungry, and the farmers didn’t pay him enough for him to afford enough food anyway, Wakko thought that was bull.

However, he quickly regretted that decision when he had gotten a letter from Yakko that admitted that Dot was going through another rough patch. His brother wrote that he and Dot missed him a whole awful lot, but that they weren’t giving up yet. At least that was nice...

Still, Wakko couldn’t help but feel guilty. His selfishness had gotten him fired from two jobs, and because of that, his siblings were suffering. Sometimes he wished he could just magically fix everything with the snap of his fingers, but he knew that wasn't how it worked. If it was, he would’ve done it already.

After that, he was determined to find a job that would stick. Unfortunately, that was only getting more difficult, as the town that had once been not quite prospering still functioning well enough was starting to fall apart due to the King’s taxes only rising. The only good thing that came out of that was that prices were starting to lower which meant that if he could find a spare coin on the ground, he could probably actually afford something. However, that also meant jobs were going down, and so it was damned near impossible to find something to do.

Wakko had spent a whole month without a job. He lived on the street and picked up fallen coins and didn’t write- couldn’t write- a single letter. The last one he had sent had been about the farm, and he had lied and told Yakko it had burned down so he couldn't write to there anymore. Wakko could imagine how worried Dot and Yakko must’ve been. The thought of their worry kept him up at night.

Still.

A little voice in his head told him not to give up, that he come to far to call it quits now. He promised he’d return in a year, and that’s what he’d do.

“Bravery is not the absence of fear, it’s doing something in spite of it.”

Wakko had a vague memory of someone telling him that a very long time ago, but he couldn’t recall who.

During the late summer, he had worked different jobs every day. Some days, he’d deliver packages for a fraction of what the king’s mail delivery costed, others he’d return library books, and on some, he’d shine shoes. It was exhausting to run around for days on an empty stomach, but somehow he managed to scrape on by with just enough money to send to Yakko and Dot and survive.

Despite the feeling that summer would last forever, autumn arrived and it was the harvesting season. Wakko had heard that farms were in need of help, and he went off to go work at the pumpkin farm that was just a few miles out from town. Wakko had been delighted when he heard about the opportunity and had run seven miles to get there before anyone else. The farmer, a middle-aged Rabbit, had been pleased with his enthusiasm but warned him that he couldn’t pay much and that most of his payment would be in food and shelter, but Wakko didn’t care. He hated sleeping in alleys with a passion and swore never to do that again. Plus, he knew Yakko and Dot were probably pissed at him for not writing for several months, not giving him an address to write to, or anything. Plus, Wakko was not going to pass up on an opportunity for someone else to pay for his food.

However, he had thought working on a farm during the spring was hard, autumn was much, much harder. The town where he worked somehow managed to get more snow than Acme Falls, and earlier, so he often had to wake up before the sun rose and attempt to “fight off the freeze” as the farmer called it. Wakko didn’t care what it was called, it was agonizing. He ended up with blisters and sore arms and had even cut himself on the ax he used to chop branches quite a few times.

However, none of that mattered when he read the letters Yakko and Dot sent. Wakko hadn’t realized just how much he had missed them until he saw their handwriting on the paper in his hand.

Dot had apparently gone through another rough patch during the time Wakko couldn’t write but had gotten much better, even being able to go out of the ‘house’ and take walks by the river. Yakko wrote that Dot still missed him terribly, and was really mad that he hadn’t written in forever. Yakko then went on a tangent about how much it had worried him, but that he was still relieved and happy that Wakko was safe and okay.

Wakko’s reply had been full of apologies and embellished about his current situation (saying things like ‘i have an actual bed and it’s really comfortable’ and ‘the food is amazing’ and ‘i barely have to work at all’ and ‘I haven’t even hurt myself once!’). He didn’t want to worry Yakko any more than he already had.

In truth, the farmer wasn’t a very nice person, though he was nice enough to provide shelter and food for Wakko and the few others that worked alongside him. However, he did get annoyed when Wakko injured himself, and didn’t provide bandages, so Wakko would have to make do by tearing up pieces of his pillowcase. Soon enough, he tore it all up and there was no more pillow, which hadn’t been fun for sleeping. He also shouted and swore a lot, but Wakko mostly tuned it out, having had good practice after the senile dead lady.

Still, a job was a job, and Wakko wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world. He was able to keep up his promise with one ha’penny being sent home every two weeks, which Yakko noted was becoming “more and more useful in Acme Falls, as the economy was clearly in shambles”, whatever that meant.

Unfortunately, the harvest came to an end sooner than Wakko had hoped and he was back on the streets in the blink of an eye. He had a few survival strategies he had picked up from observing his older brother over the years, but surviving on the streets in the snow was a lot, a lot harder than surviving on the streets, not during the snow.

And even more unfortunately, there were little to no jobs available anymore. The only ones that were available required him to walk far distances in the snow even during snowstorms. Of course, he took them, but they were grueling and made every muscle in his body ache.

And so he resorted to his least favorite solution: stealing.

Whenever he’d walk past the market, he’d snatch an apple or a loaf of bread if he could manage and hide it in his package until it was safe and he could eat it. He stole matches so he could start fires in the garbage. He stole books that belonged to the library for kindling for said fires. He felt insanely guilty every time, but no matter what way he looked at it, there was no other option.

His main motivator had been survival. He knew he needed enough money for a ticket home in December, but knew that that’d be near impossible if he attempted to pay for his own things- especially with the taxes taking nearly all of the money he had earned with doing the jobs- and god only knew how guilty he had felt that he hadn’t been able to send any money home for Dot. Still... he figured coming home would be an at least okay replacement.

He hoped.

He wrote letters but didn’t give return addresses, fearing what Yakko would say again. He knew he must’ve been outraged that Wakko hadn’t written or sent money in awhile, and he prayed Dot was doing okay and that they didn’t need the money he wasn’t able to get.

He didn’t have the heart to write about his worries about not being able to come home after all...

Wakko shivered as he thought of that, before snapping back into reality realizing where he was. He had an awful tendency of getting distracted while he was doing errands, it was a problem.

Especially if he was trying to focus on nabbing some food. If he didn’t focus, he was likely to get caught.

Shaking his head to get back to the present, he looked around and saw an empty stall selling some type of fruit he hadn’t seen before, but figured it’d be enough. He casually sauntered on over there, and began to walk past before snatching one with his tail and quickly putting it into the box of books he was returning to the library for an old dog man.

“Hey! Kid!” Wakko froze when he heard a voice behind him. He peeked over his shoulder and saw it was the man who owned the booth.

“Stop right there!” He shouted. Wakko bolted.

He ran through the crowded market, but unfortunately for him, he slipped on some ice on the path and came crashing to the ground, books going flying everywhere, and his fruit was squashed to a pulp.

“Hey-! Kid- are you alright?” The man’s anger faded into concern and Wakko muttered to himself and trying to gather his stuff, ignoring the throbbing in his head, and stinging in his-likely scraped- knee. Eventually, he heard the man approach him, but to his surprise, he started helping Wakko put the books back into the box. Wakko didn’t look at him much, but could feel the man giving him pitiful looks.

“Look- I know what you’re gonna say and you’re wrong. I-i... I swear that I’m a good kid, okay?” Wakko sniffled as he put a blue-colored book down.

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” the man replied, handing Wakko a green book. Wakko took it hesitantly, still not willing to look him in the eyes.

“I was going to offer you some more of that fruit you took, but you ran in such a hurry, I couldn’t get my words out,” He said. Wakko didn’t know if he believed that.

“I-i just need enough money for my sister and a train ticket...” Wakko mumbled. The man nodded.

“You got family?” He asked. Wakko nodded.

“Sister and brother in Acme Falls,” he said.

“That’s quite a ways away. I suppose you came here for work but that ain’t working out well, is it?” He asked. Wakko frowned and didn’t answer. He wasn’t liking his tone...

“Here, I’ll give you a bag of clementines if you’ll let me. I can even help you with those books if you need,” The man said, standing.

“I can take care of myself,” Wakko scowled, but realized that was probably a really stupid thing to say. He was starving...

“B-but I’ll take the clementines...” Wakko added. The man nodded, and stood up, and headed back to his booth. Wakko did his best to ignore the looks the crowd was giving him as he followed.

“Here you go, sixteen clementines. That should do you good for quite some time. Oh- and here,” The man dug under his booth and Wakko stood awkwardly with his tongue sticking out.

“This should get you a train ticket, and hopefully enough left over for those siblings of yours,” he said, handing Wakko a little brown sack. Wakko gawked at it.

“I-i can’t accept all this. I’m sure you need it,” Wakko refused.

“Nonsense. I got all the clementines I could want. And besides, I don’t need to ride on a train to return to my family any time soon,” He waved it off.

“B-but the king’s taxes-”

“I know how to make due. I know you need the money, and if you know what’s good for you you’ll accept,” He pointed at Wakko, and Wakko realized he wasn’t wrong. He just wished he could do something for the man in return, but knew he couldn’t.

“Th-thanks mister... it’s been a really long time since someone’s been this nice to me,” he looked at the ground.

“No problem kiddo. Stay safe out there, winter is a dangerous time. Might want to bandage that knee of yours,” He pointed to Wakko’s bleeding knee. Wakko nodded.

“Thanks, will do, mister,” he said, grabbing the sack of clementines, putting it in the box with the books, and put the little brown bag of money in his hat. He then waved goodbye and headed on to finish his task, get paid, them immediately lose said payment to taxes, but smiled internally. The tax collector didn’t know about the money in his hat, so he didn’t collect it.

It looked like Wakko was going to be able to come home after all.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

#animaniacs #my fics #wakko warner #wakkos wish #yakko warner #dot warner

73 notes · View notes

yelenasdog · 3 years

Text

visions (warren worthington iii x fem reader)

genre: angst

summary: why must visions become reality?

words: 1.1k

warnings: ANGSTY PURR ✨🗣, x-men apocalypse spoilers, mentions of physical fighting and death, just some sad stuff. in terms of fluff, this is a decrescendo.

a/n: hi! reader is a mutant and has a strand of very very light hair that has a bluish tint and sparkles, as well as extremely light eyes and sharp canines! other than that there is no predetermined factor of appearance! also, y/n was not used so if u wanted to read this an x an oc or x another fem character, that should work well!

⚔⚔⚔

"Move over!"

"No way, your wings take up the whole bed anyway!"

"That's mutantphobic!"

A loud laugh sounded from the smaller girl resting in Warren's arms, her cheeks growing sore from all the smiling she had (and always was around him) been doing.

"I'm a mutant too, y'know, so I don't quite see how that could work."

He shuffled about for a moment, moving so that one of his beautiful wings would rest over her top half, bringing her an unprecedented level of calm.

She looked over from where she lay on her back, stretching one of her hands to lightly run her fingers over the sharpened tip of his wing.

Warren watched from his position on his stomach, a fond look coming across his angelic features, one that seemed to creep its way onto his face whenever he was in her presence.

Pale moonlight streamed in from the cracked window just above their heads, Illuminating the strand of her hair that appeared as a sparkling sliver of the Arctic Ocean.

Warren would oftentimes find himself twirling it whenever he would snuggle up to the girl on nights like these, the contrast of the soft texture feeling pleasant on his calloused fingertips. It also shined light on her glorious eyes of the same color, that he could (and has) get lost in for hours, drowning.

A chilly breeze found its way through the glass panel as well, Warren's immediate response to pull her closer, which he did.

His wing that previously was on top of her suddenly curled under her to the best of its ability, pulling her close enough to him to where he could take grip of her with his own strong arms.

She smiled, her sharpened canines glistening faintly in the white hue of the moon's glow.

Then it was quiet for a bit, just some rock song playing softly in the back, accompanied by the howling of the wind. It lulled the pair into a serene state, an implacable emotion filling them up from their tippy toes to the tops of their heads.

And in that moment, with his golden curls all astray, and wings so ethereally spread, she wondered what she was experiencing?

It was love, she had decided. And she could only hope he felt it too.

She, for one, had felt it many times.

Like when she washed his wings for the first time, an incredibly intimate memory she held. She had softly washed away all the dirt and grime, and he had felt comforted to the fullest extent. He had never had someone to help him with that before, and the extra assistance had embarrassed him at first, but now it had become second nature to the pair.

Or perhaps the times that fights in the ring had become too personal for Warren's seemingly stone cold heart to handle alone. The gravity of those he had killed, and the guilt that came from surviving off of it would routinely threaten to crack his confident exterior.

She would spend her time on those days (or more regularly, nights) allowing him to cry to her, to let his emotions break free.

She would never know how much it meant to him.

"Angel?"

He let out a grunt, his emerald eyes staying shut as he shook around his head on the pillow, trying to find a cold spot (as even with the open window, he never could seem to shake the burning sensation that dug deep through the fibers of his body down to his heart and soul).

"Don't ever let anyone touch your wings, alright?"

His eyes opened at that, curiosity getting the best of his sleepy brain that was begging him to just ask what she meant in the morning. But nonetheless he persisted.

"W'dya mean, sweet girl?"

She looked anywhere but his eyes, running fingers across the top of his left wing. He resisted the urge to giggle at the tickly feeling left behind, though she wouldn't have minded if he had let one of his musical laughs slip.

"I'm not quite sure, honestly."

He laughed, her heart fluttering at the sight of his smile.

"I guess," she took a pause, trying to better articulate what she had such a hard time putting into words.

"That mutants still aren't safe. And I don't want you to ever lose your wings. Y'know, have to hide them..." her voice wavered, and it was fairly obvious that not only what she said held more meaning, but that she still had more to say.

"And?" He asked, now fully awake with concern lacing his features. His head was tilted, eyes slanted, while hers was hung, looking to her fumbling hands.

"I just don't want you to get hurt, Warren."

At those words, his expression softened and his wings instinctively spread out to cover the both of them with a loud swoosh.

He pulled her to his bare chest, cradling her head in his arms.

"You have another vision?"

She nodded, her cries muffled, but her tears very much evident as they wet his ivory skin, leaving a shimmery sheen in their wake. “Warren, it was horrible," she cried, turmoil the only thing on her mind.

"Y-your wings were gone and replaced with, with some horrible metal."

"Well, did I at least look bad ass?" He smiles boyishly, and she only frowned and burrowed her head into his chest. His expression became neutral, an unreadable expression plastered on.

"Who did it?"

"I didn't get a name." She sniffles, sitting up and placing her hands on either side of herself. She closed her eyes and turned to the wall, beginning to recall all she could, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

"There's 4 other people-"

"Are you one of them?"

A beat passed, tensions in the cool air began to rise.

"No."

Then there was a sigh from Warren, and he wasn't sure if it was of relief or of a despicable anguish.

"That's him."

Her eyes flew open, her pupils dilating. He said her name, taking hold of both of her hands tightly as if his life depended on it. Which in all honesty, it felt like it did.

"Who is he?"

A single tear slipped down her cheek for her lover, for the world.

She was frozen, fear had infiltrated her completely, every cell, every vein, every muscle.

And thereupon, even Warren's wings couldn't make her feel safe from what was to soon come rain havoc on their lives.

Her voice was only a frightful whisper as she spoke, the usual captivating power it held totally absent. Despite that, there was no room for mistaking what she said, the word remaining completely clear as it fell past her lips.

"Apocalypse."

⚔⚔⚔

ok miss girl! i see u! i did that! i hope u enjoyed that v short angstyness lol. ok now go take an electronics break and drink some water and eat some protein!!!

luv u bye!! xx hj

144 notes · View notes

notyetneedcoffee · 3 years

Text

Soul Seer, pt. 14

Loki Master List

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Naughty Times!

Author’s Note: Takes place right after Avengers 1, with time travel elements and hints of Infinity Wars. Does NOT follow cannon after Avengers.

You dropped your bag on the bed and wondered over to the window. The green meadow and vast forest beyond should have been a welcome site after the devastation of New York or the craziness of DC. Everyone kept saying it would be okay. This was for the best. Still, the hollow pit in your stomach would not go away.

The construction you’d driven through to get to the residence couldn’t be seen from the windows. The soundproofing must be impeccable, too, because you couldn’t hear any of the earth movers or heavy machinery. The windows didn’t open. They were solid black from the outside, but looking out they were nearly invisible.

Stark pulled out all the stops on your new home. Expensive furnishings, lush materials, and Stark Tech filled the apartment. Looking around, you admitted to yourself it was more than you ever could have asked for. You’d never had a bedroom so large. Off the sitting room, a library held books stacked to the ceiling. You even loved the colors.

It still felt empty.

A chime filled the room, followed by the voice of Jarvis. “Miss, Captain Rogers is at the door.”

“Please let him in.”

“Y/N,” Steve called out.

“Just looking around.” You answered, stepping out of the library to meet him in the sitting room.

“You okay?” Steve came closer, rubbing your shoulders.

Swallowing back tears, you tried to offer a smile.

“Hey,” he pulled you into a warm hug. “I know. Everything is different now. Give it some time, it will be okay. Really.” Steve felt you take a breath, ready to give the same argument you’d given a dozen times before. “You trust us, right? We’re not going to let anything bad happen.”

“She’s a smart woman, Captain. Do not make promises you cannot keep. You will try not to let anything bad happen.” Loki’s smooth voice came through the door.

“Loki!” You broke free and dashed into his arms. Your feet came up off the floor as he hefted you close, burying his face in the side of your neck. The feeling of his strong hold anchored you. His presence settled over you like a favorite blanket. It made you melt and gave you strength at the same time.

He set you lightly on your feet as his fingers combed over your hair, cool hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. Loki pressed his lips to your forehead. “It’s only been a few days, my pet. Have you really missed me so?”

You looked up into his smiling face. A frown drew your brows together. “Not getting to see you after that,” you shivered, “performance pissed me off. It wasn’t fair.”

“It was imperative you leave with the agents.” Loki stroked your face. “I wish you had not insisted on being there at all. Even if was not real, it was not a pleasant sight.”

“Sure felt real on my end.” Steve grumbled, even though the corner of his mouth tipped up.

“You agreed, Captain. It had to appear to be a genuine fight, especially to those who provided care to you after the fact.” Loki faced Steve, easily tucking you under his shoulder as you wrapped your arms around his waist.

“I know. I know.” Steve rolled his eyes. “You still pack a painful punch.”

Loki smiled. “As do you, Captain.”

“Well, thanks. I guess.” He chuckled. “Tony has made certain that only the team and Pepper have free access to this building. You’ll receive notice when and where the cleaning or service crews will be around. They are escorted and under surveillance by Jarvis at all times. So, feel free to wander the building. Training facilities and the gym is on the first floor. There’s lounges and entertainment rooms on two, the labs take up all the subfloors, and we all have units on the top three floors.”

“I believe Stark even placed an observatory on the roof.” Loki looked down at your face. “The stars are more visible here than in the city.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Y/N,” Steve buried his hands in his pockets. “Give it a few months and you’ll be able to make contact with your family and friends again. No one will make you break contact, and Tony will make sure you’re kept informed. We just have to protect you from the people that know how much of Loki’s knowledge you have.”

You sighed. “I understand, Steve. I really do.” Looking around, you leaned into Loki a little more. He felt like home. He made this space work. “And I appreciate everything the team is doing, especially you. This takes breaking the rules to a whole new level.”

Loki laughed. “For someone who toes the line, you certainly knew exactly what needed to be done to fake my death.”

Steve’s ear turned pink. “Well, I figure you’re already abiding by the rules of your sovereignty and you will do way more good helping us than sitting in a steel box somewhere. Sometimes doing the right thing doesn’t follow the rules.”

Loki extended a hand. “Thank you for taking care of Y/N in my absence.”

“Anytime.” Steve shook his hand. “I’m, ah, going to head out. Everyone is getting settled in, so we won’t be starting work until after lunch tomorrow.”

“I will see you then.” Loki nodded.

“Thanks, Steve.” You smiled.

As soon as the door closed, Loki’s hands cupped your face as his eyes studied you. “You’ve been weeping, little one.”

“I fell asleep in the car.” You answered honestly. “I dreamt of you dying again.”

“I wish you had not come.” He whispered before his lips covered yours in a soft kiss.

“Show me.” You grasped his wrists. “Show me how you did it. Maybe then I will see it for what it was instead of what the adrenaline imprinted on my memory.”

His forehead touched yours. You never could accurately explain how Loki shared his knowledge. It wasn’t like seeing something new or recalling a memory. You just suddenly knew. It was like having a latent memory triggered by the sight or sound of something. You just knew.

Entering the inquiry, Loki had been himself. One of the SHIELD agents was a magical projection. He indeed fought with the others, though he purposely used flashier magic and moved with less grace. Just before the worst of the battle, Loki bumped into his projection and with a flash, they traded places.

Steve could have fought off the specter-Loki had he wanted. Instead, he faked his effort and succumbed to the choking. As planned, Natasha swept in and killed the specter. The true Loki, stood behind you to keep you calm.

He remained with the team that escorted the ‘body’ to lock down. You were swept away with the team that checked in on the Senators and their people. The bitter taste of impotent anger flooded your senses as you realized how Loki stood passively by as a group of key politicians gawked and scoffed at what they thought was his mutilated corpse.

“Fools.” You spat and rolled your eyes. “They ran like cowards at the first sign of danger. How dare they preen over your body? They wouldn’t last two seconds against you.”

A low rumble vibrated from Loki’s chest. His fingers dug into your hips as his open mouth left a wet kiss and playful bite on your neck. “Mmm,” Loki purred against your skin as he pulled your body hard against his evident need. “You defending my prowess is quite enticing.”

Your fingers wound into his thick hair, tugging his face closer to yours. His large hands lifted you from your feet, fingers digging into the meat of your ass. He moaned when your tongue laved over his lower lip. You whispered, “I will always defend you. You are mine.”

You yelped as Loki tossed you away from him, only to gasp as your suddenly bare ass bounced on the soft sheets of the bed. Just as your jaw snapped shut, he stalked through the portal at you. As his knee sunk into the mattress, the clothes evaporated from his body. The raw hunger in his eyes, caused more than your mouth to water.

Loki captured your ankle in one hand, pulling it up to his mouth. Wet kisses, playful bites, and delicious licks had you quivering before he reached your inner thigh. You laid back, clawing at the sheets as he pushed your legs further apart.

“Mmm, my pet.” His fingers slipped through your wetness, spreading slickness over your sensitive flesh. “So responsive for me.” His talented cool tongue circled your clit before lapping up your juices. “So luscious.”

“Loki…” Your sigh turning to a sudden gasp as Loki’s hand held you down and his mouth latched on to your clit. Fire shot through your veins. Your body writhed, but he held you firm. Somehow, the impossibly strong force of his hand holding you down just pushed your excitement higher. His magic tongue danced over sensitive flesh, lighting your nerve on fire. Loki hummed, low and rich, rocking your body with the vibration.

“Oh fuck!” Tension coiled low in your belly. Loki did not let up, determined to pull ecstasy from you as fast as possible. Two long fingers slipped into you, stroking firmly against the perfect spot. Your back arched. A wicked smile spread across his sex damp face. Fingers pumped harder. A wave broke, washing you in heat, as you came over his hand. “Loki!”

His thick chuckle filled your ears as your body quivered. Loki crawled up your body, raining kisses along your flesh. “I could not wait, pet.” Loki growled against your ear. “I needed to taste your honey.” His cock pressed into you, filling you. “Needed to hear you scream my name.” He hitched your knees up, fucking into you deep. “Yes,” he groaned, “to feel you around me.”

Whining, your finger dug into his shoulders, holding on. Loki set a powerful, fast pace. The crisp forest, clean male and distinctly Loki smell filled your head. The low rumble of his groans brushed you ear. He surrounded you, filled you. So intense. Your breath mixed with his, noses brushing along each other’s.

Loki felt your body coil, felt the heat flush your skin. His hips snapped and you cried out. He pushed your further, barely holding back his own release. Your thighs shook as he dug his fingers into your flesh. His deep timbre rumbled over your cheek, tickling your ear, “Come for me.”

Fire raced down your body, hitting you hard and stealing your breath. Loki moaned, chasing your release with his own. You melted, every bit of tension, every bit pain, washed away leaving you floating despite Loki’s weight pressing you to the mattress.

You stayed wrapped around him, relishing in his body around you, in you, anchoring you.

Loki held you tight, uncertain whether the need to remain close was his own or if it came from you. Either way, he relaxed into the feeling, allowing himself a moment of need. There would be enough work, enough worries, later. For this moment, he could allow you both to forget it all.

TAGS:

@1800-fight-me, @abschaffer2 , @alexakeyloveloki , @archy3001 , @asgardianthot , @asiaaisa77 , @badassbaker , @bangtan-serendipity , @beautifullungs , @buchanansebba , @buckybarneshairpullingkink , @buckybarnesplumwhore , @buckybarnesplumwhore , @daughterofthenight117 , @dawnlaufeyson , @dsakita , @everything-is-awesomesauce , @fangasm202 , @geeksareunique , @girlmadeofivory , @girlmadeofivory , @imma-new-soul , @jesseswartzwelder , @jillilama-blog , @kalesrebellion , @kermittheshipper , @kiki5283 , @kneel-before-queen-loki , @lbouvet , @lovely-lollipops-blog , @messenough , @michelehansel , @mindtravelsx , @morganhoran1671 , @myownviperroom , @night-cereus , @notyourtypicalrose , @osric-the-l3m0n-l0v3-demon , @person-born-winchester , @rainbowkisses31 , @readermia , @rinthehufflepuff , @rogerrhqpsody , @rynabarnesrogers-reading , @sammghgecko , @scarlettsoldier , @sebbysstangirl , @sex-cee-seabasss , @sexyvixen7, @smokeandnailz , @tahiri-veyla , @theladybiers , @theneuropsychwriter , @the-omni-princess , @the-reading-octopus , @thorfanficwriter , @ultracolorfulnerdcollection , @ultrarebelheart , @unadulteratedwizardlove , @vanillabunn21 , @vintageroses1014516 , @vodka-and-some-sass , @wwe-fanfiction-queen , @neverending-space , @saiyanprincessswanie , @a--1--1--3 , @peter-pan-hoe

#loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki smut #loki fan fiction #loki laufeyson x reader

77 notes · View notes

mediocre-writerr · 3 years

Text

we’re going down [leah rilke]

bring us through: leah rilke book

chapter 2: we’re going down

*not my gif*

The private jet was fancier than any plane I’ve ever been on. Seats where your feet weren’t cramped like a bunch of sardines in a sardine can. A smell that doesn’t smell like someone just ate the whole Taco Bell menu before they came on.

It was clean and polished. No spot had a stain, like it was brand new. Perfect as one would say.

Here’s the thing about perfection though: everyone has their own version of perfect.

Here’s the thing about me: I didn’t know that until much more recently.

There were many trials and tribulations with my family, especially when it came to perfection...or well perfection in my dad’s eyes. But somehow, some way, we always came out stronger. There was one time where my mom didn’t get the job we needed to really help our financial situation, and my dad got so angry that she wasn’t perfect that she had to go live with my aunt for a couple months. But when she came back with a new better job, my dad celebrated her. We went to a fancy restaurant in the city and ate the most expensive food on the menu. Then my older sister didn’t marry the guy my dad wanted her to and he disowned her for a few months. Until she came back with more money and a grandkid for our parents. He threw the baby a huge baptism party, spending loads of money buying them a house and the necessities for a baby.

My mom not getting a job? Fixed with a big celebration dinner. My sister not marrying the man my dad wants? Fixed with a huge baptism party and buying them a house.

I’m valedictorian, on the verge of going to the most prestigious school in Texas on a full ride: Rice University. And then right when everything in life seemed to be perfect, I messed everything up. There was no way coming back up from this one.

I was just sitting at the kitchen table during dinner. Eating mom’s classic country fried steak and mashed potatoes with gravy. Occasionally, participating in awkward conversation about how good the food is. I felt like I slept-walked there, barely able to recall the argument before dinner, the yelling, the screaming. Remembering for the thousandth time in the past week, that she was gone.

I sat there awkwardly, waiting for the other foot to drop. That I was just going to get kicked to the curb like everyone else who didn’t follow what my dad has planned for their life. But as my younger brothers went upstairs for bed I recognized something on my dad’s face that I had never seen since they found out. His face dressed in a big smile, like he was just told he’s going to Disney World.

As if on beat, he leaned in closer to me from across the table. And I knew that things were about to go for a crash-landing. His unusual happiness at my disobedience was going to wreck havoc into my life.

He cleared his throat hesitantly as my mother joined us back on the table. His breath smelled like his usual bourbon, “So Raleigh,” he said, crossing his fingers together with my mom’s, “We have a fun surprise for you.”

As if on cue there was a knock on the door. My father gestured for me to go get the door. I opened it revealing Shelby and her parents. I stopped short in my place, both of us frozen with confusion written all over our faces. But her parents had an unfamiliar expression: genuine happiness?

I cleared my throat, trying to piece everything together, “Hi Mr and Mrs. Goodkind. It’s a pleasant surprise. My parents are at the kitchen table.”

I open the door wider for them as the two of them say their hello’s and walk inside, “What’s going on?” I ask Shelby and she shrugs.

“I have no idea,” she whispers back, “But it can’t be good.”

The two of us sat across from our parents, as they stared at us with grins on their faces. But it’s as if the grins had a double meaning to them, “We wanted to talk to the two of you about something. We know the two of you are as thick as thieves, I mean you never shut up about each other.” Mr. Goodkind laughs, trying to ease the awkward tension, but it misses by a longshot.

Me and Shelby laugh along awkwardly, as we look at each other with a side glance. They said fun surprise. Not we’re kicking you out onto the streets. But we knew, from the way that our mom’s wouldn’t look at us or from the way our father’s faces grew more and more stern by the second, that something was about to go down.

My dad fetched something from his office. Two envelopes with our name scrawled across it, with a pamphlet in his name. The pamphlet in big bold letters saying: Dawn of Eve.

“We want you to have this,” my dad says, “It’s a gift for the two of you.”

We slowly opened the envelopes revealing a plane ticket to Hawaii, along with an itinerary, “It’s a retreat,” my mom blurted, “A beautiful month trip to Hawaii with other girls around your age. You’ll love it. Find your true self. Growing.”

Mrs. Goodkind chimes in, “Aromatherapy messages, swimming with dolphins, workshops!”

“A chance for the two of you girls to discover who you’re really ought to be.” Mr. Goodkind says.

And at that point I knew. It wasn’t just any retreat, it was a retreat to get our shit together.

I closed the overhead container, like closing the container would shut out the memories too. Looking for a distraction, I opened up Instagram on my phone scrolling through various posts of people back home and celebrities flaunting off their life.

Everyone seemed to have taken their seats. The brunette with a book sat in the back away from everyone else, holding onto the book like her life depended on it. The ‘put on your seatbelt’ sign flashed above us, as a video began playing on the screen in front of us.

“Right now, hundreds of girls just like yourselves, board charters just like this one, are on route to our retreat in Kona, Hawaii.” the middle-aged lady said.

But I wasn’t quite focused on that, but rather the girl in the back all by herself. She was staring blankly at the seat in front of her, not paying attention to anyone in the plane or the video.

“The Dawn of Eve literally waits for no man.” the lady says, causing me to catch my attention.

I looked at my best friend who was captivated by the video. I give her a look and she just shrugs. The air on the plane was tense as we lifted off into the air. It seemed like nobody wanted to be here. So Shelby did what she did best.

“I’m gonna start an icebreaker to get to know everyone.” she states, starting to get up from out of her seat.

I pull her back down as fast as I could, “Shelb, really? We’re not on a mission.”

But she just pulled out of my grasp standing up. I let out a sigh, even though everyone would hate this idea, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t support her? “So, in the interest of bringing us all together I would like to propose a little ice breaker.”

I could literally feel everyone’s eye roll in the room. An asian girl with bangs stood up suggesting ‘Never Have I Ever’. But of course peppy Shelby shot down her suggestion. She was never one for those types of games. Especially with all of the secrets she keeps hidden inside.

“Alright I’m gonna start with an introduction and play matchmaker,” she says walking up and down the aisle.

I was trying to pay attention to Shelby, but for some reason I kept looking back at that beautiful brunette. Who did not seem to be interested in anything Shelby was saying. Her nose still knee-deep in that book of hers, curled onto her side, reading like it was life or death.

“And this is my best friend Raleigh Fuller,” my best friend says, snapping out of my trance. She looks at you with the look as she follows your gaze to the girl in the back, “We’re from Dillon, Texas.”

She grabs my hand, dragging me all the way towards the back, sitting next to the girl, “You two will be paired up together. Have fun you two.” she says to me with a wink before walking back down the aisle.

The brunette didn’t acknowledge me though, but rather kept reading her book. I cleared my throat, awkwardly, trying to gain her attention.

“The Nature Of Her? By Jeffrey Galanis.” I said, squinting at the book cover across from me.

That seemed to have caught her attention, “You’ve read it?”

“No. I actually never heard of it, but it seems like it’s interesting. If you’ve been having your nose stuffed in since I accidentally ran into you.” I say jokingly with a small smile.

The flight attendant came by with a cart full of chocolate cake. We both thank him softly, before indulging in the richness of the cake.

She didn’t respond after that all she did was stick her nose in her book again. But it seemed like she wasn’t even reading the pages. After three seconds she’s already flipping onto another page.

I cleared my throat, scratching the back of my neck. I mean what am I supposed to say? The girl clearly didn’t want to be bothered. It’s like the writing in those pages were magical. The old me would just sit back in the leather private jet chair, feeling sorry for myself about her completely ignoring me. Probably thinking something like: wow, I guess I’m really not cool. Or spit out a random fact since that’s all I know like: competitive art used to be in the Olympics.

But that past me was probably dug next to the old Taylor Swift’s grave. The lyric that goes: “I’m sorry the old Taylor can’t come to the phone right now...why? Cause she’s dead.” Yeah that’s how I’m feeling on the inside, so instead I say, “You know it’s kinda rude that we’re supposed to be having a conversation, but you’re completely ignoring me.”

She let out a laugh and took one glance up from the book. Finally being met with her bright blue eyes, “Does it look like I want to be bothered right now?”

“No, but it looks like you’re reading the same page over and over again. Like it’s the only thing that can keep your heart beating,” I said, “What’s so interesting about that book anyway?”

She studied me for a brief moment. Her eyes leave the pages of that book for more than five seconds.

Finally, she said, “Look, it’s one of my favorite books. But I don’t think there’s a rule against rereading your favorite book over and over again. That’s like me telling you that you can’t read Wuthering Heights over and over again.”

Now it was my turn to stare at the girl.

She was right. She may have been a closed off book, but so was I. I used to be one of those people who would kill to ask thousands of questions about what that book was about. Or why she loved it so much. I would love to join in and lead on Shelby’s icebreakers. But now? Sometimes, I don’t even want to talk to Shelby.

I wanted to apologize for my comments. These days, I can’t control my own emotions or what I want to say anymore.

I’m sorry, I imagined myself saying, I’m sorry that I was a complete pain in the butt. I didn’t mean to judge you and how invested you are in that book. My parents found out my deepest darkest secret. And instead of accepting me with open loving arms they decided to send me to a retreat. A retreat in which I’m pretty sure is a conversion therapy camp, but they don’t want to say that out loud. So they call it a fun surprise for me and my best friend. While the girl I fell in love with is just gone. I used to be this bright bubbly girl, but now I’m not. So, please forgive me for my behavior since you probably don’t want to be here either.

That’s a little TMI, don’t you think?

I open my mouth and start to utter those meaningless two words when my best friend came rushing past.

“Shelby? Where are you going?” I ask, surprised at how fast she was moving.

“I got chocolate cake in my teeth.” she mumbles, covering her face in her hand and I immediately got the message.

“Ah got it.”

Shelby rushed back into the bathroom and I turned to the brunette in front of me again. The closed-book of a girl, opening my mouth once more ready to mumble the two most overused words. But the plane started shaking, jolting us back and forth. The two of us look at each other, tilting our heads to the side.

“Hello everyone. We’re experiencing a little turbulence.” The plane continued to jolt and it seemed like more than just a little turbulence, “Actually a lot of turbulence!” the pilot yells.

The lights flashing on and off. The brunette just shoved her face back in the book. This could be our last moments on Earth and she’s still reading that book! I get up from out of my seat, banging on the bathroom door.

“Shelby! Open the door!” I yell.

My blonde best friend came bursting out and she fell onto her knees on the floor. Praying to the God she still whole-heartedly believed in. I fell down on the ground next to her, holding her in my arms as she prayed. I didn’t pray, but rather sat there thinking that this was the end.

#leah rilke #leah rilke imagine #leah rilke x reader #leah rilke fanfiction #leah rilke book

39 notes · View notes