Wanting things he couldn’t get was a reoccurring theme of Tim Drake’s life. One might argue that it was a part of everyone’s life, but Tim believed that it repeated itself often enough in his life to be elevated to that of motif or possibly even TV Trope entry.
When he was a boy, Tim had wanted siblings, a brother or sister be friends with. He had wanted a pet to fill the emptiness of the house. He had wanted parents who acknowledged his existence. He had wanted someone around to just give him a hug every now and then.
Then he had grown and had wanted nothing more than to be a part of the mysterious family next door. To swing across rooftops with them. To make a difference with them. To help relieve some of the reckless, self-destructive pain he saw. And those wants had been granted for a time, only to now be ripped away again, and Tim found himself wanting fiercely to stay stay stay stay stay let me stay. That seemed about as likely as Jack and Janet Drake rising from their graves and scooping him up into a warm group hug. So, ever the pragmatist, Tim had wrapped that wish up and tucked it deep with all of his other deferred hopes and dreams.
But that didn’t mean that he stopped wishing entirely. Even when his big dreams faltered and collapsed, Tim kept himself buoyed with little desires, like narrow sandbars that lifted him just enough above the current to save him from being dragged under. He never stopped hoping. Never stoped dreaming. Never stopped wanting even though his life was nothing more than an unbroken string of denials and setbacks.
Over the past week and a half, Tim had kept himself afloat by daydreaming about pushing Charles Drake out a window. Or maybe stamping “I support industrialized logging” onto his forehead and dropping him off on Pamela Isley’s doorstep. Tim did his best not to be picky.
He had done his best to avoid his uncle over the past week and a half, a difficult task since Charles was ostensibly in town for him. Not that Charles was at all interested in being a supportive, caring uncle. He kept in nearly constant contact with Tim, but there were no words of condolence, no apologies for being absent for literally Tim’s entire life, no gestures of comfort. No, Charles Drake didn’t seem capable of that sort of emotional labor. What he was very capable at was giving orders.
Timothy, you’ll be sitting with me at the service. Timothy, we’ll see to getting your father a proper headstone. Timothy, you will return to my hotel after the burial; no need to impose on Mr. Wayne any longer. Timothy, send my secretary your vital statistics for the custody arrangement. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy—
It was enough to make Tim consider changing his own name. Not that that would completely help. Charles had called him Tom the first time they had met inside the church, and Tim could only thank the stars that none of the team had been in earshot. He was used to being insignificant, but to be so insignificant that your closest living relative didn’t even know your own name? Pathetic.
Well, Charles was more than making up for the name swap now. Timothy, Timothy, Timothy…
A few years ago, Tim might have immediately folded under the barrage of orders. But after a few years withstanding the gauntlet of Bruce, Dick, and Damian, he at least managed to sink at a slow enough speed that it looked like his own choice. Rather than abandoning Wayne Manor entirely, for example, Tim moved back into his own house to devote his full attention to cataloguing its contents for the estate sale. He had resisted the little commands Charles gave as best he could when he thought they were wrong or unhelpful. He had avoided all talk of custody and had “forgotten” to contact Charles’s secretary.
But he was so tired, and every time Tim resisted Charles’s domineering ways, he had a little less to give. Now, after eleven days of text and phone calls, Charles had bestirred himself to come to the Drake family home. Tim still wasn’t sure why. Between his inability to concentrate and Charles’s propensity to drone on, he had only caught every third word.
Tim leaned against the edge of the dining table and fiddled with a teaspoon, watching mesmerized as the sunlight flashed off the silver. For kicks, he made it flash out SOS, which tempted a tiny smile to his lips, but the expression was gone almost as soon as it appeared. The part of his brain that was monitoring his uncle relayed that Charles was telling some unnecessary anecdote about a horse race and a dog-faced woman. Or a dog race and a horse-faced woman? Whatever.
Tim carefully placed the teaspoon in the box next to him and rubbed at his eyes. Moving back to the mansion had been a mistake. Wayne Manor was no party central, but its veins still thrummed with living, breathing people. The Drake estate was nothing more than a shrouded corpse, Tim a virus clinging to a life source that had gone dark. He spent his days packing and cataloguing and trying not to run face first into the memories that crowded the halls. He spent his nights clinging unabashedly to the stuffed bear he had brought from Cass’s pile and trying not to suffocate under the layer of ghosts and dust entombing his bed.
“I still don’t understand why you insist on doing this unnecessary work yourself.”
Tim choked back a sigh. What was unnecessary about saying goodbye to the last pieces of his entire life? The house needed to be sold. He and Charles both agreed on that. What did the man care if Tim was the one to prepare it?
“This is my house,” Tim explained for what felt like the tenth time. “These are my parents’ things. I want to do it.”
Mine. MY house. MY parents. I have so few things left to me, so let me do with them what I want.
Tim’s brow creased as Charles picked up the teapot he had been polishing, scraping its foot against the lacquered tabletop in the process. For a moment, he pictured… No. He was too tired to even summon up a satisfying fantasy scenario. All he could enjoy was a momentary homicidal fizzle, and then he was left with the cold hunk of ice in his chest.
“As long as this mess is wrapped up quickly,” Charles drawled as he checked his teeth in the reflection of the teapot.
Another fizzle of rage, and Tim’s jaw clenched. Maybe this was the moment when he would finally put his foot down, tell Charles to clear out and go home, that rats weren’t welcome under this roof.
“We have tickets on the 10 AM flight back to the West Coast on Sunday. Anything you haven’t finished by then can be taken care of by someone else. I have a board meeting Monday morning that I will not miss.”
We?
Had Charles managed to wrangle custody from a judge, then? Even as Tim wondered, he knew what a foolish question that was. Charles Drake didn’t need Tim’s permission or cooperation to take over. He was a close relative, didn’t have an egregious criminal record, and he had the means to take in a stray. What judge would say no?
Tim’s hand gripped the edge of the table as his knees quivered. Leave Gotham? Leave the Waynes? Even though he had told Damian that was the most likely outcome, he had thought… he had hoped…
“I can’t leave.” Even to his own ears, Tim’s voice sounded strained and so very young. “My… my life is here. I live here. In Gotham.”
My home is here. My family is here. EVERYTHING is HERE.
“Don’t be silly,” came Charles’s immediate reply. “There’s nothing for you here. Your parents are dead. Your belongings are being sold. I’ve arranged a buyer for the house, and your father’s assets will be liquidated and held in trust for you until you come of age, with me as your legal trustee and guardian. What could you possibly have to keep you in this dismal little city?”
Batman! Batman needs me! HE was the one who had saved Bruce from himself after Jason had died. HE was the one who had pulled Bruce from the time vortex. Tim had spent the last few years doing everything he could to be indispensable to Bruce, and if he had to have faith in anything, he would have faith in that.
In his anger and panic, Tim only barely managed to catch himself from saying just that to Charles. Instead, he choked back Batman’s name and instead countered, “What about Bruce and the Waynes?”
Tim knew Charles hated Bruce the way a tall man hates a taller man. He wasn’t used to being cast in someone else’s shadow. But he also knew Charles knew to fear Bruce in Bruce’s own city. So Tim expected some consideration at best, annoyance at worst.
Tim hadn’t expected Charles to laugh right in his face.
“Don’t be silly.” Charles waved the teapot dismissively, then set it down on the table. Tim immediately snatched it back up and placed it in the box where it belonged. “Your internship can be transferred to my company. I’m sure we can find a place for you at Drake Holdings.”
Tim tried to explain that he couldn’t just leave. He owed them more than that. Surely Charles would understand the concept of that debt? They were his family. Family wasn’t supposed to just leave.
“They’ll be happy to be rid of you, I’m sure.”
Tim’s breath stuttered as his uncle spoke into the dust-flecked air the words that had wallpapered his nightmares for as long as he could remember. It almost would have been easier to take if Charles had spoken angrily, but he didn’t even look at Tim. His gaze was off somewhere over Tim’s shoulder, as if Tim wasn’t worth the effort of eye contact. As if they were two awkward acquaintances at a dinner party neither had wanted to attend.
“Bruce Wayne is a powerful and busy man, and as one myself, you can take my word that he will not mind in the slightest. Do you honestly think he’ll be sorry to no longer have you underfoot? You were a nuisance that he took in—well, come to think of it, I don’t know why. Charity, perhaps. Or a rich man’s whim. Whatever the case, he will be pleased to have his home free of interlopers.”
Once, on patrol, Tim had gotten separated from the other birds in a fight. It had gone pretty well, considering how badly he’d been outnumbered, until his foot had hit some loose asphalt chunks and he’d gone sprawling. The breath had been knocked out of him, and before he could struggle back to his feet, he’d been encircled by three thugs who then proceeded to kick the living snot out of him. It had been terrifying and painful. He’d been bedridden for days. Had had nightmares for weeks.
This was a hundred times worse, each of Charles’s words more painful than any steel-toed boot to the ribs. At least then he had known he just had to hold out for Batman to rescue him. Now, he was alone.
Bruce Wayne won’t mind.
Would he? Would Bruce mind? Or would Tim’s disappearance cause not so much as a ripple on the surface of Wayne Manor?
Underfoot… a nuisance… a charity case… a rich man’s whim…
Tim’s shoulders curled in under the verbal blows, and he pressed his palm against his rib cage. He pictured the team sprawled on the couch in the den for movie night, happily taking up the extra space he’d left behind. He pictured Bruce’s sigh of relief at the peace his absence left. No more fights with Damian. No more tension with Dick. No more surprise attacks from Jason. He pictured his room at Wayne Manor empty. Or worse, filled by another boy. Someone smarter, funnier, stronger, better.
Tim’s chest heaved with panic. He was down and he was trapped and no one was coming for him and no one would miss him and Charles was calling him an interloper and hearing someone else use Damian’s pet slur was like taking an uppercut when he already couldn’t breathe and—
“I had no idea we were so close that you could presume to know my wishes, Charlie.” Both Charles and Tim jumped as Bruce’s well-cultured voice spoke from the previously empty space near the kitchen.
Charles turned to answer, his embarrassment already smoothed over by a phony smile, and Tim tried to use the moment to regain his composure. How much had Bruce heard? Enough, by the low growl under his words, but what did he object to? What Charles had said or that he had been crass enough to say it? Tim swallowed hard against the rising sick in the back of his throat, only to nearly startle again when Bruce stepped around Charles and placed a tray on the table next to Tim.
“Alfred sent me with lunch and instructions to extract a promise that you’ll be over at five for dinner. He wants your opinion on the sauce for the pasta puttanesca.” The words were gentle, not pitying, but kind, but Tim couldn’t meet Bruce’s eyes.
Tim nodded, gaze on his feet, then froze as a large hand settled on his shoulder and squeezed. He could count on one hand the number of times Bruce had touched him in a non-emergency situation, and half of those had happened since Jack’s initial illness. Bruce Wayne did not do physical affection. Sitting with Tim on his dead father’s bed or holding his hand as he cried himself to sleep was one thing. But Tim wasn’t crying. Charles was here watching. And Bruce was two days shy of being free of Tim for good.
Bruce kept his hand on Tim’s shoulder even as he pivoted to talk to Charles. Tim was deaf to their argument, his focus on the warmth spreading through his shoulder by that inexplicable hand. Or, not entirely deaf. He heard what they were saying—what Bruce was saying—but the words didn’t make sense.
Brightened my home… a comfort… happy to keep… never been in my way… leave him…
Was he dreaming? Or dead? Had he died instead of Jack? Because that was the only explanation for those words coming out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth about anyone, but especially about Tim. But Tim could still feel Bruce’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him away from Charles and behind Bruce’s broad back, sheltering him from view. Then Bruce let go to step toward Charles, and the sudden absence snapped Tim back into focus.
“What’s Tim’s favorite brand of coffee?”
What? Tim thought even as Charles echoed the question aloud.
“Coffee,” Bruce snapped. “Favorite brand. Come on, that’s an easy one. Something any family of Tim’s would know. No? What about his favorite movie?”
“Bruce?” Tim took a small step forward, ready to reel Bruce back in. But Bruce was just getting started, and for every question he asked, he took another step forward, driving Charles back and away from Tim.
“What does he want to do with his life? Where does he want to go to college? What’s his favorite flavor Skittle? Come on!”
Bruce’s shoulders were tight with rage, making Tim’s eyes go wide. What was this? Bruce didn’t lose control. It wasn’t part of his persona. Heck, he hadn’t seen Batman lose control since Jason, and that was only because Bruce had thought he’d lost his son.
“Bruce?” Tim tried again, louder this time, only to jerk backward as Bruce drove one powerful forearm against Charles’s chest and pinned the other man to the wall.
“What’s his middle name?” Bruce demanded, nearly shouting now. “WHAT’S YOUR NEPHEW’S MIDDLE NAME, CHARLES?”
Tim couldn’t let him hurt Charles. Not because he cared about Charles, but because he cared about Bruce, and attacking another person was not something Bruce Wayne did out of the cowl.
“Bruce!” Tim cried, springing forward. “Bruce, stop! Let him go! Bruce! BRUCE!”
He managed to get ahold of Bruce’s other arm and used his full body weight to yank the older man backward. Geez, Bruce was shaking. Tim pulled him back to the table, as far away as he could from Charles, letting go only when Bruce’s broad shoulders deflated and slumped.
“I’m sorry, Tim,” Bruce said, his voice no louder than a whisper now. “I told myself that this had to be your decision and no one else’s. I don’t want to make it for you.”
Tim held perfectly still as Bruce reached out and cradled the side of his face with his hand. One large, calloused thumb rubbed against Tim’s cheekbone gently, as if wiping away tears that weren’t there. Not now, anyways.
Bruce, don’t. Don’t be nice to me then send me away. I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I—
“I’d fight for you.”
Tim’s eyes flew up to meet Bruce’s. Bruce’s blue gaze was steady and clear and… Soft. Almost sad, the way he looked sometimes when Dick would fall asleep in the living room after a long night of patrol. If he thought no one was looking, Bruce would stand at the end of the couch and gaze down at his eldest like he thought Dick would disappear at any moment. Or had disappeared, only to come back as someone new. Like he was proud and resigned all at the same time. But that made sense. That was Dick, a boy Bruce loved more than his own life, a boy he had watch grow up from a gap-toothed circus orphan to a full-grown man. Tim… wasn’t. He was just Tim. Why would Bruce look at him that way?
“If you wanted to stay, I’d fight for you, and I promise you that I’d win. But this is your life and your choice. And he is your uncle.”
He’s your family, Tim’s brain supplied. That’s what Bruce meant. But also, I could be your family, too.
Tim could have basked in that moment for a lifetime, but Charles had found his tongue, so Tim cut him off before he could draw Bruce’s attention away again.
“He’s a douchebag.” Tim’s voice wobbled, but he swallowed and kept going. Look at me, Bruce. Pay attention to me.
“My dad didn’t even like him. Always said he was an opportunistic parasite with bad taste in opera and worse taste in wives. They hadn’t even talked in years.”
Tim bit out each word with spiteful glee, deepening his voice just enough to echo Jack’s disdain, and then delighting in the whisper of a smile on Bruce’s lips.
Bruce’s hand was still on his face, so Tim reached up and placed his own hand atop Bruce’s. Don’t go. Don’t let me go.
He wasn’t too proud to beg. “Can I really stay, Bruce? I want to stay. I never wanted to go, but I thought I had to. Please let me stay.”
Please don’t let me be alone. I want to stay. I need to stay. You’re my family, please please please, Bruce, don’t leave me, too.
Tim choked back a sob as Bruce moved his hand, but instead of releasing him as Tim had feared, instead Bruce pulled Tim into a tight hug. “Of course you can. You will always have a home with me.”
Entire body shaking with silent tears, Tim threw his arms around Bruce and buried his face in Bruce’s chest. Bruce’s arms enveloped him, and Tim sobbed in earnest. His nose filled with Bruce’s subtle aftershave, the laundry detergent Alfred used to make everything feel soft and clean, the faint hint of diesel fuel and leather. This was right. This was home.
Tim had thought finding his place would feel different somehow. Like in the moment he took Bruce’s hand and they strode out of the Drake estate toward the Manor, there would be this great rending of reality, forever hewing his life into Before and After.
And he was right. Because no matter what happened now, he knew Bruce would never let him go. He had a family. A place to belong. A home. He was not alone.
——-
Thanks for reading! Please see the AO3 version’s end notes for the little Jason snippet I couldn’t make fit into the final fic.
Izuku caught his breath, feeling his gut twist with fear and horrified awe as he watched Touya rise into the air, propelled upwards by concentrated blasts of blue flame, the same technique he’d seen used by both Endeavor with his flames and Kacchan with his explosions
“He can fly?!” he cried aloud, to no one in particular, at least as far as he could tell. He could sense the presence of other people around him, but he couldn’t see them. The only person he couldsee was Shoto, across the battlefield from him, struggling to his feet while bleeding from a dozen nasty looking wounds.
Up above their heads, so far that he looked like nothing but a tiny black speck, Izuku saw Touya cease moving and hold himself still, hovering in mid air. He swore he could feel his cold blue gaze on him, and he realized that he must have been scanning the battlefield below him, searching for… something. Suddenly, he dived, and Izuku realized what- or rather who- he was after a split second too late.
“Shoto!” he screamed, calling up One For All to launch himself across the battlefield toward him, desperate to reach him before Touya did, knowing what he would do to him if he got his hands on him. He was half a second too late, his fingertips just brushing the fabric of Shoto’s costume before Touya snatched him away.
“No!” Izuku cried, and gave chase, using Float to pursue Touya as he returned to the air with Shoto in tow. He still didn’t have a lot of experience using Nana Shimura’s quirk, but he didn’t care. He had to catch Touya before he reached the apex of his flight with Shoto. He knew with sickening certainty what he would do once that point was reached, and he was even more certain that he couldn’t allow it to happen. He couldn’t lose Shoto. Not like this.
“Give him back!” he yelled, putting on a burst of speed to get within shouting distance of Touya, doing his best to supress the sudden flashbacks he had to the last time he’d been in a situation like this. Touya suddenly jerked upright and came to a halt, hovering in place, his fingers curled menacingly around Shoto’s neck.
“ ‘Give him back’?” he asked mockingly, parroting Izuku’s words back at him. “Alright then. Catch.” With a strength that was surprising, considering his thin, seemingly close to emaciated frame, he gripped Shoto by the collar and hurled him into the space between himself and Izuku, whereupon gravity immediately took over to pull him toward the ground far below them. Izuku moved quickly to intercept him, but his relative inexperience with Float proved to be his downfall- he didn’t know how to brace himself against impacts in midair, and when Shoto slammed into him, the jolt of the collision drove them apart, and though Izuku reached desperately for Shoto as he began to fall again, his hand closed on empty air. Then, in one final act of malice, Touya hurled a fireball at Shoto as he fell. He screamed in agony as he ignited with fire not his own, and his plummeted to the ground, burning like a phoenix as he fell. But unlike a phoenix, he would not rise again.
“Shoto!” Izuku cried, sitting bolt upright in bed. Beside him, there came the quiet rustle of sheets, and then Shoto’s arms were around him, drawing him gently back down onto the bed.
“Ssssh,” he whispered in Izuku’s ear, his warm breath tickling his neck. “It’s alright. I’m here.” A broken sob clawed its way out of Izuku’s chest, and he rolled over to cling tightly to Shoto, his overactive amygdala refusing to let him accept that the nightmare was over until he could hold the man he loved in his arms and feel him breathe and know that he was okay.
“It’s alright,” Shoto whispered, rubbing soothing circles on Izuku’s back as he cried. “It’s alright. I’m here. I’m okay.” Izuku choked back another sob at that, this one of relief. Shoto continued to rub his back and murmur reassurances, the creature comforts he was in desperate need of in that moment, until at last he was able to regain his composure.
“Nightmare?” Shoto asked softly once he’d calmed.
“Yeah,” Izkuk whispered hoarsely.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Shoto asked, running his fingers through Izuku’s hair.
“No,” he said, wrapping his arms more tightly around Shoto and leaning further into the protective circle of his embrace. “I just want you to hold me.”
“Stay still and let me take care of you,” Greg growled and pushed Mycroft to sit on the edge of the bed.
Mycroft protested, “I’m fine, Greg! It’s just a scratch, stop making such a big deal about it, aouch!”
Greg had just poked at the spot where Mycroft’s shirt was stained with blood and raised an eyebrow at Mycroft’s reaction, “It’s just a scratch, right? Show me.”
Mycroft began to protest and Greg interrupted him, “Right now!”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mycroft began to lift his shirt and couldn’t hold back a wince as the shirt peeled away from the wound.
“Mycroft, you’ve got to be kidding me, this is more than a scratch! Don’t move!”
Greg rushed to the bathroom and returned with a wound care kit.
“What the hell happened? And don’t lie to me, okay?”
While Greg prepared the material to treat the wound, Mycroft told him how a hitman had infiltrated a diplomatic meeting he was attending.
“Let’s just say that I found myself in the path of one of his bullets.
Greg didn’t let Mycroft’s deflective tone faze him and said coldly, "You were lucky, a few inches to the right and you’d probably be dead.” Before applying a disinfectant pad, he continued, “This is going to hurt."
Mycroft could not hold back a gasp of pain as Greg applied the compress. He instinctively grabbed Greg’s forearm, digging his nails into their flesh. Once the brief moment of pain passed, he released Greg’s arm from his grip.
His gaze fell on Greg’s tense face as he continued to tend to his wound.
Without a word, he got up and went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and a painkiller that he handed to Mycroft, still without a word.
Once the glass was empty, Mycroft put it on the nightstand and pulled Greg towards him, "Greg? Talk to me.”
Greg muttered something through his teeth that Mycroft didn’t understand.
He pulled him to sit next to him and said softly, “Can you repeat that please.”
Greg looked up at him and said more distinctly, “I almost lost you,” his voice breaking at the end of his sentence.
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft replied.
Greg shook his head, “You can’t help it, we both have professions that put us in danger more than twice. We both live with it, it’s just that sometimes, like today, I’m confronted with what it really means.”
Mycroft nodded and moved back until he was sitting against the headboard and then reached out his arm to Greg.
Greg snuggled up to Mycroft, resting his head on his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heart, as if to feel that he was alive and well, safe and sound with him.
After a moment, Greg whispered, “The most horrible thing I can think of is a life without you, so please don’t force me to live it.”
Mycroft kissed his hair and replied softly, “I’ll do my best.”
He made no promises.
Greg wouldn’t have believed it anyway.
They both knew that given the content of their respective work, anything was possible.
Their only constant, their only certainty, was the strength of their love.
Mycroft and Greg were headed to the Holmes residence.
Having learned that Mycroft had someone in his life, Mycroft’s mother had insisted on a small family reunion, arguing that it was the perfect opportunity to get to know Greg. As they walked, Mycroft noticed Greg’s pace slowing, he looked at him and caught his tense expression.
“Greg?"
Greg continued to walk and answered, still staring ahead.
"Hmm?”
Mycroft asked, concerned, “Are you okay?”
Greg turned his head toward him and replied, “I’m fine.”
“Really?” insisted Mycroft.
“Yes.” Greg replied rather curtly. But Mycroft didn’t take offense - he knew Greg well and knew his tone was hiding something else. Turning his gaze to the house at the end of the road, he said softly, “She doesn’t bite, you know.”
Greg paused and turned to Mycroft as he replied, “I know, well no, actually I don’t, but… She’s your mother and considering the way you and Sherlock treated me at first, I think I’m entitled to be a little nervous right?”
Carefully, Mycroft took Greg’s hand and rubbed the back of it with his thumb in a way that was meant to be reassuring.
“Greg, I’m pretty sure you have nothing to worry about.”
Greg gave a small nod and a half-smile, but Mycroft saw that he hadn’t convinced him.
He leaned over to look him straight in the eye and said in a determined voice, “I mean it, you know!”
“I know you mean it, but you can’t speak for her.”
“Are you really that nervous?” asked Mycroft.
Greg turned his head away, doing his best to hide his embarrassment.
“Are you serious? This is the second time in my life I’ve been introduced to the parents of someone I care about and the first time wasn’t exactly stellar.” He preferred not to think about his ex-in-laws.
“I understand, but I really want to ease your mind. I swear I have no doubt that my mother will love you. Besides, in my opinion, she already loves you without knowing you."
Greg chuckled softly, "That doesn’t reassure me. She might as well be disappointed in getting to know me. I might not live up to her expectations.”
Mycroft couldn’t resist taking Greg in his arms and whispered against his hair, “No risk. In his eyes, you are already a saint because you ended his poor son’s long life of loneliness. Thanks to you her son has finally found someone capable of loving him.”
He felt Greg chuckle at him and mutter, “That’s absurd. There’s nothing easier than loving you.”
Mycroft gasped. Count on Greg to make that kind of statement to him out of the blue.
Then Greg stepped back a little and put on a serious expression, “Seriously Mycroft, what if she doesn’t love me?”.
Mycroft refused to consider it and shook his head, “It’s not possible.
"I’m serious,” Greg said abruptly, “If she doesn’t like me, what does that mean for us?”
Mycroft finally understood the real worry behind this, the visceral fear of losing him. He put his hands on Greg’s shoulders and answered firmly, “It won’t change anything for us. I’m not going to stop loving you, even if my mother doesn’t, which is completely unlikely, I insist.”
Mycroft leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss on the forehead, “I love you Greg, and nothing will change that. My mother never tried to change my mind about anything, because she knew I would react the opposite way. But you know, I’m sure she’ll realize something right away when she sees me.”
Greg looked up at Mycroft, puzzled.
“What?”
Mycroft looked at him fondly, “That you simply make me happy.”
Greg said nothing for a long moment, then he took Mycroft’s hand in his and brought it gently to his lips, “It’s mutual.”
“So, are you ready?” asked Mycroft.
Greg looked up at him again and, standing on his tiptoes, kissed him gently on the lips. Then, taking a deep breath, he grabbed Mycroft’s hand and said in a firm tone, “Let’s go.”
He had Mycroft’s love, he had nothing and no one to fear.
Awakened by a ray of sunlight streaming through the shutters, Greg turned in Mycroft’s arms and admired the light playing on his beautiful lover’s features. A feeling of possession came over him even though he knew Mycroft would never be his.
He had sensed a deep sadness in Mycroft the day before but Greg knew he would never tell him what it was.
Greg let himself feel a little melancholy.
He had his soulmate in front of him and knew he couldn’t tell him anything. The worst part was that he could feel their bond growing stronger. Mycroft’s sadness was becoming his own and Greg didn’t know what to do with it.
He whispered, “If you let me in, I’ll take care of you and you’ll never be sad again.”
Suddenly, Greg froze because Mycroft had moved slightly. He hoped that Mycroft hadn’t heard anything. A few seconds later, Greg sighed with relief, Mycroft still looked asleep.
He was so perfect for him. Greg had never felt such harmony with anyone in this way.
Every day discovering new things about his partner.
This was probably one of the things Mycroft enjoyed most about his relationship with Greg.
He had recently discovered that Greg had a slight fixation on his mouth.
Since Mycroft was not a saint, he had stored the information in a corner of his head for later.
Later being tonight as they ate their dessert in the kitchen.
Mycroft was taking great pleasure in ostensibly tasting each spoonful of his creme brulee. Licking each time the spoon much more slowly and longer than necessary while staring at Greg.
Now he could see Greg’s gaze intermittently glide over his lips before quickly looking away.
Of course, Mycroft continued, seeing Greg’s cheeks turn slightly pink, his eyes clouded with desire and his breath quickening as he continued.
He looked into his eyes, innocently licking a small bit of creme brulee that had remained at the corners of his lips and raised a candid eyebrow at Greg, “ Is something wrong Gregory?”
Greg, his voice hoarse with wanting, replied, “Don’t look at me like that. With that deceptively innocent look on your face when you know exactly what you’re doing.”
Mycroft retorted, licking his spoon in a perfectly indecent manner, “And you, if you don’t stop looking at my lips without doing anything, I’m going to take you right here on this counter.”
Greg’s eyes widened and then slowly took on a mischievous gleam.
He crossed his arms, continued to stare at Mycroft’s lips, but did nothing.
Two things that were no longer part of Mycroft’s life.
Because Greg was warmth and life.
Even after a year of living together, Mycroft still marveled at the changes that Greg’s presence brought to his life.
Warmth.
He pressed himself imperceptibly a little more against Greg, feeling the warmth that emanates from his body, even through his clothes.
Mycroft did not want to get up, their bed was so warm and comfortable.
Because Greg made it so warm and comfortable.
Mycroft can’t help but put his arms around Greg, wanting to feel his warmth even more.
“What’s wrong?” Greg mumbled in a sleepy voice against his hair.
“Nothing darling, go back to sleep,” he replied softly, turning his head to kiss Greg’s shoulder.
Greg turned in Mycroft’s arms to wrap his arms around him in turn and Mycroft felt his smile against his forehead.
Greg’s smile, as warm as his body.
The smile that warmed Mycroft’s coldest and darkest days.
Mycroft couldn’t help but smile back and settled into the embrace. His eyes closed, sleep already coming back and he sighed in contentment.
Happy in the warm embrace of his beloved.
Life.
Mycroft had once enjoyed the silence, or rather he had become accustomed to it by force of circumstance.
An empty and silent apartment.
An empty, silent bed.
Falling asleep and waking up in silence.
Now when Mycroft woke up, he was immediately aware of Greg’s presence next to him, by the little puffs of air next to him, the little noises he made when he woke up.
“Good morning, Mycroft.”
By this sound every morning, Greg’s voice hoarse or not from sleep, sweet music to Mycroft’s ears.
All these sounds he now associates with Greg.
In the bathroom, the kitchen, everywhere in Mycroft’s life.
Life.
Like that morning when he watched Greg getting busy in the kitchen.
Greg who was watching him coming in.
Gref who was smiling at him.
Life and warmth.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” asked Greg without losing his smile.
“What do you mean?” muttered Mycroft a little embarrassed at being caught out.
“As if I were the only person in the world.”
Mycroft couldn’t help but reply, “You are. You’re everything to me. You’re my everything.”
Greg looked at him with indescribable emotion and whispered, “I love you.” before kissing him gently.
Just like that, silence no longer existed in Mycroft’s life, because he was filled with Greg’s love.
Despite this, Mycroft could not help but worry and wander up and down the hallways of the ward where Greg was hospitalized.
He knew it was a fairly routine operation, but it brought him face to face once again with the fragility of the human body, with Greg’s fragility.
He didn’t like that.
Fortunately, a few hours later, he was able to verify with his own eyes what the doctor had said, that the operation had gone perfectly, that Greg had woken up and was just still a little disoriented from the anesthesia and painkillers.
When Mycroft entered the room, his throat tightened as he saw Greg smaller than usual in the medical nightgown. His eyes were still cloudy from the effects of the anesthesia and his skin was pale, making him look even more fragile.
“Hi,” Mycroft said softly as he approached, then sitting down on the edge of the bed, he took Greg’s hand as he looked at him.
Greg’s eyes widened and, with an expression of utter surprise, he asked, “Um, who are you?”
Mycroft didn’t know at that moment whether to cry or laugh.
“Are you testing me?”
Greg shook his head sheepishly, “No, I swear, I don’t know who you are.”
“Well I’m Mycroft.” He replied with a small smile.
“And is that supposed to mean something to me?” asked Greg again. He ran his hand over his face, “I actually don’t remember anything, everything is very fuzzy in my head. But the doctors told me it was normal, that it happens sometimes.."
He seemed to think for a moment, then he pointed to his hand in Mycroft’s and said, "I guess we know each other well, otherwise you wouldn’t be holding my hand like that, right? Besides, you wouldn’t be allowed in my room.”
The doctor had said he was still disoriented, so Mycroft didn’t let it throw him off. Besides, Greg wasn’t rejecting him.
“Ahem, yes… we actually know each other very well, we are… together. We live together.”
Greg’s eyes widened even more, “Together… like… lovers?” he asked incredulously.
Mycroft nodded, smiling softly at his disbelief.
Greg ran his hand over his face again, then looked at Mycroft, “If that’s true, it’s really amazing."
"Why?” asked Mycroft, growing more amused.
“How can someone as beautiful as you be with someone like me?”
Mycroft blushed slightly, as he did every time Greg gave him that kind of compliment, then pulled himself together and gently scolded Greg, “What does it mean someone like you? I’ve told you many times, and I hope you’ll remember soon, you’re perfect for me, we’re perfect for each other. But even if you have forgotten, I will remind you again and again.”
Then he leaned over to Greg and whispered, “May I kiss you?”
Greg tilted his head to the side and scrutinized him for a long minute, then moved his hand forward and gently touched Mycroft’s face.
His face lit up with a soft smile and he whispered, “My Mycroft…” he brushed off a lock of Mycroft’s hair that fell across his forehead and continued, “I remember… you, just you…"
Mycroft closed the distance between them and pressed a soft kiss on Greg’s lips before resting his head on his chest, exhaling a sigh of relief.
Greg closed his arms around him and gently stroked his hair, repeating, "Mycroft…my Mycroft…”
Without a doubt, Greg would remember everything.
But for Mycroft, knowing that he was the first thing Greg remembered was simply magical and filled him with incredible happiness.
Mycroft could never have dreamed of a love so strong that even in forgetfulness it left traces.
When he opened his eyes, Greg saw the note on Mycroft’s bedside table. He was secretly relieved to see that Mycroft had preferred the privacy of their suite for their last evening together.
Their last evening.
Once again, Greg’s throat tightened.
He had gotten the impression last night that Mycroft wanted to open up, but this morning…
This morning, Mycroft had already been up and about for a long time judging by the cold seat next to Greg.
Once again, he was surprised at how quickly he had become attached to the man. He felt as if he had known him forever.
And they will part tomorrow.
Trying to push away these thoughts that would get him nowhere, Greg stood up and began to look for Mycroft.
He found him leaning against the window frame, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, staring out over the London skyline.
“Good morning,” Greg said with a yawn as he approached him.
Mycroft turned and came to meet him. He leaned over and kissed him gently before saying, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
“Like a baby.” Greg replied, “Did you sleep well?”
“Not too bad, but let’s leave that aside,” Mycroft took a short pause before he continued, “I already had breakfast while I was waiting for you to wake up, I had a couple of things to take care of. You can have it here, if you want, and then we’ll get ready for the Sky Garden. The cab is waiting for us as soon as we are ready. Since I wanted us to be at ease, the agency managed to reserve the top floor just for us.”
“That’s really great.”
Greg sensed, however, a special restlessness in Mycroft, but mostly a slight distance. He did not insist on finding out why, however, and began eating his breakfast.
Mycroft sat down opposite him, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and leafed through the newspaper. After a few minutes, the feeling of uneasiness dissipated and their complicity was again there.
Mycroft made Greg laugh more than once with his caustic comments about what he was reading in the paper, and Greg was still laughing as he finished dressing a few moments later. When he came out of his room, Mycroft was already waiting for him in the hallway.
He held out his hand, the gesture still causing the same warm feeling in Greg, and asked, “Ready to go?
“How can you believe that someone as open as Greg could stay with you and all your secrets!"
Mycroft awoke to these words spoken by someone whose face he could not see in his nightmare.
Heart racing, breathless, he looked to see if he had woken Greg, but fortunately, his lover was sound asleep.
He slowly slid out of the warm bed, shivered a little as his feet touched the cold floor and headed for the bathroom.
He walked to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. When he looked up, he faced himself in the mirror and looked away. He didn’t have the strength to look at himself, not right after that nightmare.
He tried to ignore the little voice in his head, "You don’t deserve this happiness… You know that, and you’re just deluding yourself.”
Mycroft faced his reflection, refusing to be drawn into this spiral, but tonight the voice in his head was louder than usual.
“He’ll figure it out eventually. And he’ll kick you out and you’ll be alone again…”
Mycroft clenched his hands on the sink and faced his reflection again and just said, “No. Greg knows me. He knows this isn’t who I am. He knows who I am and loves me the way I am.”
He left the bathroom and slid back into the bed, he moved closer to Greg until he was against him and Greg automatically tightened his arms around him.
« Mmm… Mycroft? Is that you, love?“
"Yes, Gregory, you can go back to sleep.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, don’t worry, sleep now.”
He hoped Greg would go back to sleep, but his lover knew him well, he woke up completely and reaching out, he turned on the light. He took Mycroft’s face in his hands, and looking at him closely, he asked the same question again, “Are you okay? And don’t lie to me Mycroft, you know I see it when you lie.”
Mycroft swallowed and couldn’t escape Greg’s scrutinizing eyes. His eyes that looked at him with such love.
“What’s wrong?” insisted Greg, concerned. Mycroft let out a sigh and looking away, he asked in a barely audible voice, “Am I good enough for you?”.
“Oh Mycroft…” Greg let go of Mycroft’s face and wrapped his arms around Mycroft with all his strength. Mycroft buried his face in Greg’s neck.
Greg thought for a moment and asked Mycroft, “Good enough for me in what way, love?”
As Mycroft searched for his answer, Greg gently stroked his back and lightly kissed his hair.
“An unknown person says to me in my nightmare, ‘How can you believe that someone as open as Greg could stay with you and all your secrets?’ I know… god I know it’s not true, my reason tells me it’s not true because we’ve talked about it and I know you’re aware of what I’m allowed to say or not say, but sometimes that little voice comes back to torment me.”
Greg grabbed Mycroft’s shoulders and pulled him away from him a little so he could look him in the eye, “Don’t listen to that little voice and only listen to mine.”
Mycroft nodded, but Greg saw the flicker in his eyes that told him Mycroft needed more reassurance.
He pushed him down on the bed and straddled him, then framing his face with his hands, he leaned over him and still with his eyes in his, he said to Mycroft, “Even when I thought I was done with love, you came into my life and taught me to love again. You not only taught me, but you also showed me your unconditional love and care for me. And you also loved me when I thought there was no reason to. You didn’t leave me to my ruins. Despite all my imperfections and flaws, you love me just as I am. And despite all your imperfections and flaws, I love you just the way you are. Because you are a beautiful person Mycroft, here…” Greg kissed his forehead, “just like here…” he kissed Mycroft’s chest where his heart was before looking at him again.
In that moment, in the mirror that was Greg’s eyes, Mycroft saw nothing but sincerity and love and Mycroft believed him. He was the one who closed his arms around Greg’s neck and drew him closer in a kiss that said everything his words could not convey.
Greg knew everything about conflicts and disputes in a couple, in a family.
First his parents, his father with him, his ex-wife.
It was the first time he had an argument with Mycroft and it was the first time he felt so bad.
Because this time he had a lot to lose.
He didn’t even know what had caused the argument and his words had gone beyond his mind. He had lashed out at Mycroft and blamed himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
Now they were both there in the kitchen, in a silence of death.
Mycroft was quietly making tea and Greg didn’t know how to start the conversation.
Apologize, apologize…
“Greg."
Although Mycroft spoke softly, Greg startled at his own name.
This was the moment.
This was the moment Mycroft was going to admit that he was done with him, that he didn’t want to be with him anymore.
Lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t answered.
"Greg, are you going to talk to me or would you rather we continue to ignore each other.”
He couldn’t lift his eyes to look at his face.
He didn’t want to see the disappointment on Mycroft’s face.
He couldn’t help but whisper, “Is this the part where you say you’re going to leave me?”
Keeping his eyes down, he didn’t realize that Mycroft had moved closer until he took his chin and forced his head up. He looked flabbergasted and asked in a confused tone, “What put that idea in your head?”
Greg shook his head, realizing the absurdity of what he had just thought and began, “I don’t know, I…”
Mycroft interrupted him, “Forget it right now. Surely a little disagreement like that isn’t going to make me leave you, idiot. It was going to happen sooner or later, arguments are a part of life, but you and I have enough experience to know that half the things we say to each other in the heat of the moment don’t reflect what we really think."
Greg nodded, taking comfort in Mycroft’s gaze.
However, even if his words hadn’t reflected his thoughts, he still wanted to apologize.
"I’m sorry. All those things I said, you have to know that I really didn’t mean them. I don’t even know why I said them, I was just raging. Mycroft… If I lost you, I don’t know what I would do. Not sure I’d survive.”
“I love you."
Just with those words from Mycroft, their fight in itself didn’t matter anymore.
Mycroft kissed him gently and added, "And I’m sorry too."
They hugged each other and were relieved to reconnect.
For a long time they remained entwined in silence, but that silence was not the same silence as before. It was filled with the certainty of being forgiven and the love they had for each other.
Greg was about to enter the living room when he heard Sherlock’s question and stopped, curious about Mycroft’s answer.
There were a few moments of silence, then his lover replied, “There are many things I’m not sure about in my life, brother, but this, our relationship, is definitely not one of them.”
Greg smiled at Mycroft’s answer as Sherlock continued, “You know Mycroft, even though at first I was doubtful, I think even I can see that you and Greg are perfect for each other.”
Mycroft chuckled softly and replied, “I was doubtful too, even though I knew he was perfect for me, I didn’t understand what I could mean to him.”
Sherlock insisted, “But you’re not anymore?”
“What?”
“Doubtful.”
“Oh no, not anymore.”
Greg felt warmth come over him at the assurance in Mycroft’s voice.
He hadn’t heard Sherlock get up and was surprised when he opened the door. Sherlock didn’t look the least bit surprised and simply nodded as he walked past Greg.
Greg entered the living room and walked over to Mycroft who had his back to him.
He put his hands on his shoulders and slid them down his chest. Mycroft’s hands rested on his as he leaned his head back against Greg.
Greg whispered in his ear, “You mean the world to me, Mycroft. You’ve always meant the world to me.”
“Detective Inspector Lestrade, may I ask you a favor.”
Mycroft didn’t often ask for help, but when it came to Sherlock, he was at the end of his rope.
“Can you keep an eye on my brother?”
The detective had looked at him with his clear eyes and replied in a firm tone, “You have my word.”
“Greg, I have to leave on a mission I can’t tell you anything about, I know we haven’t been together long, but will you wait for me?”
This was the first time Mycroft had a relationship he wanted to preserve to this extent, something precious.
Greg leaned over him, kissed him on the forehead and said, again with a sincere look and a firm tone, “I’ll wait for you. You have my word.”
Another night of nightmares.
The past that came back -again- to haunt him.
Greg said nothing, just held him, his presence comforting and soothing.
Waiting for Mycroft to speak.
As always in the end Mycroft would ask, “Promise me you won’t leave me.”
Greg would tighten his arms around Mycroft and whisper into his hair, “I promise never to leave you if it’s up to me. You have my word."
Like an oath.
Mycroft sometimes wondered if Greg knew the power those four words had over him.
"Gregory, will you give yourself to Mycroft, to be his husband, to live with him according to God’s word? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him so long as you both shall live?"
Greg held his hand firmly in his.
His gaze as straightforward as ever and his voice as firm as ever after all these years, he replied, "I will.”
Then, with a knowing smile on his lips, he whispered so that only Mycroft could hear, “You have my word.”
“Mycroft! What happened?” exclaimed Greg as he entered the examination room.
“Sir, you’re not supposed to be here…” protested the doctor who had just finished treating Mycroft.
Mycroft shook his head, Greg would not listen to reason.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Yeah, you always say that when I know it’s not true!”
Mycroft sighed.
“It’s just a few scratches,” he tried, as he rolled his shirt sleeve over the bandage the doctor had just put on his arm.
The doctor rolled his eyes.
“Mr. Mycroft, we were this close to transfusing you, so don’t minimize your injuries.”
“And maybe I didn’t want my partner to worry!” retorted Mycroft, but, seeing Greg’s exasperated expression, he added, “In any case, I didn’t want to break the news to him that way.”
Mycroft struggled to keep his eyes open. “I’m fine,” he whispered.
The doctor intervened, “I’d rather keep you overnight.”
Greg, knowing Mycroft was going to protest, interjected, “I’ll take him back with me, I’ll watch him.”
Mycroft winced.
They had planned a dinner out tonight, and now he had ruined it.
“I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly.
Greg couldn’t help but take his hand and squeeze it gently.
“ Idiot,” he said with a small smile, “We have our whole lives to go to the restaurant.”
Then he turned to the doctor, “Is there anything in particular I should do?”
“If he collapses or gets really pale in the next 24 hours, call us immediately.”
“Is it that serious?” asked Greg, frowning.
“Sixty stitches,” the doctor replied. “In three different places. They’re mostly superficial cuts, but they’re no less serious…”
“You should throw a look at my opponent,” Mycroft sneered.
“Your opponent?!” exclaimed Greg, shocked.
Mycroft could hardly keep his eyes open. “The glass coffee table in my office,” he replied with a dejected and ashamed look.
Feeling exhaustion wash over him, Mycroft asked with a sigh, “Can we go home now?”
The doctor took pity on him and nodded.
Mycroft sighed with relief.
“ Are you able to walk?” asked Greg.
“With help, I should be fine,” Mycroft winced.
Thirty minutes later, supported by Greg, Mycroft walked as best he could through the door of their house.
Greg helped him make himself comfortable on the couch and sat down next to him.
Greg’s face had a worried, curious expression.
“Mycroft, please tell me what happened.”
Mycroft ran his unbandaged hand over his face and said, “This is so ridiculous. I couldn’t reach a file at the top of the shelf, so I climbed up in a precarious balance because I was too lazy to look for a stepladder. As a result, I slipped and fell directly onto the glass coffee table.”
He shifted a bit on the couch to hide his head in his hands. If only his injuries were from a glorious mission, but this?
The movement caused him to let out a grunt of pain.
Greg was already worrying. Mycroft raised his hand to stop him.
“I’m fine,” he said as he waved his hand, causing another twinge of pain.
Mycroft leaned forward and breathed slowly to overcome the wave of pain when he felt Greg’s hand making soothing movements on his back.
Once Mycroft felt better, Greg lifted his hand and put his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders pulling him against him. After a few moments, Greg gently asked, “Why didn’t you want me to know?”
Mycroft knew he had acted on instinct and he regretted it now. In no way had he meant to hurt Greg.
He said it to him softly, “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Don’t you trust me?"
Mycroft was quick to protest, "No, no! It’s not that at all!”
“Then what is it?”
“I…” Mycroft hesitated. “This isn’t about you, okay? I’m just not used to people worrying about me.”
Greg bit his lip. “Okay, but think about it Mycroft, if something serious like this happened to me, wouldn’t you want to know? Wouldn’t you want to know as soon as possible?"
Mycroft nodded, "I… I’m sorry, I… I’ve been on my own for so long that I still have to adjust to some things.”
Greg turned his head to look at him and said, “Mycroft, don’t apologize. I love you, okay? That’s why I want to know when you’re hurt. When you’re not well. You’re allowed to be weak with me, you’re allowed to be sick, you’re allowed to be angry, anything you don’t want to show the world, here, you can.”
Mycroft nodded and did not answer.
After a few minutes of silence, tired from what had happened to him and from the emotions, Mycroft felt his eyes close, but he wanted to keep them open to enjoy Greg’s presence by his side. However, Greg, who still had his hand around his shoulder, squeezed him a little tighter as he said softly, “Mycroft, my love…let go. I’m here.”
Mycroft, overcome by pain, fatigue and Greg’s tone, let go.
He fell asleep peacefully, knowing that Greg would be there to watch over him.
Still on vacation, but I couldn’t let the first day of Pride month pass without writing a little story! Happy Pride month! It’s also exactly two years since I started writing!
It was already very late when Mycroft came out of the hospital room. Sherlock had ended up, once again, in the hospital and was unconscious.
When he closed the door, Mycroft saw Greg, asleep on one of the benches of the hallway, with his head resting against the wall. He had obviously tried to stay up to wait for Mycroft, but at some point exhaustion had overtaken him. Mycroft smiled at the sight. He sat down beside him and put his arm around his shoulders. His heart warmed when he saw that Greg instinctively snuggled up to him.
After a moment, Greg woke up and rubbed his eyes, yawning under Mycroft’s affectionate eye.
Mycroft kissed Greg on the forehead and asked him softly, “Have you been here all this time?"
"I figured you wouldn’t want to be alone at a time like this. ” Greg confessed softly.
Unable to stop himself, Mycroft reached out and touched Greg’s cheekbone, moved by the faint blush that graced it in reaction to his touch.
He smiled softly as he slid his hand down Greg’s cheek, feeling a kind of pride as Greg leaned into the touch, his eyes opening to look at him. His eyes filled with such confidence that Mycroft’s breath was taken away. They’ve been together for some time now and Mycroft is still flabbergasted at the amount of confidence Greg seems to have in him.
Mycroft had long known the depth of his feelings for Greg. If he was honest with himself, he’d known it since Greg had agreed to keep an eye on his brother without hesitation, he’d known it when they’d started seeing each other casually, he’d known it every time Greg kissed him and touched him.
“Thank you,” he said softly to Greg.
Then, he gently stroked Greg’s lips with his thumb and continued, “Greg, I need to tell you something."
Mycroft’s heart was pounding in his chest, aware that he was about to make probably the most important confession of his entire life.
Greg seemed to notice his confusion and asked, his tone slightly concerned, "Mycroft, what’s wrong?”
“I love you.”
Greg’s eyes widened as he realized the magnitude of what Mycroft had just said.
Mycroft continued, in a confident and determined manner this time, “I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you something I’ve known for a long time already, but I do love you Gregory Lestrade.”
Now that he’d said it, Mycroft knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from saying it again and again.
Greg started to smile and putting his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, he moved closer until his lips were almost on his.
He asked in a breath, his voice hiding nothing of his joy, “Do you really love me?”
Mycroft nodded.
“Say it again."
"I love you.” replied Mycroft, his voice confident.
Greg looked him in the eye and whispered against his lips, “I love you too, Mycroft, probably as long as you have.”
He captured Mycroft’s lips in a long kiss.
It was like a first kiss, at once familiar but different because both were now aware of each other’s feelings. The certainty of loving and being loved in return.
For about ten days, I probably won’t post anything because I’m on vacation… a bit like Mycroft and Greg, on a beach but in the south of France. Be patient, I promise to come back with lots of stories in my pockets!
The fine sand was warm under their toes as they walked hand in hand along the beach.
The sun was beginning to touch the horizon of the sea and shimmer on the waves in a festival of warm colors.
Greg sighed with contentment and threw a sidelong glance at Mycroft.
Mycoft raised an eyebrow, “What?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so relaxed.”
Mycroft smiled at him, his teeth looking whiter under the light tan that graced his skin, his hair not as tidy as usual and fluttering slightly in the sea breeze.
Greg continued, “It looks good on you.”
Mycroft’s light tan didn’t stop Greg from noticing the small blush on Mycroft’s upper cheeks as he whispered, “Thank you.”
He raised their joined hands to the level of his mouth and kissed Greg’s hand as he continued, “It’s because of you you know, with you I know I don’t have to wear a mask. That I can be me without being constantly guarded. ”
It was Greg’s turn to blush slightly as he squeezed Mycroft’s hand in response, pressing himself a little closer to him.
He chuckled lightly, still unaccustomed to Mycroft’s sincere compliments, “Must be the holiday effect, the secluded beach, all of that…”
Mycroft, fully aware of Greg’s deflection, insisted, “The vacation, the beach, all of that like you say, is fine, but you…”
He stopped and turned to Greg, taking his face in his hands and leaning over him, he whispered against his lips, “You make it extraordinary.”
He closed the infinitesimal distance between their lips and gave Greg a lingering kiss.
A little later, they were still embracing on the beach, gazing at the sun as it continued to plunge into the sea.
Mycroft asked Greg, “If you could do anything now, without worrying about anything, what would you do?”
Greg pretended to think and then, very seriously, he replied, “I’d be on a deserted beach, with only the sound of the sea in the background and the man I love in my arms and I’d do this.”
He turned Mycroft in his arms and kissed him deeply, showing him that there was no other place in the world he would want to be, no other person he would want to be with than Mycroft.
When they separated to catch their breath, Greg murmured, “I’m exactly where I want to be.
Summary:A night hunt gone wrong leaves Wei Wuxian facing life without a husband and son. He refuses. Using an experimental array, he attempts temporal transmigration, but it goes wrong. He sends himself back to the age of ten, and the strain on his young body and mind requires another desperate use of resentful energy… which also goes wrong. A different sort of time travel fic.
My comments: Oh, wow, I loved this so much! I’m really looking forward to more in the series, because I could happily drown myself in 50k more words of it.
Wwx sends himself back in time, but this story is different, in that once he enters his 10-year-old self (which is pretty traumatic) he ends up with amnesia, so really IS just a child. The chain of events this sets off is fabulous. While he’s in a coma and things are touch-and-go, Madam Yu has an opportunity to examine her poor treatment of this boy in the past and set about making some changes. Because he’s crying out for “Lan Zhan”, the Lans are invited to try to clear away the resentful energy (they think it was cast at him as a curse in an attack), and Lan Qiren brings both his nephews.
The story covers about a season, and POV jumps around, which is wonderful, because everyone is GROWING. They are changing, their worlds are different, and they’re being exposed to different people and different ideas. Madam Yu and Lan Qiren go through perhaps the biggest development arcs, but seriously, EVERYONE is affected. (And none of this is done with a heavy hand, either: the focus is on the story, and the growth is all organic.)
Little Lan Wangji opens up like he never has before, Jiang Yanli starts to learn to be a healer and LQR teachers her musical cultivation… the ripple effect of change is simply fascinating. The Lans become less rigid, and the Jiangs more loving. And young wwx is the nexus and the catalyst. Especially when he ‘remembers’ a few things that make them believe he’s become precognitive.
time travel, fix it, child wei wuxian, madam yu is good, POV multiple, child lan wangji, hurt wei wuxian, sick wei wuxian, angst, amnesia, jiang family feels, caretaking, illness recovery, character growth, (all of them - they are growing and becoming better people), social change, adoption, lan qiren is good, sharing a bed, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort, hurt/comfort, doting lan wangji, street orphans, gege jiang cheng, didi wei wuxian, jiang wuxian, betrothal, arranged marriage, grief, sect politics, protective madam yu, protective lan wangji, protective everyone, favorite, @rosethornewrites
(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
Summary (Part 1): There is a deep inhale, and Lan Wangji knows immediately who is on the other end of the line. His breath catches in his throat and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jingyi jump up and leave the room at a dead run. Sizhui is rooted to his spot, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.
My comments: Sweet story with reconciliation at its core that focuses on what happens with and around wwx after being terribly injured in a car accident. The thing is, his emergency contact is still Jiang Cheng, although the two have been estranged for many years and wwx is convinced that jc hates him. This is… patently not the case, as lwj, jc and the juniors sit awkwardly in the waiting room to hear the result of the surgeries, or later, when jc sits in the room (silent and glowering, but still) or hosts the juniors at lotus during the nights while lwj stays with his husband.
Three stories in the series so far (but feels sufficiently finished, so no worries). ** NOW WITH 6 WORKS **
modern au, modern cultivators, car accidents, hurt wei wuxian, injured wei wuxian, hurt/comfort, established relationship, adorable juniors, brotherly feels, jiang brothers, adorable juniors and their friendship, insecure wei wuxian, self-esteem issues, oblivious wei wuxian, emotionally constipated jiang cheng, doting lan wangji, protective lan wangji, sickfic, self-worth issues, fluff, caretaking, emotional hurt/comfort, jiang cheng needs a hug, @belovedmuerto
(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
G (maybe a very soft T for making out), 82k, wangxian, marked as incomplete, but it feels wrapped up tight, so ignore that
Summary: Alternate Universe - Jiang Fengmian never adopts Wei Ying.
Lan Zhan meets Wei Ying as a beggar on the street and convinces Lan Qiren to allow him to come live in the Cloud Recesses.
Lan Zhan and Wei Ying grow up together as best friends. Nothing has really changed, but everything is different.
My comments: A soft story wherein the Lans take in homeless wei ying and he and his lan zhan grow up together, tightly entwined. We get glimpses of their earlier childhood, pass through the cloud recesses study arc (look at lan wangji making friends! and being stoically amused by intimidating nie huaisang, who had the audacity to sneak liquor into his cup). There is light angst and pining, before they figure themselves out, but the wen attack and sunshot campaign bring them to a new understanding.
child wei wuxian, child lan wangji, in which wwx goes to gusu as a child, adopted by the Lans, non-yunmeng wei wuxian, friendship, different first meeting, POV multiple, growing up together, light angst, pining, students at cloud recesses, lan wangji has friends, oblivious wei wuxian, feelings realization, getting together, love confessions, attack on cloud recesses, sunshot campaign, fix it, soft, fluff, first time, fade to black
(You may wish to REBLOG as a signal boost for this author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)
He looks up at the sound of quiet footsteps coming down the ramp, only half surprised to see Virgil, who wraps a blanket around his shoulders, before sitting down beside him with his own, head deep in his hood, dark eyes shining as he looks up at the stars.
“How is he?” Comes the soft question. Patton looks up at the stars as well, a soft breath escaping his lips.
“Lost. It must be terrifying, to go from having no choices, no power to make your own decisions, to having complete control over your life. He doesn’t know how to use that, anymore. Doesn’t know what to do with it all, what to do with himself.” Virgil huffs, arms wrapping around his knees.
“Yeah. I was… a bit like that. When I first joined up with you. It seems silly, now, that I was ever scared of you, Pat, but I was. I was terrified, what would happen, when you found me.”
…
He hadn’t been invited on board. Patton and Logan hadn’t even known he was on board. They’d had a brief stopover, to refuel, on his home planet, spent barely twenty minutes there, total, at the small waystation, not many people enjoyed spending time near the presence of wraiths.
Virgil himself included.
He doesn’t know, still doesn’t know, how he found the courage to sneak aboard, when no one was looking, it wasn’t all that hard, he just slipped into the shadows and slipped into the hold, trying desperately to contain his fear so it wouldn’t spiral out and affect anyone else, so it wouldn’t seep through to them, so they wouldn’t notice anything amiss.
He hated the planet, after all. Hated the cold cruelty of the place, the eerie darkness, the icy fear always trickling down his spine. They fed off negativity, off fear, and there was no one easier to scare and frighten and torment than him. No one to protect him, from the others. No one to stay for. He saw a way out, and he took it, intending to simply slip off at the next stop, whatever that was, and find a way for himself, maybe beg, do simple chores for pay, do something. He hadn’t intended to be found.
He’d been hiding out for maybe a week, in the storage hold. He was cold and hungry and tired, huddled in the corner, behind some crates, curled around himself, shaking. He’d felt fuzzy and strange, and realized that was probably due to the whole not eating thing, but he couldn’t find the bravery to go scope out, to scrounge for food, he just had to hope they’d set down soon.
An arm on his shoulder had woken him. He’d screamed, hoarse and cracked, woken out of his light, fitful sleep, warm hands on him, and he was afraid, waiting to be thrown into a nightmare, into whatever hell world they’d chosen this time, curling tighter, arms coming up to cover his head in the meager defense he could provide for himself.
“please… please don’t… please… s-sorry, s-sorry…”
“Hey, hey, hey. It’s ok, I’m not gonna hurt you, kiddo. You’re burning up, when was the last time you ate anything?” He’d shrugged, scared out of his mind, breath speeding, because he was caught, he’d been caught, and what were they going to do with him?
“dunno. L-last st-op. Imma… wraith.” He mumbled, waiting for the fear, the derision, the pain.
“Oh, baby. Can we get you upstairs?”
“What… what’re y-ou gonna do, w-ith m-me?”
“Get some food in you, to start, and some water. Then get you all cozy on the couch, with plenty of blankets and pillows, something to bring down that fever of yours.”
“Y-you’re not m-m-mad?”
“Of course not. You were scared enough to stow away, to leave your own planet behind and hide out in a ship you had no idea how friendly or cruel the occupants of it were. I think that speaks for itself, kiddo. I’m not mad. I just wanna help, ok?” Patton had asked, and he’d hesitated for a long moment, before nodding.
“O-ok.” He’d realized his teeth were chattering, flinching as he felt arms around him, lifting him gently, as he passed out.
It had taken him a long, long time, to open up to any of them, to say anything without prompting, really, he was quiet and meek and half shadows, most of the time, unable to keep his form physical with the endless fear creeping through him. No one was allowed to touch him. Not even Patton. Any sudden movement sent him tearing from the room, and he spent most of his own time locked in his own, still convinced that they would send him back, jettison him off, kick him off at the next planet and never look back.
It was Logan, oddly enough, that wore him down. He always said what he thought, always pointed out the obvious, always answers with the truth, no matter how hurtful or blunt it is. That pure… obliviousness… to the concept of deception, was what finally convinced him, that they truly did want to help, wanted to let him have his space, wanted to just… be there.
He’d never had kindness before. He didn’t understand, kindness. He didn’t understand why they were being so nice to him, when he hadn’t done anything besides flinch and hide and recoil from their touches, their gazes, their attentions.
That’s what had led to him sitting on the middle of his bed, huddled in his blankets, shaking as he sobbed, not looking up at the soft knock on his door, letting out something that might have been a strangled ‘come in’. For once, he didn’t flinch away, as Patton entered the room, as he sat down on the very edge of the bed, looking at him with soft concern and warm care, and he just… broke. He fell into Patton’s arms and just broke.
…
He comes out of his own thoughts at Patton slipping a hand into his, and he smiles wryly up at the moon, shaking his head.
“sorry. Just…” He trails off with a sigh, closing his eyes for a long moment, trying to steady himself.
“I know, Vee. They’ve come so far, already. And you… I’m so proud of you, Virgil. I really, really am.” He looks away, face red, hiding the small smile in the blanket around his head, smile growing as Patton rests his head on his shoulder, nuzzling against him.
“Pat, you’re making it really hard for me to nostalgically mope.” He mutters, Patton laughing softly against him.
“Good.” Patton says, wings uncurling and stretching out behind him as he yawns.
“Should you head in, Pat?” He asks, amusement coloring his tone, as Patton shakes his head.
“Roman wanted to stay outside. I wanna let him get as much fresh air as possible. aThey’ve been… confined, for too long, Virg. They’ve been through so much, I just wanna let him have whatever he needs.” Virgil smiles fondly, laying his blanket on the ground behind Patton.
“Alright. Lay down.” He orders, gently pushing Patton’s shoulder, who goes over with little resistence, a little giggle, stretching one wing out, resting Roman atop it, curling his other wing over him as he lays down, holding him close, Roman’s hands gently curling into his feathers, nuzzling against them, snuggling into the softness. He smiles as Virgil tucks the other blanket tight around them, before leaning down and kissing the top of his head softly.
“I’ll keep watch, Pat. Sweet dreams.” In the blink of an eye, Virgil vanishes into the shadows, though Patton knows he hasn’t gone far.
“G’night, Virg. Love you.” He mumbles, already slipping asleep as the cozy warmth seeps into his bones.
…
He wakes up screaming. For the first time in a little over three years, he wakes up screaming, immediately slapping a hand over his mouth, swallowing down the sound, choking on it, praying no one else has heard him, he doesn’t want to bother them, and he buries his head in his hands, trying to get a grip, because it wasn’t real, he knows it wasn’t real.
The white hospital bed. Firm, cold shackles against his upper arms and wrists, holding them tight to the armrests of the chair. An IV in his arm, pumping him full of vitamins and minerals and a mild sedative, something to keep him still against the sharp stings of pain as they carefully peel off every scale. He watches in quiet, morbid, fascination, as his arms turn from gold to crimson, as he starts to shiver, even the heating light they have on above him not enough to keep him warm, against the blood loss.
It’s still another hour before he’s hazing in and out of awareness, another half hour before they call a stop, binding his injuries with curt, steady motions, guiding him back to his small room, nothing more than white walls, floors, ceiling, a hard bed, a warm blanket, it must be night, because the uv rays are off, as they emotionlessly deposit him on the bed, as always, locking the door behind them without a word.
Tomorrow they’ll take more scales, until he doesn’t have any left. He’ll be sick and shaking and unable to keep any food down, they’ll hook him to more IVs to keep him alive, until his scales start to regrow and just when he’s starting to feel alright again, they’ll pluck him clean once more.
That’s his life. That’s all it’ll ever be. A sickly, half conscious life, hazed over with fever and pain, dying slowly from lack of contact, lack of socialization, lack of touch.
…
A knock on his door has him jolting, a strange foreboding in his chest, a tightness to his lungs, and he hears someone speaking, but they sound a million miles away, and he’s petrified, he can’t seem to move a single muscle, he’s frozen in place, though his mind is screaming at him, to do something, anything, he can’t, as his vision swims, he can’t.
All he can hear is the chiming tone that tells him its time to get up for the day, to put on his loose, white clothing, to quietly eat his meal, to sit on the bed and wait silently for them to come retrieve him, to keep his eyes down and his hands in front of him, to make no motion until told, otherwise they’ll be forced to retaliate to protect themselves, regardless of whether he’s attacking or not.
He’s never attacking. He’s too scared, too well trained, to attack, to try anything, at this point, he knows it would be useless. Even if he bit one, two of them, sent them shaking and convulsing to the ground, there would be more, and he can’t fight through them all, can’t make it out of this facility, wherever it is, doesn’t even know if they’re on a planet or drifting in space, and there’s no point to resisting. Better to be compliant and meek and do as he’s told.
Another soft knock, voice a bit louder, more concerned, gives him enough, shocks his mind, his system enough to break out of his stupor, to move, to stumble, stagger, trip over his own feet through a tilted, spinning world speckled with dark spots, to make it to the door, fumbling with the locks before finally managing to undo them, knowing that voice will somehow make this better, will somehow keep all of that from happening, will somehow get him out of here, where there’s no space and air and light and he can’t breathe or see or speak.
The door opens and he falls, though warm arms catch him, the voice inhales sharply, speaking, though he still can’t hear, he should be able to hear him, he can get the sense of what he’s saying, but not the words, and dimly he registers the arms moving, scooping him up, off the ground, and he clings to the voice, as they carry him somewhere else, somewhere open, more space, before sitting down, though not letting go.
He registers counting, a slow, steady rhtym, one he knows, one he uses, one he tries to emulate now, in fits and starts, feeling a hand softly running up and down his arm, shivering as it touches his scales, phantom pain making him flinch, and the movement stops.
“N-no… D-d-don’t…” He can’t choke out more than that, but they seem to understand, resuming their gentle up and down motion, especially light and gentle over his scales, slowly soothing him, because no one besides his crew, his friends, his family, are allowed to touch them, and only they have ever been this gentle with him, and as his breathing finally starts to even, his heart rate starts to beat normally, copying the rhythm it can feel from the warm body pressed against his, his vision starts to clear, and he slumps forwards, the tension leaking out of him as he presses his head into Logan’s chest, trembling as he takes a deep, shuddering breath.
“Janus?” Comes the soft, quiet question, and he nods, even that motion takes too much effort, too much energy, but he summons his words anyway.
“yes. ‘M here.” He mumbles, feeling Logan’s own relieved breath, his arms wrapping securely around his back, holding him close, as he realizes tears are slipping down his cheeks, unbidden. “sorry. Didn’t… didn’t mean to wake you.” Logan shushes him, slowly rocking him back and forth.
“No. I’m sorry. I should have realized, today’s events would be triggering. One of us should have checked up on you, after you settled Remus.” He shivers, folding tighter against Logan, exhaustion from the fading adrenaline and panic attack shattering his normal walls.
“If he hadn’t been there… Lo, if he hadn’t-“ He breaks off, choking on his words, on his fear. “I can’t do it again. I c-can’t… I didn’t know, then, but I do, now, and I c-can’t-“
“Shh, shh, shh, I know, I know, Janus. But you don’t have to. You will never, never have to go through that again. You’re safe, you’re safe, Janus, and we, I, will never let that happen to you again. I promise.” Logan murmurs, gently running his thumb in circles against Janus’s cheek, the other wrapped around his waist to keep him steady. “I promise. I’m not letting go, alright? Get some rest. I’ll keep anything from harming you, while you sleep, I promise.”
“N-not… Y-you and P-patton and Vi-rgil, c-can’t let them… can’t h-ave y-y-you-“ He can feel Janus already starting to drift, unable to hold on to awareness, after such a strong attack, plus his already elevated exhaustion and worry and stress, his words making his heart ache, because despite everything, Janus was focused on them, worried about them, getting taken, keeping them safe.
“We’re all ok, Janus. No one is going anywhere. No one is leaving. No one is going to hurt them. I promise.” He murmurs, relaxing himself as he feels Janus’s breath even into deep, long, inhales and exhales, going fully limp against him, smiling down at the sleeping Naga, at the trust and faith his friend has in him, to not need locked doors to keep him safe, when Logan is right there, watching over him.
He forgets, sometimes, where Janus has come from. How long, he spent in that endlessly cruel monotonous captivity.
He came so far, so fast, and even now, he masks his pain so well, hides behind that wicked smirk and smooth surety, and its so easy, to forget when they first got to him nearly eight years ago he barely spoke a single word for three months, nearly convincing all of them he was mute. It took him longer still, to understand choices, they had to introduce them slowly, starting with ‘would you prefer A or B’ type questions before moving to open ended ones.
It’s easy to forget, just how brave he is, acting as their inside man when necessary, posing as a buyer to get onto smuggler’s ships, playing the part he hates more than anything, no doubt terrified beneath the surface, because if anything went wrong, in most cases, they wouldn’t be able to get to him in time. But he never backs down, never says no, and Logan knows that Janus would rather perish than fail to free whomever they held trapped, and it scares him, his reckless, fast paced bravery, scares him. Because he is just as terrified of losing Janus as he clearly is of losing them. It makes him hold on a little tighter, continuing to rub Janus’s back, to murmur softly to him, keeping him company through the rest of the night.
Summary: A post-GITF sick-fic UA. What if Rose had come away with more than nightmares after her run-in with the clockwork droids? What if her trust in the Doctor had been so fractured that she’d been afraid to tell him? And what if that broken trust might just lead to a dangerous situation for Rose? Will the Doctor be able fix it in time? Note: Trigger warning for non-explicit DV, self-loathing, PTSD, medical emergency.
Notes: Helloooooo shiny people! I can’t believe we’re finally here- THE EPILOGUE! The very final chapter of this fic, which was written for the @doctor-rose-events classic tropes event. Thank you all for coming on this crazy ride with me- I couldn’t have done it without you and you’re all fabulous.<3 I hope this brief look at a very different future with Rose and the Doctor (I couldn’t help kicking Doomsday in the bum, repeatedly) will leave us all in a good place, and with hope going forward. There’s ALWAYS hope, and no one is broken beyond repair. To that end, I’ll be posting a non-fic chapter in the next day or two with a list of trauma, counselling and DV resources that my wonderful people around the world have sent me. Keep an eye out for that in the next few days.I hope that you’ve all enjoyed this story, and I have to give a big shoutout to everyone who has encouraged me and left comments, the ladies on Fangirlia who have listened to me whine and complain incessantly, Aintafraidanoghosts for listening to me whine on chat EVERY SINGLE DAY, and finally, @rose–nebula, without whom I could not have done this. She’s beta’d every chapter, every week, no matter what crazy time of day or night I’ve sent them, and supported me emotionally and mentally when I was ready to fling a chapter into the abyss or set it on fire. I could not have done this without you, my dear. Thank you more than I can say <3 <3 <3 All mistakes are mine, and of course all recognisable dialogue from the episode belongs to one Mr RTD. I hope you enjoy!
“Jack! Thank God. Are you in Cardiff?” Rose clutched the mobile to her ear, watching in disbelief as the Doctor smacked the TARDIS console with a mallet.
“Rosie! Yeah, Mickey and I are at headquarters. Why? Is everything OK?”
The TARDIS jolted.
“Behave!” the Doctor snapped, scowling at the console.
“Oh my…hold on Jack- Doctor, stop smacking her!” Rose snapped. “Have you lost your mind?”
“She won’t do it, Rose! She’s resisting!”
“Rose?” Jack’s tone was suddenly sharp, all semblance of relaxed chit-chat gone. “What’s going on?”
“We’re flying down the highway, chasing a taxi driven by a robot santa, that’s what’s goin’ on!”
“What? What highway? Where are you?”
“London.” Rose took over holding down various knobs from the Doctor as he inched closer to the door. “Specifically, chasin’ a woman in a weddin’ dress to Chiswick, or wherever this robot is takin’ her.” She closed her eyes and ignored Donna’s screeched “Oh, you are kidding me!” as the TARDIS scraped the road beside the taxi, the bump almost knocking Rose off her feet.
“Rose? What the hell is happening?”
“You’ve got to jump!” the Doctor shouted, almost hanging out of the doorway.
“Who’s jumping?” Jack demanded.
“It’ll take too long to explain! Look, I need you to do somethin’ for me Jack- quickly!”
“What do you need?”
“I need you to find out everything you can about a woman who’s booked to get married at St Mary’s Church in Chiswick today. Her name’s Donna.”
“Last name?”
“Dunno. Once you’ve got it from the church, I need you to run it on every system you have- find out everythin’ about her.”
“Why?”
“Because she showed up on the TARDIS while she was in mid-flight, Jack! Just appeared in the middle of the vortex!”
There was a gasp. “You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not kiddin’! I don’t have time to kid! I need you to do it now, Jack, please!”
“On it.” She heard Jack barking orders to someone beside him to call the church, followed by the clack of a keyboard moments later. “I’ll dig up everything I can, Rosie.”
“Thanks,” she exhaled, staring in disbelief as Donna hesitated to jump out of the taxi. “Quick as you can, Jack! There’s somethin’ weird going on here.”
“Whatever that thing is, it needs you,” the Doctor pleaded with Donna, stretching out his arm. “And whatever it needs you for, it’s not good! Now, come on!”
Dear@lastbluetardis, let’s try this again, shall we? ^^’ As I’ve told you last weekend, I had a much bigger story cooking for you as part of the @dwsecretsanta exchange. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it, but it’s done now, so I hope you’ll enjoy it!
This takes place right at the end of The Satan Pit. It’s almost 6,000 words long, and it’s also sliiiiightly smutty :p
Any other day and Rose might have rolled her eyes at this melodramatic description of their duo, far from thinking so highly of herself. She smiles back at the Doctor instead and lets him have this moment; it is clear from the way he looks at her that he believes her to be exactly as he says.
As soon as he pulls the right lever between them, the Time rotor comes to life.
“Where d’you send her?” Rose can’t help but ask, glancing away from the rotor to look up at him, expecting to find him staring at the screen, the way he usually is when standing by the console.
When she meets his gaze dead on, a shiver runs down her spine.
“Home,” he says simply, his voice lower than usual.
Rose makes a face at these words. She hasn’t showered in what feels like days, although no more than twenty-four hours can have gone by since they landed on Krop Tor; she supposes spending a good portion of that time running away from murderous Oods or crawling through maintenance tunnels would make anyone feel grimy. Not to mention the exhaustion settling down upon her.
That’s one of the many feelings she’s become rather familiar with since she started traveling with the Doctor, that ‘I almost died and now I’m a bit tired’ heaviness in every one of her muscles and bones.
“D’you really feel up for an evening with Mum?” she asks him with a bit of a frown, because she sure isn’t. As much as she’d worried about never seeing her Mum again only hours ago, simply being back on the TARDIS has put those fears to rest.
Quieting down her fears about nearly losing the Doctor is not as easy, even with him standing right there next to her, their bodies so close, their arms are almost touching.
One one hand he thinks this place ain’t all that bad and being ‘round folk who are decent is sure a nice change from what he left, but on the other he can’t help but feel as though he’s stumbling on the fringes of a steel trap that’s waiting to snap shut about him the moment he lets his guard down. He can’t help but watch the shadows every morning as though he’s expecting them to show on up despite knowing there’s ain’t no possible way they coulda followed him out here. He’s come too far, he thinks, and he doubts they’re even looking, but that worry is there just the same.
So he keeps his eyes open whenever he’s out on the trail with Bo, and listens close while he’s eating supper or playing at them cards for any opportunity to be had. For something to come his way to guarantee enough cash to get him on out of here 'fore it’s too late. But there ain’t nothing to see nor hear though; seems as though Plainview is just as plain as its name suggests. It’s decidedly dull, he thinks. Or perhaps there are things about and he just don’t see them on the account of not wanting to see 'em. After all, he don’t really want to destroy the one good thing he has going for him.
There’s words between, sure, but they ain’t nothing more than whats absolutely needed and Arthur ain’t quite all that sure what to make of it. Part of him wants to be grateful, cause the man’s done dropped the issue, but he all the same there’s guilt over it and Arthur feels as though the man deserves to know on account of all he’s been doing for him.
So one day, after Mark tells him he’s done, Arthur heads on out and grabs a couple of beers and comes on back. He puts one in Mark’s hand and sits on down on a crate out back and the man does the same. They sit there in the afternoon sun, drinking, all the while Arthur tells him ‘bout everything.
Today (October 10th) is World Mental Health Day so here are some things that a character can say to another character who is struggling with mental illness:
“you can talk to me about anything”
“I don’t understand but I believe you”
“I’ll stay with you as long as you need me to”
“take a deep breath”
“do you want me to give you advice or do you just want me to listen?”
“you don’t have to go through this alone”
“I’ll check on you again tomorrow”
“you’re not broken”
“let’s take a five minute break”
“I love you no matter what your brain tells you”
“I’m always here if you need anything”
“please don’t talk that way about yourself”
“let me know if you ever need a ride to therapy”
“don’t forget to take your medication”
“it’s okay to ask for help”
“I’ll go with you for moral support”
“I don’t know how to help you but I can help you find someone who does”
“do you want to talk about it or would you like a distraction?”
“you’re safe”
“there is always hope”
(NOTE: Please be respectful and considerate when including mental illnesses in your writing. If you or anyone you know is struggling with mental illness, don’t be afraid to ask for help.)
A is going through a rough change in their life (e.g. a breakup) and they’ve been struggling to keep their mind off of it, to think about anything else but that one bad thing
They don’t realize how much they want to feel needed, distracted, until they happen to visit their friend, B, and find them sick. B isn’t even that sick, they both know it, but A decides that it’s their responsibility to care for B anyway.
B lets them, both enjoying the attention /and/ seeing their friend without the sullen expression on their face.
Sick character gets stressed when they realize that they’ve slept all day. They had so much they were going to get done! Their friend/SO has to comfort them and try to tell them that it’s okay and their body needed the rest.
Quinlan’s tone is lighthearted, the only way he knows how to be in these situations. “Hey Kenobi,” he calls as he knocks on the door. “Anybody home?”
Anakin answers the door in pajamas. “Hello, Knight Vos,” the little padawan says politely.
“Hey kiddo, I heard from Tachi that you weren’t in your classes today or yesterday,” says Quinlan.
“Oh yeah. Sorry,” Anakin mumbles.
“Is there a reason why?”
Anakin shrugs. “Obi-Wan is in the living room.”
Quinlan takes off his boots at the door, because old Kenobi has always had strong opinions about the tracking of mud and the cleanliness of living spaces. But looking around, it strikes him that the place is not up to Obi-Wan’s usual standards.
“Hey Kenobi,” Quinlan says as he enters the living room. Obi-Wan is curled up in a ball, staring out the window with a blank expression. “Everything going alright?”
Obi-Wan ignores him.
“Buddy, nobody’s seen or heard from you two in a few days. What’s going on here?”
Obi-Wan’s head tilts slightly, glancing towards Quinlan and then quickly away again. “Nothing,” he whispers.
“Areyou feeling alright?” Quinlan falls silent when Obi-Wan meets his gaze again. “I’m sorry, Obes.”
Quinlan knows what this is about. The same thing it’s always about. In the first few months after Qui-Gon’s death, it had been dark and incessant. In the past month or so, Obi-Wan had become less open about his grief, maybe starting to wonder if the socially acceptable period for mourning had passed, but they all knew it was still a heavy weight on him.
Too heavy to lift himself off the couch, some days.
“I’ll make us some tea, would that be alright?”
Obi-Wan gives no response, which is a yes as far as Quinlan is concerned.
Anakin hovers in the kitchenette while Quinlan puts water on to boil.
“You had lunch yet, kid?” he asks over his shoulder.
“No.”
The afternoon is quickly waning into evening; it’s going to be a very late lunch indeed. Quinlan opens the refrigeration unit, and there really isn’t much inside. He files that away under concerning observations about Obi-Wan’s current mental state, but decides he’ll think about it later. He checks a few cupboards before he finds one with some dehydrated soup packets.
“Hey Anakin, is there anything in here that both of you like?” he asks, inviting the young padawan to come pick one out. Anakin frowns over the choices.
“What does this word mean?” he asks, pointing to one of the boxes.
“Haranfruit. It’s a savory vegetable, like a squash.”
Anakin wrinkles his nose and puts the box back. He picks up another one that is just rice and roast nerf.
“This?” he offers.
Quinlan nods. “Sure thing. Do you want to go put on some daytime clothes? I assume those are last night’s pajamas,” he says.
“Okay!” Anakin scurries away.
The tea is ready before the soup. Quinlan sets a cup down on the coffee table in front of Obi-Wan.
“Hey, far be it from me to judge whatever’s going on here,” he says. “I get it. I do. Sometimes you just need to sit in a pile of blankets in yesterday’s clothes. But if you need help, especially with Anakin, you know you can ask any of us, right?”
“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispers.
“You don’t owe any apologies tome,” Quinlan says pointedly. “Do you mind if I take him out into the city this afternoon? It’ll give you a little break, and him some fresh air. We can ride up to that huge supermarket, the one where you found Tatooine food that one time.”
In his mind, Quinlan is already brainstorming ideas for simple meals that don’t require a stove or anything that Anakin shouldn’t be operating unsupervised. As a harm-reduction strategy, there should at least be food in the apartment that Anakin could prepare for himself if he got hungry.
Obi-Wan only manages to nod. When the soup is ready, Quinlan sets a bowl next to the teacup, but doesn’t press the issue. Anakin eats his at the kitchen table.
Grief is like this, sometimes. It leaves Obi-Wan feeling helpless.
They’re getting to be old friends now (honestly, Quin feels like they’re getting to be old, period.) Quinlan knows how to provide what comfort he can, same as they would do for any of their friends. He’ll spread the word, and Bant will probably stop by the next morning to offer to take some laundry to the quartermaster and walk Anakin to his morning class. Garen can’t often call from the Starfighter Corps, but he’ll reach out and leave Obi-Wan a message even if Obi-Wan doesn’t pick up.
“It’s okay,” he says, just as a reminder while he’s cleaning up the dishes and getting ready for his outing with Anakin. Obi-Wan doesn’t respond, but Quinlan doesn’t expect him to. “It sucks. But we’re here for you.”
Aziraphale is kind of sad after everything because they are “free” but he also misses heaven a bit (like leaving toxic family vibes?) And Crowley maybe cuddles him and reads him a story? Is a little extra domestic to make his angel feel less lonely in the world?
So, have some soft comfort in the South Downs! 1,225 words
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Crowley peered at his angel from where he was sprawled in an armchair in their new living room. They had finished moving into their cottage in Devil’s Dyke a few hours ago. Aziraphale had puttered about, fussing with books on the new shelves until he finally pulled one down to read. Then he had fidgeted about the living area, fluffing and rearranging pillows, getting a blanket then setting it aside. He finally sat on the sofa, changing his position restlessly until he eventually settled.
Crowley had been scrolling on his phone, but had kept a half eye on the angel the entire time. He had watched all the activity from where he had thrown himself into a plush chair, limbs draped over the arms in what would have been an uncomfortable position for a proper human body that wasn’t sometimes a snake (this didn’t apply to Crowley, so he was perfectly fine).
The angel was now the perfect picture of one entirely engrossed in what they were reading. Only, the last time Crowley had seen him turn a page was a half hour ago.
“Something wrong, angel?” he ventured.
Aziraphale startled and looked up into golden eyes crinkled with concern. He could see them easily, and the emotion they were drenched in, as Crowley had taken his sunglasses off the moment they were inside and hadn’t touched them since. It warmed him to see the demon appear so comfortable. He wished he felt the same.
“Hmm? Why do you ask, dear? Just reading, everything is fine.” He forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile onto his face. This only made the demon scowl.
“Well now I’m even more concerned. What was that? Was that meant to be reassuring? Bit too close to the look you’d give Michael, if you ask me.”
Aziraphale’s face did something complicated at that, settling on perturbed.
“What a ridiculous thing to say, I don’t know what you mean.”
“C’mon, angel. ’S been six thousand years, y’ think I don’t know how to read you by now?” Crowley drew himself up out of his seat like a puppet on strings, then crossed over to sit on the couch beside Aziraphale. He gently took the book out of Aziraphale’s hands, snapping a bookmark into it and setting it onto the coffee table. “Is there something wrong with the cottage? You having second thoughts?”
“No! No, nothing like that. It’s nothing, really, Crowley.” Aziraphale twisted the ring on his little finger. “It’s wonderful. I love the cottage. There’s nothing to have second thoughts over. It’s a lovely village, a perfect cottage, and it’s ours. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
“And yet…?” Crowley asked, sensing words left unsaid.
Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth.
“It’s nothing, really. Terribly silly.”
“Out with it, angel.”
“It’s just. I… even though they were rather awful, and I didn’t feel that I properly belonged… it’s just odd, that’s all. To be cut off from heaven. But it’s quite ridiculous. I’m glad!”
He looked rather more miserable than he did glad, Crowley thought, but he kept that to himself.
“Good riddance. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than on our side,” Aziraphale affirmed, giving a more sincere smile, though it was a bit weak, and his eyes still looked sad.
“It’s alright, you know. It’s alright to miss what it could have been, should have been. It’s ok to miss the home or family you knew, even if it was a bit shit.”
Aziraphale sputtered. “But you hate Gabriel.”
“I do. I want to drop the archangel fucking Gabriel into a pit of bubbling goo… But that’s not the point, Angel. It was all you knew for thousands of years. Unknowable amounts of time. It should have been where you belonged. It’s ok to mourn all that.” Crowley reached out a hand and gave Aziraphale’s knee a gentle squeeze. “And I’ll be right here. I’m not going anywhere. And hopefully we can build our own thing. Our own side. Our own home, maybe even our own sort of family.” Crowley was thinking of the humans they had befriended over the notpocalypse.
Aziraphale’s eyes welled, and he fought to keep his cheeks dry. He covered the hand on his knee with one of his own.
“You have always been that. Will always be that, to me.“
“Sap,” Crowley accused, though his eyes were overly fond.
Azriphale gave a soft, pleased smile, the best one Crowley had seen all day.
“Softie,” Aziraphale returned fondly.
“Well, so long as you don’t go telling anyone. Here. You get more comfortable, and I’ll go get you some cocoa.” Crowley picked up the discarded blanket and tucked it around his angel, then went to the kitchen. He came back a few minutes later and handed over a steaming cup, with so many little pink marshmallows floating on top that you could hardly see the cocoa underneath. Aziraphale flushed and accepted it gratefully.
“Oh,thankyou.”
“Be right back, Angel.”
Aziraphale looked at him curiously but waited quietly, sipping at his drink.
Crowley went to the bookshelves, trailing a finger along the spines until he stopped at an old red hardcover, pulling it off the shelf. He came round the sofa and settled in the other corner, facing Aziraphale. He opened the book and started reading aloud.
“Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it.”
Aziraphale smiled into his mug, eyes twinkling. Even after so many millennia, Crowley could still surprise him.
“Are you laughing at me?” Crowley demanded, his nose crinkled up. Aziraphale grinned wider before biting it back.
“I’m not laughing, dear.”
“Wot’s that look about, then?”
“Do you object to my smiling?”
“Well, no, but…”
“Mmm?” Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling with mirth.
“That’s enough of that, then.”
Aziraphale’s eyebrows shot up. “Enough of what?”
“You’re distracting me. C’mere.”
Crowley took the mug out of Aziraphale’s hands and set it on the coffee table, earning a befuddled look from the angel. He then grabbed Aziraphale and pulled him around until he was resting against Crowley’s chest, stretching his own long legs out around him. Crowley fixed the blanket back around Aziraphale, then handed him back the mug.
“There. Now, where was I?”
Aziraphale was too stunned to reply.
“Ah, yes. ‘And then he feels that perhaps there isn’t. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh.’”
Aziraphale wiggled a bit, getting more comfortable.
“Ngk,” Crowley said. “Stop wiggling about, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“Drink your cocoa.”
“Yes, dear.”
Aziraphale let the heat from his cocoa and the demon at his back seep in, making him feel cozy and settled. Things were different now, and it would be an adjustment. He had a hard time with change, but this was one he welcomed with excitement and hope. He already felt lighter than he could remember ever feeling. By his demon’s side — on their side — dreams he hadn’t let himself entertain were not only possible, but entirely likely. Change could be scary, but for once he looked forward to it.
Summary:Single parents Rose Tyler and James McCrimmon come together to embark on a whirlwind, passionate romance that seems to be the happy ending each of them never thought they’d get. But when James’s past comes back to haunt them and threatens to tear away everything they’ve built together, they must find a way to weather the storm that will either break them or draw them ever-closer, all while answering the question of what it means to be a family.
It took every ounce of restraint Rose had to keep her eyes off of James as he drove them silently to her house and not stare at the erection tenting the front of his jeans. God, how worked up had he been that, ten minutes later, he continued to sport an impressive hardon?
Very, Rose thought. She could still hear his frantic, grunting moans, the breathy warning he’d been about to give before they were interrupted by her phone.
At the memory, heat throbbed insistently low in her belly and between her legs. She shifted, pressing her thighs together as she tried to ignore her desire.
Finally, he pulled down her street and parked in front of her house. He didn’t turn his car off, clearly intending to leave as soon as she got out.
“I really am sorry,” she muttered, sighing as she looked out the side window to her house.
“And I told you, don’t be,” he said, reaching over to thread his fingers through hers. “I would offer to come inside with you, but…” He chuckled and gestured to his lap. “Well, I’m not exactly fit for company right now.”
She winced. He noticed and waved her off. “It’s fine. Nothing a few private minutes in my bathroom won’t fix.”
Her body burned, wanting so badly to be there with him as he touched himself, wanting so badly to be the one touching him.
“Enjoy the rest of your night,” she said, forcing a teasing inflection into her tone. “Think of me, won’t you?”
Summary: Shiro has never wanted to lean on anyone, never wanted to be a burden, but as he struggles to adjust to life after returning from the astral plane, he realizes just how much Keith means to him. The world needs Keith, but Shiro needs him more.
A/N: All my love to @whiskyandwildflowers for the beta you are incredible and I couldn’t have finished this fic without you. Thank you.
Excerpt: Something about Keith’s scent lingering in his bed sets Shiro on edge in the best way possible. His heart races, his palms sweat, and for the first time since he got a second chance at life, Shiro isn’t afraid to close his eyes.
After two days, the smell begins to fade. Shiro doesn’t wash his sheets, pressing his face into the pillow and desperately seeking the aroma he associates with all things good; safety, warmth, love.
Summary: Shiro has never wanted to lean on anyone, never wanted to be a burden, but as he struggles to adjust to life after returning from the astral plane, he realizes just how much Keith means to him. The world needs Keith, but Shiro needs him more.
A/N: All my love to @whiskyandwildflowers for the beta you are incredible and I couldn’t have finished this fic without you. Thank you.
Excerpt: Something about Keith’s scent lingering in his bed sets Shiro on edge in the best way possible. His heart races, his palms sweat, and for the first time since he got a second chance at life, Shiro isn’t afraid to close his eyes.
After two days, the smell begins to fade. Shiro doesn’t wash his sheets, pressing his face into the pillow and desperately seeking the aroma he associates with all things good; safety, warmth, love.
