What I want to see in s2
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What I want to see in s2
he was bracing himself for bad news
the only place worth sleeping is one right next to you
Normally Shane doesn't meet Ilya's eyes during their face-offs.
But in the last one he not only catches his eye but he *smiles* and Ilya fucking *melts*.
Ilya knows by this point eye contact does not come naturally to Shane so seeing him actively seek it out and seem so comfortable and relaxed probably made Ilya feel all warm and fuzzy.
Season 3 can't come fast enough
DWSA Slime Tutorials
99 Seat Theatre (2014): link Broadway (2015): link Broadway with captions by Queercateer (2015): [Act 1] [Act 2] The Wallies - show 1 (2015): link The Wallies - show 2 (2015): link
school spirits ghosts + cause of death
School Spirits x death years
Vigil - Chapter 1
Summary: Using the genetic material extracted from Yusuf al-Kaysani and Nicolò di Genova, Dr. Metak Kozak initiates Project Eos as an attempt to artificially replicate immortality through forced human trials. Nine embryos are created, implanted, and birthed under controlled conditions. The experiments she conducts represent a grotesque evolution of Steven Merrickās work.
When Copley first uncovers the program, Kozakās records declare total failure: "Group Gamma yielded no viable candidates. All subjects compromised beyond analytical utility."Ā But six weeks later, an anonymous lab technician leaks damning footageāa single surviving child, a three year-old male designated "IL-9" with confirmed cellular regeneration and disease resistance.
The team must address the danger this discovery represents. Nicky and Joe are confronted with a child created from their stolen blood.
A/N: A post-cannon story imagining the concept of a lab-generated immortal and how it affects the Guard. Could also be seen as an examination of parenthood. Mostly that, actually. Medical torture. Dr. Kozak is her own warning tbh. Child Abuse. Nicky is a doctor. Death. Immortal Parents. Hurt/Comfort. Illness. Blood. Angst.
11:00 AM. 30 Jan. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.
Copleyās study smelled of eighteen year Macallan and citrus wood polish. It was a space of crisp angles and warm walnut paneling, where afternoon light slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the English countryside. Every detail was curated, devoid of personal clutter save for a single silver-framed photograph facedown on the desk. The hidden image of Copleyās late wife was the only concession to sentimentality in a room so meticulously tailored it might have been lifted from the lair of a Bond villain.
They sat in mid-century leather armchairs, tension coiled in the air. Gathering them like this was a liability. Intel could be shared remotely; discussions didnāt require proximity. Yet here they were.
Andy knew before Copley even spoke. There was something in the way he surveyed them, like the weight of an inconvenient truth was pressing down. He stood before his Scandinavian desk, crisp in a navy cashmere sweater, fingers resting on a dossier thicker than a Bible. Not with hesitation, but ceremony.
It was clear for everyone that serious news was about to be delivered, but she knew that this went deeper. They had been gathered to sit in a war room.
Booker denied the quiet itch in his hand to reach for his flask. The fact that everyone agreed to show up despite his presence and ties to Copleyās new intel had been nothing short of miraculous. The conditions of his exile had been clear, but the current circumstances demanded an annulment of sorts, a truce. He registered the heel of Nileās boot thunking against the floor. She was the only one who agreed to sit near him. He wanted to tell her it wasnāt necessary, that the others were right to keep their distance. But the meaning behind the gesture lodged somewhere in his throat, there was a sharp feeling of gratitude.
For now, he alone knew why theyād been summoned. He wondered if she would stay so close once the truth hit.
Across the coffee table, Joe and Nicky occupied a leather loveseat. Joeās hand masked his mouth, fingers pressed to his jaw as he leaned against the armrest, eyes unreadable. He hadnāt wanted to come. Heād argued with Nicky the entire drive, listing every reason why they owed Booker and Copley nothing of their time.
Nicky had listened then, patient, prepared. He knew Joe only needed to voice his hurt, to let it dissipate before it festered. Andy and Nileās presence alone had been more than reason enough to go.
Now, Nicky sat perfectly still, his breaths measured, glacial.
"I've been tracking Kozak since Merrick," Copley finally began, thumb clicking the presentation remote.
The monitor sitting behind him on the glass top desk bloomed to life with a classified document header. The title "Project Eos" was written in stark black and white.Ā
"Over six years now," he continued, "I've followed money trails through seventeen shell corporations across three continents. Dead drops in Geneva. Burner labs in Minsk."
A click. The monitor flickered, they each absorbed the blue-tinted security footage of a woman in a white coat.Ā
Nicky could only stare. That same face had hovered over him while pieces of his flesh were carved away and dropped into plastic sample containers.Ā
"This is in Cardiff." Copley narrated. "In a private genetics facility fronting under the guise of pediatric regenerative medicine."Ā
Andy cut in, voice firm but tired. "Skip the build up, James. Just get to what's she's done."Ā Get to why we're here.
Copley didnāt flinch. But when his gaze landed on Joe and Nicky, the mask slippedājust for a second. A swallow. A flicker of remorse.
āKozakās Project Eos attempts to artificially replicate immortality through forced human trials.ā He paused. āSheās created, implanted, and birthed nine embryos under controlled conditions.ā
His voice was too calm, the way surgeons would begin to present a case to a patientās family before announcing complications.Ā
āThis was done using genetic material from you both. The nine candidates, labeled āSubject Group Gammaā were all listed as 'non-viable'.ā
Genetic material.
Nicky could remember when Kozak extracted samples from a more intimate area of his body, particularly the special technique she used to procure what she wanted. When it was done to him, the act was undoubtedly degrading, but he was able to process the moment as a temporary humiliation. When she turned to do the same to Joe's unconscious form, Nicky's calm abruptly dissolved. He bucked against his restraints, unable to tolerate the sudden onset of searing anger under his own ribs.
Copley continued on, pulling him from his thoughts.
"But a whistleblower has since come forward, a lab technician recently moved from a Merrick facility in Geneva. They revealed that our previous intel was inaccurate. A false flag."
A new slide flicked across the monitor. The first horror. Autopsy reports.
"We gained the autopsy reports of the first eight subjects," Copley said quietly. "All infants. Seven died before reaching one year of age, but then there was a breakthrough. The eighth child lived to 18 months."Ā
The details of the autopsy reports were clinical, detached. Causes of death: organ failure, hemorrhaging, neural degradation. There were only serial numbers instead of names. Nickyās fingers tightened imperceptibly on the edge of the armrest. His eyes dialed in on the information, scanning the details as quickly as he could.
Joe didn't look. He couldn't look. Ā
"The ninth child, named Subject IL-9, is still alive." Copley continued. "A three year-old male who demonstrates consistent accelerated healing, though they havenāt yet tested mortality."
A single photograph came next. A boy, small and pale with a shaved head, curled on a metal cot. His face was partially obscured by a black censorship bar, but what little of him was visible was unmistakable. He had Joe's nose and mouth. The child looked sickly, too young to be three. Too thin. Ā
"What is being done to him?" Nicky demanded, voice impossibly level. He rested a hand briefly on Joe's thigh, to ground himself, to check in, but withdrew the moment he felt the muscle beneath twitch like a live wire. The act had been too soon. Some wounds needed pressure. Others needed air.
Joe bent forward, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands. His fingers dragged through his beard, rough and unsteady. The room tilted. He needed air. Needed to put his fist through something, or maybe feel someone else's fist collide with his cheek. He didnāt look at anyone. He couldnāt. His gaze fixed on the floor, on the wood grain under his sneakers, on the two birds chasing each other just outside the window, on anything but the screen where the deaths of eight children were dissected in unforgivingly clinical language.
He could only force himself to breathe. There was no other way forward, no other way to process what he was feeling from this violationāthis mix of revulsion and hurt.
"The testing on the child has been...systematic." Copley's voice was measured, face souring as he carefully chose his words. The white plastic casing of the remote softly cracked under the force of his grip.
"Phase one consisted of pathogen exposure to common strains of measles, influenza, and tuberculosis. Each infection was meticulously timed to measure recovery rates." A click. Graphs of fever spikes, white blood cell counts. "They noted his immune response was 'anomalously efficient', with recovery achieved by day four of each trial."
Nickyās jaw shifted, but his voice never changed. Always calm, always even. "How much information did you recover on his medical history?"
"Itās incomplete,ā Copley began. āBut the whistleblower provided us with daily vital logs, trauma and healing reports, neurological assessments, weight chartsā"
"Give separate copies to me. Everything you have." Nicky interjected. He squinted as he read the numbers of a growth chart fixed on the screen. The last entry was from nearly two months ago, the child was recorded as 84 centimeters tall and weighing 10 kilograms.
"Phase two tested his resilience to environmental extremes." Copleyās mouth thinned. "Four hours in 2°C water. Five hours in a climatic chamber at 42°C. Timed oxygen deprivation just before the threshold of brain damage. Fourteen days of gradually reduced calorie and fluid intake.ā
Joe rose abruptly from the love seat, his knee roughly bumping the coffee table as he stood. He crossed to the window in large strides, his back rigid, one hand braced against the window frame. The tendons in his forearms stood out like cables.
Copley continued, quieter now. "Phase three moved to physical trauma. Compound fracturesā" A slide of an X-ray, a tiny femur snapped clean through. "ālacerations, burns. Healing averaged one to two hours for deep tissue, three hours for bone."
The cap of Nileās pen snapped in her grip, but she continued to listen attentively. Those rates of healing were longer than what it took for them. Her eyes flicked over to the faces of the others, but there was no way to discern if their thoughts were following the same paths. Everyone looked ill.
For a moment, Copley showed signs of fatigue. He let the hand holding the remote fall to his side. He glanced at his desk before finishing.
āPhase four has not yet begun, but the whistleblower warned that this is when they intend to test his mortality.āĀ
Andyās voice cut through. "We donāt wait on this one." She stood, approaching the desk to seize the dossier prepared by Copley and Booker. "We go in and extract the boy. Steal every byte of intel, then scrub the place." Her gaze swept the room. "It has to be full sanitization. We leave no witnesses."
Copley nodded, clicking to the blueprints. "All intel indicates that he is held here, in a third floor isolation unit." He pointed the red dot of a laser at the west wing.Ā
Booker leaned forward, tracing demolition points on the schematic. "C4 in the parking garage and ground floor support columns. Thermite cocktail hereā" He tapped the server room. "āenough to melt their research into slag."
He had memorized every inch of the building: entrances, exits, corridors, stairwells, and ventilation shafts. There was no escape route not pre-mapped out in his mind, no corner to hide in that he didn't know. The rotations of security and staff, the layout of the below ground parking garage, the brand of bleach the janitors usedāover the last month, Booker had funneled all of his remorse into learning every detail about this facility.Ā
He cleared his throat before focusing tentatively on Andy, finding her unreadable mask to be steadying in some way. This was only soul he knew to report to, who he knew to follow without question.
"The largest shift change happens just before 0200. That's the time to hit. Two nurses. One resident. Guards cut to skeleton crew."
Nileās fingers drummed a marching rhythm against the armrest. "Andy and I can breach through security. Disable cameras, clear a path." Her eyes flicked to Joeās motionless form by the window. "Nicky and Joe take point on extraction."
Nile, who sat stiff-backed, her dark eyes flickering between the screen and her family, so unflinching in the face of a reality that they all viscerally rejected. She never had a choice in the matter. Being an immortal of the modern era, she would never know the luxury the others once didāof lifetimes spent hiding in the shadows, of drifting untraced. Her immortality was always going to be a game of cat and mouse, and now, before she could even adjust, she was being asked to protect another life that would never know peace.Ā
Silence settled after her proposal, seemingly as acceptance. Thenā
"No survivors, then." Joe spoke, still facing the glass. His reflection was blurred, his words like a serrated blade, something not meant to cut clean. "What about Kozak?"
Copley was quick to answer. "Bern. Sheās presenting at a private symposium tomorrow."
Andy sat back in her seat, legs outstretched. The lines around her eyes deepened as she stared at something at midline only she could see.
"We hit the lab first. Then we end this." It landed like stonesāfinal, immovable.Ā
"News from the lab will hit her immediately," Nile countered. "Doesn't that give her time to disappear?"
Andy didn't move, her eyes remained steady. She spoke with the weariness of someone who had seen more bodies buried than the ground could contain. "Let her run," she spoke so quietly that it might have been to herself. Then louder, with the full weight behind it: "I've hunted smarter prey. This stops now."
Copley cleared his throat. "For what itās worth, weāve had eyes on her financial trails for over three years. Every alias, every shell account. She hasnāt taken a step without us knowing since 2021." He looked to Nicky, then to Joe's back. "If you go for her first, we risk the boy being moved. The labās servers need to be melted before they can scrub the data."
Joe turned from the window, his face eerily blank, the kind of calm that came before a surge. This wasn't the absence of fury, but the absolute clarity that rage could provide when put to good use. Everyone expected him to walk out after Copleyās presentation. He had every right to. Every reason to slam the door, to vanish, to let the complex storm of shock and fear burning under his flesh fuel him through the English countryside until his legs gave out.
But he didnāt.
Surprising everyone but Nicky.
His attention locked onto Booker first.
Not Andy, not Nile, not Copley.Ā Booker.
Because Joe knew Booker was the one who prepared this work. Because despite the betrayal, despite the fractured trust that still ached between them, Booker was the one who had always been best at this: the slow, methodical gathering of intel, the obsessive mapping of every variable. And now, he was here with them, trying to atone in the only way he knew howāby providing a way to fix this.
Joe crossed the room and dropped himself into the armchair Andy had abandoned.Ā
"Walk me through your plan." He quietly demanded. His voice was hollowed out, the kind of tone that made the air in the room feel thin.
Joe and Booker sat and discussed for hours. Their gear was already sourcedāuntraceable weapons, ammunition, a van with plates that would burn clean after extraction. It was an hour's drive to Bristol, where a private plane would be waiting to take them quickly back to East London, then a second van to bring them back to Copley's house in Sheldwich. From there, they would work out where everyone would go next. Copley would monitor the situation and work through covering their tracks.Ā
Nile and Andy joined in. The four of them hashed out the plan all afternoon, then well into the evening. Timing. Division of roles, who would be covering who. Contingency plans in the event the child was too weak at any point to be moved.Ā
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01:17 AM. 31 Jan. 2025, Sheldwich, Kent County, United Kingdom.
The moment the intel presentation ended, Nicky didnāt join where the others were clustered around the coffee table, debating extraction plans and arguing timelines. He cornered Copley near his large desk, demanding the boyās medical files.
To his credit, Copley didnāt hesitate. A laptop and two USB drives were deposited into Nickyās hands without question. It was impossible to miss the flicker of guilt in the manās gaze during the exchange. He understood what horrors he was silently delivering, he knew the pain that awaited.
For the next twelve hours, Nicky locked himself in the guest bedroom, the glow of the laptop screen painting shadows under his eyes. He operated with the urgency of someone who believed he could already be too late, racing against time to undo what might already be irreversible.Ā
He cross-referenced every procedure, every notation, every spike or drop in vitals. His fingers worked tirelessly over the keyboard, constructing a meticulous chartāweight fluctuations, heart rate anomalies, the jagged decline of a body pushed beyond its limits. The reports were inconsistent. Sometimes his injuries closed unnaturally fast, other times his fever raged for days unchecked. Nicky knew how stress at these levels could inhibit healing. Even if the boyās body could repair at a similar rate to them, the constant strain he was under would greatly disrupt his abilities. If Kozakās team was truly nearing phase four, the boy would be in no state to recover quickly. His body would be eating itself alive to keep up with the pace of forced regeneration.
With this information, Nicky knew he had to work under the guiding principle that the boy was mortal. He would plan for the worst, and then hope for the bestāagainst evidence, against the gnawing dread in his chest.Ā
He made an exhaustive list of the medical supplies they would need, things Copley could source quickly from his connections. Pediatric IV kits, bags of standard saline as well as lactated Ringerās solution, nasal cannulas, oxygen tanks, a portable blood analyzer, a glucose monitor, pain killers, broad spectrum antibiotics, a child-sized pulse oximeter and blood pressure cuff...
Nicky also made a separate list of practical items and things for comfort: clothing, toiletries, toys, books. The reports had been clinical in their omissions. There was no mention of play time, of going outside, or of any schooling. Nicky had doubts about how much interaction this child received. Did someone come consistently whenever he cried? Did the staff take the time to talk to him, to teach him words? The sparse references to toys were particularly bleak. They were used only as bribes during cognitive and neurological tests, brief rewards taken away the moment the boyās cooperation was ensured.
The grandfather clock in the hall hummed past midnight when the others finally dispersed. Footsteps retreated in different directions down the corridor, doors softly shut one by one.Ā
Joe padded quietly into their borrowed bedroom, his face a mask when he found Nicky still sitting on the bed, laptop open on his legs.Ā
The door slid closed behind him with a click, sealing them away from the outside world.
Neither spoke.
There was a certain weight in the way Joe moved that was all wrong. His limbs operated too cautiously, not with the calm before battle, but with the quiet of someone trying hard to control his breath, as if an undetonated bomb shared this space with them.
The silence stretched in the room, tight as a piano wire. There was only the faint crackle of dying embers in the Malm fireplace, their glow creating warped shadows across the floor.Ā
"You should sleep." Nicky murmured, voice hardly above a whisper.
Joe let out a rushed exhale, not quite a laugh. "You first."
Nickyās gaze flickered over him in the dim light, reading the lines of his body like a map. It was as if he could see right through his skin. The hurt was still there, simmering beneath buffering layers of calm. But even deeper under that faƧade, Nicky knew there was something wounded, something terrified. Ā
Joe settled down onto one of the winged armchairs next to the vintage fireplace. They were given the largest of the bedrooms. Nicky imagined that it had at one point been used by Copley and his wife, but he would never ask. Joe's elbows rested on his knees while he began rifling through their shared suitcase, searching out his desired clothes for sleepwear. The thermal henley came off in one rough tug, the fabric catching briefly on the curve of his shoulders before he wrenched it free. His jeans followed, discarded in a heap beside the chair. He dressed for bed with the same efficiency he might use to strip a rifleāmethodical, detached. He opted to wear one of their stretched out sleep shirts and a pair of joggers, glancing down at his feet and internally debating for a moment before deciding to keep his socks.
Wordlessly, he plucked his toiletry sack from the side compartment and slipped into the ensuite. His face remained distant, checked out.
Nicky waited until he returned from brushing his teeth, watching the way he traipsed over to the bed. Joe sat down on the edge, but didn't turn, didn't move to settle himself back against the headboard. His dark eyes gazed through the floor to ceiling windows that comprised the entirety of one wall in the bedroom, watching the unrelenting rain continue to fall outside.Ā
"Talk to me."Ā
Joeās arms loosely crossed, his fingers gripping his elbows, his jaw taut.
"What is there to say?ā He demanded softly. āTomorrow we go in and we get him out. We burn the rest." Ā
Nickyās attention didnāt waver from his husband's back. "And after?" Ā
The question hung between them, heavy with everything they could not say, sagging under the weight of all that they didn't have time to discuss.
Joeās fingertips skimmed over the skin of his arms, a motion meant to self-soothe.Ā
"After, we make sure no one else comes. We rip the weeds out by the roots, then salt the earth." Ā
"Thatās not what I meantā"Ā
"I know."Ā
"Do you?" Nicky wondered in what was barely above a whisper. "This isnāt a mission, Joe. This isnāt extraction and extraction alone. If he isā" He stopped, the words stuck in his chest, too difficult to give form. Ā
Again, Joe had the encroaching feeling that he couldnāt breathe. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, raked his fingers through his beard.Ā
They submitted once more to the awful quiet. The wind outside caused the windows to rattle.Ā
Joe's arms uncrossed, hands now resting down at his sides, his fingers unclenched only to curl again into the fabric of his sweat pants. His head bowed forward, the words scraping out like gravel underfoot.
"I canāt stop thinking about how we didnāt know."
The silence that followed was leaden.Ā
Nicky watched the strain build through Joe's bodyāthe rigid line of his shoulders, the way his breath stuttered before he forced it to steady. In that moment he ached to reach for him, to press his palms against the tension and work it loose with his fingers, his mouth, his whispered reassurances. But Nicky knew that it wasn't the right time, that whatever he would say would only fall flat.Ā
"We felt Nile. We felt Booker." Joe's voice dropped lower, rougher. "How could we not feel any ofĀ this?"Ā
This.
A child's suffering. The silent agony of the ones before him. The way their own blood had been turned against them, used to create and destroy in equal measure. Centuries of war, of loss, of resurrection. He struggled to think of a prior experience that could have prepared them for this particular feeling of helplessness
"We can't be sure how it works." Nicky said carefully. "Maybe because he wasnāt born. He was made."
Made.Ā The implications of the word curdled between them.Ā
Joe's lashes fluttered as his eyes slipped shut. His jaw clicked as it shifted minutely to one side.Ā
"Or maybe because we werenāt paying attention."
Nicky didnāt have a response. The guilt was there, in both of themāa silent, aching feeling that they had fallen short.
He found himself wishing so deeply that they had the time to help each other ease into this. It was a cruel stroke of irony: that immortals who inherently had only an abundance of time, suddenly found themselves with none. There would be no slow unraveling of this pain, no gentle easing into the horror.Ā
Joe let out a breath, his head turning to glance over his shoulder. "What are we supposed to do after we get out of there tomorrow?" The question was hushed and lost. "Because, Nicky, if he lives, if heās ours toā"Ā
He stopped himself, rocking slightly as he failed to continue that line of thought. Because what he was really asking was too callus to be voiced outright. How do they help a child who was never meant to be a child? How do they teach trust to someone who has only known pain? How were they to care for something born from theft and defilement?
Nicky leaned forward, his knuckles skating over the small of Joe's back. "We do what we have always done." he murmured. "We adapt." Ā
Joe closed his eyes. "And if he dies in that lab before we reach him?" Ā
"Then we make sure no one else suffers like him again."Ā
An ember cracked in the fireplace, spitting crimson sparks into the darkness. Nicky blinked against the dry ache in his eyesāhe'd been staring at screens and reports for over twelve hours. The medical jargon blurred at the edges, but the numbers were still stark imprints in his mind.Ā
He closed the laptop, letting it click shut with finality.
"You havenāt read any of it, have you?"Ā
Joe turned to properly look at him then, his head twisting in gentle disbelief.Ā
"Why would I need to?" His voice frayed at the edges. "I know what they do in places like that. I remember." Ā
Nicky's fingers slid down the laptop's edge before he set the device aside. He chose his next words carefully. "They infected him with tuberculosis back in November. He recovered in three days." A deliberate pause. "They broke his femur to test the rate of regeneration. Twice." Ā
Joe flinched as if struck. "Nicolòā" Ā
"As far as I know, they never gave him a name." The words were meant to be informative, but his tone was like broken glass, brittle and fragmented. "In the reports, heās just IL-9." Ā
The air left Joe's lungs in a wounded rush. He surged to his feet, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if trying to erase the images flooding his mind. "Stop." Ā
He took three stumbling steps towards the bathroom before he whirled, his composure shattered.
āHow can you?" The words tore from him, accusatory, unable to hide his own disgust any longer. "How can you spend hours looking at that? It's torture. Every fucking line.ā Ā
Nicky didnāt flinch at what he was saying, even if a small part of him did feel incredulous towards the man across the room from him. His gaze held Joe's with a terrible sort of patience, aching with something too vast to name.Ā
What was he to say? That he feared turning away from what was done somehow made him complicit? That bearing witness was the only absolution left to them? Even for someone like him, it was too self-righteous a thing to say out loud. He knew that the reality was much simpler, much uglier.Ā
Truthfully, Nicky thought that if he focused on the broken bones, the fevers, however much blood was drawn, he wouldn't have to consider the greater violationāthat this child only existed because someone had stolen pieces of them both. If he let his mind wander beyond the boyās physical wounds, he would have to face the enormity of what had been done. Not just to this childās body, but to himself, to Joe.
Instead of saying any of this, Nicky only blinked. And now, his own throat burned as he struggled to speak normally.Ā
āSomeone must.ā Ā
The truth sat between them like a third presence.
Because itās a child, a child made from your blood and mine.
One that we may have failed before we even learned of his existence, before he ever received a name.
Nicky rose from the bed, his eyes never straying from Joe. His hands hovered between them as an offeringāa rope cast out amongst the waves they treaded. He didnāt come close enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat radiating from his husbandās rigid shoulders.Ā
"Maybe," he began, voice roughened from spending hours in silence, "if I know what they did, I can learn how to undo it." The words were frail sounding, the intention of hope behind them so unstable. "So when we bring him home, I can meet him where he is."
Joeās lips compressed together into a tight line, the skin around his eyes folded. The look he leveled at Nicky wasnāt just sadness, it was the quiet devastation of someone watching their beloved grasp at threads.
"There may be no 'after' for him."Ā
The gentleness in his tone made it worse. This careful doling out of mercy, as if Nicky hadn't already dissected every horrific possibility in the twelve hours he'd spent with those files. As if the image of a small body wrapped in sheets wasn't already seared behind his eyelids.
Nicky didnāt argue. He studied the tremor in Joeās clenched hands, the way his husband's gaze darted to every exit but never once to the laptop on the nightstand.
"No, perhaps not." he agreed softly while stepping into Joe's space. His palms mapped the familiar terrain of Joe's arms, sliding down to pry open his stiff fingers. "But we still must plan as if there will be."
With an unsteady exhale, Joe surrendered to Nickyās touch, letting him manipulate his wrists and hands however he wanted. Even in anguish, he was taking the time to consider his love's words, much like he always did. Though his emotions were known to burn bright, he was a man capable of immense reflection, always able to land at the core of things. Here, Nicky could see him trying to measure their needs, much like a merchant pouring over the figures in his booksāwhat surplus still remained, what could they salvage?Ā All of his calculations looked to be coming up short. This pain was too thick to quantify, stuffed away for survivalās sake yet hanging over their heads with mocking laughter.
Nicky guided Joeās palms to his own ribcage, pressing them flat against the rise and fall of his breath. His large hands settled over them, anchoring them both there.
"We learn what he isāā He murmured, the bass of his voice the only steady thing in the dark. Ā āāwe learn what they made him. Then we try to become what he needs."
Joe swallowed before nodding. His eyes closed tightly for a beat, then a soft curse slipped from his lips.
Their bodies folded together.Ā
Nickyās chin tilted in wordless invitation, allowing Joe to press his face into the familiar hollow of his neck. They inhaled each other, finding the very scent of homeāa place they had been able to carry with them for centuries because they understood that it could never be tied to a single location or physical dwelling, but rather to this life they carved out together. Nicky hummed as his husbandās hands fanned over his shoulder blades, each of them finding solace in the other's frame. They remained like this for an uncertain amount of time, listening to the sounds of their own breathing, the wet click of their throats swallowing, their syncopated heartbeats.Ā
The silence between them had always been its own language. It was Joe who eventually chose to break it.Ā
"It wasn't just him." He said, voice thick and trembling. He tried to steady his hands by finding Nicky's waist. "Eight others. Brought into this world and snuffed out. And we never had the faintest clue."Ā
Nicky had avoided this, because he could not afford thinking about the others. Perhaps years from now, when enough time and distance sat between them and this revelation, he would step into a quiet church and light eight individual candles. He would recite familiar prayers, not for forgiveness, but for the grief heād been forced to bury away. But this would be a ritual for far into the futureāfor a time when he and Joe had steadier ground beneath their feet, for when their family was no longer in such immediate danger. Now, they could only focus on what they still held the power to change.
āYes.ā His agreement was quiet. āBut now he is all that matters.ā
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02:21 AM. 01 Feb. 2025, Cardiff, Wales, United Kingdom.
Joe sat cross legged on the floor of the van, his back pressed against the metal wall.Ā
The weather report had promised a dry night, but Cardiff exhaled a bitter, icy mist all the same. The fine drizzle floated through the air, the small droplets clinging to hair and clothes alike, needling through layers until it penetrated the bones.Ā
The operation had been clean, until it wasnāt.
Disabling the cameras took Nile ninety seconds. Andy dispatched the entrance guards and those posted inside with barely a pauseāthey fell one by one as she and Nile pushed deeper, silenced by blade before their shouts could form. With each fallen guard, Andy and Nile called out their kills through the comms system. Joe and Nicky flowed a few paces behind them in perfect sync, sealing exits and watching angles. Only Booker broke rhythm from the group, vanishing into a side stairwell to descend to the lower levels, his bag filled with enough C4 to demolish a building twice as tall.
Locating the boy on the third floor cost them the most time, a dangerous amount of time. They had to force access code information from the two nurses on duty, the type of work that is never pretty.
Andy bent fingers backward one by one until one of them sobbed out a series of entry numbers.
Three minutes.Ā A result that was nowhere near her personal best.
Nicky and Joe went in alone to collect the boy.
Fifteen minutes total.
That's all it took to breach the facility and extract what should never have been taken.
Now, the mangled security gate screamed under the vanās tires as Andy drove them away.Ā
Joe hadnāt been able to touch him back in that sterile room. They found the boy lying in an elevated metal crib, it's barred walls looming over him more like a cage than a bed. His small body was tethered by electrodes and wires. Velcro straps pinned his arms outstretched on either side. Even as he slept, they felt the need to keep a sickly three year-old restrained.
In the vanās rattling dark, Nicky cradled the boy against his chest, swaying slightly on his knees. His gaze flickered over their gear, pausing on the thin padded mat theyād brought for the child. It had seemed practical back in planning. Now, with the boyās shallow breaths warming his collarbone, his body too weak to properly lift his head, it felt unforgivably stark.
Something in Joe awoke. Without hesitation, he wrenched over the nearest duffel, rummaging past weapons and wire until his fingers caught on familiar fabricāa shared sweatshirt that belonged to them, soft and threadbare from years of use, still carrying traces of Aleppo soap and sandalwood. He undid the zipper and spread it across his lap, creating a buffer against the cold damp of his tactical gear. Shifting forward, he quickly lifted his vest up and over his head, tossing it aside.Ā
"Set him down." Joe swallowed to make his voice cooperate. "It'sāit's okay."Ā
Nicky bent downward, murmuring,Ā āFai piano, tienigli la testaā¦ā (Easy, support his head...)
Joeās hands rose on instinct to help settle the boy's delicate weight. His palm pressed to where the back of the childās neck met the base of his skull, fingers splaying to support his head. The contact was like a hot spark landing in dry tenderāreal, real, suddenly too real. A child, a living thing made from him, taken from his body without permission, now lay cradled across his lap. Not quite his, but certainlyĀ of him.
His mind stuttered when he looked down at the boyās face, so undeniably close to his ownāfrom the slope of his nose, to the arch of his brows, Joe could see his own features mirrored back at him in miniature. Distinct echoes of Nicky were threaded throughout: in the stubborn set of his chin, the unique shape of his small ears. It made something sick and heavy coil in his gut. This was no miracle. It was violation given form, a life wrenched into existence without thought of mercy or consent. And yetā
The boy stirred weakly, his cracked lips parting around a soundless gasp. His fingers twitched against Joeās thigh, the movement barely there.
Before he could think, he shushed him, the back of his fingers smoothed over his brow. The motion came without his explicit permission, pulled from some deep, unguarded place.Ā
His eyes snapped up, meeting Nickyās over the boyās trembling body.
āHelp me get this off him." He jerked his chin down towards the off-white lab blanket. The stench of bleach and something sour, like sweat gone stale, clung to the rough fabric. He couldnāt stomach the thought of the child being wrapped in anything from that place for a second longer. Not when they were meant to be taking him somewhere far away and safe.Ā
Nicky didnāt argue, able to plainly hear the plea beneath the words. With careful hands, he helped peel the blanket off and tossed it aside. Together, they worked to swaddle him in the material of the old sweatshirt, the garment dwarfing his emaciated frame.Ā
Around them, the others kept up their careful pretense of focusāAndyās hands steady on the wheel, Bookerās tense silence in the passenger's seat. Nile was positioned just behind them, her head stuck between the two while she watched the road.Ā
āWhatās the time on detonation?ā She demanded, directions provided by Copley pulled up on her phone.Ā
āDonāt worry about it.ā Booker dismissed her question as Andy turned onto a side street. āI gave us enough of a window.āĀ
None of them for a single second doubted Bookerās calculations, in the same way they still trusted his ability to forge their identification papers and to iron out the logistics for the next mission. Nile's question was more about filling the silence, about not disturbing the intimacy of the moment Nicky and Joe were sharing behind her. They were giving them this, at least: the illusion of privacy in the cramped, rattling space.
The gentle clunk and swish of the windshield wipers continued against the rain. Still only a few blocks away from the lab, the aftermath of Bookerās work would come soon enough. The Tesco across the street from Kozak's facility would rattle with the force of the explosion, glass windows would shatter out into fragments against the pavement.
The lab would be left as a hollowed shell.
Nicky was already pulling supplies from his med kit, his movements fluid despite the van's jolting rhythm. A stethoscope draped over the back of his neck, he shifted to kneel before them, steady even as the vehicle lurched, his large hands hovered at the sweatshirt's zipper.
"Joe.ā
His name sounded different as it left Nicky's mouth, not a summons but a tether, spoken so it wouldn't travel any further than centimeters of space between them.
Joe blinked, like surfacing from deep water, the sounds of the present drawing him back from where his thoughts had spiraled. His dark eyes slowly sharpened, the weight of his gaze shifting from shock to awareness. He didn't realize how tightly he had been clutching the sweatshirt, his fingers felt nearly fused to the cotton fabric.Ā
"I need to check him." Nickyās voice was firm but not unkind. "So I can see how to help him."
The words passed easily. Joe managed a stiff nod, his throat dry with a sort of helplessness they had been unable to shake ever since they were gathered in Copley's study. His hands fell away from the small body stretched across his lap.
Slowly, Nicky worked down the zipper of the jacket. He unfastened the shoulder snaps of the boy's grey medical gown, pulling back the thin fabric to reveal his bare torso. The signs of malnourishment jumped out at them, his body was all sharp angles and prominent bones. Each breath he drew pulled the skin taut over his ribs.Ā
The boy's eyes, a lighter shade of brown than Joe's, watched as Nicky warmed the diaphragm of his stethoscope between his palms. There was no reaction when the metal made contact with his chest, his half-lidded gaze continued to travel warily between the two men hovering over him.Ā
The childās breath sounds were guarded and shallow. When Nicky shifted the chest piece lower, he could only frown as he listened to the ragged pull of air through his lungs. He gently felt for the pulse at the boyās carotid, finding it slightly elevated, the rhythm fluttery against his fingertips. The lymph nodes along the column of his throat were normal, though his skin still held a feverish heat.
Carefully, slowly, Nicky's hands skimmed over his narrow extremities, feeling each bone with light pressure. There were no obvious fractures, no bruises or abrasions, but the joints were too prominent, the wrists too fragile. Despite the gentleness of his touch, Nicky still detected the flash of a grimace across the boy's face. He managed to free one of his small hands from the folds of the jacket. When applying pressure to the nail beds, he noted how the color drained and returned slowlyāpoor perfusion.Ā
He reached for the penlight set out amongst his tools, clicking it on with his thumb.Ā
The moment the beam touched the boyās pupils, he jerked back with a sharp gaspāthe first real reaction heād shown since theyād taken him. His face screwed up, turning away from the light like it burned.
Joe caught him before he could retreat too far, one broad hand cradling the back of his head, the other bracing his cheek. "Shh, almost done." he murmured, his thumb smoothing a circle across the boyās temple.
Nicky worked quickly to check his pupillary response. The reaction to light was slow, but equally present. Finally, he brandished a thermometer. There was a quiet beep in the boy's ear before the digital readout confirmed what he already knew.
Low-grade fever. Dehydration. Aches. The beginnings of an infection simmering.
He began to clear away the unnecessary supplies back into his med kit, leaving out only what was needed for an IV. "He needs fluids," he said quietly. "And likely antibiotics."
Joe considered the information, his gaze trained down towards the boy. His palm lightly brushed over the crown of his shaved scalp, noting the angry red patches of irritationāa sort of allergic reaction to the electrodes' adhesive.
"He breathes like he's in pain."Ā
The child weakly tried to turn his head from Joe's careful touch, his hands flinching at his sides.Ā
"Tranquillo, piccolo. Fammi vedere questa mano, sì?"  Nicky spoke gently to him as he settled his small arm across his knee. His fingers nimbly fastened an elastic band around his skinny bicep before he turned his palm upward. (Easy, little one. Let me see this hand, yes?)
The Italian was deliberate. Not just for comfort, but as a boundary against past memories. Nicky wanted his voice and words to be nothing like the sterile English used in the lab. He knew that the boy wouldn't fully understand, but he hoped that the tone of what he said would still register. It felt important to create a distinction from the doctors he had known before, so he would eventually learn that his and Joe's hands would never seek to harm him. Nicky knew that the severe dehydration would make finding a suitable vein more difficult, and the moving conditions of the van were not ideal for steady hands, but there was no choice. He took a moment to center himself, slipping into the focused calm he'd learned to hone over centuries. These were the same measured breaths he took when perched on a rooftop with his rifle, in moments where there was no room for error. He glanced upwards to Joe, silent understanding passed between them. Joe had the boy's head resting now in the crook of his elbow. Carefully, he turned his face towards him, shielding his view from the needle. A slight tremor ran through his small body as the needle pierced skin. There was the subtle feeling of resistance when the IV catheter met vein, then a small amount of blood filled the chamber, signalling success. The boy's breathing caught, but he didn't cry out. Nicky suspected that he was too weak to even whimper. "Tutto fatto." He whispered, as much to himself as to the child. He taped the line in place, his thumb brushing the inside of his elbow in silent apology. (All done.)  Joe began fixing the jacket around the boy's body once more, assuring he was well covered. He sat back and watched as Nicky busied himself with hanging the bag of Ringer's solution on a makeshift hook. His husband made the necessary calculations in his head before drawing a syringe of pain medication, administering the dose directly through the IV bag's port. Nicky's silence could often be more telling than any outburst. There was something unsettled in the calm way his eyes scanned over the child, a sort of anger kept well guarded under the water's surface. It could never be lost on Joe that the person lying across his lap was just as much of Nicky's flesh as of his own, and so this violation felt all the more heavier. What wounded Nicolò only wounded him doubly.
"He needs a name..." Joe whispered, the words raw. There hadn't been time to comb through all of the records Copley and Booker amassed before the raid, but that crucial piece of information was listed nowhere. The boy had a number, but no other identifier tied to him.Ā
As the child fought against the pull of sleep, the message of what needed to be done was silently understood. What Joe was proposing was a tentative step towards trying, towards undoing. It was their attempt to stand between this child and a world that sought to exploit him.
It came together organically. A discussion they never once held before, but in that moment they found themselves inexplicably equipped with the answers.
"Ilyas." Nicky breathed, only loud enough to be heard between them.
Joe nodded as he exhaled, his thumb smoothing over the boy's cheekbone. The prophet Ilyas was known to have been ever faithful, resurrected before bringing down fire from the sky. He was someone taken and then returned. Neither he nor Nicky were particularly religious anymore, but symbols were never lost on them. This was a name that fit the person receiving it, and that fact alone brought a small modicum of comfort.Ā What remained of life if our words and names no longer carried meaning?Ā
"Ilyas Nicolò." Joe finished, his gaze still trained downward.Ā
Nickyās head tilted, just slightly, but his fingers curled around Joeās wrist in agreement. No paperwork, no witnesses, they only had this. It was a tentative claim voiced within the shuddering dark of an unmarked van.
Bucky knowing at least 31 languages according to CACW, super serum brain enhancements and the fact he learned Xhosa in Wakanda, leads me to believe he must have the fucking gnarliest of language blurring. You know when you can't seem to figure out how to word something in one language so you skip over to a different one but wait no one knows that...
I also don't think English would be Bucky's default language anymore. It's his birth language, sure, but Russian is probably the language he defaults to now after 80 years right?
So if Bucky's ever delirious for whatever reason, extreme tiredness, magic, super drugs or whatever who knows, do we think he talks in the most insane blend of languages, does he say a sentence in Japanese then switch to Korean and then to Polish, do we think he'd point blank say "I'm sorry I don't speak English" in English to his English speaking friends or teammates because he thinks in Russian and about fifteen other languages before he gets to English, and then goes "oh wait I do" or...?
for my Winter Soldier : Cold Front support group⦠If youāre interested I recommend you to check this interview with the author when youāre finished with the book (there are some minor spoilers on little things, so better listen to this when youāre finished!)! I love how theyāre basically one of us, lol, and they also talks about the inspiration for the Rostovaās character!
I love hearing from authors and their working process/where they find inspiration for their stories, and maybe this would be helpful for other fellow writers too :)
You Can Never Really Forget - a 9-1-1: Lonestar Fanfic
Summary:
TK couldnāt remember the night he was shot.
One night, everything comes back to him in his sleep, and Carlos is there to rescue him.
(AKA ā you ever have a fanfic idea that actually physically hurts your heart to write? Lol)
Some Tags: #whump #shot #ptsd #panic attack #hurt/comfort
āāāāāāāāāā-
It had been a few weeks since TK was shot responding to a call with the 126. While it had all seemed so big and heavy at the beginning, over time, TK found himself forgetting.
Once and a while TK would be too ambitious, making too fast a movement, or shifting positions and making his chest scream in protest. He would freeze, grimace, and take a deep breath, allowing the pain to subside. He would be reminded once again that he wasnāt there yet - he still had healing to do, as much as the waiting frustrated him.
He was spending a lot of time with Carlos, now. TK could tell something had shifted between the two of them recently. After they had teamed up to handle the solar flare incident, it was like something had just solidified. The shift was automatic, and maybe permanent. He was happy that was the case.
As much as TK pushed away at the beginning of their relationship, TK always hoped he and Carlosā relationship would turn into something more. TK initially wanted to run away from the idea of a real relationship with Carlos, scared that he may get hurt like he did with his last boyfriend. But something about Carlos made him feel safe - like it was worth the risk.
Once TK finally opened up about his feelings, Carlos started to put a lot of effort into their time together. He was constantly taking TK to new places in the city, planning elaborate dates, and inviting him over as much as possible. TK originally thought this was due to TK finally giving him the āOKā to move forward, but after a week or so, he pondered if there was another motive behind his heightened effort of intiation.
Was Carlos trying to distract him?
TK noticed Carlos would get this look in his eyes every time TK forgot about the gunshot wound again and ended up hurting himself inadvertently. It was subtle. Carlos probably didnāt even realize he was doing it, but his eyebrows would furrow slightly, his eyes would widen. He looked at TK like he was fragile and was immediately prepared to do whatever it took to protect him from breaking.
TK knew Carlos didnāt intend to show his worry on his face, but he wasnāt very good at hiding his emotions. TK didnāt like seeming weak in front of Carlos (or anyone) but he knew deep-down that Carlosā concern didnāt come from a place of judgment. So, TK tried to ignore the way it made him feel.
TK wondered if the sudden busy approach to their time together was Carlosā way to help TK get his mind off of things. The dates, the detailed plans⦠it was like Carlos was giving TK as many opportunities as possible to forget what happened. They were always doing something. Never sitting still long enough for memories to resurface. How would TK tell Carlos he didnāt need to forget something he never remembered in the first place?
Keep reading
left it all on the cold floor
inspo: my 'cold floor' drabble + @tarlosweeklyprompts 'letter'
summary: Carlos has known about TK's struggles with opioid addiction for many years. But what happens when one day, he finds TK bleeding and desperate on the cold floor of the bathroom?
word count: 7.1k
author's note: angst has never been something i enjoyed writing until i started this. i really hope you'll enjoy it!! + thanks to @chaotictarlos for being my beta on this fic š©¶ -> warnings are under the cut. -> ao3 link here carlos' letter here
warnings: angst, opioid addiction, attempted relapse, actual relapse - not detailed, self-inflicted injury, blood, pills, carlos is aware of tk's addiction, rehab mentions
Carlos leaves the station with a box of what's left of the donuts he'd brought in at the beginning of his shift. He takes a bite of one of them and then holds it between his lips while he fumbles for his key. He unlocks the car, climbs in and drops the pink, half-empty box of sweetness into the passenger's seat and buckles his belt.Ā
"Mm, yum." He says to himself when he finishes the last bite and licks his thumb and fingers clean of the powdered sugar. He wipes them on a tissue that is stuffed into the glove compartment and then slides his phone out of his pocket so he can shoot his boyfriend a quick text.Ā
Mind if I come over? I'll cook for you.Ā
Carlos and TK took things at a slow, steady pace in their relationship. Theyād been together for a couple of years, but they hadnāt said those famous three words to each other, nor did they share a home. Yet Carlos had been presented with a key to TK's apartment about four months ago. Despite this, he felt it was still polite of him to let his boyfriend know before coming over, after all, he was raised a well-mannered man. It would also be plain wrong of him to just let himself in and out whenever he so pleased, key or no key.
Mind if I come over? I'll cook for you.
His words are still the only ones that are displayed on the screen. As he waits for a text back, he remembers the story of why he has the key and why it was Owen who had given it to him, not TK.
ā
It was after a tough night when heād been walking back from the convenience store. Heād randomly fancied his favourite bar of chocolate, craving it enough to take a quick trip out as it was falling dark. It was a good thing heād decided to give in to his sweet temptations because, on the way back, heād spotted TK. His entire body went slack when he realised what exactly TK was doing in the dark alley, talking to a taller, scruffier-looking man. He watched as the mystery guy took a roll of notes from TKās shaking hand, then gave over a little baggy of pills. They fist-bumped each other, and then the deal was done. It was quick and quiet. Carlos had never caught TK in the act before, but he immediately jogged over to him once the other guy had disappeared and TK was making his way back into the glow of the streetlight above them.Ā
He didnāt know what to say as his boyfriend stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. He just looked back, taking him in. TK was wearing a black hoodie, the sleeves rolled down, but not enough to hide the jagged ends of what looked to be scratch marks. Carlos had seen them before. When TK was struggling, he'd scratch at his skin and sometimes make himself bleed. He did it to his arms, his legs and sometimes the back of his neck. His eyes fall down to where TK is holding the tiny bag and he wants so badly to snatch it away, perhaps find a drain to drop it into. He takes a single step forward, and TK flinches, like heās a stray cat, worried that this stranger is going to harm him.Ā
āTK,ā He asks a stupid question, but he needs to break this silence and end this weird standoff they seem to be having. āWhat are you doing out here?ā
TK snaps out of his stare, crumples the bag further into his grasp and just shakes his head. Carlosā mouth opens to say something else then, but TK interrupts, moving into his space.Ā
āAre you, uh, gonna arrest me, Officer?ā
Itās not some failed attempt at a joke. TK is serious, and Carlos hadnāt even thought about it, but he knows the answer. āNo. Iām not, TK. Do you think I should?ā
He shrugs. āItās the law, right?ā
āWell I didnāt see the other guy's face⦠and I donāt have my cuffs on me, so.ā He makes a gesture with his hand, waving it to signal for TK to come closer. āLetās just⦠go home for now. Come on.ā
That night, he'd walked home with TK, looping their arms together and holding him tightly, cautious of anything he said or did for the rest of the evening. He tried not to let TK get all up in his head again by keeping him busy. He asked him to help prepare their meal, and then pick a movie for them to watch. They ended up sitting on opposite ends of the couch, an uneasy air flowing between them and causing a ball-like feeling to form in Carlosā throat. The whole time, the only thing on his mind was that little bag and making sure it ended up in the trash, or at least staying full.
Owen and Gwyn found out in the morning, when they both woke up to find the text from Carlos, explaining what had happened and that TK was okay, for the time being. The three of them talked about it in their private three-way group chat. They all knew that the next couple of days were vital and they needed to keep a close watch on TK until he was acting like his true self again.Ā
That afternoon, Owen visited the station, and following a heavy conversation and heartfelt words of gratitude for finding his boy, a key was pressed into his hand. Carlos had flipped it over a few times, frowning in confusion. He watched Owenās eyes turn somber and when he was about to ask what the key was for, it was made clear.
āThat is for when myself or Gywn aren't around. You, uh⦠you may have occasion to use it."
Owen patted Carlos on his shoulder, then left, leaving his mind to catch up and picture scenes where TKās parents have had to use their own copies of the key before. He struggles to imagine what that is like; when they are so concerned about their own sonās well-being, that they have to pound on the door and let themselves in to find out if heās okay. Or if heās passed out, missing, or even, gone.
Carlos didn't have a chance to respond or to ask if TK would mind when Owen left, and it made him more than a little nervous to actually use it. How could he know how TK would react? But the first time Carlos worked up the courage to twist the key one day and walk on in as TK was changing, post-shower, he was met with a smiling face. TK smirked and sauntered over to Carlos, planting a kiss on his lips in greeting. āBaby.ā He said simply, greeting him and making all of Carlosā fear melt away. That was that. TK definitely didn't mind, or care.
ā
After the memory passes over, he unglues his eyes from the car parked opposite him, looking down at his phone and sending a second text.
Or we could just order in?
Another minute goes by, and he types a third and final text, before dropping his phone next to the donuts, and pulling out of his parking space.
Okay⦠my choice then -Ā weāll order Chinese food tonight? Be there soon.Ā
ā
The drive to TK's place feels unusually longer than it does on any other given day. There isn't a crazy amount of traffic and he hasn't heard about any accidents on the road over the radio. Heās actually making good time, he notes after reading the time that flashes up on his mobile with two little taps. He left work around ten minutes ago, and itās only about another fifteen before heāll reach TKās apartment building. It just doesnāt feel that way. Instead of ten, it feels like heās been driving for triple that.
Thereās a saying that crosses his mind, the one about time flying by when youāre having fun. Well, what if this was the opposite? The thought causes a dull ache to start up in his gut, and all of a sudden he can just tell that something is wrong. Heād often get a feeling like this during an emotional call or case at work, but right now, he is pretty sure he can pin the notion on his boyfriend. To TK.
It makes sense with the fact that TK still hadnāt answered his text messages. If he had, Carlos would know by the little popping notification sound going off beside him, but itād been a silent drive so far.
He'd be lying if he said that TK always answered. He didn't. On a normal day, TK would read his messages and then reply later, explaining that he forgot to respond or that he was busy on a case that ran overtime. Sometimes, he just forgot, period. There were always those times as well when he just didnāt want to talk, but those were always worry-inducing.
When Carlos stops at a light, he picks up his phone again and squints down at his screen. Under the last message, it remains to read the word 'sent'. There aren't any bubbles to show that TK is typing or any ticks that indicate he has seen Carlos' texts.Ā
Carlos calls, tapping the speaker option and dropping his phone again, the light in front of him having turned green. It rings and rings and then goes straight to TK's voicemail. He ends the call and repeats the action, despite knowing that he'll most likely get the same outcome.Ā
'Hey, it's TK. I'm probably on a shift, or I just don't wanna talk to you. Drop a message or text mā'
"Shit, come on, Strand." Carlos hangs up.Ā
His fingers flex and tighten around the steering wheel, and he shifts in his seat, the belt now feeling like it's far too constricting. He's well aware that he's freaking himself out, he's overthinking, but it's completely justified. As much as he hates to think it, the fact is; this is exactly what it's like to be in a relationship with someone who has an unhealthy addiction.Ā
"TK, answer the damn phone. Where are you?" Carlos mutters. The question lingers, and he's not completely sure if he wants to know the answer. "Please, please just be showering."
As his drive continues, he thinks about good memories of TK, trying to sway his anxiety and ease it for a while. He thinks about that night when TK finally took the plunge and changed both of their lives forever with a way-overdue, toe-curling, picture-perfect kiss. Itād been a remarkably long time coming. Theyād known each other since infancy and played together as children, then been inseparable best friends for most of their school lives, both of them keeping their hardcore crush on the other a secret. It took a rather horrendous storm keeping them trapped inside Carlosā apartment for TK to make his move.
Carlos briefly wonders what would have happened if that kiss didnāt happen. Would someone else be in his current position of panic? Or, would TK have already done too much damage? That night in the alley⦠maybe without him there to catch TK in the act, the firefighterās name could have become a news headline.
He slaps each side of his face in turn. He needs to stop this, he has to stop thinking in this way. After all, it was plausible that TK could, as he said, just be in the shower
-
āNo, no, no!āĀ
The pitter-patter sound of pills falling and bouncing off of the floor echo around the small room. They roll around, some of them rebounding high enough to make it into the bathtub.Ā
āFuck!ā
TK screams in a way that - if he lived in a friendlier area - might just scare his neighbours into thinking that something was seriously wrong. Itās guttural and angry. Itās not TK.
His breathing picks up, and he doesn't even think about what he's doing when he makes a fist and throws a punch. The blow lands against the mirrored cabinet. He lets out another scream, which drives the middle-aged drunk from the apartment below to bang on the ceiling a couple of times, yelling something that TK doesn't register in his currently clouded mind.Ā
Cracks appear instantly in the glass. Droplets trickle down through them, painting the gaps with red, warm blood. They seep between the busted crevasses, then run over the thin edges, dripping down until they periodically splash into the sink.Ā
His reflection is shattered. He touches the fragment of glass that he can see his eyes in. It peels away and falls, splitting into a few smaller pieces by his feet. He doesn't react when one of them scrapes his skin, tearing a few layers and causing a long and slim cut.
He tears his eyes away from the mirror, feeling just a shred of shame for the person looking back at him. His hair is messy and slick, not having been brushed or washed in a couple of days. His lips are chapped, dry and lacking any colour, and his eyes are bloodshot. The smattering of stubble that frames his chin and jawline is normal, but itās grown longer than heād usually let it before having it trimmed.
Suddenly, overwhelmed with the sight, he falls to his knees. The second he hits the floor, he spots the cap of the bottle that had fallen, and it doesnāt take much, the plastic lid redirecting his focus back on the pills in an instant.
He moves like a wild animal that's desperate for a single morsel of food.Ā
His hands slap along the cold, tiled floor as he feels around for any loose pills. Most have rolled too far away, and he doesn't have the energy now to move that much. He huffs, feeling defeated, and falls against the hard surface of the tub. His back protests the harsh bump, that no doubt causes a bruise to start forming in yet another area of his injured and aching body.Ā
He is quiet for a few minutes, zoning out until he hears the buzz of his mobile from the other room. Thereās no telling how long it had been ringing, but he can't bring himself to stand up and go see who it is anyway.
A stinging feeling coming from his hand distracts him. He lifts it onto his bent knee and inspects the damage. If he were in a rational state of mind, he would panic at this point. He would call for help, call his Dad, anyone that he knew. Or maybe he would at least try to bandage the cuts himself, but he just pulls down the sleeve of his hoodie and tugs it over his clean hand, then presses it on top of his bloody one. Pressure is good, he thinks, itāll stem the bleeding, right?
TK isn't sure how much time passes, but it feels like forever and nothing at all. He sits there on the bathroom floor, alone and longing for that euphoric high he'd been trying to chase and replicate since the very first time.Ā
Thoughts start to swirl around in his head again, just like they always did. He thinks about how ashamed he is. Yeah, embarrassment is the first thing that crosses his mind. He knows he looks the part of an addict at this moment, and if any of his crew or his friends were to see him like this, he'd want to hibernate forever; never to be seen again. He thinks about how he had managed to stay clean for almost five months. The last time he almost relapsed, Carlos had caught him with his new dealer. Often, he dreams about that day, reimaging the night if Carlos had arrested him, or if heād taken the pills before being found. Maybe he wouldnāt have a boyfriend anymore after such an ordeal. That thought makes him shiver.
The cycle goes on. The wheel of emotions spins to land on anger, regret, sadness, and eventually, irritability. He's pissed off. He had dropped not just a couple, but all of the pills. They'd cost him quite the lump sum of what he had left of this month's paycheck, and now they were scattered everywhere, going to waste. Or⦠not. TK knows that the floor hasnāt been cleaned in a few weeks, but they were just pills, surely they would still be okay to take, he could just wipe them off.
TK's mouth twitches, his eyes go wide, and he grunts as he pushes himself up on all fours. Now determined, he crawls along the floor, his head ducking to look around and locate as many pills as he can. His eyes are dead-set on his quest, and his focus is as direct as when he's out saving lives with the 252.
There's probably irony in that somewhere⦠about how protecting people brings about as much fixation as nearly killing himself each time he overdoses, or takes even one pill.
He finds one pretty quickly. It's behind the back of the toilet, and for just a moment, TK does question himself and his choices. He really thinks about tossing it, but the idea is short-lived. He plucks the candy-like drug from the floor and wipes it on his jeans, then shoves it into his hand with force, like he's afraid it'll roll away again. On his free hand, there's a tiny amount of dusty residue stuck to his thumb and forefinger from the pressure making it crumble a little. He brings it to his mouth, licks it off and continues to collect more.Ā
Each time he finds another, he still feels as though he doesn't have enough; his brain telling him that he needs a generous dose. So his little hunt goes on. Until, he hears shuffling in the front room, followed by an all too familiar voice calling his name.
-
Carlos pushes his car door shut and locks it. In his left hand, he holds the box of donuts, his uniform jacket draped over his forearm. He should also be carrying a bag of groceries, but he'd decided to ditch the store stop along the way, wanting to get here as quickly as posssible.
He slides the key into the lock and takes a deep breath. He tells himself what he needs to hear but doesn't entirely believe. 'It's all good. He's just taking a shower. A really, really⦠long shower.'
"Hey, TK!" Gently kicking the door behind him, he calls out to his boyfriend, pretending not to hear the slight tremor in his own voice. He puts the box of treats down on the kitchen counter. "I, uh- brought donuts if you want them."
He doesn't get a response, so he flicks on some lights and looks around. The apartment isn't messy, but it's not tidy either. There are no dishes in the sink, the trash bin is just about overflowing and thereās nothing playing in the way of radio or the TV. He wonders if TK has even been here at all today. "Babe? You here? Hello?"
Again, he gets no response.
"You even hā" A loud grunt comes from the direction of the bathroom and Carlos jumps, and he drops his jacket slips from his grasp, thudding on the floor from the weight of his wallet and car keys. "TK!? Shit, are you okay?"
"I'm fine!"Ā
Carlos has to remind himself to breathe when TK finally answers him, but heās still concerned as he kicks off his boots and places them neatly on the shoe rack. "God, TK, I was worried for a sec. You didn't reply to my textsā¦" As he says this, he notices TK's phone, laying on a cushion on the sofa. āOh, itās⦠there.ā
He picks up his jacket, hangs it up and then just stands in the entryway for a while. He listens intently, trying to figure out what TK is doing. Thereās no water running, no flushing or the sound of the shower curtain being opened or closed. He decides that heās had enough, after a few minutes. He needs to know that his boyfriend is okay, now.Ā
He takes a few steps to reach the bathroom and twists the door handle. To his surprise, it isnāt locked, so he goes right in and gasps at the sight heās met with. "Tylerā¦"
āUgh.ā TK rolls his eyes. He didnāt mind Carlos using his full name, in fact, he loved it, but it was the tone Carlos had said it in; full of shock and concern.Ā
āWhat the hell happened?ā
āI, uhā¦ā TK is leaning against the tub, a hand holding his head, sitting with his legs crossed. āheadbutted the sink."
"Oh, yeah. Is that all?" Carlos' words come out harsher than intended, but heās too distracted by the scene before him to apologise or rephrase. āDid you hurt yourself anywhere else?ā
He kneels in front of TK, gently taking his balled, uninjured hand and prying it open. The pills are mostly crushed, and heās pretty sure that this is why TK looks so peeved right now. Carlos tips all of the powdered substance into his own hand and stands up to throw it in the toilet bowl. He then washes his hands and sits down, copying TK's crossed-leg position.Ā
He knows TK is expecting a big fight. Some type of grand intervention-style speech, but he is far more worried about the cuts on TKās knuckles and wants to deal with them first. Carlos also doesn't want to spook TK, make him leave, or upset him. He wants to tread lightly.
He stretches over to the cabinet, pulling out a first-aid kit that he is amazed TK still has. "Give me your hand." TK does as heās asked, and Carlos places it on his leg, then cleans it with a couple of wipes, making sure to be delicate over the torn skin. "So⦠you punched the mirror? Why?"
TK looks off to the side, his jaw clenching. "I dropped them."
Carlos feels nauseous. The answer isn't a surprise, really, but some of the cuts look as though theyāve bled quite a bit. They're already starting to bruise, and he wonders if the cuts will scar. He finds it difficult to hear because heād hurt himself, purposefully, over such a small thing, an accident. To him, at least.Ā
"Oh." He replies simply, choosing to go back to the task at hand before he can overthink some more.
There isn't much to sort through in the kit, but Carlos does find a large band-aid, a pair of scissors, and an ice pack that looks like itās been used already and thrown back in. He cuts the sticky bandage into strips so that they'll fit a little better over the wounds. He'd like nothing more than to take TK to the hospital, just in case stitches were needed as well, but he already knows he would get nowhere with that suggestion.Ā
He finishes patching up TK's hand, then asks a question that he really doesn't want to, but needs to. "TK⦠baby, please tell me honestly, did you swallow any of those pills?"
TK throw his head back and sighs. "I literally just licked some⦠but how would you know either way."
"TKā¦"
"Ugh, I told you! I got some on my finger. I licked it off. Thatās it." He looks Carlos straight in the eyes.
"But was it enough? I mean, are you-"Ā
"For fuck sake!" TK yells, and Carlos has to pretend that he isnāt hurt by the outburst. "I'm not fucking high, Carlos!"
"Right⦠well, listen. I have to tell your parents about this. Or you canā¦" TK glares at Carlos, and he decides to try and level with him in a way that has proven to work in the past: by mentioning his job. "Baby, they need to know. Your Dad especially. If I hadn't just come in, you'd have just swallowed it all, wouldnāt you? Or gone out to buy more?"
āYeah. I wouldāve." TK is harsh when he speaks, and there's no obvious guilt or shame in the way he answers so matter-of-factly.
"Well, you can't go out saving lives if you're here putting your own in jeopardy, baby." Carlos watches TK come back to himself, even if it's to the smallest degree. TK often cares more about what he does for a living than he does himself. Carlos knows this, and he knew it would benefit their current predicament to bring it up. "So I'll text them, okay?"
TK scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, and Carlos looks over at him again and wonders what the hell he is supposed to do now. He knows what TK needs to do. He needs to get professional help, but it isn't his choice to make, and quite frankly, thatās one thing heās afraid of bringing up.
He chooses to change the topic to what theyāre having for dinner. Food is the only other thing that sits at the back of his mind, his stomach had been begging for more sustenance since eating the donut.Ā
"So, um⦠dinner then? Anything you fancy. You heard me mention the donuts, yeah? We can just have those if you don't want anything else. Or Iā"
Carlos is suddenly knocked back as TK crashes into him, head bumping his stomach. To say he wasnāt prepared for the onslaught of affection would be an understatement. He nearly topples over, catching himself with one hand behind him while the other holds TK around his waist. "Tyler?"
He tries to get a look at TK's face, but his boyfriend just hugs him tighter. Carlos brings the fragile, struggling man in closer, his recent hunger forgotten as he feels TKās shoulders begin to shake as he breaks down.
"You're gonna get through this, I promise you that." He finally lets a tear slip, feeling it tickle his skin as it slides over his cheek. "One day, you're gonna be so happy. You're gonna be okay."
ā
The next morning, Carlos wakes, and within seconds of peeling open his eyes and glancing around the bedroom, he knows the situation has gone from bad to worse.
He knows because the pillow his head is on is far too firm to be his. He's lying on TK's side, meaning that his boyfriend isn't in bed anymore. When he looks over at TK's bedside table, his phone is there, untouched, with the charging cable still plugged in. If TK were on a shift, or visiting his parents or friends, anywhere he went, he would take it with him. The fact that it was still here meant that TK didn't want to be contactable. He didn't want to be found.
He checks TK's phone because his boyfriend had never hidden his passcode, and never tried to cover it up. He taps in the four digits, goes straight to his messages and sees an unknown number that has been texting with him since about an hour after theyād gone to bed. In past experience, these numbers usually belonged to the dealers TK would find.
Carlos' stomach does a flip, and this time, his fears and worries come out in a physical form. He stumbles to the bathroom just in time to throw up the pizza and donuts they had shared for dinner.Ā
When he's done, he flushes, falling back into the same spot he'd found TK in not that many hours ago. He looks around the room, the glass is still scattered on the floor. After getting TK up theyād decided to leave the clear-up until later, too wrapped up in their stress to bother with such a task at that moment. Carlos is glad he managed to walk in without standing on any of it.
He rubs his hands over his face and tries to focus on what he needs to do. It's his day off of work, meaning he can go and find TK without having to call in with an excuse, like being sick, though, that wouldnāt be far from the truth now. First, though, he takes a deep breath and rises to his feet. He heads back into the bedroom, finds his overnight bag and changes quickly, then pulls out his phone and dials Owen Strandās number.
"Hey, Carlos." Owen picks up right away. "You guys change your mind about grabbing breakfast? Itās not often that our days off line up, so weā"
"No, we didnāt, uh-ā Carlos cuts off Owen's impending ramble by clearing his throat and using the name that he keeps being told to drop by the man. "Sir⦠it's TK."
"Oh, god. How much did he take?" Owen's voice switches instantaneously, from soft and playful to serious and deceptively calm. "Is he alive?"
"No..." The questions make Carlos' heart pound. "I mean, I donāt know⦠to both. I-ā
āCarlos.ā
āHeās gone, Sir. Left while I was asleep. I- I didnāt even hear him get up. I didnāt hear himā¦"
āOkay, try and stay with me, Carlos. Is there a reasonable explanation? He's not just⦠grabbing something to eat?"
Carlos knows that Owen is grasping for an answer they'd both love to find some truth in, but he can hear his boyfriend's father shuffling around over the phone. His voice is farther away, most likely from being put on speaker. He presumes that Owen is getting ready to leave and go looking for his son.Ā
"There are messages on his phone. Itās an unknown number, but-ā
āYeah, probably a dealer. Carlos, I'm on my way to his place, Iāll see you in a moment, okay?"
-
Carlos expects a call or text from Owen, letting him know he's here and waiting outside in the car. What he doesn't expect is the gust of air that hits him as TKās door is flung open to reveal both of his boyfriendās parents.Ā
None of them bothers with fake smiles or reassurance, Owen just beelines for TKās phone, which is sitting on the back of the sofa. As for Gwyn, she approaches Carlos with outstretched arms. Carlos doesn't see TK's mother as often as he does Owen. The sight of her worried face and the smudged mascara under her eyes have him feeling weak. He has to swipe away a tear of his own when wraps him in a comforting hug.Ā
"Gwyn, I'm so sorry. I didnāt hear him get up. Heās just, heās gone."
"Sweetie, nothing is your fault, okay? Donāt even think about blaming yourself, do you hear me?" She releases Carlos and then Owen stands back next to her, swiping through TKās phone, holding it low so that Gwyn can see too. "Owen and I are going out to look for him. Would you stay here, just in case he does come back?"
"Wait. Stay here? I mean, I can help."
"You are, son." Owen lays a hand on Carlos' shoulder. "If this isnāt what we think it is, when he comes back, weāll need to know right away.ā
"Okay, yeah." Carlos nods. "Yeah, sure."
āAlright.ā Gwyn says, then shuffles out of the apartment, Owen following closely behind her, a hand splayed out on her back in an attempt to soothe her. Carlos listens as their voices fade as they descend the stairs. They discuss which streets they're each going to go to first, he hears them mention a few parks as well, and then theyāre gone.
-Ā
It's almost midnight, and Carlos hasn't heard anything for hours. He still feels sick, and he can't take his eyes away from his phone for more than a minute at a time. He tried to watch a little tv, and attempted to get into a book, but neither activity calmed his mind for long enough. The only thing he managed to do was clean up TK's apartment a little. Organising his shelves and kitchen cupboards, tossing out items that were past their use-by date. He made sure to sweep up the mess in the bathroom too. It took his attention away from thinking about every possible worst-case scenario he could think of, but inevitably, he ended up going right back to pacing the room.
Of course, he finally sits down, his leg bouncing nervously for a single minute, and then he hears the door again. Carlos springs to his feet as Gwyn walks in alone.
"We found him." She reassures Carlos with a smile before he can spin out and make assumptions, or ask a million questions. "He's down in the car with Owen. I just came by to let you know before, well⦠see, honey, weāre-"
"You're doing it, aren't you..." He blinks rapidly for a few seconds when the top of his nose starts to tingle; an indication of incoming tears. "Youāre sending him to rehab?"
"It's time, my love. When I found him tonight, he was -" Gwyn's eyes flick between Carlos'. He watches her hands moving on their own accord as she searches for the right words to say. "It wasn't like the other times. When I got to him, I was shaking him and⦠for a moment I thought, I thought he was-"
"Itās okay, I understand." Carlos stops her before she can say the word ādeadā, he can see how much itās hurting her, and he feels it too. "And I know he needs this, but it still feels wrong somehow. Like⦠weāre abandoning him somehow? Thatās like, totally not what weāre doing but it still feels that way⦠I dunno."
"Yeah, but my boy⦠heās tough. Deep down I know he knows that, too, and he is going to get better." Gwyn sniffles and Carlos offers her a second hug which she gratefully accepts it. When she pulls back, she caresses Carlosā cheek, her thumb stroking his skin gently. "Do you want to see him before we go? He's not exactly in a talking mood, butā¦"
"I want to. Of course, I do, but I don't think it's a good idea. Not right now... he needs to just get there."
"Okay. Well, I'll see you soon, sweetie." Gwyn plants a kiss on Carlos' cheek. āTake care of yourself, Carlos, okay? If you need anything at all, even just to talk, Iām here for you.ā
Her words hit Carlos hard, and he is so grateful at that moment, that his boyfriend came with such genuine, caring parents. āThank you.ā He whispers shakily, and then she leaves with a little wave, closing the door behind her.
He's still for a few moments, holding his breath, and when he hears a car engine start from outside the building, he realises that he doesn't even know how long TK will be gone. He didn't ask. He chokes on a sob, and tears finally start to fall. He drops to the floor, grabs a cushion from the sofa and, though heās alone, he hides his outflow of emotions, crying into the soft material, squeezing it as tight as he can in his hands.Ā
ā
When Gwyn returned from the airport, she and Owen had come over to see Carlos, just as they promised. They talked for a few hours, and when they left TKās apartment, Carlos stayed. Both parents had agreed that it was more than okay for him to live at TK's for however long he wanted, or needed to. However, after four long days, he decides that it's time to go.
He figures that he has sat amongst his own sadness and dread for long enough, and he felt like he needed a change of scenery. TK wasnāt coming back for a little while, and to be truthful, he was finding it hard to be present when he was on duty, which was obviously not a good thing in his line of work.Ā
So he packs up his things back at his own apartment, sends them to his new address, and then goes back to TK's one last time.Ā
While there, he takes one of TK's hoodies. He wants something more than photos in his phoneās gallery or the memories that fill his head daily to make him feel closer to TK while heās away. It's old, has a hole in one sleeve, and the strings have clearly been chewed on, but he still tugs it over his head. He pulls the fabric to his nose, and yeah, it still smells like TK. Not the TK who left for rehab, but the man who is so funny, so kind and gentle. The man who was impossible not to fall for when he was sober, innocent. He takes it off again, frowning when he realises that itās the very item of clothing that TK had worn the first time they kissed. He has photographic evidence tucked away in one of his moving boxes that is currently on its way to his new home.Ā
Carlos feels another round of waterworks coming on when he visualises the framed picture in his mind, so he shakes his head and refocuses.
He thinks about what he came here to do and then goes to find a pen and some paper. Before Carlos tidied up the place, it would have taken some digging just to grab what he needed. Now, there was a little basket on a shelf that held the supplies. Some pads of lined paper and a pencil case of various colours of pens, along with other materials needed for any creative endeavours. He also takes out an envelope that he had bought at the post office on his way back to the building.
He plops himself down on the kitchen stall and quickly wipes it over with a dry cloth to make sure that the paper doesn't accidentally get wet. He uncaps a black pen and then spends a good hour writing out his letter.
Tyler,Ā
Firstly, this isn't an old-time-y way of me breaking things off with you. I want you to know that before you carry on reading - I'm not breaking up with you. I donāt think I ever could.
He underlines those last six words, and he hopes that TK will take them in, and know how serious he is.
I'm not sure how long it will be until you come home and find this, but I can't text or leave a voicemail. I think I may be allowed to send you this letter, but I donāt want to interfere with your recovery there. I donāt want this to be a possible distraction for you.
Is it strange that I find writing to you kind of⦠romantic? I mean, despite the reason I'm having to write it in the first place.Ā
He thinks about crossing out that part and starting over again, but then he remembers that TK is a grown man who knows what's happening, and why; he doesn't need to sugar-coat anything.
Was that a good segway? Because I really want to tell you that I believe in you. As cheesy as it may sound, I know that you can get through this, TK. Iāve never been through what you are right now, but I can guess that youāre going to find it hard. Even when you leave rehab, it'll be a battle for a while at least, but I know you'll pull through. You'll survive.
And through everything - the ups and downs, good days and bad, Iāll be here for you.
Well, actually I'll be in Austin, Texas, but what I mean is that Iāll always support you, whether itās in person or through a phone. Youāll always have me.Ā
Carlos stops to brush away a tear. He clicks the pen a few times and then continues.Ā
Did you know I have family in Austin? Friends, too. I think Iāve mentioned it once or twice. I figured if Iām going to move anywhere, thatās where it should be. Someplace I can go where people already know me, so I donāt have to worry about fitting in or making new friends.
As for my job, well, there's an opening in the APD. Iāve heard good things about all of the emergency services down in Austin. You should look up the 126, and read their stories⦠theyāve had some bizarre calls.
Anyway⦠maybe we could try that long-distance thing once youāre home. You can visit me, and I can do the same. The place Iām renting, itās really nice, I have some design ideas I think youād really like.Ā
Baby, honestly, I am positively desperate to get my arms around you again. I miss you so much. I miss kissing you, cooking for you, watching movies and having you fall asleep in my arms. I miss your charming smile and your hands in mine. I miss⦠other parts of you, too. How could I not? And it's a little embarrassing how much, since, as I'm writing this, you've only been gone for 4 days.Ā
I need to wrap this up. As much as I would enjoy writing you a novel, I do have to catch a flight.
- In this envelope, along with this soppy love letter, you'll find a card with my new home address on it. I hope youāll make good use of it, and that Iāll see you standing at my door soon. We can have one of those cute romantic movie reunions⦠the ones that have even you tearing up.
One more time, Carlos pauses. He thinks about what he wants to write next, pondering over whether or not it's the right time. Ultimately, he decides to lay down his feelings and put them all on paper with three simple words and a name. So with a few more strokes of his pen, he confesses it all.
I love you, Tyler Kennedy Strand.
I'll be waiting for you.Ā
CarlosĀ
x
-
Carlos folds the pieces of paper neatly three times, enough to fit inside the envelope. He slides his address card in there, too. Then he lifts the letter to his mouth and licks along the edge. Placing it back down, he uses his thumb to make sure that it is stuck down well enough. He caps the pen, puts it away and then places the letter on the coffee table, the tips of his fingers lingering over it for a few seconds. He takes one of the larger pebbles from one of the potted plants in the window and places it on top, like a paperweight. He then sends a text to Owen, letting him know that he's on his way to drop off his key to TK's place. Finally, he grabs his last piece of luggage, a backpack filled with some belongings he'd left here over the past 2 years or so since he'd started dating TK.Ā
He opens the door, takes a deep breath, and then just before he leaves, he whispers, "Iāll see you soon, Tyler Kennedy Strand."
---------------------------
taglist: @wandering-night19, @fortunatelydecaffeinateddinosaur @rubinsteinsilva126 @maniadeityn @just-inside-her @chaotictarlos @lightningboltreader + let me know if you'd like to be added/removed, please!
WIP Wednesday!
Was tagged by my buddy @rangersoup !
Here's a wip from the chronically ill TK fic I'm working on, though it has not yet been posted anywhere! It's sitting at 12K words currently :)
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As per his captainās request three days earlier, TK returned to the station in the evening while she was on shift. The growing fear and suspicions around the subject of the discussion only rose when Carlos had insisted on being the one to drive him. The entire drive had been done in silence as the air felt heavy throughout the cabin.
When his world came crashing down, TK was sitting in front of not only Captain Vega but his father as well, while he and Carlos were placed across from them in the fire captainās office. Carlos looked away down to the side and squeezed TKās hand resting on his thigh the minute the words came out of Tommyās mouth.Ā
āWhat?ā
āBabe, listen itās just temporary, itās for-ā
Carlos was abruptly cut off, as the smaller manās stare drilled holes into him. TK ripped his hand from his husbandās grasp harshly.
āYou knew?ā- The accusation behind the comment carried a hurt that everyone in the room could feel. āYou knew for three fucking days that I was going to be fired and you kept it to yourself?ā
āNot fired, TK. Benched on medical leave. Like he said, itās a temporary precaution for your safety.ā -Owen butt in trying to diffuse the rising tension between the young men.
āDonāt lie to me, this isnāt about my safety at all. This-ā -He felt like the room was far too small and far too hot. āThis is about me putting patients' lives in danger. No one actually gives a shit about me in this or we wouldnāt be having this discussion.āĀ
TK was desperate for the words to be enough to convince himself that they were all wrong, but even out loud they carried no weight behind them.
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Tagging: @carlos-in-glassesand @reyesstrandwho are some of my fave Tarlos tumblr accounts!
The way Carlos is holding him š the tiny thumb rub on his arm š the hair stroking š and before the glassy eyes when he approaches Owen š Carlos is so in love already š
canāt believe tiktok is actually getting banned, twitter is infested with bots and brainworm-infested musk bots, facebook is king of QAnon, instagram caught the plague from facebook and is dying a slow death in real time⦠and as the dust settles⦠only Miss Tumblr is left standing⦠failing upwards once again
where's that speed skating gif
yeppppp


