Chuck Versus the Fake Relationship [Chuck Bartowski x Sarah Walker]
Summary: After the bomb, Chuck starts to act differently. It only takes one question for Sarah to figure out why. “What’s gotten into you?”
Author’s Notes: Having finally finished Fallout New Vegas after a two-year hiatus (don’t judge me), Arcade Gannon has reminded me of my massive and all-encompassing crush on one Chuck Bartowski. I forced myself to write without getting bogged down in making sure I remember the show right (after five years) so if you see any mistakes, no you didn’t. Enjoy the shortest thing (2.9K words) I’ve written to date, a feat I am inordinately proud of having accomplished!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Chuck
Warnings/tags: Suggestive content, fluff, mutual pining, slight spoilers for season 1
After the bomb, Chuck starts to act differently.
For the duration of their fake relationship, he’s been nothing but a gentleman. He’s held doors and picked her up on time, held her hand and kissed her forehead. On the rare times she’s felt like they needed a little something extra, he’s kissed her politely—closed-lipped and chaste, a gentle pressure—with just enough movement to sell it to nosy onlookers. His hands have always remained respectfully light, on her waist and never too low or too high.
She’d always worried that maybe he was a little less than comfortable with the charade. So no matter how badly she’d wanted to, she’d kept her hands to herself and restrained her kisses to something that could pass as professional.
She’d done a good job, until the would-be bomb. Watching Chuck’s face though, the way he closed his eyes and accepted death?
That look, that breath in, had changed everything. She’d practically leapt on him, desperate to kiss him for real just once before they died. And after a brief moment of disbelief, he’d kissed her back. His whole body had reacted, scrabbling to hold her closer. He had dragged her up, lifting her to her tiptoes by her elbows to get her closer, and devoured her mouth. His tongue had been everywhere, broad palms tugging at her shoulders and long fingers threading into her hair as he kissed her like his life depended on it.
When they did finally break apart, slowly, he’d looked at her with an expression so stunned that it had robbed her of speech. They hadn’t talked about that kiss again, but Chuck had become… much more physical with her.
He held her hand tighter, and used it to pull her to his side. He’d sling an arm around her shoulders, even when they were alone, holding her body against his. His fingers would linger against her skin, raising goosebumps along the gentle trails he’d draw.
And now they’re at this fancy party in hopes of getting Chuck to flash. His fingers are glued to her waist, his eyes are glued to her cleavage, and he is glued to her side.
Each time someone approaches them, he molds her body to his. Each time she lifts her head to whisper about a potential target, he brushes his lips against the shell of her ear when he responds. He drops kisses to her temple and brushes his fingertips over her hips and runs his nose along her hairline.
And it is utterly distracting.
He leaves her side for barely a moment, just long enough to pick up flutes of sparkly champagne, but a well-dressed official still sidles up to tip her ear about the CIA’s latest technological advances. She smiles and nods politely, declining his proffered arm when the band begins to play, but he doesn’t take the hint. He continues trying to cajole her into accepting a dance.
Until a long arm wraps around her shoulders, tugging her back so firmly that she nearly stumbles. The large hand spanning her stomach makes her heart race.
“Sorry, buddy.” Chuck’s voice rumbles against her back. “Her card’s full.”
Her card is full? Sarah has to bite back a laugh, but it is clever, not to mention a very Chuck thing to say.
She smiles up at the official as she rests her hands on Chuck’s arm and, finally, the man scurries away.
Chuck nuzzles behind her ear, raising goosebumps with his breath. “Too much?” he murmurs.
Rather than answer, she spins so she can wrap her arms around his shoulders. “What’s gotten into you?” She’s careful to make sure that her tone is light, playful, and that it doesn’t betray the excitement she feels at his particular brand of gentle possessiveness.
He looks startled, but schools his expression and lowers his head until their noses brush. “Guess thinking you’re gonna die changes a man.”
True enough, she thinks.
He’s staring at her mouth, and her heart is racing in her chest.
“I guess it does,” she whispers. And then she tilts her chin up and kisses him. And even though they’ve done this a hundred times or more before, Chuck’s breath catches just like it always does. The hand that’s not holding their champagne slides around her waist and lands on her hip, anchoring her body against his, but he is otherwise just as respectful as always.
That just won’t do.
Sarah lets her tongue run out to probe against the seam of his lips. The hand on her hip spasms as she does, and his lips part against her tongue.
She licks into his mouth, letting herself melt against him, and lets herself enjoy the soft sound he makes when she nips at his bottom lip. Then she pulls away.
“So if my card is full,” she begins, “does that mean you intend to dance with me?”
“Absolutely.” His gaze is molten where it brushes over her. It makes her feel alive.
Chuck looks around and deposits their champagne flutes on a passing tray, ever the gentleman, before taking her hand and pulling her out to the floor. They’ve done this before, more than once, and Chuck is an adequate enough dancer, although he does do better with the slower songs.
But tonight, the band is playing something midtempo and sultry. Sarah expects to be the one leading, as she often is, but Chuck surprises her when he pins her hips to his with one hand and raises her other to the back of his neck. She threads her fingers through the long hair there, smiling when he shivers at her touch. He’s begun leading them effortlessly through the steps of an admittedly simple, but no less impressive for being simple, dance.
“Chuck Bartowski, what has gotten into you?”
The smile he gives her breaks his smooth façade, and her heart a little bit. It’s wide, bright, and 100% Chuck.
“Well, we do this every so often.” He leans down to speak the next words against her cheek. “I thought it might be nice to impress you.”
“Well, consider me impressed.” She tucks her nose up under his jaw, nuzzling there as she speaks the words. “But I’m always impressed with you, Chuck.”
As if she’s jinxed him, his next steps falter. She stumbles with him, just a bit, before his hands right her. His mouth opens, probably to make a self-deprecating joke, before his gaze snags on someone across the room.
She recognizes what’s happening, probably before he does. His eyes roll back, body slumping as the Intersect makes itself known. She jams her hands gracelessly under his arms, using all her strength to keep him upright without drawing attention. By some miracle, in a room full of spies, it works.
In seconds, it’s over. Chuck lifts a shaking hand to his cleverly hidden earpiece. “West door, green tie. He hasn’t got a clue.” It’s charming, the way he clutches her, even as he strives to lift his weight from her hands.
Casey’s voice comes through both their earpieces then. “Copy that, keep it that way. We’re on it. Don’t leave until we’ve got him.”
Sarah reaches up to her earpiece. “Copy that,” she murmurs. Then she runs a hand down Chuck's arm to twine their fingers together. “Let’s find you someplace to sit down,” she says.
Chuck, though, shakes his head, using their joined hands to tug her back to his chest. “I’m fine,” he lies, and it’s almost convincing.
Sarah rolls her eyes, allowing herself to be maneuvered. Trying to remove him by force will kick up much more of a fuss than just going along with him. So long as he stays on his own two feet, she sees no reason not to let him have his way.
She’s pleased with her decision the moment he puts his hands back on her, cradling her body against his own. Neither of them speak until Chuck lowers his head to tell her that Casey has arrived. He spins them so that she can watch as their partner seamlessly bleeds through the crowd to their mark’s side, guiding him from the room with a firm hand to his arm.
“Okay, can we go now?” He looks suddenly very tired and Sarah wonders, not for the first time, just how much the flashes take out of him.
“Sure, Chuck. Let’s go.”
She gets him down the stairs and into her Porsche without incident, but he’s looking at her strangely when she gets into the driver’s seat.
“Chuck, are you feeling okay?” She lays the back of her hand against his forehead when he only blinks at her slowly.
He reaches up to her hand, dragging it down until he can kiss her wrist. Her breath catches. There’s no one here to see, and the gesture is far more intimate than anything he did in the room full of people they just left.
“Come home with me.” It’s soft, but it’s not a question. She’s gotten so used to the undercurrent of his insecurity that the new, quiet steel in his resolve is jarring.
“Okay.” They’ve done this a few times by now, too. She’s got a go-bag in the trunk, and there’s no reason she can’t use it for a government sanctioned sleepover. She’s pretty sure that the pajamas in it are all comfort, no seduction, but it does stand to reason that she’d start to opt for convenience at some point or other. She’s only disappointed because she’d picked those sets as much for Chuck’s reactions as for any potential window-watchers.
But when they get back to his apartment, after she changes into the flannel pants and tank top, she walks into his room only to see him drawing the curtains.
Her heart speeds for no discernible reason.
“What, you don’t think we could sell young and in love in flannel pj’s?” she jokes.
Chuck turns to look at her then, eyes dark, and his expression is enough to stop her in her tracks.
“Tonight,” he says, stalking—and there really is no other word for it, despite how clumsy he usually is—slowly toward her, “I’m not interested in selling anything.” It only takes a few steps until he’s towering over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to look up at him.
His hands raise cautiously to cradle her jaw between wide palms, sliding his fingers into her hair as he tilts her head further back. He leans down until he’s all she sees, all she can smell. She can practically taste the toothpaste on his breath with how close he is.
“Tonight,” he whispers, voice husky, “I want something for myself. Something for us.”
She’s not breathing. She realizes it when she realizes that he’s waiting, searching her expression for something that he clearly hasn’t found yet. She nods, and the movement is so slight that she’s not sure how he even sees it. But he does. He closes the space between them, pressing his lips to hers in a sweet kiss.
And then he keeps kissing her, slow and intentional. Like he’s savoring the sensation of their lips sliding together without an audience. He tilts her head this way and that with warm hands, and the clothes she’s been holding make a rustling sound as they fall to the ground to make space between her fingers for the hair at the nape of his neck.
He sighs into her mouth as her nails graze his scalp, and suddenly his careful kisses aren’t enough.
Sarah presses herself up and against him, tugging at his hair to try to get closer. He grunts in surprise, but his hands slide down to her waist and hold her in place. With one palm at the small of her back, he bends her backward until she’s forced to clutch his shirt or lose her balance. He takes advantage of her preoccupation to slide his tongue into her mouth, coaxing her lips open and swallowing the noises she’s begun to make.
She’s quickly becoming desperate for more. The moment she’s upright again, she grabs the tie he’s still wearing and uses it to tug him toward his bed, one hand still buried in his curls. When the backs of her knees hit the mattress, she falls backward, taking him with her. His hands leave her body to brace against the bed, barely catching himself before toppling onto her.
She wraps her hand in the tie, yanking so that he’s forced onto his elbows. They frame her head now, caging her beneath his body as his breathing—and kisses—pick up speed. Her knees frame his hips, but he’s been careful not to put his weight on her.
She resolves to change that by hooking her ankles around his calves and raising herself up with the newfound leverage. The moment their hips meet, he presses her down into the mattress with a groan. He’s hot and hard against her, even through the layers of fabric separating them. It sends a shock of desire spiking through her bloodstream.
He wrenches himself away from her mouth, trying to reposition, but she keeps him pinned with a leg around his hips. He gives in quickly, letting his weight settle against her as he mouth drops to the hinge of her jaw. He begins to suck and for a moment, she lets herself get lost in the sensation of it. Then she smacks at his shoulders lightly.
“Don’t leave a mark,” she croaks.
Chuck reaches back to take her hand, smoothly raising it above her head. He pins it there, sending a fresh wave of desire washing over her.
“Why not?” he murmurs. The brush of his lips against the sensitive skin makes her shudder. “We are dating, after all.”
That’s a very good point, and takes the argument right out of her. Even so, Chuck trails his mouth down her throat to suck a bruise into her collarbone instead.
“What’s gotten into you?” she gasps, feeling a bit crazy for repeating the question a third time.
For an awful moment, he stops moving. “Are you complaining?” There’s a thin veneer of confidence coating the insecurity he obviously still feels, and Sarah kicks herself for making him question himself. Making him question this.
“No, absolutely not,” she grinds out. To emphasize the point, she lifts herself against him again. When he resumes marking her skin, she opens her mouth to go on.
“You,” he mutters, voice muffled where it’s pressed against her.
She breathes out hard. Whatever she’d been about to say is gone, now. “What?”
“You’ve gotten into me.” The hand pinning her wrist over her head slides to engulf her palm in his, threading their fingers together. “I tried, I really did. I tried to be a professional and not to read into things. I didn’t think you were into me, though. Not until you kissed me.”
She laughs. “Not into you? Chuck, I fell for you a long, long time ago.” His head snaps up with a huge smile that tips her off to the fact that she’s just admitted to a whole lot more than the implication that he’s into her.
She can’t bring herself to care when his glee bleeds into his voice.
“Really?” He’s clearly trying to keep his cool, but the corners of his lips twitch with the effort.
She rolls her eyes and decides that he’s had enough fun for the time being. In one smooth motion, she rolls up and on top of him. Unfortunately, she overestimates Chuck’s perception of his own center of gravity and they both go toppling over the side. Before she can stop him, he twists to take the brunt of the fall, letting out a sharp breath when she lands on him.
They stare at each other, listening intently for Ellie and Awesome before dissolving into a fit of giggles on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
“Never better. You can fall for me any time.”
Sarah snorts and makes to crawl up his long torso, but the motion of her hips pulls a sharp gasp out of both of them. She abandons the venture in favor of leaning down to kiss him instead.
Chuck’s hands fall to her hips, encouraging the gentle rocking motions she makes as he gasps against her mouth.
“I want to fake break up,” he breathes.
“Oh?” She slides her fingers into the waistband of his slacks, rucking up the fabric of the dress shirt he still wears. “And why’s that?”
“So I can ask you to date me for real.” His voice wavers as her fingertips work their way beneath his undershirt. “And so we can do real dating things.”
“Like having sex on the floor?”
If she’s hoping to shock him with her bluntness, it doesn’t work. He only groans as his grip tightens on her hips, holding her more tightly against him.
“Yes,” he hisses. “Like that. And kissing because we feel like it, and cuddling because we want to. And obviously sex in the shower, and sex in my bed, and sex in your bed—”
She stops his rambling by nibbling at his earlobe, but his obvious excitement makes her cheeks flame. “Consider us fake broken up.”
“Good. Now, Sarah Walker. Will you be my girlfriend, for real this time?”
“I will.” She can’t stop the cheesy smile spreading over her lips. It’s mirrored on Chuck’s face as he stares adoringly up at her.
“Good.” He tenses, but she’s ready for him. When he tries to roll them, she shifts her weight to pin him in place. He lets out an indignant huff. “If you think I’m going to let you push me around in this relationship, you are totally right.”
Her laughter is so abrupt that Chuck rolls her right over, pinning her down to kiss her breathless.
Summary: There was a soft shuffle of socks on his floor, and then she was reaching out to touch him and his eyes were sliding shut because he couldn’t bear to watch as she handed him back his hard, cracked open heart in her gentle hands. “I don’t want to be your best friend either.”
Or: March (accidentally) falls in love (and comes to terms with it).
Author’s Notes: 17.3K words of a little fluff and a whole lotta inner turmoil! Inspired by Wrong by Villain of the Story and, oddly enough, The Last Kingdom books. What was meant to be a character study has turned into another story (bc apparently I’m incapable of character studies), but here’s hoping someone enjoys reading as much as I enjoyed writing!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Fields of Mistria
Warnings/tags: mild language, suggestive content, injury description (not graphic), smut (not graphic), spoilers for March’s heart events (2, 4, 6), spoilers for Valen’s 6 heart event, spoilers for main story
March hated meeting new people. He’d always hated it–learning new names, awkward small talk, and pleasantries that wouldn’t ever matter again–and meeting Mistria’s newest resident was no different. One look at her soft features and clear hazel skin, her lustrous purple hair, and he knew. She wouldn’t stay. They never did.
He didn’t bother trying to remember her name. Why should he? She’d be gone by next week.
The door above the shop tinkled, and Olric cheerily said, “Lacey, hi!”
Lacey? March dropped the blueprint he’d been reviewing, spinning to face the showroom floor. There, dripping spring rain onto the wood of the entry, was the new farmer. March cast back in his memory, trying to remember how long it had been since she’d arrived. Had it been a week already? Had it been two? He cursed himself for not knowing, but there was no reason that he should.
Lacey drew a heavy-looking sack over her shoulder. Olric bounded forward, taking it from her easily.
“Thank you!” She beamed up at his brother with dancing blue eyes and dimples in her cheeks. Olric blushed faintly. March rolled his eyes. “That’s the ore I promised.”
What?
“Wow, you got it quick! Thank you!” Olric dropped the sack on the countertop with a thunk, stooping to reach for the box of tesserae they kept behind the counter. “Let me get you–”
Lacey cut him off quickly. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”
Olric straightened slowly. “Are you sure? Those mines are dangerous.”
“How’d you get into the mines?” March only knew his voice was too sharp because of the way Olric’s head snapped toward him.
Lacey blinked at him, smile frozen. “I… walked?” They’d spoken maybe a handful of times, including him expressing his irritation with her presence and expectation of failure. He knew he deserved that brittle smile, but that didn’t stop jealousy from rearing up. She didn’t smile at Olric that way.
“Eiland convinced Errol to open them,” Olric interjected. He only shrugged when March glared at him. “We need the ore, March. We’re backed up on orders as it is.”
“I can bring you more tomorrow.” Lacey’s real smile–and he chose not to think about why he knew it was real–was back in full. “I just need to drop off some–”
“We don’t need your help.” He flinched at the harshness of his own tone. Lacey’s face twisted for a moment before she plastered that fake smile back in place, but even March could see that it took effort.
“Alright, well, you just let me know if you change your mind.” She turned to his brother. “Good luck with your orders.”
Olric’s smile was almost as stiff as hers. “Thanks, Lacey. Don’t work too hard.”
March turned back to his blueprints, but he still felt the way Olric whirled to face him when the door swung shut.
“Bro.” How he managed to pack so much shock and disappointment into that single syllable, March would never know.
He feigned nonchalance. “What?”
Olric sighed. “There’s no need to be rude, March. She’s just trying to help.”
“We don’t need her help,” he repeated stubbornly.
Olric didn’t respond, but March got the sense that he was shaking his head.
He could hear voices as he walked up the dirt track to Landen’s cabin. He could just make out Ryis’s low murmur as he rested his hand on the doorknob. He’d already begun to open the door by the time he registered Lacey’s high, tinkling laugh.
He stiffened involuntarily, debating whether he could get away with hiding until she left.
“March, is that you?”
Damn.
With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped into the shop. “Hey, Ryis.” He didn’t greet Lacey, waiting until she was in full view to pretend to notice her. “Lacey.”
Her smile was tight. “March.” She turned back to Ryis. “I’ve got to go, but let me know if you need any more wood.
“Sure thing, Lacey! And let me know if you need any help clearing that property of yours. Her smile softened and, even though it was his own fault for being rude, it made something in March’s chest twinge.
“No, Ryis, that’s alright. I appreciate the offer, though.” She turned to go, avoiding March’s steely gaze as she did. “You two have fun.”
“You too!” Ryis called. He sighed when the door shut behind her, and March braced himself for more disapproval.
“She’s great,” Ryis said instead, dreamy as he watched the door.
March shrugged. “Everyone seems to love her, but I don’t get it.”
Ryis didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe that’s because you’re an ornery grouch?” His tone was so matter-of-fact, so without judgement, that March couldn’t even bring himself to be bothered by the comment.
“She’s just here for the land. Once she turns a profit, she’ll go back to the Capital. I just don’t see any reason to get attached.”
Ryis said nothing for so long that March turned to look at him. The other boy looked… bemused. “I can’t believe you’d think that.”
“She will,” March insisted. Ryis scoffed, and then March did bristle. “She’s not going to stay here, roughing it in that broken down old house, raising animals when she could go back to a life of luxury.”
Ryis barked out a laugh, but March’s characteristic pessimism seemed to have snapped him out of his state of disbelief. “Man, it’s like you’ve never even had a conversation with her.” March said nothing, because that was mostly true. Ryis watched him out of the corner of his eye, patient as always, before continuing. “She’s excited about the farm. She never got to do anything like this in the Capital, didn’t even really live there. She was a caravan guard.”
March blinked, fingers stumbling over the tools he’d been collecting. “A caravan guard?”
“Yeah, man.” Ryis dropped a handful of nails into his bag before taking the hammer from March’s numb hands. “A caravan guard. She had to fight every day, and she never had a safe place to sleep at night. Here she’s got a roof and a bed, and animals that depend on her to feed them, not people she’s got to fight for. It’s a whole new life for her, and I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”
March stayed silent as he tried to envision Lacey as a guard; tried to picture her smiling face as she held a sword; tried to picture her being friendly with her wards and harsh with would-be bandits. He couldn’t see it.
Ryis sighed again, dropping a heavy hand on March’s shoulder. “Look, man. Just give her a chance, alright? I’m not saying you have to love her, or even make friends. Just give her a shot, alright? Do it for me.”
March’s mouth felt suddenly as though it had been stuffed with cotton. He nodded. Ryis squeezed his shoulder and, without another word, walked out the door.
Of course it had to be pouring rain outside. March looked up as Lacey opened the shop door, hunched against the torrent. She glanced up, but didn’t hold his gaze.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show.” He tried to keep the worst of the venom out of his voice, but it still came out sharp.
Lacey’s voice, on the other hand, had never sounded so soft. “I got your note.” She hesitated in the doorway, as though unwilling or unable to drip onto his showroom floor. Something about that raised his ire. Just a week ago, she’d come bounding in without a care in the world. One (more) less than kind word from him and now she tucked her tail? This woman who was meant to have been a caravan guard? She finally looked up, meeting his gaze for one brief moment before looking away again. “Did you need something, March? Or did you just want to glower at me?”
That did it. “Oh, please,” he snapped. To her credit, Lacey only raised her chin when he stepped into her space. “You’re in way over your head. You come out here, no money, no experience, and think you can just fake your way through running a farm?” he snarled. Lacey flinched back, and he hated that. He didn’t want her here, but that didn’t mean he wanted her scared. He made an effort to soften his words, and the next ones came out too vulnerable. “It’s all fun and games now, but the second things actually get tough, I’m sure you’re going to ditch Mistria and its problems.”
Too far. Lacey blinked back tears, and March kicked himself for being an ass.
She took several deep breaths before speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m not going anywhere.” They stared at each other, both breathing hard.
“We’ll see.” He couldn’t stop the words from coming out, so he just shoved the copper hoe he’d made at her, making her stumble back. “If you fail, you can’t blame it on a lack of help from me.” He took one more deep breath, thinking of the promise he’d made to Ryis. “Who knows, maybe you’ll surprise me. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
She raised her chin in some attempt at mockery–or maybe in an effort to combat the tears. She nodded sharply, spun on her heel, and was gone in a flurry of wind and rain and the slam of the shop door.
March blew out a breath and reached for the mop he kept near the entrance. When he’d managed to sop up the puddle she’d left, he leaned heavily on the handle.
It was an uneasy peace that formed over the course of the season. The forge was so busy that March hardly left, but he heard stories about the crops and resources Lacey donated to town projects; heard about how she’d rebuilt the bridge out of Mistria, finally allowing the Saturday Market vendors to return.
Sometimes, she’d call out a greeting as she passed him at the forge. Sometimes, he could see her bustling by with armfuls of wood or forage or ore from behind his counter.
He heard about her every night he went to the inn, and plenty of nights he didn’t.
“We planted a tree!” Ryis told him while he waited for nails. “She said she’s gonna help me build a birdhouse, when it’s grown enough!”
“It would have taken me months to collect all that wood on my own,” Hayden told Olric at dinner. “Not to mention the stone. Where does she even get all of it?”
“You can thank Lacey for the herbs,” Juniper said as he stepped into the baths. “She’s been collecting them for me.”
“That Lacey,” Elsie simpered. “She’s just so helpful. And would you believe it, she’s been growing tea for Josephine and I!”
Josephine was just as excited about the tea, and Hemlock was always happy to see his wife smile. Reina loved anyone who made her parents and siblings so happy, and March knew just how much the kids loved her because the Dragonguard chattered about her while they watched him work.
“She caught me a frog!”
“She brought me a flower!”
“She found me a bumblebee! And she said she’ll get me more!”
Sometimes late at night, from his bed, he could hear the clanging of the forge. He’d been loathe to teach her to use it, but she seemed to hold her own with simple projects. Now, he was just grateful not to have the extra orders.
He was less grateful when Olric went behind his back to ask for her help with Adeline’s latest project order. He spent the day stewing in the heat of the forge and his own anger, while Olric chattered away to Lacey. Over the course of the day, though, it seeped out of him alongside his energy, until all that was left was exhaustion, the soreness that followed a day’s hard work, and a profound thankfulness that his meddling brother had convinced her to help.
And a strange enchantment with the flush in her cheeks, and the way her mauve hair fell from its once-neat buns to stick to her temples, and the glittering of her ocean eyes.
“That was fun!”
She was beaming, and he was pretty sure he was smiling too.
“Yeah!” he agreed. She turned to look at him, eyebrows practically in her hair line, and the corners of her mouth curving slowly up. March’s palms began to sweat. “I mean… thanks, Lacey.”
He ran off quickly after that, blaming the heat before locking himself in his room.
What was that?
For weeks, she’d been dropping ore off for him while he worked or slept. She’d hand it to Olric or leave it laying on his counter. She never brought it when he was around, probably in an effort to avoid his ire.
That changed after their day working the forge together, though.
It became a ritual, of sorts. Several days a week, she’d come in the evenings with sacks of ore for him. She’d drop it on the counter, browsing his tools while he counted it out. As the days got longer, her visits got later, and even though March liked to close down the forge before dark, he found himself working until she came striding from the Narrows.
“Waiting for me?” she teased one night, against a backdrop of stars.
He forced himself to scowl. “I need that ore.” There was no bite to his words any more, and Lacey only rolled her eyes. She’d warmed to his grumpiness just like he’d warmed to her shy cheerfulness, but their friendship was still tenuous at best. Better to keep her at arms’ length, March thought. She could still be gone by winter.
“I know you do, big guy.” She swung the bag off her shoulder, aiming for his anvil, but missed by a good few inches when her face screwed up in pain. Without meaning to, March dropped his hammer and reached out for her, letting the heavy sack hit the stone at their feet with a clatter.
“Woah, what happened? You okay?” He ghosted his hands over her shoulders, uncertain whether or not he should touch her.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, one hand held to her ribs. March raised an eyebrow, and Lacey winced. “I… may have picked a fight with a clod.”
“A clod?” All caution went out the window with that. Olric had told him about the clods–vicious little creatures that spat rock and ore, with great force—and come home with cuts and bruises on more than one occasion. He dropped to his knees, pulling her shirt up to reveal a blotchy, bruised patch of skin on her torso. “Lacey, we gotta get you to Valen.”
“I’m fine, March,” she bit out. He looked up and saw her clenching her teeth, tanned skin darkened with embarrassment even in the dim glow of the lanterns, and realized their position. He scrambled up, tugging her shirt back down.
“Sorry. Olric, y-you,” he stammered. The words tangled in his mouth, so he settled for gesturing at her side before rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Please go see Valen.” It was probably the nicest thing he’d ever said to her, aside from drunkenly telling her she “wasn’t so bad” all those weeks ago. Definitely the most gently he’d ever spoken to her.
She blinked at him, still blushing and still wincing, before nodding slowly. “Okay, I’ll go see Valen.”
“I’ll take you.” The words were out before he could stop them, so he leaned into the moment and held out a hand. Lacey hesitated. “I don’t bite, Lace.”
He did bite his own tongue, though. Lace? Where had that come from?
Lacey’s blush deepened but, slowly, she took his proffered hand.
March hadn’t thought this far ahead. Aside from his clumsy attempts to survey her injury, this was the first time they’d touched. This was the first time she had touched him.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
Before he could overthink it, he walked brusquely in the direction of the clinic, towing Lacey behind. He barely registered the look on Valen’s face when he barged in, or being ushered to sit while she examined Lacey. He found himself staring, unseeing, at the wall until Valen stepped out into the lobby. He shot to his feet, unsure of what he should even say.
“Is she okay?” he asked.
Valen nodded. “She'll be fine,” she said, and her expression was placid enough that March found himself relaxing. “I want her to take it easy over the next few days, though. No mining.”
March nodded eagerly. “That won’t be a problem,“ he said. “I’ve got her mining bag in my shop.“
“You know that having my mining bag wouldn’t stop me from going, right?“
“How about,” March retorted, “you make things easy for both of us and just stay home for once?“
Lacey tensed, but seemed to decide that he wasn’t actually trying to pick a fight. She deflated in his peripheral vision, huffing out a heavy breath. “You’re going to be short on ore this week.”
March shrugged. “I’ll have Balor buy some for me.”
“It’s expensive,” she said, and it was almost a whine.
“It’ll be a lot more expensive to do surgery if you don’t let those ribs heal,” Valen interjected.
March raised his eyebrows in Lacey’s direction. Lacey glared at Valen.
“Would you walk her home, please?”
“Sure.”
“I can get home on my own.”
They stopped to glare at each other.
“Really, I’m–”
“Lacey.” He knew the moment her name left his lips that he’d let too much into it; too much of his worry, too much of the confusion he felt around her lately.
Her mouth snapped shut, and March found himself holding his breath. Then she nodded. He let the breath out as he turned to open the door, hoping he didn’t look as vulnerable as he felt. Lacey squeezed past him, calling her thanks to Valen over her shoulder, and then waited for him at the bottom of the steps. They made it to the fountain before she spoke.
“I really am okay to get home on my own,” she said softly.
“And I really would feel better walking you,” March admitted, equally as softly.
“Okay.”
It was a nice night, finally cooling from the summer heat. There were crickets in the tall grass, and March could hear the faint splashing of fish over the muted roar of the waterfall upriver. He turned his face up, toward the sky, to take in the glittering blanket of stars overhead. When was the last time he’d been down this way? Years, surely. Certainly long before Lacey came to Mistria. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever even known who lived here before the earthquake, or if anyone had.
“Are we friends, March?”
He’d been so lost in thought that the question made him reel back, though he supposed that might have happened regardless.
“I… uh…”
Lacey let out a quiet breath, and March knew that he’d made a mistake. He braced himself for an admission he hadn’t wanted to think about.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, we’re friends.”
He hadn’t realized how much tension was in Lacey’s shoulders until he watched them sag in relief. She looked up at him with such happiness that he couldn’t stop from smiling.
“I’m glad.”
The dirt underfoot softened as they stepped foot onto her farm, turning between apple saplings she must have planted.
“Me too.”
The little arbor didn’t last more than a few feet, and then they were back under the stars again. March blinked in surprise at the sight before him. There was a veritable forest surrounding a clearing of stumps, rises of stone as far as the eye could see, a tiny garden plot of indeterminate crops, and a barn.
“Oh, no,” Lacey breathed. She rushed off before March could ask what was wrong, making a beeline for a pair of cows lowing at the sight of her. He could hardly make out her quiet apologies under the animals’ sounds, but she wrenched the door open to let them in. She let out a soft cry at the motion, and March cursed under his breath. He darted forward, reaching over her to drag the heavy door out.
“Would you move?” he muttered, and waved at the animals in the hope that they’d move inside. They both did, and Lacey huffed.
“Thank you,” she said. She was clutching her ribs, but reached out when he began to pull the doors shut. “Wait! I’ve still got to milk Maisie.”
March grumbled under his breath and heaved the door open. “I’ve never milked a cow before,” he announced. He rolled his eyes at Lacey’s wide-eyed shock. “I’m a blacksmith, you’re supposed to be the farmer.”
“Well, then let me milk my own cow!”
“No.” He picked up a nearby stool and positioned it near the cow’s hindquarters. “Tell me what to do.”
“You’ll need a bucket first,” she muttered. She lifted the lid of a nearby trunk to produce one, which she held out to him. “Okay, so you just… ugh, this is so weird.”
March decided to capitalize on this whole concept of not overthinking. He bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “Then don’t make it weird, weirdo.”
“Shut up!” She bumped him back, but she was giggling. “Okay, um…” He jumped when she took his hand. When she leaned forward, her body pressed against his back and her hair fell over his shoulder. Suddenly, March was grateful for the darkness. “So you just…” She seemed incapable of finishing the thought, and March wondered whether she was as affected by their proximity as he seemed to be.
Her grip on his fingers was firm, and he was grateful that working the forge meant he had good muscle memory. He was much more focused on the feeling of her skin pressed to his than what she was trying to teach him, trapped in a haze long after he saw her to her door with a bucket of fresh milk. Had he even said goodnight? He must have. He made it all the way to the forge before snapping out of it at the sight of her bag.
He sighed, lifting the sack over his shoulder as he made his way inside. He laid it on the counter and moved to his work bench, determined to at least track the day’s orders before bed. It didn’t take long before he was standing, stretching his aching neck as he turned. He misjudged the space though, catching his arm on the strap of Lacey’s bag and dragging the whole thing over the side of the counter.
The bag’s ties slid open, spilling ore across his floor. He groaned as he knelt to pick it up, hoping the sound hadn’t woken Olric. He needn’t have worried; Olric slept like the dead.
Which was good. Because March sat on the floor for a long, long time, holding up a handful of precious, dark ore he hadn’t seen since before the earthquake.
“Good morning to you too.” Lacey squinted at him from the doorway. March shifted nervously; maybe it was too early. Should he have let her sleep? She peered around him into the yard, watching her cows graze. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping.” He shoved the bucket he was holding into her hands. “What were you doing so deep in the mines?”
Lacey scowled down at the milk. “I wasn’t all that deep. You milked Maisie?”
March’s cheeks heated. “Should I not have done that?”
“No, I… thank you. You just took me by surprise is all.” She finally looked up at him. “Coffee? I don’t have any hot chocolate, I’m sorry.”
March’s heart kicked up before he remembered that she knew what everyone liked.
“Y-yeah, coffee sounds great.”
She smiled and turned, stepping into her house and expecting him to follow. He did. He stopped just inside the door, though, shocked by the utter emptiness of her home.
There was an old, worn-looking bed jammed in the corner of the room. The patchwork coverlet was half off, showing that he probably had arrived too early, and a black cat curled under it, fast asleep. Lacey stood at a tiny wood stove in the corner, pouring coffee into mismatched cups she pulled from a wooden chest, and turned to set them on the surface of a much-abused table. The chairs tucked under it were the only other pieces of furniture in the room.
He gawked at the emptiness until Lacey scuffed her toe against the floor.
“You built a bridge.”
“Uh…” She stumbled in surprise. “Yeah.”
“You paid for it.”
“I… did, yes?”
“You don’t have a couch. And your land is a mess.”
Her expression was growing increasingly confused as he went on. “I don’t really… have people over.” Well that couldn’t be right.
She scuffed her toe against the floor again, something he’d noticed she did when she was nervous. “I haven’t really had time to prioritize the land. And I hadn’t realized my lack of furniture would be so distressing to you.” She was watching him cautiously, as though waiting for him to snap.
“I just… I guess I thought…” He took a deep breath. “I thought you were just chipping in. I didn’t realize that you’ve been funding the town.”
Lacey scoffed, turning to pour milk into their coffee. “That’s what’s bothering you?”
March could feel the heat rising in his face. “I just… you should have a couch.”
“Noted.” She pushed his coffee toward him. “Drink it while it’s hot, mister hot drinks year round.”
He choked on the coffee, scalding his lips and tongue in the process. Lacey giggled, and he couldn’t stop the smile that crept up on him.
“Shut up,” he muttered, fixing his gaze on a particularly deep furrow in the table’s warped surface.
“Hey, March?”
“Hey, Lacey?”
When she didn’t speak, he raised his head to watch as she picked at her fingernails.
“Come to the Shooting Star Festival with me?”
March sat stunned, unblinking and unbreathing. Did she even know what she was asking? Eventually, Lacey looked up with a miserable expression.
“Or not, no pressure. I’m sure you want to spend it with Olric, it was probably silly of me to a–”
“F-fine,” he managed, heart thundering. “I'll go with you.” A slow smile spread over Lacey’s lips, erasing the tension that he hadn’t noticed reappearing in her shoulders, and he wondered absently why his presence seemed to bring her so much stress. Of course that train of thought was entirely unhelpful, as it drew his eyes along the line of her throat, down her torso and the loose shirt and soft shorts she must have slept in. He barely stopped himself from shaking his head before forcing his eyes up. He cleared his throat. “Olric will definitely badger me if I say no."
Her smile froze for a beat as she tried to decide whether or not he was being serious. She must have decided not.
March had always known he was an ass, but this really took the cake.
He’d been so self-conscious at the Shooting Star Festival that he’d practically bitten Lacey’s head off for inviting him. He knew he’d hurt her feelings by asking if she’d asked him as a joke, but she’d rallied enough by the time they reached her house to proudly show him the couch she’d made a special point to purchase.
“Does it meet your requirements?”
He couldn’t even remember what he’d said in response, only that she’d looked utterly crestfallen by it.
He had done his best to fix what he’d broken, going to the farm early to break outcroppings of rock, and even going so far as to offer her part-time work at the forge. She’d shown up, and he’d basked in her presence that day, content to simply watch, enthralled, as she worked his forge with a grace he’d seldom seen. That day had been good until he’d rounded the anvil to place her hands on the edge of the shield. Until he’d touched her and been overwhelmed with a wash of emotion he couldn’t name. She’d looked up at him, eyes wide and lips parted, wisps of purple plastered to sunkissed brown skin, and he’d been overcome with a sudden, unbearable urge to kiss her.
He hadn’t done it. Of course he hadn’t.
That interaction had colored every other since, though. The way she’d looked at him haunted his dreams and waking moments until he thought he’d go crazy from thinking about her. She blushed when she saw him, smiling shyly and avoiding his gaze, and their conversations were stilted and charged.
She must have seen how desperately he wanted her, must have seen the affection he’d lost the ability to hide. She was too sweet to reject him outright, so she’d been waiting for the best way to let him down gently. There was no other explanation.
That was why he hadn’t asked for her help with the Crest, and why he’d been so dead set on getting the gold himself.
Stupid. He’d been arrogant and stupid. That’s why he was stuck down here in the cold and damp with a broken arm and no one to blame but himself. Earlier in the evening, he’d been angry. Berating himself. Now, after who knew how long, he felt only resignation.
Of course it was dramatic to think he’d die down here, but… it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. Lacey was the only one who came to the mines.
Lacey. What would she think? He’d been harsh with her these last weeks, almost as much as when she’d first come. How long had it been? Over half a year, and in that time, she’d made herself a part of the town itself, woven into the fabric so tightly that it would crumble without her.
He would crumble without her. And that made him angry, because why had he ever let her become so important? So central to life that his days didn’t feel complete when he didn’t see her, that he felt a piece of himself missing when he didn’t get to hear her laugh or see her smile?
If he closed his eyes, he could picture that shining smile so clearly. As if in a fever dream, he could almost hear her calling to him. She sounded worried, though. Why? He wanted her to sound happy.
“March!”
His eyes snapped open.
“Lacey,” he whispered, and heard the echo of his name again. He scrambled to his feet, shouting for her. “Lacey!”
“March!”
Relief at hearing her voice nearly choked him until panic overtook it. She was moving fast toward him.
“Lacey! Don’t come over here! The ground–” He was cut off by an ominous rumbling and Lacey’s shriek. He had to step back to avoid falling rocks, but his heart was racing, arm forgotten as he lunged into the pile of debris.
“Lacey!” No response.
His lungs felt constricted, unable to draw full breaths in as he shifted rocks aside in a mad dash to find her. Dust billowed up, clouding his vision and preventing him from calling to her. After what felt like hours, his fingers closed around soft flesh.
“Thank you, thank you,” he murmured, to he didn’t even know who, pulling with his one good arm. He managed to pull her limp form from the rocks, only to feel a new wash of panic.
Her eyes were closed, a trickle of blood running down her cheek. March sat hard, pulling her into his lap.
“Lacey?” She didn’t stir. He hoisted her further up, tilting her head back against his shoulder. “Lacey, c’mon. Please…”
Her long lashes fluttered with a sharp intake of breath. He breathed out a sigh of relief, letting his forehead drop against hers.
“March?” She sounded breathless, but not weak. “Oh thank goodness I found you. Olric was so worried!” She sat forward with some small effort, groaning as she did.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” March asked, eyes tracing over her shoulders and back in the dim light.
“I’m fine,“ she said, but she ran her hands over herself before turning to face him. “I’m fine, “she repeated with a nod. She seemed to be taking inventory of him in that moment, and she reached forward to touch his shoulder lightly. “But you’re not! Oh, March, your arm…”
She fluttered her fingers over the break as she surveyed it, and March found himself desperate to fill the silence.
“I came here looking for ore… but then the ground collapsed without warning. I landed pretty hard, I guess.”
Lacey let her fingers gently circle his wrist, but gasped as she gripped him tighter.
“What?” March asked, anxiety bubbling up all over again.
Lacey looked up sharply. “You’re freezing cold!”
March scoffed a laugh. “Well, what do you expect? I’ve been down here all night. Between my arm and the cold, it was a rough one.” At least the cold had numbed his arm.
Lacey grimaced, looking back to the injured limb before moving forward. She tucked herself under his chin, wrapping an arm around him. “W-what are you…?” he stammered.
“We need to get you warm before you freeze to death.” She chafed her hands up and down his back, careful of his broken arm, and March felt himself melting into her touch. He sighed heavily as he gave into temptation and pulled her closer.
“You shouldn’t have come, Lacey.”
She stiffened against him. “Why not?”
“Because now you’re trapped here, too.”
She snorted, but relaxed. “Better than you being trapped here by yourself.” She moved closer, shifting to lay against his chest. He’d never held anyone like this before, only watched Josephine lean against Hemlock and Holt hold Nora’s hand. Had his parents done this? It had been so long and he’d been so young that he didn’t even remember. He leaned back against the rubble behind them. It would hurt his back soon, he was sure, but it was worth it to be this close to her.
“I care about you, March.” Her voice was soft in the darkness. He inhaled sharply. I care about you, too, he wanted to say, but the words seemed trapped behind his teeth. He said nothing. Lacey seemed to deflate against him. “You’re my best friend.”
Best friend. A year ago, he’d have leapt for joy to be someone’s best friend, anyone’s best friend. Hearing it now made him want to cry. So he laughed instead, sharp and cold.
“That’s sad.” It took less than a second to realize how that must sound, so he quickly added, “For you, I mean.”
Lacey huffed out a soft laugh. “You sure are prickly.”
“Yeah,” he mused bitterly. “I sure am.”
“You should have asked for my help. I’d have been happy to get you the ore.”
“I know.”
She angled her head to watch him from the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer for a long time. “My mother was a master blacksmith,” he said cautiously. Lacey stayed silent. He could feel her watching him, even as he closed his eyes. “She made the last Gold Dragon Crest.”
He knew it wasn’t an explanation, but he was surprised when, after a pause, Lacey asked, “Gold Dragon Crest?”
“I thought Olric would have told you.”
Lacey shook her head against his shoulder.
March sighed. “Adeline’s father commissioned a Gold Dragon Crest, and she brought it to me. I said yes, and Olric said I should ask you for the ore, but… my mother made the last Crest, all by herself. I wanted to make this one on my own.” He couldn’t tell if he was upset about letting down his mother, or about falling short of what he’d expected of himself… or if he was still choking on the disappointment of being Lacey’s best friend, even when he didn’t know what he’d rather be instead. He swallowed it all down. “I wanted to prove that I’m just as good as she was, and that I don’t need her.”
“Oh, March.”
He fought the sudden urge to push her away, to get as far away as he could. “I don’t need your pity, Lacey.”
She startled him by laughing, wrapping her arms more tightly around him. “I don’t pity you, idiot.” The lighthearted barb was enough to ease his muscles again. “Did I ever tell you why I became a caravan guard?”
That surprised him. “No. In fact, Ryis is the only reason I knew you’d been a guard in the first place.”
Lacey heaved a great breath. “I grew up with nothing.” She spoke quickly, as though ashamed to be admitting this. “We were poor as dirt, but we were happy. My father drove wagons for a caravan and my mother cleaned the shopkeep’s house. My brother and I were alone most of the time, but we’d play caravans and bandits. He would bring me apples. I idolized him.” March thought of the rows of apple trees that lined the path to her farm, and how comfortable she seemed in the empty, shabby house.
“One day, a courier brought news that my father’s caravan had been ambushed and he’d been killed.” March started at the blunt confession, but Lacey barrelled on as if she couldn’t afford to stop. “My brother said he’d take our father’s place, and we thought he had. He brought home tesserae and took care of us, and I signed up with the Adventurer’s Guild the day I turned sixteen. One of my first contracts was to find a bandit encampment just outside of town.”
March felt his stomach turn. He had a feeling he knew where this was going and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Imagine my surprise,” Lacey said with a false lightness, “When I arrived to find my brother?” Her grip on his jacket had tightened, pulling the fabric taught against his shoulders. “He’d never joined the caravaners. He’d been robbing them blind, feeding my mother and I with blood money and food from other families’ tables.”
“Lacey,” March murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair. He thought of the crops she donated to Mistria’s reserves, thought of the apples she handed out to anyone for any reason. Thought of the way she spent every tesserae she had rebuilding a broken town of strangers, and how she hadn’t even bothered to clear her own land but for the resources. “You’re not responsible for your brother’s crimes.”
“And you’re not responsible for your mother’s legacy.”
March felt slapped by the abrupt turn, but he had to grudgingly admit that she’d made her point. Even though he was certain she hadn’t meant to chide him, he felt like a petulant child. He’d spent the last fifteen years single-mindedly chasing recognition, demanding respect from anyone who looked twice, while Lacey had been building a life around undoing mistakes she’d never even made.
He searched for an appropriately contrite response, but was stopped short by a sudden thought that churned uncomfortably in his gut.
“Your mother?”
“Dead.” There was a finality in the single word that did not invite further comment or conversation, so March was especially grateful to hear voices coming closer. Lacey had evidently heard them too, because she lifted herself from March’s chest to stand with her head cocked.
“Hellooooooo?”
“Errol!” Lacey called. She turned to beam at March. “Errol, we’re down here!”
“Lacey, is that you?”
“Yes, and March is with me! The floor caved in and we’re stuck.”
Errol’s footsteps faded, then March could hear him shouting from the entrance of the mines. “Olric! I told you I heard voices!”
“Bro?” March nearly sagged in relief, hearing his brother’s voice. “Lacey? Are you down there?”
“We're here, Olric!” March called. “Both of us!”
“Hang tight,” called Olric. “We're coming to get you!”
Lacey turned to grin at March, but her gaze drifted over his shoulder. With a shocked expression, she turned back to the collapsed floor and dug for a brief moment before raising her pack with a triumphant shout. She pulled out her pickaxe and strode past March like a woman on a mission. He turned when he heard the axe strike ore, gaping at the vein of gold she’d discovered.
March liked to say that his swing was poetry in motion–some cheesy thing he’d told Olric when they were kids that had grown with his confidence. He stared, transfixed, as Lacey raised her pickaxe.
If his swing was poetry, Lacey’s was the whole play. In all this time, he’d hardly gotten to watch her work. There was a graceful strength to her motions, a full-body follow-through that made his blood heat in awe and… sometime else.
Minutes too late, standing half-frozen in a dark cave, watching the woman who’d come to rescue him when he’d given her no reason to want to, it finally hit him.
He had feelings for her. Of course, he had feelings for her. And who wouldn’t? Why hadn’t he realized it earlier? Was he truly so wrapped up in his childish need for fame that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him?
Too soon, Lacey knelt to collect the ore she’d mined and swept it into her bag. She stood, brushing herself off, and offered him the bag with a wide smile that seemed more open than any smile she’d given him yet. His heart raced.
“You’re my best friend, too,” he blurted. The words burned in the back of his throat, but he was determined now to live up to them, to surpass them. To convince her to feel the way about him that he felt about her. “I'm sorry that I've been such a jerk... and that I gave you such a hard time when you first moved to Mistria.”
Lacey’s smile softened. She reached out to lay her hand on his uninjured arm, squeezing lightly. “You were a jerk, but… I forgive you, March.” Her playful smile made his heart kick between his ribs.
“I’ll earn it,” he vowed earnestly, and Lacey stared up at him with luminous eyes.
“Okay Olric,” Errol called. He appeared at the top of the ledge, smiling down at them. “Time to lower the ladder. Let's get these two home!”
Not working was one of the hardest things March had ever done. He was relegated to manning the counter, watching as Lacey and Olric took turns swinging a hammer. It made him antsy, but Lacey insisted, going so far as to push him down with a firm hand on his chest.
He needed to sit down after that, anyway.
But Valen said the arm was healing well, and that he’d be working again by the end of winter. So as the days got cooler and shorter, he let himself be pushed around his own forge by a five foot nothing, purple-haired pixie of a girl as his brother watched and laughed, on the condition that she kept her mining excursions short.
“I can only sit by doing nothing for so long, Lacey. If you don’t want me to swing a hammer, you’re going to have to be here to stop me.”
She’d fumed at that. “And what if you hurt yourself more?”
March had shrugged. “High pain tolerance?” She’d hit him. “Ow!”
“That’s what I thought.”
But she kept her mining days short, loading the shop with copper and the occasional drop of iron.
On Saturdays, for the first time since taking over, March closed the shop. He and Lacey would meet at Darcy’s stall, where he’d buy them hot chocolates. Lacey would complain, saying she could buy her own, and March would list whatever project she was funding at the time. First it was expanding the general store, then it was rebuilding another bridge. Then Hayden needed a new barn, and March convinced Lacey to upgrade her own. After all, he helped her take care of the animals, these days. Collecting eggs and filling feed troughs only took one good arm, and he hadn’t had to make any nails in weeks. It was the least he could do.
The subject of today’s argument was another cow.
“I need six thousand tesserae if I want to help renovate the inn, March. I can’t buy any more animals.”
“Or,” he countered, “you could buy the cow now and pay for the inn with what you make from selling milk.”
She grimaced at him. “I don’t know if I can grow enough to feed another cow.”
“Woman, I cleared you more than enough space.” He ruffled her hair affectionately. “C’mon, I'll even help you plant.”
“March, you’re already doing enough. You’re a blacksmith and I’m supposed to be the farmer.”
March was transported back to that first day in her barn, when the roles had been reversed and she’d been the one unable to do her work.
He only hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking. “Maybe farming is growing on me.” Lacey stared up at him and March felt himself blushing under her scrutiny. He held her gaze, though, hoping she understood the poorly hidden meaning behind the seemingly innocent words.
Lacey opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a shout of her name. They both turned to see Adeline racing toward them, brown skin dark with exertion.
“Lacey, something’s happened. Balor was ambushed at the bridge.”
Lacey’s spine straightened. “Ambushed? Is he okay?”
Adeline nodded quickly. “He’s with Valen. He’s not hurt badly, but bandits stopped him. His cart was ransacked. I… I’m worried about the other vendors.”
Lacey was already moving, shoving her hot chocolate at March, who clumsily tried to keep it upright against his chest. “I have to get my sword, I’ll be right back. Keep everyone in the square!”
March’s heart pounded against his ribcage. “Adeline?” he asked.
“I don’t know, March.” She was flustered, clearly nervous. “Would… would you get Olric and Errol, please? And Hayden?”
March nodded, already moving toward Merri’s stall.
He met Ryis halfway, walking the other direction.
“March, hey! Where’s Lacey? I think a bird moved into our tree!”
“Have you seen Errol? And Hayden?” He could see his brother chatting to Eiland by Merri’s stall.
Ryis didn’t bat an eye at the lack of greeting, only turned to walk alongside his friend. “Errol bought a chair from Merri, he’s taking it home. I haven’t seen Hayden, but I know he’s expecting a new calf soon.” March swore under his breath. Ryis stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “March,” he said calmly. “What’s going on?”
“Balor got ambushed by bandits at the bridge. Lacey’s going to deal with them.”
Ryis’s hand tightened around March’s shoulder. “She’s gonna be okay, March. She used to do this all the time.”
“I know,” March said, and he did. That didn’t stop anxiety from knotting his stomach, though. “Go get Errol, and check in with Hayden. Please,” he added. Ryis nodded, already spinning on his heel and running.
March jogged toward his brother, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Olric!” Olric turned with a smile, but grew serious at March’s expression.
“What’s going on, bro? Where’s Lacey?”
“There are bandits. Lacey went to deal with them. C’mon, we gotta go help her.”
Olric straightened up, following March as he stormed toward the shop. “I’ll go, March, but you can’t.”
“Like hell,” March growled.
“No, bro, you can’t. You can’t use a sword. What are you gonna do?”
“Intimidate them.”
Olric laughed. “Alright, fine. But you stay back, you hear me? Errol’s taking a chair home, but I’ll go get him and we’ll take care of this.”
They’d reached the shop, and March flung open the door. “Ryis already went for Errol.”
“Even better!” Olric pushed past him, pulling two swords from the display tables and holding one out to March, who hadn’t realized he was still holding the hot chocolates. He put them on the table, barely even considering the rings the cups might leave on the wood, and took the sword from Olric’s hands. “Y’know, March, you really should tell her how you feel.”
March stopped moving, stunned into inaction. “What?”
Olric didn’t stop, striding purposefully on. “I know you know I’m not stupid,” he said lightly. March shook himself and dashed to get through the shop door before it swung shut. “And I know that you’re not as grumpy as you like to pretend you are. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Wouldn’t notice?” March asked dumbly.
“You, fawning all over her!” Olric actually sounded exasperated, and March realized how lucky he was to have someone who loved him enough to put up with his mood swings and constant need to prove himself without complaint. “Just tell her how you feel, man.”
They were passing the bathhouse, almost in sight of the bridge into town. “You really think this is the best time to have this conversation?”
“Yes,” Olric said cheerfully.
March huffed a laugh. “She says we’re friends.”
“The way she looks at you says she wants to be more than friends, little bro.”
And somehow, hearing it from Olric, March could see it. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll tell her.”
“Awesome! She’s gonna–”
Olric cut himself off as the bridge came into view. Balor’s cart lay, tipped on its side, against the stone siding. Two men hoisted sacks from it onto their own cart, not even noticing Olric and March’s approach. Lacey was nowhere in sight.
One of the bandits looked up, laying eyes on March and Olric.
“Oi!” He shouted mockingly. “Can we help you?’
“You can put back what you stole.” Olric’s voice was cheery as ever, but March could hear the tightness in it.
“Now, now,” said the other man, straightening and stepping forward. “No need for anyone to get ‘urt.”
“No there’s not.” Lacey’s clear voice rang out and March’s body flooded with relief. “Now turn around, leave the shipments, and go.”
She strode forward without looking at him, or at Olric, and March’s breath caught in his chest. She looked regal and dauntless, in a polished gold breastplate. March knew she used a copper sword she’d forged herself when she went to the mines, but the sword she held now was shining gold that glinted in the sunlight. She held it loosely, as if it weighed nothing, but he knew his ore. It had to be more than twice as heavy as the flimsy sword she used to fight monsters.
The bandits eyed her warily. “Look, we ain’t looking for any trouble,” said the nervous looking man.
“And yet you’ve found it,” she said. Her voice was low and dangerous, smooth as ice before it splintered beneath your feet. March had insisted on coming along to intimidate the enemy, but that had been silly. Lacey was the most intimidating person he’d ever seen. It made his blood sing and his body hot, skin too tight.
“You,” growled the bolder of the two. His hand clenched around his sword hilt as he took a step forward. His companion shifted anxiously, eyes darting back and forth.
“Oh, I wouldn’t, Niles,” Lacey sang, low and vicious.
Niles sneered. “I would.” He charged, raising his sword high and bellowing. His companion followed, but it was clear he’d rather be anywhere else.
Everything happened very fast.
March lunged, trying to put himself between Lacey and the bandits. Olric thrust his arm out, barring his brother’s path and nearly knocking him down. And Lacey?
Lacey stepped into the assault, raising her blade with a calm, precise motion so powerful that it severed the man’s head clean from his shoulders.
March took in a hard breath. The man’s companion stumbled back, as though the blow had hit him instead, and fell to the ground. He thrust up a hand, as if to protect himself, but Lacey only stared down at him coldly.
“Who do you work for?” she asked. Her voice was flat and emotionless. March had never heard her sound like this. The man in the dirt sputtered and tried to speak, but couldn’t tear his eyes from his dead friend.
“Who do you work for!?” Lacey roared, advancing on him with her sword raised.
March almost wanted to intervene, almost, but a bolt came whistling out of the trees before any of them could move. It punched through Lacey’s breastplate, sending her flying backward. She went down with a grunt of pain.
March ducked under Olric’s arm, sprinting forward with his heart in his throat. Olric was shouting as several more men emerged from the trees on the far side of the bridge, but March couldn’t hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears. Someone was screaming Lacey’s name as she struggled to rise. Voices erupted in his ears the moment he saw that she was alive, and only then did he realize that the one screaming for her was him.
He got to her at the same time as a man who’d come running from across the bridge. Without allowing himself to stop and think, he raised his sword to block the man’s downward stroke. His sword was pushed down with the force of the blow, inches from Lacey’s torso as she struggled to pull herself back, and pain shot from his hands up through the still-healing break in his arm. He shoved forward, driving his shoulder into the larger man’s neck and swinging wildly around in an effort to put some space between them. He planted himself squarely in the man’s path, determined to protect Lacey as best as he could.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Olric had advanced toward the bridge, shoulder to shoulder with Errol, who held up a wooden shield. Suddenly Ryis was there, dragging Lacey to her feet. She staggered forward despite his protests, moving to step in front of March. He reached out to shove her behind him when a frantic voice called from the bridge.
“Stop! Stop fighting!”
Lacey let out a sobbing sound, and March’s head inadvertently turned to her. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Lacey?” the voice asked, sounding half broken. March’s head whipped in its direction to lay eyes on a man with dark, amethyst hair and piercing blue eyes.
He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who this was.
“Lance.” Lacey’s voice came out half choked. “Never did go straight, I see.”
Lance, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable. “Sure didn’t.” His eyes flitted to the man still holding his sword out toward March. “Andrew, I said stop fighting!”
“She killed Niles.”
“Niles charged at me with his sword raised,” Lacey spat. All her calm coolness had evaporated at the sight of her brother. She was shaking in March’s grip.
“It’s t-true, L-lord,” the nervous man stuttered. He began to weep softly. “He shouldn't've done it.”
Lance turned his face, unwilling or unable to look at his sister. “He always did hate you.”
“Getting someone locked up tends to do that.”
No one said anything. Errol and Olric stood unmoving; Ryis shifted nervously; March clutched his sword as Andrew took cautious steps back.
“Lacey,” he said. He sounded hesitant, apologetic. “I didn’t know you’d landed here.”
“Oh, well that makes me feel better about you robbing people. If you didn’t know I was here–”
“Don’t be such a child, we’ve discussed this!”
“And you told me you were going to find real work and stop terrorizing traders!”
“Well there’s no money in honest work!”
“Who cares!?” Lacey’s voice broke. She made to step around March, but he refused to let go of her wrist. The bolt she’d been shot with still protruded from her waist, dripping blood onto the ground. Lance’s eyes seemed to lock on it. “We had nothing, and we were happy. What changed?”
Lance, still fixated on the growing puddle of blood, shook his head slowly. “I was never happy.”
Lacey spat, viciously, nearly wrenching herself from March’s grip. “I used to dream of being just like you when I got older. Was everything a lie?”
“Not everything.” Finally, he looked up. He looked so like his sister that March felt his stomach turn, unable to reconcile her selflessness with this man. “I’m sorry about mama.”
Finally, Lacey’s fury seemed to flag. She began to sag forward, and March dropped his sword in an effort to keep her upright. Lance watched her for another long minute before directing his attention to March.
“She’s special,” he began.
“We,” snapped March, “already know that.”
Lance nodded once, sharply, and turned. “Then you’d better take good care of her.”
“Get back here,” Lacey called weakly. “You coward. Fight me. This ends, here and now!”
Lance let out a humorless chuckle. “Yes,” he murmured. “It does. Don’t worry, you won’t see me again.” Then with a wave of his hand, his men began a hasty retreat.
“No,” Lacey whispered. She tried to pull herself up, but stumbled. March made the decision he’d been waffling over and swung her up into his arms. “March,” she pleaded.
“Leave the cart!” Lance called. Errol and Olric stepped aside to let Andrew and his nervous companion lift Niles’ body, carrying it across the bridge.
“March, let me go,” Lacey whimpered.
“Never.” She stared up at him with eyes brimming with tears as his cheeks flamed.
“Balor’s cart…”
“Olric and Errol and Ryis can get it.” And indeed, the three men were already loading cartons and chests, cautiously watching Lance’s retreat.
March set off toward town as Lacey’s blood dripped between his fingers. She twisted in his arms, trying to keep her eyes on her brother.
“March, someone’s got to stop him. He’s going to hurt someone.”
“Someone will stop him.”
“It should be me!”
“No, Lacey, you’re hurt. We have to get you to Valen.”
She tried to wriggle free. “Let me go, March!”
“I can’t!” he shouted. He took a deep breath in when her body froze its movements. “I can’t.”
He waited for her to say something to that, to yell and demand again that he let her go, or to question what the hell he meant by it. She didn’t. She simply slumped in his arms, sobbing into his chest as he quickened his steps back into town. He found himself clutching her closer as her crying died down, making way for gasping breaths.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, feeling rather stupid.
“Yes,” she wheezed. Her voice sounded dull, devoid of life. He began to jog, pausing only to send Hayden on to help the others when the big man found them.
“My cow–” he began.
“It’s fine, Hayden. Ryis is going to need your help.”
Hayden’s kind face nearly folded in on itself when he saw the state Lacey was in. “Is she–?”
“I’ve got her.”
She seemed on the border of consciousness by the time March walked up Valen’s steps and shouldered through the door, depositing Lacey on one of the beds while he shouted for the doctor. As he pulled back, Lacey clutched at his arms.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, glassy-eyed with pain.
March dropped to his knees at the bedside, clutching her hands in his. “Never.”
“Then you can help me get this armor off her.” Valen was clinical and quick, dragging Lacey into a sitting position. “Hold her up.”
March leapt to his feet, wrapping his arms around Lacey to keep her upright as Valen examined the shaft still embedded in the metal. Valen stepped away, returning with what looked like a great pair of scissors.
“Hold her still,” she said. March clambered onto the bed, sliding to sit behind Lacey and bracketing her with his legs. He nodded at Valen, who used the scissors to cut the bolt at the surface of the breastplate. Then she grasped the edge of the armor from around Lacey’s hips and began to push it up. March was forced to hold Lacey up by her arms while Valen worked the metal free.
Lacey, who had been nearly silent to this point, moaned in pain. March tightened his hold on her. “You’re doing good, you’re okay. Everything is okay.“
Valen glared at him, but she was able to lift the heavy plate over Lacey’s head. She pulled out a smaller pair of scissors and, to March’s astonishment, sliced through Lacey‘s shirt in one clean cut. Despite the arguably dire circumstances, March found that he had to look away.
Valen examined the wound before looking up to meet March’s gaze.
“How are you with blood?” she asked.
March swallowed. “I’m alright.”
“Good.” Valen turned her attention to Lacey as she poured a vial into a handkerchief. “I would like for you to take a nap.”
“Whatever you say, doc,” Lacey said weakly. All the color had drained from her face with the effort of removing her armor.
Valen shoved the handkerchief into March’s hand. “Keep that over her mouth and nose.”
March looked down, relieved when Lacey seemed to relax back against him. “Ready for that nap?” he asked. Lacey only nodded, eyes already shut. He raised the handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose as instructed, only for her to look up. She watched him intently until her lids began to droop. Valen had washed her hands again and stood, watching, as Lacey slipped into unconsciousness.
“What is this?” March asked. He’d never seen Lacey so still. He hated it.
“A little mixture I concocted to simulate sleep. They use something similar in the Capital, but it requires an injection. I prefer a less invasive method.”
March swallowed, mouth dry, as he stared. Lacey’s lashes were long enough to brush her cheeks, but he could still see dark circles beneath them. He noticed, for the first time, a thin scar that ran along her temple and down the side of her neck. He followed it until he realized his attention was dangerously close to her mostly-bare torso. He snapped his gaze up.
That was a mistake, because Valen was making an incision alongside the wound.
March tried and failed to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. “What are you doing?” he managed.
Valen didn’t spare him a glance. “If I pull the bolt straight out, it’ll tear through the flesh.”
It wasn’t a direct answer, not exactly, but March understood. He watched, transfixed by awe and horror, as Valen smoothly removed the bolt. Her capable hands made quick work of cleaning the wound and stitching it back together.
“You can remove the cloth.”
March looked down, studying Lacey’s face for any trace of pain before lifting his hand. He saw nothing, and her mouth was parted slightly when the handkerchief no longer covered it. He reached up, tracing a finger along her cupid’s bow. He couldn’t pry his eyes away from that tiny expanse of smooth skin.
“March.”
His head snapped up. “What?” He got the feeling Valen had been trying to get his attention for some time. She stood by the bedside, holding her hands out to take Lacey’s weight. He moved her forward as carefully as he could, sliding out from behind her. His knee was numb from staying locked in position, nearly buckling under his weight as he planted his feet.
Valen laid Lacey back, reaching around her to prop the pillows under her head. She unstoppered the vial she’d used, pouring more into another handkerchief that she lay across Lacey’s face.
“Go home, March. I’ll stay with her.”
March shook his head, even though Valen’s back was turned. “I told her I’d stay.”
“You’re filthy.” He looked down at himself then, the blood soaking his blue sweater and the scuffs on his leather boots. “I know for a fact you haven’t eaten anything today.” He thought of his hot chocolate, abandoned on the shop counter. Valen rested a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, March. Have a bath, have something to eat. You should try to get some sleep, but if you’re serious about being here, you can sleep in the other bed.” March nodded, unable to speak. Valen squeezed his shoulder. “I won’t leave her.”
Somehow, he got back to the shop, stripping out of his blood-soaked clothes before cramming himself into the tiny shower in their bathroom. He watched as pink water flooded the drain, staring down until it ran clear. He scrubbed himself raw, then simply stood under the spray until it ran cold. Mechanically, he changed into fresh clothes before walking to the inn.
He’d barely settled on a stool before Hemlock planted a pint on the countertop before him, followed by a steaming bowl of soup. March murmured his thanks, grateful when Hemlock withdrew to the kitchen rather than asking questions.
Questions were for Josephine, and she started in the moment she saw him at the bar.
“How’s our girl?”
“She killed someone, Jo.” He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even really processed the words in his mind before they spilled out of his mouth, but now they had. And it was as if they’d opened a floodgate. He began to shake so badly that he had to lay down his spoon, lest it vibrate against the bowl.
“Olric said that man probably would have killed her.”
March squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to consider that possibility. “He would have.”
“Then be grateful that he didn’t, and don’t worry about the rest.”
It was just like Josephine to have perfect and practical life advice, but it still stunned March into opening his eyes. “Don’t worry about the rest?” he asked incredulously. “Jo, she killed a man.”
Josephine leaned over the bar to clasp his hands in hers. March was reminded of how she’d watched him as a child, mothering him only when she could sense he truly needed it. “Do you know why you should never meet your heroes, dear?”
“Why?”
“Because they’re only human.” Only Josephine’s grip on his hands kept him upright. “Capital life is different, sweetheart. We’re very lucky here. Mistria is a haven, and I’m grateful that you’ve never had to see violence and corruption. But you have to realize that Lacey has seen the way the rest of the world is. I think she’s shown us that we can trust her. If she thought that man was a threat, well, that’s good enough for me.
March sat with that for a long time. Josephine stayed, keeping hold of one of his hands, but raised the other to stroke it through his damp hair so tenderly that he wanted to crawl into her lap like he had when he was a child.
“She’s hurt bad, Jo,” he finally managed. The words felt dragged out of him. After fighting it for hours, he couldn’t run from the fear any longer. He could lose her, here and now, and she could be gone without ever leaving.
“She’s a strong girl, March.” She finally let go of his hand, laying her palms flat against his cheeks. She shook his head lightly, lowering her head to look him straight in the eye. “She’ll be just fine.” March nodded, swallowing hard. He’d been drawn here for a reason. Josephine always knew just what to say, and just how to say it to him.
“Thanks, Jo.”
“Of course, m’boy.” She patted his cheeks. “Are you going back to the clinic?”
“I should go feed her animals.”
“No need,” piped Hemlock. He’d materialized behind March, and laid a hearty slap across his shoulders. “Hayden came by and said he’d take them back to his place. Said he’d water the crops until she’s feeling better, too.”
March sighed in relief. “Then I guess I’m going back to the clinic.”
“Take this with you, dear.” Josephine laid a steaming container on the countertop. “Some soup for Valen. And you let her know she can come get me if she needs anything at all.”
March slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the narrow clinic bed. Each time Lacey shifted, he’d snap awake to watch her, too anxious to do more than doze.
She cried in her sleep.
She called for her brother, murmured about their mother.
She said his name.
He’d asked Valen about her miracle tonic earlier in the night, only to receive a sad smile.
“Lacey’s helping me work on it, ironically. But… it’s all gone. Until we can crack the recipe, that is.”
Not that Valen needed the Panacea. She’d always been a phenomenal doctor.
The quiet left March too much time to think, to worry. What if Lacey didn’t wake up? That was ridiculous, he knew it was. What if she was angry at him for taking her away from her brother? Just as ridiculous, he was certain.
What wasn’t ridiculous, he knew, was thinking that she’d confront him over his outright refusal to leave her. “I can’t,” he’d said. That, she’d want to know about. And what was he supposed to tell her? I’ve been picking fights with you because I never actually grew up and learned how to have a crush? I didn’t know how to handle the way you made me feel so I pushed you away instead? I know I’ve been an asshole but I think it’s because I’m in love with you and I couldn’t figure that out?
Yeah, no.
He’d just have to come up with something believable. Maybe he could yell at her. He hadn’t for awhile, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. He tossed and turned, going over reasonable things to yell about.
That was reckless. You could have been hurt. Where would I get my ore? Who would take care of your animals? It all seemed quite unimportant.
“March?”
He nearly fell in his mad scramble to get up and across the space to Lacey’s bed.
“Lacey? Oh thank goodness, I was so worried.” So much for yelling.
She laughed weakly, then coughed. He could just make out her grimace in the dark.
“You’re still here.”
“I told you I couldn’t leave you.” Damnit. Two sentences in and he’d blown them both. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, reaching for whatever anger he could muster to mask the concern in his voice.
He didn’t expect Lacey to fight him, not really, and she didn’t. She only sighed, shifting with a wince. He reached around her, helping to prop her up.
“I’ll go get Valen.”
“No.” Her hand shot out to wrap around his wrist. “No, just… stay here. With me.”
“Lacey…”
“Please.” And so he sat. On the edge of the bed, because Lacey’s cold fingers still ringed his wrist.
“You’re freezing cold,” he said, unintentionally echoing her words to him from months earlier.
She clearly recognized the same thing, because she huffed out a laugh. “Not quite freezing.” March pried her fingers apart, tucking them between his palms to rub them together. Lacey murmured thanks, eyes sliding shut. “That feels nice.”
He ran with that, turning her hands until he could knead his thumbs into her palms. She let out a soft noise of contentment that went straight to his head, so he slid his hands further up to massage her wrists. He wondered if it felt as good to her as he imagined it would to him. Working the forge was taxing. His hands ached often, and his back felt sore more days than not. He figured all of the farming and mining she did felt the same, not to mention the sword she’d carried earlier.
“March.”
“Hm?”
“Someone’s got to stop him.”
“Someone will.”
“March.”
“He’s not your responsibility, Lacey.”
“He’s my brother.”
“Yeah, your brother. Not you.” He leaned over to bat a stray lock of hair back from her cheek. “Besides, Adeline’s going to send a letter to the Capital.”
Lacey’s cheeks had flushed slightly beneath his touch. “She is?”
He nodded. “I… I did leave, for a little bit. Valen wanted me to go home,” he said. He still felt guilty, but Lacey only nodded back. “Everyone sends their best wishes. And Adeline had Balor take a note straight to her father in the Capital.”
“March, I…” She fiddled with his fingers. “I have to stop him. I know you don’t think he’s my responsibility, but–”
“You can’t leave.” His voice came out far more desperate, far more pleading than he’d intended it to. Lacey’s blue eyes flew up to his. Two for two, might as well hit the home run. “You can’t just come here and change everything and make me care about you and then just leave. You promised you were going to stay.”
Lacey opened her mouth to answer, but March cut her off. “And I don’t want to be your best friend.” Her mouth snapped shut. Even in the dark room, he could see tears spring into her eyes. “I've been wanting to tell you since the Shooting Star Festival… that I'm sorry. The truth is I-I…” He took a deep breath. “I want to be with you, Lacey.”
“You…” she said on a breath. Then, against all odds, she laughed. “You want to be with me?”
He summoned the courage to wipe the tears from under her lids with his thumbs. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“I mean… I thought you were still just. Tolerating me, I guess?”
He huffed a laugh. “I… you scare me. You scare the hell out of me. And I thought I could keep you at arm’s length so you couldn’t, but you just… you got under my skin.”
“It’s warm there,” she murmured, and March barked a laugh.
He smothered it quickly, both of them watching the staircase. When Valen didn’t appear, he turned his attention back to her. Any hope of her returned affections seemed distant, but he chose to bury that for the moment. Or for forever.
He thought of her wound, instead. “Does it hurt?” Asking again felt just as stupid as it had the first time.
She shrugged. “Only a little.”
“Let me go get Valen,” March said, but he didn’t move.
Lacey shook her head. “Would you just… would you stay with me?” she whispered.
And so, with great care and a drumming heart, he crawled up the bed, carefully laying to face her with one hand propping up his head. Lacey turned onto her side with a wince and clutched at the front of his sweater. He had forgone an undershirt in his daze, and so could feel her nails through the fabric. He did his best to suppress a shudder, but Lacey’s sharp eyes caught his.
He felt drawn in, sucked down to the marrow by that penetrating stare, as if she was cutting through everything he pretended to be to flay his real self wide open. His heart kicked up again in his chest, even though he was almost certain that she felt nothing for him. Even though they were just laying, watching each other. Any hopes that she wouldn’t notice were squashed when she flattened a palm over the offending organ.
He glanced down at her lips, which was a mistake, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away again. She bit her lip as he watched, rolling it between her teeth, before curling her fingers against his chest.
“It’s been… a long day,” she said shakily. “A lot has happened. I need… I need a little time.”
March blinked. His traitorous heart paused its drumming before kicking up even more frantically. “O-of course,” he said. “Take as much time as you need.”
She smiled, lips curling up at the corners to reveal dimples, and he still couldn’t tear his gaze away. In his peripheral vision, he could tell she’d closed her eyes, less from seeing it and more from the absence of the sea-deep blue.
She tugged on his sweater, pulling him closer, and he held his breath. “You’re so tense,” she whispered.
“Because I really want to kiss you,” he blurted. And, since he was apparently being honest, “And because I could have lost you today. And that scared me. A lot.” She opened her eyes and he finally looked up, only to drown. When she’d pulled him closer, the arm not propping his head up had fallen awkwardly between them. He wrapped it around her waist tentatively, not daring to be as bold as her and pull her closer. She did that for him, nuzzling under his chin so that her lips brushed his throat and her breath raised goosebumps across his skin.
“I think I’d like for you to kiss me,” she murmured.
He choked on nothing, whole body going taut at the admission.
“But not tonight,” she amended, sounding almost apologetic. “I just… I need–”
“Time.” His voice sounded strangled. “You have time.”
“You’re not gonna push me away again? Run away from me?”
He scoffed, but it was strained. “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?”
She hummed, and the vibration against his pulse sent bolts of electric desire shooting through his veins until his whole body was alive with it.
“Maybe,” she said sleepily. “Maybe not. Never can tell with you.”
He tightened his hold, just a bit. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
He said nothing to that, waiting until her breaths evened out before forcing himself to relax. He tried to breathe deeply, tried to let himself drift away, but he couldn’t. Not here, not with her in his arms, not knowing that this could be the only time he ever got this. Not with her lips pressed to the underside of his jaw, right against nerves he hadn’t known existed. Not with her hands pressed to his chest, small but strong, keeping him close to her. Not with her body pressed to his in all the right places. He curled around her instinctively, a protective shell with a precious inhabitant. He focused his breaths, trying to memorize the unique scent of metal and dirt and dried apples that clung to her, just in case he never got to be this close again.
Valen found them like that, Lacey clinging to his shirtfront and his arms holding her tucked to his chest, and he couldn’t bring himself to move even then. He waited for her to tease him, to poke and prod, but she didn’t. Only smiled and stepped out into bright sunlight while he stared at the ceiling, torn between hope and crushing closure.
Crushing closure was certainly winning by the end of the week. Lacey had been trapped at Valen’s, unnecessarily, through her eyes, for two more days. She’d sent March home, and so he’d gone. He lay awake those nights, unable to sleep for the hollow space between his arms, and it showed in his work. He broke nails and had to shape and reshape copper tools, had to melt down a breastplate he’d hammered too thin and altogether scrap a helmet he’d scuffed beyond repair.
Olric attributed it to his long break, the first he’d ever taken, and March didn’t bother to correct him. He just took extra care with the gold he melted down to repair Lacey’s punctured breastplate.
Lacey wasn’t in the mines, on Valen’s orders, so he saw her only in the evenings at the inn. He watched as she handed off crops and animal produce, butter and mayonnaise she’d made at the mill, and bugs she’d caught for Luc. He listened as she reassured everyone who worried over her that she was fine, and no, she wasn’t working too hard, and yes, she was taking it easy. Still busy though, even with the light work.
And too busy for him.
He’d scared her off by admitting his feelings for her, and this was exactly why he hadn’t done it before. He’d already known she didn’t feel the same way. Best friends, she’d said.
Despite his best efforts, she’d turned his world inside out. Now, he’d have to carefully cleave it back together while she hovered along the tattered edges, forever just out of reach. The worst part was that she’d been so close that he could taste it, a life by her side. Tending her animals with her, clearing up that disastrous farmyard; her by his side at the forge; watching the stars and drinking hot chocolate for the rest of their lives.
The bitterness on his tongue was tangible, and he couldn’t blame it on Hemlock’s newest beer, no matter how hoppy.
She’d practically asked him not to pull away from her, and now he was the fool waiting for a scrap of her attention, sat watching while she gushed and giggled with every person in the room but him–watching as she flitted from Elsie’s Dragons and Drama campaign to the group discussing the creepy clown painting Balor had found, and then up to the balcony to play charades with the kids.
He tried to be angry. Tried, but couldn’t. He only felt tired.
So he downed the rest of his beer, leaving his dessert untouched, and pushed away from the bar. Josephine gave him a sharp, concerned look, but he waved her off as he turned. Eiland would eat his dessert, and Olric would pay his tab. If he didn’t, well, March would come back to settle up tomorrow. He shouldered through the door, head down to avoid staring at Lacey, and turned into the chill wind to trudge home.
Winter was nearly over, but a fresh snow fell anyway, dissolving into his uncovered hair. He barely felt the cold through the numbness, but the tiny flakes left wet patches on his skin. It seemed that even the weather mocked him for pushing Lacey away, painting tears when he shed none.
The walk was short, and the fire in the hearth still smoldered. He stoked it, knowing Olric would appreciate the gesture when he returned, and kicked off his boots, too drained to bother putting them in their rightful place by his door. He stripped out of his apron and sweater, tossing them into a heap by his chest, before crawling into bed face first. He was too exhausted after a sleepless week to bother with his pants, but he ripped his bandana off and tossed it in the general direction of his desk. He’d deal with it in the morning.
He’d almost fallen asleep, caught in that floating, soft feeling, when his door clicked open.
“What do you want, Olric?“ he muttered into his pillow.
“Oh, March.”
He shot up, twisting to sit staring in disbelief. “H-hey, Lacey…”
She stood pressed against his door, hands behind her back, and he was fairly certain she was blushing. “I-I can come back—”
“No!” He ran a self-conscious hand down his bare chest before deciding there was nothing for it. He dropped the hand to his lap. “What are you doing here?“
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you all week and I just…” She trailed off, seemingly fixed on his naked torso, and March resisted the urge to flex. He was torn between pride and a rare show of modesty. Working the forge kept him in great shape, and Olric was always pestering him to go on walks and runs. He knew he looked good, but had never been one to flaunt it like his brother.
The hungry look in Lacey‘s eye was more than enough to tip the scales, though. He made a mental note to spend some time at the beach this summer, preferably when she was around.
He realized that they were staring at each other and drew on the rush of adrenaline she’d given him to find something snarky to say. “You’ve been busy.” Well, maybe not all that snarky.
Lacey sighed, dropping her face into her hands. “I know, and I know how that must look, and I’m—”
“Look…?“ March held his breath, barely daring to hope.
Lacey peeked at him from between splayed fingers. “You didn’t think I was ignoring you?“
March laughed, shocked for no discernible reason. After all, it was pretty clear by now that she knew him. “Yeah. Yeah, I did think that.”
Lacey groaned, dipping her head back into her hands. March swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Lacey,” he said.
“What?” she muttered.
“What did you come to say?” She dropped her hands from her face in favor of picking at her nails, but she wouldn’t look at him. His heart sank into his stomach. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Just say it,” he snapped. She looked up at him, confused. “Just say you don’t want to be more than friends so we can both move on with our lives.”
“That’s all it would take?” And somehow, she sounded hurt. He wanted to say yes, wanted to start building walls again right away; wanted to get her away from him, back where she belonged–and he couldn’t even begin to unpack the way he knew she belonged with him–so that he could fake his disinterest until it became so routine that he didn’t have to think about it any more.
He couldn’t bring himself to lie, so he stayed silent.
“March,” she whispered. There was a soft shuffle of socks on his floor, and then she was reaching out to touch him and his eyes were sliding shut because he couldn’t bear to watch as she handed him back his hard, cracked open heart in her gentle hands. “I don’t want to be your best friend either.”
He did look up, then, and watched as she chewed on her lip. He expected more words, but they didn’t come. “You don’t?” His mouth felt dry, full of cotton just like his ears and the rest of his head.
“No, I… I want to be with you, too.”
He blinked at her.
She blinked back.
He scrubbed his hands down his face and blinked some more.
She chewed her lip again, dropping her eyes to where her hand rested against his elbow.
“What?” he asked.
She cleared her throat, spoke slowly. “I want to be with you, too.”
“Why?” he blurted. “I-I’m grumpy and I work too much, and… and I’m mean, Lacey. I don’t know how to be sweet, and you’re so sweet. To me, even though I don’t deserve it. To everyone.”
She hummed, raising her hand tentatively to his jaw. “Sounds like I’m sweet enough for the both of us. And you’re not mean.” He gave her an unimpressed look and she giggled. “Well, not anymore. Much, at least. Look, I’ve noticed the effort, okay?” She stroked his cheek with light fingertips. He felt every hair on his body raise to meet her touch. His head spun with the turn of events.
“You’re crazy,” he breathed.
“Crazy about you,” she quipped, taking a tiny step forward. He snorted, but raised his hands to her waist. He tugged her forward hard enough that she stumbled, catching herself with hands that trembled on his shoulders. “So,” she whispered, and her voice shook. “How about that kiss?”
He was looking up at her like this, and he thought that was fitting. He reached up to thread his fingers through her hair, wrapping them around her jaw and her neck. “I thought,” he pulled her down until their noses touched, “you’d never ask.”
He leaned up, tilting his head to press a soft kiss to her mouth. Lacey sucked in a deep breath through her nose, freezing for a moment before kissing him softly back.
March wanted to drag her down and devour her, kiss her until her mind was full of him and her lips were bruised. He made himself go slowly, angling her head with a gentle press of his fingertips so he could kiss her again. She was quicker to respond this time, sliding her lips over his before kissing the corner of his mouth. He chased her, nipped at her bottom lip, and shuddered at the soft sound she made. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders. She used that to pull herself closer, forcing him to tilt his head back to keep them connected.
Then her tongue darted out, prodding the seam of his mouth, and the control he hadn’t realized he’d been clinging to snapped with the force of an avalanche. He reached around her, hauling her into his lap and falling back, taking her with him as he went. She squealed in surprise, but he rolled them so that he lay over her and swallowed the sound with a frantic kiss. He licked at her mouth like a rabid dog, desperate to taste her. He hitched her leg up over his hip, letting his weight pin her to the mattress as he settled between her legs.
Her hands slid up his neck, into his hair, and the scratching of her nails against his scalp was almost enough to undo him completely. He kissed her hard, sliding his tongue between her lips and tilting her head with his own. Somehow, she got a hand between them, stroking down his arm and side and up his chest to his neck. The feeling of her hands on his bare skin was nearly enough to drive him over the edge, so he pulled back as much as he could bear. He lifted his body slightly, until only the ghost of her touch remained, and dragged his mouth from hers to leave open-mouthed kisses along her throat.
She gasped, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sound. He had to do something with his mouth before he said something he couldn’t take back. He traced a line down her throat, found himself nuzzling her collarbone in the dip of her shoulder. He bit down gently, sucking as he did.
“March,” Lacey moaned, and he squeezed his eyes shut again to ward off the wave of molten heat that crashed through him at hearing his name like that.
She tried to use her grip on his shoulders and the leg over his hip to lift herself, to press against him, and the arm that was holding him up shook violently.
“Lacey, stop,” he breathed. He almost whined when she froze, body half pressed to his. His hips moved of their own volition, driving her down and making them both gasp at the friction. “If you… we’ve got to stop i-if you–”
“What if I don’t want to stop?” March could swear he blacked out in that moment.
“You don’t want to take this slow?” She ground her hips against his and he did whine. “Slow-er?” His voice shook, and he should hate it, but he didn’t. He loved it, loved that she was the only one who could make him like this. Loved her.
“Do you?” Her voice shook just as badly, and he could practically feel the way his ego puffed up at the sound.
“Not even a little,” he whispered.
She raised her other knee until they bracketed his hips, using unexpected strength to roll until she sat on top of him. March wondered idly if he’d ever been more turned on in his life. She lifted her shirt, tossing it over one shoulder, and his hands went to her waist as though drawn by magnets.
She leaned down until their faces were hidden from the room by a curtain of violet and threaded her fingers through his hair. He groaned at the sensation, and shuddered when her lips touched his earlobe. “Then don’t.”
He was grateful to only be wearing pants, shucking them off while Lacey wiggled off him to get out of her own. He rolled back over her, taking in a sharp breath when their skin touched.
“You sure, Lace?”
She nodded quickly, nearly knocking their heads together in her eagerness. “I’m sure.”
And so he sank into her, swallowing her gasps before being reminded of why he should never, ever be allowed to speak.
“Gods, Lacey,” he groaned against her lips. “I am so,” a kiss, “so,” another, “crazy in love with you.”
He was so gone that he didn’t even realize what he’d said until she laughed, actually laughed between shaky breaths. He stopped moving, dropping his head to her shoulder, cheeks burning.
“Damnit,” he sighed. “I’m sor—” She pulled his head up and kissed him before he could say anything else, drawing a moan from him as she ran her tongue between his lips.
“Don’t you dare apologize, March. Just move.”
And move he did. Slowly at first, to work her up as much as she did him, until she was writhing and panting beneath him, and then fast to chase her over the edge, with their fingers locked together over her head and her name on his lips.
When Lacey peeled her eyes open, she was momentarily stunned. She was looking at a door that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but wasn’t hers, either. Something heavy pinned her to the bed, and there was a warm body behind her. Naked. She was naked. She nearly sat up in alarm before the previous night came flooding back in startling clarity.
“I am so, so crazy in love with you.”
Even without March’s burning eyes on her, she felt molten. Her heart sped, and she worried that it might wake him up. She tried to turn over, but his iron grip only tightened around her, pulling her back against firm muscle and hot skin.
She sighed, half in resignation and half in a daydream. She’d been so worried that he’d have changed his mind, so worried that she’d taken too long to tell him how she felt. She’d come looking for him every day that week, and every day had been thwarted. Cornering him in his bedroom had not been the plan, but the resulting night had more than made up for the build-up of anxiety.
She thought of the way he’d looked up at her before kissing her, a supplicant at a shrine. Thought of the gentle way he’d touched her, careful not to push too far, before careful and gentle went straight out the window in the face of ravenous, all-consuming want.
She’d expected him to need time, expected to have to work up to anything more than fleeting touches and chaste kisses. Pride and guilt welled up in equal measure as she considered how badly he must have been wanting her to break like he did.
Desire pooled as she felt the press of his body against her back; the corded muscles of his arms against her abdomen, keeping their hips pressed firmly together. Her mouth watered at the feeling of him between her thighs, hard and heavy, skin hot enough to burn.
Acting on a rush of reckless desire, she pushed her hips back and squeezed her thighs together. March moaned softly, lowering a hand to her belly to hold her in place.
“Someone didn’t get enough last night.“ His usually low voice was practically gutteral, clogged with morning gravel and lust. His hand trailed lower, slowly, lightly, eliciting a gasp.
“Was it you?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he groaned.
“I had to wake you up.” She shifted around some more, only stopping at his sharp intake of breath as he notched against her. “I needed to tell you something.”
“Hell of a way to wake up,” he breathed, pushing his hips forward. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, too caught up in the feeling of fullness, of togetherness, to shatter the silence. Finally, Lacey rolled her hips. March let out a pained sound, squeezing at her waist to try to slow her movements. “Slow down, slow down,” he whimpered.
“Why?” she whispered over her shoulder.
“I want this to last.” He buried his head in the crook of her neck, breathing uneven. “What did you need to tell me?”
She threaded their fingers together, pulling them around herself. “I,” she rolled her hips, “love,” she pulled away, “you.” She arched her back, moving down again.
March choked against her shoulder, whole body spasming with the confession. His hands slid down, body finally surrendering to the animal instinct to move. “Is that all?” he panted, but the sarcasm was lost in the frantic way they moved together.
“That’s all,” Lacey groaned. March’s hands were all over her, fingers squeezing and stroking and clutching as they both raced for the same prize. “March, I-I’m–”
“I know,” he groaned. “I know. Gods, I love you. I love you so much.”
“I love you,” Lacey moaned, and then she was falling apart all over again.
The knock at Lacey’s door startled her awake. March groaned, but she swatted his arm until he let her go.
“‘S too early,” he groused. “Tell whoever it is to go away.”
She glanced at the clock hung beside the fireplace. “It’s almost ten, March.” He rolled over, grumbling into the pillow.
Lacey smiled, smoothing down her hair and pulling on March’s discarded t-shirt along with her underwear before padding to the door. She half hid behind it until Adeline smiled at her.
“Hey, Addy,” Lacey greeted. The other girl was smiling, but it looked strained. Lacey stepped out from behind the door. “What’s the matter?”
Adeline’s gaze darted to the back corner of the room, where March and the bed were hidden behind a screen Lacey had bought from Merri. In fact, she’d bought several pieces from Merri recently, and at March’s insistence–a beautiful oak coffee table with a matching dresser, a thick rug, and a dining set she and Ryis had built and had Merri paint–and all of them blocked Adeline’s view. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t already know whose shirt Lacey was wearing. She and March had agreed to keep their new relationship as quiet as possible for as long as possible, but the townsfolk weren’t stupid and the two of them weren’t particularly subtle.
Lacey was half lost in a memory of the most recent Friday Night at the Inn, drinking at the bar with March under Hemlock’s watchful eye rather than playing Dragons and Drama or cards, and shivering in delight when he kept drunkenly pulling her stool closer to his.
“March, you’re going to get us caught,” she said when he tried to kiss her. “Everyone will see.”
“Let ‘em see,” he slurred, smiling dopily. “I love you.”
She blinked back to the present when Adeline cleared her throat nervously. “C’mon, Addy. Out with it.” Her friend’s hesitance was making her nervous. “What’s the matter?”
“Well,” Adeline began. “Nothing, I think. In fact, I think I’m bringing good news.” Lacey finally looked down, tracing the way Adeline’s fingers spun an envelope anxiously before holding it out to her. She stared at it. “It’s from the Capital,” Adeline said softly. Lacey’s stomach lurched.
“The Capital?” There was a shuffling sound behind her, and then March reached over her shoulder to take the envelope from Adeline’s hands. He wrapped one arm around her waist, offering her the envelope with the other. She shook her head. “Would you… would you open it for me?”
“Alright.” With quick, precise movements, he slid a finger beneath the seal and tore it open. He pulled out a cream-colored document, scanning the missive before meeting Lacey’s gaze. “Your brother’s left Aldaria,” he said simply.
Lacey’s breath caught in her throat.
“My father, Baron Wiscar–” Adeline cut herself off abruptly. “I asked him to look into this personally. As a favor.” Lacey nodded numbly. Adeline reached out a hand to squeeze Lacey’s arm. “They followed your brother to the edge of the kingdom, but it appears he’s sought refuge in the Caldosian Empire. He’s joined their Adventurer’s Guild. And… by all accounts, he’s been doing good work.”
Lacey nodded. “Okay,” she said. Adeline watched her, waiting for more, and then looked up at March.
“Thanks, Adeline,” he said. She nodded at him, squeezing Lacey’s arm again and offering a smile before turning to go.
“Thank you, Addy,” Lacey said.
Adeline beamed over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for us. You’re family, Lacey.”
March shut the door as she descended the steps, turning to face Lacey. She focused on the flex of his biceps as he crossed his arms; the cords of muscles in his forearms and his strong, wide palms; the broad expanse of his bare chest and the swell of his pecs and the lean line of his waist.
He put a stop to that by clasping her shoulders lightly. “Lace?”
“He’s gone,” she said mechanically.
“And he joined an Adventurer’s Guild.” He watched her, sharp and guarded. “How do you feel?”
She took in a deep breath, trying to catalogue that for herself. She found herself looking up into his black eyes, thinking of how far he’d come in such a short time. Where before he might have suppressed every feeling no matter the cost, now, he made great efforts to be open with her, to let her in and, more than that, to invite her. She felt tears of gratitude welling up before she could tamp them down. March looked alarmed.
“I feel relieved,” she blurted out. He only watched her, never pushing her to speak if she wasn’t ready. “I feel relieved,” she repeated. She reached up to wipe the tears away, but March’s thumbs were already there, tenderly stroking the skin beneath her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around his waist.
March grunted, then chuckled. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he murmured. He kissed the crown of her head, stroked her back, and rocked her from side to side. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, and then he pulled her away by her arms. “Let’s get some food in you.” He watched her carefully, only relaxing when she smiled up at him. Then, he winked. “You’re gonna need the energy.”
Lacey gasped, swatting at his arm as he darted out of reach. Her heart swelled as she watched him collect ingredients, meticulously measuring each item before combining them in a pan on the stove.
That man learned to cook for you, she thought to herself.
“Sounds to me like your brother might be trying to be a little more like you.” He sounded pleased, maybe even a little proud. “Think he could turn things around?”
She chewed on her lip. “I don’t know.” She scuffed the wood floor with her socked foot. “Maybe.”
“Well,” March hummed, voice warm. “He’s got the best role model. I have high hopes.”
Lacey’s heart swelled, watching him move around the space he’d helped to decorate and fill. “Hey,” she called. He turned, raising a dark brow until it disappeared beneath his fiery hair. “I love you.”
His lips spread wide in a happy smile, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and Lacey’s heart skipped just like it always did. “I love you, too.”
Summary: There was a soft shuffle of socks on his floor, and then she was reaching out to touch him and his eyes were sliding shut because he couldn’t bear to watch as she handed him back his hard, cracked open heart in her gentle hands. “I don’t want to be your best friend either.”
Or: March (accidentally) falls in love (and comes to terms with it).
Author’s Notes: 17.3K words of a little fluff and a whole lotta inner turmoil! Inspired by Wrong by Villain of the Story and, oddly enough, The Last Kingdom books. What was meant to be a character study has turned into another story (bc apparently I’m incapable of character studies), but here’s hoping someone enjoys reading as much as I enjoyed writing!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Fields of Mistria
Warnings/tags: mild language, suggestive content, injury description (not graphic), smut (not graphic), spoilers for March’s heart events (2, 4, 6), spoilers for Valen’s 6 heart event, spoilers for main story
March hated meeting new people. He’d always hated it–learning new names, awkward small talk, and pleasantries that wouldn’t ever matter again–and meeting Mistria’s newest resident was no different. One look at her soft features and clear hazel skin, her lustrous purple hair, and he knew. She wouldn’t stay. They never did.
He didn’t bother trying to remember her name. Why should he? She’d be gone by next week.
The door above the shop tinkled, and Olric cheerily said, “Lacey, hi!”
Lacey? March dropped the blueprint he’d been reviewing, spinning to face the showroom floor. There, dripping spring rain onto the wood of the entry, was the new farmer. March cast back in his memory, trying to remember how long it had been since she’d arrived. Had it been a week already? Had it been two? He cursed himself for not knowing, but there was no reason that he should.
Lacey drew a heavy-looking sack over her shoulder. Olric bounded forward, taking it from her easily.
“Thank you!” She beamed up at his brother with dancing blue eyes and dimples in her cheeks. Olric blushed faintly. March rolled his eyes. “That’s the ore I promised.”
What?
“Wow, you got it quick! Thank you!” Olric dropped the sack on the countertop with a thunk, stooping to reach for the box of tesserae they kept behind the counter. “Let me get you–”
Lacey cut him off quickly. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”
Olric straightened slowly. “Are you sure? Those mines are dangerous.”
“How’d you get into the mines?” March only knew his voice was too sharp because of the way Olric’s head snapped toward him.
Lacey blinked at him, smile frozen. “I… walked?” They’d spoken maybe a handful of times, including him expressing his irritation with her presence and expectation of failure. He knew he deserved that brittle smile, but that didn’t stop jealousy from rearing up. She didn’t smile at Olric that way.
“Eiland convinced Errol to open them,” Olric interjected. He only shrugged when March glared at him. “We need the ore, March. We’re backed up on orders as it is.”
“I can bring you more tomorrow.” Lacey’s real smile–and he chose not to think about why he knew it was real–was back in full. “I just need to drop off some–”
“We don’t need your help.” He flinched at the harshness of his own tone. Lacey’s face twisted for a moment before she plastered that fake smile back in place, but even March could see that it took effort.
“Alright, well, you just let me know if you change your mind.” She turned to his brother. “Good luck with your orders.”
Olric’s smile was almost as stiff as hers. “Thanks, Lacey. Don’t work too hard.”
March turned back to his blueprints, but he still felt the way Olric whirled to face him when the door swung shut.
“Bro.” How he managed to pack so much shock and disappointment into that single syllable, March would never know.
He feigned nonchalance. “What?”
Olric sighed. “There’s no need to be rude, March. She’s just trying to help.”
“We don’t need her help,” he repeated stubbornly.
Olric didn’t respond, but March got the sense that he was shaking his head.
He could hear voices as he walked up the dirt track to Landen’s cabin. He could just make out Ryis’s low murmur as he rested his hand on the doorknob. He’d already begun to open the door by the time he registered Lacey’s high, tinkling laugh.
He stiffened involuntarily, debating whether he could get away with hiding until she left.
“March, is that you?”
Damn.
With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped into the shop. “Hey, Ryis.” He didn’t greet Lacey, waiting until she was in full view to pretend to notice her. “Lacey.”
Her smile was tight. “March.” She turned back to Ryis. “I’ve got to go, but let me know if you need any more wood.
“Sure thing, Lacey! And let me know if you need any help clearing that property of yours. Her smile softened and, even though it was his own fault for being rude, it made something in March’s chest twinge.
“No, Ryis, that’s alright. I appreciate the offer, though.” She turned to go, avoiding March’s steely gaze as she did. “You two have fun.”
“You too!” Ryis called. He sighed when the door shut behind her, and March braced himself for more disapproval.
“She’s great,” Ryis said instead, dreamy as he watched the door.
March shrugged. “Everyone seems to love her, but I don’t get it.”
Ryis didn’t miss a beat. “Maybe that’s because you’re an ornery grouch?” His tone was so matter-of-fact, so without judgement, that March couldn’t even bring himself to be bothered by the comment.
“She’s just here for the land. Once she turns a profit, she’ll go back to the Capital. I just don’t see any reason to get attached.”
Ryis said nothing for so long that March turned to look at him. The other boy looked… bemused. “I can’t believe you’d think that.”
“She will,” March insisted. Ryis scoffed, and then March did bristle. “She’s not going to stay here, roughing it in that broken down old house, raising animals when she could go back to a life of luxury.”
Ryis barked out a laugh, but March’s characteristic pessimism seemed to have snapped him out of his state of disbelief. “Man, it’s like you’ve never even had a conversation with her.” March said nothing, because that was mostly true. Ryis watched him out of the corner of his eye, patient as always, before continuing. “She’s excited about the farm. She never got to do anything like this in the Capital, didn’t even really live there. She was a caravan guard.”
March blinked, fingers stumbling over the tools he’d been collecting. “A caravan guard?”
“Yeah, man.” Ryis dropped a handful of nails into his bag before taking the hammer from March’s numb hands. “A caravan guard. She had to fight every day, and she never had a safe place to sleep at night. Here she’s got a roof and a bed, and animals that depend on her to feed them, not people she’s got to fight for. It’s a whole new life for her, and I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”
March stayed silent as he tried to envision Lacey as a guard; tried to picture her smiling face as she held a sword; tried to picture her being friendly with her wards and harsh with would-be bandits. He couldn’t see it.
Ryis sighed again, dropping a heavy hand on March’s shoulder. “Look, man. Just give her a chance, alright? I’m not saying you have to love her, or even make friends. Just give her a shot, alright? Do it for me.”
March’s mouth felt suddenly as though it had been stuffed with cotton. He nodded. Ryis squeezed his shoulder and, without another word, walked out the door.
Of course it had to be pouring rain outside. March looked up as Lacey opened the shop door, hunched against the torrent. She glanced up, but didn’t hold his gaze.
“I didn’t think you’d actually show.” He tried to keep the worst of the venom out of his voice, but it still came out sharp.
Lacey’s voice, on the other hand, had never sounded so soft. “I got your note.” She hesitated in the doorway, as though unwilling or unable to drip onto his showroom floor. Something about that raised his ire. Just a week ago, she’d come bounding in without a care in the world. One (more) less than kind word from him and now she tucked her tail? This woman who was meant to have been a caravan guard? She finally looked up, meeting his gaze for one brief moment before looking away again. “Did you need something, March? Or did you just want to glower at me?”
That did it. “Oh, please,” he snapped. To her credit, Lacey only raised her chin when he stepped into her space. “You’re in way over your head. You come out here, no money, no experience, and think you can just fake your way through running a farm?” he snarled. Lacey flinched back, and he hated that. He didn’t want her here, but that didn’t mean he wanted her scared. He made an effort to soften his words, and the next ones came out too vulnerable. “It’s all fun and games now, but the second things actually get tough, I’m sure you’re going to ditch Mistria and its problems.”
Too far. Lacey blinked back tears, and March kicked himself for being an ass.
She took several deep breaths before speaking through clenched teeth. “I’m not going anywhere.” They stared at each other, both breathing hard.
“We’ll see.” He couldn’t stop the words from coming out, so he just shoved the copper hoe he’d made at her, making her stumble back. “If you fail, you can’t blame it on a lack of help from me.” He took one more deep breath, thinking of the promise he’d made to Ryis. “Who knows, maybe you’ll surprise me. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
She raised her chin in some attempt at mockery–or maybe in an effort to combat the tears. She nodded sharply, spun on her heel, and was gone in a flurry of wind and rain and the slam of the shop door.
March blew out a breath and reached for the mop he kept near the entrance. When he’d managed to sop up the puddle she’d left, he leaned heavily on the handle.
It was an uneasy peace that formed over the course of the season. The forge was so busy that March hardly left, but he heard stories about the crops and resources Lacey donated to town projects; heard about how she’d rebuilt the bridge out of Mistria, finally allowing the Saturday Market vendors to return.
Sometimes, she’d call out a greeting as she passed him at the forge. Sometimes, he could see her bustling by with armfuls of wood or forage or ore from behind his counter.
He heard about her every night he went to the inn, and plenty of nights he didn’t.
“We planted a tree!” Ryis told him while he waited for nails. “She said she’s gonna help me build a birdhouse, when it’s grown enough!”
“It would have taken me months to collect all that wood on my own,” Hayden told Olric at dinner. “Not to mention the stone. Where does she even get all of it?”
“You can thank Lacey for the herbs,” Juniper said as he stepped into the baths. “She’s been collecting them for me.”
“That Lacey,” Elsie simpered. “She’s just so helpful. And would you believe it, she’s been growing tea for Josephine and I!”
Josephine was just as excited about the tea, and Hemlock was always happy to see his wife smile. Reina loved anyone who made her parents and siblings so happy, and March knew just how much the kids loved her because the Dragonguard chattered about her while they watched him work.
“She caught me a frog!”
“She brought me a flower!”
“She found me a bumblebee! And she said she’ll get me more!”
Sometimes late at night, from his bed, he could hear the clanging of the forge. He’d been loathe to teach her to use it, but she seemed to hold her own with simple projects. Now, he was just grateful not to have the extra orders.
He was less grateful when Olric went behind his back to ask for her help with Adeline’s latest project order. He spent the day stewing in the heat of the forge and his own anger, while Olric chattered away to Lacey. Over the course of the day, though, it seeped out of him alongside his energy, until all that was left was exhaustion, the soreness that followed a day’s hard work, and a profound thankfulness that his meddling brother had convinced her to help.
And a strange enchantment with the flush in her cheeks, and the way her mauve hair fell from its once-neat buns to stick to her temples, and the glittering of her ocean eyes.
“That was fun!”
She was beaming, and he was pretty sure he was smiling too.
“Yeah!” he agreed. She turned to look at him, eyebrows practically in her hair line, and the corners of her mouth curving slowly up. March’s palms began to sweat. “I mean… thanks, Lacey.”
He ran off quickly after that, blaming the heat before locking himself in his room.
What was that?
For weeks, she’d been dropping ore off for him while he worked or slept. She’d hand it to Olric or leave it laying on his counter. She never brought it when he was around, probably in an effort to avoid his ire.
That changed after their day working the forge together, though.
It became a ritual, of sorts. Several days a week, she’d come in the evenings with sacks of ore for him. She’d drop it on the counter, browsing his tools while he counted it out. As the days got longer, her visits got later, and even though March liked to close down the forge before dark, he found himself working until she came striding from the Narrows.
“Waiting for me?” she teased one night, against a backdrop of stars.
He forced himself to scowl. “I need that ore.” There was no bite to his words any more, and Lacey only rolled her eyes. She’d warmed to his grumpiness just like he’d warmed to her shy cheerfulness, but their friendship was still tenuous at best. Better to keep her at arms’ length, March thought. She could still be gone by winter.
“I know you do, big guy.” She swung the bag off her shoulder, aiming for his anvil, but missed by a good few inches when her face screwed up in pain. Without meaning to, March dropped his hammer and reached out for her, letting the heavy sack hit the stone at their feet with a clatter.
“Woah, what happened? You okay?” He ghosted his hands over her shoulders, uncertain whether or not he should touch her.
“I’m fine,” she gasped, one hand held to her ribs. March raised an eyebrow, and Lacey winced. “I… may have picked a fight with a clod.”
“A clod?” All caution went out the window with that. Olric had told him about the clods–vicious little creatures that spat rock and ore, with great force—and come home with cuts and bruises on more than one occasion. He dropped to his knees, pulling her shirt up to reveal a blotchy, bruised patch of skin on her torso. “Lacey, we gotta get you to Valen.”
“I’m fine, March,” she bit out. He looked up and saw her clenching her teeth, tanned skin darkened with embarrassment even in the dim glow of the lanterns, and realized their position. He scrambled up, tugging her shirt back down.
“Sorry. Olric, y-you,” he stammered. The words tangled in his mouth, so he settled for gesturing at her side before rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Please go see Valen.” It was probably the nicest thing he’d ever said to her, aside from drunkenly telling her she “wasn’t so bad” all those weeks ago. Definitely the most gently he’d ever spoken to her.
She blinked at him, still blushing and still wincing, before nodding slowly. “Okay, I’ll go see Valen.”
“I’ll take you.” The words were out before he could stop them, so he leaned into the moment and held out a hand. Lacey hesitated. “I don’t bite, Lace.”
He did bite his own tongue, though. Lace? Where had that come from?
Lacey’s blush deepened but, slowly, she took his proffered hand.
March hadn’t thought this far ahead. Aside from his clumsy attempts to survey her injury, this was the first time they’d touched. This was the first time she had touched him.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that.
Before he could overthink it, he walked brusquely in the direction of the clinic, towing Lacey behind. He barely registered the look on Valen’s face when he barged in, or being ushered to sit while she examined Lacey. He found himself staring, unseeing, at the wall until Valen stepped out into the lobby. He shot to his feet, unsure of what he should even say.
“Is she okay?” he asked.
Valen nodded. “She'll be fine,” she said, and her expression was placid enough that March found himself relaxing. “I want her to take it easy over the next few days, though. No mining.”
March nodded eagerly. “That won’t be a problem,“ he said. “I’ve got her mining bag in my shop.“
“You know that having my mining bag wouldn’t stop me from going, right?“
“How about,” March retorted, “you make things easy for both of us and just stay home for once?“
Lacey tensed, but seemed to decide that he wasn’t actually trying to pick a fight. She deflated in his peripheral vision, huffing out a heavy breath. “You’re going to be short on ore this week.”
March shrugged. “I’ll have Balor buy some for me.”
“It’s expensive,” she said, and it was almost a whine.
“It’ll be a lot more expensive to do surgery if you don’t let those ribs heal,” Valen interjected.
March raised his eyebrows in Lacey’s direction. Lacey glared at Valen.
“Would you walk her home, please?”
“Sure.”
“I can get home on my own.”
They stopped to glare at each other.
“Really, I’m–”
“Lacey.” He knew the moment her name left his lips that he’d let too much into it; too much of his worry, too much of the confusion he felt around her lately.
Her mouth snapped shut, and March found himself holding his breath. Then she nodded. He let the breath out as he turned to open the door, hoping he didn’t look as vulnerable as he felt. Lacey squeezed past him, calling her thanks to Valen over her shoulder, and then waited for him at the bottom of the steps. They made it to the fountain before she spoke.
“I really am okay to get home on my own,” she said softly.
“And I really would feel better walking you,” March admitted, equally as softly.
“Okay.”
It was a nice night, finally cooling from the summer heat. There were crickets in the tall grass, and March could hear the faint splashing of fish over the muted roar of the waterfall upriver. He turned his face up, toward the sky, to take in the glittering blanket of stars overhead. When was the last time he’d been down this way? Years, surely. Certainly long before Lacey came to Mistria. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever even known who lived here before the earthquake, or if anyone had.
“Are we friends, March?”
He’d been so lost in thought that the question made him reel back, though he supposed that might have happened regardless.
“I… uh…”
Lacey let out a quiet breath, and March knew that he’d made a mistake. He braced himself for an admission he hadn’t wanted to think about.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “Yes, we’re friends.”
He hadn’t realized how much tension was in Lacey’s shoulders until he watched them sag in relief. She looked up at him with such happiness that he couldn’t stop from smiling.
“I’m glad.”
The dirt underfoot softened as they stepped foot onto her farm, turning between apple saplings she must have planted.
“Me too.”
The little arbor didn’t last more than a few feet, and then they were back under the stars again. March blinked in surprise at the sight before him. There was a veritable forest surrounding a clearing of stumps, rises of stone as far as the eye could see, a tiny garden plot of indeterminate crops, and a barn.
“Oh, no,” Lacey breathed. She rushed off before March could ask what was wrong, making a beeline for a pair of cows lowing at the sight of her. He could hardly make out her quiet apologies under the animals’ sounds, but she wrenched the door open to let them in. She let out a soft cry at the motion, and March cursed under his breath. He darted forward, reaching over her to drag the heavy door out.
“Would you move?” he muttered, and waved at the animals in the hope that they’d move inside. They both did, and Lacey huffed.
“Thank you,” she said. She was clutching her ribs, but reached out when he began to pull the doors shut. “Wait! I’ve still got to milk Maisie.”
March grumbled under his breath and heaved the door open. “I’ve never milked a cow before,” he announced. He rolled his eyes at Lacey’s wide-eyed shock. “I’m a blacksmith, you’re supposed to be the farmer.”
“Well, then let me milk my own cow!”
“No.” He picked up a nearby stool and positioned it near the cow’s hindquarters. “Tell me what to do.”
“You’ll need a bucket first,” she muttered. She lifted the lid of a nearby trunk to produce one, which she held out to him. “Okay, so you just… ugh, this is so weird.”
March decided to capitalize on this whole concept of not overthinking. He bumped her lightly with his shoulder. “Then don’t make it weird, weirdo.”
“Shut up!” She bumped him back, but she was giggling. “Okay, um…” He jumped when she took his hand. When she leaned forward, her body pressed against his back and her hair fell over his shoulder. Suddenly, March was grateful for the darkness. “So you just…” She seemed incapable of finishing the thought, and March wondered whether she was as affected by their proximity as he seemed to be.
Her grip on his fingers was firm, and he was grateful that working the forge meant he had good muscle memory. He was much more focused on the feeling of her skin pressed to his than what she was trying to teach him, trapped in a haze long after he saw her to her door with a bucket of fresh milk. Had he even said goodnight? He must have. He made it all the way to the forge before snapping out of it at the sight of her bag.
He sighed, lifting the sack over his shoulder as he made his way inside. He laid it on the counter and moved to his work bench, determined to at least track the day’s orders before bed. It didn’t take long before he was standing, stretching his aching neck as he turned. He misjudged the space though, catching his arm on the strap of Lacey’s bag and dragging the whole thing over the side of the counter.
The bag’s ties slid open, spilling ore across his floor. He groaned as he knelt to pick it up, hoping the sound hadn’t woken Olric. He needn’t have worried; Olric slept like the dead.
Which was good. Because March sat on the floor for a long, long time, holding up a handful of precious, dark ore he hadn’t seen since before the earthquake.
“Good morning to you too.” Lacey squinted at him from the doorway. March shifted nervously; maybe it was too early. Should he have let her sleep? She peered around him into the yard, watching her cows graze. “What are you doing here?”
“Helping.” He shoved the bucket he was holding into her hands. “What were you doing so deep in the mines?”
Lacey scowled down at the milk. “I wasn’t all that deep. You milked Maisie?”
March’s cheeks heated. “Should I not have done that?”
“No, I… thank you. You just took me by surprise is all.” She finally looked up at him. “Coffee? I don’t have any hot chocolate, I’m sorry.”
March’s heart kicked up before he remembered that she knew what everyone liked.
“Y-yeah, coffee sounds great.”
She smiled and turned, stepping into her house and expecting him to follow. He did. He stopped just inside the door, though, shocked by the utter emptiness of her home.
There was an old, worn-looking bed jammed in the corner of the room. The patchwork coverlet was half off, showing that he probably had arrived too early, and a black cat curled under it, fast asleep. Lacey stood at a tiny wood stove in the corner, pouring coffee into mismatched cups she pulled from a wooden chest, and turned to set them on the surface of a much-abused table. The chairs tucked under it were the only other pieces of furniture in the room.
He gawked at the emptiness until Lacey scuffed her toe against the floor.
“You built a bridge.”
“Uh…” She stumbled in surprise. “Yeah.”
“You paid for it.”
“I… did, yes?”
“You don’t have a couch. And your land is a mess.”
Her expression was growing increasingly confused as he went on. “I don’t really… have people over.” Well that couldn’t be right.
She scuffed her toe against the floor again, something he’d noticed she did when she was nervous. “I haven’t really had time to prioritize the land. And I hadn’t realized my lack of furniture would be so distressing to you.” She was watching him cautiously, as though waiting for him to snap.
“I just… I guess I thought…” He took a deep breath. “I thought you were just chipping in. I didn’t realize that you’ve been funding the town.”
Lacey scoffed, turning to pour milk into their coffee. “That’s what’s bothering you?”
March could feel the heat rising in his face. “I just… you should have a couch.”
“Noted.” She pushed his coffee toward him. “Drink it while it’s hot, mister hot drinks year round.”
He choked on the coffee, scalding his lips and tongue in the process. Lacey giggled, and he couldn’t stop the smile that crept up on him.
“Shut up,” he muttered, fixing his gaze on a particularly deep furrow in the table’s warped surface.
“Hey, March?”
“Hey, Lacey?”
When she didn’t speak, he raised his head to watch as she picked at her fingernails.
“Come to the Shooting Star Festival with me?”
March sat stunned, unblinking and unbreathing. Did she even know what she was asking? Eventually, Lacey looked up with a miserable expression.
“Or not, no pressure. I’m sure you want to spend it with Olric, it was probably silly of me to a–”
“F-fine,” he managed, heart thundering. “I'll go with you.” A slow smile spread over Lacey’s lips, erasing the tension that he hadn’t noticed reappearing in her shoulders, and he wondered absently why his presence seemed to bring her so much stress. Of course that train of thought was entirely unhelpful, as it drew his eyes along the line of her throat, down her torso and the loose shirt and soft shorts she must have slept in. He barely stopped himself from shaking his head before forcing his eyes up. He cleared his throat. “Olric will definitely badger me if I say no."
Her smile froze for a beat as she tried to decide whether or not he was being serious. She must have decided not.
March had always known he was an ass, but this really took the cake.
He’d been so self-conscious at the Shooting Star Festival that he’d practically bitten Lacey’s head off for inviting him. He knew he’d hurt her feelings by asking if she’d asked him as a joke, but she’d rallied enough by the time they reached her house to proudly show him the couch she’d made a special point to purchase.
“Does it meet your requirements?”
He couldn’t even remember what he’d said in response, only that she’d looked utterly crestfallen by it.
He had done his best to fix what he’d broken, going to the farm early to break outcroppings of rock, and even going so far as to offer her part-time work at the forge. She’d shown up, and he’d basked in her presence that day, content to simply watch, enthralled, as she worked his forge with a grace he’d seldom seen. That day had been good until he’d rounded the anvil to place her hands on the edge of the shield. Until he’d touched her and been overwhelmed with a wash of emotion he couldn’t name. She’d looked up at him, eyes wide and lips parted, wisps of purple plastered to sunkissed brown skin, and he’d been overcome with a sudden, unbearable urge to kiss her.
He hadn’t done it. Of course he hadn’t.
That interaction had colored every other since, though. The way she’d looked at him haunted his dreams and waking moments until he thought he’d go crazy from thinking about her. She blushed when she saw him, smiling shyly and avoiding his gaze, and their conversations were stilted and charged.
She must have seen how desperately he wanted her, must have seen the affection he’d lost the ability to hide. She was too sweet to reject him outright, so she’d been waiting for the best way to let him down gently. There was no other explanation.
That was why he hadn’t asked for her help with the Crest, and why he’d been so dead set on getting the gold himself.
Stupid. He’d been arrogant and stupid. That’s why he was stuck down here in the cold and damp with a broken arm and no one to blame but himself. Earlier in the evening, he’d been angry. Berating himself. Now, after who knew how long, he felt only resignation.
Of course it was dramatic to think he’d die down here, but… it wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility. Lacey was the only one who came to the mines.
Lacey. What would she think? He’d been harsh with her these last weeks, almost as much as when she’d first come. How long had it been? Over half a year, and in that time, she’d made herself a part of the town itself, woven into the fabric so tightly that it would crumble without her.
He would crumble without her. And that made him angry, because why had he ever let her become so important? So central to life that his days didn’t feel complete when he didn’t see her, that he felt a piece of himself missing when he didn’t get to hear her laugh or see her smile?
If he closed his eyes, he could picture that shining smile so clearly. As if in a fever dream, he could almost hear her calling to him. She sounded worried, though. Why? He wanted her to sound happy.
“March!”
His eyes snapped open.
“Lacey,” he whispered, and heard the echo of his name again. He scrambled to his feet, shouting for her. “Lacey!”
“March!”
Relief at hearing her voice nearly choked him until panic overtook it. She was moving fast toward him.
“Lacey! Don’t come over here! The ground–” He was cut off by an ominous rumbling and Lacey’s shriek. He had to step back to avoid falling rocks, but his heart was racing, arm forgotten as he lunged into the pile of debris.
“Lacey!” No response.
His lungs felt constricted, unable to draw full breaths in as he shifted rocks aside in a mad dash to find her. Dust billowed up, clouding his vision and preventing him from calling to her. After what felt like hours, his fingers closed around soft flesh.
“Thank you, thank you,” he murmured, to he didn’t even know who, pulling with his one good arm. He managed to pull her limp form from the rocks, only to feel a new wash of panic.
Her eyes were closed, a trickle of blood running down her cheek. March sat hard, pulling her into his lap.
“Lacey?” She didn’t stir. He hoisted her further up, tilting her head back against his shoulder. “Lacey, c’mon. Please…”
Her long lashes fluttered with a sharp intake of breath. He breathed out a sigh of relief, letting his forehead drop against hers.
“March?” She sounded breathless, but not weak. “Oh thank goodness I found you. Olric was so worried!” She sat forward with some small effort, groaning as she did.
“You’re not hurt, are you?” March asked, eyes tracing over her shoulders and back in the dim light.
“I’m fine,“ she said, but she ran her hands over herself before turning to face him. “I’m fine, “she repeated with a nod. She seemed to be taking inventory of him in that moment, and she reached forward to touch his shoulder lightly. “But you’re not! Oh, March, your arm…”
She fluttered her fingers over the break as she surveyed it, and March found himself desperate to fill the silence.
“I came here looking for ore… but then the ground collapsed without warning. I landed pretty hard, I guess.”
Lacey let her fingers gently circle his wrist, but gasped as she gripped him tighter.
“What?” March asked, anxiety bubbling up all over again.
Lacey looked up sharply. “You’re freezing cold!”
March scoffed a laugh. “Well, what do you expect? I’ve been down here all night. Between my arm and the cold, it was a rough one.” At least the cold had numbed his arm.
Lacey grimaced, looking back to the injured limb before moving forward. She tucked herself under his chin, wrapping an arm around him. “W-what are you…?” he stammered.
“We need to get you warm before you freeze to death.” She chafed her hands up and down his back, careful of his broken arm, and March felt himself melting into her touch. He sighed heavily as he gave into temptation and pulled her closer.
“You shouldn’t have come, Lacey.”
She stiffened against him. “Why not?”
“Because now you’re trapped here, too.”
She snorted, but relaxed. “Better than you being trapped here by yourself.” She moved closer, shifting to lay against his chest. He’d never held anyone like this before, only watched Josephine lean against Hemlock and Holt hold Nora’s hand. Had his parents done this? It had been so long and he’d been so young that he didn’t even remember. He leaned back against the rubble behind them. It would hurt his back soon, he was sure, but it was worth it to be this close to her.
“I care about you, March.” Her voice was soft in the darkness. He inhaled sharply. I care about you, too, he wanted to say, but the words seemed trapped behind his teeth. He said nothing. Lacey seemed to deflate against him. “You’re my best friend.”
Best friend. A year ago, he’d have leapt for joy to be someone’s best friend, anyone’s best friend. Hearing it now made him want to cry. So he laughed instead, sharp and cold.
“That’s sad.” It took less than a second to realize how that must sound, so he quickly added, “For you, I mean.”
Lacey huffed out a soft laugh. “You sure are prickly.”
“Yeah,” he mused bitterly. “I sure am.”
“You should have asked for my help. I’d have been happy to get you the ore.”
“I know.”
She angled her head to watch him from the corner of her eye. “Why didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer for a long time. “My mother was a master blacksmith,” he said cautiously. Lacey stayed silent. He could feel her watching him, even as he closed his eyes. “She made the last Gold Dragon Crest.”
He knew it wasn’t an explanation, but he was surprised when, after a pause, Lacey asked, “Gold Dragon Crest?”
“I thought Olric would have told you.”
Lacey shook her head against his shoulder.
March sighed. “Adeline’s father commissioned a Gold Dragon Crest, and she brought it to me. I said yes, and Olric said I should ask you for the ore, but… my mother made the last Crest, all by herself. I wanted to make this one on my own.” He couldn’t tell if he was upset about letting down his mother, or about falling short of what he’d expected of himself… or if he was still choking on the disappointment of being Lacey’s best friend, even when he didn’t know what he’d rather be instead. He swallowed it all down. “I wanted to prove that I’m just as good as she was, and that I don’t need her.”
“Oh, March.”
He fought the sudden urge to push her away, to get as far away as he could. “I don’t need your pity, Lacey.”
She startled him by laughing, wrapping her arms more tightly around him. “I don’t pity you, idiot.” The lighthearted barb was enough to ease his muscles again. “Did I ever tell you why I became a caravan guard?”
That surprised him. “No. In fact, Ryis is the only reason I knew you’d been a guard in the first place.”
Lacey heaved a great breath. “I grew up with nothing.” She spoke quickly, as though ashamed to be admitting this. “We were poor as dirt, but we were happy. My father drove wagons for a caravan and my mother cleaned the shopkeep’s house. My brother and I were alone most of the time, but we’d play caravans and bandits. He would bring me apples. I idolized him.” March thought of the rows of apple trees that lined the path to her farm, and how comfortable she seemed in the empty, shabby house.
“One day, a courier brought news that my father’s caravan had been ambushed and he’d been killed.” March started at the blunt confession, but Lacey barrelled on as if she couldn’t afford to stop. “My brother said he’d take our father’s place, and we thought he had. He brought home tesserae and took care of us, and I signed up with the Adventurer’s Guild the day I turned sixteen. One of my first contracts was to find a bandit encampment just outside of town.”
March felt his stomach turn. He had a feeling he knew where this was going and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Imagine my surprise,” Lacey said with a false lightness, “When I arrived to find my brother?” Her grip on his jacket had tightened, pulling the fabric taught against his shoulders. “He’d never joined the caravaners. He’d been robbing them blind, feeding my mother and I with blood money and food from other families’ tables.”
“Lacey,” March murmured, reaching up to stroke her hair. He thought of the crops she donated to Mistria’s reserves, thought of the apples she handed out to anyone for any reason. Thought of the way she spent every tesserae she had rebuilding a broken town of strangers, and how she hadn’t even bothered to clear her own land but for the resources. “You’re not responsible for your brother’s crimes.”
“And you’re not responsible for your mother’s legacy.”
March felt slapped by the abrupt turn, but he had to grudgingly admit that she’d made her point. Even though he was certain she hadn’t meant to chide him, he felt like a petulant child. He’d spent the last fifteen years single-mindedly chasing recognition, demanding respect from anyone who looked twice, while Lacey had been building a life around undoing mistakes she’d never even made.
He searched for an appropriately contrite response, but was stopped short by a sudden thought that churned uncomfortably in his gut.
“Your mother?”
“Dead.” There was a finality in the single word that did not invite further comment or conversation, so March was especially grateful to hear voices coming closer. Lacey had evidently heard them too, because she lifted herself from March’s chest to stand with her head cocked.
“Hellooooooo?”
“Errol!” Lacey called. She turned to beam at March. “Errol, we’re down here!”
“Lacey, is that you?”
“Yes, and March is with me! The floor caved in and we’re stuck.”
Errol’s footsteps faded, then March could hear him shouting from the entrance of the mines. “Olric! I told you I heard voices!”
“Bro?” March nearly sagged in relief, hearing his brother’s voice. “Lacey? Are you down there?”
“We're here, Olric!” March called. “Both of us!”
“Hang tight,” called Olric. “We're coming to get you!”
Lacey turned to grin at March, but her gaze drifted over his shoulder. With a shocked expression, she turned back to the collapsed floor and dug for a brief moment before raising her pack with a triumphant shout. She pulled out her pickaxe and strode past March like a woman on a mission. He turned when he heard the axe strike ore, gaping at the vein of gold she’d discovered.
March liked to say that his swing was poetry in motion–some cheesy thing he’d told Olric when they were kids that had grown with his confidence. He stared, transfixed, as Lacey raised her pickaxe.
If his swing was poetry, Lacey’s was the whole play. In all this time, he’d hardly gotten to watch her work. There was a graceful strength to her motions, a full-body follow-through that made his blood heat in awe and… sometime else.
Minutes too late, standing half-frozen in a dark cave, watching the woman who’d come to rescue him when he’d given her no reason to want to, it finally hit him.
He had feelings for her. Of course, he had feelings for her. And who wouldn’t? Why hadn’t he realized it earlier? Was he truly so wrapped up in his childish need for fame that he couldn’t see what was right in front of him?
Too soon, Lacey knelt to collect the ore she’d mined and swept it into her bag. She stood, brushing herself off, and offered him the bag with a wide smile that seemed more open than any smile she’d given him yet. His heart raced.
“You’re my best friend, too,” he blurted. The words burned in the back of his throat, but he was determined now to live up to them, to surpass them. To convince her to feel the way about him that he felt about her. “I'm sorry that I've been such a jerk... and that I gave you such a hard time when you first moved to Mistria.”
Lacey’s smile softened. She reached out to lay her hand on his uninjured arm, squeezing lightly. “You were a jerk, but… I forgive you, March.” Her playful smile made his heart kick between his ribs.
“I’ll earn it,” he vowed earnestly, and Lacey stared up at him with luminous eyes.
“Okay Olric,” Errol called. He appeared at the top of the ledge, smiling down at them. “Time to lower the ladder. Let's get these two home!”
Not working was one of the hardest things March had ever done. He was relegated to manning the counter, watching as Lacey and Olric took turns swinging a hammer. It made him antsy, but Lacey insisted, going so far as to push him down with a firm hand on his chest.
He needed to sit down after that, anyway.
But Valen said the arm was healing well, and that he’d be working again by the end of winter. So as the days got cooler and shorter, he let himself be pushed around his own forge by a five foot nothing, purple-haired pixie of a girl as his brother watched and laughed, on the condition that she kept her mining excursions short.
“I can only sit by doing nothing for so long, Lacey. If you don’t want me to swing a hammer, you’re going to have to be here to stop me.”
She’d fumed at that. “And what if you hurt yourself more?”
March had shrugged. “High pain tolerance?” She’d hit him. “Ow!”
“That’s what I thought.”
But she kept her mining days short, loading the shop with copper and the occasional drop of iron.
On Saturdays, for the first time since taking over, March closed the shop. He and Lacey would meet at Darcy’s stall, where he’d buy them hot chocolates. Lacey would complain, saying she could buy her own, and March would list whatever project she was funding at the time. First it was expanding the general store, then it was rebuilding another bridge. Then Hayden needed a new barn, and March convinced Lacey to upgrade her own. After all, he helped her take care of the animals, these days. Collecting eggs and filling feed troughs only took one good arm, and he hadn’t had to make any nails in weeks. It was the least he could do.
The subject of today’s argument was another cow.
“I need six thousand tesserae if I want to help renovate the inn, March. I can’t buy any more animals.”
“Or,” he countered, “you could buy the cow now and pay for the inn with what you make from selling milk.”
She grimaced at him. “I don’t know if I can grow enough to feed another cow.”
“Woman, I cleared you more than enough space.” He ruffled her hair affectionately. “C’mon, I'll even help you plant.”
“March, you’re already doing enough. You’re a blacksmith and I’m supposed to be the farmer.”
March was transported back to that first day in her barn, when the roles had been reversed and she’d been the one unable to do her work.
He only hesitated for a heartbeat before speaking. “Maybe farming is growing on me.” Lacey stared up at him and March felt himself blushing under her scrutiny. He held her gaze, though, hoping she understood the poorly hidden meaning behind the seemingly innocent words.
Lacey opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by a shout of her name. They both turned to see Adeline racing toward them, brown skin dark with exertion.
“Lacey, something’s happened. Balor was ambushed at the bridge.”
Lacey’s spine straightened. “Ambushed? Is he okay?”
Adeline nodded quickly. “He’s with Valen. He’s not hurt badly, but bandits stopped him. His cart was ransacked. I… I’m worried about the other vendors.”
Lacey was already moving, shoving her hot chocolate at March, who clumsily tried to keep it upright against his chest. “I have to get my sword, I’ll be right back. Keep everyone in the square!”
March’s heart pounded against his ribcage. “Adeline?” he asked.
“I don’t know, March.” She was flustered, clearly nervous. “Would… would you get Olric and Errol, please? And Hayden?”
March nodded, already moving toward Merri’s stall.
He met Ryis halfway, walking the other direction.
“March, hey! Where’s Lacey? I think a bird moved into our tree!”
“Have you seen Errol? And Hayden?” He could see his brother chatting to Eiland by Merri’s stall.
Ryis didn’t bat an eye at the lack of greeting, only turned to walk alongside his friend. “Errol bought a chair from Merri, he’s taking it home. I haven’t seen Hayden, but I know he’s expecting a new calf soon.” March swore under his breath. Ryis stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. “March,” he said calmly. “What’s going on?”
“Balor got ambushed by bandits at the bridge. Lacey’s going to deal with them.”
Ryis’s hand tightened around March’s shoulder. “She’s gonna be okay, March. She used to do this all the time.”
“I know,” March said, and he did. That didn’t stop anxiety from knotting his stomach, though. “Go get Errol, and check in with Hayden. Please,” he added. Ryis nodded, already spinning on his heel and running.
March jogged toward his brother, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Olric!” Olric turned with a smile, but grew serious at March’s expression.
“What’s going on, bro? Where’s Lacey?”
“There are bandits. Lacey went to deal with them. C’mon, we gotta go help her.”
Olric straightened up, following March as he stormed toward the shop. “I’ll go, March, but you can’t.”
“Like hell,” March growled.
“No, bro, you can’t. You can’t use a sword. What are you gonna do?”
“Intimidate them.”
Olric laughed. “Alright, fine. But you stay back, you hear me? Errol’s taking a chair home, but I’ll go get him and we’ll take care of this.”
They’d reached the shop, and March flung open the door. “Ryis already went for Errol.”
“Even better!” Olric pushed past him, pulling two swords from the display tables and holding one out to March, who hadn’t realized he was still holding the hot chocolates. He put them on the table, barely even considering the rings the cups might leave on the wood, and took the sword from Olric’s hands. “Y’know, March, you really should tell her how you feel.”
March stopped moving, stunned into inaction. “What?”
Olric didn’t stop, striding purposefully on. “I know you know I’m not stupid,” he said lightly. March shook himself and dashed to get through the shop door before it swung shut. “And I know that you’re not as grumpy as you like to pretend you are. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Wouldn’t notice?” March asked dumbly.
“You, fawning all over her!” Olric actually sounded exasperated, and March realized how lucky he was to have someone who loved him enough to put up with his mood swings and constant need to prove himself without complaint. “Just tell her how you feel, man.”
They were passing the bathhouse, almost in sight of the bridge into town. “You really think this is the best time to have this conversation?”
“Yes,” Olric said cheerfully.
March huffed a laugh. “She says we’re friends.”
“The way she looks at you says she wants to be more than friends, little bro.”
And somehow, hearing it from Olric, March could see it. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll tell her.”
“Awesome! She’s gonna–”
Olric cut himself off as the bridge came into view. Balor’s cart lay, tipped on its side, against the stone siding. Two men hoisted sacks from it onto their own cart, not even noticing Olric and March’s approach. Lacey was nowhere in sight.
One of the bandits looked up, laying eyes on March and Olric.
“Oi!” He shouted mockingly. “Can we help you?’
“You can put back what you stole.” Olric’s voice was cheery as ever, but March could hear the tightness in it.
“Now, now,” said the other man, straightening and stepping forward. “No need for anyone to get ‘urt.”
“No there’s not.” Lacey’s clear voice rang out and March’s body flooded with relief. “Now turn around, leave the shipments, and go.”
She strode forward without looking at him, or at Olric, and March’s breath caught in his chest. She looked regal and dauntless, in a polished gold breastplate. March knew she used a copper sword she’d forged herself when she went to the mines, but the sword she held now was shining gold that glinted in the sunlight. She held it loosely, as if it weighed nothing, but he knew his ore. It had to be more than twice as heavy as the flimsy sword she used to fight monsters.
The bandits eyed her warily. “Look, we ain’t looking for any trouble,” said the nervous looking man.
“And yet you’ve found it,” she said. Her voice was low and dangerous, smooth as ice before it splintered beneath your feet. March had insisted on coming along to intimidate the enemy, but that had been silly. Lacey was the most intimidating person he’d ever seen. It made his blood sing and his body hot, skin too tight.
“You,” growled the bolder of the two. His hand clenched around his sword hilt as he took a step forward. His companion shifted anxiously, eyes darting back and forth.
“Oh, I wouldn’t, Niles,” Lacey sang, low and vicious.
Niles sneered. “I would.” He charged, raising his sword high and bellowing. His companion followed, but it was clear he’d rather be anywhere else.
Everything happened very fast.
March lunged, trying to put himself between Lacey and the bandits. Olric thrust his arm out, barring his brother’s path and nearly knocking him down. And Lacey?
Lacey stepped into the assault, raising her blade with a calm, precise motion so powerful that it severed the man’s head clean from his shoulders.
March took in a hard breath. The man’s companion stumbled back, as though the blow had hit him instead, and fell to the ground. He thrust up a hand, as if to protect himself, but Lacey only stared down at him coldly.
“Who do you work for?” she asked. Her voice was flat and emotionless. March had never heard her sound like this. The man in the dirt sputtered and tried to speak, but couldn’t tear his eyes from his dead friend.
“Who do you work for!?” Lacey roared, advancing on him with her sword raised.
March almost wanted to intervene, almost, but a bolt came whistling out of the trees before any of them could move. It punched through Lacey’s breastplate, sending her flying backward. She went down with a grunt of pain.
March ducked under Olric’s arm, sprinting forward with his heart in his throat. Olric was shouting as several more men emerged from the trees on the far side of the bridge, but March couldn’t hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears. Someone was screaming Lacey’s name as she struggled to rise. Voices erupted in his ears the moment he saw that she was alive, and only then did he realize that the one screaming for her was him.
He got to her at the same time as a man who’d come running from across the bridge. Without allowing himself to stop and think, he raised his sword to block the man’s downward stroke. His sword was pushed down with the force of the blow, inches from Lacey’s torso as she struggled to pull herself back, and pain shot from his hands up through the still-healing break in his arm. He shoved forward, driving his shoulder into the larger man’s neck and swinging wildly around in an effort to put some space between them. He planted himself squarely in the man’s path, determined to protect Lacey as best as he could.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Olric had advanced toward the bridge, shoulder to shoulder with Errol, who held up a wooden shield. Suddenly Ryis was there, dragging Lacey to her feet. She staggered forward despite his protests, moving to step in front of March. He reached out to shove her behind him when a frantic voice called from the bridge.
“Stop! Stop fighting!”
Lacey let out a sobbing sound, and March’s head inadvertently turned to her. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“Lacey?” the voice asked, sounding half broken. March’s head whipped in its direction to lay eyes on a man with dark, amethyst hair and piercing blue eyes.
He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly who this was.
“Lance.” Lacey’s voice came out half choked. “Never did go straight, I see.”
Lance, at least, had the decency to look uncomfortable. “Sure didn’t.” His eyes flitted to the man still holding his sword out toward March. “Andrew, I said stop fighting!”
“She killed Niles.”
“Niles charged at me with his sword raised,” Lacey spat. All her calm coolness had evaporated at the sight of her brother. She was shaking in March’s grip.
“It’s t-true, L-lord,” the nervous man stuttered. He began to weep softly. “He shouldn't've done it.”
Lance turned his face, unwilling or unable to look at his sister. “He always did hate you.”
“Getting someone locked up tends to do that.”
No one said anything. Errol and Olric stood unmoving; Ryis shifted nervously; March clutched his sword as Andrew took cautious steps back.
“Lacey,” he said. He sounded hesitant, apologetic. “I didn’t know you’d landed here.”
“Oh, well that makes me feel better about you robbing people. If you didn’t know I was here–”
“Don’t be such a child, we’ve discussed this!”
“And you told me you were going to find real work and stop terrorizing traders!”
“Well there’s no money in honest work!”
“Who cares!?” Lacey’s voice broke. She made to step around March, but he refused to let go of her wrist. The bolt she’d been shot with still protruded from her waist, dripping blood onto the ground. Lance’s eyes seemed to lock on it. “We had nothing, and we were happy. What changed?”
Lance, still fixated on the growing puddle of blood, shook his head slowly. “I was never happy.”
Lacey spat, viciously, nearly wrenching herself from March’s grip. “I used to dream of being just like you when I got older. Was everything a lie?”
“Not everything.” Finally, he looked up. He looked so like his sister that March felt his stomach turn, unable to reconcile her selflessness with this man. “I’m sorry about mama.”
Finally, Lacey’s fury seemed to flag. She began to sag forward, and March dropped his sword in an effort to keep her upright. Lance watched her for another long minute before directing his attention to March.
“She’s special,” he began.
“We,” snapped March, “already know that.”
Lance nodded once, sharply, and turned. “Then you’d better take good care of her.”
“Get back here,” Lacey called weakly. “You coward. Fight me. This ends, here and now!”
Lance let out a humorless chuckle. “Yes,” he murmured. “It does. Don’t worry, you won’t see me again.” Then with a wave of his hand, his men began a hasty retreat.
“No,” Lacey whispered. She tried to pull herself up, but stumbled. March made the decision he’d been waffling over and swung her up into his arms. “March,” she pleaded.
“Leave the cart!” Lance called. Errol and Olric stepped aside to let Andrew and his nervous companion lift Niles’ body, carrying it across the bridge.
“March, let me go,” Lacey whimpered.
“Never.” She stared up at him with eyes brimming with tears as his cheeks flamed.
“Balor’s cart…”
“Olric and Errol and Ryis can get it.” And indeed, the three men were already loading cartons and chests, cautiously watching Lance’s retreat.
March set off toward town as Lacey’s blood dripped between his fingers. She twisted in his arms, trying to keep her eyes on her brother.
“March, someone’s got to stop him. He’s going to hurt someone.”
“Someone will stop him.”
“It should be me!”
“No, Lacey, you’re hurt. We have to get you to Valen.”
She tried to wriggle free. “Let me go, March!”
“I can’t!” he shouted. He took a deep breath in when her body froze its movements. “I can’t.”
He waited for her to say something to that, to yell and demand again that he let her go, or to question what the hell he meant by it. She didn’t. She simply slumped in his arms, sobbing into his chest as he quickened his steps back into town. He found himself clutching her closer as her crying died down, making way for gasping breaths.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, feeling rather stupid.
“Yes,” she wheezed. Her voice sounded dull, devoid of life. He began to jog, pausing only to send Hayden on to help the others when the big man found them.
“My cow–” he began.
“It’s fine, Hayden. Ryis is going to need your help.”
Hayden’s kind face nearly folded in on itself when he saw the state Lacey was in. “Is she–?”
“I’ve got her.”
She seemed on the border of consciousness by the time March walked up Valen’s steps and shouldered through the door, depositing Lacey on one of the beds while he shouted for the doctor. As he pulled back, Lacey clutched at his arms.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, glassy-eyed with pain.
March dropped to his knees at the bedside, clutching her hands in his. “Never.”
“Then you can help me get this armor off her.” Valen was clinical and quick, dragging Lacey into a sitting position. “Hold her up.”
March leapt to his feet, wrapping his arms around Lacey to keep her upright as Valen examined the shaft still embedded in the metal. Valen stepped away, returning with what looked like a great pair of scissors.
“Hold her still,” she said. March clambered onto the bed, sliding to sit behind Lacey and bracketing her with his legs. He nodded at Valen, who used the scissors to cut the bolt at the surface of the breastplate. Then she grasped the edge of the armor from around Lacey’s hips and began to push it up. March was forced to hold Lacey up by her arms while Valen worked the metal free.
Lacey, who had been nearly silent to this point, moaned in pain. March tightened his hold on her. “You’re doing good, you’re okay. Everything is okay.“
Valen glared at him, but she was able to lift the heavy plate over Lacey’s head. She pulled out a smaller pair of scissors and, to March’s astonishment, sliced through Lacey‘s shirt in one clean cut. Despite the arguably dire circumstances, March found that he had to look away.
Valen examined the wound before looking up to meet March’s gaze.
“How are you with blood?” she asked.
March swallowed. “I’m alright.”
“Good.” Valen turned her attention to Lacey as she poured a vial into a handkerchief. “I would like for you to take a nap.”
“Whatever you say, doc,” Lacey said weakly. All the color had drained from her face with the effort of removing her armor.
Valen shoved the handkerchief into March’s hand. “Keep that over her mouth and nose.”
March looked down, relieved when Lacey seemed to relax back against him. “Ready for that nap?” he asked. Lacey only nodded, eyes already shut. He raised the handkerchief to cover her mouth and nose as instructed, only for her to look up. She watched him intently until her lids began to droop. Valen had washed her hands again and stood, watching, as Lacey slipped into unconsciousness.
“What is this?” March asked. He’d never seen Lacey so still. He hated it.
“A little mixture I concocted to simulate sleep. They use something similar in the Capital, but it requires an injection. I prefer a less invasive method.”
March swallowed, mouth dry, as he stared. Lacey’s lashes were long enough to brush her cheeks, but he could still see dark circles beneath them. He noticed, for the first time, a thin scar that ran along her temple and down the side of her neck. He followed it until he realized his attention was dangerously close to her mostly-bare torso. He snapped his gaze up.
That was a mistake, because Valen was making an incision alongside the wound.
March tried and failed to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. “What are you doing?” he managed.
Valen didn’t spare him a glance. “If I pull the bolt straight out, it’ll tear through the flesh.”
It wasn’t a direct answer, not exactly, but March understood. He watched, transfixed by awe and horror, as Valen smoothly removed the bolt. Her capable hands made quick work of cleaning the wound and stitching it back together.
“You can remove the cloth.”
March looked down, studying Lacey’s face for any trace of pain before lifting his hand. He saw nothing, and her mouth was parted slightly when the handkerchief no longer covered it. He reached up, tracing a finger along her cupid’s bow. He couldn’t pry his eyes away from that tiny expanse of smooth skin.
“March.”
His head snapped up. “What?” He got the feeling Valen had been trying to get his attention for some time. She stood by the bedside, holding her hands out to take Lacey’s weight. He moved her forward as carefully as he could, sliding out from behind her. His knee was numb from staying locked in position, nearly buckling under his weight as he planted his feet.
Valen laid Lacey back, reaching around her to prop the pillows under her head. She unstoppered the vial she’d used, pouring more into another handkerchief that she lay across Lacey’s face.
“Go home, March. I’ll stay with her.”
March shook his head, even though Valen’s back was turned. “I told her I’d stay.”
“You’re filthy.” He looked down at himself then, the blood soaking his blue sweater and the scuffs on his leather boots. “I know for a fact you haven’t eaten anything today.” He thought of his hot chocolate, abandoned on the shop counter. Valen rested a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, March. Have a bath, have something to eat. You should try to get some sleep, but if you’re serious about being here, you can sleep in the other bed.” March nodded, unable to speak. Valen squeezed his shoulder. “I won’t leave her.”
Somehow, he got back to the shop, stripping out of his blood-soaked clothes before cramming himself into the tiny shower in their bathroom. He watched as pink water flooded the drain, staring down until it ran clear. He scrubbed himself raw, then simply stood under the spray until it ran cold. Mechanically, he changed into fresh clothes before walking to the inn.
He’d barely settled on a stool before Hemlock planted a pint on the countertop before him, followed by a steaming bowl of soup. March murmured his thanks, grateful when Hemlock withdrew to the kitchen rather than asking questions.
Questions were for Josephine, and she started in the moment she saw him at the bar.
“How’s our girl?”
“She killed someone, Jo.” He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t even really processed the words in his mind before they spilled out of his mouth, but now they had. And it was as if they’d opened a floodgate. He began to shake so badly that he had to lay down his spoon, lest it vibrate against the bowl.
“Olric said that man probably would have killed her.”
March squeezed his eyes shut, unwilling to consider that possibility. “He would have.”
“Then be grateful that he didn’t, and don’t worry about the rest.”
It was just like Josephine to have perfect and practical life advice, but it still stunned March into opening his eyes. “Don’t worry about the rest?” he asked incredulously. “Jo, she killed a man.”
Josephine leaned over the bar to clasp his hands in hers. March was reminded of how she’d watched him as a child, mothering him only when she could sense he truly needed it. “Do you know why you should never meet your heroes, dear?”
“Why?”
“Because they’re only human.” Only Josephine’s grip on his hands kept him upright. “Capital life is different, sweetheart. We’re very lucky here. Mistria is a haven, and I’m grateful that you’ve never had to see violence and corruption. But you have to realize that Lacey has seen the way the rest of the world is. I think she’s shown us that we can trust her. If she thought that man was a threat, well, that’s good enough for me.
March sat with that for a long time. Josephine stayed, keeping hold of one of his hands, but raised the other to stroke it through his damp hair so tenderly that he wanted to crawl into her lap like he had when he was a child.
“She’s hurt bad, Jo,” he finally managed. The words felt dragged out of him. After fighting it for hours, he couldn’t run from the fear any longer. He could lose her, here and now, and she could be gone without ever leaving.
“She’s a strong girl, March.” She finally let go of his hand, laying her palms flat against his cheeks. She shook his head lightly, lowering her head to look him straight in the eye. “She’ll be just fine.” March nodded, swallowing hard. He’d been drawn here for a reason. Josephine always knew just what to say, and just how to say it to him.
“Thanks, Jo.”
“Of course, m’boy.” She patted his cheeks. “Are you going back to the clinic?”
“I should go feed her animals.”
“No need,” piped Hemlock. He’d materialized behind March, and laid a hearty slap across his shoulders. “Hayden came by and said he’d take them back to his place. Said he’d water the crops until she’s feeling better, too.”
March sighed in relief. “Then I guess I’m going back to the clinic.”
“Take this with you, dear.” Josephine laid a steaming container on the countertop. “Some soup for Valen. And you let her know she can come get me if she needs anything at all.”
March slept fitfully, tossing and turning in the narrow clinic bed. Each time Lacey shifted, he’d snap awake to watch her, too anxious to do more than doze.
She cried in her sleep.
She called for her brother, murmured about their mother.
She said his name.
He’d asked Valen about her miracle tonic earlier in the night, only to receive a sad smile.
“Lacey’s helping me work on it, ironically. But… it’s all gone. Until we can crack the recipe, that is.”
Not that Valen needed the Panacea. She’d always been a phenomenal doctor.
The quiet left March too much time to think, to worry. What if Lacey didn’t wake up? That was ridiculous, he knew it was. What if she was angry at him for taking her away from her brother? Just as ridiculous, he was certain.
What wasn’t ridiculous, he knew, was thinking that she’d confront him over his outright refusal to leave her. “I can’t,” he’d said. That, she’d want to know about. And what was he supposed to tell her? I’ve been picking fights with you because I never actually grew up and learned how to have a crush? I didn’t know how to handle the way you made me feel so I pushed you away instead? I know I’ve been an asshole but I think it’s because I’m in love with you and I couldn’t figure that out?
Yeah, no.
He’d just have to come up with something believable. Maybe he could yell at her. He hadn’t for awhile, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen. He tossed and turned, going over reasonable things to yell about.
That was reckless. You could have been hurt. Where would I get my ore? Who would take care of your animals? It all seemed quite unimportant.
“March?”
He nearly fell in his mad scramble to get up and across the space to Lacey’s bed.
“Lacey? Oh thank goodness, I was so worried.” So much for yelling.
She laughed weakly, then coughed. He could just make out her grimace in the dark.
“You’re still here.”
“I told you I couldn’t leave you.” Damnit. Two sentences in and he’d blown them both. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, reaching for whatever anger he could muster to mask the concern in his voice.
He didn’t expect Lacey to fight him, not really, and she didn’t. She only sighed, shifting with a wince. He reached around her, helping to prop her up.
“I’ll go get Valen.”
“No.” Her hand shot out to wrap around his wrist. “No, just… stay here. With me.”
“Lacey…”
“Please.” And so he sat. On the edge of the bed, because Lacey’s cold fingers still ringed his wrist.
“You’re freezing cold,” he said, unintentionally echoing her words to him from months earlier.
She clearly recognized the same thing, because she huffed out a laugh. “Not quite freezing.” March pried her fingers apart, tucking them between his palms to rub them together. Lacey murmured thanks, eyes sliding shut. “That feels nice.”
He ran with that, turning her hands until he could knead his thumbs into her palms. She let out a soft noise of contentment that went straight to his head, so he slid his hands further up to massage her wrists. He wondered if it felt as good to her as he imagined it would to him. Working the forge was taxing. His hands ached often, and his back felt sore more days than not. He figured all of the farming and mining she did felt the same, not to mention the sword she’d carried earlier.
“March.”
“Hm?”
“Someone’s got to stop him.”
“Someone will.”
“March.”
“He’s not your responsibility, Lacey.”
“He’s my brother.”
“Yeah, your brother. Not you.” He leaned over to bat a stray lock of hair back from her cheek. “Besides, Adeline’s going to send a letter to the Capital.”
Lacey’s cheeks had flushed slightly beneath his touch. “She is?”
He nodded. “I… I did leave, for a little bit. Valen wanted me to go home,” he said. He still felt guilty, but Lacey only nodded back. “Everyone sends their best wishes. And Adeline had Balor take a note straight to her father in the Capital.”
“March, I…” She fiddled with his fingers. “I have to stop him. I know you don’t think he’s my responsibility, but–”
“You can’t leave.” His voice came out far more desperate, far more pleading than he’d intended it to. Lacey’s blue eyes flew up to his. Two for two, might as well hit the home run. “You can’t just come here and change everything and make me care about you and then just leave. You promised you were going to stay.”
Lacey opened her mouth to answer, but March cut her off. “And I don’t want to be your best friend.” Her mouth snapped shut. Even in the dark room, he could see tears spring into her eyes. “I've been wanting to tell you since the Shooting Star Festival… that I'm sorry. The truth is I-I…” He took a deep breath. “I want to be with you, Lacey.”
“You…” she said on a breath. Then, against all odds, she laughed. “You want to be with me?”
He summoned the courage to wipe the tears from under her lids with his thumbs. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“I mean… I thought you were still just. Tolerating me, I guess?”
He huffed a laugh. “I… you scare me. You scare the hell out of me. And I thought I could keep you at arm’s length so you couldn’t, but you just… you got under my skin.”
“It’s warm there,” she murmured, and March barked a laugh.
He smothered it quickly, both of them watching the staircase. When Valen didn’t appear, he turned his attention back to her. Any hope of her returned affections seemed distant, but he chose to bury that for the moment. Or for forever.
He thought of her wound, instead. “Does it hurt?” Asking again felt just as stupid as it had the first time.
She shrugged. “Only a little.”
“Let me go get Valen,” March said, but he didn’t move.
Lacey shook her head. “Would you just… would you stay with me?” she whispered.
And so, with great care and a drumming heart, he crawled up the bed, carefully laying to face her with one hand propping up his head. Lacey turned onto her side with a wince and clutched at the front of his sweater. He had forgone an undershirt in his daze, and so could feel her nails through the fabric. He did his best to suppress a shudder, but Lacey’s sharp eyes caught his.
He felt drawn in, sucked down to the marrow by that penetrating stare, as if she was cutting through everything he pretended to be to flay his real self wide open. His heart kicked up again in his chest, even though he was almost certain that she felt nothing for him. Even though they were just laying, watching each other. Any hopes that she wouldn’t notice were squashed when she flattened a palm over the offending organ.
He glanced down at her lips, which was a mistake, because he couldn’t tear his eyes away again. She bit her lip as he watched, rolling it between her teeth, before curling her fingers against his chest.
“It’s been… a long day,” she said shakily. “A lot has happened. I need… I need a little time.”
March blinked. His traitorous heart paused its drumming before kicking up even more frantically. “O-of course,” he said. “Take as much time as you need.”
She smiled, lips curling up at the corners to reveal dimples, and he still couldn’t tear his gaze away. In his peripheral vision, he could tell she’d closed her eyes, less from seeing it and more from the absence of the sea-deep blue.
She tugged on his sweater, pulling him closer, and he held his breath. “You’re so tense,” she whispered.
“Because I really want to kiss you,” he blurted. And, since he was apparently being honest, “And because I could have lost you today. And that scared me. A lot.” She opened her eyes and he finally looked up, only to drown. When she’d pulled him closer, the arm not propping his head up had fallen awkwardly between them. He wrapped it around her waist tentatively, not daring to be as bold as her and pull her closer. She did that for him, nuzzling under his chin so that her lips brushed his throat and her breath raised goosebumps across his skin.
“I think I’d like for you to kiss me,” she murmured.
He choked on nothing, whole body going taut at the admission.
“But not tonight,” she amended, sounding almost apologetic. “I just… I need–”
“Time.” His voice sounded strangled. “You have time.”
“You’re not gonna push me away again? Run away from me?”
He scoffed, but it was strained. “I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?”
She hummed, and the vibration against his pulse sent bolts of electric desire shooting through his veins until his whole body was alive with it.
“Maybe,” she said sleepily. “Maybe not. Never can tell with you.”
He tightened his hold, just a bit. “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
He said nothing to that, waiting until her breaths evened out before forcing himself to relax. He tried to breathe deeply, tried to let himself drift away, but he couldn’t. Not here, not with her in his arms, not knowing that this could be the only time he ever got this. Not with her lips pressed to the underside of his jaw, right against nerves he hadn’t known existed. Not with her hands pressed to his chest, small but strong, keeping him close to her. Not with her body pressed to his in all the right places. He curled around her instinctively, a protective shell with a precious inhabitant. He focused his breaths, trying to memorize the unique scent of metal and dirt and dried apples that clung to her, just in case he never got to be this close again.
Valen found them like that, Lacey clinging to his shirtfront and his arms holding her tucked to his chest, and he couldn’t bring himself to move even then. He waited for her to tease him, to poke and prod, but she didn’t. Only smiled and stepped out into bright sunlight while he stared at the ceiling, torn between hope and crushing closure.
Crushing closure was certainly winning by the end of the week. Lacey had been trapped at Valen’s, unnecessarily, through her eyes, for two more days. She’d sent March home, and so he’d gone. He lay awake those nights, unable to sleep for the hollow space between his arms, and it showed in his work. He broke nails and had to shape and reshape copper tools, had to melt down a breastplate he’d hammered too thin and altogether scrap a helmet he’d scuffed beyond repair.
Olric attributed it to his long break, the first he’d ever taken, and March didn’t bother to correct him. He just took extra care with the gold he melted down to repair Lacey’s punctured breastplate.
Lacey wasn’t in the mines, on Valen’s orders, so he saw her only in the evenings at the inn. He watched as she handed off crops and animal produce, butter and mayonnaise she’d made at the mill, and bugs she’d caught for Luc. He listened as she reassured everyone who worried over her that she was fine, and no, she wasn’t working too hard, and yes, she was taking it easy. Still busy though, even with the light work.
And too busy for him.
He’d scared her off by admitting his feelings for her, and this was exactly why he hadn’t done it before. He’d already known she didn’t feel the same way. Best friends, she’d said.
Despite his best efforts, she’d turned his world inside out. Now, he’d have to carefully cleave it back together while she hovered along the tattered edges, forever just out of reach. The worst part was that she’d been so close that he could taste it, a life by her side. Tending her animals with her, clearing up that disastrous farmyard; her by his side at the forge; watching the stars and drinking hot chocolate for the rest of their lives.
The bitterness on his tongue was tangible, and he couldn’t blame it on Hemlock’s newest beer, no matter how hoppy.
She’d practically asked him not to pull away from her, and now he was the fool waiting for a scrap of her attention, sat watching while she gushed and giggled with every person in the room but him–watching as she flitted from Elsie’s Dragons and Drama campaign to the group discussing the creepy clown painting Balor had found, and then up to the balcony to play charades with the kids.
He tried to be angry. Tried, but couldn’t. He only felt tired.
So he downed the rest of his beer, leaving his dessert untouched, and pushed away from the bar. Josephine gave him a sharp, concerned look, but he waved her off as he turned. Eiland would eat his dessert, and Olric would pay his tab. If he didn’t, well, March would come back to settle up tomorrow. He shouldered through the door, head down to avoid staring at Lacey, and turned into the chill wind to trudge home.
Winter was nearly over, but a fresh snow fell anyway, dissolving into his uncovered hair. He barely felt the cold through the numbness, but the tiny flakes left wet patches on his skin. It seemed that even the weather mocked him for pushing Lacey away, painting tears when he shed none.
The walk was short, and the fire in the hearth still smoldered. He stoked it, knowing Olric would appreciate the gesture when he returned, and kicked off his boots, too drained to bother putting them in their rightful place by his door. He stripped out of his apron and sweater, tossing them into a heap by his chest, before crawling into bed face first. He was too exhausted after a sleepless week to bother with his pants, but he ripped his bandana off and tossed it in the general direction of his desk. He’d deal with it in the morning.
He’d almost fallen asleep, caught in that floating, soft feeling, when his door clicked open.
“What do you want, Olric?“ he muttered into his pillow.
“Oh, March.”
He shot up, twisting to sit staring in disbelief. “H-hey, Lacey…”
She stood pressed against his door, hands behind her back, and he was fairly certain she was blushing. “I-I can come back—”
“No!” He ran a self-conscious hand down his bare chest before deciding there was nothing for it. He dropped the hand to his lap. “What are you doing here?“
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you all week and I just…” She trailed off, seemingly fixed on his naked torso, and March resisted the urge to flex. He was torn between pride and a rare show of modesty. Working the forge kept him in great shape, and Olric was always pestering him to go on walks and runs. He knew he looked good, but had never been one to flaunt it like his brother.
The hungry look in Lacey‘s eye was more than enough to tip the scales, though. He made a mental note to spend some time at the beach this summer, preferably when she was around.
He realized that they were staring at each other and drew on the rush of adrenaline she’d given him to find something snarky to say. “You’ve been busy.” Well, maybe not all that snarky.
Lacey sighed, dropping her face into her hands. “I know, and I know how that must look, and I’m—”
“Look…?“ March held his breath, barely daring to hope.
Lacey peeked at him from between splayed fingers. “You didn’t think I was ignoring you?“
March laughed, shocked for no discernible reason. After all, it was pretty clear by now that she knew him. “Yeah. Yeah, I did think that.”
Lacey groaned, dipping her head back into her hands. March swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Lacey,” he said.
“What?” she muttered.
“What did you come to say?” She dropped her hands from her face in favor of picking at her nails, but she wouldn’t look at him. His heart sank into his stomach. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “Just say it,” he snapped. She looked up at him, confused. “Just say you don’t want to be more than friends so we can both move on with our lives.”
“That’s all it would take?” And somehow, she sounded hurt. He wanted to say yes, wanted to start building walls again right away; wanted to get her away from him, back where she belonged–and he couldn’t even begin to unpack the way he knew she belonged with him–so that he could fake his disinterest until it became so routine that he didn’t have to think about it any more.
He couldn’t bring himself to lie, so he stayed silent.
“March,” she whispered. There was a soft shuffle of socks on his floor, and then she was reaching out to touch him and his eyes were sliding shut because he couldn’t bear to watch as she handed him back his hard, cracked open heart in her gentle hands. “I don’t want to be your best friend either.”
He did look up, then, and watched as she chewed on her lip. He expected more words, but they didn’t come. “You don’t?” His mouth felt dry, full of cotton just like his ears and the rest of his head.
“No, I… I want to be with you, too.”
He blinked at her.
She blinked back.
He scrubbed his hands down his face and blinked some more.
She chewed her lip again, dropping her eyes to where her hand rested against his elbow.
“What?” he asked.
She cleared her throat, spoke slowly. “I want to be with you, too.”
“Why?” he blurted. “I-I’m grumpy and I work too much, and… and I’m mean, Lacey. I don’t know how to be sweet, and you’re so sweet. To me, even though I don’t deserve it. To everyone.”
She hummed, raising her hand tentatively to his jaw. “Sounds like I’m sweet enough for the both of us. And you’re not mean.” He gave her an unimpressed look and she giggled. “Well, not anymore. Much, at least. Look, I’ve noticed the effort, okay?” She stroked his cheek with light fingertips. He felt every hair on his body raise to meet her touch. His head spun with the turn of events.
“You’re crazy,” he breathed.
“Crazy about you,” she quipped, taking a tiny step forward. He snorted, but raised his hands to her waist. He tugged her forward hard enough that she stumbled, catching herself with hands that trembled on his shoulders. “So,” she whispered, and her voice shook. “How about that kiss?”
He was looking up at her like this, and he thought that was fitting. He reached up to thread his fingers through her hair, wrapping them around her jaw and her neck. “I thought,” he pulled her down until their noses touched, “you’d never ask.”
He leaned up, tilting his head to press a soft kiss to her mouth. Lacey sucked in a deep breath through her nose, freezing for a moment before kissing him softly back.
March wanted to drag her down and devour her, kiss her until her mind was full of him and her lips were bruised. He made himself go slowly, angling her head with a gentle press of his fingertips so he could kiss her again. She was quicker to respond this time, sliding her lips over his before kissing the corner of his mouth. He chased her, nipped at her bottom lip, and shuddered at the soft sound she made. Her fingertips dug into his shoulders. She used that to pull herself closer, forcing him to tilt his head back to keep them connected.
Then her tongue darted out, prodding the seam of his mouth, and the control he hadn’t realized he’d been clinging to snapped with the force of an avalanche. He reached around her, hauling her into his lap and falling back, taking her with him as he went. She squealed in surprise, but he rolled them so that he lay over her and swallowed the sound with a frantic kiss. He licked at her mouth like a rabid dog, desperate to taste her. He hitched her leg up over his hip, letting his weight pin her to the mattress as he settled between her legs.
Her hands slid up his neck, into his hair, and the scratching of her nails against his scalp was almost enough to undo him completely. He kissed her hard, sliding his tongue between her lips and tilting her head with his own. Somehow, she got a hand between them, stroking down his arm and side and up his chest to his neck. The feeling of her hands on his bare skin was nearly enough to drive him over the edge, so he pulled back as much as he could bear. He lifted his body slightly, until only the ghost of her touch remained, and dragged his mouth from hers to leave open-mouthed kisses along her throat.
She gasped, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut against the sound. He had to do something with his mouth before he said something he couldn’t take back. He traced a line down her throat, found himself nuzzling her collarbone in the dip of her shoulder. He bit down gently, sucking as he did.
“March,” Lacey moaned, and he squeezed his eyes shut again to ward off the wave of molten heat that crashed through him at hearing his name like that.
She tried to use her grip on his shoulders and the leg over his hip to lift herself, to press against him, and the arm that was holding him up shook violently.
“Lacey, stop,” he breathed. He almost whined when she froze, body half pressed to his. His hips moved of their own volition, driving her down and making them both gasp at the friction. “If you… we’ve got to stop i-if you–”
“What if I don’t want to stop?” March could swear he blacked out in that moment.
“You don’t want to take this slow?” She ground her hips against his and he did whine. “Slow-er?” His voice shook, and he should hate it, but he didn’t. He loved it, loved that she was the only one who could make him like this. Loved her.
“Do you?” Her voice shook just as badly, and he could practically feel the way his ego puffed up at the sound.
“Not even a little,” he whispered.
She raised her other knee until they bracketed his hips, using unexpected strength to roll until she sat on top of him. March wondered idly if he’d ever been more turned on in his life. She lifted her shirt, tossing it over one shoulder, and his hands went to her waist as though drawn by magnets.
She leaned down until their faces were hidden from the room by a curtain of violet and threaded her fingers through his hair. He groaned at the sensation, and shuddered when her lips touched his earlobe. “Then don’t.”
He was grateful to only be wearing pants, shucking them off while Lacey wiggled off him to get out of her own. He rolled back over her, taking in a sharp breath when their skin touched.
“You sure, Lace?”
She nodded quickly, nearly knocking their heads together in her eagerness. “I’m sure.”
And so he sank into her, swallowing her gasps before being reminded of why he should never, ever be allowed to speak.
“Gods, Lacey,” he groaned against her lips. “I am so,” a kiss, “so,” another, “crazy in love with you.”
He was so gone that he didn’t even realize what he’d said until she laughed, actually laughed between shaky breaths. He stopped moving, dropping his head to her shoulder, cheeks burning.
“Damnit,” he sighed. “I’m sor—” She pulled his head up and kissed him before he could say anything else, drawing a moan from him as she ran her tongue between his lips.
“Don’t you dare apologize, March. Just move.”
And move he did. Slowly at first, to work her up as much as she did him, until she was writhing and panting beneath him, and then fast to chase her over the edge, with their fingers locked together over her head and her name on his lips.
When Lacey peeled her eyes open, she was momentarily stunned. She was looking at a door that wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but wasn’t hers, either. Something heavy pinned her to the bed, and there was a warm body behind her. Naked. She was naked. She nearly sat up in alarm before the previous night came flooding back in startling clarity.
“I am so, so crazy in love with you.”
Even without March’s burning eyes on her, she felt molten. Her heart sped, and she worried that it might wake him up. She tried to turn over, but his iron grip only tightened around her, pulling her back against firm muscle and hot skin.
She sighed, half in resignation and half in a daydream. She’d been so worried that he’d have changed his mind, so worried that she’d taken too long to tell him how she felt. She’d come looking for him every day that week, and every day had been thwarted. Cornering him in his bedroom had not been the plan, but the resulting night had more than made up for the build-up of anxiety.
She thought of the way he’d looked up at her before kissing her, a supplicant at a shrine. Thought of the gentle way he’d touched her, careful not to push too far, before careful and gentle went straight out the window in the face of ravenous, all-consuming want.
She’d expected him to need time, expected to have to work up to anything more than fleeting touches and chaste kisses. Pride and guilt welled up in equal measure as she considered how badly he must have been wanting her to break like he did.
Desire pooled as she felt the press of his body against her back; the corded muscles of his arms against her abdomen, keeping their hips pressed firmly together. Her mouth watered at the feeling of him between her thighs, hard and heavy, skin hot enough to burn.
Acting on a rush of reckless desire, she pushed her hips back and squeezed her thighs together. March moaned softly, lowering a hand to her belly to hold her in place.
“Someone didn’t get enough last night.“ His usually low voice was practically gutteral, clogged with morning gravel and lust. His hand trailed lower, slowly, lightly, eliciting a gasp.
“Was it you?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he groaned.
“I had to wake you up.” She shifted around some more, only stopping at his sharp intake of breath as he notched against her. “I needed to tell you something.”
“Hell of a way to wake up,” he breathed, pushing his hips forward. For a long moment, neither of them spoke, too caught up in the feeling of fullness, of togetherness, to shatter the silence. Finally, Lacey rolled her hips. March let out a pained sound, squeezing at her waist to try to slow her movements. “Slow down, slow down,” he whimpered.
“Why?” she whispered over her shoulder.
“I want this to last.” He buried his head in the crook of her neck, breathing uneven. “What did you need to tell me?”
She threaded their fingers together, pulling them around herself. “I,” she rolled her hips, “love,” she pulled away, “you.” She arched her back, moving down again.
March choked against her shoulder, whole body spasming with the confession. His hands slid down, body finally surrendering to the animal instinct to move. “Is that all?” he panted, but the sarcasm was lost in the frantic way they moved together.
“That’s all,” Lacey groaned. March’s hands were all over her, fingers squeezing and stroking and clutching as they both raced for the same prize. “March, I-I’m–”
“I know,” he groaned. “I know. Gods, I love you. I love you so much.”
“I love you,” Lacey moaned, and then she was falling apart all over again.
The knock at Lacey’s door startled her awake. March groaned, but she swatted his arm until he let her go.
“‘S too early,” he groused. “Tell whoever it is to go away.”
She glanced at the clock hung beside the fireplace. “It’s almost ten, March.” He rolled over, grumbling into the pillow.
Lacey smiled, smoothing down her hair and pulling on March’s discarded t-shirt along with her underwear before padding to the door. She half hid behind it until Adeline smiled at her.
“Hey, Addy,” Lacey greeted. The other girl was smiling, but it looked strained. Lacey stepped out from behind the door. “What’s the matter?”
Adeline’s gaze darted to the back corner of the room, where March and the bed were hidden behind a screen Lacey had bought from Merri. In fact, she’d bought several pieces from Merri recently, and at March’s insistence–a beautiful oak coffee table with a matching dresser, a thick rug, and a dining set she and Ryis had built and had Merri paint–and all of them blocked Adeline’s view. Which wasn’t to say she didn’t already know whose shirt Lacey was wearing. She and March had agreed to keep their new relationship as quiet as possible for as long as possible, but the townsfolk weren’t stupid and the two of them weren’t particularly subtle.
Lacey was half lost in a memory of the most recent Friday Night at the Inn, drinking at the bar with March under Hemlock’s watchful eye rather than playing Dragons and Drama or cards, and shivering in delight when he kept drunkenly pulling her stool closer to his.
“March, you’re going to get us caught,” she said when he tried to kiss her. “Everyone will see.”
“Let ‘em see,” he slurred, smiling dopily. “I love you.”
She blinked back to the present when Adeline cleared her throat nervously. “C’mon, Addy. Out with it.” Her friend’s hesitance was making her nervous. “What’s the matter?”
“Well,” Adeline began. “Nothing, I think. In fact, I think I’m bringing good news.” Lacey finally looked down, tracing the way Adeline’s fingers spun an envelope anxiously before holding it out to her. She stared at it. “It’s from the Capital,” Adeline said softly. Lacey’s stomach lurched.
“The Capital?” There was a shuffling sound behind her, and then March reached over her shoulder to take the envelope from Adeline’s hands. He wrapped one arm around her waist, offering her the envelope with the other. She shook her head. “Would you… would you open it for me?”
“Alright.” With quick, precise movements, he slid a finger beneath the seal and tore it open. He pulled out a cream-colored document, scanning the missive before meeting Lacey’s gaze. “Your brother’s left Aldaria,” he said simply.
Lacey’s breath caught in her throat.
“My father, Baron Wiscar–” Adeline cut herself off abruptly. “I asked him to look into this personally. As a favor.” Lacey nodded numbly. Adeline reached out a hand to squeeze Lacey’s arm. “They followed your brother to the edge of the kingdom, but it appears he’s sought refuge in the Caldosian Empire. He’s joined their Adventurer’s Guild. And… by all accounts, he’s been doing good work.”
Lacey nodded. “Okay,” she said. Adeline watched her, waiting for more, and then looked up at March.
“Thanks, Adeline,” he said. She nodded at him, squeezing Lacey’s arm again and offering a smile before turning to go.
“Thank you, Addy,” Lacey said.
Adeline beamed over her shoulder. “It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for us. You’re family, Lacey.”
March shut the door as she descended the steps, turning to face Lacey. She focused on the flex of his biceps as he crossed his arms; the cords of muscles in his forearms and his strong, wide palms; the broad expanse of his bare chest and the swell of his pecs and the lean line of his waist.
He put a stop to that by clasping her shoulders lightly. “Lace?”
“He’s gone,” she said mechanically.
“And he joined an Adventurer’s Guild.” He watched her, sharp and guarded. “How do you feel?”
She took in a deep breath, trying to catalogue that for herself. She found herself looking up into his black eyes, thinking of how far he’d come in such a short time. Where before he might have suppressed every feeling no matter the cost, now, he made great efforts to be open with her, to let her in and, more than that, to invite her. She felt tears of gratitude welling up before she could tamp them down. March looked alarmed.
“I feel relieved,” she blurted out. He only watched her, never pushing her to speak if she wasn’t ready. “I feel relieved,” she repeated. She reached up to wipe the tears away, but March’s thumbs were already there, tenderly stroking the skin beneath her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around his waist.
March grunted, then chuckled. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he murmured. He kissed the crown of her head, stroked her back, and rocked her from side to side. They stayed like that for what felt like hours, and then he pulled her away by her arms. “Let’s get some food in you.” He watched her carefully, only relaxing when she smiled up at him. Then, he winked. “You’re gonna need the energy.”
Lacey gasped, swatting at his arm as he darted out of reach. Her heart swelled as she watched him collect ingredients, meticulously measuring each item before combining them in a pan on the stove.
That man learned to cook for you, she thought to herself.
“Sounds to me like your brother might be trying to be a little more like you.” He sounded pleased, maybe even a little proud. “Think he could turn things around?”
She chewed on her lip. “I don’t know.” She scuffed the wood floor with her socked foot. “Maybe.”
“Well,” March hummed, voice warm. “He’s got the best role model. I have high hopes.”
Lacey’s heart swelled, watching him move around the space he’d helped to decorate and fill. “Hey,” she called. He turned, raising a dark brow until it disappeared beneath his fiery hair. “I love you.”
His lips spread wide in a happy smile, lines crinkling at the corners of his eyes, and Lacey’s heart skipped just like it always did. “I love you, too.”
"are you out here because you thought i wouldn't find you?" he asks, amused
"what? you haven't found me before. the library is a public space. you're as likely to find someone in there as you are a book."
warnings: mentions of alcohol and drinking, college parties, slight angst, absurdly long (28k words), gojo satoru
a/n: so... tumblr said this was too long. i'm splitting it into two parts, which i will post at the same time :) (here's the ao3 link for anyone who wants it)
*
the library is typically a safe space.
or, at least, safe enough.
it's always crowded--even three months into the school year when most students have given up on formally studying and, you know, showing up to class. there's more parking spots, fewer flooded bathroom stalls, and a million wary faculty members, crossing off each day that brings everyone closer to summer break.
but crowds aren't really the issue. at least in the library, people attempt to get work done. there's the occasional group of close-to-drop-out-inconsiderate-assholes that linger in the back, yelling at each other and playing music too loud like they've forgotten that some person stowed a speaker in the pocket of their backpack. like that speaker has somehow eluded them, and even if--even if--someone were to ask them to turn the music down, wait, what music are you even talking about?
there are the students who've forgotten to bring extra deodorant, those who mutter under their breath incessantly. the ones who drop things entirely too loudly, and the ones who loiter for hours on end, taking up the last available computer while playing candy crush on their phone.
but it's still safe. if people are all that you have to deal with, you'll be okay. probably.
there are obvious countermeasures, even. you have noise-canceling earbuds with you at all times, several different chargers that cover any possible battery shortages you might run into, snacks in case you get bored, a water bottle, and even mints--because god forbid you buy a black tea and the last overpriced sleeve of crackers from the vending machine that leave your breath smelling like stale melancholy for the rest of the day.
you're prepared for any scenario in the library. your backpack is doomsday-level, your studying is meticulous, and you've only resorted to spending time in the library because it's cold outside and the concrete buildings aren't exactly conducive to cellular service. it's a last resort--if it felt worth it to trek home for the hour and a half between classes, you'd be doing that.
but instead, you're here. trying to pretend like the textbook in front of you is actually interesting, instead of just deadening and possibly detrimental to the last couple of brain cells you've reserved for just this.
and the library is safe because you know what's inside. even if it takes five extra minutes of walking around to find somewhere to sit--even if you have to battle the other people by the door for a spot next to an outlet--you're willing and ready. you just have to pretend like you don't really care, and then it all works out.
what you can't prepare yourself for, though, is the bright blue eyes that meet yours from the table over.
usually, you'd find a table with no view. the grey of the walls is much preferred to the group of boys passing twitter memes back and forth and using their tongues like unpleasant hand gestures. today, there are just more ants than usual. bread crumbs littered all around, like the students on staff are actually looking for people without the ability to read.
so you're sitting at a desk in the middle of the abyss. for the past hour, you've been trying to ignore the people walking by with purple leather shoes and backpacks with cartoon characters on them, but it gets increasingly more difficult every time you see the word variant and have to remind yourself what it means again.
and this time, when you make the mistake of looking up, someone is looking back.
a boy, sitting at the desk two meters from yours, books spread haphazardly across the tiny table, computer resting on top of them--a newer model, apparently, with no risk of burning through the ink of a ridiculously expensive textbook.
he's looking back at you. bright hair, easy, line-free face, and eyes brighter than any one of these fluorescent walls.
you look away immediately. eye-contact is fine because what college student is actually dedicated to completing any assignments amidst the cacophony of groans? what student is paying attention when they know that just one missing assignment won't cost them a degree? you can look around and observe your peers; you just have to make sure to look away right after.
or usually. usually, all you have to do is look away as soon as you're caught, and it's bygones. there's no rule posted that says you can't use your eyes.
when your eyes flick up again, checking to see if you've maintained the standard, he's still looking back.
you refrain from wincing and stare down at the textbook. maybe this boy is new--almost halfway through the semester, sure, but anything is possible--because instead of ignoring this like any other person would do, instead of pretending that there's not a strange camaraderie between the two of you even without introductions, or words, he clears his throat.
you look up again.
he's smiling this time.
"is the wifi working for you?" he asks, glancing down at your computer.
your computer, which has blacked out, much like a drunk person lacking attention. you click the space bar, waiting a moment.
"um, yeah, it's fine," you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear you. and then, a second too late, you say back, "...is it not for you?"
he almost huffs. it's the kind of huff that someone makes when they've noticed a withdrawal from their bank account--because they obviously didn't know that they actually had to pay for that thing they bought. then he looks over to you, lip quirking. "well, it says that it is."
"the free network isn’t very good. did you sign in with your student id?"
"sign in?"
you blink. "to the library connection."
"connection?"
you swallow. "if you open your wifi login, it'll take you to the captive portal. all you have to do is type in your id and agree to the terms and conditions, and then you should connect automatically."
this boy, who has continued to look at you, nods. "oh, cool."
you nod, just once, and look back down. you're not going to get anything else done now, but no one ever said that pretending wasn't worth something. you're a good samaritan, you can speak to people and have it be completely normal.
"thanks," he adds, like it's imperative.
you nod again. when you look over again, he's staring down at the computer, tongue slightly sticking out, eyes contemplative as he types something.
try as you might, you can’t prepare for everything
*
you don't see him again for another two weeks. and it's not like you've been actively looking for this boy. it's true enough that on a campus with thousands of people moving in and out every day, you could never see him again and never have to think about that.
you're not looking for him, but it's hard not to notice when he shows up. because he does show up. in some methodical synchronicity that should warn you of the possibility of your hand running through your computer, atoms aligned, he shows up in the same spot that he did two weeks ago.
it's less crowded than it was that day, but you woke up too early and didn't want to venture into the further depths of the library, in fear that you might fall asleep in some dark corner with only a mute conversation happening from the other side of the wall.
so you're sitting in the middle of the abyss, typing.
and this time, when you look up, he's not looking back. you're not sure what you notice first, exactly. the white hair? the shining blue eyes? the dark glasses he's wearing inside? the pout on his lips that looks so forced, you worry it might be about to fall off?
you blink at him, stare down at the paper you're supposed to be writing, and sigh. you're supposed to be explaining how primate behavior has adapted you completely to the current society of screens and booze, but you can't even remember how to spell adaptation. besides, if you can't even adapt to waking up two hours earlier, do you have any room to talk?
you're debating the ethics of buying another energy drink--or maybe a latte, if you want to venture outside the box you’ve been placed in--when the boy clears his throat, and your head snaps up.
again.
"oh, hey," he says, just as your eyes reach his. he says it slightly too loud--which should probably be a sign that talking to someone who is a table over from you is a terrible idea, even if your voice doesn't carry. "i figured out the wifi. i signed the papers and everything. the loading icon has officially moved on."
"that's good."
he grins, like your two-word sentence is enough to thrust in an era of world peace. "yeah, it is. it's still really slow, though. i've been waiting for this website to load for five minutes."
"it is pretty laggy. i just refresh until it works. sometimes it takes a while."
he shrugs. "worth a shot."
and you get the feeling that he would say something else, but you look down at your computer, begging for integration techniques and an alphabetized bibliography to save you from whatever this is. at this point, he could say anything, and you would shove your face into your computer screen to take a bite.
you haven't had the time to work through a conversation, let alone have one with someone who has officially become frequent.
does a couple of conversations require a new title? or can you pretend that you've never seen him before? maybe you should've taken the chance and found a cubicle with no outside view.
the boy has already looked away when you peek back up. he's humming now, though, because you're both in a library, and why wouldn't he be?
*
the boy shows up again, because that's just how it works here.
boy is a pretty apt word for him, you think now, watching him sit at the very same table--you're a couple of desks over today, closer to the heater and further from the collection of people in the middle of the room. he's digging through his bag for something, and you get the brief vision of a kid sitting at a diner booth, armed with three crayons, being doted on by a middle-aged woman who's worked there for twenty years and knows everyone's secrets. then you blink and you're back in the library.
if you're going to keep seeing him like this--in the middle of your day, in the middle of this concrete building--you should probably come up with a better nickname. college campuses are ripe with little boys, and yours isn't an exception. but 'freaky blue eyes' seems a little too literal. it lacks the charm that you feel every time you watch him knock the pen off his desk, pick it up, and do it again three minutes later.
it lacks the complete awkwardness you feel every time the boy looks up, and for some reason, you're always looking back. it's like he knows when your brain is desperate for an escape, when your eyes drift off and inevitably betray you by looking his way. he’s a beacon in the middle of the desert, the watering hole after three long weeks.
today, though, you're not sitting right in front of the boy. he has no eye contact privileges from across the room.
today, anyway, you're watching him. it's a bit different now, since you can actually stare without looking judgmental or feeling crazy. you watch as he boots up his computer, tapping his feet against the floor like he's ready to run away. it's relatable, honestly, and the boy, flagrant and bright as he comes, is much better than the mind-numbing graph you're supposed to be filling out.
he taps his foot against the floor, desk jostling with the movement, and he looks around for a moment like he's missing something. you look around, too, but you didn't notice him drop anything when he came in.
when you look back at the boy, he's looking at you again, this time like he's found something.
he smiles at you. his hand comes up in an almost-wave. he stops, though, and maybe he's just remembered that you've only shared two conversations, and maybe he's actually aware that though there is no natural order to this library, there is to social experiences. still, he closes his fist, and you look away.
you'll have to find a better hiding spot next time.
*
"psst," you hear, and look up--there is no other response to being called to attention, so you have no ground to ignore this. the boy is sitting in front of you. "hey."
you tilt your head. "hey?"
"do you have a pen i could borrow? i need to write down these problems, and i lost mine. probably. or it ran away."
"...sure."
he's sitting at the desk too far away for you to just pass it over, so instead, the boy gets up, coming to stand right in front of you and the mess you've created while studying.
you dig in your pencil bag for a pen--you only have pink ones now, after a self-proclaimed protest against pens with blue ink (and their malicious smear tactics), so hopefully he doesn't mind. when you find the darkest one (almost red, but not quite), you hold it out towards him, needing a whole second to tilt your head back and meet his eyes.
wow. he's a lot taller than you thought. not that you have a good reference for his height, considering that you've only seen him sitting at a desk, usually slouching, and never all that close, but still. he looks a bit more threatening like this, actually, towering over you. for a second, you're worried that he's going to tilt a bit too far forward, collapse against you, and the computer you've sworn to keep for at least two more years.
he doesn't, though. he just takes the pen, grinning at you. "thanks, library buddy."
you blink. library buddy? "no problem."
"are you leaving soon? i wouldn't want to indirectly steal it."
"my next class is at noon, so... but you can just give it back another day, or keep it. it's fine."
"are you offering to share custody?"
"what?"
the boy flips the pen in his hand, switching it to the other, and then holds his vacant hand out to you. "i'm gojo satoru, by the way."
"y/n," you respond, shaking his hand as if you're expecting him to grab it and pull you across the desk.
"y/n, the library buddy."
you blink.
"i'll keep this safe," gojo says, gesturing towards the pen. you just nod.
have you just agreed to share guardianship of the pen you bought?
*
he comes back, though. not like you were expecting him to--in fact, you figured he'd forget your face, and subsequently your pen in its entirety, and maybe you'd catch a glimpse of him again, but never that close, never that tall.
but gojo satoru, as you've learned, does show. he's there four days later, the same time you are, and you happen to be looking up when he walks in, so you get to see the way his face lights up when he notices you, not at your usual desk, but further back, hiding.
damn, it didn't work. it didn't really work last time either, but it at least took a minute or two for him to spot you. this time, it's as if he expected it, as if he was calculating your exact position and spent the time walking over planning which direction to look towards.
either way, he is unbothered by your new spot. he strides over to you in five steps.
"library buddy," he says, as soon as he's in front of you. "i have our pen."
he sets his bag down on the seat in front of you, digging to the bottom. once he finds the pen, he passes it over to you, tilting his head like you're an equation he's never seen before.
"thanks," you say, taking it back. "you sure you don't need it?"
he grins, doesn't answer, but continues looking at you for a moment. and another moment.
you're wondering if you've met him before, if maybe he's a secret agent and you've been evading taxes for twelve years, hiding from the government, and are about to be escorted gently to jail.
gojo is just grinning though. "can i sit here?"
you blink, brows furrowing for a moment before you realize, and then nod in response. it's rude to say no, isn't it? but there are definitely other tables, and there are definitely other people with better, fresher pens.
maybe gojo satoru doesn't know about this.
“what are you studying?" he asks, when he's tucked into the chair across you, legs spilling from the sides of the table.
"physical anthropology."
"is it fun?"
“fun?”
“exciting.”
"it's…a lot of old artifacts."
“how old?”
“hundreds of years, at least. sometimes more.”
“yeah? was your professor there when they were made?”
“probably.”
he laughs. he’s looking at you like you’ve said something amusing. like you’re some adolescent test subject, too young and naive to understand what could possibly be funny about this. it makes you feel small, for just a second, but when he tilts his head at you, you get the sense that he’s thinking the opposite.
“is that your major? physical anthropology?”
“no.”
you can see his canine teeth when he opens his mouth. you can feel the brush of a tongue over the ridges. “can i study here?”
you pause for a moment. you have no reason to say no--there's space for two, and you already agreed to let him sit here, so what's some studying? you nod eventually, feeling like it might be the only thing you remember how to do.
“cool,” gojo says.
you leave shortly after that, it’s hard to get any work done around him, but that’s not why. your class is only around an hour after he usually shows up—when you think this, you realize that you’ve been timing it, that you’ve noticed more than you meant to. so you begin packing your stuff up while he's staring down at a textbook like it’s invigorating, scribbling something you wouldn’t be able to read even if it was right side up. he’s writing so fast that it’s almost impressive—and worrying, for the sanctity of his wrist.
“i’ve got class,” you murmur, despite yourself. you don’t know why you’re telling gojo this. it’s not like he really cares—he shouldn’t. he’s probably just amused by your uniquely colored pens and the fact that every time he looks up, you’re already looking at him. he probably thinks he’s doing you a favor, sitting here. giving you a closer view so you don’t have to strain your eyes, or something.
and surely he would notice if you've just disappeared, right? you don't need to announce it.
"at noon, right?"
you nod.
"okay. have fun."
you nod again, pushing in your chair, trying to keep your face cool when it scrapes against the floor, an apt representation of how your brain sounds at this very second.
gojo is looking up at you and gives you a little nod when you begin to walk away. “see ya.”
you're staring down at your feet, contemplating getting new shoes--one's with better laces and a smaller tendency to drag across the floor, leaving a trail of rubber marks in your wake--and thinking about finding a new spot in the library, preferably one that's partially in the ground, hidden from the rest of the students so you don't have to deal with watchful eyes or enigmatic grins.
and then someone calls your name. your head jerks up. it should be gojo, telling you that you left something behind, or giving you a heads up that this was just a one-time fluke, and he was recording the whole time so he could finish his research paper on socially awkward, unfriendly girls that hang out in libraries.
it's not. instead, you look to find a girl from one of your classes--something about statistics, something about meeting all your credit requirements--she waves you over, so you go. you'd be a very obedient dog, probably. the shelter would have a hard time keeping you.
"what did gojo satoru want?"
you frown. you're tempted to look behind you, where gojo is probably still sitting, scribbling incessantly, shades falling down the side of his face, nose bridge too abrupt to keep them there. you don't, though. you already know what he looks like. "a place to sit?"
"with you?"
"i guess."
"do you know him from somewhere?"
"i know him from... the desk over there."
she laughs. "so he wasn't inviting you to go hang out at some meet-up with his friends?"
"no? does he do that?"
"he's just friendly," she says, like it's obvious. "gojo knows everyone, everyone knows gojo."
"i don't."
"you sure?"
"yeah."
she laughs again. "anyway. he's friends with the some of the guys on the mma team, the ones who always throw those parties everyone has to recover from weeks after. you know, in case you're looking to see him again."
you don't look back. "i've got class in ten minutes. i'll see you next week."
you walk away. how you've managed to learn so much about your library boy in thirty minutes, who knows?
*
you really shouldn't be surprised that gojo satoru keeps showing up, but you are. only, it comes in whispers now. the boy whose name you didn't even know twelve days ago is now infused into every conversation you're having. suddenly, you see him in discussions of something posted online, in class when people are murmuring about their weekends, on the school social media--somehow in the background, somehow noticeable enough for you to realize.
apparently, everyone does know gojo satoru. which only begs the question--why hadn't you before last week?
friendly, you think, watching a squirrel run from it's own shadow. it's warmer outside today, after a week of storms and lightning flashes, so you're outside.
if anyone asks--and no one will, mind you--you're not really avoiding the library, or strange boys with a penchant for small talk, you're just more comfortable here. you like it where it's quiet and you can pretend that no one is really looking at you, even if they are. there is peace in the idea that people will only look down at your feet, wonder why you're still wearing tennis shoes in this weather, and then forget all about it.
there is no peace with boys who think pens are free rein and libraries are for conversation.
friendly, you think again, and wonder what that even means. maybe gojo satoru is the leader of an underground--or widely known?--cult and realized immediately that your naivety was just what he wanted in a recruit. someone secluded from everyone else, vulnerable to the workings of indoctrination.
and maybe if you think of every possible scenario, it lessens the odds of any of it truly happening. there's something to be said about crazy people. probably.
you're thinking about skipping the rest of your day altogether, avoiding the two classes you have left and maybe joining a cult--not gojo satoru's--so you have somewhere to call home that isn't an ensnaring career with fake smiles and far too much work.
you're thinking about going home and looking up the prospects of traveling universes and landing in one where talking is non-compulsory and people just sit and think all day, and right when you have this thought, he shows up again. but it's the real thing this time.
"y/n," you hear, and look up just to be blinded by not only fluorescent hair, but also the sun. you wince and look away--for multiple reasons, of course, none of them having to do with your lack of sunglasses.
you swallow, then say, "gojo?"
"so you remember me."
"kinda hard not to," you respond, accidentally. you're too tired for this today, clearly, too jaded after your eight hours of sleep. you could use a nap.
he laughs as though you've told him a joke. he does that far too often. "what're you doing here?"
"waiting around until my next class," you tell him, tapping your foot against the pavement. your fingers are numb at the tips, and you would tuck them under your legs if that didn't feel too obvious.
"i meant," he hums, "what are you doing here during library time?"
"what is 'library time'?"
"the time you spend at the library," he says, easily enough. he doesn't have a bag on him today, just his glasses and a dream. "you're there at this time on tuesday and thursdays."
you frown. "are you tracking my schedule?"
"on a spreadsheet."
for some reason, your lip quirks. it's probably a side effect of how fast you've fallen into this conversation without the chance to pull out. you're still not looking at him because he's being haloed by the sun, but you know that he can tell, just like you can tell that he's smiling.
"can i sit?" he gestures towards your bench.
you nod. if only you had any willpower at all. you could just say that you're busy, or you could just not be here in the first place.
"do you have a quota of people you need to chat with each day or something?" you ask involuntarily and completely out of the blue, just as he's sat down. you say it like if you don't get the answer to this question, you'll die without knowing.
"a quota?" he repeats, looking at you curiously. you're half-facing him now, his eyes hidden from your view, but his lips and teeth out in the open for all to see.
"apparently, everyone knows you."
gojo grins at this. his eyebrows raise like he's giddy about it. he gestures to himself, "are you asking around about me?" he's almost teasing, but not quite. "you could just ask me, you know."
"i am," you tell him, dryly, "right now."
he snorts. "i talk to people every day, yes."
"how many?"
"am i supposed to count?" he wonders, shaking a strand of ivory from his eyes. everything about him is loose, today, casual. it's windy enough that the sweater he's wearing sways back and forth, light shifting with every gust.
"an estimate is fine."
he crosses his arms, looking over to you like an indignant child. like what you've just asked of him is preposterous. which it isn't, by the way, it's a normal, completely fair question.
"mmm..." he licks his lips, thinking, fingers tapping against his jeans. "it depends on what day. what am i doing?"
"going to class," you answer immediately.
"probably around twenty-five then. ish.”
your mouth opens, and you blink, and then you close it. you must look confused--or taken aback--because gojo blinks back at you, rapidly, like he's analyzing something.
"what?"
"every day?" you repeat.
"i mean, yeah," he shrugs. he moves his hand once a second, every word emphasized by another gesture. you look away from his hands.
"so this is just like... habit for you?"
gojo's brows raise. his grin is baffled and amused all at once. "a habit? like playing on your phone?"
you give him a strange look.
"what?"
you lean back on the bench, looking forward towards some trees, blooms barely there. and then you shrug, "i'm just trying to figure out why you're talking to me."
"have i been banned or something?" he looks forward with you. "cause i don't think i got that memo."
"no," you answer, flatly. "it's just weird."
"why is it weird?"
"cause we don't know anything about each other. we've never had a class together. we didn't meet organically."
"the library is pretty organic," he reasons, looking towards you once again.
"well," you start, not bothering to argue, "there's probably a hundred people in the library right now. you could go talk to them."
"i could, yeah. i'm talking to you right now, though. you're from the library."
"i'm a stranger."
he laughs. "how many people do you talk to every day?"
"what day?" you look towards him with a hint of a smile on your face. if there's only one thing you've learned about gojo satoru in the past week, it's that he'll always play along.
"school. class."
"like... three. and usually i'm just thanking someone for holding a door, or something."
his foot nudges yours. "what about me?"
"okay. four. maybe."
he grins. "well, at least i'm part of that statistic," and he says it like he's really satisfied. like he's been trying to make this list for years and finally reached the top of the waiting list.
"why are you here?" you ask, again, almost bewildered. you blink as you realize that this conversation has been going on for several minutes. that you've been sitting here just chatting with him. you've never chatted with anyone. you're practically allergic to chatting and everything that comes with it.
"i saw you. i wanted to see what you were doing."
"well, you saw. you've seen. you're free to go now, i'm not going to stop you."
he tilts his head, ignoring this. "you still haven't told me why you're out here."
"because the weather is nice today."
he looks up at the sky, gray and dreary. it's been sprinkling on and off all day--there's only a hint of the sun, a peephole in the sky. okay, so maybe it's not all that nice outside. or even all that warm…but you like the rain--and you like the way that it destroys the worksheets you have in your bag. and that ten-page paper you're supposed to get peer reviewed. the wrinkled edges give it character or something.
gojo narrows his eyes at you. he stares for a second, calculating whatever tells must be on your face, then asks: "are you out here because you thought i wouldn't find you?"
"what?" you respond, surprised and almost laughing. the last thing you've ever thought about gojo satoru is that he would try to find you. "you haven't found me before. the library is a public space. you're as likely to find someone in there as you are a book."
"is that a peer-reviewed statistic?” he asks, lithely, tilting his head. he looks encouraged by the smile on your face, more energetic all of the sudden. “i've found you. i had to give you our pen back."
"is that why you're talking to me? because i lent you a pen?”
"first of all," he holds out his hand, counting off with his fingers, "you willingly yielded your responsibility of the pen to me--which you still need to pass back, by the way, because it’s my turn again. and second of all, i'm talking to you because i want to. is that so wrong?"
you shake your head, looking up. "like i said, it's weird."
"maybe i'm weird then," gojo shrugs, then points at you. "you're weird, too. you're sitting in the cold outside just so you don't have to give me the pen. you're gatekeeping."
"that's not why."
he sighs, looking up like he's exasperated. "and yet you keep deflecting."
"i bought that pen, you know," you tell him, looking at the curve of his jaw, and the fake disappointment on his face. "i own it. what have you contributed?"
he looks over again, turning towards you. "love and affection. i used that pen for three days straight."
"oh, great. you wasted all my ink."
"it wasn't a waste, i promise. the scientific strides made with that pen are going to advance us several decades alone. plus i like that shade of red. it speaks to the heart."
"it’s pink,” then tilt your head. “science? what are you studying?"
"theoretical physics."
you wince, making a show to move away from him. suddenly, his gravitational pull is making you very uncomfortable.
"what?" he says, indignant.
"really?"
gojo tilts his head, his eyebrows raise like he's wondering why you think he's lying--as if he hasn't been playing a part this entire time. as if he hasn't made anything up.
"that sounds gross," you tell him, choosing to believe it. "you used my pen for math?"
he laughs, slowly moving toward you again so he can lessen the distance. "it's not that hard."
"i think i'm supposed to take a physics class next semester," you say, ignoring this.
"intro?"
"yeah. apparently, it's required or something. i'll probably fail."
"i can help, if you want," gojo shrugs while saying it, because he probably offers his expertise to people all of the time. "it's really not hard."
you give him a weary look, narrowing your eyes. "i'm not giving you my pen again."
"but we have an arrangement--"
*
this time, you're actually expecting it. gojo satoru isn't going to go away, you've accepted this now. his eyes and strange hair and even stranger demeanor are a part of your world--he's entered your ecosystem and infected every inch of it. he's like an invasive species, taking up whatever space is available—and killing off anything in the space that isn’t.
and now, when you walk into the library--it's colder again, today, actually raining and thereby ruining every carefully pressed inch of your outfit--you're readying yourself for another conversation.
it's a bit strange, actually. you're overtly cautious, yes, but you've never had to plan for nonsensical conversations, anything outside of typical small talk. and even with the normal conversations you have with peers, teachers, and any on-campus worker that you've bumped into at least three times, you struggle to keep up. there's always something better you could say, always a thing that you're missing, even when you do predict exactly what's going to happen.
and for some reason, after the three conversations you've had with gojo satoru--and the hundred made-up conversations you've been planning--you feel like he knows that. it's like he's waiting for you to get the right option. he's the hint in every rpg game, a second chance to get the most points possible.
and he's here before you today. which you hadn't planned.
based on what you've observed, his supposed class should get out later than yours, which is why he always shows up at least half an hour after you, and why you always leave before he does. his class starts later, or lasts longer, and for that reason, you end up in the same place, but for a shorter period of time.
maybe you're wrong, though, because he's sitting at one of the desks in the middle of the room, surrounded by groups of other people, all of them chattering away. gojo is on his phone, though his textbooks are laid out in front of him, notebook open and empty like he decided to take a break after he'd unpacked his bag.
and this stops you in your tracks. if gojo shows up after you, then it's up to him to start a conversation--he gets to decide if he's going to encroach on your space and ask you questions for no reason, or if he's going to sit a desk away and wave when you finally look up. if you show up after him, then you have to decide for the both of you.
this wouldn't have mattered six days ago, but now, after that last conversation, after he’s found you again, you don't know which choice--sitting with him or turning around and abandoning all library thoughts--would bother him more. he's not going to find you again, is he? he knows that you're supposed to be here right now, that you usually are, and it's colder outside than it was a few days ago, too cold to even type up half assed discussion responses on your phone without your fingers going completely numb.
you can't sit outside, and you can't turn around now for fear that everyone will know what you're doing.
it's a hard choice, ultimately, but your legs are walking forward before you've actually decided. if you wanted to go find somewhere else to sit, alone, you would have to walk past him anyway, because every desk in here is full. so you head for his table, ready for him to point and laugh in your face, or smile politely like you're a goofy solicitor that just showed up at his door.
instead, when gojo looks up as you approach, timid as a mouse, he tilts his head. "hey," he greets, kicking out the chair across him. "did you bring the pen?"
"i... yes?"
"can i use it? i've been waiting for you."
this statement sends a surge of heat to your hands--which is unfortunate, considering that you're going to have to pass said pen to him and spread this incoming sweat even further than usual.
you look down at his spread of materials, and he really doesn't have a pen or a pencil, which probably explains the doom scrolling. it's strange, though. who brings three textbooks and a notepad but forgets their pen?
"you don't have a class right now?" you set your bag down on the floor and sit down. gojo sits up at the same time, taking a moment to properly look at you.
maybe he didn't realize who you were at first and just remembered. maybe you're enough of a side character that he needs a moment to recall. experience points deducted for his lack of a plan.
"my professor canceled," he answers, pocketing his phone and shaking his head testily. "only two minutes before it was supposed to start, too. i could be in slumber heaven right now."
"that sucks," you say, refraining a laugh. he sounds very serious, so it’s not your fault. you track the half-pout on his face, noticing the worn lines under his eyes, little wrinkles on the usually smooth surface. maybe you've been noticing too much about gojo satoru. "late night?"
"yup. i got coerced into a strenuous game of connect four. and then another."
you raise a brow. "coerced?"
"no one thought i could win."
"did you?"
"wow," he taps his fingers on the table. "do you seriously doubt my connect four skills? we barely know each other, and you're already making these assumptions."
you stare at him.
gojo purses his lips. "i almost won."
you stifle a laugh, resuming the digging through your bag, hand seeking your pencil bag. "well, connect four is notoriously hard. it's not like there are several ways to win, or anything." you fish out the pen and hand it out to him. he takes it from you almost indignantly, running his hand across it like it’s an animal.
"are you using that snarky tone around our pen? i don't want it to pick up on anything."
"snarky tone?"
"your sarcasm is not endearing."
at this, you actually laugh for the first time. it's so strange. why does gojo satoru only need to get one laugh out of you to make this easier? he's practically conditioning you to relax with every stupid comment.
"okay, noted," you tell him, taking out your laptop. then you look up. "is it okay if i sit here? i... didn't really ask."
gojo waves a hand. "easier to swap the pen this way."
you shake your head, not sure what to say next, so you say nothing instead.
maybe gojo doesn't really mind this. based on what you know about him, you doubt that he's the type to find conversation strenuous, but maybe it's nice to have a break anyway. maybe he's tired enough that he'll keep his check-ins short, only rack up a good fifteen conversations instead of twenty.
you look up a minute or two later, and he's scribbling away once again. this close, though, you can see his tongue dart out the tiniest bit, watch his eyes glaze over words in his textbook like he's a satellite, scanning every bit of information instantly. you can't read anything he's writing--mostly because his handwriting is messy, but also because still he's doing it so fast--but you doubt that you really want to anyway.
it's not as bad as the last time, at least. you're not worried about him saying something suddenly, not irritated at every breath, every intrusion into your note-taking. you wonder if this is how gojo gets into everything. if he just introduces himself and waits for you to get used to it like a bad smell. an acquired taste.
it doesn't matter, you suppose, because it's working either way.
it isn't until forty-five minutes later--or maybe longer, time blurs when you're lost in similes and words like propitious and milieu--that gojo says anything, though there have been several times when you've looked up and he's already looking at you, just like before. he never questions it, never makes some snide comment, only smiles and then looks back down to his notes, like he just wanted to check that you were still there.
"i'm going to get a drink from the cafe," he tells you, stretching as he says it. the sweater he's wearing pools at his wrists and reveals five centimeters of his forearm, a sneak peek into his brilliantly smooth skin. "do you want something?"
you frown at him, then check your phone. when your eyes dart back up to him, he's already smiling at you. "what? are you caffeine averse?"
"oh, uh, no. a caffeine apologist, actually. i just have to get going, so..."
gojo checks his phone, then, too. "oh, yeah. it's late for you."
"yeah."
you stand at the same time he does, making a point not to make eye contact with him. maybe that's why he's so interested in you--he just wants to understand your awkward and frankly perplexing demeanor. which won't happen, by the way, because you don't understand it yourself.
"i'll walk you out," gojo slugs his backpack over his shoulder. "i'm too tired to study, anyway."
"it's cold."
he only shrugs, gesturing for you to go ahead.
you do, suddenly weary of having him stand behind you. should you be guarding your back at all times? gojo is far too trustworthy for this, isn't he?
but he's at your side in a mere two strides, far too tall, and too fast. "oh, hey," he nudges you gently, and it makes you realize just how close he really is. if you look up towards him, his face would be zoomed in, each pore--or lack thereof--visible. you might be able to look past the lenses at this angle.
so you don't look at him at all. why would you want to see that?
"there's a party going on at the end of the week," he says, simply, "friday, on block six. you should come. it’ll be hard to miss.”
"a party?"
he hums. "yeah, but not a ton of people, though. it's select invite only."
"...okay," is what you say, in lack of an answer. you've been to a party--probably, at some point--but you've never been invited out of the blue.
"it'll be fun. i'll be there, so."
"okay," you repeat.
there’s a beat, and then, “do you have an umbrella?”
you look outside. puddles are gathering at the edge of the stairs, wind strong enough to be noticeable to the people walking by. “i—“ you remember two days ago when you were sorting through your bag, placed your umbrella on the table to pack again later, and then forgot. “no.”
gojo looks outside with you, making a noise in the back of his throat. “me neither.”
you snort, your eyes finding him as he smiles sheepishly at you.
“i would offer you it if i did,” he promises. “just like you would offer me yours, obviously.”
“sure,” you murmur, mouth curled as you zip up your jacket. “it’s okay, they have disposable ones in the history building. it’s not far.”
he nods, opening the door for you. "have fun at class."
you nod back, once, and then twice, and then when you're far enough away that you don't have to look at him anymore, you say "i'll try," over your shoulder.
and when you walk past the doors his laughter echos behind you.
*
“you didn’t show,” he says, instead of hello.
gojo isn't back until a week later. you didn't see him at all on tuesday, but you thought about parties and canceled classes, and figured that gojo satoru probably had better things to do, other conversations to tally, and it didn't really matter if he was there or not. you studied just the same, got through classes like always.
if you spent the entire weekend replaying conversations and trying to guess what he might say next time--whenever that may be--then no one needs to know. if you thought about your pen, and how it was his turn to hand it over, now, then that was just an accident. you're not entertaining these thoughts, really.
instead, you're studying. focusing on school and a degree, just like any person should. and you’re looking down at your textbook, eyes half lidded, watching a highlighter bleed through the cheap ink on the paper, when he turns up in front of you. he's not there, and then he is, simply appearing out of thin air.
gojo is wearing a darker sweatshirt today, bundled up, glasses high on his head like he forgot to push them back down.
“what?” you say, accidentally smearing your hand across the wet ink. you try and cover it up immediately after, lest he notices that he startled you. it shouldn't be scary, but his voice carries, and you're just noticing this now. plus, you thought he was done with... this.
“to the party," gojo says, almost slowly but with emphasis, so you have a moment to comprehend it. "you didn’t show.”
you look back down, covering up the stain on your arm with a sleeve. “oh.”
“or did you?” when you look up again, gojo is still staring at you. he looks a bit squinty, as if all of his limbs are being controlled by different strings, and his puppeteer has only been doing this for a day. “did we just miss each other?”
“oh—uh, no. i—i didn’t go," for some reason, you say this softly, like a worthwhile apology. you're dimmer today, sure, tired after a long week of assignments, but you're not really sorry.
you're sure lots of people went to gojo satoru's party. you're certain that he invited every person he saw passing in the hallway, and there was no shortage of people he could talk to there.
unless he only invited you because he was trying to lure you to his house and keep you locked up down in the basement, a willing lab rat for his experiments… but if that's the case, you're just fine being out in the open, free to move of your own volition, thanks.
gojo pouts, and he doesn't look at all like a mad scientist with nefarious thoughts. “why?”
“um,” you avert your eyes, considering it. there's not a good excuse, honestly, only a lot of them. “it’s just not really my area.”
“your area?” gojo repeats, voice dry and face almost blank. you can still see the pin-prick of curiosity in his eyes--it's always there, it's the reason you think he's studying you every time you talk, the reason that there has to be an ulterior motive to all of this.
still, you wince. “i lack… experience?”
“this was entry level," he says this seriously, like it actually matters.
you laugh despite yourself. “okay, then, i lack motivation. i don’t really like parties, and i don’t know anyone, so…”
“you know me.”
“not really.”
“yes, really," he looks almost affronted, blinking multiple times. "we’re library buddies. we share penmanship.”
well, you’re certainly not friendly enough to correct that, though it sends that same pinch of heat down your hands. “um, okay… noted.”
“i invited you," he reiterates, sitting down. he doesn't ask, and you suppose he doesn't need to--what he needs to do is give you back the pen, get his own, and then... study.
you sigh, closing your textbook completely. your highlighter is probably somewhere on the floor, and the notes you've been taking are only half legible. you feel almost bad for gojo with his pathetic pouting and insistence. but he just can't be serious.
“i thought that was a pity invitation or something.”
“what?”
“you invite everyone to your parties,” you tell him, confused and justifying. besides being friendly, this is what gojo satoru is known for. “i didn’t realize you actually wanted me to go.”
“i invited you," he says, for the sixth time, at least. he reaches a hand across the desk, almost pleading. "and it wasn’t even my party.”
you tilt your head. “it wasn’t?”
“no," he leans back again, crossing his arms. "you were going to be my plus one.”
you laugh again. maybe it’s because he looks so disgruntled. it's as if no one else has ever not come to his party before. as if this was his only chance, and you blew it for him. it doesn't matter, because it's amusing to you, either way.
it's strange the way things have reversed. maybe now you're the one studying him, calculating his next move, and predicting it before it happens.
“what? you could at least reject me to my face, you know.”
or maybe not.
"really?" you ask him, resting your chin in your hand. "was i really the only person you invited?"
"yes," gojo huffs. then he looks away for a second, his pout growing with every inch of silence that flows between you. "okay, technically--" he starts.
you shake your head immediately, a snort building.
"technically," he repeats, pointing at you like you need to pay attention. "i was asked to spread the word about it by some friends, but you're the only person i invited."
"uh-huh."
"you didn't even say no. i waited the whole time."
"really?" you murmur, blinking at him.
"well--" he huffs again, leaning forward once more. "okay, not really. i waited for an hour or two, though. and then i left--"
you giggle, reaching for your notes once more, coming to the conclusion that gojo satoru will say anything, honestly, as long as he can play it off in some way. you were probably right not to go and have to listen to a version of his drunk rambling.
"but someone would've told me if you showed up at the last minute," he continues, entirely too defensive, "and i could have come back. but you didn't show."
"again, i didn't actually know you wanted me to."
"i told you about it. i told you it would be fun."
"did you tell everyone else that it would be really boring?"
"...no."
"see?" you look at him again, giving him a real smile, now. you're not confused--this is typical behavior, and you've just caught on to that. "and i told you, i'm not a fan of parties in the first place."
he pauses for a second, and he's just staring at you. not like before--not just monitoring your condition, but realizing something now. his eyes go wide and mute, for just a moment. you might ask, but before you can, he's shaking it off, looking away, and muttering: "you could've told me that the other day. said 'no.'"
you roll your eyes. "I doubt you would ever take no for an answer."
gojo perks up then, immediately, and for the first time today, you get a grin. he leans forward, looking at you teasingly, his eyes in clear view just like the first day he spoke to you. they are a frightening color, really. "you're right. so, you have to come next time."
"um... no?"
"it's like you said. i'll keep asking."
you shake your head. "i need to study now, if that's all."
"without your pen?"
"i have multiple pens, gojo."
"and i bet you think of me every time you grab one."
"do you want to play the quiet game with me?" you ask, and quickly learn that gojo is both terrible at being quiet and a sore loser.
lucky you.
*
“hi, gojo,” you murmur. your voice is muffled by your sleeve because you no longer have the capacity to move your head from where it rests on the table, or the mental bandwidth to feel even the slightest bit concerned about that.
his presence leaks, which is how you know that he's there before you can see him. it's a sixth sense in a way. you can hear the self-esteem and grandeur from down the hall.
“woah,” gojo answers, his cloying voice just a bit lower than usual, and all you can only see are his legs as he sits down. “don’t everyone jump up all at once.”
“ha.”
he leans his head down, coming into view--same face, same smile--hair basically detached from his head as it dangles idly. “you alright?”
you take note of him, for a moment, every inch of confidence and apathy. he never looks any different, and yet it's shocking every time.
“i’m...yeah--i'm fine.”
“you sure? cause you look…” he hums. “like you just tried to defeat beelzemon, or something. don’t worry, it gets a lot easier.”
you frown, moving your head just slightly so you can meet him eye to eye. “what?”
“so uncultured,” he teases, mimicking your posture. “is studying all you do? you're always around. how long have you been here?”
“like an hour.”
“in this position?”
“yes.”
he tilts his head, tapping a finger on the table. “it’s not very comfortable.”
“it was better before you showed up.”
it was a lot of things before he showed up. all of your classes have begun to reach their end stages, and with every passing day, the library gets a little bit louder, people more agitated or occupied, and the time spent in it is a little bit longer. you linger here now, like you're waiting for something great to show up, even though you know exactly when it will. there was a choice before that you're not sure you still have.
gojo snorts. “so you’re cranky and you have jokes.”
“i’m not—i’m not cranky.”
he lifts his head only slightly, peeling the sunglasses from his face, so you get to watch the goofy way he raises a brow. “where’s your book?”
“which one?”
he squints like he’s thinking deeply about it. the two of you aren't on equal ground. for all you know about him, he gets a tenth of an answer from you. you're purposefully evasive, purposefully difficult, and he really shouldn't know what you're studying at all. “…the history one?”
this time, you snicker, then close your eyes, murmuring: “i, uh, probably lost it in the pond or something.”
it's that, or you buried it beneath numerous outfits, all of them just slightly ill-looking at best, and completely ridiculous at worst. gojo doesn't need to know that, though, even though he would probably be delighted to hear it.
“the pond? the one pond?”
“a pond, shut up, gojo. i’m tired.”
“yeah, i can tell,” he must be smiling. “do you frolic around ponds frequently? with a literal block of text in your hand?”
you ignore him, feigning a snore. every minute that you spend talking with gojo is one you have to make up when you get home. you don't tend to ignore responsibilities very often, but he must be a bad influence, because the call to the void grows louder with every passing day. and it's not like you can avoid him, now. not like this--not when you're beginning to see things, notice what you wouldn't have before.
he doesn’t seem to mind your dismissal, because he continues. “i’ve never seen you without yourtextbook, it’s… creepy.”
“thanks.”
“disorienting, you know? its like you lost a limb. like you forgot a limb. how am i supposed to recognize you without it?”
“you’re not. have a good rest of your day.”
he laughs, and you can hear him sit up. he hasn't gotten anything out, hasn't asked you if he's even allowed to sit here--which hes not. today, specifically, you would have had the willpower to say no--if you had any will or any power left at all. not that gojo is going to ask. with every conversation, he gets less elusive, he breaks precedent and forgets politeness, and every conversation, you become even less sure that you mind.
"oh, c'mon," he says, "there's a lot of day left. and i won't even ask why you're in a mood, as a courtesy."
"a gentleman, truly."
"lets go get coffee, or something," he offers, "instead of laying here, getting frowned upon by the catalog clerks, and possibly dying from the monotony."
"i haven't stopped you from doing anything. you can leave me here to deteriorate."
"it's painful to look at you like this," he groans. "my neck already hurts."
"you must have terrible posture," you say, in a deliberate attempt to change the subject. this is going too far, you can feel it. gojo won't like you outside of your academic prowess. he'll realize that your flighty tendencies aren't just a result of a clouded mind, but a true and certain flaw, as clear as day.
he'll get bored, or run out of ways to mess with you, reach the end of his wits, and then you'll just be standing there, wondering what to say next.
he's not worried about that, though, or anything, because he doesn't fall for the trick. "i'll show you if you sit up," gojo says, "and i'll even buy your coffee."
you contemplate it for a minute. and then try again: "are you trying to drag me down a dark alley so you can cut me open and steal my vital organs?"
"not currently, no."
"did you plan a flash mob that you really want me to see?"
"mmm, still working out the details on that one. i think it'd give you a headache in this state, anyway."
"too late," you deadpan. "are you making me come get coffee so when we get there you can shockingly announce that you forgot your wallet and that it's on me this time?"
"well, you see--"
"—but really, you're transferring schools so there isn't going to be a next time, and you're just a broke asshole?"
"damn," he's grinning. he has to be grinning. your eyes are still closed, but it's like you can feel it. gojo satoru radiates heat, his smiles send out more and more infrared radiation with every centimeter of tooth he reveals. "how'd you know?"
"lucky guess," you answer, feeling your own wits dwindle. this is the worst day for this to happen, when you're already fed up with your schedule, already done trying to fight back. you've given in before you've even given it any thought.
"you got the broke part wrong, though. you might need to charge up your psychic energy some more.”
you snort. "oh, yeah, definitely. you're as well off as every other college student in this building."
"sure, i am. and i'm also not actively plotting your demise, by the way. i don't know what types of people you're hanging out with, but you don't need to worry about my dark side. yet."
"what do you mean yet--"
"and you're obviously having a bad day," gojo says, almost softly, "and obviously need a drink to aid whatever bad things have happened to you because i wasn't around."
you open one eye and peer at him through it. "you keep stealing my pens, and that only happens when you're around. you're a thief."
"i have obtained exactly one pen from you," he corrects, "and i traded it back two days ago."
"you're a liar and a thief."
"i'm also thirsty."
you sigh, lowering your voice just enough to be noticeable. "gojo, i'm really not good company. especially right now, but usually. i hate talking."
"you hate it?" he repeats, just slightly amused. he thinks that everything you say is a joke, takes everything beyond face value--to some land where the sky is made of cotton candy and every doorbell sounds like a clown's nose.
"i'm allergic," you answer, firmly, too quickly. "i get hives. my throat swells, and i start crying."
"oh, lucky for us, i always keep some spare epinephrine on me."
you sigh again, resting your temple on your arm. you feel hot and cold at the same time, every emotion you've felt swirling in your stomach. the weather might have smoothed out, but you haven't. "when you say things like that, i lose a whole ten percent of trust i had in you. and it's never been a lot."
"i have proven myself to be trustworthy. i haven't lost our pen once."
"yet."
"yet," he's smiling at you, luring you in with every hint of a dimple, "and anyway, i have a pre-med friend. so, you don't need to worry about any alleged allergies. we have an on-call doctor at our disposal.”
"pre-med is not a doctor."
"close enough. and you made that up, so just be happy that i'm not calling you on it."
"gojo."
"c'mon, you look thirsty, too. i can hear the dehydration in your voice. i get headaches--i know, even the mighty fall--and sitting around isn't going to help. lunch is soon anyway, so it's only going to get louder in here."
gojo's voice is overwhelmingly smooth. if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was trying to sell you something. trying to get you somewhere just to pull the rug out from under you.
but gojo is a scientist, and he'd prefer a double-blind study anyway.
so you ignore that feeling. the temperature in this room, and every other hint of intuition, telling you that you're nothing exceptional enough for this.
"i'm not talking," you tell him, finally sitting up.
"that's okay," he stands up, reaching for your hand. "i've been told i talk enough for two."
gojo buys you a tea that day--decaffeinated because he's apparently god and maintains an omnipotence you can’t understand--and you sip it until there are only drops left, mouth warm and throat soothed. you don't have to talk at all, like he said, but you probably do.
*
“you see what i’m saying?”
you're back in the library again. you should really be employed at this point--both as the key victim of gojo satoru's chatting, and as a library loyalist. today it's quieter, though. it's beginning to heat up outside, so you figure there are probably terrible games of hackey sack or volleyball happening somewhere, and someone is probably slipping on the still-slick grass, breaking their jaw, and ruining the game altogether.
“uh… no?” you're chewing on the end of a pen, trying to read the abstract of an article you marginally care about, and gojo satoru is sitting in front of you.
he's relaxed as ever, long-sleeved shirt pushed up to his elbows, glasses hanging off the end of his nose.
“millions of micro-crystal structures bond and then under immense pressure,” he makes a fist and slams it against his palm. “they shift super slowly and the bonds are weak at that point, and act like… sand, or pebbles! and they move like that.”
you click on a new tab, wondering if you should just go ahead and buy that candle warmer for your room. sure, sometimes things catch on fire, but isn't three extra hours of a sugary geranium candle worth it? “…yeah.”
“there’s a whole set of rules just for those bonds. they’re unlike anything else.”
“right.”
“isn’t that cool?”
“sure.”
“are you listening?”
you look up, giving him a bemused sort of look. “you sort of lost me at micro-crystals."
it's been like this for at least three weeks now. he doesn't ask to sit down, you don't tell him to leave. gojo never runs out of anything to say, and he's never bothered when you don't respond. slowly, he's melting away your hesitation. now it's a lot easier to tell him that he's strange, that his eyes are alien-like, and he's got some chocolate on the corner of his lip.
gojo hangs his head. “no one gets it.”
you laugh. “didn’t you just go over this in your lecture? there’s a whole class of people who get it. several classes, probably.”
he sighs, so pitiful.
“you should talk to them about it. not me," you throw the pen at him, and he catches it, like he could sense it a mile away. "my neurons aren’t fired that way.”
he lays his head on his arms, tucking the pen away, grinning. “i know. i’m trying to convert you.”
“well,” you snort, “you’re not doing a very good job. in fact, you might be turning me away from physics forever. my brain deflates whenever you mention vectors.”
“don’t worry, there are lots of fields. we’ll find a good one.”
“are you a physics dealer or something?" you ask him, scrolling mindlessly on your laptop. "looking for more clientele?”
“nope. i only need you.”
you laugh again, raising a brow. “good luck with that."
"thanks. what time is your first class next semester?" he wonders, idly. he's taken to spinning the pen on the table, probably scratching millions of microplastics into the air and killing you both, "you said you were taking intro to physics, right?"
"uh, yeah," you watch for a moment, then look away. "i don't think that's my first class though... i can't really remember. i registered like three months ago."
he makes a noise. "i still need one more credit."
you glance at him, frowning. "next semester is... like, less than two months away."
"yup."
"gojo," you say, laconic.
"hmm?"
"register. right now." you shake your head, leaning back in your seat. if the look on your face reeks of disappointment, it's of no concern to you. "why haven't you done it yet? there probably aren't any classes left."
he sighs, hanging his head. "no one wants to take a class with me," he pouts, like a child. "i just need an elective credit. it doesn't even have to be hard."
"are you serious?"
his lip twitches like he knows that he's irritating you. because he is. "why wouldn't i be?"
"are you genuinely terrified of being alone?"
he snorts.
"sign up," you tell him, harshly, pushing your computer towards him. gojo satoru has one job to distract you from studying, and he's really quite good at it. "you can do it right now. while i'm watching."
"i haven't even decided on a class."
you stare at him, blank-faced.
"hey, i was going to take a photography class with suguru, but he said that he's already tired of looking at my selfies." his cheek twitches, and he's staring right at you. "which is ridiculous, because for one, i'm beautiful, and also i have invented poses that will be in use for generations to come. each one is perfectly unique."
unfortunately, you laugh. and even more unfortunately, every time you do laugh--every time gojo says something accidentally funny or a little bit too shocking--gojo lights up like he's just gotten the offer of a lifetime. his face always breaks open.
and gojo isn't always open. you might've thought that, four weeks ago, when he was just saying things, just talking to talk, but now you realize that he picks and chooses what emotions to display, and when. he sorts through dialogue options in his mind, and sometimes, if you look close enough, you can see him doing it before he responds. his face stills for a second or two, and then he's back in full force.
it would seem manipulative, sure, if it didn't feel like he was doing it to encourage you, keep you engaged and waiting.
so he's not usually open, but when you laugh, he suddenly is. it goes away quickly, but it's there all the same. and most of the time, like right now, you just pretend that you haven't noticed a thing.
"so, yes," you say eventually, once your diaphragm is even enough to continue. "you have a phobia."
he laughs right back. "no, i don't."
"then register. here."
he pushes the computer back towards you, hand covering yours as he does so. "not yet," he's smirking. "i need to analyze all of my choices."
"you're scared."
"i'm really not."
"okay, gojo."
"seriously," he tilts his head. "i don't think i'm scared of anything, actually."
you frown, blinking. "i'm pretty sure that's impossible."
"not for me."
"nothing?"
"nope."
"spiders?"
"no, are people scared of those?"
"heights?"
"i can fly, so... and i'm never high up."
"death?"
"i'll be dead. what's there to be scared of?"
you just stare at him.
"what?" gojo grins, leaning back again. "you don't need to worry about it. i'm sure it will work itself out, and i'll be fine."
you shake your head, letting it go. "you're going to have to take ballroom dancing, or something. there won't be anything left."
"i already took that, so."
"really?"
"no."
you roll your eyes.
he laughs. "what other classes are you taking?"
"uh, besides physics, i think ethics studies, art--" you pause. "why are you asking?"
he blinks innocently. he's grabbed the pen once again, this time twirling it between his fingers. "can't i be curious?"
"not with that look on your face."
"i think suguru is taking ethics studies, too. he was on the waitlist back in april."
"...okay," you respond, suspiciously.
"you know," gojo starts, after a single moment, and you sigh automatically. "i could see if there are any spots left. i might still need a humanities credit. what time are you taking, again?"
*
"no, gojo."
"but come on," he repeats, for probably the fourth time. his voice is just short of a whine. "is a test worth rotting your brain away? is it more valuable than the dopamine hit after an exorbitantly sweet beverage?"
"yes."
"is it really, though?" he asks again, leaning down to purposefully interrupt you.
he's sitting next to you today, because you managed to get one of those booths near the back of the library and figured that the space would be valuable around gojo--mainly because space always seems to vanish when he's around (even though he would probably say that space isn't malleable).
it's not any more valuable, though, as it turns out, because gojo just took this opportunity to get even closer to you--quite literally. suffocating you seems to be preferable to him, even though there's a whole other side of the table he could sit at, and currently, there's maybe a four-centimeter gap between the two of you. not to mention that somehow, every five minutes, gojo seems closer than he was before. he's presumably breaking some new physics law with every second that passes.
you're pretty sure he's just doing it so he can snoop on what you're working on, and that at this point, twenty minutes into your usual hour with gojo satoru, he's realized that you actually just study during this hour, and that it's incredibly boring to him.
well, they say that eavesdroppers are always disappointed, anyway.
"yes, gojo, and you're the only one who's getting a drink equivalent to dessert every day."
he hums, considering it for a moment. "then why do they have all of those fun syrups?"
"you probably broke in and put them there, or something."
"i would just send them in the mail," he claims, head getting even closer to your keyboard, "it's too much work to break in. besides, they need a return address so they know who to thank."
you roll your eyes, purposefully typing as fast as possible.
it does nothing to deter gojo. in the span of twenty seconds, he has neared closer and closer, until right now, when he rests his head on your hands, twisting his neck at the worst angle just to do it.
and his head is ridiculously heavy. like abnormally heavy. there's enough weight on your hands for you to wonder just how much air he's storing up there, and what the possible long-term consequences are to lugging it around every day.
"can't we take a break?" he asks, so desperately. you shake your hands, trying to get him off of you, but he doesn't budge.
"you haven't even done anything," you tell him, wanting nothing more than to poke the orchestrated frown from his face. your hands are all tied up, though. "you just got your computer out--it's not even open."
"my class was so hard. i'm exhausted."
"the other day you told me you could take over for your professor."
"i said that i should," he corrects, "and that's because she talks at a rate of ten words per minute and obviously has chronic laryngitis."
you give him a look, completely unamused. and do you really have something to be doing right now? yes.
“i’m serious. on tuesday she played a pre-recorded lecture where she coughed so loudly into the microphone that this girl flinched. and then she said, ‘sorry if anyone heard that,'" he looks up at you, bemused, you can see the flutter of his eyelashes behind the lens of his glasses. "everyone on planet earth heard that. do you remember that earthquake a couple months ago?”
you snort, attempting to shake him off again.
"just a little break. you could use one too, you always work so hard."
"stop trying to maneuver me."
"no, it's working."
you laugh and finally push his head away completely. gojo goes, albeit slowly, but he makes sure to keep his eyes on yours, blue and a burning ray of pleading. you sigh.
"i'm not--"
"satoru."
you startle, and gojo turns, moving slightly so you can see the girl standing beside him in the aisle, arms crossed. she has a bland look on her face, a single brow raised, and every possible warning sign a person would need to know that they should simply comply.
gojo, though, just smiles, completely oblivious to this. "what're you doing here?" he asks, turning completely towards her. "i thought you couldn't be seen with me."
"you promised you would be my lab rat before my exam."
"hmm... did i say that?"
"i still have the pictures from karaoke during last february's break if you forgot--"
"oh, that exam."
she rolls her eyes. "it's tomorrow. we have to get it done before my next class, and suguru said you had that dinner later with..." she pauses. leans forward a bit so she can see past gojo, to you. "hi. i'm shoko."
you raise a hand, waving meekly. you attempt to put on gojo's carefree and inviting smile, but your face isn't all that capable. a feeling runs through your chest, just briefly, the same feeling that you got when gojo first started waving at you, when he swore that you knew each other.
gojo looks between the two of you, nodding. "oh, this is y/n, my--"
"yeah, i already know. sorry to steal him," she says to you, completely bypassing gojo and the pout he sends her way.
"that's okay."
gojo's brows furrow, glasses slipping and slipping. "what? you're just going to accept this? you don't even care that--"
"satoru."
the look that shoko has in her eyes is so scathing that you want to push gojo out of the booth just so you're not a part of any collateral damage.
"okay, okay," he turns towards you again, lowering his voice. "i'm about to be subjected to physical torture. you owe me a drink with at least four different syrups."
"sure, gojo."
he grabs his computer and bag swiftly, just barely budging when shoko shoves him as he stands up. "i'll see you next week," he promises, giving you that brilliant smile that you could never possibly replicate, even if you spent weeks practicing.
"okay," and you wave at him too, as he leaves, just as meekly.
*
gojo talks to a lot of people. this isn't news, exactly--it's not news at all. he's told you, explicitly, exactly how many people, exactly why he's doing it.
and, despite every other opinion you have about gojo satoru, you can admit that he's good at it. beneath even his bravado, his scheming and bad jokes, or even his obvious intelligence, gojo can just talk.
he talks to everyone. he talks to the people at the front desk, the group of kids crammed around a tiny table, a classmate from a class over a year ago, a random girl he knows nothing about. he rambles about classes, a video he saw last year, a movie he watched when he was a kid. there's a seemingly endless flow of conversation, like he's pulling topics out of a magic hat.
you're watching this happen now, realizing that you hadn't really understood what he meant, exactly, by talking when he told you about it. or maybe you had, but just not the extent of it.
gojo doesn't just stop and make small talk; he asks genuine questions, makes outrageous jokes, tries to get anyone and everyone in on any ploy as long as it's entertaining.
and watching this now, you truly see it. four different people have stopped to have a conversation with gojo today. first, it was two minutes, then three, and now you're sitting at your usual table in the library, observing him as he chats with someone, and it has to have been over ten minutes. maybe it's a friend, maybe it's not. you can't really tell with gojo, can you? he grins at everyone, he intrudes into their space, he opens his mouth and a million different things come out, and somehow he makes even the mundane seem captivating.
the person he's talking to now could very well be a younger kid on a tour of the school, or an arsonist armed with tiny bottles of acetone. he could be anyone, honestly, but he's going to stop and talk to gojo satoru.
everyone does. he's friendly with everyone, and you're sitting in the middle of the library.
you knew this.
of course you did. there wasn't one week where suddenly everyone was talking about gojo, and you happened to notice, that's just every week. but you were only able to tune into this after you'd met him and experienced gojo in his totality.
every party, every half-assed social media post, practically every sighting in public allows for another whisper, another mention of his name somewhere around campus.
it's been eleven minutes, now.
eventually you're going to have to assume that the guy gojo is talking to really is a friend, but then that begs the question, who, exactly, isn't friends with gojo?
seemingly no one, you assume, considering that you're actively trying not to stare even more with every new person that passes gojo--and obviously stops--but it's a bit impossible now. soon, you're going to set a stopwatch on your phone. next week, you're going to do this again, of course, and you're going to track the length of his conversations and then probably post it on a website where people track his every movement, every inch up in society.
and you're going to go crazy if the next thirty minutes go by and you have to pass gojo on your way out of the library to your next class. he'll probably stop you, too, and he'll probably have a new story about someone in his class or an acquaintance on the opposite side of the world that he converses with daily.
twelve minutes now.
this is dumb. this wasn't concerning until a day or two ago; you never bothered to look up before. the fact that gojo has regularly sat with you two times a week has no impact on your reason for being here.
which is why you're scribbling on your open notebook, ignoring him. he needs to give you the pen back today because he's had it for over a week, and on thursday you're not coming back to the library. you'll find another building, one without irritating boys who are nothing but distractions, one where you don't have to share your time or your space, or your brain, and can just work like you mean to.
that's why you're here, isn't it? because this is a more convenient place to study than your apartment--with all of it's soft blankets and the sunken-in spots on the couch where you retreat to every time you even attempt to open a textbook. you're here because you'd only have twenty minutes at home if you dared to go back after your first two classes, and because there's too much temptation in other places. you're here to focus, to find some productivity amidst the chaos of everyone else.
and you really don't have time to be mentally tracking every decision you've ever made. the semester is almost over, and you need to be focusing on your exams, need to be planning out things for after the break, need to get that on-campus job you've been looking for, and probably block the word gojo from your head for at least another year.
this train of thought--the time spent thinking, even--is stupid. and jealousy is stupid, and is this even jealousy? is it not envy, with the anger pricking down your spine, the needle making a hole in the fibers of your skin, poking and poking, getting bigger with each second, and reminding you that you're not really special.
and why do you want to be?
why should you--
"y/n," gojo drawls, sitting down. he slides in like it's nothing. "right where i left you."
your eyes widen, momentarily. it's funny that after twenty minutes of purely observing him, you're shocked now when he finally shows up. "hey."
"what are we working on today?" he asks, maybe genuinely curious, or maybe just trying to draw you away from working entirely. who can really tell with him?
"um..." you look towards a table a couple of meters away, full of faces that gojo probably knows. "being quiet?"
"aw, but i'm pretty sure we did that last time. and the time before that."
you just barely glance at him. "you should be improving at it then."
"i'm not," he's grinning. he's always grinning. "i'm actually getting worse every time. you should probably give up. think it's a lost cause."
"i thought there wasn't anything you couldn't do."
"well, every hero has an achilles heel," he shrugs. "it's unfair otherwise, if there's nothing to overcome. what are you doing?" he sits on the edge of his seat, peering over you.
"...writing a paper," you say, entirely too slow.
gojo tilts his head at you, purposefully looking down, then back up. he's far too close, far too loud. "in your notebook?"
"i--i'm outlining."
he squints. "okay."
"i need to focus," you tell him, except with resolve this time. "this is due next week."
gojo makes a face. "ouch. when's your last exam?"
"next thursday."
"are you worried?"
"no..."
"good. you shouldn't be," gojo puts one finger on your notebook, leaning back in his seat and slowly pulling it away from you. "you're always working. following in my wake, as you should."
"gojo."
"hmm?" he tilts his head again, smiling so softly you have to clutch at your notebook--and not just to get it back.
"i, uh," you swallow, looking down. "really need to work."
for a moment, he's silent, and you can practically feel him observing you--making his calculations and forming a hypothesis before he starts the testing. he's eyes are warm as they peer, or maybe that's just your face. "you're cranky again."
you clear your throat, glancing up for one second, then looking away. "i'm just busy."
"same thing."
"it's really not. i have a lot i need to get done, is all."
"we barely got to talk last week," he says, almost soft, but still whining. he does this thing every time he's trying to convince you, lowering his voice and smoothing it out. "we have to make up for it."
"no, we don't."
he grins like you're funny. "lets get that drink. it'll make you feel better."
"i'll feel better during summer break when i get full marks," you tell him, reaffirming your grip on the notebook and looking down intently--even though there's nothing there but nonsense. it's the thought that counts.
"what if you got full marks and a drink with me?" gojo prods, "wouldn't that be the best of both worlds?"
"no, because if i go get a drink with you, then i'm not studying, and then i'll fail and have to get a job making your drinks just to survive."
he half-laughs, readjusting in his seat. "i'm very nice to the people who make my drinks, you know."
you roll your eyes, giving him an unimpressed look. "you're very nice to everyone."
"true. aren't i a dream?"
"gojo, i'm serious. i have to get started on this before i forget. don't you have exams to study for?"
"already did," he claims.
you stare at him.
"what?" he grins. "i did. i'm years ahead of everyone in my class."
you sigh. "please don't go into another rant about your professor and her lack of accolades."
he frowns, and if you didn't know any better--which you do, by the way--you'd think he was worried, and not just slightly offended. "are you tired, again? another headache?"
"not yet."
gojo narrows his eyes, cheek twitching. "was that a jibe at me?"
"not... an intentional one?"
he grins, and something in his eyes, on his face, settles. he seems a bit resigned, like he was planning to give up this whole time. maybe he's worn out from asking every person in the library what they were studying for, and if they like extra sugar on the rim of their tea. "okay, okay. work. but you're going to owe me two drinks."
"my temples are throbbing," you deadpan, looking away from him.
"i won't forget, you know," he tells you. but he doesn't say anything else, and you watch from the corner of your eyes as he pulls out his own notebook and your pen. you almost can't look away, so you watch gojo as he opens one of his textbooks, focusing in on a page he's already scribbled all over.
A truly incredible, truly beautiful college AU. Can NOT recommend Verity's writing enough, and the way she just captures realism and Gojo and The Human Experience. If you love Gojo you MUST read everything she writes, starting with this!!!
Who's the monster now? (Soulbinding) [Satoru Gojo x Fem! Reader]
Summary: You dream of Satoru, striding into your room in all his hard-won arrogance, loudly questioning whether you’re really so dependent on him. You dream of him climbing into your bed, jostling you into his lap and back against his chest. You dream of his lips on your temple, big hands stroking your back.
“Come back to me,” dream Satoru whispers.
“I’m not the one who left,” you tell him.
Dream Satoru hums. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
You dream that Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the history of Jujutsu, the man you’ve loved since he was no more than a cruel, spoiled child, slides his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head back. You dream that he bends over you until your noses touch, lingering there for a heartbeat.
You dream that he brushes his lips over yours.
And that’s when you wake up.
Author’s Notes: My 14K contribution to JJK’s fix-it fic collection. In continuing my trend of naming (all two of) my JJK fics “cleverly” and for my own personal gratification, have this (and shoot me a message if you get the reference, I would love to know I'm not the only one who was devastated by that line)!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Jujutsu Kaisen
Warnings/tags: fix-it fic, forced proximity, mild language, enemies to lovers (ish), spoilers, canon-typical violence, character death, not beta’d!
From the moment you opened your eyes, something was off. You could feel it crackle in the air, in the prickling of unease that danced across your skin. Could taste it the moment you walked out of your apartment, something tangy and toothsome blowing down into your lungs.
But you were used to days like that, where the weight on your shoulders nearly bore you to the ground and shadows skittered at the corners of your vision and behind your closed lids.
It was just one of those days.
That was the only explanation you could offer yourself; for why you kept walking when the air grew heavy, why the dead expressions around you didn’t send you scuttling back home to hide under a pile of blankets until the chill abated.
Honestly, you couldn’t even bring yourself to be too shocked by the riotous stream of memories that came crashing down around your ears, a cacophonous replay of every thought, word, decision that you’ve ever had, spoken, made.
Maybe you’d finally snapped.
No, the shock came almost instantly after, when large, slender hands wrapped around your elbows, yanking you against something hard and warm.
It came when you raised your head, only to find yourself drowning in an azure sea that sparkled with manic energy; came with the flash of teeth as snow-white as the mop of hair above it.
This was the most beautiful boy you’d ever seen.
You watched as his lips moved, but you couldn’t hear his words over the roaring in your ears. He seemed to notice, because he released one elbow from his long fingers and spun you to pull your back against his chest. You blinked in astonishment, hardly registering the way he held the slim fingers of the hand raised in front of you both. Beyond his pale skin, you could see them–actually see them–the shapes, the shadows that had haunted your days and dreams for so long.
You reached up, clutching the arm that held your shoulders to him with both hands.
You could see them, and you could feel the rumble of the beautiful boy’s chest against your back, and those two things were what proved to be too much.
There was an unbearably bright light behind your eyelids. You squeezed them shut tighter, curling in on yourself.
“Give her a minute, Satoru. So impatient.”
“You’d be impatient too, if you couldn’t get away from her!”
You cracked an eyelid slowly open. There was the same boy, white hair mussed and jacket rumpled. He paced the room, hands balled at his sides. He wore round, dark glasses, despite the dimness of the room, and looked thoroughly enraged. Too slowly, your muddled mind recognized that his death glare was directed at you.
You sat up too quickly and felt a wave of nausea so strong it nearly knocked you back down.
A hand gripped your arm, firm, but not painful. “Easy, now.” The voice was husky, soft. You turned your head carefully until you saw her; a beautiful girl with a melancholy face. She had to be your age, but she looked as though she’d lived a thousand lifetimes already. Her lips turned down at the corners and the bags beneath her eyes belied sleepless nights. She smelled faintly of stale cigarettes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
You blinked yourself out of your stupor. “Two.”
“She’s fine. Now ask her!”
“Would you cut it out?”
You turned your head to see the boy from earlier standing, arms crossed, glaring at another boy who leaned against the wall at the foot of your bed.
Bed?
You blinked again to clear your vision, hardly registering the bickering as you took in a room that looked an awful lot like a hospital, but… different.
“Where am I?” Your voice cut off all other conversation in the room as three heads turned to you in tandem–one worried, one unreadable, and one furious.
“You’re safe. But before we tell you everything, we need to ask you some questions, too.” The other boy, dark hair tied into a neat bun; all but one stubborn lock that brushed the side of his face. He smiled, eyes crinkling shut. “Is that okay?”
Your eyes flitted to the first boy, and then away. You could feel the rage rolling off him in waves. The girl and the dark-haired boy both glanced his way. The girl rolled her eyes, the dark-haired boy sighed, and the white-haired boy dropped his arms in exasperation.
He took two quick strides in your direction, long legs eating up the small space, and leaned forward until you were forced against the headboard. He raised a long finger, pointing it at you accusingly.
“What did you do to me?” His voice was cold, lethal. You felt yourself break into a sweat.
“Do? To you? I-I didn’t–”
“Satoru.” Before you could continue what surely would have been incoherent babbling, the dark-haired boy stood, pushing Satoru away with a firm hand to his chest. Satoru shrugged him off, glaring at you even as he prowled to the other side of the room.
His friend looked to the ceiling as if to ask why me? before turning to you with an easy smile. He held a hand out, far away enough that you could choose to ignore it if you so desired.
“I’m Suguru Geto. This”–a gesture to the girl–“is Shoko Ieiri.” She offered a single wave. “And that miserable bastard”–a wave accompanied by a long-suffering eyeroll–“is Satoru Gojo.”
If you looked closely enough, you swore you could see steam rising from his ears. You winced at his expression, involuntarily curling your fingers into the bedsheets.
“Whatever you think I did to you, Gojo, I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.” His mouth fell open in protest, reaching up to rip the shades from his eyes, and any further apology, any explanation you might have tried to come up with, died on your lips as you were swept away in a cerulean wave. His eyes seemed to spark in outrage, but he said nothing as Geto raised a hand. You couldn’t tear your gaze from Gojo’s, but you saw Geto raise an eyebrow in your peripheral.
“Maybe you should start at the beginning,” he said. “How did you get into the school in the first place?”
Your confusion must have shown on your face, because Gojo let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself down on the foot of your bed, narrowly missing sitting on your feet. He slumped back against the wall. “She literally just walked in, Suguru. I told you that already.”
“Yes, but how?”
You looked to Ieiri as your nerves began to rise. “Was the school closed, or…?”
Ieiri tilts her head at you as the boys argue about veils and domains. Your head spins as a sinking feeling fills you.
“What do you know about cursed spirits?” The argument stops abruptly, both boys’ attention snapping to their friend. They hiss her name, glancing between you and each other.
“C-cursed spirits?” You clutch the bedsheets a little tighter, drawing your legs to your chest. Gojo tracks the movement, scowling lightly.
The door opens to reveal a broad man with sunglasses. He peers around the room, seemingly irritated by the people in it.
“Gojo, Geto, Ieiri, I thought I told you to leave her alone.”
“She doesn’t know anything about cursed spirits,” offers Ieiri. Geto and the man in the door simultaneously drop their heads to their hands.
“You’ve done it now, Shoko,” mutters Geto, rubbing his face as he raises his head.
Gojo continues to stare at you, unmoving. The anger hasn’t gone, but there’s something else there now, too. Curiosity, maybe. You can’t tell, too focused on keeping your gaze away from him, despite the fact that it keeps returning against your will.
He hates me, you think. There’s an arrogant tilt to his head, something bordering cruel in the flat line of his mouth. Even without looking directly at him, you can see the strain in his crossed arms. What were you meant to have done to him?
“Everyone out.” Ieiri and Geto share a look before turning to the door, Geto pausing only to glare daggers until Gojo moves to leave without taking his eyes from you. The door shuts, and for a long moment, you and the older man sit in silence.
“What’s your name, young lady?” You offer it softly and the older man pulls up the chair that Ieiri has abandoned. “I am Principal Yaga, and this is Tokyo Jujutsu High.” He folds his hands, expression serious as he leans forward. “I believe some explanations may be in order.”
Cursed spirits. The things you always saw, the shapes floating in the shadows and the pressure against your spine and temples–those were cursed spirits.
“You shouldn’t have been able to breach the barrier.”
But you had. Somehow, without meaning to, you had. You’d walked through a veil and straight into Gojo’s domain at the same moment that he cast it.
“You’re lucky he was able to get to you before the memories crushed you.”
That had been why he’d grabbed you–to protect you from his own power. To tuck you, literally and figuratively, under his wing so that your mind wouldn’t break in the time-loop he procured, as paralyzing as it was never-ending. You had Ieiri to thank for your quick recovery, it seemed. Gojo could trap cursed spirits like flies in honey, leaving them vulnerable to the onslaught he could unleash.
He could unmake minds.
Ieiri, conversely, could heal them, along with the rest of the body. When Gojo had carried you out of the school grounds, Ieiri had used her technique to heal your brain and body, accelerating your recovery from what might have taken weeks or months to heal on its own. You’d been unconscious for twenty hours, and all three of them–Ieiri, Gojo, and Geto–had stayed until you’d woken up.
Well. Gojo had tried to leave–furious that you’d interrupted his mass-exorcism, angry that you’d seen fit to waltz through their carefully contained barrier and put yourself in harms’ way, subsequently ruining their plans.
You didn’t know why he’d come back, but you had a feeling it had to do with whatever he thought you’d done to him. Yaga hadn’t said what that was, and you’d been too nervous to ask. You could hear Gojo’s voice now, though, cutting through the other second years’ from behind the door you’d come to. You couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded just as angry as he had before.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck here, young lady.”
You took a shaky breath and opened the door.
Three heads turned to face you. Gojo stood hunched over a desk, sweat darkening his uniform and painting his face in a thin sheen. His face was screwed up in pain and his knuckles were white where they gripped the desk. He let out a breath when you stepped into the room, arms trembling. Geto’s gaze snapped to him, searching his face.
“Interesting,” murmured Ieiri, watching him intently. Gojo’s face twisted and you folded your arms protectively around yourself at the icy look he gave you.
“Am I interrupting? I can–”
“No, you’re not,” said Ieiri. She was focused on Gojo, but held a hand out to you. “In fact, come here.”
You were reluctant to move, but she made an impatient gesture at you with a sidelong glance.
“Shoko,” growled Gojo. “What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.” She snatched your hand, pulling it away from your body, and unceremoniously pressed it to Gojo’s cheek.
You weren’t sure which of you flinched harder, but almost against his will, Gojo’s eyes slid shut beneath your palm. A long breath went out of him and you watched in fascination as the tension seemed to drain out of his body.
It would have been comical, the way you and Ieiri and Geto tilted your heads in perfect sync, if Gojo hadn’t broken the moment by rearing back as though you’d burned him.
“Yeah,” he sneered. “She definitely did something to me.”
His hand shot out, snagging yours in a painful grip. He wrenched you forward, startling a cry out of you as you were pulled halfway over the desk. Geto and Ieiri leapt forward, saying his name sharply, but their hands stopped in mid-air, as though stuck. “The question is, what?”
“Let her go, Satoru. Whatever she did, she doesn’t know. And I assure you that it wasn’t on purpose.”
Principal Yaga strode calmly into the room, seemingly unbothered by everything taking place before him. For a long moment, you stood, pinned beneath Gojo’s gaze and caged in his grip. Then his lip curled back as he flung your hand away from him. You clutched your wrist to your chest, eyes fixed on him in fear. Ieiri laid a gentle hand on your arm, and you found yourself leaning into her touch. You watched in fascination as Geto’s hand lurched forward, past whatever invisible barrier that, no, you hadn’t imagined, landing on Gojo’s shoulder and curling tightly into his uniform there.
“Say hello to your new classmate,” said Yaga. Ieiri squeezed your arm gently. Geto turned a wide smile your way. Gojo swore under his breath.
“I don’t want her here,” he snarled, wrenching out from beneath Geto’s grip. His friends’ attention snapped toward him with scathing glares.
Your heart clenched painfully. It wasn’t like you had many friends—too strange, too isolated, too other to make any truly meaningful connections—but this vitriol was as foreign as it was unwelcome. You swallowed back tears, and for just a moment, those snowy brows twitched down in something other than hatred.
“Be that as it may,” drawled Yaga, “it’s clear that you need her here.”
“I don’t need anyone,” he grumbled. Yaga snorted, but you didn’t miss the flash of hurt on Geto’s face as he turned away.
“Well she needs us. She can’t go home, not without learning to wield her technique.”
“Which is?” This from Geto, who was still watching the wall. Gojo had noticed, too. His face had softened somewhat, and in that moment, he looked like the boy who’d protected you within his domain. He leaned to the side, imperceptibly closer to his friend, but Geto jerked away from the contact and moved to stand against the wall. Gojo frowned.
“Well?” Ieiri said, and you realized that Yaga hadn’t answered Geto’s question.
“I don’t know.”
All eyes were on you, again. You really weren’t good with being the center of attention.
“I-I don’t know either,” you stammered out. You wrung your hands, desperate to be out from under everyone’s scrutiny. “My parents, what do I tell them?”
Your father would be furious, putting Gojo’s display to shame. Swearing, throwing whatever he could get his hands on. You just had to hope he didn’t get his hands on you. As for your mother, well… you’d prefer not to dwell on whether or not she’d even notice your absence.
Yaga turned to the door. “I’ll take care of your parents, you just get settled in. I’m putting you next to Satoru, since you’re clearly bonded somehow.” You stiffened, as did Gojo across from you. “Take her to her room, Satoru.” The door swung open, leaving you standing in silence with the second year students again. After a tense moment, Gojo swore.
“Don’t make me wait for you, trouble.” You bristled, but Gojo was already through the door. You darted across the room, peering up and down the hall and barely catching him turning the corner.
You ran down the hall, skidded around the corner, and took off after him. Why were his legs so damn long?
“I’m sorry,” you called. You’d slowed down ten or so paces behind him, not wanting to further raise his ire by walking beside him. “I didn’t mean to ruin your… your exorcism. And… thank you. For protecting me.”
Gojo’s spine straightened as he slowed his steps. You weren’t expecting it, and would have crashed into him if not for the fear of setting him off. He stopped walking and turned to face you.
He regarded you coolly from behind his glasses, chin tilted up so you could see none of the devastating blue behind the dark lenses. You looked away, scrambling for something else to say, before he surprised you by speaking.
“Yeah. You're welcome.”
You scuffed your feet against the brick pathway. “And I’m sorry for… whatever I did. I mean I didn’t do anything. I mean I didn’t mean to do anything. I—”
“Just shut up.” You stopped speaking, stunned. You’d never been told to shut up before. You’d expected to feel hurt, but despite how infuriated with you he’d been, there was no heat to the words. A request, plain and simple. You must have been processing for too long, because Gojo raised one bright brow. You snapped your mouth shut, feeling your teeth clack together painfully.
Gojo snorted.
He turned, taking just a few more steps before opening a door. He flipped a light switch and a small dorm was illuminated.
He jerked his head toward it. “This is you.”
You squeezed between him and the doorway, careful not to brush against him.
“You’d better not wake me up,” Gojo said. You turned, somehow expecting a grin or some jokester’s gleam in his eye.
Nothing.
He turned to go, shutting the door behind him and leaving you alone for the first time since you’d wandered into the exorcism. You looked around the room, sparsely furnished but clean. Better than your room at home. There was a stack of uniforms on the desk, some more casual clothes beside it. You frowned as you realized that you didn’t know where the bathrooms were. Sighing, you picked up a stack of fresh clothes and set out in search of one.
You woke him up screaming, and he shook you awake in turn.
“It’s just a dream! It’s just a bad dream, calm down.”
Tears streamed down your face as you shook hard enough to shake the bed beneath you. You clutched at him, hands sliding over some unseen border momentarily. Whatever was blocking your path gave way quickly, though, and then you were scrabbling at the loose shirt he wore, pulling yourself against his chest.
“They’re real, they’re all real, they–”
“Shh. Yeah, they’re real. But they’re not here. And they won’t get you.” Almost reluctantly, Gojo raised his arms, holding you loosely. He awkwardly patted your head, clumsily stroking your hair. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’m not crazy?”
There was a shocked pause before Gojo, tightening his arms ever so slightly, said, “No, you’re not crazy.” He waited several minutes, until after your breathing evened and tears stopped flowing, before speaking again. “I still can’t believe you had no idea. I can’t believe you lived like that for so long.”
You shrugged. “Well, no one else could see what I saw. No one else seemed to notice.”
He nodded. His hand on your back had grown steadier. “And you really don’t know what you did? To me?”
Guilt curdled your stomach. Your grip on his shirt tightened as you tucked your face into his neck. “No,” you mumbled. “I told you, I didn’t do anything.” He hummed. “What does it feel like?” you asked softly.
His hand paused before resuming its slow pattern. You felt him shift his weight, jostling you further forward. There was a long silence.
“You don’t have to–”
“It feels like addiction.”
You raised your head to look at him, and startled when you realized how close he was. “What do you mean?”
“Well first off, I’m more irritable than usual.” He craned his head back to better glare down at you. “So try not to take it personally.” You tucked your head back under his chin, away from that sharp gaze. “It’s like I have to be close to you. I get shaky. Sweaty.” He shrugged, and the motion slid you even further into his hold. “You saw me.”
You nodded. You had seen him, and he’d looked acutely ill. You loosened your hold on his shirt, carefully sliding your hands down. When he didn’t move, you slid them around his waist. To your surprise, he arched up just enough for you to tuck them securely behind his back. You squeezed lightly, bracing yourself for the question you were about to ask.
“And you? What did you do to me?”
Gojo scowled. “Well, you walked right into my domain.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He made an impatient noise. “It’s part of my cursed technique, which I know, you don’t know what that is either.” You flinched at the immediate dismissal, but he wasn’t wrong. “Cursed technique is how you fight curses. Some people’s are passed down through family lines, some people find their own. A domain is…”
For the first time, he sounded unsure, as though maybe he had never had to explain this before. Never had to break it down.
“You summon a domain when you have control. You control the space and use it to your advantage to win.”
You winced. “So… I kept you from winning?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” You waited for him to move, to pull away or snap at you again, but he didn’t. Neither of you said anything else. You must have fallen asleep that way, half laid over him, because you wake to weak, watery sunlight filtering through the thin curtains over your window.
And without a trace that he’d ever been there at all, Gojo has gone.
If you’d thought your late night moment would lift the ire Gojo turned on you, you’d have been extraordinarily wrong.
Sorcerers, as you learned they were called, trained. Often, and brutally. They practiced all the things you’d expect someone called a “sorcerer” to practice–self-control, attention, awareness, and of course, mastering their cursed techniques.
They also practiced martial arts. And because your cursed technique was a mystery, that’s where you started.
Gojo started by ignoring Yaga’s recommendation to stay close to you and going out on a mission instead.
It was only an hour before he appeared out of thin air in the martial arts classroom, swearing and sweating and shaking as he knocked over furniture on his way to the floor. He waved you away when you went to him, swearing at you, too, before proceeding to critique your every movement with vicious prejudice.
Your footwork was poor, your kicks and cuts were sloppy. Did you really think you wouldn’t lose your balance, leaning all that way forward?
You’d done well at letting the comments roll off your shoulders for the first few days. You reminded yourself that for all you knew, he wasn’t really himself. You reasoned that you were keeping him from his own training. But it wore on you as the days went on, and you found your resolve growing thinner. Then one afternoon Geto arrived, standing in the sidelines and scowling at your performance.
“Oh, come on!” groaned Gojo. “Do you seriously think that would work in a real fight? What, are you going to scare them away with ineptitude? You’d be killed.”
Something snapped as tears poured down your cheeks. “Well then I guess I’ll just die! And then you’ll be rid of me, so maybe that would be best for everyone.”
Without meaning to, you’d snapped the stick you’d been using. Gojo stared at you in shock, mouth slightly parted. Geto sat with his head in his hands, muttering under his breath.
Straightening your spine as much as you could, you spun on your heel and forced yourself to walk calmly across the classroom.
“You idiot,” Geto hissed, and you heard something that sounded suspiciously like a slap. “What have I said to you about protecting the weak?”
A sob bubbled up as you pushed through the door.
Great, even he thought you were weak.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you took off, racing to your room to throw yourself face first in your bed. You gave yourself a headache crying and didn’t stop until there was a soft knock at your door.
Was it Gojo? Was he here to apologize? Or more likely to say some other cruel thing?
“Can I come in?”
Oh. Geto.
You scrubbed at your face, trying to wipe away the worst of the tear tracks.
“Yeah, sure.”
The door swung open and Geto strode in, expression placid as ever. He seated himself at the foot of your bed. “How’re you holding up?”
You shrugged. “Fine.”
Geto eyed you. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know how he can be.”
You shrugged again, reluctant to say anything negative despite the way he’d been treating you. “He hates me.”
Geto let out a long sigh as he leaned back against the wall. “He doesn’t hate you. And I want to be clear–I’m not excusing him or apologizing for him.”
You said nothing, letting the explanation breathe into your room. Eventually, Geto continued.
“Satoru isn’t used to relying on anyone. He’s strongest when he’s alone.” There was a bitter edge to Geto’s voice. You peeked at him out of the corner of your eye, but his face betrayed nothing. “Now, not only does he need someone, but he needs to protect someone.”
“He’s having a hard time adjusting,” you offered quietly.
Geto snorted. “Well, yeah. He’s always been insufferable, though.”
You chuckled at that. You could see it. Over the almost-week you’d been here, he’d been flippant and casually hilarious. The only thing he took seriously were sweets, and he whined like a child when he hadn’t had any. He struck you as someone who always got his way, which must have made the entire situation that much worse for him. Despite all that, though, he’d charmed you somehow. You could only imagine his friends felt the same way.
Geto stood, dropping a hand to your shoulder comfortingly. “Just don’t let him get to you. He’ll come around. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He may be a stubborn ass, but it’ll be worth sticking around.”
“Do I even have a choice?” you asked wryly. Geto laughed at that, loud and full-bodied.
“No, I guess you don’t. All the more reason to get on board.” He had a smile that put you at ease, on full display now. His calm was the perfect balance to Gojo’s chaos.
It made sense, their friendship. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t jealous. You’d yearned for a friendship like that for years, for anyone close. You’d been hopeful of finding kinship with Ieiri, but those hopes were waning by the day. It wasn’t that she wasn’t nice, just untouchable. Aloof and distant.
You blinked back to the present. “Thank you, Geto.”
He waved a hand absently as he stood to go. “Don’t mention it. And don’t let him push you around.”
As it turned out, you didn’t have to not let Gojo do anything.
When you walked into the cafeteria the next morning, he called your name, waving you over to the group’s table before you could make yourself your morning tea. You blinked in surprise. Your tea was made, steaming from the spot next to his alongside a piece of toast. It was what you’d eaten every morning since you’d been here, but you were shocked that he’d noticed.
He rolled his eyes at you where you’d stopped. “Hurry up, trouble.” It was gentler than he’d spoken to you since that first night and you leapt on the change. You slid into the seat next to him as the two first-years, Yu Haibara and Kento Nanami, watched you from across the table with respective interest and wariness. You’d met each of them briefly, but because of the unique circumstances surrounding your enrollment, you had hardly seen your would-be classmates around campus.
Nanami only nodded in your direction, but Haibara greeted you enthusiastically.
“We haven’t seen you in classes! What gives?”
A strong arm came down around your shoulders, startling you. You forced yourself not to acknowledge the boy it belonged to. “She’s training with the strongest! Why? Are you jealous, Haibara?”
“Oh, sure, Gojo. Jealous of you.” He tossed a playful wink your way. “She’s really pretty.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Nanami groaned, Geto threw back his head with a raucous guffaw. Ieiri tried to stifle a snicker behind her hand, and Haibara ate it all up with a wide smile. Even Gojo, one elegant eyebrow arched, let out an amused hum.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said drily.
Without thinking, you shoved him. “Rude!” you said, but you were giggling. Suddenly, you were the only one giggling. The rest of the table had gone silent, eyes trained to the spot where your hand still rested on Gojo’s bicep. You snatched it back, glancing up at him on instinct.
For a moment that might have been a lifetime, those impossibly blue eyes bored into you, pinning you in place. Then the table exploded into sound.
“How did she do that?”
“What just happened?”
“Satoru, did you—?”
“How come she can touch him!?”
“Gojo, did you let her touch you?”
Gojo raised a hand, silencing the group once more. He turned to face you, straddling the bench.
“Do that again.”
You looked around, hardly able to meet anyone’s eyes under the sudden pressure of attention.
“Do what again?” you asked.
“Touch me.”
Inexplicably, those two, tiny words sent a shiver down your spine. You reached forward tentatively, pausing halfway, before laying your palm flat against his chest.
He stared down at it, brows drawn down in concentration. It was as though everyone held their breath. You held yours, even if you didn’t know why. The silence stretched and for a moment, you felt a slippery static coat your fingers. Then it dissipated as Gojo raised his head with a powerful breath out.
His face twisted in something–confusion, fear, anger?
“I can’t stop her,” he said tightly.
Everyone began speaking at once. You drew your hand back and told yourself that you imagined the way he chased your touch.
“Can’t stop what?” you asked.
“Infinity should keep any threat from touching me.”
As if to prove the point, Ieiri threw a rice ball at the back of Gojo’s head. If you hadn’t been paying attention, you’d have thought that it bounced off of him. But you were paying attention, and you noticed that it bounced off of something else entirely.
“I couldn’t touch you the other night, though,” you pointed out. “Not at first, at least.” Ieiri cocked a brow, and you felt heat flush your cheeks, worried you’d said too much. Gojo only scowled.
“I… I guess you’re right. But you were an unknown quantity. I was especially on-guard.”
“You should feel special.” Geto threw an arm around Gojo’s shoulders. “Satoru doesn’t like to be touched,” he crooned. You winced, but Gojo only rolled his eyes. Geto was actually touching him–either he, too, was immune, or Gojo was actually letting him.
Considering the table’s earlier outburst, you strongly suspected the latter.
“Maybe Infinity can tell I’m no threat,” you muttered.
By this time, Ieiri had been drawn into reluctant discussion with Haibara and Nanami, who looked just as deflated as she did.
Gojo, though, gave you a pained look from behind his glasses that you couldn’t quite decipher. Geto looked between the two of you, smile going wide.
“No,” he said in a way that clearly meant yes. “I suppose you aren’t.” You most certainly are.
Several months later, Geto was gone. Yaga brought the news while Gojo was training you in hand to hand and thoroughly kicking your ass. He had teleported away before you could even process the statement.
Geto had razed a village.
You couldn’t wrap your mind around it.
Why?
You waited with Ieiri for Gojo to come back. Ever since arriving at the school, you’d remained close to Gojo–save for those times he felt contrary and left, only to come crawling back later.
This time, it was hours. You’d begun to feel those addiction symptoms he’d talked about; the shaky hands, the cold sweat pooling at the small of your back, the nausea.
You’d never felt it before.
“Shoko,” you breathed. “I don’t feel well.”
She leapt to her feet, immediately all business, and stubbed out her cigarette.
“C’mon, let’s get you inside.” She rushed you to your room, tucking you into bed and promising to come back shortly with a cup of tea and some medicine.
You curled into a ball, finally letting your thoughts spiral.
What if he didn’t come back? What if he came back hurt? What if he was so weakened by the separation that he couldn’t come back?
That set your heart to racing. None of you had managed to break the bond between you and Gojo, despite his best efforts. No one seemed to be able to figure out what your cursed technique was supposed to be, only that you seemed to ignore most other cursed energy. Most, not all.
As if that was helpful.
You let yourself think the worst thought yet.
What if Geto killed him?
Shoko returned with your tea, seated herself in your desk chair, and pulled out a flask. She kept a straight face as she took a long pull, offered it to you, and then replaced it with a shrug when you shook your head no.
She put her head down on your desk and was out in seconds.
You, meanwhile, lay awake until the moon tracked halfway across the compact expanse of your window.
You blinked, and then Gojo was there, standing in the middle of your room as though he belonged there.
You sat bolt upright. He looked awful. His uniform jacket was rumpled, hair tousled, and glasses nowhere to be found. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles in stark contrast to the vibrant blue. They looked empty. Hollow.
You reached for him without a word.
Shoko slept peacefully on as he kicked off his shoes and stripped his uniform jacket over his head, revealing a white undershirt that clung to him where it was soaked in sweat. You didn’t care about that, and clearly he didn’t either. You scooted back to make space for him, pressing your back to the wall. He lifted the covers, sliding carefully into the narrow space you’d made for him.
You gave him time to settle and then, tentatively, reached for his hand. You’d hoped he might not jerk away from you, and he didn’t. With a swift motion, he clasped your hands together, shifting until your forearms pressed together. His toes brushed yours and you allowed yourself to tangle your legs with his.
You revelled, as you always did, in being the one who got to touch him like this.
It had taken many weeks, but Gojo was nothing if not persistent. He’d tried and tried again, pushing through every failure, until he could keep you at bay with his Infinity. He’d finally trained it, through sheer force of will or some other miracle, to repel you. You’d pasted a smile on, congratulating him on his success in an effort to mask the hurt. Whether or not he’d seen that hurt, he’d never raised Infinity against you since.
Sometimes, it made you wonder; wonder whether he was as starved for genuine affection as you had been your whole life; wonder whether he took as much comfort in the contact as you did; wonder why he’d never made a concerted effort to let someone else, anyone else, in.
Sometimes.
Most times, like this one, you contented yourself in soaking up his warmth.
You lay watching each other for a long time. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you. You didn’t ask whether Geto had really done it; you could see that he had. He didn’t tell you that he hadn’t executed him; you knew that he hadn’t.
Neither of you brought up how this changed everything.
You were so incredibly confused when you woke up. Long arms held you tightly against a lean body, and warm breath tickled the back of your neck. Your legs tangled with sheets and someone else’s limbs, and when you opened your eyes, you found that Gojo had crowded you right up to the wall in the night, crushing you between him and it.
It was almost uncomfortable, but his breathing was deep and even. You couldn’t bring yourself to move.
You felt the moment he woke up, arms and legs tensing in a stretch before freezing, cataloging where he was. You stayed still, pretending to be asleep, allowing him the time to make his exit without your attention on him. A moment later, though, he relaxed and shifted forward, gently tightening his hold on you.
Your eyes flew open in shock.
“Sleep well?” he murmured.
Damn Six Eyes.
You avoided his question. “I expected you to bolt the moment you woke up.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t.”
You lifted your chin to indicate the wall. “I don’t exactly have space.”
“Are you complaining?”
You considered for a moment. “No.”
Gojo nuzzled impossibly closer, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder as his body molded to yours. “Good,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, “This is nice.”
You hummed in agreement, letting your eyes slide shut again. This was nice.
It was so nice that you’d forgotten all about Ieiri falling asleep at your desk the night before. You were reminded, with no small dose of embarrassment, when she opened your bedroom door.
“Well, isn’t this cute,” she crooned.
“Shut up, Shoko,” muttered Gojo. Your head had snapped up, but his remained firmly tucked against you. “Why shouldn’t I take advantage of not having to think about Infinity?”
“Oh, so you’re taking advantage of her?”
That got him straight up. “No!” he snapped. Then he tensed and glanced at you. You shook your head and he relaxed. “No, I’m not… taking advantage of her.” He scowled over at Ieiri. “What do you want?”
“Not me. Yaga wants you.”
Gojo groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. “Yaga can wait until after I’ve showered.”
Ieiri shrugged. She’d seated herself back at your desk. “Your funeral.”
“Yaga wouldn’t kill me,” muttered Gojo. He was stuffing his feet into his shoes. “I’m the strongest.”
You wondered if Ieiri heard the way his voice cracked, just the tiniest bit, on the word.
He left the same way he did everything, in a dramatic flurry. Your room was almost too quiet, after.
Ieiri turned her gaze on you instantly. “We need to find a way to sever your bond. Now more than ever. If Geto decides to come back…”
The rest remained unspoken. You swallowed around the lump that had formed in your throat. “How?”
She was silent for a long time, mournful gaze fixed on some space or memory you couldn’t see. “I don’t know.”
Finding out involved lots of trial and error that ultimately got you nowhere.
First, it was hours of studying the histories of great sorcerers, looking for anything that seemed familiar or natural. It was a multitude of late nights in the library with Gojo, drinking hot tea and falling asleep with your head on the desk, only to wake up tucked carefully into your own bed.
Next was trying to force yourself to use your technique through all manner of physical assault that Gojo put a stop to long before you would have. The bruises from training weapons and thrown rocks, the fractures Ieiri healed each night, the tears shed in moments of pain were all things you could bear, for this.
Gojo, apparently, could not.
Then it was field exercises, working with actual cursed spirits. The fight or flight still failed you, technique buried so far no one could sense it. No matter what attacked you, no matter how battered you became, your technique refused to surface.
“It’s because she knows you’ll protect her, Gojo. You’ve got to let her take the hits,” Nanami had said.
Gojo had frowned. “Of course I’ll protect her.”
“I can take it. He’s right, you have to let me actually be afraid.”
He’d looked at you then, from behind the bandages he’d taken to wearing wrapped over his eyes. “No,” he’d said simply, and then walked away.
In the end, Ieiri was the catalyst of the plan that worked.
“We need to recreate the circumstances you used your technique in,” she said calmly.
You blinked. “You mean walking into Gojo’s domain?”
She nodded. Gojo shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Gojo, we’ve got to. You have to let me do this. I don’t see why you’re making such a big fuss about it, anyway.”
“Because it’s my responsibility to protect you!”
You scoffed. “How so? It’s not like you signed up for this.” Your frustration at the whole situation was bubbling over, all of the hurts of the last year rising unbidden to the surface; the things Gojo had said, the things you’d thought yourself. “I’m nothing but trouble, remember? The thing holding you back, the one in the way of the all-powerful Satoru Gojo. You should be happy for the opportunity to get rid of me for good!”
He strode purposefully toward you, ripping the bandages from over his eyes. In a heartbeat, he was before you, cradling your cheeks between his palms, walking you backward until your back hit the training room wall. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet the fire in his gaze as he bent down until your faces were mere inches apart.
“I’m not.”
His voice was low. He said it so simply. Said it as though nothing that came before that part–the part where he should be happy to be rid of you–had even registered. Maybe it hadn’t.
His expression shifted, sincerity and anxiety melting into curiosity. You felt something like electricity thrum across your skin.
“Hey, Shoko,” he called. He spun you both around, long fingers still splayed across the sides of your neck, framing your face. “Throw something at her.”
Ieiri let out an exasperated sigh before throwing something in your direction. You heard the impact against your back.
And felt nothing.
A slow smile spread across Gojo’s face. You reached up to clutch his wrists, hope and shock causing your heart to thud dully.
“Throw something else,” he said.
Ieiri threw some other item, heavier by the sound of it.
There was a soft thump as it hit the training room floor without touching you.
Gojo looked practically giddy. Gently, he unhanded you. He raised his eyebrows at where your fingers circled his wrists and you let go, pulling your hands back to your chest.
“Something else,” he said. Ieiri must have picked up something large because he threw a hand up quickly. “Not that! Something smaller.” Whatever she held up must have met his standards, because he nodded. “Do it.”
She did. There was a whisk of air, and then a soft clatter.
You peeked over your shoulder. On the ground lay an eraser, a paperback book, and a pack of cigarettes. Your eyes snapped to Gojo’s.
“Did you—?”
“Yeah,” he cut you off. He was breathless, face splitting in a smile you hadn’t seen in months. Since before Geto had left.
“What am I missing?” Ieiri, as ever, had no patience for Gojo’s antics.
You whirled with a grin to match his. “Gojo extended Infinity to me.”
Ieiri’s mouth dropped open in shock. “How?”
Gojo dropped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You felt the hum of energy around you, but not between you. He was still letting you touch him. You looped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against him, unable to control your excitement.
“Because I’m the strongest, that’s how.”
Sushi out was the chosen celebration. It involved lots of food thrown playfully in your direction, smiles and laughter all around, and Gojo’s arm around your chair.
Nanami was the one who said what was in the back of everyone else’s minds.
“This doesn’t solve the tether issue.”
Gojo shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” Everyone, including you, turned to look at him. “What?”
“You’re still stuck with me,” you said. Your voice came out much more evenly than expected.
“So what?”
Your jaw dropped open. Gojo looked slowly around at the shocked faces around the table.
“What? I can protect her now, that was always the problem. I really don’t see what the big deal is.”
Your felt fire rise in your cheeks as Haibara and Ieiri shouted their surprise and Nanami looked on in stunned disbelief.
“So you… you’re not trying to get rid of me?” you stammered out.
Gojo turned to you, beaming. “‘Course not, you’re my best girl.” He dragged you into his side, resting his chin on your head. “I’d never give you up,” he murmured.
Tears pricked your eyes. “Sure had a funny way of showing it for a while there, Gojo.”
His grip around your shoulders tightened. “Yeah. I might owe you an apology.”
You snorted, nuzzling closer to him. “No apology necessary, as long as you quit calling me trouble.”
“I didn’t realize that bothered you so much until earlier. Honest. I’m sorry.”
You hummed. The rest of the table had broken off into further thoughts on what your cursed technique could possibly be, leaving you and Gojo in somewhat of a bubble. He leaned down, brushing the shell of your ear with his lips. A shiver went down your spine.
“Why don’t you call me by my name?”
You raised a brow at him. “Well, for one, I thought you hated me.”
He lifted his head and scowled. “I don’t.”
“Well I know that, now.”
“Then?”
You bit your lip. “I… didn’t think we were that close.”
Gojo pulled back to look at you. “How many girls do you think I just crawl into bed with?”
You rolled your eyes at him, fighting the heat rising in your cheeks. “That’s different and you know it.”
He hummed, pulling you to his side again. “I think that if we weren’t close, this would have made us close.”
“And that doesn’t bother you? That something made us close?”
A pause, long enough for panic to bleed its way up into your mouth.
“No.” You relaxed, letting out the breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. “It did, in the beginning. But it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”
And that was good enough for you, because you’d begun to suspect that it wouldn’t matter to you at all why he wanted you close so long as he did.
Haibara’s death had changed Nanami. He’d become even more serious, his patience for Satoru’s antics growing ever thinner. Geto’s defection had opened a space between Satoru and Ieiri, and somewhat between her and you as well.
After graduation, she was the first to go. Whether or not she planned to return after med school was unclear. And one year later, after his own graduation, it was Nanami, off to find a salary job.
It was no surprise when communication slipped, each of your priorities shifting.
And even though you and Satoru both stayed at the school, even though your relationship didn’t falter, it did change in subtle ways.
He began putting up walls as isolating and impenetrable as his Infinity, painting the person he was before as the person he was now. Even if he never tried to separate you from himself in that way, it bothered you to watch him do it to others. You never did bring it up, though–as though he could sense you thinking about it, he’d make tiny, unspoken pleas for you to act alongside him.
You always did.
The days of sharing a bed became far and few between, as well, the childhood innocence and comfort bleeding into something more as his lanky body filled with muscles and yours softened around the edges. Adulthood had called the propriety of it all into question and neither of you pressed the matter, allowing it to remain unspoken between you.
You tried to ignore the way it made your heart twist with longing; for the peace of shared space, for simpler times.
You did still get him all to yourself on rare occasions. He had taken to trying to stretch your tether, staying away for as long as he could manage, or trying to stay comfortable from a further distance than usual. It was like a muscle, and he was trying to train it.
Sometimes, it worked. You’d see him across campus, text all day, and that was all. It was good progress, which was a good thing. Even if it robbed you of the only affection you craved.
Sometimes, it didn’t. Those were the days Satoru would still end up in your bed, in too much pain to worry about any image, not that he ever seemed to worry over anything but this. He may not have noticed it, too absorbed in discomfort, but you did; the way the tangle of your limbs was coated in a new, crackling energy; the way your heart raced at his proximity; the way your body reacted to his in new, exciting and uncomfortable ways.
You kept it to yourself, and in the mornings, he’d be gone. Only the treats he left you–hot tea, sweet buns, those iced cakes you liked–even betrayed the fact he’d been there in the first place.
Always off to save the world.
As for you, when Satoru’s missions kept him close by, your days were spent at the school. You still trained, you kept records, and sometimes you’d spend the day with Yaga, attempting to unravel your seeming absolute inability to wield cursed energy.
You could tell it wore on him, the complete lack of answers.
Other times, when Satoru’s missions would take him far or demand his time in excess, you went with him.
You loved those days, even if sometimes you argued. Despite his ability to shield you with Infinity, he preferred to have you safe. Removed. Tucked away in some place that no cursed spirit could get to you.
You preferred not to be left behind.
And somehow, though you didn’t understand why, when it came to arguments with Satoru, you always got your way.
You would fight by his side, adding to your growing reputation as a capable martial artist, or use your abilities to advance his missions with minimal expenditure or mess.
Between missions, the two of you would go to the kind of fancy restaurants you’d used to gaze longingly into, back when such extravagant meals were nothing more than a dream for another life. Only it was your life, now, cheerfully funded by Satoru without ever so much as a moment’s hesitation or a breath of irritation.
You went to the movies, gorging yourselves on salty, buttery popcorn and too many sweets.
He took you on spa days, insisting that there was no reason you shouldn’t take advantage of the Valentine’s special on couples massages, despite your protests about the ethics of lying about your relationship. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” he’d say, winking, nevermind the fact that it might hurt you. Not that he knew that.
But your absolute favorite days? Those were going to see Megumi and Tsumiki Fushiguro.
All this time later, and you still didn’t understand exactly how Satoru had found them–these two children with the weight of the world on their tiny shoulders–but you adored them.
You’d go together, you and Satoru, shopping for groceries and paying bills, and then cook together in the tiny kitchen. No one was more surprised than you when Satoru actually proved useful, but Megumi certainly gave you a run for your money. He was perennially unimpressed by Satoru’s antics, face entirely blank despite your friend’s best efforts. Tsumiki found him charming, as did most of the world. It was sweet to watch.
Dinners in the Fushiguro home just filled that gap in your chest, the one carved by unkind words and never spending time together as a family. Watching those children grow up gave you a sense of pride that almost felt stolen. Watching them make friends as they got older hurt your heart, in good and bad ways alike.
Watching Satoru mentor first Yuta Okkotsu, then Megumi, then Yuji Itadori and Nobara Kugisaki, made you feel both hopelessly inadequate and so, so special.
Never more inadequate, though, than the day they told you he’d been sealed.
It took nineteen days to free Satoru from the prison realm.
At first, you scoured archives, looking for any new information that might help the team.
You quickly fell too ill to do that. By the end of the first week, you were confined to bed rest, too weak and shaky and lightheaded to be helpful to anyone. You tried anyway, but couldn’t even muster enough strength to get out of the dormitory.
It was painful enough to make you wish for death. Food refused to stay down, and Shoko was forced to hook you to an IV to give you fluids.
And the news was no better.
Nanami was killed. Tsumiki was raised from her dead sleep, only to be marked for death in Kenjaku’s games. Satoru was branded an accomplice of Suguru and exiled from Jujutsu society. Yaga was given the death penalty. And Yuta was sent to execute Yuji.
Barely a week without him, and the life you’d helped to build for yourself and so many others was collapsing around you.
In the brief moments of consciousness you held onto, you cried. Sometimes silently, sometimes with wracking sobs that tore up your throat with an intensity that would have laid you out if you could stand.
On day nine, though, Shoko brought the first good news.
“Tengen has agreed to help us. The prison realm has a back door.”
You remember nothing after that.
You dream, though. You dream of Satoru, striding into your room in all his hard-won arrogance, loudly questioning whether you’re really so dependent on him. You dream of him climbing into your bed, jostling you into his lap and back against his chest. You dream of his lips on your temple, big hands stroking your back.
“Come back to me,” dream Satoru whispers.
“I’m not the one who left,” you tell him.
Dream Satoru hums. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
You dream that Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the history of Jujutsu, the man you’ve loved since he was no more than a cruel, spoiled child, slides his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head back. You dream that he bends over you until your noses touch, lingering there for a heartbeat.
You dream that he brushes his lips over yours.
And that’s when you wake up.
Only none of this is a dream. You lay against Satoru’s shoulder, tucked between his knees, as he watches you with those fathomless eyes, fingertips still pressed beneath your chin.
“Satoru,” you whisper. Your throat is dry, your voice cracked, your lips chapped and splitting. You raise one hand, with great effort, to lay against his cheek.
“Hey, trouble.” The nickname has long since stopped bothering you, an inside joke now. Satoru leans into your touch. “Welcome back.”
“Welcome back yourself,” you croak.
“Let me get you some water.” He starts to lean forward, but you tense your body in protest.
“No!” He stops, watching you cautiously. You just stare at him, unsure what to say, so relieved to have him back. “Are you okay?”
He nods quickly, stroking your arm in a soothing gesture. “Time… doesn’t pass in a prison realm.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” you breathe out.
“I should be asking if you’re okay.” He’s using his serious voice, the one you think maybe only you have ever even heard.
“I am now.” You slide your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, scratching at his undercut. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I’m sorry for leaving.”
Exhaustion makes you bold. “Make it up to me.”
He looks at you warily. “You know I will.”
“No, Satoru.” You barely have the confidence to get the next words out; they leave you on a sigh. “Kiss me again.”
He doesn’t have any smart remarks, no teasing or funny faces or raised eyebrows. He bends toward you as though your words are a command he can’t disobey, drawn down by magnetism or gravity.
When his lips touch yours, they’re not as gentle as they were before. He kisses you steadily, firm and sweet and measured as his hands raise to cup your face.
The angle is awkward, but you can’t bring yourself to move, too caught up in this moment. Your body relaxes against him as though no other place could be more safe, more comfortable.
You grip his hair, raising your free hand to rest on his wrist, and sigh into the kiss.
Satoru takes this as permission and slides his tongue into your mouth, making you gasp. Your grip on him tightens as his mouth continues its slow assault on your senses, but his movements remain steady.
In all your daydreams of what it would be like to kiss him, you’d imagined passion and fireworks, blood rushing in your ears and shaking limbs. Now that it’s happening, it feels like finally coming home.
He pulls back just enough for you both to catch your breath. “I’ve waited so long to do that.”
“How long?” you murmur.
He rolls you carefully off his chest, caging you under the arm raised to caress your cheek. “Probably twelve years.”
You snort softly. “We met twelve years ago.” Satoru only nods, eyes fixed on yours. Your heart skips one long beat. “You hated me back then.”
Satoru leans forward, pressing your lips together again. He nibbles your bottom lip, coaxing you to open to him. You do, and he holds your face tenderly as his lips slide against yours, canines catching lightly against your swollen bottom lip. “I never hated you,” he whispers between kisses.
At this point, you know enough to believe him. It took years, but you’d learned that you’d shown up days after he’d returned to school from an absence after a mission gone wrong. He and Suguru had lost a young girl they’d been meant to protect, and Satoru had nearly been killed. You’d arrived days after he and Suguru had their first real fight, only weeks after Satoru was branded as the strongest. A title he loves and loathes in equal parts.
You rest your hands against his chest, gratified to feel the way his heart beats faster than usual. “Why did you wait?”
He shrugs as his eyes search your face thoughtfully. “I didn’t want you to feel rushed. We had time.”
You feel the way your face screws up. “Had?”
“Sukuna has Megumi.” You’re grateful he doesn’t sugarcoat it, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’ve been kicked square in the chest. “I have to fight him.”
You feel suddenly crushed beneath the weight of his words. “Fight… Sukuna.”
He brushes his fingertips across your cheek, down to your chin. “I fought him before,” he says.
You swallow hard. “He didn’t have as many fingers back then.”
“He didn’t, but do you remember what I said when Yuji asked if I’d lose if he did?” He grins at you, that wide, bad-boy, devil may care smile he’s perfected. “Nah, I’d win.”
You remain attached to Satoru’s side over the course of the next month. He leaves you behind only when strictly necessary, and then for as short a time as possible.
Yuji and the other children spend every waking moment training for their parts in the scheme; all but Nobara, who lies comatose in a hospital bed.
Shoko’s, then Satoru’s, then Megumi’s birthdays pass without fanfare. No one, not even Satoru, feels like celebrating. It doesn’t stop you from ordering a ridiculous cake and singing to him in the privacy of his apartment.
Word comes that the higher-ups have been slaughtered.
“Did you do it?” you ask. Your voice is level and steady. You wouldn’t blame him for saying yes.
“No,” he says, and you’d believe him even without the shock written all over his features.
All of life revolves around three things: bringing Megumi home, ending the Culling Game, and killing Sukuna.
The day of the fight comes too soon, and it feels as though you blink and wind up here; kneeling by a hospital bed, gripping Satoru’s hand. It’s cold. And stiff.
You still can’t understand what you saw.
One minute, he’d smiled into the camera and despite the audience, you knew it was just for you. The next, the arena had split in two.
And Satoru had split with it.
Dead, before his severed torso touched the ground.
Dead, feet still planted firmly in belief.
You blink rapidly, trying and failing to stem the latest rush of tears.
The door slides open. Someone steps in.
“Is she okay?” Yuta’s voice sounds half dead. Intentionally numb to all that’s been lost.
“I don’t know.” You’re used to Shoko’s total honesty, but this just sounds… empty. Like the space inside you where Satoru belongs.
Wait.
“Does she know…”
“I know.” You bite the words out because you hate this plan, and because your mind is spinning.
In your years at Jujutsu High, first Yaga, then Suguru and Shoko, and then Satoru, had exhausted all the resources the school had to offer in an effort to discover your cursed technique. To this day, you had no idea what it was or how to use it. But one of the exercises Yaga had you do came abruptly to the forefront of your mind.
“All power comes from somewhere. It’s bound to you, like a rope. Follow it back to where it starts.”
You grip Satoru’s hand more firmly. “Give me a minute with him.”
Shoko says your name, soft and helpless. Pitying.
“I just need a minute!” you shout, and then you can’t afford to split your focus. You lean over Satoru’s body, holding his hand in a vice grip between both of yours.
You squeeze your eyes shut, reaching.
You’d felt the moment he died; there had been an excruciating, sickening snap in your chest that drove you to your knees, gasping and vomiting as if on command. Your head had spun, vision swimming as waves of volcanic heat flushed through you, leaving icy voids in their wake. You’d been adrift, untethered, for hours. Long enough for Shoko to sew up the man who never should have been able to be cut.
You reached for that binding, now. Dug into the depths of your soul, past every feeling of hopeless and inadequacy, into the core of your very being.
There, brushing against the edges of your existence. You could feel something. You latched onto it, violent in your eagerness. Your consciousness yanked itself loose from your body, momentarily floating. Like being in a pool of saltwater.
Sightless, voiceless, you hauled yourself along what felt like a cord the length of the world. Then, falling. You opened your eyes, expecting more suffocating blackness.
You blinked, confused, at the Jujutsu high cafeteria.
Bright sunlight streamed in though the high windows, eliminating any need for the bright fluorescents overhead. The room was almost silent, practically empty, with only one occupied table.
You saw Suguru first, breath catching in your throat as you laid eyes on him. He looked exactly as he had the first day you’d met him; hair in a neat bun, just the one wisp falling over his cheek, eyes crinkled in laughter as he smiled wide. Nanami and Haibara sat side by side, frozen out of time just like their friend. Haibara’s bright grin made your heart clench in grief, as did the lighthearted way Nanami’s rolling eyes couldn’t quite mask the smirk he tried to hide.
And there, with his back to you, white hair wild and beautiful, was Satoru.
Whether you’d said his name aloud or he’d simply sensed your presence, you’d never know. As he turned to face you, his expression lit up the entire cafeteria. He jumped to his feet, shouting your name, bounding over to pick you up and twirl you around.
“You’re here, you’re finally here. Oh, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Satoru.” You barely choked his name out around the lump in your throat.
“I take back everything I ever said about wanting to break our bond.” The words are pouring out of him, and it’s hard to place his real voice–lower now that he’s older, carefree whimsy removed to an overtone where it had once been the fundamental pitch–in his younger face. He throws off his sunglasses–and when was the last time you saw those? It’s been years, if not a decade–and takes your face between his palms. “It’s like a part of me is missing. I hate it. I don’t know how I ever lived before you found me.”
“Satoru, slow down,” you begin, but his head is already shaking vehemently.
“No. Never again.” And his mouth crashes down over yours. All the breath goes out of you, because you haven’t kissed again since the night he was unsealed. That kiss had been a homecoming; this one is the explosive kiss of your younger self’s fantasies.
Satoru’s mouth is ravenous, stroking your tongue and your teeth as his hands move down to grip your waist. He pulls you against him with one arm, reaching the other up to cradle the back of your skull as he devours you whole. Your arms wind themselves around his shoulders without direction from your melting brain, fingers burying themselves in his thick, soft hair.
You feel the way the muscles in his back relax under your touch, the way he sighs into your mouth like he can breathe after being underwater for too long. Before you can stop it, tears are sliding down your cheeks, dripping onto Satoru’s thumb where it rests at the hinge of your jaw.
“Baby,” he breathes, and you shudder in delight, despite yourself. “What’s wrong?”
You wrench yourself back, because you’ll never be able to say this while you can feel him, smell him. “I can’t stay,” you blurt.
Satoru blinks, stunned. “Can’t stay.” He says the word haltingly, like he’s never heard them before. Like he can’t understand what they could possibly mean.
“Come with me, Satoru,” you plead. You reach out a hand for him and beg any higher power not to let him ask you to go with him, instead. It’s horrible and selfish and cruel. There are people who need him, even people who need you. Someone must stop Sukuna, or he’ll burn the world.
And yet, if Satoru asks you to stay, you’ll let the world disintegrate.
“What do you mean? I thought…” He trails off, looking over his shoulder. At the table across the room, Suguru and Nanami and Haibara are still talking and laughing as if you’d never arrived, and maybe you haven’t.
The look of utter longing on Satoru’s face is enough to undo you. “I know you want to be here. I know you miss everyone. I know you miss him.” He flinches, just a bit. Losing Suguru had devastated him. All three times.
You take a step forward and raise your hands to his cheeks. He raises his to grasp your wrists lightly. “I need you too, Satoru.”
“And I need you,” he whispers, and it’s like a punch to the stomach. You’ve known he needed you, but you don’t think he’s ever actually said it. His voice cracks on the next words. “Stay with me. Don’t make me choose.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “You know I can’t.”
His grip around your wrists tightens. “Megumi?” he asks, voice tight.
“Safe.”
“That’s good,” he breathes out.
“Yuta needs you, and Yuji and Nobara. And me.” You’re sputtering now. “Don’t leave me, Satoru. Please don’t leave me. We didn’t get enough time.”
He turns his head, cheeks slipping from beneath your fingertips. You know he’s looking at Suguru, know he’s thinking the same thing about him.
You know he loves you.
You know that he loves Suguru.
In life, you’ve made peace. You’d never ask him to give up that first love, never be jealous of the dead boy who holds a piece of his heart that’s forever out of even your reach.
In death, it feels like a betrayal. But only for the space of a heartbeat.
You could never begrudge him an afterlife with Suguru, and so you let your hands drop to grasp his.
“I love you,” you say. You mean to take a step back, to release the sorcery that binds you together and free him from the burdens of a world that depends on his existence. You mean to let him go, even if it shreds you from the inside out.
Sartoru’s hands snap around yours in a vice grip. You open your eyes to look up into the sea and sky and every beautiful thing in between that’s ever mattered.
His eyes blaze like a fire that’s sucked all of the oxygen from the building, intent and committed.
As always, you’ve missed all the action. You wake with a pounding headache and an IV taped to the crook of your arm, lungs screaming, wrapped up in Satoru, staring at the pile of students on the couch across the room.
Megumi sits at one end, arm across the back of the couch. Nobara lays curled against his chest, legs thrown over Yuji’s lap, and Yuji snores softly against her shoulder. Yuta sits slumped in an armchair someone’s dragged into the room, head resting on his fist, and Maki and Toge both lay propped against Panda in the corner of the room.
Your hands raise, locking around Satoru’s forearm where it’s wrapped around your shoulders, and you revel in the breath he takes against the back of your neck. Before you’re even fully awake, you burst into tears, relief and gratitude flowing down your cheeks.
Satoru shoots up, frantically turning you onto your back. He leans over you as you stare up at him, too overwhelmed to say anything. He lets out a strange, breathless chuckle and raises a hand to cup your face. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head emphatically, pointing to the kids.
He glances over to them and then rolls his eyes, but stays quiet. He leans down to kiss you, slow and deep.
“You’re okay,” he breathes against your lips.
“You died,” you whisper back, arching into him.
“You brought me back,” he murmurs, bending until he nearly covers you with his body. “How?” He nuzzles behind your ear, licking the hollow there and then blowing cool air until goosebumps prick your skin.
“I just had to follow the tether.” You wrap your hands around his biceps, dragging him down. The hand that isn’t braced by your shoulder comes to rest gently against your throat, lifting your chin until his eyes bore into yours.
“Tether?”
“You know, the soul binding one? Been a problem since the first time I touched you?”
A slow smile spreads over his face. “Technically,” a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I touched you first.”
“Semantics,” you mutter.
Yuta stirs in his armchair, turning to face the wall with a snuffle. You and Satoru freeze, watching him carefully, until his breathing evens out again. You’ve both been whispering, but you lower your voices even more.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Satoru sighs. He lays himself carefully over you, tucking his head beneath your chin.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” You thread your fingers through his hair, knead his scalp, and stifle a giggle when he muffles a moan against your collarbone.
“I never want to not be touching you again,” he grumbles.
“I could get on board with that.” You feel it when he smiles against your skin. “How… how much did I miss?”
“Not a lot. We just killed the King of Curses, anyone could’ve done it.” You smack his arm with probably too much force, but he only snickers. “Honestly, the kids did all the work. I just forced a domain clash and knocked him around a little. They did the rest, but I’ll let them tell you all about it.”
You angle yourself so you can look down and, sure enough, Satoru is glowing with pride for his students.
“Satoru,” you whisper.
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay? Really.”
He looks up at you then, expression completely serious for once. “As long as I’m with you.”
You blink at him. “Is the tether intact again?”
“What?” he hisses, then turns to watch as the kids shift around. “No, I… I think the tether is actually broken.”
Something about that makes your heart hurt, but you choose to ignore it. “That’s good, right?”
He props himself up over you again, unspeaking. For the first time in an age, you can’t read his expression. You think of standing in that cafeteria with him, with Suguru and the rest of your dead friends, and wonder if he regrets his decision. You think of the people you’ve lost, and you think of how many more you’re destined to lose. The Jujutsu world is cruel, after all.
Maybe you don’t want to hear his answer.
You trail your fingers up, beneath his shirt, to trace the thick bandages around his waist, determined to change the subject. Satoru tenses at the touch. “I meant this.”
He swallows. Hard. “It’ll heal.”
“Sensei?” You both turn to face Yuta, who’s rubbing his eyes as he sits up with effort. When he sees you, his face lights up. “Oh, you’re awake! We were so worried!” Satoru rolls to sit on the edge of the bed, but squeezes your hand beneath the blankets.
“How long was I out?” you ask, more than a little scared of the answer.
“Too long,” says Nobara, straightening with a yawn.
“Gojo crawled off the battlefield straight into bed with you and hasn’t moved since.” Megumi rolls his neck, causing a series of loud pops. He shoves Yuji, who jerks awake with a loud snort. “I don’t think he’d have forgiven himself if you didn’t wake up.”
“You were out for four days!” Yuji’s bounced off the couch already, springing to the bedside to take your hand more carefully than you might expect. “Let me get you some tea. Are you hungry? I can cook breakfast!”
And with that, the room is awake and alive, chattering and milling about. Yuji leaves, returning with the promised tea and a tired looking Shoko.
“Alright, everyone, out,” she demands. The kids protest loudly, but they leave one by one, stopping to clasp your hand or bow to Satoru before filing into the hall. The room feels empty once they’re all gone.
Shoko motions you to stand.
“Shoko,” warns Satoru.
“I won’t let anything happen to her, you know that.”
You stand on wobbly legs, grateful for Satoru’s steadying hand on your back and Shoko’s firm grip on your arm. She removes your IV carefully, bandaging your arm with quick, careful fingers. She shines a light in your eyes, listens to your heart and lungs, and checks your reflexes. Then she sticks cold hands beneath your shirt to press on your abdomen and ribs. You hiss when she touches you.
“Sorry,” she says noncommittally. “You had some pretty bad bruising, probably some internal bleeding. Do you feel lightheaded?” You nod, and Shoko nods in return. “I treated the worst of it with reverse cursed technique, but you should still take it easy for a few days.”
She helps you back onto the bed, gesturing at Satoru to get up as she props up your pillows and tucks the blankets around your waist. When you’re settled to her satisfaction, she turns to Satoru. “Off,” she says unceremoniously.
He scowls at her, but complies and lifts his t-shirt overhead. You’re expecting the white bandages, only a few shades lighter than his pale skin. When Shoko unwinds them, though, you can’t bite back the gasp that comes out. There’s a thick, angry red scar in a band around his waist, crisscrossed with huge, black stitches. Satoru grimaces over his shoulder at you.
“Pretty cool, right? Proof that I’m the strongest.” He winks, but turns quickly away as his expression falls. “Buuut… not exactly the way I wanted you to see me half-naked for the first time.”
Shoko snorts. “Seriously? That hasn’t happened yet?”
Both of your heads whip in her direction.
“Shoko, no!”
“Of course not!”
She only snickers at the pair of you.
You’re too embarrassed to say anything after that, but you’re surprised when Satoru has nothing to add. He only sits quietly as Shoko treats and bandages his wound. Finally, she’s the one to break the silence.
“All things considered, you’re looking good. I should be able to take the stitches out in another day or two, if you think you’re up for it.“
He nods, wincing as she ties off the bandage. “I’m up for it,” he says.
Shoko levels him with a look. He shrugs. She rolls her eyes, but strips off her gloves and packs the small bag she brought.
“Get some rest, both of you.” Her words are stern, but she looks as relieved as you feel.
Even before the door clicks shut, Satoru’s reaching for his shirt. You lay a gentle hand on his elbow, which turns his head. “Leave it,” you say. His eyes darken as he drops the garment, sliding back under the sheets and into your embrace. After just seconds of jostling, you’re both comfortable again. Satoru’s heartbeat is steady and strong beneath your cheek, chin resting against the top of your head and arms tight around you. You’ve slipped one leg between his so you can lay practically on top of him, but you’re careful of his injured waist as you skim your fingertips over his bare chest.
“Y’know,” he murmurs. “When I used to think about touching you, I always imagined it being a lot more hot and heavy than this. But this is… this is nice.” His arms tighten around you. “So nice,” he whispers.
You giggle, sixteen all over again for a short moment before the ache in your chest brings you back to reality. “Hot and heavy, huh? Do tell.”
“You drove me crazy,” he says, and somehow you weren’t expecting him to actually tell you anything. “When we’d train, any time you got me on the ground I just wanted to lay back and let you have your wicked way with me.” That makes you laugh, loudly. Satoru’s chest rumbles beneath you. “Had to remind myself to be a gentleman.”
You snort. “You did have a tendency to flop down and refuse to move.” He slides his fingers beneath your shirt, squeezing just under your ribs and making you squeal.
“Gentleman,” he repeats, mock-stern. “Not to mention the way you’d lean on your door when I’d walk you back.”
“Walk me back? Satoru, our rooms were next door to each other for all of high school.”
He attacks your ribs again until you’re wheezing with laughter, begging him to stop. You’re propped up over him now, still breathless. He beams up at you.
“I wanted to shove you up against that damn door and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. And don’t get me started on taking you out on missions.”
“Missions?” you ask, puzzled.
“Oh yeah. Do you have any idea how hot you looked, crushing curses with your bare hands?”
Your face is on fire at this point. “Infinity helped,” you mumble.
Satoru shifts you up until you sit straddling him. He squeezes your hips lightly.
“You did just fine on your own.”
You stroke your hands down his chest, trying to work up the courage to tell him about all the times you wanted him to kiss you, but he goes on.
“And then there were all the times we’d sneak out for kikufuku.” You remember those nights fondly; racing down the school halls hand in hand, never questioning why Satoru didn’t just teleport you both. “You glowed in the streetlights, and the way you’d smile up at me?” His own smile goes crooked.
“Let me guess,” you tease. “You wanted to kiss me?”
He reaches up to the side of your neck, cradling your cheek with a reverence you’ve never seen from him.
“I was dying to kiss you for most of high school,” he admits.
“So kiss me now.”
He does. It’s as soft and tender as every other kiss so far, but there’s a weight to this one. A molten heat sings down your spine as his lips move against yours, dragging his canines against your bottom lip and squeezing your waist in his big hands. You want to melt against him.
“Bind me again,” he murmurs between kisses.
You shoot up, startled. “What?”
“I want to be bound to you until the day I die.” And because it’s Satoru, he can’t just say the nice thing and let it lie. “Well,” he smirks, “die again.”
You smack his chest, sitting fully upright. He laughs as he follows you up. Then he takes your hand, clasping it over his heart. “I’m serious,” he says.
“Most people just get married,” you say.
“We can do that, too,” he says. You stare at him, dumbfounded, until he raises a finger. Then he teleports away, letting you drop to the mattress before he reappears, standing at the bedside, seconds later. He drops to one knee, taking your hand and sliding a stunning, heavy ring onto your finger. “Marry me?” he asks, sincere and smiling.
“W-we’ve never even been on a date!” you stammer out. He leans over you until you’re forced to bend backwards, caging you between his arms.
“Does that mean no?”
“No, of course not!” you practically shout. You raise your hand to look at the ring on your finger, white gold with a stunning cerulean diamond. Just like his eyes. “Where did you even get this?”
Satoru shrugs like only Satoru can. “Family heirloom.”
“Oh, of course,” you scoff.
“You still haven’t said yes,” he prods.
“Yes,” you say, fondly exasperated, automatic and inevitable. A rush of excitement floods your veins as giddiness rises up.
Satoru surges forward, capturing your lips in a kiss more searing than any you’ve shared yet. He can hardly keep kissing you, though, with his smile so wide. “And you’ll bind me to you again?” he asks breathlessly. You marvel at being not only the only person he lets touch him, but the only person who can make him breathless. The only person he pursues; the only person he wants to marry.
“I don’t know how,” you admit.
“Eh, we’ve got time. You’ll figure it out.” His voice is confident, lazy and completely at ease. “Soulbinding.”
“Hm?”
“Your cursed technique. I say we call it soulbinding.”
“Soulbinding,” you repeat. A grin curves the corners of your lips. “I like that.”
Satoru hums, letting himself fall to lay against your chest. “Me too.”
Who's the monster now? (Soulbinding) [Satoru Gojo x Fem! Reader]
Summary: You dream of Satoru, striding into your room in all his hard-won arrogance, loudly questioning whether you’re really so dependent on him. You dream of him climbing into your bed, jostling you into his lap and back against his chest. You dream of his lips on your temple, big hands stroking your back.
“Come back to me,” dream Satoru whispers.
“I’m not the one who left,” you tell him.
Dream Satoru hums. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
You dream that Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the history of Jujutsu, the man you’ve loved since he was no more than a cruel, spoiled child, slides his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head back. You dream that he bends over you until your noses touch, lingering there for a heartbeat.
You dream that he brushes his lips over yours.
And that’s when you wake up.
Author’s Notes: My 14K contribution to JJK’s fix-it fic collection. In continuing my trend of naming (all two of) my JJK fics “cleverly” and for my own personal gratification, have this (and shoot me a message if you get the reference, I would love to know I'm not the only one who was devastated by that line)!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Jujutsu Kaisen
Warnings/tags: fix-it fic, forced proximity, mild language, enemies to lovers (ish), spoilers, canon-typical violence, character death, not beta’d!
From the moment you opened your eyes, something was off. You could feel it crackle in the air, in the prickling of unease that danced across your skin. Could taste it the moment you walked out of your apartment, something tangy and toothsome blowing down into your lungs.
But you were used to days like that, where the weight on your shoulders nearly bore you to the ground and shadows skittered at the corners of your vision and behind your closed lids.
It was just one of those days.
That was the only explanation you could offer yourself; for why you kept walking when the air grew heavy, why the dead expressions around you didn’t send you scuttling back home to hide under a pile of blankets until the chill abated.
Honestly, you couldn’t even bring yourself to be too shocked by the riotous stream of memories that came crashing down around your ears, a cacophonous replay of every thought, word, decision that you’ve ever had, spoken, made.
Maybe you’d finally snapped.
No, the shock came almost instantly after, when large, slender hands wrapped around your elbows, yanking you against something hard and warm.
It came when you raised your head, only to find yourself drowning in an azure sea that sparkled with manic energy; came with the flash of teeth as snow-white as the mop of hair above it.
This was the most beautiful boy you’d ever seen.
You watched as his lips moved, but you couldn’t hear his words over the roaring in your ears. He seemed to notice, because he released one elbow from his long fingers and spun you to pull your back against his chest. You blinked in astonishment, hardly registering the way he held the slim fingers of the hand raised in front of you both. Beyond his pale skin, you could see them–actually see them–the shapes, the shadows that had haunted your days and dreams for so long.
You reached up, clutching the arm that held your shoulders to him with both hands.
You could see them, and you could feel the rumble of the beautiful boy’s chest against your back, and those two things were what proved to be too much.
There was an unbearably bright light behind your eyelids. You squeezed them shut tighter, curling in on yourself.
“Give her a minute, Satoru. So impatient.”
“You’d be impatient too, if you couldn’t get away from her!”
You cracked an eyelid slowly open. There was the same boy, white hair mussed and jacket rumpled. He paced the room, hands balled at his sides. He wore round, dark glasses, despite the dimness of the room, and looked thoroughly enraged. Too slowly, your muddled mind recognized that his death glare was directed at you.
You sat up too quickly and felt a wave of nausea so strong it nearly knocked you back down.
A hand gripped your arm, firm, but not painful. “Easy, now.” The voice was husky, soft. You turned your head carefully until you saw her; a beautiful girl with a melancholy face. She had to be your age, but she looked as though she’d lived a thousand lifetimes already. Her lips turned down at the corners and the bags beneath her eyes belied sleepless nights. She smelled faintly of stale cigarettes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
You blinked yourself out of your stupor. “Two.”
“She’s fine. Now ask her!”
“Would you cut it out?”
You turned your head to see the boy from earlier standing, arms crossed, glaring at another boy who leaned against the wall at the foot of your bed.
Bed?
You blinked again to clear your vision, hardly registering the bickering as you took in a room that looked an awful lot like a hospital, but… different.
“Where am I?” Your voice cut off all other conversation in the room as three heads turned to you in tandem–one worried, one unreadable, and one furious.
“You’re safe. But before we tell you everything, we need to ask you some questions, too.” The other boy, dark hair tied into a neat bun; all but one stubborn lock that brushed the side of his face. He smiled, eyes crinkling shut. “Is that okay?”
Your eyes flitted to the first boy, and then away. You could feel the rage rolling off him in waves. The girl and the dark-haired boy both glanced his way. The girl rolled her eyes, the dark-haired boy sighed, and the white-haired boy dropped his arms in exasperation.
He took two quick strides in your direction, long legs eating up the small space, and leaned forward until you were forced against the headboard. He raised a long finger, pointing it at you accusingly.
“What did you do to me?” His voice was cold, lethal. You felt yourself break into a sweat.
“Do? To you? I-I didn’t–”
“Satoru.” Before you could continue what surely would have been incoherent babbling, the dark-haired boy stood, pushing Satoru away with a firm hand to his chest. Satoru shrugged him off, glaring at you even as he prowled to the other side of the room.
His friend looked to the ceiling as if to ask why me? before turning to you with an easy smile. He held a hand out, far away enough that you could choose to ignore it if you so desired.
“I’m Suguru Geto. This”–a gesture to the girl–“is Shoko Ieiri.” She offered a single wave. “And that miserable bastard”–a wave accompanied by a long-suffering eyeroll–“is Satoru Gojo.”
If you looked closely enough, you swore you could see steam rising from his ears. You winced at his expression, involuntarily curling your fingers into the bedsheets.
“Whatever you think I did to you, Gojo, I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.” His mouth fell open in protest, reaching up to rip the shades from his eyes, and any further apology, any explanation you might have tried to come up with, died on your lips as you were swept away in a cerulean wave. His eyes seemed to spark in outrage, but he said nothing as Geto raised a hand. You couldn’t tear your gaze from Gojo’s, but you saw Geto raise an eyebrow in your peripheral.
“Maybe you should start at the beginning,” he said. “How did you get into the school in the first place?”
Your confusion must have shown on your face, because Gojo let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself down on the foot of your bed, narrowly missing sitting on your feet. He slumped back against the wall. “She literally just walked in, Suguru. I told you that already.”
“Yes, but how?”
You looked to Ieiri as your nerves began to rise. “Was the school closed, or…?”
Ieiri tilts her head at you as the boys argue about veils and domains. Your head spins as a sinking feeling fills you.
“What do you know about cursed spirits?” The argument stops abruptly, both boys’ attention snapping to their friend. They hiss her name, glancing between you and each other.
“C-cursed spirits?” You clutch the bedsheets a little tighter, drawing your legs to your chest. Gojo tracks the movement, scowling lightly.
The door opens to reveal a broad man with sunglasses. He peers around the room, seemingly irritated by the people in it.
“Gojo, Geto, Ieiri, I thought I told you to leave her alone.”
“She doesn’t know anything about cursed spirits,” offers Ieiri. Geto and the man in the door simultaneously drop their heads to their hands.
“You’ve done it now, Shoko,” mutters Geto, rubbing his face as he raises his head.
Gojo continues to stare at you, unmoving. The anger hasn’t gone, but there’s something else there now, too. Curiosity, maybe. You can’t tell, too focused on keeping your gaze away from him, despite the fact that it keeps returning against your will.
He hates me, you think. There’s an arrogant tilt to his head, something bordering cruel in the flat line of his mouth. Even without looking directly at him, you can see the strain in his crossed arms. What were you meant to have done to him?
“Everyone out.” Ieiri and Geto share a look before turning to the door, Geto pausing only to glare daggers until Gojo moves to leave without taking his eyes from you. The door shuts, and for a long moment, you and the older man sit in silence.
“What’s your name, young lady?” You offer it softly and the older man pulls up the chair that Ieiri has abandoned. “I am Principal Yaga, and this is Tokyo Jujutsu High.” He folds his hands, expression serious as he leans forward. “I believe some explanations may be in order.”
Cursed spirits. The things you always saw, the shapes floating in the shadows and the pressure against your spine and temples–those were cursed spirits.
“You shouldn’t have been able to breach the barrier.”
But you had. Somehow, without meaning to, you had. You’d walked through a veil and straight into Gojo’s domain at the same moment that he cast it.
“You’re lucky he was able to get to you before the memories crushed you.”
That had been why he’d grabbed you–to protect you from his own power. To tuck you, literally and figuratively, under his wing so that your mind wouldn’t break in the time-loop he procured, as paralyzing as it was never-ending. You had Ieiri to thank for your quick recovery, it seemed. Gojo could trap cursed spirits like flies in honey, leaving them vulnerable to the onslaught he could unleash.
He could unmake minds.
Ieiri, conversely, could heal them, along with the rest of the body. When Gojo had carried you out of the school grounds, Ieiri had used her technique to heal your brain and body, accelerating your recovery from what might have taken weeks or months to heal on its own. You’d been unconscious for twenty hours, and all three of them–Ieiri, Gojo, and Geto–had stayed until you’d woken up.
Well. Gojo had tried to leave–furious that you’d interrupted his mass-exorcism, angry that you’d seen fit to waltz through their carefully contained barrier and put yourself in harms’ way, subsequently ruining their plans.
You didn’t know why he’d come back, but you had a feeling it had to do with whatever he thought you’d done to him. Yaga hadn’t said what that was, and you’d been too nervous to ask. You could hear Gojo’s voice now, though, cutting through the other second years’ from behind the door you’d come to. You couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded just as angry as he had before.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck here, young lady.”
You took a shaky breath and opened the door.
Three heads turned to face you. Gojo stood hunched over a desk, sweat darkening his uniform and painting his face in a thin sheen. His face was screwed up in pain and his knuckles were white where they gripped the desk. He let out a breath when you stepped into the room, arms trembling. Geto’s gaze snapped to him, searching his face.
“Interesting,” murmured Ieiri, watching him intently. Gojo’s face twisted and you folded your arms protectively around yourself at the icy look he gave you.
“Am I interrupting? I can–”
“No, you’re not,” said Ieiri. She was focused on Gojo, but held a hand out to you. “In fact, come here.”
You were reluctant to move, but she made an impatient gesture at you with a sidelong glance.
“Shoko,” growled Gojo. “What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.” She snatched your hand, pulling it away from your body, and unceremoniously pressed it to Gojo’s cheek.
You weren’t sure which of you flinched harder, but almost against his will, Gojo’s eyes slid shut beneath your palm. A long breath went out of him and you watched in fascination as the tension seemed to drain out of his body.
It would have been comical, the way you and Ieiri and Geto tilted your heads in perfect sync, if Gojo hadn’t broken the moment by rearing back as though you’d burned him.
“Yeah,” he sneered. “She definitely did something to me.”
His hand shot out, snagging yours in a painful grip. He wrenched you forward, startling a cry out of you as you were pulled halfway over the desk. Geto and Ieiri leapt forward, saying his name sharply, but their hands stopped in mid-air, as though stuck. “The question is, what?”
“Let her go, Satoru. Whatever she did, she doesn’t know. And I assure you that it wasn’t on purpose.”
Principal Yaga strode calmly into the room, seemingly unbothered by everything taking place before him. For a long moment, you stood, pinned beneath Gojo’s gaze and caged in his grip. Then his lip curled back as he flung your hand away from him. You clutched your wrist to your chest, eyes fixed on him in fear. Ieiri laid a gentle hand on your arm, and you found yourself leaning into her touch. You watched in fascination as Geto’s hand lurched forward, past whatever invisible barrier that, no, you hadn’t imagined, landing on Gojo’s shoulder and curling tightly into his uniform there.
“Say hello to your new classmate,” said Yaga. Ieiri squeezed your arm gently. Geto turned a wide smile your way. Gojo swore under his breath.
“I don’t want her here,” he snarled, wrenching out from beneath Geto’s grip. His friends’ attention snapped toward him with scathing glares.
Your heart clenched painfully. It wasn’t like you had many friends—too strange, too isolated, too other to make any truly meaningful connections—but this vitriol was as foreign as it was unwelcome. You swallowed back tears, and for just a moment, those snowy brows twitched down in something other than hatred.
“Be that as it may,” drawled Yaga, “it’s clear that you need her here.”
“I don’t need anyone,” he grumbled. Yaga snorted, but you didn’t miss the flash of hurt on Geto’s face as he turned away.
“Well she needs us. She can’t go home, not without learning to wield her technique.”
“Which is?” This from Geto, who was still watching the wall. Gojo had noticed, too. His face had softened somewhat, and in that moment, he looked like the boy who’d protected you within his domain. He leaned to the side, imperceptibly closer to his friend, but Geto jerked away from the contact and moved to stand against the wall. Gojo frowned.
“Well?” Ieiri said, and you realized that Yaga hadn’t answered Geto’s question.
“I don’t know.”
All eyes were on you, again. You really weren’t good with being the center of attention.
“I-I don’t know either,” you stammered out. You wrung your hands, desperate to be out from under everyone’s scrutiny. “My parents, what do I tell them?”
Your father would be furious, putting Gojo’s display to shame. Swearing, throwing whatever he could get his hands on. You just had to hope he didn’t get his hands on you. As for your mother, well… you’d prefer not to dwell on whether or not she’d even notice your absence.
Yaga turned to the door. “I’ll take care of your parents, you just get settled in. I’m putting you next to Satoru, since you’re clearly bonded somehow.” You stiffened, as did Gojo across from you. “Take her to her room, Satoru.” The door swung open, leaving you standing in silence with the second year students again. After a tense moment, Gojo swore.
“Don’t make me wait for you, trouble.” You bristled, but Gojo was already through the door. You darted across the room, peering up and down the hall and barely catching him turning the corner.
You ran down the hall, skidded around the corner, and took off after him. Why were his legs so damn long?
“I’m sorry,” you called. You’d slowed down ten or so paces behind him, not wanting to further raise his ire by walking beside him. “I didn’t mean to ruin your… your exorcism. And… thank you. For protecting me.”
Gojo’s spine straightened as he slowed his steps. You weren’t expecting it, and would have crashed into him if not for the fear of setting him off. He stopped walking and turned to face you.
He regarded you coolly from behind his glasses, chin tilted up so you could see none of the devastating blue behind the dark lenses. You looked away, scrambling for something else to say, before he surprised you by speaking.
“Yeah. You're welcome.”
You scuffed your feet against the brick pathway. “And I’m sorry for… whatever I did. I mean I didn’t do anything. I mean I didn’t mean to do anything. I—”
“Just shut up.” You stopped speaking, stunned. You’d never been told to shut up before. You’d expected to feel hurt, but despite how infuriated with you he’d been, there was no heat to the words. A request, plain and simple. You must have been processing for too long, because Gojo raised one bright brow. You snapped your mouth shut, feeling your teeth clack together painfully.
Gojo snorted.
He turned, taking just a few more steps before opening a door. He flipped a light switch and a small dorm was illuminated.
He jerked his head toward it. “This is you.”
You squeezed between him and the doorway, careful not to brush against him.
“You’d better not wake me up,” Gojo said. You turned, somehow expecting a grin or some jokester’s gleam in his eye.
Nothing.
He turned to go, shutting the door behind him and leaving you alone for the first time since you’d wandered into the exorcism. You looked around the room, sparsely furnished but clean. Better than your room at home. There was a stack of uniforms on the desk, some more casual clothes beside it. You frowned as you realized that you didn’t know where the bathrooms were. Sighing, you picked up a stack of fresh clothes and set out in search of one.
You woke him up screaming, and he shook you awake in turn.
“It’s just a dream! It’s just a bad dream, calm down.”
Tears streamed down your face as you shook hard enough to shake the bed beneath you. You clutched at him, hands sliding over some unseen border momentarily. Whatever was blocking your path gave way quickly, though, and then you were scrabbling at the loose shirt he wore, pulling yourself against his chest.
“They’re real, they’re all real, they–”
“Shh. Yeah, they’re real. But they’re not here. And they won’t get you.” Almost reluctantly, Gojo raised his arms, holding you loosely. He awkwardly patted your head, clumsily stroking your hair. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’m not crazy?”
There was a shocked pause before Gojo, tightening his arms ever so slightly, said, “No, you’re not crazy.” He waited several minutes, until after your breathing evened and tears stopped flowing, before speaking again. “I still can’t believe you had no idea. I can’t believe you lived like that for so long.”
You shrugged. “Well, no one else could see what I saw. No one else seemed to notice.”
He nodded. His hand on your back had grown steadier. “And you really don’t know what you did? To me?”
Guilt curdled your stomach. Your grip on his shirt tightened as you tucked your face into his neck. “No,” you mumbled. “I told you, I didn’t do anything.” He hummed. “What does it feel like?” you asked softly.
His hand paused before resuming its slow pattern. You felt him shift his weight, jostling you further forward. There was a long silence.
“You don’t have to–”
“It feels like addiction.”
You raised your head to look at him, and startled when you realized how close he was. “What do you mean?”
“Well first off, I’m more irritable than usual.” He craned his head back to better glare down at you. “So try not to take it personally.” You tucked your head back under his chin, away from that sharp gaze. “It’s like I have to be close to you. I get shaky. Sweaty.” He shrugged, and the motion slid you even further into his hold. “You saw me.”
You nodded. You had seen him, and he’d looked acutely ill. You loosened your hold on his shirt, carefully sliding your hands down. When he didn’t move, you slid them around his waist. To your surprise, he arched up just enough for you to tuck them securely behind his back. You squeezed lightly, bracing yourself for the question you were about to ask.
“And you? What did you do to me?”
Gojo scowled. “Well, you walked right into my domain.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He made an impatient noise. “It’s part of my cursed technique, which I know, you don’t know what that is either.” You flinched at the immediate dismissal, but he wasn’t wrong. “Cursed technique is how you fight curses. Some people’s are passed down through family lines, some people find their own. A domain is…”
For the first time, he sounded unsure, as though maybe he had never had to explain this before. Never had to break it down.
“You summon a domain when you have control. You control the space and use it to your advantage to win.”
You winced. “So… I kept you from winning?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” You waited for him to move, to pull away or snap at you again, but he didn’t. Neither of you said anything else. You must have fallen asleep that way, half laid over him, because you wake to weak, watery sunlight filtering through the thin curtains over your window.
And without a trace that he’d ever been there at all, Gojo has gone.
If you’d thought your late night moment would lift the ire Gojo turned on you, you’d have been extraordinarily wrong.
Sorcerers, as you learned they were called, trained. Often, and brutally. They practiced all the things you’d expect someone called a “sorcerer” to practice–self-control, attention, awareness, and of course, mastering their cursed techniques.
They also practiced martial arts. And because your cursed technique was a mystery, that’s where you started.
Gojo started by ignoring Yaga’s recommendation to stay close to you and going out on a mission instead.
It was only an hour before he appeared out of thin air in the martial arts classroom, swearing and sweating and shaking as he knocked over furniture on his way to the floor. He waved you away when you went to him, swearing at you, too, before proceeding to critique your every movement with vicious prejudice.
Your footwork was poor, your kicks and cuts were sloppy. Did you really think you wouldn’t lose your balance, leaning all that way forward?
You’d done well at letting the comments roll off your shoulders for the first few days. You reminded yourself that for all you knew, he wasn’t really himself. You reasoned that you were keeping him from his own training. But it wore on you as the days went on, and you found your resolve growing thinner. Then one afternoon Geto arrived, standing in the sidelines and scowling at your performance.
“Oh, come on!” groaned Gojo. “Do you seriously think that would work in a real fight? What, are you going to scare them away with ineptitude? You’d be killed.”
Something snapped as tears poured down your cheeks. “Well then I guess I’ll just die! And then you’ll be rid of me, so maybe that would be best for everyone.”
Without meaning to, you’d snapped the stick you’d been using. Gojo stared at you in shock, mouth slightly parted. Geto sat with his head in his hands, muttering under his breath.
Straightening your spine as much as you could, you spun on your heel and forced yourself to walk calmly across the classroom.
“You idiot,” Geto hissed, and you heard something that sounded suspiciously like a slap. “What have I said to you about protecting the weak?”
A sob bubbled up as you pushed through the door.
Great, even he thought you were weak.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you took off, racing to your room to throw yourself face first in your bed. You gave yourself a headache crying and didn’t stop until there was a soft knock at your door.
Was it Gojo? Was he here to apologize? Or more likely to say some other cruel thing?
“Can I come in?”
Oh. Geto.
You scrubbed at your face, trying to wipe away the worst of the tear tracks.
“Yeah, sure.”
The door swung open and Geto strode in, expression placid as ever. He seated himself at the foot of your bed. “How’re you holding up?”
You shrugged. “Fine.”
Geto eyed you. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know how he can be.”
You shrugged again, reluctant to say anything negative despite the way he’d been treating you. “He hates me.”
Geto let out a long sigh as he leaned back against the wall. “He doesn’t hate you. And I want to be clear–I’m not excusing him or apologizing for him.”
You said nothing, letting the explanation breathe into your room. Eventually, Geto continued.
“Satoru isn’t used to relying on anyone. He’s strongest when he’s alone.” There was a bitter edge to Geto’s voice. You peeked at him out of the corner of your eye, but his face betrayed nothing. “Now, not only does he need someone, but he needs to protect someone.”
“He’s having a hard time adjusting,” you offered quietly.
Geto snorted. “Well, yeah. He’s always been insufferable, though.”
You chuckled at that. You could see it. Over the almost-week you’d been here, he’d been flippant and casually hilarious. The only thing he took seriously were sweets, and he whined like a child when he hadn’t had any. He struck you as someone who always got his way, which must have made the entire situation that much worse for him. Despite all that, though, he’d charmed you somehow. You could only imagine his friends felt the same way.
Geto stood, dropping a hand to your shoulder comfortingly. “Just don’t let him get to you. He’ll come around. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He may be a stubborn ass, but it’ll be worth sticking around.”
“Do I even have a choice?” you asked wryly. Geto laughed at that, loud and full-bodied.
“No, I guess you don’t. All the more reason to get on board.” He had a smile that put you at ease, on full display now. His calm was the perfect balance to Gojo’s chaos.
It made sense, their friendship. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t jealous. You’d yearned for a friendship like that for years, for anyone close. You’d been hopeful of finding kinship with Ieiri, but those hopes were waning by the day. It wasn’t that she wasn’t nice, just untouchable. Aloof and distant.
You blinked back to the present. “Thank you, Geto.”
He waved a hand absently as he stood to go. “Don’t mention it. And don’t let him push you around.”
As it turned out, you didn’t have to not let Gojo do anything.
When you walked into the cafeteria the next morning, he called your name, waving you over to the group’s table before you could make yourself your morning tea. You blinked in surprise. Your tea was made, steaming from the spot next to his alongside a piece of toast. It was what you’d eaten every morning since you’d been here, but you were shocked that he’d noticed.
He rolled his eyes at you where you’d stopped. “Hurry up, trouble.” It was gentler than he’d spoken to you since that first night and you leapt on the change. You slid into the seat next to him as the two first-years, Yu Haibara and Kento Nanami, watched you from across the table with respective interest and wariness. You’d met each of them briefly, but because of the unique circumstances surrounding your enrollment, you had hardly seen your would-be classmates around campus.
Nanami only nodded in your direction, but Haibara greeted you enthusiastically.
“We haven’t seen you in classes! What gives?”
A strong arm came down around your shoulders, startling you. You forced yourself not to acknowledge the boy it belonged to. “She’s training with the strongest! Why? Are you jealous, Haibara?”
“Oh, sure, Gojo. Jealous of you.” He tossed a playful wink your way. “She’s really pretty.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Nanami groaned, Geto threw back his head with a raucous guffaw. Ieiri tried to stifle a snicker behind her hand, and Haibara ate it all up with a wide smile. Even Gojo, one elegant eyebrow arched, let out an amused hum.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said drily.
Without thinking, you shoved him. “Rude!” you said, but you were giggling. Suddenly, you were the only one giggling. The rest of the table had gone silent, eyes trained to the spot where your hand still rested on Gojo’s bicep. You snatched it back, glancing up at him on instinct.
For a moment that might have been a lifetime, those impossibly blue eyes bored into you, pinning you in place. Then the table exploded into sound.
“How did she do that?”
“What just happened?”
“Satoru, did you—?”
“How come she can touch him!?”
“Gojo, did you let her touch you?”
Gojo raised a hand, silencing the group once more. He turned to face you, straddling the bench.
“Do that again.”
You looked around, hardly able to meet anyone’s eyes under the sudden pressure of attention.
“Do what again?” you asked.
“Touch me.”
Inexplicably, those two, tiny words sent a shiver down your spine. You reached forward tentatively, pausing halfway, before laying your palm flat against his chest.
He stared down at it, brows drawn down in concentration. It was as though everyone held their breath. You held yours, even if you didn’t know why. The silence stretched and for a moment, you felt a slippery static coat your fingers. Then it dissipated as Gojo raised his head with a powerful breath out.
His face twisted in something–confusion, fear, anger?
“I can’t stop her,” he said tightly.
Everyone began speaking at once. You drew your hand back and told yourself that you imagined the way he chased your touch.
“Can’t stop what?” you asked.
“Infinity should keep any threat from touching me.”
As if to prove the point, Ieiri threw a rice ball at the back of Gojo’s head. If you hadn’t been paying attention, you’d have thought that it bounced off of him. But you were paying attention, and you noticed that it bounced off of something else entirely.
“I couldn’t touch you the other night, though,” you pointed out. “Not at first, at least.” Ieiri cocked a brow, and you felt heat flush your cheeks, worried you’d said too much. Gojo only scowled.
“I… I guess you’re right. But you were an unknown quantity. I was especially on-guard.”
“You should feel special.” Geto threw an arm around Gojo’s shoulders. “Satoru doesn’t like to be touched,” he crooned. You winced, but Gojo only rolled his eyes. Geto was actually touching him–either he, too, was immune, or Gojo was actually letting him.
Considering the table’s earlier outburst, you strongly suspected the latter.
“Maybe Infinity can tell I’m no threat,” you muttered.
By this time, Ieiri had been drawn into reluctant discussion with Haibara and Nanami, who looked just as deflated as she did.
Gojo, though, gave you a pained look from behind his glasses that you couldn’t quite decipher. Geto looked between the two of you, smile going wide.
“No,” he said in a way that clearly meant yes. “I suppose you aren’t.” You most certainly are.
Several months later, Geto was gone. Yaga brought the news while Gojo was training you in hand to hand and thoroughly kicking your ass. He had teleported away before you could even process the statement.
Geto had razed a village.
You couldn’t wrap your mind around it.
Why?
You waited with Ieiri for Gojo to come back. Ever since arriving at the school, you’d remained close to Gojo–save for those times he felt contrary and left, only to come crawling back later.
This time, it was hours. You’d begun to feel those addiction symptoms he’d talked about; the shaky hands, the cold sweat pooling at the small of your back, the nausea.
You’d never felt it before.
“Shoko,” you breathed. “I don’t feel well.”
She leapt to her feet, immediately all business, and stubbed out her cigarette.
“C’mon, let’s get you inside.” She rushed you to your room, tucking you into bed and promising to come back shortly with a cup of tea and some medicine.
You curled into a ball, finally letting your thoughts spiral.
What if he didn’t come back? What if he came back hurt? What if he was so weakened by the separation that he couldn’t come back?
That set your heart to racing. None of you had managed to break the bond between you and Gojo, despite his best efforts. No one seemed to be able to figure out what your cursed technique was supposed to be, only that you seemed to ignore most other cursed energy. Most, not all.
As if that was helpful.
You let yourself think the worst thought yet.
What if Geto killed him?
Shoko returned with your tea, seated herself in your desk chair, and pulled out a flask. She kept a straight face as she took a long pull, offered it to you, and then replaced it with a shrug when you shook your head no.
She put her head down on your desk and was out in seconds.
You, meanwhile, lay awake until the moon tracked halfway across the compact expanse of your window.
You blinked, and then Gojo was there, standing in the middle of your room as though he belonged there.
You sat bolt upright. He looked awful. His uniform jacket was rumpled, hair tousled, and glasses nowhere to be found. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles in stark contrast to the vibrant blue. They looked empty. Hollow.
You reached for him without a word.
Shoko slept peacefully on as he kicked off his shoes and stripped his uniform jacket over his head, revealing a white undershirt that clung to him where it was soaked in sweat. You didn’t care about that, and clearly he didn’t either. You scooted back to make space for him, pressing your back to the wall. He lifted the covers, sliding carefully into the narrow space you’d made for him.
You gave him time to settle and then, tentatively, reached for his hand. You’d hoped he might not jerk away from you, and he didn’t. With a swift motion, he clasped your hands together, shifting until your forearms pressed together. His toes brushed yours and you allowed yourself to tangle your legs with his.
You revelled, as you always did, in being the one who got to touch him like this.
It had taken many weeks, but Gojo was nothing if not persistent. He’d tried and tried again, pushing through every failure, until he could keep you at bay with his Infinity. He’d finally trained it, through sheer force of will or some other miracle, to repel you. You’d pasted a smile on, congratulating him on his success in an effort to mask the hurt. Whether or not he’d seen that hurt, he’d never raised Infinity against you since.
Sometimes, it made you wonder; wonder whether he was as starved for genuine affection as you had been your whole life; wonder whether he took as much comfort in the contact as you did; wonder why he’d never made a concerted effort to let someone else, anyone else, in.
Sometimes.
Most times, like this one, you contented yourself in soaking up his warmth.
You lay watching each other for a long time. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you. You didn’t ask whether Geto had really done it; you could see that he had. He didn’t tell you that he hadn’t executed him; you knew that he hadn’t.
Neither of you brought up how this changed everything.
You were so incredibly confused when you woke up. Long arms held you tightly against a lean body, and warm breath tickled the back of your neck. Your legs tangled with sheets and someone else’s limbs, and when you opened your eyes, you found that Gojo had crowded you right up to the wall in the night, crushing you between him and it.
It was almost uncomfortable, but his breathing was deep and even. You couldn’t bring yourself to move.
You felt the moment he woke up, arms and legs tensing in a stretch before freezing, cataloging where he was. You stayed still, pretending to be asleep, allowing him the time to make his exit without your attention on him. A moment later, though, he relaxed and shifted forward, gently tightening his hold on you.
Your eyes flew open in shock.
“Sleep well?” he murmured.
Damn Six Eyes.
You avoided his question. “I expected you to bolt the moment you woke up.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t.”
You lifted your chin to indicate the wall. “I don’t exactly have space.”
“Are you complaining?”
You considered for a moment. “No.”
Gojo nuzzled impossibly closer, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder as his body molded to yours. “Good,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, “This is nice.”
You hummed in agreement, letting your eyes slide shut again. This was nice.
It was so nice that you’d forgotten all about Ieiri falling asleep at your desk the night before. You were reminded, with no small dose of embarrassment, when she opened your bedroom door.
“Well, isn’t this cute,” she crooned.
“Shut up, Shoko,” muttered Gojo. Your head had snapped up, but his remained firmly tucked against you. “Why shouldn’t I take advantage of not having to think about Infinity?”
“Oh, so you’re taking advantage of her?”
That got him straight up. “No!” he snapped. Then he tensed and glanced at you. You shook your head and he relaxed. “No, I’m not… taking advantage of her.” He scowled over at Ieiri. “What do you want?”
“Not me. Yaga wants you.”
Gojo groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. “Yaga can wait until after I’ve showered.”
Ieiri shrugged. She’d seated herself back at your desk. “Your funeral.”
“Yaga wouldn’t kill me,” muttered Gojo. He was stuffing his feet into his shoes. “I’m the strongest.”
You wondered if Ieiri heard the way his voice cracked, just the tiniest bit, on the word.
He left the same way he did everything, in a dramatic flurry. Your room was almost too quiet, after.
Ieiri turned her gaze on you instantly. “We need to find a way to sever your bond. Now more than ever. If Geto decides to come back…”
The rest remained unspoken. You swallowed around the lump that had formed in your throat. “How?”
She was silent for a long time, mournful gaze fixed on some space or memory you couldn’t see. “I don’t know.”
Finding out involved lots of trial and error that ultimately got you nowhere.
First, it was hours of studying the histories of great sorcerers, looking for anything that seemed familiar or natural. It was a multitude of late nights in the library with Gojo, drinking hot tea and falling asleep with your head on the desk, only to wake up tucked carefully into your own bed.
Next was trying to force yourself to use your technique through all manner of physical assault that Gojo put a stop to long before you would have. The bruises from training weapons and thrown rocks, the fractures Ieiri healed each night, the tears shed in moments of pain were all things you could bear, for this.
Gojo, apparently, could not.
Then it was field exercises, working with actual cursed spirits. The fight or flight still failed you, technique buried so far no one could sense it. No matter what attacked you, no matter how battered you became, your technique refused to surface.
“It’s because she knows you’ll protect her, Gojo. You’ve got to let her take the hits,” Nanami had said.
Gojo had frowned. “Of course I’ll protect her.”
“I can take it. He’s right, you have to let me actually be afraid.”
He’d looked at you then, from behind the bandages he’d taken to wearing wrapped over his eyes. “No,” he’d said simply, and then walked away.
In the end, Ieiri was the catalyst of the plan that worked.
“We need to recreate the circumstances you used your technique in,” she said calmly.
You blinked. “You mean walking into Gojo’s domain?”
She nodded. Gojo shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Gojo, we’ve got to. You have to let me do this. I don’t see why you’re making such a big fuss about it, anyway.”
“Because it’s my responsibility to protect you!”
You scoffed. “How so? It’s not like you signed up for this.” Your frustration at the whole situation was bubbling over, all of the hurts of the last year rising unbidden to the surface; the things Gojo had said, the things you’d thought yourself. “I’m nothing but trouble, remember? The thing holding you back, the one in the way of the all-powerful Satoru Gojo. You should be happy for the opportunity to get rid of me for good!”
He strode purposefully toward you, ripping the bandages from over his eyes. In a heartbeat, he was before you, cradling your cheeks between his palms, walking you backward until your back hit the training room wall. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet the fire in his gaze as he bent down until your faces were mere inches apart.
“I’m not.”
His voice was low. He said it so simply. Said it as though nothing that came before that part–the part where he should be happy to be rid of you–had even registered. Maybe it hadn’t.
His expression shifted, sincerity and anxiety melting into curiosity. You felt something like electricity thrum across your skin.
“Hey, Shoko,” he called. He spun you both around, long fingers still splayed across the sides of your neck, framing your face. “Throw something at her.”
Ieiri let out an exasperated sigh before throwing something in your direction. You heard the impact against your back.
And felt nothing.
A slow smile spread across Gojo’s face. You reached up to clutch his wrists, hope and shock causing your heart to thud dully.
“Throw something else,” he said.
Ieiri threw some other item, heavier by the sound of it.
There was a soft thump as it hit the training room floor without touching you.
Gojo looked practically giddy. Gently, he unhanded you. He raised his eyebrows at where your fingers circled his wrists and you let go, pulling your hands back to your chest.
“Something else,” he said. Ieiri must have picked up something large because he threw a hand up quickly. “Not that! Something smaller.” Whatever she held up must have met his standards, because he nodded. “Do it.”
She did. There was a whisk of air, and then a soft clatter.
You peeked over your shoulder. On the ground lay an eraser, a paperback book, and a pack of cigarettes. Your eyes snapped to Gojo’s.
“Did you—?”
“Yeah,” he cut you off. He was breathless, face splitting in a smile you hadn’t seen in months. Since before Geto had left.
“What am I missing?” Ieiri, as ever, had no patience for Gojo’s antics.
You whirled with a grin to match his. “Gojo extended Infinity to me.”
Ieiri’s mouth dropped open in shock. “How?”
Gojo dropped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You felt the hum of energy around you, but not between you. He was still letting you touch him. You looped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against him, unable to control your excitement.
“Because I’m the strongest, that’s how.”
Sushi out was the chosen celebration. It involved lots of food thrown playfully in your direction, smiles and laughter all around, and Gojo’s arm around your chair.
Nanami was the one who said what was in the back of everyone else’s minds.
“This doesn’t solve the tether issue.”
Gojo shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” Everyone, including you, turned to look at him. “What?”
“You’re still stuck with me,” you said. Your voice came out much more evenly than expected.
“So what?”
Your jaw dropped open. Gojo looked slowly around at the shocked faces around the table.
“What? I can protect her now, that was always the problem. I really don’t see what the big deal is.”
Your felt fire rise in your cheeks as Haibara and Ieiri shouted their surprise and Nanami looked on in stunned disbelief.
“So you… you’re not trying to get rid of me?” you stammered out.
Gojo turned to you, beaming. “‘Course not, you’re my best girl.” He dragged you into his side, resting his chin on your head. “I’d never give you up,” he murmured.
Tears pricked your eyes. “Sure had a funny way of showing it for a while there, Gojo.”
His grip around your shoulders tightened. “Yeah. I might owe you an apology.”
You snorted, nuzzling closer to him. “No apology necessary, as long as you quit calling me trouble.”
“I didn’t realize that bothered you so much until earlier. Honest. I’m sorry.”
You hummed. The rest of the table had broken off into further thoughts on what your cursed technique could possibly be, leaving you and Gojo in somewhat of a bubble. He leaned down, brushing the shell of your ear with his lips. A shiver went down your spine.
“Why don’t you call me by my name?”
You raised a brow at him. “Well, for one, I thought you hated me.”
He lifted his head and scowled. “I don’t.”
“Well I know that, now.”
“Then?”
You bit your lip. “I… didn’t think we were that close.”
Gojo pulled back to look at you. “How many girls do you think I just crawl into bed with?”
You rolled your eyes at him, fighting the heat rising in your cheeks. “That’s different and you know it.”
He hummed, pulling you to his side again. “I think that if we weren’t close, this would have made us close.”
“And that doesn’t bother you? That something made us close?”
A pause, long enough for panic to bleed its way up into your mouth.
“No.” You relaxed, letting out the breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. “It did, in the beginning. But it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”
And that was good enough for you, because you’d begun to suspect that it wouldn’t matter to you at all why he wanted you close so long as he did.
Haibara’s death had changed Nanami. He’d become even more serious, his patience for Satoru’s antics growing ever thinner. Geto’s defection had opened a space between Satoru and Ieiri, and somewhat between her and you as well.
After graduation, she was the first to go. Whether or not she planned to return after med school was unclear. And one year later, after his own graduation, it was Nanami, off to find a salary job.
It was no surprise when communication slipped, each of your priorities shifting.
And even though you and Satoru both stayed at the school, even though your relationship didn’t falter, it did change in subtle ways.
He began putting up walls as isolating and impenetrable as his Infinity, painting the person he was before as the person he was now. Even if he never tried to separate you from himself in that way, it bothered you to watch him do it to others. You never did bring it up, though–as though he could sense you thinking about it, he’d make tiny, unspoken pleas for you to act alongside him.
You always did.
The days of sharing a bed became far and few between, as well, the childhood innocence and comfort bleeding into something more as his lanky body filled with muscles and yours softened around the edges. Adulthood had called the propriety of it all into question and neither of you pressed the matter, allowing it to remain unspoken between you.
You tried to ignore the way it made your heart twist with longing; for the peace of shared space, for simpler times.
You did still get him all to yourself on rare occasions. He had taken to trying to stretch your tether, staying away for as long as he could manage, or trying to stay comfortable from a further distance than usual. It was like a muscle, and he was trying to train it.
Sometimes, it worked. You’d see him across campus, text all day, and that was all. It was good progress, which was a good thing. Even if it robbed you of the only affection you craved.
Sometimes, it didn’t. Those were the days Satoru would still end up in your bed, in too much pain to worry about any image, not that he ever seemed to worry over anything but this. He may not have noticed it, too absorbed in discomfort, but you did; the way the tangle of your limbs was coated in a new, crackling energy; the way your heart raced at his proximity; the way your body reacted to his in new, exciting and uncomfortable ways.
You kept it to yourself, and in the mornings, he’d be gone. Only the treats he left you–hot tea, sweet buns, those iced cakes you liked–even betrayed the fact he’d been there in the first place.
Always off to save the world.
As for you, when Satoru’s missions kept him close by, your days were spent at the school. You still trained, you kept records, and sometimes you’d spend the day with Yaga, attempting to unravel your seeming absolute inability to wield cursed energy.
You could tell it wore on him, the complete lack of answers.
Other times, when Satoru’s missions would take him far or demand his time in excess, you went with him.
You loved those days, even if sometimes you argued. Despite his ability to shield you with Infinity, he preferred to have you safe. Removed. Tucked away in some place that no cursed spirit could get to you.
You preferred not to be left behind.
And somehow, though you didn’t understand why, when it came to arguments with Satoru, you always got your way.
You would fight by his side, adding to your growing reputation as a capable martial artist, or use your abilities to advance his missions with minimal expenditure or mess.
Between missions, the two of you would go to the kind of fancy restaurants you’d used to gaze longingly into, back when such extravagant meals were nothing more than a dream for another life. Only it was your life, now, cheerfully funded by Satoru without ever so much as a moment’s hesitation or a breath of irritation.
You went to the movies, gorging yourselves on salty, buttery popcorn and too many sweets.
He took you on spa days, insisting that there was no reason you shouldn’t take advantage of the Valentine’s special on couples massages, despite your protests about the ethics of lying about your relationship. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” he’d say, winking, nevermind the fact that it might hurt you. Not that he knew that.
But your absolute favorite days? Those were going to see Megumi and Tsumiki Fushiguro.
All this time later, and you still didn’t understand exactly how Satoru had found them–these two children with the weight of the world on their tiny shoulders–but you adored them.
You’d go together, you and Satoru, shopping for groceries and paying bills, and then cook together in the tiny kitchen. No one was more surprised than you when Satoru actually proved useful, but Megumi certainly gave you a run for your money. He was perennially unimpressed by Satoru’s antics, face entirely blank despite your friend’s best efforts. Tsumiki found him charming, as did most of the world. It was sweet to watch.
Dinners in the Fushiguro home just filled that gap in your chest, the one carved by unkind words and never spending time together as a family. Watching those children grow up gave you a sense of pride that almost felt stolen. Watching them make friends as they got older hurt your heart, in good and bad ways alike.
Watching Satoru mentor first Yuta Okkotsu, then Megumi, then Yuji Itadori and Nobara Kugisaki, made you feel both hopelessly inadequate and so, so special.
Never more inadequate, though, than the day they told you he’d been sealed.
It took nineteen days to free Satoru from the prison realm.
At first, you scoured archives, looking for any new information that might help the team.
You quickly fell too ill to do that. By the end of the first week, you were confined to bed rest, too weak and shaky and lightheaded to be helpful to anyone. You tried anyway, but couldn’t even muster enough strength to get out of the dormitory.
It was painful enough to make you wish for death. Food refused to stay down, and Shoko was forced to hook you to an IV to give you fluids.
And the news was no better.
Nanami was killed. Tsumiki was raised from her dead sleep, only to be marked for death in Kenjaku’s games. Satoru was branded an accomplice of Suguru and exiled from Jujutsu society. Yaga was given the death penalty. And Yuta was sent to execute Yuji.
Barely a week without him, and the life you’d helped to build for yourself and so many others was collapsing around you.
In the brief moments of consciousness you held onto, you cried. Sometimes silently, sometimes with wracking sobs that tore up your throat with an intensity that would have laid you out if you could stand.
On day nine, though, Shoko brought the first good news.
“Tengen has agreed to help us. The prison realm has a back door.”
You remember nothing after that.
You dream, though. You dream of Satoru, striding into your room in all his hard-won arrogance, loudly questioning whether you’re really so dependent on him. You dream of him climbing into your bed, jostling you into his lap and back against his chest. You dream of his lips on your temple, big hands stroking your back.
“Come back to me,” dream Satoru whispers.
“I’m not the one who left,” you tell him.
Dream Satoru hums. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
You dream that Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the history of Jujutsu, the man you’ve loved since he was no more than a cruel, spoiled child, slides his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head back. You dream that he bends over you until your noses touch, lingering there for a heartbeat.
You dream that he brushes his lips over yours.
And that’s when you wake up.
Only none of this is a dream. You lay against Satoru’s shoulder, tucked between his knees, as he watches you with those fathomless eyes, fingertips still pressed beneath your chin.
“Satoru,” you whisper. Your throat is dry, your voice cracked, your lips chapped and splitting. You raise one hand, with great effort, to lay against his cheek.
“Hey, trouble.” The nickname has long since stopped bothering you, an inside joke now. Satoru leans into your touch. “Welcome back.”
“Welcome back yourself,” you croak.
“Let me get you some water.” He starts to lean forward, but you tense your body in protest.
“No!” He stops, watching you cautiously. You just stare at him, unsure what to say, so relieved to have him back. “Are you okay?”
He nods quickly, stroking your arm in a soothing gesture. “Time… doesn’t pass in a prison realm.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” you breathe out.
“I should be asking if you’re okay.” He’s using his serious voice, the one you think maybe only you have ever even heard.
“I am now.” You slide your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, scratching at his undercut. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I’m sorry for leaving.”
Exhaustion makes you bold. “Make it up to me.”
He looks at you warily. “You know I will.”
“No, Satoru.” You barely have the confidence to get the next words out; they leave you on a sigh. “Kiss me again.”
He doesn’t have any smart remarks, no teasing or funny faces or raised eyebrows. He bends toward you as though your words are a command he can’t disobey, drawn down by magnetism or gravity.
When his lips touch yours, they’re not as gentle as they were before. He kisses you steadily, firm and sweet and measured as his hands raise to cup your face.
The angle is awkward, but you can’t bring yourself to move, too caught up in this moment. Your body relaxes against him as though no other place could be more safe, more comfortable.
You grip his hair, raising your free hand to rest on his wrist, and sigh into the kiss.
Satoru takes this as permission and slides his tongue into your mouth, making you gasp. Your grip on him tightens as his mouth continues its slow assault on your senses, but his movements remain steady.
In all your daydreams of what it would be like to kiss him, you’d imagined passion and fireworks, blood rushing in your ears and shaking limbs. Now that it’s happening, it feels like finally coming home.
He pulls back just enough for you both to catch your breath. “I’ve waited so long to do that.”
“How long?” you murmur.
He rolls you carefully off his chest, caging you under the arm raised to caress your cheek. “Probably twelve years.”
You snort softly. “We met twelve years ago.” Satoru only nods, eyes fixed on yours. Your heart skips one long beat. “You hated me back then.”
Satoru leans forward, pressing your lips together again. He nibbles your bottom lip, coaxing you to open to him. You do, and he holds your face tenderly as his lips slide against yours, canines catching lightly against your swollen bottom lip. “I never hated you,” he whispers between kisses.
At this point, you know enough to believe him. It took years, but you’d learned that you’d shown up days after he’d returned to school from an absence after a mission gone wrong. He and Suguru had lost a young girl they’d been meant to protect, and Satoru had nearly been killed. You’d arrived days after he and Suguru had their first real fight, only weeks after Satoru was branded as the strongest. A title he loves and loathes in equal parts.
You rest your hands against his chest, gratified to feel the way his heart beats faster than usual. “Why did you wait?”
He shrugs as his eyes search your face thoughtfully. “I didn’t want you to feel rushed. We had time.”
You feel the way your face screws up. “Had?”
“Sukuna has Megumi.” You’re grateful he doesn’t sugarcoat it, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’ve been kicked square in the chest. “I have to fight him.”
You feel suddenly crushed beneath the weight of his words. “Fight… Sukuna.”
He brushes his fingertips across your cheek, down to your chin. “I fought him before,” he says.
You swallow hard. “He didn’t have as many fingers back then.”
“He didn’t, but do you remember what I said when Yuji asked if I’d lose if he did?” He grins at you, that wide, bad-boy, devil may care smile he’s perfected. “Nah, I’d win.”
You remain attached to Satoru’s side over the course of the next month. He leaves you behind only when strictly necessary, and then for as short a time as possible.
Yuji and the other children spend every waking moment training for their parts in the scheme; all but Nobara, who lies comatose in a hospital bed.
Shoko’s, then Satoru’s, then Megumi’s birthdays pass without fanfare. No one, not even Satoru, feels like celebrating. It doesn’t stop you from ordering a ridiculous cake and singing to him in the privacy of his apartment.
Word comes that the higher-ups have been slaughtered.
“Did you do it?” you ask. Your voice is level and steady. You wouldn’t blame him for saying yes.
“No,” he says, and you’d believe him even without the shock written all over his features.
All of life revolves around three things: bringing Megumi home, ending the Culling Game, and killing Sukuna.
The day of the fight comes too soon, and it feels as though you blink and wind up here; kneeling by a hospital bed, gripping Satoru’s hand. It’s cold. And stiff.
You still can’t understand what you saw.
One minute, he’d smiled into the camera and despite the audience, you knew it was just for you. The next, the arena had split in two.
And Satoru had split with it.
Dead, before his severed torso touched the ground.
Dead, feet still planted firmly in belief.
You blink rapidly, trying and failing to stem the latest rush of tears.
The door slides open. Someone steps in.
“Is she okay?” Yuta’s voice sounds half dead. Intentionally numb to all that’s been lost.
“I don’t know.” You’re used to Shoko’s total honesty, but this just sounds… empty. Like the space inside you where Satoru belongs.
Wait.
“Does she know…”
“I know.” You bite the words out because you hate this plan, and because your mind is spinning.
In your years at Jujutsu High, first Yaga, then Suguru and Shoko, and then Satoru, had exhausted all the resources the school had to offer in an effort to discover your cursed technique. To this day, you had no idea what it was or how to use it. But one of the exercises Yaga had you do came abruptly to the forefront of your mind.
“All power comes from somewhere. It’s bound to you, like a rope. Follow it back to where it starts.”
You grip Satoru’s hand more firmly. “Give me a minute with him.”
Shoko says your name, soft and helpless. Pitying.
“I just need a minute!” you shout, and then you can’t afford to split your focus. You lean over Satoru’s body, holding his hand in a vice grip between both of yours.
You squeeze your eyes shut, reaching.
You’d felt the moment he died; there had been an excruciating, sickening snap in your chest that drove you to your knees, gasping and vomiting as if on command. Your head had spun, vision swimming as waves of volcanic heat flushed through you, leaving icy voids in their wake. You’d been adrift, untethered, for hours. Long enough for Shoko to sew up the man who never should have been able to be cut.
You reached for that binding, now. Dug into the depths of your soul, past every feeling of hopeless and inadequacy, into the core of your very being.
There, brushing against the edges of your existence. You could feel something. You latched onto it, violent in your eagerness. Your consciousness yanked itself loose from your body, momentarily floating. Like being in a pool of saltwater.
Sightless, voiceless, you hauled yourself along what felt like a cord the length of the world. Then, falling. You opened your eyes, expecting more suffocating blackness.
You blinked, confused, at the Jujutsu high cafeteria.
Bright sunlight streamed in though the high windows, eliminating any need for the bright fluorescents overhead. The room was almost silent, practically empty, with only one occupied table.
You saw Suguru first, breath catching in your throat as you laid eyes on him. He looked exactly as he had the first day you’d met him; hair in a neat bun, just the one wisp falling over his cheek, eyes crinkled in laughter as he smiled wide. Nanami and Haibara sat side by side, frozen out of time just like their friend. Haibara’s bright grin made your heart clench in grief, as did the lighthearted way Nanami’s rolling eyes couldn’t quite mask the smirk he tried to hide.
And there, with his back to you, white hair wild and beautiful, was Satoru.
Whether you’d said his name aloud or he’d simply sensed your presence, you’d never know. As he turned to face you, his expression lit up the entire cafeteria. He jumped to his feet, shouting your name, bounding over to pick you up and twirl you around.
“You’re here, you’re finally here. Oh, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Satoru.” You barely choked his name out around the lump in your throat.
“I take back everything I ever said about wanting to break our bond.” The words are pouring out of him, and it’s hard to place his real voice–lower now that he’s older, carefree whimsy removed to an overtone where it had once been the fundamental pitch–in his younger face. He throws off his sunglasses–and when was the last time you saw those? It’s been years, if not a decade–and takes your face between his palms. “It’s like a part of me is missing. I hate it. I don’t know how I ever lived before you found me.”
“Satoru, slow down,” you begin, but his head is already shaking vehemently.
“No. Never again.” And his mouth crashes down over yours. All the breath goes out of you, because you haven’t kissed again since the night he was unsealed. That kiss had been a homecoming; this one is the explosive kiss of your younger self’s fantasies.
Satoru’s mouth is ravenous, stroking your tongue and your teeth as his hands move down to grip your waist. He pulls you against him with one arm, reaching the other up to cradle the back of your skull as he devours you whole. Your arms wind themselves around his shoulders without direction from your melting brain, fingers burying themselves in his thick, soft hair.
You feel the way the muscles in his back relax under your touch, the way he sighs into your mouth like he can breathe after being underwater for too long. Before you can stop it, tears are sliding down your cheeks, dripping onto Satoru’s thumb where it rests at the hinge of your jaw.
“Baby,” he breathes, and you shudder in delight, despite yourself. “What’s wrong?”
You wrench yourself back, because you’ll never be able to say this while you can feel him, smell him. “I can’t stay,” you blurt.
Satoru blinks, stunned. “Can’t stay.” He says the word haltingly, like he’s never heard them before. Like he can’t understand what they could possibly mean.
“Come with me, Satoru,” you plead. You reach out a hand for him and beg any higher power not to let him ask you to go with him, instead. It’s horrible and selfish and cruel. There are people who need him, even people who need you. Someone must stop Sukuna, or he’ll burn the world.
And yet, if Satoru asks you to stay, you’ll let the world disintegrate.
“What do you mean? I thought…” He trails off, looking over his shoulder. At the table across the room, Suguru and Nanami and Haibara are still talking and laughing as if you’d never arrived, and maybe you haven’t.
The look of utter longing on Satoru’s face is enough to undo you. “I know you want to be here. I know you miss everyone. I know you miss him.” He flinches, just a bit. Losing Suguru had devastated him. All three times.
You take a step forward and raise your hands to his cheeks. He raises his to grasp your wrists lightly. “I need you too, Satoru.”
“And I need you,” he whispers, and it’s like a punch to the stomach. You’ve known he needed you, but you don’t think he’s ever actually said it. His voice cracks on the next words. “Stay with me. Don’t make me choose.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “You know I can’t.”
His grip around your wrists tightens. “Megumi?” he asks, voice tight.
“Safe.”
“That’s good,” he breathes out.
“Yuta needs you, and Yuji and Nobara. And me.” You’re sputtering now. “Don’t leave me, Satoru. Please don’t leave me. We didn’t get enough time.”
He turns his head, cheeks slipping from beneath your fingertips. You know he’s looking at Suguru, know he’s thinking the same thing about him.
You know he loves you.
You know that he loves Suguru.
In life, you’ve made peace. You’d never ask him to give up that first love, never be jealous of the dead boy who holds a piece of his heart that’s forever out of even your reach.
In death, it feels like a betrayal. But only for the space of a heartbeat.
You could never begrudge him an afterlife with Suguru, and so you let your hands drop to grasp his.
“I love you,” you say. You mean to take a step back, to release the sorcery that binds you together and free him from the burdens of a world that depends on his existence. You mean to let him go, even if it shreds you from the inside out.
Sartoru’s hands snap around yours in a vice grip. You open your eyes to look up into the sea and sky and every beautiful thing in between that’s ever mattered.
His eyes blaze like a fire that’s sucked all of the oxygen from the building, intent and committed.
As always, you’ve missed all the action. You wake with a pounding headache and an IV taped to the crook of your arm, lungs screaming, wrapped up in Satoru, staring at the pile of students on the couch across the room.
Megumi sits at one end, arm across the back of the couch. Nobara lays curled against his chest, legs thrown over Yuji’s lap, and Yuji snores softly against her shoulder. Yuta sits slumped in an armchair someone’s dragged into the room, head resting on his fist, and Maki and Toge both lay propped against Panda in the corner of the room.
Your hands raise, locking around Satoru’s forearm where it’s wrapped around your shoulders, and you revel in the breath he takes against the back of your neck. Before you’re even fully awake, you burst into tears, relief and gratitude flowing down your cheeks.
Satoru shoots up, frantically turning you onto your back. He leans over you as you stare up at him, too overwhelmed to say anything. He lets out a strange, breathless chuckle and raises a hand to cup your face. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head emphatically, pointing to the kids.
He glances over to them and then rolls his eyes, but stays quiet. He leans down to kiss you, slow and deep.
“You’re okay,” he breathes against your lips.
“You died,” you whisper back, arching into him.
“You brought me back,” he murmurs, bending until he nearly covers you with his body. “How?” He nuzzles behind your ear, licking the hollow there and then blowing cool air until goosebumps prick your skin.
“I just had to follow the tether.” You wrap your hands around his biceps, dragging him down. The hand that isn’t braced by your shoulder comes to rest gently against your throat, lifting your chin until his eyes bore into yours.
“Tether?”
“You know, the soul binding one? Been a problem since the first time I touched you?”
A slow smile spreads over his face. “Technically,” a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I touched you first.”
“Semantics,” you mutter.
Yuta stirs in his armchair, turning to face the wall with a snuffle. You and Satoru freeze, watching him carefully, until his breathing evens out again. You’ve both been whispering, but you lower your voices even more.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Satoru sighs. He lays himself carefully over you, tucking his head beneath your chin.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” You thread your fingers through his hair, knead his scalp, and stifle a giggle when he muffles a moan against your collarbone.
“I never want to not be touching you again,” he grumbles.
“I could get on board with that.” You feel it when he smiles against your skin. “How… how much did I miss?”
“Not a lot. We just killed the King of Curses, anyone could’ve done it.” You smack his arm with probably too much force, but he only snickers. “Honestly, the kids did all the work. I just forced a domain clash and knocked him around a little. They did the rest, but I’ll let them tell you all about it.”
You angle yourself so you can look down and, sure enough, Satoru is glowing with pride for his students.
“Satoru,” you whisper.
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay? Really.”
He looks up at you then, expression completely serious for once. “As long as I’m with you.”
You blink at him. “Is the tether intact again?”
“What?” he hisses, then turns to watch as the kids shift around. “No, I… I think the tether is actually broken.”
Something about that makes your heart hurt, but you choose to ignore it. “That’s good, right?”
He props himself up over you again, unspeaking. For the first time in an age, you can’t read his expression. You think of standing in that cafeteria with him, with Suguru and the rest of your dead friends, and wonder if he regrets his decision. You think of the people you’ve lost, and you think of how many more you’re destined to lose. The Jujutsu world is cruel, after all.
Maybe you don’t want to hear his answer.
You trail your fingers up, beneath his shirt, to trace the thick bandages around his waist, determined to change the subject. Satoru tenses at the touch. “I meant this.”
He swallows. Hard. “It’ll heal.”
“Sensei?” You both turn to face Yuta, who’s rubbing his eyes as he sits up with effort. When he sees you, his face lights up. “Oh, you’re awake! We were so worried!” Satoru rolls to sit on the edge of the bed, but squeezes your hand beneath the blankets.
“How long was I out?” you ask, more than a little scared of the answer.
“Too long,” says Nobara, straightening with a yawn.
“Gojo crawled off the battlefield straight into bed with you and hasn’t moved since.” Megumi rolls his neck, causing a series of loud pops. He shoves Yuji, who jerks awake with a loud snort. “I don’t think he’d have forgiven himself if you didn’t wake up.”
“You were out for four days!” Yuji’s bounced off the couch already, springing to the bedside to take your hand more carefully than you might expect. “Let me get you some tea. Are you hungry? I can cook breakfast!”
And with that, the room is awake and alive, chattering and milling about. Yuji leaves, returning with the promised tea and a tired looking Shoko.
“Alright, everyone, out,” she demands. The kids protest loudly, but they leave one by one, stopping to clasp your hand or bow to Satoru before filing into the hall. The room feels empty once they’re all gone.
Shoko motions you to stand.
“Shoko,” warns Satoru.
“I won’t let anything happen to her, you know that.”
You stand on wobbly legs, grateful for Satoru’s steadying hand on your back and Shoko’s firm grip on your arm. She removes your IV carefully, bandaging your arm with quick, careful fingers. She shines a light in your eyes, listens to your heart and lungs, and checks your reflexes. Then she sticks cold hands beneath your shirt to press on your abdomen and ribs. You hiss when she touches you.
“Sorry,” she says noncommittally. “You had some pretty bad bruising, probably some internal bleeding. Do you feel lightheaded?” You nod, and Shoko nods in return. “I treated the worst of it with reverse cursed technique, but you should still take it easy for a few days.”
She helps you back onto the bed, gesturing at Satoru to get up as she props up your pillows and tucks the blankets around your waist. When you’re settled to her satisfaction, she turns to Satoru. “Off,” she says unceremoniously.
He scowls at her, but complies and lifts his t-shirt overhead. You’re expecting the white bandages, only a few shades lighter than his pale skin. When Shoko unwinds them, though, you can’t bite back the gasp that comes out. There’s a thick, angry red scar in a band around his waist, crisscrossed with huge, black stitches. Satoru grimaces over his shoulder at you.
“Pretty cool, right? Proof that I’m the strongest.” He winks, but turns quickly away as his expression falls. “Buuut… not exactly the way I wanted you to see me half-naked for the first time.”
Shoko snorts. “Seriously? That hasn’t happened yet?”
Both of your heads whip in her direction.
“Shoko, no!”
“Of course not!”
She only snickers at the pair of you.
You’re too embarrassed to say anything after that, but you’re surprised when Satoru has nothing to add. He only sits quietly as Shoko treats and bandages his wound. Finally, she’s the one to break the silence.
“All things considered, you’re looking good. I should be able to take the stitches out in another day or two, if you think you’re up for it.“
He nods, wincing as she ties off the bandage. “I’m up for it,” he says.
Shoko levels him with a look. He shrugs. She rolls her eyes, but strips off her gloves and packs the small bag she brought.
“Get some rest, both of you.” Her words are stern, but she looks as relieved as you feel.
Even before the door clicks shut, Satoru’s reaching for his shirt. You lay a gentle hand on his elbow, which turns his head. “Leave it,” you say. His eyes darken as he drops the garment, sliding back under the sheets and into your embrace. After just seconds of jostling, you’re both comfortable again. Satoru’s heartbeat is steady and strong beneath your cheek, chin resting against the top of your head and arms tight around you. You’ve slipped one leg between his so you can lay practically on top of him, but you’re careful of his injured waist as you skim your fingertips over his bare chest.
“Y’know,” he murmurs. “When I used to think about touching you, I always imagined it being a lot more hot and heavy than this. But this is… this is nice.” His arms tighten around you. “So nice,” he whispers.
You giggle, sixteen all over again for a short moment before the ache in your chest brings you back to reality. “Hot and heavy, huh? Do tell.”
“You drove me crazy,” he says, and somehow you weren’t expecting him to actually tell you anything. “When we’d train, any time you got me on the ground I just wanted to lay back and let you have your wicked way with me.” That makes you laugh, loudly. Satoru’s chest rumbles beneath you. “Had to remind myself to be a gentleman.”
You snort. “You did have a tendency to flop down and refuse to move.” He slides his fingers beneath your shirt, squeezing just under your ribs and making you squeal.
“Gentleman,” he repeats, mock-stern. “Not to mention the way you’d lean on your door when I’d walk you back.”
“Walk me back? Satoru, our rooms were next door to each other for all of high school.”
He attacks your ribs again until you’re wheezing with laughter, begging him to stop. You’re propped up over him now, still breathless. He beams up at you.
“I wanted to shove you up against that damn door and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. And don’t get me started on taking you out on missions.”
“Missions?” you ask, puzzled.
“Oh yeah. Do you have any idea how hot you looked, crushing curses with your bare hands?”
Your face is on fire at this point. “Infinity helped,” you mumble.
Satoru shifts you up until you sit straddling him. He squeezes your hips lightly.
“You did just fine on your own.”
You stroke your hands down his chest, trying to work up the courage to tell him about all the times you wanted him to kiss you, but he goes on.
“And then there were all the times we’d sneak out for kikufuku.” You remember those nights fondly; racing down the school halls hand in hand, never questioning why Satoru didn’t just teleport you both. “You glowed in the streetlights, and the way you’d smile up at me?” His own smile goes crooked.
“Let me guess,” you tease. “You wanted to kiss me?”
He reaches up to the side of your neck, cradling your cheek with a reverence you’ve never seen from him.
“I was dying to kiss you for most of high school,” he admits.
“So kiss me now.”
He does. It’s as soft and tender as every other kiss so far, but there’s a weight to this one. A molten heat sings down your spine as his lips move against yours, dragging his canines against your bottom lip and squeezing your waist in his big hands. You want to melt against him.
“Bind me again,” he murmurs between kisses.
You shoot up, startled. “What?”
“I want to be bound to you until the day I die.” And because it’s Satoru, he can’t just say the nice thing and let it lie. “Well,” he smirks, “die again.”
You smack his chest, sitting fully upright. He laughs as he follows you up. Then he takes your hand, clasping it over his heart. “I’m serious,” he says.
“Most people just get married,” you say.
“We can do that, too,” he says. You stare at him, dumbfounded, until he raises a finger. Then he teleports away, letting you drop to the mattress before he reappears, standing at the bedside, seconds later. He drops to one knee, taking your hand and sliding a stunning, heavy ring onto your finger. “Marry me?” he asks, sincere and smiling.
“W-we’ve never even been on a date!” you stammer out. He leans over you until you’re forced to bend backwards, caging you between his arms.
“Does that mean no?”
“No, of course not!” you practically shout. You raise your hand to look at the ring on your finger, white gold with a stunning cerulean diamond. Just like his eyes. “Where did you even get this?”
Satoru shrugs like only Satoru can. “Family heirloom.”
“Oh, of course,” you scoff.
“You still haven’t said yes,” he prods.
“Yes,” you say, fondly exasperated, automatic and inevitable. A rush of excitement floods your veins as giddiness rises up.
Satoru surges forward, capturing your lips in a kiss more searing than any you’ve shared yet. He can hardly keep kissing you, though, with his smile so wide. “And you’ll bind me to you again?” he asks breathlessly. You marvel at being not only the only person he lets touch him, but the only person who can make him breathless. The only person he pursues; the only person he wants to marry.
“I don’t know how,” you admit.
“Eh, we’ve got time. You’ll figure it out.” His voice is confident, lazy and completely at ease. “Soulbinding.”
“Hm?”
“Your cursed technique. I say we call it soulbinding.”
“Soulbinding,” you repeat. A grin curves the corners of your lips. “I like that.”
Satoru hums, letting himself fall to lay against your chest. “Me too.”
Who's the monster now? (Soulbinding) [Satoru Gojo x Fem! Reader]
Summary: You dream of Satoru, striding into your room in all his hard-won arrogance, loudly questioning whether you’re really so dependent on him. You dream of him climbing into your bed, jostling you into his lap and back against his chest. You dream of his lips on your temple, big hands stroking your back.
“Come back to me,” dream Satoru whispers.
“I’m not the one who left,” you tell him.
Dream Satoru hums. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
You dream that Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the history of Jujutsu, the man you’ve loved since he was no more than a cruel, spoiled child, slides his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head back. You dream that he bends over you until your noses touch, lingering there for a heartbeat.
You dream that he brushes his lips over yours.
And that’s when you wake up.
Author’s Notes: My 14K contribution to JJK’s fix-it fic collection. In continuing my trend of naming (all two of) my JJK fics “cleverly” and for my own personal gratification, have this (and shoot me a message if you get the reference, I would love to know I'm not the only one who was devastated by that line)!
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Jujutsu Kaisen
Warnings/tags: fix-it fic, forced proximity, mild language, enemies to lovers (ish), spoilers, canon-typical violence, character death, not beta’d!
From the moment you opened your eyes, something was off. You could feel it crackle in the air, in the prickling of unease that danced across your skin. Could taste it the moment you walked out of your apartment, something tangy and toothsome blowing down into your lungs.
But you were used to days like that, where the weight on your shoulders nearly bore you to the ground and shadows skittered at the corners of your vision and behind your closed lids.
It was just one of those days.
That was the only explanation you could offer yourself; for why you kept walking when the air grew heavy, why the dead expressions around you didn’t send you scuttling back home to hide under a pile of blankets until the chill abated.
Honestly, you couldn’t even bring yourself to be too shocked by the riotous stream of memories that came crashing down around your ears, a cacophonous replay of every thought, word, decision that you’ve ever had, spoken, made.
Maybe you’d finally snapped.
No, the shock came almost instantly after, when large, slender hands wrapped around your elbows, yanking you against something hard and warm.
It came when you raised your head, only to find yourself drowning in an azure sea that sparkled with manic energy; came with the flash of teeth as snow-white as the mop of hair above it.
This was the most beautiful boy you’d ever seen.
You watched as his lips moved, but you couldn’t hear his words over the roaring in your ears. He seemed to notice, because he released one elbow from his long fingers and spun you to pull your back against his chest. You blinked in astonishment, hardly registering the way he held the slim fingers of the hand raised in front of you both. Beyond his pale skin, you could see them–actually see them–the shapes, the shadows that had haunted your days and dreams for so long.
You reached up, clutching the arm that held your shoulders to him with both hands.
You could see them, and you could feel the rumble of the beautiful boy’s chest against your back, and those two things were what proved to be too much.
There was an unbearably bright light behind your eyelids. You squeezed them shut tighter, curling in on yourself.
“Give her a minute, Satoru. So impatient.”
“You’d be impatient too, if you couldn’t get away from her!”
You cracked an eyelid slowly open. There was the same boy, white hair mussed and jacket rumpled. He paced the room, hands balled at his sides. He wore round, dark glasses, despite the dimness of the room, and looked thoroughly enraged. Too slowly, your muddled mind recognized that his death glare was directed at you.
You sat up too quickly and felt a wave of nausea so strong it nearly knocked you back down.
A hand gripped your arm, firm, but not painful. “Easy, now.” The voice was husky, soft. You turned your head carefully until you saw her; a beautiful girl with a melancholy face. She had to be your age, but she looked as though she’d lived a thousand lifetimes already. Her lips turned down at the corners and the bags beneath her eyes belied sleepless nights. She smelled faintly of stale cigarettes. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
You blinked yourself out of your stupor. “Two.”
“She’s fine. Now ask her!”
“Would you cut it out?”
You turned your head to see the boy from earlier standing, arms crossed, glaring at another boy who leaned against the wall at the foot of your bed.
Bed?
You blinked again to clear your vision, hardly registering the bickering as you took in a room that looked an awful lot like a hospital, but… different.
“Where am I?” Your voice cut off all other conversation in the room as three heads turned to you in tandem–one worried, one unreadable, and one furious.
“You’re safe. But before we tell you everything, we need to ask you some questions, too.” The other boy, dark hair tied into a neat bun; all but one stubborn lock that brushed the side of his face. He smiled, eyes crinkling shut. “Is that okay?”
Your eyes flitted to the first boy, and then away. You could feel the rage rolling off him in waves. The girl and the dark-haired boy both glanced his way. The girl rolled her eyes, the dark-haired boy sighed, and the white-haired boy dropped his arms in exasperation.
He took two quick strides in your direction, long legs eating up the small space, and leaned forward until you were forced against the headboard. He raised a long finger, pointing it at you accusingly.
“What did you do to me?” His voice was cold, lethal. You felt yourself break into a sweat.
“Do? To you? I-I didn’t–”
“Satoru.” Before you could continue what surely would have been incoherent babbling, the dark-haired boy stood, pushing Satoru away with a firm hand to his chest. Satoru shrugged him off, glaring at you even as he prowled to the other side of the room.
His friend looked to the ceiling as if to ask why me? before turning to you with an easy smile. He held a hand out, far away enough that you could choose to ignore it if you so desired.
“I’m Suguru Geto. This”–a gesture to the girl–“is Shoko Ieiri.” She offered a single wave. “And that miserable bastard”–a wave accompanied by a long-suffering eyeroll–“is Satoru Gojo.”
If you looked closely enough, you swore you could see steam rising from his ears. You winced at his expression, involuntarily curling your fingers into the bedsheets.
“Whatever you think I did to you, Gojo, I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.” His mouth fell open in protest, reaching up to rip the shades from his eyes, and any further apology, any explanation you might have tried to come up with, died on your lips as you were swept away in a cerulean wave. His eyes seemed to spark in outrage, but he said nothing as Geto raised a hand. You couldn’t tear your gaze from Gojo’s, but you saw Geto raise an eyebrow in your peripheral.
“Maybe you should start at the beginning,” he said. “How did you get into the school in the first place?”
Your confusion must have shown on your face, because Gojo let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself down on the foot of your bed, narrowly missing sitting on your feet. He slumped back against the wall. “She literally just walked in, Suguru. I told you that already.”
“Yes, but how?”
You looked to Ieiri as your nerves began to rise. “Was the school closed, or…?”
Ieiri tilts her head at you as the boys argue about veils and domains. Your head spins as a sinking feeling fills you.
“What do you know about cursed spirits?” The argument stops abruptly, both boys’ attention snapping to their friend. They hiss her name, glancing between you and each other.
“C-cursed spirits?” You clutch the bedsheets a little tighter, drawing your legs to your chest. Gojo tracks the movement, scowling lightly.
The door opens to reveal a broad man with sunglasses. He peers around the room, seemingly irritated by the people in it.
“Gojo, Geto, Ieiri, I thought I told you to leave her alone.”
“She doesn’t know anything about cursed spirits,” offers Ieiri. Geto and the man in the door simultaneously drop their heads to their hands.
“You’ve done it now, Shoko,” mutters Geto, rubbing his face as he raises his head.
Gojo continues to stare at you, unmoving. The anger hasn’t gone, but there’s something else there now, too. Curiosity, maybe. You can’t tell, too focused on keeping your gaze away from him, despite the fact that it keeps returning against your will.
He hates me, you think. There’s an arrogant tilt to his head, something bordering cruel in the flat line of his mouth. Even without looking directly at him, you can see the strain in his crossed arms. What were you meant to have done to him?
“Everyone out.” Ieiri and Geto share a look before turning to the door, Geto pausing only to glare daggers until Gojo moves to leave without taking his eyes from you. The door shuts, and for a long moment, you and the older man sit in silence.
“What’s your name, young lady?” You offer it softly and the older man pulls up the chair that Ieiri has abandoned. “I am Principal Yaga, and this is Tokyo Jujutsu High.” He folds his hands, expression serious as he leans forward. “I believe some explanations may be in order.”
Cursed spirits. The things you always saw, the shapes floating in the shadows and the pressure against your spine and temples–those were cursed spirits.
“You shouldn’t have been able to breach the barrier.”
But you had. Somehow, without meaning to, you had. You’d walked through a veil and straight into Gojo’s domain at the same moment that he cast it.
“You’re lucky he was able to get to you before the memories crushed you.”
That had been why he’d grabbed you–to protect you from his own power. To tuck you, literally and figuratively, under his wing so that your mind wouldn’t break in the time-loop he procured, as paralyzing as it was never-ending. You had Ieiri to thank for your quick recovery, it seemed. Gojo could trap cursed spirits like flies in honey, leaving them vulnerable to the onslaught he could unleash.
He could unmake minds.
Ieiri, conversely, could heal them, along with the rest of the body. When Gojo had carried you out of the school grounds, Ieiri had used her technique to heal your brain and body, accelerating your recovery from what might have taken weeks or months to heal on its own. You’d been unconscious for twenty hours, and all three of them–Ieiri, Gojo, and Geto–had stayed until you’d woken up.
Well. Gojo had tried to leave–furious that you’d interrupted his mass-exorcism, angry that you’d seen fit to waltz through their carefully contained barrier and put yourself in harms’ way, subsequently ruining their plans.
You didn’t know why he’d come back, but you had a feeling it had to do with whatever he thought you’d done to him. Yaga hadn’t said what that was, and you’d been too nervous to ask. You could hear Gojo’s voice now, though, cutting through the other second years’ from behind the door you’d come to. You couldn’t make out the words, but he sounded just as angry as he had before.
“I’m afraid you’re going to be stuck here, young lady.”
You took a shaky breath and opened the door.
Three heads turned to face you. Gojo stood hunched over a desk, sweat darkening his uniform and painting his face in a thin sheen. His face was screwed up in pain and his knuckles were white where they gripped the desk. He let out a breath when you stepped into the room, arms trembling. Geto’s gaze snapped to him, searching his face.
“Interesting,” murmured Ieiri, watching him intently. Gojo’s face twisted and you folded your arms protectively around yourself at the icy look he gave you.
“Am I interrupting? I can–”
“No, you’re not,” said Ieiri. She was focused on Gojo, but held a hand out to you. “In fact, come here.”
You were reluctant to move, but she made an impatient gesture at you with a sidelong glance.
“Shoko,” growled Gojo. “What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.” She snatched your hand, pulling it away from your body, and unceremoniously pressed it to Gojo’s cheek.
You weren’t sure which of you flinched harder, but almost against his will, Gojo’s eyes slid shut beneath your palm. A long breath went out of him and you watched in fascination as the tension seemed to drain out of his body.
It would have been comical, the way you and Ieiri and Geto tilted your heads in perfect sync, if Gojo hadn’t broken the moment by rearing back as though you’d burned him.
“Yeah,” he sneered. “She definitely did something to me.”
His hand shot out, snagging yours in a painful grip. He wrenched you forward, startling a cry out of you as you were pulled halfway over the desk. Geto and Ieiri leapt forward, saying his name sharply, but their hands stopped in mid-air, as though stuck. “The question is, what?”
“Let her go, Satoru. Whatever she did, she doesn’t know. And I assure you that it wasn’t on purpose.”
Principal Yaga strode calmly into the room, seemingly unbothered by everything taking place before him. For a long moment, you stood, pinned beneath Gojo’s gaze and caged in his grip. Then his lip curled back as he flung your hand away from him. You clutched your wrist to your chest, eyes fixed on him in fear. Ieiri laid a gentle hand on your arm, and you found yourself leaning into her touch. You watched in fascination as Geto’s hand lurched forward, past whatever invisible barrier that, no, you hadn’t imagined, landing on Gojo’s shoulder and curling tightly into his uniform there.
“Say hello to your new classmate,” said Yaga. Ieiri squeezed your arm gently. Geto turned a wide smile your way. Gojo swore under his breath.
“I don’t want her here,” he snarled, wrenching out from beneath Geto’s grip. His friends’ attention snapped toward him with scathing glares.
Your heart clenched painfully. It wasn’t like you had many friends—too strange, too isolated, too other to make any truly meaningful connections—but this vitriol was as foreign as it was unwelcome. You swallowed back tears, and for just a moment, those snowy brows twitched down in something other than hatred.
“Be that as it may,” drawled Yaga, “it’s clear that you need her here.”
“I don’t need anyone,” he grumbled. Yaga snorted, but you didn’t miss the flash of hurt on Geto’s face as he turned away.
“Well she needs us. She can’t go home, not without learning to wield her technique.”
“Which is?” This from Geto, who was still watching the wall. Gojo had noticed, too. His face had softened somewhat, and in that moment, he looked like the boy who’d protected you within his domain. He leaned to the side, imperceptibly closer to his friend, but Geto jerked away from the contact and moved to stand against the wall. Gojo frowned.
“Well?” Ieiri said, and you realized that Yaga hadn’t answered Geto’s question.
“I don’t know.”
All eyes were on you, again. You really weren’t good with being the center of attention.
“I-I don’t know either,” you stammered out. You wrung your hands, desperate to be out from under everyone’s scrutiny. “My parents, what do I tell them?”
Your father would be furious, putting Gojo’s display to shame. Swearing, throwing whatever he could get his hands on. You just had to hope he didn’t get his hands on you. As for your mother, well… you’d prefer not to dwell on whether or not she’d even notice your absence.
Yaga turned to the door. “I’ll take care of your parents, you just get settled in. I’m putting you next to Satoru, since you’re clearly bonded somehow.” You stiffened, as did Gojo across from you. “Take her to her room, Satoru.” The door swung open, leaving you standing in silence with the second year students again. After a tense moment, Gojo swore.
“Don’t make me wait for you, trouble.” You bristled, but Gojo was already through the door. You darted across the room, peering up and down the hall and barely catching him turning the corner.
You ran down the hall, skidded around the corner, and took off after him. Why were his legs so damn long?
“I’m sorry,” you called. You’d slowed down ten or so paces behind him, not wanting to further raise his ire by walking beside him. “I didn’t mean to ruin your… your exorcism. And… thank you. For protecting me.”
Gojo’s spine straightened as he slowed his steps. You weren’t expecting it, and would have crashed into him if not for the fear of setting him off. He stopped walking and turned to face you.
He regarded you coolly from behind his glasses, chin tilted up so you could see none of the devastating blue behind the dark lenses. You looked away, scrambling for something else to say, before he surprised you by speaking.
“Yeah. You're welcome.”
You scuffed your feet against the brick pathway. “And I’m sorry for… whatever I did. I mean I didn’t do anything. I mean I didn’t mean to do anything. I—”
“Just shut up.” You stopped speaking, stunned. You’d never been told to shut up before. You’d expected to feel hurt, but despite how infuriated with you he’d been, there was no heat to the words. A request, plain and simple. You must have been processing for too long, because Gojo raised one bright brow. You snapped your mouth shut, feeling your teeth clack together painfully.
Gojo snorted.
He turned, taking just a few more steps before opening a door. He flipped a light switch and a small dorm was illuminated.
He jerked his head toward it. “This is you.”
You squeezed between him and the doorway, careful not to brush against him.
“You’d better not wake me up,” Gojo said. You turned, somehow expecting a grin or some jokester’s gleam in his eye.
Nothing.
He turned to go, shutting the door behind him and leaving you alone for the first time since you’d wandered into the exorcism. You looked around the room, sparsely furnished but clean. Better than your room at home. There was a stack of uniforms on the desk, some more casual clothes beside it. You frowned as you realized that you didn’t know where the bathrooms were. Sighing, you picked up a stack of fresh clothes and set out in search of one.
You woke him up screaming, and he shook you awake in turn.
“It’s just a dream! It’s just a bad dream, calm down.”
Tears streamed down your face as you shook hard enough to shake the bed beneath you. You clutched at him, hands sliding over some unseen border momentarily. Whatever was blocking your path gave way quickly, though, and then you were scrabbling at the loose shirt he wore, pulling yourself against his chest.
“They’re real, they’re all real, they–”
“Shh. Yeah, they’re real. But they’re not here. And they won’t get you.” Almost reluctantly, Gojo raised his arms, holding you loosely. He awkwardly patted your head, clumsily stroking your hair. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”
“I’m not crazy?”
There was a shocked pause before Gojo, tightening his arms ever so slightly, said, “No, you’re not crazy.” He waited several minutes, until after your breathing evened and tears stopped flowing, before speaking again. “I still can’t believe you had no idea. I can’t believe you lived like that for so long.”
You shrugged. “Well, no one else could see what I saw. No one else seemed to notice.”
He nodded. His hand on your back had grown steadier. “And you really don’t know what you did? To me?”
Guilt curdled your stomach. Your grip on his shirt tightened as you tucked your face into his neck. “No,” you mumbled. “I told you, I didn’t do anything.” He hummed. “What does it feel like?” you asked softly.
His hand paused before resuming its slow pattern. You felt him shift his weight, jostling you further forward. There was a long silence.
“You don’t have to–”
“It feels like addiction.”
You raised your head to look at him, and startled when you realized how close he was. “What do you mean?”
“Well first off, I’m more irritable than usual.” He craned his head back to better glare down at you. “So try not to take it personally.” You tucked your head back under his chin, away from that sharp gaze. “It’s like I have to be close to you. I get shaky. Sweaty.” He shrugged, and the motion slid you even further into his hold. “You saw me.”
You nodded. You had seen him, and he’d looked acutely ill. You loosened your hold on his shirt, carefully sliding your hands down. When he didn’t move, you slid them around his waist. To your surprise, he arched up just enough for you to tuck them securely behind his back. You squeezed lightly, bracing yourself for the question you were about to ask.
“And you? What did you do to me?”
Gojo scowled. “Well, you walked right into my domain.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
He made an impatient noise. “It’s part of my cursed technique, which I know, you don’t know what that is either.” You flinched at the immediate dismissal, but he wasn’t wrong. “Cursed technique is how you fight curses. Some people’s are passed down through family lines, some people find their own. A domain is…”
For the first time, he sounded unsure, as though maybe he had never had to explain this before. Never had to break it down.
“You summon a domain when you have control. You control the space and use it to your advantage to win.”
You winced. “So… I kept you from winning?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.” You waited for him to move, to pull away or snap at you again, but he didn’t. Neither of you said anything else. You must have fallen asleep that way, half laid over him, because you wake to weak, watery sunlight filtering through the thin curtains over your window.
And without a trace that he’d ever been there at all, Gojo has gone.
If you’d thought your late night moment would lift the ire Gojo turned on you, you’d have been extraordinarily wrong.
Sorcerers, as you learned they were called, trained. Often, and brutally. They practiced all the things you’d expect someone called a “sorcerer” to practice–self-control, attention, awareness, and of course, mastering their cursed techniques.
They also practiced martial arts. And because your cursed technique was a mystery, that’s where you started.
Gojo started by ignoring Yaga’s recommendation to stay close to you and going out on a mission instead.
It was only an hour before he appeared out of thin air in the martial arts classroom, swearing and sweating and shaking as he knocked over furniture on his way to the floor. He waved you away when you went to him, swearing at you, too, before proceeding to critique your every movement with vicious prejudice.
Your footwork was poor, your kicks and cuts were sloppy. Did you really think you wouldn’t lose your balance, leaning all that way forward?
You’d done well at letting the comments roll off your shoulders for the first few days. You reminded yourself that for all you knew, he wasn’t really himself. You reasoned that you were keeping him from his own training. But it wore on you as the days went on, and you found your resolve growing thinner. Then one afternoon Geto arrived, standing in the sidelines and scowling at your performance.
“Oh, come on!” groaned Gojo. “Do you seriously think that would work in a real fight? What, are you going to scare them away with ineptitude? You’d be killed.”
Something snapped as tears poured down your cheeks. “Well then I guess I’ll just die! And then you’ll be rid of me, so maybe that would be best for everyone.”
Without meaning to, you’d snapped the stick you’d been using. Gojo stared at you in shock, mouth slightly parted. Geto sat with his head in his hands, muttering under his breath.
Straightening your spine as much as you could, you spun on your heel and forced yourself to walk calmly across the classroom.
“You idiot,” Geto hissed, and you heard something that sounded suspiciously like a slap. “What have I said to you about protecting the weak?”
A sob bubbled up as you pushed through the door.
Great, even he thought you were weak.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you took off, racing to your room to throw yourself face first in your bed. You gave yourself a headache crying and didn’t stop until there was a soft knock at your door.
Was it Gojo? Was he here to apologize? Or more likely to say some other cruel thing?
“Can I come in?”
Oh. Geto.
You scrubbed at your face, trying to wipe away the worst of the tear tracks.
“Yeah, sure.”
The door swung open and Geto strode in, expression placid as ever. He seated himself at the foot of your bed. “How’re you holding up?”
You shrugged. “Fine.”
Geto eyed you. “You don’t have to lie to me. I know how he can be.”
You shrugged again, reluctant to say anything negative despite the way he’d been treating you. “He hates me.”
Geto let out a long sigh as he leaned back against the wall. “He doesn’t hate you. And I want to be clear–I’m not excusing him or apologizing for him.”
You said nothing, letting the explanation breathe into your room. Eventually, Geto continued.
“Satoru isn’t used to relying on anyone. He’s strongest when he’s alone.” There was a bitter edge to Geto’s voice. You peeked at him out of the corner of your eye, but his face betrayed nothing. “Now, not only does he need someone, but he needs to protect someone.”
“He’s having a hard time adjusting,” you offered quietly.
Geto snorted. “Well, yeah. He’s always been insufferable, though.”
You chuckled at that. You could see it. Over the almost-week you’d been here, he’d been flippant and casually hilarious. The only thing he took seriously were sweets, and he whined like a child when he hadn’t had any. He struck you as someone who always got his way, which must have made the entire situation that much worse for him. Despite all that, though, he’d charmed you somehow. You could only imagine his friends felt the same way.
Geto stood, dropping a hand to your shoulder comfortingly. “Just don’t let him get to you. He’ll come around. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. He may be a stubborn ass, but it’ll be worth sticking around.”
“Do I even have a choice?” you asked wryly. Geto laughed at that, loud and full-bodied.
“No, I guess you don’t. All the more reason to get on board.” He had a smile that put you at ease, on full display now. His calm was the perfect balance to Gojo’s chaos.
It made sense, their friendship. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t jealous. You’d yearned for a friendship like that for years, for anyone close. You’d been hopeful of finding kinship with Ieiri, but those hopes were waning by the day. It wasn’t that she wasn’t nice, just untouchable. Aloof and distant.
You blinked back to the present. “Thank you, Geto.”
He waved a hand absently as he stood to go. “Don’t mention it. And don’t let him push you around.”
As it turned out, you didn’t have to not let Gojo do anything.
When you walked into the cafeteria the next morning, he called your name, waving you over to the group’s table before you could make yourself your morning tea. You blinked in surprise. Your tea was made, steaming from the spot next to his alongside a piece of toast. It was what you’d eaten every morning since you’d been here, but you were shocked that he’d noticed.
He rolled his eyes at you where you’d stopped. “Hurry up, trouble.” It was gentler than he’d spoken to you since that first night and you leapt on the change. You slid into the seat next to him as the two first-years, Yu Haibara and Kento Nanami, watched you from across the table with respective interest and wariness. You’d met each of them briefly, but because of the unique circumstances surrounding your enrollment, you had hardly seen your would-be classmates around campus.
Nanami only nodded in your direction, but Haibara greeted you enthusiastically.
“We haven’t seen you in classes! What gives?”
A strong arm came down around your shoulders, startling you. You forced yourself not to acknowledge the boy it belonged to. “She’s training with the strongest! Why? Are you jealous, Haibara?”
“Oh, sure, Gojo. Jealous of you.” He tossed a playful wink your way. “She’s really pretty.”
That startled a laugh out of you. Nanami groaned, Geto threw back his head with a raucous guffaw. Ieiri tried to stifle a snicker behind her hand, and Haibara ate it all up with a wide smile. Even Gojo, one elegant eyebrow arched, let out an amused hum.
“I hadn’t noticed,” he said drily.
Without thinking, you shoved him. “Rude!” you said, but you were giggling. Suddenly, you were the only one giggling. The rest of the table had gone silent, eyes trained to the spot where your hand still rested on Gojo’s bicep. You snatched it back, glancing up at him on instinct.
For a moment that might have been a lifetime, those impossibly blue eyes bored into you, pinning you in place. Then the table exploded into sound.
“How did she do that?”
“What just happened?”
“Satoru, did you—?”
“How come she can touch him!?”
“Gojo, did you let her touch you?”
Gojo raised a hand, silencing the group once more. He turned to face you, straddling the bench.
“Do that again.”
You looked around, hardly able to meet anyone’s eyes under the sudden pressure of attention.
“Do what again?” you asked.
“Touch me.”
Inexplicably, those two, tiny words sent a shiver down your spine. You reached forward tentatively, pausing halfway, before laying your palm flat against his chest.
He stared down at it, brows drawn down in concentration. It was as though everyone held their breath. You held yours, even if you didn’t know why. The silence stretched and for a moment, you felt a slippery static coat your fingers. Then it dissipated as Gojo raised his head with a powerful breath out.
His face twisted in something–confusion, fear, anger?
“I can’t stop her,” he said tightly.
Everyone began speaking at once. You drew your hand back and told yourself that you imagined the way he chased your touch.
“Can’t stop what?” you asked.
“Infinity should keep any threat from touching me.”
As if to prove the point, Ieiri threw a rice ball at the back of Gojo’s head. If you hadn’t been paying attention, you’d have thought that it bounced off of him. But you were paying attention, and you noticed that it bounced off of something else entirely.
“I couldn’t touch you the other night, though,” you pointed out. “Not at first, at least.” Ieiri cocked a brow, and you felt heat flush your cheeks, worried you’d said too much. Gojo only scowled.
“I… I guess you’re right. But you were an unknown quantity. I was especially on-guard.”
“You should feel special.” Geto threw an arm around Gojo’s shoulders. “Satoru doesn’t like to be touched,” he crooned. You winced, but Gojo only rolled his eyes. Geto was actually touching him–either he, too, was immune, or Gojo was actually letting him.
Considering the table’s earlier outburst, you strongly suspected the latter.
“Maybe Infinity can tell I’m no threat,” you muttered.
By this time, Ieiri had been drawn into reluctant discussion with Haibara and Nanami, who looked just as deflated as she did.
Gojo, though, gave you a pained look from behind his glasses that you couldn’t quite decipher. Geto looked between the two of you, smile going wide.
“No,” he said in a way that clearly meant yes. “I suppose you aren’t.” You most certainly are.
Several months later, Geto was gone. Yaga brought the news while Gojo was training you in hand to hand and thoroughly kicking your ass. He had teleported away before you could even process the statement.
Geto had razed a village.
You couldn’t wrap your mind around it.
Why?
You waited with Ieiri for Gojo to come back. Ever since arriving at the school, you’d remained close to Gojo–save for those times he felt contrary and left, only to come crawling back later.
This time, it was hours. You’d begun to feel those addiction symptoms he’d talked about; the shaky hands, the cold sweat pooling at the small of your back, the nausea.
You’d never felt it before.
“Shoko,” you breathed. “I don’t feel well.”
She leapt to her feet, immediately all business, and stubbed out her cigarette.
“C’mon, let’s get you inside.” She rushed you to your room, tucking you into bed and promising to come back shortly with a cup of tea and some medicine.
You curled into a ball, finally letting your thoughts spiral.
What if he didn’t come back? What if he came back hurt? What if he was so weakened by the separation that he couldn’t come back?
That set your heart to racing. None of you had managed to break the bond between you and Gojo, despite his best efforts. No one seemed to be able to figure out what your cursed technique was supposed to be, only that you seemed to ignore most other cursed energy. Most, not all.
As if that was helpful.
You let yourself think the worst thought yet.
What if Geto killed him?
Shoko returned with your tea, seated herself in your desk chair, and pulled out a flask. She kept a straight face as she took a long pull, offered it to you, and then replaced it with a shrug when you shook your head no.
She put her head down on your desk and was out in seconds.
You, meanwhile, lay awake until the moon tracked halfway across the compact expanse of your window.
You blinked, and then Gojo was there, standing in the middle of your room as though he belonged there.
You sat bolt upright. He looked awful. His uniform jacket was rumpled, hair tousled, and glasses nowhere to be found. His eyes were red-rimmed, dark circles in stark contrast to the vibrant blue. They looked empty. Hollow.
You reached for him without a word.
Shoko slept peacefully on as he kicked off his shoes and stripped his uniform jacket over his head, revealing a white undershirt that clung to him where it was soaked in sweat. You didn’t care about that, and clearly he didn’t either. You scooted back to make space for him, pressing your back to the wall. He lifted the covers, sliding carefully into the narrow space you’d made for him.
You gave him time to settle and then, tentatively, reached for his hand. You’d hoped he might not jerk away from you, and he didn’t. With a swift motion, he clasped your hands together, shifting until your forearms pressed together. His toes brushed yours and you allowed yourself to tangle your legs with his.
You revelled, as you always did, in being the one who got to touch him like this.
It had taken many weeks, but Gojo was nothing if not persistent. He’d tried and tried again, pushing through every failure, until he could keep you at bay with his Infinity. He’d finally trained it, through sheer force of will or some other miracle, to repel you. You’d pasted a smile on, congratulating him on his success in an effort to mask the hurt. Whether or not he’d seen that hurt, he’d never raised Infinity against you since.
Sometimes, it made you wonder; wonder whether he was as starved for genuine affection as you had been your whole life; wonder whether he took as much comfort in the contact as you did; wonder why he’d never made a concerted effort to let someone else, anyone else, in.
Sometimes.
Most times, like this one, you contented yourself in soaking up his warmth.
You lay watching each other for a long time. He didn’t say a word, and neither did you. You didn’t ask whether Geto had really done it; you could see that he had. He didn’t tell you that he hadn’t executed him; you knew that he hadn’t.
Neither of you brought up how this changed everything.
You were so incredibly confused when you woke up. Long arms held you tightly against a lean body, and warm breath tickled the back of your neck. Your legs tangled with sheets and someone else’s limbs, and when you opened your eyes, you found that Gojo had crowded you right up to the wall in the night, crushing you between him and it.
It was almost uncomfortable, but his breathing was deep and even. You couldn’t bring yourself to move.
You felt the moment he woke up, arms and legs tensing in a stretch before freezing, cataloging where he was. You stayed still, pretending to be asleep, allowing him the time to make his exit without your attention on him. A moment later, though, he relaxed and shifted forward, gently tightening his hold on you.
Your eyes flew open in shock.
“Sleep well?” he murmured.
Damn Six Eyes.
You avoided his question. “I expected you to bolt the moment you woke up.”
He shrugged. “You didn’t.”
You lifted your chin to indicate the wall. “I don’t exactly have space.”
“Are you complaining?”
You considered for a moment. “No.”
Gojo nuzzled impossibly closer, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder as his body molded to yours. “Good,” he murmured. Then, after a pause, “This is nice.”
You hummed in agreement, letting your eyes slide shut again. This was nice.
It was so nice that you’d forgotten all about Ieiri falling asleep at your desk the night before. You were reminded, with no small dose of embarrassment, when she opened your bedroom door.
“Well, isn’t this cute,” she crooned.
“Shut up, Shoko,” muttered Gojo. Your head had snapped up, but his remained firmly tucked against you. “Why shouldn’t I take advantage of not having to think about Infinity?”
“Oh, so you’re taking advantage of her?”
That got him straight up. “No!” he snapped. Then he tensed and glanced at you. You shook your head and he relaxed. “No, I’m not… taking advantage of her.” He scowled over at Ieiri. “What do you want?”
“Not me. Yaga wants you.”
Gojo groaned and rubbed his hands down his face. “Yaga can wait until after I’ve showered.”
Ieiri shrugged. She’d seated herself back at your desk. “Your funeral.”
“Yaga wouldn’t kill me,” muttered Gojo. He was stuffing his feet into his shoes. “I’m the strongest.”
You wondered if Ieiri heard the way his voice cracked, just the tiniest bit, on the word.
He left the same way he did everything, in a dramatic flurry. Your room was almost too quiet, after.
Ieiri turned her gaze on you instantly. “We need to find a way to sever your bond. Now more than ever. If Geto decides to come back…”
The rest remained unspoken. You swallowed around the lump that had formed in your throat. “How?”
She was silent for a long time, mournful gaze fixed on some space or memory you couldn’t see. “I don’t know.”
Finding out involved lots of trial and error that ultimately got you nowhere.
First, it was hours of studying the histories of great sorcerers, looking for anything that seemed familiar or natural. It was a multitude of late nights in the library with Gojo, drinking hot tea and falling asleep with your head on the desk, only to wake up tucked carefully into your own bed.
Next was trying to force yourself to use your technique through all manner of physical assault that Gojo put a stop to long before you would have. The bruises from training weapons and thrown rocks, the fractures Ieiri healed each night, the tears shed in moments of pain were all things you could bear, for this.
Gojo, apparently, could not.
Then it was field exercises, working with actual cursed spirits. The fight or flight still failed you, technique buried so far no one could sense it. No matter what attacked you, no matter how battered you became, your technique refused to surface.
“It’s because she knows you’ll protect her, Gojo. You’ve got to let her take the hits,” Nanami had said.
Gojo had frowned. “Of course I’ll protect her.”
“I can take it. He’s right, you have to let me actually be afraid.”
He’d looked at you then, from behind the bandages he’d taken to wearing wrapped over his eyes. “No,” he’d said simply, and then walked away.
In the end, Ieiri was the catalyst of the plan that worked.
“We need to recreate the circumstances you used your technique in,” she said calmly.
You blinked. “You mean walking into Gojo’s domain?”
She nodded. Gojo shook his head.
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Gojo, we’ve got to. You have to let me do this. I don’t see why you’re making such a big fuss about it, anyway.”
“Because it’s my responsibility to protect you!”
You scoffed. “How so? It’s not like you signed up for this.” Your frustration at the whole situation was bubbling over, all of the hurts of the last year rising unbidden to the surface; the things Gojo had said, the things you’d thought yourself. “I’m nothing but trouble, remember? The thing holding you back, the one in the way of the all-powerful Satoru Gojo. You should be happy for the opportunity to get rid of me for good!”
He strode purposefully toward you, ripping the bandages from over his eyes. In a heartbeat, he was before you, cradling your cheeks between his palms, walking you backward until your back hit the training room wall. He tilted your head up, forcing you to meet the fire in his gaze as he bent down until your faces were mere inches apart.
“I’m not.”
His voice was low. He said it so simply. Said it as though nothing that came before that part–the part where he should be happy to be rid of you–had even registered. Maybe it hadn’t.
His expression shifted, sincerity and anxiety melting into curiosity. You felt something like electricity thrum across your skin.
“Hey, Shoko,” he called. He spun you both around, long fingers still splayed across the sides of your neck, framing your face. “Throw something at her.”
Ieiri let out an exasperated sigh before throwing something in your direction. You heard the impact against your back.
And felt nothing.
A slow smile spread across Gojo’s face. You reached up to clutch his wrists, hope and shock causing your heart to thud dully.
“Throw something else,” he said.
Ieiri threw some other item, heavier by the sound of it.
There was a soft thump as it hit the training room floor without touching you.
Gojo looked practically giddy. Gently, he unhanded you. He raised his eyebrows at where your fingers circled his wrists and you let go, pulling your hands back to your chest.
“Something else,” he said. Ieiri must have picked up something large because he threw a hand up quickly. “Not that! Something smaller.” Whatever she held up must have met his standards, because he nodded. “Do it.”
She did. There was a whisk of air, and then a soft clatter.
You peeked over your shoulder. On the ground lay an eraser, a paperback book, and a pack of cigarettes. Your eyes snapped to Gojo’s.
“Did you—?”
“Yeah,” he cut you off. He was breathless, face splitting in a smile you hadn’t seen in months. Since before Geto had left.
“What am I missing?” Ieiri, as ever, had no patience for Gojo’s antics.
You whirled with a grin to match his. “Gojo extended Infinity to me.”
Ieiri’s mouth dropped open in shock. “How?”
Gojo dropped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You felt the hum of energy around you, but not between you. He was still letting you touch him. You looped your arms around his waist, leaning your head against him, unable to control your excitement.
“Because I’m the strongest, that’s how.”
Sushi out was the chosen celebration. It involved lots of food thrown playfully in your direction, smiles and laughter all around, and Gojo’s arm around your chair.
Nanami was the one who said what was in the back of everyone else’s minds.
“This doesn’t solve the tether issue.”
Gojo shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” Everyone, including you, turned to look at him. “What?”
“You’re still stuck with me,” you said. Your voice came out much more evenly than expected.
“So what?”
Your jaw dropped open. Gojo looked slowly around at the shocked faces around the table.
“What? I can protect her now, that was always the problem. I really don’t see what the big deal is.”
Your felt fire rise in your cheeks as Haibara and Ieiri shouted their surprise and Nanami looked on in stunned disbelief.
“So you… you’re not trying to get rid of me?” you stammered out.
Gojo turned to you, beaming. “‘Course not, you’re my best girl.” He dragged you into his side, resting his chin on your head. “I’d never give you up,” he murmured.
Tears pricked your eyes. “Sure had a funny way of showing it for a while there, Gojo.”
His grip around your shoulders tightened. “Yeah. I might owe you an apology.”
You snorted, nuzzling closer to him. “No apology necessary, as long as you quit calling me trouble.”
“I didn’t realize that bothered you so much until earlier. Honest. I’m sorry.”
You hummed. The rest of the table had broken off into further thoughts on what your cursed technique could possibly be, leaving you and Gojo in somewhat of a bubble. He leaned down, brushing the shell of your ear with his lips. A shiver went down your spine.
“Why don’t you call me by my name?”
You raised a brow at him. “Well, for one, I thought you hated me.”
He lifted his head and scowled. “I don’t.”
“Well I know that, now.”
“Then?”
You bit your lip. “I… didn’t think we were that close.”
Gojo pulled back to look at you. “How many girls do you think I just crawl into bed with?”
You rolled your eyes at him, fighting the heat rising in your cheeks. “That’s different and you know it.”
He hummed, pulling you to his side again. “I think that if we weren’t close, this would have made us close.”
“And that doesn’t bother you? That something made us close?”
A pause, long enough for panic to bleed its way up into your mouth.
“No.” You relaxed, letting out the breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. “It did, in the beginning. But it hasn’t bothered me for a long time.”
And that was good enough for you, because you’d begun to suspect that it wouldn’t matter to you at all why he wanted you close so long as he did.
Haibara’s death had changed Nanami. He’d become even more serious, his patience for Satoru’s antics growing ever thinner. Geto’s defection had opened a space between Satoru and Ieiri, and somewhat between her and you as well.
After graduation, she was the first to go. Whether or not she planned to return after med school was unclear. And one year later, after his own graduation, it was Nanami, off to find a salary job.
It was no surprise when communication slipped, each of your priorities shifting.
And even though you and Satoru both stayed at the school, even though your relationship didn’t falter, it did change in subtle ways.
He began putting up walls as isolating and impenetrable as his Infinity, painting the person he was before as the person he was now. Even if he never tried to separate you from himself in that way, it bothered you to watch him do it to others. You never did bring it up, though–as though he could sense you thinking about it, he’d make tiny, unspoken pleas for you to act alongside him.
You always did.
The days of sharing a bed became far and few between, as well, the childhood innocence and comfort bleeding into something more as his lanky body filled with muscles and yours softened around the edges. Adulthood had called the propriety of it all into question and neither of you pressed the matter, allowing it to remain unspoken between you.
You tried to ignore the way it made your heart twist with longing; for the peace of shared space, for simpler times.
You did still get him all to yourself on rare occasions. He had taken to trying to stretch your tether, staying away for as long as he could manage, or trying to stay comfortable from a further distance than usual. It was like a muscle, and he was trying to train it.
Sometimes, it worked. You’d see him across campus, text all day, and that was all. It was good progress, which was a good thing. Even if it robbed you of the only affection you craved.
Sometimes, it didn’t. Those were the days Satoru would still end up in your bed, in too much pain to worry about any image, not that he ever seemed to worry over anything but this. He may not have noticed it, too absorbed in discomfort, but you did; the way the tangle of your limbs was coated in a new, crackling energy; the way your heart raced at his proximity; the way your body reacted to his in new, exciting and uncomfortable ways.
You kept it to yourself, and in the mornings, he’d be gone. Only the treats he left you–hot tea, sweet buns, those iced cakes you liked–even betrayed the fact he’d been there in the first place.
Always off to save the world.
As for you, when Satoru’s missions kept him close by, your days were spent at the school. You still trained, you kept records, and sometimes you’d spend the day with Yaga, attempting to unravel your seeming absolute inability to wield cursed energy.
You could tell it wore on him, the complete lack of answers.
Other times, when Satoru’s missions would take him far or demand his time in excess, you went with him.
You loved those days, even if sometimes you argued. Despite his ability to shield you with Infinity, he preferred to have you safe. Removed. Tucked away in some place that no cursed spirit could get to you.
You preferred not to be left behind.
And somehow, though you didn’t understand why, when it came to arguments with Satoru, you always got your way.
You would fight by his side, adding to your growing reputation as a capable martial artist, or use your abilities to advance his missions with minimal expenditure or mess.
Between missions, the two of you would go to the kind of fancy restaurants you’d used to gaze longingly into, back when such extravagant meals were nothing more than a dream for another life. Only it was your life, now, cheerfully funded by Satoru without ever so much as a moment’s hesitation or a breath of irritation.
You went to the movies, gorging yourselves on salty, buttery popcorn and too many sweets.
He took you on spa days, insisting that there was no reason you shouldn’t take advantage of the Valentine’s special on couples massages, despite your protests about the ethics of lying about your relationship. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them!” he’d say, winking, nevermind the fact that it might hurt you. Not that he knew that.
But your absolute favorite days? Those were going to see Megumi and Tsumiki Fushiguro.
All this time later, and you still didn’t understand exactly how Satoru had found them–these two children with the weight of the world on their tiny shoulders–but you adored them.
You’d go together, you and Satoru, shopping for groceries and paying bills, and then cook together in the tiny kitchen. No one was more surprised than you when Satoru actually proved useful, but Megumi certainly gave you a run for your money. He was perennially unimpressed by Satoru’s antics, face entirely blank despite your friend’s best efforts. Tsumiki found him charming, as did most of the world. It was sweet to watch.
Dinners in the Fushiguro home just filled that gap in your chest, the one carved by unkind words and never spending time together as a family. Watching those children grow up gave you a sense of pride that almost felt stolen. Watching them make friends as they got older hurt your heart, in good and bad ways alike.
Watching Satoru mentor first Yuta Okkotsu, then Megumi, then Yuji Itadori and Nobara Kugisaki, made you feel both hopelessly inadequate and so, so special.
Never more inadequate, though, than the day they told you he’d been sealed.
It took nineteen days to free Satoru from the prison realm.
At first, you scoured archives, looking for any new information that might help the team.
You quickly fell too ill to do that. By the end of the first week, you were confined to bed rest, too weak and shaky and lightheaded to be helpful to anyone. You tried anyway, but couldn’t even muster enough strength to get out of the dormitory.
It was painful enough to make you wish for death. Food refused to stay down, and Shoko was forced to hook you to an IV to give you fluids.
And the news was no better.
Nanami was killed. Tsumiki was raised from her dead sleep, only to be marked for death in Kenjaku’s games. Satoru was branded an accomplice of Suguru and exiled from Jujutsu society. Yaga was given the death penalty. And Yuta was sent to execute Yuji.
Barely a week without him, and the life you’d helped to build for yourself and so many others was collapsing around you.
In the brief moments of consciousness you held onto, you cried. Sometimes silently, sometimes with wracking sobs that tore up your throat with an intensity that would have laid you out if you could stand.
On day nine, though, Shoko brought the first good news.
“Tengen has agreed to help us. The prison realm has a back door.”
You remember nothing after that.
You dream, though. You dream of Satoru, striding into your room in all his hard-won arrogance, loudly questioning whether you’re really so dependent on him. You dream of him climbing into your bed, jostling you into his lap and back against his chest. You dream of his lips on your temple, big hands stroking your back.
“Come back to me,” dream Satoru whispers.
“I’m not the one who left,” you tell him.
Dream Satoru hums. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
You dream that Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer in the history of Jujutsu, the man you’ve loved since he was no more than a cruel, spoiled child, slides his fingers beneath your chin to tilt your head back. You dream that he bends over you until your noses touch, lingering there for a heartbeat.
You dream that he brushes his lips over yours.
And that’s when you wake up.
Only none of this is a dream. You lay against Satoru’s shoulder, tucked between his knees, as he watches you with those fathomless eyes, fingertips still pressed beneath your chin.
“Satoru,” you whisper. Your throat is dry, your voice cracked, your lips chapped and splitting. You raise one hand, with great effort, to lay against his cheek.
“Hey, trouble.” The nickname has long since stopped bothering you, an inside joke now. Satoru leans into your touch. “Welcome back.”
“Welcome back yourself,” you croak.
“Let me get you some water.” He starts to lean forward, but you tense your body in protest.
“No!” He stops, watching you cautiously. You just stare at him, unsure what to say, so relieved to have him back. “Are you okay?”
He nods quickly, stroking your arm in a soothing gesture. “Time… doesn’t pass in a prison realm.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” you breathe out.
“I should be asking if you’re okay.” He’s using his serious voice, the one you think maybe only you have ever even heard.
“I am now.” You slide your hand from his cheek to the back of his head, scratching at his undercut. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I’m sorry for leaving.”
Exhaustion makes you bold. “Make it up to me.”
He looks at you warily. “You know I will.”
“No, Satoru.” You barely have the confidence to get the next words out; they leave you on a sigh. “Kiss me again.”
He doesn’t have any smart remarks, no teasing or funny faces or raised eyebrows. He bends toward you as though your words are a command he can’t disobey, drawn down by magnetism or gravity.
When his lips touch yours, they’re not as gentle as they were before. He kisses you steadily, firm and sweet and measured as his hands raise to cup your face.
The angle is awkward, but you can’t bring yourself to move, too caught up in this moment. Your body relaxes against him as though no other place could be more safe, more comfortable.
You grip his hair, raising your free hand to rest on his wrist, and sigh into the kiss.
Satoru takes this as permission and slides his tongue into your mouth, making you gasp. Your grip on him tightens as his mouth continues its slow assault on your senses, but his movements remain steady.
In all your daydreams of what it would be like to kiss him, you’d imagined passion and fireworks, blood rushing in your ears and shaking limbs. Now that it’s happening, it feels like finally coming home.
He pulls back just enough for you both to catch your breath. “I’ve waited so long to do that.”
“How long?” you murmur.
He rolls you carefully off his chest, caging you under the arm raised to caress your cheek. “Probably twelve years.”
You snort softly. “We met twelve years ago.” Satoru only nods, eyes fixed on yours. Your heart skips one long beat. “You hated me back then.”
Satoru leans forward, pressing your lips together again. He nibbles your bottom lip, coaxing you to open to him. You do, and he holds your face tenderly as his lips slide against yours, canines catching lightly against your swollen bottom lip. “I never hated you,” he whispers between kisses.
At this point, you know enough to believe him. It took years, but you’d learned that you’d shown up days after he’d returned to school from an absence after a mission gone wrong. He and Suguru had lost a young girl they’d been meant to protect, and Satoru had nearly been killed. You’d arrived days after he and Suguru had their first real fight, only weeks after Satoru was branded as the strongest. A title he loves and loathes in equal parts.
You rest your hands against his chest, gratified to feel the way his heart beats faster than usual. “Why did you wait?”
He shrugs as his eyes search your face thoughtfully. “I didn’t want you to feel rushed. We had time.”
You feel the way your face screws up. “Had?”
“Sukuna has Megumi.” You’re grateful he doesn’t sugarcoat it, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling like you’ve been kicked square in the chest. “I have to fight him.”
You feel suddenly crushed beneath the weight of his words. “Fight… Sukuna.”
He brushes his fingertips across your cheek, down to your chin. “I fought him before,” he says.
You swallow hard. “He didn’t have as many fingers back then.”
“He didn’t, but do you remember what I said when Yuji asked if I’d lose if he did?” He grins at you, that wide, bad-boy, devil may care smile he’s perfected. “Nah, I’d win.”
You remain attached to Satoru’s side over the course of the next month. He leaves you behind only when strictly necessary, and then for as short a time as possible.
Yuji and the other children spend every waking moment training for their parts in the scheme; all but Nobara, who lies comatose in a hospital bed.
Shoko’s, then Satoru’s, then Megumi’s birthdays pass without fanfare. No one, not even Satoru, feels like celebrating. It doesn’t stop you from ordering a ridiculous cake and singing to him in the privacy of his apartment.
Word comes that the higher-ups have been slaughtered.
“Did you do it?” you ask. Your voice is level and steady. You wouldn’t blame him for saying yes.
“No,” he says, and you’d believe him even without the shock written all over his features.
All of life revolves around three things: bringing Megumi home, ending the Culling Game, and killing Sukuna.
The day of the fight comes too soon, and it feels as though you blink and wind up here; kneeling by a hospital bed, gripping Satoru’s hand. It’s cold. And stiff.
You still can’t understand what you saw.
One minute, he’d smiled into the camera and despite the audience, you knew it was just for you. The next, the arena had split in two.
And Satoru had split with it.
Dead, before his severed torso touched the ground.
Dead, feet still planted firmly in belief.
You blink rapidly, trying and failing to stem the latest rush of tears.
The door slides open. Someone steps in.
“Is she okay?” Yuta’s voice sounds half dead. Intentionally numb to all that’s been lost.
“I don’t know.” You’re used to Shoko’s total honesty, but this just sounds… empty. Like the space inside you where Satoru belongs.
Wait.
“Does she know…”
“I know.” You bite the words out because you hate this plan, and because your mind is spinning.
In your years at Jujutsu High, first Yaga, then Suguru and Shoko, and then Satoru, had exhausted all the resources the school had to offer in an effort to discover your cursed technique. To this day, you had no idea what it was or how to use it. But one of the exercises Yaga had you do came abruptly to the forefront of your mind.
“All power comes from somewhere. It’s bound to you, like a rope. Follow it back to where it starts.”
You grip Satoru’s hand more firmly. “Give me a minute with him.”
Shoko says your name, soft and helpless. Pitying.
“I just need a minute!” you shout, and then you can’t afford to split your focus. You lean over Satoru’s body, holding his hand in a vice grip between both of yours.
You squeeze your eyes shut, reaching.
You’d felt the moment he died; there had been an excruciating, sickening snap in your chest that drove you to your knees, gasping and vomiting as if on command. Your head had spun, vision swimming as waves of volcanic heat flushed through you, leaving icy voids in their wake. You’d been adrift, untethered, for hours. Long enough for Shoko to sew up the man who never should have been able to be cut.
You reached for that binding, now. Dug into the depths of your soul, past every feeling of hopeless and inadequacy, into the core of your very being.
There, brushing against the edges of your existence. You could feel something. You latched onto it, violent in your eagerness. Your consciousness yanked itself loose from your body, momentarily floating. Like being in a pool of saltwater.
Sightless, voiceless, you hauled yourself along what felt like a cord the length of the world. Then, falling. You opened your eyes, expecting more suffocating blackness.
You blinked, confused, at the Jujutsu high cafeteria.
Bright sunlight streamed in though the high windows, eliminating any need for the bright fluorescents overhead. The room was almost silent, practically empty, with only one occupied table.
You saw Suguru first, breath catching in your throat as you laid eyes on him. He looked exactly as he had the first day you’d met him; hair in a neat bun, just the one wisp falling over his cheek, eyes crinkled in laughter as he smiled wide. Nanami and Haibara sat side by side, frozen out of time just like their friend. Haibara’s bright grin made your heart clench in grief, as did the lighthearted way Nanami’s rolling eyes couldn’t quite mask the smirk he tried to hide.
And there, with his back to you, white hair wild and beautiful, was Satoru.
Whether you’d said his name aloud or he’d simply sensed your presence, you’d never know. As he turned to face you, his expression lit up the entire cafeteria. He jumped to his feet, shouting your name, bounding over to pick you up and twirl you around.
“You’re here, you’re finally here. Oh, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Satoru.” You barely choked his name out around the lump in your throat.
“I take back everything I ever said about wanting to break our bond.” The words are pouring out of him, and it’s hard to place his real voice–lower now that he’s older, carefree whimsy removed to an overtone where it had once been the fundamental pitch–in his younger face. He throws off his sunglasses–and when was the last time you saw those? It’s been years, if not a decade–and takes your face between his palms. “It’s like a part of me is missing. I hate it. I don’t know how I ever lived before you found me.”
“Satoru, slow down,” you begin, but his head is already shaking vehemently.
“No. Never again.” And his mouth crashes down over yours. All the breath goes out of you, because you haven’t kissed again since the night he was unsealed. That kiss had been a homecoming; this one is the explosive kiss of your younger self’s fantasies.
Satoru’s mouth is ravenous, stroking your tongue and your teeth as his hands move down to grip your waist. He pulls you against him with one arm, reaching the other up to cradle the back of your skull as he devours you whole. Your arms wind themselves around his shoulders without direction from your melting brain, fingers burying themselves in his thick, soft hair.
You feel the way the muscles in his back relax under your touch, the way he sighs into your mouth like he can breathe after being underwater for too long. Before you can stop it, tears are sliding down your cheeks, dripping onto Satoru’s thumb where it rests at the hinge of your jaw.
“Baby,” he breathes, and you shudder in delight, despite yourself. “What’s wrong?”
You wrench yourself back, because you’ll never be able to say this while you can feel him, smell him. “I can’t stay,” you blurt.
Satoru blinks, stunned. “Can’t stay.” He says the word haltingly, like he’s never heard them before. Like he can’t understand what they could possibly mean.
“Come with me, Satoru,” you plead. You reach out a hand for him and beg any higher power not to let him ask you to go with him, instead. It’s horrible and selfish and cruel. There are people who need him, even people who need you. Someone must stop Sukuna, or he’ll burn the world.
And yet, if Satoru asks you to stay, you’ll let the world disintegrate.
“What do you mean? I thought…” He trails off, looking over his shoulder. At the table across the room, Suguru and Nanami and Haibara are still talking and laughing as if you’d never arrived, and maybe you haven’t.
The look of utter longing on Satoru’s face is enough to undo you. “I know you want to be here. I know you miss everyone. I know you miss him.” He flinches, just a bit. Losing Suguru had devastated him. All three times.
You take a step forward and raise your hands to his cheeks. He raises his to grasp your wrists lightly. “I need you too, Satoru.”
“And I need you,” he whispers, and it’s like a punch to the stomach. You’ve known he needed you, but you don’t think he’s ever actually said it. His voice cracks on the next words. “Stay with me. Don’t make me choose.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. “You know I can’t.”
His grip around your wrists tightens. “Megumi?” he asks, voice tight.
“Safe.”
“That’s good,” he breathes out.
“Yuta needs you, and Yuji and Nobara. And me.” You’re sputtering now. “Don’t leave me, Satoru. Please don’t leave me. We didn’t get enough time.”
He turns his head, cheeks slipping from beneath your fingertips. You know he’s looking at Suguru, know he’s thinking the same thing about him.
You know he loves you.
You know that he loves Suguru.
In life, you’ve made peace. You’d never ask him to give up that first love, never be jealous of the dead boy who holds a piece of his heart that’s forever out of even your reach.
In death, it feels like a betrayal. But only for the space of a heartbeat.
You could never begrudge him an afterlife with Suguru, and so you let your hands drop to grasp his.
“I love you,” you say. You mean to take a step back, to release the sorcery that binds you together and free him from the burdens of a world that depends on his existence. You mean to let him go, even if it shreds you from the inside out.
Sartoru’s hands snap around yours in a vice grip. You open your eyes to look up into the sea and sky and every beautiful thing in between that’s ever mattered.
His eyes blaze like a fire that’s sucked all of the oxygen from the building, intent and committed.
As always, you’ve missed all the action. You wake with a pounding headache and an IV taped to the crook of your arm, lungs screaming, wrapped up in Satoru, staring at the pile of students on the couch across the room.
Megumi sits at one end, arm across the back of the couch. Nobara lays curled against his chest, legs thrown over Yuji’s lap, and Yuji snores softly against her shoulder. Yuta sits slumped in an armchair someone’s dragged into the room, head resting on his fist, and Maki and Toge both lay propped against Panda in the corner of the room.
Your hands raise, locking around Satoru’s forearm where it’s wrapped around your shoulders, and you revel in the breath he takes against the back of your neck. Before you’re even fully awake, you burst into tears, relief and gratitude flowing down your cheeks.
Satoru shoots up, frantically turning you onto your back. He leans over you as you stare up at him, too overwhelmed to say anything. He lets out a strange, breathless chuckle and raises a hand to cup your face. He opens his mouth, but you shake your head emphatically, pointing to the kids.
He glances over to them and then rolls his eyes, but stays quiet. He leans down to kiss you, slow and deep.
“You’re okay,” he breathes against your lips.
“You died,” you whisper back, arching into him.
“You brought me back,” he murmurs, bending until he nearly covers you with his body. “How?” He nuzzles behind your ear, licking the hollow there and then blowing cool air until goosebumps prick your skin.
“I just had to follow the tether.” You wrap your hands around his biceps, dragging him down. The hand that isn’t braced by your shoulder comes to rest gently against your throat, lifting your chin until his eyes bore into yours.
“Tether?”
“You know, the soul binding one? Been a problem since the first time I touched you?”
A slow smile spreads over his face. “Technically,” a light kiss to the corner of your mouth, “I touched you first.”
“Semantics,” you mutter.
Yuta stirs in his armchair, turning to face the wall with a snuffle. You and Satoru freeze, watching him carefully, until his breathing evens out again. You’ve both been whispering, but you lower your voices even more.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Satoru sighs. He lays himself carefully over you, tucking his head beneath your chin.
“I’m so glad you’re okay.” You thread your fingers through his hair, knead his scalp, and stifle a giggle when he muffles a moan against your collarbone.
“I never want to not be touching you again,” he grumbles.
“I could get on board with that.” You feel it when he smiles against your skin. “How… how much did I miss?”
“Not a lot. We just killed the King of Curses, anyone could’ve done it.” You smack his arm with probably too much force, but he only snickers. “Honestly, the kids did all the work. I just forced a domain clash and knocked him around a little. They did the rest, but I’ll let them tell you all about it.”
You angle yourself so you can look down and, sure enough, Satoru is glowing with pride for his students.
“Satoru,” you whisper.
“Hmm?”
“Are you okay? Really.”
He looks up at you then, expression completely serious for once. “As long as I’m with you.”
You blink at him. “Is the tether intact again?”
“What?” he hisses, then turns to watch as the kids shift around. “No, I… I think the tether is actually broken.”
Something about that makes your heart hurt, but you choose to ignore it. “That’s good, right?”
He props himself up over you again, unspeaking. For the first time in an age, you can’t read his expression. You think of standing in that cafeteria with him, with Suguru and the rest of your dead friends, and wonder if he regrets his decision. You think of the people you’ve lost, and you think of how many more you’re destined to lose. The Jujutsu world is cruel, after all.
Maybe you don’t want to hear his answer.
You trail your fingers up, beneath his shirt, to trace the thick bandages around his waist, determined to change the subject. Satoru tenses at the touch. “I meant this.”
He swallows. Hard. “It’ll heal.”
“Sensei?” You both turn to face Yuta, who’s rubbing his eyes as he sits up with effort. When he sees you, his face lights up. “Oh, you’re awake! We were so worried!” Satoru rolls to sit on the edge of the bed, but squeezes your hand beneath the blankets.
“How long was I out?” you ask, more than a little scared of the answer.
“Too long,” says Nobara, straightening with a yawn.
“Gojo crawled off the battlefield straight into bed with you and hasn’t moved since.” Megumi rolls his neck, causing a series of loud pops. He shoves Yuji, who jerks awake with a loud snort. “I don’t think he’d have forgiven himself if you didn’t wake up.”
“You were out for four days!” Yuji’s bounced off the couch already, springing to the bedside to take your hand more carefully than you might expect. “Let me get you some tea. Are you hungry? I can cook breakfast!”
And with that, the room is awake and alive, chattering and milling about. Yuji leaves, returning with the promised tea and a tired looking Shoko.
“Alright, everyone, out,” she demands. The kids protest loudly, but they leave one by one, stopping to clasp your hand or bow to Satoru before filing into the hall. The room feels empty once they’re all gone.
Shoko motions you to stand.
“Shoko,” warns Satoru.
“I won’t let anything happen to her, you know that.”
You stand on wobbly legs, grateful for Satoru’s steadying hand on your back and Shoko’s firm grip on your arm. She removes your IV carefully, bandaging your arm with quick, careful fingers. She shines a light in your eyes, listens to your heart and lungs, and checks your reflexes. Then she sticks cold hands beneath your shirt to press on your abdomen and ribs. You hiss when she touches you.
“Sorry,” she says noncommittally. “You had some pretty bad bruising, probably some internal bleeding. Do you feel lightheaded?” You nod, and Shoko nods in return. “I treated the worst of it with reverse cursed technique, but you should still take it easy for a few days.”
She helps you back onto the bed, gesturing at Satoru to get up as she props up your pillows and tucks the blankets around your waist. When you’re settled to her satisfaction, she turns to Satoru. “Off,” she says unceremoniously.
He scowls at her, but complies and lifts his t-shirt overhead. You’re expecting the white bandages, only a few shades lighter than his pale skin. When Shoko unwinds them, though, you can’t bite back the gasp that comes out. There’s a thick, angry red scar in a band around his waist, crisscrossed with huge, black stitches. Satoru grimaces over his shoulder at you.
“Pretty cool, right? Proof that I’m the strongest.” He winks, but turns quickly away as his expression falls. “Buuut… not exactly the way I wanted you to see me half-naked for the first time.”
Shoko snorts. “Seriously? That hasn’t happened yet?”
Both of your heads whip in her direction.
“Shoko, no!”
“Of course not!”
She only snickers at the pair of you.
You’re too embarrassed to say anything after that, but you’re surprised when Satoru has nothing to add. He only sits quietly as Shoko treats and bandages his wound. Finally, she’s the one to break the silence.
“All things considered, you’re looking good. I should be able to take the stitches out in another day or two, if you think you’re up for it.“
He nods, wincing as she ties off the bandage. “I’m up for it,” he says.
Shoko levels him with a look. He shrugs. She rolls her eyes, but strips off her gloves and packs the small bag she brought.
“Get some rest, both of you.” Her words are stern, but she looks as relieved as you feel.
Even before the door clicks shut, Satoru’s reaching for his shirt. You lay a gentle hand on his elbow, which turns his head. “Leave it,” you say. His eyes darken as he drops the garment, sliding back under the sheets and into your embrace. After just seconds of jostling, you’re both comfortable again. Satoru’s heartbeat is steady and strong beneath your cheek, chin resting against the top of your head and arms tight around you. You’ve slipped one leg between his so you can lay practically on top of him, but you’re careful of his injured waist as you skim your fingertips over his bare chest.
“Y’know,” he murmurs. “When I used to think about touching you, I always imagined it being a lot more hot and heavy than this. But this is… this is nice.” His arms tighten around you. “So nice,” he whispers.
You giggle, sixteen all over again for a short moment before the ache in your chest brings you back to reality. “Hot and heavy, huh? Do tell.”
“You drove me crazy,” he says, and somehow you weren’t expecting him to actually tell you anything. “When we’d train, any time you got me on the ground I just wanted to lay back and let you have your wicked way with me.” That makes you laugh, loudly. Satoru’s chest rumbles beneath you. “Had to remind myself to be a gentleman.”
You snort. “You did have a tendency to flop down and refuse to move.” He slides his fingers beneath your shirt, squeezing just under your ribs and making you squeal.
“Gentleman,” he repeats, mock-stern. “Not to mention the way you’d lean on your door when I’d walk you back.”
“Walk me back? Satoru, our rooms were next door to each other for all of high school.”
He attacks your ribs again until you’re wheezing with laughter, begging him to stop. You’re propped up over him now, still breathless. He beams up at you.
“I wanted to shove you up against that damn door and kiss you until you couldn’t breathe. And don’t get me started on taking you out on missions.”
“Missions?” you ask, puzzled.
“Oh yeah. Do you have any idea how hot you looked, crushing curses with your bare hands?”
Your face is on fire at this point. “Infinity helped,” you mumble.
Satoru shifts you up until you sit straddling him. He squeezes your hips lightly.
“You did just fine on your own.”
You stroke your hands down his chest, trying to work up the courage to tell him about all the times you wanted him to kiss you, but he goes on.
“And then there were all the times we’d sneak out for kikufuku.” You remember those nights fondly; racing down the school halls hand in hand, never questioning why Satoru didn’t just teleport you both. “You glowed in the streetlights, and the way you’d smile up at me?” His own smile goes crooked.
“Let me guess,” you tease. “You wanted to kiss me?”
He reaches up to the side of your neck, cradling your cheek with a reverence you’ve never seen from him.
“I was dying to kiss you for most of high school,” he admits.
“So kiss me now.”
He does. It’s as soft and tender as every other kiss so far, but there’s a weight to this one. A molten heat sings down your spine as his lips move against yours, dragging his canines against your bottom lip and squeezing your waist in his big hands. You want to melt against him.
“Bind me again,” he murmurs between kisses.
You shoot up, startled. “What?”
“I want to be bound to you until the day I die.” And because it’s Satoru, he can’t just say the nice thing and let it lie. “Well,” he smirks, “die again.”
You smack his chest, sitting fully upright. He laughs as he follows you up. Then he takes your hand, clasping it over his heart. “I’m serious,” he says.
“Most people just get married,” you say.
“We can do that, too,” he says. You stare at him, dumbfounded, until he raises a finger. Then he teleports away, letting you drop to the mattress before he reappears, standing at the bedside, seconds later. He drops to one knee, taking your hand and sliding a stunning, heavy ring onto your finger. “Marry me?” he asks, sincere and smiling.
“W-we’ve never even been on a date!” you stammer out. He leans over you until you’re forced to bend backwards, caging you between his arms.
“Does that mean no?”
“No, of course not!” you practically shout. You raise your hand to look at the ring on your finger, white gold with a stunning cerulean diamond. Just like his eyes. “Where did you even get this?”
Satoru shrugs like only Satoru can. “Family heirloom.”
“Oh, of course,” you scoff.
“You still haven’t said yes,” he prods.
“Yes,” you say, fondly exasperated, automatic and inevitable. A rush of excitement floods your veins as giddiness rises up.
Satoru surges forward, capturing your lips in a kiss more searing than any you’ve shared yet. He can hardly keep kissing you, though, with his smile so wide. “And you’ll bind me to you again?” he asks breathlessly. You marvel at being not only the only person he lets touch him, but the only person who can make him breathless. The only person he pursues; the only person he wants to marry.
“I don’t know how,” you admit.
“Eh, we’ve got time. You’ll figure it out.” His voice is confident, lazy and completely at ease. “Soulbinding.”
“Hm?”
“Your cursed technique. I say we call it soulbinding.”
“Soulbinding,” you repeat. A grin curves the corners of your lips. “I like that.”
Satoru hums, letting himself fall to lay against your chest. “Me too.”
Summary: You’ve been in love with Yord since before you knew what being in love meant. And in his way, he’s loved you, too. You’ve never made him choose between you and the Jedi Order. It’s always been enough, until a dangerous mission forces Yord to reassess his priorities.
Author’s Notes: 13K words for Star Wars, this time! Gosh, I hope it reads well for the setting. Please don’t hesitate to point out anything that looks off.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Star Wars
Warnings/tags: mild language, suggestive content, injury description (not graphic), smut (to be safe–very YA level, nothing graphic!), spoilers for The Acolyte episode 5, fix-it fic!
You’d always known exactly what man you fell in love with, almost down to the day you met him.
Two young padawans, who should have been on equal footing, getting into equal mischief; but you were never on equal footing, and Yord was never getting into any mischief at all, let alone your kind of mischief.
You were forever getting on the masters’ and teachers’ nerves, forever toeing the line between a good prank and outright chaos. And Yord?
Well. You were lucky if Yord turned a blind eye.
Despite the fact that it was all always for him.
You needed only to close your eyes for a moment to remember the first time you saw him. At four years old, recently orphaned and more than a little scared and confused after being taken from your home planet, you were instantly drawn to the most mature youngling in the room.
At the wise and seasoned age of eight, Yord stood head and shoulders over you. The warm brown of his skin reminded you of the warm sands you’d grown up playing in, drawing you in before you could notice the sternness of his expression. You’d latched onto him that first day, home again, and despite his best efforts, he’d never quite been able to shake you.
You learned quickly that Yord couldn’t be drawn into your schemes, but that didn’t stop you from trying. Every wet blanket, every salted or sugared meal, every fake insect was held up on a silver platter for his approval, which you never received. For your cleverest schemes, though, sometimes you could wring a wry smile out of him.
Most of the time, he would simply walk away mid-explanation or cover his ears while you prattled. Sometimes, he’d cover your mouth. Those were your favorite times, because even though you were too young to see it, something in your subconscious recognized that you were one of the few people he’d willingly touch.
One of few people he’d willingly touch because Yord was as straight-laced as they came. The Order this, propriety that, and no fun to be had ever. The Order discouraged attachments, so he remained aloof and unattached. It was improper for a Padawan aspirant to entertain childish endeavors, so he wouldn’t go adventuring with you. Younglings and Padawans alike were expected to tell the truth, and so Yord never lied.
And yet, when you snuck back into the youngling quarters after a midnight jaunt, he said nothing. Only turned in his bunk to sleep now that you’d returned. When he was elevated to Padawan, he let you play with his braid—so long as no one was around to see. He’d listen patiently to your latest tales of misdeed when you snuck into his quarters, chattering animatedly as he steamed his robes. Once you were elevated to Padawan, he’d train with you even after long days of training in his own specialty. And now that you were Knights together, always running off to opposite corners of the galaxy, he brought you bits and baubles from his travels, just as you’re done for him all those years ago. You took your meals together when you could, and though there was no reason to train together, what with your opposite strengths, you did anyway.
“It’s good practice, to spar with someone who fights so fundamentally differently,” Yord would say. “It gives us an edge. It teaches us to be adaptable.” And though the Order did not prioritize this line of thought, neither could they argue with it. And so you were allowed to continue.
You knew Yord was right, but it didn’t escape her notice how carefully he’d crafted that answer, either, leaving no room for argument.
You fell in love with the way that he made just enough space within the rigid confines of the Order for you to be by his side. You never expected more from him, because you knew that this was all that he could give. He probably looked at you and still saw that uncertain child, that unruly teenager, the annoying younger sibling he’d somehow become responsible for, and you couldn’t hold that against him.
But that was why Osha’s presence hurt you so deeply.
When she had been around during your training years, Yord had shown her nearly the same level of care that he usually reserved for you. It was easy enough to brush off, back then, as childish jealousy and nothing more.
Now though, after she’d left him behind? After she’d walked away from his hard-earned friendship and from all he held dear with hardly a backward glance?
Now it hurt, when he chose to go after her.
“I’m coming with you.” You didn’t care that you were being immature, petulant. Didn’t even care that, according to his scowl, Yord had clearly noticed.
“Master Sol—”
“Knows that I’m an asset, and trustworthy.” Yord raised an eyebrow, which you ignored. You’d only meant to douse Sol, not his research. How were you meant to know he’d turn and spill your bucket across the pages? Besides, it had been years ago. Sol had long since forgiven you.
You hoped.
You turned on your heel, ready to storm out of the room. “Kelnacca knows me, too.” Nevermind the hundreds of tiny braids you’d woven into his fur as a youngling. “I’m an asset.” You repeated yourself with more conviction than you felt. Yord’s hand gripped your wrist, ever gentle, and stopped you dead in your tracks.
“You barely passed your last exercise. You need more time to heal.”
You tensed. You’d never been half the swordsman Yord was, and it had cost you in your last mission. You’d spent weeks in the infirmary healing the wounds to your shoulder, and weeks longer regaining your strength and flexibility. Deep down, you were half convinced that your sword arm would never quite feel the same. That you’d lost something you’d never be able to get back. Nearly failing your latest exercise had deepened that feeling, but Yord didn’t know that. He couldn’t.
What you lacked in swordsmanship, though, you more than made up for in Force sensitivity and strength. That, Yord did know.
“I’ll be fine,” you said. You turned to look at him through your lashes. “I’m more worried about you.”
Something in his jaw ticked. You’d noticed that, recently; that any time you referenced your friendship, let on that it was something you valued, Yord became tense.
As in more tense than usual.
It bothered you that you didn’t know why. He’d never been vocal about his feelings, about anything. He showed you where his thoughts lay, how he felt, by his actions. But he’d never reacted to your voicing your feelings before.
“There’s no reason to worry about me,” he said sternly, and your temper flared.
“No? How about the fact that Osha clouds your judgement? How about the fact that something about this feels wrong?” Yord opened his mouth, looking shocked, but you cut him off before he could speak. “And don’t tell me you can’t feel it, too.”
He snapped his mouth shut. After a pause, he scowled, but he looked confused. “Osha does not cloud my judgement,” he said slowly. You scoffed, turning on your heel.
“Well forgive me if I disagree. You’re my friend, and I care about you, so I’m coming along. Sol will say yes, and he outranks you.”
You didn’t miss the lack of Yord’s footsteps following you.
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It was an incredibly uncomfortable flight to Khofar. You were honestly worried about Kelnacca, and Jecki, and Osha, but you were more worried about Yord.
And most worried about Sol.
Kelnacca had fallen off the grid, but that wasn’t the craziest thing that had ever happened. It worried you, but not much. He was a big boy. He could take care of himself, and missing Jedi weren’t unheard of.
Jecki didn’t worry you so much as make you cautious. She was a fine young warrior, level-headed, skilled and strong, but she was still only a child. You were protective of her.
Osha worried you. She wasn’t an unknown quantity, not exactly. After all, you’d known her for several years. But that was several years ago, and who knew what had changed since then? You only knew that she held some small power over Yord, bringing him as close as he’d ever been to defying his precious Code. And it didn’t even bother you that she held that power—you didn’t want it. You didn’t value the Code in the same way Yord did, but you’d never ask him to change. Would she? Would he do it?
You shook your head, tried to shake Osha out of it, and found your eyes on Yord across the room. He was focused on the screen before him, brow furrowed in concentration. That little crease at the corner of his mouth, the one you loved, the one you pictured smoothing with your thumb, was on full display. You had to turn your body away, unable to take your eyes from his features.
You wouldn’t allow yourself to think too deeply about why you worried for him. He was a good fighter and a great Jedi. No matter his feelings toward Osha, he would remain true to himself and protect you all.
You wandered until you found yourself leaning against the cockpit doorway, watching Sol pilot the ship in silence. Your heart clenched.
Sol worried you because of the way he watched Osha, as if she wasn’t quite real. You remembered how hurt he’d been when she’d left the Order, this girl he’d sacrificed so much to cherish and protect. You were sure that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, and this mission was evidence of exactly that fact.
You had to turn away from him, too. That was a whole different level of hurt.
Your own master had been pleasant enough, but with that famous Jedi detachment that always left you feeling just a bit too lonely. Sol hadn’t been like that with Osha, and clearly wasn’t now. It was too difficult to watch; to know that you weren’t the only one who craved affection and devotion, but to know that someone else had what you so desperately craved.
Without quite meaning to, you’d paced back to the debriefing room. Yord looked up from his screen, raising one straight, perfect, stupid eyebrow at you. He smirked, deepening the smile line he didn’t smile enough to warrant having, and crossed his arms over his stupid, broad, perfect chest.
You crossed your arms back at him. “What?”
“Feeling restless, are we?”
You grumbled, neither confirming nor denying that assertion, and made your way across the space to throw yourself across a row of seats.
“Do you think Sol would even notice if I sprayed Bantha musk in the air vent?”
Yord’s face slackened into a flat stare. “Please don’t punish the rest of us for your boredom.”
You stuck your tongue out, Yord rolled his eyes at you, and all was right with the world. He returned his attention to the screen, which you now saw displayed a topographic map of Khofar.
“What are you looking for?”
Yord hummed, fully engrossed in his study, and you heaved yourself up. You walked toward him and promptly launched yourself up and onto his back. He let out a huff of irritation, but it didn’t stop his hands from shooting out to secure the hold your knees had on his waist. You slung your arms loosely around his shoulders, leaning your head against his and enjoying the soft ridges of his locks beneath your cheek.
“Yord.”
“What?”
“What are you looking for?”
He shifted his weight, pulling one of his hands free to point at the screen. “This forest. It’s exceptionally dense, and mostly uncharted. If Kelnacca’s gone into it, I’m concerned that we may struggle to find him.”
You considered this for less than a moment. “We won’t. Sol knows what his presence feels like, he’ll find him. Yord scoffed. He turned, striding across the room toward the crew quarters.
“You know,” he said, using your knee to press the door release. “At some point, you’ll have to learn to actually do these things on your own, without relying on the Force.”
“Blasphemy.” He let out a huff of laughter that you felt, rather than heard.
“It’s not blasphemy, it’s just good training.”
“Blasphemy,” you repeated cheerfully. Yord was opening the door to your quarters. “I am one with the F-oof!” He interrupted you by yanking up on your knees as he leaned back to send you sprawling across your mattress. “Yord!”
That damned smirk again. “Get some rations and go to sleep. We need to be rested.”
“Why would I eat rations when I could have space waffles?”
Yord did not dignify this with a response. He left, returning moments later to hurl a ration pack at you. You squawked in disapproval, scrambling to grab the offending object, but the door was already sliding shut behind him.
“Rations!” he called again.
You groaned.
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Khofar went south so quickly it made your head spin.
You landed, asked the locals about Kelnacca. Started Bazil on the trail into the woods. Found yourself an unintentional audience to a conversation you wished you hadn’t heard.
“I’ve known you since we were younglings. Mae has always been your wound. Maybe Sol brought you here to face her, but maybe he brought you here to face yourself.”
Your mood only soured further from there. Khofar was humid. The air was heavy and you could feel your skin slicking with sweat beneath your robes. The forest path was choked with roots and branches and stones, making each step unsure. Then there were the umbramoths.
Horrid creatures.
Amidst that chaos, Bazil disappeared, leaving Yord muttering about needing a tracker to track your tracker. You’d have all been left standing around if not for the scream.
The Jedi scattered.
Each of you raced off in different directions, trying to track the sound, and you found yourself separated from the group. You stalked through the undergrowth for long minutes, but to no avail. You sighed, ready to turn to find your party, but hesitated. Something was pulling you further in the direction you’d been moving.
You continued down the path.
The forest was still around you, but something dark loomed ahead. You crept toward it carefully, one hand resting on your saber.
Bazil’s chattering startled you out of your stance.
You drew your saber, rushing through the foliage and right into a clearing. You only hesitated a moment before sprinting to the door of the building on the other side.
“He’s here.”
The horrified whisper had you skidding to a stop just inside the doorway, and the sudden stop put you nearly face to face with Osha.
Only it wasn’t Osha.
You sucked in a breath as she lunged for you, raising your saber to block her first attack. She was strong, and the blow rang up your arm to your still-healing shoulder. You felt a flicker of fear.
Maybe Yord had been right.
You’d accused him of having clouded judgement, but you were a hypocrite. He clouded yours, and now you would pay for your hubris.
You shook yourself out of the thought, returning your full focus to the fight. Mae had already killed two Jedi masters—you needed to be on your guard.
“Here to arrest me?” she hissed. She kept up a steady barrage of attacks with the lightsaber she wielded, green. Clearly stolen. There was a pang in your chest as you glimpsed the hilt and realized from whom.
“That was the idea, yes.” Your words came out too tight as you caught sight of Kelnacca, slumped in his chair. Dead.
“You’ll have to catch me first.”
You ducked beneath a particularly vicious swing, barely missing the kick she threw your way next.
“That is also the plan.”
You danced around each other, each just out of reach, until you both paused in the same breath.
Outside, you could hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
“In the name of the Galactic Republic, and the Order of the Jedi, anyone inside that domicile should come out with your hands where we can see them.”
The Force hit you so unexpectedly that you flew sideways, cracking your head against the concrete wall. You gasped in pain, trying to tamp down the intense wave of nausea that swept over you.
“That means you, Mae Aniseya.”
Mae was on you before you could even get your mouth open, muffling your cry.
“Yord!”
She yanked you close, holding you before her like a shield with her knife at your throat as she crept toward the window. Another wave of nausea swept over you at the sharp motion. You tried to peek through the window slats, but you were too dizzy to see. Tried to break her grip on you, but you couldn’t seem to summon your strength.
Mae wrapped one arm around your throat, swearing under her breath, and you put all of your effort into focusing on the scene beyond the window.
It was useless. Your vision swam, and Mae must not have liked what she saw anyway. A moment later, she threw you down. Then, she was gone.
You tried to stand, but couldn’t get to your feet.
Yord. Sol.
You just had to get to the others.
Choking down bile, you dragged yourself to the door and used it to haul yourself to your feet. Just a few steps and you’d be back to your team. To Yord.
You managed to get through the doorway, only to find the clearing empty. You could hear the sounds of fighting through the trees. You turned your head too quickly, and then promptly bent over to vomit.
Thank the stars you hadn’t eaten those rations Yord had tossed at you.
You spat until the taste of acid was mostly gone. Then you wiped your mouth and staggered off toward the sounds of the fighting, pausing every few paces to lean against the trees and fight off further waves of nausea. You nearly fell multiple times, barely keeping yourself on your feet.
“This is bad,” you mumbled to yourself. “This is really bad.” You stumbled for what felt like ages until you found another small clearing, and blinked several times.
You were so stunned by the sight of Jecki’s body that you hardly even registered Sol, hardly even heard the Sith calling her “it”. Against your will, you felt tears blur your vision further. You swallowed against your stomach’s second revolt, lifting a hand to lean against a tree. You thought you were imagining it when you saw a misshapen, welded helmet begin to float, but then it flew backward, drawing your gaze up.
In a flash of yellow and sparks, Yord was there, fighting just as beautifully as he always did, if a touch more brutally. You felt a grin begin to stretch your lips until he and the Sith locked sabers.
Something twitched inside you.
Without knowing why, you raised a hand toward them. The Sith spun them, yanking Yord with a resounding crack. At his cry, you channeled the Force toward them on instinct.
You watched as Yord looked your way, face awash with pain. His shoulder had clearly been dislocated and, turned as he was, you could also see dried blood on his thigh. His face twisted through more emotions than you’d ever seen from him. Relief, pride, and others you could only guess at. Longing? No, impossible. Fear? Never.
The Sith growled, slowly turning his head toward you. You had a hold on his arms, his hands, but you were too weak to control his whole body. Your vision was already swimming with the effort. He jerked his chin, and then you were flying across the open space toward him.
Yord shouted your name, beginning to struggle. Even in your fuzzy state, you knew why. You could hear the telltale hum of a lightsaber at your back. You swallowed down your fear, steadying your breathing as best you could, and shut your eyes.
“No!” Yord shouted, calling your name frantically. “Let her go!” he pleaded, but you couldn’t look at him. You had to focus all of your energy on this. With a deep breath in, you reached for the Force. The Force reached back, flinging the three of you apart. Your back hit a tree, hard, and your eyes flew open as you slid down the trunk to crumple on the ground.
Your eyes went to Yord, first, as they always did. He had one hand at his shoulder, panting, as he scrambled to his feet across the clearing. His eyes met yours, and you smiled weakly.
Between you, Sol had charged forward, and now he and the Sith were locked in combat. Two blades, blue and red, clashed over and over, sending sparks flying. Your vision swam.
Maybe you could take just a quick nap.
Yord called your name, and your eyes fluttered open in response to his voice. Sol shouted for him to get you back to the ship, and then Yord was pulling you to your feet. You swayed, and he cursed. Your eyes had slipped shut, but they flew open at that. Yord never swore.
“Do you kiss your maker with that vocoder?” You giggled at your own joke. You’d heard a tech say it to a droid once as a child and it had tickled you. You’d never thought you’d get a chance to use it, though.
You stopped giggling when you realized that Yord hadn’t made a sound. In fact, he was staring at you so intently that you worried he could see right through every barrier you’d erected to hide your love. You realized then that you were pressed against him, held to his hard body by his arm, tight around your waist. You swallowed.
Yord leaned forward. And you must have been imagining things, because he kissed you.
You must have been imagining things, because he pinned you against the tree behind you, and his arm moved up from around your waist to grip the back of your neck. His tongue brushed against your lips, tentative, and you instinctively opened and tilted your head back into his palm. You raised your hands to the back of his neck and the sharp angle of his cheek.
You must have been dreaming, because Yord made a sound like nothing you’d ever heard before, half whine and half snarl, and leaned harder against you so that you could feel every muscle, every ridge of the body you’d dreamed of touching for so long, crushed to yours. He licked at the inside of your mouth, tongue hot and insistent, and you dug your fingers into the thick, coarse hair at the back of his head. Your head swam for entirely different reasons now. You only hoped he couldn’t taste the residue of bile.
He pulled back, just enough to speak. “Only you,” he breathed against your lips. He kissed you again, nose brushing yours. “I only kiss you.” He pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the corner of your lips. “So you have to stay awake for me.” The hand on his cheek slipped down to his chest until you could feel his heart hammering against it. His head tilted down to press your brows together. “Jump,” he murmured.
After a brief moment of confusion, you remembered his dislocated shoulder. You wrapped your arms around his neck as carefully as you could and, using the last of your strength, hopped up to wrap your legs around his waist. Yord had given you the space to do it, but he lurched forward with a grunt the moment you did, pressing you back against the tree again.
“I’m sorry! I—” Your mouth snapped shut when you realized that reaction hadn’t been one of pain. You’d slid down his body somewhat, but he dropped his good hand to hold you up by your thigh, anchoring you against his hips. You sucked in a breath.
“Is that a lightsaber, or are you—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped. “It’s not my fault my body doesn’t know the difference between a dream and a nightmare.”
“A… dream?” You blinked. Yord ignored this.
“You think Osha clouds my judgement?” He pushed away from the tree, finally finding his balance. “Stars, Osha. I don’t even know where she is.” He turned, limping through the trees and toward the shuttle. You watched over his shoulder as Sol kept the Sith engaged, expertly dodging and parrying. Your eyes slid shut in an attempt to block out the throbbing that seemed to intensify with each step.
“Doesn’t she?”
“No, laserbrain, you do.” You tightened your hold around his shoulders, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your cheeks heated and heart raced with the blunt admission. This had to be some sort of fever dream; it would certainly explain the lightheadedness. You felt him swallow.
“I think about you all the time. When you’re not around, you’re all that’s on my mind. When you’re around me, I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
You smiled against his skin. “You take your eyes off of me all the time.” Your words sounded slurred to your own ears, and Yord’s grip on your thigh tightened.
“Only when you’re looking.”
“Well that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course it does.”
“How?” You felt your grip on him loosening.
“I’ll tell you when we get back to the ship, if you hold on.” He jostled you up, shifting to wrap his arm around your waist instead. You hummed.
“Okay.”
“Can you do that?”
“I think so.” You weren’t sure, but he didn’t need to know that. “I like you like this.”
Yord sputtered for a moment. “Like me li—like what?”
You nuzzled behind his ear. “All sweet.”
“I’m always sweet to you!”
You huffed a laugh, which made your head spin, and then swallowed down the bile it brought up.
Like he could sense it, Yord murmured a soft, “Not far.”
There was silence, then, save for the crunch of branches and the brush of grass under Yord’s boots. Your head pounded, and your half-healed shoulder was beginning to feel the strain of holding your body weight up. It would be so easy to let yourself sleep, just until you got back to the ship.
“Talk to me.”
“Kriffing mind-reader.”
Yord let out a breathless laugh. “You forget I know you.”
“Never forget,” you mumbled. You nuzzled behind Yord’s ear, earning you a strained breath. “Talk to you about what?”
“Anything. Just don’t fall asleep.” You couldn’t be certain, but you thought that don’t leave me was there, somewhere, too.
You let your eyes slide shut, trying to block out even a little of the light that sent lances through your eye sockets. “I just meant that it’s nice to know you care. That I have some sort of effect on you.”
“Everything you do affects me,” he muttered.
A slow smile spread over your face. You had just enough energy to wiggle your hips, which made Yord groan.
“I’m noticing that,” you whispered.
He kissed your cheek roughly. “Hush. You can tease me all you want later, if you still want to.” You wiggled your hips again, and Yord moaned softly. “Poor choice of words,” he breathed. After a moment, his words hit you and you leaned back.
“Wait.” Your tongue was starting to feel too thick for your mouth. “Why wouldn’t I want to tease you later?”
His expression was pained, dark eyes flitting over your face. “I don’t think your decision making skills are at their best right now.”
You furrowed your brow. “What makes you think that?” The words came out too slowly.
Yord frowned. Then, he looked straight ahead. “You kissed me.” He said it so simply, as if that was answer enough. You waited for some further explanation, but he gave none.
“Actually, you kissed me first.” You emphasized each point by poking his chest. In your near delirium, you poked his dislocated shoulder once by mistake. He hissed in pain, you stumbled over an apology, and that was that. You lay your head back on his shoulder, closing your eyes again to combat the dizziness.
“I did.”
You hummed, pleased. “Yeah, you did.” You didn’t need to see his face to know he was grimacing with embarrassment.
Within a few steps, you could feel sunlight against your eyelids. You peeked through slitted eyes, wincing at the brightness, to see the forest receding.
“We’re almost there,” murmured Yord. “Stay with me.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
He scoffed. “I’m sure your bed, uninjured, would be a step up.”
“Not if being injured means I can be in your arms,” you sing-songed. Yord huffed a disbelieving laugh.
“You must have really hit your head hard.”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I don’t feel good.”
He squeezed your waist. Then, like music to your ears, you heard his boots hit the ship’s ramp.
“Oh, thank the stars,” you whispered. Just knowing you’d reached relative safety had your grip on consciousness slipping quickly through your fingers. “Now tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Yord was barreling through the ship toward the medbay. His second wind was in stark contrast to your fading mind.
“Why you won’t look at me when I’m looking at you.”
You’d finally made it to the center of the ship. Yord carefully lowered you onto a bed, gently unwrapping you from around him.
“So you don’t notice me looking.”
“Har har. You owe me a better answer than that and you know it.”
You watched as Yord paused in his rifling through the medical cabinets. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes and sighing through his nose. You hadn’t been able to get a good look at him earlier, but now that you could see him clearly, he looked as exhausted as you felt. His injured arm hung limply at his side, blood matted his thigh, and his robes were as disheveled as you’d ever seen them. There was dirt on his hands and smudged across his face, and you longed to wipe it off of him.
A pang of guilt speared through you. He, injured himself, had just carried you who knew how far, and now you were pushing him for answers?
He rolled his shoulders back out of habit, gasping and clutching at his dislocated limb, and you reached for him on instinct. Your body didn’t want to cooperate, and you were able only to roll onto your side.
“If you don’t notice,” he ground out, “then you can’t see how I look at you.” He strode toward you, eyes downcast. “If you can’t see how I look at you, then you can’t know that I’m a fraud.” He pulled you forward, leaning over you to dab at the back of your head with antiseptic. His next words were so soft that you’d have missed them, had his mouth been any further from your ear. “And if you don’t know that I’m a fraud, then at least I won’t lose you. At least I can stay close to you.”
“Fraud?” You felt silly, repeating this one word after that whole confession of a sort, but you couldn’t put together the pieces. You knew they were there, but you were in too much pain to pick them all up.
Yord carefully bandaged your head. “A failure. Not a worthy Jedi.”
“Yord,” you groaned. You tipped forward, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I know I’m usually the smarter one here, but not today. Spell it out for me. You’re the most worthy Jedi I know. You live and breathe the code, and you—”
Yord gripped your face, bringing your brows together. “I fell in love with you.” Your eyes flew open, searching his face for any sign of teasing, but this was Yord. You should have known better.
He looked so wretched—eyes squeezed shut, face twisted in shame and agony—that you nearly began to cry.
“Is that all?” you tried to tease. Your voice came out choked, though. This was Yord. What had that admission cost him? “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“What?” It was hardly a breath, like you’d taken all of the air out of him. Maybe you had. He was searching your face, and you couldn’t keep yourself from reaching up to stroke his cheek. He turned his head into your touch without breaking eye contact, and that’s when the tears really did start to flow.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve had it bad for ages.” You sounded half hysterical. “Remember when you—”
You cut off abruptly when the ship door hissed open. Yord leapt to his feet, drawing his lightsaber and backing himself against the doorway.
Osha called your names.
“Here!” Yord called back. He stepped forward. Osha came careening around the corner, looking drawn and ashy. She looked from Yord to you and back again, and you looked at him too.
You felt silly, now. Even if you’d never noticed the way he looked at you, or never noticed when the way he looked at you had changed, you could see clearly that he didn’t look at Osha the same way.
“Where’s Sol?” he asked. He was all business again, face a careful mask. Almost as if your conversation had never happened at all.
“He’s coming,” Osha replied. “He’s alright.” Her voice was tight, though. Your muddled mind was still turning through reasons why when Sol stepped through the doorway. Jecki hung in his arms, head lolling back and arms crossed loosely over her chest. Dead, you’d thought, when you’d seen her laying in that clearing.
But surely not.
One look at Sol’s anguished face, though, told you you’d been right.
And after everything that had happened, all the fighting and death, the confessions and emotions; after realizing, all over again, that you had almost lost Yord and you had actually lost Jecki, seeing her like this was too much. Fighting the pulsing in your skull was too much.
The last thing you heard before slipping into the black was Yord’s soft, “Oh, Jecki.”
Then, you were gone.
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You weren’t gone for long. You bolted awake, screaming for Yord, at a resounding crack and a howl of pain.
He was in the doorway in less than a moment, leaning heavily against the frame and breathing hard. He was in an undershirt, skin drained of color and coated in a sheen of sweat, long fingers splayed over his injured shoulder. In your nightmare, the crack had been his neck. It occurred to you now that here in reality, it must’ve been his shoulder.
You breathed a little easier.
He was across the room seconds later, kneeling at your bedside. He stroked your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, said your name, and only then did you realize you were crying.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
“Are you alright?” You nodded, and Yord let out a breath. “Good.”
You brushed your lips over his fingers before pulling back. Sol rounded the corner, breaking out a tired smile.
“Good, you are awake. Yord has been pulling his hair out worrying about you.” You looked at Yord, who had looked away.
You raised your eyebrows. “I thought it looked a little less put-together than usual.”
“Shut up,” Yord muttered. He chucked under your chin with his bad arm, wincing a bit as he did. You looked down at his leg, taking note of the fresh bandages.
As if seeing his injuries heightened your awareness of your own, your head began to pound again. There was a pinch in the crook of your arm, too, and you peered down to see an IV.
“Fluids,” said Sol. “And some pain medication. You have a concussion.”
You blinked slowly. “That tracks.”
“You need to rest,” said Yord sternly.
You put on your best unimpressed face. “What about you? How’s your shoulder?”
Yord and Sol spoke at the same time.
“He needs a sling.”
“I’m fine.”
Yord glared, but Sol’s implacable expression remained.
“I can get that.”
They both shouted “No!”, but you’d already swung your legs over the bedside and stood. Too quickly, it seemed, as your knees buckled, sending you sprawling forward. You sucked in a breath, but you should have known you wouldn’t come to any harm in present company. There was a brief moment that felt like floating before Yord caught you, pulling you back up to set you on your bed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sol lower his hand.
“Sorry,” you murmured. You looked up at Yord as he withdrew his arms, eyeing you disapprovingly. That look sent you back ten years or more, hurtling through every sideways glance he’d ever given you over every stupid thing you’d ever done. Your spine straightened. You jabbed him in the chest, eyebrows shooting up. “You wouldn’t have done it yourself!”
Holding your stare, Yord lifted his hand. You narrowed your eyes, and he narrowed his back. There was a soft rustling sound as something touched his outstretched hand.
You refused to look away as you pulled the sling from between his fingers, bound the fabric around his neck, and gently slid his elbow into it.
Yord didn’t even wince. “Satisfied?“ His voice came out low, and he was very close to you, and something deep beneath your skin responded. An involuntary shudder wracked your body. You tamped it down quickly, equal parts relieved and disappointed when he took no notice of your reaction.
You cast a furtive glance in Sol’s direction. He was pointedly looking away, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his perennially downturned mouth. Your gaze snapped back to Yord in alarm, but he had already busied himself with re-organizing a shelf of medical supplies and looked completely oblivious, as ever.
A spike of pain lanced behind your eyelids, causing you to squeeze them shut. As if they could sense it, and maybe they could, both men turned to you.
Yord opened his mouth, but Sol raised a hand to point at the door. “Out. She needs rest.”
Yord looked displeased, but he didn’t argue. With a last glance in your direction, he turned, bowing to Sol, and left. Sol waved the door shut, eyes on you. He moved gracefully toward you and, when he stood before you, raised two fingers.
“Follow,” he said, so you did. He raised a tiny light, shined it in your eyes, and then held your chin lightly with one hand. The other moved behind your head, and a moment later, there was a loud snap. It made you jump, which made Sol nod calmly.
“You will be just fine,” he said. He sounded pleased, but unsurprised. He tapped your elbows, your wrists, your knees, and continued to nod when your body reflexively flinched. “Your brain scans did not show any cause for alarm. In a week or two, you will be back to your old self.”
You grinned. “Causing problems for everyone around me, you mean?” Sol smiled back. He turned to go and your smile faltered. “You ran a brain scan?”
He turned back, face impassive. “Yord insisted.”
Your eyebrows shot up at that. “And you take orders from Yord?”
Sol crossed his arms and looked at you thoughtfully. Finally, he spoke. “He was very persuasive.”
You blinked. He blinked. Then you spoke at the same time.
“Get some rest.”
“How are Osha and Jecki?”
Sol froze. He unfroze almost immediately, but your gaze snagged on the nearly imperceptible hitch in his movement. He turned to look at you, expression unreadable.
“You do not remember?”
Ice dripped down your spine. “Remember what?”
Sol rested a hand lightly on your head, as he had when you were a youngling, and even as a Padawan. As you’d seen him do to Yord, and to Osha, and to Jecki. The familiarity of the gesture was at once comforting and startling, after so many years.
“Osha is asleep. She is frustrated that Mae escaped, but unharmed.” His fingers scratched ever so lightly against your scalp. You leaned into his hand, waiting.
“And Jecki is…” You held your breath. “Dead.”
You choked on a sob.
Yord whipped into the doorway, wild-eyed and hissing Sol’s name.
“She does not remember.” Sol always spoke slowly, but he said this with extra care. He and Yord shared a look that you couldn’t decipher. Then, you watched Yord’s face crumple. A slew of emotions crossed his features so quickly that you couldn’t place any of them.
Sol laid a hand on Yord’s uninjured shoulder, but Yord shrugged it off, turning his face away.
“Yord?” Tears were streaming down your face now, unchecked. Yord took in a breath, broad chest expanding, before hanging his head. Then he strode across the room, shoved lightly until you shifted to make what space you could, and climbed into the narrow bed beside you. He wrapped his good arm around you, tugging you toward his chest.
You let yourself fall into him as Sol padded out, taking comfort in huddling together like younglings again.
Yord didn’t say anything, and neither did you.
There was nothing to say.
He only gripped you tightly, cheek pressed to the top of your head, and breathed with you for a long time.
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You must have fallen asleep, because the ship was initiating landing sequences on Coruscant when you next opened your eyes.
Yord sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. You watched him for several long moments. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to move, you reached out a tentative hand to stroke his back. He jumped under your touch, whirling to face you. You felt his muscles relax beneath your hand as he gave you a half-hearted smile.
“Sleep well?”
“I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep.”
“How’s your head?”
Throbbing. “Fine. How’s your shoulder?”
“Fine.” You were lying, he was lying, and you both knew it.
Something about the look on his face was… off. He seemed sad. Jecki. You winced.
“Jecki.” Her name was neither statement nor question. Yord only nodded slowly.
“What do you remember?” He asked the question carefully, and seemed to be studying your reaction. You pursed your lips, frowning in concentration. Yord’s expression was oddly guarded, and it was putting you on edge.
“What should I remember?” you asked.
Yord shook his head, too violently for the casual air he was trying to put on. “What do you remember?” His entire body leaned toward yours, straining with the effort of holding back.
Something was wrong.
You scoured your memories of the mission, coming up uncomfortably blank.
“I… I remember landing on Khofar.” You paused, becoming less and less sure of yourself as the moment stretched. “We…” There was something, there, on the edge of your mind. But try as you might, you couldn’t grasp it. You could feel your face contorting in exasperation. “I know you got hurt, but I don’t remember how.” You looked at Yord, pleading with him silently to give you something to go off of. “What are you not telling me?”
Yord had never been good at hiding his emotions; disapproval and excitement dimmed and lit his face and eyes; the direction of his lips always indicated his mood. Over the years, he’d cultivated a carefully blank stare to mask his feelings. He wore it on missions, at trials, any time he wanted to hide his amusement at your latest shenanigans.
He wore it now.
“You really don’t remember anything.” It probably should have been a question, but it wasn’t.
“No, I don’t. Just please, Yord, tell me what’s going on.” He shook his head firmly and panic threatened to spill up your throat. “Why not?”
“The Council will want to interview you. They’ll need your honest testimony. I can’t cloud it.”
“How am I supposed to testify about a mission I can’t remember?” It was done, now. Anxiety clawed up your insides like a beast. You were missing something, something huge. Something so important, and you could not. See. What. “What good am I to them if I can’t remember? What good am I to anyone?” Your voice had gone shrill. “Am I ever supposed to remember, or is that time just lost?”
Yord stood, leaning over you to grasp your face between his hands. You blinked, calmed beneath their warmth, and felt your breathing slow. Just as soon as it did, it hammered back up to full speed.
Had you admitted something you shouldn’t have? It would explain Yord’s strange behavior, certainly—
“You will remember exactly what you need to.”
Your mind scrambled for something to hold onto. “I don’t remember how Jecki died.”
Pain flashed over Yord’s face. “Maybe it’s better that way,” he murmured.
You scowled, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to disagree. “Maybe.”
Sol stepped into the doorway, glancing between you and Yord. “Are you both ready?”
As ready as you could be.
The moment your boots touched the landing pad, the council was upon you. Each of you was ushered off to give statements, separate from each other so as not to dilute your experiences.
Such that they were.
The council released you the moment they realized that you had nothing to tell them, sending you off to the med bay. You waited in the hallway instead, sitting on a bench near the door they’d led Yord through.
It didn’t take as long as you’d expected for him to step out, looking shaken. He blinked at you.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was unusually sharp. Your surprise must have shown on your face, because his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “You should be in the infirmary,” he said more gently.
“I was waiting for you.” Your voice came out softer than you’d expected. You’d spent the time waiting trying to piece together anything that had happened after landing on Khofar.
Nothing.
“What happened in there?” you asked.
No one else would have noticed Yord’s slight hesitation.
But you did.
You kept your voice as level as possible. “Yord. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
No one else would have noticed how imperceptibly too-quick that response was, either.
But you did.
You bristled. “Yord.”
He turned to fully face you, mocking your tone when he said your name.
You ground your teeth. “Since when have we lied to each other?” He had the nerve to look surprised. It made you question yourself, until he set his jaw.
He stepped closer to you, not even bothering to look around to see if anyone noticed as he crowded you back against the wall.
You’d never been afraid of Yord, not in the slightest. It made you laugh that people could find him intimidating. You still weren’t afraid of him now, but you felt a swell of pride that in this moment, you could see how imposing he could look with his broad shoulders and his flat stare.
“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to protect you?”
You frowned, and Yord spun and began to walk away. You hadn’t considered that, and he knew it.
You hurried after him. “Well what if I don’t want to be protected?”
“That’s just too damn bad, isn’t it,” he muttered.
“Yord!”
He stopped so abruptly that you plowed into him.
“You are going to the infirmary. Now.”
He began walking again, but you didn’t. You stood rooted to the spot, watching him go. He made it several doors down before realizing that you weren’t following him. He stopped, too, and you watched each other as temple inhabitants filtered by.
“What did I say?”
He looked exasperated and exhausted. “What are you talking about?”
“What did I say to you that you don’t want me to know?”
“You didn’t say anything.” The stony mask was in place and you couldn’t tell whether or not he was telling the truth. Something in your gut told you that you had it, that the right words were just out of reach—that you were on the right track—but you felt that conviction waver under Yord’s impassive gaze.
He sighed. “Would you please just come to the infirmary?”
Your head had begun to throb again. Between that and Yord’s pleading tone, you decided to allow yourself to be persuaded.
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If you had known that Yord would disappear after, you wouldn’t have.
You were checked into the infirmary with great speed, ushered off to have tests run and treatments begun. It was a whirlwind that fully engaged and exhausted you for the next several days. The nurses felt that with enough therapy, your memories would surely return to you.
You would wake, sit with doctors who used the Force to prod at your subconscious, do memory exercises, break for lunch. Sit again with doctors who used the Force to prod at your subconscious, do some light physical activity, and sleep.
The only thing you had time to do was miss Yord.
You reasoned that there was no plausible excuse for him to come see you. Between your treatments and whatever workload the council had lain on him, when would he find the time? Would you even be able to stay awake long enough to make the visit worth it?
That line of thinking held until the exact moment Sol seated himself at your table while you ate dinner, weeks later.
He smiled—not the faded, sad smile you’d grown used to seeing, but a shiny, new true smile—and set down a plate of his own.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. He’d never been cold, but his voice had grown warmer. He might as well be a new man, for all the spark in his step, and you had a feeling that it could be credited to Osha’s return.
“I’m fine,” you said. You tried to keep your voice light as you said, “I’m not a leper, y’know.”
Sol blinked slowly. “A… leper?”
You waved a hand. “Some old world disease I read about once, never mind. It was a bad joke.”
Sol chuckled. “I do know what leprosy is.” And then you felt silly, because of course he did. Sol was particularly well-read. “I simply did not understand…” He trailed off, then gestured at you as if to encompass your previous statement.
You looked down at your plate. “I’m not contagious.” When Sol still said nothing, you added, “You’re the first person to come visit me,” in a small voice. Sol’s fingers tensed on the edge of his plate.
“Yord did not come see you?”
You shook your head, giving up on eating your dinner in favor of pushing it around your plate instead. “Hasn’t yet.” You sounded like a sullen padawan and you knew it, but something about having Sol here, checking in on you, brought out your inner youngling, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care about how you sounded.
Sol’s fingers twitched on the table. You found yourself frowning at the motion in the breath before he spoke. “Yord is on Kessel.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “Kessel?”
“He was sent to assist a delegation working to uncover a smuggling ring. A job well-suited to his talents.” He hesitated. “I would have thought that he would have told you.“
“Yeah,” you breathed. Your mind was racing again, desperately combing through what blurry moments you could remember about the last ill-fated mission for anything that might explain Yord’s behavior. “I would have, too.”
Sol reached over to lay his hand over yours, and that simple gesture was enough to have you tearing up.
Really, how hard had you hit your head? You never used to be this way.
Sol actually looked concerned for a moment.
“I’m fine,” you sputtered. “Everything is fine.” You swiped at your eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me try something,” Sol said abruptly. You looked up to find him looking at you intently.
You shrugged. “O-okay.” He reached out, splaying his fingers until they rested on your temples and behind your jaw.
“Close your eyes.” You closed your eyes.
“Breathe in.” You breathed in.
“Out.” You did it.
You could feel the Force responding to Sol’s command, prodding and pulling at memories and pieces of your mind. You felt hope spark beneath your skin.
“Imagine yourself floating in a pool of water.” You tried. “Reach out your hands.” You did that, and Sol huffed a laugh. “In your mind.”
“Oh.” You lowered your hands, feeling silly. You raised the hands of the you in your mind, sliding them through your thoughts.
With the help of Sol’s firm hand, you could just make out whispers where voices should be, blurry shapes that must have been the trees of Khofar and some of the people you’d been with.
But that was all you could remember. You let out an exasperated sigh and opened your eyes, shocked to see that the sun had set and the moons were beginning to rise.
“Sol, I don’t think this is working.” He opened his eyes, turning to follow your gaze.
“Give it time.”
You nodded. “Okay.” You were all but convinced that you’d lost that time forever, that whatever Sol had done had amounted to nothing. That tiny spark of hope had dimmed and faded as you prepared yourself for bed.
You remained convinced as you lay awake that Sol’s efforts had been in vain.
Right up until the moment that you woke abruptly from a vivid dream of the forest of Khofar; of Jecki’s limp body; of Yord carrying you through the trees to the ship.
Of Yord, your best friend and only love, the best Jedi and strictest man you knew, pressing you against a tree and kissing you like his life depended on it. Of his half-whispered, “I only kiss you”.
Your hand flew to your lips, tracing the path of his tongue as you drew in a shuddering breath. Stars, that had to be why he’d run from you, but why?
You flew to your feet, scrambling for your data pad. Your fingers flicked through pages, less nimble than usual due to their shaking, until you found a freighter due to depart for Kessel in an hour.
Within minutes, you’d tossed a haphazard collection of garments and other essentials into a pack, slinging it across one shoulder as you bolted toward the cargo docks. Convincing the captain of the freighter to transport a lone Jedi took about the amount of convincing you’d expected, and before long, you were belting yourself into a seat behind the main cabin.
48 hours had never felt so long.
You rested as best you could, but it wasn’t well.
You grieved for Jecki, waves of guilt and pain washing over you.
You wracked your brain trying to pin down the Sith you’d come across, but to no avail.
You searched for some reason that Yord might let you forget that he’d kissed you within an inch of your life. You found none.
You were mid-doze, restless though it was, when the ship landed. The captain shook you awake, awkwardly waiting for you to disembark before he released his crew, and you were scrambling off the ship and toward the town center before your vision fully cleared.
You weren’t terribly familiar with Kessel, but you’d scoured the archives for a Jedi safehouse and downloaded a map before leaving the Temple. You made it in what you felt would be record time, if you’d had any previous trips to compare it to.
You hesitated at the door, hand raised, for only a moment before pounding at it.
No answer.
You pulled back your hand, pounding at the door again, louder this time. Someone muttered in the street behind you, and you turned to watch a Pyke glare suspiciously in your direction. Only then did you take note of the pre-dawn darkness of the sky, lit only by streetlamps and far-off streaks of pink.
Maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe Yord—
The door opened. You whipped around, basking in the stunned expression on Yord’s handsome face. His mouth fell open on your name, and then he was stuttering out a question.
You didn’t let him finish it.
You reached out one hand, letting your fingers splay across the expanse of his chest as you walked him backward for the steps it took to get you past the threshold. Then you reached behind with your other hand, shutting the door. Your fingers curled into Yord’s tunic as you did, pulling him forward.
Honestly, for all the time you’d had, you had no plans for this interaction. Even so, your movements were fluid as you dragged him forward. Yord, graceful Yord, stumbled into you. And with the hand gripping his tunic, you pulled his mouth down to yours.
The effect was immediate. Yord groaned the moment your lips touched, and his hands came up to grip your waist. As if propelled by your initial pull, he pushed you back until you hit the door, pressing you against it with his whole long, lean body. You felt a twitch against your belly as he leaned into you, hands sliding up your sides. You pulled at him, opening your mouth under his, desperate for more of him—
And Yord wrenched himself away. He nearly stumbled back with the force of his retreat.
“What was that?” You could hear what was meant to be his stern voice, but it shook. He raised a hand to his lips and you could see it trembling.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t I tell you what?” And oh, it made you angry, the way he actually managed to sound superior about it all.
You prowled toward him, and now he was the one being pressed back, retreating until he was stopped by the counter of the kitchenette.
You emphasized each word with a poke to his chest. “You. Kissed. Me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” Your voice was a roar in your own ears. “Don’t lie to me. Not now, now about this.” For all its momentary strength, your voice cracked now, the coward. “Why?”
Yord looked as though you’d stuck your hand right through him, taken hold of his insides, and pulled them out. All of that pain, all of the shock that would come with it.
He reached for you, running trembling fingers down your cheek. “I—” His voice broke, even on that single syllable. The rest was a guttural whisper. “I was afraid.”
You leaned into his touch, body completely unaware of your waning anger. “Afraid of what?” you whispered back.
Yord’s eyes slid shut and he took a deep breath. “Afraid that we wouldn’t make it.”
You blinked. You’d meant to ask why he’d been afraid to tell you about the kiss. You hadn’t realized, in retrospect, that it had all been quite so serious in the moment. You opened your mouth to say something about that, but Yord’s confession had opened the floodgate.
“I was afraid that you would die. Or that I would. And I’m not afraid of dying, but I was afraid of you dying, because what would my life be then? What would be the point?”
“Yord,” you began, horrified. He kept talking.
“And then when you said that stupid line about the vocoder, I just had to tell you. If anything happened to us, I needed you to know. I couldn’t bear the thought of you not knowing any more.”
You blinked back the tears that were rapidly filling your eyes. “Then why would you let me forget? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Because it never should have happened!” His other hand had come up to rest on the side of your neck now, tilting your head back to look at him as he straightened. Even as his words should have pushed you away, his hands drew you closer. “I was wrong to say anything. I never should have touched you.” His thumb brushed your lips as he spoke, and you wondered idly if he was too far gone to see the irony of the situation. “The Jedi Code forbids—”
You raised a finger of your own, laying it across Yord’s lips. He stopped speaking, watching you intently as you took in a deep breath.
“Do you love me?” you asked. Yord blinked rapidly. His lips parted, but you shook your head firmly. “And don’t say anything about the Jedi code.” His mouth snapped shut, and that told you everything you needed to know.
You turned your back and stepped out of his hold. You took several steps away, raising one hand to dash away the tears in your eyes and scrubbing your cheeks for good measure. When you turned again, Yord looked pained, but held himself firm. You took one more step back, taking in a deep breath and then blowing it out.
“I love you.” He let out a breath like you’d punched him. “I always have, and I think some part of you has always known that.”
He was breathing hard, head shaking slowly back and forth, but you could see the truth of your words in his eyes. “We can’t.” His voice was strained, hands gripping the countertop so hard his knuckles paled.
You took one step toward him. “We can.”
“The Council forbids attachments.”
“And yet we have Padawans and Masters.” You took another step forward as Yord shook his head vehemently.
“That’s different.”
“It’s not different and you know it.” Another step.
Yord’s grip on the counter tightened even more. “We could be expelled from the Order.”
“The Council has never cared unless a Jedi’s state of mind is compromised, and you know that too.” Another.
Yord swallowed hard, breath coming even faster now. You stepped forward again, until your toes touched. You’d come here confused and afraid, uncertain of Yord’s feelings and reasonings. Now that you knew how he felt?
You were back on firm ground and feeling bold, and a little reckless.
“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, and you leaned forward. As children, when you wanted different things, you’d take three minutes to wrestle, or fence, or argue your case.
Now, you rested your hands on either side of Yord’s on the countertop, leaning further until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “If I can’t convince you in three minutes, if you can hold out, I’ll drop this. We don’t ever have to speak of it again.” You raised one hand, sliding a finger down his chest slowly. He shuddered under your touch.
“But if you break, and if you touch me?” You pressed your lips behind Yord’s ear, just to feel him vibrate beneath your palm. “This has to be a discussion. You can’t just decide for both of us.”
There was a long, quiet moment where the only sound was Yord’s heavy breathing and the muted bustle of the street outside. Then he nodded, short and sharp. You blew out a soft breath and took one more step forward, placing your body a breath away from his.
“Three minutes,” you murmured. “Start counting.”
Then, with no further warning, you pressed yourself forward. You ran your hands up his sides as you leaned your weight against him, then flattened your tongue just beneath his jaw. Yord hissed out a breath as you licked a stripe up to the hollow behind his ear, flattening your palms against his chest as you did. You could feel his muscles flexing beneath your fingertips.
If you were being honest, you didn’t have a clue what you were doing. You were operating entirely off instinct, hoping beyond hope that you were capable of shredding Yord’s legendary control.
You weren’t feeling confident, and it made your hands unsteady and your movements more jerky than you’d imagined. Despite all of that, Yord was shaking apart under your ministrations. His head tilted back when you scraped your teeth against his pulse point, giving you more access to the long column of his throat, and you could hear the synthetic countertop creaking in his grip.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as you nuzzled there, whispering how good it felt to touch him like this, and that gave you an idea. With a surprisingly firm hand, you wrenched Yord’s belt from around his waist, dragging yourself closer to him. You only fumbled with the buckle for a moment, and then you dropped it to the floor. The moment you did, you slid your hands up under the fabric of his tunic and across hot, smooth skin.
“Stars,” breathed Yord. You danced your fingertips to his hipbones, ignoring his choked pleas of your name, and then flattened your palms to slide up his hard torso, coming to stop over his pecs. His heart thundered under your hand.
Yord was nearly beside himself. He shook so violently that you had to fight for your balance between his legs. He seemed barely able to keep himself from nuzzling into your neck, head tilted toward the space as though drawn there by a magnetic force. Even so, he didn’t touch you.
You were rapidly losing hope of this laserbrained scheme working. Either Yord was not nearly as into you as you were into him, which you didn’t want to believe, or his resolve was even stronger than you’d thought.
You really hoped it was the second option.
“Time?” you whispered.
“Stars, I don’t…” Yord’s voice trailed off on a groan as you skimmed your hands down his side, brushing each quivering muscle as you did.
You had to be nearly out.
Desperation and the bitter taste of defeat had you sagging forward, lifting your chin in one last attempt to wrest control of the situation. You rested your cheek against his, turning your lips to touch his earlobe.
“Yord, please.”
There was a deafening crack, and then Yord’s hands were gripping your waist as he wrenched you up against him.
“Damn you,” he breathed. He turned and slammed you against the counter with enough force to knock the breath out of you. Then his mouth was on yours, hot and ravenous. He kissed you hard, hands sliding down until he could grip your thighs. He pulled you roughly up, yanking your knees around his waist, and moved forward until you were pinned between the cabinets and him.
You did your level best to keep up with him, hands running over him as your mouth moved frantically against his, but Yord put a stop to that quickly.
“No,” he growled. He gripped your wrists, pinning them over your head. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.” Your stomach fluttered as he took both of your hands in one of his, using the other to turn your head to the side. “If I’m going to lose you, I want more than the dream of having you.” You’d had some dreams of your own over the years, but none of them had ever involved Yord manhandling you. Clearly, you’d sold him short.
You shuddered in his grip and opened your mouth to protest, to say that he wouldn’t lose you, but the words died on your tongue as he leaned in until his breath ghosted over your neck. “Just let me…” He must have been as distracted by you as you were by him, because he never finished the thought. He only pressed his lips gently to your throat, trailing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbones. You gasped, arching against him as his free hand wrapped around your waist.
He pulled you close with such care that you nearly sobbed. You felt fuzzy with the shift from hard and fast to slow and deliberate, but Yord seemed too engrossed in touching you to notice. He made a soft sound as your body molded to his, fingers closing just a little tighter around your wrists. He raised his head again and leaned in to kiss you, tracing your lips with his tongue.
You could feel a rumbling from his chest, but the sound was too low for you to hear it. Yord released his grip on your wrists, bringing both hands to cradle your face as he kissed you over and over, soft and slow and sweet and deep.
“You taste better than I ever imagined,” he breathed.
“So you have imagined this?”
“Of course I have.” His hands slid slowly down from your neck, over your shoulders to run down your sides. “I may be a Jedi, but I’m still a man.”
You felt a smile stretch your lips beneath Yord’s and let your hands come up to his neck. “What else have you imagined?”
He groaned. “Don’t tease me.”
You tightened your legs around him. He swore. You pulled him closer by his neck to whisper in his ear.
“Show me.”
Even knowing how far you’d pushed him, even knowing he was beyond the reach of self-control, the speed with which he ripped your tunic up and over your head came as a shock. The frantic way he dragged your trousers down, throwing them over his shoulder, made your breath hitch in anticipation. Watching him drop to his knees before you, kissing hungrily from your ankle to the apex of your thighs and then higher, had your head spinning as you tried to reconcile years of fantasies with this reality.
Stars, you thought as they burst behind your eyelids, and Yord hummed against you as if he’d heard.
“Stay with me,” he breathed, and there was a note of pleading in his voice.
You pulled him up, dragging his mouth to yours as your fingers found their way beneath his robes, returning the favor he’d done you and getting rid of them. You crushed your mouths together as your hands skimmed over taut muscle and heated skin. “Always,” you murmured.
“I’ve never…” he trailed off, snapping back into his shyest self.
“Neither have I,” you said. “We learn together.”
He kissed you softly, pulling you to the edge of the countertop. You held his head to your shoulder as you moved together, slow and shaky, filling the silence with breathless sounds. You hit your head on a cabinet. Yord, who had already cracked the countertop earlier, tore a door from its hinges.
When you sat together on the tile floor after, too tired to move to the furniture, you stroked his cheek. “The Council isn’t going to be happy with the state of the kitchen.”
Yord sighed. “I know.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“I don’t know yet.”
You pulled back to look at him in mock horror. “Yord Fandar, do you mean to tell me that you don’t have a plan?”
“I don’t.” His face was serious, studying you as he brushed his fingertips along your temple. “Not a single one.”
You felt your face soften at the admission. “Really?”
He watched you for long moments in the way you knew meant he was weighing his words. “I never allowed myself to make plans involving you.”
Your throat felt dry, but you weren’t surprised. “Why not?”
Yord looked pained. “Because it was pointless. I could never have you, so why torture myself imagining it?”
“You have me now,” you murmured.
He kissed the palm of your hand. “And I don’t think I can let you go.”
“Then don’t.” You kissed him softly, stroking his lips with your tongue and burying your hand in his locks. “We’ll talk to Sol when we return to Coruscant.”
“I’ll talk to Sol.” He watched his own hand stroke down your side. “I’ll talk to him.”
You waited for more, but there was no more. “Okay,” you said. “You can talk to him.”
“Okay.” He pulled you closer until your head rested on his chest. And within a moment, naked on a tile floor and without an ounce of regard for the utter lack of decorum, Yord fell fast asleep. You were awake long enough to watch light, real or fabricated, stream through the single tiny window by the door. But not long.
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Yord drew himself up to his full height with no small amount of nerves. He raised his fist, knocking sharply on the door before him. It opened almost instantly.
“Ah, Yord. Welcome back. Your mission was a success?”
“Indeed, Master Sol. But I wished to discuss…” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “May we speak?”
Sol opened the door wider, gesturing Yord in. His expression was almost… pleased. “Tea?” Sol offered.
“Thank you.”
Sol motioned to a small table. Yord sat, watching anxiously as the older man boiled water and brought cups and a tin of tea leaves from a cupboard. He reached for the cuff of his robes, straightening it as he waited. By the time Sol brought tea to the table, he was practically quivering.
“Master, I… I owe you an apology. And a confession.”
Sol interrupted with a raised hand. “Let me save you the trouble.” Yord felt himself jolt in surprise.
“The… trouble?”
“Do not act as if I do not know why you are here, Yord. I’ve known you since you were a youngling and your feelings are just as clear to me now as they have been these twenty years.”
Yord sat, stunned.
“You owe me no apology, and no confession. There is no creed barring attachment.”
“But…” Yord whispered. “But I betrayed my vows.”
Sol sipped his tea. “I do not see how.”
“I left you to die,” Yord blurted. Heat flared under his skin, and he dipped his head in shame.
Sol’s voice was amused. “I seem to remember telling you to do just that.”
Yord clenched his jaw. “I’d have left you to die even if you hadn’t.” He looked up, meeting his master’s curious stare. “What kind of Jedi makes that choice?” He heard the anguish in his voice, but was powerless to stop it.
Sol sighed and lowered his teacup. “Every Jedi must make that choice. If not one day, then the next. Or the day after that. Do not deceive yourself into believing that you could have avoided it forever, or that your choice makes you less of a Jedi than any other. You saved the life of another Jedi.”
Yord scoffed. “I couldn’t let her go. Isn’t that the definition of attachment?”
Sol tilted his head to and fro. “Perhaps. But would it not have been attachment if you had defied me to stay and fight by my side instead? You’d have disobeyed a direct order.”
Yord said nothing. Sol turned toward the window, waiting for the younger Jedi to collect his thoughts.
“I took advantage of the opportunity to do what I would have anyway,” Yord said softly. “Just because it presented itself.”
“And did you ever consider,” Sol said patiently, “that I presented that opportunity on purpose?” He chuckled as Yord’s head snapped toward him. “She may have been blind, Yord, but I have not. I thought to spare you the guilt of doing what you knew you must, but it appears that I underestimated your capacity for self-loathing.”
Yord stared, unblinking, and Sol looked away again. “I once had to make a choice, and it has haunted me ever since. I sought to save you from regretting your choice by forcing you to make a decision you could live with.”
“Osha?”
Sol dropped his gaze to the table. “Osha.”
Yord nodded. Both men sat, unspeaking, until the tea was gone and sunlight streamed through the wide-set windows of Sol’s apartment.
“If you are truly concerned, I can continue to separate your assignments so that you are not forced to make the difficult choices. But there is no reason you cannot pursue a romance, Yord.”
Yord took a deep breath in. He reveled when it no longer caught in his chest, choking him. In the lightness he felt. “You really believe that?”
“I do.” Sol stood and collected Yord’s teacup. He stepped toward the sink, washed them, and turned back. “Will that be all, Yord?”
There was no annoyance in the question, only curiosity.
“Yes, Master.” Yord stood, pushing his chair in and smoothing down his robes. “Thank you.”
He offered a bow, which Sol returned, before letting himself out into the hallway. He tried to curb the excitement he felt bubbling up, but it was impossible. He was walking even more quickly than usual.
He had to get to you.
He hadn’t seen you since the day you’d shown up on Kessel, flipping his entire world upside down. He’d resigned himself to leaving the Order, whether by force or of his own free will, the moment he’d kissed you on Khofar. That resolve had only deepened when you’d appeared on his doorstep in Kessel. But it would seem that wasn’t meant to be.
He felt ineffable relief. Being a Jedi meant everything to him. It had been the single focus of his life.
Until he’d met you. And he’d warred with himself ever since.
He’d expected to be expelled; failing that, a reprimand. Perhaps even a forced separation. He knew better than to think he could ever choose anyone or anything but you, now that he knew how it felt to wrap you around him, now that he’d tasted you and touched you and loved you.
He had never stopped to consider that he might never have to choose. He knew you had to have thought of it already. He expected that you’d tease him mercilessly for missing something so simple.
His steps took him straight to your door, where he pounded unceremoniously until it swung open.
“What in the galaxy do you–” He cut you off with a hand to your mouth, pushing you back and pulling the door shut behind him. He lowered his hand to your waist, replacing it with his lips.
“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.
You laughed as you kissed him back, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “I take it that went well?” Your hands ran over his shoulders and it was all he could do to bite back a groan.
“Quite.” He barely got the word out as he began to unfasten your robe.
“Tell me later,” you whispered.
His shuddering breath as you pulled him in would have to be answer enough for now.
Summary: You’ve been in love with Yord since before you knew what being in love meant. And in his way, he’s loved you, too. You’ve never made him choose between you and the Jedi Order. It’s always been enough, until a dangerous mission forces Yord to reassess his priorities.
Author’s Notes: 13K words for Star Wars, this time! Gosh, I hope it reads well for the setting. Please don’t hesitate to point out anything that looks off.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Star Wars
Warnings/tags: mild language, suggestive content, injury description (not graphic), smut (to be safe–very YA level, nothing graphic!), spoilers for The Acolyte episode 5, fix-it fic!
You’d always known exactly what man you fell in love with, almost down to the day you met him.
Two young padawans, who should have been on equal footing, getting into equal mischief; but you were never on equal footing, and Yord was never getting into any mischief at all, let alone your kind of mischief.
You were forever getting on the masters’ and teachers’ nerves, forever toeing the line between a good prank and outright chaos. And Yord?
Well. You were lucky if Yord turned a blind eye.
Despite the fact that it was all always for him.
You needed only to close your eyes for a moment to remember the first time you saw him. At four years old, recently orphaned and more than a little scared and confused after being taken from your home planet, you were instantly drawn to the most mature youngling in the room.
At the wise and seasoned age of eight, Yord stood head and shoulders over you. The warm brown of his skin reminded you of the warm sands you’d grown up playing in, drawing you in before you could notice the sternness of his expression. You’d latched onto him that first day, home again, and despite his best efforts, he’d never quite been able to shake you.
You learned quickly that Yord couldn’t be drawn into your schemes, but that didn’t stop you from trying. Every wet blanket, every salted or sugared meal, every fake insect was held up on a silver platter for his approval, which you never received. For your cleverest schemes, though, sometimes you could wring a wry smile out of him.
Most of the time, he would simply walk away mid-explanation or cover his ears while you prattled. Sometimes, he’d cover your mouth. Those were your favorite times, because even though you were too young to see it, something in your subconscious recognized that you were one of the few people he’d willingly touch.
One of few people he’d willingly touch because Yord was as straight-laced as they came. The Order this, propriety that, and no fun to be had ever. The Order discouraged attachments, so he remained aloof and unattached. It was improper for a Padawan aspirant to entertain childish endeavors, so he wouldn’t go adventuring with you. Younglings and Padawans alike were expected to tell the truth, and so Yord never lied.
And yet, when you snuck back into the youngling quarters after a midnight jaunt, he said nothing. Only turned in his bunk to sleep now that you’d returned. When he was elevated to Padawan, he let you play with his braid—so long as no one was around to see. He’d listen patiently to your latest tales of misdeed when you snuck into his quarters, chattering animatedly as he steamed his robes. Once you were elevated to Padawan, he’d train with you even after long days of training in his own specialty. And now that you were Knights together, always running off to opposite corners of the galaxy, he brought you bits and baubles from his travels, just as you’re done for him all those years ago. You took your meals together when you could, and though there was no reason to train together, what with your opposite strengths, you did anyway.
“It’s good practice, to spar with someone who fights so fundamentally differently,” Yord would say. “It gives us an edge. It teaches us to be adaptable.” And though the Order did not prioritize this line of thought, neither could they argue with it. And so you were allowed to continue.
You knew Yord was right, but it didn’t escape her notice how carefully he’d crafted that answer, either, leaving no room for argument.
You fell in love with the way that he made just enough space within the rigid confines of the Order for you to be by his side. You never expected more from him, because you knew that this was all that he could give. He probably looked at you and still saw that uncertain child, that unruly teenager, the annoying younger sibling he’d somehow become responsible for, and you couldn’t hold that against him.
But that was why Osha’s presence hurt you so deeply.
When she had been around during your training years, Yord had shown her nearly the same level of care that he usually reserved for you. It was easy enough to brush off, back then, as childish jealousy and nothing more.
Now though, after she’d left him behind? After she’d walked away from his hard-earned friendship and from all he held dear with hardly a backward glance?
Now it hurt, when he chose to go after her.
“I’m coming with you.” You didn’t care that you were being immature, petulant. Didn’t even care that, according to his scowl, Yord had clearly noticed.
“Master Sol—”
“Knows that I’m an asset, and trustworthy.” Yord raised an eyebrow, which you ignored. You’d only meant to douse Sol, not his research. How were you meant to know he’d turn and spill your bucket across the pages? Besides, it had been years ago. Sol had long since forgiven you.
You hoped.
You turned on your heel, ready to storm out of the room. “Kelnacca knows me, too.” Nevermind the hundreds of tiny braids you’d woven into his fur as a youngling. “I’m an asset.” You repeated yourself with more conviction than you felt. Yord’s hand gripped your wrist, ever gentle, and stopped you dead in your tracks.
“You barely passed your last exercise. You need more time to heal.”
You tensed. You’d never been half the swordsman Yord was, and it had cost you in your last mission. You’d spent weeks in the infirmary healing the wounds to your shoulder, and weeks longer regaining your strength and flexibility. Deep down, you were half convinced that your sword arm would never quite feel the same. That you’d lost something you’d never be able to get back. Nearly failing your latest exercise had deepened that feeling, but Yord didn’t know that. He couldn’t.
What you lacked in swordsmanship, though, you more than made up for in Force sensitivity and strength. That, Yord did know.
“I’ll be fine,” you said. You turned to look at him through your lashes. “I’m more worried about you.”
Something in his jaw ticked. You’d noticed that, recently; that any time you referenced your friendship, let on that it was something you valued, Yord became tense.
As in more tense than usual.
It bothered you that you didn’t know why. He’d never been vocal about his feelings, about anything. He showed you where his thoughts lay, how he felt, by his actions. But he’d never reacted to your voicing your feelings before.
“There’s no reason to worry about me,” he said sternly, and your temper flared.
“No? How about the fact that Osha clouds your judgement? How about the fact that something about this feels wrong?” Yord opened his mouth, looking shocked, but you cut him off before he could speak. “And don’t tell me you can’t feel it, too.”
He snapped his mouth shut. After a pause, he scowled, but he looked confused. “Osha does not cloud my judgement,” he said slowly. You scoffed, turning on your heel.
“Well forgive me if I disagree. You’re my friend, and I care about you, so I’m coming along. Sol will say yes, and he outranks you.”
You didn’t miss the lack of Yord’s footsteps following you.
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It was an incredibly uncomfortable flight to Khofar. You were honestly worried about Kelnacca, and Jecki, and Osha, but you were more worried about Yord.
And most worried about Sol.
Kelnacca had fallen off the grid, but that wasn’t the craziest thing that had ever happened. It worried you, but not much. He was a big boy. He could take care of himself, and missing Jedi weren’t unheard of.
Jecki didn’t worry you so much as make you cautious. She was a fine young warrior, level-headed, skilled and strong, but she was still only a child. You were protective of her.
Osha worried you. She wasn’t an unknown quantity, not exactly. After all, you’d known her for several years. But that was several years ago, and who knew what had changed since then? You only knew that she held some small power over Yord, bringing him as close as he’d ever been to defying his precious Code. And it didn’t even bother you that she held that power—you didn’t want it. You didn’t value the Code in the same way Yord did, but you’d never ask him to change. Would she? Would he do it?
You shook your head, tried to shake Osha out of it, and found your eyes on Yord across the room. He was focused on the screen before him, brow furrowed in concentration. That little crease at the corner of his mouth, the one you loved, the one you pictured smoothing with your thumb, was on full display. You had to turn your body away, unable to take your eyes from his features.
You wouldn’t allow yourself to think too deeply about why you worried for him. He was a good fighter and a great Jedi. No matter his feelings toward Osha, he would remain true to himself and protect you all.
You wandered until you found yourself leaning against the cockpit doorway, watching Sol pilot the ship in silence. Your heart clenched.
Sol worried you because of the way he watched Osha, as if she wasn’t quite real. You remembered how hurt he’d been when she’d left the Order, this girl he’d sacrificed so much to cherish and protect. You were sure that there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, and this mission was evidence of exactly that fact.
You had to turn away from him, too. That was a whole different level of hurt.
Your own master had been pleasant enough, but with that famous Jedi detachment that always left you feeling just a bit too lonely. Sol hadn’t been like that with Osha, and clearly wasn’t now. It was too difficult to watch; to know that you weren’t the only one who craved affection and devotion, but to know that someone else had what you so desperately craved.
Without quite meaning to, you’d paced back to the debriefing room. Yord looked up from his screen, raising one straight, perfect, stupid eyebrow at you. He smirked, deepening the smile line he didn’t smile enough to warrant having, and crossed his arms over his stupid, broad, perfect chest.
You crossed your arms back at him. “What?”
“Feeling restless, are we?”
You grumbled, neither confirming nor denying that assertion, and made your way across the space to throw yourself across a row of seats.
“Do you think Sol would even notice if I sprayed Bantha musk in the air vent?”
Yord’s face slackened into a flat stare. “Please don’t punish the rest of us for your boredom.”
You stuck your tongue out, Yord rolled his eyes at you, and all was right with the world. He returned his attention to the screen, which you now saw displayed a topographic map of Khofar.
“What are you looking for?”
Yord hummed, fully engrossed in his study, and you heaved yourself up. You walked toward him and promptly launched yourself up and onto his back. He let out a huff of irritation, but it didn’t stop his hands from shooting out to secure the hold your knees had on his waist. You slung your arms loosely around his shoulders, leaning your head against his and enjoying the soft ridges of his locks beneath your cheek.
“Yord.”
“What?”
“What are you looking for?”
He shifted his weight, pulling one of his hands free to point at the screen. “This forest. It’s exceptionally dense, and mostly uncharted. If Kelnacca’s gone into it, I’m concerned that we may struggle to find him.”
You considered this for less than a moment. “We won’t. Sol knows what his presence feels like, he’ll find him. Yord scoffed. He turned, striding across the room toward the crew quarters.
“You know,” he said, using your knee to press the door release. “At some point, you’ll have to learn to actually do these things on your own, without relying on the Force.”
“Blasphemy.” He let out a huff of laughter that you felt, rather than heard.
“It’s not blasphemy, it’s just good training.”
“Blasphemy,” you repeated cheerfully. Yord was opening the door to your quarters. “I am one with the F-oof!” He interrupted you by yanking up on your knees as he leaned back to send you sprawling across your mattress. “Yord!”
That damned smirk again. “Get some rations and go to sleep. We need to be rested.”
“Why would I eat rations when I could have space waffles?”
Yord did not dignify this with a response. He left, returning moments later to hurl a ration pack at you. You squawked in disapproval, scrambling to grab the offending object, but the door was already sliding shut behind him.
“Rations!” he called again.
You groaned.
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Khofar went south so quickly it made your head spin.
You landed, asked the locals about Kelnacca. Started Bazil on the trail into the woods. Found yourself an unintentional audience to a conversation you wished you hadn’t heard.
“I’ve known you since we were younglings. Mae has always been your wound. Maybe Sol brought you here to face her, but maybe he brought you here to face yourself.”
Your mood only soured further from there. Khofar was humid. The air was heavy and you could feel your skin slicking with sweat beneath your robes. The forest path was choked with roots and branches and stones, making each step unsure. Then there were the umbramoths.
Horrid creatures.
Amidst that chaos, Bazil disappeared, leaving Yord muttering about needing a tracker to track your tracker. You’d have all been left standing around if not for the scream.
The Jedi scattered.
Each of you raced off in different directions, trying to track the sound, and you found yourself separated from the group. You stalked through the undergrowth for long minutes, but to no avail. You sighed, ready to turn to find your party, but hesitated. Something was pulling you further in the direction you’d been moving.
You continued down the path.
The forest was still around you, but something dark loomed ahead. You crept toward it carefully, one hand resting on your saber.
Bazil’s chattering startled you out of your stance.
You drew your saber, rushing through the foliage and right into a clearing. You only hesitated a moment before sprinting to the door of the building on the other side.
“He’s here.”
The horrified whisper had you skidding to a stop just inside the doorway, and the sudden stop put you nearly face to face with Osha.
Only it wasn’t Osha.
You sucked in a breath as she lunged for you, raising your saber to block her first attack. She was strong, and the blow rang up your arm to your still-healing shoulder. You felt a flicker of fear.
Maybe Yord had been right.
You’d accused him of having clouded judgement, but you were a hypocrite. He clouded yours, and now you would pay for your hubris.
You shook yourself out of the thought, returning your full focus to the fight. Mae had already killed two Jedi masters—you needed to be on your guard.
“Here to arrest me?” she hissed. She kept up a steady barrage of attacks with the lightsaber she wielded, green. Clearly stolen. There was a pang in your chest as you glimpsed the hilt and realized from whom.
“That was the idea, yes.” Your words came out too tight as you caught sight of Kelnacca, slumped in his chair. Dead.
“You’ll have to catch me first.”
You ducked beneath a particularly vicious swing, barely missing the kick she threw your way next.
“That is also the plan.”
You danced around each other, each just out of reach, until you both paused in the same breath.
Outside, you could hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
“In the name of the Galactic Republic, and the Order of the Jedi, anyone inside that domicile should come out with your hands where we can see them.”
The Force hit you so unexpectedly that you flew sideways, cracking your head against the concrete wall. You gasped in pain, trying to tamp down the intense wave of nausea that swept over you.
“That means you, Mae Aniseya.”
Mae was on you before you could even get your mouth open, muffling your cry.
“Yord!”
She yanked you close, holding you before her like a shield with her knife at your throat as she crept toward the window. Another wave of nausea swept over you at the sharp motion. You tried to peek through the window slats, but you were too dizzy to see. Tried to break her grip on you, but you couldn’t seem to summon your strength.
Mae wrapped one arm around your throat, swearing under her breath, and you put all of your effort into focusing on the scene beyond the window.
It was useless. Your vision swam, and Mae must not have liked what she saw anyway. A moment later, she threw you down. Then, she was gone.
You tried to stand, but couldn’t get to your feet.
Yord. Sol.
You just had to get to the others.
Choking down bile, you dragged yourself to the door and used it to haul yourself to your feet. Just a few steps and you’d be back to your team. To Yord.
You managed to get through the doorway, only to find the clearing empty. You could hear the sounds of fighting through the trees. You turned your head too quickly, and then promptly bent over to vomit.
Thank the stars you hadn’t eaten those rations Yord had tossed at you.
You spat until the taste of acid was mostly gone. Then you wiped your mouth and staggered off toward the sounds of the fighting, pausing every few paces to lean against the trees and fight off further waves of nausea. You nearly fell multiple times, barely keeping yourself on your feet.
“This is bad,” you mumbled to yourself. “This is really bad.” You stumbled for what felt like ages until you found another small clearing, and blinked several times.
You were so stunned by the sight of Jecki’s body that you hardly even registered Sol, hardly even heard the Sith calling her “it”. Against your will, you felt tears blur your vision further. You swallowed against your stomach’s second revolt, lifting a hand to lean against a tree. You thought you were imagining it when you saw a misshapen, welded helmet begin to float, but then it flew backward, drawing your gaze up.
In a flash of yellow and sparks, Yord was there, fighting just as beautifully as he always did, if a touch more brutally. You felt a grin begin to stretch your lips until he and the Sith locked sabers.
Something twitched inside you.
Without knowing why, you raised a hand toward them. The Sith spun them, yanking Yord with a resounding crack. At his cry, you channeled the Force toward them on instinct.
You watched as Yord looked your way, face awash with pain. His shoulder had clearly been dislocated and, turned as he was, you could also see dried blood on his thigh. His face twisted through more emotions than you’d ever seen from him. Relief, pride, and others you could only guess at. Longing? No, impossible. Fear? Never.
The Sith growled, slowly turning his head toward you. You had a hold on his arms, his hands, but you were too weak to control his whole body. Your vision was already swimming with the effort. He jerked his chin, and then you were flying across the open space toward him.
Yord shouted your name, beginning to struggle. Even in your fuzzy state, you knew why. You could hear the telltale hum of a lightsaber at your back. You swallowed down your fear, steadying your breathing as best you could, and shut your eyes.
“No!” Yord shouted, calling your name frantically. “Let her go!” he pleaded, but you couldn’t look at him. You had to focus all of your energy on this. With a deep breath in, you reached for the Force. The Force reached back, flinging the three of you apart. Your back hit a tree, hard, and your eyes flew open as you slid down the trunk to crumple on the ground.
Your eyes went to Yord, first, as they always did. He had one hand at his shoulder, panting, as he scrambled to his feet across the clearing. His eyes met yours, and you smiled weakly.
Between you, Sol had charged forward, and now he and the Sith were locked in combat. Two blades, blue and red, clashed over and over, sending sparks flying. Your vision swam.
Maybe you could take just a quick nap.
Yord called your name, and your eyes fluttered open in response to his voice. Sol shouted for him to get you back to the ship, and then Yord was pulling you to your feet. You swayed, and he cursed. Your eyes had slipped shut, but they flew open at that. Yord never swore.
“Do you kiss your maker with that vocoder?” You giggled at your own joke. You’d heard a tech say it to a droid once as a child and it had tickled you. You’d never thought you’d get a chance to use it, though.
You stopped giggling when you realized that Yord hadn’t made a sound. In fact, he was staring at you so intently that you worried he could see right through every barrier you’d erected to hide your love. You realized then that you were pressed against him, held to his hard body by his arm, tight around your waist. You swallowed.
Yord leaned forward. And you must have been imagining things, because he kissed you.
You must have been imagining things, because he pinned you against the tree behind you, and his arm moved up from around your waist to grip the back of your neck. His tongue brushed against your lips, tentative, and you instinctively opened and tilted your head back into his palm. You raised your hands to the back of his neck and the sharp angle of his cheek.
You must have been dreaming, because Yord made a sound like nothing you’d ever heard before, half whine and half snarl, and leaned harder against you so that you could feel every muscle, every ridge of the body you’d dreamed of touching for so long, crushed to yours. He licked at the inside of your mouth, tongue hot and insistent, and you dug your fingers into the thick, coarse hair at the back of his head. Your head swam for entirely different reasons now. You only hoped he couldn’t taste the residue of bile.
He pulled back, just enough to speak. “Only you,” he breathed against your lips. He kissed you again, nose brushing yours. “I only kiss you.” He pressed a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the corner of your lips. “So you have to stay awake for me.” The hand on his cheek slipped down to his chest until you could feel his heart hammering against it. His head tilted down to press your brows together. “Jump,” he murmured.
After a brief moment of confusion, you remembered his dislocated shoulder. You wrapped your arms around his neck as carefully as you could and, using the last of your strength, hopped up to wrap your legs around his waist. Yord had given you the space to do it, but he lurched forward with a grunt the moment you did, pressing you back against the tree again.
“I’m sorry! I—” Your mouth snapped shut when you realized that reaction hadn’t been one of pain. You’d slid down his body somewhat, but he dropped his good hand to hold you up by your thigh, anchoring you against his hips. You sucked in a breath.
“Is that a lightsaber, or are you—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he snapped. “It’s not my fault my body doesn’t know the difference between a dream and a nightmare.”
“A… dream?” You blinked. Yord ignored this.
“You think Osha clouds my judgement?” He pushed away from the tree, finally finding his balance. “Stars, Osha. I don’t even know where she is.” He turned, limping through the trees and toward the shuttle. You watched over his shoulder as Sol kept the Sith engaged, expertly dodging and parrying. Your eyes slid shut in an attempt to block out the throbbing that seemed to intensify with each step.
“Doesn’t she?”
“No, laserbrain, you do.” You tightened your hold around his shoulders, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your cheeks heated and heart raced with the blunt admission. This had to be some sort of fever dream; it would certainly explain the lightheadedness. You felt him swallow.
“I think about you all the time. When you’re not around, you’re all that’s on my mind. When you’re around me, I can’t take my eyes off of you.”
You smiled against his skin. “You take your eyes off of me all the time.” Your words sounded slurred to your own ears, and Yord’s grip on your thigh tightened.
“Only when you’re looking.”
“Well that doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course it does.”
“How?” You felt your grip on him loosening.
“I’ll tell you when we get back to the ship, if you hold on.” He jostled you up, shifting to wrap his arm around your waist instead. You hummed.
“Okay.”
“Can you do that?”
“I think so.” You weren’t sure, but he didn’t need to know that. “I like you like this.”
Yord sputtered for a moment. “Like me li—like what?”
You nuzzled behind his ear. “All sweet.”
“I’m always sweet to you!”
You huffed a laugh, which made your head spin, and then swallowed down the bile it brought up.
Like he could sense it, Yord murmured a soft, “Not far.”
There was silence, then, save for the crunch of branches and the brush of grass under Yord’s boots. Your head pounded, and your half-healed shoulder was beginning to feel the strain of holding your body weight up. It would be so easy to let yourself sleep, just until you got back to the ship.
“Talk to me.”
“Kriffing mind-reader.”
Yord let out a breathless laugh. “You forget I know you.”
“Never forget,” you mumbled. You nuzzled behind Yord’s ear, earning you a strained breath. “Talk to you about what?”
“Anything. Just don’t fall asleep.” You couldn’t be certain, but you thought that don’t leave me was there, somewhere, too.
You let your eyes slide shut, trying to block out even a little of the light that sent lances through your eye sockets. “I just meant that it’s nice to know you care. That I have some sort of effect on you.”
“Everything you do affects me,” he muttered.
A slow smile spread over your face. You had just enough energy to wiggle your hips, which made Yord groan.
“I’m noticing that,” you whispered.
He kissed your cheek roughly. “Hush. You can tease me all you want later, if you still want to.” You wiggled your hips again, and Yord moaned softly. “Poor choice of words,” he breathed. After a moment, his words hit you and you leaned back.
“Wait.” Your tongue was starting to feel too thick for your mouth. “Why wouldn’t I want to tease you later?”
His expression was pained, dark eyes flitting over your face. “I don’t think your decision making skills are at their best right now.”
You furrowed your brow. “What makes you think that?” The words came out too slowly.
Yord frowned. Then, he looked straight ahead. “You kissed me.” He said it so simply, as if that was answer enough. You waited for some further explanation, but he gave none.
“Actually, you kissed me first.” You emphasized each point by poking his chest. In your near delirium, you poked his dislocated shoulder once by mistake. He hissed in pain, you stumbled over an apology, and that was that. You lay your head back on his shoulder, closing your eyes again to combat the dizziness.
“I did.”
You hummed, pleased. “Yeah, you did.” You didn’t need to see his face to know he was grimacing with embarrassment.
Within a few steps, you could feel sunlight against your eyelids. You peeked through slitted eyes, wincing at the brightness, to see the forest receding.
“We’re almost there,” murmured Yord. “Stay with me.”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be.”
He scoffed. “I’m sure your bed, uninjured, would be a step up.”
“Not if being injured means I can be in your arms,” you sing-songed. Yord huffed a disbelieving laugh.
“You must have really hit your head hard.”
“Yeah,” you murmured. “I don’t feel good.”
He squeezed your waist. Then, like music to your ears, you heard his boots hit the ship’s ramp.
“Oh, thank the stars,” you whispered. Just knowing you’d reached relative safety had your grip on consciousness slipping quickly through your fingers. “Now tell me.”
“Tell you what?” Yord was barreling through the ship toward the medbay. His second wind was in stark contrast to your fading mind.
“Why you won’t look at me when I’m looking at you.”
You’d finally made it to the center of the ship. Yord carefully lowered you onto a bed, gently unwrapping you from around him.
“So you don’t notice me looking.”
“Har har. You owe me a better answer than that and you know it.”
You watched as Yord paused in his rifling through the medical cabinets. He tilted his head back, closing his eyes and sighing through his nose. You hadn’t been able to get a good look at him earlier, but now that you could see him clearly, he looked as exhausted as you felt. His injured arm hung limply at his side, blood matted his thigh, and his robes were as disheveled as you’d ever seen them. There was dirt on his hands and smudged across his face, and you longed to wipe it off of him.
A pang of guilt speared through you. He, injured himself, had just carried you who knew how far, and now you were pushing him for answers?
He rolled his shoulders back out of habit, gasping and clutching at his dislocated limb, and you reached for him on instinct. Your body didn’t want to cooperate, and you were able only to roll onto your side.
“If you don’t notice,” he ground out, “then you can’t see how I look at you.” He strode toward you, eyes downcast. “If you can’t see how I look at you, then you can’t know that I’m a fraud.” He pulled you forward, leaning over you to dab at the back of your head with antiseptic. His next words were so soft that you’d have missed them, had his mouth been any further from your ear. “And if you don’t know that I’m a fraud, then at least I won’t lose you. At least I can stay close to you.”
“Fraud?” You felt silly, repeating this one word after that whole confession of a sort, but you couldn’t put together the pieces. You knew they were there, but you were in too much pain to pick them all up.
Yord carefully bandaged your head. “A failure. Not a worthy Jedi.”
“Yord,” you groaned. You tipped forward, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I know I’m usually the smarter one here, but not today. Spell it out for me. You’re the most worthy Jedi I know. You live and breathe the code, and you—”
Yord gripped your face, bringing your brows together. “I fell in love with you.” Your eyes flew open, searching his face for any sign of teasing, but this was Yord. You should have known better.
He looked so wretched—eyes squeezed shut, face twisted in shame and agony—that you nearly began to cry.
“Is that all?” you tried to tease. Your voice came out choked, though. This was Yord. What had that admission cost him? “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“What?” It was hardly a breath, like you’d taken all of the air out of him. Maybe you had. He was searching your face, and you couldn’t keep yourself from reaching up to stroke his cheek. He turned his head into your touch without breaking eye contact, and that’s when the tears really did start to flow.
“Oh, yeah. I’ve had it bad for ages.” You sounded half hysterical. “Remember when you—”
You cut off abruptly when the ship door hissed open. Yord leapt to his feet, drawing his lightsaber and backing himself against the doorway.
Osha called your names.
“Here!” Yord called back. He stepped forward. Osha came careening around the corner, looking drawn and ashy. She looked from Yord to you and back again, and you looked at him too.
You felt silly, now. Even if you’d never noticed the way he looked at you, or never noticed when the way he looked at you had changed, you could see clearly that he didn’t look at Osha the same way.
“Where’s Sol?” he asked. He was all business again, face a careful mask. Almost as if your conversation had never happened at all.
“He’s coming,” Osha replied. “He’s alright.” Her voice was tight, though. Your muddled mind was still turning through reasons why when Sol stepped through the doorway. Jecki hung in his arms, head lolling back and arms crossed loosely over her chest. Dead, you’d thought, when you’d seen her laying in that clearing.
But surely not.
One look at Sol’s anguished face, though, told you you’d been right.
And after everything that had happened, all the fighting and death, the confessions and emotions; after realizing, all over again, that you had almost lost Yord and you had actually lost Jecki, seeing her like this was too much. Fighting the pulsing in your skull was too much.
The last thing you heard before slipping into the black was Yord’s soft, “Oh, Jecki.”
Then, you were gone.
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You weren’t gone for long. You bolted awake, screaming for Yord, at a resounding crack and a howl of pain.
He was in the doorway in less than a moment, leaning heavily against the frame and breathing hard. He was in an undershirt, skin drained of color and coated in a sheen of sweat, long fingers splayed over his injured shoulder. In your nightmare, the crack had been his neck. It occurred to you now that here in reality, it must’ve been his shoulder.
You breathed a little easier.
He was across the room seconds later, kneeling at your bedside. He stroked your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, said your name, and only then did you realize you were crying.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
“Are you alright?” You nodded, and Yord let out a breath. “Good.”
You brushed your lips over his fingers before pulling back. Sol rounded the corner, breaking out a tired smile.
“Good, you are awake. Yord has been pulling his hair out worrying about you.” You looked at Yord, who had looked away.
You raised your eyebrows. “I thought it looked a little less put-together than usual.”
“Shut up,” Yord muttered. He chucked under your chin with his bad arm, wincing a bit as he did. You looked down at his leg, taking note of the fresh bandages.
As if seeing his injuries heightened your awareness of your own, your head began to pound again. There was a pinch in the crook of your arm, too, and you peered down to see an IV.
“Fluids,” said Sol. “And some pain medication. You have a concussion.”
You blinked slowly. “That tracks.”
“You need to rest,” said Yord sternly.
You put on your best unimpressed face. “What about you? How’s your shoulder?”
Yord and Sol spoke at the same time.
“He needs a sling.”
“I’m fine.”
Yord glared, but Sol’s implacable expression remained.
“I can get that.”
They both shouted “No!”, but you’d already swung your legs over the bedside and stood. Too quickly, it seemed, as your knees buckled, sending you sprawling forward. You sucked in a breath, but you should have known you wouldn’t come to any harm in present company. There was a brief moment that felt like floating before Yord caught you, pulling you back up to set you on your bed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sol lower his hand.
“Sorry,” you murmured. You looked up at Yord as he withdrew his arms, eyeing you disapprovingly. That look sent you back ten years or more, hurtling through every sideways glance he’d ever given you over every stupid thing you’d ever done. Your spine straightened. You jabbed him in the chest, eyebrows shooting up. “You wouldn’t have done it yourself!”
Holding your stare, Yord lifted his hand. You narrowed your eyes, and he narrowed his back. There was a soft rustling sound as something touched his outstretched hand.
You refused to look away as you pulled the sling from between his fingers, bound the fabric around his neck, and gently slid his elbow into it.
Yord didn’t even wince. “Satisfied?“ His voice came out low, and he was very close to you, and something deep beneath your skin responded. An involuntary shudder wracked your body. You tamped it down quickly, equal parts relieved and disappointed when he took no notice of your reaction.
You cast a furtive glance in Sol’s direction. He was pointedly looking away, the barest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his perennially downturned mouth. Your gaze snapped back to Yord in alarm, but he had already busied himself with re-organizing a shelf of medical supplies and looked completely oblivious, as ever.
A spike of pain lanced behind your eyelids, causing you to squeeze them shut. As if they could sense it, and maybe they could, both men turned to you.
Yord opened his mouth, but Sol raised a hand to point at the door. “Out. She needs rest.”
Yord looked displeased, but he didn’t argue. With a last glance in your direction, he turned, bowing to Sol, and left. Sol waved the door shut, eyes on you. He moved gracefully toward you and, when he stood before you, raised two fingers.
“Follow,” he said, so you did. He raised a tiny light, shined it in your eyes, and then held your chin lightly with one hand. The other moved behind your head, and a moment later, there was a loud snap. It made you jump, which made Sol nod calmly.
“You will be just fine,” he said. He sounded pleased, but unsurprised. He tapped your elbows, your wrists, your knees, and continued to nod when your body reflexively flinched. “Your brain scans did not show any cause for alarm. In a week or two, you will be back to your old self.”
You grinned. “Causing problems for everyone around me, you mean?” Sol smiled back. He turned to go and your smile faltered. “You ran a brain scan?”
He turned back, face impassive. “Yord insisted.”
Your eyebrows shot up at that. “And you take orders from Yord?”
Sol crossed his arms and looked at you thoughtfully. Finally, he spoke. “He was very persuasive.”
You blinked. He blinked. Then you spoke at the same time.
“Get some rest.”
“How are Osha and Jecki?”
Sol froze. He unfroze almost immediately, but your gaze snagged on the nearly imperceptible hitch in his movement. He turned to look at you, expression unreadable.
“You do not remember?”
Ice dripped down your spine. “Remember what?”
Sol rested a hand lightly on your head, as he had when you were a youngling, and even as a Padawan. As you’d seen him do to Yord, and to Osha, and to Jecki. The familiarity of the gesture was at once comforting and startling, after so many years.
“Osha is asleep. She is frustrated that Mae escaped, but unharmed.” His fingers scratched ever so lightly against your scalp. You leaned into his hand, waiting.
“And Jecki is…” You held your breath. “Dead.”
You choked on a sob.
Yord whipped into the doorway, wild-eyed and hissing Sol’s name.
“She does not remember.” Sol always spoke slowly, but he said this with extra care. He and Yord shared a look that you couldn’t decipher. Then, you watched Yord’s face crumple. A slew of emotions crossed his features so quickly that you couldn’t place any of them.
Sol laid a hand on Yord’s uninjured shoulder, but Yord shrugged it off, turning his face away.
“Yord?” Tears were streaming down your face now, unchecked. Yord took in a breath, broad chest expanding, before hanging his head. Then he strode across the room, shoved lightly until you shifted to make what space you could, and climbed into the narrow bed beside you. He wrapped his good arm around you, tugging you toward his chest.
You let yourself fall into him as Sol padded out, taking comfort in huddling together like younglings again.
Yord didn’t say anything, and neither did you.
There was nothing to say.
He only gripped you tightly, cheek pressed to the top of your head, and breathed with you for a long time.
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You must have fallen asleep, because the ship was initiating landing sequences on Coruscant when you next opened your eyes.
Yord sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. You watched him for several long moments. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to move, you reached out a tentative hand to stroke his back. He jumped under your touch, whirling to face you. You felt his muscles relax beneath your hand as he gave you a half-hearted smile.
“Sleep well?”
“I didn’t know I’d fallen asleep.”
“How’s your head?”
Throbbing. “Fine. How’s your shoulder?”
“Fine.” You were lying, he was lying, and you both knew it.
Something about the look on his face was… off. He seemed sad. Jecki. You winced.
“Jecki.” Her name was neither statement nor question. Yord only nodded slowly.
“What do you remember?” He asked the question carefully, and seemed to be studying your reaction. You pursed your lips, frowning in concentration. Yord’s expression was oddly guarded, and it was putting you on edge.
“What should I remember?” you asked.
Yord shook his head, too violently for the casual air he was trying to put on. “What do you remember?” His entire body leaned toward yours, straining with the effort of holding back.
Something was wrong.
You scoured your memories of the mission, coming up uncomfortably blank.
“I… I remember landing on Khofar.” You paused, becoming less and less sure of yourself as the moment stretched. “We…” There was something, there, on the edge of your mind. But try as you might, you couldn’t grasp it. You could feel your face contorting in exasperation. “I know you got hurt, but I don’t remember how.” You looked at Yord, pleading with him silently to give you something to go off of. “What are you not telling me?”
Yord had never been good at hiding his emotions; disapproval and excitement dimmed and lit his face and eyes; the direction of his lips always indicated his mood. Over the years, he’d cultivated a carefully blank stare to mask his feelings. He wore it on missions, at trials, any time he wanted to hide his amusement at your latest shenanigans.
He wore it now.
“You really don’t remember anything.” It probably should have been a question, but it wasn’t.
“No, I don’t. Just please, Yord, tell me what’s going on.” He shook his head firmly and panic threatened to spill up your throat. “Why not?”
“The Council will want to interview you. They’ll need your honest testimony. I can’t cloud it.”
“How am I supposed to testify about a mission I can’t remember?” It was done, now. Anxiety clawed up your insides like a beast. You were missing something, something huge. Something so important, and you could not. See. What. “What good am I to them if I can’t remember? What good am I to anyone?” Your voice had gone shrill. “Am I ever supposed to remember, or is that time just lost?”
Yord stood, leaning over you to grasp your face between his hands. You blinked, calmed beneath their warmth, and felt your breathing slow. Just as soon as it did, it hammered back up to full speed.
Had you admitted something you shouldn’t have? It would explain Yord’s strange behavior, certainly—
“You will remember exactly what you need to.”
Your mind scrambled for something to hold onto. “I don’t remember how Jecki died.”
Pain flashed over Yord’s face. “Maybe it’s better that way,” he murmured.
You scowled, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to disagree. “Maybe.”
Sol stepped into the doorway, glancing between you and Yord. “Are you both ready?”
As ready as you could be.
The moment your boots touched the landing pad, the council was upon you. Each of you was ushered off to give statements, separate from each other so as not to dilute your experiences.
Such that they were.
The council released you the moment they realized that you had nothing to tell them, sending you off to the med bay. You waited in the hallway instead, sitting on a bench near the door they’d led Yord through.
It didn’t take as long as you’d expected for him to step out, looking shaken. He blinked at you.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was unusually sharp. Your surprise must have shown on your face, because his eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “You should be in the infirmary,” he said more gently.
“I was waiting for you.” Your voice came out softer than you’d expected. You’d spent the time waiting trying to piece together anything that had happened after landing on Khofar.
Nothing.
“What happened in there?” you asked.
No one else would have noticed Yord’s slight hesitation.
But you did.
You kept your voice as level as possible. “Yord. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
No one else would have noticed how imperceptibly too-quick that response was, either.
But you did.
You bristled. “Yord.”
He turned to fully face you, mocking your tone when he said your name.
You ground your teeth. “Since when have we lied to each other?” He had the nerve to look surprised. It made you question yourself, until he set his jaw.
He stepped closer to you, not even bothering to look around to see if anyone noticed as he crowded you back against the wall.
You’d never been afraid of Yord, not in the slightest. It made you laugh that people could find him intimidating. You still weren’t afraid of him now, but you felt a swell of pride that in this moment, you could see how imposing he could look with his broad shoulders and his flat stare.
“Have you ever stopped to consider that maybe, just maybe, I’m trying to protect you?”
You frowned, and Yord spun and began to walk away. You hadn’t considered that, and he knew it.
You hurried after him. “Well what if I don’t want to be protected?”
“That’s just too damn bad, isn’t it,” he muttered.
“Yord!”
He stopped so abruptly that you plowed into him.
“You are going to the infirmary. Now.”
He began walking again, but you didn’t. You stood rooted to the spot, watching him go. He made it several doors down before realizing that you weren’t following him. He stopped, too, and you watched each other as temple inhabitants filtered by.
“What did I say?”
He looked exasperated and exhausted. “What are you talking about?”
“What did I say to you that you don’t want me to know?”
“You didn’t say anything.” The stony mask was in place and you couldn’t tell whether or not he was telling the truth. Something in your gut told you that you had it, that the right words were just out of reach—that you were on the right track—but you felt that conviction waver under Yord’s impassive gaze.
He sighed. “Would you please just come to the infirmary?”
Your head had begun to throb again. Between that and Yord’s pleading tone, you decided to allow yourself to be persuaded.
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If you had known that Yord would disappear after, you wouldn’t have.
You were checked into the infirmary with great speed, ushered off to have tests run and treatments begun. It was a whirlwind that fully engaged and exhausted you for the next several days. The nurses felt that with enough therapy, your memories would surely return to you.
You would wake, sit with doctors who used the Force to prod at your subconscious, do memory exercises, break for lunch. Sit again with doctors who used the Force to prod at your subconscious, do some light physical activity, and sleep.
The only thing you had time to do was miss Yord.
You reasoned that there was no plausible excuse for him to come see you. Between your treatments and whatever workload the council had lain on him, when would he find the time? Would you even be able to stay awake long enough to make the visit worth it?
That line of thinking held until the exact moment Sol seated himself at your table while you ate dinner, weeks later.
He smiled—not the faded, sad smile you’d grown used to seeing, but a shiny, new true smile—and set down a plate of his own.
“How are you feeling?” he asked. He’d never been cold, but his voice had grown warmer. He might as well be a new man, for all the spark in his step, and you had a feeling that it could be credited to Osha’s return.
“I’m fine,” you said. You tried to keep your voice light as you said, “I’m not a leper, y’know.”
Sol blinked slowly. “A… leper?”
You waved a hand. “Some old world disease I read about once, never mind. It was a bad joke.”
Sol chuckled. “I do know what leprosy is.” And then you felt silly, because of course he did. Sol was particularly well-read. “I simply did not understand…” He trailed off, then gestured at you as if to encompass your previous statement.
You looked down at your plate. “I’m not contagious.” When Sol still said nothing, you added, “You’re the first person to come visit me,” in a small voice. Sol’s fingers tensed on the edge of his plate.
“Yord did not come see you?”
You shook your head, giving up on eating your dinner in favor of pushing it around your plate instead. “Hasn’t yet.” You sounded like a sullen padawan and you knew it, but something about having Sol here, checking in on you, brought out your inner youngling, and you couldn’t bring yourself to care about how you sounded.
Sol’s fingers twitched on the table. You found yourself frowning at the motion in the breath before he spoke. “Yord is on Kessel.”
Your breath caught in your throat. “Kessel?”
“He was sent to assist a delegation working to uncover a smuggling ring. A job well-suited to his talents.” He hesitated. “I would have thought that he would have told you.“
“Yeah,” you breathed. Your mind was racing again, desperately combing through what blurry moments you could remember about the last ill-fated mission for anything that might explain Yord’s behavior. “I would have, too.”
Sol reached over to lay his hand over yours, and that simple gesture was enough to have you tearing up.
Really, how hard had you hit your head? You never used to be this way.
Sol actually looked concerned for a moment.
“I’m fine,” you sputtered. “Everything is fine.” You swiped at your eyes. “Sorry.”
“Let me try something,” Sol said abruptly. You looked up to find him looking at you intently.
You shrugged. “O-okay.” He reached out, splaying his fingers until they rested on your temples and behind your jaw.
“Close your eyes.” You closed your eyes.
“Breathe in.” You breathed in.
“Out.” You did it.
You could feel the Force responding to Sol’s command, prodding and pulling at memories and pieces of your mind. You felt hope spark beneath your skin.
“Imagine yourself floating in a pool of water.” You tried. “Reach out your hands.” You did that, and Sol huffed a laugh. “In your mind.”
“Oh.” You lowered your hands, feeling silly. You raised the hands of the you in your mind, sliding them through your thoughts.
With the help of Sol’s firm hand, you could just make out whispers where voices should be, blurry shapes that must have been the trees of Khofar and some of the people you’d been with.
But that was all you could remember. You let out an exasperated sigh and opened your eyes, shocked to see that the sun had set and the moons were beginning to rise.
“Sol, I don’t think this is working.” He opened his eyes, turning to follow your gaze.
“Give it time.”
You nodded. “Okay.” You were all but convinced that you’d lost that time forever, that whatever Sol had done had amounted to nothing. That tiny spark of hope had dimmed and faded as you prepared yourself for bed.
You remained convinced as you lay awake that Sol’s efforts had been in vain.
Right up until the moment that you woke abruptly from a vivid dream of the forest of Khofar; of Jecki’s limp body; of Yord carrying you through the trees to the ship.
Of Yord, your best friend and only love, the best Jedi and strictest man you knew, pressing you against a tree and kissing you like his life depended on it. Of his half-whispered, “I only kiss you”.
Your hand flew to your lips, tracing the path of his tongue as you drew in a shuddering breath. Stars, that had to be why he’d run from you, but why?
You flew to your feet, scrambling for your data pad. Your fingers flicked through pages, less nimble than usual due to their shaking, until you found a freighter due to depart for Kessel in an hour.
Within minutes, you’d tossed a haphazard collection of garments and other essentials into a pack, slinging it across one shoulder as you bolted toward the cargo docks. Convincing the captain of the freighter to transport a lone Jedi took about the amount of convincing you’d expected, and before long, you were belting yourself into a seat behind the main cabin.
48 hours had never felt so long.
You rested as best you could, but it wasn’t well.
You grieved for Jecki, waves of guilt and pain washing over you.
You wracked your brain trying to pin down the Sith you’d come across, but to no avail.
You searched for some reason that Yord might let you forget that he’d kissed you within an inch of your life. You found none.
You were mid-doze, restless though it was, when the ship landed. The captain shook you awake, awkwardly waiting for you to disembark before he released his crew, and you were scrambling off the ship and toward the town center before your vision fully cleared.
You weren’t terribly familiar with Kessel, but you’d scoured the archives for a Jedi safehouse and downloaded a map before leaving the Temple. You made it in what you felt would be record time, if you’d had any previous trips to compare it to.
You hesitated at the door, hand raised, for only a moment before pounding at it.
No answer.
You pulled back your hand, pounding at the door again, louder this time. Someone muttered in the street behind you, and you turned to watch a Pyke glare suspiciously in your direction. Only then did you take note of the pre-dawn darkness of the sky, lit only by streetlamps and far-off streaks of pink.
Maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe Yord—
The door opened. You whipped around, basking in the stunned expression on Yord’s handsome face. His mouth fell open on your name, and then he was stuttering out a question.
You didn’t let him finish it.
You reached out one hand, letting your fingers splay across the expanse of his chest as you walked him backward for the steps it took to get you past the threshold. Then you reached behind with your other hand, shutting the door. Your fingers curled into Yord’s tunic as you did, pulling him forward.
Honestly, for all the time you’d had, you had no plans for this interaction. Even so, your movements were fluid as you dragged him forward. Yord, graceful Yord, stumbled into you. And with the hand gripping his tunic, you pulled his mouth down to yours.
The effect was immediate. Yord groaned the moment your lips touched, and his hands came up to grip your waist. As if propelled by your initial pull, he pushed you back until you hit the door, pressing you against it with his whole long, lean body. You felt a twitch against your belly as he leaned into you, hands sliding up your sides. You pulled at him, opening your mouth under his, desperate for more of him—
And Yord wrenched himself away. He nearly stumbled back with the force of his retreat.
“What was that?” You could hear what was meant to be his stern voice, but it shook. He raised a hand to his lips and you could see it trembling.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t I tell you what?” And oh, it made you angry, the way he actually managed to sound superior about it all.
You prowled toward him, and now he was the one being pressed back, retreating until he was stopped by the counter of the kitchenette.
You emphasized each word with a poke to his chest. “You. Kissed. Me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t!” Your voice was a roar in your own ears. “Don’t lie to me. Not now, now about this.” For all its momentary strength, your voice cracked now, the coward. “Why?”
Yord looked as though you’d stuck your hand right through him, taken hold of his insides, and pulled them out. All of that pain, all of the shock that would come with it.
He reached for you, running trembling fingers down your cheek. “I—” His voice broke, even on that single syllable. The rest was a guttural whisper. “I was afraid.”
You leaned into his touch, body completely unaware of your waning anger. “Afraid of what?” you whispered back.
Yord’s eyes slid shut and he took a deep breath. “Afraid that we wouldn’t make it.”
You blinked. You’d meant to ask why he’d been afraid to tell you about the kiss. You hadn’t realized, in retrospect, that it had all been quite so serious in the moment. You opened your mouth to say something about that, but Yord’s confession had opened the floodgate.
“I was afraid that you would die. Or that I would. And I’m not afraid of dying, but I was afraid of you dying, because what would my life be then? What would be the point?”
“Yord,” you began, horrified. He kept talking.
“And then when you said that stupid line about the vocoder, I just had to tell you. If anything happened to us, I needed you to know. I couldn’t bear the thought of you not knowing any more.”
You blinked back the tears that were rapidly filling your eyes. “Then why would you let me forget? Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Because it never should have happened!” His other hand had come up to rest on the side of your neck now, tilting your head back to look at him as he straightened. Even as his words should have pushed you away, his hands drew you closer. “I was wrong to say anything. I never should have touched you.” His thumb brushed your lips as he spoke, and you wondered idly if he was too far gone to see the irony of the situation. “The Jedi Code forbids—”
You raised a finger of your own, laying it across Yord’s lips. He stopped speaking, watching you intently as you took in a deep breath.
“Do you love me?” you asked. Yord blinked rapidly. His lips parted, but you shook your head firmly. “And don’t say anything about the Jedi code.” His mouth snapped shut, and that told you everything you needed to know.
You turned your back and stepped out of his hold. You took several steps away, raising one hand to dash away the tears in your eyes and scrubbing your cheeks for good measure. When you turned again, Yord looked pained, but held himself firm. You took one more step back, taking in a deep breath and then blowing it out.
“I love you.” He let out a breath like you’d punched him. “I always have, and I think some part of you has always known that.”
He was breathing hard, head shaking slowly back and forth, but you could see the truth of your words in his eyes. “We can’t.” His voice was strained, hands gripping the countertop so hard his knuckles paled.
You took one step toward him. “We can.”
“The Council forbids attachments.”
“And yet we have Padawans and Masters.” You took another step forward as Yord shook his head vehemently.
“That’s different.”
“It’s not different and you know it.” Another step.
Yord’s grip on the counter tightened even more. “We could be expelled from the Order.”
“The Council has never cared unless a Jedi’s state of mind is compromised, and you know that too.” Another.
Yord swallowed hard, breath coming even faster now. You stepped forward again, until your toes touched. You’d come here confused and afraid, uncertain of Yord’s feelings and reasonings. Now that you knew how he felt?
You were back on firm ground and feeling bold, and a little reckless.
“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, and you leaned forward. As children, when you wanted different things, you’d take three minutes to wrestle, or fence, or argue your case.
Now, you rested your hands on either side of Yord’s on the countertop, leaning further until your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “If I can’t convince you in three minutes, if you can hold out, I’ll drop this. We don’t ever have to speak of it again.” You raised one hand, sliding a finger down his chest slowly. He shuddered under your touch.
“But if you break, and if you touch me?” You pressed your lips behind Yord’s ear, just to feel him vibrate beneath your palm. “This has to be a discussion. You can’t just decide for both of us.”
There was a long, quiet moment where the only sound was Yord’s heavy breathing and the muted bustle of the street outside. Then he nodded, short and sharp. You blew out a soft breath and took one more step forward, placing your body a breath away from his.
“Three minutes,” you murmured. “Start counting.”
Then, with no further warning, you pressed yourself forward. You ran your hands up his sides as you leaned your weight against him, then flattened your tongue just beneath his jaw. Yord hissed out a breath as you licked a stripe up to the hollow behind his ear, flattening your palms against his chest as you did. You could feel his muscles flexing beneath your fingertips.
If you were being honest, you didn’t have a clue what you were doing. You were operating entirely off instinct, hoping beyond hope that you were capable of shredding Yord’s legendary control.
You weren’t feeling confident, and it made your hands unsteady and your movements more jerky than you’d imagined. Despite all of that, Yord was shaking apart under your ministrations. His head tilted back when you scraped your teeth against his pulse point, giving you more access to the long column of his throat, and you could hear the synthetic countertop creaking in his grip.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as you nuzzled there, whispering how good it felt to touch him like this, and that gave you an idea. With a surprisingly firm hand, you wrenched Yord’s belt from around his waist, dragging yourself closer to him. You only fumbled with the buckle for a moment, and then you dropped it to the floor. The moment you did, you slid your hands up under the fabric of his tunic and across hot, smooth skin.
“Stars,” breathed Yord. You danced your fingertips to his hipbones, ignoring his choked pleas of your name, and then flattened your palms to slide up his hard torso, coming to stop over his pecs. His heart thundered under your hand.
Yord was nearly beside himself. He shook so violently that you had to fight for your balance between his legs. He seemed barely able to keep himself from nuzzling into your neck, head tilted toward the space as though drawn there by a magnetic force. Even so, he didn’t touch you.
You were rapidly losing hope of this laserbrained scheme working. Either Yord was not nearly as into you as you were into him, which you didn’t want to believe, or his resolve was even stronger than you’d thought.
You really hoped it was the second option.
“Time?” you whispered.
“Stars, I don’t…” Yord’s voice trailed off on a groan as you skimmed your hands down his side, brushing each quivering muscle as you did.
You had to be nearly out.
Desperation and the bitter taste of defeat had you sagging forward, lifting your chin in one last attempt to wrest control of the situation. You rested your cheek against his, turning your lips to touch his earlobe.
“Yord, please.”
There was a deafening crack, and then Yord’s hands were gripping your waist as he wrenched you up against him.
“Damn you,” he breathed. He turned and slammed you against the counter with enough force to knock the breath out of you. Then his mouth was on yours, hot and ravenous. He kissed you hard, hands sliding down until he could grip your thighs. He pulled you roughly up, yanking your knees around his waist, and moved forward until you were pinned between the cabinets and him.
You did your level best to keep up with him, hands running over him as your mouth moved frantically against his, but Yord put a stop to that quickly.
“No,” he growled. He gripped your wrists, pinning them over your head. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.” Your stomach fluttered as he took both of your hands in one of his, using the other to turn your head to the side. “If I’m going to lose you, I want more than the dream of having you.” You’d had some dreams of your own over the years, but none of them had ever involved Yord manhandling you. Clearly, you’d sold him short.
You shuddered in his grip and opened your mouth to protest, to say that he wouldn’t lose you, but the words died on your tongue as he leaned in until his breath ghosted over your neck. “Just let me…” He must have been as distracted by you as you were by him, because he never finished the thought. He only pressed his lips gently to your throat, trailing open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbones. You gasped, arching against him as his free hand wrapped around your waist.
He pulled you close with such care that you nearly sobbed. You felt fuzzy with the shift from hard and fast to slow and deliberate, but Yord seemed too engrossed in touching you to notice. He made a soft sound as your body molded to his, fingers closing just a little tighter around your wrists. He raised his head again and leaned in to kiss you, tracing your lips with his tongue.
You could feel a rumbling from his chest, but the sound was too low for you to hear it. Yord released his grip on your wrists, bringing both hands to cradle your face as he kissed you over and over, soft and slow and sweet and deep.
“You taste better than I ever imagined,” he breathed.
“So you have imagined this?”
“Of course I have.” His hands slid slowly down from your neck, over your shoulders to run down your sides. “I may be a Jedi, but I’m still a man.”
You felt a smile stretch your lips beneath Yord’s and let your hands come up to his neck. “What else have you imagined?”
He groaned. “Don’t tease me.”
You tightened your legs around him. He swore. You pulled him closer by his neck to whisper in his ear.
“Show me.”
Even knowing how far you’d pushed him, even knowing he was beyond the reach of self-control, the speed with which he ripped your tunic up and over your head came as a shock. The frantic way he dragged your trousers down, throwing them over his shoulder, made your breath hitch in anticipation. Watching him drop to his knees before you, kissing hungrily from your ankle to the apex of your thighs and then higher, had your head spinning as you tried to reconcile years of fantasies with this reality.
Stars, you thought as they burst behind your eyelids, and Yord hummed against you as if he’d heard.
“Stay with me,” he breathed, and there was a note of pleading in his voice.
You pulled him up, dragging his mouth to yours as your fingers found their way beneath his robes, returning the favor he’d done you and getting rid of them. You crushed your mouths together as your hands skimmed over taut muscle and heated skin. “Always,” you murmured.
“I’ve never…” he trailed off, snapping back into his shyest self.
“Neither have I,” you said. “We learn together.”
He kissed you softly, pulling you to the edge of the countertop. You held his head to your shoulder as you moved together, slow and shaky, filling the silence with breathless sounds. You hit your head on a cabinet. Yord, who had already cracked the countertop earlier, tore a door from its hinges.
When you sat together on the tile floor after, too tired to move to the furniture, you stroked his cheek. “The Council isn’t going to be happy with the state of the kitchen.”
Yord sighed. “I know.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
“I don’t know yet.”
You pulled back to look at him in mock horror. “Yord Fandar, do you mean to tell me that you don’t have a plan?”
“I don’t.” His face was serious, studying you as he brushed his fingertips along your temple. “Not a single one.”
You felt your face soften at the admission. “Really?”
He watched you for long moments in the way you knew meant he was weighing his words. “I never allowed myself to make plans involving you.”
Your throat felt dry, but you weren’t surprised. “Why not?”
Yord looked pained. “Because it was pointless. I could never have you, so why torture myself imagining it?”
“You have me now,” you murmured.
He kissed the palm of your hand. “And I don’t think I can let you go.”
“Then don’t.” You kissed him softly, stroking his lips with your tongue and burying your hand in his locks. “We’ll talk to Sol when we return to Coruscant.”
“I’ll talk to Sol.” He watched his own hand stroke down your side. “I’ll talk to him.”
You waited for more, but there was no more. “Okay,” you said. “You can talk to him.”
“Okay.” He pulled you closer until your head rested on his chest. And within a moment, naked on a tile floor and without an ounce of regard for the utter lack of decorum, Yord fell fast asleep. You were awake long enough to watch light, real or fabricated, stream through the single tiny window by the door. But not long.
✩‧₊˚─────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────˚₊‧✩‧₊˚─────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆─────˚₊‧✩
Yord drew himself up to his full height with no small amount of nerves. He raised his fist, knocking sharply on the door before him. It opened almost instantly.
“Ah, Yord. Welcome back. Your mission was a success?”
“Indeed, Master Sol. But I wished to discuss…” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “May we speak?”
Sol opened the door wider, gesturing Yord in. His expression was almost… pleased. “Tea?” Sol offered.
“Thank you.”
Sol motioned to a small table. Yord sat, watching anxiously as the older man boiled water and brought cups and a tin of tea leaves from a cupboard. He reached for the cuff of his robes, straightening it as he waited. By the time Sol brought tea to the table, he was practically quivering.
“Master, I… I owe you an apology. And a confession.”
Sol interrupted with a raised hand. “Let me save you the trouble.” Yord felt himself jolt in surprise.
“The… trouble?”
“Do not act as if I do not know why you are here, Yord. I’ve known you since you were a youngling and your feelings are just as clear to me now as they have been these twenty years.”
Yord sat, stunned.
“You owe me no apology, and no confession. There is no creed barring attachment.”
“But…” Yord whispered. “But I betrayed my vows.”
Sol sipped his tea. “I do not see how.”
“I left you to die,” Yord blurted. Heat flared under his skin, and he dipped his head in shame.
Sol’s voice was amused. “I seem to remember telling you to do just that.”
Yord clenched his jaw. “I’d have left you to die even if you hadn’t.” He looked up, meeting his master’s curious stare. “What kind of Jedi makes that choice?” He heard the anguish in his voice, but was powerless to stop it.
Sol sighed and lowered his teacup. “Every Jedi must make that choice. If not one day, then the next. Or the day after that. Do not deceive yourself into believing that you could have avoided it forever, or that your choice makes you less of a Jedi than any other. You saved the life of another Jedi.”
Yord scoffed. “I couldn’t let her go. Isn’t that the definition of attachment?”
Sol tilted his head to and fro. “Perhaps. But would it not have been attachment if you had defied me to stay and fight by my side instead? You’d have disobeyed a direct order.”
Yord said nothing. Sol turned toward the window, waiting for the younger Jedi to collect his thoughts.
“I took advantage of the opportunity to do what I would have anyway,” Yord said softly. “Just because it presented itself.”
“And did you ever consider,” Sol said patiently, “that I presented that opportunity on purpose?” He chuckled as Yord’s head snapped toward him. “She may have been blind, Yord, but I have not. I thought to spare you the guilt of doing what you knew you must, but it appears that I underestimated your capacity for self-loathing.”
Yord stared, unblinking, and Sol looked away again. “I once had to make a choice, and it has haunted me ever since. I sought to save you from regretting your choice by forcing you to make a decision you could live with.”
“Osha?”
Sol dropped his gaze to the table. “Osha.”
Yord nodded. Both men sat, unspeaking, until the tea was gone and sunlight streamed through the wide-set windows of Sol’s apartment.
“If you are truly concerned, I can continue to separate your assignments so that you are not forced to make the difficult choices. But there is no reason you cannot pursue a romance, Yord.”
Yord took a deep breath in. He reveled when it no longer caught in his chest, choking him. In the lightness he felt. “You really believe that?”
“I do.” Sol stood and collected Yord’s teacup. He stepped toward the sink, washed them, and turned back. “Will that be all, Yord?”
There was no annoyance in the question, only curiosity.
“Yes, Master.” Yord stood, pushing his chair in and smoothing down his robes. “Thank you.”
He offered a bow, which Sol returned, before letting himself out into the hallway. He tried to curb the excitement he felt bubbling up, but it was impossible. He was walking even more quickly than usual.
He had to get to you.
He hadn’t seen you since the day you’d shown up on Kessel, flipping his entire world upside down. He’d resigned himself to leaving the Order, whether by force or of his own free will, the moment he’d kissed you on Khofar. That resolve had only deepened when you’d appeared on his doorstep in Kessel. But it would seem that wasn’t meant to be.
He felt ineffable relief. Being a Jedi meant everything to him. It had been the single focus of his life.
Until he’d met you. And he’d warred with himself ever since.
He’d expected to be expelled; failing that, a reprimand. Perhaps even a forced separation. He knew better than to think he could ever choose anyone or anything but you, now that he knew how it felt to wrap you around him, now that he’d tasted you and touched you and loved you.
He had never stopped to consider that he might never have to choose. He knew you had to have thought of it already. He expected that you’d tease him mercilessly for missing something so simple.
His steps took him straight to your door, where he pounded unceremoniously until it swung open.
“What in the galaxy do you–” He cut you off with a hand to your mouth, pushing you back and pulling the door shut behind him. He lowered his hand to your waist, replacing it with his lips.
“I love you,” he murmured against your lips.
You laughed as you kissed him back, the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “I take it that went well?” Your hands ran over his shoulders and it was all he could do to bite back a groan.
“Quite.” He barely got the word out as he began to unfasten your robe.
“Tell me later,” you whispered.
His shuddering breath as you pulled him in would have to be answer enough for now.
Summary: Over the years, Amy has noticed a lot of things about her partner. She’s just never had a reason to notice what she’s noticed. That is until he flips her whole world upside down.
Author’s Notes: 13.8K words of pure, unadulterated Peraltiago in a classic undercover mission gone sideways. A billion thanks to my darling @geminiwritten for proofreading and giving me the confidence to actually post! ❤️
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Brooklyn Nine-Nine
Warnings/tags: mild language, suggestive content, blood, mutual pining, dialogue from season 1 episode 22 and season 2 episode 1 but otherwise no spoilers!
It’s not like Amy’s never noticed just how attractive Jake is.
…
Okay, fine, she’s never noticed just how attractive he is. She’s never bothered to watch the way his lips shape themselves around her name like a caress, or the way the corners turn up even when he isn’t naming her latest fictional sex tape. Never taken note of the smile lines from his wide, near-constant grin, or the way his eyes sparkle almost always; never noticed the dimple in his chin or the stubborn lock of hair that refuses to cooperate no matter what he does.
Alright, maybe she’s noticed all that over the years.
But it’s all been filed into the “Jake” box in the back of her mind, the one tucked securely behind every other box and locked up tight. The one she’s never opened, or even really cared to open, until that day.
“I dunno what's gonna happen on this assignment, and if something bad goes down I think I'd be pissed at myself if I didn't say this. I kinda wish something could happen between us. Romantic-stylez.”
And then poof, no Jake. For six. Months.
The precinct had been so, so quiet without him. Without quite meaning to, Amy had found herself picturing his every reaction, having entire conversations with the Jake in her head. She’d cancelled dates with Teddy to work weekends and late nights, without knowing why until realizing that it made her feel closer to him. Then she’d stopped, because that felt awfully close to cheating. Which didn’t even make sense, because she didn’t even like Jake like that.
And when had he become Jake to her, anyway?
This was just another practical joke, surely. Peralta loved nothing more than getting into her head, and this had to be his best prank yet.
Just another prank.
It sure doesn’t feel like a prank now, though, with him beaming from the bullpen gate to a backdrop of static that she knows is the squad, telling stories and teasing and welcoming and shouting at him and each other. She can hardly make out the dull roar of white noise beneath the deafening thump of her heartbeat against her eardrums. She wipes her inexplicably damp palms down her slacks, reaching for an even expression to pull over her slack features.
Holt’s arrival buys her a brief reprieve, as Ja—Peralta—hurtles through the one-line stories that’ll need more explanation, eventually, ending with a sincere, “And missed you all so very much.” Her heart melts a little at that, and then he’s looking at her, and the room is spinning and her heart is racing and she has a boyfriend, for crying out loud.
And yet, for some crazy reason, she still agrees to talk to him in private for a sec.
“So now that we are alone, I have to ask.” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to shut this down as gently and quickly as possible. “Did you arrest a perp named Joe Uterus?”
It’s not what she’s expecting, but she really only has herself to blame for that. She huffs out a sigh of laughter and relief.
“Oh, my God, yes. I should have told you immediately. Perp name hall of fame, right?”
“Oh, yeah. First ballot. I mean, it's right up there with Sylvester Stools and Janet Storkmuncher.”
They both chuckle at that, only a little awkward.
“But also, I just… I know we left things kind of weird. You know, me saying that I liked you.”
“I'm still with Teddy.” The words come out rushed. Sharp. In an effort to soften them, she adds, “Romantic stylez.”
Jake blinks, and there’s a flash of something she can’t read in his expression.
“Oh. Good, good. 'Cause I was gonna say, I know we left things weird, because I said that I liked you, but that was a mistake.” Her heart gives one slow, painful clench and she fights the urge to swallow, but Jake’s not done. “You know, I was nervous about going undercover, and I think I just kinda freaked out, and you were nearby, so… I didn't mean it.”
He didn’t mean it.
That shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
“But that's great. Good.”
She can’t think of a single thing to say to that, too busy trying to untangle all of her feelings, but Jake swoops in to save her. Just, she realizes slowly, like he always does.
“Hey, so, Joe Uterus, what did he do?”
This, she can answer.
•·················•·················•
To Amy’s utter shock, things don’t get weird after that. Even at Jake’s not-surprise party.
“Hey, so listen, the thing I said to you before I went undercover, about how I wished something had happened between us romantically, that wasn't nothing. That was real.”
“What are you saying?”
“I know that you're with Teddy. I'm not trying to change that. And I get there's stuff I can't control. But this morning I told you that I didn't mean any of it, and that was a lie. I just don't want to hold anything back.”
“Well, thank you for saying that. Just as long as we're clear that I'm with someone and nothing is gonna happen.”
“‘I'm with someone, nothing's gonna happen’... title of your sex tape.”
“He's back.”
Things don’t get weird, but they do get complicated. Complicated and confusing. For her, at least. From that day forward, she finds herself over-analyzing every move he makes, every look he gives her. There’s nothing inherently different in the way he interacts with her, but it all feels different. Loaded in a way it never did before.
Things with Teddy disintegrate, too, and without much effort on her part. He’s a detective. Of course he knows that she’s not nearly as present as she should be. They argue about it, and for some reason, she doesn’t take the opportunity to break up and sort through her feelings. Instead, she convinces him that she’s fine. Everything is fine. And it all is.
Jake treats her just the same as he always has, and if his eyes linger and his smile seems a little strained sometimes, well.
That’s none of her business.
What is her business, though, is the caseload he’s been working. She sees it first when he turns down Charles’ invitation to go to Shaw’s with the crew.
“Sorry man, can’t. I’ve gotta get this paperwork done.” Jake hates doing paperwork.
She sees it in the dark circles under his eyes and the case files he carries in and out when he thinks no one is paying attention. She sees it in the early mornings and late nights he works.
“Peralta, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here this early.” And it is early. Not early for him, just. Early. 6:30 a.m., to be precise. Amy’s here to get a jump start on a jewelry heist Holt assigned, but only because she’s an overachiever. Despite knowing this, Jake nearly knocks his coffee over as he spins to face her, because he clearly wasn’t expecting her this early. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, Holt’s got me looking into this arms dealer.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And it couldn’t wait until 9:30?”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans. He turns back to his computer, resting his chin on his fist so his voice comes out muffled. “Trying something new.”
“Being on time?”
Jake hooks a finger over his shoulder at her as if to say “nailed it”.
She pauses, wringing her fingers together a bit. “Jake, are you okay?”
His head snaps in her direction at her use of his first name, and he can’t quite mask his shock. He covers it with a wide grin, though. “Never better, why do you ask?”
She finally sits and switches on her computer. From behind their screens, she can see Jake doing his best not to look at her. He’s tapping his foot beneath his desk, but she won’t answer. Finally, he looks at her in exasperation.
“What?” That one word sounds more tired than Amy’s ever heard him.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?”
He lets out a sigh, but his expression softens. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, I promise.” He stretches, and Amy tries not to notice the cords of muscle in his forearms. “Just trying to get some overtime, get out of debt.”
Something in his voice sounds fragile. She decides not to push. “Ah, yes,” she smirks. “Your crushing debt.”
“That’s the one.” His smile is back in full. They work in silence until sunlight streams through the windows, then Jake stands and walks to the break room. A few minutes later, he returns with two steaming cups of coffee and places one delicately beside Amy’s keyboard. She looks up, startled.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His soft smile makes something in her chest hitch, but she shakes herself out of it when Rosa stomps around the corner.
“Damn, Peralta, what gives? Did you lose a bet or something?”
•·················•·················•
It goes on like this for the rest of the week; Amy shows up early to find Jake hard at work. The second day, she makes them coffee in the break room just before the rest of the squad gets in. The third day, she swings by a shop she likes on her way to the precinct and gets coffee for both of them, hoping he’ll be there. He is, and he’s pleasantly surprised. On the fourth day, though, he isn’t there. She swallows her disappointment, but by the time her computer is on, the elevator doors are sliding open to reveal a beaming, windswept Jake holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and a brown paper bag.
“I know you’ve been here early all week, but I was worried you wouldn’t be today. I got scones. You like those, right?”
The fifth day, when she reaches the top step and looks out across the bullpen, Jake is slumped over his desk in yesterday’s clothes. She pauses at the gate, coffees and croissants in hands, and just watches him for a time.
His breathing is even, and maybe it’s just the horrible posture, but she thinks he’s snoring softly. His hair is sticking up in every direction like he’s been pulling at it all night, and it looks so soft that Amy has to fight the urge to run her fingers through it. His tie is loose enough to show just a little chest hair, hoodie flung over the back of his chair, despite the morning chill.
Amy tiptoes into the office, carefully depositing their treats on her desk, and then slips Jake’s hoodie off his chair. Slowly, she drapes it over his shoulders. His broad shoulders. Jake stirs, sighing in his sleep, and turns his head toward her. His eyes flutter open for half a heartbeat.
“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs. She draws back, shock freezing her hands midair, but Jake is snoring again already.
Amy, she thinks. He must have said Amy.
He’s curled in on himself in an effort to pillow his head on his arm, and for a moment she wants to ball up her blazer for him, but she’s not sure she could manage not to wake him with her suddenly shaky hands. So instead, she switches on her computer and gets to work.
She leaves him sleeping until 8:55, then stands to lay a hand on his shoulder. The moment he shifts, she panics, because regardless of whether he called her Amy or baby, she doesn’t think she can bear to hear it in that soft, sleepy voice again without doing something she might regret.
“Peralta.” It comes out sharper than she means it to, but it works. Jake sits straight up and blinks rapidly, looking at her in confusion. Then he takes in his surroundings and leaps up to his full height. She’s forced to look up at him when he grabs her elbows.
“Amy, I got it!”
“Got what?”
“The weapons dealer! He’s got an auction set for next week at a gala upstate. We just have to get into that gala!” He lets her go and spins toward his desk, launching into the epiphany he had last night over a too-late cup of coffee and Cup Noodles (ew) and is mid-explanation when Holt walks in.
“Peralta. Did you sleep here?”
“Captain! I’ve got a date for the weapons deal.”
The Captain’s impeccable posture, impossibly, straightens. “Come with me, Peralta. Tell me what you found.” He spares a nod for Amy, who nods in return before watching them both disappear behind the office door.
And within five minutes of waking up, the storm that is Jake Peralta has opened up the bullpen and moved on. Amy stands stunned for a long moment before dropping into her seat. She shakes her head and sits down to go over the evidence for her own case. The rest of the squad trickles in during the time he’s in the Captain’s office, but at 9:35, the door opens and Jake comes out with his mussed hair and crooked tie and wide smile and sparkling eyes and beelines for Amy. She swallows back the sudden suffocation of him and does her best to smile back.
“Well.” He stands at his desk in what Amy secretly calls his superhero pose, hands on his hips and chin tilted up. “The Captain is sending me home for the day to sleep, but we’re going to that gala.”
Amy lifts an eyebrow. “We?”
And for a rare moment, Jake actually looks nervous. “The Captain thinks it would be a good idea to send in a co-ed team for an event like this, and considering the fact that we’ve had one successful date…”
“He’s right, it’ll make things easy.” The way Jake’s whole body relaxes on the breath he lets out makes the tightening feeling in Amy’s stomach worth it. “Go home, Peralta. We’ll talk Monday.”
He finger-guns at her, grin going crooked as he reaches for his leather jacket. “Monday. Sounds good.”
•·················•·················•
It’s earlier than Monday. In fact, it’s eight short hours later. When Amy knocks at the loft’s door at just after 6 p.m., Jake opens looking no less rumpled and much less dressed. He’s in boxers and a t-shirt that’s just a little too tight across his chest, rubbing at his eyes with both hands.
“Santiago? What are you doing here?”
She drags her eyes up to his face and revels in the hopeful, surprised half-smile tugging at his lips. She holds up the plastic bag in her hand. “I got my guy today, and you got this big lead, so I figured we should celebrate.” She doesn’t mention that she cancelled her Friday night dinner with Teddy because she’s worried that Jake hasn’t eaten since his Cup Noodles the previous night.
Jake’s tired face splits fully into a smile, putting the not-dimples in his cheeks on full display.
“Celebration, all right!” He steps aside, waving Amy through. When the door clicks shut, he sidles past to pull a pair of sweats off the clothes rack Gina must have left behind. Amy looks away when she finds herself tracking the movement of his fingers as they tie the drawstrings.
“Plates?” she asks, turning toward the kitchenette.
“Right side, top shelf.” She opens the cabinet drawer, reaches up, and can just barely touch the shelf the plates are on. Suddenly, Jake presses up behind her to pull them down. Her breath catches as he does. He’s not ripped, and she’s never thought he was, but she can feel firm muscle beneath the thin t-shirt that she hadn’t quite expected and the soft sweats he’s wearing do little to hide… the rest of him. And the way they fit together is—
He sets the plates on the countertop with a clatter, then pulls away to open the fridge. “Beer?” His voice is strained, but if he can be casual, then so can she.
“Sounds good.” She prides herself on the steadiness of her voice and opens cartons of Chinese food, loading each plate with a variety of entrees. When Jake holds her beer out, his face is only a little flushed.
“Wanna watch Criminal Minds?”
“God, yes.”
Any awkwardness fades after that. They sit on Jake’s threadbare couch, shoulder to shoulder, shouting at the TV through mouths crammed with chow mein and mu shu pork. Amy produces a notebook from her purse to track case notes, which Jake teases her about, but they solve each case long before the on-screen detectives because of it.
Several episodes in, Jake makes a soft sighing sound. When Amy turns her head, he’s leaned back with his eyes closed. The circles beneath them are dark enough now, she thinks, to warrant real concern and not just her overprotectiveness.
“Jake.”
“Hm?”
“Go to sleep.”
“‘M fine.”
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
He cracks an eye at her. “How do you know?” She levels him with a look. He scoffs and closes his eye again. “I’m fine, Santiago. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Don’t I?” The moment the words are out, she knows she shouldn’t have said them. Jake turns, leveling her with a weighty stare. He doesn’t say anything, and she can feel inane, useless words bubbling up to fill the heavy silence. A thousand silly, meaningless phrases filter through before she settles on, “You’re my partner.”
He watches her for another eternity, gaze dipping for just a second to her lips. “I’m fine,” he repeats. Softer, this time. More sincere. “Let me walk you out.” So she does. They walk down the stairs of his building in companionable silence, and then Jake flags down a taxi. He opens the door when the cabbie stops, leaning on it until her seatbelt is buckled. “I’ll see you Monday,” he says.
“See you Monday.”
•·················•·················•
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Amy. It just stinks, alright? He’s playing with you.”
Amy frowned at her plate. “He’s not playing with me, Teddy. He’s not like that.”
“Really? He’s not?” Teddy is completely unconvinced, watching the way she pushes food around on her plate. “You’ve worked with this guy for five years and he’s never said a word to you. Then all of a sudden when I show up, he confesses to having feelings for you before disappearing for six months—”
“He didn’t disappear, he was undercover—”
“And then he comes back, says he didn’t mean it, and then within a day he says he didn’t mean that—”
“He’s done a lot of growing up, Teddy! I respect the fact that he was man enough to tell me the truth.”
“Yeah, well, I would have respected him more if he’d been man enough to keep his mouth shut.”
Amy uncrosses her ankles, recrossing them as she gives up on dinner and lays her fork down.
“He didn’t have any right, Ames. We were doing just fine until he came back.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not strictly true, but it’s not strictly untrue either. It’s not like she’s ever told Teddy that she’s bored, or that he doesn’t seem to truly know her. He couldn’t know those things.
She definitely hasn’t told him that Jake knows her in the ways she’s begun to realize are important. Or that his confession forced her to… acknowledge her own feelings.
Teddy can tell, though. He’s a detective.
“Do you even still want to be with me?”
She’d love to say that she doesn’t answer because the question catches her so off-guard. After a painful pause of floundering, she opens her mouth to say yes, of course she does.
The words refuse to come out.
Later, she’ll console herself with the thought that Teddy’s face is more disappointed than hurt. Right now, though, this is as awful as she’d imagined it. Is that why she couldn’t make herself do this sooner? He folds his napkin carefully, tucks it under the edge of his plate, and stands.
“Good luck, Amy.” He buttons his jacket, takes out his wallet, and lays a crisp $50 bill on the table, and Amy finds herself wondering if she’s making a mistake letting him walk away. Jake’s probably never even touched a $50 bill. The moment she thinks it, she feels terribly shallow and guilty. She’s never cared about money, and she’s not about to start now. Teddy is plenty mature, but… it’s Jake. And even if Jake is considerably less grown-up than he maybe should be, he’s done quite a bit of growing up recently. By the time she untangles her thoughts enough to look up, to explain herself and to apologize for spacing out on her own breakup, Teddy is long gone.
•·················•·················•
She avoids Jake on Monday. It turns out to be easy, since she spends the day in court with her jewel thief and Jake gets tapped to help Rosa with a B&E. He’s still at his desk when she comes back, and she means to wait until he’s gone to go back to her desk. After waiting in the stairwell for the better part of an hour, though, she finally bites the bullet and walks in.
Jake looks up, offering her a tired smile. “Long day?”
“I feel like I should be asking you the same thing.”
He shrugs. “I want to make sure everything’s airtight for this gala. How was court, anyway?”
“Fine.” She tosses her bag down and collapses into her desk chair. “I have a bad feeling about the guy, though.”
“‘I have a bad feeling about the guy’, title of your sex tape.” She resists the urge to toss her pen at him and makes a face instead. Jake beams. “For real, though, why a bad feeling?”
No new emails, so she closes the program and shuts down her computer. “I don’t know. Something about the way he held himself in court today.” Jake looks up, gaze searching. Amy shrugs. “It’s like he was too calm. I don’t know, he didn’t fight the charges or lie or anything. Just… let himself be sentenced.”
“Name?”
“Dexter Hothworn.”
Jake types it into his computer. Amy stands to look over his shoulder as he reads through the case file. He leans back in his chair with an unhappy expression.
“I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Amy snaps her fingers. “‘Can’t put my finger on it’, title of your sex tape!”
It has the desired effect and Jake’s face splits into a grin. “Santiago, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She takes an exaggerated bow. She won’t feed his ego by saying she’s learned from the best. “Are you going home soon?”
Something about the way he looks away, almost holding his breath at his computer screen, makes her worry.
“C’mon, Jake, the case notes will still be there tomorrow.”
He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, he throws his hands up in defeat. “Oh, fine. But only because that was a really good sex tape name. I’m seriously impressed.”
“As you should be! That was a great entry. It should go in the Peralta-Santiago sex tape hall of fame.” She slaps her hands over her mouth the moment the words are out. Heat is racing up her spine, but Jake’s expression is priceless. She’s never seen him, even him, look so thrilled about something. She covers her face with her hands, stammering about how that came out wrong, while Jake laughs and swats them away.
Somehow, he corrals her into his Mustang with an offer of a ride home. He teases her the whole way, but it’s comfortable. Familiar. So nice, in fact, that Amy is actually disappointed when they roll up to her curb. That disappointment turns to dread when Teddy stands from his seat on her stoop.
She scrambles to get her bag and get out while Jake raises a hand in greeting. Teddy’s frowning though, and he doesn’t return the gesture.
“Sorry for getting you in trouble,” Jake mutters under his breath.
Amy’s head snaps toward him. “Oh, no, you didn’t. Thank you for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She lets herself out of the car before either of them can say anything else and plasters on a smile for Teddy.
It only takes three steps to reach him, so she’s extra grateful when Jake’s car roars as he pulls away.
“Teddy, what are you doing here?”
“Already made a move, huh? He’s quick.”
“Wow, that…” She shakes her head in frustration and pulls out her keys. “Let me remind you that we work together, Teddy. Also, he doesn’t even know that we’re broken up.”
“Yeah, alright.”
With the door unlocked behind her, she turns to face him. She doesn’t say anything, just raises her eyebrows at him.
“Right. I was just… I wanted to apologize. I was really upset on Saturday. And I wanted to ask if we could give this another shot.”
Oh no. It’s been two days, and she wasn’t expecting to have to do this at all, let alone this soon.
“Teddy, I—”
“Look, I can keep my cool. It’s all about trust, and I did some thinking about it, and I do trust you. I just gotta learn to deal with him and everything will be fine.”
“I think I’m in love with him, Teddy.”
He stops short at that, staring at her uncomprehendingly. “I-in love?” he finally stammers out.
Amy can feel heat burning up her neck and across her cheeks. “Yeah.” Teddy gestures at her to go on, but she throws her hands up. What more is there to say?
“You never even told me you loved me once, and we dated for months. How do you go from that to in love with someone else overnight?”
“It didn’t happen overnight.” The words come out more dismissive than she means them to, but Teddy looks crushed. She’s got to say something else. “I think it’s been happening really slowly. So slowly that I didn’t even notice it.” She’s outward-processing now, trying to keep up with the revelation as it comes to her. “I think I just… needed him to say something for me to wake up.”
She can tell by the steady beat of her heart, and then by the hurt expression on Teddy’s face, that it’s all the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He waves a hand, though the motion is shaky. “No, don’t be. Good luck.” He turns to leave, but pauses to look over his shoulder. “To both of you.”
Amy watches him go. Even after he’s gone, though, she stands on the stoop in the frigid air until she can’t feel her fingers or her toes. And when she finally opens the door and steps into the lobby, she hears a faint roaring sound down the street.
•·················•·················•
The next day, things with Jake are weird. Amy keeps wondering whether it’s because of her feelings, but no, she’s known deep down that something has changed for quite some time now.
He’s oddly reserved, serious to the point of being out of character. When Holt calls them in to discuss the exact details of the plan—attend the gala, find the weapons cache, ID and call in—he doesn’t make any jokes. The moment they’re back at their own desks, he leaves with Charles and doesn’t come back. Amy doesn’t stay late, just makes her way home after picking up Chinese food for dinner. She sits on the couch to eat, watching Criminal Minds and drinking beer and feeling the emptiness of the space beside her far too keenly.
She goes to bed early.
The next two days are much the same. She finally sees Jake around lunchtime, when he and Charles come in with a collar, whooping and hollering about their epic chase before Jake throws himself down in his chair.
“You’re in a good mood,” Amy says.
“Santiago, I am always in a good mood.” His smile is wide and genuine, eyes shining with pride and adrenaline.
She hums noncommittally. “I suppose you are.”
Jake winks at her as he boots his computer, tapping his fingers impatiently along the desk as he waits. “Are you ready for our gala tomorrow?”
“Looking like this?” she says in an affected tone. “Gosh, no. I’ve got to do my hair, and my makeup.” She throws a hand dramatically across her forehead, but she’s smirking beneath it.
“You’re gonna look great. You always do.”
She should be used to Jake’s unique blend of flirtation and sincerity by now, but it still always takes her off guard. Well, when it’s directed at her, anyway.
“Thanks, Peralta.” Her voice comes out softer than she’d wanted, so she makes sure to pitch it up to ask, “And are you ready?”
“I was born ready!” Jake booms.
“Ready for what?” asks Rosa. Jake nearly jumps out of his seat as she steps up behind him. “Didn’t seem ready for me just now.”
“Because I didn’t know you were there!”
“And what if you don’t know there’s a perp there, what then?”
“Well that’s what Santiago’s for.”
“And what if Santiago doesn’t know a perp’s there?”
“She’ll know. She’s got the best instincts I’ve ever seen.” Jake’s turned his chair to face her, and Amy feels pride well up so strongly it nearly chokes her.
“Whatever,” says Rosa. “Just don’t get yourselves killed.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Jake hurls this over his shoulder, but his gaze is still locked on Amy. She smiles at him. Something in his expression softens, but then he abruptly turns back to his screen.
He doesn’t look at her again all day.
For some reason, that haunts her sleep. So much that she can’t.
So she gets up, makes herself a cup of tea, puts on her glasses, and sits down to read through their cover notes again.
Christopher Norbury: son of an old money mob boss in Syracuse, eager to prove his worth to daddy by outfitting his corner of the empire with the latest and the greatest. Obsessed with money, obsessed with status. Likes to show off his girlfriend.
That girlfriend, Diana Weston: a small-time actress, desperate to claw her way out of Syracuse and into society. Charming, but simpering, hanging onto Norbury’s every word and move.
She lays down the file. The way she’s reading it,, the two should be all over each other. Jake’s picking her up for lunch before the drive upstate at mid-day, so it’s not like they won’t have time to get into character, but she feels antsy. Almost giddy.
They haven’t discussed Jake’s feelings since the day that he reaffirmed them all those months ago. Does he even still feel the same way? Will this be awkward for him? He’s going to be touching her. Flirting with her. Is she going to be able to keep her cool? Of course she is, it’s Jake.
Oh, God, it’s Jake.
She’s spiraling now, so she gets up and turns on the television. Criminal Minds is on, so she flips the channel until she finds something safer. Something that doesn’t belong to her and Jake.
She finally settles on reruns of The People’s Court, dozing on the couch to the sound of the gavel and Marilyn Milian’s voice.
•·················•·················•
Despite the restless night before, the morning of the sting goes swimmingly. Amy gets up, takes a run, takes a shower. She has a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal while she does her makeup, listens to a TED Talk she DVR’d while she does her hair. She tapes her wire down, tucking it carefully into the lacy, burgundy lingerie she decides to wear to boost her confidence, and slides her dress over the whole ensemble.
It’s black, tight in the bust with a low neckline, clinging to her curves until layers of fabric bunch and flow out from her hips. She’s able to easily holster her gun to her thigh, tucked just above the high slit in the fabric. She runs her hands slowly down her body.
What will Jake think?
There’s a sharp rap on her door, ten minutes early. Far too early to be Jake, but who else could it be? So she swings open the door, and… there he is. Jake Peralta, in a tailored suit, hair gelled into artful waves, hand frozen on his cufflink and mouth hanging slack.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey,” he says. “You look… wow, you look.” He drops his wrist and straightens. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks, Peralta. You clean up nice, too.”
“Why thank you, milady.” He brushes imaginary lint from his shoulder and extends a hand to her. “Ready?”
Amy can’t stop the nervous twitch of her lips. “I actually need another minute. I wasn’t expecting you to be on time, let alone early.
Jake’s eyebrows fly up. “Well, well, well. Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it Santiago?”
“Well why are you here early, anyway? You’re never even on time.” With a rush of boldness, she leans forward to poke his chest. “You were excited to see me.”
Jake sputters. “What, no. I’m excited about… the case.” He spins on his heel and points at the silver spoons hanging on a plaque on her wall. “And I wanted to see your spoons again.”
“You mocked me relentlessly about those spoons the first time you saw them.”
He waves a hand. “I didn’t want Boyle to feel jealous. He doesn’t have any fancy spoons.”
Amy rolls her eyes and walks toward her room. “Whatever. Make yourself at home, I’ll just be a few more minutes.”
And five minutes later, she’s back with heels, earrings, and a necklace she can’t get clasped.
“I never wear this thing, and this is why,” she grumbles.
“Here, let me.” Jake is on his feet before she can object, taking the necklace from her hands.
He brushes her hair back with featherlight touches, resting his hands on her shoulders to fiddle with the clasp.
“Man, you weren’t joking,” he mutters. His fingers slip and the necklace slides down, cold metal raising goosebumps along her heated flesh. Jake catches the chain with a murmured apology and finally hooks the clasp. His fingers linger just a second too long before falling away, and Amy can just make out the shuddering breath he takes.
“Ready now?”
“Ready.”
Amy locks the apartment behind them. Jake takes her clutch, offers his arm, and she slides her hand around it. When they get downstairs, he opens the door to a high-end SUV with tinted windows.
“No Mustang today?”
“No, the Captain thought it might be a bit too ‘recognizable’.” The air quotes he uses make her laugh, which makes him smile, and then they’re off. “I hope you’re not too hungry yet. I found this Cuban restaurant about an hour out of the city.”
Amy whips toward him. “Really?”
Jake’s doing a good job of keeping his eyes on the road, but Amy still sees him throwing rapid glances at her. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”
“I do.” She can’t keep the smile from her face. “I really do. Thanks, Peralta.”
“Eh, don’t mention it. The force is paying, I just found the place.”
“Well I appreciate you finding the place.” Teddy was wonderful, sweet and thoughtful, but he never once asked what she wanted. Just picked nice Latin restaurants and worked off her reactions, which was sweet in its own way. And besides, that was an unfair comparison. Teddy didn’t have the benefit of sitting across from her every day, hearing her woes of being unable to find authentic Cuban food.
As if Jake can hear her thoughts, he goes on. “Now I don’t know how authentic it is, but they have those fried bananas you like.”
“Tostones,” Amy supplies, shocked that he remembers. “They’re plantains.”
“Right, those! Oh, and no sandwiches either. I checked.” When she doesn’t say anything, he looks over at her in worry. “That’s… that’s a good thing, right? You said once that Cuban sandwiches aren’t real Cuban food, and I just…” He trails off, still stealing glances in her direction.
“I said it once,” she says. She knows exactly when she’d said it because it had been on one of their first cases together, when she was still new to the squad, and they had stopped at a deli for lunch. He’d been excited by the Cuban sandwiches, but she’d shut it down with an offhand comment about “fake Cuban food”. “We’d only been partners for a week. I can’t believe you’d remember that.”
“Well, I was trying to impress you,” he mutters. “Buuut it went just as bad as every other attempt and backfired, and now here we are!”
Here they were. Driving to a real Cuban restaurant with no Cuban sandwiches, because he’d heard her and he’d remembered and he’d checked.
“Wait,” she says. “You were trying to impress me? Did you pick that deli because they served Cuban sandwiches?”
“Whaaat? No, that would be… stupid!” he sputters. Amy bursts out laughing and Jake grins wryly.
“Hurtful,” he jokes.
“You love it,” she throws back.
“I do.” She’s not prepared for how seriously he says it, so she turns to the radio and dials it up until she can’t hear her own uneven breathing.
•·················•·················•
The restaurant is authentic, and the food is delicious. It’s fancy, too, fancy enough that Jake pulls out her chair and the menus don’t have prices. It feels strangely natural being there with Jake, easy and relaxed.
The rest of the drive, even though it’s the longer leg, is done in a flash. Amy is touching up her makeup in the passenger mirror when Jake runs down the plan again.
“Okay, we get in. Schmooze around, fake some drinking, get into that back hallway, find the weapons. Come out to the auction, bid on some weapons, and then we’re free to go!”
Amy scoffs at the oversimplification, but it’s honestly not too far off the truth. “Alright, and how do we act around each other?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re supposed to be dating. Should we be all over each other, or more reserved? Do I care about your weapons dealings, or?”
“You definitely don’t care about my weapons dealings, I’m pretty sure you’re just after my money.” They share a giggle at that. “Whatever you think.” He says that more seriously, and Amy tilts her head back and forth as she considers.
“It’s easier to justify both of us disappearing if we’re all over each other,” she says carefully.
Jake nods. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.” His hands tap at the steering wheel. “All over each other, then.”
“Relax, Jake. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I am totally relaxed! No one is more relaxed than me,” he bluffs loudly.
Amy rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling when the long drive to the mansion comes into view.
“You ready for this?” asks Jake.
“So ready. You?”
“I was born ready.” He puts the car into park. She reaches for her door, but Jake does that stupid “bup, bup, bup” thing and flies around the car to get the door for her. He hands her down like a gentleman from a period drama, then loops her hand through his arm. “Here we are, Diana.”
“Why thank you, Christopher.”
At the oversized doors, there’s an honest to goodness doorman checking invitations. Jake draws theirs from his jacket pocket and presents it with a flourish. The doorman waves them through and as they step into the grand entry, Amy finds herself clinging just a little closer to Jake’s side. He doesn’t comment, but she can see the pleasure it brings him in the tiny smile he wears.
Amy takes full advantage to raise her free hand to his bicep, squeezing lightly. Jake leans down until his lips brush her ear. “Just something about a room full of criminals that makes you want to curl up in a ball, right?” he whispers.
She laughs, because it’s exactly what she was thinking, and Jake beams at her. He snags a passing waiter, taking two flutes of champagne off a tray, and offers one to her. They toast with a clink of glasses. They take several slow turns around the room, pausing to share pleasantries with anyone who stops them, picking hors d’oeuvres from silver platters, successively laughing loudly and giggling softly to each other.
After their third lap, Amy leans up on tiptoe and presses her lips to Jake’s jaw. “Door along the back wall, guard walks by every 60 seconds.”
Jake’s pulse spikes against her lips. “Wow, that is super specific and observant.”
“If we time it right, we can slip through while his back is turned.”
“And if we don’t time it well?”
She spins in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s easy for lovebirds to get lost, isn’t it?” She punctures this by walking her fingers up his tie. Jake stands straighter, lifting his chin almost in a challenge.
“It is.”
She smiles angelically and saunters off toward the wall, leaving Jake to trail behind her. He does, catcalling her all the way. When they get close, she lets him pull her to his chest. He lowers his head until their noses brush together. “Guard’s looking this way, aaand… okay go go go.”
She drags him forward by the hand, pulling the door shut behind them as quietly as she can.
“Okay, there should be a stairwell at the end of this hall.”
They start toward it, hand in hand, and are halfway down the hall before an ominous click sounds.
Amy takes a deep breath. “We didn’t time it well,” she mutters.
“Damn, I thought he—”
She turns on impulse, grabs his tie, and yanks, letting his forward motion pin her to the wall as she pulls his mouth down to hers.
There is one painfully long split second where Jake only gasps without moving and the guard rounds the corner, but he catches on quickly and leans into her. His hands run reverently from her neck down her sides, grasping at her waist, and Amy momentarily wonders if this is what all the girls in the backseat of his Mustang have been getting all these years.
“Guard’s right there, play along,” she murmurs against his lips. Jake grunts in response before pushing her harder into the wall.
“Can’t see him. Tell me wh-what—”
He breaks off as Amy slides her calf up his side, hooking her knee over his hip. She takes advantage of his distraction to lick along the seam of his lips. They open instantly beneath hers, and he lets out a high whine when she tightens her leg around him. He drops a hand to her thigh and his touch against the bare skin there is electric. His fingers dig in, pulling her harder against him until she can tell, cover or not, exactly what this kiss is doing to him.
Amy rolls her eyes down the hall, pulling Jake’s head down to her neck while she tries to get eyes on the guard. He’s still standing, but he’s not looking at them. She huffs in frustration because if this keeps going, she’s not sure she’ll be able to stop either one of them.
“Jake,” she whispers. She’s got one hand in his hair and a leg around his waist, so there’s absolutely no way she could miss the full-body shudder he gives at the sound of his name.
“Amy,” he groans, right into her ear, and she almost melts on the spot.
“Guard’s not moving.”
He stills for a moment, swallowing hard, and then kisses a line across her throat. He turns her head as he does so she’s facing their unknowing, or unaware, audience.
“What’s he doing?” His voice is strained, but clear.
“He’s not watching us.”
She can feel the tension as Jake tries to get himself under control. “What do you want to do?” he asks.
She turns her head toward his to hide the way she’s chewing her lip from the guard’s view. “Can you pick me up? Like, here.”
“Like, you mean against the wall?” She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
“Get your hands under my dress and do it.” He doesn’t hesitate. Just slides his hands beneath the folds of her skirt, past her holster, until his thumbs rest in the creases of her hips, and lifts. She wraps both legs around his waist, pulls his head to her chest, and throws hers back against the wall.
And lets out the loudest, most provocative moan of her life.
If she thought Jake was hard before, it’s nothing compared to the way he throbs against her now as he pants against her chest.
“Oh, Christopher,” she wails, grinding herself against him. Jake stiffens against her before seeming to remember that he’s Christopher, and then he takes her cue and rocks against her.
He lifts his head, whispering, “Amy,” against her jaw as he moves his hips. It makes her head swim. Whatever her plan was going to be with Jake, this is changing everything. And she’s worried that if this goes on much longer, she’s going to have something embarrassing to apologize for. Although, by the feel of him, it’s not much different on his end.
She turns her head so that she can see the security guard, who’s standing staring at them now. She groans.
“Pervert,” she mutters, and Jake freezes. “No, not you!” In a panic, she lifts his mouth to hers and wiggles her hips in an effort to get him moving again. “The guard,” she hisses against his teeth. “I thought he’d think we were having sex”— one of Jake’s hands shoots out to brace himself against the wall—“and leave, but he’s just watching us like a creep.”
She tilts Jake’s head up so she can suck at his pulse point as she continues to rock against him.
“Amy, you—what’s the plan? I-I can’t… I’m not…” He cuts off with a groan as she sucks his earlobe into her mouth. “Amy, please,” he whispers.
She’s about to ask, “Please what?” when the guard shouts at them. Jake releases her, letting her slide down his body, before turning to adjust himself. He’s breathing hard, but still places himself between her and the guard.
“Can I help you, man?” He says it with impressive arrogance.
The guard’s a little older, maybe late fifties, and he shakes his head. “You kids can’t be doing that here.”
“Alright, where can we then?”
Amy is already halfway through thinking about just how they’re going to get back to this wing after getting tossed back into the gala when he points down the hall. Right in the direction they were already moving. “Last door on the left. Just don’t let anyone see you, man. I could lose my job.”
She can’t see Jake’s face, but he tilts his chin up and extends a hand to the guard. “Thanks, man,” he drawls. The guard shakes his hand and motions for them to go, muttering to himself as he shakes his head. Jake whirls and mouths “go go go” to her. He swats her ass as she turns, and she lets out a yelp of surprise before covering with a high-pitched giggle.
She reaches back for Jake’s hand. When their fingers are laced, she drags him along behind her. She hears the guard mutter something about “young love” as they go. She lays her hand on the doorknob and pushes, then turns to pull Jake down into another kiss as she steps backward into the room.
He goes willingly, shutting the door behind him and locking it with a click. But instead of letting her go, he pulls her against him by her waist and spins them, pressing her back gently to the door. The position is the same as their kiss from the moments before, but the details are all different now.
Where he had shoved her before, albeit without much force, he leans into her now. He raises their still linked hands above her head and holds them against the wall, but there’s no question that she’s not trapped here.
He raises the hand that’s been at her waist to cup her jaw, stroking at the hinge with his thumb. “Say my name again,” he murmurs, then scrambles to correct himself. “His name, I mean. The guard—”
And sure enough, Amy can hear footsteps coming down the hallway. She calculates the risk, and then breathes out against his lips.
“Jake.” His whole body hardens as he chokes against her mouth. She tips her head back against the door. “Christopher,” she moans, and she swears Jake growls against her throat. The moment the guard’s footsteps retreat around the corner, Jake releases her and puts as much distance between them as he can manage in the small space.
“Okay, we can—”
“Give me a minute.” His voice is strained as he leans with both hands against the bed frame, back to her.
Suddenly, Amy feels guilty. It was such an easy cover, and she’s been wondering what Jake tastes like—orange soda and champagne and mint, a strangely enticing combination—for so long that she lost herself in the moment. Did she go too far? Surely this is some form of taking advantage. She doesn’t even know if he still likes her, for crying out loud.
“I’m sor—” she begins, but Jake cuts her off.
“No, don’t apologize,” he says. Then quieter, as if to himself, “Please don’t apologize.”
So she doesn’t. She forces herself to stand in place as Jake takes several deep breaths.
“Alright,” he finally says. “Let’s go.”
He reaches for her hand and she feels her shoulders relax. Fingers twined together, Jake presses his ear to the door to listen. He motions with a quick jerk of his head before opening the door and peering out. Then he tugs her out after him, lets her shut the door, and tiptoes down the hall to the stairwell. Miraculously, they make that and the rest of the short journey without incident. There’s no one upstairs, not a single guard or guest.
“Look, Jake, your favorite,” Amy teases. “Door duty.”
“Oh, good. I have never been so excited,” Jake deadpans.
They each take a side of the hall, drawing their pistols and opening each door with care. Halfway down, Jake hisses in excitement. Amy turns to look through the door he holds open. The room is stacked with crates of weapons and ammunition. They slip in and get straight to work, cataloging and snapping photos first of the haul, and then of serial numbers.
At one crate, Amy feels her heart speed in excitement. “Oh my God, this is one of the stolen serial numbers!” she exclaims quietly.
“How do you know that?” Jake asks, almost on a groan.
“Numbers stick with me,” she says defensively.
She nearly drops the rifle she’s picked up when Jake mutters “too sexy”.
She spins. “What?”
He looks up at her, the very picture of feigned innocence. “What?”
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘too easy’, Santiago. Sheesh, what’d you think I said?” He rolls his eyes and she feels her cheeks heat.
Of course. “Too easy” makes more sense.
“You’re right, though. This has been too easy.” They share a grimace, but keep working until Jake lowers the camera.
“I think we’ve got enough. Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” She closes the case she’s been digging through and holsters her gun. Jake holsters his, too, and slides the camera into his breast pocket.
He opens the door, inches out, and gestures for her to follow. They make their way carefully down the stairwell, pause to listen, and then move back toward the ballroom. Jake’s reaching for the door when another swings open behind them. They both startle, turning as a familiar voice sneers.
“Detective Santiago, so nice to see you here.”
Amy’s stomach drops as she locks eyes with one Dexter Hothworn, and the gun he has pointed straight at her.
A shot is fired from beside her, then three more in quick succession from Hothworn. The impact comes from her side, though. She’s stunned enough that she doesn’t reach for her weapon right away, but Jake’s already shoving her through a doorway. The slamming of the door breaks her out of her stupor enough to look around the room. There’s a desk that looks heavy in the center of the room.
“Terry, we need some help!” Jake yells.
“Jake!” she calls. Someone, probably Hothworn, is beating at the door, but whoever it is hasn’t had the sense yet to shoot the lock. She’s already got her hands on the desk, but Jake moves quickly to help her and together, they turn the thing until it rests beneath the door handle. When his hands lift from the wood, she sees that his palm is coated in blood. Her heart sinks into her stomach.
The beating on the door ceases abruptly as a commotion breaks out somewhere beyond the hall. Amy grabs Jake’s arm, yanking him across the room and into the powder room in the corner. She rips his jacket away and there, rapidly soaking through the white of his shirt, is a splotch of blood.
“Amy,” Jake starts, but she tugs on the material until it pulls free. Three bullet holes.
“Sarge, we need an ambulance! Jake’s been hit!” She’s shouting, even though the wire is designed to pick up a conversation from across a room.
Jake hisses as she rips the fabric away, hands coming down to her wrists. “Amy, it’s okay.”
She looks up in disbelief. “It’s not okay, Jake, you just got shot!” He looks pale, but his eyes are alert. She takes that as a good sign and fumbles to unstrap the kevlar vest he’s wearing. Also with three holes. When she pulls it away, Jake lets out a pained grunt and begins to slide down the wall.
“Hey, hey!” She clutches the lapels of his jacket, easing him down to the floor. She lifts the kevlar again, examining the wounds. Three neat holes, just above his hipbone. “You better stay with me, Jake,” she grits out.
“I plan to,” he says wryly. The fact that his humor still seems to be intact helps to settle her nerves, just a bit.
She tugs at the sleeves of his ruined jacket. “Help me with this.” He leans forward and, with effort, they wriggle him out of the jacket. Amy balls it up and presses against his abdomen.
It’s soaked in blood within seconds, and his face has begun to pale. “Just stay with me, Jake,” she pleads. She’s straddling him, something she doesn’t realize until his hands come up to rest on her hips.
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he murmurs. His eyes begin to slide shut.
“Hey!” They snap open. “Eyes on me, Peralta.”
“Yes ma’am.”
They watch each other for what feels like an eternity while Amy tries to muster her courage.
“Why’d you do it, Jake?”
“Because as your partner, it’s my job to protect you.” He says it as if she’s stupid to have asked. “And I’m an amazing partner.”
She laughs, but it comes out strangled as she chokes back tears. “The best.”
Jake raises a hand, swiping at the tears that have begun leaking onto her cheeks. “No need for tears, Santiago. We all know you’re obsessed with me. Plus, I’m too cool to die.”
It’s a testament to that unerring humor, or maybe her feelings for him, that she actually smiles.
“Santiago!”
She sits up a little straighter. “Sarge! In here!” There’s a heavy thump against the door, and Amy swears.
“Go help him.” Jake lowers his hands to the jacket. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay, but only for a minute.” She leaps to her feet and unlocks the door. “Sarge, we’ve got a desk. I need help.”
“Move, Santiago!” She moves, and then watches in awe as the desk scrapes against the floor.
“Holy cow, Sarge,” she mutters.
As the door opens, she sees Rosa wrestling a bleeding, cuffed Hothworn up from the floor. “You good, Santiago?” she calls.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Amy says. “Jake got shot.” She doesn’t know why she adds it, but Rosa looks supremely unconcerned.
“So did this guy.” She tosses her head. “Peralta’s gonna be just fine. I swear if he died, his ghost would live at the Nine-Nine just to annoy us.”
And that makes Amy feel better. She spins to where the sergeant crouches over Jake and kneels down.
“Ambulance is on its way,” says Terry. “You did good, Santiago.” Jake looks even paler now, but he offers a weak smile.
“Jake did better, Sarge.” The man in question scoffs.
“Don’t I always? Ow!” He groans as Terry presses harder on the jacket.
“Sorry, man. You’re losing a lot of blood.”
“That’s okay,” Jake manages. “I’ve got plenty to spare. I think.” He swings his head in Amy’s direction. “How much blood does a person have?”
Amy hears the distant wail of sirens, growing closer by the second. “Enough to get to the hospital.”
Jake points at Amy as he directs his focus to Terry. “She’s so smart.” His words slur just a bit.
Amy and Terry share a worried glance.
“Go get the ambulance,” Terry says. “I’ll stay with him.”
“I want Amy,” Jake says. It’s clearer than his previous statement, and Terry looks back at Amy briefly.
“Fine,” he says. He and Amy shuffle until her hands press down on Jake’s. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Santiago.” Her name is more of a hum than a word in his mouth. “Have I ever told you how hot I find women with blood on their hands?” Despite herself, she laughs. Jake smiles. “There she is.”
“Is it still hot when it’s your blood?” she jokes weakly.
Jake considers this with mock solemnity. “The hottest,” he says.
“That’s good,” she mutters. He tilts his head in question, but then the sergeant comes back with a team of paramedics in tow. They quickly separate her from Jake, bombarding him with questions as they get him up and onto a stretcher. She loses sight of him almost immediately.
“Santiago.” Her head snaps toward Terry. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
“You sure?” She nods. “Can you give me the details?” She nods again, then runs through the evening. She fumbles with Jake’s bloody jacket until she’s able to produce the camera and tells Terry about the photos, reminding him about putting away Hothworn just that week.
“I think this whole thing is way bigger than we thought,” she admits.
“It certainly is, Detective Santiago.” She snaps to attention as Holt steps into the room. “Major crimes believes that Hothworn is an alias being used by Samuel Nikita, an arms dealer they’ve been tracking for years. It would appear that your jewel thief and Peralta’s dealer are one in the same person. He’s being taken in now. We’ll stay here to secure the building until major crimes arrives, but the case is out of our hands now.”
Amy nods woodenly, unable to muster an argument against having their cases taken. The Captain, of course, notices. In a gentler voice, he says “Peralta is being transported to Kings County via helicopter. You’re free to go, Detective.” In an uncharacteristic move, he lays a hand on her shoulder. “I also believe you have some personal days available, if you need additional time.”
Amy straightens. “Thank you, sir. I’ll remember that.” She turns to go before remembering that the SUV’s keys are in Jake’s jacket. With trembling fingers, she fishes them out, grateful when the keys themselves are blood-free. She does her damndest to walk steadily out the door, but by the time the cool night air hits her face, she can’t do it. She runs across the pavement to the SUV, hauling herself up and into the driver's seat before peeling out of the grounds.
•·················•·················•
It takes almost four hours to get to the hospital. When she walks in the door to the ER, multiple nurses try to pull her aside to assess her injuries. She pulls out her badge, waving it above her head.
“NYPD, the blood’s not mine. I’m looking for a colleague.” Finally, a receptionist collects her. Debbie, according to her nametag.
“I’m looking for Detective Jake Peralta. He was medevac’d here a few hours ago.”
“You got here just in time, your boy’s just out of surgery. Let me go see where he is right now. Have a seat, please.” Amy hesitates. Debbie, an older, heavy-set woman with a kind face, reaches across the counter. “I’m gonna go put eyes on him myself, okay? I have to know where he is before I know whether I can let you back.”
“Okay.” Amy’s embarrassed when her voice comes out shaky, but Debbie just squeezes her arm and pushes a box of tissue closer to her.
“I’ll be right back, honey.”
Amy takes a tissue, blows her nose, and then paces. “Right back” turns into ten minutes, then twenty. She’s about ready to go crashing through the doors when Debbie comes back.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Your boy is just fine. In fact, he’s signing paperwork right now to leave.”
“He is?” Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t know much about gunshot wounds (although that’s about to change), but she’d always assumed there would be more hospital time involved.
Debbie sighs. “Trying to. The surgeon wants him to stay overnight, but he is insisting that he’s ‘just fine’ on his own.” She peers up at Amy. “Will he be on his own?”
“No.” She’d come here without a plan, but Jake’s made one for her. “No, I’ll take care of him.”
“Well.” The receptionist tilts her head back and forth. “Go on, then. Through this door, third door on the left.”
Amy reaches forward, squeezing the woman’s hand in her own. “Thank you,” she breathes. She strides through the swinging doors, rapping sharply at the third door on the left before opening it without waiting for a response.
Jake’s mouth drops open when she steps in, and the doctor raises an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, miss, you can’t be here.”
“She can stay,” Jake counters quickly.
The doctor rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Are you here to talk some sense into Mr. Peralta?”
“Can’t. Trust me, she’s been trying for years,” Jake quips. Amy lets out a sigh of relief. The doctor lets out a sigh of annoyance. Jake beams at her. “Can I sign the papers now, please?”
The doctor throws his hands up and hands over a clipboard. “Fine. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep those wounds clean and covered. And if you see any, and I mean any sign of infection, I want you to come straight back. And take your pain meds.”
Jake salutes with the pen before signing with a flourish and holding out the clipboard. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Can do, Doc.”
He slides off the bed and promptly clutches his side, wincing. The doctor glares at him. He waves with a grimace, picking up a paper bag with, probably, pain meds in it.
“Santiago,” he says breathlessly. “You’re clearly here to break me out. Right?”
Amy crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Peralta. Should I be?”
“Yes,” Jake says.
“No,” the doctor says.
Amy rolls her eyes. “Let’s go, Peralta.”
He pumps his fist, then limps in her direction. They make their way slowly to reception, where Jake signs a final few forms, and then out to the SUV. Amy helps him up, wincing when he does, and then gets behind the wheel.
She turns up the heat and turns down the music, then pulls out of the parking lot.
“Alright, Peralta. What’s the damage?”
“Well, the doctor said I was lucky.” He shrugs, unconcerned. “He said if the bullets had been any higher caliber, they could have ruptured a kidney. Or perforated my intestines. And that if they’d been a couple of inches higher, they could’ve gone through my stomach. Or if that guy has been one foot closer—”
Amy looks at him. “Jake.”
“Eyes on the road, missy.” She huffs, but does as he says. “He said I have some serious bruising. Gonna be sore for a while.”
“And you wanted to leave?”
“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
“And what was your plan before I showed up?”
“To wait for you to show up.” She can hear the smile in his voice. She resists the urge to punch him.
“Jake,” she warns.
He sighs. “Get a taxi home.”
“Right after emergency surgery?” she asks flatly. “At… 2 a.m.?”
“They didn’t even put me under.”
“Jake.”
“Amy. Why do you keep saying my name like that?”
“How would you like me to say your name, Jake?” she snaps. She bites her tongue the moment the words are out. He doesn’t answer. She groans. “Please tell me you at least realize how crazy that sounds.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He tips his head against the window. “I just… it’s been a long day. I just wanted to be home.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. She flips through stations, unable to settle on anything to listen to before she pulls up to the curb outside Jake’s building.
“Amy.” She looks up in time to see him swallowing. “The reason I thought I recognized Hothworn’s name was that I read it. In one of the files I had on him, earlier in the case.”
“This isn’t your fault.” She knows exactly where he’s going with this.
He looks up, dark eyes liquid and remorseful. “It could have been you.”
“Jake.” She says his name firmly and reaches across the center console for his arm. “This is not your fault. Don’t even think about it.”
“I could have gotten you killed.”
“No, you couldn’t have. First off, you’re the one who got shot. I think I have a monopoly on blaming myself for this one. Second, even if he’d shot me, it wouldn’t have been your fault. Now.” She raises her hand to grip his chin lightly. “I want you to forget all about that. Alright?” Jake averts his gaze, so she shakes him until he looks up again. “Alright?” she repeats. Finally, he nods. “Alright, she says. “Let’s get you inside.” She manages to get him out of the car without too much fuss, but the elevator is out of service and the trek up the stairs is excruciating.
“Did you know,” she pants as they climb, “about the elevator?”
Jake’s arm is slung over her shoulder, and he’s heavier than she’d have imagined. “Forgot.” She groans. But in one more flight, they make it up. In the apartment, Jake collapses onto the couch, panting.
She gives him several minutes and a glass of water before hauling him up.
“Okay,” she says. “Into the shower with you.”
He cracks one eye open to look at her. “You are a cruel mistress, Amy Santiago.” She extends a hand, pulling him up as gently as she can.
“Just leave the door unlocked. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
He snorts, and within minutes, the water is running. Amy scrubs her hands in the kitchenette sink, scraping blood from beneath her nails, and does her best to clean her face with a paper towel before calling for a pizza. Jake doesn’t seem to own a mirror, so she just hopes she doesn’t look ghastly when the delivery driver shows up. She doesn’t want to sit and risk getting blood on Jake’s couch, so she’s pacing when he steps out of the bathroom, painstakingly pulling a shirt over his head.
She catches sight of dark, purple bruising spreading around a bandage on his abdomen. There are already spots of blood coming through the fabric, and her hand goes to her mouth involuntarily. “Oh, Jake,” she whispers. She reaches for him without meaning to, brushing her fingers down his chest as tears well up.
“Hey, hey.” He clasps her hands, drawing them to his lips. “I’m okay. Okay? Everything is fine. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be good as new.” She nods her head vigorously.
Jake reaches up to wipe tears off her cheeks. “Alrighty then, get those tears outta here. Can’t have Teddy thinking you’re crying over me.
She drags her eyes from the hidden bandage to his face.
“Teddy,” she says. His name here, now, makes no sense.
Jake looks, quite suddenly, utterly exhausted. “He’s a lucky guy,” he murmurs.
It finally clicks.
“Teddy and I broke up.”
The knock at the door comes at exactly the perfect time. She ducks around Jake, snatching her purse off the counter, and pulls out money for the pizza—half meat lover’s for Jake, half vegetarian for herself. The pizza guy doesn’t stare, so she thinks she must have gotten the blood off.
When she turns around, pizza box in hand, Jake is leaning heavily on the counter staring at her. “When?” he asks.
“Last week.”
“Last week?” he repeats breathlessly.
“On Saturday.” She doesn’t understand where this line of questioning is going, but Jake’s gaze is fixed on her mouth.
“Saturday,” he repeats. He sounds dazed.
She dumps the pizza on the counter, stretching a hand up to his forehead. “Jake, you’re scaring me. Are you okay?”
He drags his eyes up to hers. “Don’t go.” The sincerity of the request has her heart in a vice.
“Don’t… go?” she repeats uselessly.
He snatches her hands in his, folding them in warmth. “Look, you can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. Amy, I swear, I’m not… I’m not trying to do anything. I just, I’m in a lot of pain and I.” He lets her hands go and turns away. He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back. “I thought I was actually going to lose you. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. And I know that it’s childish and stupid, and it’s not fair, but I don't want to let you out of reach.”
He turns back and she’s never seen him so nervous. “Just stay, please,” he pleads. “Just for tonight.”
She stares, speechless, and when she finally speaks, she feels like it’s the least important thing she could say to all of that.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stay.”
Jake swallows hard and nods. “Good,” he whispers. With effort, he pulls away from her and opens up the pizza box.
“I, uh.” She’s so anxious about her next words that she’s all-out stammering. “I’m going to, um. To borrow some clothes. So I can shower.”
“Yeah, yes. You can, uh.” He gestures to Gina’s old rack. “Take anything you want.”
She sifts through clothes until she finds a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, takes a makeup wipe from her purse, then slips into the bathroom. She gets the door shut and the water running, gets the zipper down on her dress, shimmies out of it… and then can’t get the hooks open on the back of her bustier.
She turns, trying to get a good look in the mirror, and can’t. She manages to get two or three, but there are several more that refuse to budge. She finally realizes that her wire is tangled up in them and curses.
At home, she has a little metal hook she keeps for situations just like this.
Here, she has only Jake.
She takes a deep breath, lifts her dress to cover herself, and opens the door.
“Jake?” she calls.
“Yeah?” He looks up from the couch and frowns in confusion.
“I need a little help.” She takes the few steps across the space and turns her back before her nerve deserts her. Jake’s breath leaves him in a forceful sound, and she plows on. “I think my wire is stuck between the hooks, and I can’t reach it.”
He doesn’t move. She looks over her shoulder and sees him taking in the set she’s wearing, scanty and lacy and sheer. She looks good in it, she knows she does.
“Jake,” she repeats.
He swallows hard and stands. “Yeah.”
She faces forward again, unable to bear the heat in his gaze, and is instead confronted by the heat radiating from his body as he steps close to her. His hands raise, tugging lightly at the hooks and disentangling the wire. It takes an eternity, yet somehow is over too quickly. Amy bolts for the bathroom the moment his hands fall away from her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and then slams the door shut behind her. She leans against it until she can get her breathing under control, then lets the pretty lingerie fall to the tile floor and steps into the hot spray of the shower.
She scrubs herself, first with the pads of her fingers and then with her nails. She shampoos her hair twice, and can’t even be surprised when she finds that Jake has no conditioner. Then she simply stands, letting the hot water fall over her in sheets.
For the first time all day, with no clear plan laid out ahead of her, she thinks back to the gala. Thinks of the way Jake’s fingertips brushed over her skin, intimate, but respectful; thinks about the way his shoulders relaxed a little more each time she pulled herself closer to him. She thinks of the way he looked at her from the corner of his eye when he thought she couldn’t see him, and the way he had clung to her for dear life when she’d kissed him, and the way his whole body had responded when she’d said his name.
She thinks of the way he’d pressed her to the door after, as if he had to have just one kiss that was just for him.
She thinks of the way he threw himself into her, and the way he didn’t slow until they were in relative safety, and the way he kept joking even as he was bleeding.
She thinks of the way his lips shaped the words “stay, please” and the near-haunted way he’d taken in the sight of her, nearly bare before him.
She thinks of the way that if anything had gone just a little wrong, he could have died. Of the way he’s out there with three bullet holes because of her.
She bursts into tears. How had Hothworn even gotten out? How had he found them? Questions for later. For now, she’s got to pull herself together. So she does. She steps out of the shower, towels off, and pulls on Jake’s clothes. She examines her face in the mirror and opens drawers, looking for a spare toothbrush. She doesn’t find one, so she settles for squeezing toothpaste onto her finger and scrubbing her teeth with it. Then she braces herself and opens the door.
He’a sitting on the couch, staring off into space, but he looks at her when she comes out.
“Come eat,” he says, leaning forward to open the box. She nods, sits, and takes a slice of vegetarian. Jake turns on the TV and flips through channels until he finds Criminal Minds.
They must sit for hours, watching reruns and nibbling pizza. When Jake starts to doze off, Amy nudges him gently.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she says.
Jake looks defeatedly at the ladder to his loft bed. “I don’t think I can get up there. Besides, I said you could have the bed.”
She gathers her courage for what she’s about to say. “Won’t I be out of reach?” If she wasn’t so tense, she’d be laughing at the face he makes.
“What?”
Despite her nerves, she aims for teasing. “If you can’t get to where I am, then I’m out of reach. Kinda defeats the whole purpose of me being here, doesn’t it?”
Jake clearly recovers during her little speech. Without missing a beat, he lays back and opens his arms. His face is carefully neutral, as if he expects her to pull away, but she doesn’t. She reaches over him to turn off the lamp and then lowers herself carefully beside him. Jake displays no such caution, dragging her roughly back until she’s pressed against him, shoulders to chest and hips to hips.
He lets out a shuddering breath, relaxing slowly against her back. The hand that’s tucked under her lifts across her to grasp her shoulder lightly. The other runs down her side, stroking the bare skin of her thigh. Amy reaches up to clasp his forearm, hoping he can’t feel her thundering heart.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he murmurs.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers back. It’s been mere seconds, but the day has shredded her self-control. She rolls to face him, laying her hands against his chest. “Jake, don’t ever do anything like that again.”
He reaches up to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “No promises.”
“Jake—”
“Why did you and Teddy break up?”
She blinks at him in the darkness. “Why?”
“Yes, why. Pretty normal question, Santiago.”
She wrestles with just how honest she should be, but she can feel his heart pounding beneath her palms.
“You,” she finally whispers.
“God, I was hoping you’d say that.”
He slides his hand into her hair and pulls her forward until their mouths meet. He kisses her tenderly, like he did when he backed her into the door only hours earlier, hands holding her gently in place.
But Amy is too keyed up to be gentle. She clutches the front of his shirt, throwing her leg over his hips in an effort to get closer. Jake grunts in pain, but the moment she begins to pull back he hauls her closer.
“No, don’t,” he pants. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this.”
“Me too,” she whispers. She licks the seam of his lips and swallows the soft sound he makes.
“Do you even understand how hot you were today?” He slides his hands down to wrap around her waist. “I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life. I was just barely hanging onto my self-control. And then the way you kissed me? God…”
Amy’s never been one for dirty talk, and this is hardly even that, but it’s doing more to turn her on than she could’ve imagined. She moans into Jake’s mouth, and his hands tighten on her.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it all day. And now that I know what you were wearing under that dress?” He doesn’t even finish the thought, just groans into her mouth.
Amy dips her head to kiss down the column of his throat, pushing aside the collar of his shirt so she can get to his collarbone. “Then put your money where your mouth is, Jake.”
He flips them quite suddenly, pinning Amy beneath him, but the action comes at a cost. His head falls against her shoulder as he wheezes.
“Sorry,” she whispers, hand sliding to rest just above his wound. “Maybe we shouldn’t…”
She trails off, trying to decide how best to say this. She can feel him, hard and hot against her, but she can’t come up with any way to do this that won’t hurt him more.
Jake groans loudly against the side of her neck. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… yeah. I think sex is gonna have to wait.” They both laugh, a little breathless, and he kisses her lightly for a few minutes. But he’s shaking with the effort of holding himself up, so Amy gently pushes him down, resuming her position backed against him. He pulls her tightly to him, nuzzling into the side of her neck.
“Best day ever,” he murmurs.
“Jake, you got shot.”
“Best. Day. Ever,” he reiterates.
She sighs through her nose. He laughs silently.
“So I guess this means you still like me?“
“Uh, duh.” He tightens his hold on her even more, and if she wasn’t so grateful to have him here with her, to have him alive, she might say something. She doesn’t.
“Well how was I supposed to know? It’s been months, and you haven’t said anything. I can’t even tell if you’ve been flirting with me or if you’re just being Jake!”
“I told you, I wasn’t trying to change you being with Teddy,” he says wryly. “But it was hard work. Not making you fall in love with me, I mean.”
She doesn’t think he means to imply it, but she can’t help thinking about all of the actual extra work he’s been picking up since dropping her off in front of her apartment.
“Where did you park that night, anyway?”
It’s funny. She doesn’t give him any real context, but somehow, he still knows. “Down the street, by the bodega. He didn’t look happy. I didn’t want to leave you there alone, and then you just… sat there.”
“Well, he wasn’t happy.” She pauses. “You avoided me the next day. Why?”
He doesn’t answer that right away, and the hand on her leg pauses its strokes. “I thought I’d overstepped. I was trying to back off.”
“Well, we’d already broken up by then.” She can’t bring herself to sound even a little disappointed. “Because of you.”
“I know that shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.” She smacks at his arm, and he leans forward to kiss the side of her neck.
She sighs. “He’ll get over it.”
They lay in silence for so long that she thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep, but then he speaks again. Soft. Like he’s afraid of breaking this tentative comfort. “I couldn’t. Get over you, I mean. I think I’ve been trying to get over you from day one, but I can’t. You’re the one for me.“
He stiffens behind her, as if realizing what he’s said. It’s not those words, but the sentiment is there.
Amy wiggles herself back. It’s not like she can actually get any closer, but she can certainly try.
“I think I like being the one for you.” She says it softly, with conviction, and smiles when she feels him relax.
“Obviously you do, I’m an amazing detective/genius.”
She laughs at that. She finally feels able to breathe again, here in Jake’s arms. In all her noticing over the last year, it’s not like she’s missed his flaws. Of course he’s childish, and she knows they’re both too competitive. And they argue, of course they do. But he knows her in a way she thinks no one else ever has, how to make her laugh and feel seen and safe.
She’s tempted to tell him what she told Teddy, that she thinks she’s in love. She can feel him nodding off, though, squeezing her periodically.
She decides she can tell him in a little while, if he doesn’t notice first.
Summary: Over the years, Amy has noticed a lot of things about her partner. She’s just never had a reason to notice what she’s noticed. That is until he flips her whole world upside down.
Author’s Notes: 13.8K words of pure, unadulterated Peraltiago in a classic undercover mission gone sideways. A billion thanks to my darling @geminiwritten for proofreading and giving me the confidence to actually post! ❤️
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or events from Brooklyn Nine-Nine
Warnings/tags: mild language, suggestive content, blood, mutual pining, dialogue from season 1 episode 22 and season 2 episode 1 but otherwise no spoilers!
It’s not like Amy’s never noticed just how attractive Jake is.
…
Okay, fine, she’s never noticed just how attractive he is. She’s never bothered to watch the way his lips shape themselves around her name like a caress, or the way the corners turn up even when he isn’t naming her latest fictional sex tape. Never taken note of the smile lines from his wide, near-constant grin, or the way his eyes sparkle almost always; never noticed the dimple in his chin or the stubborn lock of hair that refuses to cooperate no matter what he does.
Alright, maybe she’s noticed all that over the years.
But it’s all been filed into the “Jake” box in the back of her mind, the one tucked securely behind every other box and locked up tight. The one she’s never opened, or even really cared to open, until that day.
“I dunno what's gonna happen on this assignment, and if something bad goes down I think I'd be pissed at myself if I didn't say this. I kinda wish something could happen between us. Romantic-stylez.”
And then poof, no Jake. For six. Months.
The precinct had been so, so quiet without him. Without quite meaning to, Amy had found herself picturing his every reaction, having entire conversations with the Jake in her head. She’d cancelled dates with Teddy to work weekends and late nights, without knowing why until realizing that it made her feel closer to him. Then she’d stopped, because that felt awfully close to cheating. Which didn’t even make sense, because she didn’t even like Jake like that.
And when had he become Jake to her, anyway?
This was just another practical joke, surely. Peralta loved nothing more than getting into her head, and this had to be his best prank yet.
Just another prank.
It sure doesn’t feel like a prank now, though, with him beaming from the bullpen gate to a backdrop of static that she knows is the squad, telling stories and teasing and welcoming and shouting at him and each other. She can hardly make out the dull roar of white noise beneath the deafening thump of her heartbeat against her eardrums. She wipes her inexplicably damp palms down her slacks, reaching for an even expression to pull over her slack features.
Holt’s arrival buys her a brief reprieve, as Ja—Peralta—hurtles through the one-line stories that’ll need more explanation, eventually, ending with a sincere, “And missed you all so very much.” Her heart melts a little at that, and then he’s looking at her, and the room is spinning and her heart is racing and she has a boyfriend, for crying out loud.
And yet, for some crazy reason, she still agrees to talk to him in private for a sec.
“So now that we are alone, I have to ask.” She takes a deep breath, steeling herself to shut this down as gently and quickly as possible. “Did you arrest a perp named Joe Uterus?”
It’s not what she’s expecting, but she really only has herself to blame for that. She huffs out a sigh of laughter and relief.
“Oh, my God, yes. I should have told you immediately. Perp name hall of fame, right?”
“Oh, yeah. First ballot. I mean, it's right up there with Sylvester Stools and Janet Storkmuncher.”
They both chuckle at that, only a little awkward.
“But also, I just… I know we left things kind of weird. You know, me saying that I liked you.”
“I'm still with Teddy.” The words come out rushed. Sharp. In an effort to soften them, she adds, “Romantic stylez.”
Jake blinks, and there’s a flash of something she can’t read in his expression.
“Oh. Good, good. 'Cause I was gonna say, I know we left things weird, because I said that I liked you, but that was a mistake.” Her heart gives one slow, painful clench and she fights the urge to swallow, but Jake’s not done. “You know, I was nervous about going undercover, and I think I just kinda freaked out, and you were nearby, so… I didn't mean it.”
He didn’t mean it.
That shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
“But that's great. Good.”
She can’t think of a single thing to say to that, too busy trying to untangle all of her feelings, but Jake swoops in to save her. Just, she realizes slowly, like he always does.
“Hey, so, Joe Uterus, what did he do?”
This, she can answer.
•·················•·················•
To Amy’s utter shock, things don’t get weird after that. Even at Jake’s not-surprise party.
“Hey, so listen, the thing I said to you before I went undercover, about how I wished something had happened between us romantically, that wasn't nothing. That was real.”
“What are you saying?”
“I know that you're with Teddy. I'm not trying to change that. And I get there's stuff I can't control. But this morning I told you that I didn't mean any of it, and that was a lie. I just don't want to hold anything back.”
“Well, thank you for saying that. Just as long as we're clear that I'm with someone and nothing is gonna happen.”
“‘I'm with someone, nothing's gonna happen’... title of your sex tape.”
“He's back.”
Things don’t get weird, but they do get complicated. Complicated and confusing. For her, at least. From that day forward, she finds herself over-analyzing every move he makes, every look he gives her. There’s nothing inherently different in the way he interacts with her, but it all feels different. Loaded in a way it never did before.
Things with Teddy disintegrate, too, and without much effort on her part. He’s a detective. Of course he knows that she’s not nearly as present as she should be. They argue about it, and for some reason, she doesn’t take the opportunity to break up and sort through her feelings. Instead, she convinces him that she’s fine. Everything is fine. And it all is.
Jake treats her just the same as he always has, and if his eyes linger and his smile seems a little strained sometimes, well.
That’s none of her business.
What is her business, though, is the caseload he’s been working. She sees it first when he turns down Charles’ invitation to go to Shaw’s with the crew.
“Sorry man, can’t. I’ve gotta get this paperwork done.” Jake hates doing paperwork.
She sees it in the dark circles under his eyes and the case files he carries in and out when he thinks no one is paying attention. She sees it in the early mornings and late nights he works.
“Peralta, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here this early.” And it is early. Not early for him, just. Early. 6:30 a.m., to be precise. Amy’s here to get a jump start on a jewelry heist Holt assigned, but only because she’s an overachiever. Despite knowing this, Jake nearly knocks his coffee over as he spins to face her, because he clearly wasn’t expecting her this early. “What are you doing here?”
“Ah, Holt’s got me looking into this arms dealer.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And it couldn’t wait until 9:30?”
“Ha-ha,” he deadpans. He turns back to his computer, resting his chin on his fist so his voice comes out muffled. “Trying something new.”
“Being on time?”
Jake hooks a finger over his shoulder at her as if to say “nailed it”.
She pauses, wringing her fingers together a bit. “Jake, are you okay?”
His head snaps in her direction at her use of his first name, and he can’t quite mask his shock. He covers it with a wide grin, though. “Never better, why do you ask?”
She finally sits and switches on her computer. From behind their screens, she can see Jake doing his best not to look at her. He’s tapping his foot beneath his desk, but she won’t answer. Finally, he looks at her in exasperation.
“What?” That one word sounds more tired than Amy’s ever heard him.
“Seriously, what’s wrong?”
He lets out a sigh, but his expression softens. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, I promise.” He stretches, and Amy tries not to notice the cords of muscle in his forearms. “Just trying to get some overtime, get out of debt.”
Something in his voice sounds fragile. She decides not to push. “Ah, yes,” she smirks. “Your crushing debt.”
“That’s the one.” His smile is back in full. They work in silence until sunlight streams through the windows, then Jake stands and walks to the break room. A few minutes later, he returns with two steaming cups of coffee and places one delicately beside Amy’s keyboard. She looks up, startled.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” His soft smile makes something in her chest hitch, but she shakes herself out of it when Rosa stomps around the corner.
“Damn, Peralta, what gives? Did you lose a bet or something?”
•·················•·················•
It goes on like this for the rest of the week; Amy shows up early to find Jake hard at work. The second day, she makes them coffee in the break room just before the rest of the squad gets in. The third day, she swings by a shop she likes on her way to the precinct and gets coffee for both of them, hoping he’ll be there. He is, and he’s pleasantly surprised. On the fourth day, though, he isn’t there. She swallows her disappointment, but by the time her computer is on, the elevator doors are sliding open to reveal a beaming, windswept Jake holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and a brown paper bag.
“I know you’ve been here early all week, but I was worried you wouldn’t be today. I got scones. You like those, right?”
The fifth day, when she reaches the top step and looks out across the bullpen, Jake is slumped over his desk in yesterday’s clothes. She pauses at the gate, coffees and croissants in hands, and just watches him for a time.
His breathing is even, and maybe it’s just the horrible posture, but she thinks he’s snoring softly. His hair is sticking up in every direction like he’s been pulling at it all night, and it looks so soft that Amy has to fight the urge to run her fingers through it. His tie is loose enough to show just a little chest hair, hoodie flung over the back of his chair, despite the morning chill.
Amy tiptoes into the office, carefully depositing their treats on her desk, and then slips Jake’s hoodie off his chair. Slowly, she drapes it over his shoulders. His broad shoulders. Jake stirs, sighing in his sleep, and turns his head toward her. His eyes flutter open for half a heartbeat.
“Thanks, baby,” he murmurs. She draws back, shock freezing her hands midair, but Jake is snoring again already.
Amy, she thinks. He must have said Amy.
He’s curled in on himself in an effort to pillow his head on his arm, and for a moment she wants to ball up her blazer for him, but she’s not sure she could manage not to wake him with her suddenly shaky hands. So instead, she switches on her computer and gets to work.
She leaves him sleeping until 8:55, then stands to lay a hand on his shoulder. The moment he shifts, she panics, because regardless of whether he called her Amy or baby, she doesn’t think she can bear to hear it in that soft, sleepy voice again without doing something she might regret.
“Peralta.” It comes out sharper than she means it to, but it works. Jake sits straight up and blinks rapidly, looking at her in confusion. Then he takes in his surroundings and leaps up to his full height. She’s forced to look up at him when he grabs her elbows.
“Amy, I got it!”
“Got what?”
“The weapons dealer! He’s got an auction set for next week at a gala upstate. We just have to get into that gala!” He lets her go and spins toward his desk, launching into the epiphany he had last night over a too-late cup of coffee and Cup Noodles (ew) and is mid-explanation when Holt walks in.
“Peralta. Did you sleep here?”
“Captain! I’ve got a date for the weapons deal.”
The Captain’s impeccable posture, impossibly, straightens. “Come with me, Peralta. Tell me what you found.” He spares a nod for Amy, who nods in return before watching them both disappear behind the office door.
And within five minutes of waking up, the storm that is Jake Peralta has opened up the bullpen and moved on. Amy stands stunned for a long moment before dropping into her seat. She shakes her head and sits down to go over the evidence for her own case. The rest of the squad trickles in during the time he’s in the Captain’s office, but at 9:35, the door opens and Jake comes out with his mussed hair and crooked tie and wide smile and sparkling eyes and beelines for Amy. She swallows back the sudden suffocation of him and does her best to smile back.
“Well.” He stands at his desk in what Amy secretly calls his superhero pose, hands on his hips and chin tilted up. “The Captain is sending me home for the day to sleep, but we’re going to that gala.”
Amy lifts an eyebrow. “We?”
And for a rare moment, Jake actually looks nervous. “The Captain thinks it would be a good idea to send in a co-ed team for an event like this, and considering the fact that we’ve had one successful date…”
“He’s right, it’ll make things easy.” The way Jake’s whole body relaxes on the breath he lets out makes the tightening feeling in Amy’s stomach worth it. “Go home, Peralta. We’ll talk Monday.”
He finger-guns at her, grin going crooked as he reaches for his leather jacket. “Monday. Sounds good.”
•·················•·················•
It’s earlier than Monday. In fact, it’s eight short hours later. When Amy knocks at the loft’s door at just after 6 p.m., Jake opens looking no less rumpled and much less dressed. He’s in boxers and a t-shirt that’s just a little too tight across his chest, rubbing at his eyes with both hands.
“Santiago? What are you doing here?”
She drags her eyes up to his face and revels in the hopeful, surprised half-smile tugging at his lips. She holds up the plastic bag in her hand. “I got my guy today, and you got this big lead, so I figured we should celebrate.” She doesn’t mention that she cancelled her Friday night dinner with Teddy because she’s worried that Jake hasn’t eaten since his Cup Noodles the previous night.
Jake’s tired face splits fully into a smile, putting the not-dimples in his cheeks on full display.
“Celebration, all right!” He steps aside, waving Amy through. When the door clicks shut, he sidles past to pull a pair of sweats off the clothes rack Gina must have left behind. Amy looks away when she finds herself tracking the movement of his fingers as they tie the drawstrings.
“Plates?” she asks, turning toward the kitchenette.
“Right side, top shelf.” She opens the cabinet drawer, reaches up, and can just barely touch the shelf the plates are on. Suddenly, Jake presses up behind her to pull them down. Her breath catches as he does. He’s not ripped, and she’s never thought he was, but she can feel firm muscle beneath the thin t-shirt that she hadn’t quite expected and the soft sweats he’s wearing do little to hide… the rest of him. And the way they fit together is—
He sets the plates on the countertop with a clatter, then pulls away to open the fridge. “Beer?” His voice is strained, but if he can be casual, then so can she.
“Sounds good.” She prides herself on the steadiness of her voice and opens cartons of Chinese food, loading each plate with a variety of entrees. When Jake holds her beer out, his face is only a little flushed.
“Wanna watch Criminal Minds?”
“God, yes.”
Any awkwardness fades after that. They sit on Jake’s threadbare couch, shoulder to shoulder, shouting at the TV through mouths crammed with chow mein and mu shu pork. Amy produces a notebook from her purse to track case notes, which Jake teases her about, but they solve each case long before the on-screen detectives because of it.
Several episodes in, Jake makes a soft sighing sound. When Amy turns her head, he’s leaned back with his eyes closed. The circles beneath them are dark enough now, she thinks, to warrant real concern and not just her overprotectiveness.
“Jake.”
“Hm?”
“Go to sleep.”
“‘M fine.”
“You haven’t been sleeping.”
He cracks an eye at her. “How do you know?” She levels him with a look. He scoffs and closes his eye again. “I’m fine, Santiago. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Don’t I?” The moment the words are out, she knows she shouldn’t have said them. Jake turns, leveling her with a weighty stare. He doesn’t say anything, and she can feel inane, useless words bubbling up to fill the heavy silence. A thousand silly, meaningless phrases filter through before she settles on, “You’re my partner.”
He watches her for another eternity, gaze dipping for just a second to her lips. “I’m fine,” he repeats. Softer, this time. More sincere. “Let me walk you out.” So she does. They walk down the stairs of his building in companionable silence, and then Jake flags down a taxi. He opens the door when the cabbie stops, leaning on it until her seatbelt is buckled. “I’ll see you Monday,” he says.
“See you Monday.”
•·················•·················•
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Amy. It just stinks, alright? He’s playing with you.”
Amy frowned at her plate. “He’s not playing with me, Teddy. He’s not like that.”
“Really? He’s not?” Teddy is completely unconvinced, watching the way she pushes food around on her plate. “You’ve worked with this guy for five years and he’s never said a word to you. Then all of a sudden when I show up, he confesses to having feelings for you before disappearing for six months—”
“He didn’t disappear, he was undercover—”
“And then he comes back, says he didn’t mean it, and then within a day he says he didn’t mean that—”
“He’s done a lot of growing up, Teddy! I respect the fact that he was man enough to tell me the truth.”
“Yeah, well, I would have respected him more if he’d been man enough to keep his mouth shut.”
Amy uncrosses her ankles, recrossing them as she gives up on dinner and lays her fork down.
“He didn’t have any right, Ames. We were doing just fine until he came back.”
She doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not strictly true, but it’s not strictly untrue either. It’s not like she’s ever told Teddy that she’s bored, or that he doesn’t seem to truly know her. He couldn’t know those things.
She definitely hasn’t told him that Jake knows her in the ways she’s begun to realize are important. Or that his confession forced her to… acknowledge her own feelings.
Teddy can tell, though. He’s a detective.
“Do you even still want to be with me?”
She’d love to say that she doesn’t answer because the question catches her so off-guard. After a painful pause of floundering, she opens her mouth to say yes, of course she does.
The words refuse to come out.
Later, she’ll console herself with the thought that Teddy’s face is more disappointed than hurt. Right now, though, this is as awful as she’d imagined it. Is that why she couldn’t make herself do this sooner? He folds his napkin carefully, tucks it under the edge of his plate, and stands.
“Good luck, Amy.” He buttons his jacket, takes out his wallet, and lays a crisp $50 bill on the table, and Amy finds herself wondering if she’s making a mistake letting him walk away. Jake’s probably never even touched a $50 bill. The moment she thinks it, she feels terribly shallow and guilty. She’s never cared about money, and she’s not about to start now. Teddy is plenty mature, but… it’s Jake. And even if Jake is considerably less grown-up than he maybe should be, he’s done quite a bit of growing up recently. By the time she untangles her thoughts enough to look up, to explain herself and to apologize for spacing out on her own breakup, Teddy is long gone.
•·················•·················•
She avoids Jake on Monday. It turns out to be easy, since she spends the day in court with her jewel thief and Jake gets tapped to help Rosa with a B&E. He’s still at his desk when she comes back, and she means to wait until he’s gone to go back to her desk. After waiting in the stairwell for the better part of an hour, though, she finally bites the bullet and walks in.
Jake looks up, offering her a tired smile. “Long day?”
“I feel like I should be asking you the same thing.”
He shrugs. “I want to make sure everything’s airtight for this gala. How was court, anyway?”
“Fine.” She tosses her bag down and collapses into her desk chair. “I have a bad feeling about the guy, though.”
“‘I have a bad feeling about the guy’, title of your sex tape.” She resists the urge to toss her pen at him and makes a face instead. Jake beams. “For real, though, why a bad feeling?”
No new emails, so she closes the program and shuts down her computer. “I don’t know. Something about the way he held himself in court today.” Jake looks up, gaze searching. Amy shrugs. “It’s like he was too calm. I don’t know, he didn’t fight the charges or lie or anything. Just… let himself be sentenced.”
“Name?”
“Dexter Hothworn.”
Jake types it into his computer. Amy stands to look over his shoulder as he reads through the case file. He leans back in his chair with an unhappy expression.
“I feel like I’ve heard that name before, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
Amy snaps her fingers. “‘Can’t put my finger on it’, title of your sex tape!”
It has the desired effect and Jake’s face splits into a grin. “Santiago, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
She takes an exaggerated bow. She won’t feed his ego by saying she’s learned from the best. “Are you going home soon?”
Something about the way he looks away, almost holding his breath at his computer screen, makes her worry.
“C’mon, Jake, the case notes will still be there tomorrow.”
He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, he throws his hands up in defeat. “Oh, fine. But only because that was a really good sex tape name. I’m seriously impressed.”
“As you should be! That was a great entry. It should go in the Peralta-Santiago sex tape hall of fame.” She slaps her hands over her mouth the moment the words are out. Heat is racing up her spine, but Jake’s expression is priceless. She’s never seen him, even him, look so thrilled about something. She covers her face with her hands, stammering about how that came out wrong, while Jake laughs and swats them away.
Somehow, he corrals her into his Mustang with an offer of a ride home. He teases her the whole way, but it’s comfortable. Familiar. So nice, in fact, that Amy is actually disappointed when they roll up to her curb. That disappointment turns to dread when Teddy stands from his seat on her stoop.
She scrambles to get her bag and get out while Jake raises a hand in greeting. Teddy’s frowning though, and he doesn’t return the gesture.
“Sorry for getting you in trouble,” Jake mutters under his breath.
Amy’s head snaps toward him. “Oh, no, you didn’t. Thank you for the ride. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She lets herself out of the car before either of them can say anything else and plasters on a smile for Teddy.
It only takes three steps to reach him, so she’s extra grateful when Jake’s car roars as he pulls away.
“Teddy, what are you doing here?”
“Already made a move, huh? He’s quick.”
“Wow, that…” She shakes her head in frustration and pulls out her keys. “Let me remind you that we work together, Teddy. Also, he doesn’t even know that we’re broken up.”
“Yeah, alright.”
With the door unlocked behind her, she turns to face him. She doesn’t say anything, just raises her eyebrows at him.
“Right. I was just… I wanted to apologize. I was really upset on Saturday. And I wanted to ask if we could give this another shot.”
Oh no. It’s been two days, and she wasn’t expecting to have to do this at all, let alone this soon.
“Teddy, I—”
“Look, I can keep my cool. It’s all about trust, and I did some thinking about it, and I do trust you. I just gotta learn to deal with him and everything will be fine.”
“I think I’m in love with him, Teddy.”
He stops short at that, staring at her uncomprehendingly. “I-in love?” he finally stammers out.
Amy can feel heat burning up her neck and across her cheeks. “Yeah.” Teddy gestures at her to go on, but she throws her hands up. What more is there to say?
“You never even told me you loved me once, and we dated for months. How do you go from that to in love with someone else overnight?”
“It didn’t happen overnight.” The words come out more dismissive than she means them to, but Teddy looks crushed. She’s got to say something else. “I think it’s been happening really slowly. So slowly that I didn’t even notice it.” She’s outward-processing now, trying to keep up with the revelation as it comes to her. “I think I just… needed him to say something for me to wake up.”
She can tell by the steady beat of her heart, and then by the hurt expression on Teddy’s face, that it’s all the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He waves a hand, though the motion is shaky. “No, don’t be. Good luck.” He turns to leave, but pauses to look over his shoulder. “To both of you.”
Amy watches him go. Even after he’s gone, though, she stands on the stoop in the frigid air until she can’t feel her fingers or her toes. And when she finally opens the door and steps into the lobby, she hears a faint roaring sound down the street.
•·················•·················•
The next day, things with Jake are weird. Amy keeps wondering whether it’s because of her feelings, but no, she’s known deep down that something has changed for quite some time now.
He’s oddly reserved, serious to the point of being out of character. When Holt calls them in to discuss the exact details of the plan—attend the gala, find the weapons cache, ID and call in—he doesn’t make any jokes. The moment they’re back at their own desks, he leaves with Charles and doesn’t come back. Amy doesn’t stay late, just makes her way home after picking up Chinese food for dinner. She sits on the couch to eat, watching Criminal Minds and drinking beer and feeling the emptiness of the space beside her far too keenly.
She goes to bed early.
The next two days are much the same. She finally sees Jake around lunchtime, when he and Charles come in with a collar, whooping and hollering about their epic chase before Jake throws himself down in his chair.
“You’re in a good mood,” Amy says.
“Santiago, I am always in a good mood.” His smile is wide and genuine, eyes shining with pride and adrenaline.
She hums noncommittally. “I suppose you are.”
Jake winks at her as he boots his computer, tapping his fingers impatiently along the desk as he waits. “Are you ready for our gala tomorrow?”
“Looking like this?” she says in an affected tone. “Gosh, no. I’ve got to do my hair, and my makeup.” She throws a hand dramatically across her forehead, but she’s smirking beneath it.
“You’re gonna look great. You always do.”
She should be used to Jake’s unique blend of flirtation and sincerity by now, but it still always takes her off guard. Well, when it’s directed at her, anyway.
“Thanks, Peralta.” Her voice comes out softer than she’d wanted, so she makes sure to pitch it up to ask, “And are you ready?”
“I was born ready!” Jake booms.
“Ready for what?” asks Rosa. Jake nearly jumps out of his seat as she steps up behind him. “Didn’t seem ready for me just now.”
“Because I didn’t know you were there!”
“And what if you don’t know there’s a perp there, what then?”
“Well that’s what Santiago’s for.”
“And what if Santiago doesn’t know a perp’s there?”
“She’ll know. She’s got the best instincts I’ve ever seen.” Jake’s turned his chair to face her, and Amy feels pride well up so strongly it nearly chokes her.
“Whatever,” says Rosa. “Just don’t get yourselves killed.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Jake hurls this over his shoulder, but his gaze is still locked on Amy. She smiles at him. Something in his expression softens, but then he abruptly turns back to his screen.
He doesn’t look at her again all day.
For some reason, that haunts her sleep. So much that she can’t.
So she gets up, makes herself a cup of tea, puts on her glasses, and sits down to read through their cover notes again.
Christopher Norbury: son of an old money mob boss in Syracuse, eager to prove his worth to daddy by outfitting his corner of the empire with the latest and the greatest. Obsessed with money, obsessed with status. Likes to show off his girlfriend.
That girlfriend, Diana Weston: a small-time actress, desperate to claw her way out of Syracuse and into society. Charming, but simpering, hanging onto Norbury’s every word and move.
She lays down the file. The way she’s reading it,, the two should be all over each other. Jake’s picking her up for lunch before the drive upstate at mid-day, so it’s not like they won’t have time to get into character, but she feels antsy. Almost giddy.
They haven’t discussed Jake’s feelings since the day that he reaffirmed them all those months ago. Does he even still feel the same way? Will this be awkward for him? He’s going to be touching her. Flirting with her. Is she going to be able to keep her cool? Of course she is, it’s Jake.
Oh, God, it’s Jake.
She’s spiraling now, so she gets up and turns on the television. Criminal Minds is on, so she flips the channel until she finds something safer. Something that doesn’t belong to her and Jake.
She finally settles on reruns of The People’s Court, dozing on the couch to the sound of the gavel and Marilyn Milian’s voice.
•·················•·················•
Despite the restless night before, the morning of the sting goes swimmingly. Amy gets up, takes a run, takes a shower. She has a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal while she does her makeup, listens to a TED Talk she DVR’d while she does her hair. She tapes her wire down, tucking it carefully into the lacy, burgundy lingerie she decides to wear to boost her confidence, and slides her dress over the whole ensemble.
It’s black, tight in the bust with a low neckline, clinging to her curves until layers of fabric bunch and flow out from her hips. She’s able to easily holster her gun to her thigh, tucked just above the high slit in the fabric. She runs her hands slowly down her body.
What will Jake think?
There’s a sharp rap on her door, ten minutes early. Far too early to be Jake, but who else could it be? So she swings open the door, and… there he is. Jake Peralta, in a tailored suit, hair gelled into artful waves, hand frozen on his cufflink and mouth hanging slack.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hey,” he says. “You look… wow, you look.” He drops his wrist and straightens. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks, Peralta. You clean up nice, too.”
“Why thank you, milady.” He brushes imaginary lint from his shoulder and extends a hand to her. “Ready?”
Amy can’t stop the nervous twitch of her lips. “I actually need another minute. I wasn’t expecting you to be on time, let alone early.
Jake’s eyebrows fly up. “Well, well, well. Shoe’s on the other foot now, isn’t it Santiago?”
“Well why are you here early, anyway? You’re never even on time.” With a rush of boldness, she leans forward to poke his chest. “You were excited to see me.”
Jake sputters. “What, no. I’m excited about… the case.” He spins on his heel and points at the silver spoons hanging on a plaque on her wall. “And I wanted to see your spoons again.”
“You mocked me relentlessly about those spoons the first time you saw them.”
He waves a hand. “I didn’t want Boyle to feel jealous. He doesn’t have any fancy spoons.”
Amy rolls her eyes and walks toward her room. “Whatever. Make yourself at home, I’ll just be a few more minutes.”
And five minutes later, she’s back with heels, earrings, and a necklace she can’t get clasped.
“I never wear this thing, and this is why,” she grumbles.
“Here, let me.” Jake is on his feet before she can object, taking the necklace from her hands.
He brushes her hair back with featherlight touches, resting his hands on her shoulders to fiddle with the clasp.
“Man, you weren’t joking,” he mutters. His fingers slip and the necklace slides down, cold metal raising goosebumps along her heated flesh. Jake catches the chain with a murmured apology and finally hooks the clasp. His fingers linger just a second too long before falling away, and Amy can just make out the shuddering breath he takes.
“Ready now?”
“Ready.”
Amy locks the apartment behind them. Jake takes her clutch, offers his arm, and she slides her hand around it. When they get downstairs, he opens the door to a high-end SUV with tinted windows.
“No Mustang today?”
“No, the Captain thought it might be a bit too ‘recognizable’.” The air quotes he uses make her laugh, which makes him smile, and then they’re off. “I hope you’re not too hungry yet. I found this Cuban restaurant about an hour out of the city.”
Amy whips toward him. “Really?”
Jake’s doing a good job of keeping his eyes on the road, but Amy still sees him throwing rapid glances at her. “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”
“I do.” She can’t keep the smile from her face. “I really do. Thanks, Peralta.”
“Eh, don’t mention it. The force is paying, I just found the place.”
“Well I appreciate you finding the place.” Teddy was wonderful, sweet and thoughtful, but he never once asked what she wanted. Just picked nice Latin restaurants and worked off her reactions, which was sweet in its own way. And besides, that was an unfair comparison. Teddy didn’t have the benefit of sitting across from her every day, hearing her woes of being unable to find authentic Cuban food.
As if Jake can hear her thoughts, he goes on. “Now I don’t know how authentic it is, but they have those fried bananas you like.”
“Tostones,” Amy supplies, shocked that he remembers. “They’re plantains.”
“Right, those! Oh, and no sandwiches either. I checked.” When she doesn’t say anything, he looks over at her in worry. “That’s… that’s a good thing, right? You said once that Cuban sandwiches aren’t real Cuban food, and I just…” He trails off, still stealing glances in her direction.
“I said it once,” she says. She knows exactly when she’d said it because it had been on one of their first cases together, when she was still new to the squad, and they had stopped at a deli for lunch. He’d been excited by the Cuban sandwiches, but she’d shut it down with an offhand comment about “fake Cuban food”. “We’d only been partners for a week. I can’t believe you’d remember that.”
“Well, I was trying to impress you,” he mutters. “Buuut it went just as bad as every other attempt and backfired, and now here we are!”
Here they were. Driving to a real Cuban restaurant with no Cuban sandwiches, because he’d heard her and he’d remembered and he’d checked.
“Wait,” she says. “You were trying to impress me? Did you pick that deli because they served Cuban sandwiches?”
“Whaaat? No, that would be… stupid!” he sputters. Amy bursts out laughing and Jake grins wryly.
“Hurtful,” he jokes.
“You love it,” she throws back.
“I do.” She’s not prepared for how seriously he says it, so she turns to the radio and dials it up until she can’t hear her own uneven breathing.
•·················•·················•
The restaurant is authentic, and the food is delicious. It’s fancy, too, fancy enough that Jake pulls out her chair and the menus don’t have prices. It feels strangely natural being there with Jake, easy and relaxed.
The rest of the drive, even though it’s the longer leg, is done in a flash. Amy is touching up her makeup in the passenger mirror when Jake runs down the plan again.
“Okay, we get in. Schmooze around, fake some drinking, get into that back hallway, find the weapons. Come out to the auction, bid on some weapons, and then we’re free to go!”
Amy scoffs at the oversimplification, but it’s honestly not too far off the truth. “Alright, and how do we act around each other?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re supposed to be dating. Should we be all over each other, or more reserved? Do I care about your weapons dealings, or?”
“You definitely don’t care about my weapons dealings, I’m pretty sure you’re just after my money.” They share a giggle at that. “Whatever you think.” He says that more seriously, and Amy tilts her head back and forth as she considers.
“It’s easier to justify both of us disappearing if we’re all over each other,” she says carefully.
Jake nods. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.” His hands tap at the steering wheel. “All over each other, then.”
“Relax, Jake. Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I am totally relaxed! No one is more relaxed than me,” he bluffs loudly.
Amy rolls her eyes, but she’s still smiling when the long drive to the mansion comes into view.
“You ready for this?” asks Jake.
“So ready. You?”
“I was born ready.” He puts the car into park. She reaches for her door, but Jake does that stupid “bup, bup, bup” thing and flies around the car to get the door for her. He hands her down like a gentleman from a period drama, then loops her hand through his arm. “Here we are, Diana.”
“Why thank you, Christopher.”
At the oversized doors, there’s an honest to goodness doorman checking invitations. Jake draws theirs from his jacket pocket and presents it with a flourish. The doorman waves them through and as they step into the grand entry, Amy finds herself clinging just a little closer to Jake’s side. He doesn’t comment, but she can see the pleasure it brings him in the tiny smile he wears.
Amy takes full advantage to raise her free hand to his bicep, squeezing lightly. Jake leans down until his lips brush her ear. “Just something about a room full of criminals that makes you want to curl up in a ball, right?” he whispers.
She laughs, because it’s exactly what she was thinking, and Jake beams at her. He snags a passing waiter, taking two flutes of champagne off a tray, and offers one to her. They toast with a clink of glasses. They take several slow turns around the room, pausing to share pleasantries with anyone who stops them, picking hors d’oeuvres from silver platters, successively laughing loudly and giggling softly to each other.
After their third lap, Amy leans up on tiptoe and presses her lips to Jake’s jaw. “Door along the back wall, guard walks by every 60 seconds.”
Jake’s pulse spikes against her lips. “Wow, that is super specific and observant.”
“If we time it right, we can slip through while his back is turned.”
“And if we don’t time it well?”
She spins in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. “It’s easy for lovebirds to get lost, isn’t it?” She punctures this by walking her fingers up his tie. Jake stands straighter, lifting his chin almost in a challenge.
“It is.”
She smiles angelically and saunters off toward the wall, leaving Jake to trail behind her. He does, catcalling her all the way. When they get close, she lets him pull her to his chest. He lowers his head until their noses brush together. “Guard’s looking this way, aaand… okay go go go.”
She drags him forward by the hand, pulling the door shut behind them as quietly as she can.
“Okay, there should be a stairwell at the end of this hall.”
They start toward it, hand in hand, and are halfway down the hall before an ominous click sounds.
Amy takes a deep breath. “We didn’t time it well,” she mutters.
“Damn, I thought he—”
She turns on impulse, grabs his tie, and yanks, letting his forward motion pin her to the wall as she pulls his mouth down to hers.
There is one painfully long split second where Jake only gasps without moving and the guard rounds the corner, but he catches on quickly and leans into her. His hands run reverently from her neck down her sides, grasping at her waist, and Amy momentarily wonders if this is what all the girls in the backseat of his Mustang have been getting all these years.
“Guard’s right there, play along,” she murmurs against his lips. Jake grunts in response before pushing her harder into the wall.
“Can’t see him. Tell me wh-what—”
He breaks off as Amy slides her calf up his side, hooking her knee over his hip. She takes advantage of his distraction to lick along the seam of his lips. They open instantly beneath hers, and he lets out a high whine when she tightens her leg around him. He drops a hand to her thigh and his touch against the bare skin there is electric. His fingers dig in, pulling her harder against him until she can tell, cover or not, exactly what this kiss is doing to him.
Amy rolls her eyes down the hall, pulling Jake’s head down to her neck while she tries to get eyes on the guard. He’s still standing, but he’s not looking at them. She huffs in frustration because if this keeps going, she’s not sure she’ll be able to stop either one of them.
“Jake,” she whispers. She’s got one hand in his hair and a leg around his waist, so there’s absolutely no way she could miss the full-body shudder he gives at the sound of his name.
“Amy,” he groans, right into her ear, and she almost melts on the spot.
“Guard’s not moving.”
He stills for a moment, swallowing hard, and then kisses a line across her throat. He turns her head as he does so she’s facing their unknowing, or unaware, audience.
“What’s he doing?” His voice is strained, but clear.
“He’s not watching us.”
She can feel the tension as Jake tries to get himself under control. “What do you want to do?” he asks.
She turns her head toward his to hide the way she’s chewing her lip from the guard’s view. “Can you pick me up? Like, here.”
“Like, you mean against the wall?” She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”
“Get your hands under my dress and do it.” He doesn’t hesitate. Just slides his hands beneath the folds of her skirt, past her holster, until his thumbs rest in the creases of her hips, and lifts. She wraps both legs around his waist, pulls his head to her chest, and throws hers back against the wall.
And lets out the loudest, most provocative moan of her life.
If she thought Jake was hard before, it’s nothing compared to the way he throbs against her now as he pants against her chest.
“Oh, Christopher,” she wails, grinding herself against him. Jake stiffens against her before seeming to remember that he’s Christopher, and then he takes her cue and rocks against her.
He lifts his head, whispering, “Amy,” against her jaw as he moves his hips. It makes her head swim. Whatever her plan was going to be with Jake, this is changing everything. And she’s worried that if this goes on much longer, she’s going to have something embarrassing to apologize for. Although, by the feel of him, it’s not much different on his end.
She turns her head so that she can see the security guard, who’s standing staring at them now. She groans.
“Pervert,” she mutters, and Jake freezes. “No, not you!” In a panic, she lifts his mouth to hers and wiggles her hips in an effort to get him moving again. “The guard,” she hisses against his teeth. “I thought he’d think we were having sex”— one of Jake’s hands shoots out to brace himself against the wall—“and leave, but he’s just watching us like a creep.”
She tilts Jake’s head up so she can suck at his pulse point as she continues to rock against him.
“Amy, you—what’s the plan? I-I can’t… I’m not…” He cuts off with a groan as she sucks his earlobe into her mouth. “Amy, please,” he whispers.
She’s about to ask, “Please what?” when the guard shouts at them. Jake releases her, letting her slide down his body, before turning to adjust himself. He’s breathing hard, but still places himself between her and the guard.
“Can I help you, man?” He says it with impressive arrogance.
The guard’s a little older, maybe late fifties, and he shakes his head. “You kids can’t be doing that here.”
“Alright, where can we then?”
Amy is already halfway through thinking about just how they’re going to get back to this wing after getting tossed back into the gala when he points down the hall. Right in the direction they were already moving. “Last door on the left. Just don’t let anyone see you, man. I could lose my job.”
She can’t see Jake’s face, but he tilts his chin up and extends a hand to the guard. “Thanks, man,” he drawls. The guard shakes his hand and motions for them to go, muttering to himself as he shakes his head. Jake whirls and mouths “go go go” to her. He swats her ass as she turns, and she lets out a yelp of surprise before covering with a high-pitched giggle.
She reaches back for Jake’s hand. When their fingers are laced, she drags him along behind her. She hears the guard mutter something about “young love” as they go. She lays her hand on the doorknob and pushes, then turns to pull Jake down into another kiss as she steps backward into the room.
He goes willingly, shutting the door behind him and locking it with a click. But instead of letting her go, he pulls her against him by her waist and spins them, pressing her back gently to the door. The position is the same as their kiss from the moments before, but the details are all different now.
Where he had shoved her before, albeit without much force, he leans into her now. He raises their still linked hands above her head and holds them against the wall, but there’s no question that she’s not trapped here.
He raises the hand that’s been at her waist to cup her jaw, stroking at the hinge with his thumb. “Say my name again,” he murmurs, then scrambles to correct himself. “His name, I mean. The guard—”
And sure enough, Amy can hear footsteps coming down the hallway. She calculates the risk, and then breathes out against his lips.
“Jake.” His whole body hardens as he chokes against her mouth. She tips her head back against the door. “Christopher,” she moans, and she swears Jake growls against her throat. The moment the guard’s footsteps retreat around the corner, Jake releases her and puts as much distance between them as he can manage in the small space.
“Okay, we can—”
“Give me a minute.” His voice is strained as he leans with both hands against the bed frame, back to her.
Suddenly, Amy feels guilty. It was such an easy cover, and she’s been wondering what Jake tastes like—orange soda and champagne and mint, a strangely enticing combination—for so long that she lost herself in the moment. Did she go too far? Surely this is some form of taking advantage. She doesn’t even know if he still likes her, for crying out loud.
“I’m sor—” she begins, but Jake cuts her off.
“No, don’t apologize,” he says. Then quieter, as if to himself, “Please don’t apologize.”
So she doesn’t. She forces herself to stand in place as Jake takes several deep breaths.
“Alright,” he finally says. “Let’s go.”
He reaches for her hand and she feels her shoulders relax. Fingers twined together, Jake presses his ear to the door to listen. He motions with a quick jerk of his head before opening the door and peering out. Then he tugs her out after him, lets her shut the door, and tiptoes down the hall to the stairwell. Miraculously, they make that and the rest of the short journey without incident. There’s no one upstairs, not a single guard or guest.
“Look, Jake, your favorite,” Amy teases. “Door duty.”
“Oh, good. I have never been so excited,” Jake deadpans.
They each take a side of the hall, drawing their pistols and opening each door with care. Halfway down, Jake hisses in excitement. Amy turns to look through the door he holds open. The room is stacked with crates of weapons and ammunition. They slip in and get straight to work, cataloging and snapping photos first of the haul, and then of serial numbers.
At one crate, Amy feels her heart speed in excitement. “Oh my God, this is one of the stolen serial numbers!” she exclaims quietly.
“How do you know that?” Jake asks, almost on a groan.
“Numbers stick with me,” she says defensively.
She nearly drops the rifle she’s picked up when Jake mutters “too sexy”.
She spins. “What?”
He looks up at her, the very picture of feigned innocence. “What?”
“What did you say?”
“I said ‘too easy’, Santiago. Sheesh, what’d you think I said?” He rolls his eyes and she feels her cheeks heat.
Of course. “Too easy” makes more sense.
“You’re right, though. This has been too easy.” They share a grimace, but keep working until Jake lowers the camera.
“I think we’ve got enough. Are you ready?”
“Yeah.” She closes the case she’s been digging through and holsters her gun. Jake holsters his, too, and slides the camera into his breast pocket.
He opens the door, inches out, and gestures for her to follow. They make their way carefully down the stairwell, pause to listen, and then move back toward the ballroom. Jake’s reaching for the door when another swings open behind them. They both startle, turning as a familiar voice sneers.
“Detective Santiago, so nice to see you here.”
Amy’s stomach drops as she locks eyes with one Dexter Hothworn, and the gun he has pointed straight at her.
A shot is fired from beside her, then three more in quick succession from Hothworn. The impact comes from her side, though. She’s stunned enough that she doesn’t reach for her weapon right away, but Jake’s already shoving her through a doorway. The slamming of the door breaks her out of her stupor enough to look around the room. There’s a desk that looks heavy in the center of the room.
“Terry, we need some help!” Jake yells.
“Jake!” she calls. Someone, probably Hothworn, is beating at the door, but whoever it is hasn’t had the sense yet to shoot the lock. She’s already got her hands on the desk, but Jake moves quickly to help her and together, they turn the thing until it rests beneath the door handle. When his hands lift from the wood, she sees that his palm is coated in blood. Her heart sinks into her stomach.
The beating on the door ceases abruptly as a commotion breaks out somewhere beyond the hall. Amy grabs Jake’s arm, yanking him across the room and into the powder room in the corner. She rips his jacket away and there, rapidly soaking through the white of his shirt, is a splotch of blood.
“Amy,” Jake starts, but she tugs on the material until it pulls free. Three bullet holes.
“Sarge, we need an ambulance! Jake’s been hit!” She’s shouting, even though the wire is designed to pick up a conversation from across a room.
Jake hisses as she rips the fabric away, hands coming down to her wrists. “Amy, it’s okay.”
She looks up in disbelief. “It’s not okay, Jake, you just got shot!” He looks pale, but his eyes are alert. She takes that as a good sign and fumbles to unstrap the kevlar vest he’s wearing. Also with three holes. When she pulls it away, Jake lets out a pained grunt and begins to slide down the wall.
“Hey, hey!” She clutches the lapels of his jacket, easing him down to the floor. She lifts the kevlar again, examining the wounds. Three neat holes, just above his hipbone. “You better stay with me, Jake,” she grits out.
“I plan to,” he says wryly. The fact that his humor still seems to be intact helps to settle her nerves, just a bit.
She tugs at the sleeves of his ruined jacket. “Help me with this.” He leans forward and, with effort, they wriggle him out of the jacket. Amy balls it up and presses against his abdomen.
It’s soaked in blood within seconds, and his face has begun to pale. “Just stay with me, Jake,” she pleads. She’s straddling him, something she doesn’t realize until his hands come up to rest on her hips.
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he murmurs. His eyes begin to slide shut.
“Hey!” They snap open. “Eyes on me, Peralta.”
“Yes ma’am.”
They watch each other for what feels like an eternity while Amy tries to muster her courage.
“Why’d you do it, Jake?”
“Because as your partner, it’s my job to protect you.” He says it as if she’s stupid to have asked. “And I’m an amazing partner.”
She laughs, but it comes out strangled as she chokes back tears. “The best.”
Jake raises a hand, swiping at the tears that have begun leaking onto her cheeks. “No need for tears, Santiago. We all know you’re obsessed with me. Plus, I’m too cool to die.”
It’s a testament to that unerring humor, or maybe her feelings for him, that she actually smiles.
“Santiago!”
She sits up a little straighter. “Sarge! In here!” There’s a heavy thump against the door, and Amy swears.
“Go help him.” Jake lowers his hands to the jacket. “I’ve got this.”
“Okay, but only for a minute.” She leaps to her feet and unlocks the door. “Sarge, we’ve got a desk. I need help.”
“Move, Santiago!” She moves, and then watches in awe as the desk scrapes against the floor.
“Holy cow, Sarge,” she mutters.
As the door opens, she sees Rosa wrestling a bleeding, cuffed Hothworn up from the floor. “You good, Santiago?” she calls.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Amy says. “Jake got shot.” She doesn’t know why she adds it, but Rosa looks supremely unconcerned.
“So did this guy.” She tosses her head. “Peralta’s gonna be just fine. I swear if he died, his ghost would live at the Nine-Nine just to annoy us.”
And that makes Amy feel better. She spins to where the sergeant crouches over Jake and kneels down.
“Ambulance is on its way,” says Terry. “You did good, Santiago.” Jake looks even paler now, but he offers a weak smile.
“Jake did better, Sarge.” The man in question scoffs.
“Don’t I always? Ow!” He groans as Terry presses harder on the jacket.
“Sorry, man. You’re losing a lot of blood.”
“That’s okay,” Jake manages. “I’ve got plenty to spare. I think.” He swings his head in Amy’s direction. “How much blood does a person have?”
Amy hears the distant wail of sirens, growing closer by the second. “Enough to get to the hospital.”
Jake points at Amy as he directs his focus to Terry. “She’s so smart.” His words slur just a bit.
Amy and Terry share a worried glance.
“Go get the ambulance,” Terry says. “I’ll stay with him.”
“I want Amy,” Jake says. It’s clearer than his previous statement, and Terry looks back at Amy briefly.
“Fine,” he says. He and Amy shuffle until her hands press down on Jake’s. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Santiago.” Her name is more of a hum than a word in his mouth. “Have I ever told you how hot I find women with blood on their hands?” Despite herself, she laughs. Jake smiles. “There she is.”
“Is it still hot when it’s your blood?” she jokes weakly.
Jake considers this with mock solemnity. “The hottest,” he says.
“That’s good,” she mutters. He tilts his head in question, but then the sergeant comes back with a team of paramedics in tow. They quickly separate her from Jake, bombarding him with questions as they get him up and onto a stretcher. She loses sight of him almost immediately.
“Santiago.” Her head snaps toward Terry. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says.
“You sure?” She nods. “Can you give me the details?” She nods again, then runs through the evening. She fumbles with Jake’s bloody jacket until she’s able to produce the camera and tells Terry about the photos, reminding him about putting away Hothworn just that week.
“I think this whole thing is way bigger than we thought,” she admits.
“It certainly is, Detective Santiago.” She snaps to attention as Holt steps into the room. “Major crimes believes that Hothworn is an alias being used by Samuel Nikita, an arms dealer they’ve been tracking for years. It would appear that your jewel thief and Peralta’s dealer are one in the same person. He’s being taken in now. We’ll stay here to secure the building until major crimes arrives, but the case is out of our hands now.”
Amy nods woodenly, unable to muster an argument against having their cases taken. The Captain, of course, notices. In a gentler voice, he says “Peralta is being transported to Kings County via helicopter. You’re free to go, Detective.” In an uncharacteristic move, he lays a hand on her shoulder. “I also believe you have some personal days available, if you need additional time.”
Amy straightens. “Thank you, sir. I’ll remember that.” She turns to go before remembering that the SUV’s keys are in Jake’s jacket. With trembling fingers, she fishes them out, grateful when the keys themselves are blood-free. She does her damndest to walk steadily out the door, but by the time the cool night air hits her face, she can’t do it. She runs across the pavement to the SUV, hauling herself up and into the driver's seat before peeling out of the grounds.
•·················•·················•
It takes almost four hours to get to the hospital. When she walks in the door to the ER, multiple nurses try to pull her aside to assess her injuries. She pulls out her badge, waving it above her head.
“NYPD, the blood’s not mine. I’m looking for a colleague.” Finally, a receptionist collects her. Debbie, according to her nametag.
“I’m looking for Detective Jake Peralta. He was medevac’d here a few hours ago.”
“You got here just in time, your boy’s just out of surgery. Let me go see where he is right now. Have a seat, please.” Amy hesitates. Debbie, an older, heavy-set woman with a kind face, reaches across the counter. “I’m gonna go put eyes on him myself, okay? I have to know where he is before I know whether I can let you back.”
“Okay.” Amy’s embarrassed when her voice comes out shaky, but Debbie just squeezes her arm and pushes a box of tissue closer to her.
“I’ll be right back, honey.”
Amy takes a tissue, blows her nose, and then paces. “Right back” turns into ten minutes, then twenty. She’s about ready to go crashing through the doors when Debbie comes back.
“Oh honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Your boy is just fine. In fact, he’s signing paperwork right now to leave.”
“He is?” Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t know much about gunshot wounds (although that’s about to change), but she’d always assumed there would be more hospital time involved.
Debbie sighs. “Trying to. The surgeon wants him to stay overnight, but he is insisting that he’s ‘just fine’ on his own.” She peers up at Amy. “Will he be on his own?”
“No.” She’d come here without a plan, but Jake’s made one for her. “No, I’ll take care of him.”
“Well.” The receptionist tilts her head back and forth. “Go on, then. Through this door, third door on the left.”
Amy reaches forward, squeezing the woman’s hand in her own. “Thank you,” she breathes. She strides through the swinging doors, rapping sharply at the third door on the left before opening it without waiting for a response.
Jake’s mouth drops open when she steps in, and the doctor raises an eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, miss, you can’t be here.”
“She can stay,” Jake counters quickly.
The doctor rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Are you here to talk some sense into Mr. Peralta?”
“Can’t. Trust me, she’s been trying for years,” Jake quips. Amy lets out a sigh of relief. The doctor lets out a sigh of annoyance. Jake beams at her. “Can I sign the papers now, please?”
The doctor throws his hands up and hands over a clipboard. “Fine. But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep those wounds clean and covered. And if you see any, and I mean any sign of infection, I want you to come straight back. And take your pain meds.”
Jake salutes with the pen before signing with a flourish and holding out the clipboard. “Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool. Can do, Doc.”
He slides off the bed and promptly clutches his side, wincing. The doctor glares at him. He waves with a grimace, picking up a paper bag with, probably, pain meds in it.
“Santiago,” he says breathlessly. “You’re clearly here to break me out. Right?”
Amy crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, Peralta. Should I be?”
“Yes,” Jake says.
“No,” the doctor says.
Amy rolls her eyes. “Let’s go, Peralta.”
He pumps his fist, then limps in her direction. They make their way slowly to reception, where Jake signs a final few forms, and then out to the SUV. Amy helps him up, wincing when he does, and then gets behind the wheel.
She turns up the heat and turns down the music, then pulls out of the parking lot.
“Alright, Peralta. What’s the damage?”
“Well, the doctor said I was lucky.” He shrugs, unconcerned. “He said if the bullets had been any higher caliber, they could have ruptured a kidney. Or perforated my intestines. And that if they’d been a couple of inches higher, they could’ve gone through my stomach. Or if that guy has been one foot closer—”
Amy looks at him. “Jake.”
“Eyes on the road, missy.” She huffs, but does as he says. “He said I have some serious bruising. Gonna be sore for a while.”
“And you wanted to leave?”
“Yeah,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
“And what was your plan before I showed up?”
“To wait for you to show up.” She can hear the smile in his voice. She resists the urge to punch him.
“Jake,” she warns.
He sighs. “Get a taxi home.”
“Right after emergency surgery?” she asks flatly. “At… 2 a.m.?”
“They didn’t even put me under.”
“Jake.”
“Amy. Why do you keep saying my name like that?”
“How would you like me to say your name, Jake?” she snaps. She bites her tongue the moment the words are out. He doesn’t answer. She groans. “Please tell me you at least realize how crazy that sounds.”
“Yeah, I guess.” He tips his head against the window. “I just… it’s been a long day. I just wanted to be home.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. She flips through stations, unable to settle on anything to listen to before she pulls up to the curb outside Jake’s building.
“Amy.” She looks up in time to see him swallowing. “The reason I thought I recognized Hothworn’s name was that I read it. In one of the files I had on him, earlier in the case.”
“This isn’t your fault.” She knows exactly where he’s going with this.
He looks up, dark eyes liquid and remorseful. “It could have been you.”
“Jake.” She says his name firmly and reaches across the center console for his arm. “This is not your fault. Don’t even think about it.”
“I could have gotten you killed.”
“No, you couldn’t have. First off, you’re the one who got shot. I think I have a monopoly on blaming myself for this one. Second, even if he’d shot me, it wouldn’t have been your fault. Now.” She raises her hand to grip his chin lightly. “I want you to forget all about that. Alright?” Jake averts his gaze, so she shakes him until he looks up again. “Alright?” she repeats. Finally, he nods. “Alright, she says. “Let’s get you inside.” She manages to get him out of the car without too much fuss, but the elevator is out of service and the trek up the stairs is excruciating.
“Did you know,” she pants as they climb, “about the elevator?”
Jake’s arm is slung over her shoulder, and he’s heavier than she’d have imagined. “Forgot.” She groans. But in one more flight, they make it up. In the apartment, Jake collapses onto the couch, panting.
She gives him several minutes and a glass of water before hauling him up.
“Okay,” she says. “Into the shower with you.”
He cracks one eye open to look at her. “You are a cruel mistress, Amy Santiago.” She extends a hand, pulling him up as gently as she can.
“Just leave the door unlocked. I’ll be right here if you need me.”
He snorts, and within minutes, the water is running. Amy scrubs her hands in the kitchenette sink, scraping blood from beneath her nails, and does her best to clean her face with a paper towel before calling for a pizza. Jake doesn’t seem to own a mirror, so she just hopes she doesn’t look ghastly when the delivery driver shows up. She doesn’t want to sit and risk getting blood on Jake’s couch, so she’s pacing when he steps out of the bathroom, painstakingly pulling a shirt over his head.
She catches sight of dark, purple bruising spreading around a bandage on his abdomen. There are already spots of blood coming through the fabric, and her hand goes to her mouth involuntarily. “Oh, Jake,” she whispers. She reaches for him without meaning to, brushing her fingers down his chest as tears well up.
“Hey, hey.” He clasps her hands, drawing them to his lips. “I’m okay. Okay? Everything is fine. In a couple of weeks, I’ll be good as new.” She nods her head vigorously.
Jake reaches up to wipe tears off her cheeks. “Alrighty then, get those tears outta here. Can’t have Teddy thinking you’re crying over me.
She drags her eyes from the hidden bandage to his face.
“Teddy,” she says. His name here, now, makes no sense.
Jake looks, quite suddenly, utterly exhausted. “He’s a lucky guy,” he murmurs.
It finally clicks.
“Teddy and I broke up.”
The knock at the door comes at exactly the perfect time. She ducks around Jake, snatching her purse off the counter, and pulls out money for the pizza—half meat lover’s for Jake, half vegetarian for herself. The pizza guy doesn’t stare, so she thinks she must have gotten the blood off.
When she turns around, pizza box in hand, Jake is leaning heavily on the counter staring at her. “When?” he asks.
“Last week.”
“Last week?” he repeats breathlessly.
“On Saturday.” She doesn’t understand where this line of questioning is going, but Jake’s gaze is fixed on her mouth.
“Saturday,” he repeats. He sounds dazed.
She dumps the pizza on the counter, stretching a hand up to his forehead. “Jake, you’re scaring me. Are you okay?”
He drags his eyes up to hers. “Don’t go.” The sincerity of the request has her heart in a vice.
“Don’t… go?” she repeats uselessly.
He snatches her hands in his, folding them in warmth. “Look, you can take my bed. I’ll sleep on the couch. Amy, I swear, I’m not… I’m not trying to do anything. I just, I’m in a lot of pain and I.” He lets her hands go and turns away. He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back. “I thought I was actually going to lose you. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared. And I know that it’s childish and stupid, and it’s not fair, but I don't want to let you out of reach.”
He turns back and she’s never seen him so nervous. “Just stay, please,” he pleads. “Just for tonight.”
She stares, speechless, and when she finally speaks, she feels like it’s the least important thing she could say to all of that.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stay.”
Jake swallows hard and nods. “Good,” he whispers. With effort, he pulls away from her and opens up the pizza box.
“I, uh.” She’s so anxious about her next words that she’s all-out stammering. “I’m going to, um. To borrow some clothes. So I can shower.”
“Yeah, yes. You can, uh.” He gestures to Gina’s old rack. “Take anything you want.”
She sifts through clothes until she finds a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, takes a makeup wipe from her purse, then slips into the bathroom. She gets the door shut and the water running, gets the zipper down on her dress, shimmies out of it… and then can’t get the hooks open on the back of her bustier.
She turns, trying to get a good look in the mirror, and can’t. She manages to get two or three, but there are several more that refuse to budge. She finally realizes that her wire is tangled up in them and curses.
At home, she has a little metal hook she keeps for situations just like this.
Here, she has only Jake.
She takes a deep breath, lifts her dress to cover herself, and opens the door.
“Jake?” she calls.
“Yeah?” He looks up from the couch and frowns in confusion.
“I need a little help.” She takes the few steps across the space and turns her back before her nerve deserts her. Jake’s breath leaves him in a forceful sound, and she plows on. “I think my wire is stuck between the hooks, and I can’t reach it.”
He doesn’t move. She looks over her shoulder and sees him taking in the set she’s wearing, scanty and lacy and sheer. She looks good in it, she knows she does.
“Jake,” she repeats.
He swallows hard and stands. “Yeah.”
She faces forward again, unable to bear the heat in his gaze, and is instead confronted by the heat radiating from his body as he steps close to her. His hands raise, tugging lightly at the hooks and disentangling the wire. It takes an eternity, yet somehow is over too quickly. Amy bolts for the bathroom the moment his hands fall away from her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and then slams the door shut behind her. She leans against it until she can get her breathing under control, then lets the pretty lingerie fall to the tile floor and steps into the hot spray of the shower.
She scrubs herself, first with the pads of her fingers and then with her nails. She shampoos her hair twice, and can’t even be surprised when she finds that Jake has no conditioner. Then she simply stands, letting the hot water fall over her in sheets.
For the first time all day, with no clear plan laid out ahead of her, she thinks back to the gala. Thinks of the way Jake’s fingertips brushed over her skin, intimate, but respectful; thinks about the way his shoulders relaxed a little more each time she pulled herself closer to him. She thinks of the way he looked at her from the corner of his eye when he thought she couldn’t see him, and the way he had clung to her for dear life when she’d kissed him, and the way his whole body had responded when she’d said his name.
She thinks of the way he’d pressed her to the door after, as if he had to have just one kiss that was just for him.
She thinks of the way he threw himself into her, and the way he didn’t slow until they were in relative safety, and the way he kept joking even as he was bleeding.
She thinks of the way his lips shaped the words “stay, please” and the near-haunted way he’d taken in the sight of her, nearly bare before him.
She thinks of the way that if anything had gone just a little wrong, he could have died. Of the way he’s out there with three bullet holes because of her.
She bursts into tears. How had Hothworn even gotten out? How had he found them? Questions for later. For now, she’s got to pull herself together. So she does. She steps out of the shower, towels off, and pulls on Jake’s clothes. She examines her face in the mirror and opens drawers, looking for a spare toothbrush. She doesn’t find one, so she settles for squeezing toothpaste onto her finger and scrubbing her teeth with it. Then she braces herself and opens the door.
He’a sitting on the couch, staring off into space, but he looks at her when she comes out.
“Come eat,” he says, leaning forward to open the box. She nods, sits, and takes a slice of vegetarian. Jake turns on the TV and flips through channels until he finds Criminal Minds.
They must sit for hours, watching reruns and nibbling pizza. When Jake starts to doze off, Amy nudges him gently.
“Let’s get you to bed,” she says.
Jake looks defeatedly at the ladder to his loft bed. “I don’t think I can get up there. Besides, I said you could have the bed.”
She gathers her courage for what she’s about to say. “Won’t I be out of reach?” If she wasn’t so tense, she’d be laughing at the face he makes.
“What?”
Despite her nerves, she aims for teasing. “If you can’t get to where I am, then I’m out of reach. Kinda defeats the whole purpose of me being here, doesn’t it?”
Jake clearly recovers during her little speech. Without missing a beat, he lays back and opens his arms. His face is carefully neutral, as if he expects her to pull away, but she doesn’t. She reaches over him to turn off the lamp and then lowers herself carefully beside him. Jake displays no such caution, dragging her roughly back until she’s pressed against him, shoulders to chest and hips to hips.
He lets out a shuddering breath, relaxing slowly against her back. The hand that’s tucked under her lifts across her to grasp her shoulder lightly. The other runs down her side, stroking the bare skin of her thigh. Amy reaches up to clasp his forearm, hoping he can’t feel her thundering heart.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he murmurs.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” she whispers back. It’s been mere seconds, but the day has shredded her self-control. She rolls to face him, laying her hands against his chest. “Jake, don’t ever do anything like that again.”
He reaches up to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “No promises.”
“Jake—”
“Why did you and Teddy break up?”
She blinks at him in the darkness. “Why?”
“Yes, why. Pretty normal question, Santiago.”
She wrestles with just how honest she should be, but she can feel his heart pounding beneath her palms.
“You,” she finally whispers.
“God, I was hoping you’d say that.”
He slides his hand into her hair and pulls her forward until their mouths meet. He kisses her tenderly, like he did when he backed her into the door only hours earlier, hands holding her gently in place.
But Amy is too keyed up to be gentle. She clutches the front of his shirt, throwing her leg over his hips in an effort to get closer. Jake grunts in pain, but the moment she begins to pull back he hauls her closer.
“No, don’t,” he pants. “You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted this.”
“Me too,” she whispers. She licks the seam of his lips and swallows the soft sound he makes.
“Do you even understand how hot you were today?” He slides his hands down to wrap around her waist. “I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life. I was just barely hanging onto my self-control. And then the way you kissed me? God…”
Amy’s never been one for dirty talk, and this is hardly even that, but it’s doing more to turn her on than she could’ve imagined. She moans into Jake’s mouth, and his hands tighten on her.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it all day. And now that I know what you were wearing under that dress?” He doesn’t even finish the thought, just groans into her mouth.
Amy dips her head to kiss down the column of his throat, pushing aside the collar of his shirt so she can get to his collarbone. “Then put your money where your mouth is, Jake.”
He flips them quite suddenly, pinning Amy beneath him, but the action comes at a cost. His head falls against her shoulder as he wheezes.
“Sorry,” she whispers, hand sliding to rest just above his wound. “Maybe we shouldn’t…”
She trails off, trying to decide how best to say this. She can feel him, hard and hot against her, but she can’t come up with any way to do this that won’t hurt him more.
Jake groans loudly against the side of her neck. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… yeah. I think sex is gonna have to wait.” They both laugh, a little breathless, and he kisses her lightly for a few minutes. But he’s shaking with the effort of holding himself up, so Amy gently pushes him down, resuming her position backed against him. He pulls her tightly to him, nuzzling into the side of her neck.
“Best day ever,” he murmurs.
“Jake, you got shot.”
“Best. Day. Ever,” he reiterates.
She sighs through her nose. He laughs silently.
“So I guess this means you still like me?“
“Uh, duh.” He tightens his hold on her even more, and if she wasn’t so grateful to have him here with her, to have him alive, she might say something. She doesn’t.
“Well how was I supposed to know? It’s been months, and you haven’t said anything. I can’t even tell if you’ve been flirting with me or if you’re just being Jake!”
“I told you, I wasn’t trying to change you being with Teddy,” he says wryly. “But it was hard work. Not making you fall in love with me, I mean.”
She doesn’t think he means to imply it, but she can’t help thinking about all of the actual extra work he’s been picking up since dropping her off in front of her apartment.
“Where did you park that night, anyway?”
It’s funny. She doesn’t give him any real context, but somehow, he still knows. “Down the street, by the bodega. He didn’t look happy. I didn’t want to leave you there alone, and then you just… sat there.”
“Well, he wasn’t happy.” She pauses. “You avoided me the next day. Why?”
He doesn’t answer that right away, and the hand on her leg pauses its strokes. “I thought I’d overstepped. I was trying to back off.”
“Well, we’d already broken up by then.” She can’t bring herself to sound even a little disappointed. “Because of you.”
“I know that shouldn’t make me happy, but it does.” She smacks at his arm, and he leans forward to kiss the side of her neck.
She sighs. “He’ll get over it.”
They lay in silence for so long that she thinks maybe he’s fallen asleep, but then he speaks again. Soft. Like he’s afraid of breaking this tentative comfort. “I couldn’t. Get over you, I mean. I think I’ve been trying to get over you from day one, but I can’t. You’re the one for me.“
He stiffens behind her, as if realizing what he’s said. It’s not those words, but the sentiment is there.
Amy wiggles herself back. It’s not like she can actually get any closer, but she can certainly try.
“I think I like being the one for you.” She says it softly, with conviction, and smiles when she feels him relax.
“Obviously you do, I’m an amazing detective/genius.”
She laughs at that. She finally feels able to breathe again, here in Jake’s arms. In all her noticing over the last year, it’s not like she’s missed his flaws. Of course he’s childish, and she knows they’re both too competitive. And they argue, of course they do. But he knows her in a way she thinks no one else ever has, how to make her laugh and feel seen and safe.
She’s tempted to tell him what she told Teddy, that she thinks she’s in love. She can feel him nodding off, though, squeezing her periodically.
She decides she can tell him in a little while, if he doesn’t notice first.
Knight in Shining Glasses : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader
Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Reader
Summary: All you wanted to do was enjoy your first night in San Diego at the bar recommended to you by your father, but a hot-shot new to the Top Gun program was intent on bringing you home with him, or at least couldn't take a hint. Lucky for you, there's a knight in shining glasses ready to save you.
Warnings: 18+ ONLY (I am not responsible for the media you choose to consume), fluff, language, kind of a pushy douchebag guy is in this, female reader, language, probably incorrect descriptions of the Navy (my dad was a Marine, I'm doing my best lol but I did do a ton of research so hopefully it's accurate-ish), suggestive and steamy but no smut (but boy did we get real close), like a TINY maybe hint of angst for 0.2 seconds
You nodded your head at the gorgeous woman behind the bar, who was already sliding a beer your way before you’d even answered, as if she could read your mind. You gave her a smile in thanks, sighing the second your hand touched the cool glass of the bottle.
San Diego was hot, too hot for your liking. Every piece of fabric on your body felt as if it was clinging to your body right now in a way that had you begging the world just to make it legal to walk around naked. You much preferred the weather back in New England, on the complete opposite side of the country, but you had promised to come to town for a bit. It had been years since you’d seen your father, not since his promotion and subsequent move to San Diego, your conflicting work schedules making it impossible to make the cross-country trip, even if you missed him.
You were here now, though, seated in the bar that had come highly recommended to you straight from him: The Hard Deck, located right on Coronado Beach, just minutes from the Naval Air Station of North Island.
“Local beer?” you questioned the woman as yet another group of rowdy, young Naval aviators came bursting through the doors of the bar, disturbing some of the other guests in the packed bar. The woman, whose nametag you could now see said Penny, just laughed at the antics of her new guests before nodding at you.
“Yeah, local company. They’re pretty popular around here, so I always have to keep them in stock,” you hummed, taking another sip of the drink in your hands. Rich in flavor, maybe with a hint of sweetness that complemented the bitterness it left behind. You could see why it was popular around here. Penny wiped the bar directly in front of you, flashing you a smile. “Now, I know most of my regulars here, and you certainly aren’t one. Where’d you blow into town from?”
“Watertown, New York,” you told her as another group of Naval aviators passed by you in their service khakis, older than the group that had just come in. Your eyes followed them for just a moment, lingering as they moved to the back of the room to the pool tables as if they were there every night, before looking back at Penny. “My father is in the Navy, stationed here in San Diego. Thought it was finally time I visited him.”
“Good, means you know how to deal with the rowdy bunch I have here,” you both laughed as she gestured toward the group of young pilots that had just come through. Someone called to her from further down the bar, and she paid you one final smile. “Holler if you need anything, or if anyone’s giving you trouble.”
“Will do,”
With the jukebox playing off in the corner, Summer of ‘69 by Bryan Adams filling the air, it gave you a chance to really take in the atmosphere. Given the proximity to the Naval Air Station, you weren’t surprised by the amount of Navy paraphernalia that decorated the entire bar. Mugs hung from the ceiling with F18s on them, plenty of pictures of those monster jets hung up around the tables as well. And with the clientele that Penny seemed to attract here, judging by the number of young pilots scattered around, you weren’t surprised that this seemed to have turned into a place many in the Navy flocked to after a long day on base.
The young group of aviators, who seemed to have met up with another group of friends, were loud and rambunctious over by the dart board as they took bets on who could make a bullseye first. You rolled your eyes at their antics with a slight smile, reminded of the stories your father had told of his days, and looked over your shoulder toward that older group by the pool tables.
Easily your age, or at least older and more experienced than the group by the dart board. There was one woman among the groups of men with darker hair, already kicking their asses at the pool game they were playing. That alone quirked your lips up just slightly as you watched Penny deliver a tray of drinks to the group that seemed very personally friendly with her. Ah, so they must be stationed here at North Island and be regulars of the Hard Deck.
They were quite the bunch, from what you observed from the bartop. There was the young man playing alongside the woman, and what seemed like his best friend pestering him after another missed shot. There was a taller, tan blonde who you could tell from here exuded confidence in an over-the-top way, and a friend beside him who also seemed to have that arrogant confidence about him. The man taking the tray from Penny and passing out the drinks had that same confidence and charm, but it almost seemed to roll off of him naturally as if he wasn’t even trying to charm those around him.
It was the one sitting off to the side, silently observing his friends, that caught your eye.
He didn’t exude confidence in the same way that his friends did. He wasn’t walking sex on legs like many would think the tall, overconfident friends of his were…but he was to you. Quiet, simply observing his friends with a tiny smile that stirred something in your chest. One hand holding onto the neck of his beer bottle, the same one you were drinking, and the other casually snacking on a cup of peanuts. You tried, and failed, to keep your eyes from lingering on those long, slender fingers of his, or the fact that, even from here, you could tell his hands were large in a delicious way that had your mind imagining what they’d feel like settled on your bare-
Okay, yeah, maybe it was time to say ‘fuck it’ to your no hook-up rule and get laid on this vacation. You couldn’t be thinking like this over a man you’d been looking at for less than a minute, didn’t even know his name, or had yet to make eye contact with.
But then, when your eyes finally left those slender hands, you were making eye contact with him.
There was an adorable flush crawling across his cheeks, and god were you a sucker for a cute man in some glasses. His lips quirked up in a shy smile as he met your gaze, giving you a tiny nod. A similar flush crept up your neck at being caught staring, giving him a small wink before turning back around to not seem like a creep watching him.
With Penny off taking orders as the bar only seemed to get busier by the minute, and no one around you seemed like good options for a conversation, you found yourself spun around to lean against the bar and observe the room. No time like a crowded bar to people watch.
With a few work emails checked to ensure you weren’t missing anything pressing on your vacation, and a text sent to your father to thank him for the bar recommendation, you found your eyes drifting back to that same Naval aviator once more.
The woman had dragged him from his seat, his beer and peanuts left behind as a pool cue was shoved into his hands as his friends cheered, bringing a grin to your face. Your eyes tracked him as he bent over the table to line up his shot, his friends engrossed in a conversation together, but then his eyes flicked up and met yours again. Your eyebrow shot up as you raised a beer to him, a simultaneous encouragement for him to sink his shot and also a challenge to see if he could. His lips quirked up at that as, without even glancing down to his cue, he took his shot: directly in the pocket without interference. His friends clapped for him, patting him on the back, but his eyes stayed on you. Even with another flush crawling up his neck and nerves practically stitched into his smile, he shot you a wink this time, and you couldn’t stop the giddy grin on your lips.
“Well, never seen girl as pretty you before,”
You didn’t want to stop looking at that gorgeous man in glasses across the bar, but you were intrigued to know who was speaking to you.
He wasn’t the worst-looking man, he was attractive. Dark hair that matched the mustache and the beard that was growing in, which was definitely against grooming standards for the Navy. Pretty brown eyes…but he wasn’t your shy, glasses-sporting boy across the room. Plus, you recognized him from that rowdy bunch of pilots that had walked in beforehand. The smile you’d given the man across the bar dropped into the smallest, friendliest one you could muster as you looked at the name on his badge: Jackson.
“Well, that’s definitely a way to open up a conversation,” you shot back. The man only laughed, leaning against the bar next to you with a charming, over-confident grin on his lips.
“Warrant Officer Daniel Jackson,” he held out his hand to shake yours, and you reluctantly gave it to him. You regretted it the moment he brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, and you quickly took your hand back and slyly wiped it along the side of your jeans. “Friends call me Caveman.”
“Interesting callsign,” you shot back with a fake laugh, tilting your head. “You get that from the unkempt beard that’s clearly not within grooming protocols?
He laughed again, but it did nothing to lift your smile from where it was frozen to be polite. He took a swig from his own beer that he’d brought over with him before leaning closer.
“Funny, and you know the Navy,” you laughed uncomfortably again, taking a subconscious scoot backward on your chair to get away from him. “Brand new to Top Gun, friends and I got in earlier. About to become the best of the best…”
He continued talking, droning on and on about Top Gun and the ‘prestige’ that came with being one of the best of the best (if he could actually get through the vigorous training). In the interest of being polite and not pissing off a man your first night in town, you laughed politely when appropriate and pretended to be listening.
When your eyes glanced back at that man in the glasses, though, he was already looking at you. Back to standing near the seat he’d occupied before, peanuts in his hands and the pool game abandoned as he seemed to be watching you. You gave him a dramatic roll of your eyes, pitching your head toward the pilot still talking your ear off as if to say ‘get a load of this guy,’ and you could see him laugh from across the bar. That simple action sent a flutter through your chest, and god, what you wouldn’t give to actually hear that laugh.
“...I could show you base sometime,” your attention was, sadly, brought back to Caveman beside you, who was still smiling at you as if you were a prize he’d won and wanted to flaunt around the entire bar to each and every patron. “Could sponsor ya for the day, give ya a private tour.”
“That’s sweet, but I’m sure if I wanted to visit the base, my father would happily sponsor me,” you shot back, trying to turn him down as politely as you possibly could. Your comment only seemed to brighten his mood even more.
“Navy dad, you say?” he’d leaned in closer once more, and you were running out of room on the little stool to lean away from him. “Guess that means you know a lot. Dad have rules about…dating pilots?”
Yeah, no, now you were uncomfortable. There was no being polite now, he’d made his intentions clear and could clearly not read your body language. Your body instantly tensed as your eyes avoided his, still trying to keep the most polite smile you could on your lips. Penny was nowhere in sight to help, so your eyes immediately found your pilot across the room.
He was already watching you, it seemed, but when you locked eyes again, he stood up a little straighter, the smile he had on his face dropping slightly. It was as if he could see the way your demeanor had suddenly changed, and god, you hoped he could see it.
“I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for anything like that,” you’d awkwardly laughed out as you looked back at him finally. “I’m just here on vacation.”
That was when his hand settled on top of your knee, and your heart leapt into your throat. The heat of his hand felt like it was burning a hole in your jeans as he squeezed just so.
“Don’t got to be anything serious, I’m down for some fun,”
That polite smile was gone off your face in an instant as you tried to yank your leg from him, but he squeezed it just slightly tighter.
“Okay, Caveman, sounds like you must’ve got your nickname from how you treat women,” that snide comment seemed to drop his confident demeanor immediately. “I’ve turned you down, I’ve made it clear I’m not interested. So I suggest you let me go.”
“Come on, I think you just need to-”
“I’m pretty sure she said let her go, Caveman,”
There was an edge to the voice that cut in, but not one that made you feel on edge yourself. A hand clamped down on your shoulder from behind, firm but not uncomfortable in the way that the hand on your knee was. Grounding, and when it squeezed your shoulder just slightly, it felt comforting. Protective, in a way. And when you finally turned your head and noticed those familiar glasses you’d been staring at all night, and those gorgeous blue eyes hiding behind them, you immediately relaxed into his touch.
Caveman’s hand immediately left your knee as he seemed to sit up a little straighter, putting his hands up in surrender as he looked at the man standing at your side now.
“Lieutenant Floyd-”
“Things are looking tense over here!” those two pilots you’d observed earlier, the ones who exuded confidence in your eyes, suddenly appeared behind Caveman. The taller blonde placed his hand down on his shoulder just as Lieutenant Floyd’s was on yours, and you glanced at their tags: Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw. The blonde pointed to Caveman, raising an eyebrow at the man at your side. “Baby-on-board, is this man causing trouble?”
Your shoulder was squeezed once more as you turned back to look at the man at your side, feeling another flutter in your chest as you got a good look at those sky blue eyes up close, which made him even more attractive in your eyes. He gave you a small smile, tilting his head toward your ‘friend’ just like you had earlier on.
“Is he bothering you?”
You’d glanced back at Caveman, who seemed semi-scared shitless around these guys, and a smirk curled up on your lips.
“Yes, yes he is,”
“Disrespecting a lady?” it was Penny’s voice now as she reappeared behind the bar, her glare set on that poor pilot that everyone was ganging up on. She ‘tsked’ in his direction, before stepping back to point to a sign hanging just behind her. “It’s your first night here, you should probably check the rules before you get comfortable.”
Disrespect a lady, the Navy, or put your cellphone on my bar…you buy a round.
Alright, Penny might be your new favorite person, besides the hot ass pilot in glasses still comfortably resting his hand on your shoulder as the scene played out before you all.
Caveman never even got a chance to defend himself, as Penny had stepped up to the bell hanging from the ceiling beside the sign, the ring of it echoing throughout the bar. Within seconds, there were chants of ‘OVERBOARD!’ heard throughout the room before Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw had the man hooked under their arms, dragging him out to the parking lot as his friends quickly followed behind.
“A-Are you okay?”
Your eyes found your pilot’s brilliant blue ones again, this time in front of you as he chose to now occupy the seat Caveman was sitting in just moments prior. You simply stared at him for a moment, still trying to process the entire interaction, before a smile stretched wide across your face.
“You know, I thought the Knight in all the fairytales was wearing shining armor?” you posed it like a question, a teasing tone present in your words as you took a quick swig of your beer, eyes never leaving his, and your smile turning into a slight smirk. “Didn’t know mine was going to come bearing shining glasses, instead.”
He’d laughed, that laugh just minutes ago you would’ve burned this bar down to hear, and my god, did you adore it. You adored it more than you should, given that you still didn’t know this mystery man’s name.
“No woman deserves to be treated like that, ma’am,” he tried to dismiss you, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as your eyes trailed over those hands once again, now that they were so close. You could see the redness in his cheeks from this close now, too. “T-The way he was acting, my mom would’ve torn me a new one if I didn’t step in.”
“And is that the only reason?” you quipped back immediately, placing your beer down on the counter just so you could really look at him, study him. “That you stepped in?”
You could see the way he hesitated for a moment, but not as if he didn’t want to answer you. No, you could see that flush deepening in his skin: you were flirting with him, and he knew it, he just didn’t know how to handle it.
“N-No, no, that’s not the only reason,” there was a shy smile on his face as he huffed out a sheepish laugh, looking down at his lap for a moment, before looking back to you. “I should actually thank him, his incompetence gave me the balls to come over here and talk to you.”
He’d made you laugh, a boisterous one that caught the attention of a few lingering around the area of the bartop you were sat at, and you knew already that you were screwed when it came to this man. You’d offered your name immediately after that, a hand out to shake, and he took it in his own as he gave his name: Bob Floyd.
You tried desperately not to think about the way his hand had felt against yours, or the way it had absolutely engulfed your hand due to its sheer size alone. You forced your gaze to the badges that adorned the left side of his khaki uniform, glancing back up at him with a grin as you pulled your hand away.
“So, a Lieutenant?” you commented, gesturing toward the two silver bars on the collar of his uniform, before pointing with your beer bottle to the golden wings centered above his heart. “Flight officer badge. You’re a Weapons Systems Officer?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he gave you another kind grin as Penny swung by quickly, shooting a wink in both of your directions as you slid you both another beer each, muttering something about it being on the house. Bob took his with a sheepish smile, thanking Penny quietly before his attention refocused on you. “Top Gun graduate.”
“Ah, that and the rank explain why Caveman was so scared shitless to see you and your friends,” he’d laughed again at that comment as you finished off the last of your beer, a sly smirk appearing as it was hard to miss the way that Bob’s eyes flickered down to your neck as you tilted you head back to finish off the bottle. “Typically, you’re only recalled here for special detachments and sent home to your squadrons, unless you’re here to train newbies like our friend in the sand outside.”
“We were brought in for a mission months ago,” Bob’s attention was turned away as Lt. Seresin and Lt. Bradshaw reentered the bar. They both gave you polite waves that you happily returned for what they’d done for you, before making the most obvious of kissy faces toward Bob that had him shaking his head in embarrassment. You tried to hold in your laughter for his own sake. “They thought we had good team dynamics, so they formed a special squadron to keep us in town for a while. VFA-73 Dagger Squad, at your service.”
“Well, cheers to you all and a sincere thanks for your service,” he happily clinked the top of his bottle against your own. “Must be one special group to get a new squadron formed, no less made up of the best of the best.”
“Oh, they’re special, alright,”
You’d quickly come to learn in the next few minutes that Bob Floyd might’ve been the quieter one of his friends, but he was just as charming as the rest seemed to be. Honestly, you weren’t sure he understood just how charming he really was. He’d pointed across the bar toward his friends, naming off their names and the callsigns that you were sure to remember more easily. With each name, he seemed to easily have a story or a quick-witted quip about each one (including the embarrassing story of his Bob ended up his callsign and how Hangman had turned it into baby-on-board) that had you progressively laughing harder, leaning further toward him. You were seated facing one another, bodies angled directly at the other, and his knee was just barely brushing up against yours now with each laugh shared.
“Hangman seems like a piece of work, but I bet he’s got a soft side buried somewhere down in there,” you’d shot back, turning Bob’s attention back to you as you leaned closer to him with a grin, launching into a story that Bob seemed gripped to, an easy smile on his own face. “My dad’s the same way, took my Uncle Solomon–not my real Uncle, but kind of chosen Uncle–to break him down a little bit, get him to loosen up more.”
“So, your father was in the Navy?”
“Still is, reason that I’m in town right now,”
With Bob this close, you were losing focus fast. The way he hung onto every word that you said, seemed to genuinely care about what you had to say, had a flutter flying through your chest that you hadn’t felt since your first boyfriend back in high school. Sure, you’d had your fair share of relationships in adulthood, but nothing that clicked, no one that made your heart soar or made you want to ‘pop your foot’ as Princess Mia always said in your favorite childhood movie. You were starting to understand her logic, though, because every second around this charming knight in shining glasses had you ready to throw caution to the wind.
So, with a little boost of confidence fueled by the third beer in your hand and the adorable sight of a blush on the Naval aviator’s face, you moved even closer. Your leg slotted itself between his, pressed between his thighs as your foot rested against the bottom rungs of his chair. You could see him freeze for just a second as his eyes followed you, not apprehensive, but just unsure, like he’d never been here before. With your beer pushed off to the side, not seeing a need for any more liquid courage, your elbow came to rest on the bartop and your head on top of your hand, allowing you to look up at the handsome man before you and watch as he visibly swallowed the lump in his throat.
God, that really had no right to be as hot as it was.
“S-So, he’s stationed here on North Island?”
“Maybe,” you shot back with a smirk, one that brought an easy smile back to his lips as he could surely hear the teasing tone laced through your words as you kept your answer vague. “I’d prefer not to talk about my dad, though, when I could be hearing more about the incredibly handsome WSO who saved this poor damsel in distress.”
Another easy laugh was shared between you both before the floodgates seemed to open up.
Bob had no issue telling you all about his childhood. He’d grown up in Montana, on a ranch somewhere on the outskirts of Bozeman, which prompted a lengthy debate on whether or not he qualified as a cowboy or not (you thought he did, and when he confessed to owning a few cowboy hats, you declared yourself the winner of the debate). His mother and father, Bonnie and Owen Floyd, had three daughters before finally having Bob, their youngest: Laura, and the twins Sophia and Sierra. He’d recounted a story from back in high school when they’d taken a trip to Yellowstone National Park for Bob’s birthday, at his request, where his oldest sister had gotten yelled at by a park ranger for stepping way too close to one of the hot springs.
“That’s, like, impossible to do!” you’d almost shouted through the bar incredulously as Bob laughed at your reaction. “All you have to do is stay on the guided paths, right?”
“That’s what I said!” Bob managed to explain through his own laughter. “Laura swore she saw a bald eagle and was just trying to get a closer look. She then, unbelievably, yelled back at the ranger about how one day she was going to be a conservationist and work there.”
“In the nicest way…she sounds like a piece of work sometimes,”
“No offense taken, the whole family agrees. I like to say she took all the extrovertedness in the family so that there was none left for me,”
Your lips quirked into another bright smile at that, tone slightly teasing once more, but in a soft way.
“I don’t know, you don’t seem so introverted around me,”
Bob paused at that, that adorable blush still ever present in his skin, as his lips quirked up just slightly higher than they were before.
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t,” he’d shyly managed to say, eyes never straying from yours. “You make it easy.”
With more shared laughter, two hearts fluttering just from conversation alone, Bob even told you the story of how he’d decided to join the Navy. He’d been with his father one day, the family truck getting worked on at the local shop, and his dad had slid him some money to grab them both some snacks from the pharmacy a few doors down. Bob had only been around 10 at the time. In between those two buildings, though, had been a Navy recruitment center where he’d overheard the conversation inside with some high school students, and the rest was history. He suddenly had every book known to man about the Navy, was watching every movie that even mentioned the Navy in passing, and had sheepishly admitted to even starting a collection of model planes he’d built, dreaming one day of flying them.
God, if that wasn’t somehow the cutest story in the world, but also the hottest moment of vulnerability you’d seen from a man your age in years, you were practically ready to swoon and drop to the floor right there in the middle of the bar. You had a feeling that Penny wouldn’t take kindly to that, even if she seemed to like you and Bob’s friend group.
In turn, you’d told Bob everything about yourself, too. Growing up in a town in New York that felt more like it was part of Canada than New York, given your proximity to the border. You were an only child, your father (who had you skirting around any details that Bob asked about him) was too focused on his career to think about having another kid. But he always swore that you were enough for him. His workaholic nature and deep love for the Navy and moving up the ranks strained the relationship he had with your mother until they divorced. How you never got to see him often, but he always managed to call at least once a week to talk to his ‘perfect girl.’
With the depressing comparison of your childhoods and family dynamics, you’d told him the happy stories and memories, too. Ones that you didn’t normally divulge to a man you had just met. You’d been on a softball team all through high school with your best friends, won multiple championships, and even gotten a scholarship to Boston University because of it. There were multiple stories about how your parents always bribed you with Cold Stone Creamery, and how it was still your favorite ice cream place today. That time your friends had gotten caught sneaking alcohol into the punch bowls at prom (that story had Bob laughing, as he recounted a similar one that Hangman had told them from his high school days). And, of course, the thrilling stories of your very mundane marketing job back in your hometown, the one you never managed to escape.
“You at least like your job, though, right?” Bob had asked, and with the way you were now sitting together, it would probably be more comfortable and practical to just climb into his lap and use him as a chair. Legs still wound around one another, both leaning against the bar with beers long forgotten, faces entirely too close together as you sat in your own bubble together. The sun had long since gone down, as it had still been in the beginning stages of setting when you’d first entered the bar.
One hour, two? You had no clue how long you’d been talking to Bob Floyd, but every part of you wanted to talk to him for the rest of the night and beyond. It was easy, it was comfortable, and you felt more respected in the entirety of this conversation than you did on any Tinder date you’d been on in years. Safe. That’s what you felt. You felt safe around Bob Floyd, a feeling that was a hot commodity in today's dating climate.
“I do. I went to school for it, so I hope I like it,” your eyes drifted to the bartop, finger absentmindedly tracing the water ring left around your discarded beer bottle. “Pays well, very well. Just want to do it…somewhere other than my hometown, is all. Love the company I work for, just want a change. If an opportunity presented itself, I’d leave Watertown immediately.”
“And besides your mom, you wouldn’t uh…you wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind, would you? No like a, uh, a boyfriend…or anything?”
You’d glanced back up at him now, at the way he bit into his bottom lip with both nerves and hope shining in his eyes as he waited with baited breath for your answer. And in turn, you smiled, leaning just the slightest bit closer to him with amusement laced in your words.
“Lieutenant Floyd, if you haven’t noticed, I’ve been flirting with you all night. I wouldn’t do that if there was someone waiting for me,”
He laughed then, and you could almost physically see the tension and nerves leave his body.
“Good, because uh, I-I don’t either. Have anyone, I mean,” your head tilted as Bob groaned slightly, running a hand down his face and adjusting his glasses with a deep chuckle. “I’m sorry, I’m really not good at this.”
“At flirting?”
“I never really get the chance to, no one ever really notices me,” he’d shrugged it off like it was nothing, but you’d felt a small pang in your chest at that comment. “Jake, Bradley, Javy…it’s always them, and it doesn’t normally bother me. But I…I saw you earlier, and you looked at me like you saw me. Like you really saw me. You never looked at them, you kept looking at me. And…I’ve never been the one looked at like that, not when I’m with them. I’m not the one noticed.”
You shuffled, sitting up slightly now so that you weren’t leaning against the bar, as you placed your hand on top of his, where it lay in his lap. Bob simply watched you, a tiny smile never leaving his face, as you reciprocated the look and gave his hand a squeeze.
“I’m not one to flirt with a random guy at a bar, or sit and divulge details of my life story to him for hours on end. Which means you, Bob Floyd, are special. And honestly? I’m glad the other ladies don’t notice you, because I sure did. And that just leaves more for me.”
There was silence for a beat before his hand under your own moved back just slightly, his fingers now splayed out over your own, wrapping around them slightly with a tiny squeeze. And somewhere in that small movement, in the looks exchanged in the never-ending eye contact you seemed to hold with one another, something changed. Those heated looks from earlier held a new weight with the words spoken out loud, the tension on the rope connecting the two of you tighter than it had been from the moment you’d first saw Bob Floyd from across the bar, and it felt like all it was going to take to snap that tension was to lean in-
“Baby-on-board! You done hogging your girl over there so we can meet her?”
And…moment ruined. Bob immediately shut his eyes, groaning with a mumble under his breath about how he was ‘going to kill Hangman’ while his friends all laughed from across the bar. You’d simply laughed, leaning your head down until your forehead rested against Bob’s shoulder, his breath and words ghosting over the side of your face as he finally spoke.
“Sorry about them. The one time I have a girl interested in me, they decide to be pricks about it,”
“Maybe they’re just trying to summon you back over, I have held you hostage long enough,” you commented when you finally lifted your head, glancing down at the watch on his arm to see that you had, in fact, held this man hostage at the bar for almost two hours, even though it had felt like minutes.
“Trust me, this was no hostage situation. I’d rather be over here with you,” Bob was quick to interject, his smile seeming to stretch wider as you were sure he could see the flush crawling up your own neck. Untangling your legs, Bob rose to his feet beside the chair as a pang of disappointment hit you square in the chest. That was, until he held his hand out to you with a sheepish grin. “Care to join me?”
You were pretty sure you would’ve followed Bob Floyd anywhere at this point. Was it insane to like a guy this much after barely knowing him for a night? Probably, but you didn’t feel like you’d just met him. No, Bob Floyd felt like meeting an old friend again, and god did you love the feeling. That’s why you didn’t hesitate to put your hand in his.
“Lead the way, Lieutenant,”
There was another round of cheers the second you and Bob were finally in their vicinity, another comment from Hangman about ‘Bobby finally bagging a woman’ that ended with a harsh shoulder slap from Phoenix. You’d only laughed as Bob shook his head at their antics and gratefully accepted the barstool he’d held out for you. Your eyes watched him, like they had been the entire night, as he turned down the invitation to the pool game at hand, taking a seat on the stool directly next to you.
What he probably hadn’t expected was for your foot to hook around the leg of his stool, dragging it directly to your side until every part of you that could be pressed up against the handsome WSO was. When he saw the easy smile on your face and the tiny wink you gave him, you could see any last bit of tension leave his body as he easily leaned into you as well.
They’d all quickly introduced themselves, though Bob had already given you the rundown before. You greeted them politely with a smile, finally giving them your own name so Bradley didn’t have to call you ‘mystery bar girl’ anymore.
“Well, well, well baby-on-board,” it was Hangman once again, shaking his head as he took a shot on one of his last solids left in play, sinking it easily. “Looks like you snagged a confident one. Too bad, bet I could’ve swept her off her feet if given the chance.”
Flirty. Bob certainly didn’t exaggerate just how flirtatious Jake Seresin seemed to be, not that you were interested at all in any comments from him. The comments didn’t catch you off guard, but Bob’s actions did.
His hand was immediately on your thigh, closer down toward your knee, but resting there nonetheless. Just the slightest bit of pressure, enough to feel as if it had been meant in a comforting gesture, but it inherently held something a little more to it. Not quite possessiveness, but something akin to staking a claim, to say you were with him and him only. While Caveman’s hand on any part of you had you wanting to run for the hills, Bob’s firm grip had you leaning into his side more, chasing after the warmth and security he provided. It still sent a flash of heat through every inch of your body, especially when you glanced down to see just how big his hand was when it was resting on such a small part of you. You wished you’d opted for the jean shorts you had picked out earlier now just to feel his hand engulf your bare skin instead.
“Knock it off, Bagman. Clearly, she’s more interested in the quiet types,” the wink Natasha sent your way made you laugh, a similar chuckle coming from Bob at his front-seater’s comments, as she whacked Hangman over the shoulder. While lining up to take her own shot in the game, you saw her catch the way Bob’s hand rested on your leg, and a flash of surprise followed by pride seemed to cross her features. “So, never seen you around before. What brings you to Fightertown?”
“Visiting my dad for a few weeks, he’s stationed here on North Island. But…I’m also here for work,” you could see Bob’s head turn to look at you curiously from the corner of your eye, but you kept your gaze on Natasha. “The marketing firm I work for has a branch out here in San Diego, over in Chula Vista. They know I’ve been looking to move, so they thought I should come check out their set-up out here to see if I liked it enough to take their offer.”
There was a squeeze to your thigh as you turned your attention back to Bob, who was looking at you quizically.
“You didn’t mention that before,”
“Wasn’t sure I was going to take their offer earlier,” you shrugged innocently. “San Diego is hot, I’m not built for this weather.”
“But you…think you might take it now?”
You bit into your bottom lip, leaning just a fraction closer to Bob as you tried to hold back your grin as you replied.
“Well…maybe I found another enticing reason to hang around San Diego for a while,”
There was a low murmur of laughter throughout the group at your words, that gorgeous redness settling back into Bob’s cheeks, and you could hear Fanboy mumble out just loud enough a ‘damn, she’s good at this’ comment.
The group asked their questions, and you answered happily. Where you were from, what all your job entailed, even the stupid little questions like who your celebrity crush was or if you ever thought about joining the Navy like your father.
All the while, Bob never strayed from your side. His thumb had been rubbing little circles into your jeans, just firm enough to feel it on your skin each time the digit moved back and forth, and god, you were really cursing yourself for not wearing those shorts right now. At some point, during a pool rematch between Rooster and Coyote, your head had found it’s way to rest against Bob’s shoulder, and after a brief moment there was the unmistakeable feel of lips pressed to the crown of your head that had a shiver running down your spine and another flash of heat rushing through you, this time heading all south.
Charming, sexy in a quiet way that made him seem so non-threatening, and an absolutely sweetheart and a gentleman…it hadn’t even been a day, but you knew Bob Floyd had already ruined your standards for men. He was the standard.
“Sorry, my favorite fighter pilots,” the attention of everyone crowded by the pool tables turned to Penny, hand on her hip, but an easy smile on her face as she glanced around, eyes lingering on you and the WSO who were still wrapped around one another. “Last call time, going to have to kick you all out now.”
Last call? With a quick glance around the bar, you noticed that there was, in fact, barely any patrons still around. The ones still left behind were already moving toward the door. And with a glance down at Bob’s watch, the time was confirmed: 2 a.m.
“Damn, we almost never stay here until last call,” Rooster laughed, packing up everything on the pool table so that Penny didn’t have to deal with it, Fanboy and Paybackl disappearing after offering to help Penny clean up bottles still littered around the bar.
“Time does fly when you’re having fun,” Natasha commented, bumping shoulders with him before she set her sights on you. “What about you, our honorary Dagger? Need a ride back to wherever you’re staying?”
“Nah, I’m staying at Hotel del Coronado right down the beach. Perks of the job. I just walked along the beach to get here earlier,” your gaze then flickered over to Bob, his thumb still rubbing circles into your leg where he’d never let go throughout the night. “Though it’s pretty late, I’d love if there was some knight in shining glasses still hanging around that wouldn’t mind walking me back.”
There wasn’t a second of hesitation from Bob before he was on his feet, the heat of his hand on your leg disappearing, and then reappearing moments later when his hand wrapped around your own, fingers sliding into place between yours.
“I’ve got tomorrow off, I’ll see you guys on base Sunday,” Bob nodded toward his friends, tugging you even closer to his side. “Tell Penny I’ll come grab my truck later.”
“More like in the morning,” Hangman commented, trying to conceal it surrounded by fake coughs. The group had laughed, the comment spurring another bloom of red across Bob’s cheeks and your own, before he’d tugged you out the back door of the Hard Deck and into the sand.
The beach in these early hours of the morning was quiet, beautiful in a way that only these lonely hours of the night could make it. No distant sound of traffic, no families or rowdy groups of teenagers running up and down the sand, just the sand, the waves, and the moon. It cast streaks of light over the water, its reflection rippling in the waves as they crashed to shore, setting the scene of a picturesque night along the stretch of sand that lasts miles.
Bob had held you up as you removed your sandals, carrying them in one hand in order to appreciate the cool sand beneath your feet. Your other hand still stayed wrapped up in Bob’s, the warmth of his skin a delicious contrast to the cool breeze that came with the cool nighttime California air. Conversation hadn’t stopped, not once, since you’d both started talking earlier on in the night, but this time it was Bob pointing up at the sky as you lazily moved down the beach at the slowest pace you could, naming constellations visible.
“That one right over there,” you followed his gaze as he pointed just slightly West in the sky. “That one is Hercules.”
“Ah, absolutely. I can totally see it,” you nodded your head repeatedly, and it was clear that Bob was already starting to laugh at your response. “The square those stars form, and the little stick arms and legs, definitely gives off a mythological Greek hero to me.”
“Well, actually,” Bob managed to speak through his laughter. “It’s named for his Roman counterpart. Heracles was his Greek counterpart, so they’re essentially the same thing.”
After a moment, you dropped Bob’s hand, turning and angling your body so that you were facing him head-on, walking backward in the sand. Even in the dark of the night, you could tell there was a tiny blush creeping along his cheeks as you tilted your head toward him.
“Bob Floyd, don’t tell me you’re also a secret space nerd!”
His laugh echoed down the beach as he hung his head for a moment, adjusting his glasses when he finally looked back up to you with a grin.
“Guilty, hard not to be with the kind of night skies I grew up seeing in Montana. I-I haven’t…completely ruined my chances now that I’ve nerded out…have I?”
“On the contrary. I have a thing for smart men,” with another wink, you’d spun on your heel in the sand, continuing your walk toward the hotel. “Especially this smart, handsome WSO named Bob Floyd that I met tonight.”
You’d barely gotten a few steps away before there was a sudden tug on your hand, your body spinning back around in the sand until your chest was pressed directly to Bob’s. And before you could utter a single word, his lips were, finally, on yours.
Without a second of hesitation, you fell into him, swept away by the way his fingers traced the line of your jaw, sliding their way to the back of your neck as he held you in place against him. His lips moved against your own with a sense of gentleness that disappeared once it was clear you were reciprocating with vigor, his mouth swallowing yours with the hunger of a starved man.
Almost involuntarily, a delicious little sound you swore you’d never made before tumbled from your lips, swallowed whole by the soft, firm moves of Bob’s lips against your own. A spark grew in the pit of your stomach the second the hand on your waist gripped you just the slightest bit tighter, a spark that was soon a raging inferno that you had no thoughts about taming.
It takes no effort to give in to Bob Floyd, not when he holds you like this. Not when he’s kissing you on a moonlit beach as if you’d personally hung the moon in the sky just for him.
There is no question in this kiss, no lingering doubts about whatever had sparked between you both since the moment you’d made eye contact hours ago. When your hands find their way to the nape of his neck, fingers sliding through and tugging lightly on the sandy blonde hair you couldn’t even see in the dark, and he elicits a groan that has your knees threatening to give out in the sand, there’s no question: there’s a claim. If his hand on your thigh was the precursor, the writing of a contract to claim you as his in a way you didn’t even realize you already were, this kiss was the signature. Signed and dated, written in stone. You weren’t sure there was another man in the world who could kiss you the way Bob Floyd was kissing you, who could ignite a fire that bright in the depths of your soul.
With reluctance, as if it takes the gods themselves to pull either of you away, you part for the simple need to breathe. And, god, does Bob Floyd look wrecked. Panting, lips red and swollen, the skin of his neck and cheeks flushed red, and an unmistakable bit of fog to his glasses. You laughed then, breathy from your own lack of oxygen, reaching up with the sleeve of your shirt to wipe at the fog, knowing that, given how you felt right now, you surely didn’t look any better than he did.
“Well…hi,” you managed to huff out, chest still struggling to get air back into your lungs.
“Hi,” his voice came out almost like a whisper at first, full of wonder, his hand still cradling your head. His thumb was, once again, drawing little circles into the skin right around your ear, his smile wider than you’d seen all night. “I…I’m sorry-”
“Do not apologize for that,” you’d interjected immediately as Bob huffed out a laugh. “Please, never apologize for that.”
“Good, because I was lying. I-I’m really not sorry,” the hand against your cheek left you, taking its warmth with it, before both of Bob’s hands settled on your waist. You tightened your arms around his shoulders in response, sandals having been long discarded in the sand somewhere amid the kiss. “I’ve wanted to do that for hours. I…I like you. Like, a lot. More than I think I should for the few short hours I’ve known you.”
“Well, it’s a good thing we’re on the same page. I don’t divulge my entire life story to just any Naval aviator in a bar,” another breathy laugh fell from Bob’s lips as you leaned forward, the tip of your nose brushing against his. “No, I only tell all those stories to this one guy that I happen to really like. Like, a lot.”
And when Bob Floyd kissed you again, it was blissful. Gentler, still passionate, so full of an emotion that you wouldn’t ever dare to call love, not this soon. It was more like affection, adoration, a warmth that had you melting into his arms without a care in the world. You’d do anything, as long as it meant you got to keep kissing this man.
Maybe Princess Mia had been onto something with that ‘foot pop’ of a kiss idea, because this sure felt like that moment.
“God, you’re going to be the death of me,” Bob groaned out against your lips, hands squeezing at your hips again as you laughed, playfully leaning back to swat at his chest as he smiled down at you, illuminated by the moonlight.
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps kissing me. I think any court of law would find you at fault for that. Also,” you quickly gestured around at your surroundings with a tilt of your head. “Hell of a setting for a first kiss. A moonlit beach in the dead of night, did you walk straight out of a rom-com, Bob Floyd?”
“In all honesty, I was going to wait until I got you back to your hotel room to kiss you and hopefully get your number,” he stated matter-of-factly. “But then I looked at you and…and you were just too beautiful not to. And I was going to kick myself in a few hours if I didn’t kiss you.”
If you were ever asked to pinpoint something you adored about Bob Floyd, his ability to make you laugh with the simplest of things would probably be your favorite. He barely even had to try, and he had you laughing like a little schoolgirl.
The entire walk back to the hotel down the beach felt like a dream sequence, like something straight out of a movie that you never believed actually happened to people in real life. Bob’s hand never strayed from yours, swinging between you both as you kicked at the sand. Every few steps, he’d push you away from him slightly, just to be able to pull you back into his side and make you laugh again.
And somehow, in the midst of the walk, you’d ended up engaged in the most spontaneous round of ‘Never Have I Ever’ questions you’d ever been part of. You and Bob had both been caught speeding during college, but Bob had managed to awkwardly sweet-talk his way out of a ticket with the female officer. You’d been skinny dipping twice before, both on bachelorette trips for two of your college friends, and you didn’t miss the way Bob had to swallow the lump in his throat at that confession (no doubt imagining it). He, in turn, had ended up having to confess the embarrassing story that was him having a crush on his high school English teacher.
“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to wrap my head around that,” you’d managed to say through your laughter that you couldn’t contain as you both approached the main doors of the hotel building. “She was at least young, right?”
“Yes, she was in her thirties,” Bob shook his head, obviously amused by how hilarious you found the story. Like the gentleman he was, he’d opened the door for you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he led you into the building. “Girls didn’t look at me in high school, okay. She always offered that I could eat lunch with her since she had a free period, and the entire school had agreed that she was objectively pretty. You can’t blame me!”
“Okay, fine, but you do have to admit it’s a little funny,” you’d offhandedly waved to the concierge, the same one who had checked you in that morning, now working the graveyard shift, before leading Bob over to the elevators. You rested against the wall, awaiting your ride to arrive, while Bob stood just barely a foot in front of you. “As for the girls: their loss. If I’d have gone to high school with you, trust me, I would’ve looked at you.”
The doors for the elevator slid open with a ‘ding’ as you quickly moved inside, back turned to Bob.
“And trust me, if I’d have known you back then, we’d be married by now,”
The second the elevator doors shut, you paused, finger hovering over the button for your floor. Turning on your heel back to Bob, head cocked to the side in amusement, you could see the realization flicker over his face as it dawned on him what exactly he’d just said.
“Oh, would we now? You saying we’d be high school sweethearts?” Bob sheepishly laughed, fixing his glasses as he looked anywhere but you. “That kind of sounded like a line straight out of Hangman’s playbook, and I barely know the guy.”
“Yeah…y-yeah, it really did, didn’t it? Might have to blame the alcohol, I-I don’t typically drink much on our nights out,”
You hummed, taking a step toward him with a growing smile as his stuttering came back for just a second, something you realized only ever made an appearance when he was nervous. His eyes were locked on you as you leaned up, nose bumping his.
“Don’t worry, I found it cute coming from you,” you leaned back to hit the button for the third floor, and the second you did, Bob’s hand was settled on your hip, pulling you back to him. Teeth gnawing into your bottom lip, you contemplated the words floating around your head for a moment, afraid that whatever was happening here was fragile and your words could break it. “When we get up there…do you want to come in?”
You had read it before, about the way a man’s eyes darkened with ‘lust’ or in moments such as this, but you’d never witnessed it. Not until now, and once again, Bob Floyd had you weak in the knees.
“I’d love to,”
“Good,” you nodded. “Just know…I don’t do hook-ups. I don’t do flings.”
“Good,” he responded with his own nod. “Because neither do I.”
“Good,”
The door of your hotel room had barely been closed before Bob was on you.
His hands on your hips guided you, pressing you up against the closed bathroom door just to the right of the room’s main door, and his lips descended upon yours as if he were attacking his target. Vigorous, relentless, he kissed you in a way you’d never been kissed before, not even like he did on the beach, and you knew you didn’t stand a chance. A wanton moan slipped out of you, parting your lips just enough for Bob’s tongue to sneak through, to savor the taste of you. You savored the taste of him, too: the lingering taste of the beer he’d been sipping all night, and the remnants of your own vanilla chapstick still smeared across his lips.
You moved in tandem, like your bodies were one with each other. It didn’t take long before your shirt was off, his lips hot, slicked with spit, dragging themselves over every inch of skin he could get his lips on. Every drag of his lips, every press of a kiss against your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts had your mind going blank, your fingers desperately fumbling with the buttons of his khaki uniform to no avail.
If you just asked, you’d let him have anything he wanted in this moment. You’d let him take you against this door, the wall next to it, the floor, the bed, hell, you’d let him lean you over the balcony railing where anyone might be able to see you both. Nothing else mattered besides Bob Floyd, as long as he continued to touch you, adore you, worship you the way he was.
In the moments it took Bob to maneuver you from the wall to the bed, you’d finally come back to yourself, able to delicately unbutton his uniform and not ruin it, before tugging it from its place tucked into his pants and tossing it across the room. The white shirt he had on beneath it was gone in seconds, too, and god, you wanted to admire him like a painting on the walls of a museum, like he was the Mona Lisa himself.
Like they say, it’s always the quiet ones. You shouldn’t have been surprised; he was in the Navy, after all. But you couldn’t deny the heat that pooled between your thighs from just a single look.
With a tiny yelp from your lips, your back hit the bed, and Bob was on top of you in seconds, drawing yet another moan from your lips. At this rate, there’d surely be a noise complaint in minutes. His leg wedged itself between your thighs, delivering just enough friction to have you squirming, while his lips locked back into your neck. From your jawline, all the way to your collarbone, Bob nipped at every inch of skin he could, blowing a short puff of air across over tender spot before leaving a searing kiss to it that felt like you were being branded. All the while, your hands roamed up and down every expanse of skin you could touch, His forearms to his biceps and every vein that ran along them, popping out from under his skin. The lean body that hovered over you now, nails ghosting along the lines across his stomach toward his chest that had a low grumble emitting from him. And in a moment of boldness, invigorated by the tension that had snapped between you both, your hand traveled lower, just barely grazing over the outline straining against his khaki pants, finally feeling for yourself just how big he truly was. And the groan that left him that time, wrecked and on the verge of falling apart, had a whole new flood of heat rushing through you.
In a show of his strength, Bob rolled you both again with just one arm. Suddenly, there you sat, straddling him as he lay below you, half naked, eyes blown wide behind those glasses, looking absolutely desecrated beneath you. The only sound that flickered through the room was the heavy pants from each of you, once again catching your breath and calming the firestorm of emotions in you both.
“So,” Bob had breathed out once he’d finally caught enough of his breath. “Y-You’re totally taking that transfer to San Diego, right?”
You’d let out a breathy laugh, swiping your hand down your face as you sent him a small smirk.
“In all honesty…I already accepted it. That was half the reason for this trip: to see my new office and meet my new coworkers. Meeting you, though…well, that’s just like the cherry on top,”
His grin was infectious, but your mind was elsewhere in the moment as you took your chance, simply grinding yourself down on the man below you with a smirk of amusement still on your lips. His smile was gone instantly, lips straining to hold in a moan as his hands gripped your hips tightly, forcing you to freeze in place so you couldn’t make that same move again.
“I-If you do that again, I’m not going to be able to stop myself,”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes, because I want to do this properly. I want to do this in order,” he huffed out a laugh. “Tomorrow, my day off. 7 p.m. I’ll pick you up. Il Fornaio, an Italian restaurant just on the other side of the island, right on the beach, with beautiful views of the water. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, and for dessert…a Cold Stone Creamery, barely a minute away. And if I can muster up the confidence to do it, I’ll make you mine before you’ve even taken a single scoop of your ice cream, because I don’t need a second date to know I want this. And then I’ll bring you back here, and then I’ll fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked, to be worshiped. God…I already don’t think there’s a single thing I wouldn’t do if you just asked me to.”
If you opened a dictionary, Bob Floyd would be painted under the word ‘perfection,’ and there was no doubt in your mind about it. Hell, he’d remembered the stupid story about your favorite ice cream shop you’d told him hours ago. You were about ready to ravish him on the spot.
“Sounds like you’ve had this planned out for hours now,” your voice had dropped into a whisper, laced with just pure awe for the man below you.
“Since the moment we first locked eyes across the bar. Had to add the ice cream bit in, later,”
And you’d laughed, something you had done all night with him. For a moment, you paused, smile stretching nervously, as something you’d been meaning to say all night, but had been stuck in your throat, was itching to finally be said. It terrified you, but you had to say it. Bob Floyd was an angel; he deserved to know what he was getting into.
“Well, that’s a yes to dinner, and everything that comes after. I’ll just have to make sure to tell my father I can’t have dinner with him after I visit the base tomorrow afternoon. I hope he doesn’t get too upset, you know how the, uh…how the Vice Admiral can be,”
It was like you’d just dropped a bomb, and you could see the aftermath in Bob’s eyes. The way he tilted his head from beneath you, before realization seemed to crawl into every feature of his face.
“The…the Vice Admiral. As in…Vice Admiral Beau Simpson, Cyclone…” it wasn’t a question, it was a statement, and all you could do was nervously nod your head as Bob let out yet another breathy laugh. “Your Uncle Solomon…Rear Admiral Solomon Bates, Warlock. Wow, how did I not figure that out?”
“Because I was really careful not to give it away,” you’d tried to laugh, nerves only calmed slightly by the little circles that Bob’s fingers were drawing into the skin of your waist where his hands still lay. “I’m sorry, I should’ve said something earlier. But you were so sweet, and not to mention attractive, and it was so easy to like you…I was scared if you knew, you wouldn’t think it was worth it.”
Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he shifted, sitting up on the hotel room bed now with you still positioned in his lap. One arm fully locked around your waist, the other taking your chin between his fingers to keep your eyes locked on him as he spoke.
“Why would I think that?”
“I dated a Navy man in college; he was a few years older than I was. He was excited for his reassignment; he was going to be training under my dad. But then, I told him that it was my dad, and he freaked. Thought he’d be treated unfairly if his superior knew he was dating his daughter. I just…I just didn’t want you to think I wasn’t worth the hassle. I know how my dad can be.”
Bob stared at you for just a moment before he pulled you into another kiss. Softer than any previous kiss the entire night, but firm, as if he was trying to drill something into you. Whatever it was, it was working, as your chest fluttered and your hands wound their way back into his hair. And barely a beat later, he’d pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, hand on your chin, cupping your jawline to hold you there with him.
“If in the end, I get you…anything is worth the hassle,”
summary — for 713 days, you've been sketching strangers on your morning commute, giving away portraits to brighten their day. when a missed train puts you on an unfamiliar route, you draw a white-haired man who's impossible to ignore. you think you'll never see him again—until he plasters half of tokyo with posters trying to find you.
word count — 16.4 k
genre/tags — modern AU, ceo x artist, strangers to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn, soft romance, fluff, so much fluff, banter, provider!satoru gojo bc goddamn yes & him being a very dramatic puppy in love, misunderstandings
warnings — 16+ ONLY. contains suggestive sexual content, brief mention of financial stress and reference to past cheating experience.
author's note — put on your favorite taylor swift playlist and get cozy for the fluff. i squeeeezed every tiny bit of fluff that i have out of my heart into this. side note, the idea came to me after seeing a tiktok of someone handing out sketches on a train hehe. hope it makes you smile <3
masterlist + support my writing + artwork by @3-aem
Your alarm goes off at exactly 5:45 AM, the same time it has for the past three years. You silence it with a tap (or try, anyway) and slip out from under your warm blankets before the urge to just stay there and call in sick becomes too stong to withstand it.
Your small one-bedroom apartment is quiet, save for the distant early morning traffic of the city outside your window and your groaning as you make your way to the bathroom.
Your morning routine was more muscle memory than anything other at this hour. Shower (seven minutes), hair (five minutes, more or less), makeup (eight minutes), and outfit—already sorted from last night (smart you)—coffee and an avocado toast.
By 6:30, you’re checking your bag if you’ve got everything: laptop, planner, phone charger, and most importantly, your sketchbook—a simple Moleskine with cream-colored pages that are perfect for graphite—and a few spare pencils.
You flipped open to a new page in your sketchbook and wrote “Day 713.” Tomorrow’s entry would be 714.
You’d been counting since the first time you gave a drawing to a stranger, an elderly street musician whose weathered hands moved across his guitar strings so smoothly, you couldn’t help but try to capture his ease. When you’d shyly offered him the sketch afterwards, the tiredness in his face gave way to something softer.
Surprised. Delighted.
“Is this me?” he asked, his voice carrying that gentle kind of warmth older people always seem to have.
You had simply nodded.
The musician smiled, thanked you, and carefully tucked the drawing into the front pocket of his jacket, and that small moment sparked something in you—a sense of purpose, you could say, that had been missing from your otherwise structured life as a graphic designer. Since then, every morning without fail, you picked a fellow passenger on your train commute, capturing them in a quick sketch, and offering it to them before your stop arrived.
Maybe it was cheesy, but you didn’t care. It was the smile that made it worth it—the way a simple gesture could light up someone’s face at such early hours—that’s what kept you going, for exactly 713 days and counting.
As you locked your apartment door this morning—Tuesday, 6:32 AM—you had no idea that your simple, stupid little cheesy routine was about to change.
Your phone vibrated as you reached the station entrance. A notification from the transit app lit up your screen:
Line 6 service temporarily suspended due to overnight maintenance issues. Please seek alternative routes.
Great. Just what you needed.
Line 6 was your direct route to the office, the one that got you there at precisely 8:00 AM every morning. And you’d never been late. Not once in three years at Takahashi Media Group. And today of all days? Really? The Yamada account presentation was at 9:30, and as lead designer, you needed time to prep.
Panic started to bubble.
“Excuse me,” you said to the nearest station attendant, trying to keep your voice steady while a tiny voice inside your head was screaming. “What’s the fastest way to Central District Station?”
Clipboard guy barely looked up. “Take Line 4, transfer at Miyashita to Line 9. Adds about twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes?
Now panic was definitely starting to bubble up.
Okay, think. If you skipped your usual coffee stop and went straight to the office, you could still make it with just enough time to run through your slides once. Not ideal, but doable.
Line 4 was unfamiliar territory. Unlike Line 6, which you always caught early enough to get a seat, this one was already full. Businessmen in dark suits, students in uniform, and way too many elbows. And the smell—less lemony and clean, more like... cologne and sweat. You squeezed in and clutched your sketchbook to your chest as the doors closed behind you.
Usually, you picked your sketch subject within the first minute. It was like on autopilot by now. Your eyes would just land on someone, and you’d know. But in this crowded, unfamiliar car full of strangers, you felt a little bit lost. These weren’t your usual commuters, the ones you’ve come to recognize over hundreds of mornings, even if you’ve never spoken to them.
But then you saw him.
He was standing near the doors at the far end of the car, one hand gripping the overhead rail, the other tucked casually into the pocket of his pants. He looked completely out of place, so unlike the others around him.
He was tall. Like, really tall. And his hair was white. It caught the overhead lights in a way that made it shimmer, like fresh snow under a winter sun. He looked young, though. Early thirties, maybe? The white hair didn’t read as old, more like a choice. Or maybe it was natural. Hard to tell.
His suit was navy, perfectly tailored, but somehow different from all the other navy suits in the car. Maybe it was the cut, or maybe it was just him. He wore it like—well, like he wasn’t trying. Top button undone, no tie. A pair of green-tinted glasses perched on his nose, partly hiding his eyes, but not quite.
Everyone else around him was either half asleep or nervously checking their watches, the usual morning commute zombie routine. But not him. He looked completely at ease and almost... amused. Like the full train and countless elbows between one’s ribs didn’t bother him.
You flipped to a blank page in your sketchbook, adjusting your stance as the train swayed. Your pencil hovered, studying him for a moment. Then, like always, the world blurred at the edges as your pencil touched paper, almost making you forget about the schoolboy who stepped on your foot every few seconds, squeezed between other schoolchildren on their way to class.
After a while, the train announcement: Next stop, Miyashita Station. Transfer for Lines 2, 9, and 11.
You signed the corner, tore out the page, and held it for a second. This part was usually easy—walk over, smile, offer the sketch, say something nice, move on. But something about him made you hesitate.
What if he thought it was weird? What if he assumed you were flirting? What if he had a wife and three kids and a very awkward story to tell over dinner tonight? What if—
The train began to slow. Now or never.
You stood and started weaving through the packed car towards the stranger. He hadn’t moved, still holding the rail with that same relaxed grip, still wearing that faint smile.
“Excuse me,” you said.
He turned, and for the first time, you got a clear look at his eyes through those green-tinted glasses. Startlingly blue. Vivid and almost unnatural. Somewhere between forget-me-nots and ripe blueberries. When they locked onto yours, warmth spread through your chest like you’d just stepped into sunlight.
“This is for you,” you said and offered him the drawing.
For a second, he didn’t react, and panic started to flare. Oh no. He hated it. He definitely hated it. But it was good, or not? Not Picasso, but decent. Solid. Right? Oh god, if he doesn’t say something, literally anything in the next second, you’re going to spontaneously die.
Then, finally, his lips curled into a slow, handsome smile.
“A drawing? Of me?”
His voice surprised you. Deep and smooth, with a certain richness to it, like dark chocolate. And... was that a Kyoto accent? Subtle, but there. He reached for the sketch, his fingers brushing yours as he took it.
You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his eyes moved over the page. It felt like your entire morning—no, your entire existence—was waiting on his next words.
“You’re very talented.”
...Huh?
You didn’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that. Or rather, it was how he said it. Usually, people said “thank you,” or “oh, that's so sweet,” something polite and brief before they got off at their stop. But he said it like he meant every syllable. Like you’d just unveiled the Mona Lisa to him.
You. Are. Very. Talented.
The sincerity in his voice hit you oddly sideways.
Then the train doors hissed open and commuters surged forward, dragging you back to reality. Oh god—the presentation.
“This is my stop,” you said hastly, suddenly remembering everything else happening in your life. “I need to go.”
“Wait.” He took a small step forward, but you were already being swept along with the crowd.
“I hope you like it!” you called over your shoulder, catching one last glimpse of him, but then his white hair vanished among the sea of dark suits, and the doors slid shut behind you.
It wasn’t until you were halfway up the escalator to your connecting train that you realized something. Your signature—the tiny heart you always draw into the corner of your sketches. Gone. Missing. For the first time in 713 days.
It strangely bothered you. By the time you reached your office (7:58 AM—still on time, miraculously), you’d almost convinced yourself it was just the chaos of the morning and had nothing to do with the handsome stranger who made your heart beat just a little faster when your fingers touched. Absolutely nothing.
You shove the thought aside and focus on your presentation. Line 6 would be back tomorrow. Back to your normal route, your normal routine, your normal life. You’d never see that man again.
Or so you think.
Your presentation went flawless. The Yamada executives nodded along to your designs, and your boss even cracked a rare smile by the time you wrapped up. It was almost unsettling.
And by the time you packed up to leave, the handsome stranger had faded into the background—a fleeting moment in a city full of them.
Line 6 was back on schedule that evening. You found your usual seat. Everything was exactly the way it had always been. Just how you liked it.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The next morning, you slipped back into your routine without thinking. Alarm. Shower. Tea and toast. Line 6 at 6:52 AM. Your favorite seat at the end of the car.
Your subject today was a young woman with brightly colored headphones, who seemed lost in her music. When you handed her the sketch (this time with your trademark tiny heart in the corner) she beamed. You’d made her day, she said.
Life continued exactly as it should. Drawing number 714, 715, 716... each one gifted, each one with a tiny heart in the corner. Your little bit of everyday cheesy rom-com magic thingy carried on, uninterrupted.
A week passed. You were on your usual train, putting the final touches on that morning’s sketch—an older man engrossed in a paperback novel. When you handed it to him, his face lit up. But then it changed. Surprise gave way to something else… something like recognition.
“Wait,” he said, adjusting his glasses to look between you and the drawing. “Are you the subway artist everyone’s been talking about?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The subway artist,” he repeated, like that explained everything. “There’ve been posters up on Line 4 all week. Someone’s trying to find the person who draws portraits on the train.” He smiled, gesturing to the sketch. “It’s you, isn’t it?”
“Line 4? I... I don’t usually take that line.”
But then it hit you.
You thanked the man and stepped off the train feeling slightly dazed. All day at work, your mind kept drifting back to this strange turn of events. Someone was looking for you? Putting up posters?
There was only one person it could be.
The stranger from Line 4.
After work, instead of taking your usual Line 6 home, you found yourself heading towards Line 4. Your heart beat a little faster.
The train was full with evening commuters, but you barely noticed them. Your eyes scanned the station walls as the train pulled into each stop. Nothing at the first station. Or the second. Then, as the train slowed for the third stop, you saw it.
There, on a pillar near the platform’s edge, was a poster. Even from inside the train, you recognized your own work. It was the sketch you had given the handsome stranger—or rather, a scan of it. Below, printed in bold, clear type:
LOOKING FOR THE ARTIST
Did you draw this portrait on Tuesday morning, Line 4? I’d like to thank you properly.
Please call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
The train doors opened, and without thinking, you stepped out, weaving through the tide of boarding passengers. You pushed your way toward the poster, staring at it in disbelief. It was definitely your drawing. No question. But why was he looking for you?
You pulled out your phone and took a quick photo of the poster, and then you just stood there, frozen. What now? Should you call? Would that be weird? What did “thank you properly” even mean?
You glanced around the platform, almost expecting to spot him nearby. But there was no sign of him. Only a sea of strangers, none of them with hair the color of snow.
On impulse, you peeled the poster off the pillar and tucked it into your bag. Back at your apartment, you unfolded it on the kitchen table. The drawing looked back at you, familiar and strange all at once. You traced a finger over the phone number, wondering about the man who had gone to such lengths to find you.
What kind of person did that? Was he just being kind? Did he want to pay you? Commission another drawing? Something about it was flattering… and also a little unsettling.
You took out your phone, entered the number into your contacts, and hovered your thumb over the call button.
This was ridiculous. You didn’t know anything about him—other than the fact that he had white hair and apparently enough time and money to put up posters in subway stations. What if he was a stalker? Or some kind of... weirdo?
You folded the poster again and tucked it into a drawer. Maybe in a few days you’d feel differently. Or maybe it was best to forget the whole strange thing altogether.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Next day, you were back on Line 6, back to your routine. You chose your subject—a woman with a long braids—and focused on capturing the way the morning light played in her woven hair. By the time you handed her the sketch, all thoughts of the poster and the maybe stalker had faded.
Two weeks later, you were running a little late for work. As you rushed onto your usual Line 6 train, something familiar caught your eye on the station wall. The doors closed before you could really process it, and the train pulled away. You spent the rest of the ride wondering if you’d imagined it.
The next morning, you arrived at the station a few minutes early to investigate and what you found made your breath catch. There on the wall of your station, wasn’t just one poster, but several. Each one with your sketch. And this time, beneath the drawing, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST
Dinner? This Friday, 8 PM.
Hanami Restaurant, Central District
You stared. Eyes wide. A dinner invitation? Posted publicly in the subway? Who even does that? Oh god.
He was a stalker.
Or… maybe it was romantic? No. Definitely creepy. Right? Who publicly invites a stranger to dinner using posters? A total stranger he didn’t even know?
But... Hanami Restaurant? That was a nice place. Fancy. Not cheap. You’d seen it once on your birthday when your coworkers took you somewhere nearby. This wasn’t just casual ramen and a maybe—this was… effort.
“Oh, you’ve seen them too?”
You turned to see an older woman standing beside you, also gazing at the posters.
“Isn’t it the most charming thing?” she said. “They’ve been popping up all over Line 6 for the past few days. My daughter thinks it’s a movie promotion, but I think it’s a real love story in the making.” She gave a wistful sigh. “I hope the artist shows up.”
You muttered something polite and hurried onto your train, heart thudding in your chest.
This had gone from odd to completely, absolutely weird. Not only had he expanded his poster campaign to your line, but now he was publicly inviting you to dinner? How did he even know which train you usually took? Or worse, were these posters up on every line in Tokyo? No. That couldn’t be possible.
You sank into your seat, sketchbook clutched tightly against your chest, your thoughts spiraling. Was this romantic dedication? Or borderline stalking?
The invitation was for tomorrow night. You didn’t have to go. It’s not like he knew who you were or where you lived—technically, you could ignore it and carry on like none of this ever happened.
But… what would happen if you did go? What if he was charming and witty and everything you’d secretly ever dreamed about on sleepy train rides? What if he was a total creep?
You looked down at your sketchbook, heart still racing.
My God.
What had you started?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Friday evening arrived, and you found yourself standing in front of your closet, absently fingering the hem of a dress you hadn’t worn in months. For a dinner you weren’t going to attend. With a man you’d barely met.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, shutting the closet door with finality.
You’d already made your decision. Absolutely not going. This whole thing had gone from charming to…well, kind of creepy. Who put up posters across the subway just to find someone they spoke to for like two seconds? It was excessive. Borderline obsessive.
You ordered takeout from your favorite place down the street and spent the evening sketching while a movie played in the background. Every so often, your eyes drifted to the clock.
7:30.
7:45.
8:00.
He was probably at the restaurant by now. Maybe checking his watch.
8:15.
8:30.
Maybe he’d ordered a drink to pass the time.
9:00.
Surely, by now, he knew you weren’t coming.
You told yourself it was for the best. This way, he’d get the message. No need for awkward conversations or outright rejection. Just silence. Clear. Polite, in a distant kind of way.
Life could go back to normal. Back to routine. Back to sketching strangers who didn’t plaster the city with posters looking for you.
And still, somewhere underneath all that logic, a quiet little voice whispered: What if he’s just sitting there, alone, sad, and feeling as unsure as you do right now?
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
The weekend passed uneventfully. By Monday morning, you’d nearly convinced yourself you’d done the right thing. You’d protected your peace. Maintained your boundaries. All good decisions.
Your alarm rang at 5:45 AM. Shower. Hair. Makeup. Outfit. Green tea and avocado toast. Sketchbook and pencils in your bag. Everything back to normal.
On your usual train, your eyes landed on a high school girl seated near the doors. She looked tired, but focused. A textbook rested in her lap, worn at the corners and stuffed with colorful Post-it notes poking out from all sides. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and leaned in to read.
By the time the train neared your stop, the sketch was finished, your signature heart placed neatly in the corner. You stood and made your way over to her, when a flash of colour outside the train window caught your eye.
Another poster. But this one looked different.
As the train slowed, you could make out your sketch—the one of the white-haired stranger—but now surrounded by a border of…were those flowers?
You squinted, leaning closer as the train rolled to a stop. Then the doors opened, but instead of handing the student the sketch you had made of her, you stepped out onto the platform without thinking.
You moved toward the poster. It was definitely your drawing in the center, but someone—him, obviously—had added to it. Were those real flowers? Pinned around the edges? You leaned in. Yes. Small blossoms. Some still fresh, others beginning to wilt.
And below, a new message:
TO THE ARTIST WHO DIDN’T COME TO DINNER
I understand. Perhaps too forward. My apologies. But I’d still like to meet you.
Coffee instead? Your choice of time and place.
Same number below. No more posters after this, I promise.
Call: XXX-XXX-XXXX
You stared at the poster, not sure what to think of it. It was still... a lot. But the tone had changed. It didn’t feel like pressure anymore. It felt like a peace offering.
“Is that about you?”
You jumped slightly and turned to find the schoolgirl from the train standing behind you. She was looking between you and the poster, eyebrows raised. You hadn’t even noticed her step off.
“What? No, I—”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said, pointing to the edge of her portrait still peeking from your sketchbook. “You’re the subway artist! I’ve seen these posters for weeks. Everyone at school’s been talking about them.” Her eyes lit up. “But it’s real! It’s actually you!”
Your face went hot. “I just… draw people on my commute. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” She looked at you like you’d just told her the earth was flat. “Someone literally covered half the subway trying to find you. That’s so romantic.” She paused, glancing back at the poster. “Though I guess... it might feel a little intense if you don’t know him.”
“Exactly,” you said, a little too quickly, but relieved that someone finally understood. Not that you told anyone, anyway.
“But now he’s apologizing and backing off. That’s actually kind of sweet, don’t you think? Like he realized he overdid it.” Before you could respond, she suddenly gasped. “Oh! Were you going to give me something?” She pointed to your sketchbook.
“I—yes, actually.” You’d almost forgotten. You tore out the page with her portrait and handed it over. “I hope you don’t mind.”
She took the drawing, her face bright. “This is amazing! You made me look so... I don’t know, determined? Like I actually understand what I’m reading about.” She laughed. “Thank you so much!”
A chime echoed through the station—the warning for the next train.
“That’s my transfer,” she said and glanced at the poster one more time. “You know, if I were you, I’d call him. Not everyone gets a second chance at something interesting.” And with that, she turned and vanished into the crowd of boarding passengers.
You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the poster. At the flowers he’d carefully pinned around your sketch. It must have taken hours.
Your phone buzzed with a calendar reminder. Morning meeting in fifteen minutes. With one last glance at the poster, you turned and headed for the station exit.
Maybe the girl was right. Maybe there was something here worth exploring. Or maybe this was exactly how people ended up in true crime documentaries.
Either way, you had a decision to make.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
For the next three days, the poster haunted you. Not in a scary way, but enough to slip under your skin and stay there.
You caught yourself absentmindedly sketching floral patterns during meetings, doodling petals in the margins of your planner, even on the back of your grocery list. His phone number was still saved in your contacts. You hadn’t called it. Yet.
By Thursday afternoon, in the middle of yet another agonisingly boring meeting, you finally made your decision.
The moment your boss wrapped up, you grabbed your phone and slipped into the empty break room. Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might knock your ribs loose. Before you could overthink it, you dialed the number.
It rang once. Then—
“Hello?”
That voice. Deep. Warm. Curious. Instantly familiar.
“Um. Hi,” you said, suddenly questioning every life desicion that had led you to this moment. “This is… well, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I drew your portrait on the train a few weeks ago, and—”
“You called.” He sounded genuinely relieved. “I was starting to think you weren’t ever going to.”
“Yeah, well…” You took a breath. “You do realize those posters were kind of creepy, right?”
“I thought they were romantic?”
“For someone I don’t know, it’s more creepy than romantic. And also, what if I was already taken?”
“Are you?”
You went silent. Right. You probably should’ve seen that one coming.
“I’m Satoru, by the way.” You could practically hear the smirk in his voice.
You gave him your name in return, nervously clicking your pen against the break room table.
He repeated it slowly, like he was trying how it sounded on his tongue, and that somehow sent a strange flutter through your stomach. Why did hearing him say your name suddenly make you so nervous? It was just a name. Your name. You’d heard it a million times before.
But from him, it felt different. More intimate somehow. Ridiculous, you told yourself. You were overthinking it. Probably. Still... the little flutter lingered.
“Listen,” you said, clearing your throat, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got my lunch break in about an hour. If you’re free, maybe we could meet. Nothing fancy—just coffee or something.”
“An hour? Yes. Absolutely.” A pause. “Where do you work? I can come to you.”
You hesitated, then figured it was harmless. It was a large and well known office building downtown, after all. Not exactly revealing your home address. “Takahashi Media Group. Midtown Tower, fourteenth floor.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.”
The call ended, and you stared at your phone for a beat before heading back to your desk. You tried to focus on your emails, your task list, anything—but your eyes kept drifting to the clock.
It was just coffee, you reminded yourself. Just a casual meeting with the stranger from the train who’d launched a city-wide poster campaign to find you.
Totally normal.
Fifty-five minutes later, you were gathering your bag when a commotion near the reception area caught your attention. Moments later, your coworker Aki appeared beside your desk.
“Hey, there’s someone asking for you at the reception. And he’s... well, you should just come see.”
“Someone’s here for me?” you asked, frowning. “But I was supposed to meet—” You stopped. “Oh no.”
You hurried toward the reception area, Aki trailing close behind. As you rounded the corner, you saw a group of coworkers gathered near the glass doors, all pretending very badly not to be gawking at something—or better said, someone.
And there, standing right in the center of the chaos, was the handsome stranger form Line 4.
He was even more handsome than you remembered. Tall, effortlessly confident, and dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, with a blue tie that was the exact same shade as his eyes.
When he spotted you, his entire face lit up with a smile so dazzling it looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. You saw your coworker Mei place a hand over her heart, and you could’ve sworn someone behind her whispered, “Oh my god.”
“Artist!” he called, completely unaware of (or more likely, entirely unbothered by) the scene he was causing. “Wow, you’re even prettier when you’re mortified.”
And then you saw the flowers.
Correction: you saw the flowers.
He was holding the most ridiculous bouquet you’d ever laid eyes on. A vibrant, overflowing explosion of violet, pink, and red, easily three dozen stems if not more. It was a lot. Even for him.
Every head in the lobby turned toward you.
Great. Just fucking great.
You walked over, ignoring the heat rising in your face and the whispers following behind you, wanting nothing more than to quickly escape the awkward scene. Reaching him, you grabbed his elbow and leaned in, voice low.
“You really don’t know how to be subtle, do you?”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Satoru had suggested a café not far from your office, and you followed him down the busy street, relieved to be away from the scene he had caused with nothing more than… his face.
People glanced at him as you walked, some doing double takes. He seemed completely unbothered by it. Perhaps he’s used to it. Being pretty comes with stares naturally, you assumed.
Maybe he was a model. Or a singer. Or both. And you were the only person in Tokyo who didn’t recognize him and later it will be so awkward when paparazzi take photos of you holding hands on your way out and splash them across trashy magazines with some ridiculous headline and—
Wait.
Holding hands?
Why were you even thinking about holding hands?
He could still be a stalker. A total weirdo. A—
You nearly tripped over someone weaving through the crowd, lost in your thoughts. Before you could catch yourself, Satoru’s hand landed gently on your elbow, steadying you as he pulled you closer to his side. Your arm brushed against his, and that brief contact sent a shiver down your spine.
Stupid, handsome and cute weirdo, for sure.
A few minutes later, you were seated in a quiet café, staring hard at a menu you’d already ordered from because pretending to study the drink list was easier than making direct eye contact with the man who was definitely watching you.
You could feel it. His gaze. Not bashful. Not subtle. Not even blinking, apparently.
Finally, you set the menu down. “You’re staring.”
“I am,” he said, without a hint of shame. “It’s not every day I get to meet the artist who’s been haunting my dreams for weeks.”
“Haunting your dreams, huh?” You glanced up and met those absurdly blue eyes. “You know, you do sound very creepy sometimes.”
“Do I?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’ll admit, I don’t do this often.”
“What, stalk people? Or launch city-wide poster campaigns?”
He laughed. “Both, I guess. That might’ve been a bit much. My colleagues say I have a tendency to go overboard once I’ve set my mind to something.”
“Oh really?”
His smile widened. “Okay, fair. I deserved that. But in my defense—it worked. You’re here.”
“Out of curiosity more than anything,” you said, though you weren’t entirely sure that was true. “So now that you’ve found me, what exactly was the plan? Beyond coffee, I mean?”
He paused, considering. “I must admit, I didn’t think that far ahead. I just wanted to meet you. To thank you for seeing something in me worth capturing.” There was an unexpected softness to his voice. “And maybe to find out if the person behind the pencil is as interesting as her art suggests.”
“And? Verdict so far?”
“Even more interesting,” he said without hesitation. “But I still have questions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as how long you’ve been sketching strangers on trains. Why you give the drawings away instead of keeping them. Whether you draw for a living.” He leaned in slightly. “And if you’d ever let me see your sketchbook.”
Before you could answer, the barista approached with a tray.
“Here’s your cappuccino, miss. And Mr. Gojo, your usual.” She set down a borderline theatrical coffee drink in front of him, along with a small plate of pastries you definitely hadn’t heard him order.
“Chef sent these over for you both,” she added with a smile. “It’s that new recipe you suggested last week.”
“Thank him for me, Hana,” Satoru said, offering her a warm smile that made her visibly melt. “They look perfect.”
“Of course, Mr. Gojo. Anything else you need, just let me know.” She gave a polite bow before heading back.
You watched the entire exchange with growing suspicion. As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned in.
“Okay. What was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“The chef takes your suggestions for pastries? And the barista knows your ‘usual’, which looks—by the way—like something from the kid’s menu.”
Satoru looked mildly amused as he slid the plate towards you. “Try one. They’re amazing.”
You took one, but fixed him with a pointed look still. “Still not answering my question.”
“I come here a lot.”
“I’ve been going to the same coffee shop near my apartment for three years,” you said, “and they still spell my name wrong on the cup.”
He laughed—a real one. It drew a few subtle glances from nearby tables.
“Fair point.”
The pastry was every bit as good as he promised—light, buttery, with just the right amount of sweetness. But you weren’t letting him off the hook.
“So?” you asked, licking a crumb off your thumb. “Why does everyone here treat you like you’re... I don’t know. Someone important?”
“I suppose because I am someone important”
“What does that mean?”
“I figured I’d bring this up eventually.” Satoru took a sip of his kid’s menu drink, then set the cup down. “I own Gojo Holdings.”
You stared at him. Blankly.
“Our headquarters occupies the top ten floors of this building,” he added, casually gesturing upward.
Suddenly, the name clicked into place. Gojo Holdings—a name you’d seen before. On office towers, in business headlines, maybe even on the news channel. One of those massive investment and trading firms. It was the kind of company that quietly owned half the city without anyone really noticing.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” His tone was surprisingly straightforward. “I’m the CEO. Have been for about five years, since my father stepped down.”
“So this building—?”
“I don’t own the whole tower. Just the top portion. Company offices. This café’s independent, though we partner with them for corporate events.”
“Which is why they know your usual.”
He gave a small shrug. “Perks of a eating here often.”
“So when you were on that train…”
“I was just commuting. Like anyone else.” He sipped his coffee, completely at ease. “Traffic sucks. Trains are faster.”
“A practical billionaire. How novel.”
“CEO. Not a billionare,” he corrected. “Well—technically—”
“Not helping your case,” you cut in, and to his credit, he actually looked sheepish.
“So that’s how you managed to plaster half the city with posters.” You leaned back, studying him again. “Most people would’ve just... posted something online.”
“I don’t do things halfway,” he said, not even pretending to apologize. “Besides, I don’t have social media. Too messy in my position.”
You took a long sip of your cappuccino, buying yourself a moment. Then you asked the question that had been quietly building in the back of your mind.
“So what exactly does the CEO of a major trading company want with a graphic designer who sketches strangers on the subway?”
“The same thing I wanted before you knew any of this. Get to know you.”
You tilted your head, unsure whether to believe him. He must’ve sensed your hesitation.
“Okay, listen,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ve been renovating the executive floor of our headquarters and there’s this white wall in my office. It’s been empty for months because nothing felt right for it—”
“You want to commission me?” You blinked, more confused than ever. “For your office?”
“Yeah. Actually, for the whole floor. A series of pieces,” he said. “Not landmarks or cityscapes—everyone does that. I want your version. The people. The soul of each place. Like the sketch you gave me.”
“So all this—the posters, the dinner invitation, the whole subway artist manhunt—was for a commission?”
Something flickered in his expression. Not quite hurt, but close.
“No,” he said after a second. “Yeah. I mean—” He sighed. “Does it sound that stupid?”
“I don’t know. It’s... unexpected. That’s all.”
“Is that a yes?”
You took another sip of your cappuccino, more for the excuse to think than anything else. “It’s an ‘I’m thinking about it.’”
“Perfect,” he said, pulling out a business card of his and sliding it across the table. “No pressure. No expectations. If you're interested, call me.”
You turned the card in your fingers, still watching him. “How do you even know I draw anything—beside subway sketches, that is? I never told you.”
He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t quite believe you said it yourself. “You don’t?”
Stupid, handsome man. “I hate you.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Back at your desk, you twirled Satoru’s business card between your fingers, trying to make sense of it all. Was he being genuine? Or was he making fun of you?
You glanced at the flowers he’d gifted you—still sitting in the large glass vase Mei had found in the office kitchen. They were slightly too vibrant, slightly too much, still too beautiful to ignore. No one brought those kinds of flowers as a joke. Right? And yet, the absurdity of it all made you question even that.
You slipped the card into your desk drawer and turned your attention to the ad campaign mockups waiting on your screen. But your focus faltered. Your mind kept drifting back to blue eyes, white hair, and the warmth in his voice when he said your name.
Aki appeared at your desk not long after, not even trying to hide her curiosity. You offered her the bare minimum. Just someone whose portrait you’d sketched on the train. Nothing serious. When she pressed further, you sighed and handed over his business card.
Her reaction was immediate. “Gojo Holdings? That Gojo?”
You nodded, reluctantly.
“And he wants to commission you? For art? In his office?”
“He mentioned it,” you said, already regretting sharing anything.
She didn’t miss the nuance. “Oh. He mentioned it. But also stared at you like you hung the moon?”
Your cheeks warmed. She grinned.
That evening, you moved the card from your desk drawer to your wallet, telling yourself it’s just in case you decide to take the commission. Nothing more.
The rational part of your brain knew this entire situation had ‘bad idea’ written all over it—in flashing neon, no less. But the less rational part of your brain kept remembering how he looked at your sketch as if it were something precious. Not just charcoal on paper.
Days passed. Then weeks.
You kept up your morning ritual—train sketches, quiet observation, the meditative act of putting pencil to paper. But now, each time you boarded, your eyes scanned the car, quietly wishing to see him again. He never appeared.
The business card moved again—from your wallet to your bedside table, then tucked into your sketchbook, then back to your wallet. You drafted emails. Professional, polite. None of them made it past your drafts folder.
And then, life—as it so often does—made the decision for you.
It started with your car being a bit bumpy, then a strange rattle under the hood. And finally, smoke. The repair bill was roughly equivalent to two months’ rent.
That night, you sat at your kitchen table, staring at your bank account and mentally rearranging numbers that didn’t cover the bill no matter what you tried. Between rent, old student loans, and the usual cost of just existing, you didn’t have a cushion big enough to absorb the hit and your parents were still helping your younger sibling through college. Credit cards would only delay the problem.
Your gaze drifted to the business card sitting on the counter where you’d left it earlier. A commission from Gojo Holdings would cover surely more than the car repairs. And then some.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
“This entire hallway is yours to reimagine,” Satoru said, gesturing with a casual sweep of his arm. You trailed a few steps behind, sketchbook in hand, scribbling notes as he pointed at one blank wall after another. “Boardroom entrances, reception, executive offices—the whole floor could use your touch.”
The headquarters of Gojo Holdings was exactly what you’d imagined. Sleek, modern, almost intimidating. Walls of glass divided up the offices, giving the illusion of privacy without actually offering much of it. Matte blacks, brushed steel, deep grays, and just enough warm wood or marble veining to say ‘tasteful’ without inviting any real comfort. But maybe that was the point.
Offices like this weren’t meant to feel cozy. In these rooms, decisions were made that shifted markets. Billions moved with a gesture. A signature. A nod. And somewhere at the center of it all was Satoru Gojo, walking through it like he was on his way to pick up coffee at the mall.
“How many pieces are we talking about?” you asked, already measuring the length of yet another white wall in your mind.
“However many feels right.” He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch your raised brow. “What? I mean it.”
“You know, most clients have a vision board. Timelines. Color codes. Budgets. A whole approval chain.”
“I’m not most clients.”
“Clearly.”
He continued the tour, leading you through a maze of meeting rooms and long corridors, while you took notes in your sketchbook—dimensions, how the light shifted through the glass and how certain walls caught the sun.
You paused often to sketch rough layouts or mark potential placements, all while trying to ignore the way Satoru was watching you more than the rooms.
“And this,” Satoru said, stopping in front of a pair of sleek double doors, “is my office.”
His office was huge—at least four times the size of your apartment—with windows stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a stunning view of the Tokyo skyline. Gentle afternoon sunlight streamed in, causing everything to shimmer softly, as if in a dream.
“It’s…” you hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t stroke his ego, “…adequate.”
Satoru burst out laughing. “Adequate? That might be the first time anyone’s used that word to describe my office.”
“I’m sure people usually fall over themselves with compliments.” You moved towards the windows. “I thought I’d try something different.”
“And that,” he said, following with hands tucked casually in his pockets, “is exactly why I hired you.”
“Because I don’t stroke your ego?”
“Because you’re straight forward. I like that.”
Something in his tone made you glance up at him, but his expression was unreadable as he gazed out at the city below.
“That wall there,” he continued, pointing to the large empty space behind his desk, “is where I originally thought your work would go. But then I thought, why not the whole floor?”
You walked his office slowly, taking in the space, the light, the simplicity. “It’s quite the blank canvas.”
“I’ve been told my style is too minimalist.”
“By who? The interior design magazine that did a feature on your last penthouse?”
His eyes widened a little before crinkling at the corners. “You Googled me.”
“Basic research before meeting a new client,” you said, but your cheeks, of course, betrayed you.
“Mmhmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
You approached the window where he stood.
“See that building there?” He pointed toward the horizon. “The one with the copper coloured roof?”
You squinted, seeing hundreds of buildings but not sure which one he meant. “Not really…”
“May I?”
Before you could fully register the question, he was behind you, one hand grazing your shoulder, the other gently tilting your chin to guide your gaze. His warmth at your back made your breath hitch.
“There,” he said, his voice brushing your ear. “Between those two towers. That’s where I first saw your work. A small gallery in Ginza. Community showcase. Your cityscape series.”
Your pulse stumbled. “You knew? All this time?”
“Kind of, yeah,” he admitted, still close enough that you could feel the quiet rumble of his words. “I’d actually thought about commissioning you back then—at the gallery. But things got busy, and I let it go. When I saw your sketch on the train, I recognized it immediately and it felt like… I don’t know. A sign. Like the universe was giving me a second chance.”
“How poetic.” You turned slightly, realizing his face was only inches from yours. “Why didn’t you just ask the gallery for my contact info? Would’ve saved you a lot of time. And posters.”
His lips curved into that maddening smile. “Where’s the fun in that?”
“You’re so weird.”
“Says the woman who stalks stranger on the train and draws them.”
“You’re the stalker here.”
“So, what do you think?” He stepped back and leaned casually against his desk. “Can you handle transforming the most boring executive floor in Tokyo?”
“Let’s talk numbers first.”
“I was thinking something in the range of two million yen for the full project,” he replied, watching you carefully.
You nearly choked. That was more than generous—enough to fix your car, pay off a good chunk of your student loans, maybe even take a breath for once. But something in his easy confidence made you want to test his limits.
“Four million,” you said, eyes steady. Bold.
His brows lifted. “That’s quite a jump.”
“I’m quite an artist.”
“That’s already well above—”
You tilted your head, pretending to reconsider. “Hmm. So, if you don’t want me…”
You let the words hang as you casually closed your sketchbook and took a slow step backward, turning like you were ready to walk out. “I get it. It’s a big commitment. I’m sure someone else can paint your sterile corporate walls.”
Satoru blinked. “Wait—”
You took another step.
“Three million,” he said. “Final offer.”
“Deal,” you replied, quick before he could change his mind. “But I have conditions. I want full creative freedom.”
“Naturally.” He pushed off the desk and extended his hand. “Three million yen, complete creative freedom, and dinner.”
Your hand froze halfway to his. “Dinner?”
“Just a simple business dinner,” he said innocently. “To go over project details.”
“We can go over those in an email.”
“Some things are better discussed in person. Over good food. And maybe a glass of wine.”
You crossed your arms. “That sounds suspiciously like a date.”
“Only if you want it to be,” he said, mirroring your stance.
“I don’t.”
“Then it’s not.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. One business dinner.”
“At Narisawa,” he added casually. “Private dining room, excellent view.”
“Narisawa? That’s a two month waiting list.”
“Not for everyone.”
“You’re really trying to blur the lines between business and private, aren’t you?”
“I’m merely suggesting a restaurant worthy of an three million yen commission.”
“McDonald’s exists.”
“I’m not taking you to McDonald’s.”
“I thought I had creative control in this partnership.”
“Over the art,” he said. “Dining arrangements fall under my jurisdiction.”
You gave him a look. “I’m starting to think this dinner is more important to you than the actual commission.”
“What would give you that impression?”
“Maybe because you’re pushing harder for this dinner than you did for the art.”
“I didn’t need to push for the art. You were already sold.”
“Presumptuous.”
“Am I wrong?”
You sighed, knowing you were fighting a losing battle. “One dinner. No private room—that’s weird. Main restaurant only. And I’m paying for myself.”
“Main restaurant’s fine,” he conceded, far too agreeable. “But I’m paying. Consider it a signing bonus.”
“That’s not how signing bonuses work.”
“It is at my company.”
“Fine. But this changes nothing. It’s strictly professional.”
“Of course,” he said. “Just two colleagues having a quiet eight course meal at one of Tokyo’s finest restaurants. Completely professional.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, agreeing to both the commission and dinner.”
You extended your hand to finally seal the deal. “Three million yen, full creative control, and one—singular, not two, only one—business dinner.”
He took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and you hated how weak that made your knees feel.
“If you say so,” he said.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Over the next two weeks, Gojo Holdings basically became your second home. You spent hours wandering the halls, filling your sketchbook with rough layouts and scribbled notes, snapping photos of how the light shifted from morning to dusk.
The project had you more energized than anything you’d worked on in years. Full creative freedom and a proper budget? That almost never happened. You didn’t want to waste it.
What you hadn’t expected was how often you’d see Satoru, though. Despite being constantly pulled into meetings and conference calls, you know, running a whole financial empire and all that, he somehow always knew when you were in the building.
Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him through the glass walls of the conference rooms, commanding attention with a casual confidence that was almost mesmerizing to watch. He’d be deep in conversation with some serious looking executives, completely in his element, and then, as if he could sense your gaze, his eyes would find yours. A subtle wink or the ghost of a smile just for you, and suddenly your stomach would do that stupid fluttering thing again.
Other times, he’d just… appear. Out of nowhere. Usually while you were measuring a wall or standing on your tiptoes trying to track the afternoon shadows.
“Need a hand?” he’d ask, already handing you a coffee like he knew you forgot to eat again and make some terrible joke about “hanging” your work. (“Get it? Because they’ll be hanging on the wall?” “Yes, Satoru, I get it. It’s still not funny.” “You smiled though.”)
He’d carve out little bits of time—ten minutes here, twenty there—despite his full schedule. Sometimes he’d walk with you through the space, telling stories about silly board meetings. Seriously, who would’ve thought that a company handling millions in the stock market could be run like a sitcom half the time?
Other times, he’d just sit nearby while you sketched, sipping his coffee in silence and letting you work. Strangely enough, his presence was never distracting. If anything, it felt… comfortable. Good, even.
And occasionally, he’d say something that surprised you. A thought about layout. A comment about color balance. Something you didn’t expect from a guy who usually talked in numbers and strategies.
“Shouldn’t you be doing CEO things instead of analyzing my color palette?” you’d ask.
“I could, but I’ve already yelled at three departments today. I’m ahead of schedule,” he’d reply with a grin.
And the strangest part wasn’t how much he was around. It was how quickly you got used to it. And how weirdly empty the rooms felt when he wasn’t there.
Your concept came together almost on its own. A series about Tokyo told through its people. Not neon signs or city skylines, more salarymen passed out on the train, old women gossiping in corner markets, teenagers packed into ramen shops after school. Quiet, ordinary moments that felt honest. Human.
Your apartment turned chaotic. Canvases leaned against furniture, reference photos were spread across every flat surface, and your sketches were taped to the windows just to see how they looked in different light. You worked late most nights, completely losing track of time until your stomach reminded you that you hadn’t eaten anything except an energy drink and half a protein bar.
You’d send status updates to Satoru sometimes. Professionally, mostly.
The concept boards are coming along well. I’ll have something concrete to show you by next week. — You
His replies, however, did not share your sense of professional distance:
I’m sure they’re amazing, but I’d rather see the artist than the art. When are you letting me buy you dinner? — SG
You rolled your eyes at his persistence, but you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.
The art comes before the artist. Patience, Mr. Gojo. — You
Mr. Gojo was my father. I’m Satoru to you, remember? And patience has never been my strong suit. — SG
The exchanges continued like this—you sending actual work updates, him responding with barely veiled attempts to see you again. It was absurd. Unprofessional. And yet… you looked forward to his replies more than you cared to admit.
Three weeks in, his patience seemed to officially ran out:
Dinner. This Friday. 8 PM. I’ve already made reservations at Narisawa. Unless you’re planning to work through the weekend again? — SG
You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back:
I’m in the middle of the sixth canvas. Friday won’t work. — You
His response came almost immediately:
Art can wait. Food can’t. The reservation is at 8. — SG
You scoffed.
I don’t recall agreeing to this Friday. Reschedule? — You
Ten minutes passed with no response. You had just returned to your canvas when your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.
“Hello?”
“I don’t accept a no.”
“That sounds problematic.”
He laughed. “Only when it comes to dinner invitations. Specifically ones I’ve been waiting weeks for.”
“I’m covered in paint and haven’t slept properly in days.”
“You could show up in pajamas and still be the most interesting person in the room.”
“Flattery won’t work.”
“You’re an awful liar, you know that? Your voice just did that thing it does when you’re trying not to smile.”
Your traitor lips curved anyway. “You can’t possibly know that over the phone.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?”
You sighed and set your brush down. “Why are you so persistent about this dinner?”
“Because I want to see you,” he said simply. “Because you’ve been painting pieces for my walls and I haven’t even seen your progress. Because maybe I miss the way you look at me like you’re immune to my charm.”
“I could send photos of the work.”
“Or,” he said, “you could wear something you like, let me feed you something expensive, and tell me about your process in person.”
“You won’t let me out of this, will you?”
“No.”
You sighed. “Fine. But I’m paying for myself.”
“We’ll discuss that over appetizers.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Friday at 8,” he said, ignoring your protest. “I’ll pick you up.”
“I can take the train.”
“Humor me.”
You could practically hear the smile in his voice.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”
“You. Repeatedly. It’s part of our thing.”
“We don’t have a thing.”
“Yet,” he added. And before you could argue, “I’ll see you Friday. Wear something that makes you happy.”
After the call ended, you stared at your phone for a few moments longer, until the screen turned black.
Somehow, despite your best efforts and at least three attempts to ghost him, you had a dinner on Friday night. Not a date, you told yourself. A business dinner. With a man who was way too attractive, way too confident, and had launched an entire campaign just to commission you. Totally normal.
You turned back to your canvas and tried to focus, but the flutter in your stomach wouldn’t go away.
It was just dinner. In a restaurant. With candlelight and probably a lot of eye contact. Nothing more.
Still, as you painted into the night, you caught yourself wondering what you might wear that would make you feel good. And maybe—just maybe—make him look at you the way he had in his office, when he stood so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin.
Strictly professional, you reminded yourself.
Even you didn’t believe it anymore.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Friday evening arrived with the kind of weird, way too warm weather that made you rethink your outfit three times before settling on something that felt like you—comfortable but still nice enough for... whatever game Satoru might be playing.
You were fixing your lipstick when your phone buzzed.
Downstairs. Take your time. — SG
You walked over to the window for a quick glance outside—and there he was.
Satoru was leaning against the passenger side of a sleek black car, arms crossed, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost identical to the one he’d worn the day you first saw him on Line 4. As if he could feel your gaze, he looked up. And saw you.
No wave, no wink—just a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
You blinked and stepped back from the window, heart fluttering in a strange way it hadn’t in a long time. Who even was this man? And how had he managed to get under your skin so completely, so quickly? You were dressing up, wearing lipstick, checking the window like some high school crush was picking you up for prom.
It was ridiculous. Stupid, even.
You grabbed your bag, took a breath, and headed downstairs before your brain had time to start asking too many questions.
He was still just a client. A persistent, maddeningly handsome client.
When you stepped out, he was still leaning against the passenger side door and just for a moment, he froze. No smirk. No teasing remark. Nothing prepared. His usual cool confidence seemed to falter as his eyes swept over you slowly and deliberately, like he wasn’t quite sure he was seeing you right.
“Wow,” he said quietly, straightening up a little and running a hand through his hair before letting out a breath. “You look…” He actually stopped to find the word—that alone felt suspicious. “…really beautiful.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what? Being honest? Sorry, not tonight.”
Before you could say anything else, he was already opening the car door for you, one hand briefly touching the small of your back as you slid inside. Not in a sleazy way. More like it came naturally to him. Which made you almost forget to be annoyed by his presumption.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Narisawa was exactly what you expected and somehow even more—the kind of place where the lighting was soft without being dim, where the air smelled faintly of thyme and something far more expensive, and where every detail felt carefully chosen to whisper, ‘you absolutely cannot afford this’.
Satoru had, of course, managed to get a table by the window, offering a view of the skyline that felt almost unreal. It was the kind of view that made the whole night feel like it belonged in a movie and made you almost forget this was technically a business dinner.
Conversation came easier than you’d expected. Over the first few courses—each one more art piece than meal, which made you feel slightly guilty about ruining it by eating it (I mean, who does that? Making such pretty food just for it to end up in a stomach?)—you talked about everything from your work as a designer and your favourite bands, to his tragic inability to make anything more complicated than instant noodles, and how he once almost made it into the national basketball team.
But what surprised you most was the way he asked about your art. He had a way of asking about that didn’t feel performative or polite. He was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
“So, the third piece,” he said, slicing into what was probably the most perfectly cooked fish you’d ever tasted. “The one with the commuters—how do you get that sense of movement in a still frame?”
You paused. “You’ve been paying attention.”
“I told you—I’m interested in your process.”
“Most clients only ask when it’ll be done and how much it’ll cost.”
He smiled, lifting his wine glass. “I’m not most clients,” he said, echoing what he’d told you that first day at his headquarters.
For the next twenty minutes, you talked shop. Layering techniques, color and motion, how to evoke emotion without showing too much. He asked questions that actually made you think—sharp, specific ones that showed he wasn’t just nodding along to be polite. He was genuinely interested.
At some point, somewhere between your third course and your second glass of wine, you caught yourself relaxing. Laughing. Enjoying it. And then you paused and set your glass down.
“Can I ask you something?” you said, unsure why the question suddenly felt heavier than it should.
“Anything.”
“You really went through all this—the car, this restaurant, the whole dramatic dinner—just to talk about brushwork and layering techniques?”
He leaned back in his chair, fingers resting lightly against his glass as he searched for the right words. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just like you.”
“You like me?” you echoed, unsure if it was a question or a warning.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“Kind of, yeah.” You fidgeted with your napkin. “I mean, you could be having dinner with a dozen other people tonight. Models. Actresses. CEOs’ daughters. People who don’t get paint on their shoes and give you a hard time.”
“Maybe that’s exactly why.”
Something shifted between you at his words. Like someone had turned the volume down on the room so you could hear each other better. You took a slow sip of wine, partly to buy time, partly to keep your expression neutral as you studied him across the table.
“So, you’re single then?” you asked. “Unless your girlfriend’s very cool with you taking strangers to fancy dinners.”
Satoru raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if I have a girlfriend?”
“I’m asking if I should expect an angry phone call later.”
He laughed. “No angry phone calls. And yeah—I’m single.”
“Shocking,” you said. “A successful and attractive CEO who can’t keep a girlfriend? What’s the catch?”
“Maybe I’m just picky.”
“Or maybe you’re married to your work,” you teased. “Let me guess—canceled dates for board meetings, forgotten anniversaries because of some deadline?”
“That’s…” He paused, glancing down on his glass for a moment. “Actually, my last girlfriend cheated on me.”
Your smile slipped. “Oh. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t be sorry. She wasn’t the right one. If she had been, maybe she would’ve understood that building something that lasts takes time. And attention.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About two years.” He reached for his wine, swirling it once before taking a sip. “Haven’t really dated since then.”
“So, casual things?”
“More like burying myself in work. Honestly, the closest thing I’ve had to female company lately is my secretary. And she has this strangely strict voice that sounds exactly like my mother when she’s disappointed.”
You laughed, sharp and sudden, covering your mouth with your hand. It wasn’t even that funny, not really. But the way he’d said it—so dry, and slightly frightened—and the face he made, like a kid who’d just been scolded for wearing the wrong socks to a school recital, caught you completely off guard.
For a moment, he didn’t look like the CEO of a massive company or the man who moved literal billions without blinking. He looked boyish. Almost shy. Like he was letting you peek at something most people didn’t get to see. And somehow, that made it even funnier.
You tried to compose yourself, but your shoulders were still shaking as you dabbed at the corners of your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
He smiled as he watched you try to hold in your laughter. “I like when you laugh like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re not thinking about how you look doing it.”
Something in the way he said it that made the humor settle into something softer, something that hangs in the air a little too long. Like neither of you wanted to be the one to move past it first.
“Well,” you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, “your secretary sounds scary. I can see why you’d rather have dinner with me.”
“Among other reasons.”
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it. You picked up your glass, needing the excuse to look away for a second. “Are you always this charming?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but your voice came out a little softer than intended.
“I’m trying,” he said. “With you.”
He said it like it wasn’t heavy at all. But it was. And you could feel it settle in your chest.
“Satoru…” you started, not even sure what was going to follow. But then the waiter showed up and set down the next course with a brief description you didn’t really hear because you only had eyes for him.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Dinner had stretched well past ten, neither of you making any real effort to end the night. So when Satoru suggested a walk instead of heading straight to the car, you said yes.
The night had cooled off more than you expected, and you pulled your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders as the two of you wandered through the quiet streets near the restaurant. It had rained earlier, leaving the pavement slick and glistening under the streetlights. At one point, a small puddle stretched across the sidewalk, and before you could react, Satoru just scooped you up without a word and carried you over it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe it was the warmth the wine had left in your chest, or maybe it was just the way his arms felt around you, steady and sure, but you let yourself lean a little closer against him before he set you down again on the other side.
“That was unnecessary,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, though you didn’t make much effort to slip out of his arms.
“Maybe,” he replied with a grin, “but I’ve always wanted an excuse to do that.”
It felt good—being with him felt really good. The kind of good that made you forget to guard yourself. The kind that crept in quietly and made you wonder what it would be like to have more nights just like this.
You’d just rounded a corner into a small park when you heard soft violin music drifting through the air. You slowed, then stopped entirely. Just ahead, a street musician stood under the warm glow of a streetlamp, playing something slow and aching and beautiful.
You stood still and listened for a moment, a smal smile tugigng at your lips.
“Dance with me,” Satoru said.
You turned to him. “What? No.”
“Why not?” He held out a hand.
You hesitated and looked around for a second.
“You know, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
You surrendered and took his hand. “This is so stupid.”
He smiled, soft and sincere, and stepped in close. One hand found your waist, the other guiding yours up between you. His touch was warm, steady. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.
“You know,” you began, as he gently started to move. Not quite dancing, more like remembering how. “I usually don’t do this with clients.”
“Figures. I always suspected I was your favourite.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” you teased. “That other client of mine, a guy from an accounting firm is pretty smooth too.”
“Oh really? Did he buy you dinner at Narisawa and slow dance with you in the park?”
“Not yet.”
“I like when you try to mess with me.”
“I’m not trying. You just make it easy.”
He spun you gently, then pulled you back in, your hand pressed lightly to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his dress shirt—too fast, like yours.
A few people passed, smiling without staring. It didn’t matter. You were too aware of his breath near your cheek, the weight of his palm at your back, the quiet between songs that didn’t feel like silence at all.
“You’re good at this,” you said softly.
“I only dance with people who make it easy.”
“That line would work better if your hands weren’t shaking a little.”
He leaned in closer, his breath gazing your ear. “So are yours.”
You swallowed, the closeness of him settling into your skin. You didn’t answer. Just let him hold you for a few more seconds, rain beginning to fall in light taps across your shoulders, your hair. And then he dipped you back gently, one hand firm behind you.
“Still think it’s stupid?” he asked.
Your breath caught as you stared up into those impossibly blue eyes, your back arching as he supported your weight effortlessly. The rest of the world faded away until there was nothing but him and the violin and the electric space between you.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Absolutely.”
“But?”
You hesitated, then let your fingers curl lightly around the front of his jacket. “But I don’t want it to stop.”
That’s when you felt the first raindrop hit your cheek.
His gaze flickered down to the raindrop on your skin, how it slowly run down, and for a second you could have sworn he looked at you lips. And maybe, just maybe you wished he’d kissed you but then the rain came heavier.
“That’s our cue.” But he didn’t move right away. His eyes stayed on you.
Finally, he lifted you back up, drawing you close against his chest. You were both breathing hard, though you’d barely been moving. The rain was falling more steadily now, and you could see Satoru’s white hair beginning to darken with moisture.
“Home?” he asked, voice rougher now, like he wasn’t quite ready for the answer either.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything without giving too much away. Because at some point, this had stopped feeling like dinner with a client. You weren’t sure when it changed—only that it had. And now everything felt a little too close, a little too important.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
When the car pulled up to your building, he was out and opening your door before you could reach for the handle yourself. Of course he was. Always one step ahead, always just… thoughtful in that maddening, disarming way.
“Thank you,” you said, stepping out into the quiet night.
“My pleasure.”
The air smelled like wet pavement and something faintly floral from someone’s balcony. He walked you to your door, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking toward the sky like he wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight either.
You fumbled with your keys for a moment, buying time before the inevitable goodbye. The silence stretched, not tense, but full. Full of everything that had happened and everything that hadn’t.
When you finally turned to him, he was closer than you’d expected, close enough that you could see the way his white hair had dried in soft waves from the rain. He smelled faintly of wine and cedar and like someone you could spend the rest of your life with.
“I had a really good time tonight,” you said. “Thank you. For the dinner, the dancing, the completely unnecessary puddle rescue…”
He smiled, a little crooked, a little tired. “Even the terrible jokes?”
“Especially the terrible jokes. Though the stories of your secretary will probably haunt me tonight.”
“Oh, she haunts everyone,” he said. “She’s very scary.”
You both laughed, but the sound died down fast, like the moment had suddenly remembered it was trying to mean something else. His gaze dropped, if only for the briefest moment, to your lips. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you waited, hoping, expecting—
“I should let you get some sleep,” he said. But instead of stepping back, he stepped closer.
Your breath caught as his hand rose—slow, deliberate—coming to rest gently at the back of your head. But instead of the dreamy kiss you’d hoped for, he kissed your forehead. Not your mouth. Not even your cheek. Your forehead.
The kiss was soft, warm—overflowing with care. But not the kind you’d been waiting for. It was tender, almost reverent, and somehow, it left you feeling strangely hollow.
“Sleep well,” he murmured against your skin before pulling back. And then he turned—just like that—and walked back to the car. No glance over his shoulder. No hesitation. No second thought.
Inside your apartment, you leaned against the closed door, jacket still damp against your shoulders. You touched your forehead, where his lips had been. It had been sweet. Really, it had. Just… not what you’d expected. Not what you’d wanted.
You let your head fall back against the door with a soft thud. Why hadn’t he kissed you? Why would he do all that just to not... kiss you?
You’d been so sure. The way he’d looked at you over dinner. The way he’d held you during that ridiculous dance. The way it had all felt like a slow build to something. And you wanted that something.
But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you were just another commission to him after all, something to be handled with care but ultimately kept at arm’s length.
It shouldn’t have stung the way it did. But it did.
More than you cared to admit.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Monday morning arrived under a gray drizzle that matched your mood a little too perfectly. You stepped into a puddle on the way out, got your umbrella stuck in a doorway because you’d forgotten it was open, and then someone on the subway sneezed directly in your direction. It was that kind of morning.
You’d spent the entire weekend replaying Friday night over in your head—every glance, every word, every fleeting gesture—until you’d nearly driven yourself mad with questions that had no answers.
And Aki was absolutely no help. She was already perched on your desk when you walked in, your usual coffee in one hand and dark circles under your eyes doing all the talking.
“Soooo… how was your fancy dinner?”
“It was fine,” you said, powering up your computer.
“Fine?” Mei materialized beside her like she’d been lying in wait for gossip. “That’s it? You go to Narisawa with the hottest CEO in Tokyo and all we get is fine?”
“It was a business dinner. We discussed the commission.”
“What kind of man gets you flowers that pretty just to talk about business?”
“A man who takes his commission very seriously.”
You could feel their stares burning into the side of your head.
“Come on,” Mei pressed. “Did he kiss you? He kissed you, didn’t he? I can tell by your face.”
“He didn’t kiss me.”
“Ah,” Aki said, with that stupid satisfaction of someone who’d just solved a puzzle. “So you wanted him to.”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Can we please not?”
But of course, they were relentless, firing question after question at you about what you wore, what you ate, what he said, if there was a ‘vibe’—until you were actually grateful for that boring meeting before lunch with a client who always rejected your ideas, made you change them back and forth a dozen times, and inevitably circled back to the original design. As frustrating as that was, it still didn’t compare to what was coming later.
You had a meeting with Satoru after work to talk about delivery logistics—when to bring the artwork, how many pieces were ready. The commission was nearly complete, and a few canvases could be brought to his office already. But the thought of standing across from him again, making small talk about framing and placement, felt unbearable.
Not to mention figuring out how to get those giant canvases out of your apartment, which was now packed to the walls with drying paint, sketches, and so many drop cloths you’d basically lost your kitchen to the cause.
For weeks, this commission had felt like the best thing to happen to your career. But now, standing outside the gleaming tower that housed his office, you weren’t sure what to think anymore.
Was this just business to him? Had you imagined the connection, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were someone special? Maybe successful men like Satoru Gojo were just naturally charming, and you’d been naive enough to think it meant something more.
You straightened your shoulders and walked into the building. If he wanted professional, he could have professional. You had a job to do, no matter what kind of game your heart thought it was playing.
You raised your hand to knock on his office door—though really, there was no need. The walls were glass, and he’d already spotted you the second you moved.
He was on the phone, his shoulder pinning it in place as he typed something on the laptop in front of him. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for you to come in. And there it was again—that maddening smile. The one that made it look like his whole face lit up just from seeing you.
You stepped inside, lingering uncertainly near the door. He was still deep in conversation, something about a company merger and someone named Gerald being an absolut idiot, and how he might as well handle it himself. Always busy, it seemed.
Satoru shifted the phone slightly and glanced at you. “Hey, you want coffee?”
You nodded and then he was back to his call. You wandered a little further into his office, taking in the space. It was always so tidy which felt strangely at odds with how chaotic his work seemed to be. You drifted toward the tall windows and looked down at the city below. In the gentle afternoon sun, people were rushing through the city—commuters heading home, students in uniform, ordinary lives unfolding far beneath you.
Satoru stood and walked over to you. He was close—Why would he come so close?—and placed a hand gently at your waist, a brief touch that lingered just long enough to make your breath catch. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment.
“Sorry for the wait,” he said, voice low. “I’m nearly done.”
And then he was gone, stepping out of the office and leaving you reeling.
When he returned two minutes later, he had two mugs in one hand and a canned coffee tucked under his arm, balancing it all as he kicked open the door with his foot. Phone was still pressed between his shoulder and ear. He poured two cups and handed you a one, flashing you that easy smile of his.
You took a seat on the couch, sipping carefully and doing your best not to make eye contact. But you were sure he’d already noticed the flush creeping into your cheeks.
Finally, he hung up and let out a long sigh.
“I’m so sorry. There’s this big merger we’re handling, and the guy in charge is like the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.”
“It’s okay.”
He ran a hand through his hair, sending it falling messily back over his forehead.
“No, it’s not. I don’t want to keep you waiting.”
“I bet that just comes naturally with being important.”
“I’m not that important,” he replied with a grin.
“The whole tower has your name on it. I’d say that qualifies.”
“What’s more important right now,” he said, standing and walking over to you, “is you.” He took the seat across from you. “So… how was your day? Treat you well?”
Why was he asking about your day now? What kind of game was he playing?
“It was fine. Monday’s not exactly my favorite.”
“Don’t get me started.” He laughed. “I hope at least your meeting went well?”
You blinked. He remembers? You’d mentioned it briefly during dinner.
“Oh, uh… yeah. It went okay,” you said. “But let’s talk about the commission. That’s why I’m here, right?”
He frowned, and there was a moment of silence. “Sure.”
You spent the next hour and a half going over the artwork—discussing placement, lighting, framing. He was enthusiastic and attentive, genuinely appreciative in a way that still surprised you, even now.
You moved through the headquarters together. Most people had gone home by then. The sun had already set, casting long shadows through the quiet halls. A few late workers lingered, but Satoru told them to go and rest and sent them home. And just like that, it was the two of you, walking side by side through the empty building, planning where each piece would live.
It was in one of the offices on the west side of the building—the ones with the perfect view of Tokyo Tower—that you found yourself on your tiptoes, trying to tape a placeholder on the wall for one of the larger pieces. You stretched, struggling to reach just high enough to get the angle right.
“Wait, let me.”
Before you could respond, Satoru was suddenly right behind you. He gently took the tape from your fingers, easily reaching over you to press it into place. His body hovered just a breath away, tall and warm.
“Thank you,” you said, suddenly flushed. But he didn’t move away. “You can step back now.” You didn’t dare turn around because if you did, you would end up facing his chest. And you really didn’t want to face his chest.
“Does this make you uncomfortable?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just checking in,” he said casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world to stand inches away from someone like this.
“You have a strange way of doing that.”
“I had a feeling.”
“About what?”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I don’t.”
He reached out, fingers brushing your shoulder, and then slowly trailed the back of his hand down your arm. It sent a shiver down your spine that you hoped he didn’t notice.
“So this doesn’t bother you?” he asked, almost curious.
“Satoru, what’s your mission here?”
You finally turned to face him and regretted it immediately. You were much too close, nearly pressed against him. His white dress shirt did nothing to hide the muscle beneath, and you hated the fact that your first thought was how unfairly good he’d look without it.
“You’re blushing.” He reached out, gently cupping your chin and tilting your face up toward his.
“It’s hot.”
“It isn’t,” he said, and smiled.
He was right. It was around eighteen degrees. Damn these fancy offices and their perfectly functioning ACs.
“Can we go back to work? I’d rather not have a sleepover here.”
Satoru didn’t move. Instead, he leaned in closer, placing one hand against the wall beside your head, caging you in.
“You’re acting strange today,” he said softly.
“Maybe because you’re keeping me here.”
“Was I mistaken?”
“About what?”
“Our date.”
“What about it?”
His hand dropped from your chin. “I thought it was… good.”
You blinked, trying to read him. “It was—” you cleared your throat, “—it wasn’t just good. It was great.”
“Oh. Yeah… I think so too. Then why—”
“But you didn’t kiss me.”
His eyes widened just a little. “You… wanted me to kiss you?”
“I…” You hesitated, feeling your face getting even hotter then is already was. “Yes.”
“I thought I’d be a gentleman and take things slow. Are we actually kissing on first dates these days?”
“I mean… yeah. It depends—I guess, but…” You trailed off, absolutely flustered.
He paused for a beat, then that maddeningly smug grin spread across his lips.
“Don’t smile like that,” you said, pushing lightly against his chest.
“I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to rush things. I mean, my whole approach was already kind of—”
“Weird? Borderline stalker—” And then his lips were on yours, silencing your words.
No hesitation this time. No uncertainty. You melted into him instantly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
His hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss with a confidence that made your knees go weak. One hand traced the line of your jaw while the other found the small of your back, pulling you closer until not even air could fit between you.
You could taste the coffee on his lips, could feel the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed that he wasn’t as composed as he looked. When he pulled back, you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together under the dim lights.
“Still think this is just about the commission?” he asked, his thumb brushing gently across your bottom lip, now flushed and swollen from his kiss.
“Shut up.” And then you grabbed him by his tie and pulled him back to your lips.
This kiss was different. Hungrier. Needier. He pressed you back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other tangled deep in your hair. You couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped when he deepened it further, like you’d been waiting for this longer than you wanted to admit.
“What’s the hurry?” he whispered between kisses, his mouth trailing along your jaw.
“You made a whole-ass campaign to find me,” you said, breathless, your fingers twisted in his shirt. “Don’t back down now.”
His laugh was low and rough against your neck. “Fair point.”
Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, and suddenly you were being lifted, your back pressed firmly against the wall as he held you there effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his waist, and the new position brought you eye-level with him, close enough to see just how dark his eyes had gone.
“Still too slow for you?” he asked against your throat, his breath warm on your skin.
“Getting there,” you managed, though your voice was shakier than you’d intended, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance.
“I do like a challenge.”
Without breaking the kiss, Satoru carried you across the floor into his office, your legs still wrapped around his waist, until he reached the leather couch by the windows. He lowered you both down, following you as you sank into the soft cushions, his weight settling over you as his hands framed your face.
“Much better,” he breathed against your lips.
His kisses deepened, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to explore the taste of you. One hand slid into your hair while the other traced the curve of your waist.
“I hope you sent everyone home,” you said, fingers threading through his white hair as his mouth moved along your neck.
“Don’t worry. And besides—glass or not, the walls are soundproof. One of the perks of being CEO.”
“How convenient.”
“I thought so.” His teeth grazed the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp and arch beneath him. “Though I have to admit—I didn’t imagine using it like this when I had them installed.”
You tugged gently at his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours. “Then what did you imagine?”
“Boring conference calls,” he said between kisses. “Definitely not as interesting as this.”
The leather of the couch was cool against your back where your shirt had ridden up, highlighting the heat of his large hands as they explored the newly exposed skin. Outside, Tokyo shimmered in the night, but the only thing holding your attention was the man above you—the way he kissed you like he was memorizing every reaction, every breath, every soft sound you made.
“What makes you think I’m that loud?” you murmured against his mouth.
“Oh, I have a feeling.”
His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before skimming up the inside of your thigh. The touch sent a rush through your veins, making you gasp softly into his kiss.
“Satoru,” you whispered, fingers gripping the front of his shirt, pulling him closer as his touch grew bolder.
“I know.” His hand inched lower between your legs, while his lips kissed down your neck. “I hate waiting too.”
Then his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans, chasing every bit of tension that had been building between you since that very first subway sketch. And as the lights of Tokyo glittered beyond the glass, the rest of the world fell away, leaving nothing but the heat between you—and the things neither of you could hold back any longer.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Later, you lay tangled together on the leather couch, your head resting on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns along your bare shoulder. Everything had gone still, except for your breathing and the distant noise of Tokyo still awake outside.
“So,” Satoru said, his voice warm with amusement, “where exactly did we leave off with the commission?”
You lifted your head to look at him, a smile tugging at your lips. “Pretty sure we got distracted somewhere around placing the canvas in the west office block.”
“Ah, yes—the once perfect placement. Facing the window, not the door. ‘Omg, what was I thinking?’” he teased in a gentle mimic of your voice, his fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “For what I’m paying you, I really have no say.”
“Don’t blame this on me. You gave me full creative freedom. Or maybe you need better negotiation tactics.”
“My negotiation tactics are pretty solid,” he protested, his chest rumbling with quiet laughter beneath your cheek. “I got exactly what I wanted.”
“The art commission?”
“Among other things.” His arms tightened around you, drawing you closer. “Though I still think the pieces should face the door, so I can see them from the hallway when I pass that office.”
“Is that your professional opinion, Mr. CEO?”
“That’s my completely biased, utterly smitten opinion,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “The CEO in me would probably have a lot to say about the productivity level of tonight.”
“Poor productivity indeed. We only managed to discuss half the rooms.”
“Terrible oversight.” His hand slid slowly down your back, caressing your hip. “We’ll have to schedule another meeting. Several, probably. Very intensive. Very hands-on.”
“Hands-on is definitely the way to go with this project,” you said, tilting your face up to meet his gaze, and the look he gave you was so tender it made your heart skip.
In one smooth motion, he flipped you beneath him again, his weight settling over you as his lips found yours. “I think we should continue our discussion right now,” he murmured, trailing kisses down your throat.
You were just beginning to melt into his touch when the sound of the office door opening made you both freeze.
“Oh fuck! I didn’t know you were still here,” a voice blurted.
You scrambled to grab Satoru’s shirt from the floor next to the couch and pulled it over yourself as you pressed back into the couch cushions. Thankfully, the back of the couch faced the door, giving you at least some cover, but your heart was hammering so hard you were sure whoever it was could hear it.
Satoru pushed himself up, running a hand through his messy hair, looking far too at ease for someone who’d just been caught in a very compromising position
“Suguru,” he said, voice calm and unbothered. “What’s up?”
“Don’t bother—I’m just looking for my laptop charger. I’ll leave.”
“It’s okay. We were just...” Satoru began, then seemed to realize there was no good way to finish that sentence. “...Having a meeting.”
You buried your face in your hands, mortified. Why the hell is he starting a conversation right now? This was not how you’d imagined your evening ending—almost naked on Satoru’s office couch, wearing only his shirt, while his colleague stood in the doorway looking for his goddamn laptop charger.
The time you waited for the guy to get his charger were the most agonizing twenty second of your whole life and to your bad, Satoru wasn’t even the slightest bit ashamed.
Little did you know that Suguru would become one of your closest friends once you and Satoru were actually in a relationship. But every single birthday party or casual gathering, that story would come again. “Haha, did you know Suguru caught us on the couch?” Satoru would joke, while Suguru would groan, “Can we please never talk about that again?”
Six months later, the apartment Satoru found for the two of you was perfect in the way only he could manage—spacious enough for both of you to have your own creative corners and with big windows that caught the morning light beautifully and offered a stunning view of the city skyline. It was nestled just across from a quiet park where the trees already turned gold for autumn.
But it was the room he’d turned into your art studio that brought you to tears the first time you saw it. Windows that faced the north for consistent lighting, spacious storage for your materials, and enough wall space to work on several large canvases at once.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you’d said, running your fingers along the custom easel he’d installed.
“I wanted to,” he’d replied simply, wrapping his arms around you from behind. “I want to see what you create when you have all the space and time in the world.”
You’d cut your hours at Takahashi Media Group down to part-time—something that would’ve been financially impossible before Satoru. But the commission for his headquarters had led to three more corporate projects, and suddenly, you had enough steady work to support yourself as an artist. Real work. Meaningful work. Not just subway sketches—though you still did those too. Now, Satoru sometimes joined you on weekend train rides, amused by the way strangers reacted to receiving unexpected portraits.
Your mornings became a rhythm of coffee in bed while he read financial reports and you sketched ideas for new pieces. After the third time he found you passed out over a canvas at 2 AM, having forgotten to eat dinner, he installed a espresso machine in your studio. Now, he’d show up with perfectly crafted lattes and whatever takeout he’d ordered, settling into the window seat with his laptop while you painted—taking calls with investors in Tokyo, New York, and London, all while keeping an eye on you and making sure you don’t overwork yourself again.
“You know I can hear you smiling through the phone,” you’d tease after he hung up from his calls.
“Can’t help it,” he’d say. “I’ve got the most beautiful view in the city right here.”
The subway sketches evolved too. Instead of giving them all away, you started keeping some—the ones that captured something more, moments that felt like little revelations about people, about life. Satoru convinced you to include them in a group exhibition at a gallery in Shibuya. The opening night was small and intimate, but watching people connect with your work in a way they never had when you were just handing out drawings on trains felt like validation of everything you’d been trying to do.
“This feels like coming full circle,” Satoru whispered into your ear as you both watched guests study your pieces, his hand resting warmly at the small of your back.
“From stalking me through my art to displaying it properly?”
“From falling in love with your work… to falling in love with you,” he corrected. And even after months of dating, after hearing him say those words more times than you could count, they still made your heart skip.
Suguru became an unexpected constant in your life too. What began hella awkward slowly turned into real friendship. And the three of you fell into an easy routine of weekend dinners and spontaneous museum visits, Suguru often playing the role of best friend and occasional voice of reason when Satoru’s grand romantic gestures got out of hand.
Which happened more often than you’d expected. Like the time he rented out an entire floor of a restaurant because you’d wanted to eat there but hated crowded rooms. Or when he bought a whole flower shop’s worth of peonies because you’d mentioned loving them once. Or the morning you woke up to find the city’s best sushi chef—apparently an old friend of his, because Satoru seemed to know everyone in this goddamn town—preparing breakfast in your kitchen, just because you’d been craving good fish.
“You know you don’t have to keep trying to impress me,” you told him after each increasingly excessive gesture. “I already said yes to moving in with you.”
“I’m not trying to impress you. I’m trying to spoil you. There’s a difference.”
The truth was, it was the small things that meant the most. The way he’d automatically order your coffee when you were running late, or how he’d text you photos of interesting architecture from whatever city he was traveling through, or the fact that he’d learned to distinguish between your different paintbrushes and how to clean them properly when you forgot.
He even kept a sketchbook of his own now, filled with terrible but enthusiastic drawings of you working, cooking, sleeping, just existing in the space you’d built together.
Your family adored him, of course. Your mother immediately started calling him her ‘second son’ after a chaotic family dinner he’d attended—which, by the way, you always thought was kind of weird. Like, why would parents call him their ‘son’ when he was spending every other night between your thighs?—Still, he charmed everyone with stories about his work, genuine interest in your father’s completely ordinary job and about your cousins’ college applications—and even remembered your aunt’s dog’s name. He always brought the perfect wine to pair with whatever your mom was cooking, and never forgot a birthday.
The subway sketches and posters that had started everything found a permanent home in the hallway of your shared apartment. A dozen framed moments that told the story of your work and your relationship. The original sketch you’d given him on that crowded train of Line 4 hung proudly in his office at work, right next to his desk where everyone could see it.
“That’s where it all started,” he’d say whenever anyone asked. “Best investment I ever made.”
Three years later, when Satoru proposed during one of your morning train rides—getting down on one knee right there in the subway car where you first met, causing a scene that had fellow passengers cheering and taking pictures—you realized that sometimes the best love stories start with the smallest gestures.
A sketch handed to a stranger. A poster campaign that was equal parts romantic and unhinged. A decision to be brave enough to call a number written on a business card.
And every morning, as you watched the city wake through the studio’s windows while Satoru hummed in the kitchen, probably checking market reports with one hand and making your coffee with the other, you couldn’t help but smile at how beautifully imperfect it all was. How your once carefully ordered life had been turned upside down by a man with white hair and the kind of heart that didn’t know how to love in small doses.
“Still think I’m weird?” he’d ask sometimes, appearing in your studio doorway with a mug of coffee and that same grin that had made your knees weak the very first time.
“The weirdest,” you’d always reply, taking the coffee—and the kiss that came with it. “But you’re my weird. And I love you.”
“I love you more,” he’d say, leaning down to kiss your forehead.
And that, you’d learned, made all the difference.
masterlist + support my writing
author's note — wait ! before you go ! if you enjoyed this story, i’d be forever grateful if you’d consider gifting me a few minutes of your time to participate in a research survey for my master’s thesis in psychology <3 (am i shamelessly using my reach to gather primary data ? yes. yes i am. and i have no regrets.)
here's the link.
it’s completely anonymous, but just a heads-up: the survey touches on nightmares and emotional wellbeing, so it may be sensitive for some. please feel free to stop at any point if it doesn’t feel right for you.
other than that, thank you so much for reading !! i hope you enjoyed the story. i need provider!satoru gojo so bad like ugh but instead i’m stuck in higher education trying to become my own provider. send help :')))
wishing you all the soft chaos you deserve. take care <3
ps: if you want to get notifications for future updates, you can join my taglist here.
“Wear something that makes you happy”, “didn’t know how to love in small doses”, UGH—you write some of the best lines ever. I LOVE the way you write him and I adored this. I think that’s the whole point of love, to find someone who loves you so much and so effortlessly that they’re obsessed with evening you do. Beautiful!!
warnings: spider-woman!reader, implied sex, angst with happy ending, cursing
You were the first ever Spider-Woman to be recruited to the protection of the Arachno Humanoid Polymorthaverse (of which you nicknamed AHP but it’s not really sticking, unfortunately). As long as it’s been—which really, hasn’t been that long when you stop to think about it—you still have yet to drag an answer out of Miguel as to why you were the first call as far as Spider-Women went.
Lyla adored you so it’s not that far-fetched to assume she’s the reason you ended up at the top of his list for recruits. She had been on her last metaphorical leg with the men on the team by the time Miguel had brought you in, filling you in on anything and everything as far as drama and accidents went. Together, you and her put together a good portion of the next Spider-Women to walk through the portals—among them, Jess was a lifesaver and damn good friend.
She was also one of the rare few to call people out on their bullshit. People being you.
“You two got the whole spidey society talkin’. If I spilled the stuff I know, it’d shut them up real quick.”
You huff, eyebrow ticking as you scan the database for the last few anomaly pop-ups. Hobie had gotten a good few in the last couple of days. He needed a rest.
“Spider-Men talk,” you say, typing away and ignoring Lyla as she sparked into existence. She smiled, all cat-like as she swung her arms at her side. “That’s nothing new in any universe. Stop that, Lyla.”
“Stop what?” she sings.
You make a point to slowly turn your gaze towards her. Her heart-shaped glasses slide down her pixelated nose as she floats on her stomach, legs kicking happily behind her.
“Even an AI can see through you,” Jess chuckles, pushing off the desk behind you. All the teasing has a string fraying in the back of your head.
“You keep poking fun,” you warn, “and I’ll drop hints about that little subject you’re keeping quiet about.”
“‘Scuse me?” It’s a no-nonsense tone and one that scares the hell out of any man with danger sense. “You wanna play that game with the dirt I got on you?”
You glance back at her over your shoulder, hunched over your desk and not feeling the least bit merciful.
“Then we’ll both be out of the job. You more so when it comes down to it, all things considered.” You eye her stomach and smile slyly at her. “Can't hide it forever.”
“Oh, and you can?” she scoffs, arms crossing.
“My feelings don’t have a due date,” you mutter, squinting as something flashes on another screen nearby. The new intel uploads in a blink. You read it over as Lyla groans, tossing a box of popcorn she’d fabricated out of nowhere at who knows when back into non-existence.
“Just when it was getting good,” she whines.
“Lyla,” you sigh.
“Ooh, you’re even starting to sound like him. So cute,” she laughs, throwing up the pictures of another villain in the wrong universe. The local Spider-Man has requested backup from a higher unit and with people stretched a bit thin this week, it’s dropped into your lap first.
“Another Goblin?” Jess grumbles, shaking her head. “Those get nasty quick. You want some help?”
“I can notify Mig—” Lyla begins.
“No,” you snap and catch yourself. “No, thanks, I can handle this.”
You turn to Jess. Her face reads: You definitely don’t have this handled and you choose to ignore it.
“Walk with me?” you ask.
She nods and Lyla vanishes as the two of you make your way away from the screens and out into the hall. Your fingers tap quickly across your jump-watch, readying the next portal out. Jess remains silent.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur, meeting her dark eyes. “Shouldn’t have used it against you like that. I’d never say anything about the pregnancy—”
“Oh, I know. You’re full of empty threats, I’ve seen them first hand.” She grins as you roll your eyes, the air vibrating as fabric rips and red rings and shifting colors reveal your exit. “You sure you don’t want some help with this? You’ve been doing a lot this week.”
“I’m fine.” Your mask slips easily from your thigh pocket, golden eyes glittering back at you from a sea of silvery to abyss blue. No matter how many years it’s been, you never quite get used to the uniform. It’s always a lot to take in, just like the supernova it was modeled after. “I need the distraction. Been sitting around too long.”
“Mm-hmm, heard that before.”
You toss a weighted smile her way before sliding into your alter ego and offering a wave. The portal pulls you in like every other time. You let the trip wash away the doubt lingering at the thoughts laced with things will never be the same and far worse the question did he regret it?
No time to keep running thought loops when you have talons slicing for your jugular. You can feel the air they make as you dodge, shooting your webbing into your pocket dimension and warping out of eyesight from the alternate Goblin.
On this side of things, the place your webs send you too, the world blurs together like watercolor—a painting only you can make out. You’ve met one or two villains powerful enough to seek you out on this plane of existence, seeing through the science of a space spider you still haven’t grasped fully even after suffering its bite.
If you’re not careful, you’ll slip into something unstable. Pockets of time will echo back, one’s you don’t have the heart to re-live.
For a moment, you think you’ve done exactly that when a familiar suit slings by, red webbing flashing across your eyes and hitting like lightning. Despite the shock, your heart keeps rhythm, dancing to the same song it has since the day you met him.
Miguel lands on the building across from you, looking around despite the Goblin clearly zooming across the road a block down. The local Spider-Man is being dragged behind him, yelling a typical sarcastic quip before he’s sent through another office building. Miguel doesn’t even turn his head.
You know what he’s searching for, or rather, who. You refuse to think twice about it as you web yourself back into the world and dive by him.
“Didn’t ask for your help!”
He follows after you, graceful despite his obnoxious size as his body hovers next to yours with every free fall between swings.
“If I waited around for that call, you’d be dead ten times over.”
You want to throttle him and his AI assistant for snitching.
“I’m reprogramming Lyla when this is over.”
“I’d normally agree with that, but it wasn’t Lyla this time.”
Jess.
You space warp to get a group of adolescents out of the way of falling debris in time and shoot a glittering web across the Goblin’s face when he passes overhead. Local Spider takes the diversion in stride, ripping him off his flying machine and going down with him.
FWIP! You give chase to the mechanical abomination, well-aware of the various bombs and deadly doodads embedded into Goblin devices. That’s proven as small, heat-seeking missiles dart after you in your pursuit.
Miguel slices through a cloud of them, falling through explosions and still somehow managing a huffy, “He’s a level 8! This is for teams of two or higher!”
“I have my second!” you argue.
Local Spider-Man goes arching over the both of you, screaming bloody murder. There’s a pause in conversation as you watch him sail through the air. He catches himself with his web shooters. Just barely.
“He’s the one that called for backup,” Miguel snaps. “That doesn’t count!”
“How does that not count?!”
You can tell from his mask he is behind displeased as your back talk, but at this point that’s the name of the game. When you’re around your leader as long as you have been—when you’re as close to him as you are—back talk becomes second nature.
Despite your raging fits, the two of you subdue the Goblin racing across the roads below frantically calling his flying device back. It’s nowhere to be seen, his remote likely busted from prior roughhousing.
“This has to stop,” Miguel says, standing over the villain. You can feel his gaze without seeing it. “You’ve been going awol for the last week. This isn’t how we do things!”
“I’m doing the jobs no one else has time for—that’s not going awol.”
The Goblin grunts between the two of you on the pavement, hissing, “Do you two have to do this right now? Honestly.”
Miguel webs his mouth shut before you have the pleasure of doing it.
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” you breathe.
“Mierda, no lo entiendes, ¿verdad?* You’re avoiding me!”
“I’m avoiding you?” you say slowly, voice shaking. “I’m avoiding you?”
The Goblin mumbles something that sounds very close to “Oh, here we go. Broke the back with that stick.”
“You’re the one who said you needed to focus.” You point at him, mask eyes narrowed to nearly slits. “You’re the one who said we needed to be more professional from now on. Well, here it is! Here’s my professional attitude!”
Miguel’s gloved fingers rub against one another as he glances away.
“This is professional?” he asks and in all honesty he’s being genuine—there’s real curiosity in that question. It’s just lost in the sea of red you end up seeing.
“Talk to the local Spider and get a portal started.” You somehow manage to say it through a clenched jaw. “I’ll take care of the glider.”
Miguel, wisely, turns to greet the Spider-Man of this world as he lands nearby. You take three deep breaths, checking the glitching Goblin below you and finding his wrist blinking an ominous red. You make out numbers ticking down—seven seconds. The way his eyes crinkle as he gazes up at you makes your heart drop.
Something explodes overhead, crowds lingering nearby scream and you can see Miguel and Spider-Man look up towards commotion. You would have too, but there’s still three seconds left on that timer when you notice the slim shape aiming straight for them, the honed tip guaranteeing a bad time. The outline of the glider blinks that same ominous red.
A gasp rips from you the same moment your web does, catching a metal wing and whipping it towards you instead. Two seconds when Miguel realizes and roars your name—your real name. One second when you attempt to dodge the brutal front, barely avoiding being impaled just as the bombs ignite.
The heat washes across your back and arm as you fall past the border of your space web, not even recalling shooting it. Immediately you’re bombarded with voices of your past, your pocket dimension thwarted as you drift through a half-cooked thought. The explosion gnaws after you into the void, silenced by a week and a half ago.
“You don’t have to be a leader 24/7, you know. We’re off the clock. It’s dinner, not a battle royal.”
“With your cooking? Could be.”
Pain. Inside and out as you see flashes of his face, his smile. Soap lingers in the back of your throat as warm laughter and suds paint the space. He refused to let you do the dishes after cooking. You’d refused to let him do all the work himself.
Then, there’s his breath, puffing against your ear again.
“I’m sorry—that’s not. This isn’t…”
“Isn’t what?”
“I shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“We have a job to do. You know that.”
“And I said we’re off the clock. Just think about yourself for a second—what do you want?”
“You.”
It still makes your heart go taut, hearing that a second time. You can’t stop the feeling from enveloping your chest, unleashed; a frayed string snapping.
“Then have me.”
The watercolors are trailing on this side of the world. You can hear Miguel screaming for you somewhere distant and through the agonizing haze of ignited skin, you try to open another web with your good arm. It’s just big enough to fit through, but you have to drag yourself. Every movement sends echoes of the past back at you and they almost hurt worse than the real, physical damage.
“We can’t do that again.”
“Alright. I understand.”
“There’s just too much riding on what we do here—the multiverse. I have to focus on that, both of us do.”
“I get that, okay? But it’s not a crime to be human every once in a while, Miguel.”
“Well, I’m not.” He makes it a cold, hard fact. All emotions shutting down. “Not like you.”
“Miguel—”
“I need us to be more professional from now on. Okay? Can you do that?” The cruel tone he’d set in place melts a bit, ice dripping. “Please?”
“…Yeah. Okay, I will be.”
You’re almost at the web, you can hear where the sound distorts, just make out where the colors bleed back into reality. You stick your hand through it as black hedges your vision.
A strong grip finds your wrist and pulls as you tip into the beyond, where even webs like yours will never reach.
You come to with an ache in your side that spans around to your back and your spidey-sense tweaking.
The room is dark but you can tell by smell alone it’s your room at the AHP Headquarters. Your balcony overlooking Nueva York will be to the left, front door to the right, and in that uncomfy chair just to the right will be technically your boss. You know those hulking shoulders obscenely well.
The way he holds himself and the sounds of his breathing tells you he’s dozing—not quite awake but nowhere near sleep. All it takes is the slightest hesitation in your exhale to have his head lifting from his hands. You tried to ignore the rising discomfort, but even super healing takes time with the shit you’d just pulled through.
“Hey,” he murmurs, red eyes glimmering. You’d blame it on the moonlight but it barely seeps through the tinted glass windows.
“Hey,” you say.
The rustling of sheets has never been so loud. You attempt to reposition yourself only for Miguel to hum in disagreement.
“Don’t. The burns are still healing.”
“How bad?”
“Would’ve been third degree if your suit hadn’t absorbed most of it. Your web space helped—most of the explosion couldn’t pass through.”
You nod, finding there’s more soreness than just burns. That Goblin had knocked you around a bit before the local Spider-Man had gotten a jump on him so it’s not too surprising.
You move your legs towards the edge of the bed before Miguel intervenes, standing to block you.
“You need to rest. I mean it.”
“Well, I have to pee, so move it or lose it.”
He sighs and does actually get out of your way, but it’s only until your feet touch the ground where he takes it upon himself to help you up and toward the bathroom. Your legs work just fine, but you don’t fight his mother-henning.
When the lights flicker on in the bathroom, you notice the wardrobe change. You’re sporting a loose nightgown. It’s also hard to miss the tight t-shirt and sweatpants on Miguel, a sliver of tan skin peeking from where his shirt rides up and the waist sits low. His hair’s disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it.
You turn your head when he looks towards you, allowing him to guide you as far as the toilet before you draw your boundaries.
He gives you an unimpressed look, a familiar glint in his eyes as they flicker to your feet, up your frame, before meeting your gaze again.
“You make one smart ass remark about already seeing me naked, I will end you.” You do your best Jessica impression to get the point across. Miguel promptly shuts the door behind him.
When you're finished, you inspect the damage to the best of your ability. Bandages hide it for the most part, but you can see the inflamed edges of burns slowly fading.
Washing your hands leaves you shaking with exhaustion. You feel ridiculous but you call for Miguel. He helps you back to the bed without a word.
“You want the balcony door open?”
The question cracks your chest open. He remembers.
It was over a week ago he’d been in your bed, questioning the safety hazard of keeping a balcony door propped open. You’d explained how the night air soothed you as well as the light of flyings cars and the distant cityscape. It brought a little of home back to you, in small ways, your world being so very different from his. Miguel hadn’t said a word against your habit for the rest of that night.
“Yeah. Thank you,” you tell him, sinking into your pillow and mattress as his dark shape moved across the room. A breeze emerged as he opened the door, the moonlight catching in his hair as it rustled a bit. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”
“I know.” He takes in the landscape, back turned towards you. The glow of his outline makes everything hurt worse, but it’s a kind of pain you’d deal with every day if only to have it. Have some piece of him. “Just needed to make sure you were okay.”
“Miguel,” you breathe, weary, “you’re the one who wanted us to stay professional. I’m trying to do that.”
And here he is messing it all up again, staying in your room with you, worrying about you when he had no right to.
“I thought it would make things easier.” His hands curl into fists at his side, head turning so you just see a bit of his profile. “Half expected you to bite my head off about it.”
You’d wanted to. The minute he changed his mind about that night, you’d wanted to scream, make the biggest scene so he’d look at you and not those damn screens.
If Miguel knew how twisted everything had gotten, if he knew from the start this was never going to go anywhere, why would he tell you the things he did? Why would he give you a night to remember if he was ready to forget it by the next morning?
It had taken everything to stay stoic, mirroring him in his emotionally absent state, agreeing to his terms because this was your job at the end of the day. You didn’t want to be shut out of the multiverse when you knew you were changing things for the better.
So, you had left your crumbling mental state on the back burner after your big talk on being “professional.” Better to overwork yourself than to go insane over a man who probably wasn’t even thinking twice about you. But feelings for someone don’t just cut off, especially not when they’d been built from the ground up. And then Miguel had to go and play Janga with them.
“Why should I be the one to fight for something you don’t want?” you tell him.
He sighs, head dropping. “I never said I didn’t want it.”
“You made that pretty clear the next morning when you were gone, Miguel.” You whisper, scared your vocals will crack if you try to ask any louder, “Do you know what that's like? To feel used?”
You refuse to meet his gaze as he turns from the door.
“I shouldn’t have left like that, and for that I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to think that I regret anything that happened because I don’t.”
“Don't do this. Please?” That last word cracks and it’s all you can do, hiding your face with your hands when he calls your name softly, like he’s been punched.
“I can’t go back and forth like this.” You take a quick breath, forcing every bit of focus into not bursting into tears. “I can’t. I did what you wanted and you fought me for it.”
You rub your eyes, hating the sting. “You can’t have it both ways—we can’t work together like we used to and still be professional. None of it was to begin with.”
“I didn’t realize that until it was too late.” You can feel his long strides as he walks to the edge of the bed. “You did everything right. This just…didn’t turn out like I wanted.”
You exhale, working a hand through your hair and wincing as it disturbs the burns on your back.
“What do you want?” you whisper, staring at your lap. “Do you want me to leave the multiverse? Make this easier on both of us so we don’t get distracted?”
“That wouldn’t make it easier,” he chuckles, mirthless. “It’s been over a week and I can’t stop thinking about you. I was trying to find a time to talk again, then Jess mentioned the Goblin anomaly and I got scared.”
Your chest thrums under all the skin and bone and blood.
“I want to fix this,” he murmurs as you meet his eyes. They say so much you can’t even begin to decipher it all. “I don’t…”
He takes a deep breath, brow furrowing as he shakes his head.
“I don’t think I can do this without you, if I’m being honest.”
It all seems so far away, this god of a man standing at your bed asking for another chance. He’s always been brute force and strategic takedowns, but behind the scenes you’d gotten to know more about the man than the mask. He wasn’t like the others, not by a long shot, and those parts had never frightened you.
But you know if you let him in again, you’re throwing your heart into the ring. Miguel doesn’t do things halfway and he’ll always put the multiverse above everything else. You admire him for it.
But he needs to know at the end of the day he is still human. He can still want things and let himself have them.
“I want to try this again,” he continues. “I don’t want to lose you.”
His words string something together again, a bandaid on a trickling wound. You still need to heal, but he’s trying.
You don’t make it easy on him, half shrugging at such a sincere moment.
“Of course you don’t,” you say, deflecting. “I am one of your best recruits, so…”
He rolls his eyes, nodding.
“Alright. Dios mio, let me have my moment so I can properly apologize, yeah?”
“You think an apology will cut it?” You’re teasing him and you’re sure he knows it, but he’s still serious when he asks his next question.
“What can I do to make it up to you?”
You smile, watching the warmth bleed back into him and his expression softens and his shoulders drop their tension. You pat the bed next to you.
“For starters, keep me company?”
“You’re still hurt, you know.”
You press your lips together at his self-assured smirk and laugh.
“Not the kind I was thinking, but we’ll get there.”
He chuckles and steps around to get on the side of the bed that’s almost too small for him. Once he’s under the covers with you, you take your chance to carefully move into his side. He gets the hint and wraps his arm around you, his breath washing over you as he kisses the top of your head.
“Lo lamento,” he whispers.
“I know.” The night sings from outside as the two of you fall into a comfortable silence. You can feel sleep tugging at you when you ask, “Can I ask you something?”
“Just did.”
“Funny,” you grumble. His bear paw of a hand comes up, smoothing over your cheek. Goosebumps trail as he slips some loose hair behind your ear. “Why did you recruit me first?”
“Hmm?” He sounds half asleep, but his hand is still cupping your face.
“Why did you ask me to join as the first Spider-Woman?”
There’s a moment where you can tell how hard he’s thinking. Maybe there wasn’t much importance to it and he himself is trying to recall the details.
“Your universe is somewhat ahead in technology—you’re well versed in it,” he starts. “Intelligence was something we needed more of. Also being bitten by a space spider had me intrigued with the whole web warping bit, but..”
“What?”
You look up at him, smiling when you find he’s already looking at you.
“You just seemed capable. Strong,” he rumbles. “There’s a lot of us with a lot of different shit weighing us down. You've gone through most canons. I don't know how you’re doing it.”
You tighten your arm around his waist, humming.
“Same way you are, I guess.” He huffs like he isn’t holding the whole multiverse on his shoulders most days. Like he’s gone through anything less than you have. “You’re a great leader, you know. Little stubborn in places—”
“Oh?”
“And don’t get me started on anger management.”
“Okay. Mm-hmm, yeah.”
You grin into him, holding in your laughter. “Thanks for telling me, though. It’s nice to hear all of that.”
You listen to his heartbeat for a moment or two. He takes a breath as you ready to fall into a nice, long rest.
…
“Lyla also may have had something to do with you being the first.”
i don’t know if you take requests but some yearning or very obvious bob having a crush on reader… like full on fluff and everyone makes fun of him cause he’s just that obvious
Plainclothes Man
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader
Summary: Everyone at the compound knows Bob has a massive crush on you–except you.
Warnings: Semi-Spoiler for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement but other than that…None :)
Author's Note: Hey y’all! I do take requests! Just to make that clear! Nothing is really off limits! :) I love this idea! So I thought I would start with it. I kind of rushed it a bit because I have so many ideas going at once for Bob right now, but I wanted to please y’all so hopefully it’s good :)
Word Count: 1,775
Bob was a neon sign of romantic agony.
Everyone could see it.
He was about as subtle as a firework in a library when it came to you, and everyone–everyone but you–knew that he had very obvious feelings for you.
At first, it was just the little things. He would hold the door open for you, make your coffee in the morning, and sometimes he would walk you to your training sessions carrying all your weapons and gear. God forbid you mentioned needing help with something too, because it was like he teleported into the room instantly just to be your knight in shining armor.
It would’ve been sweet–it was sweet–except for the fact that he looked like he was going to pass out every time you smiled at him, or the fact that the first time you touched him he felt like he was having a heart attack.
Not only that, but at the Thunderbolts compound, privacy was a myth. Everyone noticed the way he put you first, and nobody had the emotional maturity to leave it alone, especially during down times when everyone was home with no missions or jobs to run off to.
Idle hands made for cruel commentary.
They started small. Little side-eyes, snorts, giggles, the occasional cough-covered ‘lover boy’ muttered under someone’s breath when Bob stood the moment you entered a room, like he was always on guard.
Then it escalated.
Yelena turned it into a sport, narrating his reactions like a nature documentary when you weren’t present.
”And here we see Bob Reynolds in his natural habitat–blushing violently, hands wringing in his lap, trying not to pass out because Y/N said his name. Observe how he avoids eye contact while trying to remember how to function.” This would make him even more flustered, and only add to his embarrassment of wearing his feelings on his sleeve.
“Please stop,” He would say, with his face on fire.
Ava took to mimicking Bob’s dreamy stares behind your back when the both of you would talk to one another, making sure there was grotesque exaggeration to every detail. How his eyes would widen, and his lips would part, oftentimes she would clutch her chest dramatically and sway from side to side, which only made his cheeks go a bright red as he was talking to you.
Even Alexei, who should’ve had better things to do, began to offer unsolicited advice.
”You must confess, Bob. Women like confidence. You must say, ‘I am man of strength and softness, let us be passionate together!’” Bob nearly choked on the air he breathed, blinking up at Alexei, who was nodding like he had just offered the secret to eternal happiness, and not a line from a Soviet soap opera.
”I…I’m not saying that,” Bob stammered, voice thin with embarrassment.
“Why not?” Alexei boomed, looking over at Walker and Yelena as if they were going to back him up, “You are soft man! Strong man! Women love this contradiction!” Walker sipped his protein shake without looking up from his phone.
”Honestly Bob…It’s not the worst idea he’s had.” Bob looked like someone had just pulled the emergency brake on his nervous system. He was stunned by the agreement the idea was receiving, then he rubbed his hands over his face, like he could scrub away the humiliation clinging to his skin.
”I can’t say that…I’ll die in the middle of it.” Bob muttered, his hands muffling his voice, before hearing a little chuckle coming from Yelena.
”You’re like watching a candle melt under a heat lamp…Take it easy on yourself Bob.” She said, leaning back in her chair.
”Seriously,” Ava added, leaning against the counter with a yogurt in her hand, “ Just say something. Anything at this point will be better than nothing. And please hurry up, because you’re starting to give us secondhand embarrassment with this mating dance you’re doing.” Bob was about to say something then the door creaked open, causing him to pause mid conversation.
Bucky walked in with a towel draped around his neck, drenched in sweat from the endurance run he had done on the treadmill just moments ago, with a look of vague concern on his face.
”What’s with all the noise? I heard Alexei yelling about passion through the vents.” He said, glancing over at everyone who was crowded in the kitchen.
”We’re trying to get Bob to confess his undying love for Y/N.” Yelena replied, watching as Bucky looked over at Bob who was hunched over the kitchen island and flushing a scarlet red.
”Oh,” He said, like it suddenly made perfect sense, “…Wait, he still hasn’t said anything?” He added, confused.
“Nope,” Walker responded, still scrolling through his phone, not bothering to look up, “Somehow he’s been able to keep the verbal diarrhea to a minimum with her.”
“Barely. Last week she complimented him on how strong he was for carrying six bags of groceries for her in one go and he stammered over a thank you for two whole minutes.” Bucky let out a little laugh.
”Pretty sure you’re describing a stroke, not a crush/“ He started, wiping his face off with his towel, “What exactly are you waiting for, Bob? A written invitation from the president or something?” Before Bob even had a chance to answer, the door creaked open again, and you appeared.
You were still damp from the shower you had taken a few minutes ago, with your hair pinned back, and your skin still flushed from the heat of the water. You had on a soft, oversized t-shirt and…Bob’s sweatpants. He had given them to you last week without prompt, saying that you would be warmer in them, and since then, you managed to forget to give them back–whether it was on purpose or by accident, nobody really knew for sure.
Yelena had caught it immediately though.
”Wow…Y/N, those are some nice sweatpants, where’d you get them from?” She drawled, grinning like a cat that had just spotted a mouse. You glanced down at them and pointed.
”These? They’re Bob’s actually, so I have no clue where they’re from, but they’re super comfy.” Bob made a noise that could only be described as a choked squeak, as everyone glanced over at him in their own small ways. Yelena grinned.
”Oh, Bob’s, huh?” You nodded cheerfully, completely missing the way Bob’s soul was visibly leaving his body.
“Yeah, I was freezing after that mission last week and he just gave them to me. I forgot to return them, but they’re just too good to give up.” You replied, looking down at them fondly, like they were a luxury item of sorts, before adjusting the waistband a little bit, “Hope you’re okay if I keep them a little longer before giving them back to you.” You added, with a little smirk.
Bob–already pink from neck to ears–opened his mouth but only managed a soft, and cracked, “Yeah…Yeah totally fine.”
You smiled at him–kind, and warm, and totally unaware of how he was going to spontaneously combust in a few moments if you didn’t stop looking at him the way you always did, with this admiration and care.
Yelena nudged Ava as you turned to the pantry to grab your tote bag.
”I was about to actually go on a grocery run, I figured it’s a good time to stock up for movie night tomorrow…Bob, do you wanna come?”
He lifted his head almost immediately, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you correctly–or like he was still rebooting from the sight of you wearing his sweatpants again and saying you might want to keep them longer.
You looked at him with your eyebrows raised, and everyone else looked at him like a firing squad waiting to shoot.
”I-uh…Grocery run?” Yelena pressed her lips together to hold back a grin, before glancing over at Bucky who was shaking his head, then Walker glanced up from his phone, staring at him with a look that basically screamed ‘don’t you dare blow this.’
“Yeah, “ You said with a casual smile, “I was actually going to go because they finally restocked those kettle chips you like, and that weird sparkling iced tea…The lemon honey one. But I thought I’d just kill two birds with one stone and just take the whole movie night snack order now and get it over with…Y’know what I mean?” Bob felt like his entire chest was going to cave in under your words. The fact you remembered such little details about him killed him, because it gave him those butterflies in his stomach–the ones that gave him hope. Dangerous, reckless hope.
”He’ll go.” Yelena replied, “He’s not doing anything anyways, he’s super available right now, aren’t you Bob?” All eyes turned to him.
“I–uh…”
“He lives for those late night grocery runs,” Ava chimed in, “You’ve made his week.” Bucky crossed his arms, clearly entertained.
”Oh yeah, didn’t you say twenty minutes ago that your dream night would be picking out snacks with a girl you–respect deeply as a teammate?” He piled on, causing Bob to swallow loudly.
“Well that’s perfect then! I’ll meet you in the garage in five minutes!” You said brightly, giving him one last smile that probably shaved three years off his life expectancy before you turned and strolled out of the kitchen, with your tote bag bouncing against your hip. Everyone waited until the front door clicked to interrupt the silence.
”Oh Jesus.” Bob said, sinking his face into his hands, hearing Yelena clap like a coach at halftime.
”Alright, let’s lock in–because if you mess this up, Bob, you’re probably never getting another invite like that again.” Ava pointed her spoon at him like a judge handing down a sentence, before saying.
”And it’s the first time she’s asked you to come with her somewhere instead of you tripping over your shoelaces to offer a hand, so that’s a good sign.”
“Yeah,” Bucky added dryly, “So don’t think yourself into a grave for the love of god, because you’ve done it all backwards. She’s supposed to be wearing your clothes when you’re dating, not before.” Bob groaned louder.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!reader (1980s Pride and Prejudice AU)
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that all high school graduates not in possession of a college acceptance letter must be in want of a summer job. Unfortunately for you, that means having to work with Steve Harrington who, in high school, you swore to hate forever.
Word count: 6.8k
Warnings: Enemies to lovers (à la Lizzie and Darcy), miscommunication, swearing, getting rejected from college, reader judging Steve based on his King Steve era, Steve’s dad is awful, mentions of hypothetically being cut off financially, food mentions (sorry if you have a peanut allergy)
A/N: I give you my pride and joy, the loosest adaptation of Pride and Prejudice that there has ever been. I’m honestly so proud of how this turned out so reblogs and comments would mean the world! Also, keep an eye out for a few Austen-esque Easter eggs sprinkled throughout this!
Read on AO3
“Did you hear that the summer vacancy’s been filled at last?”
You almost hit your head off the upper wall of the freezer at Robin’s words, your hunt for a fresh tub of peanut butter ice cream momentarily paused. Shuffling carefully backwards so as to avoid any further injury, you sat back on your heels on the break room floor and looked up at her as you tried to warm your frozen hands on the ridiculous navy shorts that company policy forced you to wear. Your best friend sat at the break room table in the same uniform, her sailor’s hat sitting at a jaunty angle on her head.
“Really?” you asked curiously, “Who’s the lucky bastard joining us scooping ice cream all summer?”
She shrugged. “No idea. There was just a note on the board that they’re starting today.”
Giving up on your search for the elusive peanut butter ice cream- what was the point in working in an ice cream parlour when your favourite flavour was never around for you to steal?- you joined her at the table and grinned knowingly.
“What if it’s Tammy Thomson?” you teased.
As expected, she turned bright red and threw her hat at you at the mention of her crush. You swatted the hat away with a giggle.
“If Tammy ever sees me wearing this-” She gestured to the striped shirt, navy waistcoat and shorts, and ridiculous red necktie that you were both wearing. “-I want you to take your scooper and murder me with it. I’m serious.”
