when you're sick and tomura's taking care of you he is insanely nervous and particular about Getting It Right so when you start flirting with him and trying to get in his pants while literally actively having an INSANE fever he gives you the nastiest side eye and makes you rest but then a few hours later he can't get the idea out of his head and by that point it's nighttime and you beg him to still sleep beside you all innocently claiming it's for comfort and that you won't get him sick but you both know damn well that you still want him carnally and so he sidles up beside you keeping a firm distance anf trying to pretend as if his resolve won't crack but the second your flushed and sweaty body presses against his and you're whining against his neck about how gross you feel and how much you need him he's doing breathing excercises to not cum on the spot.
Summary: Inko finds him on a different world than the one he’d been on the last time he was awake.
“Where are you going, mister?” A young voice calls out, as Inko does his best not to obviously limp down the street.
He freezes for a moment, as this was the first time he had heard anyone use Gothic to speak since waking up on this strange world three days ago, as the wound in his side slowly but steadily got worse, even as his body struggled to heal itself. He looks for the speaker, spotting a young child staring up at him from the fenced yard that he was walking by.
She was a little blurry around the edges, at the distance he could see her from.
That was. Not a good thing. His eyes should be a lot better than this. Also the baseline child should be much better equipped to deal with the absolutely biting cold weather the world was currently inflicting upon them. The wind slid right through the simple clothing he had been wearing as a part of his disguise that he had been using, while infiltrating a corpse-worshipping pleasure-world. “I’m trying to find a place where I can heal up. My side got hurt and I need someone to help me. Is a caregiver of yours around? If so, would you please go and get them so I can ask for directions?”
Inko was pretty sure that he had been transported to a different planet somehow. The sun rose and set in the wrong directions, compared to the one he’d been on for several years, for one. Another thing was that the previous would was only this cold near the poles of the planet and he had yet to see any snow. It was very bright for such a cold day.
“Yeah, my Oppa is in the house! I’ll go get him.” The tiny child responded with a bright grin, and ran into the front door, yelling out “Oppa! Oppa! There’s someone looking for help and he looks pretty sick! He’s all sweaty and shaky and pale.”
A deep, rumbling voice answered “Very. I am coming to speak with him.”
They sounded like a fellow Astartes? Although Inko did hope that he did appear to look like a slightly larger than normal baseline. He was out of armor and trying to stay undercover. He leans against the sturdy wooden fence as he felt the ground rumble and shake beneath him. Was that some kind of tectonic instability of the region he could feel? It would explain why so any of the buildings were built or at least reinforced the way that they were.
A
Dreadnought
Stomped out of the house.
His armor shining in the cold sunlight. Expertly painted in a cold white with silver accents and a howling wolf symbol that was.. Vaguely familiar? But the other didn’t have the markings of a Space Wolf? And that was a very old dreadnought pattern as well. If Inko was identifying the pattern well, as he rarely interacted with the venerable (and terrifying) older brothers who were interred into a dreadnought chassis from his own legion.
“Greetings, little brother. From the confusion on your face, you’re new to this world. Welcome to terra, roughly thirty thousand years in the past from where you are from, if not even further. My sensors tell me that you are sick and injured. I will bring you to the nearby apothecarium.” The dreadnought rumbled, moving closer.
“I would greatly appreciate that.” Inko answered, slumping over in relief. Before remembering that he needed to maintain cover “Ah, my lord angel. My apologies for being so rude! And I am truly flattered that you call me a brother, but I assure you that I am merely a humble -“
The dreadnought stepped over the fencing and picked him up with a power claw, before starting to march down the street “Save your breath, scout. I know a little serpent when I see one. Besides, your eyes keep changing color. Whatever chameleon abilities your legion has, the sickness and injury you have suffered is interfering with it somehow. Worry not, you will be well treated.”
He should be way more worried about the fact that he has been caught out. But it’s a relief to not have to walk. Even if he does pout at the venerable older cousin “Awww… I thought I was hiding very well.”
“I am sure that you were before you became feverish, little brother.” Was the amused response.
This makes the young Hydra sulk even more, as he dangles in the dreadnaught’s grasp, his vision still blurry as hell as he watches the scenery go by. “I was! I am very stealthy. When I can think properly.”
That got him an amused, wordless rumble from the ancient Astartes. The other turns and walks towards what is clearly an Astartes base, aiming for a side entrance that is directly off of what is clearly a major road for the mortal populace. “Eh? An astartes base in the middle of a civilian population center? Are we going to see Salamanders or the Blue Nerds?”
“Which blue nerds are you referring to? There are many of our fellow Astarte to whom that descriptor would qualify.” The dreadnought asked, ducking down a little as he entered the large double doors that opened automatically. He made his way over to where a second dreadnought sat.
This one was an Ultramarine by the markings of his armor “Greetings brother Sintus. I found this injured snakeling looking for help. His fever is high and I would recommend he be treated immediately.”
“Greetings, brother Sassoon. I will inform the staff immediately. You, what’s your name?” Sintus asked, directing the question to Inko.
“Uhhhhhhhh-“ the young Hydra responds, unsure how to answer that question. Should he tell the truth? He shouldn’t tell the truth. The truth never comes free, and the truth is relative anyways. “Uhm. I know this one. Hang on…”
“Lying will just get you assigned the first name-pun I can come up with. You have three seconds to answer, starting now. And don’t call yourself Alpharius. Or Omegon, for that matter.” Sinus instructed him. “One.”
“Uhm.” Goes Inko, struggling to figure out what to say.
“Two. I mean it. I have the name Hisstopher ready to enter into your file.” The dreadnought threatened.
“Uh. Uhm! Give me a minute, I’m in a lot of pain and my head is all fuzzy!” The young hydra complained, panicking a little.
“Thr-“ The dreadnought started.
“Inko!” He blurted out, interrupting the ancient Ultramarine before he could complete that terrible, terrible threat.
“Good lad. How long have you been having these symptoms, where are you injured, and do you suspect that your injury or illness to be chaos tainted or affected in any way? Note this will not get you killed if the answer to that is yes and you say that. We have means of treating both chaos illnesses and injuries.” Sinus revealed.
“I’ve been wounded for three days now, I think. I got stabbed by a courtier who thought I was a simple Gardner and had to pretend to die from the injury. I don’t know, maybe? It would explain why it’s taking me so long to heal up.” Inko answered honestly, the room spinning unpleasantly around him. With deep reluctance, but the desire to get treated and knowing that it will only be a matter of time before that is revealed, he also tells the Ultramarine where the injuries on his body are, to the best of his knowledge.
“I have noted those things down in your file, thank you for being cooperative with me. Are you able to move under your own power?” Sinus asked.
“Not quickly, sir.” Was the painfully honest answer.
"Right, we'll provide you with a wheelchair to help you get around, then. It'll stay at the clinic unless otherwise stated specifically." SIntus rumbled.
Inko nods and regrets that particular life choice. "Yes sir." An appropriately sized and weighted wheelchair is brought out and over to where he is being dangled, and Sassoon gently lowers him into it. "Thank you, for the help."
A mortal medical person comes up and says "Are you Inko?"
"Yes I am."
"Alright, I'm going to take you to see Apothecary Zariel, to get you seen and tended to.” The mortal attendant explained “Are you able to push yourself, or would you rather I push the chair for you?”
“I will try to do it myself.” Inko answered, settling in a bit better into the chair before putting his hands on the wheels, and his feet on the floor. He pauses and looks up at the dreadnought who brought him here and says “Thank you for the assistance, honored elder.”
“You are welcome, young one.” Sassoon rumbled.
The young hydra nodded as he slowly wheeled himself to the exam room that he'd been told to go through, still cold and in pain and shivering, but tentatively hopeful that he'd get treatment.
It's been a while, so you want to see how your poor sickie's doing. You quietly enter their bedroom. When you cast your gaze over at the bed it looks as though there's just a massive heap of blankets. However, that heap is your poor sickie, swaddled up and looking like they're in a cocoon. You see the mass shudder slightly. No doubt your poor sickie is still suffering with the chills. They'd been running a temperature of around 101.8 before you'd soothed them to sleep. Seeing them shiver, you move to get a closer look at them. Undoubtedly, their cheeks are still flushed, and beads of sweat dot their furrowed brows. You tentatively press the back of your fingers to their rosy cheeks. Sure enough, they still feel pretty warm. As quietly as possible, you reach for the infrared thermometer as you don't wish to rouse them from their slumber by making them take the oral thermometer. You shush the thermometer as it beeps when you turn it on as though it can heed your warning. You glance worriedly over at your sickie, but they're still dead to the world. You exhale with relief and move in carefully so that you can get a read on their temperature. The thermometer beeps thrice, indicating that it's picked up an alarming temperature. You feel your heart sink as you flip the monitor around so that you can read its verdict. You feel a little relief when you see that your sickie's temperature has at least gone down to 100.6. Still much too high for your liking, but you're so relieved that the fever reducer seemed to have helped a little. You gingerly retrieve the now tepid washcloth from their forehead and pad over to the bathroom with it, intending to run it under the coolest water possible before placing it back on their forehead. You feel worry twist your heart as you wring out the sodden cloth. When you return to your sickie's side and tentatively replace the washcloth, you can't help but smile as you see their sleeping expression ease. You know that they're absolutely loving that cool touch to their poor, fiery head. You brush their slightly dampened hairs away so that you can press a kiss to their forehead. You pause to take a moment to pet their brows with your thumb, affectionately stroking the fine little hairs.
You cast a glance at what's supposed to be your side of the bed. You see that it's occupied with several of the things you brought to your sickie. Their laptop and a novel are laying on the mattress, and you grin as you realize that your sickie looks like they're almost cuddling the box of tissues you gave them earlier as though it were a beloved teddy bear. When you look over at the bedside wastebasket and see it practically overflowing with used tissues you make a mental note to bring them a fresh box soon. Their poor nose has been much too runny, and their sneezes and blows have been obliterating the poor tissues that have had to stand up to snotty storm. On the nightstand rests a tray you'd brought them earlier. You see that they failed to finish both their tea and soup. They'd practically fallen asleep hovered over their mug earlier, so you'd moved it to safety so that it wouldn't fall and shatter and hurt them. As for the soup, their appetite has appeared to be rather weak ever since they got sick. You think to yourself that maybe you should rely on BRAT diet essentials instead since they'd likely be easier on your sickie. Maybe I'll cook some rice in chicken broth and add a little of the broth overtop. Maybe I'll add in some garlic to help them, too you muse as you collect the half-eaten bowl of soup. When they wake you'll ask them if they're hungry. If they are you'll make that for them along with a fresh mug of tea.
For now you choose to just sit at their bedside with a book. You wonder if maybe they'd like to be read to when they wake. They always want to hear your voice whenever they're not feeling well, after all. Plus, a distraction might be just what the doctor ordered.
In the earliest hours of day, Vince makes a discovery in the horse field.
☆ OCs: Vince, Mal, Reese
★ CW: Feverishness, Vague Description of Injury
☆ Word Count: 1293
Not five steps over the fenceposts, Malika’s knees buckle and give out beneath her.
It’s almost taunting. Miraculously, she’s managed to make it this far, if only by the grace of luck or sheer willpower. And yet, just a few steps short of the very precipice of her journey, Malika has fallen down the metaphorical mountain. And now she finds herself belly-up and sprawled out beneath a sky full of fading stars swallowed by oncoming dawn. It would be peaceful if not for the ill-healed wound on her thigh, or the exhaustion settling bone-deep, the pain spreading rampant within her, or the pinpricks of hot and cold across her skin. She scoffs, shaking her head. The world spins above her.
At least she’s alone.
↓ read more under the cut ! ↓
A funny thing to find solace in, she finds, given how alone she’s been the whole way here. But at least she’s alone and at peace, and she figures this is a better place to die than anywhere else she’s been. Morning dew soaks into the tattered remains of her clothes. The air is clean and crisp. She’s embraced by silence infiltrated only by the sporadic chirp of waking birds.
Interrupted only by that and – the crunch of grass beneath a boot-heel. But she’s alone, and on the ground, so it’s not hers, and yet another follows, and–
“Oh–woah, hey.”
That voice definitely isn’t hers either.
Malika jolts upright, or attempts to, but the pain spreading into her hips stops her short. She falls back with a gasp. The footsteps in the grass pick up the pace, and there’s a sound like something dropping and hitting the ground. Again, she tries to wriggle, to turn and get away, but she finds herself paralyzed.
A tall, looming figure, with a pair of big brown eyes and horns peers over her, and for a moment she wonders if this is the delusion of Takaz himself; the God of death, coming at last to stake his claim.
“Hey, hey. Y’alright?” He crouches beside her, and the thing is, Malika never took the God Takaz for having a Fallholt drawl. Or a golden ring through his nose like a damn cow, or–
“Where’re you hurt? Can you talk?”
The hand that comes to grab her by the chin and move her to look upright is far too real and far too warm to be the hand of death. Malika snarls and reels back.
“Easy. I ain’t gonna hurt you. Just tryna help.”
Malika tries again to wriggle away, but as she rolls to her side and forces herself up on her forearms, the world goes spinning and heat blooms across her face. Black spots dance around the edges of her vision.
“Oh hell – alright, hey.” Two big hands come up beneath her armpits and she throws an elbow backwards.
“Get – get the fuck off me,” she growls, voice hoarse from unuse, “get the fuck away from me!”
“Woah, hey, listen–” He has a cadence like he’s consoling a spooked horse. Again, he tries to grab at her. She kicks and it lands, but the man only grunts. “Damn, you’re feisty. Would you relax? You’re gonna hurt yourself more.”
“Fuck you! Stop fucking touching me!”
“You’re burning up. Listen, I’ll stop tryna pick you up if you stop tryna hit me. Let’s talk instead, now I know you can.” He pulls his hands away and takes a step back, leaning backwards to sit flat on his behind in the dirt. And then he huffs a long breath. “Okay? Yeah?”
Malika turns to look him in the eyes, or to try, considering she’s seeing double of him now. She pants, ragged. And then she spits at him.
He watches it hit the ground. Clears his throat, unfazed. “Righty then. Think we got off on the wrong foot,” he starts, though he mumbles a “granted, you ain’t standin’ on either of ‘em,’” more to himself than anyone else.
“What the fuck is your problem?”
“My problem? Hell–” he sighs. “M’kay, I’ll start. I’m Vince. I’m the guy who cleans horse shit ‘round here. Right now, you’re layin’ in my pasture, and you don’t look like no horse to me, less I need to get my eyes checked out.”
Vince shifts in the dirt, crossing his legs and bracing palms on his knees. He’s big and broad, tall as a tree even sat down beside her, but he’s not scary. Well – Malika would say she finds nothing scary, but if she were to, it wouldn’t be him. She can’t place why, but something about him feels safer. Maybe it’s a consequence of her current state, mind addled with pain and, apparently, fever. Even so, she doesn’t drop her scowl.
“You’re in rough shape. And even if you don’t let me be the one to do anything about it, I sure as hell ain’t gonna leave you here. Don’t think you can move yourself real well, either.” He sniffs, looking at her expectantly. “Gonna tell me how you got here?”
A long moment of silence.
“How ‘bout just your name, then?”
Malika stares at him, weighing her options, but she finds her thoughts feel like molasses and can’t stray far from focusing on the way even the breeze hurts her skin. And now that her peaceful solitude has been disrupted, she figures it would be pretty pathetic to die here in the horse pasture. So reluctantly, she obliges. “Mal.”
“M’kay, Mal. Wanna tell me what happened to you, or you want me to just haul you to the clinic?”
Something about his tone riles her. It’s like he’s mocking. “It’s none of your fucking business,” she spits, “I’m fine.”
Vince doesn’t budge. He stares at her. Flicks his cow tail behind him. Rests his chin in his palm.
Malika tries to move again and sees stars, howling in pain. “Fuck, okay. Okay, okay, fine. I came…from far,” and she pauses to catch her breath, to lay back on the grass, “from Tarnovik. I made it out, but…”
“But you got a nasty gash doin’ so. I dunno too much of a ton about people, but I’d call it infected on any animal all the same.”
“Don’t call me a fucking animal, you’re a beast! What the fuck even are you?”
Vince grunts. “Didn’t call you an animal. Meant I know more about animals than people. You ever listen ‘fore you talk?”
“Alright, big guy–”
“Mal,” Vince says, and his voice drops into something gentle. “I think we gotta get you some help. Clinic ain’t far and they won’t ask too many questions. But you’re in bad shape.”
Before Malika can make any sort of retort back, another noise calls her attention from across the field. It’s some sort of clanking, like metal on metal. Daybreak blooms overhead and the sky lightens; the town is waking up. Malika tries to crane her neck to see, but Vince stands in reaction before her, blocking her view.
“Vince! Hey!”
A new voice sing-songs across the field, fitting in right alongside the choir of chirping birds. Vince walks off to meet up with it. With morning light warming her now, Malika finds herself tired. There’s some unfamiliar pull in her chest as Vince walks away from her. He’d kept her up and talking. Now, conversation goes on across the field and she can’t make out a word of it. Everything sounds drowned. Mal closes her eyes.
The last thing she hears is the pound of footsteps running back towards her, that clanking of metal. And the last thing she sees as she’s hauled up into Vince’s strong arms is his brow all furrowed up and, beside his shoulder, a pair of bright green eyes, almost familiar.
CW: fear, panic, fever, bad caretaker, derogatory tattoo, pet whump
First, Masterlist, Next
~~~
Tao sat in Faye’s “waiting room,” a once-upon-a-time mudroom, long since cleared of the previous residents’ boots and jackets. He kept his arms crossed tightly to keep from fidgeting them, but that left his knee to bounce instead.
On either side of him sat Vic and Becca. Becca had understood quickly, of course. She had taken a single scan through the Conservatorium report before nodding up at him, her eyes dark and fierce. Vic took a little more explaining, but once Tao got over his squeamishness and uttered the phrase sexual slavery Vic had joined them in sitting solemnly, silently, waiting for Faye’s verdict.
When Faye finally did appear, stepping out into the waiting room with a grim expression, the three of them watched her with bated breath. She kept them on their toes a moment longer before she spoke, wiping her hands on a flowery dish towel.
“Whoever released him from the Conservatory was a fucking idiot,” she announced, “He needs to be on IV antibiotics for a couple more days. Back to pills after that. A couple weeks and he’ll be fine. I mean, his arm will still be broken, but… relatively speaking.”
“Thank you, Faye,” Becca said, “I don’t know what we would do without you.”
“Aw, shucks.” Faye’s tone was sarcastic, but the praise brought a slanting smile to her face.
“When can we talk to him?”
“He’s still pretty delirious, but that might actually make things easier if you want to try talking to him now.”
“That feels…” Becca shook her head, “Dishonest, I don’t know if I want to do that.”
“Screw honesty,” Tao stood, “I want to know what this guy’s deal is, and I don’t think he’ll tell us if he has a choice.”
“Tao…” Becca warned.
“You heard him in the interrogation room!” Tao argued, “He thinks his presence is putting us in danger. He isn’t going to tell us anything about himself, not willingly. What if he’s from nearby? What if he has family and friends that are still alive? What if they’re here?”
“The chances of that are so slim,” Becca pointed out.
“I’m with Tao,” Vic cut in, “We should use this.”
“Faye?” Becca looked to the doctor for her opinion.
Faye shrugged. “I’m a surgeon, not a shrink. As far as I know, talking to him won’t kill him, so,” she stepped aside and waved to the door behind her, “Have at it.”
~~~
Lark lay in a bedroom upstairs. Faye had removed his shoes, but nothing else, and covered his legs with a light blanket. To avoid overwhelming him, Becca and Vic agreed to wait outside the open door while Tao talked to Lark. He approached slowly, and Lark stirred at the sound of his footsteps. He opened glassy, feverish eyes and they rolled around the room before finding Tao sitting at his bedside. He stared at Tao, his expression blank.
“Hey,” said Tao softly, “What’s your name?”
“Lark,” the young man whispered.
“Okay,” Tao decided to test a theory, “What’s your real name?”
Lark inhaled and his mouth opened and closed, about to form some word – before he stopped and frowned a little.
“Lark,” he echoed.
Almost.
“Where are you from?” Tao took a different approach.
“The Capital.”
“Where did you live before that?”
Lark’s eyes drifted closed.
“No, no before.”
The Capital was only eight years old. ‘No before’ was impossible. Tao sighed. He had another idea. A cruel one.
“Lark,” he deepened his voice, and picked up just a hint of a southern accent. Imitating the voice came disturbingly easily, given how many propaganda videos he’d seen. “It’s me. The Commander.”
Lark’s eyes snapped open and locked onto Tao, and he sucked in a breath.
“Yessir, m’sorry sir,” he mumbled.
Tao’s heart twinged, but he continued.
“I need you to tell me where you lived before you came to the Capital, Lark.”
Lark’s breath came fast, and his good hand twitched where it lay on the covers.
“Poverty. Ruins. You saved me,” he whispered fervently.
“Tell me what your name was back then.”
“Didn’t have one.”
Tao frowned.
“What made me bring you to the Capital?”
“Your grace,” a weak, crazed smile crept onto Lark’s face, “Your gen… generosity, your kindness…”
Tao sat back. Propaganda. It was all propaganda. He needed to dig deeper. He stood up and leaned over Lark.
“We’re going to play a little game.’
Lark’s devoted smile quickly dissolved into a twist of fear, but Tao continued, convinced his idea would work.
“I’m going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer as fast as possible, alright?”
Lark nodded hastily.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Tao took a moment to collect his thoughts. Then he began.
“What’s your name?”
“Lark.”
“Where do you live?”
“The Capital.”
Who do you serve?”
“You, Commander.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Y-yellow!”
“Faster! What’s your name?”
“Lark!”
“Where do you live?”
“The Capital!”
Who do you serve?”
“You, sir!”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Yellow!”
“What’s your mother's name?”
“Mari-” Lark’s breath hitched as he caught himself.
“Marie? Did you say Marie? Tell me!” Out of excitement, Tao unintentionally raised his voice and leaned in closer. Lark pressed back into the pillow and a heartbreaking mewl of terror escaped his lips as he clutched at his broken arm.
“Please don’t, I’m sorry, please!”
Tao jerked back, immediately awash with guilt. “Shit, I’m sorry-”
“Stop it!” Becca marched in. “You’re terrorizing him!” She grabbed Tao by the arm and pulled him away, taking his place.
“Lark?” she spoke gently, sinking down into the chair, “My name is Becca, you’re safe.”
Lark’s eyes stayed trained on Tao, bright with fear, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. Tao pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, feeling ill. He should have known it was a bad idea. It made sense in the moment, but if he had just stopped to think…
“That’s not the Commander, the Commander is far away from here. You’re with the resistance, we’re going to take care of you,” Becca soothed, “We’ll keep you safe.”
Her words only agitated Lark more. He shook his head.
“No, no, he knows where, he’ll come for me, I can’t stay-” Lark started to laboriously push himself upright with his good arm, as if to get out of bed. Becca pressed a hand to his shoulder.
“No, Lark, we’ll protect you, you need to rest now.”
Lark flopped back onto the pillow, but he didn’t stop struggling. He weakly thrashed his legs, kicking off the thin blanket.
“He’ll kill you all,” he sobbed, “He’ll kill you all!”
“Shh, shh, he can’t find us,” Becca tried to soothe him. Meanwhile, Tao was frowning at Lark’s legs. The boy’s kicking had caused the hems of his loose pants to ride up, exposing his calves. There were odd dark lines running up the sides of his legs. Tao reached out and caught a flailing ankle. Lark gasped and fell still and silent at the touch, his feverish stare finding Tao again.
“What are you doing?” Becca snapped.
“Just looking…” Tao frowned. The line wasn’t just a line, it was dense, half-inch-tall text that started just above Lark’s ankle and ran up the outside of his calf, on both legs.
I AM A GOOD PET. I DO WHAT MASTER SAYS. I NEVER TALK BACK. I LET MASTER FUCK -
Tao yanked the pant leg back down, covering the heinous words that followed, and fixed the other leg as well. When he looked up he saw Lark was flushed bright red and looking away; so he knew it was wrong, at least he wasn’t that conditioned.
Becca stood and moved to Tao’s side, concerned by his horrified face.
“What is it?”
Tao lifted the pant leg and turned Lark’s ankle to reveal just the first sentence. Becca’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Is that a tattoo?”
“Yeah,” Tao confirmed grimly.
“Shit!” Becca turned her back on Lark, hiding her face in her hands. “Bastard, bastard…” she mumbled.
“M’sorry,” Lark’s bright eyes were back on Tao, “Please, I’m sorry, please don’t break it.”
Tao dropped Lark’s ankle like a hot coal.
“No one’s… breaking anything,” he growled. He grabbed the blanket and threw it back over Lark’s body.
“Stay. Rest,” he ordered. Lark nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Becca shuddered and grabbed Tao’s arm, dragging him out of the room.
“That was a fucking disaster!” she exploded as soon as they were out of earshot, on their way down the stairs. “I can’t believe you two talked me into that!”
Tao and Vic, following behind, exchanged a glance.
“I’m really, really, sorry Becca,” Tao said earnestly, “I didn’t mean to scare him that bad, I just… I had a dumb idea and I ran with it.”
“‘Dumb’ is an understatement!” Becca whirled to face him in the once-living room, now-intake room. “That boy’s been through an unbelievable amount of trauma, and you used it against him!”
“He did find out the mother’s name,” Vic pointed out.
“Oh, yeah, ‘Marie,’ that’s super helpful,” Becca said sarcastically, “We can just look up all the Maries in the phonebook and call them, ask if they’re missing a son.”
“I’m sorry, okay?” Tao was getting a little desperate. “It won’t happen again.”
“Fucking promise me Tao, right now,” Becca raised her voice, “That you won’t pull any shit like that, ever again!”
It was sinking in, just how badly he’d screwed up. Lark’s terrified face flashed through Tao’s mind, causing painful twinges of guilt in his stomach.
“It won’t,” he said, his voice low and deadly serious, “I promise.”
“Good,” Becca huffed, “Because if anyone fucks with him again, I’m bringing down hell.”
[ID1: A full color digital picture depicting Juno from the shoulders up. He is a dark skinned nonbinary person. He’s wearing a strappy red dress, purple lipstick, a purple eye patch, golden triangular earrings, and gold eyeliner. His hair is short cropped and he’s face is scarred and flushed. His nose is bleeding and a black blaster with electric blue and green detailing is being held against his left temple by a tan person in a blue tank and dark blue trousers. The person is almost completely out of frame. Judging by Juno’s positioning, he’s likely being held on his knees. The assailant right hand is on Juno’s right shoulder. They are both facing the viewer against a dark purple background. Juno looks put out and grumpy, but not particularly scared. The artist’s signature is in the top left corner in a light purple. It reads “@captaincravatthecapricious.” End ID]
[ID2: A mostly grayscale digital illustration depicting Peter Nureyev and Juno Steel. They face each other, Peter angled towards the viewer, and Juno angled away. Peter is a mixed Filipino man wearing a loose shirt under a corset. He has oversized glasses, tight trousers, an ear cuff, and sharp teeth slightly visible through full lips. He’s avoiding Juno’s gaze, and waving his hand, partly obscuring his face. He’s deflecting, while Juno is trying to look into his eyes, checking for a concussion. Peter is bleeding on his right side, visible as a coral red, just above his corset, Juno is applying pressure. Juno is a dark skinned nonbinary person wearing a backless dress and triangular earrings. He’s wearing eyeliner and an eye-patch and has visible armpit hair. He has scars on his visible skin, full lips, and he’s looking tender and concerned. He’s cupping Peter’s face with his right hand, looking into his eyes. He’s flushed the same coral, feverish. The artist signature is visible on Peter’s right thigh. It reads “@captaincravatthecapricious.” End ID]
This head cold has been so gross. I started with a 99.5 temperature in the morning. It's slowly crept higher over the day. This was my last reading. Supposedly adults get fevers less often with colds but they're a regular symptom of mine. My nose has been pouring like a faucet and I've been pretty sneezy all day. I'm a bit of a pitiful mess right now.
