This one is a few weeks late and only a little over the wordcount, but given I've barely written in months, I'm just happy I finished.
A key turning in the lock alerted me to the fact Blake was home.
“What’re you cooking?” He asked, dropping his gym bag by the front door. “I could smell it from the stairwell.”
“It’s vodka pasta and—“ my eyes met his, and I let out a little gasp. “What happened to your face?”
He touched the bruise forming under his eye. “Sparring accident,” he said with a shrug. “It happens.”
He wasn’t giving off any of his contract-related lying signs, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was telling the truth, and wasn’t secretly working for Sovereign again. But he was still hurt. And I didn’t like that.
It took only three steps for me to reach him, and I grabbed his face to better see the bruise. “I don’t like it when you’re hurt.”
He shrugged again. “If I’m going to stay in fighting shape, I have to occasionally fight someone who can fight back.”
“But–can’t you just not get punched in the face?”
Amusement built in his eyes as he removed my hands from his cheeks. “That’s why I’ve gotta train,” he said with a smile, then gave my hands a gentle squeeze. “I’m ok. I swear.”
“Good. You’re way prettier without bruises.”
He glowered, and I kissed his cheek before he could begin to complain.
“So, what’s vodka pasta then?” he asked, heading to the kitchen.
I followed behind, taking a brief opportunity to admire his butt. “It’s pasta with vodka.”
He rounded on me, his flat, unimpressed stare threatening to break.
“You’re cute when you’re grumpy, you know that right.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.” I bopped his nose, noting the blush forming behind his clearly fake scowl. “Anyway. I saw this Tiktok where a guy added vodka to his pasta sauce because the vodka enhances the flavour of the tomatoes. And it looked tasty and you’ve been doing all the cooking since you moved in so I thought I’d cook for you for once. Plus, vodka!”
Blake held up the empty bottle. “You drank a bit too, I see.”
“Well duh. It’s me. You want to taste?”
“Of course.”
Using a teaspoon I scooped some of the sauce from the pan and held it up to his mouth. “Let me know if it’s hot enough.”
Keeping his eyes on me he blew on the sauce, a move which only added to my proof that he was actually cute and not scary like he thought he was, then he tasted the sauce.
Immediately his eyes bulged, and he let out a half-choking cough. “Jesus, Bethany!” he rasped. “You could’ve warned me about the chilli!”
“I did,” I said, frowning.
“I thought you meant temperature.”
“Oh.” Was that something people warned about? If it was, it was new to me. “So too much chilli, then?”
“Nah, it’s a good amount. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Despite his words he still looked a little in pain, and him pulling a beer from my fridge confirmed it. His mouth was burning.
“If I read the recipe right, when I add the cream it should cut down on the spice,” I told him.
“Ok, cool.” his grumpy expression finally broke, changing to a self-deprecating smile. “Because I think my tongue is dying.”
“You know you don’t have to do the tough guy act here, right?”
“I’m trying to stop,” he admitted. “It’s hard.” He leaned down and gave me a kiss, leaving the taste of beer on my tongue when he pulled away. “Do I have time for a shower?”
“Yeah, go for it. I still need to cook the penne.”
Proving I was rubbing off on him, Blake headed for the bathroom with his beer still in hand, while I put on a pot of water for the pasta.
While the water boiled I stacked all the dirty dishes next to the sink. They could wait for me until after dinner, assuming Blake didn’t get to them first. Which I definitely wasn’t secretly planning on, not at all.
By the time I was done the water was boiling, so I threw in a box of pasta and some salt, set an alarm, and then went back to the sauce.
The cream cut away almost all of the chilli but for Blake’s sake I resisted adding more to compensate. I could always add some fresh chilli to my serve later.
The shower turned off as I was adding Parmesan to the sauce. Perfect timing by Blake; by the time he got dressed, dinner would be ready, leaving me to wonder if his power somehow made him punctual or if he was naturally just like that.
“Need a hand?” he asked when he came back out.
“Nope! It’s all under control.” My alarm went off as I spoke. “And that’s the pasta done.”
I went to switch off the heat.
“Don’t you wanna check it’s cooked properly before you turn it off?” he asked, hovering near the stove.
“Mm, good idea.” I stuck my hand into the boiling water and—
And Blake was suddenly dragging me to the sink.
“Blake,” I stressed, trying to pull my arm from his grip. “Blake!”
Finally he stopped, his eyes going to the handful of penne I was holding, then back to me. There was fear there, confusion, and relief, and finally I understood.
“I’m invulnerable, remember,” I murmured, and dropped the pasta into the sink.
He pulled me into a bear hug. “You scared the crap out of me,” he mumbled into my hair. “Why would you do that?”
“Is there another way to check?”
“Yeah, you hook one of them on the spaghetti fork.” He let go of me and turned off the gas, then slumped against the bench. “How do you not know that.”
I was feeling a little judged, but he didn’t understand. How could he? We’d grown up so differently. “It’s not like I was allowed in the kitchen when I was young,” I told him. “Our chef likes to be left alone when she was cooking. And since then…well, you’re the only person I’ve ever cooked for.”
“Oh.”
“It’s nice that you care, though.” I still wasn’t used to it.
“I’ll always care about you.” He took my hand in his, lifting it up to look at my arm. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to this, but. It’s not even red. If I’d done that, you’d be calling me an ambulance.”
“It’s really that bad?”
He nodded. “There’s a reason spaghetti scoops exist. Which,” he tilted his head to the side like a puppy, “you don’t own, apparently. Or a pot holder.”
“What’s a pot holder?”
Blake grabbed a tea towel, an incredulous smile forming on his face. “Not something you need,” he said, awkwardly grabbing the handles of the pasta pot and carrying it to the sink. “I’m betting you pull baking trays out of the oven with your bare hands?”
I was going to ask how else I would do it, but Blake’s tea towel usage answered that. “I never knew they were hot enough to hurt.”
“I am so fucking happy you kept your invulnerability. Got no idea how you’d survive without it.”
I snorted. “That was actually a legitimate fear of mine,” I admitted. A lifetime of not knowing what was dangerous would be hard to unlearn. “Now I wish I could stop you getting hurt too.” I brushed his bruise with my thumb, the same way he’d once done for me.
“Just being here makes it feel better.”
He kissed me again, deep and intimate, and I melted into his arms.
And then, he stopped. “We should have dinner first,” he mumbled on my lips.
Dinner? Oh right, I’d cooked. “If you insist,” I replied, reluctantly letting go of him. “But only if you have me for dessert.”
“Deal.”
I grinned, thinking of the can of whipped cream in the fridge. He was in for a great surprise.
Well, I have a lot of characters this might have worked for very well, but I didn’t quite feel like using any of them today.
Luckily I’ve been watching a TV show that served to inspire me.
The sun was low in the west as I arrived, a painted field in the sky, the shadows from the house falling upon me as I strode up the hill. A thousand joy-filled memories passed through my mind with every step I took.
A flower-filled spring party upon the lawn to celebrate some long-passed nuptials.
The long-ago summer with clear blue skies that turned into a sudden storm and dancing in the cooling rains.
That harvest dance where smiles turned into kisses in the shadows behind the barn,
And that chill winter’s morning when snow covered everything in a sheet of white.
So many days to celebrate, so many happy moments to recall, adding up to years in the end. No ashes could make me cry, not with all of that to weigh against.
Written for the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt :
(Content warnings: blood and wounds)
(Word count: ~1.1k [sorry I couldn't stop the writing train])
The cast is from L'Ondine et le Voleur so this is in French, but I'm gonna reblog this post with an English translation too (better spare ourselves the goggle train's late version).
* * *
- Volpan, tu peux me laisser parler avec Alix, s’il-te-plaît ?
Le renard la dévisagea avec incertitude, puis jeta un coup d'œil préoccupé dans la direction d’Alix. Enfin, il hocha la tête.
- Je m’en vais.
Il fit un, puis deux pas, puis se retourna encore.
- Il y a quelque chose de bizarre avec ses vêtements…
- Je m’en occupe, lui dit Loyneau.
Volpan s’éloigna pour de bon et alla rejoindre Eliphe, visiblement à contre-coeur. Loyneau se planta devant Alix.
- Que se passe-t-il ?
Le voleur resta silencieux quelques secondes, les épaules affaissées, le front posé sur la main. Puis il leva la tête vers elle. Elle remarqua qu’il avait l’air pâle. Ce n’était pas un effet de lumière ; elle l’avait vu sous la lune de Lueur suffisamment de fois pour le savoir.
- Je sais pas, Loyneau. Je…
Il cligna des yeux, se passa la main sur le visage.
- Je me sens un peu patraque, c’est tout. Le souffle court. Ça va passer. Faut juste que je m'assoie un moment.
Loyneau le dévisagea, puis elle décida de mettre sa colère de côté et s’accroupit devant lui. L’air épuisé d’Alix lui faisait trop de peine. Ce n’était pas le moment pour une discussion aussi importante que celle qu’elle voulait avoir avec lui.
- Pourquoi Volpan t’embêtait-il au sujet de tes vêtements ?
- Il dit que mon manteau sent bizarre. En même temps, ça, il me le disait déjà au début. Je sais pas pourquoi il a choisi de remettre ça, là, maintenant.
Loyneau, elle, ne remarquait pas d’odeur particulière émanant d’Alix. Cependant, les ondines n’étaient pas reconnues pour leur sens de l’odorat.
- C’est un peu étrange qu’il te dise cela sans raison, non ? Tu ne penses pas ?
Il haussa les épaules et ferma les yeux, fatigué.
- J’en sais rien.
Loyneau jeta un coup d’oeil par-dessus son épaule et vit Volpan et Eliphe en pleine discussion. L’un était de toute évidence inquiet, l’autre tentait d’être rassurant. Elle n’aimait pas ça. L’instinct d’un renard était bon ; c’était de la folie que de l’ignorer. Elle se retourna et tira sur le manteau d’Alix.
- Alix ?
- Quoi ?
- Tu as l’air mal en point.
- Je te dis, faut juste que je me repose, c’est tout. J’ai juste besoin qu’on me laisse tranquille deux secondes.
- Alix.
- Oh, c’est pas vrai. Tu vas pas commencer à faire comme Volpan.
- Alix, répéta-t-elle d’un ton plus insistant.
Il rouvrit les yeux.
- Mais quoi, à la fin ?
Loyneau tira de nouveau sur son manteau.
- Je pense qu’on devrait trouver ce qui sent bizarre. Volpan a l’odorat fin et je ne vois pas pour quelle raison nous devrions faire comme si de rien n’était.
Alix poussa un soupir.
- Et après, tu me laisses tranquille ?
- Oui, s’il n’y a vraiment rien de bizarre, je te laisse tranquille. C’est promis.
- Bon… Bon, d’accord.
Alix se redressa et défit le devant de son manteau, en ouvrit les pans, tira sur les manches pour s’en défaire et le laissa choir sur le rocher.
- Voilà. C’est bon, là ?
Il n’y avait rien qui sautait aux yeux, à première vue. Loyneau tourna autour du rocher, puis s’arrêta derrière Alix et ramassa son manteau. L’eau de ses mains commença immédiatement à se répandre le long des mailles de laine épaisse. Elle eut beau l’étudier avec concentration, elle ne détectait pas d’anomalie particulière. Loyneau lui rendit le manteau en tendant le bras, et Alix tourna le haut du corps pour le reprendre. Ce fut alors que Loyneau remarqua une fine ligne rouge sur la tunique du voleur, et elle se rendit vite compte que cette ligne n’était pas à sa place lorsqu’elle la toucha. Le rouge se diluait sous son doigt. Elle avait déjà vu ça auparavant.
- Alix, tu t’es blessé ?
- Hein ? Non. Pourquoi tu me demandes ça ?
Loyneau ne répondit pas. Elle se saisit du bas de la tunique et tira dessus pour la remonter au-dessus des reins du voleur, et puis sur les autres couches de vêtements cachés sous cette épaisseur qu’elle poussa vers le haut et les côtés avec des gestes de plus en plus pressés. Elle trouva la peau blanche d’Alix ainsi dévoilée complètement maculée de sang. Son coeur se glaça.
- Alix, ton dos !
Alix se retourna lorsqu’il entendit l’effroi dans sa voix. Les vêtements du voleur glissèrent des doigts mouillés d’eau rose de l’ondine. Lorsqu’Alix lui fit face, le regard du voleur s’arrêta sur les mains tachées de Loyneau. Un silence s’abattit sur eux. Puis Alix essaya de toucher son dos en se tordant dans tous les sens, et il ramena à lui une main humide de sang. Ses yeux s’agrandirent.
- Hein ?
Loyneau l’agrippa encore une fois et le força à se retourner pour qu’elle puisse voir l’étendue des dégâts. Une longue estafilade se profilait en diagonale le long du haut du dos d’Alix, juste sous ses omoplates.
- Alix, tu es vraiment blessé ! Pourquoi n’as-tu rien dit ?
- Mais je sais pas, je savais pas ! T’es sûre ?
- Il y a du sang partout, bien sûr que je suis sûre ! s’exclama-t-elle.
Eliphe les interpella en s’approchant.
- Qu’est-ce qui se passe ?
- Alix est blessé !
- Loyneau, arrête–
- Comment est-ce possible ? demanda Eliphe, choqué.
- C’est quoi ? C’est quoi ? demanda Volpan, qui était soudainement apparu aux côtés de Loyneau.
- Ça doit être la fée, Loyneau répondit à Eliphe alors qu’elle s'efforçait de nettoyer la blessure avec son eau.
- C’est quoi, ça ? C’est ça qui sentait bizarre, c’est quoi, Loyneau ? continuait Volpan, reniflant le dos d’Alix entre deux questions, son attitude anxieuse reflétant la panique du groupe qui l’entourait.
- Mais il allait très bien, ce matin encore ! s’exclama Eliphe.
- Loyneau, arrête !
Ils se turent tous d’un coup. Alix s’était emparé de Loyneau, l’empêchant de pousser l’examen plus loin. Il lui serrait le bras d’une main froide. Elle se figea lorsqu’elle vit l’expression perdue de son visage.
- Ça me fait pas mal, lui dit-il.
Il le disait comme une question, comme s’il cherchait une confirmation. Loyneau ne comprenait pas.
- Que veux-tu dire ?
- Ça me fait pas mal, répéta-t-il. J’ai rien remarqué. Je… je savais pas.
- Mais comment est-ce possible ?
- Tu dis qu’il y a beaucoup de sang. Ça a l’air grave ?
- C’est…
Loyneau ne finit pas sa phrase, ne sachant pas quoi lui répondre sans l’effrayer. Les doigts glacés d’Alix se desserrèrent, mais Loyneau posa rapidement sa main sur la sienne pour l’empêcher de la retirer. II la fixa du regard. Loyneau fut saisie d’un frisson intérieur lorsqu’elle vit son oeil morne.
- Ça fait pas mal. Du tout, lui dit-il d’une voix éteinte. C’est pas normal, hein ?
- Alix…
Il baissa la tête. Loyneau resta silencieuse. Elle n’avait pas les mots pour le rassurer. L’état d’Alix n’allait qu’en s’empirant, et elle aussi était terrifiée de la transformation que subissait son cher humain.
Tissue warning according to @janetm74
@flashfictionfridayofficial
Word count: 634
...
“It doesn’t hurt, does it, Ms. Malinda?”
Malinda looked down at a pair of earnest blue eyes. “I promise, Scott, it’s not hurting him.” She put the tiny vial of blood into the airlock and sealed the inside door. Then pulled her arms free and got the sample out. “Okay, you can come back over.”
The four-year-old hurried from the line he was standing behind and swarmed up the stool he used. “See Virgie! I told you it didn’t hurt. Ms. Malinda is the best!”
The utter confidence in that youthful voice made her heart swell. “I’ll tell you a secret, Scott, but you can’t tell your dad. Okay?”
“What kind of secret?”
Oh, that he needed to ask that kind of question this young hurt. “A good one. If this sample is in the same range as the last three, it means we can take Virgil off the oxygen.” She grinned. “Think your dad would like that surprise?”
“Really?!” Scott bounced in place. “Daddy would love that! I would love that!”
“Yes, really. You wanna tell Virgil about it?”
“SURE!” He turned to the incubator, placed his hand inside the square they’d made on the cover by Virgil’s head. “Ms. Malinda says you can get the tube out of your nose real soon!”
Malinda had high hopes about that. Virgil had been improving by leaps and bounds in the past weeks. With some luck and love, they’d be able to downgrade him from critical to serious. Maybe even let Scott and his dad have some skin time. That would be one of the miracles she loved best.
Gen shook his head as she placed the sample in the gas-cro. “I still can’t believe we let a four-year-old into the NICU. I also can’t believe he’s better behaved than some of the adults.”
They’d both been on duty when Scott had marched up to the doors of the NICU and demanded to see his baby brother. They could handle terrified, angry, and heartbroken parents. But one small boy demanding to sit with his brother so he wouldn’t be scared had been beyond their ken.
She felt sorry for the small family. Virgil had come into this world at a terrifying 27 weeks, in severe distress and nearly dying. His twin John showed no such issues. So their mom was upstairs, trying to be the best mom she could to the son she still carried. Their dad had come down in a rush looking for Scott. Relieved beyond words to find his firstborn, gowned, capped, and sitting on a stool, telling Virgil about all the things they were going to do together with John. Nobody had the heart to separate them. So every other day, promptly at 2pm Scott would appear, get geared up, and sit with Virgil and talk for about an hour. Sweet Baby Jesus, could that boy talk.
Several weeks later, Scott bounded into the NICU with the biggest grin on his face. “Ms Malinda! Daddy says that Johnny is coming!”
“OH, Scott, that's great news!” She swept him up into a hug. She was going to miss this little ball of energy when Virgil was healthy enough to go home.
He squirmed in her arms. “I gotta tell Virgie!” He worked his way free and held his arms out so he could get gowned and capped. She shook her head, he understood the rules better than some of her nurses.
Scott walked slowly over to Virgil, now in an Armstrong incubator, climbed his stool, and laid a gentle hand on the black fuzz that covered his baby brother’s skull. “Johnny is coming soon, Virgie. Then when you get out of here, we’re going to have adventures!”
Of that, Malinda had no doubt. Look out world, the Tracy brothers are coming.
For @febuwhump day 11: Chonic Pain and @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 139: It Doesn't Hurt. 590 words.
With thanks to @the-original-sineater
More angst than whump, although whump is mentioned in passing.
They say that it gets better with time.
They say that you learn to cope with it.
They say things get better.
They say some right s***.
Sorry.
I don’t know what is worse. The actual real chronic pain caused by real physical injuries, or the pain that is all in my head. The psychological pain caused by a thousand different things, different words, different reasons.
The causes are not physical. But the pain is real. It is.
My brothers carry so much pain with them.
They think I don’t know, that they can protect me from the burdens that they bear. That I was – am – too young to know.
Sometimes I want to slap them.
(Sometimes I want to punch their lights out. I actually do want to.)
But I can’t. They really do think that they are doing it to help me, protect me. And I appreciate it, I do.
Most of the time.
But there are times when one of them is just laying there, bare-face lying to me.
‘It doesn’t hurt, Sprout,’ Scott rasps, broken bones and skin more black and blue than sun-kissed golden.
‘It doesn’t hurt, Alan,’ John mutters, even as he’s falling over – again – because gravity is too much.
‘It doesn’t hurt, Al,’ says Virgil as Grandma wraps him in another bandage and his breath hitches in pain.
‘It doesn’t hurt, Allie,’ says Gordon, as he lays on the floor pretending that his back hasn’t thrown another hissy-fit and left him unable to move.
IDIOTS.
Why they don’t think I can’t see through them, I don’t know. But I am reminded that I am the baby of the family and they want to keep me safe.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
I’m a Tracy.
The pain of their physical injuries is bad, and I feel each and every one of them. But the pain that I could help them, could maybe even prevent some of them if only they would let me out there, let me help them.
That is a whole different kind of pain. A chronic pain that eats away at me.
Every time they fly off I’m the one left behind.
Worried.
Scared.
Frightened even.
What if one of them doesn’t come back?
We lost Mom to an avalanche that almost took Scott and myself too. I don’t remember it. I lived through it but I don’t remember anything before the funeral, and even then I was too young to understand.
But I remember the pain.
The pain of my brothers. How everything hurt. Breathing. Talking. Eating.
Living.
How there was now a hole in our lives – four holes actually. We didn’t just loose our Mother. We lost both parents and our Grandparents too. And the pain was palpable. Was real.
I could taste it. Touch it.
Suffocate in it.
It got better. But it didn’t go away. And like Gordon’s chronic issues with his back, it shaped everything and everyone from that single point onwards.
I wonder what kind of people my brothers would have been without it.
I will never know, and neither will they.
And then we lost Dad and that pain…well, it didn’t return because it had never gone away. But it did grow. Expand.
It threatened to destroy us all.
But we are Tracy’s.
So when these thoughts hit me, when the world is too much and every breath hurts for whichever one of the myriad of reasons I have, and when my brothers notice and ask me.
