Nikolai keeping the 141 away from you, laughing the whole time. He can feel every time Kyle tries to Teleport to the house or to you. Knows John's pissed as hell at him and loves it.
Cause what can they do against him? Absolutely nothing.
Not the weakness itself — you’d made a kind of peace with the weakness, or something adjacent to peace.
The pragmatic acceptance of someone who understood that the body had its own timeline and arguing with it was a resource expenditure that produced no useful return.
The weakness was temporary.
Dr. Caldwell had said so with the directness you relied on, had given you the numbers and the trajectory and the specific markers that would indicate progress, and you trusted the numbers because the numbers didn’t have an agenda.
But the limitation.
Twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes, on your feet, moving, doing anything that required your body to be vertical and operational. Twenty minutes was all you had before the dizziness arrived and your legs began their commentary on the situation. The specific grey creep at the edges of your vision indicated that the expenditure had exceeded the available resource.
Twenty minutes, and then back to the nest.
Back to resting, then perhaps later another twenty minutes if you’d recovered enough and someone was with you and the someone in question had agreed to be within catching distance.
Someone always had to be within catching distance. That was the part that sat in your chest with the specific weight of things that were necessary and humiliating simultaneously.
Not because any of them made it humiliating. None of them had once made you feel small for the limitation or the specific vulnerability of a body that had been pushed past its limits and was taking longer than you wanted to come back.
They were matter-of-fact about it in the way that Kyle was matter-of-fact about everything practical and Johnny was warm about everything difficult and Simon was honest about everything regardless of category and John was steady about everything without exception.
They didn’t make it humiliating.
Your own assessment of your own situation made it humiliating, which was a distinction you were working on and hadn’t fully resolved.
You’d been in your room for four days.
Four days of the nest. The mango and peach. The room that smelled of pack.
Four days of the specific domestic rhythms of the base filtering through your door and your window. Four days of building strength in the incremental way that strength builds when it’s been genuinely depleted rather than just temporarily reduced.
You were stronger than you’d been in the med suite. You were stronger than you’d been yesterday. The trajectory was correct and the numbers, when Dr. Caldwell checked them, confirmed the trajectory.
But four days in one room was four days in one room regardless of how good the room was.
And the October sky through your window was doing something this morning.
You’d been watching it since you woke up.
The specific quality of October morning light had always done something to you. Not nostalgia exactly, not the soft unfocused warmth of that, but something sharper.
The particular slant of pale gold at this hour in this season, the way it fell differently from the summer light or the winter light, carrying in it something about the year turning and the world changing and the specific brief beauty of things that don’t last.
You’d spent three months in a Scottish highland cottage watching this light through a small thick-glassed window.
Through your window now it was doing the same thing.
The yard below. The pale gold of it, the cold-clean smell of it visible even through the glass, the October air that would be sharp and specific if you were standing in it rather than looking at it from a nest on a second floor.
You thought about standing in it.
You thought about the kitchen at the end of the corridor, which you’d managed to get to twice this week without falling over or passing out.
Twice with someone close, twice within the twenty minutes, twice back to the nest before the grey arrived at the edges. The kitchen had a window too. The kitchen window looked out onto a different angle of the yard, a slightly better angle, more sky and less concrete.
You thought about the specific pleasure of making your own tea.
Not because anyone had refused to make it for you — they hadn’t, they’d made it reliably and correctly.
Kyle in particular having apparently memorised your preferences to the specific degree of how long the bag needed to stay in — but because the making of it was its own thing. The standing at the counter, the specific sequence of kettle and cup and bag and the watching of the water. The small ordinary domestic action that meant your body was doing what bodies were supposed to do on a Tuesday morning.
You got up.
The corridor was quiet at this hour.
Seven in the morning, the base beginning its day but the 141’s section of it still in the particular early quiet of people who kept irregular hours and had learned to be considerate of that.
You could hear the base further away — boots on floors, the distant machinery of an institution running — but here, in your corridor, just the morning quiet.
Your legs were doing their cautious best.
Better than yesterday, you noted.
The assessment you made every morning, standing beside your bed before you committed to any direction — better than yesterday, which was better than the day before.
The slow upward line of recovery that Dr. Caldwell had promised and your body was delivering on its own timeline. Not dramatically better. Not the better that meant you could stop counting. But genuinely, measurably better in the specific way of something moving in the right direction.
You made it to the kitchen.
It was empty when you got there, or appeared to be — the lights on, the machine warm, the evidence of someone having already been through it this morning in the form of a cup left neatly in the drying rack.
You crossed to the counter and filled the kettle with the careful economy of someone managing energy, and while it boiled you stood at the window.
The yard from this angle was exactly as you’d remembered from the other side — more sky, the pale gold of it, the cold-clean quality of October morning visible even through glass. A few people moving through the yard below, coats against the chill, their breath visible. The ordinary morning activity of a base coming to life.
You made your tea.
The sequence of it — kettle, cup, bag, the waiting — was unremarkable and exactly what you’d wanted.
Just the small ordinary act of a person doing something in a kitchen in the morning. Just the evidence of a body functioning well enough for this, which was more evidence than you’d had for weeks, and which meant something despite being small.
You stood at the window with your tea and drank it slowly.
The October light came through the glass.
Your wolf was quiet, close and making her low sound. The morning sound that had become as familiar as the light trickling through the curtains and the smell of the room — just her presence, just the warmth of it, just the everyday quality of no longer being alone inside yourself.
You felt good.
Your legs disagreed.
The disagreement was not dramatic either.
Just the particular grey at the edges of your vision that had become your body’s vocabulary for this is the limit, we are at the limit, the limit has been reached. Your hands gripping the counter. The rearrangement of your weight that happened when standing became a project rather than a default state. The tea, still in your hand, the challenge of holding it while your legs were doing what they were doing.
You did not go down.
You went to the chair.
Or you would have, if the chair had been closer, if the distance from the counter to the chair had been the kind of distance your legs were currently prepared to negotiate. It was not quite that distance. It was three feet further than that distance. Your legs, consulted on the matter, declined.
Kyle caught you.
He was there before you’d finished going down — not rushing, not the alarmed lunge of someone who hadn’t been expecting this, but the unhurried arrival of someone who had been present the whole time and had been watching and had judged the moment correctly.
His arm came around your waist and he was solid and certain. Your tea did not spill, which felt like a victory that deserved acknowledgement.
“I’ve got you, princess,” he said, low and unhurried, the word landing soft and steady the way it always did from him.
Princess. The name he had for you specifically that had stopped sounding like a designation and started sounding like you, the person he meant when he said it.
He got you to the chair.
He took the tea from your hand and set it on the table.
Then he went to the machine and made himself coffee.
You sat, breathed and waited for the grey to recede before you looked at the back of him — the unhurried quality of Kyle at a coffee machine.
The way he moved through the world with the precision of someone who had thought about how to do things correctly and was now just doing them — and felt the complicated mixture of gratitude and frustration that had been your constant companion for weeks.
He sat across from you.
Put his coffee down.
Looked at you with the expression that contained everything. The Kyle quality of being fully present without being demanding of your response to his presence.
“I’m going stir crazy,” you said quietly. A whisper. Eyes fluttering closed while you frowned.
“I know,” he replied.
“I can’t do this for much longer,” you said looking up at him. Meaning the room. Meaning the twenty minutes. Meaning the limitation of a body that was recovering correctly but slowly and which had opinions about being carried everywhere and failing to make it the full length of the kitchen without requiring rescue.
“You won’t have to,” Kyle reassured.
You looked at him.
“Another week,” he smiled. “Maybe ten days. Caldwell will clear you for more activity. Your numbers this week are better than last week by a meaningful margin.” A pause. “The week after that she’ll likely extend the time limit. The week after that the supervision requirement changes.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “How do you know that?”
“I asked her,” he said taking a sip of his coffee.
Just that. Simple. He had identified the information you would need and gone and obtained it and was now providing it at the moment it was useful rather than the moment it was available. This was Kyle’s gift applied to you, the practical intelligence of someone who understood that the right information at the right time was more useful than the same information at the wrong time.
“Kyle,” you bit your lip.
“Mm.” He reached forward and pulled your bottom lip out from the attack of your teeth with his thumb.
You didn’t address the spark of pleasure that elicited from you, that travelled down your spine and resonated between your legs.
Instead you thought about the four pairs of pyjamas. The books on your nightstand. The temperature of your room, always right, adjusted without you having said it was wrong. The food, always the correct thing, always the correct amount, always arriving before you’d fully identified that you wanted it. The cup of coffee left in the drying rack this morning.
“You were already in here when I came in,” you said, not a question really.
Kyle drank his coffee and said nothing.
“You left before I got here,” you said. “And then you came back.”
“I forgot something,” he shrugged.
You looked at him.
The expression on his face was the Kyle Garrick expression for I did what I decided to do and I’m not going to be self-conscious about it which you had come to understand was his version of Simon’s honesty and John’s steadiness — the specific quality of a person who had decided who he was going to be in relation to you and was just being it, without requiring acknowledgement.
He’d been there the whole time.
He’d given you the kitchen and the tea and the window and the standing at the counter making something for yourself because he understood that you needed that.
Needed the ordinary morning act of it, needed the evidence of your own capability and he’d been close enough to catch you when you needed him and far enough away to let you believe, for as long as it was true, that you were doing it yourself.
The thing in your chest was very warm.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
Something moved in his expression. Brief. Contained. Warm in the way of someone receiving something they’d hoped for and were not going to make a production of receiving.
“Drink your tea,” he said. “Before it goes cold.”
You drank your tea.
He drank his coffee.
The morning light came through the kitchen window and lay in long pale rectangles across the floor and the table, and outside the yard was October. Clear and cold, and your legs were recovering their willingness to bear weight, and the grey at the edges of your vision had receded back to wherever it lived between incidents.
“Kyle,” you said, after a while.
“Mm?”
“Why is your room two doors down instead of next door to me?”
He looked at you with the attention of someone who had expected this question or something like it and had an answer that was true just waiting for the right moment to be said.
“John’s next door,” he said casually.
“I know.”
“That’s where John should be, he’s pack alpha.” He set his coffee down and looked at you steadily. “Simon’s across the hall because Simon needs to be close when you’re distressed. You let him close first, out of all of us. That’s not nothing — that’s information about what you need and when you need it, and the room arrangement reflects it.”
You thought about the treeline. Simon’s arm. The claws.
“And Johnny’s three doors down,” you said slowly like you were figuring it out.
“Johnny will come regardless of the distance,” Kyle said waving his hand. “Three doors, thirty doors, when you need him he’ll be there. The distance is irrelevant for Johnny.”
“And you?” you said. “Two doors.”
He looked at you for a moment.
“Two doors is close enough,” he said. “I don’t need to be right next to you to take care of you properly.” He picked up his coffee. “I never have.”
You sat with that.
Two doors was close enough.
He’d been in this kitchen before you arrived and had positioned himself to catch you when you fell. He had given you the illusion of doing it yourself because he understood that the illusion mattered to you.
Two doors was close enough.
He didn’t need proximity to be present.
“No,” you said quietly. “You really don’t.”
The contained warm thing moved through his expression again.
You finished your tea.
He finished his coffee.
Neither of you said anything else for a while and the quiet was the easy kind.
Your legs were almost ready to walk back and the grey had fully receded.
Eventually Kyle stood and held out his hand and you took it. He walked you back to your room at the pace your legs preferred and deposited you in the nest with the matter-of-fact care of someone performing a practical task correctly.
At the door he paused.
“Same time next week,” he said. “The kitchen. I’ll be there.”
You looked at him. “Not accidentally,” you smiled.
“Not accidentally,” he confirmed smiling back at you softly.
“Kyle,” you said.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Thank you again,” you said. “For all of it. The pyjamas. The books. The tea this morning. All of it.”
He looked at you for a moment with the expression that was everything contained in the specific Kyle Garrick way.
“Don’t mention it,” he said.
And meant the opposite. Meant: I did it because you matter, and you don’t owe me anything for it, and I would do it again.
He closed the door gently behind him.
Your wolf made her sound. A purr.
You lay back in the nest that smelled of pack and mango and peach and thought about proximity, presence and the extraordinary thing of being known by people who had decided to know you and had gone ahead and done it thoroughly.
The October light moved across your ceiling.
The base hummed.
You were not done fighting but you’d softened somewhere along the way and you now had to admit that you were, quietly, specifically, without drama —
Summary: a lonely and rejected witch catches the eyes of the four vampires that just moved into town. Their deep desire for the witch has only just begun.
Warnings: harassment(not from 141), fighting, violence, stabbing, blood, polyamorous (more tags will be added as the series continues)
I believe it’s a poly tf141 x reader fic. I don’t remember much about it unfortunately😭 but what I do remember is that tf141 have a daughter, the reader falls asleep in the couch, and the daughter gets scared and starts crying. Simon gets mad at the reader and the reader feels awful about it. I also remember that the reader was traumatized?? or something along those lines, just really fidgety, anxious and on edge all the time, and one of the tf141 finds readers prepared “escape” bag.
I hope this is enough to go off of. I’ve been thinking about this fic for a while and I’m desperately trying to find it again lol
You wake in the morning to birds chirping, sunlight streaming through the living room bay window. Rubbing your eyes, you sit up. Today your game plan is to figure out what to do. You're not sure where to start, how does one prepare to barter themselves off?
You snagged a notebook and pen, sitting at the kitchen table. You start writting your wants down on one side of the page. Ten minutes later half of them are scratched out. You know most of your wants will be denied even with your blood on the line. You tap the pen on the table, mind swirling.
------‐-----
Johnny opens the camera link, clicking through the channels until he finds her in the kitchen. He squints, trying to see what shes writting.
"Shes writting something." He calls out, glancing back at Price. Hes sitting reading a pamphlet about a boat tour.
"Oh?"
"Aye, cant see what though. Shes got terrible posture."
Kyle's laugh sounds to his left, "Like you have room to talk." He could practically hear Johnny's eyes roll.
Simon emerges from the shadow of the door. "Shes thinking." He moves to stand by Johnny, hand rubbing his jaw. His teeth have been aching for the past hour. "Bet shes thinking bout negotiations...."
Kyle looks up so fast his neck pops. "Really!?"
Price takes a drag off his cigar, "Easy lads. We all know she'll want things we cant allow."
Gaz lets out a groan, "You're right..."
Johnny stares so hard at the screen his eyes start to water.
---------------
The next three hours is filled with scribbling and scratching. The writing in the notebook is scratched out numerous times. Crumpled paper surrounds you. Not able to decide on what you logically can have, you let out a long sigh.
"Having trouble?"
You nod, "Yes."
"Mmm"
. . .
Your head wips to the side, eyes taking in the very large man standing beside you. Hes wearing a dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. Black dress pants and jewelry. Shooting to your feet you knock over the chair you were sitting in.
"Wa? Who the hell are you!?" You yell at the man, eyes trying to locate something to use as a weapon.
The man holds up his hands in surrender, laughing. "I am a friend. I figured you'd be bored out of your mind with your boys gone. I came to keep you company, have you eaten yet?"
He stares at you waiting for an answer while your trying to wrap your head around his presence. Oh. Of course they wouldnt trust you by yourself. You deflate, body defaulting to doll again. Face going blank and eyes dulling. The man's smile falters.
"Those idiots. Dont know how to take care of delicate things, yes?" He touches a finger to your shoulder and poof.
A warm glow surrounds you and your clothes change from your nightgown to a comfortable pair of jeans, a plan pink shirt, and some sneakers. It catches you off guard and you squeak.
"There! Much better attire for an outing!" The man takes one of your hands and pulls you to the door. "Shall we drive, little one?"
Thoughts swirl in your head, what the hell was happening? Who is this man? Where were the others? Is this a test? But the only thing you can muster out is,
"I cant leave!"
He lets out a loud laugh as he opens the door revealing a sports car. "Of course you can leave, Im with you. Dont worry about Price, he has no power over me."
He puts you in his fancy sports car, even buckles your seat belt for you. The awkward car ride of him chatting about random things, you answering his questions in short answers.
--------
Nikolai watches her out of the corner of his eye. Observing her and her reactions. She hasn't gotten enough sun at all, he can tell she doesnt get much peace. His eyes glow for a flash of a second, of course her souls glow is dimmed low. Those damn idiots.
----------
The restaurant is bright and cheerful. The big man, Nikolai or Nik he says, orders for the both of you. When the waiter leaves to put in your order Nik sets his hands on the table. You hold his gaze for a few seconds before diverting to the napkin on your lap.
"I am truly sorry." His voice is calm and steady, "Price and his boys are not the most.... mmmm.... sweet?"
He sees the way her souls color flickers from the faded yellow to red hot before it receeds to a smoldering gold.
"Why are you here?" Your voice is barely above a whisper.
"This place has the best burgers around."
You click your tongue, "I want to go home."
"Back home? And here I thought youd like some fresh air-"
You cut him off, "MY home. Not my kidnappers house. MY apartment in MY city."
He sighs and lays his head in a hand, "Come now, surly you know that life is gone. Be realistic little one. The people you knew have most likely been paid off by the military you served."
You clench your teeth so hard you swear he hears them creak. "Screw you and everyone else."
It gets you a small pity smile, "There are many who have it far worse you know. Many who get beaten or starved. As far as captors, they are good men. I know it is... shitty as they say, but Price has not harmed you, the others have not harmed you. Though I'm sure Johnny persistant mind drilling is tiring."
The waiter chooses then to return with two plates of a giant hamburger and cheese fries. Your stomach betrays you amd growls. Nikolai laughs loudly.
"Now now, eat up little one. And tell me about your old flyer friend."
Confused you look at him, "Flyer?"
His smile is practically blinding as he goes into a long conversation about an old teammate of yours. The one who does stunt flying in their early forced retirement.
---------
"John!" Simon shout through the mind link, "We've a problem."
It has John rushing out of bed, poor Kyle loosing his pillow and waking up. John rushes to the computer, "What's wrong?"
Simon points to a clock in the background of an image, "Damn clock has been stuck at 3:00pm for the past two hours."
John squints, its clearly daytime in the video. Its pitch black outside. Fuck. He frantically switches between cameras, they are all frozen at 3:00pm.
"Kyle! Get over there pronto!"
Kyle disappears only to rlreturn with a confused look, "I cant?"
"Cant?" Johnny's sleepy voice sounds from the couch.
"There's a block at the house, cant even get into town."
A growl rips from John's throat, "Nikolai that dammed bastard!"
