Summary: When your surprises and gentle treatment catch Tommy by surprise, he questions what he'd done to deserve it.
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The door to Tommy's office was strong and sturdy, and you could just barely make out your husbands hushed voice on the other side, speaking to someone over the phone.
Tommy had been in a gloomy mood all week, something about Ada wanting to push a new policy that no one else in the family agreed with, and him getting stuck in the middle, as always.
You glanced back in the direction of the dining room, where the dinner you'd made, in the hopes of lifting his spirits, sat ready and waiting, before cautiously knocking, and opening the door a crack.
Tommy looked up and caught your gaze a smile ghosting over his lips. He held up a hand, for you to give him a moment as he finished speaking into the receiver, "Yes, I'll speak to him about it tomorrow. - Yes of course. Goodbye."
As soon as the receiver was back in it's cradle, you were pushing into the room properly, "Hello, Tommy love."
"Hello darling," He stubbed out the cigarette that had been tucked between his lips, leaning back in his chair, "You're back early."
"Or, you've been working so long you've lost track of time?" You teased, moving to perch on one of the chairs in front of his desk.
Tommy sighed tiredly, running a hand over his face, "Maybe I have."
You stood, moving around his desk and behind his chair to wrap your arms around him, resting your chin on his head, "Business alright? Did that Arthur-Ada stuff smooth over?"
"I'm working on it. They can be quite difficult." He tipped his head back to look at you.
You hummed, before straightening up, "I made dinner."
"I've still got work to do, darling."
You turned to him sharply, "Thomas Shelby I did not spend my whole morning begging Polly for this recipe you like for you to skip dinner. Come on."
Slowly, Tommy stood up, a fond smile tugging at his lips as you took his hand, leading him out of the room.
"And I got you a little surprise, for dessert." You grinned, turning to look at him.
He raised an eyebrow critically, "A surprise?"
"I stopped off at that little bakery- you remember the one we used to go to on West Hill, with the tarts you like-" You cut yourself off with a huff, "Well, there goes the surprise, I suppose."
Tommy stopped in his tracks, a frown suddenly on his face as he dropped your hand. Oh no. This is the very opposite of what you had wanted.
"What's wrong, Tommy love?"
He looked at you with clear confusion behind his eyes, "You made me a special dinner. You went out of the way to get me a tart- have I missed something? Read the calender wrong?"
"What?" Your eyebrows furrowed.
"It's neither of our birthdays, and it's certainly not our anniversary, so what's going on?"
You looked around in disbelief, "I need an excuse to treat my husband? I don't have a reason."
"Then why are you doing this?" There's an odd hardness to Tommy's voice. Something between suspicion and sadness you couldn't hope to understand.
"Because I love you Tom, this is what I do when I love people," You reached forward to grasp his arms, "There doesn't have to be a special reason."
This is the truly the first time you've ever seen Tommy perplexed. Your husband, careful and calculating, brought down by the idea that you might love without cause or reason.
"But- I haven't done anything..."
"Oh, Tommy love," You wrapped your arms around him again, and this time he melted into your touch, "You don't need to earn this. You will never have to earn my love."
Prompt: Dissociation -- "Give me your hand. You're safe with me, okay? I've got you."
Trigger Warnings: Dissociation, swearing, mentions of past trauma with no description given
Summary: Alfie finds you in a dissociative state, triggered by seemingly nothing. Luckily for you, your husband never needs a reason to come to your rescue
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Alfie knew something was off the moment he stepped foot back in the house. The life you had built together was quiet, yes, especially in comparison to his less than legal profession, but it was never silent. Most days when he arrived home he was greeted with the sound of one of your records spinning on the phonograph, accompanied by your absent humming as you worked on whatever project had taken your interest for the day.
Now, he was met with only silence. Quietly, he stepped through the entry, the soft call of your name long dead on his lips as he scanned the entryway and front room. Everything seemed to be in order. No signs of a break in.
Alfie moved through the hall quietly, letting out a sigh of relief when his glance into the den found you, tucked into the bay window that faced the back garden.
"Hello, treacle," He let out a chuckle, "You gave me quite a fuckin scare there, love."
You hummed absently, but didn't move, still staring down at whatever book was balanced in your lap.
This made Alfie frown, and he made his way closer to where you sat, taking in your drooping posture and glassy, unfocused eyes. He leaned down, trying to meet your gaze, "What's going on, dove? Are you alright?"
You looked up at him, and suddenly he could see the tremor in your frame, the tight, pinched look on your face as you whispered from somewhere far away, "Alf?"
"That's it treacle, it's me. It's your Alfie. Where've you gone, love?" He moved slowly as he spoke, first shucking off his over coat, and then carefully pulling the forgotten book from you lap and setting it gently to the side.
"Alfie... I don't- i don't know..."
"That's alright love," He slid easily onto the bench seat next to you, "You just give me your hands, eh? You're safe we me, petal. Alfie's got ya."
With the utmost care, he grasped your hands in his, squeezing gently. Patiently, Alfie waited, squeezing again every so often, and raising your hands to his lips to press gentle kisses against each knuckle.
All the while he spoke in a low rumbling voice, "That's it, treacle. Nice and easy. I'm here. Alfie's here."
Eventually, once you seemed like you were coming back to yourself, Alfie shifted, tucking you safely against his side.
"What happened, treacle? 's there some fuckin wanker out there I need to go teach a lesson for looking at my dove the wrong way?" His voice is light, and nearly joking, but there's a weight to his words. There is absolutely no limit to what he'd do if someone ever hurt you again.
"I don't know- nothing happened," You whispered, turning to bury your face in his chest, "There's just something wrong with me, Alf. Ever since-"
Alfie silenced you with a gentle but firm squeeze to your arm, "Now you listen to me, lovey. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you."
"Alf-" You tried to protest.
"No, no, no, no matter how you see it, this is survival, yeah? You were in a bad fuckin spot, right, somethin hard to forget, and this is just what your big old brain does to try to keep you safe, misguided as it may be. But I swear to god, treacle, should any arsehole ever so much as fuckin breath in your direction and trigger one of these little spells, I will shoot 'im between the eyes before he can so much as fuckin blink."
A small smile tugged at your lips, but still you sighed, "You don't understand, Alfie. Nothing like that happened. I just- woke up wrong."
"Well then dove, next time you tell me and I will stay right here with you all day, and keep you from floatin off."
Alfie tugged you impossibly closer to his side, his lips brushing against your hair as he spoke, "I'm always going to be here to protect you, treacle. Your Alfie's always here."
Prompt: Kidnapping -- "Oh, honey, you're safe now. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
Trigger Warnings: Kidnapping, violence/fighting, one use of the word 'Supershit'
Summary: In a desperate ploy to lure Superman into a trap, Lex Luthor kidnaps one of the few people Superman is regularly spotted with. Little did he know he had taken the one person Clark would go to absolutely any length to save.
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You knew the risks that came with dating Clark Kent. He'd made sure of it, made sure that you were certain that you still wanted him in your life in spite of those risks. That didn't make it any less terrifying when those risks came knocking at your door.
You had been midway through getting ready for date night with Clark, when you heard something moving around in the kitchen. On going to investigate you found Lex Luthor, lounging against the counter, casual as could be.
Before you could react, he was snapping his fingers, and Ultraman had placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, almost daring you to try and escape.
"Well if it isn't just the person I was looking for," Luthor said smugly, "Big Blues most devoted fan."
"I don't know what you talking about- you have the wrong person." You said desperately.
He sighed, irritated, "It's really no use lying, (y/n). I know everything."
"Wh-"
Before the words could get out of your mouth, he was motioning again, and you felt the prick of a syringe entering your arm. As the world went fuzzy and black, you found Luthor looking down at you, "Well let's hope Supershit cares enough to come find you."
It was hard to tell how much time had passed since you had woken up in the cold, dark cell. You huddled in one corner, your once neatly pressed date night clothes rumpled, your hair a mess.
The minutes passed silently, or maybe they didn't pass at all. The only thing you were sure of was the press of the cold concrete against you back, and the slowly drying tear tracts that ran down your cheeks.
The darkness seemed to press in around you, and suddenly it seemed to you like there was no hope. Your tears started anew at the possibility that Clark really wasn't coming.
Time kept up its steady movement. The tears kept crawling down your cheeks. At first, the chill of the room had set your skin alight with goosebumps, but now after so long, your shivering was practically forgotten.
Eventually, footsteps sounded from down the dimly lit hallway, and Luthor appeared, a scowl on his face. He marched up to your cell with a vicious intensity, "Looks like I was wrong about you, (y/n). I guess you really aren't good enough to tempt big blue here after all."
"What-"
He dragged the cell door open, crossing the floor in two quick strides and grabbing your arm to ahul you up to his level, "But since I have you here, I might as well ask you a few questions."
"I haven't done anything-"
"Who is Superman working with?" Luthor demanded.
"I don't know!" You cried, trying to pull away from his bruising grip.
"Not good enough," He declared, seething, "My sources put you with Superman more often than anyone- more often than that damned Clark Kent! What do you know?!?"
You let out a sob, "I don't know anything- please- I've met him a few times that's it-"
Luthor let out a noise of disgust, shoving you harshly to the ground, "Enough with the lies, (y/n)!"
You landed hard, crying out in pain, "Please."
"Let me see if I can't find another way to motivate you." He reached into his jacket.
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to take up as little space as possible as the tell tale sound of the gun being cocked met your ears.
"What do you know about Superman?!"
"I don't know..." You whimpered.
A gust of air hit your skin, and you heard Luthor let out a strangled noise of surprise before a soft but anger filled voice was filling your ears, "You better make your next moves very carefully, Luthor."
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the man we've been dying to see," Luthor spat, "And here I was thinking (y/n) wasn't special enough-"
He cut off with a groan, and you peeled your eyes open to find him lying on the opposite side of the cell, hands on his abdomen, groaning in pain.
Clark crouched before you, reaching towards you, hesitantly, "Are you alright?"
You nodded, not quite trusting yourself to say anything.
He offered you a hand, "Let's get you out of here."
Outside the cell, none of Luthor's men made move to stop him as he guided you away.
"Are you sure you're alright?" Clark asked again gently.
You let out a hiccuping breath, "No..."
"Oh honey," Gently, he scooped you into his arms, letting you tuck your face against his chest, and cradling the back of your head carefully, "It's okay. I'm here. You're safe now. You're safe now."
"I thought you weren't coming." You admitted in a low whisper.
"No, no, sweetheart, I will always come for you. I'm never going to let anything like this happen again." He held you tighter.
You pulled away to look up at him, eyes wide, "Promise?"
"I promise," Clark nodded, before tucking you back against his chest, "Let's get you home."
Prompt: "You just sit there and look pretty and let me take care of this."
Trigger Warnings: None
Summary: Unlike Clark, Lois and Jimmy, who regularly took on the nitty gritty work of covering city politics, the Planets miniscule lifestyle and culture section was your usual beat, something the others never seemed to see the appeal of. So it's no shock when no one immediately takes you up on your offer to checkout a new restaurant with you, at least until a certain journalist speaks up.
(For the record I know literally nothing about superman or DC lore, I just went to the movie with my friends and came out DOWN BAD on the other side)
Maybe it was just personal bias, or maybe it just being farther removed from the chaos of the newsroom floor, but you were inclined to think that your desk occupied the single best spot in the bullpen.
Close enough to the break room that your trips to refill your mug with the lukewarm sludge that passed for coffee never took long, and just far enough from the constant hurricane of motion that was Lois's desk to not be sucked in and sent on one errand or another, while still being able to weigh in on whatever ridiculous debate Jimmy had started while trying to procrastinate before his deadline.
Your desk also just so happened to be perfectly positioned so that a certain dark haired, glasses wearing reporter always needed to pass by your desk on the way to the break room, and you past his on your way to the copier.
And if both you and Clark made excuses to make these trips across the office floor more often than strictly necessary, if only to stop by each others desks and chat for a few minutes, then your coworkers at least had the good sense not to tell Perry when they got done teasing you for it.
As if your distracted thoughts had summoned him, Clark appeared at the edge of your vision, startling you back into the present, where the rambling voice in your ear as one of your food writer aquiantices droned on. She'd called to follow up on a favor you'd asked of her, but now was focused on filling you in on her partner's restaurant opening a second franchise out in the suburbs of Metropolis.
Clark gave you that same soft, shy smile that always seemed to make your stomach flip. When you smiled back, absently humming into the phone, he quietly reached out to set a full mug of coffee on your desk. Your mug, which you could have sworn only a few minutes ago had been sitting empty and forgotten behind a stack of folders.
"You looked like you needed a pick me up." Even as he lowered his voice so as not to disturb your call, he leaned in closer, one hand braced on the corner of your desk, "Bad call?"
You shook your head, pulling your phone away from your face to whisper back, "She just likes to update me on her life every time we're on the phone, even if it's supposed to be professional."
He pulled an over exaggerated wince, his voice still low, "Sounds terrible."
You nodded back with a feigned grimace, reaching to grab the fresh coffee and take a sip with an over exaggerated sappy sigh, "You really are my hero."
"Well- uh- not a hero-" Clark's face started to flush.
"I'm messing with you, Clark." You shook your head with a chuckle, pulling the phone back up to your ear to catch the tail end of a rant about long hours.
Clark disappeared with another one of those bashful smiles.
Another ten minutes later, and it looked like your phone call was finally coming to an end. You glanced down at your notes one more time, your phone pinned between your shoulder and your ear, reading back what you had jotted down what felt like ages ago, "So it's all set for tomorrow at 6? Incredible, thank you for doing this for me- yeah. Bye."
You were up and out of your seat before you had even finished hanging up the call, your notepad still clutched in your hand.
Lois glanced over at you as you made your way around the corner towards their desks, "Someone's excited. You get a hot tip on some up and coming fashion trend?"
"Wow. You know me and my fashion column so well, Lois," You joked, waving your notepad around in a way that grabbed Jimmy, and naturally, Clark's attention, "No, one of my friends who does freelance food writing for the Tribune just got me an interview with the head chef of that restaurant that just opened near the park, plus a table during prime dinner hour so I can see reactions."
Jimmy and Lois looked at you a little blankly, as if they couldn't quite grasp just how big of a deal this was for you. Clark, however had fully turned from his desk, and was looking at you warmly, "The one that does fusion, right? That's cool- congratulations."
"Thank you Clark," You smiled at him before shooting the others a pointed look, "At least someone around here gets it."
Lois chuckled, "I'm happy for you, I just don't know how you don't get- itchy, writing low stakes stuff like that. When Perry makes me cover water commission meetings too many weeks in a row I start tearing my hair out."
"It's not low stakes," You protested, "Remember when that brunch spot uptown gave me food poisoning."
"Oh yeah, ultra high stakes." Jimmy deadpanned.
"I don't know, it sounds to me like you really put your life on the line for your readers." Clark caught your eye again, managing to keep his face serious for all of three seconds before bursting out in a laugh that you couldn't help but echo.
When your laughter subsided, you grinned, looking around at your friends, "The reservation is for 6 tomorrow night, who wants to come? If you pretend to be my interns I'll foot the bill."
Jimmy shook his head, "I've got a date."
You sighed, turning, "Lois? You're always complaining about how you're running out of take out spots, you could-"
"Sit and listen to you wax poetics about flavor combinations and," She raised her hands in dramatic air quotes, " ""Dining room vibes"" I love you, but no thanks."
"I'll- I mean I'd love to go." Clark's voice was surprisingly soft, as he glanced between the others as if expecting them to pile on him with the same gentle ribbing they always gave you.
"Great. It's a date." You grinned, watching his cheeks flush brightly out of the corner of your eye as you headed back to your desk.
~~~
The following night found you sitting across from Clark in one corner of semi crowded restaurant, pulling your notepad, pen, and voice recorder from your bag.
His hands fidgeted over his place setting as he watched you ready yourself, already jotting down notes about your first impressions, the atmosphere, and the general feeling of the tables around you.
You set your pen down to look up at him with a grin, "You're in for a real treat here Clark, seeing how a real journalist gets information."
Clark couldn't help but chuckle, "Oh really? Should I be describing everything I'm seeing and smelling to you then?"
"For now, you just sit there and look pretty and let me take care of this whole thing," You gestured down at your notes, glancing back up to find that Clark had flushed crimson all the way down to his collar, "All you need to do is enjoy yourself, and maybe tell me what your favorite dish was."
As Clark attempted to stutter out a response, footsteps approached the table, and you tore your eyes from him to greet the chef, "Ms. Epps! Thank you so much for letting me take up some of your time tonight."
"Oh it's really no problem, anything to get a few more eyes on this place, you know?" She grinned brightly.
"Well then, if you don't mind, I have a few questions for you about the restaurant itself, and then I'll let you get back to running this corner of the world."
Clark watched, almost in a state of awe as you began the interview in ernest, questions and answers flowing into something that sounded much more like a conversation than an interview. He listened as with a few questions, open ended remarks, and jokes, you uncovered not just the story of the restaurant's opening, but Ms. Epps inspirations and motivations, just short of her whole life story.
As she disappeared back towards the kitchen, you turned, finding Clark staring at you, "What? Do I have something on my face?"
"You're incredible." He breathed.
This time it was your turn to blush, as you glanced down to fiddle with your recorder, "Clark-"
"I mean it, sweetheart. You just got most of her life story, and a feel for her character in ten minutes. That's more than I've gotten out of anyone- ever," His voice was soft and full of conviction, "It was amazing. You are amazing."
"Thank you. I- I guess that's why I like covering this sort of thing so much. Getting to hear people's stories, and see all the good things that they are doing or want to do for the world. I know you guys don't think it's the same as writing hard news -and it's not- but to me it still feels just as important as catching people up on whatever terrible thing Lex Luthor has done now."
Clark met your eyes again earnestly, "Of course it's as important. You write about people. About the things that make them human- how could that not be important?"
You opened your mouth, then closed it again, as the first plates arrived at the table, and you were forced to busy yourself with getting pictures and descriptions of each one, instead of focusing on the kind eyed man sitting across from you.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of tastings, note taking, and quiet conversation, until eventually, you found yourself back out on the street with Clark, talking excitedly about your plans for the piece.
"So, not a terrible time then, right?" You grinned up at him.
"It was great," He said sincerely, "I definitely learned a thing or two."
"I'm glad. Well- Goodnight Clark." You started to turn to head back towards your subway stop.
"Wait-" His voice seemed to surprise the both of you, "I can walk you home- if you want that is- I wouldn't- I mean-"
"Clark," You turned with a smile, cutting off his rambling and taking his hand carefully, "I'd love that."
Summary: Jake can never admit that he's sick. Luckily for him, you've made it your business to take care of him.
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Something was wrong with Jake. He'd been nursing the same beer for hours now, hadn't put up as much of a fit when Phoenix beat him at darts, and he'd been avoiding you like the plague. You'd spent the better part of two hours watching him from across the Hard Deck, trying to work out just what it was.
Your relationship was still new, with promises of taking it slow, and working things out as they progressed. Unfortunately, whatever it was that was making him take more interest in the label on his bottle than you, didn't seem to be working out.
You watched from your seat next to Halo and Fritz as he stifled a cough, turning away from Fanboy enough to catch your eye. This morning you'd only seen him briefly during preflight. He hadn't said much, and his signature cocky grin hadn't quite reached his eyes.
Now, as he met your gaze, he looked almost apologetic, and even in the dimly lit bar you could make out the dark bruises under his eyes. Jake turned again, excusing himself and making his way down the hall that led to the bathrooms, coughing into his sleeve the whole way.
Without a second thought, you slid out of your seat, following him. A few minutes later, when he immerged, looking pale and a little worse for ware, you were waiting for him, pointed questions hot on your tongue.
Jake looked up, almost shocked to see you, and all the sharp words died on your lips.
"Holy shit, Jake are you okay?"
He tried to perk up, giving you a strained smile, "Oh, I'm peachy keen, darlin'."
"Don't give me that," You frowned, "You look like shit."
"I'm fine." He started to move past you, only to freeze when you grabbed at his wrist.
"You're really warm," When you pulled him to face you once more, he moved compliantly, despite the grimace on his face as you reached up to feel his forehead, "Too warm. Why the hell did you come out tonight if you're not feeling well?"
"Because I'm fine." He said pointedly, starting to move away again.
Your frown deepened, unimpressed, "You've had one beer. You didn't even bitch when Phoenix beat your ass at darts."
Jake stood there under your pointed gaze, looking more and more uncomfortable, "She's good at what she does- and like I said I'm fine. A little cold can't keep me down."
"How long have you been sick, Jake?"
"I'm not-"
"How long?"
"I don't know, two days maybe? I can take care of myself, thanks." Even as he spoke, he seemed to grow paler, one arm unconsciously curling around his stomach.
"Jake-"
He cut you off, ducking back into the bathroom. You followed quickly, watching as he heaved the final contents of his stomach into the nearest toilet. You knelt beside him carefully, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles.
"You're alright. I've got you."
When he was finished, you pushed sweaty hair out of his face, "Let me go get you some water, baby."
"I've got it-" He started to stand, only for you to push him back down.
"Nope. You stay there. Take a breather. I'll work on an exit strategy."
By the time you returned, water bottle in hand, Jake was standing over the sink, splashing his face with cold water.
"You feel any better?"
"Hell of a lot less nauseous." Jake muttered, taking the offered bottle gratefully.
"Hey- don't drink that so quickly," You scolded, reaching to feel his forehead again, "Let's get you home, cowboy."
He opened his mouth to protest as you took his arm, but after another pointed look from you, his mouth snapped shut. You led him out of the bathroom and out through the side door.
It took a lot of coaxing to get him into your car, but once he was bundled into the passenger seat, you headed back inside to give the others a heads up about your leaving.
Getting Jake back to your apartment had been difficult, but once he had collapsed onto your couch, you were confident he wouldn't try to run out on you.
"Here," You offered him a plate of toast, "Lets see if you can keep that down, and then we'll see about some fever reducers."
"I'm a grown man, I can take care of myself." But all the bite in his voice was gone. He took the plate anyway, setting the bottle of gatorade you'd stopped at the convenience store for on the way back.
"I know that," You sat down on the other end of the couch, "That doesn't mean I shouldn't get to help sometimes. I wished you'd told me you were sick instead of avoiding me all night."
He stared down at the toast for a long moment, "I didn't want to bother you. Or worry you. Or ruin whatever this is cause I can't handle a stomach flu."
"If I had said I was worried about ruining this when I got that migraine while we were out two weeks ago what would you have said?" You asked gently.
Jake looked up at you, bewildered for a moment, "That it was out of your control..."
"Exactly, baby. Now eat that, so I can get some meds in you and get you to bed," You stood up once more, heading towards the bathroom only to pause and drop a kiss on the top of his head, "I love you."
Jake froze for a moment, before looking up at you with a grateful smile, "I love you too, darlin'."
Prompt: "Either go to bed and get some rest willingly, or I will drag your ass down the hall kicking and screaming. Don't think I won't."
Trigger Warnings: Some swearing, stubborn Tommy,
Summary: Your husband has been suffering migraines since the incident involving Father Hughes. This of course doesn't stop Tommy from overworking himself even when he can feel one coming on, or from being a stubborn bastard when you try to get him to rest.
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The office was quiet, save for the grandfather clock ticking away steadily in the corner. He'd dragged the curtains closed haphazardly some time ago, and so now the room was dappled unevenly in fading late afternoon light.
You stood in the doorway, silent for a moment, watching your husband.
Tommy leaned low over his desk, a hand pressed to his brow as he attempted to focus on the paperwork before him. An abandoned cigarette sat smoldering in the ashtray at his elbow, long forgotten.
You cleared your throat softly, stepping into the room properly, "Tommy?"
He sat up, looking half startled for a moment before his eyes finally focused on you, and he let out a sigh, "Yes, darling?"
"Are you alright?" Even as the words left your mouth you knew that his next words would be outright lies.
He sniffed a bit, rubbing at his temples, "Fine. Just- catching up on business."
You had worked your way across the room, and were standing in front of his desk now, "Your heads not bothering you at all?"
Tommy looked up at you, and you raised an eyebrow, almost daring him to brush you off again. After a moment, he sighed, nodding, "Started up again around noon. Can't seem to shake it."
"I thought as much. Come on, you need some rest." You motioned for him to stand up.
"I don't-"
You crossed your arms, "Either go to bed and get some rest willingly, or I will drag you down the hall kicking and screaming. Don't think I won't, Thomas Shelby."
Reluctantly, Tommy pulled himself up out of his chair, rounding the desk and taking your outstretched hand. You led him back through the house to your shared bedroom, where you had already taken the liberty of drawing the curtains tightly against the setting sun.
Tommy sat on the edge of the bed, taking the tablets that you pressed into his hand with a sigh, "Thank you, love."
You pressed your lips together for a long moment, holding back a sigh, "Why didn't you take a break when it started, Tom?"
He just closed his eyes, tossing back the pills, before moving to lay back in bed. Biting your annoyance, you rounded the bed, settling against the headboard before maneuvering his head into your lap.
Despite his reluctance to answer you, he moved willingly, practically melting under your touch as you began to card your hands through his hair, massaging at his scalp.
"You need to take better care of yourself, Tommy love."
He only hummed, reaching up to squeeze your arm in quiet appreciation.
Trigger Warnings: Violence/battle, graphic descriptions of an wound, implied character death
Summary: Somewhere in the thicket of Helms Deep, you're injured, but in the chaos that follows, doing anything about it seems to slip your mind.
{Less so hiding an injury and more like unaware of injury}
The battle had been long and terrible. There had been more close calls than you could count, and many times where you swore death itself had almost closed its hands around you. You had ridden out in the face of impending doom, and made it to the other side.
But now that the battle had been won, the real work began.
The carnage stretched through the valley, into the walls of Helm's Deep itself. Adrenaline still coursing through your veins, you put aside the aches and pains that pervaded you, making yourself useful where ever you could.
You found yourself joining in the effort to round up the wounded, moving them safely within the walls of the fortress, where healers began their work in earnest.
As you made the trek back and forth countless times, you could feel your exhaustion beginning to catch up to you. The ache in your side became more and more persistent, just as it seemed harder and harder to draw air into your lungs.
The next time you turned to go back out into the wreckage, the ache seemed to turn to an ice hot burning.
"Are you alright, laddie?" Gimli asked as you moved past where he seemed to be spectating Aragorn, Gandalf and Theoden's discussion.
You nodded, starting to wave him off, "Tired, is all."
"Come and rest then," Gandalf turned, a knowing smile playing at his lips, "One might say you've earned it."
You tried to smile at the jest, but a new jab of pain stabbed at your side. With a wince, you pressed your hand to your side, only to let out another hiss of pain, as your hand connected with something warm and wet.
"Meleth nin?" Aragorn's focus shifted to you in an instant.
Your eyes met for a brief moment, before they seemed to move in tandem to your newly crimson stained hand. You couldn't help but let out a chuckle of disbelief, despite the pain now radiating through your body.
The room was filled with noises of confusion and concern, but they all seemed dull and far away now. You took half a step toward your lover, but your legs seemed to falter, and the next thing you knew you were stumbling to the ground.
The stone was cold beneath you, and Aragorn was at your side in the space of one sluggish blink. His hand was firm against your wound, applying painful pressure despite your pleading for him to stop.
With his other hand, he cupped your cheek, "Why didn't you say anything, my love?"
You gulped down a whimper of pain, "I didn't- I didn't realize-"
But he wasn't listening, instead turning over his shoulder to bark out an order to someone you couldn't see. Distantly, as if underwater, you could hear Gimli's reply.
Somewhere between one blink and another, Aragorn had grown more frantic, pressing dressings to your wound, muttering something that sounded strange and fuzzy to your ears.
The pain had dulled away now, leaving your body cold, numb, and inexplicably empty. You gripped at Aragorn's arm, trying to anchor yourself, but no matter what you did, you seemed to be slipping further and further away.
The last thing you heard before the darkness consumed you was his final, desperate call of your name.
You should have been paying better attention. If you'd been paying attention, you would've seen the socs coming from a mile away. And if you had seen them coming then surely you would have had the good sense enough to take a shortcut home, or to the Curtis house, or at least to the DX station where Steve and Sodapop could've scared them off.
Your thoughts raced in these circles as you limped down the street, back in the direction of home.
They hadn't even given you time to fight back before they had dragged you off into an alley, to give you one hell of a soaking. One smart comment in earshot of the wrong person had given you a swollen eye, a busted lip, and some number of other bruises littering the rest of your body.
"Holy shit, (y/n), is that you?"
"You don't look so good."
You turned, finding Ponyboy and Johnny leaning against the side of a corner store, smoking. Before you could even open your mouth, Ponyboy was pulling you out of foot traffic, and Johnny was lighting a cigarette to place between your still shaking fingers.
"What the hell happened?"
"Don't ask 'em that, ain't it obvious? It was the damn socs!" Ponyboy exclaimed.
You nodded, taking a drag of the cigarette, "Shoulda seen it coming. I slagged off that damn Chet what's his name in fifth period and someone musta heard me."
"Christ! wait till Dallas hears!" Ponyboy exclaimed.
"Wait till Dallas hears what?"
At the sudden sound of your boyfriends voice, the boys jumped, turning to Dally and beginning to stutter out that they found you like that. Of course, Dallas heard none of that as soon as he caught sight of your busted up face.
He was pushing them aside and taking the sides of your face in his hands, "Who did this to you?"
"Dal-"
"Who did this?" He asked again, barely holding back his anger.
You glanced away before meeting his eyes again, "Chet something or other- he runs with Gregg Parkers gang."
Dally nodded, releasing you, and running a hand over his face, thinking for a moment.
"It's fine Dal, I was practically asking for it-"
"No, no, no, none of that shit, doll. That little slime ball, is going to pay for messing with what's mine," There was something hard in his tone, in his protectiveness that tugged at your chest, as he turned to Pony and Johnny, "Listen, you two get them back to the house, see if Darry's got that first aid kit of his stocked up, alright?"
Ponyboy and Johnny nodded duitifly as he continued, "Then I want you to get Two-Bit, and Steve, hell, anyone you can find, and send 'em to meet me over at Buck's. I gotta go find Shepard."
"What about us?" Pony asked.
"You stay with (y/n), alright? I don't need Darry hounding me about dragging you into this, too." He looked around the street, before turning back to you.
"Dallas..." You tried to protest again.
"C'mere," Dally pulled you into his arms, briefly, and pressing an uncharacteristically chaste, gentle kiss to your temple, "Let me do this."
Without another word he was heading off down the street, and Johnny and Ponyboy began to corral you back towards the Curtis house, so that Darry could patch you up.
Eventually, Dally, Two-Bit and Steve would return to the Curtis house, and with bloody knuckles, Dally would join you on the couch, holding you close, happy in knowing that you were safe.
