summary: Glimpses of yours and Matt's relationship told through the layers of a dessert.
w.c.: 5.6k+
main masterlist . matt masterlist
divider credits: @starrliqhtt
l'entremet, a modern, multi-layered french mousse cake, 'entre mets' meaning between courses.
pronounced: lahn-truh-may.
DACQUOISE NOISETTE
⤷ Hazelnut Dacquoise: The Foundation
The crash in the alley was loud.
A constant ring taking home in your ears as you lowered the half smoked cigarette in your hand, eyes darting in the dimly lit alley.
You saw it then. A dark figure in the bruised indigo of the late night. Slumped sideways on the garbage bags.
Curiosity killed the cat, and you were sure it might end you one day too.
You took a few cautious steps towards him, your foot disturbing the serene reflection of the moon in the puddle of water. A wet feeling in your shoe. Fuck, you need shoes without holes.
"Dude, who the fuck are you?"
You were answered with heaving breaths — they sounded louder in the quiet of the night. You licked your lip in contemplation, pausing a few feet away from the dark figure.
You could either be normal, call the cops, and leave the guy be.
Or…
"Listen, man, I've had a shit day," you started, throwing your half smoked cig down, putting it out before taking another step closer, "and I wanna warn you, do not try anything with me, I have a pepper spray and karate lessons from like sixth grade, and a hell lot of frustration about my shop closing. I will fuck you up."
To your offense the man laughed — well, kind of, — the laugh turned into a sputtered breath and a pained groan soon enough.
Wow, this guy is fucking weird. And hurt.
You bit back the gasp that threatened to punch out of you at the sight of him.
He laid there, half leaned on the black bags of trash as if they were his personal throw pillows. Clad in black head to toe, a black cloth covering half his face.
Cuts decorated his body, the dark red of his blood melting into the blackness surrounding him.
Your brain scrambled to think of where you might know him from—
"The devil of Hell's Kitchen."
Your hand sprung up to slap itself over your mouth as if you could physically take back the words from the air and shove them into your throat.
The man's head tilted towards you once again a pained grimace spilling across his pink lips.
"I won't hurt you, I promise."
The words were whispered into the night, echoing around the abandoned alley.
His voice was textured — rough and soft all the same.
"Yeah, well you can't even if you wanted to, devil-man," your words were muffled behind your hand.
Sometimes you really did wish you could shut yourself up. You let out a sigh, lowering your hand to your side. Not like it stopped you from saying shit you didn't want to.
He let out another one of those weird laugh-groan things, shifting with great effort to sit up more.
You bit your lip, shoe scuffing the ground as you looked down at him.
He did promise he wouldn't hurt you. Clearly, he was going to bleed out if you leave him here.
"You need help, devil man?"
"No, I think—" he was cut off by his own groan of pain, somehow trying to stand up before swaying and—
"Woah there!"
Your arms wrap around him in an instant, though the position is a bit awkward you try to maneuver some of his weight onto yourself, helping him stand up.
He was warm and heavy against you.
Bloody clothes and heaving breaths.
By the time you manage to wrap his big arm around your shoulder, helping him lean on you, the
"You were saying, devil man?" you teased in between huffed breaths.
He just grinned, the corners of his mouth shaky as his head leaned down, finally conceding.
—
The repetitive motions of whipping the egg whites and sugar into a meringue lulled your mind into a weirdly calm place. Nothing else existed at this very moment in time.
Just you and the tap-tap of the whisk. A metronome to your, for once, stilled thoughts.
knock. knock knock. knock.
The whisk slipped from your hands with all the grace of a fish swimming on land.
You let out an indignant huff, hand coming to tap your chest as if trying to get your heartbeat back into it's usual rhythm through sheer will.
"Jesus! Devil man," you mutter, stomping towards the window, unlocking it and stepping aside to let his broad frame in, "you gotta stop with the creepy knocking, man. I could've fucked up the L'entremet. Again."
You'd stuck with the nickname even though you know his name now.
Matthew Michael Murdock. Daredevil. One and the same.
Or simply (and less dramatically) put Matt.
He sauntered into the kitchen with a soft hum of acknowledgement, making a quick work of his make shift black mask, leaving his hair a puffy mess in its wake.
You hated how unbearably soft the sight made you. Him walking around in the warm kitchen lights of your cramped apartment. Hair messy, and eyes glinting.
He looked as if he belonged here… or maybe somewhere far away from here.
"You're making it again?" he questioned between greedy gulps of water from the glass you'd kept ready for him before re-starting on your baking rendezvous, "There is already one on the rack."
"Well, yeah," you huff out, walking back towards the kitchen counter, hand fiddling with the whisk, nervous suddenly, "it's not perfect yet, I'd hoped I could do it before y'know — the place closes down tomorrow. But I guess not."
Matt walked towards it. An inquisitive look on his face as he stood in front of your previous failed attempt.
"The hazelnut base is too soft, and the meyer lemon curd is too… acidic? citrus-y," you supplied as he picked up the fork nearby on the counter.
Watching anxiously as he cut himself a bite, calloused hands smoothly shoveling a bite up before he shoveled it into his mouth.
"So, what do you think, devil man?"
"It is… perfect. The softness of the base goes well with the crunch of the — what is it? crepes?"
You let out a hum, "French crepes and hazelnut praline paste."
"Yeah, that," he chewed thoughtfully before nodding to himself, "the lemon curd goes well with the rest of the things too, 's not too acidic if that's what you're thinking. You're worryin' for nothing."
You're not entirely convinced.
You know that the guy has enhanced senses and yet your foolish brain refuses to believe him.
Regardless, your heart still preens at the praise he showers you with, shoulders relaxing just a bit as you leaned back against the counter.
The silence feels nice. So you decide to break it.
"You gonna need any stitching up tonight, Matty, or just popped in to steal some desserts?"
"Can't it be both, sweetheart?"
The warmth in your heart — you convince yourself — is from the baking and not him.
CROUSTILLANT PRALINÉ
⤷ Crunchy Praline: The Friction
The bluesy song playing on the speakers at Josie's made your head thrum as if the notes were bouncing around in your fuzzy mind.
The cheap beer was good enough to have you tipsy. Fuzzy brain and warm body.
You'd taken to watching Matt and a lady from the bar — Samantha? — play pool, all wide grins and murmured nonsense.
Foggy had retired next to you a while back, claiming to be 'tired of beating Murdock's ass at this'. Karen had followed after him chuckling as her blue eyes glowed in the cheap bar lights.
Your finger followed the path of the condensation droplets on your beer bottle.
"So, how's the search for the new job going?"
The question from Karen seemed to snap you back to the present, eyes darting to Foggy, Karen and then back to your bottle. The answer is loose on your tongue, the beginning of an I don't know, swirls around your mouth. Pungent and bitter in its wake.
Your reply is cut off at the I part of the statement by Matt coming back to the table.
Seeing his hand around her waist — Emma? — before was a nice distraction from your melancholy and numbness — a slow burn in your chest, a stinging behind eyes, and green thoughts in your mind. Jealousy.
He picks up his coat with a grin.
You don't quiet hear the teasing he's subjected to by Karen and Foggy. Your eyes focused on his rapidly reddening cheeks, and shit-eating grin. The snap of his cane, and the flourish of his coat. Soon enough he's sending a nod your way and passing a pat on your shoulder before tap-taping away to her.
Apparently he'd decided to be gentlemanly tonight — choosing to 'drop her off safely' to her place.
She's pretty. You have to admit that.
Green eyes glinting like emeralds in the lazy light, hair perfectly falling down her shoulders in a beautiful cascade, outfit just the perfect amount of casual and formal, and a smile so beautiful it managed to steal the air from your lungs.
She seemed smart too. And she must be, you think bitterly.
You try not to imagine it — him with her.
How she'd maybe invite him up, a soft grin on her pretty lips. And he'd chuckle, maybe even hesitate before he'd accept it. How he'd kiss her, warm, calloused hands around her waist, maybe even on her jaw — pulling her closer to him and kissing her deeper.
You blink back your bitter tears, taking another sip of your now warmer beer. Listening to the ebbing and flowing conversation between Foggy and Karen about some bakery they adore, how they could help hook you up there. You thank them for it and get another drink. And another. And another. And well, one more doesn't hurt.
Later that night, you remember hugging Karen bye a little too tight.
You also remember the worried glance her and Foggy shared as they insisted to get you a cab home.
You also remember sitting at your own doorstep and crying like a kid, eyes staring at the window on the opposite end of the hallway, as if some part of you was still waiting for Matt — your devil-man — to come climbing through it.
You also remember the confusion you felt waking up the next morning in your bed with a splitting headache, and tucked in. A glass of water, and pain meds on your bedside, with a hand written note that stood out to you most.
'Take Care, Sweetheart."
Wonky letters and shaky, unsure handwriting. Matt.
—
The rain continued thundering as you rushed into the building.
The warmth of the place seemed to envelope your cold, and shaking body.
The sound of the thunder and taps of the rain muffled through the walls.
You couldn't help but rush up the stairs, searching for the familiar sign of 'Nelson, Murdock, and Page: Attorneys at Law.'
"She's here!"
Foggy's voice echoed as he rushed up to you, taking the box of baked goodies from your hands as you tried to catch your breath, shrugging off your soaked coats in a rush.
'Oh my god!' you hear Karen exclaim, a thud, and the quick clicks of Karen's kitten heels as she rushed out of the meeting room, Matt following after her in a hurry that matches her.
"How'd it go?"
Matt seems to be much calmer in his tone than his partners, though you know him well enough that you can tell he's just as excited, hand shaking slightly around his cane as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, a barely there grin on his lips.
And you just know he knows. He always knows.
You swallow back the sudden emotion pushing through the adrenaline rush you'd gotten hurrying here through the rain. Your breaths hitch through your chest, heart refusing to come down from the high of the news.
"I got it," you whisper, barely audible to your own self, eyes staring at all of them, and somehow through them. Head here and everywhere.
And then as suddenly as you'd flown off, just as soon as you're crumbling down, and Matt is somehow right there. Like he always is.
Warmth seemed to envelope your cold bones as Matt hugs you to him, unfreezing the numbness you'd surrounded yourself with the past few months after the restaurant you'd worked at basically your whole adult life was closed, leaving you unsure and terrified for the first time. The good and the bad of that old place mixing in your chest till it all turned black. The bad reviews and the good ones. The yelling and the peace. All of it swirling and melting into one big black hole in your being.
"I got the job," you repeat, stronger this time, words muffled against his neck — smelling of cinnamon and cool nights.
You can vaguely make out Foggy and Karen screaming at that, as they hug each other. All of it feels as you were witnessing it from underwater.
All you could really feel was him. Matt.
CRÉMEUX AU CITRON
⤷ Meyer Lemon Curd: The Heart
Matt knew that there were only two times in your life where you'd ever considered never baking again. First, when you'd almost lost your mother to a car accident right after a big argument over your career, and second, when you'd gotten your first bad review while working at your old place. You hated to admit how bad it had actually affected you. The words 'There was no art, no thought, no emotion behind the dessert. A pathetic, monotonous attempt at a dessert which works on the symphony of textures,' had bounced around your head every time you even touched the thought of baking.
And these — confessions of sort, had seemed to come out easier for you that night on the roof with him — hazy and warm next to him, the smell of those awful nicotine gums you were chewing a while back still on your breath.
He could also smell the thick scent of petrichor and flowers around you, the scent of fancy baking things he could barely remember the names of — though he's sure you've told them all before on the late nights he's spent at yours — the scent of it is addicting, sweet. You.
In turn, he'd tried to think of something to tell you. Maybe about the many times he'd tried to quit being the lawyer, or being the vigilante. Maybe about the few too many times he'd wanted to — tried to — quit being all together. Parts of himself he refused to accept. Parts of himself he had accepted. All mixing together to form him.
Would you want this? Him?
It'd have been so easy, just to spill it all out. Keep it all in the open for you to see. And, he thinks, a part of him knows you'd accept it all far too easily. So he doesn't say it at all. Because you know. And he knows.
He had instead somehow found himself talking about his father — those late nights spent patching him up with shaking hands and bit back groans, the lazy Sundays spent with him doing homework and watching trash TV with his dad, the disgusting but full of heart chocolate cakes on birthdays that always made growing up feel better somehow. Then about Foggy and the Columbia days — the drunken laughter and half finished assignments, the 'Avocados at Law' and the half finished internship at Landman and Zack.
It'd all spilled out in a velvet soft touch of your hand to his.
Somehow the grief in him balanced by the love in you.
Existing. Together. In all of it.
He'd tilted his head, chasing the warmth of you, head poised to 'look' at you. He could hear the wind twisting and playing with your hair. He could feel the heat of the blood rushing to your cheeks as he tilted to face you. His lips a breath away from yours — God, he could almost taste it — the cocoa lip balm, and the cheap nicotine gum.
Thudthud - Thudthud.
Your heartbeat fastening as his hand came up to rest on your pulse. Warm, and sweet under his touch.
He'd felt it then, your gaze heavy on his lips, your own hands clenching and unclenching on your sides.
"Matt," you'd whispered then, one of your hands coming to rest on his heart — and then he knew. He knew again. That he l—
"I- I don't think this is…"
You'd trailed off then, and he'd smelled then the salt of your tears, your hand fisting his shirt under your grasp. Somehow both pushing him away and pulling him back in.
Yet again he's stuck in the in between.
But at least he's with you this time.
That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye.
Like always.
—
"Hello?"
You knew it was wrong before you'd even done it. Matt had forgotten his phone before he'd left with Foggy and Karen for court.
You'd reassured Karen you would cover for them — it was your rare day off anyway, not like you'd got anything going on.
And you'd seen his phone then, but it'd already been a while since the trio had left. You couldn't catch up to them now without leaving the office for too long. So you'd decided it was not that bad, that you'd texted Karen about it already so it was fine.
"Hi? Who is this?"
The voice from the other end was feminine, and gentle. It was that girl — Alexa? — from that night at Josie's.
Your heart lurched at the thought of Matt still being in contact with her. Why did he even try to kiss you then?
You mechanically muttered your name, hearing her light up as she said something about remembering you from that night.
"Yeah, yeah," you responded, "so uhh…" Fuck, you don't remember her name.
"Matt forgot his phone at the office, I can give him a message for you if you want," you opted to say instead.
"Oh no, that's okay! Could you maybe ask him to call me back soon?"
"Yeah, sure, yeah, of course."
"Great! Thank you so mu—"
BEEP
…
They'd gotten a bit held up in traffic.
Matt knew it was rather childish of him — being so excited to share the win with you, wanting to tell you everything that happened in court as if he were a kid winning his first match at little league. But a part of him couldn't care of how insanely naive he'd look in front of you then. He just wanted to tell you all of it.
What he was greeted with instead was you rushing off with excuses which was sure all of them could tell were lies. The scent of your tears thick in the air. He couldn't help but rush after you, hand darting out to catch your wrist in the hallway outside of the office.
"Sweetheart, what—"
"Nothing, you girlfriend called and asked you to call her ba—"
"Wait, what? Girlfriend?"
The look of total bafflement on his face made you pause, licking your lips in contemplation. He looked panicked, brows drawn together, red lenses glinting under the dingy hallway lights, lips pulled into a frown. Those cute forehead crinkles making their presence known at his stressed face.
"The girl from the bar — Lacy? — I'm not sure, she uhm…" your eyes filled once again, and you couldn't help but chastise yourself for this childish behavior, what was this high school? What the fuck were you even doing?
"She what, sweetheart?"
His voice is as warm as his hands which snap his cane shut, curling around your wrists, tracing mindless patterns inside.
"She called you, and uh she asked you to call her back," you blinked back your tears, trying to loosen his hold on your arms.
"Okay, and?"
"Well, aren't you dating her then? If you're still in contact with her," you whisper the words as if they wouldn't be true if you made sure to speak in a low voice.
The confusion just seemed to etch deeper into his face with that, "What? Is that why you're so upset, sweetheart?"
The question is gentle, like him.
One of his hands hesitantly reaching to cup your face as he gulps.
"She's… Sweetheart— she's nothing, I mean I haven't even talked to her since walking her home that night—"
"Does she know that, Matt? She… She called you and talked so confidently to me as if it were nothing, like she'd done this a million times before with you," you murmur, face screwing up as you look down at his calloused hand holding your wrist.
"Yes," he murmurs, trying to match the quietness of your voice, hand snaking further down your wrist, gently prying your fist open before intertwining your hands, "nothing happened between us that night, and nothing will ever happen between me and her… I don't— don't like her that way."
"You don't?" you ask, suddenly turning shy, leaning into his warmth now.
"I don't, sweetheart," he echoes, a small smile on his lips now as he squeezes your hand affectionately, "but you know what?"
"What?" you echo back, turning to finally look up at him properly, heart thudding expectantly in your chest again, as if it were trying to break free and rush back to him.
"I like you that way," he murmurs this lowly, face close to yours — enough that he nuzzles your nose gently, enough that you can smell the strong coffee on his breath and the scent of cinnamon that seemed to always follow him.
An apprehensive smile spreads across your lips at that, "Yeah?"
"Yeah, sweetheart," he answers, voice earnest in a way that it rarely ever was.
"Good," you whisper, hand finally curling back around his, pressing your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss before pulling away just a bit. If it was even possible, his grin turned even more fond than it was before.
That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye.
Like always.
Just this time, you both planned a date before he left.
MOUSSE À L'EARL GREY
⤷ Earl Grey Mousse: The Body
Matt wasn't used to this.
'This' being sitting in a bathtub under a shower with someone after having sex.
When you'd said you wanted to take a shower afterwards it was as if it were implied he'd be joining you in there, as if it were just normal, everyday routine. Usually, with the other women he'd slept with, he would just get along with his things and leave, or maybe just fall asleep after helping the woman clean up and cleaning up himself.
There was no reason to stick around.
To share nonsensical domestic moments that meant nothing.
So, right now as he sits in the bathtub while lukewarm water falls down on the both of you, he doesn't particularly want to like it. He doesn't want to like this feeling of you in his arms in this cold porcelain tub, the scent of your shampoo strong enough, on him, around him, that he's sure it'll stick to him for days. But it's nicer than he thought it would be.
He can't help but think it's nice because of you.
"Matty, tilt your head down?"
It's more an order than question.
Your voice sounds different under the spray of the water. Acoustics or whatever.
He complies, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head down. He can feel your sudsy fingers work their way in his hair and scalp, and then backwards to his neck. You're humming something, heartbeat steady, and muscles relaxed as you focus on his hair as if you were creating a masterpiece — or baking something you love. It's domestic. And new. And, he thinks he might be a little bit in love with you.
His bones felt dense as his head tilted further down, he was aware of it, but he couldn't stop it. Head coming to rest against your shoulder as your fingers worked in the shampoo, he tilted his head just a bit taking in the scent of you, nosing at your neck. He could hear your heart speed up just a bit at the kisses he left in his wake, his warm breath against your pulse, soft lips pressed into vulnerable skin.
That's when you let out a huff of a laugh, shifting to let him press himself further into your arms. A looseness in his movements he was unfamiliar with — yet appreciated it. The calm you seemed to stamp into his being by just existing with him. The peace you brought to his life, one eternally stuck in the in betweens of existence. And, he knows it's possible he might be a lot in love with you.
The shower washes off the shampoo you'd put in his hair. And he's suddenly taken by this itch —- this urge, really — to do something for you. Maybe he could wash your hair, use all these fancy products you love, or maybe he could wash your body.
Perhaps he would be far too clumsy with someone as gentle as you. So instead he could go back down and kiss you up between your thighs, you seemed to like it before — calling out his name as if it were the only name in the world worth something. He loves how you'd said his name, so sweet and airy. He felt unworthy of even his name in that moment, how could it be said so… so lovingly? A name that belonged to him called out with such strong affection?
Because he's too chicken shit to actually say it, he just pulls you closer instead, under the flow of the water, lips slotting sweetly against yours. You seem to be surprised before melting into him, hands twined in his hair still. He presses the words into your mouth, hoping they're half worthy of you.
But somehow, he knows you know. Because when you pull away you giggle, the sound muffled into his skin, sticky sweet. He can't help but smile too — he feels his cupids bow stretch, the dimple he's been told he has somehow taking home right under your lips.
He'd felt it then your hands rubbing his neck, cupping his jaw to turn him up before kissing him again. Sticky sweet like your voice, like the desserts you bake late at night, like your cocoa lip gloss.
"I love you," he can't help but spill his secret out between kisses, you somehow always coax it all out anyway.
"I love you, too," you answer back, before pressing your smiling lips to his.
He doesn't need to hear your heartbeat this time to know it's true.
—
The first time Matt visited the new restaurant you were working at with Foggy and Karen, he was surprised.
The place was extravagant, with waiters who somehow knew every good thing that had happened to you, food that had fancy name and fancier plating, and apparently, from what he heard, decorations worth more than his entire savings account.
The dessert though — it was all you, he knew it was. The same sweetness you'd seem to mix into every thing you touched was prominent in it. Warm and homey.
After the service was over, he'd found you at the back door. You were having a panic attack.
Your hands wouldn't stop shaking, as you tried to press yourself further back into the brick wall behind you, somehow resisting the urge to bash your head into it. It was as though your body and soul were trying to separate — trying to break down the delicate muscles and tendons that held you together.
That's when warm hands took your shaking ones, and you looked away from him like a scolded child. It was pathetic, really. You'd had worse services in your life — filled with screaming chefs, and buzzing timers. But tonight… tonight had been much more of a shit show, you'd been asked to make l'entremet for a special guest as a gift. It'd been her, the reviewer from all those years ago. Your body, as silly as it was, couldn't decipher the difference between being hunted for sport and between a reviewer from ages ago trying your desserts again. She'd loved it apparently. And yet… here you were again.
"Sweetheart."
Matt's voice is a rumble against your chest as he pulls you into him. Warm hand splayed across your shoulders as he rubbed absent minded circles there. Your hands trembled where they rested loosely around his waist.
"Jesus, you're still shaking, honey," he pulled away once again to guide your hands back into his, asking you the routine of stating five things you could see, four things you could feel, three things you could hear, two things you could smell, one thing you could taste.
It helped enough that you felt the panic leave — as if it were draining out of your body, leaving you dry, and hollow.
"I'm okay now," you murmur half heartedly, making no move to loosen your grip on his hands.
"No, you're not, sweetheart," he quipped gently, a soft smile bordering on sympathetic, but instead of pressing on it he chose instead to pull you further into his arms, pressing kisses on your head, the smell of cinnamon on his coat was nice, burying your face in it felt nicer, somehow. As if for these few moments the world is pushed away, the only sounds being Matt's heartbeat, and the scratch of his coat against your ear.
With his heart under your ear, and his arms around yours. You let go.
GLAÇAGE MIROIR
⤷ Lavender Mirror Glaze: The Veil
Matt is almost sure he'll die before you do.
Matt thinks you know, too, deep down — you, who's always beautiful and hurting, sweet and bitter, all in one go — you must know, didn't you?
Those late nights he spends curled up around your body, warm body entangled with yours. Bound, yours forever.
Forever.
It seemed to be such a long time just a few years back. But now as he feels his heartbeat sync up to yours, the feeling of your loose cotton tee under his fingertips, the feeling of your skin so gentle under his callouses. How could any amount of time ever be enough?
It's scary to him. How contagious and hemorrhagic your love is. How faithful and deep it is to a fault.
It scares him most times how utterly forgiving you are, holding him up over and over, absolving him with a touch of your hand. No matter the crime, no matter the sin. You guide him back to goodness regardless.
The sticky sweetness in you dissolved into him, and he takes it all greedily. The string of loneliness running through him — the one that burns his soft flesh from the inside — the sting eases just enough. Enough for him to let go of his ache, of his burns and bruises.
In the beginning he'd tried to give you something or the other in turn of this… this kindness you were giving to him so freely. Something perfect in order to make up for the fact it was coming from him, to prove that he too, was worthy of your kindness — of your forgiveness. He often wonders if he succeeded. Part of him thinks he must have because how else was he allowed to keep you here, right next to him. Heartbeats syncing, breaths slowing.
But at the end of it all.
All the thoughts, the feelings, the questions pass.
And he always ends up right where he started anyway.
With you.
Always you.
—
You try to be a restrained person.
Otherwise you were sure your heart would race right out of your chest. Breaking past the human, physical barriers of a tender, broken body; spilling into everything you touch with affection — the things you bake, the people you love, the shows you feel with, the songs that soundtrack you, the movies you experience through, the books that break you down and build you up over again, it'd all have a piece of your heart in it then.
Yet, Matt somehow nudges past it all, opening up your chest like an open wound — the vulnerability of it all painfully embarrassing.
You'd been taught as a young chef that cooking is art too — self expression, and love, — it too, holds the power of taking a piece of you and sending it along through the food… Through the art.
Yet it'd never managed to make you feel as open as it had with Matt.
It was as if he'd chosen to feel, hear, see, all these parts of yourself — some you'd been too ashamed to weave through your food, your art, some you'd been too proud to open and show to others.
But somehow, through all of it, he reached over and over again for you. These parts of yourself you marked off as unlovable, he somehow loved more than he did himself.
Those early mornings you spend, tangled up with him under the sleep, and sun warmed sheets all you can think of is wanting this — him — forever.
Forever, something you'd found so baffling as a kid, something you'd found so utterly insane to even think of — suddenly seemed to normal, so easy to desire, with him.
All you want is these lazy mornings.
Where he wakes up cozied next to you, and murmurs something about not wanting to leave the bed just yet.
Where you look at him, beautiful and good, with a halo of his curls spread out like feathers, and rosy lips pulled into a barely there smile, eyes fluttering, and senses loosened.
Where you drink coffee together, barely awake but here all the same.
(to be added to taglist, please let me know in the comments!)
note: Hi guys! I know I haven't been all too consistent with writing but the muse struck so here I am. I hope you enjoyed the oneshot! Thank you for being so patient with me.
Lessons In Vulnerability | Jack Abbot x Fem! Reader | Masterlist
Characters: Jack Abbot x Fem!Reader
Rating: 18+ | MDNI
Summary: Where you learn that you don’t have to face the unknown alone. When life alternating news hits your bubble, something within you breaks. When you don’t have the strength to keep up the web of lies you entangle yourself in, you learn to accept help, even when it takes almost losing everything. Jack helps you see that the dark is less scary when you have him to lean on.
TW/CW: Serious illness, parent cancer diagnosis, medical emergency involving a parent, anticipatory grief/loss, heavy emotional themes, disordered eating behaviors, vomiting, anxiety/panic, mental health struggles, and deception/ withholding major life information from a partner
This may seem a little lame, but I want to give massive props to Pedro Pascal for bringing my favorite character of all time to life. I know it may seem silly to some, but The Last of Us has been my favorite source of media for as long as it has been around. Anyone who knows me, knows Joel Miller has been my favorite character of all time. Both versions. Losing Joel tonight (for the second time) is rough but I'm so thankful for Pedro's performance. For the longest time I suffered from panic attacks because of my heart condition that I suffer from. Seeing tv Joel who is such an incredibly strong character suffering from the same thing I went through? I felt seen. My favorite character went through the same thing I did. Pedro brought a certain humanity to Joel that made it easy for me to relate to. It wasn't until I got my tattoo dedicated to the last of us where I was finally able to ground myself and find something to help me with my anxiety attacks. And to see someone like Joel be strong enough to reach out for help with therapy was a very nice thing to see.
To some people, it's just a TV show/video game. But for me? It's something that helped save my life. So even though Joel is gone and I'm crushed, I'm so thankful that Pedro was able to bring my favorite character to life on the big screen. I hope Pedro knows that what he does can be extremely important and helpful to people and his portrayal of Joel was very important to a lot of us.
Remember, if you just keep going, you find something new to fight for ❤
Please see tags for content warnings. Thank you, thank you, thank you to @rosyredlipstick for the beta!
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(chapter 9 here)
Chapter 10
Sunday, September 12th, 1999
Will’s spent the last few hours half-dozing through a haze of afternoon talk shows, TV volume on low. The sudden ringing of the phone startles him so badly he nearly falls off the couch, scrambling for the landline and knocking over a thankfully-almost-empty glass of water in the process.
“Hello?” he says, breathless.
“Hey. How’s it going?” says Nico’s voice.
“Um – good.”
“How’s your alien virus?”
Will blinks. Unexpected small talk. That's - odd. But Nico normally launches right in, if it’s bad news. Actually he normally launches into any news. Did something happen? It is about the Tooms case? It’s Sunday today, but if it was something really urgent, maybe Reyna would have called Nico at home –
“It’s – better,” Will says, flailing a little. “How – how’s your alien virus?”
“Not bad,” Nico says. “I’m still congested, but better than I was yesterday. I had the best nap this afternoon.”
Will laughs, relaxing by degrees. “I slept almost all day today, to be honest.”
“Well. You deserve to,” Nico says, his voice going warmer. “You deserve… I don’t know what we deserve after the last week. Something good, though.”
“A vacation, maybe,” Will says, still trying to catch up with wherever Nico’s train of thought is heading. “And actually –”
“Do you wanna grab coffee?” Nico blurts out.
“Oh. Right – right now?” Will stammers. Is there some news that’s so terrible that Nico has to deliver it in person? Will glances down at his bleach-stained flannel pajama pants, fraying at the cuffs. His bare feet, each toe on his right foot painted a different color because Kayla was testing out shades last night.
Nico must clue in to how this is all playing out for Will, because he quickly rushes on, “Not – not for any reason. Just. I don’t know. I haven’t seen you since Friday.”
When Will doesn’t immediately respond, still a little blindsided and honestly not completely awake, Nico finishes with, “You know what, never mind, I’m being stupid. I’ll just see you at work tomorrow.”
Will laughs, finally understanding. “No, wait – are you calling me because you miss me? Because you just couldn’t wait another day to see my face?”
“Fuck you,” Nico mutters.
“Pick me up in an hour,” Will says, now practically beaming.
“Fine.”
The line cuts out.
::
Will’s still looking a little too pleased with himself by the time Nico pulls up in front of his building, but Nico supposes he brought that on himself. And anyway, it’s really fucking nice to see Will in person and Nico might just have to stop worrying about making himself look stupid if the results is this: Will, dropping himself into Nico’s passenger seat, grinning, immediately filling up the empty space in Nico’s car, not to mention the tugging empty ache in Nico’s chest. Because yeah, he knows Will is safe now. But absolute confirmation never hurts.
Will smells fresh out of the shower, curls frizzing, and he’s in jeans and a hoodie, jewel-tone teal and soft looking. He just looks soft all over, cuddly. The hoodie isn’t quite Nico’s color, but he immediately catches himself wondering how he might appropriate it anyway.
“Hi,” Will says, eyes sparkling.
Nico just quirks an eyebrow, ignoring Will’s chuckle as he buckles himself in. Will turns then, eyes drifting over Nico’s face, considering. Nico forces himself to maintain what’s hopefully a neutral expression, forces himself not to look away.
“Can I –” Will’s hand comes up, his gaze on Nico’s hairline. Nico’s breath catches, but – oh. Of course. Will brushes the hair off Nico’s forehead, his fingers gentle on the lingering bruise there, turning greenish now.
“The swelling’s gone down,” Will says, soft. “That’s good to see. How’re all your other injuries?”
Will’s hand drops back to his lap and Nico clears his throat. “Good. Actually – my shoulder was bleeding a bit this morning – the Steri-Strip came loose –”
“Want me to look at it?”
Nico doesn’t hate the thought. “Yeah, maybe later, if you don’t mind. I managed to get a bandaid over it, but I couldn’t see what I was doing.”
“I’ll look at it after.”
“Thanks.” Nico puts the car in drive, checks the mirrors and pulls out onto the street. “I know I said coffee, but do you want to grab something to eat? I’m getting kind of hungry.”
“You know, if you wanted to take me out for dinner, you could have just asked,” Will teases.
“Who says I’m buying?” Nico shoots back.
Will laughs. “If you wanted me to take you out for dinner, you could have just asked.”
Nico lets out a long breath, trying to maintain some facade of harassed. There’s a realization settling over him, and he’s not entirely sure how he feels about it. Because Will flirts. It stopped, after April. And then slowly, slowly it started again, dribs and drabs. But now, now that Tooms is gone for good, now that so much of what’s been weighing them both down has been abruptly lifted – Nico’s not sure how well he’s equipped to handle the full force of Will’s flirting. Maybe he should have just waited until tomorrow to see him.
Will reaches over, squeezes Nico’s hand where it’s draped over the gear shift. “I missed you, too,” he says.
::
They end up at a little bar and grill on Pearl Street, open air seating where they can watch the crowds wander by as they eat. Nico’s found himself hungrier in the last few days than he’s been in months, and Will looks to be the same, immediately digging into his burger, neither of them speaking much until they’re halfway through their meals. Maybe there should be more to talk about, Nico thinks, but they’ve gotten comfortable in quiet over the last year. Never mind the relief not to need to talk about all the ways that Tooms might try to kill Will next.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. Nico feels like he has to keep re-realizing it. The truth of it sinks warm into his chest every time he remembers, slowly unknotting everything that’s been tangled up in there for months.
“Guess I was hungrier than I thought,” Will says as the waitress clears their empty plates. “Hey, I was gonna say…”
There’s a pause as Will rearranges the salt and pepper shakers on the table, looking suddenly anxious. “I’m gonna take a few days off. My mom’s playing at a music festival in Chicago next week, and I thought it would be nice to go. I haven’t seen her in a while and – I think it might be good for me to get away from work for a few days.”
“Oh – yeah, of course,” Nico says, hoping he doesn’t sound as disappointed as he suddenly feels. After all, they both have vacation days to use up, not to mention more banked overtime than he ever knows what to do with. He can’t expect Will to spend all his time at work, or to have as much difficulty putting work to the side as Nico often does.
Nico tries not to dwell on the thought of how quiet the office will be in Will’s absence. Especially now, when he’s just spent the last week clinging to Will with every atom of his being, hyper-aware of every breath, perpetually conscious of where Will is in Nico’s space, how long it would take Nico to get to him if he needed to.
Maybe it’ll be nice, though, Nico thinks despondently. There’s always paperwork to catch up on. And like. It’s been a while since he dusted.
“So, this might sound weird, and I swear you won’t hurt my feelings if you’re not interested –”
Nico looks up, confused, dragged from his own thoughts.
“Do you wanna go to Chicago with me?” Will says. He looks – really fucking nervous Nico registers with part of his brain. The part that isn’t busy trying to blurt out,
“Yeah, of course.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
They gaze at each other for a moment, Will looks like he might be holding his breath. Maybe he’s taking in, as Nico is, what this means. A trip together – multiple days, Will said. No work, no murderers, just them. But – they’re friends. It’s a normal thing for friends to do. It’s just – well, it’s just that they’ve never done it before. And Nico can’t completely ignore the not-friendly feelings he harbors. Nor the ones that he’s pretty sure Will does, too.
“It’s – it’s not a day trip,” Will says, hesitant, like maybe Nico’s not sure what he’s agreeing to. “I was planning on leaving early on Wednesday, and then the festival’s not over until Sunday night –”
“I’m in,” Nico says, hopefully quick enough to reassure but not so quick that he sounds as eager as he feels. “Are we camping?”
Will laughs, looking relieved. “Yeah, I was going to. It’s cheaper. Plus then there’s less driving back and forth to the festival site. But if you want to split a hotel room –”
“I love camping,” Nico says, decisive.
::
Will hasn’t exactly been looking forward to going back to work today, well aware of the meetings and mountains of paperwork that await him. But there’s the cushion of upcoming vacation time – with Nico – not to mention the fact that Will’s life is no longer actively in danger. So it could be a lot worse.
“I forgot to look at your shoulder last night,” Will says in greeting as Nico enters the office.
“Oh.” Nico pauses, halfway out of his coat.
“I can do it now, if you like?”
“If you wanted me to take my shirt off, you could have just asked,” Nico teases, his eyes bright.
Watching as Nico crosses the office, Will realizes he hasn’t seen that exact expression on his face for months, flirtatious, coy. He flounders for a second in the face of it, feeling himself go pink, speechless. God, that’s embarrassing.
Nico clearly notices, and he looks thrilled, though. So Will figures he can take one for the team.
“I want you to take off your shirt,” Will says when Nico pulls his chair closer, keeping his voice earnest and his gaze on Nico’s until Nico blushes too, and rolls his eyes. He doesn’t seem to have a comeback, but he gives Will a smirk as he pulls off his jacket.
Will turns away, smiling, digging in his overnight bag for his med kit. Dropping it onto his desk, he reaches for the hand sanitizer. When he turns back, Nico’s sideways in his chair, bare from the waist up.
“This would be a great moment for Reyna to walk in,” Nico mutters, glancing over his shoulder.
Will laughs. “Knowing Reyna, she’d turn right around and never mention it again.”
“Yeah, she’s a vault,” Nico agrees.
Will rests a hand on Nico’s arm, surveying the mess on his back. Aside from the bandage in question, there are a couple of long scrapes up his side, healing nicely now, and some ugly bruising near the waistband of his pants.
“Ouch,” Will says softly, brushing a thumb over the bruises. “Are you having any pain here? It looks like someone beat you with a pipe wrench.”
“It’s a little tender. But everything’s tender, so I didn’t really think much about it. Why, is it bad?” Nico twists in his chair, trying to get a better look. He lifts his arm, then hisses in pain.
“Shit, don’t do that,” Will says, smoothing down Nico’s arm. “I’m gonna grab the mirror from the back of the door so you can see, okay?”
He returns a moment later, angling the mirror so Nico can see the bruising when he turns his head. Even in the low light of the office, it’s not pretty.
“Oh. Shit,” Nico says.
Will’s stomach clenches. “Yeah. Do you remember what happened there? Like, specifically?”
Nico shakes his head, peering at the mottled colours on his left side, purples and reds and a large splotch of almost black. Will normally has a strong stomach for things like this, but seeing it on Nico, now –
“Did the paramedics say anything about that? When they checked you out at the mall?” Will can feel his pulse picking up speed, and he tries to fight the feeling down.
“I don’t think so,” Nico says. “But there was a lot going on.”
“Have you had any numbness or tingling on this side?”
“No.”
“Nausea? Vomiting? Fever?”
“No – I mean, I had a bit of a fever, I guess, but I’ve been sick. And I’m feeling pretty good overall – honestly, I don’t know if I would have noticed that if you hadn’t pointed it out.”
“Okay.” Will lets out a breath. He hates the way he felt so light just a moment ago, and now he feels like he’s falling, falling. He sets the mirror down on his desk, mouth dry. “We should – I’m a little concerned about –”
Will’s trying his best to pull on his bedside manner, but everything feels so raw suddenly, live wires everywhere.
“Hey. Hey.” Nico’s suddenly right there, having turned in his chair to face Will. His brow is creased in concern, in sympathy, and god, Will’s supposed to be the one in charge here.
Will chokes out a sob, presses a hand to his mouth. God, this is embarrassing. “Shit. Sorry. It’s not even – I’m sure you’re fine,” he manages.
“Yeah, you sound really fucking convincing right now,” Nico says, dry.
Will scrubs at his eyes. Tilts his head to the ceiling to try and collect himself. “I don’t even know why I’m – sorry.”
Will nods, throat tight. “I – it’s been a few days. And if you’re feeling fine otherwise, then there’s probably nothing to worry about –”
“We’ll check to make sure.”
“But we’ve got those meetings, and –”
“I can’t go to meetings if I’m dying,” Nico says, wry. “You’re the doctor, they have to listen to you. The Bureau doesn’t want a lawsuit. And you’re gonna come with me, wherever we’re going. So stop worrying.”
“I didn’t even look at your shoulder –” Will says as Nico stands and starts dressing again.
“Later,” Nico tells him. “That was just a little blood. What do we need to do now? An x-ray?”
“Um.” Will reaches for a tissue, blows his nose, trying to force the broken pieces of himself back into place so he can focus on what comes next. It’s really fucking hard, and he grits his teeth against another convulsive sob rising up in his throat. “No. I can order a CT. They’ll get you right in at the clinic at Quantico, but that’s like, an hour drive –”
“It’s not a problem, Will.” Nico finishes buttoning his shirt and tucks it back into his pants, leaving his tie on his desk.
Will closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. A second later Nico’s arm is around his shoulders and god Will melts right into it, turning his head to Nico’s chest. “I’m completely overreacting,” he whispers into Nico’s shirt, throat almost too tight to squeeze the words out.
“Mmm. Like I did at the boathouse?”
Will manages an unhappy squeak.
Nico laughs, but the sound is soft. Affectionate and maybe a little sad. “You’re okay,” he says. “We’re okay, Will.”
Will just nods.
Nico rubs at his shoulder for a moment before pulling away. “What now? Do you need to call ahead to Quantico?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you do that, and I’ll go upstairs and let Reyna know what’s going on.”
::
There’s construction for miles on the I-95, and in the end, the trip to Quantico takes almost two hours. They finally park across from the clinic building, both of them unfolding themselves from Nico’s sedan and stretching in the September sunshine.
“How’re you feeling?” Will asks. He looks a little abashed, like maybe he’s regretting his earlier reaction. Nico can certainly relate.
“I’m good,” he assures Will. “And I don’t mind checking to make sure.”
Will’s mouth quirks. “That doesn’t sound like the Nico I met last year.”
Nico shrugs. “Yeah, well. Times change.” Now, it’s impossible to imagine a universe in which he wouldn’t do this simple thing to stop that muscle jumping in Will’s jaw, the quietly stricken look in his eyes. And it’s probably in Nico’s best interests anyway, to make sure he’s not hours from death or organ failure. So it’s a win-win.
Will leads him through the clinic to the diagnostic imaging department. Everyone here seems to know him, so it takes a little longer than it should, once introductions and explanations are accounted for.
“You can take him right back to get changed and then head to the CT suite when you’re ready,” says a bespectacled young man behind the registration desk.
“Thanks, Yan,” Will smiles. He ushers Nico down a hallway, stopping at a row of curtained change rooms. Will plucks a gown from a pile on a shelf. “You can change into that.”
Nico makes a face, accepting the flimsy, papery garment. “Can I leave my underwear on?”
“Yup. Unless there’s metal in it.”
Nico feels his eyebrows rise of their own accord and Will giggles, turning a little pink.
“I didn’t think to ask,” Will says. “Do you have any piercings?”
Nico snorts, feeling himself go red, too. “No, I don’t have any piercings.”
Will shrugs, grinning. “Gotta check.” His gaze flicks down Nico’s body, quick, there and back again. Then Will smiles wider, stepping back into the hallway, hands behind his back.
With only mild misgivings, Nico steps into the change room, pulling the curtain tight across. He can still see out into the hallway around the edges, but it’s fine. It’s not like Will’s going to look. And it’s not like it would really make any difference to Nico if he did. But god, that would be a really weird thing to do, and why is Nico even thinking about this?
He quickly strips down, leaving his clothes in a messy pile on the bench. He makes the executive decision to keep his socks on, and pulls off his watch as he opens the curtain.
“Can you hold my watch?” He holds it out to Will.
Will nods, solemn. “I can.”
This is the part about subjecting himself to healthcare that Nico hates the most – the terrible helplessness of it. Here he is, practically naked without even his watch or his shoes to sustain him – not to mention that he’s a whole half-inch shorter without them – in a cold, unfamiliar hallway, about to let complete strangers do unspeakable things to his body.
But Will’s hand is warm on his shoulder through the stupid paper gown, and it turns out the CT room is only a few steps away. On top of that, the technologist is genuinely pleasant, and of course Will knows her as well. Moments later, Nico’s lying flat on a very hard surface as he gets sucked into the machine. Okay, not sucked exactly, but it kind of feels like it, and he’s not crazy about enclosed spaces unless it’s an enclosed space he chose to be in.
There’s a stretch of quiet broken by weird, whirring noises. God. What if there really is something wrong with him? He’s been wracking his brain ever since Will noticed the bruises, and he doesn’t have any memory of the paramedics mentioning his lower back, or his kidneys or whatever else might be in there. He can’t actually even remember sustaining any trauma to that part of his body. He was a little busy focusing on not dying at the time, though.
“Nico, can you scootch a little to the right?” asks the voice of the technologist over the speaker – Gracie, Will had said.
There’s not much room to scootch, but Nico does his best. “Is that good?”
“Perfect,” Gracie says.
“You’re doing great, Nico,” says Will’s voice a moment later. “Just relax and try to stay as still as you can.”
Then it’s quiet again, except for all the weird noises the machine is making. Nico clears his throat, starting to feel unreasonably nervous. He doesn’t really think there’s anything wrong with him. But the helplessness of this whole situation is starting to make him twitchy, and as he gazes towards the domed ceiling of the scanner, he’s unpleasantly reminded of his crawl through passageway under the escalator, the awful smell of it, the heart-stopping moments he wasn’t sure whether he’d ever see daylight again.
Nico swallows. “If you guys see something horrible, are you gonna make me wait until I get out to tell me?” he asks into the void.
“It’s all good so far,” Will says, not exactly answering the question. “Should only be another ten minutes or so. Want me to talk you through it?”
Nico swallows down the automatic no, it’s fine. “Yeah, keep talking.”
“Okay. Has anyone ever told you you have a beautiful spleen?” Will says.
Nico bites down a smile. “Yeah, obviously.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve always been proud of my spleen.” Nico closes his eyes, trying his best to focus on the familiar cadence of Will’s voice. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine the sounds of the machine are just highway noise, that it’s just another day in a fleet car on the open road. “What about my liver?”
“It’s gorgeous,” Will says, emphatic. “Hottest liver I’ve seen all year. And I bet you break some hearts with those kidneys.”
Nico manages to stay quiet, but he can’t help the way his body shakes with silent laughter, a giddy cocktail of nerves and the absolute ridiculousness of his partner and this whole situation.
“Don’t make him laugh, Will,” Gracie chides.
“Sorry,” Will giggles. Then, “It doesn’t look like you ate breakfast this morning,” he says accusingly.
Nico rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure he’s allowed to move those. “Yeah, well, I kind of got interrupted before I had a chance.”
::
When it’s all said and done and Nico’s had a chance to put all his own clothes back on, he returns to the CT suite. Will and Gracie are still in the booth, chatting away, Nico’s scans up on the screens in front of them.
“All good?” Nico asks.
Will turns, smiling. “All good.”
“Do you still want me to send the scan over to radiology?” Gracie asks Will. “I don’t see anything to be concerned about, but you’re the boss.”
“Yeah. It looks good to me, too,” Will agrees, “but better safe than sorry.”
“Will do. It was nice to meet you, Nico.” Gracie holds out a hand. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime, in less medical circumstances.”
“Hey, actually – can you print me a copy? Of the scan?” Will asks.
Gracie’s eyebrows rise. “You want the film?”
Nico’s gaze flicks to his partner, confused. Is there something Will’s worried about that he hasn’t mentioned?
“No, just like a paper printout,” Will says, embarrassed. He turns to Nico. “Is that okay? I was gonna stick it up on the bulletin board in the office.”
Nico snorts, hard enough that it hurts his throat, which is still tender from all the coughing he’s done the last few days. “You want a picture of my insides. To put up in the office.”
Will gives him a goofy smile. “Yeah, I kind of thought it fit the whole spooky basement vibe. Gracie can take the demographic information off if you want.”
Nico sighs. “No, leave it on.”
::
“Oh, my watch –” Nico remembers as they return to the car.
“Oh.” Will pushes up his sleeve, unbuckling Nico’s watch from his own wrist. “Didn’t want to lose it,” he grins when Nico raises an eyebrow.
Between traffic and the realization that they’re both ravenous, they quickly determine that they’re not going to make it to their afternoon meeting, either, and Will handles the phone calls while Nico finds them somewhere to eat. Octavian’s going to be out of town until next week, they’re told, so Nico’s apparent good health comes with the added bonus of avoiding that meeting for a few more days.
By the time they get back to DC, it’s half an hour until quitting time. Back in the basement, Will pulls off his jacket and hesitates, surveying the mess of files and forms on his desk. Nico registers that his desk is, predictably, in an even sorrier state. Idly, he wonders if there’s really any point to getting started on anything at this point in the day. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Di Angelo,” he says into the phone. “Oh –” Nico pulls the phone away from his ear, squinting at the screen. “It’s Frank. Apparently we’re texting now.”
Will scoots closer as Nico tries to remember which buttons to press so he can see the whole message. He’s not fast enough, apparently, because suddenly Will’s right there, leaning over and poking at his phone and then exclaiming right next to Nico’s ear, “Oh my god, he says we can come see the puppies. Can we go see the puppies?”
Nico snorts. Will’s face is absolutely lit up at the prospect, so of course there’s only one possible answer.
::
Two hours later, Nico and Hazel are propped against the doorway of Hazel and Frank’s spare room. The scene before them is pretty sweet; Frank cross-legged on the floor and Will flat on his back, the yipping, gamboling puppies everywhere. Two of them are energetically licking Will’s face, one industriously going for his right nostril, and Will’s laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath. Frank turns, shooting Nico a grin over his shoulder.
“Nice to see them all enjoying themselves,” Hazel says.
Nico nods. He suddenly finds himself close to tears, overwhelming emotion rising fast in his chest. “Yeah,” he croaks.
Hazel glances over, brow furrowed.
Nico shakes his head before she can say anything. “No – I’m fine.” He takes a moment to rein everything in, holds still, breathes deep. “Just – I’ve spent the last week terrified he was gonna be murdered any second, and months before that with both of us walking around in a daze,” Nico whispers. He blinks hard, then has to wipe tears from his cheeks anyway.
Nico turns from the doorway, heading back into the living room. Hating the thought of anything marring the absolute joy on Will’s face. Especially him. He drops to the couch, face in his hands as he breathes through it.
Hazel’s hand is on his back a second later. “I wish you’d told us,” she says softly.
“Yeah. I know. I wish I had too. Kind of.” Nico wipes at his face again. “I don’t think I could have, though. It was just – a lot.”
“Sometimes the best you can do is just keep putting one foot in front of the other,” Hazel agrees, quiet.
“Yeah.” Nico takes in another long breath. The sound of high-pitched barks and Will giggling drifts towards the living room, then Frank’s low laughter. Nico wants to keep Will safe in this moment forever, a memory preserved in amber. The peace of it is almost too much to bear.
“I almost don’t know what to do now. You know – with all this extra brain space I have now that I’m not constantly trying to figure out how to keep him from dying,” Nico laughs weakly.
“Well. You’re going on a romantic trip together,” Hazel teases.
Nico rolls his eyes. He leans into her side, tipping his head to his sister’s shoulder.
Hazel takes his hand. “You’ll figure it out,” she says.
::
When he thought he’d be traveling alone, Will had planned to rent a car, but Nico had waved that off immediately, insisting they take his instead. He arrives at Will’s place painfully early on Wednesday morning, looking as alert and bright-eyed as Will’s ever seen him, loose and relaxed in black jeans, leather jacket over his arm. His band tee – Nirvana this time – fits him almost as snugly as the Ramones one, hugging the curve of his biceps in a way that manages to be extra distracting in the pre-dawn light – so it’s probably a good thing Will’s not driving.
Nico, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have any difficulty dividing his attention between navigating freeway exchanges and teasing Will relentlessly for his untamed bedhead and repetitive yawning. Finally, Nico pulls into a Caribou Coffee and puts Will out of his misery.
They arrive at the festival site just as the sun’s setting, dump their lawn chairs in the main seating area and weave their way up to the side of the stage where a mass of festival-goers are swaying and dancing.
Tooms’ death seems to have shaken something loose in Nico, Will thinks. Today, especially, he keeps noticing it over and over, and it makes his heart swell every time. Nico’s smiling more. He doesn’t dance during Naomi’s set, but he definitely sways. Each time Will catches sight of him out of the corner of his eye, Nico looks so goddamn content.
Nico’s dark hair in flashes of spotlight from the stage, his fond gaze over the campfire. His beautiful face bathed in the orange light shining through the cheap tent Will borrowed from Kayla’s girlfriend – Will can’t get enough. He wants to collect every sweet moment in his hands and cradle them against his heart.
They don’t cuddle exactly, but more than once Will wakes in the tent to Nico’s face pressed into his shoulder, Nico’s warm hand in his. They don’t talk about it, but when Nico wakes too, he doesn’t bother to move away. Will thinks his chest might burst with happiness. He’s never felt so enamored with anyone, or anything.
Will’s heart throbs with wanting more, but he’s so very reluctant to upset what they have right in this moment. Especially now, after everything.
:::
“Have you still been having nightmares?” Nico asks. They’re both a couple of beers in on their second night, a small campfire crackling cozily before them, faint sounds of laughter and chatter from other festival-goers crunching up the dirt trail to their own campsites.
Nico had thought about asking about the nightmares this morning, when they’d woken hand in hand. But he’d had a funny feeling that hadn’t had anything to do with nightmares, and that it might not have been Will’s doing at all. Anyway, it seems like an easier conversation to have now, in the dark, pleasantly tired and a little buzzed.
Will’s flat on his back, arms behind his head, the picture of relaxation. God, it’s good to see.
He turns his head to meet Nico’s eye, his smile soft and a little secretive, maybe. “Nope. You rescued me.”
Nico lets out a laugh, surprised. “Yeah? How – how does that work?” He’s mentally scanning over all the possible ways that could be interpreted. Most of them make the fluttering in his stomach pretty justified.
“It’s – you’re gonna think it’s stupid,” Will says, looking like he’s reconsidering, now. “I – the last time I had that dream, about Tooms – it was when I stayed over at your place. After he got – escalatored.”
Nico snorts.
Will beams up at him, clearly more buzzed than Nico is. Adorable.
“The dream started the same way as always. He came into my apartment. He was coming toward me, in my bedroom. But then you showed up and you – basically told him to get lost. And he did.”
“Yeah? That’s all it took?”
Will shrugs, grinning. “Apparently. No nightmares since then.”
“Don’t know why I didn’t think of that months ago,” Nico says.
“I know, right?”
Nico’s sitting so close, and he knows Will won’t mind. He reaches out, brushes his fingers over Will’s curls, and feels so fucking grateful for the way heat sparks up his arm, right to his chest. Feels so fucking grateful that they’re both here, alive. That Will hasn’t dropped his gaze. His smile’s just gone a little softer, maybe.
“So, you’re my hero,” Will says simply.
Nico swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. “You’re – mine too,” he manages. God, that was a stupid thing to say. But Will started it. Or maybe Nico did, by bringing up the nightmares in the first place.
Will just watches him for a moment longer, smiling. Finally, he sighs.
“I’m about two minutes from passing out,” Will says, hauling himself up. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth.” A little more uncoordinated than usual, Will crawls into the tent, emerging a moment later with his toiletry bag.
“I think I’ll sit out here a while longer,” Nico says. “Maybe have one more beer.”
“‘Kay.”
“Do you need a chaperone?” Nico asks, as Will hesitates, gazing off in one direction and then turning and taking a few steps in another.
He doesn’t, after all. Nico gets him pointed the right way and then settles in front of the fire again, opening the cooler in search of another beer. Will’s back ten minutes later, looking a little abashed.
Nico quirks an eyebrow.
“Some kids had to show me how to get back,” Will admits.
“Pathetic.” Nico shakes his head.
Will just grins. As he passes by, he brushes a hand over the top of Nico’s head.
Nico closes his eyes at the touch, keeps them closed until he hears the tent zipping shut and Will shuffling around inside. He lets out a long breath, still feeling the ghost of Will’s touch on his hair. And for the first time in months, he thinks it’s enough.
::
Will arranges to meet up with his mom on the third evening, dinner at the food trucks.
He worries over it all day, sitting with Nico in the sunshine with the music drifting over them. Does he ask Nico to come along? Does he just go on his own and pretend it doesn’t matter either way? He and Nico are friends, he reminds himself sternly. Co-workers and really good friends – good enough to be, essentially, taking a vacation together. In that scenario, of course it would make sense for Nico to meet his mom.
A second factor, not exactly relevant to this inner turmoil but certainly tangled up in it, is that on this, an unseasonably hot September day, Nico is wearing shorts. And a tank top. And ever since Nico emerged from the tent after getting dressed this morning, Will’s been finding it really fucking difficult to focus on anything but the overwhelming amount of skin available to his gaze.
As the last workshop of the afternoon draws to a close and they begin to fold up their chairs, Nico asks, “what time are we meeting your mom?” and Will rolls his eyes at himself as hard as he can.
::
There’s no way around the fact that Will’s really fucking nervous for the two to meet. But Naomi brightens when she catches sight of him, wrapping him in a tight hug before pulling back and exclaiming, “You must be Nico!” and embracing Nico just as enthusiastically.
And it’s fine. Comfortable, even. Nico is always happy to talk about music, and the conversation flows naturally, the three of them discussing the performers they’ve seen, Nico showing off the CDs he bought at the music tent, Will joking about being forced to listen to angry music all the way back to DC.
“A little angry music will do you good, sweetie,” Naomi tells Will, patting his arm, and Will shoots her a look of utter betrayal while Nico laughs.
The three part ways briefly, just long enough to find something to eat. Will’s the first one back at the picnic table. He catches sight of his mother through the crowd, holding her falafel and looking lost, and he stands to wave her over. Naomi settles across from him a moment later.
“Ooh, that looks good,” she says, eyeing Will’s dinner. “What is it?”
Will laughs. “I’m not entirely sure. It’s Indonesian. Beans and lentils, I think? It smelled really good, and it seemed to be what everyone else was ordering. It’s spicy,” he adds with a hearty sniff. He’s pretty sure his sinuses will be clear for the next week.
Then Will’s eyes flick up, automatic, like he sensed that Nico was approaching the table, even as startling as it still is to see the bare legs and arms.
“Hey,” Will grins as Nico drops down next to him. “What did you get?”
“A burger.”
“Just like, a plain burger?” Will teases. “There’s a whole universe of new foods to try, Nico.”
“It does have these little fried onion things,” Nico says, pulling one off and holding it up for Will’s inspection.
Will nods. “Nice. Adventurous.”
Nico rolls his eyes. Will plucks the little piece of onion from Nico’s fingers and pops it into his mouth.
“It’s good. Very exotic,” Will agrees.
“Fine, what did you get, Mr. World Flavors?” Nico asks, eyeing Will’s plate.
“I don’t know,” Will says, serene. “Here, try it.” He scoops up a forkful of lentils and holds it out expectantly.
Nico huffs, but opens his mouth and allows Will to feed him. He looks more and more alarmed the longer he chews.
“Jesus Christ, Solace,” Nico says finally, eyes watering. He fumbles for his bottle of water, draining half of it. “That’s – why would you – how are you going to eat that? The last time I bought mild salsa, you complained it was too spicy.”
Will giggles. Across the table, his mother snorts. Will feels his cheeks warming. For a second, he’d almost forgotten they had company. He turns back to his plate. Though, privately, he thinks Nico’s probably right. He has no idea how he’s going to finish his meal without spontaneously combusting.
The conversation around the table continues to flow naturally – Naomi’s upcoming tour, the last music festival Nico attended. Will’s not sure what he was worried about. Not only that, his mother seems to like Nico. It surprises him, how much of a relief that is.
Ten minutes into his meal, Will’s unfortunately eaten all the bread that accompanied the lentils. He’s polished off his Coke, and has been not-so-sneakily taking sips of Nico’s water while Nico’s busy talking. Nico shoots him a look, then stands.
“Where are you going?” Will asks.
“I’m getting us something else to drink.”
Naomi clears her throat. “See if you can find him something milk-based. It’ll cut the spice.”
“Ooh, a milkshake?” Will says hopefully.
Nico just shakes his head, amused. “That’s not very exotic, Solace. What happened to your sense of adventure?” He disappears into the crowd, Will’s eyes following him until he loses sight of Nico’s dark head. Will turns back to his curry, taking the smallest possible forkful. The trouble is, it’s really fucking good, except for the fact that it feels as if his whole head is on fire. He sniffs.
When Will glances up at his mom, there’s something expectant on her face. Will raises his eyebrows.
“Anything you want to tell me?” Naomi asks. “Anything at all?”
“I – have no spice tolerance?” Will asks. “You already knew that.” He takes another, very tiny bite of lentils. The burning in his mouth seems to be concentrated mostly at the back of his tongue. Maybe if he can just… eat with the front of his mouth.
Naomi’s eyes flick to where Nico disappeared into the crowd. Will follows her gaze. Regretfully, the line at the ice cream place seems to be one of the longer ones. Naomi leans forward over the table.
“That boy looks at you like you hung the moon,” she says.
Will’s already sweating from the spice, but now his face heats up, too. Or it heats more.
“And you look at him more or less the same way,” Naomi leans back, a little smug.
Will swallows. He steals one of the fries off Nico’s plate, playing for time. “We’re – he – we’re not together, Mom. Not like that.”
“Hmm,” Naomi says, thoughtful. “Why not?”
“I don’t… it’s – complicated.” Will sighs.
Naomi reaches for his hand. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be, sweetie.”
Will glances back towards the ice cream truck. He thinks he can just make out the blur that is Nico – dark hair, pale arms. “Maybe not. Maybe – I don’t know. It feels – less complicated. Lately,” he decides. Not that he’s even sure what that means. There’s a ring of truth to the words, though, when he hears himself say them. Something’s changing. And if all that is is that they become a better and better team, well. So be it. There are other ways to be close. He’s awfully content with most of the aspects of their relationship.
Is it less complicated, when it feels as if they’re closer than ever? When they can sleep close enough to feel the other’s warmth? When they can wake hand in hand before going about their day? Maybe it wouldn’t look less complicated, to an outsider. Will knows better, though.
“We work really well together,” he says, softer, more sure about this. “I love my job. I love our work together. And he’s a really good friend.” Will shrugs. “I think that’s enough, for now.”
Naomi’s gaze is soft. “Maybe it is. I’m happy you’re happy, baby.”
Will nods. “Thanks, Mom. Me too.” Will’s eyes burn a little, not from the spice this time. Naomi squeezes his hand, then releases it, reaching for her falafel. Her blessedly unspicy falafel. God, Will’s so jealous.
“Wanna tell me about work?” Naomi asks.
::
The line at the ice cream place is the longest fucking line out of any of the food trucks, Nico realizes dejectedly, as he takes his place at the end of it. It’s almost twenty minutes before he makes it through, then weaves his way back through the crowd, a milkshake in each hand.
Will and his mom are right where he left them – but Nico’s heart sinks when he sees Will wiping away tears as he approaches the picnic table. Will’s mom is holding his hand, which leads Nico to deduce that these probably aren’t spice-related tears, this time.
Will glances over with a watery half-smile as Nico sits down.
“Are you crying because I took so long with the ice cream?” Nico asks, passing one of the shakes over.
Will’s laugh is wet and surprised and beautiful. “No. I was telling my mom about Nolan Campbell."
Nico blinks, wracking his brain. “Oh, the –”
“The 1939 victim. The one whose mom I spoke to, back in April,” Will says.
“Right, of course.” It’s a little easier now, taking about Tooms. Not that they’ve talked about it, really. Nothing except for the basics, the facts. The information required to write their reports, wrap everything up. But even just that feels far less fraught than it did even a week ago.
Nico’s not sure why there’s still a nudging in the back of his mind, that they should actually talk-talk. But at least now he’s not feeling a weight on his chest every time the matter comes up. Not feeling the weight of Will’s life in his hands.
“I called his mom again the day before we left to drive down here,” Will explains.
“Oh. You didn’t mention –”
“I know,” Will says. “I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret or anything – we just had so many other things going on.”
It’s true. Tuesday was packed full of paperwork and other administrative tasks, more forms than Nico thinks he’s ever completed in his entire life.
“His mom was really emotional when I told her what had happened – that Tooms was dead. And so of course I was, too,” Will says, self-deprecating.
“You’ve always been a big softie,” Naomi says. There’s affection in every word. “I’m sure she appreciated it, anyway.”
Will breathes out a laugh. “Yeah. Hopefully it’s good for something. I know it was an awfully complicated case, and I’m not sure if she really followed all the details. But she was really happy. Really relieved, even after all that time. I felt like we’d help lift a burden she’d been carrying for decades. It felt – really good. Really freeing. For me, too.” Will’s face is streaked with tears, but there’s something peaceful under it all. Settled. Nico knows it well; the grounding feeling of a case being put to rest, a mystery solved, mostly.
Nico kind of wants to hug Will, properly. But his mom is right there, and it all feels a bit too exposed. He tilts sideways, instead, bumping his shoulder into Will’s. Will bumps back, no hesitation.
“You did good,” Nico says, sincere.
“We both did,” Will agrees, his voice breaking as a few more tears spill over. He laughs, scrubbing at his face again. “Pretty sure I’m developing a reputation as the FBI’s biggest crybaby.”
And Nico knows he’s joking, but the words hit him particularly hard, certainly harder than Will meant.
“The world needs more compassion, Will,” Nico says. He can hear that he sounds too serious, too earnest. Certainly, for their current mixed company. But there’s not much he can do about that. “You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be,” he tells Will with a squeeze to his arm.
Nico’s face is uncomfortably warm now. That’s no surprise. What does confuse him is the way Will’s eyebrows rise, the way he glances to his mother, who looks equally surprised.
Shit. What did Nico say wrong? He mentally scans over the words he just spit out. “What?” he asks.
Naomi shakes her head. “That’s exactly what I used to say to Will, when he was growing up. You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.” Naomi’s blue eyes are bright with tears now, too. Amazing. Nico has the very special skill of making the whole family cry. Just what he always wanted.
“It’s still true,” Naomi reaches over to squeeze Nico’s hand. “I’m glad Will has someone else around to remind him.”
::
At the end of their last evening at the festival, Will and Nico follow the throng of campers, alternately sleepy and celebratory, back to the campground. Nico’s feeling relaxed, still buzzing pleasantly from the peace of the music drifting over them in the darkness, a wool blanket pulled over both of them as the air cooled into evening.
“Are you tired?” Will asks.
“Not really. You?”
Will grins. “Not now. I caught a nap during the second set.”
Nico rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed. There was a group of literal toddlers dancing next to us, and you were completely passed out.”
Will giggles. “Only so I could stay up later. I think there’s still some beer in the cooler. You wanna make a campfire?”
It’s perfect campfire weather, cool enough that the heat from the little blaze is welcome on their hands and faces. For the last four days, Will’s been lamenting that they didn’t bring ingredients for s’mores. When Nico told him, last night, next time, Will gazed at him for a long moment before looking down at his lap, smiling. Nico had hid his own face in his beer, a sudden flash in his mind; Will, laughing eyes, a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth.
“My mom really liked you,” Will says. He’s stretched out on the blanket in front of the fire, eyes cast up to the heavens, Nico cross-legged and stocking-footed next to him.
“Well,” Nico shrugs. He swallows, makes a concerted effort not to sound as relieved as he feels. “Moms always like me. I’m universally adored by moms, actually.”
Will gazes up at him, grinning. The firelight is reflected in Will’s eyes, flickering. “Yeah? Which moms?”
“All the moms,” Nico says. He reaches down to tap Will’s freckled nose. “I – really liked her too,” he adds after a moment. It was odd, in a way, seeing so many of those things he’s come to think of as exactly Will, reflected perfectly in someone else. Naomi’s accent had been stronger than Will’s, and the longer they spoke, the more Will’s drawl started to sneak out, too. Nico hadn’t said a word about it, knowing full well it would make Will self-conscious. He’d just sat there, letting the softened consonants and long vowels drift over him, peaceful.
Nico had been incredibly nervous, for whatever that says about him. But he’d wanted to meet Naomi, of course. And it had turned out that she was just as easy to talk to as her son.
“I’m glad,” Will says, soft.
“And she was right, you know. What she said about you.”
Will smiles, turning his head so it rests against Nico’s foot. “Yeah? That I’m a big softie?”
“No, that you should listen to more angry music,” Nico says, serious.
Will twists around, wrapping a hand around Nico’s ankle and tickling his foot until Nico squirms, gasping with laughter and almost kicking Will in the face.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Will says, turning on his side to face the fire, nudging up against Nico’s foot again. Nico pokes him with his toe.
There’s been an awful lot of touching on this trip. Maybe it can’t be helped. They’re sharing a fairly small tent, after all. And it’s not as if Nico can control where he ends up when he’s sleeping. Will’s always warm, and he smells really good. Surely no one could blame Nico for gravitating to that while he's unconscious.
Then this afternoon, sitting at a blues workshop in the sunshine, the two of them stretched out in the grass – Will had set his straw hat over his face and laid his head on Nico’s shin, causing Nico to spend the whole hour of performance focused on the heat of Will’s neck against his leg.
Later, as night fell in front of the main stage and the evening grew chillier, Will had pulled his blanket over both of them, nudged his chair close enough that they were shoulder to shoulder, warm in the dark. And after half an hour of stomach-churning indecision, Nico had finally dropped his head to Will’s shoulder, and Will had hummed and tipped his head to Nico’s, both of them staying that way until they sat up to applaud again.
Maybe it’s just that the two of them like to be close. There’s nothing really wrong with that. It’s reassuring, settling all the little sparking bits inside Nico, all the raw and ragged nerves that haven’t quite recovered yet. Don’t they both deserve that, after all they’ve been through?
Nico gazes into the fire for a long moment, Will’s neck warm against his foot. This whole trip has been incredible. Restorative. A little oasis in all the chaos and worry that they’ve both been through, lately. He supposes he might as well be the one to fuck things up.
“I think we should – talk,” Nico says. His voice is soft under the crackle of the fire, and for a second he hopes that Will won’t hear him.
But Will immediately pushes himself up, looking apprehensive. “Uh oh,” he says.
Nico shakes his head. “No. Not uh oh. Just – I’ve been thinking. Um. For a while, maybe, but more lately…” he looks at Will, helpless, like maybe Will might just psychically know what he means.
But Will’s eyebrows are just rising higher and higher, all the softness gone from his posture.
And so Nico does his best to just spit it out, because the goal here wasn’t to make Will look like that. “I – I want to talk about the Tooms case. Or – honestly, I don’t want to talk about it. But I think we should.”
“Oh.” Will’s expression smooths into something less tense. Still guarded, though. Cautious. “Okay.”
Nico’s tried to piece his thoughts together over the last few months. Tried to get a handle on the facts and his emotions, so that maybe he can do this somewhat coherently.
“I’ve had hard cases before,” Nico says. Keeping his eyes on Will’s face feels like too much, and he turns to the fire instead. “And, you know. Sometimes it takes a while. To feel… normal again, afterward. I’ve never gone through that kind of thing with someone, though. And –” Nico’s throat goes tight. “Last month, after the Boggs case. You said something like, you want to keep doing this work, but you have to take care of yourself, in order to do that. So, I’ve been thinking, maybe we have to take care of us, too. To be able to keep doing this work together. And maybe – maybe that means we need to – talk. About the case.”
Nico swallows. Wasn’t talking about his feelings supposed to make him feel better? All he feels so far is nervous, and extremely exposed.
“Yeah. I’m sure you’re right,” Will says slowly. “I – I think you did try to talk to me about it, a couple of times. In the spring. And I kind of blew you off.”
“Yeah, you did,” Nico says, unable to keep all the hurt out of his voice the way he intended to.
Will looks over. “I’m sorry. It just felt – like too much. It was too big.”
“Is it okay to talk now?” Nico asks. His heart is pounding in his throat, but he wants to get through this. So maybe they can finally move past it. “Or – if you don’t feel like you can talk about it, if you could at least listen?” Nico is fervently wishing he’d had another beer before starting on this topic. But what’s done is done.
“Of course we can talk,” Will says.
“That was the hardest case of my life,” Nico says, jumping in almost before Will’s finished speaking. “When you were missing – I think those might have been the worst hours of my life. And there’s some stiff competition.” Nico’s voice breaks and his eyes blur with tears, but he just keeps going, the words spilling over. “For 26 hours, I thought you were dead. I felt like I was, too. I didn’t think I would remember how to do this without you. I didn’t want to.”
Will’s gone very still. “Okay, I see why you didn’t want to do this sober,” he whispers.
“And we – god, I was such an asshole –”
“Nico –”
“It was such a stupid fight. And all those hours – I couldn’t stand to think that that was the last time I’d ever see you. The last time I’d ever speak to you.” The tears are flowing freely now, smearing the flickering light of the fire, the mop of blond curls in Nico’s periphery. “And yeah, we’d disagreed on how to handle the case, but I took it way too far. I made it personal. I was – jealous.”
Will’s warm hand squeezes Nico’s shoulder, slides down to cup his elbow. “Nico – I know. It’s okay. I don’t need a confession from you. Or an apology.”
“I think I just need to say it,” Nico croaks.
“Yeah. Of course.” Will’s hand drops from Nico’s arm, but he shifts closer so their legs are brushing, cupping Nico’s foot with one hand. It’s a warm reassurance, like always, and Nico feels himself relax a little.
“When I got that call that Tooms was being released – I thought I was going to lose my mind,” Nico says. “All I could think of was keeping you safe. Because I should have learned from the first time, right? But I still felt like I was grasping at straws. Like – like you’d slip away if I took my eyes off you. I was having panic attacks. There were some nights I didn’t sleep at all. I – I worried that if I ever came face to face with Tooms again that I might just kill him with my bare hands. I’ve never felt that way about a suspect before. I tried to talk myself out of it, but – it didn’t feel like there was any other option. I couldn’t make myself feel any guilt about it. Regardless of what the consequences might be.”
Will lets out a breath. “Is it stupid to say I wish you’d told me? I know I wasn’t exactly opening up about it either.”
Nico can feel the panic rising in his chest again, just thinking about it. It feels as if all the words he’s just dumped out between them are hanging there, thick in the air. Choking. Will’s thumb rubs against the sole of his foot, and Nico tries to focus on the sensation. On Will’s knee pressed to his.
“I guess I thought things would just get better with time, after April,” Will says, quiet, “and they did, eventually.”
The words themselves aren’t soothing, exactly, but Will’s voice always is, and Nico takes a deep breath, concentrating on the sound of it.
“I was still a mess some days, but I – I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle things,” Will says. “That I wasn’t tough enough. I worried that you wouldn’t want me working with you anymore, if we talked about everything and you discovered what a wreck I really was.”
“I would never think that,” Nico says, fervent, turning to face Will.
Will gives him a soft smile. “I know. I definitely know that now.” Will’s free hand rises, hesitant, cups Nico’s cheek for a second before dropping again. “I think I knew it back then, too. On some level. But you just seemed to be moving on, handling things…”
Nico swallows, cheek still tingling from Will’s touch. “I wasn’t handling things. I did what I always do, which is just to – keep going.”
The fire crackles and spits, shooting a few bright embers skyward. They both lift their gazes to watch the bright little sparks disappear into the dark air above.
“We all have our coping strategies, right?” Will says. “Some are more effective than others.” He keeps his gaze turned upwards for a moment, then takes a breath like he’s steeling himself.
“I’m gonna say something – I think it’ll make you feel worse, and that’s really not my intent. But if we’re trying to be open with each other…” Will looks down, tense. His hand is still resting on Nico’s foot, and that helps Nico’s pounding heart a little.
“When we were arguing,” Will says, “you said something like – you thought I’d be happier going to work upstairs.”
Nico’s heart sinks. “Will –”
Will shakes his head. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it, and I forgave you for it months ago. But – you know how those little things stick with you, sometimes? That really stuck with me. And it really hurt. And I don’t want to work upstairs, or anywhere else.” Will’s voice goes thin at the end, and he sniffs.
Nico swallows, forcing himself to sit with this. “Thank you for telling me. And – I know you know I’m sorry. But I’m sorry.”
“I know,” Will whispers.
“Okay. Good.”
The fire’s beginning to burn lower now, dying down to embers. Sounds from other campsites carry through the trees – singing, laughter – but it’s getting late, and those sounds are fading, too. Nico wipes the last few tears from his cheeks. He feels more settled now, like maybe this was actually a good idea. Talking. And maybe it’ll be easier next time. He’s going to try to force himself to do it either way.
“I was scared you’d want to leave,” Nico says as evenly as he can. His hand only shakes a little when he reaches for his beer. “I think that’s where that came from. When I said you’d be happier upstairs. And then, after everything that happened to you – I was even more scared. Because why would you want to stay, after all that? Not only did you almost die, but I had let you down so badly.”
When he thinks back to their argument – god. It felt so raw. He felt so stupidly hurt. Everything laid bare, like a childhood fight with a best friend, long before his adult brain had built up coping strategies or emotional regulation. He hadn’t felt as if he was capable of anything reasonable or measured. And then Will had gone missing, and any chance of remembering any coping skills went right out the window.
“I’m not leaving. I didn’t want to then, and I don’t now.” Will’s words are soft and sure in a way that makes Nico want to crawl right into Will’s lap, bury his face in Will’s shoulder.
He doesn’t crawl into Will’s lap – though he has an inkling that Will wouldn’t actually object. Instead, he just whispers, “good,” around the lump in his throat. His eyes fill with tears again, blurring the orange of the dying fire in front of them.
“Basement bros,” Will says, solemn, and he holds out his fist for Nico to bump.
Nico snorts and then bursts into tears, because Will is an idiot, and Nico is probably in love with him.
A second later, there’s a warm arm around him, Will giggling. “I thought you’d like that. Basement bros? No? Is that why you’re crying?”
Nico makes a wet sound of protest.
“Are you sure you don’t like it? Because I already ordered t-shirts and mouse pads.”
“You’re such a nerd,” Nico manages to choke out, and Will laughs, pulling Nico into a sideways hug that smells like campfire and sunshine.
Will gives Nico a tight squeeze before loosening his grip, shifting so he’s facing Nico head-on, mostly. He brushes tears from Nico’s cheeks, his gaze fond. Nico thinks he should probably find it in himself to be embarrassed. He doesn’t.
“Are we okay now?” Will asks.
“Yeah.” Nico clears his throat. “We should probably do this again. Talking, I mean. But next time we should do it before I get to the point of a nervous breakdown.”
Will nods, his gaze lingering. “Deal,” he says. He hesitates, then his hand rises and he brushes his thumb carefully over Nico’s bottom lip, index finger a light pressure at Nico’s chin. Nico’s pretty sure his head almost bursts into flames.
“We should probably put the fire out,” Will says, and it takes Nico a full ten seconds to realize that Will means the campfire, and not whatever’s going on internally for Nico.
They do, and then ready themselves for sleep, trudging to the bathroom together, brushing teeth and changing into pajamas. It’s chillier now, the coldest night since they’ve been here, stars glittering in the dark sky overhead. Nico shivers under Will’s blue hoodie – the one he’s been wearing since midway through the main stage show. The one Will wordlessly passed over the second he noticed Nico shivering.
They snuggle down into sleeping bags, Nico flicking off the flashlight once they’re settled.
“G’night,” Will yawns.
“Night.”
Then, a moment later. “Get your body heat over here, di Angelo,” Will says, and Nico finds his sleeping bag being dragged across the tent, the nylon sleeping bag sliding easily.
Nico squeaks. Will giggles, wiggling himself into place until they’re back to back, a gentle pressure. Will hums contentedly.
And Nico’s honestly not sure how much body heat is being conducted through the two layers of sleeping bag. But it’s a pretty nice arrangement regardless.
::
“Hey, I was hoping I’d catch you.”
Will nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of Annabeth’s voice, something he definitely wasn’t expecting in the usually-empty basement hallway – especially so early in the morning.
”Oh shit, sorry.” Annabeth rushes closer to help Will with the bag and the paper coffee cup he’s just fumbled.
“No, it’s okay,” Will laughs, just managing not to drop the coffee. That would have been a tragedy. He waits, catching his breath, as Annabeth retrieves his keys for him, which he’s somehow chucked several yards down the hall.
“Thanks,” Will says, accepting them when Annabeth returns. “Guess I’m still a little jumpy.”
“You’re entitled. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Annabeth follows Will into the office, watching as he flicks on the flickering overhead fluorescents – just long enough to move around the office, clicking on the collection of desk lamps instead before turning the overheads off again.
“You’re here early,” Will remarks, setting his things down at his desk.
“Yeah, I’m getting pulled out to a case in Morgantown.” Annabeth says, settling herself in Nico’s chair. She looks relaxed, Will thinks, like she’s probably gotten a few good nights of sleep. It’s well-deserved.
Will raises an eyebrow. “Anything spooky happening in Morgantown?”
Annabeth’s lips quirk. “Sadly, no. But I’ll keep you in the loop if anything changes.”
“It’s always appreciated,” Will says, solemn.
Annabeth’s smile goes a bit fonder. “How are you guys doing after all this? I’ve been thinking of you both.”
Will nods, sinking further into his chair with the weight of it all. He thinks the air in here feels different, sounds different after a few days away. It actually feels odd to be here in the office without the exhaustion, the stress. The buzz of Nico’s anxiety tangible next to him.
“Yeah, it’s – much better.“ Will shakes his head. “God, it’s so good to have that case over with. I’ve slept so much in the last week it’s kind of embarrassing.”
Annabeth nods. “I’m sure you needed it. I think you two have been running on pure adrenaline. I hope Nico’s gotten some rest too.”
“He’s – yeah. He’s in much better spirits.” Will’s mind flashes back to yesterday, their last morning waking in the tent together, his nose cold in the chilly morning air, Nico’s breath a steady rhythm on the back of his neck, the line of Nico’s body pressed lightly to his.
“Anyway," Will says, "we’ve got post-mortems and more paperwork today, and then hopefully we can finally put this all behind us. As long as we don’t both get fired, that is.” Will’s stomach lurches unpleasantly. He’s been trying not to actively worry about the meeting with Octavian this morning, instead setting out the case details in his head, thinking logically about it, identifying any actions that they might be called to account for. He’s not really worried they’ll be fired. But he’s also sure the meeting hasn’t been called just so Octavian can tell them how happy he is with their work. That's not really his style.
Annabeth frowns. “You’re not going to be fired. You and Nico made the best of a very unfortunate, extremely stressful situation. You closed the case, tracked down the perpetrator and you did it quickly and while severely understaffed.”
“I hope we can convince Octavian to see it that way,” Will says. “And anyway, we did all that, Annabeth. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Annabeth makes a dismissive gesture. “I was just along for the ride. Getting to watch two of the FBI’s greats in action.”
Will laughs, loud.
Annabeth smiles. “And on that note…” She turns to the stack of papers she’s balanced on Nico’s desk. It only takes a moment before she extracts a sheaf of neat, typewritten notes, passing it over to Will. “I know I wasn’t invited to the meetings today, but here’s my contribution.”
“Oh – Annabeth. This is – thank you,” Will feels himself tearing up as he flips through the pages – the entire case in summary, itemized bullet points, dates and times, everything cross-referenced. Contact numbers for everyone they’ve spoken to over the course of the entire investigation.
“I know you’ve got your own notes –” Annabeth begins.
“No – I mean, yeah, we do,” Will says, thinking to his own scribbled notebook pages, Nico’s very abbreviated chart notes, only mostly intelligible to Will because he’s spent the last year deciphering them, “but this is – extremely thorough. Seriously, thank you so much.”
Annabeth shrugs. “It’s the least I could do.” She passes over two more sheets of paper, these typed on Bureau letterhead. “I wrote a letter to Octavian, too – I made copies for you and Nico, and I copied Reyna, just reiterating that the entire investigation was run expertly and efficiently and how much I valued the opportunity to be involved. I thought Octavian might need a reminder that the Bureau is very fortunate to have you both.”
“Oh – Annabeth.” Will’s voice breaks, and the tears spill over. God. Everything still feels so close to the surface right now. He’s happy, so overwhelmed with relief in some moments that he’s positively floating on it – but despite that, there’s the lingering sensation that someone scooped his heart from his chest, wrung it out, and then shoved it back in, everything patched up haphazardly. Annabeth reaches out to pat his knee as Will wipes at his cheeks.
The office door creaks open.
“Morning – oh.” Nico’s face falls and he stops in his tracks, the door falling shut behind him.
Will shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. Annabeth was just – being her usual incredible self and I decided to be an emotional mess about it.”
“That’s a completely reasonable reaction, then,” Nico says, hanging his jacket and coming over to sit on the edge of Will’s desk.
“Look.” Will passes Nico the letters, all the case notes. There’s a flash of something over Nico’s face – enough to let Will know that his partner is in much the same state, even if he’s not actually going to be a big baby about it.
“This is – thank you,” Nico tells Annabeth, so earnest Will has to blink back even more tears. “We couldn’t have asked for a better agent to help us with this case. We’re both so grateful, Annabeth.”
Annabeth shakes her head fondly. “You know, I think I’ve gotten more appreciation from the two of you over the last week than two years working in Violent Crimes.”
Will makes one more swipe at his eyes. “Just say the word and we’ll write you a letter, telling Violent Crimes that they should appreciate you more. We could do a whole seminar. Nico will even bring the slide projector.”
“I’ll keep that in my back pocket,” Annabeth grins. “And there is one more thing before I head out. This is a little more…” She makes a face. “Well, I’ll tell you, and you can see what you think.” Annabeth flips through the papers in her lap, finally extracting a document – official-looking, a printed table, rows of numbers and text. She passes it to Will.
“Johns Hopkins… record of genetic testing –” Nico reads, frowning over Will’s shoulder.
“It’s for Eugene Tooms,” Will says, tapping the little box with the identifying information at the top of the printout. “I didn’t realize – did they do genetic testing as a part of the autopsy? That’s a really quick turnaround. And there wasn’t a whole lot of him left to examine…” When Will glances at Annabeth, there’s something grim in the set of her mouth.
“Look at the date,” she says.
Nico finds it first, leaning in closer. “May 25th, 1999,” he reads. “This is from four months ago. Why – how are we only seeing this now? Was this in Tooms’ file at the sanitarium? And what –”
“It actually wasn’t in the file at the sanitarium,” Annabeth says. “I went back there to have one more look through the documentation when I was writing up my case notes – and I found the requisitions for all the testing they did when Tooms was admitted – and they did a lot of testing. But when I started cross-referencing requisitions with test results, there were reports for everything except the genetic testing.”
“Oh. That’s – odd,” Will says, trying to make sense of this. He glances to Nico, who looks equally nonplussed.
Annabeth takes a breath. “So, my initial assumption was that the test results somehow hadn’t made it into the chart – you know, human error. Things get lost, things get misfiled. I called the lab at Johns Hopkins and asked them to re-fax the results. And while I was waiting, I asked one of the nurses about Tooms. She just happened to be the one who had filed the results from the genetic testing, and she insisted she remembered reading the report and putting it into Tooms’ chart. She even remembered details from the report – which honestly made sense, because it was unusual. And memorable.” Annabeth inclines her head at the paper now held loosely in Will’s hand.
“Yeah. It’s – very strange,” Will says slowly.
“What does it say?” Nico asks, peering closer. “Results are positive for pathogenic variants in FBN1, FBN2 and FBN3 – what does that mean?”
“It means the testing revealed mutations in all three of the genes that encode fibrillin,” Annabeth says, glancing at Will.
Will nods. “Yeah. It’s – unheard of, as far as I know. It makes sense, though. And it sure would have been nice to have known that four months ago.”
“Sorry, what’s fibrillin?” Nico cuts in.
“It’s a glycoprotein,” Will says. “It basically helps connective tissue to – stretch.”
“Fuck. Of course,” Nico says.
“The most common manifestation of fibrillinopathy is Marfan Syndrome,” Will continues, “where there’s a mutation of FBN1 – and it results in loosened connective tissue. But for all three fibrillin genes to be mutated – I don’t know if that’s ever been observed before.”
“I don’t think it has.” Annabeth says, something reluctant in her expression. “This all seemed so strange to me that I called Johns Hopkins again, and I was able to speak to the geneticist who interpreted the test results. She remembered the testing as soon as I mentioned Tooms’ name, and she was very eager to talk about it. She said she’d been in contact with the doctor at the sanitarium – the results were so unusual that she was interested in conducting further investigation and writing up a case study.”
“Yeah, of course,” Will says. “And so –” he glances at the pile of papers in Annabeth’s lap, expecting to see further reports.
“And so,” Annabeth says, “because of Tooms’ rather unique situation, no further testing could be authorized without clearance from the Bureau.” She pauses, glancing between Will and Nico. “And unfortunately, the agent who was contacted at the Bureau denied the request.”
“Who?” Nico asks immediately. “Who denied it?”
Will feels his stomach sinking. He’s already silently reached the same conclusion that Nico probably has. The lead agent on the case in April. The one who completely dismissed every bit of evidence Nico presented.
“Unfortunately, the name of the agent doesn’t seem to have been documented,” Annabeth says, apologetic. “The sanitarium keeps a record of everyone who enters the building for any reason, though, and I asked to check the sign-in sheets, because I was – suspicious. Luke visited the sanitarium around the same time that the request was made for additional testing.”
“He took the test results from the chart,” Nico says hollowly.
Annabeth grimaces. “I don’t think we can prove that, but – yes. That’s what I suspect as well – that he refused to allow further investigation into Tooms’ biology and then attempted to ensure there was no evidence that anything was amiss.”
There’s something uncomfortable happening in Will’s chest, burning, taking up too much space.
“Will could have been killed. Because of Luke’s negligence,” Nico says, tight. “Because of his fucking – ego. He would have – fuck.” Nico scrubs a hand over his face. “And there was proof. That our hypotheses were correct.”
“I’m so sorry to dump this on you right now,” Annabeth says.
Nico shakes his head. “No, don’t be. I’m glad you told us.”
“And I know my timing is awful, but – I really need to leave,” Annabeth says, glancing at her watch. “I was supposed to be on the road fifteen minutes ago.”
“Shit. Yeah, of course,” Nico says, sitting back.
Annabeth stands, reaches out to squeeze Will’s shoulder.
“Safe drive,” Will manages, his voice sounding – well, about as normal as he’s capable of making it. Which is not very.
The silence in the office seems to grow and thicken with Annabeth’s departure. Will stares sightlessly at the chair where she was sitting, no idea how to untangle the mess in his head and his heart.
Nico slides off the desk and moves to sit in front of Will. “There is no conceivable way this is your fault,” Nico says, gentle, but firm.
Oh. Okay. That’s what the burning behind Will’s ribcage was about. Or the worst of it, anyway. Because with Nico’s words, he can feel it release. Will does, too, sagging forward and dropping his head into his hands. Nico’s fingers close around his forearm a second later, thumb stroking.
Will finally raises his head. He and Nico watch each other in silence for a moment.
“I made out with Leo once. At a Christmas party,” Nico says.
Will blinks. “You – what?” As his brain attempts to catch up with this abrupt shift in the conversation, he watches the color rise in Nico’s cheeks. Pretty, he thinks vaguely.
“I – was just thinking. If you wanted any reassurance. About – not being the only one who makes ill-advised choices, romantically-speaking,” Nico stammers, looking like he’s already massively regretting his confession.
Will snorts out an extremely unattractive laugh. “Wait. Back up. I’m sorry – Leo? When was this? Tell me everything. Don’t leave out any details.”
Nico groans, flopping back in his chair to scrub his hands over his very pink face. “It was – five years ago, maybe? In my defense, we’d literally just met and I was – well, I was at least a little drunk –”
Will’s cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s smiling. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you’ve never told me this. I can’t believe Leo’s never told me this.”
Nico huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Honestly, he’ll probably bring it up at some point. So at least now you’re prepared.”
“Is he a good kisser?” Will asks, as deadpan as he can manage.
Nico’s loud laugh shakes the rest of the ache out of Will’s chest, settles like a warm blanket over all the revelations of the last ten minutes.
“Do you want an honest answer?” Nico asks, eyes sparkling.
“Yes, absolutely.”
“He was pretty good. From what I can remember.”
And then, before Will can respond to that, Nico continues, “was Luke a good kisser?”
“God, no,” Will says immediately. “He was – all tongue.”
Now, Nico looks like his cheeks are starting to ache too, but he makes an attempt to school his face into something more serious. “That’s not surprising,” he says, in the same considering tone he uses to discuss important evidence. “Luke doesn’t understand nuance. You’ve got to be judicious with your use of tongue. Otherwise it’s just – wet,” he says, at the same second Will contributes, “slimy.”
Nico barks out a laugh. And god, Will’s so close to asking, are you a good kisser? He can feel butterflies rising in his stomach just thinking of it. Which is stupid for so many reasons, including but not limited to the facts that a) they have a Very Important meeting in an hour, b) they’ve just been informed of crucial evidence in a case that’s taken up most of their time and energy this year, and c) Will is supposed to be a fucking professional.
But then there’s a knock on the door, and the opportunity is lost. Which is for the best. Probably.
“Yeah?” Nico calls, turning in his chair.
“Hi, Nico,” Jake Mason smiles, taking a step into the office. The door closes behind him and Jake catches sight of Will. Will’s pretty sure his face falls a little.
“Oh. Hey, Will.”
“Hi Jake. How’s it going?” Will says.
“Good. I was – I just wanted a word with Nico, actually,” Jake says, sounding a little unsure. He looks at Nico, then back to Will.
“Oh – yeah, of course,” Will says, making sense of this a little belatedly. “I’ll get out of your way.” He stands, draining the last of his coffee.
“I’ll just run over to Dunkin’,” Will tells his partner. “Coffee?”
“Um – yeah. Please,” Nico says, bemused.
“Jake?” Will offers.
“No – thanks, I’m good,” Jake says.
Will takes his time, trying to give Jake enough time for whatever it is he needs to talk to Nico about. The line at Dunkin’ is right out the front door, so that helps. Coffees cradled carefully against his chest, Will pulls open the fire door to the basement stairs, wondering what necessitated Jake coming all the way down here.
Jake’s just leaving the X-Files office as Will approaches. He looks – rattled, Will thinks. Maybe embarrassed? Although to be fair, he doesn’t know Jake that well. So maybe he’s misreading him.
They nod to each other. “Have a good day,” Will says. Jake mumbles something that Will doesn’t catch.
Nico’s scribbling in a notebook with his head down as Will enters the office. His gaze flicks up, startled, then he seems to soften in relief at the sight of Will. Nico looks rattled too, Will thinks. And he definitely knows Nico well enough to make that estimation.
Will passes Nico his coffee before settling at his own desk, the chair creaking as he turns towards his partner. “What was that all about?” Will asks, because it sure seems like it was something. He’s not sure how many more revelations he can tolerate this morning, now that he considers the matter.
Nico sighs, setting his pen on his desk. “Octavian was skulking around Archives, wanting to make sure you and I had been following procedure. You know. The usual.”
Will grimaces.
Nico shrugs a shoulder, dismissive. “It’s not a big deal – or, at least not insofar as we’d have anything to answer for. I had technically pulled Geraldine’s file before the case was assigned to us. But Jake says he kept that to himself. Apparently Archives is no fan of Octavian either – he’s always trying to cut their hours. And there’s no paper trail, because Jake didn’t ask me to fill out a request form when I pulled the file.”
“Nice,” Will nods. And then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “And it doesn’t hurt that Jake has a crush on you.”
Nico rolls his eyes. He rips off the sheet he’s been writing on and pushes his notebook across his desk. Or tries to, anyway. Realizing there’s really nowhere to push it to, Nico grabs the notebook and shoves it into a drawer, a little more violently than necessary.
“I wonder if Jake’s a good kisser,” Will says thoughtfully.
“Well, I guess I won’t be finding out,” Nico says. He seems to be studiously avoiding eye contact, taking his time to make sure all the files are lined up in his desk drawer before pushing it shut again. He finally looks up to meet Will’s raised eyebrows, cheeks pink.
“You – won’t?” Will asks.
“He asked me out. I politely declined.”
“Oh.”
They regard each other in silence for a moment before Nico drops his gaze again, beginning to (needlessly, Will’s pretty sure), rearrange the mess on his desk.
“Why’d you decline?” Will asks.
“Because I’m not interested.”
“He’s cute.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” Nico gets up, heading to the black filing cabinet at the back of the office. “But if you think he’s cute, maybe you should ask him out.”
Will ignores this and follows Nico across the room, side-stepping a teetering pile of books that probably needed to be returned to the Bureau library like, six months ago. “He seems like a sweet guy,” Will says, not exactly sure why he’s pushing the issue. “He likes to do nice things for you.”
Nico shrugs, his back turned. “That doesn’t mean I need to go out with him.”
“Is there someone else you’re interested in?” Will teases. “Because –”
Nico turns abruptly, grabbing Will by both shoulders, hard. “William Andrew,” he grits out. “We have a very important meeting in thirty minutes. We need to be at the absolute top of our game at that meeting. I’m gonna need you to focus.”
Will can feel the pressure of every single one of Nico’s fingers where they dig into his flesh. His mind flashes back to the bruises Nico left on his arm at the brewery, the way Will couldn’t help brushing his fingers over them every time he took his shirt off, the disappointment when they faded. He makes an indistinct sound that he definitely did not mean to make.
Nico’s mouth twitches. “You okay?”
“Uh-huh,” Will says faintly.
“Good.” Nico’s grip loosens, and he pats Will’s arm. Will stumbles a little. Nico definitely notices. Face burning, Will heads back to his desk to get his things together.
::
As much as he’s been telling himself not to worry about this meeting, Nico’s stomach is twisting itself into knots by the time he and Will sit down at the conference table in Reyna’s office. Will’s clearly nervous too, which isn’t helping.
“Is it hot in here?” Will says under his breath. He hasn’t held still since they sat down, one leg jiggling under the table, pausing just long enough to pick at the side of his thumbnail, then back to the jiggling. Now, he opens the button on his jacket, nervously tugs at the knot of his tie.
“I don’t think so,” Nico says. Although he’s not sure if he could tell right now, over the buzz in his head, the ache in his stomach, and his twitchy, overheated partner beside him.
“God, I’m sweating,” Will mutters, glancing towards the open door where Reyna and Jason are in quiet conversation in the outer office. “I can’t even take off my jacket, because I’m pretty sure I have massive pit stains.” Will leans closer. “Do I smell?”
Nico shoves him in the shoulder. “I’m not smelling you,” he hisses. “And I don’t want to hear about your massive pit stains.”
Will looks startled at this, and for a second Nico wonders if he went too far, if his own jangling nerves made him sound too harsh. He opens his mouth to apologize just as Will collapses into mostly-silent giggles, shoulders shaking under his blazer.
Nico snorts, laughter bubbling up in his own chest. God, that’s going to be embarrassing, if neither of them can keep a straight face for this entire meeting.
But Reyna walks in a second later, closing the door behind her. With one twitch of her eyebrows, Nico forgets he ever knew laughter at all. Will shifts awkwardly next to him, looking somber when Nico sneaks a glance over.
There’s an oppressive silence as Reyna sits down across from them. Except for the sound of Nico’s heart, which he can now hear pounding in his ears.
There’s absolutely no reason to be this nervous, he reminds himself. It’s just – god, it’s just everything. Six fucking months of stress, hours and hours of off-the-clock research and stakeouts. Will nearly getting murdered, twice, the two of them clinging to their sanity by their fingernails the entire summer. It’s all been too fucking much.
“Octavian should be here any minute,” Reyna says, her voice low. “I’ve reviewed the case, and I will say that I’m impressed with the thoroughness of your documentation.” Reyna nods towards Will. “Agent Solace, in particular.”
Nico tries not to roll his eyes too hard. It helps that he feels scattered enough right now that he can’t really put any heat behind it.
“Doubtless, there are factors, as there always are with complicated cases, that would be cause for question or clarification. Octavian will have made note of all of these. I presume the two of you are prepared to defend each action as necessary.”
Both Will and Nico make quiet sounds of agreement.
There’s a moment of silence, quiet enough that Nico hears the ding of the elevator out in the hallway. His heart picks up speed again. There’s a knock at the door.
“Yes?” Reyna doesn’t turn, extracting a notebook from the stack of papers in front of her and flipping it open.
Jason pokes his head in. “The Associate Deputy Director is here.”
Reyna nods. “Thanks, Jason. Please show him in.” She flicks a brief glance to Will and Nico. “Jason will be taking minutes.”
Octavian walks in a second later, Jason following and shutting the door behind him.
Nico does his best to relax his shoulders. They’ve just finished running a successful investigation, and there have been excellent reasons for every single decision he and Will have made, he reminds himself. All they need to do is communicate that clearly.
“Assistant Director,” Octavian nods to Reyna. She nods back, impassive. Nico does his best to mirror her expression. Will doesn’t look blank-faced, but Nico’s not convinced his partner actually has that expression in his repertoire. Will looks appropriately serious, though, neat and very professional, shirt crisp, curls more tamed than he’s ever seen them, Nico realizes. A warm little surge of pride cuts through the fog of anxiety enveloping him.
Octavian takes the seat at the head of the table, setting out an array of papers and folders in front of him like they’re all going to be here a while.
Nico swallows. He reminds himself that he needs to exhale as well as inhale.
Finally, Octavian looks up. “Let’s begin. The aim of today’s meeting is to discuss the X-Files investigation into Eugene Victor Tooms.” He pauses, turning an unreadable gaze on Nico. “As well as the X-Files’ future with the FBI.”
Nico feels all the blood drain from his face. “The – what –”
“Agent di Angelo, you will wait your turn to speak,” Octavian says smoothly. He flips open a folder. “Agents, I have some serious concerns with the way you’ve conducted yourselves over the course of this investigation. We’ll begin with the events of September eighth and move backwards from there.”
A glance to Reyna tells Nico absolutely nothing, predictably. He catches Will’s eye, and the stricken look he finds there makes Nico’s heart sink even further.
“On September ninth at about seven pm, the two of you followed a lead that, at least by your own account, put you in a perilous situation. You elected to enter this situation without any additional support. When it finally did occur to you to call for backup, you failed to wait for those agents to arrive.”
Octavian turns to Nico, grim. “Agent di Angelo, you lost your weapon during the chase. When agents arrived to assist you and your partner, you were nowhere to be found.”
Will frowns at this, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Octavian doesn’t give him a chance.
“While the X-Files eventually did track down the suspect, you also managed to kill him in the process. Despite the fact that Mr. Tooms was both naked and unarmed.”
Nico’s pretty sure he’s sweating just as hard as Will now, despite the fact that his fingers and toes have gone numb. He struggles to keep up with Octavian’s list of accusations as his brain keeps echoing, the X-Files future with the FBI.
“We’ll now move on to the events of the previous four days,” Octavian says. “Agent di Angelo, on the afternoon of September fifth, I received a report that two of your friends were wandering around the J. Edgar Hoover building without proper clearance, purportedly aiding in your investigation into Eugene Tooms before the case was even assigned to you. This is a serious breach of protocol, never mind federal security.”
Fuck. Nico’s mouth goes even dryer. Of all the rules they might have bent, all the times he and Will didn’t quite follow procedure – that one wasn’t even on his radar. It’s not as if there was some grand conspiracy to sneak Leo and Frank into the building – Nico didn’t even know they were coming. But building security is one thing the Bureau takes really fucking seriously.
There’s a long silence, unbroken save for Jason’s pen scratching across paper. Nico’s heart is in his throat. He’d prepared for this meeting. He’s been fighting Octavian so long that the friction between them is mostly just background noise.
If this is the thing that loses Nico his job – god, if it causes Will to lose his job – and suddenly the crushing guilt for getting Will into this situation feels like it’s completely obstructing Nico’s throat, squeezing all the air out of his lungs.
“Would either of you care to explain yourselves?” Octavian’s asking. His voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away, the words echoing weirdly into the fuzzy chamber of Nico’s brain. Fuck. He is not going to have a panic attack right now. He won’t give Octavian the satisfaction. He grits his teeth, managing to hold it off through pure spite.
Will catches Nico’s eye, quick. For just a fraction of a second, Will’s brow creases in worry – very clearly for Nico, specifically – which doesn’t help the guilt in the least. Nico manages a twitch of his head in response, and Will turns, clearing his throat.
“I’d be happy to address your concerns, if I may,” Will says. Nico can hear the anxiety in his voice, the almost-breathless almost-quaver of it. No one else would notice, he’s pretty sure – but he’s spent the last twelve months with that voice as the constant companion to his own. Depending on it and sometimes losing himself to its melody, mentally cataloguing all its themes and variations.
“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Will says, “Eugene Tooms was extremely dangerous despite the fact that he was unarmed. All evidence points to his previous murders having been committed without any weapon.”
“Which is preposterous –” Octavian begins.
“I admit it sounds preposterous,” Will says, voice a little stronger the longer he speaks. “But it’s also the best evidence we had. Agent di Angelo and I conducted ourselves based on that evidence. Eugene Tooms had previously evaded capture and proved himself difficult to track. We feared that if we didn’t pursue him immediately, the opportunity would be lost.”
Will swallows. Out of the corner of his eye, Nico can see him start to pick at his thumbnail again below the table. He has a stupid impulse to reach over and take Will’s hand, calm his fidgeting, squeeze his warm fingers in apology for every stupid decision Nico’s ever made.
“And then instead of apprehending the suspect and bringing him in for questioning, you killed him,” Octavian says.
“Our lives were at risk,” Will says, firm.
“From an unarmed, naked man!”
“An unarmed, naked man who refused to stop approaching us despite multiple warnings. An unarmed, naked man who was suspected to have killed others with his bare hands.”
Octavian surveys Will for a long moment. Will meets his gaze, steady. He’s stopped fidgeting now, right hand clenched into a fist on his lap.
“You’ve failed to address the matter of Mr. Valdez and Mr. Zhang entering the FBI building on the afternoon of September fifth,” Octavian says to Will.
Will hesitates. “I – didn’t –”
Reyna cuts in. “As I mentioned to you in our meeting last week,” she says to Octavian, “Agent di Angelo had no prior knowledge of Mr. Valdez and Mr. Zhang’s visit. The two had previously worked as casual contractors for the Bureau, and as such had prior security clearance. Their credentials were verified when they passed through security. Mr. Grace misunderstood their role in the current investigation. I’ve already discussed the matter with Mr. Grace and he assures me that such an oversight will not happen again.”
Nico feels another wave of guilt, thick in his chest, for (probably) allowing Leo to sweet-talk Jason into getting involved in this whole debacle. Not that – well, whatever happened between Jason and Leo after he and Frank got into the building wasn’t really Nico’s fault. And god, Nico really doesn’t want to think about that right now, or ever. He tries to catch Jason’s eye, hoping to convey some sort of non-verbal apology, but Jason’s entirely focused on his note-taking.
“And as I mentioned to you in our meeting last week,” Octavian’s saying to Reyna, “it seems to me that the office of the Assistant Director is allowing the X-Files far too much leeway in this matter. Perhaps this isn’t the first occurrence of such permissiveness.”
Reyna doesn’t blink. “You are certainly welcome to investigate my interactions with all departments under my purview. I assure you there has been no such permissiveness.”
Octavian regards Reyna for a long moment. She looks right back, unflinching.
“Regardless of whether or not he anticipated their visit,” Octavian says, finally, “it was ultimately Agent di Angelo’s responsibility to remedy the situation once he was aware of Mr. Zhang’s and Mr. Valdez’s presence in the building. He did no such thing. In fact, I believe it is not unreasonable to assume that Agent di Angelo took advantage of the fact that Mr. Grace was unaware of the complexities of the situation. Agent di Angelo, do you have anything to say for yourself before we discuss the consequences of these violations?”
Nico swallows. He feels stupid, completely caught off-guard. I wasn’t thinking straight because I hadn’t slept in days due to the unofficial stakeout I was conducting that you somehow don’t seem to have caught wind of certainly isn’t going to help. And Nico knows, right in the center of his chest, that he would have taken the FBI Policy Manual and gone through it line by line, breaking every single rule, if it meant having Will alive by the end of the case.
“I’m sorry,” Nico says. God, it’s viscerally repellant to say that to Octavian. It doesn’t help at all that Octavian looks quietly thrilled about it. But this is one of those times Nico just needs to suck it up.
“I failed to follow protocol. I assure you it won’t happen again. It was an oversight. There wasn’t any malicious intent, and I didn’t intend to mislead Jason.” Nico doesn’t think he can bear to look Will in the eye right now, but he glances sideways, to Will’s arm. “Agent Solace wasn’t in the office that afternoon, and he left for Fredericksburg the next morning. He wasn’t aware of the situation.”
There’s silence for a long moment. Nico wants to sink right into the floor.
“I appreciate you accepting responsibility for your actions, Agent di Angelo,” Octavian says, finally. “As of tomorrow, you will be transferred to the Violent Crimes section. We will re-evaluate that placement after eight weeks.”
Nico’s heart sinks. He fixes his gaze on the table in front of him. “Yes, sir,” he manages. At least he still has a job. And maybe after a couple of months –
“Agent Solace will have sole responsibility for the X-Files in your absence.” Octavian gives Nico a thin smile. “Who knows. We might discover the department runs better without you. Or,” Octavian shrugs. “Perhaps there’s another agent who’d be better suited to working with Agent Solace. Someone who can better manage the reduced level of oversight the X-Files agents have been afforded.”
Nico avoids looking at anyone at all. Octavian’s just playing with him now. Enjoying his power over Nico and testing to see if he can make Nico break, maybe have an excuse to fire him altogether. Nico is not going to give him the satisfaction.
Octavian sits back in his chair. “Agent di Angelo, I encourage you to use your time in Violent Crimes to learn some valuable lessons. One of your greatest failings has always been your inability to play well with others. I think you’ll find it helpful to see how other agents in the Bureau conduct themselves.”
There’s a long silence in which Nico focuses entirely on breathing, in and out. It’s almost over now. He just needs to keep his mouth shut for a few more minutes.
“Most of the agents in this building, for instance, are capable of following direct orders from their superiors. Perhaps if you’d considered that in April, you wouldn’t find yourself in the situation you’re in now.”
That startles Nico into looking up, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Octavian surveys him with quiet satisfaction. “Surely you recall. On the night Agent Solace went missing, Agent Castellan had assigned you both to stake out the site at Maple Gardens. If you’d followed his orders rather than deciding that you knew better, Mr. Tooms might have been apprehended long before now. And the Bureau wouldn’t have needed to exhaust countless resources conducting a manhunt for your partner.”
Nico’s stomach drops out from under him. He feels raw, every nerve exposed. Before he can even think how to respond, though –
“This meeting isn’t about the case in April,” Will cuts in, angry. “We’re supposed to be discussing the investigation Agent di Angelo and I have run over the last week.”
Octavian’s eyebrows rise. “We’ll discuss what I choose to discuss, Agent Solace. Your partner’s actions in April allude to a larger pattern of behavior. Time and again, he’s demonstrated that –”
“The only pattern of behavior you should be focusing on is Agent di Angelo’s ability to close cases,” Will interrupts. “Which is very clear if you take a single look at our clearance rate over the last year.”
Octavian looks properly angry now, and Nico feels a little thrill of fear.
“Perhaps if Agent di Angelo had been more concerned with your welfare instead of his own wild theories –”
“Agent di Angelo followed a solid lead to the building on Exeter Street back in April. If Agent Castellan had listened to him in the first place – after Violent Crimes asked us to consult on the case – we all could have been finished with Eugene Tooms back in April.”
Will’s voice rings in Nico’s ears in the silence that follows this statement.
“It seems you’ve picked up some of your partner’s bad habits,” Octavian says. He watches Will for a long moment, distaste in every line of his face. “I’ve changed my mind. The X-Files office will be shut down entirely for the next eight weeks. Both your roles with the Bureau will be re-evaluated at the end of that period. Agent Solace, I’ll get back to you with your reassignment.”
“Fine,” Will says, short. “And incidentally – Agent di Angelo and I have suspected for months that Eugene Tooms’ physiology allowed him to gain entry to spaces that would otherwise be impossible for human passage. This morning, we learned that genetic testing completed on Mr. Tooms in the spring of this year led credence to these suspicions. And it was an agent from Violent Crimes, not the X-Files, who refused to allow further testing on Mr. Tooms.”
Will spits all this out without faltering on a single word. Nico’s heart nearly bursts with pride. Jason, across the table, is taking notes as fast as he can.
Octavian blinks. “What – I haven’t heard any such thing. Assistant Director? What do you know about this?” he says, turning on Reyna.
Reyna shrugs, cool. “Not any more than you do.”
“I’d be happy to forward the supporting documentation to your office,” Will tells Octavian.
“Yes – please do,” Octavian says, sounding a little unsettled now. He scribbles in his folder for a moment, then looks up. “This meeting is adjourned. You both have the rest of the day to remove any personal belongings from the X-Files office, and you’ll be expected to report to your new positions tomorrow.”
Nico’s up first, and Will follows, the other three staying behind in Reyna’s office. Nico leads the way to the stairwell, both of them quiet. Nico’s surprisingly glad for the silence, because it gives him a moment to figure out why he doesn’t feel… bad.
He’s losing the X-Files, at least for now. He’s going to have to work upstairs, in daylight, with people – and even worse, people who aren’t Will. Boring, run-of-the-mill murders. With someone fucking telling him what to do. By all rights he should be devastated. He should absolutely dreading the next two months.
But god – he and Will have been through so much. And weirdly, suddenly settling into the full retrospective weight of it all – maybe because it’s finally in the rearview – Nico feels a sudden shift in his mind, a door blown open. Because he and Will have poured themselves into this work, heart and soul, for six fucking months, despite everything. Even when it nearly killed Will, and felt like it was killing Nico, they still made it into the office every day, and they did their jobs really fucking well.
They got the bad guy. They solved the mystery. They’re alive.
If the Bureau can’t appreciate that, then fuck them.
Will turns to Nico the second the office door closes behind them. He looks devastated, near tears, clearly not having just traveled the same internal journey Nico did.
“I’m so sorry,” Will says. “I should’ve – I didn’t meant to lose my temper, and now –”
“Will. It’s okay.”
Will’s eyebrows fly up. “How is it okay? We’re getting shut down. And I’m such an idiot – Octavian was trying to get to me and I just let him. I just – god, when he started taking jabs at you, I couldn’t – I just wanna punch that guy in his stupid anemic face every single time I lay eyes on him,” Will finishes heatedly.
“I appreciate it, Will. I can’t even tell you how much,” Nico says, meaning every word. If they’re going to talk about feelings – well. He can do that. He can talk about these feelings at least. Easily.
Will looks dubious. “You appreciate me being a short-tempered idiot?”
Nico shrugs, dismissive. “If you hadn’t snapped, I probably would have. He was goading me, hoping for a reaction.”
Nico hesitates, piecing his thoughts together. Will’s flushed, eyes bright with indignation, mouth set in an unhappy line. But god, it’s still miles away from that lifeless look he had that made Nico’s stomach ache all summer.
“Octavian’s been wanting to shut the X-Files down for years. Ever since I walked through that door for the first time,” Nico says, tipping his head back to the door they’ve just walked through together. “I’ve been fighting him on my own for years, and it’s been – exhausting. And just – just having you in that meeting, having you stand up to him, on my behalf – on our behalf – it means the world to me, Will.”
Will sags a little. “I just wish I could have done it without getting us kicked out.”
“We’ll get through this,” Nico says, more certain the longer he thinks about it, pieces fitting themselves into place in his head. “We put in our time, keep our noses clean for two months, and we can come right back down here afterwards. Think of it as a little vacation. From me.”
“Why the fuck would I want that?” Will says. But he looks marginally less devastated, so Nico’s counting it as a win.
“You heard what Octavian said. I don’t play well with others. Maybe when we get back down here in two months, I’ll be a whole new person. I’ll follow all the rules. Get my paperwork done on time. Give up my wild theories.” Nico manages to spit this out without cracking a smile.
Will snorts, dropping backwards to sit on the edge of his desk. “And why the fuck would I want that,” he says again. But his tone is softer now, more petulant. He regards Nico for a long moment. “Will you still eat lunch with me?”
“Just try and stop me,” Nico says.
“Are we still gonna hang out on Friday nights?”
“Yeah, of course we are.” Nico steps over, sits on the edge of the desk next to Will. Will immediately drops his head to Nico’s shoulder. Even though he has to slouch a little to do it.
“This sucks so much,” Will mutters.
“I know.” Nico tilts his head against Will’s. They’re quiet for a long moment.
“You don’t know for sure that we’ll get our jobs back at the end of two months,” Will says, quiet.
Nico sighs, lifting his head. “No. I don’t know that for sure. But you and me? We’re gonna be okay. That, I can promise you.”
(next chapter)
Notes:
1. Thank you @ripeindecember helping with genetic test results! As far as I can remember, there wasn’t any explanation for Tooms in the series.
2. Thanks to @anything-thats-rock-and-roll for helping with the Octavian scene. That one was a struggle. In the first draft, he didn't close down the X-Files! But now he has, so I guess I have to figure out what happens next. I am the worst plotter. For instance, I didn’t even realize Luke had withheld the test results until I started writing that scene. What a dick.
3. Octavian doesn’t have a last name and at this point it’s too late to give him one.
4. I've just been sitting here reading the chapter out loud to myself for final edits and giggling because I almost never swear irl but there are so many fucks in my writing.
5. Thank you so much for reading and commenting!! <3 I appreciate you all very much. I would love to say another chapter's coming soon, but although chapters 12 & 13 are mostly written, 11 isn't even outlined. Damn.
AN: To all the people who requested a second part, this one's for you! Sorry about the long wait and thank you so much for being patient with me! Enjoy!
Word Count: 1,994
Main Page
Warnings: PTSD, Panic attacks, Murder.
“What the fuck!? What the fuck was that!?” Mason babbled hysterically in the passenger seat, his wide eyes darting toward the rearview every few seconds –like he was paranoid that they were being followed– while the girls in back, who were practically clinging to each other, began to sob.
You remained stubbornly silent as everyone else broke down, knowing that if you opened your mouth right now, you’d begin screaming and wouldn’t stop until your voice gave out. So instead, you kept your shaking hands on the wheel and your gaze glued onto the road in front of you as you took turns way too fast, driving all of you directly to the local police station.
You numbly parked in the first available spot you saw and climbed out of the car, ignoring Jade –who was begging you to take her home– in favor of walking right in the front door. You heard the other three exit the car and join you inside as you reached the front desk, demanding to speak to the sheriff to report a murder.
Everything moved quickly after that.
The four of you were split up and you were taken to a bare room that contained nothing but a table, two chairs, and a large mirror that took up the majority of one wall. While there, you were asked all sorts of questions, but you stonewalled until you had the officer interrogating you confirm that they’d dispatched a patrol car out to the house to look for Tara.
“Alright, kid. Tell me what happened.” The officer said and you took a deep breath to ground yourself before starting at the beginning.
“It was just a stupid dare. Everyone’s heard the rumors about the house on Cherry Lane, but no one believes them…” You relayed quietly as you wrung your fingers together nervously. You openly admitted to trespassing with your friends and left no detail out as you told the officer how, what should have been nothing but quick in and out, ended in a horror show with the arrival of a teen that you didn’t recognize.
“What did he look like?” The officer asked and you dropped your gaze to the gray table top, your knee bouncing restlessly as you thought back to that terrifying moment where everything went wrong.
“He had uh, a blond mullet. It was curly. Um, tan skin, blue eyes. And I mean really blue, like they were almost glowing?” You said slowly and, when the officer didn’t immediately respond or prompt you to keep going, you hesitantly looked up. “Are you okay, sir?” You asked hesitantly, your brows furrowing when you noticed how pale the man looked. It was as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Yeah. Yes. Could you tell me what happened after you saw him?” The man stumbled over his words, his eyes darting over the mirror a few times as you continued recounting what had happened to Tara, the horrible screaming, the loud scraping of the woodchipper…
The officer vacated the room not very long after that, leaving you sitting alone with not even a clock to let you keep track of how much time had passed as you waited for him to return, or for someone to let you out, whichever came first.
An undetermined amount of time later, the door opened with a click and a severe looking woman entered, the badge pinned to her chest identifying her as the sheriff. You flinched when the door slammed shut behind her and warily watched her as she approached the table you were sitting at, the woman coming to a stop right where the officer from before had been standing while talking to you.
“Your guardian is here to pick you up, let’s go.” The woman said as she handed you a bag of your belongings, the ones that had been confiscated when you’d arrived. You stared at her blankly for a moment before shooting to your feet when she turned on her heel –your stomach rolling when she motioned for you to follow in a way that was far too reminiscent of a certain blond teen– and made her way over to the door without looking back.
“What about Tara? Did they find her? Or the other boy?” You asked as she led you down the hallway and back toward the main area. When she didn’t immediately respond, you stopped in the middle of the corridor and crossed your arms over your chest, silently refusing to move until she gave you something, anything.
The sheriff stopped a few paces away from you before turning to face you with a sigh. “There was no sign of your friend, there was no evidence of anyone else having been in the house other than yourself and your peers. So, in short, there was no sign of Tara Hall and no indication of foul play.”
“But the woodchipper–” You barely got the words out before she was interrupting you.
“That house is one story. There is no basement, I know that for a fact. And Neil never owned a woodchipper.” She stated matter of factly and, when you opened your mouth to ask some follow up questions, she cut you off with a look.
“You and your buddies had a bit too much to drink, maybe even dabbled in certain illicit substances, and your mind played tricks on you. Now get on home before I decide to stop being nice and make every single one of you pee in a cup.” She snapped, her face twisting up with a mix of anger, frustration and something you couldn’t identify before she turned away and began walking again.
You silently trailed after her, her words running circles in your mind as you stepped out into the lobby, your guardian rushing over to you the moment you walked into view. You couldn’t see any of your friends so you figured that they’d gone home already and made a mental note to text them later as your guardian ushered you out into the car and took you straight home after a short conversation with the sheriff.
You dodged all their questions on the drive by claiming you were tired, staring out the passenger window as they began scolding you, only half listening to their disappointed rant about how irresponsible you are for drinking while underage and then to go breaking and entering.
You silently accepted your punishment of getting your car taken away –which would be picked up from the station later by a family friend– as well as being grounded, with no chance of going to another party anytime soon, until further notice. You nodded in agreement when prompted to and popped the car door open the second that your guardian had parked in the driveway, immediately going straight to your bedroom after getting into the house.
You plugged your phone in and left it on the nightstand, since it was at pretty low battery, impatiently waiting until you heard your guardian rooting around downstairs in the living room before pulling your computer out of your backpack. You sat on your bed, setting your computer on your lap, and stopped to listen again –just to make doubly sure that you weren’t about to be interrupted– before opening a new browser.
You had known the second that the sheriff had initially refused to give you any information about the house on Cherry Lane –and what happened to Tara– that it would be up to you to conduct your own investigation in order to get some answers since all the adults seemed to want to sweep the entire situation under the rug to be forgotten.
You began by looking up the house’s address and, when nothing came up for that, you stopped to think for a minute before quickly typing in 1984 –the year it happened– along with Hawkins, IN… huffing in frustration when that didn’t unearth anything either.
From there you tried to cast a wider net by just searching any murders that happened in the same year before narrowing it back down with ‘Cherry Lane domestic’, but again… nada. And your attempts just devolved into simple, short searches with words like, woodchipper murder, dead teen, drunken father kills son. You even went through accident records just in case they’d buried it under a false ruling.
It was strange, the way that there was just nothing. No hint of anything sinister having happened in the small town of Hawkins… like the story was just that, a story. But you knew what you’d seen, knew that you weren’t crazy, though that didn’t change the fact that you needed undeniable proof… but you had no idea how to get it.
And then you thought of something that could lead you to what you so desperately needed. Something that could’ve easily been missed.
Your fingers flew across the keyboard in your excitement, adrenaline making your heart pound as you selected the link that came up and navigated the website, clicking through digital pages as your eyes scanned over the screen obsessively.
Then you froze, your finger hovering over the mouse when you found what you’d been looking for.
There. In the yearbook for Hawkins High in 1984 as a part of the graduating class, was a picture of him. It was the spitting image of the teen you’d seen at the house, the one who’d taken Tara, all the way down to that terrifying smile.
Your fingers went numb as you stared wide-eyed at the screen –as if the small photo would simply disappear if you blinked– and your gaze dipped down to the name typed in standard font in order to read the name there.
Billy Hargrove.
Then it hit you all at once.
He was dead. You were looking at a picture of a dead kid.
One who’d been brutally murdered.
One who had killed your friend.
You slammed the laptop shut and only once you couldn’t see that face anymore, did you notice how fast your breathing had gotten, leaving you practically hyperventilating on your bed. You swallowed hard as you squeezed your eyes shut, slowly counting down from thirty until you felt less like you were about to throw up or pass out.
You heard the stairs creak and you cursed under your breath when you recognized your guardian’s gait as they climbed the steps, most likely to check up on you. You leapt from the bed on socked feet and stuffed your laptop back into your backpack before rushing back to bed, turning out the bedside lamp and settling beneath your blankets seconds before the knob turned and the door to your room was pushed open.
You took measured breaths, keeping your eyes closed even as the silence began to wear on you. And, right as you began to think that you’d been found out, you heard the door close with a soft click and opened your eyes and rolled over onto your back in order to sit up and look around your dark bedroom.
You didn’t bother getting out of your bed or collecting your laptop, not yet anyway since you didn’t think you could stomach looking at that picture again, and grabbed your phone off the nightstand. You sent off a text to the group chat in the hopes that one of them would respond before flopping back down onto your mussed bed, resting your phone face down on your stomach as you stared at the ceiling.
Billy Hargrove.
You closed your eyes, trying in vain to stop thinking about it, but it was like that night’s events were burned into your mind. The hair-raising feeling you got when you saw him, that spine-chilling smile, Tara’s panicked screaming, it was all right there. Vivid. Like it had happened just minutes ago as opposed to hours.
You pressed your palms into your eyes until you saw black spots dotting your vision and tried not to cry.
___
Taglist: @garnishclickicon, @yesiamshe-74, and @mihawksdemoness
I highly feel that Geto is way too stressed and Gojo senses that. I feel that Gojo would totally wreck him to relieve some of that stress. To just slow down and laugh freely.
KERKJER Thank you so much, anon! And AHH! Lee!Geto!!! I need fluff after these past few episodes of JJK, lemme tell you! I've gotcha covered, y'all!
Why are we doing this? What’s the point of it all-
Did I turn off the stove this morning? Oh god- Gojo couldn’t hear these thoughts, but he knew Geto long enough to read the dread on his friend’s face like a paperback novel. Staring at his friend spiraling, he reached out and flicked him in the forehead.
“Ow! The hell’s wrong with you, Satoru?” Geto flailed, shocked out of his reverie as he glared daggers at him. “What is it?”
“You’re doing it again.”
Geto froze over, eyes going blank and jaw slightly slacked. Then he flushed, ears red as he averted his gaze, slumping. “How bad was it?”
“Like you were witnessing a murder. Or Shoko stealing your rice balls.” Gojo grinned as he reached out, shaking Geto’s shoulder. “Come on, Suguru- breathe! Whatever’s got you freaking out will work itself out. It always does!”
“It’s not that easy. Sure, logically I know things are gonna be fine, but my brain won’t accept that! I can’t get it to shut down and I just-” Caught in a whirlwind of sudden emotion, Geto bowed his head in defeat, slumping forward like a slacked marionette. “I just…”
“Hey, hey- breathe. Seriously.” Dropping his teasing tone, Gojo rested his hand on Geto’s back, rubbing small circles. “Just breathe right now. Nice and slow…”
Geto did so, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he gasped around shaky breaths. He barely heard Gojo’s voice anymore, but that was fine. The hand on his back was more than reassuring. Slowly, he was brought out of his near-panic attack. “Sorry.”
“Pfft- you’re such a sap.” Relieved his friend sounded better, Gojo did what he did best. He began poking Geto. “Next you’re gonna tell me how grateful and appreciative you are of me! Just like a shoujo manga! Come on, confess your love!”
“Ah! Aheahaha, screhehehw yoohohohohu! Sahhahatohohoru!” Geto shot back at the sudden tickle, trying and failing to block out Gojo’s hands. “Cuuhuhuhut it ohohohohut! Aheahhaha, dohohohon’t!”
“Don’t what? Don’t hold back your feelings? It’s okay- let them out! Tell me how much you looooove me!” Gojo sang, bringing one hand to Suguru’s neck as the other wormed beneath his arm. They weren’t nearly his most ticklish spots, but damn if they didn’t get Geto giggling like nobody’s business! “Tell me you think I’m the prettiest boy in the world!”
“Aheahhahaha, lihihihihike hehehheell yoohohohohu ahahahahre! Aheahhahaha, Sahhahatou!” Geto tried to lean away from the other, but Gojo simply followed, climbing on top of him as he pressed into his armpits. “Gehhehhet ohohohoohohohoff!”
“Never! I’m attached to you forever and ever!” Gojo sang, deciding to be bold and going straight for Geto’s hips. “Suguru~ Tell me you love meeeee~”
“AHAHA!” The green haired teen let out a scream, nearly sending the other off with how hard he jerked at the feeling. “SAHHAHTORU!”
“Suguru!” Gojo yelled back, laughing like a hyena as Geto howled and cackled beneath him, feet kicking and torso arching upward in vain attempts to grab the hands massaging his hips. “Look at you, you’re so giggly now! Tickle tickle tickle! A tickle tickle tickle! A tickle tickle tickle, Suguru!”
If he could, Geto would verbally rip his white haired menace of a friend a new one. Alas, Gojo had effectively silenced him- no really; he was going for the dips of his hips that never failed to have him tea-kettle wheezing in place of booming laughter.
With the little strength he had left, he reached out and grabbed Gojo’s sides, squeezing right along the spot he knew his friend was ticklish in. Gojo yelped and jerked, hands coming away from Geto’s hips to grab his wrists. That was the opportunity he needed.
“Whoa!” The world twisted, the ground was suddenly the sky, and above him- a flushed face, heavy breathing Geto glared down at him. “Hey there, gorgeous- how you’ve been?”
“You…huhuhush.” Geto growled without any malice, suddenly too tired to tickle back. Below him, Gojo got comfortable, tucking his arms behind his head and wagging his brows with a small smirk. When Geto met his eye once more, he blew a kiss.
“I hate you.” He groaned as Gojo laughed, falling onto his side and off the other. “You’re so annoying- why are we friends again?”
“Cause we’re the only ones who can stand each other's company.” Gojo winked, earning a light shove. “I don’t mind it if we were the last two on earth; though I bet you’d get bored of me after a while.”
“Never.” The words came automatically and swiftly. Geto blinked- even Gojo seemed taken aback by them. “I’d never get bored of you.” The more he said it, the more real it felt. “I’d be bored to tears without you if I’m being honest.”
“Ehe..you know, I was kidding earlier- about the whole confession thing.” Gojo tried to laugh it off, his cheeks starting to turn pink. “You don’t have to get all sappy with me.”
“No, I mean it. Really.” Geto turned so he was on his side, facing the other. “You’re a real pain in the ass, and half the time I want to strangle you, but you’re also my best friend and one of the coolest guys I’ve ever known. You’re there to keep me from spiraling whenever my headspace gets bad, and you always make me laugh. You find these ridiculous things for us to try whenever you travel, and you always send me pictures of you posing in ridiculous places. You’re important to me. Really, you might be one of the only reasons I haven’t dropped off the face of the earth right about now, so…thanks for that.”
Gojo was quiet as he listened, staring up at the sky as he took in every word. His lips were flat, and he was blinking rather rapidly. “You really are a sap, you know that?” He grinned, his voice somewhat wobbly.
“Oak or maple?” Geto grinned, making Gojo cackle.
“Now kiss me you fool!” Gojo threw himself on top of him, making kissy noises and messing up his hair as Geto laughed beneath him. Soon they were wrestling once more, throwing grass in eachother’s faces and jabbing at tickle spots. It was utterly ridiculous yet special at the same time.
It was just as Gojo said; all of it worked out in the end somehow.
After the sinking of the Titanic, Rose has panic attacks about getting trapped on elevators. Often this is accompanied by the fear she will drown in it. Is the fear irrational when the elevators are in buildings that are land based? YES. 10000% Still, the panic claws at her every time. Worse, are the elevators with solid doors, where she can not see out of them.
