Welcome to my SDV masterlist where I hyperfixate on Elliott! :3
My main masterlist is here! I'm on AO3 too, same username and I cross-post all my fics there!
Please be aware that my blogs and all my works are 18+ only regardless of rating. Minors Do Not Interact please! Ageless and blank blogs will be blocked.
New Tide Series | Elliott | Stardew Valley Fanfic
Series Rating: M. (May change to E later on.)
Pairing: Elliott x F!Farmer
Series Warnings (chapter warnings may differ): First Meetings, Meet-Cute, Canon Compliant, Pre-Relationship, to Eventual Relationship, Light Angst, Fluff, Embarrassment, Awkwardness, Swearing (to Yoba), Anti-Joja, Banter, Farmer has slight thots about Elliott, (might develop to smut later on), Developing Friendships, Small Towns, Gossip, Food, Wine
Chapter 1 | Pierre's Cursed General Store | 2.8k | M | You've recently moved to Stardew Valley, and so has a handsome, fledgling writer.
Chapter 2 | Good Soup | 3.4k | M | After the mini disaster at Pierre's, you're hellbent on making a better impression on Elliott.
Chapter 3 | heat waves | 8.5k | M | In the midst of a summer heat wave the likes that Stardew Valley hasn’t felt in more than a century- you make some dumb decisions. Thankfully, you choose to do so right in front of Elliott’s house! (includes some ~steam~)
Chapter 4 | Autumn Exodus | 24k(!) | M | In the wake of your recovery, Elliott confesses something to you. Debating the future of your Grandpa's farm- and Elliott's incomplete novel- the pressure of your small town lives and aspirational goals mounts as the seasons turn. Can you weather the storm of your affection for the sometimes surly writer- amidst all the stresses? (includes some steam and a trigger warning symbol section if some angst is wished to be avoided)
Chapter 5...
Chapter 6...
To be continued...
Author's Note: The new 1.6 update had me starting a new save and falling in love with our beloved, sweet writer all over again! :3 I'm writing these fics as a way to play in my mental sandbox, have fun and help my writers block for my other fandom series. The story may become less linear because I might want to jump around the timeline as the ideas strike me so heads up on that!
I periodically go on hiatus due to my chronic illnesses, my apologies if updates/ responses are delayed!
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Thank you for reading!! :3 Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you, beloved reader! ^_^ 💖💖💖
Listening to The Corner by Dermot Kennedy and struck with a fic idea with Benny and Will in the wake of Benny's break up with Santi when he goes back to Columbia and UGH
I nEED TO GO TO SLEEP BUT THIS HAS ME BY THE THROAT.
you were there for me, nowhere | Triple Frontier | William Ironhead Miller fanfic
when you had nothing to gain
summary: In the wake of Tom's death- Pope calls on all of you for a job.
Words: 11k (wat)
Pairing: TF boys x F!Reader, primarily Will Miller x F!Reader, mild Fish and Benny x F!Reader
Rating: MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Blank and ageless blogs will be blocked. Explicit in this chapter for smut and if this continues (no idea when on that) as a series then Explicit for whump, darkfic, noncon elements but as of right now it could be read a oneshot standalone fic- see author's note.
Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Anger, Smoking (Reader smokes cigarettes), Alcohol, Drinking, Reader's callsign is 'Heart', Grief, Post-TF, Canon-typical behavior, Canon-typical mentions of violence and major character death, references to canon established substance abuse, self-harm and suicide (Fish's addiction, Benny's fighting, Will's mental health), PTSD, OCD, Grief, Reader has a military background, Reader has an injury from her time in the military (her hand is scarred- causing limitations to its movement), some flashbacks, Reader has feelings for all the TF boys and an emphasis on Will, play fighting/ wrestling, Established relationships, Smut (with Will), fingering, p in v sex, smut with feelings
A/N: This is the set up for a team whump dark fic series. At this point its very tame and mostly set up that could be read as a standalone oneshot fic of just the boys and Reader being called on by Santi for a job. I don't know when I'll get around to the whole series but the set up is fun and wanted to share because it's decent for a oneshot option.
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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you friend! ^_^ 💖💖💖
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| when you had nothing to gain |
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"The fuck you mean right now, Pope?" Will asks, his voice explodes from his living room like a storm of bullets. His anger laden words bouncing off the walls like he was interrogating the man directly and not over the phone before they ricochet into his dimly lit kitchen. The familiar, ground off quality of his tone reminds you of when he reached Captain. The question is demanding. Orders no bullshit from Pope's reply. The fact that Will's using this version of his voice against Pope has your conversation with Fish and Benny come to a hard stop.
The light hearted catching up between you gives way to stunned silence as you all wait with held breaths.
Fish's phone had buzzed only minutes ago.
Fish's faltering smile should have been your first clue that something was off. The fact Fish handed the phone to Will almost immediately should have been the next indication. But as it was- you were out of the loop with this lot. How many years had it been since you served with them? Too many it seems. But Fish's body language hasn't changed much from the conflict adverse man you'd known previously.
Fish sits perched across from you- foot tapping its way through nervous anxiety so that you feel it shaking through the chipped linoleum beneath your own boots. His nails are ruthlessly picked to raw nubs. The sticky remains of the shredded label of his beer lies discarded on the worn dining table for the peeling of his skin instead as he listens to Will's one sided conversation with Santi.
Benny sits crossed armed and surly beside you. A silent reflection of his brother's usual seriousness as he stares out the bay window to the dark yard beyond. Worn cap pulled over his brow occludes his eyes from your searching gaze. Since you arrived at the Miller house this afternoon you get the sense that Benny's hiding in plain sight. Strapping with muscle- leaner than you'd ever seen the younger Miller- Benny was a hulking mass of Fuck around and find out. The permanent frown that's been etched into his once more youthful face carves itself deeper as Will stalks the adjacent living room just out of sight. Every one of Benny's senses outwardly presents as far away- separate- and yet you know he's quietly attuned to his brother's every breath. The ones that Will doesn't give word to yet.
Will's silence is accented by his pacing footsteps over creaking floor boards as Pope's muffled voice implores him through the phone. Whatever they were discussing brought a dark flicker across Benny and Fish's faces. The surprise at Pope's phone call now morphed into a sick shadow of their past. Something wavers in their haunted eyes before it's shrouded in thick grief. Fish scrubs at the glue on his empty beer bottle with one worn nail. Benny hugs his arms tighter to himself- elbows tucking inwards like when he's in the cage and Will's barking at him to protect his kidneys.
"Is this the first you've heard from him since-" you ask, voice barely lifting before falling into silence over Tom's name- unable to give voice to the loss that cleaves the hardened men before you at the mere whisper of it. Fish tugs his cap further down his forehead- gaze falling to the table and the way the bottom of his bottle scrapes against it. Benny's jaw ticks. Guant cheeks pulled over clenching teeth like a pulse.
Fish deflates. Broad shoulders collapsing inwards as though he can evade your inquiry. Shuffle away from it like he's ducking a sniper's aim. Benny leans forwards in his stead-offers a sharp sigh that he's about to offer words to when Will's footsteps stop.
Benny swivels his head to his brother's direction a moment before Will's voice comes once more.
"I'll call you back," Will says, voice clipped and hard like the iron his call sign indicates. All the anger of his previous outburst tamped down into a rigid answer. Contained within the solid outline he projects when he harnesses his Captain persona. The harsh plastic snap of Fish's fliphone appears a moment before the elder Miller appears in his kitchen door frame.
Will doesn't lean against it- instead stands at attention in its frame like he's caught between his past and his present. Hesitancy claws across his handsome features- stirring a deep sense of dread in your gut. Years ago you'd seen the same look on Ironhead's face. The Berlin job. When he'd been given orders he clearly disagreed with- that everything in him wished to resist. But he'd done his duty nonetheless. Gave the order. Lead the charge to the best of your combined abilities. And there'd been a price to pay. It's the reason you had to leave the service.
Will's eyes meet yours with that same memory. Guilt storms in his ice blue eyes when they land on your form. It takes effort for him not to let his gaze stray to your arm. The one that lays upon his dining table- scarred hand clutching a cup of tea for the warmth it provides your ever aching joints. Instead he regards Fish and Benny in equal considerate turn. Taking a deep breath as he attempts to separate himself from jumping into action as he was so aptly trained to do.
Whatever conservation he'd just had with Pope had activated him. Aggravated his trained senses so that he stands with his spine rigid. Calculating mind traversing potential paths with aggressive intensity. There was a time you would have known each one without him speaking. An intimate knowledge of Will- at least the version of him that you'd known long ago.
But this Will- the one with sadness clinging to his frame- the man that deeply reflects on his choices- is unfamiliar to you. Still, something in his look- a fierce protectiveness- warns you that he's considering silence as an option. Maybe its for your sake- you were an outsider of sorts now after all. Perhaps he didn't wish to speak of Pope in your presence. Of whatever had just transpired- was still transpiring before you.
Your fingers spasm over the ceramic cup- gaze leaving Will to find the exits like a habit. You should look for the hard out. Make up some excuse to leave. To give them privacy.
But this wasn't your hometown. It was theirs. You were visiting for the sole purpose of reconnecting. The fuck could you say to leave that wouldn't stand out to them like you were hammering a nail into Will's dining table? You'd only just arrived a few hours ago. The afternoon had slipped into nightfall faster than your awareness could track it given you'd been absorbed by their presence. So many years separating your companionship and yet it'd felt like none at all. Until now. The clock on the wall ticks above your heads. Every second drawn out. Silence held tight in Will's throat as you try to dredge up some excuse to part ways.
Oh, just going to pop by the store. The words are swallowed before they can form in your mouth. Frankie had taken you grocery shopping right from the airport. Ever the concerned dad figure of this lot, there was no reason to up and leave other than the markedly awkward phone call.
Apparently Benny has no qualms about your presence, and your curiosity about Pope and everything that remained unspoken about their last mission piques with his question.
"The fuck was that about?" Benny asks, a sharpness in his words that strikes Will where its meant to land. Whatever anger Will had felt on the phone with Pope is stroked to a flame once more with Benny's directness- his complete disregard of Will's obvious reluctance to share. Will huffs a stuttered sigh.
"Is he okay?" Fish asks from behind you- Benny's bullheadedness making room for Fish's quiet concern. Will runs a hand through his golden locks- a tight, nervous tic meant to soothe but the action is repeated twice more before he shakes his head tightly. Jaw ticking over the words he's trying to organize past his tumultous emotions. Will takes a moment to consider the ones that will communicate the situation most effectively.
"Pope needs our help," Will says- staring at the men sat beside you with a heavy intensity. Held within his blue eyes lies an imploring look and layered into his words is a guarded meaning.
Benny laughs beside you but its a dark imitation of what you know it used to be. When it wasn't burdened by guilt- laden with shame and shadow. The younger brother plucks the cap off his head and runs his fingers through his long hair before his bruised hand slides down his face in barely contained, tight aggravation. Muttering into his wide palm, "Yer fucking kidding me."
Frankie lurches forward- reaching towards Will as his fingers tap over the table like he's trying to pull a gear stick out of it's surface. Grasp some sort of control as his mind is thrust into their shared past- the one that turns his eyes inifintely dark.
His flickering gaze finds you for one cold, distant moment before they search Will's face- quietly imploring him to speak while Benny shimmies around his chair- closing himself off. One hand remains clasped over his mouth- thumb worrying the tension in his jaw as he glares out the window like he can wall off the words Will just spoke with enough force of will. Benny didn't handle in betweens well. If he couldn't get his hands on a problem- even one he creates with semtech or the explosion of his fists- he played ignorant until the threat was within his reach. Unsuspecting of his dangerous abilities. But Will knows better. Stands well clear of Benny's regard- speaking directly to Fish- his words striking you by default where you hover awkwardly between.
"He's in a tight spot," Will says, voice cold like he chips the words from a block of ice in his chest. Like the shards tear through his throat as he speaks. There's a rawness about him since you arrived. About all of them.
Fish's words come to mind.
Picking at the fucking scab.
They're all an open wound.
Frankie swears in Spanish.
Your tea has gone cold in your grip. Benny's beer is empty beside your twitching fingers. Perhaps you should refresh them, you think. Grasping onto something- anything- to pivot yourself away from this intense non-conversation the three men are having around you.
You used to be apart of their vocabulary. Your time spent separate from the service had done nothing to dull the sharpness of your mind- the deep knowledge of these men and their intimacies.
Benny's gaze cuts to you when your chair scrapes across the floor. A crease of his brows like an apology furrows from beneath the brim of his cap. Something you'd akin to jealousy flickers behind it. Just a moment- its there barely for a blink before he ducks his head and adjusts his chair to let you pass.
You don't know what the fuck happened with Tom all those months ago but something in Benny's disregard of your removed status tells you it was worlds worse than you could imagine. And you'd seen and been through your share of shit. The terrible thought that you might be better off not knowing cuts across your awareness. It takes effort not to flinch when you stand.
Will swivels as you round the counter, allowing you to open the fridge. Eggs, milk, soda, one half empty six pack of Benny's favorite beer greets you. Will's still leading the bachelor life, you surmise as you pluck an amber bottle from the package and hand it to Will. He cracks it with his bare hand before passing it to Benny who accepts it without a word.
The silence grates on your awareness as you move through the motions of refilling the kettle and clicking on the burner. By the time you realize you forgot to bring your cup, Will slides it onto the counter as you fumble through ripping open a tea bag. The scarred fingers of your hand tremble- making you drop the bag twice before you finally fling it into the cup with a harsh sigh- all too aware of Will's ever persistent attention. Cementing you in his gaze- unguarded as he obeserves your struggling- you can't help the nagging sense that you're being evaluated for something more than preparing a cup of tea.
Shrugging it off as force of habit, you let a sleeping dog lie. Will's mind always racing forwards and backwards and sideways. Carefully extracting information from his surroundings- including his past and present and that of others. It was his job to know where exactly he stood- and those in relation to him. How many evaluations had you completed- official and non- beneath his leadership? Perhaps it was just compulsion at this point- a blend between being the older brother and his Captain's persona. Both of which Will struggled to separate himself from with any sort of ease.
The shining metal of the kettle barely condenses with fogged vapor where it perches on the burner. You'd set the tap to the coldest setting when you'd filled it and selected medium low on the stove. Delaying the boiling on purpose. Anything to stay out of the seriousness that clouds at your back. Gathers and thickens the air so that you wring your hands in Will's dish towel- a threadbare thing that never dries out fully. It hangs on the nostalgic stove- one that had prepared many dinners you'd enjoyed in this house in what felt like lifetimes ago. With a sigh you abandon the tea. Striding to your chair, yanking your coat from the back- temporarily jolting the men out of their darkened focus at your quick retreat.
"Going out for a smoke," you call back as the screen door slaps closed in your wake. The croak of its hinges competing with the paint-chipped frame to echo out into the dark night where you stride forth to meet it before the busy quiet of insects and rustling leaves soothes your senses.
The cool night air greets you with its freshness a second before your lighter clicks and you stain your breath with a cigarette. Fingers trembling around the filter as you lift it to your lips- the glowing tip burning bright in the night. Nearly as bright as the moon that hangs ripe in the sky. Low and large in the scraggly treeline- you allow yourself to take a few deep breaths.
Whatever the guys were discussing back there was none of your business.
Hadn't been for a number of years.
Hell, Will could barely look you in the eye without blinking through a furious tic.
Why the fuck you agreed to come out here in the first place was a question you'd been asking yourself since Santi called you last month.
Middle of the fucking night, had you more worried than when you'd been bleeding out during the Berlin job with Benny unconscious beside you. Pope had begged you to visit. Made it seem like Benny was two fights away from serious brain damage and Will was about to recreate a cagefight in the fucking cereal aisle. That Fish was slipping into dangerous habits once more. Pope knew exactly what to say to get your ass out here.
And he couldn't even show up himself.
Fucking asshole.
On all accounts- in the brief hours you'd spent with them since you'd been reunited- Pope hadn't been entirely wrong about the state of them by your surveyal. Benny was overtraining. Booking himself too many fights. Hardly smiled let alone laughed like he used to. Fish was like a raw nerve. All of him a bleeding wound. Beneath- something purulent festered. Oozing darkness, and he kept forcing it down instead of lancing it. Like he was scared it would cut him to the core to do so. Like maybe he'd cleave with it and never pull himself back together.
Will was handling it all too well. Too perfectly. He was saying all the right things. Taking care of Benny, Fish, Molly and her girls when he wasn't leading veterans groups. Being the poster boy for handling whatever shit was thrown at him but you had the insidious sense that he was the one needing taking care of out of them all. If you had to triage the lot, you'd put him in first place. Something about his golden grace had become calculated. Cold. Distant. Like a dying star. Burning brightest, hottest- in its greatest glory right before it would implode. Absobed into the vast darkness that surrounds it.
Part of you wished the night would swallow you. That your presence could be absorbed into nothing. That the bonds you'd forged with the lot of them would cease to exist. That you didn't want to understand what they'd been through. Eclipsed in pain- their suffering was as obvious to you as it had ever been.
The screen door creaks behind you before it closes softly. Frankie. Shuffling footfalls meet you at the porch steps where you perch, huddled in on yourself before he settles beside you. The warmth of him seeps into your side. He smells like a mechanic shop and sun warmed laundry. Hard and soft. The cigarette is held in your shaky grasp over the dirt of the gardens that hug both sides of the porch. Frankie reaches for the cig and his callused fingers graze yours as he collects it before he brings it to his lips for one long drag.
With a deep sigh the smoke stutters out in front of him before he offers it back to you. One large plaid covered shoulder bumping yours in silent companionship.
"I thought you quit," you murmur, lips twitching around the filter and Frankie chuckles dryly before lifting one mournful brow.
"About a thousand times," he says with a small frown, "You?"
"Every day," you supply with a small smile that he returns. The night insulates you with wind and Frankie's considerate silence until the cigarette is stubbed out.
"You know what I hate?" you say and Frankie bends his face to yours to better hear you- too many tours of sniping shots and airstrikes for his ears to catch your words amidst the wind. The brim of his cap knocking gently against your head so that he huffs a quiet apology.
"Everything with him is a fucking emergency," you say and Frankie winces before nodding heavily, chin tipped to his chest and he lets it hang there.
"It's like he can't interact unless his world is ending," you continue, because nothing with Pope was ever calm and orderly. It was always barely contained chaos. The man operated as a lone wolf- thinking he never needed anyone else until the fact punched him in the face. Sure, he had operatives and teams down south- but he used them like a player with a chessboard. Shuffling pawns around, always protecting his next moves- keeping his head immersed in the game until he was cornered. Only surfacing- lifting his silver head to fully consider his opponent when he was up to his throat in threat.
"Was he like this when he recruited you for the job with-" you still can't say Tom's name out loud but you ask anyway, anger leeching from your voice to a wavering whisper.
Frankie sighs beside you, his frame slouching before tensing once more like he doesn't want to remember.
"I'm sorry," you're quick to say, "You don't have to share-" you continue but Frankie shakes his head.
"It's like shaving with a straight blade and you've only ever used the disposable kind. You know the ones with the safety's and the moisturizing strip," Frankie says, hands miming the types of razors and you smile despite the serious look on his face.
"I've shaved before, Fish," you remark with sarcasm and Frankie's lips twitch while he waves off your humor before he continues with a sobering sigh.
"You don't feel the sting until later," Frankie continues, "You go into it thinking you're cleaning up. That you'll come out the other side better for it-- but all you've done is created a big, bloody fucking mess."
Frankie stares out at the yard like he's regarding his reflection. The moonlight kisses his features but whatever he sees is dark and he stares back unblinking. Like he can't look away. You tip your head into his line of sight and he smiles reflexively but its impossibly sad. Brown eyes lost sunk somewhere far away.
"What apocalyptic shit has he gotten himself into this time?" you ask just to draw Frankie away from what hurts him so deeply. Frankie shrugs his shoulders tightly.
"Same shit, different day," Frankie says with a frown, "You know the kind."
You hum in response, leaning your head on Frankie's shoulder and nudging until he lays his face against your crown. He unfolds an arm to wrap around you. Unfortunately, you knew the kind all too well. Pope was either wading around up to his neck in danger- or hung by his toes into it. Either way he was using his last breath of air to call for back up.
"Missed you," Frankie admits quietly and you latch your arms around his wide leg, holding him close. The denim of his jeans is warm beneath your hands and he doesn't hesitate to grasp your scarred one with his own. One large thumb worrying one of the scars beneath it after a few minutes. It brings you back to Berlin. Frankie's leaning over you- brown eyes brimming with worry- deep voice reassuring you while his hands held your good one firmly. The grip you offered was barely anything but Fish makes up for it. Will's above you, busy ripping open clotting kits- blue eyes severe across your form. Pope's behind you and Benny's disoriented voice calls your name from his direction.
The screen door slaps behind you- and Frankie's fingers twitch at your waist- your own nerves jumping to meet them. Benny's voice comes light and layered with innuendo, yanking your mind off the hook of your memories. It only hurts a little than it did a few years ago.
"Someone's caught themselves a Fish," Benny says with a playful smirk that bounces between the two of you before he drops to the porch steps beside you- sandwiching you between him and said Fish.
Benny leans forward- beaming at the two of you before he hums a considerate sound. Like he wishes to bury his next words in his chest.
"Will needs you inside," Benny says to Fish who gives you one last tight squeeze before the heat of him disappears and his footsteps retreat back inside the house. His absence makes you shiver- and Benny peels his flannel from his frame to drape it over your shoulders.
"Benny, you'll freeze," you object, trying to shove the fabric back into his hands but he deflects like you're shadow boxing him. Large hands gently pushing yours away.
"I run hot," Benny says with a dashing grin, "Don't worry 'bout me."
"Thanks," you say, folding yourself into his shirt with a fierce shake.
Benny smiles- teeth glinting in the moonlight. If you hadn't known him so well the slight strain to it would have been disguised by the shadows. He sits with his elbows perched on his knees. His tall frame folded to match yours where you sit on the porch step. There's an uneasy tension in him that he wrings through his hands. Trying to distract himself by pressing upon the bruises over his knuckles. An action he uses in the cage when he tries to ignore the crowd's taunting insults for his opponents next moves.
Reaching up, you pluck his cap from his head and place it upon your own- a silly attempt to dissuade his focus from whichever scar he's grating over in his mind.
Benny's mock affront is your reward and the gleam of your teeth joins his for a moment.
"Are you trying to strip me naked?" Benny asks with mock offense, something playful entering his regard for you faster than you expected given his grieved condition. But this was like him. An affinity for recklessness. A rowdy personality he'll only contain for professionalism's sake and something about your age being close to his meant he's always let his guard down around you faster than the rest.
"Said like a true challenge, Miller," you retort, allowing your gaze to travel down Benny's torso in a leisurely path before you realize you're enjoying the snugness of his white t-shirt a touch too much and your eyes flit back to his face. The most self assured man in the world smiles back at you so that you can't meet his dazzling eyes- instead your gaze catches on the thick column of his throat before landing on your boots.
Fuck, why did you think you could compete against him and ever win? The way he focuses on you makes you feel vulnerable- like he's peered into your mind and found exactly what he expected. The Miller brothers were your ruin. Always had been, always would be it appeared.
Benny hums a triumphant tune. One that makes you think he purposefully selected his outfit with calculated intentions. The low grit that rumbles in his chest makes you all too aware of the scent of him surrounding you. The flannel fabric is all Benny- salt, testosterone, shampoo. At least your embarassment has served to lift the younger man's mood.
The song cuts off when Benny clears his throat. Shuffling beside you- his hands return to their wringing when Will's voice lifts from inside the house.
"Fish, come on, you know we need her," Will says and your ears perk.
Benny ducks his head as though he can avoid your inquisitive gaze.
"Care to share, Miller?" you ask, tone flat and Benny shakes his head, a hand coming up to his mouth once more like he has a lot to say.
"Sure about that, Benny?" you implore, the deadpan quality of your voice pinging off his memory. You had ways of making people talk when they didn't want to.
"Fine," you grit out and Benny buries his face in his palms with a heaving sigh.
A moment of silence wedges between you before you find the sore spots with precision.
"Who shot Will?" you ask and Benny hums an aggravated growl into his hands before straightening his spine and securing you with a glare.
Don't go there, his gaze screams but you do so anyway.
With an exaggerated lift of your brows you lean towards him- pressing the brim of his cap to his brow.
"Don't tell me it was friendly," you say, a purposefully degrading lilt dripping in your tone and over your sweetly smiling lips.
Benny huffs, lips pulled between his teeth as he rolls his eyes with a huff- pressing against your head with his own like a ram headbutting back but he keeps the movement small. Ever aware of his size compared to yours- he applies the gentlest pressure despite his clear annoyance at your invasion.
"S'not funny," he returns, disregard heavy in his tone. He was right. It wasn't. Seeing Will wince every time he lifted his left arm or bent sideways was the furthest thing from funny. It made you nauseous. All too aware that Tom Davis was brought back in a body bag and it could have been any one of them. All of them. A thread of apprehension tightens in your gut, your breath held against your throat as you wonder if this is really worth pushing the subject. Especially with such a wise opponent.
Benny knew how much Will meant to you at one point. At this same point if you let yourself dwell on it for longer than it took to shove the feelings down. Time and distance meant you had it down to a second at most. But being within the same room as them these last few hours makes pushing away your feelings like shoving against a brick wall.
They're too big. Too strong. Benny registers your effort and the lack of success in an instant- the corners of his lips dipping down for the fact you even tried.
But you smile anyways. Allow the grin to seep into your entire frame despite the cold air creating tension. Benny snaps upright- hands fumbling for his flannel over your form and ripping his cap from your head but you squirm away from him- managing to snatch his cap while giggling madly at his attempts to reclaim his clothing.
"Nu-uh," you say, and Benny huffs when you run off the porch and out of his reach.
"Give it back-" Benny commands, voice stern with anger as you jaunt around the lawn- clutching his cap in your hands as hard as you can. You won't drop it. Not for anything.
"No," you return like the word is carved from stone and Benny stutters in his chase at your sudden switch to seriousness.
"Tell me," you say and Benny attempts another swipe for his cap when you side step his advances. You're not dumb enough to think you're outpacing him. He's letting you skirt past him. Every fighter instinct in him- every fibre of his well honed muscles would have had you pinned to the grass before you'd even stood up off the porch step.
But Benny allows you the charade.
Pulling information out of him was like pulling teeth. Benny needed force, he'd never just outright say he's in pain or why but part of you can see that he wants to. That it's been eating him alive. Every minute he trains- every punch he lands- he wishes were against himself. That he could punish the past out of him.
Benny hovers in the shadow of the large oak like he can hide this from you. Like you didn't know he fought his own demons in the cage and not simply his opponents.
"Come on, Benny," you beg, waving his cap around with the energy of a tantruming child but your voice is measured. Calm. Gentle.
The contrast makes him smile.
"You're a fucking problem," Benny admonishes but there's laughter in the accusation.
"Just tell me who shot your brother," you say, and Benny approaches once more- slower this time and you realize in all your eagerness for his answer, he's about to corner you against the hedgerow.
Suddenly, your interogation tactics need an increase in urgency.
"Or are you scared?" you say, voice pitched higher as Benny stalks forwards.
"Because you shot him-" you say when Benny lunges. You manage one sharp shriek before the air is forced out of your lungs even though Benny takes you to ground as gently as he can. The weight of him against you can't be helped as you struggle for air for a moment. The collapsed lung following the Berlin job doesn't help things either.
"You just don't want to admit it-" you croak and Benny's breathless laughter greets your ears as his cap is tugged out of your grip. Something in his reclaimation falters as he feels your hands push against him. Your bad arm produces considerably less force than what he remembered when you used to spar together all those years ago.
He's not the same Benny and you're not the same you.
Still, he treats you the same- firmly yanking his flannel over your shoulders and down your arms. No mercy. In return you grasp the hem of his shirt and start pulling it over his head. It's a struggle of fabric and laughter that you lose although Benny's half peeled shirt exposes his finely carved torso so it's not that painful of a loss. Benny's muscles twitch and bunch against the exertion- the cold air sending goosebumps over his fever hot skin while he tries to contain his wild locks beneath the cap once more.
Will's voice booms out into the yard. Descends upon the two of you so that you freeze like teenagers caught getting handsy at the school dance by their teacher.
"The fuck are you two doing?" Will asks, stern and not even a hint of humor in his tone.
"Wrestlin'," Benny quips with a grin, shoving his hair out of his eyes as he straddles you. The moonlight casts him in glorious light. Accenting the sharp rise and fall of his chest- the twitching of his muscles below. It takes an immense amount of restraint to stop yourself from reaching up and running your hands over his chilled skin.
"Get inside, you idiots," Will says and you make a low sound of disapproval at Benny even as you giggle without end.
"You're in trouble," you whisper and Benny throws you a sharp glare even as he chivalrosusly hauls you to standing beside him. Large hands sweep dirt and leaves off your clothing.
"The fuck I am," Benny replies.
"I'm not the one that shot him," you retort and Benny laughs dryly.
"Ha ha," he says as he follows you to the porch.
When you reach the top step you swivel- capturing Benny square at eye level and it startles him. He'd expected all your attention to remain on Will from this point forward- but instead you lift your arms and haul him into a big hug.
The warmth of his hands lock around your waist in an instant and you resist his mindless push as he fights the instincts he's trained into his response to most of the touch he's received as of late instead to pull you to him more closely. Benny folds you into his embrace and hugs you back just as fiercely.
"S'not funny, I'm sorry," you murmur you apology, and Benny squeezes you even harder.
"Thanks," he says, voice rumbling from his chest into yours.
When you return to the table, your tea is steaming in your spot, and Will has stolen Benny's seat. Fish is chewing his nails- arms crossed and apprehensive as always- eyes darting to the older Miller while you and Benny settle in.
Will waits while you fix your tea. Two milks, one sugar that Will procures from the counter top with one stuttered reach for the sugar dish- his lips pulled back in a cringe as the movement tugs at his side. The sugar disappears beneath the milky surface of your tea as you try not to watch the way Will's thumb rubs circles at his waist. The signature belt he always wore abandoned for whatever wound it would rest against that he worries with his hand instead. Compulsively. Like he draws out the pain for the reminder it serves especially as he lets you in to the secret of Pope's call.
The next few hours are spent by a kettle's worth of tea- warmed up twice more. Considerate explanations of the initial trip to Colombia where you find out it was Lorea that shot Will, and that the fucking Andes are no place to get pinned.
Eventually, Will's caught you up thoroughly enough that you feel like you have a decent enough grasp on the whole fucked up nature of it all to ask your next question when he tells you that Pope needs a team back there immediately- and that team would include you if Pope had a say.
Your words echo the same as Will's from earlier.
"Why the urgency?" you ask and Will blinks hard three times.
Fish leans forward and Benny searches his brother's face with equal interest.
"Look-" Will says, a sigh held tight in his throat so that the words are brokered by a handful of accents he's garnered during his service in the Delta team, the English one breaking through for one stern moment, "He's got a charter plane about to touch down in twenty-five mikes at the Executive and he needs us on it yesterday." Will says, stress landing heavily on the last word. An emphasis that doesn't escape him when he blinks forcefully in its wake.
"The fuck couldn't he call us yesterday?" Benny asks, with enough attitude thrown into the question that it reminds you of a teenager. The challenge pings off his brother's emotions. The lateness of the hour has worn Frankie's nails down to worse than nubs, Benny's patience to a thin veil of professionalism and Will's ability to remain on the fence wavers a perilous edge.
Will shakes his head. Lips tight over his teeth.
"Didn't say," Will admits and Benny's head tilts, scrutinizing Will's features for sincereity. Shoulders bunching where he hangs off the back of his chair- his oversized frame hanging off the wood and long legs overflowing its limits. His boots find floor beneath your chair- shoving himself back from the table before he gathers himself to stand. Beer bottles clatter and Fish flinches.
"Well," Benny says, voice dripping with dark sarcasm, "I'd love to sit and chat some more about this fucking bullshit yer cheesing us with, but I want a fuck and a fight," Benny says, his well aimed vulgarity striking Will who responds with a disapproving glare. Will's gaze cuts between Benny's face and chair like he's ordering the man to sit. Take the fucking corner, Benny, Will's words echoing from the cage when he plays cornerman. Benny slips away from the silent order with a goading smile before he slaps the light switch for the upstairs hall. A tight smile gripping his features as he toes off his boots before he casts a glance back at you.
"G'night," he offers you with that slow drawl and you tip your head in silent acknowledgement.
Fish rearranges himself within the absence Benny leaves as he retreats to his room.
Will sighs, casts a look at the ceiling before crossing his arms and securing you with an imploring look.
"What do you have going on back home?" Will asks, like he knows you'll agree to help. Especially if Benny won't.
And he's not wrong but something about the assumption aggravates you.
You squirm under his regard, fingers tightening around the pack of cigarettes in your pocket.
Will frowns.
"You got a cat or something?" he asks and you huff.
"Asshole," you mutter and Fish cracks a smile.
"For your information, I have a life," you say, grinding the words past your teeth. Small as it was- no cat to speak of- let alone boyfriend like Will would undoubtedly inquire upon next- it was still something. It was yours. And it was shit. But fuck William Miller and his stupid evaluations.
Will waits- quietly waiting for a further explanation. As though you owed him anything more than the glare you offered.
Will shrugs with a sigh, leaning forwards- eyes crinkled with something like hesitation when he speaks.
"You're driving a car older than you are. Brakes that needed changing six months ago. You answer my calls at any time of day except evening so you're either attending AA like Fish or your still at that shit serving job with your asshole boss. Your clothes are a decade out of date. One shade and two sizes away from fatigues." Will lays out your life plainly. Doesn't hold back his hits. The reality you'd taken a pause for seeing him this week strikes you in the gut. Did he know Pope paid for your plane ticket? That you'd debated driving all the way from California in your beat up junker but hadn't because for one the gas would have been outrageous and two- you couldn't trust the shit heap not to break down and leave you to call one of them to pick you up. Mortified. How Will dissects your circumstances. Divulging all this information through the bi-monthly phone calls you shared.
Fuck him fuck him fuck him, you mentally prod the wound at Will's side if it'd only shut him up from speaking truth. How the fuck he'd described your exact circumstances with only speaking to you over the phone meant he'd been keeping tabs on you to some degree and this knowledge both delighted and appalled you.
Sure, you drove a shit mobile. And yeah, you neglected its maintenance. And maybe you answered Will's calls whenever you could. Felt a severe sense of loss at any missed calls bearing his name. Combined with the worst sort of worry. And yeah maybe you were still at the same serving job except now with your injured hand you were one more dropped plate away from being demoted to hostess by your still very much an asshole boss. And who the fuck was Will to dress you down about your outfit choices when he was one size of tight jeans away from being dressed like an ex-vet, suburban Dad?
You were doing just fine on your own. Alone. Something else you were sure Will was well aware of. Any upstanding guy in your life would have changed your brakes well before he could hear them squeaking through the phone. For fucks sake Will got on your nerves like no one else. All his well sharpened perception and keen awareness.
"Fuck you," you say, hurling the words at Will before you stomped off to the porch again, leaving Fish to glare daggers at the elder Miller brother in your stead.
Eyes brimming with heat- the anger boiling in your blood makes extracting a cigarette even harder. Fumbling with the pack you curse under your breath before Benny appears at your side- smelling like toothpaste. All sad puppy eyes and pajama pants draped low across his hips- bare chest on display as he takes the pack from your hands and pulls a cigarette from its blasted cardboard containment.
Benny was good at extracting things. People, thoughts, emotions. Probably learned from staring at the absolute walled off jerk his older brother could be, you mused sourly, remembering Will's deadpan delivery of your life back home when you caught Benny's assessing glance as he passes you the cigarette.
"Thanks," you say before you flick your lighter and Benny nods- long hair falling across his face. Tall frame leaning against a porch pillar- seemingly unbothered by the cold air, Benny offers silent support in the wake of Will's verbal shakedown of your small life. You suppose he's heard enough of it himself as the younger brother to know your hurt in spades.
"Why the fuck is he so good at that?" you besmirch around the next exhale of smoke, your words burning more than the air you inhale.
Benny chuckles, roguish smile gleaming in the shadows even as his eyes search yours- trying to shore himself up against your hurt.
"Years of practice," Benny says with an overly casual shrug. Broad shoulders hitching closer to his ears than before the movement when he settles against the pillar again.
"He's a fucking monster," you say, not entirely meaning the words- instead they come from some sick sort of heart break in your chest that feels like more of an ache for Will's approval.
"Just a well honed weapon of the American government," Benny offers, mouth a grim line.
"Like you and I," he adds and you let out a ground off groan.
"Stop speaking sense, Miller," you grunt- unsure if you meant to aim the remark at him or his brother- as you flick away your cigerette which Benny uses as an opportunity to tug you into the space he creates with his splayed legs. Pulling you into a warm embrace, Benny hums a song as you let yourself be soothed by his closeness.
"Let's get some R&R," Benny says after a while- enough that he's begininng to tremble from the cold.
"What about Pope? The plane?" you ask and Benny shakes his head.
"We'll talk about it in the morning," he says with the same stern inflection that Will has when he's sleep deprived.
The kitchen is dark when Benny leads you back inside. Fish has disappeared and Will cleans the dishes by the light of the stove.
"M'going to bed," Benny announces and Will spares him a glance- a silent apology held within it like always before it lands on you- and you note the look gains an intensity.
Posting up against the counter- you regard Will in equal force.
"Are we going to wake up and you'll be half way across the world?" you ask and Will's mouth twitches before he returns his focus to the sink with a shake of his head.
"I'll see you in the morning then," you say, swivelling on your heel to retreat to the Miller guest room before Will's voice appears at your back. Softly but clear like he's uncertain you'll hear him. As though all your senses hadn't been attuned to his every movement since you arrived.
"M'sorry, Heart."
Caught in the door frame- you hover for a moment. Allowing the words to echo through your mind before you cast a glance backwards where the water falls undisturbed from the faucet for the way Will's hands clench around the sink. Knuckles pale white, frame tense as he waits for your reply.
"One four three, too," you say, the words unfamiliar for the years they've spent locked away. Taking the steps two at a time- you bypass the creaking stair so that Will's answer can be heard even as you place distance between you.
The sink shuts off.
The light over the stove clicks before the hallway in front of you is lost to complete darkness.
Will's footsteps follow yours before his hands find your waist and pull you into him.
His breath ghosts over your crown before its held- three achingly long seconds before his fingers clench and you spin in his grasp.
"Heart-" Will starts but your lips collide with his as your fingers splay across the stupid, thick skull of his. Winding into his golden locks to pull him closer. Will remains iron rod straight in your arms- held firm so that you hesitate- pulling back before he hauls you closer. It's been years since he's touched you in this way but it's like he's trained his whole life to put himself in this position with you.
"Yer an asshole," you murmur against his lips and to his credit he doesn't smile until your hands find the hem of his shirt and slide beneath- fingers skittering over his hips where you know he's ticklish.
"M'sorry," Will says again, the words stuttering out of him. Breath bursting against your face- his voice striking in your chest and then lower. Will's broad shoulders swivelling into your space as his hands gather you to him- until he's guiding you to his room.
"Stop apologizing," you say, because Will kisses you like he'll die if he doesn't while he navigates the hallway until you reach his bedroom door. The scruff of his face against yours feels like heaven. The coarse feel of his fingers against your skin tells you he spends a lot of his time with the weights in the gym as they pull your face closer to his while he kicks the door shut. Will pulls and pushes you with ease- his firm muscles bunching and trembling beneath your hands as his breathing picks up speed.
Will disengages when your calves hit his bed frame and you settle into the firm mattress with a surprised huff.
"Are you sure you want us to do this again?" he says, voice low with need yet ever the gentleman- Will secures you with a look- searching for sincereity when he asks.
"How else do I make sure you don't get on that fucking plane by yourself?" you ask, a hint of a tease in your tone even as you arch a challenging brow. Will's smile widens as he toes off his boots.
"Could tie me up," he says, gesturing at an assortment of belts neatly arranged on a clothes hanger on the back of his door.
"Cute," you say, "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing." you remark with a cheeky grin as Will begins peeling his shirt off. The smile you offer is lost to a frown when Will stutters at the top of the movement- left side buckling in pain as he hisses from behind the fabric.
"Fuck," he mutters, flinching when your fingers find the taut skin over his left hip and you don't know if his nerves still register touch as a tickle here or if it comes as pain now. Beneath your hand- you'd missed it on your first pass in the hallway- but here in the moonlight you see the darkened, corded edges of the scar that runs across his front, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. A sick sort of morbid curiosity joins your eagerness for what else you know lays beneath the denim. The thick bulge at Will's front and the angry scar beside has you biting your lip in both anticipation and dread.
Will throws his shirt somewhere that will be highly contrasted come dawn. A wrinkled mess amidst the neat, orderly space he maintains like a remnant of his time in the barracks. The bed you perch on is made up and tidy, the sheets soft but you're too preoccupied with the tough scar on his side.
"A few centimeters medially-" you say on a whisper, swallowing the rest but Will's awareness finishes the sentence for you. The path of the bullet ripping through your knowledge and training.
"Would've been gutshot," he says plainly, settling beside you on the bed, form folding over the wound. His left leg remains straight to relieve the pressure. That's why he looked different tonight. More casual than his usual presentation of straight spined attention. Even when seated Will maintained a command position- feet always flat against the floor- arms loose even when crossed- jaw snapping over the eternally present piece of gum. The only outward indication of his mind's constant evaluating in the grinding of his teeth that he disguises with the gum chewing.
You have your own bad habits. Shredding your nails much like Frankie. The smoking. One stupidly hot William Miller. Whenever you got within ten paces of the man it was like sense escaped you except in the most dire circumstances. The scar stares at you like the barrel of a gun. What if--? Fuck, you can't help but think it was better that you hadn't been there when it had all gone down. You would have been useless. How the hell Benny had managed to forge ahead- fuck the training. Fuck the experience. It was Will.
It'd been Redfly too.
Will registers the change in your regard like his next breath. Without thinking his hands reach out to soothe- thumbs sweeping firm circles over your arms. The one that bears a similar scar to his own gives him pause the same as you.
You weren't the same as you once were. How could you be? How could Will?
The realization that you might not have had this opportunity if the bullet found the delicate membranes and blood supply of Will's insides instead of passing through the meaty flesh of his hip- somehow this fact spurs you instead of hinders the heat that passes between you. Will was here. Breath ragged, frame tensing beneath your touch, need dark in his gaze.
But Will doesn't move- reclining on his bed- he lets you decide the path forwards. Something like apprehension in his eyes until your fingers find the button of his jeans. The breath you'd both been holding releases when you lean forwards- lips grazing his so that when your hand grazes the bulge beneath his zipper, Will snaps forwards to meet your kiss with his own. It's full of aching need. Suppressed emotions. Like he's still walled off but there's cracks in the surface. Pieces of him bursting through. Begging your hands to find the weaknesses and exploit them until you've pulled all of him forth.
Will covers your frame with his, slotting one thick thigh between your own- forcing your hand to fumble with the zipper at the change in angle. With a small huff you break away from Will's mouth- which he promptly puts to use on your neck. Finding the spot that has you arching into his touch- hips grinding against his own with renewed fervour, your words lost to the pleasure Will provides.
"Fuck," Will groans when you attempt to release him from the denim prison of his pants but your scarred hand has trouble with the task.
"Will?," you say, doubling your efforts to undo the metal when his low "Mmm?" vibrates through his chest and into you where his kisses trace the path of heat that darts to your core.
"Making a real soup sandwich of this," you say, gesturing at his jeans and Will chuckles before the zipper sounds and Will shuffles his pants down his thick thighs.
"Does it hurt?" you ask- the thought tripping out of the confines of your mind where it had been jaunting around while Will kicks off his boxers, following your pensive gaze to the wound.
Will smiles. It's disarming even in the dark. A smile meant only for you. It slides across his handsome features with such fierce affection that your heart wrenches. Will bends his head to place a kiss over your riibs that he reveals with a sure swipe of his hand beneath your shirt. Like he knows your heart is attempting to break free and beat alongside his. The weight of him across your body- the brush of his lips over your skin accents the heat of his breath.
"Never asked me that about my other GSWs," he says, cocking a brow before he's lifting your shirt over your head and discarding it with his clothes. There's a typical Miller self assuredness in the statement, but layered beneath it- behind the iron wall Will tries to install- why he bothers around you is a matter you'll have to delve into when your minds are less preoccupied with the physical feelings ensaring them- there's a fear of rejection. As though he's worried you wouldn't try to smash through all his defences as you used to before. Like he isn't worth it anymore. Maybe ever.
You throw him a glare to satisy the classic Miller cockiness that he uses to disguise his shame, although your eyes trace the faint divots over his arm briefly. Considering the scars that are paler now than when you used to trace them with your fingers.
"You've never had scars be so…low before," you remark, eyeing Will's hard length and injured hip with a mild concern.
"Afraid I'm not up to the task?" Will chides with a cheeky smile, one large hand fisting himself while his other traces up your leg, fingers digging into your thigh lightly. His hips thrust forward into the heat of his hand as he searches for the one between your thighs.
"I mean we don't have to do everything-" you're quick to offer, "I don't want to hurt you-" you say and Will shakes his head with a soft laugh, blue eyes twinkling even in the dark.
"Sweetheart," Will says, a smattering of sternness entering his tone, "I think I'll be just fine," he says and you're mind pours over the words as his fingers slide beneath your waistband- threatening to collapse all thought to the sure pressure he applies as his hand finds its mark.
He thinks? So he doesn't know? Which means he hasn't gotten laid in six months? Or longer?
The next words escape you just before a moan bursts from the way Will thrusts two fingers inside you. It'd been longer for you than six months- much longer. And with your scarred hand- you hadn't been able to reach some of your favorite spots near the end of you. But Will does. Remembering the way you gasped around him all those years ago. Will strikes the spot that makes your release approach like a tidal wave. Liquid gold surges through your veins- sizzling and sparkling with sweet heat. Pleasure surrounds you- Will's hands pushing and pulling you beneath its surface as your breathing hitches. Your body thrashing beneath his- pinned by his hips, the intense look as he watches you become submersed in his attention.
"You think?" you ask- the words garbled- choked with need as Will laves at your throat with his lips and tongue as he works you through a release that slams through you with almost embrassing quickness if not for the fact this is Will. He knows you need this almost as badly as he does. The same as before. When your status compared to his Captain- all his moral uprightedness- did not nothing to douse the lust and heat between the two of you.
Will speaks- voice low with his need as he ruts against your leg- pent up tension in his form so he's trembling in your arms.
"Haven't had the opportunity to see if its FUBAR'd-" he admits, fingers strumming you through a languid pace until the loose, lax muscles of your body respond to him once again. Walls clenching around him, letting him know you're ready for more.
"I find that difficult to believe," you say, even with everything going on- how Will didn't have women throwing themselves at him was hard to imagine. Those sad blue eyes begging for comfort. But there'd been a severity in his gaze when you arrived- something like threat if you didn't know better. It was the same as Benny's Fuck around and find out but lonelier. At least Benny had the touch of violence. Will had his martyring isolation.
Will chuckles lowly against you while removing your pants with efficient ease.
"I haven't exactly been available," he says and you nod- unable to put words when you're gasping quietly when he settles between your thighs. Positioning himself at your core. God, he was thick. Will stutters out a breath as he thrusts inside. Gently. Letting you adjust to his hard length.
"You okay?" he asks, stilling once the coarse hair below the rippling muscles of his torso reaches you. You nod. It was a shame he was so unavailable- and you too. Until now. Stretched over his cock- entirely fixed in his focus like you were meant to always be there. Held within his soft, golden regard.
"It's a lot," you say- referring to everything that happened in Colombia and after but Will grins- offering a few short thrusts that cut off any hope of elaborating to wipe the arrogant smirk off his face when you moan.
"Do you like that?" Will says, less of a question when he can feel you clenching around him as he increases the pace and length of his thrusts. The rippling of your pleasure threatening to send him chasing after his own before he can get the chance to savor this. Fuck, he'd missed you.
Will groans into your throat when your hips lift to meet his- forcing yourself over the thick of his cock in short, sharp movements when he finds the angle that sends your speech into nonsense. A chaotic symphony of his name as you plea for more.
"Right there-" you beg and Will strikes the spot that has your thighs tightening around him and your fingers scrabbling over his hips to haul him closer to you. Will counts two releases as he thrusts inside you- so close together that for you they feel like the same one. Cresting waves of pleasure that lift and meet each other where Will's hips meet yours in sure strokes. The injury has done little to effect his stamina- or at least while he's lost in the feel of you. The bliss of you beneath him.
"Fuck-you feel good," Will breathes into your neck- remorse heavy in his tone as his thrusts slow- becoming reverent as his release tingles down his spine. Any hope of a response is lost to your moans meeting Will's soft curses when his thrusts become sharper. Instead, you press your lips to his brow- sealing the words you can't say between you.
yes please Will- right there- please Will- please
"I love you," Will murmurs once his thrusts cease- the entirety of him pressing you into his bed like the force of his admission hadn't trapped you beneath the weight of it.
It'd only ever been numbers before.
One.
I
Four.
Love
Three.
You
A coded message. A non-admission exchanged with silent looks. Usually thrown across the trenches of your unspoken feelings sarcastically. In the wake of dark, fucked up moments. A reminder that there was more than the shadows you operated like ghosts within.
A true Miller-esque silent offering like his quiet apologies to Benny.
All you needed was to meet his gaze to know he meant it.
Will peers at you below him. Blue eyes observing you like he's carving you into his memory. Like all the times he'd done this before had become stained with the years that separated you. With blood, violence, shame.
Scars.
Their corded lengths holding you together.
You're shattered in his regard. Unable to speak so that Will blinks once- twice- three times and then he draws your wrist up to his lips and presses a kiss to it. Seals his lips around the scars- his touch impossibly adoring before he disengages from you.
Before you know it a cold glass of water is pressed into your hands and a warm cloth into your other. Efficient as always, even with his aftercare. Will slides into bed beside you while you collect yourself. One large, warm hand sweeping across your back. Rough padded fingers tracing the raised divots that cover shrapnel and stories.
Ones he was there for and others he wasn't.
Swallowing thickly, you cast a glance back at Will. Leaning against his head board- he tilts his crown to you in consideration. Blue eyes glinting with the remnants of pleasure. Something heavier flickering behind them that he tamps down almost quicker than you can notice.
"It makes sense," you offer, and Will waits silently for your explanation, his hand worrying over a scar he's unfamiliar with over your shoulder.
"You make yourself available to everyone when shit goes south-" you say, and Will's jaw ticks even as he allows a small nod.
Except yourself, you inwardly add.
Shimmying to straighten himself, Will swallows and his gaze finds your arm for one brief moment before he meets your gaze.
One shoulder jumping through a tight shrug when he blinks hard three times.
"When you got hurt," Will starts and you tense.
You hadn't meant that far back. You meant Colombia. Redfly. You meant when Will got injured.
"After you left the hospital-" Will says- words thick with pain he tries to hide for what you felt instead.
The very same fucking hospital he escaped from to attend Tom's funeral.
The funeral you couldn't attend.
Will sighs tightly, mouth pulled into a deep frown while he stares at the water staining his bed sheets when you're shaking hand spasms around the glass. You tell yourself its just the injury. That you're not trembling from Will's quiet admission.
He wasn't available to anyone except you.
Idiot. Stubborn. Thick skull. You lament the qualities that you share with him.
"Sir Hammington," you say and Will's brow furrows further- confusion bleeding into his solemn features.
"He's a dwarf hamster," you admit and Will stares at you like you've just agreed to become one of Benny's opponents in the cage.
"Not a cat," you say- setting the glass on his nightstand before fumbling on his floor for your pants.
"See-" you say, lifting your phone for his regard and Will squints through the brightness- blue eyes crinkling as a smile forms at your lockscreen before you scroll through a series of pictures of your pet.
"Fucking knew it," Will says with a bark of a laugh. Relief thrums through both of you as find the natural back and forth of your banter.
"Like hell you knew," you retort, accusation heavy in your tone and Will's grin deepens- chin tilting in classic Miller challenge.
"Could hear Sir Hammington-" Will places formal emphasis on your hamster's name- the syllables rolling off his tongue with his English accent, "Running on his wheel in the background of your voicemails sometimes," Will informs you with a smug smirk. Somehow you can hear the infernal squeaking of that plastic wheel even thousands of miles away from it now. Will grins like he can hear it too.
God, he was the most infuriating man you've ever known.
Shaking your head, Will allows your disbelieved chuckle a few moments before his face flickers back towards seriousness.
"Whose taking care of him while you're gone?" he asks.
"Neighbor," you return.
"Hmm." Will says and his gaze drifts away- back to the bug out bag you know he's got in the front entrance hall closet. To wherever Pope has hailed him from.
"How do you sleep?" you ask, curling into his side where he makes space for you, one heavy arm holding you close to him.
"Like shit," he admits, words gruff as he shimmies down the bed to better embrace you.
"Wake me up if you can't sleep?" you ask with a subtle grinding of your hips against his thick thigh and Will offers a small grin as you blink sleepily at him.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he says with a hint of his Captain's voice. The same way he would order you to the barracks while he took first watch.
"G'dnight," you murmur, "Asshole," you add and Will huffs a quiet laugh before he pecks your face and his voice rumbles after your eyes close.
"Sweet dreams, sweetheart."
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Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | UPDATE TO SERIES RATING/ WARNINGS | Next Chapter | Main Masterlist
Pairing: King Arthur X F!Reader
Summary: Arthur attempts to gain his memory back.
Rating: M. Eventually Explicit. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact.
Warnings: Swearing, Angst, banter, switching POVs, Plot, amnesia, temporary amnesia, threat, one canon compliant Goosefat slap, uncontrolled magic, child illness, fear, implied child poisoning but they live
Words: 6k
A/N: some humor, some angst, some more starch thrown in the plot so its T H I C C hehehe
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The previous night | Goosefat
The hallway looked as though a barrel of black powder had exploded in it. Deep grooves marred the stone walls. The carpet along the floor ripped to tatters and banners across the walls now fallen scorched shreds. Luckily there didn’t seem to be any casualties amidst the chaos and carnage.
Still, Goosefat’s gaze scanned the wreckage with haste. The only eyes he met were the portraits within the paintings- still hanging on the walls in perfect arrangement. Arthur’s family painted within the frames yet untouched by the magic that had caused such damage everywhere else around them. Their intricate, golden frames gleaming under the lamp light in Goosefat’s grasp. Not a speck of dust or the smallest of scrapes to scar their canvas homes.
Goosefat’s brow furrowed further than when he’d first arrived. The echo of the blast and then shock wave that followed yet thrumming through his blood. His heart slams against his ribs because he’d felt that power before. Knew of only one person capable of wielding it. Of creating such destruction. And yet even with such abilities- what that person cared most deeply about remained unblemished even as he drew the wrath of the heavens and Gods and all the worst storms within his frame and through his sword.
Arthur had done this.
Why was yet to be discerned and Goosefat knew it could be for nothing good.
A crowd gathers at the corner of the intersecting hallway behind him. Whispered murmurs of shock and awe as they survey the damage.
“Locate the King,” Goosefat orders and they burst away with urgency at his commanding tone.
Curiously, none of the Havenport guests had appeared. They’d all but poked their nose in every pie and plot as of yet since their arrival. Like rodents with stomachs five times their beings. There wasn’t any gossip or drama they could be dragged away from. Why they avoided this wing of the castle when it was well within the party’s radius given how loud and ground shaking the blast had been didn’t bode well in Goosefat’s mind.
And where the hell was Arthur? Gossefat fretted, having lost the younger man earlier in the evening.
It didn’t matter that Arthur had been absent as of late. Goosefat couldn’t blame the younger man for his avoidant tendencies. Having a legend draped over your shoulders and then a crown laid upon your head with a kingdom dropped in your lap could have that effect, he supposed. He felt it in his own newfound responsibilities.
One of them being minding Arthur and his whereabouts, Goosefat begrudged. At least he was comforted that there wasn’t a grisly trail of Pendragon blood to follow. Goosefat supposed it was reassuring. If only mildly.
Arthur had a lifetime of darting in and out of illustrious dealings under his belt. It’s why he’d plucked Goosefat’s form out of the shadows of the brothel when Jack’s Eye’s had chased him there. Arthur had done it with ease. Discerned who did not belong as quickly as he drew his next breath before he’d given Goosefat up to the Sergeant. Arthur was good at spotting trouble and addressing it because as comforting as it was to not see Arthur’s fallen form amidst the destruction- it was as disconcerting to not see that his enemy was left behind either.
Goosefat shivered at the thought of what sort of being could survive Arthur’s magic.
Standing in the center of the troublesome scene- Goosefat hoped Arthur was equally as good at running from trouble as he was at taking care of it.
|||
Present Day | Arthur
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve taken leave of your senses,” Arthur says, reeling at Goosefat’s words.
You’re engaged to be wed.
He wasn’t serious, Arthur reassures himself if only for a futile moment because Goosefat isn’t smiling. This isn’t him being an asshole making a joke in poor taste.
No, Goosefat holds Arthur gaze with a seriousness as though he’s just ordered Arthur’s execution.
Arthur sways beside the round table, one hand reaching done to balance himself against the solid feel of the wood. Dizziness hits him like when he’d first grasped the sword. Arthur nearly wishes he’d faint and be rid of the nonsense being thrown at him.
First, the fucking sword. Then Vortigern. Would he catch a break or was this the Fates disturbed version of it? Swinging at him so hard Arthur thinks he’s meant to shatter beneath it.
“I’m afraid I’ve never been more convinced that I’m the only one that hasn’t,” Goosefat offers reluctantly, fingers fiddling with his rings for a few moments. Gaze far away from where they are now before it lands on the crescent scar that still hasn’t gone silver over Arthur’s cheek. Like he longs for that time when they’d first met- well, for Arthur anyways.
Somehow it was simpler when their enemy was a clear cut as Vortigern. Severe and brutal as he was- at least his eyes blazed with flame and his form flickered with smoke and shadow even when he wasn’t in his demonic visage. If all the decency that could be commended of Vortigern was that he made a good enemy- one that made himself known from the beginning because he couldn’t help doing so- then so be it.
Because when Goosefat and Arthur lock eyes now- they’re both at a loss. A disadvantage of knowledge.
“For fuck’s sake, Goosefat, enlighten me,” Arthur says- not an order but a plea, desperation and confusion clouding his gaze.
“I was hoping you would cast light on the subject,” Goosefat sighs, “What do you remember of last evening?”
Arthur’s jaw ticks before he grabs a chair and throws himself into it with a great sigh. If he’s going to stress he may as well be seated. His hands card through his hair- still wet from the river, still smelling of starsium and soil when he pinches the bridge of his nose as he forces his mind to grate over the meager scraps of his recollection.
The dirt of the seedlings knocks against his memory like an arrow against his bow. Sliding into place so that he can feel his fingers wrap around the stalks. Arthur’s shoulder jump as he rips them from the plots in the castle gardens. Handfuls of them. There’s something soft in his grasp too. The blankets.
An urgency in his actions as he collects the plants. Arthur’s breath billows out in front of his face. It’s cold. Near freezing. He’s trying to save the elvium.
Snowflakes drift in front of his face.
A window. The moon.
Blue’s voice at his back.
“Where are you going? Can I come?” The boy had asked, the eagerness ringing in Arthur’s ears now. Blue always wanted to join Arthur in his adventures. Nevermind the loss of his father- of the boy nearly being killed by Mercia- if anything the threat and death he’d faced had forced him even closer to Arthur. Fueled his desire to be involved in the matters of King and castle like never before.
Stay, Blue,” Arthur says.
Goosefat pulls a seat beside him, his frame bent over itself, head poised near Arthur’s like he can lend some of his thoughts to aid his King’s. Goosefat wouldn’t be interested in his rogue gardening, Arthur ascertains. There’s no need to reveal the elvium or the herbalist.
“Blue,” Arthur offers a safer subject instead.
Goosefat hums before he asks, “At the party, yes?” and Arthur lifts a brow. Blue was meant to be resting. He’d been flushed in the wine cellars from his outburst- or perhaps fever from Jennie’s illness.
“You pulled him from beneath one of the tables. A ripple in the cloth was all you glimpsed before you bent and pulled him out by his ankle,’ Goosefat recalls with a small smile, “The boy was dipped in honey glaze from the pastries in his grasp. Bathed like Achilles in your sternness when you sent him away.”
Arthur tries to remember this action but falls short- only managing to draw forth the feel of fabric over Blue’s leg, the bright sparkling mischief in his young eyes. Arthur smiles despite the concern of emptiness surrounding the interaction. Blue was so much like himself at that age. Always finding trouble and the consequences attached.
“I do not recall that,” Arthur admits and Goosefat’s smile falls with a shake of his head.
“Perhaps if we take a walk, your memory will follow,” Goosefat offers and rises- pausing when Arthur doesn’t move. If anything the man sinks further into his seat- like a stubborn child. His golden brows knitted in concern. Goosefat clasps the meat of Arthur’s shoulder. Offering what little strength and comfort he can to the younger man now afraid to traverse his own home for how it has betrayed him.
“You’ve gotten your wish, Arthur. In a way, at least. The Princess has taken her leave to announce the proposal to Havenport,” Goosefat says and Arthur allows a breath of relief to fill his lungs. While he remembers nothing of his interactions with the she-snake, he’s grateful he won’t run into the woman when he can’t recall her scheming ways for all the life left within him. Arthur breathes easier if only for Goosefat’s next words to punch the air out of him.
“The next time you’ll see her is the day you’re to be wed,” Goosefat says dryly.
“I liked you more when you struck me with your hands,” Arthur mumbles, “Your words wound me,” Arthur continues, a hand to his heart as though a true pain aches in his chest before he stands and Goosefat allows a half hearted chuckle.
“Your humor won’t save you yet, my liege,” Goosefat says as they leave the round table room, “Now make haste, lest we be planning your funeral alongside your wedding.”
Arthur can’t help the laughter that booms from him, echoing off the walls in a burst of stress induced giddiness that doesn’t align with the sick feeling in his gut. For the tease is strong in Goosefat’s voice- and an awful truth rings clear in it as well.
Clear as the surge of magic that rises in Arthur all of a sudden. Surges through his frame like a lightning strike. His bones shake, his skin crawls before his vision whites over and Goosefat’s voice sounds far away.
“Arthur!” Goosefat calls, sharp with surprise when Arthur sinks to his knees. A blinding swirl of magic surrounds him before he slumps and it dissipates as quickly as it had come. The air that Arthur hauls into his lungs with force makes him look like a man drowning at sea and Goosefat gathers him up- prevents him from falling to the floor.
“M’fine,” Arthur heaves out. Breathless as his eyes return to their striking blue from the magic induced starlight they’d been for those fear filled heart beats.
“Yes, and I’m the King of Londinium,” Goosefat jests, concern rife in his tone.
Arthur laughs less than before. Weakly. Reluctantly. Like he’s worried any more emotion will spring another bout of magical unwieldiness from his body. Goosefat allows him to catch his breath before the King lets his head fall back on his shoulders- clear eyes catching Goosefat’s for a moment.
“Would you trade places with me?” Arthur asks, all earnestness in the hard set of his jaw so that he looks like the reflection of his father and Goosefat thinks for one held breath that Yes,in a heartbeat, he would. For his old friends' sake. For the one he holds in his arms now.
And then Arthur’s mouth lifts. One side of his lips quirk into that lazy grin of his before it splits his face wide.
“You treasonist bastard,” Arthur offers upwards and Goosefat lets him go with the sharp kiss of his hand and a small curse laden with his love and loyalty for the Pendragon bloodline.
|||
Arthur and Goosefat reach the great hall where the party was held. Servants working yet still to unladen the overflowing tables of food and ale from the celebrating. Anger simmers inside Arthur at all the wasted resources.
“In the wake of the announcement, the pantries and cellars were all but raided,” Goosefat admits with a sigh of frustration.
“On whose orders?” Arthur asks, knowing and yet still thrown off by the reply.
“Your as yet to be Queen’s order,” Goosefat answers, knocking Arthur with his shoulder in a not so subtle attempt to break Arthur’s rage when they feel the floor shaking under their feet. The King’s eyes flickering between starlight and their typical blue color.
Goosefat nods at the perimeter of the room and Arthur follows his gaze. Part of his wrath breaks for the shiver that replaces it when Arthur realizes his usual awareness has suffered for the onslaught of magic in his being. Typically, Arthur’s head was on swivel- constantly surveying his surroundings for threat.
But as of late his focus was narrow eyed. All of it on the Princess and her unwanted company in his castle. Distracted by her and yet all he’d done up until yester-eve was avoid her. And now Arthur was paying his dues thrice over. His magic is a restless flame searching for any emotion to fuel it. Stealing his energy and attention like the Princess had and he hadn’t even laid his gaze upon her. Now his awareness has faltered further. Beyond the pillars now decorated with both Londinium’s and Havenport’s banners a Havenport man watches them. His curious gaze unguarded.
“As much as she has taken her leave, there are still others who make it their purpose to know more than they should,” Goosefat warns as Arthur tries to temper his fury into something he can control. A barely lit flame in the center of his chest. Something he can curl his fist around until it fades. A tendril of smoke that he chokes with his will until it’s nothing. Until he’s no longer a danger to everyone around him.
The Mage had warned Arthur of comparing his power to fire.
“If you give it power to consume you then you become the fuel,” she’d said and it hadn’t made sense until Arthur had seen Vortigern’s final devil appearance. But the burning sensation inside him now- the one he’d woken up to- that feels like it eats him from the inside out- it’s too akin to flame for Arthur to call it anything else.
Goosefat’s voice cuts through his thoughts of ash and ruin.
“Does anything fascinate your memory?”
Arthur scans the space. The ceilings are staggeringly high so that he’d crane his head all the way back to view their gilded surface. The grand arc windows allow the afternoon light to pour in. The shadows cast by the tables trigger a thread to unravel in the fabric of his memory so that some of its tattered holes are seamed back together. The sides of his silky thoughts- slippery as he grasps at the edges- finally meet so that Arthur knows the snow and “Stay,Blue” come after this next part.
|||
The previous night | Arthur
Arthur makes his way to the rear terrace at a slow pace. Traversing the halls, he sidesteps the servants that hurry back and forth. The trail of clipped, anxious My lord’s follows him through the halls before they’re lost to the sound of music and people conversing and laughing as he approaches the party.
Guests begin to run by- stumbling with excitement and whatever they’ve consumed. Their eyes sparkling, glazed at the edges. A few of them startle at his presence- hiding giggles and smiles behind their hands. He doesn’t recognize any of them aside from the Havenport style of dress and hair.
The terrace is a swarm with them. Food and drink is on a constant stream of platters in such excess that Arthur begins to truly understand why the castle culinary cost has gone up exponentially these last few weeks.It seems the Havenport princess has entertained herself in his absence- and at his expense.
Arthur adheres to the perimeter of the celebrations. Managing to find a relatively quiet corner behind a large planter full of lush flowers nearly as tall as he.
Taking a mug of ale from a servant’s platter with his thanks, Arthur drinks deeply from it twice before Goosefat’s voice lifts behind him. Sneaky bastard. Always hiding amongst the shadows.
“While I’m pleased you’ve made an appearance as promised- the Princess has requested in no unclear terms that she wishes to lay her naked eyes upon you,” Goosefat says, nudging Arthur forwards and if he didn’t know better he’d say Bill’s finger was a knife pressed to his spine as they navigate the party goers and tables laden with a feast fit for the gods.
“She wishes to clear my larders, and lay her hands within my coin vault before we’re even acquainted, it appears. Bit rude innit?” Arthur hisses backwards.
“It’s been a rough winter for us all Arthur, and she’s had no one of your royal caliber to warm her bed-” Goosefat says but pauses- Arthur catches his gaze and follows it- knows this must be the Princess before Goosefat needs to say it.
She’s pretty- from what Arthur can see- her face hidden in the shoulder of a man that she’s curled herself around. Coiling her body around his like a cobra about to strike. She’s younger than he’d anticipated. Adorned in fine fabric, her body glistening with gems from crown to toe tip- she glints in the torch lights as though she wears scales instead of silk. The man ensnared in her grip seems entrenched in her beauty. Drowned in the purposeful air that hangs about her.
Relishing his attention, she commands the group that surrounds her as well. Every way her head turns theirs follow. Every lift and fall of her lips has their entire focus while she speaks and smiles and sneers through a tale that Arthur can’t pick out the words from the distance between them. The audience around her is a mixture of attention- some seem enchanted. Others hold an undercurrent of fear in their eyes whenever her gaze lingers on them. Possessing an acumen that belied her youthful appearance, she drew in courtiers and nobles alike.
There was something calculating in her demeanor. Like every conversation was something to be won, not simply shared. Like the company one kept was meant to be hoarded not plainly held.
Arthur knew of her before he wore the crown. Had heard tales of her rule while he was working in the brothel and cutting his youth on the streets of Londinium. This was the beloved Princess of Havenport- married to the late King. How the man died Arthur couldn’t recall. Hunting accident? Old age? Infection? In any case he’d carked it. Leaving behind this woman to lead his kingdom to glory.
Arthur hadn’t time nor care to learn of royal families and kingly politics in his old life. With a sigh he realizes he should have devoted more time to the matter once he wore the crown. He’d have to suss her out the old fashioned way. Something he’d been putting off since her arrival in his castle when he’d learned from Cecil that she intended to assuage the fear of war between their kingdoms- by any means necessary.
Arthur knew what women were capable of. Growing up surrounded by them and raised in the brothel. He wouldn’t underestimate her, although he tried ignoring her initially.
“Can’t blame a girl for begging your attention in the only way she thinks you care,” Goosefat offers with a frown and Arthur sighs, unruffled by the display in front of him except a part of him does care. If what he’s seen tonight is any indication- then the food being provided to these parties over these last few weeks could have fed the entire east village for a month at least- maybe two.
Goosefat has positioned Arthur well and deep into the center of the festivities. Far enough that the Princess’s attention drifts to the fuss that Arthur’s presence has caused. Her gaze meets his with a flash of curiosity. She laughs then, perched upon the lap of the nobleman, her head thrown back, her teeth gleaming like the gems that adorn her. Her mouth held open wide so that Arthur likened her to a snake yawning before it devoured its prey whole.
Arthur shivers.
The nobleman’s joke couldn’t have been that amusing.
Her laugh reminds him of his life in the brothel. When the women would laugh a touch too loud, hoping to draw more affection from their marks. More coin from their purses.
The laughter in her died, as fast as her liking for the nobleman she now discarded in her wake as she approached Arthur. Her gaze set upon him like a predator stalking its victim. Grabbing a bundle of grapes from the table, she raises the fruit and presses it to her lips, all the while holding his gaze.
Arthur’s jaw ticks. He huffs imperceptibly. Restrains the shake of his head.
She’s testing his boundaries. Probing for weakness. A challenge lay in her eyes plain as sunlight and yet Arthur couldn’t help but note the shrewdness of her approach.
Arthur stalks away before Goosefat can get a breath to begin the introductions.
Fuck this, Arthur thinks, refusing to play her games. She feasts not only on his provisions but the power to entertain such excess and extravaganza within his own castle walls.
|||
Present day | Arthur
“Christ, Goosefat- you were here- don’t you know what happened?” Arthur sighs, his memory blocked beyond the point his mind had reached.
Goosefat nods.
“You arrived, refused to greet her, had another drink and then dropped to one knee and proposed,” Goosefat informs him.
“Do not jest any further,” Arthur threatens on a groan, hands tugging at his golden hair.
“It would have been preferred,” Goosefat sighs, “At least we could have claimed you were off your head with drink. The truth of it is worse as no one knows except you and the Princess what transpired before the announcement.”
Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. Frustration emanating off his frame. The hair on the back of Goosefat’s nape stands on end. The start of Arthur’s magic attempting to make itself known once more.
“There is one more place you should lay your gaze upon,” Goosefat says before he leads Arthur to the damaged hallway and away from prying eyes.
“Somewhere between you storming off and this hallway, I lost you,” Goosefat says as Arthur surveys the destruction in front of them and Arthur doesn’t fail to note the heavy regret in Goosefat’s voice.
“I’m not a child for you to mind,” Arthur says, keen to assuage Goosefat’s need to place blame upon himself.
“Well, my liege, you certainly can act as one,” Goosefat says, but there’s no bitterness in the statement, only a weary sigh.
The hallway is destroyed. Unrecognizable from the ones they’d just traversed to reach it. Arthur doesn’t need to voice what he knows to be the source of this damage.It’s his doing. His magic.
“Anything?” Goosefat asks, urgency sharp in his tone.
“Nothing,” Arthur returns after a long time of attempting to will the memories to reach his awareness. But they remain outside of it. Lost beneath the dark surface of the sea of his mind. Arthur wonders if there’s anything that could spurn them forth. Some concoction…
The list in his vest pocket.
While he couldn’t recall it- Arthur and Enthiel had spoken at some point last night if only to be handed the list of medicines and artifacts to collect. Perhaps Enthiel would have some insights.
“Let’s take a stroll to the Doctor’s tower” Arthur says before he begins crossing the destruction.
|||
It takes much longer for the stench to hit him as Arthur climbs the steps. After a few more, Goosefat groans behind him, his face buried behind his hand.
“Gods, what is that awful smell?” Goosefat asks before he heaves at the door.
“The pantries and wine cellars weren’t the only places raided yesterday,” Arthur responds as they enter the tower.
Goosefat looks up at Arthur in shock- green from the scent of all the smashed potions and fermenting, preserved oils and items. All of the mess of yesterday had been cleared as well as it could. The broken glass has disappeared, leaving only the stained floorboards and shelves. Some of the higher ones are still dripping with foul ooze and ointments.
“Why wasn’t I informed?” Goosefat inquires, a note of disregard in his tone.
Arthur sighs.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve been- distracted,” he admits.
Enthiel appears from the latrine room- startled at the arrival of not one but two visitors to his usually neglected corner of the castle. His surprise gives way to a smile when he realizes one is a repeat guest- Arthur.
“My Lord,” Enthiel begins before he corrects, “Arthur. How can I help you?”
Arthur tugs the list out of his vest. Goosefat’s gaze narrows on it as he unfolds the parchment, keen to know what else Arthur has been hiding from him.
“Do you remember giving me this last night?” Arthur asks, handing the list to Enthiel but not before Goosefat snatches it. His gray gaze pouring over it like it holds all the kingdom’s secrets before he relinquished it to the young doctor with a somewhat embarrassed apology. Arthur’s comforted that he’s not the only one frustrated by being outside the loop.
Enthiel smiles awkwardly at the older man, before nodding at Arthur.
“Yes. In the recovery wing. We were with the children,” Enthiel supplies and Arthur lifts a brow at the plural.
As far as he knew Jennie was the only child in the castle that had fallen ill.
“Jennie?” Arthur asks, an urgency in his tone that lands sharp over Enthiel’s nerves. He flinches before he frowns.
“And Blue,” Enthiel says, “He’d only just arrived before you did.” Enthiel says and Goosefat nods with his entire body.
“Yes!” Goosefat exclaims, lifting his hands into the air as though in celebration before he points at Arthur, “Before you stormed off! You’d dragged him out from beneath the dessert table.”
Arthur’s voice rings in his own ears. A scold strong in its echoes. The boy runs off with arms full of pastries before the memory collapses.
“The page is awfully attached to the lady’s maid,” Enthiel chuckles softly, amused by Blue’s fondness for his friend. If love could save the girl she’d be spared for eternity, Enthiel thinks, concern furrowing his brow when he remembers how ill the lady’s maid had become. The last few hours had worsened her condition. Enthiel feared she may not survive to see the next sunrise.
“Forgive me, Arthur-” Enthiel begins, eyes flitting to Goosefat as he knows he steps outside his formalities by addressing the King by his plain name- nevermind that Arthur had ordered it be so- but Enthiel intends to step even further outside his rank with his next inquiry. “I don’t mean to exceed my position but did you by any chance manage to collect any of those medicines?” Enthiel asks, earnesty written all over him.
Arthur sighs with a heavy shake of his head.
“No,” Arthur admits and Enthiel bites his lip, attempts to disguise his disappointment by scrawling something over the top of the parchment list Arthur had given him.
“Speak what ails you, Doctor,” Goosefat orders as Enthiel’s script shakes with his hand.
Enthiel shakes where he stands as though he’s his own patient. But alas, it’s poor Jennie. Shivering with fever and chill and he’s not the potion nor oil nor aid aside bedside vigil to offer her.
“Jennie grows weaker by the breath,” Enthiel says, hanging his head and Arthur’s hands become fists. His heart feels caught within them. Aching for Adelyn’s sake, for Blue’s. For all the power of being a King when he has the likes of rats within the reaches of his walls. Thieving and thwarting and scheming.
“What illness has ensnared her?” Goosefat asks, while Arthur had inquired “Where is she?”
Enthiel addresses his King first.
“Her mother’s quarters,” Enthiel supplies with sorrow, “I’ve done all that I can with what I have left-” Enthiel sags against his desk. “Her mother’s comfort is the only thing remaining. The only hope we have as it stands.”
“Against what?” Goosefat inquires more forcibly, Arthur’s recent bout of temporary amnesia not a common occurrence in his experience of the younger man. It reeks of conspiracy. The worst sort of foulness. The kind that would have a child experimented upon to measure the dosage needed to poison a fully grown man. A King.
But they’d underestimated him. Perhaps, they didn’t know of Arthur’s magic. The power in his blood. How far it would go to protect him.
“What do you mean?” Enthiel asks, confusion swarming his features as Arthur stalks the stained floors. Mind spinning along the path that Goosefat has set forth in it.
“Is it an infection or an infliction of the illest designs?” Goosefat all but shouts and Enthiel grasps his meaning with a look of jaw slackened horror before he stands straight. Spine lengthened to the height he usually slouches beneath but now he rushes to the shelves beyond Arthur. Tremoring hands scrabbling over the small bottles and vials with fervor.
“The list! Did I record it yet?” Enthiel cries, turning on his heel only for Arthur to meet him- a wall of intent blocking his path before Arthur speaks.
“Keep searching the shelves,” Arthur commands with a small shove, enough to spin Enthiel back to the scrawled bottles. Arthur didn’t have a hope in hell of reading those labels- but the list he could manage well enough with how many times he and the herbalist had poured over it.
“What do you search for, doctor?: Goosefat says as he snatches the list and thrusts it into Arthur’s grip.
“Saltpetre!” Enthiel responds, voice louder than Arthur had ever heard it. The thud of bottles hitting wood accenting his urgency while Arthur and Goosefat butted heads to scan the list.
“It’s not written here!” Arthur shouts, allowing a small smile to grace his features while Goosefat spent a moment longer to check their efforts twice. Enthiel doesn’t reply save for increasing his speed of frantically reading labels. Arthur’s hope lasts the moment it takes to register that Enthiel has barely scoured a quarter of one shelf that spans the entire length of the wall- Gods, there were so many bottles left.How long could Jennie last?
Goosefat lifts his gaze, and surmises the same as Arthur with a curse.
“Saltpetre,” Goosefat says under his breath. Over and over like he’s trying to recall a dream.
“Saltpetre?” Goosefat’s tone shifts to something incredulous, peaking Arthur’s focus from the fistful of vials he was attempting to read.
“Like black powder?” Goosefat asks and Enthiel’s hands halt over the shelves.
“Yes! Exactly, yes!” Enthiel says, and Goosefat shoots Arthur a wicked grin.
“Well, I know where we can find entire barrels worth of that!” Goosefat says, all but skipping to the tower exit.
A short visit to the castle armory and the three men arrive in the servant’s wing. Tucked behind the kitchens is Adelyn’s and Jennie’s room where they find the mother embracing her daughter in their lone bed. A solemn mood falls over the hopeful trio. As much as Enthiel had exclaimed the nature of the cure- he’d been cautious to restrain their expectations lest the medicine not be administered in time.
The child looks pale. A sheen of sweat over her face. In the dim candlelight, her chest barely lifts and falls with breath. Adelyn moves to stand and address the King and the doctor, but Arthur bends to meet her instead.
“My deepest apologies, Adelyn,,” Arthur offers, hand cradling the sweaty forehead of Jennie while his other hand grasps Adelyn’s. She holds onto him with a fierceness, as though to draw strength before she can speak. Somehow, she keeps her composure, Arthur remembers how Maggie used to do the same for him when he was ill.
“Thank you, my Lord,” Adelyn whispers, “Thank you! Doctor Enthiel’s care of my child has been appreciated.” she says, although her lip trembles when she continues, “She’s comfortable, is all a mother of my stature can ask.”
Enthiel strides forward with the procured substance.
“It’s alright to ask for more, Adelyn,” Enthiel says, pouring a spoonful of salt beneath Jennie’s tongue.
“But we must pray now.” Enthiel states, tucking Jennie’s mouth closed with gentle care.
In the cramped room they wait. For hours they take turns caring for and monitoring mother and child. Slowly, like the tide on a new moon- Jennie gains strength. Eventually, she thrashes- pulls air into her lungs to wail for her mother and they all release the breath they’d been holding.
Stepping out of earshot while Enthiel takes note of Jennie’s vitals- Goosefat and Arthur find refuge in the silent kitchen as sunrise greets them through the small windows. They share a tired sigh.
“What do you make of this?” Goosefat asks, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. He’d not slept the previous night either- had been busy searching for Arthur.
Arthur swallows around the lump in his throat. Lodged there since Jennie’s drained form had reminded him of Ellie and all the other girls in the brothel to suffer from an infected, weak heart.
“Whoever poisoned her… whatever they used.. It went for her heart,” Arthur says.
Goosefat nods, staring at Arthur’s chest. The list tucked back in his vest. Goosefat reaches forth and plucks it from its pocket, unfolding the parchment to consider Enthiel’s addition along with the rest.
“I suppose somewhere here is the antidote,” he says, offering the page for Arthur’s consideration.
“Aye,” Arthur nods, “And we’d be best not to delay its procurement,” Arthur says before Goosefat plucks it from its grasp once more.
“There are duties you should delegate, my liege” Goosefat scolds but Arthur grabs the list back before shoving it into a deeper pocket of his vest.
“I already have,” Arthur says, a flush running through him when Goosefat regards him with renewed interest that not even his fatigue can disguise.
“Oh!” Goosefat says, sarcasm dripping from the exclamation, “Pray tell who you’ve kept company with when all you could recall of this day was tramping through the woods with but only the wind between your ears.”
Arthur averts his gaze from the older man.
“She must be worth remembering,” Goosefat implores, leaning further into Arthur to catch his gaze but Jennie’s cries interrupts their conversation. Enthiel’s head appears at the doorway, brows furrowed.
“She calls for the page,” Enthiel says and Arthur lifts his brow.
“Where is that troublesome boy anyways?” Goosefat murmurs.
“He’ll turn up somewhere,” Arthur assures Enthiel even though worry strikes through him like a lance. Sometime soon, Arthur prayed. What with all the child poisoners about. Enthiel disappears just in time for a burst of magic to thrum at the center of Arthur’s chest- close enough that Goosefat slaps it out of surprise.
“Gods, you need to get a grasp on that, and quick,” Goosefat says.
“M’sorry,” Arthur says, a breathlessness to his voice like the stone in his throat had wedged its way back from earlier. The white of his magic shining on the waterline of his eyes as he blinks away tears of worry.
“He’s a clever lad, Arthur” Goosefat offers softly, and the magic that thrums alongside Arthur’s heart settles for a few beats. “He’s bright enough to stay clear of that sort of trouble.”
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heart set in stone series | chapter 6 | the proposal
Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Main Masterlist | UPDATE TO SERIES RATING/ WARNINGS |
Pairing: King Arthur X F!Reader
Summary: Arthur tries to remember the previous night.
Rating: T. Eventually Explicit. All my blogs and works are 18+ regardless of rating. Minors do not interact.
Warnings: Angst, descriptions of being drugged, amnesia, alcohol, in my Goosefat feels, the plot thickens
Words: 2.2k
A/N: i feel like this series has so much set up but it’s all good bc i am having fun
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Arthur leaves the herbalist in the clearing on the agreement they will meet there again in two days time. She promises to provide what she can from the list tucked into Arthur’s vest. He’d offered it to her- but she refused with a small frown.
“I cannot bring more than a handful of those items without visiting the city,” she said, leaning heavily to one side and Arthur could have smacked himself for forgetting her injured foot. His head feels full of wool since he woke. The cold dip in the stream barely cleared it for a few breaths. The only reprieve seems to be when it's cleaved by a wicked pain from the sun shining daggers into his eyes.
“Whatever you can, will be deeply appreciated,” Arthur says, quickly adding, “I-the King- will provide payment for it. To compensate you for your time and of course- efforts,” he says, gaze falling to where she stands and he has to restrain himself from offering to assist her to where she resides. Her wariness of him only assuaged earlier by the list in his hands. She’d leaned over his shoulder to read it then and now despite the pain it caused her- the distance between them returns to a considerate degree. Arthur understands. They are still strangers.
Returning to the castle, the small smile and curt wave she’d given him when he left remains in his mind's eye most of the journey. Small steps in this strange companionship that was forming between them. Smaller even than the ones she took as she hobbled over to her crop and Arthur had wanted to take giant strides to her when she wavered fiercely as she bent to collect the watering can.
But Arthur finds himself taking even larger strides as he nears the castle. The forest thinning as he approached, his mind seeming to clear as well. The thick fog that had settled in his head breaking, the pain behind his eyes dissipating. Arthur had no idea what had happened the previous night. All he knew was the splitting headache, the surprise list and the feel of river stone in his gut. A sinking sense. Like he hadn’t surfaced for air until his eyes opened this morning.
Something wasn’t right.
This knowing creeps beneath his skin like the chill of an illness. An energy pushing against his form and its the same magic as when he wields the sword only less and yet somehow more.
Infinitely more. Insidiously more. Arthur feels like he did before the Badlands. Before the Mage taught him how to control the magic of the sword. To control his fates.
The magic in him is unmoored now. Again. Adrift in his being like when he’d floated up to the docks of Londinium the morning after his parent’s deaths. It’s unanchored. Something- or someone- Arthur can’t be sure which- has shaken it loose from his carefully built restraint.
Ever since Vortigern fell Arthur had felt like he stood on solid ground. That his foundations had finally been set to rights. Remembering his past, his family- his father. Stepping into his new role while awkward and incredibly intimidating- at least his power had settled. Soothed like a beast stroked into submission. A calmness in him like when Maggie pet his head after a nightmare. Her fingers carding through his hair- over scrapes and bumps earned from gambling in the streets with dice or guards or George…. All of it erased beneath her maternal energy as he was lulled to dreamless sleep.
That’s how Arthur slept last night. If he even slept during the dark or passed out closer to sunrise he wasn’t even sure. How he ended up in the clearing he couldn’t discern beyond the evidence of how he awoke. Arthur could recall nothing of the previous night or evening- except when he left Enthiel in the tower but not anything beyond. The green glass of its windows glimmers in the sunlight, like a giant eye staring down at him as he enters the rear gates.
There’s a buzzing in his ears and it has nothing to do with how the castle is bustling with energy. A tension in the air and eyes of his servants as they hurry around him. Most avoid him as usual- some stumble to a surprised halt at the sight of him. A quick curtsey or royal acknowledgement before they’re off again. Whispers ricochet off his back and Arthur resists the urge to whirl into the wake of darting eyes and hushed tones that follow him and demand an explanation. These people don’t know him like his crew and girls did. They don’t know his visage from the ruler before him. His limited patience in the face of not knowing would be mistaken for his uncle’s wrath.
Maggie knew how much it bothered Arthur when he didn’t know the latest gossip. When he was late to the greenest word germ being ground in the rumor mill. Jack’s Eye’s snide remark “For the first time I know something that you don’t” and how it slid under Arthur’s skin like a sliver lodged just shy of where his nail could dig it out. Deep enough to fester. Taking residence in Arthur’s smirk. Only a little offset in his annoyance that no one knew the difference except Back Lack and Wet Stick while he listened to the Sargent speak before all of this started. Before he invoked the legend in his blood.
Arthur catches a few words in the whisperings but not enough to make sense of it. Princess, war… none of it was new these last few weeks since the Havenport lot had made themselves guests of his kingdom. But something about the urgency of the servants as they worked- most carrying crates and travel boxes about- something about how their eyes carried concern and caution makes Arthur pick up his pace.
Arthur enters the round table room to the exclamation of his name by the Havenport’s official.
“King Arthur. At last he deigns us worthy of his presence!” Cecil exclaims, a mix of outrage and Arthur doesn’t fail to notice how he all but spits the title with as much disgust as the drunken councilman can manage over his wine slick lips. Goosefat is striding towards Arthur as soon as he spies his arrival. The older man’s face stricken with both relief and that ever present crease between his brow that presses the line of his lips into a near constant frown.
“My liege, thank the Lord you are safe” Goosefat says, embracing Arthur in a solid hug, catching Arthur off guard with how hard Goosefat squeezes- pressing all the breath from his lungs. Any questions he has forced into gritted silence while Cecil’s chair scrapes across the floor. Before Arthur can resist Goosefat’s fierce embrace, Goosefat’s voice is low and urgent where it whispers in his ear.
“There’s something amiss, Arthur. First, your absence and then the announcement,” Goosefat pulls away at the final word, gaze sweeping over Arthur’s face with a ferociousness. Like he’s trying to discern if Arthur has derived any meaning from the word as though it held a spell and he wishes to see if Arthur’s form had ensnared it.
Arthur grits his jaw, lifts a brow to convey how utterly lost he is in this not-conversation, returning his friend's look with equal force until Goosefat’s jaw drops a fraction. A flicker of something Arthur would akin to horror if he didn’t know the man better. But Goosefat’s a highly educated man. Had served as hand to the King- Arthur’s father- for many years. He was too practiced in dealing with kingdom politics and the likes of men like Mercia to let his emotions overwhelm him. And yet when he finds the swirl of confusion in Arthur’s eyes- the stern facade of the older man slips for a fraction of a breath. It only serves to stir Arthur’s concern further. But then Goosefat collects himself within the next blink of an eye and nods once to Arthur before he turns on his foot, stepping to meet the tipsy sway of Cecil before he can approach Arthur any further.
“I’m afraid you’re not the only one reeking of ale and wine, Cecil,” Goosefat says, gathering up Cecil’s waving arms with a sure sweep of his own before he tottles him towards one of the sitting rooms that hug the great hall. Goosefat allows all of his usually well concealed snark into his tone, forcing Cecil to focus on the affront instead of Arthur’s condition.
“Our King must rest. Have you tried our latest vintage of Gallian wine? It seems our King has indulged in it well last night,” Goosefat all but casts the remark over his shoulder to Arthur even though Cecil barely gazes in his direction. Occupied with Goosefat’s mother henning and suggestive corralling to give Arthur any more consideration.
Arthur adopts a sway to his gait nonetheless while he approaches the round table. Not that it’s difficult to recreate the falsehood of one too many drinks. He’d used this farce many times in his previous life. The head splitting ache behind his eyes lends itself well to the act he puts on while his gaze cuts away from Goosefat’s herding of the councilman into a daybed so plush that even Arthur’s strength prevents him from exiting it with grace and ease even. The councilman seems to all but drown in the fabric. Goosefat hums satisfactorily when the councilman barks for his goblet. Arthur examines the round table, the parchment freckled with wine where Cecil had sat previously.
In the background, Goosefat orders a page to keep Cecil’s goblet full before Arthur hears the lock of the door latch and Arthur wonders which unlucky scribe gets to inherit herding duties. Goosefat’s footsteps approach as Arthur lifts the parchment up. Goosefat slaps it to the intricately carved wood, meeting Arthur’s gaze with an anger he’s apparently reserved for only Arthur’s appreciation.
“Where have you been?” Goosefat interrogates, snatching the parchment up with the rest of the pile beneath it before he casts it onto a side table with as much grace as though he was tossing a waste bucket's contents out of a window.
Arthur lifts a brow when Goosefat stalks across the space between the side table and the round one- eyes severe on Arthur’s form like he has a lecture to unleash no matter how Arthur answers.
“The woods,” Arthur says simply. So plainly that Goosefat pauses in his stride before his hands contort into fists and he pounds them on the parchments. The loud thunk echoes throughout the round table room while Goosefat remains hunched over it like he wishes the sound had stopped his heart. Like every resounding thunkthunkthunk the giant room reflects would collapse beneath it.
Goosefat laughs dryly when he rises to his full height after a few breaths and if Arthur was concerned before- he’s now well worried. Goosefat has only been this out of sorts once before in Arthur’s experience.
The day he pierced Mercia with an arrow.
“The woods,” Goosefat repeats on a husk of a chuckle, like Arthur had told him he’d stepped out of a fairytale instead. The shake of Goosefat’s head's near constant as he stares at the parchment as though it details both their deaths. Gory dealings. No glory to be had if Arthur were to take Goosefat’s fallen features at their face value.
“You truly haven’t, have you?” Goosefat asks finally, an almost fearful gaze meeting Arthur’s crestfallen one.
“Haven’’t what?” Arthur retorts and Goosefat laughs but there’s no humor in his eyes when they take in all of Arthur’s earnesty before they fall to the ground before he sighs.
“Well, it matters not whether you have or haven’t. As the entire kingdom knows it now- you have,” Goosefat all but growls the words out- frustration giving way from his reluctance to believe what he says and it jumps over Arthur’s nerves.
“Have what?” Arthur exclaims, wondering where all of Goosefat’s usual directness had disappeared to while Goosefat stares at him. Hesitation in his features- like he’s holding a breath and had been for an eternity. Like he’d rather the knowledge he keeps- that burns in his gut and mind- would consume him instead. Would heat the air he breathes with flame until it choked him of words. So that his friend’s heir would never know the weight of them and the hellfire that approached them and their kingdom.
With a reluctance on his tongue- heavy so that it reminds him of his first months of council to the King Uhtred- when he’d been a green lad not yet assured enough in how much his King would give merit to his words- Goosefat speaks to the man who’d been but a babe in his arms once.
A child with a regal life ahead of him. A different path if Vortigern had been half as honorable as the man that stood before him. Arthur could have led a much different life if it weren’t for the trifling of those that shared his blood. One with love of his family surrounding him. His father and his mother and cousins. Goosefat grits his teeth over the words because there would have always been risk.
Undoubtedly- eventually- there would have been pain. Either way Arthur may have faced this day- and yet all he had was Goosefat to keep him safe. While Arthur wasn’t alone- Goosefat couldn’t help but wonder if it would be enough as the words left him.
“You’re engaged to be wed.”
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Thank you for reading!! Please engage if you enjoyed- likes, comments and reblogs mean ✨ e v e r y t h i n g ! ✨Thank you friend! ^_^ 💖💖💖
Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Main Masterlist | UPDATE TO SERIES RATING/ WARNINGS |
Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Main Masterlist | UPDATE TO SERIES RATING/ WARNINGS |
Pairing: King Arthur x F!Reader
Summary: The next morning, you discover Arthur passed out by the plot of elvium.
Rating: T. Will be E for later chapters. All my works and blogs are 18+ only. Minors do not interact.
Words: 4.7k
Warnings: Descriptions of previously drunk/ currently hungover Arthur, mild fear, brief mentions of drowning, descriptions of injury and pain. Mild swearing. Sweet Arthur.
A/N: this dynamic is so much fun- Reader keeps thinking about the new King meanwhile he's right in front of herrrr hehehehehe
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The Plot
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Early the next morning you traverse the path back to the clearing. The journey slowed by your throbbing ankle. Each step is an agony but you grit your teeth and carry on. The forest is about to burst with green. Fresh buds are beginning to crack open. There’s a warmth to the air even though the sun barely crests the horizon- but you still haven’t shaken off the previous night’s chill.
You hadn’t slept. By the time you’d made it halfway home last night, you could see your breath in front of you. Worry chilling you to your core further as the moisture disappeared into the cold night. Clutched in your arms now are a threadbare stack of blankets. Every last one you owned save for the one on your bed. All you can spare and you hope it’s better than nothing. Although, there may be nothing to save if the frost has already killed your crop.
Rounding the bottom of the fallen giant oak, the cause of almost all your stress is nearly in sight. The crooked, pitiful elvium plot may have stood a chance with the heavy clumps of clover insulating it. Lifting your gaze from the ground, past the bundle of fabric to evaluate the crop only for your injured foot to catch on a large root.
With a sharp hiss you collapse. The blankets take most of the brunt of your fall however the grass of the clearing is wet beneath your fingers. A frightening sign and although it hurts- you push off the ground to stand only for your ankle to protest at the movement. A few undignified sounds later you’ve managed to put most of your weight on your good leg and start gathering the blankets into your reach so you can right yourself and not have to bend for them after.
In the ungraceful process- past your quiet curses and wincing- you notice a sound of distress. Your hands stop their grasping of fabric. Heart slams against your ribs while you freeze- ears straining to locate the sound, head swiveling until they land on a fallen form on the other side of the clearing that you failed to notice earlier due to your clumsiness.
It’s the guard from before.
He lays just beyond the patch of elvium- eyes closed and sprawled out like he’d taken a tumble himself. Standing in silence- not wanting to alert him to your presence lest he be pretending and trying to lure you into some sort of trap- you observe from a far for a long while. Until the sun comes out in full. His brows pinching when it shines upon his face- and he twitches- mumbling like he’s caught in a nightmare.
Hobbling closer- you take in the rest of him. He’s dressed even nicer than before. A blue vest with fine gold embroidery that gleams even though he’s gone and covered it in dirt. A nice pair of trousers- some fine leather boots. A sturdy belt supporting a sword and its sheathe- engraved leather like nothing you’d ever seen before. His golden hair blowing softly in the wind- passed out and reeking of ale.
You nearly consider ignoring him- but the chill of winter hasn’t fully broken and if you let a King’s guard die of exposure in these woods- especially with him protecting your illustrious garden- then surely you’d be hanged.
Probably slowly.
With a sigh- you cautiously approach. One blanket grasped in your hand, the other on your toothpick of a dagger- quickly realizing the uselessness of them both once you get closer.
There’s a blanket underneath him- clutched to his chest. It looks warmer than all the ones you brought combined. At his hip is a sword- one of his legs is drawn up to offset how it pokes into the ground and sets his frame at an awkward angle. It’s an impressive sword. Intricate. Wide and heavy looking. It puts your meager dagger to shame.
Still, your grip on it tightens when you crouch beside him, the comfort of the metal in your palm emboldens you to examine him up close. Pain shoots up your leg but you bite off your discomfort, not wanting to alert him to your presence- as unconscious as he appears to be he’s still a stranger. Still unsafe. An unpredictable element to your lonely project.
You could leave him here.
He’d wake from his drunken stupor and stumble back to his duties- none the wiser that he’d been discovered. Or nearly died of exposure.
Maybe you should stay with him just to lecture him when he wakes.What a role reversal that would be? Last time he’d challenged you on the rabbit traps. This time you could be the solemn deliverer of dangerous predicaments.
It’s appealing.
As is he.
Up close he’s even more breathtaking. In the safety of his unconsciousness, you admire him.
Golden hair drawn loose from the paste or oil he used to slick it back the first day you saw him- whatever he’d gotten up to last night has disheveled it. Leaves and twigs weave into the strands. A clump of lichen here, a fresh sprig of birch sapling there. A cluster of burrs behind his ear.
He doesn’t move or mumble like before- eyes closed in a deep rest although he flinches sometimes. The rise and fall of his chest is too quick and there’s a sheen of sweat over his brow. Too afraid to touch him- you observe the pulse fluttering in his throat just below the sharp cut of his jaw. Its thrum seems strong. Hovering your palm over him- there’s a heat pouring off his frame like he’s caught a fever.
Carefully, your ankle screaming at the movement, you unfold the blanket and drape it over him.
Satisfied with your attempt to save him for the moment, you turn to focus on the elvium when a crunching sound comes from your boot. Beneath it, a bouquet of recently pulled starsium spears lays at his side.
Huh.
You hadn’t seen this plant around here before. Only the town over had any decent wild crops as far as you were aware. These must be located closer to the castle- a direction of travel that you understandably avoid.
Upon closer inspection; the outer bark near the base of each stem has been stripped as though to prepare them for relocating.
Curious.
It appears the rabbit hunter was keen to protect the elvium seedlings further last night. Planting these would both protect the seedlings and encourage them to grow fuller. A synergistic relationship where both parties benefit. Separate they’d do just fine on their own- but together- they’d thrive.
It’s an appealing bargain. Similar to the one you’d inadvertently struck up with the unconscious man before you.
But he’s still unknown to you. And based on the brief glances you made to the elvium- you had a lot of work ahead of you. Not wanting to be distracted by the still possible threat, you decide to alleviate some of your worries. With some difficulty, you unsheathe his sword and hide it beneath some shrubs at the edge of the clearing. It’s heavier than you expect, and with your bad ankle it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to complete the task.
The man doesn’t rouse at all. It’s almost concerning.You decide if he doesn’t wake by the time the sun reaches midway through the sky- you’ll do something more active than passive observation. For now, you’d place your bets on too much ale and activities.
During your journey home the previous night, the noise from the castle had been boisterous. While there’d been many parties held every evening for many weeks now- last night had been especially lively. The far off sound of music and people enjoying their night had accompanied you during your entire journey- even while you’d collected all the blankets and began your return to the clearing.
Now, there was only birdsong and the sound of the forest as it woke from its wintry slumber.
It seems the remaining party goers had tired themselves out much the same as this man. Although, you don’t suspect any of the others had decided to end their night with gardening tasks- especially rescue efforts.
The rest of the morning is spent completing your own first aid to the elvium. Planting the starsium, watering all of it, collecting sticks so you can set up a cover when the sun gets too intense during the middle of the day. Trimming the frost damaged leaves away, checking for other signs of distress and disease. You work slowly, your efforts halted at times by your foot. Always ensuring to be mindful to never turn your back fully on the stranger, or let your focus become too involved in your work-pausing every time the man moves in his slumber to ensure he isn’t going to cause you trouble.
It meant a lot of time staring at him after he’d thrashed through another nightmare. Long moments of observing his face and form and ensuring it wasn’t going to become a problem for you. It’d been a long time since you’d watched a man sleep… your husband has been dead for many years now.. And your work keeps you occupied and alone. Which is how you preferred things, you reminded yourself as you quietly admired the man’s face.
He was pretty… and you were only keeping an eye to ensure he was okay.
The sun has almost reached its apex in the sky when you decide it’s time to use the sticks you’d gathered earlier. You’d already dug small holes on each corner of the plot- and now it was time to hammer the stakes in place- but you needed something heavy. Mulling over the decision, you decide to search for a rock or sturdy branch. On the edge of the clearing, you spot a promising piece of wood in the underbrush when there’s a flurry of movement behind you.
The man bursts upright- body snapping into action before his mind catches up. His chest heaves beneath his vest like he’s never known a breath of air. All the blankets cast aside while his hands scramble over his frame- then the earth around him. Gulping great mouthfuls of air- he seems to be swimming where he sits- head on swivel while he searches for what you assume is his sword before his gaze locks on you where you crouch at the forests edge.
Shite.
If he becomes angry you wouldn’t be able to run- at least not far.
Fighting was your best chance.
At least he didn’t have his sword within reach- although you now realize this very well may be the point of contention.
Deciding having a back up to your pathetic dagger may be of use, you scramble to collect the branch you’d found- eyes darting to the bush you’d hidden his sword beneath and his gaze follows before he’s staggering to his feet. Gritting your teeth, you bury the cry of pain as your hands wrench the wood from the dirt, your ankle feeling like it might snap. Ignoring the discomfort in favor of the impending one of dealing with a potentially angry, disarmed drunk, you hoist the heavy branch into your grasp and turn to confront the man- certain he’s already reached his sword only to spot him stumbling the opposite direction of your prediction.
He crosses the clearing- his gait stuttering as he peels off his vest and then the shirt beneath it before he disappears into the line of trees. Curiosity overcomes your fear- and you follow from a safe distance- even further than you may have chosen if it weren’t for your bad leg.
By the time you catch up, the man staggers into the stream- his boots shucked off with as much grace as a newborn deer at the river's edge before he enters the water. You know it’s cold- enough to hurt- but he walks into it without so much as an ounce of hesitation.
Gods, could he truly be that off his head with ale still?, you wonder- concern growing fierce when he drops himself up to his shoulders and then further. His golden crown disappearing below the water’s surface.
For all the gods, you curse, approaching the river’s edge- your foot protesting your increased speed as you search the dark depths for any sign of him once you reach the riverbank. Wild concern thrums through your veins and you discard the branch, begin toeing off your boots and are in the midst of stepping into the river while wrenching off your vest when the man reappears.
A burst of water- a flip of his hair before his hand swipes the drops clear from his eyes and then his face. His gaze lands on you before his hand falls from his mouth and there’s a grin wide save for the chattering of his teeth behind it.
“Did I truly make this water look so appealing that you’d care to join me?” The man asks after a considerate glance at your one barefoot already planted in the frigid water and the disheveled state of your clothes. His voice hoarse from sleep and the cold as it strikes into his lungs yet you can hear the tease ring sharp as a bell within it.
Indignation singes through your blood because he’s standing up now- the water sliding down his form and you’d been too concerned for his well being before to notice the state of his being- but gods, why does he have to look like that? Even shivering, hunched in on himself, he cannot dwarf the broadness of his shoulders nor the width of his chest. The long, lean lines of his frame have you staring a moment too long as you try to formulate a response. It’s a moment he notices too- because his smile draws impossibly wider and he takes a deeper breath to speak- peering at you from the bottom of his brow with a charm that reminds you of your youth.
For the gods you should have let him drown, you curse, cutting him off before he can throw some other smart quip at you.
“I thought you were drowning-”, you retort- the exasperation clear in your voice but the answer is tinged with embarrassment. Adjusting your vest, you cross your arms over yourself- eyes casting back to the branch. Anyone else would have let him- you think- too many folk remember the cruel time of King Vortigern. Loyalty to the new king and his unknown guard was at an all time low. And who were you to cast yourself into a stream and save one- all to likely get a chill that’d have you bedridden for weeks or worse.
“Nevermind then,” you say, shoving your foot back into your boot only to remember it's your bad foot but it’s too late. You manage to bury most of the pained cry behind your lips- but part of it bursts out- and you can’t disguise the way you crumple to the ground. Your fingers tightening around the worn leather of your boot as your vision blurs- tears brimming at the edges maybe less for the pain than for putting yourself in such a dumb situation all for a stranger.
The sound of splashing water comes strong past your muffled sounds of pain and you lift your head- frozen for a moment as the man moves towards you. There’s concern in his eyes but you scramble to stand anyway, your wariness of him still strong.
Seeming to register your fear of him and his closing radius- he pauses- hands lifted like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse- but he’s shivering so violently that you swallow your worry and nod at him to continue out of the chilly depths.
Slowly, he strides out of the river but adjusts his path- doesn’t approach you straight on anymore. Instead, he deviates to the side and pulls on his own boots- gaze held forwards- considerate of your awkward and graceless attempts to put yourself upright.
“Did you twist it in your hurry to save me?” The man asks plainly before he sits himself on the rocks of the bank, no hint of tease in his voice and you shake your head furiously with a sharp sigh.
“No,” you reply and he nods with a small hum, darting his blue eyes to meet yours when you give up your attempt to stand in favor of wrangling the boot onto your foot fully. The joint of your ankle is hot and swollen- and you loosen the straps of your boot to allow more ease when putting it on. Unfortunately, the state of your boots means you need to tie the straps quite a bit in order for them to stay on effectively- and you cringe at the impending pain.
The man sits silently beside you- seeming to mind your progress with caution- concern furrowing his brow even as he shakes himself silly for the chill of the water and wind beside you.
You tip your head behind you, motioning to the clearing.
“There’s blankets,” you offer, “And the sun is out today. You should warm up before you catch a chill,” you say, hoping he’ll take his leave and let you continue your boot and ankle mending process by your lonesome.This next part would be far from pretty and you’ve embarrassed yourself enough for today.
Quietly, he stands- staring at you with one raised brow. A silent offer of assistance like he knows if he puts words to, you’ll be even less inclined to accept, and while it’s kind- you still shake your head in return. With a small nod he strides away through the forest, less wobbly than he was before.
A painful while later, you’ve managed to wrestle your boot into place and hobble back to the clearing with your previously collected branch. Along the way, you note your ankle roars with pain at every step- more than this morning. It’s enough that you have to pause and lean against a tree for a few moments- and that’s where you find a crumpled piece of parchment. Bending to collect it, you note the wax stamp with the King’s emblem on it. It must belong to the guard, so you fold it and place it in your pocket so it doesn’t become covered in dirt from your branch.
The man sits off to the side of the meadow, one of your blankets pulled around his shoulders. Watching your progress as you approach- he seems more worried and displeased as you limp closer, an unhappy hum when you don’t take a rest and simply pick up where you’d left off with the elvium before the river debacle.
Lining up one of the stakes, you lift the heavy branch and begin whacking it into the ground. It’s difficult- given you’re leaning onto one leg and you can feel the man’s stare boring into you.
Thwack thwack thwack. The stake ends up crooked and wiggly- not good enough to support the fabric cover you plan to attach to it. With a huff you begin wrenching it from the dirt, having to pause when you place too much weight on your bad foot. The edges of your vision whiting out for a few breaths.
Sweat from the beating sun collects on your brow. Tingle along your spine and you sigh when you catch the man still staring although he watches your progress with equal consideration.
“It isn’t proper to stare,” you toss over your shoulder, before another round of thwack’s begin. The man pinches his brow like the sound grates on his last nerve.
“Isn’t proper to disarm a sleeping man,” he mumbles back, voice rough like slate shearing off the cliffs but there’s no sharp edge to it. He just sounds tired.
“And what would the King say of you passing out in his woods? Would he say it’s proper of his guard?” you retort, adding another thwack to your statement.
The man lifts his head- a smirk on his face while he squints at you, keen to avoid the sun’s kiss as it crests in the sky and falls into what must feel like directly in his brain.
“It might not be proper but he can’t do anything about it now,” he says, smiling like he’s just made an inner jest and you struggle to respond- disarmed by the flash of his teeth. How he’s managed to look devastatingly handsome even while he’s dreadfully hungover.
He’s an awful distraction. Annoyingly charming. The stick snaps in your hand and you drop the heavy branch with a growl of frustration. At that, the man stands- blanket falling from his shoulders like a cape- before he strides away. Directly towards the shrubs where his sword is hidden. Bending, he collects the weapon and returns to where he’d sat- standing a considerate distance from you- one eyebrow raised while he holds the sword like he would a tool and not the weapon it is.
Everything about his posturing invokes sincerity. Safety. There’s a plea in his blue gaze, Let me help you.
With a sigh you step back- allow him space to enter yours and he maintains a distance that allows you to feel safe while he picks up your stakes and begins planting them in the ground the way you’d intended but couldn’t execute as effectively as he does.
Gods, you could barely lift that sword with two hands and your arms shook like seedlings in a storm, you marvel while he handles the weapon with one hand- hammering the hilt of it against the stakes in quick order.
When he’s done he sheathes the sword and lays it beside the pile of blankets before selecting one and unfolding it next to the crop, eyes casting between it and the size of the posts he’s set up. When he spots the starsium amidst the crop he smiles.
“Good, you planted them,” he says, voice soft with amusement before he nods at one end of the blanket and you bend to collect it while he grasps the other.
“Do you have rope?”” he asks while you lay the blanket over the posts.
Reaching into your pocket to get the string you’d brought, you remember the parchment, pulling out the paper and holding it forward.
Brows pinching in curiosity, he leans over as though he means to collect it- fingers brushing yours. His skin is hot- verging on fever if you didn’t know he’d just swum in a river still yet cooled by winter’s ice. What feels like a spark thrums through the brief touch. A powerful surge that you recognize in an instant.
Magic.
Instead of plucking the letter from your grip, he pulls the cord around your wrist that you’d produced from your pocket before the parchment. Unwinding some until he’s satisfied, he snaps the cord with his fingers and begins tying the fabric to the stakes.
Placing the parchment on the fabric between you, suspended like a carriage on a drawbridge, you continue setting up the fabric cover until the linen is taught between the posts and the letter lists in the breeze.
Only once the task is complete does he focus on the parchment. Plucking it from the center of the fabric, he wanders to the lonely stump in the middle of the field and takes a rest against it. Snapping the wax, he opens the letter and a serious consideration falls over his features as he reads.
You’re left to evaluate the new addition to your plot, installed just in time as the heat from the sun warms your skin and would undoubtedly crisp the seedlings. Setting it up on your own likely would have taken you until sunset- and it would have listed over at the first strong breeze.
Casting a glance at the stranger, you hobble closer to give your thanks when his regard for the letter turns sour.He curses softly, head hanging between his arms where they rest on his knees- the letter clenched in his fist before he lifts his head and his other hand- his fingers carding through his hair in a tic of stress.
As you approach, you can’t help but wonder what has caused such anxiety, your eyes flick to the page. There’s a long list of medicinal herbs and artifacts upon it. The title of it all, “Procure Without Delay”.
“That’s a long list to collect,” you say, and the man nearly startles- eyes cutting to you and where you stand at his shoulder, peering over it to read the familiar names of plants and parts.
“Aye,” he sighs in agreement, “And I barely understand any of it let alone where to find it,” he admits with a tick of his jaw, the words written in their proper Latin names, abbreviated too nonetheless. Enthiel's scribbles barely legible to Arthur's sober mind let alone hungover.
“I could help,” you offer and he searches your face for a moment to note the sincerity there before he smiles. It’s a small curve to his lips- not the full teeth of his first grin . It suits him somehow more. The silent appreciation, strength accepting strength- not the roguish slant of knowing his own capabilities- but noting that of where he lacks and where others can assist.
You’d been feeling guilty that all you had to offer in thanks were your words- but now you had something you could do to help in return for his aid to you today and in the days prior. The rabbit stew, the clover, the blanket he’d brought to fight the frost- the starsium seedlings.
All of that and then he’d helped with the stakes… hungover no less. Perhaps to avoid your struggling work and how the sound must have been stabbing into his head... but he still helped.
You could pare down a bit of this list, you think. Sitting on the stump at his back, you carefully arrange your bad leg so you could read the letter. He lifts the page for your ease, his own eyes downcast- examining the length of skin your dress has revealed, noting the swollen joint within your boot and wishing you'd let him do something about it.
There’s a mix of common and rare herbs and plants- some you had ready access to- others, like the elvium also listed, you would have to procure or produce. A few artifacts, animal parts, magically imbued items- if you didn’t know where to find them, you knew who to ask about where to look.
By the time you’d read over the list a handful of times, planning how you'd begin to collect the items, you’d unknowingly become lost in the task, your hand clasping the page until you’d drawn it towards your face, drawing his arm towards you as well. There’s a small cough beyond the ink, breaking your focus for you to feel the weight of his arm over your thighs as he releases his grip on the paper and rearranges himself so as to not crowd you.
Still your legs are against his side, and his closeness is like a pulse. The thrum of magic that emanates off him can’t be ignored and neither can the close quarters.
Gods, if anyone were to spot the two of you they’d think you were two lovers stealing a moment alone together, you think, heat thrumming through your entire frame.
You could ask him about the magic. But was that inappropriate?
Hello, I don’t know your name but why do you have a magical field about you sir?
His name.
Suddenly you blurt out your own. The man turns his head in consideration- quiet for a moment until he breathes it out like he’s savoring a spoonful of honey. He smiles by the end of it. Swallowing before he gives his own, apprehension in his features.
“Arthur,” he offers, eyes darting to yours and you can feel him hold his breath. The way his frame stills against yours like he’s expecting a certain reaction.
“Thank you, Arthur,” you offer in return and he relaxes into the stump, leaning his head back, eyes closed against the sun and all you see is the shine of his smile and you can’t help your own.
It'd been many years since you could glory in the closeness of another. Share the burden- the joys.
It’d been a long time since Arthur was just Arthur.
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Pairing: King Arthur x f!Reader
Summary: Arthur is still getting used to his new roles.
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: ANGST, grief, angst (there's a lot), hurt/comfort featuring Blue (a child), mentions of child abuse (Princess Haworthia is a piece of work y'all), mentions of injury to a child- a bruise and a cut, mentions of a sick child, angry!arthur, sad!Arthur :( , this is emotionally whumpy, Arthur has A LOT on his plate, Arthur needs a goddamn hug
Rating: Teen/Mature, eventually Explicit in future chapters. All my works and blogs are 18+ only. Minors DO NOT INTERACT.
A/N: this story is still spinning like a rotisserie chicken in my mind- hoping this summer I'll have more time/ energy for writing. miss y'all. thanks for your support during this begrudgingly extended hiatus 💖💖💖
Songs listened to while writing: y'all really wanna angst it up? (me in the background: YAAAAASSS) Listen to Innocence and Sadness by Dermot Kennedy as this song heavily inspired a lot of this chapter
The Page
Blue scrambles onto the top of the barrel- boots barely clearing the light that bursts from the hall as Arthur strides into the cellar. Above, Blue holds his breath from atop his shadowed perch. Hidden in the dark while Arthur comes to a halt with Goosefat at his heels- their voices terse and brunt with the seriousness that Blue remembers after his father’s death. Clinging to the wood beams of the shelves that hold the barrels of ale beneath his feet- Blue steadies himself on the sloped surface of the barrel by straightening his spine and letting his scalp dig into the beam above him. The wood structured like the rib cage of a giant beast- and he’s stood in its belly- trying to remain small and hidden. Arthur’s voice echoes against the walls- terse and sharp.
“Inform the steward that all access to the larders and winecellars must be approved by me,” Arthur orders and while Blue can’t see his face- he recognizes the gruffness of his voice. It’s the same voice Arthur used back in the streets of Londinium when he ran the markets of illustriously acquired goods. It reminds Blue of the time Arthur cut off their local importer of olive oil- and the revolt that he managed from local bathhouses and rival brothels when their supply ran thin before he secured a direct line straight from Spain at a reduced cost.
Goosefat makes a noise somewhere between agreement and disbelief.
“There’s at least ten accesses from the hour before sunrise when the cooks prepare breakfast alone Arthur- you can’t possibly attend to every instance-” Goosefat begins but Arthur cuts him off.
“I’ll do what needs to be done-” Arthur insists, voice firm with anger- he hardly sleeps these days anyways- what difference does it make if he must be guard and garrison to the castle’s most precious keep? His housemaids can’t eat coin, and the winter's been longer than anyone had anticipated- was still yet longer with the way the temperatures had dropped this evening- let alone a half castle increase of hungry mouths added from Princess Haworthia’s guests.
Sure, he could order his steward to go out and purchase food and supplies from the markets of Londinium- Arthur knows the best places. Bakers, butchers, winemakers. The ones with the best deals to buy from- but Arthur remembers the lean winters of his youth- if they can get by here with what they have- then why shouldn’t they try?
Goosefat sighs- heavy with words he’s been holding close to his chest for yet weeks now- ever since that Princess arrived at their gates and Arthur’s been keen to pretend as though she hadn’t.
“Then attend the party- give your order to the source of all these troubles-,” Goosefat says- exasperation clear in his voice- the way his hands raise and lower as though he can thrust the idea into Arthur’s head and make it take hold.
Arthur stands silent, face covered by shadow, before his shoulder jumps as though he can shake off Goosefat’s insistence.
“I said I would, didn't I?” Arthur mumbles, like a child caught in a lie, and Goosefat laughs- deep from his belly and it bounces off the barrels and echoes back to them- Blue can’t help the snicker he lets loose when he leans forward, eager to get a closer look at Arthur who tries to sidestep Goosefat’s accusatory response by walking further into the cellar. Blue places too much faith in his footing- his boots sliding on the wood. The beam atop of his head slices into his hair when he overcorrects his balance- and then bites into his scalp further and Blue can’t help the hiss of pain.
The sound snaps Arthur’s head up as Goosefat’s laughter cuts off.
“Who's there?” Goosefat calls- threat edging his voice as Blue catches himself on a beam, righting himself but not before Arthur’s caught a glimpse of his laces- untied because Blue’s keen for attention in any shape or form- and he’ll run off with shoes undo to the chagrin of everyone that notices.
“Blue,” Arthur calls up- stern and layered with a paternal tone he’s adopted as of late when directed towards the boy. The way his name leaves Arthur’s lips reminds Blue of his father, slides up Blue’s spine and makes his hands clench around the beam- his teeth gritted into a stubborn silence.
“Blue, come down,” Arthur orders after a moment- hands on his hips- brow knitted together as it has been since they laid the crown upon his head. Blue can’t remember the last time Arthur had laughed. Can’t remember his father’s laughter- grief balls up in his throat and sinks to his stomach where it rolls over and burns with anger. Stabbing through him like hot coals stirred up. He doesn’t want to be here- causing ruckus in a castle that’s meant to be his new home- discovering secret passageways and getting into trouble- everything a boy could ever hope for- and yet he’s alone in it all. There’s emptiness inside him. A gaping hole that even the embers of his angry grief can’t warm.
Arthur’s busy playing at being King. Goosefat chasing him and all the whispers about their new King that run through these halls and no one notices Blue. No one that matters anyways- Blue sulks, cheeks burning with tears- one still tingly from the slap the Princess had given him earlier when he went to inform her that her lady’s maid had fallen ill and the laundress was delayed in cleaning her dress for this evening’s party. Jennie hadn’t meant to get sick, Blue despairs- tears falling for the worry of his newfound friend.
Jennie had been the first to notice him when they came here. His first friend since Londinium.
It’d been his fault- he’d brought her to the newest secret tunnel he’d discovered. It’d been cold- and damp- and Jennie’s quarters were already colder than his. She was one fierce shiver away from the wracking cough to start and then he’d gone and led her to such a stupid place. He wasn’t as clever as Arthur- as strong or good at fighting as George- he couldn’t protect his friends or himself.
“Blue,” Arthur’s voice softens when he hears the sobs above him before he grabs hold of the shelving and hoists himself upwards. In an instant he’s pulling Blue into his arms over the barrel while the boy sobs- clings and cries into Arthur’s vest with such a fierceness that Arthur worries he’ll run out of air.
“Easy, Blue, deep breaths, alright lad?” Arthur coos, hugging Blue to him tighter while he lowers them to the cellar ground where Blue hauls them into a heap. Goosefat strokes the boy’s head, concern rife in his eyes when they meet Arthur’s over the upset child when his hand lifts away- bloodied. Arthur’s jaw ticks with stress- chin latched over Blue’s shoulder while Blue cries over his.
The boy’s grief pours out- and while Arthur feels a measure of relief for its expression-Blue had hardly expressed anything except anger since his father’s passing- the heart aching sound of Blue’s grief wrenches in Arthur’s chest.
“Papa,” Blue wails in Arthur’s arms.
Arthur shores himself up against the onslaught of tears- wishes them to erode him into the shape that Blue searches for in how he wraps his arms around Arthur- trying to find the form of his father.
Each heaving sob of Blue's slamming into Arthur like the waves that crash against the foundation of the castle where stone meets sea. Where his own father was lost and here he's found once again. Cut loose from the shroud of Arthur's memory. Taken form to reflect in Arthur’s embrace of Blue but yet not the same as Back Lack's.
Arthur wishes he could be who Blue needs him to be- all too aware of Goosefat’s gaze upon him. The servants that peer in from the hall- their eyes expectant.Iinquisitive. Who is this man? This King? And is he what they need?
Could he ever be what Blue needs?
“It’s alright, Blue,” Arthur tries to reassure but Blue revolts in his grasp. Throws his weight around until Arthur releases him. The boy pulls back- red faced and wet-cheeked. There’s a bloody slice in Blue’s hairline and yet more worrying the bruise over his cheekbone.
More distracting is the anger in Blue’s body- words hurled at Arthur like arrows loosed from an archer's bow. Rapid. With force. Striking Arthur in the chest and catching him off guard with how hard they hit. Pierce his heart and shatter it to pieces.
“No!” Blue shouts, sobs wrecking the words as they burst from him, “No it’s not! Papa’s dead! Jennie’s sick! You don’t care!”
Goosefat attempts to soothe- wraps a hand around Blue’s arm when he sees it cock backwards but Blue is faster. Strikes Arthur in the face- and Arthur doesn’t even try to block- just rests on his haunches, arms slack with something akin to defeat. Doesn’t raise them to shield against the volley of punches that Blue unleashes.
Blue’s only a child- his hits barely hurt. But his words slam into Arthur in their own way- he hadn’t been around much lately. Blue had been left to his own for the most part.
Guilt digs into Arthur harder than Blue could ever hit him- Arthur thinks it's a worse pain than when he’d been struck by Vortigern’s axe.
Goosefat tries to wrangle the boy away, “That’s enough, Blue,” he orders- but Blue only wails louder- cries turning to a shout fit for a warrior- kicks added to the punches and Arthur merely withstands it. Jaw clenched against the attack until Blue tires.
His cries turned back to sobs, his fists back to fingers that reach out and grasp for Arthur’s shoulders until Blue collapses back into Arthur. Curls into his arms as Arthur accepts him as easily as though he were his very own.
“M’sorry,” Blue repeats. Over and over as though his life depends on it while Arthur shushes him. Rocks him in his arms until Blue’s cries are barely audible. Arthur murmurs into Blue’s crown- lips pressed to his temple in equal measures of reassuring words and firm kisses- and Goosefat can see Arthur’s own cheeks wet with tears.
“Jennie’s your friend, aye?” Arthur asks, and Blue nods into his chest. The first solid response they’ve gotten since his outburst.
“The little red-headed girl whose mum works in the kitchen- Adelyn’s her name right?” Arthur asks and Blue cranes his head back- studying Arthur with surprise before he nods.
“How’d you know Addie?” Blue asks, suspicion in his eyes and Arthur cracks a grin. A laugh rumbling in his chest and Blue hugs him tighter just to revel in the first laugh he’s seen Arthur produce since becoming king- and he made him laugh. Blue’s heart swells with pride- his own smile and laughter joining Arthur’s- and Goosefat’s above.
“A King knows his people, Blue. It's his duty, especially those closest to him,” Arthur offers and Blue hugs him tightly in response.
“Jennie can’t have been ill long- I saw her helping her mum this morning,” Arthur says and Blue nods.
“Fever caught this aft. It’s m’fault,” Blue murmurs, a frown pulling at mouth and brows so deeply, eyes casting down in shame.
Arthur leans back- pulls Blue’s face up to meet his gaze, careful to avoid the red swelling around the newly forming bruise over his cheek before he speaks.
“You have to know Blue, you didn’t cause this-”
“I showed her the secret corridor, it was damp and cold- and she sleeps in the west wing- it’s freezing there-'' Blue volleys back.
“Is it?” Arthur asks, although he knows the steward hardly heats the servants quarters no matter how many times Arthur has ordered him to keep the coal burning hot there. Goosefat sighs, clipped and restrained at Arthur’s pointed look that screams Right that immediately.
“And who did this?” Arthur asks, voice firm with his anger. Fury boiling in him that someone would dare to harm Blue even as his hands gently press the injury below Blue’s teary eye and Blue grows quiet. Recoiling from Arthur’s touch and the memory of what happened. Realizing extracting the truth from Blue would be like pulling teeth, and with the warm heat of Blue beneath his hands- Arthur relents. Blue could be warm from his outburst- but Arthur worries he might have caught what Jennie has.
“You should go with Goosefat and take a rest, Blue,” Arthur insists. “Get that scratch looked at. Can you do that for me?” Arthur asks and Blue accepts the diversion in the conversation with a nod.
“Keep an eye on him for me, yeah?” Arthur asks Goosefat while they make their way out of the cellars.
“Yes, my liege,” Goosefat offers sarcasm and sincerity mixing in his tone- a plea in his eyes while he begs Arthur with a look to address the other concern of the Princess and the party.
“And no more secret corridors for you,” Arthur says, pointing at Blue who nods solemnly.
Arthur departs the cellars with a knot in his chest- the gaze of the servants heavy upon his shoulders as he departs. Making his way to his chambers- Arthur spots a flash of red up the hall and picks up his pace. Adelyn is carrying a serving tray nearly half as tall as she and she catches Arthur’s wild concern but doesn’t pause as she makes her way to the great hall, only dips her head and her legs in a quick courtesy.
“My liege,” she says- voice thin and when Arthur stops in front of her- arms held out as though to offer assistance and her voice verges on offended. “My liege!” she says and Arthur huffs.
“Gods, Addie, how many times have I told you it’s Arthur? Let me help,” Arthur insists, pulling the tray from Addie’s grasp and striding into the great hall before she can protest.
“My liege- Arthur- liege,” Adelyn struggles to keep up with Arthur’s long legs- correcting her addressing of him as they approach another group of servants.
“How’s Jennie?” Arthur asks once he places the tray upon one of the tables in a spot that isn’t grossly overloaded with food and drink- it takes him a moment to find the space and his attention is diverted only as long as it takes Adelyn to startle at his question. The woman gapes- shocked that Arthur knows her daughter’s name.
“She’s Blue’s best friend,” Arthur offers.
“The new page,” Adelyn remarks- knowing Blue had been assigned a role in the castle in hopes to keep him busy following his father’s funeral- it’s how he befriended Jennie.
Arthur chuckles, Blue hadn’t been much for his assigned duties- its confirmed by Adelyn’s embarrassed flustering- Jennie had undoubtedly been distracted by Blue’s attraction to trouble. It’s obvious Adelyn’s oblivious to Jennie’s condition- too busy preparing for another indulgent evening by Princess Haworthia to keep tabs on her daughter’s whereabouts. Odds are high she believes Jennie’s found a way to become a disturbance to her King.
“If Jennie’s disturbed your peace sir-” Adelyn starts and Arthur shakes his head.
“She’s caught a fever,” Arthur says, apologetic for the fear that alights in Adelyn’s eyes.
“You should take the night off. Be with her,” Arthur insists and Adelyn looks on the verge of tears.
“You’re so kind, my liege- Arthur,” Adelyn says.
“If you need anything- the doctor, medication, please let the steward know- it’s yours,” Arthur offers and Adelyn weeps with a frantic nod.
“Thank you, Arthur,” Adelyn says, “It’s true what they say-” Adelyn starts and Arthur raises a brow, “You’re just as kind as King Uther. He’d be proud of you.”
Her words slam into Arthur and he takes a moment to recover- a small smile and nod- before he motions her away to the hall- it’s all Adelyn needs to disembark but when she passes him, she reaches out, grips his arm and squeezes- her eyes empart a silent thanks before she’s on her way.
The touch nearly floors Arthur with its sincerity. All the comfort he’d had to offer Blue- and this small gesture- when so many servants are wary of him- the lasting legacy of his uncle being one of fear and distance from those he’s surrounded by- makes it so that any touch aside from formal- has been non-existent as of late. When he’d lived with Maggie- the women had cared for him so maternally that Arthur was never long for a hug or caress of warm affection growing up.
Adelyn’s touch brings up a sense memory so bittersweet that Arthur forgets the room around him until it begins bustling with activity once more. There is even more food brought onto the overloaded tables and Arthur leaves before his anger gets the better of him.
Returning to his room since he’d woken up in a cold sweat that morning- another nightmare about battling Vortigern forcing him awake before the final strike can be had- Arthur sidesteps the growing pile of letters at the entrance.
Princess Haworthia had not only been busy placing pen to paper- but enlisting his staff in emptying their supplies- not to their fault- Arthur knows no one in this castle would be stupid enough to strike Blue. Unless that person didn’t know Blue was more than just a page boy- he was effectively Arthur’s adopted son. Whoever decided to leave a mark was either incredibly unaware or dumb- or wanted to get on Arthur’s bad side.
If that was the case- well they’d have it- Kingly or not. Arthur would rouse the man he was on the streets of Londinium to deal with the offending party. And on that topic- Arthur cringes while he strips- steps into the tub that’s gone nearly cold since Goosefat had ordered it drawn- washing up quickly to stave off the chill of the evening air.
Dressing in his preferred blue vest- Maggie had always told him that was his color- “It brings out your joie de vivre, Arthur,” she’d coo at him while smoothing the creases on his collar- her smile warm before she made him promise he wouldn’t get blood on the fabric- he’d started bouncing for the brothel then- keeping out the riff raff.
“It is the color fit for a King,” she’d said once and Arthur can’t help but shake his head with a soft smile about it now- wondering if he’d be able to keep that promise tonight to avoid bloodshed when he confronts the Princess and her unwelcome guests.
He’d do much to avoid the legacy of Vortigern before him- to avoid a rule by fear and terror. Although treading the path of his father may prove difficult- Arthur was raised surrounded by violence and action- but it didn’t make him violent or reactive- so perhaps he has a chance.
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