pendragon's fics

Sometimes after a patrol, you'd end up back at his place. Sometimes, yours. And never right away; you two didn't want to draw attention from the Justice League. You two stagger your exits from the League, speak in code, and would never show your affection in front of others.

It was simple. Everyone knew that the Batman did not share his liabilities.

Especially since now, as a fellow hero, you had become one of them. If anyone suspects that you, a new recruit, was sneaking around with Bruce Wayne, then shit would hit the fan, and not just in the hero scene you two ran in.

If the press—if any civilians found out that Bruce Wayne was fraternising with a plebeian? A regular Joe Schmoe freelance journalist? Then it would truly be over. Late night dalliances with the bat were one thing, but if your career blew up? Then you might just have to flee Gotham, and perhaps the East Coast all together.

You pull your gloves off slowly, the silky, strong fabric sliding down your arms, pooling in your hands. The still-open window behind you lets in a rare Gotham summer breeze into your apartment. It wasn't much of a home; a one bedroom flat furnished with dollar store plastic plants and thrift store finds was far from what Bruce kept at his home. Then again, you like your place. It didn't have to be fancy—it was yours.

You shuck the rest of your costume off slowly, and fold it into the secret compartment in the back of your closet. Tonight's patrol was a quiet one, albeit for a scuffle where Batman and Robin intercepted a carjacking (Damian was still learning to hold back on everyday street thugs). You hadn't needed to heal up anyone, really, and thank goodness for that. You pull your nightclothes on, and hesitate for a moment, looking at your bare hands. Healing took a lot out of you; even passively touching someone with bare fingers triggered the response. You shook your head, and put on your everyday wear gloves.

The curtains rustle in the living room, and you chuckle.

"He's a fast learner," you glance over your shoulder. Bruce closes the window and shades behind him. "You should be proud of your protégé."

He made a noise. "He's determined to prove himself."

You nod, and quietly, meet him where he stands in the living room. Bruce takes his costume off, revealing his underclothes; a grey singlet and compression shorts. He kicks off his boots and socks, leaving his suit in a mound by the wall.

You meet his eyes; the cowl is still on.

He watches you approach, his arms lax by his sides. You two have done this dance many times before, and you never tire of it. Your reach a gloved hand to his face, and grip where the material puckers a little behind the ears. You look from his eyes—oh, those baby blues, narrowed, analysing you like he did for everything he ever saw—to his lips. There's a split on the bottom lip, and you realise it's not dehydration, but from the scuffle earlier. Someone got him with a knife.

"You're hurt," you whisper.

He doesn't say anything as you unmask him.

Bruce was only a man of words in the spotlight, and even then, each word had a purpose, and was spoken for a reason. But with you, he didn't have to speak. He didn't have to overanalyse, to worry. He already had some grey hairs at his temples, and you didn't have the nerve to plead with him to stop dyeing them.

You place the mask carefully upon your coffee table, beside your laptop. When you face him again, Bruce lifts a hand to cradle your chin, his usually strong grip feather light on your skin.

"Did anyone see you come?" you breathe, the words barely audible.

He shakes his head. "It's just us, __________."

"Your Robins haven't been asking about the…occasional solo late night patrols you're doing?" you ask, and silently, you move Bruce's hand so that his palm cups your cheek. "They're smart kids."

Bruce leans forward, his eyes outlined with smudged kohl just inches from your forehead. His nose brushes your skin first, then his lips.

"I think," he says quietly, breath hot against your skin, "I'd rather think of you right now, than my sons."

You fold into his arms, your arms wrapping around his torso. "Who would have thought the Dark Knight had such a way with his words?" you teased, a chuckle bubbling up from within you. You snake a hand into his, and pull him toward your room. "Come to bed, Bruce. I'm tired."

He didn't move from his position, his hand still in yours.

"I can't stay for long."

You feel your smile fall, but quickly, you play it off. "Mister Wayne, all work and no play…" You nod, and drop his hand. "At least leave me with something for the road?"

Bruce studies you, his poker face fierce. A beat passes between the pair of you, and then, he nods once. You lead him to the bedroom, and flick on the dim light beside your bed. He knows this dance you two do well; this isn't yours and his first rodeo. You've both navigated each other's living quarters, each other's schedules…each others' bodies.

Your bed is made—a miracle—but it doesn't matter how neat the room is, because all Bruce seems to be looking at is you. You shuffle backwards across the double bedspread, and watch as he slowly approaches the mattress. Smoothly, he sheds his singlet, revealing his naked torso in the dimly lit room. He mounts the bed, his knees sinking into the duvet, hands bracing the covers either side of where you sit against the headboard. You're so close, you can see a litany of scars in the dark, healed and pale.

"It must be my birthday," you whisper, tilting your head upward, catching his lips in yours. "All of you, all to myself?"

"Well then," Bruce says, kissing you back. His voice low, but not as deep as his crime-fighting tone. His breath is hot against your skin as he traces from your neck to collarbone with his nose, "I better wish you a very happy birthday."

You curl your toes as your skins touch, first Bruce's tongue against your collarbone, then your wrists against his back as your arms wrap themselves around him—barely. What did you ever do to deserve this man? He nips at your neck with small, impossibly delicate kisses from an impossibly perfect man. You run your fingernails through the tough but thin material of your gloves over his back, and Bruce lifts his gaze to you, his eyes glinting with a hint of mischief.

"What's that look for?" You groan, voice low.

He hums. "I didn't get any dinner tonight," Bruce looks to you, then places a hand near your stomach. "You wouldn't mind if I ate out?"

"Fuck," you laugh, but he catches the sound with his mouth on yours. Bruce releases you, and against his mouth, you whisper, "Go ahead, baby. If I'm on the menu, then I'm all yours."

He narrows his eyes, focusing on the task at hand. He looks like he does amid a mystery. This is the face of a man on a mission. He crawls back, scooting down the bed. You worry one day he'll go too far, and fall off—not everyone has a California king like he does. Bruce stays atop the mattress, and you part your legs, your pyjama pants down by your ankles.

He slips a finger down, tip teasing your clitoris with long, slow motions. You gasp, unusually riled up so early, your head lolling back into your pillows. It had only been a week and a half since your last dalliance with your lover, and by the way your body was reacting, you would have thought it had been months.

"Oh," you sigh. "Bruce…"

He looks up from the end of the bed, a lazy smile betraying his usual stoic attitude. Oh, if anyone from the League…any hero or villain could see how unguarded your Bruce Wayne was, how he could truly be himself, and not the CEO, the hero, the father…he was Bruce. Not performing a role he was born into, or thrust upon him. he was just himself, and that is all you need from the caped crusader.

He raises a brow, and takes his touch from your sensitive nub, and tentatively, pushes two digits softly into your slick opening. You exhale, like you've been winded—but oh, does this feel so much better than battling it out on streets of Gotham. He pumps within you, two fingers plunging rhythmically, his thumb massaging your clit like no other living thing or toy ever could.

You feel yourself melt into the bedspread, your breaths short and many. But as soon as you sensed his tempo, he withdrew.

You mewled, needy.

"Be patient, __________." Bruce murmurs, and tantalisingly slow, he raises his hand to his mouth. You whimper, and watch as he cleans your juices from himself. "You can wait."

He's a merciful bedfellow, though, because only a moment later, he relents. You watch as his midnight mess of hair, bejewelled with the same silver of the stars, disappears toward your thighs. Despite having shared each other's bodies before, and having had many other flings and partners in your past, you'd never had head, or at least, good head like this before. He delves deep toward you, his nose presses into your vulva, his hands cradling you. One cups around your ass cheek, his callused fingers gently squeezing the surface. The other is flat on the interior of your thigh, holding your leg toward the bedspread to accommodate for his presence.

You cry out as he laps at you.

Bruce's wide, flat tongue swipes at its target, lapping at your centre like a famished animal seeking its supper. He presses further, his speed the same, but you're sensitive, and tired, and now, horny as hell, and the combination sure is a doozy, because you feel your back arching into his probing tongue.

You feel the tightly wound coil inside if you tightening, and you feel your hand glide, on its own accord, toward where your aching clit yearns. You have no words, your head too foggy, too high on Bruce's attentive ministrations to communicate what you need. Your fingertips graze upon his cheekbone, and he lifts himself from you.

"Bruce," you whimper. "I need—," He nods, and parts his lips. His mouth is wet with you, and you groan at the sight.

"What do you need?" he rasps.

Your fingers find your clit, and Bruce watches as you fumble for purchase upon its surface. His eyes are on yours, and at once, he returns to his post, back to your entrance. You feel the difference instantly; not only is his tongue picking up the pace, but the hand that held your behind is now upon your needy nub, pressing gently. He alternates between licks and sucks. He feels your body with you, and his finger changes pace, and—

You go limp in his touch.

"Holy fucking shit." The words tumble out before you can even think to censor yourself.

Rising from the depths of the bed and yourself, Bruce stands, and makes his way from the bedroom of your flat. You can honestly say that you saw stars, because for a moment, you think of the french translation of the word orgasm; you surely just underwent 'the little death'. You place a hand over your heart, and feel it thrum, beating a mile a minute from beneath your ribcage. It feels like eternity, but it can't be any more than a minute passes, and you feel acutely aware of just how alone you are right now.

Before you can think that Bruce has flown the love nest, however, you hear water running from the other room. Then, footsteps. He reappears in the doorway, holding a damp washcloth, and a glass of water. The smudged black warpaint from around his eyes is gone. You prop yourself up on your elbows, and he pads closer.

"Thank you," you whisper, accepting the glass.

He makes his way to the end of the bed, and knees on the wooden floor. It can't be comfortable, but he doesn't complain. Bruce never makes a scene with any of the things in his life that anyone else would wince from. You don't know if it's from being raised by Alfred's stiff upper lip, or something else that gives him the strength to roll with the punches. You find it endearing. Something you want to intercept, in the future. To stop him from hurting himself to help others.

You feel the washcloth warm and soft on your skin. You groan.

"Not good?" Bruce asks.

"Too good," you correct him, and quaff back your water. "Thank you."

You adjust your legs to allow him to clean at the mess of your pleasure, and so utterly grateful, you feel the final waves of pleasure radiate. Your mind wanders as you focus on the damp-stained ceiling. You think of earlier today, trying to separate Damian from a con, doing your best to hold him back as his little legs still kicked at his target. You think of yesterday, catching Bruce's gaze from across the Hall of Justice, and the small smirk he gave you in return. You think of last Thursday, when you found yourself setting the table for two, and eating alone. You think of later tonight, how you'll be laying here in this bed, the other side cold and untouched. How he'll be in his cave, with his sons, and you'll be here, with the sounds of Gotham to keep you company.

"__________?" You feel the bed dip beside you, and Bruce's hands are cupping your face, his brow furrowed. "Are you hurt?" He searches your eyes, worried. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and you realise it's wet with your tears.

When had you started to cry?

You sniffle, and shake your head. "I'm fine," you protest, moving to sit up. Bruce hesitates to let you from his grasp, his hands hovering near you as you reposition yourself against your cheap headboard. "Just…emotional."

He takes the empty glass of water from the bed, and places it softly by the lamp.

"It's stupid," you go on, and turn to look toward the window. You can't see much from your view of Gotham, but what you can see is painted with the navy hues of nighttime. You sigh, and add, "We do this…thing, you and I. Like magnets. We're drawn to each other, and we stick like this," you look down at your hands, and interlock your pinkie fingers together, your gloves puckering at the movement. "And then, once we—I, feel like it's finally going to hold, we," You pull your hands taught, and suddenly, your fingers fly apart. "go our separate ways, and it starts all over again."

He turns your chin to face his, his hands warm and clean now, and cradling you like you could break. You feel like you could break. But with your superhuman ability to heal, to heal others, you don't think truly, you could ever really be broken.

"My __________," he edges closer to you. "I didn't know you felt that way."

You scrunch your nose, and pull yourself into his side. Bruce's torso is warm, and he smells faintly like leather, sweat and the kind of soap you like. You burrow yourself near him, so your face rests upon his chest, and feel the post-cry hiccup-like breaths slowly leave you.

"How do you tell the man who has it all that he's all you want?" You murmur.

You feel Bruce's hand on the small of your back. It's tentative at first, and then, as if he's fighting an inner demon, he tenses, and wraps the other around you. You two stay there for a minute, then two, just the pair of you in his arms, his chin resting upon your head.

It's been a long day.

"It's okay if you don't want me like that," you tell him, softly. "I'm not exactly socialite material."

He makes a noise, and pulls back. His blue eyes are steely, and bore into you with the sharpness you're accustomed to from him under the cowl, on the battlefield. Bruce shakes his head.

"Don't say things like that," he swallows, and adds, "I haven't taken this—us—public for you. You're—you're everything to me, and it scares me to think I could bring you into harm's way."

You nod. "We're both heroes, Bruce. We can fight our way out of anything." You look to your hands, and back to him. "But as civilians? I'm just a journalist. You're…you."

Bruce cocks an eyebrow, and exhales sharply. "There's a gala coming up, at Wayne Enterprises, a celebration of fifty years of the company. There's going to be press attending…you should come."

You look up to him, studying his face. But where you're trying to find uncertainty, he is solid. The corners of his mouth are lifting, the longer you look. "Is this you organising our meet-cute, Mr. Wayne?" you tease, placing a gloved hand on his abdomen. "Should I wear my best dress just for you?"

He goes to retort, but a familiar noise interrupts the moment. The pager in his utility belt. Your eyes flick to the doorway, but his hand is once more on your face, turning your attention toward him.

"Don't you need to get that?" You whisper.

He shakes his head. "It can wait," He tells you. "Oracle can handle it."

It hits you then. Bruce Wayne was choosingyou. Prioritising you. Sharing that you mattered, that he values your time, your presence, your feelings—you. You exhale, and it's then you decide, that you know how you can show him just how much you feel for him in return. You move your left hand up, toward your mouth.

His eyes flick down to the movement.

Slowly, you open your mouth, and bite the fabric of the glove from your ring finger. You tug at your hand, until it's bare, your skin now feeling cooler once exposed.

"__________," he protests.

He knows the toll it takes on you to patch up others. How your energy is sapped, how you grow tired, and need sleep, and nourishment to return to your normal level. You ignore his objections, and place your palm on his chest, where you know below the muscle and sinew, is his beating heart.

You close your eyes.

You're used to the head-spinning like sensation of healing others, these days. As a child, even brushing against someone with your hands had left your stomach empty and lungs breathless. These days, you know to brace for the feeling, and have managed to work the current of your abilities, to pinpoint just how your wellness can heal others. You scrape your fingernails a little against his pectoral muscle, and picture what you wish to heal. The wound by the lip. The carpal tunnel in his wrists. You can sense some dehydration—

Your hand is removed from his torso, wrapped up in the corner of the bed sheet. You jerk out from the process of healing, but you're glad to be removed . You feel lightheaded—a given—and Bruce's lips against yours.

"You shouldn't have," his breath is hot against your mouth. "It would have healed, like all the other wounds."

You chuckle. "You just ate me out like I was the last edible thing on earth," You nudge your nose against his, and bite back a smile. "Could you even consider that maybe, Bruce, I wanted to?"

His pager goes off once more in the other room.

"It's late, __________." Bruce ignores the pager once again, and helps your hand back into your glove. "Get some sleep."

He moves to rise from the bed, but you hook a finger into his waistband, and tug him back toward you. He all but tumbles toward you, his arms catching him at the last second, his face mere millimetres from yours.

"I agree," you say, and, quickly, you add, "but not without you."

Sleep was an ocean, and all of a sudden, you surfaced from it, breaching from within the depths. Your eyes flicked open, heart racing. What had roused you? It was still dark out; it couldn't be any earlier than two in the morning. The only light that illuminated the dim bedroom was the alarm clock's golden display, and a nearby street light. You could hear faint sounds from somewhere beyond the apartment; a car alarm, bins rattling, the occasional shout. But it wasn't that what woke you — you could easily sleep through the end times, or at least, a fire alarm, or when Frank made his way into bed. He was a big, strong man, and his idea of a tip-toe was quite the lumbering kind of movement that would put any kind of upstairs neighbour to shame.

You tried to turn to the alarm clock, but the movement alerted your partner. His arm, slung around your waist, tightened. There was no way you could escape his grip, with the exception of waking him.

"Leave them alone," he said, his sleepy voice low and rumbling.

Frank had always been a troubled sleeper; if it wasn't the insomnia-fuelled sleepless nights, it was sleep talking, and once, finding him in the kitchen, sleep walking. Most of the time, you slept through the sleep talking; it was him replaying recent events, sometimes, the things he didn't talk about with you, or Micro, or anyone.

"I'll kill you for that," he growled, and pulled you in tighter.

Softly, you stroked the arm holding you. "Frank," you whispered, "Baby, wake up."

In the dimly lit bedroom, just inches from his face, you watched his brow furrow, a crease forming between his eyebrows. If he were awake, you'd smoothen the lines from his face with a finger, and pull him to your height to kiss the worries away. But from the noises he was making, the way his arm was tense around your middle, it didn't seem like the occasion to pepper your lover with a smooch. Especially if this was a PTSD flashback.

You try to move again, and his whole body tensed, his teeth grinding, jaw set.

"No, no, no, no, no…" he muttered.

"Frankie," you squirmed trying to break free from his iron grip. "You're dreaming, Frankie, come back to me."

But it was no use. He was deep in this dream, and it was becoming clear that your usual way of rousing him weren't working.

Frank shifted in his sleep, rolling toward you. The arm around your middle moving closer to your collarbone than middle, and you took the opportunity. You threaded your fingers in between his, and massaged your thumb into the back of his hand.

You felt him tense for a second. He stirred, and then, in the dim bedroom, his dark eyes flicked to you, honing in like a tired messenger pigeon returning to the coop. He searched you, looking as if through you, but you know what he's looking for. Reality. He's searching for something, anything, to tether him back to the waking world.

"It's okay, Frank," you scooch closer to him, letting his fingers go. But he holds your hand tight, keeping your hand hostage in his. "It was just a dream. It's okay, baby."

He shakes his head. "Felt pretty real to me," he whispered.

You nod. "At least you got some shut-eye tonight," you plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. "It'll get easier to sleep, I promise."

You can tell that Frank wants to argue with you, but he refrains. He remembers what you've gone through. It sure wasn't losing a family like he did with Maria and the kids, but by working with him and Micro, you had been in the line of fire more times than you would care to admit. That one time, when you'd been in the cross-hairs of a gun fight had you jumping at the smallest things for months. Even the damn toaster had you on edge.

"Want to talk about it?" you ask, quietly.

He's quiet.

You spare a glance to the alarm clock on his side of the bed. It's still an unreasonable hour of the night. But right now, laying in Frank's presence, wrapped in blankets, it feels somewhat bearable. Like right now, you two are sharing stolen time together, and not recovering from another episode of nightmares.

"I…" Frank exhales sharply. "It was you."

You lay still. Ah. That explains that pained look on his face when he woke, the way he looked through you like you were a ghost.

"I'm right here, silly."

You move his hand, still holding yours, to your mouth, and plant a kiss, and then two more, on his knuckles. In the dim light, you can see the various shades of bruises painted across his skin. The colours would be pretty, if they weren't tender, and a perk of the vigilante job.

"And," you kiss his fist once more, locking eyes with your partner, "I don't plan on going anywhere any time soon."

.

The apartment smelt of burnt toast and charred bacon, even from the shower. The hot water was a blessing, raining down on you in odd spurts. You'd already washed your body, hair, and had organised the collection of soaps and shampoos on the side of the tub, and didn't want the warm, showery party to end.

The shower curtain rustled, and you looked up. Frank had stripped his sleep tee off, and was in the process of shucking off his boxers. His hair was still ruffled from sleep, and desperately needed a trim if he was going to keep it in the usual high and tight style. You go to turn off the tap, but his hand reaches it before you can.

"Mind if I join?"

You acquiesce, and he steps in. It's not the largest shower, and now the majority of the shower head rains upon him, but after last night, or really, just a few hours ago, it feels like a blessing to have another intimate moment together. Who knows when the next one will be?

"It's your apartment," you pick up the bar soap, and start to lather his back. You feel his muscles all bunched up, and try to work a knot out at the same time.

Frank barks a laugh, and reminds you, "Your name is on the lease, sweetheart."

"And you pay for it," you retort. "Now turn around. I need to get your front cleaned."

He does as told, and silently, the Punisher, the scourge of the New York City underworld, lets you wash him. Before too long, you've gotten to all the important parts; you handle him with care, and work dutifully. He doesn't complain. He's done this for you before; after a long day, when you have no energy left to give, he's combed your hair, helped you into your pyjamas; it's so wonderfully domestic, this relationship the two of you have, and everyday, you feel like you have to pinch yourself to make sure it's a reality.

"All done, baby," you whisper. "Turn around."

Frank follows your orders, and replacing the soap in the dish, you feel a chill, suddenly remembering you're drip-drying while Frank cleans himself. You place a kiss to his back, and quietly, disembark the shower, and start to dry off. In a minute or two, he joins you, and rhythmically, you two complete the dance of drying, dressing, and preparing for the day.

When Frank emerges from the bedroom, you pour yourselves two cups of coffee, preparing your mug just as you like it, and leaving Frank's as is. His hair was black, his eyes were brown, and he liked his coffee darker and stronger than any percolator could possibly make it. But then again, whenever he drank your coffee, he never complained if it wasn't to his taste. Either he was a gentleman, or…no. Frank was a gentleman. Who happened to be a coffee snob who most certainly wasn't going to complain about a cup of joe he didn't have to brew.

"What's the game plan today?" you stand next to him at the kitchen bench, your hip touching his. Even though just minutes before, you'd both been nude, this kind of touch felt more electric. "Am I going to be sleeping alone for a while?"

He looks at you over his mug. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," you clear your throat, "are you and Micro close to your next stakeout? I assume if so, you'll not be able to be back here for a bit."

He makes a noise. "You know I don't like leaving you."

You nod. "And you know I can't live in that bunker you two have. It's more for a groundhog than a person. I need sunlight, and fresh coffee, and the breeze on my skin." You look to Frank, and sigh, "Will it be for long?"

He puts his cup down. "I don't know. But I'll keep an eye on you."

"In person?" you ask, smirking over your mug, "or by peeping on me with those cameras you planted around the place?"

Frank wipes a hand down his face. Busted.

"I found like, six of them. It was pretty easy, considering how you never touch the stuff you've left here, and then, out of nowhere, it's like, slightly moved."

Frank looks at you, amused. "Six?" he asks. "Huh. I don't know if I should tell you how many I really planted, then."

You elbow his side. "I like a challenge."

.

It's a month since you last saw Frank Castle in your home, and you're crawling into bed. Every night spent apart, you feel like the world is testing you. It wasn't going to be easy, dating a guy like him — especially since he was a vigilante, and a busy one at that. You weren't dating someone like the web-slinging fast-talking Spider-Man, or the red-wearing devil of Hell's Kitchen, who all seemed to come out in a time of need, and return to whatever their normal lives were for the rest of their time.

No, you were dating Frank. Your Frank.

Since he'd left, you found two more of his cameras, and pointed a few toward key parts of the apartment. The view from the balcony, so he could catch the sunrise and sunset from where he worked. The coffee machine, so he could see you make your daily dose of caffeine.

In bed, you snuggle into the duvet, and take out your notebook. Frank didn't have a burner phone this time, and instead of trying to send daily mundane texts, you'd taken to writing your thoughts for him down. Before you could put the pencil to paper, though, you heard a noise.

Your heart stopped. The door was opening.

Quietly, you reached beside the bed for the metal baseball bat you kept there. Slowly, you rose from the bed, and crept toward the bedroom door, which luckily, was half-open. Hiding from behind the door, you peeked out, trying to find the intruder.

He was by the front door still, standing by the wall where your coat hung, where the shoe rack sat, and looked to be balancing on one foot, a hand to steady himself on the wall. He wore a dark leather coat that squeaked with every movement he made, and his hair was starting to curl at the nape of his neck, dark and thick.

"Frank?"

He glanced over his shoulder. If it weren't for the hair, split lip and black eye, he would look just the same as the last time you saw him. He exhaled, and gave a small smile, the side not split tipped up in the corner.

"I thought you'd be asleep," he said quietly.

"I—," you falter, putting the bat down by the bedroom door. "I couldn't."

He kicks his other boot off, and sheds his coat onto a spare hook. Slowly, he ambles toward you. He looks tired. He looks sore. But most of all, he looks relieved, and happy, and you know exactly what he's looking at with those big brown eyes.

He's looking at you.

"Maybe, though…" you take his hand in yours, and lead him to the bed. "We could try to get some sleep. Together."

To everyone but Tony Stark, hosting the latest expo at a fancy snow village in the north island of Japan was absurd. It took hours of flights, tight squeezes, jetlag, fumbling essential documents and sleep deprivation, but it was over. You stood in the doorway of your cottage for the fortnight, eyelids heavy, sliding suitcase heavier.

“I know you’re dead on your feet, but if you don’t move into the cabin, you’ll let all the hot air out,” Your husband’s voice came from behind you.

He’s right, and the warmth from the wood oven is heavenly. So, you shuffle in and shuck off your snowshoes as Happy dumps his duffle onto the chair by the door. Your hand finds the light switch for the main room, and all at once, you’re blinking, taking in the rustic charm of the place.

“I’m almost afraid to go into the bedroom and find a little girl who ate our porridge,” Happy snarks, eyeing the door beside the kitchenette.

“It’s perfect,” you mumble. “…I’ll unpack in the morning.”

“We could have been here hours ago if we took the jet.”

“Coach is perfectly fine, Happy.” You almost trip on the split-level floor between the entrance and the main room but steady yourself. “The ozone doesn’t….”

“I know, I know,” Happy takes your elbow, and together, you make your way into the bedroom. It’s a queen mattress, smaller than yours at home, but the sheets are a white woven pattern that feels soft against your skin. You strip your bottoms off and crawl under the sheets, otherwise fully dressed. “Don’t you want to take off your –”

“Too tired.”

He makes a noise of ascent as you snuggle into your pillow, and for a second, you hear his footsteps tap away. “Harold…” you murmur. “It’s almost midnight. Lay with me.”

“I’ve got work to do,” he says.

It’s almost sunrise when you feel the bed dip on the other side, and you feel his hands cradle your face gently as he places a kiss beside your nose. You fade back into your dreams, now with the comfort of another within reach.

---

The alarm goes off, but you don’t reach your phone in time to neutralise it. Bright white sunlight streams into the room, and blinking, you remember you’re not in your apartment in southern California. The house is pleasantly warm. You pad into the main room, take the spare blanket from the end of the bed, and make your way to the kitchenette. There’s no kettle, so you start to boil water on the stove for coffee. The view from the window above the sink is gorgeous. No houses are on this side of the building, just deciduous trees full of white and a snow-capped mountain in the distance.

Whoever stocked the cabin before you came is now your favourite person because the fridge has all milk known to humankind and some and a half loaf of pre-cut bread too. The coffee-making process goes well, and soon, two mugs of piping hot joe are in your hands as you make your way back to bed.

“Hmm?” Happy stirs at the smell of his cup on the bedside nightstand. “Oh, you’re a goddamned angel.”

“That’s me,” you smile.

Then the alarm goes off again, automatically snoozed from its previous iteration. As you quiet it, you notice the wall-to-wall notifications from your husband’s boss’s assistant. You pass the phone to Happy, who accepts it mid-gulp.

“Is your phone flat?”

He nods, scrolling through the texts and missed calls. It might be your phone, but it’s Stark Enterprises data, and you’re in no need to learn their trade secrets off their payroll. The lawsuits, let alone, what it would mean for you as an Avenger, would be hell on earth. But it seems Happy is there right now, by the colour of his face. You take his cup from him as he starts to hurry off the bed into the main room to delve into his duffle.

“Honey?”

“The main vendor has pulled out, the workers for the set up are on strike, and to top it all off –” He shouts from the other room, half a leg in his suit pant and hopping to put the other on, “and all this snow has stopped everything!”

“That’s…that’s a lot.” You place the cups on the floor by the bed and start to walk over to him. “Pepper can’t be expecting you to change the weather, Harold.”

“I need to try,” he shoves on his snow boots and swings open the front door. “Sit tight, hon. I need to –” There’s no way he’s leaving the cabin. The snow has drifted onto the porch, rising to his eye level. “Crap.”

You take the phone from him and close the door. It seems you might need to suit up, after all. “Get the laptop and start a video call. I’ll contact Stark.”

He melts a little and kisses your neck. “God, I love it when you’re bossy.”

Soon enough, you have your fellow Avenger on the phone. Stark has a tiny espresso in hand and a pen in the other, taking notes. “You know, I’m glad you’re in my entourage, ___________; what would I do without you?”

“Wither away?” You cock an eyebrow. “I’m yours.”

It takes forty minutes, two more cups of coffee, and payback from a friend of Tony’s friend, but it’s sorted. The main vendor has been replaced and paid handsomely for the short notice, the construction workers have been paid in advance, and Tony has his old Iron suits on autopilot, working with the local council to shovel the snow. Throughout this process, Happy has been pacing the cabin.

“I can send one to your place to get you out from there,” Tony offers.

You shrug. “You can…give me an hour.” You put your coffee down. “I’ve got something I need to do first.” You can see the corner of his lips turn up, words about to come through the video call, but you close the session and the laptop. He was one hell of a cheeky bastard, always trying to get the last word. “Happy? It’s done.”

He approaches the doorway. “My saviour,” he exhales sarcastically, but you know he means it. “How can I ever repay you?”

The hissing almost swallows his words beneath the just-pulled beer tab, but you catch it. It’s hard not to, as he barely opens his jaw these days to utter inhuman noises. You stare at Victor and wait for one of you to give way. The argument would not be made if he had listened to you, yet here you are.

His eyes are primal as he looks over the can, piercing your gaze.

“What?” he snaps.

“It’s nothing,” you retort. “If you even care.”

If you had dreamed that perhaps you’d be talking back to the Sabretooth himself a few years ago, you would have thought you were unwise, let alone asking for a shorter life span. Maybe that might be anyone else, but sometimes you could manage it. Not many people were this close to the man. Not many people shared this much with Victor Creed, yet you were still one of those he clashed with, albeit with his claws withdrawn.

“I’m too tired for this shit.” He barks.

“And I’m trying to communicate with a brick wall.” You throw your hands up in exhaustion and push your chair back to rise from the table. “But at least the wall would have something to say for itself!”

“Are you calling me an idiot, __________?” The can finds the table forcefully, making a harsh noise as it connects with the surface.

You can smell the drink wafting from his hot breath, yet you’re not in that proximity to your partner. It’s days like this when the liquor finds him that sets you off. It may wet his lips, but the stench of hops, of the acidic sting of bourbon that takes you back to the years of your childhood, when your lack of autonomy and the adults partaking would result disastrously for you.

“Stop putting words in my mouth!” You ball your fists, squint your eyes, and hold yourself in a tight embrace.

He grunts in response, but you feel your jaw tremor as sobs ricochet from your belly to the room. You can’t see well through the sting of tears, and stumbling backwards, you rush for the door. You’re smart enough to snatch the key fob and click the front door behind you. You don’t hear footsteps following, and you cross the snowy paddock to the detached garage.

Years ago, when you were shorter, younger, and impressionable, you lived under your father's roof. He was newly widowed, and with the agony of sadness that made its way into his heart, he drowned himself in the golden water from bars and bottle shops. You learned to take care of yourself young and distrust the drink. It left your father, a kind, intelligent, loving man, a vacant lot where once a palace stood.

Sometimes he was loud. More often, he was violent.

One night, you ran from him and slipped into a snowbank at the lake near your house. You should have died. Somehow, you breathed the water and stayed dry despite being submerged. A neighbour clearing snow found you the following day, head above the ice and fully clothed, alive.

You stare at the keys and realise you snatched the wrong set. Unless you wished to use the tractor, nestled in the barn until the weather warmed, there would be no radio and heated seating to take your mind off Victor and the plague of memories. It wasn’t unpleasant to sit in the snow, knowing your ability. Just…not something you did for fun.

Your eyes grow heavy after some time, and you do not want to kip in the powder when there’s a warm hearth calling for you inside. At this point, the clear sky ahead shows off the smattering of silvery stars above, like a bejewelled midnight sash draped above. You kick the excess white from your boots before you enter and pause at the bedroom door.

No.

Behind you, there’s still half a log in the fireplace and enough decorative pillows on the sofa. You take a coat from the rack by the door and bunker down for the night.

Sleep takes you like an old friend meeting you for a stroll, and then, you are off.

---

He found himself near his home in the early hours of the night, a window of time when the daylight has not sprung, yet the night is a pale navy, traversable by nocturnal beings like himself. But he is recounting it too soon; yes, there is more to the story than his return. Sometime after the argument, he had fled the scene, shedding his cosy clothes for his white undershirt, and leapt from the screenless window frame to the snow below. It had been the tail end of a long slog at his last post, leaving him hollow and mindless. He had thoughts on Magneto and how his order of operations ran incongruent with his, yet he persisted.

Badly.

Victor took off running like an animal from a cage, yes. Yes! He is out, freed, and enraptured by the thrill of it all. He made for the forest and took to work on an oak’s thick, heather-brown trunk. With every slash of his fingers, he tried to release his anger, yet it left him aching and just as empty as before. Before him, the oak tree, perhaps several decades old, tottered in the breeze, its bark half-slain from his touch.

“Goddamned idiot,” he muttered to himself.

The wind had a bite to it, and only now he felt its sting. Not even his lupine traits could muffle the sensation. Now cold, angry, pissed thoroughly off and dissatisfied with his outburst, Victor stood in the snow, seething.

They had tried talking to him. It was better than he could do on his worst days. They had tried. And he hadn’t listened; worse, he glazed over their words. He stood in the snow-filled forest, thinking about what might have made them so worked up, what he had done to make them feel that way.

And then – it hit him.

He feels a jolt through his arm, energy. It snaps through his cells, poises his muscles, and before he can blink or stop himself, he has withdrawn his fist to dole a solid hit to the oak tree before him. It snaps, and like when a seasoned lumberjack fells a foe, the tree falls backward, away from him.

He exhales sharply, staring at the cracked stump where the tree just stood. It looked as if a bolt of lightning had invaded the wood and snapped its core, albeit without the burn marks, and the storm required to dole the hot, instant punishment. Victor now knows what he must do now. Later, he will take care of this outburst. But first, he must make things right with his partner. As he returns to the farmhouse, he notes the station wagon is under the carport, and the prints of his __________ appear old, buried a little under fresh powder. He makes it inside and sees their boots by the entrance, and then as he moves further in –

You are lying on the couch, wearing yesterday’s clothes beneath a snow coat, head crooked on a throw pillow and awkwardly lolled over the sofa’s surface. The last log of the fire has almost extinguished itself, the light very low in the room.

Victor should feel pity when he sees you. He should always feel it for someone with less skill to take care of themselves in the wilderness than himself, the Sabretooth. Yet now, and every time he sees you, there is something in him that expands in his chest that warms thoughts with a kind of emotion previously foreign to him. Silently, he opens the fireplace and lays kindling with some old newspaper balled up. It catches quickly, and deftly, Victor places a new log atop the smoulder of flames.

He looks to you, now bathed in the red-gold glow of firelight and feels that twinge turn in his stomach. He’ll make it right to you in the morning; he must. You look too peaceful to rouse in the ungodly hours of a Canadian morning. He secures the fireplace door and, with the prowess of a natural predator, sneaks his way past you to the bedroom.

He leaves the door ajar and trades his slacks for sweats, and as soon as his head finds the pillow, sleep finds him.

---

You wake in a sweat, but not from your dream. It was a pleasant dream where you and Vic appeared human and traded niceties over decadent coffees in fancy mugs in an arthouse tea shop. Perhaps that was you in another life, but it was amiable, nothing that could stir you from sleep. Your eyes focus and notice the fire still burning. Or is it a new log? You can’t remember, but the room is warmer than when you went to bed, so perhaps that accounts for the sweat.

A low, guttural reverberation rocks the tiles on the roof above your head. Thunder.

It seems quite a (not) fortuitous twenty-four hours for you as you feel yourself rock again. Alcohol is a standard trigger for those raised around it. Most children grow out of their fear of thunderstorms, but you shake along with the rafters with the noise of the storm above.

It doesn’t matter that you went to sleep angry. It would be best if you buried yourself in the bedsheets, or better, in the crook of Victor’s embrace so there could be no change that the storm could touch your awareness. You leave the coat on the couch and scurry to the bedroom. Usually, when a storm rolled in, you would already be in Victor’s arms. You try your best to make your way to the vacant side of the sheets as quietly as you can, but a loud floorboard beneath your toes leads to the amber-gold eyes of your boyfriend meeting yours.

“Storm,” you say.

“X’s, or the –” he’s interrupted.

Another rumble, rhythmically similar to the previous one. When the silver-haired weather girl was around, her thunder was asymmetrical. Not that you knew, from experience. You weren’t a fighter. Just…a mutant stuck in the middle of the war between Professor X and Magneto.

“C’mere,” his voice is low but a good kind of reverberation that makes you fold like origami into his arms. “You okay, __________?”

You wait for the pace of your heart to slow a little before you respond. You know he can hear it beating, and together, you lay in the embrace, quiet as the storm moves overhead.

“You work so hard for us,” you whisper to him, the words dissipating in the early morning air as soon as you say them. “I shouldn’t fuss when you take liberties with your liquor. But…”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I might not be the brightest bulb, but I remember what you told me.” His shoulders flex: you can feel his biceps behind you tense up as you realise what he’s saying. He remembered. “Don’t give that cretin the time; he deserves all hell for what he did.”

“Vic, you can’t kill my father.” You remind him.

“I want to,” he grits out. “…but besides. I was an asshole about it.” He pauses, and, after a beat, as if the words came from somewhere else, but in the intonation of his voice, you heard the words.  “M’sorry, __________.”

Your heart races. Never have you heard those words from him in the years of knowing, dating, and living with Victor Creed. You know how hard it is for him. You had always accepted his condolences in the form of his actions and as the blank air where he intended them to be translated as such. You turn in his embrace and bury your head into his chest. Your arms tighten around him, your legs intertwined with his. He bends his head toward you, and in the dark morning light, as the outskirts of Edmonton are waking, your lips meet.

“I ain’t perfect, __________, but I’m trying.” He says, his breath hot on your cheek. He peppers your face with measured, tiny kisses. You nuzzle into the scruff of his neck as another wave of thunder echoes, this time further away than before.

Picture this: it’s Halloween night (a Monday), and the only trick-or-treaters are the teenagers without curfew and their kid siblings they’re forced to hang out with. Everyone else went out last night, but there’s an unspoken tradition that the 31st of October must be spooky. Nonetheless, you sit on the front verge with a near-empty pail, dressed like the pumpkin-faced man from that viral Halloween meme video. You know, with the original ghostbusters theme in the background. So far, you’ve handed out candy alone, but that’s about to change.

You leave the pail by the bottom step and enter the place. It’s only been seven months since you moved in with Happy, and still, there’s so much to unpack. At least there are a few decorations, including a framed picture of you both in the teacups at a carnival. You can’t see Happy; last you saw him, he was on the couch in his suit and loosened tie, playing a gatcha game on his phone. You lift your pumpkin-faced mask to sit on your head and enter the bedroom.

Good call: the shower is running. The Halloween costume you both picked out is still on the end of his side of the bed, and a trail of clothes leads to the ensuite. Tie, shirt, pants, socks…briefs. He’s left the door open. You stay at the threshold and knock on the door.

“Thought you were going to join me out the front?”

There’s a splutter from the other side of the shower screen. “__________! You scared me.”

“Boo,” you say half-heartedly, “…sorry.” Another pause, “Is everything okay?”

The water shuts off. Silently, Happy makes his way out of the shower, wrapped in a navy towel. He passes you, walking to the side of the bed he sleeps on, the Halloween costume between you both. This pause is so very pregnant that you’re unsure if you’ve overstepped on something. You rack your memory to find a reason for this; timewise, it’s still very early in your relationship.

“It’s been a long day,” he tells you, putting on his underclothes.

“I know; I’ve had one too.”

“How can I say this…” he rubs a hand over his face. “I’m too old for this kind of thing.”

“Are you saying you’re too adult to dress up?” You cross your arms over your chest. If he’s saying he’s too old to play dress up for the benefit of the neighbourhood trick-or-treaters, you wonder what it says about you.

Happy blinks. “No, not –” He sighs. “It came out wrong.” He shakes his head and moves to put on his pyjamas from under his pillow. “…maybe next year, I can do it.”

“Is this about the costume itself?” you ask. “Help me out, Harry; I’m trying my best here.”

He sits on the bed and motions for you to join him. The mattress is soft under your touch, but it’s more soothing to be in Happy’s arms, smelling his soap and shampoo, feeling his unshaved face bristle against your skin. You pull him into your side, and together you lay back against the backboard for a moment of peace.

“I don’t look so good lately, __________.” He mumbles into the space between your shoulder and neck, his breath hot against your skin. “Need to hit the gym more.”

“Oh, Harry,” you pull him in tighter. “That’s why?”

He moves a little, settling into your embrace. “I tried on the pants earlier in the week. They…don’t fit. They do, but not.” You frown but stay quiet. “They’re my size, and they look okay, but when I tried on the outfit, I didn’t feel okay.”

“Then screw the pants,” you say.

He sits up, looking back at you, confused. “What?”

“The pants. Screw them.” You dismount the bed and take the pants from where they sit at the end of the bed. “You don’t have to wear them if they make you feel like crap.”

“But you’re in your costume already,” he remarks.

You shrug and take the mask completely off. “I’m pretty sure that if my boyfriend feels awful, then it’s my right, as his partner, to do what it takes to feel better and to make the best of the situation.” You toss the mask and his pants toward the hamper, where they thud miserably against the side of the basket. “It’s the law.”

“Really, now?” Happy asks, leaning back onto the bedhead.

“Truly.” You retort. “So, get up, get your robe, and we can do something nice for the night. We can rent a movie, bake some sugar cookies….”

“I get to pick the movie,” Happy demands. You know it will be Downtown Abbey as if the poor DVD hasn’t been through enough already. But that’s okay because there’s nothing better than seeing your boyfriend happy.

You faux-bow and throw a wink his way. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

---

Later, you hear a knock on the door. It’s Mr Lee, your neighbour. He’s got an empty pail in his hands and a slight smile on his face.

“I noticed you left your bucket out here, __________, so I took the liberty to hand the candy out for you.”

You take the pail from him. “You’re too kind, Mr Lee,” you tell him. “How’s your arthritis?”

“Oh, you know what this weather does to me,” he shakes his head. “And your Harold?”

You bob your head. “He’s good.”

He nods, “He’s a good man, you know. Everyone knows it but him.” At that, he touches your elbow and makes his way back to his townhouse.

You close the door behind you, latching the lock shut. When you turn around, you see Happy on the couch. The film is paused, and so are your words.

“Mr Lee?” He asks.

“Yeah. Gave me back our pail,” you put it on the couch between the both of you. “And he told me that you’re a good man.” Happy rolls his eyes, but you lean over, place a kiss between his mouth and jaw, and linger near him for a second too long. “What was that for?”

You shrug, “I suppose if you keep feeling like you’re less than I think you are, then I will have to remind you the only way I know how.”

“And?” He asks, “what happens if I realise that I’m more than I think?”

The days pass by, only heralded by the shift in stars above. Time was always an illusory fabric, to you. The days of childhood melded into one another as if a string of beads that leads to your current state. What is it, but days upon days, in succession? But sometimes, it is heavy, slow. Surely anyone else would find the departure of their beloved brother, the King of Gondor from Mirkwood to be a heaviness upon their heart. Yet since the end of the diplomacy and fineries surrounding the meeting of the Kings, it is a great pleasure to hear a deafening silence throughout the halls.

Aragorn’s beard had held more silver than ever before, and Arwen scarcely left her rooms, bound by gravity and her husband’s growing fruit. Word was the wastes were healing, with fewer dark sprites and spirits haunting Men, halflings and magical folk alike. That was all you could stomach of the diplomatic talks; the visit was something of a curtesy, in which so the King and Queen of Gondor could physically spread their tithings with all kingdoms who wished. There was far too much technicality in their talks, and by the second hour, you had found an excuse to spend time in a courtyard, to sit in the sunshine with Arwen.  

In all honesty, you were somewhat glad for the peace. During the month, you felt the touch of your husband stray farther from his attention, and alone and unsure, you contemplated upon how this was your life now. Only a few years ago had you waded in mud, struck down enemies with your blade and spoke as filthily as your comrades.

A far cry from your past, you sit before a vanity, observing yourself.

In the candlelight, you wonder if the shine in your hair may be a sign of age. Perhaps your face shows it, too. In all your years of marriage with your King, you had never seen him any different, apart from his heavy-lidded eyes at dawn. Yet you are to tarnish as Time, the cruel mistress of Middle Earth undoubtedly will snatch your mirth and beauty.

“The hour is late, astalda.”

You feel Thranduil’s touch before noticing his appearance behind you. His long fingers curl along your shoulders. It is as if his body is intuitive to yours; as soon as you feel his presence, you feel that tainted sensation of despair leave.

“Why did you accept me, as your Queen?” You turn, meeting his eyes. “Men live and die in mere breaths compared to Elves.”

He shakes his head. “I cannot say,” he replies.

“Do,” you prompt.

Thranduil takes a seat at your vanity, his hands cradling your head to his chest. He is warm, you are cool. He smells of snuffed candles and sandalwood, and you of linen and wine. Yet those scents blend, and in his presence, you cannot decipher the difference of your bodies, where he ends and you begin. Maybe that is the hour, or from the cups that you had consumed after your meal. Maybe it is your heart, holding dearly to his words, every flowery word Thranduil had ever uttered to make you fall under the trance of his love.

Whatever it is, you do not dare stray from it and you stay in his arms.

“Perhaps, despite our differences, I believed in the tales. Your bloodline is woven with more than Mankind, astalda. Even if our time is fleeting, we shall remain bound throughout all time.”

You look into his eyes, to search for further proof. But your King is not a roll of parchment, and he cannot be read as such.

“I suppose I must take your word for it?” you wonder.

“As we all must do,” he replies. He exhales and withdraws from your proximity. “Come now, my Queen.”

You follow his lead, eyes heavy as the night sky upon all sunlight in the world. You trust his movements, walking in tandem to the shared matrimonial bed. You feel its plush cushion beneath your fingertips as your chemise slips from your arms. Carefully, you feel Thranduil’s touch as he unwinds your shift from your underclothes. His hands are deft, and though the light is low in your shared chambers, you know your husband will be careful, will be kind with you.

“You are tense,” he comments.

“Aging will do that to anyone,” you mumble.

There is a hum of disagreement. “Stress will do that to anyone,” he remarks. “Come. Sit, and I shall relieve your pain.”

His fingers get to work, your muscles unlocking and moving by his movement above your skin. You frown. “This is no work for the King of this forest,” you tell him. “Just…tomorrow. I will ask an attendant.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “This is the work required for a husband to his wife.”

You slip into a daydream, lucidly picturing the towns in which you lived as a child. You see your brother, and his friends, and all the people who had aided you both in the quests that brought you to where you presently are. Every tavern owner, every stead, every friend, all those who had fallen in battle or survived the ordeal. Their faces pass by idly, yet at a pace too quick to note otherwise. They speak to you, a kind tone, the same tone. You cannot understand at first until you do. They are singing in an Elven tongue.

“All the forest creatures, in their woodland homes, life is as features, listening to their crones. Word of love and comfort, the universe all about, their feelings are to assert, as all are devout.”

The song ends, and you are faced with your husband, the King of Mirkwood, your Thranduil. Except, you are not swaying to sleep to his elven melodies, but looking upon him, as he looks upon you. He places a kiss on your forehead, then your nose. He pauses.

“I love you, astalda.”

It was three years ago, roughly. One of those days that came so rarely often, when the people of London had unsuspicious deaths and didn’t require as many autopsies, you and your co-worker Molly would find the time to play a game of Scrabble. It wasn’t a pretentious game, nor was it simply for the sake of fun. Nope. Neither you nor Molly was quite so good with your words when it came to the application of it in daily life. However, while translated into the tiles, those plastic faux-marble pieces that spelt out various dictionary approved words, both of you were practically highbrow.

It was good while it lasted, however. It was a particularly un-busy day – for the pair of you – and somewhat of a thrilling one for the outsiders. As always, pushing through the doors alike something stumbling in from the elements came Sherlock Holmes. The man was tall, with a pointed nose and narrow eyes, curled hair tossed about, and his coat-tails flying with every stride. With less of an entrance followed his friend, the shorter and humbler John Watson. While he was shorter than Holmes, the man, like any other, was prone to outbursts of pride. But none would compare to those of Holmes.

Oh. Today’s guests had brought a plus one along.

You had only heard of the man, but all signs pointed toward the newcomer being the eldest Holmes sibling. Dark auburn hair, thinning. Round face, narrow eyes and pointed nose, however, those features pointed not up but down. And from where he stood, that directed his gaze toward you.

“Molly!” Sherlock thundered, turning to your co-worker. “I’m looking for a man. Caucasian, blonde, medium build. A tattoo on his buttocks. Oh, and he’s dead.”

While she came to life following the instructions at hand, you stood to attention, to face the remaining men loitering before you. While Mr Watson had spared a polite smile before attending to his well-worn reporter’s notebook, the other man remained as he had. Quickly, you pushed the tiles to the centre of the board and awkwardly began to funnel them into the plastic sleeve they lived in.

“It’s excellent to see that the coroners of London continue the noble work that the city requires them for,” Mycroft Holmes spoke up.

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze. It would have appeared like you were an actor in a Bond movie. If you were, it would have seemed like something lithe or somewhat sexy, but there wasn’t anything much sexy to shoving the Scrabble paraphernalia beneath the bench.  

“I can hear the sarcasm in your voice, you know.” You retort, dusting off your white coat. “And even if you’re who Molly says you are, you can’t just come in here and insult us.”

“I apologise for this misunderstanding,” he stepped opposite you, on the other side of the bench. “My words were not intended as insults…I happen to think highly of those who can do such work as yourself and Ms Hooper.”

From the other side of the room, you heard a loud squelch, followed by a yelp.

“A-ha!” Sherlock exhaled. “The missing USB!”  

“I suppose we’re off, then?” John called to Sherlock.

The other man grunted in affirmation. The other Holmes – the one with the rounded edges and sharp eyes, not the public figure which current held a USB device that had been encased in decaying flesh not five minutes ago – curiously held your gaze. You sized him up, once more. However, this time when you gazed upon him, you tried to look further in, like he and his brother often did. He looked tired and a little damp from the weather.

“Perhaps I can make it up to you?” he inquired, leaning upon the curvature of his umbrella’s woodwork. “I’ve been told I’m rather good at Scrabble.”

“Are you boasting, Mr Holmes?” you pressed.

He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps coffee first, then?”

You felt a smile take over your face despite the prior feelings against the man. “You know how to contact me.” You glanced at the striding Sherlock and John and gave the trio a small wave for their goodbyes. “Good day, Mr Holmes.”

He nodded your way in return and tucked his umbrella beneath his shoulder. “Yes,” he agreed. “A good day indeed.”

---

In another time, much after the incident at the morgue, things had changed. Well, not all the way that one would imagine. England was still England, however, now separated from the entirety of Europe. The train that you took to work was the same, with the same graffiti on the side and gum stuck under the chair seats.

John Watson had gotten married to a lovely lady named Mary, and they were expecting a baby. Sherlock had had an affair with a threat to national security, as well as the usual substance abuse. Molly had moved on with her affections and taken to her latest hobby, knitting sweaters for premature babies in the hospital.

And you? Well. Despite the fanciful nature of it all, life was the same as ever. Yes, they had changed, but…it was the same, wasn’t it? You took the same train, used the same hair product, and though the fashioned had evolved, wore the same sort of clothes. The only difference was, really, was the boyfriend.

It was three years after the meeting. Four, if you count the fact you had met before he had properly noticed you when you had been at the same gala – something posh, a charity ball celebrating NHS workers and their dedication to society or something. But three. And despite all that time, there wasn’t much of a change between yourself and the handsome Mycroft Holmes. He visited your apartment whenever he had the time, with Anthea waiting with the car during any dalliances between yourselves. You had been to his penthouse twice, but that was after perhaps too much insistence on your behalf. There had been stolen kisses in hallways and many months between meetings and sometimes FaceTime dates that felt more morose than memorable.

But today, you sat on the shut lid of the toilet, your phone pressed close to your chest. The fading light from the window above the lavatory shed its dismal shade upon you, and you felt just as small as it. With every second passing, you felt more and more of your chest heave with the heaviness. Biting your lip, you held back a sob and leant against the wall.

“Darling,” Mycroft spoke through the door. “Please come out.”

You sniffled in retort, deigning him with no response. You remembered what he had said that day; it was something of a meet-cute. But now it was something horrible. What a bad first encounter. What a sham.

“_________...”

You heard a small thud. If you weren’t so devastated, you would imagine that Mycroft, as defeated as you are, had pressed his forehead to the wood in anguish. His tie would be pulled loose, the crisp white business shirt growing more and more dishevelled as he conformed less to proper posture.

“I don’t care if you have to pee,” you shake your head, clutching yourself just that little bit tighter, “I’m staying in here all night.”

“_________ – I don’t need the loo.” Mycroft remarked, and then, softer, he said, “it wasn’t like it was a complete fib.”

You felt your pulse quicken, a rush of heat rising to your face. You can’t help but remember the words he had said to you, the day you met; I’ve been told I’m rather good at Scrabble. “Oh-ho, but it was a fib!” you retort hotly. You jump from your perch upon the toilet lid and jab at the door between the pair of you with your index finger. “Before tonight, you’d never played Scrabble!”

There was a silence between the both of you. It was a thin door, the door that shielded the rest of your dingy apartment from the lavatory, but now, it felt like it was the thickest thing you had ever come across. Well, apart from the lie that Mycroft had kept for years.

“What else is there that’s a lie, Mycroft? Or is that even your real name?”

“_________,” he pleads.

There is a pause, a long, drawn-out, very much pregnant pause, which makes your heart shatter. A tear falls, but you wipe it aside, invested in the silence that speaks so sonorously. Then,

“My name is Mycroft. I’m the eldest in my family, and I work in the government. I like watching the rain roll over the countryside with a cup of tea, and I’ve always wanted a dog of my own but can’t care for one. And” his voice trembles at that word; a shaky exhale follows, as does the remainder of his confessionary words. “I’ve never had anyone to play Scrabble with – the truth is, growing up it was just for Mother and Father. And not a game for myself and Sherlock. I’m sorry I lied, it snowballed – and I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Shakily, you place your phone into your pants pocket and exhale. There is another silence, this time, it is reigned by you. With every passing second, you can almost feel its grip tighter at your boyfriend’s heart. Slowly, you work at the lock beneath the doorknob, but find it sticky, not budging with your ministration.

“I see,” Mycroft says, tone flat. “I was perfectly reasonable –,”

You grasp for the knob, and with a wrenching motion that’s sure to involve the landlord in the next inspection, you fling the door open. He stands before you and looks the same as ever. But to your eyes, you can decipher it; he has changed too; Mycroft’s hair is messed, and there are bags below his eyes, and his lips are downturned brow set.

You reach for your boyfriend’s frame, the words tumbling from your lips. “No-no-no-no-no-no-no,” you protest. You throw yourself onto him and bury your head into his scent. He’s in his pyjamas, the second-string pair for when the pinstripes are in the laundry basket. The pair of you stand there, in each other’s arms, and breathless, you continue, “The lock – stuck – don’t –,”

You withdraw, looking to his dark eyes. “Don’t leave me over a silly Scrabble game.”

A small, wan smile tugs at the corner of his thin lips. “My dear _________...” he shakes his head and places a kiss upon your forehead. He lingers there, his breath warm against your skin. “I could never leave you. Especially not over a board game.”

A chuckle erupts from your chest at the remark. It’s incredibly mundane, the argument you just waged war over, but it was yours. A rare, vulnerable moment shared between two individuals who mightn’t ever have met if not for their mutual annoyance and his blogging best friend. At the thought of Sherlock, you withdraw from the proximity between yourself and Mycroft and look to him aghast.

“Let’s not tell Sherlock?” You ask Mycroft. If he got onto the idea of the pair of your domestic bliss…oh, the pain that would ensue!

It was around mid-afternoon when you realised that you were in love with your best friend. There had never been any reason to not call it friendship. He and you would be inseparable. If he got detention, so did you. When you watched every lacrosse practice, he never missed a violin recital of yours. He considered your Mom his own, and you practically lived at his house, play-fought his siblings, and slept on their couch more than your own bed.

So when this morning, when Jon didn’t show for homeroom? It took much longer than the initial half an hour roll call and daily announcements for the realisation to sink in. Mr Targaryen — while somewhat crazy for his age — didn’t mind your lack of attention. He droned on about the new parking rules and something about a charity event.

But your thoughts were only on Jon.

He had never been absent before. The only sick day he’d ever had was that winter when everyone in his house got chickenpox. Or the time he drank the expired milk instead of Samwell to stand up to the bullies (it hadn’t worked. Food poisoning isn’t a remedy to schoolyard oppressors). So when his name — Snow, Jon — had come and gone without remark, it weighed heavy on your mind.

Across the classroom, you watched as Joffrey flirted clumsily toward Missandei, who seemed more interested in carving her initials into her desk. It was then, looking at the ill-fated match made in first-period math, your mind flickered back to Jon.

And how every time he showed off, you smiled. How every time you passed a note, he pocketed it. How if you weren’t in a class together, the whole ordeal of it all would stretch on too long, and you’d feel so much better when you next laid eyes on each other. It was as if he was the question, and you were the answer, or you were the chooser, and he was the choice. As no matter what, he came to the forefront of your mind. Whether it was in school or out, at your group’s weekly Dungeons and Dragons night or the ice skating pond near the grocers, no place was complete without Jon.

The bell released you all, and Mr Targaryen resigned himself to his desk, and you all piled out and into the halls. Your usual quips and remarks are held in your mouth, as there is no partner in crime to utter them to. Until, of course, someone knocks into you; sending you and your books across the way.

Theon Greyjoy was no joy at all. The guy could take the happiness out of anything, and he prided himself on it in a sick way that made anyone wonder if he got off on it. A sneer crossed his face as he stared down at you.

“Well?” He prompted lazily. “Where’s your goth to protect you?”

“Go away, Theon.”

“Oh, are you sad? What’re you gonna do? Cry?” He taunted.

You gathered your things quietly, ignoring him despite his proximity. However, just because he was out of sight, it didn’t mean that he was no longer in existence. Books in hand and still crouching, you feel his off-brand sneaker connect with your ribs.

“Oi! Fuck off, you snake,” a familiar voice intoned. Looking up, Arya stood above you, her fists balled, and teeth bared. “Or I’ll smack you over my skateboard like the creep you are.”

“Ooh," he sneered, "you’ll like that, wouldn’t you.”

You stood up at the same time her punch landed. Theon recoiled; his nose was at an odd angle. “What are you gonna do, cry?” She parroted back. Arya puffed her chest out, stepping toward him. Intimidated, Theon grasped at his nose and ran off.

“He’s gonna tattle.” You groaned. Though your books were in hand, you cradled your side. That was gonna leave a mark. “You shouldn’t have done that, Ari…”

“Well, snitches get stitches,” she announced. Starting to walk down the hall, she navigated expertly through the swathes of students as a creature in their element would. “I’m sure you’d do the same for me if Mrs Mordane accused me of cheating in Spanish, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re right…” you trailed off. Blinking, you snapped back to focus and looked to her. “Hey, Arya? Is Jon okay?”

She frowned, stopping mid-step. “You mean in the head? Or in the looks department?” Arya winced. “Y’know, the jury’s still out on both.”

“No, I mean like, is he sick?” You ask, hurriedly. Some part of you feels ashamed for asking so pointedly. Another feels righteous, wanting answers. “I mean, he seemed fine when we talked on the phone yesterday…it’s just, Jon never misses homeroom.”

“Maybe…he poked his eye out with his guyliner and Rob had to drive him to the ER?” Arya shrugged, entering the classroom behind her. “See ya!”

----

By the time fourth-period art rolled around, you felt somewhat disparaged. Apart from the fact that your phone battery was dead from checking your last texts so often, there was no word from anyone in your social circle about Jon. Even Samwell was as worried as you were, and if that meant anything, your worries were valid. But as with everything in art class, the bad energy was left at the door, and inside, you began to sketch out the line art on your freshly primed canvas.

“Don’t look now, but I’m pretty sure ____________’s gonna paint their boyfriend.”

You looked to the voice. Really, of all people? It was none other than Renly Baratheon. You had tried to befriend him in middle school, but it didn't work out. When became King of the rumour mill, it was hard to find peace in his company. He sat beside his friends, bedazzled as always, with his holier than thou expression that made you so very mad.

You looked to the sketch on your canvas. An oval face, chin-length hair. Morose expression, bushy eyebrows, and baggy clothes. Jon. But by the time you looked up, ready to defend yourself, you noted that Cersi had swooped in to bully him. Such luck couldn’t be bottled, but then again…you hadn’t denied the statement.

At the next table, Margaery laughed softly. You noticed that her project, a clay vase, looked somewhat like something the teacher would discourage the boys from crafting.

“What’s so funny?” You asked, innocently.

“Oh…” she moulded at the mound she had pinched into existence, “it’s almost like you’re the last to know.”

“Look, I’ve already seen that video Daenerys shared.”

“Oh God no —,” she gave a quasi-yelp, too low for the teacher to hear over the general hubbub, “I’m not talking about that scandal.” She shook her head, “See, ____________, I’ll be kind about it, since nobody else will be. It’s clear as day that you’re into that emo Jon Snow.”

“He’s my friend.” You bit back. Quietly, you added, “He’s punk, not emo.”

“Yeah?” She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow in amusement. “Well if we’re telling lies, then I’m a virgin.”

Exasperated, you focus back on your desk. But before you is your canvas, the sketch of Jon’s face, and it makes your face heat beneath the skin with a cocktail of embarrassment and shame.

Under your breath, you ask, barely looking to Margaery, “…does everyone know?”

“Oh, just about everyone…except him. If I know anything about boys — and trust me, I do — that boy likes you.”

----

You had never been so glad to get off the bus, but then again, no other days in your life had been so strife-filled as this one. You follow the Stark siblings home. It’s the same as usual. Sansa pushes Bran’s chair, and Arya as she kicks rocks at cars. You’re almost past their front yard when you realise they’ve stopped walking, and you nearly collide with Sansa’s back.

“What is it?” You ask. “What’s —”

It’s then you see. Spelt out on the front lawn of your family’s house with white garden rocks is a message. It’s hard to decipher since it's so big, but you frown, concentrating on it. WILL YOU GO TO…

You furrow your brow, looking to the Stark siblings. Bran shrugs. But the only answer you receive, upon walking closer to the misspelled word (when had it ever been spelled DARNCE??), you see him leaning against the inside of your parents’ front doorframe. He’s wearing a nicer black tee than usual, and his jeans have fewer holes, but he still looks as cool as ever. In Jon’s hands, there’s a single flower — that you suspect was picked from across the road’s garden — and he holds it out to you.

“What are you doing?” You ask, eyes wide. “I — Jon, what are you —?”

He pushes off the door, walking toward you down the path. He kicks one of the rocks from the misspelled word on accident, the stone tottering toward the mailbox. “____________, I’ve known you since we were both in diapers and watched Rugrats reruns. We’ve been good friends for years and years and it’s taken me so long to realise it but I know what it is I am to you. You’re the best part of any day. Hands down. It’s been years, but you’re more than a friend to me.”

“Stop being so corny,” you whine.

“____________, I like you more than anyone or anything. More than —”

You close the distance between the pair of you. In the motion, you knock the flower from his grasp, nearly bowl the boy over, but finally, after too many years and too many confusing thoughts and feelings, you do it.

“Gross,” Bran mutters, near the gate.

Jon breaks from the kiss. “I — you like me back?” He looks bewildered.

According to the statistics, it was improbable that your return to the USS Enterprise would be on a hover stretcher. There was a truth to it, and it showed in the data. Sometimes, casual dating was a fun exercise in romantic growth with others. However, when casually dating Leonard 'Bones' McCoy, CMO of the ship and resident grump, it wasn’t easy. You were a hands-on learner! A xeno-geographer worked better in the field.

Despite your inclinations, the data showed a different story. Crew admitted to Medbay worked largely in security and on away teams. An overwhelming percentage of those wore a red uniform. The statistics reduced for casualties for sciences blue, and lesser so with gold. The statistics had abated your worries. But despite the numbers, Leonard was not having it. It had been a passing conversation over replicator coffee. Five minutes before departing for the alpha shift, he had downed his black, no sugar and no cream, and gave you a most definite no you had ever heard.

“I won’t condone it,” he said, gathering his holo-pad. “Look - I’m not calling you a bad officer! You’re damn fine at your job.”

“Is that why you’re acting my father instead of partner?” You retorted hotly. Something about his obstinance reacted unfavourably with you, “You’re not my keeper.”

He blinked, and slowly, placed his mug upon the table. “My apologies, Darlin’,” He said, in a low voice. “…that I am not.”

It was then he walked away. The rest of the morning was a whirlwind of preparations, and without a moment to think of Leonard, it quickly became pushed to the back of your mind.

The away mission was simple. The people were a previously uncontacted civilisation on the northern hemisphere of a Federation planet. The southern populace had been contacted some years ago. However, the mission was to observe and document its cultural landmarks and social evolution.

Come the arrival, however, your nerves got the better of you.

You felt like your head was getting the better of you. All the unspoken words you wished you had said to Leonard at the forefront, not your job. While the rest of the team made their way to the outskirts of the citadel, you fell behind.

Had that been your first fight as a couple? What if you never saw each other again? What if that was the last thing you ever said to him?

That was how you did not see the trap in time. Up you went, the rope snagged around your leg, hoisting yourself into the air. The crackle of your comms buzzed, but it fell out, and no communication was received. The other members of the party turned at the commotion, coming to help you.

"I said to look out for that," a security officer muttered, lowering you from the uncomfortable hoist. "Now we sprung the trap, the people are sure to know we are here."

"Are you hurt?" one of the others asked.

Before you could find the words, however, you heard it. The distinctive twang! of a string-based weapon. Despite your vast knowledge of the weaponry used in evolving alien civilisations, that alone did not save you. Because as soon as you heard the release, the projectile was coming for you. And as fast as you were, there was no way to dodge it.

You blinked.

A flash of blinding pain erupted from your shoulder as an arrow-like object embedded itself within your flesh. The words were lost in your throat, but holding them in, a reactionary gurgle of agony escaped.

The security officer shouted something into his comms. The away team scrambled. Someone pulled you from the path, but not before the twang! and release of more projectiles was heard again.

You hadn't been shot before, but now you had. The voices around you seemed to fade out of volume, though they were nearby. Your head swam with confusion and fear. All of those aside, it was the sensation of beaming on board that brought you back to lucidity.

All you could think of was not on the primitive projectile jutting from your shoulder. Not the hazy fog that filled your thoughts, like a slow poison. It was with your boyfriend.

"Get them to Medbay! We need help!" someone called for help.

Despite the lucidity, you felt a prisoner in your body as they helped you onto a stretcher. Carried toward the Medbay, you tried to parse your thoughts into a coherence, but it was no use. The faces of those around you were blurry, some doubling. Their voices faded in and out, and slowly, you felt less and less control of your limbs.

Upon arrival into the Medbay, the white light overwhelmed you. If you weren't already having trouble comprehending the world around you, the commotion in the Medbay brought vertigo-like nausea to you. Despite your understanding of your surroundings being hard to pay attention to, you knew the blurry silhouette at the end of the stretcher.  The appearance of the CMO was something that would've been comforting to some. Despite having little control over your body, you try to move from his sight, lamely shifting away to evade his gaze.

“What are you waiting for, divine intervention?" his voice cut in. "I need a bed for the patient, stat.”

You tried to roll the stretcher once more, but your already turning stomach turned some more at the movement. Your shoulder burst into another wave of pain. A gentle touch upon your collar stopped your movement. You didn't need to open your eyes to know whose hand it was. You were well versed with those hands. You knew the good and kind work those hands performed, the love and tenderness behind his touch. But you also knew what those hands had done in the seconds before you parted.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but they weren't for the pain. No. The fading rush of adrenaline somewhat helped with that. The tears were for a different pain.

"It'll be okay Darlin', you'll be okay." He says, voice low, hurridly. You felt his hand upon your cheek, cupping it. "You have to be."

Soon after that, all the noises of the Medbay blended into one. A prick of a Hypospray led to a loss of sensation in your arm. Then torso. And slowly after that, a loss of awareness. But as your eyes fluttered to a close, some part of you fighting the anaesthesia, you caught sight of him. He stood at the end of the cot, a chart in hand, speaking with a nurse.

As the world faded from view, you felt his name on your lips.

---

When you next opened your eyes, there was no denying the throbbing pain. Slowly beneath the bedsheets, you tested the muscles in your body, moving them slightly. Your fingers moved on command, toes too. As you shifted your arm, you realised that the projectile you had taken a hit with had been removed. Glancing up, everything in sight was as it should be, no doubled vision. The screen beside you that housed your vitals seemed to wake up with you. It hummed a similar tone to that of your heart; a soft ba-dum, ba-dum.

It wasn't long before a nurse arrived. But as quick as they came, another person appeared. But he was no nurse.

Leonard looked as tired as they came. His bags under the eyes were dark, his skin sallow, his dark hazel eyes somewhat vacant. You had no idea how long you had been under; it could only have been one day, right? But Leonard looked haggard. The previously sexy stubble of five o'clock shadow looked dishevelled, unkempt.

"I didn't mean what I said," you blurt, trying and failing to sit up. Silently, Leonard came to your side, helping you do so. The bed, adjusting into a seating position, whirred to life. "I was just frustrated. I love you."

"I love you too," he replied softly. "But there was truth to your words."

You watch as he takes a seat at the bedside, his hands lingering at the edge, not moving to hold yours. "You're nothing like my father, Len." You reassured him.

"I know." He says. "...but I was being your keeper. You're a free spirit; you deserve to be unfettered. Free to do what you want - free to do what your job needs."

"I'm not a pigeon that flew inside a public building, Leonard," you hum. "I'm a person."

He wipes a hand over his face. "A hell of a person, at that." He says, quietly. "In truth...you reminded me of her. My ex-wife. Elinor. She was always stubborn, that's why we got hitched, and why we fell apart. But with you..." You reach for his hand, interlacing his fingers with your own. "Darlin', you can handle yourself. You're a tough cookie. But with you – this is your life. You work as a xeno-geographer," He sighs, "Who am I to stop you?"

"Leonard..." you squeeze his hand.

"It was wrong of me to try to stop you. And even though you did get hurt, it took all I could to keep it together, treating you."

"Thanks for trusting me," you whisper, squeezing his hand once more. "I promise next time I'll be even more careful."