#anoffering

appreciation post for my new top <3

❝ how was practice, babe? ❞ how fionn aches for the days, not that long ago, where scott would leap over the back of the sofa to lie on top of him. now, fionn's still healing (even if he's mostly there, now), the memory of him being in that hospital lingering in both their minds, and scott walks around, instead. fionn is stretched out on the couch, tv switched to football in the background, snuggled inside an admirals sweatshirt. it was probably scott's to begin with, but he finds himself frequently commandeering his clothes.

he wonders if he looks as small as he feels. and his residual arm is fucking killing him; he's refused anything stronger than ibuprofen since climbing back onto the wagon, and he should probably find his tens machine, but he's reluctant to move. (reluctant to get out of the sweatshirt, too, despite the inside temperature. it's armour; he's hiding.)

he does, however, shift so that there's room for scott to sit down. ❝ i got fired today. well, not fired, they're not allowed to do that. told i wouldn't ever be medically cleared for what i do. did. they're, uh, looking at other things i could do with the department. ❞

it's only taken her three years to perfect the art of rolling a joint. (which, yes, is a fairly long time.) in her defense, though — joints and blunts are saved for special occasions. this, by all standards, was a special occasion. there weren't many people in emma's life who didn't smoke weed. all of her friends and family did, the only exception being stiles. (and marie when they'd first met, but marie didn't know anything about anything when they'd met.) licking the glued edge, she seals the joint and ghosts the flame of her lighter over the seam twice for good measure. enough to dry and moisture without igniting the paper itself. once pleased with her work of art, a grin spreads across her lips as she moves to extend it in stiles' direction, lighter included — only, she stops.

it feels like an entire weight lifted off of her shoulders, to mingle amongst a crowd like this without having to twist herself into knots trying to avoid questions or lingering gazes. ella has now spent a majority of her career in this league, she is hardly a stranger to anyone in this room; and for once, that doesn't make her feel so trapped between these walls. she gets to enjoy this moment as just ella, the thrill of an upcoming post-season on the horizon, and how incredibly special it is to share such an important moment with someone she loves.

over the course of her life she's been thrown around by enemy biotics, shot, punched, kicked, narrowly avoided explosions, spaced, died, been brought back to life, and somehow (almost) none of that hits her harder than the gut-punch of those words. after horizon, after the lingering suspicion on mars, she can't help but be a little struck by them.

she isn't a shy woman, shepard. she never was, not even as a kid. she doesn't think any child of hannah shepard ever could have been. and yet she feels it for a moment when he looks at her from that hospital bed. like she's been caught doing something she shouldn't, maybe. being somewhere she isn't supposed to be. maybe that's part of the reason for the words. he always was able to pick up on things like that.

"i'm real glad you're awake and talking again," she says, pulling herself together enough to advance into the room, to take a seat in the chair pulled up to his bedside. "you had me worried, there."

she'd wanted to be around more than she could while he was here, hadn't been able to shake the guilt of leaving him here to keep the normandy and its crew moving. but the reapers don't stop, so she can't, either. (after earth, she's sure he understands. doesn't mean it felt great.) maybe, if she had been, it would be easier to find something meaningful to say. but all of that's caught up in a net of her own making, all her doubts and fears that she so seldom lets anybody see.

pity is the first thing they feel. a deep, understanding sense of pity that nearly makes them ill. breath is held, fingers tighten, and it passes with the blink of the eyes. filling the space is a fragile smile.

“ can any of us ? ” because even the strongest warrior would crumble beneath this weight, but what else can they do but endure? this thought is shared when florence says, “ what can we do but keep going ? turning back now would mean it was all for nothing, doesn’t it ? ”