This one is a few weeks late and only a little over the wordcount, but given I've barely written in months, I'm just happy I finished.
A key turning in the lock alerted me to the fact Blake was home.
âWhatâre you cooking?â He asked, dropping his gym bag by the front door. âI could smell it from the stairwell.â
âItâs vodka pasta andââ my eyes met his, and I let out a little gasp. âWhat happened to your face?â
He touched the bruise forming under his eye. âSparring accident,â he said with a shrug. âIt happens.â
He wasnât giving off any of his contract-related lying signs, and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was telling the truth, and wasnât secretly working for Sovereign again. But he was still hurt. And I didnât like that.
It took only three steps for me to reach him, and I grabbed his face to better see the bruise. âI donât like it when youâre hurt.â
He shrugged again. âIf Iâm going to stay in fighting shape, I have to occasionally fight someone who can fight back.â
âButâcanât you just not get punched in the face?â
Amusement built in his eyes as he removed my hands from his cheeks. âThatâs why Iâve gotta train,â he said with a smile, then gave my hands a gentle squeeze. âIâm ok. I swear.â
âGood. Youâre way prettier without bruises.â
He glowered, and I kissed his cheek before he could begin to complain.
âSo, whatâs vodka pasta then?â he asked, heading to the kitchen.
I followed behind, taking a brief opportunity to admire his butt. âItâs pasta with vodka.â
He rounded on me, his flat, unimpressed stare threatening to break.
âYouâre cute when youâre grumpy, you know that right.â
âAm not.â
âAre too.â I bopped his nose, noting the blush forming behind his clearly fake scowl. âAnyway. I saw this Tiktok where a guy added vodka to his pasta sauce because the vodka enhances the flavour of the tomatoes. And it looked tasty and youâve been doing all the cooking since you moved in so I thought Iâd cook for you for once. Plus, vodka!â
Blake held up the empty bottle. âYou drank a bit too, I see.â
âWell duh. Itâs me. You want to taste?â
âOf course.â
Using a teaspoon I scooped some of the sauce from the pan and held it up to his mouth. âLet me know if itâs hot enough.â
Keeping his eyes on me he blew on the sauce, a move which only added to my proof that he was actually cute and not scary like he thought he was, then he tasted the sauce.
Immediately his eyes bulged, and he let out a half-choking cough. âJesus, Bethany!â he rasped. âYou couldâve warned me about the chilli!â
âI did,â I said, frowning.
âI thought you meant temperature.â
âOh.â Was that something people warned about? If it was, it was new to me. âSo too much chilli, then?â
âNah, itâs a good amount. I just wasnât expecting it.â Despite his words he still looked a little in pain, and him pulling a beer from my fridge confirmed it. His mouth was burning.
âIf I read the recipe right, when I add the cream it should cut down on the spice,â I told him.
âOk, cool.â his grumpy expression finally broke, changing to a self-deprecating smile. âBecause I think my tongue is dying.â
âYou know you donât have to do the tough guy act here, right?â
âIâm trying to stop,â he admitted. âItâs hard.â He leaned down and gave me a kiss, leaving the taste of beer on my tongue when he pulled away. âDo I have time for a shower?â
âYeah, go for it. I still need to cook the penne.â
Proving I was rubbing off on him, Blake headed for the bathroom with his beer still in hand, while I put on a pot of water for the pasta.
While the water boiled I stacked all the dirty dishes next to the sink. They could wait for me until after dinner, assuming Blake didnât get to them first. Which I definitely wasnât secretly planning on, not at all.
By the time I was done the water was boiling, so I threw in a box of pasta and some salt, set an alarm, and then went back to the sauce.
The cream cut away almost all of the chilli but for Blakeâs sake I resisted adding more to compensate. I could always add some fresh chilli to my serve later.
The shower turned off as I was adding Parmesan to the sauce. Perfect timing by Blake; by the time he got dressed, dinner would be ready, leaving me to wonder if his power somehow made him punctual or if he was naturally just like that.
âNeed a hand?â he asked when he came back out.
âNope! Itâs all under control.â My alarm went off as I spoke. âAnd thatâs the pasta done.â
I went to switch off the heat.
âDonât you wanna check itâs cooked properly before you turn it off?â he asked, hovering near the stove.
âMm, good idea.â I stuck my hand into the boiling water andâ
And Blake was suddenly dragging me to the sink.
âBlake,â I stressed, trying to pull my arm from his grip. âBlake!â
Finally he stopped, his eyes going to the handful of penne I was holding, then back to me. There was fear there, confusion, and relief, and finally I understood.
âIâm invulnerable, remember,â I murmured, and dropped the pasta into the sink.
He pulled me into a bear hug. âYou scared the crap out of me,â he mumbled into my hair. âWhy would you do that?â
âIs there another way to check?â
âYeah, you hook one of them on the spaghetti fork.â He let go of me and turned off the gas, then slumped against the bench. âHow do you not know that.â
I was feeling a little judged, but he didnât understand. How could he? Weâd grown up so differently. âItâs not like I was allowed in the kitchen when I was young,â I told him. âOur chef likes to be left alone when she was cooking. And since thenâŠwell, youâre the only person Iâve ever cooked for.â
âOh.â
âItâs nice that you care, though.â I still wasnât used to it.
âIâll always care about you.â He took my hand in his, lifting it up to look at my arm. âDonât think Iâll ever get used to this, but. Itâs not even red. If Iâd done that, youâd be calling me an ambulance.â
âItâs really that bad?â
He nodded. âThereâs a reason spaghetti scoops exist. Which,â he tilted his head to the side like a puppy, âyou donât own, apparently. Or a pot holder.â
âWhatâs a pot holder?â
Blake grabbed a tea towel, an incredulous smile forming on his face. âNot something you need,â he said, awkwardly grabbing the handles of the pasta pot and carrying it to the sink. âIâm betting you pull baking trays out of the oven with your bare hands?â
I was going to ask how else I would do it, but Blakeâs tea towel usage answered that. âI never knew they were hot enough to hurt.â
âI am so fucking happy you kept your invulnerability. Got no idea how youâd survive without it.â
I snorted. âThat was actually a legitimate fear of mine,â I admitted. A lifetime of not knowing what was dangerous would be hard to unlearn. âNow I wish I could stop you getting hurt too.â I brushed his bruise with my thumb, the same way heâd once done for me.
âJust being here makes it feel better.â
He kissed me again, deep and intimate, and I melted into his arms.
And then, he stopped. âWe should have dinner first,â he mumbled on my lips.
Dinner? Oh right, Iâd cooked. âIf you insist,â I replied, reluctantly letting go of him. âBut only if you have me for dessert.â
âDeal.â
I grinned, thinking of the can of whipped cream in the fridge. He was in for a great surprise.
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Well, I have a lot of characters this might have worked for very well, but I didnât quite feel like using any of them today.
Luckily Iâve been watching a TV show that served to inspire me.
The sun was low in the west as I arrived, a painted field in the sky, the shadows from the house falling upon me as I strode up the hill. A thousand joy-filled memories passed through my mind with every step I took. Â
A flower-filled spring party upon the lawn to celebrate some long-passed nuptials. Â
The long-ago summer with clear blue skies that turned into a sudden storm and dancing in the cooling rains.
That harvest dance where smiles turned into kisses in the shadows behind the barn,
And that chill winterâs morning when snow covered everything in a sheet of white.
So many days to celebrate, so many happy moments to recall, adding up to years in the end. Â No ashes could make me cry, not with all of that to weigh against.
Written for the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt :
(Content warnings: blood and wounds)
(Word count: ~1.1k [sorry I couldn't stop the writing train])
The cast is from L'Ondine et le Voleur so this is in French, but I'm gonna reblog this post with an English translation too (better spare ourselves the goggle train's late version).
* * *
- Volpan, tu peux me laisser parler avec Alix, sâil-te-plaĂźt ?
Tissue warning according to @janetm74
@flashfictionfridayofficial
Word count: 634
...
âIt doesnât hurt, does it, Ms. Malinda?â
Malinda looked down at a pair of earnest blue eyes. âI promise, Scott, itâs not hurting him.â She put the tiny vial of blood into the airlock and sealed the inside door. Then pulled her arms free and got the sample out. âOkay, you can come back over.â
The four-year-old hurried from the line he was standing behind and swarmed up the stool he used. âSee Virgie! I told you it didnât hurt. Ms. Malinda is the best!â
The utter confidence in that youthful voice made her heart swell. âIâll tell you a secret, Scott, but you canât tell your dad. Okay?â
âWhat kind of secret?â
Oh, that he needed to ask that kind of question this young hurt. âA good one. If this sample is in the same range as the last three, it means we can take Virgil off the oxygen.â She grinned. âThink your dad would like that surprise?â
âReally?!â Scott bounced in place. âDaddy would love that! I would love that!â
âYes, really. You wanna tell Virgil about it?â
âSURE!â He turned to the incubator, placed his hand inside the square theyâd made on the cover by Virgilâs head. âMs. Malinda says you can get the tube out of your nose real soon!â
Malinda had high hopes about that. Virgil had been improving by leaps and bounds in the past weeks. With some luck and love, theyâd be able to downgrade him from critical to serious. Maybe even let Scott and his dad have some skin time. That would be one of the miracles she loved best.
Gen shook his head as she placed the sample in the gas-cro. âI still canât believe we let a four-year-old into the NICU. I also canât believe heâs better behaved than some of the adults.â
Theyâd both been on duty when Scott had marched up to the doors of the NICU and demanded to see his baby brother. They could handle terrified, angry, and heartbroken parents. But one small boy demanding to sit with his brother so he wouldnât be scared had been beyond their ken.
She felt sorry for the small family. Virgil had come into this world at a terrifying 27 weeks, in severe distress and nearly dying. His twin John showed no such issues. So their mom was upstairs, trying to be the best mom she could to the son she still carried. Their dad had come down in a rush looking for Scott. Relieved beyond words to find his firstborn, gowned, capped, and sitting on a stool, telling Virgil about all the things they were going to do together with John. Nobody had the heart to separate them. So every other day, promptly at 2pm Scott would appear, get geared up, and sit with Virgil and talk for about an hour. Sweet Baby Jesus, could that boy talk.
Several weeks later, Scott bounded into the NICU with the biggest grin on his face. âMs Malinda! Daddy says that Johnny is coming!â
âOH, Scott, that's great news!â She swept him up into a hug. She was going to miss this little ball of energy when Virgil was healthy enough to go home.
He squirmed in her arms. âI gotta tell Virgie!â He worked his way free and held his arms out so he could get gowned and capped. She shook her head, he understood the rules better than some of her nurses.
Scott walked slowly over to Virgil, now in an Armstrong incubator, climbed his stool, and laid a gentle hand on the black fuzz that covered his baby brotherâs skull. âJohnny is coming soon, Virgie. Then when you get out of here, weâre going to have adventures!â
Of that, Malinda had no doubt. Look out world, the Tracy brothers are coming.
For @febuwhump day 11: Chonic Pain and @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 139: It Doesn't Hurt. 590 words.
With thanks to @the-original-sineater
More angst than whump, although whump is mentioned in passing.
They say that it gets better with time.
They say that you learn to cope with it.
They say things get better.
They say some right s***.
Sorry.
I donât know what is worse. The actual real chronic pain caused by real physical injuries, or the pain that is all in my head. The psychological pain caused by a thousand different things, different words, different reasons.
The causes are not physical. But the pain is real. It is.
My brothers carry so much pain with them.
They think I donât know, that they can protect me from the burdens that they bear. That I was â am â too young to know.
Sometimes I want to slap them.
(Sometimes I want to punch their lights out. I actually do want to.)
But I canât. They really do think that they are doing it to help me, protect me. And I appreciate it, I do.
Most of the time.
But there are times when one of them is just laying there, bare-face lying to me.
âIt doesnât hurt, Sprout,â Scott rasps, broken bones and skin more black and blue than sun-kissed golden.
âIt doesnât hurt, Alan,â John mutters, even as heâs falling over â again â because gravity is too much.
âIt doesnât hurt, Al,â says Virgil as Grandma wraps him in another bandage and his breath hitches in pain.
âIt doesnât hurt, Allie,â says Gordon, as he lays on the floor pretending that his back hasnât thrown another hissy-fit and left him unable to move.
IDIOTS.
Why they donât think I canât see through them, I donât know. But I am reminded that I am the baby of the family and they want to keep me safe.
Like thatâs ever going to happen.
Iâm a Tracy.
The pain of their physical injuries is bad, and I feel each and every one of them. But the pain that I could help them, could maybe even prevent some of them if only they would let me out there, let me help them.
That is a whole different kind of pain. A chronic pain that eats away at me.
Every time they fly off Iâm the one left behind.
Worried.
Scared.
Frightened even.
What if one of them doesnât come back?
We lost Mom to an avalanche that almost took Scott and myself too. I donât remember it. I lived through it but I donât remember anything before the funeral, and even then I was too young to understand.
But I remember the pain.
The pain of my brothers. How everything hurt. Breathing. Talking. Eating.
Living.
How there was now a hole in our lives â four holes actually. We didnât just loose our Mother. We lost both parents and our Grandparents too. And the pain was palpable. Was real.
I could taste it. Touch it.
Suffocate in it.
It got better. But it didnât go away. And like Gordonâs chronic issues with his back, it shaped everything and everyone from that single point onwards.
I wonder what kind of people my brothers would have been without it.
I will never know, and neither will they.
And then we lost Dad and that painâŠwell, it didnât return because it had never gone away. But it did grow. Expand.
It threatened to destroy us all.
But we are Tracyâs.
So when these thoughts hit me, when the world is too much and every breath hurts for whichever one of the myriad of reasons I have, and when my brothers notice and ask me.
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