#one-shot

Dean noticed because he noticed everything about Sam.

He noticed when his little brother was favouring his left side after a hunt, even if there was no blood. He noticed when he skipped meals because he was worried about money, when he pretended not to be tired and when his silences meant anger instead of thoughtfulness.

Dean noticed it all.

The motel outside Lincoln was no different from a hundred others they had passed through. Two narrow beds sat beneath framed prints of flowers no one would ever choose for themselves. The carpet was an ugly brown-green, darkened around the door by years of damp boots. A tired air conditioner rattled beneath the window despite the cold, and every few seconds the red glow of the vacancy sign bled through the curtains and washed the room in colour.

John had left before sunrise.

A farmer three towns over had reported seeing his dead wife standing at the edge of his cornfield after midnight. John had decided the story was worth investigating before they moved on, which meant he had taken the impala, his duffle and a research folder put together by Sam, containing every newspaper clipping connected to the woman’s death.

Sam had gone to the local library to check burial records.

Dean had stayed behind to clean the weapons.

That was how it worked. John chased the lead, sometimes with the boys. Sam chased the answers like the geek he was and if it was just another normal case, Dean made sure none of them ran out of ammunition or dealt with a jammed gun.

Sam’s shotgun rested across Dean’s lap in pieces. The barrel gleamed beneath the yellow motel light, and the sharp scent of gun oil clung to his hands.

He reached automatically for a polishing cloth, which he usually grabbed before he started disassembling any weapon, only to look up and realise it wasn’t with the kit.

“Sammy,” he muttered.

His brother had a habit of taking Dean’s things and putting them somewhere sensible majority of the time, which usually meant he could never find them again.

He crossed the room to check their ammunition box, when that failed, he thought for a moment before remembering Sam using the cloth the previous night after sharpening his silver knife.

Dean moved to the bedside of Sam’s bed and hooked one boot beneath the strap of his brothers duffel, dragging it closer.

He didn’t hesitate before opening it.

Privacy had never meant much when three people spent their lives sharing one car, motel rooms and the occasional back room of a church. Sam stole Dean’s shirts. Dean ate whatever food Sam tried to hide for later. John searched both their bags whenever he decided they were unprepared.

There were few secrets in the Winchester family.

At least, that was what Dean had believed.

He pushed aside a grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. Beneath them were two paperbacks, a packet of pens and a small plastic case holding spare razor blades. Dean dug deeper until his fingers closed around the missing cloth, wrapped around the knife he had sharpened.

“There you are.”

He pulled it free.

The sound of clear stencil rattled beneath it.

Dean paused.

A large envelope lay flat against the bottom of the duffel, hidden beneath clothes and a cardboard box of rock salt. It was too clean to belong with the rest of their lives. The paper was heavy, the address typed on a sticker rather than handwritten.

Dean might have ignored it. Almost did.

Then he saw the red logo printed in the upper corner.

Stanford University.

The room seemed to narrow around him.

The air conditioner continued its uneven clatter. A car swept past outside, tyres hissing against the damp highway. The vacancy sign pulsed red across Dean’s hands.

He stared down at the envelope.

Samuel Winchester was printed neatly across the front. Not Campbell. Not one of the aliases John kept filed inside an old cigar box.

Samuel Winchester.

His real name.

Dean lowered himself onto the edge of Sam’s bed.

The envelope had already been opened. A clean slice ran across the top, too precise to have been torn by hand. Sam had probably used the knife wrapped inside the polishing cloth.

He knew he should put it back.

Whatever waited inside belonged to Sam. If Sam wanted him to know, he would have told him.

But he had not.

He glanced towards the door, though he knew Sam was still at the library. After a few seconds of contemplation, and a pained sigh, he drew out the letter.

The first word was enough.

Congratulations.

Dean stared at it.

For several seconds, he expected the message to shift into something less impossible. A request for further information. A rejection softened by polite language. A mistake.

Stanford University was pleased to offer Samuel Winchester admission. His academic achievement had been exceptional. His teachers had described him as disciplined, resilient and unusually promising.

Dean’s gaze moved down the page.

There was more. A scholarship.

Tuition was completely covered. A full ride with assisted housing. Academic support. A future arranged in clean black lettering, just waiting for Sam to say yes.

Dean’s throat tightened.

His first thought was uncomplicated and immediate.

Sam had done it.

The kid had actually done it.

Sam; who had studied in motel bathrooms so the light wouldn’t wake John. He had completed assignments in the back seat of the Impala while Dean drove through three states. He had convinced school after school to accept transfer credits that initially made no sense and had endured guidance counsellors looking at their records as if instability were something Sam had chosen freely. He had done homework after hunts with blood beneath his fingernails. He had taken exams the next day on his laptop after spending half the night burning bones.

And he had done it.

A smile tugged at Dean’s mouth before he could stop it. Pride opened warm and fierce in his chest.

“That’s my boy,” he whispered.

The words barely disturbed the stale motel air. For a few seconds, Dean let himself feel it. Then the rest of the letter sank in. California… Four years, maybe more.

Dormitories and lecture halls and people who had never dug up a grave in their lives. People who would complain about deadlines and cafeteria food because they had no idea what it was like to sleep with a knife beneath their pillow.

Dean looked at the date printed above the letter.

Nine days ago.

His eyes narrowed.

Sam had known for nine days.

For nine days he had carried this in his bag, sitting beside Dean in diners and in the passenger seat of the Impala as though nothing had changed.

Dean told himself anything except the truth.

Sam wanted to leave.

The motel door suddenly opened behind him.

Dean scrambled before thought could catch up. He shoved the letter back into the envelope, bending it in his haste.

Sam entered with three library books tucked beneath one arm and a paper cup in the other. Damp air followed him through the doorway, carrying the smell of rain and pavement.

The taller Winchester saw the envelope in his hand.

Sam stopped.

The paper cup tilted slightly between his fingers. A thin line of coffee spilled over the lid, but he did not appear to notice.

Everything in his face changed.

Dean had seen Sam frightened before. He had seen him face ghosts, demons and their father’s anger. He knew the difference between panic and calculation, between shock and the quiet moment before Sam decided to fight.

This was something else.

It was the expression of someone watching a bridge collapse before he had decided whether to cross it.

“Dean.” His voice was low.

His brother lifted the envelope.

“Stanford?”

Sam closed his eyes briefly.

“I was going to tell you.”

The words struck Dean with more force than they deserved. A humourless laugh left him. “Yeah? When?” He stood, the letter held loosely at his side. “Before or after you disappeared?”

Sam placed the cup and books on the table with an exaggerated thump. “I’m not disappearing Dean.” His voice cracked slightly before he regained his composure. “I’m going to school.”

“California is a hell of a long drive for someone who claims to put family first.” Dean added dryly, unable to help himself. “Tell me how long have you known, huh? How long have you been acting like everything is all rainbows and candy-land?”

“Nine days ago.” Sam stated quietly.

“Nine days.” Dean repeated with a scoff.

“I needed time.” Sam tried to get out.

“For what? Coming up with a lie?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed “To figure out how to tell you!”

Dean laughed now, tensions high amongst the brothers, with nothing funny about it. Sam tried to cool himself off, raising his palms. “C’mon Dean this isn’t fair.”

“No, Sam. Fair would’ve been hearing it from you instead of finding it stuffed in the bottom of your duffle bag.”

”-and the letter just opened itself?”

Dean’s mouth closed and for a moment neither of them moved.

Sam had always been too good at finding the exact weak point in an argument. Maybe that was his inner lawyer...Dean saw the accusation settle between them and hated that it was deserved. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't have read it." Dean sighed, waving an arm about guiltily.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” Sam's tone was direct, but Dean could hear the hurt in it, which seemed to only make the eldest brother double down.

“But you shouldn’t have hidden it.”

“I wasn’t hiding it from you!"

Dean gestured with the envelope. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

Sam’s jaw worked. “Because I knew you’d look at me exactly like that.”

“Like what?” Dean growled.

“Like I’m betraying you.” The answer landed with brutal precision, and Sam watched as Dean opened his mouth to deny it. "Don't stand there and try telling me it's not how you feel." After a moment, he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "I applied months ago... I didn't know they would accept me."

“You didn’t think that was worth mentioning?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Sam turned from the glare his brother shot at him. “Dad would’ve shut it down before they even opened the application.”

“This isn’t about Dad.”

“It’s always about Dad.” Sam counted with a huff and a furrowed brow.

Dean’s voice dropped instinctively. “Don’t.”

Sam gave a small, disbelieving shake of his head. “He doesn’t want us to have anything outside this family, nothing that isn't hunting, at least.”

“He wants you alive, Sam.”

“No. He wants me obedient.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

Dean’s fingers tightened around the envelope until the paper creased. He hated when Sam did this. He hated it when his brother reached into all the dark, carefully sealed parts of their family and dragged the truth into the light as if naming it would somehow make it easier to confront. He knew their family was messed up beyond what anyone said out loud, but that didn't mean he didn't love his family with everything he had, especially looking after his pain-in-the-ass little brother. He wanted Sam to have the life he wanted, to grow up away from all of this, but what came out of his mouth was very different.

“People die when hunters walk away.”

“I know.”

“Then what?” Dean demanded. “You’re going to sit in some lecture hall while Dad and I are out there doing the work?”

Sam went still, then something guarded settled across his face.

“There it is.”

Dean frowned. “What?”

“The part where you make me feel guilty for wanting something other than this, just like he does.”

Dean looked at him for another moment before asking, “When are you telling Dad?”

Sam didn't answer; a bitter smile pulled at Dean’s mouth. Sam had no idea what the old man would do to him after he left... “Right. Haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“I’m going to tell him.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“That’s a great plan. He’ll love it.” Dean threw back sarcastically.

"I'm not asking for your permission, or his." Sam retorted quietly.

Something inside Dean broke quietly. “So you’ve got it all worked out, huh?”

“The scholarship covers tuition,” Sam explained. “There’s help with housing. I can work once I get there.”

“Once you get there.”

Sam swallowed.

“Dean—” He glanced at his big brother with a pained expression.

"Don't. It's fine." He glanced back down at the letter, folded it slowly, and held it out to his little brother. “You should keep that somewhere better,” he said. “Dad finds it, you won’t get the chance to tell him your way.”

Sam studied him in shock before slowly reaching out to take it. “You’re not going to tell him?”

Dean glanced towards their father's open duffel by the door. For all his anger, the thought of John discovering the letter before Sam was ready stirred something fierce and automatic in him. The same instinct that had made Dean stand between Sam and every monster since childhood.

“No.”

“Why?”

Dean scoffed, retreating behind irritation because it was safer than honesty. “Because, despite what you apparently think, I’m still your big brother .”

Pain crossed Sam’s face. Dean turned away before it could alter his resolve. He returned to the table and picked up the shotgun barrel. The metal blurred in his hands. Dean blinked until the room sharpened again. Behind him, the envelope rustled.

“Will you ever forgive me?” Sam asked suddenly.

Dean froze.

“What?” Dean forced his hands to move, fitting the barrel back into place. “You got a full ride to Stanford. I’m not made of stone.”

"I was scared."

Dean's head shot up to meet his brother's eyes.

Sam had faced things with blood oozing from their mouths. He had stood between John and Dean while their arguments shook motel walls. He had stitched his own injuries and burned the bones of children and learned too young that the dead did not always stay dead.

But this had frightened him. Telling him about Stanford.

Dean lowered his gaze to the shotgun.

“When do you leave?”

“End of August.”

Six weeks.

Dean had six weeks left with his little brother. He had thought they had years.

“Does Dad know you applied anywhere?”

“No.”

“Bobby?”

“No.”

“Anyone?”

Sam hesitated. Dean looked up immediately.

“Who?”

“A teacher helped me with the application.” Sam shifted his weight. “And Mateo knew I was thinking about it.”

“Mateo Caldera?”

Sam nodded.

Dean knew Mateo. More importantly, he knew exactly what Mateo thought of their father's parenting. The former Marine had never been subtle about it. He looked at Sam as if he could see every bruise John called training and every order he called preparation. Dean had never decided whether he liked the man. In this moment, he could not decide whether to be grateful or furious.

Maybe both.

“He gave me his number a while ago,” Sam continued. “Said if I ever got out and needed help getting on my feet, I could call him.”

“Got out,” Dean repeated.

Sam’s expression turned wary. “That’s not how I meant it.”

“Ha, that's exactly how he meant it.” Dean shook his head, decision made.

“Dean.”

“You already have a ride?” Dean changed the subject instead of making the open choice to stay on the subject: who talks about a hunter leaving their family openly behind their back?

“No.” Sam looked down at the envelope in his hands. “I was going to take a bus.”

Of course he was. Sam had planned the entire escape in silence, right down to the route out. "Yeah, screw that, I'll drive you." Dean crossed the room and lowered himself onto the edge of his bed with a sigh, giving Sam time to recognise it wasn't worth arguing the point. “What are you studying?”

Sam blinked. “What?”

“At Stanford. What are you studying?” Dean was curious, after all. The caution on Sam's face hurt worse than the question.

“Pre-law.”

Dean nodded slowly.

“You’re going to be a lawyer?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You hate lawyers.”

“I hate the ones Dad makes us pretend to be.”

A laugh escaped Dean before he could stop it, and Sam’s mouth curved slightly. The room eased by a fraction, and Sam didn't interrupt it.

“You know Dad’s going to lose his mind,” Dean warned.

“I know.”

“He’ll say you’re abandoning the hunt and us.”

“I know.”

“...He might tell you not to come back.”

Sam’s small smile disappeared. “I know...”

Dean studied him.

Sam was pretending the possibility did not terrify him. Pretending he had not spent his whole life chasing John’s approval, even while insisting he didn't need it. Dean knew better.

“He won’t mean it,” Dean said.

Sam’s eyes lowered.

“Maybe.”

“And even if he does…” The words lodged behind Dean’s ribs. He nearly swallowed them, but instead forced them out. “You’ll still have me, little brother.”

Sam looked up.

The innocent hope in his expression made Dean feel suddenly exposed. It sounded too much like a promise. Too much like an admission that the idea of Sam leaving frightened him more than any creature they had hunted.

Dean reached for the nearest defence.

“Not that I’m visiting some snob factory where everybody drinks wheatgrass and talks about their feelings.”

“It’s California, Dean. Not another planet.”

“Same thing.”

Four horses, five riders, and yet all riding to Edoras. The wind as if an invisible stream, pushing against them as if a river. Cold, again pushing them away, and but they stride on. Gandalf takes the lead followed by Legolas and Gimil holding to the elven archer’s back. Followed side by side is Aragorn and Y/N; Aragorn often as the case eyes quickly scan his surroundings.

As if a nonverbal conversion Y/N glances mid point to the rest of the horizon and both riders see a tattered flag: The horse of Rohan. Both share a concerned gaze and Aragorn slows his steed to let Y/N enter the fenced kingdom before him. Eventually the catch and Gandalf centered the other two mares, only with Aragorn behind. Y/N catch Aragorn's eyes to the hall of Rohan and see a fair woman of hair pale yellow-gold and a gown of pure snow hue cloth.

All round civilians stare, as if unsure if friend, foe, or just puzzled by an unspoken branch of a broken fellowship.

“You’ll find more cheer in a graveyard” Gimli finally uttered with a gravel grunt. 

As if a ghost, the woman just a moment ago, now vanished, yet Y/N slows to trail between Legolas plus Gimli’s horse and that of Aragorn. 

Eventually they came closer and the five got, they were guided to horse stalls, and gave their horses to assumed caregivers among the commoners. Walking side by side and coming from the hall, a rounded man, with a cluster of armored guards.

“Ahhh” Gandalf greets with a grin that even Y/N softly smiles along.

“I cannot allow you before Théoden, king, so armed. Gandalf Greyhame.” The unhelmeted man states sternly. Then with a hint of disgust in his gaze, “By order of, Gríma Wormtongue.” 

“Huh, ahh,” Gandlf nods and quickly eyes his fellow adventurers to nonverbally indicate the removal of weapons. Four of the helmeted guards step forth too. 

One when went to Aragorn reached out for the bundle of bow, arrows, and sword from the ranger.

Legolas of course had to have a slight flare of showmen with twirling his daggers, to eventually unarm his bow, and quiver. 

Gimli doing his signature grunt eyes his axe as he hands it over.

Y/N hands off their hunting knife, mini crossbow, and their sword. Their eyes flash over to Aragorn when hearing his metal on metal removal of sword and own dagger.

“Your staff.” The lead man states the same stern tone to Gandalf.

 “Hmmm… Oh, you would not part an old man from his walking stick?” Gandalf asks. An exchange of looks between him and the lead man occurs, although a faint shrug, and the lead man turns back to the great hall.

Y/N stifles a grin as Gandalf winks, Legolas offers to help Gandalf walk, as Y/N steps by the old man’s side too. As entering, the shift from windy cold outdoors to a somewhat warmer hall, Y/N breath easier as their joints were stiffened. In a subtle gesture push Aragorn away, as to indicate not to worry. However, Y/N looks across the wide main room to see a man who makes Gandalf seem youthful in mere comparison. Along his side a man dressed in black furs, hair over shoulders greasy and that hue of raven feather, and no eyebrows. Y//N instinctively stepped closer to Aragorn to Aragorn.

Even if it is hard to hear what he mutters to the king, Y/N along the rest notice a shift, especially as far sides of the narrow room, glares and judgmental scowls of men appear. “The courtesy of your hall is somewhat lessened of late: Théoden King.” Gandalf’s voice boomed while the assumed Gríma Wormtongue voice seemed to even drop lower register.

Whatever he spoke, Théoden looked confused and could argue bewilderment in his exhausted eyes. “Why? Should I… welcome you… Gandalf Stromcrow?” He half-mumbles and half-pained voice croaks.

“Just question, my liege.” Gríma says a more room appropriate volume, to suddenly an airy taunt; “Late is the hour in which this conqueror chooses to appear!”

Y/N’s grip on Aragorn slides as both eyes of the same men come closer. Y/N not afraid, more speculating with subtle hand squeezes, traces of fingers, and more of this unspoken language the two have developed in the time of this quest of The One Ring.

“Last spell I name him! Ill news is an ill guest…”

“Be silent.” Gandalf interrupts with his eyebrows arched together. “Keep your fork tongue behind your teeth.” The two glaring. “I have not passed fire and death, to bend crooked words with a witless worm.” And Gandlf takes his ‘walking stick’ to Gríma, as if a mini thunder clap, the staff quietly bellows at Gríma.

His eyes widened, if he had eyebrows, they would be of alarm and he faced the men who were snaking by: “His staff… I told you to take the Wizard’s staff!” He groans.

Then the men rush forward to try a mini ambush, unaware the in a way prepared brawl occurs. Legolas and Aragorn take the main front, with Y/N and Gimli the back of Gandalf. Grunts, eyes spitting glares, and more between the four fighters and the men they took on. Even Y/N smirks seeing how assumed these snakes of men fall down to their individual defensive moves. Even if their joints feel stiff to an extent, they push on, and Gimli gives an approval nod.

“Théoden, son of Sanger! Too long you sat in the shadows.” Gandalf says with both commands but with a compassionate tone.

The last few scowlers fall over, if Legolas back handed arm swing, as Gimil from the height difference, knocks a man down with a headbutt to the taller man's waist. 

Speaking of the Dwarf, Gimil rushes over to Gríma Wormtongue to pin the man under his boot. “I would stay still if I were you.” Both Gimil grunts as Y/N glower over, all the Gríma was knocked over as he tried to set his wiry white hands on Y/N, who blocked the advance.

“Harken to me!” Gandalf says to Théoden who as if a rapid mutt glouts to the given Wizard. “I release you… from the spell.” A similar compassionate voice paired with Gandalf’s open hand waver in front of himself. 

A wicked chuckle comes from the king as if his sickened state had briefly shifted to someone else speaking. “You have no power here; Gandalf the Grey!” Which the twisted laugh continues, yet as if stripped of emotion, Gandalf unrobe his outer grey cloak, to shine this brilliant beam of light radiating from the white garment underneath. 

The king, as if a fray stem in a wind storm, pushed against his own throne. “I will draw you, Saruman, as poison to a wound!” Gandlaf flatly states. Slowly stepping closer and a monotone look, Gandlaf merely inching up, pushes the king again against his great chair. Although as if bracing himself, Théoden, or the being in him, makes the physical body of the king straighten up to face Gandalf. 

“If I go, Théoden dies.” Growls this other voice in the king.

“You did not kill me. You will not kill him.” Gandalf states with another push of his staff and the magic pushes the body deeper in the throne.

“Rohan is mine.”

“Be gone.” Now with a grimace Gandalf commands and the king lurch forward, to be the staff physically paired with magic shoved in a slouch.

All this occurs while Aragorn holding the woman from earlier, Y/N sees her tremble in uncertainty to catch Aragorn eyeing them, as like everyone, both stand with stiffen in place gait. Eventually he lets her go to rush up to the now hunched over form. A silence strikes the room, then as a moth removes from a cocoon, the true Théoden emerges from a subtle shift in his mere being.

“I know your face.” Théoden smiles fondly. “Eowyn.” He says her name with such familial love. “Eowyn.” Then he faces the adventurers, mainly the white wizard. “Gandalf?” Théoden asks as if now truly acknowledging those in front of him overall.

“Breathe the free air, my friend” Gandalf kindly replies.

 With Eowyn support, Théoden stands and a sudden warmth fills the throneroom. No not a ray of sunlight, rather, relief the true king of Edoras is present.

“Dark have my dreams been of late.” Théoden states as rubbing his hands together. 

All the while everyone stands a bit taller, Y/N lean to Aragorn, who with their unspoken language of hand and fingers dance, held a subtle grasp of the other. The ranger even leans to tenderly rest his head closer to their shoulder.

“Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if you grasp your sword.” Gandalf playfully in a subtle manner, gest. The main rounder soldier from earlier steps forward to give Théoden his sheaved sword. He removes the blade so gingerly to exhale, glare at Gríma, and suddenly moving forward along the main soldier, pick up to hurl the worm of a man down the main stairs.

Y/N rush forward to watch, only the suspense from earlier, stepping back outside the cold breeze, and a lingering dread of Gríma, Y/N winces at their joints making it hard to move as fluidly.

Even if  a discourse and public verbal spat occurs between the freed king and the fraud of an advisor takes place,Y/N focuses on trying to move their joints and bites down at the surge of pain. Aragorn of course takes notice and speed walks over to huddle near. Not to smother, rather an unspoken check in, as well hopes his warmth may soothe the ache in Y/N’s bones.

All of sudden a whooshing sound of sword and breeze catch both attention and both push forward, Aragorn in the lead, to halt Théoden to strike down at Gríma. “No, my lord!” The ranger exclaims. “No my lord, enough blood has been spilled on his account.” Aragorn continues with a steady tone with a subtle head shake.

Y/N in a way meets up, to only see Aragorn out stretch a hand to Gríma Wormtongue, to be spat on by the vile man. Who then as his dark robes and hair whip the hair shove pass, almost knocking Y/N over, “Get out of my way!”

As the running away fraud becomes a tinier speck, a random commoner announces “Hail Théoden, King!” Many, including Y/N and Aragorn, kneel to Théoden.

After Théoden takes in squinting to the bright sun as if he truly did awake from a deep slumber, he begins questioning for his son, the kingdom of a certain time by which Y/N suspects when Gríma first enchanted Théoden, and merely walk back the great hall. All the while Y/N and Aragorn stay behind.

“Y/N are you alright?” Aragorn finally whispers after the two just held and maintained eye contact.

“Yes, just…” Y/N wished to be discreet to their current state of being, so merely just nodded to their limbs that seemed to choose to ache.

“Understood, well, let’s settle in the throneroom, let me see what I can do…” Aragorn mid offer.

“Aragorn, I do not wish you to feel you have to speak on my behalf, but stay by my side?” Y/N firmly, although gently asked. Aragorn nods and a small smile forms, as he is so amazed even if in discomfort, Y/N shows such boldness.

A while later as the day grows later to dusk, along with help with arrangements of sleeping, direction to where to find what is essential , from food to personal, in the building by Eowyn. Eventually the two, along with others in their broken fellowship, begin to head the bathing part of the modest castle.

A bath is being drawn and Aragorn also took a moment to find what plants outside along the tall wooden fence of Rohan, preparing Y/N’s wash.

“Thank you Aragorn, for both not drawing attention as well, with Gandalf with us, I wish him not fret for me. Along with the others, as we already had a long few past days, and Gandalf saying Merry and Pippin are safe, I suppose my body chose to let’s guard down.” Y/N attempted to smile even if still weary from the whole debacle.

“You have nothing to thank me for, I still am impressed by your years of hunting in the wild, along with the knowledge your schooling gave you, Y/N you deserve more than you seem to even credit yourself.” Aragorn calmly says as he guides Y/N to the bath, helping undress. 

Even if the two see each other in such similar settings, Aragorn still sometimes catches himself being bashful if someone like Y/N ever caught his attention. Mutually Y/N blushes as Aragorn treats them with such respect, it hard to even consider being nude, feels not any different then wearing the heaviest armor.

Finally under the steamed curling water, Y/N rests against the tub, and already their joints feel more forgiving. Although as alluded to, still stiff just by mere many nights sleeping on the hard ground, rationing food, beverage, and overall supplies, took a toll.

As if able to sense this discomfort, Aragorn, carefully, places his hands on Y/N’s shoulders. “If you are comfortable, may I offer you a massage? I will be mindful of the pressure in kneading your muscles, however you can decline too.” Aragorn whispers causing a slight raise of excitement out of Y/N. Not enough to become arousal, rather sensual at best.

“Yes, I trust your touch Aragorn.” Y/N replies in a hush too as placing one of their hands over Aragorn’s and even timidly kiss his knuckles.

Eventually a gentle yet firm rubbing occurred and even if barely words exchanged, the quality time alone, paired with the shared glances, hand holding, and mere face nuzzling, caused Y/N’s body to feel less tight. Even if the two nose to nose, they know such moments make such depths they come across more profound than anything beyond sensuality. Not to say the two adventurers did more, however on a quest like this, such simple pleasures, feel more intimate than words can express.

However as he finishes his massage, interchange with shy kisses upon Y/N’s shoulders, arms, hands, palms, and fingers, Aragorn looks up to see them smile more confidently.

“I can not ever express how much I admire you, you are physically and mentally one of the strongest people I know Y/N.” Aragorn states.

Mary is outside the cabin, sitting at the stairs, looking at the night sky as she reflects about something that happened today.

It is heard the way Wukong opens the door of the cabin behind her and sits by her side in the stairs, offering her a juice box. "Want some?"

"Yeah, sure. Thank you." Mary says softly, taking the juice box.

The silence lingers as she starts unpacking the juice box, feeling progressively uneasy.

She turns back at him with a smile, soft, "Hey, you don't have to stay if you're tired," her gaze flickers and turns her head softly, "I am just... thinking—about stuff."

Wukong leans to her shoulder, his head resting there.

"Yeah... thing is, I want to." He replies, humorously.

The silence comes back again, Mary fidgets with the straw a few moments, a little nervous, while Wukong is just chilling, taking audible sips of the juice that kind of breaks the vulnerable atmosphere, but he doesn't care.

"Have you ever gotten tired of... how much I tend to overthink things and—" her eyes follow him, "...complicate myself?"

Wukong replies easily, with a smile "You are not complicated." He pauses for a moment, "Why would I even get tired of you?"

"I mean... my mind usually circles over the same thing, even when it's not supposed to be that complex." Mary explains.

"Oh, so— Your head circles because you're afraid of people getting mad at you?" Wukong deduces easily.

Mary's eyes widen, by the way Wukong read her right all of the sudden.

"Am I warm?" Wukong asks, knowing damn well he did by her reaction.

"Have you also felt the same way?" Mary asks back, her eyes shimmering. Her smile is a little tired, but softened by his comprehension.

"Nah, not really. But I've known you well enough to understand how you think." He admits, nonchalantly, though still smiling and easy to her.

"Well..." She turns her head back to the ground, averting her gaze, "That's actually really comforting to hear."

"Yes, baby. I know." Wukong replies, his voice is soft.

"And hey, if you need to stop overthinking something, just tell me and—man—lemme assure you... I can find the easiest solution. Try me!" Wukong teases a bit, playing it with humour, to make her laugh. Annie Mary actually chuckles.

"Like the Occam's razor principle?" She wraps her arm around Wukong, pulling him closer to her.

"What's that?"

"Umm... It says that usually the simplest explanation of a fact tends to be the correct one."

"Oh... Well—yeah. Something like that." Wukong nods, snuggling into her embrace, "I'm gonna be your razor then."

"Though sometimes the correct one can be far more complicated than that." She contradicts herself with a bashful smile.

"Well, sometimes the easiest path turns out to be a good starting point." Wukong argues, smiling gently at her.