#sometimes i write stuff

“You sure?” he asks then and pulls back just a little, tipping Robert's chin up towards him with one of his index fingers while the other's drawing circles at the nape of his boyfriend’s neck. 

“I think so,” the blond replies with a shrug, but there's a tremble in his voice as he says it. 

It has Aaron’s eyes wandering past light eyelashes pressed against freckled cheeks and down the expanse of his own skin, until they settle on saw-edged white lines that once used to burn scarlet. “I’d never make ya, you know that, right?”

The small shake of Robert’s head has his chin pressing against Aaron’s collarbone. It makes the younger boy focus once more, blue eyes meeting green ones again. “You haven’t,” Robert says. “You aren’t,” he adds with conviction and it settles something in the pit of Aaron’s stomach.  

“I‘ve wanted to for a while now,” Robert adds. “Just keep freaking myself out about it.”

Aaron gives him an encouraging smile in response and lets his thumb run along the line of his boyfriend's jaw. Robert leans into the touch almost on instinct. “Not like I’m his favourite to begin with, straight or not straight,” he breathes out, ”ya know.” The older boy tries for a smirk at that, like it’s a stupidly insignificant teenage insecurity and not the root cause of most of Robert´s worst thoughts and impulses. 

Only Aaron’s not letting him get away with it. Instead, he lets them sit in the moment for a while, quietly, while his thumb makes his way up Robert’s cheek, tracing lines from one freckle to the next. He’s got all the time in the world now. The Subaru in need of an oil change is a lemon anyway. It can wait. This is much more important.

It takes barely a minute before Robert’s scrunching up his now at him, never good at dealing with silence. 

“I just feel like I want him to know about us,” he sighs and closes his eyes against it, like it’s easier to get the truth out when Aaron isn’t staring at him all intently.  “All of them, really” he clarifies, letting his hand settle on top of Aaron’s.

“I want to be able to hold your hand and kiss you whenever I feel like it.”

The words come soft and quick, Aaron’s chatterbox boyfriend suddenly desperate to get it all out there and done with and Aaron fucking loves him, but that unsettling feeling in his stomach is trying to bubble its way to the top again. The one about Robert forcing himself out of the closet for anything but his own sake. Only Robert’s not done yet. 

“And I want to stop pretending I’m someone I’m not for the sake of approval that I’m probably not going to get anyway,” he finally pushes out, eyes squeezing shut. “Bisexual or not.” 

And if that isn’t the big one.

It has Aaron’s fingers come to a stop and his eyes go wide before he’s pressing a kiss to the top of Robert’s forehead, breathing him in. Because there’s nothing really to say to that, nothing to assuage that fear that wouldn’t feel like a lie, considering everything he’s come to know about the Jack and Andy and Robert of it all over the past few months. And Aaron loves Robert far too much to lie to him about anything as important as this. 

It’s Robert who pulls away this time, but only to press a kiss against Aaron’s breastbone. “That,” he mouthes into Aaron’s warm skin and the younger boy can feel the grin starting to tug at the corners of his boyfriend’s lips, “and I want to be able to tell Barton where to stuff it next time he tries it on with ya, so-”

Aaron can’t help but huff a laugh at it, the tension slowly easing. 

“Which one?” he jokes and his smirk gets lost in a mop of blond hair, before it turns into a hiss, Robert retaliating with a flick of his cold fingers against Aaron’s nipple. “Piss off, Dingle,” he mutters. “You wish,” he teases without any heat to it as he peppers kisses up the length of Aaron’s neck til he lands on his lips.

“For what it‘s worth,” Aaron fits between one soft kiss and another, “I believe in ya”. And if Robert's half as mad about Aaron as Aaron's about him he reckons it's actually worth quite a lot. “For what it's worth”, he repeats, “ I don’t think there’s anything you can’t do, Rob.”

“Yeah,” Robert asks sincerley and the fear and worry in his eyes have Aaron‘s heart breaking a little with it. “You mean that?”

“Obviously,” Aaron says, a deep steady promise. “Always have.” He wraps his hand around Robert‘s neck and pulls him closer, tips his nose up against the blond's. It‘s over before it‘s even started, but it‘s enough to make Robert blush anyway. “And if it all goes pear-shaped," Aaron quips, "I’ll happily help ya hide the body, eh?” And maybe Aaron's only half joking, but it earns him a toothy grin anway. The last bit of heaviness finally loosening its tight grip on the older boy.

“Ta,” Robert whispers into the space between them and it almost feels like a sigh of relief. It‘s not something Aaron feels he needs to be thanked for, but he takes it anyway, Robert burrying his nose in the crook of Aaron’s neck once again.

It's snug in there with another cot pushed up against Margaret's but no more snug than it was sharing a cot with Frank Burns. At least she and Helen don't have to sleep on top of each other the way she and Frank did if they wanted to cuddle, fearing the whole time that the canvas would give out underneath them and then everyone would know a secret that had been open since the dawn of time.

Margaret wouldn't admit it to anyone other than Helen, but it gets pretty damn lonely in this tent all by herself. On extremely rare occasions, she almost wished she wasn't a major so she could bunk with the other girls. She wouldn't really know how to. Margaret Houlihan hasn't slept in a bunk room since the last war she was in and that was more for security rather than status.

But she knows how to bunk with Helen.

(There's one thing that she wouldn't admit, not even to Helen, not even to herself. And it's that she invited all those generals into her tent so that she wouldn't have to be in there alone.)

The day before Helen is set to ship out, they get so swamped with casualties that nobody can blame her for missing that chopper to Seoul. Margaret assigns her the easiest, least technical job she can manage while still sparing a damn fine nurse. It isn't just Margaret being a hardass, it's Helen being nervous about her nervous hands in someone's chest.

Margaret tells her to keep the patients calm in pre-op, talking to those who are conscious enough to wait in that sweet southern accent of hers, as syrupy as an egg cream with two straws. By the time she's done with the patients, they get into the OR so calm they almost forget the bits of shrapnel embedded throughout their bodies. And, when they come too after the anesthesia wears off, Helen is there to welcome them back to the world of the living. For those who don't make it, she helps the enlisted men bag and tag personal belongings.

It's grueling work, different from operating, but no less exhausting. By the time the last patient is rolled into post-op, the medical staff universally agree to 2 PM bedtime, having been operating for roughly 18 hours. The more sentient of them head to the showers in futile attempts to wash the metallic perfume of blood and antiseptic from their skin.

Helen and Margaret don't bother with showering. They shamble back to Margaret's tent barely able to keep their eyes open for more than a few moments at a time.

With her boots still on and no intention of taking them off, Margaret collapses onto her cot. Or maybe Helen's. They're pressed so close together that distinctions matter very little.

Helen flops down next to her, half on top of her, on a bed that may be Margaret's but is better defined as something shared.

They don't bother with blankets, with pillows. Margaret is asleep almost from the second her body goes slack. The last thing she remembers is the press of Helen's mouth against her own, as quick and gentle as fluttering eyelashes. It's clumsy, as though she was aiming for her cheek, or didn't have the strength to aim, that she kissed Margaret was more important than the kiss itself.

You were transfixed by the simplicity and beauty of the shadows, and you had recognized the silhouette of an owl bear. Gale kept moving his fingers, making it look like the owl bear was licking its beak.

“How do you do it?” You move your eyes to his hands now, curious about how he had positioned them. You hear a little chuckle coming from him, and feel his breath on the skin of your face before hearing his voice, softer than you had ever heard it before “I am merely moving my hands, there’s no magic in it”.

You glance at his face, he seems to be focused despite his words “Gale, I think you have a gift for this”. The wizard looks at you now and presses his lips together before speaking again “Let me tell you a secret, I managed to do it by mere chance” he smiles at you and looks back to his hands, his eyebrows raising as he opens his mouth once more “Look! It’s getting furious, whatever did you do to anger it?”

“This” you mumble at the same time you raise your hand towards his while observing how your shadow joined the owl bear form. And then, you move your fingers so it looks like you’re flicking its head, a soft giggle leaving your mouth.

Before you have time to react Gale grabs your hand firmly, moves it so your palm stays open and your fingers spread. You can feel his soft skin as he guides you. With one hand he starts to gently caress your arm, the long fingers of the other one intertwining with yours.

You feel goosebumps on your skin and hold your breath, your eyes focused on the shadows your hands are creating. It’s beautiful. The way you can’t really say which fingers are whose, his two hands now encasing yours. It’s sensual. The way you can feel how his breath hitches when your palms press together. It’s erotic. The way he murmurs against your ear “We are designing a flower with our hands, with our touch” as his body presses against yours and the shadows forms a blossom of entangled fingers. It’s arousing.

You both start to move your hands, a soft pinch here, a bold caress there. Your heart is beating fast, you can feel it on your throat and your ears, your face gets warm and your breath quickens. You can’t look away from the shadows of your joined hands, playing with each other’s.

“Gale, this is beautiful” you manage to gasp out the words, and for once, you don’t hear his voice replying to you, just a hum that makes his chest vibrate.

Then, you finally look at your hands suspended in the air. His fingers are so alluring, you can’t resist the sudden urge to kiss them and with your fingers grasping his own you bring his hands down. Towards your face. Towards your mouth.

He can feel your hot breath on his fingertips, and he doesn’t dare exhale the air in his lungs, afraid he might break the spell you find yourself in. His eyes are fixated on your glistening lips. He feels as if time has stopped, and wants nothing more than for you to continue, to feel your mouth on his skin.

Gale can feel his own lower lip trembling in anticipation, his rib cage feels like it will explode any minute, something inside wanting to burst. It’s a sensation nothing like the one that that damned orb creates. He wanted more, he wanted more of that agonizing feeling. He desired to get addicted to this anxious warmth inside of him.

And then, when your lips touched his fingers, his eyes flicked to yours, a loud gasp escaping him, and as you looked at him with a glowing gaze he launched his whole body towards yours and captured your mouth with his own.

He could feel your heart on your tongue and it made him even more ravenous.

He needed more, the taste of you intoxicating him. Your lips overpowered his senses, he felt numb and alive at the same time, so so alive, in fact.

His nose moved smoothly along yours while your tongues moistened each other. He found himself unable to open his eyes when he separated briefly from your face, his lips pecking yours one, two times, before speaking “I hope I’m not wrong at assuming you wished for this as much as I did”

“Why do you always come back to me?”

Joe hasn’t even looked from scrubbing at a spot on his counter, but he senses Nicky freeze. He adds hastily, “Not that I mind. Just, I’m sure Andy or Nile would love to see you. Booker maybe not so much, you did traumatize him that one time.”

“Well he shouldn’t have fought me,” Nicky says. Joe smiles.

Something heavy gets set gently on the floor and a chair at the kitchen table scrapes over the tile. Nicky always lets out a quiet, involuntary sigh when he sits, as if he hasn’t been able to for a very long time. Joe wonders if he knows that about himself.

“You’re easier to find, for one,” Nicky finally answers, once Joe’s nearly forgotten his initial question, content to enjoy Nicky’s silent presence. Joe gives up on cleaning away what must just be a discoloration of his countertop and turns to look at his guest.

Nicky always goes transparent in the moonlight. The beams from the window are cut up by Joe’s curtains and one side of Nicky’s face and his entire right arm is nearly invisible. The rest of him is solid enough that Joe wants to reach out and touch him. Which he knows better than to do.

“Well that’s a little disheartening,” he says, tamping down his worst, most self-destructive impulse. Nicky smiles.

“Yes, you really should get better at hiding from the non-human entities that visit you from beyond the veil,” he says. Joe laughs. Nicky leans toward him ever so slightly, unnoticeable except for the way his face has suddenly lost just a little more definition.

“I’ll work on that,” Joe says.

“Not that you would be able to hide from me,” Nicky says, in a tone that Joe thinks might be trying toward smug, though it doesn’t quite reach.

“That’s what you th—” Joe barely starts before Nicky cuts in.

“You’re like a beacon. Like the sun, if I’m imagining it correctly, brighter and warmer the closer I get.” Joe braces both hands on the counter behind him just to keep from reaching for Nicky. Nicky turns his head a little, cutting off that much more of himself.

“You’re imagining it correctly,” Joe says after a minute. His voice has gone soft without conscious thought and he clears his throat a little. “Is that true of all the souls that come back?”

Nicky looks at him again and cocks his head to the side, bringing more of his face back into the shadows for Joe to see it. There’s genuine confusion in his expression, likely because he did technically answer this question already, but also something fond and amused and affectionate.

“Funnily enough, I haven’t really got much data on that front,” he says. Joe scoffs and turns away to pick up the counter sponge and rinse it properly, hiding his smile at Nicky’s tease. “Most of the souls I touch tend to, you know, stay dead. Otherwise I’d be really bad at my job.” Joe shakes his head.

“Ha ha,” he says, deadpan. He’s still smiling. “So why do you think I get the special reaper-summoning powers?”

“I don’t know,” Nicky says. His voice ticks up half a pitch. Joe’s heart ticks up half a beat. He puts the sponge away and turns back.

Nicky’s hiding in the moonlight and Joe wants to drag his chair back from the table so he can see his face. Whatever expression he has that’s making him hide. How many more centuries will he live wishing to reach for the thing that could kill him.

“Nicky.”

He sees the shape of Nicky’s head turn, though, moments before the name passes his lips. The one hand he can see tightens into a fist on Nicky’s thigh. Joe wants to tell him not to go. Badly.

“I have to—” Nicky starts.

“What’s the other thing?” Joe interrupts, taking a step toward him

“The other?” Nicky asks, staying in his seat though the edges of his form are starting to blur.

“You said ‘for one,’” Joe says desperately. “What's the other thing?”

Nicky bends down to lift his scythe and for a moment his entire body is visible. For a moment, Joe can see the resigned sadness on Nicky’s face.

“Stay out of trouble, Joe,” he says. Like he does every time. Since the first, last, only time he whispered, I cannot keep coming for your soul.

It’s always the last thing he says, always the last word because he’s just a bastard like that, and he’s gone before he’s even finished standing. Joe stares at the empty chair, blinking through sudden tears, imagining that he can still see the faint outline of Nicky’s moonlit form.

There’s never enough time. For two immortal beings, they never have enough time. Joe wonders what’s worse. Seeing the wretched look on Nicky’s face when he has to collect Joe’s soul for however long his death lasts. Or feeling the wretched pull of his own heart every time he has to watch Nicky disappear.

Walking over to push the chair back into its place at the table, Joe takes a steadying breath and consoles himself the same way he always does. Always has for centuries. Nicky will be back. At the very least, Nicky will be back.