You may say “Jordan! That quilt looks stunning! How could you even cut it?” You may say that. But there are two quilts (one with black, one with brown, to be distinctive)! The second quilt became Hodge Q. Podge camouflaged in the last picture, while I kept my first quilt intact for all its wonderful warmth and brightness.
To clarify, the quilted squid and the quilts separately are not for sale at any price. Hodge is a promotional item only. He will only be made once, and that is for the some purpose of being the grand prize of Squiveaway.
Hey, hey! Two birds with one stone, even tho it’s a day late. For Trope Week, I’ve done ‘Canadian Shack’ AND filled yesterday’s daily prompt! Whee!
Contents: 00q, Canadian Shack, hurt/comfort, preslash, fluff
(This is a quick one, and I barely had time to read it over before posting so I could get to today’s, so apologies in advance if it’s incoherent!)
Long story short, it had been an avalanche. Of course, avalanches tended to happen when you crashed cars into the side of a mountain.
“For once, just for once, could you, I don’t know, not make things explode in dramatic and useless ways?” Q’s diatribe lacks its usual vitriol seeing as it’s delivered between chattering teeth. James shrugs and keeps walking, Q trudging along at his side, shivering. At least he’s still shivering, James observes. If he quits shivering, they’ll really be up a creek.
“Where is this cabin?” James asks, trying to divert Q’s attention.
“Four klicks west, so said the GPS. But the battery ran out about an hour ago, so what do I know?”
“We should be close, then.”
“How the hell do you know where you’re at? Everything looks the same!”
“I really, really don’t want to be condescending right now, but,” James pauses for a moment. “Do you see the glowing disc up there behind the clouds?” James points. “That would be the sun. It’s setting. In the west. We’ve been making good time, considering the terrain and the weather and your arm,” he nods at the broken arm Q is cradling against his stomach, “we should be coming up on the cabin in the next twenty minutes or so.”
“Oh ha-bloody-ha. Very amusing.”
“You think you could do better?” James spits back.
“I don’t have much of a choice but to follow. Since you blew up the car.”
James bites back on a retort. It would do no good, and just invite more useless invectives from Q. He settles for rolling his eyes and moving off over the undulating landscape, Q trailing him, biting out disparaging comments all the way.
It is almost exactly twenty minutes later when the roof of a tiny cabin comes into view.
“Oh thank god,” James murmurs to himself. He turns, making sure that Q is still behind him. He’d been flagging the past five minutes, falling farther and farther out of step and one heart-stopping moment when he seemed about to collapse. But he’d angrily waved off James’ offer of a shoulder to lean on and stubbornly trudged on. His nose is bright red and dripping and his teeth have stopped chattering, and James wants to pick him up and carry him the rest of the way to the cabin, but he can already hear Q’s indignant squawk and settles for slowing his pace to Q’s, staying by his side.
It wouldn’t do to go losing his Quartermaster now.
The mission, if he could even really call it that, had been simple. Escort the Quartermaster across Europe to a meeting with his counterpart in Germany. Simple.
Well, it should have been simple.
Like most things James sets out to do, complications arose rather quickly, culminating in his, albeit inadvertent, crashing of their car into the side of a mountain. The resulting avalanche was hardly his fault, but had stopped their pursuers cold, so to speak.
The two of them only just managed to squeak out without traumatic injuries. James has shrapnel cuts across his face (Again. At least one of these is likely to scar) but is otherwise unhurt, but Q’s arm is broken, James doesn’t know how badly, and it’s put a damper on both his mood and his speed. And there’s the snow.
The cabin is a welcome sight, indeed: not a safe-house precisely, but close enough, and secluded enough, that the pair of them should be safe until their distress beacon calls in the cavalry.
There’s only one bed.
Of course there would only be one bed, it’s not like this cabin was meant for multiple occupancy. It’s one-room construction, with a wood-burning stove at one end, flanked by cabinets, and a bed at the other. James is relieved to see the first-aid kit is still well-stocked, and that there are half a dozen tins of beans and a small pot to cook them in. The cabin hasn’t been as neglected as he’d feared. A basket of kindling and a stack of firewood just outside the door complete the amenities. If there is a water pump, it’s outside and buried under the snow. No matter, they can use snowmelt.
Q sits heavily on the bed, and grimaces in pain as he fumbles his broken arm. James immediately pulls the first-aid kit down and kneels at Q’s feet, frowning at the arm that’s swelled to twice its normal size and is an ugly blue-purple just above the wrist. He prods at the injury tentatively, and is not pleased by what he finds.
“I’ve got to set the bone,” James says. “This is going to hurt.”
Q grits his teeth and nods once, then screws his eyes shut.
James takes a deep breath and slips the bone back into place in a swift, sure move, lashing two pieces of kindling on either side of the break with gauze from the first-aid kit.
Q doesn’t even flinch.
James would be impressed if he didn’t know it was from the shock. Q’s face is ashen and beads of sweat stand out on his forehead. He’s stopped shivering, but at this point it’s impossible to tell if that’s good or bad. They’re out of the wind, but the cabin is still freezing and their breaths cloud in front of their mouths.
“Good,” he says pointlessly, and rummages in the kit for some painkillers, coming up with some high-dose paracetamol, but nothing else. Well, it will have to do.
He offers them to Q who swallows them dry.
“Here.” James pulls the musty quilt down, and Q doesn’t resist when James helps him lay down. Which he should be doing. Q should be complaining at him, chastising him for wrecking yet another car, complaining about his arm. Strange how he misses the annoyance when it’s expected.
“I’m going to go bring in some firewood,” James says, and Q stares at him impassively for several moments too long before nodding.
He’s got to get his feet elevated. The recovery team should be here within six hours, but Q’s not used to dealing with this level of injury without treatment. He’s beginning to slip, and James would be damned if he’d let that happen. Not again.
He brings in an armload of firewood and dumps it next to the stove, pulling out several pieces and wrapping them in a sheet before gently sliding them under Q’s feet.
Q groans, the first noise he’s made since all but collapsing on the bed.
“I’m going to start a fire.”
“Mm. ‘M cold,” Q mumbles and shifts uncomfortably under the quilt.
“Okay,” James replies, nodding. “We’ll get you warm.”
It’s just a word. One syllable, commonly thrown out without even thinking. But something about that barely voiced gratitude cracks James like an egg, and he frowns at Q for a moment before putting it in the back of his mind to focus on what needs to be done.
The kindling is dry and catches immediately, but the wood’s damp from the snow and takes a while to light. By the time the fire’s large enough for James to shut the door of the stove, Q’s eyes are closed. His breathing is even, though, and when James lifts his wrist to check his pulse, Q stirs. His eyes are soft and out-of-focus, and maybe it’s the last vestiges of shock or the onset of the painkillers, but James could swear they’re full of a fondness he never would have imagined.
“Still cold?” James asks, because he has to say something, he can’t just keep staring at Q like this, and it seems the most logical thing in the moment.
“Warm me up?” he says, with enough cheek that it pulls a laugh from James.
He pulls off his coat and lays it on the floor, followed by his jacket.
“You know, this isn’t exactly how I envisioned getting into your bed,” James says.
“But you had envisioned it,” Q says, and James can see the information process through his drug-muddled brain, culminating in a wide smile.
James sighs. Now is not the time for a conversation like that. Instead, he just smiles back and says, “Budge up, then.”
Life is a step and a half past crazy for me right now, but surely you guys didn’t think I’d let JeanMarco week pass me by without doing something…
I couldn’t post every day, so I condensed all the prompts into one series of mini fics, set in the au of ‘Faith in a Firefly’, my Scottish fairy!Marco au. (Please check it out if you like these - there’s a lot more where this came from!)
Thanks for reading, & Happy JeanMarco Week!
Note: The scenes appear in order of the prompt list here, and I took some liberties with those prompts!
The finely-molded material of the mask flexed against Alfred’s features as he scowled. He had thought that his first act of heroism would give him someone thankful for his help and his bravery. Someone he could easily pull out of harm’s way, and then give him a peck on the cheek in gratitude. Maybe it would even be someone cute, and they could have a secret relationship- with them never knowing he was anything but Eagle Scout.
At the moment, he was a little more concerned with dragging a little scrap of a man out of a burning building. The freaking idiot with the huge eyebrows was still trying to claw his way towards the bedroom, even as smoke filled both of their lungs.
“Forget it- forget it, whatever it is!” Alfred said, holding fast to the man who couldn’t have been much more than thirty. Even with all of his strength, it was hard to keep him pinned down- it was like trying to catch a cat.
“No!” the man shouted in a British accent as thick as his eyebrows, “No, please! It’s- it’s the one thing I-”
He was cut off by a sudden seizing of his lungs, and Alfred took this as an opportunity to hurry him outside and set him on the curb, far enough away from the blaze, but close enough to the medical responders who were just now arriving. He glanced back at the burning apartment building.
“What is it?” he demanded, “What’s worth risking your life for?”
“M-my…” the man wheezed, his voice sounding more and more like sobbing with each passing moment, “My… q-quilt. I-it was the last thing I had from m-my mother…”
The man’s shoulders hunched, and he hid his face. Alfred could see him shaking, though. He didn’t need any more reason than that. Without another word, he ran back into the burning building as the firemen attempted to put out the flames.
The smoke stung his trachea and his eyes, and the flames wicked every droplet away from his body, but he paid it no mind and darted down the halls to where the man had been trying to get to before Alfred had dragged him out. He grabbed for the handle of the bedroom and hissed softly as it burned his palm.
Shaking his head, he held it tight and twisted it, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Okay, we’re doing this the hard way,” he muttered to himself, bracing his shoulder and slamming it up against the hot, swollen wood.
The room was almost entirely in flames, and Alfred counted his blessings that he hadn’t met up with a fireball. As it was, his costume was starting to come apart. But he just had to get the quilt and get out.
He found the bed, completely ablaze, and felt his heart sank. He couldn’t come back empty-handed!
Not after that guy had fought so hard. Maybe… maybe if he had just let him go, they could have saved the quilt and gotten out in time, anyways. His head reeled and he stumbled back. Forget the quilt- he needed to get out of here before the flames ate up the last of his air.
As he moved out, however, Alfred’s eyes alighted on an old black trunk. It had a heavy lock on it. Anything in there would have to be super-valuble, and it was pretty much the only thing in the apartment that wasn’t completely on fire, so it had to be worth saving. Hefting it into his arms, he moved as quickly as he could to the exit he had used before and stumbled onto the street.
His lungs instantly began to choke him as they tried to pull in oxygen, the air still tainted by black smoke as thick as the dust kicked up in his Little League days. His throat tried to close, and he fought against it, trying not to panic as he dragged the trunk over to the ambulance where the man was waiting, wrapped in a charcoal emergency blanket, with an oxygen mask strapped to his face.
“This is… only thing I could… save,” he gasped, knees shaking, “Sorry…”
The man’s green- how had he not noticed how green those eyes were- widened, shedding their dull cast, and he pulled the clear mask away from his nose and mouth.
“No, that’s…” he stammered, “I… how did you…? That’s- that’s it. That’s where I kept it. Th-thank you.”
Alfred grinned, his visible skin streaked with sweat and ash.
“All… all in a day’s work,” he said, turning away before what was left of his mask could slip and reveal him.
“Wait! H-how can I repay you?” the man asked, grabbing at his hand. Alfred winced as pressure was placed on the rising blisters of his palm, but chuckled and turned back around.
“Stay safe, uh…”
“Arthur. Stay… stay safe, Arthur,” he said softly. Then added, against his better judgment; “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon. Keep your eye out.”