The voice comes, rough and uncertain, from somewhere down the hall; Sherlock looks up from the microscope instantly and cranes his neck to see John standing just out of the reach of the light, still in shadow. He’d gone to bed nearly two–no, three–hours ago and should be fast asleep, not standing tentatively just where Sherlock can’t see his face. Nightmare, probably.
“John?” he answers, sliding off the stool and coming around the table. John takes a step back and Sherlock stops, steadying himself with one hand on the worktop. “You okay?”
John hesitates, his left hand clenching and unclenching ever so slowly by his side. The collar of his t-shirt is misshapen where it’s been pulled away from his neck. When he speaks, his voice is deliberate. “Are you coming to bed?”
“Yeah,” Sherlock nods, and then, because John is trying to hide behind some semblance of normality and Sherlock doesn’t want to crowd him just yet, he adds, “Yeah, just let me finish up here, I won’t be long. Another five minutes.”
There’s another long pause but eventually John says, “Yeah, okay.” He doesn’t turn around, though. He doesn’t go back to bed. He lingers in the hall and watches Sherlock take one more look through the microscope lens and make a notation–it says experiment abandoned (J)–and then do a cursory tidy-up before locking up the doors and turning off the lights.
Finally Sherlock switches off the last light in the flat, leaving everything cloaked and shadowed, and then John is in his arms, coming forward in the safety of the darkness to push his face into Sherlock’s neck and wrap himself around him. His cheek against Sherlock’s skin is damp and overwarm. There’d been tears, then.
“All right?” Sherlock asks quietly. He rubs John’s back, firm but gentle, reminding him of the boundaries of his body, revealing the edges of reality under the blurry film of dreaming.
John shakes his head. “No,” he says, hoarse with honesty, settling himself along the lines of Sherlock’s body, giving over his tension, giving in to his exhaustion in the shelter of Sherlock’s arms. He gives the tiniest sigh of relief. “But I will be. I will be.”
“I’ll be here,” Sherlock promises, and he cradles the back of John’s head and closes his eyes. He’ll stand here until John’s feet get cold and then take him to bed, and he’ll hold him there until he falls asleep, and in the morning they might not yet be all right, but they will be. They’re working toward it. They’re trying, together, and that’s enough.
It’s not an answer, and it’s not a solution, but it’s enough. It’s hope, and for tonight, it’s enough.
What do you think it'd be like if one of the Rogue One members had survived? How would that effect the original trilogy and how would they cope with everything?
Cassian didn’t talk, at first. There didn’t seem anything else to say.
Mothma came at some point. Cassian woke up and she was at his bedside, sitting ramrod-straight, so very tall and white, even moreso washed out by the lights of the medbay. (She made him think of the columns on Imenthe—natural salt deposits like spires, like teeth ringing the great and violent sea. He killed a man there, got blood on all that white, white salt. And afterward he had sat in the sand, watched the tide come in and wash it all away.
Mon Mothma always made him think of Imenthe.)
She was studying his face now, and Cassian raised his eyebrows at her. She smiled a little. “Ah, Captain. I—have spent the last half-hour trying to decide what I would say.”
She was quiet a moment, then the smile turned rueful. “I’m still not certain whether there is anything I could say.”
Cassian snorted, shut his eyes again. After a moment, he felt a very cool hand pressed to his forehead. “Cassian,” Mothma said, and there was something almost human in her voice, a thing like kindness. “Cassian, you saved us. How will we ever repay you?”
The meddroid had been very clear, he wasn’t supposed to move unassisted. Cassian risked it to turn his head away, screwing his eyes so tightly shut that he could see those little floating stars flare to life behind his eyelids.
Mothma drew her hand away.
He heard her stand, the chair scraping a little as she did. “Bodhi Rook was released from bacta suspension last night,” she said, and her voice was cool again, impersonal. “He is expected to make a full recovery. The technicians are still working to fully recover K-2SO’s backup, but…I believe this means you were more than just successful in your mission, Captain. You brought everyone home.
“I thought you might be interested to know,” Mothma added after a moment. Her boots made a sharp, clipped noise on the stone floor, and then she was gone.
Cassian went back to sleep.
(He only vaguely remembers what happened after Scarif. The adrenaline wore away quickly after Krennic was dead, and in its place came a rising pain, pain like the firestorm that engulfed Jedha. By the time they stumbled from the lifttube, Jyn was the only thing holding him upright; Jyn was telling him, cassian cassian c’mon, just a little farther, okay? just a little—it’ll be over soon, you can rest, I’ll let you rest, just—just—
But the rest is a scattered succession of images, half-memories: the sound of a ship’s engine overhead, and Jyn shouting here, we’re here!, a heavy weight on Cassian’s chest and screams he couldn’t make out (was that him screaming?) too much pain—he thinks he passed out once or twice; someone asking for his medical history and Cassian slurring, ask kaytoo, he keeps my records, before remembering—
I can’t feel my legs, he said at one point, he remembers that. Jyn’s face swimming into his vision, the red of blood streaked across her cheek. I can’t…that’s not good, is it, if I can’t…
Flickering lights, medical jargon he couldn’t understand. Someone saying spine, and spine again. (Every time he shut his eyes he could feel himself falling again, the whip-bang of the metal landing—) His spine again. Jyn’s voice, high and tight, saying yes, okay, yes. do whatever you have to.
When he woke up in the medbay on Yavin, he was alone.)
Cassian’s dreams were confused, a muddled haze of dead sentients clawing at his skin and his mother’s face—out of focus, distant and cold as a moon; he barely remembered enough of her to dream it anymore—and then suddenly, a cool pressure on his mind, rippling outwards. He was standing at the edge of a vast ocean, breathing in the cold tang of salt and the water.
It was quiet.
He exhaled, and then he was lying in the medbay, and the sound of waves beating against the shore was just the thrum of blood in his ears.
The one where Andrew and Neil have their first official date( On Valentine’s Day no less. Blame Allison.)
“So, what did you get your monster for Valentine’s Day?” Allison asks, as she idly types away at her phone.
Anger bubbles up in Neil, “Allison, he’s not—“ he begins, but gets cut off by her.
“Sorry, I meant to say Andrew, your boyfriend.
What did you get him for Valentine’s Day?” she gives a quick glance up
at Neil, whose face appears slightly flushed at the remark. A smirk
forms on her lips, “Don’t try and deny that. I won’t let you.”
sighs and runs a hand through his hair, “Nothing. Why would I?” At
those words, Allison stops typing away on her phone and sets it down
next to her. She arches a brow at Neil, “What do you mean ‘nothing,’
it’s Valentine’s Day, Neil. That one day of the year specifically
designated by capitalism to celebrate your love with your partner. Which
is Andrew, in your case.”
Love. He lets the word wash
over him. He doesn’t know if that’s the word he’d use. It’s a word too
overused all around him but too underused in his own life for it to mean
anything to him. He doesn’t think any word is fit to describe what he
and Andrew have and yet—
Laughing seemed to come easy whenever Jimin was around Yoongi; the two of them frequenting their secret spot in the forest every day since their first meeting. They’d stay up talking deep into the night, sometimes not separating until the sun’s rays peeked through the dense leaves.
“What’s your favorite color?” Yoongi asked one evening, sprawled out on a blanket Jimin had brought the day before.
“Hmm…“ Jimin hummed, mulling the question over from his spot next to Yoongi. "I like a lot of colors but right now…I think I like yellow the most.”
Jimin stretched his arms up away from the ground, fingers grasping at the passing clouds in the star speckled sky. “Maybe it has something to do with the little bit of sun we get during the winter. Lately when I see the color yellow it makes me really happy.” His arms fell back to his sides, fingers brushing against Yoongi’s in the process and instinctively curling to hook themselves around his hand.
Yoongi shifted slightly and Jimin immediately retracted, not-so-smoothly shoving both hands into his jacket pockets as Yoongi’s gaze dropped down from the sky and settled onto his face.
“You have a bad habit of doing that, you know,” Jimin mumbled after seconds of silence. He didn’t avert his gaze as he spoke, still focusing on the the trees, pinching at the lining of his jacket. "You’re always staring.”
Yoongi turned onto his side towards Jimin and propped up his head using the palm of his hand. “I like yellow too.”
Jimin peered over at him–lips curved upward and eyes brimming with warmth–before immediately returning his attention upward. “Ye-yeah, well it’s a nice–”
“Your aura,” Yoongi interrupted, “it’s yellow.”
Yoongi sat up and crawled over to Jimin who was still lying on his back. “Your aura,” he began, hovering over Jimin and tracing the outline of his body, “is the energy you give off. Every living thing gives off energy and that energy has a color.”
“Every living thing?”
“Animals and plants?”
Yoongi nodded again.
Jimin pointed at the nearest tree, his eyes narrowed. “That? That tree has a color?”
This time, Yoongi sighed. “Yeah.”
“And me?” Jimin poked his chest. “I have a color too?”
“You have colors.”
“Like a flame. It’s really pretty…” Yoongi reached out to caress the imaginary light and even though he was nowhere near close to touching him, Jimin held his breath in anticipation.
“Does…everyone have more than one?”
Yoongi shook his head. “It’s rare.”
“Is it a…a bad thing?”
“Having more than one? No.”
“Ah…” Jimin nodded, taking it all in. “Are my colors…good colors?”
“Nothing fits neatly into those categories of ‘good’ and 'bad’. It’s all subjective, isn’t it?”
Jimin punched Yoongi lightly in the arm. “Just answer the–”
“Yellow…” Yoongi leaned in close, catching Jimin off guard. “…happiness.” His hand brushed against the top of Jimin’s head and followed the curves of his body. “Pink…tenderness, gentleness, and love.”
“So basically…I’m perfect.” Jimin smirked, his breathing unsteady and shallow.
"Don’t flatter yourself, brat.” Yoongi tucked a lock of Jimin’s hair behind his ear. “I think we both know you’re far from perfect.”
Of course Jimin knew he wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t always eye-smiles and sunshine, giggles and toothy grins. Most times he was self-critical; holding himself to standards that weren’t realistic, measuring his self-worth in the approval of others. He was constantly performing, whether he was on stage or not, showcasing traits he believed would garner attention and praise.
And somehow this stranger–this Min Yoongi–had the ability to see through his well constructed facade after only knowing him for a few days. With the simplest of words, he managed to stir something inside of Jimin that both terrified and excited him.
Somewhere in between reconciling those two emotions, Jimin blurted out, “I think I like you.”
Yoongi’s fingers paused in the air, head tilted as he withdrew his hand. “You think you like me?”
“I can’t…can’t explain it and it's–I’m usually not like–”
Yoongi pressed a finger against Jimin’s mouth. “Stop overthinking. You’ll ruin it.”
“Ru–ruin? Ruin what?”
“The moment,” he whispered, bending forward and resting his forehead against Jimin’s.
“Ah…” Jimin clung to the blanket beneath them, eyes screwing shut and lips pursed.
He waited for what seemed like hours, growing impatient after nothing but warm puffs of air from their breathing. Jimin opened one eye hesitantly, then the other, before realizing that Yoongi was no longer leaning against him, his face even further away than it was before.
“Aren’t you…aren’t you going to kiss me?”
Yoongi tapped Jimin’s bottom lip. “Kiss?”
“Yeah, well…you said–I mean, I thought–” Jimin could feel pinpricks of embarrassment nipping at his cheeks and ears.
“But you’re a prince. Shouldn’t I court you properly first?”
Jimin gaped at him, blinking profusely before they both broke into a fit of giggles, doubling over and falling on top of each other in the process.
“Come on, little prince.” Yoongi grinned, helping a flustered Jimin stand and straighten his clothes after they’d managed to detangle themselves. “Let me buy you some dinner.”
I’m the anon who requested the rainy day kisses and you totally delivered the goods. :D Thank you!! I hope it’s okay that I send in another request because I really enjoy your scenarios. ^^ For the chocobros: post-game happy AU where everyone has a family and the bro has a heart-to-heart with their teenaged kid (for this request: a daughter for Gladio & Iggy, son for Prompto & Noct) who asked the bro about the moment they knew their s/o was ‘the one’. Thanks!
Noctis walked into the training arena, watching his son warping from one end of the room to the other. He stood by the doorway, watching as Ferox panted, dropping his dagger to the ground with his hands on his knees.
“Giving up already?” Noctis called, and Ferox rose to his full height. At thirteen, he was almost as tall as his dad, stretching his back and allowing it to crack loudly before loosening up his shoulders.
“Mom said I should take combat training more seriously.”
Noctis snorted. “Sounds like something she would say.”
Ferox tried warping a few more times under his father’s supervision, but eventually gave up, collapsing in a heap on the ground with his arms and legs splayed out like a drunken starfish.
“This is too hard,” Ferox groaned, pinching his eyes shut. “I don’t get why she’s being so strict with me about this warping thing.”
Noctis came to sit down beside his son, nudging him until he sat upright. “Your mother has been through a lot in her past. She’s lost a lot of people, had to make sacrifices to save others. Warping is something that only those tied to the King’s magic can do. She knows that mastering it will keep you safe in the long run, so trust her on that.”
Ferox leaned his elbow on his knee, propping his chin up with his fist. “Is that how you met?” he asked.
Noctis shoved him lightly with his shoulder. “Maybe.” He sighed, remembering the day. “We’d met on the road one day. Magitek troopers had invaded the outpost we were visiting, and me and the guys decided to try and fight them off. But we were tired, careless. It had been a really long day. But then your mother came swooped in and basically took them all down single-handedly.”
Ferox’s mouth gaped. “Woah.”
Noctis nodded. “Yep. I knew then and there, as the dust settled, that I was in love with her.” He patted his son’s knee. “Enough resting. Wanna try again?”
“I guess I should,” Ferox conceded, rising to his feet. “Do you think Mom’ll spar with me if I ask her?”
“Hey,” Noctis teased, grabbing a pair of wooden swords from a bin. “You too good to spar with your old man?”
“You just said Mom was a better fighter,” Ferox countered, and yelped as Noctis took a playful whack at his shin.
Solis was lounging on the couch, flipping through old photo albums. He had found one that was labelled with pictures from a little over twenty years ago. He blew his unruly blond hair, a feature he’d gotten from his father, out of his eyes as he opened the pages and scanned over the images.
The photos in the album were varied. Some were of scenery, some were taken during combat (Why, Dad. That’s definitely not a smart thing to do), and there were quite a few selfies that made Solis chuckle.
“Whatcha laughin’ at?” His father’s voice made him jump as Prompto sauntered into the room and plopped down next to his son.
“Just looking at old photos,” Solis shrugged, flipping to another page. “Oh, hey, look…it’s Mom.”
Solis saw his dad’s face soften as he looked at the photo of the two of you. It was one that Prompto hadn’t taken himself—it was a candid shot Noctis had snapped of you at the Vesperpool by the water. It was right around the time you’d met, and you were standing too close together to be just friends. Prompto thought back to that moment, and chuckled to himself.
“Whatcha laughin’ at?” Solis mimicked, causing Prompto to burst into a fit of giggles. Even at sixteen, Solis was the spitting image of his father. Same hair colour, same lanky build. But he had your eyes and your smile, which were Prompto’s favourite features.
“Just thinking about the moment I knew I wanted to marry your mom.”
Solis scrunched up his nose. “Dad, I don’t know if I want to hear that story.”
“Guess who’s gonna hear it anyway?” Prompto tousled Solis’ hair, much to his chagrin.
“Dad! I’m not five anymore!” he whined, but settled into the couch to listen to his father’s story. “Go on.”
“Your mom suggested one morning that we go take photos of the catoblepas,” Prompto pointed to a different photo, one that illustrated the creature. “She insisted on getting up close and personal with them. She figured it’d be better for the picture. So I’m set up with my tripod and my camera about five or six feet away, and she’s holding these mushrooms to get them to come closer.”
Prompto mimed the set up with his hands, and Solis nodded along the way.
“I was ready to take the shot, and she was posing, looking all cute. But then the catoblepas got so close. I yelled to warn her, but when she turned, she reached out her hand and pet the damn thing. And it actually nuzzled into her palm. Can you believe it?” Prompto sighed, a dreamy look in his eyes. “A legendary creature, yielding to your mother. What a lady.”
Solis turned the page of the album and found the photo of you cozying up to the catoblepas. “One thing’s for sure,” he decided. “You’re both nuts.” He paused. “But I’m glad you found each other.”
Gladio knocked on Acacia’s door. Having a teenage daughter was not easy, and having a teenage daughter in full mood swings was enough to want to make Gladio pull his hair out. It reminded him of Iris when she was younger.
A muffled voice rang out. “Come in.”
Gladio opened the door to his raven-haired daughter lying face down on her bed, not even attempting to greet her father as he took a seat by her desk.
“Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Acacia peeked an eye at him. “Nothing.”
Gladio folded his arms over his chest. “Didn’t sound like nothing according to Mom.”
Acacia sat up, apparently triggered by whatever Gladio had said, irritation clear as day on her features. “She’s just so over protective!” she huffed, hands balling into fists. “I just wanted to go away for the weekend, and she won’t let me because she said she doesn’t know who else is going.”
Gladio raised an eyebrow. “Seems like a decent enough reason to say no to me.”
Acacia groaned. “Not you too.”
He smirked at her, shaking his head. “Do you know the moment I realized your mom was the one?”
She blinked slowly. “I don’t see how this is relevant to what’s happening right now.”
Gladio continued. “When I was on the road with the guys, I met her. She was definitely too good for me. Way too smart, way too pretty. And for some reason, she gave me the time of day. After what happened in Lestallum and we lost Jared, she offered to stay and take care of Iris and Talcott until we got back.”
Acacia looked at her father expectantly.
“I knew then, when she decided to put her whole life on hold to make sure that my family stayed safe, the last remaining family I had, that she was it. She cared so much about these people that she barely knew, took them in like they were her own and kept them safe while the world fell apart around them. And now she’s trying to do that for you. She lost a lot of people in the ten years of darkness, sweetheart. Try and understand that she’s being protective of you because she doesn’t want to lose you, too.”
Acacia let out a sigh, slumping her shoulders. “I guess I owe Mom and apology.”
“Guess you do.”
She nodded and rose to her feet, slowly making her way to the door.
“If you want to go camping,” Gladio offered. “I’d be more than happy to take you.”
“Thanks Dad, but no,” Acacia replied, stepping into the hallway. “I’ve got better things to do.”
Gladio rolled his eyes. Yeah, he thought to himself. Just like Iris.
It wasn’t often that Ignis and his daughter got to spend a great deal of time together because of his duties at the palace and her school schedule, but he relished the moments they did get to share. They often cooked together, concocting new recipes side by side.
“How come Mom doesn’t cook?” Aurora asked, popping a cherry tomato into her mouth. “Is it because she can’t?”
“She’s not extraordinarily proficient, but she gets by,” Ignis stated, and Aurora marvelled at how skilled her father was with a knife even though he was blind. “Actually, it was our first evening in together when she decided to cook for me that I realized how much I loved her.”
“Aw! Dad!” Aurora gushed. “Tell me! I love these stories.”
Ignis chuckled and kept at the chopping.
“She’d planned this whole dinner for the two of us. She knew that I enjoyed the culinary arts, and wanted to give it a go herself. I told her that it wasn’t necessary to go through all the effort, but she informed me that I’d cooked for her on multiple occasions, so it was only fair.”
Ignis smiled to himself at the memory.
“She ended up burning everything.”
Aurora couldn’t help but laugh. “Dad! Why are you smiling? That’s terrible!”
Ignis could still smell the ruined dinner, the smoke coming from the oven and the shrill sound of the fire alarm beeping in the kitchen. He remembered the sound of your laugh, the sound of you swatting a broom at the alarm to get it to shut off, as it was just out of reach.
“She took such care to ensure that everything was perfect, but in the end, the meal being ruined hadn’t phased her spirit,” Ignis continued. “She ended up pulling out two servings of Cup Noodles, and we ate them together by candlelight.”
Aurora leaned her head against her father’s shoulder. “Dad, that’s so cute.”
“It was a special moment,” Ignis agreed. “I knew then that her resilience was something to be admired. I knew her before I was blind, as just a friend, and after I sustained my injury, she refused to leave my side. She’s always been more than I deserve, and she even gifted me with you.” Ignis reached out and wrapped an arm around Aurora’s shoulders, giving her a light squeeze.
“Love you, Dad,” she smiled, giving him a peck on the cheek.
Ignis went to go stir a pot on the stove. “There is one thing you have in common with that night, come to think of it,” a mischievous lilt to his tone.
Aurora glanced over at Ignis. “Hm? What’s that?”
“Technically speaking, you were an accident as well.”
For a blind man, he was quite skilled at dodging flying spatulas.