Uris moves to Derry, Maine following the death of his father and gets a job
babysitting a little boy named Georgie who just so happens to have a very
attractive older brother. (Modern High School AU)
Mention of death, depression (not a major theme), anti-Semitism, struggles with
Sometimes, Stanley Uris didn’t know what was up and what
was down. Sometimes, it felt like the world was moving but he was stuck in the
same position, day after day. And it sucked. His mother thought that a new
start would be good for them, that it would help them move on.
Stan wanted to scream. He wanted to call bullshit on her
logic. It wasn’t that he didn’t mind moving. He wasn’t exactly popular back at his
old high school in Bangor (once upon a time, his father had asked him
if it was because of them being Jewish – but it wasn’t an anti-Semitic thing,
aside from the occasional, always unfunny, holocaust joke, it was more so the
depression thing and the OCD thing and the gay thing that drove people away) so it wasn’t like he was going to
be all that missed. Even his Jewish friends didn’t seem like they were gonna
miss him that much. And it bothered Stan how little he cared about it.
But after his dad died, everything just seemed so… pointless. His father, a man who had
never smoked a day in his life, ended up dying of lung cancer. It made Stan
furious. At the world. At God. At everything.
After watching his father shrivel up into a shell of what he had once been,
Stan’s already complicated relationship with religion had turned sour. It
infuriated him that his father could be dying and still praising that almighty
presence above. Stan wasn’t even sure if he believed anymore.
“Stanley,” his mother’s voice called. “Come on, you’re
going to be late!”
Gulping, Stan gave himself a once over and straightened the
collar of his shirt before grabbing his backpack. As he left his room and shut
the door, he found himself cringing. So, he went back, turned the bedroom light
on and then off before shutting his door. Stan repeated that three more times
before he was satisfied. It made him feel sick, wrong.
“I think you should start going back to therapy,” his
mother told him on the ride to school.
“No arguments, Stanley,” she said, her voice sharp like the
cracking of a whip. “I know you, I know my son. You’re not okay, sweetheart.
All I want is for you to be happy. I don’t want to send you off to college in
two years with you…”
She trailed off and sighed. Stan could tell that if she
hadn’t been driving she would’ve pressed a small kiss to the top of his
forehead and hugged him tightly. Stan licked his lips and closed his eyes. He hated how unhappy his mother was. He despised that part of it was caused by
“I’ll see you tonight, yeah?” Andrea Uris said, looking at
her pale, skinny son.
“Yeah,” Stan agreed, nodding.
“We can talk about you getting that job. How’s that sound?”
Stan smiled at that. Since his freshman year of high
school, he had been begging for a job. He liked the idea of working – the
responsibility, the experience, the money that he could save up to buy all the
books he’d ever want to read. Stan just really wanted a job. He wanted
something to do with his life.
And he also needed to start saving up for college. His
father had been a Rabbi and his mother was a kindergarten teacher, so it wasn’t
like there was a lot of money in either of those professions. If he didn’t want
to leave college with an obscene amount of debt, Stan would have to save money
while working his ass off for good grade.
“Hi, I’m Stan Uris,” Stan said in a quiet voice to the lady
sitting at the receptionist desk.
“Oh, the new
boy!” the receptionist said in a too-loud, too-cheerful voice.
Stan winced a little and smiled.
“Here’s your schedule, and your student guide will be down
any minute to take you around!”
The receptionist had an odd accent that Stan wasn’t very
fond of, and when she snapped her gum he thought his head might explode.
A minute later, a very clean cut looking black boy with
broad shoulders, short hair, and a wide smile walked into the office.
“Hey, you must be Stan,” he said, walking straight over to
Stan and offering his hand to shake. “I’m Mike.”
“Hi,” Stan said, shaking Mike’s hand. “It’s nice to meet
As it turned out, Stan and Mike had all the same classes
which was why Mike was chosen to give Stan the school tour. Within five
minutes, Stan had decided that he liked Mike a lot. Mike was soft spoken,
intelligent, and kind. He might have looked like all the football players at
Stan’s old school that gave him hell for being gay, but Mike was nothing like
So, maybe Derry wouldn’t be that bad.
At lunch, Mike led Stan past the table filled with boys
wearing the same kind of jacket as Mike and towards a different table in the
corner of the room. At that table sat a very pretty girl with freckles
spattered across every bit of visible skin and short cropped red hair. Beside
her was a broad boy with dark blonde hair and a shy smile. Another boy sat across
from them, lanky and thinly muscled with thick glasses and rather gorgeous dark
hair. His arm was slung around the shoulders of a shorter boy with neatly
combed chocolate curls. It was a ragtag bunch, but as they greeted Mike with
wide smiles Stan could tell that they all loved each other a lot.
“Hey guys,” Mike said, sitting down and gesturing at the
empty chair for Stan. “This is Stan, he’s new. Stan, this is Bev, Ben, Eddie,
and Richie— where’s Bill?”
“Out sick,” Richie, the boy with glasses, snorted, ducking
his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck.
Richie’s body convulsed with laughter Stan didn’t really
understand. He stayed silent and began unpacking his lunch.
“What did you do to him?” Mike sighed, looking towards Bev.
“Hey, he agreed to drink with us,” Bev said defensively.
“They’re ridiculous,” Mike murmured to Stan, drawing a
small smile from the new boy. “Don’t hold them against me?”
“So, I found a job for you,” Andrea told Stan that night
after setting out dinner.
“Yeah?” Stan asked.
He held his breath for a moment, unsure if he was willing
to trust his mother’s judgement on this.
“Yes. A woman named Sharon at my work was saying how she
needs a babysitter for her son Georgie on Thursdays and Fridays,” Andrea said,
stabbing her fork into her salad.
“Babysitting?” Stan asked, trying his best to hide his
annoyance. “Mom. I don’t want to babysit.”
“It’s fifteen dollars an hour, Stanley,” Andrea said.
“Sharon said it would be for at least five hours each night, so that’s at least
a hundred and fifty dollars every week.”
Stan quickly did the math. If he kept fifty dollars every
week for himself (though, he didn’t have friends or much of a
social life so why would he really need fifty dollars a week to do things?
Well, Mike and his friends had been welcoming enough… maybe he’d finally have
some friends…) he could put
away a hundred bucks each week. If he kept that consistent for two years (and
who knew what this kid’s parents would need over school breaks and the summer
) Stan could have a significant amount of money saved when he needed to get to
Suddenly, babysitting didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
“So, when do I start?” Stan asked.
Andrea beamed at her son.
“I have her number written down. You can call her after
dinner and ask.”
As it turned out, Sharon Denbrough needed Stan to start
ASAP. And tomorrow was Friday, meaning that Stan would be babysitting
ten-year-old Georgie from 5:00 to 11:00.
When Stan shuffled into school, head down, he went straight
to his locker. The girl to his left and her friends shot him a weird look,
though Stan wasn’t all that sure why. He wasn’t that weird looking.
“Stan!” Mike’s voice boomed cheerfully.
Stan looked up and smiled at the approaching boy. Mike was
walking with Ben and a boy Stan didn’t meet yesterday. But, boy, did he wish he had. The stranger
was tall (probably a little over six-feet, which definitely didn’t make Stan a
little weak in the knees — no siree!)
and had light brown hair combed and styled very neatly. And his eyes—they were the bluest blue Stan had
“Hi Mike, Ben,” Stan said in his typical quiet fashion,
quickly glancing at the other boy before shifting his eyes down to the textbook
in his arms.
“Stan, this is Bill. He was sick yesterday,” Ben said.
“Richie mentioned you and Bill was anxious to meet the new kid on the block.”
Both Bill and Mike snorted quietly as Ben’s mouth lifted
into a small smirk. Stan didn’t get the joke.
“It’s nice to meet you, Stan,” Bill said.
His words were slow and deliberate, and Stan really liked
“You too, Bill,” Stan replied, hoping that he wasn’t
If he was, no one said anything.
At lunch time, Richie clapped Stan on the shoulder and
loudly proclaimed that his algebra teacher was a homophobic piece of shit.
“Why is he homophobic, Rich?” Bev asked, smirking at the
“He told me I would never accomplish anything in life and
is making me serve detention on Monday! This is gay oppression!” Richie
Stan chuckled quietly.
“So, Stan, do you want to see Kingsman with us tonight?”
Stan’s heart bloomed within his chest, filling him with a
warmness he had never felt before. He sighed, silently cursing his need for a
“I can’t,” Stan said, scratching behind his ear. “I have to
The rest of the group shut up about the movies after that.
Stan realized that they were doing it for him—so he wouldn’t feel bad about
missing out. The thought made him smile.
As a matter of fact, he was still smiling about it as he
walked to Georgie Denbrough’s house.
“You must be Stan,” a tall, handsome man said with a warm
smile as he opened the door. “It’s nice to meet you, son. I’m Zack Denbrough,
“It’s nice to meet you as well, sir,” Stan said politely,
shaking his hand.
“Georgie!” Zack yelled up the stairs. “Come down, please!”
Seconds later, a small boy was sprinting down the stairs
with a manic smile on his face, laughing as a tall, slightly muscled, shirtless boy (Georgie’s brother, Stan
assumed) chased after him. Stan
froze when he saw that the boy was Bill
“Georgie, g-give me my sh-shirt!” Bill yelled.
Georgie was laughing still, loudly. The laughter was
echoing around the house. Georgie and Bill sprinted past Stan without sparing
him a second glance. A moment later, there was a loud scream followed by
laughter as Bill, while laughing, called Georgie a twerp.
“My sons are rather… hyperactive,” Zack told Stan with an
apologetic glance. “Once Bill leaves, Georgie will calm down, though. The two
rile each other up.”
Stan swallowed thickly and nodded. His throat felt very
dry, and his hands were beginning to itch. Slowly and deliberately, he dragged
his blunt nails up and down the material of jeans that covered the outside of
“Georgie, come meet your babysitter,” Zack said, walking
out of the entrance hall and into the kitchen. “And, Bill, for God’s sake, put
on a shirt.”
After a second’s deliberation when Stan seriously
considered booking it out of the Denbrough house, he made his way into the
kitchen. He caught Bill’s eyes and gulped.
“Stan! Hey!” Bill exclaimed happily, pulling a black
t-shirt over his head. “When you said you had to babysit, I didn’t realize you’d
be babysitting Georgie. I thought you had a younger brother or sister.”
“No,” Stan said, shaking his head and trying to remember not to stare at Bill. “I’m an only
“Ooh, I wish,”
Bill chuckled, sticking his tongue out at Georgie who reciprocated the motion.
Stan laughed dryly.
It wasn’t long before Zack and Sharon left for their date
night, letting Stan know that they left forty dollars on the counter for him to
order food and that he was welcome to keep the change. Bill was still there
when his parents left.
While Georgie was showering, Stan took his opportunity to
talk to Bill.
“So, uh, why aren’t you
babysitting your brother?” Stan asked.
‘Really, Stan?’ he
thought to himself. ‘What a stupid
Bill’s face went a little pink and he began to rub the back
of his neck.
“Yeah, I’m not really allowed to do that anymore,” Bill
said, his words paired with an awkward laugh. “Last time I babysat Georgie, it
was pouring r-ruh-rain and I let him go outside, and he ended up getting wicked sick. My p—parents were really
angry with me.”
Stan hadn’t noticed Bill’s stutter earlier. He didn’t say
anything about it, though. Instead, he merely smiled a little.
“Well, if I’m ever babysitting Georgie and it rains, I’ll
make sure not to let him go out.”
Bill threw his head back and laughed loudly. As his
laughter died down, he bumped his shoulder softly against Stan’s and bit down
on his lip. Yet again, Stan was gulping
because of Bill Denbrough.
“I should get going,” Bill said, a look of regret crossing
over his face. He stood up and patted Stan on the shoulder, but his hand
lingered for a moment. “I’ll catch you later, Stan. I’ll probably be home
before my parents.”
Georgie was a cute kid, and very sweet. He made a lot of
meme jokes, which he told Stan he had learned from Richie. One time this past
summer, Georgie told Stan, he ran into Bill’s room and dabbed with two fidget spinners
in his hands. When Bill found out that Richie had been the one to tell Georgie
to do it, Bill didn’t speak to Richie for a day and blocked him on all forms of
At 9:00, Stan had to put Georgie to bed. After that, he had
two hours to spare before he got to leave. And considering he was in someone
else’s home, he had no idea what to do. So, he just grabbed a book from his bag
and sat down in their living room to read.
Bill came home at 9:30, and when he saw Stan curled up on
his couch reading a book on birds (of all things ), he couldn’t help but
laugh a little.
“What?” Stan asked, a little defensively.
“Nothing,” Bill assured him, sitting down next to him on
the couch. “It’s just— well, a book on birds?”
“I happen to like birds,” Stan said, eyes narrowed. “They’re
“Yeah? How so?” Bill asked, genuinely curious.
And so, for the next hour and a half, Stan talked to Bill
about all different kinds of birds and the best places in Maine to go bird
watching. And Bill seemed really interested too, he was asking questions and
just looked completely earnest. By the time Sharon and Zack came back home,
Stan hadn’t even realized that it was 11:00.
“I noticed you didn’t drive here,” Bill said, sneaking up
on Stan as he put his coat and shoes on. “D-do you want me to drive you h-h-home?”
Stan almost protested, but he was feeling selfish. He wanted
to spend more time with Bill, even if it was only for a ten-minute car ride.
“Thanks, Bill,” Stan murmured once Bill pulled into his
driveway. “I’ll see you Monday.”
“Wait,” Bill exclaimed, grabbing Stan’s wrist. “Give me
Bill wiggled his phone in front of Stan’s face, blue eyes
wide. Stan thought his face was going to split in two from how big his smile
was. Eagerly (maybe a little too eagerly, but Stan didn’t know much about this kind
of thing), Stan punched his
number into Bill’s phone. If he was a more confident kid, he might have put
some kind of witty, suggestive emoji next to his contact name… but Stan wasn’t like
“So, who’s the boy?” Andrea asked with a coy smirk on her
face, watching as her blushing son stumbled his way backwards into the house, waving goodbye to the boy who was sitting
in his car.
“There— there’s no boy. What are you talking about?” Stan
Andrea rolled her eyes.
“Stan, I’m your mother. You’re supposed to tell me these things.”
Stan sighed and relented, rolling his eyes.
“His name’s Bill,” Stan said.
“Do you like him?”
“I met him this morning, Mom!”
“Okay. So, what?”
Stan groaned, rubbing his eyes.
“He’s Georgie’s older brother and offered to drive me home
because I don’t have a car. That’s all.”
Andrea hummed suspiciously, but didn’t press Stan further.
“My brother thinks you’re hot.”
Georgie’s statement was so bluntly presented that Stan
choked on the slice of pizza he was eating.
“I heard him talking with Bev and Mike about it the other
day,” Georgie added, grinning at Stan.
“Oh,” Stan said in a high, uneven voice. “That’s nice.”
“Do you think he’s hot?”
Stan’s face was burning.
“What?” Georgie asked, putting on his best angel face.
“I’m not talking about your brother with you,” Stan
snorted. “And you’re ten, which is just— no.”
“I’m gonna be eleven next month,” Georgie whined.
Stan wasn’t amused.
“Eat your pizza, Georgie.”
“Do you think he’s hot yet?”
“Georgie, you need to go to bed!” Stan exclaimed, trying
his best not to laugh at Georgie’s persistence.
All night, he had been pestering Stan about his thoughts on
Bill. Like, yeah, Stan thought Bill
was hot. But he wasn’t about to tell Georgie that. If he said anything, Georgie would definitely repeat it back to Bill (Stan
wasn’t ignorant to Georgie’s hero-worship of his brother) and then Bill would think Stan was
weird. Though, Georgie did say that Bill thought he was hot.
“Did he really say— agh!
Never mind! Go to bed!”
Stan seriously considered throwing himself in front of a
bus then and there. Was he seriously just about to ask a ten-year old about
Bill arrived home not long after that, grinning. Georgie
shut his mouth about Stan finding Bill hot.
Three weeks after Georgie asked Stan if he thought Bill was
hot, Stan had the weekend off. Bill’s parents were going away for a few nights
for their anniversary and Georgie was going to stay with Sharon’s sister in the
next town over. That meant Bill had the house to himself.
If Bill was a different kid, he would’ve been instantly
sending out invites to a party. But Bill was Bill, and he wasn’t like that. Instead,
he invited Stan over for a movie night.
Andrea drove Stan over to Bill’s house and quickly lectured
Stan on practicing safe sex. Stan wanted to die.
“Mom! Holy, crap!” Stan exclaimed, his face beet red. “It’s
not— we’re not— no! Anyways, the rest
of our friends are gonna be there!”
The rest of their friends (‘The Losers Club’ they were
often referred to by a senior named Henry Bowers and his gang of asshole
friends, but Stan didn’t pay them much attention) were, in fact, not
“I didn’t realize it would be just us,” Stan muttered,
glancing around Bill’s dark house.
“Oh,” Bill said, rubbing his neck. “I didn’t— are you
“No,” Stan said, smiling. “I just thought— you know what?
It’s not important.”
Bill smiled that breathtaking smile of his and Stan found himself
wishing for a puff of Eddie’s inhaler.
“Richie was saying I should throw a party this weekend,”
Bill snorted. “And Bev was saying we should utilize my empty house and my
father’s never ending liquor supply and get drunk.”
Stan didn’t think that sounded too awful. Well, the getting
drunk part at least… so long it was only their group of seven. He wouldn’t want
other people around. Just the seven of them… ‘the lucky seven’ had Mike called them a couple weeks ago. The
thought made Stan smile a bit.
“Would getting drunk be that bad?” Stan asked Bill, a smile
on his face.
“Not if it was just the two of us,” Bill replied easily in
his slow deliberate voice.
The voice that made Stan’s knees go weak and stomach tie in
it was just the two of us… Stan flushed a deep red.
“So, I ordered us pizza,” Bill said, gesturing to a box on
the table. “Normally I go with pepperoni or barbeque chicken, but I know it’s
not kosher for Jewish people to eat pig or meat and cheese — that’s the right
word, right? Kosher?”
Stan had barely thought about his faith in months. It had
seemed so insignificant, so unreal for him after his dad died. And when it came
to eating kosher— well, that had been the way he lived his life for the past
sixteen years so he never even really thought about it. But Bill had thought about it.
Stan suddenly felt the urge to kiss Bill, but he had enough
will power to stop himself.
“Is regular cheese fine?”
Bill was being so casual, acting as if nothing was wrong.
Well, not that anything was wrong…
but he had just made a significant impact on Stan and was acting as if nothing
“Cheese is perfect,” Stan said softly.
Bill beamed and Stan felt like his heart was going to
explode out of his chest.
Stan really wanted to kiss Bill. But he didn’t.
After they ate their pizza, Bill suggested they watch
something. And by something, Stan knew that Bill meant Game of Thrones. Bill was a die-hard Thrones fan and nearly had an aneurism when he found out that Stan didn’t
watch it. Last week, he finally convinced Stan to start watching it. Stan was
already on season three.
Bill sat down next to Stan, but in an unnecessarily close
way. Stan sat curled against the arm of the couch and Bill sat right down
beside him. There was only a small inch or so of space between them. Stan said
nothing because he didn’t want Bill to move away.
“You know, I feel bad for Theon,” Stan confessed.
Bill didn’t say anything.
“I mean, I understand why
he did what he did. He just wanted his father’s approval. I don’t agree with
his actions, but I understand the motive. You know? And, wow, he really does not deserve… that.”
Stan’s eyes went wide, and so did Bill’s. From how red Bill’s
face was, Stan could tell he most definitely did not mean to say that out loud.
“Thanks,” Stan found himself saying. “You too.”
And then he kissed Bill. Holy shit. He was kissing Bill. And Bill was kissing him
Even for a first kiss, it was pretty awesome. Stan had no
idea what he was doing with his mouth, but Bill seemed to have some experience
so he took charge. His right hand went around the back of Stan’s neck, while
the other propped himself up against the arm of the couch that Stan’s back was
Stan was in paradise, his hands wrapped around Bill and
digging into Bill’s soft hair.
When Bill pulled away, they were both panting, gasping for
air. Bill’s eyes were peering into Stan’s, and both boys smiled before Stan
pulled Bill’s face down, crushing his lips to Bill’s once more.
(Hamliza 28) “I found you–panicking, our child about to be delivered”
“Alexander” George rode by on his horse, the men gathered by the docks as they
watched the last fleet of British
soldiers retreat back to their vessels and shove off. Alexander surrounded by
his friends, the harrowing spy Hercules. The champion of Chesapeake Bay,
Lafayette, and in the south, oh if Laurens was here to see this Hamilton knew
the win would only have tasted sweeter.
His eyes tore away from the near tear jerking sight of victory fleeing back to
the their former oppressor. “General, come to partake in the…” He began but
George’s face was stilled. There was no sign of a war hero General. Alexander
couldn’t examine his face for long. He was still riding the high of his war
fame. It was he that led that mighty last push against the British, surely
George was proud. Surely…yet he felt his face grow cold.
“It’s a letter for you, its from New York.” He handed Alexander the letter, “Its
from your wife, she’s due any day now…”
Alexander looked down at the letter, he didn’t need to read
it. He needed to leave. “Eliza…my…Eliza!” He tucked the letter away into his
jacket and bounded for the nearest horse.
“Alex, you need to take provisions with you! It’s a week travel back North to
New York.” George bellowed from his horse as Alex readjusted himself. He pulled
with him his knapsack with a sole canteen of water, a stale loaf of bread and
his traveling desk with some writing tools. “Alex!”
“Three days…” He muttered grabbing the reigns of the horse even tighter. “I’ll
make it in Three Days George!” He smiled his eyes still wild from the battle.
The battle had not been over, he had one more feat to conquer. “When you come
to New York, come visit me and my son!” Hamilton whipped at the horse’s reigns
and commanded the animal to move. Washington couldn’t stop him even if he shot
him in the back right there and then. He could only pray Alexander would make
it back to New York in one piece, at least for his wife’s sake.
The chill of January was setting in over the Northeast. “Close
the windows, Mrs. Hamilton shouldn’t be exposed to such chill.” One of the
midwives muttered as she rushed to close a few more windows. As Alexander
promised they did get a small place in Harlem, a quaint apartment up a few cobbled
stoned streets from where Angelica was staying. Though no one would have known,
to anyone outside of the family they would have guessed Angelica lived with her
sister. She doted on her hand and foot, watching as labor evaded her as the
days came. The delay made Angelica worry…but Eliza hoped this was a sign. A
sign that the Lord was buying her Alexander more time to make it.
Eliza released a small whimper, hoping to go unnoticed by the midwives. Though
it did, it did not miss the ears of Angelica who was standing by the door. She
walked into the bedroom and placed a hand on her sister’s forehead. “You’re
holding it in.” she accused.
“N-No it was just a small pain n-nothing at all.” Eliza began to grind her
“Eliza its going to be time soon…I’ve helped in many of birthing, you are
ready. What are you waiting for…”
“My husband…” She muttered softly, “Angie I can’t do this alone…I need him here…he
said he’d be here…”
“Alexander is a great man who is capable of great feats but I do not think that
he can –“ she was cut off by the neighs of a horse. Then that sound was cut off
by a slightly louder whine from Eliza as she hunched her body against the
growing discomfort. “I’ll get the midwives.” She whispered placing a small kiss
on the top of her sister’s head. Angelica flurried out of the room and to the
front door where Alexander was stripping out of his winter clothes. He was
pale, lips purple, eyes half lidded nearly ready to drop. He managed to pull a
smile when he caught sight of his beloved sister in law. “…A miracle.” She shook
her head. “…How long did you ride for?”
“Four days straight, I was off by one. I would have made it if I didn’t take the
river path, trying to cut through the fields. No matter.” Alexander rubbed his
hands together. “Tell me I’ve come in time…”
Angelica didn’t have to answer, from the bedroom and down the hall a scream
carried through the home. Alexander’s smirk fell, his tired face unable to form
a mask to hide the clear worry that was sent through him. That scream was like
a shot through the heart. And there were many more shots to come. Slowly
Angelica led him to the bedroom where the midwives had begun to prep. Alexander
stood at the door, his eyes wildly flickering between the women at the end of
his bed and his wife, his beloved he hadn’t seen in weeks, months, sprawled.
Her legs twisting in pain, her face twitching and beading with sweat, she
opened her eyes and stared at him.
They were both panicked, their child was about to be
delivered. Soon, their lives would change their marriage. “Alex…” Eliza’s
chapped lips curled into a smile, finding some courage now that her husband was
here, at last, safe. Alexander the war hero, the right hand to the greatest
General of their century, knelt down by his wife and looked so small. “So…what
news do you bring for me, my solider?”
“Our child is going to be born in a free nation…” He smiled as if he was
presenting Eliza with a gift. “He…will be born…” He gulped staring down at the
large stomach that housed their son. “He…”
“He has been waiting for you…we both have…” Eliza wouldn’t indulge his guilt,
she wouldn’t tell him how she had been in pain for days, holding and refusing
nature’s call for labor. Not without Hamilton. “I hope you are ready for one
last battle.” She held out her small, clammy hand.
Alexander held her hand, holding her with the same certainty as he did a weapon,
that only a few days ago as he stared down the enemy. With steely eyes, framed
with exhaustion he nodded once. “I came to win one more fight, let’s meet our
She nodded, fueled by his strength she looked up at
Angelica and the midwife. “I’m ready.” She smiled, squeezing Alex’s hand. A
fire flooded her, pain no longer worried her. She was eager now, eager to have
Alexander be a part of her greatest triumph. “Let’s meet Philip.”
You awaken after a long deserved sleep against Loki’s chest. You have no clue how long you have been in this horrid prison cell. It’s most likely been days but you’re praying it’s only been hours. The pair of you lay cozy in a lounge chair (one he didn’t get around to destroying in his fit of rage). You’re curled up into him while he reads a book, and for once, you feel at peace (oddly enough in imprisonment). The past couple of days have been one wild ride and you are glad that time has now allowed you to catch your breath.
You make a small noise. The kind you make when you are comfortable beyond belief. Loki plays with your hair which causes you to repeat that noise, seemingly much to his pleasure.
The brothers son and SO do a slap cam on them, including rose scented shaving cream mixed with whip cream. How would the brothers react?
Is the most startled because they somehow manage to sneak up on him during meditation. He lets out a yelp when the shaving cream hits his face, quickly covering it and staring at his SO and son before calmly rising and chasing them around the lair.
“You DARE slap cam prank the leader of the Hamato Clan??”
He’s borderline pissed, borderline annoyed, making for a very offstandish Raphael. Says nothing, just glares at the two of them until they back off, and then plots his own revenge later that day.
He’s a bit miffed at first by the shaving cream now covering his face, but… his son’s giving him that big smile of his, and his SO’s giving that little giggle with the small snort that makes him chuckle… and pretty soon he’s laughing along.
“Yeah, that was funny… but if you got whipped cream on my laptop, you’re dead.”
Congratulations, SO and Son, you’ve officially beat Mikey at his own game, and he’s cracking up. He’ll sit there for a few minutes, laughing to the point of tears along with his SO and son, complimenting their prank tactics.
“Couldn’t have done it better myself! Well done, my dudette and little dude!”
As Spencer opens his car door, Morgan still in the process of slowing down the vehicle, he quickly unlocks his seat-belt and goes barreling towards the house, with Hotch quickly at his side as his boss shoves his cell phone back in his pocket.
“Garcia?” he asks him breathlessly as he draws his weapon, his foot raising up as he kicks the front door in.
“FBI!” Hotch roars into the house as he clicks on his flashlight.
“Yes,” Hotch says in a lowered tone of voice.
“W-wh…wel,l what did she say!?” Spencer harshly whispers at his boss as Morgan flies up behind them, gun drawn as he moves to the right, clearing the rest of the downstairs rooms.
“Garcia thinks their in the basement,” Hotch says as he eyes a door hanging open.
“FBI!” Hotch roars again as he shines his flashlight down the stairs.
But when Spencer quickly descends the stairs, his eyes settling on the sight of you poised, ready to bash this man’s head in, he aims his weapon not at him…but at you.
“Ma!” DeShawn shrieks again as his father groans at your feet.
“Ma…don’t be like him…” DeShawn begs.
All of the words…words of love and comfort…words of devotion and reassurance…they were all replaced with spit-fire words of fury and fear.
“He took you two…from your beds…” you glower.
“Y/N…?” Spencer asks lightly, his gun trained on you as you slowly pan your head towards your colleague.
“Really, Reid? You hate me so much you’re willing to kill me over him?” you ask, nodding your head to the man at your feet.
“I don’t hate you…” he says desperately, shaking his head as Hotch stays in the shadows, training his gun on DeShawn’s father in case he makes a move for any one of his teammates.
Or your sons.
“Save your heroic speech for someone who cares,” you lull, turning your head back to the man at your feet.
“I won’t let you kill him,” Spencer says as he takes another step down the stairs.
“But you were willing to let him kill my sons, right?” you ask, whipping your head back towards a blind-sided Spencer.
“You were willing to place your tender, broken heart in front of the well-being of my boys. Right!?” you ask, your voice getting louder as Wilder groans again in the background.
“You were willing to place your selfish, hurt little feelings in front of figuring out how to save my sons’ lives…right!?” you bellow.
“And now!?” you shriek as you turn your entire body towards him, your thought process scattering itself across the continents of your mind as you slowly lower the crowbar from above your head.
“Now you’re willing to shoot me instead of the serial killer who has ripped apart 7 different families! All in the name of trying to get hisback!”
And it was then, at your weakest and most vulnerable, that DeShawn’s father made a move for you.
Flying up faster than anyone would have assumed possible for a man his size, he hits you in your stomach, causing you to gasp for air as DeShawn yells in the background, his voice growing hoarse as he begs his father to let you go.
And just as your head made contact with the solid wall, you hear multiple gunshots ring out, your body hitting the ground with a thud as you feel the warm, thick blood that you were so intent on drawing just moments before of your own volition trickling up under your legs as you pan your gaze over to the source.
DeShawn’s father, his eyes wide open and his jaw unhinged, his lifeless stare wildly accusing you of taking his son from him as your emotions finally begin to regulate themselves.
You almost became a murderer.
Scurrying to your feet as you fly to your boys, you make quick use of your hands, your tears blurring your vision as Morgan finally finds a working light, the illuminating presence flooding the room as realization hits your mind.
He can’t see his father like that.
Ripping the last of Wilder’s bonds away, you stand up quickly, ready to throw your body in front of his line of sight until your eyes take in Spencer’s body fluttering a blanket he had found quickly over the dead, bleeding form.
“I’ve got it,” he says comfortingly, looking at you as his eyes glisten.
Hearing the paramedics traipse down the stairs, tears stream from your wide eyes as you help Wilder into their arms, the medics working with an IV and some pain medication as they try to discern all of the pain that has been inflicted upon him.
Your little baby boy…
“Ma…” DeShawn croaks.
Whipping your head around, you drop to your knees as you begin to work at his bindings, freeing his appendages one by one before taking his face in your hands and planting a long, deep kiss upon his forehead.
“Hey there, sweet cheeks,” you whisper, your breath quivering as you try to swallow your sobs.
“Ma…” he croaks, throwing his weakened arms around you as you pull him close, your legs straddling his wide form (that he apparently gets from his father) as you rock slowly side-to-side, your 17 year old son sobbing into the crook of your neck as the blood dripping from his face begins to soak up in the fabric of your shirt.
“My big, sweet boy,” you tremble, pressing another kiss to the side of his head as you feel a hand come down on your shoulder.
“The medics are here for him,” Spencer coos, squeezing your shoulder lightly as you nod against your son’s head.
“He kept insisting, Ma…” DeShawn whines.
“Who kept insisting what, sweetheart?” you breathe as Hotch appears behind your son, dipping into your line of sight as he puts his hand on DeShawn’s back.
Furrowing your brow, you pull back as you cup your son’s face, lifting his bruised, swollen, bloodied face to yours.
“He kept insisting what?” you implore lightly.
“To hurt him. He-…he kept telling m-…my dad-”
“That man is not your dad,” you say sternly, “…your father, yes. But most certainly not your dad.”
DeShawn’s good eye finally peeled open, flickering up to you as you get off of his lap, standing in front of him as the paramedics begin to help you get him off of the chair.
“He kept telling my father to hurt him instead,” DeShawn says, your sobs finally wracking your body as the audible sounds of pain and fear finally begin to waft from your throat.
“Ma?” DeShawn asks as they begin to set him an IV.
“Ma!?” he says a bit louder as they begin to move his gurney.
“I’m right here,” you soothe, reaching out and grasping his hand as your tears begin to drip down your neck.
“I’m right here, and I’m following the two of you to the hospital.”
“You can ride with us, Mom, if you want,” the paramedic tells you.
“Please, Ma…” DeShawn asks weakly.
“Alright, baby boy. Alright,” you say, turning your head to look back at Hotch as he nods for you to go.
And just as everyone was emerging from the house, the team watching you as you hop up into the ambulance behind your son, J.J. grasps Spencer’s arm as she yanks him over to the SUV you had driven here, the trunk door open as she holds the recording device in her hand.
“What, J.J.?” Spencer asks, slightly annoyed.
“You need to listen to this,” she urges, holding it out for him as the team begins to gather around.
“What’s this?” he asks as he takes the device in his hands.
“A lot of things,” she breathes as she tentatively looks over at Rossi standing beside her.
“But mostly?” Rossi interjects just before Spencer presses the play button, “it’s how she feels about you.”
And with a deeply furrowed brow, Spencer looks down at the device as he presses play, your voice wafting through the small speaker on the side as you begin speaking.
“I, Y/F/N Y/L/N, being of sound mind and body, do hereby give full and complete guidance and medical decisions of my two songs, Wilder Y/L/N and DeShawn Y/L/N, over to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU…”