ictus
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Question 5—and, as a reminder, this is the final question:
To the best of your memory, what is or was the colour of your lover’s eyes?
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Before Copenhagen, there was Chicago.
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Chase’s rehabilitation is riddled with setbacks. Between gruelling physiotherapy and near-constant pain, it becomes clear that no one understands what he’s going through—no one except for House, that is.
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House and Wilson, figuring things out.
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House can't let go.
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“Where does it hurt?”
Keith doesn’t elaborate, and Shiro doesn’t ask him to. Just raises his prosthetic hand in a loose fist and lets it fall sluggishly on his own chest where he guesses his heart is hidden.
Two times. Here. It hurts here.
Keith doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reach up to wipe the tears from his face. He props himself up on an elbow and leans down to first lay a dry kiss to Shiro's chest, and then lay his soft, heavy head. His ear pressed over Shiro’s plaintive heart where it slowly beats on through the night.
TL;DR communication is easy, healing is hard
Bookmarked by ictus
07 Nov 2018
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“Fuck,” Klaus breathes, a cloud of smoke, and sits down next to him, close enough to touch. It’s this, it’s always been this, the two of them against the rest, and Klaus remembers long before Ben died, long before the mausoleum and before their mother named them, when Ben would sneak into his room on the nights when their father wasn’t watching, when he would climb into Klaus’ bed and slide warm arms around him, pressing tightly against his back, crying about the things that rolled and tumbled inside of him, the things that leaked out of his seams, and in the morning Klaus would pretend that he had been asleep, that he had never felt the hot tears against the back of his neck, that he never even knew Ben was there.
(He’s always been a fucking coward.)
Bookmarked by ictus
06 Mar 2019
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Dick looks back, but mostly what he does is leap forwards.