Caroline - Tumblr Posts

i’m not saying i’m psychic but i was just thinking of your tlou/tallulah fic and you came up in my notifications? man.

anyways i hope uni is going good for you. it’s genuinely so so good to see you again take care of yourself <333

absolutely no way!!! what a coincidence omgg

uni's great so far, thanks for checking in! i'm on study abroad right now so i'm living my best life in a different country heh

hope things have been good for you too!! haven't been checking tumblr as much and i honestly miss the space and community a little recently :D

can't wait for what new content you will create <3

i will be deleting this blog this week.

please be patient with me-i plan on copying my old Hasan posts and creating a new blog, i’m just a little overwhelmed right now (and desperately trying to not make this about myself)

everyone be kind to yourselves

yEAAAAAAAAAAAAA i really loved this fic back when it was first posted (as the huGE board game nerd i am) and i'm so happy to see it being repurposed for charlie!!!! beautiful beautiful writing as per usual caroline

See That Space In Your Head (And I Want To Fill It In)

or; the board game au

tw: cursing

look, it isn't the most nerdy thing you've ever done.

And you aren't proud of it-you aren't sure if that helps or not-but moving into a new town, in a new city- a new state, halfway across the country-known for its cold, dark and long winters well-you had to make friend somehow.

And he was so fucking persistent on Facebook too.

The posts neared non stop, always to the top of the group, right above people always posting the new fox sighting and where it was heading.

The first post was innocent enough.

Still need new members for the board to death club! we meet every other wednesday in the heart of the library.

the only comments under were spam and people looking for directions to the library. charlie didn't comment back to either.

The next post was two days later:

board to death meeting wednesay where we finally find out who's the best. come join us. Thornhill Library @ 6pm!

it's the last post that borders on pleading that makes you comment.

board to death. Thornhill Library. Newbies definitely not invited or encouraged.

look, you can sense the sarcasm in it but the way he's been posting nearing every other day for people to join his club but won't elaborate on what it is or anything besides the fucking name is making your chest boil with rage and your fingers take over across your keyboard before you can stop it

maybe, just maybe telling people what the club is would help and make people join? I dunno, just a thought.

you submit it before you can question that it's too sarcastic, too rude, not a way to make friends in this town-you're wrestling with the idea of deleting it before anyone can see it when your phone bings with a facebook notification.

it's him.

hm. thought the name alone would give it away. join us wednesday and see what we do :-)

bastard.

you weren't planning on going.

planned on leaving the conversation there, letting it die but the idea of it was killing you and you found yourself lacing up your shoes and slipping a coat over your shoulders to brave the Chicago cold before you could stop yourself.

the library was on the only busy street, which figures, and parking was a nightmare almost turned around about five times before you reminded yourself you were just stopping by-haven't gotten a library card yet and while you're here you might as well see what this silly club is about

as you park and enter, a death grip on the envelopes in your hands to get the stupid card, you notice how busy it is. And how incredibly loud it is.

The librarian behind the desk doesn't seem bothered by it either, talking at a loud volume with someone else behind the desk.

you lose the confidence you had, sliding the bills into your back pocket and slinking off to what you think would be 'the heart of the library'

it's not hard to find, fortunately

or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it.

a small group of people stand around a table stacked high with board games and who you think would be the lead stands next to it, hands on his hips.

it takes you a second to recognize it's charlie from the facebook post. he’s laughing with the small circle around him, his glasses are crooked on his nose but if it bothers him, he doesn’t make a move to adjust them. he wears a bright green shirt with a periodic table on it that says i have fun periodically and truly, that’s all you needed to know about what was happening.

you almost have to stop yourself from turning around and leaving but the conversation stops you-

"Yeah well Monopoly ends marriages but none of us are married so who fucking cares?"

"It's a figure of speech, you idiot." someone says back, pinching the bridge of their nose.

They're short next to charlie, a mess of blonde hair that's uncombed.

"Look," he finally holds his hands up in surrender, “i’ll-“

his eyes flash to you.

"well," he smirks, "hello there."

Your face is bright red before you can stop it and you try to wipe the look off your face-

"You're part of the facebook group, right?" charlie steps forward, the smirk high on his face, produces "The one who didn't know who we were?"

The blush is replaced by annoyance.

"What kind of name is board to death that meets in a library?"

he shrugs, crosses his arms over his chest:

"I dunno," he says, the smirk never leaving, "Probably a board game club."

you can't help the oh that escapes from your mouth and his friends behind him are laughing and you want to disappear.

"Right." you shrug, "guess i know now-" you turn to leave and he's at your elbow.

"Hey," his voice is high and comforting, is trying to make it quiet so it’s between you two"Stay and play a game. I was just kidding."

and you feel so fucking dumb like it's so obvious now, and you want to disappear-

"Seriously," he says, "Stay. nothing makes me feel better than beating Nick at Life. Really, whatever you're going through, it'll make it better."

you hesitate and before you can turn around, tell him no, he's pulling your elbow: "come on, i promise. and if it sucks, you can leave."

you obey, sitting next to charlie as he sits with this smile on his face, his face now pink like he's embarrassed as he fumbles with his glasses.

"charlie," he offers his hand, "nice to finally meet you."

you hesitate and shake his hand, introducing yourself as well.

"nice to meet the facebook menace himself," you finally ease up, "ready to lose?"

and it's a big statement, especially considering you've never played and you don't know him, but he leans back into the seat, his shoulder brushing yours as he smirks:

"Bring it on."

CHARLIE FIC BUT D&D AHHHHHHH i loved it so much omy goodness. how they were both really nervous at the start and didn't know the other was too? YUM

Homesick For You (And I Don’t Know Why)

or: d&d first date au

tw:cursing, first date, use of his real name

charlie rocks back and fourth on his heels, cranes his neck in a desolate parking lot and checks his watch for the fourth time.

He's early. this is normal-and you had just texted that you had left, a thirty minute drive for you, but still-he's nervous naturally.

he's had his handful of bad dates before-probably more bad than good-

and you seem great so far; can keep a conversation going, a good sense of humor but fuck he's thought that before about others too.

A tiny car he can't place the name of pulls into the parking lot, a heavy bass comes out of it and he bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

He recognizes your profile immediately, even through tinted windows and the half blurry photos from your dating profile.

He gives you a second to get out of the car, not to seem to eager or anything like that-and his phone vibrates in his hand

you're slowly getting out of your car, your hands shaking as you type out a text to him:

hey charlie! it's-

no no-you backspace-that seems too excited for it

"Hey stranger!"

You jump at the sound of the voice you've only known from phone calls lately.

he comes to your side. there’s an awkward beat for two seconds before he speaks:

"So," he has to physically stop himself from his teeth chattering, all nerves, "Have you played before?"

you blow air out of your lips:

"define play."

he laughs: "i'll take it-"

"I mean like," you're talking over him, so nervous, "Like, with the people i went to high school with. But like, it was super casual-"

he's nodding, holding the door for you as you walk in and you wait in the threshold for him, his hand on the small of your back as he leads you in.

The bar is empty, just you two as you both slide into chairs next to one another, and immediately he's talking. it's more rambling, about his knowledge (or lack thereof) of IPAs, and alcohol in general and "Fuck, I'm gonna freeze and just point, i know it'"

Time moves fast, and before you know it, you're sliding into a chair next to Charlie, knees knocking together. Plans were last second; you hold a character sheet on a dimming phone as you crane your neck to check Charlie's out.

He was kind the entire time, his knees knocking into yours as he's over your shoulder, pointing and offering characters ("No, like. A Monk with religious guilt is a good idea-" or "No, I think if your bard played a flute badly that would arguably make it funnier.")

The game continues and his hand hovers over yours, slowly handing you dice, asking for you to shake it before he rolls it-at first you think it's a bad pick-up line, but when he rolls his second one of the game well-you have to help him when you can.

Charlie sighs dramatically and you expect the worst, something along the lines of: this is the worst date i've ever been on or it's embarrassing how this was your idea of a first date-

instead, he leans back in his seat, the front of the chairs leave the floor, are airborne when he speaks:

"You'll have to throw me."

If it wasn't for the smirk, it would be hard to place he's kidding by the straight face.

"I'm sorry," You're laughing, shaking your head, "I what?!”

He shakes his head, sighing, but the smirk remains:

"Throw me. You're going to have to chuck me at the monster."

"Oh," You're nodding, "I see, you have a death wish."

And finally he's laughing and it's nice- high pitched and loud, but it rips through him, the corner of his eyes squinting as he's clearly happy-it's nice, you find yourself wanting to make him laugh again,

"Look," he's ticking reasons off his fingers, "I'm small, right?"

"I-"

"And!" The second figure comes up, his other hand covers over your finger with a smirk before he can overthink it, "I can land on his head and poke his eyes out..

He pauses, shrugs and waves his hand in the air,

"Or something. Whatever."

And you're laughing again, his hand still on yours, neither of you making the move to move one another's-

"Or whatever," You laugh, "Charlie, you have a death wish.”

He laughs, holding his hands in the air, "Alright, I have a second character made, you caught me."

"You're serious," You're speaking low like it's a secret, your face close enough to him you can smell the liquor on his breath, see the beauty marks that liter and line his face-physically stopping yourself from reaching out and tracing the constellation on his face, "You want me to?"

He leans in: "It would be my honor."

His hand laces into yours under the table, and he's side eyeing you, like he isn't sure this is alright, this is a good first move, but when you're hand squeezes his back, he settles back in with a content look.

Charlie resists the urge to grab either side of your face, pull you close when you successfully chuck him on top of the undead monster, instead pumping his fist in the air-the game pauses there, members needing to leave, needing drink refills, it slowly gets quiet.

"Well," He sighs looking at you, "Who would've thought the big bad guy would be attracted to fire instead of being afraid of it?"

He's teasing, and you're laughing easily.

Your hand is still tangled in his, the pad of his thumb slowly draws circles around your hand, easy looping around again and again, some comfortable movement he does as he listens to you talk.

"I had fun," he says gently, "This might be the best first date l've ever been on."

"Well," You're smiling widely, "you're easy to impress."

"Maybe," he shrugs, "Maybe we could do this again?"

The pad of his thumb is calloused as it runs over the top of your hand and you're thinking how you could get use to this:

"Yeah," playing it cool long gone, "It's a date."

me rn because PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE caroline a part 2!!!! idk how you read my mind because i had an idea for camp counselor charlie written in my docs, but camp medic charlie?? a possibility i never considered

how charlie goes from super confident to slightly unsure when he's offering you the jar of sweets? EATING IT UP

i loved this so much ahhhhHHH

tonight we lie awake (stories take us back)

summer camp au where charlie is the camp nurse you can't seem to stay out of his office

TW/ cursing, mention of injury (not graphic), bad attempts at flirting. reader is they/them except one instance of "miss", brief mention of charlie having a tattoo(i don’t make the rules)

more here

Your eyes are on the bench in front of you, a pile of various skateboard decorate the bench, all donated, some in better shape than others. some other consuler at camp complained about spending too much time in one center, sick of being in the lake all day, having pruny hands and telling kids to stop splashing each other, threatened to quit mid summer if they weren't moved.

which is how you found yourself outside of the comfort of the shack you were use to, tucked away in the heart of the camp ground, a wooden porch wrapped around and a screen door that creeks when it opens. it was small, bordered on being a closet, one where you couldn't keep everything in, but it was home and the kids would run to you with the biggest smile on their faces, showing off macaroni art with smiles so big it had to border on being uncomfortable. so it was home the last few summers, and you were fine with that.

this was outside your comfort zone, and you told your boss as much, but with a sly grin he slid your resume back, questioned how you put: up for anything, relaxed, likes a challenge on there if it wasn't true.

you told charlie as much, months later, when he stayed late cleaning up the mess hall, always surprised by what a mess a group of kids could make. a bonfire was happening at the same time, and you were promised a s'mores by a group of small children who routinely chanted "beads! beads!" while your head disappeared into a creaking cabinet for more. friendship bracelets were practically currency here, you learned quickly, a small stack of bracelets from kids that made it impossible to sneak around the camp yard, always pulling them up

you knew of charlie, of course.

everyone had-it was a matter of who said it, who thought differently of him.

Candace, who rolled her eyes when you mention him: "of fucking course i know that asshole. if you see him, he owes me $5 bucks-" you open your mouth to challenge it but she shakes her head:

"he knows what he did."

Sam, who flinched when you mentioned it.

"Stay away from him," she says, her voice is practically a hum as she speaks, low and something you have to strain to hear, "he's bad news. I mean it."

she doesn't elaborate, and you don't have the courage to ask her as much.

fate would bring you two together.

charlie would argue stupidity, but you'd argue they don't pay him for his opinions, and instead to just hand over the damn bandaids, instead of him carefully unsealing them, sticking them to you with the kind of concentration that a child calls for

"Mr.Charlie!"

Look, you didn't ask for the dramatics. but the accident happened so quickly, wasn't even able to put on the brave face before Annie was pulling you (more like yanking you) to the office, barely giving you enough time to yell over your shoulder for your co teacher, Bailey, to keep a watchful eye on them

"i'm fine, Annie. look-"

you're trying to insist but it's to no luck.

"Mr.Charlie will take care of you.” Annie insists, practically rolling her eyes at you, leaving it at that.

Charlie appears almost immediately, half hidden in a cabinet where he's re stocking his ever disappearing stockpile of bandaids and gauze, the latest accident at the makeshift skatepark partially ran him out of business.

"Annie!" he smiles widely, "my favorite patient!"

"Charlie," she shakes her head, "it's miss. they hurt themselves during craft-"

Charlie, who has his hair pushed back from his forehead in the messiest ponytail you'd ever seen, wears shorts and a obviously handmade tie dye shirt, the walkie talkie clipped to the top of his shirt that pulls it down so a tattoo peaks over the top that you can't quite make out-

"and here i was thinking you were just coming to visit me," he pouts before ruffling annie's hair,

"thank you for bringing them in. i'll take it from here."

she looks at his shirt until he leans down, still towers over her as she cups her hand to his ear and whispers into it, the way his eyes narrow as they scan over to you, the smirk that pulls at his lips.

"ah," he nods, "i got it from here."

if you weren't so afraid it was a symptom of a concussion you could swear there was a hint of an accent in there.

annie nods, holds her hand out in front of you in a way that seems very similar to someone telling a dog to stay, before darting out of the small cabin.

"if you give her like, two minutes to get back to camp i can sneak through the back door and get out of your hair."

he laughs. the bastard laughs.

"and risk my medical degree? i don't think so." he's back to the cabin, riffling through it before he appears with a small clear tub at his hip. groaning, thinking you'd get out of this easier as he drops to his knees in front of you-

"what medical degree, exactly?"

he laughs, the gauze inches from your face:

"are you questioning my medical degree when you're quite literally bleeding?"

"you not answering makes it more suspicious, just so you know."

he laughs, dips the gauze in some dark liquid before it comes in contact with your face:

"noted," he says gently. he doesn't say anything, but hums gently as he blots at your face.

"it's charlie, by the way." and when you don't answer back immediately, don't indulge him with your name like he's use to, "for later googling. when you're looking up my credentials, no doubt."

"depends on how good a job you do." you grumble back, still mad your missing your favorite project of the year.

he laughs: "i see. my google review depends on it."

his thumb rests under your chin as he tilts your head, his eyes narrowed as he checks you out, ignoring the growing red on your face:

"¡ think you'll be okay," he sighs, "hold this." he hands over one of the ice packs for you to hold and with an eye-roll you obey, holding it onto your face, feeling like you're in middle school again.

he makes his way to his desk, comes back with a small mason jar with brightly colored sweets at the bottom.

“what’s this?”

"all the patients get a bandaid and a sweet?" it's a question, not a statement, suddenly unsure of himself, not the confident charlie you'll later know.

"it helps, yknow?"

"pass," you say again, "look, can i go? it's just a scratch-"

he shakes the jar at you once more and you know you aren't leaving without one. making sure to make a big show of it, you roll your eyes, finally accepting the treat.

"most kids at least say thank you."

he says gently, his voice is low and quiet, unsure of itself.

"thank you."

you try to sound genuine, because your face isn't bleeding anymore and that alone is a reason to be nice, but you're unsure what to say of him, all the warnings you got before are running through your head-

"i owe you one."

it comes out before you can stop yourself, and you're about to open your mouth, take it back, but finally he’s laughing "yeah," he says, "alright, ill hold you to that."

"right," not going to let him have the last word,

"sure."

"sure," he agrees, "i'll see you tonight. the dining hall."

you shrug, acting like it won't be nice to finally have someone to sit next to.

"sure."

your feet guide you to the door and you beg for them not to betray you, not to fall-

"it's a date."

he calls back and that's enough for you to race out before he can see how permanent red he makes your face, or how steady your heartbeat in your ears are.

i'm excited to write it! who cares that i have finals, the writing juices are FLOWING (just like blood)

i would like to apologise to everyone who voted for charlie tlou au feat. flippa because i didn't plan for a happy ending :)

hey, rest is rest :) hope the surgery goes well!!

one more day of work left until my 2+ month vacation (i’m getting ankle surgery but in a fucked up way that’s still a vacation from work)

ough i don't even watch hasan but caroline i loce your writing so much <33

What’re You After (Some Kind Of Disaster)

or: you and hasan are rivals for trivia night. Until one day, you come up with a plan.

tw/cursing, drinking

one of four miniseries

more hasan here

Thursday’s became your favorite day, easily.

cheap beer at your local pub, walking distance, and a chance to nerd out with your fellow classmates over a basket of too greasy fries.

everything would be perfect.

if it wasn’t for the other team.

the other team is everything you hate.

to begin with, when it’s a subject one of them know, they all have an elaborate hand shake they do, some kind of loud cheer and high fives passed around the table, clapping each other on the shoulders-

and they always looked over at your table, smaller, but crowded, elbow to elbow with your friends, poured over the piece of paper with the questions on them-

they were polar opposites, acted like this was some kind of event they stumbled into, by accident and oops became the top team.

they were cocky, and your team was determined to knock them down a few pegs.

You come in early to steal their table.

it’s petty, at the very least, but part of a strategy you and your best friend Sarah, spent the week planning. Anything to throw them off their game, to confuse them.

you walk in straighter than usual, shoulders squared, ready to proudly take the table in the corner, right by the trivia hosts stand-

and the son of the bitch is already there.

you can’t remember his name. you try to not remember your enemies name, but if you thought really hard about it, you could swear it was something with a ‘H’. Henry, maybe? No, that’s not right. it was a name you hadn’t heard before-

you get into the threshold of the door and his eyes meet yours with a smirk, sets his pen down and takes his glasses off, eyes narrow as he picks up his drink and takes a sip.

bastard.

you duck your head and walk to the normal table, about to text Sarah to abort the plan, when you slide into the seat, ready for it to be over-

“were you trying to take our table?”

you jump when you hear his voice, fumble with your phone, don’t want him to get the satisfaction of seeing your face red-

“Why would we want your stupid fuckin’ table?” you call back, not looking at him as you open a text to Sarah: “it’s not the table that’s making you win.”

he laughs, appears at your table, “That’s right. it’s skill.”

“skill is putting it generously. cheating, is the running theory-“

“You all think we’re smart enough to cheat? flattered, truly. This seat taken?” he asks, pulling out the wooden stool but not sitting.

“is-is this your fucked up way to try and psych the opposing team out?” a smirk falls on your lips and you hope it covers for the red on your face, “are you all threatened by us?”

you try to ignore the hurt evident on his face.

“Oh, just like trying to steal our table, yeah?” he pushes the stool in. “Good luck tonight, you all will need it.”

and he stalks back to his table.

okay, so you sort of feel like a dick, yes.

he seems the most reserved out of the table, like he accidentally stumbled into this group of people. sure, he shares the high fives and whatnot, but when they huddle together, the rare times they do, he always seems on the border, on the outside looking in.

you turn in your seat, ready to offer the seat up again but his glasses are back on the crook of his nose and he’s poured over a book-

luckily, the rest of your team meets up before the guilt can really eat at you, something for later tonight, when your seconds from sleep, to keep you up, is when you’ll remember this-

Annie slides in across from you.

“So,” she begins talking right away, picking up your glass of water and drinking immediately without asking. Annie talks a million miles an hour, loudly, and everyone else is simply along for the ride, “I did some research on pen names, but like, fuck, what an absolute rabbit hole that was. Did you order food yet?”

she continues talking, mostly about ordering food for the table, and your half listening as his table fills in behind you. (Was it an H on second thought? is it? wade?)

“those bastards are going down.” is the first thing Sarah says when she comes in, her book back is overflowing as usual, and she has three different pens and two pencils in the bin of her hair- “i brought my lucky charm.”

Annie groans comically, “Sarah, they already don’t take us seriously. they’re going to take us less seriously if you take your stupid fucking glass elephant out-“

“hey!” Sarah narrows her eyes, “we don’t talk bad about him. no disrespect. Here, now he’s pointing at you. Look of shame. take that in, babe.” as she turns it towards her.

“this is why they don’t take us seriously,” you groan, rubbing your forehead, “Henry or wade or whatever the fuck- saw me try and steal their table.”

“Henry?” Sarah says at the exact time as Annie says: “William?” with disgust.

their heads whip around to the other table, catch him looking at you and they duck further in their seats before turning to you: “His name is Hasan-“

“are you fraternizing with the enemy, you son of a bitch?” Annie says immediately, and her voice is loud enough you throw a used napkin at her in hopes it doesn’t draw more attention to her.

“i’m not fraternizing with anyone. keep your voice down, jesus christ.” you groan, “he just saw i tried to take the table and talked to me, briefly.”

“Spill.” Sarah says immediately, “Did he say anything that we could use against him? Did he admit to cheating?”

“The complete opposite,” you sigh, tearing at your napkin, feeling like a dick again. “He asked to sit down and i all but shooed him away. He looked like a beaten dog.”

Annie and Sarah look at each other from the corner of their eyes, a shared look with a smirk.

“what?” you groan, “i hate that look. what?”

annie and sarah both lean in at the same time, almost hitting heads with you, “listen. we have an idea, okay-“

Sarah interrupts, “and listen to the whole thing before you shoot it down.”

“Ask him out.”

You snort. it’s loud, and ugly, and if your mother was here, she’d grip her necklace and glare at you about how ladies act in public-

“Yeah!” Annie says, “Listen. Okay. you ask him out. distract the other team so he’s so lovesick or busy or whatever that he misses or the team falls apart.”

you shake your head, “y’all are out of your god damn minds-“

“Hasan!” Annie breaks from the huddle, waves him over, “cmere.”

“Annie, no. you son of a bitch-“

Hasan was drawing in his notebook, wasn’t paying much attention to his small group, narrows his eyes, but obeys, stalks over.

“If you all want a truce, i already tried to make one with this one here earlier,” he teases, jams his thumb at you. “and the answer was a loud no.”

“That’s only cause they wanted to ask you out for a drink after,” annie takes the lead, “to celebrate”

“celebrate?” Hasan smirks.

“either way it goes, a drink on us.” Annie insists.

his eyes narrow, not sold yet.

“How about this, if you win, you two get a drink together. our treat. if we win, we’ll leave you and your team alone.”

he snorts, “didn’t you win a certificate last week for longest running streak of not winning?”

“dick.” you say gently under your breath, but he doesn’t hear it.

he shakes his head, “yknow what? deal. I could always use a drink.”

and he sticks his hand in the middle of the table, annie going for the shake but he ignores it, shakes it off, ducks his head so he’s looking at you: “it’s a deal, yeah? c’mon.”

you hesitate long enough for annie and sarah to both kick your shins under the table and you sit up a little straighter, swallow all the pride you have: “it’s a deal.” as you tighten your hand around his.

he doesn’t see the smirks and shared glances the three of you share.

AHHH always happy to provide suggestions :) love your writing as always!

Just A Spark (Gonna Let It Happen)

Or: five times hasan helped you + 1 the one time you helped him

feat: fire fighter hasan

tw: mention of drinking, cursing, mention of ptsd/trauma

thanks to the wonderful @the-phantom-author for letting me run with their idea. @medlarmeadows and @abadarkade for their wonderful suggestions and always offering ideas when i run out

more hasan here

one. first encounter

sometimes, when the thick blanket of night falls in the room, hits his eyes even though they’re blocked by his arm-he wonders exactly what he did wrong in a past life to be here.

he isn’t sure if he believes in that past life bullshit; people with cards and stars that tell him he looked at someone the wrong way, years ago, in a different lifetime, landed him here- but fuck, he did something wrong.

it’s the steady beep of a half broken fire alarm that makes an eye snap up. it’s ironic, or something, that the fire stations fire alarm would be broken, but he can’t find himself caring enough to pull up a chair, find the screwdriver, to care long enough to do something for it.

instead, he lays with his forearm over his eyes, counts the seconds in between the beeps, find the peace in the lull between the five seconds.

there’s parties to go to; things he could make himself do-instead, he lays in a twin sized mattress that lightly reeks of a delicate mixture of body odor and oil.

Last nights call plays in his head: what was suppose to be a harmless call for a ninety year old-the flash of fear in her eyes when he gets there, holding her hand and promising her it’ll be okay-

he sits up and flips the pillow over to the cooler side, hopes that makes a difference, tries to face the wall and count the markings that line the wall.

An alarm blares over head.

he wonders if he squeezes his eyes shut long enough, picks the sides of the pillow up and slams it into his ears. instead, he sits up with a sigh, pulls his shoes up and says a hail mary to whatever supernatural powers be, wills it to be better.

The engine starts up, James, his partner forever, hops into the seat next to him and they’re off.

Three streets away in a yard only lit up by a fire, you find yourself borderline pacing.

The coughing didn’t bother you. At least, not at first.

The bonfire started hours ago, before the sun had set, hiding behind clouds and dipping in and out of them, as if it was an elaborate game of hide and seek that you were losing badly.

The coughing was almost expected. Peter and Paul, the two idiots together, disappeared off an hour ago with a large container of gasoline and a glint in their eye that you didn’t fully trust-honestly, you were surprised it took this long for it to catch up with you.

“Dude,” someone, you think his name is Scott, a friend of a friend, speaks up: “The first cough is whatever. The second? Sure. but the third? Can you please get it together?”

It’s dramatic.

an anxious habit, your hands go to the side of your hand, nail to your head to scratch at an invisible itch.

"Hey," Scott says in-between the coughs, scratches at his throat, "what's in these brownies anyways?"

Peter speaks up: "Nothing ground breaking. A family recipe-"

"Oh, please," Ava snorts, "Is the family recipe from a box found at Meijer's?"

"Fuck off, you're disrespecting my dead Nana," Peter puffs his chest out, "Who's dead, by the way, you sick fuck-"

"Guys," Scott is borderline wheezing, "The brownies?"

Peter rolls his eyes, "Oil, mix.." He ticks them off on his fingers, "Oh, I added some chopped walnuts in, to spice them up-"

"Stop trying to make 'spice them up' happen. Your Nana did not say that."

"Walnuts?" his eyes go wide, "I'm allergic-"

it's a blur after that. Yelling, running around, phone calls with fingers shoved in their ears to block out the noise, frantic googling that yielded no results

Honestly, the first thought you had when you saw him was relief. you wonder if that's what he's use to; the guardian angel status, the way he walks into a room with authority, like nothing actually scares him

Ava walks next to him, although it's less walking and more running, trying to run to keep up with his strides

You have Scott leaning against a dead tree trunk, his shirt ripped off in a panic, his hand on his throat as if he could scratch the itch out-your hand rests over his, your face close to him as you try to talk him off an invisible ledge.

"You're going to be fine," You're saying, trying to convince yourself, more than anything, "by tomorrow this is going to be a funny memory we'll all look back at-"

Hasan recognizes this-knows that it's you more panicked than him, and he realizes how out of his element he is-needs to rescue a cat in a tree, reset a fire alarm-

EMS comes in first, breaks up the two of you-you take the hint, inch further away so you're not in the way, but can still hear what’s going on-if he’ll make it.

“Hey.”

your head whips up. eyes stinging, didn’t realize you were crying until the familiar pinch came.

“Hey,” you shake your head, “sorry. Am i in the way?”

The taller man shrugs, “he’s good. James got him, too.”

He studies you for a second.

“are you okay?”

before you can answer stuff is flying from his belt; a smaller pack hits by your feet, a walkie talkie inches from your toes-

he plops down next to you with a groan, like that took a lot out of him.

Panic looms. blooms in your chest, fills it, threatens to take over-

“here.”

he digs in his jeans and pulls out a caramel candy, holds it by the wrapper.

“isn’t that an old man candy?”

you sniffle but a shaky hand reaches out, grabs it and unwraps it.

“it’s Hasan, by the way.” the man says gently, eyes downcast as he unwraps his own, “and it’s not.”

finally some comfort, the rise of panic crashing like a wave in your chest as it retreats for now.

“Hasan the old man,” you settle on, “got it.”

two

"You've got to be kidding me."

Hasan chomps on gum as if he doesn't have a care in the world

"I know the medical emergency was a little above your pay grade," You hope your voice doesn't come out as shaky as it feels, "So I figured saving my cat would be more up your alley."

He snorts, rolls his eyes as he cranes his neck to look up the tree.

"What's it's name?"

"My name?" You scratch at your neck, not sure how this is relevant but if it saves your cat-

"No," hasan says slowly, "The cat-"

"Oh."

You hope he doesn't see the rising red splash across your face

"Tomato," You clear your throat, "Tomato is the asshole who thought it was a good idea to climb a tree at five in the morning when i have an interbiew in an hour and my hair is still wet-"

and my hair is still wet- your hand flies to your head, where a towel is still damp and wrapped around your head, stained and worn with age-past hair colors stained and marked the towel up

"Hey,"

Hasan's voice brings you down, crashes you back to earth. Instead of the rising heat on your face and the worried roar in your head, your back in your front yard. Hasan stands in front of you-a too tight uniform shirt across his chest, stained, a mop of curly hair and a constellation of freckles across his face.

wide eyed, looking at you, his hands on either side of your arms:

“you’re fine,” he’s saying, “Tomato is fine. i’ll get her down in time.” he hesitates for a second, considers the weight behind it, “i promise.”

he turns to the tree before you can see him flustered:

“what a fucking stereotype,” he sighs, calls over his shoulder, his shoulders already aching from the work out he’s about to get: “got a ladder?”

there’s a quick fight between you two (“just tell me where the ladder is“ “you’re going to save tomato! you can’t carry the ladder too!”) before he throws his hands up and makes his way to the small shed in the corner of the yard, ignoring you, all but marching back to the scene of the crime.

“can you hold the ladder?” he says gently, before a smile paints across his face, “can you handle that much?”

the bastard is smirking now. in the sunlight his freckles are more pronounced, can trace the lines of them on his face.

“shouldn’t you have someone with you?” you’re calling up gently as he scales up a ladder. he’s clicking his tongue as he does so.

he doesn’t answer:

“i fucking hate cats,” he’s saying instead, “murderous, ungrateful bastards-“

his fingers reach out at the branch, so close to touching Tomatoes tail-he hisses, climbs up another branch.

“I don’t think he likes me.” Hasan huffs, scaling the tree higher

“can you blame him?” Nibbling fingernails, “some scary man is climbing up a ladder and invading his space-“

“handsome?”

head titled back as he slowly climbs the ladder, “what?”

“a handsome man, i assume you said,” hasan continues, silence for a second before there’s light rustling; a branch falls, a bundle of leaves-you’re about to ask if he’s okay before he retreats back, an orange bundle under his arm, meowing and yelling at him as he carefully climbs down. Heavy gear clatters around him, and you worry about it falling off of him for a second

once his feet are down he continues:

“a handsome man,” he finishes, “who rescued your cat, right?”

silence

“right?”

“thank you, hasan.”

three

you run through the list in your head: eggs, milk, loaf of bread-

music seems to blare around you. wraps around you, makes your head pound-your only plan to try and get out as quickly as you can.

Faces pass; none familiar, all just as frantic and busy as you are-

cans of soup- your eyes scan the shelves, falls on the familiar red branding-fingers reach out, almost grasp it-fall

again.

reach, fingers brush against it-push it back a little further.

“mother fucker-“

“need help?”

the voice is familiar. too familiar. your eyes narrow, back still to them.

“i think you need me at this point,” the voice is almost gleeful, “should just follow you round to help-what is it? chicken noodle? you look like a chicken noodle soup enjoyer”

“it’s tomato.” you grumble unhappily.

“tomato?” he turns around, head over his shoulder, “hmm.”

he looks tired. bags under his eyes, hair a million different directions, shirt is untucked and stained-a pen cap is hanging on for dear life at the neck of a stretched out shirt.

“shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“shouldn’t you be calling the fire department for something?”

“awe,” you finally smile, snatching the can, “you do miss my calls-“

“when they see your number they automatically dispatch me to you. you’re a liability.”

you reach for the can but he holds it higher in the air, a smirk creeps on his face:

“what do you say?”

a huff, “please?” you try, “pretty please?”

he rolls his eyes: “there’s no way you think that’s what i want.”

“who’s your favorite fire fighter?”

“what’s your partners name? Rob? He is-“

he huffs, turns his back to you and sets the can back on the shelf, his fingers still brush against the can as he hums like he’s considering his own soup options-

“hasan, please. my chili depends on you-“

he ignores you, still humming, as you pull on his shirt:

“you’re my favorite firefighter,” you find yourself saying, “it hurts to say that.”

he turns around, hands you the can: “was that so hard?”

four

weeks pass. with job deadlines on the horizon, your apartment all but falling apart-it’s easy to forget about about anyone else.

sleep finally finds you. a cold side of the pillow, eyes finally shut-

a fire alarm blares that makes you shoot out of bed. tomato lays at your feet, grabbing him, running outside to the yard, sweater long forgotten.

by the time you’re at the yard, you can at least see the building isn’t burning up. in fact, you can’t see anything. you weigh your options for a second, considering ignoring the blaring fire alarms before you hear the fire truck and groan, knowing what’s coming up, knowing who’s around the corner.

the second the car parks everyone is running out, talking into walkie talkies-

“is this you?” hasan calls as he jogs past you, “you’re an arsonist at this point-“

you go to yell back and he’s gone.

an hour later he appears. his hair is disheveled, his shoulders slump. he walks next to his partners, something in his hand-

“if you need cooking lessons, i volunteer,” hasan says, “i can teach you how to fucking make ramen-“

“why do you assume that i’m behind all bad things that happen here?”

“your track record doesn’t help,” he says, “to begin with. and this has your name written all over it. please,” he stops, drops the pan and claps his hands together as if begging: “let me teach you how to cook.”

“it wasn’t fucking me!”

his eyes narrow: “Please. no one believe you-“

“you’re a dick. don’t you have a donut to eat? or-“

“that’s police officers, idiot.” he huffs, “and fuck them, anyways. look-“

he stops, leans into you, “i know just the place. i’ll teach you-“

“you aren’t teaching me how to cook! and it’s not me!”

“fine,” his eyes narrow, “but the next call here, if it’s yours, i take you to a cooking class-“

“what-“

“even if it isn’t your call. you owe me a date.”

his hand outstretched to you: “a deals a deal-“

“what’s in it for me?”

“i’ll leave you alone.”

you groan, knowing that’s not going to happen. sunrise threatens to fall over the horizon, and you know he won’t give up anytime soon-

your hand falls into his-larger and calloused-slips into his like a missing puzzle piece, like a perfect piece-

“it’s a deal.”

five

look, this isn’t bribing.

but after your fourth call to your apartment this month, you figured you at least owed them something for coming out-even if they somehow always sent just Hasan out-

you couldn’t sleep, anyways. or at least, that’s your excuse. the tray of baked goods threatens to fall out of the seat any second.

The door to the station is open, all the workers walking around, half suspenders down, shirts untucked, plates of food half eaten-

you couldn’t find your guy in the line up,is your first thought. before you quickly shake your head, trying to get that idea out as quickly as it came. he isn’t your guy. if anything, he’s the pain in the ass who keeps saving your ass-

putting the car in park, saying a prayer before grabbing the plate and walking in, hoping you look more confident than you feel.

“Well,” one of the firefighter smirks as you show up, “have any batteries that need to be changed?” he teases, “or is cilantro in trouble? hasan hasn’t shut up-“

“it’s tomato,” hasan appears behind him, “i know my mortal enemies name.”

“look what the cat dragged in-“

“it’s almost like you’re at the place where i work. imagine that-“

“i made brownies.”

the guy next to him immediately perks up, grabs the plate and pulls back tinfoil: “thank you!”

hasan stops him before he can run off, grabs a brownie before he can leave, eyes it as you stand in front of him.

“so,” he says, “what’s the trick with this? i don’t have any allergies-“

“damn. nut allergies are the most common allergies. i thought that’s how i could take you out-“

“and they aren’t burned-“

“that wasn’t me with the ramen, you dick.”

“these look good.”

“always the tone of surprise,” you roll your eyes, “most people would say thank you.”

“why would i say thank you before I’m potentially poisoned?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“here,” he smirks, “you take the first bite.”

“i’m not hungry-“

“that’s exactly what someone who poisoned food would say to get out to eating it.”

“you’re a dick, give it to me.”

“ah,” he says instead when you reach for it, his hand still on the brownie as he leans forward, a hand cupped under your mouth as he goes to feed you the bite.

“this is outrageous,” you roll your eyes as pink rises up, but don’t put up more of a fight as it makes contact, as you bite off, “it’s delicious”

he watches you carefully as you chew

“see?” you roll your eyes: “now you.”

“eh?” he shrugs, “i don’t know how hungry i am-“

you gasp and he giggles, before shoving it in his mouth:

“not bad.” he settles on.

+1

“if you’re looking for your guy, he called in sick.”

you aren’t proud of the fact that they know who you’re really here for, and less that you know the man who yelled that-Michael-will proudly tell hasan that.

“what?” you tease, “the big baby can’t handle a little bit of a cold?”

he snorts: “he did the kids fire safety at the elementary school this week-he blames them.”

“what a baby.”

you try and make polite small talk. they’re all fine-the entire time, thinking of the plan you’re already cooking in your head.

everyone knows where he lives. the house was famous before the newest fire fighter bought it (and when you’re in a small town like this, a new guy on the team is a big deal, gets around) and in the center of town, you pass it every day on your way to and from work: seeing him leave in the morning, at night, still in his uniform, shirt untucked and wrinkly as he moves around his front yard: tends to the garden on the side of the house (looks like he’s very proud of his herbs he’s growing, at least) hunched over as he flicks his tongue and has a small ceramic bowl of kibble for the gang of cats that seem attached to him-

a quick stop at the only grocery store in town, the paper bag of groceries on your lap, your stomach bubbles and bursts as you worry your lip about this-

you park the car and find yourself in front of his house before you can talk yourself out of it.

tapping your foot, waiting for him to answer-

“hullo?”

he still looks good, even sick.

glasses crooked on his face, his hair a mess, the tip of his nose is red, lines over his freckles from a pillow-

he groans. stands in the doorway, his hand against the doorframe.

“i’m off duty,” he tries, “you’ll have to put out your own fire-“

“heard the kids made you sick,” you say instead, ruffling through the plastic bag on your wrist, “nothing ramen can’t help.”

“ramen?” he laughs, “like-“

“it wasn’t me!” you insist, can feel your heart thump in your ears, “let me redeem myself; make you some soup.”

“i can’t call the fire department-“

“if i start a fire i’ll put it out myself, i promise.”

he laughs: “i guess i’d like to see that.”

comfortable silence for a second.

“so?” you push, “the soup?”

his eyes narrow for a second before his hand slowly slides up the doorframe, an invitation in-you duck and act like you can’t see the smile light up his face

i love you in the same way (there’s a chapel in a hospital)

wcbah verse more charlie here

based off the prompt; — “so, uh… how’d your date go?” wcbah verse (but not required reading)

TW : mention of past abuse, mention of injury/scars from abuse, cursing, idiots in love

the door slams and charlie winces.

he can’t help it. scrambles to sit up on the couch, pull the blanket tighter over himself as he grabs handfuls of the blanket until his hands turn white-

“Hey,” He calls gently, feeling dumb for the way anxiety bubbles and eats at his belly, “In the front room.”

It's your house he's in, but it might as well be both of yours, the way you both spend so much time at one another's house. Besides, charlie would rather die than tell his father you're on a date and hear about it, and besides, he smelled how much liquor he had today-pass all along

He hears your shoes hit the wall and you’re slowly passing through rooms, your hand in the air as you let down your hair you spent an hour getting just right.

And you’re just as beautiful as charlie remembers.

That much time hasn’t passed, and he sees you everyday, but fuck-even with your make up a mess from the date, and the clothes are old and worn with age-he still thinks you look beautiful

He knew it was bound to happen.

When summer came and the tourists came with it, the people who could afford boats and jet skis and the incredibly high grocery prices you could never dream of, came people, and charlie knew they would be out of their mind to not think the world of you. He does; why wouldn't they?

He remembers the day clearly:

charlie spends his days in the hot summer sun, the sun beating on his back against old scars that linger and loop and curve into one another, the sun burns against them, makes them angry all over again and if he closes his eyes, really slams them shut, he can think of the nights he got them all over again

charlie tries to not think about it.

Instead, he throws his time and thoughts into work; Ms.Anderson needs her sea wall redone, and Mr.Burns wants stairs on his porch redone, Mr.Reyes wants the seaweed raked-he spends his time in the water, his old pants that he's constantly pulling up rolled to his knees, his shirt long discarded and thrown onto the yard

He's humming to himself, thinking of you, of coming over after he's done with the chores, throwing the shirt over the laundry line and flopping onto the porch in the old chairs that creek and groan with age and spending the rest of the night with you

"charlie!"

He jumps, hearing his name. it's a habit, more than anything, the fight or flight still hasn't left, even when he turns around and it's you, his eyes are wide and he looks panicked, even if his voice doesn't say it

"Hey sunshine,” he leans against the rake, playing it cool, trying to not think about the seaweed that's up to his waist, "Missed you."

You're giggling, and smiling, which isn't weird necessarily, charlie has always called you a ray of sunshine, as he slowly wades over in the water to the seawall, where his hand spots you out of instinct as you sit on the edge, let your toes dangle in the water: "Guess what."

"Hm," He smiles, all his weight against the rake, a smirk on his lips, "You won the lottery."

You huff, dipping your toe into the water just to throw it out so he's lightly splashed: "charlie, be serious."

Finally, he laughs with ease: "Alright, alright. Fine. Let's see-you fixed the light in your house."

You huff, "I forgot how bad at guessing games you are," you tease, "I'll tell you."

You're all but squealing, and while it's nice to see you excited and happy-seeing you all of the above and in one piece is unheard of

His hand rests on your knee, "Go on, sunshine."

You giggle, "You remember James, right?"

charlie has to stop himself from letting you see his eyes narrow, "James from two houses down?"

You nod frantically, "Yeah! Okay so-I brought over their laundry and it was just James there, right?"

"Yeah?" charlie says slowly, holds in the part of him that wants to say: If he hurt you-if he laid one finger on you, moved one piece of hair-i'll kill him, i swear i will- charlie knows he's not much of a threat, ask him father, but this is you, and that's different.

"He asked me out!" You squeal, "He wants to go to the Commander on Friday."

Immediately, your face drops when you see he isn't excited, isn't jumping around with you-

"baby-"

charlie chooses his words carefully. He's a dick? he considers, decides against it, Isn't for people like us? What if it's a joke? let me protect you-

"charlie, you are such a dick." You huff, carefully getting off the wall, "Fuck, I'm so stupid, thinking you'd be excited for me."

"Sorry I didn't immediately jump up and down, sunshine." charlie huffs, his chest is hot and he feels like his father's son immediately, "He seems like an asshole. Maybe you two are made for each other-"

"Fuck you." You say one more time, your finger jamming in the air, "Fuck you."

Days pass.

It's weird, not seeing charlie everyday, going out of your way to avoid him when you're getting mail, or when you have work around the house to do-not having your best friend to talk about your anxieties about it with, about every thought

it's thursday and the anger you had in your chest at charlie has subsided, leaving a charlie sized shape there now instead. You're gathering up your shoes, tired and ready to apologize and about to throw open the door when charlie stands on the other end, his fist raised in the air, ready to knock

"charlie."

"sunshine."

It's said at the same time, and you both know, just like that, it's all forgotten and forgiven.

"Are those from my garden?"

charlie holds a small bouquet of flowers in his hand, a death grip on them. You insisted he make a space in his yard for a garden, make the house more of a home-and he obeyed, kept it up after all this time.

"They're apology marigolds," he laughs at the small bouquet, turns them over in his hand, "For being a dick."

He spends the night the night before, in your twin sized mattress, his feet hanging over the end, his forearm or chest your pillow-and you're thankful for his presence, makes the anxiety that gnaws as you hear a car on the gravel pull up, honk twice.

charlie hides the grimace at him not even coming to the door, being a dick, as he expected but he doesn't let his face show it, his hand under your jaw:

"Be safe," he says gently, his voice is low and gravely, like it's a secret between you two, "I love you."

He leans in, his hand goes to behind your head as he pulls you in, kisses the top of your forehead and watches as you run out.

He's back to now as you come into the house, using one hand to take the earrings out of your ear.

"So," charlie pushes as he sits up straighter, "Tell me about it."

You sigh, flop into his lap like when you were little and he was going through the growing pains; you swore you woke up one day and he was no longer the tiny guy you knew last night, is tall and lanky like he's learning to walk for the first time-

immediately, his hands wrap around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, what he'll insist is the most comfortable spot in the house-not the chair on the porch that hits the sun just right, or the old rocking chair upstairs-right here.

"You know it kills me to say this," you say gently, your head against his chest, the other plays with his hair gently, grabbing the curls and running your hands through them, "But you were right. James is a dick.I ended the date early; said I wasn't feeling well."

charlie bites his tongue, to stop from saying what he's thinking which is: this is the one time i don't want to be right, darling.

Instead he sighs, the pad of his thumb gently rolls over your face, the freckles he has memorized, "I'm sorry it didn't work out, honey."

You shrug, "They'll be other dates, right? With different people."

He nods, resists the urge to say the obvious, to let it be him: "that's right." He lands a messy kiss to your head.

"Get changed," he throws his chin at your kitchen table, where some of his old pajamas, some old pants and a shirt from his high school band days folded carefully, "I got us some ice cream. You're just in time for the show."

You snort as you stand, but obey and grab the clothes, can already smell him on it- "What show?"

He smirks, looks at the mirror that overlooks the small lake as the sun slowly sets, "Stars will be out soon. Wouldn't miss it without you."

You hesitate, theres nothing else to say, before you pad gently to him, pull him close and kiss his forehead as you pad to the bathroom.

He waits until you are gone for his hand to gently rest where your lips touched, his face bright red.

dad!charlie was not something i thought i needed. MY HEART my heart has been stolen. this has a perfect balance of sad and cute

it comes in waves (i’m pulled below)

wcbah verse

TW// mention of past abuse, angst, use of “mama” for reader”, some of these lines were directly stolen from a tik tok; i’m not creative enough to think of them on my own.

charlie’s favorite time of the day was seven in the morning, when the sun barely peaks through the clouds and haven’t had a full chance to blind him through the half broken blinds yet.

charlie wasn’t always a morning person-years of chasing the sun up and racing the moon down has made him want to do nothing more than to rest in bed with you-but with a child, anything past 5am was a treat.

“You want a braid today?”

charlie’s voice is low, borders on hoarse, a night filled with the black ink of nightmares threatening to spill into every dream. he stands behind his child, a copy of him-although he hopes it’s the good parts-all curly hair and clumsy limbs.

she doesn’t answer right away, rubbing her eyes as charlie uses his knuckles to push his glasses up his face.

“Hm, baby?” He asks again, a gentle tickle to her side that finally makes her break, “Or I can do space buns.”

She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands before speaking: “Braid, Papa.”

And finally, a smile out of charlie breaks through, puts the rubber-band between his teeth as he grabs the comb: “Alright, honey. I can do that. Now tell me-how did you sleep last night?”

She’s quieter than usual, a shrug. charlie knows her well enough to know this isn’t like her, usually talkative in the morning and thrilled to tell him about the morning ahead-usually following behind charlie until she accidentally runs into the back of his legs as he does house work.

“Papa?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Do you miss your Papa?”

charlie hopes she doesn’t pick up on the way he becomes stiff, how it paralyzes him with fear for a second. The book he read to her last night as she was curled into his lap in an old wooden rocking chair was about fathers, must have stuck with her, was tossing and turning with it all night.

A deep breath, begging for the memories to not flood back, to not have to grip the sink counter and wait-pray-for it to be over as he squeezes his eyes shut, thinks of the things he can smell, what he can feel-anything to pull him out of right now.

“No, baby.” He clears his throat, “I don’t.”

her face turns up as if she couldn’t even imagine not missing her father-as if that idea is so far fetched it would never cross her mind.

“You don’t?” Her face turns up, her lips puff out, her eyebrows squished together, “why not?”

because he’s the reason i almost wasn’t here he thinks or: he’s the reason i’m the way i am. or-

“I dunno.” He clears his throat, trying to think of every therapy trick he can think of, “We just don’t talk.”

She seems appalled: “He doesn’t like Papa?”

And it’s almost funny, how the idea of someone not liking her father is so far fetched, so out of her realm of imagination that it would never cross her mind-

“No, honey.”

“He only likes eating dinner?” Pure disgust in her voice, “Not playing?”

The image of him on all fours as her on his back as he slowly pass through the house, acts like she’s riding various animals around the forest, holding onto little grips of his hair.

She blows air out of her cheeks as charlie slowly works on the braid, his voice low:

“Not everyone has a good Papa, honey.” He says gently, “Sometimes-“

She interrupts. “He doesn’t help you?”

if anything, he makes it worse-makes the bad dreams come back, makes the white knuckling come back-

“No, sweetheart.”

His hands fall from her head and her hand goes to feel the finished braid but instead he spins her around so she’s facing him, drops his shoulders so he isn’t towering over her, his hands on either side of her body.

“Not everyone has a mama and papa who love them, honey.”

His voice catches for a second, and he thinks of how badly he wanted something like this when he was her age; what extremes he would’ve gone through to have something like this.

“They don’t have anyone to protect them?”

Her eyes are wide, like this is the first time she’s even let this be a thought in her head and charlie can’t fight it-can feel the stinging behind his eyes, the familiar pinch before the release, the wet down his cheeks.

“No one to protect them from monsters like you do, Papa?”

Finally he laughs, just as she reaches out, the pad of her thumb brushes against his cheek and catches a tear on the tip of her finger.

“No, sweetheart,” He says lowly, “Not everyone has that.”

she considers this for a minute, tracing the constellation of freckles that lie by his glasses before she speaks.

Her voice is low, a shared moment between the two of them as she speaks: “I’m glad you’re my Papa.”

He laughs; the tension in his shoulders breaks, the anxiety that was building up in his body is released.

“I’m glad your my baby,” he says, “You’ll always be my baby. Even when you’re old and don’t think i’m cool anymore.”

She shakes her head, “No, Papa.”

He grabs her hand, kisses the top of her hand once before he shakes his head, willing the tears to stop.

“Alright, honey. Let’s finish this braid.”

She giggles a she spins her around again, faces the mirror, and she launches into a story about a dream she had-charlie has never felt better as he listens.