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The back hallways John uses to avoid the main ones full of loud BPRD agents and brighter, newer lights are a godsend, he decides. Sure, he’s pretty sure he heard some questionable noises from one of the darker alcoves down a side-hallway, but that’s very far out of the realm of things that are His Business or Of Concern to Him, so he’d kept right on trudging past.
He rubs the gritty-textured slip of paper in the pocket of another one of his old, comfy zip-up hoodies up until he has to use both hands to push on a mostly inoperable metal bar that, God-willing, will hopefully have this door to the main hall swing open.
By the time the door does stubbornly eke forward enough to allow John to slip through, there’s a pinched line between his brows and a grimace on his face from how he’d tensed his core when straining to work the defunct door. Getting his breathing back under control— and probably a bit too shallow— John then continues down a ways before finally entering the medical wing of the building, nodding a polite good morning to one of the base’s scientists who flashes a weary (but sincere) grin and waves the arm that is not in a cast and sling.
That had been Dr. Irving, who might very well not be here today if not for Narza’s timely intervention during the initial few moments of the ambush just yesterday afternoon. The positive boost to his mood brought on by the sight of one of the survivors of yesterday’s disastrous expedition follows John in spite of how he’s pretty sure he’s still mostly unconscious. (Last night had been a trial in how quickly he could fall back asleep after waking himself up by moving and jarring his ribs, so it mostly feels like he’s gotten a pretty long nap, and less like a good night of sleep.)
Passing the several different entrances to the infirmary, John finally arrives at his destination, which is across the hall from where he’d initially been treated last night. The general physician’s office is just for regular, non-emergency visits and is something the BPRD had recently instated to increase their self-sufficiency. Before its existence, those living on base would have to travel an inordinate distance to the nearest proper settlement to complete their annual checkups and such, at the harbor on Antarctica’s Ross Island.
As is standard, there is a waiting room— albeit quite a small one, with just about a half dozen patently uncomfortable folding chairs— and a desk where a drowsy administrative assistant sits before a sizable monitor. It’s pretty early in the morning, and John has to work hard not to allow the yawn that suddenly wants to bubble up to form, as there’s no doubt it would go over pretty badly with his tender chest. He wills away the peculiar sensation while ambling over to the desk before the groggy-looking faun and beginning to fill in the next open line on the sign-in sheet.
“Morning, Linda,” he croaks, feeling pretty bleary himself due to his spectacularly unrestful night.
Dark eyes go from heavily lidded and hazy to wide alert at the greeting, blinking up at John with a measure of surprise that indicates his presence has only just been noted.
“Hm? Oh, hey Agent Myers! Sorry, long meeting with the other flora-folk last night about what we can do down here for the upcoming equinox. The guest of honor showed up pretty late, but he can do so much cool stuff that would take most of us absolute ages to do ourselves!”
John glances at the clock on the wall above the rambling faun’s shoulder in order to complete the last box of the sign-in sheet while he nods along, completely failing to follow anything the young creature is talking about.
“Ooh! Actually, that’s what I wanted to tell you: he totally mentioned your name! I think you might know hi—”
“Agent Myers,” another voice cuts in from the side. “Dr. Parekh will see you now.”
Nodding once and politely murmuring Linda’s name in parting even as she squeaks out a quick “Wait—", John gratefully turns toward the RN at the now open door and slips past her.
The new nurse— whose name John forgets as soon as he hears it— directs him to one of the three rooms in the back of the minimalistic office, efficiently takes some of his vitals, and then leaves to fetch the doctor. In short order, the middle-aged physician asks some follow-up questions while examining John’s chest and running him through a few other stretches to assess if he really is fit to be out and about instead of under medical supervision.
Thankfully, he does receive clearance, under the condition of scheduling a one-week follow-up appointment. On the way out, he waves goodbye to the front desk administrator who waves distractedly back at him as she chats with another agent who’s absorbed in filling out a small stack of paperwork.
Once the door to the little medical practice shuts behind him, John rubs a hand over his eyes and fails to stifle a yawn. The twinge that shoots through his chest as it expands has him cringing and reflexively huffing out a sharp breath that also doesn’t feel too great.
At this rate, he’ll either have to go all the way up to the prescribed dosage of painkillers or time his current, preferred low doses more closely together. Taking his phone out to glance at the time, he mentally waffles on whether to head back to his room, now, to take another pill or whether to do so after he pays Chulainn the visit he’d been promised last night.
Unfortunately, the decision is made for him when a familiar head of half-buzzed slate blue hair pops around the corner of one of the massive swinging doors leading into one side of the hospital wing proper. A friendly, enquiring presence brushes over his mind, simultaneously, which he clumsily attempts to greet with the warm equivalent to a wave, which has Chulainn’s personal bodyguard grinning his charming smile, long eyeteeth and all.
“John,” he rumbles happily, half-bowing his head as he waves John past him and through the door he is holding open. “Nice to see you up and about, again.”
The mortal male turns to face the temporary ‘doorman’ as the tall, bulky fae allows the door to gently swing shut.
“Same here— glad to be walking around at all, y’know?”
Narza’s smile dims a bit. A returning seriousness straightens out his thick brows and mutes some of the twinkle in his dark, indigo eyes.
“Indeed, I do know. You have had us all pretty worried— especially a certain royal someone whose name starts with ‘cuh’ and ends with ‘len’. Here, relax, John.”
The deferential guard captain leads the tired, if bemused young man over to a fairly standard hospital-issue armchair that is pulled up to the edge of the upgraded hospital bed. The plump, young fae that already occupies the seat while rifling through a small, off-white satchel in her lap quickly stands up and gracefully moves to a place close to the head of the recovering prince’s bed.
The mystery woman bows deeply while somehow managing to keep her piercing, periwinkle eyes scrutinizing John’s every move and mannerism. A moment later, she quirks the smallest of smiles at ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ speed, not unlike Chulainn does. When her gaze moves back to the quiescent winter court scion in the bed, it becomes clear to John that the two are having a private, mental conversation.
He sees it in the weighty energy of their looks and feels it in the odd ‘tickle’ at the edge of his mind that he’s come to associate with his fae compatriots when he is at the edge of a conversation they have not yet pulled him into.
“Greetings.” Chulainn soon murmurs, gaze still on the healer at the head of his bed, “Please sit, John.”
Skeptically, the young agent does as he’s asked, huffing in momentary discomfort when he lowers himself the last few inches onto the lightly padded seat. Chulainn’s otherworldly pale, pearlescent eyes finally cut back to John’s, then.
At the same time, although his face remains mostly impassive (save for a slight softening about the eyes and mouth), there emanates from the prince a familiar wave of welcoming warmth and fondness as the human is bundled into the mental net that interlinks all the Winter Court fae within the immediate area.
All except for one almost tangible void: the baby-faced healer, who nods at Chulainn and briefly glances at John before unhurriedly sweeping out of the room, an intricate set of interwoven navy-blue braids swinging along behind her.
“Morning,” John replies somewhat distractedly, trying not to focus too much on his burning curiosity lest it turn to conscious thought and be picked up by any of the poised, otherwise occupied fae in the room. “So… uh, you look a lot better than yesterday. Good night of sleep? Mysterious fae healing potions? Or did Narza just threaten you into getting better?”
The head guard’s gravelly chuckle brings a smile to John’s face and has the bedbound Winter Court prince’s eyes going half-lidded in feigned annoyance, even as his plush lips pull up an infinitesimal amount more at the corners.
“Your first and second suppositions are the closest to the truth, John.”
The BPRD agent chuckles a bit and brushes his unstyled hair back from his forehead where it tends to fall when not kept back by product. A moment later and his chuckles dry up when the similarly unkempt fae is suddenly far closer than he has been so far. Seemingly instantly, the prince has swung his legs over the mattress’s side and is gazing down at John from the superior height the bed and his newly erect posture give him.
John’s heart hammers away in his chest so hard he’s surprised his bruised ribs aren’t affected by the accelerated beating. Yes, he and Chulainn (along with the Winter Court’s other BPRD-affiliated envoys) have gotten close over the last 7 or 8 months, but outside of the odd sparring session, they’ve never been this near to one another without some sort of… context for the intimacy.
Slightly widened blue-green eyes focus first on the rich, steel blue hand that deliberately approaches his face— slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to— and then settle on the almost supernaturally symmetrical features of the fae prince. Pale silver-white brows visibly furrow in what seems to be concern (or maybe it’s frustration— the guy is still kind of hard to read, sometimes) and crystalline eyes focus just above John’s own eyes and to one side.
John’s lips begin to round as the word ‘what’ takes shape on his tongue.
Then, cool fingers brush almost imperceptibly softly over his left eyebrow, catching only briefly on the butterfly bandage that John had already forgotten about since his recent medical exam just down the hall in the medical wing.
“If my overly insular court only had a more comprehensive knowledge of human physiology, you would not need suffer so from your injuries…”
Lambent irises leisurely trace over the BPRD agent’s features, inexplicably seeming to dip down to what could only be John’s lips. This goes mostly unnoticed, though, as it’s a battle of wills for the former FBI agent not to just let his eyes flutter closed and lay his head in the big, cool palm so very close to his face.
Two plus years of limited physical interaction (be it sexual or platonic) has left John more than a bit starved for anything from a friendly hug from a teammate to the warmth and comfort of being budged up closer to another sleep-heavy body, or yes, even a bit of stress-relieving “afternoon delight”.
Once some of the worst rumors started by his sudden and abrupt transfer to Antarctica had died down, his coworkers had loosened up with him a bit, but the occasional celebratory fist bump or clap on the back or handshake really does nothing for the fact that John misses having a person all to himself with whom he can indulge his pathetic level of clingy skin-hunger.
Miraculously, even though the current, rather intimate contact is having a tranquilizing effect that continues to set his dopamine firing off at record levels and dims some of his higher thought processes, he does manage to resist the embarrassing urge to further tilt his head into the hand that frames one side of his face.
John mentally shakes himself and gradually starts coming back to himself after the sudden shock of such a bold breach of his personal space bubble, however welcome it's turned out to be.
A soft thumb grazes gently over his bandaged brow, and the prince’s gaze again returns to John’s as he continues speaking, seemingly also struggling to refocus on exactly what he’s trying to impart.
“Yes, if the possibility— no— the ongoing reality of you working, battling, and learning alongside my people exists, then we will be addressing that gap in our healer corps’ curriculum, soon,” Chulainn says, also appearing to fully snap himself out of the near-trance he’s been in for the last minute or so.
Drawing back suddenly, the elemental fae then sits up and squares his shoulders, the slightly bulkier, bandage-wrapped left side moving quite stiffly.
In subconscious response to Chulainn’s change in posture to something more formal, John straightens up gingerly in his chair, feeling even more flustered with each passing second over how quickly all sense had fled him just now. He awkwardly clears his throat and responds stiltedly in a weak voice.
“Uh— that’s, uh. That’s good, then. Can’t hurt to learn something new, right?”
The bedbound fae runs a proprietary hand through his pale, glossy hair, pushing back some of the strands that have escaped from the messy bun that keeps his longish hair out of the way.
“Indeed, John, and speaking of ‘something new’, I would converse with you about… setting out on a new journey of our own, as I have you as a ‘captive audience’ of sorts, for the moment.”
John is trying to follow along, he really is, but his friend is being vague and is exuding an almost alarmingly formal sort of energy that he hasn’t seen since they’d only just met and formality was an absolute requirement for a fresh and tenuous alliance between their two factions.
“O….kay? Are we… going on a trip? If it’s to hunt down more of those separatists and mercenaries from yesterday, we should probably shoot that up the chain to my unit head to make sure I don’t leave my usual team in the lurch for any upcoming assignments.”
As usual, Chulainn’s fae-level attractive features are hard to read, but they kind of look a bit bewildered at the moment, and the BPRD agent he is so intently focusing on hears a snort from Narza somewhere behind him. Such a sound is par for the course once John gets onto a spiel regarding the minutiae of his job at the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, so, as usual, he pays it no heed.
“Oh— and we can requisition any extra equipment and probably a few of our better-trained heavy-hitters to use it, if you guys want, since I’m really only proficient with the basics and what you guys’ve taught m—”
“John!” Chulainn exclaims overtop of a choked off coughing sound Narza makes, nearby.
Cool, blue hands land lightly on John’s shoulders, bringing him up short from his rambling train of thought. The Winter Court potentate across from him pulls in a quick breath that seems to fortify him for whatever it is he is about to say.
“You misunderstand me: I was speaking of a more… metaphorical journey. I am informing you of my desire to enter into a courtship with you, if you would be interested in such a thing.”
John’s head feels suddenly like it might be stuffed with cotton, and he nearly forgets to breathe for a moment, which further intensifies the sensation. The weight of two hands on his shoulders lifts away as Chulainn sits back upright on the hospital bed’s edge to regard his reaction and, undoubtedly, to wait for his answer.
The young agent immediately wishes for the grounding pressure of that grip to come back, as he feels in danger of simply floating away from where he sits. Taking in a shallow breath, he feels the fresh oxygen stave off an involuntary out of body experience, at least for the moment.
“You… I— what?” he mutters weakly, brain spinning and whirring as it kicks back into gear.
Predictably, he feels heat begin to prickle in his cheeks again, as he actually comprehends what was just said to him, thankful that his rhetorical reply hadn’t prompted an unnecessary repetition of the initial, simple request.
Of course he’s aware of how very good-lucking Chulainn is. It’s almost unavoidable, really, as it tends to be with many fae, but after working alongside and spending time with him in both professional and more casual capacities, John had done the adult thing and put that at the back of his head as an acknowledged, but ultimately irrelevant fact.
Problematically, there is the issue that the Winter Court’s youngest son has also turned out to be a pleasure to be around, with a surprisingly wicked wit and propensity for poking at others and then feigning ignorance for what can only be referred to as his ‘trolling’— a phrase that InHuman Resources would almost definitely take some offense to.
There’d even been a solid two or three days way back when he’d started getting closer to the prince and his inner circle (mostly just Narza and the several other regular guardspersons) that John had nursed a fledgling crush on the icy potentate. He had then spent an additional several days ruthlessly repressing said crush for a number of reasons, the chief of which was that it was inappropriate to harbor romantic interests for someone so clearly off limits and not interested.
Equally valid motivation for stomping out the feelings he'd nearly managed to catch had been his awful track record of unrequited affections for typically (but not always) straight coworkers. Plus, oh God, what if one of the more telepathically adept fae accidentally picked up some weird, sappy— or worse, skeevy— thought, and he ended up excluded from yet another friend group, if for a justified reason this time around.
All of this runs through his head at dizzying speeds as he worries at his lip, trying to figure out exactly what he wants and how to respond.
He’s not completely sure of how any of this came about seemingly so suddenly on Chulainn’s part, but having gotten to know him over the better part of the last year, he knows the other man does not make a decision lightly or flippantly. And in the end, it is that reassuring thought (along with a rekindled spark of interest) that guides him into finally giving an answer he’s confident in.
The blushing agent glances down for a moment and then back up into icy aquamarine eyes that have yet to look anywhere but at him. A last flutter of anxiety in his stomach is at odds with the tempered, contented anticipation beginning to flow through his veins.
“Len, I—”
The doors to this private, separated corner of the infirmary suddenly burst open to admit, of all people, Prince Nuada Silverlance, who directs an intense, fiery glare at the back of his old acquaintance’s head, the preoccupied fae remaining stalwartly facing his human quarry as his long-awaited response is interrupted.
“—cannot acquiesce to your obviously spite-fueled offer of courtship, as I have already made my own offer.”
Narza quietly sighs, seemingly resigned, as the Bethmooran immortal firmly injects himself into the conversation while striding forward.
“Excuse me?” John says, again back in the ‘firmly confused’ column and steadily moving over into the ‘slightly irritated’ one located right next to it. It’s nice to see Nuada again— really nice, to be honest— but what the hell is he talking about?
“Yes,” Chulainn says, finally deigning to glance at his elven counterpart as he comes to stand at rest at the foot of the bed on the same side as John sits in his chair. “What are you on about, old friend?”
His tone is light and cool with a thread of unconcealed seething irritation directed straight at Nuada, who shoots back an openly scornful expression.
Meanwhile, the mental ‘group chat’ moves at lightspeed for a few seconds, during which John catches on to Narza mentioning, apologetically, that since Chulainn had declared the other prince to be a ‘non threat’, last night, that he had not thought to sound any alarm of the elf’s approach for his thoroughly distracted charge.
Unable to split his attention like his more practiced, inherently telepathic friends, the human tunes back in to the ‘real’ conversation, where Nuada is speaking again.
“Last night, I gave John written notice of my intention to— with his permission— begin the courting process.”
Two sets of unnaturally-coloured eyes simultaneously move back to the lone mortal among them; one set searching and perhaps a bit hurt and the other radiating calm and more than a bit of smugness.
“John?” Chulainn asks, suddenly looking more like he really isn’t quite back at one hundred percent, physically. “Is this true?”
John blinks under the fairly intense scrutiny, feeling his heartstrings being tugged on at the loaded question.
“I mean, I was admittedly flying a bit high before I got back to my room last night, but I think I’d remember some sort of formal letter or scroll like that…"
Trailing off as something occurs to him, he cautiously reaches into the pocket of his comfy, old zip-up hoodie until his fingers brush past the myriad lint balls and make contact with the strange scrap of folded parchment paper he’d tucked away there with the intent to eventually look at it when he got a chance.
With a small wince, he guiltily looks back up at Chulainn, having glanced reflexively down at his pocket when he’d first felt the slip of paper. To his relief, his friend doesn’t seem to direct his irritation at him, but instead directs it all at the contented elf standing nearby.
“That is the caliber of stationary you would dare use to declare your intention to court to your Intended, Nuatha? No wonder it was overlooked yesterday evening— John has a keen eye for value and worth.”
Actually, John is wearing a sweater that is almost a decade old and a pair of somewhat presentable lounge pants, and has made monthly requests to head to port just to pick up his favourite brand of shake-and-pour pancake mix, but far be it for him to bring any of that up at the moment.
Instead, he unobtrusively unfolds the beige parchment, feeling the welcome presence of Narza move to stand just behind him, likely peering over the back of the chair to get a look at what John is up to. Clearly, he has no worries for his charge’s safety, in spite of the vitriol he and Nuada are poised to begin hurling at each other any moment now.
The intimidating bodyguard makes an intrigued ‘hmm’ sound and John’s eyebrows raise when, as he finally undoes the last fold, the paper in his hands suddenly transforms into a dense, high-quality stock. In a prettily-penned, calligraphic couple of sentences the same sentiment as what Chulainn had earlier expressed is re-iterated.
It is, of course, signed by Nuada, and when John looks up, the elf has one eyebrow raised as he continues his staring match with the Winter Court scion.
“It’s an old charm I never got out of the habit of using, even after the war was over and the need for subterfuge had gone the same way.”
John’s stomach twists and anxiety begins to rear its head as the conundrum of who exactly he is supposed to address becomes less clear. Terribly, selfishly, he doesn’t want to say no to a chance to get to know Nuada better, either, especially if there might be a romantic tilt to this whole thing.
There’s still just something about the handsome elven prince that draws him in like a magnet, something he’d noticed right away when they’d first met in that eerie cavern full of half-defunct Golden Soldiers. He wants to see what that could lead to.
But he also wants to explore that with Chulainn, who he already knows he gets along pretty damn well with.
Fuck.
Just as John is about to start pulling his own hair out or just try to metaphysically sink down through his comfy seat and right through the floor, Narza’s rumbling voice cuts through the electric tension as he leans on the back of John’s armchair.
“You know… you may have given notice of your intent first, but that notice was not truly received until just now. No disrespect meant, Your Highness, but if I’m not mistaken, that puts the two of you at about the same level of ‘priority’, here.”
Like a switch has been flipped, Chulainn’s demeanor turns more delighted than miserable and Nuada, conversely, drops his celebratory grin and instead momentarily looks like he’s swallowed something sour.
“We don’t exactly have to consult the BPRD legal department’s ‘fair-folk and fae’ books to understand the situation at hand, here. Dual courtship will do you all just fine, should John agree to it,” the bodyguard concludes.
Two fair-haired heads turn in tandem to the BPRD agent who has been trepidatiously listening to Narza speak. The youngest among them white-knuckles the beautiful paper in his hands and unthinkingly takes a very deep breath that has him wincing heavily and then instinctively hovering a hand over his ribs.
“John?” Nuada prompts, gaze worried. “Are you alright? Do you need me to find a healer?”
Rolling his eyes, John relaxes again and waves away the concerns.
“Nah, just behind on my painkillers this morning.”
Chulainn’s voice is loud and clear in John’s head, the tone disbelieving and a mite upset.
‘Behind on your painkillers?’
“Yes,” he answers aloud. “I’ll catch up when I get back to my quarters in a few minutes. Just… let me get this out, first.”
Licking his lips, he briefly glances down at the parchment in his hands that now bears some deep wrinkles at its edges, and then looks back up at the two princes (actual princes, he remembers incredulously) in turn before speaking.
“Okay, so… first of all, you both sprung this on me, which is both not ideal, but simultaneously kind of a nice surprise. Aht! No apologies, guys, just getting it out there. Anyway, uh, I’ll keep things short because I really do need some painkillers and my midday, mortal nap to help keep my mundane level of healing stay up to snuff.
“I… think I'm going to take both of you up on this… courtship thing, but we are going to talk rules because there is clearly some animosity or something between you two, and I am A.) not a fun piece of— of braided rope to be pulled apart in a tug-of-war, and B.) too tired and overworked to deal with that shit between the two of you. Like I said, we will be talking rules— and soon— but for now, just be decent to one another, alright?”
Neither of them really does much beside nod minutely to him, and he sighs, realizing he’ll probably be fighting an uphill battle with getting these two to deal with the enmity between them.
A beat passes.
John sighs.
“Guys, I’m not officially agreeing on this dual courtship thing until you two can at least shake hands.”
Instantaneously, they do just that, Nuada even being courteous enough to move to Chulainn for the clasp, so as to not force the injured fae to have to stand up or move too far. Immediately afterwards, they both return to looking at him with far better controlled expressions, and John at last relents and shows a tired smile.
“Thank you. And yes, I do agree to this whole courting thing with each of you, especially since you kind of called my bluff with that handshake. Now, it’s about time for me to head back to my quarters, catch up on my meds, and sleep off some of the stress you two caused me. Narza, could you help me ge— thanks.”
The guard captain is careful when helping lever John out of his seated position, but it strains the human's ribs enough for him to still feel them protesting a few seconds after he’s upright.
“Ow,” he says matter-of-factly, pocketing the precisely re-folded and re-disguised courting missive that Narza returns to him. “Len, I’ll see you later— probably around dinner, like usual for a Thursday. You too, Narza.”
“And we can make our own plans for a shared meal, I hope, on the walk back to your quarters, if you’ll allow me the honor to escort you there a second time,” Nuada smoothly chimes in.
John smiles at the friendly elf, and easily agrees with a “Sure!”, missing the lessened expressions of worry on Chulainn and Narza’s faces at his acquiescence.
The tired BPRD agent gingerly makes his way to the door while Nuada farewells Narza and then exchanges a cursory goodbye with Chulainn that is a marked improvement from that of the previous evening.
Finally, the longest and most fraught morning of John's life seems to be drawing to a close with a much-needed nap and some overdue pain relief on the horizon. Being courted by two supernatural beings who he’s harbored varied levels of affection for and attraction to is all well and good, but the only 'love affair' he’s one hundred percent ready to commit to right now is the ongoing one he’s in with his own bed.
John hopes (futilely) that the upcoming process— whatever that process is— will be a smooth one.
FIN