cuddlecity | colors spilling from night to day (ota)

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colors spilling from night to day (ota)

CHARACTERS: Claire Temple & Derek Hale; Claire Temple & you
LOCATIONS: Dinah's, the hospital, wherever you'd like
WARNINGS: None, as far as I know so far, will edit if required
SUMMARY: Claire goes on a breakfast date, and is here for any and all scratches. Come see her!!

i. closed to derek's; dinah's

[ The night was barely letting up, even as 6 am rolled out. Still in her scrubs, a comfortable hoodie thrown over them, Claire leaves the hospital under the night sky, despite her shift being over. Winter days always makes her feel like she should be staying longer, like her shift isn't finished until the sun is coming up.

It's also that shifts, in Cadelle, feel too long and too short all at the same time, because she finds herself with very little to do too often. It stretches the hours but also makes her feel like she's not doing enough. A weird dichotomy.

But this morning, she's ready for her work day to be done. She's starving, which makes her drive faster than she should to Dinah's for breakfast - not the fact that she's supposed to meet Derek there, no. The diner is empty when she makes it there anyway, the bell sounding loud in the quiet of the place as she walks in, gets herself situated in a small booth. She can wait for him anyway - at least that way she gets some coffee, to fight how cold her fingers feel.

When he does come in, she'll greet him with a little wave and a big smile, before going back to the menu in front of her. ]

ii. open; hospital

[ The more common accidents that happen in Cadelle are not the ones that Claire is the most used to dealing with. Here, there are no bullet wounds, no gang fights, no violence between men. Here, she helps with domestic accidents more than anything else - not that they can't be very bad themselves, but it is refreshing, in a way, for her to deal with accidents that have nothing to do with men hating other men.

And, more often than not, the hospital is quiet. So tonight, when you come in with your emergency, Claire is most probably rearranging the supplies locker for the umpteenth time, or maybe racing herself around the empty corridors, or dancing to the radio while cleaning up a bed (or the Christmas decorations she put up a few weeks ago). Whichever it is, she'll stop everything to help you out, of course. ]

iii. open; wildcard

[ Hmu with anything! Find me at

ellievolia if you'd like to plot something in particular! ]

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As far as secrets went Frank didn't have that many. He just wasn't the oversharing type. Most days he was borderline responsive, and if he didn't feel compelled to be amicable and polite over dinner he'd have barely anything to say. Being with someone friendly in a different place, having a bit of common ground that they can always retreat to when things get awkward - it helps, somewhat.

Also helps that she'd been helpful and she wasn't pushy. In another frame of mind, when he wasn't drifting through life like a waif, he might be willing to be more friends than just neighbours with her.

"Tell me anything you like." He was used to other peoples' chattiness filling the void, so he'd prefer draining her wine bottle just sitting in his own silence for a while.

That... isn't really the point. Claire's not much of one to talk for the sake of talking, and filling the silence. But maybe he wants to hear it - maybe. Maybe he wants her to fill the silence, just because it's better than the noise in his head.

"I've never thought of settling down, either. A 30-plus nurse with no love life and no one but her mom left living in the city," she says, finally, after a few minutes stretch between the two of them, as she tries to decide if this is anything she wants to talk about.

She's lonely. She's scared, half the time, even with Matt keeping an ear out for her. She's tired. There are nights where she comes home and all she wants is for someone to hold her so she won't get any nightmares, and it never happens.

She doesn't tell him that. She's not quite that pathetic.

"I've thought about leaving New-York. Go to Cuba, maybe, see where I come from."

They'd both chosen professions that weren't ideal when it came to settling down. It took a special woman to put up with a soldier's deployment schedule just as it would no doubt take a special man to put up with her 80 hour working weeks at all odd hours of the day. Maybe that wasn't their intention when they set out, but for better or worse they've learnt what Loneliness sounded like when it came knocking. They've come to smile at Loneliness and welcome it inside them when it came to visit. And now trying to evict the guest, it's turning out a little more difficult than they thought it might be.

He understands. It's not the same but it's exactly the same, so. He gets it.

"If you could go back and do it all over again, you'd be a nurse still?" he asked. Because that's where she's coming from. It's not a place on the map. It's who she is.

"Yes," she replies without hesitation, because there is none to have. She doesn't know who she'd be without it, without getting to help and getting to save lives. Without a sense of purpose and a chance to make a difference. She needs it, clings to it when nothing else makes sense in the world. When there are aliens attacking New York and vigilantes crashing into her garbage, when she's bleeding and thinking she's about to die. When she can't sleep at night and can't get herself warm.

And she thinks he understands that, too.

Yeah, she's lonely, and she's scared, and she's angry. But she has the means to change some of that, and she has the means to make some people feel less scared, less lonely, less angry. And that is the biggest gift she has to give.

"Would you? Be a soldier, still?"

"No," Frank said, after giving it a bit of thought. He's never been accused of overthinking things but it wasn't a simple question. But the fact was, if he knew when he enlisted what he knows now, no way in hell he would have gone through with it. There's no telling how his life would have turned out without turning over two decades to Uncle Sam, what he would have done instead of serving, but he's pretty sure he wouldn't be here now. He'd even be fine with never meeting or getting to know Maria if it meant she'd still be alive right now.

He finished his wine and set the empty glass down, still undecided as to whether he's had enough and whether he should start thinking of a really good excuse to go or whether he had another glass in him. She didn't seen overly eager to chase him away which, surprisingly, wasn't helping.

Unsurprising. He takes his time to answer, and she gets that - trying to imagine your life turning out to be entirely different than it ended up being feels impossible.

"I guess... I don't know who I am, without what I do."

And there's the fact that she loves what she does. It matters, and it's important, to her and others. Sure, in Cadelle it feels superfluous at times, but back home... she's the last resort for many, and she couldn't bear for things to be different.

But Frank's in a different situation.

"And that's a bad thing." He had meant it as a question but for whatever reason it comes out as a statement. Almost as if he has to repeat it to himself in order to at least try and convince himself that it's true. Trouble is, he knows what kind of man he is. He's acutely aware of the things he's done, the things he will and is willing to do without even giving it too much thought. A part of him is probably hoping that taking the training and the acquired skill sets away would make him a better man.

Of course he can't know for sure, but. It's a nice thought.

"I don't know," she answers, honestly. Maybe there would be something else she'd find to do. She knows there would be - nursing isn't the only way to help, to be useful in the world, and she knows that. "I've never had to think about it much. There's always need for my skills."

In a way, one can think it's the same with his own set of skills - there's always a need for soldiers, in this day and age. But the thought twists at her heart, painful and unfair.

"But that's neither here nor there, anyway. Even if I don't have that much work to do here, it's still useful."

"Yeah. When you're elbow-deep in someone's chest cavity there ain't no time for thinking 'bout that shit." He recognises missing that kind of chaos. That longing for a sense of urgency, a life or death moment that blocks everything else out and gives him a better purpose.

Deciding he'd rather go through his last glass of wine than bringing up the stuff of half-decent dreams, Frank goes back to brooding and drinking.

"I should go soon. You probably need the sleep." And he needs... something else. Stronger than wine maybe or something to pass the sleepless night with. It was embarrassing enough to have her play fetch once and he has no intentions to have her chase after him again.

"I think you need the sleep more than I do," she replies without missing a beat, looking at him from under her eyelashes. She bites the tip of her tongue for a second, thinking on how best to help.

"Is there anything I can do? Sleeping pills, maybe?"

He might not want drugs, and she wouldn't blame him. She's not the biggest fan herself, the idea of having her skills impaired not sitting well in her chest. But she had to ask.

"I can't recommend spending the night at the bottom of a bottle," she added, voice soft.

And there it is. The shadow of the white elephant starts to loom over them. Frank doesn't look uncomfortable beyond the way he shifts in his chair. It's not like he's never thought of sleeping pills but he'd rather take the nightmares over the side effects at that time.

Here though, When the biggest monster was himself and there were no more big demons to chase, the idea of it didn't sound so bad at all.

"You gon' write me a prescription for killing my wife in my sleep every night?" Frank asked lightheartedly, taking a candid approach to breaching the topic.

She can't help the way she reels back a little, the words impactful even if he tries to pretend his tone isn't. It hurts. She can't imagine the nightmares, how deeply rooted they must be. She breathes sharply, through her nose, looking away for a second before her eyes settle back on him.

"Maybe." She pauses, looking down at her hands, wrapped around her glass. "I get that you don't seem to want to shed this guilt, but what's the point in being here if you're not even trying to work with it?"

Her tone is soft, even if her words aren't. She's not pretending she can save him, or heal him. But maybe she can help him.

He doesn't want to snap at her when she's been nothing but good to him all night. She wasn't even the one who brought this up even though he had a bit of a feeling that she wanted him to talk about it. It's not like he's never tried talking, but they wouldn't be here right now if talking worked the first three dozen times around.

"I've tried talking, I've tried grieving, hell I've even tried closure. If pills will do it I'll take 'em," he remarks with a small shrug. If that's how she wants to help him she'd be doing more for him than most others have.

She nods, clenching her jaw for a moment before looking away, finally standing up, gathering their plates and bringing them to the tiny kitchen, dropping them in the sink.

"Come by the hospital, tomorrow, during clinic hours. We'll get you something."

It might not work, or it might. It won't save him, or take away his pain, and this guilt he's carrying like a suit of armor, but at least he might have some dreamless nights.

She walks back to the living-room, leaning against the doorframe as she crosses her arms. She opens her mouth, closes it, and then thinks, fuck it.

"Is that your wish? To get your wife back?"

He moves when she clears his plate, leaning forward out of instinct even though she doesn't need his help. Dark eyes watch her figure retreat into the kitchen and for a moment, now that dinner's done and the offer of drugs has been made, the soldier considers whether he's been dismissed.

He's on his feet when she asks him a question that gets him between his ribs and pierces straight into the soft, fleshy bits of his chest cavity. He could feel his lungs tighten as his weight shifts uneasily from one leg to the other.

"Something like that," is what Frank thinks he hears himself end up saying. "Long as she's alive. And our kids. Even if I don't see 'em again or- or whatever it takes." And she knows he's a 'whatever it takes' kind of guy so he doesn't feel the need to elaborate more than that.

Claire nods, bottom lip caught against her teeth. She understands. She might not know the kind of loss he's dealing with, or the guilt he's carrying, but she knows grief. She knows how it sits on your lungs, stabs between your ribs, hurts in all the worst ways, and how there is nothing to alleviate it.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says, with feeling and sincerity, just like every time she has to say these words.

"And, it might not mean much, but if you ever need somewhere to crash, where you're not alone... you're welcome here."

He nods like he's heard her even though he doesn't hear those words anymore. He's been told them too many times in all different tones and accents that it's lost its meaning for him.

Pushing his seat back, he flashes her a tight-lipped smile and just nods. "Yeah." She knows he won't bother her unless he really needs something he can't take care of himself, but he plays along with the pleasantries anyway. The last thing he wants is for someone else to think he's unstable, with the way he turns his head every time he thinks he hears the ghost of his children running past.

"Thanks for dinner, Claire. See you 'round."

Claire can only nod back, watching Frank get ready to leave. She leans against the doorframe of her kitchen, lips tightly held together.

"Yeah. Take care, Frank."

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colors spilling from night to day (ota)

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Sorry haven't been around

psh please you have

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