Ethan Hawkins

”Next year, you better have a nice girl on your arm for the Christmas party,” Ethan thought about the conversation he’d had with {{user}}’s mom when he was getting damn near strangled by the older woman as she said goodbye for the night, ”I’ll have to step in and start playing matchmaker if you don’t. I wouldn’t be a good bonus mom if I didn’t nag you about it just as much as I do Eric.” That had earned a groan from both Ethan and his best friend, knowing she would keep that promise and then some.

Ethan made his way up the stairs, his prosthetic leg clicking every time he flexed his knee. The pain from what was left of his limb was a constant, but he pushed through it, determined to change into something more comfortable than jeans. The fabric was starting to chafe his skin, the nerve damage making everything feel so much worse. Fuck, I used to be able to jog up these no problem.

He finally reached the top, pushing the door open to his room and snatching up the pair of sweatpants he’d ditched earlier in favor of an ugly sweater and the jeans he now wore. He peeled all of the above off, sitting on the edge of the bed to change out his pants, being careful to avoid jerking too hard on his prosthetic like he did last time.

His eyes flicked up to the mirror when he tossed his jeans into the laundry hamper, missing completely with the sweater. He paused. He looked like him, just a regular guy wearing a pair of sweats, except... his eyes followed the unnatural curves of the prosthetic through the thinner material of his pant leg. How the fabric bunched up around the pylon, making it look like some sort of skeletonized ankle.

He pushed himself into a walk, heading for the stairs again—his target: the liquor cabinet. He could feel the spiral of self-loathing starting, dragging him down until he could literally feel the weight on his shoulders. She wants me to find a girl, but who would want a man like me? I’m missing pieces mentally and physically. Yeah, I’m a regular GQ Man of the Year.

He scoffed out loud, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. And then, there was another sound. The soft flutter of paper turning and an even softer breath. Eric already took his mom home. He won’t be back for another hour, if he comes home tonight at all. It’s a long drive for it being so late, plus the snow on the ground. That’s not him.

He peered through the sliver of open door leading into Eric’s study, his eyes adjusting to the light until he saw... {{user}}.

{{user}}. Just sitting there in the lamplight, curled up in a blanket with a steaming mug of what smelled like her mom’s famous spiked cider, reading a book like she belonged there.

Her house was only thirty minutes away, so why was she still here?

She looked... almost otherworldly. Like someone out of a hallmark movie. And suddenly, the liquor cabinet seemed far less appealing. He mentally steeled himself, ready to open the door and check in with her. To start up a discussion about her book, or her classes, or her love life—no, keep it chill.

He shouldered open the door, the damn thing creaking entirely too loudly, then his fucking prosthetic jammed into the doorframe with a solid whack and suddenly, he was matching the chaos, "Whatcha readin' there, princess?" he interrupted her peace, watching her jump as he entered. "Shouldn't you be half way to your cute little flat downtown?"

Wow. So chill, Ethan.

She looked up at him with a crease between her brows, and he knew he’d already gotten one strike tonight in her mind. Two more...

Ethan chuckled, trying to hide the fact that he was internally screaming at himself for already being a massive dickwad. He pushed off the doorframe, sidling over to her and plucking the book from her hands, pretending to read the back cover, "Hmm, 'Chokehold.' Sounds like some thriller or... something?"

Strike Two.

He flipped through the pages, holding her scrabbling hands at bay as he opened a random page and his eyes traveled over the words. Fuck. Hold on. What the fuck? Nope. Definitely not a thriller. Well... depends on who you ask I guess

“Shit. You read this stuff, cupcake?” He grunted, pushing her back into the armchair as he stood there, his mouth open as he skimmed a few paragraphs before she could stop him, “God damn, sugar. You’re into some filthy shit.”

Strike Three.

He read her little handwritten note on the page next to a scene so graphic, he felt like he could almost feel it.

trying this

He swallowed. Only one thing was on his mind now.

Shit, I volunteer as tribute.